Personal Injuries

by Scott Turow

  She had thought about it. Much of the night.

  “It’s starting to get exciting,” she said.

  “We might be able to do it without you.”

  That was ridiculous. They both knew that. If she cut and ran now, she might as well wire Walter Western Union to tell him Carmody was right. She tried to be level and unflappable, like McManis, as she shook her head.

  At ten, we met. Jim stood up in his white shirt and addressed the assemblage—Sennett, Robbie, me, and the remaining UCAs. D.C. had punted. The decision whether to go on had to be made on the ground, where the operatives themselves had the best vantage to judge how close they were to blown. Evon was willing to go forward, he said. But he urged everyone to take a second to reconsider. Around the table, no one moved. It wasn’t clear to me whether Stan would have offered Robbie the same chance to opt out, but Feaver and I had talked already, and he was convinced that, for the moment, Evon was the only one in serious peril.

  Stan received the community resolve with a taut buttoned-up smile and took over. To reinforce the team, he had decided to share news previously sequestered in the realm of need-to-know. Everyone had realized that Amari and his surveillance squad had tailed the targets after the drops. Both Walter and Skolnick, it developed, had visited with Kosic within a few hours after Robbie passed them money. And the surveillance hadn’t terminated there. Amari and his watchers had been dutifully following Rollo when he bought a newspaper, or blood sausage at the market, or visited a currency exchange. As he approached the register, an agent would sidle close enough to catch a look at the bills Kosic was using to pay. Then, as soon as he was gone, another agent would make a purchase with something larger. The idea was to get Rollo’s bill back as change in the hope it would prove to be part of the prerecorded money Robbie had delivered. And it had worked. They’d hit the bull’s-eye three times now, picking up two bills Robbie had passed to Skolnick, from one of which D.C. had even lifted Rollo’s prints. This morning at Paddywacks, the notorious hang of county pols, where Rollo, as always, had paid for Brendan’s breakfast, Amari had recovered a fifty that Robbie had given Walter yesterday at 5 p.m. Stan was prepared to ask the Chief Judge to approve a bug in Kosic’s office the next time money changed hands.

  “The game is changing,” Stan said. “We’re in the second half. After yesterday, we have to figure the clock is running. But, folks”—Stan’s dark eyes were bright as a grackle’s—“we’re literally, literally, right outside Brendan Tuohey’s door.”

  26

  SINCE SHERM CROWTHERS TREATED ALL souls on earth as likely enemies, he refused to employ the usual courthouse bagman. Instead, according to Robbie, Sherm did business through his half sister, Judith McQueevey, the proprietor of a successful soul food restaurant in the North End. Judith had begun with a simple storefront and had expanded over the years. Although only the hardiest of white folk ventured into the neighborhood after dark, it was not unusual at lunch for all colors to gather there, drawn by the legendary fried chicken, or the Southern-style ribs, simmered until the meat parted from the bone.

  Robbie and Evon had arrived at noontime one day in late April. After their meal, Robbie approached Judith at the register. In paying the check, he handed over an envelope intended for her brother in gratitude for the fine settlement supposedly achieved after Crowthers manhandled McManis in the sexual harassment case of Olivia King.

  Like me, Stan had known Sherman for years, although he had a far dimmer opinion of him, as a result of tangling with him as an opponent. But with that advantage, Sennett had figured a way to trap Crowthers. Ordinarily, the envelope Feaver offered would have been almost an inch thick, containing a hundred $100 bills. Employing the familiar gambit, Sennett decided Robbie should short Crowthers, figuring in this case Sherman would confront Feaver rather than abide being dissed.

  ‘I gotta talk to him,’ Robbie had whispered to Judith amid the restaurant’s luncheon clamor. The air was heavy with frying smells and the piquancy of greens. ‘There’s something he doesn’t understand.’

  Judith, who was far too shrewd not to know what was occurring, steadfastly refused to acknowledge anything. She was a big person, taller than Robbie in her high heels, and clearly a fan of her own cooking. At noontime, she wore a snug spangled evening gown, profuse purple eye shadow, and a heavy Ghanaian necklace, apparently solid gold. When Robbie handed over the envelope, Judith, adroit in these matters, pouched out a heavy vermilion lip as she hefted the package. There was only $2,000 there.

  ‘Mmm-mmm,’ she said to herself.

