Presumed Innocent (48 page)

"What?"

"Come on, man," he says. "Don't shit me. That bitch set the whole thing up, man. You know that. She tell me I don't have to be mopin round, she know how to take care of everythin. Real smooth. Real smooth. Man, I bet she did it a hundred times. Tell me where to go. How to bring the bread, man. Very cold lady. You hear me?"

"I do." I crouch down now like Lipranzer. "And was she there when you made the drop?"

"Right there. Sittin right there. Very cool. You know, man; 'How you do. Sit right there.' Then the dude start talkin."

"He was behind you?"

"You got it. She be tellin me when I come in. Don't turn round, just do what the man say."

"And he told you to put it in his desk?"

"No, man. The desk where I was. He say just leave it in the top drawer."

"That's what I mean. It was the P.A.'s desk, right?"

"Yeah. That desk."

"And you paid him, right?" asks Lipranzer. "The P.A.?"

Leon looks at him with irritation.

"No, man, I ain't gone be payin no little toad P.A. Am I a fool? He gone take my bread, man, and be sayin, Oh no, can't do it, just got the word from downtown. I heard enough of that shit."

Lipranzer looks over to me. He has not gotten it yet. But I have. Just now. Finally. God, am I dense. Dense.

"So who was it?" asks Lip.

Leon mugs. He does not like to tell a policeman anything he does not already know. I say it for him.

"The judge, Lip. Leon paid the judge. Right?"

Leon nods. "Black dude. Was him, too, man. Behind me? I could tell the voice when I heard him in court." Leon snaps his fingers, trying to get the name. But there is not any need for him to bother. It's right on the order of dismissal. I take it out of my pocket to check. There's no missing that signature. I've seen it dozens of times in the last two months. It's as distinctive as everything else Larren does.

"So what is it?" Lip asks. It is nearly five now and we are sitting in Wally's, an all-night joint by the river. They used to be famous for doughnut holes, before the national chains got hold of that idea, too. "Larren's porkin her and takin the money to keep her in style?"

Lip is still wired. On the way here, he stopped at some hole in the wall, a blind pig he knew about, and came out with a half pint of peach brandy, of all things. He drank it down like a Coke. He still had not shaken off our initial encounter at the doorway.

God, he said to me. Sometimes I hate bein a cop.

Now I shake my head at his questions. I don't know. The only thing I have figured out for certain in the last hour is that this is what Kenneally didn't want to tell me when I saw him last week. That Larren was taking. That's what pissed off the coppers back then. The judge was doing it, too.

"What about Molto?" asks Lip. "You figure he was in?"

"I figure he was out. I don't see Larren Lyttle in any triangles. Nico said Molto always looked up to Carolyn. She probably asked him to dismiss cases and he just obliged. I'm sure he had the hots for her like everyone else." All very Catholic and suppressed, of course. That would make sense, too. That's the fuel that's kept Molto's engine running at high speed. Unresolved passion.

We talk it over like this for most of an hour. Eventually it gets late enough to have breakfast and we both order eggs. The sun is coming up now, over the river, that spectacular profusion of rose-colored light.

I suddenly think of something and laugh. I laugh too hard, with an embarrassing lack of control. A bout of juvenile hilarity. My thought is ridiculous, not really funny at all. But it has been a long and very odd day.

"What?" Lip asks.

"All these years I've known you, and it never really dawned on me.

"What's that?"

I start laughing again. It's a moment before I can speak.

"I never realized you carry a gun."

Barbara rolls over as I approach the side of the bed in my pajamas.

"Are you getting up now?" She squints toward the clock. It is 6:30. "It's early, isn't it?"

"I'm going to bed," I tell her.

She starts and rolls to her elbow, but I wave that it is not worth talking about. I do not think I will sleep, but I do. I dream of my father in jail.

Barbara waits until the last minute to wake me, and we have to race. The traffic on the bridge is thick, and court is already in session when we arrive. Kemp and the two prosecutors are before the judge. Nico is talking. He looks dour and drawn, and his manner in addressing the judge can only be described as agitated.

