by David Ellis
I hadn’t exactly been keeping regular hours lately. Many of those nights had been spent out with Pete, who seemed to have boundless energy when it came to bars and women. Occasionally, Shauna would hang out with me, too, which was a different kind of sport because I got to watch a lot of sloppy-drunk idiots make a play for her.
“Smitty and Dom want to grab lunch today,” she told me, not even looking up from her case file. “Wanna come?”
Her request was deliberately casual. She didn’t know, specifically, how I spent my lunches but probably had a good idea. She’d been trying to pull me out of my funk for the past four months. Still, she hadn’t pushed, and she wasn’t pushing now.
“Can’t do it, m’lady,” I told her.
She looked up, training those loving but disapproving blue eyes on me for only a moment before looking back into her file. She hasn’t known how to handle this thing with me. I was a train wreck there for a while, holed up in my house, feeling sorry for myself, and the best she could figure was that it was better for her to be around than not. She probably understands me better than anyone I know, so she knows that I’m a loner at heart.
“Marie said something about a murder case?”
“Trial starts in four weeks.”
“Oh, well—four whole weeks.” That’s what I like about Shauna. She doesn’t get emotional about very many things. Even when that senior partner started sexually harassing her at her old firm, she simply responded with a counteroffer: She’d contact the EEOC, and his wife, if he didn’t give her a generous severance package and let her steal a client or two. “How’d that come about?”
I told her the name of my client.
“Sammy Cutler?” The name wasn’t registering with her, but she knew it should. “Sammy—” Her feet came off the table. “From BonBons?” she asked, meaning Bonaventure High School. “That freaky guy who wore the army jackets and got stoned all the time?”
Her reaction made me feel worse than I already did, only highlighting the divide that grew between Sammy and me after I became a jock. Shauna didn’t even know that Sammy and I had been friends. It was a painful and embarrassing reminder of how much distance I had put between us once I became a member of the high school elite, a varsity athlete in my sophomore year.
“Sammy was my guy growing up,” I said, allowing enough tone in my voice to call for a little respect on this topic. Shauna grew up about two miles away from Sammy and me, which to us was a different neighborhood altogether, a middle-class area that also fed into BonBons. “My next-door neighbor.”
“And he killed someone?”
Sammy hadn’t come out and confessed to me, but I certainly assumed so. “He killed the guy who killed his sister,” I said, which of course forced me to unload the entire story on her. Shauna, like me, would have been seven years old when it happened, and she might have heard something about it—no doubt her parents did—but it wouldn’t have registered in the way it did with me, naturally.
After listening to all of this, she exhaled dramatically. “Well, Mr. Kolarich, that’s one heck of a case ya got there. You need help?”
“I might,” I said. I tapped the door and left before she could engage me in further conversation.
“You notice,” she called after me, “I didn’t ask you if he had any money.”
I have accused Shauna, in my haughtier moments, of placing too high a premium on receiving prompt payment from customers. “You’re a true humanitarian, Tasker.”
“Come to lunch with Dom and Smitty, Jason! I’m serious! Smitty’ll buy.”
I ignored her, though I appreciated the gesture. I had my regular lunch appointment.
“When did Shauna become a humanitarian?” This from Marie, our assistant, without even looking up. Marie is a fair-haired young woman only three years out of college, who reminds us constantly that she has a degree in archaeology and will leave us, without notice, as soon as (a) she finds a job in that vocation, which seems unlikely given that we live in the Midwest and the only things to be found underground are the bodies of mafia informants, or (b) she gets tired of taking our abuse, which in truth she actually enjoys.
When I walked into my office, a shiny new, brown leather briefcase was resting on one of the chairs opposite my desk. Marie informed me that my new friend, Smith, had dropped it off first thing this morning. I opened the gold clasp and counted out ten thousand dollars in cash. A healthy retainer, indeed, but it was rare to get this kind of money in cash. Smith, apparently, was not inclined to reveal aspects of his personal information that a check would disclose.
