Presumed innocent

FALL
Chapter 37

Only the poets can truly write of liberty, that sweet, exhilarant thing. In my life, I have not known an ecstasy as dulcet or complete as the occasional instants of shivering delight when I again realize this peril is behind me. Over. Done. Whatever the collateral consequences, whatever the smirking, the unvoiced accusations, the contumely or scorn with which others might treat me, to my face or, more certainly, behind my back-whatever they say, the terror is over; the sleepless early-morning hours I spent trying to catapult myself ahead in time, envisioning a life of mindless toil during the day, and nights working like half the other inmates on my endless train of habeas corpus petitions and, finally, the wary fearful hours of half-sleep on some prison bunk, awaiting whatever perverse terror the night would bring-that horror is past me. And with a sense of earned relief. Every sin of my life seems truly expiated. My society has judged; no punishment is due. Every sticky cliche is right: an enormous weight has been lifted; I feel as if I could By, like a million bucks, ten feet tall. I feel free.

And then, of course, the shadow moves, and I think what I have been through, with enormous anger and bitterness and a swooping descent into depression. As a prosecutor I lost cases, more, naturally, than I would have liked, and had my chance to observe the acquitted defendant in the instant of victory. Most wept; the guiltier they were, the harder they cried. I always thought it was relief, and guilt. But it is, I tell you, this disbelief that this ordeal, this-think of the word-trial has been endured for no apparent point but your disgrace, and your uncompensable damage.

The return to life is slow: an island on which a soft wind moves. The first two days the phone does not stop. How people who did not speak to me for the past four months can imagine that I could accept their glib congratulations astounds me. But they call. And I am calculating enough to know they may be needed again; I accept their good wishes with some aplomb. But I spend most of my time alone. I am overwhelmed by the desire to be out in the waning summer and the stirring fall. One day I hold Nat out of school and we go fishing from a canoe. The day passes and we say almost nothing; but I am content to be with my boy and I feel he knows it. Other days I walk in the forest for hours. Very slowly, I begin to see things and therefore notice what I did not see before. My life for four months has been an oblivion, a hopeless storm of feeling so wild that there was nothing outside it. Every face that presented itself to my imagination did so with cyclonic impact in my interior reaches, which now, gradually, are growing still, and which, I finally realize, will in time again require movement.

For the present, I remain at home. My neighbors say that I should write a book, but I am not ready yet for any enterprise. It becomes clear quickly that Barbara finds my presence disconcerting. Her irritation with me, held so long in check, now returns in a peculiar fashion. She clearly feels unable to speak her mind. There are no overt complaints, no instants of shrill sarcasm. As a result she seems even more confined within herself than ever. I find her staring at me with an intense look, troubled, angry, I think. "What?" I ask. Her chin dimples in disapproval. She sighs. She turns away.

"Are you ever going back to work?" she asks me one day. "I can't get anything done with you around here."

"I'm not bothering you."

"You're a distraction."

"By sitting in the living room? By working in the garden?" I admit that I am trying to provoke her.

She lifts her eyes to heaven; she walks away. Now she never rises to the bait. This battle, such as it is, must be fought in silence.

It is true that I have made no effort to secure employment. The checks continue to arrive every two weeks from the P.A.'s office. Della Guardia, of course, has no justifiable cause to fire me. And it would turn the office on its head were I to return to work. Nico is under siege from the press. The national reports have increased the sense of local embarrassment. What might ordinarily have passed as mere incompetence in the administration of county affairs has been magnified into a major scandal through the lens of coast-to-coast attention. Nico Della Guardia has made us in Kindle County look to the world like benighted backwoods buffoons. The editorial writers and even the few local politicians of the opposing political party demand that Nico appoint a special prosecutor to investigate Tommy Molto. The local Bar Association has opened an inquiry to determine whether Tommy should be disbarred. The common belief is that Nico, in his ambition to vault himself into the mayor's office, pressed too hard and that in response Molto manufactured evidence, in league with Painless Kumagai. Nico's dismissal of the case is widely read as a confession. Only on occasion are other motivations suggested. I saw a Sunday piece by Stew Dubinsky which mentioned the B file and the aroma that surrounded the North Branch courthouse during those years. But nothing ever followed. Whatever the general understanding, I am not inclined to correct it. I will not exculpate Nico or Tommy or Painless. I still have no wish to tell what I know: that it was my seed taken from Carolyn; that those surely were my prints found on that glass in the apartment; that the carpet fibers detected were from my home; that all the calls the records showed were made from my phone. I will never be ready to brook the costs of these admissions. And there is a rough justice in this. Let Tommy Molto enjoy the experience of attempting to disprove what circumstance seemingly makes obvious. I accept the checks.

