Faith and Justice

by Peter O'Mahoney

  Patrick swung smoothly, and they watched the ball land not far from the tee, bouncing twice, rolling past the flag, and stopping before it rolled off the other side of the green.

  The grounds looked perfect in the late winter light, almost like the grass was painted by an artist, and there was nowhere else Hunter would rather be. Golf was a byproduct of his need for being outdoors, his need for being surrounded by such greenery. As he went through his forties, he was learning that life was about balance—work hard in the city, but take a moment to breathe in nature. He didn’t need the golf, the competitive side of it; all he needed was to walk along the fairways, along the greens, and take in the smell of freshly cut grass.

  That did him more good, provided more relaxation than any pill or bottle could do.

  “Listen, there has been something that I’ve wanted to say for a while… I know that our mother was a very emotional person, and she used to speak for the two of us.” Patrick drew a long breath as they walked up to the eighteenth hole on the quiet morning. “I know that our mother used to tell us that she loved us, but since she passed, there hasn’t been anyone to say it, but I think I should say it.”

  “You don’t have to say it.”

  Patrick continued looking out to the green, trying to gain the courage to say something important.

  It was hard for him.

  With their upbringing, it was hard for both of them. They had developed a toughness; a stoic character designed to never let their guard down.

  Being vulnerable was not something they were used to.

  “You may know what I’m going to say, but I need to say it to you.” Patrick looked at the ground.

  They walked in silence for another two minutes.

  Patrick struggled to open up, and the uncomfortable quiet was painstaking.

  “What are you working on?” Patrick finally asked, breaking the silence, and diverting the conversation away from being vulnerable. He couldn’t find the courage to say what he was feeling.

  “The faith healer case.”

  “Of course.” Patrick smiled, happy to have avoided the previous conversation. “I talked to Max on the phone, and he couldn’t be happier. This faith healer, Amos, cured him of his drug addiction. What an amazing thing. You can have all the help in the world, you can have all the science, but in the end, it all comes down to a mystery art.”

  “I know how much this means to him.”

  “It’s not just how much it means to him, Tex; it’s about how much that guy means to me. I have my son back, Tex. The phone call was only a small step, but he’s coming back into my life. I have that beautiful, smart, funny boy back. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. And I haven’t heard that light in his voice since his mother died. You know what Max has been through. But ever since he has been talking to the faith healer, his life has changed. Amos Anderson has brought my son back to me. There’s nothing more important than that. You have to keep that man out of prison so that magic can keep working.”

  “Except it isn’t magical.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a rip off, Patrick. It’s all a lie, a dirty scam.”

  “The faith healing? How can you doubt it when the evidence is there?” Patrick asked. “I know that I’m the psychiatrist and I’m the one supposed to be defending science, but you can’t argue with results. He cured Max of his drug addiction.”

  “I know it doesn’t work because Amos told me it was a lie. He came out and said that it was all a scam. The Faith Healing Project is a fraud.”

  “Don’t tell me it doesn’t work, Tex. I’ve seen the results. It helped Max kick the drugs.”

  “But it isn’t the faith healing, it isn’t the hands—Max was cured because of the placebo effect.”

  “The placebo effect?”

  “Yes, Patrick.”

  Patrick still looked perplexed.

  “Tex, there’s a story about war that we’re told in psychiatry training about the placebo effect. In the first Gulf War, a group of US soldiers had to march for twenty-four hours to get away from a bad position they were in. They were under all sorts of attack and had suffered multiple hits by bombs, losing some of their team. They had no food, no ammunition, and no communications. They were a twenty-four-hour march away from any help, and it was a twenty-four-hour march through sandy deserts. They had no hope. None. That was until their sergeant told them that he had an experimental drug that was only to be used in an absolute emergency. They were told they needed to take one tiny sip of the liquid every hour, and they could march for days. The sergeant had two bottles of this clear liquid drug in his pack. The boys were scared, vulnerable, and looking death in the face.

