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

by John Ellsworth

  "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is this your verdict?" asks the judge.

  "Yes, Your Honor," says the forewoman. The others nod their assent.

  "Very well. Then the jury is excused. The defendant's bail is exonerated and she is free to leave the court. We are adjourned."

  Judge Itaglia leaves the bench and pandemonium erupts. Microphones appear out of nowhere and the print press is shoving recorders at us. Unlike some other trials, this time we remain at counsel table and answer each and every question the press asks. This goes on for pretty much the next hour. Why? Because we want the story out there. Mira's success with the voters demands it. So we go on and on, all of us, including Mira, answering everything that's asked.

  Sometime during that hour Marcel makes his return to the courtroom, his first time back since last Friday night. He makes his way to us and shakes my hand, shakes Danny's hand, and gives Mira a hug. "I can't thank you enough," she tells him through damp eyes. She has already told me and Danny the same thing.

  Finally, the bailiff tells us the judge has a two o'clock hearing and that we need to leave the courtroom. She needs her courtroom back. It's an unscheduled proceeding, we are told. But then the bailiff pulls me aside. "You might want to stay and watch," he whispers. "You won't be disappointed."

  Sure enough, we're not disappointed.

  The Attorney General's minions have arrived in court and they are full of hustle and bustle. They are presenting affidavits and search warrants that will allow them to search the office of the Cook County District Attorney and the Chicago Police Department. As it develops over the next several minutes, the etiology of the Attorney General's involvement becomes clear: Judge Itaglia has called them in. It is she who is requesting the investigation.

  I wouldn't have missed the show for anything. The search warrants are signed and delivered back to the Attorney General and her investigators and they rush out of the courtroom to begin the business of investigating the District Attorney and the police.

  Now we are free to leave. The press is satisfied, the news accounts are spreading across the city, the voters are being informed, and voting begins in a little less than sixteen hours .

  45

  Yes, there's a certain comfort that comes from knowing one has friends in high places. As evidence of this, just think about my relationship with Miranda Morales, the new District Attorney of Cook County. We are law partners, in the very truest sense of the words although we don’t share an office and we don’t share clients and we don’t share net profits. But what we do share is mutual respect.

  I don't demand special favors from her when I'm defending the next bad guy.

  And she doesn't prosecute me.

  All in all, a very fair trade.

  46

  Six months have gone by. News accounts of the prosecutions of Tory Stormont, Jamison Weldon, and Ronald Shaughnessy fill the papers and TV screens every day. The entanglement between the Shaughnessy DA's office and the police union and its membership is much more involved than any of us might have first guessed. A trial is on the horizon and word on the street is that the defendants are jockeying to see who gets to sell out the others and testify for the State in return for some degree of leniency. Your typical dogfight.

  Harley Sturgis was remembered and her life was celebrated in a ceremony at the United Methodist Church the Wednesday after the election. It was well-attended, defense attorneys and prosecutors alike. Danny and I sat on the front row and wept openly as endearments were offered and memories stirred. For me, I will never forget the woman who stepped up when I had lost my freedom and had been beaten down by the same cops who were now under indictment. Harley stood in the gap for me and fought back with everything she had. In the end, she saved my life and gave me my freedom back. Danny remembers her likewise.

  As for me personally, I no longer like to leave the house that much. Our little family of four is enough for me. There's no longer a drive to defend the scourge of society, the forgotten among us who, without me and others like me, would be lambs led to the slaughter by the criminal justice system. So I stay home as much as possible. Danny is running the office now; she still has the fire in her belly where I do not.

