The Last Trial

by Scott Turow

  “Now, Mr. Appleton, I predict, when he gets his chance to speak last, will come to this podium and ridicule me. He will not be doing that because he likes to make fun of old people.”

  The remark, to Stern’s surprise, provokes a gale of laughter around the courtroom. It is comic relief mostly, but the hilarity is widespread. They are chuckling in the jury box, Sonny is holding up a hand to mask her mouth, even Moses, seldom inclined to levity, is smiling again. Only Feld seems to find no humor in Stern’s remark.

  “But he will say, ‘Oh well, really, my friend Sandy has given you some far-fetched hypothetical explanations of how this could have happened. Wendy Hoh misunderstood on the telephone. The Neucrisses told Anahit about g-Livia. And Kiril Pafko, a Nobel Prize winner, was confused because he knew the medical information was not confidential. What a coincidence,’ Mr. Appleton will say. ‘All these things going wrong for this unlucky fellow Kiril Pafko. And here he sits, poor man, accused of federal felonies, after the value of his stock rose to close to 600 million dollars. How unlucky. What a coincidence.’

  “But truly. Does it make more sense to believe that a winner of the Nobel Prize in Medicine would throw the work of a lifetime, a worldwide reputation, a long and noble life and career straight out the window at the age of seventy-five? How believable is that to any of us?

  “Peculiar chance occurrences, coincidences, accidents—whatever we want to call them—happen in our lives all the time. If I had the opportunity to have a conversation with each of you and say, ‘Tell me about the strangest coincidence you heard about this month,’ you would each have plenty to share: Your sister’s mother-in-law and father-in-law died of separate causes the same day, he in surgery, she in a car accident as she was racing to the hospital. Your best friend dated a woman for six weeks before realizing she was his long-lost first cousin. Your doctor and your priest, no relation, are both named Joe Flynn. Those things are unlikely. But they happen.

  “Moses has a job. I have a job. You stand between us. And I stand beside Kiril Pafko, whose achievements are legend and who has been accused of a crime for what he did in developing a medication that is destined to save thousands of lives. Yes, Dr. Robb says there should be a black box warning, whatever that is, and so we can assume there will be one in the future. But g-Livia will return to the market, and cancer patients will live far longer. And in hospital rooms and houses, at grandchildren’s softball games, as parents put a child to bed at night, or live to attend a wedding or graduation, they will all say, ‘God bless Kiril Pafko. He was once accused of something bad. How,’ they will ask, ‘how could that possibly have happened?’

  “They will not understand. Do not compound the errors that have occurred already, the mistake of being taken in by Innis McVie, of being thwarted by Wall Street lawyers, of not calling the right witnesses, of relying on a sloppy mess of laws and regulations even the regulators do not understand, of trying to brand a man revered around the world as a felon. Let the parade of mistakes stop here.

  “In this life, we know many things beyond a reasonable doubt: That we love our children. That it is raining when the drops fall from the sky. That stars are out. That you love pizza. That Innis McVie is a liar.

  “But that Kiril Pafko is a felon, that he committed these crimes? Do you know that? Do you know for certain? Do you know for sure?”

  He looks to them, his last jury, shaking his head, shaking it again and again until he takes his seat.

  VI. JUDGMENT

  33. The Verdict

  It is Marta’s voice that retrieves him from a region of unsettled dreams. As he rises toward the world, he undertakes the inventory that has become routine. Alive? Apparently. Pains? Not much worse. At home? He doubts that but opens his eyes, only to find his vision somewhat blurred. After another second, he knows: the hospital. He comprehends as much from the feel of the sheets and the infernal bleating of the monitors. But he closes his eyes again to orient himself. He recalls finishing his argument, plunging into his chair with one thought: I did it. Meaning not that he won the case—that remained unlikely—or even that he’d delivered a stirring argument, although Marta had whispered an adoring compliment, with her jaw clenched like a ventriloquist’s so the jurors could not read her lips. He was relieved because he had made it to the end.

