No Show of Remorse

by David J. Walker

  “The first words I made out were Mr. Woolford saying, ‘I can’t do that.’ The woman said, ‘Yes, you can do it, and you will.’ By this time they were getting close to my office and I stepped off to the side, sort of behind the door, so they wouldn’t see me if they looked in. But they stopped walking, and stood right by my door.” Stefanie looked down at her hands.

  “Well,” I said, “go on. What else did they say?”

  “She said again that Mr. Woolford would have to do what she wanted. ‘Otherwise,’ she said, ‘you can forget about that judgeship we talked about.”

  “‘Judgeship’?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Did she say what it was she wanted?” I asked. “I mean, not that you were eavesdropping.”

  “Yes. That is, Mr. Woolford did. He said the commission couldn’t just lie down, because the court back then had been very angry. ‘Their order was very clear,’ he said, ‘and if they don’t get an apology, or some show of remorse from him, they won’t stand for us not objecting.’ But the woman interrupted. ‘If that man goes forward with his petition,’ she said, ‘remorse or not, there’s to be no objection raised by your office.’ That’s what she said, and by then I had a bad feeling I knew what they were talking about.”

  “Funny thing,” I said. “I have the same bad feeling.”

  “Then Mr. Woolford said, ‘I’ve already told the lawyer assigned to the case that the man has no choice but to knuckle under to the court. Now do I tell her we’re reversing our position on your directions? In fact,’ he said, ‘this is her office.’ Then he actually flicked on my ceiling light. I thought I’d scream, but I just stayed put behind the door. ‘See?’ Mr. Woolford said. ‘That’s probably his file spread out all over her desk. She took his deposition today.’”

  “My bad feeling just got worse,” I said.

  “But what she said next really scared me. ‘I know which lawyer has the case. A woman named Stefanie Randle.’ That’s what she said. How could she know that?”

  “It’s a public file. You’re listed as counsel and—”

  “Well, I suppose so.” Stefanie looked like she hadn’t thought of that. “But that’s not the worst part. The woman went on to say, ‘I don’t care what you tell her. But don’t you dare mention my name. There are some people,’ she said, ‘with a great interest in this case. People who … who are not above violence. If this Randle person learns I’ve so much as mentioned the matter to you, it would be dangerous for her.’”

  “She said all that?” I asked.

  “In almost those exact words. They’re like burned into my mind. Then Mr. Woolford said, ‘Why not just have this Foley person locked up if he’s so dangerous?’ and she told him he didn’t understand. ‘I’m not talking about Foley,’ she said. ‘That idiot knows nothing about me or what I’m telling you.’ Then she told Mr. Woolford someone was trying to get you to drop your petition. ‘If he doesn’t listen,’ she said, ‘God help him. He might not live long enough for there to be any reinstatement hearing.’”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “She said she couldn’t control whoever it was. ‘But this Foley has a reputation as a survivor,’ she said, ‘which is why I insist that the commission not file any objections. Period.’ Then my office light went off and they started to walk away.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Not quite. I was shaking so bad by then I could hardly walk, but I went to my doorway and peeked out. They were going the other way and the only lights were the emergency lights that stay on all night, so I couldn’t see who she was.” Stefanie looked down at the table, then up at me again. “But I heard something else she said.”

  “Which was what?”

  “Mr. Woolford said again that the court would be furious, but she said, ‘You just worry about what I tell you to do. Leave the other six to me.”

  “The ‘other six’? That’s what she said?”

  “I’m positive. Then Mr. Woolford said something I couldn’t hear, and she said, ‘I can make you a judge, and I can handle my colleagues.’ And then they went out the door.”

  “You heard her say ‘colleagues’?”

  “Yes. And I was afraid I knew what that meant. I waited a while. Then I went home and called you.”

  “But why? I mean, why call me?”

