Scott Turow - Personal injuries

By now Sennett had ground out six more fictitious complaints. To Stan and McManis's amazement and chagrin, half of the new cases had been drawn to Malatesta, while none went to Barnett Skolnick. Sennett was especially eager to get to Skolnick, the one judge who dealt with Feaver without a bagman, but Robbie had no reason to complain about the assignments. His only interest was supposed to be having the case before a judge he could `talk to.' However, with three specials recently added to Malatesta's calendar, Feaver had need to be particularly ingratiating, and the additional sum would provide an excuse to address the amount of money Robbie was bringing Walter.

But this left the agents five thousand dollars short. With some anguish, McManis wrote a check to cash on the Law Offices' account, knowing it would require hours of paperwork for D.C., only to find the bank downstairs closed when he arrived. Ultimately Sennett had to make a series of calls. The United States Attorney returned half an hour later and drew five thousand dollars in cash from an envelope in his topcoat. He'd requisitioned the funds with his own IOU from the Drug Enforcement Administration, which kept tens of thousands of dollars in currency on hand as `buy money.'

Every bill was then photocopied so it could be identified if it turned up in a search. The stack of almost two hundred bills, mostly hundreds and fifties with a sprinkling of twenties, was nearly an inch thick, even banded. Accordingly, Robbie's habit with Walter was to deliver the cash in a cigarette carton. Wunsch was a heavy smoker, one of those nicotine fugitives regularly pacing back and forth before the Temple, coatless no matter what the weather and looking as if he was attempting to suck the cigarette dry in his race to get back to the courtroom before the judge returned to the bench.

Finally, Robbie was wired. He let his trousers down this time without much forethought. Afterwards, Robbie grabbed the cigarette carton with the money and Evon also put on her coat. She would be in the car while Robbie and Walter met. It would be far too unsettling to Wunsch if Feaver handed over the money in front of her, but the need to overcome standard courtroom defenses meant she had to catch sight of Wunsch to confirm it was his voice on the recording. She also had to watch Robbie so she could testify at trial that he'd had no opportunity to keep the money himself. To corroborate the drop, McManis would frisk Feaver carefully as soon as he returned.

"Now you have the scenario?" Sennett asked, reminding Robbie yet again to talk about the money. "And see if you can find out what the hell Malatesta does with all this cash. The Service," he said, meaning the IRS, "can't see anything "

That remark appeared to prick McManis, who looked up abruptly. Inter-agency rivalries are fierce, and Jim apparently knew little about the IRS's continuing participation in the investigation, although he must have anticipated as much. In a world where catching bad guys gives life meaning, the IRS agents who'd knocked on Robbie's door would never settle for being entirely cut out of the case. Nevertheless, knowing Sennett, I suspected Stan was putting Jim in his place, reminding him who still held the most secrets in the game of need-to-know.

Given the significance of the first payoff, Stan wanted to listen as it was made, which meant that 1, too, was invited to join McManis and Klecker in the back of the surveillance van. We each walked separately to the new federal building, where a guard cleared us to enter the garage in the basement. The van was a boxy gray Aerostar, with flashy ivory detailing on the side. The only light in the rear came from two frosted observation bubbles on either side of the vehicle, which provided a dim, wide-angle vantage on the passing world. Cables snaked all over and Klecker knelt on the rubber floor mats, hovering close to the readouts and dials of the banks of electrical equipment secured with steel belts bolted to the floor. The stale air had a strong rubbery smell. As we left the garage, Sennett, McManis, and I were seated on narrow fold-down seats hinged to the wall, under strict instructions to stay there and be quiet, so that we did not impede the work of the agents.

The van was driven by Joe Amari, a middle-aged FBI veteran who'd clearly worked with Jim before and who posed as the law office's investigator. Joe had coppery Sicilian skin, and black hair so thick and perfectly groomed that it looked like something from a furrier's shelf. He had the appearance of a squat tough guy, and he was. He'd been under a dozen times, almost always on mob cases.

The municipal parking structure adjoining the courthouse was a five-tier open-air affair built in the same buff colored brick as the Temple. By plan, Wunsch, in an old Chesterfield topcoat, would already be lurking on the ground floor. Robbie would drive by him with no sign of recognition, racing up the circling lanes to the top floor, which, at this hour, was largely deserted. In time, we heard the Mercedes gearshift jammed into park and Robbie's tread as he crossed to the elevator. If all went according to the standard arrangement, when the elevator's brown doors rumbled back, Wunsch would be inside.

Robbie and Walter had been using the elevator for drops for years now. The tiny carriage was a squeeze even for four persons and a hopeless wreck. The tiled flooring was gone in most places and the elevator reeked from its use as a pissoir by various urban vagabonds. The contraption rose and descended at an infinitesimal pace, and with awful sounds, the cables squealing and the brakes clanging like steam pipes whenever the machine slowed to an actual halt. It was used by virtually no one, particularly on the way down. Robbie was speaking even before the doors labored to a close.

"Jesus, Wally, the old man had me wetting my socks with that Hamlet routine up there. I wrote him a great brief. What else was he looking for? Smoke signals?"

"Shit. Silvio? Half the time he don't know if it's today or tomorrow. And besides, you could give the old fuck a heart attack if you said `reversed on appeal.' Any chance the boys upstairs'll bounce a case back gives him the willies. He figures somebody somewhere's keepin track." A reversal on appeal would draw suspicion to a case. Malatesta, as Stan had deduced, was determined to eliminate even the remotest risks of discovery. "Believe me, I had to carry on with him a long time on this one. I deserve the freakin Oscar. I had to wipe his nose and diaper his behind before he did the right thing. Anyway," Walter concluded, in a tone meant to get down to business.

Robbie said he'd brought some smokes. The sound of the cardboard ripping was distinct.

"Yeah," said Walter in time, "that's the right brand okay." "Fifteen long there."

"Mmm-mmm," Walter answered quietly.

"Cause I want the old man to remember I'm a righteous fella. You're gonna be seeing a lot of me."

Robbie reminded Wunsch of the three new cases. Walter, predictably, was more ornery than grateful.

"This better not be the miracle-of-the-month club," he answered, "because after this one, Silvio's neck's back in his shell for a long while."

"This wasn't a miracle. I had great authorities."

"Shit," Walter answered. "That wasn't what I was hearing. You better make sure Santa's got me right on the top of his Christmas list. Santa better love me this year."

"We'll write you down for a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck."

"Fuck."

"No, here you go, look at this." The distinct crinkling of what I knew to be a travel brochure could be heard, along with the scuffing of fabric as Feaver removed it from his pocket. Walter, like the other bagmen, expected a tip. But he preferred no cash. He had told Robbie that he had enough cash, a reference, presumably, to the share Malatesta provided from his end. More pertinently, over the years Mrs. Wunsch had figured out where Walter was likely to hide his stash and, by his reports, regularly looted it. As a result, he preferred tangible items and thought nothing of calling Robbie with requests for merchandise that had caught his eye. Robbie had it all shipped to Walter's country cottage, where his wife seldom visited. Recently, he'd been paying Wunsch's way to various golfing havens. He extolled the resort in Virginia portrayed in the brochure.