Scott Turow - Presumed innocent

"What the fuck," I say.

"Right," says Raymond after he gets done laughing. He goes to the conference table in a corner of the office and pulls out the pint bottle that's always in the pencil drawer. He pours two in the little folded cups from the water cooler and I come over and join him. "You know, when I started here I didn't drink," I say. "I say, I don't have a bottle problem, I'm not complaining, but twelve years ago, I just never drank. Not beer, not wine, not rum-and-Coca-Cola. And now I sit here and knock back Scotches neat." I do just that; MY esophagus contracts and tears come to my eyes. Raymond pours another. "Ain't time a bitch."

"You're getting middle-aged, Rusty. All this fucking looking back. One thing about getting divorced, it stopped that crap for me. You know, I leave this job, I'm not going to spend four months crying in my beer and talking about all the good times."

"You'll be sitting in one of those glass cages on the fortieth floor of the IBM building, with hot-and-cold running secretaries and a bunch of megabuck partners asking you if thirty hours a week is too much time for the privilege of having your name on the door."

"Bullshit," says Raymond.

"Sure," I answer. In wistful moments in the last few years I have heard Raymond conjure just such a fantasy for himself-a few years to build a bankroll, then get on the bench himself, probably at the appellate level on his way to the state supreme court.

"Well, maybe," says Raymond, and we share a laugh. "Will you go?" he asks.

"I doubt I'll have much choice. Delay's going to make Tommy Motto his chief deputy. That's clearer than ever."

Raymond moves his heavy shoulders. "You can never tell with Della Guardia."

"It's about time for me to head on, anyway," I say.

"Can we get you on the bench, Rusty?"

This is a golden moment for me: here at last is loyalty's reward. Do I want to be a judge? Does a bus have wheels? Do the Yankees play baseball in the Bronx? I sip my whiskey, with sudden judiciousness.

"I would sure think about it," I answer. "I'd have to consider practice. I'd have to figure out the money. But I'd sure think about it."

"We'll see how things turn out, then. Those guys'll owe me something. They'll want me to go out smiling. Party loyalty. All that shit. I should have the swag to look after a few people."

"I appreciate that."

Raymond gives himself another.

"How are things going with my favorite unsolved murder case?"

"Badly," I say. "In general. We know a little more about what seems to have happened. That is, if you can believe the pathologist. Did Mac tell you about Molto?"

"I heard," he says, "I heard. What is this crap?"

"Looks like Dubinsky had it right: Nico's got Tommy out there shadowing our investigation."

"Shadowing," asks Raymond, "or subverting?"

"Probably a little of both. I'd guess, for the most part, Molto's just picking up information. You know, calling up old buddies in the department, getting them to bootleg reports. Maybe they've slowed some of the lab work down, but how would you prove it? I'm still not positive what the hell they're up to. Maybe they really think I'm a clown, and they're trying to solve the murder on their own. You know: come up with the whopper before Election Day."

"Nah," says Raymond, "that's just what they'll say. I blast them between the eyes for fucking around with our investigation and they come back with Molto, acting head of my Homicide Section, saying he was worried we would screw things up. Nah," Raymond says again, "I'll tell you why Nico has Tommy out there digging up information. It's surveillance. Very clever. He watches how we're doing and knows exactly how hard he can hit the issue, with very little risk. Every time he sees us stumble, he can turn the knob a little higher on his volume control."

We talk a moment about Kumagai. We both agree it is unlikely that he changed results. He was just holding back. We could have his assistant assigned to go over his work, but it does not seem to make much difference now. When this poll hits tomorrow, we'll be done commanding loyalty in the police department. Any cop who ever called Nico by his first name will be feeding him information, investing in the future.

"So where does this path stuff leave us?" Raymond wants to know. "Who's our bad guy?"

"Maybe he's a boyfriend, maybe it's a guy she picked up. Seems like it's somebody who knew enough about her to realize what to make it look like, but that could be coincidence. Who knows?" I stare at the moon of light on the surface of my whiskey. "Can I ask a question?"

"I guess." It is the natural moment for me to find out what the hell Raymond was doing with the B file in his desk drawer. No doubt that is what he expects. But there is something else I've wanted to put to him. This is bushwhacking, two drinks along, and enjoying the nicest moment that I've had with Raymond Horgan since the last case we tried together, one of the Night Saints conspiracies, years ago. And I know it is unfair to use the investigator's pose to explore my own obsessions. I know all of that, but I ask anyway.

"Were you fucking Carolyn?"

Raymond laughs, a big beefy laugh, so that all of him shakes, making it seem that he's feeling more whiskey than he is. I recognize a practiced barroom gesture, a way to stall when you're getting loaded and you need time to think: the wrong bimbo who wants to go home with you, an assistant ward committeeman whose name you can't recall, a reporter joshing but trying to get a little too close to the bone. If there was any ice in his glass he'd chew the cubes now, so that there'd be something in his mouth.

"Listen," he says, "I gotta tell you something about your technique as an interrogator, Rusty. You beat around the bush too much. You have to learn to be direct."

We laugh. But I say nothing. If he wants off the hook, he'll have to wriggle.

"Let's say that the decedent and I were both single and both adults," he says finally, looking down into his cup. "That isn't any kind of problem, is it?"

"Not if it doesn't give you any better idea who killed her."

"No," he says, "it wasn't that kind of thing. Who knew that dame's secrets? Frankly, it was short and sweet between us. It's been history, I'd say, four months."

There's a lot of chess here, many poses. But if Carolyn caught Raymond at the quick, he doesn't show it. He seems to have been let down easy. Better than I can say. I look again into my drink. The B file, some of her son's comments, all were hints, but the truth is that I'd guessed at Carolyn's relationship with Raymond a long time ago, just watching the telltale signs, how often she trotted down to the office, the hours the two of them left. Of course, by then I was familiar with the local customs. I'd made my own journey to Carolyn's quaint country-and an abrupt departure. I had watched their doings with my own burning mix of tourist nostalgia, and a yearning far harsher. Now I wonder why I risked the offense of even bothering to hear it all confirmed.

"You knew some of her secrets," I say. "You met the kid."

"That's true. You've talked to him?"

"Last week."

"And he blew Mommy's cover?"

I say yes. I know how much a man in Raymond's shoes wants to believe he was inscrutable.

"An unhappy kid," Raymond observes.

"You know, he told me that she wanted to be P.A."

"I heard that from her. I told her she had to work the vineyards a little. Either you got to have professional standing or political connections. You can't just walk into it." Raymond's tone is casual, but he gives me a penetrating look: I'm not as dumb as you think, he is saying, I can see the forest for the trees. A dozen years of power and flattery have not dulled him that much. I feel, with pleasure, a gust of pride and respect again for Raymond. Good for you, I think.