by Joel Goldman
Mason envied Claire for her passion to do the right thing, fight the good fight. He had looked for the same spark in his own practice, first in a small firm that represented injured people, then in a big firm that protected people's money, and now in his own practice, where he just protected people. He'd found the spark. Now he just hoped it wouldn't start a fire that consumed everyone he cared about.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mason was lousy at big social functions. He was no good at being a hail-fellow-well-met or assuring a new face that he was damn glad to meet him while the new face looked over his shoulder for a better deal.
He stood at the back of the Hyatt Hotel ballroom and listened as the mayor sang the praises of the Salvation Army. The speech had been written for him, but he made the words his own. He had the connection gene in his DNA that linked him to his audience, erasing any suggestion that both he and they were just going through the motions.
Billy Sunshine had been the quarterback for the Kansas City Chiefs, retiring after winning the Super Bowl on an eighty-yard bootleg as time expired. He announced his retirement and his candidacy for mayor the day after the ticker-tape parade. Women swooned at his chiseled good looks and men got teary eyed when he told football war stories on the campaign trail.
Even his critics conceded that he was more than another jock with a Super Bowl ring. He was bright, earnest, charming, and irresistible. Dogged by scandal, his cleats replaced with feet of clay, he pretended not to notice as he worked the crowd. No one else in the ballroom noticed either as he wove another football memory into his remarks, earning warm laughter and enthusiastic applause.
The ballroom was packed, at least a thousand people by Mason's estimation, each table festooned with a placard identifying the corporate sponsor that had paid for lunch. Sponsors who wrote big enough checks watched their names and company logos scroll across a video loop projected above the head table.
Mason was Jewish, making Christmas a bystander holiday. His aunt Claire raised him on Jewish ethics, adopting as her personal creed the commandment to heal the world, while discarding the rituals and holidays as little more than historical relics. He wasn't observant, though he occasionally acknowledged a spiritual itch in the back of his soul he wasn't certain how to scratch.
"The gentiles sure know how to throw a party," Rachel Firestone said.
He was so caught up in the mayor's speech that he hadn't noticed her until she tugged on his sleeve.
"Let me guess. You're a Jewish lesbian."
"Damn straight! Though I'm not. Too bad you can't take me home to your mother."
"More than you know. She would have wanted me to marry a nice Jewish girl, just not one who also wanted to marry a nice Jewish girl."
"Oops. A past-tense mother is not a good thing. Sorry."
"Don't worry about it. She and my father were killed in a car wreck when I was three. My aunt Claire raised me."
"Sounds like a feature story. Not my beat. What's your plan to get to the mayor?"
"I was planning on waving a five-dollar bill over my head and whistling. What do you think?"
"That only works with the hookers on Independence Avenue. The mayor's price is higher. See that woman standing over there next to the door to the kitchen?"
Mason followed the aim of Rachel's extended hand, fixing on a dark-haired woman in a severe gray suit standing next to the kitchen door, watching the mayor and her watch, and tapping her foot against the thick carpet.
"Who is she?"
"Amy White, the mayor's chief of staff. She ran Sunshine's last campaign and is planning his run for Congress just in case he doesn't get indicted."
"What's her story?"
"The usual political prodigy. Savvy, loves politics, and thinks Sunshine will take her a long way if he can stay out of jail."
"Savvy enough to keep me from asking the mayor, in front of God and everybody, if he knows who killed Jack Cullan?"
"With one hand tied behind her back. Take your best shot."
Mason winked at Rachel. "No time like the present."
He weaved his way around the tables, ignoring the turned heads and murmurs that followed him. Last year, his picture had been in the newspaper and on television for weeks, accompanied by a media chorus flogging the deadly demise of his law firm, Sullivan amp; Christenson. He refused to play the celebrity, adding an unintended angle to the story. Rachel's latest article on Cullan's murder identified him as Blues's attorney, reminding readers that he had been a suspect, killer, and hero in the Sullivan amp; Christenson case.
