by Scott Turow
Two rings? He considered that. Late in the afternoon, he was on his way into Center City to pick up the faxes, which he’d directed to ZP. He passed Georgia Lazopoulos’s house and on impulse parked and rang the bell.
She stared at him through the storm door. Her dark raccoony eyes and the rest of her heavy face instantly took on a glum reproachful weight.
“You said you wouldn’t bother me again.” Her voice was muffled by the glass, but clear. She was dressed as she had been when they’d been here last time, in pink stretch pants and a dowdy ruffled top.
“I just need to ask you one question about that class ring Paul wore.”
“Paul didn’t wear a class ring,” she answered, and closed the door.
She had been a sweet-natured young woman, at least as much as Tim had seen of her. It was a wonder sometimes what life did to people. He started down the stoop, then reconsidered, and climbed back up and rang again. Nothing to lose.
“You told us he wore a class ring,” he said, as soon as the door opened.
“No, I didn’t. And frankly I wish I hadn’t told you anything. You made a fool out of me, you and that woman who was with you. There isn’t a person around here that doesn’t think I was crazy to let you make that tape. I sound like a vengeful old witch.”
“I don’t think that’s fair,” said Tim, “not to us. Or to you for that matter.”
“Everybody’s mad at me. They think I went out of my way to do Paul dirty. Even Cass showed up here to give me a piece of his mind.”
“Cass did?” It was the first Tim had heard of anybody seeing Cass since the day he’d left prison. “When did that happen?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A few days after the ad went on television. He wanted me to talk to their lawyers, and I said I wasn’t making that mistake twice. He just stood where you’re standing and said, ‘There’s nothing for him to say, Georgia, except that he’s sorry you’re still so hurt.’ He made me feel this small.” Her hand came up for a second.
“But he didn’t say anything on that commercial was untrue, did he?”
She didn’t answer, but brooded. Her fingers had never left the knob to her front door and now she started to close it again.
“Wait,” said Tim. “I don’t understand about the ring.” He was afraid the confrontation with Cass had turned her around. She would disavow everything she’d told them before. “I know he bought one.”
“That’s what you asked me—did Paul buy a ring like Cass? And I said he did.”
“Seems he bought two, actually. I thought he must have given you the other one, because the second was for a woman.”
“No, that was Lidia’s. She’d always sworn her sons were going to be educated, even though there wasn’t anybody in her family or Mickey’s who’d been to college. She never made any secret that she wished she’d gone. So the twins thought it would be sweet to get her a class ring. They knew their mom. I think Lidia showed the damn thing to every person she met for the next ten years.”
Georgia, of course, hadn’t gone to college either. Tim couldn’t guess if it was Lidia, always a strong personality, or the ring that spurred her bitterness.
“And Paul wore the other one, right?”
She looked through the door with a purely hateful expression for one moment and then turned away without a word, leaving Tim on the cold concrete. He more or less thought he was expected to go, but she’d left the front door open, and so he waited in the freezing air, hoping she might return—which she finally did. When she arrived, she snatched the storm door open and reached out to drop something in his palm. It was the ring. There was a large red stone in the center, with the numbers 19 and 79 raised from the embossed design on either side.
“See? You can have that for all I care. Paul gave it to me when he graduated. I wore it around my neck on a chain. Remember when girls used to do that? It wasn’t the ring I wanted, but it was a step in the right direction, I thought. Stupid me.”
“So he didn’t have the ring when Dita was killed?”
“Jesus, Tim. Are you listening? I had the ring. I was wearing it. I wore it most places and I sure as hell was going to wear it to the church picnic with all those other girls sniffing around Paul. As far as I know, Paul has never had that ring on his hand in his entire life. He didn’t like rings or jewelry. He thought that kind of stuff wasn’t for guys. I could barely get him to wear a watch.”
Tim looked down at the ring, then back at Georgia, whose face had darkened again. She heaved a great sigh and opened the storm door once more, but only briefly enough to snatch the ring back. With that, she wheeled and slammed the door behind her.
