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'...."