Identical (16 page)

And then Special Agent Evon Miller of the FBI arrived in Paul’s office. The government’s undercover investigation of Common Pleas judges, Project Petros, was all over the news. Evon had a copy of Paul’s motion in her hand and wanted to know exactly what “inappropriate ex parte contact” meant. Paul stalled until he could get to Hillcrest the next Sunday. Cass and he, as usual, saw this the same way: It was time for this shit to end. Paul told Evon the story on Monday, and agreed to testify. Crowthers, it turned out, was on tape, but the government informant who’d made the recording had died, giving Sherm a shot at trial. But with his placid recitation of the shakedown, Paul appeared to be the emblem of everything good in the law, and a potent contrast to the deeply compromised sleazeballs who were the government’s other witnesses. The trial was over, in effect, as soon as Paul left the stand.

Du Bois Lands was Sherman Crowthers’s nephew, the child of his wife’s sister. D.B.’s mom was a schoolteacher who ended up with a drug problem and, in time, a prison sentence-for black folks it was still the case that when they stumbled they had further to fall. D.B. had lived off and on with Sherm in his huge Colonial home in Assembly Point and regarded his uncle as his idol. When Paul entered the federal courtroom to testify against Crowthers, Du Bois was in the front spectators’ row. He had striking grayish eyes and they bulleted Paul. Du Bois would never say a word, but Paul knew what D.B. was thinking: ‘You didn’t have to do this. You could have said it was all too vague by now, that you just couldn’t recall.’ The two of them never exchanged another word.

These days, Du Bois had sat on the bench five years. He’d been promoted to Common Pleas a year ago, and was assigned to the same courtroom his uncle had occupied fifteen years before, where Paul and Ray Horgan now awaited the start of proceedings. The courtroom was Bauhausy and functional, with all the furnishings, including the paneling and a low, squared-off bench and witness stand, formed of yellowing birch. Kronon and Tooley sat across the courtroom at the other counsel’s desk, and there were dozens of reporters and sketch artists in the front rows of the straight-backed pews. The benches behind them were thick with civilian onlookers.

When Du Bois had been assigned to the suit against Kronon, Paul had taken it for granted they would move to disqualify D.B., but Ray was adamantly opposed. He didn’t want to take the risk of antagonizing black voters, of whom Paul still had a fair share, despite the presence in the race of Willie Dixon, the county councilman from the North End. Beyond that, D.B. had a sterling reputation. And when he’d run for the bench, Ray had been one of his three campaign co-chairs.

Now the elderly clerk bellowed out the case name, “Gianis versus Kronon, Number C-315.” Tooley in his silly shaggy toupee arrived first at the podium and introduced himself for the record, while Ray rolled forward, his gait halting given his rickety knees. With heat, Tooley began to explain his new motions related to fingerprint and DNA testing, but Du Bois cut him off.

“I’ve read all the papers, gentlemen. I always do.” By reputation, D.B.’s in-court demeanor was serious, even stern. But his tone never changed. He treated everyone who appeared before him with civility, tinctured by an undercurrent of skepticism. He was also said to be great at the basic job of a judge: deciding. He ruled after appropriate reflection, but without wavering, unlike others who dithered or tried to force the parties to settle even trivial disputes. “Let’s take the motions in the order they were filed,” the judge said. “First, Mr. Horgan seeks guidance about what public comment the parties may make concerning the subject matter of this lawsuit.”

D.B. treated the motion seriously, but as Paul had expected, refused to gag either party, even though the lawyers litigating the case would have to adhere to the rules about comments outside court. Since Paul wasn’t acting as his own counsel, it would be unfair, the judge said, to restrict him, especially in light of the campaign. Paul wondered if D.B. was going to kill him with kindness.

Lands turned then to Tooley’s motions related to the crime-scene evidence and to compelling Paul to give fingerprints and a DNA specimen.

“Mr. Horgan, what do you say?”

To craft their response today, Paul had called a big meeting two days ago in the fishbowl with Crully, Ray, half a dozen campaign officials, even Sofia, who was getting increasingly concerned about the way this run-in with Hal was playing out.

At the podium, Ray still radiated charm and the authority of someone who had been an important figure in these courts for fifty years.

“Your Honor, let me say to start that Senator Gianis will take every reasonable step to prove that Mr. Kronon’s allegations are ill-motivated lies.”

