Presumed Innocent (19 page)

"I spoke last night with the mayor and told him that I had no desire to remain in office in light of the voters' preferences. He suggested to me that as long as I felt that way that I ought to talk it over with Nico to see if he wants to come on early. He does — and so that's what's going to happen. With the County Board's concurrence, I'll be leaving Friday."

I can't help myself. "Friday!"

"It's a little faster than I would have thought myself, but there are certain factors—" Raymond stops. Something is precarious in his manner. He is struggling. Horgan straightens the papers on the coffee table. He drifts to the sideboard and looks for something else. He is having a miserable time. I decide to make it easy for everybody.

"I'll be taking off then, too," I say. Nico starts to speak and I interrupt. "You'll be better off with a fresh start, Delay."

"That's not what I was going to say." He stands. "I want you to know why Raymond is leaving so soon. There's going to be a criminal investigation of his staff. We have information — some of it came to us during the campaign, but we didn't want to get into that kind of gutter stuff. But we have information and we think there's a serious problem."

I am confused by Nico's apparent anger. I wonder if he is talking about the B file. Perhaps there's a reason for Molto's connection to that case.

"Here, let me butt in," Raymond says. "Rusty, I think the best way to deal with this is to be direct. Nico and Tom have raised some questions with me about the Polhemus investigation. They're not confident in the way you've handled it. And I've agreed now to step aside. They can examine that question in any way they think is best. That's a matter for their professional judgment. But Mac suggested — well, we all agreed to make you aware of the situation."

I wait. The sense of alarm spreads through me before the instant of comprehension.

"I am under criminal investigation?" I laugh out loud.

From across the room Mac finally speaks. " 'Tain't funny, McGee," she says. There is no humor in her voice.

"This," I say, "is a crock. What did I supposedly do?"

"Rusty," Raymond says, "we do not need that kind of discussion now. Nico and Tom think that there are some things you should have spoken up about. That's all."

"That is not all," Molto says suddenly. His look is piercing. "I think you've been engaged in misdirection, hide the ball, ring around the rosy for almost a month now. You've been covering your ass."

"I think you're sick," I tell Tommy Molto.

Mac has wheeled her chair about.

"We don't need this," she says. "This discussion should take place somewhere else, with somebody else."

"The hell with that," I say. "I want to know what this is about."

"It's about," says Molto, "the fact that you were in Carolyn's apartment the night she was killed."

My heart beats so hard that my vision shifts, jumps. I was waiting for someone to chastise me because I had an affair with the decedent. This is incomprehensible. And I say so. Ludicrous. Bullshit.

"What was that? A Tuesday night? Barbara's at the U. and I was babysitting."

"Rusty," says Raymond, "my advice to you is to shut your fucking mouth."

Molto is on his feet. He is approaching me, stalking. He is enraged.

"We've got the print results. The ones you never could remember to ask for. And they're your prints on the glass. Yours. Ro
at K. Sabich. Right on that glass on the bar. Five feet from where the woman was found dead. Maybe you didn't remember at first that all county employees get printed."

I stand. "This is absurd."

"And the MUDs you told Lipranzer not to get? The ones from your house? We had the phone company pull them this morning. They're on the way down here right now. You were calling her all month. There's a call from your house to hers that
night
."

"I think I've had enough of this," I say. "If I can be excused."

I have gotten as far as Loretta's little office outside Raymond's when Molto calls out behind me. He follows me into the anteroom. I can hear Della Guardia yelling Molto's name.

"I want you to know one thing, Sabich." He points his finger at me. "I know."

"Sure you do," I say.

"We're going to have a warrant for your butt the first day we're here. You better get yourself a lawyer, man, a damn good one."

"For your bullshit theory of an obstruction case?"

Molto's eyes are burning.

"Don't pretend that you don't get it. I know. You killed her. You're the guy."

Rage; as if my blood had quickened; as if my veins were filled only with that black poison. How old and familiar, how close to my being it seems. I come near Tommy Molto. I whisper, "Yeah, you're right," before I walk away.

