by Lee Strobel
At the time he made that call, Bullock felt braced by a bold sense of confidence that this was the best — in fact, the only — path open to him. He was actually rather surprised at his own bravado in leaving such an incendiary message with McKelvie’s secretary.
Now, however, his valor was beginning to whither. These chambers were such an unusual — and alien — place for a pastor’s kid from the farm fields of rural Ohio. If it was McKelvie’s intention to figuratively kick his confidence out from under him, he had already succeeded before their conversation even began. It was those eyes that did it.
Bullock shot a quick prayer toward heaven, then opened his mouth and said in an even, non–threatening tone: “I know about Tom O’Sullivan.” He was glad to have gotten out the words without his voice cracking.
The judge’s demeanor didn’t change one iota; his laser–beam gaze didn’t falter. When he replied, his tone was impatient: “You know what about Mr. O’Sullivan? That he suffered an unfortunate demise by being in the wrong place at the wrong time? That he was a second–rate attorney losing the fight against his gambling addiction?”
“Anyone ever tell you not to speak ill of the dead?” Art shifted nervously in his chair; it was all he could do to maintain his poise. “Tom O’Sullivan told me everything.”
McKelvie let out an exasperated sigh. “Reverend Bullock, I don’t know what you think you know. In my experience, Mr. O’Sullivan was a psychologically troubled individual who came from a family that was mired in corruption and lies. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. And I have no idea about anything involving Mr. O’Sullivan that would have any bearing on me whatsoever. So please don’t waste any more of my time with — “
Now, the anger began to rise inside of Art Bullock. In his role as a pastor, similar to O’Sullivan’s experience with self–serving legal clients, Art had seen too many clearly guilty individuals who would recoil from the truth and manufacture all sorts of excuses and lies and cover stories to avoid taking any responsibility for what they’ve done. Cheating husbands, out–of–control alcoholics, porn–addicted staff members — they would deny everything until he would calmly produce irrefutable contrary evidence, upon which their phony façade would crumble in front of his eyes.
Art Bullock may be the nice guy from Ohio, he may be the genial backup preacher who oozes empathy, but if there was one thing he refused to tolerate, it was blatant deception by those who would compound their sin through hollow denials. He wasn’t going to start now.
“All right, let me be more specific. Thomas Ryan O’Sullivan III was in debt to members of the crime syndicate. They prevailed on him to come in here and give you a thirty thousand dollar payoff to steer the Nick Moretti case to a crooked judge, Sepulveda.”
McKelvie’s ruddy complexion reddened as he violently walloped his desk with his open hand, the crack causing Art to recoil in his chair. “Don’t you dare march in here and throw around accusations like that! I should have you arrested for contempt.”
Art pointed toward McKelvie’s desk. “You’re the one who accepted the bribe — in fact, you slid the envelope into the top drawer of this very desk. And you did your part — Judge Sepulveda got the case.”
“Ridiculous! You can’t steer a case. The computer assigns the judges, not me.”
“Don’t patronize me, Judge. You and I both know that the computer algorithm is based on the caseload of the judges and that by monkeying around behind the scenes you have a good chance of steering the case wherever you want.”
“Outrageous!” he declared, throwing up his arms in frustration. “Did Tom O’Sullivan tell you that despicable story? Lies — “
“He did. He confessed everything to me.”
“As his pastor?”
“That’s right.”
“In private?”
“Yes.”
McKelvie leaned over his desk and wagged his finger as if he were scolding a toddler. “Well, as we both know, Mr. O’Sullivan happens to be dead. A most unfortunate incident during a fast–food holdup — a very sad situation. So do you know what you have, Reverend Bullock? Let me tell you: you have hearsay; nothing more than a dead man’s lies. You’ve marched in here with no proof whatsoever and made outlandish accusations that are defamatory and damaging and that aren’t admissible in a court of law. I warn you, Reverend — if you spread these vile lies, I will sue you until you’ve got nothing left. And I’ll sue your church too, and strip it of everything but the steeple. You don’t know who you’re taking on. I suggest you leave right now!”
