“Could you please gather all the evidence in the meeting room?” Hunter kept his eyes down on the file. “I’d like it all spread out on the table so we can review what we have.”
Carol waited a moment, and then responded softly. “I can do that for you.”
She stood and opened the door to the meeting room. Once she’d left his office space, Hunter drew a long breath. Was he ok? He didn’t know anything different than fighting against the tide. His normal was never ok. He couldn’t even think about what ok meant. Where would it leave him when his father passed? His father’s convictions had consumed so much of his life, so much of his thinking, and there’d be an empty void without it. He didn’t know what life could be like without the hatred and pain that engulfed his well-being. Was he ok? It wasn’t a question he could think about. If he dwelled too long, if he tried to answer the question honestly, he would collapse into an emotional mess. Was he ok? He didn’t know the answer. He turned back to the files, reading the same line over and over again.
Fifteen minutes later, when Carol stepped back out of the meeting room to gather more notes, Hunter was still staring at the page in front of him.
“I’ve got all the evidence ready,” she said.
“Thank you.” Hunter stood, and walked into the meeting room.
The boardroom in the temporary office was long and narrow, barely able to fit the wooden table and five chairs. There was a new whiteboard at the end of the room, at Hunter’s request, and two 1990s inspirational posters hung on the walls, leftover from the last tenant. Hunter liked those posters. One highlighted the value of teamwork, and the other had the slogan ‘Dare to Soar,’ complete with a picture of a bald eagle gliding over treetops.
Carol had organized Javier’s case work into separate folders, filling the boardroom table in a systematic pattern. There were character profiles in one pile, crime scene photos in another, and evidence documents in another. Each pile was organized with precision, a post-it note placed on-top of each one with their description. Although all their files were stored in cyberspace, Hunter still preferred to work with the information spread out in front of him.
He leaned his hands on the table. “What do we know so far?”
“That Javier has little chance of winning.”
“That’s not very positive.”
“I said ‘little,’ not zero. If anyone has a chance of winning this one, then it has to be you.” Carol slid a file across to Hunter. “Crime scene photos. There’s no evidence of anyone else being there at all. No footprints in the mud, no blood on the handrails, and no clothing left behind. No witness saw anything, there are no houses nearby to hear any arguments or screams, and there’s nothing to indicate anyone else was there at all. Mayor West is the passing witness who places Javier near the park at the time of death, but nobody saw him in it.”
“And there’s no other video cameras that can help us?”
“We have very few cameras in Longford.” Carol moved around the table to another file. “Not even the police station has cameras. The only cameras are at the courthouse and the bar. The bar has a live stream online that anyone can see. I think the owner, Bradley Whiteman, doesn’t know about it, but his wife, Danielle, has left it online because some of the wives in the city like to check on who’s there. You know, just to know that their husbands aren’t running around with someone else.” She raised her finger. “Don’t go telling anyone about that though, because we’d like to keep that a secret from the men of the city.”
“Small town secrets, eh?”
“There’s a lot of secrets in this city, but I don’t like to think that’s a secret. It’s just a little undisclosed statement.”
Hunter nodded. “What about Chad Townsend—what do we know about him? Enemies?”
“Lots of enemies. Your investigator has built quite the file on Chad. He might’ve been popular, but he wasn’t a nice guy. He was good at sports and the best-looking kid in the city, but he also made a lot of people angry with how he treated them. He bullied a lot of people, said a lot of nasty things, and had an arrogant demeanor. Everyone excused his behavior because they said that’s what it takes to be the best. You have to have the swagger. The father, Brick Townsend—”
“His name is ‘Brick’?”
“His real name is Tony, but everyone calls him ‘Brick.’ Once you see him in person, you’ll know why,” Carol said. “He had an issue with another mechanic about five years ago, but it resolved over time. It was an ongoing feud that led to a few fist fights, but nothing too serious.”
