They’d given her a heads up about teenage prostitution when she was on the force. It was on the rise, she’d learned, and while a lot of the prostitutes were illegal immigrants, drug users, or runaways, a growing number of younger teens were coming from seemingly stable middle class families. As usual, money was the draw, but not for the next fix. These girls were hooking for triple mocha lattes, iPods, and four hundred dollar jeans.
Georgia recalled the expensive clothes in Sara’s closet. The digital camera and iPod. She remembered Melinda Long saying the family was just making it; they couldn’t afford luxuries. But Sara could. On her minimum wage job. Which, it turned out, she’d lied about.
The woman climbed back into her Beamer and pulled out of the station.
“Like I said, the cops were all over me,” Horner was saying. “They thought I was his partner. I don’t need that, you know? I got four grandchildren, for crying out loud.” Georgia made herself listen. This had to be the most significant thing that ever happened to Horner; he needed someone to witness his fifteen minutes.
“The cops are sure he had a partner?”
“They sure as hell acted that way.”
“And they thought it was you.”
He cocked his head. “Where you been for the past five minutes, lady? That’s what I been saying.”
“Sorry.” Georgia rubbed her temples again. “Can you describe Janowitz?”
“Skinny kid. Not tall. Maybe five six, five seven. Long hair. Wore as much jewelry as a girl. I told him to take it off at work.” Horner shrugged. “Oh, yeah. He had a big nose, too. Sharp. And his eyes were always watching you. Taking it all in.”
Georgia stopped massaging her temples. Where had she heard that before? Someone else had described a young kid in the same way. Recently. She wracked her brain, willing it to come. The afternoon manager at Burhops. He was describing the kid who picked up the fish guts. “Small. Skinny. Sharp nose. Jewelry.”
Horner started shaking his head. “I kept telling the cops I’ve never done a dishonest day’s work in my life. No way was I his partner.”
But someone else was, Georgia thought. And that someone might know who killed Sara Long.
“Mr. Horner, I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all this, but I wonder if you would do me a tiny favor.”
“What’s that?”
“You have Derek Janowitz’s address and phone number. I’d like to have them.”
“Whatever for? It’s not like he’s gonna be answering his phone.”
“The information might help me figure out who his partner is.” She smiled. “And take the heat off you.”
Horner squinted at her, then leaned forward and planted his feet on the floor. He took his time getting out of the chair. “I guess it don’t matter to me. Just as long as you leave me out of it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
GEORGIA WASN’T surprised to see Robby Parker in court on Thursday, but she was to see O’Malley and Jeff Ramsey. Neither needed to be there—the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Knowing Robby, she would have predicted he’d show up. Anything to get out of real work. But O’Malley? Dan never liked coming down to the courthouse. He’d said—more than once—it was just for show and usually a waste of time. And surely the first assistant State’s Attorney of Cook County had better things to do than appear at a bail reduction hearing. Unless he was there to make a statement. Which, if he did have political aspirations, would make his presence understandable.
Georgia nodded to O’Malley and Parker. O’Malley dipped his head, but Parker refused to make eye contact. She shrugged, making sure O’Malley caught it, and made her way over to Paul Kelly.
To his credit, Kelly didn’t seem to be bothered by Ramsey’s presence. Seated on a bench outside the courtroom, the older lawyer, in a spiffy suit and tie, looked unusually crisp. With his bald head gleaming in the fluorescent lights, he seemed vigorous and happy. In fact, he couldn’t keep from chuckling as they waited. Ruth Jordan, wearing a gray skirt and white blouse, sat next to him on the bench.
Georgia told him what she’d found out about Derek Janowitz. Kelly rubbed his hands together gleefully when she finished. “Good work, Davis! Now we’re getting somewhere. You gonna find his partner?”
“I’m on it. But so are the cops. I heard they’re zeroing in on his roommates. The Eastern Europeans.”
“Which could mean it’s a large, organized ring.”
