Scott Turow - Presumed innocent

With the keys in the lower lock, Glendenning turns and, without a word, frisks Kemp and me, then Marty. This will prevent us from planting anything. I show him a pad of paper I have in my hand. He asks for our wallets. Kemp starts to object, but I motion him to be quiet. Again, without a word, Glendenning does the same to Marty, who already has his wallet in his hand.

"Jeez," says Marty. "Look at all this stuff. What am I ever going to do with it?" He just wanders in ahead of Kemp and me. I pass a look with Jamie. Neither of us knows if we have the authority to keep him out, or if there is any reason to bother. Glendenning calls in after him.

"Hey there. Don't touch anything. Nothing. Just them can touch. All right?" Marty seems to nod. He drifts through the living room toward the windows, apparently to check the view.

The air in here is stale and heavy, used up and burned out by the summer heat. Something somewhere in here may be rotting; there is a faint smell. Although the temperature outside is moderate today, the apartment, with the windows sealed, never cooled after last week's intense beat. It must be close to 85 degrees.

I never believed in ghosts, but it is unsettling to be back. I feel a little curl of strange sensation working its way down from the bottom of my spine. The apartment seems oddly settled, especially since everything has been left largely as it was found. The table and mauve seating piece are still overturned. On the light oak floor, just off the kitchen, an outline of Carolyn's body has been chalked. But everything else seems to have acquired some added density. Beside the sofa, on another glass table, a little inlaid box remains which I had purchased for Carolyn. She had admired it at Morton's the day I walked over there with her during the McGaffen trial. One of the red dragons on her Chinese screen assesses me with its fiery eye, God, I think. God, did I ever get myself in trouble. Kemp motions to me. He is going to start looking about. He hands me a pair of plastic gloves, loose ones like Baggies with fingers. There's no real need for this, but Stern insisted. Better not to be fighting about fingerprints Tommy Molto claims they discovered long before.

I stop a minute by the bar. It's on the wall directly by the kitchen. I thought I could see what I'm looking for from the police photographs of the scene, but I want to be certain. I stand three feet from the glassware and count the tumblers lined up on a towel. It is on one of the glasses of this set that my prints have been identified. There are twelve of them here. I count them twice to be sure.

Jamie comes beside me. He whispers, "Where in the hell do we look?" He wants to see whether there are accessories on hand used by Carolyn for birth control.

"There's a john over that way," I say quietly. "Medicine cabinet and vanity."

I tell him I will check the bedroom. I look first inside her closet. Her smell is on everything. I recognize the clothes I saw her wear. These sights stir mild sensation, buffeting against something that wants this all suppressed. I don't know if it is an impulse to be clinical or the sense-which I always previously seemed to check at the door here-of what is properly forbidden. I move on to her drawers.

Her bedside table, a chubby-looking piece with clubbed Queen Anne feet, holds the telephone. This is as likely a spot as any, but when I open the single drawer I see nothing but her panty hose. I push them around and find a phone directory, a skinny volume covered in light brown calf's leather. The coppers always miss something. I can't resist. I check under S. Nothing. Then I think of R. Yes. At least I made the book. My work and home numbers are listed. I graze a minute. Horgan is here. Molto is not listed by name, but there is somebody called TM, which is probably him. I realize I should see about her doctors. D is it. I write the names down and put the paper in my pocket. Outside I hear a stirring. For some reason my first thought is that it is Glendenning, who has decided to ignore the dark-skinned judge and snoop. I flip the pages on the book to protect what I have found, but when the figure passes by the door, it is only Marty wandering. He looks in and waves. The page I turned is L. "Larren," it says right at the top. There are three numbers listed. Well, I think. That must have been a cozy group out in the North Branch. Everybody's here. Then I think again. Not quite. I check N and D, even G. Nico never made it. I tuck the book back in under the panty hose.

Marty is lurking at the bedroom door.

"Pretty strange, huh?"

That it is. I nod sadly. He tells me that he is going to wait outside. I try to let him know that he is free to leave, but the kid is dense and doesn't get the hint.

When I find Kemp, he is going through the living room.

"There's nothing here," he tells me. "No foam, no cream. I don't even find a case for a diaphragm. Am I missing something? Do women hide that stuff?"

"Not that I know of. Barbara keeps hers in the top drawer of the dresser. I wouldn't have any ideas about anyone else."

"Well, if the chemist says contraceptive cream is present, and it's not seized from the apartment," Kemp says, you tell me where it's at."

"I guess I took it," I say, "when I grabbed the diaphragm." With both Kemp and Stern, I have fallen into this habit, speculating in the first person on what Nico will say I did. Jamie, especially, finds it amusing.

"Why would you do that?"

I consider for a moment. "Maybe it would hide the fact that I took the diaphragm."

"That doesn't make sense. It's supposed to be rape. What difference does it make what the hell she did when she wanted to have sex?"

"I guess I wasn't thinking clearly. If I had been, I wouldn't have left the glass on the bar."

Kemp smiles. He likes the byplay, fast words.

"This helps," he says. "there's no way around it. I want to get hold of Berman," he says, referring to the PI. "He should search himself, so he can testify about it. He'll be available in about an hour. Wait until Glendenning hears he has to wait. He'll blow a gut."

The four of us meet outside the apartment and watch Glendenning lock the door. He pats each one of us down again. Glendenning, as Kemp predicted, refuses to wait for Berman. Kemp tells him that he has to, the court order gives us access for the day.

"I don't take orders from any rock-n-roll defense lawyer," says Glendenning. Even when I was on his side, I thought this guy was all charm.

"Well, let's go see the judge, then," Kemp says. Jamie got Glendenning's number quick. The copper looks to the ceiling like this is the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard, but by now he's trapped. He and Kemp pound down the stairway, exchanging words. I am left with Marty Polhemus.

"Nice guy, huh?" I ask Marty.

He asks me, in all seriousness, "Which one?"

"I was talking about the policeman."

"He seemed all right. He said that what's-his-name, Mr. Kemp, used to be in the Galactics. When I confirm that, the boy predictably says "Wow." Then he goes silent. He still seems to be waiting for something.

"I talked to them, you know. The cops."

"Did you?" I am thinking about the glassware by the bar.

"They asked me about you, you know. About when you came out to see me."

"Well, that's their job."

"Yeah, they wanted to know if you like said anything about your relationship with her, I mean with Carolyn. You know?"

I have to exert control to avoid a reflex to pivot. I had forgotten. I had forgotten that I told this goddamned kid. That is Nico's evidence, that is how he's going to prove up the affair. A thick bilious feeling cuts deep in my throat.

"They asked me a couple of times, you know. I said-I mean, I thought we had a real talk, you know?"

"Sure," I say.