Unspeakable Prayers: WW II to Present Day (Thaddeus Murfee Series of Legal Thrillers)

by John Ellsworth

  Lodzi Ashstein laughed. "Afraid not."

  Then it came to Thaddeus.

  "I know where I saw you—you're the guy in trouble over the Nazi thing."

  Lodzi nodded, never breaking eye contact. "I am. You and I should talk, if you have any free time."

  "We can make that happen. This afternoon good?"

  "No go. I'm in court."

  "Look. Here's a card. Call Christine, my paralegal. Tell her you get the next opening. We'll talk. I'm going to guess it will be tomorrow."

  "We'll make it happen. Thank you."

  The doors separated at the third level of the parking garage. The level where reserved parking began. The men said goodbye and Thaddeus walked up the slight incline to his Tesla. He got behind the wheel and came around the block to LaSalle Street. Just then, he turned on the wipers in the clumpy snow. The defroster instantly delivered heat, as with all electric cars, and the heater put out a warm air across his feet. There was nothing about the Tesla he didn't love. It fit him, it was made to drive and—

  At Franklin Street a cab came barreling through on a red light, swerving and fishtailing just enough to make it around Thaddeus without T-boning the side of his car. He exhaled a deep breath and gave silent thanks to the universe. It had been close.

  He continued south on Franklin, took 290 West and California Avenue south. The drive took all of twenty minutes.

  The Cook County Jail, with the Sheriff's buildings, sat on ninety-six acres of prime Cook County real estate. Along one mile of California Avenue, the peaceful sidewalk with the park across from it was overlooked by huge coils of razor wire mounted atop a brick barricade of a fence some ten feet high. It was imposing, rigged with guard stations with machine-gun wielding guards, and contained 16,000 pre-trial prisoners all looking for some way, some last minute trick, to beat the system. In all, two thousand guards were in place to watch over them. Every defense attorney who came there, no matter how much he might hate the system or anyone wearing a uniform, all agreed on one thing: the guards should get a raise. It was terrible duty and the divorce and substance abuse rate was through the roof in the population wearing the liver-colored uniform of the Cook County guard. Thankless job, thought Thaddeus, as he slowed for his turn-in.

  At the south end of the wall along South California, he lurched up through the parking station and entered the public lot. It was snowing even harder and he wished he had worn his hat.

  He dashed inside and pulled his bar card from his wallet and slid it under the glass to the receiving deputy. She looked it over, compared the name to the name on the driver's license he produced, and finally decided he passed muster.

  The deputy typed on her keyboard and then looked up.

  "You can't see her right now," the voice rasped through the aluminum speaker inset in the bullet-proof glass. "She's still in booking."

  The reality of this daughter he loved, now being booked, hit him in the gut like a heavyweight punch. He felt nauseous and the room tilted. Whatever it was, he wasn't going to let it happen to her. She was adored—admired, even—by Thaddeus and Katy.

  "Look, I'm her lawyer. I want to be with her while she's booked. I want to make sure she doesn't say anything."

  "Sorry, Charlie, no-can-do."

  Thaddeus clenched his fists in frustration. He would try another approach.

  "She's also my daughter. Do a father a favor and make an exception, okay? Pass me through."

  The dull face stared back.

  "Dint you hear me? She's in booking."

  "I heard you. So give me a conference room and make sure they bring her straight to me after booking."

  Huge sigh. But then she saw the pained look creasing his forehead, the frightened eyes, the father's fear for his daughter.

  "I'll put a hold after booking. I'm calling them right now. You'll be in room 1006-C. Want me to write it down?"

  "Not necessary. I think I can manage the room assignment."

  "Your choice. I'll buzz you in."

  The door buzzed violently with the electronic alert all defense lawyers know. And all inmates loathe.

  He stepped inside and made his way along a bank of closed doors. Finding his assignment, he went inside and took a seat in one of three metal chairs bolted to the floor around a small square table, also metal, also bolted to the floor. There was no place to hang a coat, so he left it on but unbuttoned and stuck his gloves back in the pockets. He had brought no pad, nothing for notes. As far as time and calendar for the day, he was ready to give it whatever it took. She was his daughter and he would do anything required. There was no way he would leave the place without her.

