Finally I reached Racine and took a right, taking that to Clark and then Grace. Uncommon Ground was a funky little place with a fireplace, wood tables and local art on the walls. It was, apparently, a coffee shop during the day, a bar at night. It was crowded now with Cubs fans prepping themselves with omelets and bloodies.
I walked up to the hostess.
“Just one?” She looked for an empty table.
“Actually, I’m trying to find information about whether someone was here earlier this week. Apparently he’s one of your regulars.”
“Who’s that?”
“Mick Grenier?”
She nodded. “Oh, Mick. Yeah. That weird writer dude.”
“Do you know if he was here Monday afternoon, between three and six?”
“I wasn’t here then, but Brian was.” She looked over my shoulder. “Hey, Brian.” A guy with blond dreadlocks and arms laden with food paused with an expectant look. “You worked Monday afternoon, right?”
The guy nodded.
“Did you see Mick Grenier in here that day, the writer?”
He looked up at the ceiling. “Uh…I don’t know. Probably. He’s here a few times a week.”
“Do you know if he was here that day in particular?” I asked.
Another glance at the ceiling. A little shift of the plates on his arms. “Yeah…yeah. He was. I remember now because he asked me how my weekend was.”
So maybe Mick was telling the truth.
“Just one more question. How long was he here?”
“He left right before my shift ended, so he was here a few hours. He left right about four.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Jane died between three and six, and Mick had given me the impression he’d been at Uncommon Ground the whole time.
Maybe Mick wasn’t telling the truth at all.
Outside the coffee shop, fans in Cubs gear were sauntering toward the stadium, beers in hand.
I got in Grady’s car and tried to figure out what to do next. I called Mayburn, told him about Uncommon Ground.
“Hmm.” I could almost hear him thinking. Then, “I’ve got phone numbers and addresses for all those doctors. I’ll e-mail them to you right now. I’d try the home phone numbers since it’s the weekend. Easier than getting past their office staff, too.”
“You’re the best.”
“I know. How are you doing?”
“I’m wearing my mother’s clothes.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. What do you think about this Mick guy?”
“Well, you should tell the police his alibi is shaky, but it doesn’t sound like the cops want to let you go just yet.” Mayburn grunted. “It sounds like you need to visit Jackson Prince.”
“Got it.”
I hung up with Mayburn, then called information and got the number for Prince & Associates. I needed to see Prince face-to-face, but how to get in front of him and fast and on a weekend? The service answered.
With firms like Prince & Associates, there is always a way to get a hold of someone because they’re all about flash and cash. Attorneys like them love big, tragic situations that allow them to sue a boatload of people. They want people calling them around the clock with possible cases, tipping them off when there’s a bus crash or a catastrophic mishap at a hospital. If I could pretend I had a huge case, they might see me. If, for example, I could say I was a pregnant woman who’d eaten a contaminated Pop-Tart that burned the roof of my mouth, and that my Pulitzer-prize-winning husband drove me to the hospital and died in a car accident on the way, and that at the hospital the doctor screwed up and I lost my baby because the doctor was watching a rerun of the series finale of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Prince might see me. Alas, I wasn’t that great of a liar.
But maybe my real story, and Jane’s name, were good enough.
“I’d like to make an appointment to see Jackson Prince about a case.”
“Are you an existing client?”
“No, I got Mr. Prince’s name from a friend. I worked with Jane Augustine at Trial TV. They fired me yesterday, and I want to talk to Mr. Prince about a wrongful termination suit.”
“An associate of Mr. Prince’s could probably see you on Monday.”
“I’d like to see him today. I’m considering other attorneys and I’m going to sign with someone by the end of the day.”
“Well, let me see if I can get an associate to call you.”
“Actually, I need to see Jackson Prince. In person. And tell him that I also need to talk to him about Jane Augustine.”
“Mr. Prince doesn’t see people on the weekends, generally.”
“If you could just contact him, I’d appreciate it.”
She was silent for a moment. I could imagine her debating calling Prince and pissing him off versus not letting him know about my call until Monday and possibly pissing him off even more if it turned out to be a big case.
“Hold, please,” she said grumpily. A minute later, she was back on the line. “Mr. Prince will see you today if you can be at the office in one hour.”
65
P rince’s law firm was on the fifteenth floor of a building at Dearborn and Washington. A cranky secretary who had probably had to interrupt her weekend brought me into Prince’s office and pointed sternly to forest-green bucket leather chairs in front of a desk large enough to play hockey on.
Instead of sitting, I walked toward the two walls of glass windows that overlooked the Daley Plaza-the civil courthouse-and the steel Picasso sculpture that stood in front of it. Visible in the distance was a hint of the rounded, mirrored Thompson Center, where state business was conducted, and the funky black-and-white sculpture that graced its facade. From a legal standpoint, this was one of the best views in the city.
