“I’m an exotic dancer.”
“And by exotic dancer, you mean stripper, as in you take your clothes off for money?”
“That’s part of the job.”
“Did you always dream about becoming a stripper?”
“Objection. Relevance.” Hunter interrupted.
“Sustained.” Judge Marshall’s response was quick.
“Miss Langford, these are serious claims you’re making, and I hope you understand the ramifications of these statements.” Spencer was at his patronizing best. “Do you understand that you’re under oath?”
“I do. I’m here to tell the truth, and the whole truth.”
“Do you understand you’re accusing Mr. Schultz of bribery and corruption?”
“I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I’m just telling the truth.”
“You say you were offered money to provide a police statement, which says your words can be bought by the highest bidder. Have you been offered money to testify today?”
“I haven’t, no.”
“Are you telling the truth right now?”
“I am.”
“How can we believe that?” Spencer’s voice rose. “Your testimony is on the table for the highest bidder! And the defense could’ve bought your testimony, couldn’t they?”
“They haven’t.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“I’m doing this because it’s right.”
“Did that cross your mind when you provided the statement to the police for money?” Spencer openly laughed at the witness.
“No,” Jasmine shook her head. “They threatened me with a gun.”
“And now you’ve got some of the money, five thousand dollars as you say, you’ve suddenly changed your mind?” Spencer took a long breath. “Miss Langford, you’ve admitted to lying in your original police statement. By your own admission, you’ve lied to the police. You’ve lied to the authorities. Why should we believe you today?”
“Because I have nothing to gain from this.”
“So the situation is that you’re a liar, and we cannot trust your word.”
“I’m not lying.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
“I’m telling the truth.” The tears began to well up in her eyes.
“We’ve already established you’re a liar. You provide your words to the highest bidder. We’ve established that you change your testimony whenever it suits you, and we’ve established you’re comfortable lying to get whatever it is you want. How much can your lies be bought for this time? Five thousand? Ten thousand?”
“I’m telling the truth.” She pleaded. “This is what happened.”
“Has Mr. Cowan paid you to change your story?”
“No.” A tear ran down her cheek. “Jerry Schultz paid me.”
“How convenient. And did you give Mr. Schultz your bank account number? Perhaps something to show how easily your testimony can be bought? Do you have any evidence of the payment?”
“No. He paid me in cash.”
“You’re a liar!” Spencer slammed his hand on the table. “How can you expect the court to believe you?”
“Because I’m under oath.” She began to cry. “You have to believe me.”
“Your word is not enough, Miss Langford.” Spencer looked to the jury and shrugged. A few jurors shook their heads in response. “No further questions.”
Chapter 35
Hunter rested the defense case after only one witness. Judge Marshall called a fifteen-minute recess, but decided on an extra fifteen minutes after that, and the extra time only served to build the nerves in the pit of Hunter’s stomach. He hated this part. The uncertainty, the doubt, the fact that twelve individuals were about to make a decision on the rule of law.
Rick Cowan’s leg twitched under the table next to him. If Cowan went to prison, it was over. He couldn’t do fifteen years. It would be the death of him. He was used to hearty meals, expensive champagne, and mingling with young women; none of which would be available in prison. He’d have no power, no influence, and no reach behind bars.
Samuel Spencer waited impatiently at the prosecution table, anxious but smug. He fidgeted constantly, only stopping to bark instructions at his underlings. Jasmine’s testimony cast doubt on what should have been a winnable case for the prosecution. When Judge Marshall returned, Spencer tightened his tie and sat up straight, like a schoolboy before the principal.
Before calling for closing statements, Judge Marshall spoke to the jury about their civic duty and the legal definitions, and made sure they were clear on their responsibilities. When called, Spencer stood to begin his close.
*****
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for taking the time to listen to this case. I understand the process has been long, and at times, boring, however, you must not forget why you’re here.
This is an easy case.
The application of law is really simple, the evidence is really simple, and the outcome is really simple. It’s all really easy. Don’t confuse yourself with twists and turns, don’t confuse the facts with a good story.
The defense wants you to believe in coincidences, they want you to listen to their fanciful tales, and they want you to be fooled by their story. Don’t be. Don’t be sucked in by their wishful tales of woe and corruption. Don’t be sucked in by their research that uncovered quirks in this crime. And don’t be sucked in by a lying witness whose testimony is for sale to the highest bidder.
That the drugs were on the premises is not up for dispute. The amount of drugs is not up for dispute. The type of drugs is not up for dispute.
The facts are indisputable—$150,000 of cocaine was found in the club that Mr. Cowan owned, inside a room that only he had keys to.
So it really is simple—Rick Cowan was the only person who had control of those drugs.
Nobody else put the drugs there. Nobody else tried to fool him into accepting the drugs. Nobody else had control of those drugs. He even admitted to the police that he, and only he, had access to the room where the drugs were found.
