The Law Partners (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 3) (6 page)

T
he next morning
, Marcel is driving me to work while I work on a trial brief in the backseat of my Mercedes.

"Boss," he says, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. "We've got lights."

With his eyes he indicates I should look behind us. I twist in the seat and there, twenty feet behind my car, is a late model black sedan with red and blue lights hidden in its grill. They are flashing and Marcel is pulling over to the side of Lakeshore Drive. There is no safe place to come to a full stop so he slowly proceeds almost to the corner of the block and there turns into a strip mall parking lot. He brings the car to a rest and puts it in park. We wait.

I watch as the passenger in the police vehicle exits his car and strides up to my window as if he owns this part of Chicago. He knocks on the glass beside my head. I roll down the window.

"Mr. Gresham, would you mind stepping out of your car?"

It is Jamison Weldon, the same detective that answered the call I made from Mira's apartment several nights ago. He looks more rested now and a slight smile plays around his lips, clearly the cat about to toy with the mouse he's caught up to.

I do as asked and climb out, finding myself standing toe to toe with the detective, who's considerably taller than me. I don't remember that height advantage as I'm fairly tall and he peers down on me. In the light of day, I can make out a scar across his face, running from below his left eye and traveling starboard across the bridge of his nose, fading off below his right eye. It's a hell of a present some bad guy or other has left him with and Weldon wears it like a badge of honor, putting his face right next to mine and fastening me with his eyes.

"Mr. Gresham, would you please come with me to my car?"

I start to protest but he reaches out and grabs my shoulder and begins moving me back to his vehicle. I don't resist; to do so would quickly land me in jail facing a resisting arrest charge or worse. At his car, he pulls open the rear door and pushes me inside.

"Move over," he growls and I slide across the seat. He crawls in beside me and pulls the door shut. All this time, Marcel is watching helplessly from the driver's seat of my car, but he's keeping his cool and not getting involved. Were he to get out and protest he would probably be arrested on some trumped-up charge and we both know that. So he is left to wait for me.

Weldon leans back against the seat and the air whooshes out with a sigh. He is a big man whose knees press against the back of the passenger seat. He turns to me and I can feel the heat of his anger from three feet away. To my amazement, the guy is in a rage.

"You are going to need to listen to me," he says. "You are going to need to listen or your life is about to go south very quickly."

"So what am I listening to?" I ask. "So far you've only committed false arrest and battery against me. Do you have more?"

He grimaces and his partner turns around from the driver's seat. He is a swarthy, bald man with a fringe of hair and a crooked grin surrounding crooked teeth. He leers at me but says nothing.

"Mr. Gresham, don't think for a minute I don't know you interfered with my crime scene at Ms. Morales' house. It quickly became evident to me that you had moved things around and even removed evidence from my scene."

I am stumped by this. "What evidence did I remove? And how do you even know I removed something if you never saw it?"

"There was an ashtray full of ash. But no butts. Someone removed them and I'm thinking that someone was you. I'm thinking it was probably ashes from your own cigarette. Maybe you had been there for much longer than you're telling us. Maybe you were involved in Darrell's death. Lots of maybes, Mr. Gresham."

I am speechless. The entire logic--for purposes of argument--is ludicrous. However, he is much brighter than I at first thought. Moreover, I don't remember what I did with Mira’s cigarette butt when I did remove it. It hasn't crossed my mind or my path since that night.

He reaches across and jabs a thick finger into my ribs.

"You sandpapered your client and you sandpapered the scene. You had her wash her dress so we wouldn't find gunshot residue. You had her take a shower so we wouldn't find gunshot residue. And we know you had her drop an Ambien so you could argue she was passed out. You probably had her drink alcohol, too, I'm guessing. And I'm going to prove you did these things and I'm going to send your ass to jail for ten years when I make my case against you. But I'm a nice guy and I'm giving you a one-time chance to come clean. If you do, we'll go much easier on you. The next move is yours, Mr. Gresham."

