Scott Turow - Identical

Evon hated bringing her shit into the office-Heather knew that, too, which was why she’d been so confident she could corner Evon out here. But there was no choice. Evon headed into the ZP Building. Heather not only followed her through the revolving door but managed to squeeze herself into the same sealed quarter compartment. Heather tried to embrace Evon-she seemed intent on a kiss-and in the close confines of the glass panels they had a brief struggle as Evon, much shorter but far stronger, held Heather off. But still the woman pleaded.

“How can you be so heartless? How can you treat me this way? I don’t deserve this, Evon. I love you. I was good to you. How can you do this?”

Finally, Evon pushed out of the revolving door, which Heather was trying to obstruct, and burst into the open air of the lobby. She hurried off, but Heather called after her.

“I’m pregnant,” Evon heard her say, and wheeled. They had talked about that. At the best moments, lying in each other’s arms, they had shared that fantasy.

Evon waited a second to gather herself.

“That’s crap.”

“I am. I did it for you. Evon, I want to do this. A child needs a family. We can be a family.”

That was a frightening thought, really, this bag of loose nuts and bolts that was Heather as somebody’s mother, even with Evon to deflect a bit of the damage. But that was not where Evon’s heart ran. Her heart ran to the cruelty of this, of probing every soft spot, each of the many festering regrets. This was how cruelty was done, Evon thought, when someone needed something so much that they became indifferent to the pain they were inflicting.

The security guard, Gerald, sat at a desk built of the same taupe granite as the rest of the vast lobby. It was his job to record IDs and issue passes so visitors could move through the turnstiles to the elevators. He was in Evon’s department and called her “Boss.”

Hurrying forward, Evon hooked a thumb over her shoulder and told Gerald, “Keep her out.” She proceeded past him while Gerald, quick off his seat, snagged Heather by the arm.

“Whoa, lady,” he said.

Heather called after Evon.

“If I don’t hear from you, I’m going to have an abortion on Friday.” Her voice was piercing. There couldn’t have been a soul in the lobby who missed it.

Upstairs in her office, Evon closed the door and sat alone. She didn’t cry, but she was shaking. Fortunately, she had no time for her own agonies, with a conference call beginning in moments. Dykstra had finally agreed to a twenty-five-million-dollar price concession for the Indianapolis brownfield-he blamed underlings for failing to disclose it-and the deal had been announced yesterday in the Journal . The closing was scheduled for next week. Evon’s call this morning with her counterpart at YourHouse was to discuss how to meld operations. Twelve people ended up on the line and she wasn’t done until after 11:30. When she finished, Evon’s assistant informed her that Tim Brodie was waiting to see her on an urgent matter.

“I called you,” Tim said when he came in, “but you were on the phone, so I figured I better walk over and deliver the news. Paul Gianis just announced he’s dismissing the lawsuit.” He described Judge Lands’s ruling, and Paul’s press conference in the Temple rotunda, which ended with a pack of cameras and reporters running after Paul as he exited the courthouse.

A part of her was still recovering from Heather, but even so Evon was astounded.

“Does Hal know?” Evon asked.

Hal had run off with Tooley as soon as court ended to meet with a business reporter to discuss the YourHouse acquisition. About fifteen minutes later, as soon as Hal had returned, she and Tim went down the hall to Hal’s sycamore redoubt. Tooley was still with him and neither of them had yet heard the news.

Hal was furious. “How can he do that?”

Tooley explained the law. Until the start of trial, every plaintiff was allowed to dismiss the suit he or she had brought.

“Just like that?” Hal asked. “Doesn’t he even have to say I’m sorry?”

“We could ask for costs.”

“What are costs?”

“About two, three hundred dollars,” said Mel. “Filing fees. Witness fees on the subpoenas.”

“I don’t want two hundred dollars,” Hal said. “I want his DNA. He’s hiding something.”

“You can certainly say that. Scream it out loud. I’m sure Cia over at the agency can design some great ads that make that point.”

“I’m not letting him get away with it.”

“With what?” asked Tooley.

“Hiding whatever he’s hiding.”

“Hal, what could he be hiding if the test is 99 percent likely to be inconclusive? Don’t smoke your own dope.”

Hal’s bulging eyes ran back and forth behind his glasses as he considered his friend’s advice.

“I want the DNA.”

Mel dropped his glance to his hands, then tried another approach.

“Hal, you won. Don’t you see this? You won this motion. You made a convincing case that this guy knows more than he’s telling. And Paul said uncle. Accept victory, Hal. Celebrate for a second.”

“This isn’t a victory,” Hal insisted. “I want to know what Paul Gianis had to do with my sister’s murder. I want the DNA. You should do something. I’m the client. Those are my orders. Do something.”

“Maybe I can think of something after the YourHouse closing.”

“No, now,” said Hal. “This is even more important than YourHouse. The corporate lawyers can fill in for you.”

Tooley and Tim left Hal’s office together. Evon stayed behind to brief Hal on her progress with her to-do list for the YourHouse closing.

“Jesus Christ,” said Mel, as soon as the door was closed. “Hal’s been my friend since we were six years old, but he’s never known when enough was enough. I swear to God, in high school, he’d ask the same girl out six times and be surprised every single time she said no.”

“The only part I don’t get,” said Tim, “is that dropping the suit seems sure to do Paul more damage than the test probably will. It’s just strange thinking.”

“Maybe Paul’s like me,” Tooley said. “And Hal’s made him crazy.”

Mel shook his head again and advanced to the elevator.

Du Bois Lands’s gray eyes rose from the paper he was holding on the bench. The rest of his body did not move. The judge read aloud:

“Defendant Kronon’s Emergency Objection to Plaintiff’s Motion for Voluntary Nonsuit.”

It was the morning following Lands’s ruling, February 21.

“Yes,” replied Tooley from the podium. Ray Horgan was beside him, elbow to elbow with Mel. From behind, both men seemed to have the solid, indifferent mass of cattle. In the rows to the rear of Tim, the courtroom was full, although not with the same swarm of spectators that the lawsuit had been drawing. Everybody here today was in a gray or blue suit. They had to be lawyers.

“Explain,” said the judge to Tooley.

“Your Honor, Mr. Kronon is objecting to Senator Gianis’s efforts to avoid taking this critical DNA test. We think the Court should hold his motion to dismiss in abeyance, until he has provided DNA and the test has been performed as the Court ordered. He’s trying to thwart your ruling.”

Horgan started to bluster, but the judge calmed him by raising a hand.

“Mr. Tooley, Senator Gianis is doing what the law allows, isn’t he?”

“He’s hiding something,” said Tooley. Tim saw Hal pump his fist beneath the counsel table from which he was watching eagerly.

“That’s your interpretation. There are other interpretations as well. I don’t care about interpretations. I’m just the umpire. I’m calling balls and strikes. The law is the law, Mr. Tooley. If you have a problem with the senator’s motion to nonsuit this case, take it up with the legislature. Your objection is going to be denied.”