Hunter walked to the whiteboard and wrote Chad Townsend’s name in the middle. Over the next twenty-five minutes, he proceeded to fill the whiteboard with names, lines connecting them all with what he knew. Soon, the board was filled with scribbles down the side, notes from Hunter’s thoughts, but Carol could barely read his handwriting.
“If I was to step back and look at this subjectively, then I would say that someone found a dead body in the morning, and the local police had little evidence. They needed a result, so they turned on the Mexican kid. They didn’t even investigate it.”
“There’s Chad’s blood on Javier’s shirt, Javier’s blood is on Chad’s shirt, and they were seen arguing the night before. Witnesses claim Javier threatened to kill him. Javier doesn’t have an alibi for the time of death. Somebody had to be arrested, and Javier had the motive,” Carol said. “I wouldn’t call it racist, because if anyone else was in this situation, regardless of color, then Chief Richardson would’ve done the same thing. The circumstantial evidence they had all pointed to Javier.”
“Where’s the file about Chad’s shirt?” He searched the desk.
“Are your eyes painted on?” She tapped the folder directly in front of him.
Hunter smiled and looked over the file. He scanned page after page, until he reached page fifteen of the document.
“What’s this?” Hunter scanned over the page. “There are three blood samples found on Chad’s sneakers. Chad’s, Javier’s, and a third unidentified blood sample. Why haven’t we been told of this?”
Carol leaned over to check the file. She read over the page. “I’d imagine it’s because they don’t want you to know about the sample.”
“So, they tucked it into page five of the report about the shirt. A small paragraph between lines and lines of technical information.” Hunter groaned. “We need to have an independent expert analyze the third sample of blood on the sneakers. That could be the blood of our killer. At the very least, it’s going to create doubt in the courtroom.” Hunter clapped his hands. “We’ve got a lead.”
“I’ll get right onto it,” Carol said. “We don’t have any blood analysis experts in Longford. Anyone you want me to use?”
“Use the company I use in Chicago—Tec House Crime Analysis. I’ll have someone come down and take a look at the evidence.” Hunter wrote a note on a piece of paper and handed it to Carol, but he saw the apprehension on her face. “What’s wrong?”
“They won’t like it,” she conceded. “They won’t like having an outside ‘expert’ override what they’ve found. Especially not one from Chicago.”
“It doesn’t matter what they like. There’s blood and DNA on the sneaker and it may point to the killer. We need it tested, and then we need to find a match.”
She nodded. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
“That’s our first option.” Hunter moved around the table. “Our second is if we find a witness who could place Javier somewhere else at the time, then we can walk Javier out of prison. We need something.”
“Like I said, we don’t have any cameras. But…” A thought tracked through Carol’s head as she placed the phone number down. “But there’s a guy down the street, Greg Oakley. He’s the city’s weed dealer. He does deals at the south end of Norwich Park. I worked for a lawyer who defended him once, but I don’t see his witness statement here anywhere. That’s interesting. I could almost guarantee he was near Norwich Pa
rk on a Friday night.”
“But cannabis is legal in Illinois. Why the need to deal out of a park?”
“In theory, cannabis is legal, sure. In Chicago, I’m sure you’ve got shops that sell that stuff. I’m sure you can go into any shop and buy your gear, go home and smoke it. But out here—no way. There’s no way a dispensary will be approved in this county, so someone has to bring it in from outside the county. Oakley does that. What he does isn’t legal but he’s the only dealer in the city. And he was doing it long before it was legalized.”
“Chief Richardson doesn’t stop him?”
“He’s tried in the past, but it’s no use,” Carol said. “Maybe Javier was dealing drugs at Norwich Park as well? Maybe that’s why he won’t tell you where he went after the party?”
Hunter thought for a moment. “Have you got his details?”
Carol typed into her laptop and brought up Oakley’s information. According to his online profiles, Greg Oakley was in his mid-twenties, struggling to get by, and if the photos were anything to go by, heavily addicted to marijuana. Within five minutes of typing, Carol had information on Greg Oakley including his phone number, address, current employment, and every personal detail they could need.
