Pleading Guilty kc-3

by Scott Turow

  There were about forty seconds left on the big game clock when Pigeyes sat down beside me. The Hands were losing now by eighteen and were taking bad shots for treys, with the Meisters picking up the long rebounds. Gino was winded. His forehead was bright with sweat.

  'You're fucking,' he said, 'under arrest.'

  'For what? There a law against running in a public place?'

  'Resisting.'

  'Resisting? I'm sitting here talking to you almost like we were friends.' Dewey came up then. He put his hands on his knees for a minute to catch his breath, then he sat down in the seat on the other side of me. The place was emptying, but there were enough people left to keep me safe. ‘I wanted to see the end of the game.'

  Pigeyes told me to fuck myself.

  'Did you tell me I was under arrest, Gino? Did you have a warrant?'

  Pigeyes looked at me levelly. 'Yes,' he said.

  'Fine,' I said. 'Show me the warrant. Hey, miss,' I called to a fat college girl two seats down, and reached for her sleeve. 'Would you please witness something?'

  The girl just stared.

  'Don't be a smartass, Malloy.'

  'Battery of a police officer,' said Dewey.

  'The way I remember, you put your hand on me first.'

  They exchanged a primitive look. I could remember how much I hated lawyers when I was a cop. The game horn went off then. Various people swirled out on the floor, the cheerleaders, photographers, TV crews, more security guys and kid ushers, the players from both benches. Bert Kamin was right at the edge of the court, among a hundred gawking fans. I saw him from three levels above, a distance of two hundred feet. He motioned to Orleans and went running down the tunnel behind him.

  'I think they could play in this conference,' I said, 'if they had a big man inside.'

  'Listen, pencil-dick. You're way past being humorous.'

  'Have I forgotten something, Gino? Did I take a shower with you?'

  'Keep it up, Malloy.' He sighted me down the line of a finger. 'We been on your ass since six tonight. You tear out of your house, you run around here like some fuckin mutt smelling heat, I say you're here for a meet. You got a call and you showed, lickety-split.'

  'And who would I be meeting?'

  'Stop playin, Malloy. Who am I looking for?'

  He still didn't have the remotest idea who Kam Roberts was. He was suspicious of course, because this was a basketball game and that was what Archie was fixing. But he didn't know how. Eventually, of course, the significance of my presence in the refs' room would come to him. But he'd been too busy running after me for that glimmer to strike home yet.

  'I'm going to tell you this again, Pigeyes, and so help me, if I'm lying then put me in the paddy wagon. I've never met this Kam Roberts. Never said boo to him.'

  'Then it's the other guy. What's-it. Bert.'

  Tm a basketball fan.'

  'I've had it a lot with you, Malloy. Not a fucking little. A lot. I want to know what gives.'

  'Forget it, Gino.' I puckered my lips and made that little motion, the lock and the key.

  He wasn't kidding about having had it. He was all gone. Looking into Gino's eyes, no one would be surprised to find that humans are carnivores.

  'Stand up.' I didn't at first, but when he repeated it, I figured I'd about run out the string. He tossed my pockets then. He pulled them out viciously so they were hanging from my trousers. He threw my keys and folding money down on the floor. He jammed his hands in my sport coat and found my datebook there, which he went through page by page until he got to the note I wrote Bert. He passed Dewey the book and was so overheated that his lips were sort of rumbling around on their own. Finally, for lack of anything else to do, he spat a big wad on the floor.

  'Illegal search,' I told him. 'With only two, three hundred witnesses. And all of them holding season tickets. I don't even have to take names.'

  He snatched the datebook from Dewey and threw it as hard as he could toward the scoreboard over the court. It flipped around in the air over the seats, then opened along its main seam and looked like a swallow in flight, diving at last and disappearing between the lights. Pigeyes got up close and lowered his voice.

  'I'm coming back with a subpoena.'

  'Do what you like. You start subpoenaing a lawyer, Pigeyes, with all those privileges and stuff, you'll have some poor assistant prosecuting attorney still dragging to court after you've got your thirty.'

