It hurt me to look at Smiler, his smile forever gone, changed to a hideous, snarl-like grin, and a gaping hole in his throat.
I couldn’t think of anything else, so I said: “I want to see an attorney, please.”
“You’ll get a lawyer when we get done with you. You were with that fellow when he was shot and we are going to charge you with an attempt to commit burglary if you don’t tell us where you were night before last.”
I was locked up again.
The following day the two officers took me out to the booking desk where I was formally charged, and on the morning of the third day I went into the police court for my hearing. One of the shyster lawyers, or “stir steerers,” as the bums call them, came over to me.
“They tell me you want a lawyer,” pointing to the officers.
“Yes, I do.”
“Got any money, or friends?”
“I’ve got fifteen dollars in the office—and no friends.”
“Give me an order for the money, and I’ll look after you,” he said.