"The Laws of our Fathers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Turow Scott)

DECEMBER 5, 1995

Sonny

Report And Evaluation Of Pre-trial Services On Nile Eddgar Subject: Nile T. Eddgar Judge: Klonsky Charges: Violation of Sections 2 and 76610 of Revised States Statutes (Conspiracy to Commit Murder) At the request of his counsel. Subject was referred to Pre-Trial Services (hereinafter P T S) for evaluation and recommendation regarding Subject's fitness to be admitted to bail pending trial. Because of Subject's employment with the Kindle County Probation Office (KCPO), this matter was referred to the undersigned in Greenwood County Probation Office, which is not acquainted with Subject.

On Tuesdays, when Cindy Holman drives – I should probably say 'manages' – the kindergarten car pool, Nikki and I are always prompt. Arriving early, I had time to indulge a moment's curiosity and pulled the PTS report, which Marietta mentioned last night, from the court file. It had remained there unread after Eddgar posted Nile's bail, one more copious summation of information and energy made irrelevant by the swift course of courthouse events. general observations: Subject was interviewed at Kindle County Jail (KCJ) on September 13, 7995, in the presence of State Defender, Gina Devore. Subject is presently attempting to retain private counsel, but signed Form 4446 -PTS Waiver of Rights – in order to allow his new lawyer to file a motion for reduction of bond. Subject is a white male, aged 31 years. He is 6 feet 1 inch tall and weighs 245 pounds. He appears alert and was co-operative throughout the interview. He describes his health as good. Subject was observed smoking cigarettes, which he says give him a chronic bronchial condition. A routine intake urine screen at KCJ was negative for the presence of opiates and other narcotics. Trace amounts of tetrahydrocannabinol (THC) were reported, after Subject's interview, suggesting possible marijuana use. education: Subject attended college intermittently until three years ago. He claims an A A from Kindle County Community College (confirmed) and lists sufficient credit hours in social work-related areas for his Bachelor's Degree. A BA has not been awarded due to his failure to complete required courses in science. Subject claims a twelfth-grade diploma from Easton Lab School (confirmed). employment: Subject has been employed for almost two years as a probation officer with the Kindle County Probation Department (KCPD). Subject's duties generally involve him in overseeing the activities of clients who have been released from the penitentiary and whose sentence by the Court included a period of supervised release or probation. Subject monitors family adjustment, employment, attendance in chemical dependence programs, etc. His salary is $38,000 p. a. Previous employment was sporadic as Subject was completing his education. (See above.) Subject's KCPD personnel file, which was reviewed by the undersigned, shows that Subject has generally had good evaluations. His written work product is frequently late, causing complaints from certain judges, but he relates well to clients. One supervisor stated that Subject is sometimes too sympathetic and 'buys the [b.s.].' In his first year of employment, Subject was placed on review status due to failure to appear for work on three occasions within a month. His attendance has been regular since. Joseph Tamara, head of KCPD, states that Subject is presently on administrative leave. He will receive his salary but will not be allowed to work while the instant charges are pending. If acquitted of all charges, Tamara says, Subject would be entitled to return to work. family history/background: Subject is unmarried. Since taking his position with KCPD, he has maintained a residence at 2343 Duhaney (confirmed) in DuSable. Subject acknowledges that he continues to spend weekends and many nights during the week with his father in Greenwood County. Subject states that he was born in Damon, California, November 19, 1963. His father was a university professor; his mother worked outside the home in various capacities. In 1971 his parents separated and subsequently Subject moved with his mother to Marston, Wisconsin. Subject's mother remarried, Dr William Chaikos, a doctor of veterinary medicine, in 1975. She divorced Dr Chaikos in 1979 and, according to Subject, chose thereafter to use the surname 'Eddgar' in deference to her son. Subject admits that in Wisconsin his social adjustment was poor in school and that he did not get along with his stepfather or two step-siblings when his mother remarried. Subject's father (see below) states that his ex-wife was having problems of substance abuse throughout this period. Therefore, at the age of 13, Subject moved to Greenwood County to reside with his father who had become a professor at Easton University. Subject says that he continued to do poorly in school and had other troubles. (See below.) He moved back and forth on a number of occasions between his father's home and his mother's in Wisconsin. Subject's father, State Senator Loyell Eddgar, was also interviewed by phone on September 13 – Dr Eddgar characterizes his son as highly intelligent but not well motivated. He says he had to encourage Nile to finish his education. He says that in spite of troubles in school, Nile maintained a stable relationship with both parents. While Sen. Eddgar acknowledges that Nile has experienced various adjustment problems, the senator says that since joining KCPD his son has been productive and seemingly more content. Sen. Eddgar helped Nile secure his present position. Sen. Eddgar refused to discuss details of the instant offense at the request of the Kindle County Prosecuting Attorney's Office (KCPAO). Subject's mother, June Eddgar, was not available for interview, as she is deceased as a result of the crime with which Subject is presently charged. criminal history: Kindle County Unified Police Force records, FBI, NADDIS reports were requested. All are negative. During interview, Subject admits that while a juvenile he was the Subject of two station adjustments for shoplifting, and one for destruction of wildlife. Subject adds that it was this experience which first interested him in becoming a probation officer. financial: Subject's counsel states that Subject will attempt, through new counsel, to make arrangements to post an adequate bail. He will report directly to the Court on his resources at the time of the bond hearing. conclusion: P TS concludes that Subject is an appropriate candidate for bail. While Subject is charged with a very serious offense for which a grand jury has found probable cause exists, he has lifelong ties to the community, no history of violent crime, and no adult criminal record. Maria Guzman Tomar Chief, Pre-Trial Services Greenwood County Probation Office 18 September 1995

'Subject,' I think, is always an appropriate candidate for bail. PTS is a holdover from CETA, a job-training program staffed by persons who are barely beyond the point of poverty themselves. Their sympathies are freely engaged by the prisoners; PTS's message, sometimes barely lettered, is usually the same as Moses': Let my people go. The length of this report – three pages – and the speed with which it was prepared – a week – are a tribute to the political sensitivities of this matter and the suburban caseload in Greenwood County. Here in Kindle, we are often a month awaiting a single paragraph. It's not clear whether Ms Tomar didn't hear that Nile made bail or decided it was politically advisable to complete her report anyway. But clearly she had no inkling Eddgar would come through for Nile. Why did he, then?

'We-all are ready, Judge,' says Marietta, peeking in from the back door of the chambers.

