Presumed innocent

Chapter 32

The trial's first pitched battle over an issue of law occurs the next day and occupies the entire morning. Nico describes a six-hour item-by-item search of the police evidence room. They cannot find the glass. Both sides have prepared written memoranda addressed to whether testimony about the fingerprints on the glass may nonetheless be received. Kemp wrote our brief sometime after midnight. Molto must have started later than that, since Nico said they were in the warrens of the evidence room past one o'clock. Each man wears the hazy red-eyed look of a lawyer on trial. Larren retires to his chambers to read both briefs, then returns to hear oral argument. At the start, it is supposed to be only Nico and Stern addressing the court, but each turns so often to his second that before long all four lawyers are talking, with the judge interrupting, posing hypothetical questions and, on occasion, thinking out loud. Stern makes his points with greater vehemence than at any time during the trial. Perhaps he senses an opportunity for triumph; perhaps desperation is gathering after yesterday's sobering events. He keeps emphasizing the fundamental unfairness of forcing the defendant to confront scientific testimony whose basis we have had no chance to assess. Nico, then Molto, repeatedly state that the so-called chain of custody has been uncontested. Whether the glass can be found or not, the testimony of Greer, Lipranzer, and Dickerman, the lab supervisor, will establish, taken together, that the prints were identified from lifts obtained from the glass the day after the murder.

The back-and-forth between the lawyers is endless, and I find my spirits in a sickening spiral, escalating, then instantly descending from elation to bitter lament. It is clear that the judge is undecided. This is one of those issues, of which there are so many during a trial, where a judge is within legal boundaries no matter what he does. The authorities support a ruling for either side. The way Larren gives it to Nico and Tommy about the carelessness of the police makes me certain, at moments, that the evidence is going to be excluded. But the prosecutors are frank about the devastation that this would bring to their case, and without saying it aloud, they hint at the impropriety of disposing of a celebrated prosecution as the result of police negligence. In the end, this thought appears persuasive and Larren rules against the defense.

"I'm gonna admit this testimony," the judge says, shortly after the court clock has reached noon. Then he explains the basis of his ruling for the record, so that the court of appeals can assess his judgment, if it ever comes to that.

"I must say that I'm pretty reluctant to do so, but I am influenced by its obvious importance to the case. Naturally, that same fact, given the overall tone of some of the things that have occurred here"-the judge looks toward Molto-"leads me to understand the defense's skepticism. They are right that they have not had the opportunity to examine an object of physical evidence. On the other hand, the object itself is not gonna be presented. The absence of this exhibit is attributed to the police evidence room. I want to note for the record that the police evidence room custodians have been guilty for years of this kind of slipshod record keeping and handling of exhibits. This is probably the most dramatic, but certainly not the only example that we all know about. And I must say that it is that knowledge, derived outside the record, that influences me to allow the testimony. The fact of the matter is that the best-intentioned prosecutors-and I by no means am ruling on the intentions of Mr. Della Guardia or of Mr. Molto, who seems to have had the glass last-" Again Larren stares darkly at Tommy. Did Greer really say that? I wonder. "-but the best-intentioned prosecutors cannot seem to control what happens to exhibits once they leave their hands. It could be that there is bad faith here. I will be lookin out for further evidence of that, and if there is that kind of bad faith, then this prosecution is gonna end. Period. But overall, that thought strikes me as so unpalatable that I'm gonna assume it isn't true. So I will admit this proof, over objection, and with my own reservations noted. I am, however, gonna give the jury a strongly worded limiting instruction, which I want to take some time to craft over the lunch hour. We will resume at two o'clock."

The judge leaves the bench, asking the lawyers to remain for a few moments so he can have their thoughts on the instruction he wants to draft. Sandy is philosophical. It is clear now that he believed we were going to win. I explain what has occurred to Barbara, who appears particularly upset by Larren's ruling. "It isn't fair," she tells me. "You haven't even had a chance to look at it."