  He knew the rules all too well. For all felony arrests made in the First Municipal District of Chicago, bail hearings were always set for 1:30 p.m. at the George Leighton Criminal Court Building at 2600 South California, Room 100. Right next door, nice and tidy. Court ran seven days a week, and the afternoon sessions would always run into the night while cases were processed. He could be there late; he knew Christine would already have alerted Katy, his physician wife, who was at her medical clinic. He checked his watch. 11:30.

  She was his daughter, but he was already thinking like a lawyer. What reasonable suspicion would the cop have had to stop her in the first place? Having the top down in a snowstorm? It likely wouldn't pass muster. Most judges would require some apprehension of some law being violated, or suspicious activity, before they would agree the cop had a reasonable suspicion to effect a warrantless traffic stop. And as far as he knew, it still wasn't against the law, even within the City of Chicago, to drive in a snowstorm with your convertible top down. Relax, Dad, he told himself. It will all come into focus.

  He shook his head and stretched. He thought it amazing some of the things kids did to get themselves arrested. Especially the stupid things they did even when holding. And what kind of drug was it? Marijuana? Not a big deal. PCP or meth? Definitely a big deal. Cocaine? Possible, but Thaddeus thought he knew Turquoise well enough the signs of cocaine use would've been evident. Now he wasn't so sure. He knew addiction would very commonly rear its ugly head when least expected. Especially when there had been sexual abuse such as Turquoise had experienced.

  At 11:45 they brought her into the attorney conference room. Turquoise was wearing hiking boots, blue jeans, a wool shirt, and a Patagonia shell. Evidently they had brought her straight from booking without requiring she first don the orange jumpsuit so in vogue in American penal institutions. The deputy left without a word.

  She opened her mouth to speak. "All right, I know what you're going to say."

  "What am I going to say?"

  "You're going to say how disappointed you are in me. But I can explain."

  "You can explain why you had drugs in your purse?"

  Her face fell. She slowly shook her head from side to side. Her pale blue eyes glistened and she began twisting a strand of her shoulder length black hair.

  "Are you here to see me as my dad or as my lawyer?"

  "Which do you want me to be here as?"

  "As my dad. I mean I know I need a lawyer too, but right now I need my dad more."

  "Your dad wants to ask, do you have a drug problem?"

  "No,"

  "But you just said you had drugs in your purse."

  "Maybe I'd rather have you here as my lawyer right now."

  "Maybe that's smarter for both of us. Right now your dad is too sick of heart to be much use to us. He will try to play just the part of the lawyer and we'll put the dad outside in the hallway. Okay?"

  "Yes. Good."

  "What were you holding?"

  "Some pot. And some mushrooms. Very little. At least I think it was very little. I hadn't actually weighed it or anything. We were finished at the library and we had run over to the Corner to pick up Melinda's blouse, let her change, and then we were going to this guy's dorm room."

  "Pot and mushrooms? It sounds like you're strictly organic."

  "That sounds like my dad
talking."

  "Probably right. Let's go over the stop itself and let me get a feel for that."

  "We just came up from underground parking and pulled out on Michigan Avenue."

  "What store?"

  "Nordstrom's."

  "North or south?"

  "We came up and went right. I don't know."

  "That would be north."

  "We were headed north. One-way, center divided."

  "And you are headed back to Melinda's boyfriend's dorm room?"

  "Yes. The stereo wasn't even on because I hate Melinda's music and she hates mine."

  "When did you first notice the cop?"

  "I looked in the rearview mirror, and he was right on my tail."

  "Were his lights flashing?"

  "Not yet. He followed for about one mile. Then he turned on his lights."

  "Had anything happened with your driving, anything unusual?"

  "It was snowing hard. I might have crossed lanes without meaning to. If I did, I never signaled. It was just impossible to see the lines."

  "So what happened after you noticed his lights in the rearview mirror?"

