Bitter Medicine (32 page)

“Hi, Dick,” I said sociably. “Glad to see Humphries got hold of you—he was really digging a pit for himself out in Barrington: threats, attempted bribery, the whole works.”

“You!” Dick’s face turned crimson. “Goddamn it, I might have guessed you were behind this!”

I held the door for him. “For once you’re right: I figured it out practically all by myself. If not for me, your client would probably go to the grave without doing a minute’s time for Malcolm Tregiere’s death. I don’t care so much about Fabiano Hernandez, but the state takes a dim view of murder no matter who’s been killed.”

Dick strode past me. I followed him into the building. He was trying to maintain an air of dignified outrage while covertly figuring out where to go—his typical clients don’t bring him to the police station.

“Desk sergeant straight ahead,” I said helpfully.

He strode purposefully to the desk. I hovered in his wake.

“I’m Richard Yarborough. My client, Alan Humphries, is being held here—I need to see him.”

When the desk sergeant asked for identification, then told him he had to be searched, Dick got angry.

“Officer, my client was denied the right to call counsel for well over an hour after his arrest. Now, am I to be humiliated as well simply because I want to restore his legal rights to him?”

“Dick,” I murmured, “it’s the way things are done
around here. They don’t know you’re pure beyond belief—there have been cases of lawyers less scrupulous than you smuggling weapons in to their clients…. Sorry, Sergeant—Mr. Yarborough’s usual venue is La Salle Street.”

Dick stood rigid with anger while he was searched. Letting the sergeant assume I was his entourage, I opened my handbag and was patted down myself. We got our visitors’ passes and moved on.

“You really should have brought Freeman with you,” I told him as we walked up the stairs. “He knows his way around these police stations. You can’t antagonize the desk sergeant; he’s your key for any information—charge sheets, how your client’s doing, where he is.”

Dick ignored me majestically until we got to the room where they were holding Humphries. Then he put on his heaviest face for me.

“I don’t know what you did to make the police think Alan Humphries was guilty of murder. But you have created a very serious legal situation for yourself, Vic. Very serious. Whether we will bring slander charges depends on how forgiving my client feels.”

“And how long he’s put away for,” I said brightly. “You know, Dick, Lotty Herschel keeps asking me how come I ever married you. And damned if I can see why. You couldn’t have been this big an asshole when we were in law school together, could you?”

He turned on his heel hard enough to make the
leather smoke and knocked on the door. A uniformed man looked out to see who it was. Dick showed him his pass and was admitted to the room.

After a couple of minutes Rawlings came out to talk to me. “You get the doc home okay? I’m going to need her to be an expert witness on this medical testimony. I’ve got a police doctor in there, but he doesn’t know shit about birthing babies.”

“I’m sure Lotty’ll do it. She’d do damned near anything to clear up Malcolm’s death. You’re not trying to hold him on that, are you? What about Fabiano—that’s cut and dried—he shot the guy.”

Rawlings grimaced. “On Burgoyne’s testimony. And Burgoyne is dead. I was hoping to get no bond, but now that slick piece of goods who represents him is here, I’m not so sure. He’s looking to argue it was Burgoyne who bought and fired the gun. Of course we can check that, but not before the preliminary hearing, and this Yarborough looks like the kind who wines and dines the bench—just my luck some good old boy will be handling night court today. We need more of a case. Don’t you have any evidence? I mean anything concrete?”

“You could bring in Coulter, the guy from the state Human Resources Department. But that would just get you collusion on the perinatal cover-up. How about Sergio?”

Rawlings shook his head. “I’ve got a warrant out for him. But that could cut both ways, you know. For a big
enough chunk of change, Sergio’ll say he never laid eyes on Humphries.”

I thought about it. “Yeah. You got a problem. Let me make my statement and get out of here. Maybe I can come up with something.”

“Warshawski! If you—” He broke off. “Never mind. If you’ve got an idea, I don’t want to know about it until after you’ve executed it. I’ll be happier.”

I smiled at him sweetly. “See? I’m easy to work with, once you’ve figured out how.”

I drove several blocks from the police station before stopping to find a pay phone. The nervous woman answered on the fifth ring, her baby crying again in the background.

“Mrs. Rodriguez? I called two nights ago. For Sergio. Is he there?”

