They talked for a few more minutes as Ben told the detectives what he knew about the case and some of the people who could be involved. Then he got to his feet and said, “Look, if you guys have any other questions, you can give me a call or you can talk to Mark too. I’ll talk to you guys later.”
Ben went back upstairs and checked his messages. They were still rolling in at an incredible clip and he was starting to get nasty looks from the secretaries in the office. Then he called Sylvia Greenfield. There was no answer so he left a message. He spent the rest of the day scrambling to put out fires that were beginning to erupt in some of his other files, and around six he began preparing for Court the following morning.
Later on, Ben found himself staring out his window at the dark parking lot, the light on the pole at the opposite end occasionally going on or off according to its mood. Ben felt out of it and recognized that the odds of him getting any significant work done tonight had grown slim so he decided to pack it in for the night. After he loaded his briefcase, he pulled the chain to turn off the light in the ceiling fan over his desk. A lone figure hidden below in the shadow of a pine tree watched the scene transpire. By the time Ben reached his car in the parking lot, the figure had gone.
21
The following morning dawned clear and very cold. As he showered, Ben pondered his upcoming Court appearance before Judge Wilson. Particularly when coupled with the media throng that would undoubtedly be present in the courtroom, the thought of it left Ben feeling nervous and a bit jittery. He got dressed and went downstairs, where Libby and the kids were already getting ready for school. The kitchen smelled liked fried bacon and Ben stole a bite out of the bagel on Natalie’s plate, squishy not crunchy, just the way she liked it, but his heart wasn’t in it. He felt too uptight to eat.
Rinsing off a pan in the sink, Libby turned and asked “Is Meg going to be there today?”
“No.”
“What time do you think you’ll be home tonight?”
“No idea.”
“Should I save dinner for you?”
“Probably not.”
Although she certainly didn’t appreciate his surliness, Libby understood the pressures Ben was under and didn’t make an issue of it.
“Well, good luck today,” she said as she rubbed him softly on the back.
He seemed to take the slightest comfort in it and said, “Thanks” in a soft voice.
“Daddy, I want to go uppy,” Natalie said as she came over and reached up toward him while swallowing the last bites of her breakfast.
“Okay sweetheart,” he said reaching down and grabbing her. “You know your Daddy can’t resist you.” He picked her up and balanced her in the crook of his left arm. Her head was the same height as his and she rested it gently against his temple. He kissed her twice on the cheek and she returned the favor. “Unfortunately my dear, I have to go to Court.” He kissed her again on the top of the head and then set her down.
“Daddy, why do you have to go to Court?”
“Because that’s what I do. Sometimes lawyers have to go to Court.”
“Do you have fun in Court?”
“Sometimes.”
“Are you going to have fun today?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, I hope you have fun in Court, Daddy.”
“Thanks sweetie.” He tousled her hair and then went back into the front hall and took his overcoat off the hall tree. He grabbed his briefcase, slung it over his shoulder and headed outside. “I’ll see you guys tonight,” he said. He then paused on the deck and took a deep breath through his nose. The air felt clean and fresh and the sky looked unusually blue this morning. He hoped the fresh air would calm his nerves.
Mark arrived a minute later and Ben backed the car out to the end of the driveway, while Mark parked his car on the street and lumbered over, tossing his stuff in the back seat of the SUV before wedging his large frame into the front seat.
“Morning,” he said putting on his seat belt. “Are we ready for a good day?”
“Hope so,” Ben answered.
Like Libby, Mark too sensed that Ben was not in a talkative mood and the two drove for a while in relative silence. Traffic was spotty, but not too bad. As they neared the exit at California Avenue, Mark turned and said, “I’ve got a place where we can park. I use it all the time. We’ll be able to get right out when we’re done.”
Mark directed Ben to a parking lot just past the Courthouse, next to a Popeye’s Chicken stand. They dropped the SUV off with an attendant that Mark knew and headed to the Courthouse. They walked past the original entrance to the old Courthouse and up the steps to the current entrance, stuck between the old Courthouse to the north and the tall narrow administrative tower to the south. They stood for a long time in the cattle call that was the line through the metal detectors, made that much worse by the events of September 11th. Because he had a Cook County pass, Mark pushed through the metal detector without being searched, while Ben had to remove his coat and all of the metal on his person, including his belt, and he still set the metal detector off. He stepped through and over to the Sheriff’s Deputy, who gave him the once over with a wand, while Ben held his arms straight out at his sides.
As Ben slipped his belt back through the loops of his pants, Mark said, “You really should get a pass. It saves a lot of time and trouble.”
“Yeah, I know it.” Ben replied. “I half-thought they were going to do a body cavity search there for a minute. The pass I had when I worked down here expired years ago. Remind me on the way out and maybe I’ll stop and get one. At least get the picture taken.”
The two men pushed through the crowds and around the corner past Courtroom 101 where they were last time. On the bulletin board opposite that courtroom, they found Meg’s name on the computerized printout of the daily call.
“Here we go,” Ben said when he found it on the wall. “Courtroom 700. Let’s go.”
