In trial on Friday morning Shaughnessy shifts over to a police officer who was at the scene. He testifies about keeping the scene from becoming contaminated. He follows it with a diary of all who came and went during the time the shooting scene was under the control of the Chicago Police Department. His name is Tomas Algernon and he is a Latino from Guatemala who has been naturalized since coming here fifteen years ago as a young boy. I tell the judge that I do have questions for the witness and step up to the lectern.
"Officer Algernon, one name that appears on your diary is the name of Tory Stormont. Do you see that on your list?"
"Yes, I do."
"And who is Tory Stormont?"
"He's a Chicago police officer."
"Do you know him personally?"
"Not really. I had to get his badge number and ask him his name. Just seen him around the station. That's about it."
"Now, it says on here that he arrived on-scene after you arrived, is that correct?"
"Correct."
"And you arrived sometime after eleven o'clock--I think you have it down as eleven-oh-four, correct?"
"That would be correct."
"Were any other police officials there when you arrived?"
"I arrived in the lobby and waited, as instructed by the dispatcher. There were no other police officers there."
"Or detectives?"
"Or detectives. Detective Weldon arrived about five minutes later. Close behind him was CSI and close behind them was a member of the medical examiner's staff. No, I'm wrong. The M.E. came much later, about three in the morning if you look at my diary."
"Describe what happened after you all had assembled in the lobby of the building."
"We all went upstairs to twenty-five in one elevator. We got off and proceeded to the defendant's door."
"And then?"
"Detective Weldon rang the bell. Then he pounded on the door. Finally you came and let us in."
"What time did you actually enter the condo?"
"That would have been at eleven-sixteen."
"What did you do?"
"I was posted at the front door. I had the diary to run."
“What can you tell us about Tory Stormont?”
“He helped with the search of the premises, far as I know.”
"What time did he leave?"
"He came and went. When the last time was, I don't know. I've got it down as two-seventeen in the morning but he actually might have come back after that."
"He might have returned?"
"Yes, he might have returned. With the uniforms we don't make entries for every time they come and go because we'd run out of paper. I mean some guys are getting police tape, sometimes they're getting traffic cones, or first aid supplies, or video equipment--you never know. So you just kind of ignore them."
"Do you show him returning after he left at two-seventeen?"
"Officer Stormont? No, I don't show him returning. And I don't have an independent recollection, either. It was a kind of boring scene compared to some we get. Sometimes we got family members trying to get in, or kids crying, or neighbors trying to give us statements, or other police jurisdictions showing up, or FBI snooping around. You just never know. But this was just CPD and the M.E.'s office."
"When Officer Stormont left the crime scene at two-seventeen, did he take anything with him?"
"Well, you'd have to look on the inventory sheets for who took what. I don't have that information."
"Let me put it this way. Do you recall him carrying anything out when he left?"
"I have no recollection of him leaving, period. So I'm guessing he probably wasn't taking anything or I probably would remember. We're pretty tight on what leaves an active crime scene."
I then end my examination of Officer Algernon. He has been able to provide very little except that he did place Tory Stormont at the scene after the main police force arrived. Which leaves me asking, how did he get inside the building? There’s no video of his arrival. I make a note to review the video with Marcel again.
Next up is Natty McMann, who was present at the Democratic fundraiser and heard Mira arguing with the victim. Natty testifies about what he saw and heard. I don't bother to cross-examine him except for a few questions to prove that Mira was not the instigator of the upset; he is an eyewitness to an event that is very damning but if I belabor any of it he just gets to tell his story again. So I ask very few questions.
The victim's widow, Denise Harrow, testifies about the loss of her husband and what it's meant to her and their children. She is a good woman, a respiratory technician who labors at twelve hour shifts in a local hospital; the jury likes her. It is prudent to leave her alone in her grief and anger, and I do.
Next comes a records custodian who enters Harrow's human resources file into evidence. It turns out he was an exemplary employee with no black marks in his file. We should be so lucky as to find a suitable replacement for him. Everyone can see that.
The state then calls a crime lab firearms technician who testifies about the gun, the caliber, the firearms and bullet testing that was done and she finally concludes with the proof necessary to establish that it was, in fact, Mira's gun that murdered Darrell Harrow.
A shooting reconstructionist then testifies about the direction and angle the death shot traveled. It is his testimony that the bullet came from someone who was probably lying on the sofa in Mira's living room, someone with her arm raised just enough to point the pistol at Harrow's head as he came in through the door. It is an upwards angle the bullet travels, indicating that the shooter was lower than the target, indicating, again, that the shooter was very likely reclining. They have no way of knowing for sure that they have anticipated Mira's story to the effect that she was asleep on the sofa when the shooting occurred--at least that part of her story that places her on the couch. I am struck with just how accurate shooting reconstruction can be and I am hopeful we don't need to call Mira to testify, which would only lead to her admission that it was she, in fact, who was lying on the couch when the door opened and Harrow came inside her condo.
By late Friday afternoon, many witnesses have been called out of order, which is common in criminal cases, given the fact many of these professional witnesses are testifying in other courtrooms on the same trial days as our own.