“He—no. No, he’s not home. I don’t know where he is.”

I paused a second and thought I heard an extension stealthily lifted. “It’s like this, Mrs. Rodriguez: Alan Humphries is in jail. Right now. Over at the Sixth Area Headquarters. You could call and check it out if you wanted to. They’re going to give him immunity—you know what that is?—immunity from prosecution. That means he won’t go to jail. As long as he tells them that Sergio is the one who really killed Malcolm Tregiere and Fabiano Hernandez. Make sure Sergio gets that message, Mrs. Rodriguez. Good-bye.”

I waited on the line after she hung up. Sure enough, a second click followed. I smiled grimly to myself, got back into my car, and returned to sit behind the police station.

By now networks had gotten hold of the story. Channel 13 and Channel 5 both had mobile vans parked out front.

Around four-thirty there was a flurry of activity. The mobile units sprang to life as a crowd of uniformed men, surrounding a barely visible Humphries, came out the side entrance. They put him into a transport van, brought out three other handcuffed men for the van, and locked them all in. The networks made a great show of running footage of Humphries’s removal. This would look like news at ten tonight: Mary Sherrod in front of the police van speculating on what might be going on.

Dick came out a few minutes later. He pulled the Mercedes away from the curb with a great flourish of gear shifting. I started my Chevy and followed more leisurely, down Western Avenue toward Twenty-sixth and California where the criminal courts sit. Since the van could flash blue lights at the intersections, I quickly fell behind. I’ve spent enough time at criminal court that I wasn’t worried about finding it. I was more interested in looking for any other escorts we might have picked up, but Dick’s was the only car trailing the van; no one was following me.

The criminal-court building was put up in the 1920s.
Its decorated ceilings, beautifully carved doors, and in-laid marble floors make a curious contrast to the crimes discussed there. At the entrance I was stopped for a thorough search—handbag emptied onto a counter-top, including a bedraggled tampon, a fistful of miscellaneous receipts, and an earring I thought I’d lost on the beach. The bailiff remembered me from my trial days; we chatted about her grandchildren for a few minutes before I headed for the third floor where night court was held.

Humphries’s preliminary hearing showed Dick at his finest. Pearl gray suit jacket buttoned, his light hair combed as carefully as though he’d just left his dryer, he was the very picture of affluent power. Humphries, at his side, looked sober and puzzled, a law-abiding man caught in events he didn’t understand, but doing his best to help straighten things out.

The state’s attorney, Jane LeMarchand, had been well briefed. She was a senior prosecutor, fluent and able, but the plea for no bond was denied, given the fact that the evidence of murder was all hearsay from a man now dead. The judge ruled that the state had probable cause to try Humphries, bond was set for one hundred fifty thousand, and the case was entered in the computer for assignment to a trial judge. Dick gracefully wrote out a check for ten percent of that, and he and Humphries exited to the chorus of popping flashbulbs. In a fit of pique I gave the reporters Dick’s home phone number and address. Petty, but I
hated to see him getting away with no inconvenience whatsoever.

Rawlings caught up with me at the courtroom exit. “We’re going to have to build a mighty careful case, Ms. W., for when we come to trial.”

“You mean for the first motion for continuance,” I said bitterly. “This thing will come to trial in five years. Want to put money on it?”

He rubbed thick fingers tiredly across his forehead. “Forget it. We tried to get the judge to agree we could hold the dude for twenty-four hours for questioning—I’d like to see him spend at least one night in jail, but your old man—ex-old man—was too slick for us. You want to get a drink someplace? Something to eat?”

I was surprised. “I’d like to—rain check, maybe? I have some stuff to do tonight. Might help the case.” Or might destroy it, I added to myself.

He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve had a long day, Warshawski. Think maybe you’ve done enough for the time being?”

I laughed but didn’t say anything. We pushed our way through the crowds of cameras at the front entrance. Dick was standing with one hand lightly resting on Humphries’s shoulder. He must have taken a course in television presence—he was at the top of the stairs for full dramatic effect.

“My client has had a long and trying day. I believe Ms. Warshawski, while a well-meaning investigator, probably got carried away by her emotional involvement
with the doctor who unfortunately took his own life earlier today.”

