The Matlock Paper [antikvár]

One Loring walked out the side entrance of the Justice Department and looked for a tajd. It was nearly five-thirty, a spring Friday, and the congesticMi in the Washington streets was awfuL Loring stood by the curb and held ^p his left hand, hoping for the best. He was about to abandon die effort when a cab that had picked up a fare thirty feet down the block stopped in front of him. 'Going east, mister? It's O.K. This gentleman said he wouldn't mind.' Loring was always embarrassed when these incidents occurred. He unconsciously drew back his right foreann, allowing his sleeve to cover as much of his hand as possible - to conceal the thin black chain looped aroimd his wrist, locked to the briefcase handle. •Thanks, anyway. I'm heading south at the nea comer.* He waited until the taxi re-entered the flow oi traffic and then resumed his futile signaling. Usually, xmder such conditions, his mind was alert, his feelings oHnpetitive. He would normally dart his eyes in both directions, ferreting out cabs about to disgorge passengers, watching the comers for those dimly lit roof signs that meant this particular vehicle was for hire if you ran fast enough. Today, however, Ralph Loring did not feel like running. On this particular Friday, his mind was obsessed with a terrible reality. He had just borne wimess to a man's being sentenced to death. A man he'd never met but knew a great deal about. An imknowing man of thirty-three who lived and worked in a small New England town four hundred miles away and who had no idea of Loring's existence, much less of the Justice Department's interest in him. Loring's memory kept returning to the large conference room with the huge rectangular table aroimd which sat the men who'd pronovmced the sentence. He had objeaed strenuously. It was the least he could do for the man he'd never met, the man who was being maneuvered with such precision into such an untenable position. 'May I remind you, Mr. Loring,* said an assistant attorney