“Exactly,” Georgia said. “But I’m not real excited about tangling with the Russian mafia, or the Serbian mob, or whatever gang is running hookers on the North Shore.”
“You think it’s a turf war and the Long girl was caught in the middle?”
“I don’t know. Depends on the connection between Janowitz and Sara.”
“But you suspect.”
Georgia frowned. “The girl was killed in the Forest Preserve.”
“So?”
“You’d think if she was a hooker and her murder was related to prostitution, she would have been killed at a job, coming or going. But she was with her high school friends. A universe away from her other life. If she had one.”
“Maybe the killers were counting on that.” The door to the courtroom opened and several people came out. Kelly stood up, held the door open, and motioned for Ruth to enter.
Georgia followed them. “Well, at least things are pointing away from Cam Jordan.”
“It won’t make any difference today,” he said. “And you know in your heart Sara did.”
Georgia cocked her head.
“Have another life.”
***
When the judge entered the room, the clerk ordered everyone to rise. The judge arranged himself behind the bench. Georgia sat next to Ruth behind the defense table. She’d never had an occasion to sit with the “people” before. She’d always been at the cops’ section on the dais. For the first time she noticed how much the Skokie courtroom looked like a church; pews for the congregants, the seal of Cook County above the altar, and the judge’s bench the priest’s lectern.
Parker and O’Malley positioned themselves on the cops’ dais. Parker wore a flashy suit—it probably cost hundreds—and his shield was prominently pinned to his pocket. When detectives were promoted, at least on the North Shore, they got a shield and a clothing allowance and not much more. Promotion to detective was considered a lateral transfer. But Robby seemed to be milking it. He still pretended not to see her.
O’Malley on the other hand, was wearing the tight-fitting navy suit he’d worn to court for years. He looked older: the lines on his forehead looked deeper. His stoic expression didn’t hide the fact he’d rather be fly fishing in the Northwoods of Wisconsin.
She remembered the day she was suspended six months ago. She’d been working her first substantive case, and it was a tough one. A video of a woman getting shot. It wasn’t a snuff film; the video hadn’t been staged. It came from a surveillance camera. It was the middle of winter, and Georgia had been trying to do it by the book. But when she came up against the Russian mafia, procedure took a back seat to survival. She’d ended up in a strip club in Des Plaines with Ellie Foreman, Rachel’s mother, and an unarmed civilian. Georgia had faced down the bouncer and taken his gun. The problem was she never quite got around to turning it in. It didn’t matter that she cracked the case, saved lives, got the bad guy. Olson suspended her because she hadn’t followed procedure.
O’Malley tried to talk Olson out of it, but Olson was adamant. He’d been named chief after a corruption scandal that forced three officers to resign, and he needed to project a squeaky clean image. Georgia was his scapegoat. That was when she realized that, despite being a cop, her world would never be black and white. She would continue to embrace the gray.
Now, Parker nervously toyed with his shield, as if he needed physical proof he was a detective. O’Malley shot him a stern look. Parker dropped his hand and looked apologetic. Was O’Malley baby-sitting him? Is that why he was there? It was possible. This h
ad to be Parker’s his first homicide—he hadn’t worked the video murder with her—and he didn’t have much court experience apart from traffic tickets and DUI’s. She didn’t miss that part of being a cop. Or the paperwork. But she did miss the solidarity, the ability to talk across the desk with someone who knew. Who understood what people could do to each other.
She turned her gaze to Jeff Ramsey. He was at the prosecutor’s table, hands folded. His dark suit wasn’t flashy, and with his rep tie, blue shirt, and a shock of brown hair that kept falling over his forehead, he looked like one of those pictures of Bobby Kennedy she’d seen in books. And just as earnest. He occasionally whispered to a dark-haired female assistant sitting beside him.
The judge had to be in his sixties. Probably a lawyer who’d given up practicing law in return for a steady paycheck. Most circuit court judges commanded respect, and some had amassed a good deal of power. Looking at his sober face and black robes, Georgia wondered if this judge considered himself a successful judge or a failed lawyer. And how that would affect his decision.
