by Scott Turow
With the mention of this event, Barbara winces, then once more turns an acid eye on me. At last, I recognize my latest outrage. Yesterday I came home very late and stayed downstairs, thinking she was asleep. Barbara descended in her nightgown. From the staircase she asked what I was doing. When I told her I was working on my resume she turned directly and went back up.
"Raymond didn't mention making you a judge today?" she asks.
I wince myself, lanced with regret at the foolish vanity that led me to mention this prospect. My chances now are dim. Bolcarro showed two days ago how concerned he is about making Raymond Horgan happy.
"What do you want me to do, Barbara?"
"I don't want you to do anything, Rusty. I've stopped wanting you to do anything. Isn't that what you prefer?"
"Barbara, he did a good job."
"And what did he do for you? You're thirty-nine years old. You have a family. And now you're looking forward to unemployment compensation. He let you carry his bags and solve his problems, and when he should have quit, he took you with him down the drain."
"We did good things."
"He used you. People have always used you. And you don't just let them do it. You like it. You actually like it. You'd rather be abused than pay attention to the people who have tried to care about you."
"Is that supposed to mean you?"
"Me. Your mother. Nat. It's a lifelong pattern. It's hopeless."
Not Nat, I nearly answer, but a sense of diplomacy or self-preservation intervenes. The restaurant hostess, a tiny younger woman with the trimmed-up figure of the health club set, leads us to our table. Barbara negotiates his meal with Nat. French fries yes, but milk, not Coke. And he must eat some salad. Nat whines and flops around. I cuff him gently and recommend sitting up straight. Barbara remains aloof behind the barrier of her menu.
Was she happier when I met her? That must have been the case, although I have no clear recollection. She tutored me when I connived insanely to beat the university science requirement by taking calculus. She never got the chance to collect her fee. She fell for me; I fell for her. I loved her ferocious intellect, her teen-queen beauty, her suburban clothes, the fact that she was a doctor's daughter, and thus, I thought, someone 'normal.' I even loved the rocky currents of her personality, her ability to express so many things which, to me, remained remote. Most of all, I loved her omnivorous passion for me. No one in my life had been so openly desirous of my company, so alight with manifest appreciation of every angle of my being. I met half a dozen men who coveted Barbara. She wanted only me, pursued me, in fact, with an ardor that I at first found embarrassing. I supposed it was the spirit of the era that made her want to soothe this awkward boy, dark and full of secret woe, whom she knew her parents would regard as less than she deserved.
Like me, like Nat, she was an only child, and she felt oppressed by her upbringing. Her parents' attentions had been suffocating and, she felt, in some ways false. She claimed to have been directed, used at all times as an instrument of their wishes, not her own. She told me often that I was the only person she had met who was like her-not just lonely, but always, previously, alone. Is it the sad reciprocity of love that you always want what you think you are giving? Barbara hoped I would be like some fairy-tale prince, a toad she had transformed with her caresses, who could enter the gloomy woods where she was held captive and lead her away from the encircling demons. Over the years I have so often failed in that assignment.
The atomized life of the restaurant spins on about us. At separate tables, couples talk; the late-shift workers dine alone; the waitresses pour coffee. And here sits Rusty Sabich, thirty-nine years old, full of lifelong burdens and workaday fatigue. I tell my son to drink his milk. I nibble at my burger. Three feet away is the woman whom I have said I've loved for nearly twenty years, making her best efforts to ignore me. I understand that at moments she feels disappointed. I understand at times she is bereft. I understand. I understand. That is my gift. But I have no ability to do anything about it. It is not simply the routines of adult life which sap my strength. In me, some human commodity is lacking. And we can only be who we can be. I have my own history; memories; the unsolved maze of my own self, where I am so often lost. I hear Barbara's inner clamor; I understand her need. But I can answer only with stillness and lament. Too much of me-too much! I must be preserved for the monumental task of being Rusty.