"I understand," I say. "It's one of those calls a judge gets to make." I'm not trying to be heroic. All along I have tested Larren against my own internal barometer. On this one, I would have ruled the same way. I go to the john. When I come out, Nico again is at the sink, washing his hands as he feints left and right to see the position of his hairs under the light.

"Well, Rusty," he says. "Are we going to be hearing from you next week?"

Under the state discovery laws, the defense is under no obligation to inform the prosecution of its witnesses. Whether or not the defendant will testify is often the most closely guarded secret of the defense camp. The prosecution should rest tomorrow. Assuming the judge takes a day for arguments on the directed-verdict motion, our case will begin next Monday. If the prosecutors receive no indication of our intentions, they will not know whether to spend the weekend preparing for cross-examination or closing arguments. Most of the time, you end up strung out in both directions.

"I'm sure Stern will tell you, Delay, whenever we make up our minds."

"I have a sawbuck that says you're coming."

Nico is playing games, testing my nerve. He is a lot harder than he was during our encounter here last week. This is the crafty Delay of old.

"Maybe you'll win," I tell him. "You got the cross?"

"Had to," he says. "I couldn't cross Barbara. She's too nice a lady."

Again Nico is probing. He wants to know if Barbara will testify to support my alibi. Perhaps he's trying to see if I flinch at the thought of Molto working over my wife.

"You're just a softie, Delay." I look at myself in the mirror. I've had enough of this conversation. Nico, upbeat with the pleasant current of events the last two days, will not let it go.

"Don't let me down, Rusty. I really want to hear it. You know, sometimes I wonder. I think, How could the guy I knew do a thing like that? I admit it. I wonder sometimes."

"Nico, if I told you what really happened" you wouldn't want to believe it."

"Now, what does that mean?"

I turn away and he takes my elbow.

"Really, what does that mean?" he asks. "This isn't that crap about Tommy framing you, is it? I mean, that's for the papers, Rusty. This is Delay." He touches his shirt. "You can't believe that. That's a bunch of crap. I mean, off the record, all that shit. Me and you. Right here. Old buddies. Nobody repeats anything. You're telling me you believe that crap?"

"Where's the glass?"

"Oh, screw that. The cops lose everything. We both know that."

"He seemed to have primed the pump with Eugenia."

"What? You really think he told her to say 'my angel' Come on. He heated her up too much. I admit that. And that was stupid. I told him that. I told him that. He's compulsive. You know. He was very fond of Carolyn. Very close to her. He considered her one of his closest friends. Big sister kind of thing almost. Looked up to her. He's very committed to this case."

"Did you ever look at that file, Nico?"

"The one from Raymond's drawer?"

"Do some homework. On your own. You may get some surprises. About big sister and little brother."

Nico smiles and shakes his head to show he isn't buying it. But I can tell that I've gotten under his skin now. I enjoy the advantage. I've had Nico's number for years. I dry my hands on one of the paper towels, with my mouth pursed to show that I will say no more.

"So that's it, huh? That's the big secret. Tommy done it. That's what I'm waiting to hear?"

"Go ahead, Delay," I say quietly, while my back is to him. "I'll. give you a preview. One question. Right here. Me and you, as you say. Off the record. Just the old buds. Nobody repeats anything to anyone else." I revolve and look at him directly.

"Did you do it?" he asks.

I knew he would. Sooner or later somebody had to put it right to me. I finish drying my hands, and I summon up everything in me that belongs to the truth, every badge of sincerity I own in my manner.

"No, Nico," I say very quietly, and look him dead in the eye, "I did not kill Carolyn."

I can see that I reach him: some kind of enlargement in the pupils; his eyes become darker instantly. Some tone seems to change in his face.

"Very good," he says at last. "You'll be very good." Then he finally smiles. "So this has been kind of a bitch, hah? Falsely accused and all of that?"

"Go fuck yourself, Delay."

"I knew I'd hear that, too."

