Finally, the inner door opens and a swarthy, bald man with a stubby nose invites us into his office. "Natty McMann," he says once he shows us to the two visitors' chairs. He takes his seat behind his desk without offering to shake our hands. "I'm very busy and have a lunch date in fifteen minutes, so let's cut to the chase. You're Mira's lawyer and you must be the associate," he says to Marcel, who lets it slide. "What can I tell you about the fundraiser that you don't already know from Elmer?"
"You've spoken to him?” I ask.
"He gave me a jingle. Said I should take extra good care of you. Which of course I will. But about Mira Morales. I don't know much about her. She's never really had much to do with the County Clerk's office. She's mostly in the criminal courts. But I do know her when I see her and I saw her the night of the fundraiser. She was standing off to the side of the stage when this Darrell Harrow fellow comes up behind her. He wraps both hands up around her eyes and says something into her ear. She slips out from under and pushes him away. Her look is anything but friendly. I'm watching all this from the stage as I'm not ten feet away from her."
"Were you able to hear any of what either one of them said?" I ask.
"Yes. I heard Harrow say he had come to make a donation in her private place."
"Swear to God?"
Marcel and I lean closer.
"Swear to God."
"Did she respond?"
"She did. She said, word-for-word, 'You do realize you're speaking in public, Mr. Harrow?'"
"Meaning?"
"He had a full load on. He was rocking up and back on his feet and reaching for her. I think he was trying to keep his balance."
"Was there alcohol being served at the fundraiser?"
"Naive, are you? This is a Democrat fundraiser. Of course there's booze. The micks and the grease balls can't pull a voting lever without a good load on. You know that, Mr. Gresham. You're Irish."
"Actually the name is Irish. But my lineage is English. Long story. So how long were they having their say at the fundraiser?"
"She was introduced and went up on stage probably ten minutes later. During that time, he kept saying rude things to her, crude things, out loud where everyone around them could hear. The gist of it seemed to be that she had once had a thing with him and had recently called it off and he was mad as hell about that."
"Did she ever turn on him? Threaten him?"
"Naw. She kept her cool. Elmer told me Mira's like that. She's been around the block too many times to lose it to someone like Darrell Harrow."
"How did they leave it?"
"Right before she goes onstage she finally agrees to meet him after the fundraiser. She tells him in the meantime he should go find the coffee bar and try to sober up. She wasn't going to talk to him if he didn't."
"What did he say to that?"
"He just laughed and had to grab some guy next to him to keep from falling down. She turned away in total disgust and pretended not to hear him again. That was how she left it with him: coffee then talk."
"Mr. McMann, have you spoken to the police about what you saw?"
"Sure. Two detectives came around a day or two after she killed Harrow. They asked me all kinds of things."
"Such as?"
"Where was I sitting, what did I hear, describe their relationship, describe their affect, whether they had been drinking, what I saw--that kind of stuff."
"Had she been drinking, by the way?"
"I never saw it if she was. She was fine when she spoke at the mike."
"Did you see anything at all that led you to believe she might shoot him later that night?"
"Like I told the dicks, nothing like that. They asked me the same thing as you. I didn't see anything to indicate she was going to plug the guy."
"Mr. McMann, would it be okay if I sent Marcel here back to record your statement?"
"No. I don't like that because you'll use it to trip me up in court if my words change even one syllable. I know lawyers, brother, and I ain't going there."
"All right. Well, I guess we're done here," I tell him, and he looks away dismissively.
Marcel and I gather our notepads and load up to leave.
"One last thing, Michael," he suddenly blurts out. "You didn't ask me what I heard around the courthouse. The big rumor."
"Which is?"
"That Lamont Johnstone actually took the guy into Mira's living room and shot him while she was passed out. He drugged her and then shot her lover."
"This is a rumor? Seriously?"
"Mira has a lot of friends around here."
