Scott Turow - Personal injuries

Beverly Hills, Evon thought. Feaver brought to mind the brassy city types she began encountering in town as a child when two ski resorts cropped up like pimples on the clear face of adjacent mountains. Dark, gabby men, stuck on themselves, operators like Feaver, with his guy's-guy air and a style that made you wonder if, like a slug, he would leave a grease track behind. But she'd been an agent for ten years now and had dealt with her share of bottom feeders and flippers. As an FOA in Boston-a first-office agent, a rookie-she'd worked with dopers, and everybody knew those people were the worst. Her job here, she told herself, was to keep an eye out, to make sure this boy did his stuff, stayed straight as six o'clock, and didn't get bushwhacked in the process. Beyond that, she figured, it did not really matter if the bugger had ringworm or an attitude. Roger, wilco, over and out.

They were in Feaver's office now. His secretary, Bonita, a pretty, smooth-skinned Latina with torrents of cosmetics ravaged hair and eye shadow applied like finger paint, had come in to greet her. Feaver continued in the role of new employer, detailing a paralegal's duties. She'd schedule deps, issue subpoenas and interrogatories, handle court filings, even meet with clients to gather info and hold hands.

"And here's another thing," Feaver was saying, "you and Bonnie work this out, but I don't read the mail. For fifteen years, I got holes in my stomach from the mail, then I turned forty and said life's too short. Because one thing is surer than gravity: there is only bad news in the mail. No lie.

"First, there're always motions. Bane of my existence. On the other side of every case we have, there's a defense firm getting paid by the hour. So it's money in their pocket to file every brain-damaged, not-a-chance-in-hell motion they can think of. Motion to dismiss. Motion for summary judgment. Motion to reconsider prior motion. Motion to declare Puerto Rico a state. You can't believe this. And we're on a contingency. Nobody pays me to answer this dreck. And if I win ten motions, but lose the eleventh, the whole case still craters." Feaver went on describing the disasters he could encounter in his in box every morning. There were letters from clients who'd been romanced by other attorneys and were discharging them, often after years of work; urgent alerts from trial lawyers' organizations about antiplaintiff legislation which the insurance lobby had inspired. And, of course, never the checks that defense lawyers owed on resolved cases.

"Only bad news," he concluded. Bonita stood near Feaver's glass-topped desk, chuckling indulgently, then departed, closing the door at her boss's request. The whirring sounds of the office, the phones and the machines and the urgent voices, were closed off now and Evon felt a sudden quickening. She had not been alone with him before. He chucked his chin toward her in a familiar way.

"So what's your real name?" he asked quietly.

She stood a second without moving. ` Evon."

"Oh, come on. I feel like we're at a costume party. You know my name."

"My name is Evon Miller, Mr. Feaver."

He asked where she was really from, whether she was married. She gave him back her myth, without expression.

"Christ," he said.

Feaver's office was large, with a leather sofa and a desk and tables in contemporary stylings of glass and wood. The floor was covered by an immense Oriental rug, a wine-red Bokhara at the center of which she was standing. She tightened her jaw and spoke to him in a low hardened voice. They were not playing charades, she said. She repeated what had been drilled into her: Never give it up. Never. Not for one second. That way you don't worry about being overheard or caught out.

"You get used to breaking cover," she said, "and you'll mess up sure as sunrise when the pressure's on."

"Oh. don't you worry about me handling a role," he told her. "I'm a pro." He pointed to the credenza behind him where a picture of his wife sat. The photo showed Lorraine as she'd been before disease had plundered her. Within the broad silver frame, Rainey, as she was sometimes called, remained an extraordinary raven-haired beauty, with eyes almost the color of an amethyst and a lengthy pointed jaw, an irregular element that somehow elevated her looks from the merely cute or pleasant. But it was a photograph beside it he had meant to point out, a glossy close-up of him, in greasepaint and a pirate's costume, apparently engaged in song. `Bar Show, 1990' was engraved on a phony gold plaque below it. "Look, we're gonna spend a lot of time together," he said. "I'm just trying to find out a little about you. The way I figure," he said, "they couldn't just uproot you, if you didn't want to go. So you don't have kids. Right?"

She was never adept with people and somehow he had seen that; he knew she'd have no smooth way to stop him.

"No," he said. "No kids. And I figure you're single, too. Single person would be the first one they'd ask. They wouldn't expect somebody married to spend the next year away from home. Divorcee or never took the plunge? That's where I'm stuck."

"That's enough," she said.

"Relax," he answered. He was having a good time, leaning back in the chrome-armed leather reclining chair behind his desk. "I already know about the Olympics."

That finally ignited her, finding that even now, undercover, that single damnable detail was being paraded miles before her like a banner on a standard. Just that fast, she was leaning over his desk, ignoring a furtive quiver of his eyes which she immediately suspected was a brief effort to look down her blouse.

"Listen, mister, the 302s-the reports I read?-they said that some of these guys have got real mean friends. Isn't that what you told us? So you better act like your life is at stake, bud, because as far as I can tell, it is."

He shrunk his lips and turned a cheek, his beard so dense that, even clean-shaven, it seemed to turn his skin blue. The man was furry as a bear. A few renegade chest hairs peeked over his collar.

"What about a wire?" he asked. "George says you may be wired."

I had told him, actually, that the government was unlikely to do that. On hours of tape, there were bound to be a hundred idle remarks that could prove embarrassing to both Robbie and Evon on cross-examination. And there were complicated issues of attorney-client privilege with an open mike in a law office. Yet there was always the chance, in the brittle bureaucracy of D.C. where the practical often mattered little compared to camouflaging behinds, that UCORC might have insisted on taping in order to have unchallenged proof that they had kept Feaver in line.

"Are you going to answer me?" Feaver asked, as she turned for the door.

"No."

"Which means you're wired," Feaver said.

"If I were you, brother, I'd assume I was." I'd told him as much, since Evon was obliged to report any act of dishonesty that might bear on Robbie's future credibility as a government witness.

"I knew you were wired." He was so pleased with himself he actually clapped.

"Look, darn it, I'm not wired. Now stick with the cover and button it up."

"And what would you tell me, if you were wired?" She'd had it. Coming around the desk, she grabbed him for a second by the shoulder.

"Listen," she said, "ordinarily I'd say, you want to kill yourself, go ahead. But the sharp edge of the sword here is that if your life's on the line, so is mine. Now either you shape up, or I'll call this whole thing off and you can go sit in the can where you belong."

Feaver took his time. He deliberated on the hand with its bright nails which she'd removed by now, then turned his long face up to her.

"Hey"-he gave her a lopsided grin, aimed at appearing good-natured-"we're just fuckin with each other."

He had that half-right.