  ‘That’s why I have to see him,’ Robbie whispered.

  ‘I wouldn’t know a thing about that,’ Judith said, a well-practiced line. Her dangling earrings, little African gods, and her long straightened hair rambled about as she shook her head.

  ‘Please,’ Robbie answered. Usually he paid Judith two hundred dollars for lunch, declining the change as her tip. But today he peeled five hundreds off the roll in his pocket. Judith, a woman of prosperity, looked at the money through one eye. Her usual animation drained, and she cheated a glance at Evon, who stood a safe distance away, while she’d overheard their exchange on the infrared. The kitchen was just to the rear, and around them rattled the voices of waitresses, in their pink uniforms, demanding their orders from the chefs in a characteristic tone of weary disappointment in the performance of men. One thing Judith had learned in this life was that money was money, you couldn’t have too much, and she finally picked up the hundreds and crushed them in her fist. She waved Robbie on his way, even as he begged her for reassurance that she’d speak to her brother.

  Whatever she’d told Sherman, however, did not work. Crowthers made no effort to contact Robbie. Instead, the next time Feaver appeared before Crowthers, in the first week in May, coming in with McManis on the case that had been transferred to Sherman’s calendar from Gillian Sullivan’s, the judge had scalded Robbie with a furious look. Without explanation, he granted McManis’s standard motion to dismiss the suit.

  “Figures,” said Stan. “He’s crunching your nuts because you didn’t come through.” Sennett was probably right, although a defense lawyer would argue that the judge had just called this one as he saw it, much as he had in King. Besides, there was a more ominous explanation now for Sherman’s conduct: they knew. If Walter gave credence to Carmody’s suspicions and circulated the news, that might account for both Sherm’s rage and his eagerness to rule against Feaver.

  Either way, McManis and Sennett agreed that Robbie had to force a meeting with the judge. There was not much to lose. With the potential of suspicions arising about Evon, there was less time for patience, and the case they had against Crowthers was too thin to prosecute. Judith was unlikely to flip on her brother, and Walter’s stunts with Malatesta had emphasized the fallibility of treating a payoff to a bagman as proof of a judge’s involvement. Amari’s surveillance had never traced Robbie’s money from Judith to the judge. They met, but nobody could ask a jury to draw a criminal inference from a get-together between siblings.

  On Thursday, May 6, Robbie appeared in the small reception area of Crowthers’ chambers and asked to see him. Sherm’s sheer size and his aggressive character presented a new risk. There was no telling exactly what he would do if he felt cornered or provoked. For that reason, Evon, again equipped with the infrared earpiece, was lurking right outside the chambers’ door. Stan and McManis and I were in the surveillance van, which was parked on Sentwick, one of the side streets bordering the courthouse.

  Amari’s watchers had confirmed that Crowthers was in his chambers. After a long wait, during which Robbie entertained us with a softly whistled version of most of the score of Phantom of the Opera, Sherm’s secretary announced the judge would see him. Sherman’s firm basso cut off Feaver’s cheery greetings.

  “What brings you here, Mr. Feaver?”

  Robbie seemed to hesitate.

  “Judge, I guess this is a personal thing. I just—”

  “Feav
er, I never meet lawyers alone. Seems to me you’ve been round this courthouse long enough to have heard that. I always ask Mrs. Hawkins to stay here. Or to be sittin right outside the open door. Nothin personal. Just good practice.”

  Crap, mouthed Sennett from his fold-down seat across from me. Robbie, who’d never approached Crowthers directly, was clearly taken by surprise.

  “Well, Judge, this is really awfully embarrassing this way.”

  “Nothin embarrassin about it. Just say your piece.”

  Inspired, McManis pulled his cell phone from his briefcase and dialed Crowthers’ chambers. We could hear the phone pealing over the FoxBIte, but Mrs. Hawkins, apparently, was not about to move. Robbie, however, had had an inspiration of his own.

  “Well, Judge, there was a young lady in my office this morning, Judge, and she wants to bring a paternity suit against Your Honor.”

  Mrs. Hawkins reacted first, a startled trill, as if she’d been pinched.

  “Pa-ternity suit!” Crowthers thundered. “Who’s this? Who in the hell is this female scalawag gone try shake some money out of my tree? No. Wait. Mrs. Hawkins has no need to hear this. Wouldn’t want to, I’m sure. You go on, Mrs. Hawkins. Not a word of truth in this, Mrs. Hawkins, I assure you. Mr. Feaver and I are gone get to the bottom of this thing right now.”

