Pleading Guilty kc-3

by Scott Turow

  I wondered what I always do — how'd I end up this way? Was it just nature? In my neighborhood, if your old man was a copper or a fireman, you took it for granted he was a hero, these mystical men of courage donning their helmets and heavy coats to brave one of nature's most inscrutable events, how substance turns to heat and color, how the brilliant protean flames dance as they destroy. When I was three or four, I'd heard so much of this stuff, sliding down the pole and whatnot, that I was sure that when he wore his boots and fire slicker my old man could fly. He couldn't. I learned that over time. My father was no hero. He was a thief. "Teef,' as he used to pronounce the word, never in application to himself. But like Jason or Marco Polo, he brought back treasure from each adventure.

  I often heard my father explain his logic when he engaged my mother in bouts of drunken self-defense. If a house is burning to the ground, woman, why not take the jewelry before it melts, for heaven's sake, you're there risking life and limb — you think you went outside and asked the residents, as they stood there with the flames shooting through their lives, that they'd say no? When I studied economics in college, I had no trouble understanding what they meant by a user's fee.

  But I was not inclined to forgive him. I used to wonder as a kid if everybody knew the fireman stole. Everyone in my neighborhood seemed to understand — they'd come nosing around, looking to buy cheap the little items that were nicked and fit well in the rubber coats. 'Why'd you think they made them pockets in the coats so big?' my father used to say, never to me but to whoever had sidled by to examine the table silver, the clocks, the jewels, the tools, the thousand little things that entered our household. He'd laugh as he made these subverted displays. 'Where'd it come from?' the visitor would ask, and my father would chuckle and say that bit about the coat. Kind of dumb, of course, but he wanted people to think that he was bold all frightened people do, they want to be just like the people who scare them. I had a cousin, Marie Clare, who came by once and asked my father to keep an eye out for a christening dress for her baby and he got her a beauty — why'd you think they made them pockets in the coats so big?

  For me, as a kid, the shame of it sometimes seemed to blister my heart. When I started confession, I confessed for him. 'My father steals.' The priests were never uninterested. 'Oh yes?' I wanted to leave my name and address in the hope they'd make him stop. A boy's father is his fate. But this kind of stealing was a matter of society, forgivable and common. They told me to respect my father and pray for his soul, and better mind my own conduct.

  'So much of life is will.' I had spun the golden cap off the pint before I knew what I'd done, and repeated that old phrase to myself. I had heard it from Leotis Griswell, not long before he died. I looked into the open bottle as if it were a blind eye, and was reminded for whatever reason of looking down at something else, another seat of pleasure. The sharp perfume of the alcohol filled me with a pang, as acute and painful as the distant sighting of a lovely woman whose name I'll never know.

  So much of life is will. Leotis was speaking to me about Toots, his old student. Leotis had the skill I'd noted in many of the best lawyers, ardent advocates who at the same time held their clients at a distance. When he talked about them he could often be cold-blooded and he did not want me to be beguiled by Toots. 'He'll make excuses to you about his harsh life, but I've never cared much for sociology. It's so negative. I don't need to know what holds down the masses. Any fellow with an eye in his head can see that: it's life. But where does that rare one come from, what is the difference? I still spend hours wondering.

  Where the strength comes from not to surrender. The will. So much of life is will.' A certain subtle incandescence refracted through the old man as he said this, the feeble body still enfolding his large spirit, and the memory of it and the standard he set as a person punished me now.

  Still, Leotis had it right, about life and will. It's an appropriate belief for a man born in the last years of the nineteenth century, yet it's out of phase for anybody else. Now we believe that a nation is entitled to self-determination but a soul is a slave to material fate: I steal because I'm poor; I feel up my daughter cause my ma did that to me; I drink because my ma was sometimes cruel and called me names and because my father left that trait, like some unhappy lodestar, in my genes. On the whole, I still prefer Leotis's outlook, the same one they taught me in church. I'd rather believe in will than fate. I drink or don't drink. I'll try to find Bert or I won't. I'll take the money and run or else return it. Better to find options than that bondage of cause and effect. It all goes back to Augustine. We choose the Good. Or the Evil. And pay the price.

