by Scott Turow
“You said you wanted to sue your landlord,” he reminded the woman.
“Hey, are you a lawyer?”
Dinnerstein stared at the speaker.
“Well,” he said, “there’s a certificate with my name on the wall.”
“No, really. Are you a lawyer? Can I sue somebody in jail?”
“You can. It wouldn’t be worth much.”
“Right. So are you listening? I can’t sue my boyfriend, I gotta sue my landlord.”
“Because your boyfriend threw you out the window?”
“Because there weren’t any screens on the window.”
“Ah,” said Mort. He reflected. “Would you mind terribly if I ask your weight?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I understand,” said Mort, “and I hope you’ll forgive me, but if a plaintiff weighed more than Tinker Bell, I don’t think a jury anywhere in America would believe a window screen would have offered her any protection.”
The woman dawdled a bit, considering her problem.
“Yeah, but when I fell, I fell in a puddle. I heard that. My girlfriend made a lot of money cause her landlord left water standing around.”
“Well, yes, if you slip on it. Not if you land in it.”
“Are you really a lawyer?”
As politely as possible, Mort ended the call.
“You should have asked if she drowned in that puddle,” said Robbie. “You have plenty of evidence of oxygen deprivation to the brain.”
Mort shrugged off the mild assault on his good nature. What could he do? Teasing was standard between the two men, and even Mort couldn’t resist chortling when Robbie reminded him of the remark about Tinker Bell. Although he was exceedingly soft-spoken, Mort had a high-pitched howling laugh and it often ricocheted through the office. Robbie and he had a thousand in-jokes Evon could never quite comprehend.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this case,” Robbie said eventually. He held out the Peter Petros complaint. From the start, Robbie had known that the contrived cases couldn’t remain hidden from Dinnerstein. The partners usually agreed on the matters in which they’d invest the firm’s time, and besides that, sooner or later Mort was bound to pick up a file he didn’t recognize, since one of his chief functions was correcting the potential mishaps invited by Robbie’s cavalier ways. McManis appeared more concerned about what might happen then than Sennett, who felt Robbie would be able to handle Mort. Nevertheless, several hours had gone into planning for this moment.
The original idea had been to parade a cast of undercover agents through the office, pretending to be new clients. But Stan in time hit on something far simpler. If and when Morty came upon the cases, there was a perfect person to blame: me. George Mason, downstairs, had become a new source of referrals. As former President of the Bar Association, Mason was a stickler about actually working on the files, an ethical requirement in order to receive a referral fee. As a result, the client interviews had taken place in my office, and Mason had even scratched out a rough draft of the complaint. That was why Mort had not been party to the usual preparations.
I was the only one who didn’t regard this notion as inspired. Unlike some criminal defense lawyers who see themselves as soldiers in an endless war against the state, I had no reluctance about encouraging my clients to cooperate with the prosecution when it would help them. But that was their obligation, not mine. I had something of a heritage to protect. Although my mother had knowingly married into the bankrupt branch of an aristocratic Virginia family, she managed to plant the flag for the social distinction she prized by naming me after my most famous ancestor. George Mason is believed to be the author of the line “All men are created equal,” which Jefferson subsequently borrowed, as well as of the Bill of Rights, which he conceived of with his friend Patrick Henry. The legacy of George Mason—the real one, as I think of him—has been quite a bit to drag around with me, but I’d always felt that in protecting the rights of the accused, I was maintaining allegiance to my distinguished relation and his vision. For his sake, not to mention my law practice, which depended on being known as a tireless foe of the prosecution, I didn’t want my name imprinted on an elaborate governmental deception like Petros.
Sennett pressed, however: I needed an excuse for my frequent visits with Robbie and McManis, which someone in the building was bound to notice eventually. And this way, the fertilizer could be spread by Feaver, not me. Robbie could send letters to my office, mention our relationship here and there. I would merely adhere to my duty to maintain his confidences. Stan argued adeptly and I eventually sank to my ankles in the familiar bog of compromise where defense lawyers dwell.
