"Just one," she says, "what do we do if I'm guilty of none of these charges? That's the part I am unfamiliar with--the not-guilty client."
"In that case, it is incumbent on us to prove why you're not guilty."
"I thought the state had to prove me guilty. I thought I didn't have to prove anything."
I smile at her. It is a kindly smile for I am taking her question as if asked in all sincerity, which I believe it is.
"If you're not guilty, we must prove why, no matter what the law says. The innocent person who doesn't prove his innocence--even though the law says he needn't--is playing with fire. We will prove you not guilty. That's the only way to proceed."
"What is our evidence?"
"The Ambien, the lack of GSR, the fact the bullet wasn't fired from your gun--"
"Wait, how do you know it wasn't fired from my gun?"
I spread my hands and lean forward in my chair.
"Because. You've told me you are innocent. That means it's not your gun."
Two hours later, my words are proven partly wrong. The forensics report is delivered to my office by the District Attorney's runner. The gun that fired the bullet that killed Darrell Harrow was the same caliber as Mira's gun. I keep reading. There’s no reference made to any tests run on Mira’s gun—which is exceedingly strange. The absence of any reference totally stumps me. They do talk about the bullet, however. The Harrow bullet was from the batch of bullets found in a box she kept inside her closet. I feel the air going out of our case. I call Mira with the news. She drops back in at my office.
"My bullet?" she sounds as if in a dream state. "But I didn't fire my gun."
"Of course. I really don't think you shot Darrell Harrow. I've believed you all along."
"Is that why you had me wash off any GSR and take an Ambien?"
"No. I asked you to do those things because I was already in the process of proving you not guilty. Both of those steps would give us indicia of your innocence if the cops did a gunshot residue test or a toxicology blood draw. My requests were made only to confirm your innocence."
"Smart man. I appreciate that. Now that I've been indicted, I need to pay you. How much will you charge me for this defense?"
"My usual charge for a first degree murder case is two-hundred-and-fifty thousand dollars. The publicity I'm going to earn by defending you, however, is priceless. I would do your case for free."
"Uh-uh. I've paid you five thousand already. My dad is taking out a second mortgage for another hundred thousand. Would you take an IOU for the balance?"
"Yes, I will," I instantly say, which violates every rule of getting paid known to criminal lawyers. Criminal lawyers never, ever, under any circumstances, agree to get paid on the other end, after the finding of not guilty. If they did, ten times out of ten they wouldn't ever get paid. But I am violating that most sacrosanct of rules because I really meant what I just told her: the publicity I am receiving for defending the county's chief homicide prosecutor on a charge of homicide is priceless. Already the papers and TV reporters are hounding me for an interview. That will come, in good time, and with it will come an influx of good clients with cash to spend. It's a win-win for me. The incoming hundred grand won't hurt things, either. Much of it will go to expert witnesses to be called by me in her trial. It usually does.
"So, how are we looking, Michael?"
"I think fairly good even with the bullet matching your box of bullets. There's still no gun to match up, which is baffling. I cannot explain it but we’re in touch with the police department about it. Also, we'll need to have your Ambien doctor testify about why you're taking Ambien and potential side effects when mixed with a little wine, and that will go a long way toward explaining why you weren't aware there had been a murder inside your own condo when you woke up. So that's a good witness for you. We'll also use a toxicologist to keep the emphasis on your unconscious state and that will undergird what your doctor says and keep the focus on the mental state you were in--which is going to be very important moving forward. Because without intent or motive the state really has nothing against you. If we can do that, you’ll walk seven times out of ten.”
“And the other three times?”
“That would be negative evidence from something we don’t know about yet. An eyewitness to something or other. An ear-witness who heard you arguing in your condo before the shot was fired--those kinds of things."
"Well, there isn't anything like that."
"At least not yet. We need to really be open to turning over all the rocks at this point in our investigation. If it's out there and has the potential to hurt you, we must find it and learn how to defuse it. That's my job."
"You have the CCTV video? Has it been reviewed?"
"Marcel watched every minute of it. We've got Harrow coming to your condo. There's a time lapse, then me, then Marcel, then the cops."
"Anyone seen leaving my condo?"
"We've got two people leaving on the elevator on twenty-five. One of them was a cop and the other was the daughter of a woman recently moved in. Marcel has questioned the daughter. He's looking for the police officer but identification is almost impossible."
"Why is that?"
"For one, his hat blocks the view. We can't make out his face."
"What else about him?"
"He's not wearing a name tag. And we can't make out the badge number--no good shot of it."
"But he's a cop?"
"Far as we can tell."
"What about any gunshot?"
"Video has sound. But no gunshot."
"No surprise there."
"Well, we've just scratched the surface. We have lots to do yet."
