Killen Erwin, Jr. answered the door. He was wearing jeans, a T-shirt that said “Go Cardinals!” with a stylized picture of a quarterback about to pass the ball, slippers, and he was holding a glass of egg nog. He lifted the glass to Thaddeus. “You can come in and drill me with your questions. But only if you’ll have an egg-nog.”
“Done,” said Thaddeus. “Because I’ve got a million questions.”
“Sure you do. Come on in. I don’t have an office here but we can sit at the dining room table and talk.”
Killen led Thaddeus to the dining room and they both sat. Donna Erwin appeared in minutes, two fresh egg-nogs in hand. “Hey, Thad,” she said. “Hear there’s trouble up town.”
“Thanks,” Thad said, accepting the drink. “Yeah, your husband is after my client.”
“Whoa,” said Killen. “Let’s get one thing straight. It won’t be me prosecuting Ermeline. I’ve got a conflict of interest. I’ve already called the Attorney General. They’ll be handling any prosecution. If there even is one.”
Thaddeus’ ears perked up. “You mean there might not be a prosecution after all?”
“Depends on the crime lab, I’d say. The AG may see it differently but without positive results from the crime lab I don’t see a case.”
Thaddeus frowned and lowered his voice. “Killen, someone’s after my client. Someone’s trying to frame her. She would never shoot Vic Harrow.”
“Agreed. But right now it looks like she did. It’s your job to prove otherwise.”
“I thought it was the State’s job to prove her guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“Sure, that’s what the books all say. Truth is, you’re gonna have to prove her innocent. That’s how it works in the real world.”
Thaddeus sat back and took a large mouthful of the drink. His mind was churning. How was he ever going to prove her innocent?
* * *
Georgiana Armentrout was in her mid-fifties, lived in a single wide in Shady Oak Acres north of Orbit, kept two parrots and a Pekingese and had one daughter, Ermeline Ransom, and one grandson, Jaime. She was a widow. She had killed her husband in a hunting accident ten years earlier, when they were hunting in LaGrange Township. They had been hunting deer, using shotguns and shotgun slugs as authorized by Illinois law, when Dan Armentrout handed his gun to Georgiana and ducked through a barbed wire fence. He made it to the other side and was holding down the bottom wire with his foot, when Georgiana went to hand him the two guns, to pass them through the wire. Unfortunately they were passed muzzle first, the trigger of Dan’s gun caught on her hunting jacked button, and the gun fired, blowing a hole the size of a Mason jar in his chest where his heart used to be. Killen Erwin, Jr.’s predecessor in the District Attorney’s office, a mean spirited little man named Blaine Mattock, now deceased in a boating accident of his own, sought to bring charges against Georgiana for the shooting death, and through some legal wizardry, Blind Man’s Bluff, and Hide the Ball, managed to convince a Hickam County Grand Jury to indict Georgiana Armentrout for Third Degree Murder. Things went bad to worse for her from there, because she had no money, had to accept the court-appointed attorney, and the luck of the draw wound her up with Attorney Fletcher T. Franey. Since receiving his law license in 1970 it had been Attorney Franey’s practice, with criminal defendants, to plead them guilty first and find out the facts later—if at all. Which is exactly what he did in Georgianna’s case. Against her better judgment she let Franey talk her into a plea agreement, where she would plead guilty to manslaughter, serve six months in the Hickam County jail, and two years of probation. She did her time, talked to enough jail house lawyers while incarcerated to understand that she had been hornswoggled by Franey, and came out a new woman with one goal in life: to avoid lawyers, judges, police and prosecutors for the rest of her life. She wouldn’t even let them pass her by on the street, always preferring to cross over, literally, than have any chance of eye contact or contamination by their ilk. She never voted in general or special elections and didn’t care who held what office. She had seen enough government in her forty years to swear off forever. “I’ve been cured of that,” she would say about officialdom. It was Georgiana who awoke to Charlie Altiman’s knock at Ermeline Ransom’s door that Christmas morning, and it was Georgiana who was told in no uncertain terms that the cops outside had a search warrant and they were coming in.
Georgiana pulled open the door and stood aside, clutching her robe at the neck. “What the hell do you devils want?” She spat at Sheriff Altiman as he came through the door.