  The door closed soundly enough to suggest Mrs. Hawkins was miffed.

  “Hey, Judge, I’m sorry about that.” Robbie’s voice had grown smaller and he was clearly moving closer to the heavy paper-strewn desk where Crowthers sat. “I’ve been trying to get with you for weeks. I gotta explain. About King?” he said, meaning the case about the ornery executive who’d harassed his former secretary.

  There was no response. Crowthers did not so much as clear his throat.

  “See, Judge, this is really embarrassing. I know you didn’t see what you were expecting, but this chick, the plaintiff, Olivia? She didn’t sign, Judge. I thought the paralegal’d gotten her to do it, she thought I had. But, bottom line, I don’t have a fee agreement. And you know, Judge, she’s an operator. Olivia? She knew what she was doing. She’s already got another lawyer telling me he’s going to Bar Admissions and Discipline if I don’t release the whole check to her. I mean, it’s a pisser, Judge. I say implied contract, he says, Okay, $300 an hour, send her a bill. Can you imagine, Judge? Five-hundred-thousand-dollar settlement and she’s looking for an hourly fee.”

  Nothing. As I imagined the scene, Crowthers, an immense presence, sat behind his large desk, his eyes and the huge whites turned upward to Robbie and almost throbbing with anger, his nostrils widened in a primal flare. Anyone’s first instinct would be to cut and run. But Robbie kept scraping out his apology for shortchanging the judge.

  “If I get five thousand out of the case it’s a lot. I mean, what can I do, Judge? That’s why I was light with Judith. Between you and your sister, you figure taxes and expenses, you guys got everything on this one. The whole chile relleno.”

  Still no sound. There was nothing, not even a grunt that might have passed for assent. Facing this recording, a defense lawyer was likely to maintain that the judge was no longer there, that Robbie was talking to himself as a desperate way to enhance the body count and improve his sentence.

  Beside me, McManis whispered, “He’s getting smoked.” Sennett nodded.

  Then it turned worse.

  “What the hell is this?” Crowthers asked suddenly. “What kind of crazy shit are you talkin? In my entire life, I have never heard such stupid, crazy shit.”

  Even Jim groaned on that one. As with Malatesta, Robbie’s instructions were to cut it short if he began eliciting denials, and his clothing shifted roughly over the microphone as he started for the door.

  “Right, Judge, you’re right, I was just really stupid. I know that. I’ll catch up next time. Scout’s honor. And I’m going to tell her out there, Mrs. Hawkins? I’ll tell her it’s a mistake and all, that—What?” At the edges, Robbie’s voice raveled in alarm. A spring sang out. You could hear the chair rolling with velocity and a rocking sound as it hit the wall.

  “What?” Robbie said. “There—”

  The smack of flesh on flesh was distinct. I was certain Crowthers had slapped him. The mike jostled harshly as Robbie rocked and he cried out simultaneously, but that was stifled quickly, even as Robbie tried to speak. Sherm had gotten hold of him. By the mouth or the throat. Doubled over, McManis scrambled up toward the front and told Amari to alert the covering units. In the meantime, from Feaver’s gargled sounds and the thumping of his bootheels, I decided he was being dragged along. A door slammed, in an oddly resonant way, then there was a whooshing sound, some kind of whispering in the background almost like static.

  “Who you?” It was Crowthers in a harsh whisper, somewhat muffled by the persistent noise in the backdrop.

  “Water,” said Amari in front, identifying the sound.

  “Christ,” said Stan, “he’s got him in the john.”

  Jim had the cell phone out of his pocket. He was dialing a number, Evon’s pager, I imagined, ready to signal her to go in.

  They had to be standing very close in the little bathroom that adjoined Crowthers’ chambers. I’d seen the facilities in the Temple on a number of occasions and there was barely room for one person, especially somebody of Sherm’s size.

  “Listen, here,” the judge said. “I’m just standin here wonderin who the hell you’re thinkin you are? What’m I suppose to call you, Chatty Kathy? What the hell you doin, man? You know better’n that. I don’t want to be hearin bout this crazy shit.”

  “Judge, I’m not trying to mess with you.” It was a relief to hear Feaver’s voice. “I just wanted to be sure you’re not creased.”