Both of us come out of the john laughing. When I look up, I see that I have attracted the attention of Stern and Kemp, who are standing a short distance down the corridor conferring with Berman, the private investigator. He is very tall, with a large belly and a loud tie. Stern's look is nettled. Perhaps he is upset to see me with Nico, but it seems that he has been interrupted. He waves his hand, dismissing the other two, and returns to the courtroom. Kemp walks off with Berman a few steps, then comes back to me. We watch Delay follow Sandy inside.

"I won't be here this afternoon," Jamie says. "Something came up."

"Something good?"

"Very good, if it pans out."

"Is this a secret?"

Jamie looks back at the courtroom door.

"Sandy said not to discuss it right now. Don't raise false hopes. He wants to be cautious. You understand."

"Not really," I say.

Berman, some distance away, tells Jamie they have to go. Kemp touches my sleeve.

"If it works out, you'll be delighted. Trust me."

My look, I'm sure, is abject, confused and thwarted by my own attorneys. But I know I cannot object. I myself have taught Jamie Kemp to be frugal with his confidence. I educated him in professional skepticism, in believing that the best judgment waits.

"Something came up with one of the subpoenas," he says. Berman calls again: They told the guy they'd be there at one. Jamie backs away. "Trust me," he says once more before he jogs off down the hall.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Larren reads to the jury. "You are about to hear the testimony of a fingerprint expert, Maurice Dickerman, concerning evidence he claims to have identified on a certain glass. In considering this evidence you must-I say must-bear in mind that the defense has had no chance to examine the glass. The testimony is proper, but it is up to you to determine what weight to give it. The defense hasn't had any opportunity to see what scientific explanation there may be for the prosecution's evidence. They have had no opportunity to see whether there was some form of chicanery-I'm not sayin there was, but I'm tellin you that the defense hasn't had the chance to get a scientist of their own to say yea or nay about that. They haven't had a chance to see if there's some mistake. An innocent mistake, but still a mistake. They haven't even had the chance to see if some other scientist would look at the glass and say those were another person's fingerprints.

"And I am instructing you as a matter of law, ladies and gentlemen, that when this case is over and you are deliberating on it, that you are entitled to consider not just this testimony but the failure of the prosecution to make the glass available to the defense. And it is permissible-I'm not tellin you what to do-but it is permissible for that one fact alone to raise a reasonable doubt in your mind which would require Mr. Sabich's acquittal.

"All right. Proceed."

Molto, at the podium, takes a moment to stare up at the judge. By now both men have abandoned pretense. There is an outright hatred between them, and it is visible and intense. In the meantime, the force of Larren's limited instruction settles over the courtroom. The defense, in this instant, has staged a nine-run rally. The fingerprint evidence has been impeached from the mouth of the judge. Acquittal, he says, is a permissible conclusion. The suggestion that an error has been made, that there has been a mistake, is like a cut to the bone in a criminal trial.

Morrie Dickerman comes to the witness stand. The pure professional. An angular New Yorker with large, darkframed glasses, Morrie finds fingerprints fascinating. He used to like me because I would sit there and listen to him. Morrie is as good as Painless Kumagai is bad-the kind of grab bag of abilities you encounter in public service. He sits there with his photographs and slides and shows the jury how it is done. He explains how prints are made, a residue of oils left by certain persons, at certain times. Some people don't ever leave prints. Most people will leave prints at some times and not at others. It depends on how much they sweat. But when they leave a print, it is unique. No one fingerprint is like any other. Morrie lays all of this out in his openhanded way, then nails my butt to the barn door in the last five minutes of his testimony with his pictures of the bar, the glass, the lifts, and enlargements from my county employee's file card. All the matching points of comparison have been identified with red arrows. Morrie, as usual, has prepared well.

Stern spends some time on his feet, studying the photographic blowup of one of my fingerprints from the glass before he begins. He turns the picture toward Morrie.

"What time on April first was that fingerprint made, Mr. Dickerman?"

"I would have no idea."

"But you're certain it was made on the first of April?"

