Personal injuries kc-5

by Scott Turow

  She groaned. Which made him more insistent.

  "Tell me what sense there is that Lorraine is sick like she is. Any? Why her? Why now? Why that terrible motherfucker of a disease? It doesn't add. Or take a look at our cases: forty-eight-year-old lathe operator. Machine goes down and he turns the power off on the line to fix it. The foreman comes back, figures some joker is fucking with him like they do twice a day, and throws the switch. Hand is cut in half. Off-duty fireman's at somebody's house washing the storm windows. He's gone for two minutes to get more Windex and the three-year-old climbs up on a stool to look outside, and goes right through the open window, DOA at Mount Sinai. Or Harold, for Chrissake. One minute you're a cheerful salesman on the highway, the next minute you're a meatball in a wheelchair. It's The Play. Ball hits a stone on the infield, hops over your glove, and you lose the World Series. You go home and cry. It's really chaos and darkness out there, and when we pretend it's not, it's just The Play. We're all onstage. Saying our lines. Playing at whoever we're trying to be at the moment. A lawyer. A spouse. Even though we know in the back of our heads that life is a lot more random and messed-up than we can stand to say to ourselves. Okay?" His black eyes lit on her despite the highway traffic. Something-his intensity-was frightening. "Okay?" he asked again.

  "No," she said.

  "Why not?"

  She crossed her arms, deliberating on whether he deserved an answer.

  "I believe in God," she told him.

  "Me too," he said. "But He made me and this is what I think."

  An exasperated sound gargled up from her involuntarily. Didn't she know? Who told her to try to argue with a lawyer?

  One of those mornings in January, Feaver and Evon were in the 600 only a few blocks from work when they became snarled in a honking line of stalled traffic. Far ahead, heavy plumes of what appeared at first to be smoke expanded in the frigid air, swirling above the yellow blinkers atop a cordon of striped barricades and emergency vehicles. Approaching by inches, they eventually saw a covey of city sewer workers in quilted vests and construction helmets leaning on the yellow rail they'd erected around an open manhole. They were engaged in no visible labor other than shouting down to a couple of their colleagues who had descended. A young woman in a hard hat waved a red flag, sending the traffic along through a tingle lane. When she stopped them abreast of her, Feaver lowered his window, admitting a sudden riffle of cold.

  "How come the cutest girl's always holding the flag?" he asked her. She was African-American, with a broad face and wide eyes and lovely, peaked cheekbones that plumped with an enormous grin while she flagged him on.

  "How do you know her?" Evon asked as the Mercedes spurted ahead in the traffic.

  He looked puzzled. "I don't."

  "And you just say that to her?" "Sure. Why not?"

  "Because she might mind."

  "Did it look like she minded?"

  "But what's the point? Can I ask? What's the point of saying that?" Her tone was careful, hoping not to be incendiary. But she'd always wanted to ask his kind of man this question.

  "She's cute," he answered. "You think it's easy to look cute in a construction helmet? I don't. You think it's an accident she looks cute? I mean, she got up in the morning. She tied that bandanna on her head, even though she'd be wearing a hard hat. She looked at her tush in her jeans. Who was she doing that for?" On the morning ride, he drove in without a topcoat, and he laid the long hand with which he'd been gesturing on his bright tie. "For me. A million guys like me. And so I say thanks. That's all."

  "That's all?"

  "Maybe I'll come through her intersection again someday. Maybe the light turns red. Maybe she's just getting off for lunch. I mean, I can imagine anything. But right now, it's thanks. That's all."

  That was Feaver. He wasn't a mouth-breather, not the kind of jerk always hopping along on his erection as if it were a pogo stick. He had some style. But he was still on alert, a heat-seeking missile shot through the sky and waiting to lock on. He stood too close when he was speaking. His wife lay at home, dying by the inch each day, and he did not wear a wedding ring. Falling into his car each morning, Evon almost gasped at the sickly mix of sweet smells from his eau de cologne, hair spray, fancy shaving cream and body lotion. He was his own most deeply prized possession and he liked to advertise this, as if the sheer power of his vanity might overcome a woman.

  When she'd met McManis the first time in Des Moines, he'd warned her.

