Power and Justice

by Peter O'Mahoney

  A white van pulled up ten cars back.

  “We’ve got to go.”

  “I can’t stay in that apartment,” Sulzberger complained. “I have to go home. That’s where I need to be. With my family. I have to see Lucy.”

  Three people got out of the van. One had a camera under his arm.

  “You can’t go home. Every media crew in the city has someone there waiting for your return, and your wife won’t let you in the front door. She’s told us that she doesn’t want you there. The more you’re in the media, the more people will think you’re guilty. We don’t want to fight the people of Chicago as well as the jury.”

  “I can’t stay in an apartment.”

  The people ran closer, eager for the breaking story.

  “Would you prefer to die behind bars?”

  Sulzberger looked away.

  The camera went to the man’s shoulder.

  A woman smoothed out her hair.

  Hunter grabbed Sulzberger’s arm. “We can’t let them take a picture of you. We have to go.”

  As they began to move, Hunter almost pulled Sulzberger across the street, with no care for the traffic, as the woman ran towards them.

  “Mr. Sulzberger? Robert? Can we ask you a few questions? Mr. Sulzberger!”

  “No comment,” Hunter said as he protected his client, his back to the reporters. “We have no comment.”

  “Mr. Sulzberger? A comment about the murder case! Please! Robert!”

  They pressed up next to the Chevy as Hunter hustled his client into the back seat.

  “Tex, I said nothing to them,” Sulzberger stated as the door closed, and the driver raced them away.

  “It doesn’t matter. Your worried face is going to be on every news bulletin tomorrow.” Hunter grunted. “And they’re all going to paint you as guilty.”

  Chapter 8

  The first taste of whiskey hit him hard.

  It was a taste that Hunter was all too familiar with, one that had got him through many hard times.

  He had just passed his fourteenth birthday when he first tasted the burn of whiskey. At that time, both his parents were in prison for the murder of eight girls, and he was in the care of an emotionless aunt. His older brother, at twenty-four, had gotten his hands on a bottle of whiskey and decided that was the answer to all their problems.

  Hunter went to his brother, confused about what the papers were still saying about their parents. The hatred towards his family was overwhelming, and going to the mall became a battle against the daily verbal abuse. Instead of providing a consoling hand, a hug, or a nice word, Patrick Hunter put the bottle in his younger brother’s hand.

  “It’s only going to get worse,” he said. “Nothing I do will change that. This bottle is the only thing that will help you ease that pain.”

  And since then, that had been Hunter’s truth.

  “Tough day?” Jonathon, the bartender, nodded to the empty glass on the bar.

  The narrow dive bar was lit by glowing neon signs that were advertising beers that hadn’t been sold since the ‘80s, and dull orange lights that highlighted the range of whiskeys behind the counter. The floor was sticky, the smell of hops was overwhelming, and the nuts at the bar were stale, but this was the place that Hunter felt most comfortable. He’d been a regular for more than a decade, and the bar stool had almost become as comfortable as his couch.

  “They’re all tough days,” Hunter finally replied.

  In a moment of male bonding, they nodded to each other, and Jonathon refilled Hunter’s glass, slightly more than he should have.

  Hunter was sitting on his regular barstool, hunched forward, his phone next to him displaying a news page. He half-watched the replay of the Cubs game on the television in the corner, mounted behind the bar, just above the rows of half-empty vodka bottles.

  “Do you think he did it?”

  Hunter looked at Jonathon again. “Who?”

  “The celebrity alderman. Robert Sulzberger.” Jonathon gestured to Hunter’s phone. The top story led with a photo of Sulzberger being hurried into the car with Hunter behind him. “Do you think he killed the unidentified woman?”

  Hunter reread the headline: ‘Serial killer’s son defends reality star.’

  “You would think that after all these years they would’ve moved on. Does it make you angry? The way they still say that? It’s not like you killed those girls.” Jonathon wiped down the bench with a white towel, then tossed it back over his shoulder. “You’re more than that these days. You’re one of the city’s finest lawyers. You’re a person, not a headline.”

  “My name brings in clients, lots of them—there’s no doubt about that. People remember me and aren’t ashamed of hiring my services because they think that if my father was a serial killer, then I must sympathize with criminals. It’s good for business. The Hunter name always has been.”

  “Throwing rubbish on the street keeps street cleaners in a job, but it doesn’t make it right.”

  “I can’t change my past, Jon.” Hunter continued to read the article. It was exactly what he didn’t want. He didn’t want Sulzberger to become a walking headline, but unfortunately, he now was.

  “If you lived in a different city, people would see you differently. I don’t know why you never moved to Manhattan or LA. You’ve been sitting on that barstool for more than a decade, and you could’ve been living it up somewhere else.”

  “I won’t run from my past. It affected everyone, even the generations to come. My teenage nephew, Maxwell, has been missing for a year. No one’s heard from him. At school, he was always known as the grandson of a serial killer, and so he had a lot of issues with drugs, and then he disappeared. What happened shaped everything about my extended family. Our whole lives. It’s the reason I went into law, and it’s the reason my brother went into criminal psychiatry. We want to help people like our father. We can never right the wrongs of our family’s past, but we can make the future better.”

