by Val Bruech
“That’s crazy. I haven’t found out squat about who killed Sam.”
“You’re getting close to something even if you don’t realize it.” His mouth was set in a grim line. “What haven’t you told me?”
I leaned back into the pillows and closed my eyes. A minute passed. I felt my cheek being stroked, then his finger traced my lips. When I opened my eyes his face was inches away. The shadow of a beard hadn’t been there this morning. No, that was several mornings ago. I brushed my hand gently over the bristles.
“Susan, listen. This isn’t about you and me. It’s about stopping a killer and making sure you’re not the next victim.”
“Oh.” An intriguing idea jumped into my head. “Are you sure it isn’t about you and me?”
He leaned back uncertainly.
“Let’s disconnect this.” I grabbed the IV eagerly.
“Listen!” He vaulted off the bed and glared down at me. “Next time it won’t be a sling and some pain pills. Next time, we’ll find you in a Dumpster. Tell me what you’ve been doing!”
“I know there’s something between us,” I said in a measured tone. “Something very nice. But if you think you can intimidate me like some third-rate car thief, you better go back to the frickin’ police academy.”
If I was my normal, healthy self I’d be doing a hair-standing-on-end rant but today a heavy fog slowed me down. Tite started to retort, then caught himself. We remained motionless for several seconds.
“Okay. I’m sorry I came on so strong.” He looked right at me with gray eyes that were now soft. “I need to tell you something.”
“I bet you don’t bully other witnesses like this!”
“No,” he said evenly, “I don’t. But other witnesses don’t go off on their own, dig under rocks, and generally make themselves targets.”
“The only rocks are the ones in your head!” I retorted.
His mouth tightened and his eyes lost their softness. “You’re way too stubborn to stop chasing whoever you’re chasing. And to be honest, you bring a…unique insight to the process. So here’s my offer. You promise to tell me ahead of time what you plan to do and let me clear it. In return, I’ll keep you in the loop.”
I stared at him. “I have to clear stuff with you?”
“Play it this way and the investigation moves forward. You stay out of trouble, and even though I’m breaking all the rules, I get to keep my badge as long as our little deal stays between us.”
His proposal filtered through my cerebral cortex. “It’s all about you, isn’t it, Tite? Keep the show rolling, hang on to your badge, throw me a bone so I don’t gum up the works. That’s what’s going on here, isn’t it?”
His eyes squeezed shut. When he finally opened them, I saw only pain.
“Offer’s open. You decide.” He wheeled and was gone. Too bad I didn’t have anything to throw at him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Kelly brought me home from the hospital, fluffed up my pillow, and turned off the ringer on the phone. I wondered what mayhem my clients had committed during my three-day absence and whether any of them had been caught. Then the feel-good pills kicked in, and I didn’t worry about anything anymore.
Monica, who handles my work at the firm, stopped by in the afternoon. I devoured the chocolate Bismarcks she brought, but the briefcase full of mail made me gag. We patched up my wrecked schedule, put out the worst fires and battled through the mail and phone messages. An old client and friend, Jimmy Ray Peterson, had called the office several times but wouldn’t say why. We penciled him in for eleven the next day, Friday.
George Vollrath, the first assistant state’s attorney, called late in the afternoon. George possessed a keen legal mind and, unlike most prosecutors, could work with and had a sincere respect for the defense bar. He had survived several regime changes in the office of his boss, the elected state’s attorney, and was the main reason that office enjoyed a reputation for integrity.
“How’s the loyal opposition?”
“I have a grave head injury which causes an inability to negotiate anything. I demand a speedy trial on all my files.”
“Susan, you sound like your ornery old self.”
“Come witness the carnage.”
“I’ll drop by about five.”
I chanced a look in the mirror. Jagged scratches littered the face that stared back at me. A nasty yellow-green bruise decorated one cheekbone. No make-up, arm in a sling. I looked like a victim of serious domestic abuse.
A few minutes after five, the bell rang and I opened the door to a sight out of a French cartoon: George, whose girth matched his height, clutched a bouquet of balloons in one hand while he examined me over the top of his half-glasses.
“What’s the other guy look like?”
“Not as pretty as me. Want a drink?”
“Scotch, thanks.”
I escorted him into the great room. A crescent-shaped, plum-colored leather sofa sat in the middle of the large space. In front of it, a sheet of oval glass was balanced on top of a large, egg-shaped black marble rock. A large Persian rug lent some color to the stark setting. I don’t have a lot of material possessions, but I enjoy the ones I have.
I poured him a stiff one, no rocks. His imbibing habits were familiar to me from hours spent waiting for jury verdicts together in bars where a glass of Two-Buck Chuck was the most expensive wine in the house.
“Where’s yours?”
“Pain pills.” I looked longingly at his glass.
“Well, here’s to ya.” He saluted and sipped appreciatively. The balloon bouquet he brought was weighted with a heavy mouse. We amused ourselves by watching Fur bat it around and chase madly after it.
“Word is you’re nosing around about Sam.”
“Whatever happened to the right to privacy?” I groaned.
George shrugged noncommittally. “Did you know he worked in the state’s attorney’s office when he first started out?”
