The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories by Rod Serling Page A

cause and he knew it. He became acutely aware of just how losing it was when after sending a penciled note of inquiry over to his client he received the note back with the following scrawl underneath his question, “Go to hell, affectionately, Walter Bedeker.”
    From that point on the defense was reasonably certain that the normal rapport between client and lawyer did not exist in this case.
    And further, that this was a client whose answers on the stand seemed to suggest collusion between him and the prosecution. Because Walter Bedeker was convicting himself with every answer, every gesture, obviously because he wished to.
    On the evening of the third day of trial, Bedeker’s lawyer went to see Bedeker in his cell. He arrived during his client’s dinner and found himself completely ignored until Bedeker had started his dessert. Then the little man looked up as if suddenly realizing the lawyer was there and nodded perfunctorily.
    “Cooper, the legal beagle. What brings you here at this odd hour?”
    Cooper sat down on the other chair and studied his client. “Mr. Bedeker,” he said grimly, “you may not realize this, but at the rate things are going this case will go to the jury by tomorrow.”
    Bedeker nodded and continued to spoon down ice cream. “How do you feel, Cooper?” he asked.
    Cooper squirmed with frustration and put his briefcase on the floor. “How am I? I’m miserable, Mr. Bedeker. I’ve been miserable since I took your case. I’ve had tough clients before, but nobody like you.”
    “Really?” Bedeker asked insouciantly. “What disturbs you?”
    “What disturbs me is that in three days of trial you’ve acted like a man desperate to get convicted. When I examine you, you shut up like a clam. When the prosecuting attorney examines you, you act as if you were betting on him to win the case.” He leaned forward intensely.
    “Now look, Bedeker, this is the goods here. If this case goes to the jury tomorrow as things stand now, you don’t have chance number one.”
    Bedeker lit a cigarette and leaned back on his cot. “Is that a fact?” he asked.
    “That is a fact. Now tomorrow this is what I want us to do!” He lifted the briefcase and unzipped it. He was diving into it for papers when Bedeker said, “Don’t bother, Mr. Cooper. Just don’t bother.” He waved at the briefcase. “Put it away.”
    “How’s that?” Cooper asked.
    “Put it away.”
    Cooper stared at him for a long, unbelieving moment. “Bedeker, did you get what I was trying to tell you? You’re about twelve hours away from a guilty verdict on a charge of first degree murder.”
    Bedeker smiled and clucked. “And what will the penalty be?”
    “The penalty,” Cooper said tiredly, “in this State for first degree murder is death in the electric chair.”
    “Death in the electric chair,” Bedeker repeated. He tapped his fingers on the side of the cot and then examined his nails.
    “Bedeker,” Cooper shouted, almost beyond control.
    “Death in the electric chair. And if I were in California?”
    “What?” Cooper asked incredulously.
    “How would they try to kill me if I lived in California,” Bedeker said.
    “Capital punishment there is the gas chamber, but I frankly don’t see why—”
    “And in Kansas?” Bedeker interrupted.
    “In Kansas,” Cooper answered, “it’s hanging. Now I’m going to tell you something, Bedeker—”
    Bedeker rose from the cot and surveyed the lawyer who now had a thin covering of perspiration over his face.
    “No, Mr. Cooper,” Bedeker said mildly. “I’m going to tell you something. The only thing they’ll get for their trouble if they try to electrocute me is a whopping electricity bill! Now good night, Mr. Cooper. See you in court!”
    Cooper sighed deeply. He slowly zipped up his briefcase and rose. “I don’t know, Bedeker,” he said. “I just don’t understand you. The alienist says you’re sane and you say you killed your wife. But way down deep I know