Chapter 15
Election Day the weather is bright. Last night, when I sat in Raymond's office, with Mike Duke and Larren and Horgan, they thought that good weather would help. Now that the party belongs to Della Guardia, Raymond needs the voters who are inspired by their candidate rather than the precinct captain's wishes. The last week has been an odd lesson. Every time there's a negative development, you say it's hopeless. Then you look ahead. In Raymond's office last night, they were still talking about winning. The last poll, sponsored again by the paper and Channel 3, was taken the day of Bolcarro's endorsement and showed Raymond only five points back. Duke said that he believes things have improved since then, that Raymond seems to have gained some of his old momentum by being the underdog. We sat there, four grown men, acting as if it could be true.
At work, as ever, Election Day brings a loose feeling, all at ends. The employees of the prosecuting attorney's office, once a group of wardheelers and hacks, have been discouraged throughout Raymond's tenure from active political involvement. Gone are the days of deputies selling tickets in the courtrooms to the P.A.'s campaign outings; in twelve years, Raymond Horgan has never solicited a dime in donations, or even a minute of campaign help, from the members of his staff. Nonetheless, many of the administrative employees who came on before Raymond was elected have continuing political obligations to the party sponsors who secured employment for them. As part of the uneasy compact struck a decade ago with Bolcarro, Raymond agreed to give most of the P.A.'s staff Election Day off. That way the party types can do the party thing: knock on doors, distribute leaflets, drive the elderly, watch the polls. This year they will be doing that for Nico Della Guardia. For the rest of us, there are no established obligations. I am in the office most of the day, first mate at the helm of this sinking ship. A few others are around, mostly lawyers working on briefs or trials, or clearing up their desks. About two dozen younger deputies have been delegated to work with the U.S. Attorney's office on a vote-fraud patrol. This generally involves responding to junk complaints: a voting machine won't work; someone's got a gun in the polling place; an election judge is wearing a campaign button, or over counseling elderly voters. I receive occasional updates by phone and answer press calls in which I dutifully report that there is no sign of tampering with the democratic process. Around 4:30, I get a call from Lipranzer. Somebody's propped up a TV set in the hallway, right outside my door, but there is nothing to report. The polls won't close for another hour and a half. The early news is just happy-talk stuff about the heavy turnout.
"He lost," Lip tells me. "My guy at Channel 3 saw their exit polls. He says Nico's gonna win by eight, ten points, if the pattern holds." Again my heart plunges, my gut constricts. Funny, but this time I really believe it. I look out the window toward the columns of the courthouse, the flat tarred roofs of the other downtown buildings, the rippled black waters of the river, which turns, like an elbow, two blocks away. My office has been an the same side of this building for almost seven years now, yet the sight does not quite seem familiar.
"Nothing," Lip says. "Just thought I'd let you know." He waits. "We still workin on Polhemus?"
"You have something better to do?"
"No," he says, "no. They come down here today to get all my reports. For Morano." The police chief. "He wants to look em over."
"So?"
"Struck me strange. You know. His mother-in-law got stuck up at gunpoint three years ago, I don't think he looked at the reports."
"You'd understand that," I say, "if you had a mother-in-law." Lip takes my humor as intended: an offering, an
apology for my impatience a moment before. "They're just trying to make sure Nico's briefed. Which is a joke," I say. "Molto's probably been getting copies of the police reports from the steno pool."
"Probably. I don't know. Somethin didn't sit right. Schmidt come in here himself. Real serious. You know. Like someone shot the President."
"They just want to look good."
"I guess. I'm goin over to the North Branch courthouse to finish up on those court files," Lip says, referring to the records we have been looking for since my visit to the 32nd District. "They promised they'd have the microfilm from the warehouse before five. I want to get there before they send it back. Where are you tonight in case I come up with somethin?"
I tell him I'll be around Raymond's party, somewhere in the hotel. It's beside the point by now to rush back with investigative results, but Lip says he'll be stopping in anyway, more or less to pay his respects.
"The Irish," Lip says, "always run a real fine wake."
