The Ambition

by Lee Strobel

  For several months, Tom lived by his credo — until one evening when he kept coming tantalizingly close to winning several big pots, only to be busted time after time by an improbable hand held by someone else.

  Still, that night he felt lucky, hopeful in a way he couldn’t remember, on the verge of scoring big. Pulling the last bill from his pocket to chase an inside straight, he succumbed to Dom’s casual offer to spot him some cash. His card didn’t show on the flop, but he stayed in with his borrowed bankroll. It was coming; he could feel it. And sure enough, the queen of hearts on the river. What he didn’t feel, though, was the higher straight held by Dom’s cousin.

  Every hand seemed to go like that. Maybe the booze fueled his poor decisions. It didn’t really matter, because by dawn, as the game was finally breaking up, Tom was thirty thousand in the hole.

  And not just in any hole — he owed the money to Dominic Bugatti, the youngest brother of Tony Bugatti, the long–time sotto capo, or second–in–command, of the West Side mob. With street interest, the debt ballooned to forty thousand dollars before Tom knew it — and that was approximately forty thousand more dollars than he had.

  So when Dom, looking agitated and desperate, pounded on Tom’s door at two in the morning and said he would erase a chunk of the debt in return for an “errand,” Tom knew he had no choice. Besides, this wasn’t really an offer: it was a command.

  And so here he was, Tom O’Sullivan, sitting across a massive wooden desk from Judge Reese McKelvie and feeling as nervous as a teenager in front of the principal. Tom’s boyish face, with pale freckles across his nose, didn’t help, giving him a youthful appearance that disarmed opponents in poker games but did him no favors in court.

  McKelvie, on the other hand, looked every bit the role of the chief criminal courts judge: flowing black robes, black–rimmed spectacles, regal crown of wispy white hair, and triple chins cascading over his tightly buttoned collar.

  “I don’t have much time. I’m meeting you because I was a very close friend of your father’s. Why was it so pressing to meet in chambers?” McKelvie asked.

  Tom took a deep breath. He clicked open his briefcase and put it on the floor before removing a bulging manila envelope he then held in his lap. “I have something from Dom,” he said.

  McKelvie didn’t respond.

  “Dom Bugatti.” Tom held out the envelope, but McKelvie didn’t move a muscle; his eyes stayed fixed on Tom, seeming to bore right through him. After a few awkward moments, Tom laid the envelope on the desk. “There’s 30K in there.”

  McKelvie registered no reaction. He didn’t budge, he didn’t blink, he didn’t avert his gaze. Panic welled up inside Tom; he had to fight the urge to bolt for the door.

  When McKelvie finally spoke, his voice was sharp and demanding: “What’s this all about?”

  Tom blanched; his head started to swim. McKelvie pointed directly at him. “Don’t move!” Keeping his eyes on Tom, the judge pushed a button on his intercom. “Deputy Marshall, come in here. Now.”

  Almost immediately, the door swung open and in stepped Benjamin “Buster” Marshall, a former Army drill sergeant who serves as McKelvie’s personal bailiff. Lean and tall, an imposing and unsmiling figure, his dark skin like burnished bronze, Marshall shut the door and loomed over Tom’s chair.

  “Mr. O’Sullivan brought something from Dom Bugatti,” said the judge, gesturing toward the envelope.

  Buster’s eyes went to the desk, then to Tom. “You want me to frisk him?”

  McKelvie shook his head. “No, he’s okay. I knew his dad. We did a lot of deals together.” With that, he pulled open his top desk drawer, slid the envelope inside, pushed the drawer closed, and removed the key.

  “But we need to be careful,” the judge said. He turned to Tom. “Buster handles details for me. So what’s this all about? Is it the case I read about in the papers?”

  Tom swallowed hard. “That’s right. You’re arraigning Tony Bugatti’s nephew, Nick Moretti, tomorrow morning.”

  Buster interrupted. “Yeah, I read about that case. Murder of a bookie. Sounds like the cops have got a couple of witnesses — I heard the headlights from a car lit up Moretti’s face. Some guy driving home with a waitress he’d picked up in a bar.”

