Presumed Innocent (34 page)

Eugenia stops. "Uh-uh," she says.

"You do not remember the
McGaffen
case? A child, a little boy, had been hideously tortured by his mother? His head put in a vise? His anus burned with cigarettes? You do not remember Mr. Sabich securing the conviction of this—" Stern makes it look as if he is searching for a word, before he ends with "woman?"

"Oh, that one," she says. "I recall."

"The
McGaffen
case, I take it, was not recalled in your discussions with Mr. Molto?"

"Objection."

Larren ponders.

"I will withdraw it," says Stern. He's made his point to the jury. Prosecutor Molto seems to be taking it in the shorts so far today. He has the tag for the missing glass. He has inspired Eugenia's perjury.

"Ms. Martinez, do you remember how warm it was in Kindle County last year around Labor Day?"

Her brows close. She has taken enough of a beating that she is trying to cooperate.

"Past 100 two days."

"Correct," Stern says, improperly. "Is the P.A.'s office air-conditioned?"

Eugenia snorts. "Only if you believe what they say."

Laughter throughout the courtroom. The judge, the jury, the spectators. Even Stern finally smiles.

"I take it you try to leave as soon as the day ends when the heat is like that?"

"You got that right."

"But the prosecutors, when they are in the midst of a trial, do not leave at the end of the day, do they?"

She looks at Sandy suspiciously.

"Isn't it commonplace, in your experience, for the deputy P.A.'s to prepare for the next day of trial in the evenings?" Stern asks.

"Oh yes."

"Now, madam, would you not prefer to work in air conditioning rather than the P.A.'s office on a very warm evening?"

"Objection," Nico says. It's largely pointless.

"I'll let it stand."

"Sure would."

"You don't know of your own knowledge that Ms. Polhemus's apartment was air-conditioned, I take it?"

"No, sir."

"But you do know that the riverfront is much closer to the P.A.'s office than Mr. Sabich's home in Nearing?"

"Yes, sir."

Whatever the jury makes of Eugenia, it is probably favorable compared to their opinions of Mrs. Krapotnik, who is called next. Her few minutes on the witness stand achieve the level of pure burlesque. Mrs. Krapotnik is a widow. She does not say what Mr. Krapotnik died from, but it is hard to believe that Mrs. Krapotnik was not partly the cause. She is heavy-bosomed and garishly made up. Her hair is reddish, teased out so that it stands like a shrub, and her jewelry is thick. A difficult human being. She refuses to answer questions and narrates, free-flow. Mrs. Krapotnik explains as she is going along that the late Mr. Krapotnik was an entrepreneur of sorts. He bought their loft building on the riverfront when, as Mrs. K. puts it, "the neighborhood was still a mess, with trucks and junk, whatever." She nods to the jury when she says this, confident that they know what she means. Mr. Krapotnik directed the refurbishment of the property himself.

"He was a visionary. Do you know what I'm saying? He saw things. That place — you know what was in there? Tires, I'm not kidding, Mr. Dioguardi. Tires. Really, you could not believe the smell. I am not squeamish and it is embarrassing to say it, but one time he took me in there, I swear to God I thought I would retch."

"Madam," Nico says, not for the first time.

"He was a plumber. Who thought he knew real estate? Yes, Mr. Dioguardi?" She squints. "Is that your name? Dioguardi?"

"Della Guardia," says Nico, and casts his face despairingly toward Molto, seeking help.

By and by Mrs. Krapotnik reaches Carolyn. She was their tenant originally when she moved in almost a decade ago. During the conversion craze, the building went condo and Carolyn bought. Listening to Mrs. Krapotnik, I write Kemp a note. "Where does a probation officer going to law school at night get the money to rent on the waterfront?" Kemp nods. He has thought of the same thing. For almost a decade, Carolyn lived on the second floor and Mrs. Krapotnik the first. Carolyn sent flowers, not really the right thing, when Mr. Krapotnik died.

Nico is eager to get Mrs. Krapotnik out of there. The lady is beyond control. He does not bother asking about the night Carolyn was murdered. Any identification Mrs. Krapotnik made at this point would be sorely impeached by her prior failures.

Instead, Nico simply asks, "Do you see in the courtroom, Mrs. Krapotnik, anyone you have seen in the vicinity of Ms. Polhemus's apartment?"

