Personal Injuries

by Scott Turow

  Despite Sennett’s failures with the biggest targets, the prosecutors had still had some success. Judith had ‘pancaked’—flattened and flipped—when Moses Appleby explained that the government would be able to forfeit her restaurant, once she was convicted of racketeering. Milacki had sent Moses away, but without acrimony; Sig appeared to be considering his options. Another team, led by Assistant U.S. Attorney Sonia Klonsky and Shirley Nagle, had also had mixed results. Walter Wunsch had shown no inclination to meet his maker with a clean conscience. He’d listened to Robbie’s recordings in his living room. His wife, in her curlers, had more or less bullied her way in and, once she had the picture, berated Walter about his brains and character, a barrage Walter’d absorbed like a stone. When Klonsky’s pitch was over, Walter referred to Malatesta as ‘a cluck’ and stated that he ‘never gave Silvio shit.’ Aside from that, he’d refused comment, except to note that he now had two reasons to be glad he’d be dead soon. He did not elaborate on either, but he was glowering at his missus when they left.

  After that, things for Klonsky and Shirley’s team had improved. Two clerks, Joey Kwan and Pincus Lebovic, had turned, without any promises, and had been debriefed through much of the night. Both had named several lawyers for whom they had carried money; Kwan gave up three judges who were now sitting in the Felony Division. Both Pincus and Joey were on the phone in the federal building at this very moment, the tape recorder reels turning behind them as they called every lawyer and judge they’d implicated, telling them about Robbie, and trying, supposedly, to cook up stories that would explain various odd-looking financial transactions when the Bureau knocked on the door. Rousted from bed at three or four in the morning, many of the subjects had been too frightened to be guarded and the results were notable already. Petros, like an ink spill, was already spreading darkly.

  For the moment, Sennett was wondering whether to let TV cameras into McManis’s law office. He’d have to clear it with UCORC, but the elaborate cover, the equipment, the expense and care of the government’s efforts would be intimidating to the bad guys and might shake a few of them loose. The news that the FBI had been operating a law office right out of the LeSueur Building was bound to break soon anyway. Stan seemed to be seeking an opinion from me, but I expressed none. Now that the veil had been lifted, we’d all have to resume our standard roles.

  In relating all of this, Stan’s tone had been somewhat listless. I assumed he was exhausted, or perhaps taking it easy on me, guessing correctly that I felt a considerable pang that I hadn’t been there to witness the concluding scenes in the drama. But it turned out that despite the government’s advances, the same bone was still stuck in his throat.

  “I can’t believe we won’t get Tuohey. I can’t believe it.”

  He had a solid case on Kosic, but nothing beyond that. No matter how obvious it was as a matter of common sense that Rollo could not have been freelancing, there was no evidence, circumstantial or direct, that tied Tuohey to either the money Rollo accepted or the directives that Kosie occasionally issued. As Robbie had always insisted, Tuohey had seen far ahead and planned accordingly. Kosic stood between Brendan and trouble like a castle moat.

  Stan had sent Robbie home to sleep, with several agents to guard him, but there was a problem with Feaver that had prompted Stan’s call. Robbie insisted on paying a personal visit to Magda Medzyk, in order to explain face-to-face. He knew he’d never get through the buzzer at her apartment, so he intended to make a trip today to the courthouse. Stan was worried about the reactions Feaver’s presence there might excite. My assignment was to convince my client not to go.

  When I arrived at Robbie’s house, there were two agents in the driveway. I had a little trouble with them, until Klecker appeared and walked me inside. Evon was taking a sleeping shift in an empty bedroom upstairs. Robbie was also out cold, and I decided I’d let him sleep a while longer.

  I’d brought a stack of the newspapers for all of them, and Alf and I talked it over—he’d gotten his own reports on the flip teams and he was, as usual, jolly. Joey Kwan, in his haphazard way, had already made two great tapes on felony court judges. He’d played dumbbell, the language-hampered Chinaman who needed everything repeated and explained several times. The perps had barfed all over themselves.