The judge interrupted the grandstanding.

“The motion, Mr. Horgan.”

“Judge Lands, I told Mr. Tooley last week that assuming we get equal access to the evidence, we had no objection to him serving his subpoenas on the authorities in Greenwood County related to public documents in the court file or the fingerprint evidence collected at the scene. They’ve hired Dr. Maurice Dickerman as their fingerprint expert, and I see Dr. Dickerman in court today.” Ray turned from the podium and lifted a hand like a ringmaster. On cue, Mo Dickerman, the so-called Fingerprint God, stood for just a second in the back of the courtroom, in his dark suit. A skinny angular man, Mo used a finger to push his heavy black frames back up on his nose. Dickerman was the longtime chief of the Kindle County Unified Police Force’s fingerprint lab. Like all police employees, he was permitted to work after hours on his own. “Senator Gianis will produce his fingerprints to Dr. Dickerman whenever the court orders, even today.”

Ray stopped there.

Du Bois nodded, as if to say, ‘Reasonable enough.’ Now in his late forties, Judge Lands remained handsome, with close-cropped hair, a mid-tone complexion and those startling gray eyes.

“Your Honor,” said Tooley, “we still haven’t heard any answer to our request for DNA.”

Du Bois raised his hand toward Ray, who responded.

“Judge, we’re eager to come forward with all probative evidence, but this request for a DNA test is clearly a bridge too far. In order to be entitled to discovery, a party must show that there is a reasonable likelihood that whatever proof is sought is potentially relevant. Dr. Yavem concedes that there is no better than a one in one hundred chance that an examination of DNA will lead to admissible evidence in a case like this with identical twins. So that part of the motion is little more than an effort to embarrass and harass Senator Gianis.”

“Your Honor,” answered Tooley, “this is not a matter of percentages. And even if it were, why wouldn’t Senator Gianis want to take a test that has a 99 percent chance of not incriminating him?” This was a non sequitur, an answer aimed only at the reporters. Du Bois, nobody’s fool, understood the posturing and had heard enough. Up on the bench, he dropped the pen with which he was taking notes and pushed aside his papers.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” the judge said. “Some of what’s been requested doesn’t appear to be at issue. So, Mr. Tooley, I’m going to grant your motion in part and approve these subpoenas you’ve served out in Greenwood County on the police and the court related to the police reports and the fingerprint evidence, with the proviso that the full return on the subpoenas be shared at once with Mr. Horgan. Second, because the fingerprinting doesn’t seem to be in dispute, I’ll allow you, Mr. Tooley, to issue any other subpoenas directly related to the issue, and the court will accept Senator Gianis’s offer to provide fingerprints, and I will direct that he do so.”

“We’ll do it right here, right now in open court, Judge,” said Ray. The intention was to play to the press and it worked. The journalists in the front row were tapping away or scribbling as fast as they could.

“Thank you, Mr. Horgan, but I don’t think we need to turn my courtroom into a crime lab.” There was a riffle of laughter.

“Then we’ll go right down to the lobby to do it with Dr. Dickerman.”

Du Bois moved the back of his hand as if to say, ‘Whatever.’

“I did have a thought about Dr. Dickerman,” the judge said.

Mo stood up again in the back of the courtroom and walked toward the bench. No one had ever accused Mo of being reluctant about attention. The judge proposed that Mo be appointed the court’s expert, with the parties splitting his fee. Mo was renowned around the world, probably the most widely respected print expert in the US, outside the FBI. No one was likely to contradict him, anyway. Ray agreed immediately, fulsomely praising the judge’s idea. D.B. acted as if he hadn’t heard.

“So I’ll direct that whatever fingerprint evidence is found be delivered to Dr. Dickerman,” Lands said. “If the fingerprint lifts from the scene remain in a condition where current comparisons are likely to be probative, then he should compare those prints to the ones he gets from Senator Gianis today.”

“And the DNA?” asked Tooley yet again. Clearly, Hal was hot to do that test.

“Well, you know, Mr. Tooley, Mr. Horgan may have a point. I’m not sure you get to run a test that your own expert says is overwhelmingly likely to be unproductive. But I’ll withhold my ruling. I’ll give Mr. Horgan a week to file a written response about it; you, Mr. Tooley, will get a week to reply. By then, Dr. Dickerman may have the fingerprint results, and those may inform my ruling on the DNA. So let’s meet again then. Mr. Clerk, please give us a date.”