  “I’m creased, okay, specially about the way you goin on. Now, cut that shit out. If I’m not satisfied with the way you attend to your business, you gone know that. And seems to me, you do. Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So next time you gone attend to your business, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s all. Just don’t talk that crazy shit to me.” His voice dropped. “Get us both in a trick bag.”

  Sennett shot me a look, marked by a fleeting grin. ‘Trick bag.’ We both knew it was one of those lines that turn a case in front of a jury. Feaver’s shoes resounded on the tiles, but Crowthers spoke up harshly.

  “Close that door. Did I say we’re done?”

  “No, Judge.”

  “And come’ere. Right here. Come right here. Now what you mean bout my sister? Between me and my sister. What’s that about?”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me. Don’t give me that dumb ofay look. I know better than that. What’d you give her?”

  Feaver seemed dumbstruck by the implications. Crowthers repeated the question.

  “Five, Judge.”

  “Five dollars?”

  “Five hundred. Five hundred for her and two thousand for you.”

  “So she gets quarter what I get? And I’m the judge. Somethin ain right about that.”

  “Well, I told you, Your Honor. That was just so I could talk to you. Apologize. That came out of my own pocket.”

  “Well, they any more in that pocket?”

  There was a discernible gurgle of surprise from Feaver, but I thought he was in role.

  “You know, Judge. I mean, I’ve got an office. I’ve got overhead.”

  “Aw shit. Who you think you talkin to? You think I’m just some boy off a walnut plantation?”

  “Oh, God no, Judge.”

  “Now you come round here, bother me like this, that gotta cost you. Mmm-hmmm,” the judge told himself. “You go see Judith—you bring her what you brought me before. You hear me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And don’t ever come talkin this shit to me again. Fact, now that you got me thinkin on it, you bring her what you oughta brought her before.”

  “Jeez, Judge. Another eight thousand?”


  “No, ten. You keep poor-mouthin, gone be twenty-five before I let you outta this damn bathroom. And don’t you go whinin to anybody either. I don’t want to hear any more about this. I just want this to be one of those unpleasantries everybody resolves ain gone be mentioned again. Come talk this crazy shit to me,” said Crowthers to himself. He was worked up.

  In the outer office, Robbie passed a word with Mrs. Hawkins. Talk about a mix-up! He just called on his cell phone and the client said Carruthers, not Crowthers. Mrs. Hawkins laughed. She knew it all along.

  “Judge gets up on himself,” she said, “but he’s a righteous individual.”

  In a moment, there was another distinct smack, not all that different from the first one. After a momentary qualm, I realized that Evon, with her earpiece, had just given or received a high five from Robbie in the corridor. Stan had risen from his metal seat and, crouched to three-quarters height, actually danced a quick buck-and-wing at the first stoplight. “Outright extortion,” he kept repeating.

  Yet as the van headed back to the federal building, I couldn’t share in the mood. My father was always reviled as a racial agitator because he’d attempted to integrate our county bar in 1957, but despite that. I grew up full of guilt about what had been ingrained in our way of life. I had made the vows, like many other persons of my age, to live in a better world. It had disheartened me to hear Sherman’s name from Robbie. But it wasn’t hard to believe. Sherm was the grimmest of cynics. And I’d been down the same road only a few years before with my pal Clifton Bering.

  Clifton was a classmate of Stan’s and mine at Easton, the first African American ever to make the Law Review. He was charming and gifted, handsome and overjoyed by the great prospects he had in life. His father was a Kindle County cop, and Clifton always had his feet in both camps, at home with civil rights progressives as well as Party figures. He was the councilman from Redhook in the North End and was regarded as a serious candidate to become Mayor when Augie Bolcarro finally died. And then, not long after Sennett’s induction as U.S. Attorney, an investigation of corruption in the North End started, and I began hearing Clifton’s name. He fell prey to all of today’s finest technology. He’d come to a wired hotel room to accept $50,000 to secure a downtown zoning change for what proved to be an FBI front, and he had, in the parlance, barfed all over himself. He had not just taken the money, not merely promised to rig the change, in just those words, but baldly stated that next time he’d appreciate it if there was a girl in the room for afterwards. Then he added the one word that sealed his fate, unpardonable to a jury of any composition: ‘White,’ Clifton had said.