  Dania, our oldest, is learning to read and constantly has me beside her on the couch as she reads book after book to me and explains story plots that I might otherwise miss. She's also drawing pictures of mommies and daddies and new baby brothers and yellow suns and houses with smiling windows. She loves her baby brother and wants to do everything with him. Especially feed him, which she’ll do for thirty minutes at a time, situated on the sofa with a bottle and a smile. She's at peace and that is helping to put my heart back together. Our new baby is named Michael. We’re calling him Mikey. He is beautiful and looks just like his mother but clearly has his grandfather’s peace and calm as he’s already sleeping through the night. We never knew we could love these children as much as we do and we’d both die before we’d let anything happen to them.

  But I cannot stop thinking about Harley. I am stuck there.

  Perhaps I will give up the practice of law. It has been extremely harsh these past few years and I have been very lucky to come through it all somewhat intact. Not totally, but somewhat. I don't know what I'd do without law but I'm sure the next pathway in my life will sooner or later become clear. I've thought about writing some of the stories down. I have a world of them. Maybe, I am thinking, just maybe it's time to share some of them with the world. I don't know.

  It's June now and the sun is hot and the humidity outrageous. We'd all pass out without air conditioning. And I'm still hanging around home as much as I can. I'm beginning to realize that I'm done with it all--the practice of law is a diminishing dot in my rearview mirror. I have gotten over it.

  But one thing remains. And that is my memory of Harley.

  So in early July I buy a motorcycle. That's right, a big black Harley-Davidson from just up the road in Milwaukee where they make the things. It's a beast and way more bike than I should probably be starting out with, but it's mine and after a week or two I want nothing more than to ride it whenever and wherever I can.

  August 8. That's the date of the Sturgis Rally in South Dakota. Harley riders from all over the world will attend.

  Including me.

  It's my way of honoring her, the friend who saved my life.

  Harley. Sturgis.

  Works for me.

  The day before I’m to leave, Marcel comes to my house. With him he brings a dossier I have had him prepare. We retreat into my office, shut the door, and he explains his findings. Tory Stormont, despite having murdered three innocent people, remains free on bail. My mind swirls. I cannot begin to believe what I’m hearing.

  Stormont, says Marcel, follows a daily routine. He has moved back into Chicago and now lives with two other single police officers. They share a three bedroom home on the near north side. Every day he drives alone to his postoffice box and retrieves his mail. Marcel has photographs and videos of this routine as he has seen it for the weakness it is.

  We talk about Harley and what she would want. Marcel argues with me. But I refuse to budge. I am finished with the part of my life where I always color inside the lines.

  Danny knows only that I’m riding the bike to Sturgis when I kiss her goodbye early the next morning. My saddlebags are stuffed with fair- and foul-weather gear. I dress in my leather riding pants and leather Harley jacket and pull on my black helmet. The clothing provides the anonymity I require. My last preparation consists of removing the license plates from my bike. They slip into my saddlebag along with the screwdriver I will need to replace them later this morning.

  Then I ride to Stormont’s postoffice. It is a block off the main drag. I pull into a fifteen minute parking slot and kill my engine. I enter the postoffice with a long white envelope and take up my position at the courtesy table, where I appear, to all the customers coming and going, to be addressing my letter. They don’t even notice t
hat I am wearing gloves. In America, I have learned, we are all so busy with our lives that we make poor witnesses to what is about to happen. That’s how people like me get away unobserved.

  He arrives within minutes, like clockwork, like the clockwork that Marcel has promised.

  He bends to his postoffice box and inserts his key. He doesn’t notice me, at the table, still wearing my helmet, when I abandon my letter—it contains nothing, no handwriting, no address, no names—and I slip up behind him.

  In one smooth motion I withdraw the Glock from the shoulder holster inside my HD jacket and place the muzzle of the gun against the back of Stormont’s head.

  I have been returned from Sturgis less than a week when, out of the blue, Mira Morales, our brand new District Attorney, calls me on my cell.

  “How was the trip to South Dakota?” she asks.

  “How did you know I went to South Dakota, Mira?”

  “Easy. I asked Marcel. I’ve been looking for you.”

  My heart misses a beat. My hand tightens around my smartphone.