Robbie now delivered the cover story about good old George Mason, as Mort blinked several times behind the watery refractions of his wire-framed glasses. Misshapen by daily abuse, the specs rode at a noticeable angle across his thick nose. Evon, naturally, was astonished by the élan with which Robbie lied, especially to the friend to whom he claimed total devotion, and also by the fact that Dinnerstein, despite the years, still couldn’t see through him. Robbie explained away a few of Mort’s lingering technical questions about the case, then squired Evon from the office where Mort appeared quite satisfied.
Evon called me at once to tell me that the plan had been sprung so that I’d be prepared if I bumped into Dinnerstein in the building. But the news left me down. From the start, I’d felt a subtle undertow emanating from Sennett, and I sensed that allowing my name to be used as a prop in the Petros stage play was only the beginning. Eventually, he’d ask me to lie actively, or to talk Robbie into some dubious stratagem, requests that would not be premised on my client’s best interests but on the grand importance of Petros to the legal community, and on my friendship with Stan. He’d want me to help him do his job, at the expense of doing mine. And what was unsettling was this: given the peculiar geometry of my relationship with Stan, and my funny fugue state at the moment, even I was not completely certain how I was going to respond.
9
FRIDAY AFTERNOONS AT THE FIRM, ROBBIE and Mort opened the bar in the rosewood cabinets of the Palace and welcomed the whole staff for a drink. It was pleasant and democratic. Evon declined alcohol, detailing, whenever she was asked, the beliefs of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for a number of the women who had no concept about Mormons, except the Tabernacle Choir. It was a loose mood. There was talk about the week and the Super Bowl on Sunday, Dallas against Buffalo. Clinton had announced his don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy for gays in the military and two of the associates were debating it. Rashul, the black kid who ran the copying machine, knocked back several jolts from Feaver’s $90 bottle of Macallan and tried to make way with Oretta, who had him by about thirty years.
In the old days, as daylight dwindled, Feaver would snag one or two of the younger women and take them with him to the Street of Dreams. Now, in the slipstream of Robbie’s well-known ways, Evon drifted behind him to his office shortly after six, leaving everyone to think that they were heading off for an overheated evening of their own.
“Say, that’s good,” he said, as he was searching his desk for papers to take home in his briefcase, “the Mormon girl stuff.”
The office door had remained open and Evon pushed it shut somewhat harder than she’d intended.
“Not here, Feaver. You know the rules.”
He’d had several shots of single-malt scotch. Turning to face her, he perched on the arm of his desk chair with his briefcase saddled in his lap. His tie was dragged down and his shirtsleeves were rolled.
“The rules,” he said. “Very militaristic.” He scratched his head. “Let me ask you something I’ve been wondering. Did they give you any choice about this? Or was this like the Army? They ordered you to volunteer? FBI, you figure that’s a hard place to buck the boss.”
“I’ve told you before, Feaver, we aren’t gonna play Twenty Questions.”
“No? I was hoping on the way home, ma
ybe you’d tell me about the Olympics.”
She got the message. He was angry. The testiness with which they’d left the car after the encounter with Walter, when she’d accused him of labeling her, had festered the rest of the week, and the liquor had set it loose. They were both worn out. But she wasn’t any happier than he was. She watched him without reply.
“How about a hint?” he asked. “I mean, what sport? Team event? Individual?”
“How about this instead? I’ll call Sennett. And I’ll tell him to roll it up, because you’re so determined to goof on me we’re both gonna end up dead. You can go to Marion right now and I can go home. That sounds pretty good on both ends.”
“You know,” he said, “I never liked tough guys. Even when they’re guys.”
He was a dangerous man when he was angry. The lacquer seldom rubbed off his happy-go-lucky routine, but when it did, there was no restraint. His last shot had whipcracked across the short distance between them.
“We’re done, Feaver. I’m not kidding about calling this off.”