I fell into my chair and checked my watch. A client was due to arrive shortly, for a second tour of duty. Ronnie Dice was the second client I represented in my ill-conceived reincarnation as a solo practitioner. He was, as far as I knew, a fairly small-time crook. He’d grown up as a pick-pocket, lifting wallets on buses, that sort of thing, but when he came to see me, it was on a gun charge. Ronnie had been around, but not part of, a scuffle on the south side. When two patrol cars showed to break it up, Ronnie had suddenly discovered his legs and decided to adios in a hurry. Headlong flight is not usually an activity in which innocent people partake, so one of the patrol officers, not surprisingly, decided he’d like to inquire of Mr. Dice and gave chase.
Here’s a good rule of thumb if a cop is somewhere nearby: Don’t run. He’ll notice.
Ronnie was caught and found with an unregistered firearm. They charged it on the state level, not federal. I tried to suppress the evidence of the gun, saying the cops lacked probable cause. I lost. At trial, I argued that the gun was planted by the white cops on the black defendant. I had two jurors in mind in making that argument. They ended up hanging 8-4, which meant I actually got four jurors toward reasonable doubt.
The state said they’d retry but the judge let the prosecutor know that she wasn’t favorably disposed to that idea, which was a polite way of saying she didn’t want to take up three more days of her docket on a bullshit case. I felt lucky to get four jurors the first time and didn’t think Ronnie would fare so well the second go-round. So I told the judge that, after the testimony of the officers at trial, I thought I had new grounds to argue for suppression of the evidence. I also proposed, in lieu of a retrial, a misdemeanor plea. The judge said she’d be willing to reconsider my suppression argument if the state retried and basically forced the misdemeanor plea down the prosecutor’s throat.
You’d think Ronnie had received the electric chair, the way he fussed and moaned, but I think he realized the thing had turned out pretty well, all things considered. Especially because he stiffed me on the bill. Ronnie Dice, to whom we now affectionately refer as No-Dice, taught me the single most important rule of a criminal defense attorney: Get your money up front.
At a quarter to eleven, Ronnie Dice walked into my office. I told him he was late and he acted like I’d just made a joke. Ronnie was dressed the same as the first time he paid me a visit, in a gray hooded sweatshirt, ratty jeans, and canvas high-tops. He had a painfully youthful look about his eyes that made me think, as I did so often with my clients, that things should have turned out differently for him.
“Jason Kolarich the man,” he said, getting comfortable in the chair across from me.
“Ronald Dice the deadbeat.”
He ignored that, launching into the story of his latest brush with the law, a story that, with minor variations, I’d heard many times. As a warm-up, he informed me that the whole thing had been a giant misunderstanding. Apparently he had no idea that there was dope in the bag he was carrying from one lowlife to another. He tried to explain the communication breakdown to the friendly neighborhood policeman, but alas, the officer was less than receptive to his plea.
Part of being a criminal defense attorney is being an editor. Clients tell you all sorts of things that have nothing to do with the case. Ronnie seemed to think that, in addition to me clearing him of all criminal charges, we would have one whale of a civil-rights case against
the cops because Ronnie’s forehead got in the way of the car door when he was being helped into the backseat.
“Ronnie, if memory serves, a month ago I hung a jury and pleaded you down to a misdemeanor when you were looking at eighteen months. But when I sent you the bill, you told me to go fuck myself.”
“Nah, boss, you should’ve gotten that payment.”
Interesting how he put that. “I agree, Ronnie, I should have.”
“I don’t know what coulda happened.”
Another misunderstanding, apparently. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”
“This is you in a good mood?” He laughed, overcompensating. He gave me the details, including the date of the prelim, the names of a couple of witnesses, and a sincere promise to have twenty-five hundred dollars in my hand by close of business tomorrow.
“Try to get the money legally,” I suggested, prompting more laughter. He was laughing because the odds of my ever receiving payment were longer than the odds of Ronnie Dice becoming a figure skater with the Ice Capades.