  “Well, you’ve found me.”

  “I guess you heard the news about Stormont.”

  “I did. Good riddance.”

  “Agree,” she says. “My office isn’t going out of its way to find the person who blew his head off.”

  “I can’t blame you for that.”

  “But that’s neither here nor there. Why I’m calling, Michael, I want to offer you a job.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Using all your skills as a criminal lawyer to put bad guys away. I understand you might have some interest in doing that.”

  “I don’t understand. When have I ever told you I have any interest in putting bad guys away.”

  “Let’s just call it my intuition. Want the job?”

  “As an assistant district attorney? I’d have to think about that. I’d need to talk to Danny.”

  “I just did. She said to call you, that it would be your decision. So when can you start, Michael?”

  “Is Monday soon enough?”

  “We have our daily meeting at eight. Please be in attendance.”

  I promise that I will arrive on time.

  When I hang up, I notice how calm I’m feeling. Dania hunts me down and wants to read to me. I swoop Mikey up out of his playpen and the two of us sit down on the sofa next to Dania where she begins reading out loud.

  These are the best of times.

  THE END

  Also by John Ellsworth

  THADDEUS MURFEE SERIES

  The Defendants

  Beyond a Reasonable Death

  Attorney at Large

  Chase, the Bad Baby

  Defending Turquoise

  The Mental Case

  Unspeakable Prayers

  The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller

  The Trial Lawyer (A Small Death)

  The Near Death Experience

  SISTERS IN LAW SERIES

  Frat Party: Sisters In Law

  Hellfire: Sisters In Law

  MICHAEL GRESHAM SERIES

  Michael Gresham

  Michael Gresham: Secrets Girls Keep

  Michael Gresham: The Law Partners

  About the Author

  John Ellsworth practiced law while based in Chicago.

  For thirty years John defended criminal clients across the United States. He has defended cases ranging from shoplifting to First Degree Murder to RICO to Tax Evasion, and has gone to jury trial on hundreds. His first book, The Defendants, was published in January, 2014. John is presently at work on his fourteenth legal thriller, which, it is hoped, will be published before May, 2016.

  Reception to John’s books has been phenomenal; more than 500,000 have been downloaded in 26 months. All are Amazon best-sellers.

  John Ellsworth lives in Arizona in the mountains and in California on the beach. He has two dogs that ignore him but worship his wife.

  @jellsworthbooks

  johnellsworthauthor

  johnellsworthbooks.com

  johnellsworthbooks@gmail.com

  Acknowledgments

  First off, thanks to Terry Cheryl Hopton, my editor, for an incredible job this time out. She makes me a better writer and for that I owe a huge debt of gratitude. Thank you, Cheryl.

  Thanks to the Chicago Police Department and CSI teams for their knowledge, willingness to help, and cooperation. There is no greater help to a writer than the source itself.

  Special thanks to my wife, Debra Ellsworth, for her reading, comments, re-reading and an endless supply of coffee while the fingers are flying and the keyboard is melting down.

  Thanks to my daughter Adriane for all the pictures and videos of our grandchildren and to her husband John for his ministry and love. It all keeps me going.

  Thanks to my daughter RJ for her Deadwood album and the incredible lead vocals that had me listening again and again while these words met the page.

  To all my incredible readers and those who reach out to me with their kindness and comments, thank you, especially.

  It is my hope you all enjoy this book.

  I loved writing it.

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  — John Ellsworth

  Copyright © 2016 by John Ellsworth

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book, like all my books, is purely fictional. Any resemblance to any person, place, or institution living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Reviews

  I make my living writing books and I’m very happy about that. The practice of law is difficult and will wear you out in a hurry. But because I make my living writing books, I would really like to ask your help. Book reviews are the lifeblood of what I do, and your review of my book would mean a lot to me. If you would take a moment or two and leave your review on Amazon that would be wonderful. I honestly thank you.

  —John Ellsworth