The mayor finished his remarks and made his way toward Amy White. Mason was on course to intercept him. The buzz increased as people sensed that something was about to happen that would make their $150-a-plate lunch worth the price of admission.
Amy White was the first hurdle Mason had to overcome. She had auburn hair that fell against the base of her neck, dark-rimmed glasses giving her unlined face a serious cast, her gray suit covering a slender build.
She watched as he approached, not flinching, her intense gaze more curious than concerned. Those closest to the scene surged a few steps closer, not wanting to miss anything. Billy Sunshine reached Amy a half step ahead of Mason.
"Merry Christmas, Lou," the mayor boomed loud enough to be heard at Santa's North Pole workshop and grasped Mason's hand. "Glad you could make it. I want to talk with you about Jack Cullan's murder. You've got a job to do. I understand that. But Jack was a good man and a good friend. He deserves justice and his killer deserves the maximum punishment the law allows. I know you want that as much as you want to help your client."
Amy White permitted herself a small smile, satisfied that the TV cameras had captured the moment. She tilted her head toward the doors to the kitchen. Sunshine took his cue, cupping Mason's elbow, leading him through the kitchen, stopping at the service elevator.
"You're as good as people say you are, Mr. Mayor. You saw me coming the whole way," Mason said.
"A good quarterback has to be able to pick up the blitz."
"And it helps to have a good defensive coordinator."
"Amy is the best in the business. You've got five minutes. Don't waste them and don't darken my door again. You do and I'll tell the press that you're harassing me. You can call me to testify at the trial if you think I've got anything to say, but you won't hear anything different then from what I'll tell you now."
"I'll have a lot more than five minutes at trial."
Sunshine looked at his watch. "Four minutes. I hope you're better in court."
"Let's make it the two-minute drill. Did Jack Cullan ever represent you?"
"Yes. On private matters that are protected by the attorney-client privilege."
"Did he bribe you to approve the license for the Dream Casino?"
"No. One minute."
"Who killed him?"
"According to the police, your client. Thirty seconds. Time for one last play."
"What's in Jack Cullan's secret file on you?"
Sunshine didn't answer. His involuntary glance at Amy and the twitch in his eye told Mason he'd scored.
"Maybe you don't know," Mason said. "I guess you'll find out in court. Merry Christmas."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mason was parked on the third level of the Hyatt's covered parking garage. Melting snow laced with dirt and debris gave the garage a dank taste, like a flooded basement. As he turned the key in the ignition, Amy White rapped a gloved hand on the front passenger window, opened the door, and slid in beside him.
"If you lost the mayor, don't look at me. I left him with you."
"Cute. We need to talk."
"I tried that. It didn't work too well."
"I'm sorry about what happened in the hotel. Blame me, not the mayor. I read Rachel Firestone's article in today's paper. She practically accused the mayor of trying to railroad your client onto death row. I had a feeling you might show up at one of the mayor's public appearances since he wouldn't see you at
his office. I handled it the only way I could without having another incident."
"Wouldn't it have been a lot easier to make an appointment?"
"The mayor's schedule is so tight I can barely get in to see him."
"That's bullshit. You just hoped I didn't have the balls to nail your boss in public. I've got to hand it to you, though. You guys were ready. Made it look like I was at the top of the mayor's Christmas list."
"I can put you there."
She arched an eyebrow and cocked her head to one side. It wasn't exactly a come-hither look. She didn't strike him as the kind of woman who would wet her lower lip with her tongue and open her thighs a provocative inch or two to make an offer he couldn't refuse.
"Of course you can. In return for what? My firstborn male child?"
"Nothing so dramatic. Besides, Rachel Firestone would just write a story that the mayor had fathered another child out of wedlock."
"She really gets under your skin, doesn't she?"
"No. She just creates work for me to do. The mayor has done tremendous things for this city, and she can't stand that."
