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

by John Ellsworth

  "We're here about Darrell Harrow," I tell him.

  He brightens, then his face falls.

  "Darrell Harrow?" he says sadly. "We did Friday night cards. Poker, usually, but occasionally pinochle. He was a shark, that guy. Too damn bad. Darrell left a wife and two college-age kids, if I'm not mistaken. So you have Miranda Morales? I know her even better than I knew Darrell. Lots of us know Mira," he says with a wink.

  I don't dive right into the reasons for the wink. I'm guessing I already know, but I'm put off that this guy would use it against her with a wink. Smart people don't usually admit to affairs with murder defendants. But, still, anyone running for public office isn't necessarily one of those--a smart person--either. You'd have to be crazy, in my view. These things run through my mind, but I say, simply, "Lots of you knew Mira? I hear she was very well-liked at the District Attorney's office."

  "Not exactly what I meant, but yes, she was very well liked. The women hated her, but the guys thought she was one of them. A total hoot, teller of dirty jokes, world-class drinking partner, and great in the hay--you know all about that, I'm sure."

  If he only knew how close that hits to home. But I maintain my poker face and the moment of potential self-revelation passes. I keep my secret and my promise to Mira. But, I'm thinking, if you insist on going there, lead on; I was going to finesse you into it, but let's do it your way.

  "So she was one of your conquests?" I say with a pretty decent smile of my own.

  "Conquest? I would say we were more like equals in that department. With Mira it was always hard to say who was the pursuer and who was the pursued. I'm sure Darrell would tell you the same thing."

  "Give me your best guess: did she shoot him?"

  He frowns thoughtfully and leans back. "We're off the record, Michael. I know you and I know you'll respect that. Same for your friend here?"

  Marcel holds up both hands. "Hey, I'm not writing any of this down. Go ahead."

  "My guess is she probably didn't shoot him. Of course her indictment has all but handed me a win in the general election, all else being equal. So I don't need for her to be guilty in order for me to win. Still, I'm betting she's innocent."

  "So who would have done it?"

  "Hard to say. But I'm betting she wasn't in on it. Did the cops pick up any physical evidence linking her?"

  "Her bullets match the bullet removed from Harrow," I tell him. "But no DNA, no prints, no hair, no marks, nada."

  "Her bullets? How's that work?"

  "They haven't found the gun—so they say. Which is baffling. But they have matched the Harrow bullet to the same batch of bullets they found in Mira's condo. So there's that."

  "Any idea where the gun is? Did they ask you, Michael?"

  "Me? Why would they ask me? I'm not in the habit of hiding evidence for my clients."

  "Just wondering. Someone would have to be pretty stupid to make off with the gun but leave behind the bullets. Major blunder there."

  "Tell me this, Lamont. Were Mira and Harrow working a case together? Would you know anything like that?"

  "Be very unusual. We manned our own cases and very, very rarely would try a case in tandem. You probably defended the last case where they had more than one lawyer on the State's side of the aisle. Mayor Tanenbaum's kid."

  "Yes, the DA had two, maybe three assistants at trial."

  "And still lost it. You walked a guilty kid out, Michael. You guys--how do you even live with yourselves?"

  I shrug. "Good question. Nobody ever said it was easy."

  "Well, at least that's good to hear. Now, what else did you want to ask me?"

  I've gotten what I came for, so I decide to fire off the cannon.

  "I'm wondering whether you were involved in Harrow's murder. Like you said, the fact of Mira's indictment puts you on the throne at the District Attorney's office. You've won already and there hasn't been one vote cast."

  I'm waiting for him to explode and throw us out. But he doesn't. He's too canny for that.

  "Nice try, but no. Sorry, but I'm not your bad guy. I was at the Republican fundraiser the same night as Harrow's death. I spoke to the crowd for about twenty-five minutes. Way too long, but I needed to raise some dollars for my war chest."

  "I saw you on the news that night. You're an excellent prospect for the job. Chicago should be so lucky. But so is Mira."

