by Scott Turow
"We're done with this subject."
"Even though you just told me I'm in mortal danger?"
"Let's get dressed," I say, making no effort to hide the fact I'm annoyed.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push buttons."
"I don't talk about it. Veterans don't talk about wars. They just get over them. It's the same thing. Not that you haven't made me wonder."
"Who did it?"
"Why you're here. Given my dangerous history."
She has put on her undergarments but now removes her bra with the flourish of a stripper, hurling it toward the walls.
"Love," she says, falling into my arms, "makes you do crazy things." We are both late, but this attitude of abandon parches me yet again with longing, and we fit together once more.
Afterward she says, "I don't believe it. I just don't."
"Thank you," I say quietly. "I'm glad it didn't stop you."
She shrugs. "Maybe the other way."
I peer curiously.
"I mean, you're still kind of a legend," she says. "Not just for lawyers. Why do you think nobody sane wants to run against you for the supreme court?"
The supreme court. My heart flips around several times. In the meantime, she looks off, not fully here.
"You know," Anna says then, "sometimes you do things you don't really understand. You just have to do them. Sense or no sense-it doesn't matter much."
This conversation intensifies a question I already ask myself all the time. What is wrong with a young woman, whom in almost every other regard I know to be gifted and refreshingly sane, that she would be interested in someone nearly twice her age, let alone somebody married? I have no illusion she would be drawn to me if every lawyer, judge, and flunky did not address me as "Chief" whenever I walk into the Central Branch Courthouse. But what does it mean to her to be sleeping with the chief? Something. I realize that. But I will probably never understand the secret part of her she hopes I might fill in. Who she wants to be in the law? Who she wishes her father was? The man she craves to be in her secret dreams? I don't know-nor, probably, does she. I sense only that she needs to get as close as possible, since whatever it is she seeks can only be absorbed skin to skin.
Here is what I have forgotten: the pain. I forgot that an affair is constant torment. Over the falseness at home. Over the anxiety we will be discovered. Over the suffering I know is coming at the inevitable end. Over the agony of waiting to be with her next. Over the fact that I am truly myself only for a few hours every several days in a hotel room, when those sweet moments, as close to heaven as we know on this earth, seem to make all the other anguish worthwhile.
I rarely sleep through the night and am up at three or four a.m. with a glass of brandy. I tell Barbara it is the court and the campaign that concern me. I sit in the dark and bargain with myself. I will meet Anna two more times. Then stop. But if I am going to stop, then why not stop now? Because I cannot. Because the day I give her up is the day I accept that this will never happen again. That I have, in a few words, begun to die.
Despite habitual precautions, I find myself growing somewhat cavalier about the dangers. They are ever-present, but when you go undetected two times, then four, then five, part of the extraordinary thrill becomes beating the odds. One day when Anna and I are meeting at the Gresham, Marco Cantu, a former copper I'd known when he was on the street, sees me sitting in the lobby with no apparent purpose and comes by to say hello. He now heads the hotel's security operation. Something about the way I tell him I am meeting a friend for lunch sounds wrong even to me. I therefore feel half electrocuted by panic a week later when, as we are headed down, the elevator doors open on an intervening floor to disclose Marco, who has the stature of a miniature sumo wrestler. It is a bad moment, Anna and I still nuzzling and splitting as the car stops, our movement surely visible to Marco.
"Chief! We're seein lots of you."
I do not introduce Anna and can feel Marco looking straight through me. The next week, I spot him as I'm coming into the hotel and pirouette to go back through the doors until he's vacated the lobby.
"Time to change the scene of the crime," I tell her as soon as I am safely in the room. "Marco was on the street a long time. He was lazy, but he had a great sense of smell."
Anna has undressed by now. She is in the fluffy hotel robe but has closed it not with the belt, but with a thick red satin ribbon tied in an elaborate gift bow.
"Is that how you think of it? A crime?"
