Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 1) (4 page)

E
ver since we
were playing Tonka trucks, my brother has been a study in spotty mental hygiene. I am younger than him by five years and have followed his career in and out of the offices of mental health professionals for almost fifty years. His inner life seesaws between mania and psychosis; he takes meds for these things only because his outer life goes to hell the minute he stops and it frightens him. Until it doesn’t. Like me, he is a lawyer. He runs the litigation group at Eden Shaw Robles, a 400 lawyer firm in downtown Chicago.

According to Sam Shaw, Arnie arrived at the depo room handcuffed to a teenage girl all of nineteen years old. She was thought to be a prostitute. There was a scuffle at the door. The girl tried to pull away so she wouldn't have to go inside. Arnie outweighed her by a good hundred pounds, so he won the moment and dragged her inside.

Everyone stared. She was wearing black toreador pants, mukluks, a tank top, and had one arm through a windbreaker. The arm with the handcuffed hand couldn't go through the windbreaker, so the windbreaker was hanging half off and half on. Arnie was decked out in a rumpled suit with his jacket likewise at half mast.

"Hell of a night," Arnie said as he breezed past the knot of lawyers at the near end of the conference table. With all possible aplomb, he strode to the far end of the room. Our source says that Arnie was pulled up short when the girl suddenly plopped in the chair at the head of the table. My brother's eyes were dilated, and his speech was staccato. "Whatcha-gonna-do-with-that?" he shouted at his cuff-mate, who had sourced a black mascara applicator and was attempting to sharpen her appearance.

Juan Carlos Munoz Perez, the second wealthiest man in Mexico and the CEO of MexTel, picked just that moment to enter the deposition room. This was Arnie's client. He effected a grand entry, resplendent in a silk three-piece. He was accompanied by two bodyguards lurking behind sunglasses. He looked neither right nor left but proceeded along the table to take his place beside his lawyer—my brother—only to find his seat
occupado
by the young lady of the streets. Perez's eyebrows shot up, and he hissed, "¡Salir de mi silla, puta!"

"She can't get out of your chair,
Señor
Perez. She's-she's-she's-with me! Come sit on my right."

Perez leaned to his attorney's ear and yelped loud enough that everyone heard, "Who is this
puta
?"

"Someone I met last night. It's a long story and shouldn't concern you. My staff is on the way with a key. Maryanne?" Maryanne, Arnie's paralegal, had frozen up once she realized her boss was handcuffed to the girl undergoing makeup reconstitution.

"Sir?"

"Call Georgia. Ask her where the hell the key is!"

"Yes, Mr. Gresham. Right away."

Maryanne headed for the building lobby where she could get cell service. She called Sam; Sam called my office, and here I am to save my brother from himself.

He is still sitting at the head of the table when I arrive. His left arm is resting beside the teenager's arm. With her free hand, she attacks her eyebrows with silver tweezers. The other attorneys are mostly silent in the presence of the Mexicans, while others are scattered up and down the hallway, phones stuck in their ears. Arnie is staring at the ceiling, distancing himself from the scene he has created. The Mexican CEO is at Arnie's right, arms folded, eyes closed, drumming the fingers of his right hand on the table. He smacks his lips and shakes his head. "
Puto culo
," he mutters, "
¡Pendejos!
" His bodyguards are focused on everyone's every move, chilling all ordinary deposition chit-chat.

I speak enough gutter Spanish to know this is one miserably unhappy client.

"Arnie," I say, and he lowers his eyes. They look like glazed icing.

"Michael!"

"Arnie, I need to speak with you outside."

"Did you bring the key, Michael?"

He lifts the handcuffs to show me in case I missed.

"Please, come on outside."

We retreat to the lobby end of the hallway, Arnie and me, and his cuff mate, standing just inside the revolving outside door. She stands off to the side and gives me a long, edgy look. I want to backhand her but of course, that's a jailable offense. Besides, none of this is her fault; this is all Arnie.

"Could you pretend not to listen?" I ask her.

She turns her head away, popping her gum.

"Arnie, you flushed your meds, didn't you?"

"Oh, Michael, this girl has helped me see things about myself I never realized before. All that money for doctors and medications and groups? Totally unnecessary. Did you know in high school I never had one date? All those times I told mom and dad I had a date I didn't really. I was going out alone to meet up with other geeks like me from the Latin club, and we would go to someone's house and play video games. Did I ever tell you how lonely I was? Well, Esmeralda says I am a visionary, that I have an ancient soul. That I have this uncanny ability to see things for what they really are, like Neo in The Matrix after he takes the green pill. Or was it the red pill? I forget."

