Scott Turow - Personal injuries

The original idea had been to parade a cast of undercover agents through the office, pretending to be new clients. But Stan in time hit on something far simpler. If and when Morty came upon the cases, there was a perfect person to blame: me. George Mason, downstairs, had become a new source of referrals. As former President of the Bar Association, Mason was a stickler about actually working on the files, an ethical requirement in order to receive a referral fee. As a result, the client interviews had taken place in my office, and Mason had even scratched out a rough draft of the complaint. That was why Mort had not been party to the usual preparations.

I was the only one who didn't regard this notion as inspired. Unlike some criminal defense lawyers who see themselves as soldiers in an endless war against the state, I had no reluctance about encouraging my clients to cooperate with the prosecution when it would help them. But that was their obligation, not mine. I had something of a heritage to protect. Although my mother had knowingly married into the bankrupt branch of an aristocratic Virginia family, she managed to plant the flag for the social distinction she prized by naming me after my most famous ancestor. George Mason is believed to be the author of the line "All men are created equal," which Jefferson subsequently borrowed, as well as of the Bill of Rights, which he conceived of with his friend Patrick Henry. The legacy of George Mason-the real one, as I think of him-has been quite a bit to drag around with me, but I'd always felt that in protecting the rights of the accused, I was maintaining allegiance to my distinguished relation and his vision. For his sake, not to mention my law practice, which depended on being known as a tireless foe of the prosecution, I didn't want my name imprinted on an elaborate governmental deception like Petros.

Sennett pressed, however: I needed an excuse for my frequent visits with Robbie and McManis, which someone in the building was bound to notice eventually. And this way, the fertilizer could be spread by Feaver, not me. Robbie could send letters to my office, mention our relationship here and there. I would merely adhere to my duty to maintain his confidences. Stan argued adeptly and I eventually sank to my ankles in the familiar bog of compromise where defense lawyers dwell.

Robbie now delivered the cover story about good old George Mason, as Mort blinked several times behind the watery refraction of his wire-framed glasses. Misshapen by daily abuse, the specs rode at a noticeable angle across his thick nose. Evon, naturally, was astonished by the elan with which Robbie lied, especially to the friend to whom he claimed total devotion, and also by the fact that Dinnerstein, despite the years, still couldn't see through him. Robbie explained away a few of Mort's lingering technical questions about the case, then squired Evon from the office where Mort appeared quite satisfied.

Evon called me at once to tell me that the plan had been sprung so that I'd be prepared if I bumped into Dinnerstein in the building. But the news left me down. From the start, I'd felt a subtle undertow emanating from Sennett, and I sensed that allowing my name to be used as a prop in the Petros stage play was only the beginning. Eventually, he'd ask me to lie actively, or to talk Robbie into some dubious stratagem, requests that would not be premised on my client's best interests but on the grand importance of Petros to the legal community, and on my friendship with Stan. He'd want me to help him do his job, at the expense of doing mine. And what was unsettling was this: given the peculiar geometry of my relationship with Stan, and my funny fugue state at the moment, even I was not completely certain how I was going to respond.

Fridayafternoons at the firm, Robbie and Mort opened the bar in the rosewood cabinets of the Palace and welcomed the whole staff for a drink. It was pleasant and democratic. Evon declined alcohol, detailing, whenever she was asked, the beliefs of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for a number of the women who had no concept about Mormons, except the Tabernacle Choir. It was a loose mood. There was talk about the week and the Super Bowl on Sunday, Dallas against Buffalo. Clinton had announced his don't-ask-don'ttell policy for gays in the military and two of the associates were debating it. Rashul, the black kid who ran the copying machine, knocked back several jolts from Feaver's $90 bottle of Macallan and tried to make way with Oretta, who had him by about thirty years.

In the old days, as daylight dwindled, Feaver would snag one or two of the younger women and take them with him to the Street of Dreams. Now, in the slipstream of Robbie's well-known ways. Evon drifted behind him to his office shortly after six, leaving everyone to think that they were heading off for an overheated evening of their own.

"Say, that's good," he said, as he was searching his desk for papers to take home in his briefcase, "the Mormon girl stuff."

The office door had remained open and Evon pushed it shut somewhat harder than she'd intended.

"Not here, Feaver. You know the rules."

He'd had several shots of single-malt scotch. Turning to face her, he perched on the arm of his desk chair with his briefcase saddled in his lap. His tie was dragged down and his shirtsleeves were rolled.

"The rules," he said. "Very militaristic." He scratched his head. "Let me ask you something I've been wondering. Did they give you any choice about this? Or was this like the Army? They ordered you to volunteer? FBI, you figure that's a hard place to buck the boss."

"I've told you before, Feaver, we aren't gonna play Twenty Questions."

"No? I was hoping on the way home, maybe you'd tell me about the Olympics."

She got the message. He was angry. The testiness with which they'd left the car after the encounter with Walter, when she'd accused him of labeling her, had festered the rest of the week, and the liquor had set it loose. They were both worn out. But she wasn't any happier than he was. She watched him without reply.

"How about a hint?" he asked. "I mean, what sport? Team event? Individual?"

"How about this instead? I'll call Sennett. And I'll tell him to roll it up, because you're so determined to goof on me we're both gonna end up dead. You can go to Marion right now and I can go home. That sounds pretty good on both ends."

"You know," he said, "I never liked tough guys. Even when they're guys."

He was a dangerous man when he was angry. The lacquer seldom rubbed off his happy-go-lucky routine, but when it did, there was no restraint. His last shot had whipcracked across the short distance between them.

"We're done, Feaver. I'm not kidding about calling this off.”

"Good. Great. Call it off. Cause I've got a couple of things I've been meaning to say anyway. I know you don't like me. Don't say it isn't so, okay? I'm sure you've got your reasons. And maybe they're pretty good. But I have some breaking news for you, Special Agent Whoever -You – Are: this is not the time of my life, either, not by any stretch. Okay? If everything turns out peachy, I end up a convict, maybe my best friend loses his law license thanks to me, and I'll never be able to walk down the streets of this city where I've lived my entire life without thinking somebody is going to put a blade in my back. And that's if all goes well. If it doesn't, then I get that all-expenses trip to Marion, where you can bet I won't ever sleep a second on my stomach. And either way, I have to put up with you, with your chip-on-the-shoulder hard-ass routine, accompanying me sixteen hours a day to every locale I visit, except the men's room, where you just hang around the door.

"So as far as I'm concerned, if you want to walk your stick-up-it rear end out of here, the only thing you're going to hear from behind is applause. But don't think I don't know an empty threat when I hear it. Yon Sennett, he's got a lean and hungry look. Like Shakespeare? Stan would call this off on your say-so about as soon as my mother becomes Pope. The only person on this food chain who's lower than me, sister, is you. And we both know your career as hotshot G-man will be over as soon as you waltz out of here. I did my six months in the Marine Reserves to stay out of Nam. I know all about can-do organizations. Can't do and you're dirt. You're stuck, just like me. So stop being such a jerk."