Final Exam: A Legal Thriller

by Terry Huebner

  About an hour later, just as Benjamin Lohmeier pulled into his driveway, a news brief came on Channel 7, the local ABC affiliate in Chicago. “An arrest is made in the Law School Murder case. Details at ten,” the talking head said.

  ***

  The Protector sat in a small room paying bills, the TV serving as little more than background noise when the news brief came on. It was over before the Protector could locate the remote and turn up the sound. The Protector quickly searched through the other channels looking for more local news, but couldn’t find the story anywhere. I’ll just have to wait until ten, the Protector thought.

  The Protector was ready when the ten o’clock news began on Channel 7.

  “Our top story tonight,” the anchor began, “an arrest has been made in the New Years Eve murder of Professor Daniel Greenfield in his office at the Chicago College of Law. We go now to Channel 7 reporter, Randy Shaw at District 4 headquarters. Randy?”

  The Protector sat upright, head cocked toward the television, the aroma of tonight’s dinner still filling the air.

  “Thank you, Ron. At about eight o’clock this evening, Chicago Police Department detectives arrested one Megan Rand Cavallaro, age 39, of 1200 North Dearborn in Chicago on charges of first degree murder in the death of Professor Daniel Greenfield of the Chicago College of Law. Ms. Cavallaro surrendered into police custody at that time and was taken here for processing.

  “It is believed that she has already been transported to the main lockup at the Cook County Jail, where she will await a bond hearing at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. According to police sources, Mrs. Cavallaro, the wife of prominent Chicago personal injury lawyer, Joseph Cavallaro, is a former student of Professor Greenfield’s at the law school, graduating in 1992. Police sources confirm that Mrs. Cavallaro has been tied to the crime scene through physical and other evidence. Authorities have still not confirmed how Daniel Greenfield died.

  “The accused’s husband, Joseph Cavallaro, has been unavailable for comment. A spokesman for Cook County State’s Attorney, Richard McBride, told Channel 7 News just a few minutes ago that more details about this case will be available tomorrow morning after Mrs. Cavallaro’s appearance in Bond Court. Back to you, Ron.”

  The Protector surfed the other channels, but could find no additional information. “Megan Rand Cavallaro,” the Protector said aloud. “I wonder.”

  Meanwhile, Benjamin and Libby Lohmeier watched the same news report from the couch of their family room. Ben sat silent and still, his eyes fixated on the TV screen, a piece of cold pizza in one hand and a bottle of Rolling Rock in the other, as Randy Shaw gave his report. As the anchor began the next news story, Libby grabbed the remote, clicked the pause button on the Tivo and turned to her husband, who was still staring silently at the stilled screen. “So,” she said, “when is the phone going to start ringing?”

  He took a bite of the pizza and washed it down with a sip of the beer. “Soon,” he said. “You’d better get used to not answering it.”

  15

  The Cook County Criminal Courts building is an imposing dirty-white stone structure that is the kind of place where people go never to return again. Neither architecturally significant nor aesthetically pleasing, the Criminal Courthouse looks like exactly what it is - a brutish factory of waste and despair, churning out inmates every year by the thousands. Connected to its rear is the sprawling campus surrounded by circular rings of barbed wire that is the Cook County Jail. The jail complex contains more than ten different buildings, a couple of which were designed specifically to house female inmates. A separate building even provides maternity care for female prisoners in need of it. Ben tried not to think about Meg spending the night in one of the cells behind those walls.

  Although Ben didn’t necessarily realize it at the time, the dirt and grime that clogged the wheels of justice in Cook County infected all of those who worked there as well. No matter how hard you washed or scrubbed, you took a bit of the grime of the Cook County Criminal Court system with you when you left this place.

  Ben and Mark made it through the metal detectors unscathed and found Megan’s name and case number on a bulletin board outside Room 101.

  “We’re pretty far down the call,” Mark said. “Why don’t we go and check in? Sometimes they take the cases out of order if you check in early enough.”