It is Mac's last act as chief administrative deputy in the P.A.'s office, before taking the bench, to negotiate a date at which my stipend may end. Nico has suggested six more months. I demand an additional year as reparations. Nine months is ultimately agreed. In our final conversation on this subject, Mac honors our friendship mightily by asking me to speak at her induction. This is my first public outing. Ed Mumphrey, who presides in the ceremonial courtroom, introduces me as "a man who knows a great deal about justice," and the three or four hundred persons who have assembled to watch Mac become a judge rise to their feet to applaud me. I am now a local hero. Kindle County's Dreyfus. People regret some of the pleasure that they felt watching me be flogged. Yet it is not possible for me to forget how out of place I feel in society. The trial is still like a shell around me. I cannot reach out.

Because I am one of the three speakers at the ceremony, Nico is not present. But Horgan could not appropriately stay away. I attempt to avoid him, but later, amid the jostling by the hors d'oeuvres tables at the hotel reception, I feel a hand upon my arm.

Raymond has that blarney smile. He does not take the risk of offering his hand.

"How've you been?" he asks in a hearty way.

"I'm fine."

"We should have lunch."

"Raymond, I'll never do another thing in my life that you tell me I should." I turn, but he follows me.

"I put that badly. I would really appreciate it, Rusty, if you would have lunch with me. Please."

Old affections. Old connections. So hard to break; for what else do we have? I give him a date and walk away.

I meet Raymond at his law firm, and he suggests that if I don't mind, we will not go out. Both of us would be better off without some clever item in the I-On-The-Town column about how Raymond H. and acquitted Chiefdep buried the hatchet in Satinay's prime rib. Instead, Raymond has arranged a catered lunch. We eat shrimp remoulade alone in an enormous conference room on that stone table that seems to be composed of a single quarried piece, a thirty-foot slab, polished and posted here as an auction block for the captains of industry. Raymond asks the obligatory questions about Barbara and Nat, and he talks about the law firm. He asks about me.

"I won't be the same," I say.

"I imagine."

"I doubt you can."

"Are you waiting for me to say I'm sorry?"

"You don't have to be sorry. It doesn't do a damn thing for me, anyway."

"So you don't want me to tell you I'm sorry?"

"I'm done giving you advice, Raymond, on how to behave."

"Because I am."

"You should be."

Raymond does not miss a bite. He was prepared for some rancor.

"You know why I'm sorry? Because Nico and Tommy made me believe it. It never dawned on me that they had fucked around with the evidence. I figured they'd do as they were taught. They're gonna recall him, you know. Della Guardia? They're gonna try. There are petitions circulating right now."

I nod. I have read as much. Nico announced last week that there were no grounds for the appointment of a special prosecutor. He expressed his confidence in Molto. And the papers and the TV editorialists pilloried him again. A state legislator made a speech on the floor of the House. This week's word is Cover-up.

"You know what Nico's problem is, don't you? Bolcarro. Bolcarro won't give him the time of day anymore. Augie's gonna sit on his hands on this recall, too. Nico will have to make it on his own. Bolcarro feels like he gave Nico a boost, and the next thing he knows, Della Guardia's a candidate for mayor. Sound familiar?"

"I say, "Mmm-hmm." I want to sound bored. I want to sound petulant. I came here to make my anger plain. I have promised myself that I will not be concerned about how low I sink. If I feel like calling names, I will do it. Throwing punches. Tossing food. There will be no point below which I will not descend.

"Look," he says suddenly, "put yourself in my shoes. This was a hard thing for everybody."

"Raymond," I say, "what in the fuck did you do to me? I ate your shit for twelve years."

"I know."

"You were out to ax me."

"I told you, Nico made me believe it. Once you believe it, I'm sort of a victim in the whole thing."