  “I was panicked,” she said. “I thought if I didn’t tell someone right away, I might get so scared I’d never tell anyone. I don’t know, as I sit here today, whether you were the right one to call.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “The thing is, she wasn’t kidding when she said that if I were to find out about her, and what she was saying, I’d be in danger. So who could I go to who wouldn’t just … tell me to go to the police or something?” She leaned toward me across the table. “But I can’t do that. I’m frightened,” she said, “really frightened.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?”

  “Not just for myself. I mean, if something happened to me, who’d watch out for my little girl?” She shook her head. “I called you because I believe what she said about you being in danger, too, and that you weren’t a part of whatever’s going on. And I’d just read your file, and saw that you’re not easily pushed around and … and can keep a secret.”

  “There’s no attorney-client privilege here.”

  “I know.”

  I stood up and went to the windows. They faced south, toward the Art Institute, and there were lots of people in the park again. I looked for the little yogi, but if he was down there I couldn’t pick him out from that distance. I turned back to Stefanie. “So now what?”

  “So,” she said, “now I need you to tell me what to do.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  ILLINOIS SUPREME COURT justices are elected by the people, and serve ten-year terms. They have to be licensed attorneys: three from Cook County—metropolitan Chicago—and one from each of four other districts.

  So there were seven justices, and a few were even said to be quite bright, although legal scholarship has never been the primary qualification. What counts is the ability to get elected, which means outspending and outmaneuvering the other candidates, and getting the backing of the majority party in your district.

  Assuming the woman talking to Clark Woolford was actually a supreme court justice—and Stefanie sure hadn’t made the whole thing up—it had to be one of only two women on the court, both from Cook County. One was Dolores Aguilar. She had a distinctive Hispanic accent and Stefanie was certain it wasn’t Aguilar she’d heard.

  So it had to be Maura Flanagan, who, at maybe forty-five years old, was the youngest member on the court. Flanagan came from a long-time political family, and after law school worked for various county and city agencies. Her last lawyer job was with the Chicago Park District, where she handled labor issues and was said to have an abrasive, often belligerent, style. It was there that she first captured the public eye when the Sun-Times, in a story about unions and public employees, quoted an exhausted, frustrated union lawyer who, after a long and unsuccessful negotiating session, unwisely opined in the presence of a reporter that Flanagan was “one tough broad,” and he hoped she wouldn’t “fall off her broomstick on the way home.”

  Left alone, the flap over those remarks would have died quickly. Maura Flanagan, though, knew a good thing when she saw it. Shouting her outrage that women who stand up for principle must still endure that sort of demeaning sexist insult, she managed to keep the story alive week after week in the media.

  Within months of that she’d been tapped by the supreme court to serve out the term of an appellate court justice who resigned amid charges by his two women law clerks that he considered regular spankings a reasonable condition of their employment. Then, after hardly a year on the appellate court, the Democrats ran her for the supreme court. The people loved her. Billboards sprang up everywhere with her name and the words: “One tough broad … and just right for the Illinois Supreme Court.�
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  Once on the court, Flanagan’s personality and connections made her a power to be reckoned with. She came out consistently “tough on crime” and a “moderate” when it came to big business and the insurance and medical lobbies. In other words, she was a Democrat, yes, but she never forgot where the money was. That’s about all I knew about Maura Flanagan as I sat in that conference room with Stefanie Randle. That, and the new information that Flanagan considered me an idiot, thought I might not live much longer if I didn’t cave in and drop my petition, and didn’t want the commission filing objections to my reinstatement. All in all, it made no sense. And here sat Stefanie, who yesterday seemed ready—even anxious—to file those objections, asking me what she should do.

  Fortunately, Renata returned just then, and insisted on leaving at once. “I’ll think about it,” I told Stefanie, “and get back to you.”

  * * *

  I RODE WITH RENATA in a cab to the federal courthouse. “Well?” she finally asked, after two blocks of silence.

  “Ms. Randle’s not in any hurry to reschedule my dep.”

  “Fine. Nor am I. You should dismiss your petition and get on with your life.”

  “Uh-huh.” I stared out the window. “So, what are you rushing to now?”

