Scott Turow - Limitations

Led by the Detective Commander, Len Grissom, a bony, self-contained Texan, the procession- two defense lawyers, a Deputy P.A. named Adams who has arrived from Felony Review, Cobberly, Abel, and several other officers, and, finally, the judge-enters the shift room, where the Area 2 cops assemble to start duty. It looks like a classroom, full of school chairs with plastic desk extensions on the right arms. In front, a track of high-wattage floodlights blares down. They were installed for lineups, both to illuminate the participants and to prevent them from getting a good look at the witnesses.

Four boys parade out and spread themselves along the platform from which, at other times, the shift sergeant makes the day’s assignments. They are all between five six and five nine, the height George gave for his second assailant. Three of the kids are probably volunteers from the juvie house who will be rewarded for their cooperation with a hamburger in the squad car on the way back. They all wear blue jail coveralls, but a sweatshirt is passed from one to the next. Each puts it on for a second and draws the hood around his face, then turns to expose both profiles.

By the time the fashion show, as it’s called, has ended, George has settled on the third boy from the left. Gina clearly does not like the array and scribbles notes on her yellow pad. The problem is obvious. Two of the kids don’t have the close-cropped hair George described on the younger boy, but even with that hint, he is not quite positive about the kid he’s inclined to identify. From the corner of his eye, the judge catches Cobberly scratching his face. He uses three fingers and rakes his nails across his cheek three times, repeating this performance twice more. George says nothing but stares until Gina’s younger colleague catches on.

“What?” Cobberly says.

“Can we get that dipstick out of here?” Gina asks Grissom. She looks at George. “Did you know him?”

“Sixty, seventy percent,” he tells her. “I’d have said, ‘Most closely resembles.” ’ The lawyers make notes.

It takes more than half an hour for the second array of taller boys to appear because Gina has demanded that Grissom find sweatshirts for all of them, and each emerges with the hood drawn around his face, depriving George of any clues from their hair.

He asks Gina, “Do you mind if I get closer?”

George walks along only a few feet from the platform. Gina has asked Grissom to instruct all the participants to look only straight ahead, but when George strolls by, the fourth in the group, the kid he’s ready to make, can’t resist a peek downward. His eyes do not rest long, but he might as well have shaken hands and called George ‘ puto ’ for old times’ sake.

The judge stops there and points.

“Oh, man,” the kid says, but it’s fairly fainthearted. After Cobberly’s stunt, the other cops are careful not even to glance in George’s direction, but he knows from a pulse in the room that he selected the right boy.

Next, Grissom leads George and the legal retinue behind him to the desk of one of the detectives. Six handguns are laid out, two of them undoubtedly recovered from the boys under arrest. George knew nothing about firearms when he started as a State Defender, but he learned more than he might have liked on the job, and he has remained somewhat up-to-date because he often reads trial transcripts of the testimony of ballistics experts. He thought the silver gun with black handles that the older boy held on him was a Kahr MK40, which he recognized only because it’s the current king of concealed weapons. It was probably ‘rented’ from a senior gang member in exchange for a share of the proceeds. The second kid had a black. 32 or. 38, also an automatic. George picks out the first gun without hesitating. The courtroom axiom is true. It’s the only thing you really see. He takes a guess at the second.

“So much for the unreliability of eyewitness testimony,” Gina murmurs. With the IDs made, George and Abel and Gina await the cops who have remained behind in the detectives’ area with the Deputy P.A. from Felony Review, caucusing to be certain that they need nothing more to make their case.

“Neither gun was loaded by the way,” Gina says to George, as they’re waiting. “Just for the record.”

“Pros, huh?” Abel asks.

“Not first-timers. But it counts, right? Not to take a chance on killing somebody?”

“Except by heart attack,” the judge says.

The cops and P.A. s are bound to be satisfied, but from George’s perspective, picking out the right kids is only a start. The real issue is whether Corazon sent them. Gina will never let the boys talk to the cops, especially if Cobberly or anybody like him is involved. George keeps turning the problem over.

“How would you react if I said I wanted to interview your client?” the judge asks her. “The taller one?”

“What’s he get?” Gina responds instantly.

“I’m not in charge.”

She smiles. “Something tells me everybody will listen pretty hard to the recommendations of an appellate court judge.”

“So then, let’s see if he spills. It’s the one way he can lighten the load on this thing.”

When the cops emerge, Grissom likes the idea. “You’ll get more from this kid than we will, Judge,” he says.

Gina goes off to inform her client.

The boy is placed in a beaten-up interrogation room with an old wooden desk and three chairs and a number of heel scuffs and gouges running up the walls. From the corridor, he can be viewed through a one-way mirror. Nonetheless Grissom, Gina, and the P.A. escort George into the room and remain standing behind him while the judge takes a chair opposite the kid. There’s an iron hook in the floor used to chain the prisoners who are shackled, but as a juvenile, the boy is merely cuffed. By the terms Gina established, her client will not get renewed Miranda warnings, meaning his statements can’t be used against him in court, on the odd chance he ends up going to trial.

“Man, you got me down bad, man,” he tells George. He’s talking about the lineup.

“How’s that?”

“Man, I ain’ never seen you before. Never, man.”

“It didn’t look to me like your eyes were closed last night, so I don’t think I believe that.”

“Nuh-uh, man. You got me down bad.” The kid has a round face, a hawk’s nose, and large, dark eyes, quick with concern. The half-head of raven hair shines on the back of his scalp. Even lying, he looks a good deal more appealing than he did when he was holding a gun.

Gina speaks up behind George.

“Hector,” she says, “didn’t you listen? I told you, you have two choices. Either shut up or tell the judge you’re sorry and answer his questions straight down. Nobody wants to hear that you weren’t there last night.”

“ Es verdad, man,” Hector says.

“Cut it out,” Gina says. “Listen to what the judge wants to know, and do yourself some good.”

Hector responds to the word judge this time.

“You a judge?” When George nods, the brief lick of a smile crosses Hector’s lips. He jacked a judge. There will be some street cred for that. But the smile slips away as the young man reflects further. In his face, you can see the digits falling and his mounting concern. “So how’s this go, man? You ain’t gonna be the judge on me, man, right?”

“Nope.”

“Just gonna be one of your people, right?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Yeah,” Hector says. He doesn’t believe it for a second. His tongue slides around in his mouth as he assesses his predicament. Then his black eyes kick up to George with an aspect of surprising openness.

“So how’s that anyway, man?” he asks.

“What?”