Scott Turow - Presumed innocent

"They're almost gone."

One week after my arraignment, Sandy and I stand together in the reception area of the law firm in which Raymond Horgan has been a partner since May. A very classy affair. The floor is parquet, covered by one of the largest Persian rugs I have ever seen, rose hues on a vibrant navy field. Lots of expensive-looking abstract art is on the walls, and glass-and-chrome end each corner of the room, with copies of Forbes and The Wall Street Journal laid out in ranks. A sweet blonde who probably gets an extra couple grand a year for being so good-looking is behind a fancy rosewood desk, taking names.

Sandy has hold of my lapel in the lightest way, instructing me in a murmur. The young lawyers who hustle by in their shirt-sleeves probably cannot even see his lips move. I am not to hold a discussion, Sandy says. He will ask the questions. My presence is intended, as he puts it, merely as a stimulant. Above all, he says, I am to remain collected, whatever the climate of our reception.

"Do you know something?" I ask.

"One hears things," Sandy says. "Speculation is pointless when we will so soon know answers firsthand." Sandy, in fact, hears many things. A good defense lawyer has an intricate network. Clients bring information. Reporters. Sometimes there are cops who are friends. Not to mention other defense lawyers. When I was a prosecutor, the defense bar seemed to be a kind of tribe, always on their tom-toms whenever there was any piece of news that they could properly communicate. Sandy has told me that Della Guardia subpoenaed Horgan to the grand jury right after Nico took office and that Raymond tried to resist on grounds of executive privilege. Sandy knows this, he has said, from an excellent source. Given this skirmishing, I would expect continuing hostility between Raymond and Nico, but Sandy's reaction when he saw Raymond's name on the witness list implies other knowledge. Sandy, of course, would never betray the confidence of whoever it is who gave, him a notion of Raymond's intentions.

Horgan's secretary comes out to retrieve us, and halfway to his office, Raymond himself is there. He is in his shirt-sleeves, without his coat. "Sandy. Rusty." He claps me once briefly on the shoulder as he shakes my hand. He has put on more weight, and his gut is straining against the lower buttons on his shirt. "Have you fellas ever been up here?"

Raymond takes us on a tour. With the incentives of the tax code, the law firms and corporations have become the new Versailles. Raymond tells us about the artwork, names I know he has learned only from magazines. Stella. Johns. Rauschenberg. "I especially like this piece," he says. Squiggles and squares. In a conference room, there is a thirty-foot table milled from a single piece of green malachite. Sandy asks about Raymond's practice. Mostly federal work so far, Raymond says, which he thinks is a good thing. He has a grand jury going great guns in Cleveland. His client sold parachutes to the Defense Department; they contain defective rope. "A purely inadvertent oversight," Raymond tells us, with a knavish smile. "One hundred ten thousand pieces."

Finally, we arrive at Raymond's office. They have given him a corner and he has the fancy views, west and south. The Wall of Respect has been reinstalled here with a few additions. A panoramic shot of the dais at Raymond's last inauguration is at the center now. With forty others, I am there, way off on the right.

I had not noticed a young man until Raymond introduces him. Peter something. An associate. Peter has a pad and pen. Peter is the prover. He will cover Raymond in the event there is later controversy about what he said.

"So what can I do you for?" Raymond asks, after he has called out for coffee.

"First," says Sandy, "Rusty and I both want to thank you for taking the time to meet. You are very gracious."

Raymond waves this off. "What can I say?" A non sequitur of sorts. I think he means to suggest he wants to help without saying that.

"I think it best, I am sure you understand," says Stern, "that Rusty not take part in our conversation. I hope you do not mind if he simply listens." As he says this, Sandy glances toward Peter, who has raised his pad and is already relentlessly making notes.

"Sure, it's your ball game." Raymond starts fussing on his desk, brushing at dust neither I-nor he-can see. "I'm surprised you wanted him to come. But that's up to you guys."

Sandy flexes his brow characteristically, one of those Latin gestures reflecting something too delicate or imprecise to say.

"So what do you want me to tell you?" Raymond again asks.

"We find your name on Della Guardia's witness list. That, of course, motivates our visit."

"Sure," says Raymond, and throws up his hands. "You know how it is, Alejandro. The guy. sends you a party invitation, you gotta go to the ball." I have seen this bluff, hearty manner from Raymond a thousand times before. He gestures too much; his broad features are always tending toward a smile. His eyes seldom meet those of the person to whom he is speaking. This was how he negotiated with defense lawyers. I'm a great guy, but I just can't help. When his visitors left, Raymond would often call them names.

"So you will be appearing by subpoena?"

"You bet."

"I see. We received no statement. Do I take it that you have not spoken to the prosecutors?"

"No, I've talked to them a little bit. You know, I talk to you, I talk to them. We had some troubles at first. Mike Duke had to work some things out. I've sat down with Tom Molto a few times now. Shit, more than a few times. But you know, it's one on one. I haven't signed a statement or anything like that." A bad sign. Very bad. Panic and anger both are rising in me, but I try to stave them off. Raymond is getting star-witness treatment. No formal statements to minimize the inconsistencies that would endanger him on cross-examination. Multiple sessions with the prosecutor because he is so important to the case.

"You mention troubles," says Sandy. "There is no question of immunity, I take it?"

"Shit no. Nothing like that. It's just that some of these guys around here, my new partners. This whole thing makes them nervous. It could be a little embarrassing for me, too." He laughs. "That's a hell of a way to start out. I'm here three days and I get a grand-jury subpoena. I bet Solly Weiss loved that," he says, referring to the firm's managing partner.

Sandy is silent. He has his hat and briefcase positioned decorously in the center of his lap. He studies Horgan, without apology, searching him. The man is volunteering nothing. Stern becomes like this at moments, suddenly abandons all his comfortable civility and seems to sink beneath the surface of things.

"And what have you told them?" Sandy finally asks quietly. He is very still.

"My partners?"

"Certainly not. I was wondering what we might expect in terms of your testimony. You've been on this side of things before." Sandy subsides into his more familiar tone, gentle and indirect. When he asked what Raymond told them, a second ago, it was like a flash of light suddenly reflected. His mettle was at once obvious and fully summoned.

"Well, you know, I don't want to get into a word-for-word." He nods in the direction of the young man taking notes.

"Of course not," Sandy says. "Topics. Areas. Whatever you feel you can comfortably tell. It is very difficult from the outside even to guess sometimes what a witness might be called to discuss. You know this yourself, so well."

Sandy is probing for something that I do not completely understand. We could get up now and leave if we were merely here to accomplish the previously announced purpose of our visit. We know where Raymond Horgan stands. He is not a friend.

"I'm going to testify about Rusty's conduct of the investigation. How he told me he'd be interested in handling it. And a later conversation we had, about aspects of my personal life."