"It happened so fast, then Libby was back in my office."
"What did she say?"
"Let's go."
"What did you think?"
"I thought it was time to go."
"Why?"
Ansel looked down at the floor. "I didn't want to think about it, to tell the truth. I didn't want to ask what had happened. I guess I already knew."
"Why would Libby shoot Suzanne?"
"She knew we had been intimate. Were intimate. We were having a torrid affair, is the only way I can describe it. I had asked Libby for a divorce."
"What?"
"I told her that after the election Suzanne and I planned to be together."
"When did you tell that to Libby?"
"The night before. We were lying in bed and I turned my back to her and shut off my light. She sat straight up in bed and turned her light on and wanted to know why the hell--her words--I didn't touch her any more. So I told her."
"You told her about you and Suzanne."
"I did. The night Suzanne was shot I had gone to the office to start drafting a separation agreement. We have a form bank on our office computers and I was going to use one of those. Libby wanted to come, so she came with. I didn't care. The last person I expected to find there was Suzanne."
"Did you know Suzanne was in her office when Libby went to the restroom?"
"I didn't even know Suzanne was in the building. I hadn't talked to her at all that day. Don't forget, this was on a Sunday night. You wouldn't expect anyone there on a Sunday night."
Thaddeus stepped back to counsel table and found a yellow pad. He had written a few more questions there while in with the judge.
"Let's cut straight to the chase, Ansel. Where is Libby now?"
"Home, I suppose."
"That would be at the address you previously gave on direct examination two days ago?"
"Yes."
"That is all, thank you."
The judge looked at District Attorney Eckles, who was falling all over himself to get up to the podium and start asking his own questions.
He began, "Did you ask Libby whether she fired the gun?"
Ansel looked at the judge. "I cannot answer that on the grounds a spouse cannot be made to testify against a spouse. Second, that answer would require me to breach the confidentiality a lawyer owes a client."
"So Elizabeth Largent is your client."
"She is."
"And she has told you about the shooting."
"Again, I claim the privilege."
"Judge?" said Eckles. "Will you just jail him again?"
"Not at all. He can claim client confidentiality. We know his wife is his client and that's as far as this goes. What she has said to him is absolutely privileged. Ask your next question, Mr. Eckles."
"Has she told you she was the shooter?"
"Privileged," said Ansel, "I will not answer."
"Judge?"
"It is privileged. Ask your next question."
"Your Honor, if I can't ask him these things, then I can't continue."
"Then you can't continue." He looked at Eckles and shrugged. Then he turned to Ansel. "Mr. Largent, you may step down."
Ansel didn't hesitate. He took his seat next to Thaddeus.
The judge looked at Eckles. "Does the state need a recess as we discussed this morning in chambers?"
"I think not," said Eckles. "We'll pass on that."
A ten minute recess was taken. Following that break in the action, both attorneys gave their closing arguments. This ate up two hours of court time and lunch was fitted in between the state and the defense. Finally Thaddeus sat down, the state had the last word, then both attorneys had had their say.
"Very well. Ladies and gentlemen, it's almost noon. The state has rested, the defendant has rested, and now is the time for me to instruct you. First we'll take a five minute recess. Counsel, may I see you in chambers?"
The jury was led out and the two attorneys joined the judge in chambers. Ansel didn't go, saying he was off to the restroom. He waited for Thaddeus to leave the courtroom and then reached inside his jacket. He pulled out a brown plastic bottle that was labeled RISPDERIDONE. He unscrewed the white cap, made a quick note on a piece of yellow notebook paper, and placed it inside the bottle. Replacing the cap, he smiled. He pushed up from the table, taking care to leave the brown bottle in the seat Thaddeus would occupy when court resumed.
The press was wise. They knew jury instructions were nowheres-ville. They ran for their offices and the promise of a fun weekend. The gaggle of spectators likewise had dissipated.
Unseen by anyone, Ansel wandered into the hall and sat on the bench across from the courtroom. He opened his iPad and logged into the firm's trust account. He pressed buttons for several minutes then looked up. He shut the iPad and checked the time. 11:51. He had kept his word to Juan Carlos. Winston's head would not be sent to him in a box. As nonchalantly as possible, considering the terrific excitement he was feeling, he sauntered off to the bank of elevators. The doors whooshed open and he found the car empty. He pressed L.
Three minutes later, the judge had shrugged out of his robe and was taking a drink out of a frosty Diet Pepsi can. He wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. He focused his gaze on Thaddeus.
"Where is your client?" the judge asked Thaddeus.
"Restroom. I'll waive his presence."
"Very well. Gents, let's go over the jury instructions and Defendant's Proposed Instruction Twenty-three. Mr. Eckles you previously objected to the court giving this instruction when we reviewed instructions. I said I wanted to read the case law, which I now have done. Do you wish to be heard further before I rule?"
District Attorney Eckles launched into his reasons for objecting to the defendant's instruction. Thaddeus wanted to go find Ansel and bring him in for the argument, but decided against it. Which left him feeling uncomfortable. He had the oddest premonition that Ansel had left the building. Why he felt that way, he didn't know. But his premonition would prove reliable.