I shrugged. “Everybody’s a little misguided at the beginning of their careers.”
“Did he ever tell you how he came to leave the office?”
“Can’t say we ever talked about it.”
“Well, I’ll make it brief. There were so few of us back then that you could be trying a murder case a year after you hired on. Not like today where you spend two years in misdemeanor and DUI court before you can touch a felony file. Well, Sam got a homicide over in Flagger’s Park—a ball game that got out of hand, lopsided score, too much beer. The cops turned up a couple of eyeballs who swore the guy we had in custody didn’t do it. Remember, this was the dark ages, before we had to give exculpatory material to the defense. Matter of fact, in those days we didn’t give ’em anything. We tried cases by the seat of our pants.”
The exchange of witness lists and statements between prosecution and defense in criminal cases was a fact of my legal life, mandated on the theory that if each side knew the other side’s case, more trials would settle and judges wouldn’t have to work so hard. But these rules of engagement were of relatively recent vintage in the history of the law.
“In any event, Sam thought it only fair that the defense attorney know about the witnesses. He told the boss, guy named Bassini, that he wanted to give the attorney the statements, and the boss put his foot down: absolutely not; we had no legal obligation; our job was to convict the bad guy; there was lots of evidence, etcetera.”
“So what happened?”
“Sam argued with Bassini, gave him all the reasons cited later by courts in support of open discovery: due process, fair trial, fifth amendment, the defendant’s limited funds for investigation versus trained police professionals…” George shook his head sadly. “Bassini tore up the witness statements in front of Sam and told him the next thing he wanted to hear about the case was a conviction.”
I looked at George expectantly.
“Sam gave copies of the reports to the defense attorney, the witnesses testified, and the case ended in a hung ju
ry. Sam was fired when the boss found out about it, but his letter of resignation was already on Bassini’s desk.”
“You’re telling me this because…?”
He swirled the contents of his glass, frowning deeply.
“I had the highest respect for Sam after that incident, and in the thirty years since, he did nothing to diminish that respect. Ditto for you, Susan, although we don’t have that kind of history. But here’s the rub: you’re a lawyer, not a homicide investigator. What you do, you do very well. But you’re dealing with a killer here. He’ll get desperate if he thinks you’re close, and you won’t know what hit you.”
Fur grew bored with the mouse and wrapped herself around George’s ankles. He scratched her ears absent-mindedly.
“Who’ve you been talking to?” I asked, although I knew the answer.
“Susan.” His glass crashed to the table. Startled, Fur darted away. “Are you listening, or am I wasting my time here?”
I stared out the window till George’s voice ceased reverberating through the room.
“I’m listening. George, what happened to me was random. It has nothing to do with Sam. I know you’ve been talking to Tite. He’s just all huffy because…whatever.”
George eyed me over the top of his glasses. “Tite whispered in my ear, yes. I don’t know what’s going on with the two of you, and it’s none of my business.” George belched quietly. “Al’s just trying to keep the homicide statistics down.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Susan, you’re in way over your head on this.”
“Don’t look at me in that tone of voice.”
“We lost one great lawyer this week. Don’t make it two.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jimmy Ray Peterson strolled in at 1:30, wearing a straw Fedora and painted-on blue jeans.
“Hey, Ms. Marshfield.” He inspected my face. “Either everything I hear is true or you got one mean kitty cat.”
“She’s a nice kitty,” I said. “What do you hear?”
Jimmy Ray was a former drug client for whom a court-ordered rehab program actually worked. Now instead of dealing dope, he deals information, mostly to the cops. I don’t know what he gets in return, and I don’t want to.
He gave me a sideways glance. “This place ain’t bugged, is it, Ms. Marshfield?”
“What do I look like, the President of the United States? I’m an attorney, Jimmy. There’s a law in this state that says I can’t tape you without your permission.”
“Right.” He slid into a client chair, lanky legs outstretched. “Ms. Marshfield, you must be feeling better if you’re back at work.”
“Yeah.” Jimmy’s attempt at small talk was as transparent as Cling Wrap.
I waited while his eyes searched every corner of the room. Apparently satisfied, he leaned over the desk, motioning me to lean toward him. “Someone put a hit on you,” he whispered.
My pen halted above my legal pad. “Tell me more.”
“Word is some Mexes got paid to take you out.”
A strange tingly feeling swept over me. Fear? Vulnerability? Bad eggs for breakfast?
“You okay, Ms. Marshfield?” He looked as concerned as I felt.
“Been better. What else have you heard, Jimmy?”
“Weather’s gettin’ nicer, you know, and folks is startin’ to hang out again. I ran into three Mexes I know and we started talkin’ about you.”
“Me?”
“Not that you’re my lawyer or nuttin’, just about what was in the paper. Kinda unusual, y’know, lady lawyer getting’ um…” He looked sheepish.
“Uh-huh.”
“They rappin’ and tellin’ me a coupla their buddies took off outta state that day ’cause they was paid to mess you over.”
“Who paid them?”
“Dunno, Ms. Marshfield,” he shook his head. “I truly don’t.”
“Who were the guys in the woods?”
