The Law Partners (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 3) (13 page)

"
W
hat the chief is saying
," the chief's administrative assistant was telling me, "is that Michael Gresham has a conflict in the Miranda Morales case."

We were sitting in the office of the Chicago Chief of Police and the chief had just unloaded on me the DA's objection to Michael continuing as Mira's lawyer.

"The conflict being?" I asked but I already knew. He couldn't defend Mira and be a defendant in the same case.

"The conflict arises from the fact your Michael Gresham is now a defendant in the same case as Miranda Morales. He cannot defend her and claim his own defense isn't entwined with her defense. He can't defend himself by claiming she was the shooter at the same time he's defending her and claiming she's not the shooter. It's simple conflict math, Harley. Do the numbers, please."

"I'll recommend he withdraw from the Morales case, with this caveat. I'm going to file a complaint with an objection with the court to Michael's indictment. Michael has been charged by the DA with a crime only to force him to withdraw from the Miranda Morales case as her defense lawyer. A very slick move but you're not going to get away with it."

The Assistant District Attorney, Martha Reddy, smiled from ear to ear. "While you're at it, why don't you also explain to the judge how the murder weapon wound up in the trunk of Michael's car? Doesn't that fact seem to make him more involved in the murder case than as a simple chess piece?"

"Obviously planted there. I already know you won't find his fingerprints on the gun."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because he told me so. He's told me Marcel saw Mira's gun the night of the shooting. But it wasn’t touched. And I happen to believe him. My guess is you already know his prints aren't on the gun but you're just not turning those findings over to me until the last minute when you absolutely have to. No, we'll be moving to dismiss the charges against Michael on the grounds they were filed simply to create a conflict so he couldn't defend Miranda Morales. Does that answer your question, Ms. Reddy?"

She clammed up. Everyone in the room knew the prosecution stunk. Everyone in the room knew that Michael Gresham was too far along the road to defense attorney success to ever let himself get involved as an actor in any client's case. It just wouldn't happen. Plus, if they were anything like me and knew Michael personally they would have also known it wasn't in Michael's DNA to ever shoot anyone or hide evidence of a crime. That just wasn't Michael, either.

"It answers my question," said Ms. Reddy, "in form but not in substance. We're just going to have to agree to disagree. So you file your motion and I'll file my response and we'll have a hearing."

I next directed myself to the chief.

"Two of your detectives came to my client's hospital room yesterday and attempted to question him while I, his attorney, was there and without my permission. Prior to that, one or more of your officers beat Michael mercilessly, causing concussions, broken ribs, and other injuries to him. As you are aware, I have filed a Civil Rights action against the City, the officers, and against you, sir, and I'm going to make you an offer to settle on that case."

The chief, a grandfatherly white-haired man with a bulbous ethyl alcohol nose mapped out with thick blue veins, looked to the city's lawyer. Nothing was said but it was apparent to me they were interested.

"This is a joke, right?" said the Chief. "Your client attacked the officers dispatched to arrest him. While subduing him to take him inside the jail, he was injured. It's too bad but it's your client's own damn fault, Ms. Sturgis."

"Michael will accept the city's check for ten million dollars to make the Civil Rights case go away. And he will require that the criminal charges against him be dismissed with prejudice. Counter-offers will not be countenanced."

The cops and DA and city attorney looked at each on and, as if on cue, began laughing uproariously.

"And here's the good part. I'm hiring a firm to represent me in a Civil Rights action against the two cops from yesterday who followed me and harassed me as well. Now we're all on the same page. Got any charges you'd like to manufacture against me to get me off the case? Well, your agents were trying to do that yesterday and probably would have claimed I attacked them if my own security hadn't caught them with their pants down. Score one for the good guys. So I will take twenty-five thousand in full settlement of my claim."

"Come on now," said the chief, a forced look of disbelief on his alcohol-ravaged face. "Get real, counsel."

I stood and collected my things, then I said, "Chief, you want to see real? Leave those charges pending against my client in criminal court. Then walk down to federal court and watch me nail your asses to the wall in our Civil Rights case. I promise, sir, you will see 'real' more than you ever dreamed."

"Counsel," the chief replied, "if I were you I wouldn't write a check on what you're going to get out of the City of Chicago. If you do, you'll be looking at a citation for issuing a bad check. Just another charge against another phony lawyer."