“Good. Great. Call it off. Cause I’ve got a couple of things I’ve been meaning to say anyway. I know you don’t like me. Don’t say it isn’t so, okay? I’m sure you’ve got your reasons. And maybe they’re pretty good. But I have some breaking news for you, Special Agent Whoever-You-Are: this is not the time of my life, either, not by any stretch. Okay? If everything turns out peachy, I end up a convict, maybe my best friend loses his law license thanks to me, and I’ll never be able to walk down the streets of this city where I’ve lived my entire life without thinking somebody is going to put a blade in my back. And that’s if all goes well. If it doesn’t, then I get that all-expenses trip to Marion, where you can bet I won’t ever sleep a second on my stomach. And either way, I have to put up with you, with your chip-on-the-shoulder hard-ass routine, accompanying me sixteen hours a day to every locale I visit, except the men’s room, where you just hang around the door.
“So as far as I’m concerned, if you want to walk your stick-up-it rear end out of here, the only thing you’re going to hear from behind is applause. But don’t think I don’t know an empty threat when I hear it. Yon Sennett, he’s got a lean and hungry look. Like Shakespeare? Stan would call this off on your say-so about as soon as my mother becomes Pope. The only person on this food chain who’s lower than me, sister, is you. And we both know your career as hotshot G-man will be over as soon as you waltz out of here. I did my six months in the Marine Reserves to stay out of Nam. I know all about can-do organizations. Can’t do and you’re dirt. You’re stuck, just like me. So stop being such a jerk.”
She felt the heat past her shoulders. All her life she’d been at the mercy of her temper. By the time she was two or three, she was regularly told she had a sore look on her face. You are scowling, young woman. Girls were not supposed to let their faces grow condensed and storm-darkened. But she did.
“Then I guess I just have to kick your butt to get you to behave,” she told him.
“Yeah, right.” He had a good, long laugh, the kind that would get him clocked in a barroom.
“You’re going to make me prove it, right? I’ve taken down men twice your size. When I worked the fugitive squad in Boston, I grabbed a guy six foot six and three fifty, and I had him on the ground and cuffed when the locals got there.”
“You didn’t hear me the first time. Why are you always telling me how well you’re hung?”
She felt herself recoil. Then she told him to stand up. She widened her stance to face him.
“I’ll wrestle you, baby,” he said. “Strip down to our skivvies? Little scented oil? We’ll have a gas.” Mocking, he beckoned her with both hands toward the desk behind which he remained perched.
“Stand up, Feaver. I mean it. This is gonna happen. Or is Mr. Man scared of a woman who’s five foot four?” She closed the distance between them to a few feet and kicked off her shoes on the dark red rug.
He closed his eyes to calculate. He exhaled. Finally he stood. He removed the suit jacket he’d just put on, then hunched over and extended his arms in a grappler’s pose, the watch and i.d. glittering on his hairy arms.
“Okay,” he said. “Come at me, tough guy.”
She had hit the rug and rolled up on one hand, hooking her legs around his right knee before he did much more than turn. For a moment, as she finished the leg whip and saw him drop heavily, she was frightened, certain his head would catch the green glazed edge of the desktop. Lord God, was she crazy? Would she ever be able to explain this? But he landed solidly on his chest. She could hear the breath come out of him with a sound a little like a leaking tire. His face rested on the corner of the plastic floor mat that sat under his desk chair.
She asked if he was all right. Instead, without reply, he stood, first getting to one knee. He brushed off his shirt. There was a smudge now under the pocket that brought the white-on-white diamonds into relief, and he scratched at it for a second. From the deliberate way he moved she took it he was in pain.
When he finally spoke, he said, “Two falls out of three.” He came around the desk and pulled two chairs out of the way. He lifted the coffee table and put it on the sofa, then he stood on the blood-colored rug, his arms again held wide.
“Now we have some room,” he said. “You’re quick. I give you that. But I’m ready now. Come on.”
“Look, I was making a point. I’m not trying to hurt you. I just don’t want to be sitting here for six months getting your chick act. I want you to take me seriously. And what we’re doing seriously.”
“Scared?” he asked.
