by David Ellis
Lightner, who had begun writing, stood perfectly still. “Okay, that beats the Puppy Chow story.”
I laid it all out for him, from Audrey Cutler’s abduction to Griffin Perlini, to Sammy’s arrest, to my visit to Mrs. Perlini and the discovery of the bodies, to my visit with my old neighbor, Mrs. Thomas, to everything I knew about Smith, to Pete’s arrest.
Joel was a good listener. It was his job. He didn’t interrupt, only jotting notes on his pad to save for the end. Listen and learn, a quality he knew well. When I was finally done, over an hour later, Joel leafed through his notes.
“Best bet, Smith is representing one of Perlini’s victims. Someone who’s very happy that Perlini got what was coming to him and doesn’t want Sammy Cutler to pay the price.”
I nodded. “Maybe a victim we know, maybe not. We know of four people who complained against him, and Audrey Cutler makes five victims. But there are obviously more—the four kids buried behind that school. And he’s a pedophile, so he probably had a continuous stream of victims.”
“Bottom line, it’s one of his victims, or their families, but we don’t know who. Okay.” Joel scribbled something on his pad. He seemed to be enjoying the mental exercise. If he didn’t, he was in the wrong business. “So here’s a question, Jason. If these guys are so interested in the outcome of this case—”
“Then why did they wait until one month before his trial to show up? And why are they so concerned about this trial happening on schedule? So much so that they’re willing to go to such drastic measures. I mean, this is bizarre, Joel.”
“Right. Right. Timing. Timing is a question.”
It was the question. These guys took their sweet time in getting involved, but suddenly time was of the essence, even if it deprived Sammy’s lawyer of sufficient time to prepare.
Joel said, “It makes me wonder—”
“If maybe they don’t want him acquitted.”
Joel looked at me. “It makes me wonder if you’re going to stop finishing my sentences.”
I laughed. “Sorry, man. I’m bouncing off the walls here.”
“No problem. But you’re right, Jason. If they’re willing to bankroll a defense and apparently do whatever it takes to help Sammy, why be sticklers about timing?”
It brought me back to a previous thought. “I’m wondering if Smith is representing the person who killed Perlini, and they want to control the defense to make sure nobody discovers who that is. They offer to help me, and maybe they mean it. They don’t care if Sammy can beat the case—they just want to make sure they’re not implicated. The more time I have, the more likely I’ll figure it out. So they hand this to me at the last minute and dole out assignments to make sure I’m not looking under certain rocks.”
“That works.” Joel popped a mint in his mouth. “Fine with them if Sammy beats the rap, but the principal concern is that they’re not discovered.” He nodded at me. “So, Counselor, does that mean you have an innocent client?”
Sammy hadn’t directly told me one way or the other, I told Joel, but he’d certainly implied that he’d killed Griffin Perlini. I’d followed the tried-and-true path of the criminal defense attorney who doesn’t ask the million-dollar question.
“Maybe you should,” Lightner suggested.
He was right. Sammy and I would need to have a heart-to-heart.
“So tell me about Smith,” Lightner said.
“I think he’s a lawyer,” I ventured. “The way he talked.”
“He said a lot of words that don’t mean anything? Lied to your face?”
I was in no mood to trade wisecracks, but I felt reassurance amid Lightner’s calm.
“Well, he’s obviously intelligent,” I said, “so I ruled out a cop.”
Lightner winked at me. It felt good, some humor in the face of everything.
“The way he talked,” I explained. “From day one. He talked about ‘noticing up a motion,’ and ‘presenting’ a motion, and the ‘empty chair.’ Phrases lawyers use. And he seems to have a pretty good handle on how to engineer a criminal defense.”
“Okay, so Smith is a lawyer. That it?”
So far, it was. If I could figure out how to find this guy, I was a long way to where I needed to be.
“Then let’s talk about your brother.”
“John Dixon—J.D.—is the guy who’d sell to Pete,” I said. “I need his record, his address, anything you can get. Then there’s this other guy, ‘Mace.’ Only know the nickname.”
“J.D., I can handle. Mace will be tough.” Lightner made a note. “Especially if he’s this cop’s CI.”
“Yeah, but how confidential can he be?” I asked. “They’re going to have to disclose his name to me in discovery.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Lightner thought about that. “So why do you need me? You’ll get his info, and J.D.’s info, too. If you want it now, do a Brady motion.”
Joel was right. The defense had the absolute right to receive all relevant information from the prosecution. I already had drafted the motion requesting it. But I’d decided against filing it, at least for the time being.
Joel was also right to wonder why I wanted this information beforehand—before I officially requested it. He was putting one and one together, and it was looking a lot like two: He was concerned that I might be seeking this information about J.D. under the radar because I had plans for that gentleman that exceeded the boundaries of the law.
“Listen, Jason. You lost your family, and now your brother’s ass is on the line, too. You’re scared, justifiably so. But you should let someone else handle the case for your brother, and you should let go of it completely. Don’t try to play hero for your brother.”
“He needs a hero,” I said.
“Then someone else can do it. Hell, ask Riley. I’ll bet he’d be happy to help you out with Pete.”
