The Law Partners (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 3)

by John Ellsworth

  Marcel says, "Hotel? There's a dozen good ones within two blocks of where we're standing."

  It's true. Her condo is less than a mile from the Lower Loop.

  "Can one of you drop me at the Marriott?"

  "I can," Marcel says, stepping up. "Which Marriott?"

  She leaves with Marcel; no explanations to anyone, no phone numbers, no objections: everyone knows I'm here and it's from me only that they're going to hear. Even the detective hardly looks up as they pass by and out the front door.

  I decide to photograph the after-scene while the police and CSI's are doing their work. First the guest room, where I find one uniformed officer and one CSI going over the room with ultraviolet lights. Next is Mira's bedroom where there is one uniform searching for evidence. He abruptly leaves the room when I enter, but not before I snap his picture. He grimaces but says nothing. Then I am back in the living room, where two CSI's and the detective are examining the body. A third uniform stands guard at the front door. No one is being allowed in and of course no one is going out, not since Mira and Marcel left. I snap off several pictures of the dead body details, the workers, the detective, the pentagram wall, and finish up with the uniform at the door.

  Then I approach the detective.

  "My client is going to need access in the morning for clothes to wear to work."

  "Someone will be here."

  "You're not just going to walk away and leave her door chained, are you? Don't forget, she's one of you."

  "Naw, I'll leave someone here until she's in and out. Officer," he says to the uniform at the door. You saw the woman who just left? Let her back in when she returns for clothes. Clothes, that's all she takes out of here."

  "Got it. Will do," says the uniform.

  I am relieved. I've now done all I can to help my client tonight.

  I say, "Thanks. I know she'll be relieved to at least get some clothes out."

  "You taking her home with you tonight?"

  "Nope."

  "Hotel?"

  "Can't say."

  "But it would be under your name anyway, right?"

  "You're very creative. Let me make a note."

  "Fuck off, Gresham. Time for you to leave, too."

  "I was just going. By the way, officer, I never caught your name."

  He fishes a card out of his badge case. Handing it to me, he flashes the detective shield as well.

  I look it over. "Okay, Jamison Weldon. Thanks for the card. Don't stay up too late."

  I glide past him, past the uniform at the front door, and I am gone.

  Funny thing, no one asked us for one fingerprint. How else are they going to know whose prints are whose when they start comparing things?

  They didn't ask; it's almost like Detective Weldon knows something I don't. I realize part of the answer: Mira’s fingerprints are officially stored on police computers because of her work as a DA. They already have her prints and they knew that.

  Downstairs, the parking garage is empty and the light is very dim. A good place for a killer to lurk. I shiver and double-time to my Mercedes.

  Once inside, I quickly lock up and get the engine turning.

  Then, my mind is racing along.

  Darrell Harrow. He's a jack-of-all-trades in the District Attorney's office, a trial lawyer so experienced that he can cover any type of case on a moment's notice. Every large-city prosecutor's office has several of these floaters on staff.

  Except Darrell Harrow is different from all those other prosecutors. He is stretched out on a colleague's floor, the back of his head in pieces on the wall.

  While he remains dead, his colleague is checked into a world-class Marriott hotel, her Jacuzzi releasing steam in sheets while she soaks. It is a difficult sell, that she was unconscious when the shooting occurred but then awoke with no signs of attack on her own body, no knots on her head, no knockout drops, nothing that would explain the lapse in consciousness. The Ambien might help, but it's a weak explanation. We need something stronger to convince a jury—something compelling.

  Which comes to me. Finding something compelling is my job. It is always my job to find the compelling.

  Even when it doesn’t exist.

  7

  Denise Harrow is a woman with high-cheekbones and blue veins along her hand where she's clutching a tissue wet with her tears. Everything about her says she is a widow with money, yet she was married to an Assistant District Attorney who wasn't making over probably a hundred-fifty grand.