  "Thank you. Coming from one of the Democratic Party faithful like you, Michael, that's very flattering. But you're still barking up the wrong tree. I'm covered. After the fundraiser we all went over to Representative Atkinson's home on the lake. Drinks and snacks, lots of cigar smoke, back-room stuff. Plans were laid and votes prematurely counted. You know how that goes when everyone's had a little too much to drink."

  "I'll take your word for it. Your alibi is airtight and I was half-kidding when I asked. You're out from under, in any case."

  "Too bad for Mira."

  "Not really, Lamont. I've always liked you and thought you were an excellent prosecutor. I'm glad you're clean and alibied."

  "So who're you gonna lay this off on? You defense lawyers always need a fall guy."

  "I've got a couple of candidates in mind," I say with a big grin. Then I turn serious. "Not really. We're very new to the case. Just talking to people, trying to get that first break. It's a very strange case."

  "I saw your press conference. She said she was unconscious, somebody spiked her drink?"

  "Something like that."

  "And she woke up and found a dead guy in her house? That seems like a hell of a way to spend the morning after, trying to explain the party to the cops."

  "It wasn't morning. She wasn't out all night."

  "And you say there's no link between her and poor Harrow except the bullets? That's not an easy case to make, on either side. Maybe I’d better start making more speeches. I know you, Michael, and it would be just like you to walk her out a free woman a month before the election. You bastard."

  I smile; I just can't help it. "Now you know my strategy. My cover is blown."

  He raises a finger pistol and cocks the hammer and points it at me.

  "Good luck to you with that. Who's prosecuting?"

  "Brianna Finlayton. At least she was until she quit the DA's office."

  "Bri quit? Since when?"

  "Just happened, I guess. Not a word to anyone. Just dismissed the case against Tory Stormont, walked back over to the office, and packed her stuff and walked out."

  "So Brianna's gone and Mira's on leave? That's quite a dent in the homicide staff. It's a small staff to begin with."

  "Yes. We don't know her replacement yet. Still waiting to see who files their appearance."

  "I could make some calls."

  "Don't bother. We'll find out soon enough."

  "Well, good luck, Michael. And nice to meet you," he says to Marcel. "Let me give you a card. Consider voting for me."

  Marcel takes his card. He tosses it back down on the desk.

  "Sorry, I never vote."

  "You don't pass the good citizenship test if you don't vote,” says Johnstone.

  "Not that. Just that the candidates don't pass my candidate test."

  "Read my website. I've got a hundred years of experience in the cases I've prosecuted. Seriously."

  "Thanks again," I say to Johnstone and we shake hands. "Oh, one more thing," I say and turn back from the door. "Why would the District Attorney be protecting one Chicago cop? Dismissing the case against officer Tory Stormont? Can you help me there?"

  The color drains from his face and his eyes don't meet mine.

  "I have no idea what you're even talking about," he says. "Nobody was off-limits when I was working for Shaughnessy. We were equal-opportunity prosecutors, whether we were after cops or convicts.“

  "Not even police officers accused of gunning down unarmed black teens?"

  He stands and leans over his desk. "What do you want from me, an affidavit?"

  "No. I want your testimo
ny. At trial. I want you to testify that Ronald Shaughnessy never allowed any prosecution against the Chicago Police Department. Can you give me that?"

  "You're asking me to commit perjury, then."

  "No, I'm asking for you to tell the truth. If you won't agree to do it, I'll hold a press conference in the morning and tell the world you refused prosecutions against the cops."

  "That would be a lie, Gresham."

  "That would be politics, Johnstone."

  Color has returned to his face. He is livid, red.

  "You wouldn't dare."

  "Be watching the news tomorrow then," I say, and turn abruptly for the door.

  "Wait! There's something you should know."

  "What's that?"

  "It hasn't got anything to do with protecting anyone. Shaughnessy never prosecuted cops because those guys are thick. They stick together. Prosecuting just one of them could cost the DA ten thousand votes in the next election. Shaughnessy wouldn't risk it."

