by Val Bruech
The cops were at the Righetti house faster than you could say “Gotcha.” Ellen was giving the three-year-old a bath when they arrived, received her permission to search, and found the .22 handgun just as Cheryl had described, nestled next to a silencer. Ellen insisted she had never seen the weapon before and didn’t allow guns in her house.
The coppers weren’t buying what she was selling. Unfortunately for Ellen, in the time between the murder and the discovery of the .22, they learned that Ellen’s oldest child, an eight-year-old boy named Keith, died while his appendix was being removed. The anesthesiologist in attendance was Dr. Gordon Haskins. Keith was buried about two months before Gordon.
Motive, opportunity, and weapon. It doesn’t get much easier for the forces of righteousness.
Ballistics concluded that the gun in the linen closet was the same one that ended Gordon’s medical career. Despite the best efforts of Ellen’s experienced and respected defense attorney, Marty O’Toole, the trial jury fell into line. At the sentencing, Judge Parkinson told Ellen the better move would have been to sue Gordon Haskins for malpractice. Then he gave her a ticket to the slammer for fifty years. She could seek parole after twenty-five.
The case meandered through the appellate process without a ripple. Then Ellen filed a post-conviction petition from the penitentiary, a last-ditch effort to get a new trial or possibly a discharge. A proper p.c. petition must allege some serious Constitutional error like the authorities concealed evidence that was favorable to the defense. Ellen’s pleading, which she prepared by herself, didn’t meet the standard but it arrived on a day when the chief judge felt some empathy for his fellow mortals. Instead of dismissing it outright, he appointed Sam and yours truly to represent Ellen and gave us sixty days to file a proper petition, which meant our job was to find Constitutional error.
This work swallows up attorney time like a black hole. Ellen couldn’t make office visits, so we had to go to the penitentiary, about an hour-and-a-half drive one way.
We met our new client in a prison interview room. She was in her mid-thirties, painfully thin, and her hair was totally gray. She seemed to suffer from shaken adult syndrome, like the world had slapped her around one too many times and now things were a bit blurry. She was able to follow our questions and described a cordial relationship with Gordon and Brenda Haskins. She knew Gordon was an anesthesiologist, and trusted him to safely put her son to sleep while his appendix was removed. She didn’t seem to blame Haskins for the operating room death. In the months preceding her arrest for murder she had been divorced and her child had died. The only thing she remembered about the trial was that one of the jurors always wore a loud Hawaiian shirt.
The phone interrupted my reverie. It was Kelly Reed, Kevin’s wife and my best friend, calling to console me about Sam and invite me to dinner. That was a no-brainer. I gave myself a quick inspection using the mirror on the back of the closet door. Hazel eyes took in a face that might be described as diamond-shaped; broadest at the cheekbones, narrowing to a small chin. My mouth is wide, made for stuffing with pasta. People say I look taller than I am but that’s because I’m lanky. I need a rake in the morning to sort out the dark curls that explode out from my head. Once upon a time my face looked a lot more innocent than it does now.
I stuffed my briefcase with work I knew I wouldn’t do and had the key in the lock when I remembered I had turned my phone off for Perry’s trial this morning and forgotten to turn it back on. I did so and it hummed back to life. I groaned when I saw about thirty text messages. The first one came in at 7:58 this morning. An icy hand clamped around my heart when I saw it was from “Judgesam.” My finger hesitated over the “open” button. I swallowed hard, then clicked, eyes locked on the monitor.
“Sooz, Got some trouble, need your help. Come now. Sam.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Kevin and Kelly’s two children exploded out the front door as I exited my vehicle. I swept three-year-old Travis up in my arms, while Caitlin bounced up and down with a first-grader’s excitement.
“Suzie, why do vampires drink blood?”
“Let me think. Because they’re thirsty?”
“No.” She laughed so hard she could hardly get the words out. “Cause root beer makes them burp!”
“I knew that.”