He was right, of course. Under the best of circumstances, I should think twice about handling a case for Sammy, much less my brother. And these were not exactly the best circumstances.
“I need names, addresses, and criminal backgrounds,” I said again. “Please, Joel.”
Lightner thought about further protest but ultimately conceded. “How do you know Smith isn’t bluffing? He sees your brother get pinched; he decides to take credit for it.”
I’d considered that possibility. But the timing made me think otherwise. “He comes into my office issuing ultimatums, I tell him to go scratch, he tells me I’ll change my mind, and the next night my brother’s being accused of selling uncut rock cocaine and running guns?”
“I guess.” Lightner couldn’t argue with the logic. “I’ll take a look at this cop, DePrizio. Maybe he’s with them. Or maybe it’s just the CI, Mace.”
Right. It could have worked either way. If somehow Smith’s people owned a cop, the whole thing would be easy. If not, they could get hold of someone like Mace, who would contact DePrizio and tell him he had a buyer. DePrizio could have thought the whole thing was legit. I didn’t know. But I could try to find out.
“These guys are following me, Joel. That’s why we’re not meeting in my office. We need to keep our communications under the radar.”
Lightner looked concerned. I ignored his look, but Joel isn’t one to hold back. “I can help you out however you need, Jason, but look. It’s bad enough you’re representing an old friend. But your brother, too? It can skew your priorities, is all I’m saying. You’ve got a long career ahead of you, and whenever you feel the urge, you could have a dozen law firms vying for your services. After Almundo? You’re a star. I’d hate to see you throw it all away.”
I waved Joel off, but we both knew he was making sense. I obviously wanted information on the people involved with Pete’s case without making a formal, official request. I wanted maximum flexibility in how I dealt with these customers. I wasn’t planning on letting legal boundaries limit my actions. I needed Joel Lightner’s covert assistance, but I couldn’t let him get too close to what I was doing.<
br />
“You own a gun, Jason?”
I laughed. “You think I need one?”
He didn’t answer. Maybe that was part of the reason he asked, a concern for my ability to defend myself if things got hairy. But I suspected there was another reason, too, and it was that other reason that prompted his frown. It was a serious question that deserved, but would not receive, a serious answer.
The answer was yes, I did own a gun. And no, I’d never used it. But yes, I knew how. I’d taken some training along with some other ACAs when I was a prosecutor.
And yes, I’d be willing to use it, but I didn’t mention that to Lightner.
25
I TURNED TO MY COMPUTER and finished drafting a motion I would file in Sammy’s case. It was a motion for expedited DNA testing of the four bodies found behind Hardigan Elementary School. In the alternative to expedited testing, I would ask for a continuance of the trial until DNA testing could be completed. That continuance, any veteran attorney like Smith would know, could last up to six months, maybe even a year. This ran directly against Smith’s adamant desire that the trial proceed as scheduled.
Then I ran through the list of Griffin Perlini’s known victims, in particular the two for whom Perlini went to prison. I made a couple of calls to set up meetings. This, too, ran counter to Smith’s instructions.
I wasn’t wasting any time testing the limits of my leverage.
I noticed that Shauna was in, which wasn’t unusual for a late Sunday afternoon. As a one-person shop, she had to handle the business end of things, too, and she often came in on the weekend to handle payroll, revenue projections, and other nonlegal tasks. I walked down the hall to her office and poked my head in. She was on the phone, so I waited, as Shauna spoke authoritatively to a client, assuring them that she was giving it hard to the “idiots” on the other side of the litigation. Clients like it when you call the other side disparaging names. It shows an attorney’s investment in the case.
When she got off the phone, I closed the door behind me.
“I need your help, Shauna,” I said.
I SPENT the evening at home with Pete. We ordered in pizza and drank cheap beer. Pete was wearing one of my sweatshirts, too large for him, and a haggard expression. His sleepy, bloodshot eyes kept drifting off, maybe thinking back to the arrest, or thinking forward to many years in the pen.
I was kicking around what to tell him. He’d told me he thought he’d been set up, and now I had information that he was probably right. What good would it do to tell him what I knew? On the other hand, he had a right to know.
We ate mostly in silence, Pete enjoying the comfort of my house, contrasted with the jail cell. He was placing his faith in me. He was making the assumption that I’d come to his rescue, the big brother with the Midas touch, not realizing that I was probably the reason for his problems in the first place.
I’d never been comfortable in that position—the hero, the celebrity. I’d always felt like an imposter. People give you a status based on a physical accomplishment, something you do in a game. Plenty of women flocked to the athletes in high school, and even more so at State. I was no priest. I freely accepted the accoutrements. But I never mistook it for reality. The truth was, it was a lonely existence, questioning the motives of everyone around you—the coaches, the boosters, the women—not trusting anyone with your feelings. State used me and I used State, getting a college degree and heading to law school.
Talia was not one for idol worship. Nor did she know the first thing about football. We’d met in the last year of college, and she couldn’t have cared less about sports. That, I assumed, was one of the many things that drew me to her. She’d listen with interest to the accounts of my accomplishments, but it seemed more of an information-gathering process, just another piece of a puzzle that was Jason Kolarich.
