Erno studied the rail on the witness box for quite some time.

"This family"my family"we survived a lot. I mean, they had a h.e.l.l of a time in the Second World War and then in 1956, my father took part in the revolt"" Erno screwed up his face. "He was killed"he was shot and then hung from his feet on the lamppost in front of our house, to tell it like it was. Our neighbors sold him out to the AVH, the secret police. And my mother and my sister and me, it was quite a story getting out of there and getting here. And then Collins, my nephew"he was the only child either of us had, my sister and me. And I knew if he went to prison for the rest of his life, then that was it. I mean, I thought a lot about my father hanging from that lamppost"they left him out there for days, they wouldn't let us cut him down, it was a warning." Erno reached to cover his mouth, as if he was going to be ill, and instead broke down completely. After a minute, he mopped his entire face with the judge's tissues and, as before, took a while to get his breathing back on track.

"I felt he could be something, Collins. He was smart, just stuck in a tough spot. But I thought I owed it to my father, to my mother, to"to the whole family"to try to get him one more chance. I had to do what I could."

Arthur waited to see if Erno would offer more, but he'd said his piece. By now, Arthur and Pamela had spent hours with Erno, and one of the hard truths of the case was that Arthur did not particularly like him. It was not because Erno was a criminal, nor even because of the exceptional gravity of what he had done. Over the years, Arthur, like everyone else who worked in the system, had encountered absolute miscreants who were bright as a new penny, and even beguiling. But there was an inalterable coldness to Erno. He was blunt, and not merely indifferent to feelings but somewhat proud of the fact. He did not ask to be liked. And yet his hardness left Arthur with an unshakable conviction that Erno was telling the truth, and also with considerable admiration for Erno's willingness to proceed without demanding to be regarded as either a saint or a martyr. He knew he wasn't.

"All right, then. One more area. Ms. Wynn raised questions about the motives for your testimony. Can you tell us why you agreed to speak to Judge Sullivan and me"why you decided to tell the truth about what happened on July Fourth, 1991."

Predictably, Muriel stood up to object to the a.s.sumption that Erno was telling the truth. The judge brushed her aside, the way he'd done to Arthur a couple of times.

"Let's just try our lawsuit, folks. Let's not worry about who's in the peanut gallery," Harlow said, clearly adverting to the press. "Okay, Mr. Erdai. Explain yourself. Why are we hearing about this now?"

Erno steadied his breathing before he began.

"I would say at first, when I set up Gandolph, I didn't really worry much about him. I figured, if you laid end to end everything he got away with, he probably deserved quite a bit of time anyway.

"Now, like I said, if Larry had come down when I asked, I'd have told him. I hadn't worked out in my head exactly how I'd do that, but I'd have done it, because I'd owe him to be straight. But now, I realize I owe it to Gandolph.

"There's nothing like dying, I'll tell you. You may think you understand that you're only here temporary, but when the doctors tell you"I don't know, maybe old folks feel different about it. My ma was happy to go at eighty-six. But when it's before your time"for me"I spend a lot of the day being scared. It's coming. You know it's coming. And there's nothing you can do. It's coming. It's cruel, actually. You live your whole life, you survive all this stuff and still the end's got to be so cruel.

"Now, you know, guys on their deathbed, they rediscover their faith, and I've rediscovered mine. I listen to the priest. And I think a lot. I've done a lot of terrible things. I don't know if G.o.d gave me this disease as punishment, or if it just happened because stuff happens"He won't be sending any telegrams to explain it. But it comes in your mind, eventually, that you have it in your power to make things better. And that's what got me thinking about Gandolph. He's been over there, every day for nine-plus years now, and he knows every day, just like me, it's coming. It's coming, and he can't do nothing about it. Like me. Only he doesn't deserve it. If I just tell the truth, he gets out from under. He's going through what I'm going through, every day, but he doesn't have to. That's what I kept thinking. I can't change it for me. But I can change it for him. All I have to do is what's right."

