by Joseph Hayes
“I did nothing wrong,” Shooter said, enunciating every word, clearly and forcefully, in an adamant whisper. “I swear to God.”
“You’re at Cook County Jail, on 22nd Street?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright, sit tight. I’m on my way.”
As Jake sat in the taxi, he thought about how he might extricate himself from this situation. He was certain that Shooter could not afford his hourly rate. The firm did have a pro bono program, through which it provided legal services free of charge in certain instances; however, those matters typically involved legal representation of civic and charitable organizations, which provided a vehicle for the firm’s lawyers to make contacts with well-connected community leaders who might steer business their way. He was certain that the firm’s leadership would not condone his representation of an accused drug dealer, whether he was a paying client or not.
Twenty minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of Cook County Jail. Jake knew of it by reputation, but had never seen it in person. It was a massive concrete structure, almost completely devoid of windows. Jake informed the harried woman at the reception desk that he was there to visit Darnell Tucker. He had to look at the phone message to remind himself of Shooter’s real name. “Take a seat over there,” she snapped, without looking up, motioning to some grimy wooden chairs, most of which were occupied by people who looked and dressed nothing like any of the people in Jake’s usual circles. “They’ll call you when they’re ready.”
The place was loud and crowded. Many of the visitors smelled bad. “What in the world am I doing here?” Jake muttered to himself.
After what seemed like a painfully long wait, he was ushered into a small, stark cell. Except for two metal folding chairs and an old wooden table, the room was empty. He took a seat in one of the chairs, and Shooter was escorted in by a surly looking prison guard. “Thanks for coming, Stanford. I really appreciate it,” said Shooter in a humble voice as he sat down across the table from Jake.
“No problem. So tell me what happened.”
“We were up at St. Simon’s last night, shooting hoops. The usual crowd was there. Two dudes come walking up—black dudes—and ask to get in the game. We let ‘em play. They couldn’t play worth shit, but they seemed like okay guys. They hung out with us afterwards and we were just bullshitting with them and Jerome asks them if they want to get high. He grabs his jacket off the ground and pulls out some weed, and guess what? They whip out their badges.”
“Then what?”
“Jerome’s my little brother, and I didn’t want to see him get busted. He doesn’t have a record and I don’t want to see him get one. So I told them the shit was mine. It was only enough for a few joints, so I figured I could talk these guys into just confiscating it and leaving us alone. I knew if they went after Jerome, he’d lose his cool and make it worse. He’s got a bad temper, and besides that, he’s been doing the shit himself—pot and crack—way too much. He ain’t thinking straight.”
“So then what happened?”
“Jerome loses it, and tells those dudes to fuck off. Tells them they can’t make a case on just a few joints, and they should just leave before they get hurt.”
“Wrong thing to say to a couple of cops.”
“No shit. They ask him if it’s his stuff and he gets all defiant and tells them they can’t prove shit. Next thing I know, one of them pulls a piece and the other handcuffs both of us. The guy with the gun says there must be more where that came from, and he asks us to take them to our crib. Jerome tells them they can’t search our place without a warrant, so they say fine, have it your way. They bring us down here last night, and lock us up. Then they get a search warrant and search our apartment. They just told me they found a huge stash there: pot, cocaine and heroin, half a million dollars’ worth. I don’t know whether they’re lying or what. If they did find anything, I don’t know nothing about it, and that’s the honest truth.”
Jake looked at Shooter silently. “Oh, there’s one more thing,” Shooter said, looking down and speaking more softly. “I’ve got a record. I’ve done time. When I was nineteen, I got into some bad stuff. Started selling drugs. Never did them, and I was never a big player, but I know a lot of people and it was an easy way for me to keep in spending money. It went down just like yesterday. I tried to sell to the wrong guy and got busted. Had a good-sized stash and they nailed me. I served twelve months. But I ain’t done it since, I swear. I’ve stayed clean.”