"He had the choice of a blue pill or a red pill," says Esmeralda. "The blue pill, the story ends. The red pill, he gets to see how deep the rabbit hole goes."

"And he took the red pill," Arnie asserts. "Oh, Michael, I want that red pill! The things I've seen in the last twenty-four hours. I have no business practicing law. It is time for me to rehab my poor life.”

I can't hold back. This kind of talk makes me crazy. "That's called abandonment of client, Arnie. Lawyers get disbarred for abandoning clients. Maybe we should talk to Sam Shaw and see about getting you some senior help assigned to the case. Someone to help until—"

"You're not following me, Michael! I walk away now and never look back!"

"No! I'm going to continue this deposition, and we're going to talk to Sam."

"NO-NO-NO-NO-NO! Michael, you aren't listening!"

"I am listening, and I believe you. But there's a way to make this work. We can't just walk out. Medications, okay?"

I've helped abate my brother's frolics-and-detours over the years. This train jumps the track every twelve months or so. The secret is to keep him close by while you move him along toward your goal.

"Medications are a form of spirituality," I whisper. I wink at him. He winks right back. Now we're co-conspirators; progress is possible.

"If you say so, Michael. But Esmeralda is coming with me."

"Wait here, Arnie, I'm going back in and make the announcement on the record. We're continuing."

"NO-NO-NO-NO-NO, NO continuance! Get Sam to send someone over to take my place. We're going to fly out today, Michael."

I look at Esmeralda. She shrugs and smiles.

"Wait here. Don't move a muscle!"

Back into the depo room, I hustle. "All right, everyone, we're on the record. I'm Arnold Gresham's brother, Michael, and I'm sorry to inform you Arnold is sick, and we're going to have to continue today's deposition."

Pandemonium. Everyone is pissed and promising to seek sanctions against Arnie, his client, and his firm. Perez is fuming, and his bodyguards are ready to pounce on someone, anyone.

Whatever; I return to the lobby and discover Arnie and Esmeralda have left. A panicky feeling hits me; I check outside, where I see him standing on the sidewalk, sharing a joint back and forth. Illinois doesn't have a pot-for-personal-use law. We jail people for possession. I make a break for the door.

"Ditch the joint!" I scream at my brother, and his teenage seer responds by casually flicking it to the sidewalk. I grind it beneath my shoe, scraping it to a black ash, and walk to the curb and start flagging for a taxi.

On the taxi ride back to Arnie's firm in the Congress Building I call Sam Shaw for the second time that morning and advise him to clear the decks, that we've had another meltdown.

"Not this time, Michael," he spits at me over the phone. "The partners aren't going through this again. He's your brother; you make this work!"

"We need to work together, Sam. He needs a senior member onboard."

"He needs to take his goddamn medications, Michael!"

"Of course, he does."

"You tell the bastard we're calling his home mortgage, and he can sleep on the streets!"

"I'll tell him."

We stop on a red. I turn to Arnie to ask him about his mortgage, and he suddenly pops open his door and drags Esmeralda into the street. They dash for the sidewalk. She turns to wave at me as they disappear into a Walgreen's.

ATM, I'm guessing.

"
N
o
," I cry, but the light changes and we are moving.

I slam my hand against the backseat, crying, "NO NO NO NO NO!"

The cabby's eyes catch mine in the rearview. He shakes his head and continues speaking into his cell phone.

At the Congress building, I step out and pass a five to the driver. He doesn't acknowledge me, of course, just weaves off into the crawl of eastbound traffic.

Sam Shaw hustles me into Arnie's office and shuts the door.

"What the fuck, Michael?" he growls at me.

"Hey, I don't work for you. What the fuck yourself!"

"All right. Let me calm down."

"Yes, that would be good."

"Your brother is representing MexTel. Juan Perez is Carlos Slim's CEO. All Mexican telephone conversations go through his office. He left the depo in a rage, and his thugs raced him over here. He's down the hall in my office, threatening our firm with a malpractice lawsuit. I'm not exaggerating about how important this man and MexTel are to this firm. Your brother has represented these people for three years on this one case. We've billed over twenty million dollars in fees; this represents almost five percent of our total billables. That's enough to pay the bonus of every partner in our firm three years running. Are you beginning to get a feel for the case, Michael?"

