The Laws of our Fathers

DECEMBER 12, 1995

Sonny

Tuesday morning status call. Open house in the chamber of horrors. I've had perhaps two hours' sleep. My blood is hot tar; wakefulness at instants feels like an out-of-body experience. And I have lost that convenient armor on my emotions. Words and events strike straight at my viscera with nothing in between. I'm in no condition for the sad procession taking place before me.

The courtroom teems. Clients and families huddle with attorneys. Cops and PAs, probation officers, the State Defenders, all the felony court regulars greet each other in the corridors and the adjacent lawyers' and witness rooms. They agree on dates for the next appearance or talk out the plea deals, by which most of these cases are finally resolved. Annie polices the spectators' rows, directs defendants to the front, points out the lawyers or court personnel they need to see, while Marietta goes on crying out case numbers, passing up files, and reminding me why they're on the call – for arraignment or guilty plea, status report or ruling on motions. Her memory is phenomenal, her notes precise. This guy was supposed to bring in proof of employment; that lady has to make a urine drop this week, per prior order of Judge Simone.

Some of the morning's crimes have a touch of bathos. One hapless schmo paid a policewoman posing as a hooker $50 to suck her toes. When she badged him, he begged her, tear-struck, to take $400 to let him go. Wired to avoid entrapment claims, she had no choice but to charge the bribery. But for the most part we wallow in sadness.

'You're old for this line of work,' the transport deputy says, muscling a white-whiskered defendant, a drunk or junkie by the depleted looks of him, out of the lockup toward the bench. He is charged with armed robbery: razor to the throat.

'Don't I know,' the defendant answers and arrives before me with a wistful look.

Scanning his rap sheet and its cryptic notations – nine convictions by my count – I do the math. 'How many days ago, Mr Johnson, were you released from the penitentiary?'

There is no type that has not arrived before me: a senior vice-president of First Kindle arrested in the North End for scoring smack. A seventy-two-year-old grandmother, a valued employee for forty-four years at a garden store, who began a few months ago, for reasons no one can explain, to jigger the receipts, making off with almost $32,000. Often, I imagine, if I remain here long enough, every creature that rode with Noah will appear, charged with something.

But usually when I lift my eyes it's a young black man who's there, his story, told in his bail or pre-sentence report, numbingly the same – poverty, violence, a shattered fatherless family, little schooling, nobody to care. There is often a special sulkiness that grips them when they face the bench to find another woman. Women have been trying to tame them all their lives, at home, in school, mothers and caseworkers and truant officers whose remonstrations and example never answered the one question that seems to be boiling away in so many: What's this thing they call a man, does he have a peaceful, rightful place in this world? I want to lecture occasionally. 'There was no father in my home, either. I understand, I do.'

That's never said. It's enough to move ahead. Some come before me defiant, making little effort to hide their hatred for the entire apparatus. But most are simply terrified and clueless. A nineteen-year-old, here for sentencing on a jewelry-store window smash-and-grab, a boy with a head of curls as disorganized as rubbish, wears a jeans company's T-shirt that reads unbutton my fly, a message not calculated to impress the court. The battle-hardened, on the other hand, are often disarmingly familiar.

'Judge, she sayin I got to take six on this.' The lank defendant, with a sleeveless ‘I that reveals arms scored by tattoos and scars, gestures without respect at Gina, the P D beside him. 'Judge, man, I's just hidin in that store when they cracked me, Judge, I din't even take nothin, Judge, six, that's cold.'

'You're on probation, Mr Williams, for another armed burglary.'

'Oh, Judge, that's just a little ol knife, that ain't but a can opener. Six is cold, Judge.'

'Yes or no,' I say. We both know it will be ten years after trial. Even I, who swore before taking the bench to remember a trial is a constitutional right, have found myself whacking defendants who rack twelve out of sport or in defiance of overwhelming proof. There is no alternative. I will dispose of a thousand cases this year and have time to try no more than fifty.

Called to justice, no one stakes a proud claim to their crimes; no one believes these events define them. Their misdeeds, even if only hours old, seem remote as legends. Here at the time of judgment, everyone is mystified by what occurred. Their anger, their isolation, their need for whatever self-respect they were striking toward is, for the time being, wholly forgotten. Most cannot explain. They pensively murmur, 'Don't know, Judge,' when I ask, as I do often, 'Why?' As they stand here, almost everyone knows better.

This morning I sentence Leon McCandless. Six weeks ago, Leon met a lady, Shaneetha Edison, who was at the Evening Shade Tavern with her three-year-old. By now, I know all about this kind of place. The fact that people have no money is everywhere. There are only a few lights that work, including the reflecting beer sign behind the bar, and what they reveal is filthy and broken. The paneling in the room is so old it has started to fray. The toilet in the back is stained, with a seat that's been cracked in half and a cistern that leaks and is always running. The whole tavern smells of rot. The people here are poor and drunk. There are customers all day, little groups of men standing around, talking stuff nobody believes and now and then dealing little bits of dope in coveys in the corners.

After a drink or two, Shaneetha asked Leon for a smoke and he went to the corner for some loosies – individual cigarettes the Korean grocers sell from the pack for two bits apiece. When he returned, another fellow had his hand inside Shaneetha's dress. A classic tale: Frankie and Johnny. A moment later, the three-year-old, still at his mother's side, was dead. In Area 7, through whatever mysterious means they seem to employ there, by which almost three-quarters of the black defendants seem to speak freely in spite of Miranda warnings and a lifetime knowledge that confessing seldom makes anything easier – in the police station, Leon, the defendant who stands before me, explained about the gun he'd drawn. 'Damn thing just went off,' he said.