“No ring,” said Evon. They sat in her office. She had one shoe on a trash can as a footrest. “Didn’t she tell us Paul wore a ring?”
He told her Georgia’s version and she nodded. “She’s right. She said Paul bought a ring like Cass. But you’d have thought she would have told us what became of it.”
Tim looked askance at her. No woman he knew was going to volunteer that a fella had kept her on the string three more years with a class ring instead of a diamond. Evon got his point.
“Besides,” Tim said, “she probably didn’t understand the significance. As loose as that investigation was, I don’t think there was much in the papers about Dita’s bruise pattern or what it meant.”
“So Paul didn’t wear a ring, and Cass did,” Evon said by way of recapitulation.
“Right. So it appears.”
“And Paul’s fingerprints aren’t there, and Cass’s are.”
“Right.”
“I think the boss may want to think twice about opposing Paul’s motion to dismiss the lawsuit.”
“Maybe. There is one other thing.” He’d been sitting on what Dickerman had told him about Cass’s print card from Hillcrest not matching the lifts from the crime scene. Tim had given Mo his word not to repeat that, but by now Dickerman had had the time to reconcile the discrepancy and Tim had heard no more about it. Nonetheless, at the outset, he warned Evon that Mo sometimes viewed things in his own way.
“There’s a story about Mo, not sure it’s true, but somebody’s sister swears she saw it happen. You know the light-rail, how you buy a ticket, purple inbound, white outbound? So Mo is headed out to the airport and he gets on with his white ticket and sticks it in the little ticket holder on the back of the seat in front of him. And he sees everybody else has got a purple ticket, and he actually turns to the lady beside him and says, ‘Look at all these idiots on the wrong train.’”
Evon laughed hard. “That can’t be true,” she said.
“You get the point.” He explained what Mo had concluded from looking at the photocopy of Cass’s prints at Hillcrest.
“That can’t be true either,” she said. “How could it? He said in court that Paul doesn’t match any of the lifts from the scene. So what is he saying now? Neither of them were there?”
Tim shrugged. He had absolutely no answer.
“We never got Cass’s fingerprints, did we?”
“Never came close. That’s another weird thing. Supposedly even the neighbors don’t see hide nor hair of Cass, but Georgia told me he came right to her door to read her out for making that commercial.”
“So he’s not on vacation?”
“Apparently not.”
Eventually, Tim asked how she was doing in her personal life, and she answered with a bitter little smile.
“I spent most of last night researching how to get an order of protection.”
He groaned.
“It’ll be a long time before I go down this road again, Tim. I can’t stand the disappointment.” She smiled ruefully and asked him, “What does Shakespeare have to say about that?”
He didn’t answer but started rummaging in the inner and outer pockets of his sport coat. Finally, he found what he was looking for folded in fourths in his wallet and held it out.
“Are you kidding?” she asked.
“Read it. That
’s from Comedy of Errors.”
It was another scrap of ruled paper with a quotation written out in block letters, about being a drop of water in the ocean, looking for another drop.
“Now what does this mean?” she asked, after she’d read it over several times. When she handed the scrap back, Tim studied it again.
“I’m not so sure,” said Tim. “Except everybody finds all this confusing at times. And disappointing. But there’s an ocean out there. You shouldn’t stop. Not at your age. If Maria had died when I was fifty, I’d have thought, ‘I’m too young to be alone.’”
“But not now? You know what they say, Tim. A man your age who can still drive can get the former Miss Universe.” He laughed about that, even though it was a tender spot. He couldn’t see much at night any more and tried to avoid driving after dark. Pretty soon, his sight wouldn’t be adequate for daylight, either. That meant he’d have to go to Seattle. One of his daughters or the other begged him at least once a week to make the move. But he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to leave his house, and his things, and the life he’d had with Maria.
