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

by John Ellsworth

  She painfully continues.

  "I didn't want to live anymore. The trauma of losing my baby girl was quadrupled by the attacks my own classmates were making on me. Girls who I thought were my friends were deserting me and joining in the hate campaign. The school counselor met with me just about every day that last semester. I'd go into her office and she'd close the door and I would just sit there and cry. It's a wonder I graduated at all."

  Danny reaches over and places her hand on Mira's hand. She leaves it there.

  "So college must have been a huge relief."

  "I got my student loan in August and bought a used VW. I moved from Brooklyn to Chicago and enrolled at Roosevelt U. I worked full-time and went to school full-time. I was still heartsick over my baby and refused to go out on a date until my junior year. I was determined not to ever get pregnant again and so far I haven't."

  "Why not? Couldn't you leave that all behind and start a family now?"

  Mira shakes her head and watches Danny pour coffee into the cup Mira is holding. Mira adds in a dash of cream. She slowly stirs the mixture with her spoon.

  "I think the fear of losing another child kept me from having another. As a lawyer I can think of too many ways a parent can lose a child. I don't want to ever, even for a second, face that prospect. So, I had my tubes tied. Never going there again."

  "Well," says Danny, and she runs out of words.

  We sit silently, reflecting on Mira's story and reflecting on Darrell Harrow's murder. We quietly begin to discuss the implications for Mira's life. We are both thinking the same thing, Danny and I: anyone but Mira. Mira didn't deserve to be facing a murder investigation. She deserved happiness and joy in her life. Her dues were all paid up but now Harrow's death will take her down again. We're all lawyers; we all know how difficult her life is about to become. Finally, Danny squeezes Mira's hand and pulls her own hand away. The time has come to talk about Harrow and our approach to her defense.

  We begin going over the past six months of her life, her relationship to Harrow, and a minute-by-minute replay of that night, starting with getting dressed to go to the Democratic fundraiser.

  What we don't go into is my previous affair with Mira. It was before Danny came into my life and by tacit consent Mira and I do not speak of it.

  Some defenses are better left unmade.

  We finish up and get up to pay the ticket. Mira and Danny hug goodbye and then Mira comes to me. We hug and I smell an ancient fragrance. I am immediately caught up in the memory of a long time ago with her, nude on her bed, talking until the sun came up the next morning. We were five years younger, and we both knew I was much too old for her and that we were just having a fling. But two nights later we did it again; talking until five a.m., when I quietly got up, dressed, and went to my home. We never met again in her bedroom after that night. The agreement was mutual that whatever we were doing had run its course. Since those days I have defended against three of Mira's cases and I have always had the feeling that she was giving my clients extra breaks and easier pleas than I might have gotten elsewhere.

  We break our hug and she walks out of Drummond's to her car. She looks small and bent as if under a great weight. I want to go to her and put an arm around her shoulder and tell her that we're going to beat this thing, that her life is going to be returned to her. But of course I can't do that. As I watch her back out and begin pulling away, I notice a new model Ford, black in color, fall in behind her.

  For just a moment I am certain there is a uniformed police officer driving the car that followed her out. I watch until they reach the light at River Road and her blinker indicates a right as they wait. Before the light can change, she turns right and accelerates. The Ford jerks out into traffic and falls in behind her. They disappear behind a row of buildings and I look back to count my change from the cashier. I will call her cell to check on her momentarily.

  Danny catches my eye.

  "What was that all about?" she says.

  "What was what all about?"

  "You had a thing with her, didn't you?" It isn't really a question. It is an affirmation.

  Danny and I don't lie to each other. As lawyers we are very different at home than we are in courtrooms and office buildings. No lies, period.

  "Yes," I say. "It was a long time ago."

  "I saw it when she hugged you. It lasted a second too long."

  "Did it?" I say.

  I almost add, "I didn't notice."

  But that would be a lie.

  I call her to check in. The car that followed her has me concerned. But she says there’s no problem. She pulled into a gas station and, while she was filling, watched other cars coming and going. She’s quite sure no one followed her from the station.