"Sorry, but I don't have a move," I tell him. "I have no clue what you're even talking about."

He scowls at me and jabs his knuckles into my ribs, striking me several times in rhythm with his words as he says, "Get--real--sir!"

"I'm as real as I can be. I would never interfere with an official police investigation. I know better."

"You spent thirty minutes inside that condo before you made the call to us, Mr. Gresham. We've got the video of you arriving at her door. It's thirty minutes until you dial us. So cut the horseshit, Mr. Gresham, we both know you were inside making arrangements. I'm going to ask you one last time. Come clean. Cooperate. Save yourself ten years in prison. You've got sixty seconds."

"Sixty seconds or sixty days--it makes no difference. I have no idea what you're talking about, Detective Jamison. But I will tell you what I'm willing to do. You open the door and let me leave this car and I won't press charges against you and I won't personally sue you for false arrest. You have sixty seconds to decide."

The man up front snorts and slaps the steering wheel. "The fucking nerve!" he cries out. "Where do they get you assholes?"

Jamison glances at his partner and then slowly reaches over and opens his door. To my great relief. He climbs out and I follow.

"We aren't done here," he says as I begin walking back to my car. "I'm coming for you, Mr. Gresham."

I stop and turn back. "Well bring your best game, detective. You're going to need it because I'll be waiting for you. You're going to be lucky not to lose your freedom and your assets if you come for me, as you put it. So I'm expecting your best shot."

With that, I turn and stride back up to my vehicle, shoulders thrown back, head high, taking my time to let him know I haven't been frightened by his confrontation.

Which is a lie. Actually, he has seen right through me. I did do all the things he rattled off. I did my job and just a touch more.

My brain begins to speed up as I climb back into my car and quickly begin the checklist of what he would find out about me if my client turned on me. Marcel begins to speak but I hold up my hand.

"Give me a minute," I say to him.

He turns back around and begins driving us out of the strip mall.

"We need to talk," I finally tell him.

"They're on to you, Boss. We knew they would be."

"They'd rather make a case against me than against Mira."

"You sound surprised. Don't be. You're a high-visibility criminal defense lawyer. You've got a target on your back, Michael."

I look out the window and see my reflection in the glass. I am all frown lines and frightened eyes. My hands shake. These encounters with the police--I've been down this road many times. Always with the intimidation.

With me, it doesn't work.

It only makes me that much more determined.

M
arcel
and I long ago decided that the best defense to any criminal charge is a smash-mouth offense. It is Monday and we are headed to Mira's condo tower in downtown Chicago on the river front. We are going there to speak with condo security and find out whatever we can about the security video. Of course the police will have beaten us there, which is fine, because with all videography now being saved to hard drives, no police agency and no defense firm ever gets the "original" of any "tape." It's a simple matter of obtaining a copy of the mp3 files contained on the hard drive and plugging into our own computers and watching the show. Whatever that turns out to be.

We park underground in the visitors' section and take the elevator up to three, where the security office is housed. Elmer Gentry greets us there. Mr. Gentry is the agent in charge of building security for the security firm with the contract. He oversees all staffing, he explains to us, data acquisition, storage, and distribution, and he has already provided the police with the same video files we're now seeking.

"July Fourth. We need the twelve hours leading up to the time of the shooting until all police and forensic staff clear the area," Marcel explains to Mr. Gentry, who is more than willing to help.

"In fact," Mr. Gentry says, "I've already had my staff prepare the same mp3 file for you that we provided to the police. Fair's fair."

"I appreciate that," I tell him. "We are sure Mrs. Morales is innocent of any wrongdoing here and can only hope the video will shed some light on the ID of the true killer."