"Save it. The mayor isn't George Washington or even George Bush. He won the Super Bowl and should have gone to Disney World instead of city hall. I thought he'd be more interested in who killed Jack Cullan since they were so tight."
"The mayor believes that the killer has been caught. But he wants to be fair to your client. He's opposed to any rush to judgment."
"You can't possibly believe that, and even if you do, you can't possibly expect me to believe it. If half of what Rachel Firestone has written about your boss and the Dream Casino is true, the odds are two to one that Cullan's murder is tied to that deal. We both know the best thing that could happen to the mayor is for my client to be convicted or plead guilty before Cullan's secret files end up on the front page of the Star."
"Do you have the files?"
"What do you think?"
"I think if you did, they would already have been on the front page."
"And you can't let that happen, can you? If I keep the mayor out of my case, will he name a street after me?"
"The mayor had nothing to do with Jack Cullan's death. There's no reason to throw mud at him. That won't save your client."
"Finding the killer will save my client. If the mayor wants to stay above the fray, I need his help. I need to know the whole story about the Dream Casino."
"The mayor can't help you. Even if he wanted to, I wouldn't let him. But I'll help you on one condition. If you find Cullan's files-assuming they really exist-I want to see the mayor's file before anyone else. If there's anything in it that will help your client, use it. If there isn't, I get the file and you agree that you never saw it."
Amy was the second person to make him an offer if he found the files. Like the deal he had made with Rachel, this one could also help Blues.
"Okay. You've got a deal. Now tell me about the casino."
"Sorry to disappoint you. There's no story there. The casino deal is clean. The U.S. attorney, the prosecuting attorney, and the gaming commission have all blessed it. Ask me something I really can help you with."
"That doesn't mean the deal was clean. It only means they couldn't prove anything. When was the last time you spoke with Jack Cullan?"
"Last Friday night, but that won't help your client."
Mason leaned toward her. "Let me make that decision. Besides, I'd rather know the bad facts now. Finding out in court ruins my day."
Amy pressed her back against the passenger door and took a deep breath.
"Okay. Jack called me at home Friday night. It was late, about midnight. He told me that he wanted a copy of the liquor license for a club called Blues on Broadway and he wanted to know all about the owner."
Mason felt the inside of the Jeep shrink as the case against Blues got a little tighter.
"What else did he say?"
"He told me that the owner had roughed him up and that he was going to shut the bar down, teach him a lesson he wouldn't forget. I told him that I'd get him the records on Monday morning."
"Is that a service the mayor's office routinely provides?"
"Favors are what I do. It wasn't illegal to provide him with records that are available to anyone who wants to walk into the office of the director of liquor control."
"Do the police know about this?"
"Yes. I told them when they came to see the mayor about Jack. I hadn't had a chance to request the records before we found out that Jack had been killed."
"How did you find out about Cullan?"
"The chief of police called the mayor and said he had something important to discuss. He came to the mayor's office around ten o'clock Monday morning with a couple of detectives."
"Harry Ryman and Carl Zimmerman?"
"That's right. The mayor was very upset. In spite of what you might think, Jack and the mayor were really close. The mayor cross-examined the detectives as if they were on trial. He told them to keep him informed of the progress of the investigation."
"Which means keep you informed?"
Amy nodded. "I'm paid to be his eyes and ears."
Amy's story added credibility to Cullan's threat that he would punish Blues for interfering in his fight with Beth Harrell.
"Could Cullan have gotten Blues's bar shut down?"
Amy shrugged. "Depends on what he came up with. Jack had a lot of influence, but he wasn't king."
Mason decided to switch gears. "Do you know Ed Fiora?"
Amy gave him her cocked-head look again. "Yes, I know Ed Fiora and the mayor knows Ed Fiora."
"Do you know any of the people who work for him?"
Amy hesitated. "A few."
"How about a big guy, roughly the size of New Jersey, with breath that smells like licorice?"
