I’ve been having fantasies of being accused of a high-profile crime. It’s not that I desire to wear an orange jumpsuit or to make new friends in the prison showers. Mostly I just want to test-drive my talent for spin.

You know what I mean. Inside the courtroom, the accused has to sit quietly and listen as prosecutors and their witnesses say terrible things about him. Outside, where press microphones hang in the air like mutant insects, the criminal defendant gets to put the matter into his own words.

“It’s horrible that all those puppies were killed,” he might say, with a sad face practiced before a mirror in the middle of the night.

What he should tell the eager press is: Gosh, I just love puppies. I had a puppy myself when I was a boy. His name was Pumpkin. I adored that dog. He died in my arms after eating a candy bar.

Begin sniffling here.

It helps if the clearly guilty man can muster a tear or two while delivering this heartbreaking speech. Pluck a nose hair if you have to, dog killer. The rapt public wants to see some sign of humanity behind those dark eyes.

Some people are good at spin, others are not. If you are accused in a media-friendly case, the reporters are going to descend on you one way or another. It can be a pain in the affidavit or an enormous opportunity to sway public opinion. But like everything else, there are do’s and don’ts when it comes to manipulating the press.

For instance, muttering “no comment” has been done to death, so don’t do it. It angers reporters to no end and they will only increase their attack, like a swarm of hornets who have been poked with a stick. You are better off babbling complete gibberish.

“The big black bug,” you might say, with an appropriately somber expression, “bit a big black bear. It made the big black bear bleed blood.”

The reporters will scatter in all directions, eager to get the remark into print before deadline or on the air before the supper hour. Reporters are not fickle. We only want some kind of comment to take back to our bosses so we can say, “Do you see how I toil? I hounded this person with all the journalistic ardor in my arsenal until he gave up a remark.”

Thank the reporters for being there even though you hate them and secretly wish they would be eaten by birds. Offer your condolences to the people (or puppies) involved in the tragedy even while loudly maintaining your innocence. Do not simply stride by the knot of reporters with a sneer and a snide remark.

“The media can leave us alone now,” said Lewiston Mayor Lionel Guay, gliding past the clot of reporters after he was acquitted on charges that he groped an employee.

Mayor, mayor, mayor. You were just cleared of the charges against you. The press was hanging on your every word. This was the perfect opportunity to leave some final thoughts upon the ears of the public. Those words might be the last thing the voracious news audience remembers about the case.

An outright dismissal of the media is bad enough if you plan on leaving the country forever. If you are the mayor of a city in which you still reside, snubbing the ladies and gentlemen of the press is just a bad idea all around. They will remember. The next time you are to cut a ribbon to open a new playground, nobody will listen to your well-rehearsed speech. Like elephants and parasites that live on the flesh of trash-picking birds, reporters have long memories.

Mayor who? Oh, you mean the honorable Mayor-I-Have-Nothing-To-Say. Yeah, I can’t make it to the ribbon cutting. I’m covering the story of the big black bug that day. It bit a big black bear, you know.

It’s all about finesse and about catering to what the public wants to hear. Lawyers are trained in spin at secret schools in the mountain tops of Tibet. But the public wants to hear what the accused has to say without interference from his highly paid attorney. They want to assess the sincerity in the defendant’s voice. They want to analyze each note and syllable for traces of genuine compassion or outright prevarication.

All of this should prepare you for the inevitable march up the steps to the courthouse where you will stand trial for that naughty thing you did. You know what I’m talking about. That thing. In fact, you might as well call me this very minute and tell me all about it. Spill your guts. Say your piece.

And say it like you mean it.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter and a master of spin.