by Scott Turow
How familiar it all seems. I come home at night with the same laborer’s weariness that has always followed a day in court. My bones feel hollowed out by the high-voltage impulse of the day; my muscles have a neuralgic tenderness from the adrenalized superheating. My pores, it seems, do not close down rapidly, and the low-tone body sweat of high excitement continues through the evening. I return home with my shirt encasing me like a package wrapper.
Sitting in court, I actually forget at certain moments who is on trial. The performance aspect is of course not present, but the premium on close attention is large. And once we get back to the office, I can be a lawyer again, attacking the books, making notes and memos. I was never short on intensity. When the bus pulls into Nearing shortly before 1 a.m. and I walk down the lighted and silent streets of this gentle town, the feelings are all known and, because they are known, safe. I am in a harbor. My anxiety is stanched; I am at peace. As I have for years, I stop by the door, in a rocking chair, and remove my shoes, so that when I go upstairs I will not disturb Barbara, who by now must be asleep. The house is dark. I absorb the silence and, finally alone, reflect on the events of the day. And in this moment, stimulated perhaps by all the talk of her, or simply by the momentary feeling that I have at last receded to the better past, or even by an unconscious recollection of other stealthy re-entries to my home, I am startled as Carolyn rises before me, rises as she rose for me that month or so when I thought I had found Nirvana, naked to the waist, her breasts high and spectacularly round, the nipples red, erect, and thick, her hair full of static from our bedroom romping, her sensuous mouth parted to offer some clever, salacious, stimulating remark. And again I am made almost without the power of movement by my own desire, so fierce, so hungry, so wanton. I do not care that it is mad, or hopeless: I whisper her name in the dark. Full of shame and longing, I am like a piece of crystal trembling near the breaking pitch. “Carolyn.” Hopeless. Mad. And I cannot believe my own conviction, which is not really an idea but instead that deep imbedded thing, that rope of emotion which is a wish that I could do it all again. Again. Again.
And then the ghost recedes. She folds into the air. I sit still, spine stiffened in my chair. I am breathing quickly. It will be hours now, I know, before I can sleep. I grope in the hall cabinet for something to drink. I should make my mind work over the meaning of this nighttime visitation. But I cannot. I have the sensation, as determined as the longing of only moments before, that it is all past. I sit in the rocking chair in my living room. For some strange reason, I feel better with my briefcase, and I place it in my lap.
But its protection is incomplete. The wake of this intrusion leaves the currents of my emotions roily and disturbed. In the dark I sit, and I can feel the force of the large personages of my life circling about me like the multiple moons of some far planet, each one exerting its own deep tidal impulses upon me. Barbara. Nat. Both my parents. Oh, this cataclysm of love and attachment. And shame. I feel the rocking sway of all of it, and a moving sickness of regret. Desperately, desperately I promise everyone—all of them; myself; the God in whom I do not believe—that if I survive this I will do better. Better than I have. An urgent compact, as sincere and grave as any deathbed wish.
I drink my drink. I sit here in the dark and wait for peace.
28
The first thing I notice as Raymond Horgan comes into the courtroom is that he has on the same suit he wore to bury Carolyn, a subtle blue serge. The added weight does not detract from his public bearing. You would describe him now as burly, and still, in the rolling way he walks, a person of stature. He and Larren exchange the same sage grin while Raymond is sworn. Seated, Horgan looks outward to assess the crowd in a composed professional manner. He nods to Stern first, then his glance crosses mine and he acknowledges me. I do not move. I do not allow an eyelash to flutter. At this moment I wish with all my heart that I may be acquitted, not for the general sake of freedom, but so that I can see the look on Raymond Horgan the first time he has to face me on the street.
