by Val Bruech
“I didn’t know Agnes lost a son,” I said.
“Several years ago now. Cooper had it all: looks, brains, personality. It was beyond tragedy.”
“How old was he?”
“Cooper and Harry were the same age. Harry’s twenty-six now, so twenty-three, twenty-four. Why?”
“I never suspected Agnes had something like that in her history.”
“He died of a drug overdose. It was a huge struggle, but eventually Agnes got on with her life.” Betty squared her shoulders. “I will too.”
“You will, Mom. Harry and I will be around a lot more now.”
Betty smiled, but the lines in her face cut deeper than I remembered.
We invited Gina to join us for dinner and she was happy to accept. In spite of the loss that brought us together, we had a good time. The world is full of topics other than death, and Gina’s youthful optimism brought a refreshing perspective to the conversation.
We drove in separate cars, so I sped home directly from the restaurant, impatient to read Sam’s “Brenda” folder. I got as far as my kitchen table, tore the elastic band off the file, and settled down to read, still wearing my jacket.
The police reports detailed Brenda’s initial 911 call, her statements from the minute the cops arrived, and follow-up interviews. Copies of Sam’s handwritten notes outlined areas to zero in on during her cross-examination: the exact amount of time she was gone from the bedroom, the healthy relationship with Ellen Righetti, and the lack of any threat or hard feelings about the death of Ellen’s child. The word “affair?” was penciled in, last on the list. He had summarized his conversation with Lisa Navarro on a separate sheet. It matched what she told me and included a resumé of her various occupations: singer, cook, hostess, cabdriver, retail sales (flowers, liquor store), actress.
The last item was a copy of a letter written by Sam two months ago to the county sheriff, asking if any firearms had been registered to Eric Benton in the last five years. Our county has an ordinance requiring that gun owners register themselves and their firearms with the Sheriff. The tabulation is a public record. There was no response in the file.
I sat for an hour after finishing the file, wondering why Sam hadn’t confided in me. And what had made him suspicious of Benton? Where was the original “Brenda” file?
One thing was clear: Sam had never quit the chase.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I arranged for two Righetti files, mine and the one from the firm’s storage, to be at the receptionist’s desk for Tite on Monday morning. The third file, the one I had recovered from Sam’s den, was secreted in my kitchen pantry behind the Shredded Wheat and the unpaid bills. Lawyers are information hoarders: we never give up what we don’t have to.
My client for today’s trial, Terrance Thomas, hadn’t returned my calls about the state’s offer to settle. No matter how damning the facts, clients cling to an hallucinatory hope that some natural disaster will occur and the state’s case will self-destruct. Terrance needed a tempest of biblical dimensions. The hand-to-hand delivery charge was a slam-dunk for the State.
Terrance finally showed. We discussed, I cajoled, he whined. I would much rather try a case than go through this hell, but my client’s best interests were paramount. If we lost at trial, a virtual certainty unless the jury was composed of his blood relatives, he’d get the full sixty months. Of course, I wasn’t the one looking at state-supplied food, shelter, and clothing. Finally he agreed to the deal for four years. I hoped his resolve would last until we got in front of the judge.
It did. When Judge Wilson questioned Dave Roberts about why he was reducing the charge, Dave’s explanation all but made Terrance sound like a model citizen.
After the deputies took my client away, I gathered my papers and swept through the bar separating the players from the spectators, oblivious of my surroundings. I live for the rush that jury trials bring, but the reality is that I spend much of my time negotiating deals where my clients end up with convictions. As I approached the door to the main corridor it swung open for me. Al Tite held the handle, regarding me with something vaguely resembling admiration.
“Morning, counselor.”
His wardrobe today was casual: checkered shirt, khakis, and an unbuttoned blazer. Unlike many large men, he hadn’t let himself get sloppy. Not a bit.
“I heard your plea in there. Sounds like your client got a gift”
“The state was very reasonable.”