Jake leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and took a long look at the young man on the other side of the table. Shooter seemed sincere, but he was a street hardened ex-convict. He could be lying through his teeth. Jake realized that he did not know this person at all, and that made him uneasy. “Here’s how I see it,” he said authoritatively, surprised at his own confidence, given the unfamiliar setting. “We tell the truth to the State’s Attorney’s Office. You had nothing to do with this. The drugs weren’t yours. You know nothing about them. You explain to the prosecutor that you initially spoke up to help your brother out – just like you explained it to me. But,” he paused for emphasis, “this only works if Jerome steps up and tells the truth also. If he takes responsibility for this, they have a hard time making a case against you.”
“I don’t like that plan,” Shooter said. “You expect me to turn on my little brother? Make him take the rap? I can’t do that! We need a Plan B.”
“Shooter, there is no Plan B, and you’re not turning on him. He needs to be a standup guy. He needs to take responsibility for his own actions, and not drag you down with him. You’ll be in no position to look out for him if you’re in jail. Don’t forget, you’ve got a prior conviction. If you take the rap, you’ll be looking at serious jail time. How old is Jerome?”
“Seventeen.”
“Then there’s at least a chance he could be prosecuted as a minor. Even if he’s tried as an adult, he may get some leniency because of his age and the fact that it’s a first offense for him. In any case, he’ll certainly get off a lot easier than you would if you took the rap.”
Shooter looked troubled. He stood and began pacing. Jake continued. “Maybe doing some time will actually help Jerome straighten himself out. If you go to jail, and he’s back on the streets, how much confidence do you have that he’ll stay out of trouble?”
“Not much. He’s wild, man. Probably wouldn’t be long before he’s hanging with the gangbangers. His attitude will get him in trouble. He’s always trying to pick a fight with somebody. You get hurt that way.” Shooter looked sullen and dejected as he pondered his choices.
Jake spoke up. “You asked me for my help. I’m here, and I’m giving you my best advice. If you choose not to take it, that’s up to you. It’s your life. If you want my help, I’ll talk to the State’s Attorney’s Office and see if we can get this straightened out. If you don’t want me involved, that’s your call. They’ll assign you one of the public defenders and you can take your chances in court.”
“I know you’re right,” Shooter said with quiet resignation. “This is tough, man.” He shook his head sadly. “I’d like your help. I can’t pay you right away, but I’m good for it. Just give me a little time.”
“I’ll tell you how you can repay me, Shooter, and it’s not with money. I don’t want a dime from you. What I want is a commitment that you will do everything within your power to straighten out your life. No more drugs; no stealing; no fighting. Do something constructive with your life. Look at you – you’re young, you’re strong, you’re healthy. You’re the kind of guy people look up to. I’ve seen it—at the gym and at the playground. Use that to make something of yourself.”
There was an angry tone in Jake’s voice as he lectured the dejected young man across the table. Shooter listened quietly, staring at the floor. Jake knew he must have sounded naïve and self-righteous, but he didn’t care. He felt entitled to issue a stern lecture, if for no other reason than to make himself feel like he wasn’t completely wastin
g his time by being there. Aside from that, the sight of this healthy, talented young man so close to the brink of squandering life’s precious opportunities just got to him, and he felt compelled to speak his mind.
“Listen, Shooter,” Jake continued in a softer voice. “I realize I don’t know anything about your world and all the challenges life has thrown your way. But we all have choices. You can choose to do what it takes to improve your situation and live a life that you can be proud of. Or you can choose to be mad at the world and find lots of excuses for why you can’t succeed. Graveyards are full of people with good excuses who wasted their lives and never amounted to anything. Don’t be one of those people. Promise yourself you won’t. That’s how you can repay me.”
Shooter continued looking down and nodded his head. “You’re right, man. I need to do that.” He looked up at Jake. “So what now?”
“I need to talk to Jerome. Getting you out of this mess will depend entirely on him. Will he talk to me?”
