Identical Page 17

  Horgan muttered, “Paul.”

  “No,” he said. “That sounds like I’m blaming. And I’m not. You both gave me your best advice. And I made the decision. But I’ve been in enough courtrooms to know once you file, you lose all control. I should have laughed it off and called Hal a right-wing goof.”

  Ray lifted one shoulder. In retrospect, Paul might be right.

  “So what comes next?” he asked Ray. “A dep, right? Hal will depose me for three days.”

  “We can set limits,” said Ray. “Maybe even put it off until the election.”

  “No, we can’t. Because it’ll be the same logic as giving fingerprints. Or DNA. I can’t hide. I’ve got to look forthcoming. And they’ll want to depose my brother next. They’ve already got some old dick hunting around for Cass with a subpoena. Maybe they’ll want to question Sofia after that.”

  “They won’t get Sofia,” said Ray softly. But that was no more than a confession about Cass.

  “We’re going to dismiss this lawsuit today,” he said.

  Crully sat back with his nasty little eyes narrowed.

  “Fuck that,” he said. “I already told you what I’ll have to do.”

  “Frankly, Mark, it’s probably time for a change anyway. You’ve set up a great organization. You’re a great field marshal. But you’ve swung and missed on a couple of big things. Leaking that report was not smart. Du Bois, you know, he’d probably have done the same thing. Probably. But it was the wrong time to piss him off.”

  Crully simmered without words, but his face against his white shirt was noticeably redder. From down the hall outside echoed the sound of a woman who’d come out of another courtroom wailing. Mark was a veteran of these moments, when a campaign like a tank went over a grenade and the finger-pointing started. He wouldn’t comment about the leak and hand Paul the truth, especially in the presence of a witness, because Paul would have that to hold over him forever.

  “You’ll lose,” said Crully instead. That was the ultimate revenge for firing him. “You dismiss, you’ll lose.”

  “It won’t be any worse than what’s coming next. I’ve got the print results. I’ve shown I wasn’t there that night. I’m not going to let Hal use the blood to say there’s a 50 percent chance I was. That’s a lie. Or let him keelhaul my brother. I always promised myself, always, that I’d never sacrifice my family for my career. Cass has spent twenty-five years in shitsville and has the right to rebuild his life. And instead, he’s getting filled with buckshot five times a week on every channel, and the whole county is talking about a story that should be dead and forgotten. My kids are reading that I’m a murderer—not the usual political horse-hockey, but somebody who supposedly killed a woman with his bare hands. This isn’t worth it to me, Mark. If I lose, I lose.”

  “And let a right-wing nut like Hal Kronon run you off the cliff?” That came from Ray. His sad blue eyes and ruddy face were set to the question, which was a serious one. Ray and he had lived by the same credos, and believed that the people with money didn’t get the right to own the democracy, too.

  “I didn’t say I’d drop out. I said I’m going to dismiss the lawsuit. I’ll fight the good fight. I won’t give up. And I’ll talk about the Big Lie. Because that’s what this is. But the lawsuit is over. No DNA or deps or ring-around-the-rosy.”

  He stood up to show he’d decided.

  18.

  Objections—February 20, 2008

  The morning showed the faintest signs of spring. The temperature was in the mid-twenties, but there were no clouds, a wonderful improvement over the usual low-hanging sky of steel wool. On warmer days when Evon had no meetings outside the office, she walked the twelve blocks to ZP from her condo. In the winter when she didn’t need to drive, she most often risked what she privately called “Demolition Derby,” otherwise known as the Grant Avenue bus. In the Tri-Cities, the bus operators were a law unto themselves, bullies in the traffic, who veered from the curb to the left turn lane with no concern for other vehicles. The transit unions had insulated the drivers from much responsibility, except in the event of homicide.

  As soon as Evon stepped off the bus, a block from ZP, she saw Heather across the street. Her former girlfriend was wearing a headscarf and Ray-Bans, and was wrapped in an oatmeal-colored wool Burberry coat Evon had bought for her, but Heather had no desire to conceal herself. Evon looked in her direction for a second and then began walking double time. She could hear the click of Heather’s heels on the pavement as she ran to catch up, arriving breathlessly at Evon’s side.

