Scott Turow - Identical

Paul couldn’t believe they were going through this again. He had waited twenty-five years for the day when Cass and he could dwell together in free space, but like most of what you looked forward to in life, the reality since the end of January had been more challenging than he’d envisioned, and far crazier than anything that had gone on before. Singletons could never understand what it was like to look across at someone who was basically you, experiencing the tide of love and resentment that inevitably came with the sight. After Cass was sentenced, Paul was in actual physical agony for weeks at the prospect of their separation. But they had adjusted to life apart. People adjust to loss. And now he found dealing with Cass every day, and the similar ways their minds worked, with the same lapses and backflips, often unsettling. He had forgotten this part, how it inevitably felt like they were like opponents on an indoor court, basketball or squash players, throwing their back ends at each other as they fought for position.

“Cass, nothing has changed. We can’t appeal. On top of everything else, Du Bois was right.”

“I think Du Bois did that to fuck us. He’s just been waiting for the chance. Tooley hadn’t figured out that that stuff was legally Hal’s property.”

“You know what I think? I think he’s a great judge, better than I ever believed he’d be, and I always thought he’d be pretty good.” The problem in assessing who’d make a good judge was that the job called on a set of skills less important for practicing lawyers. Smarts served you well in both lives. But patience, civility, a sense of boundaries and balance were more dispensable for courtroom advocates.

Cass laid his plastic fork across the top of one of the black takeout containers. Paul had discovered that his brother got somewhat grouchy with a glass of wine. There were, in fact, all kinds of things he didn’t know about Cass after not living with him for a quarter of a century. His twin was more strong-minded and stubborn than he’d been as a younger man. It had taken Paul a while to realize that he could not simply concede, as he once might have, knowing Cass would defer to him next time. Because Cass no longer easily gave in ever.

“Subpoenas enforced after a case,” Cass said. “That’s murky enough. We can appeal.”

“Cass, there are already a ton of people who think we dismissed the suit to hide something. If we come back and start fighting Hal on a motion that he’s got every right to win, it’s going to reinforce that impression.”

“How about saying, It’s twenty-five years, Cass did his time, this thing should be over and done with, and we’re being harassed by a rich lunatic?”

“Do you really think the average Joe is going to side with us if we try to keep Hal from recovering the relics of his sister’s murder? It’s not my idea of family memorabilia, but people will understand if he wants to have it, rather than let the police throw it away.”

Sofia, who in the last couple of months had tended to retreat from the brothers’ collisions, especially when there was an edge to them, had sided on this issue with Cass, rather than Paul and the lawyers. Like Cass, she was still not content with the decision not to appeal.

“We’re making it easier for him to do the DNA,” she said. “That’s the problem.”

“True, Sofie, but he doesn’t have a good specimen from either of us.”

Cass said, “We’ve asked about that. They’ll extract my DNA from the fingerprints that were identified as mine.”

“They’ll try. That’s no slam dunk, Cassian. And they still won’t have my specimen.”

“They’ll get it. You know that. They’ll pick up some tissue when you blow your nose. Or a pencil you chew on. Or they’ll do a lift from the cheek of some woman you kiss at a fund-raiser.”

“Well, that could screw them up then, right? At least half the time.”

“That might not matter, man. Not if they do the test. That’s why the only alternative is to stop them.”

Paul put his forehead against both of his palms. It was this circle. It had been for months, this tension between preventing the test and winning the election.

“If we could stop them. But we can’t,” Paul said. “Every court will decide against us, and they’ll do it quickly with a month to the election. It’ll be a parade of bad rulings accompanied by a barrage of bad publicity, and each one will say, in effect, Gianis is hiding something. So we hunker down. If Hal comes up with a result we don’t like that he tries to publicize, we deal with it then, depending on what he’s saying. But at least there’s no nightmare scenario. No prosecutor will touch this case, because Hal’s broken the chain of evidence. He’s too much of a zealot for anybody to believe beyond a reasonable doubt he didn’t tamper with the specimens.”

“That’s still not the best alternative,” Cass said.

“You’re right. The better alternative,” Paul said, “is for me to drop out.” He put his head back in his hands, but he could feel both his wife and his brother staring. “There are ten times a day,” Paul said, “when I’m ready just to announce that.”

For a minute, Cass looked like he was going to come over the table.

“It’s not simply your decision.”

His brother’s statement, uttered so baldly, inflamed Paul.

“The fuck it isn’t, Cass. That’s how it is.”

Cass struck the table with both of his palms, which jumped the opposite edge into Paul’s ribs. The moment of bright pain brought him to his feet, and Cass followed, both with closed fists at their sides. The last fistfight they’d had was at age seventeen, but Paul could still feel the primacy of those struggles, as he’d tried for a second to obliterate life’s most central, and often troubling, fact, his brother. If it was true, as some psychs said, that their connection was more intense than anything other humans experienced, then the same had to be said about their anger. In twenty-four years, he had never really raised his voice to Sofia in their occasional quarrels.

Sofia had popped up, too, and had imposed herself in front of Cass, taking him by both of his shoulders.

“Don’t be juvenile,” she said to them.

They stared at each other, in animal posture, nostrils flaring and breathing hard, just one more second. Sofia pressed Cass back down to his chair.

“Paulie,” she said, “we can’t give in to Hal Kronon. You’ve promised Ray, and everyone who works for you, that we won’t.”

He was exhausted. A campaign was vitalizing when you were winning, but at low times, it felt like you were undergoing a form of ritual sacrifice.

“We’re going to lose anyway.”

“The hell,” his brother answered.

“I told you. The Trib is going to publish a poll on Sunday where we’re running third now.”

“I told you that,” Cass said, “and it’s thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight. We could still be first given the margin of error. Their story is going to say tie.”

“We were twenty points ahead two months ago. And inside the campaign people understand trends. The troops were restless anyway, now that you fired Crully,” Paul said.

Cass looked stricken. “You agreed Mark was a pain in the ass.”

“I’m not blaming you. I said that the wrong way. I think it was the right move on balance.” They had resolved long ago that they would never second-guess one another on decisions that had to be made in the moment. And they’d talked a dozen times about what to do if Du Bois gave Hal the DNA. They had agreed that it would be best to dismiss the lawsuit, which made it inevitable Crully would quit. It was better for Mark, anyway. In another week or two, he’d have been looking for a way to jump off the sinking ship, blaming Paul for the hole in the hull. Mark was not the kind to hang around and keep bailing. He’d already been hired by Hillary to take over in Pennsylvania, where he was from. “I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying the direction is obvious. Hal’s going to keep hammering us. He may never have anything more than Georgia, but she’ll be a household name with the media buy he’s made for that ad.”