  'Malloy, I cut you too much slack, twice now. I could have jacked you up good with that credit card, and I'm feeling what I always felt about you. That you're an ass-wipe. That you don't know dick about how to say thank you.'

  'Thank you, Pigeyes.'

  It was as close as I'd come yet to getting cracked. He was about ready to handle the beef. Public place. Lots of witnesses. He didn't care. He'd make up some outrageous insult I'd uttered, one that took in his manhood, his mother, the Force, in one breath. I didn't flinch either. A scaredy-cat like me, but I was ready to take what was coming. Go figure. Something with me and this guy. I couldn't back off or give him a break. We were an always thing, me and Pigeyes. With the death rattle I'd have one hand groping to yank on his chain.

  And he, in the meanwhile, had to hold back. He didn't have the room he wanted. It was the past, I suppose. I had more liberty with him than just any stray dog on the street. An instant passed before Gino got his impulses under control. Then he did what he liked to do. He threatened me.

  'I'm still making you as dirty on this thing. You were stinkin with sweat yesterday when I was puttin you in it. And I'll find out why. I'm going to be as close behind you as a fart. You better mind your fuckin manners. Cause when I tag you, Malloy' — he touched me on the lapel, just his fingertips — 'you'll be It.'

  He and Dewey walked away. They were about half a row down when Gino turned back.

  'And by the way. We got an amazing videotape of your bathroom window. Strictly fucking amazing. I'm gonna show it in the Squad Room tomorrow night in case you want to come by.' He had that slug smile, oily, evil, enjoying the contemplation of pain.

  I picked up my things eventually, after they were gone, figuring all in all it probably wasn't going the way I would have liked. A guy from the cleaning crew appeared, filling a huge trash bag and advancing me little dark looks in the hopes I would beat it, but I stayed put. I was wondering about Bert. Did he have the money or not, and if he didn't, who did? In the big empty stadium, I felt the perpetual nature of doubt, the way it's always with us. In life, we just never know.

  It struck me eventually that I was going to have to find some way to get home. I walked out, hope against hope, but I knew it. My car had been towed.

  Saturday, January 28

  XIX

  SATURDAY

  A. Possible Connections

  On Saturday morning I went to the office. I had little to do but attend a lunch of the Recruiting Subcommittee and answer my junk mail, but I came in as a matter of habit on Saturdays. It kept me from fighting with Lyle and impressed those of my partners who saw the sign-in sheet. I liked the day, in fact, wandering down the uncrowded streets of Center City where other attorneys headed to work, moving at leisure with their briefcases and overcoats and blue jeans. The whole day had the off-center, underwater slowness of a dream. No flipping telephone. No secretaries sneaking looks at the clock. No hubbub, no filing dates. No stressed-out aura from all those striving young people running around. I got in early and checked my voice messages and E-mail, thinking I might have heard from Bert, but the only word was from Lena, asking me to call when I arrived.

  She came up from the library, wearing a button-down shirt of broad green stripes. She'd gotten the plane tickets and a beachfront hotel booking for Pico.

  'What are we going to do there?' she asked.

  'Investigate. Meet with a lawyer named Pindling. Find out what we can about an account at the International Bank of Finance.'

  'Great.' She seemed pleased by the prospects, by me.

&nb
sp; When she was gone, I took out the file on Toots's case, reviewing some of the records we would be offering to complete the defense, once Woodhull finished mauling

  Toots on cross-examination. My mind though remained on Bert and his problems, which would soon be getting worse. By now, Gino would have done the arithmetic: he'd seen the note in my datebook; he'd found me in the refs' room. Pigeyes would figure one of last night's refs was involved and would start hunting. I wanted to warn Bert — and finish our conversation about the money.

  I tracked down a copy of the morning's Tribune in a stall in the John, but the refs' names weren't listed in the box score. After some reflection, I called Media Relations at the U. I figured they might not answer on Saturday, but I got hold of an obliging young woman. Introducing myself as Detective Dimonte, Kindle Unified Police, I awaited a telltale response, something like 'You again?' but she seemed unsuspecting.

