“Unlucky, pal,” Tanner stated in his most patronizing voice as soon as Hunter had stepped out of the courtroom doors into the poorly lit hallway. “You should get used to it. That’s what’s going to happen over the next few months. Nobody’s on your side here.”
Hunter turned to Tanner. “You smug piece of trash. You don’t get to play with people’s lives.”
“And nor do killers like Javier Mitchell.” Tanner lifted his chin, trying to square up to the much taller man. “He killed someone, Hunter. He doesn’t get to walk free, and he doesn’t get to do it again. We need him behind bars, serving his punishment for this crime.”
“He claims he’s innocent.”
“Innocent? That’s rich. I could understand if you’re trying to say it was an accident, or if they got in a fight and he didn’t mean to kill him. That would be some sort of defensible legal argument. But innocent? Come on. There’s no way that’s going to fly. I would’ve thought you could’ve seen that.” Tanner scoffed. “You’re out of your depth, and nobody wants you here. Nobody wants you in these courtrooms. Go home and cry to your killer father.”
Hunter stepped past Tanner, his breathing short and heart thumping against his chest. Hunter could handle smugness, he could handle arrogance, but he couldn’t handle the slander against his father’s name.
“Tex, don’t do anything you’ll regret.” Carol pulled on Hunter’s sleeve, saving Tanner from scoring a black eye and Hunter from sore knuckles. “Not yet, anyway.”
Hunter grunted and turned away from Tanner, walking away from the prosecutor.
“You’re out of your depths, Hunter,” Tanner called out after him, displaying courage as he looked at Hunter’s back. “You won’t be able to save Javier Mitchell.”
Chapter 7
Hunter woke in Chicago on the following Saturday morning with a hangover. The long drive back and forth from Longford was taking its toll, but he was cautious about spending extra nights in the small city. Not only was the hotel bed as hard as concrete, not only was the area suffering a heatwave, but he was worried what the locals might do after a few drinks on a Friday night. Any knock on the hotel door was met with apprehension, any noise made him wary, and anytime he heard his name, he was guarded.
His apartment on the fifteenth floor in River North, a neighborhood on the edge of Downtown Chicago, was far more spacious than his hotel room. The tall ceilings provided space to be free, the view of Chicago’s skyscrapers provided perspective, and the comfort reminded him how many obstacles he’d overcome. He didn’t like having things to fill empty space, instead he preferred a minimalist lifestyle, quality over quantity.
After two aspirin, two coffees, and a large glass of water, he sat at the desk in the separate office in his apartment, reviewing file after file on his computer. Before he knew it, the morning had turned into the afternoon, and he was running late to meet his brother at a Cubs game. Within minutes of realizing the time, he was out the door and racing towards the stadium. As he drove along Lake Shore Drive, he thought about his assistant, Esther Wright. He missed her smile, he missed her laugh, and he missed her company. He missed their time together, their long personal chats over coffee, and their heated discussions about case work. But most of all, he missed her presence.
As he drove into the Wrigleyville neighborhood, he picked up his cell and went to dial her number, trying to think of a work excuse to talk with her, but he couldn’t think of a reason. He placed his phone back down as he neared Wrigley Field. The roads were clear, thanks to the game starting half an hour earlier. Hunter parked his BMW in a parking garage and jogged to the stadium. The gate attendant updated Hunter on the score. It didn’t sound like he was missing much.
Waiting in the stands, surrounded by nothing but empty seats in the far bleachers, Patrick Hunter watched the game intently. He had a book with the player’s profiles and statistics next to him, an earphone in to listen to commentary, and his tablet on his lap to search for updates. He preferred to sit by himself and watch the game. He didn’t like being distracted by the crowds while analyzing the Cubs’ chances for a win.
“Patrick.” Hunter walked along the row of empty seats. “Sorry I’m late. I was having computer issues.”
“Hard drive?”
“No, the commute was fine. It was my laptop that was the problem.”
