“Maybe in Chicago it doesn’t happen, but out here, well, what can I say.” Richardson stood and moved to lean against the bookshelf to the side of the room. “As is our procedure, we evacuated the building when the fire alarms went off. The poor officer didn’t have time to neatly pack away what he was researching and the sneaker became contaminated. It was absolutely soaked by the time the fire department got into the building.”
“Mr. Hunter,” Tanner said. “I know this is unfortunate, but it’s nothing more than a mistake. This is just unlucky. We’re sorry this happened to the evidence, but we’ve recovered the rest of the evidence and the report of the DNA is still available, along with the hair samples. We’ll still be using the evidence at trial.”
“This is a complete miscarriage of justice,” Hunter grunted. “I’ll file a motion to dismiss. Without the evidence, you’ve got nothing. You’ve destroyed your own case.”
“That’s quite the accusation you’re making.” Richardson folded his arms across his chest. “Are you questioning the quality of our experts?”
“Yes.”
Richardson smiled. “Well, you can question all you like, but it’s not going to change anything. We can’t go back in time and prevent the accident from happening.”
“This isn’t how fair and impartial justice works.”
“Listen, big shot,” Richardson said. “We don’t have the funding to be perfect. We have to do what we can with the money we’re given. I’ll investigate what happened and see if there’s some way for us to improve our processes to do our jobs better, but we don’t have the funds in this city like you do in Chicago. Your city takes all our resources, while we barely have enough to enforce justice.”
“When I prove that you’ve destroyed evidence, you won’t have a job.”
“Prove it? Are you serious?” Richardson came back closer to Hunter. “You think you can come into this city and play by your rules? No. You play by my rules out here. I do what’s best for my city. I protect my people from all harms—including those Mexicans bringing their drugs here. We don’t need drugs in this city. We don’t need Chicago’s troubles.” Richardson snarled. “I need to protect my city from those dirty criminals.”
“You serve the people; they don’t serve you.” Hunter focused his attention on Richardson. “This isn’t some job where you can make things up as you go along. You swore an oath to serve these people.”
“I serve the people. I protect them.” He slammed his fist against the wall. “Do you know what it’s like to arrive at your wife’s car crash and see her mangled body? Do you know what’s it’s like to be the one to hold her hand as she dies stuck under the steering wheel? Do you know what that’s like?” He snarled. “And then you turn around and find a Puerto Rican high on methamphetamines driving the other car. He caused the accident. He killed her. That drugged-out foreigner killed my wife. You want me to protect the people? I’m protecting them from having to suffer the pain I suffered. I won’t let that happen to anyone else. I won’t let foreigners bring drugs into my city.”
“Javier is not the driver of that car. He’s not a drug addict and he’s not even Puerto Rican.”
“Now, now, everyone calm down,” Tanner interrupted them. “We’re getting off-track. The contaminated evidence was an accident, and these things happen. We’ll do our best to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Hunter stared at Tanner and then turned back to Richardson.
“I’ll prove you tampered with the evidence, and when I do, I’ll take you down.” Hunter pointed at the Police Chief. “By the time I’m through with you, you’ll wish you never took a job as a cop.”
Richardson stepped closer to Hunter. “Good luck surviving that long, lawyer boy.”
Chapter 15
“Another motion, Mr. Hunter?” Judge Johnson groaned as he looked over the file. “When are you going to finish this ridiculous rollercoaster of motions?”
“Your Honor, we’ve submitted a motion to dismiss. One of the main pieces of evidence against my client has been tampered with. Without that piece of evidence, without the DNA sample, the prosecution does not have a case. In the interest of being fair and impartial, this case must be thrown out.”
“Counsel,” Judge Johnson turned to look at the prosecutor. “Your response?”
Tanner stood at the table, two of his assistants next to him. The courtroom was empty behind them, except for Carol sitting behind Hunter, and Richardson behind the prosecutors. Richardson had his arms folded across his chest, ready to hear the argument against the evidence, and to assist Tanner where needed.