Erno hadn't been looking at anyone as he gave this oration. His eyes were cast low and he was speaking in the same bare voice, raspy and a bit disembodied, in which he'd answered throughout. But when he finished he looked up and nodded decisively to the judge.

With a long finger laid beside his nose, Harlow was manifestly weighing what to make of Erno. Arthur and Pamela had spent a considerable amount of time asking the same question of one another. Despite Erno's plain-spokenness, there remained an elusive quality to him, which Arthur had eventually decided arose from Erno's uncertainty about himself. Arthur had no doubt Erdai meant every word he'd just said, yet there was a sense in which the man found such reflections alien. Sometimes Erno reminded Arthur of his schizophrenic sister, Susan, who often claimed to be under the command of voices from elsewhere in the cosmos. Erno had testified that when he shot Paul Judson, he learned something grisly about his own nature. But that was nowhere near as unaccountable to him as the forces that had impelled him at the end of his life to reverse what little he could of the damage done by his savage side. Erno accepted that he was doing right. But he still seemed utterly confounded about what was in it for him.

Eventually, the judge asked Muriel if she had any re-cross. After conferring with Larry, she said no.

"Mr. Erdai," said the judge, "you are excused." Harlow studied Erno a moment longer, then added in a flat voice, "Good luck to you, sir," and without looking back, left the bench.

Chapter 19.

June l3, 2001 Still Victims AS THE SESSION CONCLUDED, Muriel, still flying on adrenaline, faced the gallery, where the onlookers, shoulder to shoulder, were struggling to their feet. There were at least a dozen reporters here on special a.s.signment, and scores of civilians drawn in by the headlines of the last twenty-four hours.

This morning Ned Halsey had gallantly suggested Muriel leave the case"and the controversy"to him. But the reporters knew Gandolph's prosecution had been pivotal in her career; if Arthur actually proved Squirrel was the wrong man, the press would hang her whether she was in the courtroom or not. And she would not have deprived herself of the challenge anyway. She craved these moments of premium demand, no matter how dire, when the world pressed at her like a clamoring sea. Raven was approaching with a bundle of new motions. Molto and Carol needed to be consulted on the next legal move. Larry was awaiting direction on where his investigation of Erdai should head. And the journalists were already lurching forward to see if they could squeeze some pre-emptive comment from her. But this was the destiny she'd wanted since childhood. 'The arena' was Talmadge's term, but she did not care for the gladiatorial overtone. To her it was more a matter of using herself completely, feeling that every cell had to contribute to managing her place in her times.

With the instinctive clarity with which these matters always made themselves manifest to her, she abruptly saw what she had to do. John Leonidis was present, seated in the rear, as he had faithfully been for more than nine years now, whenever there were court sessions of consequence. She ignored everyone else, and with the reporters gathered round, placed an arm on John's shoulder and led him across the hall to the witness room. The press, she knew, wouldn't go away until she'd commented.

John had not come down alone. He introduced a smooth-skinned man, Pan, a Filipino perhaps, who was a good deal younger than John. Even after Muriel closed the door to the small room, the din of the milling outside the courtroom reached them vaguely. John had been enraged by the proceedings. He bit off a piece of his thumbnail while he fulminated, explaining to Muriel, as if it were news to her, that Erdai was lying to get even with the Kindle County police and had been fed all details.

"I want to tell those idiot reporters out there what's going on," said John.

For Muriel, it was ideal to be defended by the victims. Nonetheless, she told John he should speak only if he wanted to.

"Believe me, I want to," said John. "I think about this piece of dirt every day. Gandolph? Every day, Muriel, I realize I lost something else to this guy. Lately, the last few months, I keep wondering if my old man would have been proud of me." John had good reason to believe Gus would have taken great satisfaction in him. Not only had John continued to operate Paradise, where business was better than ever in the resurgent neighborhood, but he had also franchised mid-priced Greek restaurants across the country in partnership with a local hotel owner. Muriel had lunch at the Center City place, GG's Taverna"GG for Good Gus"at John's invitation a few times every year. He would sit at her table, smoke, and go over the case, which remained as fresh in his mind as if it had been tried yesterday.