Art ignored McKelvie’s finger that was pointing sternly toward the door. He slowly leaned in the judge’s direction, as if he were going to let him in on a secret. “Judge McKelvie,” he said, almost in a whisper, “I’ve got it all on tape.”
McKelvie shrank back in his chair like a balloon that lost its air. “Preposterous. What do you mean — on tape?”
“Think back. Your bailiff frisked me when I came in here. Nobody searched Tom O’Sullivan that morning. He had a microrecorder in the inner pocket of his suit coat. I’ve heard your voice, Judge McKelvie. I’ve listened to that tape a dozen times. I can quote you verbatim. Your bailiff asked if he should search him, and you said, ‘No, he’s okay. I knew his dad. We did a lot of deals together.’ “
McKelvie’s face fell.
“It’s all there,” Art continued. “You can hear the squeak of your desk drawer opening and closing when you slid in the envelope. You describe how the computer can be rigged — you called it a ‘wrinkle’ in the system. You told your bailiff to fix the report on Judge Sepulveda’s caseload through Christine in his office. It’s all there, Judge. Every word. Including the part where you say, ‘I will make every effort to get the case to Sepulveda. If I succeed, I keep the money. But if I don’t succeed, I still keep the money.’ “
McKelvie’s eyes narrowed. He stroked his chin, collecting thoughts. Then he spoke: “You’ve committed a felony, Reverend Bullock.”
“I’ve committed a felony?”
“Under Illinois law, it’s illegal to record a conversation without the permission of every single participant unless there’s court approval in advance. And it’s illegal to disclose to anybody — anybody, Reverend Bullock — what’s contained on an illegal tape. It’s a felony punishable by a term in the state penitentiary.”
He was right. Many years ago, when the FBI sent informants onto the floor of the Illinois General Assembly to surreptitiously record the passing of bribes, the lawmakers responded not by halting bribes but by enacting a law making it a crime to record any conversation without the permission of every individual who was participating. And they made it criminal to disclose the contents of any such tape. For Illinois politicians, this reaction made perfect sense.
“So, Reverend Bullock, I’m certainly not conceding that any such recording is in existence. But hypothetically, if it were to be, then you’d be in possession of a tape that was illegally made, which cannot be admitted into evidence in any courtroom anywhere, and which is unlawful for you to possess, or to quote from, or to play for any human being. Do you understand that? Now,” he declared, stretching out his hand, “if such a phony and doctored tape does exist, then hand it over to me right now. That’s a judicial order!”
“Do you think I’d be stupid enough to bring the tape with me?”
“Then where is it?”
Art bit his lip; he hadn’t expected to be pushed this far into a corner so quickly. “I sent it in a package to the top investigative reporter at the Examiner,” he said. “I gave him strict instructions not to open it unless he either hears from me or something happens to me. I’m sure he’s got it in a secure place.”
“It’s illegal for him to even listen to it.”
“Frankly, Judge, I don’t think he would care. And I don’t think he would care that it’s inadmissible in a court of law. That’s not the point. My goal isn’t to try to put you in prison.”
“What is y
our goal?”
“To undo what you’ve done. Number one, for you to donate the thirty thousand dollars to charity. Number two, for you to withdraw your name from consideration for the Senate. Number three, for you to persuade Judge Sepulveda to withdraw from the Moretti case and let the computer randomly assign it to someone else. And number four, for you to announce your retirement from the bench.”
“Blackmail!”
“No, it’s justice, Judge McKelvie. Or have you forgotten what that word means?”
Drained of his bluster, his options quickly dissipating, McKelvie downshifted his tone. “Who have you told these lies to?”