You’ve heard from many witnesses that have stated Mr. Cowan talked about the drugs before they arrived. You’ve heard from the Detectives that conducted the raid on the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club. You’ve seen the police body-cam footage. You know the truth. And you’ve heard from Mr. Schultz, who provided the details of the original tip-off. The details are even contained in a text message.
This is not a coincidence.
This is a chance for the justice system to take out a drug dealer. This is the chance for the justice system to convict a criminal. This is a chance for you, the jury, to take drugs off the street and convict a man of felony drug possession.
You have the chance to stop these drugs from reaching vulnerable people. You have the chance to stop these drugs from destroying more lives. And you have the chance to stop Mr. Rick Cowan’s drug business.
Don’t be fooled by the tall tales from the defense team. The only reasonable conclusion you can make after this trial is guilty.
Thank you for your time.”
*****
Spencer walked back to his seat with a strut. He looked to the defense table, his face turned away from the jury, and winked. Hunter ignored Spencer’s bravado, making numerous notes across his closing statement, and then stood behind the lectern.
Juror ten looked unconvinced by Spencer’s closing statement, shaking her head a number of times when Spencer restated the claims of the witnesses. She would become Hunter’s focus.
The decision on Rick Cowan’s guilt or innocence was about to fall into the hands of twelve regular people and Tex Hunter was determined to convince them of the real story.
*****
“Rick Cowan was framed. That should be clear to you now. Really clear.
He had no knowledge of the drugs in the room. Remember, to be convicted, the prosecution must have proved, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Mr. Cowan had knowledge
of the drugs. He didn’t.
Those drugs were put there by someone else.
This occurrence was more than a coincidence. A coincidence is running into a friend on the street, it’s wearing the same shirt as someone else to dinner, it’s thinking about someone at the same time they call you. They’re coincidences.
A coincidence is not the overwhelming stack of facts that point to one thing. That’s what we have in this case. An overwhelming pile of facts you cannot ignore.
You heard what witness after witness claimed to have seen, and it was too clean, too precise, and too well rehearsed. Life is not like that. Life is messy. You know that, and I know that.
But none of what was presented by the prosecution in this case was messy. None of it. Everything fit perfectly—the missing delivery driver, the timing of the raid, the witnesses themselves. Every eye-witness called by the prosecution had a personal vendetta against Mr. Cowan. That’s too clean, and life is messy.
Mr. Schultz provided the tip-off for the raid, calling Detective Holmes on his personal phone number. Why didn’t he call the tip-off line? Why didn’t he report the crime through the proper channels? You can make your own decisions about why that happened.
Mr. Kokkinos claims to have seen Mr. Cowan take delivery of the drugs, but Mr. Kokkinos would also benefit greatly by Mr. Cowan’s conviction. You’ve seen the footage of Mr. Kokkinos walking into the club on the day of the raid. When he walked in, his duffle bag was full, and when he exited half-an-hour later, the bag was empty.
You’ve heard the area of the drug exchange is constantly under video camera surveillance, however, the camera was turned off that day. That’s not a coincidence.
The van that was used to deliver the drugs is part-owned by Mr. Schultz.
Mr. Schultz had connections to every eye-witness that sat on this stand. He was personal friends with a number of witnesses, and the ones he wasn’t friends with, he admitted to meeting them in the weeks before the raid and transferring money to their bank accounts. He admitted he transferred money to Ms. Forde’s bank account. Fifteen thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money. Think about why he transferred the money to Ms. Forde. Really think about that.
It’s not a coincidence. It’s not messy. And when life isn’t messy, you can be guaranteed it’s made up.
That’s what this is.
A story that has been orchestrated by Mr. Schultz.
We’ve even had a witness in this trial directly state she was promised money to testify against Mr. Cowan. Jasmine Langford was offered, and paid, money to lie to the police. Before she arrived in court, she thought better of it, and made the right decision to come to this courtroom and tell the truth. She told the court, under oath, that she was paid by Mr. Schultz to lie.
This is your chance to recognize corruption exists in our city. This is your chance to say that we won’t accept it anymore. We won’t stand for it. We, the people, won’t let Mr. Schultz do whatever he wants. We won’t accept this behavior from people who think they’re above the law. This is your chance to acknowledge the systemic perversion of justice, and your chance to stop it.
At this point, it’s clear you should have reasonable doubts about the guilt of Mr. Rick Cowan. Remember the pilot’s adage I told you in the opening statement—if you have any reasonable doubt, then there’s no doubt. If you have any reasonable doubt, you don’t fly the plane.
And I can tell, you have reasonable doubts.
Mr. Cowan had no knowledge of the drugs.
Those doubts mean you can reasonably only come to one conclusion—not guilty. That is clear.
Thank you for your service to justice.”
Chapter 36
The sirens were wailing in the night, the circle rhythm of lights whirling in the shadows, and the smell of burning ash filled the air. A breeze blew down the street like a wind tunnel, fanning the flames that burnt the inside of the brick building, highlighting the sky in an orange glow.
