Pleading Guilty kc-3

by Scott Turow

  B. Accounting Secrets

  On the way back into the Needle, the elevator stopped at 32. No one got on, but I felt destiny beckoning and I jumped off and trod the hall to Accounting. When I came through the door, the unit manager, Ms Glyndora Gaines, was sitting right there.

  I took a seat beside her. Her desk was completely clean, windswept but for one file she was examining, a state of order which added to the usual impression of a dominant, unremitting soul. Glyndora continued to look over the file, determined not even to acknowledge me. Maybe there was a trace, a vapor, of a smile being willed to oblivion.

  'Glyndora,' I said quietly, 'just as a matter of curiosity, not saying I'm gonna do it, but you know, what if. What if I go tell the Committee the way you've been screwing me around? What if I act like I'm one of your bosses, instead of a chump?'

  I was trying to sound sort of reasonable, maybe not pleasant, but calm. In the big room out the door, a dozen people were whizzing around, overwhelmed by the year-end rush, adding machines chugging out tape and phones giving their little electronic chirp. Checks were at a number of desks in colorful stacks.

  'You gone talk to the Committee? Then tell them this.' She rose up in her chair as she took a surveying glance toward the doorway. 'Tell them you come to my apartment, you pounded on the buzzer causing all kind of commotion, talking all kinds of jive about Bert, and when I let you in, man, there wasn't barely one little word about Bert. The next thing, dude's got one hand on my titty and the other on my ass, and the only way I got rid of his rasty old self is cause this boy talkin all that A A shit went out to buy something to drink. Tell that to the Committee.'

  She smiled in her way, tight like she was fastening down a bolt or a screw, and sized up the effect all this had. With Glyndora everything is a contest and she knew she had me beat. My side of the story was going to sound weak. Worse than that, ridiculous. Nobody would believe I was just posing with my hand on her breast. And if they knew I had been drinking again, my time as Deadeye Dick, Private Detective, would probably be over, not to mention my employment.

  'Glyndora, you know exactly what's going on here.'

  She leaned forward against her arms, making her frontal equipment prominent in a blouse of orange flourishes. A layer of purple shadow lay thickly on her lids like pollen.

  'Here's what I know, Mack. You are weak, sucker.' She was leering again, amused by the thought that she knew my secrets. But I'd been there too and learned some of hers. I pointed.

  'And you like white guys.' I let that out and nodded myself, maybe imitating her. Even so, I regretted it. She stiffened; she reared back. We were headed where we always headed — me beats you, hah hah. One more contest. The Dozens, some kind of phony signifying. It was nothing I wanted, and I did what seemed under the circumstances somewhat daring and reached out to grab one of her hands. The touch, my big pink hand on her brown one, was shocking to us both. And that was the point.

  'Hey,' I said, 'you know, I'm like you, I work here. I'm not trying to be your lord and master. Have I ever done that? Call me callous, I'm crude, et cetera, et cetera. But have I ever gone out of my way to do some kind of job on you? These guys tell me "Find Bert" and I wanna find him. I'll tell you the truth — it's something I need to do. So just give me a break, okay? Be a person.' In the bleakness of the tone I'd assumed, I suddenly heard a confession to myself. All along, I'd talked about this whole escapade, tracking down Bert, as a boondoggling effort at life reform. But that was kidding around, teasing myself with fantasies of running away with the money or earning my partners' esteem. Yet somehow I'd staked a lot more on this venture than I had admitted. Maybe my life was on its last legs. Maybe my chances were few. But I saw now that I'd promised myself that I was not coming out of this funhouse the way I'd gone in. Somebody within me believed that and was connected to what even in this meager, glimmering form you'd have to call hope.

