by Scott Turow
She sat there crying, crying for all the world, saying again and again that she wanted it so badly. Arthur knelt beside her on the cold tiles of the bathroom and held her, saying, “You have it now, you have it.”
26
JUNE 28, 2001
Smart
“OH MY GOD!” As soon as the brass elevator doors had met, reuniting the leafy Deco designs embossed there and leaving Arthur Raven safely behind, Muriel clapped her hand to her chest and sagged against Larry, planting her narrow shoulder on his arm. “When did you know?”
“Before Arthur.” Larry shook his head in pity. He still liked Arthur, especially now that they’d kicked his fanny. Upstairs, outside the Sterns’ offices, with the air between the three of them brittle as glass, Arthur looked as if he might faint, as if his heavy briefcase might drag him to the floor. “Talk about the poster child for the pale and clammy. I thought of dialing 911. Where does he go now?”
“Probably to Rudyard to read out his client—or to County to do the same thing to Erno, assuming he’s still alive. I heard he took a turn for the worse.”
Larry made a sarcastic remark about Erno’s well-being, then asked what he’d meant to originally, whether Arthur had really run out of options in court. Muriel shrugged. For the moment, she seemed far more interested in hearing how he’d figured out it was Rommy who’d threatened Luisa.
“I just kept asking myself, What’s this lady’s story?” Larry said. “Genevieve’s good people. Usually a better-than-average person has got to have a decent reason to stiff the truth. The way I read her, she figures Luisa’s dead, can’t change that, let’s do the best for the daughters. And that means keeping the lid on the real story—not just because TN may turn the dogs loose, but because it spreads fertilizer all over Mommy’s grave. Once you say Rommy was the one threatening Luisa, you have to say why. The whole world hears about the tickets now, including Luisa’s girls.”
They emerged into the brighter lobby. Muriel was tanned to a summer glow, but Larry could see that she’d also been lit by victory. In her happy moments, when she was relaxed, Muriel was the funniest girl in the world. And she was happy now, especially with him.
“You’re the man, Larry.” She beamed up at him, revealing that little gap between her front teeth. He wished with all his might this declaration didn’t excite him, as it did. Probably if Muriel and he had worked it out ten years ago, they’d be the Bickersons by now, like every other old couple. But you always wanted what you didn’t get, and since his meltdown in Atlanta, he’d been coming to terms: he wasn’t getting over Muriel, not in this lifetime.
His thoughts of her were always attached to the idea of destiny. She was in every fiber a person who believed there was a Plan, one she intended to be part of, and in her company he was inevitably under the same spell. What he had lost most, when he lost her, was the belief that great things were in store for him.
It was raining hard, but Muriel managed to flag a taxi. Larry had left his stuff in her office and jumped in beside her. On the way Muriel asked his opinion about who in the press to give this to. She still had time for the TV news. On her cell, she called Stanley Rosenberg at Channel 5. Then she phoned Dubinsky at the Tribune. “Stew? I have tomorrow’s headline today. ‘Witness: Gandolph Said He Would Kill July 4 Victim.’”
Larry felt less exuberant. Being around Muriel probably dampened his mood. But he’d shoved aside a lot of questions during the dep that were bothering him now. First off, he had to be dumber than a box of hair not to tumble to a ticket agent stealing tickets. Then he remembered what had misled him.
“You know,” he said, as soon as Muriel was free, “I’ve gone over my notes of my conversation with Erno back in October ’91 probably a hundred times. Two hundred. And when I asked him how Luisa was minting money, he brought up the subject of stolen tickets and said they hadn’t had any problems for years.”
“Maybe he didn’t know what she was doing. The stuff Genevieve heard from Squirrel—I saw Pharaoh and I’m going to kill her—that might just sound to Erno like Luisa had been stepping out on him.”
“On Rommy? And besides, why would Erno have Luisa searched, if he didn’t know about the tickets?”
Muriel was too high to worry, but he persisted.
“Okay, and here’s another thing. I’ve got it in my notes that Erno told me we ought to subpoena Genevieve to the grand jury.”
