The Laws of Our Fathers

by Scott Turow

  'Okay, now we need to talk,' says Hobie. He points Seth away. 'Got to be just Nile and me to protect the privilege.'

  Inclined to protest, Seth can name no reason, except that he has come halfway across the country from Seattle to facilitate this meeting. He is relegated to one of the small tables bolted to the floor, while Hobie, somewhat triumphantly, directs Nile to the farthest corner. The cafeteria is compact, with glazed brick walls, spotlessly maintained, except for the stains and gang signs tooled into the white laminate tabletops. By terms of the jailhouse, this place is almost cheerful. Daylight, soothing as warm milk, emerges from a bank of barred windows, and three or four vending machines provide a touch of color. At the table nearest Seth, a slick Hispanic man is visiting with his girlfriend or his wife. With teased-up masses of dead-black hair, she has dressed to give him an eyeful - a tight red sleeveless top, cut daringly, and black jeans that make a taut casing for her healthy female bulk. Her eyes are painted so heavily they bring to mind Kabuki. She is up often to get coffee, cigarettes, a Coke. Coming and going, she and her man grab as much of each other as they can, a quick, relentless passing over of hands. They are flouting the rules, but the three or four guards in khaki looking on from their positions of retreat around the room remain impassive. Pleasure, so brief, can be forgiven.

  Eddie, with time on his hands too, has approached Seth. 'So what-all is it you write?' he asks.

  Seth rolls out his standard patter on the column: syndicated nationally, printed here in the Tribune.

  'Oh yeah, yeah,' says Eddie, but it's clear he's never heard of Michael Frain and is mildly disappointed. They both momentarily contemplate this dead end. Casting about for a subject, Seth asks if Nile's encountered any trouble in here.

  'Don't seem like. Had him in seg when he come in yesterday, but he asked for general population. Now, if he was over there in Department 2? I call that the Gladiator Wing, y'know, all these cats, nineteen years old, always rumblin and scuffiin. But he's all right here. Seems like he's okay with them BSDs. They won't let nobody kick his ass, take his food.'

  'BSDs?'

  'Black Saints Disciples, man. We get kind of familiar in here, you know?' Eddie, freely given to hilarity, laughs once more at his own remark, then rolls his toothpick around his fingertips before going on. 'You know, P O, coppers, shit, guards - you can be okay with these birds if they know where you comin from. When I started out, I worked on stateside, down in Rudyard? Lot of those officers, they just got a thing with the inmates. Their women come see 'em, guard like to come up, pinch her butt, smile like he got new teeth, and her man sittin on the other side of the glass can't do shit. Now you get you a shank in the back that way. Me? Take no shit, give no shit, man, that's my motto. I got myself in here, I'd be okay, same as Nile. Some them BSDs or GOs - Gangster Outlaws? - they'd cover me. Them gangs pretty much run the show in here anyway. You hear what I'm sayin?'

  Seth shakes his head once. He doesn't want to say a thing to slow Eddie down. Seth's decided that the guard was right to start. A column about Eddie and the jail might be a terrific piece.

  'Here,' says Eddie, lifting onto a chair one leg, decorated along the seam with a line of brown piping. He leans over confidentially now that he has found his subject. 'First thing they teach you, first day of training: Institution can only be run with the co-operation of the inmates. These days, we got a problem in here, we find whoever's ranking with the Saints, the Outlaws, we get it straightened out. See? What we want is a peaceful place. You hear? Nobody gettin cut in the shower, no gangbangers making war in the yard, no kind of three inmates waitin to cut off some guard's nuts, like they done down at Rudyard. That's what we want.'

  'And what do they want?' A man who asks questions for a living, Seth knows from the way Eddie's perpetual verbal momentum suddenly loiters they have reached the good part.

  'Them?' Eddie laughs again, more subdued. 'Now you ain't gonna write this, right?'

  Seth lifts both hands to show he has no paper, no pen - as if it is the furthest thought from his mind. Eddie reverses the chair and takes a seat, his long arms crossed over the back. He has a moon face and a fine smile, in spite of a single missing incisor. His hairline, buzzed short, cuts a scalloped frontier across the back half of his head.

  'What these gangsters want is not to have nobody all over them gettin their shit in here.'

  'Shit?'