"No way to tell that, either."

"I'm sorry?" Stern draws his mouth downward in mock surprise. "Well, certainly you can tell us that it was made around April first?"

"No."

"Well, how long can fingerprints last?"

"Years," says Dickerman.

"I'm sorry?"

"It can be years before the oils break down."

"What is the oldest fingerprint you have taken in all the time you have worked for the police department?"

"In a kidnapping case, I took a fingerprint off the steering wheel of an abandoned car that had to be three and a half years old."

"Three and one half years?" Stern makes a sound. He is a marvel. The man who laid waste to Raymond Horgan now feigns gentle-spirited befuddlement, deference to the expert. He acts as if he is slowly figuring all of this out as he goes. "Then Mr. Sabich could have handled this glass six months earlier when he was at Ms. Polhemus's apartment in connection with the McGaffen trial?"

"I can't tell you when Mr. Sabich handled it. I can tell you it has two of his fingerprints. That's all."

"Suppose Mr. Sabich had touched it for some reason-merely had an unnoticed drink of water, or only the interior of the glass had been rinsed after he used it-is it possible that his prints would remain?"

"Yes. And by the way, it is theoretically possible that the entire glass could have been immersed. Usually soap and water will remove the oils, but there are cases, in the literature where fingerprints have been identified even after the object was rinsed in soap and water."

"No," says Sandy Stern in wonder.

"I've never seen that," says Dickerman.

"Well, at least we know that no one else handled the glass, because there were no other fingerprints on it."

"No."

Stern goes still. "I'm sorry?"

"There's another latent."

"No," says Stern again. He is laying it on self-consciously. There is an odd theatricality to Sandy. Early in the trial the jury had not seen him enough to know that he was acting. Now in our second week, he is more broad in some gestures, as if to acknowledge the deliberateness of his behavior. I know and you know, he is saying to them. An act of confidence. So they understand that he is not really trying to put anything past them. "You mean there is another fingerprint on the glass?"

"That's what I mean."

"Could it be, sir, that Mr. Sabich touched the glass months before, and someone else handled the glass on April first?"

"It could be," says Dickerman evenly. "It could be anything."

"Well, we know Mr. Sabich was there that night because his prints are on many other objects in the apartment, are they not?"

"No, sir."

"Well, there must be some things. For example, the window latches were opened. Were there identifiable prints there?"

"Identifiable, sir. But not identified."

"These were the fingerprints of someone, but not Mr. Sabich?"

"Or Ms. Polhemus. We excluded her."

"A third person left those prints?"

"Yes, sir."

"Just as with the glass?"

"True."

Stern goes through the entire list of locations within the apartment from which lifts were taken without discovery of my prints. The coffee table that was upset. The fireplace tools printed with the thought that one might be the murder weapon. The surface of the bar. The cocktail tables. The window. The door. Five or six other places.

"And Mr. Sabich's prints appeared in not one of those places?"

"No, sir."

"Only on this glass that can no longer be found?"

"Yes, sir."

"One place?"

"That's all."

"He would have left prints throughout the apartment had he been there, would he not?"

"He might have. He might not have. Glass is an unusually receptive surface."

Stern, of course, knew the answer.

"But the table," asks Stern, "the windows?"

Dickerman shrugs. He is not here to explain. He is here to identify fingerprints. Stern makes the most of Dickerman's inability and, for the first time since we started, looks directly to the jury, as if for consolation.

"Sir," says Stern, "How many other identifiable prints were there of a third person, not Mr. Sabich, not Ms. Polhemus?"

"Five, I think. One on the latch. One on the window. A couple on the liquor bottles. One on a cocktail table."

"And are any of those made by the same person?"

"I wouldn't know."

Stern, who has still not left the side of the defense table, bends forward a bit to indicate that he does not understand.

"I'm sorry?" he says once more.