“Mornin’ to you to, Georgie,” said Altiman with a smile. “Sorry to bother you good people on Christmas morning, but there’s a little problem uptown we need to tend to. Hope you folks can help us out.”
“I want nothing to do with you and your problem. Neither does Ermeline. So state your business and leave!”
“Afraid it won’t be that easy. You see, we have to search the house. Ermeline home?”
“She’s getting decent. She’ll be right out.”
And at that moment Ermeline emerged, looking drowsy and flustered, and wearing a sweatshirt that said “BS” and a pair of blue jeans rolled at the ankles. “What’s up, Charlie?” she asked the Sheriff. “What in the world all you peace officers after?”
“We’ve got a search warrant, Ermeline.”
“For what? What did I do?”
“Probably didn’t do anything. But we need to take a look around.”
Which was the moment Jaime Ransom, all of five and full of pep and Christmas morning angst, chose to come bounding in the room, expecting to find a slurry of presents dropped off by Santa, and finding instead four complete strangers standing in his living room. He noticed the guns and the badges and his face clouded over. Tears came to his eyes. “My daddy got hurt?” he asked.
Sheriff Altiman reached across the small room and tousled the youngster’s brown hair. “Your dad is just fine, son. We’re just here to look for something we lost.”
“Lost it in my room?” the little boy asked. “C’mon I’ll show you my room.”
“Jaime, come up with grandma,” Georgiana said, and patted the couch beside her. “The men need to find something someplace else. Probably not in your room. Probably not here at all,” she ended, her tone menacing toward the cops. “So’s the quicker we all get set down the sooner they can leave. Ain’t that right, Sheriff Altiman?”
“That’s exactly right, Georgiana. Ermeline, you too, on the couch, if you would please.”
“Whoa, can’t I brew up a pot first?”
“Go ahead, but hurry it along, please.”
Ermeline, not particularly nervous about the interruption, went into the kitchen. She figured they had found out about Hector and had come looking for him, which would explain his total absence this morning when she woke up. At first she had thought he was in the bathroom getting ready for Christmas morning. But then she heard the police voices and her mother’s voice in the living room and she guessed that Hector—as usual—was in some kind of trouble, maybe even for the warrant Hickam County had out for non-support. She wondered if the $6500 could be used to bargain his way out of any arrest. After all, she thought, he had made good and he shouldn’t have to be arrested for non-support now. She filled the coffee pot with tap water, scooped three scoops of Folgers’ into the basket, and hit the switch. Within seconds Mr. Coffee was happily underway with its daily routine. She returned to the living room and took a seat on the couch, as the Sheriff had requested. By now the police had spread through her house and she could hear them trading information through the thin walls, although she couldn’t make out what was being said.
Fifteen minutes into the search warrant’s execution, Sheriff Altiman returned to the living room. He was scratching his head. “Ermeline, do you own a gun?”
Ermeline was taken aback. A gun? “Never! I’ve got a five year old living here! Whose grandfather was killed in a gun accident—” emphasis on accident. “No gun no way,
not ever, not here, Sheriff.”
“That’s what I figured. Okay, thanks.”
The Sheriff disappeared and Ermeline dashed into the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee and a small glass of milk. Using her cocktail waitressing skills she balanced all three, with saucers and two Christmas cookies apiece, and returned to the couch. Jaime inhaled his cookies and immediately asked for more. Before Ermeline could placate the little boy, one of the police officers, Michael Smith, appeared out of the bedroom. Smith was known as the Great Spirit of the Red Bird Inn because he spent so much time at the restaurant chewing donuts and chatting up the farmers and truckers. He came through the living room, exited out to his car—Ermeline supposed—and returned with what looked like a black gym bag. She never did see the opposite side of the bag that read EVIDENCE TECHNICIAN in red letters. The cop disappeared back inside Ermeline’s bedroom, and what sounded like a conference was held in the bathroom. Five minutes later the same cop returned, snugging the evidence bag tight under his arm. He managed a stiff smile, and disappeared back outside. Ermeline heard a car trunk slam, and he didn’t return again. Evidently the search was then continued, as the threesome on the couch didn’t see any sign of the remaining three officers for another fifteen minutes. Finally they all three returned to the living room and the two uniformed city cops began looking under furniture and inside drawers and behind the entertainment center, looking for heaven only knew what, as far as Ermeline could tell. Sheriff Altiman again reached to tousle Jaime’s hair, but this time the boy ducked. He stuck out his tongue. Clearly he had inherited his grandma’s distaste of law enforcement officers. Ermeline told him that that was enough, that these men were guests and should be treated nicely.