"Go fuck yourself," I say. "And when you're done fucking yourself, go fuck yourself again." I wipe the corner of my mouth with the linen napkin. But I make no move to leave. This is just the beginning. Raymond watches me, bitterness and consternation moving through his ruddy face. Finally he clears his throat and tries to change the subject.

"What are you going to do, Rusty, with your career?"

"I have no idea."

"I want you to know I'll help however I can. If you like, I'll see what's available here. If there's anything else in town that interests you, just say so. Whatever I'm able to do, I will."

"The only job outside the P.A.'s office that ever sounded good to me was something you mentioned-being a judge. Think you can do that? Do you think you can give me back the life I had?" I look at him levelly, intent on letting him know that this tear cannot be repaired. My tone is sardonic. No judicial candidate can carry the baggage of a murder indictment. But Raymond does not flinch.

"All right," he says. "Do you want me to explore that? See if I can find you a seat?"

"You're full of it, Raymond. You don't have that kind of clout anymore."

"You may be wrong about that, my friend. Augie Bolcarro thinks I'm his best buddy now. Just as soon as he got me out of the way, he decided I could be useful. He calls me up with questions twice a week. I'm not kidding, either. He refers to me as an elder statesman. Isn't that something? If you'd like, I'll speak with him. I'll have Larren speak with him."

"Don't do that," I tell him quickly. "I don't want your help. And I don't want Larren's, either."

"What's wrong with Larren? I would figure you'd worship that guy."

"He's your friend, for one thing."

Horgan laughs. "Boy, you came up here with one idea in mind, didn't you? You just want to piss all over me." Raymond pushes the plate aside. "You want to give me twelve years' backtalk in five minutes? Fine, go ahead and do it. But listen to me. I didn't set you up. You want to take a dump on somebody? Tommy deserves it. So does Nico, as far as I'm concerned. Join the crowd. If you want, I'm sure you can contact the Bar Association. They'll move you to head of the line and let you take a public crap all over both of them."

"They already called. I told them I had nothing to say."

"So why me, huh? I know you didn't like seeing me on the witness stand, but did I lie up there? I didn't say a goddamn thing that didn't happen. And you know that, brother."

"You lied to me, Raymond."

"When?" For the first time, he's surprised.

"When you gave me the B file. When you told me how Carolyn asked for it. When you told me that it was a bullshit allegation."

"Oh," says Horgan slowly. He takes a moment to adjust. But he does not falter. Raymond Horgan, as I always knew, is tough. "Okay. Now I get it. Some little birdie has been whispering in your ear, huh? Who was it? Lionel Kenneally? He was always your asshole buddy. You know, there are a few things you might like to hear about him, too. Nobody's a hero, Rusty. You got your nose bent out of shape about that? Fine. I'm not a hero. Some other people weren't heroes. That was nothing to do with you being charged with murder." He points at me, still unflummoxed.

"And how about my getting a fair trial, Raymond? Did you think about that? Did you know whether or not Larren was going to tool me because he wanted to keep that thing under wraps?"

"He's not that kind of guy."

"He's not what kind of guy? We're talking about somebody who sold his robe. Come off it. The only thing he cared about-or you, for that matter-was making sure nobody found out. Let me ask you something, Raymond. How was it that my case got drawn to Larren? Who gave Ed Mumphrey the call?"

"Nobody gave Mumphrey any calls."

"Just dumb luck, huh?"

"So far as I know."

"Did you ever ask?"

"Larren and I didn't talk about your case. Ever. Not once that I remember. I was a witness, and as strange as it may sound to you, we both behaved properly. Look," he says. "I know what you think. I know how it sounds. But, Rusty, you're talking about bullshit. It's something that happened to the guy nine years ago, when he had his head stuck completely up his ass."

"How did it happen, Raymond?" I ask, my curiosity for a moment greater than my anger.

"Rusty, I don't know what the fuck went on. I talked to him about it exactly once. And the conversation didn't last any longer than it had to. He was drunk on his ass half the time in those days. You know, she was the P.O. Guys on bond would give her their sob story. She started putting in a word with the judge. And he'd go along. I'm sure he thought it'd make her happier to lift her skirt. One day, one of these guys she's helped out gives her a C-note for her troubles. She brings it to Larren to figure out what to do. He thinks it's funny. She does, too. They go out and blow it on dinner. One thing leads to another. They had a high old time, I guess. He always thought it was like a fraternity prank. They both did."

