Jack Daniels and Associates: Snake Wine (2 page)

Herb dropped a twenty on the bar beside hers and moved to get his jacket. The bartender looked up as Herb headed after her, slowing only to give the bartender a wink and a nod.

The bartender laughed to see Herb pushing people aside with his stomach and apologizing over his shoulder as he squeezed by. Herb stumbled out the front door and saw her halfway down the block before he called out, "Hey! Hang on."

She stopped and looked back at him, still tucking her hair behind her ear, watching him come hustling up toward her. He was slightly out of breath as he arrived, and he said, "You're right. This can be a rough neighborhood sometimes. I'll make sure you get back safely."

"Thank you, Herb," she said, and they began what seemed to Herb a leisurely stroll.

She put her arms around his and pressed in tight, saying that she was cold, and he didn't stop her. "I told you I'm married, right?" he asked.

"Yes, you were very clear about that," she said. "Mother-in-law and all," she giggled.

"Okay, just so you know this is just me walking you home and leaving. I don't want you to get any funny ideas about taking me hostage to have your evil way with me or anything."

Li Xiao laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth and said, "I can't make any promises."

2.

Keenan "Ack Trife" Marvin owed the City of Chicago a lifetime. In fact, he owed it several, and the full strength of the Cook County Prosecutor's Office, the Narcotics Unit, the Joint County Gang Suppression Task Force, the city Forensics Unit, and the Violent Crimes Division were pressing down hard to make sure he paid.

Alan Davidson was certainly being forced to earn his heavy paycheck defending Marvin. At forty years old, Davidson was balding in weird places. The front hairline was thin enough to show his scalp but the back of his head was thick was curly with light brown hair. He was looking into hair plugs. He ordered secret shipments of Rogaine. He wondered if the stress of this case was making the last remaining follicles snap off at the root in despair.

There were pages of witnesses for the prosecution and they were all sequestered in the hallways of the courthouse, long cordons of cops anxious to testify, glaring at the people working to free Marvin as they slinked along the corridor for the courtroom.

Marvin nodded and waved at each witness like he was greeting old friends, grinning wide enough to show off the diamond encrusted implants screwed onto his teeth that read "Ack" across the top and "Trife" across the bottom. Davidson had tried to get Marvin to remove his "grill" before the trial, but Marvin wouldn't hear of it.

Two weeks ago, Keenan Marvin had been one of the richest men in the city. Now, his Prada shirts and Louis Vuitton loafers had been replaced with a county-issued orange jumpsuit. His Rolex and rings were exchanged for steel handcuffs and shackles. The grill was all he had left, Davidson thought. That and his tattoos spelling out exactly how much of a monster he really was. Every inch of his arms and neck were scrawled with the words "Money," "Murder," "Bitches," or rather, "Bitchez," "Drugs," and all sorts of colorful euphemisms for female genitalia. Davidson had petitioned the court to allow his client to appear in long-sleeved jumpers.

"Sorry, your honor, we were fresh out of long sleeve jumpsuits this week," was the jail's response. 

People say the rich don't go to jail, Davidson thought, and the only reason that's sometimes true is that they can raise an army of expert witnesses to dispute solid evidence. A good prosecution is like a symphony, structured to hit the right notes at the right time. The prosecutor is the conductor, bringing in the scientific evidence at the right moment, calling on the eye witnesses to hammer the refrain. Done right, it's an overwhelming display designed to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. To put people like Keenan "Ack Trife" Marvin behind bars for life with no chance of release.

Expert witnesses for the defense are static in the speakers. Their job is to confuse and distort the prosecutor's message to the jury. Their job is to poke holes in what anybody would look at and say, "Guilty."

When Davidson put the call out for experienced expert witnesses in narcotics distribution cases, he began the conversation by offering twice the usual fee. Every single person hung up on him. Nobody wanted to make that many enemies with Chicago PD. It was career suicide.

The decision was made to bring in an out-of-towner. Somebody with good credentials who played fair. Somebody a jury could and would believe. Davidson heard the same name enough times that he finally decided that there was only one man for the job.

