Scott Turow - Personal injuries

"Silvio reads every word. Christ, sometimes I wonder if he thinks he's the Virgin Mary. I don't think he figured out yet there's such a thing as bullshit." With that, there was a thick thwack as the envelope landed on yet another pile of pleadings on one of the cabinets. Walter's assessment of the brief's merit was plain.

"Walter, I got a case here."

"You've always got a case. At least so far as you're concerned."

"This is a good one. Strict liability. My guy's got brain damage. Trader down at the Futures Exchange. This is a million-dollar case. If I get past this bullshit motion to dismiss. The insurer's got to step to the plate then. It's only a matter of time."

"Yeah, brain damage. That must account for why he hired you. You gonna rent that chair or were you about to leave?" Robbie's clothing shifted, chafing the microphone, and Feaver's voice dived. Listening, Evon could feel the drama sharpen. This was the moment. He was going to set Walter up. He must have leaned over the desk.

"Watch out for this one, Wally. Make sure he sees it the right way."

"I just work here."

"Right," Robbie whispered. "Right. That's why it's always Christmas."

"You are a gardener, Feaver. Full of manure. Beat it." "Make me happy, Walter."

"I thought that's what she's for."

Evon was across the hall as Robbie swung open the door, and the last two lines were audible, even without the earpiece. Other people might have been embarrassed, but Walter, catching sight of her, administered an insultingly direct look across his wayward nose, before turning to confront the many papers on his desk. THE RECORDING WAS A SUCCESS. Klecker played it back for Sennett and me and several of the other undercover agents as soon as Robbie had returned. Feaver had been flawless-no sign of nerves as he'd made a subtle effort to nudge Walter into incriminating himself. Stan dispensed congratulations, but he was visibly grumpy about the ambiguousness of Wunsch's responses.

"Why does he say he just works there? Or that the judge is the Virgin Mary?"

Feaver was impatient, played out from the effort and late for a settlement meeting with an insurance adjuster. I also took it that he wanted a more wholehearted pat on the back.

"Stan," said Robbie, "it's how he talks. He's not gonna bend down to the mike and say, `I'm a great big crook.' I was stepping on his toes as it was. But he'll take the money. Believe me."

Before Feaver departed, I took a second alone with him to reassure him about how well he'd done. Returning to the conference room, we were greeted by a round of raucous laughter. For some reason, it had come at Evon's expense. She'd pulled back against the oak cabinetry with a narrow expression, and when she caught sight of Feaver she told him at once it was time to go.

He asked what had happened as soon as they were snug in the Mercedes.

"Nothing," she answered.

He asked several more times.

"It was Alf," she said finally, "if you have to know. He was doing an impression of the look on my face when they replayed that line."

Behind his sunglasses in the strong winter light, Feaver seemed to take a moment to recall what she was talking about. The golf ball. The garden hose. As she could have predicted, he was unabashed.

"Hey, Walter believed it." He smiled. "Must be you got a strong-looking jaw."

"Strong stomach is more like it. Men are sick creatures. Why do you have to brag?"

"Hey, Walter hasn't heard half of what he could have from me." He started a story about a juror in that courtroom with whom he had dallied throughout the last week of a trial, but interrupted himself. "Hell," he said, "forget the juror. Walter clerked for a judge I've messed around with."

"A judge!"

"A woman, okay? It's a long story."

"It must be." A female cop in an optic vest hurried them through the intersection in the mounting afternoon traffic.

"Look, it's my play, okay? It gives me an edge with guys like Walter, that I'm his fantasy life. Some people, I don't know, they love to think there's something they're missing. But it's a play. Truth? I mean, this'll blow your mind but I stopped skunking around on Rainey when she got sick. I can't really explain it. I barely took a breath after we were married. But now?" He shrugged in his dark cashmere overcoat. "It seems kind of crummy. Disloyal. I'll be single soon enough anyway." His eyes were indetectable behind the shades, which was just as well. His occasional casualness with the rawest truths confounded her. But she was still unwilling to allow him to sidetrack her with shock tactics.

"You enjoyed degrading me. And don't say it was just a play.”

"Oh great. Right. `Degrading.' `Dehumanizing.' Let's hear em all. Gloria Steinem's greatest hits. Why do women always think a guy's urges come at their expense? How do you figure he feels being dragged through life by his steed?"

"I'll send a sympathy card."

"Hey," he said, "you won't ever meet a man who likes women better than me. They're the best thing on the planet. And I don't just mean horizontal. Women hold the world together."

She peeked over to be certain he wasn't smirking. Even then, she remained unconvinced. On the pavement, a fellow was pulling his wheeling suitcase behind him. He wore a bright fleece pullover, nylon moon boots, and, despite the January weather, a pair of shorts. A skier, Evon thought, headed off for vacation. For a moment, even as she went on shaking her head about Feaver, she felt a pang for the speed and the space and the snow that would always be part of home.

"Look," Feaver said, "it's the cover. Like it or not. That's our cover. Right?"

"That's the cover," she said resignedly.

"So stop fighting it, will you? You keep telling me how I'm gonna blow this deal, then you jump about ten feet every time I give you so much as a warm smile. Relax, will you? I'm not gonna take you wrong. I've got the picture. Believe me."

"And what picture is that?"

He pouted a little bit as he fiddled with the temperature controls amidst the walnut console.

"Can I give you some advice? I mean, I acted. You know that, right? Is that in my vita or resume or dossier, whatever you guys worked up on me?"

"You told me. The bar show."

"Please," he said. "That's retirement activity. No, high school, college, that was my dream. I wanted to be on the stage. I used to wait tables at the Kerry Room. I swept up at The Open Door. I had it bad I used to get in a sweat just standing next to somebody I'd seen perform, even if they'd only walked onstage playing the butler. I wanted them to touch me and give me a little of that stuff. Obviously, that's why I love the jury trials. You know. Cause I'm such a frustrated ham." In his gloves, he tightened his grip on the wooden steering wheel, seemingly staggered by the depth of this forsaken passion. After a moment, he recalled his point.

"Now, you can tell everybody in the office your name's Evon Miller from Idaho without even a quiver, but you get sick to your stomach at the thought of maybe touching my hand. It's like you're saying, I can do a part, I can tell all these white lies, but not that, that's who I am. And that's amateur hour, frankly. `An actor's work is on himself.' That's what Stanislavsky said. You can't judge or try to keep some little piece of yourself sacred. It's like taking LSD. Don't trip if you're gonna fret about whether you're coming back."

She wouldn't know about that, she replied, but smiled toward her window where a small fogged patch was withdrawing in the hot breath from the air vents. He was smooth. It sounded like a farmer's daughter joke, the way he was putting it. We have to do this to keep warm.

"Okay," he said, "so here's an actual example. Once in summer stock I worked with Shaheen Conroe. On The Point? On TV?" Evon had never seen the show. The actress's name meant something only because it appeared frequently on the lists of prominent and acknowledged lesbians magazines liked to compile these days.