In the courtroom, we get off to a fractious start. Tommy told Hobie the first witness would be Lovinia Campbell, the young homegirl who ended up as another victim of the shooting, but Molto says the transport deputies have failed to deliver her, as they often do. Hobie thinks this is simply an excuse to turn the tables on him.

'Mr Tuttle,' I say, ‘I have to tell you this happens all the time.' Annie is always on the phone complaining about the jail's failure to deliver the prisoners we need. Somehow there is never any keeping track. A thousand inmates go back and forth each day, walked over into the basement of this building down the tunnel that ties the jail to the courthouse. Somebody bonds out. Somebody else never arrived from the police station where he was first arrested. And in a system in which everything – bail, jail housing, sentencing – go harder on repeat offenders, it is a daily occurrence to discover that a defendant has not given his true name. Often the intake fingerprint comparison done at McGrath Hall, Police Force headquarters, will reveal that a defendant has a rap sheet with four or five different aliases. Kamal Smith is Keeval Sharp, Kevin Sharp, and Sharpstuff. Aggravated by all of this, Annie's English is apt to fall apart. 'Today, dis mawnin, you send me wrong Ortiz. I need Angel Ortiz. Numbah, six oh six, faw faw fi'. Tree times now we ged wrong Ortiz. Is not right. Ged me right one. Please!'

'Your Honor,' Hobie says, ‘I think they're not prepared to put on the witness. I think she's giving them trouble.'

'Judge,' answers Molto, 'there wasn't any trouble until she met Mr Tuttle. And we'll be happy to put her on, but she's not here. Maybe the transport deputies dropped the ball, maybe our office did, but she didn't arrive from Juvenile Hall. We can't change that now. We have some stips to read and another witness on the way over. That's all we can do.'

'Mr Turtle, are you unprepared for the witness the state intends to call?'

'I'm all right,' he answers casually. 'Well then, what's your point?'

He shrugs as if he doesn't know and without more discussion retreats to counsel table, fiddling with his pad and pretending not to notice my irritated glance. A few feet away, Molto and Singh confer. Is Lovinia Tommy's problem? Is she the reason he was so eager to get started? Was he hoping to keep her in line? That's what it sounds like.

After some shuffling at the prosecution table, Rudy Singh arrives at the podium. His limp grey suit is far too light for the season.

'We have reached stipulations, if the court please,' he announces. Rudy has a musical voice and pretentious manner. He is darker by a shade than Hobie, slender, with heavy black brows and perfect features. He strikes me as one of those spoiled, pretty-boy princes who seem to be produced by every ethnic group around the world.

Rudy reads what has been agreed into the record. Essentially, the police pathologist's report has been accepted. June Eddgar died of multiple gunshot wounds to the head. Blood gases and the lung tissues indicate death was immediate. Various details regarding the state of her digestion, and facts reported by the officers on the scene lead the pathologist to opine that the time of death was between 6:15 a.m. and 7:00 a.m. on September 7. Mrs Eddgar, according to the pathologist, was looking straight into the path of the gunfire when she was struck.

'So stipulated,' Hobie intones.

'The People and the defendant, Nile Eddgar, further stipulate that the remains examined by Dr Russell were in fact those of June LaValle Eddgar, date of birth March 21, 1933.'

'So stipulated.' We have a murder case. A victim dead of violent means.

Next, Rudy reads a summary of an array of telephone toll records. In the era of computers and multiple area codes, the phone company maintains magnetic media recording every call from every number. These summaries show that in August and early September Nile seldom let twenty-four hours pass without calling a pager number. The testimony, no doubt, will be that the pager was Hardcore's. It was dialed repeatedly from Nile's apartment and office, and his father's home on several evenings and weekends.

After that, Rudy recites the parties' agreement about the fingerprint expert's report. One of the shell casings recovered from the scene shows a partial print from Gordon Huffington, a.k.a. Gorgo. Huffington has not been available for any current comparisons.

'He's a fugitive?' I ask. 'Huffington?'

Singh looks to Tommy, then Hobie, before responding. Hobie waves a hand to show he could not care less if Rudy answers.

'Yes, Yaw On-ah,' Rudy replies.

'And the state's theory is that he's the shooter?'

Again, there's a pause. Molto gets to his feet, his small mouth shriveled by chagrin about my frequent questions.

'It wasn't covered in openings,' I explain. 'I'm just trying to get my bearings.'

'He's the alleged member of the conspiracy who fired the shots,' Tommy answers. 'And he's at large.'

I nod. But there is a hole in the state's case. The actual killer is unaccounted for. That's bound to provide room for the defense.

Singh resumes reading. He allows his voice a flourish meant to inform that we've reached a point of drama. People's Group Exhibit 1 consists of Exhibits 1A and iB. Exhibit 1A is a plastic bag. Singh holds it aloft, displaying a long blue plastic sleeve resembling the wrapper from my Sunday newspaper. Group Exhibit 1B consists of 177 pieces of United States currency, 23 hundred-dollar bills and 154 fifty-dollar bills. Like the blue bag, the bills are encased in thick plasticine and sealed with heavy tape, which is inscribed in red with the repeated word 'Evidence.' When received by the lab, the bills in iB were bound by a single common latex band and were contained in Exhibit 1 A, the blue bag. Eighty-nine bills from Exhibit iB were submitted for fingerprint examination: the top and bottom bills of the stack – a $100 bill and a fifty – and 87 bills chosen at random, each one identified in the stipulation by serial numbers.

Rudy's reading continues monotonously. The stipulation discusses points of comparison and ridge details, and goes on at particular length about the so-called Superglue Method, involving cyanoacrylate, which was used to develop prints on the plastic bag. But there is no missing what's significant: Nile's fingerprints were identified on the two outer bills of the stack of money, and his prints, as well as Hardcore's, were also discovered on the blue plastic bag in which the money was wrapped.

As a prosecutor, it took me years to learn I was almost always better off with a stipulation. It avoided the hundred ways witnesses fail – memory lapse or slip of the tongue, the fatal, blurted remark on cross-examination. Especially without a jury, Tommy is probably doing exactly what he should. But he's also allowing Hobie to make the best of the situation, by underplaying highly damaging testimony. What excuse, after all, is there for a probation officer to be exchanging large bills with one of his clients? Even the reporters, minutely whispering at the onset of Rudy' s recitation, gradually quiet as the details about the fingerprints emerge. Everyone in the courtroom now knows the case has passed beyond the stage of accusation. No matter how dryly delivered, the state has offered real evidence against Nile Eddgar.

