“I’m sorry, Tex. I know how much this meant to you. Not just with Nina, but with McCann and your father. I know how much was riding on this.”
“As much as I wanted to get this case to court, I couldn’t push my own agenda more than hers. I had to do what’s right by Nina first, and if she wanted to take the deal, that’s what had to happen. I had to respect that.” He kept the man in his peripheral vision. “And she’s got nothing out here. In there, behind bars, she can grow her skills. Build a life, get an education, and get out when she’s twenty-eight, maybe earlier if she gets early parole. She wants to be a nurse.”
“And find work with a criminal record?”
“It’s not my choice.”
The man in the cap stayed at a distance, loitering behind them.
“All the beauty out here.” Esther looked up to the Chicago skyline as they walked along the edge of the pier, back towards Chicago. “I couldn’t dream of never seeing this again.”
“We haven’t lived her life, Esther.” Hunter checked for the man in the cap, and he was nowhere to be seen, but the night was becoming dark quickly, reducing his field of vision. “Her file reads like a horror story, and all she’s ever experienced is pain. She’s always been against it, always had life turning on her. She may see prison as a bed and a place for stability.”
“But then what? What happens in ten years’ time?”
“I don’t know, Esther.” Hunter shook his head. “I don’t know.”
They walked the rest of the journey to the parking lot in silence, the thoughts of Nina Aisha’s life filling their own. Life had been good to them, at least in relative comparison.
As they approached the parking lot, they dodged a person on an electric scooter going too fast, moving quickly in the crowd. Hunter shook his head, looked around, and looked over his left shoulder. He saw the man in the Yankees cap again.
And he was close.
Too close for comfort.
Chapter 33
The man came at them quickly.
He had been hiding in the shadows, hiding in the growing darkness. His speed was alarming, as was his ability to target them.
Hunter had spent most of his life on edge, most of his life highly stressed. One month ago, he booked a massage, and the woman spent the hour commenting how tight his shoulders were. After an hour of being pulled every different direction, his shoulders were relaxed, but he didn’t enjoy the feeling one bit.
Relaxation was foreign to him.
He had been checking the shadows, checking over his shoulder, with increased vigor for the last month, ready for the pressure to come. He had always hated the shadows. For years, he fought the shadows, fought the ideas that his family name was tarnished, fought the people that were determined to break him down. This time, the man in the shadows wasn’t targeting Hunter.
The man in the shadows was coming straight for Esther.
Straight for his assistant.
His friend.
The first time Hunter was beaten by a random group on the street, it was by a car full of drunk rednecks. Then, a fifteen-year-old Hunter had been walking home after a boxing class. He was tired, run-down, and didn’t have much energy left. The rednecks jumped out of their truck, confirmed his name was Tex Hunter, and then proceeded to attack him. When they attacked, when they lunged at him, Hunter landed five solid punches before he was taken down by someone behind him. The boots on the ground hurt the most. That attack, that menacing beating, left him with one broken finger, lots of bruises, and a lifetime of fear.
The man from the shadows lunged towards Esther.
Hunter reacted, moving his shoulder into the direction of the punch.
Esther squealed as the first punch connected with Hunter’s shoulder, only inches from her face. With his back turned to the man in the Yankees cap, Hunter didn’t see the second punch, coming from the left over his shoulder, and connecting with his jaw.
It dazed him, made his feet wobble.
Hunter looked to Esther, the fear in her eyes clear.
He couldn’t let the man get to her. He couldn’t let her be hurt.
Not again.
His fists clenched, his vision focused, and he turned.
The man was smaller than him, lighter, and he held a boxer’s pose, his head ducking side to side, ready to punch again.
Boxing is often referred to as the ‘sweet science,’ the art of throwing a punch without being hit.
The movement of the head, the reaction times, the defense, are essential skills in any fighting situation. With a focus on footwork, speed, and accuracy, boxing is one of the best forms of self-defense and attack for any fight. A skilled boxer can take out most people with a single punch. Unfortunately for this boxer, the main weakness of boxing as an art form is the inability to defend against low kicks, especially those used in Muay Thai, a kickboxing art that Hunter was more than familiar with.
As the man threw another punch, Hunter leaned back, and threw a solid leg kick to the man’s thigh. With the stabbing pain, the man dropped his hands, allowing Hunter the perfect time to throw a left hook onto the man’s jaw.
Under the sudden impact of Hunter’s swinging left, the man fell to the ground, almost as solid as a statue. The onlookers started to rush in, some people pulling out their phones to record the moment. Hunter had never understood the need to record every moment, the need to pull out a phone whilst in danger, the need to document life’s worst events.
On the ground, the man rolled away, pulling a knife from his coat.
Hunter was ready, striking a defensive pose, but the man wasn’t after Hunter. He wasn’t going for the man that could beat him.
He wanted Esther.
Working for Tex Hunter, Esther Wright knew danger was a part of the job. She had been in his office for years, organizing his life, organizing his world to serve justice. On her first week in the job, someone broke into their office, spray painted the word ‘Killer’ over the walls, and left the office turned upside down. She thought it would be a one-time thing, a moment in time where a member of the public went crazy. Within a month of opening hate mail, she realized she was wrong.