  As Stern was completing his remarks, while he was mutely shaking his head time and again, his heart once more felt like it was trying to run away and escape his chest. When Moses stood to deliver the government’s rebuttal, an immense weariness overcame Stern, and with it a brutal headache, as if a huge pliers were clenched against his skull. His temples drummed. Breathing was futile. To Marta he whispered, ‘You make the objections.’ One more thing comes back to him: a piercing scream. Pinky?

  He begins to follow the conversation taking place beside him.

  “Marty,” says Al Clemente, Stern’s internist, addressing Marta by the nickname from her teendom, “the job of a physician is not simply to sweep up the pieces of a human being after they’re broken.”

  “Al, what do you think the chances are I could have talked him out of it?”

  Somewhere, like a cold drip from the roof of a cave, the thought arrives that Clara had once shared their daughter’s confidence that Al was Marta’s first sexual partner. But they were pals more than lovers, even in high school. Years ago, when Stern had accepted the advice—probably from Kiril—to find an internist younger than he is, Al had been Stern’s first thought. Now Al is close to turning himself out to pasture, another doctor eager to leave behind a noble profession whose pleasures are largely lost in the course of an unceasing war with insurance companies and hospital administrators.

  Al is dryly wrathful with his old friend.

  “Does that mean I wasn’t entitled to express my opinion to him? When I read the papers and realized he was in the middle of a month-long trial, I nearly ran down to the courthouse to kidnap him. Some calamity was inevitable. You know, he doesn’t have a normal physiology, even for an eighty-five-year-old. Remission or not, he has metastatic disease, and God only knows how this kind of strain affects that.”

  “I know,” says Marta sullenly.

  “He’s had a wonderful quality of life because he’s still so sharp.”

  “Most of the time,” says Marta.

  “Okay, most of the time. But he could live a really good life for another decade—if you don’t say ‘Okay’ when he decides to climb Mount Everest. This verged on suicidal. Is he still depressed about Helen?”

  “I guess. Normal. Recently he’s seemed a little interested in someone, so maybe he’s moving on.”

  “You should encourage him.”

  Stern decides it’s time to clear his throat. Al stops midsentence and on reflex reaches for Stern’s wrist to take his pulse. Both Marta and the doctor are sheepish at first.

  “Did you hear us?” Al asks.

  He nods and Al lowers his round face to Stern’s. He is not very good at accepting the advice he dispenses about dietary habits.

  “Sandy, never again.”

  “I have promised that,” he says.

  “Well, promise me.”

  “I promise you, Al. And myself. I know this was beyond me. I am not pleased about it. But I accept the fact.”

  His doctor is finally pacified.

  “May I ask what happened to me?” says Stern.

  “Well, the bad news, to be medically precise, is that you were dead. The good news is it didn’t last long. You went into cardiac arrest, Sandy.”

  “Cardiac arrest? Because?”

  “Ventricular tachycardia, apparently. Later today you’ll meet a very fine cardiac surgeon named Sarita Panggabean, who’s going to implant a device in your chest to prevent any reoccurrence. You’ll be out of here tomorrow morning.”

  “Is today still Tuesday?” Stern asks.

  “Wednesday,” Al says. Stern had been sedated overnight, after being brought in by ambulance.

  Marta describes the
chaotic scene that unfolded in the courtroom after Stern had slithered out of his chair and face-planted on the carpet. Ultimately, Feld and Moses and Harry, the court security officer, lifted Stern onto the defense table, and Marta says that Sonny and she took turns administering mouth-to-mouth.

  “Pinky was the hero, though,” Marta adds.

  “A wonderful new trend,” says Stern.

  “She remembered there was a defibrillator in the corridor. She had to smash in the glass with her bare hand, but she came rushing back with it, so Kiril could apply the paddles.”

  Stern takes no pleasure in his vivid reimagining of the scene—his shirt torn open, his sunken, scarred chest exposed to view, his flesh a bloodless white.

  Al says, “You had outstanding judgment, Sandy, collapsing beside a Nobel Prize winner in Medicine.”

