by Scott Turow
“Bad memories?”
“Sort of. I didn’t care to run into the old dean. He’d have had heart failure if he knew I was actually practicing law.”
“Why else did he think you went to law school?”
“Oh, he knew that’s why I came. But by the time I left he’d caught my routine. He wouldn’t have been my top reference for Bar Admissions.” Robbie, as usual, was amused by his past antics.
In a moment, he’d entered the men’s room, where the plan called for him to lock himself in a stall. Evon took a seat on an oak bench with a good view, and Alf, faintly whistling a Chopin polonaise, appeared less than a minute later with his bucket and his sign. He held the door half-open as a successful inducement to get the one other occupant on his way.
At 12:05, Malatesta showed up in his overcoat, which, like all his clothing, seemed slightly too large. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Alf and his sign, but Klecker bestowed a bountiful wave and Malatesta entered, smiling in humble gratitude.
Outside with the earpiece, Evon could hear the stall door open and Robbie’s shoes scraping on the tiles. The script called for him to place himself at one of the urinals. There was no mistaking the sound of his lowering fly. Malatesta arrived beside Robbie, quietly humming some musical theme, perhaps the one he’d overheard from Alf.
“Judge, hey,” Robbie said. “Robbie Feaver.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Feaver. Nice to see you. Very nice to see you.”
Robbie apologized for not offering his hand. A laugh, somewhat stillborn, emerged from Malatesta, who was predictably shy of bathroom humor. Robbie asked what brought the judge around and Malatesta offered a thumbnail of the cases he was teaching today on assumption of risk.
“That Ettlinger,” Robbie said. “That’s a half-ass decision.”
“Well, it’s somewhat more interesting than that,” said Malatesta.
“I mean for a plaintiff. It’s bad.”
“Well, yes,” said the judge. The cloacal waterfall roared. Feaver had been instructed by Klecker not to attempt anything of significance before then, the apparent lesson of sad prior experience with this environment. Now Robbie’s voice dropped.
“Say, Judge,” Robbie said, “that Petros case. Thanks. Okay? That was a great ruling. We got a terrific settlement.”
There ensued a silence of frightening length. Malatesta, Robbie later reported, was plainly startled. He reached up to touch the black temple of his glasses. Given Silvio’s caution and the limited chances for success, the scenario did not call for Robbie to make any brash declarations. He was to cut things short at once if Malatesta veered toward anything overtly defensive. From Feaver’s stillness it was plain to Evon he was already afraid he’d overstepped. She heard him padding along and water running in the sink. Afterwards, over the wrinkling of a paper towel, Malatesta unexpectedly spoke.
“I really should thank you, Mr. Feaver.”
This time Robbie lost a beat.
“That’s okay, Judge. My pleasure. Really. I’ve got a lot of respect for you, Judge. I just want you to know that I appreciate what you do.”
“It showed, Robbie.”
“I tried.”
“Your papers were excellent. Excellent. Most lawyers, frankly, don’t show that kind of respect for the court. I regret to say that not all are as resourceful. You were thoroughly researched. The lawyers in my court so seldom use an out-of-state or federal citation, especially one of any precedential currency. That was helpful to you. Very difficult issue, too. But you convinced me you had the stronger hand. No telling if the Appellate Court would have agreed. We’d both be holding our breaths. You know, out of law school, I clerked in the U.S. District Court for Judge Hamm and he always said to me, ‘The lawyers think they’re getting reversed. They think they’ve lost. But it’s my name on the opinion. I’m the one they say made a mistake.’” Malatesta laughed mildly, recalling this wisdom. “He’d tell me I should be pleased to hear you settled.”
Robbie, at a loss throughout the conversation, stumbled again. “Didn’t you know?”
“Did I? Perhaps it slipped my mind.” The revolving lid of a trash bin banged. “But I’m sure it was a good idea. Better that way for everyone. Right? Naturally. The parties want an outcome they can live with, not their names in a casebook. Of course, I’ll always have a grain of curiosity about what the Appellate Court would have said. But I suppose we can just move on to the next one. We know, correct?” Malatesta coughed up another thin laugh and the scuffing of his shoes drifted farther away. “See you in court,” Malatesta called. “I hope I find the next one as interesting.”
