The Chicago Way (4 page)

“I want a lawyer,” I said.

“Fine by me.”

Masters reached for the phone.

“We’re sending you downtown. DA wants to talk to you. Meantime, I’ll make sure Bubbles finds you an extra-friendly bunkmate.”

T he holding cell downtown was a rectangle pit about twenty feet by ten. It had a bench running down one wall, ending with a hole in the floor that I believed was once a toilet. There were seven other men in the cell. Three of them were cuffed to iron rings bolted into the wall. I took that as a bad sign and gave them some room. The other four spread out across the length of the cell. On my left, a white guy with an iron eagle tattooed on his forehead picked green paint off the wall and ate it. On my right, a black guy in Diana Ross drag explained to no one in particular why eating paint was a bad thing. Then he took out a tube of lipstick and began to reapply. I was thinking about asking for a single cell when three-hundred-plus pounds of correctional officer walked into my life.

“Kelly, come with me.”

The guard’s badge identified him as Albert Nyack. I preferred to think of him as Al. He opened the cage and led me down a hallway to a small windowless room. A room where cops asked questions and, one way or another, usually got answers. Al undid my cuffs and told me to sit down.

“O’Leary wants to see you.”

O’Leary was Gerald O’Leary, a former cop and the reason I no longer carried a shield. For the last quarter century, O’Leary played the part of Cook County district attorney. The consummate Chicago pol, O’Leary could usually be found in one of two places: either in front of the camera for the ten o’clock news or with his head stuck halfway up the ass of the man who ruled all he could see. The honorable mayor of Chicago, John J. Wilson.

“Wait here,” Al warned and plodded away, twirling a set of keys in his left paw.

Half a cigarette later, O’Leary walked in. I hadn’t seen him in person since the day I signed my agreement. He didn’t look any different, mid-sixties with a full white mane, straight teeth, clear eyes, and the kind of large square head and empty smile that were perfect for television. He loved looking you straight on and shaking your hand. A couple of years back he began holding your forearm while he shook. It was an old Bill Clinton trick, put to good use in the mirrored hallways of Chicago politics.

“Michael Kelly. Been a while. Let’s take you upstairs and have a little chat.”

In a matter of moments I was cuffed again, out, and walking with my newest and bestest buddy. We took an elevator up, a carpeted hallway down, and into a conference room. I said nothing. O’Leary hummed a tune I couldn’t quite make out. We sat down. An officer undid my shackles. O’Leary read a file and continued to hum.

“ ‘War Pigs’ by Black Sabbath, right?”

The district attorney looked up at me.

“What’s that, Michael?”

“You’re humming ‘War Pigs’ by Black Sabbath. Ozzy Osbourne. Am I right?”

O’Leary smiled. He also stopped humming.

“We have a problem here.”

“Do we?”

“I knew John Gibbons. Good officer. Good man.”

O’Leary’s voice had taken on the somber, heavy cadence he used at only the best sorts of press conferences.

“I appreciate the intonation,” I said. “I really do. I mean, that sort of intonation takes a lot of effort. It’s an art, really. Something you typically save for Irish funerals and executions. Am I wrong?”

The DA just kept on keeping on.

“Michael. We have a former officer murdered and another up to his neck in it. Not a happy day for anyone.”

I shifted in my chair. It was padded and more comfortable than the plastic one at Town Hall. Still, I would have preferred the white room and Masters across the table. A kick in the head aside, the waters here felt deeper, the current swift, with a big fish in the water.

“I already asked for a lawyer once,” I said. “You want to talk charges, let’s at least make it official.”

“I was hoping we could avoid that.”

“You were?”

“Yes. I don’t believe this print to be a legitimate piece of evidence.”

“You mean it might not be an admissible piece of evidence, don’t you, Counselor?”

O’Leary gave one of those nods I always expected from Charles Dickens and the Old Bailey.

“Bear with me, Michael. If it’s a frame, and I’m not saying it is, the question is, why?”

Two years ago, the man across the table had planted a bag of cocaine in my car, charged me with possession, and dropped the case only when I agreed to leave the force. Now we were old friends, discussing yet another frame with my picture inside. I proceeded with all due caution.

