The Law Partners (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 3) (8 page)

A
ssistant District Attorney Brianna Finlayton
was distressed. She was prosecuting Tory Stormont now that Darrell Harrow had turned up dead. When an ADA went after a cop, suddenly she became the focus of all cops’ hatred of lawyers. The eyes were watching and they were very unfriendly and totally unforgiving.

Worse, Stormont was a cop with political connections. He was said to be on first name terms with the District Attorney himself, Robert Shaughnessy. But even that hadn’t stopped Stormont from being prosecuted for the murder of an unarmed black youth. First-name friendships went only so far around the courts of Chicago, especially when an all-black neighborhood was in flames.

Friends and contacts of the officer had called her and recommended dismissing the case against their man based on this or that flimsy reason, but, like all good prosecutors, Finlayton had resisted. She was going to secure a conviction and ask the judge to retire the guy to prison for his final two shots. It was her job, and Brianna was an honest and true prosecutor. Tory Stormont was in deep with the Chicago powers-that-be when juror rolls were made up. Obtaining a verdict against him would be difficult. Just one “Not Guilty” vote from a member of the jury would wreck her case. She had a strong case on the facts but it was against a defendant who was connected and who could even resort to violence if he gave the word to the right people.

The mayor's office had called Finlayton to check up on the progress of the case. Finlayton had tried to lower the mayor's expectations but so far she had been largely unsuccessful. The mayor believed that a conviction was a slam-dunk certainty just an easy jury trial away. But Finlayton knew better. Defense counsel was one of Chicago's brightest stars in a silk-stocking, white-collar defense office. Defense counsel was ever-anxious to go to trial and make more and more of a name for herself. To further cloud the case's prospects, Brianna had inherited the case only recently after Darrell Harrow had been murdered. The District Attorney himself had dropped it on her desk the morning after Harrow's death without a word. It was her responsibility from that moment forward. Initially, she had found the file wanting in its thin investigation, thanks to Harrow and his notorious battle with drink. Further review confirmed the file was a hit-and-miss mess. So this morning, as Finlayton toweled off after her shower, she looked at herself in the mirror and saw a frowning, distressed Brianna Finlayton staring back.

As she stood nude in front of the mirror blow-drying her hair, she turned her face side-to-side, looking for the first wrinkle she expected any day now. Maybe it was time to leave the District Attorney's office and get into a boutique criminal firm where the hours were less and the stress was halved. Maybe it was even time to get out of law altogether. Maybe write a handbook for new prosecutors, see if something like that would sell and support her. Her needs were meager; it was just Brianna and two cats, Ace and Jack, who were pretty much okay with whichever way she turned, she thought with a smile. As long as there was Chicken-of-the-Sea in their bowls twice a day, they were happy.

No wrinkles in the face. Not yet, and that was good. There had been a man or two over her first ten years since law school. One of them had been disbarred for dipping into client PI settlement monies and been carted off to jail; the other had turned out to have a family downstate--which explained why he was too-often absent on weekends and holidays. God, how naive had she been? She cursed him as she slipped into her underwear and swung hangers in her closet looking for the perfect outfit for the first day of trial. She settled on a pinstriped suit with a pale blue button-down shirt and short red necktie--something to warm up the otherwise dark look. It was important for the look not to be too warm, however; opening day of a white-collar criminal trial called for serious and solemn, the two S's of trial theory and presentation.

She didn't hear the intruder come in through her condo's front door. She didn't hear him glide across the hardwood floor in the living room and stop at the edge of the hallway to listen, hearing the blow-dryer doing its work. She heard nothing of the gun being drawn from the holster on the police utility belt and the slide working to guide a bullet into the Glock's .40 caliber chamber.

The intruder listened when the blow-dryer suddenly went silent. He waited for the possible appearance of the Assistant District Attorney in the hallway, perhaps coming into the kitchen for coffee or toast after showering.

But there was no sudden interruption as the intruder crept along the hallway to just outside Brianna's bedroom door. There, the intruder paused, bringing the gun up to his chest and checking it one last time. It felt heavy even against his body armor. He knew he was ready to pounce.

