The Sons of Jude

by Brandt Dodson

  “I already knew some of this,” Christy said. “He’s making up for his father.”

  Stackhouse nodded. “Yes. And isn’t it ironic that Andy is being accused of his father’s crime?”

  “It takes a lot of swing to pull off something like this,” Campello said. “This isn’t coming solely from the department. This is organized from outside the department.”

  The pastor shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, detective. A man’s reputation and his view of himself will be destroyed.”

  “It’s why he is the way he is, isn’t it?” Christy said. “He walks a straight line because he can’t escape being his father’s son.”

  The minister shook his head. “No, that’s only true in part, Ms. Lee. He walks as he does because he is a Christian and can walk no other. His faith is important to him. He knows he is being watched, not only by God, but by others who share or know of his faith, and this is also important to him.” He spread his hands. “Do you know of St. Jude?”

  Campello and Christy shook their heads.

  “To make a long story short, he is the patron saint of lost causes. And, I might add, the patron saint of the Chicago Police department.”

  Campello snorted. “Are we a lost cause, pastor?”

  Stackhouse shrugged. “Only if you surrender. The police stand between us and chaos. Andy takes his job seriously. He is a true son of Jude.”

  CHAPTER 44

  They drove to a coffee shop after leaving Polanski’s and sat at a table near a window that looked out onto Michigan Avenue. Grant Park was only just visible to the south, and the art museum to the north. But for the most part, they had an unhindered view of Lake Shore Drive and the lake beyond. The setting sun cast an orange hue across the wind-rippled water that reflected like a mirage against the darkening sky. Campello sat with one arm cast over the back of a chair as Christy stirred creamer into her coffee.

  “I’ve been dodging you for the better part of two years and now here we are, working to save the career of a man I detested just a few days ago.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Tell me about it. I didn’t care for you or your kind, and now I’m supposed to investigate charges against a police officer and help him clear his name.” She drank her coffee and wrinkled her nose before adding another sugar. She stirred the mixture and tasted the coffee again, this time without commentary.

  “There’s more to this than clearing Polanski. Something is wrong and it involves players at a higher level than the department.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, detective. You work in a very dark place.”

  He frowned. “What’s your problem, lady? Why do you hate the police so much?”

  She set the cup down and eyed him with suspicion. “I’ll make a deal. I’ll tell you why I don’t trust cops, but you tell me why you do. Deal?”

  “Deal. You first.”

  She cleared her throat, pausing to glance at the people walking along the sidewalk just outside the window. Most of them were bundled against the cold and were heading for cabs or buses. Some were heading to their homes in the city while others were looking for a quick ride to Union Station and the trains waiting to shuttle them home. She was facing south and nodded toward Grant Park.

  “My brother was arrested there.”

  Campello glanced briefly over his shoulder at the park. “Grant Park? So? A lot of people have been arrested and a lot of them in Grant Park.” He cocked one eyebrow and studied her sideways. “Were you here in sixty-eight?”

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t born yet.”

  “Your brother?”

  “No. He was older than me, but he wasn’t around then either.”

  Campello swirled the coffee, glancing into the cup. “What was he arrested for?”

  “Ben was a good kid. You understand that, right? Just because he was arrested doesn’t mean he was a bad kid or that our parents failed us.”

  Campello shrugged. “OK.”

  She stared at the darkening horizon. “Ben was easily led. He was a pleaser. He wanted to be accepted so badly.” She diverted her eyes to the table-top in front of her. “He fell in with the wrong crowd, as we used to say. He began doing drugs. Nothing hard. Pot, mostly. And he got caught at a street fair that was being held in the park, and he was arrested.”

  “That’s it? You hold it against the cops because your brother was busted for marijuana?”

  “Let me finish, OK. There’s more to it.”

  He held up both hands in surrender. “Sorry.”

  “He was arrested the same day and at the same location as an Alderman’s son. The Alderman’s son was released as soon as he was taken to the station. My brother was held over for arraignment and while he was waiting he was attacked.” Her eyes reddened. “There were four of them. They attacked him because he wouldn’t give up his seat.” Her lip quivered. “He was so small. So gentle. He didn’t have a chance.”

  She pulled a napkin from a holder on the table and dabbed at her eyes. “Ben was taken to the hospital. He had a concussion and slid into a coma before we could get to him. He lingered for several days but never regained consciousness.” She bit her lower lip, fixing her gaze on the darkening horizon. “When he died, my parents blamed each other. It wasn’t their fault, of course. But that didn’t stop the pain.” She sighed. “My parents divorced and my father killed himself not long afterward.” She shrugged. “That’s my story.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Yeah, well. If my brother had been politically connected he would be here now. The law wasn’t enforced equally. Someone took care of someone else because they had clout. My brother didn’t have anyone like that.”

  The server approached their table with the coffee pot in hand. She eyed Christy with concern, but refilled both cups and left without a word.

  “OK,” Christy said, dabbing at her eyes again. “Your turn.”

