by Dana Killion
“I’d love to.”
She gave Platt a quick peck on the cheek. “Don’t forget dinner at seven-thirty with the Hindmans,” she reminded him, and left.
Platt motioned for me to sit before taking the club chair to my left.
“This is your show. Please, jump right in,” Platt said, leaning back and draping his arms over the armrests.
“You don’t mind if I tape this, do you?” I tapped on my phone, opening my recording app. He shook his head, but a bit of his smile faded for just a second. “We hear that Mayor Rendell intends to challenge the governor. Can you confirm?”
“Yes, the mayor intends to make a formal announcement at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. Given our relationship with Erik, we’re giving this to Link-Media first.” The Cheshire cat smile was back. The one intended to lure you into a false sense of security before you became lunch.
That explained where Erik was getting his information. Was I supposed to be kissing Platt’s feet because he and Erik were chummy? I knew they’d had business dealings back in the early days of EMco, and that relationship had continued over the years, but I was starting to feel like there was more subtext than that. Or was my legal history making me paranoid? I couldn’t seem to get used to the political quid pro quo environment. Not that the legal profession was above that—far from it—but within the Cook County State’s Attorney’s Office, we were conditioned for constant propriety. Government seemed conditioned just for the appearance part.
“Does the mayor intend to resign to dedicate himself to the campaign?”
“At the present time, no. The mayor intends to continue with his agenda of job creation and strengthening Chicago’s economy. There has been tremendous progress during his term, but he is relentless in his commitment to furthering that goal. There are no resign-to-run laws in Illinois, so we’re free to continue our work here in Chicago. We feel that the mayor and his campaign staff are capable of addressing the demands of both. Of course, we’ll evaluate that along the way.”
Platt seemed in his element, relaxed, in control. Trotting out the approved response to questions he anticipated. Was that why Erik had been so eager for me to handle the story? He must have assumed I’d be so thrilled to be the one breaking the news that I’d take what I was given and not ask tough questions.
“Do you have a successor in mind?”
My question seemed to shift something in him, and he took the moment to reach down and adjust his tie. When he looked back up, there was a slight steeliness in his gaze, despite the lingering smile. My years as a prosecutor had taught me to watch for the tell, the moment when I was getting under someone’s skin. The more accomplished the liar, the more subtle that moment was. And was there anyone more practiced in the art of deception than a politician? I also knew that was the moment to increase the heat.
“Let’s be clear, the mayor isn’t soliciting candidates. If an endorsement is appropriate once candidates come forth, he’ll make that decision at a later date. We will not repeat the practice of handing positions to the highest bidder that this city has witnessed with previous administrations.”
Something about the change in his eyes made me question his response.
“Do you have any interest yourself in the position? After all, as deputy mayor, you would be the logical choice.”
“My interests remain the best interests for the city of Chicago.” The line came out as if he’d said it a thousand times. “Mayor Rendell has an excellent record of accomplishment. Job creation, lowered unemployment numbers, increased tourism that brings millions of dollars a year to our economy, including a booming convention business. McCormick Place—the largest convention center in North America, by the way—brings in over two million visitors a year. Stop and see my assistant before you leave for the most up-to-date statistics. We wouldn’t want you to use old data, would we?” He chuckled as if we were both in on some joke.
Platt had just given me a natural segue.
“How will the mayor respond to criticism about the current rash of highway shootings that have happened under his watch? I understand that McCormick has received cancellations from three major conventions and that tourism has been slipping. The shootings are making national news. And there is a growing call in the local press for him to resign based on his handling of these incidents.”
He stared at me, contemplating the questions. Or perhaps my gall at asking them. His eyes were flat, but the slight smile stayed frozen on his face, as if there were an on/off button he pressed whenever he was in the public eye so he didn’t have to remember.
“I’m sorry, Andrea, I wish we could finish this up but I have another meeting,” he said, getting to his feet. “It was such a pleasure to speak with you. Say hello to Erik for me. And don’t forget to stop by Jessica’s desk on your way out for those stats.”
