Scott Turow - Personal injuries

Stan received my congratulations with little enthusiasm. The atmosphere of manic secrecy had finally lapsed; there were no code words or subverted tones. Stan sat in the United States Attorney's Office after an exhausting evening and gave me the lowdown on what had transpired last night in a weary but forthcoming fashion.

Despite Sennett's failures with the biggest targets, the prosecutors had still had some success. Judith had 'pancaked'-flattened and flipped-when Moses Appleby explained that the government would be able to forfeit her restaurant, once she was convicted of racketeering. Milacki had sent Moses away, but without acrimony; Sig appeared to be considering his options. Another team, led by Assistant U.S. Attorney Sonia Klonsky and Shirley Nagle, had also had mixed results. Walter Wunsch had shown no inclination to meet his maker with a clean conscience. He'd listened to Robbie's recordings in his living room. His wife, in her curlers, had more or less bullied her way in and, once she had the picture, berated Walter about his brains and character, a barrage Walter'd absorbed like a stone. When Klonsky's pitch was over, Walter referred to Mala testa as `a cluck' and stated that he "never gave Silvio shit.'Aside from that, he'd refused comment, except to note that he now had two reasons to be glad he'd be dead soon. He did not elaborate on either, but he was glowering at his missus when they left.

After that, things for Klonsky and Shirley's team had improved. Two clerks, Joey Kwan and Pincus Lebovic, had turned, without any promises, and had been debriefed through much of the night. Both had named several lawyers for whom they had carried money; Kwan gave up three judges who were now sitting in the Felony Division. Both Pincus and Joey were on the phone in the federal building at this very moment, the tape recorder reels turning behind them as they called every lawyer and judge they'd implicated, telling them about Robbie, and trying, supposedly, to cook up stories that would explain various odd-looking financial transactions when the Bureau knocked on the door. Rousted from bed at three or four in the morning, many of the subjects had been too frightened to be guarded and the results were notable already. Petros, like an ink spill, was already spreading darkly.

For the moment, Sennett was wondering whether to let TV cameras into McManis's law office. He'd have to clear it with UCORC, but the elaborate cover, the equipment, the expense and care of the government's efforts would be intimidating to the bad guys and might shake a few of them loose. The news that the FBI had been operating a law office right out of the LeSueur Building was bound to break soon anyway. Stan seemed to be seeking an opinion from me, but I expressed none. Now that the veil had been lifted, we'd all have to resume our standard roles.

In relating all of this, Stan's tone had been somewhat listless. I assumed he was exhausted, or perhaps taking it easy on me, guessing correctly that I felt a considerable pang that I hadn't been there to witness the concluding scenes in the drama. But it turned out that despite the government's advances, the same bone was still stuck in his throat.

"I can't believe we won't get Tuohey. I can't believe it. He had a solid case on Kosic, but nothing beyond that. No matter how obvious it was as a matter of common sense that Rollo could not have been freelancing, there was no evidence, circumstantial or direct, that tied Tuohey to either the money Rollo accepted or the directives that Kosic occasionally issued. As Robbie had always insisted, Tuohey had seen far ahead and planned accordingly. Kosic stood between Brendan and trouble like a castle moat.

Stan had sent Robbie home to sleep, with several agents to guard him, but there was a problem with Feaver that had prompted Stan's call. Robbie insisted on paying a personal visit to Magda Medzyk, in order to explain face-toface. He knew he'd never get through the buzzer at her apartment, so he intended to make a trip today to the courthouse. Stan was worried about the reactions Feaver's presence there might excite. My assignment was to convince my client not to go.

When I arrived at Robbie's house, there were two agents in the driveway. I had a little trouble with them, until Klecker appeared and walked me inside. Evon was taking a sleeping shift in an empty bedroom upstairs. Robbie was also out cold, and I decided I'd let him sleep a while longer.

I'd brought a stack of the newspapers for all of them, and AIf and I talked it over-he'd gotten his own reports on the flip teams and he was, as usual, jolly. Joey Kwan, in his haphazard way, had already made two great tapes on felony court judges. He'd played dumbbell, the languagehampered Chinaman who needed everything repeated and explained several times. The perps had barfed all over themselves.

Robbie wandered down. He'd gotten up to check on Rainey, who was unchanged. I'd heard the quiet whoosh of the inhalation equipment without realizing what it was. Shallowly, desperately, she breathed, drowning, as it were, in her own bed.

"Finally a star," Robbie said, when he caught sight of the papers. "Christ, where'd they get that picture? It's worse than my driver's license." It was an archive photo of Bobbie coming out of the courthouse, an off-angle hurried shot, taken as he was emerging in the thrall of a big win. He sported a vulpine smile, which would send exactly the message Stan desired.

Eventually, Robbie and I drifted back to the family room, a huge space, which descended a few steps off the kitchen. Like the rest of the house it had been glamorously decorated in an overstated contemporary fashion, with raw silk wallcoverings and bowl-shaped furniture. Because it fell to another level, the room had been virtually abandoned during the course of Rainey's disease. The giant projection TV formerly housed here had been moved to their bedroom, while the various machines that had aided Rainey in earlier stages of her illness were now warehoused in rows: the motorized wheelchair, lifts, trapezes, an elevated bed she had given up. It was like sitting in a hospital supply room.

Robbie literally gave Stan's request the back of his hand.

"I'm not really asking, George, I'm telling. They can help me or not. I gotta see Magda. They can bring me there in the Popemobile, but I'm going."

I made a desultory effort to change his mind, then let it go. He told me I should be braced for a call from Mort's lawyer, whoever it might turn out to be.

It was approaching nine as I drove back into town. I already had eight messages from attorneys and one from Barnett Skolnick. I asked my secretary to contact each caller and explain that if they'd phoned concerning the FBI's investigation at the courthouse-and, as it turned out, they all had-a conflict would prevent me from holding any conversation. The local news stations, when I flipped on the radio, were all Petros, all the time. I told myself not to gloat, it was none of my business. But my hair stood on end when I heard an anonymous lawyer who'd been pulled aside on the street remark that practicing law in Kindle County would be better from this day forward.

Nonetheless, a good 80 percent of what was reported was wrong, some of it almost comically in error. Every station, for example, claimed authoritatively that Robert Feaver was actually an FBI agent. As a result, I wasn't sure how to take the flash item that ran around nine-thirty, as I was approaching Center City. Despite the heavy traffic, I pulled over in a no-parking zone to be certain I didn't run anyone down as I punched between stations. The same story was repeated everywhere: within the last hour, a high-ranking court official in the Common Law Claims Division named Rollo Kosic had entered the men's sauna at a downtown health club and shot himself through the head with a police-issue revolver. There was speculation, presently unconfirmed, that Kosic's death was related to the widespread FBI investigation of courthouse corruption, code-named Project Petros.