Personal Injuries

by Scott Turow

  No one, so far as I knew, had given much thought to the fact that Dinnerstein would expect to see money. It had been enough just to maintain all the pretenses in court. Yet if you believed the paperwork created to dupe Mort, he had several hundred thousand dollars coming, something he was unlikely to forget. In the office with both Robbie and Evon, he was, naturally, far crankier than he’d been with me. She had been around several times recently when he’d reminded Robbie to get after McManis, and Feaver’s failure to produce results had even made Mort slightly mistrustful.

  “You sure spend a lot of time with that guy,” Mort said one day this week. “Don’t forget you’re supposed to be kicking his ass.”

  “Hey,” Robbie answered.

  Mort turned to Evon. “He falls in love with people, you know.”

  Dinnerstein had come to accept her regular presence, inured to the random women who became enmeshed in Robbie’s life. Even, for her part, had learned to enjoy the gentle needling between the two men and, even more, the intimate undercurrents that inevitably overcame Mort’s frequent exasperation with his partner. But finances were one of Mort’s responsibilities in the firm, and despite his good nature, he was exacting. He could tell you the monthly income within a few dollars without a financial report. He invested shrewdly, too, Robbie said.

  ‘That dippy head-in-the-clouds stuff,’ Robbie had once told her, ‘that’s partly a schtick he got into as a kid so he could ignore a lot of hairy stuff. You’re too young to remember how it was, but until Salk found his vaccine, mothers would sort of hover over their kids all summer, watching for even a runny nose, knowing that somebody—some kid from school or the third cousin of your downstairs neighbor—but someone was going to end up with this horrible plague. And Morty was the one. He was in an iron lung for months. That can weird you out some. The paralysis pretty much receded. But afterwards, his ma was always hanging on him. Sometimes when he was sleeping, she’d put a mirror under his nose to make sure he was breathing. And she made him wear this leg brace, so he felt like the world’s biggest dork. When he’d get out of the house, we’d take it off and hide it in the bushes. It was leather with steel rods and laces like for shoes. I must have tied that thing a hundred times, helping him put it back on. Sheilah was never the wiser. He’d go home to Mommy with that dopey out-of-it smile.’

  Feaver found this story, like everything about Mort, endearing, but the point was well taken. The same day Mort had seen me, Shirley Nagle burst into McManis’s conference room to announce that Dinnerstein was in reception. As it happened, Evon was with Jim, doing a status check on the paperwork outstanding on each of the contrived cases. Shirley described Mort as polite, but determined. He’d already made a couple of unanswered phone calls to McManis today. He’d now announced that he’d just wait out there until Jim could see him. Dinnerstein had taken a seat in one of the upholstered chairs, reaching into a full briefcase to draw out a draft on which he began marking out changes in his small careful hand.

  “Should I hide?” Evon asked McManis.

  “Hell,” said Jim, “you better go see what he wants.”

  In reception, Evon explained her presence with something close to the truth: she’d come down here to confirm briefing schedules on a number of cases and, hearing Mort’s name, thought he might have been here to find her. It was the money, of course, that he was after.

  “Why don’t you stick around,” Mort whispered. “I wouldn’t mind a witness.”

  Eventually they were ushered back to McManis’s office. Mort never stopped smiling throughout the visit. He said that after all those months of hearing Jim’s name, he thought they should meet. Trying to build a bridge, he even tossed out the names of a few people in Moreland’s legal department whom he took for mutual acquaintances. McManis was not completely convincing in response, but owing a fellow several hundred thousand dollars didn’t generally foster a relaxed appearance.

  When Mort finally reached the subject of the money his firm was due, Jim, in usual lawyerly fashion, blamed the client.

  “Well, we have a client, too.” Dinnerstein laughed. “And we’re going to have a hell of a time explaining to him why we didn’t file a contempt motion.” Mort happened to have a draft of such a motion in his briefcase and, with no lapse in his jovial manner, handed it to Jim before Evon and he went on their way.