Lipranzer's estimate proves accurate. The band plays loud. The young girls who are always here are still full of that soft glow of eventfulness, with banners across their chests and campaign boaters balanced neatly on their hairdos. HORGAN! everything says in lime-green Gaelic script. In the front, at either side of the unoccupied speakers' platform, two ten-foot enlargements of The Picture stand. I drift around the ballroom, spearing meatballs and feeling bad.
Around 7:30, I go up to Raymond's suite on the fifth floor. Various people from the campaign are moving through the rooms. There are three trays of cold cuts and some liquor bottles on one of the dressers, but I decline the invitation to consume. There must be ten phones in these three rooms, all of them ringing.
All three local TV stations have projected Della Guardia the winner by now. Larren-Judge Lyttle-comes by with a tumbler of bourbon in his hand, grumbling about the exit polls.
"First time," he says, "I've seen a body pronounced dead before it hit the floor."
Raymond, however, is sanguine. He is seated in one of the interior bedrooms, watching television and talking on the phone. When he sees me he puts the phone down and comes to hug me. "Rozat," he says, my given name. I know that this gesture has probably been repeated with a dozen other people this evening, but I find myself deeply grateful and stirred to be included in the grieving family.
I sit by Raymond on the footstool of the easy chair he is occupying. An open bottle of Jack Daniel's is on the candle table at the chair side, as well as a half-eaten sandwich. Raymond goes on taking phone calls, conferring with Larren and Mike and Joe Reilly. I do not move. I recall the nights I used to sit beside my father while he watched a ball game on TV or listened to the radio. I always asked his permission before taking a place next to him on the divan. They were the warmest moments that we had. As I became older, my father would drink his beer and occasionally pass the bottle to me. At moments he would even make a remark aloud about the game.
Eventually the conversation begins to turn to the protocol of concession. Does Raymond communicate with Della Guardia first, or does he go downstairs to address the faithful? Della Guardia, they decide. Mike says Raymond should call him. Joe says send a telegram.
"Screw that," Raymond says, "the man's across the street. I'm going over there to shake his hand." He asks Larren to make arrangements. He'll see Nico, make his speech, then come back up here to do one-on-one interviews with print and media reporters. No point in spite with them. He tells Mac she should start scheduling those meetings about 9:30. He'll go live at 10:00 with Rosenberg. I have not noticed Mac until now, and when she turns her chair around she says one word to me: "Sad."
Raymond asks to see me alone. We go into a dressing room, between the two bedrooms in the suite, nothing more than a large closet with a lavatory. "How are you?" I ask.
"There've been things that hurt worse. Tomorrow will be bad. The day after. We'll survive. Listen," Raymond says. "About what I mentioned the other night: when I see Nico, I'm going to offer to resign. I don't want any lame-duck crap. I don't want to appear to be playing around with the office. I'd like to make a clean break. If Nico wants to run in the general election as an incumbent, let him. I'll tell him he's free to assume office, if the county executive approves." This is humor, Bolcarro is the county executive. Party chairman. Mayor. The guy has more titles than the leader of a banana republic.
I tell Raymond he's made a wise decision. We look at each other.
"I feel like I should apologize to you, Rusty," Raymond says. "If there was any deputy I would have wanted to take over, you know it would be you. I should have tried to make that happen, instead of running. The guys just pushed me so damn hard to give it one more shot."
I wave my hand, I shake my head. I prohibit his apology. Larren sticks his head in.
"I was just telling Rusty," Raymond tells him, "I never should have run again, I should have given him the shot. New face. Career prosecutor. Apolitical. Really could have revved things up. Wouldn't you say?"
"Shit," says the judge, "pretty soon you'll have me believing it."
We all laugh.
Larren reports on his conversation with Della Guardia's people. He talked to Tommy Molto, who has emerged tonight as the primary aide-de-camp. They'd rather not have a face-to-face this evening. Instead, Molto and Nico want to see Raymond in the morning.