Stepping around the doorframe, he found Brianna posed in front of her open closet, picking through the day's footwear. She never heard him coming.

The intruder crept up behind Brianna and suddenly jammed the gun's muzzle into the prosecutor's back.

"Don't fucking move," the intruder hissed. "Don't turn around."

"Whaaat--" Brianna murmured, her air catching in her throat. "What-what--"

"Here's what you're going to do," said the intruder, who still hadn't been viewed by Brianna.

"What?"

The prosecutor had come upright and kept her hands extended so as not to alarm the intruder. She froze, looking neither right nor left, her lungs screaming for air while she dared not even take a deep breath out of fear of alarming whoever was behind her with a gun.

"You're going to dismiss the charges against Tory Stormont this morning. You're going to dismiss the case with prejudice."

"All right," said Brianna. "I'll do that."

"And you're going to know this. I know where your parents live out in Barrington. I know your father is a dentist and your mother owns a jewelry store. I know everything about them. I know about your sister's two girls and your brother's enlistment in the navy. I know where they live and I know their schedules. Are you beginning to understand your predicament?"

"I'll do whatever you say. For the love of God, leave my family alone."

"Tory Stormont's case has the attention of some very nervous people who don't want to see Tory in prison. Your job is to make sure that never happens. Are you following?"

"Yes. I'll
nolle pros
the case this morning."

"If you fail to dismiss, your mother will be dead before noon and your sister's children will be kidnapped from their elementary school and never heard from again. They will be sold as sex slaves. Your father will be dead before dark. Everything to make all this happen is in place and waiting for a call from me. Do you understand now?"

"I understand. The case will be dismissed before noon."

"Noon today?"

"Noon today."

"Dismissed with prejudice?"

"With prejudice. They won't be able to re-file it. I'll lose my job for this."

"That's a small price to pay for your family's safety, isn't it?" It truly wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"Good. We're done here. Now you go into your bathroom and close the door behind you. You remain inside the bathroom for ten minutes. Then you may come out and you call no one, including the police, including the DA's office. You will go on with your day as usual and dismiss all charges against Tory Stormont. If you come out after only nine minutes, I make my call and family members start dying and kids start disappearing. Are we clear?"

"We're clear. It's done."

Without another word, the intruder jammed the muzzle against the prosecutor's head, propelling her in the direction of the bathroom. He watched as the door opened and closed, then he turned and calmly made his way back to the front door of the condo. He holstered his weapon in his utility belt.

Minutes later he was riding downstairs on the elevator, a young woman with a cell phone jammed to her ear riding down with him.

As the elevator doors whooshed open at L, the woman nodded at the intruder and smiled.

"Have a safe day, officer," said the woman.

The police officer nodded. "You too."

Then he was gone, down to the street corner, turning right, leaping into a waiting van without markings, and then pulling away into the early morning traffic along Clark Street.

Two hours later, the charges against Tory Stormont were dismissed and Assistant DA Brianna Finlayton was in her office at the District Attorney's, cleaning out her desk. She refused all questions and looked neither right nor left as she finally left the office without a word to anyone. There were tears in her eyes and her heart was pounding as she carried the small box of personal belongings in the direction of the elevators.

Downstairs, on the sidewalk, she whipped out her phone and speed-dialed her dad. He was with a patient. She made the receptionist interrupt him, then he came on the line.

"Dad, are you okay?" asked Brianna.

"Yes, honey, why?"

"Mom's okay? And Norma and her kids?"

"Yes, why?"

"Just checking in. I just quit my job."

"Come by the office. We'll talk."

She was crying now.

"All right, Dad. I'm on my way."

She stepped up to the curb and began waving frantically for a cab. She quickly found one willing to pull over and give her a ride, and she climbed through the sliding door on the curb side.

"Barrington," she told the driver.

"It'll be expensive," said the young black man into the rearview mirror.

She nodded.

"I know. Everything's expensive today. But it's okay. Just drive."