'Thing just went off,' his lawyer, Billy Witt, repeats now for my benefit. None of us can tell in how many layers of his psyche Leon meant to shoot. I give him fifty years.

'People just can't imagine. They don't get it' That's what the coppers and the prosecutors are always saying. I scoffed when I arrived here and now hear myself making similar remarks. People think they understand this. They see it re-enacted on TV, and in the privacy of their homes, in the dopey glow of the television, thinking whatever dreamy thought they have, figure they have the picture – they know what it's like to be scared, to see violence, to feel the antagonism of black and white. But that does nothing to convey the shock of foreignness, the distance between their world and mine which I feel in every glance, or the dismal truth that the average citizens of Dusseldorf or Kyoto, people whom my mother regarded as enemies, now share more of my life than four-fifths of the young men who stand before me, my supposed countrymen. I revert all the time to the structuralist stuff I studied in graduate school, about thought and culture and custom being one, and think, again and again, We have to change it all.

After a brief lunch, as the call is winding to an end, we reach the Crime of the Day. Four members of the Five Street Diggers, a Gangster Outlaw set, stand before me for arraignment on a newly filed complaint. Rudy Singh has stepped up for the state. Two cops, Tic-Tacs, are beside him with their beerpots, sweaters, and running shoes. Gina Devore, the PD, takes the lead for the defense.

Singh explains the background. As she was leaving the jail where she had visited her brother, a Five Street homegirl, Rooty-Too, was snatched – kidnapped – by other Goobers, the Hanging Hipsters, a rival group within the gang. I decline Singh's invitation to describe Rooty-Too's injuries in greater detail than saying she is hospitalized with contusions, missing teeth, and lacerations in the vaginal area. The Five Streets were desperate for revenge. They captured a Hipster, a ghetto star known as Romey Tuck, beat him, and then chopped off both his arms with machetes. The defendants were arrested in an apartment at Fielder's Green. There one forearm sat bleeding onto newspaper on the linoleum kitchen table, as it was being displayed to other Five Streets as a trophy.

'Is the issue bond?' I ask.

'Judge,' says Gina, 'the defendants are juveniles. The state's petitioned to try them as adults.' Good, I almost say.

'Judge, they're being held in the jail. You know what that's like.' In for violence within the gang, they may not be protected by the usual strict codes. None of these boys is full-grown – two are rangy but not filled out, the smallest is still not much over five feet. I understand. 'Judge, if you'd consider bail. They can't go to school. Their visiting privileges are limited. One of these young men, Marcus – my client Marcus Twitchell -' Gina's eyes cheat southward to her file to be 100 percent certain she has got the name. 'Marcus is an honor student. He was selected last summer for Project Restore. He was -'

Marcus, the last arrested, has been brought straight here from the station and has not yet been processed. He's still 'G-down' or' Gangster down,' dressed in gang attire, which includes a satiny Starter jacket in the glistening aquamarine of the Miami Dolphins and gangsta baggies hiked down so his belt line's at pubic level, revealing several inches of his striped briefs. His Brownies -brown garden gloves worn for scuffing, shooting, and leaving no fingerprints – still hang out of his side pocket. His eyes never reach above a spot two or three feet below me. He is slowly chewing gum. I ask about his record.

'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 amp; 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 amp; 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.

'All right,' says Hobie, 'but just to get us all straight: you did lie to the police, didn't you?'

'As I told Mr Molto yesterday, I wasn't completely candid when I first spoke to Lieutenant Montague.' Eddgar, wrung out after yesterday, after being handballed by the prosecutor, after enduring whatever the papers and TV stations wrought from his performance, sits here in quiet command of himself. He is neat, if subdued. He has answered most questions thus far with almost no visible movement – not a hand raised, not a tic of feeling in his face.

'Well, as a matter of fact, Senator, as I read the reports, what you told them the first day – September 7 – was that your wife had gone out, and you couldn't account for it. Right? Isn't that what you told them, Senator?'

'That's what I told them.'

'And that was a lie?'

'Asked and answered,' says Tommy. I overrule. The cross-examiner has the right, in my view, to test the sincerity of a witness's mea culpa.

'It was a lie,' Eddgar says at last. He cannot constrain a quick glance at the jury box and the press row.

'Okay,' says Hobie, 'and if I understand your testimony yesterday, you lied in the first place because you felt admitting that someone like you knew someone like Hardcore would be embarrassing, right?'

'That was one factor. I'd also say I didn't realize that my projected presence had anything to do with the incident. It was being presented to me at that stage as a drive-by.'

'Well, let's talk about the embarrassment part, Senator. You didn't think it was wrong to be trying to help the poor community, did you?'

'Everybody knows where I stand on that, Mr Turtle.'

'So what's the problem?' Hobie lifts his round face and lets the question linger a second. 'Was it embarrassing that you'd tried to involve B S D in politics, or were there specific steps you'd taken you didn't care to talk about?'

For the first time, Eddgar moves around in his seat. 'The latter, I suppose.'

'The latter,' says Hobie. He walks a few steps, looking at his feet, then stops to abruptly face the witness. 'Senator, fact is, you haven't told the whole truth yet about what went on between you and BSD, isn't that so?'

'I've answered the questions that have been asked, Mr Turtle.'

'And the questions, you well know, have been based on what Hardcore said, correct?'

'I don't know what they've been based on exactly. I suppose that's one basis.'

'Well, let's get specific, Senator. This meeting. You remember that? Last summer? Nile. Core. T-Roc. Just the four of you, sittin round cozy in the back of T-Roc's armored limousine? Remember?'

