Scott Turow - Presumed innocent

At the top of the stairway, the eighth floor, Lip holds a finger to his lips and quietly pulls the steel fire door back. I follow him into the corridor, a typical project hallway; brightly lit to discourage intruders, trash along the sides in isolated pieces, an uncut smell of human use. About halfway down the wall, the sheet rock has been smashed out in a shape which for all the world resembles someone's head. In a hallway like this, one of Lionel Kenneally's guys shot Melvin White, the night after we returned the first round of indictments. I was outside to supervise the arrests, but it was about twenty minutes after we all heard the gunfire before the coppers would let me go in. By then the ambulance had arrived, and I went up with the paramedics. Along with the surgeons, they eventually saved Melvin's life, making way for his return to Rudyard. When I saw him, however, Harukan's chances did not seem good. They had laid him out in the middle of the hallway next to his automatic rifle. He was making a sound too labored, too desperate to be called groaning, and his stomach and his arms, which lay upon it, were painted with blood. Between his hands, a little twisted purple piece of tissue protruded. And above him stood Stapleton Hobberly, Morgan's brother, who had begun snitching for us after Morgan was killed. Stapleton had his penis in his hands. He was urinating in Melvin White's face while a number of coppers lounged against the walls and watched.

And what the fuck am I supposed to say if this guy dies of drowning? one of the paramedics asked me.

Now Lip is rapping on the door.

"Open up, Leon! Wake up! It's the police. Come on, man. We just wanna talk."

We wait. The building, in a way that is almost beyond the threshold of detection, seems more silent now. Lip raps again with the flat of his palm. There is no kicking this door in. They are all reinforced steel.

Lipranzer shakes his head. And at that moment the door suddenly, silently, swings open. It is very slow. Inside, the room is totally black, no sign of light. Somehow an extraordinary adrenal rush has begun. If I were to pick out the details that key this response, I could only identify the little metal click, but even before that there is an instantaneous perception of alarm. Danger is palpable in the air, as if the threat of harm were an odor, a stirring like wind. When I hear the sound of the gun being readied, I realize that we are perfect targets, standing backlit in the bright hallway. Yet clear as the thought is, I have no impulse to move. Lipranzer, though, is going. Somewhere along he has said, "Motherfucker," and as he is on the way down, he slides in my direction and cuts my leg out from under me. I land, painfully, on an elbow and roll away. We both end up lying on our bellies on the floor, staring at one another from either side of the door. Lipranzer has his pistol gripped with both hands.

Lip closes his eyes and yells at top volume.

"Leon, I am the police! This man is the police! And if your piece is not out here in ten seconds, I am callin this in, they are blasting your ass away before you can say shit. Now I'm gonna start countin!" Lip gets to his knees and presses his back to the wall. He motions with his chin for me to do the same thing. "One!" he yells.

"Man," we hear, "if you are the police, how am I gone know it. Huh? How am I gone know it?"

Out of his windbreaker, Lip draws his creds-the star and his picture I.D.

He inches toward the doorway, then allows only his hand to cross its plane as he pitches them in.

"Two!" Lip yells. He is backing away. He points up at the lit exit sign. We are going to run for it soon. "Three!"

"Man, I'm puttin on the lights now. Okay? Okay? But I'm keepin my piece."

"Four!"

"Okay, okay, okay." The gun scutters, over the tiles and lands against the molding of the hallway with a thump. A heavy black item. Until it stopped, I thought it was a rat. Light from the apartment angles out of the threshold.

"Out here, Leon," Lip yells. "Down on your knees."

"Oh, man."

"Down!"

"Shee-it." He comes knee-walking right out the doorway, his arms extended before him. He is quick and comical now. The cops, man. Always so serious. Lip pats him down. Then he nods. And the three of us get to our feet. Lip snatches his creds back. Leon has a black sleeveless T-shirt and a red headband. On the bottom, he is wearing only his Jockey shorts. Apparently we roused him. A smooth-skinned, powerfully built man.

"I'm Detective Lipranzer. Special Command. I'd like to come in and talk.

"And who's he, man?"

"He's my goddamned friend." Lip, who still has his gun in his hand, pushes Leon. "Now get back inside." Leon goes first. Lip covers the doorway; with his gun held by his face, he flashes from post to post, staring inside. Then he goes in to search. After a moment he emerges and motions me in. He holsters his pistol again, at his back, under the coat.

"Man, would we have been a headline," I say to him, my first words since this started. "If he was shooting, you might have saved my life."

Lip makes a face, meant to disparage me. "If he was shooting, you were dead by the time I knocked you down."

Inside, Leon is waiting for us. His apartment is a galley kitchen and a couple of rooms. There is no sound of anyone else, but he is seated on a mattress on the floor of the living room. He has put on his pants. A plastic alarm clock and an ashtray are by the bed at his feet.

"We want to ask you a couple of questions," Lip says. "if you're straight, we're out of your face in five minutes."

"Hey, man. You come in here three clock in the mornin. Come on, man. Gimme a break. Call Charley David, man, he's my 'torney, man. Talk to him, Jack, cause I'm tired and I'm goin to sleep." He leans back against the wall and closes his eyes.

"You don't need an attorney, Leon."

Leon, still with his eyes closed, laughs. He has heard that one before.

"You got immunity," Lipranzer tells him. "This guy's a P.A. Aren't you?" Leon opens his eyes in time to see me nod.

"See, now you have immunity."

"7-7-2," says Leon, -5-8-6-8. That's his number, man. Charley Davis."

"Leon," says Lip, "about eight, nine years ago you dropped fifteen hundred bucks on a deputy P.A. to make some problems you had go away. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"No chance, man. Okay? I mean, you come bustin into my home, three clock in the mornin, man, askin me shit like that. Am I a fool, man? Huh? Am I a frickin fool? I'm gone be talkin to some fuckin white-ass policeman about shit like that? Come on, man. Go home. Let me sleep." He closes his eyes again.

Lip makes a sound. For some reason I get the idea that he is going back to his gun, and I have an impulse to stop him, but instead he walks slowly over to Leon. He crouches, right at the head of his bed. Leon has watched him approach, but he closes his eyes once Lipranzer has reached his level. Lip takes his index finger and jabs Leon a couple of times in the forearm. Then Lip points at me.

"See that guy? That's guy's Rusty Sabich."

Leon opens his eyes. Captain Saint Killer. Right in his living room.

"Bullshit," says Leon.

"Show him your card," says Lipranzer.

I am hardly prepared for this, and I have to empty the pockets of my sportcoat. In the process I discover that my coat is gray across its entire front with the hallway's soil. I have brought along the documents Lip obtained months ago from Leon's court file, my appointment diary, my wallet. In there I find one dog-eared card. I give it to Lipranzer, who hands it to Leon.

"Rusty Sabich," says Lipranzer again.

"So?" asks Leon.

"Leon," says Lip, "how many of your blood brothers do you think have been on his pad, huh? Twenty-five? Thirty-five? How many Saints do you think he's paid to snitch? You go back to sleep, Leon, and Rusty Sabich is gonna get on the phone tomorrow morning. He's gonna tell every one of them how you go out to the Forest to suck off white boys. He's gonna give them who and when and where. He's gonna tell them how they can find out all about this stone faggot deacon they got, name of Leon Wells. Okay? You think this is bullshit? This is not bullshit, my man. This is the guy who let Stapleton Hobberly take a piss in Harukan's face. Have you heard that story, huh? Now, all we want is five minutes of your time. You tell us the absolute truth and we're gonna leave you alone. We gotta know a couple of things. That's all."