  As I come up the aisle of All Saints-St. Thomas Catholic Church, I nod at her, and Danny, at my side, walks on up and squeezes her arm as she says something into her ear. My wife is like that, always able to say the exact right thing at just the right moment. The widow nods and touches Danny's forearm in exchange. Then she looks away and we move into a vestibule where several of the city’s lights are standing and whispering under the organ's somber tones.

  Mayor Tanenbaum is there with his entourage of bodyguards and bag boys. He is all suppressed smiles that flare into reelection grins when the widow and her group turn away, which diminish when she turns back and might see. Next to him is Able McCreedy, a reporter from the Sun-Times who has an inside track with the mayor's office, always spilling the ink of a good drama twelve hours before all other media. Next to Able is a woman wearing a black dress, long gloves, and the mandatory pearls, who, I am guessing, is the mayor's wife. I know this because she is eviscerating me with her eyes, recognizing me as the lawyer who defended her daughter's killer.

  I am immediately sorry I have selected this vestibule and I almost pull Danny away but she's already patting the seat next to her just two rows up from the mayor. I sit and can already feel their hatred heating up the back of my neck. To my great relief, Jimmy Carson, a prosecutor out of the District Attorney's office with whom I am on good terms, takes the seat next to me and leans back to introduce his wife. Then Danny and the Carsons trade hushed helloes while I glance over the small remembrance sheet passed out at the entrance to the sanctuary. On the cover the iconic praying hands suggest that Harrow was a praying man, while inside is a short bio, his favorite Bible verse and favorite hymn. We send off even the guilty ones wearing such disguises, perhaps to trip up the God who will judge us. Jimmy nudges me with his shoulder.

  "Hear you got the call from Mira Morales."

  "I did. What's the word around the District Attorney's office?"

  Jimmy is a thick-necked linebacker from Alabama who will forever be more comfortable in a forty-year-old's touch football game than the Art Museum. He is plainly uncomfortable at the funeral of a colleague and probably uncomfortable talking to me, a defense lawyer, the avowed enemy of the District Attorney's office, but there's a wrinkle. While I'm seeking the DA's insider dope, he can always claim that he laid hold of my thinking, too, when he gets back to the office and gets pumped for what he learned from me about their colleague's defense. It's a two-way street and we both know it.

  He leans near and whispers.

  "The word is that she had a thing with Harrow."

  "As in romance?"

  "Uh-huh. What you got?"

  "Unconscious. Came to and found a dead man in her living room."

  "That'll never fly."

  "I couldn't agree more. That's why she called me."

  "The great smoke-and-mirrors man, Michael Gresham, now setting up his tent in the northeast corner of the sideshow. Come one, come all and be ready to be amazed and perplexed. For he will walk and he will talk and he will spit wooden nickels while he slides on his belly like a reptile."

  "You make me sound like a herpetologist."

  "Whatever," says Jimmy and he vacantly pats his breast pocket for a cigarette. Like me, he probably quit eons ago. Old habits in uncomfortable rooms. It goes with the territory.

  I look over. "So. Who's ramrodding the investigation since the District Attorney's Office yelled conflict."

  "Assistant Attorney General. Woman by the name of Nora Wigins."
<
br />   "She's all that good," I whisper. “I’ve definitely heard good things.”

  "Better than good. Teaches Evidence at UC."

  University of Chicago. My old stomping grounds and the name stamped on my juris doctor diploma. So, she's got court cred. It figures they would send the best they have from the AG's office. I swallow hard. I expected no less.

  Just then a thunderous voice booms from behind. I turn; the face behind the voice belongs to his Honor, the mayor himself, Abraham Tanenbaum.

  "My wife had to leave," his voice roars.

  "Oh, yes?" I respond.

  "She can't be in the same room as you, Mr. Gresham. If I didn't have to be here, I'd be following right after her. So let's compromise. How about you move to the other side of the church?"

  Jimmy Carson learns forward, distancing himself from me.

  "I'm fine right here, Mister Mayor. Given the solemnity of today's gathering, you'd do well to forego turning this into an event, this hatred you harbor against me."

