Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: Secrets Girls Keep: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 2) Page 2

  Which is how I happened to meet Tom Meekins. Sheriff Tom Meekins, that is. He didn't show up on my doorstep through the Long Blue Line contract per se; he contacted me for help because a friend of a friend (both cops) knew about me and trusted me. We had two meetings before he hired me. The first meeting was a getting-to-know-you moment. A half-hour of who and what we were. A week later, we had our second meeting. This time around we talked case specifics. I was introduced to the idea of a long duration and high-value series of thefts by embezzlement perpetrated by the head of a department, the elected sheriff himself. It was going to be very challenging and almost impossible to defend. Still, that's how I earned my spurs, making the impossible possible.

  Tom Meekins is an Ironman athlete. He is just five-eleven, 177 pounds, steely blue eyes and a whipsaw attitude that's very offsetting to bad guys: friendly at one moment and demanding the next. He moves with the grace of a leopard, always occupying his space with confidence and an extroverted familiarity that gobbles up votes and sways juries whenever he's testifying to put some bad guy away. The question is, will these same characteristics help him in the trial against him he's now facing? Probably not. Here, the evidence is compelling and his future looks very bleak.

  One other thing I'm contemplating as I enter the grand jury room to confront him: Tom won the 2014 Police Pistol Combat shooting competition for law enforcement officers in the Midwest. In fact, he won it with a score of 850 points, which was fifty points more than any previous shooter had ever scored.

  So, Tom has deadly skills and, as I step through the door, I know that he can drop me with a single shot if he decides I'm in his way.

  3

  "Glad you could make it!" Tom shouts at me as I enter the room.

  Immediately I'm relieved that the gun is not pointed directly at me. Instead, he's sweeping his muzzle generally across the clutch of people at the back of the room where he has positioned them. They are ordinary-looking folks of all ages and colors. Plus, there are two marshals who have been disarmed, and Tom now has two Glocks stuck inside the waistband of his trousers. The Marshals are standing there with empty IWB holsters and stupid looks on their faces. Evidently, when Tom dragged Phun Loc into the room, the threat he made on her life compelled the marshals to turn over their weapons to him. Since then, they have cowered with the other two dozen souls, including members of the grand jury, court reporters, and support staff, including the Assistant U.S. Attorney and her assistant.

  "Have a seat, Michael," Tom says, indicating a front row seat. "I'm going to need your help."

  I sit where he directs me, keeping my eyes fastened on the gun. The last thing I want is that thing swinging in my direction. Yet, my agenda is clear to me: to help bring this to a safe and sane conclusion, no bullets fired and nobody hurt. Following that, I will help Tom get the medical care he obviously needs, as he has clearly gone off the deep end. The man is temporarily insane, according to the précis of the man I have known before today. So who is this new and nutzoid Tom Meekins? I wonder.

  He swings a chair around and takes a seat facing me, the hostages at my back. Phun Loc stands nearby; it's obvious he gave her orders and she means to comply by staying at his side.

  "What I need, counselor," he says to me, "is an airplane and one million dollars in cash. I also want a hundred feet of rope. When they have been delivered, I will let these people go."

  "So you're telling me I'm your negotiator?" I ask.

  He smiles and waves the gun across the crowd. "These folks are counting on you, counselor. Your job is to keep them alive."

  I lean forward in my seat, closing the space between us.

  "Tom, what happened? We were going to handle this. I was going to find a way out."

  He laughs. "A way out of dozens of confirmed thefts? I don't think so, counselor. Not even the Great Houdini could get out of that mess. No, this is the easier, softer way for me to conclude the case against me."

  "Let's think this through. Where will you go that the FBI can't come get you?"

  He smiles and raises his free hand. "Michael, Michael, Michael. You're my lawyer and my friend, but you're also going to be helping the cops just as soon as I'm in the air. There's no possible way I can divulge my plan to you. So please--" the gun is suddenly pointing directly at my head--"don't insult me like this. Hold your questions and we'll all get through this alive."