"You can only hope," says Mr. Gentry, "and I'll tell you what. I haven't had either the time or the inclination to review the video myself, but if you find it helpful, I will be glad. Good luck to you and to Mrs. Morales. She's an exemplary resident, never a problem or a complaint lodged against her, no loud parties, no visitors overstaying an acceptable number of days in her condo--nothing remarkable about her at all."

"Say that again," I ask.

"What part?"

"The part about visitors overstaying their welcome. There's a limit on the number of days she can have visitors? Why is that?"

"Because all residents are carefully screened by the condo board before any condo sale is finalized. Visitors haven't undergone this screening so, while they're never regarded as suspicious by us, the board does have its regulations. Overnight visits are okay over a reasonable time. Whatever that means. It's a case-by-case basis which effectively gives the condo board full control over visitor stays. All condos have a similar clause in their CC&R's."

"I'm sure," I say.

"Is this a continuous loop?" Marcel asks, referring to the CD he's been handed. "Any breaks?"

"Yes. You'll find all cameras are included, which means you're getting front entrance, elevator, stairways, conference rooms--any area accessible by the common visitor."

"Hallways?"

He shakes his head. "Discretion there. Most of our tenants prefer no record of their visitors. We're a young crowd in this building and there's quite a bit of sharing going on. It's what the board wanted."

"One question," says Marcel. "Was Darrell Harrow accompanied by anyone when he entered the building?"

"I haven't reviewed the video. I can't answer that."

"If he had been accompanied or later joined by a second visitor--would that show up on the video?"

"Definitely. The CCTV is a continuous loop. You'll find everything on it."

"So, the players are all recorded."

"If 'players' is the proper term, yes. Frankly, I'm thinking it was only one player, but I don't know that for a fact."

"Why do you think it was only one player?"

"It had to be your client who fired the gun. No one else came or went from the condo but police, according to what I'm told."

"Who told you that?"

"The detectives. They called back wanting to know whether there was any other way for a visitor to leave the condo other than elevator or stairs. I told them no."

"Did anyone leave after Harrow arrived?"

"Police came and went, but that was after you must have called them."

I will check the time when I made the call to the police against what the video timestamp shows. If anyone is seen leaving the twenty-fifth floor after Harrow arrived but before I arrived, we will try to identify them and question them.

Exactly what the police are doing right about now.

I
n my office
on the whiteboard we have laid out the floor-plan of Mira's condo. We have placed the dead body exactly as it was aligned in the living room. A photograph of each room, taken from the doorway, wide-angle, is taped beneath each room's drawing. We have received a list of items seized from the condo by the police and we have listed those items under the room from which each item was removed. The whiteboard is four feet tall by five feet wide and our rendering covers its entire surface. This is our typical approach to criminal cases of all manner: set up the scene and the exhibits and witnesses, if any, so we understand the setup and our analysis can be based on fact. In this case there are no witnesses, but we have placed a figure representing Mira asleep on the couch at the time the gun was fired killing Darrell Harrow.

Mira is late joining us, arriving at ten-thirty instead of her appointment time of ten. I am going to be miffed about this until she starts talking. She prefaces her explanation by handing me three pages, stapled. I scan through them.

"So," I say, "when did you get this?"

"A uniform brought it to my condo just as I was putting on my face to come down here."

I read through the pages, a legal document.

"You have been indicted on one count of first degree murder," I tell her, as if a lead homicide prosecutor wouldn't understand her own indictment. The telling comes with the territory; I will treat her exactly like I would any other client because I never try to guess at a defendant's mental state. For all I know, she is too upset to even read and understand the documents, so it falls to me to explain them to her. Which I do, also going over the lesser-included-offenses to first-degree murder, which are the lesser-in-degree charges that are incorporated by implication. For example, if you are charged with first degree murder, the jury can find you guilty of first, second, or third degree, or manslaughter, voluntary or involuntary, or battery, or assault. It cannot find you guilty, however, of one or more lesser included offenses
and
the offense charged in the indictment. I go over this with her, painstakingly explaining how it all works, while she sits and looks at me with a blank look superimposed over the slightest of smiles. Finally, I wind it up and ask her for questions.