Ben and Mark wound their way through the corridor and into what was once the main lobby of the old Courthouse. Although not very large by modern standards, the lobby was nevertheless grand and ornate in a style not seen in public buildings constructed today. The front doors looked down a set of steps and across the street to a small grassy square complete with a fountain now walled off by iron gates. The front half of the lobby evoked a feeling of a time long past, from the days of Al Capone and Leopold & Loeb to Richard Speck and John Wayne Gacy. Each of them had met their fate here. The floor was pale stone, the walls trimmed in rich woods and the ceiling an intricate pattern of multi-colored tiles. A granite staircase rose at the far end. Muted lighting added to the reverential feeling. People spoke only in whispers. Ben and Mark walked through an archway flanked by large marble columns and into the area housing the elevators.
The old Courthouse held seven floors of courtrooms - those on the bottom three floors displayed a modern touch, small and cramped with bullet-proof glass separating the gallery from the bench, jury box and counsel tables. Video monitors transmitted the proceedings to those crammed into the gallery. When Ben and Mark stepped off the elevator on the 7th floor, they may as well have stepped back into a bygone era of American justice. The elevators opened into a large open area where lawyers, court personnel and reporters milled about. Each floor housed four courtrooms; two sat opposite each other on each end of the building. Courtroom 700 was on the northeast corner of the building and as they approached it, a couple of reporters came up to them and asked for comments on the upcoming events of the morning.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk right now,” Ben said. “I’ll have a brief statement after we’re done here.”
It occurred to him that he had not considered what that statement might be. Mark pulled the door open and they stepped inside. As he entered, Ben felt like he had just walked into a cathedral, the hushed tones of those inside reflecting the solemnity of this grand space. They stopped just inside the door and savored the moment.
Mark le
aned over and whispered, “Are you nervous?”
Ben nodded. “A little,” he said. An ornate ceiling of blue and gold tile framed in dark wood with recessed lighting rose high above a terrazzo floor. Seven rows of mahogany spectator benches stretched like pews on either side of the wide aisle that led to the center of the courtroom. Rising well above them like a pulpit at the far end of the courtroom was the large carved mahogany bench, occupied by the judge and his clerk, as well as the witness box and a seat for the court reporter. The round seal of the State of Illinois was affixed to the front of the bench. Ben and Mark slowly walked up the aisle toward the counsel tables. Against the wall to their left stood the jury box framed in more dark mahogany, housing individual cushioned chairs for twelve jurors and two alternates. On the opposite wall to their right and directly facing the jury box stood the counsel table used by the defense. In the center of the courtroom, perpendicular to the jury box and the defense table, and directly facing the bench, stood the counsel table used by the prosecution. Bridget Fahey sat there now, along with one of her minions.
As they reached her, Ben tapped her lightly on the right shoulder and said “Good morning, Bridget.” She looked up, her face pale and drawn.
“Good morning, counselor,” she returned.
Ben took solace in the fact that she too appeared somewhat nervous and ill at ease. He looked at his watch - they were fifteen minutes early. Ben and Mark sat down at the defense table and Ben pulled his briefcase up on his lap and removed the discovery requests they had prepared for today. He walked over and placed a small stack next to Fahey and said, “Here is a copy of our discovery requests.”
“Thanks,” she said without looking up.
He returned to his seat and tried his best to appear nonchalant and completely at ease, which of course, he wasn’t. Sunlight filtered in over his shoulder from the small row of windows stretching across the paneled wall behind him. Unlike the courtrooms downstairs or the countless civil courtrooms downtown at the Daley Center, Courtroom 700 gave off the formal hushed air reminiscent of Federal Court, largely populated with silk stocking lawyers and their Ivy League pedigrees.
Ben glanced to his left at the rapidly filling gallery. There appeared to be only a handful of other lawyers in the courtroom so Ben concluded that the spectators were here for what the press was now calling, the “Law School Murder.” He looked back to his right and up at the bench. Behind it were two doors: one led to Judge Wilson’s chambers, the other was used by court personnel. This was the door through which defendants in custody would be brought to the courtroom, usually still wearing the jumpsuits issued at the Cook County Jail next door.
Ben turned and noticed a woman in a blue business suit entering the courtroom and moving down the aisle to take a seat in the second row of the gallery. She looked very familiar and he struggled to place her for a moment before it dawned on him. She was the woman sitting in Cavallaro’s office when he barged in. Now she was here, sent by Cavallaro to keep tabs on him. Not surprising. He expected as much. Ben let his gaze linger on her just long enough so that she knew he had both spotted and recognized her. When she looked up and they made eye contact, she quickly looked away. Ben did not. A few seconds later when she raised her eyes again, he was still staring at her. Only then did he look back at the bench, where a clerk now entered the courtroom. The brief episode seemed to put Ben at ease.
A moment later, a sheriff’s deputy emerged and called out, “All rise.”
