[2013] Consequential Damages

by Joseph Hayes

  As he contemplated his dismal prospects during those four dark days, Shooter vowed that things would be different if he were spared that fate. While he had never considered himself a criminal, he had dabbled in illicit activities with some frequency: selling small amounts of drugs from time to time; fencing stolen property; even stealing, when an easy opportunity presented itself. It seemed so foolish now, and needlessly risky, not to mention just plain wrong. The irony was that he found himself sitting in a prison cell for something he didn't do. Regardless of how he got there, he needed to turn his back on that lifestyle, and he was prepared to do so—if he only got the chance.

  Shooter didn't know whether he believed in God or not, but he prayed constantly while he was in that jail cell. He promised the Almighty that he would do something productive with his life if he were able to walk away a free man. He didn't know what that would be, but he would figure it out, and he would pursue that goal relentlessly. Like the lawyer said, he had what it takes. He just needed another chance.

  And then the lawyer came through. He was freed. He would have that second chance, and he was determined to make the most of it. He had promised the lawyer he would do so, and he would keep his word. He had also made a promise to God, and while he still didn't know whether he believed in God or not, it seemed inadvisable to break that promise, just in case He was out there. And he would do it for Jerome. He had always considered Jerome to be his responsibility, and did what he could to exert some level of control and influence over his wild younger brother. He kept him out of fights when he could, and did his best to keep him away from the gangs, but beyond that, he hadn’t succeeded in having much of a positive influence. That was obvious, since Jerome was now in jail.

  But Jerome would be out of jail in a few years, and Shooter was determined to be in a position to make a difference then. Jerome looked up to him, and if he was doing something legitimate and productive, and making a steady income, perhaps Jerome would see that a better way of life was possible. If he were making decent money, they could live somewhere else, away from the bad influences that had surrounded both of them for their entire lives. That would be his mission.

  With that goal in mind, Shooter thought for the first time in his life about entering the job market. He applied for work with the Chicago Fire Department, as well as several other branches of the city and county governments. He hoped that their commitment to diversity and affirmative action was more than lip service and that they would be willing to take a chance on a twenty-four-year-old black man with no history of gainful employment. They took his applications, but gave him little reason for optimism. There were long waiting lists, he was told, and he was starting at the bottom.

  He took buses to neighborhoods that had shopping malls and department stores. He had difficulty envisioning himself wearing a uniform and working in a retail establishment, but he was willing to start just about anywhere. Wherever he started, it would be a stepping stone to something better.

  Months went by, and Shooter's efforts had gone unrewarded. No one seemed willing to take a chance on a young black man who had spent time in prison on drug charges. His optimism was fading. He was running out of ideas—and hope. Then another thought occurred to him. There was one thing he was really good at, as good as anyone, and it was something he loved: basketball. He now realized that he would never make a living as a professional player, but he knew the game. He could use his knowledge and experience. He could coach. He could teach young men the game, and be a positive influence on them. He could help them avoid the mistakes he had made as a teenager.

  With renewed hope, he went to see Coach Foster, his former high school coach. Coach had once told Shooter that he had more potential than any player he had ever seen. He had stood by Shooter when the administration sought to have him expelled. Unfortunately, Coach had not succeeded in keeping Shooter in school, but he was definitely someone Shooter could talk to now. Coach understood life in this neighborhood, and might be willing to help give a person like Shooter a second chance. Maybe he would let him help out as an assistant, or at least put in a good word for him at another school.

  Coach Foster had been pleased to see him, and seemed genuinely enthused by Shooter's desire to make something of himself. He promised to make some inquiries. But Foster was also a realist, and he was brutally honest. He told Shooter that, in the present legal climate, schools were reluctant to expose their students to a staff member with a criminal record. Getting hired by the Chicago public school system, or any other school, was a long shot. Nevertheless, Shooter left his meeting with Coach Foster trying his best to think positively. It was a long shot, Coach had told him, but he hadn't said it was impossible. Sometimes long shots paid off. For the moment, Shooter lost all interest in pursuing any other possibilities, since this one seemed so perfect. It was worth waiting for.

  The basketball court at St. Simon's was empty when Shooter arrived late in the afternoon, after his meeting with Coach Foster. That was not surprising, since it was cold and had been drizzling intermittently throughout the day, making the court too slick for a game. He was actually glad that the courts were deserted. Shooting baskets in solitude was his favorite form of meditation.

  After he had been shooting for about twenty minutes, he noticed a black Ford with two occupants pull up nearby—clearly an unmarked police car. Undercover cops had been coming around with some frequency since he and Jerome had been busted. Shooter did his best to ignore them. He knew he had nothing to be afraid of, yet he still felt uneasy. After a few minutes, the doors of the Ford opened and two cops approached him. He recognized one. It was the cop who had arrested him.

  “Hello, Darnell. Mind if we shoot with you?” He held up his hands, in a silent request for the ball.

  Shooter looked at him coldly. “If you want,” he replied, sending the ball to the cop with a short bounce pass. These guys clearly were not interested in shooting hoops. They were both wearing dress slacks and shiny black street shoes.

