by Scott Turow
'That's what he said? That he told other officers he'd accept the files because he didn't mind coming to the IV Tower?'
'Uh-huh. You know he got Winky, Crouch, Warbone, Handman, Turkey Swoop.' Together, Tommy and Hardcore try, with only limited success, to bring out the names of the remaining members whom Nile supervised. 'Dang,' says Core, 'what that cuz be named?' Tommy lets it go.
Closer to me than he has been before, Hardcore, I note, is no child. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, but all youth is gone from him. His face is closed-down and tough, the black, wide, rheumy eyes slow-moving, his look always insolent. What the guards privately - and out of no small measure of fear - call jailhouse trash. When he lifts a hand to scratch his cheek, I see that his nails have grown long and that each is capped by an amber section perhaps three-quarters of an inch, adding the insinuation of a strange, random element in his character.
'And once he assumed this role, how often was Nile at the Tower?'
'Most days, seem like.'
'And what was the nature of your relationship?' 'We ain gettin tight or nothin, but I be knowin the dude. He cool and all. Like to be hangin most the time.' 'What do you mean by hanging?'
'You know, man, down by them doorways, hangin with the homies, hearin the hoot. Laughin, you know. Just hangin and all'
'Did he require you to fill out monthly probation reports?' Hardcore smiles and lets a hand blow by. Not so he remembers. 'And over time, did you ever meet any members of his family?' 'Uh-huh,' says Core. 'Who was that?' 'Met his daddy.' 'Senator Loyell Eddgar?'
'Loyell, huh? That his name?' Hardcore draws in his cheeks. White folks.
'And how did that meeting take place?'
'Well, see now, thass a tale.' In the witness chair, Core laughs and rearranges himself, crossing a leg to tell his story. 'Seem like one day, you know, man, we by them benches by the Tower, and I'm rappin to Nile, cause, you know, got to be cool with the PO, right? And we get with it, I go like, "Yo, that DOC, man" ' -Department of Corrections - ' "they damn ornery with our cuz Kan-el, man, they stepped on his release twice, man, and he done his time, man, that's just bitch-ass cold, they just steppin on him cause they know he tip-top BSD, cause he down for his, ain counta no tickets or nothin he done in there, can't be, cause ain nobody gone say shit bout him, even if he done it. You hear what I'm sayin?'
'And so Nile, he like, "You-all oughta best be talkin with my daddy, you and you homes."
'And I like, "Who-all you daddy?"
'Oh, man, nigger, my daddy he be it, he got power, Jack, he a senator and shit, he done got me my job.'
Tommy interrupts. 'Nile told you that? That the Senator had gotten him his job?' With this nugget, Tommy slides his eyes at the reporters in the jury box.
'Yeah, he gone on all bout his daddy. Say, "Man, he on some committee or shit, them DOC they gotta listen up on him, he get on them, it be all over. Y'all oughta meet him. No lie. Maybe dude can help you out some." He be goin like that.'
'And did you agree to meet the Senator?'
'You know, not up the top, but Nile, man, he be, you know, you say persistent. Got to be a thang, you know. "You-all wanna get with my daddy? My daddy and all wanna get with you."
'So one time, man, I kickin with I-Roc and we fall to this thang, how my PO sky-up bout we oughta get with his daddy, help out cuz Kan-el. And ‘I-Roc, he like, "Might be fat, could be fat, we kickin some serious shit here."
'So I say to Nile, "Yo, okay, we get it on with you daddy." '
'And did you finally meet Senator Eddgar?'
'Sure enough.'
'When?'
'May. Seem like about then 'cause it gettin to be warm, you know?'
'And where did this meeting take place?'
Gazing downward, Hardcore laughs, again his mind full of the scene. 'See now, man, we done a lot fussin bout that, cause ‘I-Roc, you know, he ain tight with too many white folks, and you know, Nile was buzzin me how his daddy so busy and shit. So we got it finally, we gone meet in T-Roc's SEL?'
'You met in Jeff T-Roc's Mercedes, is that correct?' Tommy again briefly faces the press gallery. Like the customs dogs who smell drugs through steel casings, the reporters are on alert now. Here it comes. Scandal. A politician in the back seat of a limousine with street-gang leaders. One of those memorable courthouse stories - people in odd places, doing things no one could imagine. Through his fussy courtroom manner, Molto is unable to contain a discordant element: distaste for Eddgar. The Senator may be the state's witness, but the prosecutor holds him and his antics in low regard.
