Five minutes later, he pushed through the door into the reception area and limped past the receptionist down the hallway on the left. As he passed, she looked up, her eyes widening and jaw dropping, but saying nothing. Ben said over his shoulder, “Don’t worry. I know the way. He may even be expecting me.” Other staff members gave him similar looks as he made his way down the hallway. When he reached the end, a door opened and Joseph Cavallaro appeared. His look was much more restrained, but fairly similar to the others.
“What the fuck?” he said in a soft voice, not taking his eyes off Ben’s face. Cavallaro stepped aside and let Ben pass, then closed the door behind them. Ben sat down on the couch and Cavallaro stood directly in front of Ben and looked down at him, his expression one of amazement. He studied Ben’s face then looked down at the bruised and swollen mass that was Ben’s left arm. His hand went reflexively to his mouth in a pose of studied concentration. The self-righteous arrogance so evident in previous meetings between the two men was now gone. Taken aback somewhat by Cavallaro’s posture, Ben did not launch into the attack he had prepared on the drive downtown. Rather, he sat silently and watched Cavallaro assess his injuries.
Finally, Cavallaro said, “Tell me what happened.” The words were spoken in an odd, almost concerned voice, a tone Ben would never have associated with this man. Perhaps he was scared for his own safety, Ben thought, or maybe even the safety of his wife and son.
“Don’t you know?” Ben asked. It was the only part of his prepared remarks that he could get out.
“You think I did this?” Cavallaro asked pointing to himself. Cavallaro shook his head and turned, walking around behind his desk and plopping wearily into his chair. He looked across the room at Ben, his chin in his hand. Then he continued in a soft voice. “You must think a lot less of me than I’d ever imagined. Obviously, you’ve been hit in the head. When you’re thinking clearly again maybe you’ll come to your senses.”
“I’m thinking very clearly right now.”
Cavallaro shook his head. “No you’re not. What made you think I would do such a thing?”
Ben cocked his head. “It seemed like your style,” he said finally.
“Why? Because I’m Italian? All Italians are connected, is that it?”
Ben shrugged. “Not all.”
“And not me either,” Cavallaro said. His blood was rising and his face flushed. “I grew up in a neighborhood where that kind of thing was very possible. I knew people, sure. But I didn’t want that kind of life for me or my family so that’s why I went to law school and created all of this,” he said gesturing broadly with his arm. “No, I could’ve taken that route a long time ago and many times since, but I didn’t and I won’t.”
He almost sounded convincing. Then Ben thought, no, he’s a personal injury attorney and a good one. He’s paid to be convincing. That’s part of his job.
Cavallaro looked at Ben again and laughed a humorless laugh. “Besides,” he said, “if any of the friends you think I have had done this to you, you’d be looking a lot worse than you do right now. They would’ve broken your legs or worse or maybe picked on a family member. No, this doesn’t look like that kind of maneuver.”
Ben looked away into the vague middle distance thinking back on the attack. Maybe there was something to that. After the initial attack, the first few seconds, most of the blows were more or less just flailing away. He had said so himself earlier. The man hadn’t seemed … what, fully committed to really hurting him. Not the way a mob enforcer would be, at least based on what he had seen on the The Sopranos and in the movies. Now he wasn’t sure again. He looked back at Cavallaro, who sat studying him.
“You know I’m right, don’t you?” Cavallaro asked.
“I’m not sure,” Ben answered.
“Tell me what happened.”
Ben replayed the scene as Cavallaro listened intently.
“Did the man say anything?”
After a pause, Ben told him. Cavallaro turned away and looked in the direction of a bookshelf across the room thinking. After another long pause, Ben asked, “If not you, then who?”
Cavallaro nodded and rose to his feet. “A good question,” he replied. “Obviously, the killer, or someone hired by the killer. A random mugging would seem out of the question.”
“Definitely,” Ben said.
Cavallaro turned and faced him. “Do you know who did it? Do you know who killed Greenfield?” Ben shook his head. “You haven’t figured it out?” Ben shook his head again. “The killer must think you have, or at least must think you’re on the right track.”