  "So there was a policy?"

  "You'd have trouble proving it."

  "Let me ask it this way. Did Harrow's indictment of Tory Stormont get him killed?"

  "That's a more difficult question. I wasn't in on that. I was long gone."

  "Best guess?"

  "I don't have a best guess. But I know this. If you crossed a line with Shaughnessy he would leave you dangling. Everyone knew better."

  "All right."

  "So what about the press conference?" he asks.

  I wasn't really serious about holding a press conference, but this guy is too close to the pile to know when I'm shoveling shit and when I'm not.

  "What press conference?" I ask.

  Outside in the parking lot, Marcel turns to me.

  "We're having a press conference?"

  I have to laugh. "You too? What is this, Gullible Day?"

  "You had me going."

  "Had him going, too. That bit about Shaughnessy not throwing cops under the bus. That confirms what I've always heard."

  "So he does protects the cops?” Marcel says as we load into his truck.

  “His office just dismissed all charges against the killer of an unarmed teen. That killer is a cop.”

  “Yes, but that prosecutor who dismissed the case is now gone. Resigned.”

  “Truth telling time? I’ll bet even money that Shaughnessy gives her a written recommendation when it’s time for her to go out looking for a job.”

  “Whatever,” says Marcel. “Bottom line is there's a killer out there. Two of them, counting Stormont. The other one killed Darrell Harrow. You wouldn’t think they’re the same person, would you?”

  “Stormont? As in killing Harrow too? Interesting speculation.”

  “I’m going back over the video. This time I’m looking very hard at the cops who come and go.”

  We both settle back as Marcel steers us into the fast-moving traffic.

  At that moment it really does come into focus for me: there is a killer on the loose.

  And it's not Mira Morales.

  17

  The District Attorney's black Suburban with smoked windows picked up Lamont Johnstone from his campaign headquarters at seven-thirty p.m. It was earlier that day that Michael Gresham had come into Johnstone's office and confronted him about DA Ronald Shaughnessy. Gresham had told him he believed the DA was protecting the Chicago PD, especially police officer Tory Stormont.

  "Thanks for coming by," Johnstone said to the large black man occupying half the back seat of the SUV.

  Ronald Shaughnessy, huge like an NFL tackle with a scowling face hidden behind sunglasses nodded but didn't reply. Then he said, in his trademark growl, "Gresham's a smart guy. Been around a long time, knows too much about too many people."

  "You have any ideas how he's to be handled?"

  "It's a done deal."

  "As in how?"

  Shaughnessy turned to his protégé. "You just gonna have to trust me, Lamont."

  Shaughnessy nodded to the driver and turned to look out his own window. The Suburban began pulling away from the curb, flashing its red and blue police vehicle lights to gain a foothold in the evening traffic jam. Then he leaned back against the seat, working the pleat in his trouser legs between thumb and finger. He was like that, Johnstone had noticed long ago: alway fiddling with his attire, trying to look every inch the important public official he actually was. Johnstone had been there through four of the DA's campaign slogs. He had officially gone on the record as the office's ranking Republican staffer as someone who, regardless of party politics, would be voting for Shaughnessy the Democrat and supporting him. In a city manned at all four corners by diehard Democrats, Johnstone's support of the Democrat was unequalled in the recent memory of most Chicago pols. He was effectively abandoning his own party in his cross-overs every four years, which made it all the more remarkable that now he had received his own party's endorsement for DA. He had abandoned them--but only in the DA race--but they had come around and gotten on board with him. They had had to; he was the only truly electable Republican on the primary ballot.

  "What about Tory Stormont? What's going to happen with him now that his case is dismissed?”

  "Have you seen the news? South Chicago's been on a rampage every night since--burning buildings, lootings, patrol cars being shot at, undercover narcs being outed. The religious leaders are calling for a boycott of all white-owned businesses. The blacks are calling for a lynch mob to come after me. My guess is there won't be many Democrat Party voting levers being pulled in South Chicago come November."

