Part 12 (1/2)

She laughed out loud. ”Grown-ups don't ask each other about their marriages, Larry.”

”Why not?”

”Okay, how's your marriage? You never got out the door, huh? Did you and Nancy sign a peace treaty?”

”You know how that goes,” said Larry. ”You wouldn't have me, so anybody else would be second best.” That line didn't sound good, but he was smiling. ”No, I mean, it's okay. She's a good person, Nancy. Really good. What can you say about a woman who adopts your children? Nothing bad. Life's not perfect, right?”

”Apparently.”

”I tell you, I think more and more about my grandparents. My mom's folks? When he was sixteen, Grandpa's parents apprenticed him as a wheelwright”talk about a job with a future”and arranged for a wife. He saw my grandmother for the first time two years later, three days before he married her. And when you page ahead sixty-five years they were still clopping along. Never a cross word between them either. So go figure.”

He was fiddling with the k.n.o.b on the cheap little aluminum teapot as he spoke. Listening, Muriel found herself surprisingly at ease. It turned out there were bonds in life that couldn't be broken. And having slept with somebody was one of them. At least for her. And probably most people. She'd be carrying a piece of Larry around with her for the rest of her life.

”Okay, so it's your turn,” he said. ”Is it hard? I look at Talmadge, when I see him on TV sometimes, and frankly, I think to myself, putting up with that act must be hard.”

”Being married to Talmadge doesn't require much but a sense of humor and a black dress.” She laughed at herself, but she was disturbed by the undercurrent. She had spent all those years thinking she would never succ.u.mb to lesser things the way everyone else did. Normal. Middle. Average. Those words were still enough to make her weak at the knees. ”Talmadge is Talmadge, Larry. It's like riding in the chariot with the Sun G.o.d. You always feel the glow.”

Her husband led the life of Millennium America, on an airplane somewhere three or four times a week. He had clients throughout the world, including several governments. Home to Talmadge was generally just a place he could safely retreat from his glimmering public persona to a surprisingly dark core. He sat up late, sipping whiskey, brooding, and salving the wounds he'd been too adrenalized to feel when they were inflicted on the battlefield. Although he was more often purely giddy at the size of his success, in his dark moods he seemed to believe the world had showered favor on him in order to demean him, to prove he wasn't truly worthy of all of it. She was required to comfort him at length.

”I have his respect,” she said, ”and that means a lot to me. We listen to each other. Give a lot of advice. Spend a lot of time talking. It's good.”

”Marriage of the t.i.tans,” he said. ”The Super Lawyer and the Prosecuting Attorney.”

For Muriel, it remained irritating that an ambitious woman was so much more acceptable when she was wed to an ambitious man. In truth, though, she'd probably figured that out when she married Talmadge.

”n.o.body's elected me yet, Larry.”

”You can't miss. Who the h.e.l.l will even run against you? Everybody in law enforcement is lined up behind you. You got the woman thing going, not to mention all of Talmadge's pals with open checkbooks. The papers say you're gonna be Senator before you're done.”

Senator. Mayor. She'd actually read both. Recognizing the sheer serendipity that led to such pinnacles, she refused to treat the speculation as anything other than rank amus.e.m.e.nt.

”This is the job I want, Larry. Frankly, I'm running because it's so easy. Ned's laid his hands on. Talmadge will manage the campaign from Airfones. Even so, I still spend time wondering what I'm getting into.”

”Bull. This has always been your dream.”

”I don't know, Larry.” She hesitated, trying to figure out where momentum was taking her, then gave up, which was the same old story of being with Larry. ”Even a year ago, I was still hoping I'd have to think twice about running. But I've faced the fact that I'm never going to get pregnant. That was really the priority. I know so much about fertility”” She stopped. Never once in her life had she felt sorry for herself, but contemplating the years of examinations, medications, irrigations, of clock-watching, day-counting, temperature-taking, of hoping and hoping”the memory sometimes seemed enough to defeat her. As a younger person, it had never occurred to her where her desire to be of consequence in the world would lead. But that potent childhood vow to leave behind some trace of herself for eternity led, in the hands of nature, to a fierce pa.s.sion to repeat herself, to raise, to nurture, to teach, to love. No yearning she had experienced in life, not the tide of libido, not hunger, not even ambition, could equal the force with which that need had arisen in Muriel after she was married. It was as if her heart were driven forward by a great turning wheel”beneath which, over time, it was crushed. She lived with the absence, a form of mourning, that would continue to her last day.