“I was thinking that too.”
Cavallaro strolled over to the window and looked out in the direction of the Chicago River below. “You must know something,” he said, “even if you don’t realize it.”
Ben sighed. His ribs ached. “The million dollar question is what,” he said.
Cavallaro laughed again. “I can’t believe you’d think I was behind this. Haven’t you noticed that I’ve done exactly what you wanted me to do? Have I interfered at all?”
Ben shrugged. “Not lately. I figured you were getting pressure from your wife.”
“Some maybe, but if I thought …” he stopped in mid-sentence. “It doesn’t behoove me to undermine your efforts.” He spoke calmly, almost matter-of-factly. “You have the complete and utter confidence of your client and I came to see that opposing you would only hurt me with her. Can’t you see by now that I love my wife and son very much and will do whatever I can to keep them?”
“I suppose so, but love takes many forms and some people show it in ways that can be, well, counterproductive.”
“Perhaps. But I want my family back. I’ve enjoyed having them back in my house and I want to keep it that way. The best way for me to do that is to help you make sure she is acquitted. As I said, she has complete trust in you and,” he paused before continuing, “I can’t say that her trust is misplaced. You know, at first I wanted a heavy hitter, someone with more experience. That’s not a secret. But I’ve watched you over these months and I’ve had people in the courtroom every time the case was up.”
“I’ve noticed,” Ben said.
Cavallaro turned and looked at Ben. “You’ve done a very good job, you really have. You’re committed to her defense in a way that not many people would be, even now.”
Ben studied him, wanting to believe the words, but not trusting the man speaking them. After a long silence, Ben spoke. “We need a theme for the defense,” he said.
“Yes,” Cavallaro said, his eyes back down on the river.
“I’m not sure we need to prove who did it, but we may need to find a way to explain away the evidence. We may need to point in someone’s direction.” Cavallaro nodded. Ben continued. “We may need a fall guy.”
Cavallaro nodded again. Without looking back, he said, “In my day, I think they called it a sap.”
“Exactly,” Ben said.
Cavallaro nodded again, his eyes still on the river. Then he slowly turned and locked eyes with Ben. “You do what you have to,” he said.
Ben stood and nodded back. “I will.”
As Ben turned to leave, Cavallaro said, “If you need anything …”
“Thanks,” Ben said. As he walked out of the office, Ben shook his head. He didn’t know what to believe.
43
Over the next several weeks, Ben and the rest of the team kicked it into overdrive and Ben actually felt they were in pretty good shape as the days left until trial dwindled to a precious few. Ben worked almost continuously during this period, stopping only for a long weekend in Michigan at the end of July where they attended the annual reunion of Libby’s side of the family. The media reaction to Ben’s attack exceeded all expectations and managed to even surprise Ben himself, which he didn’t think possible. The attack transformed him overnight from an unknown young lawyer who was well-spoken but maybe in over his head to a brave gunslinger standing tall against all odds. Although Ben
never publicly linked the attack to Megan’s case, the media didn’t need any help connecting the dots and pushed the story until the public was no doubt tired of hearing it. At home, Libby kept most of her concerns to herself, not wanting to interfere with or undermine Ben’s efforts at such a critical juncture in the case.
Judge Wilson scheduled a final pretrial conference for Friday, August 16th, only nineteen days before the commencement of jury selection on Wednesday, September 4th. Throughout the summer, Judge Wilson encouraged the parties to engage in plea negotiations, and in order not to anger the Court, Ben reluctantly agreed to do so. Bridget Fahey’s initial plea proposals were almost laughable and Ben dismissed them out-of-hand. They sought a sentence that may have actually exceeded what Meg could expect from the Court in the event of a conviction. Finally, two days before the pretrial, Bridget Fahey made her best offer to date - a guilty plea and fifteen years in prison. She could be out in about nine years with good behavior.