  And this, this may be the serpent's sweetest apple. I did not even seem to swallow.

  I am drinking stars.

  Thursday, January 26

  B. Your Investigator Loses Something Besides His Self-respect

  I have awakened so many mornings vowing never to do this again that there was almost pleasure in the pain. I felt like something fished out of the trash. I held absolutely still. The sunlight was going to be like a bullet to the brain. Along the internal line from head to gut there was a bilious feeling, some regurgitive impulse already stirring. 'Slow,' I told myself, and when I did I sensed for the first time that I wasn't alone.

  When I opened my eyes, a kid was looking square at me, Latin he seemed to be, crouched about an arm's length away on the driver's side beneath the dash. He had one hand on the car's tape player, which he'd lifted half out, revealing the bleak innards of the auto, colored cables and dark spaces. Cutting the wires would be the next step. The door was cracked behind him and the dome light was on. There was a little sniffle of cold air riffling across my nose.

  'Just cool,' he told me.

  I didn't see a gun, a knife. A kid, too. Thirteen, fourteen. Still with pimples all over the side of his face. One of your sweet little urban vampires, out in the early-morning hours rolling drunks. Fifty coming, I could still pound this little fuck. Hurt him anyway. We both knew it. I checked his eyes again. It would have been such a frigging triumph if there was just a dash, a comma, an apostrophe of fear, some minute sign of hesitation.

  'Get out,' I said. I hadn't moved. I was sort of folded up like a discarded shopping bag, piled sideways onto the passenger's seat. With the adrenaline I was waking fast and turning dizzy, whirly city. My tummy was on the move.

  'Don't fuck around, men.' He turned the screwdriver to face me.

  'I'll fuck with you, shorty-pants. I'll fuck with you plenty. And after I do, you won't be fuckin anybody.' I gave my head a sort of decisive nod. Which was a bad mistake. It was like tipping back in a chair too far. I rolled my eyes a bit. I picked myself up on my elbow. With that, it happened.

  I puked all over him.

  I mean everywhere. It was dripping from his eyelashes. His nappy head had got little bits of awful stuff all over. His clothes were soaked. He was drowning in it, spluttering and shaking, cursing me, an incoherent rap. 'Oh men,' he said. 'Oh men.' His hands danced around and I knew he was afraid to touch himself. And he was out of there fast. I was so busy waiting for him to kill me I actually didn't see him go until he was running down the street.

  Well, Malloy, I thought, you are going to like this one. I patted my back all over a few times, before I straightened myself up, then realized that this story, like the tale of what really happened between Pigeyes and me, was going to go untold. After all, I had been bad. Weak. I'd had a drink. A bottle. I had fucked around with fate.

  My guy at AA, my angel, guardian, hand in the dark, was a fella named Giandomenico, LNU, as we said on the Force, last name unknown, none used. Even though I haven't shown at a meeting in sixteen months, I knew he would talk to me and tell me that I still had what it took to do it. Today was no different than the day before yesterday. It was a day I wasn't gonna drink. I was going to get through today and work on tomorrow then. I knew the rap. I'd memorized all twelve steps. Somehow over the long haul I found A A sadder than being a drunk, listening
to these folks, 'My name is Sheila and I'm an alcoholic' Then would come the story, how she stole and whored and beat her kids. Jesus, sometimes I wondered if people were making things up just so the rest of us wouldn't feel so bad about our own lives. It was a little too much of a cult for me, the Church of Self-denunciation, I used to call it, this business of saying I'm a shit and I turn myself over to a higher power, LNU, who'll keep me safe from John Barleycorn, the divil. I welcomed the support and got all warm and runny about a number of the people who showed up each week and held my hand, and I hope that they're still going and still safe. But I'm too goddamned eccentric, and reluctant to contemplate the mystery of why, with my sister's death, I no longer felt the uncontrollable need to drink. Had I finally filled even my own bottomless cup of pain? Or was this, as I often feared in my grimmest moments, some form of celebration?

