“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I hope you’re not suggesting that I leaked anything to the media.”
“Oh no,” Ben said sarcastically, “you would never do something like that.”
She stopped and faced him directly. “No, I wouldn’t and I didn’t.”
“Pardon me, Bridget, if I don’t believe you. Either you did it or one of your little minions did. I know you, remember? You know as well as I do that we certainly didn’t say anything about it. I barely had the damn thing in my office before the phone started ringing.” Ben started walking again. “I’d come up with a new story before Judge Wilson asks you about it though.”
Ben and Mark strolled off ahead of her and grabbed the first elevator heading upstairs, leaving Bridget Fahey and one of her assistants lagging behind. Once in the courtroom, Ben and Mark went to their counsel table, while Fahey went to hers. There would be no other small talk this morning.
Judge Wilson came out on the bench and made them wait through his entire call before his clerk finally called the case. When counsel reached the bench, the Judge looked down on them and said, “I understand we have a motion here brought under seal by the State.” His lips formed the slightest of smiles as he gazed over their heads out at the gaggle of reporters filling the gallery section of his courtroom. Point made, Ben thought to himself.
“I don’t think we need to go into the details of this particular motion,” the Judge continued, “nor do I really think that there is any kind of an emergency present here. Nevertheless,” he said turning to Ben. “Mr. Lohmeier, if you’d prefer to address this matter now rather than come back again, I’ll be happy to entertain this motion. It’s your call.”
Ben took the high road. “As long as we’re here, Judge, I’d just as soon let them present it today.”
“Fair enough,” the Judge said.
Judge Wilson gave Ben fourteen days to file a written response to the State’s motion and Bridget Fahey seven days thereafter to file a reply. The matter was scheduled for hearing in a month.
Ben and Mark walked quickly from the courtroom. As they pushed through the door and out into the hallway where a throng of reporters waited, a hand reached out and grabbed Ben’s left arm. He jerked his head to the left and locked eyes with Sally Brzycki, another former classmate from law school.
“Ben, hi,” she said. “Can we talk for a minute?”
Sensing an opportunity to avoid the reporters, Ben quickly agreed. “We’ll walk and talk,” he said.
Sally Brzycki was a tall woman, a shade under six feet and not particularly attractive. Her straw-colored hair was cut short just above the shoulders, which did nothing to soften her harsh, almost masculine features. In law school, she had displayed an aggressive and overbearing personality, likely to step over or on anyone who stood in her path. Ben always figured her lack of interpersonal skills merely masked long-held insecurities, at least he thought that when he was in a psychoanalytical mood. He had to admit, however, that she was a very good student. He had never liked her much and wouldn’t have wanted to talk to her under normal circumstances. He nevertheless made a snap judgment that talking to Sally Brzycki seemed marginally preferable to fending off the crowd of reporters.
“How’ve you been?” she asked as they pushed their way toward the elevators. He shrugged and gestured toward the members of the media still peppering him with questions even as he ignored them.
“Not too bad, busy mostly.”
When the elevator doors closed behind them, Ben turned to Mark and said:
“Mark Schaefer, this is Sally Brzycki. Sally, Mark Schaefer. Sally and I went to law school together.”
“It’s Sally Renfroe, actually. I’m married now.”
“Oh,” Ben said, “I didn’t know that. Congratulations. Is this a recent development?”
“No, we’ve been married since not long after law school. My husband has a restaurant in Lincoln Park.”
Sally and Mark shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” Mark said.
“So, what brings you down here to the dregs of society?” Ben asked. “I didn’t know you did any criminal work.”
“I don’t. I talked to Megan yesterday and I came by this morning to give her some moral support, even if she wasn’t here herself.”
Ben looked stunned. “You, you talked to Megan?” he stammered.
“Oh yes, Megan and I are quite good friends now. We talk all the time.”
Ben had no idea. He talked to Meg too and he figured if they were such good friends, he probably would’ve heard about it by now. “Okay,” he finally murmured, unable to hide his surprise.
“We’ve been pretty good friends for a long time,” Sally said. “We’ve quite a bit in common. We both have sons, neither of us much liked the full time practice of law and …”
Ben interrupted her. “You’ve got a son too? I didn’t know that either. Obviously.”
“Oh yes.”
“How long has it been since we’ve seen each other?” Ben asked. “I don’t remember any of this stuff.”
“It’s been a long time, Ben. I found it too hard having a child and practicing law full-time as well. I just missed him too much. I went part-time and then I changed firms and now I’m working for one of the partners at my old firm. I mostly do research. It keeps me somewhat involved, but not too much.”
They reached the first floor and got off the elevator and continued talking as they made their way through the winding hallways back to the main lobby of the Courthouse. Outside on the steps, they paused so Ben could make a brief statement to the gathered reporters.
“I’m sorry, but I’m unable to comment on any of the reports you’ve heard in the media,” he said. “The motion filed by the State is under seal and I really can’t say anything about it. Thank you very much.”
They resumed walking and stopped at the corner.
“I’m parked this way in the garage,” Sally said.
“We’re down over here in a lot,” Ben replied.
