"Your name?"
"Selma Jezkova."
Another European, he thought. Has a decent grasp on English, though.
"Miss Jezkova, my name's Billy Flynn," said the man in the mohair suit. "I'm an attorney. I'm not like that court-appointed imbecile who couldn't come up with one reasonable argument in your favor."
Selma smiled, but the smile appeared to Billy as more of an involuntary reflex than a gesture of friendliness. Her disheveled raven hair, and the desperation in her eyes, told a story he had heard many times.
"I specialize in cases like yours," he went on. "I consider it my life's calling to defend the downtrodden, the misunderstood, the friendless. In the end, all I care about is love—which is why I'm willing to reopen your case for the modest sum of five thousand dollars."
Selma chuckled incredulously. "Five thousand?" she said in a shallow Czech accent. "I can't raise that much. All I have is two thousand and fifty-six dollars and ten cents, and I'm saving it for my son's operation."
Billy stroked his stubbly chin. "Two thousand and fifty-six dollars," he repeated thoughtfully.
"And ten cents," Selma added.
"Throw in those ten cents," said Billy, "and you've got yourself a deal."
"But I can't," said Selma, gesticulating earnestly. "My son will go blind without the operation."
"If I were you, I'd be more concerned about the noose that's tightening around my neck," said Billy. "But no matter. One way or another, I'm going to help you beat this rap—not only because I like you, but also because you're the surest sure thing since death and taxes. From the way you tell it, the man literally asked you to kill him."
Selma nodded.
"So here's the story we give to the press," Billy continued. "In your native Czechoslovakia you endured grinding poverty and unwed motherhood, all the while searching for a chink in the Iron Curtain so you could escape to the land of opportunity."
"I came to America because I love the musicals," Selma told him. "I love Fred Astaire."
"Never cared much for musicals myself," said Billy. "As I was saying, you came to America and took a factory job, but your deteriorating vision made it impossible to stay on. Yes, there's a sob story Mary Sunshine will lap up like a dog. And as if your troubles weren't enough, your nest egg was stolen by a down-on-his-luck cop. You confronted the man, he pulled a gun, you struggled, and it went off—self defense, pure and simple."
"Yes, that's how it happened," Selma told him.
"Only it didn't stop there," said Billy. "Though gravely wounded, he lunged at you with renewed vigor, and another struggle ensued. As you fought for your life, the gun in his hand fired again and again, each time lodging another bullet in his vitals. Once he had finally run out of strength and bullets, he toppled over backwards, hitting a table and causing the box with the cash to fall and strike him on the head—repeatedly."
Selma stared blankly at the lawyer as she pondered his offer. Finally she inquired, "Why don't you like musicals?"