  "So my chances against Mira are looking really good?”

  "Not so fast. The black community knows all about you, Lamont. They know you and I are joined at the hip. You might not be a Democrat on the voter registration rolls but you sure as hell have hitched your star to one. Namely, me. They won't forget. Without Mira's mess dragging her down she would be looking very good to those voters about now. But Harrow's untimely demise has effectively shut her down."

  "But if she's found not guilty? From what Gresham tells me her case is very defensible. The Attorney General is going to have a hard time convicting her."

  Shaughnessy smiled for the first time that night. He turned to Johnstone and laid a huge paw on his friend's shoulder.

  "Didn't I tell you we’ve got that covered?"

  Johnstone pressed it.

  "Mind telling me how?"

  "Just read the papers tomorrow evening. Turn on the news. It'll become very apparent in its own time."

  By now the DA's official SUV had reached the East-West Kennedy Expressway.

  "Let's go to Schaumburg," the DA said to his driver. "I'm meeting the wife and kids at Jungle World for dinner. I'll drop you at the Niles train and you can head back to your house."

  Johnstone nodded. He was still anxious to know what his ex-boss had up his sleeve for Michael Gresham. He decided to pry.

  "Gresham told me Mira isn't the shooter. She didn’t kill Harrow.”

  "Mira? Naw, she wouldn't shoot anyone. Screw them maybe, but never shoot them."

  Both men chuckled. They both knew whereof the DA spoke. Her rep just wouldn't stop following her around. But it was her own damn fault, thought Johnstone. She had never made any attempt to hide her private business; her sexual couplings were as open and notorious as a hooker's.

  "He also told me that Mira's box of bullets matched the one that killed Harrow."

  "So I'm told. So I'm told," said Shaughnessy, suddenly tiring of the game. He knew that Johnstone was going to try to guess his way into whatever Shaughnessy had planned for Michael Gresham. But he wasn't about to let that happen. He had held public office long enough to learn the number one rule of getting re-elected: trust no one. It was a rule he followed assiduously, so he wasn't about to spill the beans to Lamont Johnstone. Besides, it would all go public tomorrow anyway. Johnstone--and the rest of the city--would find out soon enough.

  "Gresham also told me the murder weapon hasn't bee
n found. The gun is missing."

  "That so?" smiled the DA, his eyes opening wide. "That so? Maybe it's time that gun turned up."

  Johnstone sat back against the deep leather seat.

  So that was it, he thought.

  Tomorrow was going to be a red-letter day for him and his campaign.

  He could expect to rise at least ten percentage points in the polls.

  Ten? Hell, might as well make it twenty if what he thought he had just caught a sniff of was in fact cooking on the stove.

  Gresham was about to be served up to the public.

  And it couldn't happen to a more deserving guy, thought Johnstone.

  He had it coming.

  18

  True to his word, Detective Jamison does, in fact, come after me.

  I'm sitting at my desk in my office, reviewing the order of dismissal in the Tory Stormont case. Marcel has copied the order from the court file, as I am trying to understand what rationale was used by Brianna Finlayton to dismiss. There must have been some comment or reasoning she would have thought would be acceptable to the public, some predicate that the court found compelling enough to allow her to dismiss and that the public would accept.

  Which was, of course, impossible. The black community is outraged. The skinheads are delighted. The Nazis are—you get the idea. America is as splintered anymore as there are ethnic groups times one hundred. Some applauded the dismissal of the charges against the white cop; some were outraged. Sometimes there just isn't a good answer. There is only palliative care.

  Which is when my closed office door suddenly comes flying open, rattling on its hinges as it is thrown back against the wall. Close behind is Detective Jamison, his sunglasses perched on top of his head, a wicked grin lighting the way. In his hands are papers that can only be the search warrant he has talked some judge into issuing for the search of my office. I am half out of my chair when he rushes across the room and gleefully scatters the papers across my desk.