“I don’t know. He’s pissed at the whole world right now. Blames me for letting those cops into our game. He’s always hard to reason with, but he’ll probably be even worse now.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks, Stanford. I won’t forget this.”
As the guard returned to escort Jake out of the cell, Jake informed him that he needed to see Jerome Tucker. After another excruciatingly long wait, Jake was escorted back to the room where he had met with Shooter. As Jerome was led in, Jake could see that his face was just as he remembered—youthful, tough and angry, but the rest of him had changed considerably. He was no longer short and skinny. He was several inches taller than Jake, with a rock solid frame. He walked slowly, shoulders slouched, and had a menacing air about him even though his hands were cuffed in front of him.
“Hi Jerome. Remember me?”
Jerome looked at him sideways for a few moments, then grunted as recognition set in. “I remember you. What do you want? You a cop?”
“No, I’m a lawyer. I just met with your brother.”
“You his lawyer?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m hoping he won’t need a lawyer. That really depends on you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Do you want to help your brother?”
“Why should I help his stupid ass? It’s his fault we’re locked up. If he hadn’t made friendly with those cops, we wouldn’t be here.”
“But the fact is, you are here, Jerome. And so is Shooter. And from what I’ve heard, he doesn’t belong here. If the stuff was yours, you ought to take responsibility for your own actions, and not make your brother take the rap for this.”
“Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” Jerome yelled, glaring at Jake and stepping toward him in a threatening manner. “I don’t have to talk to you. Why don’t you get your ass out of here?”
Maybe it was because Jerome was in handcuffs, or maybe it was because he’d had a long day and was irritable and impatient, or maybe he was just incensed that this kid would actually let his brother pay for his transgressions. Whatever the reason, Jake was not about to be intimidated. He stepped toward Jerome, coming within inches of his face. “Listen, hard ass, I’ll go when I’ve said what I came to say, and here it is: I was hoping some part of you would want to do what’s right. I was hoping you had it in you to be something more than a coward, trying to save your own skin. I was hoping you wouldn’t be the one to send your brother to jail for something you did. It’s in your hands, Jerome. You can send him to jail or you can set him free.”
Jerome glared back for a few minutes, then turned his back on Jake. He shuffled a few feet in the opposite direction and stopped. “Fuck!” he shouted, at no one in particular. “Son of a bitch!” he shuffled around the small cell, trying to assess the situation. “So you want me to confess—tell the cops the shit was mine and Shooter had nothing to do with it?”
“That’s the truth, isn’t it? That’s what it will take to get Shooter out of this.”
“But if I confess, then I go down. I could take my chances at trial. I could say I didn’t know anything about that stash. They can’t prove it was mine. It could’ve been anybody’s.”
“Think about it, Jerome. If you do that, Shooter goes down. He told the cops the stuff in your jacket was his. He’s got a prior conviction for possession. And, they found the stash in the apartment where you both live. The jury will nail him in a heartbeat, and he’ll go to jail, maybe for a long time. It would be a second conviction. There’s no way around this. He goes down, unless you come clean.”
“Bullshit! There’s got to be another way!” Jerome shouted. Anger and desperation contorted his face as he walked in circles around the tiny cell. Then he stopped and approached Jake, saying in a low, venomous voice, “Here’s how it’s going to work, motherfucker. You’re Shooter’s lawyer. You figure this out. You find a way to get us both off. People walk on technicalities all the time. Figure it out! If you turn on me, I’ll make you pay. Someday, someway, I’ll get you. If I do time, you better watch your back, man. I’ll find you.”
“I’m outta here,” Jake muttered shaking his head as he walked to the metal door and pounded on it. He hurried through when the guard opened it and stormed away without looking back.
“Get us out of here!” Jerome shouted after him. Jake looked at his watch and realized that he’d lost his entire afternoon. He hoped he hadn’t been missed at the office. He needed to get back. He did not want to endure another long wait to see Shooter again. He would find out how to reach him by phone tomorrow.
