Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: Secrets Girls Keep: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 2)

by John Ellsworth

  Then we are gone.

  Marcel drives us north to our home and pulls my car into our garage. His truck is parked in the driveway, where it's been all day since he came and drove us in this morning. Priscilla packs up and leaves us.

  Then we are alone. Me, Danny, and our baby.

  I lock the doors and check the window latches that night before bed.

  I finally know I am right: the arrest of Jana has solved nothing.

  He is out there loose, searching out his next victim.

  47

  The next morning, I swing my Mercedes into its underground parking slot. I am climbing out when I turn and am suddenly confronted by the larger-than-life seven-foot frame of Detective Ngo. He towers over me and smiles at me. I dart my eyes back and forth. There is no one else around. Is this it? I wonder. He warned me that our time would come. What was it he said? That he was going to fuck me up?

  During the trial a year ago of James Lamb, I took to wearing a gun. Not because of James Lamb; because of the husband of Lamb's victim, a federal judge. Marcel taught me how to use that gun and I shot at least a thousand rounds through it before he was happy with my knowledge and skill. I don't wear that gun everyday like I did back then, but today I've decided to wear it. In fact, ever since Ngo cornered me in the courtroom and threatened me I have been wearing my gun.

  He sees me move my hand inside of my coat and he steps back. He is wary, watching my hand, watching my eyes.

  I turn and pull my briefcase off the seat and lock my car. Then I return my free hand back inside my suit coat. Ngo is still watching my every move.

  "Did you have something to say to me?" I ask him.

  "I'm not here to talk. I'm here to observe."

  "Observe what?"

  "Observe where you park. Observe where you work."

  "I'm filing a complaint against you."

  He laughs. "Be my guest. Spell my name correctly."

  He spells his name but he's moving backward, allowing me to pass out from between the parked cars. I head off toward the elevators. He doesn't follow, but I keep my hand inside my coat.

  Then I realize. This man respects only force.

  And I am glad I am wearing my gun. I decide I won't stop wearing it this time.

  I remain in the office that morning, trying to concentrate on other cases and kidding myself into thinking I'm being successful at that. I'm not, of course, no more than any other trial lawyer with a jury out deliberating.

  It is a difficult time, too. My breath comes and goes sharply in and out. Danny made sure I had a heavy breakfast this morning before leaving home. She remained behind, her day off to spend with Dania. In a way I envy them; but not too much. There is no better in-your-face experience than waiting for your jury. My pulse pounds and my sight flickers as I look beyond my office windows at Lake Michigan. Seagulls float and rise and descend in time with the music of the wind. Spreading their wings and drawing their feet to their bodies they are free--I think an astronaut said--from the bonds of the earth. In a few hours--a day at most--I will keep them company from my boat, CONDITION OF RELEASE. As when the court says to the defendant being admitted to bail, "Here are your conditions of release." While I am very concerned, deep down I am at peace because I know I have done my best for my client. That is all the trial lawyer can really ask of him- or herself. Do your best and leave it all in the courtroom.

  At eleven-thirty, Mrs. Lingscheit comes into my office with the news. They're back. The judge is waiting.

  Marcel drives me to court on California Avenue, where we park and hurry inside.

  When we push through the door, all heads turn to watch us--then just me--walk up the aisle and come through the bar. I nod at the judge and take my place.

  "We have a verdict," the judge says flatly, and she nods at the bailiff. He disappears into the short hallway that leads out to the room where the jury deliberates. Within minutes, they are following him back into the courtroom, twelve serious-looking citizens who have also done their best.

  "Ladies and Gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?"

  "We have, Your Honor," says the CEO of a software startup in the Union Station building.

  "Please pass your verdict to the clerk."

  I am scanning jurors' faces just now, looking for a hint, some indication. But they all look away and I take that as a warning of bad news to follow.

  The clerk hands the verdict to the court and she reads it quickly. She hands it back to the clerk.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, is this your verdict?"