"What?" He just called me a phony. I was stunned. "Chief, I might be lots of things, but I'm no phony. I guess you're going to learn that the hard way. I'll have you stuffed and mounted in my reception room by the time I'm done with you and the criminals on your force. Consider this your final warning!"

"Please, please," the chief said, making himself sound as bored with and tired of me as he possibly could. It wasn’t lost on me. Such derisive words, attitude, and behavior were wonderful because they fueled the fire in my belly.

It was on.

T
he very next
day after my meeting with the chief of police, I stumbled into Lamont Johnstone’s press conference. Taking advantage of Chicago’s rare good weather, Johnstone was meeting with the press in Daley Plaza, a public area just outside the Daley Court Building. It is a large expanse of concrete and modern art and is often seen adorning the front cover of travel brochures and websites. The key attraction in the Plaza itself is the fifty-foot steel Picasso, the iconic representation of the City of Chicago. Johnstone was backed up to the Picasso with his microphone, lectern, and gathering of maybe two hundred onlookers and press. I stopped at the fringes of the crowd to listen and then flipped on my recorder.

“—Miranda Morales has demonstrated her guilt in the murder of Darrell Harrow. How has she done this? By colluding with her lawyer to hide her gun. Why hide her gun? Because the crime lab testing and evaluation has proven beyond all doubt that it was Ms. Morales’ gun that killed poor Darrell Harrow. For this reason, it is our campaign’s position that the campaign of Miranda Morales is finished. She should be removed from the ballot, at the very least. At the other end of that spectrum is justice crying out for her to go to prison.”

A member of the press, her microphone and TV camera extended toward Johnstone, asked, “How can you be so sure that she was the shooter? Wasn’t the gun actually found in the possession of her lawyer?”

“That’s a very good point, Ms. Downey. But consider this. If her gun somehow wound up in the possession of her lawyer, how did it get there to begin with? The question begs this answer: she gave it to him. What, are you thinking maybe she gave him her gun so he could shoot Harrow for her? Well, consider the legal consequences of that theory. At the very least, she would be an accessory to the crime of murder. She would also be guilty of conspiracy to commit murder. No, the fact that the gun was found in her lawyer’s trunk doesn’t let her off the hook. Anyone else?”

A
Tribune
reporter by whom I had twice been interviewed piped up, “Do you really think the Democrats are going to keep her on the ballot? Won’t they just announce her withdrawal then put the name of some other high profile attorney on the ballot?”

“A good question, Abe. But consider this: Any candidate selected at the last minute won’t have my experience. I’m the only candidate with the experience it would take to execute the office of the District Attorney for the benefit of all the people. Any last-minute competitor would be a candidate selected by the Democratic Party’s inner circle and not selected in a primary race such as selected me. That would be unfortunate and, my research tells me, illegal for the Democrats to do. I doubt that any judge in Cook County would allow the ballot to be changed like that at the last minute under our current circumstances. Anyone else? Nancy Jardin? What’s your question, Nancy?”

“Mr. Johnstone, there’s a mountain of gossip floating around that you were somehow involved in Harrow’s death. That you somehow arranged the murder in order to ruin your opponent’s candidacy. How do you answer these rumors?”

“Thank you, Nancy. I’m really glad you asked that. I want all rumors on the table so we can pick them apart. First, as to my involvement: I can assure the people of Cook County that, after my twenty years of meritorious service as the first assistant to the Cook County District Attorney, that I didn’t just suddenly have a complete personality exchange with Richard Speck. I’m just not that person who would do such a thing and anyone who looks at my record will instantly know that. Second, the police have spoken with me. My office has made all personal calendars, phone records, office calendars, and all documents and bank statements available to the police detectives. I was completely exonerated by that investigation. But third, and most impressive, is the fact that on the night of Mr. Harrow's murder I was attending the Republican fundraiser from early evening until after midnight, even after the police responded to the call from Ms. Morales' attorney to the police. Making a long story short, it was impossible for me to have been involved. But thank you for the chance to get these facts out in front of the voters, Nancy."

At that point I was wondering what dupes these voters would have to be not to have the wits to imagine a scenario where Johnstone was the puppet master pulling the strings behind the scenes of the most spectacular political murder in the history of the city. But, much to my dismay, no one challenged him with that proposition. So, all else being equal, I decided to do it myself. I raised my hand.

"Yes, Ms. Sturgis," he said to me, forced to call on me since I had raised my hand during a lull in the questions, leaving me the only attendee with an upraised hand.

