Sideswiped: Book One in the Matt Blake legal thriller series

by Russell Moran

  “Great idea, Bennie.” I said, “We can go out and get drunk.”

  “That isn’t even funny, wiseass.”

  ***

  Bennie and I met Woody Donovan in the conference room to work on the Spellman case. We had a lot of papers to look at, so we needed a table to spread out. As soon as Bennie and I walked in he and Woody exchanged a bear hug. These two are old and good friends. I’d soon understand how their mutual experience as investigators played to each other. I’d also find out that I had a lot to learn from these two.

  Woody, having spent over 25 years with the Chicago Police Department, where he rose to Deputy Chief of Detectives, spoke with a classic Chicago accent. Chicago was “Chicaga,” Lake Michigan was “Da Lake,” and of course, the Chicago Bears were “Da Bearz.” As our full- time investigator, Woody earned a good buck at Blake & Randolph, more than his pension from the Chicago Police Department. Diligence doesn’t accurately describe Woody’s work ethic. Most detectives follow clues. Woody believes that clues are meant to be painted over, so he never just relies on what’s in front of him. “I start out with the assumption that people are bullshitting me,” Woody loves to say, “and go from there and work backwards.” It’s no wonder that he and Bennie are kindred spirits. Bennie may be better at spotting a lie, but Woody just assumes that the lie is there.

  Woody is also great at taking statements from witnesses. Even with his gruff demeanor, he has a friendliness about him. People open up to Woody.

  But sometimes people lie to Woody.

  Chapter 23

  As the lead attorney on the Spellman case, it was my job to conduct the meeting. With a couple of old pros like Woody and Ben, I felt a little intimidated to be the honcho, but they both deferred to my position.

  “Okay, guys, let’s take this from the top and work down to the details.”

  I love PowerPoint presentations, but that would come later. For now we worked with a large corkboard to which I tacked notes.

  “At first glance,” I said, the Spellman case looks simple. “A distracted driver lets his car drift into another lane, sideswipes plaintiff’s vehicle, and shoves it off the road into a pole. This is a fact pattern we’ve seen a million times. Nothing complicated, nothing hard to understand. A simple open-and-shut liability case. The plaintiff, or I should say the decedent, couldn’t have done anything about it. He was just driving his car in his lane of traffic. He didn’t do anything to cause the accident, so no problem with contributory negligence. A jury should find defendant 100 percent liable.”

  “Do you really think this case is so simple, Matt?” Woody said.

  “No, I don’t. And the reason I don’t think it’s simple is what you, Bennie, and I have already discovered. Okay, let’s start to pick the fly shit out of the pepper. First let’s begin with the behavior of the defendant’s vehicle itself prior to impact. Woody, please fill us in on what you’ve pieced together so far.”

  “This is where I started to think that the case has an odor about it, Matt. In a simple ‘drifting car’ case, we’d expect to see exactly that. A car just drifts into the adjacent lane, sideswipes the plaintiff, and causes the accident. But it didn’t happen that way, according to the witnesses I’ve interviewed so far. According to at least four people, defendant’s car first swerved to the left, and then quickly to the right. They also said he had his cell phone to his ear.”

  “Woody,” said Ben, “you’re an accident maven, but I’ve done enough detective work myself to think that this may not be a weird maneuver. Couldn’t it be a case of the guy drifting to his left and suddenly realizing it and then he makes an overcorrection and slams into Jim Spellman’s car?”

  “You’re right, Bennie, it could have been an overcorrection,” said Woody, “but it was a hell of an overcorrection, if that’s what it was. One of the witnesses said that defendant swerved all the way into the lane to his left, and then swerved to the right at almost a 45-degree angle toward Spellman. The guy said it almost looked intentional. Two other witnesses said the same thing.”