  All jurors indicate that it is their verdict.

  The clerk will read the verdict.

  With a flourish of the wrist and a clearing of the throat the clerk reads, simply, "We the duly impaneled jury do find the defendant, Jana Emerich, not guilty."

  Final ministrations of gratitude are passed by the judge to the jury in a short speech thanking them for their service, telling them they are free to go, telling them they may now talk to the press but only if they wish.

  Then we are adjourned.

  Mayor Tanenbaum bursts through the gate and heads straight for the prosecutor. Trey Dickinson begins talking, folding his arms on his chest and giving the mayor defeated looks as he listens to what can only be a scathing diatribe. Voices are raised, completely ignoring those nearby. Marcel comes forward, prepared to walk us through the press and spectators.

  Jana turns to me. He looks into my eyes.

  Then he turns away. Without a word he is gone. Father Bjorn catches up to him just beyond the gate and attempts to talk but the boy brushes him away with a querulous look and a quickening step. Then Father Bjorn is swallowed up by the press as it surges up the aisle in an effort to get a statement from the man whose life has been restored. Whether they are successful I do not know as they all disappear through the courtroom's double doors, propped open now by the bailiffs as they stare grimly at the throng passing through.

  Father Bjorn makes it through the gate and up to me.

  "Well," he says, "thank you, Michael."

  "You're welcome."

  "Well done, boss," says Marcel.

  Dickinson breaks away from the mayor and begins packing his bag. I step over and try to shake his hand but he keeps his back to me.

  Then, in a snarl, he turns his head. "Sixty-five and one. Enjoy it, Gresham. It will never happen again."

  Then he is gone.

  I return to my small group and we all grab a stack of books or a stuffed briefcase and move through the gate and up the aisle.

  It is finished.

  Outside the room are TV cameras and crews. One mike and then another are jammed in my face.

  I nod. "A killer walks among us. The Chicago Police Department needs to step up and tell the citizens they are at risk. He must be found and brought to justice. It awaits him inside that courtroom we have just vacated. It is waiting."

  I turn and Marcel shoulders our way through the crush of reporters and gawkers and then we are on the elevator with a handful of occupants and we are sailing down, down, down.

  Free at last.

  48

  A week later, things are finally settling down again. Business has picked up at the office following the front page profiles I was given on the Trib and the Sun-Times. New referral attorneys are calling to introduce themselves and prospective clients. Mrs. Lingscheit doesn't get to do much anymore but operate the phones. Marcel is working up a dozen cases and talking to me about adding a second investigator to our roster. Danny has a full caseload and is supervising several associate attorneys in pre-trial motion practice, plea negotiations, and client management. But yesterday was Priscilla's last day and we're still calling nannies in for interviews, so Danny will be home with Dania starting Monday. Still, all in all we are a bustling practice and a fairly happy place to work.

  Saturday, Danny and I attend a church social at All Saints-St. Thomas Catholic Church, Father Bjorn's church. Everyone is there who we usually hang out with and we mi
x in the basement of the church and share potluck. The barbecue chicken is superb and I overdose on that and potato salad. My faves.

  Father Bjorn mingles and laughs with a steady coming and going of his parishioners. Thirty minutes into the evening, he whispers to me, in passing, that every single person has mentioned their support for him. He can’t stop smiling but says he is humbled by their outpouring of love.

  Around eight o'clock, during a lull after prayers and blessings, who should come down the stairs but Jana himself. He is wearing black Dockers, gray sweater, and a North Face parka which looks new. There is no muffler, I observe, and I begin to chastise myself for even thinking that but then I let it go. There hasn't been sufficient time yet between the trial and tonight that I can consider myself disengaged. Father Bjorn goes directly to his son and throws an arm across his shoulders. He maneuvers him through the crowd, introducing him here and there, and then talks to him while Jana fills a plate.