As its first witness, the prosecution calls Detective Lieutenant Lewis Montague of Area 7 Homicide, who supervised the case investigation. When his testimony is complete, Montague will be in and out of the courtroom to assist the prosecutors – contacting witnesses, retrieving exhibits. He's the cop on the case. Questioned by Rudy Singh, in an orderly and energetic way, Montague describes what confronted him on the morning of September 7 – uniforms, yellow tape, ambulances, and cruisers. Photos are produced. Pictures of the body are passed up to me. I thumb through them and write down the exhibit numbers. There is no face, just mess. Grim, I think. But it's not June. It occurs to me after the fourth or fifth eight-by-eleven I may be reacting to the fact she gained so much weight. In the scramble of papers already heaped here on my leather blotter, I find the path report. Seventy-seven kilograms! I am mortified for June's sake. The woman I knew had an enviable adult sensuousness, on which she clearly counted, even in the midst of the revolution.

'Did you examine the victim?' Rudy asks.

'We waited for the PP.' Police pathologist. Montague bothers himself with a glance my way and adds, confidentially, 'She was off-line, Judge. Clearly.' Dead, in other words. The cops are always at their toughest when the subject is dying. They have a thousand euphemisms. 'Giving the Q sign' is the one that occasionally makes me suppress a smirk. It means the decedent was found with her tongue hanging out of the corner of her mouth.

'And did you, Detective, have occasion to make observation of a young woman who was subsequently identified as Lovinia Campbell?'

'Ms Campbell was on the pavement at the time I arrived, about fifty feet from Mrs Eddgar. A paramedics team which was on scene was preparing to remove her.'

Montague details her position. A photo of a bloodstain is offered, then a schematic line drawing of the street. Montague makes an X and a Y to indicate the positions of Lovinia and June Eddgar. The testimony is crisp, dispassionate. Montague describes the work of other officers whom he supervised. Evidence techs went over the interior of the vehicle. They found June's purse and dusted it for prints, then inventoried the contents. A uniformed officer called in the plate on the Nova and received a report that the car was registered to Loyell Eddgar in the town of Easton. Finally, Montague says he directed a canvass of the neighborhood. After the results were reported to him, he instructed Homicide investigators to attempt to locate an individual.

'And what was the name of that individual?' asks Rudy, tiptoeing past the hearsay rule. 'Ordell Trent.'

'And was Ordell Trent identified by any other name?' 'Hardcore,' says Montague. 'That's his gangster tag.' 'And calling your attention, sir, to September u, 1995, four days later, did you have occasion to meet with Hardcore?' ‘I met him that day, at Area 7.' 'And who else if anyone was present?' 'His lawyer. Jackson Aires.'

'And did you receive anything that day from Hardcore?' Rudy has gone back to the prosecution table and fishes in the cardboard box where the state stores its exhibits. On the white carton, the prosecutors have written the case name, People v. Eddgar, and in letters big enough for a street sign – and certainly for a jury to have noticed – consp. murder. Rudy again holds up People's Group Exhibit 1, the $10,000 on which Nile's fingerprints were found. Montague says he received the money from Hardcore, initialed it, and submitted it for fingerprint examination.

'And what, if you please, was the result of that examination, Lieutenant?'

Rankled, Hobie takes his feet. 'Your Honor, I already stipulated. What's this about?'

'Yaw On-ah,' answers Rudy majestically, ‘I am merely trying to establish the process of Lieutenant Montague's investigation.' He is, in fact, attempting to emphasize his best evidence, which is why Hobie accepted the stipulation in the first place. I sustain the objection and Singh is done.

Montague turns his head minutely, awaiting Hobie. Sitting below me a few feet away, Lew Montague is a picture of repose. He wears a blue blazer and a shirt pilled at the collar. His long black hair is smoothly combed. He seems thickened by experience, by his years of scraping blood and guts off the streets near the projects. In the witness chair, he sits almost limply. Montague has been crossed and recrossed once a week for at least a decade and has fully mastered the body language of credibility. He will maintain his calm. His voice will never rise. His answers will be brief. A cop like Montague, a true expert on the stand, could convict virtually anyone he chooses, support the theory of phlogiston or the burning of witches at the stake.

'Just a few questions, Detective,' says Hobie. He is in another gorgeous suit; his beard is trimmed and his fingernails sparkle with clear polish. He starts toward Montague and then, seemingly struck by something, retreats. He takes the plastic bags containing the currency, People's Exhibit i, from Rudy's hand. The band of Hobie's watch, a huge hunk of gold, comes briefly into view from beneath his French cuffs.

'Now when you sent this money here to the state police lab, did you happen to ask them to test for anything besides fingerprints?'

Montague frowns barely. He catches Hobie's drift at once. My friend Sandy Stern has often told me that a defense lawyer is like a person feeling along a wall, looking for a light switch in the dark. Hobie, apparently, is in search of procedural defects, hoping the state performed scientific tests about which they failed to advise him. There is always the vague hope, even in the era of the Rehnquist court, that a defendant can be set free, not because he is innocent, but because the state has been unfair.

'No,' Montague answers to the question about other tests.

'So you didn't test to see if there were, perhaps, traces of blood on this money?'

'No.'

'You didn't attempt to see if there was, for instance, any evidence of gunpowder?'

'Gunpowder?' Montague contains himself. 'No.'

'Could you have run those tests?'

'I saw no reason to.'

'You could have, though?'

'Sure.'

'Could you do it now?'

'No,' says Montague. 'No, wait. Yes, you could. I was going to say no, because the money was treated with ninhydrin' – the stinky purple print-developing agent – 'but we only sent half of it. The lab -' Montague lifts a hand, but it is the soured mouth that says it all.

'The lab sometimes loses track of things?'

'Yuh,' says Montague, happy to say no more.

Hobie nods gravely, as if this were a major concession. I'm not surprised to find that Hobie is a bit of a courtroom con artist. As a young man, he was always so emphatic, even when he was out of his mind or ill informed. His initial inquiries of Montague predictably reveal a sort of high-wire style, asking another question because he asked the first one, letting his ego roam free in the thin air of the courtroom. As a trial lawyer, I always felt stifled. I was never one of these great performers. I was more Tommy's style, just somebody who got the job done, but as a result I was not inclined to the kinds of blunders that seem the inevitable consequence of Hobie's free-association manner.

'Now this fellow Ordell – Hardcore,' Hobie says, changing subjects, 'you indicated he was known to you as a gang member. Which gang was that?'