"Anything that feels this good has to be wrong," I answer. I have hung up my jacket and am on the bed slipping off my shoes before I recognize that I was far too flip. She is staring.
"You could at least pretend to think about being with me."
"Anna-" But we both know she is close to the truth. I have spent no nights with her. On Friday of the third week, I told Barbara I was going to a bar function and dared to come home at one-thirty, even then having left the hotel with Anna begging me to stay. She talks often about somehow getting away for a weekend, waking up with each other and walking together in the open air. But I don't freely imagine us at large. I am fiercely attached, but to me our relationship belongs in the captive space of a rented room, where we can shed our clothes and grasp the different things we are each so desperate to obtain.
"Seriously. You'd never marry me, would you?"
"I'm taken."
"Duh. No. If Barbara wasn't in the picture? If she dropped dead. Or ran away?"
Why is my first instinct evasion? "I'm too poor for a trophy wife."
"There's a compliment."
"Anna, people would laugh in my face."
"And that's why? Because people will laugh?"
"Because there's a reason to laugh. A man married to a woman young enough to be his daughter is flying too close to the sun."
"I'd say that's my problem, wouldn't you? If I want to push you around in a wheelchair at high school graduation-"
"And change my Depends?"
"Whatever. Why can't I make those choices?"
"Because people usually have a hard time keeping deals where all the benefits are on the front end. They end up feeling sharp resentments later on."
She turns away. These conversations always bring her to tears. We are in a room today almost entirely consumed by the king bed. It looks out on the air shaft from which the clatter of the hotel kitchen rises.
"Anna, there is someone out there who will die to marry you."
"Well, he hasn't shown up yet. And don't tell me about somebody else. I don't want a consolation prize."
"I won't lie to you, Anna. I can't. I'm lying everywhere else. I have to tell you the truth. There's no reality to this. Am I supposed to change my campaign slogan? 'Vote for Sabich. He's on top of his staff.'"
She laughs out loud. Blessedly, her sense of humor never fails her. But her back is still to me.
"Anna, I would marry you if I was forty. I'm sixty."
"Stop telling me I'm young."
"I'm telling you I'm old."
"They're both pretty annoying. Look, you're not here by accident. You fuck me, then give me these speeches that imply you can't really take this seriously."
I turn her to me, bending very slightly so we are entirely eye to eye.
"Does that make sense to you? What you just said? That I don't take this seriously? I've risked everything to be with you," I say. "My career. My marriage. The respect of my son."
She breaks from my grasp, then abruptly faces me again, the green eyes intense.
"Do you love me, Rusty?"
It's the first time she's dared to ask, but I have known all along the question was coming.
"Yes," I say. From my lips, it feels very much like the truth.
She wipes an eye. And beams.
After the last encounter with Marco Cantu, our meeting places are governed by the whims of hotelrooms.com, where it always turns out one of several Center City establishments has space at the last minute at rock-bottom prices
. Anna handles the bookings and e-mails me the locale, then arrives ten minutes before me to register, sending the room number to my handheld. We depart at the same ten-minute intervals.
And so I am on my way out of the Renaissance on a splendid spring day, with a clean sky and the smell of everything opening, when I hear a voice, more or less familiar.
"Ah, Judge," it says. When I pivot, Harnason is there. It is an awful moment. I realize at once he followed me here two hours ago and has been waiting like a faithful dog tethered to a lamppost. How much does he know? How many times has he trailed me? As happens so often these days, I am nearly knocked to my knees by the magnitude of my stupidity.
"Imagine meeting you," he says without a hint of sincerity, so I know my guess is right. I beg my heart to settle down while I calculate what he could have possibly observed. He knows I go to hotels at lunchtime, that I sometimes stay too long for a normal midday meal. But that's all he's seen. If he was on my heels, he would not have caught sight of Anna arriving ten minutes before me.
"Imagine," I finally answer. Harnason is not above blackmail, and I await his threat. It will be pointless. There is not a thing I can do to change the outcome in his case. But instead, as we stand about ten feet apart, Harnason's red face darkens to a sunset shade.