Over seven hundred miles away, Frank O'Ryan looked at the unfamiliar area code appearing on his phone and ditched the call. If they were serious, they'd leave a voicemail. But whoever it was, he or she called back right away. Frank answered the phone and said, "Hello?"

Davidson introduced himself and said Frank had been recommended as the right person to provide expert witness testimony in a high-profile narcotics case. Frank didn't hang up. Davidson poured on the smooth, saying, "My client is offering large coin for someone with your level of expertise, plus all expenses."

There was silence on the line for a second, until Frank said, "You realize I'm in Pennsylvania, right? Just outside of Philly."

"Yes, sir," Davidson said.

"That kind of money, why isn't anyone local taking the case?"

Davidson cursed under his breath. Some cops were quicker than others, and less lured in by the sound of dollar bills fluttering in the breeze. "As I said, the case is high-profile. There was an extensive investigation against him, and it involved a lot of people. Unfortunately, most of my regular experts are associated with people tied into the people involved, so I can't use them because of various conflicts and such." Davidson silently congratulated himself for coming up with that one on the spot, but it had sounded good and as it was already said, he bit his lip and waited.

"Did your guy kill anybody?"

"Yes," Davidson said, "But you won't be involved in that aspect. Just the narcotics."

"Who were the victims?"

"Drug dealers. Bad guys. No cops, no women or children. Listen, Frank, I'm in kind of a tight spot over here. All I'm asking you to do is come in, take a look at the evidence, and tell me what my options are. If you can't testify, so be it. I'll cut you a check on the spot, and we go our separate ways."

"How much are we talking?" Frank said.

"Two grand to come in and assess the evidence. An extra three grand on top of that if you testify. Plus airfare, hotel, food and rental car. What the hell, it's a week in the Windy City on me, no strings attached. What do you say?"

"Email me the reports and a signed agreement," Frank said. "I'll talk to my wife. Listen, do not send me the criminal complaint or any police reports that don’t pertain to the possession charges. I don't want my testimony to be tainted by any outside influences, understand?"

Davidson looked at the last page of the criminal complaint and the charges listed there, and the victim most especially, and said, "Certainly. That sounds good."

Davidson hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, smiling with satisfaction, thinking, "There goes another one in the boat."

The rules of sequestration work so that witnesses are not allowed to hear one another testify before giving their own testimony. After they are dismissed from the stand, they are allowed to watch the proceedings just like anyone else. As the prosecution called witness after witness, Davidson subjected them to the most vigorous cross-examination he could get away with, doing whatever he could to challenge, call into question, and discredit the witness, as often as he could.

As each witness stepped down from the stand, each one openly glared at Keenan Marvin. Cop after cop, hell, even the forensic specialists, eye-screwed Marvin as they walked past to take up their seats behind him until there was nowhere to sit. Then they stood.

Only two people involved in the case weren't sitting in the audience. Detective First Class Herb Benedict, who had testified first, was then returned to sequestration in the event he had to be called back to the stand to refute any testimony.

The only person associated with the case who was allowed to stay the entire time was the cop who'd done the investigation. Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels was sitting in the front of the courtroom at the prosecutor's table, just a few feet from the man she was trying to put in prison for life. It was her name signed on the criminal complaint against Keenan Marvin. It was her accusing him of double-murder and being the leader of a corrupt criminal organization that specialized in trafficking narcotics.

Joel Roth was the fourth highest ranking prosecutor in Cook County, and that wasn't saying much. Most prosecutors come into the office, do a few years, just enough to get a few good trials under their belt, and then move on to cushy law firms to cash in. Given the pittance the prosecutor's office paid and the crushing debt of law school, it really wasn't a choice. The only people who stayed in the office were those lucky enough to not need the money. Normally, they were people who came from successful families that now wanted to enter the vast world of American politics.

At thirty-one years old, Joel Roth already oversaw all the specialized subdivisions in the office, and he rarely bothered to get his hands dirty in a courtroom anymore. Not unless it was a special occasion. Keenan Marvin was a special occasion. Guaranteed to get major press coverage, this case had a good chance of moving Roth up the list for any cushy government appointments that might become available.

Roth's eyes were on the security details and around the clock limousine services that awaited. He was thinking about the governor's mansion in the future, and Jack knew it. The problem with administrators who only get involved in big cases is that they are rusty, she thought. And they aren't familiar with the regular players.