  “I have had a charmed life for years now, Al.” Stern looks to his daughter. “A verdict?”

  “Not yet. They only got the case a couple of hours ago.”

  “How did our friend Moses do in rebuttal?”

  “Going down for the count was not a good tactical decision on your part. Sonny sent them home yesterday and let Moses start again this morning, after telling the jury you were doing well.”

  Fairness to the prosecutors would have required the judge to say that, even if Stern’s body was in cold storage at a funeral home.

  “And the argument?”

  “Strong. Very good. Not as great as you were. But he definitely benefited by getting overnight to sort things out. He started out with the ‘Aw shucks,’ stuff. ‘I can never be as eloquent as Mr. Stern.’”

  “Then ripped me to shreds,” says Stern.

  “He tried. Moses didn’t spend a lot of time on the fraud counts.”

  Stern is surprised by that.

  Marta explains, “I think they felt their case on fraud sort of collapsed. Just too many things went south on them. He told me afterwards that he thought the jury was going to buy your argument about Wendy Hoh enough to raise a doubt. He went all-in on the insider trading. ‘No matter who the government called, Mr. Stern would be able to name another witness we should have brought before you. You have all of Ms. Turchynov’s phone records. There are no calls to either of the Neucrisses’ numbers. And don’t you remember Mr. Stern’s cross-examination of Gila Hartung? Ms. Hartung agreed that the Neucrisses were determined to keep the problems with g-Livia a secret in order to prevent other plaintiffs’ lawyers from trying to jump into these cases. There is no chance they would allow word to leak to Anahit Turchynov. It’s a pipe dream that Ms. Turchynov sold PT for any other reason than what she learned from Kiril Pafko. But that’s the wonderful part of being a defense lawyer. You don’t have to prove anything, so you can say one thing one day and something else the next.’”

  “It sounds effective,” Stern says.

  “The jurors were listening. You know the rest of it. ‘No one is above the law, no matter what their achievements.’ ‘Twenty million dollars is not a minor offense.’”

  “And our client?”

  “The usual. Cloud nine. Concerned about you but certain he is destined for freedom.”

  Stern thinks about Kiril for a moment, then shakes his head as he reconsiders the impact of Moses’s argument.

  “He was an idiot not to take the mistrial.”

  The following morning, Thanksgiving Day, Stern is shocked to see his younger daughter, Kate, come through the hospital-room door early in the morning. She embraces him. The tallest person in her immediate family, Kate is too thin, but still the same beautiful, quintessentially sweet human being. Her second husband, Miguel, a Spaniard, is quite a bit older than she and nothing like John, Pinky’s father, who maintains the distinction of being the only person any of Stern’s children paired with whom Stern ever disliked—but, as Stern often says, he disliked John enough for ten. Miguel is far more worldly and has broadened Kate’s life in a way she clearly longed for. But once she was happier, she was unwilling to allow Pinky to disrupt that, and it is no accident that she supported Miguel’s desire to move to Scottsdale, where they live most of the year, closer to Kate’s other two kids in Seattle. The older Kate has gotten, the more she reminds him of his sister, Silvia—another bright, kind, beautiful woman, basically withdrawn to a protected realm of wealth.

  Kate had flown in last night as a holiday surprise for her father, and so it now falls to her to tell Stern he will have to stay here one more day. The hospital is short staffed; it would take hours to get Stern discharged. On top of that, Al thinks Stern will benefit from one more day of enforced rest. Court, Stern knows, is closed for the holiday, but Sonny has asked the jury to return and resume deliberations tomorrow morning. If there is no verdict by late Friday, they will probably send out notes about being hung.

  “Thanksgiving in this hellhole?” Stern asks.

  But it turns out rather well. Marta brings the entire dinner down to U Hospital and they eat in the family lounge, eighteen people, including all three of Marta’s kids and Henry’s girlfriend. Stern is delighted to see Pinky and her mother seated side by side, conversing amiably all night. With Kate earlier, he lavished praise on Pinky’s work throughout the trial, not to mention her heroics when he collapsed.