  “But do the right type of clients come to you?” Jonathon leaned closer, desperate for a piece of a taste of conversation from the usually stoic customer.

  “The right type of clients are the ones that pay.”

  “You don’t believe that,” Jonathon stated in a tone reminiscent of a psychologist.

  In reality, owning a dive bar in Wicker Park was more than knowing his regulars’ drinks. It was more than balancing the books. If Jonathon wanted his small bar to compete with the ever-changing nightlife around him, if he wanted his clients to return, he had to be their ear, the person that they could let their worries unload to without fear of judgment.

  And the more he listened, the bigger the tips.

  “Some days I believe money’s the most important thing, especially the days when you send me the tab.”

  “Ha!” Jonathon laughed. “The way I see your current case; he couldn’t have done it. He couldn’t have killed that girl.”

  “Why not?” Hunter humored him.

  “Because he’s a war hero. He protected the people of this country. He risked his life to save innocent people, and then he stepped up to help the people that needed it. When I used to watch him on Island Survivor, he was a man of true honor and integrity—that’s how he won the whole thing. That’s why the people loved him—even in the face of losing the game, he stood by his morals. He went into politics to make a difference. He kept trying; he didn’t give up like he could have. That’s not the actions of a killer.”

  “He rezoned an area so that a new stadium could be approved, displacing a community for returning veterans who had been in the same place for thirty years. That’s not supporting your own people, or standing by your morals.”

  “But that’s politics.” Jonathon shrugged. “If you want to make a difference, you have to stay in the game. He might have had the deciding vote, but if he voted the bill down, then the Mayor and his donors would have abandoned him at the next election. The best thing he could do is stay in there and make a differen
ce to future votes. Be a voice of reason in the room. We need more people who want to make a difference.”

  “The people who want to make a difference, the people who can change the world for the better, the people who are devoted to helping others, don’t belong in the political game. Those people, the ones that hold our misdirected hope, are laughed out of the game by the players.”

  “Well said.”

  “And that’s not the idea of politics. You can’t be at the whims of someone else’s beliefs. You have to stand up for what you believe in.”

  “Ha.” Jonathon chuckled again, shaking his head. “I never pictured you to be so idealistic. I always thought that you were a man of reason. You know that it’s not the way the game is played. You know that isn’t how it works. Certain decisions equal private funding. Funding equals better advertising. Better advertising equals a better chance at reelection. He voted for the stadium to get reelected. His time to make a change will come, but it can’t be all the time.”

  Hunter stared into his drink, drawn into the conversation by his long-term pal. “His life wasn’t all roses though.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s no secret that he was falling apart at the edges. He was struggling to keep it all together.” Hunter tipped the glass sideways, comforted by the clink of the familiar sound of the ice cubes tapping on the glass.

  Laphroaig’s ten-year-old scotch whiskey had always been his favorite. The punchy peaty taste, delicate smoky overtones, and smooth finish had always taken him away from normality. It was his quick escape from the mundane moments of life.

  “Do you want to know what I think about the murder?” Jonathon leaned both arms on the bar.

  “Go on.”

  “It was the wife. It had to be. That makes perfect sense. She didn’t want to lose her lifestyle, but she didn’t want to get divorced. I’ve seen it many times over—people cheat before they accept their marriage is over. They want out, but they don’t know how to do it.”

  “Killing an unknown woman is a bit of an extreme solution to marriage issues.”

  “Maybe she found the woman in the house and went into a rage.” He shrugged. “If this were Vegas, I would bet this bar on the killer being the wife. It’s the perfect setup for her. From what I’ve read, she’s a war veteran as well. You never know what could’ve happened. She could’ve gone into a rage, lost control, and accidentally went too far. I’ve heard some bad stories about what jilted wives do. They can be worse than anyone.”

  Hunter stared at his whiskey, hoping an answer would jump out at him from the dull color. “There’s a long list of people who hated him. The killer could even be a television fanatic, someone who hated him on the reality show.”

  “So, where are you going to start investigating?” Jonathon turned to the door as three college students walked in.

  “I’m going to start with the person that hated him the most.”

  Chapter 9

  The meeting room was cramped with walls that looked like they’d been pushed in on each other, but the décor was neat and tidy. Hunter squirmed on the firm office chair. As a representative of the people, he didn’t doubt that Cindy Mendel chose such a guest chair to keep people from staying in her meeting room too long. It was the McDonald’s seating plan—comfortable to enjoy for a few moments, not comfortable enough to linger on.

  Paintings by local artists who couldn’t sell their work elsewhere lined the wallpapered walls, their names proudly attached underneath, and light streamed in through a window that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the turn of the century. In the room with the heat slightly turned up too much, Hunter looked over the white Formica table, and he noticed that his office chair had been lowered and the politician’s had been raised. With a smile on his face, he switched them around.

