by Dana Killion
Allegations had circled that cooking the reports was common practice at Rami and highly profitable, but the prosecutor had not been able to build a firm case for additional incidents. Ramirez and his engineer both took plea deals, paid their fines, kept up their stories, and agreed to jail sentences, hoping to minimize the personal damage. The engineer would be lucky to get a janitorial position when his time was up, but Ramirez would probably step back to his desk, his bank account, barely missing a beat.
Cai might have been enthralled with Ramirez’s legal wrangling’s, but it was his dinner companions that had my curiosity piqued.
“Interesting that one of the first things he does is have dinner with Alderman Anthony Langston—from the 20th Ward. That’s Englewood.” I looked at Cai, wondering if she also found the timing curious. Englewood was a South Side neighborhood plagued with high unemployment and crime. “What do you think that’s all about? The way they’re huddled over their drinks, they seem to be having an interesting conversation.”
“Maybe they got to know each other over the South Side Walmart deal? Rami must have put in bids on that project. I think they break ground in the next few months.”
“Who’s the third guy?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t see his face.”
Just then the unidentified man stood and left the table, heading back inside the restaurant and giving us an opportunity for a frontal view. He was younger than the others—closer to forty—with a head of thick, slicked-back dark hair, biceps that strained at his shirt, and a jaw so square I could measure by it. He wasn’t familiar. As I watched, a fourth man arrived and began working his way around the table, clapping the guys on the back and shaking hands.
“Well, look who’s joined the party. Art Borkowski.”
7
Borkowski, Langston, Ramirez? The image of the three men at dinner was still on my mind this morning. The ease of their body language and laughter told me the meeting had been social, and not uncommon. Langston and Ramirez having a personal connection, I got. Borkowski, on the other hand? Should a personal relationship between a business leader and a journalist concern me? Maybe it was my predisposition to caution, or just my dislike of the man, but it was tough to be journalistically objective about one’s friends in high places.
Juggling my travel mug of tea in one hand and my tote bag in the other, I unlocked the glass doors to Link-Media. Flipping on the overhead lights, I cringed, regretting the out-of-character second martini the previous night. Plopping my bag on the floor, I settled into my desk. The solitude of an empty office in the early morning gave me a chance to pour myself into my work while colleagues were still sitting in traffic on the Kennedy Expressway.
As usual, the message light on the office phone blinked at me, and I lifted the handset to retrieve my voice mail, hoping that some of yesterday’s prodding had yielded a call back. As I punched in my code, a loud, angry outburst reached me from somewhere in the near distance. The outer hallway? Or was someone in the office?
I clicked off and quietly stepped past my desk, peering out over the empty worktables and silent computers. No one.
The crash of metal against something hard and unyielding came from the back, shaking my body to attention. Erik’s office.
I grabbed my cell and tiptoed slowly toward the sound, hugging the brick wall, my finger hovering, ready to dial 9-1-1.
The voice was sharper now. The anger restrained but coiled. Ready to rear up again and strike.
“We had an agreement!”
Erik? On an angry phone call at 7:00 a.m.? I relaxed my grip on the phone and slid it back into my pocket before edging closer to his door.
“The money supply isn’t endless. I’m not the Federal Reserve.”
His words glued me to the spot. Money? Who was he giving money to? Were we in financial trouble? If he was in trouble, personally or professionally, then so was I. My mind raced back over the reams of paper my attorney had forwarded. The financial disclosure documents for our divorce hadn’t raised any red flags at the time, but that was two months ago. Had something changed? Wouldn’t be the first divorcing son of a bitch who tried to get away with squirreling away assets.
“I can’t leverage this anymore. We need another player at the table. Someone who can buy in,” he said, his timbre lower now, but his tone icy and demanding. “We need more skin in the game.”
Whatever was going on was putting a knot in my stomach. My entire life was still enmeshed with Erik’s, and any financial pain of his would eventually be mine.