Larry was listening with concern, his blue eyes still. He finally said, ”Well, you have my vote, Muriel. I want you to be P.A. It's important to me, you know, that you get what you want.” There was purpose in his expression. It was a sweet discovery that he remained so committedly her friend.

They fought over the check, but Larry insisted on paying. He reminded her that he was, in her word, rich. Then they hiked through lunchtime foot traffic to the old Federal Courthouse. Kenton Harlow, the Chief Judge of the District Court, had a.s.signed the deposition to himself, rather than push the matter off on a Magistrate Judge. The procedural posture of the case was bizarre anyway, a by-product of Congress's recent efforts to truncate the endless parade of appeals and collateral attacks that was death-penalty litigation. The Court of Appeals, which never heard live testimony, had nonetheless reserved the right to evaluate the evidence turned up during the limited period for discovery and to decide for itself whether the case should continue, a function that had traditionally been reserved to the trial-level judges in the District Court. No one Muriel had talked to had ever been through a proceeding like this one.

The Chief Judge presided in the so-called Ceremonial Courtroom. Given the amount of brown marble behind the bench, the vast room could have been mistaken for a chapel. But Muriel's attention was soon drawn by something else. In the first row of walnut pews, on the scarlet cus.h.i.+ons, several members of the press were a.s.sembled, not just the beleaguered courthouse regulars, but also several television reporters. Stanley Rosenberg from Channel 5, Jill Jones, a few others”as well as two sketch artists. The only reason a gallery like this would be present was if Arthur had tipped them, promising big doings.

She grabbed Larry's arm as she gathered the portent and whispered a term from his days in Nam, so he'd understand the gravity of the situation.

”Incoming,” she said.

Chapter 15.

June 12, 2001 Erno's Testimony ”STATE YOUR NAME, please, and spell your last name for the record.”

”Erno Erdai,” he said and recited each letter.

From the bench above the witness stand, Judge Harlow repeated Erno's surname to be sure he had it. ”Air-die?” asked the judge. That was like Harlow, Arthur thought. He'd grant anyone the courtesy of calling him by the right name, even after he found out Erno had shot five people in his lifetime and left four of them dead.

Judge Kenton Harlow was most often described as 'Lincolnesque.' The judge was lean and nearly six four, with a narrow beard and large, imposing features. He had a direct style and a rousing commitment to const.i.tutional ideals. But the comparisons to Lincoln hardly came unbidden. He had been the model of Harlow's adult life. The judge's chambers were decorated with a variety of Lincoln memorabilia, everything from first editions of the Carl Sandburg biography, to numerous busts and masks and bronze figures of Honest Abe at all ages. As a lawyer, a teacher, a renowned const.i.tutional scholar, and as an a.s.sistant Attorney General of the United States in charge of the Civil Rights Division in the Carter Administration, Harlow had fulfilled the credo he attributed to Lincoln, a faith in the law as the flower of humanism.

Arthur proceeded through the preliminary questioning of Erno. Erdai was already thinner than when Arthur had seen him in prison three weeks ago, and his lungs had begun to fail. The marshals had hiked a canister of pure oxygen on wheels onto the witness stand at Erno's feet, and the protrusions on a clear tube connected to the cylinder were holstered in his nose. Despite that, Erno seemed of good cheer. Although Arthur had told him it was unnecessary, Erno had insisted on wearing a suit.

”Your Honor, for the record.” At the prosecution table, Muriel Wynn had arisen to renew her objections to the proceedings. Arthur had phoned Muriel a dozen times about Rommy's case, but he hadn't seen her in person for several years. She had aged agreeably. Slender people always seemed to, Arthur thought. There was gray in her tight black hair, but she wore more makeup now, a concession not so much to age, he surmised, as to the fact that as a prominent figure she was often photographed.

Muriel and he had been peers in the Prosecuting Attorney's Office and Arthur valued his relations.h.i.+p with her, as with most of his former colleagues. It chagrined him to recognize that after today, she would regard him the way prosecutors viewed most defense lawyers: another decent mortal whose soul had been sucked out of him by the vampires he represented. Yet his duties to Rommy had left Arthur with little choice. He could not have told Muriel what was coming without risking that she would have demanded delays in order to investigate Erdai's claims, hoping all the while that Erno would become too sick to testify, or even that he could be pressured in the inst.i.tution to recant.