“I tried to find out without looking too…” He searched for the word.
“Nosey,” I supplied.
“Yeah. I can’t let them think I’s a snitch, ya know.”
“Of course not, Jimmy. What did they say?”
“They didn’t. They mighta knew but they weren’t gonna tell me.”
“How about the guys you were talking to? Who are they?”
“I only know their street names. The one with lots of muscles, his name Moby ’cause he’s so strong. The other two are normal size. Younger one is Teach; the other they call Nasty.”
“You know where they live?”
“I guess with all the rest, over by Du Champs on the east side.”
The Hispanic enclave, probably more than ten thousand people.
He leaned forward. “Whacha goin’ to do, Ms. Marshfield?”
I expelled a lung full of air. “For starters, I’m not going to jog alone in the forest preserve anymore. You think you can dig a little deeper?”
“I’ll keep listening, Miss Marshfield, and I’ll let you know.” Jimmy unfolded himself from the chair.
“You can leave a message anytime, day or night. I want to know who paid those guys.” I found a fifty in my purse and handed it to him. “For your trouble.”
“I didn’t do this fo’ the money, Ms. Marshfield,” he protested. “You been there when I needed you: I just thought you should know what’s goin’ on.”
“You’re right about that. But it’d make me feel better. You’ve spent time here you could’ve been out…working.”
“Since you put it that way…” He grinned and stuffed the bill in his pocket. “You think there’s a chance of finding those guys between here and the border?”
A straight line between Joliet and the border would cover about twelve hundred miles, but there was no straight road. There were hundreds of ways to get there and thousands of places to hide on the way. I trusted Jimmy to tell me exactly what he heard, but it could be Moby, Teach, and Nasty were just running off at the mouth.
“Zip,” I replied sadly. “It’s too big a country.”
Jimmy touched his fingers to his hat in a mock salute. “Be in touch.”
I did a mental checklist of the people I had sought information from since Sam’s murder. The list didn’t make me quiver with fright. But Al was right when he said I was getting close to something. What?
I fought to keep the image of a garbage-filled Dumpster out of my head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The good news was I caused someone to be concerned. The bad news was I had no idea who or how I had done so. I left the office, walked north up Chicago Street past the mix of last-century office buildings and brand new commercial pavilions and sat on a wood bench a few blocks from the office. I reviewed everything I’d done, every conversation I’d had, since Sam’s death. Who was trying to scare me off? How was I a threat?
The bright sunshine allayed the vague sense of dread that bubbled up in my gut like bicarbonate of soda. On the way back, I saw Moses on the other side of the street. There was no reason for me to cross, but I did. He was sitting on his canvas camp chair, staring straight ahead with a hint of a scowl on his face. An open cardboard box lay at his feet, a few lonely quarters in the bottom. I saw no evidence of his radio.
“I miss your music.”
He lifted his head up at me and shrugged. I pulled out a twenty and dropped it in the box. His eyes grew large, and he quickly snatched up the bill.
“Did you run out of batteries?”
He shrugged again but a smile spilt his face revealing teeth the color of butternut squash.
“You get something good to eat. Okay?”
When I got back to the office, I e-mailed Monica and asked her to make a list of the local gun shops and their hours. Then I caught up on paperwork before a doctor’s appointment at five. He told me no swimming for a few weeks, but easy biking and walking were fine. No weights with the upper body and physical therapy was a good idea.
I picked up the paper on the way home
and read it with dinner. A story about a local cop being on the take caught my attention. The article said Larry Malone allegedly took bribes to “divert” investigations. He was suspended pending review. I knew him: a big, beefy sergeant who looked like he passed his last physical a decade ago.
I put on some Eagles but couldn’t get into the music. Jimmy’s news and Malone’s suspension gnawed at me like carpenter ants feasting on new construction. I called Al but he wasn’t in, so I left a voice mail. I fed the cat and was getting comfy with a book when the phone rang. It was Tite.
“Hello.”
“What’s going on?”
“When will you be off?”
“Say what?”
“I…I need to talk.”
The phone was quiet.
“What about?”
“I was a little…snippy the last time I saw you.”
“Snippy.” He tested the word.
Bedlam erupted in the background.
“Gotta go.”
Click.
I had little to lose by pushing the good lieutenant for information: the worst he could do was to tell me to get lost, and he’d probably do that anyway.
Saturday morning was sunny, no wind, temperature in the fifties. I dutifully checked in with Kelly and told her I was going for a walk. I warmed up slowly, and was soon churning along at a twelve-minute-mile clip. But when I tried to jog, the forest preserve incident was brought back with sudden, painful clarity.
Back at home, I let Kelly know I was safe and sound. Then Al called.
“What happened yesterday?” I asked.
“Patrolman was shot from an alley in the south end. He’s in the hospital; could have been a lot worse.”
“Did you find the shooter?”
“We think so, but he’s clammed up so far.”
“You okay?”
“There’s a lot going on right now,” he said in a subdued voice.
The evil of people who do bad things and the desperation of those who have bad things done to them are the front lines of a cop’s life. We lawyers have the luxury of sorting it out later. Sympathy for Al fluttered up and tried to fly.