Scott Turow - Personal injuries

"We need more," McManis said suddenly. It was pointed is Jim had ever been. The struggles between Stan and him were growing more overt daily. Sennett took McManis's measure starkly, but, with reflection, managed a nod.

"We do," Stan said. "And we'll get more. We have to keep working cases in front of Malatesta. But we've got him talking now. To Robbie. And I may be able to pitch Moira again with this." Sennett allowed a little more of the flush of victory into his smile. "But we're going the right way, Jim. Aren't we? You have to admit that. D.C. will see it."

McManis answered only with a sidewards nod. It was the first occasion I could recall when he'd been something other than gracious. Instead he looked away from Sennett, and complimented the agents and Robbie on their work.

"We have a problem." It was late in the day, close to 4 p.m. on March 22, the Monday after Bobbie's law school encounter with Malatesta. On the phone, Sennett was in imperial mode. He did not say his name, but simply directed me to meet him at Jim's in ten minutes. Arriving, I found McManis and Aif Klecker with Sennett in the conference room, each of their faces slackened and grave. Stan was in his well-pressed blue suit and the grip of his public persona, jaw prominent, very much in command. He circled a finger and Alf opened more of the red oak cabinetry to reveal a large reel-to-reel tape recorder, a stainless steel Grundig that began turning at once.

The sounds took a moment to identify. There was paper crinkling with an odd distinctness, the chuffing of various items being pushed about close to the microphone. Something clunked down with an impact like a log.

I asked Klecker if this was an `overhear,' the feds' delicate term for a bug.

"The mike's in the desk phone. Sound comes right here over the existing lines." Alf smiled with innocent pride, until Sennett swiveled about and burned him with a look for violating the strictures of need-to-know.

There were now voices, both female. From a distance, someone was talking to the nearer woman about the interminable length of a cross-examination.

"Anyone you recognize?" Sennett asked.

I didn't.

"I'll give you a clue," he said. "Two years ahead of us in law school." Nothing struck me until the distant voice addressed the first woman as `Judge.'

Magda Medzyk! Magda had had a lengthy career in the Prosecuting Attorney's Office, supervising appeals, then had gone on the bench. She was a stolid, frizzy-haired spinster, one of those folks who seemed to have reached middle age even in her law school days. Her wardrobe had never changed, her suits always heavy enough to appear armor-plated, guarding a figure of matronly proportions. I asked Stan where she was sitting currently.

"She's been hearing Special Motions in the Common Law Claims Division. Stay tuned. We're getting to the good part." Stan permitted himself a lean smile. It sounded as if Magda had gone back to writing at her desk, when her secretary announced a visitor. Mr. Feaver.

"Robbie!" A happy full-throated greeting. He addressed her as `Judge' and made a joke with the secretary about the fact that he'd caught her eating a box of chocolates for lunch. When she departed, there was quiet padding, and a barely discernible click, which I instantly recognized as the door lock. I sickened as I realized what was happening: Robbie was about to fix a case with a judge we'd heard nothing about.

There was precious little small talk.

"Come 'ere, you," Robbie said. You could hear him shuffle nearer. The springs in her chair sang out, there was coarse rubbing of clothing, and, to my astonishment, Magda Medzyk emitted a rapturous little groan. I knew for re I'd guessed wrong when he told her she had the greatest tits in the world.

Things progressed rapidly, to the usual percussion accompanying the human animal in heat-zippers, shoes hitting the floor, exerted breathing. Robbie and the judge eventually moved away from the phone, to a sofa I imagined, but their sounds remained telling. Magda was a groaner. As it developed, she was also wildly amused when Robbie employed certain Anglo-Saxon words. He could not have made a more explicit recording if it were a travelogue. As he described his forthcoming activities, unbounded fighter spilled from her. Big pink cunt. Big hard cock. to running brook of Magda's happy sounds was the only element that kept this from feeling entirely like a peep show.

"Enough?" asked Stan.

Plenty, I said. Klecker had his fingers over his mouth, but he jiggled with laughter. McManis, on the other hand, had turned away from the speakers as soon as the tape led. He'd spent most of the time staring at his thumb.

"So?" asked Sennett.

Odometer on his zipper, I reminded Stan. I didn't see big deal.

"You know the definition of bribery, George? A benefit any kind intended to influence the action of a public official."

I actually laughed at him. Prosecutors! Robbie sounded e the beneficiary to me.

"The lady on that tape isn't going to launch a thousand ships, George."

And he's not picky. I reminded Stan.

"Look, George, you say what you like. Moira Winchell didn't have any problem signing the warrant."

Stan had been playing on home court. Chief Judge Winchell, frosty and officious, would have been scandalized by this, especially as a woman entrusted with similar power. But I couldn't believe Sennett would actually prosecute, and I told him so.

"I don't know what I'll do, George. But I do know this much"-with gunslinger eyes, Stan leaned over the Parsons-like conference table-"your guy's holding out on us. He's banging the lady judge and then appearing before her on motions. On which he has a stellar rate of success, I might add. I want to know what else he's holding back. I haven't gone to D.C. with this yet. And you know full well I don't want to have to roll the Project up. I'd like to present this as additional information developed in the course of the investigation. But I can only do that little dance step once. Next time, they'll shut us down and cart Robbie off to do forty to fifty-two months. So this is it, George. Amnesty day at the library. I want all the books open and on the table."

I sat in one of the leatherette swivel chairs, confounded. I was long hardened to the dumb things clients would do. I was unsettled, rather, by a legal conundrum. No matter how supportive Chief Judge Winchell was, the law required probable cause, reliable evidence portending this supposedly corrupt encounter, before a bug could be authorized. Where had that proof come from? I asked Stan, and regretted it promptly, as he simpered.

"You're supposed to be wondering that privately, George. The government's response to the question is none of your business. But I warned you. I told you we'd know."

I groaned when the answer struck me: They'd bugged Robbie, too. Sennett was utterly stoic when I ventured this thought. He strolled to the electronic equipment in the cabinets and looked it over astutely, like a buyer in a showroom.

I told Stan this was too low, to make a deal with a guy and then undermine him, whatever the madmen at UCORC were demanding. But it was a mistake being so direct with Stan, given our audience. The personal side of our relationship had not really been exhibited to the agents. Sennett felt required to defend himself, particularly because McManis's continuing silence telegraphed a deep uneasiness with present events.

"George," Sennett said, "you may like this guy. But to me he's a Trojan horse with a body recorder, that's all. He might as well be a robot. I need two things to win these cases: Dead-bang recordings. And proof that the government held him to his bargain and didn't let him just bag the judges he hates. If a jury thinks that happened, then they may well cut everybody loose rather than let a creep like Robbie play favorites. And frankly, from what I hear, that seems like it's happened."