Pleading Guilty

by Scott Turow

  'You don't know a thing about what's been going on at the firm, do you? The money? That whole thing?'

  The sweat ran into his eyes and Bert blinked. He had his impenetrable black look: he doesn't understand you and never will.

  I asked if the name Litiplex rang any bells. 'Jake?' he asked. I nodded.

  'Didn't Jake send me some memo? And I wrote him a bunch of checks on the 397 account? Yeah,' Bert let his long body bob. He was remembering. 'Something was very touchy. It was a mix-up with the plaintiffs. Jake was afraid Krzysinski would roast his hind end when he heard Jake had to pay these expenses. Big, big goddamn secret. Jake was very uptight on this thing.' Bert reflected. 'Something's fucked-up, huh?' he asked.

  'You might say.'

  'Yeah,' he said, 'you know, now that I'm thinking, maybe a month ago Martin asked me about this. This Litiplex. But he was like, no problem, no big deal.'

  That would have been when Martin saw the memo and the checks. Glyndora, of course, would have come to him first when she noticed.

  'So what's the story?' Bert asked.

  I laid it out briefly: No Litiplex. The numbered account in Pico Luan. Bert seemed to regard it as remotely amusing until I got to the part where Martin and Glyndora manipulated appearances to make it look like the money was his.

  'Me ? Those fuck-ers! Me? I don't believe it.' He'd jumped to his feet. I was abruptly reminded of trying cases with Bert, his sudden courtroom rages, objecting to a leading question like it was the landing of foreign troops on our soil. I waited for him to cool off.

  'Just answer me straight, Bert. There's no deal between you and Martin for you to take the blame for this? The money?'

  'Are you kidding? Fuck no, man.' 'Nothing? No wink, no nod?'

  'No. NFW. That's scumbag stuff.' This was Bert, who had deceived millions of Americans about the outcome of sporting events, who had thought with his dick and made a profit besides, but he was on his high horse. He had the same lunatic look as when he talked about the secret poisons some faceless 'they' put in his foods. He got back up on one of the moisture-blackened benches and poured the bucket over his head, and came out of the flood glaring. I had an odd thought at that moment of how much he reminded me of Glyndora.

  We went upstairs to dress then, both turned pretty sulky and without much to say. Bert had a bag in his locker with deodorant and whatnot and let me use his stuff.

  'Who is it?' he asked me suddenly. 'With the money?'

  'Doesn't matter.'

  'Yeah, but -' He shrugged.

  I'd spent the last few days delving into the depths of the mind of Martin Gold. It was like walking downward in some endless cave. From the start Martin must have figured that if he hung this on Bert no one would ever contradict him. Not Jake, of course. Not Bert, who was on permanent leave, hiding from hit men among the artichokes. Not clueless old me. Not even the TN board, which, if informed of the loss, had nothing to gain by making a public fuss that would only attract attention to what was left of the 397 surplus. By blaming Bert, Martin would keep everything tidy.

  And I could have gone along with that, Martin's scheme to save the world as I knew it. Unless Pigeyes caught him, Bert wasn't going to surface. Any day now Jake would discover that he'd developed a hole in his pocket down in Pico Luan, but so what? Self-preservation would prevent Jake from making an international scene. He couldn't start hollering, Where's all that money I stole? Trumped and taken, Jake would probably blame Bert too. It could work out for me Martin's way. In a couple months I could retire from the firm, vacationing when need be in Pico Luan.

  But when I'd steamed out the shellacked doors of the Club Belvedere on Saturday and sat up all night hatching plans, I was gripped by ornery impulses. I'd developed the fixed intention to smite Martin and the whole smarmy scheme. Since then I'd hoped against hope at moments. I came here wanting Bert to tell me there was a galaxy of good intentions involved, some aspect that was wholesome, or at least excusable, which I hadn't seen. But he couldn't. Because that wasn't the case. And recognizing that, I found myself under the same internal momentum. Maybe I was still a cop on the street, committed to my own kind of rough justice. God knows, I never have played well for the team. But I was going to do it my way. Brushy hung there somehow in the balance, an indeterminate weight. Yet there was no reason, really, I couldn't make that work out. I kept telling myself that.

