Identical

13

Du Bois Lands had been hired in the PA’s office about three years after Paul, and ended up as the junior prosecutor in the courtroom where Paul held the first trial chair. D.B. was a good lawyer-exact in his thinking, a better writer than most of the deputy prosecutors, and a passionate and charming courtroom advocate. Paul and he enjoyed working together, and spent time outside the office. Sofia was particularly fond of Du Bois’s wife, Margo, a pediatrician, and even after Paul left the PA’s office, the couples saw each other once or twice a year.

Then in 1993, D.B.’s uncle, Sherman Crowthers, had been indicted for extracting bribes as a judge in the Common Pleas section of the Superior Court, where personal-injury lawsuits were heard. Judge Crowthers was an American tragedy. An all-Mid Ten tight end at the U, who had grown up picking walnuts on a plantation in Georgia, he became one of the Tri-Cities’ premier criminal defense lawyers and a leading figure in the civil rights movement. His first triumph was successfully representing Dr. King, who was arrested here after leading open housing marches in 1965.

No one ever really understood why Sherm had fallen under the venal spell of the chief judge in Common Pleas, Brendan Tuohey. Sherm lived high-the black nouveau riche thing, not much different from the Greek nouveau riche thing Paul saw growing up-but he’d made his fortune before going on the bench. One friend said Sherm’s explanation was twisted but simple: ‘Mama didn’t raise no fool.’ He refused to be a black man who got less while many of the white judges around him turned their seats on the bench into ATMs.

As a plaintiff’s lawyer who made his living in those courtrooms, Paul had heard the same tales as everyone else. Appearing before certain judges said to be part of Tuohey’s ring, Paul worried that the defense lawyers might slip something into the judge’s drawer, but he figured he would be OK if he got to a jury. And he was-more than OK. He got good cases, usually through his Easton Law School classmates in big firms who wouldn’t soil themselves with contingency matters, worked the files carefully and rang the bell hard, several times.

In 1991, Paul won his first big verdict, eighteen million dollars in a trial before Sherm Crowthers. Paul represented a concert violinist who lost an arm on the light-rail when the doors closed on his Stradivarius and dragged the musician several hundred yards down the track. Days after the jury had come back, Paul was in the courthouse and bumped into Sherm, who more or less steered Paul, with an arm like a tree branch, into the private corridor outside his chambers. Post-trial motions were still pending, in which the defense was trying to overturn the verdict, but Paul assumed that the judge wanted no more than to offer congratulations on a job well done, until he pushed Paul into the small clerk’s alcove in his chambers and closed the door. Sherm was huge, six foot six and well over three hundred pounds by now, with a storm of overgrown gray eyebrows and intense yellowed eyes.

‘Motherfucker,’ he said to Paul, ‘you don’t seem to understand what’s goin on here.’

Paul, who didn’t think he scared easily any more, was too terrified by what was happening to answer. The judge then told Paul that he had to try the food at Crowthers’s sister’s restaurant in the North End.

Quietly asking around afterward, Paul learned that Judith Crowthers reputedly bagged for her brother, tending the cash register at her thriving soul food restaurant in her abundant purple eye shadow and dangling earrings, and accepting without comment the envelopes certain lawyers handed over as they paid their lunch checks. Paul had no thought of dealing with something like this without talking it over with Cass. They met two days later in one of the tiny whitewashed attorneys’ rooms at the Hillcrest Correctional Facility. By now, Paul understood the grim operating mode of the whole corrupt system in Common Pleas. His fee on the case was close to four million dollars-the ten or twenty thousand he was expected to hand over was next to nothing. If he refused, he had no doubt Crowthers would set aside the verdict, reversing key evidentiary rulings, and order another trial, which Paul almost surely would lose. If he reported Sherm to the authorities, it would be Paul’s word against the judge’s, who would claim he had done no more than recommend his sister’s restaurant. Worse, Paul would be a marked man whom Chief Tuohey and his cabal would do their best to drive out of the courthouse.

‘Fuck him anyway,’ Cass concluded. After years in Hillcrest, they both knew the perils of kowtowing to bullies. It never ended. You stood up. But didn’t snitch.

Paul filed a motion the next day, asking Judge Crowthers to disqualify himself from presiding further on the case, because of ‘inappropriate ex parte contact,’ which went otherwise unexplained. There were half a dozen people who’d seen the judge with his arm around Paul, drawing him toward his chambers. If it came to a showdown, Paul would get some backing. Rather than go through that, Crowthers withdrew from the case, but for the next two years, whenever Paul’s firm filed a new lawsuit in the Common Pleas section, it ended up before one of Tuohey’s judges who, without exception, granted the defendant’s motion to dismiss the complaint. Eventually, they referred out any new matters in Kindle County and began trying to develop their practice in the outlying counties.