I say, “Evidently Johnstone doesn't. You know, that's so far-fetched that I'm not even going to honor it with a serious reply. Lamont Johnstone is an honest prosecutor. He would never do something like that."
The assistant clerk spreads his hands.
McMann says, “Hey, I said it was rumor. Frankly, I'm not buying it either. I've got my own ideas about what happened."
"Such as?"
"Such as he shot himself."
"Won't work. No suicide weapon found nearby. Sorry."
"Well, I'm still working on it."
"If you come up with anything else, please give a call. I don't bite. And by the way, I wouldn't have used your statement against you in court. I just wanted it to show I've done my job in talking to everyone. Due diligence."
"That's all?" he asks. "Then send your guy back around. I'll give you what you want."
"Can't thank you enough, Mr. McMann."
"Just be sure it's before noon. I’m very hard to get ahold of in the afternoons. That's our busy time."
"We’ll do that," I say, remembering what Elmer Bancroft has told me about Natty McMann's drinking habits.
So we leave the clerk to get back to whatever it is county clerks do. I've never really known, never had need of their services, and would be bored to death working in that particular office.
Even the air smells stale.
Outside, the sun is shining and I am happy to be alive and free as we dart back across Washington Street to our DayPark.
15
Assistant District Attorney Brianna Finlayton was distressed. She was prosecuting Tory Stormont now that Darrell Harrow had turned up dead. When an ADA went after a cop, suddenly she became the focus of all cops’ hatred of lawyers. The eyes were watching and they were very unfriendly and totally unforgiving.
Worse, Stormont was a cop with political connections. He was said to be on first name terms with the District Attorney himself, Robert Shaughnessy. But even that hadn’t stopped Stormont from being prosecuted for the murder of an unarmed black youth. First-name friendships went only so far around the courts of Chicago, especially when an all-black neighborhood was in flames.
Friends and contacts of the officer had called her and recommended dismissing the case against their man based on this or that flimsy reason, but, like all good prosecutors, Finlayton had resisted. She was going to secure a conviction and ask the judge to retire the guy to prison for his final two shots. It was her job, and Brianna was an honest and true prosecutor. Tory Stormont was in deep with the Chicago powers-that-be when juror rolls were made up. Obtaining a verdict against him would be difficult. Just one “Not Guilty” vote from a member of the jury would wreck her case. She had a strong case on the facts but it was against a defendant who was connected and who could even resort to violence if he gave the word to the right people.
The mayor's office had called Finlayton to check up on the progress of the case. Finlayton had tried to lower the mayor's expectations but so far she had been largely unsuccessful. The mayor believed that a conviction was a slam-dunk certainty just an easy jury trial away. But Finlayton knew better. Defense counsel was one of Chicago's brightest stars in a silk-stocking, white-collar defense office. Defense counsel was ever-anxious to go to trial and make more and more of a name for herself. To further cloud the case's prospects, Brianna had inherited the case only recently after Darrell Harrow had been murdered. The
District Attorney himself had dropped it on her desk the morning after Harrow's death without a word. It was her responsibility from that moment forward. Initially, she had found the file wanting in its thin investigation, thanks to Harrow and his notorious battle with drink. Further review confirmed the file was a hit-and-miss mess. So this morning, as Finlayton toweled off after her shower, she looked at herself in the mirror and saw a frowning, distressed Brianna Finlayton staring back.
As she stood nude in front of the mirror blow-drying her hair, she turned her face side-to-side, looking for the first wrinkle she expected any day now. Maybe it was time to leave the District Attorney's office and get into a boutique criminal firm where the hours were less and the stress was halved. Maybe it was even time to get out of law altogether. Maybe write a handbook for new prosecutors, see if something like that would sell and support her. Her needs were meager; it was just Brianna and two cats, Ace and Jack, who were pretty much okay with whichever way she turned, she thought with a smile. As long as there was Chicken-of-the-Sea in their bowls twice a day, they were happy.
