by Val Bruech
“Must be good ones.” Kevin tossed a United Airlines ticket folder in my direction. A boarding pass and baggage receipt for a flight from Chicago to St. Louis snuggled together inside the pocket.
“I remember once we pulled one of Sam’s old files to look for some billing information. There was a striped tie buried in the bottom of it. His birthday was coming up, so we had it cleaned, gift-wrapped it and gave it to him. He really liked it—wore it all the time. We never told him he already owned it.”
I felt behind the receipts and boarding pass and pulled out a sheet of legal paper folded carefully in half and then in half again. I unfolded it eagerly.
Two handwritten columns of numbers appeared on the sheet:
2012 25
2013 60
The handwriting resembled Sam’s, but I wasn’t positive.
“Sooz, what’s up? You look like you’re reading Chinese.”
“What do you make of this?” I handed him the yellow sheet.
“The first column is years and the other…uh, how many cases he tried that year, how many books he read, maybe a good stock that went up?”
Kevin held the paper up to the light.
“Did this come from your file, Susan?”
“No, it was in the airline ticket folder.”
“Did Sam ever travel on Righetti?”
“We drove downstate to see the client, but I don’t think he went anywhere else. Maybe this is about a personal injury matter. The numbers on the right are out-of-pocket medical expenses or lost wages.”
We frowned at each other. “Let’s keep digging,” I said.
The only sound for the next half-hour was of rustling paper. Everything in my file was straightforward Righetti material, nothing sinister. I saw no possible threat to Sam.
I stretched. Trying a case in court is exciting. Looking at it again years later is depressing, especially when the other side won.
As a last resort, I dumped the file upside down. The last thing to tumble out, crumbled and crushed under all the weight, was a small piece of paper. I smoothed it out on the desk.
The white phone message memo was dated January 26, no year. The number was written boldly, the “please call back” box was checked, the caller was Lisa Navarro.
Who?
I gave it to Kevin. “Ring any bells?”
He studied the message. “Nope. Was she a witness?”
“I don’t think so.”
I grabbed the phone, read the number over his shoulder and dialed. Twenty rings later I hung up.
“How can anyone survive without an answering machine in this day and age?”
“Those who don’t care about who calls them.”
“Bingo. We’ll try Lisa some other time.”
Kevin handed me a large envelope. “Take a look at this.”
I pulled out a sheaf of black and white photographs. They captured the interior of a house: kitchen, living room, stairs, and a bedroom. None were labeled or identified in any way.
“I know the firm is diligent about its closed files, Kev. But look at what’s going on here. The transcript is missing, there’s an airline ticket with an unexplained doodle, photographs that aren’t labeled or identified, and a phone message that may or may not have anything to do with the case. And it’s like Brenda Haskins was never involved—her entire file is gone.”
Chin in hand, I stared at the scattered debris of Righetti v. State.
“I found the paralegal who closed the file and asked about the transcript. She thought it was filed away with all this,” Kevin said.
“Does any of this really matter?” I banged the file on the coffee table. “There’s nothing concrete that connects this case with what happened to Sam.”
Kevin leaned forward and wrapped his hands around his forehead. I’d seen this pose before: he was intently focused, blocking out everything but the train of his thought.
“Did you know Eric Benton was voted chief of staff at the hospital, twice?”
“Is he married?” I inquired.
“Not your type, Sooz.” Kevin shook his head.
“Aw, shucks,” I pouted. “He told me last night he and Gordon Haskins were partners. Kev, are you thinking Benton might be the one Brenda was having an affair with, if she was?”
We looked at each other blankly.
Caitlin stormed into the room just then. “Daddy! Susie!” She vaulted into Kevin’s lap.
“Hi, princess, how are you?”
“I’m good, Daddy. Did Sam go to Jesus today?”
Her father bent his bespectacled blond head over hers. “Yes, Sam is in heaven with Jesus.”
Good.” Caitlin smiled.