Court resumed ten minutes later. Thaddeus found a brown pill bottle in his chair. The judge already was calling court to order, so he just tucked the bottle inside his coat pocket. Probably Ansel's pills, he figured and gave it no further thought. He turned and looked around. Still no Ansel. The judge sent the bailiff to the men's restroom to look for him. The bailiff returned. No Ansel. The judge looked at Thaddeus and then asked him to explain his client's whereabouts.
"Judge, I really can't answer you," Thaddeus said. "But I will waive my client's presence at the reading of the jury instructions. I don't think it's necessary for him to be here during."
Ever so slowly, Judge Zang leaned forward and nodded. "It's unusual, but it's not in error to proceed. The court will take note that defense counsel has waived his client's presence."
Judge Zang then droned on for thirty minutes, reading the jury instructions.
At long last the reading was completed.
The jury stood, came back to life and was promptly led from the courtroom to begin deliberations. It was two-forty in the afternoon.
Thaddeus pulled out his cell phone and called Ansel's cell.
No answer.
49
Chapter 49
Emirates Airline Flight 4477 departed O'Hare at exactly two-forty-seven p.m.
As 4477 went airborne and turned west, the courtroom and its inhabitants seemed tiny and far away.
Flying first class in seat 1-A, Ansel happily received the first glass of champagne just after takeoff. He drank it down. Another came when they were still climbing.
He looked down at himself. Still wearing the suit Thaddeus had selected the previous night. He had made no effort to hide where he was going because a new identity awaited him, along with another packet of airline tickets. New passport, new driver's license, new identity, same wife.
When it was all said and done, he was happy with her. She had stood by his side and never once complained about his horrific hours at wo
rk. She had stood by his side and never once complained about his dalliances. She had stood by his side. And then some.
What he had with Suzanne--that had been love. True love.
Or was it?
Because at times it had felt like true lust. All he had wanted was to be alone with her, watching her undress or undressing her himself. It didn't really matter, as long as the clothes came off and as long as they clung to one another and dreamed their dream of spiritual reconciliation. Soul mates, that's what they had called themselves. Mated at the level of the soul.
He pressed his head against the linen headrest and drained the glass. Instantly the dark-skinned stewardess came with the towel draped over her forearm and poured it full again. He thanked her and reclined his seat. He sipped and closed his eyes.
Soul mates.
Which left him and Libby--where did they fit together, exactly? Certainly not at the soul level. Neither had ever felt a cellular union. A social union, maybe, a mating that worked to produce children and a lifestyle and a sense of familiarity, maybe. But bonded at the level of the soul? He winced. Never was, never would be. No, what he and Suzanne were--that was gone forever. And he thought it true: there was only one true love in a lifetime. Now his, due to a collision of circumstances, was gone.
Of course it was Libby's cane that had accompanied him to the office that Sunday night. He doubted she even missed it, the aluminum job, so seldom did she use it.
It had been difficult, shooting Suzanne, but it had demanded doing. She was running for District Attorney and she had laughed at their folly. She had belittled him, even. He was ridiculed and she threatened to tell Libby if he ever called her again. Now that was drastic. And there was no cause for it. One thing he couldn't abide was a threat. He just wouldn't stand for it. So he went to his office and sat there, in the dark, thinking about her. The more he thought, the more abused he felt. He moved the mound of papers that he had gone to the office already knowing he would move. The papers slid off the .38 revolver that had blinded the police officer's son. He picked it up and studied the cylinder. Damn thing was loaded, but he already knew that.
He had known this would happen.
Which was why he brought along Libby's cane.
He clutched the cane under his left arm and hefted the revolver in his right. The weight was solid, the metal cool in his grip. When he took the first step toward the door he knew that he wouldn't stop. He knew that it was done.
Silently he stepped into the hallway and looked east and west. Nobody around.
Except Suzanne.
He knew her habits. She was a creature of habit, always had been. And Sunday nights were catch-up nights. So she would be in her office.
At her door he paused and sucked in a massive chestful of air. Then he turned the knob with his left hand and entered.
"What?" she had said. Then she saw the gun.
"Hello, darling Suzanne. I've come to tell my side of it."
"You're crazy bastard. Have you had your meds today? If you think you can threaten me with a gun, you have another--"
The roar of the gun interrupted the meter of her speech. She had been rocking along when it was cut off. Just winding up. She was going to give it to him good. Dress him down and make him feel the fool for showing up in her office brandishing a gun. She might even have called the cops. Worse, she might have made a complaint to the law firm steering committee. A complaint lodged against the managing partner for sexual harassment would have meant the end of him.
He entertained these thoughts while she sat slumped to one side. He watched her blood drain onto the floor as if emptying her mind of thoughts.
So he took the cane and pushed it into the blood four times. Each impression was clean. Each impression showed the tread of the rubber foot.
Then he was done there and he drove himself home and returned the cane to Libby's umbrella stand.
The stewardess raised an eyebrow.
"Again?"
He smiled and nodded.
One thing he knew: you weren't supposed to ingest alcohol with those meds. All manner of bad things could happen if one drank alcohol on top of those psychoactive drugs.
