The Laws of our Fathers kc-4

by Scott Turow

  ‘I answered the questions he asked. As you pointed out, we were very guarded with one another.'

  'But you knew the significance of money going from your son to Hardcore, didn't you?'

  'Neither the prosecutors nor the police ever talked to me about the money. And even when I began to learn the details of the case, it didn't dawn on me at first, Mr Turtle, what the connection might be. By then, Nile had been indicted and I raised the subject with you – as you know – and you told me to leave the defense to you and that -' Eddgar stops cold. 'Go on.'

  'You told me you might not even have to get into it.'

  'Fooled you, didn't I?' Hobie asks. He has the nerve to issue a luminous smile, and then, as if that were not enough, he takes a single step toward the witness and actually bows fully from the waist. It's an astonishing moment. When he straightens up, he boils Eddgar, for just a second, in a look of absolute hatred. Eddgar absorbs this with more composure than I might have imagined. He touches a finger to the notch above his lip and studies Hobie in silence. Somewhere, a few seconds ago, we stopped trying this lawsuit and entered another realm, something quite beyond me which is wholly between these two men.

  'Mr Turtle, are you finished?' I ask. He's about nailed the coffin lid shut on the prosecution. And probably on Eddgar's political career. The newshounds will run Eddgar till he drops. But Hobie's preening over the remains does not sit well.

  In response, Hobie looks up at me for quite some time. It's another striking gesture, the large brown face inscrutable, the eyes solemn and complex. Fleetingly, he seems, if not gentle, at least humane. Then he says, mildly, 'No, Your Honor, I'm not done.' I tell him coolly to get on with whatever he has left, and he walks a bit, considering his subject, before pausing in front of Eddgar.

  'You told Molto here yesterday you know of no motive for your son to kill you, right, Senator?'

  'Not as far as I was concerned.'

  'In fact, sir, since he learned to speak, has Nile Eddgar ever threatened or carried out physical violence of any kind against you?'

  'No.'

  'How about his mother?'

  'He wouldn't hurt a fly, Mr Turtle.'

  Singh prods Molto's shoulder. Tommy waves a hand: Who cares? Singh moves to strike Eddgar's answer as non-responsive, which I allow.

  'Indeed, Senator, as you mentioned, you agreed to pay your son's bail?' ‘I did.'

  'Mr Tuttle,' I interject, ‘I think I see where you're going. If I'm right, don't even consider it.' He's about to ask whether Eddgar believes Nile is guilty. Deciding that is my job, not Eddgar's.

  'Your Honor, I was going one better.' He faces Eddgar. 'Isn't it a fact, Senator, that you know – have personal knowledge – that Nile Eddgar did not commit this crime?' Over his shoulder, he looks back to me, as if to say, How's that? This man, this Hobie! Now what?

  'You may answer,' I instruct Eddgar, 'but based only on your personal knowledge.'

  'How would I know?' he asks me. ‘I have opinions.'

  'No opinions. I don't want your opinions.'

  'Let me withdraw the question and start again more slowly,' Hobie offers. Standing still in the brightest spot of courtroom light, Hobie momentarily considers his manicure. 'Senator, let's go back to Montague. He came to see you again on September 11 and you told him that what you said on September 7 wasn't true, didn't you?'

  ‘I did.'

  'On September 11, you told Montague you had intended to be at Grace Street the morning Mrs Eddgar was killed. You told him how you had tried to involve B SD in politics, correct?'

  'That's right.'

  'So how'd he get you to change your mind?'

  Eddgar shakes his shoulders in equivocal fashion. 'Conscience, I suppose, Mr Tuttle. Obviously, I could tell from the fact that he was asking the same questions again, he was somewhat skeptical.'

  'Skeptical? Well, let's set the scene now, Senator. You're the chair of the State Senate's Committee on Criminal Justice?'

  'Yes.'

  'Your committee helps decide on funding for police programs all over the state?' 'Yes.'

  'So Montague, he's a lieutenant on that police force, he knew better than to take a rubber hose to the likes of you, didn't he? He was polite to you, wasn't he?'

  'Always.'

  'Did he tell you, Senator, they had a witness who contradicted you?'

  ‘I don't recall that.'

  'But you changed your story anyway?' 'That's what happened.'