"I'm sure it's his meds, Sam. We need to track him down and—"

"Track him down? I thought you were bringing him."

"I was. He jumped out of the cab."

"And what the hell is this about handcuffs and a young woman. Is that even true?"

"With my own eyes, Sam. This is a classic Arnie meltdown, and we can have him back in his office in forty-eight hours if you'll just give me some help tracking him down and getting him back to his condo."

"How can I help? You need the FBI for this. Not a building full of civil litigators."

"We need to cover the airports. He said something about flying out."

"Where was it left with everyone at the depo?"

"Well, I went on the record and explained that Arnold was sick and wouldn't be able to represent his client today. They were pissed and threats were made. You need to get someone on the horn with every one of those folks and soothe ruffled feathers. Someone with some charm."

"I'm thinking Melinda Settlers. Are you still dating her, incidentally?"

"No. That was months ago, Sam. One time."

"Okay, look. I'm going to turn you over to our head investigator. He can set up the search. But I need you on standby for when we track him down. You have to take the lead with him, Michael. He doesn't listen to anyone else. Not on this planet, at least."

"Of course, I will. But for right now I've got to get back to Judge Amberlos's court. Trial begins in twenty-five minutes."

"Leave your cell number with the desk out front, please."

There is nothing else to say.

My brother has probably crashed and burned here for the last time. Unless I can pump new life into him and get him back on track in the next forty-eight. That just might squeeze him through the tiny window of opportunity to salvage his career that right now is all but closed.

"Later," I tell Sam.

We shake on it. But then he gives me a terrible look, the desperate face of a cornered brute.

That's how guys in 400 lawyer firms do things with little guys like me.

I
arrive
at the Everett Dirksen Court Building twenty minutes later. Downstairs is a familiar cafeteria where I can crawl off alone and steal a few minutes in which I just might consider my own life and time. I check my watch. 9:50 a.m. The line is empty, so I score a quick black coffee and a plain cake donut. Both are ingested by 9:55. I roll around in my head the notion of being free of Sue Ellen. That is one task I will definitely take on. I call Evie. Get me an appointment with my mortgage rep at Bank of America, I tell her, ASAP. She confirms.

I am on my way upstairs and who should I meet head-on as he's leaving the restroom but Judge Pennington himself. We haven't spoken since the last time I appeared before him, which was six months ago before I took the Lamb case. I know he recognizes me, and I know he sees me but still he looks right through me. "Morning, Judge," I say and open the door to the courtroom to allow him to pass through. "How could you?" he says through gritted teeth as he passes me by, entering the courtroom ahead of me. He heads for his saved seat directly behind the Assistant U.S. Attorney. I take my seat at counsel table, and sixty seconds later Judge Amberlos enters from his chambers' door. He is all black robes, red eyes, and hands that shake as he presses the TALK button on his desk microphone. "Bailiff, please bring in the jury."

The jury returns and quietly take their assigned seats. They look at the judge. One woman breaks off and looks across directly at me. She purses her lips and shakes her head. "How could you?" her look says.

The judge nods at Bob LaGuardia. The TV camera swings from its focus on the American flag and finds the AUSA, who stands to speak.

"The government calls Kimberly Clements."

The witness is sworn and seated. She is a large-boned, intelligent-looking woman wearing black slacks and a green blazer with gold buttons. She gives the jury an FBI Academy nod and smile and looks back to the Assistant U.S. Attorney.

LaGuardia begins. "How are you employed?"

"I'm a forensic specialist with FBI's Evidence Response Team."

"How long have you had that job?"

"Five years."

"What do you do in that capacity?"

"Our job is to respond to crime scenes as well as process evidence that is sent to us. Make photo arrays and develop latent prints—that sort of thing."

"Do you have any specialized training?"

"I have a bachelor's degree in biology. I have a master's in forensic molecular biology. I have taken a number of courses in advanced forensic science."

"Directing your attention to November second, twenty-fourteen, were you told to respond to a crime scene in the eleven hundred block of North Decansis in Chicago, Illinois?"

"Yes, I was."

"What did you do when you first arrived?"

"The first aspect of our job is to document everything as we find it. So I photographed the crime scene as I found it. Outside and inside. Then the detectives had special shots for me to take so I did those too."

"Then what did you do?"

