by Joseph Hayes
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Not at all,” Mickey replied in his Irish brogue, motioning toward the gray metal chair beside him.
Jake stepped inside the cramped office and closed the door. “I just saw the newspaper article about the lawsuit. I hadn’t heard until now. If there’s anything I can do—anything at all—let me know.”
“Scandalous, isn’t it?” He looked hurt. “Why would he do something like this, Jake? I really tried to help that boy. I could have fired him a dozen times before I finally did, but I tried to work with him.”
“Two motives, I suspect: revenge and money. He’s angry with you because you fired him, and this is his way of retaliating. Aside from that, he sees this as his chance to play the litigation lottery. Unfortunately, a lot of undeserving people have gotten big paydays, thanks to our legal system.”
“Well, he’s not going to get away with this, I can tell you that! Mickey Quinn doesn’t shy away from a fight. The gloves are off and that little bastard will see that he’s messed with the wrong guy! Look at this shyte,” he said, flinging across the desk a copy of the complaint that had been served on him the week before. “Lies, every word of it. He’s trying to destroy my reputation. First thing I’m going to do is sue him and the Southside Review for defaming my character. They won’t get away with that!”
Jake perused the complaint as Mickey ranted. He found himself getting as angry as Mickey as he read the scurrilous accusations, which included allegations that Mickey had made vulgar and explicit sexual propositions, had exposed himself, and had attempted to fondle Larry’s private parts. “This is nasty stuff,” Jake remarked, shaking his head. “I don’t believe a word of this, Mickey, and neither will anyone who knows you, but you’d be wasting your time and money trying to sue Larry or the newspaper for defamation.”
“Why is that, for Chrissakes? Every word is a malicious lie. He’s obviously trying to ruin my good name, and the newspaper is helping him do exactly that.” Mickey had raised his voice and was growing red in the face. Jake was sure that, despite the closed door, anyone within fifty feet would have no trouble hearing him.
“Unfortunately, Mickey, you can’t make a defamation claim based on the content of a lawsuit. A person can put whatever they want in the complaint. It’s considered protected speech. You can’t sue them for that, even if every word of it is untrue.”
Mickey looked at him in disbelief. “How can that be? You mean someone can fabricate horrible stories about another person and publish them in a lawsuit for the entire world to read, and there’s no recourse for the victim?”
“I’m afraid so. But, if a person makes false statements publicly, outside the context of a formal legal complaint, that’s another matter, and you may be able to prevail on a defamation claim.”
“So then I’ll go after the newspaper. They published this rubbish for the entire South Side to read. They’re not part of the lawsuit!”
“No, but they were very careful about how they reported the story. They didn’t make any false statements. They reported the facts. They said things like ‘a lawsuit was filed against Mickey Quinn’ and ‘the lawsuit alleges that Mickey did such and such.’ All of that is perfectly true.”
Mickey looked incredulous. “How can they get away with that? Regardless of what words they used, they passed along these outrageous allegations and gave everyone who read the story the impression that I’m some kind of pervert. Don’t they realize what they’re doing by publishing malicious lies like that? Don’t they care?”
“I’m afraid they would try to justify their actions by simply saying that this is news, and it’s their job to report it. They would say that the public has a right to know, that kind of crap.”
Jake picked up the complaint and scanned it more closely. He stopped dead when he reached the last page.
“Damn!”
“What is it?”
“I know this guy—the lawyer who filed this lawsuit.”
“He must be trash, if he represents a slimy little worm like Larry.”
Jake looked worried. “Have you hired a lawyer yet, Mickey?”
“I’ve asked Vern to represent me. He handles all my legal affairs.”