'I've seen the scene reconstructed on all three local channels, Mr Turtle. It's firmly in my mind.' The reporters' laughter rings out. Eddgar manages the trace of a smile.

'And there in that limo, you preached at them, right? You're a preacher by training, Senator, aren't you?'

‘I am.'

'And you preached, didn't you? You tried to explain that if they would organize voters, support campaigns, they would have legitimate power. Right?'

'Right'

'They could be leaders like other political leaders. With influence. Because they had the same source. Votes and money. Am I correct?'

'That's the gist of what I suggested.'

'Now, were these suggestions to get B S D involved in mobilizing poor voters – was that completely altruistic on your part?' 'I'm sorry?' replies Eddgar.

'Well, what were you gonna get out of this, Senator?'

'Me? Nothing.'

'Just bein progressive, huh?'

‘I believe so.'

'When you ran four years ago, for state controller, you lost by 50,000 votes, didn't you?' 'That's right'

'Would increased turnout in the African-American community help you, especially if B SD's organizing effort became the model for other gangs?'

Molto's on his feet. 'Judge, you can see the irrelevancy of this. This is just what I was afraid of when we were in chambers.'

I'm curious myself about what Hobie thinks he's doing. I point to him.

'Your Honor, the state's theory, what they've been sayin, is that Dr Eddgar was the intended target of this shooting. Isn't that their theory?'

'I believe that was printed in the papers first,' I say coolly. The non sequitur has its intended effect. Hobie's eyes skitter away and a half-spoken word briefly rattles in his throat before he dares look my way again.

'Well, okay,' he says, 'but Dr Eddgar has admitted he knows no motive for his son to do that. So shouldn't I be entitled to show there was another motive for this shooting, one which has nothing to do with Nile Eddgar?'

'Is that what you're doing?'

'That's what I'm doing.'

'Is he entitled to do that, Mr Molto?'

'Judge, I don't know anything about this other motive.'

'That's why each side gets a turn, Mr Molto.' I don't find this line particularly funny, but the room, reacting to the lapse in tension, explodes in laughter. Tommy often deserves what he gets, but I had no intention of showing him up. He accepts my apology desultorily. 'Let's hear a few more questions,' I say. Hobie retreats to the podium, where he probes his beard while he examines his notes.

'Senator, set me straight on one thing. Core and T-Roc, they did offer you a bribe to get Kan-el out, didn't they?'

Eddgar mulls. 'Not in so many words.'

'Did the words they spoke, Senator, sound like somebody offering a bribe?'

'They seemed to be approaching the subject, talking about what I could get out of this. And I cut off the discussion. I told them they could do something for themselves, for their community, and help Kan-el's situation.'

'And then what did you tell them, Senator?' Hobie pauses to lift his face toward Eddgar as he did a minute ago, with the same dead-cool air, knowing he's going to like what's coming next better than the witness. 'Let me help you, can I? You explained to Hardcore and T-Roc that they should understand how really powerful people approached such things, didn't you? Didn't you tell them that the way the world, your world, worked, not only could they secure Kan-el's release, but they could get money, not have to give it? Am I right?'

Eddgar briefly closes his eyes. 'Yes,' he says.

'And you became quite enthusiastic, didn't you? You told them if they would commit to organize their community, you could get them seed money for the effort from the state central committee of the Democratic Farmers amp; Union Party? Right? And that once they were political players, their ability to influence the decision-makers who controlled Kan-el's release would be much, much greater.'

'Judge!' screams Tommy. 'My God. What is this?' Behind him, as if I needed the hint, Raymond Horgan, whom I hadn't noticed back beyond the glass, has also come to his feet. Fearing the array against him, Hobie steps right before the bench.

'For one thing, Your Honor, it's called impeachment. Hardcore said he never talked about money with Senator Eddgar. And that's just for one.'

'We were supposed to be hearing motive testimony,' I remind Hobie. He gives me his bad-dog look, caught again. Meanwhile, I leaf in the bench book for my notes of yesterday: 'Hard denies offering bribe. Never disc'd with Edd give/rec $.' I tell Hobie to be quick.

He repeats his question: 'Did you tell Hardcore and T-Roc you could get money from the party? Yes or no?'

'Yes,' says Eddgar, with resignation. The reporters are writing furiously.

'And they scoffed, did they not?'

'I suppose. I suppose you'd call their reaction scoffing. Basically, they said when they saw the money they'd believe it.'

'And so, Senator, did you make a request to the DFU for seed money to get this street gang involved in politics?'

Like a spotlight coming on again, Raymond stands once more. Seeing him, Tommy follows suit.

'Judge, this is getting ridiculous,' says Tommy.

Hobie's before the bench, hands lifted prayerfully. 'Two more questions.'

On the witness stand, Loyell Eddgar has pivoted to observe my ruling. He probes his forehead unconsciously, while the blue eyes, mysterious as moonstones, glow with some faint appeal by which I'm immediately determined to be unmoved. 'Thought she was a friend of his.'

'Two more,' I say. Molto slaps his thighs, and turns first to Rudy, then to Horgan, in exasperation. There is a ruffle in the room now, the sibilance of whispers. Annie smacks her gavel. 'Let's proceed,' I say.

Suzanne reads back the question: Did Eddgar ask the DFU for money?

'Yes. But I was vague – I didn't really say what it was for. I said it was an organizing project I was working on for my own campaign.'

'And did you receive the money?'

'Yes.'

'How much?'

'Ten thousand dollars.' Hobie turns his broad face to me to see how he's doing. The check, I realize. But I'm still missing something. Molto has made no new objection. Instead, Rudy and he are huddled whispering.