"Ten o'clock," says Larren. "He told me, didn't ask. And says, Please make sure it's with Raymond alone. How do you like that? Bossy little shit." Larren takes a private moment with his discontent. "I said you'd call Nico to make a formal concession. When you're ready."
Raymond takes Larren's bourbon from him and has a belt.
"I am ready," he says.
Loyalty goes only so far. I do not want to listen. I head back to the ballroom.
Near the bar, I run into George Mason, an old friend of Raymond's. He is already drunk. We both are being jostled.
"Pretty good crowd," he tells me.
Only near the bar, I think. But I save the thought.
"He had a good run," George says. "He did a good job. You guys should all be proud."
"We are," I say. "I am."
"So what's with you? Private practice?"
"For a while, I guess."
"Gonna do criminal stuff."
How many times have I had this conversation tonight? I tell George probably, I'll see, who can tell. I'm going to go on a vacation, that's for sure. George gives me his card and tells me to call. He may know some people I might want to talk to.
Horgan arrives in the ballroom twenty minutes later. The assholes from TV shove their way to the front, hold up their cameras and lights and boom mikes so that you cannot see much. Raymond is smiling and waving. Two of his daughters are with him on the platform. The band is playing an Irish jig. Raymond has said "Thank you" for the third time, about halfway along to quieting the crowd, when somebody grabs my arm. Lipranzer. He looks harried from having had to push his way through to reach me. There is too much noise in here to speak: stamping, hooting, whistling. Some folks in the back have even started to dance. Lipranzer motions me outside and I follow him beneath an exit sign. We end up, unexpectedly, in an alley outside the hotel, and Lip walks down toward a street lamp. When I see him now, I can tell that something's wrong. He looks almost caved-in, compressed by some kind of worry. The sweat shines near his temple. From here, I can hear Raymond's voice inside but not what he's saying.
"This is too strange," Lip says. "Something's fucked up over in the Hall. It's way wrong."
"Why?"
"I don't know," he says. "But I'm gettin vibes like I haven't had in years. I got a message I'm supposed to be in Morano's office, 8:00 tomorrow morning to be interviewed. By Molto. That's the message. Not talk. Not discuss. Interview. Like they're after me. And here's another one. When I come back in tonight they tell me that Schmidt took all the receipts for the evidence I've inventoried on Polhemus. Any questions, see him."
"Sounds to me like you're off this
case."
"Sure," he says. "Fine. But figure this in. I'm out in the North Branch before 5:00. All of this hits by 6:00, 6:30. And look at what I picked up out there."
He reaches inside his windbreaker to his shirt pocket. He has four or five sheets of foolscap, xeroxes, I see, of court documents. The case number I recognize: it matches the complaint number missing from the 32nd District. The first sheet is a copy of the case jacket. People versus Leon Wells. A public-indecency complaint. Dismissed by court order a day in July nine years ago.
"Bingo," I say out loud.
"This page," Lip tells me. It is the bond order. In our state, a defendant is permitted to satisfy bond in minor cases merely with his signature on a promissory note, promising to pay a sum-by law less than $5,000-in the event of his default. The only conditions are that he refrain from other crimes and report once weekly by phone to a member of the court's probation department. Leon's assigned probation officer according to his bond slip was Carolyn Polhemus. Her name and telephone number are right there. Wait. Here's the best." He pulls the last sheet out. It is a copy of the court half-sheet, a form dismissing the case. Motion to Dismiss Without Prejudice, it is captioned. The attorney presenting the motion is the prosecutor. "Raymond Horgan, Kindle County Prosecuting Attorney, By" is printed at the bottom of the form. The deputy handling the case is supposed to sign the blank. I cannot read the signature at first. Then I get it.
"Molto?"
Lipranzer and I stand a moment in the street lamps, looking at the papers again. Neither one of us says much. From inside there's an enormous roar; then you can hear the band striking up again, "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." Raymond, I take it, has admitted defeat.
I try to pacify Lipranzer. Hang tight, I tell him. We're not sure of anything.
"You take this." He gives me the copies from the court file.