The death penalty was no longer an issue, Bridget Fahey having given that up at the gentle urging of Judge Wilson earlier in the summer. The Judge had made it clear that he didn’t think the evidence supported capital punishment under the facts as he currently knew them. Truth be told, Bridget Fahey didn’t really give up anything of substance in light of the moratorium on death sentences issued by the Illinois Governor a year or so before.
During a long and emotional meeting in the study at the brownstone, Ben and his client talked about the State’s final offer and the ramifications for accepting it, and not accepting it. Finally, with tears beginning to roll down her face, her voice barely above a whisper, she said, “Tell me, what would you do if you were me?”
Ben hoped she wouldn’t ask this question. He didn’t want to answer it, yet he knew he would. He sat there for a long moment fighting back the feelings inside him. Then he said, “I’d fight.”
“Good,” she said squeezing his hands, “then let’s fight.”
In light of Meg’s decision, the pretrial conference became something of an anti-climax, the press expecting something dramatic to take place that never materialized. Neither did the proposed jury instructions, witness lists and exhibit lists submitted by both sides generate any real fireworks. The only moment of any high drama occurred after the pretrial on the steps of the Courthouse when before a large throng of reporters, Ben said, “As we told Judge Wilson in his chambers earlier this morning, and have reiterated to State’s Attorney Richard McBride and his assistant Bridget Fahey, Megan Rand Cavallaro will not under any circumstances enter a guilty plea which would require her to say she committed a crime she did not commit. To the contrary, Megan looks forward to this trial and the day when her good name is cleared once and for all.”
Back in the office, the team worked to make those words a reality. With a week to go before the commencement of jury selection, Ben felt they had done just about all they could to prepare the case the best way they knew how. On the Thursday before Labor Day, Stan Disko walked casually into a large lecture hall at the Chicago College of Law, interrupting Angela Harper’s first Constitutional Law lecture of the semester. “Angela Harper?” he said in a booming voice.
“Yes, what is it? Who are you?”
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out an envelope and with a dramatic flourish handed her the subpoena. “Consider yourself served,” he said.
44
Friday, August 30th dawned hot and sticky and then got worse. Ben broke out in a sweat simply by walking into the office from the parking lot. The day had that last day before a long holiday weekend feel to it. Nobody wanted to get much work done and everybody was looking forward to the office closing early. The office of Schulte & Luckenbill typically followed the same general procedure. Phil would invariably get a jump on the long weekend first. He would be gone by noon if he bothered to come in at all. Today, he wasn’t coming in. Everybody figured he was out playing golf somewhere. He would, however, call in just to make sure that the rest of the office hadn’t abandoned ship. At some time after two, usually with heavy prodding from Nancy and Dianne Reynolds, Phil would say that they should close the office at three and people could go home.
Ben went upstairs and stuck his head in Nancy’s office. “What do you think?” he asked. She turned in her chair and said. “LOI.” Meaning lack of interest.
“Can’t argue with that,” Ben said. “When are we closing up today?”
Nancy shrugged. “Don’t know yet,” she said. “But I’m not gonna be here past three o’clock unless you absolutely, positively need something.” She spoke the last words slowly and with emphasis giving him a look that said you better not.
Ben shook his head. “That’s fine. You can probably leave at noon for all I care. I certainly don’t anticipate anything.”
After lunch, Ben convened a meeting of the trial team in the garage. Mark, Brad Funk and Dan Conlon sat around the conference room table, while Ben stationed himself in one of the barber chairs. This meeting was designed to explain how they would conduct the trial in the courtroom.
“No matter what,” Ben said, “we will be professional in that courtroom at all times. We will be as cool as the other side of the pillow. Nothing that happens, good or bad, will ever show up in how we conduct ourselves. Not in our facial expressions or in our mannerisms. Nothing bothers us. We are unflappable. If at any point a juror looks over at any of us, that juror will conclude that everything is going exactly as planned, even if somebody testifies that they saw our client beating Greenfield over the head with the baseball bat.”