  “You love me,” Heather said. “And I love you. This makes no sense. I’ll be better. I promise. I’ll make you happy. I’ll make you completely happy. Just one more chance, baby, please. Just one.”

  Evon had actually hoped Heather had given up. There had been no communication in a week. Now Evon never looked up, never slackened her pace as Heather followed along, elbowing aside the pedestrians coming in her direction, elaborating on her soliloquy. She meant all of this, of course, about love and devotion. She knew so little about herself that she actually believed what she was saying.

  Evon hated bringing her shit into the office—Heather knew that, too, which was why she’d been so confident she could corner Evon out here. But there was no choice. Evon headed into the ZP Building. Heather not only followed her through the revolving door but managed to squeeze herself into the same sealed quarter compartment. Heather tried to embrace Evon—she seemed intent on a kiss—and in the close confines of the glass panels they had a brief struggle as Evon, much shorter but far stronger, held Heather off. But still the woman pleaded.

  “How can you be so heartless? How can you treat me this way? I don’t deserve this, Evon. I love you. I was good to you. How can you do this?”

  Finally, Evon pushed out of the revolving door, which Heather was trying to obstruct, and burst into the open air of the lobby. She hurried off, but Heather called after her.

  “I’m pregnant,” Evon heard her say, and wheeled. They had talked about that. At the best moments, lying in each other’s arms, they had shared that fantasy.

  Evon waited a second to gather herself.

  “That’s crap.”

  “I am. I did it for you. Evon, I want to do this. A child needs a family. We can be a family.”

  That was a frightening thought, really, this bag of loose nuts and bolts that was Heather as somebody’s mother, even with Evon to deflect a bit of the damage. But that was not where Evon’s heart ran. Her heart ran to the cruelty of this, of probing every soft spot, each of the many festering regrets. This was how cruelty was done, Evon thought, when someone needed something so much that they became indifferent to the pain they were inflicting.

  The security guard, Gerald, sat at a desk built of the same taupe granite as the rest of the vast lobby. It was his job to record IDs and issue passes so visitors could move through the turnstiles to the elevators. He was in Evon’s department and called her “Boss.”

  Hurrying forward, Evon hooked a thumb over her shoulder and told Gerald, “Keep her out.” She proceeded past him while Gerald, quick off his seat, snagged Heather by the arm.

  “Whoa, lady,” he said.

  Heather called after Evon.

  “If I don’t hear from you, I’m going to have an abortion on Friday.” Her voice was piercing. There couldn’t have been a soul in the lobby who missed it.

  Upstairs in her office, Evon closed the door and sat alone. She didn’t cry, but she was shaking. Fortunately, she had no time for her own agonies, with a conference call beginning in moments. Dykstra had finally agreed to a twenty-five-million-dollar price concession for the Indianapolis brownfield—he blamed underlings for failing to disclose it—and the deal had been announced yesterday in the Journal. The closing was scheduled for next week. Evon’s call this morning with her counterpart at YourHouse was to discuss how to meld operations. Twelve people ended up on the line and she wasn’t done until after 11:30. When she finished, Evon’
s assistant informed her that Tim Brodie was waiting to see her on an urgent matter.

  “I called you,” Tim said when he came in, “but you were on the phone, so I figured I better walk over and deliver the news. Paul Gianis just announced he’s dismissing the lawsuit.” He described Judge Lands’s ruling, and Paul’s press conference in the Temple rotunda, which ended with a pack of cameras and reporters running after Paul as he exited the courthouse.

  A part of her was still recovering from Heather, but even so Evon was astounded.

  “Does Hal know?” Evon asked.

  Hal had run off with Tooley as soon as court ended to meet with a business reporter to discuss the YourHouse acquisition. About fifteen minutes later, as soon as Hal had returned, she and Tim went down the hall to Hal’s sycamore redoubt. Tooley was still with him and neither of them had yet heard the news.

  Hal was furious. “How can he do that?”

