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

by Peter O'Mahoney

  “That won’t stop him. Not a man like Rick Cowan. Without a body, he’ll come looking for me, no doubt. I can’t lead him here and put the other girls at risk.” Jasmine put the spatula down, a small splotch of sauce dropping on the wooden counter. “I have to leave this place.”

  “Not yet.” Wilma stood and moved to hold her hand. “Stay indoors until this blows over and then you’ll be safer out there. You can’t go out there before the trial starts.”

  “I can’t believe this has happened to me.” Jasmine turned to Wilma, tears in her eyes. “I was clean, I was working, I said my prayers every night. I helped people. I was doing everything right. I was just trying to get by, and then all this chaos happened because some man wants to set up some other man. I didn’t deserve this chaos.”

  “There is a lesson in everything that life blesses us with. The lesson and beauty of chaos is that focus is narrowed. The trivial things don’t matter. Trust me, I know. The things that matter when life is in chaos are the things that are truly important. What matters to you now?”

  “This. All of this.” Jasmine blinked back her tears. “Teaching those kids. Their innocent smiles matter. Helping them matters. But I don’t know what I’m going to do, Wilma. Even after all this is finished, Rick won’t forget. If he gets off on the charges, he’ll hunt me down.”

  Wilma Woods drew Jasmine into a hug, holding her tight for a number of minutes. Jasmine sobbed on her shoulder.

  “Thanks,” Jasmine said, wiping the tears away with her sleeve as she moved back to the pot. “Thanks for everything.”

  “If you stay here, you have to realize that this place is more than just providing a bed, a meal, and a secure place to escape to. It’s also about emotional support, helping the women through the violence they’ve experienced. It’s about encouraging everyone to tell the truth. This place is built on honesty. I’m almost seventy-five, but I won’t let age beat me. My deceased drunken husband physically beat me every night, but he never broke my spirit.” Wilma rubbed Jasmine’s back. “Are you going to call the prosecution and tell them you’re alive? You still have the opportunity to tell the truth. It’s important to tell the truth.”

  “If I testify, I’m lying.” Jasmine shook her head. “But both options are equally bad. If I testify against Rick, he’ll come after me, and if I testify for Rick and say those men bribed me to lie, then the other side will come after me. I’m a pawn in their game. I mean nothing to them.”

  “You mean something to me. And if you ever want to know what God thinks of power and money, look at some of the people he gave it to. You’re a good girl, Jasmine, not a money hungry soul like some of those guys out there. And remember, money doesn’t buy happiness.”

  “I wish I had some money to prove the saying wrong.” Jasmine joked. “And I know you’re about to tell me that love is more important than money. Unfortunately, I love money.”

  Wilma smiled and then picked up another spatula. She started stirring the large pot of bolognese sauce, enough to feed all the women and families in the building.

  “We all have choices, Jasmine. Even when you don’t think you have a choice, you still have options. You’re in a hard place now, but you can still choose to do what’s right. You can still choose love, and you can still choose the truth. Fate isn’t written in the stars; it isn’t written in some faraway place; fate is written in your heart.” Wilma stared at Jasmine for a long period, her eyes unflinching. “You have to trust your heart. Trust it to do the right thing, because the true test of your heart is what happens when nobody is watching.”

  “Nobody is ever watching me unless I’m dancing.”

  “I’m watching you.” Wilma reached across and held her hand tight. “I want you to promise me that when the time comes, when the truest test of your character presents itself, you’ll choose the right option.”

  Jasmine looked away.

  “Jasmine?” She gripped her hand tighter. “Promise me you’ll make the right choice, even if nobody is watching. Promise me you’ll let your heart decide your fate. Honesty has to be the way forward. You have to tell the truth. Even in the face of danger, you have to do what’s right.”

  “I’ll try.” Jasmine’s voice was soft. Her words weren’t convincing.

  Because she didn’t know if it was a promise she could keep.

