11

THE NEIGHBORHOOD looked like a place where children grew up quickly. Anything and everything probably was for sale if you knew where to go and what name to ask for. In its midst, strangely, the Cook County Criminal Courthouse loomed opposite an expanse of vacant land.

Behind the courthouse stood a monolith that looked like photographs he’d seen of San Quentin: high stone wall, machine-gun towers. When he turned the corner he saw the legend carved in stone above it. Cook County Jail.

It had occurred to him there were more efficient ways of finding the predators than stalking dark streets at random. This place, the court, was the start of a natural game trail. It captured some of them but it turned others loose, and those who had been turned loose could be followed from this known starting point.

On California Avenue he found a space and parked. He left his guns in the car because they might have metal detectors inside against attempted breakout capers. He hid the guns well and locked the car.

A window washer’s crane loomed above the entrance like a gallows. Paul went beneath it into the pillared portico.

People vs. Crubb—Part III. The calendar was penciled on a cork board by the information booth. Paul studied the map of the building, memorized the route and set out through stone hallways.

The courtroom seemed as unreal and musty as a nightclub in the daytime. Motes of dust hung in motionless beams of grey that spread weakly from the high windows and seemed to be absorbed before they reached the floor. There was an insistent banging of steam radiators. A long row of people on the rear bench cowered under the cavernous mass of the courtroom, diminished to midgetry by its cruel proportions: a farmer with a scrawny grey neck; a bewildered black woman; a stubborn stubbled man in windbreaker and soft cap; a tall black man, unbreakably aloof; a narrow-faced codger with clever restless eyes; a pudgy youth with his attention fixed on his hands in his lap; a gross woman talking in an insistent whisper to the potbellied little man beside her; two teen-age youths, Latins, with slicked hair and apathetic eyes; a grizzled black overwhelmed by hopelessness.

Lawyers sprawled in the hard pews, foolscaps spread out on the seats beside them; two or three in the front pews were twisted around in conversation with colleagues behind them. There was a conference of dark-suited men in the far corner beyond the unoccupied bench; one of the men probably was the presiding judge but Paul couldn’t single him out and he was almost surprised that there wasn’t a man in robes and powdered wig.

The arena below the bench contained two long tables and a solitary lawyer with silver hair had taken possession of one of them; otherwise the arena, like the jury box, was empty. A queue of five or six lawyers stood patiently at the court clerk’s desk beside the bench, probably ascertaining their order of appearance in the day’s calendar of cases.

Paul chose an inconspicuous pew and sat down behind a lean angular woman in an orange tweed suit. The sweep of her eyebrows was emphasized in dark pencil; she had a sleek tense look. She was talking to a young man. in funereal black: “Frank, it’s not good enough. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t renege on me. I already told him the deal was made.”

“What exactly did you tell him?”

“He cops a manslaughter plea, he gets five and serves three. Irene, look, the kid’s nineteen years old.”

“It’s not the first time he’s been nailed with a knife in his hand. This time it was covered with the blood of a seventy-four-year-old woman.”

“She didn’t die from the stabbing. She had a coronary.”

“The coronary was brought on by the assault. Look up your felony murder law again, Frank. The boy goes up on first degree, I’m sorry.”

“You can’t just …”

“I told you before, you know. You just didn’t listen. You jumped to conclusions, you assumed …”

“What does Pierce say about it?”

“Ask him.”

“Maybe I will.”

“He always backs up his assistants. He’ll throw you out of the office if you bleat about it.”

“What’s got you so hot about this one? Would you feel the same way about this case if the victim had been a man?”

“I won’t dignify that with an answer.”

“I’ll have to file for a continuance. We’re not ready to go to trial.”

“Take all the time you want. Nobody wants to railroad him.”

“What is it about this kid?”

“He was on my calendar fourteen months ago and I let his lawyer bargain me down to a reduced charge and an SS. The kid went back on the street, and finally he got caught for killing Mrs. Jackquist, but how many others did he stick that knife in before he got caught?”

“You mean you’re feeling guilty because you bargained the plea a year ago? For Pete’s sake….”

“If I’d gone to trial he’d still be in the slammer right now. Mrs. Jackquist would be alive. Think about that, Frank.”

“If every prosecutor felt that way there’d be a waiting line of greybeards on the trial calendar for twenty years.”

“Frank,” he was pulling the knife out of her when the cop arrested him. There were two witnesses in that hallway who knew the kid personally. There’s no chance of eyewitness error. Your client’s a vicious animal and he needs putting away. There’s nothing more to say.”

“I know something about this kid, Irene. His old man …”

She spoke very low in precise tones, dropping each word with equal weight like bricks: “I don’t give a shit, Frank. I’m sick of people blaming crime on everything but the criminal.”

“For Christ’s sake, you’re acting like you’re floating a trial balloon for John Bircher of the year. What’s happened to you?”

The woman rocked her hand, fingers splayed; it was the sum of her answer.

The young lawyer snapped his case shut and moved away across the aisle. His rigid back expressed his anger.

Paul leaned forward. “Excuse me, Miss …”

Her dark hair swayed when she turned; her alert eyes reserved suspicion. “Yes?”

“I couldn’t help overhearing. You’re on the district attorney’s staff?”

“Yes, but if it’s about a case pending before this court I can’t …”

“It’s not. I’m only a spectator.”

Her face changed: it made clear her opinion of the morbid curious.

“My name’s Paul Benjamin. My wife and daughter were killed by muggers. It makes you take an interest in the criminal justice system.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“I guess I’ve spent most of my life like everybody else—badly ignorant of law and crime. I suppose I’m looking for some sort of answers. I’m sorry, I’m not making too much sense….”

She twisted and reached over the back of the bench, offering her hand. “I’m Irene Evans.” Her handshake was quick and firm. “When did it happen?”

“Oh it was quite a while ago now, in New York.”

“You’re just visiting Chicago then?”

“No, I’ve moved out here. I—couldn’t stay there.”

“You’ve picked a strange place to move to. We’ve got a worse crime problem than New York’s.”

“You go where the jobs are, I guess.”

The judge climbed to the bench; the court stenographer settled behind his machine; lawyers arranged themselves and at the back a prisoner was brought into the room. Irene Evans said, “I have to go to work. Are you free for lunch?”

“I have an appointment. Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.” She was gathering her papers. “Still, court will be in session. I’ve got one case to try in the morning. Perhaps if you’d like to meet me here at half past twelve tomorrow …?”

“Thanks very much. I know it’s an imposition.”

“No. It may give me a chance to think out some questions I’ve been putting off for too long. You may have done me a favor, you see.” She stood up: she wasn’t as tall as he’d thought. “Tomorrow lunch, then. I’ll look forward to it.” She smiled and went toward the rail and he noticed she wore no rings. A lonely woman, he thought.