Scott Turow - The Laws of our Fathers

'Bug,' he says. In his fine suit, a rich grey nailhead which I would bet is part cashmere, Hobie strolls around the courtroom, hands in his pockets. 'Bug,' he called her. No pretending they're unacquainted. 'Let me ask you a few questions about this shooting. You say you didn't hear what Hardcore told this lady?'

'Nn-uh. Seem like they trippin with each other.'

'Some kind of argument?'

'Seem like.'

'Did she leave the area?'

'No how. She standin there, you know, out the car, gone on with Core.'

'And then Gorgo came and fired. Now, when that happened, where was Hardcore?' 'Come by me.'

'He'd come over by you, leaving Mrs Eddgar at her car. Right?' 'Yes, sir,' she says.

At the easel, Hobie has raised the street schematic, People's 3, where Montague made his Xs and Ys to show the location of the bodies. Now he is indicating that Lovinia had stepped into the street about fifty feet from June Eddgar's vehicle and that Core was near Bug.

'And what did he do?'

'Seem like he tryin to get me down.'

'Before Gorgo shot?'

'Seem like. It was all, man, that scene go down like ninety, man. Fast.'

'But it seemed as if Hardcore was trying to get you down, as if he knew Gorgo was going to be shooting?'

'Cuz got his T-9 out there, gone look like blastin.' Everybody laughs.

'But did you see Hardcore frying to stop Gorgo?' 'He behind me, man.'

'Well, Bug, do you remember hearing or seeing Hardcore do anything to stop Gorgo?'

She eyes Hobie narrowly. Whatever her disaffection with the prosecution, her loyalty to Hardcore remains supreme.

'Can't be tellin you that,' she says.

'But you were trying to stop Gorgo, weren't you?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And he shot anyway?' 'Shot me.'

'You've said. Now did Hardcore get shot?' 'Nn-uh.'

'He ducked in time?' 'Got down by them cars.'

'Okay.' Hobie lifts his face to consider her, the equivalent of a musical caesura. It' s not completely clear if he' s really suggesting something or simply wandering, the way he does. The mystery of this unannounced defense briefly lingers, like smoke, in the courtroom air. Then Hobie glances at his notes, shifting subjects.

'Now, Bug, Mr Molto, Tommy over here, talked to you about some of the things that Hardcore said to you. Let me ask you this first: Whatever Hardcore says, does he always tell you the word?'

'No, sir.' 'He's not always truthful with you?'

'Not hardly. Like be what kind of mood he in. Sometime, man, he get off, he just woofin.' Her emphatic delivery sets off a volley of hearty laughter.

'And Mr Molto said that yesterday you told him and the police officers and Mr Singh that Core said on September 6 that this killing was being done on account of Nile. Remember Molto saying that?'

'They all was gettin heavy on me.'

'Were they angry?'

'Hoo-ee,' answers Bug and inspires more chuckling. She's beginning to like it, to play a little to her audience. 'They was deep,' she says.

'But let's make one thing clear, Bug. When you say Hardcore was doing something "on account of" someone else, does that mean he was doing it for that person?'

The question, unfortunately for Hobie, confuses her. She looks all around the courtroom, searching for clues. Then she subsides to being what she is, a kid.

'Maybe, kinda like that. Folks be saying lot of stuff, you know.'

Stung, caught for the first time, Hobie tries again. 'But it could mean something different?'

'Objection,' says Tommy. 'Asked and answered.'

'Here, let's make this very clear,' says Hobie. He has perched on the defense table and leans there, like a teacher against a blackboard. He raises both hands. 'Very clear, Bug. Hardcore never told you he was doing this "on account of Nile," did he?'

'No, sir. I ain never be sayin nothin gainst Nile.'

'But you did talk with the po-lice?'

'Too much,' she says sadly.

'Too much,' he repeats. 'You don't really remember what you told the police one time or the next? That how it is?'

Her narrow shoulders turn.

'You have to answer yes or no,' he tells her.

'Seem like I kinda be sayin what they say.'

'Is that what happened yesterday? These men were angry and telling you what you'd said before and saying you were going to go to the penitentiary if you didn't say it again?'

'Uh-huh,' she says. 'Molto and them, he sayin, Tell the truth.' 'Troof,' she says, 'then he start in readin from them reports, sayin I don't say it here, I a lie, I gone have do time on the hot one.' Murder one.

Everybody in the well of this courtroom has witnessed similar scenes. What's interesting, though, is that Hobie's backtracking. Despite Tommy's accusations, Bug went further on direct than Hobie wanted. He knows I'm not likely to accept Bug's testimony that she never said what's in the signed statement she gave Lubitsch at the hospital.

'So let's go back to how this started,' says Hobie. 'Now, Mr Molto asked you about this deal that your lawyer in the guardian's office made for you with the state? You remember that? That was a good deal for you, wasn't it?'

' Whole lot better than M-1.' More light laughter ripples through the room.

‘I just wanna be sure Judge Klonsky understands how you felt about the deal you made.' He looks up to be sure he has my attention, seldom a problem for Hobie in any courtroom, I'd bet.

'Now, you told Mr Molto where you were living when you were arrested. Sometime with your momma, is that what you said?'

'I stay by my momma some. Sometime by my auntie, too, or some my homegirls.'

'And has your momma been to see you while you've been inside?'

'Nn-uh,' says Lovinia. 'We ain been talkin none. Might be she don' even know where I is, seem like. Might be she done booked.' Lovinia shrugs, with an effort at sullen indifference that still somewhat betrays her. I've learned this much: these children know. From the comparisons to the TV, to the billboards, from the expression on our faces. They know they are the measure by which even the desperate give thanks they don't have less.

'You and she don't get on?'

'She just some smokehead bitch, you know. All she be.' Bug's eyes slide sideways. The softness in Bug is gone now. Although spoken quietly, this last declaration escapes her with venom. Hobie, wisely, lets the moment linger, so that I am accosted yet again with a clear vision of the life of the poor. This is the sanest, noblest legacy of being Zora Klonsky's daughter and I freely indulge it, pondering what it really means not to have. It's not the lack of luxury, the stuff we all know we can comfortably endure – driving a rusted beater, or having to eat p.b. amp; j. on your sandwich instead of smoked turkey and Boursin. And it's not just the lack of esteem, the sense of having finished second, which sometimes briefly grips me when I bump into friends from law school who chose the plummy, thin-air life of corporate firms and allow themselves crowing references to trips to Tuscany and Aruba, to 'second places' up in Skageon, to the kinds of delicious excess Nikki and I will never see. 'Poor' means what it probably has meant to Lovinia's mother – competing with the children for the little that is left, these drippy-nosed kids begging dollars for stupid trifles, a bag of chips, a Coke, when you need that six bucks in your pocketbook so bad, for just a little fun on Friday night. And they just keep up with it, Can-I? Can-I? Can-I, so that you want to bust them for asking, again and again, what you hear as only one terrible question: Who do you really love, yourself or me?

'You've done a piece of time in juvie before, haven't you?' Hobie asks. 'A couple of weeks for selling dope last year?' 'Uh-huh.'

'And when you went on selling dope, you knew there was a good chance you'd be goin back, right?'