“She says you’re very handsome and she’d be willing to dance for you in private for free. And I’ll allow it, you lucky boy.”
“That’s not what I came here for.” Hunter placed his briefcase on the table, opened it and removed a file. “I need to know you’re not bluffing with the evidence on my father’s case.”
“You think I’m bluffing? Well, that’s understandable. Any smart person would feel like that. So, I’m going to give you another little present.”
Cowan reached down next to him, picked up a manila file folder, and tossed it on the table. Hunter reached forward and opened it. He read the first page, the second and the third. Cowan waited as Hunter looked over the pages.
“I haven’t seen this version of the police report before. This isn’t the official report. This isn’t the one that was presented at the trial.”
“Of course not. It’s the original report, and you’ll notice the changes.”
Hunter flicked between the pages, but even with the first review, he saw the differences. “Why would you keep this?”
“I knew your father, and I was in love with your sister. Natalie was my first real love, maybe my only real love, and those years broke my heart. Part of me wanted to keep all this. Sentimental value. They say you never forget your first, and I’ve never forgotten her. Her magical smile, and her tight behind. She was a star, your sister.” Cowan looked back to the stage. “Before the court case started, your father put Natalie on a plane and told her to disappear to Mexico. He told her to forget about the past and start a new life. I guess your father felt he had to protect his daughter more than anything else. He must’ve thought you and your brother could take care of yourselves. It was the end of my relationship with Natalie, and I was told never to tell anyone where she was. And I never did. People came asking, all sorts of people, but I never said a word. I kept her safe.”
Hunter shook his head, still staring at the police report. “How long have you had this?”
“That report? Maybe ten years. Maybe more. It’s just a taste of what I have.”
“How did you get your hands on this?”
“No, no, no.” Cowan shook his finger in the air. “No more questions about that. You have a choice to make—do you want all the evidence, or do you want to walk away from it? That’s the risk you have to take. It may sound strange to you, but you have to trust me. I have more information, things that may shock you.”
The music hit a crescendo in the background, the customer cheered again, but it didn’t distract Hunter from his thoughts.
He had always wondered what happened to the middle sibling of his family—she left not long after their father was arrested and never returned. Never called, never even sent a Christmas card. But he understood why she left. She wanted to avoid the pain, avoid the accusations, and avoid the agony his family was put through.
Hunter reached into his briefcase and pulled out five forms. “You need to sign these forms if you want me to represent you in this trial.”
Cowan read the forms, licking his finger as he turned each sheet, then picked a pen from his pocket, and signed his name on the last page.
A number of customers began to filter in through the doors. It was mid-afternoon, quitting time for the blue-collar workers, and the club was heading towards its busiest hours. The establishment tried to present an image of class, but the floors were sticky, the tables dirty, and the poles in the middle of the room had stains on them.
“Business appears to be going well.”
“We’ve got customers.” Cowan handed the forms back to Hunter before picking up his glass of whiskey. “But I’m a million in debt. I have cash flow problems. As my lawyer, I’ll inform you that I’m currently cooking the books so it looks like we’re turning over a million a year, but we’re struggling to do a tenth of that. On paper, we look like one of the most successful clubs in the country.”
“Then why do it?”
“I have my reasons. And even if I sold this place, I’d only get halfway to paying my debts off. I have loans up to my eyeballs and nobody will give me a cent more. And my big problem is the money is owed to people who you shouldn’t owe money to. People who’ll make sure they’ll get the money, or I’ll end up swimming with concrete blocks tied to my feet.”
Hunter nodded.
“I would’ve kept the court-appointed lawyer, but the kid was an idiot. Some of the girls here could’ve done a better job. The kid was twenty-five, and I was his first real case, but he was all they would give me. He got lost on the way to the bail hearing and I don’t think he even understood what was happening at the preliminary hearing. He even showed up with the wrong forms. How was I supposed to win with that idiot?”
“Maybe you weren’t.” Hunter kept his eyes on Cowan. “You’re charged with a Class 1 felony—possession of a controlled substance. With the amount of drugs they found, you’re lucky it’s not possession with the intent to distribute, but it would be harder to prove. They’ve taken the easier option to charge you. You were hit as part of the CPD’s Operation Take Down, which targets large street dealers. The prosecution is claiming you had more than $150,000 worth of pure cocaine delivered to this premises, and when they raided the club, it was found in a private room, which you admitted you were the only one with access to. That was a mistake.”
“I was confused at the time, but I didn’t order the drugs. Not this time, at least. This time it was a set-up. They clearly set me up to take me out of business. I know it was one of the crooked cops who did it. I know it was one of them.”
“How do you know it was them?”
“Because they were the ones who made sure I was here on the day of the arrest. I saw one of their undercover guys walk in here at around lunchtime, look straight at me, send a message on his phone, and then leave. He didn’t even buy a drink. Those sly, corrupt cops set me up from the start. And I know why—it’s about one of the dancers who died here last year. Lana. No-one was ever charged, but they’ve been after me ever since.”
“How did the girl die?”