Kelly waited at the door attired in clingy black workout clothes. She was short and Hispanic and beautiful with large brown eyes that gave away her soul. Her long black hair was drawn back off her face. Despite being born and raised in the US, she still possessed the languid, fluid movements of people born nearer the equator. Her high definition arms were a testament to her hobby as a body builder. She had recently put her career with the state Department of Children and Family Services on hold when she found herself longing to be with her own kids when she was at work and worrying about other people’s kids when she was at home. Her former employer was not my favorite government agency. If a child had an unexplained hangnail, CFS would go snooping in the parents’ drawers, but the kid whose parents kept him in a dark closet or put cigarettes out on him seemed to go unnoticed.
She searched my face as we walked into the kitchen. “How are you?”
“Writhing in pain, twisting with anguish.”
She rolled her eyes skyward. “I put up with this because…?”
I glanced skyward. “Today, I’m not really sure why you’re putting up with me.”
She understood right away and gave me a warm hug. I returned it but couldn’t muster the energy to make it meaningful.
Kevin herded the kids in and we sat down. The Caesar salad, blue cheese burgers and apple pie disappeared as we discussed the challenges of first grade and the intricate plot of the latest Disney movie. After cleaning up and sending the kids to the playroom, we adjourned to “the cinema room” with some wine. Kevin turned on the enormous flat screen TV. Sam’s murder was the lead story on the Chicago stations, but I didn’t learn anything new.
“Kev told me about the hospital,” Kelly said. “What happened after that?”
I highlighted the day’s events: the scene in Sam’s chambers, the interview with Tite, the successful verdict.
“The cops are looking at Sam’s past to come up with possible motives. I told Tite I’d go through my old files.”
“Good luck finding those,” Kevin said.
I ignored him. “Tite’s a strange one. He started out like Mr. Sensitive: ‘So sorry about your friend,’ then he switched to Mr. Inquisitor: ‘tell me what I want to know.’ Then, for no reason, he gave me information I never expected to get. He ended up demanding that I have answers for him by one o’clock tomorrow.” I paused. “Maybe he’s a psycho, or maybe I’m a suspect and he’s got some agenda for snaring me.”
“Sounds like the good cop/bad cop routine, but they’re shorthanded so they only sent one guy,” Kevin said. “Do you know the cause of death?”
I told them about Sam’s three-wood. Kelly’s face turned the color of days-old cauliflower.
“Wouldn’t Sam resist when his attacker grabbed the golf club? How did the person get in? And the killer doesn’t have to be a male. A female swinging a golf club can be pretty lethal.” Kevin got up, raised his arms and was about to demonstrate a violent overhead blow.
“Stop, Kev!” Kelly’s voice was strained. “Maybe there were two people — Sam was talking to one and that’s why he didn’t see the golf club coming.”
“Could be.” Kevin leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “But the real question is who wanted him dead and why.”
“Remember Ellen Righetti?” I included them both in the question.
“Yeah,” Kevin said slowly as his brain located the information. “She got big numbers for killing the anesthesiologist — Hawkins, Haskins? You and Sam did a post-conviction hearing for her. What about it?”
“Well, we lost the p.c., of course. I haven’t really thought about the case since, bu…t .”
“But what?” Kelly asked.
I shook my head. “Something about that file bothers me but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“You lost, Susan; that’s what bothers you,” Kevin said. “I remember the hearing. It got a lot of press, but you guys had zip in terms of Constitutional error.”
“Tell me more. What was it all about?” Kelly asked.
I recited from the case summary I had read earlier. As I did so, more facts came to mind. “Our client and the Haskins had keys to each other’s houses, just being good neighbors. The state’s theory was that Ellen used the Haskins’ key to open the door, slipped upstairs, did the deed and exited the same way. Brenda Haskins was making coffee in the kitchen when this supposedly went down, but the kitchen was in the rear of the house and the stairs were right off the front entry. When the cops came to Ellen’s house later, she cooperated and showed them her little cigar box where she kept keys and the Haskins’ key was right there, labeled.