  “At one-thirty,” she said, “I have a client being sentenced for his part in a heroin conspiracy. His name is Johnnie Lee Bedlow and he’s twenty-one years old. His older brother’s a major drug dealer, but Johnnie Lee himself kept pretty clean, at least for a kid from the projects on the west side. This was his third bust, though. He’s got two prior drug convictions, both guilty pleas to dealing coke, small amounts. While he was on probation for the last one he saw the light. He went back and got a high school diploma. Wants to go to college, be a social worker, work with gang kids.”

  “Great,” I said. “Now he just has to wait until he gets out of the slammer to be a good guy.” It was a flippant, stupid remark, out before I could stop it.

  She turned toward me. “I’m so glad you think it’s great,” she said. “And guess how old he’ll be then.” The anger rose in her voice, directed at me, but only because I was handy. “Sixty-one. That’s how old, dammit. One night his big brother’s short a lookout, so he strongarms Johnnie Lee into standing on the corner and lifting his cap if he sees anyone driving by who looks like an undercover cop. Well, the kid missed one, so now he’s going away for forty years.” Her voice was trembling. “The goddamn sentencing guidelines make it mandatory. The judge knows how wrong it is, but he can’t do a thing about it. Even if the prosecutors were to ask for leniency—which God knows they won’t—his hands are tied.” The cab stopped at the federal building and Renata got out, then leaned down beside the open door. “So forgive me if I’m not overly excited about a case like yours, where you don’t even want what you’re asking for, but insist on going forward … so you can prove your so-called manhood.”

  She slammed the door and I told the cabbie to take me to the Art Institute.

  * * *

  I KNEW RENATA about as well as I knew anyone. Even though she had a right to be angry, she’d already be feeling bad about yelling at me. She might even call and apologize … or maybe not. But either way it wouldn’t be long before she put the incident—and Johnnie Lee’s sentence, too—behind her, as part of a past she couldn’t change. She had a place to go home to, and a woman there who loved her—not to mention a baby girl they’d adopted, and an application in for another. She had a life, and that helped her through the absurdity.

  All I had was my own sense of right and wrong, and the sense that it was right to follow through on something you started, and wrong to let the bad guys scare you off, even if the bad guys were—in Maura Flanagan’s words—“not above violence.” Of course, maybe I’d have felt differently if I’d had a woman at home who loved me.

  * * *

  IN FRONT OF THE ART INSTITUTE I paid the fare while two people waited to replace me in the cab. Even on a sunny day like that, there were always lots of tourists unwilling to take a chance on how long a walk it was to the next red star on their maps. I strolled north on Michigan Avenue and went into the park to sit on a bench and figure out what the hell to tell Stefanie.

  “Hey, big mon!”

  “Hey,” I answered, and twisted around. It was the little yogi with the dreadlocks and the bare feet. Today, though, he wore ragged blue jeans and a bright yellow T-shirt. On the front of the shirt was the news that Bob Marley lives! along with an illustration that was beyond my comprehension, but may have included snakes and palm trees. His left eye was swollen shut.

  He grinned. “How you doin’, big mon?”

  “I’m all right, but what did you run into?”

  “That bread you gave me? ’Member that?”

  “I do.”

  “Gone, mon,” he said. “Some dopey traded me for it. Gave me this here.” He pointed to his eye and grinned again. “Say, mon, I don’t guess—”

  “No problem,” I said, and gave him another twenty.

  “This be good karma for you, hey?” He slid the bill into his jeans. “Plus maybe I do somethin’ for you sometime. For the bread, hey?”

  I stared at him. “You see anyone watching us now?”

  “No, mon. Sure no.”

  “You have a name?”

  “Lotsa names. You gimme ’nother one. That be best, I tink.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Yogi. Like in Yogi Bear. How’d that be?”

  “Be fine. So what you want?” He patted his pocket, where he’d put the twenty.

  “You busy at five o’clock?”

  “Never busy.” He winked his one good eye. “Almost never.”

  “I need you over at the Prudential Building.” I pointed. “Five o’clock. And you got any shoes?” He nodded, and I told him what I had in mind. “There’s another twenty in it for you,” I said.