  I’m not entirely relieved but I let it go.

  Mira is a smart lady and she’ll call if she needs me.

  10

  The next morning, Marcel is driving me to work while I work on a trial brief in the backseat of my Mercedes.

  "Boss," he says, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. "We've got lights."

  With his eyes he indicates I should look behind us. I twist in the seat and there, twenty feet behind my car, is a late model black sedan with red and blue lights hidden in its grill. They are flashing and Marcel is pulling over to the side of Lakeshore Drive. There is no safe place to come to a full stop so he slowly proceeds almost to the corner of the block and there turns into a strip mall parking lot. He brings the car to a rest and puts it in park. We wait.

  I watch as the passenger in the police vehicle exits his car and strides up to my window as if he owns this part of Chicago. He knocks on the glass beside my head. I roll down the window.

  "Mr. Gresham, would you mind stepping out of your car?"

  It is Jamison Weldon, the same detective that answered the call I made from Mira's apartment several nights ago. He looks more rested now and a slight smile plays around his lips, clearly the cat about to toy with the mouse he's caught up to.

  I do as asked and climb out, finding myself standing toe to toe with the detective, who's considerably taller than me. I don't remember that height advantage as I'm fairly tall and he peers down on me. In the light of day, I can make out a scar across his face, running from below his left eye and traveling starboard across the bridge of his nose, fading off below his right eye. It's a hell of a present some bad guy or other has left him with and Weldon wears it like a badge of honor, putting his face right next to mine and fastening me with his eyes.

  "Mr. Gresham, would you please come with me to my car?"

  I start to protest but he reaches out and grabs my shoulder and begins moving me back to his vehicle. I don't resist; to do so would quickly land me in jail facing a resisting arrest charge or worse. At his car, he pulls open the rear door and pushes me inside.

  "Move over," he growls and I slide across the seat. He crawls in beside me and pulls the door shut. All this time, Marcel is watching helplessly from the driver's seat of my car, but he's keeping his cool and not getting involved. Were he to get out and protest he would probably be arrested on some trumped-up charge and we both know that. So he is left to wait for me.

  Weldon leans back against the seat and the air whooshes out with a sigh. He is a big man whose knees press against the back of the passenger seat. He turns to me and I can feel the heat of his anger from three feet away. To my amazement, the guy is in a rage.

  "You are going to need to listen to me," he says. "You are going to need to listen or your life is about to go south very quickly."

  "So what am I listening to?" I ask. "So far you've only committed false arrest and battery against me. Do you have more?"

  He grimaces and his partner turns around from the driver's seat. He is a swarthy, bald man with a fringe of hair and a crooked grin surrounding crooked teeth. He leers at me but says nothing.

  "Mr. Gresham, don't think for a minute I don't know you interfered with my crime scene at Ms. Morales' house. It quickly
became evident to me that you had moved things around and even removed evidence from my scene."

  I am stumped by this. "What evidence did I remove? And how do you even know I removed something if you never saw it?"

  "There was an ashtray full of ash. But no butts. Someone removed them and I'm thinking that someone was you. I'm thinking it was probably ashes from your own cigarette. Maybe you had been there for much longer than you're telling us. Maybe you were involved in Darrell's death. Lots of maybes, Mr. Gresham."

  I am speechless. The entire logic--for purposes of argument--is ludicrous. However, he is much brighter than I at first thought. Moreover, I don't remember what I did with Mira’s cigarette butt when I did remove it. It hasn't crossed my mind or my path since that night.

  He reaches across and jabs a thick finger into my ribs.

  "You sandpapered your client and you sandpapered the scene. You had her wash her dress so we wouldn't find gunshot residue. You had her take a shower so we wouldn't find gunshot residue. And we know you had her drop an Ambien so you could argue she was passed out. You probably had her drink alcohol, too, I'm guessing. And I'm going to prove you did these things and I'm going to send your ass to jail for ten years when I make my case against you. But I'm a nice guy and I'm giving you a one-time chance to come clean. If you do, we'll go much easier on you. The next move is yours, Mr. Gresham."