Hunter typed the number into his cell phone and placed it on the table, putting the call on speaker. He stood at the edge of the table, leaning across to bring his voice closer to the microphone.
“Greg Oakley?” Hunter asked when the phone was answered after one ring.
“You got it.” The accent sounded Californian. “Who have I got on the line?”
“My name is Tex Hunter. I’m the lawyer representing Javier Mitchell.”
There was no answer.
“Mr. Oakley? Are you there?”
“I can’t help you. I’ve been told not to talk to you.”
“Why have you been told not to talk to me?”
“Because… that’s what I was told.”
“Who told you that?”
“People.”
“Which people?”
“Important people.”
“Were you at Norwich Park the night Chad Townsend died?” Hunter pressed.
There was a long pause before Oakley responded. “Look, I don’t want any trouble, alright? I just do my thing, cruise along, and live my life. I can’t help you and I can’t tell you what I saw.”
The phone went dead. Hunter re-dialed the number. The call went immediately to voicemail.
“He’s blocked your number.” Carol dialed the number from her phone, but the call rang out. “And he’s not talking.”
“Will he talk to you in person?” Hunter turned to Carol.
She shook her head. “I throw a bit of weight around in this city, but if Chief Richardson’s got to him, then there’s no way he’ll talk anyone. Not even I outweigh Richardson’s might.”
“Then we need the blood analysis of the sneaker.” Hunter tapped his finger on the file. “The third blood sample is our way out of this.”
Chapter 9
After weeks locked away from life as he knew it, Javier Mitchell was rolling through the feelings of pain, resentment, and regret. He was surrounded by anguish, surrounded by people with no hope for the future, and no long-term outlook. The only way prisoners knew how to express their emotions was through anger, rage, and violence. All the pent-up agony, all the pent-up fury, usually came out in the form of bloodshed.
Under the blaring July heat, Javier stood next to his Mexican friends in the dusty prison yard, leaning against the chain-link fence. There were five of them, talking about nothing, doing nothing, and planning nothing. The yard was mostly filth and dirt, although there were a few grass patches near the edges. The metal bleachers provided somewhere to sit, however, there was no shade in the yard from the direct sun. Javier leaned against a fence, the bleachers were too hot to sit on, and looked out at the fields surrounding the prison. Through three chain-link fences, he could see the city of Longford in the distance. It wasn’t far away. He could run the distance in under an hour, he reasoned.
Carlos, standing next to Javier, knocked Javier’s elbow to get his attention. Javier turned around as the two guards moved away from their post at the far end of the yard. Al tapped Javier on the arm and then nodded to another post. Carlos and Javier looked up at the furthest tower and saw the empty loft. Carlos leaned forward to the other Mexicans.
“Trouble’s coming,” he whispered. “Be ready.”
The two other Mexicans stood up from their position on the bleachers, their eyes searching the yard for any movement. The Mexicans moved closer together, forming a circle around each other, as if they were Gladiators preparing for battle.
Life had changed drastically for Javier. Only seven months earlier, he was living in the Mexican tourist city of Puerto Vallarta, finishing his education, and working in a restaurant, making tacos for the Americans that traveled there. Javier’s father often told stories of voyages and adventure, inspiring his sons to do the same. He’d traveled the world before he landed in Puerto Vallarta. It was there, as a young man, that he met a girl, fell in love, and never traveled back to Illinois. Javier still had dreams of travel, but they were slowly slipping away.
There was one guard left looking at the yard. A group of prisoners on the far side of the yard began to assemble.
“What’s happening?” Javier asked.
“I’m not sure,” Carlos said. “It could be for us. Be ready.”
“What is it?”
“A fight.” Al grunted. “That’s why the guards are moving away. I hope you like breaking skulls ‘cause we are about to open our presents.”
One of the Aryan Brotherhood members began to move, waiting for one last guard to move away from his post. Everyone was anxious, eyes were darting everywhere. The tension in the yard was palpable. The two Black inmates furthest from the door began to move. They were the most outnumbered. Their five-man gang had been split up in the yard, as the others had been taken away for time in solitary confinement two days prior.
