Scott Turow - Presumed innocent

She lifts her eyes to heaven; she walks away. Now she never rises to the bait. This battle, such as it is, must be fought in silence.

It is true that I have made no effort to secure employment. The checks continue to arrive every two weeks from the P.A.'s office. Della Guardia, of course, has no justifiable cause to fire me. And it would turn the office on its head were I to return to work. Nico is under siege from the press. The national reports have increased the sense of local embarrassment. What might ordinarily have passed as mere incompetence in the administration of county affairs has been magnified into a major scandal through the lens of coast-to-coast attention. Nico Della Guardia has made us in Kindle County look to the world like benighted backwoods buffoons. The editorial writers and even the few local politicians of the opposing political party demand that Nico appoint a special prosecutor to investigate Tommy Molto. The local Bar Association has opened an inquiry to determine whether Tommy should be disbarred. The common belief is that Nico, in his ambition to vault himself into the mayor's office, pressed too hard and that in response Molto manufactured evidence, in league with Painless Kumagai. Nico's dismissal of the case is widely read as a confession. Only on occasion are other motivations suggested. I saw a Sunday piece by Stew Dubinsky which mentioned the B file and the aroma that surrounded the North Branch courthouse during those years. But nothing ever followed. Whatever the general understanding, I am not inclined to correct it. I will not exculpate Nico or Tommy or Painless. I still have no wish to tell what I know: that it was my seed taken from Carolyn; that those surely were my prints found on that glass in the apartment; that the carpet fibers detected were from my home; that all the calls the records showed were made from my phone. I will never be ready to brook the costs of these admissions. And there is a rough justice in this. Let Tommy Molto enjoy the experience of attempting to disprove what circumstance seemingly makes obvious. I accept the checks.

It is Mac's last act as chief administrative deputy in the P.A.'s office, before taking the bench, to negotiate a date at which my stipend may end. Nico has suggested six more months. I demand an additional year as reparations. Nine months is ultimately agreed. In our final conversation on this subject, Mac honors our friendship mightily by asking me to speak at her induction. This is my first public outing. Ed Mumphrey, who presides in the ceremonial courtroom, introduces me as "a man who knows a great deal about justice," and the three or four hundred persons who have assembled to watch Mac become a judge rise to their feet to applaud me. I am now a local hero. Kindle County's Dreyfus. People regret some of the pleasure that they felt watching me be flogged. Yet it is not possible for me to forget how out of place I feel in society. The trial is still like a shell around me. I cannot reach out.

Because I am one of the three speakers at the ceremony, Nico is not present. But Horgan could not appropriately stay away. I attempt to avoid him, but later, amid the jostling by the hors d'oeuvres tables at the hotel reception, I feel a hand upon my arm.

Raymond has that blarney smile. He does not take the risk of offering his hand.

"How've you been?" he asks in a hearty way.

"I'm fine."

"We should have lunch."

"Raymond, I'll never do another thing in my life that you tell me I should." I turn, but he follows me.

"I put that badly. I would really appreciate it, Rusty, if you would have lunch with me. Please."

Old affections. Old connections. So hard to break; for what else do we have? I give him a date and walk away.

I meet Raymond at his law firm, and he suggests that if I don't mind, we will not go out. Both of us would be better off without some clever item in the I-On-The-Town column about how Raymond H. and acquitted Chiefdep buried the hatchet in Satinay's prime rib. Instead, Raymond has arranged a catered lunch. We eat shrimp remoulade alone in an enormous conference room on that stone table that seems to be composed of a single quarried piece, a thirty-foot slab, polished and posted here as an auction block for the captains of industry. Raymond asks the obligatory questions about Barbara and Nat, and he talks about the law firm. He asks about me.

"I won't be the same," I say.

"I imagine."

"I doubt you can."

"Are you waiting for me to say I'm sorry?"

"You don't have to be sorry. It doesn't do a damn thing for me, anyway."

"So you don't want me to tell you I'm sorry?"

"I'm done giving you advice, Raymond, on how to behave."

"Because I am."

"You should be."

Raymond does not miss a bite. He was prepared for some rancor.

"You know why I'm sorry? Because Nico and Tommy made me believe it. It never dawned on me that they had fucked around with the evidence. I figured they'd do as they were taught. They're gonna recall him, you know. Della Guardia? They're gonna try. There are petitions circulating right now."

I nod. I have read as much. Nico announced last week that there were no grounds for the appointment of a special prosecutor. He expressed his confidence in Molto. And the papers and the TV editorialists pilloried him again. A state legislator made a speech on the floor of the House. This week's word is Cover-up.

"You know what Nico's problem is, don't you? Bolcarro. Bolcarro won't give him the time of day anymore. Augie's gonna sit on his hands on this recall, too. Nico will have to make it on his own. Bolcarro feels like he gave Nico a boost, and the next thing he knows, Della Guardia's a candidate for mayor. Sound familiar?"

"I say, "Mmm-hmm." I want to sound bored. I want to sound petulant. I came here to make my anger plain. I have promised myself that I will not be concerned about how low I sink. If I feel like calling names, I will do it. Throwing punches. Tossing food. There will be no point below which I will not descend.

"Look," he says suddenly, "put yourself in my shoes. This was a hard thing for everybody."

"Raymond," I say, "what in the fuck did you do to me? I ate your shit for twelve years."

"I know."

"You were out to ax me."

"I told you, Nico made me believe it. Once you believe it, I'm sort of a victim in the whole thing."

"Go fuck yourself," I say. "And when you're done fucking yourself, go fuck yourself again." I wipe the corner of my mouth with the linen napkin. But I make no move to leave. This is just the beginning. Raymond watches me, bitterness and consternation moving through his ruddy face. Finally he clears his throat and tries to change the subject.

"What are you going to do, Rusty, with your career?"

"I have no idea."

"I want you to know I'll help however I can. If you like, I'll see what's available here. If there's anything else in town that interests you, just say so. Whatever I'm able to do, I will."

"The only job outside the P.A.'s office that ever sounded good to me was something you mentioned-being a judge. Think you can do that? Do you think you can give me back the life I had?" I look at him levelly, intent on letting him know that this tear cannot be repaired. My tone is sardonic. No judicial candidate can carry the baggage of a murder indictment. But Raymond does not flinch.

"All right," he says. "Do you want me to explore that? See if I can find you a seat?"

"You're full of it, Raymond. You don't have that kind of clout anymore."

"You may be wrong about that, my friend. Augie Bolcarro thinks I'm his best buddy now. Just as soon as he got me out of the way, he decided I could be useful. He calls me up with questions twice a week. I'm not kidding, either. He refers to me as an elder statesman. Isn't that something? If you'd like, I'll speak with him. I'll have Larren speak with him."