Free Limitations by Scott Turow Page A

here, and the Chief Judge, Rusty Sabich, still prefers the older game, smashing a small rubber ball around with gloved palms. He and George have matches twice a week.
    “Georgie boy!” The Chief is slipping into his athletic shorts in the tiny locker room when Judge Mason dashes in, spouting apologies. The two have enjoyed a solid friendship throughout their professional lives. Sabich was the Deputy Prosecuting Attorney in the courtroom to which George was initially assigned as a State Defender, and for the first three months, Rusty often whispered helpful suggestions as they stood before Judge White. ‘Move for a speedy trial.’ ‘Remind him the parents will put their house up to secure bail.’ In time, they also had their share of battles, but going toe to toe in court often seals a friendship once the sting of losing has passed. Rusty, who wields considerable political swack, was the prime mover when George was offered the chance to run for this job more than ten years ago.
    “I need to talk to you,” the Chief says.
    “We’re on top of term deadline,” George answers. One of Rusty’s many reforms in the court is a rule requiring all argued cases to be decided by the conclusion of the court’s annual term, two weeks from now. It ended the former practice under which decisions that might disappoint political heavyweights remained in limbo for years. The requirement also forces the judges to keep up with their opinions through the year to avoid an impossible backlog now. But that is not what’s on Rusty’s mind.
    “Couple other items,” he answers.
    They have moved into the lavatory, where George is soaking his hands in warm water to diminish the chance of bruising. The Chief stands by, heavy goggles already in place, squeezing the handball to soften it.
    “Number One,” he says and stops on the words. A smile flashes by like a fish through the water. “Not to joke, Georgie. It’s a serious matter.”
    “Rusty,” George says-he addresses the Chief by first name only in private-“how the hell did you hear about that?”
    “Marina told me last night. Chilling,” the Chief adds, “especially if she’s right about Corazon. The only way he could engineer something like this, in my opinion, is if the Almighty Latin Nation turned a guard. And Corrections did everything but a genealogy chart for every staff member in the supermax. These gangs can probably reach as far as the mob in the old days.”
    “Rusty, I specifically asked Marina not to talk about this with anybody but me, and especially not about Corazon. I don’t need my staff any jumpier, and frankly, I don’t give the idea much credence.” Even less since last night’s e-mail. No matter what the influence of ALN or Corazon’s set, Latinos Reyes, how would any of them know about Patrice’s illness? Nonetheless, the reality that Marina is beyond his control puts to rest any thought of telling her about the message. There would be investigators crawling all over the house and twenty-four-hour bodyguards, not a scene he would even consider bringing his ailing wife home to.
    “Easy, Georgie. I’m her boss. And besides, she thinks we may find a little silver lining here.”
    “Which is?”
    “Well, it gives her a case in point to press the County Board for an emergency-funding authorization for increased courthouse security.”
    “And I’m the poster child?” George does not try to hide his irritation. He’s been keeping this a secret in his household, and now Marina, who clearly has her own agenda, wants to make him the lead item in the Metro Section.
    “Hardly,” Rusty says. “Hardly. We’ll explain to the Board without names. But after the murder in Cincinnati, this gives us a wedge to get some dollars back. Let them hire a few less flunkies to patrol the Public Forest.”
    Marina likes to joke that last year the Board made her reduce her two-man security patrols in the garage to one officer and a German shepherd, and this year