The Defendants: Crime Fiction & Legal Thriller (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 1)

by John Ellsworth

  But the interior was magnificent. It was built of dark-stained redwood front to back, eight stalls per side, with stall doors hung from rollers so the doors would roll to the side and allow the horses to come and go. Overhead there were sixteen circular fans, one per stall, individually controlled. Same for lights, as each stall allowed bright incandescent and fluorescent light controlled from a panel embedded just outside. The center walkway of the barn was turquoise brick, laid in a herringbone pattern that allowed spray washing with sand underneath and gravel with drainage tile under that, to allow runoff. The whole idea of the brick was to have a walking surface that would give beneath the inhabitants’ shod feet. Better than cement, Erwin thought, though others would have said the expense of building such a floor was excessive. The barn gleamed inside, thanks to a full-time stable staff that did everything from bathe the horses every day to lunge them, to ride them, to test their speeds on the regulation size track at the rear of the farm, to groom and curry. A veterinarian visited regularly and kept the animals in perfect condition, including ninety day checkups and individualized diets. A farrier cared for the horses’ hooves, trimming the giant nails and creating fitted horseshoes. The idea of Thaddeus helping Killen clean stalls was something they did for entertainment, to be outside, to perform physical labor, to be around the animals and the smell of the barn, the hay, the oats, the medications, and even, yes, the excrement, which was all a part of keeping living, breathing, 1500-pound horses. Thaddeus forked caked hay, and imagined himself with such just a spread someday. There was nothing about it he didn’t already like and enjoy. He was clearing out stall eleven when he heard a voice call to him. “Hey in there! What’s your name?”

  Thaddeus looked up. She was tall, he guessed five-nine, slender as if stepping off a Vogue page, black hair, black eyebrows, pale blue eyes, with a playful smile at the corners of her mouth.

  “Oh, hey,” he said. “I’m Thaddeus. Is that you practicing the dressage?”

  She laughed and tossed her head. “Just working Sister Andromeda. She needs it. Otherwise she gets lazy. I’m Ilene Crayton.”

  “So you’re horsey?”

  “Was. In a past life. Actually my husband and I kept horses, Quarter Horses.”

  Thaddeus knew the story of Doctor Crayton and his untimely death. He skipped over that, saying, “That’s a breed I’m getting familiar with. I have one boarded here. Uncle Do-gooder.” He removed his baseball cap and wiped his forehead with his wrist. “Hot work.”

  She smiled. “But the pay’s good, right?”

  “Top dollar. He’ll buy my lunch for my efforts, which means I’m making about eighty cents an hour.”

  “That’ll take you far. Well anyway, I’d best get this little lady groomed and put away. She’s already moving toward her stall.”

  “She likes her room?”

  “Hmm. She likes her oats, you mean.”

  “Got it. Well, thanks for saying hello.”

  She started to move away then stopped and looked back across the English saddle at him. “Hey, we’re having a little get-together Christmas Eve. You busy?”

  Thaddeus’ heart bumped in his chest. “I am now, thanks!”

  “You know where I live?”

  “Who doesn’t? What should I bring?”

  “Just your own sweet self. And wine, if you have a preference. Otherwise I’ll have Coors and all the rest of what you cowboys drink.”

  “Not much of a drinker, but I’ll help tend bar. I bartended my first year in law school. I make a great White Russian.”

  “See you then. Bring an apron, barkeep.”

  “Will do.”

  10

  Governor Cleman L. Walker was furious when Ricardo Moltinari dropped off the $25,000. They were huddled in the mansion’s library, where the feds had hidden a bug every ten feet. The bugs were hot: downtown in a nondescript building the hard drives were whirring and recording every word that was said. The governor sputtered and his face turned red. His fists clenched and unclenched. Then he managed to get out a few words, hisses, really.

  “Sumbitch stole my money!”

  “Johnny tried everything with the guy. Put the fear in him.”

  “Oh?”

  “Carved up Mister Harrow’s girlfriend. Nothing structural.”