"I think, you know, Gus would have had some problems with some things in my life," said John, "same as my mom, but I think it would have turned out okay, with him, too. I really believe that. But I'm ent.i.tled to know. Right? Everybody is. This s.h.i.tbag, Gandolph"he's not G.o.d. But he was G.o.d in my life."

For John, like most survivors, his father's murder, and the killer's punishment, would always resound with personal meanings. Yet the princ.i.p.al reason John could not let the case end was simply because it hadn't. For John Leonidis it had been almost a decade of holding his breath, hoping against hope that the injustice of Gus's death would not be compounded by seeing Rommy Gandolph escape what the clanking legal machinery had said he deserved.

Years ago, John had been the most adamant of the victims about the death penalty for Gandolph. By the time of the trial, Paul Judson's wife, Dina, had moved to Boulder and was doing everything she could to start fresh; no one had heard from her for years. Luisa's mom, who'd been ruffled by Larry during the investigation, appeared in court to ask for death, but seemed cowed. John, on the other hand, would have been happy to go to law school and try the case himself. Muriel had a.s.sumed originally this was for his mother's sake. But what he had testified to, during the victims' allocution before sentence was imposed, was that he believed his father would have wanted capital punishment, too.

'He'd give a person a chance,' John had said about Gus. 'He'd give you six chances, if he really thought you were trying. But at the end of the day, he was old school. He was tough. Sooner or later, he would have said enough is enough. My father was good to Gandolph. And got nothing for it but a bullet in the head. He would have wanted this guy dead. So that's what I want.' Even at the time, Muriel was uncertain that John's vision of his father was completely accurate, but who was she to say? She could still recall, though, the mood in the courtroom when John spoke, the gravity that had come over Gillian Sullivan as she listened from the bench. Idealists could posture about the indignity of the state killing"it was a lot better than having citizens take matters into their own hands, which is what could occur with people like John, people with griefs and debts to the dead that required action. For him, Rommy Gandolph's death had become a priority, part of the role as his father's stand-in that he had a.s.sumed from the moment Gus died.

Muriel opened the door, waving to Carol so she would accompany John and his friend downstairs to the courthouse lobby, where the TV cameras waited. Several reporters shouted Muriel's name and she promised to be along in a moment. Larry, however, immediately shepherded four females over the threshold"two adolescent girls, an agreeable-looking woman near forty, and at the rear, an older lady whose hair was dyed a lifeless black. She was the only one of the four whom Muriel recognized.

"Mrs. Salvino, of course," said Muriel, welcoming Luisa Remardi's mother. The old woman was tough and to the point, and Muriel had always taken it that Luisa was a chip off the old block. The young girls with her had faces almost identical to one another, but the two years between them resulted in a significant contrast in their overall appearance. The second to enter wore makeup and was almost a foot taller than her sister. But both were lean and dark, long-jawed, with stray lanks of jet hair and large dark eyes. Each was very pretty. Muriel realized at once they were Luisa's daughters.

In her usual abrupt way, Mrs. Salvino dismissed Muriel's greeting.

"This here," she said, "don't you people ever come to an end with this?"

"Nuccia," scolded the fourth female.

"Muriel," said Larry, with an uncharacteristic ceremonial air, "you may remember Genevieve Carriere. She was a close friend of Luisa's." Genevieve had been called upon as a driver and escort. Mrs. Salvino was one of those Kewahnee Italians who went to Center City only two or three times a year, and always with apprehension.

"I got no need to come down here," Mrs. Salvino said. "Darla heard the television. So she decided she's coming, which is mostly an excuse, if you want to know, to skip school."

"Like I need an excuse," answered her older granddaughter. The little one was shy and wore braces and hung back by the door. But Darla was clearly a handful. Sixteen now, she wore the skimpy clothing and heavy makeup that Muriel saw all the time on the street. Her figure was far too full for the narrow camisole that stopped short of her navel. Muriel was often bemused at how taken aback she was by the s.e.xual brashness of these girls, because she knew that she'd have taken full advantage of such license, had it been permitted in her day.