  As chief judge, McKelvie generally didn’t care very much about trivialities like witnesses and evidence, since he personally never presided over any actual trials. Instead, he conducted arraignments at which defendants entered a perfunctory “not guilty” plea and then were assigned to a judge for further proceedings and an eventual trial.

  Nevertheless, the appointment of a trial judge is a pivotal — even decisive — moment in every case, because the truth is that all judges are not created equal. Not in Cook County anyway. Not in this building.

  “This case needs to go to Judge Sepulveda,” Tom said. “That’s what Dom wants.”

  McKelvie sighed and pushed back in his chair. “That’s easier said than done. One of the reforms we instituted was to install a computerized system that randomly assigns cases.”

  Tom was aware of the computer. In the past, chief judges had come under suspicion because politically sensitive cases always seemed to be steered to judges who were amenable to payoffs or who were known to be soft on defendants. The new tamper–proof system was designed to restore the public’s confidence in the judiciary.

  But to Tom, this was irrelevant. He had come on an errand, simple and clear–cut, and frankly he didn’t care how McKelvie took matters from there.

  “Look, I’ve done what I was asked to do,” Tom said. “The rest is your problem.”

  McKelvie thumped his desk. “You’re not done yet!” he snapped. “You hear me? You tell Bugatti this: I will make every effort to get the case to Sepulveda. If I succeed, I keep the money. But if I don’t succeed, I still keep the money. You got that? He’s not paying me for results; he’s paying me for the risk. You make that clear.”

  Buster grabbed the back of Tom’s chair, giving it a violent shake. “Got it?”

  “Okay, sure, fine, I’ll tell Dom. But if you’re saying there’s nothing you can do, I’m not sure how he’s going to respond.”

  McKelvie let a small smile play on his face. “Well, I didn’t say there was nothing I can do. For all practical purposes, the computer assigns cases to judges on a random basis. But there’s a wrinkle.”

  “Like what?”

  “What people don’t know is that the system isn’t totally random.”

  “Meaning …”

  “Judges dispose of cases at different rates. Some work slowly and so they have a big backlog; others are faster and only have a small number of pending cases. If the incoming cases were to be distributed evenly among all the judges, the slower ones would end up swamped. So to compensate for that, the computer taps into the court clerk’s database and monitors the caseload of every judge. It assigns the cases according to a complicated algorithm that takes the pending caseload of each judge into account.”

  Buster spoke up. “So if Judge Sepulveda’s clerk makes a ‘mistake’ when she types in the current caseload at the end of the day today … who knows? What if she accidentally types in that the judge disposed of fifty cases instead of five? That kind of innocent error happens all the time.”

  “In the eyes of the computer, that would deplete his caseload quite a bit,” added the judge. “The computer would weigh that data and the chances are that the first case arraigned the next day would get directed to him. It’s not for sure, but there’s a strong likelihood.”

  “Then,” said Buster, “the clerk would discover her ‘error’ later that morning and correct it. Nobody’s the wiser. Caseload reports are only printed out at the end of every week; by then, it’s nice and pretty.”

  McKelvie looked at Buster. “You work things out with Christine in Sepulveda’s office. Then make sure that Moretti will be the first defendant arraigned tomorrow. Call the jail and make sure he’s over here in the lockup early and is re
ady to go. No slip–ups.”

  Buster nodded.

  “As for you,” McKelvie said, glancing at Tom, “you make sure Bugatti understands this is the best I can do. You got that?”

  Tom was more than ready to get out of there. He picked up his briefcase, clicked it closed, and stood. “Got it.”

  McKelvie rose to his feet, his judicial robes betraying his sizeable paunch, and put his hands on his hips. “You know,” he said, his voice becoming more personal, “I really liked your dad. He played ball. We got along well. It was, shall we say, a mutually profitable relationship.”

  Tom considered the impact his fist would have on the soft, overripe flesh of McKelvie’s jaw before he managed to utter, “Thanks.”