We part company, and Danny comes into my office. As an attorney, Danny is succeeding beyond what I had even hoped for her. She is taking on preliminary hearings and misdemeanor trials and even felony trials here and there where the risk of incarceration is low. I have purposely kept her away from major felony assignments in the office despite her repeated requests for more high profile cases. Those things will come, in time, but for now we have to satisfy ourselves with her assignments as a work in progress.
She sits across from me, absently finger-combing her blond hair across the top of her head and returning my loving gaze with a smile.
"You want the case, am I right?" I say to her.
"More than anything," she says.
"You know I can't do that. Not with Mira looking at life in prison."
"How about second chair? I would love to sit through the trial with you."
I smile.
"We can do that. Tell you what, how about you take on our medical experts?"
She leans forward in her chair. She's really wanting this, I see, and I'm thinking she's ready for it.
"Who would that be?" she asks.
"Mira's physician, the one who prescribed the Ambien. And a toxicologist. I need you to find someone who has expertise in cases where the patient has mixed Ambien and alcohol and had a blackout or passed out because of it."
"I know where to begin looking. That much I do know."
“Where would that be?”
"Local universities. Starting with the University of Chicago. Maybe a professor of toxicology in the med school. Someone who's published a lot and who has experience testifying in court. Someone who's not wishy-washy but who can really commit to a defendant and not waver from their opinions."
"I'm liking what I'm hearing. Welcome aboard."
She gives me one of the wide smiles I adore about her. My heart aches at how crazy about her I am.
"What about your pregnancy?"
She shrugs. "I'll have delivered by the time it goes to trial."
“I know that. I’m asking about continuity in your workup? Will you be able to care for a newborn and cover your responsibilities here as well?"
"My," she says, "aren't you the chauvinist!"
"Why do you say that?"
"Because we will both be involved with our baby'
s care, that's why. We'll use Dania's nursery and keep them both here with us. I won't be out of the office but a week or so that way. I'll be right here."
"All right."
"Besides, Mister. It's a fifty-fifty undertaking once the baby is born. It's not all on me."
"I expected no less, to tell the truth. And you know I want to be there with you. It's my baby too."
I’ve been chastised and I’ve taken my best shot at looking accountable. But we both know deep down that I’m old-school when it comes to family duties. I’m trying to get over that, to modernize my mind, as Danny puts it, but old habits and all that.
“We're not special snowflakes, either of us,” she reminds me. “Remember, we decided long ago that we want to live our lives like we want to live our lives and we want others to have the freedom to live their lives like they want to.”
“Which is why we fight so hard for our clients.”
“No judgment, only support. Not the crime, but the person.”
“Everyone deserves a second chance.”
Even old-fashioned, old-school, chauvinist husbands.
Now I know why we’ve just had out little talk. She had the entire agenda in mind before she even entered my office.
And I’m wondering whether she’s ready for the rough-and-tumble of major felony cases.
Spare me.
13
"Mira Morales received a standing ovation after her speech at the Cook County Democratic Fundraiser," says Elmer Bancroft, the state chairman of the party.
We are sitting in his office at Worker Stedman, a tech fund on Lower Wacker in Chicago. Bancroft is the managing partner and a jovial politician who knows the first name of just about every precinct worker in his county. He is a large, big-boned man with heavy jowls, a bulbous nose, and eyes perpetually road-mapped with eyestrain from party business at some tavern or restaurant where plans were made, candidates selected in back room deals, and Cook County politics guided by the heavy hand of the chairman as they have been for a hundred years. Predecessors' party politics have resulted in assassinations: Anton Cermak in 1931; in nationally televised riots: Richard J. Daley in 1968; in demonstrations too many times to count now: from Richard M. Daley until 2010. It continues today. The Cook County Democratic Party is a volatile mashup of every conceivable economic, religious, and social interest group out there. And Elmer Bancroft is the front man for it all, the man who agreed that Mira Morales would be the party's candidate for District Attorney in the first place.
Danny and I are loyal contributors to both political parties in Chicago and it isn't from any deep-seated need to see any agenda furthered. No, we contribute so that, when we are picking juries, we have access to both parties' databases in order to get additional background information about prospective jurors. Everyone with a brain does this in Chicago, criminal lawyers and civil litigators alike. After all, jury panels come from voter registration rolls. It's only good business that we remain active so we have access to citizen demographics and likely social tendencies.
I ask him, "Did anyone notice Mira having words with someone? An altercation of some kind?"
Bancroft leans back in his deep leather chair. He places his fingertips together and shifts some imaginary weight between them. A red toothpick protrudes from the corner of his mouth. He switches it to the other side as he thinks.
"Well, I didn't see anything. Not that I would have even noticed, Michael. I get pretty wrapped up in what's happening on the dais to ever notice anything else. You might ask some of the precinct bosses who were there. I'm thinking in particular of Natty McMann."