  "They'll never let you go, Tom."

  "Then they'll end up with thirty dead citizens on their hands. It will be a stinkfest of bad publicity and a mess of wrongful death cases and lost jobs for the idiots who bring down my wrath on these folks. Think about it: would you like your name associated with a mass murder? Didn't think so, counselor. Now, here's what I need you to do."

  I'm noticing that his speech is pressured, like he's on something. There's that to think about too, that he might be drug addled.

  "A jet airplane at Midway Airport. One that can cross an ocean. One million in cash. One hundred feet of rope. All ones, Michael. You can remember that. Now go. Tell them I'm going to shoot my first hostage at twelve noon if I'm not sitting in my first class seat by then."

  "I will. I'll tell them."

  There is pounding at the door. Voices demanding Tom throw down his weapons and come out with his hands in the air. He smiles and shakes his head. "Can you imagine? These cowboys are going to need to be educated, Michael. That's your job. Let them know I'm goddamn serious about all this!"

  "Okay."

  "Now! Get out there now! Make your opening statement, counselor. Convince them their only option is meeting my demands. Go!"

  I'm up and out of my chair and headed for the door in a heartbeat.

  "Tell them you're coming out alone!" Tom shouts at me as my hand touches the door. "If even one of them steps inside I start shooting."

  "Hold it!" I shout at the door. "This is Attorney Michael Gresham and I'm coming out!"

  I push the door and a dozen cops step back, their sidearms leveled at me.

  "Identify yourself!" commands a burly plain clothes cop.

  "Michael Gresham. I'm the lawyer of the man who has taken hostages. He's sent me out here to talk."

  "ID, sir."

  I pull my wallet and flash my bar card. They compare it to my driver's license.

  At that moment, two cops step up and frisk me. I raise my arms and let them have at it.

  "What's going on in there?" asks a second cop wearing a suit.

  "Whoa, who are you guys?"

  "We're U.S. Marshals. We have jurisdiction over this court building."

  "Where's the FBI hostage negotiator?"

  A third man hands me a cell phone.

  "I'm Rahman Smart. I'm the negotiator. Who is that in there?"

  "Tom Meekins. Sheriff of Mackenzie County. He's under investigation on embezzlement charges"

  "I think I read about that. And he's armed of course?

  "Big black gun."

  "What kind of gun is it?" asks the first plainclothes cop.

  "I don't know. Some kind of semi-automatic," I tell him from my own limited experience.

  "Any other weapons?"

  "He's disarmed two marshals. He has their guns in his waistband."

  The first cop and the negotiator trade looks. He has enough bullets to execute everyone in there, is what their look says.

  "He has a message for me to give you. A demand. One airplane, one million dollars, one hundred feet of rope. Clothesline rope."

  The hostage negotiator shakes his head.

  "Knock on the door and pass this phone to your client, counselor."

  He says it in almost accusatory tone, as if I am somehow to blame for my client's actions.

  I shake my head. "I can try. But let me be clear. I know Tom Meekins. That guy in there, that's not any Tom Meekins I know. He's walking a tightrope and he's about to fall off and start shooting lots of innocent people. So why not just meet his demands and chalk it up?"

  "We'll make those decis
ions as we go, counselor," says the FBI negotiator. "Please pass him the phone, now."

  I accept the phone and head back to the door. I knock four times and shout, "Tom! It's Michael! Open up and take this phone! They want to talk to you!"

  "No talking, Michael! Tell them I start shooting at noon!"

  I turn back to the crowd of cops. All eyes are on me.

  "Now what?"

  They look at each other. FBI is frowning and then he is on his cell phone, probably speaking to his supervisor. Then he ends the call.

  "Our policy is not to capitulate. Please step aside, counselor. We'll take it from here."

  "Wait!" I say. "You don't know this guy. He's a combat shooter. If you're thinking of storming the room you're going to lose cops and innocent people before you take him. Is that really what you want?"

