"We'll need you to leave the office, counselor," he says in his command voice. "We're here to execute a search warrant. You need to get up and go into the outer office and wait there until we're finished in here. Don't bother going to your car. It is being searched as we speak. Same with your home. Have we covered everything?"
The man is wicked, but I don't engage.
"Let me see the warrant first," I say.
He pushes the papers across my desk. "Read away. It's all copacetic."
I leaf through the paperwork. It's signed. The affidavit, while about half-bogus, is also about half-correct. He's done a good job at reconstructing the steps I took to protect Mira the night of Harrow's death.
So I come upright and silently go into my waiting room and plop down in the chair closest to my office door. Mrs. Lingscheit is pushed back from her desk while a technician copies her hard drive onto a drive he's brought along. I know that he'll be in my office next copying my own hard drive; my heart leaps into my throat. What's there? I'm wondering. Are they going to find a smoking gun they can use to put me away for ten years?
I’m very paranoid for several moments while I calm my racing heart and logically go through what they might uncover. Probably "uncover" is not the best word. It indicates I might be hiding something, which I am definitely not. I am congratulating myself for my honesty in how I defend my criminal clients when a shaft of pure conviction suddenly lights up my mind: the cigarette butt. The one I took away from Mira's condo after she stubbed it out in her ashtray. The butt was blackened from the charcoal on her fingers, the charcoal she or someone had used to draw the Satanic pentagram on the wall above Harrow's body. I had, in fact, taken the butt with me in order to hide the fact that when I first spoke with her I'd had to ask her to wash her hands. To wash her hands because I was concerned they would be examined by the detectives or the CSI's. But the cigarette butt: I had all but forgotten I had just dropped it into her file after I returned to my office later that morning. I'm hoping they don't realize what it is. But that's the slimmest of hopes. These guys are pros; they're going to catch on in a hot second: the butt will be examined and it will have her DNA on it. There's the first presumption it came from the crime scene. Otherwise, why would I have it?
How incredibly stupid of me, I'm thinking, and I'm chastising myself. What the hell was I even thinking, memorializing the fact that I had removed evidence from a murder scene? A chill passes up my spine and I am stupefied I could have done something so randomly ignorant. It just isn't like me to remove evidence from a crime scene. On the other hand, I had done it without a plan. I hadn’t thought through to what I planned on doing with it. Forgetting it was in my file, ready to be seized by the police, was definitely not what I had in mind. But, here I am and here they are.
Any minute now Detective Jamison will come out and pounce on me, announcing his find and waving a plastic evidence baggie in my face, one containing a Salem butt. I want to jump up and run downstairs to my car and drive away, but I fight to restrain that impulse, fight to stay in my chair, in Mrs. L’s office, and face the music. Besides, my car has also been removed from my control. I am trapped.
Marcel's office is next, evidently, because he joins me in the reception area, taking a chair across from me.
"What the hell?" he mutters to me. "How did they ever get a judge to authorize this?"
"I saw Jamison's affidavit on the search warrant. The key is that a confidential informant has told him that I am secreting evidence of Darrell Harrow's murder in my office, in particular inside Mira Morales' file."
"What the hell does that mean? Confidential informant? In our office?"
"Yes. Someone turned me in."
"But there's nothing to be found. You're not hiding anything."
"I'm not?" I lean forward and whisper, "Did you not see me pocket her cigarette butt?"
He looks at me. It is a look of dismay.
"You're joking, right, Michael? You didn't get rid of it?"
I spread my hands. "I didn't get rid of it. We hadn't done our case review and I hadn't been back inside her evidence file since that night."
"So you saved it?"
I nod. "Sure as hell did. Sure as we're sitting here."
"Oh, Jesus, man. This isn't good. This is very bad, Michael. You know this cop already wants your head!"
"I know, I know."
Sure enough. Ten minutes later, Detective Weldon comes bursting into our reception area and approaches me and Marcel. He is almost galloping. He waves the plastic bag under our noses.