Patrick chuckled, stood, and greeted his younger brother in a solid hug with a heavy slap on the back. He pointed out to the field. “You’re in time for the bottom of the second, it’s 2-1, but the team is looking good. Look at this kid. Last pick in the draft.” Patrick pointed to one of the players warming up in the dug-out. “Being the last pick drives people. If you’d picked this kid first, he’d have nothing to prove. But now, with being picked last, he has to prove everything.”
“Always psycho-analyzing things.” Hunter smiled. “You can’t step away from being a psychiatrist, can you?”
“It’s my job, Tex. You can’t switch that off,” Patrick said. “And mental ability is the most underrated asset in sports. Look at Tom Brady. If you picked him in round one, if you picked him with your first pick, he wouldn’t be half the player he was. But at pick 199, well, it leaves a chip on someone’s shoulder. It leaves something to prove, something to work hard for. People need a reason to drive for success. If everything is handed to you on a platter, then you have no reason to dig deep.”
“Brady is an anomaly.”
“No, he’s not. It happens everywhere.” Patrick sat down as his brother did the same, leaving an empty seat between them. “Look at Conor McGregor, the Irish UFC fighter. When he grew up poor, striving to reach the top, he did everything he could to win. He needed to be the best and he had something to drive him. He had something to prove. But when he reached the top, when he had nothing left to prove, he started losing. It’s tough to be a savage when you sail into a fight on a 300ft yacht.”
“The boxer, Marvin Hagler, said something similar—it’s tough to get up at 5am and train when you’ve been sleeping in silk pajamas.”
“Exactly. On any given day, everybody has the will to win. That’s not what’s important. What matters is the will to do the work to win. It’s the discipline to do the work while nobody’s watching. That’s what this rookie kid’s got. He’s driven to do the work. He grew up poor, struggled to get by, and was the last pick by the Cubs in the draft, but I’ve seen him train. He’s got an opportunity and he’s willing to do the work even when no one is watching. That’s what makes great players.”
“So, he should be thankful he was the last pick?”
“The disappointments in life shape who we are and how we live. I would’ve thought that you understood that.” Patrick paused and looked at his younger brother. “Without our father’s actions, you never would’ve become the man you are today. I hope you realize that.”
“That’s quite condescending.”
“It wasn’t condescending.” Patrick smiled. “I was just talking about things that only a superior brain like mine can understand.”
“Typical, Patrick. Always laughing at your own jokes.” Hunter laughed. “It might be time for some introspection for you.”
“Introspection?”
“If you don’t know what I mean by that, then you need to take a long, hard look at yourself.”
Patrick chuckled and reached across and slapped his brother on the shoulder. “Nice.”
Hunter laughed, watching as another Cubs player struck out. The crowd responded with a collective groan. It was another average season for the Cubs—not too good, but also not too bad. Just enough wins to give the fans hope, and just enough losses to break their hearts. The rookie, only twenty-one years old, was up next.
Patrick paused and looked over his shoulder before he continued. The green seats were empty behind them. “I went and saw Alfred last week. He said you haven’t been in for a few months.”
“Still not calling him ‘Dad?’”
“I haven’t called hi
m Dad for years and you know why.”
“You said that you thought he may be innocent. You said that yourself.”
“If he’s innocent, then it’s even worse than I first thought. If he didn’t do it, and he knows the truth, then it’s the ultimate betrayal. I told him that. That’s why I went there. I went to vent my anger.” Patrick looked out to the field. “He’s hidden secrets from me and you for the past thirty-five years. Can you believe that? That event, that trial, destroyed our lives, and he had, or still has, the power to change it and he chooses not to. He put me and you, and our mother, at the bottom of the list. After what we’ve been through, after all the hate we’ve experienced on his behalf, he still keeps the truth a secret. That’s not forgivable in my book.”
A silence fell over them as they watched the rookie take the first ball. He swung hard, connected well, but the ball flew into foul territory.