It was a part of their life, a part of their world. They had procedures in place to lock down the office, emergency buttons under the reception desk, and security guards routinely walking on regular routes past the office door.
The man lunged, knife in hand, towards Esther.
Hunter pounced.
Driven by adrenaline, he grabbed the man’s wrist with his left-hand, and threw another punch with his right.
The man fell again, and Hunter stepped forward.
This time, the man rolled away and ran back through the crowd.
The onlookers all held their breath as they watched the man sprint back towards the city, back towards the shadows of the Lake Shore Drive overpass. Hunter didn’t chase him.
There were videos of the attack, witnesses, and people to report it, however Hunter knew no charges would be filed. There were too many people pulling strings, too many people with a vested interest in threatening his world.
The man hadn’t come for Hunter, the man didn’t yell for his wallet—the man wanted to harm his assistant, his friend, Esther Wright. He knew what that meant. The attack wasn’t for Nina’s case; it wasn’t the cops protecting their own. It was his other case, Mary-Ann Steele’s, that was attracting the attention. The message was received loud and clear.
“Tex. Tex? Are you ok?” Esther came next to Hunter, her voice frantic. “Do you need an ambulance?”
“I’m good.” He stated firmly as the crowd gathered around him. “He didn’t land a shot on me.”
“Don’t you need to get checked out? I could take you to hospital.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He brushed his shoulder. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, Esther.”
“Good.” She smiled. “Because you still owe me that hotdog.”
Chapter 34
George N.
Leighton Criminal Court Building on the city’s Southwest Side stood proudly, strong, as one of the nation’s busiest courthouses, consolidating all of Chicago’s criminal felony cases in one very inconvenient location.
Forty minutes from the center of Chicago by cab, an hour by public transport, or a two-hour walk through crime-ridden neighborhoods made this location problematic for defendants, lawyers, and the general public. The predominately Mexican community of South Lawndale surrounded the courthouse, and as an area filled with high unemployment, misconduct, and gang activity, it was hard for prospective jurors to ignore any subconscious racial bias as they arrived.
After a year of posturing, after a year of stress, after twelve months of turmoil, Mary-Ann Steele had the chance to face her day in court. The prosecution had offered a solid deal—a suspended prison sentence, however a conviction would be recorded, the best Mary-Ann could hope for in the situation, but on principle alone, Mary-Ann chose not to sign on the dotted line.
Dressed in her best outfit, a long white dress with a red cardigan, Mary-Ann followed Tex Hunter into the empty courtroom, a shiver dancing up her spine as she walked past the rows of empty benches. The room was too dark, too depressive for her liking. She reasoned that a nice bunch of flowers, a bright piece of artwork, and lighter colored blinds would provide the room so much more happiness.
But this was not a place where happiness was found—this room was a place where the consequences of people’s actions were fully realized. Her lawyer was confident, he always seemed to be, and he led her to the seat at the defense table. Her husband sat behind her, his support essential, as it had been every step of the way.
When she was first charged with arson, when the police first took her in, her husband had offered to take the guilt, even though he was out-of-town on a hunting trip that night. He offered to plead guilty to save his wife the stress of having to proceed through the justice system, but she wouldn’t hear of it, not even entertaining the idea for a second—she was innocent, and she was determined to see it through to the end.
She took two deep breaths as she sat down, fixing her dress first. From this position, from this chair, she would be judged. Not only her guilt, but her life, all her ups and downs, victories and mistakes. It was all open for the court to hear.
She looked up to where the jury would sit, their seats separated from the rest of the courtroom by a long wooden barrier that sat at hip height, and she wondered who would sit in those seats, who had the right to judge her.
It was another hour before anyone else arrived, and Mary-Ann fought back tears every minute of that time.
The prosecution team walked in first.
They walked in with smirks on their faces, their shoulders back, almost jovial. Mary-Ann wanted to grab the nearest wooden spoon and whack their behinds, demanding they show respect for others.
The two younger lawyers, who had the excitement only a new employee could have, smiled at Mary-Ann as they went through their processes with the lead prosecutor, Harold Alwen. Alwen was a good leader, a decent man who took the time to explain processes to others. He had a caring touch, a soft voice, and a trust-worthy face. Perfect to sucker the jury into his theories.
Mary-Ann’s friends arrived next. They were dressed like they were attending a golf function—nice, semi-formal, and not too rigid—and it was a good look for the jury. How could they convict such an active member of the older community?
“Five minutes,” the bailiff called out, alerting everyone that Judge Edmond Ramos was to enter the courtroom, and the show was about to begin.
Her lawyer was reading his opening statement again, then rested his hand on Mary-Ann’s. He squeezed it gently, and she provided a smile in response, too nervous to speak. After seventy years of life, after seven decades of helping others, her fate lay in the opinions of strangers, her future in the hands of someone else.
“All rise. The Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Ramos presiding.”
