Pleading Guilty

by Scott Turow

  'And what will be the designation for purposes of identification?' asked the smashing young woman assisting me. By her accent I took her for an Aussie, here to scuba and be free of something, parents or a guy or the throttling force of her own ambitions. The whole place was free, with the gorgeous fish that decorated the warm waters, the sun, the rum, the sense that many of the world's rules were disregarded. I eventually realized she wanted my code word.

  'Tim's Boy,' I answered. She asked if I cared to write it, and I did that as well. I was now free to transfer money in and out, to check my deposits by phone.

  According to my prior calculations, I still needed one more account. For that, I did not even have to leave the building. There was a Swiss bank on the second floor, Zuricher Kreditbank, and I listened to the lecture on their procedures, which included access to funds out of either Swiss or Pico facilities and the full benefit of the secrecy laws of both nations. I deposited another thousand. I had two new passbooks now in my briefcase.

  Outside, I stopped a guy on the street and asked if he knew of a secretarial service, somewhere I could have a letter faxed. I wandered down toward one of the big beachfront hotels where he directed me. I had my suit jacket off, tucked under my arm with my briefcase. I looked into the windows, as if I was shopping, but I was thinking solely about myself, wondering who I was, what I was going to be. A guy getting ready to cheat on his wife has to feel like this, examining the island curios and the fancy knits, the scuba gear in vivid colors, seeing but not seeing, senses focused mostly on his heart and pondering why this is necessary, what this hunger is that he just has to feed, how he'll feel forever after, with some fraction of him cringing whenever he hears words like 'faithful' and 'true'.

  U You, I know what you think: usual Catholic upbringing, the only sin not forgiven is sex. But I'm looking at a bigger picture than that. Okay, it's true, most people's secrets are sexual; that's still the realm where a soul is most often unknown. Just ask Nora. Or Bert. We tell ourselves that nobody's hurt when the wishes become real, it's consenting adults, so who cares, but you can't sell that story to Lyle - or to me. Hurting happens. But we still have our needs. That's the point. Whatever it might be, sex or dope or stealing things, everybody's got some weird not-oughta-be that lights them up when it crosses their brain. Nora,

  Bert, and, in a few minutes, me - we were all members of a teensy-weensy minority group, having fulfilled our sly, unspeakable yearnings. For most people it goes the other way, hanging on that fulcrum where the greatest despair is not really knowing if misery is larger in the realm of fulfillment or restraint. Me, I'd about had it with that balancing act.

  I was down at the Regency on the Beach now, and I walked through the hotel, its lobby of fronds and air like dry ice. I sat on a cane chair to think, but I was frozen up, unable to feel much. I asked the concierge to direct me to the secretarial service, and he introduced me to the attendant of their Executive Center. His name was Raimondo, short, sun-coppered, perfectly groomed. I told him I needed a typewriter and a fax machine and gave him fifty Luan. He took me to an area in back, right next to the hotel offices. Raimondo set me up in a small booth that resembled one of the firm's library carrels; an old IBM reposed there like a roosting bird. He offered to arrange for a typist, but I declined, and he left me alone after pointing out two phones and the John around the corner.

  I ducked into the head then and studied myself in the mirror one last time. I was still me, a big graying galumph in a suit rumpled up like some elephant's knees, with this gone-to-pot face. I knew I was going to do it.

  'Well, well,' I said, 'Mr Malloy.' Then I looked around to make sure nobody was lurking in the stalls who could overhear me.

  Back in the carrel, I withdrew a piece of TN stationery from my case. I typed:

  TO:

  International Bank of Finance, Pico Luan

  Please immediately wire-transfer the balance of account number 476642 to Fortune Trust of Chicago Pico Luan facility, Final Credit Account Number, 896-908.