“He’s the walking dead, Tex. It’s over. It’s only a matter of months before his body fails. The cancer has beaten him,” Patrick continued. “After I shouted at him for destroying our lives, he apologized but still refused to tell me the truth. However, he asked me to do something.”
“Which was?”
“He asked me to convince you to let it go.” Patrick leaned closer. “And I agree. It’s time to let the past be the past. It’s time to stop the crusade that you have for the truth.”
Hunter shook his head. “It’s not over until it’s over.”
“I know you’re desperate to hear the truth from our sister Natalie. I know you need her to come to Chicago and spill everything she knows… but perhaps it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie. Because have you thought about what happens if she arrives? What happens if she admits she was the person who murdered those girls and our father took the fall for her? What happens if Alfred has been protecting his daughter all this time? That’s the scenario we’re facing. Natalie could be the murderer, and Alfred could’ve been protecting her.”
Hunter didn’t answer as the rookie swung and missed his second pitch.
“Have you even thought about it?” Patrick pressed. “We never heard from her after she left for Mexico. We didn’t even know if she was still alive until two months ago. I know Natalie said she’ll tell you the truth if you get the Mexican kid out of prison. I know she said this is her friend’s child. I know she used this as a bargaining chip for you, but what if…” Patrick chose his next words carefully. “What if the truth is something you’re not ready to hear? She left the country and moved to Mexico before our father’s trial. She went to school with all those eight murdered girls. That’s not a coincidence. We know she was violent; we know she’s been to prison in Mexico. She’s not an angel. What if you’re not ready for the truth?”
“I don’t know.” Hunter conceded. “All I know is that I need to understand what happened. Those events changed our lives, they changed everything we had, and we deserve the truth. You and I deserve to know what really happened, even if we can’t do anything about it.”
“But perhaps it’s time to drop this. You can even drop your case in Longford. Let the town deal with the crimes that happen on its streets. They don’t need you riding in there to shake things up.”
The rookie shaped up for the next pitch.
“This is more than about Natalie now. You’re right—I took the case because Javier’s mother is a friend of our sister. Natalie said she would come back to Chicago, for the first time in thirty-five years, and tell us the truth about our father’s convictions.” Hunter turned to the big screen to watch the next pitch. “But this is about more than Natalie now. I can’t stand by and watch injustice happen. I need to defend the kid.”
“Always the lawyer.” Patrick sighed. “You can never walk past injustice, can you?”
“Maybe you’re right.” Hunter turned to him. “Maybe my drive for justice is because of what happened to our father. Maybe that’s why I can’t let it go.”
“Acceptance is the first step to recovery,” Patrick said. “Tex, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. It’s time to move on. Perhaps it’s even time to ask Esther out on a real date. Not just for another work meeting, but a real date. Give yourself another focus. Or perhaps it’s time for you to choose another job. One where you’re not obsessed with the outcome.”
“I can manage my own life, thanks.”
“Tex,” Patrick sighed. “I just want you to be happy.”
Hunter looked away, desperately trying to avoid the effects of the emotional conversation with his older brother.
The Cubs rookie swung hard, connected, and the ball sailed over the back fence. The crowd cheered, as did Hunter, ending the emotional moment, and allowing him a welcome chance to avoid any other feelings. After that, the brothers only talked about baseball.
Chapter 8
Hunter returned to Longford on the following Monday, leaving his apartment at 5am to beat the heavy traffic surrounding Chicago. He hummed to the easy tones of Bob Dylan, tapping his thumb on the steering wheel as he cruised along the Interstate 57, taking in the sights with growing familiarity. The I-57 was the longest interstate in Illinois, and for the majority of the drive, it was long, wide, flat, and boring. The pale roads seemed to be never ending, as did the farmlands that surrounded it. Hour after hour after hour ticked past, only broken up with the occasional excitement from erratic truck drivers. At five minutes past 9am, four hours into the drive, his phone rang. It was Esther Wright. Hunter drew a breath, subconsciously checked his hair in the rear-view mirror, and then answered the phone, placing her on speaker as he drove.