  ‘Marty says the same thing,’ Kate allowed. Like everyone, she was also deeply impressed by Pinky’s quick thinking and bravery in smashing her way to the defibrillator.

  ‘I think she has a solid future as a private investigator,’ Stern said. ‘She has many strengths suited for that role.’

  Kate was clearly pleased to hear all this, but she has been disappointed by Pinky much too often not to remain guarded.

  Peter, with whom Stern has been trading voice messages since yesterday, rings his father’s phone with a video call while they are all around the table.

  “I hear you nearly got your fondest wish,” he says as soon as Stern is on-screen.

  “What is that?”

  “To be buried in a courtroom.” Peter laughs. As usual with his jokes at his father’s expense, only Peter sees the humor. “How are you feeling, Dad?”

  “Some pain at the incision. Otherwise, surprisingly energetic. When I am awake. Al has me on sleeping pills.”

  “Good idea. I talked to Al. Exhaustion was a big part of your problem. But you’re going to be fine. Your ejection fraction is over fifty percent. We should have done this a couple of years ago. But most of the time you seemed to be getting by well.”

  Stern asks to see his granddaughter.

  Rosa is adorable and determined to hold her father’s cell phone.

  “Ho’d,” she screams. “Ho’d.”

  When she calms down, Stern clucks at her and plays peekaboo.

  “Rosa,” Stern says, “tell your father, as soon as I can fly again, I am coming to spend a few days with you. Retirement has its benefits.” In the face of Peter’s silence, Stern says, “I have read the script, Peter, and your line is, ‘We’d love to see you.’” Peter actually laughs, and Stern passes the phone to other family members to offer Thanksgiving greetings to his son.

  The chemically aided sleep Stern has gotten the past few nights has been delicious, like floating carefree in a warm sea. It is nearly nine thirty when Stern awakens on Friday morning, and Kate is reading from a tablet in the chair next to his bed. She smiles with heart-lifting sweetness when she notices he is awake.

  “Clarice and Marty ran down to court.”

  “A verdict or a jury question?”

  “Marta said she would come straight here after to tell you all about it.”

  That sounds like a verdict. After a day of thought over the holiday, the holdouts have come over to the other side. Stern knows he could tune to the local news channel on the radio and find out, especially if there is a decision. But he is pleased to ride on the ether of ignorance for a few more minutes, just as would be the case if he were actually in the courtroom. Those moments, awaiting the announcement of a verdict, are dizzying. Someth
ing huge has happened—to your client, to the community—but it is a secret only twelve people know.

  In another half an hour his cell on the table beside the hospital bed is buzzing—undoubtedly reporters seeking comment. He’s sure now: There is a verdict.

  His older daughter and his oldest granddaughter arrive in twenty minutes. He is pleased to see Pinky and her mother greet one another this morning in a sincere embrace.

  “Dígame,” he says to Marta, who has not even taken off her coat.

  “Not guilty all counts except 23,” says Marta.

  “Guilty on 23?”

  She toughens up her mouth and nods.

  Insider trading. It feels like he’s been shot. He groans.

  “I should have told them not to compromise.” It’s a standard argument, based on a line from the judge’s instructions about their deliberations. ‘Do not surrender your honest beliefs about the case.’ The subtext is, Don’t make a deal just to get out of the jury room. This happens all the time, jurors thinking they are doing a defendant a favor, or expressing an opinion about the merits of the charges, by convicting only on a count or two. One count or one hundred, Kiril Pafko is now a felon and faces punishment accordingly.

  Stern is astonished by the depth of his disappointment. He knows, for one thing, that Kiril committed the crime. And it sounds like Moses, in rebuttal, solidified this part of his case. But still. Hope, that blind songbird. It flies through the bleakest skies. He is so sad. For himself, in all honesty. It would have been such a glorious way to depart, notching what the media painted as an impossible win. And his heart is broken also for his stupid, stupid client. He finds that Pinky has stolen to the chair beside him and, with nothing else said, has taken his hand. A bandage of gauze and tape is still wrapped around her knuckles.