  Cindy Mendel entered the room through the wooden door, holding out her hand for an introduction, a sudden chill in the air around her.

  “Mr. Hunter.”

  Her suit was creased, and her breath stank of wine, but for a woman in her late fifties, she moved with ease. Her hair had recently been dyed dark black, covering any gray strands, and her skin was wrinkled, but not in the places where she smiled.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about all this. I wish we could meet under better circumstances. Obviously, I was close to Robert.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Cindy.” Hunter shook her hand.

  “Robert has done a lot of good for this country. His service has been appreciated, but unfortunately, it’s a story we hear all too often. That’s why veterans need our support. That’s why they need us more than ever. That’s why funding needs to increase.”

  “Of course.”

  “I understand that you have been trying to track me down?” She sat down on the chair, her eyes squinting with confusion as she noticed it was lower than usual. “Robert and I were colleagues, and we were close once, so I’m happy to help wherever I can. What he did to that girl was terrible, absolutely shocking, but I’ll tell you everything I know. I understand how he got into this situation.”

  “In my discussions with Robert, your name continues to come up.” Hunter didn’t continue, allowing the pause to sit in the room.

  “Robert and I used to be friends. To think that I had that cold-blooded murderer at the dinner table in my house…” She frowned and tried to flatten out her skirt. Once a marathon runner, she had tried to maintain a level of exercise throughout her life, even as the years ticked past, but while fitness was one success story, her health was a different one. “That’s why veterans need support. They need to be supported after they return from war; otherwise, things like this can happen. They lose their cool; I mean, PTSD is real, it’s not a made-up condition, and this is exactly why places like the Returning Veterans Center are so important for our community. Places like that provide support for the men and women who’ve served our country, and protected our freedom.”

  “Is that what you think happened?”

  “In my line of work, I’ve seen it many, many times before. Men and women return from combat, and the images of war are too much for their brains to take in. It’s all too frightening, too intense, and they snap—lose control.”

  “Is that what happened to your husband?”

  The look on her face instantly changed. Gone was the pleasant but forced smile—replaced by a look of icy emotion.

  She stared at Hunter for a few long moments before replying, “It’s well documented what happened to Liam. It’s very well known that’s why I went into politics, and some days, I struggle to keep it all together. Some days, I feel like my world is falling apart as well, but I didn’t want anyone else to suffer through the pain that I had to suffer through. It hurts your soul when your significant other does that, the mark it leaves on you is permanent, but fortunately, Liam only hurt himself when he snapped, unlike Robert. That’s the danger we all face. That’s why we need to support our veterans.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “He decided to check out. Leave us all behind. He abandoned the people that loved him because he couldn’t handle the thoughts in his head. That’s what war does to people.”

  “You served?”

  “For a short period in my early twenties before I was medically discharged. That was a long time ago now. It’s been many decades since I lived that life.”

  “In interviews, you’ve stated before that you were running from a past life when you went into the army. What were you running from? Drugs? Violence? Teen pregnancy?”

  She stopped and didn’t shake her head. “I was forced to give up a child and put her up for adoption. I was never the same after that. Don’t judge me for that mistake; I was only very young.”

  “I’m not judging. My family history is littered with many faults.”

  “Of course it is.” That made Cindy laugh, put her at ease. Most family issues looked minor next to the Hunter family tree. “I found the girl that I was forced to give away.
I know who she is, and I’m a part of her life, but she doesn’t know who I am. I’ve protected her over the years, but I don’t want her to know. Not yet.” The sadness grew in her eyes. “But we’re getting off topic. I don’t want to tell you my life story. What did you come to ask?”

  “Why did you hit Robert?”

  “Straight to the point. I like that in a man. You see, people who are straight to the point tend to have a line of questioning in mind about their cause. I can see that you’ve got a focus in mind and that’s what you’re working towards. When Robert first started in politics, I had an ally. He was on my side when we stepped up to look after the veterans. But, unfortunately, in the end, he put his political needs before the people that elected him.”

  “Answered like a true politician,” Hunter stated, looking over her shoulder at the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. Sitting on top of the cabinet was the book, The Courage to be Disliked. “But I’ll ask again—why did you hit Robert in the week before he was arrested?”

  “My relationship with Robert was very tense after he voted down the motion to support veterans and approve the stadium development. There were times when I would consider him a friend, a buddy to our cause, but after that vote, I didn’t feel we had a connection. My political career rested on his decision to rezone his area, and now, it looks like I’ll be out at the next election.”

  Hunter waited, a slight grin on his face.

  “Okay. I get it. You want the answer to your question, but I’m not quite sure how to answer it.”

  “How about we get you to answer that question under oath?”

  “Well…” She looked to the door, which had been left slightly ajar. “I imagine that you’ll ask me that question under oath anyway, but first, I would also be interested to know whether Robert is going to plead guilty or not?”

  She raised her eyebrows, waiting for his response; however, he didn’t give her one. Hunter had dealt with enough politicians to know they took every opportunity to avoid answering a tough question. Redirect the conversation here, throw in a distraction there.