Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: Secrets Girls Keep: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 2) Page 5

  "What are you thinking, Michael?" inquires Father Bjorn as we turn south. "Did he do it?"

  I tap the steering wheel with my fingers.

  "That's hard to say. So far we don't know why the investigation has narrowed down to Jana. We don't know why they picked him up. My gut says we need to talk to Uncle Tim. He surely must have talked to the police when they came for Jana. What do you say we drop by and ask a few questions?"

  Father Bjorn dials up Jana's mother and gets the uncle's address. He lives only three miles away, so it's an easy decision.

  The house is an ugly duplex--two doors on the front porch. Uncle Tim is the one on the right. The curtains are closed and the Tribune hasn't been taken inside. I ring the doorbell. The curtains move and billow and I can see a large yellow tabby cat has sprung onto the window sill to greet us. The cat looks at us with total disinterest. It arches its back and turns away.

  I ring a second time. We hear footsteps and then the door suddenly swings open. A round, barrel-chested man wearing a T-shirt and black jeans stands and blinks at us. He makes no effort to open the storm door.

  "I'm Jana's dad!" Father Bjorn shouts through the glass.

  The man's face capitulates as he understands. He reaches and pushes at the handle.

  "Come in." He backs away from the door.

  "I'm Michael Gresham," I say, extending my hand. "I'm Jana's lawyer."

  The man ignores my hand.

  "He has a lawyer? How does he afford a lawyer? He has no money."

  "I'm his father's parishioner. I'm here because I want to help my priest and his son."

  "Well, I'm Tim. Uncle Tim. I don't have coffee to offer. We ran out last night. Come in; sit down."

  Just then a thin, tired-looking woman comes in wearing a chenille bathrobe. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she's smoking a long black cigarette. She pats the side of her head as if arranging the poof of hair that winds out like a corkscrew. "Didja tell them we ain't got coffee?" she says to Uncle Tim.

  "They know. They don't want no coffee. They're here about Jana."

  "You're the priest. You're his dad, am I right?"

  "I'm his father. I've never been much of a dad."

  "Not to be mean, Father, but you ain't been any part of a dad," says Uncle Tim. "I mean no calls, no visits, no Christmas presents, no letters, no nothing."

  "I wanted to speak with you," I say to the couple. "I have a few questions, if I may."

  "Knock yourself out," says the woman. "I'm gonna put on my face, but Tim can answer."

  She leaves us there.

  "First, Tim, were you present when the police arrested Jana?"

  "Yep."

  "Did they tell you why they thought he was involved in the girl's death?"

  Tim's face turns to concrete.

  "Did you say ‘girl's death’? Is that what this is about?" Tim finally asks.

  "It looks that way. What did they say when they came for him?"

  "They said there had been a problem at the school. I thought they meant like vandalism. They didn't say nothing about a girl dying."

  "He's been arrested for murdering a student at his school. No one told you that?"

  He rubs his belly and rolls his eyes. "Nothing like that. Like I said, they was very low-key. Just something about school."

  "What time were they here?"

  “Afternoon."

  "Who answered the door?"

  "I always get the door. This ain't the best neighborhood, Mister--Mister--"

  "Gresham." I snap a card out of my wallet and pass it to him. "Can you describe the police? What they looked like?"

  "Two guys in cheap suits. One was a beanpole Watusi chief maybe seven feet tall. I ain't exaggerating. The other was a spic. Can't CPD hire white guys anymore?"

  "Those sound like the men we saw at the crime scene."

  "Where was that?"

  "At the school. Wendover Field. Happened last night."

  "Well, Jana wasn't there."

  "Tell us where he was."

  "He was upstairs in his room with the door shut, probably looking at girls on his computer. He's that age, you know. Can't leave his tally-whacker alone."

  Father Bjorn's eyes drop to the thin tan carpet. He rubs his hands together restlessly.

  "Is there any way he could have left his room without you knowing?"

  "Only if he could've flown a full story down to the ground. No, he never left. Plus, he came down for a sandwich about nine. He was here all night."

  "You can testify to that?"

  "Of course. I was here with him. So was Ruby."