"Bingo!" Is all he says. Then he points at me and shakes his head.
"What?" I ask.
"What the hell were you thinking, counselor? Removing evidence from my crime scene? You know that's a crime, of course, because you're a criminal lawyer. So this particular criminal lawyer--mainly you--knew he was committing a crime when he made off with this cigarette butt. But I'm asking myself, why this cigarette butt? Why would the defense attorney remove this from the crime scene? And then I'm seeing the black smudges on the cigarette paper. And I'm putting two and two together and I'm thinking the crime lab's ultraviolet spectrographs will connect up the dots."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, though I already know the answer--I'm afraid.
"It means we will very likely find out that the black smudges on the cigarette butt are the same stuff as what we scraped off the wall in Ms. Morales' condo. The black pentagram someone drew there. Let me say, counselor, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you. And blah blah blah. I won't go into the whole Miranda thing right now because I'm not running your ass in right now. I'm going to wait until the crime lab confirms what it is you've removed from the scene of a homicide. Then I'm going to run your ass in."
"I--I--" I want to argue, but Marcel interrupts--thank God.
"Don't," says Marcel. "Let it go. He has zero idea what he's talking about."
"Oh don't I?" Weldon says with a smirk. "I think we're very close to solving this homicide and even closer to solving who tampered with evidence at the scene of the homicide. Gentlemen, it's going to be a fun couple of days while we wait to hear back from the crime lab. Wouldn't you agree?"
He looks at us: me, then Marcel and back to me. We don't reply, better judgment having overtaken us--me, actually. I keep my mouth shut.
There's nothing to win here and everything to lose.
19
Three hours later, I finally leave the office. It is one o'clock and the search is still underway but I just can't stand to be there any longer. Marcel and I head down to underground parking. My Mercedes is sitting there with all four doors open, its trunk and hood open, and technicians crawling it like ants over a turd. The car is being vacuumed, dusted for prints, and taken apart at every point where separation of interior lining from frame is possible. My car has been stripped. “Who puts this back together!” I cry at the team of four investigators and two cops. One cop punches the other and there’s a barely suppressed smile shared between them.
“That’s your problem, sir,” says a youngish CSI tech. “We don’t have authority from the court to put it back together.”
Marcel and I stand there, dumbfounded, unsure what comes next. Then Marcel takes me by the arm and steers me down the row of vehicles to where his truck is parked.
Marcel takes the wheel of his truck and we head north on Lake Front Drive. Danny has stayed home today with Dania, who spent the morning watching cartoons before she went in for her checkup with her pediatrician. I’ve called Danny and told her what is going on and it is actually her idea that I just leave. The police have already been to our house and are gone. I tell her I think that was just intimidation; that they came to the house just to let us know they could. Because they can always come back if they decide they've missed something.
"Hey," Marcel says sideways, "what say you put in a call to Harley Sturgis?"
Harley Sturgis is Chicago’s very own
up-and-coming female trial lawyer who eats prosecutors for breakfast. She’s a no-holds-barred two-fisted brawler who loves to duke it out with the cops. Word on the street is that she’ll fight about anything, that there are seldom stipulations on any issue at trial, much to the displeasure of Chicago judges who prefer agreement wherever possible.
“You want me to call her? What for?"
"Look, Boss. We're going to need someone to help us very soon."
"You mean you're pretty sure I'm going to be facing charges and will need another lawyer on staff?"
"Yeah, something like that. And Harley would be a great choice. I've done some work for her on the side and she's amazing. Cops run and hide when they hear she's on a case. Prosecutors buckle and settle. She's pretty damn amazing, Boss."
Tonya Sturgis is known around town as Harley, nicknamed for her last name Sturgis: the name of the town in South Dakota that is the site of the annual get-together of thousands of Harley riders. And she deserves the name, too--from what I hear. Still, whatever else might be said about Harley, she's almost impossible to cut a deal with, according to the DA’s who've reported back from skirmishes on the front lines with Harley. Exactly what I would want.