  Naturally, Sennett and Robbie and I were urgently summoned in the aftermath. This problem was only going to get worse. Beyond Standard Railing, Dinnerstein would soon be looking for a settlement check on the case of the poor painter with cancer which had been before Skolnick, and also on King v. Hardwick, the sexual harassment suit on which Robbie had informed Judge Crowthers’ clerk of a settlement two days after the hearing. Things were only half as bad as they looked, since Feaver would immediately refund his end to the government. But retrieving the money from Mort, whenever the Project was over, might be a complicated legal undertaking, especially if Mort was angry, as he figured to be. The folks at UCORC, who were forever hounding McManis and Stan about the significant costs of the Project, seemed unlikely to let go of $250,000 they might never see again.

  We all watched Sennett calculate, banging his fingers against his lips. It reminded me a little of one of those game shows I watched in childhood, where the audience waited for the correct answer to come spinning down in a sheaf of IBM cards dropped from the bottom of Univac.

  “They’ll do it,” he said suddenly. “I know how to handle it.” Around the table, we awaited a further explanation, but it wasn’t forthcoming. Sennett gave us a dry smile, but his idea, whatever it was, was locked in the need-to-know treasure chest. Yet he was right. The money was wired from a code-named account to McManis two days later.

  “You know,” Robbie told Evon the night he’d presented Mort with the check, “I wasn’t really scared. I’ve always figured with Morty that if push comes to shove, I can just tell him to shut up and trust me.”

  Sennett would not like that—what if Mort let something slip to his uncle?—but Robbie was right. For all his lapses and deceptions, Robbie was committed to Morty’s well-being, and Dinnerstein knew it. Years ago, despite some qualms from Joan about Robbie’s philandering, Mort and his wife had named Robbie in their will as their children’s guardian, recognizing the powerful bond Robbie had formed with both boys. He was ‘Uncle Robbie,’ and had coached Mort’s older son, Josh, in Little League for several years, in ‘the good old days’ as Robbie called them, when he would show up for practice at eight on Saturday morning still in his suit. The younger boy, Max, was not an athlete. But from an early age, he’d been an exuberant performer, a talent Robbie had helped cultivate by directing the annual children’s theater production at the local Jewish Community Center. Last summer, for the first time, he had bowed out because of Rainey’s deterioration, but Evon heard Robbie on the phone with the boy often, coaching him for different parts.

  “You have any friends like that?” Feaver asked her now. “Like Morty and me?”

  “Me?” Evon was somehow startled by the thought. Her first impulse was to mention her sister. But family wasn’t quite the same. She knew that. No, was the honest answer. The bare facts sank her, but she told him the truth.

  “Not many people do,” he offered for comfort, clearly having read her reaction.

  But it was not a good night after that. When she got up to the small apartment, she was reeling. She felt fierce anger at the way Robbie managed to sneak up on her, and she hated herself for being who she was, so simple and manipulable in her longings. She sat on the couch in a blanket for quite some time, before she even had the spunk to put on Reba singing “It’s Your Call.” She was going to have to go out and call Merrel. There was no choice about that. Downtown, in a couple of the fancy hotels there were luxurious phone booths, elegant enclosed spaces, with brass fixtures and a little shelf of granite, a place where she did not feel in peril when she spoke in her old voice.

  She took a box from the freezer, unsure
exactly what entree was in it, and punched the beeping buttons on the microwave. She went to shower while her dinner twirled under the rays. When she’d stripped down, she considered herself in the small mirror on the bathroom vanity, whose corners were already being glossed over with vapor. Good tits. She had that much going for her. The sight, without any expectation, brought on the first vivid fantasy of being with Feaver that she’d experienced in all these months. It was sudden, enrapturing, and brief: just an intense image of him in darkness. An exact tactile memory of the unanticipated male hardness of his limbs revisited her. Her nipples peaked at once; she knew if she lowered her hand for consolation she’d be wet. But she twisted away from that, almost like a wrestler escaping from a hold. No. No. And then she prepared herself to recoil from the shock. But she wasn’t upset. It was just a piece of something she’d tried out, knowing all along it would never fit, just one more thing rocking and rolling inside her.