“Thinking she’d put it on Rommy?”
“Obviously. But why so coy? Why not say straight up Genevieve could tell me Squirrel had threatened to kill Luisa, instead of playing dumb?”
The rain was nearly solid when they left the taxi. Muriel held her briefcase over her head, her heels smacking up little spurts on the granite steps of the Kindle County Building. The structure was a century old, a red-brick block built in the same style as the gloomy factories of that era. Even in good weather, the interior light had the quality of old shellac. Muriel was royalty inside this building. The bailiffs at the metal detectors greeted her as ‘Chief,’ and passing through the lobby she was accosted every ten feet by somebody else. Two deputy P.A.’s, interviewing a nine-year-old in connection with the murder of another child, chased after her, seeking permission to cut a deal. She told them it was too soon, then moved on to happier tasks, greeting at least a dozen people by name. She was far more natural at this kind of politicking than he would have imagined ten years ago, looking genuinely eager to hear about grandma’s progress after a hip replacement, or how the third-grader was doing in her new school. Only those who knew Muriel best might recognize it was a one-way street, that she seldom shared much about herself.
Larry went ahead to wait for her by the elevator bank, still puzzling about Erno.
“Try this,” he said to Muriel, without any preamble, when they boarded the car alone. “Erno hears about Squirrel and Luisa from Genevieve. Squirrel’s a thief, and, like Erno told me, tickets are the best things around there to steal, and Luisa’s a ticket agent. So he has her searched on a pretext.”
“Right.”
“But he doesn’t find the tickets. So he picks door number two: just some weird screwball with a crush who’s talking trash. And instead, six weeks later, she gets offed. So now he can’t raise his hand and say I know what this is about.”
“Because?”
“Because he fucked up. Because he’d have to admit that he violated the union agreement and had searched her on a pretext. And never bothered informing the cops about Squirrel. Some good plaintiff’s lawyer with orphans for clients will choke a fortune out of Erno and the airline, and his bosses will blame Erno for being asleep at the wheel.
“But then his handsome nephew gets cracked, and Erno thinks it over again, because he really wants to save Collins. I don’t know which of them found out Squirrel had the cameo, if Collins came up with that or Erno had been gumshoeing around on his own and fed it to Collins, but either way, Erno deals it out to me in pieces to make sure he doesn’t get any shit on his shoes. ‘Go talk to Collins. And by the way, subpoena Genevieve.’ It sort of fits, doesn’t it?”
They had entered the vast outer office of the P.A. and the Chief Deputy. Muriel stopped at one of the secretarial stations to pick up messages and an armful of mail. In her office, she closed the door and had him play the whole thing back one more time.
“It was the truth,” concluded Larry. “What Erno was telling us way back when. It was always the truth. He’s just burned now because he helped us out and he’s still dying in prison.”
He watched her assess this, lips rumpled.
“Okay,” she said. “Call for the heralds. And several witnesses.”
“Because?”
“I’m going to say it.” She reached the considerable distance up to his shoulder. “You were right. At least, close enough. You’re right.” Her dark eyes were lively as diamonds. “You’re always right, Larry.” There was a little hiccup there, before she finally lowered her hand. “You’re right,” she said again
and threw the mail down on her desk. “Happy?”
Now that she asked, he found he wasn’t completely.
“Something is bugging me about the fence. King Tut or whatever. The Pharaoh.”
“What about him?” she asked.
“I don’t know. But I want to be the first boy on my block to remind him of old times. If Pharaoh is a super-big pal of Squirrel’s, he might even deny everything Genevieve gave us, especially if Arthur gets to him before I do and gives him a road map.”
“So let’s find him.”
“I’m figuring ‘The Pharaoh’ for a gang handle, right?”
That had been Muriel’s thought, too.
“I’ll get with the guys in Gang Crimes,” Larry said. “They’ve been helping me figure out the Gangster Outlaw angle on Erno.”
Muriel lolled on the side of her desk, thinking it all over. She shook her head in wonder.
“Dude, you’ve been taking your smart pills.”