Jake was dismayed by that piece of news. Vern had obtained a law degree from a local night school, but he was primarily a bookkeeper. He dabbled in legal matters from time to time—prepared a few wills, handled some simple probates and real estate closings, and a divorce now and then—but he was certainly not a seasoned trial lawyer. “Look, Mickey, this is serious. This lawyer you’re up against is no slouch. He’s smart and he’s aggressive. You need a real pro here. Vern is a nice guy, but he’s out of his league. Nothing personal against Vern, but this just isn’t the kind of work he normally handles.”
Mickey bristled. “Vern has been my lawyer for over twenty years. I trust him. He’s been a loyal friend, and that’s important to me—loyalty. I’m finding that many people I thought were my friends don’t know the meaning of that word, but I do. Vern is my lawyer.”
Jake could see that Mickey was resolute, but pressed anyway. He could envision Rick Black walking all over this mild-mannered accountant. “Mickey, you really should reconsider that.”
“My mind is made up,” Mickey snapped in a voice that left no room for further discussion.
“Okay, I understand. But I want you to know that I’m prepared to help in any way I can. Just let me know what I can do. And tell Vern that, too. If he wants to discuss tactics or strategy, any time, I’m available.”
“I appreciate that, lad. We’ll get through this. This is America—innocent until proven guilty—right? And I’m not guilty. The system will work. Anyway, what choice do I have?”
Jake looked at him glumly. “You do have choices, Mickey. Unfortunately, none of them are good ones. Still, you should carefully consider all your options. The way I see it, there are three ways this can go, and they all have serious downsides. First, you could go to trial and win; second, you could go to trial and lose; or third, you could settle. You could pay him to just go away so you can get on with your life. You—”
“I’ll do no such thing!” Mickey interrupted. “The whole world would think I was guilty. I couldn’t live with that, and I couldn’t live with myself if I surrendered.”
“All I’m saying is that it’s an option, and you shouldn’t rule it out too quickly, without thinking through all of the ramifications.”
“Look Jake, think about the message a settlement would send. These guys are like muggers on the street, trying to use force to take what’s not theirs. If their victims just open their wallets and hand over their money, we make it easy for them and their kind, and we encourage that behavior. I won’t do that. There’s still a tough Irish streetfighter in here,” he said, pointing at his heart. “No one is going to take me down without a fight!”
“You’re right, Mickey. This is like a mugging. You just need to remember that most muggers have weapons, and if you choose to fight them, you can get hurt – badly sometimes. Fighting these guys may leave you bloody, even if you win. The fight will be a long one. It will be expensive. And it will be fought in a very public arena. The local press has already latched onto this. All of these horrible allegations will be made public in the courtroom and in the newspaper. People will talk. They will wonder what really happened. Even if you win in court, people will always wonder.”
“I’ve got no choice. It’s the only way I have any hope of clearing my name.”
“I understand that. But there’s also the possibility that you won’t win. If that happens, not only will your reputation be shot, you could be ruined financially.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Jakey, you’re a basket of sunshine, aren’t you? How can I lose? There’s no proof, because I did nothing wrong. I have to trust our legal system. It’s not perfect, and I resent being forced into it this way, but it’ll work and I’ll be exonerated. I believe that.”
“It’s an imperfect system
, Mickey. It’s only as good as the people in it. Plaintiffs, witnesses, and sometimes even lawyers may be dishonest. Jurors may be gullible or incompetent. It doesn’t always work like it should.” Jake looked morose.
Mickey leaned toward Jake, an earnest and hopeful expression radiating from his face. “Look, lad. When I was a boy in Ireland, I saw America as the Promised Land, a land of endless opportunity for those with energy and ambition. I saw it as a land whose people valued honesty and integrity, and respected the rights of every man, woman and child. Fairness and justice matter here. That’s the way I saw this country when I came here forty years ago, when I was about your age. And do you know what? That’s the way I still see this place. Liberty and justice for all, that’s what our Pledge of Allegiance says, right? Well, I for one believe that. I have faith in our judicial system—justice will prevail.”
