by Scott Turow
"And you are a licensed attorney?"
"That's right."
"And so you understand the consequence of being under oath."
"Of course."
"Nat, let me ask you first, about the case of John Harnason. Did you ever discuss that case with your mother?"
"My mom?"
"Well, were you ever present when your mother or your mother and father discussed the case?"
So I tell what happened during my dad's sixtieth birthday dinner, when it became clear that my mom had read about the case on her own. Then we go on to my dad's shopping trip the night my mom died. I explain how I've had this thing for salami and cheese since I was a kid, and yeah, my mom was like everybody's mom and liked to feed me the stuff I'd always craved, and yeah, my mom always sent my dad, or in earlier years me, to do those kinds of errands because she didn't like to leave the house and even did her weekly grocery shopping online. Then I tell the jury that it's true, my dad always picked up my mom's medications, and took them upstairs when he changed out of his suit, and very often put the bottles up on the shelf. Tap, tap, tap. My dad says that Sandy works like a jeweler with his little hammer. And so it's going now. I stand behind my dad's story, link by link.
It's all calm and easy until we get to my mom's suicide attempt when I was ten. The prosecutors raise hell before I can get into it, and the jury has to leave, which is pretty much ridiculous, because it all goes to back up what my dad said yesterday. But once the jury comes back, we don't get very far into what happened before I lose it. Prior to today, there may have been four people on earth I've told that story-even Anna didn't hear it until last night-and now I'm sitting here with reporters and sketch artists in the front row of this immense courtroom, confessing for the five o'clock news that my mom was totally out of control.
"And I walked into the bathroom," I say once I think I've regained composure, and start sobbing again immediately.
I try two or three more times but can't get through it.
"Was she trying to electrocute herself?" Marta finally asks.
I just nod.
Judge Yee intervenes then. "Record reflect witness nodded to mean yes. Think we all understand, Ms. Stern," he says, calling a halt on this subject. He recesses for ten minutes to give me a chance to pull myself together.
"I'm sorry," I tell him and then the jury before we adjourn.
"No 'sorry' needed," says Judge Yee.
I leave the courtroom and stand by myself at the end of the corridor, looking out the window at the highway. The truth is that talking about my mom has never been easy for me. I loved my mom, love her now, and always will. My dad was always floating at a distance, coming in and out, big and brilliant, sort of like the moon, but the gravity that held me to the earth was my mother, even though I seem to have struggled with her love all my life. There was a way I knew she loved me too much-that it wasn't good for me, that too much came with it-and as a result, I was always straining to escape the burden of her attention. When I was little, she was forever whispering to me-I'll eternally feel her breath on my neck as she spoke, and the hairs standing back there. She didn't want anyone else to hear what she was saying. And there was a message implicit in that: Only us. There was only us. She told me flat out, 'You are the world to me, you are the whole world, little boy.'
I was thrilled to hear it, of course. But something heavy and dark came with the words. From the time I was a little kid, I sort of felt responsible for her. Maybe all children feel like that. I wouldn't know, since I've only been me. But I realized I was more than important to her. I was her lifeline. I knew that the only time my mom felt completely right was with me, tending to me, talking to me, thinking about me. The only time she was balanced in the world was then.
Looking back, I think it's obvious that my biggest issue once I reached my teens was about the consequence of leaving her. As I watch the cars course down U.S. 843, I suddenly realize something I haven't faced before. I blame my dad for her death, because I don't want to blame myself. But I always knew that when I left home, something like this might happen. I knew it and went anyway. I had to. Nobody, least of all my mom, wanted me to give up my life for hers. But still. My dad acted like an asshole. Yet I also need to forgive myself. When I do, maybe I'll be able to start forgiving him.
"Now let's turn to the subject of computers," says Marta when the trial resumes. My dad's PC has been set up on a table in the middle of the courtroom, and Marta points to it. "Over the years, Nat, have you seen your father use a computer?"
"Sure."
"Where?"
"At home. Or when I visited him in his chambers."
"How often?"
"Countless times."
"And have you talked with him about his computer?"
"Often."
"Have you helped him use his computer?"
"Naturally. For people my age, that's sort of the reverse of having your parents help you ride a bicycle. We all help our parents with computers."
The jurors love this. So does Judge Yee, who more and more I am beginning to see is kind of a cool guy.
"And is your father computer literate?"
"If knowing the difference between on and off makes you literate, then yes. Otherwise, not so much."
There is loud laughter from the jury box. Everybody in this room feels sorry for me, so I am Mr. Popularity.
"And what about you? Are you computer literate?"
"Compared to my father? Yes. I know a lot more than him."
"What about your mother?"
"She was like a genius. She was a PhD in math. Until my friends started doing PhDs in computer science, she knew more than anyone I knew. And even those guys sometimes would call her up with questions. She was way inside the machine."
"Did you know the password on your father's computer?"
"I think I did. My father used the same password on everything."
"Which was?"
"Let me explain. His proper name. Rozat. It has that little mark over the 'z' when he writes it correctly, so in English sometimes he'd spell it R, O, Z, H, A, T. That was the password on our voice mail at home. On the burglar alarm system. The ATM. On bank accounts. Always 'Rozhat.' He was like everybody else. How can you have sixteen different passwords and remember what they are?"
