by Scott Turow
‘He’d give a person a chance,’ John had said about Gus. ‘He’d give you six chances, if he really thought you were trying. But at the end of the day, he was old school. He was tough. Sooner or later, he would have said enough is enough. My father was good to Gandolph. And got nothing for it but a bullet in the head. He would have wanted this guy dead. So that’s what I want.’ Even at the time, Muriel was uncertain that John’s vision of his father was completely accurate, but who was she to say? She could still recall, though, the mood in the courtroom when John spoke, the gravity that had come over Gillian Sullivan as she listened from the bench. Idealists could posture about the indignity of the state killing—it was a lot better than having citizens take matters into their own hands, which is what could occur with people like John, people with griefs and debts to the dead that required action. For him, Rommy Gandolph’s death had become a priority, part of the role as his father’s stand-in that he had assumed from the moment Gus died.
Muriel opened the door, waving to Carol so she would accompany John and his friend downstairs to the courthouse lobby, where the TV cameras waited. Several reporters shouted Muriel’s name and she promised to be along in a moment. Larry, however, immediately shepherded four females over the threshold—two adolescent girls, an agreeable-looking woman near forty, and at the rear, an older lady whose hair was dyed a lifeless black. She was the only one of the four whom Muriel recognized.
“Mrs. Salvino, of course,” said Muriel, welcoming Luisa Remardi’s mother. The old woman was tough and to the point, and Muriel had always taken it that Luisa was a chip off the old block. The young girls with her had faces almost identical to one another, but the two years between them resulted in a significant contrast in their overall appearance. The second to enter wore makeup and was almost a foot taller than her sister. But both were lean and dark, long-jawed, with stray lanks of jet hair and large dark eyes. Each was very pretty. Muriel realized at once they were Luisa’s daughters.
In her usual abrupt way, Mrs. Salvino dismissed Muriel’s greeting.
“This here,” she said, “don’t you people ever come to an end with this?”
“Nuccia,” scolded the fourth female.
“Muriel,” said Larry, with an uncharacteristic ceremonial air, “you may remember Genevieve Carriere. She was a close friend of Luisa’s.” Genevieve had been called upon as a driver and escort. Mrs. Salvino was one of those Kewahnee Italians who went to Center City only two or three times a year, and always with apprehension.
“I got no need to come down here,” Mrs. Salvino said. “Darla heard the television. So she decided she’s coming, which is mostly an excuse, if you want to know, to skip school.”
“Like I need an excuse,” answered her older granddaughter. The little one was shy and wore braces and hung back by the door. But Darla was clearly a handful. Sixteen now, she wore the skimpy clothing and heavy makeup that Muriel saw all the time on the street. Her figure was far too full for the narrow camisole that stopped short of her navel. Muriel was often bemused at how taken aback she was by the sexual brashness of these girls, because she knew that she’d have taken full advantage of such license, had it been permitted in her day.
“You got no need to hear all of this,” said her grandmother.
“Hel-lo, Grandma! It’s on television. And it’s my own mother and you don’t tell us nothing. I mean, that’s totally bogus.”
Larry intervened. “I don’t think you learned anything about what happened, Darla. That was just a bitter, dying man entertaining himself.”
“I sorta believed him sometimes,” she answered in the usual contrary fashion of people her age. “This other guy, the one they say done it. It all sounds so sketchy with him. I don’t think somebody as sick as this dude even has the energy to make stuff up.”
“You should know about making up,” said her grandmother.
Darla briefly offered Mrs. Salvino a sick simpering look.
“The only thing with this one,” said Darla, “is that he’s like such a total gross-out to look at.”
Muriel and Larry, still caught in the warring mood of the courtroom, laughed at the same time, greatly amused by the cruelty to Erno.
