Final Exam: A Legal Thriller

by Terry Huebner

  She nodded. “I’ll be okay. Now you go ahead.”

  He opened the door, took one last look at her, then closed the door behind him and was gone.

  Traffic on the Eisenhower was light and he was back in his driveway in less than forty-five minutes. He decided to grab a quick shower before he changed. After he finished, Ben went around the corner to the walk-in closet and picked out a charcoal gray suit, white shirt and conservative blue tie. He couldn’t believe that he was dressing with TV in mind.

  As zero hour and Megan’s arrest rapidly approached, Ben felt himself enter a sort of zone with respect to the case. While in this state, Ben’s intensity level and focus would skyrocket, while he subconsciously drove all extraneous matters, including people, from his thoughts. He had experienced this single-minded sense of purpose at various points throughout his youth and it grew increasingly prevalent during his college and law school years. During these periods, people frequently found him short-tempered and difficult.

  At first, he didn’t even notice the changes in himself. It took Libby, after they had been together for awhile, to point out where and how these transformations, some little, some not, occurred. Over time and with his wife’s assistance, Ben became more acutely aware of these periods and the profound effect on his moods. This zone or “there,” as his wife often described it, reached its zenith while Ben was a prosecutor. As he began handling more violent cases - aggravated assaults, rapes, and even murders, and his anger and highly competitive nature more and more got the best of him, Ben went “there” with increasing frequency. Although Ben never thought that it ever seriously hindered his performance as a prosecutor, he nevertheless recognized that it negatively impacted his physical and mental well-being, not to mention his personal relationships. Recognizing the circumstances when they existed certainly helped, as did the fact that he now had more and more outlets than when they first got married, not the least of which were his children.

  Six weeks premature and weighing just four pounds at birth, Ben and Libby’s first child, a son named Matthew, was born in October of 1993, the day before his father’s birthday. Physically, Matthew resembled his father, but with straight brown hair and brown eyes. Almost four years after Matthew was born, the Lohmeiers welcomed a little girl into the world in the late summer of 1997. Strong willed and opinionated, Natalie Lohmeier had blond hair and green eyes like her father and appeared to spend every waking moment seeking to wrap him around her little finger, usually succeeding.

  Between the two of them, Matthew and Natalie provided Ben with an indispensable escape from “there” or that zone, whatever it was called. His other salvation occurred when he decided, with Libby’s strong encouragement, to leave the State’s Attorney’s office and enter private practice. As a prosecutor, Ben served as a necessary point man in society’s desire to avenge the victim and punish the guilty. In civil practice, unlike criminal practice, there are few great truths to unearth or wrongs to right, personal injury and class action lawyers notwithstanding. At least these crusades didn’t pop up in the commercial practice Benjamin Lohmeier found himself in these days. One way or another, it always boiled down to a battle over the money.

  In the past couple of days, the TV news and the newspapers had started calling this the “Law School Murder” and Ben figured that the name would probably stick. They were on the verge of a lot of media attention, Ben knew, because of the nature of the crime, the nature of the soon-to-be accused and the fact there wasn’t another big media case out there at the moment to seize the headlines. Although Ben’s competitive nature made him want to win every case very badly, nothing in his day-to-day existence as a civil practitioner ever stoked his fires as hot as they used to get in the old days. That’s why he was startled to feel himself drifting down that lonely path to a place he had not visited in so long. Maybe getting back into an important criminal case caused his reaction. Maybe seeing Megan Rand as a defendant did it. He didn’t know for sure. His self-awareness had limits after all. Whatever the cause, Ben recognized the scenery and understood where this path might eventually lead.

  13

  Ben returned to the office at about three. Mark was already there and Ken was on his way. Ben called for a meeting of the defense team at three-thirty in the garage and checked his voicemail messages - nothing of significance. On his chair, he found the draft brief Conlon had prepared, together with a couple of motions Mark had slapped together. He turned to the brief first and buzzed Conlon. “Hey, you down there?” he asked.