“Marty O’Toole was Ellen’s trial attorney. His theory was that Brenda could have offed her husband, then used her key to Ellen’s house to plant the gun there. Very creative, especially since his client didn’t give him an alibi or much other help. But the state pre-empted him on that. When they put their case on, they actually asked Brenda whether she killed Gordon and planted the gun. Marty told us her denials were emphatic and totally believable.”
“So what were your grounds for the post-conviction petition?”
“We were blowing smoke. We were desperate for any…” I snapped my fingers and bounced off the couch. “I got it! I remember why this case bothers me! The widow, Brenda Haskins! The way we split up the work, she was Sam’s witness. He had her on the stand and from out of the blue, he asks if she was having an affair at the time of her husband’s murder.”
Kelly’s jaw dropped. “Isn’t that improper?”
“Extremely. Unless you have a damn good reason and it’s relevant as hell. The prosecutor looked at Sam like he was speaking Russian.”
“What did Brenda say?” Kelly asked.
“She didn’t. The prosecutor flew out of his chair to object. The judge read Sam the riot act, and life as we know it went on.”
“What possessed Sam to ask the ‘affair’ question?” Kevin inquired.
I shrugged. “Dunno. Ellen was just another client for me, but for Sam she was a cause. He was over the top, even for him. Research, tracking witnesses… he absolutely ate, drank and slept the case for a month. I figured the question about an affair was just his enthusiasm. He never mentioned anything to me about her having an affair.”
“Did you put your client on the stand?” Kelly asked.
“You bet. She told the court, plain and simple, everything she saw and did the morning Haskins was shot. She was credible, the judge even said so, but as he pointed out, our burden at this juncture wasn’t to prove who was lying and who wasn’t. We had to prove error, and we didn’t have the horses.”
I drummed my fingers on the table.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Kevin’s eyes slid to mine.
“Yeah. Can we get in now?”
“What are you two talking about?” Kelly demanded.
“The firm’s closed files are in storage in the basement at the office,” Kevin explained. “Sam’s Righetti file should be there, and there might be notes that would give us an idea why he asked that question.”
“I’m glad to see you guys getting into the spirit of the thing,” I said. “But hang on a minute. I’m not sure I want to know the answers before I talk to Tite tomorrow.”
“Tite’s job is to chase down leads. Your job is to tell him what you know and go practice law.” Kelly took a sip of wine. “What if she was having an affair? What would that have to do with Sam’s being killed?”
“Brenda wouldn’t want her infidelity to become public, and probably neither would her partner. If Sam found out, someone might want to make sure the news stopped there.”
“Murder’s a pretty drastic method of curtailing news.” Kelly shivered.
“When someone’s back is against a wall, they can get pretty desperate. In Brenda’s social circle, I doubt they take out ads about things like that.”
We decided that Kevin and I would retrieve Sam’s file from storage the following day and bring it back to the house so the three of us could examine the contents together. It felt good to have a plan as opposed to aimlessly scrolling my client database.
As I drove away, my friends were backlit in the doorway, arms around each other’s waists. I was happy to be going home, where the only person I had to take care of was a cat.
Fur was as happy to see me as a feline can be. She entwined herself around my legs, purring incessantly.
“My friend, I have some bad news. Sam isn’t going to come tickle your chin anymore.”
She stared at me, indignant, tail in hyper-drive. Unfortunately for her, Fur is a cuddle cat, and she’s cursed with an owner who uses the house like a motel room. I work too many hours to give a pet what it deserves, but Fur never complains. She finds her pleasure chasing imaginary (hopefully) bugs and napping on my pillow. On the infrequent occasions when Sam visited, Fur would leap into his lap, he’d scratch her in all the right places, and she’d favor him with adoring, satiated gazes.