Guess he hadn’t like my question. His evasion felt oddly satisfying.
13
“This is garbage,” I said to myself as I stabbed at my keyboard, deleting yet another line of text that read as stilted and amateurish. I’d been back at my desk for forty minutes trying to get something salvageable out of my meeting with Platt, and all I could come up with was drivel that even my grandmother wouldn’t commend me for. A week ago I would have been thrilled to be the journalist with the inside story on the mayor’s run for governor. A week ago I would have believed I was covering this story because I deserved it. Today I knew I had been assigned to the story because Erik thought I would regurgitate his buddy Platt’s press release and put my name on it.
Platt clearly wanted to gloss over Rendell’s handling of the highway shootings, but if I ignored that subject completely, the piece would scream paid advertising. Screw it—ignoring the elephant in the room never worked.
I attacked my draft with renewed vigor, adding balanced commentary on Rendell’s accomplishments and failures, including the highway shootings. This gubernatorial run would add new pressure on the search for the killer or killers. The success of his campaign would hinge on having a suspect in custody. These cases had the ability to scar the solid track record currently defining his candidacy. I wrapped up, but knew it needed one more read in case I had been overly zealous. Stepping away for a few minutes would help me bring back my professional eyes.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled through email. Still no response from my anonymous emailer. He wanted my attention; now he had it. So why the silence? I contemplated sending another email. Would that move him into gear or push him back like a spider into a crevice? I did know someone who could do a trace on the email address. It was pricey, but… What was I thinking? Again I was letting personal pressure control me. I stashed the phone back in my bag. Get a grip. It hasn’t even been half a day.
I took a sip of my Pellegrino and a few deep breaths and got back to the story, freshly committed to balanced reporting. If Erik wanted to airbrush Rendell’s history, that was on him. I could only write the truth. It wasn’t in me to do anything less.
“You ready for a first pass?” Brynn was at the doorway. “Gang experts?” she said, noting the confusion in my face. I motioned her in.
She handed me a couple printouts as she flopped into the seat.
“First up is Father Luke Brogan. Religious community bigwig in Englewood. He runs several programs for teens trying to keep them out of gangs. Staged a sit-in four years ago in front of City Hall when former Mayor Schiffer closed a mental health facility in the neighborhood.” She reached across the desk and flipped to the next page. “Remember last August, when the cops shot and killed that seventeen-year-old kid with a cell phone in his hand? Said they thought it was a gun? Well, Brogan was the also the guy who kept the peace when events almost spun out of control.”
“Yes, of course. We haven’t met, but I know his name.” I thought back to the news coverage of a neighborhood almost brought to a boil by extreme emotions and extreme heat. The incident, although unfortunate, could have been disastrous. Father Brogan had bee
n instrumental in facilitating rational dialogue between the community and CPD, resulting in a strained but peaceful outcome. “He has tremendous influence, not only in Englewood, but also with other neighborhood community leaders.”
“Then we have Professor Edwin Larsson, at UIC. He’s published three books thus far: one on the history of gangs; one on symbolism and groupthink, that compares gangs to sports teams, for some odd reason; and his most recent fantastical idea, the suggestion that gang structure is actually beneficial for society—they’re just misunderstood.”
“Larsson sounds like he might be an admirer,” I said, confused by the idea of a professor touting drug dealing and violence.
“He sounds like an academic afraid to get his hands dirty, studying what intrigues him rather than living it.” Brynn’s voice dripped with disgust. “Fantasy is better than reality for some people.”
Brynn’s show of emotion caught me by surprise. I sensed a backstory but didn’t pry. She’d volunteered little of her personal life, but every now and then, I’d picked up an edge, as if there were trauma in her past. With my own life far more exposed and vulnerable than I cared it to be, I wasn’t going to push. It was hers to share or not as she saw fit.
“This is a great start. I’ll get on the phone, see what I can set up. Can you also get me the locations of the first two shootings? I want to know exactly where they happened, down to the position of the shooter.”
