by Scott Turow
Neither Tommy nor Brand knew that part, and Harnason explained his first encounters with Rusty long ago. Tommy could still remember the queer busts Ray Horgan used to stage right before elections, out in the public forest and in the Center City Library men's room and at various bars, herding the arrestees onto school buses in front of the cameras. Times change, Tommy thought. He still wasn't sure how he felt about gays marrying or raising kids, but God didn't put an entire community on earth unless they were part of His plan. Live and let live, was what he felt now. But back in the day, he knew he would have handled Harnason's case the same way Rusty did.
Confused about whether Sabich actually remembered him, Harnason on impulse had decided to pay him a visit after the oral argument, just a hello and happy birthday and thanks for the bail ruling. Tommy took a second to wonder what part Harnason's visit had played in Sabich's dissent in the case.
"Mel chewed me out for that," Harnason said. "The last thing I wanted was for Sabich to get off the case. But there was something strange when I saw him."
"Meaning?" Tommy asked.
"A connection. Sort of-" Harnason took a great deal of time, and his soft face, with islands of pink color, moved several times around the words he was thinking of. "Peas in a pod," he said.
Tommy got it. Lawyers. Fuck-arounds. And murderers. Tommy couldn't help it. He was starting to like Harnason.
Brand was beside Tommy, making notes on a yellow pad now and then but mostly watching Harnason closely, clearly trying to make up his own mind. Harnason was speaking most of the time with his head down, his sparse gray hair and his bald spot all you saw of his face, as if the memory of all of this weighed about eighty pounds. Tommy realized the problem. Harnason appreciated what Sabich had done for him. He didn't enjoy peeing on the guy.
"Sabich had said something vague, they heard my arguments, something, it sounded a little hopeful, but it wore on me," said Harnason, "the not knowing, waiting for the decision. Sometimes you can't take any more. So I figured, Well, he talked once, maybe he'll tell me at least what's going to happen. So I followed him a couple of times. I waited for him to go out to lunch and I followed him."
The first time, Rusty went to the Grand Atheneum. It was interesting that it was not the Hotel Gresham, where Marco Cantu got paid for doing nothing. Apparently Rusty had been on a bed tour, probably because he'd seen too much of Marco while he was boinking his sweet young thing over there. But Harnason didn't know about Marco or the STD test. So his story was checking out so far.
"Was Sabich with anybody?"
"I assume." Harnason smiled. "Not that I saw her. I watched him head straight to the elevator. He was gone a long while. Longer than I could wait. It started pouring. So I beat it and followed him again the next week. Same deal, except a different hotel. But straight to the elevator and upstairs forever." Harnason had forgotten the name of the hotel, but from the location it had to be the Renaissance. "I was outside over three hours. But there he comes. A little skip in his walk. Soon as I saw that, I knew for sure he'd been getting it on."
"Anybody with him this time?"
"Negative. But the look on his face when he saw me-You know, that pie-eyed, 'oh shit' kind of look. Instead of pissed off. I mean, maybe that's why he talked. He tried to blow me off. But I asked him, just as a mercy, really, Tell me. Am I going back or not? And he did. Get ready for bad news. You're at the end of the road. I just blubbered like a little girl."
"And all this while you're standing there on the street? You and the chief judge, and the chief judge tells you your case is going to be affirmed?" The whole thing was crazy. Lunchtime on Market Street, a hundred people must have seen them, and Rusty is blabbing ex parte? A defense lawyer-Sandy Stern was who Rusty would get if he wasn't dead-would fillet Harnason. But the standard rebuttal made sense. If Harnason was going to make something up, it would have come without bumps and blemishes like that. Often they spit out stories like this, too strange not to be true. "And you told Mel about that?"
Harnason looked at Mel, who beckoned with his hand. Harnason said he'd called him that day.