“Not now. No appetite for it. I have my folks to love. Daughters and the grandkids, and the ones I still hold in my heart, Maria and Kate. They’re all precious to me, each of them, they taught me who I am. But at this age, you’re just holding on to that, enjoying it. But fifty? I’d say, ‘I can do this again, learn more, change more, love more.’ I really would.”
She looked up at him from her desk, still not sold. When he reached the door, he turned back.
“You can’t tell anybody that stuff about Dickerman. That’s simply on the QT.”
“They call it the DL these days, Tim,” she said, smiling. “And that’s too goofy to repeat to anybody. Did you ever talk to Dickerman after he analyzed Paul’s prints?”
“Tried, but I haven’t caught up with him.” Mo had been on the West Coast lecturing at several police academies, and then, believe it or not, in Hollywood, where he was a consultant for a TV show. Now that forensic science was hot stuff on television, you could barely hit the clicker without seeing Mo poking his heavy black-framed glasses back up on his nose on one true-crime show or another.
“Circle back when you can,” Evon said. “Just so we can cross that one off the list.”
He wished her a good weekend, which was meant in jest. She’d be here both days doing compliance stuff for the YourHouse deal, which would finally close on Monday.
20.
Win or Lose—February 28, 2008
The final proceedings in Gianis v. Kronon had drawn a herd of spectators and the well of the courtroom was also crowded. Horgan had been accompanied by two associates, and Hal’s big law firm had sent three lawyers to sit by Mel. There was an assistant attorney general, an Indian woman who headed the appellate division, along with two troopers from the state police, one of whom was carrying a steel box, which presumably contained some of the blood. Two deputy PAs had come in from Greenwood County, and Sandy Stern had shown up, too, to represent Cass. The only person not present who might have been expected was Paul Gianis, who, as he had last week, was skipping the session, in accord with his position that the lawsuit was over. His absence also prevented him from being forced to give a DNA specimen on the spot, if the judge ruled he was required to do that.
The spectators’ pews were almost completely full. Evon sat with Tim in the front row, along with reporters and sketch artists. When the case was called, all the lawyers gathered in front of the bench, looking a little like an a capella group ready to perform. Each gave his or her name. Sandy Stern said he was making “a special appearance.”
“It’s always special when you’re here, Mr. Stern,” said Judge Lands, who seemed positively lighthearted knowing that he was about to escape this bramblebush of a case. “Any problem with Mr. Stern’s appearance, Mr. Tooley? He’s telling us that he’s going to speak for Mr. Cass Gianis, but won’t accept your subpoena if I rule against him.”
Mel argued halfheartedly that Stern was trying to have it both ways, which was exactly what the law allowed, and the judge overruled him.
“OK, let’s find out what we’re fighting over,” said the judge. “Ms. Desai, tell us if you would, please, what evidence the state police have in their possession.”
It was mostly blood—the spatters from the window, the blood specimens that had been taken from the members of the Kronon family at the time, and Cass Gianis’s blood, which had been obtained from the Kindle County Police Force fortuitously, because Cass had done a draw for a drug test in preparation for entering the academy. The state cops had retained plaster castings of the shoe-prints in the flower bed, and the tire prints collected down the hill from the house, and glass shards from the broken French door, which had been maintained in order to compare the refractive index of any traces of glass recovered from the clothes or other effects of an eventual suspect. Finally, the state police also had sealed envelopes containing evidence collected from the person of Dita Kronon: fingernail clippings that the techs had taken from Dita after her death, and six different hairs that had been gathered off her body, as well as several fibers, all of which proved to have been from her clothes. Even in 1982, when crime-scene forensics was in the middle ages compared to now, the lab had been able to say that there wasn’t a concentration of foreign skin cells under Dita’s fingernails, which tended to show she hadn’t fought off her assailant, and thus presumably knew him. As for the hairs, at the time of the guilty plea, two were said to resemble Cass’s, but DNA testing over the last twenty-five years had shown that the supposed science of hair comparison was no more valid than detecting character from the bumps on somebody’s skull, which had passed as courtroom evidence in the nineteenth century.