"You got no need to hear all of this," said her grandmother.

"Hel-lo, Grandma! It's on television. And it's my own mother and you don't tell us nothing. I mean, that's totally bogus."

Larry intervened. "I don't think you learned anything about what happened, Darla. That was just a bitter, dying man entertaining himself."

"I sorta believed him sometimes," she answered in the usual contrary fashion of people her age. "This other guy, the one they say done it. It all sounds so sketchy with him. I don't think somebody as sick as this dude even has the energy to make stuff up."

"You should know about making up," said her grandmother.

Darla briefly offered Mrs. Salvino a sick simpering look.

"The only thing with this one," said Darla, "is that he's like such a total gross-out to look at."

Muriel and Larry, still caught in the warring mood of the courtroom, laughed at the same time, greatly amused by the cruelty to Erno.

"No, truly," insisted Darla, "I mean, I know he's sick and all, but he couldn't ever have been, like, good-looking. That's just so not Mom. All the pictures I seen of her with guys"even my father"they were always, like, hotties." The girl spoke with some urgency, and Muriel was struck by the pathos of Darla's adoring reconstruction of her mother. The older Muriel became, the more aware she grew of the freight of pain carried inside every courthouse. As a younger person, what she sensed was the anger"of both the victims and the defendants, who frequently felt ill used"and, even more grippingly, her own righteous need to smite evil. But now what stayed with her was the legacy of hurt"for Darla, even for the criminals, who often had the sense to regret what they had done, and certainly for their families, who were usually as innocent as the other bystanders, their sole mistake loving someone who'd come to no good.

To Darla, it was obviously important that her estimate of her mother be correct. She turned to Genevieve, who had watched Darla's byplay with her grandmother with the whisper of a smile.

"Isn't that right, Aunt Genevieve? Mom totally wouldn't have been with somebody like that."

"Never," said Genevieve. "Your mother always hated that man." Genevieve touched the girl's bare shoulder and thus missed the look Muriel exchanged with Larry.

"Why did she hate him?" Muriel asked.

Six was a crowd in here, amid an old tweed sofa and a government-issue table and chairs. Immediately conscious of an error, Genevieve looked off to one of the corny woodland scenes on the wall rather than confront the attention suddenly on her.

"There was just bad blood," she said and turned a manicured hand in the air, as if it were all too vague. Her hair was prematurely white, which was actually quite striking, since she had retained a flush, round-cheeked youthfulness right down to her overbite. Overall, Genevieve gave an impression of substance. It was a decade later and she was still looking out for her friend's children and mother. Muriel had spent years now envisioning herself on the sidelines of soccer and baseball fields in the company of women like this, mothers who nurtured by reflex and who were probably the best people on the planet.

"Maybe the girls could wait outside," Muriel suggested, thinking they might have motivated Genevieve's reluctance.

"Like h.e.l.l," answered Darla. "We're not babies. She was our mother."

In spite of herself, Muriel smiled, probably because she'd been every bit as abrasive and opinionated herself at sixteen. The thrill of going too far, of treading forbidden ground to find out who she was, had never fully left her. Andrea, Darla's younger sister, looked less certain about staying, but ultimately chose to keep her place, too. In the meantime, Larry continued to press Genevieve.

"So you don't know anything about Erno and Luisa being an item?"

Genevieve looked at her watch and lifted a beckoning arm to the girls, but was willing to offer a parting thought.

"I'd sooner believe he killed her than that," she said.

Muriel held up a hand to detain Mrs. Salvino. "Did Luisa ever say anything to you about Erno?"

"Who knows?" answered the old woman. "Who paid attention?"

"Did she talk about men?"

"For G.o.d sake," said Mrs. Salvino, "I was her mother for G.o.d sake. You think I asked those things?"

"I think you'd ask," said Darla.