  'Jake,' I answered at last. 'Jake's got the money.' That's where this was going. I was gonna be mean. Even so, the details were daunting.

  'Jake! Whoa.' Bert brought his long hand to his jaw and rubbed it as if he had taken a blow. He was sitting there on the bench in the dim locker room, holding his socks, the only light borrowed from a single bulb burning in the john.

  'Martin's covering for him, protecting the firm.' 'Jake,' Bert said again.

  It struck me with an exactness that had completely eluded me before that if I was going to carry through with this, undermine Martin and pass out just deserts, I'd have to figure some way for Bert to return. Without that, it might come down to finger pointing. Martin and Jake could still call Bert the bad guy somehow. Why else was he running? Mystery Thief on the Loose. To make my version fully convincing, Bert had to be here to tell his story: he got the memo from Jake, gave the checks to Jake, listened when Jake told him it was all hush-hush. I couldn't imagine, though, how that could be engineered. Amid the dank atmosphere of the locker room, we sat in silence. One of the steam pipes eventually emitted a distinct clank.

  'Look, Bert, I'm going to try to help you. I want to see you get out of all this, but I really have to put my thinking cap on. Just stay in touch. Make sure you call every day.'

  The guy saw right through me. Not what was wrong. But something. That I had some stake. And he couldn't have cared less.

  'Please,' he said quietly. He watched me there, his face buried in shadow but still rimmed by some eager hope.

  When we were dressed, he took me to the back door and unlocked the bolt, the grate.

  'Where you going?' I asked.

  'Oh, you know.' His eyes floated away from me. 'Orleans is in town.'

  God, he was lost. Even in the dark you could see him, swarthy and lean, in the grip of his sad hopeless love. He was being tortured and teased. Moth and flame. I thought to myself again, What is this? A character like Bert, you figure his gyroscope's wacky. But the head, the heart -who am I kidding? One man's rationality is another fella's madness. Nothing ever really adds up. Either the premises are faulty or the reasoning sucks. We're all of us pincushions, lanced by feelings, full of wounds and pains. Reason is the lie, the balm we apply, pretending that if we were just smart enough we'd make some sense of what hurts.

  I'd already stuck my nose into the cold when I realized one question remained. I barred the door with the arm of my overcoat.

  'So who moved the body, Bert? Who took Archie? Did Orleans?'

  'Fuck, never,' said Bert. 'He'd freak.' Bert shook his head violently at the thought and repeated that Orleans wasn't up to something like that.

  'So who?'

  We stood on the threshold, eyeing each other, surrounded by the deep alley darkness and the harsh touch of winter, hovering with the unspoken improbabilities of our futures, everything that was simply unknown.

  Thursday, February 2

  XXVI.

  MACK MALLOY' S FIFTEENTH CONTINGENCY PLAN

  A. Step One

  So. It was midnight. I was the only white man for a mile, a guy in an overcoat with a briefcase and a prominent urge to begin making plans. I stalked through the tough old neighborhood, headed in the direction of Center City, an exercise in fifty-year-old daring, striding from the rescuing glow of one streetlight to the next. A bus came along presently and I boarded gratefully and bucketed down the avenues with the winos and the workers returning from late-night stints. A few blocks from the Needle, I jumped off. Kindle County at night is not lively. The lights are on but the streets are empty; it has its own spectral air, like a de
serted building, a place even the ghosts have fled.

  I entered the lobby of the Travel Tepee, where Brush and I had agreed to meet. The big lobby was quiet; even the Muzak had been turned off for the night. I sat in an ugly easy chair with a horrible bold print and considered the future. Finally the lone registration clerk asked from behind the front counter if he could help me. From his tone, I thought he was pretty sure I was just a better-dressed derelict whom security would have to give the heave-ho. I went over to make peace, told him he had a Ms Bruccia registered, and picked up my key, then I sat down again, counting out the steps in my plan. I thought of waiting until morning to begin putting this together, but I was feeling edgy, compulsive, call it what you want. I was wide-awake anyway and a little reluctant to be with Brushy, now that I actually knew what I was going to do.