Kelly introduced himself and told the judge he’d brought a character reference for Cam Jordan.
“And who might that be?” the judge asked.
“His sister, Ruth.”
“What’s his sister going to say?”
“Your honor, she will attest that Mr. Jordan is not a violent individual and that he poses no threat to the community.”
“Is she a psychologist or a psychiatrist?”
“No, your honor, she’s not.”
“Then, why do I need to hear from her?” The judge rubbed a finger under his nose. “Sorry, counselor. Proceed with your argument.” He looked conspicuously at his watch.
Kelly nodded, and without missing a beat, went on to argue rather eloquently, Georgia thought. The three million dollar bond was totally unreasonable given Cam Jordan’s condition, he claimed. The boy was in-sane—when Ramsey objected, Kelly quickly retracted it and substituted “very disturbed.” He could not reliably tell what was real and what wasn’t. Though he was biologically an adult, Kelly continued, the boy had the mind of a child. He didn’t understand what was happening to him, and the harsh treatment he’d been subjected to at Cook County jail—Kelly stopped short of calling it abuse—was compromising the boy’s physical as well as mental health.
The boy did have a record as a sex offender, Kelly admitted. However, if the record was examined closely, it would reveal Cam had never touched or had any physical contact whatsoever with another individual. His activities were grounded in self-gratification. Only. If he were remanded to his sister’s care, his sister being an exemplary member of the community, by the way, there was no chance he would flee. To be honest, Kelly said, the boy wouldn’t know where to go. The home he had with his sister was the only one he knew.
Compassion alone dictates that his bail be reduced, he went on. The family has limited means and simply cannot pay an exorbitant bond. Compassion, Kelly repeated, and one additional factor.
“We have been collecting information that will cast serious doubt on the evidence against Cam Jordan,” Kelly said solemnly. “In fact, our information points away from Cam Jordan as the killer. We will be making that information available to the court at the appropriate time, but let it be said now that the person who murdered Sara Long is very much an open question.”
“Counsel,” said the judge. “Wouldn’t this be that ‘appropriate time’ to inform the Court of this information?”
“Judge…” Kelly struggled with his response. “It concerns the hazing situation. We are still looking very carefully at the events of that day, and will reveal what we’ve learned at the appropriate time. At this juncture, though, we don’t feel comfortable sharing this information—”
“But I’m supposed to feel ‘comfortable’ just taking your word for it? You’re asking me to reduce bond based on information you won’t share, Counsel.”
The courtroom was hushed. Kelly tried to fashion a response about the sensitivity of the information and protecting his client’s rights. Even Jeff Ramsey paid close attention, and O’Malley was still. When Kelly finished, he headed back to the defense table. The only sound in the room was the soft clicking of the court reporter’s keys.
Then it was Ramsey’s turn. He rose from the table, pushing his hair back off his forehead. Nice gesture, Georgia thought. Then he tightened the knot on his tie. A woman in the courtroom cleared her throat.
“May it please the Court?” Ramsey said.
The judge held out his hand.
“I appreciate the obvious feeling and compassion Counselor Kelly has toward his client. In fact, I would expect nothing less from my esteemed colleague. And I concur that Cam Jordan has faced challenges in his life because of his—difficulties. Some he has mastered. Others, he still struggles with. But, if it please the court, let’s go back to basics. The question of this hearing is really very simple.” He paused and turned around to face the audience. “Do we let an alleged child murderer back on the street to possibly strike again? Or do we keep him where he is and make sure our children and our community are safe?”
Georgia blinked.
“The defendant is thirty-five,” Ramsey went on. “And he stands almost six feet tall. His sister…” Ramsey pointed to Ruth, whose face turned crimson, “… is quite small. Let’s be candid. If the defendant wanted to break free of her supervision, how difficult would it be? All he would have to do is push her, or shove her, or—God forbid—hit her, and she would likely be compromised.