Here in the courtroom, awaiting Raymond’s entry, there was more of that epic atmosphere, the extra amperage of a special moment—four hundred people on edge, an urgent undertone in the courtroom murmur. Today, I notice, the press gallery is larger by a row and a half, and the journalistic first-string is on hand—the anchor people and columnists. I have been surprised during the trial by the extent to which the reporters have been willing to honor Stern’s injunctions to keep wide berth of me. Now that they have their file footage of me entering the courthouse, which they can show with each night’s story on TV, Barbara and I are able to come and go in relative peace. Now and then someone—usually a journalist whom I have known for years—will stop me with a question in the hallway. I refer all these matters to Stern. Last week I also encountered a freelance journalist from New York who says he is considering writing a book about the case. He believes it will make good reading. I declined his invitation to buy me dinner.
I would be oblivious to the press were it not for the morning papers. I have stopped watching the accounts on TV. The summaries seem so inept that they make me furious, even when the errors favor me. But I cannot avoid the headlines, which I see on the paper-dispensing machines as we drive into the city. The two dailies seem to have sworn a feud to see which can take the lead in trashy tabloid coverage of the case. Nico’s revelation in opening of Raymond’s amours with Carolyn produced tasteless headlines for two days. P.A. SEX the Herald blared, with all kinds of kickers and subheads. It is impossible that the jury does not view these headlines, too. They pledged during voir dire not to read the papers, but that is a promise few trial lawyers trust.
In the jury box, at the moment, there is a considerable stirring. The jurors seem far more excited to see Raymond than was the case, for example, when they first glimpsed Nico during the voir dire. Then I noticed only a few of the prospective jury members leaning over to one another and nodding in Delay’s direction. Horgan brings a greater aura to the courtroom. He has been well known for most of everybody’s adult life. He is a celebrity; Della Guardia is a replacement. Perhaps the suggestion of fleshy intrigue Nico floated in opening also contributes to the high interest. It is clear, however, that as Stern weeks ago predicted, we have reached a critical juncture in this trial. Each juror has revolved his chair to face the witness stand. As Molto comes to the podium to begin the direct examination, the large courtroom is quiet.
“State your name, please.”
“Raymond Patrick Horgan,” he answers. “The third.” With that he grins very briefly up at Larren. A private joke. I never knew that Raymond was a third. Amazing, sometimes, what comes out under oath.
Molto again has readied himself with care for the examination. Raymond clearly knows what is coming, as he should, and he and Tommy develop a nice rhythm at once. Horgan’s hands are folded. In his blue suit and finest public manner, he looks serene. All his beguiling charm is present; his candor. His gruff baritone is reduced one marking on the volume register in an effort at understatement.
Tommy is taking his time. They are going to get everything they can from Horgan, recover quickly from yesterday’s debacle in the war of impressions. They cover Raymond’s background. Born right here. High school on the East End at St. Viator’s. Two years’ college, then his dad died. He became a cop. Seven years on the force, was already a sergeant when he graduated from night law school. I am afraid for a moment that Molto is going to bring out the fact that Raymond practiced law with Larren, but that is elided. Horgan simply says it was a three-man partnership, doing primarily criminal work. After sixteen years in practice, politics.
“Some elections I won,” says Raymond, “some I lost.” With that he turns to smile fondly at Nico at the prosecutor’s table. Delay rears his half-bald head from taking notes and beams back. My God, how they look at each other! The fastest friends. The jurors seem delighted by this alliance, forged on well-known past adversity. The smiling schoolteacher watches the unspo
ken exchange between the two with apparent delight. I feel my soul sinking. This will be a very hard day.
“And do you know the defendant, Rozat Sabich?”
“I know Rusty,” Raymond says.
“Do you see him here in court?”
“I do.”
“Would you point to him and describe what he is wearing.”
“Next to Mr. Stern. Second at the defense table, in a blue chalk-stripe suit.”
This is a formality to establish that the Sabich spoken of is me. Yesterday with Eugenia, Sandy rose and agreed—“stipulated” is the term—to the identification so that we did not have to go through this exercise in finger-pointing. But now Stern quietly says to me, “Stand.” I do. I rise slowly and face Raymond Horgan. I do not smile or grimace, but I am sure my abject fury is plain. Certainly Raymond’s affability fades somewhat, even while his hand is in the air.