  "That's your wife?"

  "Not exactly. Just someone I work with. One of our dispatchers down at the yard."

  "You're a driver?"

  “Plumber. Company van. I can do it in my sleep."

  "One of the men I spoke with at the scene gave me a tip about a red muffler," says Father Bjorn. "Does my son own a red muffler?"

  "No. But I do. It's always in the collar of my work coat."

  "Would you mind letting us see it?" I ask.

  "Sure. One second."

  Tim disappears and we hear him rummaging in the hall closet. Then he returns empty-handed.

  "Damnedest thing. My muffler's missing. It ain't on my coat."

  I nod. Father Bjorn has no words.

  "I'm going to send out my investigator to take your statements--yours and Ruby’s. Is that okay?"

  "Sure. Why not? I just want my sister's kid back. No offense, Father, but he belongs here with me until my sister comes for him."

  "Well, that's all for now," I say. He knows very little but he is an alibi witness. Not a very compelling one, but you don't always get Oprah.

  We stand and shake hands. We say goodbye. Father Bjorn and I walk out to the car.

  Inside, he looks across at me. His eyes are wide.

  “Muffler,” he says.

  “I heard.”

  “So if someone saw him wearing it—”

  “Someone did. That’s why they arrested him.”

  Father Bjorn moans. He wrings his hands. Then he looks across at me.

  "I need your help, Michael. One more thing.”

  "How else can I help?"

  "I'm hoping you can help me with Jana. Tell the judge you'll take him if bail is allowed."

  "I suppose I could." Maybe. Of course Dania would violently object. We have a baby and we don't need a possible murderer in the guest bedroom. No way she's going along with Father Bjorn's idea.

  "Danny isn't going to buy it," I tell him. "Not that I can see. I'm troubled by it as well."

  "Well, I know it's asking an awful lot." He looks out of the passenger window and I can see the frown on his face reflected in the glass.

  "Of course I can try. You never know with Danny. I mean, the kid was home. He's obviously innocent."

  "Obviously."

  But I wonder about that. With criminals there's always a way.

  Always.

  9

  Monday morning, and Tom Meekins has drawn Renz Jannings as his judge, which is a good thing and a bad thing. The good thing is that Judge Jannings is known to be amenable to reasonable bail. The bad thing is that Judge Jannings is very slow to accept plea agreements which he considers lightweight, less than the severity of punishment he might have wanted when he was a prosecutor. Yes, the Honorable Renz Jannings was at one time the U.S. Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois, a Bush appointee, and then abruptly was elevated to the federal bench in 2007 as Bush was packing his suitcases. A so-called court-stuffing appointment by a lame duck president. He is what he is.

  Today we wait in District Court for the judge to appear. Tom is in the custody of two U.S. Marshals, no-nonsense-looking guys wearing flak jackets and fat guns on their hips, the kind with double-stack magazines, enough to shoot up several rogue sheriffs if gunplay is called for. Frankly, I cannot imagine the sheriff's constituency attempting to break him out of jail, but one never knows.

 
Thirty minutes later, Tom's case is called. Formerly the marathon man, not today; Tom is looking peaked and subdued. My guess is that the jail shrink has him medicated to some degree, which doesn't trouble me. He is cuffed and waist-chained and hobbled. A demeaning come-down for a man who, as recently as last week, was himself escorting prisoners into courtrooms for their appearances. Probably it was his deputies who were doing the actual escorting, but my point is valid nonetheless. He steps up beside me at the lectern and I identify myself for the court record.

  "Mr. Meekins," says Judge Jannings with a severe look on his face, "you are appearing today on a criminal complaint, called an information, charging you with a single count of embezzlement and a single count of kidnapping. The factual basis for your alleged offense is no mystery to the court as I was in session in this room, two floors above where the alleged kidnapping incident took place. Armed marshals interrupted my session in order to take me and my staff into seclusion while you were allegedly doing your misdeed down below and, sir, I did not appreciate that one damn bit. To say I am disgruntled with you is a gross understatement. Moreover, I'm astonished the U.S. Attorney has seen fit to go in with a single count on a series of alleged offenses which would have, if you were convicted, put you behind bars for more lifetimes than you could possibly live. So, for the record, I am dismayed with the charging document and I will take this matter up with counsel at the first status conference. Counsel," he continues, pointing both to the Assistant U.S. Attorney and me, "you are on notice. The court is very displeased with what appears to be a very lightweight plea bargain going in. Very displeased."