Both sides had presented written memoranda to address whether the case could continue once the evidence had been contaminated. Hunter had worked until midnight preparing the motion, and by the look of Tanner’s eyes, the prosecutor had done the same. Each man had the hazy, red-eyed look of lawyers battling for trial supremacy. Judge Johnson had retired to his chambers that morning to consider both briefs, and returned to hear the oral arguments, although his tone indicated he’d already made the decision.
“The report of the analysis conducted on Mr. Townsend’s sneaker is still available to be reviewed, and the sneaker itself is still intact.” Tanner began. “We’ve had our fair and impartial DNA experts look over it and we’ve received a report about their findings. Mr. Hunter has full access to the file. And we still have more evidence that’s sufficient to convict Mr. Mitchell. This piece of evidence was not essential to our case.”
“Your Honor, this sneaker has been washed under a flood of water. It cannot be allowed to be presented in this courtroom as evidence. It’s fundamentally unfair to force the defendant to confront scientific analysis whose basis the defense can’t assess. All the DNA evidence, which was contained in the one DNA report, must be dismissed.”
“I’ve heard that from you before, Mr. Hunter, however, I still disagree,” Judge Johnson responded. “The evidence report is available, and the remaining evidence is still enough to charge Mr. Mitchell. The DNA report can be split into parts and the DNA on the shirts can be presented separately. You’ll also have the chance in court to question the credentials of the expert.”
“Your Honor, our experts cannot conduct analysis on the piece of evidence. They were ready to examine the sneaker. In fact, they sent a request to examine the sneaker the day before the evidence was contaminated.”
“I’m not sure what you’re suggesting, Mr. Hunter, but I see your point.” Judge Johnson considered his next words for a while. “As the defense experts were not allowed to examine the evidence before it was contaminated, the blood-stained sneaker will not be allowed to be presented in the trial. Mr. Hunter, I need you to present a motion to strike the evidence, which I’ll approve when received.”
“Your Honor, the motion is to dismiss the case, not to strike the evidence.”
“Did you need the evidence struck out or not, Mr. Hunter?” Judge Johnson groaned.
Hunter paused, his trial strategy running through his head. “If the case is to continue, then we would like the sneaker to remain as evidence. However, we would like to reserve the right to challenge the evidence in the future.”
“What are we even doing here?” Judge Johnson mumbled under his breath, and then paused for a moment to glare at Tanner. “Without the evidence being struck from the case, there’s enough evidence to continue with the charges against Mr. Mitchell. The motion is dismissed, and the trial will continue as planned.”
The gavel banged, and Judge Johnson exited the courtroom without another word.
Hunter stood at the defense table, fuming as he stared at where the judge had sat and the flag behind it. He was beginning to doubt a fair and impartial trial in Longford was possible at all. Tanner and Richardson congratulated each other as they left the courtroom. Carol waited by the door.
“Looks like nothing will stop this case from going to trial,” Carol said as Hunter approached. “Judge Johnson wasn’t on our side today.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Carol. Nothing will stop it, and nothing will stop the jury from convicting Javier. Jury selection hasn’t even happened yet, but I feel they’ve already convicted him.” Hunter stepped through the doors of the courtroom into the hallway. “It’s not a fair fight.”
Hunter followed Carol through the courthouse doors and onto the street as the sun began to dip into the horizon. The heat was easing, and gray clouds were gathering.
“Storm season won’t be far away.” Carol pointed to the skyline in the distance. “With all this heat, there’s bound to be some terrible storms following it.”
Hunter looked to the horizon, looking at the storm, but out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a white pick-up truck further down the road. It was moving forward at a crawling pace, despite the road being clear ahead of it. Hunter had seen the dented white truck circle past his office earlier that day. The vehicle slowed as it approached the end of the block, almost as if the driver was staring at them, waiting for them to move.
“There’s bound to be a storm coming in that courtroom as well.” Hunter kept watching the truck. “I’m not going to let them run the justice system however they like. I’m going to stand up to them.”