  “But wouldn’t we have to assume that defendant was trying to commit suicide if he actually did what the witnesses said he did?” I said. “Defendant wasn’t injured, but he could have been. Shit, he could have been killed. I’m going to play devil’s advocate here and argue against the idea of an intentional action. Of course, we don’t know at this point, but I haven’t seen any evidence of road rage. When road rage is involved, we usually get witness testimony about the drivers shouting at each other. So far, Woody, you haven’t dug up any evidence at all that showed bad blood. If there was no road rage, why the hell would it have been intentional? Why would Harold Morgan put his life in danger by intentionally slamming into Jim Spellman’s car? Woody, what else has you thinking in that direction?”

  “Well, Matt, like my friend Bennie over here, I’ve developed a good nose for bullshit over the years.”

  I walked over to the cork board and put up a piece of paper marked “Bullshit Number One.”

  “Okay, let’s put some evidence under number one and see what we’ve got,” I said.

  “Here it is guys, right from Morgan’s affidavit to the cop. When the officer asked him what he was doing just before impact, the guy simply said, ‘I was talking on my cell phone.’ Did you see a defendant admit fault so easily? Of course, he didn’t call his lawyer first for advice, but don’t you find it strange that he would admit it to the cop? Normally we see evasive words, never an out-and-out admission. So put under ‘Bullshit number one’ the words, ‘admitted cell phone use to the cop.’ And it gets better. The day of the accident, February 12, it was bitterly cold. The weather report said it was 10 degrees. Three of the eyewitnesses said that Morgan’s driver’s side window was rolled down, and he was holding the phone up with his elbow on the panel. It’s almost as if he was demonstrating to anybody who chose to look, ‘Hey, look at me, I’m on my cell phone.’ Combine the eyewitness accounts with the statement to the cop, and I have to wonder, was Morgan trying to make it clear that he was driving negligently, that he was on his phone? I mean who the fuck drives with his window down in 10-degree weather? ‘Look at me, I’m on my phone.’ There’s something wrong with this scene.”

  “Bennie,” I said, “any thoughts on what Woody just told us?”

  “When are we taking this guy’s deposition? I can’t wait to observe him.”

  “Next week,” I said, “They’ve adjourned it six times already, so I got a court order to compel his testimony.”

  “Have they made any offers yet?” Bennie said.

  “Yes, a huge offer for a case in its early stages. They’ve put $8 million on the table.”

  “It almost seems like they don’t want us to depose this guy,” said Woody. “That’s a big number to throw around so soon. So we have a defendant who basically admits negligence, and a company throwing money at us. Sounds like great news for Blake & Randolph, but something is gnawing on my ass.”

  “What’s that, Woody?”

  “Here’s what I just found out in the past two days. This is going to blow your minds guys. Hold on to your hats. Before Harold Morgan went to work for Gulf Oil, he was a stunt car driver in Hollywood. One of the best.”

  ***

  We took a 10-minute break.

  “What you said just before our break, Woody, almost made me pee in my pants,” I said. “Please tell us more about defendant Morgan.”

  “Morgan was a stunt driver for 20 years. I called some of the directors of his films and heard that he was so good he was almost magical in getting into car crashes and walking away from them. One director told me that Morgan would stage such violent accidents that he had to turn his head away during a film shoot.”

  “I’m sure he got paid a lot of money,” I said. “Why did he stop?”

  “One of his car stunts didn’t go as planned. The scene called for him to race up a ramp and fly through a bunch of flames and then crash into another vehicle. When he hit the other ve
hicle his car flipped and he got a few nasty leg fractures. The director I interviewed said that Morgan started to get gun-shy. But a sideswipe collision would have been nothing for this guy.”

  “Have you looked at Morgan’s car yet?” I said.

  “I sure have and this will freak you out. I went over it with Bill Bauman, the expert car engineer our firm uses. Bauman showed me the way the pickup truck was fortified. It had an interior cage with stainless steel pipes, like you see in race cars. Bauman said it was the kind of protective engineering that’s usually seen around heavy construction sites—and Hollywood stunt sets. The idea is to minimize risk to the driver.”

  “What did this guy do for Gulf Oil? Why did he need a battle-hardened vehicle?” Bennie asked.

  “He’s was a salesman, simple as that. It’s a decent paying job, but all he does is schlep around to gas stations and sell oil additives.”