  Robbie wandered down. He’d gotten up to check on Rainey, who was unchanged. I’d heard the quiet whoosh of the inhalation equipment without realizing what it was. Shallowly, desperately, she breathed, drowning, as it were, in her own bed.

  “Finally a star,” Robbie said, when he caught sight of the papers. “Christ, where’d they get that picture? It’s worse than my driver’s license.” It was an archive photo of Robbie coming out of the courthouse, an off-angle hurried shot, taken as he was emerging in the thrall of a big win. He sported a vulpine smile, which would send exactly the message Stan desired.

  Eventually, Robbie and I drifted back to the family room, a huge space, which descended a few steps off the kitchen. Like the rest of the house it had been glamorously decorated in an overstated contemporary fashion, with raw silk wallcoverings and bowl-shaped furniture. Because it fell to another level, the room had been virtually abandoned during the course of Rainey’s disease. The giant projection TV formerly housed here had been moved to their bedroom, while the various machines that had aided Rainey in earlier stages of her illness were now warehoused in rows: the motorized wheelchair, lifts, trapezes, an elevated bed she had given up. It was like sitting in a hospital supply room.

  Robbie literally gave Stan’s request the back of his hand.

  “I’m not really asking, George, I’m telling. They can help me or not. I gotta see Magda. They can bring me there in the Popemobile, but I’m going.”

  I made a desultory effort to change his mind, then let it go. He told me I should be braced for a call from Mort’s lawyer, whoever it might turn out to be.

  It was approaching nine as I drove back into town. I already had eight messages from attorneys and one from Barnett Skolnick. I asked my secretary to contact each caller and explain that if they’d phoned concerning the FBI’s investigation at the courthouse—and, as it turned out, they all had—a conflict would prevent me from holding any conversation. The local news stations, when I flipped on the radio, were all Petros, all the time. I told myself not to gloat, it was none of my business. But my hair stood on end when I heard an anonymous lawyer who’d been pulled aside on the street remark that practicing law in Kindle County would be better from this day forward.

  Nonetheless, a good 80 percent of what was reported was wrong, some of it almost comically in error. Every station, for example, claimed authoritatively that Robert Feaver was actually an FBI agent. As a result, I wasn’t sure how to take the flash item that ran around nine-thirty, as I was approaching Center City. Despite the heavy traffic, I pulled over in a no-parking zone to be certain I didn’t run anyone down as I punched between stations. The same story was repeated everywhere: within the last hour, a high-ranking court official in the Common Law Claims Division named Rollo Kosie had entered the men’s sauna at a downtown health club and shot himself through the head with a police-issue revolver. There was speculation, presently unconfirmed, that Kosie’s death was related to the widespread FBI investigation of courthouse corruption, code-named Project Petros.

  42

  AROUND TWO THAT SAME DAY, A DELEGATION comprised of Evon, Amari, Klecker, and Robbie arrived at the Temple in the surveillance van. Judge Winchell had signed an order authorizing the FBI to seize Barnett Skolnick’s Lincoln and to remove the taping system from it. Skolnick had hired Raymond Horgan, Sennett’s old boss in the Prosecuting Attorney’s Office, to represent him, and Raymond had turned contentious when he was served with the seizure notice. He’d forced a brief hearing in front of Judge Winchell at noontime, but he’d ultimately surrendered the key, rather than require the car to be towed. While Raymond was almost certainly posturing for purposes of negotiation, Moses Appleby had directed Klecker to
make an elaborate video for the benefit of a future jury, not only depicting the removal of the equipment but also demonstrating how the taping of Skolnick had taken place. When that was done, Sennett and McManis had agreed that Robbie, with an FBI escort, could pay a short visit to the chambers of Magda Medzyk.

  In the wake of the news about Kosie, everyone seemed off-kilter. Evon herself did not know what to make of it. They’d spent so many months telling themselves there were mortal dangers to what they were doing that a fatality could hardly be called unexpected. But she’d never envisioned it might be one of the bad guys. No one was collecting for a wreath, but even Sennett had wondered out loud if he’d overdone it this morning. Rollo apparently believed him when Stan told him he had no way out.

