"Tommy," said Rusty, "did you ever consider the possibility I'm not as bad a guy as you think, and you're not as bad a guy as I think?"
"That just amounts to a way of saying you're a sweetheart."
"I'm not a sweetheart. But I'm not a murderer. Barbara killed herself, Tommy."
"So you say. Did Carolyn rape and strangle herself, too?"
"I didn't do that, either. You'll have to take it up with the guy who did."
"It's just a pity, Rusty, the way these women keep dying around you."
"I'm not a killer, Tommy. You know that. In your heart of hearts you know that."
Tommy started to dry his own hands. "So what are you, Rusty?"
Sabich snorted a little, laughing for just a second at his own expense. "I'm a fool, Tommy. I've made a lot of mistakes, and it will be a long time before I can tell you which of them was the worst. Vanity. Lust. Pride to think I could change what couldn't be changed. I'm not telling you I didn't go looking for this. But she killed herself."
"And framed you for it?"
He shrugged. "I haven't figured that out yet. Maybe. Probably not."
"So what should I do, Rusty. Send the jury a thank-you note and tell them to go home?"
Sabich eyed Tommy a second. "Us girls?" he asked.
"Whatever."
Rusty went back to look under the stalls to be sure there were no unseen occupants, then returned to Molto.
"How about we end the whole thing? You and I both know there is absolutely no way to tell where this bastard is going. It's a runaway train now. I'll plead to obstruction for messing with the computer. Other charges are dismissed."
Sabich was in his unflinching hard-guy mode. But he wasn't kidding. Tommy's heart was skipping around in response.
"You walk on murder?"
"Which I didn't commit. Take what you can get, Tommy."
"How much time?"
"A year."
"Two," said Tommy. He negotiated out of instinct.
Sabich shrugged again. "Two."
"I'll talk to Brand."
Tommy stared at Sabich another second, trying to figure out what had just happened, but he stopped at the door. It was an odd moment, yet they ended up shaking hands.
"You ready?" Tommy asked when he sat next to Brand in the same chair in the back of the jury box. The courtroom was not quite empty yet. Stern's people were out in the hall, but the court personnel were still walking in and out. In a minuscule whisper, he told Brand what Sabich had offered. Jim just stared, his dark eyes hard as flints.
"Say what?"
Tommy repeated the deal.
"He can't do that," said Brand.
"He can if we let him."
Brand was almost never flustered. He lost track of himself in anger. But he rarely seemed stuck for words, yet he could not get hold of this one.
"He walks on murder?"
"He just told me something that's completely true. This trial is a runaway. Nobody knows what happens next."
"He walks on two murders?"
"He's got a good chance of doing that anyway. Better, frankly, than we have of convicting him of anything else."
"You're not going to do this, Boss. You can't. The guy's a double fucking murderer."
"Let's go across the street. The coast is probably clear by now."
It was a hot day outside. The sun was strong this week, and as usual in this part of the country, it was turning to summer abruptly, as if somebody had thrown a switch. It had been a bad spring, with unprecedented amounts of rain. Great thing about global warming. You didn't know where you were living from one day to the next. For a month, Kindle County had been the Amazon.
When they got to the office, they took five minutes for messages. Tommy must have had ten calls from reporters. He would need to spend some time with Jan DeGrazia, the press deputy, later this afternoon, just to hear her advice. Finally, he went next door to Brand's smaller office.
They sat on either side of the room. There was a football, signed by some ancient star, which was regarded as a permanent part of the chief deputy's furnishings. It had been here as long as Tommy could recall, going back to John White, who had been chief deputy when he--and Rusty--had arrived as new prosecutors. Very often the ball was tossed around during discussions. Brand whose hands fit the thing as if they were part of the cover, was usually the first to go for it, and even if no one else was in the mood to play, he would spin it in a perfect spiral toward the ceiling and grab it in descent without ever moving. Seeing it on Brand's desk, Tommy flipped it softly at Jim as Molto sat down. For the only time he could remember, Brand dropped it. He swore when he picked it up.