'And where was the car located when you met?'
'North End, man, can't remember quite 'xactly, some corner.'
'And how long did the meeting last?'
'Say, bout half hour or so.'
'And who was present?'
'Nile, me, T-Roc, and the daddy.' 'Senator Eddgar?'
'Yeah, him,' answers Core, with a brief scowl. He does not like Eddgar either.
'And can you tell us what was said?'
Core hoots, scoffing somewhat at the memory. 'Man, we was thinkin, we gone get Kan-el out. And this dude, the daddy, he all like whacked or somethin. He like, you know, got his own program, man. We goin, "Yo, we-all, we got do this thang here, get Kan-el flyin."
'And he like, "Oh me, no no, we best be organizin this shit and all." I mean it was powerful, way he went on.'
'Was it Senator Eddgar's idea that BSD would be the basis for a political organization?'
'That's what I'm sayin here.'
'And how did you and T-Roc react?'
'T-Roc? After some ticks, this motherfucker, the daddy, he just up on himself, man, and ‘I shoot me kind of a look, he like to posse out. He all ready to book, then he come and get it, he in his own car. Kinda funny,' Core adds and once more displays that ample smile. 'Anyways, they get theyself out pretty soon there, and T-Roc, he be like,' 'Can you believe this limp mother?" Man, he was burned. He was deep.'
'And did you speak with Nile?'
'Oh yeah. Yeah, yeah.'
'When and where?'
'Next time he come round T-4. In that next week there. I like to wail on Nile. "That all's just a psych, man, that motherfucker just playin us, man."
'And Nile, he kind of, you know, shrug and all. "That how he be. He play you."
‘I say, "I ain down for that, no motherfucker play me, daddy or no. Got to stall out on that shit, man. I go head up any motherfucker, man, do me like that. I'd cap that motherfucker soon as look at him." I, you know, be goin like that.'
'And what, if anything, did Nile say?'
'Well, you know, he kind of like lookin, like he just ain gone believe nobody be ravin on his daddy like that. And I'm like, "Fuck you, motherfucker, fuck you up, too, you want." I'm trippin and all'
At intervals, I've had some instinct to curb Hardcore's language. This is still a courtroom, to which the public is invited. But he is too natural, too forceful a storyteller in his own mode to bear much interruption. Even Hobie, who until this moment has had the star turn here, seems to have no urge to slow him down. Core, quite evidently, is enjoying himself. Over the months I've been sitting in Criminal, I've been struck by how often a simple, childish desire for attention accounts for the presence of many of these young people. Most of these kids grow up feeling utterly disregarded - by fathers who departed, by mothers who are overwhelmed, by teachers with unmanageable classrooms, by a world in which they learn, from the TV set and the rap of the street, they do not count for much. Crime gathers for them, if only momentarily, an impressive audience: the judge who sentences, the lawyer who visits, the cops who hunt them - even the victim who, for an endless terrified moment on the street, could not discount them.
'And following this exchange in which you informed Nile you were angry with his father, did you have any other conversation with Nile about Senator Eddgar?'
'Nah,' says Core, and freezes Tommy. 'Not first. Then, you know, one day, might even be a month gone by, we
all just kickin round T-4 and he come up on me, and he, like first thing, he a'ks me, "Yo, like, you really cool with that shit, how you fade my daddy?"
'So I be thinkin, Oh, you done it now, nigger, this PO, he gone get in yo face how you rippin on his daddy. "I's just talkin shit," I say, and soon as I done said it, I can see, you know, like he busted.'
'Disappointed?' asks Tommy.
'Right,' says Hardcore, 'right. So maybe two weeks later, man, I like, "So how is it, dude, you really be wantin me to smoke you daddy?"
'And he say like that, "Yeah, I do." '
'Who's he?' Tommy asks. 'Who were you talking to?'
'Nile.'
'The defendant?' 'Yeah, right.'
Nile, when I look, has his chin at Hobie's shoulder. He is speaking to him with greater animation than he's shown at any point until now. Hobie is nodding emphatically, as his expensive pen races across the yellow pad.
'And where were you? When you had this talk? Who was around?'
'Just me and him. You know how it is, when he come down round T-4, I's sort of, you know, gettin him back to his 'mobile, so he don't get jacked or nothing.'
'So you were escorting him down the street near T-4 to his car?'