  About two blocks down there was an all-night pharmacy, another Brown Wall's, built near the exit ramp of the Interstate, a place with a bus station air, a lot of downtown creeps hanging around near the doors, and a cop car parked right at the curb. I bought two pens - one ballpoint, one felt tip - and some glue and a pair of scissors. I asked at the counter if they had a coin-operated copying machine, but the answer was no, so I walked back to the hotel, waved to the desk clerk, and found a little phone alcove which had a laminate surface I could use for a desk.

  I already had the rest of what I needed in my briefcase -the signature form I'd received at International Bank of Finance, the letter of Jake's I'd used as a model to forge his signature to the fax I sent from the Regency, and the copies of TN's annual report that I'd toted down to Pico. The report contains pictures of all the corporate officers, including Jake Eiger, and I'd brought copies along thinking Jake's photo might come in handy if I had to do any of a number of things I was then considering to get at the money, such as phonying up a passbook or some form of US ID.

  The signature form was printed on onionskin with a schmaltzy heading in script: 'International Bank of Finance, Pico Luan, NA.' There were only four or five lines of information required, the descriptions written in all of the major Western European tongues. Using the felt tip, I filled in the account number that appeared on the back of the Litiplex checks, 476642.1 named the account owner as Litiplex, Ltd, Jake Eiger as president. Then just to remind myself of the look of his hand, I took Jake's old letter from the briefcase and signed his name to the form with the ballpoint, dead on again, so close you'd think it was traced. After that, I cut Jake's grinning puss out of the TN annual report and pasted it down where Mr George had shown me it would go in the upper-right-hand corner of the form. Finally, in the little block labeled 'Designation', meaning code word, I wrote out, perfectly, 'J.A.K.E.'

  Then I went back to the clerk at the counter. He was starting to get used to me. I gave him a weary sigh, dragging my hands down my raddled kisser.

  ‘I have a presentation in the morning and I forgot to copy one thing. Just two pictures of it, one page. You must have a machine in the office.' I had a twenty between two of my fingers, but this guy, young, maybe a graduate student, somebody still starting out in his life, wouldn't take it. He was still feeling bad for thinking I was a bum. He brought back the copies of the signature form and we talked about the weather, how quiet the city could be at night.

  I returned to the phone booth. I took the original of the signature form and tore it into pieces, throwing them in the opening in the long sand-topped trash canister by my feet. The two photocopies the desk clerk had made me went into my case. Then I called information for DC. The latest Mrs Pagnucci, a six-foot blonde, answered the phone. She said nothing to me when I explained who I was. Instead, in a voice I'd heard now and then in my own home, the soul of tedium, she remarked, 'One of your partners.'

  B. Step Two

  Brushy was asleep when I let myself into the room. It was about 3:00 a.m. She still slept like a child, in a small fetal ball, and her hand was close enough to her mouth that I wouldn't have been surprised if she suckled a digit or two. Vulnerable, with her sly wits turned off for the night, she looked dear to me, maybe precious is the word, and I felt really bad, my heart twisted around like a cloth being wrung. I threw my clothes down and crept into bed. As my night eyes came on, I could see this was not exactly the bridal suite. The headboard had been nicked in many places, revealing the mealy composition of the underlying particle board, and directly over the bed the old textured wallpaper had peeled from its butt joints and hung down from the plaster like an extruded tongue. I drifted a hand against Brushy's solid flank to comfort myself.

  'How's Bert?' She still hadn't moved.

  'Okay,' I said, 'safe at least.' I apologized for waking her.