And then Special Agent Evon Miller of the FBI arrived in Paul’s office. The government’s undercover investigation of Common Pleas judges, Project Petros, was all over the news. Evon had a copy of Paul’s motion in her hand and wanted to know exactly what “inappropriate ex parte contact” meant. Paul stalled until he could get to Hillcrest the next Sunday. Cass and he, as usual, saw this the same way: It was time for this shit to end. Paul told Evon the story on Monday, and agreed to testify. Crowthers, it turned out, was on tape, but the government informant who’d made the recording had died, giving Sherm a shot at trial. But with his placid recitation of the shakedown, Paul appeared to be the emblem of everything good in the law, and a potent contrast to the deeply compromised sleazeballs who were the government’s other witnesses. The trial was over, in effect, as soon as Paul left the stand.

Du Bois Lands was Sherman Crowthers’s nephew, the child of his wife’s sister. D.B.’s mom was a schoolteacher who ended up with a drug problem and, in time, a prison sentence-for black folks it was still the case that when they stumbled they had further to fall. D.B. had lived off and on with Sherm in his huge Colonial home in Assembly Point and regarded his uncle as his idol. When Paul entered the federal courtroom to testify against Crowthers, Du Bois was in the front spectators’ row. He had striking grayish eyes and they bulleted Paul. Du Bois would never say a word, but Paul knew what D.B. was thinking: ‘You didn’t have to do this. You could have said it was all too vague by now, that you just couldn’t recall.’ The two of them never exchanged another word.

These days, Du Bois had sat on the bench five years. He’d been promoted to Common Pleas a year ago, and was assigned to the same courtroom his uncle had occupied fifteen years before, where Paul and Ray Horgan now awaited the start of proceedings. The courtroom was Bauhausy and functional, with all the furnishings, including the paneling and a low, squared-off bench and witness stand, formed of yellowing birch. Kronon and Tooley sat across the courtroom at the other counsel’s desk, and there were dozens of reporters and sketch artists in the front rows of the straight-backed pews. The benches behind them were thick with civilian onlookers.

When Du Bois had been assigned to the suit against Kronon, Paul had taken it for granted they would move to disqualify D.B., but Ray was adamantly opposed. He didn’t want to take the risk of antagonizing black voters, of whom Paul still had a fair share, despite the presence in the race of Willie Dixon, the county councilman from the North End. Beyond that, D.B. had a sterling reputation. And when he’d run for the bench, Ray had been one of his three campaign co-chairs.

Now the elderly clerk bellowed out the case name, “Gianis versus Kronon, Number C-315.” Tooley in his silly shaggy toupee arrived first at the podium and introduced himself for the record, while Ray rolled forward, his gait halting given his rickety knees. With heat, Tooley began to explain his new motions related to fingerprint and DNA testing, but Du Bois cut him off.

“I’ve read all the papers, gentlemen. I always do.” By reputation, D.B.’s in-court demeanor was serious, even stern. But his tone never changed. He treated everyone who appeared before him with civility, tinctured by an undercurrent of skepticism. He was also said to be great at the basic job of a judge: deciding. He ruled after appropriate reflection, but without wavering, unlike others who dithered or tried to force the parties to settle even trivial disputes. “Let’s take the motions in the order they were filed,” the judge said. “First, Mr. Horgan seeks guidance about what public comment the parties may make concerning the subject matter of this lawsuit.”

D.B. treated the motion seriously, but as Paul had expected, refused to gag either party, even though the lawyers litigating the case would have to adhere to the rules about comments outside court. Since Paul wasn’t acting as his own counsel, it would be unfair, the judge said, to restrict him, especially in light of the campaign. Paul wondered if D.B. was going to kill him with kindness.

Lands turned then to Tooley’s motions related to the crime-scene evidence and to compelling Paul to give fingerprints and a DNA specimen.

“Mr. Horgan, what do you say?”

To craft their response today, Paul had called a big meeting two days ago in the fishbowl with Crully, Ray, half a dozen campaign officials, even Sofia, who was getting increasingly concerned about the way this run-in with Hal was playing out.

At the podium, Ray still radiated charm and the authority of someone who had been an important figure in these courts for fifty years.

“Your Honor, let me say to start that Senator Gianis will take every reasonable step to prove that Mr. Kronon’s allegations are ill-motivated lies.”

The judge interrupted the grandstanding.

“The motion, Mr. Horgan.”