"No way to tell. I can tell you whoever it is has not been printed by the county, because we did a computer run. They don't have a criminal record. They haven't worked for the county. But they could be five different people or the same person. It could be the cleaning lady or a neighbor or some boyfriend. I can't tell you."

"I don't understand," says Stern, who understands very well.

"People have ten fingers, Mr. Stern. I don't know that unknown A isn't the index finger, and B is the third finger. Plus left hand and right hand. There's no way to tell without knowns to work from."

"Well, certainly, Mr. Dickerman-" Stern stops. "Which prosecutor supervised your activities after Mr. Sabich?"

"Molto," says Dickerman. You get the feeling at once that Morrie does not care for Tom very much.

"Well, certainly he asked you to compare these five unidentified prints to see if two of them might be from the same finger?"

Very good, I think to myself. Excellent. This is the kind of detail that I always overlooked as a prosecutor. I thought about the defendant, and the defendant of course thought about everybody else.

But when Dickerman answers, "No, sir, he did not," one of the jurors, the part-time computer jock, turns away shaking his head. He looks straight at me, like, Can you believe this? I am astounded that we have come back so far from yesterday. The juror turns to the person beside him, the young woman who runs the drugstore, and they exchange remarks.

"It can be done overnight," says Dickerman.

"Well, I'm sure," says Stern, "that Mr. Motto may remember now." Stern is about to sit down. "Do you know, Mr. Dickerman, why Mr. Molto did not ask you to make that comparison of the other prints?" A good trial lawyer never asks why, unless he knows the answer. Stern does, as I do. Neglect. Too much to do and not enough time to do it. The problem of focus. Any answer will suffice to raise doubts about Molto.

"I assume he didn't care," says Dickerman. He is tying to downplay the significance of the omission, but his answer has an ominous air, as if Molto would not be concerned about the truth.

Stern, who has never moved from the defense table, stands there one second more.

"Just so," he says. "Just so."

Molto approaches the podium and Ms. Maybell Beatrice, who works as a domestic in Nearing, is called. I am relieved to see Tommy up there again. For all of Nico's sloppiness, he now seems to have found his place in the courtroom. Tommy is far less adaptable. In the P.A.'s office there was always a kind of cultural divide, a barrier over which my friendship with Nico was ultimately stranded. Raymond picked an elite corps, young lawyers with lawschool credentials he liked and, after an apprenticeship, set them to work on Special Investigations. We prosecuted the guilty and rich for bribery and fraud; we ran long-term grand-jury investigations; we learned to try cases against the likes of Stern, lawyers who argued law to the judges and nuance to the jurors. Molto-and Della Guardia-never rose above the advanced prosecution of street crimes. Tommy's particular mix of pride and passion has been nurtured too long in the homicide courtrooms and branch courts. Those are places where no holds are barred, where defense lawyers use every cheap strategy and device, and prosecutors learn to imitate them. Tommy has become the kind of prosecutor that the P.A.'s office too often breeds: a lawyer who can no longer make out the boundaries between persuasion and deception, who regards the trial of a lawsuit as a series of gimmicks and tricks. I thought at the start that it would be his molten-hot personality that would be a detraction for the state. Instead, the burden he attaches to the prosecution is his inability to escape from his experience. He is brighter than Nico, with a gimlet-eyed cleverness, and he is always prepared, but by now every person in the courtroom suspects that his zeal has no limit. He will do anything to win. Whatever the old rivalry or jealousy surrounding Carolyn, I take it that this trait as well must be a partial source of the antipathy between the judge and him.

And it is the same thing that keeps my curiosity high about Leon and the B file, and whatever shadows lurk in Molto's past. I found Nico's comment about Molto's close relations with Carolyn intriguing. Who knows exactly how she beguiled him? More and more, like everyone else here, I find myself persuaded that there is something sinister in Molto's character. It is too easy for Molto to justify all of his behavior; there is no obvious catch point below which he won't sink. What started out as another of Stern's courtroom illusions seems to have acquired a life of its own. I have wondered, as I have tried to guess at the revelation that Kemp is off chasing, if Molto is not the target. Certainly as Stern has gone on with the old defense lawyer's artifice of placing the prosecutor on trial, Molto has responded poorly. He makes what is perhaps his biggest blunder yet in his direct examination of this Nearing maid.