"Hold that thought," I tell him about calling Harley. "Let me think a minute."
So we travel north while I morosely look out the window at Lake Michigan and the five-million dollar Tudors that line its banks. Most of them have three or four cars in the driveways--Land Rovers, Porsches, Mercedes, and the occasional Rolls. As I watch the evidence of others' success pass by outside my window, I am kicking myself for being so damn stupid as to remove evidence from a crime scene. It was a pure mental lapse; in the last thirty years I've never even come close to something that stupid and obvious, but here we are. It's happened and there's one hellbent cop on the other side of the equation chomping at the bit to see me in jail. And, truth be told, there's a good likelihood he'll have his way. I have no defense. The butt is evidence, it was at the crime scene and I knew it was evidence, and I removed it. If Mira was the artist who drew the pentagram, then it only stands to reason she's the same person that shot Darrell Harrow. And the cigarette butt ties her to the pentagram charcoal drawing and that, in and of itself, is huge. It is compelling evidence that she was the shooter.
Marcel's voice breaks through my reverie.
"You're beating yourself up back there, aren't you?"
I have to admit he's right. I am beating myself up. With good reason.
"I am. It's just not like me, Marcel."
My phone vibrates and I have a look. It is my office, Mrs. Lingscheit.
"Michael!" she cries into the phone. "Are you at home?"
"No, why?"
"Don't go home! The police are looking for you right now."
"What?" I am stunned.
And frightened.
"They found a gun in your car. In the trunk. Weldon is beside himself. He's crowing. He's saying it's the same caliber as the one that killed Darrell Harrow."
"My God, in my trunk?"
"In your Mercedes."
I have her on speaker. Marcel has heard all of this.
"Where to?" he asks, pulling to the side of the road. We are parked beneath McDonald's Golden Arches. I can smell the poison on the air.
"Where to? I don't know."
"You know what?" he asks.
"What?"
"Let's just take you on home. They're coming for you, Boss, and you're not running. We know that."
I am unable to put together even a thought. I can only nod.
Marcel says, “Wait one. I've got Harley's number on my cell. Do I call her?"
I can only nod.
Then the words come to me.
"Yes. Hurry."
Harley Sturgis
20
Well color me overwhelmed! Michael Gresham has just called me and asked me to defend him.
Who am I? My name is Harley Sturgis and I am a recovering lawyer. I'm sprawled on the leather turn-of-the-century chesterfield in my office, lying on my back, my ankle crossed over my knee, lighting one cigarette off another. My pulse is pounding and I want to open the window and scream out to the shoppers down below on Michigan Avenue, "Michael Gresham wants to hire me!"
But I can't. For one thing, the damn thing doesn't open. The builders didn't want us throwing ourselves out of the eightieth floor of the Hood Building whenever we had a run of bad luck on Fall Corn at the Commodities Exchange.
He chose me. Why would he choose me? I'm forty-two years old, tall--but not gawky!—with thick rimless glasses, bottle blond (bleached, actually), and walk with a cane, thanks to a spill I took on my Can-Am Spyder, the three-wheel motorcycle out of Canada. It's a super cool way to tear around Chicago's clogged streets when court lets out and I need to blow off some steam. Anyway, I dumped my Canny--which the company says isn't possible--and it left me with a bum hip and trick knee. I'm deciding whether I want to sue Can-Am. Probably not. There're enough bullshit products liability cases floating around that I don't actually feel the need to pile on. Besides, I make so damn much money that anything Can-Am could payout to me would feel like overkill. I don't need their money. But I do want them to examine my accident. I filmed it with my Go-Pro, which I've sent to Toronto for a once-over.