TODAY, lunch is a picnic in the park. Talia lays out a checked cloth blanket—part of a picnic set, a wedding present—while little Emily runs around in circles, her arms out straight, emulating an airplane.
Talia has the food—her wonderful chicken salad, new potatoes, and coleslaw—set out on a couple of plates, a lunch for two. She opens a bottle of Evian and calls out to our daughter. “C’mon, honey, let’s eat,” she says.
Emily, still playing the airplane, circles the picnic table and comes in for a safe landing. She picks up one of the small triangles of sandwich her mother has cut and crinkles her nose. “I don’t like it,” she says.
“You like chicken salad, Em. You liked it last week.”
Emily sets the food down and frowns. “I don’t want it.”
Talia puts her hand on Emily’s head of blond curls, her only physical feature owing to me. “You want peanut butter and jelly?” Talia brought an extra sandwich just in case.
Emily looks up into the sun, squinting as the rays beat down on her face. “Is Daddy coming today?”
Talia reaches down and gives our daughter a kiss. “Not today, sweetheart,” she says. “We’ll see him soon.”
You will. You’ll see me soon.
8
HIS NAME WASN’ T SMITH, though that was the name he had given to the lawyer, Jason Kolarich. He didn’t expect Kolarich to buy it, but he guessed—correctly—that Kolarich wouldn’t worry too much about the identity of his benefactor, not when that benefactor was offering three hundred dollars an hour, and not when the client was an old friend.
Smith fondled a cuff link as he waited in his client’s office. The office was spacious but simple, the office of a man who paid no heed to the finer details, who freely delegated and expected compliance.
He stood as his client entered from a side door.
“Hello, Carlo,” Smith said.
Carlo dropped his large frame in a plush leather high-back and fixed on Smith. “Tell me about the lawyer,” he said.
“His name is Jason Kolarich. He grew up with Sammy Cutler. Next-door neighbors. Near Forty-seventh and Graynor, Leland Park—well, you know the neighborhood. Mother was a housewife. Father was a grifter. Mostly small-time stuff, card games, and petty rips. He’s doing eight inside now for a mortgage-fraud scam he ran.”
“Where?” Carlo asked. “Where’s he inside?”
Smith thought for a moment. “Marymount.”
Carlo was silent. Smith figured Carlo was thinking about how he could reach someone inside Marymount Penitentiary. Surely, there was a way.
“I don’t know how much Kolarich cares about his dad,” he told Carlo.
Carlo gave Smith a hard glare. He didn’t appreciate the suggestion in Smith’s comment.
“Continue,” Carlo said.
Smith nodded dutifully. “He has a younger brother named Pete. Had some scrapes himself but nothing major. Looks like maybe the apple didn’t fall far from the tree with Pete. He lives here in the city. He likes to engage in the occasional recreational drug.”
Carlo seemed to take note of that.
Smith knew the notes by heart. “Jason Kolarich was a football player, a real good one. A wide receiver. He played ball at State on scholarship for two years. Then he was kicked off the team when he got into a fight with one of his teammates. Put the guy in the hospital.”
“The hospital.” Carlo chuckled, allowed a tight smile. “A fighter.”
“Stayed in school, though,” Smith went on. “Put himself through the last two years, then went to law school. He was a prosecutor for a few years. A pretty good one, from what they say. He was doing felony cases at the criminal courthouse until he went into the private sector. He worked at a law firm called Shaker, Riley and Flemming, which is a very well-established firm in the city. He defended that state senator who was charged with extortion. He won that case.”
“He beat the feds?”
“He beat the feds.”
Carlo seemed impressed. “What about his family? Wife? Kids?”
Smith shook his head. “Kolarich’s wife, Talia, and their baby daughter, Emily, were killed in a car accident four months ago. Their car went off the embankment on a county road heading downstate.”