  'Contraband, let's say. Don't you look at me like that. I'm not sayin anything ain't the truth. Everybody round here will tell you that. See, these gangbangers need that shit. Man, these kids in here, jail, it's like graduation for some of them: this is where the big boys go. Hey, you think I'm kiddin you? I'm not kiddin.' Eddie looks back toward Hobie, as if he has some hopes he might be nearby and able to agree. But Hobie and Nile are still engaged. Hobie's briefcase, a smooth pouch of umber-colored Italian leather, is on the table, and Hobie, as usual, is doing the talking. Beside them, each has a small paper cup of coffee, breathing steam. Eddie goes on.

  'So when they on the outside, half these young men already thinkin, What-all this damn gang gonna do for me when I get in there? Gotta be anybody dis you, beat you down, man, gotta be all your gangbanger brothers down for you, kickin ass and shit. Gotta be. Now half these young men, more than half, they in here for narcotics and quite a number come in strung out. Gang's got to provide, see? Some others, you know, they like to get them a little buzz, break up the boredom. Either way, the dope's the gang. Like them ads on TV say: Membership got its privileges. Gives them money. Discipline. Gangs gotta get their shit in here.'

  'We were searched pretty thoroughly coming in.'

  'Hell yeah, you better bet we gonna search you, cause this here is a penal institution, man, we ain't gonna help nobody break the law. Sheriff's got to run for re-election you know. Mayor do too. But these gangbangers find a way. Shit comes in here, same as the money to pay for it. I mean, that's how it is. Everybody knows that. Kind of works, let's say, to mutual advantage.' Eddie smiles again, but on reflection he seems concerned that he may have shown excessive candor, particularly with a reporter. He jams the toothpick, long held between his fingers, back into his mouth and drifts off to his duties.

  Kindle County, Seth thinks. Always something dirty doin. Always amazing him. Will he ever escape this place? No. He's wondered that for thirty years and now he knows the answer: No. This is where his dreams are set. In the gloomy winter light, thick as shellac. In the air of childhood, tinted with the oily-smelling smoke and ash of burnt coal. No escaping. He and Lucy have lived everywhere: Seattle, Pawtucket, Boston, Miami, and Seattle again for the last eleven years. But now that his life is up for grabs, now that this lugubrious mid-life mourning period, too prolonged to be called a crisis, has him thinking of fresh starts, he answered yes when the flight attendant asked, 'Going home?'

  About ten minutes later, Hobie and Nile are done. Nile seems more pensive. Hobie says he'll see him tomorrow and Seth embraces Nile quickly, before he's returned to Eddie's custody. The guard waves goodbye, still laughing.

  'Okay, Froggy,' says Hobie. 'Pluck your magic twanger. Let's blow.'

  'So?' asks Seth, as soon as they are on their way back across the yard.

  '"So," what?'

  'So what do you think? You going to get him off?' 'Wouldn't really know. I left my crystal ball at home.' 'Yeah, but how does the case look?' 'Beats me. I didn't talk to him about it.' 'Christ, what the hell did you talk about then for forty minutes? O.J.?'

  'What I talked to this young fellow, my client, about is none of your business. But what I discuss with every client first time I meet em is my fee.'

  'Your fee!'

  'Hell yes, my fee. I asked you, first thing - didn't I ask you, "Can he afford a lawyer?" And you told me, "No problem." Hell yeah, I talked to him about my fee. I pay alimony to three mean women.'

  'How much?'

  'That's none of your goddamn business, either. I told him what I get, which is one hell of a lot, and he says he c
an handle it. That's jazz to me. I don't ask em where-all it's coming from. Long as he ain't stickin up my mother. All I care is check comes upfront and clears.'

  'Jesus,' says Seth. 'What are you doing out of your coffin in daylight?'

  'You wanna hear stories about gettin beat? I'll tell you stories. I had one sumbitch handcuffed his woman to the radiator, just to prove he'd be back with the money soon as we finished in court. And you know what I ended up with? Bill for the fuckin hacksaw.'

  Seth laughs out loud. Hobie's bullshit is still the best. Reality so seldom intrudes.

  'Upfront,' Hobie repeats. 'In hand. Period. You find him another lawyer that won't do him like that, that lawyer isn't worth having, because he doesn't know shit.'

  'Nobody said anything about another lawyer. I told you, he wants somebody who isn't from around here, so he's sure they won't be beholden to Eddgar. I promised him he can be damn certain of that with you.'

