Just hours ago, the young attorney had completed his very first criminal trial, the successful defense of a young street punk named Vincent Sabbatino. Now, as he answered a knock at the door of his modest home on Chicago's North Side, he was astounded by what he saw.

Three men stood on his doorstep. He recognized the small man standing in the center of the trio as Vito Gallia, current capo of Chicago's criminal empire; the giants flanking him were obviously Gallia's bodyguards.

"May I come in?" Gallia asked.

"Of course," said the stunned attorney. As he led his uninvited visitors into the front room, the lawyer gave his wife a look that sent her scurrying upstairs. He walked over to a small table and raised a decanter. "Some wine?" he asked in Italian.

Gallia said no. The other two remained silent.

The lawyer returned the decanter to the tray. "What can I do for you?"

Gallia took a seat on the worn sofa, removed an envelope from the inside pocket of his exquisitely tailored blue serge suit, and laid the envelope on the small coffee table in front of him. "You did well today, counselor," he said, in a voice as cold as his soulless eyes. "Vincent Sabbatino is very grateful, and so am I. I'm sure this will cover your expenses."

The lawyer glanced at the envelope, then stared at his infamous visitor. "I've already been paid by the court," he said haltingly. "I was appointed to this case by the judge."

Gallia snorted. "I know all about it," he said. "They figured you'd screw it up, but you fooled them. You busted your ass for two weeks preparing for this case, and it paid off. Jesus! That judge is sure pissed at you." He laughed, a deep, throaty laugh that almost brought tears to his eyes. "Vincent was supposed to take a fall today and you saved his ass -- for a lousy thirty-five bucks! Jesus! You've got balls, counselor. What'd you stick your neck out for?"

The lawyer blushed. "I -- I was just trying not to make a fool of myself, that's all. Look, I'm no criminal lawyer. I'm a business lawyer. I've never handled a criminal case before. I wanted to give it my best. I had no idea..."

The visitor appraised the attorney for a moment. Then he said, "Well, now you do." He leaned forward and, in a voice that was almost a whisper, said, "Vincent is not an isolated case. I have some other... associates... who need a lawyer at certain times. People I can't be connected with, you understand? I want you to handle them for me."

The lawyer shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, aware of the beads of perspiration beginning to form on his forehead. "I don't wish to be disrespectful, but I handled Vincent's case only because I was appointed by the court. We lawyers can't refuse a judge's appointment."

"I know that," Gallia snapped. "You think I don't know about lawyers? I happen to believe you're a good one."

"But I'm not a criminal lawyer," the young man protested. "I don't feel comfortable with criminal work. I'll never feel comfortable with it. I prefer to work with paper -- trust deeds, contracts, leases. Those are things I understand."

"And how much money does that earn you?" Gallia asked, waving a thin hand in the air, already knowing the answer to his question. The dark, cold eyes took in the sparseness of the room, warm and homey but furnished with an odd collection of marred, chipped, obviously secondhand pieces. Then Gallia motioned toward the lawyer. "Look at you! Where'd you get that cheap suit? Montgomery Ward?"

In fact, the suit had been purchased at Sears, Roebuck -- on sale. A jacket and two pairs of pants for twenty-three dollars. Up until this moment, the attorney had thought it looked pretty sharp. "My business is small right now, but it's growing," he said, feeling awkward and defensive in the presence of this notorious gangster to whom money meant nothing.

"Don't be a fool," Gallia growled. "You're wasting your time on that shit. You're a natural as a criminal lawyer. You had that jury in the palm of your hand today. You shouldn't be so selfish. Think of your family. I can make you very rich, counselor."

The mention of his family sent a chill down the lawyer's spine. Was he being threatened? He didn't know, but he was a man who believed principles to be the very foundation of his being. Without them, he was nothing. "I'm sure you can," he said, as he rose to his feet, picking up the envelope from the table with a hand that was beginning to shake. "Please," he said, "I've shown you respect. I can't take this, and I can't work for you."

Gallia rose slowly to his feet and glared at his host for a moment, then expelled a sigh. "Not many people refuse me, my young friend. Are you aware of that?"

The beads of sweat had become little rivers of moisture streaming down the lawyer's ashen face. He started to wipe the sweat from his eyes but stopped himself. "I'm aware of who you are and what you are," he said. "Again, I mean no disrespect, but I'm the wrong one for you. There are many others who are available -- and willing."

For a moment Gallia said nothing. Then, in a flash of anger, he snatched the envelope from the lawyer's hand and hurled it at him. The envelope bounced off the lawyer's chest and fell to the floor. "If you want to show respect," Gallia snarled, "you'll take my money, counselor. That youwill do." Then, pausing, he allowed a false smile to reach his lips and said, "As for the rest" -- he extended his hand -- "have it your way."

The two men shook hands, then Gallia whirled and stalked quickly out of the room, his bodyguards scrambling to keep up with him.

After the lawyer had secured and bolted the door, he went upstairs and told his wife what had happened.

Her eyes widened in fear. "My God!" she said, bringing a hand to her mouth. "What are you going to do?"

The attorney turned the still unopened envelope over in his hands. "This will go to the church," he said. "As for the rest... I think we'll be all right."

"Are you sure?"

"No," he said softly.

Copyright © 1991 by Harrison Arnston