  “So why would he need a fortified vehicle?”

  “Good question. The simple answer is that he didn’t. Matt, you’re going to want to depose whoever it is who assigns vehicles to Gulf Oil employees. I’ll bet a steak dinner that the guy who assigns vehicles had no idea the pickup truck was braced for battle.”

  “Did he carry around any flammable or explosive materials that may have required vehicle armor?”

  “Nope, just oil and oil additives. Nothing explosive.”

  “Okay, this is getting interesting,” I said. “We have an experienced stunt car driver who gets a job as an oil salesman, and tricks out his vehicle as if he’s expecting roadside bombs. We have a defendant who seems to want people to know that he was driving negligently with a cell phone and a rolled-down window on a cold day, and then he admits it to the investigating cop. Woody, I have to admit, you’ve got me thinking. So let’s slow down a minute and do some speculating. Assume, for the sake of argument, that Woody is right, and this accident may not have been an accident. Let’s look at one question—why?”

  “Woody, have you uncovered any evidence that Morgan may have known Jim Spellman?” Bennie said.

  “None. Of course we can’t ask Morgan until his deposition, but I’m still working on possible connections. When Diana Spellman gets back I want to ask her a lot of questions about Jim Spellman possibly knowing Morgan, but I don’t expect she’ll know anything. I’m sure she would have told me during my intake interview.”

  “We also need to see if Gulf Oil, or somebody at Gulf Oil, had some bad history with Jim Spellman,” I said.

  “Woody’s done a great job, as usual,” said Bennie. “Most detectives I know, and I know a ton of them, look at what’s there and ask why. Woody is great at seeing things that aren’t there. I have to admit, this case is starting to fascinate me. But let me ask you a legal question, Matt. Your job is to prove negligence in a case. If you prove an intentional act, doesn’t Gulf Oil get to say, ‘hey, he did it, not us’ ”?

  “True, Ben. But Woody’s established that Morgan was on company business when the crash occurred. At the time he was the agent for Gulf Oil. A doctrine called respondeat superior means that the principal is liable for the acts of its agents. But you’re right. Gulf could argue that his actions were beyond the scope of his employment with Gulf, and that his action was a ‘frolic of his own.’ But even if a court found that Morgan was acting on his own, wouldn’t Gulf be negligent for not knowing why he made the Gulf-owned vehicle a battering ram? But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s just concentrate on the evidence.”

  “So you don’t think I’m crazy focusing on a possible intentional act in this case?” said Woody.

  “Woody, you get paid more than most of the lawyers in this firm, and for good reason. No, I don’t think you’re crazy.”

  “So you don’t mind if I pursue it?”

  “This is starting to look more like a TV crime drama than a simple negligence case,” I said. “No, I don’t mind if you pursue it. I think we have to. And if we uncover some convincing evidence of an intentional act—meaning murder—we’ll have to report it to the State’s Attorney’s Office.”

  Chapter 24

  One Saturday in June I walked into the Monahan Institute. Although every interaction with the Monahan Institute is voluntary, including this follow-up meeting, I had no intention of breaking the appointment. My month at Monahan convinced me that if I get back in the saddle on Mr. White Horse, I may as well blow my goddam head off, because I’d be headed toward death anyway. Jake Monahan greeted me at the door.

  “I’m happy to see you, Matt, real happy. Come on into my office and we’ll chat.”

  Jake’s office was steeped in earth tones, with wood paneled walls, a cream colored carpet, and red leather furniture. Nothing about it announced that it was a doctor’s office.

  “Things are well?” asked Jake.

  “I’ll shoot straight with you, Jake, since you always shoot straight with me. Last night, Friday night, was tough. I always looked at Friday as a night to unwind from the stress of the week. I guess I’m not alone in that feeling. As I had promised you, I flushed the remaining heroin stash down the toilet as soon as I got home after rehab. I also removed all booze. But last night I really wanted to go to my favorite bar. I even started to hatch a plan to get hold of some horse, now that my regular supplier is in jail.”

  “So how did you handle last night?”