  “How's your brother?” asked the cop.

  “How do you think? He's in jail.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot.” He took a few shots, missing badly.

  “Say Darnell, do you know a guy named Julius Jefferson?”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe you know him by a different name. Ever heard of The Priest?”

  Everyone around knew The Priest. He got that nickname years ago, after he had somehow obtained a priest’s outfit—black shirt and pants and a white collar—and spent his time masquerading as a man of the cloth. He roamed the more affluent parts of the city and nearby suburbs asking for donations for underprivileged inner city youths. He made good money, and being a true entrepreneur, used those funds as seed money to finance a drug trafficking business, and quickly became a successful dealer. As his success grew, he tried to make the leap from small-time dealer to major league player. The gangs made it clear that they did not appreciate him encroaching upon their turf and cutting into their business. Like any good businessman, The Priest cut the best deal he could, and joined forces with the area’s largest street gang. They provided him protection and an opportunity to expand his trade, and he provided the gang with a hefty share of the profits. He soon became one of the biggest dealers on the South Side.

  “I've heard of him,” Shooter replied. He was not going to be foolish enough to antagonize these guys, but he had no desire to be of any help either. The cop continued shooting as he resumed his questioning.

  “How about Freddy Fontaine? Heard of him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He was a pretty good friend of Jerome's, wasn't he?”

  “They knew each other.”

  “Seems like old Freddy was trying to break into the drug business.”

  “I don't know anything about that,” Shooter responded, his anxiety rapidly increasing.

  The cop stopped shooting. He picked up the ball and walked toward Shooter, stopping a few feet in front of him. “The Priest was murdere
d,” he said, looking Shooter directly in the eyes.

  “I heard that.”

  “Have you heard that Fontaine was killed too? Caught a shotgun blast right in the face.”

  “I heard.”

  “Do you remember when this happened, Darnell?”

  Shooter was silent.

  “I'll remind you,” said the cop, his voice becoming threatening. He tossed the ball over his shoulder, and folding his arms across his chest, took a step closer. “It happened just before you and your brother got busted, just before that big stash wound up in your apartment. Now I wonder,” he said in his most sarcastic voice, “Jerome is a seventeen-year-old kid with no apparent source of income. How the hell would someone like him come to have a stash worth over half a million bucks?”

  CHAPTER 24

  The Kensington was a stately old hotel in the heart of downtown Chicago. It had recently undergone major renovations after being purchased by one of the large hotel chains, but the new owners had done a nice job of retaining the look and feel of the pre-World War II era. The floors and walls of the cavernous lobby were white marble, accented by gleaming brass trim, fine artwork and stunning crystal chandeliers, authentically capturing the cool elegance of a bygone era. Jake had chosen the spot because he knew it would not be crowded at six o’clock on a Wednesday evening.

  He entered the hotel bar and looked around. Rick was not there yet, so he seated himself in a corner booth, facing the door. He had not seen or spoken with Rick since law school graduation, nearly two years before. Rumor had it that Rick had left Robbins & McKee after less than a year, under some sort of cloud, although he had not heard any particulars.

  Rick had sounded pleased when Jake called that afternoon and invited him for a drink. Jake hadn’t mentioned the reason for his invitation, and wondered whether Rick suspected. He couldn’t recall whether he had ever mentioned to Rick that he had worked in a grocery store. Even if he had, how would Rick have known it was Quinn's? He wondered whether Larry would have spoken to Rick about him, but couldn't think of any reason why it might occur to Larry to mention his connection with Jake or Jake's connection with the store.

  He saw Rick stop in the entryway and look around the bar, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Jake waved and caught Rick’s eye.

  “Hello, Jake! Great to see you. It’s been way too long.” They shook hands and Jake was reminded of the effect Rick could have on people, with his good looks, confidence and charm. There was no question that he had a certain presence about him that seemed even more powerful now that he was an experienced attorney and not merely a law student.

  “Hi, Rick. You look great. I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.”

  Rick looked at his watch. “It’s only six o’clock. I can’t believe Samuelson & Reid would let you off the clock this early. Shouldn’t you be getting in a few more billable hours before you call it a day?” he asked with a grin. “I’m sure glad I got away from that grind.”

  They ordered a couple of beers and brought each other up to date on their career progress. Rick had not kept up with any of their law school classmates, so Jake filled him in on what he knew. As they finished their second beer, Jake decided to come to the point.

  “Rick, I’d like to talk with you about one of your cases. I’ve heard that you’re suing Mickey Quinn on behalf of Larry Doyle.” He handed Rick a copy of the article published in the Southside Review when the suit was filed.

  Rick looked pleased with himself as he glanced at the headline. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I know these people, Rick. I used to work at Quinn’s. I was the one who trained Larry when he started working there. I know Mickey Quinn like I know my own family. Your lawsuit is off base. Larry’s feeding you a crock of shit.”

  Rick did not act surprised. He seemed neither offended nor defensive. “Look, Jake,” he said in a calm and sincere voice. “You have no way of knowing what happened. All you can do is speculate. You’re obviously fond of Mr. Quinn, and probably have never witnessed anything like this from him, so you want to believe him. That’s perfectly understandable. But people we know and respect surprise us all the time. They let us down. It happens. We never really know people like we think we do.”

