The Sins of the Fathers

I knew the feeling. I explained that I wasn't a reporter, that I was representing Cole Hanniford, the father of the murdered girl.

"I see," he said.

"I wouldn't need much of your time, Reverend Vanderpoel. Mr. Hanniford has suffered a loss, even as you have. In a sense, he lost his daughter before she was killed. Now he wants to learn more about her."

"I'd be a poor source of information, I'm afraid."

"He told me he wanted to see you himself, sir."

There was a long pause. I thought for a moment that the phone had gone dead. Then he said, "It is a difficult request to refuse. I will be occupied with church affairs this afternoon, I'm afraid. Perhaps this evening?"

"This evening would be fine."

"You have the address of the church? The rectory is adjacent to it. I will be waiting for you at-shall we say eight o'clock?"

I said eight would be fine. I found another dime and looked up another number and made a call, and the man I spoke to was a good deal less reticent to talk about Richard Vanderpoel. In fact he seemed relieved that I'd called him and told me to come right on up.

HIS name was George Topakian, and he and his brother constituted Topakian and Topakian, Attorneys-at-Law. His office was on Madison Avenue in the low Forties. Framed diplomas on the wall testified that he had graduated from City College twenty-two years ago and had then gone on to Fordham Law.

He was a small man, trimly built, dark complected. He seated me in a red leather tub chair and asked me if I wanted coffee. I said coffee would be fine. He buzzed his secretary on the intercom and had her bring a cup for each of us. While she was doing this, he told me he and his brother had a general practice with an emphasis on estate work. The only criminal cases he'd handled, aside from minor work for regular clients, had come as a result of court assignments. Most of these had involved minor offenses-purse snatching, low-level assault, possession of narcotics-until the court had appointed him as counsel to Richard Vanderpoel.

"I expected to be relieved," he said. "His father was a clergyman and would almost certainly have arranged my replacement by a criminal lawyer. But I did see Vanderpoel."

"When did you see him?"

"Late Friday afternoon." He scratched the side of his nose with his index finger. "I could have gotten to him earlier, I guess."

"But you didn't."

"No. I stalled." He looked at me levelly. "I was anticipating being replaced,"

he said. "And if replacement was imminent, I thought I could save myself the time I'd spend seeing him. And my time wasn't the half of it."

"How do you mean?"

"I didn't want to see the son of a bitch."

He got up from behind his desk and walked over to the window. He toyed with the cord of the venetian blinds, raising and lowering them a few inches. I waited him out. He sighed and turned to face me.

"Here was a guy who committed a horrible murder, slashed a young woman to death. I didn't want to set eyes on him. Do you find that hard to understand?"

"Not at all."

"It bothered me. I'm an attorney, I'm supposed to represent people without regard to what they have or haven't done. I should have thrown myself right into it, finding the best defense for him. I certainly shouldn't have presumed my own client guilty as charged without even talking to him." He came back to his desk and sat down again. "But of course I did. The police picked him up right on the scene of the crime. I might have challenged their case if I saw it all the way into court, but in my own mind I had already tried the bastard and found him guilty as charged. And since I had every expectation that I would be taken off the case, I found ways to avoid seeing Vanderpoel."

"But you eventually went that Friday afternoon."

"Uh-huh. He was in his cell in the Tombs."

"You saw him in his cell, then."

"Yes. I didn't pay much attention to the surroundings. They've finally torn down the Women's House of Detention. I used to walk past it all the time years ago when my wife and I lived in the Village. A horrible place."

"I know."

"I wish they'd do the same for the Tombs." He touched the side of his nose again. "I suppose I saw the very steam pipe that poor bastard hanged himself from.

And the bedsheet he used to do the job. He sat on his bed while we talked. He let me have the chair."

"How long were you with him?"

"I don't think it was more than half an hour. It seemed considerably longer."

"Did he talk?"

"Not at first. He was off somewhere with his own thoughts. I tried to get through to him but didn't have very much luck. He had a look in his eyes as if he was having some intense wordless dialogue with himself. I tried to open him up, and at the same time I began planning the defense I would use if I had the chance. I didn't expect to have the chance, understand. It was a hypothetical exercise as far as I was concerned. But I had more or less decided to try for an insanity plea."

"Everyone seems to agree he was crazy."