The Chamber (38 page)

Garner Goodman spoke next. He quickly summarized the case of Sam Cayhall, and provided the honest assessment that, in all likelihood, Sam would be executed in three weeks. Then he bragged on Adam, said he might have been wrong in not disclosing his relationship with Sam, but what the hell. That was then, and this is now, and the present is a helluva lot more
important when your client has only three weeks to live.

Not a single question was asked of either Wycoff or Goodman. The questions, evidently, were being saved for Rosen.

Lawyers have long memories. You cut one’s throat today, and he’ll wait patiently in the weeds for years until he can return the favor. Daniel Rosen had lots of favors lying around the hallways of Kravitz & Bane, and as managing partner he was in the process of collecting them. He’d stepped on people, his own people, for years. He was a bully, a liar, a thug. In his glory days, he’d been the heart and soul of the firm, and he knew it. No one would challenge him. He had abused young associates and tormented his fellow partners. He had run roughshod over committees, ignored firm policies, stolen clients from other lawyers at Kravitz & Bane, and now in the decline of his career he was collecting favors.

Two minutes into his presentation, he was interrupted for the first time by a young partner who rode motorcycles with Emmitt Wycoff. Rosen was pacing, as if playing to a packed courtroom in his glory days, when the question stopped him. Before he could think of a sarcastic answer, another question hit him. By the time he could think of an answer to either of the first two, a third came from nowhere. The brawl was on.

The three interrogators worked like an efficient tag team, and it was apparent that they had been practicing. They took turns needling Rosen with relentless questions, and within a minute he was cursing and throwing insults. They kept their collective cool. Each had a legal pad with what appeared to be long lists of questions.

“Where’s the conflict of interest, Mr. Rosen?”

“Certainly a lawyer can represent a family member, right, Mr. Rosen?”

“Did the application for employment specifically ask Mr. Hall if this firm represented a member of his family?”

“Do you have something against publicity, Mr. Rosen?”

“Why do you consider the publicity to be negative?”

“Would you try to help a family member on death row?”

“What are your feelings about the death penalty, Mr. Rosen?”

“Do you secretly want to see Sam Cayhall executed because he killed Jews?”

“Don’t you think you’ve ambushed Mr. Hall?”

It was not a pleasant sight. Some of the greatest courtroom victories in recent Chicago history belonged to Daniel Rosen, and here he was getting his teeth kicked in in a meaningless fight before a committee. Not a jury. Not a judge. A committee.

The idea of retreat had never entered his mind. He pressed on, growing louder and more caustic. His retorts and acid replies grew personal, and he said some nasty things about Adam.

This was a mistake. Others joined the fray, and soon Rosen was flailing like wounded prey, just a few steps in front of the wolf pack. When it was apparent that he could never reach a majority of the committee, he lowered his voice and regained his composure.

He rallied nicely with a quiet summation about ethical considerations and avoiding the appearance of impropriety, scriptures that lawyers learn in law school and spit at each other when fighting but otherwise ignore when convenient.

When Rosen finished, he stormed out of the room, mentally taking notes of those who’d had the nerve to
grill him. He’d write their names in a file the minute he got to his desk, and one day, well, one day he’d just do something about it.

Papers and pads and electronic equipment vanished from the table which was suddenly clean except for the coffee and empty cups. The chairman called for a vote. Rosen got five. Adam got six, and the Personnel Committee adjourned itself immediately and disappeared in a rush.

“Six to five?” Adam repeated as he looked at the relieved but unsmiling faces of Goodman and Wycoff.

“A regular landslide,” Wycoff quipped.

“Could be worse,” Goodman said. “You could be out of a job.”

“Why am I not ecstatic? I mean, one lousy vote and I’d be history.”

“Not really,” Wycoff explained. “The votes were counted before the meeting. Rosen had maybe two solid votes, and the others stuck with him because they knew you would win. You have no idea of the amount of arm twisting that took place last night. This does it for Rosen. He’ll be gone in three months.”

“Maybe quicker,” added Goodman. “He’s a loose cannon. Everybody’s sick of him.”

“Including me,” Adam said.