"Xactly,' says Core. "He like, "I give you $25,000, you fade him."
'And I go like, "Yo, you bent, man." ' "Uh-uh", he say, "hell I am anyhow, I mean what I say, you do it."
'I like, "Man, motherfucker, I see you motherfuckin money, we gone know you mean that you behind it."
'Whoa! Dude not down with that. He were burnin, ready to tear it up. I ain never seed him like that, man. He get up in my face.
'"I know you here slanging dope and shit, Hardcore. You think I don't know? Put you nigger-ass back in the Yard any time I say. You under paper as it is, Core. I pull you down whenever I like. Man, don't be trippin wit' me now. This here yo idea from the jump."
'"No way, motherfucker, this nigger ain but goin on.'*
'We trippin on that some, who say do it, but I seen he stomp-down on this, and I ain takin no ride.'
'You agreed to do it, rather than have him revoke your release?'
'Say I gone think on it some. And you know, then, every time I see the dude, he on me, "You gone do this, nigger, or ain you? Thought you was some bad-ass Top Rank gangbangin motherfucker, but you just some bitch-ass sissy like all them elderly niggers down the corner by Best Way Liquor with they forty zones of Colt." He on me all the time.'
Tommy stands a moment and frowns at his witness, clearly afraid that Hardcore, caught up in his performance, has gone straight over the top.
'Did you finally agree to kill Senator Eddgar?'
'Ain never finally agreed, till one day he come up, he got that newspaper bag.' Core points, and from the prosecution table, Tommy retrieves People's 1, the money and the blue newspaper bag in which it was wrapped. 'He gimme that.'
'Where were you?'
'T-4. On Grace Street. He by his ride, ain't even got hisself out. He just come up by there and tell Bug, "Go fetch Core." And I come on down, there he be, and he hand me that-there through the window. Say, "I give you the rest when you done it."'
'When was this?'
'August. Hot.'
'And what did you say?'
'I say, "Motherfucker, you fixin for me to do this?" 'He be like, "Uh-huh, I am."
'So I figure, well, okay, then gone have to get wit' it, otherwise he gone pull my paper sure enough.'
Tommy finishes laying an evidentiary foundation for the money. Hardcore says he took the bag to the home of Doreen McTaney, the mother of his son Dormane, and left it there until after the killing. He identifies his initials, next to Montague's on the evidence tag. With the money and the plastic bag now fully tied to the defendant and the crime, Molto moves for admission of the exhibits.
'Any objection?' I ask Hobie.
He purses his lips. 'Can I reserve for cross?' Hobie knows every trick. Having no basis to keep the money out of evidence, he wants to delay its admission in the hope that in the welter of last-minute details, the prosecutors will forget to reoffer the proof. Across his shoulder, Tommy tosses an irked look. By now he expects Hobie to be difficult. I admit the money, subject to cross, and Tommy picks up the thread with Core, whom he asks about preparations for the killing.
'Got with Gorgo and them. Tell Gorgo get him a good clean spout' - 'A clean spout' would be a weapon that would not trace - 'we got us to put in some work. Then I went rapping to Dooley Bug.'
'Is that Lovinia Campbell?' 'Uh-huh.'
'What did you tell her?'
Probably to keep Core from getting rolling again, Hobie objects for lack of foundation, meaning that Core has not said precisely when, where, and with whom the conversation took place. Tommy starts to explain, but Core has been around enough courtrooms to understand and interrupts.
'This here's day before we done it. Up the IV Tower. Just me and her.' He looks toward Hobie and sneers: Think what you think, motherfucker, but I ain dumb. I doubt, however, anyone here has made the mistake of questioning Core's smarts.
'And what did you tell her?'
'Put it down to her. Whole scene, you know.'
'What did you tell her specifically about Nile?'
'Nile and me, we fixin to gauge his daddy.'
'What did she say?'
'Oh, you know. "Why-all we gotta be doin like that?" That kinda shit.'
'And you said?'
' "Yo, freeze up, ho. You just be working here." ' The unvarnished accuracy and vehemence with which Core recalls his response provokes momentary laughter in the courtroom. Core smiles, as if he had fully calculated his audience's reaction in advance.
'Did Bug know Nile?'
'Hell yeah, she know Nile. Lotsa time he come round, she be rappin to him. He like her caseworker or some such. She kickin on them benches wit' him, rap for hours seem like. She know him good.'