  `Our c.i.'-confidential informant, he meant, a polite term for snitch-`apparently has a big rep as a ladies' man. You're gonna have to act the part, and he's the type who might want to blend fact and fiction.' Jim had given her three rules. First, don't put up with anything that bothered her; they'd back her completely. Second, don't be offended, because she wasn't going to change him.

  `And third,' McManis had said, hesitating long enough that she knew this was the important one, `don't fall for it.

  No chance of that, she'd answered. So far, there hadn't been many problems. One time in his office, she'd gotten a sly, sidewise look as he asked, almost offhandedly, when it was Bonita was supposed to stumble upon them going at it on his leather sofa, a portion of the scenario that Evon was still hoping to skip. She'd stiff-armed him with a quick look and had heard no more about it.

  But there wasn't a woman in the office who wouldn't have warned her. The female employees gathered for coffee breaks and lunches in a narrow interior area that was referred to as `the kitchen,' a place where a male never visited for a period longer than half a minute to retrieve coffee or the brown sack containing his lunch. Setting her cover, Evon had casually mentioned how kind Robbie had been, stopping for her each morning. Oretta, one of the file clerks, had hooted.

  "Girl." she said. "you get in his taxi. sooner or later he'll be askin for the fare." Shrill, lascivious laughter from each woman reverberated off the steel cabinets. But later, as Bonita was filing, she made it a point to catch Evon in the corridor.

  "You know, when I started in here, I was single, you know, we partied some." She did not use a name but glanced over her shoulder and tipped the teased-up tufts of jet hair toward Robbie's office. Bonita would not have gotten through the interview without catching Robbie's attention. She wore all her clothing a half-size too tight, her pleasing contours well displayed. "But pretty soon, I went back in to seein Hector. And you know, you've got a relationship or somethin, he'll flirt a little, but he won't push or nothin, if you really mean it. He wants you to like him. That's how he is. Like a little kid." Bonita slammed the long white file cabinet back into its recess in the wall. "And you'll like him," she said. Within the raccoonish circles of shadow, Bonita's dark eyes glimmered with the penetrating light of conviction. Then she moved off, leaving Evon with a momentary feeling akin to fright.

  CHAPTER 7

  The jealous ruler of all the blinking equipment housed in the conference room cabinet was an electronics expert detailed to Petros named Alf Kiecker. Alf was a happy pirate, burly and pie-faced, with more curly reddish hair than I would have thought the FBI tolerated. Klecker, as I came to learn, had spent many years in D.C. as a 'black-bag guy,' who'd done the surreptitious break-ins when a judge had approved installing a bug. He was renowned in the Bureau for having remained more than a full twenty-four hours in a janitor's closet in the U.S. Senate Building in order to avoid being detected during ABSCAM.

  Immediately before this assignment, Alf had dwelled on the `black world' side of the Bureau, working what the agents called FCI, foreign counterintelligence. He arrived on January 27 to prepare Robbie for his first recorded encounter with Walter Wunsch, carrying a bagful of gizmos that were only now being released for domestic use. Tape recorders, he said, were out. And the standard radio transmitter c.i.'s usually wore, the T-4, was dangerous these days, when any kid with a police scanner could stumble on the signal. Instead Alf had brought a device called a FoxBIte. It had been developed by a retired Bureau tech guy, who'd licensed the design to
his former employers for a fortune. It was about half the size of a package of cigarettes, was less than an inch thick, and weighed only six ounces. It did not contain enough metal to set off the courthouse magnetometers and it recorded not to tape but to memory cards, which were downloaded to a computer for replay. To provide an ear on what was happening, and a backup in case the FoxBIte failed, Robbie would also wear a slightly larger transmitting unit, `a digital frequency hopper,' as Alf called it, which would broadcast an encrypted signal across a randomized series of channels. A field playback unit, programmed to receive and record the FoxBlte's signal, would be housed in a surveillance van parked near the courthouse.

  Robbie shook his head as he hefted the two units.

  "I got a pen that records to a microchip," he told Kiecker.

  "Son," Alf said, `you let a defense lawyer loose with the kind of fidelity your microchip gets and there'll be twelve people nodding when he claims the defendant was saying `honey,' not `money.' No offense, George."