“My sources in the state’s attorney office tell me you’re one of the best in the county.”
“You get an affidavit?”
“Can you take a compliment?”
I expelled a gust of pent-up emotion. “Sorry. I always feel inadequate when they take my client away in cuffs, even if it’s a good deal.”
The door closed behind us.
“But you’re bound and determined to put Sam’s killer away.”
I stopped. “No, that’s not true. This…” I gestured back to the courtroom. “This is business. The person who killed Sam…that’s personal. I need to know why, pure and simple.”
“No burning desire to punish them?”
“I don’t know the why or the who. How could I want to punish what I don’t know?”
“Most people wouldn’t be so open-minded,” he observed.
I gave him a sidelong glance, but his expression was unfathomable. We headed toward Sam’s chambers.
“Judge Kendall’s Righetti file was a little thin.”
“Thin?” I echoed.
“I didn’t see anything about Brenda Haskins. You said she was the main prosecution witness.”
“Hmm. That is strange.”
Al fit the key into the lock and opened the door to the anteroom, then repeated the procedure at the door to Sam’s office. I took one step inside and surveyed the room.
Chairs were overturned on their sides, cushions ripped apart. The sofa and the desks had been pushed aside and were scattered about the room. The bookshelves were a mess: papers and legal volumes were scattered on every surface.
“The evidence people came back for a second try,” Al explained as he closed the door behind us. He removed a manila envelope from his briefcase and handed it to me. Inside was a thick spiral-bound calendar filled with Sam’s writing. I righted one of the chairs and sat at the working desk to read it. On Tuesday three weeks before the murder, the entry for the noon hour was “Majors—Burkhart—insurance.” Other routine items were noted: associate judges’ meetings, committee for courthouse renovation, an afternoon seminar on new developments in search and seizure law. On the Monday before he died, Agnes was in his book for 10 a.m.
I examined the plaques and awards that decorated Sam’s walls: the Italian-American Society lauded him for dedicated service, ditto Easter Seals. The local bar association recognized his fairness and integrity, the governor acknowledged his commitment to equal justice, etc.
His framed photos were lying around like leaves scattered by November winds. Several caught Sam shaking hands and showing teeth with various political personages. Most were informal pictures of Sam and Betty accompanied by the kids in various stages of growth. A recent formal family portrait showed Gina and Harry standing, resting their hands on the shoulders of Sam and Betty, who were seated.
“Have you spoken to Betty yet?” I asked.
“Should I?” Al’s eyebrows rose and fell. “She’s not a suspect, if that’s your concern.”
“Betty would never hurt Sam!”
“Good thing you’re impartial about this.”
Something he said made me pause. “Why isn’t she a suspect?”
He pulled out his notebook and flipped through the pages. “Moore did the initial interview. Mrs. Kendall says the judge left at seven-thirty that morning. She cleaned up breakfast and started laundry. She showered and was going to do some computer work when she got the call on her land line at eight forty-seven. She remembered because of the digital clock on the microwave in th
e kitchen. Judge Knapp verified the time of the call, and he knows her voice. There’s no way she could have gone to the courthouse in her own car, gotten in before it opened without anyone seeing her, killed him, and gotten home soon enough to receive the call. She’d be an Olympian.”
“And a murderer, neither of which she is.”
Al regarded me through half-closed eyes.
“Weren’t you going to give me the jail list? And tell me why you were at Haskins’?”
“They’re related. You saw the ledger, and you know how someone could get in through the jail without signing the book.”
“You talked to Yolanda?” I asked flatly.
“Of course I talked to Yolanda. My job is to talk to people.”
“And…?”
“Judge Frederick came in at seven forty. He had a friend with him, an Eric Benton. Benton was bending his ear about a case on the judge’s docket where Benton’s medical group is involved. In the course of our investigation, we discovered Benton is a good friend of Brenda Haskins. I had just interviewed her about him when you appeared on the scene yesterday.”