'You mean what gang he belongs to? At Tower IV at Grace Street, they tend to be Black Saints Disciples. Most are jumped-in to a set called the T-4 Rollers.'

'And is Hardcore a leader in that gang?'

'Counselor, a gang isn't organized like the police department or a corporation. You know, who's in charge can vary from day to day, depending on who they think is cool – who shot, who robbed, who busted on the Goobers. Candidly, that's not my thing. They kill each other, I learn what I have to. Otherwise, you know -' He lifts a hand with a glistening ruby ring on the smallest finger and doesn't bother with the rest. Montague is from the Joe Friday school: Just the facts. The kind of stuff Hobie is asking about is for sociologists or reporters, people who think there are motives worth understanding beyond plain meanness. Worst of all, the questions imply that Montague has an abstract interest in people whom, truth be told, he largely despises. In reaction, he casts a wayward glance at the prosecutors. Molto, in his frumpy suit, throws an elbow in Rudy's side and Rudy takes his feet, even as Tommy continues whispering what it is he ought to say.

'Judge, these answers are calling for hearsay and speculation from the witness. Detective Montague is not a gang member.'

'This is background on Hardcore?' I ask Hobie, and he nods eagerly, pleased I've gotten the point. I overrule the objection. The defense is entitled to show that the state's main witness did not arrive in the courtroom fresh from finishing school. At the prosecution table, Tommy shrugs off my ruling. He merely wanted to assuage Montague, who apparently was feeling beleaguered.

Granted some latitude, Hobie rephrases his last question, asking Montague to describe the leadership structure of BSD, as he understands it. Montague reacts as he did before, rolling his mouth about with mild distaste.

'Again, counsel, these folks don't give us an organizational chart. This particular bunch,' says Montague, 'have some relationship to another gang, called the Night Saints. There were some arrests and convictions, say, a dozen years ago. And this is sort of what you could call the surviving organization, although it's much bigger by now.'

'And how big is that, Lieutenant?'

'Jeez.' Montague directs a few stray hairs back into the black mass shining under the strong courtroom lights. 'From what I've seen, the Force estimates, they place membership in B SD at five, six thousand.' A murmur from the press section follows this news. Glancing over there, I am mildly startled by Seth Weissman, whom I hadn't noticed yet today. He has his arms laid across the chairs on either side, and he is fixed on me, somewhat disconcertingly. Having caught my eye, he issues a smile of greeting, which I return vaguely. Really! I think, although I am not certain if I mean to criticize him or me.

'And is Hardcore in charge of all six thousand?'

'Not as I get it. You know, the head of the Night Saints was a three-timer name of Melvin White, who was known on the street as Harukan. One of his sons now – who's called Harukan-el – son of Harukan, I guess – anyway, Kan-el is supposedly the head of the organization. But he's been in the state penitentiary at Rudyard for many years. So there's a Jeffrey Wilson, Jeff T-Roc, who is usually acknowledged as the top dog in BSD. Or so I understand.'

'And am I correct that this Kan-el is eligible for parole?'

'Supervised release. Parole by another name. That's what I hear. As I remember, he's been up twice. You know, he applies, he gets turned down. He's not a favored candidate, let's say.'

'There's some opposition from the law-enforcement community?'

'Some,' says Montague dryly.

'Judge,' interjects Tommy, 'what's the relevance of any of this?' I tell Molto that I want to hear objections only from the lawyer who questioned the witness, meaning Singh, then direct Hobie to explain his line of inquiry. He says he's only trying to establish where Hardcore fits in the organization in relation to Kan-el and T-Roc.

'Then ask that question,' I tell Hobie.

'Under them somewhere,' answers Montague, when Hobie does. 'Core's what they refer to as a "shot-caller" or "caller." He runs the T-4 set.'

'Was he over this Ms Campbell, this young lady who got herself shot?'

'So I understand.' Montague, although visibly unruffled, cannot resist an addition. 'You've seen her more recently than I have.' At that, Hobie comes to a complete stop. Every trial lawyer has his way. Hobie moves. He's big and seems to try to occupy the entire courtroom as a way of guaranteeing attention. He careers between the tables, slides up on the witness, nodding his dark, bearded face over his shoulder as he retreats. He's effective, too. Sloppy at moments, as when he groped with the money. But cagey and stylish. Now he takes full advantage of Montague's lapse by staring the witness down before moving to strike the last remark. I grant the motion and he goes on to another subject.

'Now, Detective, Mr Singh asked you a couple of questions about the investigation you conducted on September 7 following Mrs Eddgar's murder. Remember?'

'That I had a canvass done?'

'Right. When you canvassed that neighborhood, no officer reported to you that anybody'd mentioned the name of Nile Eddgar, did they?'

'Not that I remember.'

'They mentioned Hardcore, right?'

'Right.'

'But not Nile?'

'No.'

'Then there was this Lovinia Campbell. This young lady on the sidewalk? What's she called in the gang?' 'Bug,' says Montague. 'Bug. Did you speak with her?' 'Very briefly.'

'And did you ask Bug what had happened there?' 'I did.'

'And did Bug tell you that Nile Eddgar had conspired to murder his father, or his mother, or anybody else?'

Tommy prods Singh, who objects that this is hearsay. I overrule. The state opened up the subject of which suspects were named at the scene.

'No, she didn't,' Montague answers, somewhat wearily.

'As a matter of fact, Lieutenant, what she said was this whole thing was a drive-by shooting and Mrs Eddgar had got herself caught in the crossfire – isn't that what Bug said?'

'I suppose that's what she said. You know, she was in shock.'

' "In shock"? Is that your medical opinion, Detective?' Tommy's on his feet. 'Judge, he's arguing with the witness.' 'If anything, I think the witness is arguing with him, Mr Molto.

And I believe this is Mr Singh's witness, and even in a bench trial, I told you, I don't want to be tag-teamed.' I nod to Hobie to proceed.

'The fact here, Lieutenant, is that this Lovinia – Bug – didn't mention Nile Eddgar in any way that day, isn't that so?'

'She mentioned Nile a few days later when she talked to Officer Fred Lubitsch at General Hospital.' In exasperation, Hobie wilts. The question was what she said on September 7. In his worn blazer, Montague stares at Hobie hotly. There's no doubt any more that Lovinia Campbell is the state's problem or that Montague blames Hobie for their trouble. In theory, a defense lawyer is entitled to interview any prosecution witness, but usually when the witness has made a deal with the state, her own lawyer will discourage her from co-operating with the defendant. It keeps the prosecutors happy and avoids the jeopardy that might arise from contradicting what she told the state. Somehow, though, Hobie slipped past Bug's counsel, or even got her help, and the cops and prosecutors don't like it. I'm sure now this is why Hobie brought up Lovinia's name this morning – so I'd have the picture if Montague acted up.