  'I was waiting for you.' She snapped on the light and covered her eyes like a child with the backs of her hands. While she was blinded, I touched her, just kidding around, pulled the sheet down and nuzzled my cold cheek to her breasts, but she held me there and we heated up fast. Every time we had screwed so far it was different. There was horseplay sometimes, as in the hotel ladies' room, and she also had a lot of daring and skill, a bold way of laying her hands on that cut to the basics, that said this was for pleasure so let's not kid ourselves. Now suddenly, in the cheap hotel room, as beaten down as Center City around us, we were quick and desperate, wanting to overcome everything else. Real fire, and afterwards, spooned to her from behind, I could tell she thought that was great. We were quiet, with the empty sounds of the hotel and the street reaching us - sirens at a distance and the shouts of drunks and kids like my son who should have been at home for the night. I asked if she had brought cigarettes, then sat beside her on the bed, trading one back and forth with her in the dark.

  'Does he have the money?' she asked. 'Come on, Brush.'

  'Just that. Does Bert have the money?'

  'Brush, aren't we too old for Twenty Questions?'

  'Attorney-client,' she said. 'Does he have it? Yes or no?'

  'No.'

  'Really? Did he ever?'

  'He doesn't have the money. Go to sleep.' I went to the John, found the toothbrush she'd bought me, and lingered there hoping she'd fall off.

  When I snuck in beside her, I slept dreamlessly, a velvet pit. Near seven, I snapped awake with a tiny outcry, quickly muted, the sound of inspiration. I dressed quietly and left Brushy a note that said I'd be back.

  I had a walk of about six blocks and I jogged a step or two now and then as I penetrated Center City from its grotty outskirts, getting closed in by the morning hubbub, the trucks double-parked and wreaking havoc with the traffic, the silent army of workers marching the streets. It was pretty cold, less than 15 degrees, and I threw myself down into my coat.

  Toots ate breakfast every morning with the same guys, old pols, ward types, and lawyers, at a corner table of a Greek joint called Paddywacks right across from his office. This was a legendary event. Toots greeted half the folks in the restaurant and waved to them all with his cane. In the corner booth Toots and his friends gossiped about dirty business in any number of venues - the courthouse, the council building, the mob. A few years ago the feds had put a microphone in one of the salt shakers, but Toots and his pals had got word somehow. One of them, it was said, complained loudly about the taste of his eggs, then slammed the shaker on the tabletop and blew the listening agent's eardrum out.

  Paddywacks was slightly overdecorated - brass fixtures and tufted benches and floors that were mopped once a week. I was beginning to be afraid I'd missed Toots, when he came in about 8:15 on his stick, two paisans on either side. One of them, Sally Polizzo, had been a federal guest up until six months ago. Toots greeted me like a visiting king. I shook hands with each of his company ions, then strolled him down to a booth where he took a seat alone. I stayed on my feet.

  'Did you mean what you said about a favor?' I asked him. Sitting on the little velveteen bench, the Colonel looked tiny, a little guy shrinking worse with age, but when I asked if he'd meant what he said, he just drew back with a look tough enough to make
you believe he'd been a killer. I corrected myself.

  'This may be too much. If it is, you say so. You remember we talked about my partner?' I went over it quickly, but I told Toots the truth. How his pals were looking for my guy and his friend and how my guy was hiding. Somebody else was going to end up dead, and for nothing. The bookie had paid the big price, and these other guys were scared straight. Justice of the kind Toots practiced had been served. I asked him to get his friends to lay off Bert and Orleans. Favor for favor.

  Toots sat there silent, the rubbery old mouth pursed, his eyes still. He was working it out in his head. If he called that guy and reminded him of this thing, then that guy could get to someone else. It was all geometry to him, and power. He wanted to justify my faith.

  'Maybe,' he said. 'Depends. I think so. I'll let you know this afternoon. This fella got any money?'

  'Some,' I said, then thought of Pico and added, 'yeah, he's got money. Why?'

  'This here's a business. Somebody's got a point to make. He gets paid, that's his point. Right?'

  'I suppose.'

  Toots said he'd leave word for me at the office. Then I helped him to his feet so he could totter down to the corner booth and his courtiers. There were already two old guys with rubbery faces waiting to say hi.

  C. Watch That Step

  'I went to see Toots,' I told Brushy when I got back to the room.