“You got it. I’ll have it for you in the morning.” She grabbed her now empty coffee mug and returned to her desk.
Flipping through Brynn’s documents, I highlighted a few areas of interest, made some margin notes, then picked up the phone to call Father Brogan. We made an appointment to meet in the morning, and I moved to the next call. Professor Larsson’s voice mail indicated he was away on sabbatical and only checking messages infrequently over the summer. I left one anyway.
I glanced at the clock. 3:30 p.m. Rendell’s announcement needed to be in to Erik by 5:00 p.m. Now that I was no longer pussyfooting around the highway shootings and Platt’s ego, the revision began to flow more smoothly, and the piece took on a reasonable structure with only a few tweaks.
As I wrote, Cai’s revelation of gang payoffs slid back into my head. I searched Karl Janek’s name, looking for information on the allegations. After ten minutes of digging, the bulk of what I had found was cursory coverage of the investigation. Without Cai’s information, I probably would have glossed right over the stories. However, an anonymous blogger who called himself CopOut and claimed to be ex-CPD, went deeper. His posts seemed to align with what I had heard from my own sources, but for all I knew, he was a fourteen-year-old kid with a vivid imagination.
CopOut alleged that two years earlier, a lieutenant in the Gangster Disciples had been indicted for drug trafficking when he’d attempted to recruit undercover cops for a satellite operation in the western suburb of Oak Park. The lieutenant had tried to take care of the situation by throwing money at the detectives. Unfortunately for him, the detectives didn’t bite. Based on the lieutenant’s readiness to open his wallet, the cops figured he’d pulled this move in the past and pushed him for more dirt. One chief of police talked to another, and before long, Internal Affairs was up everyone’s ass. Janek, being head of the gang unit, had a bullseye on his forehead.
CopOut hinted at other officers being involved as well. In true media fashion, none of his follow-up posts indicated that Janek had been cleared. Dubicki’s name wasn’t even mentioned. Nothing I didn’t already know. Aside from the blog, I found no other coverage. Maybe Brynn could work some magic. The indictment of the gang member was easy enough to verify, but didn’t prove anything. Perhaps I could get Cai to spill a little more. She might know who represented Dubicki or could find out. I picked up the phone. As usual, her cell went directly to voice mail. I left a detailed message, knowing I’d hear from her shortly.
“Are you sure Rendell’s a dead end? The funky money I mean.” Erik stood in the doorway, his face a mix of emotions I couldn’t interpret. Sheepish, annoyed, distracted—I couldn’t tell anymore. Whatever radar I had in the past for reading his moods had been seriously faulty.
“As I said in my email, there’s nothing there. Just a former employee pissed off after getting fired.” I shifted my eyes back to my screen. I was still annoyed over the morning’s tussle and not looking for a replay. He, however, was making no effort to leave. I lifted my head and looked up at him over my computer screen. “Was there something else?”
“Can I give you a ride home tonight?” he asked, fussing with his watchband instead of looking at me. “I know it’s early, but you really should be getting more rest. You’ve been pushing yourself hard this week, harder than I imagine your doctor would want you to. I’ll need fifteen minutes and then we can leave.”
Twelve possible responses darted through my mind starting with “fuck no” and moving downhill from there. Before I could say anything, my cell phone rang. Cai, returning my call, saving me from another “it’s really over” conversation. Mindful of the paycheck I still needed, I shifted my attitude closer to neutral. “I’ll grab a cab, but thanks for the offer,” I said, then took the call.
Erik nodded as he left, his eyes filled with hurt at the rejection. At least he didn’t argue.
“Hey, you there? Am I catching you in the middle of something?” Cai asked, hearing the pause after I picked up the phone.
“Sorry, Cai. Just chatting with the boss,” I said, grateful for the interruption.
“Oh. Is he still pleading? Wants you to take him back? He’s now a reformed man, shocked into honorability after nearly losing you, and can’t imagine anyone else tucking him into bed at night.”