“That’s him,” says Raymond quietly.
Molto breezes through the history of my association with Raymond. Sandy will bring it out in detail anyway. Then he asks Raymond about Carolyn. Here Horgan becomes instantly somber. He lets his eyes fall to the rail of the witness box and says, “Yes, I knew her, too.”
“What was the nature of your relationship?”
“I met her first as a probation officer. For eight years she was employed as a deputy prosecuting attorney in our office, and for a very brief time at the end of last year we had a personal relationship as well.”
Nice, succinct. They move to the murder. Molto never mentions the election, but it emerges in Raymond’s answers by reference.
“And is there any practice in the P.A.’s office in supervising police investigations?”
“Certainly in a major case—and this was a very major case in my mind—there was a practice to assign a deputy P.A. to guide and assist the police.”
“Who made the assignment in this case?”
“Well, to short-circuit things a little bit, I would say that Mr. Sabich and I decided that he should have that role in this case.”
Tommy for the first time pauses. Raymond, it seems, may have backed down a little as a result of his meeting with Stern and me. Molto did not expect that. He asks again:
“How did Mr. Sabich get that assignment?”
“I don’t really remember whether I suggested it or he did. Like everybody else, I was confused and upset at that time. He got the case. But he was glad to have it. I remember that. He was not reluctant at all, and promised to pursue it vigorously.”
“Did he?”
“Not to my way of thinking.” This is objectionable as a conclusion but Stern does not want to interrupt. One of his thick fingers has been laid from his chin to his nose and he watches intently, not even bothering to take notes. At many times his concentration in court is trance-like. He shows very little, just absorbs. I have the same sense that I did when we were in Horgan’s office that Sandy’s calculations are not about facts or strategy but character. He is trying to figure Horgan out.
Raymond registers his complaints with my handling of the case, including having to urge me to speed up the fingerprint and fiber reports. The impression comes through clearly that I was dogging it. Then he describes the conversation in his office that night we both first realized he was going to lose.
“He asked me if I had been intimate with Carolyn.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“The truth,” says Raymond, quite simply. No big deal. “We’d been on for three months, then off.”
“And when you told him this, did Mr. Sabich express surprise in any way?”
“None at all.”
I get it. They’re going to reason backward. I asked, but I knew anyway. What is their theory? That I was outraged when I found out? Or that I gave in to the weight of accumulated grievances? Neither one makes complete sense, when you suppose, as Nico has, that my relationship with Carolyn was ongoing. Not having the right facts always hurts. I can feel many of the jurors watching me now, trying to read in me the truth of the prosecutors’ surmise.
“And at any time in this conversation or at any time earlier, did Mr. Sabich inform you that he himself had a personal relationship with Ms. Polhemus?”
Sandy is instantly back to life, on his feet.
“Objection. Your Honor, there is simply no proof of record of any personal relationship between Mr. Sabich and Ms. Polhemus.” A good tactic, if for no other reason than to break the rhythm now and draw the jury back to yesterday. But this obstacle we are throwing up still presents a painful straddle for me. We cannot continue to make an issue of this failure of proof if I am going to get on the witness stand and tell the jury that everything Stern contested for two weeks is true, that Carolyn and I indeed had a warm romance. This is one of the many delicate means that Stern is employing seemingly to discourage my testimony.
“We-e-e-ll,” drawls Larren. He turns around in his chair. “I would say almost no proof.” A nice comment for the defense. “I’m gonna let the question stand, but I want to give the jury a limiting instruction.” He faces them. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Molto is asking a question based on an assumption. It’s up to you to decide, based on the evidence you hear in court, whether that assumption is true. Just because he says this doesn’t make it so. Mr. Stern says there is not sufficient evidence to warrant that assumption, and at the end of the case that will be one of the things for you to determine. Proceed, Mr. Molto.”