  And in admitting that, I was doing to Glyndora the one thing she tried to warn everyone against — being vulnerable, hanging it out for her to tromp on. She stared, disbelieving, insulted, and not altogether happy with the physical approach. She withdrew her hand from mine and slid her chair back so she could view me from a more distant perspective as we continued sizing each other up. Glyndora has her routine, the Hey-I'm-a-tough-black-bitch number, and she does it on autopilot, a piece of racial rhetoric that's as much mask and cipher as Steppin Fetchit onstage. Oh, I know she means it. I know she's tough. Like Grou-cho, who would not want to be a member of any club he could join, Glyndora wants to be the first one to reject you. Mission accomplished. But swimming through her eyes on occasion is some misgiving, a recognition that she's someone else. I don't know if she gets caught up in crackpot fantasies about how she is being poisoned by aluminum pots or whether she is a secret reader of the Koran. But there is more to her than she lets on. And that's the final insult she hurls at most of us. That she'll never let us in. Yet Glyndora has her secret place. He says with confidence, a denizen of his own secret places. Somebody who'd been there briefly with her the evening before and was knocking on the door again now. 'I need to find Bert,' I repeated.

  Finally she leaned toward me and spoke in a softer tone, maybe an appeal of its own.

  'No, you don't, Mack. You just gotta tell them you looked.' That was a message. Glyndora was playing the role of medium, of oracle, but even so, I wasn't sure if I was being beseeched or warned.

  'You have to give me more, Glyn. I'm clueless. Who are you fronting for? I mean, at least tell me about the memo.'

  Her posture became rigid again, her face hard. It was like watching a book slam closed.

  'You're asking too much, man.' It wasn't clear if the excess was on her end or mine, if I wanted information I wasn't entitled to or if it came at a cost she wasn't willing to pay. But the answer, whatever, was no. She stood up and walked past me. She was running for cover. I thought about what I ought to do. I could demand her keys and toss her office. I could hire a service and get thirty temps to tear through the files. But I'd just made a deal. Without turning, I spoke before Glyndora could get far.

  'One thing,' I said. Her heels stopped clacking, so I knew she was hanging there by the threshold. 'I never put my hand, not once, on your behind.'

  When I looked back, she was smiling a little, something like that. I'd gotten that much. But she wouldn't give any actual ground.

  'Says you,' she told me.

  C. The Devil Himself

  'It's a pact with the devil.' Thus spake Pagnucci as Carl, Wash, Martin, and I sat in the same paneled conference room where we had encountered each other at the start of the week. There was a moment of rare winter sun, a part of the circle escaped from the clouds like something hanging out of a pocket. The heavy drapes had been permanently sashed by the decorator and the long walnut table was bright with the glimmer of the late light, thick as caramel. I had found the three of them waiting for me and quickly reviewed my conversation with Jake Eiger that morning. I skipped Bert's memo and my trip to Neucriss. Glyndora had made me shy of both subjects, and I wasn't eager to take on Martin, whose motives remained perplexing to me. He and Carl gravely received the message I'd brought, but Wash was slower on the uptake.

  'He's telling us that if we can't put this crime right, it will go unreported,' Martin said to him. 'Jake is concerned about Jake. He can't go to his Chairman, to Krzysinski, with this without endangering his own position. After all, who put Bert in charge of the 397 escrow in the first place? He wants us to keep our mouths shut.'

  'Ah,' said Wash, who did a poor job of hiding the fact that he was quite pleased. 'And where do we end up with Jake?'

  'In bed, I would say,' said Martin. 'Holding dirty hands. He can't very well cut us off, can he? He's our hostage.'

  'And we're his,' said Pagnucci, invoking by his remark a pointed silence.

  'But,' said Wash, continuing to muddle it through, 'we've reported the matter to the client. We've done our duty. If he chooses not to do his — '
The back of his elegant white hand traveled off to the land of moral oblivion. Wash was already sold. A tidy solution. Five million gone and a secret forever.

  'Jake says he doesn't believe it, actually,' I offered. 'He says that he's hoping that an accounting will prove it's not true.'

  'That's horseshit,' said Pagnucci. 'He's posturing. We know the client isn't really informed. If we go along with this, it's the same thing as having said nothing at all.'

  With the only difference of course that there was a far lower risk of detection. Auditing of the escrow account from which the money had disappeared was under Jake's direction and control. He'd cover us in order to cover himself. That was the meaning, I realized now, of that remark he'd made to me this morning about an accounting.