The strong and solid figure of Judge Ramos slowly walked through the courtroom, in no rush to arrive anywhere. Once he sat down, he moved the microphone closer to him, clicked his pen, groaned, and then raised his eyes to look at the almost empty courtroom before him.
Loudly, he welcomed the attendees, and announced the process for the audience and defendant. The bailiff walked to the door in the front corner of the room, guiding the members of the jury into the courtroom. They all looked at the defendant first. They all wanted to have an idea if the person was guilty.
After Judge Ramos spoke to the jury about their responsibilities, Alwen stood to begin his argument.
*****
“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. As you have heard, my name is Harold Alwen, and these are my colleagues, Miles Darcy and James Love. We’re here to present the case of arson against Mrs. Mary-Ann Claire Steele.
I’m the lead prosecutor and I represent the State of Illinois. I’m here to present the evidence of this crime, and after you have deliberated, you will decide if this evidence proves the defendant’s guilt.
Mrs. Steele is accused of arson of a Jaguar sedan, worth more than two-hundred thousand dollars, that belonged to Mr. Kenneth Chow. This was a real crime, with real pain, and these actions must have real consequences.
When I first read this file, it made me sad. It made me sad because I realized some people live in a world very different than ours. We rarely get to see the hatred that lives in our city. Occasionally, this hatred is shown to us. Here, a person set a car on fire for revenge. Mrs. Steele wanted payback. She wanted retaliation.
Her son, Anthony Steele, unfortunately passed away after a workplace accident on a construction site owned by Mr. Chow. For the first two years after the accident, Mrs. Steele had been relentlessly harassing Mr. Chow. We will present evidence of this harassment, and witnesses who will testify about Mrs. Steele’s constant aggravation towards Mr. Chow.
Over the coming days, we will present witnesses to you, and they will provide the evidence in this case, as anything I say now is not evidence. I’m addressing you to provide an overview of the prosecution’s case to decide this vicious crime. This overview will give you a road map of our evidence before we call the first witness.
We will present witnesses who will state they saw Mrs. Steele next to Mr. Chow’s car on August 2nd. We will present witnesses who will state they saw Mrs. Steele driving the car only hours before it was set on fire. In addition to this, expert witnesses will describe what evidence was gathered after the arson attack, and describe the crime scene in detail.
You will hear from Chicago Police Department Officer Garry Ball, who will explain they found Mrs. Steele’s handbag on the front seat of the car, and he will explain why the police made the decision to arrest Mrs. Steele. You will hear from arson expert Thomas Davidson who will explain how the fire was started. And you will also hear from Mr. Kenneth Chow. Mr. Chow will explain to the court what happened that night, and how the arson attack on his vehicle has affected his life.
Mrs. Steele set fire to the property belonging to another person. That is a crime.
I don’t need to tell you that arson needs to be punished.
Like me, you can feel sorry for Mrs. Steele and the loss of her son. You can feel sad for Mrs. Steele. Let her story touch your heart. That’s a normal human reaction. But you cannot, and I repeat, cannot, let that sympathy influence the facts.
Mrs. Steele’s past does not give her the right to destroy someone else’s property.
I state that Mary-Ann Steele is guilty of arson because this crime was deliberate and planned. Mrs. Steele knowingly used fire to damage the property of another.
This was an inexcusable action.
At the end of this case, I will address you again and ask you to consider all the evidence we have presented and to conclude beyond a reasonable doubt that Mrs. Steele is guilty of arson. Thank you for your time.”
*****
During the opening statement,
juror one stared at Mary-Ann for a long time, too long to be comfortable, then made an expression of surprise. Most people were surprised at the age of the lady sitting at the defense table. It certainly wasn’t who they were expecting when they were told they would be listening to a case of arson.
Under Illinois law, arson was a class two felony, with a prison sentence between five to seven years.
Prosecutor Alwen knew he needed emotionally flat jury members, he knew he needed people who would focus on the facts, not the age of the defendant. During the voir dire, the juror selection process, he researched the potential candidates, instantly dismissing anyone who had a close relationship with their grandmother. Any reasonable person, any off-the-street guy, would struggle to convict their grandmother of arson. And that’s what they saw when they looked at Mary-Ann—a nice lady who had lived a life of service to others.
When juror nine came up for selection, Alwen couldn’t have been happier. Juror nine was middle-aged, ran a successful trucking company, and, most importantly, grew up in foster homes. He never knew his parents, grandparents, or siblings. He was tall, had a strong voice with a deep tone, and was clearly a leader. He played Quarterback in college, started his own business at twenty-two, and was now in charge of more than forty people. A leader if there ever was one.
Leaders in the jury room were important—a loud voice, a strong character, and a forceful opinion in the jury room could do so much more than a lawyer ever could.
Hunter was equally glad juror eleven was there—a respected doctor in his mid-forties, handsome, and perfectly dressed in a suit. He was a man of honor, a man of process, and could clearly see Mary-Ann as his own mother. Hunter’s research into juror eleven showed he was interested in helping older people—working in nursing homes, and conducting studies into the effects of early alcohol use on dementia later in life.
With two leaders in the room, it was sure to be a long deliberation process.
Corrupt Justice Page 18