Saving Justice: A Legal Thriller (Tex Hunter Book 5)

by Peter O'Mahoney

  “Sure have. I’ve known Joe Fielding for decades, but I can’t say we’re friends. He’s a fellow private investigator but not one that I would recommend. Sleazy type. Has a lot of gang connections. And he’s well known as a very paranoid man. He’s perhaps the most paranoid guy I’ve ever met.” Jones picked up his cell phone from the table. “I’ve got his phone number somewhere.”

  “You won’t be able to contact him.”

  Jones squinted his response.

  “He was murdered last week.” Hunter was blunt. “He was the victim in the Stacey Fulbright murder case that I’m working on. Stabbed in the neck five times.”

  “Joe Fielding is dead?” Jones looked around his yard. “Well, I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the deceased, but that man was a racist, sleazy, slob who had no sense of morals.”

  “What do you know about his personal life?”

  “Not much.” Jones walked through the glass sliding door into his home, leaving it open as he stepped into his kitchen. He took a pre-mixed protein shake out of the fridge, and walked back out the door, shaking it up and down. “Want one?”

  Hunter shook his head.

  “Joe Fielding worked for a lot of different people. A freelancer private investigator. A lot of things were rumored to be off the books so he didn’t have to pay tax.” Jones knocked back the protein shake in large gulps. “He had a small office out in Logan Square but most of his clients were businesses like insurance companies, family law firms, and business investment firms. He was married to one of the lawyers once, but they weren’t married for long. He used her connections to make contacts, and build his business profile.”

  “Do you remember who the lawyer was?”

  “Sure do. I remember her because the marriage was such a mismatch—he was a dirty PI, and she was a high-flying lawyer.” Jones sat down next to Hunter. “Her name was Joanne Wolfe.”

  Chapter 9

  The offices on the fifty-first floor of a skyscraper on North Wacker Drive in The Loop, Chicago, were a testament to the success of Vandenberg and Wolfe Family Law Firm. The moment a potential client stepped out of the elevator, it was hard not to be in awe of the smooth-running machine. The reception area was humming with activity, well-dressed lawyers coming and going, and phones ringing off the hook. Behind the reception were the offices and meeting rooms, all with views down the Chicago River or over the nearby city. The views were impressive enough to be a tourist attraction. But the fifty first floor was a front—holding only the spotless reception area, the offices of the senior lawyers, and the conference rooms where all client meetings were held. Well below them, on floors five to nine, the machine churned. It was where the majority of work was done—where the blinds were closed, papers were prepared and filed, the calls made and answered, and junior lawyers sweated deadlines.

  Tex Hunter strode past the reception area on the fifty-first floor without stopping. His determined laser focus forced people to step out of his way.

  “You didn’t tell me everything.” Hunter swung open the door to the private office of Joanne Wolfe. “You lied to me.”

  Joanne Wolfe was sitting behind her desk in her office and looked up from the file she was working on, pen in hand. Floor to ceiling windows were behind her, framing the stunning views to the west of the city. Expensive artwork lined the left and right walls, and the office had enough space for two couches, a coffee table, and a whiteboard. Her office was spacious, well-lit, and modern, but it felt soulless and empty.

  “Tex Hunter.” She said. “I don’t remember seeing you on my appointment list today.”

  Wolfe’s secretary trailed behind, panting. “Sorry, Ms. Wolfe.” She said at the door. “He just walked through here. I asked him to stop, but he didn’t listen.”

  Hunter kept his stare directed at Wolfe. “You were married to Joe Fielding.”

  Wolfe raised her eyebrows, scoffed, and looked at her secretary. She waved her secretary away, who then kept her head down and closed the door as she left.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” Wolfe pointed to the chair opposite her desk. “Coffee?”

  “Joe Fielding.” Hunter grunted as he walked up to her desk. “How long were you married?”

