Mason said, “I’m always hard,” and moved back to let the waitress scrape crumbs from the tablecloth.
Serle said, in a surly voice, “Bring me apple pie a la mode, and lots of coffee.”
“Yes, sir,” the waitress said and moved away.
Mason hitched his chair around so he was sitting sideways to the table, crossed his long legs, and smoked with every evidence of enjoyment.
“You couldn’t drag that in on cross-examination anyway,” Serle said.
“Oh, you’d be surprised at what a good lawyer can do on cross-examination,” Mason observed affably. “You can ask a man a lot of embarrassing questions. You can impeach his veracity. You can show that he’s been convicted of a felony and...”
“Well, I haven’t been convicted of any felony,” Serle snapped.
“No,” Mason told him with a smile, “but you could be before the case came to trial. The federal men work fast, and murder cases usually drag along... particularly when a lawyer has some reason for dragging ’em along.”
Serle said, with a burst of temper, “I smelled a rat on the Drake remittance right after we’d made delivery. I’d just taken over the business. I didn’t know all of the customers. He wrote a letter which led me to believe...” His voice trailed away into sulky silence.
“I know,” Mason said. “Tough, isn’t it? A man always hates to go to jail thinking he’s been a sucker.”