by Scott Turow
That one set him back several steps, just as Muriel had intended. As Gillian had long predicted, Arthur was not entirely comfortable with the malicious sniggering that the wildfire news about their relationship seemed to have been evoking these days.
“What has that got to do with anything, Muriel?”
“I don’t know, Arthur. It’s unusual, don’t you think?”
“There’s no conflict, Muriel. You said on the record months ago that Gillian has no role in these proceedings.”
“Sounding a little sensitive, Art. I always liked Gillian. Everybody deserves a second chance.”
Muriel didn’t care much for Gillian at all, according to Gillian. Both had tended to resent the frequent comparisons that had been made for years around the P.A.’s Office. And Muriel didn’t believe in second chances. She was a prosecutor whose credo was punishment for all mistakes—except, of course, her own. Yet she’d accomplished what she wanted to. Arthur was eager to end the conversation. Muriel could see that and stood again.
Several weeks ago Arthur had taken the precaution of advising Rommy in writing that Gillian and he had become “close personal friends.” But Muriel’s point was not about propriety so much as vulnerability. She’d crossed the courtroom to warn him. If he went in for mudslinging, with high-profile assaults on her professionalism because she’d concealed the information about Collins, she had dirt on him of her own to hurl back.
He’d never been perfectly suited for this profession, Arthur realized. In spite of all the years in the trenches and everything he knew about Muriel, his first hope when she sat down beside him was that she’d come to pass time because she liked him.
“All rise.” Harlow strode briskly up to the bench, various papers in his arms. He called and disposed of the few other cases scheduled to precede theirs. When he reached Gandolph ex. Rel. Warden of Rudyard, the judge smiled down at Arthur and Muriel as they assembled at the podium.
“I thought I’d seen the last of you folks. Welcome back.” He called on Muriel first to respond to Arthur’s motions. She was vehement.
“First,” said Muriel, “the Court of Appeals has said that there’s not a case pending. Second, Mr. Raven is no longer Gandolph’s lawyer. Third, the limited discovery period that the court authorized concluded more than a month ago. And fourth, there were no misrepresentations of any kind in any statement we have ever made to Your Honor.”
Harlow smiled, still amused by Muriel’s style. Barely five feet and one hundred pounds, she hit like a heavyweight. In his tall chair, the judge pushed back to contemplate, combing his hand through his long white hair.
“With all deference to my friends out there who are the eyes and ears of the public,” he said, “I think there are some things best addressed back in chambers. Why don’t the lawyers join me there?”
The judge ushered them through his outer office into Lincoln Land, as the judge’s chambers were often called outside his presence. There were at least fifty portraits and figures of Lincoln at all stages of his life on the walls and shelves, including the Brady photographs. Documents bearing Lincoln’s signature were displayed around the room. The judge even had a collection of proof pennies in a case.
Harlow’s law clerks, a white man and a black woman, had followed him from the courtroom, yellow pads in their hands. As the judge approached his desk and hung up his robe on a rack next to it, he was laughing.
“Folks,” he said, “I have seen lawsuits for forty-some years, and I want to tell you, this one I’ll remember. It reminds me of those college football games where everybody is scoring in overtime. If you go get a beer, you can’t even tell who’s ahead.” He stretched a long hand toward the walnut conference table at the side of the room, where Arthur and Muriel and Carol Keeney and the clerks took seats.
The formalities of the courtroom obliged the judge to listen first to the lawyers, but in his inner sanctum, Harlow was far less hesitant to speak his mind. Without a court reporter, he tended to proceed by edict.
“I don’t like hiding from the press, not on a case that’s received this much attention, but at this stage we all need to be candid so we can move along.”
There was a call then from the courtroom. Pamela had arrived, following an appearance in state court. The judge told his courtroom security officers to bring her back.