"Well, I know I seen that one," she says. She throws both hands and her bangle bracelets in the direction of the judge.

Larren covers his face with both hands. Nico pinches the bridge of his nose. The laughter in the spectator sections is suppressed, but seems after an instant to grow. Mrs. Krapotnik, recognizing that she has blown it, looks about desperately. She points at Tommy Molto, seated at the prosecutor's table.

"Him too," she says.

Molto makes matters worse by turning to see if there is anyone behind him.

By now the jurors are laughing.

Nico retreats to the evidence cart and brings Mrs. Krapotnik the photo spread from which she has previously identified a snap of me. She looks at the spread, glances up in my direction, and shrugs. Who knows?

"Do you recall previously identifying photograph number 4?" Nico asks.

This time she says it out loud: "Who knows?" When Nico closes his eyes in frustration, she adds, "Oh, all right. I said it was him."

Nico heads for his seat.

"Cross-examination."

"One question," says Stern. "Mrs. Krapotnik, I take it your building is air-conditioned?"

"Air condition?" She turns to the judge. "What's his business if we got air condition?"

Larren stands to his full height and places his hands on the far side of the bench, so he is canted over Mrs. Krapotnik, five or six feet above her head.

"Mrs. Krapotnik," he says quietly, "that question can be answered yes or no. If you say anything else I will hold you in contempt."

"Yes," says Mrs. Krapotnik.

"Nothing further," says Stern. "Your Honor, the record will reflect that there was no identification of Mr. Sabich?"

"The record will reflect," says Judge Lyttle, shaking his head, "that Mr. Sabich was one of the few persons in the courtroom Mrs. Krapotnik missed."

Larren leaves the bench, with the laughter still ringing.

Afterward the reporters crowd around Stern. They want a comment from him on the first day's testimony, but he will make none.

Kemp is packing back into Sandy's large trial case the documents — duplicates of statements and exhibits — that we withdrew during the day and which now litter the table. I am helping, but Stern takes my elbow and steers me toward the corridor.

"No gloating," he says. "We have a long night's work. Tomorrow they will be calling Raymond Horgan."

How familiar it all seems. I come home at night with the same laborer's weariness that has always followed a day in court. My bones feel hollowed out by the high-voltage impulse of the day; my muscles have a neuralgic tenderness from the adrenalized superheating. My pores, it seems, do not close down rapidly, and the low-tone body sweat of high excitement continues through the evening. I return home with my shirt encasing me like a package wrapper.

Sitting in court, I actually forget at certain moments who is on trial. The performance aspect is of course not present, but the premium on close attention is large. And once we get back to the office, I can be a lawyer again, attacking the books, making notes and memos. I was never short on intensity. When the bus pulls into Nearing shortly before 1 a.m. and I walk down the lighted and silent streets of this gentle town, the feelings are all known and, because they are known, safe. I am in a harbor. My anxiety is stanched; I am at peace. As I have for years, I stop by the door, in a rocking chair, and remove my shoes, so that when I go upstairs I will not disturb Barbara, who by now must be asleep. The house is dark. I absorb the silence and, finally alone, reflect on the events of the day. And in this moment, stimulated perhaps by all the talk of her, or simply by the momentary feeling that I have at last receded to the better past, or even by an unconscious recollection of other stealthy re-entries to my home, I am startled as Carolyn rises before me, rises as she rose for me that month or so when I thought I had found Nirvana, naked to the waist, her breasts high and spectacularly round, the nipples red, erect, and thick, her hair full of static from our bedroom romping, her sensuous mouth parted to offer some clever, salacious, stimulating remark. And again I am made almost without the power of movement by my own desire, so fierce, so hungry, so wanton. I do not care that it is mad, or hopeless: I whisper her name in the dark. Full of shame and longing, I am like a piece of crystal trembling near the breaking pitch. "Carolyn." Hopeless. Mad. And I cannot believe my own conviction, which is not really an idea but instead that deep imbedded thing, that rope of emotion which is a wish that I could do it all again. Again. Again.