  Chapter 20

  The mid-morning sun peeked through the thick clouds, the light reflected off the tall buildings in Downtown Chicago, and a gentle rain fell onto the window of Tex Hunter’s office.

  Hunter loved Chicago’s architecture. People from all around the world traveled to his great city to admire the buildings born out of the ashes of the 1871 Great Chicago Fire. Rather than representing the long history of Chicago, most of the buildings were born out of the rebuild, the need for innovation was driven by the necessity to provide jobs for the public. The buildings were noted for their originality rather than their antiquity, their flair rather than their past.

  With the case due to hit the courts within a week, the nerves were building for Hunter. He tried to settle them as best he could, through deep breathing exercises and meditation, but whiskey was always the easiest fix. He had spent weeks building information on the witnesses, breaking down the raid second by second, and finding evidence to cast doubt on everyone who was involved in the arrest of Rick Cowan.

  Although he had some names, the remaining redacted witnesses were causing difficulties in his investigation. Redacted Witness B, Jasmine Langford, was no longer a problem, however that issue cut him deeply. But Redacted Witness C, Tony Kokkinos, was a problem—he looked likable, reliable, and dependable, someone the jury could warm to, depending on perspective.

  Hunter assumed Witness D was Cowan’s ex-wife, Lisa Forde. She didn’t have a clean past, she didn’t look trustworthy, and she’d been in trouble with the law many times. Her criminal record was extensive, as was her social media footprint. Finding information about her was easy, and her creditability on the stand was going to be shaky. The jury would doubt anything she said.

  He had less luck with the other two redacted witnesses. Ray Jones had searched for the names of the other witnesses, checking every lead, scanning every document, investigating every idea. Jones had searched through a mountain of paperwork, tailed numerous employees, and listened to a long line of interviews and depositions. He had suspicions, but nothing solid.

  The redacted statements from Witness E didn’t add much to the case, and Hunter would be surprised if the prosecution called them to the stand at all. He was sure Witness E was a diversion.

  Witness A was causing Hunter the biggest headache. As the person who originally called in the tip-off, Witness A was one of the strongest witnesses for the prosecution. The deposition, via email, provided some information, but not enough. Witness A was testifying that Cowan had talked numerous times about the delivery of drugs, how Cowan was going to sell them, when it was going to arrive, and how much money was going to be made. If the person appeared reliable on the stand, it was going to be a major roadblock.

  Cowan wasn’t easy to deal with, but Hunter never assumed he would be. Every conversation was laced with sleaze, every comment made with angst, and every action performed with an ulterior motive. Hunter didn’t trust a word the man said, nor did he believe any story he told.

  He wasn’t convinced Cowan was guilty, not of the felony drug charge, at least. He was sure Cowan was guilty of so much more, but the drug charges were a beat-up, a set-up to try and nail a man who had made the wrong people angry.

  Jerry Schultz wasn’t returning Hunter’s calls. That was expected after Hunter confronted him. Schultz had gone underground, as had the tail. Hunter had expected no less.

  His assistant’s knock on his office door caught him by surprise.

  “Prosecutor Samuel Spencer is here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment, but says you’ll take the time if you want the file he has.”

  Hunter thanked Esther and asked he
r to send him through. Spencer walked in with confidence, a hop in his step, and an arrogant smile. He was well-dressed in a dark suit, his blue tie was a perfect Windsor knot, and his cuffs were half-an-inch too short, no doubt deliberate in an attempt to show off his Cartier watch.

  “I thought I would personally drop this file off.” Spencer scoffed with a grin. “I’m sure it’ll be good reading for you, and I’m sure you’ll be interested in the names of the remaining redacted witnesses.”

  Spencer sat down without invitation, resting his briefcase on his lap. He opened it and removed a large manila folder, and then placed his briefcase on the floor. Spencer tapped his fingers on the folder as he looked around the room, before bringing his attention back to Hunter. “Make no mistake, this case is about catching a criminal, but I must warn you there are other people involved. I want you to tread gently around these people. Some of these witnesses have a lot of influence and they’re scared for their lives. As part of the law fraternity, it’s our job to make sure these powerful people remain protected.”