“If it’s a frame, it’s a pretty poor one. Even you can see that. In fact, especially you, Mr. District Attorney. As to the why, I intend to find out.”

O’Leary smiled and gave me the dead eye. I could see a bit of hunger at the corners of his mouth, and the cold chill of yesterday crawled up my back. Then it was gone, replaced by an even more depressing prospect called tomorrow.

“For the moment we’ll hold off on any formal charges,” he said.

“Until a bigger headline comes along?”

The district attorney shrugged. As if he had done all he could and some people just couldn’t be helped.

“You didn’t work with me last time, Michael. Look what happened. This time, you might want to think about it. Have a good day.”

O’Leary exited stage left. A moment later, the door opened again. My only friend in the Cook County DA’s office floated through, wrapped in a cloud of smoke. In his left hand, Bennett Davis carried a cigar that smelled good enough to eat.

“I thought you couldn’t smoke those things in government buildings,” I said.

The assistant DA sat down in the chair his boss had just vacated, crossed his legs, glanced at the Macanudo, and gave me his most patronizing look.

“Wrong. You can’t smoke them in government buildings. I, on the other hand, constitute another matter entirely.”

Bennett Davis was a different kind of guy. Short and round, balding since he was twelve, and perpetually in love with women he could never have, Bennett went to the DA’s office right out of Northwestern and never looked back. He was O’Leary’s major hitter, taking all the big cases out of Chicago and rarely coming up short. My friend could go private any time he wanted, jump into a mid-six figures salary with any Chicago firm. Instead he made $65K a year and bachelored it in an $1,000-a-month flat in Lincoln Square. All for the rush of deciding, as Bennett once put it, who goes to jail and who walks. Like I said, a different kind of guy.

“So, Kelly, what the hell are we doing here?”

“Ask your boss,” I said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bennett had been kept out of the loop when O’Leary decided to go after me. To this day, the assistant DA carried a measure of guilt he didn’t deserve.

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s just that I know who I’ve killed and, as luck would have it, John Gibbons doesn’t happen to be among that number.”

Bennett dropped his cigar into a cut-glass ashtray he had brought with him. Then he tapped his index finger lightly against the conference table. I noticed a brown leather watch on his right wrist. A cheap Timex. Bennett caught my glance, shot his cuffs, and the Timex disappeared.

“How did you know Gibbons?” Bennett said.

“My partner on the force a while back. He showed up yesterday, out of the blue. Asked for some help on an old case. Never got any further than that.”

“Gibbons testified at a couple of my trials,” Bennett said. “Good cop. The evidence is shit, Michael. Print could be any one of a thousand guys.”

“No kidding.”

Bennett shrugged, picked up his cold cigar, examined, then relit it.

“O’Leary is just feeling his oats. Looking to make a splash. You know how it is.”

The assistant DA smiled, the one they teach you in law school just before they explain the concept of treble damages.

“Here’s my advice. Lay low for a couple of weeks. Let the office get you off its radar. Maybe we make an arrest, this whole thing goes away. Capisce?”

I understood and told my friend as much. Bennett Davis headed for the door, stopped halfway, turned, and pointed at me.

“By the way, how is she?”

I was waiting for it.

“Nicole is fine.”

“Tell her I said hello.”

“You tell her yourself,” I said.

“That’s not how it works. She ask for me?”

“No, Bennett, she doesn’t ask for you. At least when I see her, which is, on average, once a year.”

Bennett frowned a bit at that.

“You see her once a year and she doesn’t ask for me?”

“No.”

“I better give her a call.”

“Do that, Bennett. But don’t hope too hard.”

“No?”

“No. She’s not your type.”

“You’re probably right.”

Bennett Davis shook his head from side to side, as if to get that fact in its proper place. Then he continued.

“They’re probably going to want a statement before we let you go.”

I shrugged.

“You should have an attorney for that, Michael.”

I gave him the number of a guy. Davis went to give him a call. After one lawyer, the day is ruined anyway.

I lied to Bennett. I see Nicole more like once a month. Usually it’s for coffee at a local shop on Broadway called Intelligentsia. For my money it’s the best joe in the city.

