Scott Turow - The Laws of our Fathers

'That makes sense,' he says.

'Do you remember that?'

'It rings a bell.'

'So you knew Hardcore had turned. And that you were going to this girl for corroboration, right?'

Lubitsch takes a long time to make sure there aren't any snares before he agrees.

'Now, Hardcore's in the gang, in BSD? Hardcore's what they call Top Rank, correct?'

'So I understand.'

'The younger ones carry out his orders?'

'They sell his dope. Yeah, he's important. What's the point?' asks Lubitsch, clearly out of sorts, as many coppers become when they lose control of the situation. Hobie takes advantage to move a few steps closer.

'Here's the point, Officer. Do you know of witnesses in gang cases being threatened and in fact even hurt or killed?'

'I've heard of it.'

'Often?'

'Probably.'

'And in your experience isn't that even more likely to occur when someone is offering testimony against a gang leader?'

Lubitsch sees the point then. He ponders what is coming next before saying simply, 'Yes.'

'Now, Officer, recognizing you came here on short notice, recognizing you didn't have much chance to look at your reports or to think about the events of September 12, recognizing that you ordinarily wouldn't tell a witness what another witness said, recognizing all of that, I ask you if it wouldn't have been a whole lot easier to get a homegirl to roll if she knew her shot-caller had already done the same thing, and if she wasn't going to hurt him by talking?'

Lubitsch's shoulders are sunk down and he is stewing in all of it, getting caught by this defense lawyer and having to tell him the truth. Again, his eyes, almost involuntarily, move in my direction before he answers.

'That makes sense.'

'And in order to convince her, you'd have had to reveal the details of what he had said. You'd want her to be sure you already knew the story she was going to tell you, right?'

‘I would have told her, I guess, some things. I'd have tried to hold back a little, you know, for a test. But I'd have to give her enough for her to know he'd turned over.'

'And if she says one of the things you revealed to her was that Hardcore had accused Nile of engineering the shooting of his father, you can't, as you sit here today, you can't say that's wrong, can you?'

Lubitsch actually makes a face. He winces in reflection. He waits one more second, his full weight taken on both ponderous forearms, which rest on the witness box.

'I can't completely remember. All right? That's the truth. She could be right, she could be wrong.'

'She could be right?' asks Hobie.

Lubitsch doesn't bother to respond. At the prosecution table, Molto is unconsciously probing his temple, staring vacantly at the oak rods that are mounted on the wall in front of him to baffle sound. Hobie has the center of the courtroom to himself. He smiles circumspectly at the witness, careful not to show Lubitsch up for telling the truth. But we all know he's had another high moment of lawyerly achievement. Bug's statements to the police now have to be regarded as no more than a loyal imitation of Hardcore. Core himself may prove a persuasive witness. There may be good corroboration for him, or other evidence of Nile's guilt. But for the moment, Hobie's done his job. Lovinia Campbell is gone from the state's case.

In the sheriff's office there are dressing rooms and showers. Basic fare. Rusted lockers, concrete floors, the reek of disinfectant. The judges, who have free access, refer to this area in irony as The Club. As a former cancer patient who has read all of the studies about the ancillary routes to health, I skip lunch at least twice a week and, in a raveled sweatshirt and leggings of Spandex – time-defying miracle fiber of the nineties – lumber off from the courthouse down Cushing Boulevard for forty minutes of intermittent power-walking and jogging. Rosario, the gatekeeper at the Judges' Entrance, a tiny fellow in the blue sheriff deputy's uniform, speeds me on my way, with his standard farewell. 'Go get em, Judge.' When I return, he will sweep the door aside and say, 'Welcome to Fen-tasy Island.' I have never been certain if he is mocking himself or the eerie atmosphere of the courthouse, where we are always rubbing shoulders with people whom, in other circumstances, you would cross the street to avoid – boys who shout too loud, who strut about with an abject, thuggish glower, surrounded by menace like a dark halo. The federal building was full of officious clerks and marshals, pumped up with the majesty of the United States. But in the Kindle County courthouse there is a humble geniality among the lawyers, the deputies, the clerks, a quiet need to reassure ourselves that we belong together to a community of decent folk.

I race along with Mahler on my headset, my heart kicking as I twist down the pavement to avoid the jurors, attorneys, and families on their way to lunch. A couple of the lawyers, whose names I don't recall or never knew, wave to me in an eager way as I shoot by. 'Hiya, Your Honor.' It's one of the last decent days of the year. The light is weakening and dismal winter clouds, heavy as quilting, move randomly from remote quarters of the sky to momentarily darken the day with the awesome suddenness of a primitive curse. But the sun returns periodically and the air is bearable, pushing 40. Soon Mother Nature will prove she is at heart an angry witch. Winter in the Middle West. You're never quite ready.

Not far from the exit, I hear my name, 'Sonny,' more or less yodeled, carried to me on the sharp wind. Pushing back the earphones, I expect to greet another judge, but it is, instead, Seth, trotting to catch up. 'Oh, for Chrissake,' I mutter beneath my breath. I'm the one who started this yesterday, who crossed the moat, but this is starting to feel like junior high school. In the same blue sport coat and scuffed shoes he's worn each day, Seth arrives with a self-aggrandizing smile. The fringe of hair above his ears, going colorless, is fluffed up by the wind.

‘I was afraid I missed you. Your secretary, Marian? She said you'd come out here.'

'Marietta?' Slow death, I think, Chinese tortures – I am truly going to kill her. I stand there, jogging in place, toe dancing in my Sauconys and sweatshirt, and give him my loftiest judicial manner, all walls. 'What can I do for you, Seth?' He draws back, with a wet-eyed, wounded look that seems somehow typical of him these days.

'I'm holding you up,' he says at last. 'Come on, I'll run with you.' He moves a few paces ahead and motions for me to join him. In his street shoes and blazer, he leads the way along the avenue with a practiced gait. 'I'm only going to bother you for a second. I just wanted you to know something. You asked me yesterday about Hobie and Dubinsky? And I thought about that all night. And I think I get it? I think I know why you asked?'

'Forget it, Seth.' I see what's coming. He had dinner with Hobie and they planned a response. Seth's here as a guided missile. This is just the reason I vowed to have nothing to do with him. 'We're not having this discussion.'

'No, I want you to understand. I don't know what Hobie's doing. I love him, but take it from me, Hobie T. Tuttle can be a treacherous fellow. So whatever he cooked up, it's with Stew, not me. I'm not part of it. Hobie and Nile, neither of them are even talking to me. Okay? That's all.'

'That's enough.' One more line, one more word, and I'll have to do something, stop and shout for the police. But he allows me to proceed in silence, galloping heavy-footed down the walk. We have reached Homer Park, which boasts a circular tarred walkway. In times past, the Park District was a notorious tub of grease, with patronage jobs and no-bid contracts, the haven for no-nose politicians like Toots Nuccio, who sometimes carried his tommy gun to city council meetings in his clarinet case. These days, as the city grows poorer, so do the parks. The programs that brightened my life as a child, the crafts classes and summer camps, are gone. Even routine maintenance has failed. In this park, for reasons I have never figured out, the trees have all been topped. They ring the tarmac path like amputees, barkless, knotted. The lawn, dying in the early winter, is bare in many patches, strewn with trash and leaves. It is a safe haven though in the daylight hours. Latino moms in their cloth coats wheel their bundled babies. Pedestrians bound for Center City cross the park to transfer bus lines. Like a river running through a canyon, U S 843, with its thrum and fumes, is a block away and 200 feet down.