  John A. K. Eiger

  In my briefcase I found the letter from Jake I'd brought along. I didn't remove it, just spread the sides of the case to get a good look, eyes reminding the hand, then signed Jake's name, the way I customarily do, a perfect imitation. Examining my work, I felt an odd flare of pride. I really am world-class. What an eye! Someday, for amusement, I'd have to take a whack at G. Washington on the dollar, frame a copy for Wash. I smiled at the thought and then below the signature wrote 'J.A.K.E.' I was guessing, of course. As a code, Jake could have used his mother's maiden name, or whatever was written on his last mistress's shoulder tattoo, but I'd known him for thirty-five years now and this didn't feel much like gambling. If he needed a password, he was hard-wired to come up with only one thing: J.A.K.E.

  I gave the letter to Raimondo and watched him feed the paper through the machine. My heart suddenly bolted.

  'The origination line,' I said.

  He didn't understand. I tried smiling and discovered my mouth dry. On the fax, I explained, there was a line printed on the top to identify the sending machine. Some of the people I was dealing with were under the impression I was Stateside. I wondered if he'd be able to block that line out.

  Raimondo went mutton-mouthed and hooded his eyes. This was C. Luan, nobody had names or a sure point of origin. He just shook his head in silent reassurance that no one around here would even consider setting that feature.

  At the other end, they wouldn't know if the fax had come from around the corner or from west Bombay.

  After watching the letter buzz through the machine, I felt like a drink. I wandered out through the garden. I laid my jacket over my lap as I took a seat by the pool. The waitress came by in sort of a safari outfit, pith helmet and khaki shorts, and I ordered a rum punch, no rum. I wondered if I could stand this for the rest of my life, this nation of rock hounds, archaeologists, inland tribes, and sunning exiles.

  Around the pool at this time of day there was pretty much nobody, a few scuba widows and a number of the babes who various big buckeroos stash down here and shtup whenever they pay a visit to their secret, hidden dough. These young ladies, each one generally better-looking than the next, naturally attracted my attention, but in a somewhat abstract way. They spend their days working on their tan, oiling down their perfect flesh, reading or plugged into headphones, and then when the heat is too great, they strut to the shower and cool down so that the nipples peak up in the tops of their skimpy little string suits. They excite the few guys around - the towel boys, the old goats like me - and, having made sure that they're still full of magic, lie down again for another couple of hours. I've never been in another place like C. Luan, where the cookies on the side all gather and are laid out together as if on a baking sheet, and it makes you wonder, What do these gals think, twenty-five or twenty-six years old, who are they and where do they come from? How does a person settle for life as a trinket? What do you tell yourself? This is great, this old guy's only here to paw me every other week, I'm living rich and free. Do they all need daddies? Or do they wish they'd had the luck and stuff to get through law school? Do they puzzle about where they'll be when they turn forty-three? Do they hope the guy is going to sack the wife, like he's always saying, that someday soon they'll have babies and a house in New Jersey? Do they figure they're just the same as an athlete, in great shape till the body goes? Or do they think, as I think, that life is neither sensible nor fair, that this, however objectively miserable it may be as an outcome, is the best that luck will allow and they'll enjoy the moment, since there will be time to suffer down the road?

  I sat there about half an hour, as long as I could stand it, and then went back to the Executive Center to call the Fortune Trust office where I'd been today.

  'Tim's Boy, checking a deposit by wire transfer to account 896-908.' I thought the voice on the other end belonged to my girlfriend, the glamorous young Aussie. The image of her, longhaired and lean, deeply tanned with eyes so
light they verged on yellow, lingered - but there was a coy absence of recognition and I was simply shifted to hold, that electrical nowhere, as empty as whatever is between the stars. Up until then I'd been in control. A day in the life. But at that point, where I was, hoping and having no real connection, my bloodstream froze over and I was sure I'd lost my mind. I knew this was never going to work. Please, please, please, I thought and the only thing I wanted was not to get caught. I realized, with the exactness of clairvoyance, that I'd done all this simply to give myself an instant of pure fright. The man awake at midnight offers solace to his tormentors: Don't bother torturing me, I'll do it myself.