"I can't stand it, Judge," he says. "Not knowing. When I got bail, I was ecstatic, but it's not like being free. It's like walking along, waiting for a trapdoor to spring open under me right here in the sidewalk."
I look at Harnason, whom I condemned once for the wrong reasons, and whose fight I've fought, out of his sight.
"The opinion won't be much longer," I say, and turn away. At once, I feel his hand on my sleeve.
"Please, Judge. What's the difference? If it's decided, what does it hurt to tell me? It's terrible, Judge. I just want to know."
It's wrong. That's the correct answer. But some faint scent of Anna's perfume pervades my skin, and I still have the drained, fucked-out stardust feeling emanating upward from my dick. Who am I today to cling to principle? Or more important, to deny him now the compassion I owed him thirty years ago?
"You should prepare yourself for bad news, John."
"Ah." It is a sound from the gut. "No hope?"
"Not really. You're at the end of the road. I'm sorry."
"Ah," he repeats. "I really didn't want to go back. I'm too old."
Standing here on the street, with the shoppers and business folk swirling around us, many electronically transported to their own universes by their cell phones or iPods, I have a hard time with my feelings. I am strangely sympathetic to Harnason but also impatient with the way he's preyed on me and wheedled information, and I know I need to draw a hard line to prevent further intimidations. Most of all, in the moment I'm a bit galled by his self-pity. As a prosecutor, I always had some respect for the guys who went off without batting an eye, who lived by the watchword 'Don't do the crime if you can't do the time.'
"John, let's face facts. You did it, didn't you?"
He does not take an instant to answer. "So did you, Judge. And you're here."
No, I am about to say, violating my longtime scruple against answering.
"I was acquitted," I reply. "As I deserved to be."
"I deserved it, too," he says. He has his handkerchief out and blows his nose. He is blubbering freely now, crying like a child. A few of the people brushing past us to get into the hotel turn as they go, but Harnason doesn't care. He is who he is.
"But not because you didn't do it," I say. "How was that, John? The month you knew you were killing that man?" I'm not sure what I mean to accomplish by confronting him this way. I suppose I am asking this question: Where is the line? How does one stop? Once I've fucked my clerk and betrayed my wife, once I've thrown everything I've ever accomplished to the wind, where is the point of restraint?
"Do you really need to ask, Judge?"
"I do."
"It was hard, Judge. I hated him. He was going to leave me. I was old and he wasn't. I'd been his meal ticket and he was grateful at first, but now he was tired of me. I'm too old to find somebody else, somebody like that. You understand that much, right?"
I wonder again how much he knows about Anna, as I nod.
"But I didn't actually believe I was doing it at first," says Harnason. "I'd thought about it. I admit that. I went to the library, did some research. There's an appellate court case. Did you know that? From Pennsylvania. It talks about arsenic not being screened." He laughs a little bitterly. "The prosecutors never seemed to remember I was trained as a lawyer."
"And where was the arsenic? In the drinks?"
"I baked." Harnason chuckles the same way, at his accusers' expense. Prosecutors are historians, engaged in a reconstruction of the past with all of history's perils. They never get it completely right, because the witnesses are biased, or blame shifting, or wrong, or because, as in this case, the investigators never asked the right questions or put together what they already knew. "All those people who testified I never cooked were right. When Ricky was home, the kitchen was his. But I baked. And Ricky had a sweet tooth. The first few times, I told myself it was just for fun, just to see if he would notice or how I would feel, if I could do what I'd read about. I may have done it five times and still thought it wasn't for real, that I was going to stop. You know, I've told myself that a lot," Harnason says suddenly. "That I was going to stop." His wizened eyes go off to many other places. "But I never do," he says morosely. "I didn't stop. Somewhere, day seven or eight, I realized I wasn't going to. I hated him. I hated myself. I was going to do it anyway. And you, Judge. How did it feel when you killed that prosecutor? Act of passion?"