  Hobie pauses for reflection, a huge pile of a person, the color of dark oak. As he has grown older, little dark flecks of melanin have appeared around the deep wells of his eyes, and his hairline, while not as sadly reduced as Seth's own, has undergone a mature retreat. Softly styled and salted with errant kinks of grey, his hair combines with the beard and the fine suit to lend a subdued edge to his volatile persona.

  'See now, this is what I don't savvy,' Hobie says. 'Eddgar's no kind of pissed with Nile. He says Nile bolted right after the shooting and is refusing to talk to him.'

  'Where do you get that? Dubinsky?'

  'Eddgar. Called me in DC last night. The warden told him I was counsel.'

  'Jesus Christ. Why didn't you say you talked to Eddgar?'

  'Listen here,' says Hobie. He stops again in the midst of his rumbling forward movement. 'You know, you have got the wrong picture. You got the wrong idea. You know what you are here? You're like the matchmaker. What's that word? The shotgun?'

  'In Yiddish? The shadkin?’

  'That's it. You're the shadkin. Now, the shadkin don't get in bed with the bride and the groom. You want me to represent this young man? Okay, I'm gonna do it. But I can't be discussin every detail with you. I got privileges to protect. You better get straight on that right now. This isn't high school. So don't keep askin me what my client's told me. And don't you talk to Nile about this case anymore either. This is a trial,' he says, 'this is war. You gotta think four steps ahead. Fourteen. Those prosecutors lay a subpoena on you, I don't want you to have squat you can testify about. This is murder, man. Serious shit.' Hobie loves this, Seth knows, the superior knowledge, the strutting around, the gravity of his mission. At least it isn't murder one. The state charged conspiracy to commit second degree. No death penalty. Seth checked himself.

  'Well, what did Eddgar want anyhow?'

  'Listen to you,' says Hobie. 'What did I just carry on about?' Yard time is over and the place has regained a sullen air. The inmates are all locked down for the afternoon count, but one or two still call after them from windows high above. 'Hey, slick. You lookin good.'

  'Eddgar's gonna throw Nile's bail,' Hobie says finally. 'That's what he called about. Says he's willing to put up the family manse - $300,000 worth. I gotta go see him this afternoon. How's that hit you?'

  It doesn't sound like Eddgar is what Seth thinks. 'Confused me, too,' admits Hobie. 'Even Nile was pretty much astounded.'

  'Maybe Eddgar's developed a conscience. Maybe he's bugged by the ironies of the situation. I mean, have you thought about this? Nile's in jail for murder and Eddgar's been walking the streets for twenty-five years. It's incredible.'

  'Could be it runs in the blood,' says Hobie.

  'Oh, that's cute,' says Seth. 'You're the one who's supposed to think Nile's innocent.'

  'No, man, no way is that my job. My job is to get him off. Period. I don't know what happened. And if I can avoid it, I don't ask, either. They gotta unburden themselves, or spin a tale, well bless them, then I have to listen. But the game here, man, is can the state prove them guilty? That's all. Whether they did it, or some dude named Maurice did it, you know, I don't worry my little mind.'

  'He's innocent.'

  'No, he told you he's innocent. There's a whole world of difference.'

  Half a continent away, Nile, on the pay phone, had issued a nasal denial. 'It's bullshit. They say I paid this guy $10,000 to set this up and it's bullshit, all of it, the $10,000, all of it, it never happened.' The fierce desperation of this declaration had been too daunting for Seth to probe, unsure if Nile - or, Seth's darkest fear, the denials - might fall apart. He encourages Hobie now, much as he has bolstered himself in the last few days.

  'He's too feckless, Hobie. He's never had the first clue.'

  'Listen, Jack, you better take yourself a reality pill. No decent prosecutor's gonna go puttin on a piece-of-shit gangbanger to call a white boy a killer without plenty of corroboration. Not even considering that Nile's daddy's a politician in the same damn party as the PA, somebody they'd want to cut any break they could. Get yourself ready, man, cause the state's gonna bring some evidence to that courtroom.'

  Seth is listening. This is the first he's heard of how Hobie really looks at it. When they were cruising in from the airport, it was old times and new times, the state of the world with Lucy, the latest on Hobie's kids. Now that they're here in the scariest place on earth, Hobie is giving him the logic: Nile's guilty. That's what he's saying. The prosecutors wouldn't have brought the case if they had a choice.