"You know this only makes sense one way," Brand said. "Rusty pleading?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he'd only plead to obstruction if he killed his wife."
"What if he didn't kill his wife, but messed with the computer?"
"He only messed with the computer if he killed her," Brand answered.
That was the traditional logic of the law. The law said that if a man ran away or covered up or lied, it proved he was guilty. But to Tom, that never made sense. Why should somebody falsely accused follow the rules? Why wouldn't somebody who saw the legal machinery clank and grind and screw itself stupid say, "I'm not trusting this broken contraption"? Lying to dispel a false accusation was probably better justified than lying in the face of a truthful one. That was how Tommy saw it. And always had.
When he explained his view to Jim, Brand actually seemed to consider it. It was rare to see Brand as pensive as he was now. But there was a lot at stake, and neither one of them had ever anticipated being at this moment.
Brand picked up the football from between his feet and tossed it to himself a couple of times. He was coming to something. Tommy could tell.
"I think we should take the deal," he said.
Tommy didn't answer. He was a little frightened when Brand said it, even though he knew he was right.
"I think we should take the deal," Brand repeated. "And I'll tell you why."
"Why?"
"Because you deserve it."
"I do?"
"You do. Sandy took a great big dump on your head today. And it's only a preview. If Rusty walks on this case, you're going to hear a boatload of the same crap about what you admitted back in the day, so they can explain away the DNA in the first case. They'll say, 'That's only because Molto screwed with the evidence back then.'"
Tommy nodded. He'd realized that by now. God knows why he didn't see it all along. Probably because he hadn't screwed with the evidence.
"Okay, but if Sabich pleads to obstruction--a supreme court justice-elect standing up in open court and admitting he tampered with the evidence to try to get himself off--if he does that, people will know what he is. They'll say he got away with murder. Twice. They may criticize you for taking the plea. But Yee will cover you on that, almost for sure. You know, Basil's going to give one of those speeches judges always give when they're relieved to get rid of a case--he'll talk about what a wise resolution this is. Overall, people will know you chased a really bad bird for a really long time and finally got him in the joint where he belongs. You'll strip him of all his feathers. And you deserve that."
"I can't do this job thinking about what I deserve."
"You can do the job so that public confidence in the administration of justice is maintained. You certainly fucking can. And you should."
Brand was putting Tommy's ego in wrapping paper and tying it in a bow.
"You deserve this," Brand said. "You take the deal and the monkey is off your back. You can run for PA next year, if you like."
That again. Tommy thought for a second. He had never actually been able to consider running, except as the kind of fantasy that lasts as long as your shower. He told Brand what he'd told him before, that if he could run for anything, it would be for judge.
"I have a twenty-one-month-old," Tommy said. "I need a job I can keep for
fifteen years."
"And another one on the way," said Brand.
Tommy smiled. He felt his heart open. He had a good life. He had worked hard and done right. He would never say it out loud, but what Brand said was true. He deserved it. He deserved to be known as someone who had followed his conscience.
"And another on the way," Tommy said.
CHAPTER 40
Nat, June 26, 2009
Something is wrong.
When I arrive at the Sterns' offices on Friday morning, my dad is in a do not disturb conference with Marta and Sandy in Stern's office. After I spend forty-five minutes in the reception area among the steakhouse furnishings, Sandy's assistant emerges to suggest I go over to the courthouse, where the defense team will join me shortly.
When I get there, the PAs have not arrived either. I send a text to Anna from my seat in the front row: "Something is wrong. Sandy sicker????? Very mysterious."
Marta finally comes in but bustles straight through the courtroom to go back to Judge Yee's chambers. When she reemerges, she stops with me for just a second.
"We're talking to the prosecutors down the hall," she says.
"What's up?"
