Excerpt from SUFFERING FOOLS

April 5, 2004

Five months earlier

Attorney Terry Tallach knew that it was the obligation of every lawyer to take certain cases for free. The bar association called it taking a case pro bono, which translated from the Latin as "for the good." God, lawyers couldn't even be nice without being pompous.

From one perspective, it made sense for Terry's partner and best friend, Zack Wilson, to decide to take the Gardiner case without charging. Rufus himself had no money — he was living hand to mouth when he got arrested. And his mother, who had called to ask them to look into the case in the first place, was barely making ends meet as it was.

But when Terry saw their new client present himself to the MCI-Wakefield prison guard for a final search before their first meeting, he couldn't help but turn to his partner and say softly, "I'll buy you a pizza if you change your mind about this one."

Zack said nothing as Rufus entered the attorney/client visiting room. As he turned to close the door behind him, he fumbled with the file folder he had been carrying. Somehow, the papers in the folder managed to fly all over the place. He bent down to pick them up. "Make it two," Terry whispered.

Rufus Gardiner was technically an adult — he had turned thirty early last month — but he still managed to project the image of a recent high school dropout. His waxy skin and watery eyes were unhealthy looking, his shoulder-length greasy hair was a mess, he breathed through his mouth, and he carried himself in a perpetual slouch. He looked fundamentally stupid, but worse than that, he looked spectacularly guilty. Of everything. He didn't make eye contact, he mumbled, and he shook hands like he was afraid that such intimate contact might allow you to read the dirty thoughts that kept running through his tiny mind.

He was the walking, talking embodiment of the worst defendant in the world. If he was on the witness stand and testified that the sky was blue, half the jury would think he was guessing.

The other half would think he was lying.

Zack, of course, acted as if Rufus was just like every other defendant he'd ever met for the first time. Innocent until proven guilty. Entitled to Fifth Amendment protection against self-incrimination. Encouraged to help in his own defense. Relied upon for honesty in communications. Protected by the attorney-client privilege.

Rufus just stared at the table as Zack went through his new-client spiel. He might as well have been speaking Swahili with a Chinese accent. At the end, Zack said, "I know this is a lot to take in all at once, Rufus, so if there's anything you don't understand — "

"Can you call me Babe?" Rufus asked, looking up and establishing eye contact for a full half second before lowering his gaze back to the table. "Instead of Rufus. Nobody calls me that anymore."

Except your mother. And the court system. Oh — and the prison administration, too.

"Uh, sure," Zack said. "Sorry."

Terry couldn't wait any longer. He clicked his pen and pulled his legal pad in front of him. "So, Babe, let's talk about how all this happened."

"I picked it myself," Babe replied, with a shy smile as he shuffled the papers he'd brought to the meeting.

There was a prolonged silence as everyone tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. Babe certainly didn't look crazy. "What?" Terry asked.

"My name," Babe explained, looking up for a second. "I picked it myself. That's how it happened."

Terry ground his teeth and tried to speak slowly and calmly. "Not your name." Numbnuts. "The charges against you. How did all that happen? What were you doing that night? Why did you get busted for robbing the convenience store?"

"Oh, yeah. That night." Welcome to the conversation, Babe. "Did my mother show you that tape from the store? I didn't do it."

Well, that certainly cleared things up.

"We haven't met with your mother yet," Zack replied.

"She has health issues," Babe offered into the silence.

Who was this guy? Rain Man?

"Let's put aside the tape for a second," Zack said. "I think what Terry is asking is if you can tell us what you were doing that night. Starting from after work. Your mom said you work at a factory or a warehouse, right?"

"Yeah," Babe said. "I got through with work around five, and then I drove to this restaurant called The Burger Barn to have dinner."

Terry was familiar with most of the restaurants around Springfield, but he hadn't heard of that one. "Where's The Burger Barn?" he asked.

"It's like a little place off of Route 22," Babe said. "Up past Norton."

That's why he hadn't heard of it. Up past Norton was code for "indoor plumbing optional."

"Okay," Zack said. "Walk us through the evening. You left work around five and went to The Burger Barn. When did you get there? Do you remember?"

Babe was now using a well-chewed pencil to make doodles in the margin of a piece of paper on the table in front of him. "Uh, I dunno. I guess it was about six. Maybe quarter of. I dunno. It's kinda hard to remember."

"Well, it's kinda important for you to try to remember, Babe," Terry said, wondering if the sudden sharp pain in his head meant that it was going to explode right off his neck, or that he was just going to have a stroke. "We're trying to establish whether you had an alibi for this crime."

Babe stopped doodling. Probably to concentrate extra hard. It didn't work. He returned to the doodling. He seemed completely befuddled.

Zack jumped in. "We want to know exactly where you were and when that night, so that we can figure out if it was even possible that you committed this crime."

Babe struggled with that one for a minute, and then explained, "But I didn't commit this crime."

At least he was consistent.

"Right," Terry said. "We know that. But what we also want to know is what you were doing while you weren't committing this crime."

There was a moment of processing, and then new understanding washed over Babe's incredibly unappealing yet remarkably expressive face. Dawn breaks on a vacant building.

"I was home," he said.

"Great," Zack said. "When did you get home? Did you go home right from The Burger Barn?"

"I'm not sure," Babe answered. His eyes shifted away, and suddenly his body language proclaimed, "I am not only the biggest liar in the world, but the worst one, too." How could he not be sure whether he went straight home? Was he confusing this night with the several other nights he was accused of armed robbery?

Terry put his pen down. At the rate this was going, they'd all die of old age before the trial even began. Would the local gun-shop owner waive the waiting period for buying a pistol if Terry promised to shoot himself before he left the store?

"Why don't we do this," Zack suggested. "Babe, you just tell us the story, as best as you can remember, of what you did that night. From when you left work, until you got home and went to sleep. Try to tell us details, but it's okay if you don't remember everything. Just do your best. Whatever you recall."

Babe was back to doodling. Whether that was a sign of comprehension or a complete psychological collapse was anyone's guess.

Zack continued. "Meanwhile, Terry and I will do our best just to take notes and not interrupt you. Then, the next time we meet, if we have any questions, we'll ask you about them. How's that sound?"

The doodling continued. Babe had filled up all of the blank space on the top page of his stack, and had moved on to the margins of what looked like a copy of a disciplinary report. Maybe he was writing his memoirs. I Named Myself Babe.

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