Ms. Beatrice says that she saw a white man on the eight o'clock bus one Tuesday night in April. She does not know what Tuesday night it was, but it was Tuesday, because she works late on Tuesdays, and it was April, because she remembered it as last month when she first spoke to the police, who were doing random interviews in the bus station in May.

"Now, ma'am," Molto says, "I ask you to look around the courtroom to see if there is anyone you recognize."

She points to me.

Molto sits down.

Stern begins cross. Ms. Beatrice greets him without apprehension. She is an elderly woman, quite stout, with a lively and kindly face. Her gray hair is drawn back in a bun, and she wears round wire-rimmed glasses.

"Ms. Beatrice," says Stern amiably, "I take it that you are the kind of person who gets to the bus station a bit early." Stern knows this, of course, because of the time shown in her police interview.

"Yes, sir. Ms. Youngner run me up each night at quarter to so's I can buy me a paper and a Baby Ruth and get me a seat."

"And the bus on which you go into the city is the same bus that comes out of the city, is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"It terminates-that is, it ends its run in Nearing and goes back in?"

"It turn round in Nearing, that's right."

"And you are there each night when that bus arrives at a quarter to?"

"Quarter to six. Most every night, yes, sir. 'Cept Tuesday, as I explain."

"And the people coming home from downtown get off the bus and walk past you, is that right, and you have occasion to see their faces?"

"Oh, yes, sir. They looks tired and weary, many a them."

"Now, ma'am-well, I shouldn't ask you this-" Stern looks again at the report of the police interview. "You are not saying you recognize Mr. Sabich as the man you saw on the bus that Tuesday night, are you?" There is nothing to lose with the question. Molto's direct has left the impression that is, in fact, the case. But Ms. Beatrice makes a face. She shakes her head most emphatically.

"No, sir. They is somethin here I like to explain."

"Please do."

"I knowed I seen this gentleman." She nods to me. "I tol' Mr. Molto that many a time. I seen this man when I go to get on the bus. Now I recollect, they was a man on that bus one Tuesday night, cause I works late that night on account of Ms. Youngner don't get home till near 7:30 on Tuesdays. And I recollect he was a white man, cause we don't get many white gentlemens that ride on the bus goin into town that time a night. Now I just can't remember whether would be this man or another man. I know he look real familiar to me, this man do; but I can't say that's cause I seen him in the station or cause. I seen him on the bus that night."

"You have some doubt that it was Mr. Sabich you saw that night."

"That's right. Can't say it was him. Coulda been him. I just can't say."

"Have you spoken with Mr. Molto about your testimony?"

"Many a time."

"And have you told him of what you've just told us?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

Sandy turns in Molto's direction with a look of silent and lofty reproof.

After court, Stern tells me to go home. He takes hold of Barbara and draws her toward me.

"Take your pretty wife to dinner. She certainly deserves some reward for her fine support."

I tell Stern that I was hoping we would begin talking about the defense, but Sandy shakes his head.

"Rusty, you must forgive me," he says. As chairman of the Bar Association's Committee on Criminal Procedure, he is responsible for a formal dinner to be given tomorrow night in honor of the retirement of Judge Magnuson, who has sat as a felony judge for three decades. "And I must spend an hour or two with Kemp," he adds off-handedly.

"Would you like to tell me where he has been?"

Stern screws up his face.

"Rusty, please. Indulge me." He again takes Barbara's arm and mine. "We have some information. I will tell you that. It bears on my examination tomorrow of Dr. Kumagai. But it is not worth repeating now. It may be a complete misunderstanding. I do not wish to raise false hopes. You are better off in the dark, rather than having your expectations dashed. Please. Accept my advice on that. You have been working long hours. Take an evening off. Over the weekend, we can discuss a defense, if it comes to that."