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “Is this brief pretty much in final form?”

  “Yeah, it is. I think it’s pretty good, but you might want to spruce it up a little bit.”

  “Okay,” Ben said, “I’ll take a look at it before the meeting and get it back to you.” Then he was gone.

  The brief read like something drafted by a prosecutor, as Conlon had been, competently prepared, covering all the bases, yet lacking in anything really special. Good enough for government work, but certainly improvable. Ben knew many of the cases cited in the brief and liked the way Conlon incorporated newer opinions to buttress his claim that Megan deserved a reasonable bond. Ben decided that all it really needed was tinkering. He smoothed out the analysis, punched up the introduction and strengthened the conclusion to make it sound less neutral and more authoritative. Satisfied, he dropped the brief on Dianne Reynolds’ chair for revisions and headed downstairs.

  He ran into Funk in the copy room and followed him down the short corridor into the garage. Mark and Dan were already sitting at the far side of the conference room table talking about bail. Funk took a spot opposite them and Ben climbed into one of the barber chairs next to the potbelly stove. Just as he began, he heard a door slam and footsteps coming down the steps and paused. They all turned and Ken Williams made a grand entrance into the room.

  “Greetings all,” he said, strolling to the end of the table and pulling out a wooden chair. He turned the chair sideways and looked over at Ben to his left. “So, today’s the day?”

  “Yeah,” Ben replied.

  “It sucks to be her,” Ken said.

  “Yes, it does,” Ben said. “I’m going to leave here about six to meet her.”

  “It sucks to be you too. So what did I miss?”

  “Not too much,” Ben said. “I just sat down and was about to start when I heard you coming in. Well, for everybody I haven’t talked to, here goes.”

  Ben gave them the lay of the land and briefly summarized his conversation with Nelson. “You know,” he continued, “we’ve all seen this Law School Murder stuff on TV, and I think once word gets out that Megan Rand has been arrested, things may get pretty crazy around here. My point is simply this - don’t talk to any media people. Be polite. Be respectful. We don’t want to piss anybody off, but any comments to the media will go through me, not that I want to be a big shot, but we have to make sure that we speak with one voice and that we don’t say anything that we don’t want to say. Obviously, we don’t want to mention anything about Ken’s involvement here. We don’t want to piss off the people out in DeKalb County.”

  “No doubt about it,” Ken chimed in. “It’s like I’m not even here.”

  “Just like when you worked here,” Ben said. Ken gave him the finger. “All right, Dan and Brad you can go. Ken and Mark and I have a couple things to talk about yet. Dan, make sure that Dianne’s on that brief. I need it by the time I leave with all the cases and stuff. Thanks.”

  “So are we having fun yet?” Ben said as Funk and Conlon left the room.

  “It’s only just starting my friend,” Ken said. “I think you’re right. I think this could be a pretty big media case.”

  “We may even get Geraldo out here,” Mark said with a laugh.

  Ben leaned forward in the barber chair and rubbed his temples. “I think one thing we need to do is set up some sort of a division of responsibility. First, we have to start thinking about expert witnesses. I think
at the very least, we’re probably going to need some sort of a blood splatter guy to try and figure out what Greenfield may have been doing when he got whacked. Now, Mark and I have visited the scene, and I don’t think what we saw down there is consistent with a woman, a smaller woman at that, smacking a relatively tall guy upside the head and then finishing him off. It seems to me the height thing may have been a problem. You agree, Mark?”

  “I do,” Mark said. “My view is that given what you’ve told me about our client, I don’t quite see how she could have pulled that off if the victim had been looking right at her when it happened. We’ll just have to see how that plays out.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Ben said. “A blood splatter guy for sure. I’ll have to wait and see after, you know, we get a look at all the evidence. Speaking of which, I’d like Mark to focus on the evidence when it comes in. Ken, we’ll also get you a copy of the reports and things so maybe you and Mark can look at it independently from each other. That way, one of you could catch something the other one missed and vice versa. Ken, if you could get us some more motions that you think we might need, maybe some briefs, stuff that we could cut and paste, that would be good. I haven’t been doing much criminal stuff since I left the prosecutor’s office so a lot of my stuff isn’t as current as I would like.”

