Scott Turow - Presumed innocent

I sit by Raymond on the footstool of the easy chair he is occupying. An open bottle of Jack Daniel's is on the candle table at the chair side, as well as a half-eaten sandwich. Raymond goes on taking phone calls, conferring with Larren and Mike and Joe Reilly. I do not move. I recall the nights I used to sit beside my father while he watched a ball game on TV or listened to the radio. I always asked his permission before taking a place next to him on the divan. They were the warmest moments that we had. As I became older, my father would drink his beer and occasionally pass the bottle to me. At moments he would even make a remark aloud about the game.

Eventually the conversation begins to turn to the protocol of concession. Does Raymond communicate with Della Guardia first, or does he go downstairs to address the faithful? Della Guardia, they decide. Mike says Raymond should call him. Joe says send a telegram.

"Screw that," Raymond says, "the man's across the street. I'm going over there to shake his hand." He asks Larren to make arrangements. He'll see Nico, make his speech, then come back up here to do one-on-one interviews with print and media reporters. No point in spite with them. He tells Mac she should start scheduling those meetings about 9:30. He'll go live at 10:00 with Rosenberg. I have not noticed Mac until now, and when she turns her chair around she says one word to me: "Sad."

Raymond asks to see me alone. We go into a dressing room, between the two bedrooms in the suite, nothing more than a large closet with a lavatory. "How are you?" I ask.

"There've been things that hurt worse. Tomorrow will be bad. The day after. We'll survive. Listen," Raymond says. "About what I mentioned the other night: when I see Nico, I'm going to offer to resign. I don't want any lame-duck crap. I don't want to appear to be playing around with the office. I'd like to make a clean break. If Nico wants to run in the general election as an incumbent, let him. I'll tell him he's free to assume office, if the county executive approves." This is humor, Bolcarro is the county executive. Party chairman. Mayor. The guy has more titles than the leader of a banana republic.

I tell Raymond he's made a wise decision. We look at each other.

"I feel like I should apologize to you, Rusty," Raymond says. "If there was any deputy I would have wanted to take over, you know it would be you. I should have tried to make that happen, instead of running. The guys just pushed me so damn hard to give it one more shot."

I wave my hand, I shake my head. I prohibit his apology. Larren sticks his head in.

"I was just telling Rusty," Raymond tells him, "I never should have run again, I should have given him the shot. New face. Career prosecutor. Apolitical. Really could have revved things up. Wouldn't you say?"

"Shit," says the judge, "pretty soon you'll have me believing it."

We all laugh.

Larren reports on his conversation with Della Guardia's people. He talked to Tommy Molto, who has emerged tonight as the primary aide-de-camp. They'd rather not have a face-to-face this evening. Instead, Molto and Nico want to see Raymond in the morning.

"Ten o'clock," says Larren. "He told me, didn't ask. And says, Please make sure it's with Raymond alone. How do you like that? Bossy little shit." Larren takes a private moment with his discontent. "I said you'd call Nico to make a formal concession. When you're ready."

Raymond takes Larren's bourbon from him and has a belt.

"I am ready," he says.

Loyalty goes only so far. I do not want to listen. I head back to the ballroom.

Near the bar, I run into George Mason, an old friend of Raymond's. He is already drunk. We both are being jostled.

"Pretty good crowd," he tells me.

Only near the bar, I think. But I save the thought.

"He had a good run," George says. "He did a good job. You guys should all be proud."

"We are," I say. "I am."

"So what's with you? Private practice?"

"For a while, I guess."

"Gonna do criminal stuff."

How many times have I had this conversation tonight? I tell George probably, I'll see, who can tell. I'm going to go on a vacation, that's for sure. George gives me his card and tells me to call. He may know some people I might want to talk to.

Horgan arrives in the ballroom twenty minutes later. The assholes from TV shove their way to the front, hold up their cameras and lights and boom mikes so that you cannot see much. Raymond is smiling and waving. Two of his daughters are with him on the platform. The band is playing an Irish jig. Raymond has said "Thank you" for the third time, about halfway along to quieting the crowd, when somebody grabs my arm. Lipranzer. He looks harried from having had to push his way through to reach me. There is too much noise in here to speak: stamping, hooting, whistling. Some folks in the back have even started to dance. Lipranzer motions me outside and I follow him beneath an exit sign. We end up, unexpectedly, in an alley outside the hotel, and Lip walks down toward a street lamp. When I see him now, I can tell that something's wrong. He looks almost caved-in, compressed by some kind of worry. The sweat shines near his temple. From here, I can hear Raymond's voice inside but not what he's saying.

"This is too strange," Lip says. "Something's fucked up over in the Hall. It's way wrong."

"Why?"

"I don't know," he says. "But I'm gettin vibes like I haven't had in years. I got a message I'm supposed to be in Morano's office, 8:00 tomorrow morning to be interviewed. By Molto. That's the message. Not talk. Not discuss. Interview. Like they're after me. And here's another one. When I come back in tonight they tell me that Schmidt took all the receipts for the evidence I've inventoried on Polhemus. Any questions, see him."

"Sounds to me like you're off this case."

"Sure," he says. "Fine. But figure this in. I'm out in the North Branch before 5:00. All of this hits by 6:00, 6:30. And look at what I picked up out there."

He reaches inside his windbreaker to his shirt pocket. He has four or five sheets of foolscap, xeroxes, I see, of court documents. The case number I recognize: it matches the complaint number missing from the 32nd District. The first sheet is a copy of the case jacket. People versus Leon Wells. A public-indecency complaint. Dismissed by court order a day in July nine years ago.

"Bingo," I say out loud.

"This page," Lip tells me. It is the bond order. In our state, a defendant is permitted to satisfy bond in minor cases merely with his signature on a promissory note, promising to pay a sum-by law less than $5,000-in the event of his default. The only conditions are that he refrain from other crimes and report once weekly by phone to a member of the court's probation department. Leon's assigned probation officer according to his bond slip was Carolyn Polhemus. Her name and telephone number are right there. Wait. Here's the best." He pulls the last sheet out. It is a copy of the court half-sheet, a form dismissing the case. Motion to Dismiss Without Prejudice, it is captioned. The attorney presenting the motion is the prosecutor. "Raymond Horgan, Kindle County Prosecuting Attorney, By" is printed at the bottom of the form. The deputy handling the case is supposed to sign the blank. I cannot read the signature at first. Then I get it.

"Molto?"

Lipranzer and I stand a moment in the street lamps, looking at the papers again. Neither one of us says much. From inside there's an enormous roar; then you can hear the band striking up again, "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." Raymond, I take it, has admitted defeat.

I try to pacify Lipranzer. Hang tight, I tell him. We're not sure of anything.

"You take this." He gives me the copies from the court file.

I move back toward the ballroom. Lip heads off alone, past the dumpsters and debris, into the darkness of the alley.