Samuel Blackthorn slammed his fist down on the oak table in his lawyer’s office, knocking over a fountain pen from its stand and ruffling a stack of papers.
“I own this town!” he shouted. “I ain’t gonna let no state prosecutor try me for murdering them Duke brothers.” He spat a gooey dark blob of tobacco on the floor in defiance.
Jerry, a meek man with round spectacles, thinning hair, and fingernails a bit too clean for the small western town, sat across from his client. He quickly shuffled the papers in order and carefully replaced his pen. With an air of professionalism, he reviewed the charges—manslaughter, theft, larceny—plenty to hang a man in any other town. But this wasn’t any town and Jerry knew this wasn’t just any client.
“Mr. Blackthorn, these charges are serious. As your lawyer, and probably the only person willing to defend you, I think it’s in your best interest that we stick to the plan so I can provide you a legal defense.”
Blackthorn nudged his stetson on his head, exposing an oil mop of hair and leaned back in his chair, gripping the lapel of his dark velvet suit jacket as his gaze narrowed on the lawyer. His hands, knotted by a lifetime of hard work and misdeeds, cracked as his grip tightened. His thick tongue rolled the chaw of tobacco around in his mouth, causing his mustache to dance above his lips.
“You know my last lawyer went missing. A city feller like yourself. Come out west for adventure. A man can go missing in these parts, if he don’t do right by me.”
Jerry straightened in his chair and said, “No need for threats, Mr. Blackthorn. I assure you I plan to provide the best legal representation your money can buy.”
Blackthorn glanced to the side where his lead henchman and two cow hands sat listening. “What’d you think, boys? You think I should listen to him?”
The grizzled henchman took his hat off and placed it on his knee. His bushy eyebrows frowned as he thought about his boss’ question. “I reckon you could just kill the prosecutor, boss.”
“You can’t kill the prosecutor; the state will send another,” interjected Jerry.
The henchman scratched his face, giving off the sound of steel wool scraping against concrete. “Then we kill him too…and the judge. I figure they’ll stop sending law out this way sooner or later.”
Mr. Blackthorn smiled in approval, displaying a set of crooked yellow teeth. “Not a bad idea, Roscoe.”
Jerry sighed. “Mr. Blackthorn, I wouldn’t take legal advice from a man whose only experience with a book is using it as toilet paper.”
“I use ’em for target practice too,” grumbled Roscoe.
Jerry shook his head and continued. “You can’t keep killing everyone. You need to successfully defend yourself in a court of law and clear your name. A man can’t get tried twice for the same crime.”
Mr. Blackthorn leaned in with renewed interest, his breath hot and tainted with the smell of pickled pigs feet and booze. “What do we do?”
“We have to convince a jury that you’re innocent.”
“But I killed them. It had to be done. They would’ve done me in, if I hadn’t.”
“Ok, then it was in self defense?” asked Jerry. He grabbed the fountain pen and jotted some notes down on a legal pad.
“Yes,” smiled Mr. Blackthorn. “I stole their money and they were coming for revenge.”
Jerry buried his face in his hands and scratched his head in frustration. “Mr. Blackthorn, I can’t defend you by admitting you committed another crime.”
Blackthorn scrunched his face, flared his nostrils, and spat another salvo of tobacco juice on the floor. “Boy, I’m the town bad guy. I’m the part that makes the wild west, wild! Without me, you wouldn’t have damsels to save. Sheriffs would be out of a job and the saloon insurance industry would collapse.”
Jerry held his breath as he listened and then let it out in a slow hiss to calm his nerves. “Ok, we can make a plea deal.”
“Plea deal? What’s that?”
“We admit to the crime for a lesser sentence. You might get a few years behind bars.”
The room fell silent as Mr. Blackthorn tensed, glaring at the lawyer. Jerry held his composure, confident in his legal advice and the cow hands shifted nervously, waiting for their boss to explode in anger.
Blackthorn relaxed, letting out a boastful laugh that seemed to rattle the walls. “I get it! Admit to the crime, go to jail, then my boys bust me out. It’s like getting a clean slate.”
Jerry’s mouth hung open in disbelief. His years of law school desperately wanted to rebuttal, but instead he compromised. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Blackthorn.”