  “I can do that,” Ken said. “I’ve got a lot of good stuff. My people scan everything that comes in from defense attorneys. Some of it’s damn good. Not that I would ever admit that.”

  “We’ll know a lot more after we know what the evidence is, but I think we can assume certain kinds of motions may be appropriate. And get them over here so we can put them on the system.”

  “What about a speedy trial?” Ken asked. Ken referred to a demand made by a defendant for a speedy trial.

  Ben sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head looking vaguely into the middle distance. “Somehow I would tend to doubt it,” he said after a moment. “I think we’re going to need some period of time here to conduct an investigation, to figure out what happened. I think we’re going to have a lot of people to talk to about this. I think he’s divorced, or he was divorced, so we’re going to have to look at the ex-wife. It could be a student. How many students has he had over the years? He’s given bad grades to some of them. Hell, he gave bad grades to me. Plus, if it’s true that he was chasing students all over the place, that might mean there could be a boyfriend or spouse involved. Who knows? Which reminds me, I think we’re going to need to have at least one good investigator, if not more. I know one I’ve used in the past who’s pretty decent. Either of you know anybody?”

  “I do,” Ken said. “I’ve got a guy who I used to work with who’s great. His name is Stan Disko. I’ve got his address and phone number at the office. I’ll call you with them.”

  “I know him,” Ben said, “Casey Gardner uses him to serve people. He’s pretty good. We can always use my guy too if we have to. As far as interviewing people and stuff, I’ll probably do a lot of that myself. I get a better idea when I can look somebody in the eye and hear what they have to say, rather than always relying on reports other people give me. I’m going to start down at the school. I haven’t been back there much in the last ten years, but I still know some of the professors and their reputations. I guess now that I think about it, Ken, you went there too, so you may have some contacts you can help me out with as well.”

  “Not a problem,” Ken said.

  Ben continued. “Mark, while we’re at it, why don’t you get some subpoenas ready for the law school. Make them pretty broad. We’re going to want lists of all Greenfield’s students - names, addresses, grades for the past, say, ten years. We also want Greenfield’s personnel files. Brian tells me he got called on the carpet for fooling around with students a few years ago. If that’s true, there may be something in there that could prove helpful. I’ll try and get them to be cooperative, but if they’re not, let’s just hit them with a subpoena and not fuck around with it. Any other thoughts?”

  “No, that pretty much covers it, I think,” Mark said without looking up as he scratched notes on a yellow pad in his heavy hand.

  “You know,” Ben said as he got down and noticed Mark taking notes, “you don’t have to press so hard on the paper, do you? I mean, you’re not trying to typeset here.”

  “It’s just the way I write.”

  “You know, I’ll talk to Phil about that empty office down the hallway by the men’s bathroom. It’s not the best location in the world, but at least it’s an office and it’s pretty private. I’m sure he won’t mind if you work in there.”

  “That would be great,” Mark said.

  “It’ll be great,” Ken said, “until somebody comes along and takes a dump in that bathroom. Mark my word. You’ll see.”

  14

  Ben went back upstairs to his office, checked his voicemail and e-mail and sat down to work on his presentation for the bail hearing. At about five-fifteen, Dan Conlon brought him the final draft of the motion for bail, supporting brief and the stack of cases cited therein. He dumped them on the bench next to Ben’s briefcase. Fifteen minutes later, Nancy stuck her head in to tell him she was taking off for the night. “You need anything else before I go?” she said. “I can stay if you want me too. I don’t have any plans.”

  Ben looked up at her with a vague expression of not having heard a word she said. “No. That’s okay, you go ahead,” he said finally. “I think I’ve got everything I need here.”