  At that moment, the door opens a crack and Tom shouts, "Michael! Come back here!"

  The cops look at me and nod. I disappear back inside with Tom and his entourage.

  We take our seats again.

  "They're getting ready to take me out, aren't they?"

  "I don't know. They're definitely saying they don't negotiate."

  "I won't give up. I've got nowhere to hide. I'm looking at the entire rest of my life in prison. I can't do that."

  "Well, let's talk about that."

  At that moment, my smartphone buzzes. Tom looks at me. I shrug.

  "Answer it. They probably want to talk."

  I pull the phone and hit TALK.

  "Michael Gresham."

  A familiar voice reaches out, "Michael, are you okay? Father Bjorn here."

  "It's Father Bjorn," I tell Tom. "My priest."

  A considering look crosses Tom's face and he smiles. "Cute. They've done their homework. They know I'm Catholic."

  "Father, did the police tell you to call me?"

  "They did. Put me on speaker, please."

  I do as he says.

  "Tom Meekins? Father Frederic Bjorn speaking. I hope you'll talk to me."

  "Go ahead, Father," says the sheriff. "Can you talk some sense to these cops?"

  "That's just it, Tom. These people are not going to negotiate. They asked me to call you before they rush in and take your life."

  "That's what they said?"

  "Exactly that. Which makes me very sad. There's no need for anyone to die. Are you Catholic, Tom?"

  "Yes."

  "This would be a very bad thing for you to take innocent blood. Very bad."

  "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying I'm not sure you would be forgiven."

  "God forgives everything, Father. We only have to ask."

  "Not necessarily. Trust me, you don't want to spill innocent blood because of your own sin. That's an evil that isn't easily forgiven."

  Tom's eyes fall to the floor. He wipes the sleeve of his sheriff's shirt across his eyes. I am astonished. He has been touched and I don't know why. For me, it's almost always negotiable with God. But this man is seeing it differently.

  "I don't want to die. I want to live. But I don't want to spend my life in prison."

  "I've talked to the U.S. Attorney," says Father Bjorn. "He's willing to reduce your embezzlement case to one count. And he's willing to charge you with only one count of kidnapping because of what's happened here today. Trust me, Tom, this is the easier way. This is the way to atone for your sin here today and receive forgiveness."

  Tom looks at me. I offer a smile and meet his eyes.

  "That's better than where we were an hour ago," I tell my client. "This is the deal you want. Take it."

  Tom nods. "Do we need it in writing?"

  "No, the word of a third person--a priest--will be enough. Why don't you hand me the guns, Tom? Let me tell them you accept."

  Tom's eyes dart to the terrified people along the back wall. Their anxious looks are pleading with him. Phun Loc steps up. "Do it," she says simply.

  Without another word, Tom snaps the magazine out of the gun and works the slide, ejecting the round in the chamber and locking back the slide. All cop style. He hands me the gun, then repeats the process with the seized guns. Then he sits back and says into the phone, "Thank you, Father."

  The marshals immediately rush forward and spread-eagle my client on the floor. He is frisked and cuffed. Then they stand him up. They take back their weapons then relieve me of Tom’s pistol.

  "Coming out! Don't shoot! U.S. Marshal Johnson! The suspect is disarmed and cuffed!"

  The door bursts open before Marshal Johnson can push it open. A horde of cops surrounds my client and takes him away.

  Father Bjorn's voice blares from the phone.

  "I heard that. All's well that ends well, Michael."

  "Honest to God, Father, thank you."

  "God has his hand in it. That's all I can say."

  "Thank you, anyway."

  "Michael, take me off speakerphone but don't hang up, please."

  I do as he says and raise the phone to my ear.

  "Okay. I'm listening, Father."

  "I got a call. I need to see you immediately. Can you come by the church?"

  My hands are still shaking but I cannot refuse the man who just saved us all.