  She looked to the mirror, hoping for some confirmation from the woman there, but her face was already obscured by the steam.

  23

  THE DAY AFTER ROBBIE’S TELEVISED PAY-OFF of Skolnick, Stan had met with Chief Judge Winchell and played the tape for her. He wanted her to know Petros was on the right track, that Feaver’s accusations were proving out. Stan’s hope, yet again, was that she’d be willing to authorize the installation of a bug in Judge Malatesta’s chambers. The Chief Judge was careful not to give him any advice; she was the judge, not the prosecutor. But Sennett felt that if he could specify a limited time frame, a few days in which the government was watching for a particular event, she’d sign the warrant. Therefore, Sennett sought Robbie’s help in devising a scenario for an emergency motion, one Malatesta would have to rule on quickly, which would give the government an event to earmark in applying for the bug.

  There were still two contrived cases on Malatesta’s docket. Given Walter’s warnings, they had remained largely dormant, supposedly snoozing along through the interrogatory stage in discovery. One of the cases, Drydech v. Lancaster Heating, concerned a gas water heater that had supposedly exploded in the barn of Robbie’s client, a farmer. Drydech, based on an out-of-state decision Robbie had read, was known as ‘The Fart Case’ around McManis’s office. The planned defense was that combustion resulted not from the water heater but from a buildup of high quantities of methane emitted by a barn full of cows.

  To create the emergency, Robbie now proposed that he file a motion to advance the deposition of a company engineer who allegedly had warned of the potential for flash explosions if the heater was installed in an enclosed space occupied by livestock. The motion would require an immediate ruling because the engineer, supposedly, was seriously ill and slipping downhill.

  As soon as the papers were typed, Robbie and Evon dashed to the courthouse to file them and visit with Walter. The predicate for the bug would be a conversation, much like the one in Peter Petros’s case, in which Feaver told Wunsch that the outcome of the lawsuit would hinge on Malatesta’s ruling. The government would then watch to see how Wunsch brought this news to the judge and how Silvio reacted.

  When they arrived, Walter was already in the courtroom, getting ready for a hearing at 2 p.m. Once court started, Robbie would have a hard time holding any conversation with Wunsch, and they galloped across the corridor. As Evon flew through the swinging door behind Robbie, she nearly knocked over a burly guy twice her size. He was somebody she’d seen around here before, a cop or a deputy from the looks of him. While she apologized, he stared incredulously, not so much angry as unaccustomed, Evon figured, to taking that kind of wallop from a female.

  Walter was walking back and forth on the yellowish birch tier beneath the judge, with his customary ill-humored expression, giving directions to the bailiff and court reporter regarding the session about to get under way. Evon hung back, allowing Robbie to approach Wunsch on his own, although the voices were clear through the infrared. Handing over the motion, Feaver declared, between his teeth, “This guy is my case, Wally.”

  Walter’s rumpled face shrunk with distaste, but he said nothing. When Robbie asked how soon the judge would decide, Wunsch recited the court’s rule on emergency motions: McManis would have two days to reply, and the judge could then take up to two days to rule. That meant he’d consider the motion on Thursday or Friday.

  “You gonna ask me to add one plus one next?” Walter asked Robbie, before shooing him away.

  When Stan called midday Friday to ask if Robbie and I could join him at McManis’s, I figured we were being summoned for another celebration. But there were no upbeat greetings from the UCAs. In the conference room, both Jim and Stan sat with long faces. The dead gray eye of the video monitor was exposed in the red oak cabinets. When I asked what was wrong, the two looked at one another. Robbie arrived then, and even before he was seated, Stan pushed the button on the VCR.

  The screen sprang to life with a black-and-white image. The date and time, down to tenths of seconds, were displayed in a running count of white block letters in the upper right-hand corner. The footage, whatever it was, had been taken at 5:05 p.m. yesterday and the perspective was strange. The camera was positioned somewhere near the ceiling—in a phony smoke detector, Klecker told me later—and the lens was a fisheye, foreshortening the sides of the room much like the gold-framed parabolic mirror that hung in my parents’ foyer. The halftones blurred to white in the weak light.