I sit down next to Stern. Barbara had called to tell him we would be late, but she diplomatically omitted any mention of why. I spend the first moments of my whispered conference with Sandy assuring him that we are both in good health. Then he explains what is happening:

"The prosecution has entered their hour of desperation. I will tell you about it when the judge breaks. They want Molto to testify."

I thought that was what Nico was talking about. When he is done exhorting the judge, Larren looks down and says simply, "No."

"Your Honor—"

"Mr. Delay Guardia, we went over this carefully the first day of the trial. You may not call Mr. Molto."

"Judge, we had no idea—"

"Mr. Delay Guardia, if I were inclined to allow Mr. Molto to testify, then I oughta declare a mistrial right now, because if this case ever got to the court of appeals —
ever
, I say hypothetically — but if it ever got there, they would turn it around and send it right back. Mr. Stern asked the first day of trial about Mr. Molto's testimony and you said No how and No way, and that's how it stands."

"Judge, you said that we would be entitled to some leeway if the defense proceeded with this frame-up theory. You said that."

"And I allowed you to stand before the jury and make one entirely improper statement in their presence. Do you recall what occurred while Mr. Horgan was on the witness stand? But I should have had more faith in Mr. Stern's professional acumen than to suppose he would venture down that road without reason. I didn't know then, Mr. Della Guardia, that the state's chief piece of evidence was going to disappear after last being seen with Mr. Molto. I didn't know that Mr. Molto and the chief pathologist were going to manufacture evidence, or testimony — and I tell you, sir, that is a reasonable interpretation of the events of yesterday. I'm still considering the question of what happens with Mr. Molto. But one thing that isn't gonna happen is that he gets up on the witness stand and makes matters worse. Now, what's the other thing you wanted to bring up?"

Nico is silent, his head bowed for a second. When he straightens up, he takes an instant to adjust his jacket.

"Judge, we're going to call a new witness."

"Who is that?"

"Dr. Miles Robinson, Mr. Sabich's psychiatrist. He was on our witness list. We omitted him from the order of proof, but I informed Mr. Stern about the change last night."

Beside Stern, I have tensed. He has his hand on my arm to prevent a more precipitous reaction.

"What the hell is this?" I whisper.

"I was going to discuss this with you this morning," says Stern quietly. "I've spoken with the doctor. I will give you my estimate of what the prosecutors are up to in a moment."

"And what's the problem?" asks Larren. "Mr. Stern objects to calling the witness without notice?"

Stern stands. "No, Your Honor. I object to the witness's testimony, but not on that basis."

"State your objection, Mr. Stern."

"Your Honor. We object on two grounds. Whatever the enlightened view may be of psychotherapy, many persons continue to regard it as a stigma. This testimony therefore risks serious prejudice to Mr. Sabich. More important, I expect that Mr. Molto — who as I understand it will be questioning Dr. Robinson — will elicit material that would violate the physician-patient privilege."

"I see," Larren says again. "Are you moving to suppress?"

Stern looks down at me. Something is on his mind. He leans in my direction, then seems to think better of it.

"Your Honor — my remarks are likely to give offense, for which I apologize. But I believe they are appropriate and necessary to articulating my client's interests. Judge Lyttle, I question the prosecutors' motives in offering this proof. I perceive no factual basis for overcoming the testimonial privilege that prevents a physician, certainly a psychotherapist, from testifying about his treatment-oriented conversations with a patient. I believe that this testimony is offered knowing that the defense must move to suppress it, and that the court must allow that motion. When that occurs, the prosecutors will have someone else to blame when this case reaches the end for which we all now know it is destined."

Nico becomes fiery. He pounds on the podium, incensed by Stern's suggestion that he and Molto are out to trick-bag the judge.

"I deny that," he says. "I deny that! I think that is an outrage!" He does another of his stomping routines, revolving away, and ends up at the prosecutors' table, staring fiercely at Stern as he drinks a cup of water.

Larren is quiet for a long time. When he speaks he makes no comment on what Stern has suggested.

"Mr. Della Guardia, on what basis will you seek to overcome the privilege?"

