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

by Peter O'Mahoney

  “Jerry Schultz? How is he involved?”

  Holmes shot Hunter a look that said more than words could. “Be careful where you go, Tex. These people are all connected high up, and they all know how to pull strings. This isn’t about arresting someone and seeing them pay for the crime. There’s so many layers needed to make a person like Cowan go down. It’s corruption, it’s backroom deals, it’s payments going to the right people to make things happen. And you’re mixed up in it. Deeply. What are you planning to do?”

  “I’m going to expose them all.”

  Holmes laughed, and when the lawyer didn’t return the smile, he shook his head. “Then I’ll get my best suit dry-cleaned. It’ll be your funeral that I’m going to next.”

  Chapter 16

  As the cars arrived at the opening night of a performance by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, Tex Hunter waited on the sidewalk near the entrance to the Symphony Center. The dress code was clear—tuxedos for men, evening gowns for the ladies, and jewels and accessories worth more than the average monthly salary.

  Built in 1904 by renowned Chicago architect Daniel Burnham, the building off Michigan Ave became a symbol of excess wealth and power, where deals were made and the future of the city decided. The opulence of Orchestra Hall was the perfect cover for powerbrokers to mingle without the prying eyes of the public.

  A 1955 Bentley R-Type Continental Coupe, a collector’s classic from England, parked at the entrance, and valets opened the two front doors. Jerry Schultz stepped out first, followed by his third wife, Victoria Schultz. He never believed in having a driver—he had often said if he was going to spend that amount of money on a beautiful car, then he would be the one to enjoy the thrill of driving it.

  Hunter stepped out of the shadows and stood near the entrance. Jerry Schultz looked up, took a second glance, and then sighed. He whispered something to his wife, and she proceeded into the theater alone.

  “Couldn’t you pick a better time?” Schultz stated. “I have a phone; you could ask to meet.”

  “You weren’t answering my calls. I go to trial in a matter of days, and I don’t have time to waste chasing you.”

  “I didn’t answer your calls because I didn’t want to meet with you.” Schultz replied without a hint of irony. He led Hunter into the busy foyer of the theater, then spoke a soft word to one of the ushers, before handing across a number of bills. The usher led them down a closed hallway and into a small room, usually reserved for staff.

  Schultz stepped into the room, and Hunter ensured the door was closed behind him. The room was cramped—a sink and fridge to one side with a round table and six chairs filling the space.

  “Keeping tabs on me?” Schultz questioned as he walked to the side of the room, sitting down on one of the padded chairs. “Although I can’t imagine that it’s hard. I’m not quick anymore. I wouldn’t be able to outrun anyone.”

  “What happened to Jasmine Langford?”

  He snapped his glare towards Hunter. “You think that was me? How dare you. I had nothing to do with her disappearance. Nothing at all to do with this mess.”

  “But you know about it.”

  “Of course I know about it! A key witness went missing. That’s not a good look but I had nothing to do with it. It was all Rick Cowan. And I would rather Cowan went behind bars for the rest of his life, than have to rescue that man again.”

  “I don’t believe a single word that’s coming out of your mouth. It’s too convenient, too well-orchestrated.” Hunter stood by the door, holding his gaze on Schultz. “All roads are leading back to you.”

  “I will tell you this—Cowan got rid of the girl. The police might’ve set him up for the drugs, and they might have fed you the name of the witness on purpose, but Cowan is still the one who went through with it.” He paused, looked to the floor, before raising his eyes to meet Hunter’s. “He’s going down for witness tampering, or at least, kidnapping. Pick one, because he’s done both. And if this felony drug charge fails, then they’ll throw the book at him for the missing girl. And who knows? If they can find her body, then they’ll get him for murder.”

  Someone knocked on the door of the room, and Hunter told them they would be another five minutes. That didn’t sit easy with Schultz. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in the room with Hunter.