“It will be.”
When Evon saw Malatesta emerge, he seemed to be smiling. He had his overcoat folded over his arm and started into the large, tiered classroom. Two students greeted him with questions as he was on his way down.
“Jesus,” Robbie said as soon as McManis stopped the FoxBIte, back in the office. “What a wacko! This guy is one bubble left of level. One minute he’s right with me and then—” Robbie made a whooshing sound and shot his hand into space.
I had been summoned as soon as Feaver returned. Klecker had finished the dupe, and fast-forwarded to the rest room encounter when Sennett arrived.
“Very clever,” said Sennett after it was played. He was beaming. “Very clever. He got his message across. He said his thank-yous. I loved the line about your papers being excellent. The fifties and hundreds especially.”
Several of the UCAs who’d crowded into the conference room chortled.
“And the federal currency,” said Evon. Nobody else had caught that line and Alf rolled the recording back to play that part again. Robbie had moved a little and the words were somewhat obscured. But we all heard them now.
“What a fox,” Sennett said. “I love the visitor-from-another-planet routine. But we’ve got him. I enjoyed the warning about steering clear of anything that can cause trouble in the Appellate Court.” Stan avoided ‘I told you so,’ but it bristled off him anyway.
McManis directed a look toward me. This was less than the clean head shot Stan imagined. Malatesta’s defense lawyer would say it was no more than a discussion about a case. Why the wistfulness about the Appellate Court if Malatesta was acknowledging a bribe? And if he’d been paid off, he would have known the case had settled. But Stan had some evidence now, particularly if he could first get a jury to regard Malatesta as crazy-cautious. The sly remarks would take on shape then.
“We need more,” McManis said suddenly. It was pointed as Jim had ever been. The struggles between Stan and him were growing more overt daily. Sennett took McManis’s measure starkly, but, with reflection, managed a nod.
“We do,” Stan said. “And we’ll get more. We have to keep working cases in front of Malatesta. But we’ve got him talking now. To Robbie. And I may be able to pitch Moira again with this.” Sennett allowed a little more of the flush of victory into his smile. “But we’re going the right way, Jim. Aren’t we? You have to admit that. D.C. will see it.”
McManis answered only with a sidewards nod. It was the first occasion I could recall when he’d been something other than gracious. Instead he looked away from Sennett, and complimented the agents and Robbie on their work.
17
“WE HAVE A PROBLEM.” IT WAS LATE IN THE day, close to 4 p.m. on March 22, the Monday after Robbie’s law school encounter with Malatesta. On the phone, Sennett was in imperial mode. He did not say his name, but simply directed me to meet him at Jim’s in ten minutes. Arriving, I found McManis and Alf Klecker with Sennett in the conference room, each of their faces slackened and grave. Stan was in his well-pressed blue suit and the grip of his public persona, jaw prominent, very much in command. He circled a finger and Alf opened more of the red oak cabinetry to reveal a large reel-to-reel tape recorder, a stainless steel Grundig that began turning at once.
The sounds took a moment to identify. There was paper crinkling with an odd distinctness, the chuffing of various items
being pushed about close to the microphone. Something clunked down with an impact like a log.
I asked Klecker if this was an ‘overhear,’ the feds’ delicate term for a bug.
“The mike’s in the desk phone. Sound comes right here over the existing lines.” Alf smiled with innocent pride, until Sennett swiveled about and burned him with a look for violating the strictures of need-to-know.
There were now voices, both female. From a distance, someone was talking to the nearer woman about the interminable length of a cross-examination.
“Anyone you recognize?” Sennett asked.
I didn’t.
“I’ll give you a clue,” he said. “Two years ahead of us in law school.” Nothing struck me until the distant voice addressed the first woman as ‘Judge.’