“She was playing around with John Warden in a private room. He—”
“John Warden, the ex-police captain?”
“That’s my man. Our relationship soured after that, but he’s still a friend. He was in the room, he left, and then the girl overdosed.”
“At this point, with the amount of cocaine found, you’re looking at a minimum of ten years under the Illinois Controlled Substances Act, but it could go as high as twenty-five. The prosecution has indicated they’re going for the maximum. The major sticking point for them will be proving your constructive possession. That means a person knows about the presence of a controlled substance and has intent and capability to maintain control and possession of it, or has exclusive control of the area where the substance was located. There are a number of moves we can make. One—we can claim you didn’t have knowledge of the drugs in the public area, and two—we can discredit the integrity of the witnesses, throw doubt on the validity of the police raid, and try to find a reason to have this thrown out of court.”
Cowan’s mouth hung open a little. “I knew you were good. I’ve already heard more from you in the last five minutes than I ever did from the idiot lawyer the court gave me.”
“The issue we have,” Hunter read over the notes on his legal pad. “Is it doesn’t look like we’ll win. If this is a set-up, then they’ve covered most of their tracks. If it isn’t a set-up, then you’ve really shot yourself in the foot. If you were framed, my main question for you now is how did they get in here undetected if you have all these cameras in the club?”
“The cameras were off that day.”
“Who has the power to turn all the cameras off?”
“Anyone in the club could. The access code is next to the monitors.”
“Any idea who did it?”
“No.” He brushed the tip of his nose. “No idea.”
Hunter glared at Cowan for a few long moment
s. He was hiding something, but it wasn’t unusual for a man like Cowan. He’d built his entire business around scamming clients, built his wealth by exploiting innocent people, but it looked like it had finally come back to bite him.
“If we’re going to win this, I need you to be fully cooperative with me.”
“I don’t trust anyone that much. That’s what keeps me alive. I’ll tell you what I think you need to know and that’ll have to do. You can get me off with the information I’ve already given you. I was framed. You just need to prove that in court.”
“You may have been framed here, but you’re not innocent. You’ve gotten away with a lot, for many years. It may be time to admit that you’ve had a good time and plead guilty on this one. We should aim for the lowest sentence possible, which will end up around ten years, if we get lucky.”
“If you can get me a deal for under five years, I’ll take it. Two years would be my preferred option.” He coughed, leaned back in his chair, and brought the whiskey glass back to his lips. “Tell me the names of these witnesses, and I’ll deal with them. I’ll make sure they don’t testify against me. As soon as you get their names, you tell me. I’m sure one of them is a stripper here, but I don’t know which one. You tell me her name, and I’ll get rid of her.”
“That’s not going to happen. I won’t let you interfere with the witnesses. Some of the witness names are currently redacted, and the prosecution is asking that they remain redacted until the trial begins.”
“You should talk to Jerry Schultz, your old boss. He’ll have contacts to help me. He said he’d always have my back. He’ll be able to connect you with someone to give me the names of those witnesses. He knows how I work.”
“I’ll talk to him.” Hunter stood, collected the signed forms, placed them inside his briefcase and closed it. “In the meantime, keep your head down. If you have been set up, and they get a whiff that the case might be lost, then it’s going to ruffle some feathers. And the people you’re talking about won’t set you up twice. Next time, it’ll be a bullet with your name on it.”
Chapter 5
The interior of the art gallery was the height of modern affluence—towering white walls, polished wood flooring, and two crystal chandeliers sparkling overhead. In the three separate rooms of the gallery, the wealthy mingled, admiring the latest art works for sale. There was soon to be a bidding war in the auction hall next door, fueled by shallow egos and thick wallets. The well-connected members of high-class society conversed and talked about the latest scandals, the latest political movements, and the latest high-end backroom deals. Rumors abounded, accusations hinted at, and gossip snaked through the hundred and fifty people attending.
Tex Hunter waited next to a wide red painting, complete with splotches of yellow, streaks of blue, and dashes of purple. He wasn’t sure what the painting was trying to say, if anything at all, but it was pleasing to the eye. He stared at the artwork, acquired a champagne glass when the waitress offered, and waited for the right time to interrupt his first boss, Jerry Schultz.
Schultz, empty glass in hand, listened to a young female artist talk about her large paintings full of spots, stains, and dynamic brushstrokes. He leaned over her, much too close to her personal space, nodding when she nodded, acknowledging her ideas with small hums of approval. The artist played the game as well. She touched his arm, fluttered her eyelids, and faked her laughter when he delivered time-worn jokes.
Schultz flirted with the artist for five minutes, coming closer with each breath, before resting his hand on the small of her back. When she backed away, he turned to look at another painting, and caught Hunter staring at him.
Schultz looked twice.
“They’ll let anyone into these things,” Schultz said as he approached Hunter. “Even the children of convicted felons.”
“I’m not the one with a long line of accusations.”
“And none have ever stuck, if you remember.” Schultz shook his head, looking over his shoulder towards the security at the front door. “And if you’ve come to make a scene, I’ll call security and have you removed.”