I began, "How do you answer the multitude of voters who, increasingly, believe that the gun found in Mr. Gresham's trunk was put there by the same police who searched the murder scene? People all around the city are increasingly coming to believe this was an inside job by the police. And that you are in bed with the cops and even helped pull this off."

He was clearly treading water the first few minutes while he stammered and hem-hawed in an effort to gain footing on the slippery slope I had laid before him. Finally, he said, "Moreover, there isn't a single shred of evidence that proves the police somehow planted the gun. Do you know of any, Ms. Sturgis? If you do, please give it to us now."

I stepped closer. "Yes, I do. The fact that my client's fingerprints are nowhere on the murder weapon. That is compelling evidence that he didn't place the gun in the trunk of his own car."

"That is ridiculous!" cried the candidate. "Anyone who watches TV for even one night in America knows about wearing gloves in order to avoid leaving fingerprints. Anyone else with a question?"

But I was finished. I had done all the damage I could do short of running up and tackling the guy.

He was damn lucky I decided against that.

T
he Chicago PD
had its own set of rituals and customs. One of those was the
12:1 Rules
of detective work. I knew all about the Rule and all about Stuyvesant's. All defense lawyers knew.

A swinging dick by the name of Edward Ngo invented the
12:1 Rule
. His
Rule
said that twelve minutes at his desk in the homicide bureau was equal to one minute at a crime scene. Sixty minutes in the office went by in five minutes at a homicide. The point was, the crime scene was what the detectives lived for, the opportunity to apply all of their experience and training to the resolution of some horrible murder or other. So when the CPD shift changed at six p.m., the robbery-homicide dicks who'd been stuck in the office headed for Stuyvesant's Tavern on Clark Street. It was time to let out the frustration that always grew from being cooped up without a callout while on duty. By midnight at Stuy's the murders had all been compared, theories had been exhausted in long, heated exchanges, and all the bad guys were under arrest--so it was time to go home for six hours of sack time until the day shift fell in again the next morning.

But the same night that I met with the Chief of Police I did something I'd been known to do before: I met with the homicide dicks. Except--are you ready for this?--they didn't know who I was. Nobody recognized me in the smoke-filled tavern where the lights were low and my mascara was heavy. Plus, I was wearing a brunette wig to hide my bleached flag.

But I knew them.

Especially Jamison Weldon, for I had seen him at the hospital. And, just as I hoped, he didn't realize, when he bought me my first drink, that I was the one who had confronted him in Michael's ICU room and demanded that he leave immediately before I called security on him. That never made it through his alcohol-haze, because it wasn't until just after eleven that night when I entered the tavern, heavily made up, brunette wig in place, a cigarette hanging from the corner of my mouth, wearing a short black skirt, high midriff top, and fishnet stockings. I was to all the world turned out like a hooker, but one with class: I was wearing a wedding band and huge diamond rock. Gifts from some long-forgotten suitor whose name I couldn't even recall.

I had edged in beside Weldon and leaned across the bar to order. My ample bosom was laid out on the bar, certain to attract Weldon's attention, whose right hand was proximal to my left boob by four easy inches. He didn't flinch, though, and neither did I.

"Vodka martini," I called to the bartender when I caught her eye. She gave a curt nod and turned to her bottles.

"Put that on my tab, Marie!" my target called to her. I smiled and turned my pretty face to Weldon.

"Why, thank you," I said through a fog of cigarette smoke. "The lady is grateful."

"What is the lady's name?" said Weldon, oozing confidence and interest.

"The lady's name is Grace and Peace."

"Well, Grace and Peace, my name is Jamie."

"I like that. Jamie. It fits you--so sunny and friendly."

He smiled like a Cheshire cat. "That's me, always sunny, my friends say."

"So what do you do, Jamie? I mean besides hang in Stuy's. What do you do?"

"Law enforcement. You call 'em in, I come get 'em."

"So that's how it works. You make arrests?"

"Yes, Grace Peace. I make beaucoup arrests. I'm a cop. A detective who works homicide."

"Well how about you arresting me? I'm looking for a high hard one."

"Can do, Grace Peace, can do. However, I'm separated and my wife has our place. Do you have somewhere we could go for a drink?"

"Why not my condo? It's not far from here at all."

"Now that's what I like hearing. A sweet girl named Grace with a condo just down the street from Stuy's. My dad told me you'd come along once in my lifetime."

I smiled like the Cheshire cat this time. "And here I am, Jamie. So we're both in luck tonight."