"Hang on, lady."

"I am. I am hanging on."

N
atty McMann's
rumor mill made me wonder whether Lamont Johnstone was somehow involved in Darrell Harrow's death. Johnstone is running on the Republican ticket. He's the stiffest competition that Mira could possibly face. Johnstone has a solid rep; he's a blue ribbon prosecutor, a gifted professional, and he's long ago paid his dues in the District Attorney's office.

So, Marcel and I drop by his campaign headquarters on the off-chance we might grab a few minutes with him. We've heard that he works out of there full-time since leaving the District Attorney's Office to mount his run.

The Office to Elect Lamont Johnstone is a setback building along Jefferson Street. As we pull up to park we see that the outside window is all red-white-and-blue bunting, American flags, campaign posters, and a portrait of Ronald Reagan. We pull open the double doors and enter into a clutch of maybe a dozen workers manning phones and keyboards, none of whom acknowledge us. So, Marcel walks up to the nearest desk and says to a young Asian woman, "We need to talk to the candidate. We have questions we'd rather ask in private about his campaign."

She raises up one finger and continues holding her phone to her ear. Either someone is going on and on in her ear or else she's on hold. Whichever it is, her face is drawn tight and her eyes cold. "Does not like being disturbed," Marcel says to me as he turns to whisper. "Put that on her report card."

She finally hangs up and looks at us with a scowl.

"Yes?"

"We're here to see Lamont Johnstone. I'm Michael Gresham and this is Marcel Rainford, my assistant."

"Are you from the press?"

"Nope, lawyers."

"Can I tell him what this is about?"

"It's about the death of Darrell Harrow. We just have some questions."

"Wait one," she says, and takes to her feet. "I'll see if he's in his office."

Just minutes later she returns. "Follow me," she says without expression. I am convinced the campaign must be in dire trouble if the candidate's workers are all so put off by visitors.

We're shown into Johnstone's small, unpainted office where the drywall still shows pencil marks and the quarter round stands uninstalled in a corner. Evidently things have happened in a hurry here and on the cheap. Rather than spend money on painting the walls, it appears as if campaign funds have been diverted to yard signs and bumper stickers--that's my take, for what it's worth.

Lamont Johnstone gives us the candidate's smile as Marcel and I take the two visitors' chairs. The dental crowns are evident--refrigerator white. I mean, no one has natural teeth that white and if they do it makes the rest of us look calcium-deprived. He is a lean, fortyish man, red hair and tortoiseshell glasses with a pouty mouth surrounded by a scruffy goatee. The look is anything but electable--just my opinion. But I should talk, when it comes to looks, given my own desperate physiognomy.

"We're here about Darrell Harrow," I tell him.

He brightens, then his face falls.

"Darrell Harrow?" he says sadly. "We did Friday night cards. Poker, usually, but occasionally pinochle. He was a shark, that guy. Too damn bad. Darrell left a wife and two college-age kids, if I'm not mistaken. So you have Miranda Morales? I know her even better than I knew Darrell. Lots of us know Mira," he says with a wink.

I don't dive right into the reasons for the wink. I'm guessing I already know, but I'm put off that this guy would use it against her with a wink. Smart people don't usually admit to affairs with murder defendants. But, still, anyone running for public office isn't necessarily one of those--a smart person--either. You'd have to be crazy, in my view. These things run through my mind, but I say, simply, "Lots of you knew Mira? I hear she was very well-liked at the District Attorney's office."

"Not exactly what I meant, but yes, she was very well liked. The women hated her, but the guys thought she was one of them. A total hoot, teller of dirty jokes, world-class drinking partner, and great in the hay--you know all about that, I'm sure."

If he only knew how close that hits to home. But I maintain my poker face and the moment of potential self-revelation passes. I keep my secret and my promise to Mira. But, I'm thinking, if you insist on going there, lead on; I was going to finesse you into it, but let's do it your way.

"So she was one of your conquests?" I say with a pretty decent smile of my own.

