Final Exam: A Legal Thriller

by Terry Huebner

  “Did you ever suspect it had anything to do with drug use?” Ben asked. “You know, damage due to cocaine use?”

  “No,” she said. “He didn’t have that many of them. My husband gets nose bleeds in the winter too and I can tell you for sure that he doesn’t have a drug problem.” Nora told Ben that she would be willing to testify about the nose bleeds at trial if he really needed her, although she strongly preferred to avoid getting involved at all.

  Despite their best hopes, the files from the law school didn’t yield much useful information. After extensive analysis, the grade reports only pointed to a handful of suspects, none of whom seemed to have any recent contact with Greenfield or any other connection that could be found linking them to the crime. Initial review of the final exams for Greenfield’s last two classes brought similar results. A few possibilities, but not much else. The hot-tempered Jason Hahn hadn’t been completely ruled out, for he had no real alibi for much of December 28th, the likely date of the murder.

  The telephone records also proved to be a disappointment. They confirmed that several telephone calls had been placed from the law school to Megan’s house and her office at the Appellate Court, but none of the other telephone records proved particularly interesting. They found a few telephone calls to several of the members of the Reunion Committee, but little else.

  A review of the materials found in Greenfield’s apartment and office only caused them to conclude that the Professor hadn’t worked very hard. Other than a few old calendars which no one could explain, the only items of significance found in Greenfield’s briefcase and office were some hand-written notes and a small amount of research, apparently for an article on the uses of DNA evidence in criminal prosecutions that Dorlund said Greenfield had been working on in the weeks prior to his death. From what they could tell, Greenfield hadn’t begun writing the article since they could find no evidence in his office or on any of his computers that he had ever written a single word on the subject. Ben wondered if some of the missing work product might have been taken by the killer, but couldn’t figure out why.

  The only item of significance found among Greenfield’s papers was a piece of note paper torn from a memo pad which had Megan’s home and office phone numbers scrawled on it, apparently in Greenfield’s handwriting. This only served to confirm that Greenfield was likely the person who made the telephone calls. Ben pressed Disko and Portalski to keep looking, keep digging for something, anything that might suggest that someone else may have been involved in the crime.

  As part of their effort to attack the evidence, Ben retained several expert witnesses to poke holes in the State’s case. Although very costly, none of the work done to date by the blood, fingerprint, hair and fiber experts hired by the defense had borne much fruit. Since much work remained to be done, Ben still held out hope that one or more of these experts could provide him with something he could use at trial.

  Megan seemed to be handling the situation about as well as could be expected. She had fallen into something of a routine, particularly with Anthony, such that the home confinement did not appear as onerous as everyone first feared. Nevertheless, as summer and nicer weather approached, Ben could see that Meg’s inability to get outside and really enjoy the outdoors was beginning to weigh on her. Other than that, Meg seemed outwardly confident that her innocence would be established and appeared pleased with the efforts that Ben and the rest of the team had taken in establishing her defense.

  On a personal level, as the pressure surrounding Megan’s defense grew, so did Ben’s single mindedness of purpose. He now appeared to be focusing on little else. He came in early, stayed late and frequently missed meals. The guys in the office found him much more short-tempered and less willing to engage in the typical office banter. Even the staff, who had always found Ben to be fairly easy-going, now grumbled behind his back. He also found himself bringing his problems home and was occasionally guilty of taking his pressures out on his family. From time to time, he noticed that Libby and the kids were trying to avoid him after a particularly bad day. He fought the old urges and made a conscious effort to stay away from “there”. He didn’t always succeed.

  One Friday in late June, Ben was still at the office at six when the phone rang.

  “Enjoying the first day of summer?” Fran’s voice said on the other end of the line.

  “No, not really. I hadn’t even noticed, to tell you the truth.”

  “I hope you remember that tomorrow is our ten-year reunion,” Fran said.

  “Shit,” Ben said. “I’d forgotten all about it. Maybe I’ll blow it off.”