'Come on, Detective,' I say, striking his last answer again. Montague makes a face and composes himself. In the meantime, I jot a note: 'Lubitsch!' No wonder Fred knew the case was a doozy.

'Bug didn't mention Nile that day,' Montague finally says when the court reporter rereads Hobie's last question.

'Truth is,' says Hobie, 'when you were there at the scene -what you heard was basically just this: Hardcore and a drive-by, right?'

Hobie leers a bit, daring Montague to disagree in the face of my warnings. The detective blinks first, then answers, 'Right.'

'Now, from there, Lieutenant, you had a community service officer – Kratzus?' Hobie's looking for the police report on the defense table.

'Kratzus,' says Montague.

'Kratzus went to tell Nile about his mother's death. And you took yourself over to see Senator Eddgar to find out how come Mrs Eddgar'd been driving his car, right?'

'Right'

'And you eventually found Senator Eddgar at his home in Greenwood County?' 'True.'

'Where he told you a big fat lie, right?'

'Objection!' Both prosecutors are on their feet.

'Your Honor,' says Hobie innocently, 'it's right here in Montague's report. He says -'

'Judge!' screams Tommy. 'Judge, Senator Eddgar isn't on the stand. When he testifies,' says Tommy, 'he'll explain this encounter with the police. It has nothing to do with Lieutenant Montague's direct.'

Tommy's right, of course, but I can't help briefly wondering what Eddgar lied about. Which is why Hobie did this. Very clever. He always was. I tell him he's too far afield for the time being and he lays the report beside Nile on the light-oak defense table. Nile, with his bedraggled haircut and errant mood, has observed most of this morning's proceedings with his mouth slightly parted, as if he's largely amazed this is taking place.

'All right,' says Hobie. 'Here's the point: On September 7, in terms of your investigation, Lieutenant, the big thing was to find Hardcore, wasn't it?'

'I don't know about the "big thing." I don't know what that means. I wanted to find him, I can say yes to that.' Montague's dark eyes steal toward me, to be sure I've noted how accommodating he's become in the face of my rebuke.

'And did you find him?'

'Eventually. Word was on the street, and on September 11, he came into Area 7 for questioning.'

'With his lawyer, wasn't it? Mr Jackson Aires? That was your testimony on direct?'

'That was my testimony.'

'And did you talk to Mr Aires before you saw Hardcore?'

'I had a number of conversations with Mr Aires that morning.'

'You and Aires talked about what-all Hardcore might say if he turned himself in and what kind of a deal he could get, right?'

'Yep. That's how it went,' says Montague in a tone meant to remind Hobie that's how it's always done.

'And without going through all of it word for word, the nitty-gritty here is that Attorney Aires let you know that Hardcore was willing to say this whole killing, the entire thing, had been the idea of his probation officer, Nile Eddgar? Right?'

'Close enough.'

'And that was pretty interesting to you, wasn't it?' ' "Interesting"?'

'You knew June Eddgar's murder was all over the news?'

'I don't know. Personally, I don't read the papers much.' From Lew Montague, a hard-boned cynic, I tend to credit this assertion more than I might from some. With his rough-complected face, bare of expression, he seems to be without enthusiasm for much. You catch criminals because it's better than letting them go. I doubt he nurtures, even in his dreams, thoughts of a more perfect world.

'It was an important case,' Hobie suggests. 'They're all important, counsel.'

'Oh, are they, Detective? You knew the PA's Office would be willing to make Hardcore a pretty sweet deal if he put it on Nile Eddgar, didn't you? Son of a prominent politician? Everybody'd get their names in the paper. Folks in the PA's Office don't mind that, do they?'

Tommy jerks Rudy to his feet to object, but Montague, shaking his head throughout the question, is answering already.

'You got the wrong picture, counsel. Molto approved the deal,' says Montague. 'On his own say-so. And I don't think his bosses liked it very much. Couple of them seemed like they'd rather the whole case just went away.'

In his chair, Molto sags a bit. Eager to score, Montague has spoken out of school. We all know now why Tommy is stuck trying this case. He got ahead of the office pols and they're making him carry his own water.

'So it was Molto who wanted his name in the paper?' asks Hobie.

Rudy comes to his feet again. His teak-colored hand is poised to note his objection, but Montague is headstrong and again keeps talking.

'He wanted to do what was right,' Montague answers. 'My captain and me brought Molto the case. None of us thought your client should get away with this.' 'You wanted the deal,' says Hobie.

'I wanted the deal,' says Montague, more or less acknowledging what Hobie said to start. Hobie knows better than to ask what made Montague so eager, realizing that would elicit a lyric to Hardcore's credibility. Besides, to the courthouse veterans in this room, Montague's motives are obvious anyway. The downfall of the mighty always tickles the police, who generally see themselves as unappreciated vassals keeping the world safe for the airheads on top.

'Okay,' says Hobie, 'okay, but here's my point.' With the concession he wanted, he's striding about, full of excitement. 'You were willing to make this deal with Hardcore, even though your investigation had given you no reason at all to think Nile Eddgar was involved in this crime.'

'I wouldn't say that,' answers Montague coolly.

Hobie freezes with his back to the witness. Struggling toward his predetermined point of arrival, it takes him a moment to absorb what Montague has said.

'You suspected Nile Eddgar? By September 11 you were looking at him?'

'What I thought? Yeah, I'd say I was.' Hobie's cross, the big windup he had planned – showing that nothing until Hardcore's appearance implicated Nile – has been derailed. I'd caught his drift, which was that the whole investigation was shaped to fit Hardcore's information. He was suggesting that the prosecutors and cops, hungry for the excitement of a heater case, had been less skeptical than they should have about what Hardcore was saying.

'You suspected Nile Eddgar,' Hobie repeats. 'Why? Because he'd talked to a community service officer when he came to tell him his mother was dead? You weren't there for that, were you?'

'I heard about it.'

'And that's why you suspected him?'

'In part.' Montague is even now and confident. He is sitting a little straighter in his chair, while Hobie is blundering. He has lost all form, propounding two or three questions at once, quarreling with Montague and forgetting to lead him. Hobie's like a terrier hanging on to a trouser cuff and getting kicked each time.