Amy frowned. Mason assumed that she wasn't trying to decide whether she knew him. Rather, he figured she was deciding whether to give him up.
"Tony Manzerio," she said at last. "I met him at Fiora's office. He sits outside the door like a guard dog. Ed must give him licorice instead of dog treats. Why do you ask?"
"Can't tell the players without a program. I'll let you know if I find the mayor's file."
"I'm counting on you," Amy said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The door to Mason's office had a slot in it for mail delivery. He scooped Friday's delivery off the floor, tossed it on the sofa, and opened up the dry-erase board. Using a green marker, he drew a short line down from Ed Fiora's name and added Tony Manzerio's name to the board. He wrote Amy White's name in parentheses next to the mayor's name and underscored Rachel's reference to Jack Cullan's secret files.
His conversation with Amy had convinced him that Cullan's files did exist. He couldn't decide whether the files were the motive for Cullan's murder or the reason for the determined effort to railroad Blues-or both.
The words he'd written on the board didn't suddenly come to life and rearrange themselves into the answers to his questions. It was, he reminded himself, a dry-erase board and not a Ouija board.
He found an envelope buried in the stack of mail from the Jackson County prosecutor's office marked Hand Delivery. It contained a motion filed by Patrick Ortiz asking the court to set a preliminary hearing in Blues's case and an order signed by Judge Pistone setting the hearing on January 2. The judge's order was not a surprise, but Ortiz's motion made as much sense as folding with a full house when no else had placed a bet.
There were a number of steps in the life of a criminal case once a suspect was arrested. The first was the arraignment, which was to officially inform the defendant of the charges against him and to set bail.
The next step was for the prosecutor to establish that there was probable cause to believe that a crime had been committed and that the defendant had committed it. The prosecutor could meet that burden by presenting the case to the grand jury and asking for an indictment. Or the prosecutor could ask the associate circuit court judge to hold
a preliminary hearing, at which the state would present its evidence and ask the judge to bind the defendant over for trial. If the judge found the state's evidence sufficient, the case would be assigned to a circuit court judge for trial.
The grand jury met in secret. Witnesses could be subpoenaed to testify and forced to appear without a lawyer to represent them. Taking the Fifth Amendment was the criminal equivalent of a scarlet letter. Hearing only the state's side of the case ensured that the grand jury would issue whatever indictments the prosecutor requested.
A preliminary hearing was public. The defendant had the right to attend and listen to the case against him, and his lawyer had the right to cross-examine the state's witnesses and present evidence of his client's innocence. Prosecutors hated preliminary hearings because they were forced to show too many of their cards to the defendant. Secret justice was more certain.
Patrick Ortiz would rather rip out a chamber of his heart than give up the grand jury. He didn't care about politics or appearances. He fought the battles and let his boss take the credit. Leonard Campbell was a politician first and a lawyer last. He must have made the decision to give up the grand jury, and Mason knew why.
Rachel Firestone's article, and the media frenzy it had launched, had forced Campbell's hand. He needed to use the preliminary hearing to defuse Rachel's accusation that Blues was a victim of political expediency.
The date of the hearing meant that Mason would be working on New Year's Eve instead of celebrating, though he didn't mind. He didn't have anyone to kiss at midnight, and now he had an excuse to skip the sloppy embraces of people he didn't know at parties that he didn't want to attend alone.
New Year's Eve was an annual take-stock moment for Mason, demanding an honest appraisal of where he'd been and where he was going. The best New Year's he'd ever celebrated had been the first one with Kate. They'd been married a month and were still giddy. She'd surprised him with tickets to Grand Cayman, a second honeymoon before they'd finished paying for the first one. They danced as if they were possessed, shouted and laughed with strangers, and marveled at the magic in their lives. Minutes before midnight, Kate led him onto an empty beach glowing with the reflection of the moon and stars, where they had made love as the New Year dawned.