  “No, don’t do that. You’ve got to go. You’ve already paid for the tickets, if nothing else. Besides, you’re now the most prominent lawyer in our graduating class. I can’t wait to see the reaction.”

  “You know how much I care about that?” Ben asked.

  “I know, I know, but a lot of those people will be pea green with envy. You’ve got to go.”

  “I suppose. I could use the night out, I guess.”

  “Good, we’re getting there at seven. Don’t be late.”

  36

  The Roadhouse Tap was a yuppie microbrewery hangout just west of Harry Caray’s restaurant on the near north side. Ben parked the SUV in an open air lot a block or two away and he and Libby walked over under bright blue skies and brilliant early evening sunshine. They walked inside and discovered a long line forming in front of the hostess. This would be a busy Saturday night. Their party was on the second floor and they were directed to a stairway around the corner next to a window displaying a series of gleaming silver vats, ostensibly used in the brewing of the establishment’s prize product. Ben wondered as they passed the windows and headed upstairs whether the vats merely provided decoration and perceived authenticity or whether they had actually seen their share of hops or barley or whatever it was they used when making beer.

  The upstairs party room was big and open, with a bar on one end and restrooms in the rear. The room was just beginning to fill and Ben could see Fran and her husband sharing a beer with Sally Brzycki and a tall man whom Ben assumed to be Sally’s husband. Bowden was emerging from the restrooms off to the right and saw them come in. He walked up and gave Libby a hug saying, “Hey, you’re early. We didn’t expect you for an hour or so.”

  “Funny,” Ben said.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Libby said.

  Ben leaned in and murmured into Bowden’s ear. “I see Fran over there with Sally Brzycki. I hope we don’t have to spend the entire evening with her.”

  Bowden laughed. “I doubt it,” he said. “You’ll probably be spending the entire evening fending off questions about Meg and her case.”

  “True enough,” Ben said with a frown. “In that case, I better get a beer. Libby, you want one?”

  “Sure, I guess I have to. You’re pretty much obligated to have a beer here, I would think. Get me something on the light side.”

  “Sure,” Ben said. “Bowden, you want anything?”

  “I’ve already got one,” Bowden said.

  Ben grabbed two Pilsners at the bar and caught up with Libby and Bowden over by Fran and the rest of the crew. Sally Brzycki’s husband was a tall man, about six-feet-four, with curly sandy brown hair, thinning in the front and kept relatively short, with a matching goatee. He wore a navy blue sport coat over a plaid shirt and dark brown pants. Ben noticed an empty earring hole in his left earlobe. He sort of reminded Ben of Art Garfunkle. He eyed Ben as he approached and both men appeared to look for a lull in the conversation to make their formal introductions.

  Finally, the taller man stuck out his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Peter Renfroe, Sally’s husband. You must be Benjamin Lohmeier. I’ve seen you on the television. Very impressive.”

  “Thanks. Nice to meet you,” Ben said. “This is my wife, Libby.”

  “We’ve just met,” Renfroe said. “Sally and I have been following Megan’s case very closely. Of course, Sally h
as quite an interest in the result given her close friendship with Megan.”

  Ben nodded. “We all do,” he said.

  “Look,” Renfroe said. “I know you don’t want to spend the whole evening talking about the case, not that you can say much about it anyway. So, let’s just hope that everything goes well and we get the right result.” With that, he raised his glass as if to toast.

  Ben joined him and said, “I’ll drink to that. So, what do you do? I hope for your sake you’re not a lawyer.”

  “No, far from it,” Renfroe said with an easy laugh. “I have a degree in architecture, if you can believe that. But I’ve been in the restaurant business for years. For about fifteen years, I’ve owned the Mad Hatter up in Lincoln Park.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Sally told me the other day that you owned a restaurant. I’ve heard of it,” Ben said. “It’s supposed to be a nice place. It’s got kind of a Cajun theme, doesn’t it?”

  Renfroe tilted his head from side to side as if to contemplate his answer. “I suppose you could say it’s Cajun-influenced. You and your wife should come and visit us sometime. We’ll show you a good time.”