Jasmine Langford was cautious as she approached the fire. She could feel the heat from fifty yards away. The women she had come to know so well were standing on the street, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. Huddled away from the shelter, standing on the opposite side of the road, some were tearful their homes had been taken away from them again. Babies wailed, young children hugged their mother’s legs, and young adults looked on in shock.
Jasmine watched as Wilma Woods comforted the other women however she could. Wilma told them it was going to be alright, they were going to get through this. Life had dealt out another blow, she said, but we’re strong and we’ll get through this.
The police were asking questions, asking names and addresses, and every single one of the women on the street were scared to answer them. They weren’t about to give their locations to the men they were running from.
“Wilma, what happened?” Jasmine approached the crowd.
Wilma turned from the woman she was with, and stared at Jasmine. She looked over her left shoulder and then the right one. She checked that the police weren’t watching her and then came closer. With a gentle hand on her elbow, she led Jasmine towards the shadows of a nearby apartment building. Near the wall, she checked her surroundings again.
“The fire is under control now. The worst of it is over. We got everyone out, and there shouldn’t be too much damage. The insurance will cover it, and we should be able to fix it. We’ve got to be hopeful.”
“What started it?”
“It was a Molotov Cocktail, thrown through one of the windows.” Wilma looked back to the building. “We were targeted.”
Jasmine bit her lip as she stared up towards the building, the fire starting to be extinguished, the heat starting to disappear from the street.
“Is anyone hurt?”
“Luckily, no.” Wilma looked down the street to the fire again. “Everyone’s ok, but we’ve still got to find a place for these girls tonight. It’s cold out here. The church has a few beds they can help with, but some of the girls are going to be sleeping on the floor.”
A strong gust blew down the street. One of the firefighters yelled out, and six people raced to his assistance. A new set of flames had sprung up. The firefighters turned the hoses to the corner of the building, punishing the second floor window with a flood of water.
Jasmine folded her arms across her chest. “Any idea who did this?”
Wilma hesitated before responding. “Someone came to the front door and he looked like trouble. He was asking a lot of questions.”
“About me?”
Wilma nodded her response.
“What did they want?”
“He wanted to know how long you’ve been staying here, and I told him we don’t talk about the people that stay at our shelters. I didn’t tell him anything.”
“Who was it?”
“He didn’t say his name, but…” She paused and placed a hand on Jasmine’s. “He said he was going to hurt you, and I couldn’t stop him. I called the police, and they came out, but they couldn’t do anything. I gave them his description but they said there’s little chance of actually finding him. And then this fire happens five hours later.”
“I’m sorry.” Jasmine looked away, blinking back the tears in her eyes. “What do I do now? Should I go and see the lawyer?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. Whoever is looking for you is going to be looking for you there as well. You need to keep your head down and get out of here.”
“Where do I go?”
“Here,” Wilma took an envelope out of her pocket. “It’s five hundred. It’s all I could grab as the building burned. You did the right thing getting up in court, standing up for what’s right and telling the truth, but they’re going to come after you. Take this money, keep your head down, and get the hell out of Chicago. You can’t come back here.”
Jasmine looked towards the fire. She looked at the damage, she looked at the pain on the faces of the women on the street, and she considered how the
system was owned by people who had more power than her.
“Use the money for these women and kids.” Jasmine placed the envelope back in Wilma’s hands. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
Chapter 37
“Five days and they still don’t have a decision?” Ray Jones waited by the barbeque, tongs in hand. He was wearing a black apron, although it was too small for him. Most things were. “The jury is probably doing this on purpose. They’re trying to torture you for making them sit through a trial about a corrupt businessman.”
Jones flipped the two massive pieces of T-bone steak, at least as thick as a novel, searing them on the grill. His round grill was bulky, robust, smoking heavily, and clearly well-used. It was a sense of pride for Jones, as was his yard—grass clipped, a shed in the back corner, a new fence. There was a set of weights under the patio, sitting next to a bench press, and an old stationary bicycle next to that. The table and chairs were plastic, as was the covering for the patio. Although a small home, it was in the agreeable neighborhood of Kenwood on the city’s South Side.
“The timeframe means there’s doubt in the jury room. We have at least one person on our side in there. Someone is in that jury room arguing for the truth.” Hunter leaned against the brick wall close to the grill, careful not to get any grease on his suit. “I hate waiting and the longer it goes on, the less I like it. I don’t know which way it’ll go. They’ve already come back and asked the judge a lot of questions, but they’ve given no hints to the outcome.”
Jones flipped the steak again, drawing in a long breath of meaty goodness. “Such a good smell.”
“Didn’t anyone teach you that you should only turn a steak once?” Hunter smiled, moving closer to the barbeque. “Sear each side to trap the juices and then let it cook.”
“I tell you something, ain’t nobody cook a steak like my Dad did.” Jones smiled. “Standing around the grill as a small kid were my best memories with him.”
Deadly Justice: A Legal Thriller (Tex Hunter Book 4) Page 18