  “I know Mickey. I worked with him almost every day for six years. I know the man. There’s no way these allegations could be true. I’ve spoken to him about it, and I’m absolutely convinced he’s telling the truth when he tells me that this whole sordid story is a complete fabrication.”

  “You know I can’t discuss the particulars of this case with you or anyone else, Jake. That would be improper. I’ll just say this: My client tells me this is what happened. I have no basis for doubting him, and have a duty to provide him with the best representation I can. That’s what I intend to do.”

  “I understand that, but there’s a difference between providing good representation for your client and pursuing scorched earth tactics designed to ruin someone, and that’s what you’re doing here,” Jake said angrily, pointing to the newspaper article he had previously shown Rick. “There’s no need to whip the press into a frenzy over this. You’re attempting to try your case in the media, and they’ve found him guilty already. His reputation is being destroyed.”

  “I don’t control the media. They print what they want to print. This is news. They’re going to print it, whether you like it or not.”

  Jake suspected that Rick had been working the media, and the lack of any denial on that point confirmed his suspicion. “Maybe, but you don’t have to solicit their involvement. You don’t have to feed them your side of the story, and keep them stirred up.”

  Rick clearly looked irritated now. “Is there a purpose to this conversation? What do you want, Jake? What do you expect me to do?”

  Jake stared at his beer, with a look of resignation. “All I can ask is this: Remember that a man’s life is being ruined over this. Remind your client of the consequences of his actions. Remind him that there are laws against perjury. And take a hard look at your client and his story and don’t encourage this if you’re not convinced of its truthfulness.”

  Rick looked sincere again, even a little hurt. “Do you honestly think I would involve myself in a case that is complete bullshit? Look Jake, I consider you to be a close friend. There’s no one I admire more than you. I would do anything for you, I really would. But I have to tell you, this is awkward. You know that I have a duty to my client. I have an obligation to represent him to the best of my ability. I can’t change that based on our friendship.” Rick paused and set aside his beer. “You’ve made a request of me, now let me ask something of you. Keep this in mind: There are three sides to every dispute—the plaintiff’s side, the defendant’s side and the actual truth. Each side has its own biases and perspectives, which invariably color its version of what really happened. The truth usually lies somewhere in between. What that means in a case like this is that your guy may not be as bad as Larry thinks he is—but he’s probably no saint either. Who knows exactly what happened? That’s why we have juries, and it’s their duty to decide where the truth lies. But something must’ve happened to set Larry off on this course. You asked me to keep an open mind, and I will, I really will. But you need to do the same thing.”

  He sounded so sincere, Jake thought, and so convincing. He even had Jake starting to second-guess himself. Rick would have the jury eating out of his hands.

  CHAPTER 25

  “Can you come by the gym today? I've got some news.” It was Coach Foster. It had been over a week since Shooter had met with him, and he had about given up hope of hearing back from the coach.

  It was around noon when Shooter arrived at his former high school. The corridors were teeming with students as they moved from one classroom to another with varying degrees of hustle. Shooter walked past the noisy, crowded cafeteria. The shouts and laughter made the place hum with a positive energy. Shooter had hated high school, or at least thought he did, while he was t
here. All those authority figures, rules, and discipline were just not for him. Almost as soon as he had left, however, he missed it. Walking through the school now, he thought about what he had missed: the camaraderie, the social opportunities, the girls, and yes, even the education. It all seemed like such a positive environment now. He wanted so badly to be part of it. He felt certain he could contribute and make a difference, if only he were given a chance. As those thoughts passed through his mind, he felt a surge of hope. Coach Foster would not have asked him to stop by in person just to give him bad news.

  “I'm afraid I have some bad news, Shooter,” said the coach. “As I suspected, the school district has a strict policy against hiring people with a criminal record. The lack of any other employment history is a big strike against you, too. I'm sorry.”

  Shooter's shoulders drooped and he looked downward. “I would do a great job, Coach. I really would. Doesn't anybody believe in giving a guy a second chance?” he asked with quiet exasperation.

  “That's why I asked you to stop by. The public school system may not be an option, but there’s another possibility. It probably won't pay much, but if you really want to work with kids and get into coaching, it might be a good place to start.”

  Hope sprang up within him again, mixed with curiosity. “All I want is a chance. I can handle it from there.”

  “Have you ever heard of Lonnie Cole?”

  “The football player? Sure, who hasn’t?”

  “Do you know what he’s doing now?”

  “He’s a preacher, isn’t he?”

  “That’s right. He’s a friend of mine, too. We went to high school together. After getting out of football, he became a minister. He’s got his own church now, over on the West Side. He’s been working hard to build his congregation, and it’s growing fast. One of his goals is to help steer young men in the right direction and away from the gangs. He knows that the unchurched won’t just walk into his chapel to hear him preach or attend Bible study meetings, but if he offers them an outlet—like sports—that may get them off the streets, and maybe some of them will eventually want to learn more about his ministry.”