The Betrayal

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Friedrich Zappolo looked like he had been put together with a kit. Tall, trim, late fifties, tanned, and with short, bristly white hair, he was clearly a fitness buff and a connoisseur of fine suits.

  Boone took in the cavernous office with an expansive view of the Loop and Lake Michigan. “Nice.”

  Zappolo grabbed a leather-bound legal pad from his desk and pointed to a round side table. Boone had never had a powerful lawyer come out from behind the desk and sit with him. He had to wonder if Fritz would have done that if Boone weren’t in the news.

  Regardless, Haeley needed the best.

  Boone cleared his throat as he sat. “You take this case and your client is a civil service clerical worker, currently unemployed. That makes me the payer.”

  Zappolo snorted. “You couldn’t afford me if you were the superintendent of police. Find me five grand for incidentals and consider the rest pro bono.”

  “You serious?”

  “That’s if the case is worthy and interests me.” He pulled a Montblanc from his pocket. “Shoot.”

  Over the next half hour Boone spilled the story.

  Zappolo wrote quickly in neat, compact lines. Finally he sat back and stretched his legs, crossing his feet at the ankles. With his hands behind his head, he seemed to study the ceiling. “I know all these people,” he said. “Except Ms. Lamonica, of course, and I may have even met her. I’ve been in and out of those offices a lot.”

  “You know Fox?”

  Zappolo chuckled. “Everybody knows Garrett. I half expect him to try to hire me. Thankfully this precludes that.”

  “You mean you’ll take Haeley’s case?”

  “Of course. That she’s in County is an outrage. Let’s get her out of there.”

  As Zappolo was pulling on his coat, he pressed a button on his desk. “I need the car, and bring Detective Drake his coat.”

  “We’re going now?” Boone said.

  “It’s less than ten miles, Drake, and she shouldn’t be there a minute longer than necessary, should she?”

  2:15 p.m.

  By the time Boone and the lawyer reached the street, a sleek Town Car was waiting, the driver standing by the back door.

  “Are they necessary?” Zappolo said, nodding at the uniformed cops who had followed them out.

  “’Fraid so,” Boone said. “And we need to give them a minute to get their squad.”

  “Tell them to hurry. And they don’t have to come inside the jail, do they? Can they wait outside?”

  “I’ll make it happen.”

  But when they were on their way, Boone’s cell phone rang. Jack Keller.

  “Where you goin’, Boones?”

  7

  County

  Boone heard Fritz Zappolo on his own cell tracking down Haeley’s location and disposition while Jack Keller was bleating at Boone on his.

  “Do I have to spell this out for you?” Jack said. “Every gangbanger in the city, in or out of jail, wants your head. You were safe where you were.”

  “So if it was you, Jack, what would you do? You’re a target, you’re wounded, you’re in a cozy hospital, and Margaret is in trouble.” It wasn’t often Boone found Jack Keller stumped. “Puts a different spin on things, doesn’t it? I’m listening, boss. I need my mentor, my champion, to tell me what I ought to do.”

  “You should’ve sat tight,” Keller muttered, plainly with zero conviction.

  “That’s what you would have done? Margaret’s missing. Or kidnapped. Or, wait, how about she’s in the worst holding pen known to man, charged with something so unlikely it doesn’t even make sense. Still relaxing?”

  “But County, Boones? You go there and you’re going to give Pete the ammunition he needs—”

  “We’ve been through this, Jack. I’m not allowed to visit my girlfriend because it might look like we’re colluding? On what? Getting me killed?”

  “Just let this play out, will you? If she’s innocent it will come out, and you won’t be bollixing up the works.”

  “Did you just say if, Jack? I ought to hang up on you, insubordination or not.”

  “Speaking of insubordination, you do still report to me, and I’m telling you I want you—”

  “Pete Wade works for you too, and you’re not giving him orders. Don’t do this, Jack. You’re not going to keep me from Haeley any more than anyone could keep you from Margaret.”

