Deadly Justice: A Legal Thriller (Tex Hunter Book 4)

by Peter O'Mahoney

  “I’d warn you to be careful, but honestly, I don’t care if you get hurt in the process.” Schultz called back to Hunter. “But I’ll give you this piece of advice for free—Rick Cowan is dangerous. Just remember that before you cross him.”

  Chapter 6

  West of the skyscrapers that tourists came to see in their millions, far from the hustle of downtown Chicago, the George N Leighton Criminal Courthouse stood tall over the neighborhood of Little Village. It was imposing, not only in structure, but in its social authority over the area. The grim, seven-story limestone building, a neoclassical colossus, was bland in color, robust in design, and critical in purpose. It was where dreams were trampled, hope was dismissed, and punishment dealt.

  Outside the courthouse, patches of nature were interspersed among the roads where, thanks to a recent dousing of rain, the grass was almost fluorescent green, the large trees across the road stood strong and healthy, and the streets were clear of trash. The flag poles clinked in the sporadic breeze, a small flock of birds chirped in the trees nearby, and a chorus of engine noise hummed down the road.

  Tex Hunter walked from the parking lot, striding to the entrance, talking to his investigator Ray Jones on the phone. Esther had forwarded Jones the details of their current case, and Hunter ran him through the specifics. Hunter paused the conversation as he stepped through the security checkpoint, greeting the guards as he went, and then stepped into the busy foyer.

  “What do you need me to do first?” Jones asked. “I haven’t got a lot going on—only a cheating husband on the books to investigate and I don’t think it’s going to take much time at all. The fool has been hooking up with his secretary after work in his car every Friday night. The wife is going to be there tomorrow to film the whole thing.”

  “Ouch. Sounds painful.”

  “Not for me, but I wouldn’t like this guy’s chance of producing any more kids after she deals with him. She’s one angry woman. So, what do you need me to do?”

  “I need you to watch Rick Cowan’s movements this week. See if he’s associated with any place where he could store a secure file, maybe a storage facility, or a warehouse. I want to find a particular file before this case reaches its trial date.” Hunter checked the courthouse records to confirm his courtroom number.

  “What sort of file is it?”

  “It’s a file about my family and the history of my father’s case. Cowan is saying it has information the may clear my father’s name. He’s keeping it from me, using it as payment for this case, and I don’t trust him. I’d like to get my hands on the file as soon as possible. And I’d prefer to have the file before this case goes to trial.”

  “And if I find a place where he might be keeping it?”

  “Then find a way into the place and take the file.”

  “On it.”

  Hunter hung up the phone, checked his watch, and walked to the entrance of the courtroom. Although he strived to be on time to most places, his many appointments and meetings meant looking at his watch was often a source of frustration. For this motion, he made dead sure he was on time. First impressions counted, especially to judges who lived their lives by the book.

  “Mr. Hunter?”

  Hunter turned to see Samuel Spencer, Assistant State’s Attorney, and the opposing counsel. As ASA for the Narcotics Special Prosecutions Unit, Spencer was called upon to lead cases against the most dangerous drug dealers in Cook County. That wasn’t a good start for Cowan’s case.

  Spencer was a well-dressed thirty-five-year-old, with an arrogant grin that seemed to be permanently fixed on his face. Even as the years went past Spencer, his baby face ensured he still looked like a smug little rich kid from the wealthiest school in town. Born into a family with affluence, connections, and an old boys club as strong as they came, he had the greatest head start in life anyone could hope for.

  “Your client is so guilty that we should stop this case now.” Spencer leaned against the wall, the smugness radiating off him. “I don’t even know why he’s contesting this. He’s a strip club owner on the verge of bankruptcy and he was caught with cocaine during a drug raid. Everything is on the cop’s body cameras, and we have a strong list of witnesses. It would be best if he admitted guilt and saved us all a lot of time. The courts are busy, and I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

  “He’s claiming he’s innocent, as is his right.”

