After the Trial
things change after the trial
Perry likes the young wide-eyed women who come to him, clutching their purses stuffed full of hundred dollar bills and that helpless lisp in their voices as they lay out the circumstances of their innocence. He likes to hear them plead while Della makes notes, that tiny frown only he notices.
He is stern with the middle-aged businessmen, up to their necks in murder and fraud. He likes them better when they admit their guilt right off, though that often cuts into his billable hours.
Perry knows how long it takes a scorned lover to move the body, how long it takes trembling fingers to pull the trigger.
He and Paul like to watch the police at the wharf measuring distances, while the homicide dick smokes grim cigarettes in silence.
Best yet is how easy it is to slowly unravel the skein of lies until the murderer has no choice but to stand up and shout out his guilt, confession spilling out like beads from a broken necklace.
Late at night, after the case is won, after Paul has gone, Perry and Della like to go out for dinner. They order steaks and drink martinis as they replay the best moments of the trial, what the judge ordered in his chambers, wonder at the naivety of criminals who believe they can subvert the system.
Then they like to go back to her place and dress up, impose their own law and order on the vagaries of love.