  "He talked to me through the loudspeaker. He told me to get in the right-hand lane and stop. So I did."

  "Was he alone?"

  "Yes. He got out of his car and came up on my side. He kept looking back to his right to make sure the traffic saw we were all stopped. Obviously he didn't want to get run over and was worried. It was snowing very heavy at the time. So he asked to see my drivers license and registration."

  "What did you do?"

  "I fished my purse out of my book bag and opened it to get my drivers license. He was standing right there, looking straight down into my purse, because I mean the top was down and there was nothing to block his view. He saw the baggies. He asked me what they were."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I told him the truth. I didn't want to lie."

  "Truth be told, at that point he probably had probable cause to search, and he would've found out anyway. So you did the right thing telling him the truth."

  "Can I borrow your handkerchief?"

  Thaddeus handed her his folded handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes, and it was only then he realized she was crying. The father inside him returned to the room and he reached across the table and took both of her hands in his. "I am going to get you out of this, I promise. I'm also going to get you help with the drugs."

  "I don't have a drug problem, I promise. It was just one time."

  He shook his head. He watched as she dabbed her eyes and then blew her nose. Just one time or not, he knew Katy would want to have Turquoise evaluated and so did he. There was a Zero Tolerance rule in their home.

  Turquoise refolded the handkerchief and stuck it in the side pocket of her jacket. He couldn't help but smile. It totally pleased him to see how comfortable she was with him with little things like using his handkerchief. His heart swelled in his chest and he knew he would do anything for her, anything at all.

  "What will happen to me now?"

  "From here they're going to take you and put you in a community area with other women. You'll probably get to watch TV for a while and then you'll be taken in for lunch. Afterward, everyone gets ready for court, and walking next door, to the courthouse. I'll be waiting for you there and we'll appear in front of the judge together."

  "Will they keep me here after court?"

  "You're probably looking at a mid range felony, so bail will be set. We'll then post your bail and you'll leave here with me."

  "Oh my God, mom will kill me!"

  Thaddeus appeared thoughtful for a moment. He imagined Katy's reaction to this development in their daughter's life.

  "I doubt if she'll kill you, but she's gonna be madder than hell."

  "I'm almost afraid to go home."

  "Relax, you'll be with me. We’ll work through this together."

  She sobbed again and withdrew the handkerchief.

  "Oh my God, I so love you."

  "Well I love you too, Turq, but we're going to have to figure some things out."

  "Dad, it's not what you think. I really don't have a problem with drugs."

  "If you get arrested with drugs in your purse, you've got a drug problem. At least where I come from."

  Turquoise dropped her gaze to the table. She withdrew the handkerchief and mopped her eyes again. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed, her father's words sinking in.

  Thaddeus shut his eyes. Truth telling was absolutely essential from this point forward. It always was where addiction was concerned. He knew it from his own experience. Thaddeus still attended the 12-step meeting every Sunday night at the first Methodist Church in Evanston. The meeting was his medicine. When he had asked his own sponsor how long he would have to attend AA meetings, his sponsor had looked at him and asked him how long he expected to live. Thaddeus got the message. Now maybe it was his turn to pass it on to his own daughter. He was going to make damn sure he was there for her like others had been for him. Then he thought of Katy. He shivered. She was a physician and she had watched him work through his own addiction problems, but he wasn't sure how she would handle it now with her own daughter. Thaddeus knew mothers and daughters had a special thing between them. It was a thing he didn't understand completely, and he doubted whether any man totally understood it. It was going to be difficult was pretty much all he knew.

  At long last, Turquoise finished with her tears, and put the wet handkerchief away.

  "Dad, I really and truly am sorry about this. I promise I'll do whatever you and mom say."

  "Maybe this isn't the time to ask, but I'm going to ask anyway. If you're willing to do anything, are you telling me you're willing to admit you have a problem with drugs?"

  He saw her back stiffen. She pushed herself upright from the table.

  "Dad, if I had a problem I would admit it. But I don't have a problem. I'm sorry."