She looked away with irritation, and while her head was still wound in the other direction, she dove at his midsection. Even as she lunged, she knew it wasn’t going to work. They’d both seen the same movies and he was ready for the sucker move. He stepped aside, grabbing her arm to avoid her, then catching her around the waist. He hoisted her off the ground, his arms locked uncomfortably close to her breasts. He was several inches taller than she was, and much stronger, more solid, than she had imagined. She rammed an elbow into one arm, and swung one foot behind his knee. In response, he dropped her suddenly to the rug and sat down on her before she could scramble away, resting his full weight on her behind. When she started to flail, he grabbed her arm and applied a half nelson.
“Okay?” he asked. “Can we cool now?”
Suddenly, Evon felt him let go, even before she heard the voice.
“Oh shit,” said Eileen Ruben from the threshold. The office manager had a rattling, smoke-devastated voice and a bad blond dye job on the sad remnants of what years ago would have been called a beehive hairdo. A plastic cigarette, which had been dangling from her mouth all week as she went through yet another effort to quit, hung gummed to her lipstick as she gaped.
“We’re wrestling,” Robbie told her.
“What else?” asked Eileen, and with that closed the door.
He had stood up by now and was suddenly back to himself, greatly amused.
“See? It worked out. Everything for the best. We’re right on plan. Monday, Eileen will be out there telling everybody how I’ve already got you on the rug.”
He was correct about that. Right on plan. But she felt no temptation to smile. She never recovered quickly from this kind of fury.
“Now, the guy thing,” he said, “would be to go out and have a cocktail, bury the hatchet. Can you handle that?”
“I don’t drink.” She stood up and adjusted her skirt. Her panty hose had done a virtual 360 on her waist and she headed for the ladies’ to correct that. Over her shoulder, she told him, “I’m Mormon.”
SHE WAS NOT A MORMON. Her father had been raised in the Church and she might have been, too, if her mother had kept her word to her in-laws. But you go along in life, her mother said, and figure what’s right for you. By the time Evon’s oldest sister, Merrel, had been born, her mother’d turned her back on all of it. She held no doubt by then, apparently, whom Evon’s father wo
uld choose.
They were from near Kaskia, Colorado, a little Rocky Mountain town that, in effect, had been seized from slumber during Evon’s lifetime, awakened by the arrival of resorts and malls and multiplexes. But in her childhood, people had dwelled in the Kaskia Valley with a sense of privacy. In her family there were seven children. She was fifth. Right around the place where you’d expect kids to begin getting lost. And she was lost, she supposed. That teeming house where nine people lived, ten after Maw-Maw, her mother’s mom, came to stay, swirled about her like a storm. Her parents always existed foremost in the reports of her sisters about what they’d want or expect. Don’t put your elbows on the table, Ma doesn’t like it when you put your elbows on the table. A kind of secondhand childhood as she thought of it, in which she too often felt isolated and unknown, and somehow inept.
She was an odd duck, she knew that. She didn’t smile at the right times, she said yes when she was supposed to say no, she always realized too late when somebody was trying to be funny. She had a rear end on her that no matter how in shape she was did not seem to sit right on her frame. She’d never been at ease with folks outside her family and was forever embarrassing herself. People called her tough or callous, but the truth was she’d just never had the feel for nuance or mood. Someone asked a question, she answered plainly. She had no idea what else to do. And as people recoiled, she always thought the same thing. No one knew her. She didn’t match. What was inside her was not what people saw.
In that mood, the mood of a lifetime, she had returned to her apartment. She’d hurt her shoulder somehow, thrashing around with that fool. Reconsidering the scene, she wanted to laugh, but a dark thread of shame laced through her heart. The agent was supposed to run the c.i., but Feaver seemed unmanageable. Or was she the one who was somehow out of control?
Her apartment was not bad, a one-bedroom with rented motel furniture. Jim had referred to the deep-cover team from D.C. that had set her up as ‘the Movers.’ It had sounded mysterious, until they arrived with a truck and uniforms from one of the national van lines. Every item she’d packed had been vetted. Anything that could trace back to who she’d been in Des Moines the previous week—every appliance with a serial number, all the prescription drugs for her allergies—had been replaced. Evon Miller was like a doll that came with brand-new accessories.