“Yeah,” he said, “if I’m so smart, how come I didn’t think of wheels on luggage? I ask myself that whenever I walk through an airport.”
Muriel laughed at that one. She’d worn a little jacket over a sleeveless dress and she removed the cover-up now. The P.A.’s Office seldom got below eighty in the summer, even with the air-conditioning on full throttle. Her shoulders were peeling. When she focused again on Larry, she had a far more sober look.
“No, you’re smart, Larry,” she said quietly and took another instant to herself. “You really rocked my world down in Atlanta.”
They hadn’t spoken of Atlanta—not on the plane back or in the days since—and Larry didn’t wanted to talk about it now. He’d blame the booze, if he had to. He was relieved to find she had another moment in mind.
“That equal sign you put between Rod and Talmadge? That tune’s been on replay for days.”
“I was out of line.”
“You were,” she said. “You were definitely out of line. But what I’ve been wondering about is why would you even say that to me? You just sort of drop by and say, ‘Sucks to be you.’ What is that, Larry?”
“I’m not sure, Muriel. I guess I thought I was right.”
“Well, what good does that do you? Or me, for that matter?”
He suddenly felt like squirming. “I’m sorry, Muriel. Honestly. I should have kept my mouth shut.”
But that, clearly, was not the answer she wanted. She watched him at length, until her look had softened to a rare aspect for Muriel, something approaching sadness.
“I mean, Jesus, Larry,” she said quietly, “really, when did you get so smart?”
“I just know you, Muriel. I don’t know much. But I know you.”
“I guess you do,” she said. There was a moment down in Atlanta when he thought she had it as bad as he did, and from the way she was eyeing him now, he was starting to get that feeling again. What would that mean? Nothing good, he decided. From a filing cabinet in the corner, he retrieved the things he’d left behind, his case file and, in a demonstration of appalling meteorological skills, his folding umbrella. It was the size of a baton and he displayed it to her.
“Not as smart you think,” he said.
She’d sat down at her desk to begin working, but shook her head resolutely to show she did not agree.
27
JUNE 29, 2001
The Enemy
“HE’S GOING TO EXPLAIN IT,” Pamela told Arthur when he’d picked her up at 6:00 this morning for another odyssey to Rudyard. She had persuaded herself overnight, but Arthur suspected even Pamela did not completely believe it. After nine months in practice in the big city, she was already beginning to acquire a skeptical air. Opponents had lied to her. Judges had ruled unfairly. There had even been a few bitter remarks about men.
But this morning, he would not quarrel with anyone about what was possible. He drove—but his heart was airborne. Right now a beautiful russet-haired woman slept in his bed, a woman with slender shoulders and a network of golden freckles on her back. He, Arthur Raven, had exhausted himself making love to a woman he desired, a woman he had desired for so long that she was the image of desire. He spoke to Pamela about the case, but his mind, like a homing signal, came back to Gillian, and he had to struggle to keep laughter from frothing up out of his chest.
She was a convict, of course. His spirit frolicked along a mesa with deep gorges on either side. There was Rommy, shown to be guilty after months of desperate labor. And now and then he recalled the sick fog of disgrace that hovered over Gillian. At those instants, he remembered her warnings about how soon she would disappoint him. But then, almost against his nature, he allowed himself to be engulfed again by a syrupy joy.
At the institution, they waited as always. When Arthur phoned the office, his assistant read him the motion that Muriel had filed this morning with the Court of Appeals, asking it to bar further proceedings in Gandolph’s case. She’d included transcripts of both depositions, Genevieve’s and Erno’s, and argued what Arthur would have in her place—the issue was not Erdai but Rommy. The state was under no obligation to establish whether Erno was a bitter freak taking grim pleasure in overturning one more applecart before exiting the planet, or sincere, albeit deluded. The sole question for the court was whether a substantial basis existed to believe that Rommy Gandolph had not had a fair opportunity previously to contest the charges against him. Genevieve’s testimony, obviously reluctant, had only increased the sum total of evidence of Gandolph’s guilt. In that light, the litigation had gone on long enough. Applying to the Court of Appeals, rather than Harlow, Muriel might as well have labeled her paper ‘Motion to Prevent Further Rulings by Bleeding Heart Judge,’ but the Court of Appeals was, probably, the proper venue, and its judges in any event would defend their jurisdiction in their ongoing battles with Kenton Harlow. Arthur and Pamela would have to begin framing a response shortly, a challenging task if Rommy did not have some answer to Genevieve.