  “They all do. But I’ll tell you what,” Spencer raised a hand in the air. The skin on his little hands looked soft, as if they had never done a hard day’s work. “Out of all the cases I’ve prosecuted, this is the first one where I’m one-hundred-percent certain he’s guilty. Absolutely one-hundred percent certain. Guilty as they come. There’s zero doubt in this case.”

  That annoyed Hunter. He’d faced Spencer once before in court, and spent the entire trial resisting the urge to punch Spencer in the face. Hunter ignored the shorter man, standing near the entrance to the courtroom, waiting to be called.

  “And I must warn you, Mr. Hunter. Judge Marshall is from a different generation. He doesn’t like defense lawyers, and, I’m afraid to say it, I’ve even heard him say a few disparaging things about you personally. While we’re out playing golf together, which we do once a month, Judge Marshall talks quite freely, and I get why he hates you. You’re the son of a criminal, the son of one of this city’s worst killers. Your family name is mud, and nobody wants it in their courtroom. You tarnish the good name of this courthouse by just standing here.”

  “Get out of my way, or you’ll spend a week in hospital.” Hunter’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer to Spencer, his chest almost pressing into the prosecutor’s face. “And I would happily go to prison for that.”

  “Easy tiger. I’m sure the judge wouldn’t like to hear you’ve threatened me with violence. That wouldn’t be a smart start to your case.” Spencer stepped back, clearly physically intimidated. Somehow, his smugness remained.

  “It’s time to go.” The clerk poked her head around the corner and held the door open for the lawyers to enter. “Judge Marshall is ready.”

  “Good luck, sweetheart.” Spencer whispered and gave Hunter a wink.

  Hunter paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and entered the courtroom.

  The clerk read the case number in a robotic fashion, and the men took their places at the counsel tables as procedure dictated. Judge Marshall had to move through a dozen motions that day, and he needed the first motion hearing to be simple, short and sweet. He had no time to waste on pleasantries.

  Hunter looked across to Spencer again, standing at the prosecution table with his shoulders back and chin up. When Spencer looked across, he gave Hunter another small wink and a smirk. Hunter considered how hard it would be to wink through a black eye.

  Judge Marshall groaned as he read the file, his tone wearied after decades of courtroom drama. He had one wild eyebrow hair that stretched out on its own, his gray hair was untrimmed, and he sniffed constantly. It took forty years of laborious work as a prosecutor to reach the bench, his career triumph, and despite his thoughts of retiring to a golfing village in Florida, he wasn’t letting his hard-earned position go anytime soon.

  “Proceed, counsel.” Judge Marshall was still reading the brief as he waved at the lawyers. “A Motion for a List of Witness Names?”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Hunter began. “The motion for the list of witness names, pursuant to 725 ILCS 5/114-9 and Illinois Supreme Court Rule 412a, has been filed to receive information from the prosecution as it’s currently being withheld.”

  “It’s currently withheld?” Judge Marshall responded. “Please explain.”

  “I can jump in there, Your Honor,” Spencer began. “The prosecution has been freely open with the release of discovery information in this case with the defense, however we’re fearful for the safety of five particular witnesses. Although there are fifty witness names listed on the discovery information, we have redacted the names and a
ddresses of five. We have issued the witness statements to the defense, as requested, but have redacted any identifying information to maintain their safety. This is our normal and standard procedure for such a situation.”

  “And what reason do you have to fear for their safety?”

  “The defendant, Mr. Cowan, has made direct threats on the lives of all five of these witnesses and we’re satisfied with the truthfulness of the information.”

  “And how did he make those threats?”

  “In person, Your Honor, directly to their faces. He stated to these witnesses that if they ever testified against him, they, or their families, would be punished violently. As he reportedly made the same threat to numerous people, we believe he currently doesn’t know the names of the witnesses, and for their safety, we would like to keep their names suppressed for the next five weeks while we arrange for their protection. Illinois Supreme Court Rule 412i provides the discretion to deny this motion if there’s a substantial risk to the witness that outweighs the usefulness of the disclosure.”

