A Question of Identity

Up in the TV booth, Murrow smiled to himself and listened to his colleagues chew over the familiar questions: Why had Jake Emspak, the "million dollar mouthpiece", taken a cheap case like this away from the Public Defender? Who would possibly pay him enough to defend a punk like Tony Corfino--a bungling hoodlum who had killed two bystanders in a miserable attempt to rob a bank?

The Judge noted acceptance of the juror, then brusquely recessed court until 10 A.M. Monday.

The timing was excellent. Jake smiled with satisfaction, and his smile was like the slash of a paring knife across the skin of a dried apple.

He walked with Tony Corfino and the bailiff as far as the prisoner's gate.

"Don't worry," Jake said.

Tony's eyes were wide and bewildered, like the eyes of a confused child--or of an old man not quite certain whether he is awake or dreaming.

"I ain't worried," Tony replied. As he walked, there was the crackling sound of a bone twisting in a stiff joint.

From under his shaggy brows, Jake studied him carefully, and was content with what he saw. Tony could have been very young, or very old. Undoubtedly he was both, with a lot of in-between, Jake thought suddenly. The tangle of black, curly hair was the hair of youth. The cameo-smooth skin had the waxed perfection of an expensive doll. But the mouth and lips were still puffy, sensuous. And the eyes--Jake Emspak, for all his knowing, couldn't be sure about the eyes. Silently, he addressed a memo to himself: Check on the eyes.

At the prisoners' gate, Tony faced him.

"I ain't worried," he repeated. "It's just--well, I don't see why you're takin' my case--I can't pay anythin'...."

The thin smile slashed again across the wrinkled harshness of Jake's face.

"I'll be paid," he chuckled drily.

The District Attorney brought up the same question when Jake sat in his office two hours later. They had been studying each other across the desk, thinking of all the years that were gone, the good years dying with the new quarter of the century.

How many times had he sat here just like this, Jake wondered. How often had he come into this office to bargain and to deal, to cajole and plead--and always hovering like a hawk to pounce on any bit of information that could fit his case.

Now the D.A. was old, too. Older than Jake, if you measured a man's life by the inverse proportion of his distance from the grave. Even the limitless possibilities of medical science had about reached their limit with the D.A. He was heavier than Jake, and his skin was smoother, yet somehow it looked much older.

"I don't get it," he wheezed, with the shortness of breath that the latest bronchial replacement had not substantially relieved. "I just can't see Jake Emspak taking a case without a fee! Why, in the old days, you wouldn't defend your mother without a cashier's check in advance!"

Jake accepted the taunt without blinking.

"I'm touched by this solicitude for my fees," he retorted.

"Tony Corfino's guilty," said the D.A., moving up another pawn in the never-ending chess game between them. "He's a punk, and he's guilty. You know that, don't you, Jake?"

"Do I?"

"You know it--and damn well! I've got six witnesses who saw Tony walk into the bank with that sawed-off shotgun! I've got four more who saw him get panicky and start spraying lead! And there are a dozen others who helped load him on a stretcher after his getaway car went over the curve on the Parkway!... Hell, Jake, this is a two-bit case. Why are you taking it away from the Public Defender?"

"Now, Emmett," Jake mocked, "you know it's not ethical for me to discuss my client's case."

"To hell with your client!" The D.A. breathed deeply for a moment, then pressed ahead: "I don't care about that punk--I'm talking about you, Jake. What's this case mean to you?"

The chuckle started again, then died in Jake's throat.

"It means a lot, Emmett," he answered soberly. "For one thing, it's my last case...."

"What?" The D.A. looked stunned.

Jake nodded.

"I've been around the circle enough times for any man, Emmett."