  We were silent again, all four of us. Throughout this session, my attention remained on Martin. Wash had already set his course down the path of least resistance, and for Carl the problem-solving method was equally apparent, a question of benefits and costs. In his head, the pluses and minuses were already totaling. But Martin's calculations, in line with his character, figured to be more complex. Like an Aristotelian figure, his eyes were raised to heaven in the course of higher contemplation. Martin is your veritable Person of Values, a lawyer who does not see the law as just business or sport. He's on one million do-good committees. He's against the Bomb, the death penalty, and damage to the environment, for abortion, literacy, and better housing for the poor. He's been the chairman for years of the Riverside Commission, which is devoted to making the river clean enough to drink or swim in, goals that frankly will not be achieved until long after we have colonized Mars, but he'll still take you for a walk along the tangled, littered banks, soft with prairie grasses, and describe out loud the bike paths and boat piers he sees in his head.

  Like any Person of Values who is a lawyer, Martin is not in it for goodness alone. These activities make him prominent, help him attract clients. Most of all, they invest him with the same thing that knowledge of the law imparts to us all: a sense of power. Martin gets off with his hand on the throttle. When he talks about the $400 million public offering we did for TN two years ago, his eyes glow like a cat's in the dark. When he says, 'Public company', he says it the way the priest passing out wafers says, 'The body of Christ.' Martin has a grasp of the way business runs America and he wants to help be in charge.

  Yet it's not just the sense of being important by attachment that excites him. It's also what his clients want to know: right or wrong, allowable or no. He's the navigator, the person with the compass, the man who tells the high and mighty, if not about morals, then at least about principles and rules. His clients can go out in the vineyard and get their boots covered in muck. He's back in the office, charting their course by the stars. When Martin goes to sleep at night and asks God's blessing, he tells the Lord that he helped his clients move with grace and speed through the difficult and ambiguous world He has made for us. Though perhaps not even Martin can tease out the logic, he believes that he is engaged in an enterprise that is fundamentally good.

  Listening to this, I'm sure you're humming 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic' and marching in place. All right. I'm just trying to tell you how it is. But don't sneer. It's easy to be a poet sitting behind the gates of a university or a monk in a monastery and feel there is a life of the spirit to which you are dedicated. But come into the teeming city, with so many souls screaming, I want, I need, where most social planning amounts to figuring out how to keep them all at bay — come and try to imagine the ways that vast unruly community can be kept in touch with the deeper aspirations of humankind for the overall improvement of the species, the good of the many and the rights of the few. That I always figured was the task of the law, and it makes high-energy physics look like a game show.

  Wash finally interrupted this extended silence by posing the question that no one had been willing to ask: 'How would anybody ever find out?'

  Martin actually smiled and without saying more looked to each of us, ducking his chin in a brief, suggestive way. The gesture by itself, his mere acknowledgment of what was held within the room, was vaguely shocking. The next step would be to dip a pen in blood.

  'Where would you say Bert went?' I asked. 'There are three hundred people here asking already.'

  'Say that, so far as we know, he's in Pico Luan,' answered Pagnucci. 'Retired from the practice. That'll pass the red-face test. Forward his mail to the bank there. None of that is what bothers me.'

  'Retired?' I asked. 'Just like that? He's forty-one years old.'

  'There is not a soul who knows Bert Kamin well who wouldn't believe him capable of something so impulsive,' said Wash, waving his pipe around. He had a point. Bert had done stranger things half a dozen times in the last five years. 'This is doable,' said Wash, 'quite feasible. And as to your concerns, Carl, about Jake ignoring our report — ' Wash filled the pipe bowl with fire from his lighter. ‘I personally do not believe Jake Eiger would lie.' It was something of a non sequitur but we all saw what Wash was up to. If it ever proved that the secret had not held, we could say that we had placed our faith in Jake — to be honest, reverent, and true, to protect the best interests of TN, to tell what-all must be told. The silence upstairs we took to reflect TN's desire to save face and to protect the settlement fund from raiding by the plaintiffs' lawyers. We would express shock about Jake. In the face of calamity, Wash, who had placed Jake at TN like a spore years ago, would trot out his protege for drowning.