  * * *

  Judge Charles W. Hildebrand had a problem. By two-thirty in the afternoon, everyone in the courtroom knew it. At least twenty-five percent of the prisoners didn't speak English. So interpreters were on standby. Which slowed the proceedings to an absolute crawl. And this made the judge obviously unhappy, though Thaddeus thought he would have been used to the non-English-speaking community by now.

  Thaddeus had found a seat in the front row of the courtroom, along with at least twenty other attorneys. Positioned ahead of these attorneys, at counsel table on the left, was a phalanx of Cook County Public Defenders who were responding to nine out of every ten cases called. The rare case, where private lawyers had been retained, was even more time-consuming, as the attorneys would have to make their way to the front of the courtroom, confer and discuss with their clients, and then turn and look up at the judge and wade through all the Constitutional protections. In an effort to impress their clients, the private attorneys were all too often long-winded, said far more than was required, and made every effort to impress family members who might be present in the audience.

  By 3:30 p.m., Thaddeus had all but fallen asleep. His eyes were closed when he heard the clerk intone, "Turquoise Murfee!"

  Thaddeus jumped to his feet and strode briskly up front. As he was coming forward, the holding cell in the courtroom was opened yet again and Turquoise was steered to the podium by the courtroom deputy.

  "Counsel, state your name for the record," said Judge Hildebrand.

  "Thaddeus Murfee, Chicago, for the defendant. Your honor beside me is Turquoise Murfee, the defendant in this cause."

  The judge explained to Turquoise the charges and the possible penalties. He then asked her whether she understood the charges against her and whether she was ready to discuss conditions of release and she answered affirmatively.

  "Your Honor, we would also ask you set bail in this matter in a reasonable amount."

  "Does the state wish to be heard?"

  The district attorney climbed to her feet. Beside her and behind her
were three roll-around file cabinets bulging with manila files. She looked exhausted and when she spoke it was with the greatest disinterest possible.

  "$15,000, usual conditions."

  Judge Hildebrand nodded. "Very well, bail is set in the amount of $15,000 and defendant is remanded to custody of the sheriff."

  After Turquoise had been returned to the holding cell, Thaddeus went downstairs to the clerk's office and made arrangements for the bail. He then returned to the jail and settled himself in the visitors' area. It would take all of an hour, maybe two, before she was processed out. In the meantime, he would give Katy a call and an update. It was crowded and noisy where he sat with probably fifty others waiting for an inmate. With a huge sigh, he slipped the cell phone from his coat pocket and hit speed dial one. He swallowed hard and waited.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They met the next afternoon and Lodzi gave his story to Thaddeus. He had it all written down and the stories numbered.

  LODZI STORY 1

  In 1972—I believe '72 but maybe '71—I bought myself a one-way ticket to Vienna. By this time, I was twenty-five years removed from the war, and my perspective had shifted. No longer did I believe I might be murdered at any moment and my life was a random series of events always outside of my control and always subject to the pure whimsy of someone who hated me just because I existed.

  When I came to the United States I was like a million other war refugees. My sleep was troubled, I trusted no one, and I was leery of everything. Imagine coming to a country where you cannot read the signs, do not understand the currency, do not understand the language, and believe you do not deserve the life to which you have so tenuously clung. That explains it for me, the overwhelming belief that while others died all around me, I had somehow survived and my survival was grossly unfair in the grand purview of the event itself, the Holocaust.

  I was quite young for such thoughts, and in truth they didn't really take form in my mind until I was much older. The first time I saw a pinball machine was in Brooklyn, New York, in a walk-up diner, and I immediately recognized the pinball as myself. I felt simpatico with a round piece of steel with no control over the events slamming it to and fro. I remember I was with my friend Rajski, who immediately fed a nickel into the machine and told me I should give it a try. In all honesty, I couldn't even make my hand work on the machine. It was like I could not engage even to the slightest degree in randomness. My pinball days were over as far as I was concerned. Rajski himself played the game while I walked over, sat down at a table, and ordered two coffees with pie.