O'Connor's ears actually reddened. "I try, sir."
"Don't be fooled," said Wainwright, who was still nursing a hangover though it was almost noon. "He's the most professional detective we have. And the most thorough. Jake doesn't miss a hair or a fiber."
Jake blushed. "That's heavy praise coming from this lady. She's been around the block and knows whereof she speaks."
"All right," said Stephenson, "when we're through blowing smoke up each other's ass, let's get down to the nitty gritty."
Both detectives nodded. Yes, they agreed, it was time to get hard-nosed about the prosecution. Time for someone to get carted off to prison.
"For openers, you two need to leak this report to the press. I like Melinda Tichenor over at News Five, so give her a call. We owe her an exclusive on this."
"Got it," said Jake. "I know the Tichenor woman. She's good people."
"We've got an arraignment on Largent this afternoon. I'd like to turn the report over to defense counsel at that time. No sandbagging on this one."
"You're going to Brady him already?"
He was making reference to the Brady case, a legal requirement to turn over all exculpatory evidence to defense counsel.
"This isn't Brady stuff because it doesn't exculpate. This convicts."
"That's what I meant," said O'Connor, "of course it's not Brady."
"No, this is called 'Impress the Judge'. I want to impress the judge with how forthcoming we have been from the gate. It will speak volumes in defeating the usual encyclopedia of defense motions. By the way, who's the lucky defense hack?"
"My little bird tells me he was visited this morning by Thaddeus Murfee. He's a guy who's more often screwing off in Flagstaff that working Chicago cases."
Stephenson knew immediately who he would be facing.
"Not entirely true. He got a defense verdict in the Ermeline Ransom case downstate. Then hit the State of Illinois for a bundle."
"That's the guy? I thought the name sounded familiar."
"He's very thorough. Well, so are we. This is one case his guy's not going to walk away from. We've got the gun in the guy's office. We've got his prints. We've got his DNA. We have no other suspects."
"We don't have motive," said Wainwright, "unless we say Suzanne Fairmont walked in on Largent while he was stealing the firm's trust account."
"Something like that," said Stephenson. "Let me roll that around for a day or two. I'll get back to you."
"I like her walking in," Wainwright said. "It makes sense."
"We'll work on it," Stephenson told her.
She tried to think of something else to bring to the conversation.
"But I'm liking your idea too," Stephenson added.
36
Chapter 36
Circuit Court Judge Lawrence X. Zang was perplexed. He had just been handed "Defendant's Motion for Psychiatric Examination."
The attorney-proponent of the motion, was Thaddeus Murfee. Which wasn't what perplexed the judge.
What perplexed him was how Ansel Largent, the founding partner of one of Chicago's largest and best-heeled law firms, was going to explain to his busload of insurance company clients that he was mentally incompetent and probably had been for the five years now. At least that's what his motion was claiming. Would that mean all the insurance settlements that Largent had wrangled were in fact flawed? Had the insurance companies been overpaying, thanks to the ill-formed judgments of an attorney who was incompetent? Worse still was how the carriers would explain to stockholders that one billion dollars in settlements might have been unnecessarily paid at all.
But then the judge relaxed. That incompetency-how-do-we-tell-the-clients issue wasn't his problem.
"Let me read," he told the lawyers before him. "New matter." He studied the motion.
Judge Zang was only thirty-eight, the survivor of divorce wars in family court, and new to the criminal bench in Cook County. Every day he woke up and gave thanks that his turn in the barrel had finally ended. He was no longer dreading another day of he-said/she-said in family court. Now he was in the Big Leagues, the criminal calendar, Major Felony Division, Cook County Circuit Court. It was as if he had finally walked through the right door.
As they waited on the judge, DA Stephenson politely approached Thaddeus and his client and placed a one-inch sheaf of papers on the table. "Discovery," he whispered to Thaddeus. "Round one."