As Rommy’s case had gained notice, there had been two fairly obvious reactions from the staff in the penitentiary to Arthur and Pamela’s frequent arrivals. Most of the correctional officers, who identified themselves with law enforcement, greeted the lawyers coldly. The Warden, for example, had initially denied them a visit today, claiming the usual shortage of personnel, relenting only after Arthur had called the General Counsel for the Department of Corrections. Yet there were others in the prison hierarchy who were more sympathetic. To them, it was a long-accepted fact that a percentage of prisoners were not as bad as all that, and that there were even a few who were actually innocent. After daily contact with Rommy for a decade, several of the guards liked him and a few had even implied to Arthur that it was preposterous to think Rommy could ever have been a murderer. In the guardhouse today, Arthur caught a sidelong glance from a female lieutenant at the front desk who had been particularly warm for weeks now, and who apparently felt ill used after seeing the headlines in the last twenty-four hours. Being himself, Arthur felt a flush of shame that he’d misled her and so many others.
Rommy had to know why his lawyers had abruptly appeared. The inmates were inveterate TV watchers, and the prison grapevine, the chief vehicle for news of the world outside, moved at the speed of the Internet. Yet Rommy, chained hand and foot, sauntered to his side of the glass in the attorney room, looking thin and lost, but virtually effervescent.
“Hey, hey, how you-all doin?” He asked Pamela, as he did every time, whether she’d brought her wedding gown. This was perhaps their tenth visit, and it still remained unclear to both of them whether Rommy’s proposals were in earnest. “So how you-all been?” he asked. To Rommy, it was a social call. In point of fact, he was growing accustomed to visitors. The Reverend Dr. Blythe and his minions were here often, events Arthur could trace because of the regularity with which Blythe’s harsh rhetoric was echoed, in whatever mangled form, by his client.
“We’ve had a setback,” Arthur said, then realized that the term was probably beyond Rommy, who ha
d great difficulty with nuance. Rather than explain, Arthur simply asked him if he remembered Genevieve Carriere from the airport.
“Black, ain she?”
“White.”
“Kind of plump?”
“Right.”
“And she got this gold cross with a little sapphire she always wearin?”
Arthur recalled the jewel only now that Rommy mentioned it. There was no faulting a thief’s eye. He found his throat thickening around the next question.
“Well, did you ever tell her you wanted to kill Luisa Remardi?”
“Is that what she sayin?”
“That’s right.”
Rommy narrowed his face to a walnut, concentrating as if this had not been the talk of the cellblock for hours.
“I don’t think I done said that to her. Nnn-uhh.” He continued to shake his head with growing confidence. When Arthur peeked at Pamela, who was holding the telephone handpiece between them, some of the light seemed restored to her long face. “No,” said Rommy. “I think the onliest one I gone on to like that was the other dude. And ain nobody seed him in years.”
“Like what?”
“You know. Killin and all that. Her. The lady.”
“You did say that?”
“But I’m sayin, he gone and all, that other dude. He got hisself cracked, even before them po-lice come down on me. Must have been into somethin nasty. Dudes he kicked with, they was like, he ain never gone come out. But I ain seen him down here. He doin fed time, or he dead, how I figure.”
“What dude are we talking about?”
“Dude what was getting them airline tickets from the lady.”
Arthur looked down at his yellow pad. He had a habit of rubbing the few woolly patches left on his head, as if he couldn’t wait to get it over with, and he caught himself doing this now. Pamela and he had talked to Rommy countless times and never heard a word about airline tickets. When Arthur started at the firm, Raymond Horgan had told him, ‘Remember, not only is your client his own worst enemy, he is also yours.’