“No, truly,” insisted Darla, “I mean, I know he’s sick and all, but he couldn’t ever have been, like, good-looking. That’s just so not Mom. All the pictures I seen of her with guys—even my father—they were always, like, hotties.” The girl spoke with some urgency, and Muriel was struck by the pathos of Darla’s adoring reconstruction of her mother. The older Muriel became, the more aware she grew of the freight of pain carried inside every courthouse. As a younger person, what she sensed was the anger—of both the victims and the defendants, who frequently felt ill used -and, even more grippingly, her own righteous need to smite evil. But now what stayed with her was the legacy of hurt—for Darla, even for the criminals, who often had the sense to regret what they had done, and certainly for their families, who were usually as innocent as the other bystanders, their sole mistake loving someone who’d come to no good.
To Darla, it was obviously important that her estimate of her mother be correct. She turned to Genevieve, who had watched Darla’s byplay with her grandmother with the whisper of a smile.
“Isn’t that right, Aunt Genevieve? Mom totally wouldn’t have been with somebody like that.”
“Never,” said Genevieve. “Your mother always hated that man.” Genevieve touched the girl’s bare shoulder and thus missed the look Muriel exchanged with Larry.
“Why did she hate him?” Muriel asked.
Six was a crowd in here, amid an old tweed sofa and a government-issue table and chairs. Immediately conscious of an error, Genevieve looked off to one of the corny woodland scenes on the wall rather than confront the attention suddenly on her.
“There was just bad blood,” she said and turned a manicured hand in the air, as if it were all too vague. Her hair was prematurely white, which was actually quite striking, since she had retained a flush, round-cheeked youthfulness right down to her overbite. Overall, Genevieve gave an impression of substance. It was a decade later and she was still looking out for her friend’s children and mother. Muriel had spent years now envisioning herself on the sidelines of soccer and baseball fields in the company of women like this, mothers who nurtured by reflex and who were probably the best people on the planet.
“Maybe the girls could wait outside,” Muriel suggested, thinking they might have motivated Genevieve’s reluctance.
“Like hell,” answered Darla. “We’re not babies. She was our mother.”
In spite of herself, Muriel smiled, probably because she’d been every bit as abrasive and opinionated herself at sixteen. The thrill of going too far, of treading forbidden ground to find out who she was, had never fully left her. Andrea, Darla’s younger sister, looked less certain about staying, but ultimately chose to keep her place, too. In the meantime, Larry continued to press Genevieve.
“So you don’t know anything about Erno and Luisa being an item?”
Genevieve looked at her watch and lifted a beckoning arm to the girls, but was willing to offer a parting thought.
“I’d sooner believe he killed her than that,” she said.
Muriel held up a hand to detain Mrs. Salvino. “Did Luisa ever say anything to you about Erno?”
“Who knows?” answered the old woman. “Who paid attention?”
“Did she talk about men?”
“For God sake,” said Mrs. Salvino, “I was her mother for God sake. You think I asked those things?”
“I think you’d ask,” said Darla.
Mrs. Salvino raised the back of her hand and made a spitting sound between her teeth and Darla answered with another gesture, an openhand challenge, which, in all likelihood, she’d adopted from her grandmother. But Darla was smiling. She had more appreciation for Nuccia Salvino than she was likely to admit.
As Genevieve continued to edge the group toward the door, Muriel told M
rs. Salvino the reporters might try to question her.
“I got nothing to say.”
“They’ll want to know what you think,” said Muriel. “Whether you believe Erdai killed her.”
“Maybe,” said Mrs. Salvino. “Maybe this one and the other one done it together. I don’t know. She’s dead. That’s what I know.”
“We have no comment,” said Genevieve.
Muriel bade goodbye to all of them. Genevieve left last and Larry laid his fingertips on her sleeve.
“We’d really like to talk to you some more.”
Genevieve was quick to shake her head. She had an excuse ready. Family vacation. Every year, as soon as their kids were out of school, they headed for Skageon for a month.
“When do you leave?” Muriel asked.
“Tomorrow,” said Genevieve, “early.”
“Well, maybe we’ll make the trip up there,” said Larry, and Genevieve’s dark eyes shot his way.