“Jesus.” Carlo winced. Even Carlo, Smith knew, would be sympathetic. “That’s gotta fuck a guy up pretty bad.”
“Of course,” Smith agreed. “Every day, at lunch, he drives to the cemetery and sits by their graves. He just sits there for an hour, then gets up and goes back to work.”
“Yeah, well—yeah.” Carlo got out of his chair and paced the large room. A guy like Carlo wasn’t comfortable with these kinds of emotions, and predictably, they evolved into anger. “Well, Jesus Christ, what are we getting with this guy? A violent guy who just lost his wife and daughter?”
Smith wasn’t sure of the answer. “He was a rising star at a blue-chip law firm before this all happened. After his wife and daughter died, he dropped off the map, left the law firm, and didn’t reemerge for three months. When he did, he opened up a one-man shop, sharing office space with an old high school friend and handling small-time cases. From what I’ve been able to tell, Kolarich is only halfway back. He works sporadically. Some days, he never leaves his house. Much of the time, he stays out at bars all night but doesn’t make a play for anyone; he just gets drunk and then goes home.” Smith took a minute. “This guy Kolarich will not be reliable, Carlo, but he’s the guy Cutler wanted. He wouldn’t take our people. He wanted Kolarich. And we’re going to do all the heavy lifting, anyway. All he’ll really have to do is show up in court. Hopefully, even he can handle that.”
Carlo was silent for a long while. He walked over to the single picture window in the office and stared, motionless. Finally, he turned his head in Smith’s direction. “And he still has that brother, right?”
“Right.”
“And they’re close? I mean, he gives a flying fuck about this brother? Pete, you said.”
“He seems to, yes.”
Carlo turned back toward the window. He breathed out deeply and cast a hand over his face. “Good,” he said.
9
THEY WEREN’T THE FIRST, the state trooper tells you, as if that were any consolation, as you stand together near the police barricade, artificial light illuminating the otherwise dark county road past four in the morning. It was a sharp turn, a blind curve on a county road along the bluffs, accompanied by a warning sign that, for some reason, Talia must have missed. Her Bronco had busted through the guardrail and toppled over a hundred feet into the river.
You’d done the drive with Talia dozens of times, part of the route downstate to her parents’ place. But you, not Talia, had always been the driver.
She was visiting her folks? the trooper asks you. You don’t recall answering, but you must have said yes. What you surely didn’t answer was whether your wife was going for a visit, or whether she was leaving you for good.
I’m doing this for us, you kept telling yourself, working well into the morning hours consistently on the Almundo defense. We win this case, we pull this rabbit out of a hat, and I’m in. I’m set. We’ll be on easy street. Emily will have everything she ever wanted. Talia will have everything she deserves. Yet you can’t deny that you are also doing this for yourself, the ego boost, the utter high of the high-profile trial, navigating through reporters on a daily basis and seeing your name in the Watch.
When the call came, you’d been waiting by the phone in your office for your informant, the guy who might be able to give you the final lead, the home run in your case. Ernesto Ramirez, a high-ranking ex-member of a street gang—the Latin Lords—to which your client, Senator Almundo, had been connected, was going to deliver the message to you that day. The government’s theory was that Senator Almundo had led an extortion ring that terrorized the city’s west side, resulting, among other things, in the death of a local businessman, who was unwilling to pay the obligatory protection money. You’d found Ernesto Ramirez on your own, some extracurricular due diligence on your part, and hit a potential gold mine: Ernesto was going to offer you proof that the storekeeper hadn’t been murdered by the Columbus Street Cannibals but, rather, by a rival street gang, the Latin Lords. The revelation would shatter the underlying premise of the government’s case.
Day had turned into night, which had forced you to cancel with Talia, who decided to take Emily and go anyway. By ten o’clock that evening, you were in a real mood, wondering whether you had missed a weekend with your family over a red herring. When your office phone rang, it hadn’t even occurred to you that Ernesto always called on your cell, not at the office.