"Conquest? I would say we were more like equals in that department. With Mira it was always hard to say who was the pursuer and who was the pursued. I'm sure Darrell would tell you the same thing."

"Give me your best guess: did she shoot him?"

He frowns thoughtfully and leans back. "We're off the record, Michael. I know you and I know you'll respect that. Same for your friend here?"

Marcel holds up both hands. "Hey, I'm not writing any of this down. Go ahead."

"My guess is she probably didn't shoot him. Of course her indictment has all but handed me a win in the general election, all else being equal. So I don't need for her to be guilty in order for me to win. Still, I'm betting she's innocent."

"So who would have done it?"

"Hard to say. But I'm betting she wasn't in on it. Did the cops pick up any physical evidence linking her?"

"Her bullets match the bullet removed from Harrow," I tell him. "But no DNA, no prints, no hair, no marks, nada."

"Her bullets? How's that work?"

"They haven't found the gun—so they say. Which is baffling. But they have matched the Harrow bullet to the same batch of bullets they found in Mira's condo. So there's that."

"Any idea where the gun is? Did they ask you, Michael?"

"Me? Why would they ask me? I'm not in the habit of hiding evidence for my clients."

"Just wondering. Someone would have to be pretty stupid to make off with the gun but leave behind the bullets. Major blunder there."

"Tell me this, Lamont. Were Mira and Harrow working a case together? Would you know anything like that?"

"Be very unusual. We manned our own cases and very, very rarely would try a case in tandem. You probably defended the last case where they had more than one lawyer on the State's side of the aisle. Mayor Tanenbaum's kid."

"Yes, the DA had two, maybe three assistants at trial."

"And still lost it. You walked a guilty kid out, Michael. You guys--how do you even live with yourselves?"

I shrug. "Good question. Nobody ever said it was easy."

"Well, at least that's good to hear. Now, what else did you want to ask me?"

I've gotten what I came for, so I decide to fire off the cannon.

"I'm wondering whether you were involved in Harrow's murder. Like you said, the fact of Mira's indictment puts you on the throne at the District Attorney's office. You've won already and there hasn't been one vote cast."

I'm waiting for him to explode and throw us out. But he doesn't. He's too canny for that.

"Nice try, but no. Sorry, but I'm not your bad guy. I was at the Republican fundraiser the same night as Harrow's death. I spoke to the crowd for about twenty-five minutes. Way too long, but I needed to raise some dollars for my war chest."

"I saw you on the news that night. You're an excellent prospect for the job. Chicago should be so lucky. But so is Mira."

"Thank you. Coming from one of the Democratic Party faithful like you, Michael, that's very flattering. But you're still barking up the wrong tree. I'm covered. After the fundraiser we all went over to Representative Atkinson's home on the lake. Drinks and snacks, lots of cigar smoke, back-room stuff. Plans were laid and votes prematurely counted. You know how that goes when everyone's had a little too much to drink."

"I'll take your word for it. Your alibi is airtight and I was half-kidding when I asked. You're out from under, in any case."

"Too bad for Mira."

"Not really, Lamont. I've always liked you and thought you were an excellent prosecutor. I'm glad you're clean and alibied."

"So who're you gonna lay this off on? You defense lawyers always need a fall guy."

"I've got a couple of candidates in mind," I say with a big grin. Then I turn serious. "Not really. We're very new to the case. Just talking to people, trying to get that first break. It's a very strange case."

"I saw your press conference. She said she was unconscious, somebody spiked her drink?"

"Something like that."

"And she woke up and found a dead guy in her house? That seems like a hell of a way to spend the morning after, trying to explain the party to the cops."

"It wasn't morning. She wasn't out all night."

"And you say there's no link between her and poor Harrow except the bullets? That's not an easy case to make, on either side. Maybe I’d better start making more speeches. I know you, Michael, and it would be just like you to walk her out a free woman a month before the election. You bastard."

I smile; I just can't help it. "Now you know my strategy. My cover is blown."

He raises a finger pistol and cocks the hammer and points it at me.