  “Nothing quite so dramatic, I’m afraid. My father was a cop and worked two shifts a lot of the time to make ends meet. My mother died when I was nine and I spent a lot of time alone. Occasionally, Dad would come home early or have a night off, but he was usually so tired he didn’t have time for me. I was always a bit of a loner.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “Being alone now is one of my greatest fears.”

  “It is for a lot of people,” she said.

  “It was for my Dad, too. A string of floozies followed after my mother’s death, but before long, he remarried. I’d like to tell you that my stepmother and I got along, but I’d be lying. I hated her from the start and she hated me. They divorced in short order.” He shrugged. “Anyway, that went on a couple of times and this last one left when Dad got sick.”

  “Sick?”

  “He has Alzheimer’s. He’s in Marimar.”

  “Oh.”

  “But it wasn’t all doom and gloom. We did some things together. not much, maybe, but some. We share a love of classic cars. He helped me restore the ’65 Corvette I have.”

  “That’s something,” she said.

  He grinned. “Yeah, it’s something. And I became a cop, like my old man. And the department became my family. My closest friends are on the job. I love what I do and I dread the day I have to retire.” he sipped the coffee.

  “So…” she hesitated. The mask of self-assurance and bravado had fallen. Campello watched her, intrigued. He was attracted to her vulnerability.

  “I guess we understand things a little better now,” she said. “Know where each other is coming from.”

  He nodded slowly, smiling reassuringly. “I think so. We’re a lot alike, you and me. This thing we’re going to do… it’s not going to be easy.”

  She flashed a small grin. “Nothing good ever is.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Polanski’s arrest had the anticipated effect. Rioting continued as it had the previous nights, but the tone was greatly subdued. The level of violence was significantly less, the amount of damage had decreased, and the number of the participants wa
s a fraction of what it had been. The sudden change did not go unnoticed by the department’s brass nor by Alderman Aaron Green. He called for a hastily arranged late-morning news conference and stood before the microphones with the Chief of Police on one side and his impeccably dressed son on the other. Peter’s arrest had made the news, but had been quickly overshadowed by the charges pending against Polanski, Peter’s chief accuser.

  The press conference was held at City Hall and Christy was determined to be there. Here was one political announcement she did not want to miss.

  The press had jammed into the center of City Hall, behind a line barrier. A microphone and a small podium bearing the seal of the City of Chicago were in place. Despite Christy’s best efforts, she arrived later than planned and was standing near the back of the crowd when Aaron Green, Peter, and the Chief of Police emerged from behind the closed door of Green’s City Hall office and marched the podium. She spotted an opening to her right and began nudging her way through the pack of journalists. By the time Aaron, Peter and the Chief were in their predetermined positions, she had made it to the second row and a position that would put her eye to eye with the alderman. Somber-faced, he began with an opening statement as he read from prepared notes.

  “It is with a heavy heart that I have become aware of the recent charges filed against Chicago Police Department detective Andy Polanski. Detective Polanski appeared to be a rising star with the department when he stood firm in his allegations against two police officers.”

  He looked across the crowd of reporters that had gathered. “All of you are aware the recent riots have been attributable in no small measure to Mr. Polanksi’s allegations. His charges were investigated and appeared to have merit. Unfortunately, the premature leak of the investigation was ill received by a public that thirsts for equal justice under the law. The resultant outburst has led to millions of dollars in property damage, hundreds of arrests, and the tarnishing of Chicago’s public face. It would now appear that Mr. Polanski’s allegations are questionable, at best, in light of his recent arrest and the developing evidence which would suggest an ulterior motive for his charges against officers Caine and Dorchester.

  “I have made it my mission since becoming an Alderman always to support the police and aid them in their quest to keep the peace and protect the citizens of Chicago. The recent charges against one of our city’s finest have not deterred me from that mission. But I do think it is fair to point out that my son has been repeatedly harassed by detective Polanski and has suffered arrest on two occasions. In each case, he has been released for lack of evidence when cooler heads prevailed.

  “The recent riots, the terrible damage to the reputation of officers Caine and Dorchester and the two arrests of my son are but a few examples of the damage that can occur when a single public servant violates the trust that has been placed in him. Not only has he violated our confidence, but he has persuaded others to do the same. And while I do not believe we can label an entire department guilty of having the same lack of character that detective Polanski is alleged to have, I also must say that this type of behavior cannot be tolerated.”

  He cleared his throat. The Chief of Police looked solemnly ahead while Peter stood with his hands behind his back, staring at his father with the doe-like look that spouses of politicians often feign while on the campaign trail.

  “Detective Polanski will face a review by the IPRA this morning. Pending that, I will launch an independent investigation, recusing myself from any personal participation, given that detective Polanski and his team have pursued my son with abandon.”

  He glanced at his notes and then folded them, sliding them into the breast pocket of his coat. “On a positive note, the decrease in the violence of last night should serve as an indicator that the participants in the previous nights of unrest were not doing so merely for greed. If that were the case, Mr. Polanski’s arrest would not have affected the level of rioting as it has.”

  He scanned the audience for a reaction, but seeing none, said, “I will take a few questions.”