“I’m telling the truth — and I haven’t told anybody but you. Tom O’Sullivan disclosed this to me in a pastoral confession. I cannot repeat the conversation to anyone — except for those people who already know what happened, like you. I want that to be crystal clear for you and Dominic Bugatti and all of his friends. I will not, and cannot, disclose the contents of my conversation with Tom O’Sullivan. I am ethically bound not to.”
“And the tape?”
“You don’t have any idea what Tom told me to do with the tape. You don’t know his instructions to me — and you don’t want to take any chances with that. Do you really want to risk that I’ll keep it under wraps? I’m not making idle demands here.”
“If O’Sullivan gave you that tape as part of his pastoral confession, then that means you’re ethically required to keep it confidential.”
“Let’s concentrate on what you’re required to do,” Bullock replied. “By the end of the day Friday, I want to hear in the media that you’ve withdrawn from the Senate race. By the end of next week, I want to read that Judge Sepulveda has removed himself from the Moretti case.”
McKelvie rolled his eyes. “Do you think this is a game? Nobody imposes demands on me! This is a bluff and you know it. There’s no tape because there was never any bribe. I would have shoved that money right down O’Sullivan’s throat! All you’ve got, Reverend Bullock, are tall tales spun by a sociopath from a disgraced family that has absolutely no credibility in this city. And to top it off, he’s no longer breathing.”
“Do you really want to gamble that I’m bluffing?”
“You’re the one who’s taking a chance. You lose, Reverend Bullock. You lose because this alleged bribe never happened except in the rancid imagination of a bitter liar.”
The two of them locked eyes for a few moments, and then Art slowly stood to his feet as he let an ever–so–slight smile flicker on his face.
“You may think you’re above the law,” he said, taking a step toward the door. “But there’s a higher law — and you can’t outsmart it, or talk your way out of it, or escape it. The truth, Judge McKelvie, is that you lose.”
III
“We’re here because we’ve been running into dead ends.”
Detective Mark Bekins saw no reason to varnish the truth with Phillip Taylor. Bekins and Sarah Crowley, clad in civilian clothes, were seated side–by–side on a floral upholstered couch in the house of Taylor’s daughter, where he had been staying since the night after the holdup and slayings.
Taylor, who hadn’t worked since that traumatic experience, was sitting on a brown recliner, though in its upright position. He was wearing workout pants, a dark T–shirt, and flip–flops; his face bore the stubble of a week without shaving. He looked haggard and pale and a few pounds lighter than when they had seen him last.
“I heard on the radio that you found the cook,” Taylor said. He sounded tired but he seemed to draw optimism from the mere prospect of progress in the case.
“Yeah, we did, and we ran him through the wringer,” Crowley replied. “We even put him on the box — the polygraph.”
“How did that go?”
“The conclusion was that Mr. Ramirez is telling the truth — he fled the scene because he was afraid of getting sent back to Mexico. He has no idea who the gunman is and had no advanced knowledge of the crime. In fact, he’s been fully cooperating with us. Personally, I’m convinced he’s innocent.”
Bekins winced. “I’m not quite there yet. I still have my suspicions, but we certainly don’t have a case against him at this point.”
Crowley continued. “We also questioned Mr. O’Sullivan’s secretary, Beth Mullins. Do you know her?”
“Only spoke with her on the phone a few times when I was calling Tom. Has she been helpful?”
“As much as she can be. We threatened to subpoena O’Sullivan’s computer and, of course, she balked because of attorney–client privilege. There’s probably a lot of sensitive material on it. We may go after it yet.”
“Can you do that?”
“Possibly. We could arrange for a judge to go through it for us so we don’t breach the confidentiality of any clients. He can provide us with whatever might be relevant to our investigation and which doesn’t violate any secrecy. It’s an option.”
“She did provide a list of clients that are part of the public record,” added Bekins. “When an attorney files an appearance in court on behalf of a defendant, that’s public information. So we’ve got that list, and it’s probably a good portion of his practice. We’ve been screening those names. Haven’t found anything pertinent yet, but we’ve got a couple of guys working on it.”