  “I took your advice Jake. After all of the psychological dancing you guys did with me in rehab, the biggest impact was something you said to me. You suggested that I think of Maggie as my guardian angel, the angel who pushed my face into the mud to remind me how screwed up I’d gotten. So I did just that. I looked in the mirror and imagined Maggie standing next to me, slowly shaking her head from side to side. I feel like a fucking child talking this way, but it’s true Jake. Your guardian angel image is powerful.”

  “It’s only as powerful as you let it be, Matt. You’re a good man. Thank God we got to you soon, only three months after you started snorting. Yes, you were only a rookie, but you were a rookie looking to play in the big leagues. Another three months and you would have been mainlining. Believe me, I’ve seen hundreds of cases. Welcome back to the world, Matt. It may not be a perfect place, but it beats the shit out of White Horse country.”

  Chapter 25

  In keeping with Blake & Randolph’s policy of getting to know clients, I decided to observe a class that Diana Spellman taught at Northwestern University. The course, interestingly enough, was entitled, “The American Legal System.”

  Barbara, my secretary, made the arrangements for me to audit the class. I couldn’t believe the complications, with triplicate forms and multiple phone calls. Security is necessary, I guess, but sometimes it’s a pain in the ass.

  I walked into the Political Science Building on the Northwestern campus in Evanston. I knew my way around, having gone to Northwestern as an undergrad. In my briefcase I had all of the documents necessary for me to audit the class. I walked down the hall to Auditorium C. I opened the door, walked in, and took a seat in the rear. No security, no questions, no reason why Barbara had to go through all of the bullshit to get me in. I just sat down. There’s better security at a local Taco Bell, I thought.

  Diana Spellman had been alerted that I’d be there—they even gave her a photo of me—a required part of the process. I didn’t want to interfere with her class, so I put on a fake beard as soon as I walked into the auditorium.

  Diana Spellman strode promptly to the podium at 11 a.m. She was dressed demurely with a gray pants suit, and a loose fitting jacket. It was impossible not to notice, despite the loose clothing, that the woman had a great figure.

  Rather than stand behind the lectern, she hooked a microphone to her lapel and roamed freely across the stage. Her loud, clear, lyrical voice filled the auditorium. Her course was obviously popular, with 150 students in attendance, mostly males. The lecture that day was on the interplay between the First and Fourteenth Amendments to the United States Constitution. It wasn’t a
law school lecture, of course; it was a class on government. But I was impressed with her sweeping knowledge of constitutional law. Having spent a lot of time in school, I realized that I was watching a professor in total command of her subject. She lectured with authority, weaving the students through the intricacies of the Constitution. I’d better be on my toes when I interview her tomorrow, I thought. I have to admit that I felt intimidated.

  As soon as the bell rang, I ducked out, hoping that she hadn’t recognized me.

  Chapter 26

  “Matt, Mrs. Spellman is here. Should I send her in?”

  Because I hadn’t met our client yet, I told Woody that I’d first meet with her alone.

  Barbara Marsden, my secretary, opened the door. “Matt, this is Diana Spellman. Mrs. Spellman, Matt Blake.”

  According to the file, which I had reviewed for our meeting, Diana Spellman, the widow of James Spellman, is 31 years old and is an associate professor of political science at Northwestern University. She graduated from Yale with a bachelor’s degree in economics and a master’s in political science. She’s a candidate for a PhD at the University of Chicago. She and James Spellman had no children.

  I knew she was attractive from the photos in the file, as well as my sneak peek at her class. But when she walked in, my heart skipped a beat. It was a mild day in late June, and she wore a tasteful lightweight business suit, with the skirt a couple of inches above her knees, showing a pair of stunningly-shaped legs. When I attended her class, she was about 200 feet away from me. Up close, she was simply a knockout. She was 5’9,” I recalled from her intake sheet. Her slender athletic figure made her business suit look all the more attractive. She had medium length brunette hair that casually draped her high cheekbones, accentuating her light blue eyes. She extended her hand to shake mine. Her hand was warm and dry, and her grip was firm.