The Laws of our Fathers (59 page)

    'Three station adjustments,' Rudy reads. Marcus has two thefts, which count for little with me. The poor will steal. Then the third. Agg Battery. Another revenge beating. Someone was stomped.

    'How long ago?'

    'Two weeks, Yaw Onah.'

    I shake my head. Bond at $100,000 full cash. So much for Marcus. So much for his chance. Even on a sleepless morning, with my loins sore from loving and my heart pregnant with what I figure for false hope, I cannot stretch this far. The other lawyers do not even bother with similar motions.

    During this hearing, Loyell Eddgar has found his way into the courtroom. He appears irretrievably somber, dressed in the same wool sport coat as yesterday. His face, like mine, looks ruined by lack of sleep. I would have expected a powerful pol, even a reformer, to travel with a retinue, but he's alone. Being a judge and being a state senator are probably the same, finding you are now the Great Oz, just some weary individual pulling the whistles and levers behind the fearsome mask of great authority. Eddgar has taken the lone chair behind the prosecution table, which Jackson Aires had periodically occupied. In the wake of yesterday's ending, Eddgar and Molto noticeably avoid one another. For the time being, the Crime of the Day appears to have Eddgar's attention. As he absorbs my ruling, and the last of the prisoners are being herded off, he frowns harshly. It brings to mind the disdainful scowl Zora always had for her enemies, the rebuke of a superior spirit. I find myself piqued, even as Eddgar, with his message smugly delivered, looks away.

    Don't you dare turn away, I want to say, especially not you, you who waited for these communities to rise up in the simpleminded fantasy it would change the world. The war that began in 1965 -the war on the streets which you and Zora promoted, rooted for, and helped cause - that war has never stopped. The terrible violence that was released, the expression of an overwhelming grievance, has proved to be a demon genie, never to be forced back into his bottle.

    Yet were they wrong? I think suddenly. Eddgar? My mother? Am I prepared to renounce their commitments? I have been through it a million times in my own mind. I judge both of them dimly. Long ago, I learned their dirtiest, most crabbed secret, that their passion to change the world derived from the fact they could not change themselves. But that confuses the messenger with the clarion she sounds. What my mother shrilled out about, carried on for - the desolating circumstances of Americans of color; the routine abuse of females; the heartless exploitation of the weak; the arrogance of privilege and the corruptions of power; the persistent childishness of greed and the redeeming value of mutual concern and sharing - she was not wrong about any of that. In the ledger book of this century, our greatest achievements are the human ones made in response to those concerns. I will always think of that as Nikki's truest heritage.

    Just as the call is winding to a close, as a transvestite hooker in an orange dress pilfered from a Goodwill box is explaining why she sliced her John, a formidable presence blows into the courtroom. Raymond Horgan, former Prosecuting Attorney for Kindle County and head of the Judicial Reform Commission which recruited me for the bench, tosses a wave to the deputies at the door and moves to the front of the courtroom, trailed by two younger lawyers, a fair-skinned African-American woman and a tall, thin man with an Adam's apple prominent enough to make me wonder about goiter. Raymond hands Marietta a half-sheet notice of motion while he turns back to the door, awaiting someone else. Grown stout in the land of corporate excess - his face is now little more than a rubbery mask - Horgan retains an impressive public bearing. He wears his money: a handmade shirt, dark grey with white cuffs and collar, a fancy grey suit, a mohair overcoat squashed beneath the same arm that totes his briefcase. His cologne and hair tonic can almost be sniffed from the bench. Finally, the stragglers he is awaiting arrive -Tommy Molto, hurrying, and last, Hobie, with a harassed expression. Molto and Horgan, well acquainted from Raymond's years as Tommy's boss, confer briefly. Raymond has him by more than half a foot and there is a fleeting impression of parent and child. Then Marietta calls out Nile's case.

    'Raymond Horgan for an unnamed intervenor,' Raymond says as the lawyers circle before me. ‘I have a motion, Your Honor, which I would like to make in chambers and under seal.'

    Not in front of the press, in other words. Hobie steps forward to object, which, these days, is sign enough for me that I should grant Horgan the opportunity he wants. I wave everyone back to chambers, while in the jury box Dubinsky, the lone early arrival from the media, glowers furiously and heads out, probably to phone the Tribune's lawyers. Nothing is more important to the press than what they are not allowed to know.