  They come to my table, where Danny and I are sitting and talking to a rotating group of well-wishers, receiving congratulations on our victory and just being neighborly. Jana is his usual sullen self as I speak his name and tell him hello. Danny tries to engage with him and her efforts are quickly deflected. We both back off and try not to watch as he gorges himself on the church's bounty. As his customary, his eyes flit to Danny several times as he chews and I catch him staring at her breasts. Father Bjorn notices none of this; he carries on conversations with everyone around him: three or four topics at once, as people with public roles do, always to my amazement. Then Jana finishes his plate and begins picking at pecan pie, removing the pecans and putting them to the side of his paper plate. Why on earth would he choose that, I am wondering as he busies himself with the de-nutting process.

  Finally I ask, as he wipes his hands on a napkin at the close of the eating business, "How have you been?"

  "Fine," he says without making eye contact with me.

  "How does it feel to be a free man again?"

  "Great, but I'm leaving Chicago."

  "You are? Where are you going?"

  "Joining the Coast Guard. As soon as I turn eighteen this July."

  "Well, congratulations on that. I'm sure you'll make a great sailor."

  "Yeah, well, I remember the day we went out on your boat. That was sick, man."

  Sick as in really cool.

  "I am so glad you remember, Jana. We did have fun that day."

  "Do you ever need help cleaning that boat? I can do it from bow to stern for twenty bucks."

  "I'll keep that in mind. When would you be available?"

  "Any time. Especially now with winter blowing ice and rain and snow all over."

  "It's in a covered slip."

  "Yeah, but still--" his voice trails off as Danny stands to refill her coffee. Again with the eyes.

  "I'll make a mental note. I'll give you a call."

  "Super, man. Thanks."

  "Have you heard any more about Rudy or the third case?"

  "Nope. Not a word. He's still in school with us, so I don't know what the hell is going on."

  "My guess? The mayor's got his police department regrouped and going after the real killer this time."

  He smiles slyly. "The real killer," he whispers. "I like that."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Nothing."

  "Hey, the guy's a real threat. He's out there and he'll kill again if he's not stopped."

  "You're right." He gets up and stretches and yawns. "Well, call me about the boat, Mr. Gresham. I'm your boy."

  "Yes, you are."

  He walks off. We both know I'll never call him. We both know there's nothing between us.

  We are disconnected and it feels more than right to me.

  49

  Monday afternoon I receive a cell call from Danny. She has stayed home with Dania as Priscilla no longer works for us. Danny sounds flustered and upset. She sounds scared.

  "Michael, Jana's here."

  "What? What the hell!"

  "He says you told him to come by for the key to the boat. He says you're paying him to clean it. Is that right? Did you actually hire him?"

  "No. Don't act alarmed. Give him a soft drink. Make him a sandwich. Suggest it's time for him to leave but if he doesn't get the hint just don't force it. I'm on my way."

  "Okay."

  I can't make it downstairs on the elevator fast enough. Marcel is off somewhere staking out police detectives as they stake out one of our clients. We need to know whether they're planting evidence, which we suspect. I try his number. No answer. I climb into my Mercedes and back out of my slot, squeal up the curve to the exit arm, and flash my pass. The arm lifts and I am out.

  Lake Shore Drive takes ten minutes in traffic. Then I am headed north. Traffic is sluggish and slow, where it's ordinarily quite speedy. I fall in behind an eighteen wheeler even though trucks aren't allowed on this stretch. I pound the steering wheel and curse. Speed dial trying Marcel again. Still nothing.

  My schoolboy mind urges me to call the police while my tough lawyer mind says to keep them out of it. Cops rushing in with drawn guns where my wife and baby are—the last thing I want. So I will think about it a few minutes as I drive.

