He turned up the heat while appraising the sentence on the laptop. Sparky Squirrel was surprised how fat and grubby his Chicago cousins had become and . . . And what? He blew into his hands. He rubbed his eyes. He tried as hard as he could to find the words he needed to finish the Sparky Squirrel children’s book.
He couldn’t tell his colleagues. They’d hoot him down. They’d say he should join the Evanston police, made up of pointy-headed officers with advanced university degrees. It was his secret. Someday he’d finish writing down the oral tale he had created and read to his little sister before she died. His dream was that someday children . . . like Santiago . . . when they were still young . . . would learn to read by reading his—
The cell beeped. The commander.
“I got the report.”
“What’s it say?”
“They found another crated body in the truck. That makes three. Your Santiago and the other young man. The bonus body was an older man indebted to the Outfit for unpaid juice.”
“Did the Outfit whack him?”
“You’re goin’ to find out.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Are you up to handlin’ it? Santiago was one of the vics.”
“That exactly why I’ll find the piece of shit who did this.”
“OK, but check in with me. I’m not wantin’ you to go off the rails.”
“That all?”
“One other thing.” He paused. “They found a deadly combination of drugs in both young men. They call it gray death. And they both had needle marks . . . Santiago included.”
Murphy refused to believe Santiago had returned to gangs and drugs. But if he said so, the case might be snatched from him. If Santiago wasn’t clean of drugs and done with gangs, he wasn’t sure what he believed.
He suspected the Outfit was involved or knew who was. Organized crime had the means. The Palios Kosmos butcher shop near Evanston was a suspected Outfit front company. The butcher shop had reported its truck stolen shortly before the police discovered the dead bodies in the abandoned vehicle. This plausible denial of responsibility was too convenient to be credible. Motivation also existed. The third body found had committed the mortal sin of reneging on a debt owed the Outfit. He was stuffed in a meat crate, not a car trunk, but the MO looked close enough. The Outfit resented the increasing insolence of Chicago gangs in challenging its urban turf. But he had nothing specific to go on.
He tried clearing his mind by returning to Sparky Squirrel. No use. Even at his most alert, he struggled to find the right words. He was too tired and too agitated. The cell beeped again.
“It’s me. Bryan.”
“Bryan?” He ran his hand over his face. Just what he needed. “Why are you calling? We have nothing to say to each other.”
“You got that right.” A pause on the other end. “I’m just calling to say I think it best if I don’t show Santiago around the Justice Department on his school trip to DC.”
“Don’t worry your ass about that.” He clamped his teeth on a forefinger knuckle. He wasn’t going to let his brother get a rise out of him. “We found him dead on the South Side.”
“What?” A long pause on the other end. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You might try . . . I’m so sorry to hear that.” He blew out his sorrow in a long breath. He disliked his response. Sarcasm was his brother’s thing. “Look, I’ve got trouble enough. I don’t want to get into it with you.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Bryan’s voice had the tone of someone asking for the bread at a boarding house dinner. “I liked him. I have no kids of my own. I—”
“Stuff the blarney. You never liked Santiago.” He looked at the cell as if he could see Bryan’s face and punch it. “‘Once a gangbanger always a gangbanger’ . . . Remember your words?”
“I was trying to protect you. I didn’t want your hopes too high for his future.”
“I . . . I . . . I . . . Everything you say revolves around you. It’s not about you.” The way their father had refused to recognize Jim as his son, even asking if he’d killed Santiago, overwhelmed his anger with sadness. “But maybe everything does revolve around you in our family. You’re the wonderful son, and he says I’m not even his son.”
“Cut him some slack. The man has Alzheimer’s.”
“Even before Alzheimer’s we had problems.”
“You were the fair-haired boy until something happened,” Bryan said. “You want the truth? Now don’t get mad at what I’m about to say.”
He poised his finger to disconnect Bryan in midsentence if necessary. “Don’t tell me how to feel.”
“Dad changed when you began to screw up. Leaving the seminary, dropping law school. Almost failing out of the police academy.”
He couldn’t bring himself to disconnect Bryan. Those failures hadn’t helped his relationship with his father, but there was something more, something earlier in the relationship.
“But look at the bright side,” Bryan continued. “Everyone but Dad always liked you better. Mom, Sis, the neighborhood. I was the book nerd; you were the life of the party. Even Dad used to . . . until he soured on you. You were like the Cubs used to be . . . a lovable loser. You—”
Enough. He pressed disconnect.
The reflection of his eyes in the rearview mirror repeated his brother’s accusation. He took a swig of thermos coffee and swallowed hard. How could he have missed the signs of Santiago’s return to the gangs? He was so sure he could save Santiago. What went wrong? He had to redeem himself by finding Santiago’s killers.
“Car 1221. Come in,” crackled over the radio. “Intoxicated driver at Racine and Morgan. Crashed into utility pole. Nonresponsive to bystanders.”
“Any ID?”
“Have license number from 911 call.”
“Who’s the owner?”
“Senex. A Sebastian Senex.”