  Glyndora's little complex was across the street, gray on gray, the colors almost indecipherable in the subdued elements of winter, still looking like a stage set except for the sign in front, announcing that units were available, from 179 grand. What was her point last night? Was that whole thing, that interlude, just for laughs? I didn't think Glyndora enjoyed that kind of subtlety. She told you off face-to-face. But for some reason she had wanted me out of there. Was she afraid I would catch on to something? A boyfriend, maybe? Somebody's clothes were in the closet, shoes by the door. Archie's? Or Bert's?

  I straightened myself up. I had a pretty good yuk thinking about Lyle getting in here with his buddies south of midnight and taking a whiff. I'd bet a lot of money he wouldn't know who to blame. He'd sit here trying to recall who'd hurled night before last. The little bastard had left worse for me. Still, I opened all the windows and threw the floor mat on the street. I shoved the radio back into the fragile plastic membrane of the dashboard. I thought about that little thief running all over the North End in the cold, searching for a hose. He'd smell like something when he got to school. Yep, I was feeling mean and humorous. I gathered myself together and slid across the seat behind the wheel, and only then noticed the absence against my hip. I began to swear.

  The goddamn kid had got my wallet.

  XI

  EVERYTHING IS JAKE

  A. Your Investigator Gets Interrupted

  If Bert Kamin was dead, then who had the money?

  This question struck me suddenly as I stood before a mirror at Dr Goodbody's, where I'd come to clean up before heading on to the office. A shower and shave had not done much for my condition. I still had the shadowy look of some creep on a wanted poster and my headache made me recollect those cavemen who used to open vents in their skulls. I phoned Lucinda to say where I was, asking her to make the calls to cancel and replace my credit cards. Then I found a lonesome corner in the locker room to figure things out. Who had the money? Martin had said that the banker he talked to in Pico had hinted that the account where the checks went was Bert's. But that was hardly authoritative.

  A refuge, even a phony one, is where you find it, and I was irritated when the attendant told me I had a call. One of the things I hate worst about the world of business at the end of the century is this instant-access crap: faxes and mobile phones and all those eager-beaver, happy delivery people from fucking Federal Excess. Competition in the big-bucks world has made privacy a thing of the past. I expected Martin, Mr Impatience, who likes to call you with his latest brilliant idea on a case from some airplane at eleven o'clock at night as he's bounding off to Bangladesh. But it wasn't him.

  'Mack?' Jake Eiger spoke. 'I'd like to see you ASAP.'

  'Sure. Let me get hold of Martin or Wash.'

  'Better the two of us,' said Jake. 'Why don't you come up here? I want to give you heads-up on something. About our situation.' He cleared his throat in a vaguely meaningful way, so I suspected at once what was coming. The powers-that-be at TN had reviewed this fiasco — Bert and the money — and concluded there was a certain large law firm they could do without. Cancel the search party and pack your bags. I was going to get to give my partners the news as a 'leak'.

  It had been some time since Jake and I had sat down man-to-man. They became uncomfortable meetings after my divorce from his cousin — and Jake's decision to stop directing TN cases to me. We never speak about either subject. The unmentionable, in fact, is more or less the bedrock of our relationship.

  As usual, a long story. Jake was not an especially good student; I've always suspected he got into law school on his father's pull. He's bright enough — downright wily at times — but he has trouble putting thoughts on paper. A whiz at multiple choice but gridlock when he was writing essays. His own term was 'cryptophobic', but I think in today's lingo we'd say learning-disabled.

  I had been at BAD about a year when Jake invited me to lunch. I thought it was some kind of family obligation — one of Nora's aunts hopping his keester about buy Mack a meal and give him some advice, maybe he'll amount to something. But I could tell he was uneasy. We were at some snazzy rooftop place and Jake squinted in the sun. The wind flapped the fringe of the umbrella overhead.

  'Nice view,' he said.

  We both were drinking. He was unhappy too. Jake's handsomeness has always had room only for boyish easiness. The worry was like a painted sign.

