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An extended trial forms the novel's centerpiece and shows off Turow's specialized knowledge to best advantage. The jousting between prosecution and defense, the psychological intricacies of jury selection, the subtle influence a judge can exercise on the outcome of a case, all are convincingly and grippingly portrayed. And the irony behind these elaborate proceedings is that they almost certainly have no bearing on the actuality of Carolyn's death.
Presumed Innocent is strongest when it sticks to the facts, the gritty routine of trying to solve a puzzle by finding the pieces and hoping they fit. Rusty, who is the narrator as well as the central character, has been at his job long enough to sound persuasively disillusioned. He describes working conditions in the prosecutor's offices: "In the summer we labor in jungle humidity, with the old window units rattling over the constant clamor of the telephones. In the winter the radiators spit and clank while the hint of darkness never seems to leave the daylight. Justice in the Middle West."
Unfortunately, Rusty is also given to occasional delusions of Dostoyevsky. "I have seen so much," he begins at one point, brooding over his liaison with the murder victim, and then recites a litany of misery, concluding, "The lights go out, grow dim. And a soul can stand only so much darkness. I reached for Carolyn." As excuses for adultery go, Rusty's sounds more than a little pretentious.
But these flaws stem from an abundance of ambition, from Turow's attempt to wrest every conceivable implication out of the story he has constructed. Given the breakneck pace of Presumed Innocent, the surprises that keep piling up even after what seems an untoppable conclusion, no one is likely to complain.