'And did you make a plan about how you would get the money to BSD?'

Eddgar's head is down and rests on his open hand. He is just getting himself through this. He cannot see the courtroom now. It's merely voices.

'Since the check was to my campaign, it was necessary to cash the check and to deliver cash to BSD.'

'And who did you ask to do that?' 'My son.'

'The defendant here on trial, Nile Eddgar?' 'The defendant, yes.'

At the defense table, Hobie has the envelope Horgan gave him. He applies a stick-on marker to the check. Defendant's Exhibit 7. He slaps it down on the rail of the jury box and Eddgar identifies it as the $10,000 check he received from the DFU. Hobie asks if it's endorsed. Eddgar slowly changes glasses, reaching into an inner jacket pocket for his little half-frames, then turns the check over.

'It is endorsed.'

'Whose signatures appear there?'

'Mine, and below that Nile's.'

'Is there a teller stamp there to note cash received?'

'Yes.'

'Are there any initials in the cash-received block?'

'Yes.'

'Whose?'

'Nile's.'

'Is there a date on the stamp?' 'July 7.'

Hobie's at the prosecution table, pointing to their cardboard evidence box. Singh hands him People's 1, the blue plastic bag, the two packets of money.

'And did you have a conversation with Nile on July 7 in which you-all agreed he'd cash this check, as you'd discussed?'

Tommy, visibly subdued now, objects that it's hearsay. I overrule, since the conversation concerned Nile's future acts.

'We did.'

'Have you ever seen Nile with a blue plastic bag like this one, People's 1A?'

'The Tribune comes in it. I know he gets the Tribune.' 'Did he have a bag like this with him when you gave him the check on July 7?'

Eddgar briefly lowers his head again. ‘I want to say yes,' he says, 'but I can't completely recall.'

'Well, sir, did Nile ever tell you he'd delivered this money to Hardcore?'

'Judge,' Tommy says lamely. This time the question calls for hearsay. Hobie sees that, too, and withdraws it.

'Well, let's get this far, Senator. Did Nile ever have $10,000 in any bank account you knew of?'

'No.'

'In fact, did he borrow money from you at times?' 'In the past. Especially before he got this job. Less so recently.'

'And when he borrowed, what kind of amounts are we talking about?'

'Fifty. One hundred. Five hundred for the security on his apartment.'

'Okay.' Hobie strolls. He's doing it. The highwire he's on is the nerve of victory. This has come so quickly now, with so little preparation, that I want to call a halt to the proceedings just so I can think. But Hobie is rolling on.

'By the way, what did you do about Kan-el? Did you ever do anything?'

‘I made some calls.'

'And did you make any progress? Could you help?' ‘I don't know if I was helpful or not. It was a very complicated situation, requiring a lot of research and attention over time.' 'Did you ever inform BSD that you had made this start?' ‘I did.'

'When, and who did you speak to?'

'Hardcore. Right before Labor Day.'

'Was that conversation in person or by phone?'

‘I called him from my office and arranged to see him in person.'

'And where did you meet?'

'We had a brief meeting at Grace Street.'

'Now, at that time, Senator, had BSD engaged in any of the political organizing that was supposed to follow this payment?'

'None that I had heard of or could see.'

'And did you discuss that with Hardcore – the DFU money for B S D, the money you'd promised and which you'd asked Nile to deliver?'

'Yes.'

'You were pretty angry in that conversation, weren't you, Senator?'

'Very, very put out'

'Did you tell Hardcore he had taken advantage of the situation?' 'I told him I felt he was dishonest, yes.' 'Didn't you in fact threaten to turn him in to the prosecutor's office?' 'Yes.'

'And did you tell Nile you'd made that threat to go to the P A s?'

'No. I didn't regard it as a safe subject. As I told Mr Molto yesterday, Nile and I'd had words about my intentions toward Ordell from the start.'

'But, at any rate, sir, a few days later, when Nile delivered a message that Hardcore wanted to speak to you again, you weren't surprised?'

'No, I wasn't'

The pace between them, lawyer and witness, is emotionless, almost mechanical. The truth in all its homely plainness steps into the courtroom like an orphaned child. But there is no minimizing the impact on me and everyone else. In the ten years I've been around criminal courtrooms, as a prosecutor, as a judge, I'm not sure this has occurred before. A defense lawyer in the course of a cross-examination has persuaded me his client is probably innocent. Nile's fingerprints on the bag and on the bills which Hardcore produced now have a source. And Hardcore's motive to kill Eddgar on his own is established – the threat to go to the PAs, a challenge to Core's ego as much as his well-being. I have a jangling feeling that the details may not completely work out.

But they seldom do. It's close enough, and more than sufficient to raise a reasonable doubt. In the jury box, the news is rolling through. Dubinsky, for the benefit of Stanley Rosenberg, is gesticulating at the money, which Hobie has just tossed down on the prosecution table, as if it's refuse.

In the meantime, I steal a look at Nile. A few days ago, while Kratzus was on the stand, I glanced over there and saw Nile with his chin on the defense table blowing paper balls into a goal he'd made by placing a foam cup on its side. He has seemed so isolated from the proceedings at moments, I've wondered if there are headphones beneath the unmanageable ruff of hair over his ears. Only now, at the instant of his exculpation, has he shown much emotion, and as usual, it seems inappropriate. Facing the wall, rather than the witness, he has thrown his face into his hands. Always live to the focus of my attention, Hobie saunters that way, and, while pretending to fiddle with his notes, elbows Nile's shoulder so hard his client gasps. Nile straightens up and his arms drop to the table, but he refuses to look in his father's direction, even as Hobie prepares to face Eddgar again.