“Good morning, Esther. How was your weekend?”
“Hello, Tex. The weekend was good. I spent most of it doing home renovations.” There was a smile in her tone. “I went to the hardware store on Saturday and asked for some nails to hang up some pictures. And the guy asked me, ‘How long would you like the nails?’ I said, ‘I’d like to keep them forever, if that’s alright with you.’”
Hunter laughed. Esther was always ready with a joke to break the ice. For the next hour, they talked about the week of work ahead, running through the details of their workload. They went through the other cases they had on the books, from white-collar crime to defending against minor drug charges, and Esther agreed to prepare a number of files for Hunter to review when he returned to Chicago. By the time he’d arrived in Longford, just past 10am, they’d wrapped up their conversation. The discussion left a smile on Hunter’s face as he drove past the sign with bullet holes that welcomed people into Longford. He drove past Sam’s Sports Bar, which Hunter reasoned was more likely a strip club, the dollar store, and then the Walmart complex that marked the edge of the central business district.
Hunter parked in the lot outside his office, directly outside his door, and stepped out from the comfort of his air-conditioned car. The sun was blaring down on the streets, pushing past ninety-five again, and well on its way to a hundred. The heatwave hadn’t broken. Carol was already inside, waiting by the coffee machine, reading a file in her hand.
“Good morning, Carol,” Hunter said as he pushed the door open with his shoulder. “It’s going to be a hot one out there today.”
“You’ll get used to that conversation over the next few weeks,” she said. “Even after living in these parts for my whole life, I still spend every summer talking about the heat. But it’s an extra big heatwave this year. I can never remember it being this bad. And when it gets this hot, I always have strange dreams. Last night, I had a dream I was sleeping in an executive hotel room. I guess you could call it a ‘suite’ dream.” She laughed. “Coffee?”
Hunter smiled, his dimples showing. “Thank you, Carol.”
Hunter walked to his desk, placed his briefcase down, turned on the desk fan, and then looked up at the air-conditioner. It was working hard, but it wasn’t making much difference.
Carol placed a mug of coffee in front of Hunter and sat down on the other side of his desk. She paused for a few long m
oments before she spoke. “I’d like to ask you something, and it’s personal, so if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.”
Hunter opened his briefcase, removed his laptop and several files. “Go on.”
“I was talking to a cousin over the weekend, Frank Powell, he’s Longford’s Fire Chief. He’s a good man. But when I mentioned that I was working for you, all he could talk about was your father. And thinking about it, it’s been the topic of conversation over and over and over again, ever since we heard you were coming to the city.”
“I’m used to it.” Hunter reached across to the coffee mug, and sipped the black coffee. “I can’t change what people think about.”
“It was big news here back in the day. That was the first trial I’d seen on television, and it captured everyone’s attention. Your father, the accountant, was the media star of Illinois,” Carol continued. “I remember the trial. In fact, I remember seeing you as the innocent-looking ten-year-old kid in court. I felt sorry for you, as did every mother in the country. You were just a kid and you had to deal with all the media attention. That was horrible and at the time, we all wondered what would happen to you. We all wondered if you would turn out like him.” Carol paused. “Everyone looked at Marcel Smith, the city’s accountant, differently after that. This was his old office. The rumor was that all accountants could be serial killers. Poor Marcel didn’t recover socially after that.”
“It affected a lot of people.” Hunter nodded. “It’s a story I’ve heard a lot of times.”
She leaned forward. “Are you ok?”
There was concern in Carol’s voice, genuine concern, and it caught Hunter by surprise. Carol’s question wasn’t an off-the-cuff comment, it wasn’t a passing query, it was said with tender love and care. Apart from Esther, no one had asked him that question in a long time. He drew a deep breath, looked down, swallowed hard, and then shifted his focus to the file on his desk.
Natural Justice: A Legal Thriller (Tex Hunter Legal Thriller Series Book 6) Page 5