    We wait some time for Suzanne, the court reporter, who has gone to renew her paper. A tall, slender, quiet woman, she carries in her stenograph machine and takes a seat. There are not enough chairs for everyone, and so only she and I sit. The others - Raymond and his minions, Tommy, Rudy, Hobie, Marietta, Annie - stand, circling the round side table that occupies the corner of my chambers. Nile has elected to remain in the courtroom. Raymond's male associate draws from his briefcase a mass of papers that are handed to Marietta, while Raymond, in stentorian baritone, reviews the circumstances for me.

    In our lengthy dealings before I agreed to take this job, I found Raymond wily, wise, a slick former politico, beguiling with self-deprecating Gaelic charm. His white hair, slightly yellowed now, crinkles back above the brow in waves that seemed to have been stamped from the forge of age and wisdom. Yesterday, Raymond says, late in the day, the River National Bank was served with a forthwith subpoena demanding production of certain banking records relating to a $10,000 check. He is here to ask that the subpoena be quashed.

    'Who issued the subpoena?' I ask.

    'Me,' says Hobie.

    'He's doing it again, Judge,' Tommy says. 'He's going to pull another end run around the discovery rules.'

    'Mr Tuttle, let me say right now that better not be true.' 'Judge, I gave Molto here a copy of the subpoena.' 'After Mr Horgan notified me of it.'

    'Your Honor, I just became aware of this evidence,' says Hobie in that ridiculous blank-faced way he has when he's lying. I don't even bother to reply.

    'Judge,' Tommy whines, 'Judge, I mean, look how unfair this is. He turns up a new document for cross-examination, I can't talk to the witness -'

    'Go talk to him,' says Hobie. ‘I don't care.'

    'He's not very eager to talk to me today.'

    'Not my fault,' says Hobie.

    'On the contrary, Mr Tuttle,' I intervene. 'It is your fault. Mr Molto made tactical decisions based on the available evidence, as he understood it. If you had some eleventh-hour discovery, then you should have notified the court and Mr Molto before his direct. I warned you. I told you no more, and I meant it.' I push my hair back, using the instant to reassure myself it's not my nerves, stripped bare by lack of sleep, that are speaking. 'Mr Horgan's motion will be allowed.'

    'Judge!' Hobie actually jumps. Two hundred fifty pounds if he's an ounce, he lands a foot behind where he started. 'Judge Klonsky. This is my whole defense, this is the crux of my case.'

    'Which you just discovered yesterday.' I give him what you would call a dirty look, which brings Hobie to a rare silence. He looks on with the wrenching vulnerability that falls over a bully out of bluffs.

    'Your Honor, I'm begging you. I'll beg you, Judge.' He reaches toward a metal file cabinet for support and on old football player's creaky knees begins sinking toward the floor.

    'Don't you dare, Mr Turtle.'

    'Your Honor, take it out on me. Hold me in contempt. But don't take it out on my client. Your Honor, if I can explain about this check -'

    'Look, Hobie' - I use his first name advisedly, a sign my wrath goes beyond role-playing - ‘I told you I would not put up with another episode. I won't hear explanations.'

    'Judge -'

    'Not another word.'

    'At least look at the check, Your Honor. All you have to do is look at it. Please. Just look. This is the entire defense. You're gonna see what's at stake here. Please, Your Honor. Judge, please!' He has both hands clasped; his knees are weakening again. Despite the beard and today's fancy double-breasted suit, he is - like every man in extremis - a desperate boy. I heave a breath or two and close my eyes, as if I cannot stand the sight of him, which is just about the truth.

    'Give me the check.'

    Molto's voice leaps into his agonized falsetto, but I've already held out a hand toward Horgan, who eventually turns to the two young lawyers behind him. When the pink draft finally reaches me, I find that it's on business stock, eight inches long. The check is drawn on the account of the Democratic Farmers & Union Party in the amount of $10,000, made payable to 'Loyal Citizens for Eddgar.' Dated June 27, 1995, it's signed in a clear hand by Matthew Galiakos.