  “I’m well aware of the ruling.” Judge Marshall grunted. “The defendant has pleaded not guilty?”

  “That’s correct, Your Honor.”

  “And we’re set to start this trial in early December?”

  “We are,” Spencer replied. “And the State requests the suppression of the witnesses’ names continues until the trial. The witnesses’ lives are at stake and we need to keep them safe, as is their right.”

  “Your Honor,” Hunter argued. “This would severely weaken the defense’s ability to prepare for this case. These testimonies are vital to the charges against my client. The defense would be at a major disadvantage if these five names were to remain redacted. One week before the trial is not enough time to research the witnesses’ credibility. This would severely prejudice the case against the defendant.”

  “You have the redacted witness statements, don’t you, Mr. Hunter?” The disdain in Judge Marshall’s voice was clear.

  “The statements we’ve received are useless. To ensure a fair trial for the defendant, we must be able to assess the witnesses’ creditability and review their statements in full. We’re especially interested in the name of Witness A who provided the original tip-off, and Witnesses B and C, who accuse the defendant of being seen with the alleged material.”

  “Your Honor, we’ve merely redacted any identifying information from the statements, and we have not redacted any of their testimonies, as the defense suggests,” Spencer argued. “We cannot risk losing these witnesses, and they have had substantial threats made against them in the past. The court would look like a fool if anything was to happen to these key witnesses.”

  “And you’re currently arranging protection for these witnesses?” Judge Marshall looked at his golf partner over the top of his reading glasses.

  “We are, but these witnesses live complicated lives and they’re currently preparing to go under police protection. The five-week timeframe is also to provide them time to prepare for this major change to their lives.” Spencer started to smirk. “And as you can understand, we have a limited budget to protect witnesses, and this trial is going to take months to resolve.”

  “Your Honor, these are very inflammatory arguments. The defendant has never been convicted of any violent act nor associated with any violent actions. The threats are unsubstantiated.” Hunter stated. “The prosecution did not even seek to deny bail.”

  “Your Honor, the prosecution was not aware of these claims of violence at the time of the bail hearing. The State is asking for the identifying information to continue to be redacted until the ability to protect these witnesses are put in place, which we think will be currently five weeks’ time. This is a standard procedure.”

  “The defendant is a strip-club owner?” Judge Marshall read the report.

  “Which is a legitimate business that provides a service to the community.” Hunter retorted. “There’s no evidence to suggest the contrary.”

  “Given your client’s professional business, I’m inclined to agree with the prosecution. I completely understand the prosecution’s apprehension.” Judge Marshall continued to read the file. “If you need to perform a deposition before the release of the witness names it can be performed over the telephone or in writing through the prosecution. In the interest of fair procedure, the names of these five witnesses will be withheld until one week before the trial. In summary, I do not believe the defense will be disadvantaged, nor do I believe the defendant will suffer any unfairness due to the names and addresses of the witnesses being redacted. The defense has their testimonies, and their written statements, and any required depositions can still be performed via other means.”

  “Your Honor, I must protest. Without identifying information, the defense is deprived of fairness in this case. The defense has the right to investigate the creditability of these five key witnesses.”

  “And you shall have that information one week before the trial. The motion is denied, pursuant to Illinois Supreme Court Rule 412i, and the redacted statements shall stand as is.” Judge Marshall stated. “The names of the witnesses will be suppressed until one week before the trial is set to begin.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Spencer smiled.

  Hunter picked up his briefcase, and moved towards the door, followed by Spencer, just a few steps behind.

  “Sorry about that, pal,” Spencer stated in his most patronizing voice as they walked out of the courtroom.

  In the hallway, Hunter stopped and turned to Spencer. “You smug little kid. You don’t get to play with people’s lives.”