  “The men had heard about experimental drugs like this being used in war, so they took it. They took a sip every hour, on the hour. When they were starting to physically fall apart, particularly around the eighteenth and nineteenth hour of marching, this liquid drug picked them back up, and they kept going. It was like they were invincible. By the time they made it to camp, almost twenty-four hours later, they felt great. The only person that was struggling was the sergeant. They made a stretcher for him and carried him for the last six hours, but that didn’t matter because the drug worked. They felt like they could have kept marching for another twenty-four hours.”

  Patrick looked out into the distance.

  “They felt great, Tex,” he continued. “Twenty-four hours through sandy desert and they felt great. Can you believe that? That drug saved their lives.”

  “What drug was it?”

  “That’s the thing—it wasn’t a drug; it was water. Pure water, nothing but water, and they believed it was a drug. They all believed. The sergeant knew it was only water, but he convinced them that it was an experimental drug. He convinced them that this tiny sip of the drug would get them back to base. It worked because they believed that it would work.”

  “And the sergeant didn’t believe, so it didn’t work on him.”

  “That’s right. He saved their lives with a sip of water, a trick of the mind, not a drug. It was their minds that got them through.”

  “The placebo effect,” Hunter said softly.

  “Exactly, Tex. It saves lives.”

  “But that’s different than what the Faith Healing Project is doing. Lucas Bauer makes a lot of money selling a treatment that he knows is ineffective. That’s not right. They’re making money from ripping people off. That’s the definition of a scam.”

  “I know that you’ve had problems with scams in the past, but this is more than a cheap trick.”

  “It’s ripping people off. It’s taking their money and throwing it away. That’s not justice. That’s a crime. Max is spending a small fortune on this healing, and it’s a fake. Amos has agreed that he will make a legal statement at the end of this case stating that he’s aware that the treatment doesn’t work.”

  “All I know is that Max’s faith in the man has changed my son’s life. We have Max back. That’s worth more than anything. I would sell everything I own to keep paying for those treatments. As long as Max believes it works, then I will do anything to get him back to those sessions.”

  “But that’s not the truth. And justice relies on the truth.”

  “It might not be a legal truth, but it’s a truth for our Max.”

  Hunter lined up his putt on the edge of the fairway. He checked the roll of the green, checked his putter and then pushed at the ball, watching it roll smoothly along the green before dropping into the hole.

  “It’s not a legal truth, and that’s something I can’t walk away from.”

  “Truth is subjective.” Patrick took his second putt and watched the ball drop into the hole. “The truth is that in laboratory trials, the healing doesn’t work. The truth is that there’s no magic force in the universe. But Max’s truth, his belief, his certainty, is that it does work. It’s cured him of his addiction. That’s his truth.”

  “The facts are the facts. T
here’s no disputing them. It doesn’t work.”

  “It does for Max.”

  Hunter sighed. His brother loved a good argument. As siblings, it was the main way they had bonded.

  Hunter took out his scorecard and noted down the numbers.

  Patrick looked over his shoulder, eager to watch his brother write the sum of their game. If he got within five strokes of Hunter, he considered it a win.

  “You played well today, Patrick.” Hunter began packing up his clubs. “Only eight shots off the pace.”

  “Getting better.” Patrick placed his putter back into his golf bag. “You’re not stopping for lunch after our game?”

  “Not today. I’ve got too much going on with this case.”

  “Tex?”

  Hunter sighed. “Go on. Say your peace.”

  “You may have your own sense of justice, but for me, I need you to look after your nephew. I can’t lose him again. Not after losing his mother. Max told me that he attempted suicide when his addiction was at its worst. I can’t lose him, Tex. If he thinks that man saved his life, then let him think that. Promise me that you will do what’s best for him.”

  Hunter paused and looked back out to the golf course. Not only did Patrick suffer through the trials of their father’s killings, but he also lost his wife in a car accident, and then his son to drug addiction. That almost killed him.