  Hobie moves one way, then back, his tongue tucked meditatively in the corner of his mouth. 'Well, Senator, here's what I'm wondering. If he didn't tell you what Hardcore had said – if Montague didn't – had you received that information, Senator, from some other source, say from one of these police connections you have around the state?'

  Eddgar takes a long moment. His upper body rises and falls as he sighs.

  ‘I had an idea of the substance. Someone had called me. A friend from the state capitol. I really would prefer not to give a name.'

  'Don't need it, Senator,' says Hobie with a magnanimous wave. 'But your friend – did he describe the report?' 'In a fashion.' 'Did he read it to you?' 'Yes. Portions.'

  'So you knew on September 11 that Hardcore had implicated Nile?' 'Yes.'

  'You knew Hardcore had produced some money to the police, which he claimed Nile gave him?' 'Right.'

  'You knew that Hardcore had talked about meeting you in T-Roc's vehicle?' ‘I did.'

  'And you knew, Senator, that the plan supposedly had been to murder you?'

  ‘I knew all of that'

  'And that's why you changed your story, isn't it?'

  'Learning what I had, Mr Turtle, I could see that the circumstances of my planned meeting with Hardcore on September 7 were obviously material to what the police were looking into, and when Montague repeated his questions, I answered them correctly this time.'

  'So you decided to tell them what they had already heard from Hardcore?'

  ‘I told them the truth.'

  Hobie's rambling again, striding briskly over the carpet. 'Well, you didn't tell them about the money from the D F U, did you? Even though, Senator, you knew as early as September 11, whenever that report was read to you, that Hardcore was claiming he'd gotten $10,000 from Nile for this shooting? You still kept that information about the DFU $10,000 to yourself, right?'

  'We've covered that, Mr Tuttle.'

  'Have we? You said you didn't see a connection at first, because Molto and the police weren't giving you information about the case. But you did have information.'

  Mostly for the sport of hindering him, Molto objects that Hobie's badgering. Tommy should probably just let him go. Hobie's exhibiting symptoms of the trial lawyer's chronic ailment, overtrying his case. Having proved enough, he' s trying to prove some more. Now he wants to show that Eddgar won't be named Father of the Year, something Molto established yesterday. But even after I tell him to move on to another topic, Hobie continues in a personal vein.

  'Wasn't it you, Senator, who suggested the police contact Nile? Didn't you do that on September 7?'

  ‘I don't think I was suggesting that. Once I said I didn't know why June had gone to Grace Street, in that first interview, Montague asked me to speculate. Could I imagine any reason she would go down there? I didn't know how to answer. I told him my son was a probation officer and had cases down there and perhaps they were going to meet there for some reason. Mr Turtle, what can I say? I was lying. It's that tangled web Shakespeare warned us of

  'Well, okay, Senator, but there's something about that interview on September 7 I've never understood. I've read the police reports a number of times, but they don't seem to have asked you about this. When you first spoke to Montague, on September 7, that was at your home in Greenwood County. True?'

  'True.'

  'But I thought you had an important meeting in your State Senate office that morning? Isn't that what you testified on direct? That an emergency came up. Isn't that why Mrs Eddgar went in y
our place to meet Hardcore?'

  ‘I think I said I was needed by my office.'

  'For what?'

  Eddgar sits back in his chair. His eyes close and his brow is furrowed.

  'I believe there was a conference call scheduled. I have to confess, Mr Turtle, my memory on this may not be perfect.' 'A conference call? You never left your house?' 'No.'

  'And who did you talk to, Senator? Who was on that conference call?'

  Eddgar shakes his head repeatedly. 'Again, my recollection isn't clear. I think there was a mix-up at the last minute. Maybe everybody who was supposed to be on the phone couldn't be rounded up. I don't recall why exactly. But it didn't happen.'

  'No call. No meeting. No actual emergency. But June went to Grace Street anyway. Right? Have I got the picture?'

  'The words are right, but you don't seem to have the picture.'

  'Not the picture,' says Hobie, rhetorically, and nods as if he actually stood corrected. 'Well, tell me this, Senator – did your former wife, did June Eddgar, did she have any history of substance abuse?'

  Tommy, who'll never stop being his own worst enemy in the courtroom, asks about relevance.