Kelly hurried into the room, Travis riding on one hip.
“What did I miss?”
“Not a thing. We’re getting nowhere,” I said glumly.
Kevin gestured to the remaining file we hadn’t yet examined. “We didn’t want to leave you out of the party.”
Kevin and his daughter went out to practice riding a bicycle without training wheels. Kelly went to put her son down for a nap and I started in on the last file. This was the “law” file, which contained motions, briefs and copies of cases for the points we needed to argue. I combed through it quickly, since it wasn’t focused on facts or witnesses. Kelly returned as I was finishing up.
“What can I do?”
“Make this file talk.”
“Are you going to tell Tite about Haskins?”
“What’s to tell? Sam asks a crazy question on cross in a forgotten case, the file’s a bit disorganized, and I’ve wasted your time and mine.”
“And Brenda Haskins shows up out of the blue at Sam’s wake.”
“There’s that.”
“Tell Tite what’s going on.”
“He’s an idiot!” I protested, then burst out laughing.
Kelly looked at me with concern.
“It’s okay.” I couldn’t stop giggling.
“It won’t be okay for a while.” Kelly put an arm around my shoulder. “You’ve had a rough day.”
“I need a chlorine fix. I have to swim.”
She shook her head. “You need to sit down and get emotionally reacquainted with yourself. Your feelings are buried so deep you need a backhoe to dig them out.”
The usual cynical retort was primed and ready, but it caught in my throat. Kelly’s words opened up a new door in my brain. Ever since the real Ryan had gone away, I had locked up my emotions and lost the key. Maybe it was time to find it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Members joke that the downtown “Y” is held together by baling wire and spit. It’s a three-story building, about eighty years old, and takes up an entire city block. Much of it is closed off due to lack of use and safety issues, but the pool and the gyms get a lot of traffic from downtown office workers. I like it because I can walk there from the office, the pool’s clean, and I usually get a lap lane to myself. A row of horizontal windows near the top an outside wall allow the natural light to penetrate. Today there were only two other lappers and no lifeguard during adult swim time.
Five laps to warm up, then a series of three: one all-out speed, the second recovery and stretch; third, pull as hard as possible. Then start over again. I always do a mile, which is thirty-two minutes, give or take. Usually, the rhythmic strokes and deep breathing induce a pleasant mindlessness, and the day’s stress ebbs away into the outflow of the pool.
Not today. I couldn’t shake the graveside farewell; the conversation yesterday with Dr. Benton popped into my head and wouldn’t leave. I super-charged my workout, cutting through the water like a barracuda till I could barely swim straight, then I did an extra five laps. Exhausted, I turned and floated on my back. The Haskins’ case had too many questions and no answers.
Success, they say, is ninety-nine per cent perspiration and one per cent inspiration. My one per cent usually occurs in the shower. As the scalding water pulverized my body, I suddenly knew how I’d find Lisa N
avarro. Several cases ago, a private investigator told me about a website where one can obtain the billing address of any listed phone number. I had made a note of it for future reference. But I needed the number in Sam’s file to be a landline and not a cell phone.
I dressed and drove home. Fur roiled around my legs, purring like a gas mower on a summer day. I flattered myself that she was delighted to see me, but deep down I knew she was starved, and I was her waitress. I gave her a generous dinner, then went right to the computer. I had Navarro’s address in a cyber minute: 1004 Spring Street. A consultation with the local map indicated Spring was in a financially-challenged neighborhood near the Broadway section of town where cheap bars and tattoo parlors vied for customers. Tomorrow was the weekend, so Lisa Navarro might be home.
I went to bed hoping that she would provide the thread that would start to unravel the Haskins’ puzzle.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I strode down the ramp to the jail entrance at the rear of the courthouse, pressed the buzzer for the civilian entrance and saluted the closed circuit TV camera that was trained on me. Thirty seconds later, the thick steel door screeched open, and I proceeded into it, suddenly chilled. Behind me, the door grated closed like a hundred fingernails scraping cross a blackboard. Fluorescent lights enclosed in heavy wire cages cast an eerie glow down the passageway. Time, if it existed here, was of no consequence. The tunnel ended at a triple-thick, bulletproof glass door, also electronically controlled.
