Scott Turow - The Laws of our Fathers

We found Sonny's shawl bundled in another room downstairs, and left in silence. I stood still suddenly on the walk outside, my face to the stars and the dank city night. It was like the touch of a cold towel, a sobering relief after the spoiled, smoky air of the cottage.

'God,' I said, 'what a dildo I am. This guy invited us to this party fourteen times, and I never flashed on what he was up to.' 'Referring to what?'

'Referring to the fact that in your case he's got his own ideas about conquering the mind-body dichotomy.' She said nothing.

'You sure you didn't sleep with him?'

'No. I said no.'

'But you thought about it?'

'You're hassling me, Seth.' She plunged down the walk and I slowly followed, the noise and music of the party dwindling. 'Am I supposed to be against it?' she asked. 'Am I supposed to think it would be immoral or bad? I didn't feel like it. He's old. He's strange. It's not my bag. Okay?'

'Yeah, but I mean, I'm trying to figure out where we stand here.'

'Here's where we stand, baby. I live with you. I sleep in the same bed with you. You want a chastity belt, too? You want to have the key?' Like most conversations that started out about the way we felt, this one was quickly wandering toward the safer grounds of politics, where the doctrines were previously determined and where Sonny could nimbly foreclose any genuine discussion.

'But I mean, look,' I said lamely, ‘I love you.' ' Why do you always say that?' 'How about because I do?' 'What does it mean?'

'Mean? It means I think you're keen. It means the biggest trip in the galaxy is hanging out with you. It means what it always means.'

'It scares me. You're twenty-two years old. You don't know what you're saying.'

'Okay, so you're gonna head-fuck me, right? You tell me what I feel.'

Silence. I was not satisfied, naturally, to have won the round.

'So here's the deal, right? I love you and you don't love me.'

'Oh, Seth. Not again. This is a drag.' Her arms went limp, allowing her shawl to lie half on the sidewalk as we stood beneath a streetlamp. Our voices were strangely resonant in the sudden isolation of the street, where small single-story houses stair-stepped the hill.

'It's the truth. I mean really, man. What is this, you and me? Entertainment?'

'It's life, Seth. It's living. I mean, I enjoy you. I care about you. It's better being with you. Usually.' She walked on then. She stopped in a moment when she found more words. 'Seth, you drive me crazy to say I love you, because you can't say it to yourself.'

'Oh yeah, great.' I said. 'Great. I'm like incredibly glad you told me. Now I can save all the bread I was gonna spend on that trip to Esalen.'

'Seth, you don't see this. Sometimes, it feels like you want so much of me that you'd like to be me.' She nodded sharply, certain that she'd scored. I caught her by the arm as she turned to surge ahead.

'So what,' I said suddenly. 'So what? Let's say that's true. At least I know what I admire. You're the most together, the sanest -'

'That!' she screamed, 'that's the problem. You don't know the first thing about me. I'm an imaginary person to you.'

'Jesus,' I said. 'What are you talking about? I've like fucking studied you. I've listened to your batty old mother. I've met her friends. Your aunt. I've read your high-school yearbooks. I try to wheedle any story I can about your childhood. And you think I'm missing the point? Here's the problem, lady. You're afraid I'll know you. You don't want anybody to discover the shit you don't want to know yourself.'

'What a load,' she said. She twisted in agonized disbelief. We were done then. She was the first one to the car and I half expected her to leave me. Instead, we puttered across the Bay Bridge in silence, the only noise the little engine of the Bug, which, at high r.p.m.'s, uttered a sound as if change were twirling through its carburetor. I turned on the radio finally – KSAN – where, naturally enough, they were playing a clever, larking piano arrangement of 'What Is This Thing Called Love?'

Sonny

In the same short-sleeved blue coveralls worn by the male prisoners, Lovinia Campbell is escorted by the transport deputies from the lockup and walks alone to the stand with a loose, disaffected ease. She is a thin, dark girl, with perfect skin and prominent eyes. No wonder she is called Bug, except the name belittles her beauty. She has the exotic, assertive looks of some of today's fashion models, big-featured and proud to be more than merely cute, although this young woman seems largely unaware of her striking appearance.

Questioned by Tommy, whose heavy grey suit looks as if it had been stuffed in a drawer overnight, the girl says she is fifteen years old, sixteen soon. When Molto asks, she looks to the courtroom ceiling to recall her precise birthdate. Her hands are in her lap and her shoulders are rounded protectively as she sits in the witness chair. Her voice is small.

'And where do you presently reside?' Tommy asks. 'Where do you live?'

'Sometime I stay by my momma.'

'No, I meant right now. Are you in the Juvenile Hall?'

'Uh-huh. In juvie.'

'And how long have you been there? Since September?'

'Uh-huh,' says Lovinia. 'Since I be out the hospital.' She scratches her nose and watches Tommy alertly, her mouth barely parted, sitting forward slightly to hear the next question. It is not Tommy, however, who speaks.

'Your Honor,' says Hobie. Basso profundo. His hands, in more courtroom opera, are lifted imploringly. 'If Mr Molto can't bring out the witness's residence without leading, we may as well just administer the oath to him.'

'All right, Mr Tuttle.' Hobie knows Tommy has a tough road here and is serving notice that he will not let him travel easy. I remind Tommy not to ask his witness questions which suggest their answer and Tommy nods resignedly. He and Lovinia move falteringly through the details of her bargain with the state. She has acknowledged responsibility – a guilty plea, in juvenile terms – for conspiracy to murder and been adjudicated delinquent. She will be in juvenile facilities until she turns eighteen. She will not, however, be tried as an adult, will not even have a criminal record when she emerges. It's a great deal, a point which Hobie is bound to emphasize on cross. Tommy turns then to B S D, eliciting Bug's gang name, her set, her acquaintance with Ordell Trent.

'And what was your relationship to Hardcore in terms of BSD?'

'Core no kin to me,' she answers. 'Only BSD sides me is my brother, Clyde, and he downstate.' 'Downstate' is one of many euphemisms for the maximum-security prison at Rudyard.

'No,' says Tommy, 'no, what did you do for Hardcore in the gang?'

Recognizing her mistake, Lovinia's eyes plunge to her shoes. 'Kinda like scramblin,' she answers softly.

'What does that mean?' 'Sell.'

'Sell what?'

'Mostly smoke and crank. Sometimes blow.' Crack and speed, occasionally powder cocaine.

'You mean you sell dope for Hardcore?'

'Leading,' says Hobie, as Lovinia says yes.

'As long as he's clarifying previous answers, I'll allow it.'

Tommy nods. One for his side.

'And do you sell for Hardcore in any particular location?' 'Round T-4. Mostly by Grace Street and Lawrence.' 'Across from the IV Tower?' 'Kinda there, uh-huh.'

'All right,' says Tommy. Feeling somewhat steadier, he leaves the prosecutor's table and travels a few steps along the carpeting.

'Now, Ms Campbell, do you know a man named Nile Eddgar?'

'Uh-huh,' she says. She gets a smile, this girl, this accomplice to murder, and is at once her age, happy, even a little silly. She looks askance. 'I be knowin Nile for a long time.'

'And do you see him in the courtroom? Point him out please and say what he's wearing.' Although all eyes in the courtroom are already turning toward him, Nile, in another of his odd moments, seems unselfconsciously merry. He has turned himself fully about in his black bucket swivel chair, his worn cowboy boots – cowboy boots! – planted on the carpet. He sports an absolutely foolish grin, as if this young woman were here to entertain him. Lovinia is not quite able to meet his eye, even as she lifts her hand.