  'Judge, I'll tie it up,' Hobie answers. That is the trial lawyer's equivalent of 'The check's in the mail.' At this point, though, it seems to me Hobie's risking his own case, which is his right. I motion Molto down.

  'I'm sure June was drug-free at the time of her death. If you're implying she was drunk or stoned or something when she went down there -'

  'We have an autopsy, Senator. That's not disputed. What I'm asking you is if in the past she had problems with drugs or alcohol.' 'At times.' 'With drugs?'

  'When she went through her divorce – from her second husband – yes, I think she had a cocaine habit.' 'Was she treated?'

  'She was in support groups. There are records, I imagine, if it's that important.'

  'That's my point,' says Hobie. 'There are people who know, who would say June's had problems in the past with cocaine.'

  Dumbfounded, Eddgar doesn't bother to answer.

  'What about you, Senator? Have you ever had any problem with chemical dependency?'

  'I'm the son of an alcoholic father. You'll find, Mr Turtle, many of us don't care to become intoxicated.'

  'No drugs?'

  'Judge,' says Tommy. 'Really.'

  'Mr Turtle, I'm going to have to sustain the objection. I'm lost.'

  Hobie's face shoots up at me in pure astonishment. He's not questioning my ruling. I've amazed him by being thick. He adjusts himself and turns back to Eddgar.

  'Well, let's make it clear then, Senator. If someone was going to plant drugs on you, it would be pretty suspicious, wouldn't it? There would be no objective basis to believe that at the age of sixty-six you developed a drug habit, would there?'

  Eddgar and I both get it now. This is where we were the other day. Hobie's saying clearly that June, not Eddgar, was the actual target of the shooting. And it finally clicks. That's why Hobie leaked the state's theory to Dubinsky in the first place. To emphasize it. To misdirect. Because in the end he was going to dispute the notion, anyway. Absorbing Hobie's suggestion, the reporters ruffle. The buffs squirm. Eddgar under the track lights is motionless.

  'June?' he finally asks. 'Hardcore didn't know June. What are you thinking? He was trying to get even with me.' Eddgar has taken hold of the front rail of the witness stand. In his confusion, he briefly glances over his shoulder toward me. Hobie now is standing just a few feet before him.

  'Well, certainly you've read the papers, Senator, as the case has gone on. You know both Hardcore and Lovinia testified that when the shooter, this Gorgo, arrived on the scene, Hardcore hit the pavement and acted as if he knew in advance June was going to be shot. Have you read that?'

  'Why would Hardcore want to kill June?' Eddgar responds. 'And Lord knows, Nile had no reason. No one did.' He has done this a number of times, asked his own questions. Under stress, he assumes he's in charge, here as elsewhere. But Hobie does not bother to object. Instead, he offers an answer of sorts.

  'Senator, we don't need the details, but isn't it a fact there are acts, events, occurrences, things you did years ago during the period of your marriage, that you wanted your former wife, June Eddgar, not to disclose?'

  In the courtroom, the only sound at first is an elderly buff, caught short of breath, who dispenses several phlegmy eruptions behind the glass.

  'Oh God,' Eddgar says at last. 'Oh Lord. Sweet baby Jesus,' he says. Fifteen feet from the witness, Hobie is calm and, in this modulated mood, especially imposing.

  'While June Eddgar was alive, Senator, your political career, in fact, even your liberty remained in peril, did they not?'

  'Lord, Hobie, what in hell are you doin? This is horrifying.' As Eddgar has lost track of himself, his accent has become julepy and full. 'This is not a defense. You know what happened here. Who's to believe this? Everyone who knows me, if they know anything – Nile knows, you know, I felt June was the most sacred soul on this planet.'

  'You're a lot safer now, Senator, aren't you, than when she was alive?'

  'After twenty-five years? After twenty-five years could anyone believe I would concern myself about this?'

  'We don't have her here, do we, to tell us what was going on between you two – why she came to town? All we know is you sent her down to Grace Street because you claimed you had an emergency that never actually materialized.'

  'Oh Lord,' says Eddgar again.

  'In that meeting you had with Hardcore before Labor Day, the meeting where you threatened him, did you reach any other agreement with him? Did you agree with him, Senator, that he could keep the $10,000 and you would secure Kan-el's parole if BSD would kill your former wife?'