“Okay, now let’s not kid around about these motions,” said Harlow, once Pamela, too, was at the long table. “First, Ms. Wynn, you don’t know me very well, and I don’t know you very well, but I think, speaking privately, both of us will agree that you should have corrected your filings with this court after your detective spoke to Mr. Farwell.”
“I wish I had, Your Honor.”
“Fine. And Mr. Raven, we both know that if Ms. Wynn were really trying to do you dirt, she wouldn’t have disclosed any of this.”
“Granted, Judge Harlow. But she waited until after the Court of Appeals ruled. Now my client has to try to undo a virtual fait accompli.”
“Timing, that’s the best of your gripe, Arthur. Right?”
He turned his hand in the air evincing no better than half-hearted agreement.
“I’m not dismissing the point, Arthur. We all know the forum can make a difference. Frankly, Ms. Wynn, if I’d heard that Mr. Erdai’s nephew asked God every night to forgive him for what they did to Gandolph, I’d have been pretty damn eager to hear what Collins Farwell had to say.”
“With all respect, Your Honor,” said Muriel, “our office never grants immunity at the request of defendants or civil litigants, or even courts, who want to gain access to testimony. If the legislature thought those persons should have the power to bestow immunity, it would have given it to them. And it hasn’t. We wouldn’t immunize Mr. Farwell, then or now.”
The judge squinted at Muriel for a second.
“I don’t think counting the missiles in our arsenals is the right approach here, Ms. Wynn. Each of us has various powers. You have the power not to grant immunity. And I have the power to enter certain findings you might not like. And Mr. Raven has the power to make sure they’re heard far and wide. Rather than power, I’d prefer to talk about what’s fair. It’s obvious to all of us that Collins Farwell knows something about the circumstances that gave rise to this crime, which he didn’t disclose a decade ago. Mr. Raven says we should know everything we can before we execute his client, and that strikes me as a pretty good point. Now, given what Genevieve Carriere told you about the way Mr. Gandolph was carrying on back in July of 1991, none of us is going to be very surprised if it turns out that Mr. Raven is sorry he asked to interrogate Mr. Farwell. But he’ll have some peace of mind as his client and he face what’s coming next. As will you. And I. So I’d rather we all take a day or two to reflect on what’s fair, rather than our powers, since that may well just be the pathway to sorrow for all of us.”
Beneath his overgrown eyebrows, shot with white, the judge again peered at Muriel. She said nothing, but clearly took the toll of what she was up against. The bottom line was exactly what Arthur had said to her in the courtroom. Kenton Harlow was not going to allow Rommy Gandolph to be executed without hearing Collins’s story. The fact that Farwell’s testimony might incidentally show up the Court of Appeals for putting an early close to the case was, without doubt, no small incentive to Harlow. But he was giving Muriel few options. With the press looking on eagerly, she could magnanimously immunize Collins, extolling her dedication to the truth, or she could fence with a far shorter stick against a federal judge who might send her off on her election campaign officially branded a liar.
“Why don’t we all think about it?” said Harlow. He summoned his minute clerk and dictated a brief order, stating that Arthur’s motion was entered and continued, and then sent them on their way. Muriel hurried off, her face compressed by cold indignation. As soon as she was gone, Pamela could not resist throwing an arm around Arthur and giving him a robust squeeze, further emphasized by another of her glimmering smiles.
>
“This was brilliant,” she said. Arthur for the moment was her hero.
He declined any credit and sent her back to the office to draft a brief status report on today’s proceedings for the Court of Appeals.
37
AUGUST 17, 2001
They Know
WHEN MURIEL RETURNED to the office, she paged Larry, requesting he get here on the double; she also called the Detective Commander to be certain her message wasn’t ignored. Immunity for Collins was the P.A.’s decision, but the case detective was entitled to be consulted. And it went without saying that it was past time for Larry to show his face. Angry and frustrated by Harlow, she had no more patience for Larry’s juvenile antics.