The four men sat there in silence, while Tommy played it all out. Tooley was right. They were going to scuttle Rusty Sabich's ship with this. The best part was it wouldn't be Tommy's case. The way Harnason told the story, Sabich had not committed a crime. Tommy would just pass the information to the Courts Commission. They in turn would pay Rusty a visit, and he'd probably end up resigning quietly, take his pension, and go into practice rather than endure a public hearing where the stuff about the chick in the hotel was likely to come out.
Tommy looked over at Jim to see if he had anything else. Brand asked Harnason if he'd repeated the whole conversation with the chief judge.
"That was the important part as far as I was concerned," Harnason said quietly, smiling a trifle at his own expense. "There was a little more back-and-forth."
"Well, let's hear it."
Harnason took his time. It seemed like he was trying to understand the part coming next himself.
"Well, you know I'm carrying on, and he says to me, basically, Come on, cut it out, you killed him, didn't you?"
"Did you?" Brand asked.
Mel interrupted-he didn't want Harnason confessing-but Tommy said there could be no holdbacks. Brand asked again if Harnason killed Ricky.
"Yeah." Harnason thought about that and nodded. "Yeah, I did. And that's what I told Sabich, I did. But, I said, you got away with murder yourself, and he looks at me and he says, The difference is I didn't do it."
Molto cut in. "That's what he told you? You were talking about twenty years ago?"
"Absolutely. He said he didn't do it. And he was looking me in the eye, too."
"You believed him?"
Harnason considered that. "I think I did."
This back-and-forth dizzied Tommy for a second. But he didn't miss the point in the present. Harnason was savvy enough to know what Tommy wanted to hear, yet he wasn't going to say it. The man was one of those weird cons, one with principles. There was not the remotest chance he wasn't speaking the truth.
"Anything else?" asked Brand.
Harnason tried to scratch his ear and realized the manacles wouldn't let him reach that far. "I asked him who he was with in the hotel."
"Did he answer that?"
"Just turned his back on me. That was the end of the conversation."
Brand said, "He didn't deny that part? He just turned away?"
"Right."
"Any more? Anything else between you and the chief judge?"
"That's pretty much it."
"Not pretty much," said Brand. "Everything. You remember anything else?"
Harnason looked up to recall. He made a face.
"Well, one other thing was a little weird. When I told him I killed Ricky, he asked me what it was like to poison somebody."
Tommy could tell from the way Tooley jolted, he hadn't heard that before. Brand was too cool even to quiver, but sitting next to him, Tommy could already sense the uptick in Jimmy's pulse.
"He asked you what it was like to poison somebody?" Brand repeated.
"Right. How did I feel? Day after day? What was it like?"
"And why did he want to know that?" asked Brand.
"I guess he was curious. We were already pretty far off the reservation. That's when I said to him, You know what it's like to kill somebody, and he said he hadn't done it."
Brand went through it with Harnason a few more times, trying to get the conversation in sequence, pressing Harnason to be more precise. Then the two prosecutors departed, telling Tooley they'd evaluate and be back in touch. They were careful to say nothing else to each other until they were a block from the jail. It was a strange neighborhood here, the buildings marked by gang signs and the bangers themselves often lingering near the jail, as if it gave them some kind of peace of mind to be near their homeboys inside. The toughs on the street might enjoy rousting the PA if they recognized him, and Brand and Tomm
y walked quickly back to the parking structure beside the County Building. As they passed, there was a heavyset woman at a bus stop, listening to a little boom box and practicing her Jazzercise moves, right out there in the open at eleven at night, as if she were at home naked in front of the mirror.
"Okay," said Brand, "you know what I'm thinking."
"I know what you're thinking."
"I'm thinking," said Brand, "that's why the chief judge ponied up the info on the appeal. Because he's got a hot thing on the side and he's already considering maybe cooling the old lady. Because a candidate for the supreme court doesn't want an ugly divorce in the middle of the campaign, especially not if it involves putting his hotdog in the wrong bun. And he wants to do a little field research, figure out if he can actually do the deed."
Tommy wagged his head back and forth. It sounded like Law amp; Order. A little too tidy.