  "What time?"

  “ASAP? Does that work?"

  "It does. What's up?"

  "There's been a murder and I've been contacted."

  "A parishioner? Do they need a lawyer?"

  "They need a lawyer. But they're not a parishioner."

  "Then what?"

  "I'll explain when I see you. Please hurry, Michael."

  We hang up. Phun Loc has hung behind. Off to my right, the cops have formed in a circle and are taking names and addresses of witnesses and kidnapping victims. It's a mess, so Phun Loc asks me to step to the back of the room. I follow her there.

  "Yes?"

  Tears have taken her eyes. She blinks hard. Again.

  "I am very frightened."

  "Sure you are. Do you want my help?"

  "Would you? I don't have any money."

  "We won't worry about money for now."

  I hand her my card.

  "Call this number. Tell Mrs. Lingscheit you need an appointment right away. Not later than Friday. Will you do that?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay. Now I'm going to swing by home and change clothes. We'll talk later."

  She nods and leans against the wall.

  There is no hurry, but the cops allow me through. They already have my particulars, and I'm told the FBI will drop in and take my statement this week. Trauma counselors will work with the hostages themselves.

  It has been a long morning. But to the criminal practitioner it has been productive.

  How many times do you get to plead out a case before the grand jury has even indicted?

  It's a win.

  In so many ways.

  In the men's room at the end of the hall, I cup cold water onto my face. Then the tears come and I am shaking. I cry into the sink, silently, but violently. Then I throw up. When I am done I stand upright and smile at myself in the mirror. The smile does little to help: I look depressed and forlorn.

  "You did it," I say to encourage my reflection. "You didn't die."

  Then the air goes out of me and I am down on the floor, shuddering and trying to stand. Then I am up and I lean against the porcelain sink to steady myself. I peer into the mirror a second time.

  The tears come again and my hands shake. I didn't die, but I easily could have.

  That four letter word meaning forlorn? Definitely down, no matter what they say in New York.

  4

  Amy Tanenbaum celebrated her bat mitzvah in a special new outfit given to her by her doting mother. The following Thursday night she wore the same outfit to the Wendover High football game: black tights, Black Watch skirt, and a loose black sweater over a white blouse. It was October 31 and chilly in Chicago; frost was expected. Her mother made Amy take along her North Face parka when she left home tha
t evening. Amy complied, intending to leave it behind in the car along with her mother's admonitions about boys, drugs, strangers, and gentiles. Mothers were impossible, especially Jewish mothers with their uncanny ability to sniff out snowflakes and boys miles away.

  Nancy Jewell's mother drove the five girls to the game, dropping them at Wendover Field, which was really nothing more than recently-painted bleachers and a gridiron. They met up with other friends and began playing musical chairs as pair-offs were made. Amy found herself sitting beside a boy she didn't really know, a senior, and she was a little scared and a little excited all at once.

  The boy left and returned with Pepsis and nachos. They drank cola and shared the snack. Under the bleachers, a sea of popcorn boxes and soft drink cups and programs deepened. Neither of them noticed when his red wool muffler pulled away as the crowd came to its feet and cheered.

  Midway through the third quarter, Amy excused herself and headed for the ladies' room, courtesy of the 32-ounce soft drink. She stopped at the snack bar to give her ex-boyfriend his ring back. The other girls in her group had left for the restroom at the same time, but didn’t wait for her. The restrooms were housed in a small block building at the Visitor's end of the field. It was set back against the fence line, which left it for the most part hidden from the bleachers. As she made her way along the fence, she distanced herself from the field lights. She couldn't see her feet on the path. She shivered and forced herself to continue, at the same time wishing a friend had accompanied her or that they had all waited for her. At last she made it to the block building. A single halogen lamp burned at the far end of the small building. Amy hurried inside, failing to see the dark form that was following at a distance, keeping to the shadows, treading silently along, casting nervous glances back over his shoulder.