"I made a videotape of the scene. Then I called in our homicide reconstruction unit to assist me in preparing a sketch of the scene. After that, I proceeded to search the scene."

"What were you searching for?"

"Any evidence of what happened and any evidence that might have been left behind by the perpetrator."

"Tell us about gunshot searches."

"I was looking for expended rounds from a firearm, any kind of fragments from a bullet that may have, you know, hit somewhere else and fragmented or may have exited the victim’s body. Along with that, just any, you know, tire marks, shoe impressions, anything like that."

"What if anything did you find?"

"Bullet fragments, cartridge casings, shoe impressions in the carpet and outside on the sidewalk—very slight, toe and heel from tracked blood. Also tire marks on the driveway."

As the direct-examination proceeds, all lead fragments, bullet casings, video, stills, and drawings are marked and admitted into evidence without objection from me. This is typical, necessary forensic testimony that does nothing to convict my client.

But maybe it can help to exonerate him.

Then it's my turn to cross-examine. This CSI has spoken to me previously when I went to the crime lab and bought her lunch so we could talk. She knew better than to speak to me and so I nibbled around the edges of her workup. In this manner, I got everything I needed. So today I am ready for her—thanks to the assistance she gave me over tuna sandwiches and potato chips.

"Ms. Clements, were you able to determine shoe size from the heel-toe prints you found in blood?"

"I was."

"Tell us the size, please."

"The subject wore a size thirteen."

"How did you determine that."

"I measured the bloody prints with a ruler.

"And did you examine the shoes taken from my client's closet in his apartment pursuant to the search warrant?"

"I did."

"What were those sizes?"

"All tens, except a pair of flip-flops and they were just marked medium."

"Did you bring those shoes with you today pursuant to my subpoena?"

"Yes, I did."

The shoes are marked and admitted without objection. I break off then, for I know what's coming.

LaGuardia asks, on re-direct, "Ms. Clements, the defendant's size might be ten, but that doesn't mean he was wearing a ten on the day he killed the victims, does it?"

"No, it doesn't."

"That is is all."

Then it is my turn again.

"How many times in your five years have you identified cases where a defendant was wearing a shoe size other than his or her normal size?"

"Never."

"Now, please review all notes, drawings, diagrams, reports, and photographs and then look over and tell the jury what items connect my client, Mr. Lamb, to the murder scene."

"I can already tell you."

"Please proceed."

"Nothing I'm aware of connects him."

"No DNA?"

"No."

"No fingerprints?"

"No."

"Nothing at all?"

"Nothing."

"That is all, Your Honor."

The witness is excused.

I look around, trying to discern who the state's next witness might be. Again, Judge Pennington's eyes lock on me. "How could you?" they say.

A skinny man with a ragged beard enters the courtroom, a U.S. Marshal on either side of him. He is dressed in shiny slacks and an open-throated wine red shirt. There is a yellow and green toucan tat on his neck and his eyes are rheumy, fighting to focus on a room larger than the prison cell where he's apparently spent his last decade. I can guess who he is as he was listed in the state's disclosure of its witnesses.

My client squirms in the seat beside me when he sees the man cross in front of him on his way to the witness stand.

"Max Kittredge," he mutters to me.

I nod. Of course, it is. Lamb's cell mate from Marion, one of the most notorious of all federal prisons. Lamb and Kittredge doubled up in a nine by twelve for seven years, sharing every thought, every feeling during all those sunless days and starless nights. I have no doubt why he's here, and I sit back, waiting to get kicked in the groin by this opportunist.

After he tells the jury his name, his address (U.S. Penitentiary, Marion, Illinois) and his age, Kittredge is asked why he is in prison.

"For stabbing a little girl."

"For stabbing her?"

"Well, she died, actually."

"She died because you stabbed her?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been in prison?"

"Fourteen years, six months, twenty-five days plus change."

The Assistant U.S. Attorney, standing at the lectern, drops his head to his notes.

"While you have been incarcerated there, did you at one time share a cell with James Joseph Lamb?"

"Yes."

"Do you see Mr. Lamb in the courtroom today?"

"Yes."

"Please point him out."

The witness points at my client.

"Let the record reflect the witness has pointed out the defendant," says the AUSA.

"So noted," says Judge Amberlos.

"While sharing that cell, did you and Lamb ever discuss why he was in prison?'

"Yes."

"Why was he in?"