Nico and Molto confer. "Your Honor, we expect the evidence to show that Mr. Sabich saw Dr. Robinson on only a few occasions. As a result we believe that Mr. Sabich's statements were not for the purpose of seeking treatment and are outside the privilege."

I have heard all I can handle. Aloud, if under my breath, I remark, "What bullshit."

Perhaps the judge hears me. Certainly he looks in my direction.

"Listen here," says Larren, "this case hasn't gone very well for the state. Any jackass would know that, and nobody here is a jackass. But if you think, Mr. Delay Guardia, that I'm gonna let you elicit privileged testimony so that you can try to pull a rabbit out of a hat, you better have another think or two. I can't and I won't allow that. Now, sir, I'm not gonna suppress this testimony. I don't have any comments on Mr. Stern's observations. I don't know whether he's right. I will only say that it is appropriate to adjudicate a claim of privilege on a question-by-question basis. If you wanna put this witness on in the jury's presence, be my guest. But I'll tell you right now that you're on the edge as it is. The conduct of one of the prosecutors has been deplorable. And if he starts attempting to elicit privileged material in the jury's presence, then you're at your peril. Have you conferred with Dr. Robinson so that you know the permissible areas of inquiry?"

"Dr. Robinson has refused to meet with us."

"Well, good for him," says Larren. "You do what you want, Mr. Delay Guardia. But you better have a lot you can get from this witness. Because I can only imagine what this jury is thinkin by now."

Nico asks for a moment to confer. He and Molto walk together to a corner of the courtroom. Tommy is vehement. He has a high color, and he swings his hands emphatically. I am not surprised when Nico announces that they intend to proceed.

So the jury is brought back to the box and Miles Robinson comes to the witness stand. He is in his mid-sixties, trim, with white hair cropped very close. He is soft-spoken and exceedingly dignified. In another era, he would have been called an octaroon. He is fairer than I am, but he is black. I met him briefly many years ago when he was called as a witness in an insanity case. The nation's leading expert on memory loss. He is a full professor at the medical school at the U., co-chair of the Psychiatry Department. When I had my troubles, he seemed pretty clearly to be the best shrink I could think of.

"Do you know Rusty Sabich?" Molto asks, as soon as Robinson has stated his name, his office address, and his profession.

Dr. Robinson turns to the judge.

"Do I have to answer that, Your Honor?"

Larren leans over. He speaks kindly.

"Dr. Robinson, Mr. Stern over there" — he points—"represents Mr. Sabich. Anything he does not think you ought to be obliged to answer, he will object to. Otherwise, you should answer the questions posed. Don't worry now. He's highly qualified."

"We've spoken," says Robinson.

"Very good, then," says the judge. "Reread the question, please," Larren tells the court reporter.

"Yes," says Robinson when that has been done.

"How do you know him?"

"He was my patient."

"How many times did you see him?"

"I checked my records last night. Five times."

"From when to when?"

"February to April of this year. April third was the last time."

"April third?" asks Molto. He faces the jury, who refuse to look at him. He means, however, to call attention to the fact that my last session was two days after the murder.

"Yes, sir."

"Did Mr. Sabich ever discuss Carolyn Polhemus with you?"

The doctor-patient privilege protects conversations, not acts. Up until now Molto has not asked Robinson to repeat anything I have said. With this question, however, Stern quietly comes to his feet.

"Objection," he says.

"Sustained," says the judge distinctly. He has folded his arms over his chest, and he glares down at Molto. It is clear that he shares Sandy's perception of the motives here. And he has conceived of his own politic compromise. He will let Robinson take the stand, and then sustain objections to any questions of consequence.

"Your Honor, may I have the basis of that ruling?" asks Molto. He looks up to the bench defiantly. Lord, how these men hate each other. By now it would require an archaeological dig to get through the sedimentary layers of resentments built up over the years. Some of it has to have been Carolyn. Molto is too primitive not to have been jealous. Did he know, back in their days in the North Branch, about the other dimension to Larren's relations with her? I puzzled on that most of the night. Who knew what about whom back then? And what does Larren think Molto knows now? Tangled webs. Whatever else, it is clear that the dispute between these men by now has nothing to do with me.