  Before anyone could react, Christy said, “Alderman Green, it seems to me that only detective Polanski is being held on charges while an entire department went after your son. How is it possible that one aberrant detective was so persuasive in convincing others to help him in his vendetta?”

  Green cleared his throat. “Ms. Lee, I am not suggesting that detective Polanski is on a vendetta. I will wait until all the facts have been presented before I render an opinion. But I am saying that Mr. Polanski is facing some serious charges of his own and this brings into question all of his actions, professional or otherwise. My son has been arrested twice and twice he has been set free. And—”

  “Charges were filed the second time, correct?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, that is correct, Ms. Lee. But again, he was allowed to walk free and those charges were dismissed.”

  She was about to follow up when a curvy blonde from one of the network affiliates muscled her way in with a follow-up question:

  “Kimberly Crane,” the blonde said. “Unless I have misunderstood you, sir, you have said that the riots were due in no small part to Polanski’s allegations, and you have hinted that the sudden drop in the violence last night could be attributable to the dispelling of his allegations in light of his arrest. Was Mr. Polanski made the scapegoat in order to achieve control of the violence?”

  Christy was astounded. The woman’s question was insightful, even if she did look like a mannequin auditioning for a spot on a national news show.

  “Young lady—”

  “Kimberly,” she said. “Kimberly Crane.”

  He cleared his throat. “Ms. Crane, I resent your implication that Mr. Polanski was in any way framed or otherwise maligned in order to discredit his testimony and use that as leverage to gain control over the rioting. The good men and women of the Chicago Police Department have met the unrest with resistance that has cost them a great deal in manpower, time, and personal injury.” A sardonic grin enlivened his face. “If a simple frame job of Mr. Polanski was all it was going to take, I can assure you they would have done it a long time ago.”

  Laughter rose from the audience as other hands went up and a stew of shouted questions arose. But Christy had all she needed. Now she would wait to hear from Campello.

  CHAPTER 46

  Frank Campello had spent part of the night tracking down Caine and Dorchester. Though he knew the men, his relationship with them had been confined to the professional, the cross-sharing of leads that inevitably arise between adjacent police districts. But he managed to find them and offered to buy them a beer if they would be willing to talk off the record about their experiences with Polanski. Discovering that Campello was Polanski’s new partner, they jumped at the chance, and by the time Campello arrived at Jeep’s, both men were sitting in a corner booth along the wall opposite the bar, each of them with an open bottle in front of him. Christopher Caine sat on the side of the booth facing the door. He raised a hand and grinned broadly when Campello entered, gesturing for him to join them. The bar had just opened and the two were the only patrons in the place. Campello walked to their booth, shook hands with both of them, and slid next to Sean Dorchester.

  “You guys been here long?”

  Caine grabbed a handful of nuts from the bowl on the table.

  Dorchester said, “Naw. We just got here. Seems like this is the only place we can go, now. You know? Cops are always welcome at Jeep’s.”

  Campello caught the eye of the bartender, pointing at the bottles on the table. The man acknowledged him, pulling a bottle from beneath the bar and popping open the cap.

  “I know,” Campello said. “But take some peace from this. Polanski is in hot water himself and that may be a plus for you guys.”

  “Amen,” Caine said, high-fiving Dorchester.

  “Listen,” Campello said, pausing as the bartender set the bottle on the table, “tell me what you know about Polanski.”r />
  “What’s there to tell?” Dorchester said. “You ought to know him by now. You’re working with him, right?”

  Campello shrugged and took a long swallow from the bottle. “I only worked with him a few days and then he got arrested.”

  “Serves him right,” Caine said.

  Campello nodded and swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Tell me about it. Speaking of which,” he grinned broadly, “what can you tell me about the weasel that’ll help me out?”

  The two men gave each other knowing looks.

  “He’s as straight as they come, Frank. A regular by-the-book kind of guy,” Dorchester said.

  “Except in his case, that ain’t good,” Caine said, waving a dismissive hand over the table.

  “Absolutely not,” Dorchester agreed, lifting his bottle. “We’re not talking about straight as in being a stand-up guy. We’re talking about straight as in, ‘I’ll put you on report.’”

  Caine laughed. “Yeah. Hey, Frank, did you ever see that movie called…” He looked at Dorchester. “What was the name of that movie? The one where the psyche attendant is mugged and the four crazies that’s with him go loose on the town?”

  “The Dream Team.”

  Caine snapped his fingers. “Yeah, that’s it, The Dream Team. Ever see it, Frank?”

  Campello shook his head.

  “They got this one crazy in the movie, played by Christopher Lloyd, and he goes around town with a clipboard threatening to put everybody on report.” He laughed. “Just like Polanski. Just like Polanski.” He laughed again and swigged the beer.

  “Except in this case,” Campello said, “somebody listened to him.”

  The two men grew serious.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Dorchester said. “Somebody paid attention to him and now we’re in trouble.”

  Campello glanced around the room. They were still the only customers in the place and the bartender was occupied with a game show playing on the TV suspended over the bar.