"I didn't do it."
"I see." His look is cold. He got gulled and beaten on this deal. "You're better than me."
"I would never say that, John. Maybe I got better breaks. Nobody is good by himself. We all need help. I got more than you did."
"And who's helping you now?" he asks. He chucks his pink face toward the hotel. Here we are, sinner to sinner. I feel belittled by my own predictability.
There has been too much truth told in this conversation for me to lie. I just shake my head yet again and turn away.
CHAPTER 8
Tommy, October 17, 2008
Rory Gissling was the daughter of a copper, Shane Gissling, a detective sergeant for the long end of his career. As a girl, Rory had it all, smarts, looks, a cheerleader's personality; Shane wanted what dads wanted for daughters in those days, learn how to make a living and marry well enough that you never needed to do it. He had no thought about his daughter on the force, where shit floated. She made straight A's at the U in accounting, passed the CPA exam on the first try, and got off to a rocket start at one of the big accounting firms. All well, except she felt as if she were serving a sentence. Four years along, she chucked it and applied to the academy without a word to her parents. The storytellers said Shane had cried his eyes out in misery when he got the news.
Rory went to Financial Crimes after two years on a beat and had been a star ever since. When she walked in with Jim Brand, Tommy was a little disappointed to see she had sort of gone to seed since their last meeting a few years ago. As someone whose appearance was always against him, who struggled to keep himself looking merely out of shape, he did not quite understand how a woman like Rory, who once could turn traffic, just let it go, put on forty pounds in all the wrong places. Not fifty yet, she was still blond and pretty and nicely turned out, which maybe meant she'd battled the weight thing and lost, probably hated mirrors, and worried some what Phil, her husband, a lieutenant in Traffic, thought about it all.
"What are the happy returns?" Tommy asked. Tommy and Brand had decided Rory would be the best bet on the force to serve the documents subpoenas. She had enough rank that they could ask her without checking in with a commander and the brains to figure out whatever came back with no need for assistance. And she was one of the few cops actually proud to keep a secret.
"No se," said Rory. "I don't know what you guys had to start." She gave the PA a stiff look as she and Brand settled in the wooden armchairs in front of Tommy's desk. Tommy had instructed Brand not to explain anything about the investigation, and Rory, typical of all cops, hated working blind. Police officers always wanted to know everything, mostly because that was one of the principal delights of being a cop, feeling you sort of had the drop on everyone. From cop to cop it varied, whether the information made them feel superior or just not so bad. "This is like working with the Feebies. 'Just do what I say.'"
Nothing against Rory, but Tommy knew there was exactly one way to keep the fact that Rusty was under the microscope on murder from hitting the street, and that was to trust no one.
"You know who the subject is, right?" Tommy asked, as if the name alone were explanation enough.
"When you serve four SDTs"-subpoenas duces tecum, subpoenas for documents-"with the same guy's name on them, yeah, you kind of catch on. I'm figuring the judge has got something going on the side. Last time I checked, screwing wasn't a crime. Even for a candidate for the supreme court. And you're being way too quiet for this to be some kind of payback thing, just to rat him out to the press. So there's something big here. That the dish?"
Brand looked at Tommy, who didn't answer. He was thinking through what Rory had said. The documents she'd unearthed somehow confirmed Cantu, and showed Rusty had been stepping out.
"I gotta ask this much," said Rory. "We talkin a boy or a girl?"
Tommy felt his face drop. He said, "Female," eventually.
"Shit," said Rory, who apparently thought this was really going to be fun.
"We're hearing she's a lot younger, though," said Brand. "How's that?"
"Not the same," Rory answered.
"You know why he's doing a woman thirty years younger than him?" Brand asked Rory.
"Because he's lucky," she answered with a sick smile. She thought he was messing with her, talking to her as if she were a guy, the cop version of equal opportunity. Brand, however, was serious.