“Judge Lands, I told Mr. Tooley last week that assuming we get equal access to the evidence, we had no objection to him serving his subpoenas on the authorities in Greenwood County related to public documents in the court file or the fingerprint evidence collected at the scene. They’ve hired Dr. Maurice Dickerman as their fingerprint expert, and I see Dr. Dickerman in court today.” Ray turned from the podium and lifted a hand like a ringmaster. On cue, Mo Dickerman, the so-called Fingerprint God, stood for just a second in the back of the courtroom, in his dark suit. A skinny angular man, Mo used a finger to push his heavy black frames back up on his nose. Dickerman was the longtime chief of the Kindle County Unified Police Force’s fingerprint lab. Like all police employees, he was permitted to work after hours on his own. “Senator Gianis will produce his fingerprints to Dr. Dickerman whenever the court orders, even today.”

Ray stopped there.

Du Bois nodded, as if to say, ‘Reasonable enough.’ Now in his late forties, Judge Lands remained handsome, with close-cropped hair, a mid-tone complexion and those startling gray eyes.

“Your Honor,” said Tooley, “we still haven’t heard any answer to our request for DNA.”

Du Bois raised his hand toward Ray, who responded.

“Judge, we’re eager to come forward with all probative evidence, but this request for a DNA test is clearly a bridge too far. In order to be entitled to discovery, a party must show that there is a reasonable likelihood that whatever proof is sought is potentially relevant. Dr. Yavem concedes that there is no better than a one in one hundred chance that an examination of DNA will lead to admissible evidence in a case like this with identical twins. So that part of the motion is little more than an effort to embarrass and harass Senator Gianis.”

“Your Honor,” answered Tooley, “this is not a matter of percentages. And even if it were, why wouldn’t Senator Gianis want to take a test that has a 99 percent chance of not incriminating him?” This was a non sequitur, an answer aimed only at the reporters. Du Bois, nobody’s fool, understood the posturing and had heard enough. Up on the bench, he dropped the pen with which he was taking notes and pushed aside his papers.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” the judge said. “Some of what’s been requested doesn’t appear to be at issue. So, Mr. Tooley, I’m going to grant your motion in part and approve these subpoenas you’ve served out in Greenwood County on the police and the court related to the police reports and the fingerprint evidence, with the proviso that the full return on the subpoenas be shared at once with Mr. Horgan. Second, because the fingerprinting doesn’t seem to be in dispute, I’ll allow you, Mr. Tooley, to issue any other subpoenas directly related to the issue, and the court will accept Senator Gianis’s offer to provide fingerprints, and I will direct that he do so.”

“We’ll do it right here, right now in open court, Judge,” said Ray. The intention was to play to the press and it worked. The journalists in the front row were tapping away or scribbling as fast as they could.

“Thank you, Mr. Horgan, but I don’t think we need to turn my courtroom into a crime lab.” There was a riffle of laughter.

“Then we’ll go right down to the lobby to do it with Dr. Dickerman.”

Du Bois moved the back of his hand as if to say, ‘Whatever.’

“I did have a thought about Dr. Dickerman,” the judge said.

Mo stood up again in the back of the courtroom and walked toward the bench. No one had ever accused Mo of being reluctant about attention. The judge proposed that Mo be appointed the court’s expert, with the parties splitting his fee. Mo was renowned around the world, probably the most widely respected print expert in the US, outside the FBI. No one was likely to contradict him, anyway. Ray agreed immediately, fulsomely praising the judge’s idea. D.B. acted as if he hadn’t heard.

“So I’ll direct that whatever fingerprint evidence is found be delivered to Dr. Dickerman,” Lands said. “If the fingerprint lifts from the scene remain in a condition where current comparisons are likely to be probative, then he should compare those prints to the ones he gets from Senator Gianis today.”

“And the DNA?” asked Tooley yet again. Clearly, Hal was hot to do that test.

“Well, you know, Mr. Tooley, Mr. Horgan may have a point. I’m not sure you get to run a test that your own expert says is overwhelmingly likely to be unproductive. But I’ll withhold my ruling. I’ll give Mr. Horgan a week to file a written response about it; you, Mr. Tooley, will get a week to reply. By then, Dr. Dickerman may have the fingerprint results, and those may inform my ruling on the DNA. So let’s meet again then. Mr. Clerk, please give us a date.”

“February twentieth at 10 a.m.”

“That will be the order,” said Du Bois. Watching from the plaintiff’s table, Paul thought he would not have ruled differently. Du Bois had been fair and savvy and measured.

The judge called a recess and rose on the bench, which brought everyone else in the courtroom to their feet. From that vantage, D.B. looked for the first time directly at Paul. The glance was fleet, but seemed to have been accompanied by an expression somewhere between a grimace and a smile. ‘See?’ he seemed to say.