The day’s events whirled in my brain. I shrugged out of my clothes and fell into bed, too tired to hang anything up.
I don’t know if I was asleep or awake when an illusion swept into my head with the boldness and clarity of a big-screen movie. Sam and I were meeting Ellen Righetti for the first time in the attorney visiting room at the penitentiary. The walls might have been off-white a decade ago; they were dirty gray now. The steel table, more tarnished than stainless, was bolted to the floor. We were saying good-bye to our new client after an unproductive first meeting. She wore a baggy orange prison jump suit.
“This is hell,” she said, gesturing toward to the bowels of the institution. “I never killed Gordon, I never even thought about killing him or anyone else. Please get me out of here, so I can be with my kids again.” Tears welled in her eyes.
It wasn’t a dream. It had happened exactly that way.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Lieutenant Al Tite is here,” Darcy, the firm receptionist, announced into my phone.
I hiked down the hall. Tite’s chair was dollhouse-size underneath him. His head was buried in Golf Digest. I waited a full minute before he became aware of my presence.
“Oh, hi!” He scrambled to his feet and tossed the magazine back on the table.
“Does your swing need some adjustment?”
“Nice to see you again too.”
“Did the good cop or the bad cop come today?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On which lawyer shows up: the one who answers questions or the one who leads me in circles.”
I threw up my hands in a ‘what are you talking about?’ gesture and led him back down the hall to my shop. I wanted a pipeline to the official investigation into Sam’s death. Would he be willing to deal?
We passed through the outer conference room into my office.
“Have a seat.” I gestured to the powder blue leather and chrome client chairs. Not one to accept an invitation, he took a slow, deliberate tour. Travel and nature photography, most of it mine, adorned the walls. He stared intently at the artwork, examined book titles.
“Colorado?” he asked in front of a picture of quaking aspens with the Rocky Mountains in the background.
“Um-hum.” A crisp blue shirt and well-tailored windowpane suit did wonders for his appearance. I pretended to read a recent Supreme Court opinion while covertly observing him. He wasn’t overweight, just huge in the way that an oak tree is huge: massive and solid.
Finally he sat down. “You do well, Ms. Marshfield.”
The lyrics of “She Works Hard for the Money” crossed my mind. “Good defense has a price.”
We fell silent. Today’s interview tech
nique was to stare his subject into submission. An Omaha minute passed.
“This is more fun than getting busted for speeding, lieutenant, but can we move along? I have another appointment at two-thirty.”
He nodded, reached into his briefcase, pulled out a photo of a middle-aged white woman and placed it on my desk.
“Recognize her?”
I looked at the picture, not touching it.
“I’ve never seen this person.”
“That’s Donna Gillespie, the woman Sam represented when she was convicted of murdering her seven-month-old baby.”
My mouth formed an “O” shape. The woman in the photo was wide-eyed, as if the photographer had surprised her. Wire-rim glasses gave her a stern look. Her lips were set in a grim line. “Humorless” was how to best describe her.
“Is she still in?”
“She caught an eighteen, and she was convicted nine years ago.”
Illinois’ sentencing scheme features day-for-day good time. For every day of good behavior served, a prisoner gets a day knocked off his sentence, so a model inmate would serve half the announced sentence.
“Let me guess. She’s due out today.”
“Close. That’s her release photo from two months ago.”
“Where is she now?”
After inmates are released, they’re on parole, a long leash that keeps them in a gray area between the total freedom that most of us enjoy and the friendly confines of the eight-by-twelve cell they’ve recently vacated. For murder, the leash is five years.
Al referred to his notebook. “She gave them her mother’s address in Chicago. Her parole officer verified she’s living there.”
“Is she on your list?”
His look said ‘What do you think?’
“How high on your list?”
His hand reached out between us and dipped and rose. “It’s a long shot for a defendant to physically assault her attorney. Judges get hate mail, prosecutors get threats, but defense attorneys just get more cases.”