Wycoff glanced at his watch. It was eight forty-five, and he had to be in court at nine. “Look, Adam, I’ve gotta run,” he said, buttoning his jacket. “When are you going back to Memphis?”

“Today, I guess.”

“Can we have lunch? I’d like to talk to you.”

“Sure.”

He opened the door, and said, “Great. My secretary will give you a call. Gotta run. See you.” And he was gone.

Goodman suddenly glanced at his watch too. His
watch ran much slower than the real lawyers in the firm, but he did have appointments to keep. “I need to see someone in my office. I’ll join you guys for lunch.”

“One lousy vote,” Adam repeated, staring at the wall.

“Come on, Adam. It wasn’t that close.”

“It certainly feels close.”

“Look, we need to spend a few hours together before you leave. I wanna hear about Sam, okay? Let’s start with lunch.” He opened the door and was gone.

Adam sat on the table, shaking his head.

      Twenty-five      

I
f Baker Cooley and the other lawyers in the Memphis office knew anything about Adam’s sudden termination and its quick reversal, it was not apparent. They treated him the same, which was to say they kept to themselves and stayed away from his office. They were not rude to him, because, after all, he was from Chicago. They smiled when forced to, and they could muster a moment of small talk in the hallways if Adam was in the mood. But they were corporate lawyers, with starched shirts and soft hands which were unaccustomed to the dirt and grime of criminal defense. They did not go to jails or prisons or holding tanks to visit with clients, nor did they wrangle with cops and prosecutors and cranky judges. They worked primarily behind their desks and around mahogany conference tables. Their time was spent talking to clients who could afford to pay them several hundred dollars an hour for advice, and when they weren’t talking to clients they were on the phone or doing lunch with other lawyers and bankers and insurance executives.

There’d been enough in the newspapers already to arouse resentment around the office. Most of the lawyers were embarrassed to see the name of their firm associated with a character such as Sam Cayhall. Most of them had no idea that he’d been represented by Chicago for seven years. Now friends were asking questions. Other lawyers were making wisecracks. Wives
were humiliated over garden club teas. In-laws were suddenly interested in their legal careers.

Sam Cayhall and his grandson had quickly become a pain in the ass for the Memphis office, but nothing could be done about it.

Adam could sense it but didn’t care. It was a temporary office, suitable for three more weeks and hopefully not a day longer. He stepped from the elevator Friday morning, and ignored the receptionist who was suddenly busy arranging magazines. He spoke to his secretary, a young woman named Darlene, and she handed him a phone message from Todd Marks at the Memphis Press.

He took the pink phone message to his office and threw it in the wastebasket. He hung his coat on a hanger, and began covering the table with paper. There were pages of notes he’d taken on the flights to and from Chicago, and similar pleadings he’d borrowed from Goodman’s files, and dozens of copies of recent federal decisions.

He was soon lost in a world of legal theories and strategies. Chicago was a fading memory.

______

Rollie Wedge entered the Brinkley Plaza building through the front doors to the Mall. He had waited patiently at a table of a sidewalk café until the black Saab appeared then turned into a nearby parking garage. He was dressed in a white shirt with a tie, seersucker slacks, casual loafers. He sipped an iced tea while watching Adam walk along the sidewalk and enter the building.

The lobby was empty as Wedge scanned the directory. Kravitz & Bane had the third and fourth floors. There were four identical elevators, and he rode one to the eighth floor. He stepped into a narrow foyer. To the right was a door with the name of a trust company
emblazoned in brass, and to the left was an adjoining hallway lined with doors to all kinds of enterprises. Next to the water fountain was a door to the stairway. He casually walked down eight flights, checking doors as he went. No one passed him in the stairwell. He reentered the lobby, then rode the other elevator, alone, to the third floor. He smiled at the receptionist, who was still busy with the magazines, and was about to ask directions to the trust company when the phone rang and she became occupied with it. A set of double glass doors separated the reception area from the entryway to the elevators. He rode to the fourth floor, and found an identical set of doors, but no receptionist. The doors were locked. On a wall to the right was a coded entry panel with nine numbered buttons.