'Judge.' It's Molto. His dried-up hair is mussed. His dark-ringed eyes open and close, as he briefly loses his train of thought. He's too deflated now to bother to rise. 'Judge, can I get a foundation here? Was Nile present for this conversation? The one where the Senator was arguing with Hardcore?'

Watching Tommy, Hobie displays a benign smile. 'Do you understand what Mr Molto's really asking, Dr Eddgar? He wants to know how come I know about all this and he doesn't?' Hobie faces the witness. 'He's right, isn't he, Senator? Let's be clear. You didn't mention any of this to Mr Molto, did you?'

‘I answered the questions he asked. As you pointed out, we were very guarded with one another.'

'But you knew the significance of money going from your son to Hardcore, didn't you?'

'Neither the prosecutors nor the police ever talked to me about the money. And even when I began to learn the details of the case, it didn't dawn on me at first, Mr Turtle, what the connection might be. By then, Nile had been indicted and I raised the subject with you – as you know – and you told me to leave the defense to you and that -' Eddgar stops cold. 'Go on.'

'You told me you might not even have to get into it.'

'Fooled you, didn't I?' Hobie asks. He has the nerve to issue a luminous smile, and then, as if that were not enough, he takes a single step toward the witness and actually bows fully from the waist. It's an astonishing moment. When he straightens up, he boils Eddgar, for just a second, in a look of absolute hatred. Eddgar absorbs this with more composure than I might have imagined. He touches a finger to the notch above his lip and studies Hobie in silence. Somewhere, a few seconds ago, we stopped trying this lawsuit and entered another realm, something quite beyond me which is wholly between these two men.

'Mr Turtle, are you finished?' I ask. He's about nailed the coffin lid shut on the prosecution. And probably on Eddgar's political career. The newshounds will run Eddgar till he drops. But Hobie's preening over the remains does not sit well.

In response, Hobie looks up at me for quite some time. It's another striking gesture, the large brown face inscrutable, the eyes solemn and complex. Fleetingly, he seems, if not gentle, at least humane. Then he says, mildly, 'No, Your Honor, I'm not done.' I tell him coolly to get on with whatever he has left, and he walks a bit, considering his subject, before pausing in front of Eddgar.

'You told Molto here yesterday you know of no motive for your son to kill you, right, Senator?'

'Not as far as I was concerned.'

'In fact, sir, since he learned to speak, has Nile Eddgar ever threatened or carried out physical violence of any kind against you?'

'No.'

'How about his mother?'

'He wouldn't hurt a fly, Mr Turtle.'

Singh prods Molto's shoulder. Tommy waves a hand: Who cares? Singh moves to strike Eddgar's answer as non-responsive, which I allow.

'Indeed, Senator, as you mentioned, you agreed to pay your son's bail?' ‘I did.'

'Mr Tuttle,' I interject, ‘I think I see where you're going. If I'm right, don't even consider it.' He's about to ask whether Eddgar believes Nile is guilty. Deciding that is my job, not Eddgar's.

'Your Honor, I was going one better.' He faces Eddgar. 'Isn't it a fact, Senator, that you know – have personal knowledge – that Nile Eddgar did not commit this crime?' Over his shoulder, he looks back to me, as if to say, How's that? This man, this Hobie! Now what?

'You may answer,' I instruct Eddgar, 'but based only on your personal knowledge.'

'How would I know?' he asks me. ‘I have opinions.'

'No opinions. I don't want your opinions.'

'Let me withdraw the question and start again more slowly,' Hobie offers. Standing still in the brightest spot of courtroom light, Hobie momentarily considers his manicure. 'Senator, let's go back to Montague. He came to see you again on September 11 and you told him that what you said on September 7 wasn't true, didn't you?'

‘I did.'

'On September 11, you told Montague you had intended to be at Grace Street the morning Mrs Eddgar was killed. You told him how you had tried to involve B SD in politics, correct?'

'That's right.'

'So how'd he get you to change your mind?'

Eddgar shakes his shoulders in equivocal fashion. 'Conscience, I suppose, Mr Tuttle. Obviously, I could tell from the fact that he was asking the same questions again, he was somewhat skeptical.'

'Skeptical? Well, let's set the scene now, Senator. You're the chair of the State Senate's Committee on Criminal Justice?'

'Yes.'

'Your committee helps decide on funding for police programs all over the state?' 'Yes.'

'So Montague, he's a lieutenant on that police force, he knew better than to take a rubber hose to the likes of you, didn't he? He was polite to you, wasn't he?'

'Always.'

'Did he tell you, Senator, they had a witness who contradicted you?'

‘I don't recall that.'

'But you changed your story anyway?' 'That's what happened.'

Hobie moves one way, then back, his tongue tucked meditatively in the corner of his mouth. 'Well, Senator, here's what I'm wondering. If he didn't tell you what Hardcore had said – if Montague didn't – had you received that information, Senator, from some other source, say from one of these police connections you have around the state?'

Eddgar takes a long moment. His upper body rises and falls as he sighs.

‘I had an idea of the substance. Someone had called me. A friend from the state capitol. I really would prefer not to give a name.'

'Don't need it, Senator,' says Hobie with a magnanimous wave. 'But your friend – did he describe the report?' 'In a fashion.' 'Did he read it to you?' 'Yes. Portions.'

'So you knew on September 11 that Hardcore had implicated Nile?' 'Yes.'

'You knew Hardcore had produced some money to the police, which he claimed Nile gave him?' 'Right.'

'You knew that Hardcore had talked about meeting you in T-Roc's vehicle?' ‘I did.'