“They won’t like that,” Carol responded. “It’ll make a lot of people angry.”
Hunter looked across the street. Richardson had stopped to smoke a cigarette, leaning on his police car, looking back up to the courthouse.
The truck edged up the road.
Closer.
“Tex, I think we should play their game a little. Fall into line, just a little bit,” Carol said. “If you try to fight them on everything, then you’ll never win anything. But if you can show them that you’re willing to compromise, then perhaps they can also compromise a little. Meet them in the middle.”
“That’s not how I work.” Hunter stared at the beaten-up truck. Its windows were tinted and the paint was scratched.
“I know, but this isn’t Chicago, this is a little city trying to survive. Perhaps this time you should play their game. There’s still a lot of anger out here about the murder, and by taking it easy, you might make things easier on yourself.”
Hunter didn’t respond. He watched the truck, tires rolling forward, then turned his attention to Carol.
It was closer now.
Something wasn’t right. There was electricity in the air. A storm was brewing.
“Tex?” Carol questioned. “Are you ok?”
The tinted window of the truck rolled down. It stopped at the intersection outside the courthouse. Hunter couldn’t see inside; there were too many shadows.
It was only a second before Hunter saw the rifle. It was pushed out of the window, resting on the door of the truck.
Hunter looked at Carol.
“Move!” He screamed at her. “Take cover!”
The first gunshot rang out. It was unmistakable, echoing down the street.
Hunter grabbed Carol and moved towards the edge of the entrance, his back to the road, protecting his assistant.
The second shot came quickly after the first.
His arms were wrapped around Carol as they huddled next to the pillar at the entrance.
A third shot rang out before the tires of the truck squealed forward. Hunter turned and watched the truck race down the street. The other people on the street were panicked, but there were no obvious injuries to anyone. Hunter turned back to Carol. “Are you ok?”
“I’m fine.” Carol dusted off and straightened her dress. “But whoever fired the gun won’t be when I’m through with them.”
Hunter turned back to the street, looking for any clues about the shooter.
And still standing on the opposite sidewalk, still smoking his cigarette, unfazed by the gunshots, was Police Chief Phillip Richardson.
Chapter 16
In the five weeks that passed, Hunter juggled the upcoming trial in Longford with his other cases in Chicago. There was always more than one client, always more than one place to focus. He parked outside the Cook County Prison and looked up to the high concrete walls. The system wasn’t perfect in Chicago, it wasn’t even close, but it was the system he knew. Perhaps the defense lawyers in Longford felt the same, he reasoned. He stepped out of his car and drew a deep breath. It was cooler in Chicago, a welcome break from the heatwave that seemed to be trapped over Southern Illinois.
The police in Longford didn’t find the shooter, although Hunter didn’t expect them to. It was a random attack, the official police report said. Despite the number of people on the street, only one person came forward as a witness. The woman claimed to have seen the gun pointed towards the sky, showing that the gunman had no intention of hurting anyone. Perhaps more witnesses came forward, Hunter reasoned, and Richardson wiped their statements before they could be filed.
Numerous trips to Longford had ensued over the past five weeks, and with every trip, the code of silence grew stronger. The shopkeepers, at first friendly, stopped greeting him when he bought their goods. The gas station attendant stopped cleaning his windshield when he arrived. The café doubled the time it took to serve his coffee. He had dinner with Carol’s family, as agreed, however, her two adult sons were openly hostile in his presence.
Javier’s parents had returned to Mexico. They were heartbroken to leave their son, but they couldn’t afford to stay in Illinois while waiting for the trial. They’d be back for the court case, they promised. Hunter wished them well, and Carol called them to provide weekly updates.
Javier looked tired. Defeated. With every week that passed, Javier was losing weight and losing hope. He was swimming upstream in the rapids, fighting the bias that existed against him. Hunter asked him to hold on, to give them a chance in court to prove his innocence.
Hunter knew the pain of having to fight against the tide. He knew the pain of heartache. He knew the pain of losing. That feeling, that overbearing weight, was the strongest when he entered Cook County Prison.