  “Do you know any of the other witnesses yet? Have you seen the list of redacted names?” Schultz looked away, staring at the wall covered with posters signed by musical stars thanking the performance crew.

  “I haven’t seen the list of names yet, but we’re certain of three of them. We found out about Kokkinos, who is an old friend of yours, if my research serves me correctly.”

  “Tony Kokkinos, yes. We’ve worked together in the past. I defended him on an insurance claim from an employee and we worked well together. Got along like a couple of old pals. I had that case thrown out on a technicality, and it was a magnificent piece of legal work. I found a tiny little loophole, the sort of success every lawyer dreams about.” Schultz sat up straighter as he remembered his past successes. “Kokkinos. Sure, sure. He’s had his fingerprints on everything that’s happened in the area. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had something to do with it.”

  “How could he be involved?”

  “Kokkinos is a smart businessman. He wants to expand. He can’t just shoot someone like Cowan, he needs to take his business down first, and then buy it for nothing. If Cowan was dead, the club would go to his estate, and Kokkinos would have to pay full price. But if Cowan’s name is discredited, if he can drag the club through the mud, then people will stop going to Cowan’s filthy place. Kokkinos could then buy the Five-Star at a bargain basement price. It’s nothing personal.”

  Hunter stared at Schultz, using silence as his weapon. It was another minute before either of them spoke again.

  “This isn’t as simple as you want it to be.” Schultz broke the silence. “Rick Cowan has made the wrong people angry, and he doesn’t have the resources to buy them off anymore. He’s a man that’s done a lot of wrong in the world, he’s pushed a lot of boundaries, and a lot of people want to ensure he doesn’t have the chance to continue. He’s got no friends left, and there are lots of people ready to trample on his grave. He deserves to be behind bars, whether guilty of this crime or not.”

  “You’re a defense attorney. You know better than that. He shouldn’t go down for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  “Former defense attorney. I haven’t worked in criminal law for more than a decade. Litigation is a different game; different focus, different rules. I was never a good match for criminal law. All that right and wrong. Leave that for the church, I say. And what about the crimes Cowan did commit and got away with? Justice isn’t black and white.”

  “This isn’t how justice works, Schultz. The corrupt don’t get to be the judge, jury, and executioner. They don’t get to set up someone because they think they’re guilty of another crime.”

  “Think? Think they’re guilty?” Schultz slapped his hand against the table. “They don’t think he’s guilty, they know he’s guilty. There’s no disputing it. He’s a murderer, a drug dealer, and he takes advantage of vulnerable people. He deserves everything that’s coming to him.”

  “This system isn’t theirs to play with. This system isn’t there for people like you, Kokkinos, Warden or Holmes to manipulate. This system has to be bigger than that. We all have to be bigger than that. That’s not how the courts work, and that’s not how this case is going to go down. We’re following the law and that means proving someone set him up with the drugs. The whole raid was a set-up, right from the first tip-off. And we’ll do it with or without your help.”

  “You think you’re strong enough to stop this?” Schultz snarled. “This is bigger than you. A whole lot bigger than you. Cowan is going down, whether you like it or not. The ASAs will step into the courtroom and they’ll tell a great story about Cowan and his past. Cowan has dug his own grave. It’s over f
or him. And if I were you, I would distance myself from the case now, because your name is being thrown around as well. The witness tampering accusations could damage your career beyond repair, and even land you in prison. Word is they’re close to an arrest.”

  “I’m not going down for witness tampering.”

  Schultz grinned and then leaned back. He paused for a moment, and then chuckled to himself. “No, you’ll do what’s right, won’t you? You always do. That’s what you hold onto so strongly. And the right thing to do is defend Rick Cowan, even if it means risking your freedom. And who knows, Cowan might just win. That’s the beauty of a jury trial—twelve fools get to decide his fate. But if you win, you’d better be prepared for the oncoming charges. They won’t hesitate coming for you next.”