At that very instant, the other door behind the bench opened and the Honorable William Wilson emerged, walked up a handful of steps and took his seat behind the bench. Ben did not hear the rest of what the deputy said, for his eyes were glued on Wilson. Despite being an average-sized man, Judge Wilson presented an imposing figure. With his gray balding crew cut and stern, almost expressionless demeanor, Judge Wilson carried himself with the bearing of a Marine drill instructor. Known as the best defense lawyer in Chicago before he ascended to the bench, Wilson intimidated lawyers in his courtroom just as he intimidated students in his classroom. After having the opportunity to watch the Judge up close as a member of his trial team years before, Ben concluded that Wilson did it without even trying. Whether it was his reputation, or his manner or his obvious skill as a lawyer and judge, Ben did not know. He just knew that he had to be completely prepared and fully professional at all times. As everyone in the courtroom took their seats, the Judge gave a quick good morning and called the first case. Theirs was the fourth and last case on the call. When Wilson called the case, Ben and Mark rose from their seats and walked up to the bench.
Bridget Fahey seemed to race from her seat to be the first one there and said, “Good morning, your Honor. Bridget Fahey for the people,” before Ben and Mark had even arrived.
Ben gave her a quick glance and said, “Good morning, your Honor. Benjamin Lohmeier and Mark Schaefer on behalf of Megan Rand Cavallaro.”
“Good morning, Counsel,” the Judge said with a short nod. As he looked down at them, there was no sign of recognition. “This case has been assigned to me from downstairs,” the Judge began. “Before we get started, I’m sure it’s no secret that I knew the deceased in this case personally by virtue of my position of an Adjunct Professor of Law at the Chicago College of Law and my having served for many years as the Director of the law school’s Trial Advocacy Program. While I did know Professor Greenfield personally, I did not know him well, nor did I ever work with him closely despite his being a Professor of Criminal Law. Consequently, I do not feel that there is any reason why I could not thoroughly and objectively handle my duties in this case. Of course, if Counsel believe otherwise, or believe that a conflict exists such that I should recuse myself in this matter, please let me know and I will be happy to do so.”
Bridget Fahey spoke first. “Your Honor, the people see no reason why you should recuse yourself at this time.”
The Judge looked at Ben. “Your Honor,” Ben said, “we agree. We see no reason why a recusal should be required. We believe you are more than capable of being fair and objective in this matter and we will not be seeking a recusal.”
“Very well,” the Judge said. “I understand we have some discovery matters to discuss this morning,” he said, wasting no time. “Mr. Lohmeier, what information are you seeking from the State?”
Ben took a moment to outline the discovery he was seeking. After he finished, Judge Wilson looked at Bridget Fahey and said, “Ms. Fahey, this all seems pretty routine and reasonable. How much time will it take you to produce the information requested?”
“We would like at least twenty-eight days, your Honor. Not all of the scientific reports and medical analysis have been completed as of yet.”
“That is too long, counsel. You have had enough evidence in your possession to arrest the Defendant and take her before a grand jury, you should be able to provide defense counsel with this information within fourteen days.”
“But your Honor,” Fahey interjected, “as I said, we still have not received all of the reports yet.”
“Fine. Produce everything in your possession that is responsive to both Defendant’s discovery requests and the applicable rules of discovery within fourteen days. You can supplement your responses as additional information becomes available. Let’s get the information out there and get this case moving. I will see you back here in twenty-eight days,” he said looking at his calendar. “That will be March 1st at nine-thirty. Ms. Fahey?”
“Yes Judge?”
“When do you anticipate getting a decision from the grand jury?”
“Your Honor, we hope to have the grand jury return an indictment against the Defendant by the next Court appearance.”
“Very well,” the Judge said. “Before I let you go, I want to emphasize the dictates and requirements of the rules of professional conduct, though I am sure you are aware of them. I will not institute any gag order with respect to the media at this time, however, I fully expect all of the lawyers in this
case to strictly adhere to the rules of professional conduct, particularly with respect to providing information and commentary to the news media. I recognize that this is a case of some degree of public interest, but I will not allow this case to be tried in the media.” The Judge looked down at them and nodded.
“Very well, your Honor,” Ben said.
“Okay then,” the Judge concluded, “that will be all.”
22
Citing Judge Wilson’s admonition about the rules of professional conduct, Ben’s conversations with the reporters on the front steps of the Courthouse was necessarily brief. He frankly appreciated Wilson giving him some cover so he could avoid dealing with the media the way lawyers in so many of the high profile cases do. This was his first big public case and he wasn’t yet comfortable with the public relations aspect of it.
When they crossed 26th Street and reached the parking lot next to the Popeye’s, Ben stopped when he saw the cars parked wall-to-wall in the modestly-sized lot. “Oh shit,” he said. “We’re never going to get out of here.”
Mark laughed. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. I guarantee it. These guys take care of me, you watch.” Mark maneuvered through the cars and headed toward the shed in the middle of the lot. Ben followed at his heels. When Mark reached the chief attendant, he pulled a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet and placed it in the palm of his hand and shook hands with the attendant.
“Counselors,” the attendant said, stuffing the money into his pocket, “did you have success this morning.”
“Not too bad,” Mark said, “not too bad. Where are we?”
“You’re over there in the back corner. The SUV, right?”
“That’s right,” Mark said.
The attendant waved his arm to a young man standing near the back of the lot. “He’ll show you where it is.”
Final Exam: A Legal Thriller Page 14