  Now I could see it had to unravel. Jake in all likelihood had adopted a different code word, or had long ago transferred the money somewhere else. Maybe I'd miscalculated and the money was not even Jake's. It was Bert's after all. Or Martin's. In any case, Mr George, the General Manager at the International Bank, was probably out on the street, frantically waving to attract the police. This was not a casual infraction. They would ransack the nation. Bank secrecy was a national treasure, the key to an entire people's way of life. I remembered Lagodis's words with a painful clarity that felt like somebody was putting a brand to my heart: Watch where you step, mon.

  I had escape plans, naturally. Sitting up late on Saturday night I'd thought of several and I comforted myself by remembering them now. I'd say I was investigating, trying to pierce bank secrecy only to confirm the commission of a crime and restore the funds to their rightful owner. I'd have Brushy phone the Embassy and her buddy, Tad the K. He'd think I was a hero when he heard how I was saving TN's money; he'd call his Governmental Relations folks and his lobbyists who knew half the pols in this country; they'd get me out in an hour. And who, anyway, was going to catch me? There was bank secrecy here, designed even to protect thieves, and no one knew my name. I didn't care what anyone said to lure me back on the premises at any of these banks. That there were problems with the wire. That the Aussie lass wanted to meet me for a drink. They'd never see me again. I'd thought it all through. It was a lark, a chance, a lottery ticket.

  But standing here, I knew I was done joshing. The scheming, the fantasies - I'd had my fun. Now it turned out, I had never been kidding at all. It no longer seemed that Martin or Wash or anyone else had driven me to this. Instead, I was back with Leotis: So much of life is will. I'd made my choice. And I had no idea where it was leading. It was like some scary sci-fi story about a skywalking astronaut who gets cut loose and can't be retrieved and just drifts off forever into endless space. At that instant, if Raimondo'd walked by, I'd have given him another of those funny-looking Luanite fifties just to touch his hand.

  'We confirm a deposit, Tim's Boy. Five million, six hundred sixteen thousand, ninety-two dollars, US' Just like that. Boom. She didn't even say hello when she got back on the line. From where I stood in the phone booth, I looked out a mullioned window to a stout palm and a bed of flowering shrubs with fronds like spears. A gal in a bathing suit was scolding her child. The doorman lugged somebody's case, and a little native bird, maybe against every improbable chance the one I'd seen in George's office, hopped down the walk, skittering a few steps, as if it was hoping no one was catching up from behind. All of this - these things, these people, this little dumb creature -appeared to me as if they'd been etched on time, distinct as the facets of a diamond. My life, whatever it was, was different.

  I started to speak, then started again.

  'Can I give you a further transfer of funds, confirmed by

  fax?'

  That, she said, was fine. I read from my passbook. To Ziiricher Kreditbank, Filiale Pico Luan. I repeated the account number.

  'How much?' she asked.

  'Five million, US' I thought I was safer, leaving something in this account, enough that Fortune Trust would continue to feel I was a customer worth protecting from inevitable inquiries. Not that they would think twice about the whole thing. This happened all the time down here, money hopscotching across, the planet. Nobody asked why. They already knew. It was being hidden from someone. Tax collectors, creditors, a weaseling spouse. But I wanted a second transfer to cut off the trail. Jake would raise hell at the International Bank. They'd show him they'd sent the money to Fortune Trust at his instruction. But secret is secret and Fortune wouldn't be saying where the money went from there, or whose account it landed in in the first place.

  I waited more than an hour to call Zuricher Kreditbank to confirm the second transfer. All was well. My money was safe in Swiss care. I was ready to go back to Brushy. I wished I could drink wine with her. I wanted to be in the grasp of her strong skillful hands. Checking my watch, I reassured myself there was time to make love again before our plane. She would ask where I'd been, what I'd done. She'd want to know every secret. But I wouldn't tell. She'd inquire about Pindling; her brain would be full of intrigue. She'd envision a character like Long John Silver, with a macaw on his shoulder and a hook for a hand. Let her imagine. Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies. I felt dangerous and elusive. Light-headed, light-fingered, amused. On the way out of the hotel I poked my head in the John again, just a quick little look-see, a peek in the mirror to find out who was there.