Magda Medzyk! Magda had had a lengthy career in the Prosecuting Attorney’s Office, supervising appeals, then had gone on the bench. She was a stolid, frizzy-haired spinster, one of those folks who seemed to have reached middle age even in her law school days. Her wardrobe had never changed, her suits always heavy enough to appear armor-plated, guarding a figure of matronly proportions. I asked Stan where she was sitting currently.
“She’s been hearing Special Motions in the Common Law Claims Division. Stay tuned. We’re getting to the good part.” Stan permitted himself a lean smile. It sounded as if Magda had gone back to writing at her desk, when her secretary announced a visitor. Mr. Feaver.
“Robbie!” A happy full-throated greeting. He addressed her as ‘Judge’ and made a joke with the secretary about the fact that he’d caught her eating a box of chocolates for lunch. When she departed, there was quiet padding, and a barely discernible click, which I instantly recognized as the door lock. I sickened as I realized what was happening: Robbie was about to fix a case with a judge we’d heard nothing about.
There was precious little small talk.
“Come ’ere, you,” Robbie said. You could hear him shuffle nearer. The springs in her chair sang out, there was a coarse rubbing of clothing, and, to my astonishment, Magda Medzyk emitted a rapturous little groan. I knew for sure I’d guessed wrong when he told her she had the greatest tits in the world.
Things progressed rapidly, to the usual percussion accompanying the human animal in heat—zippers, shoes hitting the floor, exerted breathing. Robbie and the judge eventually moved away from the phone, to a sofa I imagined, but their sounds remained telling. Magda was a groaner. As it developed, she was also wildly amused when Robbie employed certain Anglo-Saxon words. He could not have made a more explicit recording if it were a travelogue. As he described his forthcoming activities, unbounded laughter spilled from her. Big pink cunt. Big hard cock. The running brook of Magda’s happy sounds was the only element that kept this from feeling entirely like a peep show.
“Enough?” asked Stan.
Plenty, I said. Klecker had his fingers over his mouth, but he jiggled with laughter. McManis, on the other hand, had turned away from the speakers as soon as the tape rolled. He’d spent most of the time staring at his thumb.
“So?” asked Sennett.
Odometer on his zipper, I reminded Stan. I didn’t see the big deal.
“You know the definition of bribery, George? A benefit of any kind intended to influence the action of a public official.”
I actually laughed at him. Prosecutors! Robbie sounded like the beneficiary to me.
“The lady on that tape isn’t going to launch a thousand ships, George.”
And he’s not picky, I reminded Stan.
“Look, George, you say what you like. Moira Winchell didn’t have any problem signing the warrant.”
Stan had been playing on home court. Chief Judge Winchell, frosty and officious, would have been scandalized by this, especially as a woman entrusted with similar power. But I couldn’t believe Sennett would actually prosecute, and I told him so.
“I don’t know what I’ll do, George. But I do know this much”—with gunslinger eyes, Stan leaned over the Parsons-like conference table—“your guy’s holding out on us. He’s banging the lady judge and then appearing before her on motions. On which he has a stellar rate of success, I might add. I want to know what else he’s holding back. I haven’t gone to D.C. with this yet. And you know full well I don’t want to have to roll the Project up. I’d like to present this as additional information developed in the course of the investigation. But I can only do that little dance step once. Next time, they’ll shut us down and cart Robbie off to do forty to fifty-two months. So this is it, George. Amnesty day at the library. I want all the books open and on the table.”
I sat in one of the leatherette swivel chairs, confounded. I was long hardened to the dumb things clients would do. I was unsettled, rather, by a legal conundrum. No matter how supportive Chief Judge Winchell was, the law required probable cause, reliable evidence portending this supposedly corrupt encounter, before a bug could be authorized. Where had that proof come from? I asked Stan, and regretted it promptly, as he simpered.
“You’re supposed to be wondering that privately, George. The government’s response to the question is none of your business. But I warned you. I told you we’d know.”
I groaned when the answer struck me: They’d bugged Robbie, too. Sennett was utterly stoic when I ventured this thought. He strolled to the electronic equipment in the cabinets and looked it over astutely, like a buyer in a showroom.