  “What’s that mean?” The governor’s face paled. “How seriously did he injure her?”

  “He carved Victor’s name in her tits.”

  “Damn! He what, cut her up and turned her loose to call the cops on him—on us?”

  “Naw. She was sound asleep when it happened. Wouldn’t wake up even if you engraved her tits.”

  “Oh hell.”

  “Hey, Your Honor, you said we should put the fear in Victor Harrow. Consider it done.”

  “Yes and I also said nothing broken and nothing that shows.”

  “Relax. This don’t show.”

  “Damn. Well, what’s done is done. Now what about the seventy-five K he owes me? That’s my money he’s holding out!”

  “Swears he ain’t got it.”

  “Well, I’ve got the AG looking into that. He’s got assets, we’ll find them. Which reminds me, let me call Bob Amistaggio and see where we are with that.”

  Governor Walker hit 9 on his iPhone. Speed dial had the Attorney General on the line in seconds. This time a cell phone monitor sparked to life and recorded the conversation on the same hard drive downtown.

  “Hey, Cleman, what’s up?” Robert F. Amistaggio answered.

  “We got anything yet on that Victor Harrow down in Orbit?”

  “What do you mean, have we found assets?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “There’s a lawyer down there, name of Fletcher Franey. Fletcher is the chairman of the Hickam County Democrat Party. He’s been through every public record in the county. Plus he swiped a copy of our Mister Harrow’s tax returns last five years. Franey tells me there’s nothing that doesn’t have a huge lien. The guy’s judgment-proof. We get nada.”

  “Thanks,” the Governor said, and clicked End Call. He turned back to Bang Bang Moltinari. “Nothing. We can’t touch the guy.”

  “But we can make an example of him. That’s our play, so word don’t get out that he beat us.”

  “I hate that.”

  “Hey, you got another idea?”

  “Does the guy have kids?”

  “One daughter. Grown. Her husband owns a restaurant and package place. Small change.”

  “Any equity there we can get to?”

  “Guy’s only had it five years. He’s still paying interest on the notes. No equity.”

  “Damn it all! So what do we do?”

  Bang Bang Moltinari spread his hands and looked firmly at the Governor. “You got but one play. We take him out. Make an example.”

  “Damn.”

  “Just gimme the word. We can make it look like the girl did it.”

  “What girl?”

  “The chick Johnny engraved. She has a motive to hurt Victor back.”

  “I like that.”

  “I knew you would.”

  “All right. Get it done. Just don’t report it back to me, yes?”

  “Done.”

  * * *

  Victor Harrow frowned at his lawyer and shook his head. “No, we don’t turn over the name of the guy that did this. That gets me killed.”

  Bill Johannson III nodded, “Because the guy’s connected.” Johannson was a bear of a man, Michigan Law, first in class, and had once worked at Brown and Doerr in Chicago, an 800 lawyer firm, where he became a senior partner in the unheard-of record-time of 34 months. Following that coup he had cashed in his equity, taken his several million in cash and bonuses, and headed south to start his own firm, back in his home town. A life-long dream. But he still had the same insurance companies in his pocket that had loved him in Chicago. He did the defense work, civil and workers’ comp, for no less than 22 carriers all over downstate Illinois. Against his better
judgment Johannson-Hathaway had been allowed to grow to eight lawyers when Bill had put down his foot. “No more,” he said. “If I can’t review its files personally, then it can get me in trouble. I need more control. No bigger.” Clint Hathaway, his partner, could only agree. Bill held all the cards and Clint was in the game only because he had been in the right office setup at the right time when Bill had come back to town looking for space and a partner. Eight lawyers, no more, no less, and Bill controlled them all with an iron fist.

  “So you’re afraid to turn over this Johnny Bladanni’s name,” said Johannson. “I appreciate that.”

  Victor closed his eyes. “More than that. The guy’s not only connected, he’s the nephew of Ricardo Bang Bang Moltinari.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I’ve been dealing with the guys since forever. I know all of them.”