  “Those who chase power have fragile egos, and when the power comes crashing down, they turn into scared little rats, scurrying away down the sewer. You’ll find no sympathy for the corrupt here.”

  “It’s all so simple to you, isn’t it?” Spencer scoffed. “But on this side of the law, over here on the side of the truth, if you want an influential person to go down, if you want to take down one of the people at the top, you’ve got to play the game with the top brass. I’ve played the game, we’ve gotten the arrest, and now it’s my job to ensure Cowan gets nailed for what he’s done.”

  “Your job is to seek justice, not merely to convict. You owe a duty to not only the State, but also to the defendant. Your job isn’t to nail someone, it’s to find the truth.”

  Spencer held his stare for a few moments before looking away. He tapped his finger on the file again. “I’m going to give you a warning, and I’m going to make it clear. These witnesses are currently protected by police escorts. If you or Cowan, or anyone that’s associated with Cowan, come within a mile of these witnesses, we’ll be bringing the full weight of the law down on you. We’re already looking into you for the apparent kidnapping, or murder, of Jasmine Langford. If they find her body, you’ll be one of the first people we interview. You’ll be suspect number one.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  The smile widened across Spencer’s face. “Criminals aren’t just the people we lock up. Criminals are the people that break the law. You know Rick Cowan is a criminal. You know that. Just because he’s beaten the system so far doesn’t mean he’s any less guilty. And we can’t let criminals openly laugh in the face of the PD and the justice system.” Spencer sat straight—shoulders back, chin up, chest out. “We have to give criminals what they deserve. Give a person what they’re due. That’s what real justice is. Rick Cowan is a criminal. We all know that.”

  “I don’t know what they taught when you studied philosophy in your Ivy League college, but this is the real world, not a university lecture. If you start putting people away because you merely ‘think’ they’re guilty, you’re going down a slippery slope.”

  Hunter wanted nothing more than to punch the smirk off Spencer’s face. Spencer had never struggled for a dime, never once struggled against the tide, never knew what it was like to be without anything. He had everything handed to him on a silver platter, everything given to him before he had to ask. His life was mapped out before he was born, an easy path, all he had to do was take advantage of his family’s considerable connections, wealth, and power.

  “In this folder is the list of redacted witness names. I’ll have my assistant send the electronic file this afternoon, but I wanted to personally deliver the paper copy first.” Spencer stood, took a deep breath, and placed the file on the desk in front of Hunter. “I’ll see you in court next week, but I’ll warn you once more—these witnesses had better remain safe or I’ll be back here to watch you get arrested.”

  Spencer walked out without turning around. Hunter stared at the file for a few moments, before Esther stepped into the office.

  “He’s left, but I imagine he came to drop off the redacted witness names?” Esther walked into the room with two mugs of coffee, the smell filling the air with a hard-hitting aroma. She handed a steaming mug over to him. “It’s a new brand. I thought we might try something different. The coffee is sourced from the hills of Hawaii.” She sipped from her mug, and her eyes opened wide. “Wow. That really has some punch. That’s really, really strong coffee.”

  Hunter lifted the mug near his nose, smelled the intensity, and gave her a little nod. “The smell alone is strong enough to keep me awake for days, but right now, the stronger the better. Over the next few days we’re going to have an intense workload. The work we do now is what will win the case in the courtroom.”

  “When isn’t there a lot to do?” Esther smiled. “You’re always working.”

  “As the great Muhammad Ali once said, the fight is won or lost far away from the bright lights—it’s won behind the lines, in the gym, and out there on the road, long before the big dance starts. This is our time to win. This is our time to do the work.”

  Hunter picked up his pen. A well-weighted pen gave him freedom of thought, freedom to express his thoughts on a page. He never felt the same with typing. He had read that handwriting was a lot more of a creative process, and accessed different parts of the brain than typing. He was sure that was true. And he never completely trusted computers or the internet—there were too many people skilled at breaking firewalls, breaking passcodes, and scamming those who placed their complete trust in technology.