"And you hired her, knowing this?"

"Rusty, that's how I hired her. Larren was giving me all this hearts-and-flowers crap about how broke she was from paying off her law school tuition and making 11K a year as a P.O. I said, fine, I'd double her salary, but knock this shit off. I thought I'd leave her out there as a deputy. Nobody ever liked those assignments. And with two other deputies to watch her, what could she do? And instead, it turns out that she did a helluva job. A hell of a job. She wasn't long on scruples, but the lady had a lot of brains. And I finally got Larren transferred downtown. And he performed with real distinction. I'll go to my grave believing that. No one will ever be able to knock Larren's integrity on his handling of a felony case. A year later they were both so respectable they didn't even talk to one another. If she exchanged ten words with Larren in the last five, six years, I'd be amazed. And, you know, as the time passed, it got to the point that I could see what he saw in her. You know what came of that."

This, of course, is the answer to what puzzled me last spring. Why did Carolyn make her move first for me rather than Raymond, when she perceived the prospective vacuum at the head of the office. It was not my manliness, my dark good looks. I was fresher, nowhere near as wise. She probably figured Raymond would know better. He should have; maybe he even did. Maybe that's why she didn't end up with what she wanted, why Raymond gave no sign of having been pained. He saw her coming. He knew what to look for.

"Well, isn't that nice," I say. "Everything worked out. Until you get a certain piece of anonymous correspondence. And so you gave her that file to trunk."

"No, sir. No way. I gave it to her. I didn't know what it was. I told her to look at it. And to bear in mind that she could never tell who might come looking over her shoulder. That's all I said. What do you want from me, Rusty? I'm seeing the gal by then. Am I supposed to pretend? If I was such a burn, I'd have done just what you said. Headed for the shredder with the thing."

I shake my head. We both know he is much too careful for that. No way to tell who may come looking for the letter. That's the kind of job that a Medici like Raymond knows he should hand off. And with instructions that will never bounce back on him. Very artful. Investigate. See what's going on. And what goes unspoken is that if it has to do with Larren and you, clean the mess up very carefully. Carolyn certainly tried. I don't have to wonder anymore who had Leon's arrest file from the 32nd District.

"And when she got cooled, you ran and collected the file?"

"When she got 'cooled,' as you put it, I got a call from His Honor. You know, I had told him about the letter when the thing came in. So he's on the phone the day they find the body. Pure Larren, too. He's always been a sanctimonious asshole. He says to me, It might be politically sensitive, why don't I collect that file?" Raymond laughs. Alone. I do not relax my severe expression. "Listen, Rusty, when you asked me, I gave you the thing."

"You had no choice. And you tried to mislead me anyway."

"Look," he says, "he's my friend."

And the key to Raymond's black support. If Raymond had ever prosecuted Larren Lyttle, or let somebody else do it, he could have just as well resigned as run for reelection. But I don't mention that. Disgust has finally displaced some of my anger.

I stand up to leave.

"Rusty," he says to me, "I meant what I said. I want to help you. You give me the high sign and I'll do whatever you want. You want me to kiss Augie Bolcarro's ass in Wentham Square at noon so he'll make you a judge, I'll do it. You want to work for the big bucks, I'll try to arrange that, too. I know I owe you."

What he means is that he wants to keep me happy, now more than ever. But his genuflection is still soothing in a way. You cannot continue pounding a man who's on his knees. I say nothing, but I nod.

On the way to the door, Raymond again points out all the modern art along the walls. He apparently has forgotten that he gave the same dime lecture to Stern and me. As we're parting by the elevator, he reaches for me and tries to take me into an embrace.

"It was a terrible thing," he says.

I break away, I actually shove him slightly. But there are people around and Horgan pretends not to have noticed. The elevator arrives. Horgan snaps his fingers. Something has come to mind.

"You know," he says quietly, "there was one thing I promised myself I was gonna ask you today."

"What's that, Raymond?" I ask as I step inside.

"Who killed her? I mean, who do you think?"

I say nothing. I remain impassive. Then, as the elevator doors begin to close, I nod to Raymond Horgan in a gentlemanly way.