When the phone rang in the public defenders office, a block away from the jail, Gary Schweickart, the tall, bearded, thirty-three-year-old supervising attorney, was trying to light his pipe. The call was from Ron Redmond, one of the staff attorneys.

“I picked something up while I was in municipal court,” Redmond said. “The police booked the Campus Rapist last night, and they’ve just moved him to the Franklin County Jail. They’re holding him on half a million dollars’ bond. You ought to get someone down there to do some first-aid counseling.” “There’s no one else here right now, Ron. I’m holding the fort myself.”

“Well, the word’s out, and there’ll be reporters from the Citizen-Journal and the Dispatch crawling all over the place. I’ve got a feeling the police are going to pressure the guy.”

In major felony cases, in which it was likely the police might continue their investigation post-arrest, Gary Schweickart routinely chose an attorney at random to send down to the county jail. But this was no routine arrest. The wide media attention given the Campus Rapist made the breaking of this case a major coup for the Columbus police department, and Schweickart assumed they’d be hounding the prisoner for a statement or a confession. It was going to take a major effort to protect his rights.

Schweickart decided to slip over to the Franklin County Jail. Just a few words with the man to introduce himself as a public defender and to warn him not to talk to anyone but his attorney.

Schweickart was admitted to the county jail in time to see two police officers bring Milligan in through the sally port and turn him over to the sergeant in charge. Schweickart asked the officer to let him talk briefly with the prisoner.

“I don’t know anything about what they say I did,” Milligan whined. “I don’t remember. They just came in and—”

“Look, I just wanted to introduce myself,” Schweickart said. “A crowded hallway isn’t the place to go into the facts of the case. We’ll have a private conference in a day or so.”

“But I don’t remember. They found those things in my apartment and—”

“Hey, don’t go into it! The walls around here have ears. And when they’ve got you upstairs, be careful. The police have lots of tricks. Don’t talk to anyone. Even other prisoners. Some of them could be plants. There are always guys around waiting to pick up information to sell to somebody. If you want a fair trial, keep your mouth shut.”

Milligan kept shaking his head and rubbing his cheek, trying to talk about the facts of the case. Then he mumbled, “Plead me not guilty. I think I may be crazy.”

“We’ll see,” Schweickart said, “but we can’t talk about it here.”

“Is there a lady lawyer who could handle my case?”

“We’ve got a lady lawyer. I’ll see what I can do.” Schweickart watched as the officer took Milligan to change from his street clothes to the blue jump suit worn by all felons in the county jail. It was going to be difficult to work with a panicky bundle of nerves like this guy. He wasn’t really denying the crimes. All he was saying, over and over, was that he didn’t remember. That was unusual. But the Campus Rapist pleading insanity? Schweickart could guess what a field day the newspapers would have with that.