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Despite Problems With Plausibility, Turow Novel Remains Satisfying

Michiko Kakutani New York Times

“The Laws Of Our Fathers” By Scott Turow (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 534 pages, $26.95)

Scott Turow’s new novel opens with a brutal murder: A middle-aged woman finds herself in a bad section of town and is gunned down by a bike-riding gang member with a semiautomatic. The woman, one June Eddgar by name, turns out to be the wife of a state senator, and her death sets off a highly publicized trial with intimations of political corruption and murder-for-hire.

Yet if the opening of “The Laws of Our Fathers” - and its exploration of racial and political tensions - is vaguely reminiscent of Tom Wolfe’s “Bonfire of the Vanities,” it soon becomes clear to the reader that the novel actually bears a closer resemblance to two movies, Lawrence Kasdan’s “Big Chill” and John Sayles’ “Return of the Secaucus Seven” - movies that chronicle the nervous reunion of former college radicals entering into the disillusionments of middle age.

To be sure, “The Laws of Our Fathers” draws upon Turow’s legal expertise, and a good half of its narrative pivots around a courtroom showdown. Still, the novel is less a legal thriller than a meditative examination of the hold that time past exerts over time present, and the tangled relationship between fathers and sons, mothers and daughters. The resulting story is by turns moving and manipulative, compelling and contrived.

With each of his novels - “Presumed Innocent” (1987), “The Burden of Proof” (1990) and now “The Laws of Our Fathers” - Turow has moved further away from the chilly world of legal procedure and further and further into the murky realm of human emotion. Whereas “The Burden of Proof” propelled its central hero, Sandy Stern, into a re-examination of his life, “The Laws of Our Fathers” sends an entire group of friends into a re-evaluation of their politics, their ideals, their hopes and their dreams.

The event that triggers this wholesale review of the past is the highly improbable trial provoked by June Eddgar’s death. As Turow would have it, the gang member arrested as a conspirator in June’s murder, Ordell Trent, a.k.a. Hardcore, has turned state’s evidence, and the prosecution is now charging June’s son, Nile - who happens to be Hardcore’s parole officer - with conspiracy to commit murder.

To complicate matters further, the judge assigned to the case, Sonia (Sonny) Klonsky, knows Nile and his parents. It seems that during the late ‘60s, Sonny lived in an apartment building with June and Loyell Eddgar, who were notorious radicals suspected of murder and incitement to riot. Sonny has long felt contempt for Loyell Eddgar, and pity for his unhappy, neglected son, who was a child when she knew him.

Not content with this level of incest, Turow has to throw even more coincidences the reader’s way. We learn that the man who has helped advise Nile is Seth Weissman, Sonny’s old boyfriend from the ‘60s. We also learn that the lawyer whom Nile retains, Hobie Tuttle, is Seth’s best friend. Sonny has not only known these men for years, but during the trial has also begun sleeping with Seth again.

It is hard to believe that an ethical judge - and Sonny is presented as a thoroughly upstanding jurist - would agree to preside over a case in which she had such an intimate involvement. It’s even harder to believe that she (as well as the prosecution and defense) would agree to a bench trial - a trial in which she, the judge, decides the case, instead of a jury.

As he’s done in the past, Turow uses his legal expertise to nimbly build suspense. Did Nile actually arrange to have his father, instead of his mother, killed by Hardcore? Or did Loyell Eddgar contrive to have his wife murdered and then blame it on his son? What political machinations made Loyell Eddgar want to meet with Hardcore in the first place? And how did money from a political group get mixed up with gang money made from drugs?

As it turns out, Turow is less interested in the outcome of the trial (which he more or less resolves with an unsatisfying technicality) than in the ways in which the trial affects his main characters’ sense of identity. By cutting back and forth between the trial and the tumultuous events of the ‘60s and ‘70s that shaped the youthful lives of Sonny, Seth, Hobie and the Eddgars, Turow tries to explore both the tarnishing of youthful ideals and the consequences that the impetuous actions of youth can have on adult decisions.

There is something a little synthetic about Turow’s descriptions of sex, drugs and radical politics in the ‘60s: the fictional town of Damon (obviously based on Berkeley, Calif.), in which much of this action takes place, never quite feels like a real place, and the characters’ observations about race and rebellion can sound an awful lot like collections of bad cliches. (“America is a nation conceived in original sin and that sin is slavery!”)

Equally programmatic are Turow’s efforts to flesh out the thesis suggested by his title: “The Laws of Our Fathers.” Each of his characters is depicted as rebelling against his or her parents in predictable ways. Sonny, whose mother was an irresponsible, flamboyant activist, has become a willfully dependable if somewhat chilly woman; Seth, who resents his parents’ penny-pinching sanctimony, pretends to be kidnapped in order to get his father to pay ransom. Loyell Eddgar rebels against his wealthy, bigoted father, and becomes a left-wing zealot, who in turn oppresses his son, Nile.

It is a tribute to Turow’s abilities as a writer that such schematic difficulties do not completely cripple this novel, that despite such weaknesses he has still managed to create some wonderfully colorful and complex characters. Though he never manages to make her actions in the courtroom seem terribly plausible, Turow has succeeded in giving Sonny Klonsky a vivid inner life - and in doing so, defies those critics who criticized his earlier novels for their lack of sympathetic women.

For all its problems, “The Laws of our Fathers” is more entertaining than the ham-handed “Burden of Proof” and more emotionally satisfying than the fast-paced “Presumed Innocent.” Though deeply flawed, it stands as Turow’s most ambitious novel yet.