The call appeared to be almost over, so I crept back the way I had come and immersed myself in the balance of my unheard voice mail messages. As I listened to the stream, my mind teetered back to my own situation. If Erik was bringing in an investor, we were all about to be looking for new jobs. With Lane’s reminder that my journalist resume was pathetic playing on rewind, financial vulnerability loomed in front of me, daring me to misstep. Lost in the implications, I trudged on through the messages, painfully aware of the risks as I charted my course for the day.
“You ready for me? I didn’t see any love notes on my desk.”
I looked up from my computer to find Brynn waiting for the day’s schedule. Her close-cropped afro was still damp from her morning shower and her uniform button-down shirt perfectly pressed as always. Wash-and-go had never been my look, but she pulled it off flawlessly.
“Is it nine already?” I asked, shocked to see that nearly two hours had slipped by. “Sorry, I got pulled into something. I have a list right here.” I turned over half a dozen papers that were strewn across my desk and came up with nothing. “Umm, give me a second and I’ll jot down a few things to get you started. We can touch base later.”
“You sleep okay last night?”
“Sure, why do you ask?” I said, fumbling for a notepad and pencil.
Brynn was silent as I scribbled. I tore off the brief list and handed it over, only to be met with a confused stare.
“What?”
She lifted the crisp, typed, prioritized list of last week’s tasks up against the hastily jotted scrap I had just handed her.
“Again, are you sure everything is all right?”
I smiled and shook my head. “Guilty as charged. I’m a little off my game this morning. Give me five minutes to get myself together and we’ll chat about priorities.”
“Okay, I’ll resist the urge to feel your forehead—for the moment.” She turned on her heel, but not before shooting me a look that was more mama bear than lowly intern.
Erik, what are you up to? My gut clenched as the possibilities rolled through my head. A new partner would want changes, would want to bring in his own people—which meant I’d be the first to get axed. Did he have an investor on the hook? Sounded like early planning. but if something was going down, a kick-ass story could be my saving grace. Even if I had to use it to find another job.
I left message number three with my source on the mayor’s funky cash transaction, asking for another meeting, then glanced through the day’s headlines. Tourism was projected down twenty percent. Revenue numbers would start to tank if there were another shooting. And without a suspect in custody, that possibility felt very real.
I wandered out to Brynn’s cubicle and pulled up a chair. She swung around and raised her coffee to her lips, watching me over the rim.
“Humor me for a minute. I need to throw a question at the wall, brainstorm a bit.” The images of Friday’s accident were still not far from my mind, but were now layered with the puzzle of a messy police history and the Pharmacy. The story felt under-investigated. Was it because I now had a personal connection? Or did I want there to be more because I needed a story? “CPD has attributed these highway shootings to gang violence. Natural conclusion based on the location, the history of violence, gang behavior, drug activity in the area…”
“Right.” Brynn nodded. “Are you questioning that premise?”
“I guess I’m wonderin
g if it’s an assumption instead of a fact. Whether there is any real evidence of gang activity versus what the appearance suggests. We’re not talking about stray bullets or some drive-by shooting where the wrong target was accidentally hit, so I’m wondering if we’ve all rushed to judgment because of preconceived ideas? What connective tissue might exist between the shootings?”
A huge smile crossed her face, and she shot her eyes over her shoulder to see who might be within hearing range. “I knew you wouldn’t sit back and not make a run at this story.”
“I’m not sure I’m making a run at anything, yet,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Just thinking out loud. Pull up what’s been released on the victims.”
She tapped at her keyboard. “First victim, Angel Velasquez, thirty-six, resident of Gary, Indiana, an electrician employed with Hoover Electrical, also in Gary, on his way to a job site in Schaumburg. He was alone in the vehicle. Second victim, Mark Walsh, forty-two, a self-employed accountant from Kalamazoo, Michigan. Mr. Walsh was traveling with his wife and two young children, who sustained minor injuries in the crash.”
“And Gunderson?”