'And you knew, Senator, that the plan supposedly had been to murder you?'

‘I knew all of that'

'And that's why you changed your story, isn't it?'

'Learning what I had, Mr Turtle, I could see that the circumstances of my planned meeting with Hardcore on September 7 were obviously material to what the police were looking into, and when Montague repeated his questions, I answered them correctly this time.'

'So you decided to tell them what they had already heard from Hardcore?'

‘I told them the truth.'

Hobie's rambling again, striding briskly over the carpet. 'Well, you didn't tell them about the money from the D F U, did you? Even though, Senator, you knew as early as September 11, whenever that report was read to you, that Hardcore was claiming he'd gotten $10,000 from Nile for this shooting? You still kept that information about the DFU $10,000 to yourself, right?'

'We've covered that, Mr Tuttle.'

'Have we? You said you didn't see a connection at first, because Molto and the police weren't giving you information about the case. But you did have information.'

Mostly for the sport of hindering him, Molto objects that Hobie's badgering. Tommy should probably just let him go. Hobie's exhibiting symptoms of the trial lawyer's chronic ailment, overtrying his case. Having proved enough, he' s trying to prove some more. Now he wants to show that Eddgar won't be named Father of the Year, something Molto established yesterday. But even after I tell him to move on to another topic, Hobie continues in a personal vein.

'Wasn't it you, Senator, who suggested the police contact Nile? Didn't you do that on September 7?'

‘I don't think I was suggesting that. Once I said I didn't know why June had gone to Grace Street, in that first interview, Montague asked me to speculate. Could I imagine any reason she would go down there? I didn't know how to answer. I told him my son was a probation officer and had cases down there and perhaps they were going to meet there for some reason. Mr Turtle, what can I say? I was lying. It's that tangled web Shakespeare warned us of

'Well, okay, Senator, but there's something about that interview on September 7 I've never understood. I've read the police reports a number of times, but they don't seem to have asked you about this. When you first spoke to Montague, on September 7, that was at your home in Greenwood County. True?'

'True.'

'But I thought you had an important meeting in your State Senate office that morning? Isn't that what you testified on direct? That an emergency came up. Isn't that why Mrs Eddgar went in your place to meet Hardcore?'

‘I think I said I was needed by my office.'

'For what?'

Eddgar sits back in his chair. His eyes close and his brow is furrowed.

'I believe there was a conference call scheduled. I have to confess, Mr Turtle, my memory on this may not be perfect.' 'A conference call? You never left your house?' 'No.'

'And who did you talk to, Senator? Who was on that conference call?'

Eddgar shakes his head repeatedly. 'Again, my recollection isn't clear. I think there was a mix-up at the last minute. Maybe everybody who was supposed to be on the phone couldn't be rounded up. I don't recall why exactly. But it didn't happen.'

'No call. No meeting. No actual emergency. But June went to Grace Street anyway. Right? Have I got the picture?'

'The words are right, but you don't seem to have the picture.'

'Not the picture,' says Hobie, rhetorically, and nods as if he actually stood corrected. 'Well, tell me this, Senator – did your former wife, did June Eddgar, did she have any history of substance abuse?'

Tommy, who'll never stop being his own worst enemy in the courtroom, asks about relevance.

'Judge, I'll tie it up,' Hobie answers. That is the trial lawyer's equivalent of 'The check's in the mail.' At this point, though, it seems to me Hobie's risking his own case, which is his right. I motion Molto down.

'I'm sure June was drug-free at the time of her death. If you're implying she was drunk or stoned or something when she went down there -'

'We have an autopsy, Senator. That's not disputed. What I'm asking you is if in the past she had problems with drugs or alcohol.' 'At times.' 'With drugs?'

'When she went through her divorce – from her second husband – yes, I think she had a cocaine habit.' 'Was she treated?'

'She was in support groups. There are records, I imagine, if it's that important.'

'That's my point,' says Hobie. 'There are people who know, who would say June's had problems in the past with cocaine.'

Dumbfounded, Eddgar doesn't bother to answer.

'What about you, Senator? Have you ever had any problem with chemical dependency?'

'I'm the son of an alcoholic father. You'll find, Mr Turtle, many of us don't care to become intoxicated.'

'No drugs?'

'Judge,' says Tommy. 'Really.'

'Mr Turtle, I'm going to have to sustain the objection. I'm lost.'

Hobie's face shoots up at me in pure astonishment. He's not questioning my ruling. I've amazed him by being thick. He adjusts himself and turns back to Eddgar.

'Well, let's make it clear then, Senator. If someone was going to plant drugs on you, it would be pretty suspicious, wouldn't it? There would be no objective basis to believe that at the age of sixty-six you developed a drug habit, would there?'

Eddgar and I both get it now. This is where we were the other day. Hobie's saying clearly that June, not Eddgar, was the actual target of the shooting. And it finally clicks. That's why Hobie leaked the state's theory to Dubinsky in the first place. To emphasize it. To misdirect. Because in the end he was going to dispute the notion, anyway. Absorbing Hobie's suggestion, the reporters ruffle. The buffs squirm. Eddgar under the track lights is motionless.

'June?' he finally asks. 'Hardcore didn't know June. What are you thinking? He was trying to get even with me.' Eddgar has taken hold of the front rail of the witness stand. In his confusion, he briefly glances over his shoulder toward me. Hobie now is standing just a few feet before him.

'Well, certainly you've read the papers, Senator, as the case has gone on. You know both Hardcore and Lovinia testified that when the shooter, this Gorgo, arrived on the scene, Hardcore hit the pavement and acted as if he knew in advance June was going to be shot. Have you read that?'