On the other side of the door, Deputy Yolanda Russell reigned from a large wraparound desk similar to the command deck of the starship Enterprise. She buzzed me into the jail’s public reception area, resplendent with cheap plastic chairs that looked like they had been bounced off the wall numerous times. The smell of disinfectant was a small improvement over the nasty odors it conquered. The bank of monitors facing the deputy displayed live closed-circuit coverage of the cells, common areas and jail kitchen, all of which were sealed off behind her. An elevator in the corner of the reception area delivered visitors to and from the courthouse above. A second elevator, much more secure, was located back in the bowels of the jail and was used to transport the inmates to and from court, under guard.
The deputy continued typing just long enough to establish which of us was in charge of the situation, then nodded in my direction.
“Who do you want this morning?”
“Nobody. I need to do some research.”
She pulled an oversize black ledger from a lower shelf, handed it to me with a mechanical smile, and went back to her typing.
The only public entrance into the courthouse between five p.m. when the building is closed to the public and 8:30 a.m. when it opens again is through the county jail, the way I had just come in. It’s manned 24/7 so family and friends can bail prisoners out. After hours, the cops access the building down a ramp in their cars. Special sensors recognize their vehicles, open a bay door and allow them in. The inmate population should top out at 160, but it’s much higher on the weekends. Lawyers can visit their incarcerated clients or do research in the law library on the fourth floor at any hour. The State’s Attorney’s office is in the courthouse, and those folks work long hours. But for “security reasons” anyone who enters the building when it’s closed must record his or her name and the date and time of entry in the book Yolanda handed me. I doubted if the chief warden himself would swear to the accuracy of this record, but it was a place to start.
Sam’s text to me was sent at 7:58 a.m. Wednesday. The courthouse officially opened for business at 8:30 a.m. His body was discovered at 8:35 a.m. It would be impossible for someone to get through the mandatory security check and metal detector at the public entrance, go up four floors to Sam’s chambers and trash him between 8:30 and 8:35, so I was sure the killer was inside the building before it opened to the public.
The book fell open at the stark line between shopworn gray pages and clean, white ones. The last entry was yesterday, Friday. I recognized the scrawls of two experienced assistant state’s attorneys who were putting on an aggravated rape case. They were in at 6:45 a.m. even though the courthouse was closed for Sam’s funeral. Hope their boss was impressed.
Thursday had been a busy day: three attorneys and a clerk early in the morning and another attorney who signed in at nine that night. Wednesday, the day of Sam’s death, four names, all in the morning: Judge Frederick at 7:40, Sam at 7:55, Griffen Bartley at 8:07, and Judge Krychewski at 8:15. I stared at the third name. What was he doing at the courthouse at that hour?
“Earth calling Susan.”
I was jolted to the present.
“Cops already checked our little book.”
“Am I that transparent, or are you just that smart?”
“They interviewed our desk people for Wednesday, too.”
“You’re telling me all this because…?”
“Al Tite said you might be down to look at the journal.”
I frowned. “What else did he say?”
“He said you should call him if you want to know what he found out.” Yolanda leaned back in her chair and gave me a look that said “Honey, what are you up to?”
“Are the desk people here today?” I asked hopefully.
“No way. They’re all nine-to-fivers.” Meaning Monday to Friday.
I resumed paging through the book. On Tuesday, a couple of insurance defense lawyers signed in at six p.m. and out at eight. If a visitor leaves after hours through the jail, they should sign out, but that rule is ignored for the most part. It’s possible to exit from the first floor doors at any time because the fire code requires that people have an escape. A civilian watchman pads around the courthouse after hours, and a cleaning crew starts at six p.m. and finishes up about ten.