  I can’t do this ever again, Tom told himself as he emerged from the chambers and walked so fast down the corridor that his shins began to ache. This is a murder — a crime syndicate killing. What could be more despicable? This is the first and only time.

  He stepped into the empty elevator and the doors slid shut. He leaned against the wall and took several deep breaths to clear his head. The elevator had already started to descend to the lobby when he suddenly remembered something.

  Tom reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat, removed the micro–recorder, and clicked it off.

  III

  Dom Bugatti, eyes blazing, slammed his fist on the kitchen table; a glass jumped and tumbled off the edge, shattering on the floor.

  “Who does he think he is? I’m payin’ him to get that case to Sepulveda — and if he doesn’t, I’ll rip his head off! I swear, I’ll march in there and break his face!”

  Tom, clad in a blue cloth robe, inched backward until a wall halted his retreat. It was after two in the morning, and again Dom had pounded on his back door and barged in.

  He smelled of cigarette smoke and whisky mixed with the sour tang of heavy cologne. His boots crunched shards of glass as he strode to Tom and shoved his fist in his face.

  “This is your problem too. You understand? I gave you a job, and you better make sure McKelvie does what he’s told.” Dom’s black leather jacket fell open just enough for Tom to glimpse a shoulder holster.

  Color drained from Tom’s face. “Look, I … I did what you told me to. C’mon — I can’t control the presiding judge of criminal court. I gave him the money; like I told you, he’s doing all he can. Everything depends on the computer.”

  As a lawyer for a lot of unsavory characters through the years, Tom was accustomed to interacting with the street crews of the Chicago mob, but usually it was on his terms, in his office, when it was in their best interest to shelve their tempers so they could collaborate on concocting a defense.

  They generally kept their appointments, they paid their bills, they smiled at the receptionist, they wore a mask of civility as best they could. But having the tables turned like this churned his gut. Dom probably didn’t know the meaning of the word civility — literally.

  Dom had heard enough about McKelvie’s refusal to guarantee anything; he turned toward the door. “Bill’s gonna call me from the courthouse later this morning,” he said, referring to his nephew’s lawyer, William Geyers, one of the most expensive criminal defense attorneys in the city. “He’d better have good news — or else.”

  He yanked open the door, took a step outside, and then he hesitated. He looked over his shoulder at Tom, but now his demeanor suddenly changed. His anger subsided and his voice mellowed to a friendly tone. Once again he was the genial host that Tom knew from the high–stakes poker games in the smoky back room on West Taylor Street.

  “We gonna see you Friday night?” he asked, his lips curling toward a smile.

  Tom could only manage to nod and replied without thinking, “Uh, yeah, sure. I’ll be there.”

  “See you there — Tommy O.” With that, Dom was gone.

  Tom slumped into a chair and cinched his robe against the cool night air. Dom’s outburst got his heart thumping, but it was his closing question that left Tom’s head spinning. After all this, he expected Tom to show up and play poker as if nothing had happened? What, so he could dig himself deeper in debt and line Bugatti’s pockets with his losses? So he could risk breaking the law again and getting disbarred?

  And that’s when it hit him. His automatic response had been to say yes, of course, certainly, absolutely. Nothing could stand between him and a deck of cards and a pile of money. No problem, Dom — barge in anytime and throw around threats and, sure, we’ll have some drinks over poker Friday night so I can borrow more money and let you control my life.

  That was the moment Tom O’Sullivan realized what his father must have felt like. Every shred of logic screamed that he should run the other way, yet he still felt inexorably drawn to the thrill of false hope.

  He sat for several minutes, head in hand, in the shadows of his kitchen. He knew he wasn’t going back to bed; his adrenaline was pumping too much for that. Finally, he walked into his home office, flicked on the lights and computer, and went to his favorite search engine.

  A few keystrokes later, he found a six–month–old article in the Examiner about a program that was helping people who were caught in the grip of compulsive gambling. Tom jotted down the name of the group’s leader who was quoted extensively in the story.

  Maybe it was time to face his demons — now, before it was too late. Perhaps this program could help. At least, it might be worth a chance.