'And what was the other part?' asks Hobie. 'You didn't hear anything from Lovinia Campbell, right? Or on the canvass?' 'We'd talked to his father.' 'His father! The senator?' 'That's right.'

'So it was what his father told you that made Nile a suspect?' 'Basically,' says Montague. 'Yes.'

And just that quickly something happens in the courtroom. It's like that extraordinary instant in the theater when an actor comes through the curtain to take her bow, and the character she has been for hours suddenly has been shed like some second skin. Hobie, too, is someone else. He lifts his face to a refractory angle, and briefly allows a cryptic, constricted smile across his lips, like a lizard darting through the sun. He's apparently gotten just the answer he wanted, and scared me badly in the process, because I was taken in like Montague, like everybody else. Hobie ponders the witness one more moment, then looks straight to me and says serenely, 'Nothing more.'

*

Once each month, as a matter of solemn commitment, I have lunch or dinner with my friend Gwendolyn Ries, without our kids. She is a large cheerful woman, emphatic by nature, one of those people who proudly regards herself as an element of the life force. She wears too much perfume, too much makeup, too much jewelry; there's a reddish wash in her hair too bright to call 'henna.' She appears today in gaucho pants and a woolen vest of South American weave, bedecked with matte-gold buttons in the shape of lizards.

Since the birth of her son, Avi, eight years ago, Gwen, a radiologist, has worked four days a week. Today, she has taken the morning to herself for shopping, long her favorite pastime, and dashes from the taxi into the restaurant, arms abounding with bags full of gold and silver boxes. We have met at Gil's, a renowned spot, and surely the best meal near the courthouse. Years ago, this place was known as Gil's Men's Bar, and it retains an Old World atmosphere, with its splendid century-old interior. The vast room is a gorgeous wooden box, the wainscoting, the floors, the tables, the paneled ceiling, all hewn of quarter-sawn oak, heavily grained and varnished, accented by various polished brass fittings and great cast-iron chandeliers suspended on heavy chains from the high ceiling. One of the only real perks of judicial life is that 1 can always get seated here. As soon as Gwen arrives, she and I are swept past the long line of lawyers and other courthouse regulars crowded behind a red velvet rope to one of the many square tables for two aligned in dual rows at the center of the restaurant. For the sake of privacy, the abutting tables are separated by handsome partitions of yellowish wood, into which some clever craftsman long ago burned graceful images of German mountain scenes. The brusque waiters, in black cutaway coats, and the busy patrons speak at volume. With its solid surfaces, Gil's is a cascade of noise.

Gwen opens every box. I admire each item, even though we both know I wouldn't wear most of the exotic clothing if it were given to me free. We are long accustomed to our differences, which I alternately cherish or, in some moods, tolerate with the self-conscious discipline of one who at the age of forty-seven still feels she is learning how to be a friend. I've never had a full complement of close relationships. My mother, always battling landlords and principals, jumped from apartment to apartment, enrolling me in a different grade school every fall; and as a grown-up, I've taken my own bumpy twisting path, forever leaving folks behind as I've gone through my changes. Naturally, there are colleagues and acquaintances. I think I'm regarded as amiable, candid, maybe even charming. I'm welcome in lots of places. Judicial power, like a beacon, draws invitations to zillions of functions, bar affairs, political dinners, law-school dos. And although I was an only child, I have a semblance of family life, through my cousin Eddie, the oldest son of my Aunt Hen and Uncle Moosh, who has always treated me as an honorary sib. I talk to him or his wife, Gretchen, every week, and Nikki and I are with them and their five kids for every holiday.

But, admittedly, it's been hard for me to connect. For this reason, I have found the alliances of motherhood a sweet relief. Is it only my imagination, or are women better to each other at this point in life? It seems as if we all learned some crucial secret in the delivery room about nurturance and kindness. My neighbor Marta Stern, Sandy's daughter and a lawyer herself, who is now at home with two young daughters, has become a special friend. There are a couple of others.

But I go back in time only with Gwen, whom I have known since high school. She was upbeat, alert, one of those loud, effusive, laughing girls I so admired, someone who seemed to have a promising relationship with every person at East Kewahnee High. I felt greatly honored by her friendship, and for years contrived not to notice that I was never invited to her home. Eventually, through other kids who were her neighbors, I learned that her mother was in the final stages of M S. There were a few occasions, after we started to drive, when I'd borrowed my uncle's Valiant and dropped Gwen off, that I glimpsed Mrs Ries through the window. She was enfeebled by disease, with stricken hands and dirty matted hair and a harrowed look as she sat in her chair, a blanket folded precisely over her knees. The contrast with Gwendolyn was extraordinary. And I can remember taking note of Gwen's slow stride across the lawn as she approached her home, a girl inclined to run on most occasions. I could see her posture take on the weight of knowing that at the center of her world lay trouble no one else could share and which she could not escape. And I remember seeing exactly what we had in common, since during those years I hoped, always – secretly and eternally – no one would know I was the daughter of Zora Klonsky, gadfly and loudmouth, a person whom only I understood, a woman notorious in the early sixties in the Tri-Cities for her conduct at a city council meeting where she had punched a right-wing city councilman opposed to water fluoridation.

'Shit,' says Gwen now, as we near the end of our meal. From beneath the brightly striped flap of her vest, she grabs her beeper off her belt and makes a face at the readout. The hospital. She disappears to find a phone. We have spent most of lunch, as always, gabbing about our kids. We're the two oldest moms in U. Lab Lower School and both on our own. Nikki is a kindergartner; Avi's in second grade. I worry that Mrs Loughery, a benign soul who talks to grown-ups in the same braindead singsong in which she speaks to the children, is not challenging enough for Nikki. She was born just on the wrong side of the deadline and seems a little ahead of herself, able to read simple sentences, to add sums in her head. Gwen told me to ease up, Nikki and Virginia Loughery both are doing well, advice I'm somberly pondering when I'm drawn to voices on the other side of the panel at my right: two men who, I realize quite suddenly, are talking about my case. One just said distinctly, 'Molto.'

'Why's it wrong?' the first asks.

'It's wrong. I'm telling you it's wrong. This bird, around the courthouse they call him Mold-o. I'm not kidding. Talk about a guy who walked through the metal detector too often.'

'He's doing all right,' the first man says. 'He did all right yesterday.' The voices are familiar. Lawyers, I guess. It has to be. I think the first one, who I've heard often, tried a case before me. A good guy. Very good. A flush of positive feeling is the sole retrieval when I send the summons to memory.