“What else did Frederick say?”
“The judge was very forthcoming.”
“I would think so. He doesn’t want anything to do with a murder investigation.”
“Nor did he want anything to do with Benton that day. They’ve known each other for years, and Benton had set up an early coffee with the judge on the west side. They chatted about this and that, then the judge left for work and Benton tagged along in his own car, which Frederick thought was strange. They came in through the jail together. Since Benton was with a senior judge, the deputy in the jail waved him on through. Didn’t even ask for I.D.” Al shook his head in amazement.
“When they were in the elevator, Benton broached the subject of the pending lawsuit. The judge tells us it’s highly unethical for him to discuss a pending matter with anyone who’s involved, so he told Benton to button it. Benton kept talking, so the judge says he pressed the button for three, took Benton to the coffee shop, which had just opened for early employees, sat him down and left him there.”
“What time was it?”
“Early. The judge said it didn’t take more than five minutes for him to sign in and deposit Benton in the coffee shop.”
I was quiet.
“What do you know about Benton?” Al finally asked.
“I met him at Sam’s wake. He was with Brenda.”
“Is there a Benton/Sam connection?” Al took a step toward the window and looked out. “You said Brenda Haskins was a witness at the P.C. hearing you and Sam did, the one you told me about yesterday, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
He turned back toward me. “How come when I looked at Sam’s file this morning I didn’t see anything on her?”
It was my turn to shrug. “Sam cross-examined her, so he should have a sub-file with police reports, areas he wanted to cover on cross, maybe specific questions…case law to meet objections.”
“So where would that file be? And what else might be missing?”
He didn’t seem to be asking me, so I didn’t respond.
“Is the fact that Brenda’s name keeps popping up just a coincidence, or is she at the center of it all?” I mused.
Al’s expression changed from thoughtful to perplexed. “Was Benton a witness at your hearing?” he asked.
“No. I never heard of him till Brenda introduced us at the wake. Have you spoken to him?”
“Anything else you want to know?”
“I’m just a cog in the wheel of justice, trying to help the proper authorities cover all the bases.”
He crossed to the chessboard and studied the pieces, profile of a man in deep concentration.
“Okay,” he said with resolve, and turned to me. “Benton admitted he was trying to explain his side of the case to Frederick. Says he didn’t know it was against the rules until the judge told him. Felt put out when the judge left him in the coffee shop. Says he sat for a minute, the coffee was terrible, then he left and went straight to his office.”
Benton was one floor below Sam’s chambers at 7:45. Sam had signed in at 7:55.
“Anyone verify Benton’s story?” I asked.
“All United Anesthesiologists employees have to punch in and out for security reasons. They keep drugs on-site. Benton punched in at eight thirty, according to the computer records.” Al grimaced. “By car, if you get the lights, his office is eight minutes from here. Add a couple minutes on both ends for getting to and from the car. Time of death was between eight and eight thirty. The text to you went out at seven fifty-eight, so Sam was alive then. Even if the timing worked, what’s Benton’s motive?”
“Let’s take it a step at a time. Could he have doctored the computer record at his office, no pun intended?”
“I had our geek take a look at his system. It’s tamper-proof, at least on the sign-in program.”
“Hmmm. What’s your take on Benton?”
Al gazed into the distance. “He’s a character…stuffy, formal. Misses his old partner, but enjoys running the show. He’s pretty wrapped up in his business and his patients. Admitted to a friendship with Brenda Haskins. They go out now and then.”
“Was he telling the truth?”
He gave me a quarter-smile. “Does anyone?”
I decided against bringing up Sam’s question to Brenda during our hearing. Even if she was cheating on her husband at the time he was killed, I had no credible proof that her paramour was Benton. She could have been carrying on with half the males of Joliet back then.
We lapsed into silence, two pairs of eyes searching the shambles of Sam’s chambers for a hint of what happened here a mere five days ago.