“February twentieth at 10 a.m.”

“That will be the order,” said Du Bois. Watching from the plaintiff’s table, Paul thought he would not have ruled differently. Du Bois had been fair and savvy and measured.

The judge called a recess and rose on the bench, which brought everyone else in the courtroom to their feet. From that vantage, D.B. looked for the first time directly at Paul. The glance was fleet, but seemed to have been accompanied by an expression somewhere between a grimace and a smile. ‘See?’ he seemed to say.

It had been years since Tim had entered the Temple, as the Kindle County Superior Court Law and Equity Department was known. Constructed of buff-colored brick in the 1950s, the building had the proportions of an armory, with a dome above bleeding weak light down in the central rotunda, through which at 9:00 a.m. a determined crush swirled. Tim’s natural terrain had been the Central Branch courthouse a few blocks away, where criminal cases were heard. In here, he still felt like a tourist, and after he passed through the metal detectors, he found a uniformed security guy to direct him to Du Bois Lands’s courtroom on the fourth floor.

Tim had known Du Bois’s uncle well, but only while Crowthers was an attorney. Nonetheless, the impression Sherm had made remained vivid, since there was no defense lawyer whose cross-examinations Tim liked less. Sherm tended to terrorize a witness, yelling in that booming voice, mocking and badgering, looming over the witness box so that his sheer size was yet another instrument of intimidation. In one murder case, Sherm had taken the weapon found at the scene and pointed the pistol at Tim for a good ten minutes as he questioned him, before the deputy PA finally responded to Tim’s pleading looks and objected. Like everybody else in the courtroom, the prosecutor had been mesmerized by Sherm.

Tim had come to court today at Mel Tooley’s request, so he could go at once to serve any new subpoenas the judge approved. With Ray Horgan’s agreement, Tim had already dropped off other subpoenas last week out in Greenwood County, and yesterday had brought the fingerprint lifts and reports produced in response to Mo Dickerman’s office.

Tim was sitting in the back of the courtroom when Dickerman came in and caught sight of him. He slid over on the bench to make room. Tim had been through God knew how many cases with Mo, who was just coming up when Tim was already a detective lieutenant. He had probably been the first dick to recognize how exceptional Dickerman was-a great witness and unusually learned in his field. Eventually, Tim recommended Mo for promotion over several guys senior to him. As a result, Mo had always been somewhat in Tim’s debt, and Tim had gotten along with him as well as anybody did. As a guy, Mo would never really pass as warm, and he was so up on himself these days that he had fewer friends than ever in McGrath Hall.

Mo was past seventy now-around seventy-two, Tim thought, which made him the oldest employee of the police force. Yet he was too famous to be forced into retirement, and the County Board grandfathered him every year. He was one of those thin guys who didn’t age much, but you could see some wear on him, more weariness in his long face and plenty of gray now in his thinning hair. Around the eyes there was a sad gathering of puffy, wattled flesh. Like Tim, Mo was now a widower. His wife Sally had died only a few months back and you could see the evidence of that, too, in a watery vacancy that had replaced Mo’s prior intensity. Tim grabbed Dickerman’s knee as he sat.

“How is it with you, boyo?” Tim asked. “You OK?” Dickerman had been out when Tim dropped off the subpoenaed evidence yesterday.

Mo made a face. He knew Tim was talking about Sally’s passing. For Tim, Maria’s death fell into the broad category of things you couldn’t do anything about, and he usually spoke with great reluctance about those years-shuttling her for treatments, shopping with her for wigs, sitting in the waiting room with his insides scoured by worry during the course of three lengthy surgeries, his daughters’ weeping as soon as they caught sight of their mom, whenever they came to town. But Mo clearly was of the other school, talking about Sally constantly so he could believe it himself. Telling Tim the story now, Mo leaned down in the yellowish courtroom pew, ostensibly to keep their conversation private, but it looked as if the memory had doubled him in pain.

“When they found the lump, I was thinking, ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, she’s going to lose her tits,’ and then after we saw the big-deal specialist at the U, I’d have gotten on my knees for him to tell me that was all there was to it. There was nothing to do. They tried, but they just made her miserable. At the end she begged me not to ask her to do anything else. She didn’t last eight months from diagnosis to the funeral.”