  As best Tom could tell, the group met in a big church in suburban Diamond Point.

  IV

  Eric knew he was in trouble.

  Elizabeth Snow threw her luggage in the backseat, yanked the car door closed, and squared her back against the passenger seat. “Hello, Eric.” There was no smile, and no kiss was offered.

  He pulled away from the curb at O’Hare and merged into traffic.

  “How was the trip?” he asked.

  “Great,” she said, without turning toward him.

  “Customs take long?”

  “No,” she said.

  “You must be tired.”

  She sighed and closed her eyes.

  He wanted to turn on the radio and fill their silence with the Cubs game — it was their home opener against the despicable Cards — but didn’t dare. They rode without speaking until he took the turnoff to Milwaukee Avenue to avoid a backup on the expressway.

  “Good flight?” he tried again.

  She turned and gave an exasperated sigh, her almond eyes narrowing. “When were you planning to tell me?” she asked. “Tell you what?”

  “You know full well what. Rhonda Urban called me on my layover in New York. She told me about the meeting at our house — our house, Eric. She said you told everyone you were going after the Senate.”

  “Now, that’s an exaggeration. We broached the idea, that’s all.”

  “We? As in Debra Wyatt and you? Is she your wife? Where do the two of you get off making announcements about our life? It’s our life, Eric — not just yours to do whatever you want.”

  “I made it clear that nothing is set in stone — just like we discussed before your trip. We’re talking possibilities. Scenarios. Contingencies.”

  “You’re talking about changing our lives one hundred and eighty degrees. I told you before I left for Johannesburg that we’ve got a lot more processing to do before you start playing games with contingencies. This affects me every bit as much as it affects you.”

  He knew she was right. Though Eric was senior pastor, Liz was woven into the fabric of Diamond Point Fellowship. In a sense, she was its social conscience, overseeing volunteers who served in small orphanages, medical clinics, churches, and schools scattered throughout central and southern Africa.

  He’d broached the possibility of the Senate appointment to her while she was packing for her trip to Johannesburg two weeks earlier. She was planning to combine ministry with family time on the trip, visiting relatives in Tembisa (a name he loved: Zulu for “There is Hope”), located northea
st of the city. Her mother’s roots went back many generations in South Africa; her father’s ancestors immigrated to America from Scotland in the 1880s.

  Her parents met in the racially turbulent 1960s in Arkansas, deciding to move to San Francisco where a mixed marriage might be tolerated. He taught social studies at a high school; she gave piano lessons and worked in a middle school cafeteria. Their hard work and sacrifice enabled Elizabeth — named after one of the nine heroic teenagers who integrated an all–white Little Rock high school in 1957 — to fulfill her dream of studying at Stanford.

  She emerged with a degree in software engineering and was promptly hired by Snow’s burgeoning company in Silicon Valley. Lithe and willowy, with a model’s high cheekbones, short black hair that she wore in small waves, and silky, light brown skin, she’d turned heads her entire life. But it was her brain that first attracted Eric Snow.

  Eric and his tech–savvy partner had gathered a team to tackle a gnarly software glitch that was stalling production of his firm’s breakthrough innovation for the Internet. Eighteen computer geeks spent half a day batting around ideas — until Liz, who had stayed in the background, finally blurted out the solution, marched to the dry–erase board, and sketched it for everyone to see.

  Snow had leapt to his feet. “You win the prize!” he declared, half in jest.

  That’s when he first soaked in the sight of her and realized the beauty housing the brilliant mind that had just saved his company.

  “Prize?”

  “Of course, a reward,” he said, not wanting to blow the opportunity. “You get our corporate box at the Golden State Warriors game on Saturday night. Invite your family and friends. Have a party on us. In fact — I’ll host you.”

  At the game, the two of them ignored the basketball game and everyone in the lavish private suite, huddling instead in a corner where they talked all evening. He was impressed by her wide range of interests — classical music, literature, African art. She was introverted but self–confident at the same time, with a clear streak of independence. And he was mesmerized by her looks — exotic and yet natural and unpretentious.