  They pushed through the doors and into the large courtroom. On the near side of a wall of bulletproof glass, members of the media jostled for spots in the front row of the visitor’s section. Across the way, at the table reserved for prosecutors, stood Bridget Fahey. Even with her back to them, Ben would know Bridget Fahey anywhere. Mark let out a low whistle. “Wow,” he said under his breath. “They’re bringing out the big guns for this one. This has to be for our case.” Ben nodded in agreement.

  Tall, slim and attractive, Bridget Fahey wore her reddish-blond hair straight and parted on the right, much like her current politics. She turned to grab something from her briefcase and they got a better look at her. Her dark gray suit looked professionally tailored, and her black heels freshly shined. Her pale blue eyes were covered in fashionable frameless lenses, probably just props, Ben thought, to make her look more intelligent.

  “You know her, don’t you?” Mark said under his breath.

  “Yeah,” Ben said, “we used to work together.”

  For a time, Ben and Bridget Fahey were fellow Assistant State’s Attorneys assigned to Judge Patrick Maloney’s courtroom. Bridget was the senior assistant in the courtroom at that time and, therefore, received most of the best assignments, leaving few plums for the less experienced prosecutors like Ben. Nevertheless, Ben got a few good cases now and then and managed to catch the attention of his wing supervisor. During the year or so they shared the courtroom, Ben and Bridget got to know each other fairly well. They handled a number of cases together, including some fairly significant prosecutions. Ben’s skills in the courtroom earned Bridget’s respect in those days, and Ben had to admit that she was a fine trial lawyer herself.

  When he saw her, Ben realized that he should have expected that this case could draw Bridget Fahey back into the courtroom. Ben turned to Mark and slowly shook his head. “Don’t bother checking in. With her here, you can rest assured that we’ll be first on the call. Come on, I’d better go pay my respects.”

  Ben led Mark through the door and down the center aisle. They walked over to the counsel table, where Fahey was looking through a file, and Ben said in a loud theatrical voice just as they arrived, “Why, if it isn’t the Honorable Bridget Fahey. Good to see you slumming this morning.”

  “Counselor,” she replied looking up, “it’s been a long time. Have you gained weight?” She gave him a thin smile and extended her hand, which Ben shook. Never one to be intimidated, she squeezed Ben’s hand more firmly than necessary. Her hand felt cool and dry.

  “No, just wisdom,” he said. “Bridget, I’d like to introduce you to my colleague, Mark Schaefer.” He gestured to Mark, who was now standing beside him. “Mark, this is Bridget Fahey, the First Assistant State’s Attorney of Cook County.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Mark said.

  “Likewise.”

  They shook hands. Ben continued. “Mark’s going to be helping me with this case. So, I can assume from your presence that this case is not quite big enough to draw Mr. McBride himself?”

  She gave Ben a chilly glare. “Not at this point. Nelson told me you were handling this case. I guess that explains how you managed to surrender your client in the dark of night with absolute secrecy.”

  Ben feigned a look of amazement. “Why, I don’t know what you mean? We brought her in as soon as we could. But look,” he said getting serious, “she’s got a little kid at home. I don’t think it benefits anybody to have a little kid see his Mom dragged off in handcuffs.”

  Fahey considered this for a moment. “Perhaps not,” she said finally. After another moment, she said, “I take it you’ll be seeking bail
for your client?”

  “Of course,” Ben said. “Toward that end, I have a copy of my appearance, motion and brief in support of bail.” He handed a small stack of documents to her. “I also have a copy of all the cases we cited in our brief, if you’d like those.”

  “Please,” she said taking the pleadings from him.

  He handed her a three-inch stack of cases held together by a rubber band. “What’s your position on bail?” he asked.

  “We’re opposed to it. Here, I’ve also written a brief on the subject.” Hers was considerably thicker than his, Ben realized when he took it from her.

  “Just slapped this thing together at the last minute, did you?” Ben asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “So that’s your position, no bail under any circumstances?”

  “Unless the judge tells us otherwise.”

  “He will,” Ben said.

  “We’ll see, Counselor. You haven’t been here in a while.”