Thaddeus nodded and began absently flipping through the turnover. He expected to find the usual incident reports from the uniforms, and there they were. The usual case workups from the detectives, and there they were. And then the lab report. This he read word-for-word. While the uniforms and the dicks just made it all up as they went along, lab reports were supposed to be scientific, truthful, complete, and accurate. Reading along, he came to this sentence: "Latent prints: right thumb, right index, right ring, full palm. Matched to booking prints of Ansel Largent, defendant." Which stopped him cold. He backed up and re-read the sentence. It hadn't changed.
He slid the report in front of Ansel. He drew an underline with his finger, pointing out the fingerprint findings. As Ansel read, Thaddeus skimmed further on. It got even worse. Preliminary DNA found on the pistol grips matched that of defendant Ansel Largent. The percentage of probability that it wasn't his DNA fell a billion times short of reasonable doubt.
Thaddeus felt his stomach clench. This wasn't supposed to be.
Ansel had promised he had no connection to the gun seized from his office. He had promised there would be no fingerprints left there by him. He had promised, most steadfastly, there would be no DNA--at least not belonging to him. Now all of that was contradicted by some lab rat named Justin Simone, B.S., who had signed off. A wave of nausea all but overwhelmed Thaddeus. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He knew his client very well and he would have bet the ranch that Ansel Largent had nothing to do with the tragedy two doors down from his own office.
He saw that Ansel's hand had begun to shake.
"You've got to get me out of here, Thaddeus," he said hoarsely. "I need my meds."
Thaddeus whispered. "He has the motion to set reasonable conditions of release. We'll get to that before we're done here."
"Oh my God. I have no idea how they got my prints on that gun. No idea."
"Straight up, have you ever handled that gun?" Thaddeus whispered.
"Never. Wait. Last night. That detective did show me a gun."
"What?"
"Yes, he came and spoke to me."
"And he showed you the gun?"
"Yes. I'm certain of it now."
"Did he have you handle it?"
"I thought he was an insurance client. I thought he was there about an insurance case that had to do with a faulty firearm. I thought it was a products liability case."
"So that's a yes, you did handle the gun?"
"I suppose so. Yes, I'm sure I did."
"Then they ran it over to the crime lab and now we're stuck with this lab report."
Thaddeus flipped to the report's front page.
"Here it is. Date-stamped yesterday. Signed off by Justin Simone yesterday."
"Tell me something, Ansel. Why would a smart man like you handle a gun from a detective? I'm not seeing it."
"They arrested me before I took my meds yesterday. I'm telling you I thought he was an insurance client."
"You had a psychotic episode."
Ansel whitened. "It's been known to happen."
"Is that how the money got loose from the trust fund and went to Zurich and skipped around the world?"
"I suppose so. I've asked myself the same question at least ten thousand times. My meds must need adjusting. Sometimes it's up on the Risperidone, sometimes it's down. Just depends on whether I'm imagining things or not. I vacillate between two milligrams and four milligrams."
Ansel tapped the side of his head. "It gets very busy up in here."
"I'm sorry that's happened to you. But right now I don't have time to s
ympathize, I've got to get you out of this mess."
The scheme came into focus for Thaddeus. His guy had been set up. Which would be impossible to prove. The cops would deny last night's visit involved the gun. There would be a record of a visit by the detective with Ansel, wouldn't there be? Still, that didn't prove he had brought along the gun. Only Ansel could testify to that and he had been reeling inside a psychotic episode at the time. He was liable to say anything. A million things. All different. A world of possibilities darted through Thaddeus' mind. The wave of nausea returned and burned his throat.
He poured out a paper cup of water from the pitcher on counsel table.
Instant relief. The scratchy feeling in his throat subsided. The nausea seemed to recede. But this report was going to make getting bail all but impossible. The law said, where the proof was evident and the presumption great, bail would not be required. This was true for capital cases and cases for which a sentence of life imprisonment might be imposed. Which was Ansel Largent's predicament exactly. He was looking at life imprisonment and, under the felony-murder rule, definitely would be looking at life. Illinois had abolished the death penalty, thank God for that. Unless the feds somehow became involved, but so far there wasn't even a hint of that.
The District Attorney wouldn't allow this plum to be turned over to the feds. This case involved Suzanne Fairmont, the candidate for the most important job in Cook County. This case was a career-maker.