  "I'm waiting. I can have my security people clear this part of the church or you can go peacefully," he hisses.

  The hairs prickle along the back of my neck. He's too damn close and I can feel his hot breath. Then Danny stands and takes my hand. Wordlessly, she crosses in front of me, pulling me to my feet. I excuse myself as I step past Jimmy and we make our way to the end of the pew and move left, back toward the entrance. We then come up the far aisle and sit quietly behind three large black men in suits and grim faces. I am sure they are cops and I feel safe here.

  Safe with cops around?

  Of all things.

  8

  Three mourners pay their respects to Darrell Harrow from the lectern.

  The first is a black woman who was Attorney Harrow's paralegal in the District Attorney's office. She worked for the man some fifteen years and knew Darrell and Denise as family. She recounts the Christmases and other holidays they spent together. She describes Harrow's dropping in on her when she had a surgery that kept her home for two weeks while her shoulder healed and how he brought in food and groceries for her kids. And she talks about his exceptional career as a prosecutor, a man who wanted to see justice done, who abhorred revenge and refused to go down that path no matter how hard he was being pressured by victims and their families to mete out excessive punishment. Then she returns to her seat and Harrow's sister speaks. She talks about their childhood; his butterfly collection; his learning to swim by falling into the Chicago River when he was five while playing where he shouldn't have been; his time in the army as a JAG officer; and his yearly efforts to keep the peace around the family's Thanksgiving table when the kids were younger and celebrating the holidays in a home not always filled with good cheer. Then she steps back and the widow, Denise Harrow, comes forward to talk about her husband. Her words are few and uttered from a place of brokenness and despair. The kids watch their mother from the first row in the church as their mother's two brothers sit among them, giving comfort.

  Danny and I watch and hear all of this from our seats far enough back from the front of the church as to be among the anonymous mourners who don't know each other and can quickly depart after the service, signing the guest book on the way out.

  Then it happens. While Denise Harrow is speaking, Mira Morales enters the church. There is a pause as the widow grapples for words, rendered mute by a sudden discomfort. All heads turn to look at what has stopped her cold. Then they see.

  Mira takes five steps and stops, looking for a friendly face she can sit next to. She is not yet charged with any crime, as ballistics reports are outstanding and the murder weapon missing. If they find the killing bullet came from Mira's gun she will, of course, be immediately indicted for the crime. But as of this moment when she enters into the church, she is legally innocent. The detectives have warned her not to leave town; of course they never have the legal right to do that. Still she has obeyed, remaining at home on paid leave while the crime lab does its protocol.

  Then the widow collects herself.

  "Please," she cries out, "someone make her leave!"

  "What is she thinking?" Danny whispers. "Why would she come here?"

  "Maybe she is innocent," I say. "Maybe to pay her respects to an associate."

  "Not likely!" Danny retorts. She knows Mira's sleep-around proclivities and has already decided that the decedent was having an affair with Mira Morales.