  “No, but I walk with God now. Are we going first?” he asked.

  “What do you think?” she replied.

  “Good,” he said touching her lightly on the forearm. “Well, it’s good to see you again. I’m sure this will be interesting.”

  She gave him that same cool smile. “I’m sure it will be.”

  Ben and Mark walked over and set their briefcases down on the opposite counsel table. “That was a little mating ritual of sorts,” Ben said.

  “You know her pretty well then?”

  Ben looked at Mark and grinned.

  The courtroom slowly filled as the time approached nine o’clock. Ben reviewed the brief prepared by the prosecutors, made thick by the attachment of excerpts from several of their key cases as exhibits. Pretty routine, off-the-shelf stuff, Ben thought as he finished and handed the brief to Mark without saying anything. “This really isn’t anything special,” Mark whispered in his ear a few minutes later. “Ours is better.” Ben nodded.

  At precisely nine o’clock, the clerk stepped out of the courtroom through a door behind the bench. Two minutes later, he returned and cleared his throat, which was a signal to all that he was about to speak. “All rise,” he said, “the Circuit Court of Cook County is now in session, the Honorable Michael P. Quinn presiding. Please be seated and come to order.”

  A burly man in his early-sixties, with a ruddy face and a silver comb-over swept into the courtroom and up the steps to his seat behind the bench. “Good morning ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a cheerful voice, scanning the courtroom and noticing that it was extra crowded this morning due to the presence of reporters and interested spectators. “Why don’t we get started.”

  The clerk called the first case, “People v. Megan Rand Cavallaro.”

  The door at the left side of the courtroom opened and a sheriff’s deputy emerged and escorted Megan into the courtroom. Megan looked awkward and uncomfortable in the orange jumpsuit. Her hair barely looked combed. As she entered, she glanced to her right at the gallery. Ben instinctively followed her eyes and noticed for the first time that Joseph Cavallaro sat in the first row. Clad in a dark blue suit, his gold cufflinks gleaming in the light, Cavallaro fixed his eyes on his wife.

  Bridget Fahey stepped around the counsel table and strolled up to the bench as though she owned it. “Good morning, your Honor,” she said without waiting for the others to join her. “Bridget Fahey, First Assistant State’s Attorney, on behalf of the People.”

  Ben lagged behind for a moment until Megan could cross the courtroom and join him. He took her by the arm and led her up to the bench, gesturing for her to stand between himself and Mark. “Good morning, your Honor,” he said in a calm voice when he reached the bench. “Benjamin Lohmeier and Mark Schaefer on behalf of Megan Rand Cavallaro.”

  “Good morning, Counselors,” Judge Quinn said looking down on them with a slight smile. After a couple of minutes of preliminaries, Judge Quinn turned to Ben and said, “I take it you want to be heard on the question of bail, Counsel?”

  “Yes, we do, your Honor,” Ben replied. “Toward that end, we’ve prepared a motion and brief in support of our position.” Ben handed his pleadings up to Judge Quinn, who took them with a raised eyebrow. “I’ve also attached copies of the relevant cases, your Honor.”

  The Judge looked immediately to his right at the prosecutor. “The People have prepared a brief as well, your Honor,” Fahey said handing a copy up to the bench. The Court took the prosecution’s filings and added them to the stack he’d gotten from the defense and evened out the stack with both hands.

  “In light of this,” he said, “I’m going to adjourn to my chambers for a few moments to review these and see what you have for me. Please remain seated.” Judge Quinn rose and left the bench, exiting the courtroom from whence he came moments before.

  As the Judge disappeared from view, Ben leaned over and asked Meg, “How you holding up?”

  “Not so bad,” she said with a shrug. “They had me in the maternity ward last night. I don’t think I’ve seen the worst of the system yet.”

  “Probably not,” Ben replied. A bailiff approached to take Megan back to the holding area. “It will just be a few minutes,” Ben said.

  Ben looked over at Bridget Fahey sitting at the counsel table. He couldn’t help but notice that the other prosecutors in the courtroom kept their distance and did not appear at all interested in interacting with her in any way. She pretended not to notice. Instead, she took out the defense brief and began taking notes on a yellow pad.