Thirty-five minutes from Downtown Chicago, it was the third largest prison population in the country. Cook County Prison was set on almost a hundred acres of land, filled by an ever-growing number of inmates. Inside the tall concrete walls were the keys to every skill set a criminal could ever need to learn. How to steal, how to traffic drugs, how to be violent—all the skills were there. If it were a college, a number of inmates would qualify for a PhD in criminal activity.
Hunter entered the Cook County Prison in the same repetitive routine that he always did. He could almost do it blindfolded. He greeted the same staff that had been there for decades, he walked the same halls, leading to the same meeting room as usual. Hunter listed all his visits to his father as attorney-client visits, allowing them the isolation that other inmates weren’t allowed with their families. The privacy, away from judging ears, allowed them to talk freely.
Alfred Hunter was helped into the room by the guard, and his fragility was becoming more evident with each visit. Hunter stood and held him up by the arm, guiding him from the door to the metal chair. Alfred sat down, his orange jumpsuit loose on his body, and the guard uncuffed him. He was wheezing, sucking in deep breaths, despite not walking far.
“Tex.” Alfred waited until the guard had closed the door and then greeted his youngest son. “It’s great to see you.”
Hunter leaned down and hugged his father. His father was barely more than skin and bone.
“Can you see it?” Alfred asked.
“Can I see what?” Hunter squinted as he sat down on the metal chair opposite him.
“Death,” Alfred leaned forward. “Don’t worry, I see it too. I see it when I look in the mirror. It’s clear to me now. I can see death. I can see it coming.”
Hunter let the silence sit in the room for a long period of time before he responded. “What has the doctor said?”
“Who knows? I don’t listen to him anyway,” Alfred scoffed and then drew a sharp breath. He grinned a little. “I went to schedule
an appointment to see the prison doctor yesterday and the woman at the desk said, ‘How about 10 on Monday?’ But I said, ‘No, I don’t need that many. One appointment is fine.’”
Hunter didn’t laugh.
“You know you can still smile, Tex. Peace, both inside and outside, begins with a smile,” Alfred said. “It’s ok. I know it’s coming. I’ve known for a while now. I’ll give you this advice before I go—all the great things in life are simple, and most can be captured with a single word: justice, honor, duty, mercy, hope, but most of all, love. That one single word means the most in the world.”
Hunter held his gaze on his father. When he was young, he adored the man—his father was so full of energy, full of smiles, full of hugs, but the conviction stole that man away. Once a hard-working family man, Alfred Hunter was the man every father dreamed of being—a stable provider, a loving husband, and a caring father. He’d throw the baseball in the yard with his children, shoot hoops on sunny Saturday afternoons, and come home early to help cook family dinners on weeknights. He’d teach his children to fish on their annual vacations to the Platte River Campground in Michigan, he’d teach them how to play the guitar and the piano, and he’d happily laugh at his own jokes.
The murders of eight teenage girls changed all of that in an instant.
“I’ve talked to Natalie,” Hunter said. “Patrick and I went and visited her in Mexico.”
“Not this again, Tex.” Alfred looked away. “Patrick told me what you both did, but I thought we’d talked about this? I don’t want Natalie to come back here. I don’t want her to come back to Chicago. Leave her alone and let me die in peace. It’s not worth it. Not now. It wasn’t worth chasing it then, and it’s not worth chasing it now. My decisions are my decisions.”
“She’s going to come to Chicago and tell me everything she knows.” Hunter was blunt.
Alfred Hunter’s mouth dropped open for a few moments, his face blank with shock. He’d tried so hard to keep her away from life in Chicago. He’d risked everything to protect her. Through those long sleepless prison nights, through those slow monotonous days, through the years that didn’t seem to matter, he’d thought about his only daughter. How was she doing? Was his sacrifice worth it? Alfred had kept the truth close to his chest, and he never intended on exposing it. He did what he had to do.
Natural Justice: A Legal Thriller (Tex Hunter Legal Thriller Series Book 6) Page 9