  Hunter opened the file on his desk that Spencer left behind. He read the first page with the listing of the witness names. His mouth dropped open.

  “Who is it? Do we know any of the other witnesses?” Esther blew the steam off her coffee.

  Hunter stared at the page, looking at the details. The first page had the five witness names listed, followed by their alias.

  He stared at the name of Witness A.

  He’d been played. He’d been set up from the start.

  “Who is it, Tex? Who is Witness A?”

  He turned the file around and pushed the page in front of his assistant.

  “No.” Esther whispered. “Really?”

  “That’s right. Our mystery witness, Witness A, the person that made the tip-off and started all of this, is Jerry Schultz.”

  Chapter 21

  The George N. Leighton Criminal Court Building stood five miles away from Downtown Chicago, on the city’s Southwest Side, in the mostly Hispanic neighborhood of Little Village. Its location was problematic for defendants, lawyers, and the general public. An area with high unemployment, the surrounding streets were filled by graffitied walls, boarded up shops, and groups of young men standing on street corners. Using any public transport to the area was intimidating, filled with the potential to be mugged, and it was hard to reach the courthouse without building a prejudice against those charged with crimes.

  After two months of posturing, after two months of turmoil, Rick Cowan had his day in the criminal court. The prosecution had put forward a number of deals, all including prison time of ten years plus. Cowan refused each deal, arguing for between one and five years.

  Dressed respectfully in a fitted suit, Cowan followed Tex Hunter into the courtroom. The consequences of Cowan’s life choices had become clear—his life of crime and corruption was calling for its toll to be paid. When he was first charged with felony drug possession, when the police first raided the club and claimed to have found five kilograms of cocaine, he laughed in their faces. He knew the amount of drugs that came in and out of his club, and he knew the amount he had at the time. The cocaine in the private room wasn’t his, but the evidence against him was solid.

  His knees were weak as he walked to his seat, nerves filling his body. He fidgeted with the pens on the table
after he sat down, looking up to the vacant jury box. It was there he would be judged. Not only for this crime, but for all his life choices. As a strip club owner, the bias would be against him the second the prosecution mentioned it.

  Cowan denied all knowledge of Schultz’s involvement, but he didn’t look surprised. When Hunter told him, Cowan shrugged like he was expecting it. At first, Cowan claimed that Schultz wouldn’t testify against him, that he was tricking the opposition, but when Hunter presented the witness statement and deposition, the disappointment on Cowan’s face was clear. The feeling of betrayal hit him like a sucker punch to the stomach. He said he’d confronted Schultz just after the raid, and Schultz refuted any involvement. Even with the evidence in front of him, Cowan didn’t want to believe it.

  The prosecution team walked in thirty minutes later, all of them smiling ear to ear, making their jovial conversations heard. Their confidence was clear, and they weren’t threatened by the case, by Cowan, or by the evidence. They were already marking it down as an easy win.

  “Five minutes,” the bailiff called out, alerting everyone that Judge Marshall would soon enter the courtroom, and the trial was about to begin.

  Cowan had no support in the courtroom, no one cared enough to take the time to sit behind him. He considered paying some of his exotic dancers to attend for support, however, Hunter advised against it. They weren’t the right look, he advised.

  “All rise. The court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Marshall presiding.”

  Judge Marshall walked into the courtroom, in no rush to arrive at his desk. Once he sat down, he looked over the names on the file, moved the microphone closer, clicked his pen, coughed, and then raised his eyes to look at the almost empty courtroom before him.

  With a booming voice, deep enough to be a bass in a barbershop quartet, Judge Marshall welcomed the parties to the court, and announced the procedure for the defendant. When instructed, the bailiff walked to the door in the front corner of the room, guiding the members of the jury to their seats. They all looked at the defendant first. Cowan kept his eyes on the table in front of him.