  Ten minutes later, the door behind the bench opened and Judge Quinn returned, the bailiff crying out, “Please remain seated,” as the Judge ascended the steps to his seat.

  “Counsel,” he said looking down at Ben, Mark and Bridget Fahey, who had stood, calling them forward to the bench with a wave of his hand. A moment later, Megan joined them from the room on the left.

  “Okay,” Judge Quinn said when everyone was standing before him, “Mr. Lohmeier, you’re the one seeking bond in this case, tell me why I should grant it.”

  Ben spent several minutes summarizing the arguments contained in his brief, focusing on her standing in the community and the fact that she was a mother of a young son. Judge Quinn listened intently.

  When Ben was finished, Judge Quinn nodded and turned to his right. “Ms. Fahey?” he said.

  “Your Honor, the People could not disagree more. In particular, we believe that the Defendant presents a serious flight risk. Not only does she have substantial resources, her husband is a prominent personal injury attorney, but it has also come to our attention that the Defendant and her husband own a residence in the Cayman Islands.” Ben did not know this. Fahey continued for several more minutes succinctly summarizing the points made in her brief. Nothing too spectacular, Ben thought, yet she covered all the necessary points and provided Quinn with a basis for denying bail should he so choose.

  Judge Quinn asked several questions and appeared genuinely undecided about which way to go. He sat quietly for a moment and stroked his chin. Then he said, “I’d really like to hear more about the issues regarding the Defendant’s child. Obviously, because he is a minor, we have privacy issues, so why don’t the lawyers and I adjourn to my chambers and take a few minutes to discuss these issues. Follow me folks.” With that, he rose and led them out through the door behind the bench, and down to his chambers at the end of the corridor. They followed him through a small outer office where a woman sat working. She never even looked up when they passed.

  Judge Quinn’s chambers was a large, rectangular-shaped room, cluttered with files and dominated by a large mahogany desk somewhat the worse for wear. The Judge plopped himself down in his leather chair, still wearing his robe. The credenza and the wall behind him were dotted with photographs, honorary degrees and other memorabilia of a career spent in the law. Ben and Bridget Fahey each took one of the chairs in front of the desk, while Mark sat on the couch against the inside wall. The court reporter fol
lowed them in and took a seat on the couch next to Mark. The outside wall of Judge Quinn’s chambers consisted of a series of large picture windows providing him with a panoramic view of downtown Chicago off in the distance.

  As the court reporter began to get set-up, Judge Quinn waved her off. “That’s okay,” he said, “we’re not going to need you to take any of this down.” Somewhat puzzled, she stopped what she was doing. Then the Judge turned his attention to the lawyers. “Look, I didn’t bring you in here to discuss the issues regarding the child. I want to know where we’re going with this. Miss Fahey, I find Counsel’s arguments here on bail to be pretty convincing. I’m familiar with these cases. I don’t think you’ve shown me enough to cause me to lock up a mother of a young child with no previous criminal record for six months to a year until trial. That just doesn’t seem reasonable. On the other hand, I know this is a big case and you have to take the position that bail is unjustified.”

  “But your Honor,” Fahey started to say before the Judge cut her off with another wave of his hand.

  “I know. I know,” the Judge said interrupting. “I can sympathize with your position.” He turned to Ben. “Mr. Lohmeier, although I do find your position meritorious, the State does have a point with respect to flight risk. Your client appears to have ample resources and the means to leave the jurisdiction and not come back. So, I think you need to give her something.”

  As Ben expected when the Judge called them into his chambers, Judge Quinn was seeking to broker a deal that would satisfy everyone and not make it appear that one side won and another lost. This was consistent with his reputation. He had never been known as a rigid authoritarian figure. Rather, he had the reputation among lawyers as a highly pragmatic judge, who preferred to avoid technicalities and let lawyers cut to the chase and try their cases on the merits. “Mr. Lohmeier, I take it your client would be willing to surrender her passport?” Judge Quinn asked.