  “I’d like that,” Ben said.

  The group spent the next half hour making small talk as the upstairs room filled with more and more of Ben’s former classmates and their significant others. A few professors from the law school came for the festivities, including some, like Richard Seagram, who were happy to see Ben, and others like Samuel Dorlund, who were not. Over the course of the past several months, Ben had run into each of them at one time or another during his long hours of investigation at the law school so that seeing him here did not provide the friendly reunion it would have under normal circumstances.

  As Ben returned from the bathroom a little while later, he saw Angela Harper coming up the stairs with her husband, a white man several years younger than she and appearing equally unpleasant. Having still not graced Ben with an audience, Professor Harper made a point of acting like she hadn’t seen him. Ben watched her head toward the bar only to be greeted by a handful of former students and kicked himself for not having pursued her more aggressively. She had been on his To Do List for some time, but he had never quite gotten around to forcing her hand like he had originally intended. As he watched the Harpers head for the bar, a voice draped in sarcasm whispered in his ear, “Aye, if looks could kill, Counsel, if looks could kill.”

  “That’s a thought,” Ben answered without looking away. Then he turned and broke into a wide grin. “Professor Seagram, my man. How goes it?”

  Seagram laughed heartily, slapping Ben on the back. “Always good when I have a drink in my hand and so many pretty girls in the room.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Ben said.

  Seagram waved his beer in the direction of the Harpers. “She still giving you trouble?”

  “Not so much trouble as nothing at all. She won’t talk. I may have to hit her with a subpoena.”

  Seagram cocked his head, a twinkle in his eye. “There could be some fun in that,” he said. “You could always go over later and bury the hatchet.”

  Ben raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Bury it where?” then said, “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, my boy,” Seagram said throwing an arm around Ben’s shoulders, “things could always be worse. You’ve managed to drag yourself away from all of this unwanted media attention and come out on this fine Saturday evening for a good time with your old classmates.”

  “And professors,” Ben added. Ben took a drink of his beer and let it settle. Finally he said, “One of whom may have killed another one of my old professors.”

  Seagram merely nodded. The two men studied the Harpers for a long moment and then decided to hit the appetizers. Although the selection was not terribly extensive, mostly typical fare, Ben enjoyed the marinated chicken breast on a stick, while Seagram gravitated toward the little spareribs and mini egg rolls. “You know,” Seagram said stuffing an egg roll into his mouth and gesturing with his head toward the Harpers across the room, “you could always have a few more cocktails and start a fight.” Seagram allegedly once punched a lawyer in a deposition. Ben didn’t know if that was true or just another part of his legend.

  Ben scoffed. “Oh, that would work out just great, wouldn’t it? I can see that in the paper right now. Not only that, the guy is almost a foot taller than I am. I’m sure you’d be right there to hold my jacket.”

  Seagram looked serious. “No, not a foot. Five or six inches maybe,” he said. “I still think you can take him. You’re wiry, but you’re mean.”

  Ben laughed a hearty laugh. “And probably motivated as well.”

  The evening passed by fairly quickly and Ben had to admit that he enjoyed getting together with so many of his old classmates, swapping lies and learning what the past ten years had brought each of them. Keenly aware of Megan’s case, most offered their support and wished Ben the best of luck, while others hoped to get a little inside information, none of which Ben was providing.

  The food turned out to be pretty good, even for a buffet, highlighted by tasty barbecued chicken and beef kabobs with onions, peppers, tomatoes and pineapples on metal skewers. The beer, of course, had to be good. There were lots of good choices, from light to dark and most of what you might want in between. Ben settled on a Pilsner early and stuck with it, except for an amber-colored lager he sampled during dinner, which he found more bitter than he liked. Given the amount Ben had to drink, Libby would most certainly drive home.

  Later in the evening, sometime after eleven, Ben ran into Bowden standing at the urinal in the men’s room. “Funny finding you hanging out in here,” Ben said as he stepped to the next station.

  “Yeah, that beer really runs through you.”

