The Dragon Griaule

‘It’s the truth,’ Lemos said glumly. He was slumped in a chair in a windowless interrogation room lit by a glass bowl depended from the ceiling that held clumps of luminous moss; he gazed at his hands, which were spread upon a wooden table, as if unable to accept that they had betrayed him.

Korrogly, a tall, thin, intense man with receding black hair and features that looked to have been whittled into sharpness out of smooth white wood, walked to the door and, facing it, said, ‘I see where you’re trying to lead me.’

‘I’m not trying to lead you anywhere,’ Lemos said. ‘I don’t care what you think, it’s the truth.’

‘You should care very much what I think,’ said Korrogly, turning to him. ‘In the first place, I don’t have to accept your case; in the second, my performance will be greatly abetted if I believe you.’

Lemos lifted his head and engaged Korrogly’s eyes with a look of such abject hopelessness that for an instant the attorney imagined it had struck him with a physical force. ‘Proceed as you will,’ Lemos said. ‘The quality of your performance matters little to me.’

Korrogly walked to the table and leaned forward, resting his hands so that the splayed tips of his fingers were nearly touching Lemos’ fingers. Lemos did not move his hands away, did not appear to notice the closeness of Korrogly’s hands, and this indicated that he was truly overborne by all that had happened, and not putting on an act. Either that, Korrogly thought, or the man’s got the nervous system of a snail.

‘You’re asking me to attempt a defense that’s never been used before,’ he said. ‘Now that I think of it, I’m amazed no one’s ever tried it. Griaule’s influence – over the Carbonales Valley, anyway – is not in doubt. But to claim you were enacting his will, that some essence embodied in the gem inspired you to serve as his agent, to use that as a defense in a criminal case . . . I don’t know.’

Lemos appeared not to have heard: after a moment he said, ‘Mirielle . . . is she all right?’

Irritated, Korrogly said, ‘Yes, yes, she’s fine. Were you listening to what I just said?’

Lemos stared at him uncomprehendingly.

‘Your story,’ Korrogly said, ‘appears to demand a defense that has never been used. Never. Do you know what will attend that?’

‘No,’ said Lemos, and lowered his eyes.

‘Judges are not delighted by the prospect of setting precedent, and whoever presides over your trial is going to be particularly loath to establish this sort of precedent. Because if it is established, God knows how many villains will seek to use it to avoid punishment.’

Lemos was silent for a few seconds and then said, ‘I don’t understand. What do you wish me to say?’

Studying his face, Korrogly had a feeling of uneasiness: Lemos’ despair seemed too uniform, too all-encompassing. He had acted for a number of clients who had been in the grip of terrible despair, but even the most despondent of these had on occasion suddenly realized their plight and exhibited fright or desperation or some variant emotion. He had the idea that Lemos was an intelligent man, one capable of such a subtle deceit as this might be.

‘It’s not necessary that you say anything,’ he told Lemos. ‘I simply want you to understand the course you’ve set me. If I were to plead for mercy from the court, ask them to recognize the passions involved, to take into account the unscrupulous nature of the deceased, I’m confident that your sentence would be light. Zemaille was not well loved, and there are many who consider what you’ve done an act of conscience.’

‘Not I,’ said Lemos in such an agonized tone that Korrogly was persuaded for the moment to complete belief.

‘However,’ he went on, ‘should I pursue the defense that your story suggests, you may wind up facing a much harsher sentence, perhaps even the ultimate. That you choose to defend in this manner might imply to the judge that the crime was premeditated. Thus he would allow no mediating circumstance in his instructions to the jury. He would dismiss all possibility of it being a crime of passion.’

Lemos gave a dispirited laugh.

‘That amuses you?’ Korrogly asked.

‘I find it simplistic that passion and premeditation are deemed to be mutually exclusive.’

Korrogly moved away from the table, folded his arms, and regarded the luminous globe overhead. ‘Of course that’s not always the case. Not all crimes of passion are considered acts of the moment. There is leeway left for obsession, for irresistible compulsion. But what I’m telling you is that the judge in his desire to avoid setting precedent might block these avenues of mercy in his instructions to the jury.’

Once again Lemos appeared to have slipped into a reverie.

‘Have you decided?’ Korrogly insisted. ‘I can’t decide for you, I can only recommend.’

‘You seem to be recommending that I lie,’ said Lemos.

‘How do you arrive at that?’

‘You tell me the truth is a risk, that the secure course is best.’

‘I’m merely counseling you as to the potential pitfalls.’

‘There’s a fine line, is there not, between recommendation and counsel?’