The Laws of our Fathers (38 page)

    Rudy goes through Kratzus's rank and background and eventually reaches the morning of September 7. He had just come on, Kratzus says, 8 a.m., when he received a call. On his desk, you can envision the coffee and pastry in the white bag from the doughnut shop.

    ‘I spoke with Detective Lieutenant Montague.'

    'And, Sergeant, was Lieutenant Montague making any orders or requests of you?'

    'Montague said he was at a crime scene. White female, approx-mate age sixty to sixty-five, dead of multiple gunshot wounds. She was found outside a vehicle which was registered to her ex-husband. Montague was going with another dick to talk with the husband. In the meantime, there's a health-insurance card in her purse, shows a Nile Eddgar as next of kin. Somebody says he's a PO. Montague expects press will get this in a beat or two and he wants me to get over pronto to this Nile, so we tell him before he turns on the radio or TV and hears it that way.'

    The entire answer is hearsay. Hobie has stroked his beard throughout, waiting for anything objectionable, and has apparently decided to let it pass.

    'And did you oblige the lieutenant?' Rudy asks, in his funny, high-blown way. Rudy had three years of English public school before landing here. His father is one of those Indians with advanced degrees, never able to put them to use in any country. The family, Marietta says, has a liquor store on the East Bank.

    'He give me the address and, along with Officer Vic Addison, I proceeded there. It was here in the city.' 'The city' means DuSable. Al Kratzus is one of those neighborhood guys, like my Uncle Moosh, who remember when this was still three little burgs, not, as the world now sees it, a single megalopolis. In those days, there were still intense rivalries among the Tri-Cities. At eighty, Moosh still discusses the fierce games that were once played in the bitter weather of late December between the public high-school football champs from Kewahnee, Moreland, and DuSable, and a single representative from the Catholic leagues.

    Tommy is waving at his colleague. Rudy bends so Molto can whisper his suggestion.

    'Yes,' says Rudy out loud. 'And in asking you to take on this assignment, sir, did Montague give any indication at that time that Nile Eddgar was a suspect?'

    Hobie objects, but he pursued the issue of when and why Montague began to regard Nile as a suspect. I overrule.

    'We're service, you know?' says Kratzus. 'In CR, we're not on the case. Our job is the public. If somebody's a suspect, Montague would assign one of his people.'

    'Did you in fact see Nile Eddgar?'

    'We did. Addison and I went to his apartment.' Kratzus sighs, minorly disgusted with the state of his memory later in life, and checks his pocket for the report, then fishes a stout finger there again to locate his readers. '2343 Duhaney.' 'And what time was it?'

    'It was after 8 a.m., closer to 8:30. I was afraid at that hour we mighta missed him, but he was there. We had to pound awhile, but he come to the door. I identified my office. Somewhere in there we had to ask him to turn down the music actually, then I asked was he a relation to June Eddgar, he says he's the son, and I told him I was very sad -' Kratzus's hand does two forward flips. Etcetera, he means. 'And I give him the news. All what Montague told me. Just that one-liner, you know, that she'd been shot dead down at Grace Street.'

    'And did he have any reaction that you were able to observe?'

    'Pretty doggone strange,' says Kratzus.

    'Oh, object!' Hobie loudly declares and shimmies his entire upper body in disapproval.

    I strike the answer and direct Kratzus to tell the court precisely what the defendant said and did. He takes in my instruction slowly. There are plenty of police officers, bureaucrats, departmental politicos who get through thirty years on the Force with barely half a dozen court appearances. Kratzus seems like one of them.

    'He give us a look. First off, it's a look. Kind of, you know, "Wait a minute." Not so much he doesn't believe it as it doesn't make sense.'

    'Your Honor,' says Hobie.

    'Mr Turtle, I'm going to accord the testimony the weight I feel it deserves.'

    Kratzus has turned himself around in the witness chair to face me, too stiff and bulky to do so with ease, but eager to address me almost conversationally. His powder-blue coat bunches up thickly and the unbarbered fuzz of hairs on the back of his neck shows up, the filaments refracting the courtroom lights. He goes on explaining to me, notwithstanding the objection.