"Just one," she says, "what do we do if I'm guilty of none of these charges? That's the part I am unfamiliar with--the not-guilty client."

"In that case, it is incumbent on us to prove
why
you're not guilty."

"I thought the state had to prove me guilty. I thought I didn't have to prove anything."

I smile at her. It is a kindly smile for I am taking her question as if asked in all sincerity, which I believe it is.

"If you're not guilty, we must prove why, no matter what the law says. The innocent person who doesn't prove his innocence--even though the law says he needn't--is playing with fire. We will prove you not guilty. That's the only way to proceed."

"What is our evidence?"

"The Ambien, the lack of GSR, the fact the bullet wasn't fired from your gun--"

"Wait, how do you know it wasn't fired from my gun?"

I spread my hands and lean forward in my chair.

"Because. You've told me you are innocent. That means it's not your gun."

Two hours later, my words are proven partly wrong. The forensics report is delivered to my office by the District Attorney's runner. The gun that fired the bullet that killed Darrell Harrow was the same caliber as Mira's gun. I keep reading. There’s no reference made to any tests run on Mira’s gun—which is exceedingly strange. The absence of any reference totally stumps me. They do talk about the bullet, however. The Harrow bullet was from the batch of bullets found in a box she kept inside her closet. I feel the air going out of our case. I call Mira with the news. She drops back in at my office.

"My bullet?" she sounds as if in a dream state. "But I didn't fire my gun."

"Of course. I really don't think you shot Darrell Harrow. I've believed you all along."

"Is that why you had me wash off any GSR and take an Ambien?"

"No. I asked you to do those things because I was already in the process of proving you not guilty. Both of those steps would give us indicia of your innocence if the cops did a gunshot residue test or a toxicology blood draw. My requests were made only to confirm your innocence."

"Smart man. I appreciate that. Now that I've been indicted, I need to pay you. How much will you charge me for this defense?"

"My usual charge for a first degree murder case is two-hundred-and-fifty thousand dollars. The publicity I'm going to earn by defending you, however, is priceless. I would do your case for free."

"Uh-uh. I've paid you five thousand already. My dad is taking out a second mortgage for another hundred thousand. Would you take an IOU for the balance?"

"Yes, I will," I instantly say, which violates every rule of getting paid known to criminal lawyers. Criminal lawyers never, ever, under any circumstances, agree to get paid on the other end, after the finding of not guilty. If they did, ten times out of ten they wouldn't ever get paid. But I am violating that most sacrosanct of rules because I really meant what I just told her: the publicity I am receiving for defending the county's chief homicide prosecutor on a charge of homicide is priceless. Already the papers and TV reporters are hounding me for an interview. That will come, in good time, and with it will come an influx of good clients with cash to spend. It's a win-win for me. The incoming hundred grand won't hurt things, either. Much of it will go to expert witnesses to be called by me in her trial. It usually does.

"So, how are we looking, Michael?"

"I think fairly good even with the bullet matching your box of bullets. There's still no gun to match up, which is baffling. I cannot explain it but we’re in touch with the police department about it. Also, we'll need to have your Ambien doctor testify about why you're taking Ambien and potential side effects when mixed with a little wine, and that will go a long way toward explaining why you weren't aware there had been a murder inside your own condo when you woke up. So that's a good witness for you. We'll also use a toxicologist to keep the emphasis on your unconscious state and that will undergird what your doctor says and keep the focus on the mental state you were in--which is going to be very important moving forward. Because without intent or motive the state really has nothing against you. If we can do that, you’ll walk seven times out of ten.”

“And the other three times?”

“That would be negative evidence from something we don’t know about yet. An eyewitness to something or other. An ear-witness who heard you arguing in your condo before the shot was fired--those kinds of things."

"Well, there isn't anything like that."