And then the ghost recedes. She folds into the air. I sit still, spine stiffened in my chair. I am breathing quickly. It will be hours now, I know, before I can sleep. I grope in the hall cabinet for something to drink. I should make my mind work over the meaning of this nighttime visitation. But I cannot. I have the sensation, as determined as the longing of only moments before, that it is all past. I sit in the rocking chair in my living room. For some strange reason, I feel better with my briefcase, and I place it in my lap.

But its protection is incomplete. The wake of this intrusion leaves the currents of my emotions roily and disturbed. In the dark I sit, and I can feel the force of the large personages of my life circling about me like the multiple moons of some far planet, each one exerting its own deep tidal impulses upon me. Barbara. Nat. Both my parents. Oh, this cataclysm of love and attachment. And shame. I feel the rocking sway of all of it, and a moving sickness of regret. Desperately, desperately I promise everyone — all of them; myself; the God in whom I do not believe — that if I survive this I will do better. Better than I have. An urgent compact, as sincere and grave as any deathbed wish.

I drink my drink. I sit here in the dark and wait for peace.

The first thing I notice as Raymond Horgan comes into the courtroom is that he has on the same suit he wore to bury Carolyn, a subtle blue serge. The added weight does not detract from his public bearing. You would describe him now as burly, and still, in the rolling way he walks, a person of stature. He and Larren exchange the same sage grin while Raymond is sworn. Seated, Horgan looks outward to assess the crowd in a composed professional manner. He nods to Stern first, then his glance crosses mine and he acknowledges me. I do not move. I do not allow an eyelash to flutter. At this moment I wish with all my heart that I may be acquitted, not for the general sake of freedom, but so that I can see the look on Raymond Horgan the first time he has to face me on the street.

Here in the courtroom, awaiting Raymond's entry, there was more of that epic atmosphere, the extra amperage of a special moment — four hundred people on edge, an urgent undertone in the courtroom murmur. Today, I notice, the press gallery is larger by a row and a half, and the journalistic first-string is on hand — the anchor people and columnists. I have been surprised during the trial by the extent to which the reporters have been willing to honor Stern's injunctions to keep wide berth of me. Now that they have their file footage of me entering the courthouse, which they can show with each night's story on TV, Barbara and I are able to come and go in relative peace. Now and then someone — usually a journalist whom I have known for years — will stop me with a question in the hallway. I refer all these matters to Stern. Last week I also encountered a freelance journalist from New York who says he is considering writing a book about the case. He believes it will make good reading. I declined his invitation to buy me dinner.

I would be oblivious to the press were it not for the morning papers. I have stopped watching the accounts on TV. The summaries seem so inept that they make me furious, even when the errors favor me. But I cannot avoid the headlines, which I see on the paper-dispensing machines as we drive into the city. The two dailies seem to have sworn a feud to see which can take the lead in trashy tabloid coverage of the case. Nico's revelation in opening of Raymond's amours with Carolyn produced tasteless headlines for two days.
P.A. SEX
the
Herald
blared, with all kinds of kickers and subheads. It is impossible that the jury does not view these headlines, too. They pledged during
voir dire
not to read the papers, but that is a promise few trial lawyers trust.

In the jury box, at the moment, there is a considerable stirring. The jurors seem far more excited to see Raymond than was the case, for example, when they first glimpsed Nico during the
voir dire.
Then I noticed only a few of the prospective jury members leaning over to one another and nodding in Delay's direction. Horgan brings a greater aura to the courtroom. He has been well known for most of everybody's adult life. He is a celebrity; Della Guardia is a replacement. Perhaps the suggestion of fleshy intrigue Nico floated in opening also contributes to the high interest. It is clear, however, that as Stern weeks ago predicted, we have reached a critical juncture in this trial. Each juror has revolved his chair to face the witness stand. As Molto comes to the podium to begin the direct examination, the large courtroom is quiet.

"State your name, please."

"Raymond Patrick Horgan," he answers. "The third." With that he grins very briefly up at Larren. A private joke. I never knew that Raymond was a third. Amazing, sometimes, what comes out under oath.

Molto again has readied himself with care for the examination. Raymond clearly knows what is coming, as he should, and he and Tommy develop a nice rhythm at once. Horgan's hands are folded. In his blue suit and finest public manner, he looks serene. All his beguiling charm is present; his candor. His gruff baritone is reduced one marking on the volume register in an effort at understatement.