No wrinkles in the face. Not yet, and that was good. There had been a man or two over her first ten years since law school. One of them had been disbarred for dipping into client PI settlement monies and been carted off to jail; the other had turned out to have a family downstate--which explained why he was too-often absent on weekends and holidays. God, how naive had she been? She cursed him as she slipped into her underwear and swung hangers in her closet looking for the perfect outfit for the first day of trial. She settled on a pinstriped suit with a pale blue button-down shirt and short red necktie--something to warm up the otherwise dark look. It was important for the look not to be too warm, however; opening day of a white-collar criminal trial called for serious and solemn, the two S's of trial theory and presentation.
She didn't hear the intruder come in through her condo's front door. She didn't hear him glide across the hardwood floor in the living room and stop at the edge of the hallway to listen, hearing the blow-dryer doing its work. She heard nothing of the gun being drawn from the holster on the police utility belt and the slide working to guide a bullet into the Glock's .40 caliber chamber.
The intruder listened when the blow-dryer suddenly went silent. He waited for the possible appearance of the Assistant District Attorney in the hallway, perhaps coming into the kitchen for coffee or toast after showering.
But there was no sudden interruption as the intruder crept along the hallway to just outside Brianna's bedroom door. There, the intruder paused, bringing the gun up to his chest and checking it one last time. It felt heavy even against his body armor. He knew he was ready to pounce.
Stepping around the doorframe, he found Brianna posed in front of her open closet, picking through the day's footwear. She never heard him coming.
The intruder crept up behind Brianna and suddenly jammed the gun's muzzle into the prosecutor's back.
"Don't fucking move," the intruder hissed. "Don't turn around."
"Whaaat--" Brianna murmured, her air catching in her throat. "What-what--"
"Here's what you're going to do," said the intruder, who still hadn't been viewed by Brianna.
"What?"
The prosecutor had come upright and kept her hands extended so as not to alarm the intruder. She froze, looking neither right nor left, her lungs screaming for air while she dared not even take a deep breath out of fear of alarming whoever was behind her with a gun.
"You're going to dismiss the charges against Tory Stormont this morning. You're going to dismiss the case with prejudice."
"All right," said Brianna. "I'll do that."
"And you're going to know this. I know where your parents live out in Barrington. I know your father is a dentist and your mother owns a jewelry store. I know everything about them. I know about your sister's two girls and your brother's enlistment in the navy. I know where they live and I know their schedules. Are you beginning to understand your predicament?"
"I'll do whatever you say. For the love of God, leave my family alone."
"Tory Stormont's case has the attention of some very nervous people who don't want to see Tory in prison. Your job is to make sure that never happens. Are you following?"
"Yes. I'll nolle pros the case this morning."
"If you fail to dismiss, your mother will be dead before noon and your sister's children will be kidnapped from their elementary school and never heard from again. They will be sold as sex slaves. Your father will be dead before dark. Everything to make all this happen is in place and waiting for a call from me. Do you understand now?"
"I understand. The case will be dismissed before noon."
"Noon today?"
"Noon today."
"Dismissed with prejudice?"
"With prejudice. They won't be able to re-file it. I'll lose my job for this."
"That's a small price to pay for your family's safety, isn't it?" It truly wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Good. We're done here. Now you go into your bathroom and close the door behind you. You remain inside the bathroom for ten minutes. Then you may come out and you call no one, including the police, including the DA's office. You will go on with your day as usual and dismiss all charges against Tory Stormont. If you come out after only nine minutes, I make my call and family members start dying and kids start disappearing. Are we clear?"
"We're clear. It's done."
Without another word, the intruder jammed the muzzle against the prosecutor's head, propelling her in the direction of the bathroom. He watched as the door opened and closed, then he turned and calmly made his way back to the front door of the condo. He holstered his weapon in his utility belt.
Minutes later he was riding downstairs on the elevator, a young woman with a cell phone jammed to her ear riding down with him.
As the elevator doors whooshed open at L, the woman nodded at the intruder and smiled.
"Have a safe day, officer," said the woman.