The state finally rests its case and the usual motion for directed verdict is offered by me and it is of course denied. The State has made a prima facie case and now it's the defense's turn.
Then we are dismissed for the weekend.
Very little cross-examination was required as the witnesses basically did not hurt us that much. Yes, there was a crime scene and yes, evidence was collected. Yes, there was an autopsy and yes, the victim died by a gunshot wound at the crime scene. Yes, the victim left behind a beautiful family and yes, they will miss him greatly and forevermore. But there is no eyewitness, and that hurts the state's case more than anything else.
Returning to our office, Harley and I discuss our feelings about the case where it stands right now. The jury has learned that there was a relationship between Darrell Harrow and Miranda Morales. They learned through Natty McMann that a fight ensued between the lovers on the night of July Fourth and that two hours later--give or take--Darrell Harrow lay dead on Miranda Morales' living room floor, shot to death by Miranda Morales' gun. The circumstantial case is very strong at this point and, if we present no evidence, offer no explanations, and fail to prove an alternative theory, Mira will be found guilty of first degree murder and spend the rest of her days in prison.
From the front seat of my Mercedes, driving us back to the office, Marcel listens to all of this. He is quiet--a good sign, because when Marcel is quiet that means the wheels are spinning in his head. And very often that means he's close to offering up a solution for whatever problem we're facing.
"So, Boss," Marcel slowly begins, "I'm thinking we need to confront this Tory Stormont over the weekend. Bust into his place if we have to in
order to serve the subpoena. I'm thinking he took out Harrow because Harrow was prosecuting him. Plus, we can play the video with him leaving the premises with a gun in his back pocket. Am I right?"
"We do need him," Harley offers. "But so far he's refused me every time I've asked to meet with him. In fact, he doesn't even answer my phone messages I've been leaving at the police department."
"I'll double down on that," Marcel adds. "I spent all afternoon bird-dogging his apartment. Still nothing. The manager also refused to let me inside Stormont's apartment. He wasn't buying that maybe the guy was ill. He said the guy's a cop and someone might get shot if he uses his passkey. So he wouldn't cooperate in my little scam. Imagine that."
"Do we have any other way of contacting him? Where does the guy live? Where have you been hanging out?"
"Arlington; his place is guarded day and night by other cops. They’re protecting him from those folks in South Chicago. Jesse Jackson and his Rainbow people have condemned him often enough that his life’s in peril every minute.”
“Any family living with him?”
“No. Divorced, lives alone, mostly keeps to himself from what I can gather. You think I should drive over with you and see if he’ll talk to you? See where we get together? Maybe the manager will take you more seriously than just me?”
“I’m thinking,” I say. “If he won’t even respond to Harley, he sure as hell won’t talk to me. So I’m nix on that. I think we need to step it up.”
“How about we bust in, kidnap the guy and force a confession out of him?” Marcel is only half-kidding. But we both know the guy’s armed. There’s zero opportunity to break-in. Way, way too dangerous.
"What if we sued him for some civil tort and took his deposition," Harley says. "You still don't want to do that?"
"We talked about it before," I say, "but he's not going to admit anything to us in a deposition. Not if he's the shooter. Look, let's get back to the office, have a cup of coffee and let's really think about this. This has to happen. We have to get him served."
"Good idea, Boss," says Marcel. "Have you back to the office in twenty minutes, tops."
Back at the office, Marcel and I loop though the CCTV footage, trying to spot Tory Stormont's arrival in the building wearing a police uniform. We’ve done this before but this time we flip through frame-by-frame. No luck; there simply is no video of Stormont arriving at the building and coming through the lobby wearing a police uniform.
We spot several men who match his build more or less, but out of them we cannot really get good facial shots and both are dressed in civvies. Two are wearing porkpie hats, one made of what appears to be a summer straw and one made of blue sailcloth. The first guy has sunglasses perched on top of his hat; the second guy does not. We then loop ahead and we see second guy get off the elevator on twenty-five. We see him walk out of view from the elevator. He's also carrying a shoulder bag that is large enough to hold a police uniform. Very clever if he did it, arriving in civvies then changing into his police threads. My guess? He probably let himself into Mira's unit and changed out his clothes there. Then when she arrived home he subdued her in order to shoot Harrow, who he knew was close behind her.
But can I prove all this?
Not yet. But I'm sure moving in that direction.
39
Friday, after trial is recessed, we can't come up with a plan, Marcel and I, for getting a subpoena served on Tory Stormont. More than ever, I need him at trial. He's my secret weapon.
When we get back to the office we sit down and wrack our brains. There's just no way to get to someone if they're armed and holed up and don't want to talk to you. In the end we head out for Arlington. I want to take a look at the setup for myself.