  There it is. We have all known for a minute what was coming, but even so, with the question, my heart nearly leaps out of my chest. In the press row, one of the reporters squeezes out of the jury box, scrambling over her colleagues' knees so she can go running for the phone. One, then another follow. Annie, who places order above the First Amendment, approaches to shush them even as they hustle by. Seth is leaning on the front rail of the jury box. He is watching with an intensity so complete he could not have even a remote awareness that I, a woman he made love to a few hours ago, am seated in this room. Eddgar has turned about completely to face me. His mouth is parted and it moves once or twice before he speaks.

  'Do I actually have to answer these questions?'

  As near as I can reason, he does. I nod minutely and Eddgar pivots erratically, tossing a hand Hobie's way.

  'This is Perry Mason,' he says, 'this is absurd. Why,' he says, 'why, this is senseless. This is drug-induced, Hobie. You know the truth here. If I had done such a thing, can you explain for a moment why Hardcore would not have been sitting on this witness stand pointing his finger at me?'

  'What sense would that make, Senator, if the goal was to secure Kan-el's release? Core couldn't have made a better deal, could he, than the one he got for blaming Nile? One Eddgar is just as tasty as another to a hungry prosecutor. And this way, Senator, they can hold your feet to the fire, make sure you deliver on your promise about Kan-el. I bet he's out six months from now.'

  'And I would sacrifice my son? Is that your theory? You know that isn't true. My God. This is evil, Hobie, what you're doing. This is the very face of evil!' His outcry resounds in the silent courtroom. Beside himself, Eddgar grabs hold of the lapels of his coat, he looks all around the witness stand, as if something that might help him is concealed there. Then he points at Hobie. ‘I understand this,' he says. ‘I understand just what you're doing to me.'

  'It's called justice, Eddgar,' Hobie whispers. His eyes never leave the witness as he lumbers back to his seat. Next to him, Nile has laid his face down on the defense table with both hands over his head.

  After court, a fragile foreboding air grips my chambers. Judgment is near. Annie and Marietta both keep their distance. Tomorrow, the state will rest
. Hobie, if he's smart, will not offer much evidence for the defense. He'll capitalize on today's events and let the trial move quickly to conclusion.

  I have motions to review on a number of other cases, but in the few minutes before I must go, I find myself stuck on the trial. It was like watching a car wreck today. Something awful. Destructive. Yet it's no longer possible to find Nile guilty. My assessment of the case has reversed so quickly I doubt myself at first. I still feel light-headed from sleeplessness and slightly poisoned, as if my heart is pumping battery acid, not blood. But my conclusion appears firm. Hardcore has been proven a liar about too much that's essential. Something about the money, the $10,000 he said Nile gave him, is simply wrong. The cocaine residue. The campaign check Nile cashed. There is real doubt. I ruminate on whether to rule from the bench at once or to make a show of some period of deliberation.

  But that's only the formalities. I'm still wrapped heart and soul around The Questions. Who wanted to kill whom? Is it really possible, I keep wondering as I sift the facts, could it really be that Eddgar has engaged in a monstrousness of the order of Medea's, killed his wife and blamed his son? I could almost believe it about the man I knew so many years ago. And his silence about that $10,000 seems awfully telling. He probably went to Matt Galiakos and Brendan Tuohey, in hopes of keeping the DFU money out of the case. So he could save himself. Pondering all of this, I'm gripped by the profound elusiveness of the truth, as it drifts like smoke through every courtroom. Something happened. Something objective but no longer verifiable. When I was a child, they used to claim all history was knowable, if you could catch up with the light emitted by the body and traveling eternally in space. 'Light prints,' they talked about, better evidence than fingerprints. An intriguing idea. But Einstein said that wasn't possible. The past is always gone, retrieved only, ultimately, in the filaments of memory.

  Near 5:00, with her hat and coat on to leave, Marietta knocks. One look at the smirk tautening her cheeks and I realize Seth is here. She scouts my countenance for any telltale sign. Oh, and isn't there a part of me which would love to boast? 'We had a fabulous night,' I want to say, 'he is a fine, sweet man, he loves every inch of my skin, just as you said.' Instead, I greet her with my frostiest judicial demeanor. 'Show him in.'