Jake felt bad. He had come to offer Mickey support. Instead, all he had accomplished was painting a grim and pessimistic picture for his old friend. He was glad to see that he had not completely squelched Mickey’s natural optimism. “You’re a great man, Mickey. You’ve always been an inspiration to me, and to countless others. I hate seeing this happen to you. I just hope the system you’re so proud of doesn’t let you down. And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to discourage you or sound pessimistic. All I was trying to do is point out that the stakes are very high here, and that you’re up against a very aggressive and talented lawyer.”
“I know that, and I appreciate it. I really do. And Jake, I’m getting old, but I’m not stupid. I heard every word you said. I understand my options, and I understand the risks, but for me, there’s no choice. I have to fight this with everything I’ve got, even if it means spending my last penny. And if I lose, here’s how I see it: I’ve spent my entire life trying to do the right thing, trying to help those in need, trying to make our community a better place. I will go to my grave knowing that, no matter what anyone else thinks. That’s something no one can ever take away from me.”
The customers and employees had long departed by the time Jake walked through the empty store, like he had done hundreds of times in his life. In the past, he had always enjoyed the after-hours stillness. It was a striking contrast to the beehive of activity that marked most of his time there, and it also meant he’d completed a good day’s work. Tonight, it just felt lonely, as Mickey walked him to the front door and unlocked it.
Jake trudged uphill toward his parents’ house, feeling a profound sense of sadness. Mickey was right—he’d made a tremendous contribution to the neighborhood, and no one could take that away. But Jake understood the power of the press. People would believe what they read in the papers and heard on TV. They shouldn’t, but they would. Media statements were given the status of fact. If this case proceeded, Mickey’s good name would be tarnished forever. His reputation would never recover. That was a fact, and Jake knew it.
CHAPTER 22
“You need to join, man. Become part of our gang—the Street Sultans. It'll make life in here a lot easier for you. It'll help you when you get out, too.” Jerome looked at the lanky inmate across the table from him, as they ate their cold oatmeal. He knew him only as Snake. He was probably no more than thirty, but looked much older. Every inch of exposed skin was covered with tattoos. Snake had spent most of his adult life as a resident of various penitentiaries. He knew how things worked on the inside. “Besides, Carlos likes you,” Snake said. “He wants you in.”
“That crazy sucker likes me, huh? Got a funny way of showing it. Almost had me killed down in the weight room.”
“He was just testing you. He liked what he saw.”
Jerome scowled. “Well, I didn't like it none. Cost me a month in solitary, and ruined my chances for early parole.”
Carlos had indeed been impressed with what he saw. He had taken Jerome for an easy mark. He was big and strong, but he was just a kid. He almost certainly had never come up against ruthless, experienced street fighters like Bear and Jamaal, the two weightlifters who had confronted him in the weight room with Carlos. When Bear had lunged at Jerome with the shank, the kid had deftly dodged the weapon, grabbed Bear by the throat and viciously slammed his head into the wall, rendering him instantly unconscious. As Jerome turned around, he caught a powerful blow from Jamaal square on the jaw, and barely flinched. Jerome proceeded to pummel Jamaal mercilessly and within moments, Jamaal lay on the floor next to his comrade, immobilized and bleeding profusely. Carlos had just watched. Jerome then turned to him and screamed, “You want a piece of me, too?” Carlos had eyed him coolly and just said, “Maybe later,” and casually walked away.
Word spread quickly that Jerome was one very dangerous inmate. Other rumors had begun to circulate, suggesting that Jerome had been involved in the demise of a big-time drug dealer. Jerome did nothing to squelch those rumors.
“Think about it, man,” Snake urged. “You're one bad dude, but in here, it helps to have someone watching your back. And like I said, when you get out, you could have a bright future with the Sultans. Carlos has connections. He'll hook you up. Shit, man, a dude like you could be a big-time enforcer.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Hell man, money, women, drugs ... anything you want. And you'll have respect. People won't mess with you.”