On the cab ride back to the office, Jake tried to formulate a strategy—an exit strategy. He had tried to help. He’d given it his best shot and it just didn’t work out. He would call Shooter in the morning and describe his meeting with Jerome. He would call the State’s Attorney’s Office and try to convince them that Shooter was not their guy. It would be a futile gesture, but then he could back out of this mess with a clean conscience.
CHAPTER 17
Approximately eighty lawyers sat in the windowless conference room of the downtown hotel, eating a lunch of tasteless chicken and overcooked asparagus, listening to the guest speaker drone on about the new legislative efforts to bring tort reform to the State of Illinois. The thought of punitive damage caps made the meal even more unappetizing for the majority of the audience, who earned their living as plaintiffs’ attorneys.
Rick Black looked around the room, hoping to identify someone who might be worth getting to know, such as a prominent personal injury or medical malpractice attorney. What he saw was a sea of unknown faces, looking as bored as he was. He wolfed down what passed for chocolate pudding, and walked impatiently out of the room, not caring whether it was bad form to leave in mid-speech. This was a waste of time.
It had been about a month since he left Robbins & McKee, one of Chicago’s largest and most prestigious law firms. It was a bad fit, he told himself. He was a born trial lawyer and belonged in the courtroom. Spending years in the bowels of the firm’s law library, researching and writing, and being the junior member of the oversized team of lawyers assigned to any given case was a waste of his talent. He was a warrior who craved combat; a performer who needed to dominate center stage. Therefore, his career needed a sharp detour from the road he had initially chosen.
As he considered his talents and his temperament, his path became clear. He was smart and aggressive. He was creative. He was a gifted communicator, who could charm any jury. And he had a burning desire to be fabulously successful, both through his courtroom victories, and through that ultimate and unambiguous measure of success—money. He would be a plaintiffs’ lawyer, the bane of the existence of firms like Robbins & McKee and their wealthy corporate clients. They would assign armies of lawyers to defend the cases he would bring, and he would vanquish them. Those were the thoughts that tantalized and motivated him. He could do it, and he vowed to himself that he would do i
t.
He was on the right path now, he told himself. He just needed some traction. For the time being, he had set up shop in his father’s office. Neither of them viewed this as a long-term arrangement. He had the use of an office in his father’s suite, and access to secretarial support, but beyond that, he was expected to be self-sufficient. You eat what you kill, his father had told him, meaning he had to generate his own business, because his father did not plan on sending work his way.
Rick had spent the last month attending lunches, bar association meetings, and other functions that would enable him to meet other attorneys and pass out his business cards. He frequently met lawyers who remembered him as a basketball player, which was a good conversation starter. However, despite having thrown himself headlong into the networking circuit, those efforts had yielded nothing in the way of business.
Rick walked briskly across downtown toward his office. He had no appointments and no reason to be in a hurry other than to get out of the harsh, December wind that whipped his face. His father was ushering a disheveled looking woman in her early forties out of the office as he walked in.
“Who was that?” Rick asked.
“Someone who wanted to waste my time,” the elder Mr. Black replied, looking annoyed. “She got fired for failing a drug test at work and wants to sue her employer. Dead loser. I told her I don’t handle those kinds of cases.”
Rick never passed up the opportunity to needle his father. “Business must be good, Dad. You used to tell me that any case can be a winner in the hands of the right lawyer.”
“Well, almost any case—but not that one. I think she was stoned when I interviewed her.” He walked abruptly into his office and slammed the door.
Rick casually strolled toward his office, stopping briefly to flirt with Amber, his father’s well-endowed secretary, who was fond of low cut blouses even in December. He sat at his desk and looked out the window at the light snow that was beginning to fall. The words he had just spoken to his father were stuck in his head. He remembered using them on another occasion, when living examples of their truth seemed to be present in abundance. It was at that bar on the South Side, McShane’s hangout. He thought about it. It was Friday. He had no plans that evening. Why not?