  Bill Johannson III made a note on the legal pad that said “HARROW” in all caps across the top. “Subject related to Chicago. Uncle-Nephew.” Johannson didn’t use names in case his files were ever subpoenaed or seized—the feds had a new habit of seizing the legal files of certain lawyers who defended bad guys. Among other things, Johannson was one who defended just the kind of bad guys the government was very interested in. He knew Bang Bang Moltinari’s name and knew what he did, but he didn’t think he’d ever defended any of his middlemen or the lower echelon. Button men and some drug mules, that was about the extent of his involvement with the Chicago mob. He smiled to himself: it could never be said he had a conflict of interest, representing Vic Harrow in a case involving the Chicago mob. Would that be an ethical violation? he mused while he made his notes. Bill Johannson III was fifty-five, played racquetball competitively on weekends (seniors, but still) and had been married to Gretchen Johannson for thirty-five years. He was loyal to his wife, he was loyal to his clients, and he was especially loyal to the insurance companies that were forever hiring him to defend their policyholders and even, once or twice a year, the insurance company itself when it was sued for Bad Faith. It was said he had never lost a trial for an insurance client. It was also said he had never lost a criminal trial. Thirty years ago there had been a traffic violation and prosecution that he had lost, but that was chalked up to the fact his client hadn’t bothered to show up for trial and the State Trooper wouldn’t give him the foundation he needed to admit certain photographs into the case. That one had come back “Guilty” and, even now, thirty years later, he sometimes couldn’t sleep, thinking about that case. He prepared his cases with all the attention a surgeon gives a new procedure he must learn. He knew where to cut, where to dissect, where to sew, and when to close. Never once in his professional life had he gone to court with anything less than his own statements in detailed outline form and cross-examinations and direct-examinations written out—complete with expected witness responses—beforehand. In short, nothing was going to happen in that courtroom that he hadn’t anticipated and made full preparation to resist or encourage.

  “Here’s something I bet you didn’t know,” Bill Johannson said. “My little bird at the courthouse in Orbit tells me that Fletcher Franey had been going over your public records.”

  Victor’s heart thumped. “Looking for what? Did they know?”

  “Grantor-grantee indices, looking at all your real estate transactions. UCC Financing Statements to see what trucks and equipment and tools you own. Tax records to determine values of your assets based on their tax appraisal—everything on you there, Franey went through and made copies.”

  “Who the hell would he be working for?”

  Johannson shook his head. “Unknown. That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

  “No clue.”

  “Is he connected to Thaddeus Murfee?”

  “Not that I know of. I’ve never seen them together.”

  “Would Franey be on the clock for Murfee?”

  “Doubtful. Thaddeus Murfee doesn’t have that kind of money he could afford to pay anyone. From what I hear, he’s destitute, lives like a monk, doesn’t drink or smoke, doesn’t hang out with questionable women—nothing we can use against him.”

  “Sounds like me at that age,” Johannson laughed. “No exposure means no pressure points. Smart man.”

  “Suppose so. What if you were to call Franey, ask him what the hey?”

  “Might work,” Johannson said, a thoughtful look creasing his forehead. “We know some of the same people, might use that. Course if he’s working with Thaddeus then it gets back we’re onto him.”

  “True. Damn! I don’t like assholes prying into my private stuff.”

  Johannson laughed. “Did I just hear you say ‘private’? In a small town? Dream on, Dreamer.”

  “True again. But I’ll tell you one thing, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Which is what?”

  “I didn’t cut that girl. I’m crazy about Ermeline Ransom. I would never do that to her.”

  “Well, your insurance company has a reserve on this case of $300,000, just in case a jury disagrees.”

  “Could that happen? I wasn’t even conscious. I was drugged too!”