What drugs?
That was then, this was now.
He seriously doubted he would ever take one again.
The wire transfer had dislodged two-hundred-forty-five million dollars from the trust account this go-round. Two hundred for the Mexicans, forty-five for him.
Him and Libby.
They would meet in Dubai and from there they would fly away.
Joined at the hip, surely. Joined at the soul, never.
But it was enough, brother. When you were fifty years old and too beat up to give a damn anymore, the familiar was a priceless and a wonderful thing.
Give him Libby any day.
Familiar won out.
50
Chapter 50
The judge was steamed and he issued a bench warrant. The cops set off to find Ansel and drag his butt to court--the judge's words, in chambers, when he had exploded at Thaddeus. The jury was back with its verdict and there was no Ansel.
The absence of the accused meant nothing insofar as the verdict. It would stand, whether for or against.
But it steamed Judge Zang, who assessed Ansel's failure to show as a personal affront. After all, hadn't the judge gone out of his way to set Ansel loose on bail in the first place? And now this? Now he just disappears?
State had been notified.
A No-Fly was in effect.
It went in effect when Ansel was over Oklahoma. Libby, who had gone ahead on her earlier flight, was over the Pacific.
The No-Fly was in effect only in the U.S. It would mean nothing when their 777's touched down in Dubai after twelve hours and they changed over to Airbuses for the seven hour haul to Hong Kong. Those countries freely accepted the travelers' American dollars and expedited their journey.
State be damned.
Judge Zang glared across his desk at Thaddeus. Who was clueless. He had no idea where Ansel was or why he had left.
But the judge knew he couldn't keep the jury waiting forever. If he stalled more than another ten minutes their post-verdict questionnaires would not be at all complimentary to their care and feeding while under the aegis of the court. No, they would take a swing at him and the judicial conference would get wind of it and it would become part of his permanent record.
Ever so slowly, he began the four foot travel of the robe zipper from bottom to top. The lawyers watched. The wait was over.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Judge Zang smiled at the jury when everyone was reassembled and in their seats, "have you reached a verdict?"
The carpenter in the center of the second row spoke up. "We have, your honor."
"You are the foreman?"
"I am."
"Please hand your verdict form to the bailiff."
The carpenter did as directed.
The bailiff carried the verdict form to the judge, who read it, turned it back over to the bailiff, who returned it to the foreman.
"Mr. Foreman, how does the jury find?"
Thaddeus felt a sharp intake of breath. It never failed. The mean-spirited fear traveled through his bowels and shot up his spine. Just for that moment he was all fear. Head-to-toe fear.
"The jury finds the defendant, Ansel Largent, not guilty."
A clamor shot up among the press and gallery. Thaddeus looked around for a hug or a hand to shake--common and expected at such moments. But there was no one there.
Ansel was a free man.
The judge dismissed the jury and asked the attorneys to remain behind.
"Gentlemen, just so you know, the court is quashing the warrant previously issued for Ansel Largent. His bond is exonerated. He is a free man. Good luck to both of you."
Ever so slowly, Thaddeus climbed to his feet. As usual at the conclusion of a jury trial, he felt fatigue. Not exhaustion, just a pleasant fatigue. He looked around the courtroom, em
pty now save for a few stragglers and press.
He placed the Illinois Evidence Manual in his briefcase.
He touched his pockets out of habit, checking for car keys.
Which was when his hand felt the pill bottle. He extracted it from his pocket and gave it a once-over. Ansel Largent, it said. RISPERIDONE. The antipsychotic.
But there was something inside, something besides pills. A scrap of paper.
Thaddeus pressed down hard on the cap and turned it. He spun it free and opened the paper.
On the scrap was scrawled, in Ansel's unmistakable chicken-scratch:
Thank you, Thad. Didn't need these before. Don't need them now.
Signed: The Mental Case.
51
Chapter 51
Assignments were never-ending in the Chicago FBI field office.
Special Agents Freyer Smothers and Kip Honeycomb were perplexed over the latest one. They weren't sure if they were seeing an earlier assignment for a second time--a mistake--or whether it was a brand new assignment.
The complainant was James MacDevon.
Now where had Agent Smothers heard that name before. He backed up four months on his calendar. There it was, James MacDevon, Senior Partner at the law firm of MacDevon Largent. Wasn't that what-was-his-name-crazy-person's firm? Ansel--Largent. Ansel Largent.
Smothers punched an outside line on his desk phone and dialed the number on the assignment sheet.
"James MacDevon's office, may I help you?"
"Mr. MacDevon, please. Special Agent Freyer Smothers calling."
"Please hold."
The line pulsed. It pulsed again. Waiting, waiting.
Smothers twiddled a ballpoint through his fingers. Baton twirler in college.
Then a vaguely familiar voice came on.
"James MacDevon, Agent Smothers. Thanks for calling so quick."
"I'm a little confused. Is this the case we already handled, the missing trust funds?"
"This is phase two, I'm afraid. We've been cleaned out again."
"Trust account? Cleaned out?"
The Mental Case (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 6) Page 25