  Rollo’d had his revenge anyway, since he’d taken with him the last hope of prosecuting Tuohey. Brendan’s defense was now patent: blame Rollo, say he was the mastermind. Clothed with the authority of the Presiding Judge, Kosie had collected money, made assignments, given orders, all without Brendan’s knowledge, much as the government’s own evidence would show had occurred with Walter and Malatesta. The bastard had misled poor, trusting Tuohey and then taken his life rather than confront the boss and friend he’d betrayed. That would sell with the public, even some segments of the bar. Kosie had saved Tuohey not only from indictment but also from ridicule.

  In the Temple garage, an agent operated a standard video cam as Klecker showed how he’d punctured Skolnick’s tires. Then the Lincoln was repositioned out in front of the courthouse. For the camera, Robbie briefly stood on the spot where he’d met Skolnick, then he entered the Lincoln and turned the key to power the system. Standing outside the surveillance van, Klecker used the remote to turn the camera on and off a couple of times; then the van was driven down the block to demonstrate the range of transmission. Once everything had been acted out for the jury, Feaver killed the ignition.

  With the Lincoln parked right in front of the courthouse, they decided it was best to take Robbie in from here now and to remove the equipment later. Amari remained behind in the surveillance van down the block to watch over everything. Klecker had brought a bulletproof vest for Robbie, but Robbie refused it and turned petulant when Evon attempted to persuade him to put it on.

  “A lot of people in there want to kick my ass, but nobody’s gonna shoot me in broad daylight.” He hiked off alone, forcing Klecker and Evon to catch up.

  Robbie was in and out of Judge Medzyk’s chambers in ten minutes. He said he’d spent most of the time waiting for her to get off the bench. Magda had made her law clerk stand in the room as a witness, which had proved a mistake, because she had been unable to keep herself from crying near the end.

  “She’s pretty Catholic,” said Robbie to Evon on the way out. “She turned herself in to the Supreme Court Judicial Disciplinary Committee.” He had suggested nails through the palms might have saved her time, which was when she’d asked him to leave.

  They emerged from the courthouse with Klecker a few steps ahead. Evon was supposed to cover Robbie from the rear, but he was still smarting from the visit. What he felt worst about, he said, was that Magda had seemed resigned to the world of locked closets and prim restraints where she’d been cloistered when they’d first taken up. “She’s at less than zero now” was how he put it. Whatever he’d given her had been jettisoned as she’d yielded again to the in terrorem lectures she’d practiced on herself over a lifetime.

  Evon heard him out, unexpectedly pricked by sympathy for both Robbie and the judge. Then she let him take off a few steps ahead of her as she surveyed the broad plaza around the courthouse for signs of danger. There was nothing notable, attorneys with briefcases, messengers, clerks, citizens all moving briskly. The spring chill had persisted and the wind, a winter remnant, snapped the flags overhead, ringing the halyard of one of them against the steel pole. A few passersby cast looks at Robbie, who had suddenly grown recognizable thanks to the morning press, but they made no movement toward him.

  Reaching the center of the plaza, he skirted the large modern fountain where the water was now running again, cascading over the stepped planes of travertine. Circling the perimeter, Robbie stopped in his tracks. Evon dashed two or three steps, until she saw the problem.

  Brendan Tuohey was no more than ten feet away, hurrying back to the courthouse with a heavy briefcase. The weight of the satchel and the fact that he was uncharacteristically alone left Evon with an intuition that he’d been cleaning out safe-deposit boxes he’d shared with Kosic. Whatever the accuracy of that conjecture, the Presiding Judge, a man long practiced in concealing his troubles, appeared grayer and grimmer today. He was deep in thought and did not notice Robbie at first, even as Feaver stared at him. But when he finally glanced up, the fury that shot through his expression exposed him to the core: anger lay at the heart of Brendan Tuohey like fire in a forge. His long face, with its uneven complexion, settled into a harsh smirk, a poor attempt at his customary effort to evince feelings that had no connection to what was actually taking place within.