  Keller swore. Boone had won this round.

  “I’m not on speaker, am I, Boones?”

  “No.”

  “Zappolo, really?”

  “You know he’s the best.”

  Keller paused. “Yeah, but . . .”

  “You’re surprised the Mob hasn’t engaged him?”

  “I know he doesn’t stoop that low. But he’s defended guys you and I have caught red-handed.”

  “And did a good job for them.”

  “Too good.”

  “Imagine how he’ll do with a client who’s innocent,” Boone said.

  “How you gonna pay him, anyway?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Fair enough. Listen, as long as you’re out running around, you want to see Candelario?”

  “’Course.”

  “I’d sure feel better if we put you out there too. Talk about safe. That place is—”

  “I’m not staying there.”

  Keller sighed. “You don’t mind costing the city thousands to keep an eye on your place?”

  “I didn’t ask for any of that.”

  “What’s the option, Boones? What’re you gonna do, sit in your window with an M4, defending yourself one-handed?”

  “The guy who shot me is dead and everybody else who wants me is locked up.”

  Zappolo motioned to Boone to get off the phone.

  “The naiveté of youth,” Keller said. “You think we arrested tens of thousands? Every junior gangbanger sees this as his opportunity to rise in the ranks. Any one of them would take you out without blinking.”

  “I gotta go, Jack.”

  “Get back to me and I’ll run you out to . . . you know, where you can see PC.”

  2:45 p.m.

  Zappolo’s driver pulled into the Cook County Jail parking facility, and the two clambered out.

  “Boss giving you a hard time?” the lawyer said.

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “You should’ve asked him if he wanted to talk with your attorney.”

  “You’re my attorney now too?”

  “Whatever you need.”

  “I hope I don’t need a lawyer to communicate with my own boss.”

  “Never know. Without counsel, you may be bound by protocol to obey his every order.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Drake. Keller’s a good egg. Lot of respect for him, though I doubt that goes both ways. I’m just saying that I wouldn’t stand for his getting between you and doing the right thing for Ms. Lamonica. Now, the people downtown tell me she’s to be arraigned tomorrow morning—”

  “Tomorrow!”

  Zappolo held up a hand. “Hang on. That’s why we’re here. I’ve already called in some favors. No way we’re letting her stay here another night. If I’m successful, she can be arraigned in a nearby precinct station house with a gaggle of hookers and drunks. It’s our best chance of getting her out on bond immediately. You don’t want her in there another night. Anyway, we wait till tomorrow and it’s done downtown, the press will be all over it. Nobody will expect this.”

  Zappolo never seemed to announce when he was finished talking. He just moved on, striding toward the entrance, and Boone had to rush to keep up. He’d almost forgotten how exhausted and tender he was. It was all he could do to manage the door and hurry along, trying to keep his coat draped over his bad wing.

  “What happens now?” he called out, hoping to slow Zappolo.

  Fritz turned and looked surprised at how far behind Boone was, but he never broke stride. “You’re go
ing to see her. I don’t need to. I need to talk to the brass about being sure she makes the next squadrol so she doesn’t miss this arraignment. There’s not another until tomorrow, and we don’t want that.”

  Boone had been to Cook County Jail before, of course, but it never failed to overwhelm him. Covering ninety-six acres on Chicago’s west side, it was the largest single-site jail in the United States. As he and Zappolo moved past Division 5—Receiving—he saw a long line of cuffed prisoners waiting to be processed.

  “More’n three hundred new detainees a day,” Zappolo said as they entered. “Don’t know where they put them all.”

  Boone recoiled from the stench and was surprised anew at the sheer din. He wondered how long it would have taken him to get in, had it not been for Fritz. The lawyer seemed to know everyone and was directed further and further up the chain of command until he finally motioned Boone to join him. A supervisor summoned a corrections officer, who checked Boone’s ID, wanded him, confiscated all contraband, including his cell phone, and walked him through a metal detector. He affixed a security tag to Boone’s shirt and escorted him through several checkpoints, finally delivering him to a long line of others waiting to visit inmates.