"It'd be a better theory, Jimmy, if we had any evidence that Barbara died from some kind of overdose, instead of heart failure."
"Maybe we just haven't found it yet," said Brand.
Tommy gave Jim a look. That was the biggest mistake a prosecutor could make, hoping for proof that didn't exist. Cops and witnesses could hear that the wrong way and make your dreams come true. Tommy could see their breath in the evening air. He wasn't ready for fall yet and had forgotten a topcoat. But it wasn't just the cold that bothered him. He was still reeling from the part where Harnason said Rusty told him he didn't kill Carolyn. Tommy admittedly had his own stake, but it was a problem for Brand's theory. Either Sabich was a killer or he wasn't. It was both women or none; that was what experience would tell you.
"The part about the first murder still throws me," Tommy said.
"Sabich was lying," answered Brand. "Just because he got dirty with the guy on one thing doesn't mean he'd give himself up as a killer. Besides, there's a way to deal with that and be sure."
He was talking again about the DNA.
"Not yet," Tommy said. It was still too soon. "So remind me again. How was it this weirdo almost got away with it?"
"Which weirdo, Boss? Our cup runneth over."
"Harnason. He poisoned the boyfriend with arsenic, right?"
"Right. But it's not a common poison these days. It's hard to get, and it doesn't show up on a routine tox screen."
Tommy stopped walking. Brand had gone only one more step.
"You think?" Brand asked.
"Sabich was one of the judges on the case, right? He knows all of this. About what is and isn't on a routine tox screen?"
"Definitely part of the record."
Careful, Tommy told himself. Careful. This was the Temple of Doom. He knew it, and he was still blundering right down the path.
"Full mass spectrometer on Barbara's blood?" asked Brand.
"Talk to the toxicologist."
"Full mass," said Brand. "We have to do that. We have to. Strange behavior after the death. A little thing on the side. Questions about poisoning somebody. We're just doing our job, Boss. We have to do that."
It sounded right. But Tommy was still unsettled by all of it, the jail, and Harnason, who was just one of those weird guys, and the troubling idea that he was actually hard on Sabich's trail.
He and Jim talked about how to get the full mass quietly, then parted for the night. Tommy walked down the third floor of the parking structure toward his car. The garage at this hour was a dangerous place, worse than the streets. One of the judges had been mugged here several years ago, but there was still no security. The shadows were deep where the vehicles were parked during the daytime, and Tommy stayed in the center of the floor. But the Halloween atmosphere set off something in him, an idea that floated up and in which he could feel for the first time the thrill as well as the peril.
What if, Tommy suddenly thought. What if Rusty really did it?
II.
CHAPTER 11
Rusty, September 2, 2008
The inside line in my chambers rings, and when I hear her voice, just the first word, it is nearly enough to bring me to my knees. It has been a good six months since the last time I saw her, when she came by to have lunch with my assistant, and well more than a year since we brought things to a close.
"Oh," she says. "I didn't really expect you. I thought you'd be out campaigning."
"Are you disappointed?" I ask. She laughs as she always does, in full grasp of life's delights.
"It's Anna," she says.
"I know," I say. I'll always know, but there is no point in making this any harder for either of us.
"I need to see you. Today, if possible."
"Something important?"
"To me? Yes."
"Are you okay?"
"I think so."
"Sounds a little mysterious."
"This will be better in person."
"Where do you want to meet?"
"I don't know. Someplace quiet. The bar at the Dulcimer? City View? Whatever they call it."
I replace the phone with the fragments of the conversation bouncing around inside me. Anna has never really ended for me. The ache. The longing. A year ago July, not long after I had visited Sandy Stern, I became convinced for several days that I was ready to forsake everything and beg Anna to take me back. I visited Dana Mann, an old friend, who is the king of high-end divorce in this town. I didn't intend to tell him about Anna, just that I was thinking about bringing my marriage to an end and had some questions about how quietly I could do that, assuming Barbara agreed. But Dana's strength as a lawyer is for the weak joints in the masonry, and with five or so questions he had the outline of the entire story.