But back to Michael Gresham. I met this guy in court several years ago. Criminal court, if you weren't aware, consists of five minutes of intense back-and-forth with a judge, separated by an hour of waiting for your next case to be called. I've learned to sleep in court with my eyes open, but that day it wasn't happening. So I found myself sitting next to this sort of handsome guy secretly texting on his smart phone. Judges jump up and down and do the panty twist when they catch anyone using phones in their courtrooms, so Michael was actually hiding the phone behind the Illinois Rules of Evidence, a gray, humorless book about--guess what--evidence. Michael's got the book cracked open and pretends to read but he's really texting. Sitting beside him, I start enjoying the conversation he's having with some bimbo named Nancy.
MICHAEL: You were amazing last nite.
NANCY: Not bad yourself.
MICHAEL: Where did you learn that?
NANCY: I lived in Japan and worked as a geisha 4 a year. They taught us so much.
MICHAEL: Amazing. I think Im in love.
NANCY: You get what you pay for.
Pay for? He had me at "Where did you learn that?" But pay for? This guy's paying for sex? Naw, too good looking for that. Good looking in a sort of don't-give-a-damn ruggedness that more men should aspire too. More Clive Owen than Robert Redford. My two cents.
So I wrote my number on my legal pad and nudged him. I showed him my number. He didn't flinch but started thumb-typing. My own phone announced a new message had arrived. Following Michael's lead, I hid my phone behind my legal pad and appeared to be writing.
MICHAEL: What's cooking?
HARLEY: This courtroom is a drag. Wanna bust out and grab a beer?"
MICHAEL: Don't drink. But I'm up for coffee and a donut.
HARLEY: Starbucks on the corner?
MICHAEL: Gr8. Whats ur name?
HARLEY: Harley. Like the motorcycle
MICHAEL: Im Michael Gresham.
HARLEY: I know. Everyone knows you.
MICHAEL: Don't flatter me. I might fall in love with you.
HARLEY: God forbid. I have enough male admirers already.
MICHAEL: Come here often?
HARLEY: A pickup line if there ever was one.
MICHAEL: Sorry, Im rusty.
HARLEY: You married?
MICHAEL: No. Happily divorced. Don't have any money to ask anyone out. The X cleaned me out.
HARLEY: So how do you keep the cobwebs clear?
MICHAEL: Are you talking about how do I have sex? Are we there already?
HARLEY: Im bored to death. Cut to the chase with me.
MICHAEL: Ive given up on women. Just the occasional blind date that some well-meaning friend arranges. Those never
go anywhere. What about u?
HARLEY: Single not looking. I make more money than everyone. Men come on for financial gain.
MICHAEL: lmao
HARLEY: Me 2
One thing led to another, court muddled on through, and by noon we both had our cases called and had met at the corner Starbucks. He beat me there and when I walked in he was devouring a sausage and egg muffin. I pulled out a chair and sat down.
"What can I get you?" he said through a mouthful of egg and meat.
"Feeling noble are we? Most guys won't wait on a lady anymore."
He smiled. "Welcome to the nineteen-fifties. Mom would kill me if I forgot my manners."
"You've got a mom? I thought lawyers like you just parachuted down from heaven."
"You flatter me."
"It's the rep, Precious. I'm impressed."
"What's that get me?"
I looked at him and smiled. "That gets you the right to bring me a venti bold, extra cream."
He stood and went up to the cash register. Nice bum. Came back with a steaming cup of Seattle's finest and we smiled at each other and officially introduced ourselves, handshakes and all.
"Don't think I'm not impressed too," he said. "Harley Sturgis is a household name. Chicago’s fastest-rising legal star."
"Really? What household would that be?"
He laughed. We were going to be friends.
But back to today.
Evidently the cops executed a search warrant on my friend. And he told me they found a gun in the trunk of his car. When he called he was waiting for charges. Expected an indictment any moment. So we agreed to meet. My office, four-thirty.
"Angelina," I buzzed my paralegal.
"Right here, Boss."
"Bring me your brief on accessory law."
"We're defending someone charged with being a criminal accessory?" Angelina asked. She sounded interested, which was a good start with Angelina, my perky twenty-five-year-old paralegal/night law school student. Minutes later the brief appeared on my screen.
The Law Partners (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Page 9
