Scott Turow - Identical

Standing at the podium, Ray seemed unable to move. His suit jacket, buttoned to address the judge, strained over the full contours of his torso, and shock had straightened him up.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor. I’ll advise the court shortly, but with no criticism of your ruling intended, I hope you understand that I was not expecting to be crossing this bridge today.”

Du Bois nodded. He seemed faintly pleased that he’d been a step ahead of everyone.

The judge said, “I’ll give you three days to retain your own expert, and I’ll stay production until then. That will be the order of the court. Gentlemen, I’d like to see a full discovery schedule in a week. That will be all.”

Du Bois again declared a recess to give the courtroom time to clear. When the judge rose, Lands once again glanced toward the plaintiff’s table. In listening, he’d gradually realized that Du Bois was right. If he’d thought about this as precisely as D.B. had, if he hadn’t looked at this with the rosy view of a partisan, he would have understood that what he’d realized to start-that the DNA test was a trap that ninety-nine times in a hundred would serve Hal’s ends-also dictated the legal and evidentiary conclusion. He stood up and caught the judge’s eye and nodded slightly, out of respect.

Crully and Horgan and he went straight across the hall to the attorney room to figure out what Paul was going to say to the media in the rotunda downstairs. There were a few beaten wooden chairs in here and one worn oak desk like the ones his teachers sat behind when he was in grade school.

“Can we appeal?” Crully asked. “I don’t like the optics, but I just want to know all the options.”

Ray was shaking his head. “Waste of time. We could file a mandamus, but no appellate court will supervise a discovery motion. They’ll dismiss our petition out of hand and we’ll look worse.”

“I think we make the best of it, now,” Crully said. “Say there will be no ID of Paul. Say it’s a technical ruling. Emphasize the print report. Does that sound right, Chief?”

He had always been the more temperamental twin. His brother smoldered, but he occasionally felt anger fill his veins like lava. He struggled now for self-control. You chose this life, you walked a tightrope with only gumption and a parasol, the chasm chanting its siren song below. But there was no point in daring when the only outcome was bad.

“Nothing is right,” he said to Crully. “This whole lawsuit is a fourteen-car collision. I listened to the two of you, and now I’m getting my keister tattooed on a weekly basis.”

Horgan muttered, “Paul.”

“No,” he said. “That sounds like I’m blaming. And I’m not. You both gave me your best advice. And I made the decision. But I’ve been in enough courtrooms to know once you file, you lose all control. I should have laughed it off and called Hal a right-wing goof.”

Ray lifted one shoulder. In retrospect, Paul might be right.

“So what comes next?” he asked Ray. “A dep, right? Hal will depose me for three days.”

“We can set limits,” said Ray. “Maybe even put it off until the election.”

“No, we can’t. Because it’ll be the same logic as giving fingerprints. Or DNA. I can’t hide. I’ve got to look forthcoming. And they’ll want to depose my brother next. They’ve already got some old dick hunting around for Cass with a subpoena. Maybe they’ll want to question Sofia after that.”

“They won’t get Sofia,” said Ray softly. But that was no more than a confession about Cass.

“We’re going to dismiss this lawsuit today,” he said.

Crully sat back with his nasty little eyes narrowed.

“Fuck that,” he said. “I already told you what I’ll have to do.”

“Frankly, Mark, it’s probably time for a change anyway. You’ve set up a great organization. You’re a great field marshal. But you’ve swung and missed on a couple of big things. Leaking that report was not smart. Du Bois, you know, he’d probably have done the same thing. Probably. But it was the wrong time to piss him off.”

Crully simmered without words, but his face against his white shirt was noticeably redder. From down the hall outside echoed the sound of a woman who’d come out of another courtroom wailing. Mark was a veteran of these moments, when a campaign like a tank went over a grenade and the finger-pointing started. He wouldn’t comment about the leak and hand Paul the truth, especially in the presence of a witness, because Paul would have that to hold over him forever.

“You’ll lose,” said Crully instead. That was the ultimate revenge for firing him. “You dismiss, you’ll lose.”

“It won’t be any worse than what’s coming next. I’ve got the print results. I’ve shown I wasn’t there that night. I’m not going to let Hal use the blood to say there’s a 50 percent chance I was. That’s a lie. Or let him keelhaul my brother. I always promised myself, always , that I’d never sacrifice my family for my career. Cass has spent twenty-five years in shitsville and has the right to rebuild his life. And instead, he’s getting filled with buckshot five times a week on every channel, and the whole county is talking about a story that should be dead and forgotten. My kids are reading that I’m a murderer-not the usual political horse-hockey, but somebody who supposedly killed a woman with his bare hands. This isn’t worth it to me, Mark. If I lose, I lose.”

“And let a right-wing nut like Hal Kronon run you off the cliff?” That came from Ray. His sad blue eyes and ruddy face were set to the question, which was a serious one. Ray and he had lived by the same credos, and believed that the people with money didn’t get the right to own the democracy, too.

“I didn’t say I’d drop out. I said I’m going to dismiss the lawsuit. I’ll fight the good fight. I won’t give up. And I’ll talk about the Big Lie. Because that’s what this is. But the lawsuit is over. No DNA or deps or ring-around-the-rosy.”

He stood up to show he’d decided.

The morning showed the faintest signs of spring. The temperature was in the mid-twenties, but there were no clouds, a wonderful improvement over the usual low-hanging sky of steel wool. On warmer days when Evon had no meetings outside the office, she walked the twelve blocks to ZP from her condo. In the winter when she didn’t need to drive, she most often risked what she privately called “Demolition Derby,” otherwise known as the Grant Avenue bus. In the Tri-Cities, the bus operators were a law unto themselves, bullies in the traffic, who veered from the curb to the left turn lane with no concern for other vehicles. The transit unions had insulated the drivers from much responsibility, except in the event of homicide.

As soon as Evon stepped off the bus, a block from ZP, she saw Heather across the street. Her former girlfriend was wearing a headscarf and Ray-Bans, and was wrapped in an oatmeal-colored wool Burberry coat Evon had bought for her, but Heather had no desire to conceal herself. Evon looked in her direction for a second and then began walking double time. She could hear the click of Heather’s heels on the pavement as she ran to catch up, arriving breathlessly at Evon’s side.

“You love me,” Heather said. “And I love you. This makes no sense. I’ll be better. I promise. I’ll make you happy. I’ll make you completely happy. Just one more chance, baby, please. Just one.”

Evon had actually hoped Heather had given up. There had been no communication in a week. Now Evon never looked up, never slackened her pace as Heather followed along, elbowing aside the pedestrians coming in her direction, elaborating on her soliloquy. She meant all of this, of course, about love and devotion. She knew so little about herself that she actually believed what she was saying.