  His smile grew even wider. His skin was very dark and his teeth were very white. “I be there, mon. Reeboks an’ all.”

  I couldn’t have explained why, but watching him scamper off across the grass I had the sense he was honest and reliable. He’d show up. And if he didn’t, I’d have to come up with another idea.

  CHAPTER

  7

  I CALLED THE DISCIPLINARY COMMISSION and got through to Stefanie Randle. “We need to talk,” I said. “Did you drive to work?”

  “No, I usually take the el.”

  “Good. And you’ll be available today, say about five-fifteen, down in the lobby?”

  “Yes, but … I mean, what if somebody sees us?”

  “I won’t be there to be seen. There’ll be a small, dark-skinned man, with dreadlocks, near the foot of the escalator by the Beaubien Street exit. Know where I mean?”

  “The west end of the lobby,” she said. “But it’s Beaubien Court.”

  “Uh-huh. Anyway, ask him what time it is. He’ll say something like he doesn’t have a watch. Then, when he leaves, follow him until I meet up with you. Okay?”

  “I guess so, but it sounds so … so something.”

  “Melodramatic? I know. But it beats meeting me in the lobby.”

  “I guess so,” she said. “But what if I don’t see any little man with dreadlocks?”

  “If he’s there, you’ll see him. If he’s not … just go on home. Not a big deal. We’ll meet some other way. Okay?”

  She agreed, and I hung up.

  Still not convinced cell phones were secure, I was using a pay phone at the Art Institute. It took half a dozen more calls, but I had lots of change and finally found someone able to put me in touch with Jimmy Coletta. I wasn’t sure he’d agree to see me.

  He did, though.

  * * *

  UNTIL THAT CALL, Jimmy Coletta and I had never once spoken to each other, but our fates had gotten intertwined five years earlier through an incident that changed both our lives forever. Jimmy, with his brother Sal and two other cops named Richard Kilgallon and Arthur Frankel, got caught up in a d
eadly shootout on the West Side. It happened about two in the morning at a squalid two-flat on a mostly deserted block near Garfield Park. A drug dealer and his woman inside the second-floor apartment were shot dead on the scene. According to the cops, a third man in the apartment escaped. Arthur Frankel was carried out with a through-and-through to the thigh. Sal Coletta had multiple chest wounds and was DOA at the trauma center. Jimmy Coletta took just one slug, but he took it low in the spine, and he lost the use of his legs forever.

  All I lost was my law license, and that was because I’d told my client, Marlon Shades, that he could talk freely to me about the shootout even though his mother was with us in my office. Marlon was twenty years old, a low-life gangbanger and a street tough, but so scared that day that he wouldn’t see me without his mother being there, and had to run to the men’s room before we could talk. My bladder and bowel control would have been shaky, too, if I’d been in his shoes, with three cops shot and about three thousand others looking for me with blood in their eyes.

  That was after I’d given up handling personal injury clients with Barney Green and gone off on my own. I had only a few clients, criminal cases, and I’d agreed to see Marlon Shades as a favor to his mother, Sally Rose Shades. She was thirty-six and a pretty good person, all things considered. She was a waitress at a diner in Union Station who may or may not have supplemented her income by turning tricks. She was a former client, not well-educated, but pretty bright. I paid her to take statements from witnesses for me, to photograph crime scenes, or to bring people in to my law office. When she brought her son in, I figured she was my agent and her being present didn’t affect the attorney-client privilege, and Marlon could talk freely with her in the room.

  A month or so later, the supreme court justices—Maura Flanagan not yet among them—took a different view from mine. They said that my client Marlon, who’d disappeared after talking to me, was a material witness—and a possible suspect—in a cop killing; that Sally Rose was his mother and neither my client nor my agent; and that anything Marlon said in her presence wasn’t privileged. Finally, the court proclaimed that my explanation for why I wouldn’t reveal what Marlon told me was “a contrived obfuscation,” and that I’d rot on my worthless ass in jail until I changed my mind. Or words to that effect.