“We do occasionally have to talk about work, but in this case, you’re right. He hinted about nursing me back to health.”
“Let me guess—a sponge bath is going to make you all better.” She chuckled. “I gotta give him credit; when he wants something, he doesn’t let up.”
“And that’s exactly the problem. He’s like a kid who hasn’t learned to delay gratification.”
“Please no more details on your sex life—that’s just too much information.”
“You forget that I no longer have one, so we’ll have to talk about yours.”
“I couldn’t do that to you, it would be too cruel to share all the juicy details when you aren’t gettin’ any. Might make you want to hop in the sack with Erik just to work it out of your system.”
“Don’t make me laugh, my bruises haven’t healed yet.”
“Then get the hell out of the office, go home, and get some rest! Hey, I’m meeting this guy for a drink at Fig and Olive. Do you want me to bring you some tuna carpaccio?”
Cai worked almost as hard on her social life as she did on her day job. Not that it was difficult. Men tripped over themselves to meet her, but she never kept any of them around long enough to move into relationship territory. Boredom was always her excuse. In my opinion, she just hadn’t found a male version of herself. But relationship coaching wasn’t my forte these days.
“I don’t want to ruin your chance at a sweaty liaison. Couldn’t have that on my conscience, although I’m wildly jealous.”
She laughed. “Trust me, no hot sex with this guy. A co-worker has been trying to fix me up with her brother, the CPA, for months, and I’ve run out of excuses. Meeting him for a drink, period. You’d give me a reason to split. Gotta tend to my invalid friend.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll just order sushi, take a long hot bath, and go to bed early.”
“All right, have it your way, but text me if you change your mind. So, on to the other purpose of my call. You wanted to know who represented Matt Dubicki in his defense against the bribery accusations. Well, I did a little digging and found something interesting. He was exonerated.”
“Yeah, I knew that.”
“But you didn’t know that he was represented by Blasik, Cameron, and Lord. Apparently, old man
Cameron handled the case himself,” Cai said, satisfaction ringing in her voice.
“Why would a top corporate law firm handle a case like that? Criminal law isn’t their specialty.” Alarm bells were clanging. Why would Dubicki have chosen that firm?
“More importantly, where did a cop get a thousand dollars an hour to pay for that legal talent?”
14
I pulled the replacement Audi I’d picked up last night into an open parking spot in front of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, told Siri to end directions, and stashed the phone back in my bag. Englewood was largely unfamiliar to me, known only by media coverage. I looked around at the mix of two-and three-story homes—some tidy, some rundown, others boarded up and abandoned. Empty lots dotted the landscape; whatever homes had once stood on these spots were now just ghostly memories. The neighborhood seemed to teeter between a distant past of middle-class success and a troubled future.
A text flashed on my phone, confirming that my story on Rendell’s gubernatorial announcement had gone live. What kind of butchering had Erik done? I clicked through. Absent was any mention of the highway shootings and their potential impact on the election or Rendell’s legacy. I shook my head and swallowed my pride. At least it was a byline.
Flipping through the notes Brynn had prepared for my meeting with Father Brogan, I fought the voice in my head that told me I shouldn’t be here. This wasn’t my story. Pursuing it could leave me exposed and more vulnerable than I had been at any point in my life. This move was flat-out insubordination, and Erik would spit rocks if he found out. Was it ego that had me here overstepping boundaries or instinct? Or a desire to prove to Erik that I had the chops, that whatever he threw at me wouldn’t break me?
The view across the expressway I had seen two days ago as I stood against the chain-link fence, in the very spot the shooter had stood, once again filled my mind. It sent shivers up my back. I felt as if CPD was being intentionally vague in their details of the shootings, possibly to ferret out the killer. Or perhaps intentionally evasive because gang violence was easier to explain than having no idea what was really going on. Regardless, there was no doubt in my mind a sniper was at work. But why? In my gut, I was having a hard time seeing these killings as some extended initiation rite.