I never knew, precisely, what that puzzle looked like with all the pieces in place. The only thing I knew for sure was that, whatever it used to look like, it would never be the same. I would never fully recover from the loss of Talia and Emily. The raw, gaping wounds would close but they’d always be sensitive to the touch.
I watched Pete, boyish in his messy hair and oversized sweatshirt, drink one beer too many. I watched his expression occasionally deteriorate as he pondered what lay before him. I watched him, and I knew that I would stop at nothing now.
I wasn’t a football player at heart, and I sure as hell wasn’t a team player. I was a competitor. I wanted to win and I enjoyed the thrill of the battle.
But now it was personal. Smith and his friends had invaded what was left of my family. I would make sure he’d regret that decision.
MONDAY MORNING—twenty-one days until trial—I was in the office by nine. Marie buzzed me just as I was opening some files to review. “Arrelius Jackson from Reynard Penitentiary?”
I didn’t know the name. An inmate, obviously, doing state time.
“Take a message,” I said.
A moment later, Marie buzzed again. “He says it’s urgent. He says Mr. Smith referred him?”
I felt my blood go cold. “I’ll take it.” I punched the lit button. “Jason Kolarich.”
“Yeah, I need to talk to you.” There was heavy background noise. An inmate using a pay phone.
“So talk.”
“Nah. Face to face, man.”
“I’m busy.”
“Not too busy for this, man. You know where Reynard is?”
“I know where it is,” I said. “I sent a lot of people there.”
I thought he laughed. “You better come, man, you know what’s smart.”
The line went dead. I stared at the phone, as if it could give me some answers. I had a pretty good idea what this was about.
Smith, it seemed, wasn’t taking no for an answer.
My cell phone buzzed. I looked at the face and it was Joel Lightner. I took a moment to decelerate from my conversation with Mr. Arrelius Jackson and answered.
“I’ve got something on John Dixon. Ready?”
“When you are,” I said.
“Black kid, age twenty-eight. Seven pops, all drug-related. Three of them dismissed, three pleaded down, some community service, one stint inside. He was affiliated for a time, a Warlord, but as you know, the War-lords don’t have much going on anymore. Anyway, he’s a Lone Ranger now, he lives down south in Marion Park and works as a courier for an investment banking firm.”
“A courier.”
“Yeah, ain’t that rich? He probably has half his clientele right in that damn firm. Anyway, 4554 West Elvira is the addy. He’s single but has a kid that lives with the mother. The firm he works at is McHenry Stern, downtown. The Hartz Building.”
“Sure.” I continued to scribble. “Awesome, Joel. You’re a peach.”
“You want a tail?”
“I don’t think it would look good on me.”
“Hey, smart guy? What’s it gonna be? Do I tail him? Interview him?”
“Let me think about it,” I said.
“Yeah? You’re making me nervous, kid.”
“Any luck on this ‘Mace’?”
Joel used silence to express his disapproval. Hell, he found people for a living. Why would he assume the worst about my intentions?
“No luck,” he finally said. “Nickname isn’t much to go on, right? And cops don’t usually advertise their CI’s.”
Fair enough. John Dixon was the one I wanted, anyway.
26
REYNARD PENITENTIARY was a maximum-security prison out in rural country, a good fifty miles northwest of the city. It took me more than an hour to get there, which put me at about half past one. Visiting hours began at two, if memory served, though as a prosecutor we could get access to inmates whenever need be. I’d been out here a few times in my stint as an assistant county attorney, usually flipping witnesses through a combination of sticks and carrots.
The place was a brick fortress with several acres surrounding it on all sides, covered with the u
sual barbed-wire fencing and in-ground sensors. I was stopped no less than three times on my way in, always checking my identification against the visitor sheet. Arrelius Jackson had put me down as an “A” visit—meaning an attorney-client visit, which entitled us to special rooms where, allegedly, we could speak in confidence. I say “allegedly” because the Department of Corrections, on occasion, had been known to overlook this special privilege and eavesdrop on attorney-client conversations, too. There had been a scandal about five years ago with a downstate penitentiary, resulting in a handful of resignations and typical reactionary reforms.
I didn’t really care. I didn’t have the slightest impression that Arrelius Jackson was looking for a lawyer. I’d done a search on him back at my office. Age thirty-four, African American, unmarried, a sheet starting when he was seventeen. Mr. Jackson was serving consecutive life sentences for a triple homicide in the city about a decade ago. His appeals had long dried up.
I was searched, seized, X-rayed, poked and prodded. I gave my autograph a couple of times and passed through two metal gates before I was finally ensconced in a small room of concrete walls, painted green, and a metal table at which I sat. The single door to the room popped open with a hydraulic whoosh and in walked the man of the hour, none other than Mr. Arrelius Jackson, in an orange body suit, accompanied by two of Reynard Penitentiary’s finest.
Inmates used the phrase stone cold to describe the nastiest, scariest of the prison population. The term was typically reserved for the sexual predators and the enforcers. I didn’t know if Jackson was either of those but I figured if I looked up the phrase in the dictionary, I would find a picture of the man now standing before me.