  But Martin saw through Wash instantly.

  'If we go that route,' said Martin, the man I love, a fellow who could make Keats think twice about whether beauty is truth and vice versa, 'and the day comes that we have to explain, we'll all lie. You'll hear four different versions of what went on in this room.' His look panned each of us and settled on me.

  'Lest I repeat myself,' he said now, 'I hope you find Bert.'

  TAPE 3

  D. The Head of Finance

  Pagnucci said, 'That was troubling,' as we headed toward my office after the meeting, strolling down the book-lined corridor. Martin and the decorators have decided that it is the right touch to fill the halls with the gold-spined federal and state reporters, though it's hell on the associates, who never know where to find the volumes they need.

  Carl was in town from DC for the second time this week. Eager to please TN, and to minimize their dealings with other large firms, we had opened the Washington office fifteen years ago to handle matters before the FAA and CAB. When airline regulation went the way of white tennis balls, we had about thirty lawyers with nothing to do. Enter Pagnucci, a former Supreme Court law clerk to Justice Rehnquist, with six million dollars in annual billings, thanks to Ronald Reagan, who in 1982 made Carl the youngest member ever of the Securities and Exchange Commission.

  The saying about law firms is that there are finders, minders, and grinders, referring first to people like Carl and Martin and Brushy who find big-time, big-money clients to employ them, then the service partners, guys like me, who make sure that skilled work is carried out by supervising the third group, the young toilers laboring in the library amid the ghosts of dead trees. The sad fact is that there are far fewer finders than minders and the finders increasingly demand more of the pie. Carl left his former firm because they were not contemporary enough, meaning they did not pay him what he thought he was worth, and his very presence among us on those terms means we have to make sure the same thing does not happen here. There are only so many ways to do it. Maybe you can get the associates to stay another quarter hour past midnight, or pile on charges for ludicrous extras — fifty cents a page for running sensitive documents through our shredder — but in the end the best way for the top guys to stay ahead is if they have fewer people to share with, fire a few minders and give Carl their points. Lots of people around G amp; G claimed we'd never do it, but the pressure's there, and Carl, who heads the subcommittee on firm finances, has never expressed the same resolve. No doubt he thoug
ht that's what I wanted now — to lobby him about next year's pay — and as soon as my door was closed he raised another subject.

  'So what's the latest from the Missing Persons Unit?'

  'Gaining a little ground,' I said. 'Still no sight of our man.'

  'Hmm,' said Pagnucci. He allowed himself a bit of a frown.

  'I had a request to make to you as head of finance.'

  He nodded. No words. He was steeling himself. Unconsciously he raised a hand to his head. There's a bald spot the size of an orange at the back of his head and you can tell from the way he's always fussing that it drives him nuts — the imperfection, the lack of control, the fact that he is as subject as anyone else to the whims of fate.

  'Suppose I told you I want to take a trip to Pico Luan?'

  Carl deliberated. Even crossed up, he was disinclined to quickly agree.

  'You didn't think that was such a clever idea earlier this week.'

  'It's the only lead I have left.'

  Carl nodded. He'd been right from the start; he could accept that. For my own part, I felt too much vestigial loyalty to tell him there was something squirrelly about Martin's account of his phone call to the International Bank of Finance.

  'There's a lawyer down there I'd like to retain. Subject to your approval.' I handed him the card I'd gotten from Lagodis. 'The guy's supposed to do black magic getting stuff out of the banks.'

  Pagnucci made a sound but otherwise failed to react. Off-camera, Pagnucci has quite a life, this trim little guy with a stiff little mustache cuts some figure. He's on wife number four — each of them blondes, drop-dead gorgeous, who are getting progressively taller as his marriages wear on — and he runs himself to work in one modified Formula One car or another, Shelbys and Lotuses, all kinds of hot stuff. At some point, maybe all day, his fantasy life must be running wild, John Wayne movies probably, banal stuff like that. But in the office, none of it shows. Not a muscle twitches. He did not seem to have any more to say now. He touched the corner of his mustache with a lacquered fingernail.