'Eh,' says the second one. 'Room temperature IQ. Molto -Jesus, he was nearly disbarred back in the eighties. Were you ever around here when Nico Delia Guardia was the PA? Molto was sitting at the right hand of God then. I think he used to write Nico's papers in high school. So when Nico wins, Tommy gets to be Queen for a Day. And the two of them fucked up some murder case to a fare-thee-well. God, I can't even remember what it was.' I hear knuckles rapping on the table. 'Sabich,' the man says.

'Who?'

'Too hard to explain. But there was this implication they'd doctored the evidence. So, you know, the baying hounds of the press ran Nico out of office. With help. Plenty of help. He'd gotten crosswise of the Mayor in the meantime. And Molto they sent out for hanging with BAD. Bar Admissions and Discipline. And it's a typical BAD investigation. Four months, six months, eight months, ten months. Two years. Nothing happens. So he's still here. Still a deputy P A. Poor mutt. What else is the son of a bitch gonna do for a living? His name is shit on the street. All he can do is keep cashing that green check. That's Molto. Now you tell me. Is this the guy you send to court to win one for the Gipper? I think not. He's sleepwalking up there. He's a beaten dog. I checked my file. He hasn't tried a case in three years. He's just a bitter little man waiting to collect a county pension.'

'So what are you saying?'

'I'm saying it's wired. Didn't you hear that cop today? The PA and his cronies want to see this thing go in the dumper. They sent this poor hump Molto up there cause he'd get lost looking for the men's room.'

'Jesus, Dubinsky,' the first man says. Stew Dubinsky! The Tribune courthouse reporter, the man to whom the prosecution leaked yesterday's story about Eddgar being the murder target. I feel an immediate impulse to leave. I shouldn't listen to discussions of this case, let alone from someone who could turn my eavesdropping into a cause celebre. But I see no unoccupied tables nearby and there's still half a piece of sole on Gwendolyn's plate. Besides, she'd kill me if I left all her new treasures unattended. Instead, I look straight forward with an impassive expression, but the voices, raised in the raucous lunchtime atmosphere, remain disturbingly clear on my side of the panel.

'Jesus,' the first man repeats.' "Wired." Doesn't anybody ever tell you you're paranoid?'

'All the time,' Stew answers. 'That's how come I know they're part of the plot.'

'Christ. Go watch JFK again.' Whoever this is has Stewart's number. He's always snooping around the courthouse and implying in his stories that the true facts have been concealed in an obscure conspiracy of silence. 'How's your salad?' Stew's friend asks.

'Shit,' Dubinsky says. 'This isn't food. Why'd I let you order for me? Spinach and spring water. I feel like I'm a fucking elf.'

'You don't look like an elf, so just keep chewing.' Stew has pretty much lost the battle. His belly has the dimensions of a late-term pregnancy, and his face is swaddled in chin. This has to be an old pal to be freely giving Stew the business about his physique. 'So what'd you think today?' this man asks. 'How'd you like that business at the end about Eddgar?'

'Six point zero for Artistic Impression. Zero point zero on substance.'

'How's that?'

'You don't watch these alley cats day in and day out like I do. It's standard defense melodrama. Letting rabbits loose in the courtroom. Eddgar's the big name so Hobie figures he'll raise the most dust that way. But it's a smoke screen. Take it from me. I know what I'm talking about on this one.'

On reflection, my assessment has not been much different. The craft was impressive, but it's hardly a shock that the target of the murder scheme had things to say that drew suspicion to Nile. The other man maintains his doubts. Hobie, he says, seemed to have a point.

'Listen, why ask me what he was doing?' says Stew. 'Talk to Hobie.'

'I keep telling you, he won't say anything to me about this case. Not word one. I came two thousand miles and I'm sitting in the Hotel Gresham at night playing computer games.'

It's Seth! With Dubinsky? How interesting. In the midst of my spying, I hear within a discordant note, a fugitive thought calling for later reflection.

'You know,' Dubinsky says, 'you call me suspicious -'

'I called you "paranoid." '

' "Paranoid," fine. But look at you. You think Eddgar's Darth Vadar's misplaced twin. His constituents admire the guy.'

'Shit,' answers Seth, 'talk about the American electorate. I think about Eddgar in the State Senate and I can't believe we're not on Twilight Zone.'

Dubinsky recounts Eddgar's emergence in local politics more than a dozen years ago. Eddgar had become a green. He forged a coalition of anti-capitalists, ecologists, and animal-rights supporters. When a large cosmetics company made a grant to one of the labs at the university, Eddgar led demonstrations.

'College kids didn't want rabbits to die to make eyeliner. Christ, they didn't even wear makeup,' says Dubinsky. 'After that, he gets elected to the City Council in Easton first, then Mayor. Then a State Senate seat opens up. He ran for controller two years ago. Nearly won.'

'Don't people know about him? His history?' Seth asks.

'Hey, you know, you've given me the heads-up. I've done the articles. Twice, in fact. But being a former radical is very -what?'

'Trendy?'

'It makes him trustworthy in a certain way. I think that's what it is. It goes to show he has a commitment to reform. And besides, Eddgar never burned down anything around here. Christ, everybody was crazy in the sixties. And it's not like he's representing Orange County anyway. His district's a college town and some East Kindle housing projects. Lincoln would lose that district if he ran as a Republican.'

‘I can't imagine that guy backslapping and glad-handing, though.'

'No, no. He's shit on a stick. These big dos, everybody breathing on each other, looking for the biggest ring to kiss, I see him half the time, shrinking against the wallpaper, nibbling his lip. But you know, he' s a professor. People figure he' s a dead fuck anyway.'

'How about a woman? He ever show up with a companion?' A moment passes. Perhaps there's an expression of discomfort from Dubinsky, long divorced, as I remember. His own social life is probably far from scintillating, but Seth persists. 'Any talk?' he asks.

'Ah shit,' says Stew, 'people talk, they don't talk. Nothing really. I don't know – boys, girls, pygmies. Christ, he's old. He's sixty-what? Five. Sixty-five, sixty-seven. I'd guess he's retired in that department.'

'Yeah,' says Seth. 'I was just curious. Did you ever reach out for June?'

'Sure. Remember? During the election? When he ran for controller. You gave me that tip. I dug her up. She's in this little burg in Wisconsin?'

'Right.'

'Told her I wanted to talk about Eddgar. And I get the oh-fuck five-minute pause. And then she says, "I'm too old to remember that." Friendly enough otherwise. Ready to tell me anything I didn't want to know. She sounded like an old drank. You know, ditzy middle-aged dame, chasing every butterfly dancing through her brain. Afterwards, I get a call from Eddgar's flack. I'm "delving into his personal life." I'm like "Fuck-you, give-me-abreak. This guy's got secrets he wants to keep, let him join the CIA.'"