“On my way.” He turned on the blue flashers and was off.
Chapter Twenty
Waiting to testify, Jim Murphy feared the fix was in. Where the clout is equal, justice prevails, the local lawyers said. It didn’t seem equal in this case. Sebastian Senex had chosen an expedited bench trial before Judge Apollo instead of trial by jury for driving under the influence on a suspended license. Something was up. Was the Promethean Pharma CEO trying to pull a fast one? A corrupt or biased judge protected a defendant better than any jury trial guaranteed by the Constitution.
Unlike his classical namesake, the pug-nosed Judge Apollo had neither handsomeness nor a reputation for truth. The man owed his black robe to a judge-maker alderman and campaign contributions from a multimillionaire friend of Sebastian Senex whose restaurant had burned to the ground under suspicious circumstances. The judicial powers that be early on transferred him to traffic court where his incompetence would cause the least harm.
“Before the State puts on its case, I am dismissing the added charge of driving on a suspended license.” Judge Apollo adjusted his robe. “Before this incident, Mr. Senex had three prior speeding convictions. Normally that would trigger an automatic license suspension. However, I reduce his last conviction to court supervision.” He waved his hand like a magician’s wand. “He now has only two priors, and the suspension statute doesn’t apply.” He relaxed into his seat on high. “Therefore, the only charge left is driving while intoxicated.”
“Your Honor—”
“Objection overruled.”
The assistant prosecutor sank back into his chair.
“Can he do that?” Murphy whispered to the prosecutor. “He wasn’t the judge in the speeding cases.”
“He just did it.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Take it up to the Supreme Court, of course.” The prosecutor whispered into his ear. “Let me do my job, will you?”
On the stand Murphy laid out in detail how he found Senex unconscious. He sent him to the emergency room of Rush University Medical Center by ambulance and ordered a hospital blood test to verify Senex’s suspected intoxication. After Murphy’s testimony, the prosecutor received permission for a brief recess. He took Murphy into the hallway and handed him the report of the hospital emergency room. “Look at this.”
Murphy riffled through the report. The blood test profile confirmed Senex was illegally intoxicated at the time of the test. “So? He was drunk.”
“Read the note at the bottom.”
SPECIAL OBSERVATION: ER team included visiting Dutch hematologist, Dr. Henrik Janseen, who specializes in age-related blood disorders. Patient’s blood proteins remarkably indicate younger biological age than expected.
“You’re the lawyer.” Murphy handed back the report. “But I don’t see how the note prevents the report from going into evidence.”
“With Judge Oliver Wendell Holmes on the bench, who knows?”
“What are you getting at?”
“The guy on trial here.” The prosecutor grimaced and bit his lower lip. “Just making sure he’s the same one you sent to Rush. No mistaking a younger man for an older one?”
“Not unless somebody body-snatched him from the ambulance.”
“Just curious.” He motioned Murphy back into the courtroom. “The defendant does look a lot younger than his age.”
Senex’s high-priced lawyer had prepared a thorough memorandum of law for the judge to consider. The memorandum contended Senex’s hospital blood sample had been unconstitutionally seized while he was unconscious. Thus, it could not be allowed into evidence.
The prosecutor counterargued that although the blood profile incriminated Senex, the physicians at Rush hospital had also used his blood for medical diagnosis and treatment under emergency conditions. They would have done so even if Detective Jim Murphy had not ordered a blood test to confirm the defendant’s intoxication. Since an overdose of alcohol can cause unconsciousness and even death by respiratory depression, the ER team properly ordered a blood profile in the normal course of competent medical practice. Therefore, the blood profile test should be admitted into evidence.
Judge Apollo rejected the admission of the blood profile into evidence to prove Senex’s intoxication. He quoted verbatim from the memorandum of law prepared by the defense attorney. The judge looked uneasy and told Murphy, “You should have gotten the patient’s consent to the blood test if it was so important.”
“Really?” The prosecutor crossed his arms. “How could the ER have obtained consent from an unconscious man?”
“They could have waited.” The judge fingered his chin. “They might have waited till he woke up.”
“Brilliant,” the prosecutor said. “By then the alcohol in his blood level could have gone down or he could have died before regaining consciousness.”
“Another crack like that,” the judge said, “and you risk contempt of court. The report will not be allowed into evidence. End of story.”
“If necessary,” the defense attorney paused and continued, “we are prepared to put on our case, Your Honor. I would like to call to the stand Mr. Senex’s personal physician and an internationally renowned blood researcher . . . Dr. Angelo Mora.”
Murphy twisted his chair from the prosecutor’s table and looked back into the audience. A dark-complected man, squat and stooped with thick glasses and a goatee, limped through the courtroom doors toward the bench.
“Wait a minute.” Judge Apollo looked at his wristwatch. “It’s lunchtime. Why don’t you make a motion to dismiss the State’s case for failure to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt?”
“Of course,” said the defense attorney. “I so move.”
“Case dismissed.” The judge smiled at Senex. “You’re a free man, Sebastian. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Senex looked over at Detective Jim Murphy. “Not as sorry as some will be.”