  "Sorry, but I don't have a move," I tell him. "I have no clue what you're even talking about."

  He scowls at me and jabs his knuckles into my ribs, striking me several times in rhythm with his words as he says, "Get--real--sir!"

  "I'm as real as I can be. I would never interfere with an official police investigation. I know better."

  "You spent thirty minutes inside that condo before you made the call to us, Mr. Gresham. We've got the video of you arriving at her door. It's thirty minutes until you dial us. So cut the horseshit, Mr. Gresham, we both know you were inside making arrangements. I'm going to ask you one last time. Come clean. Cooperate. Save yourself ten years in prison. You've got sixty seconds."

  "Sixty seconds or sixty days--it makes no difference. I have no idea what you're talking about, Detective Jamison. But I will tell you what I'm willing to do. You open the door and let me leave this car and I won't press charges against you and I won't personally sue you for false arrest. You have sixty seconds to decide."

  The man up front snorts and slaps the steering wheel. "The fucking nerve!" he cries out. "Where do they get you assholes?"

  Jamison glances at his partner and then slowly reaches over and opens his door. To my great relief. He climbs out and I follow.

  "We aren't done here," he says as I begin walking back to my car. "I'm coming for you, Mr. Gresham."

  I stop and turn back. "Well bring your best game, detective. You're going to need it because I'll be waiting for you. You're going to be lucky not to lose your freedom and your assets if you come for me, as you put it. So I'm expecting your best shot."

  With that, I turn and stride back up to my vehicle, shoulders thrown back, head high, taking my time to let him know I haven't been frightened by his confrontation.

  Which is a lie. Actually, he has seen right through me. I did do all the things he rattled off. I did my job and just a touch more.

  My brain begins to speed up as I climb back into my car and quickly begin the checklist of what he would find out about me if my client turned on me. Marcel begins to speak but I hold up my hand.

  "Give me a minute," I say to him.

  He turns back around and begins driving us out of the strip mall.

  "We need to talk," I finally tell him.

  "They're on to you, Boss. We knew they would be."

  "They'd rather make a case against me than against Mira."

  "You sound surprised. Don't be. You're a high-visibility criminal defense lawyer. You've got a target on your back, Michael."

  I look out the window and see my reflection in the glass. I am all frown lines and frightened eyes. My hands shake. These encounters with the police--I've been down this road many times. Always with the intimidation.

  With me, it doesn't work.

  It only makes me that much more determined.

  11

  Marcel and I long ago decided that the best defense to any criminal charge is a smash-mouth offense. It is Monday and we are headed to Mira's condo tower in downtown Chicago on the river front. We are going there to speak with condo security and find out whatever we can about the security video. Of course the police will have beaten us there, which is fine, because with all videography now being saved to hard drives, no police agency and no defense firm ever gets the "original" of any "tape." It's a simple matter of obtaining a copy of the mp3 files contained on the hard drive and plugging into our own computers and watching the show. Whatever that turns out to be.

  We park underground in the visitors' section and take the elevator up to three, where the security office is housed. Elmer Gentry greets us there. Mr. Gentry is the agent in charge of building security for the security firm with the contract. He oversees all staffing, he explains to us, data acquisition, storage, and distribution, and he has already provided the police with the same video files we're now seeking.

  "July Fourth. We need the twelve hours leading up to the time of the shooting until all police and forensic staff clear the area," Marcel explains to Mr. Gentry, who is more than willing to help.

  "In fact," Mr. Gentry says, "I've already had my staff prepare the same mp3 file for you that we provided to the police. Fair's fair."

  "I appreciate that," I tell him. "We are sure Mrs. Morales is innocent of any wrongdoing here and can only hope the video will shed some light on the ID of the true killer."

  "You can only hope," says Mr. Gentry, "and I'll tell you what. I haven't had either the time or the inclination to review the video myself, but if you find it helpful, I will be glad. Good luck to you and to Mrs. Morales. She's an exemplary resident, never a problem or a complaint lodged against her, no loud parties, no visitors overstaying an acceptable number of days in her condo--nothing remarkable about her at all."