"And who is Natty McMann?" asks Marcel. He has come here with me today as we try to put together a list of names among the party functionaries worth talking to.
"Natty is our sergeant-at-arms. He would likely have noticed if anyone got out of line."
"He has people roaming the crowd with their eyes open, is what you're saying," says Marcel.
Bancroft nods. "That's exactly what I'm saying." Then he changes the subject. "So what do you fellows think? Do we need to replace Mira on the ticket and not look back? Or is this going to wrap up and go away pretty soon? What do we do?"
The question is mine to field.
"It's not going to evaporate, if that's what you're hoping. Prosecutors going after one of their own are very, very careful, very circumspect. They know they will be in for the fight of their lives whenever they indict another prosecutor. No, this case will be around for a while. But that doesn't mean you should dump Mira. I'm strongly convinced she's not guilty."
Again with the toothpick. Other side of the mouth.
"That may be, but this case will be dragging on into the fall, am I right? Hell, boys, the election's in November. I think this pretty much gets her kicked out."
"We've had our initial appearance, Mr. Bancroft," I advise him. "The judge put this on the fast-track calendar. We have a trial date of October thirty-first. That's a firm date. So you'll know her status before the election. Everyone will. And if you dump her now it will look like you're admitting she's guilty of something. You'll also be dumping your best chance of beating out Lamont Johnstone in the general election. I would caution you against dumping her. In fact, as her attorney, I'm begging you not to. It would really hurt her case for the public to see her party pull away from her."
"There is that," Bancroft allows. "There is that. Tell you what. I'm going to sit on this through August and keep my ear to the ground. If it is looking good for her, I'll know by September one. We can still field a new face at that time if need be."
"Elegant," I say, suddenly hot under the collar. "A betrayal that's not. Because if you don't like what you're hearing in August or September, you're going to dump her and that's going to make choosing a jury very difficult, considering that Cook County juries run four-to-one Democrat in their makeup. A fallen star won't sit well with those folks. You'll make my job twice as hard."
He smiles and leans forward in a rush. He withdraws the toothpick and points it at me.
"That, Michael Gresham, is exactly why you get paid the big bucks. Because you can make wine out of water, pull rabbits from hats, and slay dragons in the courtrooms of Chicago. I know, I've watched your star rise. Especially since you left your old firm. Where, I believe, you were asked to leave."
He does know everyone's business. I was asked to leave my old firm, and it really was my old firm since I started it. But because my book of business had all but ceased to exist, I was voted out. Since then, my business has come roaring back like a tornado. Bancroft knows this too, but I don't push the point. No reason to defend or justify myself, not with this opportunistic hack.
"Where do we find Natty McMann?" asks Marcel, sensing that I'm about finished up here.
"Natty works in the County Clerk's office. He's second-in-command there. But catch him early in the morning. After lunch he's usually oiled up pretty good and you wouldn't want to put all your marbles on what he might tell you then."
"Will do," I say, and extend my hand.
We shake across the desk and turn to leave, when he stops me in my tracks.
"Michael, there was one thing you should know about the fundraiser."
I turn back around. "Yes?"
"Darrell Harrow showed up that night. My sources tell me he was in hot pursuit of Mira."
"What's that mean?"
"It means they were an item. So I am told. Don't take my word for it."
"Whose word should I take?"
"Talk to Natty. He's my source."
Maybe--I am hoping--Mira avoided having anything to do with Harrow in public that night. But knowing Mira and her bent for married men, I'm afraid I know what I will hear. Truth be told, I'm not eager to talk to Natty, though I must. Besides, I am certain beyond a reasonable doubt that the District Attorney's investigators--democrats in an office of democrats--have already been to see him. And, I'm equally certain they have his recorded statement and will add him to their witn
ess list, a witness against Mira.
Cook County politics, Cook County government.
It is what it is.
14
Marcel drives us up to Daley Plaza in his truck and we find underground parking at only fifty bucks a day. A steal, given where we are. A dash across the street and into the Daley Center, where we enter the County Clerk's office on the East Concourse and ask for Natty McMann. Who is asking? Michael Gresham, the attorney for Mira Morales, I reply. The clerk turns to page Mr. McMann. Moments later, she returns and leads us into the second office from the last down a long, wood-floored hallway. There are ancient radiators along the walls and the windows at the end of the hall look like they have been painted shut for a century or more. A reminder that not all Cook County tax dollars go for infrastructure.
There, near the end, she opens a door with opaque glass on which is stenciled,
Nathaniel J. McMann
Assistant County Clerk
Cook County, Illinois
We step inside and find ourselves in an outer office with an empty desk. So we take a seat as the clerk directs, and we wait.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes crawl by.
The Law Partners (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Page 6