"At least not yet. We need to really be open to turning over all the rocks at this point in our investigation. If it's out there and has the potential to hurt you, we must find it and learn how to defuse it. That's my job."

"You have the CCTV video? Has it been reviewed?"

"Marcel watched every minute of it. We've got Harrow coming to your condo. There's a time lapse, then me, then Marcel, then the cops."

"Anyone seen leaving my condo?"

"We've got two people leaving on the elevator on twenty-five. One of them was a cop and the other was the daughter of a woman recently moved in. Marcel has questioned the daughter. He's looking for the police officer but identification is almost impossible."

"Why is that?"

"For one, his hat blocks the view. We can't make out his face."

"What else about him?"

"He's not wearing a name tag. And we can't make out the badge number--no good shot of it."

"But he's a cop?"

"Far as we can tell."

"What about any gunshot?"

"Video has sound. But no gunshot."

"No surprise there."

"Well, we've just scratched the surface. We have lots to do yet."

We part company, and Danny comes into my office. As an attorney, Danny is succeeding beyond what I had even hoped for her. She is taking on preliminary hearings and misdemeanor trials and even felony trials here and there where the risk of incarceration is low. I have purposely kept her away from major felony assignments in the office despite her repeated requests for more high profile cases. Those things will come, in time, but for now we have to satisfy ourselves with her assignments as a work in progress.

She sits across from me, absently finger-combing her blond hair across the top of her head and returning my loving gaze with a smile.

"You want the case, am I right?" I say to her.

"More than anything," she says.

"You know I can't do that. Not with Mira looking at life in prison."

"How about second chair? I would love to sit through the trial with you."

I smile.

"We can do that. Tell you what, how about you take on our medical experts?"

She leans forward in her chair. She's really wanting this, I see, and I'm thinking she's ready for it.

"Who would that be?" she asks.

"Mira's physician, the one who prescribed the Ambien. And a toxicologist. I need you to find someone who has expertise in cases where the patient has mixed Ambien and alcohol and had a blackout or passed out because of it."

"I know where to begin looking. That much I do know."

“Where would that be?”

"Local universities. Starting with the University of Chicago. Maybe a professor of toxicology in the med school. Someone who's published a lot and who has experience testifying in court. Someone who's not wishy-washy but who can really commit to a defendant and not waver from their opinions."

"I'm liking what I'm hearing. Welcome aboard."

She gives me one of the wide smiles I adore about her. My heart aches at how crazy about her I am.

"What about your pregnancy?"

She shrugs. "I'll have delivered by the time it goes to trial."

“I know that. I’m asking about continuity in your workup? Will you be able to care for a newborn and cover your responsibilities here as well?"

"My," she says, "aren't you the chauvinist!"

"Why do you say that?"

"Because we will
both
be involved with our baby's care, that's why. We'll use Dania's nursery and keep them both here with us. I won't be out of the office but a week or so that way. I'll be right here."

"All right."

"Besides, Mister. It's a fifty-fifty undertaking once the baby is born. It's not all on me."

"I expected no less, to tell the truth. And you know I want to be there with you. It's my baby too."

I’ve been chastised and I’ve taken my best shot at looking accountable. But we both know deep down that I’m old-school when it comes to family duties. I’m trying to get over that, to modernize my mind, as Danny puts it, but old habits and all that.

“We're not special snowflakes, either of us,” she reminds me. “Remember, we decided long ago that we want to live our lives like we want to live our lives and we want others to have the freedom to live their lives like they want to.”

“Which is why we fight so hard for our clients.”

“No judgment, only support. Not the crime, but the person.”

“Everyone deserves a second chance.”

Even old-fashioned, old-school, chauvinist husbands.

Now I know why we’ve just had out little talk. She had the entire agenda in mind before she even entered my office.

And I’m wondering whether she’s ready for the rough-and-tumble of major felony cases.

Spare me.