'Why would Hardcore want to kill June?' Eddgar responds. 'And Lord knows, Nile had no reason. No one did.' He has done this a number of times, asked his own questions. Under stress, he assumes he's in charge, here as elsewhere. But Hobie does not bother to object. Instead, he offers an answer of sorts.

'Senator, we don't need the details, but isn't it a fact there are acts, events, occurrences, things you did years ago during the period of your marriage, that you wanted your former wife, June Eddgar, not to disclose?'

In the courtroom, the only sound at first is an elderly buff, caught short of breath, who dispenses several phlegmy eruptions behind the glass.

'Oh God,' Eddgar says at last. 'Oh Lord. Sweet baby Jesus,' he says. Fifteen feet from the witness, Hobie is calm and, in this modulated mood, especially imposing.

'While June Eddgar was alive, Senator, your political career, in fact, even your liberty remained in peril, did they not?'

'Lord, Hobie, what in hell are you doin? This is horrifying.' As Eddgar has lost track of himself, his accent has become julepy and full. 'This is not a defense. You know what happened here. Who's to believe this? Everyone who knows me, if they know anything – Nile knows, you know, I felt June was the most sacred soul on this planet.'

'You're a lot safer now, Senator, aren't you, than when she was alive?'

'After twenty-five years? After twenty-five years could anyone believe I would concern myself about this?'

'We don't have her here, do we, to tell us what was going on between you two – why she came to town? All we know is you sent her down to Grace Street because you claimed you had an emergency that never actually materialized.'

'Oh Lord,' says Eddgar again.

'In that meeting you had with Hardcore before Labor Day, the meeting where you threatened him, did you reach any other agreement with him? Did you agree with him, Senator, that he could keep the $10,000 and you would secure Kan-el's parole if BSD would kill your former wife?'

There it is. We have all known for a minute what was coming, but even so, with the question, my heart nearly leaps out of my chest. In the press row, one of the reporters squeezes out of the jury box, scrambling over her colleagues' knees so she can go running for the phone. One, then another follow. Annie, who places order above the First Amendment, approaches to shush them even as they hustle by. Seth is leaning on the front rail of the jury box. He is watching with an intensity so complete he could not have even a remote awareness that I, a woman he made love to a few hours ago, am seated in this room. Eddgar has turned about completely to face me. His mouth is parted and it moves once or twice before he speaks.

'Do I actually have to answer these questions?'

As near as I can reason, he does. I nod minutely and Eddgar pivots erratically, tossing a hand Hobie's way.

'This is Perry Mason,' he says, 'this is absurd. Why,' he says, 'why, this is senseless. This is drug-induced, Hobie. You know the truth here. If I had done such a thing, can you explain for a moment why Hardcore would not have been sitting on this witness stand pointing his finger at me?'

'What sense would that make, Senator, if the goal was to secure Kan-el's release? Core couldn't have made a better deal, could he, than the one he got for blaming Nile? One Eddgar is just as tasty as another to a hungry prosecutor. And this way, Senator, they can hold your feet to the fire, make sure you deliver on your promise about Kan-el. I bet he's out six months from now.'

'And I would sacrifice my son? Is that your theory? You know that isn't true. My God. This is evil, Hobie, what you're doing. This is the very face of evil!' His outcry resounds in the silent courtroom. Beside himself, Eddgar grabs hold of the lapels of his coat, he looks all around the witness stand, as if something that might help him is concealed there. Then he points at Hobie. ‘I understand this,' he says. ‘I understand just what you're doing to me.'

'It's called justice, Eddgar,' Hobie whispers. His eyes never leave the witness as he lumbers back to his seat. Next to him, Nile has laid his face down on the defense table with both hands over his head.

After court, a fragile foreboding air grips my chambers. Judgment is near. Annie and Marietta both keep their distance. Tomorrow, the state will rest. Hobie, if he's smart, will not offer much evidence for the defense. He'll capitalize on today's events and let the trial move quickly to conclusion.

I have motions to review on a number of other cases, but in the few minutes before I must go, I find myself stuck on the trial. It was like watching a car wreck today. Something awful. Destructive. Yet it's no longer possible to find Nile guilty. My assessment of the case has reversed so quickly I doubt myself at first. I still feel light-headed from sleeplessness and slightly poisoned, as if my heart is pumping battery acid, not blood. But my conclusion appears firm. Hardcore has been proven a liar about too much that's essential. Something about the money, the $10,000 he said Nile gave him, is simply wrong. The cocaine residue. The campaign check Nile cashed. There is real doubt. I ruminate on whether to rule from the bench at once or to make a show of some period of deliberation.

But that's only the formalities. I'm still wrapped heart and soul around The Questions. Who wanted to kill whom? Is it really possible, I keep wondering as I sift the facts, could it really be that Eddgar has engaged in a monstrousness of the order of Medea's, killed his wife and blamed his son? I could almost believe it about the man I knew so many years ago. And his silence about that $10,000 seems awfully telling. He probably went to Matt Galiakos and Brendan Tuohey, in hopes of keeping the DFU money out of the case. So he could save himself. Pondering all of this, I'm gripped by the profound elusiveness of the truth, as it drifts like smoke through every courtroom. Something happened. Something objective but no longer verifiable. When I was a child, they used to claim all history was knowable, if you could catch up with the light emitted by the body and traveling eternally in space. 'Light prints,' they talked about, better evidence than fingerprints. An intriguing idea. But Einstein said that wasn't possible. The past is always gone, retrieved only, ultimately, in the filaments of memory.