  Tuesday, January 31

  XXIII.

  BAD RESULTS

  A. Toots Plays for Us

  At two on Tuesday, when Toots's disciplinary hearing was scheduled to resume, only Brushy and I were present for the defense. The members of the inquiry panel looked on dispassionately but I surmised from their weary disciplined air that they'd already heard more than enough. After they recommended disbarment, we had a right of appeal to the Courts Commission. Still, in less than a year, Toots's law license would be a relic, one more memento he could tack to his walls.

  The old school housing BAD is the kind of structure whose starkness you don't notice until you remove the color and randomness of children. We were in a grim old classroom, with wood floors and walls of that shiny functional tile that resisted abrasion and ink pens. There was a distinct resonance when anyone scraped a chair or cleared his throat.

  By ten after, I knew there was a serious problem. Across the long conference table where we were arrayed, Tom Woodhull questioned us about our absent client. The distinguished governmental functionary, enforcer of rules, man with cool white skin, no dark spots or bug bites, Tom had never cared much for me - my drinking, my moods, my occasional assertions that commingling client funds was not a crime on the level of treason. I had long suspected that he had held on to this file for the sheer personal pleasure of kicking my ass.

  Brushy rooted in her purse and handed me a quarter.

  'Better find him.'

  Jesus Christ, I thought. Another one.

  As I was on my way to the door, my client poked his head in. Toots was heaving for breath and he motioned me into the hallway.

  'Got,' he said and repeated it many times. 'Got someone for you to meet.'

  By the dusty stairway, hanging on to the square steel newel post was a rotund little fellow in the same condition as Toots, red as Christmas from exertion, breathing hard and spotted with sweat. Brushy had followed.

  'You won't believe this,' Toots said. 'Tell them.' Toots motioned with the cane and again asked the man to tell us.

  Taking a seat on a plain wooden bench in the hall, the man removed his topcoat. At that point I saw the Roman collar. He was a little guy, bald but for a white fringe and some fried-up strands growing straight out of his scalp.

  He held out his hand. 'Father Michael Shea.'

  Father Michael was Judge Dan Shea's younger brother, retired from a parish in Cleveland and attached to a friary there. He had come to town last week to visit relatives - Dan Shea's son, Brian, as a matter of fact, Father's nephew - and in conversation he had heard that Mr Nuccio here was still having trouble over that old business.

  'I give Mr Nuccio a ring at once. I talked many a time to Daniel about this and he always told me he never knew a 'ting abo
ut any generosity from Mr Nuccio. The dues over there by the country club had just completely slipped his mind. I was skeptical, I am the first to say. Daniel was no angel and he confessed some terrible things to me, as a priest and as a brother. But he swore on Bridget's memory that there'd never been any kind of funny business between him and the Colonel. Never.' Father Shea absently touched the crucifix that he wore.

  My partner and the love of my life, Ms Bruccia, absorbed this intently. Our fine tropical romance was now past. There was sand in our shoes and sweet feelings between us which we had nurtured at her apartment all night. But we were again in the cold Middle West, in the land where the subdued winter light, dull as pewter, makes some people crazy and where troubles abounded. She had a million concerns. Us. And all the stuff I wouldn't tell her. Groundhog Day approaching at the firm. But Brushy was now a trial lawyer ready for trial. In her own theater all the seats were sold to Toots, even the standing room. Her powers of concentration were phenomenal; great performers of all kinds, athletes, entertainers, share this single-mindedness. And when I assessed her now, I saw nothing subdued. Rather, there was glee, the flame of celebration. She was looking from Toots to Father Shea to me, about to win the case that everyone told her she'd lose, ready to prove to the world at large what every trial lawyer secretly yearns to establish, that she was not merely an advocate or a mouthpiece but a palpable magician.