"He told me he was there for stabbing a U.S. Marshal."

"So you two were both in for stabbing someone?"

"Evidently."

"Did you and Mr. Lamb ever discuss the judge who sentenced Lamb to prison?"

"Yes."

"Do you know his name?"

"Judge something Feathertop."

"Would Francis Pennington ring a bell?"

"That was it," says Kittredge, pumping his fist up and down. "That was it!"

"Did Mr. Lamb ever say he had any animosity toward Judge Pennington."

"No. He only said he would like to kill the guy."

LaGuardia looks at the jury. Their looks say they understand his six-year-old’s command of the King's English.

"Mr. Lamb said he would like to kill Judge Pennington?"

"Just about every day. Until I was sick of hearing about it."

"Did he ever talk about murdering the judge's wife?"

"Nope. Not a word about that. Just the judge."

The prosecutor turns the witness over to me.

"Mr. Kittredge, who did you say you wanted to murder?"

"What?"

"Well, when you and Mr. Lamb were discussing killing people on the outside, who was it you wanted to kill?"

"My ex and my dad."

"Anyone else?"

"No."

"Did you ever, in fact, kill them?"

"I ain't been out."

"Do you think you'll kill them when you get out?"

"I don't know. I guess I hope I don't."

"You guess?"

"Yessir. I surely hope I don't, or I'm bang right back in the hoosegow."

"I see. Now, what special favors has the government promised you to come into court and say these things today?"

"Special favors?"

"You know, like shortening your remaining time in prison."

"Oh, that. You see, I come up for parole in nine months. They said I could speed my parole to next month if I would testify."

"So they're moving your parole up by eight months?"

"Yessir."

"Is that why you came into court and said these things about your old cell mate?"

He looks at Lamb. Lamb returns the look. Kittredge breaks off eye contact.

"Yessir. I was hoping to get out early."

"So that's why you said these things."

"Yes."

"Did you ever think Mr. Lamb was actually going to kill the judge?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Everybody in Marion talks shit. You know how it is."

"All right. Have you spoken with Mr. Lamb since he got out on parole?"

"Nossir."

"That is all, Your Honor."

"Mr. Kittredge," LaGuardia says without waiting, "have you told us anything today that wasn't true?"

"Nossir."

"So even though you might get some help with the parole hearing date, you're not just lying to make that happen?"

"Why would I do that?"

"To save eight months?"

"No, eight months ain't shit. I can sleep for eight months. No, I ain't lying."

"That is all, Your Honor."

The witness is excused, and the U.S. Marshals attach themselves to him again before he can walk out through the gate. The trio disappears through the outer courtroom doors.

That wasn't so bad; I'm thinking. The usual tat-rat. Happens in all cases where there's been even just one day of incarceration. The prosecutors always bring in a rat with the whole confession. Never fails.

We break for lunch, and the deputies prepare Lamb to eat at counsel table. Marcel and I meet out front on the sidewalk and decide to head back south to an Arby's. We pull in, and order and Marcel stirs his Coke with his straw.

"Damnedest thing," he says to me.

"What's that?"

"Your brother. What you told me about him taking off with some young señorita."

"Yes. Those were the good old days. But they ended when we were nineteen, for the love of god."

"Your next witness is Special Agent Burns."

"James O. Burns."

"Yeppers. What's he got to add that Fordyce didn't already tell us three different ways?"

"Time will tell. You talk to Evie lately?"

He looks crossly at me. "What if I did?"

"Nothing. I mean sure, she's my secretary, but in answer to your question this morning, would I give a damn if you ask her out? Actually, I think it would be good for both of you."

"Really? You wouldn't pitch a hissy?"

"No. We're all adults. If I can put up with your foul moods I suppose she can too."

"Sorry if I got a little miffed this morning. I thought you didn't want me asking her out."

I spread my hands and shrug.

"Each to his own."

I
t is the afternoon session
, and Agent Burns has just advised the jury of his role in the case, pretty much going back over ground Agent Fordyce has already covered. I'm fighting to stay awake after the huge roast beef sandwich and chocolate shake I downed at lunch. I know better, but I did it anyway.

My ears perk up. We're onto new ground here.

"Tell us about the arrest of James Lamb."

"Like I said, we arrested him after we searched his apartment and Special Agent Fordyce found the gun under the mattress."

"What were you arresting him for? You didn't know the gun had been used in the commission of a crime at that point, did you?"