“Tell the truth, Ermeline,” Sheriff Altiman all but stammered, “I’m gonna have to ask you to ride up to the office with me.”
The little boy’s ears perked up. “Mama ain’t leavin’. We gotta do Christmas, Mister.”
“I’m sorry, son, but I need to borrow mama for a while. She’ll come back soon,” he lied, and the whites of his eyes showed as he said it, knowing he had just lied to a five year old. There were some things about this job a man could really come to hate and Ermeline picked up on his thoughts and feelings. This wasn’t good; she could read that between the lines. Something was definitely up and it involved her too, maybe not just Hector.
“This about Hector?” Ermeline asked. “What’s he done now?”
“We can talk on the way uptown. I’d just as soon wait for privacy,” Sheriff Altiman said and nodded at the boy.
“Let me get a coat and slip into some boots. Be right back.”
Sheriff Altiman waited and Georgiana totally ignored him, hating him from a distance, until she could finally stand no more and went to the kitchen for a refill.
“Mama,” Ermeline called to her, “you watch Jaime while I’m out?”
“Of course. No need to ask,” she shouted back. “Just take the cops with you when you leave and we’ll be fine here.”
Sheriff Altiman could only smile. He knew all about Georgiana and her hatred of all things official, especially cops. In a way he didn’t even blame her, he thought, kicking himself for telling a whopper just minutes before: they had found a gun and a bloody knife; Ermeline wouldn’t be returning any time soon. He was getting too old for this crapola, he told himself. Three more years and he’d have his twenty, then adios. He was off to Florida like every other sane mortal.
Ermeline reappeared dressed for the weather. Jaime leapt into her arms and she bear hugged him, whispered in his ear, and carried him into his grandma. Sheriff Altiman held the door for Ermeline as she went outside before him. Neither said a word on the way to the Sheriff’s Office and, finally, to jail. She was booked in at 7:45 a.m. Christmas morning and the jailer escorted her back to the jail cell she would now call home. At least for now.
* * *
That afternoon the Governor and Mrs. Walker welcomed the Governor’s cabinet to the Christmas Day Dinner that was always held in Springfield at the Governor’s Mansion each year. This red brick Italianate mansion in downtown Springfield had been the home of Illinois governors since 1855, when Joel A. Matteson and his family moved in. On February 13, 1857, the Lincolns attended a party which a writer from the Illinois State Journal called "a delightful and magnificent entertainment. Carefully restored in 1971, the building houses many treasures. When you walk inside, you immediately see the exquisite elliptical stairway which leads to spacious rooms decorated in British Regency style.”
Once upstairs you can see portraits of the Lincolns and their friend Edward D. Baker, a bust of Lincoln modeled from life by Thomas D. Jones, bedroom furniture given to the Lincolns, and a spectacular table presented to President Lincoln which contained more than 20,000 pieces of inlaid wood.
After greeting his guests and their husbands and wives, Governor Walker managed to sneak away with Attorney General Robert K. Amistaggio. They crept upstairs to the Lincoln bedroom where they sat at the great man’s inlaid writing desk and put their heads together. The Governor had downed two quick gin and tonics in anticipation of the day’s guests, most of whom he hated and most of whom were trying to replace him with themselves, and he wasted no time getting down to the real reason for the get-together.
“That girl in Orbit. I want her prosecuted with every last atom of power in the Attorney General’s office,” the Governor spat at his AG. “Without her held responsible people are going to start digging deeper. Bury her now and do it fast.”
The Attorney General took a long pull at his Bud in a bottle, his drink of choice. “We’re already working on that. I’ve assigned the case to my chief prosecutor, Rulanda Barre, now that Killen Erwin, Jr.’s declared a conflict. She’s a magnificent trial attorney. Her record is 62-0 and counting. All homicide cases, all conflicted out by local DA’s.”
“There was a stroke of luck.”
