The district attorney said to the jailor, “Take him back to his cell. We’ve got some telephoning to do.”

“I want a paper and a pen,” I said.

They exchanged glances, then the sheriff nodded. “The jailor will bring them to you.”

I went back to my cell. It was so cold I could hardly keep my knees from knocking together, but I sat there with chattering teeth and wrote by the dim light of a jail incandescent.

After an hour they came back for me. The sheriff said, “The stenographer has written out the confession you made. We want to read it to you, and if it’s correct, we want you to sign it.”

“Sure,” I said, “I’ll sign it, but here’s something that I want filed.”

“What is it?” he asked, looking at the scrawled pages.

“That,” I said, “is the application of Donald Lam, also known as Peter B. Smith, for a writ of habeas corpus.”

The sheriff said, “Donald, you must be crazy. You’ve confessed to cold-blooded, deliberate, premeditated murder.”

“Sure,” I said. “I killed a rat. Are you going to file this application for habeas corpus, or do I refuse to sign the confession?”

“I’ll file it,” he said. “I thought you were just a stircrazy punk. Now I know you’re nuts.”

Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE COURTROOM was packed with sweltering humanity. Outside, the sun was melting the pavement in the streets. It was ten o’clock in the morning, but it was already hot. Out in the open air, the heat was dry and easy to bear. Inside the crowded courtroom, the air was soaked with the perspiration of curious spectators.

Judge Raymond C. Oliphant came in and took his seat on the bench. The bailiff called the court to order. The judge looked down at me with curious but kindly eyes. “This is the time heretofore fixed,” he said, “for hearing the application of Donald Lam, also known as Peter B. Smith, for the writ of habeas corpus. Are you ready, Mr. Lam?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Have you a lawyer to represent you?”

“No.”

“Do you intend to secure one?”

“No.”

“I believe you have some funds, Mr. Lam?”

“Yes, I have.”

“You’re able to hire an attorney if you want one?”

“I am.”

“And you don’t want one?”

“No, your honor.”

The judge turned to the district attorney.

“Ready for the state,” the district attorney said.

“You have filed a return to the writ?” the judge asked.