  'Brierly, Gleason, and Pole.' She was reading to me from last night's press handout. Those were the refs' names.

  'How about their first names and addresses?'

  'Care of the Mid-Ten. Detroit.'

  'You're not gonna make me send a subpoena?'

  She laughed. 'You can send what you want. We don't have that information. The conference doesn't even like giving out the last names. There was a lawyer a couple of years ago who wanted to sue one of these guys for smashing somebody's car in the parking lot and he had to get a court order. I mean it. As far as I know, you will need a subpoena. You can call Detroit Monday, but they're incredibly tight with this stuff.'

  That made sense. No off-color fan mail. No fixes. When I put down the phone, I got out the local phone book. I found an Orlando Gleason, but nothing else close. Bert must have made Orleans's acquaintance out of town. All in all, Pigeyes had more hurdles ahead than I'd figured.

  Not long afterwards, Brushy came in, full weekend regalia, blue jeans and running shoes. She looked pretty cute, wearing a big tan hat and carrying her briefcase, big as a saddlebag, and a bundle from the laundry wrapped in bright blue paper. She took just a step or two inside my door.

  'That was nice yesterday,' she said.

  'I'll say.'

  'You mad? About your rash?'

  'Hey,' I said amiably. I told her I'd called her doctor.

  'How is it?'

  'Wanna check?'

  'I'll remember you offered.' She stood there, small, buttoned up, brimming with a great jolly glimmer. It made me a little sad to think how often Brush had been here before, walking into the office and feeling the thrill of knowing that she had this secret something going, a recollection of the senses in this quarter reserved for the grimly logical and perpetually banal. Everybody else arrived thinking of contract clauses and case names, and she rode up the elevators realizing she was going to share the sort of rosy smile we shared now, ripe with the anticipation of pleasure, of things that ought not be spoken of with the door open to the hall.

  'I called you last night,' I said.

  ‘I was here late. I called you, too, when I got home, but you weren't around.' 'Guess who I ran into?'

  She actually dropped her laundry and clapped her hands when I mouthed Bert's name. 'He's alive?'

  I motioned to close the door. 'Where is he?' she asked. 'What's he been up to?' I reminded her about what she said yesterday, about wanting to stay in the dark.

  'Starting tomorrow,' she responded.

  I told her just a bit — Bert running from bad guys.

  'But what did he say about the money?'

  'Not clear,' I said. 'Our negotiations didn't get very far.' I explained that we'd been interrupted by Detective Dimonte.

  'It sounds like this guy's really after you,' she said.

  I just made a sound. Boy, was that true.

  'So when will you hear again from Bert?'

  'I'm sitting by the phone.' I touched it, right next to me, the latest in technology, sleek and black, like something from Skylab. 'In the meantime, I'm going to Pico Luan tomorrow to nose around.'

  'Tomorrow? Toots's hearing is on again Tuesday.'

  'The Committee only gave me two weeks. I'll do a two-day turnaround. Back Monday night. We're ready on Toots, right?' I lifted the brown expandable folder to show her I'd been minding the file. I added, 'I'm taking Lena.'

  'Who's Lena?'

  'First-year. From the U.'

  'The redhead? The cute one?'

  'I'd say stylish.'

  Brushy frowned. 'What do you need her for?'

  'A prover.' A witness — someone who could testify, if need be, in court. 'This lawyer I want to see is supposed to be a little slippery.'

  Brushy wagged a finger and let forth in a self-mocking singsong, 'Don't be forgetting who's your girl now, Malloy.'

  'Brush, you flatter me.'

  'Mmm-hmm,' she answered. I was not sure whether Brushy was feeling wise to the ways of humans in general or just me, but somehow we'd blown past airy humor; her expression was wizened by mistrust. This mood of few illusions reverberated between us, with its bluesy wave forms, and I felt a momentary commission to get to the point.

  'Think you're ready to be a one-man woman, Brush?' It was as close as I could come to mentioning Krzysinski.

