Scott Turow - Personal injuries

I clicked the remote to open my car. At this hour, close to 9 p.m., the garage was nearly empty. The light was murky from the naked sixty-watt bulbs hanging intermittently from porcelain collars in the concrete abutments overhead. The air was unpleasant with exhaust fumes and the lingering smoke of the tobacco exiles who snuck down here on break.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, George. It's grand jury day tomorrow, remember? Everybody's been served. And when Robbie gets in there, I'm asking the jackpot question: Where's the tape? And don't think I won't land on him with both feet if he perjures himself."

Moving toward the car door, I told Stan I was sick of his threats.

"It's not a threat, George. I'm advising you of consequences. There's a difference."

I had a consequence or two of my own to acquaint him with, I said. Raise the issue of that tape before the grand jury and I'd go straight to the Chief Judge, Moira Wmchell with a motion to suppress.

He sneered. "You can't make a suppression motion in front of a grand jury."

But he was wrong about that. There's a single exception in federal law in the case of an unlawful electronic interception of private communications.

"There was nothing illegal about making that tape."

No? I asked. Show me the consent form. Show me where Robbie provided the authorization the government needed before it could overhear his conversation with Brendan Tuohey. There was surely no warrant, as there had been with Skolnick.

It was always an odd moment when I outsmarted Stan Sennett. It happened rarely, but he appeared so flummoxed and defenseless at those instants it was hard not to feel sorry for him. But not tonight. Tonight, I had a good time watching him sputter.

"It's implied. His consent is implied. He turned on the car.,,

Only for heat, I answered.

"He had a deal and a duty to cooperate, George. Given all the circumstances, Moira's going to find his consent was implicit."

I wasn't worried about that anymore, I told him. No court would ever find that Robbie's consent was fully informed-or that he had any further duties under his deal. Not after the U.S. Attorney had engaged in attempted homicide.

"Hom-icide!"

Attempted manslaughter, at least I said. He had sent Robbie out to the Public Forest believing to a moral certainty someone was going to try to kill him on Brendan Tuohey's behalf.

Something in Sennett went into retreat. Seated on the hood, he became a narrow, smallish man, unable to still a faint nervous flaring of his nostrils.

"He was completely covered. The surveillance, the protective detail couldn't have been tighter. And he knew he was at risk, George. He knew what he was getting himself into."

On the contrary, I answered. The setting was frightening. But as McManis had explained, logic-based on what the rest of us knew-said Thohey and Kosic wouldn't share secrets with Robbie at Attitude, only to kill him a week and a half later.

But watching Rollo on Monday, when Robbie displayed the subpoena Evon had served, Stan had finally accepted that Feaver was not going to get close to Tuohey again. And so he'd decided he would have to nab Brendan another way. On Tuesday he'd sent Mort to betray Robbie to Brendan, carrying a message calculated to lead Thohey to but one conclusion: they had to kill Feaver before he started to talk. And Brendan obliged Stan. Sitting at the table, Tuohey had tied a noose. And then Stan let Robbie go to the Forest to make sure the government had an ironclad casefor conspiracy to murder a federal witness. He might as well have painted a target on Robbie's back. And Stan had told no one any of that. Not because of need-to-know or his promise to Dinnerstein or any similarly flimsy rationale for manipulation. He'd kept silent because he realized that if anyone else understood his plan, it could falter. Bobbie almost certainly wouldn't have gone out there. Nor would McManis have let him.

"I made judgments," said Stan. "On the fly. Under pressure. I see how you're looking at this, George, but these are evil people. Truly evil. They have messed with this city far too long."

In many respects, I still regard Stan Sennett as a great man. A great public man. He believed in the right things. And if improving the world is the measure of a human's ultimate worth, he will forever be deemed a better person than I am. His commitment to vanquish wrong and restore justice was as powerful as Superman's. Yet military strategists will tell you about replication, an inviolate principle which says that organizations which oppose each other tend, over time, to become alike. In that light, it was no surprise that fighting evil, as Stan put it, tempted him to evil. But if self-respect couldn't restrain his crudest appetites, his zeal and his ambition, when they led him into darkness, why, I asked, didn't he at least feel some obligation to me? It was a sad conclusion after a couple of decades to find he lacked even a minimal desire to preserve our friendship, especially when it might have preserved his decency as well.

"Georgie, for Godsake. Don't be histrionic. We've had a tough day, you and I. We've had them before. Life will go on."

No, I said. No.

Still on the hood, Stan pondered me over his shoulder in the grimy light. A floor above, tires squealed on the rubberized paint applied to the ramps.

"Revenge, George, personal spite, that's not a good reason to let someone like Brendan Tuohey walk away. It isn't and you know it isn't. What do either one of you get out of that? You or your client?"

I had always yielded to Stan. That was our history. Not that I ever sold a client short or failed to challenge Sennett's positions in court. Yet I'd long let all matters resolve on the basis that he held the high ground of moral conviction; I swam, as defense lawyers do, in the brackish waters of compromise. I'd decided to represent Robbie Feaver to find out if there were absolutes I could cling to with the same tenacity as Stan, hoping that would provide me some comfort. And it did. At the moment.

I told Stan that whether or not he got that tape had nothing to do with me. Were it my call, I'd probably throw it in the river Kindle. But the decision was Robbie Feaver's.

You'll have to ask him for it, I said. You'll have to ask him, knowing he's got every legal right to say it should never see the light of day. You'll have to appeal to him, Stan. Maybe beg him. And I'm glad that's going to happen. Because it will remind you of something you've completely forgotten: what it feels like to be at another person's mercy.

I got in and started the engine. He scooted off the hood quickly enough to reflect some concern I might damn well drive away with him still on it. I'm not sure Stan had ever been frightened of me before. Needless to mention, the moment provided me with no small measure of satisfaction.

The Grand Jury room was situated in the new federal building, a floor above the United States Attorney's Office. The Chief Judge, whose ostensible duty it was to restrain prosecutorial abuse, was a block away, across Federal Square, in the grand old courthouse to which the District Court judges all returned once the new building proved nearly uninhabitable. Built in Augie Bolcarro's heyday, with subcontracts sprinkled down upon his henchmen like sugar from a baker's hands, the new building had heat and air-conditioning systems that were eternally on the blink. The windows, until each one was replaced, frequently popped out in high winds, terrifying pedestrians on several blocks. For years it was commonplace to find a herd of attorneys standing twenty or thirty abreast in half a dozen federal courtrooms, bickering about one of the pieces of complex litigation the new construction had spawned.