A minute went by, then another. I took a seat and stared at Prince’s wall of fame-his diplomas from Yale Law School, a plethora of plaques from various bar associations. I checked my watch. It had been five minutes. He was icing me. An old trial lawyer technique-Make ’ em wait. Keep people sitting long enough to get them pissed but not long enough to get them to leave.
Finally, Prince strode in. He was wearing a light gray suit that matched his hair and set off his clear, sharp eyes. I wonder if he’d put the suit on for me or whether he just lived in them all the time. It was hard to imagine him in anything but a suit.
“Ms. McNeil, a pleasure to see you again.” He extended his hand the way the Pope does, as if I should bow and kiss his ring. I gave his hand a firm shake.
He walked around his desk, moved a few objects-his paper blotter and a silver pen holder-an inch or so to the left, then sat down. “I understand you might have a wrongful termination suit?” He didn’t sound at all put out that he’d been called in to see me on a weekend.
“Yes. Until yesterday, I worked at Trial TV.”
He nodded.
“They fired me,” I continued, “because I was named a person of interest in Jane Augustine’s murder.”
No reaction. “Tell me about your position there.”
I told him how Jane had offered me the position, how I’d been an on-air analyst but that I’d been promoted when Jane died. I told him that they had fired me yesterday, after the police press conference. He asked me a few questions about my background, about Trial TV.
“Hmm.” He moved the silver pen holder again. Just a fraction of an inch. His eyes zeroed in on mine again. “Do you have any kids?”
“No.”
“Anyone you’re supporting?”
“Just myself.”
“And in the course of firing you, did anyone at the firm mention the fact that you are a woman?”
“No.”
“Well, Ms. McNeil, you should probably consult an employment lawyer, but it doesn’t sound to me like you have a strong termination suit. As a woman you’re a member of a commonly protected class, but it doesn’t seem that played a part in your firing. And you don’t have a large amount of damages. You’d only
been there a few days, and you’re clearly capable of mitigating your damages by getting another job-whether it’s in the law or in broadcasting.” He gave me a tough break kind of face. “My secretary said you also wanted to talk about Jane Augustine.”
I nodded. “I wanted to ask you about Monday, when Jane interviewed you the first time. You seemed to be upset at something she said to you.”
He pursed his mouth a little and tilted his head. “Not at all. I’m used to dealing with the press, and that is simply how those interviews go-sometimes they’re softball questions, other times they’re more in depth. I respected Jane immensely, and I knew she never asked the easy questions. But I certainly wasn’t upset by anything she said that day.”
“You left rather abruptly. While the segment was still on-air.”
Prince sat back. He put his hands in front of his chest and made a crown with his fingers. “Did you tell the police that I was angry with Jane? That I might have been angry enough to kill her?”
I felt a little blush flooding into my cheeks. There was no reason to be embarrassed, but I felt as if I’d been caught at something. “They asked if anyone had been mad at Jane. I told them about you leaving the segment early.”
“I had a court emergency.”
“What kind of emergency? When I was practicing law, I don’t remember any type of ‘court’ emergencies that would come up. I mean, court appearances, even trials, are well scheduled.”
“You never did personal injury work, I take it.”
“A little, but mostly entertainment law. I used to represent Forester Pickett.” I hated to use Forester posthumously to get cred, but Prince would have known him, and I knew Forester would have said, Go for it. Trot my name out there all you want.
“I knew Forester well.” Prince gave me an impressed nod. “And I’ll tell you, as a personal injury lawyer, I often have settlement conferences in the judge’s chambers, and I’ll bring in our clients and the representatives of the defendants, sometimes from around the country. In this case, one of my associates was handling the matter, but the judge was pushing him to settle for much less than we had anticipated, and he needed my counsel.”
It didn’t sound like much of an emergency to me, and I’d handled such settlement cases before, but I decided to move on. “Can I ask where you were on Monday afternoon?”
He frowned at me, the expression causing two deep lines between his eyes. “I don’t like your implication, Ms. McNeil. For your information, I’ve already talked to the police about this, and as I told them, I had a meeting with an expert witness in Highland Park at three Monday afternoon. I left my office at two that day. I met with my expert. His deposition started at four. It went until about six.”
“I met with Dr. Hamilton-Wood recently.”
Prince didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t make any kind of response. But then again, he was one of the best trial lawyers in the nation. It was his bread and butter to never, never let anyone see him sweat.
“Do you know Dr. Hamilton?” I asked.
“She’s acted as an expert of mine on occasion.”
“Well, Jane Augustine had spoken to Dr. Hamilton about a story,” I said. “It was one of the last stories she worked on before she died.”
He raised his silver eyebrows, adjusted the cuffs of his suit. “Interesting. What story was it?”
“I believe it was about the nature of class action suits and the way that plaintiffs are contacted, particularly in cases like Ladera.”
I wasn’t sure how much to reveal to Prince. On the one hand, I wanted to confront him with what Dr. Hamilton had told me, but on the other hand, I was hoping he would give me something before I scared him off. If I said too much, accused him of too much, he was sure to show me the door.
