Scott Turow - Presumed innocent

"It had subparts."

Kenneally doesn't smile. He looks down in his drink.

"In this job, you learn you better not say never." Kenneally laughs.

"Lookit you. Right?" He laughs again.

He is still angry with himself All of this is against his better judgment.

"But Molto," he says. "Never. He's from the fuckin seminary. He'd bring his rosary to court. No chance this guy would take."

"Was Carolyn involved with whatever was going on?"

He shakes his head. He is not saying no. He is refusing to answer.

"Look. I don't owe you, Rusty. Okay? I thought you done your job like a professional guy. You came out here before people in the suburbs even knew from gangs, and you worked hard. I give you credit. What else you done, you done. But you come into the projects with me in the middle of the night. You got your fuckin hands dirty. But don't push, all right. These guys I owe. You ain't one."

Cop loyalty. He won't even drop a dime on a dead lady. Kenneally drinks his drink and looks out the door.

"Did Carolyn have anything going with Molto? You know, a personal thing?"

"Jesus. What's your hang-up with Molto? Guy's strange like everybody else."

"Let's just say he's my best alternative."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

I wave the question off.

"Well, I don't see that guy even catchin a whiff of Polhemus. You seen him, Buddy Hackett, right? They were friends, that's all. Buddies. Sometimes she'd smooth shit out for him." Kenneally takes another drink. "It wasn't him she was bangin."

"Who?"

"No chance," he said. "You got enough."

"Lionel." I really don't want to beg. He will not look at me. "This isn't gossip, for Chrissake. This is my goddamned life."

"The nigger."

"What?"

"She was sleepin with the nigger."

I don't get it at first. Then I do.

"Larren?"

"You been out at the North Branch. You remember how it was. It was like everybody used to work in one room.

Three doors, and all of em let you into one office. P.O. P.A. Nick Costello was signin in the coppers who come out to testify. He had a desk there. Judge's chambers used to open up there, too. He'd get off the bench noontime, she'd go sashaying in. They weren't makin no secret of it.

"Fuck," says Kenneally, "I halfway told you last time you was out here. Don't you remember? I told you how she fucked her way to the top, I couldn't figure Horgan hiring her. That's who got her in. Your old buddy there, Judge Motherfucker. He and Horgan got some kinda tie-in."

"They were law partners," I say. "Years ago."

"Figures," said Lionel. He shakes his head in disgust.

"And you won't tell me whether Carolyn was dirty?"

He raises a finger. "I'm gonna leave," he says. He's quiet for a while. "Sometimes she'd smooth things out, like I say. Molto and the judge, they didn't get along so well. Maybe you heard them stories."

"A number."

"You know, she was everybody's pal back then. The P.O. Sometimes she'd get the judge to lay off. Sometimes she'd get Molto to take two steps back. She was kinda the referee. Maybe you're right. Maybe Molto was really carryin a big fuckin torch for her. Maybe that's why he had sand in his ointment whenever he had to go before the judge. Who knows? Go figure people," he says.

I can tell that I've had everything now that I'm going to get. This last little bit was strictly for charity.

I pick up my briefcase and leave money for the drinks.

"You're a good sod, Kenneally."

"I'm a fuckin fool, is what I am. Halfa downtown's gonna be talkin about this tomorrow. Whatta I tell em we said?"

"I don't give a shit. Say what you want. Tell them the truth. Molto knows what I'm looking for by now. Maybe that's why I'm in this soup to begin with."

"You don't believe that."

"I don't know," I tell him. "Something's not right."

We spend the weekend at work, both days. My assignment is to prepare for the end of the state's case, when the defense, as a matter of routine, makes a motion for a directed verdict of acquittal-a request that the judge terminate the trial, declaring that there is not enough evidence for a reasonable jury to convict. This is usually futile. In ruling on the motion, the judge is required to evaluate the evidence in the light most favorable to the state, meaning, for example, that for the purposes of this decision Judge Lyttle will have to accept Eugenia's testimony, right down to her angels. However, a directed verdict ruling is unreviewable; the state may not appeal. As a result some judges-Larren quite notoriously-use this as a device for imposing the result they favor. Thus, while our prospects are dim, Stern wants to make as strong a presentation as possible. My assignment is to find cases which in some fashion condemn the absence of proof of motive in a circumstantial case. I pass hours in the library. Sunday morning we meet to talk strategy. Sandy still does not want to speak in detail about the defense case. He makes no mention of my testimony or that of other witnesses. Instead, we analyze the remainder of the state's proof. Lipranzer is supposed to testify Monday. The state's case will now begin to gather speed. Their physical evidence will be coming in: the fibers, the phone records, the fingerprints (assuming they can find the glass); the maid who thinks she saw me on the bus; and Kumagai. Stern again emphasizes the point he made to me the other day at lunch: our need to raise doubt in some way about Kumagai. If we cannot, the prosecutors will reach the end of their case having built up tremendous momentum; that in turn, may force Sandy to change his strategy for our presentation. This is one reason Stern is unwilling to arrive at any final opinions about what we should do. Together Kemp and Stern and I puzzle out ways to attack Kumagai. Stern has examined Painless a number of times and he shares the common opinion that Kumagai is an unpleasant hack. The jury will not be eager to believe him. There are old stories about Painless which I share; finally, I mention that his police department personnel file, where complaints about Kumagai's past performance might be jacketed, would be a good source for us to examine.

"Excellent," says Stern. "How wonderful to have a prosecutor on our side." He directs Jamie to draft at once a trial subpoena for the file, and another for records of the Pathology Lab, so we can see what else Painless was up to in April. We have not issued most of our subpoenas, inasmuch as many of the deputy sheriffs who serve them tend to alert the prosecutors, giving the P.A.'s an opportunity to combat the evidence gathered or, even worse, to utilize it themselves if it is helpful to the state. But now that the prosecution case is almost complete, we should proceed. Jamie forages through his old notes to be sure we do not miss any of the items we have said we wanted to acquire. He drafts subpoenas for each of Carolyn's doctors, identified from her little phone book, which I found in her apartment.

"And you wanted to subpoena the phone company," Kemp says to me, "so we can look at their backup data on the MUDs from your house."

"Don't bother with that," I say quickly. I do not look up, but I can feel the weight of Kemp's startled glance upon me Stern, however, goes on, without dropping a beat.

"Perhaps if it is not productive to raise questions," says Sandy, "we should consider stipulations." A stipulation is a statement agreed to by the prosecution and defense which recites what a witness would say, so that he need not be called. As Stern thinks aloud about the possibility, he becomes more convinced it is the right way to proceed.

We will agree to the testimony not only of the phone company representatives but also the Hair and Fiber experts and the forensic chemist. By doing that, we win shorten the time in which this damaging evidence is actually before the jury. Della Guardia may not accept the proposal, but he is likely to. For the prosecutor, there is always a blessing in not having to come forward with your proof.