  The officer whispered, “She’s been informed she has a visitor, and when you show your pass up there—” he pointed—“they’ll tell you which booth to go to, and she’ll be on the other side of the glass. You talk to her by phone.”

  Boone kept glancing at his watch. More important than even seeing Haeley now—while he could hardly stand the wait—was her making the local arraignment and getting bailed out as soon as possible. He didn’t want to be responsible for her missing that opportunity.

  The line crept as the clock sped, and the pain in Boone’s shoulder reminded him he had missed his last dose of meds. And these were not pills one took on an empty stomach.

  To keep his mind off the pain, Boone filled his mind with images of Haeley. Since the day he met her he had never seen her other than impeccably dressed. Even after hours—once when she had called him to change a tire for her—it was plain she had touched up anticipating his arrival.

  At work she never wore anything but smart business suits that flattered her. And off the job she clearly never just threw on something comfortable. The woman knew how to dress, for church, for dates, even for playing in the park with Max.

  Boone knew she would need encouragement, given that she would be sitting across from him in a county-issue orange jumpsuit. Maybe he could muster a joke, something lighthearted. As early in the conversation as possible, he wanted to give her the good news—that if Zappolo was successful and she was able to make the arraignment, she would be out before she knew it.

  3:30 p.m.

  When it was finally Boone’s turn, he showed his badge to what appeared a terminally bored civil servant and was pointed around the corner to booth nine. “If she’s not there,” he was told, “she will be in a few seconds.”

  Any inkling of banter disappeared when Boone approached and saw the squinting woman sitting across from him. He would not have recognized her.

  Haeley’s long dark hair—normally flowing—was greasy and flat and had been pulled into a ponytail. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and the jumper was a couple of sizes too big, making her look like a child.

  She sat, eyes dark and darting, face pale. Haeley covered her mouth with one fluttering hand and tears came.

  Boone picked up the receiver and forced a smile. “Expecting someone else?”

  She nodded and mouthed, “My mother.”

  He pointed to her phone and she picked up.

  “She’s coming?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, voice quavery. “I figured she’d come see me before taking over Max from Florence. I don’t even know if Florence got hold of her.”

  “You okay?”

  Haeley laid the phone on the counter and buried her face in her hands. She shook her head and sobbed.

  Boone knocked on the window and pointed at the phone. “Don’t, Haeley! I have good news.”

  She peeked up at him, looking miserable. He read her lips. “You’ve got to get me out of here.”

  He nodded and pointed to his watch, mouthing, “I got you a lawyer.”

  She finally picked up again. “I already have a lawyer, some public defender who talks to me like I’m a number. Some kind of hearing downtown tomorrow and he wants to know how much money I have. When I told him, he said I should expect to be in here a few more weeks. Boone, I’ll kill myself before I do that.”

  “Don’t say that. Too many people need you and love you. Think of Max.”

  “You don’t understand. I don’t belong here—”

  “I know.”

  “—and that’s obvious to everybody who does belong here. If I have to stay here overnight again . . .”

  “You won’t.” Boone told her about Zappolo and the local arraignment.

  For the first time he saw a flicker of hope in her eyes. “Now? Today?”

  “This afternoon,” Boone said. “Zappolo will meet you there.”

  “And you’ll be there?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, Boone! I prayed and prayed that you would do something.”

  “Did you even imagine I wouldn’t?”

  “I didn’t know. For all I knew, they had you drugged for a reason and wouldn’t even let you know where I was! Boone, why is Pete doing this? He has to know I would never—”

  Boone shushed her. “All in due time,” he said. “I’m going to put the phone down for a second so I can put my hand on the glass.”

  Haeley winced and pressed her hand up to his. “Grimy,” she mouthed.

  He shrugged and picked up the phone. “I can’t wait to touch you for real.”