Crowley spoke up again. “But in Mrs. Mullins’ opinion, a holdup like this doesn’t fit the MO of his clientele. For the most part, O’Sullivan represented career criminals — generally, they’re pros. Street punks who hold up fast–food joints usually can’t afford an attorney; they end up with a public defender.”
Phillip rubbed the bristles on his cheeks as he thought through the implications. “Maybe this was just a random robbery, then. Is that what you’re thinking?”
Crowley and Bekins glanced at each other, then focused back on Taylor. “What we’re about to tell you is confidential,” Bekins said.
“Of course.”
He leaned forward. “Too many things don’t add up. First, why would someone hold up a hot dog stand at five in the afternoon? That makes no sense. It’s before the dinner rush; the cash register’s going to be pretty empty. The time to rob a restaurant is at the end of the night, when all the dinner receipts are in there.”
Crowley inched to the edge of the couch. “Second,” she said, “there were much easier targets in the same neighborhood. Nikki’s has glass walls — what punk would want to pull a holdup in a place with glass walls? There were easier places to hit down the block — a currency exchange, a jeweler, a pawn shop. And if the gunman’s motive was robbery, why didn’t he rifle through the cash register after he shot Gamos and O’Sullivan? Or demand your wallets? He left without a dime.”
“And third,” added Bekins, “you said he was wearing latex gloves.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I can’t remember the last time I had a case in which some street punk wore latex gloves to hold up a fast–food joint. Usually, these crimes are committed by drug addicts desperate for cash. They don’t do a lot of advanced planning. But this guy stole a motorcycle — and, by the way, he did that quite professionally — and then he pulls off an escape by riding into a covered parking garage, which is the one place a helicopter can’t track him. That was no accident. He apparently rendezvoused with an accomplice and they drove off together before we could shut the place down.”
“Let’s face it,” said Crowley. “If you’re smart enough to wear latex gloves and make a clean getaway in a busy part of town, then you should be smart enough to rob something more lucrative than a glass–walled hot dog joint before the dinner crowd arrives.”
All of this sounded suspicious to Phillip, but he didn’t know what to make of it. “So you’re saying — what?”
Crowley replied: “We’re saying there’s a chance — in fact, a good chance — that this might not have been a spur–of–the–moment holdup. It may have been something else.”
“And that’s why we’re here, Mr
. Taylor,” said Bekins. “We’ve investigated Mr. Gamos’ background pretty thoroughly. He seems clean. We can’t find anyone who had a grudge against him; even his former employees speak highly of him. So now we’re wondering about Tom O’Sullivan.”
“He dealt with a pretty tough crowd,” Crowley said. “And his dad was involved in high–stakes political corruption. We’re wondering whether anyone had a reason to eliminate him. We know he had a gambling problem or else he wouldn’t have been visiting your group. Did he say anything in the group that might provide a clue?”
“Funny you should ask that.”
“Funny?” Bekins asked. “Why?”
“Well, obviously you’re right — he had a gambling problem. People don’t join our group unless they’ve hit rock bottom or are in some sort of trouble with their wife or their kids or the law. Of course, what people admit in the context of our group is confidential.”
“Not really,” Bekins said. “You’re not considered a member of the clergy, so technically you can’t guarantee confidentiality.”
“That’s what’s so ironic. Something was bothering Tom. I don’t know what it was, but it was eating him up inside. But he never disclosed it to the group. And the reason was that under Illinois law, we couldn’t guarantee him secrecy.”
Bekins let out a whistle. “He told you that?”
“Yeah, one night in the church parking lot.”
“So he was concerned someone might be compelled to testify against him. That means this wasn’t a minor deal. He was involved with something that he was afraid he’d be held accountable for.”
“He never hinted what it was?” Crowley asked.
“No, he refused. In fact, I sent him a follow–up letter and told him I’d be glad to hook him up with a pastor if he wanted to get it off his chest.”
“And did he take you up on that?” Bekins asked.