I got there at a little after six that evening. Typical Intelligentsia crowd. Up front, a couple of old men drinking large coffees, doing the neighborhood gossip with Gemma, a pink-haired barista and queen of the double-shot macchiato. In the back, a table of DePaul students huddled for warmth around major skim lattes and tapped away on their PowerBooks. In between, a smattering of NPR types, downing double shots of espresso and talking aloud to anyone who would listen about how much they hated George W. Bush.

At a counter along the front window was a stunning sort of woman. She had skin the color of cocoa brushed with crimson, fine-boned cheeks, and delicate, strong lines for nose, mouth, and chin. Her subtle smile took you in, filled you up, and left you contented, at peace with yourself and still thirsting for more. Her name was Nicole Andrews. She was lead DNA analyst for the Illinois state crime lab and my best friend.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said.

Nicole was drinking a large cappuccino and leafing through The New York Times. She drew her finger down the side of a page and spoke without looking up.

“How long have we known each other, Michael?”

The answer to that was simple. A lifetime. I grew up in a hard sort of Irish way. On the city’s West Side. My mother drank tea, ironed a lot of clothes, and tried to stay out of the way. My father worked three jobs and dragged home $8,500 a year, kicking and screaming. He drank enough to hover between black silence and pure rage. The former was bad, but it was the latter that kept you up at night.

My brother, Phillip, and I slept on a pullout couch in the living room. Phillip was a year older, ten years tougher, and a world wiser. At sixteen, he was caught breaking into a McDonald’s. Actually, the cops found him stuck in a venting duct on the roof. A cook heard the screams after he fired up the grill and started making Egg McMuffins. Once Phillip got inside the joint, he stuck a guy with a knife and drew down ten more years. I never saw him a lot after that. Mostly because he hung himself with his bedsheet. They cut him down from the bars of his cell on April 23, 1989.

I didn’t have any sisters, didn’t need any. I had Nicole. I met her when I was nine. She was seven. It was a hot, heavy afternoon. Late August in the city. We were playing football in the street when she made the mistake of walking by. There was an older kid there named Maxie. He was big and round, Polish and plenty tough. He’d blow his heart out with a speedball on his sixteenth birthday. I didn’t cry. Don’t know anyone who did.

Maxie hooked Nicole by the back of the shirt. Just for fun. Kicked her to the ground. As Nicole got up, he caught her flush, a hard, flat hand across the face. I remember the sound of her head bouncing off a chunk of pavement. Nicole didn’t cry, didn’t run. Just picked herself up again, tried to get away. Maxie screwed himself close, screamed in her face. It wasn’t the first time I heard the word nigger. Nor the last. But it’s the one I remember. Then Maxie reached back again, a closed fist. Nicole went straight down. This time she didn’t get up.

There was a group now, all white, all watching. I heard some snickers and felt the circle tighten as Nicole lay on the ground. They were excited. Waiting. Predatory.

I don’t really remember considering, reflecting, or even moving. I was just there, inside the circle, reaching out my hand and helping the black girl stand up. There was blood at her temple and more dripping from her nose. She seemed oblivious to it. Instead, she just looked at me, curious. More like she wanted to sit down and talk, help me with problems I couldn’t yet understand. She seemed to hold this wisdom in a child’s look, and dropped it on me like a bomb.

That’s what I remember. Me and Nicole, middle of the circle, surrounded by so much hatred and feeling none of it. That is, until Maxie crashed the party. He clubbed me with a forearm from behind and told me to fuck off. Apparently, I was ruining his fun. Even better, I was two years younger and a hell of a lot smaller.

Twenty-six years later, I know for a fact that I can fight. I’ve boxed in a ring, not as an amateur, but for money. Not a lot of money, but enough to handle most anything that might come down the street. At nine years old, however, I didn’t realize what latent talent lay in my fists. That was, until I closed them and laid into Maxie. I blackened an eye, cracked a tooth, and busted his face pretty good. Then I slipped my hands underneath his chin and felt the give, the softness of his windpipe. Once I got there, Maxie stopped struggling and started worrying. I saw the whites of his eyes, oversized in their sockets, and felt the violence and the power within. Just a little more pressure, a bit more, and it would be over. For Maxie. And for me. So easy. So simple. So right.