  None taken, I replied. The five of us-Evon, Robbie, McManis, Alf, and me-filled the small conference room. The design of McManis's suite had made this the most secure meeting place, since it was not visible from reception. The furnishings were somewhat spartan, a long rectangular Parsons-style conference table surrounded by black vinyl barrel chairs on casters, a contrast to the lavish improvements left by the prior tenant. McManis's personal office and the conference room each had two walls wainscoted in the same red oak as the entry. Expensive, rosy Karastan carpeting softened sound throughout.

  "This puppy gives you the highest fidelity possible," Alf said. "You can tell what kind of heels a perp's got on his shoes. No joshin."

  Klecker showed Robbie the Velcro holster which he'd secure on Feaver's inside thigh to hold the equipment. The lead for the tiny omnidirectional mike, black and smaller than the nail on my little finger, would come out the top of his zipper, hidden under the flap on his trousers. Feaver had been told to wear a dark suit for that reason. Holding the two units against his thigh, he remained dubious.

  "This stuff's gonna feel like it weighs two tons."

  "Robbie, all c.i.'s say that the first time they put on a body recorder," McManis told him. Both Robbie and I had taken well to McManis. Jim was the sort of level, unflappable person that FBI agents are on television. I knew he was an attorney by training; UCORC would not have let him play this role were he not. But beyond that, his background, like that of all the other UCAs, was opaque. Long after Petros was over, I learned that his father was a retired detective in Philadelphia, which, somehow, was not a surprise. I had always recognized in Jim the enviably settled air of a man content both with where he'd come from and with his own enhancements of his fundamental lot.

  Jim had a soothing touch with Robbie now, reminding him of all the safeguards in place. Evon would be wearing an earpiece, lacquered under a lick on the long side of her haircut, that picked up an additional infrared signal from the FoxBlte, allowing her to listen in on the conversation with Wunsch. She'd be right outside, in case anything went wrong. Jim himself would be downstairs with Alf in the surveillance van, prepared to call the cavalry, if need be.

  "It's all covered," said Jim.

  "I hope so," said Feaver. He had an almost superstitious fear of Tuohey and was convinced that if he were ever caught with the recorder, he would be killed, or at least seriously harmed, before getting out of the courthouse.

  "Suppose you better step outside," Klecker told Evon. He was ready for Feaver to let down his trousers so he could strap on the harness.

  "Right," said Robbie. "We want her to be able to keep her mind on her work."

  "Yeah, really," said Evon.

  Sennett arrived while she was out there, and they reentered the conference room together as McManis was going through the final formalities with Robbie. For each recording, Feaver was required to sign a consent form. Federal law provides that before the government records anybody, there must be either an interception order, signed by a judge, or consent by one party to the conversation. UCORC's protocol also required the FoxBIte to be turned on and off via a remote which one of the agents would hold on to, ensuring that Robbie could not exercise any choice over what he recorded. McManis threw the switch now and took a seat in one of the barrel chairs, discreetly directing his voice toward the mike at Robbie's belt line.

  "This is Special Agent UCN James McManis," he said. It was months before I figured out that 'UCN' stood for 'undercover name.' He gave the date and time and described the anticipated meeting between Feaver and Wunsch.

  Evon and Robbie waited while Sennett repeated lastminute instructions. Make sure Walter spoke. Nods, head shakes, facial expressions-none of that would be captured by the recorder. Feaver flexed his forehead and circled his shoulders, undertaking what he purported to be relaxation techniques suggested by Stanislavsky. Finally, McManis gave a thumbs-up and we all lined up at the conference room door to shake Robbie's hand. It was still stone cold when he got to me. THE KINDLE COUNTY Superior Court Law and Equity Department, the civil courthouse, was built in the 1950s and its architecture reflects that confused American era when, appropriately, all buildings were square. It has the proportions of an armory, half a block around and equally high, constructed in yellow brick and walled in the interior with six inches of plaster, ordered up out of Augie Bolcarro's enduring gratitude to various trade unions. To add some sense of the grandeur of the law, a classical dome, in the manner of Bulfinch, was plopped atop the building, bleeding weak light down through a central rotunda. There is also a variety of silly concrete festoonery spaced along the flat cornice, including masks of Justice and other Greek figures, and a cantilevered portico, supported by greened chains. The building has always been known as `the Temple,' a term so timeworn that it has lost the ironic inflections with which it was spoken during the structure's first years.