'He's got secrets,' Seth says, somewhat ponderously.

'So you keep telling me. But say what you want, maybe he was a bigger jag-off than Captain Hook, but he's gotten it done now. Christ, he gets awards. The whosycallit. Women,' he says.

'The League of Women Voters?'

'Exactly. Twice. Best legislator. Bleeding Heart of the Year. The century. You get him in the statehouse? He's in his element, he's high. You should feature this bird in his office, with four phones ringing and the staff people running in and out, the pols, the interest group people coming by to smooch his derriere. I mean, this is the guy. Manipulating. Plotting. The other side of it, you know – getting elected? Making them love him? I think he really hates campaigning. But the back doors? The back rooms? The deals. The doing. We're talking high, high on that stuff. And he gets his shit through. We got a new juvenile-justice scheme. He's got a program now where the state pays 250 bucks to poor kids who finish high school. College Preparation Awards, he calls it. Day care. Mental health care. And you know, he's czar of penal reform, prisons. Any warden sees him coming, they start moaning, he's all the time in their faces: Job training! Job training!'

Just as Dubinsky on the other side of the partition explodes in laughter at a joke he's made – probably the most inappropriate remark I've heard yet – Gwendolyn reappears. I rise at once and greet her some feet from the table.

'Are you done?' I ask.

She wants coffee and I suggest the bar.

'What's wrong with the table?'

I raise a finger to my lips. We bear her packages into Gil's noted barroom, where the lawyers and law enforcers mix each week in a burly Friday-evening scene. It's another gorgeous room, if somewhat dimmer, centered on the oak bar, where carved pillars and vines surround a beveled mirror that runs forty feet above the whiskey bottles. We pile the shopping bags along the brass boot rail below and hike ourselves onto the stools. My explanation to Gwen about the occupants of the table adjoining ours is briefly interrupted when our heavy-browed Greek waiter bursts in, certain we ditched the check.

'You mean the columnist?' asks Gwen. 'Your old squeeze? He's around now, too?' Gwendolyn's inquired once or twice about the case, because of the articles in the paper, but she's heard nothing of these events. 'Ooh,' she says, 'how cinematic. What's he look like?' She elevates herself on the stool in hopes of seeing over the stained-glass divider to the restaurant. Gwendolyn has a bold attitude toward romance and, particularly, sex. She's made love to colleagues in the Doctors' Lounge. Privately, I regard this as unconvincing feminist bravado, particularly since I've followed her counsel on a few occasions in the last year or so and each time found the experience alien and sad. She has been married three times, most recently to an Israeli doc several years younger than she, whom she was training. She met him, had his child, and booted him out the door in a whirlwind period of eighteen months.

'He looks like he's approaching fifty, the same as I do,' I answer now.

'Don't be dour, dear.'

'Sorry. I'm a little sensitive. Marietta's giving me the business again. She's just biting her nails until I take up with him.'

Gwen rolls her eyes. 'You're the only woman I know who got divorced and still has to put up with a mother-in-law.'

I laugh heartily. It's too true. And Charlie's mother was easygoing, a delight.

'It's crazy,' I say. 'This is complicated enough. Just sitting on this case, I feel like I'm Humpty-Dumpty ready to fall off the wall.' Above the demitasse from which she' s drinking an espresso, Gwendolyn's reddish face narrows.

'How did you end up in this position in the first place? One way or the other, won't somebody say your decision is based on how you feel about this boy or his family?'

I explain the circumstances. I was free to keep the case if I wanted to. The week before the trial, I even took the precaution of describing my predicament to Brendan Tuohey, the Chief Judge. The thought of me in a ticklish situation seemed to spark some brief delight beneath the crafty veneer of his narrow rosy face, but he was reassuring. 'You're the right judge, Sonny,' he told me. 'You know the saying: "If you can't tell the difference between your job and your friends, you don't deserve either." Comes with the robes, you know. Besides, if you don't sit, no one in the Criminal Division will want to. Then the Supreme Court will make me pay the bill to bring in someone awful.' He regaled me with a long story about the extravagant expenses the court incurred when the Supreme Court designated an upstate judge named Farrell Smedley to sit on the fraud trial of Marcelino Bolcarro, the former Mayor's brother. 'Did you know, Sonny, that man never met a lobster he didn't like? I finally asked him, "Don't you ever get a taste for ground beef?" And the poor dumb backwoods s.o.b., he looked at me, I thought he was simply gonna cry. "L'il Abner," they called him behind his back.' Tuohey went off shaking his head.

'But why did you?' Gwen asks.

'What?'

'Want it? The case? It sounds so messy.' 'Nostalgia?'

'You're not nostalgic. I don't know anybody who was happier to grow up. You quake when I mention high school. You barely remembered me.' This, of course, is an exaggeration, but I did lose track of Gwen, like so many others. Then in 1983, I took a routine mammogram. In one of those strange twists, the radiologist at Bethesda who read the film was Gwendolyn. She showed up at my house in person, took my hand, wept when I wept after the biopsy, and promised we would arrive together on the other side of the experience, as we have. Another part of the past I don't much care to remember.

‘I don't know,' I say. 'Do you know anybody our age who doesn't look back at that time without feeling they did something amazing, like going off to the Crusades?' I've often heard recollections of Gwendolyn's experiences in Madison. She performed nude onstage in rock musicals and still relishes the memory.

'You know what it is?' Gwen points a long nail at me, manicured in a persimmon shade. 'It's Zora. You're working something out with Zora.'

'I'm always working something out with Zora. I'm working something out with Zora when I send Nikki to school in the morning.'

She shrugs. I do as well, but Gwendolyn has exerted her customary power to upset me. I bundle her into a taxi, feeling low, feeling again that I'm careening about as the captive of mysterious forces and that I blundered taking this case. Everyone else knows something – about me, or the case, or what will happen with it – which has completely eluded me. Dubinsky had his own sarcastic prediction, the last thing I overheard from the next table. He was talking about Eddgar's role as a legislative advocate of penal reform.

'Eddgar's in those prisons twice a month, looking them over and giving the wardens hell,' Stew said. Then his laughter, sharply nasal, always somehow derisive, pealed forth, loud even on the other side of the partition. He'd amused himself greatly with a thought.

'Now he can go on Sundays, too,' Dubinsky said.