"'If it comes to that'?" I ask. His meaning is elusive. Is he proposing we rest--offer no evidence? Or is this new information so explosive that the trial will come to a halt?

"Please," Sandy says again. He begins leading us out of the courtroom. Barbara now intervenes. She takes my hand.

So we have a dinner at Rechtner's, an old-fashioned German place near the courthouse which I have always liked. Barbara seems especially cheerful after the pleasant developments today. She, too, was apparently affected by the dour events of yesterday. She suggests a bottle of wine and, once it is open, questions me about the trial. She enjoys the opportunity to finally have me at close quarters. Clearly, my unavailability has frustrated her. She asks serial questions with her large dark eyes still and intent. She is very concerned about the Hair and Fiber stipulation of yesterday. Why did we choose that, rather than testimony? She requires a full account of everything the lab report revealed. Then she inquires at length about Kumagai and what his testimony is expected to show. My responses, as they have been throughout, are laconic. I answer briefly, telling her to eat her meal, while I try to contain my discomfort. As ever, there is an aspect to Barbara's interest that I find frightening. Is her wonder truly as abstracted as it seems? Is it the procedures and puzzles that attract her, more even than their impact on me? I try to shift the conversation, asking what we hear of Nathaniel, but Barbara realizes she is being put off.

"You know," she says, "you're getting like you were before."

"What does that mean?" A terrible evasion.

"You're like that again-distant."

I am where I am and she complains. Even with the wine, a jolt of galvanic anger rockets through me. My face, I imagine, is like my father's with that monumental look of something dark and untamed. I wait until it has passed.

"It is not an easy experience, Barbara. I am trying to get through it. Day by day."

"I want to help you, Rusty," she says. "However I can."

I do not answer. Perhaps I should be angry again, but as always happens, in the wake of rage I am left in the lightless caverns of the deepest sadness of my life.

I reach across the table and take both her hands between mine.

"I have not given up," I say. "I want you to know that. It is very hard now. I am just trying to get to the end. But I am not giving up on anything. I want as much left as possible, if I get the chance to start again. All right?"

She looks at me with a directness she seldom has, but she finally nods. As we are driving home, I ask again about Nat, and Barbara tells me, as she has not before, that she has had a number of calls from the director of his camp. Nathaniel is waking twice a night with screaming nightmares. The director, who originally put this off under the rubric of adjustment, has now decided that the problem is acute. The boy is more than homesick. There is a special anxiety about my fate which has been exaggerated by being away. The director has recommended sending him home.

"How does Nat sound on the phone?"

Barbara has called him twice, during luncheon recesses, the only time he can be reached. I have been with Stern and Kemp on both occasions.

"He sounds fine. He's trying to be brave. But it's one of those things. I think the director is right. He'll be better off home."

I readily agree. I am touched and, with whatever perversity, heartened by the depth of my son's concern. But the fact that Barbara has kept this to herself plays on old strings. I find myself once more on the brink of anger, but I tell myself that I am unreasoning, irrational. The idea, I know, is not to increase my burdens. Yet she has a flawless and undetectable way of keeping things to herself.

As we unlock the door, the phone is ringing. I imagine that it is Kemp or Stern, finally ready to share the big news, whatever it is. Instead, it is Lipranzer, who still does not give his name.

"I think we got somethin," he says. "On that matter." Leon.

"Can you talk now?"

"Not really. I just want to be sure you're free tomorrow night. Late. After I'm off."

"After midnight?"

"Right. Thought maybe we could go for a drive. See a guy?"

"You found him?" My heart picks up. Amazing. Lipranzer found Leon.

"Seems like. I'll know tomorrow for sure. You're gonna love this one, too."

In the phone, I hear someone speaking nearby. "Look, I gotta go. I just wanted to let you know. Tomorrow night," he says. He laughs, a rare sound from Dan Lipranzer, especially in these times. "You're gonna love it," he says.