  Klecker by now had looked behind and seen Robbie stopped, but hadn’t yet realized why. Evon circled a finger at her side so that Alf would double back, but he was never going to get close enough. Instead she crept as near as she dared, and took a seat on the fountain’s low basin, only a few feet from Robbie. She was fairly certain Tuohey wouldn’t recognize her. She tried not to stare at either man, affecting the perplexed expression of the average citizen seeking a respite after receiving the usual scuffing from the law. Tuohey’s words were blown to her in the wind, wavering as it rose and fell.

  “Speak of the divil,” he said. “Quite a bit of talk about you today, Robbie. Many good folks seem quite vexed. Must say, I’m a bit surprised to see you about in these parts.”

  Feaver said he’d had a little unfinished business.

  “I’d quite imagine,” said Tuohey. From the corner of her eye, Evon caught the older man creeping closer. “It’s always been my lot to reassure folks about you. ‘Known Robbie his entire life. Always trusted the boy. No need to doubt him.’ That’s what I’ve been saying. But now I read the papers, Robbie.”

  “You can cut the crap, Brendan. My life’s over. My prize for flipping on you is a trip to the pokey.”

  Klecker by now had reached the other side of the fountain, but the two men remained far closer to Evon. Robbie seemed to be aware where she was and had edged a step or two her way. She remained directly downwind in the cool breeze and still within earshot. Tuohey was taking no chances, however.

  “Can’t imagine a truthful word you’d say about me that would be the least concern. But the penitentiary’ll be a good place for you, Robbie. Give you time to contemplate your sins. You’ve been up to some terrible mischief over these years, if what the papers are saying is true.”

  “Brendan, you’re not impressing me with this routine. I’m not wearing my electronic underwear anymore. Some big boy stole my toy.” With that, Robbie stepped over the side of the fountain and into the low retaining pool. It was only knee-deep, but, looking in Tuohey’s direction, he flopped down for a second into the frothing basin, then spun up like a dog, shaking off water in long silvery spangles. Feaver extended both arms laterally to demonstrate the lack of telltale bulges in his clinging garments. The temperature still hadn’t reached much over fifty and Feaver eventually drew his arms back, encircling himself in the chill. His designer sweater now hung to his thighs and he still hadn’t left the pool.

  Tuohey watched him with his mouth pulled to the side, puzzling it through.

  “You’re a dramatic fellow, Robbie. I’ll give you that. Master of the scene. I remember you, six years old and singing show tunes like your front stoop was Broadway. Only it wasn’t, was it?”

  “No, Brendan, I’m not in a Broadway musical. But neither are you. It seems kind of shitty that only one of us is going to the can.”

  Tuohey took his time, assessing this bitter reassurance and the mood in wh
ich it had been offered. Robbie was doing a great job of punching his buttons, and in the whirlwind of feelings, Tuohey had drifted a few steps but was unable to make himself simply walk away.

  “You’ve always lacked perspective, Robbie. You’ve had blood in your eye whenever you heard my name since you were nine years old, lad. You never much cared for the way I’d take your Mame out on that sleeping porch in your apartment and give her a recreational screw on Sunday night. But you know, Robbie, mother or not, the woman had her needs. I’ve always realized what the burr was under your saddle when it came to me. And been good to you a hundred times over, ever since. For her sake. And yours. Not that it made an acorn of difference to you.” The rage, so rarely near the surface with him, boiled over again as he pondered Robbie, still up to his knees in the turning water. “Just a mercy fuck now and then for a horny divorcee, and look what it’s come to. Can you imagine? And a dead fuck, at that.”

  Having driven the nail in as far as he could, Tuohey turned in the direction where Evon was seated and swept by her and Feaver, without a glance at either of them. Robbie hopped out of the fountain. He was tightly bound in his arms and bent nearly double in the cold, but he wasn’t finished. He called Tuohey by his first name.

  The judge paused to deliberate, but remained unable to resist the contest and turned halfway.

  “Pity about Rollo,” Robbie said. Across the short distance that separated the two men on the plaza, Evon half expected the sizzle of a high-voltage are. It was even now. They’d each trampled on the other’s grave, but Robbie had one more shot, purely for vengeance. Apparently, he was well past the point of calculation. “You just remember, Brendan, while you’re out in the free air, that the big difference between you and me is that I looked after my best friend.”