  'So,' I asked, 'what?' There had to be something. We did not have a real social relationship.

  'Bar exam,' he said.

  I didn't understand at first. I thought it was one of those clever, stylish remarks he made that was beyond me, rich-kid talk. He was just starting his third year at G amp; G, Wash's favorite flunky, three years out of law school, with one year spent clerking for a judge, and the bar ordinarily would have been long behind him. I ordered lunch. You could see Trappers Park from there and we talked awhile about the team.

  'I should get out there,' Jake said. 'Haven't had much chance.'

  'Busy? Lots of deals?'

  'Bar exam,' he said again. 'I just took it for the third time.' And he looked from the distance to me, the level sincere agonized way he probably took in the ladies he wanted to lay. I did not need a guidebook to know I was being compromised.

  'Three strikes and you're out,' he said. Three failures and you had to wait five years to take the test again. I knew the rules. I was one of the guys who made them. 'The firm has to fire me,' he said. 'My old man'll die. Die.' His career as a lawyer would, practically speaking, be over, but no doubt for Jake his father would be the worst part.

  While I was growing up, Jake's dad was a colleague of Toots's in the City Council and a considerable figure. Invested with the medieval powers typically exerted by a councilman in DuSable, Eiger pere lived in our close-knit Catholic village like a prince among the folk. June 18, 1964, the day I turned twenty-one, my father took me to Councilman Eiger to ask him to find me a place on the police force. I'd had a couple of years of college by then and was sort of supporting myself selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door; I had bombed out around the art department and was a kind of bookstore beatnik, your average troubled youth, an Irish lad still at home with his ma, absolutely mystified about which way to go in life. The Force at least would get me off ground zero and keep me out of the service too, not something I said out loud to anybody, and no left-wing politics involved either, just a pit stop on the life track I didn't want to make, never one to enjoy taking orders from anybody. Three years later I wrecked my knee and had a free shot at law school, no draft, no Nam to trouble me, and went, mostly to be in school again, another of those funny accidental ways things just happen in a life.

  Sitting there in the ward office, which looked like a basement rec room decorated with maps and political posters from past campaigns and four of those clunky old-style telephones, big and black and heavy enough to be murder weapons, absorbing most of the space on his desk, Councilman Eiger assured me that my police application would get every consideration. You had to love him, a man so richly endowed with power and so generous about its use. He was the kind of pol you could understand, whose li
nes of loyalty were long inscribed and well known: first himself, then his family, then his friends. He was not against law or principle. They were just not operative elements. I was a cadet in a previously selected entering class at the Academy within three weeks. Now his son was sitting in front of me, and even though Jake denied his father was aware of anything, the message was the same. I owed. I owed the family. You knew his old man would see it just that way.

  I made my one and only stab at rectitude.

  'Jake, I think we ought to talk about something else.'

  'Sure.' He looked into his drink. 'I took the test last week. There was a question — I fouled up so badly — a civil-procedure question, you know, revising a divorce decree, and I wrote this ream about matrimonial law.' He shook his head. Poor old handsome Jake was about to cry. And then he did. A grown man almost, sobbing like a kid into his gin and tonic. 'Hey, you know, I'm sorry.' He straightened himself up. We ate in absolute silence for about ten minutes, then he said he was sorry again and walked away from the table.

  One of the peculiar things you learn in life is that what makes Great Institutions great is the stuff people attach to them, not their actual operation, which is often purely prosaic. The scoring of the bar exam was like that. We sent the bluebooks out to ten graders around the state, one for each question. The booklets came back UPS, thousands of stacks, piled up no more ceremoniously than rubbish. The secretaries sorted them for days, then added each individual's totals, and the staff attorneys checked the arithmetic. Those were the results. Seventy passed, 69 failed. Jake was at 66 when I found his stack on another assistant administrator's desk the night I decided to go hunting for it. The guy who graded Jake's civil-procedure answer had given Jake three out of a possible ten. A 3 and an 8 of course can look a lot alike, even if you don't have a gift for forgery. I wasn't taking any risk; no one would ever know. Not counting me, of course.