Scott Turow - Ordinary Heroes

I never found Bidwell. But after I made my last literary trade, I bumped into Billy Bonner. He'd been tippling and was holding a cognac bottle, most of the contents gone now.

"Trying to become acquainted with native customs, First Lieutenant," Bonner said. "French might be onto something with this stuff." He hefted the bottle and missed his mouth at first. Half the off-duty soldiers I encountered in France were pie-eyed, fueled by stores of wine and newer treats like Pernod and Benedictine they'd never seen in the States. Not that the officers were any better. Those of us at headquarters were still receiving the garrison ration of liquor every month, and even officers in foxholes were supposed to get a quart of scotch, a pint of gin, two bottles of champagne, and a bottle of brandy, although it was rarely delivered, given the strains on the supply chain. I traded away most of what arrived. Even at Easton College, where Prohibition had made drinking an adventure, I tended to abstain, never caring much for liquor's loose feeling.

"You seem fairly deep into your exploration of local culture, Bonner."

"Yes, sir. Just so long as I can roll out in the morning.

Bonner saw the pocket book in my hand and we exchanged thoughts about novels for a moment. I promised to trade him Light in August on our next visit. I had turned away when Bonner said clearly behind me, "They've got you investigating the wrong one, Lieutenant."

I revolved to stare at him.

"Teedle and Martin?" he said. "You're investigating the wrong one. At least, as I see it. You oughta ask around."

"Then I'll start by asking you, Corporal. Tell me what that remark means."

Bonner peered at length into the mouth of the bottle, as if the answer were in there.

"It probably means I've had too much of this," he said after quite some time. He gave me that thin, conspiratorial smile and without waiting for a response slipped off into the dark camp.

Ac cording to the Record of Proceedings of my father's court-martial, a high-ranking JAG epartment lawyer from Eisenhower's headquarters, Barrington Leach, had been Dad's attorney. His name rang a bell, and a search online reminded me why. In 1950, Leach took a leave from the prominent Hartford law firm in which he was a partner to become Chief Counsel to Senator Estes Kefauver in his investigation of organized crime. The televised Kefauver Hearings introduced many Americans to the Mafia and, not coincidentally, to the privilege against self-incrimination. From then on "taking the Fifth" inevitably brought to mind the line of dark gentlemen in expensive suits who answered every question by reciting their rights from index cards adhering to their palms. It was Leach, most often, who was up there making them sweat.

After returning to Connecticut, Leach in time became a judge, eventually rising to the Connecticut Supreme Court. His name actually turns up in a few news accounts in the Johnson era as a potential candidate for the U. S. Supreme Court.

I had started researching Leach during the months I was stalemated by the government in my efforts to pry loose the court-martial file. (I finally got it in June 2004, but only because I could demonstrate by then that I knew virtually all the information contained there.) I had assumed that Leach, an experienced trial lawyer in 1945 and thus quite a bit older than Dad, had to be dead, and I only hoped that his family had kept his papers. In late October 2003, I called the Connecticut Supreme Court to locate Leach's next of kin.

"Did he die?" the clerk asked me. He turned from the phone, inquiring of a colleague with alarm, "Did Justice Leach die?" I could hear the question pingponging across the room, until the clerk came back on the line. "No, sir. Happy to say Justice Leach is still with us." He declined to provide an address or phone, but promised to forward any mail. Within a week, I had received a response, with a return address at the Northumberland Manor Assisted-Care Facility in West Hartford, written in a craggy hand that brought to mind that enduring children's toy, the Etch A Sketch.

I surely recall representing your father. David Dubin's court-martial remains one of the most perplexing matters of my life as a lawyer, and I am willing to discuss it with you. In answer to your inquiry, I have retained some materials relating to the case that you would probably wish to have. As you can see, writing letters is a particular burden at this stage of my life. We could converse by telephone, if need be, but, if I may be so bold, I suggest that, if possible, you pay me a visit.

While I am happy to provide you with my recollections and these papers, doing so is a bit sticky legally, inasmuch as your father was my client. You would set an old man's mind at ease if, when you came, you brought a letter from all your father's legal heirs-your mother, if she remains alive, and any siblings you have-stating that each of you relinquishes any objections related to what I share. I'd suggest you contact the lawyer who is handling the estate to help you. I will be happy to speak with him, if he likes.

Without being alarmist, I call your attention to the fact that I am ninety-six years old and that I no longer purchase green bananas. I look forward to meeting you soon.

With all good wishes, Barrington V. S. Leach

Watching me dash around the country, passing hours in dank library basements and talking about opposition from the CIA, the members of my family were convinced that my elevator had stopped between floors. Nona regarded it as conclusive proof that she'd gotten out at the right time, while my daughters offered a succinct explanation to anyone who asked: "Dad's on crack."

My mother said the least, but might have been the most unhappy. Mom remained as fiercely possessive of Dad in death as she had always been. She had picked his suit and tie each day and had remained his principal counselor on the wary maneuverings of the commercial world, where he was often led astray by his native inclination to see almost every issue as a question of principle. But in my house, each of us depended on Mom's vitality and shrewdness, regarding it as a fact-established that my mother, as a camp survivor, had an extra measure of whatever living required. She took it as my single greatest fault that I had not been smart enough to marry someone like her.

In light of all of that, it was predictable that she wouldn't like me claiming a piece of my father on my own. There were no tirades, just occasional remarks indicating that she found it distasteful that I was making Dad's Army secrets a professional project. To her it was as if I were beating drums with bones I'd uncovered in the graveyard. And it was worse than cruel irony that I was digging into a period whose anguish they'd spent a lifetime trying to inter.

Which made Leach's letter a problem. My sister would do what Mom said. But it would take some talking to get my mother to sign off. I strategized for at least a week. Then one morning when I stopped in, as I did most days, I sat her down at the kitchen table, where important family discussions always have occurred, and made my pitch. She listened avidly, her small black eyes intent, and asked for a day or two to think. I left with hope.

But walking in a week later, I knew from my first breath that I was doomed. She'd baked. Rugelach, an all-time favorite, sat on the kitchen table. She might as well have used the pastries as blocks to spell out COMFORT FOOD. Being who I am, I ate, and being who she is, she waited until I was in the initial stage of near delirium before she started.

"Stewart," she said, "about this lawyer and his papers. Stewart, I have thought very hard. I tell you, with all my heart, I believe your father alav hashalom, would be moved to tears to know that you have made this effort to understand his life. And the one question I have asked myself for the last few days is whether that might have made him reconsider. Because I agree with what you said when Daddy died, Stewart, that he must have made a choice not to discuss this with his family. But in the end, you are asking me to set aside my loyalty to him. It is not for me to imagine new decisions for your father now, Stewart. He is entitled to my support in his judgments about what he wanted to say about his own life."