“If it's so great, then why don’t you do it? Why doesn't everyone do it?”
“Because, only the baddest dudes around can be enforcers. You got what it takes, man, I’m telling you. Only you got to make the right connections, and that starts here.”
“If I wanted to do this—become an enforcer—what happens when I get out of here? What comes next?”
“First, you meet the leadership. The big dogs need to be convinced you’re the right kind of dude. The reputation and connections you build in here will help. Then there’s the initiation.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve got to prove that you’ll do whatever the gang asks, even if it means taking someone out.”
“Yeah? How do you do that?”
“Easy—you take someone out. That’s the only way. And it can’t be some lowlife crackhead. You got to prove that you’ve got the balls to go after a real target—and the smarts to get away with it. So you go after a banker, or a lawyer, or a tourist, and whack someone like that.”
Jerome stirred his oatmeal slowly. “I’ll think about it. Don’t rush me, man. And if I decide I’m in, I’ve got just the target in mind.”
CHAPTER 23
Spending four days in jail had served as a jarring wake-up call for Shooter. He had barely slept the entire time, partly out of fear, but mostly because his circumstances had forced him to do some serious soul-searching. He had always considered himself smart and talented, yet there he was, sitting in a jail cell, facing the very real possibility of doing serious prison time. He was wasting his life, and he desperately wanted to change course.
He’d had plenty of time to reflect upon his past and the road that had brought him once again to the brink of incarceration. Growing up, basketball had been his life. His identity and his future aspirations were inextricably tied to the game of roundball. In high school, he had been recognized as a star with almost unlimited potential—until he was expelled. He continued playing wherever he could, hoping he might someday draw the attention of the professional scouts, but he'd learned the hard way that they generally had no interest in someone who couldn't prove himself in high school and college. He was twenty-four years old now, and had to face the harsh realization that, despite his talent, his chances of landing in the pros were all but gone.
Despite the lack of any future in basketball, he was still passionate about the game, and it was a big part of his life. Even though he wasn't playing on a big stage, he was known in South Side basketball circles as one of the best around. Because of his talent, he had respect, and that was important to a person who had little in the way of material possessions or accomplishment.
Respect
. He craved it. It motivated him and made him feel good about himself. He had attained it through his basketball prowess, but he had earned it in other ways as well. He was smart. Everyone in the neighborhood could see that. But he was also tough. He knew how to use his fists, and growing up, he had rarely passed up an opportunity to prove it. He had earned a reputation as a dangerous character. No one would mess with him. Even the gangs kept their distance. They made overtures from time to time, but he made it clear that he was his own man, and had no interest in being part of any street gang. And they respected that.
As he took a hard look at his life from the vantage point of his prison cell, it all seemed so meaningless and inconsequential. He had to admit to himself that he'd done nothing productive with his life. What did it matter if he was respected for his basketball abilities and his fists? Of what value was the respect of the lowlifes and street thugs in his neighborhood? Where had that gotten him? To a prison cell, looking at the possibility of wasting even more of his life behind bars. It made him sick, and it made him angry—with himself. And it just flat-out scared him.
He had spent twelve months in prison when he was nineteen years old, and had survived largely based on his ability to play the role of the ultimate bad-ass. He had displayed his fist-fighting prowess on a single occasion early on during his incarceration, and his reputation as a skilled and ruthless fighter quickly spread. In addition, rumors circulated that he was called “Shooter” because of his proficiency with firearms rather than because of his jump shot, and he did nothing to squelch those rumors. Mostly, however, he survived because his sentence was short enough that he could sustain some measure of hope, to which he desperately clung to keep his sanity and his soul intact. The pervasive meanness and constant proximity to truly evil human beings drained his spirit. The inhumane existence in a setting completely devoid of hope and joy was almost more than he could bear. He could not go back there. He feared for his safety, and he feared for his future, but most of all, he feared for what an extended prison term would do to his heart.