“Mister Erwin claimed he had counseled the girl in his office. The alleged assault on her by Vic Harrow. You know—the name carved in her boobs.”
“Yes. What about that?”
The AG shrugged. “You said to put the fear of death in Vic Harrow. Johnny Bladanni did that with his knife. It worked.”
“It worked only to the tune of twenty-five thousand.”
“Cleman, that’s all the guy had. We’ve been over all his records. Everything was mortgaged to the hilt. Liens everywhere like Democrats in South Chicago.”
“Funny man. Okay, so strike fast and get me a conviction. Other contributors to the Governors retirement campaign will get the message. Pay up or leave in a cheap coffin.”
“So when you retire—it will be my turn to take on the responsibilities of the Governorship. Let’s not forget where we’re headed here.”
“Never forgotten. You will have my endorsement and the party’s leaders in your corner. It’s a shoo-in in 2016.”
“Excellent.”
“Now get me a conviction. I just hope this Rulanda Barre is everything you say she is.”
“Not to worry. She could convict John the Baptist at the Mount Israel First Baptist Church.”
“Music to my ears.”
“Music to our ears.”
“Now let’s go rub shoulders with the criminals I call my cabinet.”
14
Thaddeus arrived at the office just after 7:30 the day after Christmas. He had stopped by the Silver Dome and listened to the gossip. Oddly enough, no one seemed to have heard about Ermeline’s arrest yesterday. Instead the tables were overflowing with talk of Victor Harrow’s murder, which some were calling a suicide, which some were calling an act of terrorism, and which some were calling the result of one-too-many dalliances with some married woman whose husband found out. Only Cece knew the truth: she had personally delivered an early morning breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage to the Hickam County Jail, a courtesy to Sheriff Altiman. Cece had seen the truth with her own eyes: Ermeline was housed in the one of the two women�
��s cells. When the two friends saw each other they both cried out. Cece had been briefed before going in that Ermeline was being held on a “very serious matter,” but other than that nothing more was said. Now when she saw Ermeline she whispered “Why are you here?” To which Ermeline replied, “Victor Harrow was murdered. They say I did it!” Cece returned to the Silver Dome determined not to breathe a word of what she had found out. Let the gossips and their fools find out for themselves. She and Ermeline worked together at the Silver Dome and Cece had nothing but profound respect for that girl. She had been through it all and had come out the other side all the stronger for it. Her till always balanced when her shift was over and she never gave away Bruce’s alcohol to free drinkers. She made every dime for him she could and the only time she lazed was when she was on break, often coming next door to Cece’s side and having a bite to eat before returning to the din and clamor of the tavern side. They had always traded Helloes and the war stories typical among those who serve the American public their food and drink. No, she was protecting Ermeline from the masses that would try to devour her, any way she could.
* * *
Thaddeus found two bombshells waiting for him at the office. When he arrived, he made his coffee, took a seat at his desk, and dialed up his voice mail. Three messages awaited. Bombshell Number One was a call from a woman who identified herself as Rulanda Barre, an Assistant Attorney General at the AG’s Office in Springfield. Thaddeus played her message and then replayed it. The second time, he made notes
“Mister Murfee,” the message said, “My name is Ruland Barre and I’m an assistant AG with Robert K. Amistaggio’s office in Springfield. I’ve been asked by the Sheriff of Hickam County to review the circumstances surrounding the shooting death of one Victor Moreland Harrow, of Orbit, and I have made some preliminary inquiries. As you are probably aware, Mr. Harrow died as the result of a gunshot wound to the head, or so it appears at least, pending the coroner’s final report, of course. It also appears that your client, Ermeline Ransom, was savagely attacked by Victor Harrow sometime within the last little while. That being the case, we believe she had sufficient motive to retaliate against Victor Harrow. Along with that, Sheriff Altiman and police officers from the City of Orbit PD executed a search warrant yesterday morning at your client’s residence. A .38 caliber pistol was seized, as well as a ten inch switchblade knife. The knife exhibited what appear to be blood stains. The shooting wound to the forehead of Victor Harrow appears to be a .38 caliber wound, according to the State Police Crime Lab Incident Report which I’ve been provided.”
The Defendants: Crime Fiction & Legal Thriller (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 1) Page 12