“Employees and judges and lawyers have to sign in when they come early or late. What if one of them brings someone who doesn’t work at the courthouse?”
Yolanda scratched her neck. “That happens sometimes,” she said slowly. “I don’t know that there’s a rule about it. I just ask the person for photo I.D. and let ’em go in, as long as they’re with someone I know. Prosecutors sneak witnesses in sometimes and we just wave them through.”
The phone rang. “Cunjil,” she answered, unintentionally butchering the name of her workplace. Yolanda then attempted to explain visiting hours to someone who was having difficulty with the concept.
“Gotta go.” I rose abruptly.
She covered the receiver with a hand. “I thought you was gonna use the library.” She smiled sweetly.
“Press the button.”
She raised her hands in an “I don’t know what you’re talking about” gesture. I reached over her desk and jabbed the control on her console. The door rumbled open.
“Thanks,” I yelled, stepping into the time warp again. Al had beaten me to the jail list, but he wouldn’t beat me to Lisa Navarro.
The neighborhood was a dismal copy of dozens of others I had trudged through while trolling for witnesses on public defender cases in Springfield. Not all the houses bore numbers, but a process of addition and subtraction led me to 1004 Spring, a small one-story wood frame dwelling. The paint, or what was left of it, was the color of baby spit-up. No white picket fence, no welcome mat, no friendly ding-dong when I leaned on the cracked plastic bell. The lower half of the aluminum door had held a screen in a former life: now the mesh was ripped and hanging. The sound of sticky surfaces being peeled apart ripped the air and I was suddenly eye-to-collarbone with a woman who made me feel like a sapling in a redwood forest. I craned my neck northward.
“Whachawant?”
The ring in her nose was fascinating. Her red hair was about three inches long and blown back as if she had just emerged from a wind tunnel. It matched the red heart tattoo on the side of her neck.
I took a second to regroup. “Lisa Navarro?”
She tapped her cigarette. Ash fell close enough to get my attention but far enough away so I wouldn’t be singed.
“Who exactly wants to know?”
“Susan Marshfield. I was a friend of Sam Kendall. He was killed this week, and I’d like to talk to you about him, if you have five minutes.”
Her eyes were deep black, set off by gold eye shadow. “You got a subpoena?” This woman would not have blinked if Al Capone and his machine-gun-toting thugs were on her doorstep.
“No, nothing like that. I’m not official, and I’m not the police.” I gestured to my jeans and a turtleneck. “I’m just a friend who’s looking for answers.”
“Well then, honey, why exactly do you think you’ll find any answers here?” She gestured grandly, almost knocking me off the stoop.
“It’s chilly out here.” I pretended to shiver. “Can I come in?”
She stared hard, peered down the street to the left, then swung her head to the right. “Oh, shit, c’mon in then, but I only got a minute.”
The biggest flat screen TV I’d ever seen dominated the room. At the moment, a gigantic roadrunner bounded across it. A sofa, patterned in flowers, faced the TV, covered in clear plastic and food stains,
“Siddown.” The Amazon muted the cartoon with the remote. “You were just going to tell me why you came.” She captured my undivided attention by picking up a sagging armchair with one hand and toting it across the room to the sofa. The chair must’ve weighed a hundred pounds. Her tee shirt proclaimed ‘Women Rule, Men Drool’ and could not conceal the fact that she outweighed me by a lot.
“Sam was a county judge. He was killed this week in his office at the courthouse.”
My hostess lowered herself into the chair and looked at me like I had just informed her the mail would arrive a bit late today.
“I was going through a file we had worked on and found a phone message that a Lisa Navarro had called, and left this number here.”
“Well, judges talk to lots of people. Lots. They have to get elected and everything, so why should one little message concern you?”
“Sam wasn’t elected. He was appointed,” I said. “And the message concerns me because it was in a file he cared very much about. It may have something to do with why he was killed.”