  The Assistant U.S. Attorney and I nod. She is a diminutive woman dressed in a light gray suit over a white shirt and striped club necktie. I have worked with AUSA San-Jish before. She is a mid-fortyish woman of Indian descent and has no axe to grind. She stands to her feet and addresses the court. Her voice is small, courteous, and straight to the point.

  "Your Honor, the government appreciates your position. However, the charges were guaranteed in order to save lives. We will be prepared to further advise the court at status."

  "Very well, Ms. San-Jish. The court will temper its approach based upon that representation. Now, we're here today to determine whether the defendant has counsel, and he does, Mr. Gresham is appearing with him. Mr. Gresham is a member of the federal trial bar of the Northern District and, I am sure, will do an excellent job representing his client."

  I am flattered and my neck reddens. No need for that, but Judge Jannings is known for his friendliness to the defense bar. Probably at one time a U.S. Attorney who also bore no axe to grind.

  "Thank you, Judge," I say. Tom keeps his eyes fastened on the judge just like I've asked.

  "So our next chore is to consider the question of bail. Mr. Gresham, please give the court your position on bail."

  "Your Honor," I begin, "The proof is evident and the presumption great. No doubt the defendant has committed the acts alleged in the complaint, or at least similar acts. I say this with the reservation that if an indictment comes down that is substantially dissimilar to the complaint in number of counts then my comment does not apply. But for now, I am comfortable with the complaint."

  "That's nice of you, Mr. Gresham, to pass on the complaint. Good sport," he says with a smile.

  Comeuppance received. Poor word choice.

  "At any rate, the question of bail comes down to the safety of the defendant and the safety of the public. My client is charged with pointing a loaded firearm at federal law enforcement officers and citizens, as well as members of the grand jury. I do not take this lightly and I'm sure the court doesn’t either. However, if the court is amenable to bail at this time--"

  "Not without the results of thorough psychiatric testing, Mr. Gresham, so I'll just stop you right there. There will be no bail without a psychiatric evaluation and report to the court. I'm sure you'll quite agree that this is called for. For this reason, we'll be continuing the question of bail until such time as the report is received. As to the question of whether the defendant has received a copy of the complaint, counsel has indicated the defendant in fact has, so, unless there is anything further, this matter is continued until--"

  The clerk looks up a date and provides it to the court. Three weeks down the road. I am powerless to argue otherwise, given the nature of Tom's actions. Tom slumps beside me and I can sense the air going out of him. But I had warned him last night that he shouldn't expect to be going home today, not after his cowboy rodeo time in the courthouse. In fact, I told him, it could be a very long time before he walks the streets of this or any other city again. I've made that clear to him, too. Tom is contrite and receptive to my words. But he knows how any judge and any prosecutor will respond to what he did. So I place my hand on his shoulder and give him a squeeze. He doesn't move, but I know he's disappointed.

  "I'm going to set the preliminary hearing in this case for one week. Will there be an indictment before then?" Judge Jannings asks the prosecutor.

  "Yes. Next day or two."

  "Then the preliminary hearing will be scrubbed at that time. Anything else, counsel?"

  We both indicate nothing further.

  We are done here; the marshals step up and take Tom away. So I hurry out to the elevator and press DOWN. I have another appearance yet today, an appearance on a drug case so oddball that I'm actually anxious to see what happens with it.

  10

  Guy Lafitte is my newest narcotics distributor. His story is something you will have to judge for yourself. It all began with a call to me from his father.

  "Michael!" exclaimed Kenneth Lafitte, a lawyer whom I know to be a civil litigator from one of the silk stocking firms downtown.

  "Ken," I reply. "One of my clients is pissed and hired you to sue me?"

  Ken laughs, one of those loud, rich-guy laughs that attracts attention across restaurants.