  “I’ll do what’s right.” Hunter brought his nose within a few inches of the older man’s. “I know you’re involved with all of this somehow and when I find out how, I’m going to take you down.”

  Chapter 17

  Hunter woke on Saturday morning with a hangover. The weeks were taking their toll. There were days when he needed relief from the stresses of the judicial system, days where he needed to escape the grind, however this was not to be one of them. Two aspirin and a large glass of water later, he was out the door to travel to the Cook County Jail. On a massive 96 acres of land in South Lawndale, the prison assisted Cook County in facilitating the third largest inmate population in the country. It was designed as a punishment and a deterrent to crime. It wasn’t working. The numbers of prisoners continued to grow year after year, criminals were not fearful or afraid of the time behind bars.

  Hunter entered the Cook County Prison as routine dictated, acknowledging the administration workers at the front desk, nodding to the same guards as he had done for years, and walking past the same meeting rooms he always did. The halls were recently painted, the smell of wet paint still in the air, but even two coats of white paint couldn’t hide the decades of agony that was etched into the walls.

  As his father’s lawyer, Hunter was afforded certain comforts not granted to other families when they visited. He always listed his visits as professional ones, to ensure they had a private room to discuss whatever they needed to. As one of his father’s only visitors for the past five years, he had become his father’s only human contact with the outside world, the only way to know there was still life outside the thick concrete walls.

  Hunter had been waiting on the cold metal chair for an hour before the guards walked his father in. It was a game the guards liked to play—a way to show they were the most powerful people there, and a way to punish the lawyer for daring to defend criminals.

  Alfred Hunter staggered into the room—his fragility becoming clearer with each visit. Since Hunter’s last visit, his father’s cheek bones had become prominent, his neck thinner, and his skin appeared even more dehydrated. Alfred Hunter scratched the skin on his cheek after they uncuffed him, and a small piece of skin tore, creating another splotch of blood on his skin. He tried to pat down his wispy hair, but there wasn’t much use—there wasn’t much of it left.

  “Tex.” Alfred greeted his son with a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

  Hunter didn’t hug his father too tightly for fear of snapping him in two.

  “You don’t look well,” Hunter said as he let go of the embrace, guiding his father to sit on the metal chair.

  Alfred shuffled side to side on the chair, trying to find a comfortable position. The room was narrow, the lighting was barely existent, and the damp smell was all-consuming.

  “The doctor called today, Tex. Said he had two types of news: bad news and even worse news. I said give it to me straight, doc, and give me the bad news first, so he told me I had twenty-four hours to live. What’s the even worse news? I asked. He said, I should’ve called you yesterday.” Alfred tried to smile and his lips cracked slightly. “Get it?”

  “You told that joke thirty years ago, and it hasn’t gotten any funnier.” Hunter replied. “Have you seen an actual doctor lately?”

  “Ah,” Alfred waved him away. “They’re useless around here. I saw one last week but he’s reluctant to give me a timeframe anymore. He said I’ll keep living for a while. Still. Every time I see him, he tells me something different. I’m in my late seventies, and I don’t want to keep fighting. I don’t have any fight left in me. That idiot keeps giving me hope I might continue to live on, and he expects me to be happy about it.”

  “It’s good he’s given you extra time.”

  “Is it?” Alfred looked at his son with questioning eyes. “I’ve got nothing left here. Honestly, Tex, I’m done. I’ve spent more than thirty years in here. Phones, computers, electronics, shops, buildings, homes, cars—it’s all changed. I can’t remember what it’s like to walk free, how to dance, how to work. I wouldn’t know where the shops are, I wouldn’t know the grocer, I wouldn’t know the streets. For all the opportunities in the city, for all it has to offer, it’s moved on. And that’s what cities do, they grow, they evolve, they challenge the successful. The city doesn’t care about the people left behind—the city doesn’t care about the broke, the poor, the prisoners, the destitute. We’re the forgotten ones in the endless strive for success. Life in Chicago has changed, and it changed without me.”