  “Promise me, Tex.”

  Hunter paused. “I can’t, Patrick. I can’t promise that.”

  Hunter began to walk away, wheeling his golf bag behind him.

  “Tex.”

  Hunter paused again but didn’t turn around.

  “I love you.” Patrick looked at the back of his brother’s head. “That’s what Mom always said to us, and that’s what I wanted to say to you.”

  “You too, brother,” Hunter whispered, but again, he didn’t turn around. “You too.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Sitting outside the theater at the Loop after midday on a Tuesday, Hunter wasn’t concerned with where Lucas Bauer was going.

  He was concerned with being seen.

  He followed him as he exited the theater, staying three people back as Bauer walked down Dearborn Street, past the Picasso sculpture, through the lunchtime crowd. Hunter kept his head down as the “L” train rumbled overhead, hands in his coat pockets, keeping Bauer in his peripheral vision. He followed him as he walked through the busy mass of people, getting closer as Bauer walked into a Starbucks to loudly order a Grande Latte. Hunter sat quietly inside the café, near the entrance, just visible enough for Bauer to notice him.

  As Bauer collected his coffee, Hunter pretended to read his phone.

  “You know, if you’re going to tail someone, you should’ve stayed outside the shop. You haven’t even ordered a coffee.” Bauer leaned in. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

  “Lucas. What a surprise.” Hunter’s voice was monotone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t following you.”

  “You weren’t? It was a coincidence that you were walking behind me down the street and then followed me here, where you haven’t ordered a coffee?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  Bauer shook his head as he walked out of the busy Starbucks, coffee in hand.

  It was only ten minutes later that Hunter’s phone buzzed. He smiled as he looked at the name on the phone.

  “Hello, Detective Browne.”

  “That’s quite formal for an old friend,” Browne stated. “Are you free to talk in person?”

  Hunter grinned, making sure his smile wasn’t big enough for anyone to see. “Yes, Browne, I am.”

  Twenty minutes later, Hunter was sitting in a café past the entrance of Union Station, Browne’s preferred choice. Hunter sipped at the burnt coffee and ordered a serving of bacon and eggs, both of which he was sure would be burnt as well. There weren’t many people in the dimly lit diner, but that was expected. The sign out front was dirty, as was the table. The light inconsistently flickered overhead, and it annoyed Hunter every time it did.

  When Browne arrived, he ordered a coffee before taking a seat opposite Hunter in the narrow booth. The vinyl seat stuck to his trousers as he struggled to squirm across. With a large stomach, Browne only just squeezed into the booth.

  Preemptively, Browne struck first.

  “Why were you tailing Lucas Bauer?”

  “You tell me. You seem to know my movements quite well.”

  “I’m a cop. A detective,” Browne said with a growl. “And as a cop, I need to know why you met with Bauer.”

  “I’m a lawyer,” Hunter retorted. “And it’s my job to know things before the cops do.”

  Browne exhaled, leaning back in his chair as the waitress placed Hunter’s plate of burnt bacon and overcooked scrambled eggs on the table. The bacon smelled like it had spent the last day in a smoker, but Hunter was thankful that it overpowered the smell of Browne’s body odor.

  As the waitress walked away, Browne commented, “Looks like they didn’t burn it as much as usual.”

  Hunter didn’t respond. He much preferred his eggs overcooked, and his bacon extra crispy. He liked the extra crunch.

  “I’m not the man you want to mess with.” Browne pressed his finger down on the table. “What do you have on Bauer?”

  “It’s none of your business.” Hunter moved his bacon to the edge of the plate with his knife. The light flickered overhead again. “What did Bauer tell you?”

  Browne leaned back in the chair. “When?”

  “When he gave you that envelope and paper bag in a bar on the Magnificent Mile.”