“Rick Cowan told me I should talk to you.”
The statement caught Schultz off-guard. He squinted as he looked at Hunter, sighed, and then moved towards the auction hall adjoining the gallery. When the attendant attempted to stop them from entering, Schultz waved her away and stepped past the barrier. Hunter followed.
The empty auction hall was set up with a lectern at the front of the room, a large screen to display the paintings as they were called to auction, and five rows of elegant chairs, soon to be filled by eager bidders.
“I didn’t believe them when they said you were defending that piece of scum. I thought I taught you better than that.” Schultz stopped at the back corner of the room and checked for any eavesdroppers. “But here you are. I guess that should be enough evidence that you’ve taken the job.”
“Here I am. Talking to my first boss and wondering what he has to do with $150,000 of cocaine in a strip club.”
“How much do you know? Have you seen the witness list yet?” Schultz avoided eye contact.
“The witness list is currently redacted, and the prosecution is trying to keep it that way. I’ve filed a motion to release the names and that hits the courts tomorrow.”
“It’ll be harder for you to question the integrity of the witnesses if they remain redacted. I was surprised Cowan made bail, given his past. I certainly didn’t expect it. I thought they would’ve kept him locked up on the basis of the evidence.”
“The prosecution fumbled through the bail hearing and the judge had no choice. I don’t know everything yet, but I know enough to know it’s unwinnable. The state has an almost perfect case against your friend.”
“He’s no friend of mine.” Schultz shot Hunter a glare.
“That’s not what he told me.”
Schultz paused, groaned, and looked around the empty room. He lowered his elderly frame into one of the chairs.
Jerry Schultz spent five years as Hunter’s first boss, his legal mentor. While at the firm, Schultz saw an opportunity to use the Hunter family name. He exploited it, advertised it, and used it to raise the profile of his law office.
“I’m heading to court tomorrow morning to file the motion for the list of witnesses, but Cowan suggested I call you first.” Hunter stated. “He said you’d know how to get those names if the motion is denied. Your connections may be able to help us prepare for the trial.”
“I have no idea who the witnesses are.” Schultz relaxed his shoulders. “I might still be a partner in my firm, but we haven’t dealt with criminal law in a decade. There’s a lot more money in litigation, you know? We settled on another $100 million case last month. You should consider changing to litigation one day. Get away from criminal law. Might be a fresh start for you.”
“My integrity is worth more than dirty money.” Hunter stood over Schultz. “If you can’t help me, then why did Cowan tell me to come to you?”
“I really don’t know. I’m just an old Jewish man dreading the idea of retirement. When the raid first happened, Cowan asked if I had anything to do with this, and I told him I didn’t. Then he asked if I was going to testify against him, and I said I wasn’t. But just because I’m not testifying, doesn’t mean I’m going to help him.”
“Why not?”
Schultz looked to the entrance as a staff member stepped inside the bidding hall. They kept their head down and moved to the other side of the room. “I’m done with him. I have no interest in helping that man. We may have been associates in the past, but I washed my hands clean of his dirt years ago.”
“You can’t walk away from all the corruption you’re involved in. The corruption has afforded this life, and it’s your deal with the devil—the price you pay for playing the game. Detective Holmes was the lead on the raid. I know he’s an old cop buddy of yours. I know you gave bribes to Holmes, even if Holmes was never convicted. Any time the two of
you are involved in something, it gets messy.”
Schultz grunted, glaring at Hunter. “Things are always messy in this world. It’s full of backroom deals, payments, manipulation, threats, and hit-men. It’s money in paper bags, cash cleaned through small businesses, so many hundred-dollar bills you could swim in it. It’s daily doses of violence, so much double-crossing your eyes would water. You dance with the devil, waltz with your worst enemy, and tango with the tigers—all the while hoping someone hasn’t ordered a hit on you. Rules don’t apply here. Not your petty rules, at least. Rick Cowan is involved in the underworld, and the underworld doesn’t care about the courts, doesn’t care about the law, and doesn’t care about your precious justice system. All those things are paid for. In full and in cash.”
“Cowan was framed. I understand enough to know that’s illegal.”
“Illegal? The laws of the land don’t matter here. These people are above the law, above the constitution you hold so dear. This world is like Cowan’s strip club—if he pays people enough, then they dance for him. They wiggle, they undress, and they jump when he says jump. But when the money dries up, and it always dries up, the dancing stops. And now Cowan’s got some angry customers.”
“Including you?”
“This isn’t the right time or place to be discussing this. I’m in the middle of an art auction, Tex. Couldn’t you have called my office? Set up an official meeting?” He looked back to the door, looking for an escape from the conversation. “Tell Rick I’m done with his world. I don’t owe him any more favors. Any scores that we had were settled a long time ago. Tell that sleaze to fight his own battles.”
“So you won’t help him?”
Schultz didn’t respond as he stood and began to walk back towards the gallery. He smiled at another staff member who walked past, and then he stopped at the entrance.
Deadly Justice: A Legal Thriller (Tex Hunter Book 4) Page 3