Scott Turow - Presumed innocent

"I always figured it wasn't going to do anybody much good to talk about it. And I assumed that was what you'd figured. What happened happened. But naturally I've spent a lot of time thinking about exactly how it occurred. I could hardly help that. I guess every prosecutor learns that we live closer than we want to believe to real evildoing. Fantasy is a lot more dangerous than people like to say. You get this idea, this careful elaborate plan, it becomes actually stimulating to think about it, it titillates and thrills you, you dwell on it, and you take the first step toward carrying it out, and that is thrilling and titillating, too, and you go on. And in the end, once you edge up to it that way, telling yourself all along that no real damage has been done, it takes just one extraordinary moment, when you revel in the excitement, in the feeling of flying free, for the whole thing actually to occur."

I finally look back. Barbara is on her feet now, standing behind her chair. Her look is quick and alarmed, as well it might be. No doubt she never wanted to hear this. But I go on.

"As I said, I really never thought I'd have to talk about this, but I raise it now, because I think once and for all it ought to be said aloud. There's no threat here. There's not even the shadow of a threat, okay? God knows what somebody in your position might think, Barbara, but there is not a threat. I just want the cards on the table. I don't want there to be wondering about what either of us knows or thinks. I don't want that to be a factor in whatever it is we're going to do. Because all in all, even though you're probably amazed to hear me say all of this, and then say this, too, I expected, I guess the word is wanted, is want, to go on. There are a lot of reasons, Nat, first of all. Of course. And I also want to minimize the damage to our lives. But more than that, I do not want that mad act to have had no decent consequence. And basically, in trying to explain to myself how and why this woman was murdered-for what little rational impulses have to do with it, and for what little they are worth as explanations. I suppose I always thought that in part it was for us. For us. For the good of us. God knows a lot of it was simply for my benefit, to-if conscience can stand those words-get even. But I thought some of it was for us, too. And so I wanted to say that, to see if all of this means anything to you or makes any difference."

I am finished at last, and feel strangely satisfied. I have done as well with this as I ever could have imagined. Barbara, my wife, is crying, very hard, and silently. She is looking downward while the tears simply fall. She heaves and catches her breath.

"Rusty, I don't think there is anything worth saying, except I'm sorry. I hope you believe me someday. I really am so sorry."

"I understand," I tell her. "I believe you now."

"And I was prepared to tell the truth. At any time. Right up to the end. If I was called as a witness, I would have told what happened."

"I understand that, too. But I didn't want that. Frankly, Barbara, it wouldn't have done a bit of good. It would have sounded like some desperate excuse. Like you were making a bizarre effort to save me. Nobody ever would have believed that you were the one who killed her."

These words bring fresh tears, and then, finally, control. It has been said and she is, in a measure, relieved. Barbara wipes each eye with the back of her hands. She breathes deeply. She speaks, looking down at the table.

"Do you know what it feels like to be crazy, Rusty? Really crazy? To not be able to get any hold of who you are? You never feel safe. I feel like every step I take, the ground is soft. That I'm going to fall through it. And I can't go on that way. I don't think that I can be a normal person again if I'm living with you. I know how horrible that is. But it's horrible for me, too. No matter what I thought, nobody goes back to the way things used to be after something like this. All I can say, Rusty, is that nothing turned out the way I expected. I never understood the reality of any of it until the trial. Until I sat there. Until I saw what was happening to you, and finally felt how much I didn't want that to be happening. But that's part of what I can't get over. I have no life here, except being sorry. And afraid. And, of course-'ashamed' is not the word. 'Guilty'?" She shakes her head slowly, looking down at the table. "There isn't a word."

"We could try to share that, you know. The blame," I say. Somehow, in spite of myself, this remark has a whimsical quality. Barbara gasps a bit. She bites her lip suddenly. She looks the other way for a second, and, in a momentary exhalation, cries. Then she shakes her head again.

"I don't think that's right," she says. "The trial came out the way it should have, Rusty."

That's all she says. I might have hoped for more, but it's enough. She starts to leave the room, but stops and lets me hold her for a moment, actually a long moment as she lingers with me, but finally she breaks away. I hear her go upstairs. I know Barbara. She will lie on our bed and weep a while longer. And then she is going to get back on her feet. And begin packing to leave.

One day, right after Thanksgiving, when I've come to town for Christmas shopping, I see Nico Della Guardia walking down Kindle Boulevard. He holds his raincoat drawn closed around the collar and he has a worried brow. He seems to be looking up and down the street. He is coming in my direction, but I am quite certain he has not seen me yet. I think of ducking into a building, not because I am afraid of his response, or mine, but simply because I think it might be easier for both of us to avoid this meeting. By then, however, he has caught sight of me and he is heading deliberately my way. He does not smile, but he offers his hand first, and I take it. For that instant only, I am rifled by a shot of terrible emotion-hot pain and grief-but it quickly passes and I stand there, looking affably at the man who, in any practical sense, tried to take my life from me. One person, a man in a felt hat, apparently aware of the momentousness of the meeting, turns to stare as he continues on his way, but otherwise the pedestrian traffic merely divides about us.

Nico asks me how I am. He has the earnest tone people lately have tended to adopt, so I know that he has heard. I tell him anyway.

"Barbara and I split up," I say.

"I heard that," he says. "I'm sorry. I really am. Divorce is a bitch. Well, you know. You had me crying on your shoulder. And I didn't have the kid. Maybe you guys can work it out."

"I doubt that. Nat's with me for the time being, but only until Barbara gets settled in Detroit."

"Too bad," he says. "Really. Too bad." Old Nico, I think, still repeating everything.

I turn to let him go on his way. I offer my hand first this time. And when he takes it, he steps closer and squeezes up his face so that I know that what he is about to say is something he finds painful.

"I didn't set you up," he says. "I know what people think. But I didn't have anybody screw with the evidence. Not Tommy. Not Kumagai." I almost wince at the thought of Painless. He has resigned now from the police department. He had no refuge. He could only claim collusion or incompetence, and so he chose the lesser-and I believe more apt-of the two evils. He did not botch the semen specimen, of course, but I've come to believe that no one would have been indicted if he'd looked back at his autopsy notes. Nobody could have put it all together. Maybe Tommy's also to blame for pushing too hard to bring a marginal case. I suppose he thought my hide would still his grief-or envy-whatever state it was that Carolyn had left him in, which so riled his passions.

Nico in the, meantime continues, sincere as ever. "I really didn't," he says. "I know what you think. But I have to tell you that. I didn't do that."