  “Is that what Bauer said? Of course, he would say that.” Browne’s voice rose, and he shrugged, trying to hide his lie. “He’s trying to cover his own butt, that’s all. It’s all misdirection. He’s trying to make you think that I’ve got something to hide.”

  “You do.”

  Browne tried the friendly approach: “Tex, old buddy, you—”

  “Don’t call me your buddy. I’m not your friend.”

  “You know me. You’ve known me for years. We’re more than colleagues trying to get justice. We’re friends. You and me. You know I’m on the straight and narrow now. My life has changed.”

  “A leopard doesn’t change its spots, Browne. Once a dirty cop, always a dirty cop.”

  Browne sighed, holding out his hands as a sign of surrender.

  “I know you’re dirty, Browne. I know what was in that envelope,” Hunter lied.

  “What do you want, Hunter? A piece of it?”

  “I want you to know that I’m coming for you.”

  Fear spread across Browne’s face. “Tell me what you want, Hunter. I can help you get whatever you want. Whatever it is, I can help you. Money. Girls. Drugs. Whatever. You name it, and I have the contacts to get it.”

  The light flickered again, and it took all of Hunter’s restraint not to put the dinner knife through it. He looked towards the ceiling and contemplated it for a few moments, then placed his knife back down. His appetite had disappeared.

  “You can’t get me what I want.”

  “I can help you,” Browne pleaded. It was his standard procedure—backed into a corner, he would wheel and deal until he could get out. “You and I could be a great team. Tell me what you want.”

  Hunter pushed his plate away, no longer comfortable with his present company. He left a few bills on the table before choosing his next words very carefully.

  “I want justice.” He stood. “And you could never give that to me.”

  “Listen.” Browne paused, then stood too. “I know that we aren’t friends. I know you hate me. But I’ll give you a tip—with this case, be careful who you talk to.”

  “I always am,” Hunter retorted.

  But this time, he wasn’t so sure.

  CHAPTER 21

  Ray Jones climbed inside Hunter’s sedan to provide a brief update after weeks of investigative work. His long limbs
filled the front seat and his knees squashed against the dash, despite the leather seat being as far back as it could be.

  Hunter spent extra on the latest BMW sedan model for comfort, knowing he conducted a lot of meetings in it—and that Ray needed legroom. Hunter had the same problem; his knees often hurt after long car journeys.

  Parked next to the waterfront, their meeting was held in the comfort of the car’s heat, but with the added benefit of the beautiful Lake Michigan in sight. The side windows of the car fogged up quickly, the cold air on the outside contrasting with the artificial warmth. They sat in the parking lot on Northerly Island near the Alder Planetarium, with the late afternoon sun skimming across the horizon.

  Jones had parked his truck next to Hunter’s car, the big red beast almost shiny enough to be a mirror. A limousine rolled past them, white wedding ribbons tied on the hood, and a ‘Happily Married’ sign on the back.

  “Do you know what the world’s most dangerous food for men to eat is?” Jones smiled. “Wedding cake.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever cross that bridge.” Hunter chuckled. “How’re things with your new girlfriend?”

  “We split up. I couldn’t stay with her after what she said to me.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Get out.” Jones laughed. “It’s fine; we weren’t a good match anyway. We were never going to work out.”

  “She didn’t like the gym?”

  “Ha.” Jones clapped his hands. “In our last argument, she said, ‘You’re not even listening.’ And I thought: that’s a funny way to start a conversation.”

  “That’s good.” Hunter laughed.

  Jones grinned broadly and playfully slapped Hunter on the shoulder. Hunter recoiled.

  “Sorry, Tex. How’s the shoulder?”

  “Still sore, but it’s healing. There’ll be a scar, but women love scars. At least it’s an interesting story to tell them.” Hunter turned the stereo in his car down. Piano Man by Billy Joel was playing, a song he loved, but if it was up too loud, he wouldn’t be able to resist singing along to it. And nobody needed to hear him sing. “What did you find out about Chuck?”