But by the time he arrived an hour later, she had cooled. He appeared haggard, and she felt more or less as she had the last several days. In the past, Larry had often run away from her. She’d hoped both of them were different now, but they’d gotten to the crunch and no, apparently not. The whole thing — the misperceptions and the complications—left her feeling sad and, at moments, humiliated. But she’d departed from church on Sunday ready to believe it might be for the best that things between Larry and her were not going to work out.
At the moment Ned Halsey, the bantam P.A., with his bowlegs and white hair, was holding forth. Ned was famously affable, but he was exercised now. Halsey motioned Larry to close the door, then continued addressing Muriel, who was at her large desk set against the bay window.
“Kenny Harlow was an asshole when I went to law school with him forty-five years ago,” said Ned. “He became an even bigger asshole when they gave him a robe. And at this stage, he’s such a gigantic asshole that he deserves his own solar system. So if you’re asking me will he actually behave like an asshole, the answer is yes.”
“I still don’t think the Court of Appeals will let him stuff an immunity down our throats, Ned,” Muriel answered. As had been true throughout her life, the pathway from anger led to resolve. Stand up. Fight back. Those were her father’s mottos in dealing with arrogant powers.
“He’ll eat the flesh right off your bones before then, Muriel,” said Ned. “‘Judge Says Chief Deputy Lied.’ Never mind yourself and the permanent damage he’ll do to you. Do you care to see the office endure that? I know I don’t.”
“What?” asked Larry.
She explained in a few strokes what had gone on in court. Larry responded with pique.
“Christ, Ned, you can’t give immunity. God knows what Collins is going to say. This far from events, he can basically make it up as he goes. We’ll never be done with this case.”
“Larry,” said the P.A., “we can talk all we want about office policy. It still looks like we’re hiding the truth. The guy as good as told you that he helped frame Gandolph.”
“What if he was involved with the murders?” Larry asked.
Even Muriel wouldn’t buy that one.
“Larry, there’s no evidence tying Collins to the murders. No forensics, no statements. Besides, how can the state argue that somebody else might have been involved in the murders when we’re trying to execute Gandolph for committing them? Christ, we make that argument, we oughta just build a pine box and jump in.”
Ned, being Ned, patted Larry’s shoulder reassuringly on his way out. From the door, he pointed at his Chief Deputy.
“It’s your case, Muriel. I support you either way. But my vote is to try to cut a deal with Arthur. Offer the immunity in exchange for an end to all further appeals, if it turns out Collins doesn’t help them.”
She didn’t think Arthur would bite on that.
“Good,” replied Ned. “At least you’ll have some political coverage if you decide to go mano a mano with Kenny.”
Ned was a good man and wise. She liked his solution. Larry and she watched the P.A. close the door behind himself.
“So,” Muriel said. “Was it something I said or something I did? No cards. No calls. No flowers?” A moment ago, she expected to say nothing at all, and even beginning to speak, she had thought she could manage to sound carefree. But the acid virtually sizzled. She placed both hands on her desk and took a deep breath. “Don’t worry, Larry. That’s not why I called.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“I just wanted to hear you out about Collins.”
“You can’t give him immunity, Muriel. Dickerman finally got back to me on that gun.”
“When was that?”
“Last week?”
“Last week! Hell, Larry, doesn’t it say somewhere in the police manual that the prosecutor gets to know the evidence in the case? I filed a response with the judge on Tuesday saying we’d turned over everything we had concerning Collins. When were you figuring on telling me?”
“As soon as I knew what to say about the rest of it.”
‘The rest of it.’ Is that a personal reference?”
“I think that’s what you’d call it.”
Here, in the office, they had the advantage of a cooler, more abstracted tone. Across the desk from him, she folded her arms and asked if he thought what had happened between them last week had been a mistake.
“If I knew what I thought, one way or the other, Muriel, I’d have come around and told you. That’s the truth. What do you think?”
She swam through the murk of her feelings for a moment, then lowered her voice.