  True to his view of himself as a stage veteran, Feaver's jitters had largely passed once the drama was in motion. He alighted from the elevator on the eighth floor and led Evon toward the rear corridor and the office of Judge Malatesta's clerk, Walter Wunsch. Walter had been a creature of the Kindle County Courthouse since the age of nineteen, when his ward committeeman found him his first job running the elevators, a position which some patronage appointee continued to fill until two years ago, long after the cars were fully automated. These days Walter was a precinct captain himself and an alternate ward committeeman, a man of considerable political swack. According to Robbie, he'd been bagging for various judges for decades.

  Walter was angular, long-nosed, and moody. By Feaver's description, Wunsch, dressed with Germanic discipline in heavy wool suits, even in the heat of summer, would stand behind his desk, his hands always in his pockets, as he offered stark opinions on all matters. As revealed by the recordings, he had a sour, piercing sense of humor that occasionally reminded me, privately, of Sennett's.

  "You know how some people are always talking to you like they hate your guts?" Robbie explained to us. "Sarcastic? Making fun? That's Walter. Only he isn't kidding." Wunsch's poor humor was attributed to a hard-knocks childhood, but Robbie had few details.

  Walter was in his office today, dourly contemplating the stacks of court filings on his desk, when Robbie and Evon arrived at his doorway. He looked up grudgingly.

  "Hey, Walter!" cried Robbie. "How was Arizona? Good weather?" Robbie had financed a golf trip for Walter late in the fall, at the conclusion of a lengthy damage prove-up which had gone quite well for Robbie and his client.

  "Too damn hot," said Walter. "Hundred six, two days. I was hugging the sides of those buildings when I walked down the street, trying to find some effing shade. I felt like a lousy cockroach."

  "How about the missus? She like it?"

  "You'd have to ask her. She was happy I couldn't go golfin. She seemed to like that part. I don't know how she liked the rest." He moved papers from one side of his desk to another and asked what was up.

  "Rep
ly brief." Robbie turned to Evon for the document and introduced her, light-handedly laying down Evon's cover. Attempting warmth, Walter failed. His smile, as Robbie had suggested to her, was mean. In any mood, he was not very pleasant-looking, sallow, with gravelly skin. He was goatshouldered and potbellied, one of those narrow men on whom nature had hitched an almost comical hummock of fat. His large, ruddy nose veered off noticeably at the point and his hair was almost gone. What remained was pasted in unwashed gray strands across his crown.

  "All right, lady," said Robbie. He squeezed Evon around the shoulders for Walter's benefit, well aware that she was onstage and could offer no resistance. "Why don't you give me one sec with Walter? I want to tell him an off-color story."

  Evon took a seat on a wooden bench across the corridor, within range of the infrared.

  "Your latest?" she heard Walter asking as soon as she was gone.

  "Latest what?"

  "Yeah, right," said Walter.

  "I wish I got half as much as people think."

  "That'd be about a tenth of what you say."

  "Walter, you used to like me."

  "Tunaftsh used to be twenty-nine cents a can. So how long will she entertain you?"

  "Awhile." Robbie's voice, as it next emerged, was leaking oil. "Suck a golf ball through a garden hose, Walter."

  Evon started and reflexively glanced down the hall. In Wunsch's office, there was a long pause as Walter loitered, perhaps with disconsolate thoughts of his wife.

  "So whatta you got besides gardening tips?" he finally asked. She could hear the envelope crinkling as Robbie handed over the reply brief. He asked Walter to make sure the judge read it.

  "Silvio reads every word. Christ, sometimes I wonder if he thinks he's the Virgin Mary. I don't think he figured out yet there's such a thing as bullshit." With that, there was a thick thwack as the envelope landed on yet another pile of pleadings on one of the cabinets. Walter's assessment of the brief's merit was plain.