“But the issue isn’t even whether he might or might not harm his sister. The real issue is what he would do if he were allowed out on the street. Here we have a very disturbing pattern. This is a man whose daily walks take him past our public schools, the gathering places for our young. This man is a registered sex offender, with a history of sexual offenses. How are we to believe he won’t commit another one, or two, or three offenses? Because the defense promises he won’t? How can anyone control this man, given his—personality? Regardless of what the defense claims, the answer is we don’t know. And when we don’t know, we must err on the side of caution.”
Ramsey stepped to the side and brushed his hair off his forehead again. Damn, he looked sincere. “Add to that the fact we have incontrovertible evidence that places him at the crime scene when the murder of Sara Long occurred. We have her blood on his shirt. His fingerprints on the bat. Your honor, no matter how you parse it, Cam Jordan is a dangerous man. The law does not allow you to lower his bail. The law does not allow him back out on the street. Indeed, your Honor, if you care about our children, if you care about their safety, you cannot in good conscience agree to this motion. I beg you. Do the right thing.”
“Are you running for something, counselor?” the judge asked dryly.
“Your honor, I would run a marathon if it would keep Cam Jordan where he belongs.”
Good save, Georgia thought. And he didn’t mention a word about the hazing.
Ramsey looked at the judge, then down at the floor, allowing his import to filter through the room. He went back to the table and sat down. The hush in the courtroom deepened. Even the judge was quiet. Georgia looked over at Kelly. When they made eye contact, she knew from his expression they’d lost big.
***
Georgia was on her way out of the courtroom when someone called her name. She turned around. Robby Parker. O’Malley was a few feet behind him. She sighed inwardly. She’d known they’d have to talk at some point. Parker caught up to her, playing with his detective’s shield again. Was he even aware of it, she wondered.
“How are you, Davis?”
They’d been partners for years, and he still called her Davis. “I’m good, Robby. Congratulations on your promotion.”
He drew himself up. “It’s a job.” He didn’t do modesty well. Never had. “I just learned you were working for the defendant.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Why are you wasting
your time on a slam-dunk?”
She tried to hide her irritation. “Obviously, I don’t see it the same way.”
“How you do or don’t see it isn’t really the issue.”
Was he trying to mimic Ramsey? “What are you talking about?”
“I—we’ve been getting reports that you’ve been talking to people. Asking questions.”
“That is what an investigator does.”
“Most investigators don’t impersonate a social worker.”
Her muscles locked, and she felt the heat on her cheeks. Tom Walcher, Lauren’s father. He’d threatened to go to the cops. She sputtered, casting around for something to say.
O’Malley caught up to them. “Hey, Davis.” He looked at her, then at Parker. He must have sensed the hostility between them. He should, Georgia thought. It was rolling off her in waves.
“What’s going on?” He asked.
Parker drew himself up. “I was just telling Davis that impersonating a social worker is the kind of thing that can get you into trouble.”
“Parker, lay off.”
But Parker barreled on. “Not that I blame her. When a case is this clear-cut, people get desperate. They grasp at anything.”
“That’s enough,” O’Malley snapped.
Georgia’s throat got thick with anger. She folded her arms and planted herself in front of him. She debated whether to mention Derek Janowitz’s homicide and what Sara might have been doing. But why give him a lead, if he didn’t already have it?
“Glad you’re so confident, Parker. Must be all the great investigative work you’re doing.”
“Oh yeah,” he kept going. “There’s something else, too. When someone starts asking questions about the daughter of the State’s Attorney, they create problems for themselves. Especially if they ever want to come back onto the force.”
How dare he patronize her? She hadn’t intended to get into a tussle, but now the words tumbled out. “You know something, Robby? If the force is run by people like you, I don’t want to come back.”
O’Malley cut in. “Look, kids, play nice. You may not realize it, but you’re both in the same sandbox.” O’Malley loosened his tie. “Parker, you need to learn when to keep your mouth shut. And Davis,” he looked over, “You—you…”
Easy Innocence Page 17