THE KINDLE COUNTY GRAND JURY, JUNE SESSION, charges as follows:

On or about April 1 of this year, within the venue of Kindle County,

RO
AT K. SABICH

defendant herein, did commit murder in the first degree in that he did knowingly, intentionally, and with malice aforethought trespass with force and arms upon the person of Carolyn Polhemus, thereby taking the life of the aforementioned Carolyn Polhemus;

In violation of Section 76610 of the Revised State Statutes.

A TRUE BILL:

------------------------/s

Joseph Doherty, Foreperson

Kindle County Grand Jury

June Session

----------------------/s

Nico Della Guardia

Kindle County Prosecuting Attorney

Done this Twenty-third day of June

[SEAL]

"The documents and reports are in the front. The witness statements are in the back," says Jamie Kemp as he sets a heavy cardboard box on the faultless finish of the walnut meeting table. We are in the small conference room in the offices of his employer, Alejandro Stern, my attorney. Kemp is sweating. He walked two blocks in the July sun from the County Building with these papers. His navy tie has been pulled away from his collar and some of his fancy blond Prince Valiant hairdo, an affectation left over from his younger days, is matted to his temples.

"I'm going to check my phone messages," Kemp says, "then I'll be back to look at this stuff with you. And remember—" Kemp points. "Don't panic. Defense lawyers have a name for what you're feeling. They call it clong."

"What's clong?"

"Clong is the rush of shit to your heart when you see the state's evidence." Kemp smiles. I am glad he thinks I can still take a joke. "It is not fatal."

It is July 14, three weeks since my indictment for murdering Carolyn Polhemus. Later this afternoon I will appear before Chief Superior Court Judge Edgar Mumphrey for my arraignment. Under state statutes governing discovery in criminal cases, the prosecution is required, prior to arraignment, to make available to the defense all physical evidence they intend to introduce, and a list of witnesses, including copies of their statements. Thus, this box. I stare at the familiar label applied to the cardboard:
PEOPLE V. RO
AT K. SABICH
. I am full of that feeling again: This hasn't happened. Alone in this comfortable room, with its dark wainscoting and rows of crimson-jacketed law books, I wait for this now familiar adhesion of dread and longing to pass.

There is another copy of the indictment in the front of the box. I always focus on the same words. Trespass with force and arms. Trespass
vi et armis
, a term of the common law. With these same words for centuries persons in the English-speaking countries were accused of acts of violence. The phrase is archaic, long abandoned in most jurisdictions, but it is part of the text of our state statute, and reading it here always leaves me with the sense of a bizarre heritage. I have made league with the all-stars of crime, John Dillinger, Bluebeard, Jack the Ripper, and the million lesser lights, the half-mad, the abused, the idly evil, and the many who surrendered to a moment's terrible temptation, to an instant when they found themselves well acquainted with our wilder elements, our darker side.

After two months of daily press leaks, of rumor, innuendo, cruel gossip, I said resolutely that it would be a relief if an indictment finally came down. I was wrong. The day before, Delay sent Stern what is called the defendant's "courtesy copy." I first read the charges about forty feet from here, down the hall in Sandy's tasteful cream-colored office, and my heart and all my other organs were at once all stalled and so full of pain that I was certain that something in those regions must have burst. I could feel the blood gone from my face and I knew that my panic was visible. I tried to sound composed, not to show courage but because I suddenly realized it was simply the only alternative.

Sandy was sitting beside me on the sofa, and to him I mentioned Kafka.

'Does it sound horrible and trite to say that I can't believe this?' I asked. 'That I am full of incomprehension and rage?'

'Of course you cannot,' said Sandy, 'of course not. I, who have practiced at the criminal bar for thirty years in this city, am not able to believe it, and by now I thought I had seen everything.
Everything!
And I do not say that loosely. I had a client, Rusty, I cannot use a name, of course, who once placed $25 million in gold bullion in exactly the place that you are sitting. Just the ingots, two feet high. And I, who have seen such things, I sit at home at night and think to myself, Truly, this is remarkable and frightening.'

From Sandy these words had a kind of reach, the span of authentic wisdom. There is, with his soft Spanish accent, an elegance to the sound of even his ordinary speech. His dignity is soothing. Over time, I have found that I hover, like a lover, on every courtly gesture.

'Rusty,' Sandy said to me, touching the page I held in my hand, 'you make no mention of the only thing' — he searched for a word — 'which is encouraging.'