The police officer nodded. "You too."
Then he was gone, down to the street corner, turning right, leaping into a waiting van without markings, and then pulling away into the early morning traffic along Clark Street.
Two hours later, the charges against Tory Stormont were dismissed and Assistant DA Brianna Finlayton was in her office at the District Attorney's, cleaning out her desk. She refused all questions and looked neither right nor left as she finally left the office without a word to anyone. There were tears in her eyes and her heart was pounding as she carried the small box of personal belongings in the direction of the elevators.
Downstairs, on the sidewalk, she whipped out her phone and speed-dialed her dad. He was with a patient. She made the receptionist interrupt him, then he came on the line.
"Dad, are you okay?" asked Brianna.
"Yes, honey, why?"
"Mom's okay? And Norma and her kids?"
"Yes, why?"
"Just checking in. I just quit my job."
"Come by the office. We'll talk."
She was crying now.
"All right, Dad. I'm on my way."
She stepped up to the curb and began waving frantically for a cab. She quickly found one willing to pull over and give her a ride, and she climbed through the sliding door on the curb side.
"Barrington," she told the driver.
"It'll be expensive," said the young black man into the rearview mirror.
She nodded.
"I know. Everything's expensive today. But it's okay. Just drive."
"Hang on, lady."
"I am. I am hanging on."
16
Natty McMann's rumor mill made me wonder whether Lamont Johnstone was somehow involved in Darrell Harrow's death. Johnstone is running on the Republican ticket. He's the stiffest competition that Mira could possibly face. Johnstone has a solid rep; he's a blue ribbon prosecutor, a gifted professional, and he's long ago paid his dues in the District Attorney's office.
So, Marcel and I drop by his campaign headquarters on the off-chance we might grab a few minutes with him. We've heard that he works out of there full-time since leaving the District Attorney's Office to mount his run.
The Office to Elect Lamont Johnstone is a setback building along Jefferson Street. As we pull up to park we see that the outside window is all red-white-and-blue bunting, American flags, campaign posters, and a portrait of Ronald Reagan. We pull open the double doors and enter into a clutch of maybe a dozen workers manning phones and keyboards, none of whom acknowledge us. So, Marcel walks up to the nearest desk and says to a young Asian woman, "We need to talk to the candidate. We have questions we'd rather ask in private about his campaign."
She raises up one finger and continues holding her phone to her ear. Either someone is going on and on in her ear or else she's on hold. Whichever it is, her face is drawn tight and her eyes cold. "Does not like being disturbed," Marcel says to me as he turns to whisper. "Put that on her report card."
She finally hangs up and looks at us with a scowl.
"Yes?"
"We're here to see Lamont Johnstone. I'm Michael Gresham and this is Marcel Rainford, my assistant."
"Are you from the press?"
"Nope, lawyers."
"Can I tell him what this is about?"
"It's about the death of Darrell Harrow. We just have some questions."
"Wait one," she says, and takes to her feet. "I'll see if he's in his office."
Just minutes later she returns. "Follow me," she says without expression. I am convinced the campaign must be in dire trouble if the candidate's workers are all so put off by visitors.
We're shown into Johnstone's small, unpainted office where the drywall still shows pencil marks and the quarter round stands uninstalled in a corner. Evidently things have happened in a hurry here and on the cheap. Rather than spend money on painting the walls, it appears as if campaign funds have been diverted to yard signs and bumper stickers--that's my take, for what it's worth.
Lamont Johnstone gives us the candidate's smile as Marcel and I take the two visitors' chairs. The dental crowns are evident--refrigerator white. I mean, no one has natural teeth that white and if they do it makes the rest of us look calcium-deprived. He is a lean, fortyish man, red hair and tortoiseshell glasses with a pouty mouth surrounded by a scruffy goatee. The look is anything but electable--just my opinion. But I should talk, when it comes to looks, given my own desperate physiognomy.
The Law Partners (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Page 7