  Tooley explained the law. Until the start of trial, every plaintiff was allowed to dismiss the suit he or she had brought.

  “Just like that?” Hal asked. “Doesn’t he even have to say I’m sorry?”

  “We could ask for costs.”

  “What are costs?”

  “About two, three hundred dollars,” said Mel. “Filing fees. Witness fees on the subpoenas.”

  “I don’t want two hundred dollars,” Hal said. “I want his DNA. He’s hiding something.”

  “You can certainly say that. Scream it out loud. I’m sure Cia over at the agency can design some great ads that make that point.”

  “I’m not letting him get away with it.”

  “With what?” asked Tooley.

  “Hiding whatever he’s hiding.”

  “Hal, what could he be hiding if the test is 99 percent likely to be inconclusive? Don’t smoke your own dope.”

  Hal’s bulging eyes ran back and forth behind his glasses as he considered his friend’s advice.

  “I want the DNA.”

  Mel dropped his glance to his hands, then tried another approach.

  “Hal, you won. Don’t you see this? You won this motion. You made a convincing case that this guy knows more than he’s telling. And Paul said uncle. Accept victory, Hal. Celebrate for a second.”

  “This isn’t a victory,” Hal insisted. “I want to know what Paul Gianis had to do with my sister’s murder. I want the DNA. You should do something. I’m the client. Those are my orders. Do something.”

  “Maybe I can think of something after the YourHouse closing.”

  “No, now,” said Hal. “This is even more important than YourHouse. The corporate lawyers can fill in for you.”

  Tooley and Tim left Hal’s office together. Evon stayed behind to brief Hal on her progress with her to-do list for the YourHouse closing.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Mel, as soon as the door was closed. “Hal’s been my friend since we were six years old, but he’s never known when enough was enough. I swear to God, in high school, he’d ask the same girl out six times and be surprised every single time she said no.”

  “The only part I don’t get,” said Tim, “is that dropping the suit seems sure to do Paul more damage than the test probably will. It’s just strange thinking.”

  “Maybe Paul’s like me,” Tooley said. “And Hal’s made him crazy.”

  Mel shook his head again and advanced to the elevator.

  Du Bois Lands’s gray eyes rose from the paper he was holding on the bench. The rest of his body did not move. The judge read aloud:

  “Defendant Kronon’s Emergency Objection to Plaintiff’s Motion for Voluntary Nonsuit.”

  It was the morning following Lands’s ruling, February 21.

  “Yes,” replied Tooley from the podium. Ray Horgan was beside him, elbow to elbow with Mel. From behind, both men seemed to have the solid, indifferent mass of cattle. In the rows to the rear of Tim, the courtroom was full, although not with the same swarm of spectators that the lawsuit had been drawing. Everybody here today was in a gray or blue suit. They had to be lawyers.

  “Explain,” said the judge to Tooley.

  “Your Honor, Mr. Kronon is objecting to Senator Gianis’s efforts to avoid taking this critical DNA test. We think the Court should hold his motion to dismiss in abeyance, until he has provided DNA and the test has been performed as the Court ordered. He’s trying to thwart your ruling.”

  Horgan started to bluster, but the judge calmed him by raising a hand.

  “Mr. Tooley, Senator Gianis is doing what the law allows, isn’t he?”

  “He’s hiding something,” said Tooley. Tim saw Hal pump his fist beneath the counsel table from which he was watching eagerly.

  “That’s your interpretation. There are other interpretations as well. I don’t care about interpretations. I’m just the umpire. I’m calling balls and strikes. The law is the law, Mr. Tooley. If you have a problem with the senator’s motion to nonsuit this case, take it up with the legislature. Your objection is going to be denied.”

  “Well, Your Honor, before you rule, we’re also seeking alternative relief.”

  “Which is?”

  “We would like enforcement of the subpoenas which were stayed pending your ruling on the DNA motion. Once you ruled, those subpoenas became enforceable and we’d like the evidence produced.”

  This time Horgan succeeded in butting in.

  “Judge, that’s ridiculous. If there’s no lawsuit, there are no subpoenas.”