"I'll drive," he announced.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't give a dude like Weldon--bad breath and thin hair--a second look. But tonight he understood he was getting a chance to role play above his class. He was exultant, ready to drive, ready to buy a vodka bottle to go from Marie. It looked to be a long night until we could drink ourselves to sleep, screw ourselves to sleep, or a lot of both. For me, I was all in.

I was about to catch a rodent.

He drove; two blocks north, four blocks east.

My condo is a trap. It consists of hidden CCTV cameras that cover virtually every square inch of the place. Along with omnidirectional microphones that are so sensitive they can sometimes pick me up unrolling the bathroom TP.

I unlocked it and we went inside. Like all first-timers to my space, his eyes bugged and he froze in his tracks just inside the front door.

"Holy shit!" he said. "This is all yours?"

He was incredulous. Witnesses always are when I lure them into my web.

The decor made words like "subtle" and "sublime" immediately irrelevant. The place was a garden of delights, a decorator's playground, a rich female lawyer's every whimsy made real. The first thing to sock you was the zebra rug spread on the floor in front of my ten-foot leather sofa. Fake zebra, real leather. Above the sofa was a bedspread-size modern painting of two nudes, women, one sitting, one lying on her back, staring at a male figure with his back to the viewer. As in
awaiting
. The coffin-sized glass coffee table was peppered with black and red candleholders and red candles, plus a small stack of the mandatory
Architectural Digest
magazines. At the far end of the cantilevered room was the galley kitchen, all marble and chrome and toned down by its indirect lighting for dining occasions. Which is exactly what Weldon had in mind as he took it all in: hunger. Not the food kind, either.

We headed for my bedroom and, like most drunk men, he was quick to paw and slobber.

Normally a total turnoff, of course, but for just right now I took him on. I needed his confession and I would have it before he pulled up his pants and left that night.

Foreplay, rejected advances, then entreaties to proceed followed by more rejection, less enthusiastic but rejecting nonetheless. And then, just as he figured he was about to gain admittance to the holy of holies, I asked him, "What's the worst thing you've ever done as a cop?"

"No, you go first," he said. He was lying on his back, his pants down to his ankles, staring up at my bare breasts. He belonged to me just then. I could do with him as I wanted.

"The worst thing I ever did with a man? The night I took on the Chicago Bulls starting five."

"You screwed five NBA brothers at once?"

"I did. And even walked away from it the next day. But trooper, I was so sore! Now you. What's your worst?"

His face puzzled up. Cops aren't known for fun times, necessarily, so I knew it would be downbeat, serious. I was waiting.

"Planted evidence. That's right. I planted evidence on a guy."

"Oh, you rascal! What did you plant, coke?"

"Naw, nothing so mundane. I planted a gun on a lawyer."

"I never heard of that before," I said. "He must have really pissed you off."

"Hey! You're not recording this, are you?"

I pushed my breasts into his face. "Do I look like I'm recording?"

"No," he gushed, "no, you're not recording. Sorry I asked."

Just then my cell phone chimed. I had set its alarm while I was in the bathroom before we got down to it. I climbed up, walked over to the dresser, and placed the cell phone to my ear as if I were taking a call.

"Hello? What, you got back a day early? Of course I'll wait up, honey. Hurry now!"

I tossed the phone on the dresser and turned to my victim. He was drunk but not stupid. The pants were already up around the waist and the belt was being tugged into the third hole.

"Husband?"

"Sure is. He's an Army Ranger. Supposed to be deployed this week, last three-day leave."

"Oh, my God. An Army Ranger? Why the fuck didn't you tell me that?"

"Because your name is Jamie and you're a darling man. I wanted you."

"OMG," he mumbled.

Then he ran out into the night without so much as a goodbye kiss, much less a hug or a handshake.

Gone, kaput, fled, flew off.

So I went into my office and played it back.

My CCTV is a twenty-thousand-dollar movie system that can focus down on a gnat's hairy ass.

Which it did. In less than one hour I had edited the full one-hour version of Weldon's visit to my home to less than five minutes. I had even bypassed the bare breasts.

What I was left with was golden. Just for safekeeping I stored the video file on the cloud.

Sweet dreams, I told myself after I had checked the locks on all exterior doors.

Sweet dreams.

Married? Of course not. How could a woman like me be expected to manage a husband and a bedroom of witnesses who came and went at all hours of the night.

Besides, I didn't want to pay alimony ever again.

Been there, done that.