"And did you ever discuss this fact-that your father used only one password-with your mother?"
"A zillion times."
"Do you specifically recall any occasions?"
"I can remember two years ago, I was visiting my folks, and my dad got a new credit card in the mail and he had to call in to activate it, and they asked him for the password on his account and he actually covered the phone and asked my mom, 'What's my password?' And she rolled her eyes and was like, 'Oh, for God's sake,' and she just turned to me, you know, this kind of hopeless look, and I about fell off my chair, and my dad still was bewildered, and then we both said to him at the same time, 'Rozhat,' and he was like, 'Oh, shit.' And when he put down the phone, he was just shaking his head at himself and we were all hysterical."
Across the courtroom, my dad is actually laughing. He smiles now and then, but this may be the first outright laughter I've seen since the trial started. The jury too is enjoying the story, and so I say to them, "Excuse me, you know, for using that word."
"Now, Nat," says Marta. "Are you aware that I am going to ask you to do a demonstration with your father's computer?"
"Yes."
"And do you know what I am going to ask you to demonstrate?"
"No."
"Now you've heard some testimony about shredding software, is that right?"
"Sure."
"Have you ever downloaded shredding software?"
"No."
"Have you ever known your father to download shredding software?"
"It's impossible."
Brand objects, and my answer is stricken.
"Sorry," I tell the judge.
He raises a hand obligingly. "J
ust answer question," he says.
"All right, Nat," says Marta, "I'm going to ask you to come down from the witness stand to start your father's computer. I'll ask you to enter the password, Rozhat, and if it works, to download the shredding software mentioned by the prosecution to see if you can use it."
"Objection," Brand says.
The jury has to leave again. Brand argues that because I know the password doesn't mean that my mom did, and even if I have difficulty using the shredding software, that doesn't mean that my father couldn't have practiced.
Judge Yee rules for Marta. "First, let's see if password is right password, because Mrs. Sabich knew that password. And since prosecutors say the judge use this shredding software, defense has right to show what it takes to do that. If young Mr. Sabich got problems doing that, defense can't argue that proves judge would have problems. But defense can argue this is too hard for the judge. Prosecutor can argue otherwise. Okay, bring in jury."
I am standing in front of the computer by the time they're all back in their seats. Judge Yee has come down from the bench to see, and everybody from the prosecution table is standing around me as well. Marta asks the judge if she can turn the monitor toward the jury, which he allows, although it is also projected on the screen beside the witness stand. Then I push the on switch on the tower, and the machine purrs to life and cycles through. The sunny screen comes on and prompts for the password, at which point Marta speaks.
"Judge, if I may, I'm going to ask Mr. Sabich to type in the letters R, O, Z, H, A, T, for the password, with the Court's permission."
"Proceed," says the judge.
It works, of course. There is that canned musical tone, and then, to my amazement, a Christmas card appears, addressed to my dad. I become aware of how quiet the courtroom has suddenly become.
The card says, "Seasons Greetings 2008," and within the borders an animated script becomes visible line by line, the murmur growing among the spectators with each word. Roses are redViolets are blueYou're in trouble againAnd I did it to you.Love, You Know Who.
CHAPTER 35
Tommy, June 24, 2009
In the moment, Tommy's first sensation was like realizing a pipe has burst inside the wall or that the guy on the other end of the phone has had a heart attack. It isn't working; that's all you know for a second. Regular life has stopped cold.
As Tommy read the message on the screen, he felt a flurry of motion beside him. The jurors, already leaning forward to view the computer, had left their seats to get closer, and once they did, several of the reporters edged across the imaginary boundary line to the well of the court so they could see, too. That in turn led a number of spectators to crowd ahead to find out what had occurred. The bailiffs rushed toward everyone, yelling for them to get back. Only when the sound of Judge Yee's gavel snapped through the courtroom did Tommy realize that Yee, who had come down to witness the demonstration, had resumed the bench.
"Everybody sit," proclaimed the judge. "Everybody in seats." He smacked the block again and repeated his order.
All retreated except Rusty's son, who stood bewildered and by himself in the center of the courtroom, as useless as a naked mannequin in a store window. In time, Marta pointed him back up to the witness stand. The judge gaveled for order yet again.
"Quiet, please, quiet." The stir continued, and Judge Yee, rarely forceful, banged harder and said, "Quiet or I ask bailiff to remove you. Quiet!"
Like a grade-school class, the courtroom finally settled.
"Okay, first," said the judge. "Mr. Sabich, I want you go back down and read what is on computer for the court reporter, so we got a clear record. Okay?"
Nat marched back down and described what was on the screen in a monotone:
"There is a Christmas card with a black border and some black wreaths, like from Halloween, on the screen. It says, 'Seasons Greetings, 2008,' and below it, there is some script." He read out the little poem.
"Okay," said Judge Yee. "Okay. Ms. Stern, how you want to proceed?"
After conferring with her father, she suggested a brief recess.
"Good idea," said the judge. "Lawyers, please come back to chambers."