He heard voices, and stepped into the stairwell. There was no lock on the door from either side. He waited for a moment, then eased through the door and took a long drink of water. An elevator opened, and a young man in khakis and blue blazer bounced out with a cardboard box under one arm and a thick book in his right hand. He headed for the Kravitz & Bane doors. He hummed a loud tune and did not notice as Wedge fell in behind him. He stopped and carefully balanced the law book on top of the box, freeing his right hand to punch the code. Seven, seven, three, and the panel beeped with each number. Wedge was inches away, peering over his shoulder and gathering the code.

The young man quickly grabbed the book, and was about to turn around when Wedge bumped into him slightly, and said, “Damn! Sorry! I wasn’t—” Wedge took a step backwards and looked at the lettering above the door. “This isn’t Riverbend Trust,” he said, dazed and bewildered.

“Nope. This is Kravitz & Bane.”

“What floor is this?” Wedge asked. Something clicked and the door was free.

“Fourth. Riverbend Trust is on the eighth.”

“Sorry,” Wedge said again, now embarrassed and almost pitiful. “Must’ve got off on the wrong floor.”

The young man frowned and shook his head, then opened the door.

“Sorry,” Wedge said for the third time as he backed away. The door closed and the kid was gone. Wedge rode the elevator to the main lobby and left the building.

He left downtown, and drove east and north for ten minutes until he came to a section of the city filled with government housing. He pulled into the driveway beside the Auburn House, and was stopped by a uniformed guard. He was just turning around, he explained, lost again, and he was very sorry. As he backed into the street, he saw the burgundy Jaguar owned by Lee Booth parked between two subcompacts.

He headed toward the river, toward downtown again, and twenty minutes later parked at an abandoned red-brick warehouse on the bluffs. While sitting in his car, he quickly changed into a tan shirt with blue trim around the short sleeves and the name Rusty stitched above the pocket. Then he was moving swiftly but inconspicuously on foot around the corner of the building and down a slope through weeds until he stopped in the brush. A small tree provided shade as he caught his breath and hid from the scorching sun. In front of him was a small field of Bermuda grass, thick and green and obviously well tended, and beyond the grass was a row of twenty luxury condominiums hanging over the edge of the bluff. A fence of brick and iron presented a vexing problem, and he studied it patiently from the privacy of the brush.

One side of the condos was the parking lot with a closed gate leading to the only entrance and exit. A uniformed guard manned the small, boxlike, air-conditioned gatehouse. Few cars were in sight. It was almost 10 a.m. The outline of the guard could be seen through tinted glass.

Wedge ignored the fence and chose instead to penetrate from the bluff. He crawled along a row of boxwoods, clutching handfuls of grass to keep from sliding eighty feet onto Riverside Drive. He slid under wooden patios, some of which hung ten feet into the air as the bluff dropped fast below them. He stopped at the seventh condo, and swung himself onto the patio.

He rested for a moment in a wicker chair and toyed with an outside cable as if on a routine service call. No one was watching. Privacy was important to these wealthy people, they paid for it dearly, and each little terrace was shielded from the next by decorative wooden planks and all sorts of hanging vegetation. His shirt by now was sticky and clinging to his back.

The sliding glass door from the patio to the kitchen was locked, of course, a rather simple lock that slowed him for almost one minute. He picked it, leaving neither damage nor evidence, then glanced around for another look before he went in. This was the tricky part. He assumed there was a security system, probably one with contacts at every window and door. Since no one was home, it was highly probable the system would be activated. The delicate question was exactly how much noise would be made when he opened the door. Would there be a silent alert, or would he be startled with a screaming siren?

He took a breath, then carefully slid the door open. No siren greeted him. He took a quick look at the monitor above the door, then stepped inside.

The relay immediately alerted Willis, the guard at
the gate, who heard a frantic though not very loud beeping sound from his monitoring screen. He looked at the red light blinking at Number 7, home of Lee Booth, and he waited for it to stop. Mrs. Booth tripped her alarm at least twice a month, which was about the average for the flock he guarded. He checked his clipboard and noticed that Mrs. Booth had left at nine-fifteen. But she occasionally had sleepovers, usually men, and now she had her nephew staying with her, and so Willis watched the red light for forty-five seconds until it stopped blinking and fixed itself in a permanent ON position.