With a brio that had always seemed to Arthur partly inspired by her size, Muriel argued to Harlow that Gandolph had exhausted the chances the law allowed him to avoid being put to death.

”So you think, Ms. Wynn,” asked the judge, ”that even if the police knew facts establis.h.i.+ng Mr. Gandolph's innocence, the Const.i.tution”our Const.i.tution, the federal Const.i.tution,” said Harlow, archly implying that the state lived by the legal equivalent of jungle rules””you think the time's up for me to consider them?”

”I believe that's the law,” said Muriel.

”Well, if you're right,” said the judge, ”then you have very little to lose by hearing what Mr. Erdai has to say.” Always the best lawyer in the courtroom, Harlow smiled benignly. He told Muriel to take her seat and instructed Arthur to put his next question.

He asked where Erno presently resided.

”I'm housed at the Medical Wing of the Rudyard State Penitentiary,” Erno said.

”And for what reason are you housed there?”

”I have stage-four squamous-cell carcinoma of the lung.” Erno turned to the judge. ”I got about three months.”

”I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Erdai,” said Harlow. By habit, the judge seldom looked up from his notes and even in this moment of solicitude he did not vary from that practice. Arthur had tried several major cases in front of Harlow, and the judge had expressed continuing approval for Arthur's una.s.suming style and his diligence. For his part, Arthur revered Harlow, whose casebook he'd studied in law school. The judge was a great man. He was also often a handful. Harlow could be cranky, even volcanic. He was an old-fas.h.i.+oned liberal, reared during the Depression, and he regarded anyone who did not share his brand of democratic communalism as an ingrate or a greedy child. For years now, Harlow had conducted a running battle with the far more conservative Court of Appeals, ruing their frequent reversals and regularly attempting to outflank them. Arthur had taken advantage of that ongoing contest for Gandolph's benefit. Harlow made no secret of his resentment of the new legislation that gave the Court of Appeals, rather than judges at Harlow's level, the right to cut off successive habeas corpus proceedings in death-penalty cases. As a result, the judge had been immediately taken with Arthur's suggestion that Harlow evaluate Erno's credibility, because, by tradition, the Court of Appeals could not ignore his findings. In effect, this returned to Harlow a large measure of the power to decide whether the case proceeded.

”Have you ever been convicted of a crime, sir?” Arthur asked Erdai.

”I have. Four years ago I got into an argument at a bar with a guy I once investigated and ended up shooting him in the back. He'd come at me with a gun to start, but I shouldn't have shot him. He recovered, fortunately, but I pled guilty to Aggravated Battery and got ten years.” Erno had drawn the microphone, which resembled a blackened seedpod on a stalk, right next to his lips. His voice was husky, and he tended to exhaust his breath, requiring occasional lapses. But he appeared calm. Speaking slowly, more formally, Erno's vague, gargling accent, a little bit of Dracula, was slightly more distinct than when he was talking in his preferred mode of Kewahnee tough guy.

Arthur continued exploring Erno's background, starting with his birth in Hungary and proceeding through his employment at TN. Harlow took careful notes. Ready to launch into the big stuff, Arthur faced Pamela at counsel table to be certain he hadn't missed any preliminaries. Radiant with antic.i.p.ation, Pamela shook her head minutely. Perversely, Arthur felt a bit sorry for her. In her first year of practice, Pamela was about to enjoy a triumph she might never equal. After this, it was possible that Pamela would never be content with what satisfied other lawyers. Then again, Arthur realized, the same could well be true for him. He found himself pleased by the prospect that the next question might change his life. And so he asked it.

”Calling your attention to July Fourth of 1991, Mr. Erdai, can you tell us what you did in the early-morning hours of that day?”

Erno adjusted the piece in his nose. ”I killed Luisa Remardi, Augustus Leonidis, and Paul Judson,” he said.

Arthur had envisioned a hubbub in the courtroom, but instead there was prolonged silence. Harlow, who had a computer screen on the bench where the court reporter's transcription appeared, actually looked up to watch the words fly by. Then he put down his pen and pulled on his jaw. From beneath the bird's nests of his untamed whitish brows, his gaze settled on Arthur. The judge allowed himself nothing else in his expression, but the intensity of his look seemed to reflect admiration. To bring this kind of evidence forward on the eve of execution”that, in Harlow's view, was the epitome of what the legal profession stood for.

”You may ask another question,” the judge said to Arthur.

Only one was possible.