The four attorneys followed Yee out the door beside the bench and down to the other end of the internal corridor that separated the courtrooms from the judges' office space. Stern was struggling along, and Tommy and Jim ended up twenty feet in front of them. Full of rage, Brand kept muttering, "This is complete bullshit," as they walked.
For the trial, Judge Yee had been using the chambers of Malcolm Marsh, who was on leave to teach trial practice for a year in Australia. Judge Marsh was a serious violinist, who arranged to play with the symphony to celebrate his sixty-fifth birthday, and he decorated his chambers with framed recordings and signed sheet music. Judge Yee removed his robe and motioned the lawyers to their seats, while he remained standing behind Marsh's desk.
"Okay," said Yee, "anybody here can tell me what happened?"
There was a lengthy silence before Marta spoke.
"Your Honor, it appears that someone planted a message on Judge Sabich's computer before it was impounded, and the message seems to say that whoever wrote it set Judge Sabich up on these charges."
"That's crap," said Brand.
Judge Yee lifted a finger sternly. "Please, Brand," he said, and Jim apologized repeatedly.
"That was completely stupid," he said several times.
"What to do?" asked the judge.
Eventually, Marta said, "I think we should examine the computer. We should let the experts from both sides come in and in each other's presence do whatever diagnostic tests they can without changing the data and tell us when the message was put on the computer and whether or not it appears legitimate."
"Good," said Yee. He liked the plan. The Sterns would summon their two whiz kids on an emergency basis, while the prosecutors did the same with Professor Gorvetich. Brand and Marta stood up to make the calls. Marta reached their guys on her cell, but it turned out that Brand had Gorvetich's number back across the street, so he departed. In the meantime, Yee asked the bailiff to send the jurors home, and the lawyers agreed to head back to their offices to await the experts' conclusion. The computer would remain in the courtroom under the eye of the court security officers.
On the way out, Stern gave Tommy one of his mysterious little smiles. Sandy was actually looking better, his face a little fuller and the rash clearly starting to fade. Just in time, Tommy thought. Just in fucking time for Sandy to smile for the cameras when he won.
"Interesting case," Stern said.
Out in the courtroom, Tommy and Rory and Ruta put the trial cart back together. Brand was fussy about the order in which he stored the exhibits, and the three of them kept trying to remind themselves what Jim wanted, each of them unwilling at the moment to see Brand go off, as he would, if it wasn't all as he liked.
Milo Gorvetich arrived just as Tommy was about to return to the office across the street. Milo was a little guy, shorter than Tommy or Stern, with wild white hair and a goatee stained yellow from his pipe. It had been Brand's idea to hire him in the first place, because Brand had taken a programming class from Milo two decades ago. As the first member of the U football team ever to appear in Gorvetich's classroom, Brand had gotten enough attention from the professor to make some form of gentlemen's C. But Gorvetich was an old man now. He rambled and had lost his edge. Sandy's hotshot kids had run rings around him, and at this stage Tommy was no longer sure he fully trusted him. He told Milo what had occurred, and the old guy's eyes widened. Tommy feared he was going to be pretty much clueless.
With the two women, Tommy crossed the street. He found Brand in his office, stewing, his feet on his desk while he chewed on a straw. Brand had many of the physical blessings that Tommy had envied in other trial lawyers for years. Big and solid and handsome, he had that aura of iron strength jurors loved in prosecutors especially. But Tommy exceeded Jim in one physical trait that was nearly essential t
o trying lawsuits-the ability to do well without sleep. Jim needed eight hours, and when he didn't get it, he got cranky like a little kid. He'd plainly had a long night here yesterday, working with the techs and trying to think his way through the defense's new suicide theory. The cellophane wrappings from the dinner he'd had out of the vending machine were mixed in the wastebasket beside his desk with the rose-colored filaments of the shrink-wrap they'd stripped off of Sabich's computer, before the seals were removed in the courtroom this morning.
"So is this just too fucking convenient or what?" Brand asked. "The victim comes back from the dead to announce she framed the defendant. I mean, give me a fucking break. Really. This is just crap. Day one they say it's suicide. Day two she says, Yeah, and I did it to screw him."
Tommy sat down in the wooden chair beside Brand's desk. There was a new picture of Jody and the girls, and Tommy studied it for a second.
"Good-looking women," said Tommy.
Brand smiled a little. Tommy told him Gorvetich had arrived.
"What did he say?" Brand asked.
"He said they should be able to look at the calendaring client and see right away when the object was created. I didn't quite understand, but I figured you would. 'Object' means the card?"
"Right." Brand thought for a second as he chewed on his straw. "I think the calendar program stores the date the object was created as part of the object. I think he even said that to me on the phone."
"But we've had that thing-Rusty's computer-under lock and key since last November, right?"
"Pretty much. Early December, actually. It was over at the appellate court for a month with George Mason while we hassled about what we could look at. You remember."
Tommy remembered. He'd thought the court of appeals judges were going to cross the street and picket the County Building. When you started looking into their business, judges were about as entitled as sultans.
"Okay, but if the card is real-"
Brand interrupted. "It's not real."
"Okay," said Tommy. "Okay. But just playing along for a second-"