Remembering the press downstairs, and recognizing the futility of Larry’s hectoring, Muriel opened the door and let Genevieve go. She and Larry were alone now, an odd reprieve with the churning sounds continuing outside.
“We should go up there and depose her,” said Larry. “She’d twist and turn, but I don’t make her for the kind to lie under oath. I don’t see us getting anything out of her without a subpoena, though.”
“I wouldn’t mind having that stuff about Luisa always hating Erno on the record. We have to make him a liar however we can.”
“You did a pretty good job of that.”
She accepted the compliment with a smile, but she’d learned that winning lawsuits was more than courtroom pyrotechnics. Most cases were determined before they started by the character of the judge or the jury, and Kenton Harlow worried her.
“If he makes findings that Erno is credible,” she told Larry, “I’m going to be stuck with this case for a long while. Talmadge thinks if it drags on, Reverend Blythe may talk somebody into running in the primary.”
“Somebody black,” said Larry.
“Naturally,” she answered, but shook her head at the prospect. She had no relish for that kind of fight, especially one where she’d be painted as the race-baiting prosecutor.
“So what’s the alternative?” Larry asked.
“You know the alternative, Larry. Figure it out fast. Either incinerate Erno or say we fucked up and stop the bleeding as soon as we can.”
“We didn’t fuck up anything. The death-penalty crazies always strum the same tunes. This guy was wrong on this, Muriel, you know it. I didn’t bounce him around to get a confession. Erno can go whistle with that Shangri-la shit.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Besides, all due respect to Talmadge, if we screwed the pooch, Blythe would add another hole to your anatomy. You might have to stop that check for campaign posters.”
“If that’s how it goes,” she answered immediately. Her tone was too defiant, even superior, and she could see him shrink back. It struck an old note somehow, something that had been there years ago. She felt guilty about that. And she probably hadn’t spoken the truth. The other day, she’d told Larry that she might have surrendered her shot at the P.A.’s Office in exchange for the joy of being a mother, and she meant every word. But to have neither of the things she’d yearned for? She knew herself well enough to realize she wouldn’t have given up on the job easily.
“He’s the right guy, Larry. But let’s punch some holes in Erno’s canoe. I’m going to get hold of Jackson Aires to try to get a word with Erno’s nephew. And keep working on the gang angle. The G.O.’s may have promised Erno something we haven’t figured out yet. And see if you can dig up the guy Erno shot at Ike’s. Something tells me he won’t stand up and salute for that self-defense crap Erno was peddling.”
Larry liked all those ideas. The peace between them felt good.
“Press time,” said Muriel. “Do I look tough but fair?”
He joined his thumbs and raised his forefingers as if they were a lens.
“Something like that.”
She smiled at him for a moment. “I forgot how much fun it is to work with you, Larry.”
When Muriel opened the door, she found Darla, Luisa’s older daughter, leaning against the threshold. The girl sprang up at the sight of Muriel.
“I forgot to ask,” she said. “I was just wondering if there’s any chance we can get it back?”
“It?”
Darla gave Muriel one of those intolerant adolescent glances, as if Muriel were as thick as a stone.
“The cameo. My mom’s cameo. It’s in evidence, right? Mr. Molto said we can’t have it until this whole thing is over and done with. But, you know, we’ve been waiting, like, so long, and I was just wondering, because—” For all her toughness, Darla suddenly looked stricken and could find no more words.
But Muriel required no explanation. Darla wanted the cameo because as the older daughter it was her birthright; because it marked her tie to her mother and held an image of Darla, taken at the moment of her first existence, which Luisa had literally worn over her heart. For the girl’s sake, Muriel felt sudden fury and frustration. A decade now, and the law for all its noble intentions and its screw-loose workings, had not even allowed a motherless child the comfort of touching her most precious inheritance.
