The Laws of our Fathers by Scott Turow Read Free Book Online

desperate need of a single mother to control her working hours and, almost as important, kept her in the law. She had tired of the battle hymn of practice, the race going always to the aggressive and the shrewd. It had brought out the Sonny she least liked, the child always secretly wounded, and, as she explained to herself in the most secret way, had forced her to accept the world according to men. After Nikki - after Charlie - she wanted to have a working life that depended not on slick maneuvering and sly positions, but which was anchored instead by kindness, which had some feeling connection to what surged through her when she held her child, the emotions she knew, knew were truly the best, the lightest things in life. But is the serious-looking dark-haired woman of fading looks, the Sonny she envisions up on the bench, this person scolding and sentencing the vicious and the woe-torn, is that her?
        She is alone now, racing along in the strange night world of the central courthouse, with its empty corridors and isolated, purposeful habitues: bail bondsmen, police officers. Her high heels resound along the marble. At this hour, arrests are processed here from across the city. A broad young Hispanic woman in a bold ill-fitting print camps with a far-off look on one of the granite benches positioned just outside the bank of metal detectors. She embraces a child of three or four, who faces her, asleep, black ringlets dampened to one side of her face. They are always here: mothers, babies, families exhausted by trouble, waiting in the wasted hope their men will be bailed, acquitted, somehow freed.
        Racing by, Sonny smiles in fleeting communion. Stirred by this momentary connection, she finds urgent visions of Nikki beckoning to her again. She foresees the humbling scene which is waiting, Nikki a straggler at Jackie's, and Sonny apologizing, vowing nevermore, even as Jackie insists it's not a problem. It is the sight of Nikki herself that will be worst: already in her coat and backpack, wiping her nose on her coat sleeve, gripping Sonny's hand by the fingers and urging her to suspend apologies and to leave; that little life, ragged with the toil of her own day and the worry of a prolonged separation. Within Sonny, there is always the same recriminating thought: How many times did Zora do this to her? How many thousand? It is startling to find how near at hand the pain remains, still fully memorized, how clear the recollection of the occasions when her mother was gone. Gone to meetings. Gone to organize. Gone to touch someone else with all those grand important yearnings: for freedom. For dignity.
        So this is who she is, Her Honor, Judge Sonia Klonsky. The sheer momentum of her passions has her dashing a few steps down the street toward her car. The night has entered that moment of magic dwindling light when the sky almost clamors with drama and perspective drains, so that the buildings, figures, trees, the small circling birds, the Center City looming beyond, seem to stand on top of one another in the reduced proportions of a diorama. Neon promises glow cheaply in the storefronts of the tatty bond emporia across the street: 'Bail. Fast. E-Z terms.' Gripped by the heartsore cycles of her life, any life, the vexing complications of this case, and the perpetual anguish that seeps like a pollutant into the air around the courthouse, she rushes on. She rushes with high feeling and a sudden silvery fragment of happiness lacing her heart. She is thinking of her child.
        
SEPTEMBER 14, 1995
        
        Seth
        When the electronic bolt is disengaged admitting them to the guard desk at the Kindle County Jail, Seth Weissman finds that Hobie Turtle and he are not the sole civilians. A delivery man from Domino's, a skinny guy everyone calls Kirk, is also there with lunch.
        ' Yo,' he tells the three correctional officers and shoves off, counting his tip. The bolt is shot again, a potent