Scott Turow - Personal injuries

Robbie had been directed to the remote shadows of the front lawn, while the remainder of the party continued to Sherman's front door. The Crowthers household was thrown into an uproar as soon as Sennett touched the doorbell. A dog bayed and lights filled several windows. Finally, the porch's overhead lamp snapped on and a voice boomed through the heavy oak door, demanding to know who was there.

"It's Stan Sennett, Judge Crowthers. The United States Attorney for this district. I need to speak with you. It's urgent."

"Stan Sennett?"

"The U.S. Attorney."

"What kind of emergency is this?"

"Judge, why don't you open the door so I can discuss this with you without waking your neighbors. I'm standing right under the light and you've got a security eye in that door. I know you can see it's me."

"And who-all is that with you?"

"They're FBI agents, Judge Crowthers. Please open the door. No one here will hurt you." At that, the latches and bolts were quickly slapped back. Looking no smaller to Evon than he did on the bench, Sherm Crowthers loomed barefoot on his threshold. Behind the front screen, he had a chromed pistol in his right hand. He wore boxer shorts, decorated with small red emblems, and a sleeveless undervest taut over the vast hummock of his midsection. His eyes were somewhat watery, so that it appeared he might have been drinking. At the sight of the gun, Evon had changed her position. Beside her, Clevenger opened his coat and put a hand on the holster over his hip.

"You think I'm scared of you?" Crowthers asked Stan, clearly inflated by rage. "That what you imagine, Constantine? I'll have tits 'fore I'm scared of you." Sennett, assessing the situation-and mindful perhaps of the pistol-chose not to answer. "Now what kind of damn emergency is this, six minutes of midnight?"

"Judge, you know, I'd feel just a little more comfortable if you would put down that firearm. Would you mind doing that?"

"Hell, no, I'm not doin that. I'm standin in my own home. It's six minutes to midnight. You a bunch of damn intruders, whether you're the U.S. Attorney or not, and I got a permit and registration and a constitutional right to this pistol and you can go head and check that. Now speak your piece and get."

Evon had gradually crept up close behind Sennett to look at the gun. Crowthers was waving it around, but eventually she recognized it, a Beretta 92 SBC double-action semiautomatic. He'd dropped it to his side after telling off Sennett and she could finally see what she'd wanted to: the extractor was flush with the slide and no red was showing, meaning a round was not chambered. She whispered to Stan that the gun wasn't ready to fire, reminding him it might yet be loaded. Sennett made fishlike circles with his mouth while he thought things over, then pointed to her briefcase for a document.

"Judge," he said when he had it, "this is a federal grand jury subpoena which requires your appearance tomorrow morning downtown."

Sennett held the white sheet right up to the screen so Crowthers could read it. He'd calculated correctly that this would alter the momentum somewhat.

"Gimme that here," said Crowthers and reached outside. He snapped the paper from Sennett and rang the screen shut, locking it before he bothered to study what he'd been given. He took only a second to do that, and opened the screen again, tossing the subpoena, which he'd grabbed into a tight ball, outside the cone of light on the front porch. It landed somewhere in the row of low yews that fronted the perimeter of his brick home. "Ain't no subpoena served after midnight gone require somebody to be somewhere at 10 a.m. You know that and I know that. So now you done your business, go on." He pointed again with the Beretta and stood back to close the door.

Sennett stepped forward to grab the screen's handle but, considering the pistol, resisted the impulse to pull the door open.

"Judge, if you have an objection to a subpoena, then you better take it up with Chief Judge Winchell in federal court in the morning. You and I both know that. And frankly, Your Honor, when you go on trial, I don't think the jury is going to think very highly of a sitting judge treating a lawfully issued subpoena as a piece of rubbish." At the words `trial' and `jury,' Sherm had briefly allowed his head to fall back, revealing the full bushy depths of his gray mustache. "Judge, you're about to be indicted for racketeering, extortion, bribery, and mail fraud. By my calculations, the sentencing guidelines will keep you in the penitentiary for about eight years. And we came here because I wanted to talk to you before it happens. Now may we come in the house?"

"I hear you fine where you are, Constantine." Somewhat more subdued, Sherm eyed everyone else on the porch. At a signal from McManis, Clevenger had stepped into the bushes. Equipped with a rubber glove, he was placing the balled subpoena in a plastic evidence envelope. "I don't know a damn thing about any kind of racketeering or bribes. Or whatever else you say."

"Would you like to refresh your memory, Judge? We can play you a recording? It's right here."

He waved at that point, and Robbie, with his hands sunk deep in his pockets, emerged into the light. He looked only a little less unhappy than he had at Skolnick's. He did not come all the way to the porch. He'd undoubtedly seen the pistol and had had his fill of guns for one day. He stood about twenty feet from the stoop, just close enough that Crowthers could tell who he was. And then, as he had at Skolnick's, he opened his jacket and his shirt.

Crowthers said nothing at first. And then his craggy, smoke-stained teeth made a brief appearance as he bitterly smiled. Sennett again offered to play the tape.

"I don't need to hear nothin, Constantine. I knew exactly what that lowlife was up to." He looked toward Bobbie through the night, assailing him with savage eyes. "Goddamn fool that I was," Sherm quietly added.

"Judge, that's your option. There are a lot of things we want to ask you. But the most important is to know where the money goes after it gets to you. Because we're very certain all of it doesn't remain in your hands. And if you're willing to cooperate with us, right now, right here.-

Crowthers gave his big head a single solemn shake.

"You'll hear from my attorney in the morning. There idn't nothin else to say now."

"Judge, I can't make you the same deal tomorrow. You have to do it now. You'll pay a high price for protecting your friends-"

Crowthers, facing all of this-the grand jury, trial, the penitentiary-laughed out loud. He even put the pistol down on a side table near the door.

"Listen, I don't have friends, Constantine. Never have. I got a wife and a sister and a dog and that's it. I don't owe nothin to anybody else and I don't expect anything from them either. That's how it is."

"Then help yourself," Sennett implored, raising his voice for the first time.

Crowthers laughed again. He appeared sincerely amused.

"Is that what you call it? 'Helpin' myself? You know where I was raised up, Constantine? Down in Dejune, Georgia? I used to pick walnuts for two and a half hours, before I walked to some shabby single-room school they'd set aside for the nigger-folk, and most days I didn't have very much to eat, virtually nothin except those nuts, which my momma naturally enough was always beggin me to leave alone. And then after-" He stopped himself, suddenly drawing up both large hands, the pale palms exposed.

"No," he said emphatically, "no, I'm not goin on like that. You've heard all these stories. Everybody's heard em now. Any black bastard over the age of fifty in a pool hall can tell you these stories, Only I'm not just woofin. This here happened to me. And to my sister. My mommy and granddaddy. And I'm not tellin you this to break your heart, Constantine. I know better'n that, and wouldn't care to have your damn sympathy anyway. No, I just want you to know one goddamn thing: you never gone do worse to me than I've already had done. And I haven't come all this way-from Georgia and totin those bags of nuts bigger than I was, and bein so hungry I sometime ate beetles I found in the road-I ain't come from there to have some posse of white men-and you ain no better," he added to Clevenger, who was black, "I ain come from there to have you-all tell me what I gotta do 'fore you do something awful to me. You do what you're gone do. But there is no one in this world can stand on my doorstep tellin me, `You gotta.'And surely not some pissant, stick-up-his-ass Greektown greaseball who can't even look in the mirror and remember that's all he really is."