  “Me either.”

  Haeley flinched at footsteps behind her. A female officer handed her a manila envelope and a plastic bag and reached for the phone.

  “Sir,” the officer said, “this missy has a squadrol waitin’, and it leaves at four, so you got to let her go.”

  “Gladly.”

  Boone hung up and pressed two fingers to his lips. Haeley followed the officer out. When Boone returned to Receiving and retrieved his cell phone, he found a text from Zappolo.

  “Car. Now.”

  8

  Exposed

  Thursday, February 4, 4:30 p.m.

  Boone couldn’t stand the pain anymore and downed his pills, then slipped into a back bench in the dank, crowded underbelly of a local police station and waited for them—and the nausea—to kick in.

  Haeley was the only detainee in line awaiting arraignment wearing county orange. The rest were ladies of the evening and drunk-and-disorderlies who had apparently spent their nights in local lockups.

  The judge, a swarthy, sweating man whose double chin covered his collar, was apparently used to dealing with repeat neighborhood offenders represented by public defenders. He seemed to rouse when the nattily dressed Friedrich Zappolo rose and announced he represented Haeley Lamonica.

  The judge studied the charge sheet, then looked over the top of his glasses. “What’s a case like this doing in my court? Your client also a hooker?”

  “Your Honor would be advised not to verge on slandering an upstanding Chicago civil servant, a mother, and a woman with not even a hint of a record.”

  The judge leveled his gaze at Zappolo. “And counsel would be advised not to lecture the court. This may not be Mahogany Row, but the same rules apply.”

  “Begging Your Honor’s pardon, may I suggest that my client be released on her own recognizance until this misunderstanding can be sorted out? She poses no flight risk and is eager to be reunited with her young son.”

  “Maybe she should have thought of that before she—” the judge pursed his lips as he again perused the charge sheet—“violated the public trust and her oath of—”

  “As I say, Your Honor, a misunderstanding. I pledge personal responsibility for the c
ustody of Ms. Lamonica and—”

  “Oh, come now, counsel. I’m not going to just let you walk out of here with a fugitive. Your client may well be innocent of these charges, but if she’s not, she’s at least indirectly responsible for a Chicago Police Department hero being gravely wounded in the line of duty. This man was almost single-handedly responsible for ridding our streets of the worst sort of—”

  “Would it aid the court to know that the very victim you speak of is present in support of the defendant, clearly persuaded that she bears no responsibility?”

  Boone had just started to feel better, the anesthetic beginning to dull his pain. Now he wanted to hide. He knew Zappolo would make up for his minuscule fee by riding the publicity, but did Fritz have to use him in the process? Jack Keller would be spitting bullets.

  The announcement of Boone’s presence seemed to catch the attention of every lowlife in the room. The judge asked that Boone rise and introduce himself, and when he hesitated, Zappolo whirled and glared at him.

  The judge said, “Where is our phantom hero, counselor?”

  Boone stood. “Detective Boone Drake, sir. Gang Enforcement Section, Organized Crime Division, Chicago PD.”

  Over a smattering of applause the judge said, “Allow me to thank you on behalf of a grateful city.”

  “May I speak, Your Honor?”

  Zappolo shook his head, but the judge said, “The court would be honored to hear from you.”

  “It happens that Ms. Lamonica and I care deeply for each other, and so it makes no sense that she would have had anything to do with endangering my life.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the judge said. “Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars, which I assume counsel has in his wallet.”

  Zappolo sprung to his feet. “A hundred thousand?”

  “Sit down, counselor. Can’t a judge have a little fun? You realize how long it’s been since I’ve set any bond, let alone six figures? Make it ten grand, final offer.”

  Twenty minutes later, when Haeley emerged from the women’s locker room, she looked like a different woman. Her suit was wrinkled, and while she had done nothing more with her hair, she had apparently found her makeup. She still looked exhausted and pale, but nothing like at Cook County.