  “If you choose hope, anything is possible.”

  “The only true sign of failure is when you live your life without hope. And I’ve failed, Tex. I have no hope anymore. My time couldn’t come soon enough.”

  Hunter held his gaze on his father. Once, his father had been so full of life, so full of energy, so full of positivity, but time, illness, and prison had taken its toll. A hard working man, Alfred Hunter had been a symbol of the American ideal—stable job, beautiful family, a nice house in the suburbs. He mowed his yard on Sunday mornings, coached his kid’s sports team, and took his family for an annual vacation to the remote Platte River Campground in Michigan during the summers. Life was postcard perfect.

  The murders of eight teenage girls changed all that in a heartbeat.

  “There’s a file that might prove your innocence, and I hope to get my hands on it. That might be something worth living for.” Hunter stared straight at his father, searching for his reaction.

  Alfred Hunter’s mouth hung open for a few moments, before he looked away and sighed. “Every morning I wake up and open my eyes, I hope I’m in heaven. I hope to see your mother up there, smiling, holding my hand again. My only hope is that it’s over.”

  “Rick Cowan has the file,” Hunter continued. “I haven’t seen everything in it yet, but he told me he’d been receiving information from an anonymous source for the past thirty years, and he’s kept it all. That information could get you out of here.”

  “And he told you this now? Why? Why now, after all this time?” Alfred squinted. “He’s blackmailing you, isn’t he?”

  Alfred Hunter struggled to find the energy to sound angry. The cancer hadn’t just eaten away at his body; it had also eaten away at his resolve. Once a stoic man who was determined to live life moving forward, he was now longing for the end. The prison meals were tasteless, the environment hadn’t changed in decades, even the cigarettes didn’t give him much joy anymore. Life had just about lost its appeal.

  “He gave me the name of an organization.” Hunter leaned forward, searching for a clue based on his father’s reaction. “Cinco Casino.”

  Alfred Hunter’s mouth dropped open for a few moments, his face blank with shock. He hadn’t heard the name said out loud for thirty years, although it was a place he had thought about often. Through those long sleepless nights, through those long monotonous days, through the years that seemed to blend into one, he had thought about the underground poker games at the Cinco Casino.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?” Alfred whispered. “I could’ve told you to stay away from it.”

  Alfred had his secrets, and he had his reasons to keep them. His city of Chicago, eve
n the whole country, thought he was guilty. He’d watched the documentaries about his life come and go on television. He’d listened to the radio calls. He’d heard the pop culture references made about his family name. It was a level of fame he never desired or sought.

  But he did what he had to do.

  “Tex…” Alfred Hunter leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and blinked back a tear. “It’s time to let it go.”

  “Let it go?”

  “It’s time, Tex. It’s my time. It’s come.”

  “When we finally get the chance to prove you’re innocent, you’re telling me, after thirty years of suffering, to simply ‘let it go?’ To forget about the past three decades of anguish?”

  “Life, if lived with purpose, is always long enough. My life has been long enough. I’ve lived it with purpose. I’ve lived it with honor. There’s no use fighting this anymore. There’s no use pushing this any longer. You have to let this go. I made my decisions, and I’m comfortable with them. I did what I had to do, and I made the right choices. We all choose our own fate, whether we want to or not. The best years of your life will begin when you decide that you own your pain. Don’t blame me, don’t blame your mother, and don’t blame society. The best years of your life come when you realize that you, and only you, are in control of your destiny.”

  “What does that mean?” Hunter leaned forward, pressing his finger into the table. “How do you know the name of the underground casino? How is this linked to the murders?”

  Alfred looked away. “I can’t tell you. But someone out there must’ve known something. Sometimes secrets have a way of getting out. Time has a way of revealing everything.”

  “How is it connected?”

  Alfred didn’t answer. He stared at the wall.