“We’re taking him upstairs to the holding cell,” Caesar said. “He’s going to be up there till the jury decides what they want to do with him or till closing time, whichever comes first. You coming?”
“Of course,” Martin said.
They went through the door at the left of the judge’s bench. The renovation of the building had not yet extended to the backstage portion of the courtroom; five-gallon tubs of paint and folded stepladders leaned against the wall in the room that would one day serve as the judge’s chambers. A scarred metal fire door was propped open on a hallway at the end of which a new elevator waited, its doors open. They went into the elevator, and the court clerk pressed four. It felt close inside, stifling. The faint reek of the Russian’s body odor mixed uneasily with the strong, sweet aroma of Caesar’s cologne.
“I got to tell you, Wex,” Caesar said now, “I heard that summation. Fucking great!”
“Thanks,” Martin said.
“I knew you could do it, man,” he said. “There’s a pool going at Moultrie, you hear about that? I mean everyone threw in some cash. Your pals from PDS, the investigators, everyone. I got to say, most of the money went against you. But I put fifty on your ass to win.”
Martin smiled. “How much did McGuin put up for the prosecution?”
“Guess I fucked up there,” Caesar shook his head. “Maybe that son of a bitch’s a little too tight with some people.”
“Yeah,” Martin said. “I found out the hard way.”
The elevator opened on a long corridor without carpeting or electrical fixtures, lined with offices in various states of completeness. The temporary holding cell was a bare room with a steel door and thick wire mesh over the window.
“Sorry there ain’t no chairs in here,” the court clerk said. “We don’t want nothing the prisoners can use as a weapon. The new cells downstairs got nice benches bolted to the floor. That’ll be up and running next month.”
“I’ll be right out here if you need me, champ,” Caesar said, and he went into the corridor with the court clerk, and the door was bolted, leaving Martin and Smerdnakov inside. It was the first time they’d been alone together since the beginning of the trial.
“Hey, asshole,” the Russian said. “Got a cigarette?”
Martin shook his head. “Just a couple more hours, Alexei,” he said. “Then you can smoke all you want on the outside.”
Smerdnakov crouched down against the rough cement of the wall. “This is fucking cruel and unusual punishment!” he said, and for the first time Martin thought he heard real distress in his voice. “I’ve got to wait here to find out whether I go to jail for the rest of my fucking life and I can’t even smoke a fucking cigarette?”
Martin looked down at Smerdnakov crouching there like a trapped animal and felt sorry for the man. He had endured so much in the last few months — the vicious murder of his girlfriend, his own arrest, humiliation, assault — and borne it all with absolute impassivity.
“You know, you’re right!” Martin said. “You should be able to smoke a cigarette if you want. This is ridiculous!” He turned and knocked on the door. The dead boll shot back immediately, and the door opened. Caesar stuck his head in.
“What can I do for you, counselor?”
Martin stepped out into the corridor. He looked around; the court clerk had gone. “Listen, Caesar,” he said in a low voice. “My man here needs a cigarette something fierce. You know what I’m saying?”
“Can’t do it,” Caesar said. “If they find out I let someone smoke up here, they’ll have my ass. One whiff of smoke, I get written up for disciplinary action, the whole nine yards.”
Martin put his hand on Caesar’s shoulder. “As a favor to me,” he said. “The poor bastard’s been through hell. You can’t let him have just one cigarette? Look at it this way, it’s your big chance to make up for McGuin.”
Caesar stood back and scratched the side of his nose, thinking. He glanced down the empty corridor and nodded. “All right, Wex,” he said. “I’ll tell you what...” He pushed the door open and gestured to the Russian. “Come on, man, cigarette break!”
Smerdnakov stood up, a dumb peasant smile on his face. Caesar led the way down the corridor, opening doors until he found an unfinished office with no glass in the windows. The thin torn sheet of plastic stapled over the empty frame billowed out in the wind. Through one of the larger tears, Marlin caught a glimpse of the peeling nymph, shivering in the garden four stories below.
Caesar reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed a pack of Marlboro Reds and tossed them to the Russian. A book of matches was tucked into the cellophane. “I’ll give you two cigarettes’ worth,” he said. “You blow the smoke out the window, and if anyone asks you where you got the cigarette, I’m going to deny everything.” He grinned and closed the door behind them.
Smerdnakov sat down on the window ledge, his fingers trembling. He managed to get a cigarette out of the pack, lit it, and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. He held the smoke in for as long as he could, then let it out with a deep, contented sigh. His disposition seemed to improve almost instantly. He held out the pack to Martin.
“Hey, asshole, want a cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke,” Martin said. “Stuff’ll kill you.” He still felt dazed from the trial. He couldn’t think of anything to say and scuffed the toe of his shoe along the rough cement floor. For once the Russian filled the silence.
“Listen,” he said. “You’re not a bad lawyer. You ever come to Brighton Beach, I might be able to fix you up with a job.”
“Oh?” Martin said idly. “What kind of job?”
“My organization needs good lawyers,” Smerdnakov said. “Good smart lawyers who know the score. With a little bit of muscle and a couple of good smart lawyers, you rule the world.”
“I’m not that smart,” Martin said. “You want the truth, my record slinks. It’s just that this time I had the luxury of defending an innocent man.”
The Russian gave him a blank look. Then he tipped his head back and began to laugh, and he laughed until tears came to his eyes. “You really think I’m innocent?” he said when he could speak. “I take it all back. You are a fucking idiot!”
Martin felt his heart drop into his stomach. “What are you telling me?” he said; then he stopped himself. “No, I don’t want to hear it, not a word!” He turned around twice, quick, spasmodic jerks, like a dog chasing its tail. Then he turned back to the Russian, unable to stop himself. “Are you telling me you killed your Katinka? You strangled her?”
Smerdnakov took another deep drag from his cigarette. Suddenly he was very serious. “Sure,” he said quietly. “What the fuck did you think?”
Martin was stunned. For ten full seconds he forgot to take the next breath. “Why?” he managed finally, and it came out halfway between a choke and a whimper.
Smerdnakov shrugged. “She pissed me off,” he said. “She was a stinking drunken whore. I told her not to drink no more. But she went up to the bar and got another vodka; then she started taking her clothes off in front of everyone.”
“Wait a minute.” Martin still couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You strangled her because she bought another drink?”
“You know the old Russian song ‘Volga Boatman’?” Smerdnakov said. “Very old song. Here, listen...” and he hummed a few bars.
Martin couldn’t speak. He wanted to run, scream.
“Like I tell you, things have always been very tough in Russia. They’re tough now, but in the old days they were really tough. The Volga boatmen, they were always fighting. Fighting the Tatars, the Poles, everybody, and they had to be really, really tough. So this one boatman, he is the toughest of them all; then he falls in love with a beautiful girl. Then one day he strangles her and throws her body in the river. You know why? Because she was making him too soft with her love. If you want to be tough, you can’t have a woman around for very long. So, if you want the truth, I started to like her a lot, my Katinka. She was same as me, from nothing and damned clever. So...” He took another drag of his cigarette.