“If you need anything done, like research, or if you need a character witness, or anything at all, please call me,” Sally said taking a card from her purse and handing it to Ben. “I know Megan couldn’t have done this and I’d like to help out any way I can.”
“Thanks,” was all Ben could muster. He felt obliged to take a card from his pocket and hand it to her as well. They shook hands.
Mark said, “Nice to meet you,” and watched her cross the street toward the parking garage before turning back to Ben, who was watching her as well. “That seemed kind of weird,” Mark said.
“You have no idea,” Ben answered.
Ben spent the next several weeks arranging for, attending and then worrying about the results of the Court-ordered paternity tests. On a raw spring day, Ben returned from lunch with the guys to find Nancy and Dianne sitting in the kitchen finishing their lunch.
“Have you been upstairs?” Nancy asked.
“No,” Ben said.
“There’s an envelope on your chair.” Ben looked puzzled. “It’s from the lab,” Nancy said. Ben hurried upstairs, Nancy following behind him. Dan Conlon trailed behind Nancy. He found a priority mail envelope with the return address of the testing facility sitting on his chair. He picked it up, opened it and sat down. Nancy and Dan stood before him waiting eagerly. Ben took a deep breath and pulled a small stack of papers from the envelope. On top, he found a cover letter from the director of the testing facility. He paged through the remaining pages as Nancy and Dan looked down on him.
Ben looked up and smiled. “Joseph Cavallaro is the father.”
“Hot Damn,” Conlon said shaking his fist. “Never a doubt in my mind.”
34
The Protector settled in behind a group of commuters and headed down the platform toward the sidewalk beyond. The group of five crossed Walnut and cut toward the edge of the law firm parking lot. Daylight Savings time was still a ways away and the sun had long since set. The glowing lights only
showed two cars in the back parking lot and as the group passed the garage in silence, the Protector could see Ben working at the conference table inside. The group turned the corner at the far end of the garage and four of them split off in the direction of the commuter parking lot in the distance, while the Protector turned right, strolled through the front parking lot, which was empty, and toward the back door of the bar. The Protector mounted the steps and went inside, stopped in the restroom, walked through the bar, getting crowded now with people stopping in for a quick one after work, and cut out the front entrance onto the sidewalk running parallel with Irving Park Road.
The commuters had all filtered out of the station and found their cars for the ride back home when the Protector completed the circle and found a spot back beyond the back parking lot in the midst of a small clump of pine trees. From this vantage point, the Protector could see the two cars remaining in the parking lot, while watching Ben work at the table in the garage, oblivious to the surveillance.
About half an hour later, a tall lean man bounded down the steps and turned the corner from the back entrance of the office to the parking lot, getting into the black Acura parked across the way. As the car pulled around the back of the garage and disappeared, the Protector concluded that Ben was now alone in the building. The Protector looked up at a light shining in the second floor window above. That’s his office, the Protector thought and continued watching. Fifteen minutes later, Ben rose from his chair and rummaged through a banker’s box sitting on the other end of the table. Apparently not finding what he was looking for, Ben left the garage and walked back to the main part of the building. A minute later, the Protector saw Ben’s shadow cross the window in his office.
The Protector knew from past experience that members of the firm were not all that scrupulous about locking doors when someone was still left working in the building. It was only a few minutes past seven after all, not terribly late, and what trouble could be had in downtown Ithaca? This wasn’t the south side of Chicago. No, this was the western suburbs, DuPage County, the bastion of white bread Republicanism.
Seeing Ben’s shadow appear to sit down at his desk, the Protector eased out of the hiding place and strolled casually around the garage toward the front of the building. The Protector walked up the steps to the main entrance and looked inside the glass door. The lobby was dark except for light coming from the kitchen and the hallway to the right. Gloves on, the Protector grabbed the handle and pulled softly and noiselessly on the door - unlocked. The Protector let the door silently close and walked briskly back down the steps out to front parking lot, completing the circuit through the bar and back to the hiding place in the trees within three to four minutes.
The Protector looked up at the window to Ben’s office, no shadows now, then back to the brightly lit garage, still empty. Where was he? A moment later, the question was answered when Ben emerged in the corridor separating the garage from the main part of the building carrying a file. The Protector watched Ben settle back at the conference table and look through the file for a few minutes. Checking the surrounding area to make sure that no one was in sight, the Protector moved out from the hiding place in the trees and walked quickly into the parking lot heading toward the garage. Dressed all in black, the Protector looked like any other commuter strolling through the firm parking lot returning to a car. Nearing the garage, the Protector stopped for an instant and studied Ben, whose back was to the door. From what the Protector could see, Ben was reviewing some cases that had been pulled and copied. Probably the paternity issue, the Protector thought.
Not wanting to be seen, the Protector circled around the back of the garage once again and moved toward the front door of the building as though having every right to be there. The door was covered in darkness and its position in the building kept it somewhat hidden from view, especially at night. With no one present in the area, there was no chance the Protector would be seen entering the building. Without hesitating an instant, the Protector ascended the steps to the front door, opened it and went inside, letting the door close softly and silently. Moving quickly, the Protector passed through the lobby and turned right down the corridor past the copy room to the stairs heading up to Ben’s office. The Protector took the steps two at a time, moving through Dianne Reynolds’ office and into Ben’s.