“Chicago resident. Computer programmer with a small outfit in the Loop.”
“Where is this conversation going?”
I turned to find Erik at my elbow. His normal Captain America grin was dampened by the weariness in his eyes and his wrinkled dress shirt. I couldn’t stop a chill of apprehension from creeping up the back of my neck. Whatever was going on with him clearly was taking a toll. Borkowski was a half-step behind him, a smug smile straining his face. I looked at him with a critical eye, wondering again about his connection with Ramirez and Langston.
“We were discussing the highway shooting victims, wondering if there were any connections between them,” I said.
“Playing detective now, are you?” Borkowski said, looking at me over the top of his glasses. “Questioning CPD’s police work? Or formulating the prosecution’s strategy before anyone’s been arrested?”
“None of the above,” I shot back. “Shouldn’t journalists question what has been presented?”
“I think I was clear with you yesterday, Andrea, that the highway shooting story is not yours,” Erik said, his voice tight. “Focus on your own work. And, by the way, I’m still waiting on that Midway draft, which you committed to yesterday.”
He stomped off as Brynn and I stared at the back of his head in confusion and Borkowski moved on to chastise someone else.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, following Erik to his office.
“What?” he shot at me as I entered.
“I sent you the copy yesterday afternoon. Check your email.”
“Fine,” he mumbled, taking refuge behind his desk. His attention focused on the foam in the cappuccino he clasped between his hands.
“Is there an issue we need to discuss? Is this about last night?” Or the phone call I’d heard this morning?
“No, just reinforcing the roles you’ve very clearly established. I repeat, you are not assigned to the highway story. Stepping on toes won’t change that.”
“Stepping on toes? Erik, I’m just speculating. Wondering if these specific people were targets. Shouldn’t we all be playing what-if? I was there. Saw all of it with my own eyes. Felt it with my own body. Don’t you think I have something to add based on that experience?”
“Drop it! It’s not yours. If I want a contribution from you, I’ll assign it. In the meantime, get back to your own work. Owen Platt is expecting you at 11:30 to discuss Mayor Rendell’s gubernatorial run. I made the arrangements.”
And did you write my interview questions too? Thanks Erik.
8
Phone. Notepad. Hand sanitizer. All the tools of the trade. I wasn’t even in Platt’s office yet, and I was already feeling dirty. As promised, I was on the fifth floor of City Hall, having passed through security, and now on my way to my 11:30 a.m. appointment with Owen Platt, Chicago’s deputy mayor, to discuss Rendell’s future. Despite the advantage of an early statement from the Mayor’s Office, my ego was still bruised by Erik’s condescension. Arranging my appointment. Ordering me over here like I was some kid sent to take dictation. What was next?
The marble-paneled hallway was eerily quiet as employees navigated from meeting to meeting. Their voices were hushed, in deference or anxiety.
There was no mistaking the entrance to the mayor’s suite. The custom-made rug with the City of Chicago seal, the glass doors lettered in gold. After checking in with the attendant, I was shuttled through the maze and left standing in front of Platt’s receptionist.
“I’m here to see Owen Platt,” I said, identifying myself to the young woman sitting stiffly at the desk. She looked at me with blank eyes, then typed into her keyboard. Mayor Rendell’s bulbous face stared down at us from the formal portrait behind her head. I noticed the artist had been generous in shaping his jowls.
“Yes, Ms. Kellner, I see that you’re in Mr. Platt’s calendar, but unfortunately he’s been called away. Can we reschedule?”
“When do you expect him? I’m happy to wait.”
“He’s with the mayor at his residence. They’re prepping for a press conference.” She turned to the clock on the wall to her left. “They’ll be down in Daley Plaza in about fifteen minutes. After that, his schedule is quite full for the balance of the day. The next availability I have is at the end of the week. I can get you on the calendar Thursday at 2:00 p.m.”