“Can I go through the drawers?”
“Help yourself,” Al waved.
I settled in at Sam’s working desk. The top drawer held the usual assortment of paper clips, ink refills, business cards, rubber bands, picture hangers, and other debris. Outdated fliers for legal seminars, months-old news clippings, and a broken shoelace resided in the middle drawer of the working desk. The bottom drawer seemed devoted to computer stuff: manuals, CDs, pamphlets, cables, a couple of discarded mice. I removed the contents of each drawer and sifted through it in painstaking detail, then dumped it back and repeated the process with the next drawer. When I was finished with the bottom drawer, I stared into the empty cavity. The lining appeared a trifle askew. I felt idly along the surface where the bottom and the side came together, watching Al’s profile across the room as he sat reviewing reports. The interior facing of the drawer felt flimsy and loose. I played around with it until I could pry it up with my fingernails, careful not to interrupt Tite. He was turned three-quarters away from me, deep into his work. Finally I lifted the lining far enough to stick one hand underneath. My fingers wrapped around a rectangular object that felt like a notebook. I palmed it and tucked it into my briefcase without examining it, then I slid my hand back into the concealed space and felt all around. Nothing else was hidden there. I pressed the lining securely back in place and returned all the sundry computer equipment to the drawer. I stood and stretched. We had been in Sam’s chambers for more than an hour. I walked to the couch and collapsed on it.
Al looked up from his papers.
“Who’s the perp?”
I made a face. “Beats me.”
“Ready to go?”
I had studiously ignored the bloodstained carpet behind the desk, but I was drawn to it like some are attracted to the twisted pile of metal after a fatal car wreck. My eyes crawled inch by inch across the rug until they found the henna-colored blotch. An apparition of Sam being savagely beaten by a faceless attacker appeared in the window. I shook my head to make the ghastly image dissolve.
Tite stood in front of me. I looked up curiously. He reached down, grasped me by the shoulders and gently lifted me till we were standing toe to toe. He released me, then, starting at the top of my blouse, his fingers softl
y traversed my throat and up my neck. When he got to my chin he lifted it slowly till our eyes met. He bent his head and brushed my lips with his. My whole body went tingly, like when you whack your funny bone. He wrapped his arms around me and we kissed warily. His tongue found mine and I suddenly felt like a washer on the “agitate” cycle.
He pulled back and his eyes searched my face. I stepped into him, put both arms around his neck and pulled his face down to mine. I met his lips with a passion or maybe a need that was shocking when I thought about it later. He came alive against me and in a moment was kissing my neck, my ears, my eyes. My legs wanted to crumble underneath me. As if he read my mind he lowered me onto the couch.
“Not here!” A voice in my head screamed. Tite’s hands were suddenly everywhere, squeezing, caressing, making me crazy. If I let him go another ten seconds I’d be at the point of no return.
“I want you!” I panted and entwined my fingers through his. “But this place, Sam’s chambers…I can’t.”
He pulled back, breathing like he had run up three flights of stairs. For a fraction of a second, I thought he’d run through the stop sign.
“Right.” He swallowed hard.
I struggled to a sitting position and ran my hand through his short bristly hair. He looked at me with a bashful smile and all my good intentions vanished quicker than a witness trying to avoid a subpoena.
My arms encircled his neck and our lips came together like the opposite poles of a magnet. He pushed between my knees and pressed me backward into the couch. His tongue explored my lips, my mouth, while his hands undid the buttons on my blouse and cast aside the bra. I felt his shoulder holster under his blazer; seconds later, he had stripped. His upper body was thick and heavily muscled, more like a fighter than a runner or swimmer. He found the zipper on my skirt and slid it and everything else down my hips. When he reached my ankles he discarded the clothes and started working his way back up. Somewhere an animal moaned.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured in my ear. The couch became our playground, used in ways the designers never intended. He brought me to the edge of frenzy and I never wanted it to stop.