  “Not long.” Wolfe responded. “He was my second husband, but it was more of a fling than a marriage. It was more than a decade ago. We rushed into it, and it only lasted five months. I didn’t love him, he was a charming sleaze that promised the world, and I fell for the act. He love-bombed me, and as soon as we were married, he ignored me. We divorced amicably, and I knew he was a good private investigator, so I recommended him to some of the lawyers who worked here. I had no problem with him working for other lawyers in the firm. Vandenberg did a lot of work with him, as did East, one of the junior lawyers. Once we divorced, I had no feelings for the man.”

  “You hated Fielding enough to murder him.” Hunter baited her.

  “Settle down. Let’s not jump to any ridiculous conclusions without evidence.” She held her hands out. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, but first, I want to know why you’re not taking self-defense on this. Claim it was excessive use of force?”

  “Stacey says she’s innocent. That’s her right to dispute it.”

  “And you? Why aren’t you convincing her to negotiate a deal for self-defense? Say Fielding attacked her first? He was a violent guy, and I’m sure you’ll find a lot of witnesses who would be willing to testify to that. With the strength of their testimonies, it would be hard to argue Stacey acted in any other manner than self-defense. Even with excessive force, it’s manslaughter and perhaps a year, maybe two, with a suspended sentence.”

  “We know Fielding broke into Stacey’s office a week before he died. He took photos in her office. That wasn’t a coincidence. And if we find out your family law firm instructed him to do that, you’ll feel the full force of the law. Firms like this don’t recover from charges like that.”

  She looked away, towards the photo of her daughter, who was the result of a one-night stand. Her daughter had seen her through three marriages, many shallow relationships, and years of heartache. Looking back, she often wished she treated her daughter better, spent more time at home, but everyone has a degree in hindsight.

  “You didn’t get along with Stacey, did you?” Hunter stood in front of Wolfe’s desk. “You hated each other.”

  “Ah.” She mocked. “Now you’re digging too deep and clutching at straws. Stacey’s a rival, someone I have to hate. We’re on opposite sides of the fence. That’s how divorce law works. She wants the best for her clients, and I want the best for mine. Do I like her? No. Not even close. She’s nasty to me, and has said some horrible, personal things.”

  “Where were you the night that Fielding was murdered?”

  “No, no, no.” Wolfe stood and walked around her desk. “The truth is that Stacey Fulbright murdered Joe Fielding and was stupid enough to leave the murder weapon there. Personally, I hope she goes down for it. Not for Joe, but for every divorcee that she’s screwed. And I’ll be happy to see her go down.” She spent a moment in Hunter’s shadow, before moving to the office door. She opened it and waited with her hand on the door handle. “I have an appointment. It’s time you left.”

  Hunter walked to the door. He glared at Wolfe, and walked through the hall, passing a number of junior lawyers. Most had their heads down, avoiding eye contact, too frightened to look in any other direction. They were scared of their boss, and they had every right to be. Joanne Wolfe’s reputation wasn’t a nice one.

  And Hunter had to find out just how nasty she could be.

  Chapter 10

  Stacey Fulbright’s paranoia was debilitating. Every movement in the shadows was met with hesitation, every sound met with sudden looks over her shoulder. Her eyes darted all over the shopping mall as she walked from the parking lot to the children’s clothing shop. It was the first time she’d been to the shopping mall in weeks, and the fear was overwhelming. She could feel the anxiet
y grip her stomach and taste a metallic tang in her mouth.

  When one man walked too close to her son, she almost screamed in fear, but she was doing her best to hold it together. She had to appear normal for her children. Her husband had been insistent that she leave the house. He’d been saying that for days. It was good for her mental health, he said. As she walked through the mall, she was starting to dispute the advice.

  The multi-level mall was busy for midday Thursday, many people pushing past to get where they were going. It smelled new, clean, and the noise of chatter made the walkways seem hectic. Her goal was simple—a new sweater for Noah and a new dress for Zoe. A quick in and out trip to the mall. This was no time to linger. Their targeted shop was on the second level. She parked her car in the multi-level lot, checked for any vehicles following, and then dragged her children into the shop. Their calls to stop for a snack at the doughnut store were refused. Noah asked to use the bathroom, but he was met with rejection. Despite his plea, she didn’t want him in the bathroom without an adult. She couldn’t leave him alone.