The Greenwood County PAs spoke up next. They said they’d produced everything already, except they’d finally found Cass Gianis’s ten-card, which they’d sent to Dr. Dickerman on Friday in compliance with Judge Lands’s prior orders. The need to account to the judge for the missing prints, with reporters present, had clearly inspired a more thorough search than the clerk’s office and the sheriff had bothered with previously.
“All right,” said Judge Lands, “I’m going to hear from the attorneys. Who would like to address the present motion?” The two prosecutors’ offices both said they had no position. Tooley, the proponent of the motion, was allowed to argue first. He was brief. It was all chronology, Mel said. The subpoenas were validly served. Their enforcement had been stayed pending the ruling on the DNA motion. The motion was allowed and thus production of the evidence was called for at once. Whether the case was over or not, Hal was entitled to get what he’d subpoenaed.
“That’s preposterous,” said Horgan when it was his turn to talk. “The case is over with the motion for nonsuit, which the court must allow. The force of the subpoenas ends with the dismissal.” Ray mentioned several cases that said that, and then talked about Paul, who he said was being harassed by Hal. Stern added similar thoughts, and said that after twenty-five years in prison Cass was entitled to be left alone. As usual, Judge Lands looked thoughtfully at all of the lawyers as they addressed him, even though he undoubtedly would have known what each was going to say if they’d reduced their presentations to pantomime.
“All right,” he said, once Tooley had finished a brief rebuttal, “this has been an interesting exercise, although my wife would probably tell you it shows what’s wrong with me, that I enjoyed passing a Sunday afternoon thinking about the essential nature of a subpoena.” Everyone in the courtroom was chuckling. Judge Lands was rarely this expansive.
“To state what we all know, a subpoena is a command from the court to produce evidence for the purpose of a lawsuit. In that sense, Mr. Tooley, the evidence gathered doesn’t belong to the party who requested it. Legal title to that property belongs to whoever produced it in the first place to the court, or, in a case like this, to law-enforcement authorities. The court—or the police—borrows that mat
erial, as it were, for the purpose of the proceeding. When that case is final and fully exhausted, the parties to the suit have no further right to the property in question, unless it happened to have been theirs in the first place.
“Now, I have made it clear that Senator Gianis is going to get to exercise his right to end this lawsuit today. But there are a couple of preliminary questions in deciding the fate of these subpoenas. The first is whether the evidence ought to be preserved for the sake of any other legal proceeding. Let me direct a question to the representatives of the prosecuting attorney’s office from Greenwood County and the attorney general.” Both women rose. “Are there any pending investigations in your office related to this crime?” The judge was asking delicately if either office had reopened the investigation of Dita’s murder to consider Paul’s role.
“None,” said the assistant AG. The attorney general of the state, Muriel Wynn, was an old friend of Paul’s and a strong political supporter. She’d been unequivocal when the press had asked about Hal’s suit, referring to it as ‘drivel.’
“None at this time,” said the PA from Greenwood, being a tad more lawyerly. They were Republicans out there, but they would not be naturally attracted to thinking they’d missed something a quarter of a century ago. Prosecutors, like everybody else, liked to believe they’d done a good job to start.
On the square bench, which reminded Evon of the boxy sedans of the 1950s, Judge Lands made notes. He had the full attention of the big room, which had been rendered silent because no one seemed to understand exactly what he was thinking.
“Next question. Is either of Mr. Kronon’s parents still alive?”
Tooley’s mouth fell ajar before he answered no.
“And who was the residual heir to their personal property, after satisfaction of specific bequests?” asked Judge Lands.
Mel, a criminal lawyer and litigator by training, looked as stunned by this detour into probate law as he would have if the judge had propounded questions about the chemical composition of distant stars. He finally turned to Hal, who stood up at counsel table and tried to close his suit coat as he’d watched the lawyers do. It didn’t quite fit that way and so he ended up holding it closed with one hand.