  'Well, he's gotta have a chance, doesn't he?'

  'Seth, man.' Hobie stops to face him, his dark eyes bloodshot and direct. It is the rare moment between them, fully sincere. 'I'm gonna go full-out. Okay?'

  'What about Sonny? Doesn't it help to have a judge who knows him? And you?'

  ‘I don't know her anymore. You don't even know her anymore.

  And I don't know what she thinks about Nile and whether that's any good for him a'tall. Besides,' Hobie mutters, 'she may damn well take herself off this case.'

  'You mean she might not be the judge?'

  'Maybe not. And even if she decides to keep it, could be I make a motion to disqualify her.'

  'No,' says Seth. 'Really?'

  'Whoa,' says Hobie. 'Look at you. Damn, I knew you were gonna be like psychotic, waitin till you see that lady up on the bench. Tell me that ain't so. You're transparent, man. You musta been a store window in a prior life.'

  Seth laughs. A strange coincidence, he says. Life is full of them.

  'All the fucked-up luck,' says Hobie. 'Honestly,' he says, and after further reflection adds, 'Shit.' He fishes his mouth around as if he might spit. 'See, man, you never change. You're still like cr-azy with that whole California scene we went through. Nile. Sonny. Eddgar. You won't ever let go of it. You gotta write about it. You gotta think about it. Then you gotta write about it some more. I oughta call you Proust. Honest and truly.'

  'Everybody's got a youth, Hobie.'

  'Yeah, well listen here, Proust. You stay away from her till I get this all scoped out. I don't care what damn curiosity you got. I don't want to be decidin it's best for Nile that she preside and have you spook her off this case, cause she sees she's gone be holdin class reunion in her courtroom. Time being, you do like me, man, just lay low, till I can figure out what a good lawyer's supposed to.'

  'Which is what?'

  'How the hell to take advantage of the situation.'

  They have come close to the admitting area, where they started. The bolts are disengaged and they progress toward the uncloistered light. The lieutenant makes it a point to greet Hobie on the way back through. The black thing. There's a handshake and a riff about the pizza. Then Hobie and Seth are outside, moving toward the last guard shack and the iron gates, meant, apparently, to repel motorized invasion.

  'Proust,' says Hobie again, archly shaking his head to rub it in a little more. 'I'm gone go find you some tea cakes, I swear to God. Help you hold on to all this shit you can't forget.'

>   'Hey, I held on to you, too, so just lighten up.' It took some doing. They both know that.

  'Oh, yes you did!' says Hobie emphatically, and in his grand comical way grabs Seth suddenly and kisses him on the forehead. Then Hobie throws a burly arm about him and pulls Seth along the walk, celebrating the relief of the free air outside the jailhouse. He laughs hugely and repeats himself. 'Oh, yes you did.'

  PART TWO

  TESTIMONY

  PEOPLE MY AGE ARE HUNG UP ON THE SIXTIES. EVERYBODY knows that and regards it as sort of a problem with us: the generation who won't throw out their bell-bottoms. Whenever something by the Beatles comes on the car radio, my son begins to moan for fear I'm going to sing along. 'But look,' I sometimes want to say, 'all these people said they were going to change things, and things changed: The war. The cruel formalities that disadvantaged minorities or women. People stopped behaving like they'd all been knocked out of the same stamping plant.' These days I say I'm going to stop dropping my underwear on the bathroom floor, and I can't even change that. So naturally I think something special happened in the sixties. Didn't it? Or was it just because I was at that age, between things, when everything was still possible, that time, which in retrospect, doesn't seem to last long?

  - MICHAEL FRAIN

  'The Survivor's Guide,' September 4, 1992

  MANY YEARS AGO, I LIVED WITH A WOMAN WHO LEFT graduate school in Philosophy right after she read a remark of Nietzsche's. He'd said: 'Every great philosophy [is] the personal confession of its originator, a type of involuntary and unaware memoirs.' In light of that observation, I guess my friend decided she was, literally, in the wrong department.

  Nietzsche - and, as ever, the woman - were brought to mind recently when I went to a gathering in Washington in which some of the DC smarty-pants types, the pundits and pols, were analyzing the primaries and repeating as gospel, the adage Tip O 'Neill used to like to repeat, 'All politics are local.' But to me that saying has always seemed to be off by an order of magnitude. It's Nietzsche who was on the button. I suspect he'd say, 'All politics are personal.'