    At sight of the name, the harp string in my chest resounds. Brendan Tuohey is the slyest fox. Matthew Galiakos. My hands are cold. I wonder if I might have groaned. I have revealed something. They are all staring.

    'Mr Horgan,' I say, hoping against hope, 'you'd better name your client for the record. Are you here for the bank?'

    'I am here in behalf of Matthew Galiakos, chair of the state Democratic Farmers & Union Party.'

    So this is how the game is played. Brendan Tuohey tees it up. Then they bring in the all-star to hit the ball. It's exactly as I feared. Purely by accident, I've already done what they wanted. And the record could not be better. Given all of Hobie's horsing around, there's not an appellate court in the world that would reverse me. And I see nothing on the face of this check that will change this trial. It's the kind of contribution the central party routinely makes to campaign organizations. All I have to do is shake my head and repeat, 'Motion allowed,' and I'll secure my felony division seat for years, perhaps even take my first step on the journey to a higher court. But about the imperatives here, even in my fragile state, I feel not so much as a tremor of doubt. As I have already noted to myself once this morning, I am Zora Klonsky's daughter.

    'Mr Turtle?'

    'Yes, Your Honor.' He snaps to. Hobie's tongue - his renegade feature - briefly appears between his lips.

    'At your request, Mr Turtle, I have examined this draft.' I describe it for the record. 'You're representing as a member of the bar, Mr Turtle, that this check and the other documents you subpoenaed are essential to your defense?'

    Shock radiates off every other person in the room at my apparent change in direction. Hobie reacts first. ‘I am, Judge Klonsky. I am.'

    'Well, given this is a bench trial, and that I will disregard anything inflammatory or irrelevant, I'll accept that representation, reconsider my ruling, and deny the motion to quash. Mr Horgan, give Mr Turtle the records. Mr Turtle, share the records with Mr Molto. I'll take objections when the documents are offered.'

    Horgan slowly settles into the one available chair beside me. He opens his fat, freckled hand my way. 'Your Honor,' he says.

    'I've ruled, Mr Horgan.' I stand up. Horgan is so astonished it takes him a moment to come back to his feet.

    'Judge, I would think, I would hope I'd get the chance at least - This is nothing more than an attempt to embarrass parties who have no relationship to this matter, to inject politics into a garden-variety murder case.'

    'We're done, Mr Horgan. I've ruled. It's nice to see you.' If I investigate further, ask what the check has to do with this case, I'll only make it harder on myself.

    'Judge, can the transcript at least - of these proceedings - can it remain sealed?'

    'I think that would just inflame the press, Mr Horgan. There's no need to keep secrets here.' I smile at him wanly. I'd like to think he's just a cat's-paw, not fully filled in, but there's no telling about that.

    'Mr Turtle,' I say, ‘I'm trusting you, against my better judgment. I expect you to deliver fully on your promises. If you do not, sir, it will be a sad day for us both.'

    Marietta peers my way. She rarely sees much she doesn't understand. As I pass, she hums beneath her breath, marveling at my authority or my daring.

    'Comes with the robes,' I murmur to her.

    

    

    'Seems to me, Senator, you and Molto don't get on?'

    Arranged somewhat fragilely beside me on the witness stand, Eddgar takes an instant to ponder Hobie's first question to him before he agrees. He wears the same heavy grey tweed sport coat and squarish gold-framed glasses that were not on his face yesterday.

    'Was it the fact you lied to the police? Is that when you and the prosecutors seemed to fall out?'

    'Frankly, I think it was when I agreed with you that I'd secure my son's bond with my home.'

    'Molto was angry?'

    'Incredulous,' says Eddgar. 'Apparently, he doesn't have children.' This shot, understandably, brings Molto to his feet. No mutual-admiration society there. Tommy has one of those cloistered lives of suppressed desire. No Mrs Tommy. No girlfriends. A former seminarian, he is known behind his back as the Mad Monk. I strike Eddgar's last remark and Hobie starts again.

    'My question, Dr Eddgar, is whether the prosecutors and the police and you have discussed the evidence.'

    ‘I suppose not. I suppose we've all been somewhat wary.'

    'Because you lied to them to start, right?'

    'They told me I was a witness and we shouldn't talk about other persons' testimony.' Molto, rising to object again, smiles at Eddgar's answer and reverts to his seat.