  They hurried through the shop, not even trying on the clothes. She asked them to choose the clothes they wanted, and then purchased them without a second look. When she stepped out of the shop, she saw the man in the suit. He was staring at them. She grabbed Noah and Zoe by the hand. She turned and started striding to the parking lot.

  The man followed.

  She quickened their pace. Tears began to fill her eyes. Her heart was pounding against her chest.

  Not her children. Not her offspring.

  The man followed and continued staring at them. He wasn’t even trying to hide it.

  She turned and glared at him, but he didn’t flinch. He was tall, broad, and she could see tattoos across his knuckles. She didn’t want to get close enough to read what the tattoos said.

  The dolls on display at the toy store caught Zoe’s eye and she tried to step towards them. Stacey pulled her back, hurrying to the car. The man continued to follow them. She looked at the help desk, located near the entrance. It was empty.

  Her suspicion was overwhelming. Was he a threat? Or just a man at the mall? Her doubt was sickening. She could feel it in her stomach, taste it in her mouth.

  “Mom, why are you sweating?” Noah asked as they hurried into the parking lot. “It’s not hot.”

  “Just…” She wiped her brow. “I’m just in a hurry to get home.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to… get back for your father. We have to get dinner ready.” Her excuses were lame, and she could tell that Noah didn’t believe her. “Come on. Keep up.” Noah looked over his shoulder. Stacey grabbed him by the hand, picked up Zoe, and broke into a jog. “Noah, keep up.”

  She dashed towards the car.

  She unlocked the car, and helped Zoe into her car seat. Noah jumped into the back seat and buckled up faster than she’d ever seen before. He didn’t complain once. She shut the back door of her car and looked around the lot.

  No one.

  The man hadn’t followed her out of the mall.

  She took a breath and the tears welled up in her eyes. She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, sniffed back another tear, and entered the car. She started the car and locked the doors. Taking a large breath, she stared into nothing, trying to compose herself. She was being paranoid, she told herself. There’s nothing to worry about.

  She began to reverse, satisfied they were out of danger. It was paranoia, she repeated to herself. It was distrust.

  But as she drove to the exit of the parking lot, she saw a figure she knew well.

  Standing by the exit gate, staring at her car, was a rival lawyer, watching her closely. Stacey stared at the figure, who didn’t move from her position, standing next to a pole.

  Was it a coincidence? More paranoia?

  But when Joanne Wolfe made a pistol symbol with her hand, and then pretended to shoot at her car, there was no mistaking it.

  Her children were in danger.

  Chapter 11

  Tex Hunter walked into the Green Mill Jazz Club, part of Chicago’s history, a bar that had been graced by the likes of Charlie Chaplin, Al Capone, and Billie Holiday. It took more than a few moments for his eyes to adjust after stepping inside the doors. The bar was dark in the right places, barely lit in the wrong ones. The floor was sticky, and the place smelled of cigar smoke, even though it hadn’t been legal to smoke inside for more than a decade. The booths were full of people talking quietly, but the seats around the bar were mostly empty, except for a few men hunched over their drinks. Hunter sat on one of the empty stools and ordered a whiskey.

  Michael Vandenberg looked twice at the man next to him and then sighed. Hunter waited for Vandenberg to open the conversation. It wasn’t long before he did.

  “I come here because this place reminds me of traveling to Louisiana before they changed the drinking age. You’re too young to remember those days, but in the early eighties, when I was 18, we’d travel south because the legal drinking age was still eighteen in New Orleans, and not only could you go to a bar, but the place was a party haven. Any time of day, any day of the week. That place was a constant festival of drinking. We’d travel for a week, in a beaten-up van that was bound to die on us, and party hard for days and days on end.” Vandenberg smiled as he looked longingly towards the stage at the end of the bar where the jazz band were setting up. “They were good memories. Innocent times.”

  “You were never the innocent sort.”

