going to listen to my theory or shall we just order?”
“Both,” Annie said. Her face wore about as much makeup as Annie permits—a touch of blusher on the cheeks, even less lipstick, and a hint of black eye-liner. For some people, perfection requires little elaboration.
We ordered. Annie wanted cannelloni that came with ricotta, spinach, and tomato. I asked for chicken Taipei, and we said we’d split a starter of mussels that were steamed in ginger and honey.
“Actually it’s more than a theory,” I said. “It’s a route to sanity.”
Annie started to say something and stopped.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Nothing. I’m all ears.”
“It’s about the bombardment of facts,” I said. The Vouvray wasn’t too sweet after all. “We get so many of the little suckers beaming in from radio, TV, printed page, wherever, our poor brains can’t absorb and compartmentalize and recall as required. Makes for muddy thinking. But I got the solution. Eliminate. Get rid of whole topics.”
“But, honestly, the Beatles?”
“Newspaper story pops up about a Beatles reunion, about the latest tally on Yoko Ono’s fortune, George plagiarizing a song from Motown. Any of those, I can give them a pass.”
“How ’bout another example?” Annie said. “Something with more muscle?”
“Red China.”
“Nobody calls it Red China any more. Plain China will do.”
“My point entirely,” I said. “I’ve been so successful at blocking the subject I missed the change in name.”
“Get out of here.”
“China ruled out, that makes a couple of billion potential stories I don’t have to account for.”
The waitress brought the mussels. Little pockets of steam hovered over each open shell, and I could sniff the ginger in the air.
“Evangelists,” I said. “On or off television.”
I began to divide the mussels on the plate. One for Annie, one for me, another for Annie, another for me. Annie reached over and put her hand on top of mine.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” she said. “I trust you not to take more than your share.”
I ate the first mussel and tried to come up with an adjective that went beyond delicious.
“Evangelists you were saying?” Annie said.
“Exclude them, and think of the Newsweek cover stories I don’t have to read.”
Annie said, “Now and then I really can’t tell when you’re putting me on.”
A moment of quiet of the pensive sort came from Annie.
She said, “Another topic occurs to me you might jettison.”
I can tell when Annie isn’t putting me on.
“Criminals,” she said.
My glass was empty. I poured more Vouvray into it and topped up Annie’s glass. We’d finished the mussels.
I said, “That might involve a career change of large proportions.”
“Well, maybe just some criminals.”
“Which ones?”
“Ones who are guilty.”
“According to the latest statistics from the courtrooms of the nation,” I said, “that would be most of them.”
The main courses came. Annie’s cannelloni looked as other cannelloni does but smelled better than most. My chicken Taipei had the same two ingredients that elevated the mussels to gourmet class— ginger and honey. There was also some peanut and soy in there. A little corner of Thai paradise.
“That man you’re defending who did the terribly clever things with the apartment building,” Annie said. “He’s got the money, he and his partner, and what they did was illegal, and I don’t understand why you have to defend their illegal acts.”
“First,” I said, “a quote.”
“Lawyers are always quoting somebody or other.”
“From a playwright.”
“Playwright doesn’t necessarily make it gospel.”
“Robert Bolt wrote this in his play about Thomas More,” I said. “A Man For All Seasons.”
“Right, I saw the movie,” Annie said. “Paul Scofield played More. Got an Oscar.”
I said, “More was the Lord Chancellor, and in one scene he’s having a conversation with this very idealistic guy, More’s son-in-law, I think. More says to the son-in-law something like, ‘I know what’s legal, not what’s right, and I’ll stick to what’s legal.’ So the son-in-law thinks he’s got More in a corner, and he says,‘Then you set man’s law above God’s.’ More comes right back. ‘Not far below,’ he says, ‘but let me draw your attention to a fact. I’m not God.’”
Annie worked some cannelloni on her fork. I drank from my glass of Vouvray. Nothing like a few lines from the theatre to dry a man’s throat.
“Where’s this Robert Bolt stuff taking us?” Annie said. “I already know you’re not God.”
“You don’t have to say it so emphatically.”
Annie patted my arm. It was a pat that meant state the point.
I said, “A guy in my job can’t think about idealism, playing God, or anything in that vein. That’s what Bolt was talking about. A criminal lawyer deals with facts and law and the system.”
“This is beginning to sound familiar from past lectures,” Annie said. “The adversarial system. Presumption of innocence. Da-dah. Da-dah. Da-dah. What am I leaving out?”
“No fair sneering. It’s a nifty system. Only one thing wrong with it.”
“Yeah,” Annie said. “You’re in it. Which I think is why we’re having this little heart-to-heart.”
I took a bite of my chicken, drank some more wine, and pressed on.
“The thing wrong,” I said, “is the system is tilted badly against the people accused of the crimes.”
“Your noble clients.”
“Noble doesn’t come into it.”
“Right there we agree.”
I said, “Stick with me a minute. All the machinery gears up to put the accused guy on trial. There’s the cops