A mist covered my eyes. I felt the blood drumming in my head as I shouldered my way past the cameras to Dick. When he saw me, he stiffened and pulled Humphries closer to him. I found a mike under my nose and mustered all my willpower to grin instead of grabbing it to bash Dick’s brains out.

“I’m the emotional Ms. Warshawski,” I said as lightly as I could. “Since Mr. Yarborough had to leave a golf game to race to the courtroom here, he unfortunately didn’t have time for a full review of the facts. When he sees tomorrow’s paper, and learns of the collusion between the State of Illinois and his client, he may wish he’d stayed on the links.”

There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd. I ducked away on a tide of questions, glanced over my shoulder to see Dick fighting for self-control, and headed back for my car. I looked around for Rawlings, but he’d disappeared in the confusion.

Dick wrapped up the press conference quickly after that. He bustled Humphries into the Mercedes. They headed north to the expressways. I had to strain the Chevy to the limit to keep up with his fast-cruising sports car. Once on the Kennedy, headed toward O’Hare, he picked up speed, weaving in and out of traffic. It was almost completely dark now, a difficult time of day for tailing. Only the distinctive spacing of the sports car’s taillights helped me keep him in view.

As we joined the tollway and headed on beyond O’Hare, I realized that a brown Buick Le Sabre had become my permanent escort. It held back behind me until I’d dropped my four dimes into the toll basket, then pulled in front of me. It paced the Mercedes for a few miles, pulled in front of it around Algonquin Road, then dropped back behind me, where it hung closely.

We were going over seventy by then. The little car was vibrating. If I had to stop suddenly, the Buick would run right over me. My hands were sweating on the steering wheel.

Dick took the I-290 exit without signaling. I swerved right, felt the wheels lose traction briefly as I turned, saw the Buick slide past two honking, braking cars to keep up with me, then was miraculously back in control, picking up the Mercedes taillights about a half mile up the road.

I patted the steering wheel. “Come on, old girl. Show that damned Kraut car what a Yankee can do. Come on, babe. Just because you cost forty thousand less doesn’t mean you aren’t as good.” The Chevy continued to vibrate, but climbed up to eighty and closed the gap.

The Buick continued to hang about a hundred yards in back of me. My gun was in the glove compartment where I’d locked it before going into court. I didn’t dare take one hand off the steering wheel to fiddle with the lock and get at it. I couldn’t believe the state police were letting the three of us cruise this fast this far.

My hair was wet, my armpits dripping, when we slowed to fifty-five and turned onto the Northwest Highway. After that, progress was more sedate, interrupted by periodic traffic lights, with suburban police cruising ostentatiously in between. On one stop I was able to remove the glove-compartment key from my key chain. At the next I unlocked it, quickly pulled out my gun, and stuck it into my jacket pocket.

Humphries lived in Barrington Hills, a good fifty miles from the Loop. Thanks to Dick’s driving, we pulled up in front of his driveway only seventy minutes after leaving the criminal courts. Dick turned in; the Buick and I moved on past. As soon as the Mercedes had disappeared, the Buick put on a rush of speed and pulled around past me, disappearing up the road.

I moved over to the shoulder where I sat with my head on the steering wheel, my arms wobbling. I needed food. It had been more than twelve hours since I’d last eaten, and the intervening time had used up all my blood sugar. If I had a partner, I’d be able to send her off for food while I continued to watch. As it was, I had to take a chance. I retraced our route until I came to a strip with takeout joints. I had a double hamburger, a chocolate shake, and fries. By then I was ready for sleep, not action.

” ‘When duty whispers low,
Thou must,
the youth replies,
I can,
’ “ I muttered encouragingly to myself, heading back for Humphries’s house.

He had a good two- or three-acre spread. Nestled
far back among the trees, the house was only partly visible from the road. In the dark, all I could see was the limestone front where a spotlight shone on it. I pulled over, waiting for—I wasn’t sure what.

I leaned back in the driver’s seat and shut my eyes briefly. When I opened them again, it was because a set of headlights had flashed in my eyes—the Buick, headed back up the road. It was pitch-black, with no streetlights to mark the way. I was cold and my muscles were stiff; I was barely able to turn the Chevy around and pick up the Buick before it turned back onto the main road.