Near 5:00, with her hat and coat on to leave, Marietta knocks. One look at the smirk tautening her cheeks and I realize Seth is here. She scouts my countenance for any telltale sign. Oh, and isn't there a part of me which would love to boast? 'We had a fabulous night,' I want to say, 'he is a fine, sweet man, he loves every inch of my skin, just as you said.' Instead, I greet her with my frostiest judicial demeanor. 'Show him in.'

He slides past Marietta, thanking her effusively, making jokes – they are pals already. I signal discreetly and he gently closes the door, then comes around to my side of the desk and leans against it. He takes my hand.

'Okay?' he asks.

'Sore,' I say.

‘I take it as a compliment.' He peeks back over his shoulder, then leans down for a quick, sweet kiss. A lovely silent second passes, i didn't want to bother you, but I need a rain check tonight. I forgot Sarah's coming up. I'm taking her to dinner and she's staying over at my dad's to help him with some stuff tomorrow.'

We agree on tomorrow night instead. I shake his wrist. 'How about you? Are you okay?'

'Me?' He straightens up. He stretches. He beams. 'I've had the best twenty-four hours in years. Years,' he repeats, ‘I mean it.' Like me, he's pale with sleeplessness, but he's clearly inhabited by a tonic air. 'I've taken the cure,' he says. 'Like the Count of Monte Cristo: love and revenge.'

'Revenge?' I ask, but dampen the question in my voice, even as I'm speaking, for I understand. Eddgar, he means. 'You really hate him that much? After all this time?'

'You don't know the whole story.'

'And I don't want to hear it. Not now.'

‘I understand. But it does my heart good to see somebody finally catch up with him. Believe me. He's a bad, bad dude.' His eyes have sparked with an incendiary light. 'Now I finally get why Nile told me he didn't want a lawyer from around here. No one Eddgar could fix.'

There is something jarring in the remark. I rerun it several times before I catch hold of what bothers me.

'He told you?' Seth looks my way at length and I repeat myself. 'Nile told you? You said the other day you don't even talk to him.'

'Not during the trial. Hobie won't let me. But I'm the one who hooked them up.'

'Wait, Seth.' I stand. 'You? Are you still close with Nile?'

'Close?' He shrugs. 'I've stayed in touch. You know me. The Sentimental Heart. What did you think?'

'Think? I thought he was a little boy you baby-sat for a century ago. My God, Seth! The defendant? You're close to the defendant? Why didn't I know this? Why didn't you say something to me?'

' "Say something"? Jesus. Shit, that's exactly what you keep telling me not to do.'

'Oh God.' I feel polluted. The defendant! Seth's allied not just with the defense lawyer, an advocate with a limited stake, but with the man on trial. I've slept with Nile's friend, his crony, his guardian angel. 'Oh God,' I say again. 'What else don't I know?' And then, with this question, a connection whirls in place, possible only in the dizzy ether of little sleep. I search Seth for reassurance.

'What?' he says.

'Hobie's trick-bagging me.' I'm battling something now – the paranoid center, the injured child. 'Tell me you're not in this with him.'

'In what?'

'Tell me you weren't part of this from the start.' 'Jesus Christ. Of course not. I don't even know what you're talking about.'

But I've finally seen it all: why Hobie wanted a bench so I'd decide this case, why he took his mischievous steps to arrange that, and worst, perhaps, why Seth insinuated himself again into my life. A jury, another judge, would recognize Eddgar only as a solid citizen: respected legislator, grieving father, loyal ex. They would have scoffed at Hobie's ultimate suggestion that Eddgar was responsible for June's murder. They would never allow it to inspire any doubts. But I'm susceptible, willing. I have my griefs with Zora. I know Eddgar's past. And now I've heard more from Seth. Bad, bad dude. Heinous creep. That's the hellish thought. Because it seems so plausible that the two of them, Seth and Hobie, friends for life, could have engineered this together. And if that were so, then all of this, the sweet romance, the tireless if unbelievable claims of passion, are just part of a scheme molded against me. It makes sense – except when I look again to Seth, take in his confusion, the aura of sincerity always surrounding him, the solidness of his presence.

'Just tell me you're not in this with him.'

'With Hobie? Are you crazy? He's barely talked to me for two weeks. He works at Nile's all night and goes to sleep at his parents'. You know him. He loves the fact I don't know which end is up. I mean, Jesus, what's the trick?'

True – or an act? He would say the same thing either way. I am so tired, so unbelievably confused. I have an instant more intense than the one before – something from dreams: the world collapses and shows itself as a monstrous scam, a stage set where the paper walls fall in, revealing a director back there with a megaphone and people you've believed in now wiping off their makeup. I'm full of a terror as old as I am. It's all these men, Tuohey and Hobie and Seth, able to play me, because they see what I can't recognize in myself. I sit here tormented again, feeling so vulnerable and incomplete I could almost reach inside myself and find the place where there's a missing piece. No father. That's what I always think at the ultimate moment. I blame Zora for too much. Half-orphaned, I simply can't be whole.

'What?' he asks. 'Now you don't believe me? Christ!' He tears around the desk, but wheels back in my direction when he's halfway across the room. 'I'm sorry I broke your rules, Sonny. But you've got so fucking many it's hard to keep track. And, frankly, it's what you're waiting for anyway. That's your deal, right, Judge? Let's keep everybody six feet below you and safely remote.'

He's right: he knows me. And how to hurt me, too. His anger literally takes away my breath. 'Go to hell, Seth.'

He thrusts a dismissing hand in my direction and rushes through the doorway, nearly crashing into Marietta, who, in her coat and hat, has been lurking there.