  Eventually, I recognized a large desk, ponderous as an anvil, with Old Glory and the county flag on standards behind it. Two figures were at the edge of the picture. When they moved into the frame, they were, as anticipated, Malatesta and Wunsch. The judge held a sheaf of documents, which, it developed, were rulings on various cases. Silvio, in his Harry Carey glasses, looked over each one, then entered his name at the bottom. Hanging over his shoulder, Walter picked up the order as soon as it was signed. As he went along, Silvio made remarks to Walter and himself. A settlement conference was due on this one. The trial in Gwynn would last a lifetime. In response, Walter showed none of the dourness so much in evidence elsewhere. While the judge worked, he was a fountain of compliments about the wisdom of each decision.

  “Figures,” Robbie said. “What a toady.”

  Klecker had entered and Stan waved at him to cue the tape ahead. When the imagery began moving forward again, Malatesta was taking some time with the draft order in his hands.

  “What’s this, Walter?”

  “Drydech. You looked at the papers last night, after defendant filed, Judge. Remember? This is the case where the defense is that the cows had gas. It’s some discovery baloney. Same as usual. Defendant’s got his wheels in the mud.”

  Malatesta touched the center of his frames to push them back up on his nose.

  “Walter, how do you keep track of these cases? I can’t remember half of them. It’s a blessing to have you. Remind me again of the issue here.”

  Walter explained that Feaver wanted to depose, out of order, an engineer who supposedly was on death’s doorstep.

  “It’s a complete blank, Walter.”

  “Judge, you read it.”

  “Did I?” Absently, Silvio tugged up the sleeves of his cheap shirt, which swam on him, and reset the garters over his negligible biceps. “Get the papers, Walter. I just want to be sure I didn’t do something temperamental at the end of the day.”

  Malatesta had finished the stack of remaining orders by the time Walter was back with Robbie’s motion and McManis’s response. The judge shook his head as he read.

  “Walter, I must have paid no attention at all. This is quite a complicated issue. I’m not sure that the defendant doesn’t have a point.” McManis had argued that it was unfair for Robbie to take the engineer’s deposition before staking out a position on various technical issues related to the testimony. If Feaver wanted to expedite this dep, he had to expedite expert discovery as well.

  Hovering behind the judge, Walter was silent at first.

  “Well,
all right, Judge. But one thing. The plaintiff here, Feaver, he’s going straight to the Appellate Court.”

  Malatesta rolled back in his large chair. “Is he?”

  “Straight up there. That’s the impression he gave me. Says he can’t put on his case without this engineer. He’ll stipulate to a verdict and go right up.”

  “I see.” Malatesta covered his mouth and studied Robbie’s motion again.

  “I don’t know, Judge, you’re the judge, but you know, that whole appeal thing doesn’t happen if you rule for the plaintiff. Why not see what this engineer has to say? If it’s nothing much, Feaver loses. If it’s hot stuff, the Appellate Court’ll never reverse you. They’d have no use for a defendant tryin to sweep bad testimony under the rug.”

  “Well.” Malatesta swung his head back and forth. “I’m sitting here to render my best judgment, Walter, not to handicap the Appellate Court.”

  “Yeah, well, naturally, Judge, but you know, you got such a great record. Judge Tuohey talks about that all the time. How you’re leading the league upstairs. Nobody down in the Superior Court is close, Judge.”

  Malatesta, a man little inclined to laughter, actually giggled, an oddly childish sound.

  “True, true enough, Walter. I saw Brendan last week and he was praising my name to three or four other judges, how well regarded I am up there. It was a trifle embarrassing, actually. Still, I confess I’m proud of my record. There are some very fine jurists here in the Superior Court, Walter. It’s an accomplishment to be the least often reversed.”

  “And, Judge, I don’t know, but I got it in mind the Appellate Court threw a case back in the last few days—I thought it was just like this. ‘Let the plaintiff have his discovery.’ Ain’t that what they usually say?”