Muriel briefly hugged Darla, swearing to work this out quickly, then strode toward the elevators, trying to regain her calm. Furious would not play well on camera. But she was glad for her moment with Darla, the opportunity to re-experience the intensity of her concern and resolve. Enough of the games of the Redcoats and Indians. Enough of defense attorneys bounding out of the woods on Squirrel’s behalf screaming ‘Surprise!’ Enough withholding justice, and peace, from the people who deserved it. The end was overdue-for the case, for the lawyering, and for Rommy Gandolph himself.
20
JUNE 13, 2001
Susan
FROM HER SEAT in the last row, Gillian Sullivan slipped toward the door as soon as court broke. She was already on her way down the corridor, her low heels as distinct as taps on the marble, when she heard her name from behind. Stew Dubinsky, who was the Trib’s longtime felony court reporter, jogged a few steps and arrived beside her, winded by the effort. There were few persons on earth she wanted to see less.
By entering the courtroom, she had risked this confrontation, and knowing that, she had told herself more than once to leave. But there might as well have been a padlock on her seat, until Erno’s last word had been spoken. What impelled her to stay rather than turn her back, as she’d so often sworn she wanted to do? She had so many mistakes to rue. Thousands of them. How could she be focused so singlemindedly on this one? But she had scoured the paper this morning, even sat in front of Duffy’s TV last night, while the late news played over his horsey snores. She was hooked, as she had been at some level since the day she’d gone with Arthur to Rudyard. Were these the excesses again of a conscience always starving for shame? Yet there was no further fooling herself. Whatever the truth was here, it was, somehow, a truth about her.
Dubinsky had passed from overweight to porcine. The face she had known him by years ago was still there, but had sunk like a relief into a puddle of blubbery abundance. Stew had never been her favorite. He was unreliable in virtually every regard, habitually late, sometimes cavalier with facts, and often underhanded in gathering them. Several years ago he’d lost his courthouse press card for a while, when he’d been found with his ear pressed to a jury-room door.
In a few words, she explained to Dubinsky why she’d been present. It was plain, however, that he saw her as an angle his competitors wouldn’t have. He found his recorder in his jacket pocket. Instinct told her that if she remained the object of reports like this morning’s, her job would soon be in jeopardy, but she was afraid that putting Dubinsky off would make him more determined. She said several times that she had to go, but Stew kept promising he had just one more question. By n
ow he’d ventured past Rommy Gandolph’s case to inquiries she had no interest in answering about her present life.
“Here you are,” someone said and took firm hold of her elbow. It was Arthur. “We have to go right now, Judge, if I’m going to drive you back. I just got a page. I have a client who’s been arrested and I need to bail her out.” He was pushing Gillian down the hall.
Dubinsky stayed on their heels, but with Arthur here, Stew shifted his focus. He wanted Raven’s reactions to virtually every point Muriel had raised. Arthur stopped walking at one juncture to see if Dubinsky could be shaken, but he ended up following them to the roof of the small parking structure across from the courthouse where Arthur’s new automobile waited.
“Hey, private practice looks all right,” said Stew, touching a fender.
“It’s not from this case,” Arthur assured him. He helped Gillian inside and quickly drove down the ramp.
“You’re my hero.” Eyes closed, Gillian put a hand to her chest. “Has Stew gotten worse or am I just out of practice? You don’t really have a client in lockup, do you?”
“Unfortunately. My sister.”
“Your sister!”
“It happens all the time, Gillian. But I need to get over there.”
“By all means. Just drop me on a corner.”
“Where are you going?”
“Please, Arthur. Attend to your sister. I work in the store in Nearing this evening. I’ll take the bus.”
“Well, I’m going to West Bank Two. You may as well ride along. You can take a bus from there, if you want.”
She couldn’t see what problem she would cause him by riding as far as the police station, and she had unfinished business with Arthur. She still held some hope of smoothing over the awkwardness of yesterday’s parting, and she also was curious about his reactions to today’s proceedings. As it turned out, he asked her first what she’d made of Erno.