  Then we are completely stunned as Denise Harrow suddenly steps around the lectern and breaks into a full run right at the latecomer. Mira spots the widow, perceives her intent, and glances around in desperation. A man stands up from his seat and steps in front of her, evidently to protect the women from each other. Another man joins the first. Together they form a half-wall in the aisle. However, Mrs. Harrow is not to be denied in her effort to effect instant justice. She simply dances around the men, bearing witness to the spin moves of the NFL tricksters and ending up face to face with Mira Morales. Denise Harrow leaps at Mira and grabs a handful of perfectly coiffed blond hair. She yanks and a bouquet of blond hair with gray roots comes loose from Mira's head, which causes the victim to wail in pain. The men turn and pursue the women back up the aisle and now pull at them, trying to separate them, encircling waists with arms and leaning away from the fracas, each one with his angry, flailing combatant. Chaos erupts: exclamations of horror, or anger at Mira Morales daring to come here, of pain as the blond hair is ripped free, and half the mourners are now standing, pointing, leaning in or away, looking to all the world like the community witnessing the Last Supper. Indeed, the pastor commandeers the microphone and calls for peace and calm. The worker at the soundboard cues a hymn and The Old Rugged Cross, listed in the memorial brochure as Darrell's favorite, rumbles over the loudspeakers. But the pastor persists in trying to talk them down and, with the aid of additional hands from additional volunteers, the women are separated. Soothing words are spoken. Calm is restored. In tears, and pulling her veil down across her eyes, the widow is helped to the back of the church where she's led away into a side room. Meanwhile, Mira Morales, stunned and totally alone in all this, darts her eyes around and just happens to catch my gaze as Danny and I are moving across the row toward her. I reach the scene of the melee and firmly seize Mira by the elbow and begin steering her back out of the church. Danny runs interference, and without thought or plan we walk the woman over to our Mercedes and seat her in the passenger seat. She is softly crying and digging through her bag for tissues and wiping her tears and noisily blowing her nose. She shakes her head again and again, and Danny reaches forward from the back seat and rubs her shoulder.

  "I tried to pay my respects," the wounded prosecutor says with all alacrity. It clearly hasn't sunk in why she was attacked and struck by Denise Harrow.

  "I thought I asked you to stay home," I say to her, referring to the talk I give all my clients about sticking close to home while under investigation.

  "He was one of my favorite men. And the best prosecutor among all nine hundred of us. By far and away."

  As if any of this justifies her showing up.

  9

  "I put myself through law school by waitressing and cleaning offices," Mira is telling Danny and me. We are sitting in a Drummond's Cafe in Evanston, drinking coffee and eating pancakes after the funeral. Mira followed us here, upset with herself for showing up at the funeral and in need of a friend. She had been drinking before the funeral, and, while intoxicated, made the decision to pay her respects to an old friend and colleague, Darrell Harrow. Her situation was blotted out by the drink. “My grades suffered because I had to work,” Mira says, “but I was still number three in my class.”

  "I did paralegal work," says Danny.

  They are in full commiseration mode, recalling the sacrifices it took to survive the financial puzzle of law school without support from anyone. Mira is guzzling coffee and Danny keeps it coming.

  Mira leans forward and speaks confidentially. "My parents disinherited me when
I got pregnant my senior year of high school. I had my baby but couldn't afford to keep her, so I gave her up for adoption. Someday we'll meet; I'm going to make sure of that, but it hasn't been the right time so far."

  "Do you know where she is?" Danny asks her.

  "I do. And her parents let me send her birthday and Christmas presents plus a letter once a month. I also send support checks because I know they need the money. They're blue collar workers but have huge hearts. I picked them out of a dozen adoptive parents in a book Social Services brought me the same afternoon she was born. It was the best and the worst day of my life."

  "Did you get to hold your baby?" Danny asks.

  "I did. One time. For a half an hour. I held her on my chest while I was still in the hospital bed. She slept and I kissed her head. I held her tiny little hand in mine and tried to memorize her fingerprints in case I lost track of her. But that was part of the adoption, that I would get to stay in touch and she could contact me after she turned eighteen if she ever wanted. So far, no contact but she's only fourteen. I'm hopeful."

  "Have you ever thought of having more children?"

  Mira looks out the window. In huge white letters the glass advertises pancakes, eggs, and bacon for $6.99. I can read all this in reverse as I try to distance myself from Mira's very painful story. I can't even begin to imagine the pain of giving up a child. It's probably one of the worst things any human ever has to endure. She's got tears on her cheeks now as she describes the days after giving birth, when she returned to high school and so many students made fun of her. It had been no secret she gave the baby up and the cruelty of the other students about this just astonished her. She recalls them putting a life-size rubber baby in her gym locker with a note telling her she hadn't lost her daughter after all. Danny comes unglued on hearing this. She wonders out loud how Mira kept from killing herself.

  "Actually I did cut my wrists that same day," she says, pulling up her shirt sleeves and showing us her wrists.