  'I've always gone one at a time, Mack. It's just now and then the time's been short.' She smiled a bit, but I realized intuitively that she meant it. Every one-night stand was a piece of Cinderella inside her head, a part of her always hoping that this slipper was going to fit. People's fantasies, even when they're morbid or trite, are somehow touching; it's the vulnerability, I suppose, the fact that lives, like cardboard cartons, fold so reliably along certain lines.

  'You know,' I said, 'if the gals break my heart again, I don't think anyone'll find the pieces.'

  'Malloy, give me some credit, okay? I know you. I get it.' She looked to the door to be certain it was closed, then walked to the desk and removed her hat before she gave me a smooch. I was still not ready to be soothed.

  'How old are you now, Brush?'

  'Thirty-eight,' she said, then thought twice of it and looked at me fiercely. Jesus, this gal could be tough. She asked what difference that made, as if she didn't know. The riff of the independent person is, I don't need nobody. I used to hear the same thing from certain old coppers. But God never made a soul for whom that was completely true. I sort of felt sorry for Brushy. She didn't really take me as the hottest thing on the market and she couldn't misapprehend my reliability or my nature. She just thought I was the best she could get or, maybe, that she deserved. But we both knew I had certain virtues. I'd do what she told me; I needed her guidance. She was smarter than me. And she thrilled me through and through.

  ‘I was just thinking about you,' I said. 'Thinking what?'

  'How it is,' I answered. 'You know. The bright fires of youth burning down. A body gets lonely.' 'Very literary.'

  'The Irish.' I touched the inside of my wrist. 'Verse is in the blood.' 'You have a dislikable side, Mack.' 'So I've been told.'

  'It doesn't give you the right to hold someone in contempt, just because you get their number. You're not such a mystery yourself, you know.'

  ‘I see.'

  'You're a miserable wretch, in case you think anybody else hasn't noticed.'

  I told her to ease up and got to my feet. I took her firmly by her full shoulders and gripped her to my chest, where she willingly lingered, a foot shorter.

  'Lunch?' she asked.

  'Recruiters,' I said.

  She groaned sympathetically at the prospect of committee work. 'Tonight?' I asked.

  'It's my parents' anniversary.' She brightened. 'You could come. Warm Italian family.' 'Uh-oh.'

  ‘I suppose you're right.' We looked at each other. 'Tuesday,' I said. 'Toots.'

  'Toots.' From the door, she cast a gloomy eye as I stood by my desk. Maybe there is never really a chance to fully combine after adolescence. Maybe all those tribal types, the Indians and the Hebrews, had it right, marrying everyone off by
the age of thirteen. After that it's hit-or-miss, the spirit singing out but forced to surmount the channels, the borders dug deep of what has become recognized, if not cherished, as the self.

  'Open or closed?' she asked from the door.

  I flicked my hand.

  'I'm here,' I told her, 'either way.'

  B. Checking My Points

  In a bow to democracy and to help with the work, the Committee over the years has created more subcommittees than either House of Congress, each one empowered with dominance over some minor region of law firm life. We have subs on ethical questions, on staff employment, on computer usage, pro bono work, and paper recycling. In this regime, recruiting is regarded as a mixed bag. It wields genuine authority, hiring both summer clerks and the first-year lawyers who join G amp; G every fall following the bar exams, but the workload is substantial and can never be fully managed in the rush of the week. By longstanding agreement, we meet when we have to for Saturday lunch. At this time of year, when our activities lull, it's only once a month, and after reviewing a final list of summer hirings and calendared interviews for next fall, the five of us — Stephanie Plotzky, Henry Sommers, Madge Dorf, Blake Whitson, me — fell, as we generally do, into gossip.

  'So what do you hear?' asked Stephanie. 'I saw Martin this morning. He just said, "Bloodier than ever." He looked beat and it was nine o'clock.' We were two blocks down from the Needle at Max Heimer's, a deli characterized by second-rate food and Third World hygiene. Stephanie had ventured this goody, leaning over the table, her round face, highly made up even on Saturday, close to the container of pickles, whose side was spattered with grime.