Scott Turow - Personal injuries

Feaver amp; Dinnerstein had existed for fourteen years now. After law school, Mort's uncle had found him a cozy spot in the County Law Department. The original idea, Robbie had told me, was for each of them to get a year or two of experience in other offices, then join forces. Once Robbie had hired on with Neucriss, that plan had been put on hold until Robbie had begun to establish himself in the P.I. trade. Only after Feaver had been out on his own for a year did he persuade Mort to come in with him.

At the moment, Mort was undoubtedly ruing that decision. In my job, I dispensed a lot of bad news. Oncologists who routinely deliver fatal diagnoses were the only professionals I knew of who had it harder. It was my responsibility many times every year to tell people-many of them kindly, okay human beings who'd made a single mistake or who suffered from character failings that did not prevent them from being loving parents or friends-it was my duty to tell these individuals that they were going to be scourged by their community, captured, and caged. Even worse, I often helped them explain these unimaginable facts to their spouses and children, most of whom inevitably felt, with some reason, that they were the true victims of the penal system. Listening, Mort had that kind of frantic expression. He sat across from me, a hand over his mouth, his small eyes zipping back and forth behind the heavy lenses, as he tried to come to terms with my long list of restrictions.

"I still don't believe it," said Mort. "It can't be true. I still can't believe you did this," he said to Robbie, who was sitting beside him. Mort tried smiling. "It's April Fool's six weeks late. Right? You're trying to get me. George," he said, "don't let him do this to me."

Although I'd had a large role, within the security of the attorney-client relationship, in concocting the latest fantasy, I had my usual reluctance about advancing any fabrication myself. I felt safe, however, in telling Mort that he could call BAD and ask them to check the Roll of Attorneys. Robbie's name wouldn't be there. As that affirmation sank home, Mort grabbed his forehead with both hands.

"This is impossible," said Mort. "Can't you reverse this? What if he just goes over to BAD and tells them he changed his mind."

I said, stoically, I was certain that wouldn't work. Bobbie added that he didn't want to change his mind. He wanted to be with Rainey, no matter how long or short her time.

"Be with her," said Mort. "I want you to be with her. We could have worked that out. You know that. You didn't have to commit suicide as a lawyer. Look what you've done to me."

Mort sat in his chair making noises and hugging himself. He ran his hands again through the frizz of hair that was haloed by the strove light emerging from the window. Then, without a backward glance at his partner, he bolted to the door as quickly as his awkward gait allowed.

"Morty!" Robbie called and took off in pursuit.

At my desk, I felt awful for Mort, and even worse when I thought how enraged he'd be when he discovered the whole truth. He was going to be buried for years in litigation with former clients and vengeful ex-opponents. God knows what he'd say about me.

I didn't sit still long, however. I requested the men's room key from the receptionist, Danny, and moved urgently in that direction. Male-pattern baldness, hair in all the wrong places, the swells of fat that took permanent residence over the hipbones-a friend of mine had suggested that the changes of male middle age were the Darwinian mechanism to ensure that younger women were not persuaded by our attempts at romance. Under this theory, the prostate enlarged just to be certain that we couldn't sit still long enough to try. I circled out the side exit, heading down the dim service channel between my space and my neighbor's. The heavy door to the main corridor had been propped open and, from the darkness, I saw Robbie arrive by the elevator where Dinnerstein was already waiting.

I expected remonstrations or, on the other hand, efforts at rapprochement. Instead, Dinnerstein gave Feaver a faint smile. After a second, Robbie reached in his pocket for change and flipped a quarter in the air; Dinnerstein immediately did the same thing. I'd seen them play this game a few times before, as they awaited the elevator in the lobby. It had been ongoing since childhood, one of the few forms of physical competition where Mort stood an even chance. The contest combined juggling and gambling. They flipped coins simultaneously, each calling his coin in the air while the other caught it. There were complex rules about how to win, doubled bets in some circumstances, and a provision that missing a catch forfeited all winnings. After almost forty years, they sent the coins back and forth at astonishing speed, catching and releasing in a single motion, while the quarters sparkled in the air. They played happily for a moment before the elevator dinged at their rear. Feaver sprinted ahead to hold it as Mort limped in.

I continued staring into the empty corridor, adding it up. I knew nobody reconciles that quickly. Even so, I was disconcerted enough that it took me a second to accept that I'd been taken in again-and this time not only by Feaver. Figuring out why came faster. Mort knew. Mort had known all along that Robbie had no license. Suddenly, it was not really imaginable that Robbie Feaver, Mort's soul mate since the age of six and his law school roommate, hadn't shared his plight. In fact, it explained why Mort had been slow to come practice with Robbie. They'd waited until it was certain that Robbie could actually get away with it. Then they'd proceeded with an obvious contingency plan. In the event of discovery, to protect Mort's license, both of them would deny Dinnerstein ever knew.

I was beyond being shocked by Robbie. But Mort-I'd completely bought his routine in my office. Mort knew, I thought again, and with that realized he almost certainly knew much more. About his uncle. And Kosic. About the judges. Robbie had been shielding him from the start, just as Sennett, a stiff-necked cynic, had always insisted and even as I had frequently feared.

All of this provoked the predictable responses, chagrin and frustration, and several random curse words. Given what Robbie had already done to himself, I shuddered to imagine the kind of time inside he would catch if Stan could ever prove this. But Robbie knew that and was doing it anyway. As I rushed the last few steps to my destination, I was afflicted by a feeling I didn't expect-envy. I envied Mort, envied him everything he got from Feaver. The dedication. The fellowship. And, especially, the truth.

"Magda, It's Robbie."

"Robbie?"

"Feaver."

"Robbie Feaver?" There was nothing for an instant as she tried to parse her confusion. It was May 17. The lead from the recording earpiece Robbie wore ran directly to the tape machine in the cabinet where the seven-inch reels turned with the slow precision of doom. McManis and Evon were beside me at the table. Neither they, nor Klecker, who was standing, had the heart to look long at Robbie. Sennett had not even shown up, recognizing that his presence would be inflammatory.

"I was thinking I could see you."

"See me?" Magda was cautious by nature, precise. "Robbie," she started. Beginning again, she took up the strict tone of the courtroom. "I think that's a very poor idea."

"No, I need to see you. just for a minute. I need to talk."

"Talk?"

`Talk.”

"No." She took a beat to think about it and said again, “No.”

"Magda, this is really important. Life and death. I mean it. Really. Life and death."

"Robert, what could be life and death at nine o'clock in the evening?"

"Magda, I can't do this on the phone. I have to see you. I have to. Please." Robbie drew his lower lip under his teeth to gain control of himself, then went on cajoling.