    'I do this a lot, Judge. All kind of circumstances. Little old ladies dyin in bed. Suicides. Car wrecks. And people respond different. I'm the first to tell you that. But this was strange.'

    'Sergeant,' I say, 'just stick with the outward behavior. What he said, what he did. How did he appear?'

    'You know, Judge, it's the glazed look, his mouth is hangin open. Then he's gonna talk, then he doesn't. Finally, he takes himself and sits down on his sofa and says, "My
father
was supposed to be goin over there." Like he's explaining something. And that's it. For maybe ten seconds. Then suddenly, he starts in to cry.'

    Rudy takes over again. 'Did you have further conversation, Sergeant, after he declared, "My
father
was supposed to go over there"?' Good prosecutorial question, driving home the critical line of testimony.

    'We did. We told him where the remains would be and how they could be claimed. We give him a card with the P P' s number.' The Police Pathologist's. 'He was pretty shook up by then, so we left.'

    'And following the interview, what did you do?'

    'Back to the Hall. I left a message in voice mail for Montague, I needed to speak with him a.s.a.p.'

    'And in your ordinary practice, would you be wanting to speak to the investigating detective?'

    'Object,' says Hobie again tiredly. He doesn't bother to rise. The body language suggests another silly excess by the PAs. Hobie's objections have been well timed and usually on point, so that by now I've developed a reflex that he's correct. But I recognize this time he's trying to gull me.

    'No, I'll hear this.'

    'Generally, we have no need. You know, maybe I'll leave a message, "We done like you asked," I'll send up a 5-sheet' - a police report, named long ago in the days when there were five layers, with carbons - 'but you know, most times they got no need to hear from us.'

    'So what if anything motivated your call to the lieutenant?'

    'Judge,' implores Hobie.

    'I'll sustain now.' But the point is made: Old plowhorse or not, Kratzus thought the kid was wrong. He was taking something off him and knew Montague ought to get a detective out to see Nile, find out what the hell he meant that his father was supposed to have been there.

    Rudy sits. I nod to Hobie for his cross.

    'Just a few questions,' he begins. It's more than that, but he accomplishes little. Kratzus admits he's seen lots of strange reactions when he's imparted news of a loved one's death. And Hobie combats the implication of Rudy's question about the time of the visit, which suggested that Nile was late for work and might have been waiting at home for a call, by pointing out that loud music was on, which would have made it hard to hear the phone.

    'And you say that you're not sent out to speak with suspects, right?'

    'Not generally.'

    'And who was it Montague was going to talk to?'

    'The father,' says Kratzus. Catching the drift, he adds, "Cause it was his car. You figure he'd know what she was doin down there.'

    'Okay,' says Hobie, unwilling to press the point. A few questions later he terminates the cross. Significantly, he does not dispute the accuracy of Kratzus's memory. That means Kratzus wrote a report that day, and that his partner, Addison, will back him up. Kratzus, with his bulk, heads out the doors of the courtroom, but stops at the prosecution table to shake hands. He did a good job.

    Aside from the fingerprints on the money, this is the best piece of evidence the state has offered yet. One statement. One line. Yet it has a clear impact: Nile expected Eddgar to be there; Nile expressed surprise not that there had been a shooting but only who its victim was. The first questions anyone, no matter how shocked, normally would ask are, Who shot her? Why? How could this have happened? I have my eyes closed, letting the proof work its way down through the emotional latticework. My reaction creates a lingering moment of gravity that grips the entire courtroom. When I look up, both prosecutors are watching me tensely.

    I call the lunch recess then, but don't get out the door. By the time I've conferred briefly with Marietta about the 2:00 call, Molto is in front of the bench. Hobie, typically, has found a way to disrupt Molto's calm. Tommy is livid, red up to his hairline. Hobie has presented Tommy with defense exhibits: Nile's 1994 tax return, his 1995 wage records, his bankbooks, his checking account statements. Molto waves all these documents about and finally lays them before me.

    'Judge, we should have received these documents
before
trial.'

    'What's the point of them?' I ask.

    'I don't care what the point is, really. He's not supposed to be producing exhibits now. And he won't say what the point is. We've asked him six times.'

