Scott Turow - Pleading Guilty

'To me it sounds typically Jake.' That was Brushy. 'I hate to say it, but we all know Jake's consuming interests are corporate politics and what makes him look good. Frankly, Tad, I'm not even sure he realized he was breaking the law. I believe him.'

I wasn't certain I'd ever seen Brush in the same room with Krzysinski and I watched them for signs. But all that showed was Tad's native intensity. His searching look lingered with her even after she'd spoken.

‘I think I do too,' Tad stated finally. 'You see,' he said to Wash, picking up on some dispute from the boardroom, 'this is what I never liked. Always the easy way out. Well, he's gone today. That's given. Given. And I have to advise the board. But I need to know what to recommend. Everyone will prefer to avoid the scandal. I'd hate to turn him over to the authorities if 1 didn't have to. I guess you go on your gut. I just wish I had some experience. What's your view, Mack? You're the one who's done this for a living. What do you say? Does Jake look to you like a crook?'

We were back to where we had been last week. I had their attention. Everyone's. The fly ball once more was coming my way. I knew I could save Jake. I could tell one of my wonderful wild-ass stories. There were already six of them in my head. Say, for example, that Jake must have forgotten that long ago he had vaguely mentioned some shady deal with Neucriss which I'd told him to avoid. That would do it. Give me five minutes with a fax machine to rip off messages to Pico Luan to the Zuricher Kreditbank and Fortune Trust and I could even replenish Litiplex's secret account. I could do it all.

But I wasn't going that way. It's happened to all of us, especially as kids. The screen goes dark; the music fades and the speakers hiss; the sudden lights sting the eyes. How can it be over, the heart cries, when the film's still running inside me?

It turned out that it no longer mattered what had actually happened. I was set on my way — another direction. I felt that. Somewhere new. Somewhere else. Me and Martin. I'd made the decision. Brave new world. No turning around. If I wasn't headed for a better life, at least I was going toward something unexpressed in the life I presently had.

Looking back, I suppose it's sort of funny that we'd all been so willing to believe Jake was a thief. That slippery side of him must be out there for everybody to see — which was why we were still hanging in doubt. Isn't that life? Seeing it, hearing it — how much is there we don't really understand? Caught in our own foxholes, we never see the battlefield scene. I had wanted to believe they were no better than me. All of them. But we think what we do for a reason. Call me a fool or the victim of my own expectations. The one guy I wasn't wrong about was me.

'I believe him,' I said. And I did. Not because Jake was too honest to steal. God knows, he wasn't. It was the story he'd told. About Neucriss. It wouldn't come to Jake in one thousand years. Not in REM sleep. Tad had it right. Jake always took the easy way out. If Jake was going to need phony cover, he'd find some fall guy, some flunky. Somebody like me.

'I believe him,' I said again, then added, 'assuming there's no problem getting the money back.'

'No, no,' said Krzysinski. 'He and Mathigoris ran off an hour ago to send a fax to the bank. Mathigoris has been standing by the machine waiting for a confirmation. Wait, here he is now.'

There he was, Mike Mathigoris, security chief, nice-looking, right-in-the-middle kind of guy, former vice-commander of the State Police, out after twenty and in a great job here, fending off future skyjackings, ticket frauds, travel agents with commission schemes. I'd worked with him a lot before Jake let my well run dry. He handed the papers he was carrying to Tad without any ceremony. Tad read them and started to fume.

'Son of a bitch,' he said. 'Son of a bitch.'

Brushy, in her vaguely familiar manner with Krzysinski, stood to read over his shoulder. Soon the documents were passing among the rest of us. The first page was a fax cover sheet from the International Bank of Finance NA, Pico Luan, with the following message at its foot:

Account closed, January 30, per attached

letter of direction.

Best wishes,

Salem George

The letter I'd faxed over on Monday from the Regency was attached. When I looked at the signature, I admit I smiled. Handwriting analysts can't work with a copy. And I'd fool them anyway. Brushy, it turned out, was watching me, something solid, maybe even fatal, in her eye. She mouthed: 'Why are you having such a good time?'

'It's ironic,' I said aloud and turned away.

Pagnucci was reading now, looking quite smug. He made little pontifical sounds but might just as well have said, Told you so.

'What in the hell is Jake up to?' asked Tad. He had said this already a couple of times and nobody had replied.

'He's running,' I answered. 'He put together this story about Neucriss to buy himself time. Now he's headed for the hills. And the money.'

'Oh Christ,' said Krzysinski. 'And I let him out of here. Oh Christ! Let's go. Let's get the police.' Krzysinski was waving at Mathigoris.

Wash had turned to wood right in front of me. He was dead as a stump.

'Who do we call?' Tad asked.

'Mack has friends on the police force,' Martin volunteered at once from across the room. 'He just had one in the office before.'

'Wrong guy,' I said immediately. 'Not for this case.'

'Who's that?' Mike asked me.

'A dick named Dimonte.'

'Gino?' asked Mike. 'Tough cop. He's working Financials now. He'd be fine.'

In desperation I looked to Brushy, but she'd turned away.

'Don't you think the Bureau would be better with an international case?' I asked Mathigoris. He was indifferent.

'This guy's idea of investigative technique is to scare you to death,' I told Tad.

'That sounds like just what Jake deserves. Call him. Go,' Tad said to me. 'Quickly, please. Jake can't get away. We'll move from bad to worse.'

Because the conference room was in use, I ended up in a little phone closet off the TN reception area, where there was a colonial print of a woman in a Dutch collar, a poor cousin of Rembrandt. This was a kind of in-house phone booth, designed for visitors, a place they could take a call from their office in privacy. There was a small bowl of potpourri that sweetened the tight air. I considered the alternatives. I had none. 'I couldn't get through' is not a credible excuse on a call to the police. 'I called him' wouldn't work, because when he didn't show up, somebody would just call him again.

'Gino,' I said. I tried to be upbeat and bright. 'When you hear this one, you're gonna love me.'

'In another life,' he answered at once.

I told him the story. If he ran quick, he could get Jake at home. I gave him the address. Jake of course would be sitting there. Like some beaten hound. Right by the phone, as he promised. Maybe he'd called a lawyer. Or his dad. But he'd be there. I'd have paid some money to see the look on his face when Pigeyes grabbed him. God, I thought. God, I hated Jake.

'You won't need another collar before you retire,' I told Pigeyes.

'I just want you to know,' Gino said when I finished, 'I didn't buy one word of that.' I had no idea what to say.

'Not one fucking word. I don't want you going home and laughing in your beer tonight, or whatever you drink now. Postum. I knew that whole routine was a crock.

About these three guys all doing the bunny hop.' He was talking about what I'd said when he'd come to the office, the tale I told about Bert and Archie and the could-be-Kam from the U. This was mano a mano, him to me. He wanted me to know I hadn't gotten the best of him after all.

'It's all wrong,' Pigeyes told me. 'How?'