  “Anything can happen. It’s an American courtroom with a jury of your so-called peers. Anything can happen. Except we’re going to micromanage things so we lessen the odds of some of the negative things happening.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to turn over the name of Johnny Bladanni to Thaddeus. We’ve got a discovery document call a Request to Admit Facts. One of the things it asks us to admit or deny is that you in fact caused the injury to Ermeline. My strong suggestion to you, Victor, is that you allow me not only to deny that request, but also to name the actual cutter. Johnny Bladanni.”

  “I’m screwed.”

  “I doubt that. You’re high profile, Victor. Nobody is going to make an attempt on you. Hell, from what you tell me you’re judgment-proof, everything’s mortgaged. That being the case, it’s my guess the mob has already forgotten about you. They’ve already moved on to their next victim.” Johannson knew he might be totally wrong about this, but he was being paid to talk with certitude, as if he had all the answers. That’s how you earned $500/hour.

  “Then you and I see it differently. I think they’re coming after me.”

  “They wouldn’t dare. You’re too high profile. Everyone would know.”

  * * *

  The mob located Hector Ransom living on Burgundy Street in a flophouse in New Orleans. He had been working offshore for BP, helping that obnoxious institution continue to hide the billions of dollars of damage it had done to the Gulf of Mexico during the Great Oil Spill of 2006. Three years after the spill, tar balls could still be found on the Mississippi coast. In July 2013, the discovery of a 40,000 pound tar mat near East Grand Terre, Louisiana prompted the closure of waters to commercial fishing. Hector Ransom had been busy at $125/hour working on a dredge around and through that horror story. While it was true BP paid extremely well for his services, Hector rarely saw any reason to send any part of that back home to his ex, Ermeline Ransom, for his son Jaime’s child support.

  You’re needed back home in Orbit, the thugs told him. When he resisted and he told them Hickam County had a warrant out for him, the men hurt him. As usual, the injuries were invisible to other citizens. But in reality he pissed blood for weeks after and he was missing the second toe of his right foot. Three days later, Hector was sitting in the lounge of the Sangamon Grill in Springfield, nursing a draft beer, waiting to meet someone he knew only as “Johnny.” He had been told the man would introduce himself, that he had Hector’s picture on his cell phone. He should follow Johnny’s orders exactly to the “T” or they would be back. Next time, they told him, if they had to come back for him again, it would be the whole foot.

  11

  It was Christmas Eve and Ermeline was working straight through to midnight. Bronco Groski had joined her at ten, but tonight she was pulling a double shift. She always did
on Christmas Eve, and really didn’t mind, since Jaime was being watched by her mother, who would sleep over and be there to help the youngster open his presents on Christmas morning. They did this every year and Ermeline was glad for it. She was also glad for the huge tips she took in between ten and midnight on Christmas Eve. Everybody loved her during those hours. Everybody wished her Merry Christmas. Several propositioned her; one offered her $100 to see her tattoo and was brusquely hustled out the front door by Bronco and told to go home and sober up.

  Nobody heard the single gunshot at 9 a.m., certainly not anyone inside the noisy, boisterous lounge at the Silver Dome. Besides, the shot had been muffled by three inches of paneling and insulation and steel body.

  At 10 p.m. who should show up, out of the blue, but Hector Ransom. He slid onto a stool at the bar, ordered a draft beer from Bronco, and received a curious look in return. Bronco knew the face from somewhere, but couldn’t quite place it. Besides, the face was half-hidden behind a black and gray beard and bleary eyes that seemed to see everything and nothing. The draft was plunked down before him and Hector two-handed the mug to his mouth. He had the shakes as he hadn’t yet had a drink that day: Johnny’s orders. He was to remain sober for this one, no matter what. Hector was wearing his J.C. Penny fleece parka which weighed twice its normal weight, thanks to the silver plated .38 snub nose in one inside pocket and the ten inch switchblade in the other. He had been the mostly unwilling recipient of the two items, but he had known better than to argue. He remembered what they had told him about cold turkey amputation of his right foot. Damn! he thought as he swilled down the beer, without a right foot you can’t even drive! How scary was that? He tapped a quarter sharply on the bar and motioned for a refill. It was going to be a long night.