  “Say,” Ben said, “what do you make of Sally Brzycki?”

  “You mean Sally Renfroe. She sure has mellowed out. Back in school, she was like a bull in a china shop. Now she seems almost laid back.”

  “I don’t know about laid back, but certainly easier to take. By the time we graduated, I couldn’t even stand the sight of her.”

  “No, she wasn’t very popular, was she?”

  Back in law school, Sally Brzycki possessed the awkward knack for saying the exact thing that could offend you the most. She displayed an over-aggressiveness that was likely the by-product of insecurity, but that didn’t make it easier to take. She was also more than a little impressed with herself. Ben remembered a time in class when Sally was bragging about her performance in the moot court competition the previous evening. As she droned on patting herself on the back, Ben concluded that some of the comments from the judges were backhanded compliments given Sally’s transparent personality flaws.

  The two men finished their business and retreated to the sink to wash their hands. “What’d you make of Sally’s husband?” Ben asked.

  “He seemed okay,” Bowden said. “I hear that restaurant he owns is pretty good. I’ve been meaning to go there, but just haven’t made it yet.”

  “He doesn’t really seem her type though,” Ben said. “It’s hard to imagine her married with a kid.”

  Bowden reached around Ben and grabbed a paper towel. “It’s hard to imagine you married with two kids,” he said.

  “That’s probably true,” Ben agreed.

  On their way out of the men’s room, Ben and Bowden ran smack into Professor Angela Harper. “Excuse me,” Ben said without noticing who it was right away. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, “the woman who’s been avoiding me at all costs. Did you know that Bowden? The esteemed Professor Harper here refuses to speak to me. One wonders why that is.”

  “You’re drunk,” she said. “Excuse me.”

  “No,” Ben said, “I’m not,” refusing to step aside so she could enter the ladies room. “You’re going to have to talk to me eventually,” he continued. “So far, I haven’t made your life as difficult as I could.”

  “When are you going to get it through your head
?” Harper said. “I have nothing to say to you. I don’t know anything that could possibly help you.”

  “Well, why don’t you give me a little bit of your precious time and we’ll find that out for sure?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said.

  As Ben started to say something else, a man came from his right and pushed him out of the way. Ben stumbled back a few steps startled.

  “Get the hell away from my wife,” Stephen Harper said. “You stay away from her.”

  Ben regained his bearings and focused on Stephen Harper. Bowden stepped between them and separated the two men. “Whoa, whoa,” he said. “There’s no need for any of that.”

  “I take it you’re the husband?” Ben said in mock seriousness.

  Stephen Harper wouldn’t be deterred. “My wife doesn’t have to put up with this from you or anybody else.”

  “Put up with what?” Ben asked.

  “Put up with you.”

  Ben saw that people in the room were beginning to notice the altercation. He nodded several times. “Okay,” he said holding up his hands. “I’ll let it go for now. But you won’t be able to avoid me forever. I’d think your wife would welcome the opportunity to spend a few minutes and dispense with any questions or concerns that I might have, but apparently not. It makes me wonder just what you folks have to hide.” Ben smiled and raised his eyebrows at Bowden and walked away just as Libby and Fran arrived.

  “Anything the matter?” Libby asked taking her husband by the arm.

  “No, of course not. What could possibly be the matter?” Ben said.

  As they walked away, he spotted Richard Seagram watching him from across the room. As the two men made eye contact, Seagram raised his glass and bowed in mock salute to his former student. Ben gave him a quick thumbs-ups behind Libby’s back in return.

  Half an hour later, as Libby pushed the SUV up to seventy-five on the outbound Eisenhower Expressway, Ben watched the buildings fly by, lost in his own thoughts. Was the killer there tonight? Was one of his classmates really a murderer? Or was it one of his former Professors? He didn’t know and at that moment felt no closer to knowing than he had months before when he first read about Greenfield’s death in the newspaper. Since then, they had gathered many more pieces to the puzzle that was the death of Daniel Greenfield, yet the pieces that he had didn’t seem to fit.