'I don't think you came here for political advice,' he said. 'But if you want this to stay off the front pages during the campaign, you'd be better advised to do nothing.'
'I've been unhappy for a long time. Until I got involved with this woman, I didn't realize quite how desperate I am. But now I'm not sure if I can do nothing. I was better off before, just for that reason.'
' "The precise character of despair is that it does not realize it is despair," ' said Dana.
'Who is that?'
'Kierkegaard.' Dana laughed off my look of total disbelief. I've known Dana since law school, and he wasn't quoting philosophers then. 'I represented a professor at the U last year who taught me that. Same kind of situation.'
'What did he do?'
'He left. She was his grad student.'
"How badly did it cost him?'
'It cost him. The U rapped his knuckles pretty hard. He'd gotten her grants. He had to take a year's leave without pay.'
'Is he happy anyway?'
'So far. I think so. They just had a baby.'
'Our age?' I was incredulous. Somehow, Dana's story was enough to prove it was all impossible. I could never try to cheat nature that way. Or brook the thought of what a divorce could do to Barbara, how savagely she might suffer. I told Dana before I left that I did not expect to come back.
Yet there are still nights, while Barbara sleeps, when I am consumed by pining and regret. I never had the heart to delete from my home computer the parade of e-mails Anna sent me back then. Most were one-line messages about where we would meet next. Instead, I've gathered them all into a subfolder I titled Court Affairs, which once every month or so, I open in the still house like a treasure chest. I do not read the actual messages. That would be too painful, and the contents were too brief to mean much. Instead, I simply study her name echoing down the page, the dates, the headings. 'Today,' most were called, or 'Tomorrow.' I linger with memory and wish for a different life.
Now, in the wake of Anna's call, I consider her urgent tone. It could be anything, even a professional problem. But I heard the strain of a personal lament. And what will I do if she has come to tell me that she cannot go on without reuniting? What if she feels as I have felt so long? The Dulcimer was the last of the places we met. Would she have chosen it if passion was not her purpose? I hover then, above myself, my soul lookin
g down on my hungry heart. How can longing unfulfilled seem to be the only meaningful emotion in life? But it does. And I realize I will not say no to her, just as I could not say no when she turned her face to me on the sofa in my chambers. If she is willing to leap, I will follow her. I will leave behind what I've had. I stare at the pictures arrayed on my desk, of Nat at various ages, of Barbara, always beautiful. It's pointless to try to fathom the full consequences of what I'm about to do. They are so many and so varied that not even a Russian chess master or a computer would be able to play out every step. But I will do this. I will try to have at last the life I want. I will, finally, be brave.
CHAPTER 12
Tommy, October 27, 2008
Pathologists, toxicologists, the whole bunch weren't really wired like everybody else. But what would you expect when it was the dead who rocked their world? Tommy always figured part of the thrill for these guys was realizing the stiff was gone and they were still here. It was an idea, anyway.
The toxicologist who had come in with Brand looked okay. Nenny Strack. She was a little brown-eyed redhead, mid-thirties, attractive enough to be wearing a short skirt. She was over at the U Med School and worked for the county on a contract basis. Brand had gone directly to the police pathologist to get the work done quickly, and he in turn had leaned on American Medical Service, the Ohio outfit that was the reference laboratory for half of U.S. law enforcement. Tommy had feared these maneuvers would send up flares when the blood draws from Barbara's autopsy came back out of the coroner's refrigerator, but nobody noticed.
"So?" Molto asked the two of them.
"Long story or short?" Brand asked.
"Short to start," said Tommy, and Brand opened his hand to Strack. She had a file folder in her lap.
"The sampling of cardiac blood shows a toxic level of an antidepressant compound called phenelzine," she said.
Brand was looking down at his lap, maybe to keep from smiling. It was nothing to smile about, really.