“I thought it was wonderful to be with you. I was sky-high for a couple of days. Until I realized I wasn’t going to hear from you. What’s that about?”
“I can’t take a lot more of this,” he said.
She asked what ‘this’ was.
“Fucking around,” he answered. “Me and you. Either we’re going to go for it or forget it. I’m too old to live in between.”
“I don’t want to be in between, Larry. I want you in my life.”
“As?”
“As someone I’m connected to. Intensely connected to.”
“Part time? Full time?”
“Jeez Louise, Larry. I’m talking about a need, not a battle plan.”
“I’m not sneaking around again, Muriel. Either we’re in or we’re out.”
“What’s ‘in’ and what’s ‘out’?”
“I’m talking about you leaving Talmadge, me leaving Nancy. I’m talking about saying once and for all we made a mistake, a big mistake, way back when, and that we’ll try to rescue what’s left to be saved.”
“Wow,” Muriel said. She touched her chest where her heart was now hammering. “Wow.” Her thinking had not gone much further than the next opportunity for romance, which until a few seconds ago she’d accepted was likely to be never.
“I’m serious.”
“I can tell.”
“And I’m not 100 percent sure I want that. But I’m more certain that when I put it to you like this, there won’t be anything for me to reckon on.”
“Tellin it like it is, Lar.”
“I’m trying to.”
He was angry, as he was so often, already smarting from the rejection he’d presumed. As for her, she’d left him last week troubled, of course, sad about many things, and brittle with guilt. But in spite of that, percolating to the surface was an airy happiness. She was free of something. For all the danger and stupidity and selfishness of what she had done, she felt herself reaching outward. In the face of his subsequent silence, she was saddest about losing that.
“I’m glad you said this,” she said. “I mean it.” She spoke calmly, but within, panic still prevailed. So many things were suddenly piled precariously on top of one another. Her marriage. Her job. Her future. Who she was. Shit.
Was love worth not having the life you wanted? That plainly, the question zoomed at her out of the back of her mind. Was love—real, tumultuous love at the advanced age of forty-four—enough to make up for all the other things she aspired to? The poems and the storybooks declared that the only answer was yes. But she wasn’t certain what grown-ups said. At least this grown-up.
&n
bsp; “I need to think about this, Larry. Think hard.” She could see it was the first remark she’d made that pleased him.
“Yeah,” he said. “Think hard.” He looked at her a little longer. “But you probably won’t be talking to me.”
“And why is that?”
His anger was abruptly behind him. He collapsed in the oak chair at the corner of her desk.
“Because,” he answered, “I still haven’t told you what Mo said about that gun.”
LARRY HAD SPENT MOST DAYS in the past twenty-plus years chasing around the most dangerous so-called humans in this city. He’d pursued them down dim gangways and around dark corners, even led the charge in full-body armor years ago when they pinched Kan-El, leader of the Night Saints, who was holed up with a cache of weapons he’d somehow bought from the Libyan army. Larry was always exhilarated on those occasions, dancing along on his nerve endings, a feeling reprised from game time when he played high-school ball. He never felt the dread, or the sick gastric backup in the rear of his throat he was experiencing now. The person in the world who scared him most, he realized, was seated across the room. It was suddenly inconceivable why he hadn’t told her about the gun last week. The truth, near as he could figure, was he’d just been sick of letting Muriel make all the rules.
As he spoke, she shrank back and grew hard and cool as a stone.
“And what did you do with Dickerman’s report?” she asked when he’d finished.
“Let’s say I lost it.”
“Let’s say.” She rested her forehead against her hands.
“It doesn’t matter, Muriel. Squirrel did it. You know he did it. If he did it with Erno and Collins, he still did it.”
“That’s a theory, Larry. That’s your theory. Maybe it’s our theory. But their theory is that Erno did this alone. And their theory is maybe just an eensy-teensy little bit more persuasive when you add in that his fingerprints are in blood on the trigger of the murder weapon.”