"Good luck to you with that. Who's prosecuting?"

"Brianna Finlayton. At least she was until she quit the DA's office."

"Bri quit? Since when?"

"Just happened, I guess. Not a word to anyone. Just dismissed the case against Tory Stormont, walked back over to the office, and packed her stuff and walked out."

"So Brianna's gone and Mira's on leave? That's quite a dent in the homicide staff. It's a small staff to begin with."

"Yes. We don't know her replacement yet. Still waiting to see who files their appearance."

"I could make some calls."

"Don't bother. We'll find out soon enough."

"Well, good luck, Michael. And nice to meet you," he says to Marcel. "Let me give you a card. Consider voting for me."

Marcel takes his card. He tosses it back down on the desk.

"Sorry, I never vote."

"You don't pass the good citizenship test if you don't vote,” says Johnstone.

"Not that. Just that the candidates don't pass my candidate test."

"Read my website. I've got a hundred years of experience in the cases I've prosecuted. Seriously."

"Thanks again," I say to Johnstone and we shake hands. "Oh, one more thing," I say and turn back from the door. "Why would the District Attorney be protecting one Chicago cop? Dismissing the case against officer Tory Stormont? Can you help me there?"

The color drains from his face and his eyes don't meet mine.

"I have no idea what you're even talking about," he says. "Nobody was off-limits when I was working for Shaughnessy. We were equal-opportunity prosecutors, whether we were after cops or convicts.“

"Not even police officers accused of gunning down unarmed black teens?"

He stands and leans over his desk. "What do you want from me, an affidavit?"

"No. I want your testimony. At trial. I want you to testify that Ronald Shaughnessy never allowed any prosecution against the Chicago Police Department. Can you give me that?"

"You're asking me to commit perjury, then."

"No, I'm asking for you to tell the truth. If you won't agree to do it, I'll hold a press conference in the morning and tell the world you refused prosecutions against the cops."

"That would be a lie, Gresham."

"That would be politics, Johnstone."

Color has returned to his face. He is livid, red.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Be watching the news tomorrow then," I say, and turn abruptly for the door.

"Wait! There's something you should know."

"What's that?"

"It hasn't got anything to do with protecting anyone. Shaughnessy never prosecuted cops because those guys are thick. They stick together. Prosecuting just one of them could cost the DA ten thousand votes in the next election. Shaughnessy wouldn't risk it."

"So there was a policy?"

"You'd have trouble proving it."

"Let me ask it this way. Did Harrow's indictment of Tory Stormont get him killed?"

"That's a more difficult question. I wasn't in on that. I was long gone."

"Best guess?"

"I don't have a best guess. But I know this. If you crossed a line with Shaughnessy he would leave you dangling. Everyone knew better."

"All right."

"So what about the press conference?" he asks.

I wasn't really serious about holding a press conference, but this guy is too close to the pile to know when I'm shoveling shit and when I'm not.

"What press conference?" I ask.

Outside in the parking lot, Marcel turns to me.

"We're having a press conference?"

I have to laugh. "You too? What is this, Gullible Day?"

"You had me going."

"Had him going, too. That bit about Shaughnessy not throwing cops under the bus. That confirms what I've always heard."

"So he does protects the cops?” Marcel says as we load into his truck.

“His office just dismissed all charges against the killer of an unarmed teen. That killer is a cop.”

“Yes, but that prosecutor who dismissed the case is now gone. Resigned.”

“Truth telling time? I’ll bet even money that Shaughnessy gives her a written recommendation when it’s time for her to go out looking for a job.”

“Whatever,” says Marcel. “Bottom line is there's a killer out there. Two of them, counting Stormont. The other one killed Darrell Harrow. You wouldn’t think they’re the same person, would you?”

“Stormont? As in killing Harrow too? Interesting speculation.”

“I’m going back over the video. This time I’m looking very hard at the cops who come and go.”

We both settle back as Marcel steers us into the fast-moving traffic.

At that moment it really does come into focus for me: there is a killer on the loose.

And it's not Mira Morales.