Javier watched the last guard. He was still looking at the yard.
The final guard turned and moved from his post.
The largest group of men sprang into action. The Aryan Brotherhood, ten of them, raced past the Mexicans, charging towards the two Blacks.
It wasn’t much of a fight. It was a beating. Screaming, blood, and pure rage filled the air. It wasn’t a boxing match, and it wasn’t a street fight. It was a prison beating by hardened men with little empathy. Punches, head-butts, kicks, and stomps. Screams for help echoed through the yard. Although larger than each individual, the two Black men stood no chance against the sheer weight of numbers. Once on the ground, the group stomped on the fallen.
“We’ve got to help them,” Carlos said. “They’ll die without help.”
Carlos didn’t wait for a response. He moved without a second thought for his safety, as did two other Mexicans. They launched into the brawl, throwing punches, and pulling people off the men on the ground. Javier stood next to the chain-link fence, unsure what to do.
Seconds later, a gunshot fired into the air.
The prisoners spread, leaving behind two Black men lying on the ground, bleeding profusely and barely moving. Their faces were covered in blood and brown dust. The Mexicans came back together. Carlos stood next to Javier, wiped the blood from his knuckles onto his prison uniform, and then folded his arms.
“Next time I say ‘Let’s go,’ it means you go.” Carlos mumbled under his breath as the guards pointed their weapons at them from raised positions above the yard. “We’re in this together. They’ve had our backs in the past, and we need to have theirs. It’s give and take in here. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Javier replied.
“And don’t say a word about this. We don’t want a rat in our pack.” Carlos lowered his voice. “And we don’t want it to be us next time.”
When commanded, the prisoners fell to the ground, their hands locked behind t
heir heads. The guards walked in from the entrance, guns ready. They walked slowly to where the men had been beaten, looking down at the mess of blood, staring at the two men barely clinging to life.
“Get the doctor,” one of the guards groaned, in no rush to help. “It’s a mess down here.”
One of the guards walked over to Javier and kicked him in his exposed ribs. “What happened here? And don’t lie to me, Freshie. If you lie, you’ll do a week in solitary.”
It was meant to be a threat, but to Javier, it sounded like a reward.
“I didn’t see a thing, sir.” Javier kept his head down, his nose in the dirt. “I had my eyes closed.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You think that’s funny? You think you can lie to me, Freshie?” The guard grunted. “You’re off to solitary, son.”
The guard grabbed Javier by the back of the collar, lifting him to his feet, and then escorted him out of the yard, past the two bleeding bodies, who were moaning on the ground without any assistance. At that moment, Javier knew if he stayed in prison, if he stayed behind the barbed wire, he would need protection.
If he wanted to survive, he had no choice but to join a gang.
Chapter 10
The Big L City Hotel and Conference Center was the best accommodation in Longford, but it provided little comfort. The bed was too hard, the décor was twenty-five years old, and despite the rooms being non-smoking, a heavy stench of cigarette smoke seeped through the rooms. The conference center on the bottom level was dated, the foyer looked like it was from the 1980s, and the hallways were bland in color. In his executive suite, Hunter had a king-sized bed, a small kitchenette, an office desk, and a balcony that had a view over the nearby lake, which was easily the hotel’s best feature.
Standing outside on the third floor balcony, Hunter watched a dark sedan edge past the entrance to the hotel, circle the block of buildings once, and then a few moments later, drive past a second time. The third time the sedan edged past, it turned into the hotel parking lot and continued around the back, sheltered from the road, or any possible witnesses. Hunter stepped back inside the hotel room, went to the drawers beside his bed, and removed his Glock handgun. He checked to make sure it was loaded, then placed it on the table next to the hotel room door. There was a way up to the third floor via the back fire stairs, which was two doors down from Hunter’s room, and it avoided any cameras or hotel staff.
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