“I’m sorry.” He clasped his hands and leaned his elbows on the desktop. “I’m not sure why you’re telling me all this.”
“Had Jane contacted you about this story?”
“Not that I recall.”
I paused a beat, then two, my gaze never veering from Jackson Prince. Confronting him would have scared the crap out of me a month ago, but it was funny how much courage one could get from a potential murder rap. I wanted to ask him outright-Did you pay Dr. Hamilton to refer patients to you? Patients who had even minor heart conditions so you could represent them and make them part of the class action? Did your fear of being exposed cause you to do something about it?
But I knew from just sitting there with Prince that he was never going to admit anything. Why should he? I might have a better chance contacting the other doctors. And so it wasn’t fear that prevented me from asking. It was a calculated decision, and it felt good to be so clear-headed about something.
“So you’re not aware exactly what the story was about?” I asked.
“I have no idea. I certainly would have helped her if I knew. Jane was one of my favorite members of the media.” He said this last phrase like, She was one of my favorite pets.
I said nothing for a moment. Prince, neither. You could tell he was good at drawing out silences, waiting for moves he could react to. It was what made him a great trial lawyer.
The next thing I knew the secretary was back in the office. “Mr. Prince, don’t you need to leave for the golf course?”
“I do.” He stood and held out his hand. I had no choice but to follow suit. Prince clasped my hand a moment longer than he had on the way in. I tried to pull away, but still he grasped it, peering into my eyes and searching them, his own flicking back and forth. “Good luck to you on your employment situation,” he said. “Times like these can be very, very-” He gripped my hand slightly harder. “-challenging.”
A flash of Jane crossed my mind-her eyes wide-open and lifeless, that scarf too tight around her neck, the blood, the blood.
I yanked my hand away. “Thank you.” And I left Prince’s office.
66
I couldn’t go home and deal with the media. I drove, instead, to a Starbucks on Wells Street and lucked out by finding a sunny table by the front window.
I called Mayburn and told him about my meeting with Prince. “He says he has an alibi.” I explained about Prince’s meeting and deposition on Monday afternoon.
“Assuming the meeting with his expert happened and it started on time,” Mayburn said, “he had an hour to drive to Highland Park. An hour is enough time to stop by Jane’s house on his way. If you think Prince really did it, we should get the name of that expert and check out exactly what time he arrived there. But don’t forget, from what you’ve told me, Prince might not be the type to get his own hands dirty. He might have hired someone to pay Jane her last visit.”
The whole thing sickened me. Exhausted me. But I couldn’t slow down.
“Call you later,” I said to Mayburn.
I pulled out my BlackBerry and pulled up the contact information that Mayburn sent me for the doctors. I started with the first one. Dr. Trace Ritson in Charleston, South Carolina.
“May I ask who’s calling?” his wife said when I asked to speak with him.
“Isabel McNeil.”
“Are you a patient?”
“No, I’m calling from Chicago. I’m with Trial TV.” Used to be with Trial TV. It seemed a very white lie at this point. “I’d like to talk to him about some work he did for Jackson Prince.”
“I think it’s best if you call him at the office on Monday.”
“Could you please tell Dr. Ritson that Jane Augustine was killed a few days ago, and it might have been because of Jackson Prince?”
Silence. Then, “One minute, please.”
But it wasn’t a minute. Only thirty seconds later, Dr. Ritson was on the phone.
I managed to speak with not only Dr. Ritson, but four other doctors. I called Mayburn, told him what I’d learned and asked if he could contact the other doctors. Then I called C.J.’s cell phone and told her I had a story I wanted to work on, a story Jane had been working on before she died.
“Izzy, why are you doing this? We fired you.”
“I’m working on it for Jane. Because I think it might tell us who killed her. Because I know I didn’t. And most importantly, it was one of Jane’s last stories. I want to do this for her.”
Silence.
“Do you want me to take it to another station?”
A pause. “I’ll meet you at the station.”
When I pulled into the parking lot of Trial TV, I was as nervous as I had been my first day.
No news trucks, except for Trial TV’s own, sat outside. But then again, the news stations covering Jane’s murder probably had more than enough exterior shots of the place by now. And certainly no one expected me to come back.
The security guard frowned when he saw me, but my badge still worked. They hadn’t deactivated it yet. I walked down the linoleum hallway. The walls had been painted sometime this week, and although the smell of fresh paint lingered, file cabinets were pushed against the walls, white cardboard boxes on top.
The first person I ran into was Ted, the cameraman who worked with me that first day.
He stopped, raised his eyebrows. “How are you doing, Izzy?”
“Been better.”
“I bet.” He said it kindly. “I’ve got to tell you, I think it’s ridiculous that they’re looking at you for Jane’s murder.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”
He pulled at his mustache. “I thought you really had some natural talent for this business. I’m sorry about what happened. Is there anything I can do?”
I thought about it. “Would you be my shooter on something if I get the go-ahead from C.J.? It’s something to do for Jane.”
Red Blooded Murder Page 30