Tommy glances my way, just to be sure I've registered that: Nile was nice to Lovinia, she'd want to protect him.
The remainder of the direct is somewhat anticlimactic. Core explains the plan, how Lovinia called him when June showed up. When he gets to the point where June was shot, Core winds his head around sorrowfully over the mistake.
'And when was the last time you spoke to Nile Eddgar?'
'Morning all this comin down. He beep when I's fixin to leave out, so I give him a shout off the pay phone down there in T-4, say all this cool.' Tommy takes hold of the computer records from Nile's phone and directs Core's attention to the call to his pager at 6:03 a.m. Core affirms this is the page which he answered from the pay phone outside the IV Tower. Then Tommy cleverly uses the various stipulated phone records to review the entire direct. 'Was this call on May 14 around the time you agreed to meet Senator Eddgar? Was this call on August 7 around the time you agreed to kill him?'
When he's done, it's near 4:30 and we adjourn. The transport deputies cuff Core to walk him back. His lawyer, Jackson Aires, who has watched the proceedings from a folding chair just inside the Plexiglas partition, approaches Core at the lockup door and rests a hand on his shoulder as they consult, nodding emphatically, telling Core he's done well. Hobie has gathered up his boxes quickly, and pushes Nile, who is still gesticulating toward Hardcore, out of the courtroom. Tommy and Rudy - and Montague, who's entered to help haul things downstairs - are lingering at the prosecution table, smiling among themselves. They've had their ups and downs but the week has ended well. The reporters have disappeared, as if by magic, all racing to beat deadline with today's spicy item: 'A convicted gang leader testified today that the plot to murder Senator Loyell Eddgar began when gang leaders angrily rebuffed Eddgar's efforts to turn the Black Saints Disciples into a political organization.'
A weird story, but it has the eerie resonance of a tale too odd to be untrue. In the subdued clamor of the spectators' departure, I sit still on the bench, gripping my pen and staring at the pages of the bench book, which are covered with the hurried notes I'v
e made today. The critical line from Kratzus - 'My father was supposed to be goin over there' - is underscored at the top of the upper left-hand side. Considering it all, an omen bounds home in me: I'm going to find Nile Eddgar guilty.
Nikki loves costumes. She imagines herself with stylish dos and beaded gowns. I took to heart my mother's distaste for glamour and am always alarmed. Where does Nikki get these ideas? I wonder. Is this the penalty for working, for not being at her side twenty-four hours a day? When I pick her up from day care tonight, she is wearing plastic high heels on the wrong feet and a crown.
'I'm getting married!' she squeals.
Married! my heart shrieks, but I take her in with kisses, knowing that this instant when we're reconnected for the weekend is, in ways, the point toward which I've been journeying all week.
'We have stew for dinner. Just the way you like it.'
'No peas?' she asks.
'Not one.'
When Nikki was born, I decided I would become organized. I would cook meals in advance and freeze them, like my friend Grace Tomazek. I would keep extensive grocery lists so that I would no longer have to go to the store three times each day. I would start shopping from catalogues for clothes, and buy a season ahead so I was not desperate when the weather changed. I would sign up for Moms and Tots on Saturdays. Finally an adult, I would have a life reflecting forethought rather than waning moods and windblown caprice. I wanted this with desperate, almost unbearable longing, as the sign of some gathering of myself, as an affirmation of the capacity of any person to make her life a bit more bearable.
And I succeeded, after a fashion. Oh, of course, I become preoccupied - with the cases before me, with one feud or another with Charlie, with the madness in Bosnia or a memory of my mother that has not visited me in years, anything that catches me on the spike of passion and ends up making me seem, especially to myself, unfocused, even scatterbrained. But for the most part, I have made my life less a momentary adventure. Nikki and I have a routine. There are meals in the freezer, which I, generally speaking, remember to defrost. The lunch bag is packed. Amid the whirl of single-mom responsibilities, I often feel like one of those little old ladies, Old World ethnics dressed all in black, wobbling around like a top about to fall. On occasion, I'm undermined by uncertainty about myself. A few months back, as I was listening to the discordant screech of Avi, Gwendolyn's son, sawing away at his Suzuki violin, I was jarred by panic. What was I going to do about music lessons? I'd never even thought of it. I called piano teachers all night. Lately, I've felt pangs because Nikki knows nothing of religion. But it happens, all of it. My life has what planning always seemed to imply: a center, weight, substance. Love.