Her expression is too confused to connote anything very clear.
A few minutes later, Judge Yee peeks into the courtroom to check on things. Without his robe on, he's like a child at the door, hoping not to be observed, and when he catches sight of me, he motions me in his direction.
"Coffee?" he asks when I arrive in the rear corridor.
"Sure," I say.
We go back to the chambers, where I spend a few moments inspecting the framed sheet music on the walls. One, I realize, is signed by Vivaldi.
"We gotta wait for these guys," the judge tells me without further explanation. I am locked in witness land, where I cannot ask any questions, of the judge least of all. "So what you think?" he asks when he has brought in coffee for each of us. The judge has pulled out a drawer on the big desk and is using it as a footrest. "You think you gonna be a trial lawyer like Dad?"
"I don't think so, Judge. I don't think I have the nerves for it."
"Oh yeah," he says. "Hard on the nerves for everybody. Lotsa drunks. Court make lotsa drunks."
"I suppose I should worry about that, but I meant I don't really have the personality for it. I don't actually like it very much when people are paying attention to me. I'm not cut out for it."
"You can never tell," he says. "Me? How I talk? Everybody like, That no job for you. They all laugh--even my mama. And she don't speak three words English."
"So what happened?"
"I got an idea. You know? I was boy. Watchin Perry Mason, on TV. Oh, love Perry Mason. In high school, I got a job with newspaper. Not a reporter. Sell the paper. Tribune from here. Tribune want more subscriber downstate. So I go knock on door. Most people, very nice, but all them, every one hate the city. Don't want city newspaper. All very nice to me. 'No, Basil. Like you but not that paper.' Except this one guy. Big guy. Six three. Three hundred pound. White hair. Crazy, crazy eyes. And he see me and he come out the door like he gonna kill me. 'Get off my property. Japs kill three my buddies. Get off.' And I try to explain. Japanese kill my grandfather, too. But he not listenin. Don't wanna listen.
"So I go home. My mama, my daddy, they like, 'Man like that. He won't listen. How people are.' But I think, No, I can make him understand. If he have to listen, I can make him understand. So I remember Perry Mason. And the jury. They gotta listen. That their job. To listen. And okay, I don't speak English good. Tried and tried. I write like professor. Straight A in English all through school. But when I talk, I cannot think. Really. Like machine get stuck. But I say to myself, People can understand. If they have to listen. PA at home--Morris Loomis--I know him since grade school. His son, Mike, and me, good friend. So after law school, Morris say, 'Okay, Basil. I let you try. But you lose, then you write briefs.' And first case, I stand up, I say, 'I don't talk English good. Very sorry. I speak slow so you understand. But case not about me. About witnesses. About victim. Them you must understand.' And the jury, they all nod. Okay. And you know, two day, three day, they all understand. Every word. And I win. Won that case. Won ten jury in a row before I lost. Sometime in jury box, one whisper to the other, 'What he say?' But I always tell them, 'Case about the witnesses. Not about me. Not about defense lawyer, even though he talk a lot better. About witnesses. About the proof. Listen to them and make up your mind.' Jury always think, That guy, he not hiding nothing. I win all the time.
"So you can never tell. Court very mysterious, what jury understand, don't understand. You know?"
I laugh out loud. I love Judge Yee.
We talk about classical music for a while. Judge Yee knows his stuff. It turns out he plays the oboe and is still in the regional orchestra downstate and frequently uses his lunch hour to practice. He has an oboe that has been muted so you can hear the notes only from a few feet, and he actually plays through a Vivaldi piece for me, in honor of the sheet music on the walls. I am pretty much a musical ignoramus, even though I am interested in it as a language. But like most kids, I chafed at piano lessons for years until my mom let me quit. Serious music is one of those things I have on the list for "When I Grow Up."
There is a knock as the judge is about to begin another piece. Marta is there.
"Judge," she says, "we need a few more minutes. My father would like to talk to Nat."