I told Stan this was too low, to make a deal with a guy and then undermine him, whatever the madmen at UCORC were demanding. But it was a mistake being so direct with Stan, given our audience. The personal side of our relationship had not really been exhibited to the agents. Sennett felt required to defend himself, particularly because McManis’s continuing silence telegraphed a deep uneasiness with present events.
“George,” Sennett said, “you may like this guy. But to me he’s a Trojan horse with a body recorder, that’s all. He might as well be a robot. I need two things to win these cases: Dead-bang recordings. And proof that the government held him to his bargain and didn’t let him just bag the judges he hates. If a jury thinks that happened, then they may well cut everybody loose rather than let a creep like Robbie play favorites. And frankly, from what I hear, that seems like it’s happened.”
But bugging him, I insisted. A deal to cooperate didn’t authorize this kind of gross intrusion into his private life.
“We’re legal,” Stan shot back. Like every prosecutor, he resented the suggestion of abuse. “We’re completely legal. That’s all I’ll say.” He bulleted me with one more angry dark look and put on his coat, which had been slung over a chair.
“No, I’ll say something else, George. Because I resent your sanctimony. Your beloved client is what people have in mind when they use the word ‘lawyer’ as a pejorative. He treated a profession which you and I are both proud to be a part of as if it’s tantamount to pimping. And he got rich doing it. And when we caught him, he made a deal to tell us the whole truth and nothing but, a deal which he doesn’t seem to be living up to. And you and he both better understand that I’ll do whatever I have to within the limit of the law to protect these prosecutions. Because I have to, George. Because the people on the other side, your client’s buddies, the Brendans, the Kosics, they’re a law unto themselves. For them, there are no limits. These are ruthless men, George.” My friend Stan Sennett stared from the door, his eyes now hidden in the shadow of his snap-brim hat. He was pointing at me, a gesture meant to indicate he had no present use for courtesy or any of my other pretenses.
“And if I’m not willing to be as tough as they are, to seize every advantage allowed—if I’m not willing to do that, something terrible will happen, George. They’ll walk away. And they’ll do all of this, again and again. They’ll win, George. And we’ll lose. You and me. And the profession we’re proud of.” He looked back from the threshold. “And I don’t want to lose.”
FEAVER PACED in my office and raged.
“Is that
corrupt?” he asked. “Letting a lonely woman have a little affection?”
According to the recording, I offered, it wasn’t so little. The locker room humor, an effort to soothe him, drew a fleet smile, but he barely changed stride.
“So I’m her jocker. So what? This is a lady, a person for Chrissake, she’s a great person. You think she was looking for this? I was whispering sweet nothings in her ear for years. Do you know who Magda is? She was a novice, she lived in a convent until she was nineteen. She’s still in an apartment with her eighty-eight-year-old mother. And we fuck in her chambers because she’d rather die than be seen coming out of a hotel room with a man. This lady, George, didn’t have sex with anybody until she was forty, and then just because she couldn’t stand thinking of herself as a virgin. So she got keelhauled and let the super in her building have at her one day while Mom’s visiting an aunt. Quite a story. This guy wooin her a mile a minute in Polish, not a word of which she happens to speak, and smellin, so she says, a little European. And then, of course, she was so embarrassed she moved out the next month. I mean, she’s pretty goddamned funny about it. Did you know Magda was funny?”
I’d had a four-week trial in front of Judge Medzyk when she sat in the Felony Division, and I didn’t remember a moment that warranted more than a momentary smile. She had good demeanor and better-than-average ability, but for Robbie’s purposes and mine there was only one thing about her that mattered—she was a judge, before whom he had appeared often over the years.
“I like Magda, for Chrissake. I really like her. We have a great time together. I’d like her whether she ruled for me or not. And she doesn’t rule for me all the time. I get this little tiny smile and a shrug when it goes the wrong way, like, What can I do, this is my job?”
She had no business ruling either way, not in these circumstances. It was shame, I could see, that had been her undoing. She hadn’t recused herself from Feaver’s cases because she would have expired if she were ever called upon to explain the reasons to the Presiding Judge.