Jack didn't know Roth and Roth didn't know her. She wished one of the regular people from the narcotics division was sitting at the table with her instead or Roth.

They watched the last witness come down off the stand and instead of resting his case, Roth stood up and said, "I'd like to re-call Lieutenant Daniels to the stand, your honor."

There were murmurs in the court and Jack looked up at him to ask him what was going on, but Roth folded his arms and stared straight forward, refusing to look at her. She walked around the table and took her place at the witnesses stand, instinctively raising her right hand. "You can consider yourself still under oath from before," the judge said.

Out of everyone in the room, Jack knew Judge Howard Ceparullo best. He was older than Moses and had eyes that burned with righteous hellfire. Ceparullo had retired from his legal practice and taken up the bench in Jack's rookie year, and she'd appeared in front of him at least twice a year since. He was one of the few people outside the department she sent a Christmas card to.

The thing Jack liked best about Judge Ceparullo was that he tolerated no shit. He knew something was up as Jack sat down on the witness stand. She knew this for certain when he gave her a sly wink, letting her know it would be all right. "Thank you, your honor," Jack said.

Joel Roth came around the front of his table, making eye contact with the panel of jurors as he slowly made his approach to the witness stand. "Lieutenant Daniels, you've previously testified as the arresting officer for the homicide and narcotics charges against Keenan Marvin, isn't that correct?"

"Yes," Jack said.

"But that's not your only role in this investigation, is it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You aren't just Marvin's arresting officer, you're also one of his victims. Isn't that right?"

Jack glared at the prosecutor, finally blinking as she tried to play catch up. There had been no discussion about this before, no preparation. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean?"

Roth turned toward her and said, "You sat here next to me, next to the men and women of this jury, and you listened to the intercepted phone calls placed by Keenan Marvin, correct?"

"Yes."

"Calls made to two of his drug-ring lieutenants? Is that that true?"

"Yes," she said softly.

"And you heard, just as we all did, what he said he was going to do to the, let me quote, 'white bitch who did this shit,' did you not?"

"Yes, I did," she said.

"You listened as he instructed his subordinates to find you by any means necessary and make sure you suffered the most disgusting sexual humiliations possible, isn't that correct?"

Jack looked at the man sitting at the defendant's table. His eyes were cold as they fixed on her. She might have been talking about the color of the sky or the latest real estate developments in the downtown marketplace for all the expression Marvin's features revealed. "That's correct," Jack said.

"But these weren't idle threats, were they?"

"No," Jack said quietly. "Two of his men came to my house."

"And what was their intention once they got there?"

Jack shifted in her seat, feeling the eyes of the jurors completely fixed on her now. Her role had changed right before their eyes, and both she and Roth knew it. She wasn't the cop anymore. She was a woman, and she was a victim, and it was everything she detested and feared about being in a courtroom setting – having to play the victim. Still, it was probably the last nail they needed to hammer Keenan Marvin's coffin closed. She took a deep breath and said, "Well, judging by the ropes, zip-ties, nipple-clamps, dog collar and video camera found in the bag those two scumbags carried, I imagine it wasn't a social call."

"I think everyone in this courtroom would agree," Roth said dramatically, pouring it on as he turned to look at the jury. "Luckily, thanks to the vigilant investigation already underway against the defendant, no harm came to this brave public servant."

"Objection," Alan Davidson called out to the judge.

"Sustained," Judge Ceparullo said, looking at the prosecutor. "Hold the commentary for closing arguments."

"My apologies," Roth said. "No more questions for this witness."

Alan Davidson stood up and took a deep breath, taking as much time as he could. Roth's surprise tactic had taken him off guard as well. He'd dealt with Jack Daniels before and always found her to be good people beneath that rough exterior. She had a job to do, so did he, and even when they were directly opposed to one another, he knew she played straight. But still, the prosecutor had changed the playing field by bringing her in as a victim. He held up his hands to Jack in a kind of, 'sorry to do this to you, kid,' gesture, even as he walked forward. "Lieutenant Daniels, I'm sorry to hear about what happened, but let me ask you this question. It's really nothing new to you, right?"