"To me?" I ask.
I follow her down the corridor to what is called the visiting attorneys' room. It's not much bigger than a closet, with no windows and a beaten desk and a couple of old wooden armchairs. Sandy is in one of them. He does not look particularly well this morning. The rash is better, but he looks more depleted.
"Nat," he says, but does not bother to try to get up to greet me. I come around to shake his hand, then he motions for me to sit. "Nat, your father has asked me to speak to you. We have reached a plea bargain with the prosecution."
I keep thinking with this case, Well, I'll never have a shock like that again. And then there is something else that knocks me flat.
"I know this comes as a surprise," says Stern. "The murder charges against your father will be dismissed. And he will plead guilty to an information the prosecutors will file in a few minutes, charging him with obstruction of justice. We have had quite a bit of back-and-forth this morning with Molto and Brand. I wanted them to accept a plea to contempt of court instead, which would give your father a chance to keep his pension, but they insist it must be a felony. The bottom line is the same. Your father will be in custody for two years. And can then go on with his life."
"'Custody'?" I say. "You mean jail?"
"Yes. We've agreed that it will be the state work farm. Minimum security. He won't be far away."
"'Obstruction'? What did he do?"
Stern smiles. "Well, that was one of the morning's problems. He will admit he is guilty, that he willfully and knowingly obstructed justice in this case. But he will not go into details. I take it there is someone else he does not want to implicate, but candidly, he won't even say that much. Molto was not satisfied, but in the end, he knows this plea is as good as he is likely to do. So we have an agreement. Your father wanted me to tell you."
I don't hesitate. "I need to talk to my dad."
"Nat--"
"I need to talk to him."
"You know, Nat, when I first began in this line, I swore to myself I would never let an innocent man plead guilty. That resolve did not get me through my first year in practice. I represented a young man. A fine young man. Poor. But he was twenty years old with never so much as an arrest after growing up in the bleakest part of Kehwahnee. That fact speaks volumes about his character. But he was in a car with childhood friends, they were sharing a few bottles of malt liquor, and one of them saw a man who had two-timed his mother, and this young man had a gun in his pocket and shot this two-timer through the window of the car with no more reflection than it took to say the
word 'dead.' My client had nothing to do with that murder. Nothing. But you know how things go in this process. The killer said his friends had been together in the car to help him hunt the decedent down. He told that tale to avoid the death penalty, which was being freely applied in this county in those days. And so my client was charged with murder. Better sense told the prosecutors my client was not involved. But they had a witness. And they offered my client probation for a lesser plea. He wanted to be a police officer, that young man. And would have made a fine one. But he pleaded guilty. And went on with a different life. And clearly that was the right decision. He became a tile layer, he has a business, three children, all through college. One of them is a lawyer only a little older than you."
"What are you saying, Sandy?"
"I'm saying that I have learned to trust my client's judgment on these matters. No one is better equipped to decide whether it is worth brooking the risks."
"So you don't think he's guilty?"
"I don't know, Nat. He is adamant this is the proper outcome."
"I need to see my father."
I take it that he has been down the hall in the witness room with Marta, and Stern wants to speak to him before I do. I help Sandy to his feet. I am alone only a few minutes, but I have started crying by the time my dad walks in. The startling part is that he looks better this morning than he has in many months. A self-possessed look has returned.
"Tell me the truth," I say as soon as I see him. He smiles at that. He leans down to embrace me, then sits opposite me, where Stern sat before.
"The truth," he says, "is that I did not kill your mother. I have never killed anyone. But I did obstruct justice."
"How? I don't believe you could have done that with the computer. I don't believe it."
"Nat, I'm three times seven. I know what I did."
"You lose everything," I say.
"Not my son, I hope."
"How will you support yourself afterwards? This is a felony, Dad."
"I'm well aware."
"You'll give up your judgeship, your law license. You won't even have your pension."