  "Say that again," I ask.

  "What part?"

  "The part about visitors overstaying their welcome. There's a limit on the number of days she can have visitors? Why is that?"

  "Because all residents are carefully screened by the condo board before any condo sale is finalized. Visitors haven't undergone this screening so, while they're never regarded as suspicious by us, the board does have its regulations. Overnight visits are okay over a reasonable time. Whatever that means. It's a case-by-case basis which effectively gives the condo board full control over visitor stays. All condos have a similar clause in their CC&R's."

  "I'm sure," I say.

  "Is this a continuous loop?" Marcel asks, referring to the CD he's been handed. "Any breaks?"

  "Yes. You'll find all cameras are included, which means you're getting front entrance, elevator, stairways, conference rooms--any area accessible by the common visitor."

  "Hallways?"

  He shakes his head. "Discretion there. Most of our tenants prefer no record of their visitors. We're a young crowd in this building and there's quite a bit of sharing going on. It's what the board wanted."

  "One question," says Marcel. "Was Darrell Harrow accompanied by anyone when he entered the building?"

  "I haven't reviewed the video. I can't answer that."

  "If he had been accompanied or later joined by a second visitor--would that show up on the video?"

  "Definitely. The CCTV is a continuous loop. You'll find everything on it."

  "So, the players are all recorded."

  "If 'players' is the proper term, yes. Frankly, I'm thinking it was only one player, but I don't know that for a fact."

  "Why do you think it was only one player?"

  "It had to be your client who fired the gun. No one else came or went from the condo but police, according to what I'm told." />
  "Who told you that?"

  "The detectives. They called back wanting to know whether there was any other way for a visitor to leave the condo other than elevator or stairs. I told them no."

  "Did anyone leave after Harrow arrived?"

  "Police came and went, but that was after you must have called them."

  I will check the time when I made the call to the police against what the video timestamp shows. If anyone is seen leaving the twenty-fifth floor after Harrow arrived but before I arrived, we will try to identify them and question them.

  Exactly what the police are doing right about now.

  12

  In my office on the whiteboard we have laid out the floor-plan of Mira's condo. We have placed the dead body exactly as it was aligned in the living room. A photograph of each room, taken from the doorway, wide-angle, is taped beneath each room's drawing. We have received a list of items seized from the condo by the police and we have listed those items under the room from which each item was removed. The whiteboard is four feet tall by five feet wide and our rendering covers its entire surface. This is our typical approach to criminal cases of all manner: set up the scene and the exhibits and witnesses, if any, so we understand the setup and our analysis can be based on fact. In this case there are no witnesses, but we have placed a figure representing Mira asleep on the couch at the time the gun was fired killing Darrell Harrow.

  Mira is late joining us, arriving at ten-thirty instead of her appointment time of ten. I am going to be miffed about this until she starts talking. She prefaces her explanation by handing me three pages, stapled. I scan through them.

  "So," I say, "when did you get this?"

  "A uniform brought it to my condo just as I was putting on my face to come down here."

  I read through the pages, a legal document.

  "You have been indicted on one count of first degree murder," I tell her, as if a lead homicide prosecutor wouldn't understand her own indictment. The telling comes with the territory; I will treat her exactly like I would any other client because I never try to guess at a defendant's mental state. For all I know, she is too upset to even read and understand the documents, so it falls to me to explain them to her. Which I do, also going over the lesser-included-offenses to first-degree murder, which are the lesser-in-degree charges that are incorporated by implication. For example, if you are charged with first degree murder, the jury can find you guilty of first, second, or third degree, or manslaughter, voluntary or involuntary, or battery, or assault. It cannot find you guilty, however, of one or more lesser included offenses and the offense charged in the indictment. I go over this with her, painstakingly explaining how it all works, while she sits and looks at me with a blank look superimposed over the slightest of smiles. Finally, I wind it up and ask her for questions.