  “And nor do drug dealers like Rick Cowan.” Spencer lifted his chin. “I see the impact of drugs on a daily basis, and it’s my job to stop it. You may think that Cowan is innocent, but he’s not. He deals drugs. We all know it. He destroys innocent people’s lives.”

  “He was set-up.”

  “Set-up? That’s rich.” Spencer scoffed. “Get out of here, Hunter. None of us want you here. None of us want you in these courtrooms. Your name is mud in these halls. Your father is a criminal, and it’s in your blood to do the same.”

  “My father is innocent.” Hunter stepped over Spencer, his breathing short and heart thumping against his chest. He could handle smugness, he could handle privileged kids, but he couldn’t handle the slander against his father’s name.

  A squeak escaped Spencer’s mouth, scared of the figure looming over him. Thoughts of his boarding school days, days where the older kids would stand over the younger ones, flooded back in an instant.

  “Everything alright here?” A bailiff stood next to them, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, saving Spencer from losing his front teeth, and Hunter from facing assault charges.

  Hunter grunted and turned away from Spencer, walking down the halls of justice to the exit.

  “I’m going to take you down as well, along with your guilty client.” Spencer called out after him, now full of bravery as he looked at Hunter’s back. “I’m going to prove that you’re no better than your father.”

  Chapter 7

  Patrick Hunter waited at a table inside Lou Malnati’s Pizzeria in the neighborhood of River North, cradling his pint of Goose Island IPA, sipping it occasionally. When he needed a hit of something filling, when he needed a taste to escape the world, Lou Malnati’s deep dish pie was his calling—the soul-filling layers of cheesy goodness, the dependable flavors, the love and care that went into each pie.

  Two New Yorkers sat on the table next to him complaining that they, and only they, knew real pizza and they expected the meal would be more of a lasagna and pizza pie cross-over. Patrick loved New York pizza, those thin crusted slices layered with pepperoni, but even though the slices were large, it was still a snack, a few bites of punchy flavors, designed for a city on the go. Chicago-style pizza, on the other hand, was comforting in the cold, filling a diner’s insides with layers of warmth and contentment. It was about the caramelized crust, the qual
ity toppings, the sheets of delicious Wisconsin mozzarella cheese.

  Patrick Hunter had spent the day smashing golf balls around a course north of Chicago. His scorecard was terrible, but he had moments of brilliance. The activity was a release, a moment to express his rage. Sending a little white ball piercing through the air, when everything came together in the perfect drive off the tee, was a raw sensation, a raw expression of the anger he carried with him. Anger was something he had to manage his entire life, something he had to contain through meditation, yoga, and daily doses of valium.

  Family had always been a source of pain, always a source of heartache. He considered changing his name, he considered leaving the country, but his heart was in Chicago, it was where his roots were. His sister, Natalie Hunter, was different. She chose to run away to Mexico. His youngest brother, Tex, took a different route—he didn’t just stay in Chicago, he devoted his life to defending the family name to the end. The more Patrick thought about their father’s case, the more the anger grew inside him. He wanted, almost needed, his younger brother to let the crusade go, to leave the past to gather dust.

  “Nice choice.” Tex Hunter walked up behind his brother as he studied the menu. “Why do you even look at that thing? You know your order here is never going to change.”

  “Nothing beats a sausage deep dish pie. I’ve already ordered for both of us. They should be here soon.” Patrick greeted his brother with a handshake, which morphed into a hug and a caring pat on the back. “But it’s nice to at least look at the other options. Look at that—they’ve even got a vegetarian option.”

  “I thought of becoming a vegetarian once, but realized it would be a huge missed-steak.”

  Patrick smiled. “Always the comedian.”

  The restaurant was packed with people chatting, laughing, and gossiping. The tables were crammed next to each other, the servers almost had to climb over some tables to deliver pizza, but it was a place full of joy and the beautiful smells of tomato, sausage, and mozzarella.