Ben next spoke about the organization of the files. “We will look like a well-oiled machine at every moment. The defense table and our files will be neat and organized at all times. Dan and Brad, whichever of you is in the courtroom on a given day, will be in charge of the files. Mark, you will be in charge of the table. That means you’ll be on your best behavior,” Ben said pointing a finger at him. Ben knew of Mark’s propensity for disorganization and sloppiness. This wasn’t the first time they had talked about it.
Mark nodded with a laugh. “I know, I know. I’ll do the best I can.”
“No,” Ben said, “you’ll do better than that.” Then Ben pointed to a stack of index cards on the conference room table. Half the cards were green, the other half red. “These cards,” Ben said, “are the way we communicate during trial. I do not want us talking to each other while Court is in session. It doesn’t look good in front of the jury and I can tell you Judge Wilson will not appreciate it. That’s what the cards are for. If you have something you need to tell somebody, put it on a card. When one of us is conducting a direct or cross-examination, the cards are the way we communicate from the table to the person conducting the examination.
“If everything is going well and I haven’t missed anything or left anything out, then you should have a green card showing at the end of the table, kind of like the green light on a stop light. That way, I can glance over periodically and if the card is green, I know that you don’t have anything you need to tell me. On the other hand, if there is a point I missed or that you need to tell me about, you write it on a red card and put it on the end of the table. Then I will know to walk over and take a look at the card to see what you wanted me to know. We need to make sure a green card is sitting there at the end of every witness. Any questions?”
They spoke for another twenty minutes or so about trial strategy and tactics. Then Ben looked at his watch - five minutes after two. He sighed and leaned back in the barber chair, his hands behind his head. “Look, I know I’ve been difficult at times over the past couple of months or so and I’ll probably be difficult during the trial, but you should know I feel real good about our preparation. I’m confident that we’re on top of things and that this is going to go as well as it can. Now is not the time to let up, but I think we’ve done a good job and should be proud of ourselves and remember,” he said, breaking into a big smile, “this isn’t the Bataan Death March. This isn’t
supposed to be torture. Sure, this is a big case, maybe the biggest case any of us will ever be involved in, certainly the most high-profile, but let’s enjoy the moment if we can. Let’s enjoy the satisfaction of hard work and a job well done. I know this is a shitty job sometimes. There’s a lot of pressure and people don’t like you. Despite all that, this is the best and most exciting part of our profession. Let’s do our best, let’s enjoy it and most importantly, let’s win.”
Ben stood. “Now I’ve got nothing really left to say. If you need to come in over the weekend to feel more confident, do it, but as far as I’m concerned, you guys can all go home right now. Try and have a good weekend.” He turned to Funk. “Hey Brad, I’m going to meet Karen Tilly for margaritas at about three-thirty. You wanna go along?”
Funk shrugged. “Now you tell me,” he said. “I’m supposed to take the family to my Mom’s place in Indiana tonight, so I should probably get going. We’ll be back late Sunday and I’ll be in the office here on Monday.”
Ben nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “Have a good weekend everybody.”
Ben spotted Karen Tilly sitting under a green umbrella at a table at an outdoor Mexican café as he strolled up the sidewalk. She saw him too and they exchanged waves. A couple of minutes later, Ben had made his way through the interior of the restaurant and out into the Margarita Garden, as it was called. “How’s it going?” he asked as he sat down. “It sure is hot out here.”
She laughed. “That’s why I got a table with a good umbrella.” She nudged him playfully. “So I’m surprised you were available today with that trial coming up and everything.”
Ben shrugged and looked around the area. It was only three-thirty and the place was beginning to fill up. People getting a head start on the holiday weekend. “I think we’re about as ready as we’re going to be,” Ben said finally. “You can overdo the preparation sometimes. I think it’s a good idea to get away from it for a day or two right before trial and try and refresh your batteries. Besides, the prosecution goes first, so we have a little bit less to do right off the start. Anyway, I’m surprised you were free too. No big plans this weekend?”
Final Exam: A Legal Thriller Page 29