A press conference? Were they making the gubernatorial announcement? If so, that blew my early lead to hell. Or perhaps it was news on the highway shootings. I told Platt’s scheduler that I would phone later, then hurried downstairs. I rushed through the main corridor that connected the city government side of the building to the Cook County side and out onto Clark Street, darting into Daley Plaza, a landmark courtyard adjacent to the Richard J. Daley Center and home of Chicago’s Circuit Courts.
I followed a handful of people past the fifty-foot Picasso sculpture into the plaza, which was famous as a location for weekly farmer’s markets, summer festivals, and an untold number of movies. The usual mix of tourists and workers sat scattered at tables along the edge of the square or cross-kneed under the sculpture. Not yet noon and the day was already sweltering. I could feel a trickle of perspiration glide down the small of my back. Near the building, I saw a group milling around a temporary stage. Must be the place. Scanning the crowd, I saw the usual faces. Local network news types were primping and doing their sound checks, while camera operators juggled their bulky gear. The rest were glued to their phones, oblivious to the rush of pedestrians and the constant drum of buses and cars that bounced off the surrounding high-rise canyon. No sign of Borkowski. Oh well, his loss.
“I hear Wachowski’s going to be emptying parking meters in Elgin if he doesn’t get a head on a stick ASAP.”
“Ought to get the damn National Guard in here.”
Two reporters next to me were batting around the same issue being debated at coffee shops, bars, and Little League practices all over the city. Could Wachowski get these shootings under control? What was Rendell doing? Guess I knew what this press conference was about now.
In the shadow of shooting number three, the city’s two top dogs were under mounting pressure to end the madness. Residents were flooding City Hall with phone calls and emails, demanding a resolution. Political pundits around the country were questioning who held control of Chicago, the mayor or the gangs? For a mayor who prided himself on building Chicago into the largest tourist destination in the Midwest, the millions of dollars being lost in the local economy—as travelers moved their plans to Minneapolis or Wisconsin Dells—simply made him look impotent.
Rendell’s relationship with Wachowski was onerous, but shatterproof. Rumor had it, that they’d buried too many bodies in their symbiotic rise for either to be toppled alone. It must have burned Rendell’s ass that he couldn’t offer up Wachowski as the sacrificial lamb.
Why ha
d the media been summoned? My Twitter feed was telling me word was getting out, and based on the tone, people wanted answers. Short of an arrest announcement, I was having a hard time imagining what words would placate the community in this hastily arranged press conference.
A handful of uniformed cops now hovered around the edges of the stage—the advance team. I saw Brian Coogan, a cop I’d worked with on an auto theft ring case a few years back. His attention was focused on chatting up the young female officer next to him rather than the crowd. Sorry, Coogin, your love life will have to wait.
More than forty journalists were now congregated in front of the platform, getting antsy in the heat. I moved through to my right, squeezing around an obnoxious guy who wrote for the Chicago Truth, a snarky, right-wing political blog that delighted in finding fault with the current liberal administration. He was barking orders into his cell phone as I passed. Taking issue with my maneuver in the crowded space, he jammed an elbow square with my ribs. Damn! I sucked in some air as the pain shot up my side. For a second, I contemplated a rebuttal, but decided he wasn’t worth the time.
Coogin looked in my direction as I got to the front. A broad smile deepened the creases around his full, ruddy face.
“What the heck got the likes of you out here? Whose ass you kickin’ today?” He held out his hand, then introduced his colleague.
“I decided I liked representing both sides of a story,” I said, handing him my card.
“Press? Well, ain’t that a gear shift.” He laughed and scrunched his face, baffled by my career change. “This little lady is, or I guess, was one tough-ass ASA. Not that you can tell by looking at her,” he said to the female cop.
The look she gave me told me I was about as welcome as food poisoning.
“So, you’re here for front-row seats to this performance.” Coogin nodded at the throng.
“What’s this all about? We going to hear anything new?” I asked.
“Beats me. Rendell calls, we gotta jump.” He shrugged.
“Are they going to announce a lead on the highway shooter?”