  “Well, okay,” she said, “good luck tonight, tomorrow too. You think this is going to be on the ten o’clock news?”

  Ben shrugged. “I hope not, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  She wished him luck again and was gone.

  Ben pulled a copy of the bail brief out of the pile and reviewed it once again, not that he could make any changes anymore at this point. A pretty good effort, he thought to himself, as he put it back in the pile. He looked at his watch - it was almost six. He had to leave. He grabbed a fresh notepad and stuffed it into his briefcase and stood there for a second thinking about whether he’d forgotten anything. Deciding that he hadn’t, Ben put on his suit coat and overcoat, slung his briefcase over his shoulder and grabbed the stack of pleadings for the Court, shutting his light off on the way out.

  As he passed the office at the top of the stairs, he nodded in at Marc Swift, another associate, who was on the telephone. He was always on the telephone. He ran into Casey Gardner in the copy room, on his way back from the bathroom. “Good luck,” Casey said slapping him on the shoulder as they passed each other. “Hey,” Casey said as he stopped in the doorway of the copy room right outside Dan Conlon’s office. Ben stopped at the opposite end of the room and turned to face him. “What do you think? Did she do it?” Casey asked.

  Ben gave a gesture that was partway between a shrug and a shake of the head. “It would be hard to imagine … No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, somebody did.”

  “Yeah,” Ben said, “somebody did.”

  “Well, anyway, good luck.”

  “Thanks,” Ben said as he turned and headed for the door.

  Ben pushed through the back door and stepped out onto the porch. He stood there for a moment and watched the wind blow swirls of snow off the roof of the garage. A tall lamplight stationed on the snowy bank beyond the parking spaces and driveway illuminated the area and gave a faintly Christmasy feel to the scene. Then the light went out. It did that a lot, Ben recalled. He often looked out at this light from the window behind his desk and noticed that it went off and on and off again with surprising frequency. He could be sitting and working at his computer and catch the light going on or off out of the corner of his eye and was always somewhat startled by it.

  Occasionally, he would look out the window to see whether anything caused the light to go on, such as a passing car or a commuter walking through the parking lot from the train station, but was never able to come up with anything.
Ben shrugged, shook his head and headed down the steps toward his car.

  ***

  Almost thirty miles away, Megan Rand Cavallaro watched her husband and son move away down the corridor. When they reached the elevators, she turned and went back inside her condominium. She leaned against the closed door and listened silently until she knew they were gone. When would she next be able to take Anthony in her arms and tell him that she loved him? She slid down the door to a sitting position and buried her head in her hands as tears began to well in her eyes and drip down on to the knees of her pants.

  What if they didn’t believe her? What if she were found guilty? Thoughts like these swirled around her head leaving her dizzy with fear. What if Joe died while she was in prison? Who would take care of Anthony? Who would go to Anthony’s high school graduation? To his wedding? Who would make sure that he always knew how much his mother loved her only child? She couldn’t know.

  After a while, the tears slowed, the cathartic release having done all it could, and Megan rose to her feet and began preparing for Ben’s arrival and that which lay ahead. First, she decided on a quick shower, not knowing when she would next get another in the comfort and quiet of her own bathroom. As the hot water cascaded down her back, she studied the sounds, scents and sensations around her as though for the first time. The smell of the soap and shampoo and the feel of the thick bath towel wrapped around her brought fresh tears to her eyes. She fought to compose herself as she wiped the steam off the mirror with her hand and gazed at her own reflection, both from the front and the side as if composing her own mug shot. She looked like hell, her eyes puffy and red.

  Meg removed a pair of gold, heart-shaped earrings and set them softly on the counter next to her watch. She would need neither where she was going. After fumbling in the medicine cabinet for some Visine, she clumsily put two drops into each eye. She reached for her make-up, then hesitated, figuring there wasn’t really any point. She didn’t use much make-up anyway so she applied a little mascara and some moisturizing cream and left it at that.