  “True.” Vandenberg chuckled. “I used to load up the van and bring the whiskey back by the carton load to sell to other students. Even in times of fun, I was still looking to exploit the law. I should’ve known that I’d be a lawyer one day.”

  The band started playing. The music was gentle, not too loud, with a smooth swing to it, but they were just getting started. The horns, representing the bright and bursting syncopation of New Orleans-style jazz, were soon coming.

  After the bartender handed Hunter his drink, he poured two large cocktails for the young women standing next to Hunter.

  “That’s a big drink.” Vandenberg leaned close to Hunter and nodded to the girls. “Quite the leg-opener.”

  Unimpressed by the comment, Hunter held his gaze on Vandenberg.

  “You know what I mean, Hunter. Two more of those drinks and their legs will be open.” Vandenberg made the action with his hands. “You get what I mean, right? Us red-blooded males have to stick together.”

  “You’re a disgrace.” Hunter grunted, almost ready to punch him. “Those girls are young enough to be your granddaughters.”

  “Hey, don’t judge me. I’m just doing what God intended. I might be almost sixty, but my gun still fires.” Vandenberg leaned backwards from the bar and shouted over to the girls with the drinks. “Hey pretty ladies. I have money. Lots of it.”

  The ladies turned their backs to Vandenberg, intimidated by his aggressive overtone.

  “Don’t talk to them again.” Hunter said. “Or I’ll break your jaw.”

  “Alright, big guy. Settle down. You don’t have to be everyone’s protector; you know?” Vandenberg put his hands up. He paused for a few moments before turning back to Hunter. “So Stacey Fulbright, the murderous lawyer. Has she taken the deal yet?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I had nothing to do with Joe Fielding’s death, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you this—Stacey Fulbright made a lot of men angry. There are a lot of divorced men out there that would love revenge on her. She’s taken money away from men that didn’t have it to lose. If you want to take the set-up defense to court, I’d be looking into the ex-husbands of her clients before you start looking anywhere else. You’ll find plenty of violent men angry with her.” Vandenberg turned back to the band as the beat picked up. “And I hear that you’re not even leading this case? Who’d Stacey give it to?”

  “John
C. Clarke is leading this one. I’m sitting second chair.”

  “John C. Clarke?” Vandenberg let out a small whistle sound. “Tex Hunter and John C. Clarke—the all-star criminal defense team. That’s going to be quite the look in court. Quite expensive too, I imagine. Your fees alone would break most people.”

  “I’m doing it as a favor.”

  “Free?” Vandenberg scoffed. “You should remember the words of Benjamin H. Brewster— ‘A lawyer starts a career giving $500 worth of advice for $5, and ends giving $5 worth for $500.’ I’m in the latter group these days, and you’ll never catch me being stupid enough to give my advice away for free.” Vandenberg paused for a long moment as the saxophone broke into a solo performance. He closed his eyes and swayed side to side. It was hard not to smile. The up-tempo music soaked into the soul, uplifting even the coldest of hearts. After the solo had finished, followed by a number of cheers, Vandenberg turned back to Hunter. “What are you even doing here, Hunter? Did you come past to listen to some jazz?”

  “I’m giving you a heads up that your firm’s dodgy practices are about to be exposed in court. When Stacey Fulbright’s case makes it to court, Joe Fielding’s business dealings are going to be discussed in an open environment and it’s not going to reflect nicely on you.”

  Vandenberg stopped drinking mid-swig. He paused before finishing the drink and looking back at Hunter. “What good would that do?”

  “It would expose bad practice.”

  “And? I mean, what are you trying to prove? Our firm had nothing to do with his death. Stacey got angry and lashed out, it’s nothing more than that. It’s not worth it, is it?”

  “It’d expose the lengths you go to increase the value of the divorce cases. Like the sexual assault charges you made up against Dr. Mackie to gain extra money for his settlement.”

  “Oh…” A moment of realization hit Vandenberg. “I get it. I get what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to blackmail me into letting Dr. Mackie’s divorce settle before he’s forced to sell the practice.”