  Today is June first. I will remember this day forever as the day some asshole took my life hostage. I resolve that this will never happen again. No client will ever have access to my private life again. Danny will have to find another job, something doing civil litigation where the risks are reduced. Or maybe probate and writing wills and setting up trusts. In fact, maybe that's where I belong, in a world unpopulated by crazy sons of bitches who might take a liking to your wife, your kid, or your property. Never again, I vow. In my mind I’m cleaning out my files, giving everyone their money back, and closing down for good. I have enough money after a case I filed against a Mexican utility that I never have to work again. I pound the steering wheel. What have I done to myself? I cry it out against the windshield and no one hears. They know nothing about my oath as an attorney to help even the most evil son of a bitch on earth, that even he deserves a fair trial and a competent lawyer to stand up for him. But I'm done with all that. As of June first, put it on your calendar.

  I dial Marcel again. No answer; it goes straight to voicemail. I tell him to call me immediately and come to my home immediately when he gets the message. Finally, I'm able to swerve out and gun it around the truck in a no-passing zone. Rules of the road be damned. Nothing matters to me right now except my family.

  Nothing else matters.

  I floor it and the car lurches into passing gear and I'm again racing oncoming traffic as I pass a slow-moving SUV in a no-passing zone. The woman flips me off.

  So be it.

  50

  Danny returns to the family room and asks Jana to join her in the kitchen. Without being asked, she pours him a Coke. He drinks it down and holds out his glass. He doesn't ask, he just holds his glass out. She refills it and drops in two more ice cubes. Then he sits back in one of the captain's chairs in the kitchen.

  "So," Danny asks lightly, "how's the world treating you?"

  "I never got to tell you this before, Danny. But when I was living here I used to watch you in the shower."

  "Jana, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. That's totally inappropriate."

  "I totally like when you drop the soap and I see your breasts. You turn me on, girl."

  "Leave right now or I'm calling the police."

  She pulls her phone out of her jeans pocket and begins punching numbers. Her eyes never leave his except to make the call. 911 rings one, twice, when he suddenly lunges at her. He doubles up his fist and swings at her head. She remembers the phone ringing twice and then she finds herself on the floor of family room, bound on her side with clothesline rope. Her legs are pulled up behind her as they would have been if she were crouching, then the rope went up her backside to her wrists, which were also tightly bound together. She is totally at his mercy.

  H
e pulls a round silver object out of his pocket and steps over her, positioning himself behind her.

  "I'm going to place this E string around your throat."

  "No! Please, Jana. My baby!"

  "Please Jana? Does that mean you would rather please me than die just now? Because either way, you're going to die."

  "My husband will kill you. If he doesn't, Marcel will."

  "Let them. I will die knowing I've had the best ass in Chicago. Whattaya say, Danny? Care to buy yourself another ten minutes?"

  "Yes, I do. Whatever you want, Jana. I'm willing to bargain it out. We could have sex every time you come over, if that's what you want."

  He begins laughing. Laughing and then she feels the very thin, high-tensile wire loop drop down over her neck. Then it tightens.

  "I had another girl like this once. What was her name? Oh, yes. Amy something. Tanenbaum? That seems about right. Does that seem about right to you, Danny?"

  Danny says, "You murdered that poor baby. I've always known it was you, Jana. You're lucky you had Michael defending you. Anyone else and you'd be sitting in prison today."

  "You say that like I owe him. He's a grunt. I don't owe him a goddamn thing."

  Danny claws at the knots behind her back where the rope encircles her wrists. Unable to get purchase on the knot, her efforts break away fingernails as she tries to claw her way through the rope.

  He is watching her.

  "Your fingers are bleeding."

  "That's just a sign of how much I hate you."

  "What? You hate me? Okay, darling girl. Here I come."

  With that he reaches around and begins unbuttoning her blouse.

  Then his hand slips inside her shirt.

  51

  I can't locate Marcel so I call the cops. They are warned that it's a hostage situation. They promise to wait until I arrive so I can talk to my "client" as I describe him. Most likely I can talk him down as one would a jumper from a rooftop, I explain to the 911 dispatcher. He's my client and he respects me but he has mental lapses, especially under great pressure. A duty sergeant comes on the line.