Molto repeats the question.
“Certainly not,” says Raymond. The Gaelic humor has now left his face.
“Is that something you would have wanted to know?”
“Objection.”
“Rephrase it, Mr. Molto. Is it something that the witness would have expected Mr. Sabich to tell him, based on the witness’s understanding of his office’s practices?” It is rare for Larren to be so helpful to the prosecutors. I can see that Raymond is having the impact I long feared.
When the question is put as the judge suggested, Raymond buries me.
“I certainly did expect that. I never would have allowed him to handle that investigation. It raises more questions than it answers. The public should know that things are being done for professional, not personal, reasons,” he adds, a gratuitous shot. Stern, in front of me, frowns.
Molto then takes Raymond to the end. The meeting in his office. Horgan faithfully recounts my outbursts in spite of Mac’s and his warnings.
“Describe Mr. Sabich’s appearance as he left the meeting.”
“He looked quite excited, I would say. Very upset. He seemed to have completely lost his composure.”
Molto looks at Nico, then says he has nothing further on direct.
Larren takes a recess before cross. In the john, as I come out of a stall, I find Della Guardia two sinks down. His hair is too thin now to comb; instead, he tries to tickle it into place with his fingertips. His eyes flick a little bit when he notices me in the mirror.
“Not a bad witness, huh?” he asks. His intent is hard to divine. I don’t know if this is a casual aside or gloating. I keep getting the feeling that Nico is out of place emotionally. He is not oriented in this case—like offering me his hand on the day of the arraignment. He has never been the kind of person to make a frontal approach to unpleasantness, especially once someone has reached him. I remember when he divorced Diana; even though she had been running around, he took her back into the apartment for a few weeks when she was thrown out by the other guy. Nico reads something in my hesitation. “I mean, you have to admit, he is not a bad witness.”
I dry my hands. I realize now what it is. Nico still wants me to like him. God, human beings are strange. And maybe Nico even has his redeeming side. Horgan at this moment would be cold as a saber’s edge. It seems pointless at this little minute to resist him. I smile a bit. I use his nickname.
“Better than Mrs. Krapotnik, Delay.”
“Now, Mr. Horgan, you mentioned that you had a personal relationship with Ms. Po
lhemus? Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“And you also told us that you believe Mr. Sabich should have informed you that he had had such a relationship as well?”
“At a later time,” says Raymond carefully. He wants to rule out jealousy on his part. “I felt when the investigation began he had a professional obligation to tell me.”
“Have you any personal knowledge, Mr. Horgan, that there was ever such a relationship between Mr. Sabich and Ms. Polhemus?”
“That’s the point,” says Horgan. “He never told me.”
Sandy does not take getting stuck cheerfully. He looks at length toward Horgan. He wants the jury to notice that Raymond Horgan is taking shots.
“Please answer the question I asked you. Do you remember it?”
“I do.”
“But you chose not to answer it?”
Raymond’s mouth moves without words. “I apologize, Mr. Stern. I have no personal knowledge of such a relationship.”
“Thank you.” Sandy strolls. “But assuming there was something to reveal, you believe an honest official would make such disclosures to someone in a responsible position?”
“I do.”
“I see,” says Stern. He takes a moment to face Raymond. Sandy is short and soft, but in the courtroom he emits tremendous power. He is clearly equal to Raymond Horgan, who, too, is looking very firm. He sits there with his reddened Irish bulk, his hands folded, waiting for Sandy to take him on. Assuming that he comes out of this intact, Raymond’s combination of prominence and skill is likely to make him the leading defense attorney in this city. His nearest rival will be the man who is examining him now. In the years ahead there are no doubt going to be a number of multiple-defendant cases in which they will sit together as co-counsel. In a very real sense, preservation of his relationship with Raymond is of far more practical importance for Stern than anything that happens to me. The rule of life in the defense bar ordinarily is to go along and get along. The state is the only professional enemy these guys want to have.