  The judge took a second.

  “No,” he said in reply to Horgan. “I get what he’s arguing. It’s timing. The subpoenas were enforceable before your motion for dismissal. What evidence are we talking about?”

  Tooley had a list. First, there was the subpoena to Paul to produce a DNA specimen; second, to Cass to produce fingerprints; third, to the state police to produce all physical evidence in their possession, most of which had been collected at the crime scene, including the blood spatters by the French door and the blood standards taken from various people. There was a similar subpoena to Greenwood County, in case anything had been missed in the production they’d already made.

  Ray interjected. “Judge, they’re just trying to do the same test on their own.”

  Du Bois cracked the slightest smile at the caginess of the ploy.

  “Again, Mr. Horgan. It’s just balls and strikes to me. What does the law require? All I want to do is answer that question. That’s why I get the big bucks.” In a world where some of the lawyers who appeared before the bench made multiple millions, judges frequently offered ironic remarks about their salaries, which seemed picayune by comparison.

  Du Bois sat a second longer as he pondered.

  “OK, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to finish up this lawsuit. But not today. If you gentlemen look behind you, you will see that there’s a courtroom full of lawyers here for my Thursday motion call. And many of those attorneys have clients who are paying them to sit here. So we’re not wasting any more of other people’s time or money. We’re going to set this over for a week. I want all of the addressees of those subpoenas, or their representatives, in court, with the evidence Mr. Kronon is seeking. And I want simultaneous briefs from plaintiff and defendant on the issue of whether those subpoenas can be enforced as a matter of law. And we’ll thrash all of that out next Thursday. If the subpoenas, any of them, remain valid, the evidence will be handed over right here. And then, Mr. Tooley and Mr. Horgan, much as I have enjoyed visiting with both of you, we are all going to be done with this lawsuit, and I will look forward to seeing you both on other occasions.”

  The judge banged his gavel and told his clerk to call the next case.

  19.

  Her Ring—February 22, 2008

  Shirley Wilhite,” said the voice on Tim’s cell phone, the next morning. “Bet you thought I forgot about you.” It was about 11 a.m., and Tim was settled in the sun-room, reading more of his book on the Greek myths, while Kai Winding tooted along from the phonograph. His first
thought was that Shirley had to be another widow—they phoned all the time with every imaginable angle, anything from a casserole too delicious not to share or women who claimed they were returning his call. “They took forever getting those records from storage. Everybody thinks they have too much to do. That’s what’s wrong with this country, if you ask me.”

  He talked to her another second, feeling, as he often did, that he was playing from behind. Then it came to him: She was from the ring company in Utah.

  “Lucky we were still using paper back then,” said Shirley Wilhite. “Five years later, we had everything on floppy disks. Remember them? Try finding somebody who can make sense of those things. Easton College, right? What was your nephew’s name?”

  “Gianis.” He spelled it. In Utah, Paul’s name meant nothing. “Not really my nephew, by the way. I just call him that.”

  “Oh sure. I’m Auntie Shirley to half my neighbors’ kids.”

  “Exactly.”

  “OK.” She took a second. “We got two of them.”

  “Twin boys. I’m looking for Paul.”

  “OK. All right, well, he bought two rings.”

  “Two?”

  “Let me look here. Yeah. One a man’s, one a woman’s. Same model. The J46 with emblem. Now I need the catalog.” He heard her clattering around. “No, we don’t make it any more. I think the K106 might look the most like it. I’m going to send you pictures. You use a computer?”

  “Some.”

  “Well, the current catalog is online. But I’ll send you copies of the old catalog, so you know what he had. Got a fax number?”

  “Can you give me pictures of the woman’s ring, also? Maybe he’ll want to replace both. And if it’s not too much trouble, send the order form, too. Maybe he’ll want to make a claim for insurance.”

  “Not a problem. Happy to help.”

  Two rings? He considered that. Late in the afternoon, he was on his way into Center City to pick up the faxes, which he’d directed to ZP. He passed Georgia Lazopoulos’s house and on impulse parked and rang the bell.