Mrs. Salvino raised the back of her hand and made a spitting sound between her teeth and Darla answered with another gesture, an openhand challenge, which, in all likelihood, she'd adopted from her grandmother. But Darla was smiling. She had more appreciation for Nuccia Salvino than she was likely to admit.

As Genevieve continued to edge the group toward the door, Muriel told Mrs. Salvino the reporters might try to question her.

"I got nothing to say."

"They'll want to know what you think," said Muriel. "Whether you believe Erdai killed her."

"Maybe," said Mrs. Salvino. "Maybe this one and the other one done it together. I don't know. She's dead. That's what I know."

"We have no comment," said Genevieve.

Muriel bade goodbye to all of them. Genevieve left last and Larry laid his fingertips on her sleeve.

"We'd really like to talk to you some more."

Genevieve was quick to shake her head. She had an excuse ready. Family vacation. Every year, as soon as their kids were out of school, they headed for Skageon for a month.

"When do you leave?" Muriel asked.

"Tomorrow," said Genevieve, "early."

"Well, maybe we'll make the trip up there," said Larry, and Genevieve's dark eyes shot his way.

Remembering the press downstairs, and recognizing the futility of Larry's hectoring, Muriel opened the door and let Genevieve go. She and Larry were alone now, an odd reprieve with the churning sounds continuing outside.

"We should go up there and depose her," said Larry. "She'd twist and turn, but I don't make her for the kind to lie under oath. I don't see us getting anything out of her without a subpoena, though."

"I wouldn't mind having that stuff about Luisa always hating Erno on the record. We have to make him a liar however we can."

"You did a pretty good job of that."

She accepted the compliment with a smile, but she'd learned that winning lawsuits was more than courtroom pyrotechnics. Most cases were determined before they started by the character of the judge or the jury, and Kenton Harlow worried her.

"If he makes findings that Erno is credible," she told Larry, "I'm going to be stuck with this case for a long while. Talmadge thinks if it drags on, Reverend Blythe may talk somebody into running in the primary."

"Somebody black," said Larry.

"Naturally," she answered, but shook her head at the prospect. She had no relish for that kind of fight, especially one where she'd be painted as the race-baiting prosecutor.

"So what's the alternative?" Larry asked.

"You know the alternative, Larry. Figure it out fast. Either incinerate Erno or say we f.u.c.ked up and stop the bleeding as soon as we can."

"We didn't f.u.c.k up anything. The death-penalty crazies always strum the same tunes. This guy was wrong on this, Muriel, you know it. I didn't bounce him around to get a confession. Erno can go whistle with that Shangri-la s.h.i.t."

"I'm just saying."

"Besides, all due respect to Talmadge, if we screwed the pooch, Blythe would add another hole to your anatomy. You might have to stop that check for campaign posters."

"If that's how it goes," she answered immediately. Her tone was too defiant, even superior, and she could see him shrink back. It struck an old note somehow, something that had been there years ago. She felt guilty about that. And she probably hadn't spoken the truth. The other day, she'd told Larry that she might have surrendered her shot at the P.A.'s Office in exchange for the joy of being a mother, and she meant every word. But to have neither of the things she'd yearned for? She knew herself well enough to realize she wouldn't have given up on the job easily.

"He's the right guy, Larry. But let's punch some holes in Erno's canoe. I'm going to get hold of Jackson Aires to try to get a word with Erno's nephew. And keep working on the gang angle. The G.O.'s may have promised Erno something we haven't figured out yet. And see if you can dig up the guy Erno shot at Ike's. Something tells me he won't stand up and salute for that self-defense c.r.a.p Erno was peddling."

Larry liked all those ideas. The peace between them felt good.

"Press time," said Muriel. "Do I look tough but fair?"

He joined his thumbs and raised his forefingers as if they were a lens.

"Something like that."

She smiled at him for a moment. "I forgot how much fun it is to work with you, Larry."

When Muriel opened the door, she found Darla, Luisa's older daughter, leaning against the threshold. The girl sprang up at the sight of Muriel.

"I forgot to ask," she said. "I was just wondering if there's any chance we can get it back?"

"It?"