Scott Turow - Presumed innocent

Sandy walks away. He lets Horgan sit. Raymond sighs a couple of times and removes his handkerchief. As Stern paces by our table, he places his hand on my shoulder and I cover it with mine. A spontaneous gesture, but it seems to go down well with one or two jurors who notice.

"Let us turn to another subject, Mr. Horgan. How did you meet Mr. Sabich?"

Sandy is still strolling, headed back now toward the witness, and below the table I motion to him, no. I forgot to tell him not to ask that question. "Perhaps we should not loiter with ancient history," says Stern casually. "I shall withdraw that question, if the court please. As a matter of fact, Your Honor, if this would be a convenient point, perhaps We could all do with some lunch."

"Very well," says Larren. He seems particularly sober after Raymond's performance. Before he leaves the bench, Judge Lyttle glances back at Horgan, who has still not moved.

"So what did you think of this morning? Hmm?" asks Stern. He reaches for the relish tray. "You must try the corn willie, Rusty. Such a simple dish, but really very well prepared."

Stern has worked through lunch each day preceding, but you can tell that it is not his chosen routine. A civilized life includes a meal at noontime, he would say, and today, Horgan or not, he takes me to his dining club for lunch. It is on the forty-sixth floor of Morgan Towers, one of the tallest buildings in town. From here you can see the river bend and sway, the serried ranks of the city skyline, which these days looks mostly like so many shoe boxes end on end. If you had a telescope you could probably make out my home in Nearing.

I would have expected to become closer to Sandy. I am fond of him, and my respect for his professional abilities, never slight, has grown progressively. But I would not say that we have become friends. Perhaps it is because I am a client, charged with murder no less. But Stern's view of human capacity is itself large enough that I doubt any one act, no matter how heinous, would disqualify someone from his affections. The problem, if there is a problem, is the man and his inner restraints. He draws his lines in his professional life and I doubt anyone passes. He has been married thirty years. I have met Clara once or twice. Their three children are now spread all around the country; the youngest, a daughter, will finish at Columbia Law School next year. But as I think about it, I do not know many other people who claim to be close to Stern. He is a pleasant companion on any social occasion, and he is a polished raconteur. I remember that a friend of Barbara's father told me years ago that Stern tells marvelous stories in Yiddish, a skill I, of course, cannot confirm. But there are sharp limits on Sandy Stern's sense of intimacy. I know very little of what he really thinks, particularly about me.

"I have two comments about this morning," I say, as I help myself to corn. "I thought it went very well, and I enjoyed it a great deal. The cross has been brilliant."

"Oh well," says Stern. Sandy, despite his fine manners, is a considerable egotist, like every other noted trial lawyer. He shakes his head, but then takes a moment to savor my praise. A number of the reporters and courtroom observers whispered their compliments as we were on the way over here. Stern, only halfway through the cross, still wears the light air of triumph. "He did it to himself, really. I do not think I recognized before the start of this case how vain a person Raymond is. Even so, I do not know how far it takes us."

"You embarrassed him very badly."

"Apparently. He is bound to remind me of it someday. But that is not our problem now."

"I was surprised Larren was so protective of Raymond. If I had to guess, I would have bet that he'd have bent over backward to appear neutral." "Larren has never been afraid of being regarded as a man with his own affinities." Sandy sits back as a waiter sets down his plate. "Well," says Stern, "I only hope we do as well at the next critical juncture. I am not as optimistic."

I do not understand what he is talking about.

"There are two pivotal cross-examinations in this trial, Rusty," he says.

"We are only in the midst of the first."

"What's the other-Lipranzer?"

"No." Stern frowns a bit, unhappy, apparently, merely with the prospect of Lip's testimony. "Detective Lipranzer for us will be primarily a holding action. In that case, we will be hoping, merely, to ease the sting. No, I was thinking of Dr. Kumagai."

"Kumagai?"

"Oh yes." Sandy nods to himself. "You see, of course, that the physical evidence is the center of the prosecutors' case. But in order to fully utilize that evidence, Nico must call a scientific expert. Della Guardia cannot stand before the jury at the end of the case and offer only conjecture on how this act took place. His theories must be buttressed by a scientist's opinions. So he will call Kumagai." Sandy samples his lunch with obvious appreciation. "Forgive me for being didactic. I am unaccustomed to counseling trial lawyers. At any rate, Kumagai's testimony becomes critical. If he performs well, he will solidify the prosecution case. But his testimony also offers an opportunity for us. It is really the only chance we will have to blunt the edge somewhat on the physical evidence-the fingerprints, the fibers, all of these items that are normally unassailable. If we make Kumagai look dubious, the physical evidence, all of it, suffers as well."

"And how do you do that?"

"Ah," says Stern, somewhat wistfully, "you ask all the difficult questions. We must turn our attention to that shortly." He taps his bread knife and casts his eyes toward the skyline, not really focused on it. "Kumagai is not a pleasant individual. A jury will not warm to him. Something will suggest itself. In the meantime," Stern says, looking back to me abruptly, "what was this blunder I almost made? Something awful would have been disclosed when I asked how you and Horgan met?"

"I didn't think you wanted the jury to hear about how the Yugoslavian freedom fighter went to federal prison."

"Your father? Oh dear. Rusty, I must apologize to you for that improvisation the other day. It came to me as I was there. You understand these things, I am sure."

I tell Sandy that I understand.

"Your father went to jail? How did that happen? Horgan represented him?"

"Steve Mulcahy. Raymond just covered a couple of the court calls. That was how we met. He was very nice to me. I was quite upset."

"Mulcahy was the other partner?" In those days it was Mulcahy, Lyttle amp; Horgan. "He has been dead many years. We are talking about some time ago, I take it."

"I was still in law school. Mulcahy was my professor. When my father got the first summons, I went to him. I was terribly embarrassed. I thought character and fitness might keep me out."

"Of the bar? My Lord! What was the crime?"

"Taxes," I say. I take the first bit of my lunch. "My father didn't file for twenty-five years."

"Twenty-five years! Oh my. How is your fish?"

"Good. Would you care for a little?"

"If you don't mind. Thank you. You are much too kind. They really do this very well here."

Sandy chats on. He is serene and comfortable amid the silverplate table settings and the waiters in pastel cutaway coats. His retreat. In forty-five minutes he will resume cross-examining one of the most prominent lawyers in the city. But like all virtuosos he has a well-deserved faith in his instincts. He has worked hard. The rest is inspiration.

When the meal is near its end, I show Sandy the notes I made this morning.

"Oh yes," he tells me. "Very good." Some matters he is determined not even to respond to. "You are falsely accused and he says you seem to lack composure? Really, this is too silly to repeat."