Chapter Twenty-One
JANUARY 6, 2029
ELECTORAL BALLOTS CERTIFIED
WASHINGTON, DC
On the day set by law, Congress gathered to certify the results of the Electoral College. Sebastian Senex slipped into the front-row gallery seat next to Bryan Murphy. Their chairs overlooked the floor of the United States House of Representatives. A joint session of the Senate and House sat to certify the tabulation of electoral votes for president and vice president.
“Thanks for arranging this, Bryan. Couldn’t miss this historic occasion.”
“Only the best for my old boss.”
Bryan was buttering him up because he wanted the support of his former boss when he left the Justice Department and ran for Congress. Bryan’s lust for a political life would be Senex’s hold over him.
“It’s the least I could do after the trouble my brother caused you.”
At the highest level of the wood rostrum sat the lame-duck vice president, acting as presiding officer of the Senate, with the Speaker of the House to his right. Tellers sat at the clerk’s desk below, together with the secretary of the Senate and the clerk of the House of Representatives. The vice president looked up at the gallery where US Capitol Police were dragging away protestors shouting demands for a second national election to replace the muddled results of the original one.
“Rabble,” Senex muttered. He turned his attention to the wall behind the rostrum where the Roman fasces symbol of rods surrounding an axe appeared on either side of an American flag. What the country lacked in this time of uncertainty, he thought, was a strong leader who could pull the country out of the looming calamity about to take place just as ancient Roman dictators did during emergencies. Just as his dead friend, Lucio Piso, had unsuccessfully tried to do in modern Italy.
Everyone in the country now knew Roscoe Corker had only 265 electoral votes for president, Brock Brewster 192, Frank Hammer of the National Independent Party 76, and Dallas Taylor had gained 5. If the five defecting Illinois electors had voted as Democratic Party officials demanded, Roscoe Corker would have reached 270 electoral votes, a one-vote majority.
The decision of the five Democratic electors to reverse the order and cast their votes for Taylor as president and Corker as vice president meant that Corker was not the president-elect.
“Thanks to these turncoat electors, Congress may have to pick our next president and vice president.” Bryan shook his head. “The country won’t accept that.”
“It’s the fault of Dallas Taylor and her attempted socialist takeover.” Senex felt his blood pounding his temples. “She caused this problem.”
“It wasn’t just her.” Bryan waved to someone in the gallery. “The National Independent Party with their seventy-six votes also prevented Corker’s election by the Electoral College.”
“It was just her. She’s behind the National Independent Party to stop Brewster from winning.” He tapped Bryan’s shoulder several times with his fingers. “I say Taylor is responsible for this mess. Professor David Chang, the veep candidate for the National Independent Party, is her friend and former professor. Get it? Just put two and two together. Without her backing and advice, Hammer and Chang would be nobodies.”
“Never heard that, but if you say so,” Bryan said. “You always had a better political sense.”
“I do say so.” He had to remind Bryan who was boss. “Don’t forget that.”
Taylor’s conniving set Senex back on his heels. She had clouded the electoral vote to block Corker’s path to the presidency. He couldn’t let her snatch the monkey of political success away when he was so close.
Unless Congress stopped those maverick Illinois electors, no candidate would have a majority of electoral votes needed for the brass ring of the presidency. If the Kabuki ritual of certification went ahead without a hitch, the Constitution mandated that in the absence of a majority of elector
s for a candidate, the House of Representatives would elect the next president, and the Senate would elect the next vice president.
“Those clown protestors aren’t the danger.” He couldn’t get her out of his mind. “The harebrained National Independent Party isn’t either. It’s a joke,” Senex said. “Keep your eye on Dallas Taylor and her band of radical socialists.”
Everything about that woman—her gender, her race, her personality, her style—offended him. She must have schemed the rebellion of the Illinois delegates as payback for the Democratic Party not slating her for president. “They’d welcome a governmental breakdown for their revolution.”
Senex feigned interest as Bryan explained how the oral recitation of a state’s electoral votes would occur in alphabetical order. All he cared about was the end result. The process bored him. The end was always more important than the means.
A teller started off by certifying the electoral result reported by the state of Alabama. The next of the four rotating tellers continued the process by certifying the electoral results from the state of Alaska.
“Would that be so bad?” Senex wondered aloud more to himself than to Bryan.
“Would what be so bad?” Bryan asked.
“Having the House elect the president.”
“A perilous way to elect a president.” Bryan clucked his tongue. “It’s happened only twice before in our history.”
“What’s the problem?” Senex asked. “The Constitution provides for the House of Representatives to elect a president if no candidate wins a majority of electoral votes.”
“The problem is the potential refusal of a losing candidate to abide by the results.” Bryan held up a Justice Department memorandum prepared by his staff. “Andrew Jackson and John Quincy Adams carried on a blood feud because of a disputed 1824 election in the House of Representatives. Jackson alleged one of the presidential candidates, Henry Clay, made a corrupt bargain to switch his support to Adams in exchange for appointment as secretary of state by the Adams administration.”
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