    'Mr Turtle?'

    'Really, Your Honor,' he says, with a sweet little smile. 'Are you declining to say?'

    'No, I'll say. I'll say. I'd have thought it would be obvious to these prosecutors. But I guess not. The point, Your Honor, is that there is not a cash withdrawal exceeding $300 in all of 1995, which is not surprising, since my client's savings never were greater than $3,200.' Nile didn't have the money to pay Hardcore, not $10,000 cash, that's the point.

    Tommy explodes again. Sandbagging, he calls it. Which is exactly what it is. Tommy goes on at high volume, ignoring Singh's efforts to soothe him.

    'Mr Turtle,' I say, ‘I can't see how you could have failed to think about these records before.'

    'Your Honor, what about
them?’
He points. 'Really, Judge Klonsky. Here they are, planning to put a witness on the stand to claim my client paid him $10,000 in cash, and they haven't bothered asking themselves where the money came from? It's not a secret my client files tax returns or has a bank account. They should have thought of this, too. And the defense discovery response notified them we might put in these records.'

    Hobie hands up a boilerplate filing the State Defenders use in every case, but he's got a point. 'Bank records' and 'tax records' are mentioned as possible defense exhibits, along with forty or fifty other categories of documentary evidence, everything from pathologists' studies to ballistics reports. Molto, scattershot, never pressed for details and Hobie waited in the weeds. The lawyering life, I think.

    'All right. Mr Turtle, I want you to do a better job getting things to the state. Go through this discovery response and before the weekend produce
any
exhibits you might use. This is the last surprise, do you hear me? Given the state's lack of diligence in demanding production, I'm not going to exclude. But I won't be so generous next time.'

    At my ruling, Tommy groans out loud. Singh attempts to drag off Molto, who, in spite of his soft, unathletic shape, has struck a bantam pose in the well of the courtroom, facing Hobie like he's spoiling for a fight. Tommy is still too furious to see that he's been outflanked again by Hobie. The good trial lawyer always wants the state's best evidence quickly forgotten. Instead of mulling over Kratzus's direct, I'm now heading off to lunch asking myself where Nile could have gotten the money he supposedly gave Hardcore. Did he borrow it? Steal it? Hobie's right. Molto should have thought of this. Then again, Nile's fingerprints are on the money. That will be Tommy's answer in the end: it happened. The devil finds a way. It happened.

    As the courtroom comes back to life, I remain a minute on the bench, assessing all of this, then find, as I gather my things, I'm facing the jury box again. Seth, once more, is waiting for me to take note of him there. By now, there is a rhythm to this, as if he knows I'll only have time to acknowledge him at the end of the session. Yesterday afternoon, I was somewhat alarmed to find him gone. I didn't know if it was the sweaty mess he'd made of his sport coat or, as I suspected, the heavy load of what we'd been discussing which kept him from returning. I was unsettled myself.
To lose a child!
The thought came hurtling at me all night. We never remember that even a century ago, this shroud, this burden, was commonplace. Talk about improving our quality of life!

    But Seth looks all right now. He greets me with a chipper little smile and then a wink. Like all his gestures this week, it's slightly forward but too well-meant to do any real harm. Hello, he's saying. I'm here now, I'm okay. We're friends. And to my mild amazement, I find, before I've had time to think better of it, I've winked back.

    'Ordell Trent!' Small, sallow, mussed as the weekend approaches, Tommy Molto bleats the name when I tell the prosecution to call its next witness, as we settle in after lunch.

    'Ordell Trent!' Annie repeats. The name rolls on twice more, the transport deputy at the door shouting to a colleague in the rear, the second one yelling into the cage for Ordell to bring himself to the door. The keys jangle. Through the wall we hear the solid rumble of the lockup door sliding back, and the second deputy loudly warning one of the leftovers from the just-concluded bond call to stand away. Then, after a lingering moment, Hardcore steps into the courtroom. He has been here before, when he entered a guilty plea in late September. But I knew less about him then. Now, like a lion emerging from a cave, Ordell briefly blinks away the harsh fluorescence and serenely takes in a room full of persons somewhat terrified by what they've heard about him. Behold: the killer.