Although the lights were on, the blinds were drawn. No one will recognize me from the parking lot below, the Protector thought. The Protector quickly surveyed the situation. The round table to the left was empty. The Protector turned to the right and went around Ben’s desk, pulled out his chair and sat down. There were several expandable file folders on the floor with Cavallaro scrawled on them and the Protector picked them up in turn, emptied them and quickly scanned their contents.
“Here we go,” the Protector whispered pulling out a manila folder marked, “Legal Research”, crammed full with notes and copies of cases. The Protector scanned the contents of the file and then stuffed it back into the expandable folder before placing the folder back on the floor where it had been found.
On the desk, the Protector found a memorandum from Dan Conlon to Ben Lohmeier regarding paternity issues, together with notes written on a yellow legal pad. The Protector paged through the memorandum stopping suddenly at the sound of a noise coming from downstairs. A door screeching open and then slamming. Probably the door leading from the copy room out toward the conference room, the Protector thought. The Protector looked around and saw that the French doors leading to the next office were open. The Protector tip-toed across the hardwood floor as silently as possible, footsteps now sounding on the nearby stairs. Heart pounding, the Protector looked around for a place to hide. In the far corner of the room, the Protector spied an open doorway and eased over to it. It led to a long narrow closet used for file storage. The Protector slipped inside and out of sight. The Protector stuffed a gloved hand into the right hand pocket of the long overcoat and found the butt end of a 9 mm handgun. I’ll do it if I have to, the Protector thought. Ben was in his office now and the Protector could hear him, but not see him.
Then the Protector heard Ben pick up the phone and start dialing. “Hey Lib, it’s me,” Ben said.
He’s talking to his wife, the Protector thought.
“Yeah, I’m kind of tired,” Ben said. “I’ll only be here another half hour or so … yes … what’d you have for dinner? … Any left? … Okay, I’ll see you in an hour or so … Love you too.”
The Protector heard Ben hang up the phone, walk across the hardwood floor of his office through the carpeted outer office and back down the stairs. So close. A moment later, the sound of the door opening and slamming shut once again.
The Protector paused and considered things for several minutes before following Ben downstairs. In less than a minute, with a train rumbling by in the background, the Protector was back out the front door and gone.
35
As another dreary Chicago winter gave way to a dreary Chicago spring which quickly transformed into an early Chicago summer shortly after Memorial Day, Ben and the rest of the defense team worked hard on the collection and analysis of the evidence needed to make their case. Although the burden of proof beyond a reasonable doubt lay with the prosecution, the defense team realized that they nevertheless needed to propose an alternate theory of the evidence which would satisfy a jury and cause them to conclude that, at the very least, reasonable doubt existed.
Bridget Fahey didn’t go out of her way to comply with the disclosure of discovery required by the Illinois Code of Criminal Procedure. Consequently, Ben used the media and his Court appearances before Judge Wilson to prod her into turning the evidence in her possession over in a more timely fashion. Fortunately, much of the evidence against Megan was also subject to differing and in some cases innocent explanations.
For example, since Meg conceded to Ben that she had in fact been inside Greenfield’s office, something she had unfortunately denied in her interviews with the police, it
came as no surprise that a blond hairs similar to her own could be found in the office. She further acknowledged that she had picked up the Sammy Sosa autographed baseball bat and briefly admired it while Greenfield was on the telephone. Thus, the presence of her fingerprints on the bat near the label would not be surprising.
It took Meg quite a while before she could explain how Greenfield’s blood came to be found on a wool scarf taken from the brownstone. At first, Ben thought the blood on the scarf could have pointed to Joseph Cavallaro since Meg and her husband owned his and her scarves that were virtually identical. Further testing on the scarf, however, established that the scarf stained with blood also contained trace amounts of make up and perfume, which appeared to rule out Joseph Cavallaro. Then, one Monday evening in early May, during a telephone conversation with Meg, Ben told her about a rare nose bleed that he had suffered the previous weekend.
“That’s it,” Meg said excitedly. “That’s it,” she repeated.
“What?”
“The nose bleed, that’s it.”
Ben was confused. “I don’t get it.”
“That’s how the blood got on my scarf,” she said. “I just remembered. He had a nose bleed. Not a real bad one, but I remember handing him the Kleenex. I was standing by the desk when his nose started to bleed a little. The Kleenex box was right there on the desk in front of me, so I handed him a couple. It didn’t stop right away, so I handed him a couple more. That must have been when the blood got on the scarf. You see, I was wearing my coat the whole time and never took it off. I’m sure I didn’t take my scarf off either. He used to get nose bleeds all the time. That’s probably why I didn’t think it was anything significant enough to remember.”
Ben thought this explanation seemed a little bit too convenient until he called down to Florida and Nora Scott confirmed the story. “Oh yeah, he used to get a lot of them, especially in the winter,” Nora said.
Final Exam: A Legal Thriller Page 24