  "Not hardly! My kid. Got himself arrested. Drug beef."

  "How old?"

  "Thirty."

  "What's the charge?"

  "I don't know. But it's state court. I refused to bail him out. Thought I'd let him cool his jets in jail for a day or two."

  "That's probably a bad idea, Ken. The jail is a zoo. He could get seriously hurt in there."

  "I knew it wasn't a fun place. But I was hoping it would teach him a lesson."

  "No, if he were my kid I'd bust him out on bail first thing today. Word to the wise."

  "If you say so. Look, could I retain you on his case? I'm looking for a plea, probation, and dismissal of the charges on successful completion."

  "I could help with it, sure. Be glad to defend your son."

  "I'll send over a retainer. Whatever you need."

  "Mrs. Lingscheit will call your office. She's my secretary and she'll make the arrangements with your secretary."

  So I'm in state court and waiting for Ken's son's first appearance. I talked to him last night and got the lowdown. To begin, Guy is a Yale law grad and should have known better. But he didn't. He was running out of cash. He needed to make a score. A disbarred lawyer (failed to file tax returns for ten years), he had no other skills by which he was capable of supporting himself even in the sparsest of conditions. So he took $30,000 from an accident settlement and bought a used sailboat. It was teak, very beautiful, and had been seized by the feds during a cocaine bust south of Miami and then re-sold at a government auction. Guy made the winning bid and became the lucky new owner.

  Guy sailed his teak sailboat to Cuba, where he put in to port and toured the country for six months. During that time, he trekked into the jungle and became acquainted with cocaine producers. Would he like to take some cocaine back to the States and make his fortune? Guy was game, so they sold him twenty kilos of pure powder. Now, according to the Medellin Drug Cartel's chief bookkeeper, a kilo of cocaine costs $1500 in Bogota, $16,000 in Mexico, and $77,000 in Britain. That same kilo will sell for about $30,000 right here in Chicago. So there's a tremend
ous amount of profit in a kilo of coke if you can get it here. Guy paid $30,000 for twenty kilos in Havana. The money he invested was what remained from the accident case where he had been paid $150,000 for the loss of a kneecap in a car wreck. He had been T-boned at a stop sign. The wreck left him with a permanent limp and just enough cash to fund his adventure in the drug trade.

  For some reason known only to the angels, Guy with his twenty kilos was able to sail into New York and up the St. Lawrence into the Great Lakes, eventually dropping anchor at the Chicago Yacht and Sailing Club on Lake Michigan's western shore. Why did he come all the way to Chicago? Guy has no plausible rationale for that trip, at least not that I have been able to discern. Except he was married to a female airline pilot at one time and her home base was O'Hare. At any rate, it was in Chicago that he set up the cocaine deal that would eventually bring him to the Law Offices of Michael Gresham.

  He was a pure novice at the drug trade. He wouldn't have known an undercover agent from a made man if they wore name tags. The practice of law, for Guy, had him working for the Internal Revenue Service on bankruptcy cases where there was a tax debt owed the government that some slippery soul was attempting to discharge in bankruptcy. In would rush Guy for the IRS, the government debt would be excepted from the debtor's discharge, and off he would ride into the sunset, another day closer to the federal retirement gold ring. Except, like I mentioned, Guy neglected to file tax returns from 2003-2013 and when his employer found out, he was bounced out into the street. The IRS has no patience with non-filers, even if they happen to be one of their own. When he left behind the only job he'd ever held in law, he still had never dealt with any form of criminal element and he was as naive about the drug trade as any first grader.

  So, coming ashore in late October, 2014, Guy knew only that he wanted to dispose of his coke and make it back down to Florida in his sailboat before winter sealed off the Midwest and the St. Lawrence and he was forced to store his boat for the winter. He had zero desire of spending one more day in Chicago than was absolutely required.

  His first day ashore, he tried to locate his ex-wife. Failing that, he turned his efforts to unloading his Cuban booty. He decided a dance club would be the place to start looking for drug dealers. It didn't take him long to locate the Cheshire Club downtown, where the DJ's rocked the crowd while the coke for sale right on the dance floor kept the patrons happy and hopping.