We take Marcel's truck. He's driving and I'm riding shotgun without a clue as to what we'll do once we get to Stormont's complex. At the last minute, Harley demands to come along. She's persistent and refuses to be denied, so we finally relent and here she is with us. She's in the backseat of the crew-cab. Before we leave, Marcel has me slip on my shoulder holster and gun. He's already armed, as usual. Harley is told about my gun. We offer to put a pistol in her purse or inside her jacket pocket. But she refuses, saying she won't be getting into the line of fire so she has no need of a gun. She also tells us she knows nothing about combat shooting and asks me whether I do. I have to admit I know very little and that what I do know is what Marcel has taught me out at the range. In true Marcel fashion he began my lesson with the admonition, "First rule of combat shooting is don't get shot."
Right.
Westbound traffic out of the city is heavy. It's Friday night and people who work downtown are racing home to get the weekend started. Plus, many city dwellers are headed west to homes they keep in the suburbs with small horse acreages.
Twenty-five minutes later, we take the Arlington Road off-ramp and head south into the city.
At Essex Road we head west for five minutes and finally arrive at an apartment sprawl that extends along both sides of the street. It's a neighborhood area that is quite old, with huge ancient oak trees and maples, houses set far back from the sidewalks, while the apartments themselves are relatively new--having been built in the last twenty years. The neighborhood houses are probably from the 1940's and earlier.
Friday night is quiet along here. We park on the far end of the street and climb out of the truck without slamming the doors--an unnecessary precaution but we've all seen enough TV that we think that's how it should be done. For just a minute I am astonished at how ridiculous it is for the lawyer in a case to be out chasing down an armed witness. But I let go of that thought. As long as Marcel's willing then I want to be with him to offer my moral support if nothing else. Firing my gun is the last thing on my mind. Nevertheless, its weight below my armpit and thumping against my ribs as I walk is reassuring on the one hand and a reminder on the other hand that I'm way outside my league. This suspect is a cop, someone trained in firefights with guns, someone I have no plans of shooting it out with. I almost wish I hadn't brought the gun along, as if that would somehow exempt me from participating in any fireworks.
"Cross here," Marcel says softly, and we follow him across Essex Road.
We step up on the curb and cut across the grass strip, cross the sidewalk, and then catch the concrete walkway leading up to two buildings in the complex. The place is French Provincial, brick exterior, steep roofs, tall second-story windows with arched tops and porches with full balustrades. All of this detail is registering in my mind as the fear uncoils inside my chest. It is as if my mind is taking full inventory of every item before my eyes. Marcel points to a window three down from the front wall and we begin creeping along the walk toward it.
The window is dark; no light is emitted from the rear or other rooms, either. The unit has the appearance of being uninhabited but we know just how deceiving that can be. Again with the TV shows. Marcel ducks below the window and creeps up to the door. With the flat of his hand he pounds the door. Of course there is no response from inside. He pounds harder. Within ten seconds the next door down opens, startling all three of us. I find myself reaching for my gun and then stop my motion with a stupid half-smile on my face. I have no business having the gun with me; that was pure reflex and it was totally out-of-sync with reality, for the head that pops out of the next door belongs to a neighbor lady. She eyes us querulously, as if we have interrupted her TV viewing with our racket.
"He's not home," she says through the screen of her front door.
"Any idea where he's gone?" Marcel asks.
"My husband said he left and asked him to keep an eye on his place. That's why I opened my door. He said some unsavory characters had been trying to roust him out and he was leaving for a few days, that it was connected to police business and we shouldn't be alarmed. But we are alarmed. Do I need to call the police or will you be leaving?"
"What?" says Harley, stepping nearer to the woman. "It's illegal in Arlington for someone to knock on someone
's door? I don't think so, lady. Now why don't you get back to The Voice or whatever you're watching and let us do our job."
But she doesn't leave. "What job might that be?"
"Actually, we're with the Cook County Court system. This police officer is needed in court and we're trying to track him down."
"You got ID?" she asks, surprisingly persistent. We should all have neighbors like this one when we're away, I'm thinking.
Without missing a beat, Harley produces her wallet from an inside jacket pocket and displays her bar card to the woman.
"That only means you're a damn lawyer," the woman says distastefully. "Show me something that says you're from the court or I am calling the cops."
"How about this," says Marcel. "How about you get back inside your own place and mind your own damn business! We have as much right to be on this goddam sidewalk as you do, lady!"
The woman steps back and the door slowly closes behind her.
Marcel turns to us and winks. "Gets them every time, a little sinful cursing."
"Well done," says Harley. "Couldn't have put it better myself."
"Okay, so where are we?" I ask. I'm very uncomfortable being out here at night when there's a chance we have an armed suspect behind the door we're standing around. It's probably not our best thinking that's got us here.
"We have two choices," says Marcel. "We can either go home and forget about it, or we can wait around until we get eyes on the little bastard. Me, I'm for sticking around. But then I'm paid by the hour," he smiles.
"I'm for waiting around too," says Harley.
I start to reply, "I'm--"
When suddenly there's a gunshot from inside the cop's apartment. I turn in time to see Harley's hands fly up to her chest. She teeters on her feet and then, in one motion, crumples to the ground. Marcel and I stand over her, and in the dim light of the courtyard we see a red flower spreading across her chest.
The Law Partners (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Page 20