Thaddeus looked across at DA Stephenson, who seemed to be examining the hairs on the back of his hand. He knew, brother, he knew what he had. His ticket to the throne room, election to a statewide office of some kind, if he got this conviction. While he appeared to be all nonchalant, Thaddeus knew that beneath that remote exterior there was a raging furnace. He had no doubt his time had come around at last.
Finally Judge Zang pushed his reading glasses up on his forehead and addressed the attorneys.
"The court is going to appoint its own psychiatrist to examine the defendant. Defendant's own physician will likewise be granted access to the defendant for counsel's purposes of pre-trial psychiatric examination as well as for treatment of any potential mental disorders, as set out in the motion."
"Your Honor, the state likewise needs access to the defendant for its own psychiatric workup."
"A three-way? Very well, counsel. Equal access to both the state and the defense will be ordered. Mr. Largent, I expect you to cooperate with the physicians selected to study you, is that clear?"
"Yes," Ansel said weakly.
"Now, let's take up the matter of bail. Mr. Murfee, it's your motion. You may be heard."
Thaddeus scraped back his chair. He stood fully upright, dressed in his brown pinstripes with tan vest. His round eyeglasses lent him a rather owlish look, but a look that Katy said was very attractive. He wasn't "sexy," she said, but he looked clean-cut and accomplished. Which he took to mean he was passable but wasn't going to cause any ladies to swoon. Fair enough, he was all right with that.
"May it please the court," he began.
The judge leaned forward. Thaddeus made eye contact and launched into it.
"Your Honor, my client Ansel Largent is a fifty-year-old lawyer, admitted some twenty-five years ago to the practice of law in this very court, a card-carrying member of the State Bar of Illinois, chair of the Defective Products Committee of the Defense Research Institute, a major in the Army Reserve, and a very active member of the Evanston community where he's been a homeowner for twenty years. He's married, has one son, away at school in California, and has a ton of connections to his community.”
Thaddeus paused and sipped from the paper cup. Then he continued.
“His office has delivered to me his passport, which he is willing to surrender, and glad to do, because he has no plans to run or try to get away. Reason? He hasn't done anything wrong and demands a jury trial to prove it. We would ask that bail be set in a reasonable amount and that he be freed on his recognizance bond. That would be unusual and counsel for the state will object, but in a case like this it's certainly warranted. Bottom line, he's a member of the bar. He's not going to run. Thank you."
Whereupon DA Stephenson was immediately on his feet and gesturing wildly as he said, "Ridiculous! To even suggest a recognizance bond to this court is an insult! Here's a man facing life in prison, against whom the proof is evident and the presumption great that he in fact committed the crime he's been indicted for. Your Honor, I have just this morning provided defense counsel with a laboratory report from the Chicago Police Department's Crime Lab."
"And?" said the judge without indication of which way he was leaning.
"The crime lab report recites finding defendant's fingerprints all over the murder weapon. That's one. Number two is that the gun has been tested and shown to be the gun that murdered Suzanne Fairmont. Number three, the defendant's own DNA is smeared all over the gun. For him to come in here and deny that the proof is evident and the presumption great is to laugh in the face of the very science upon which we in the legal system of this great state rely to guide us each and every day. The state would submit that no bail should be set. Passport or no passport, if Mr. Largent decides to leave the country I daresay that as a lawyer he knows how to buy a new ID for a couple of thousand bucks and leave. So that means nothing. Regarding his ties to the community, people tied to the community commit crimes every day. That fact alone doesn't make him any less likely to commit another crime or to flee this court. And his admission to the practice of law in this court is nothing more than a red herring. Lawyers commit crimes every day, bar admission or not. Just read the Bar Journal for the disciplinary cases our ARDC brings against lawyers in this state, some of whom, I daresay, have stood in this very court and addressed this very judge! No bail should be allowed, Your Honor. Thank you."
With that, a very flabbergasted District Attorney took his seat, doing his best to demonstrate how insulted the court should be that the defense would request bail at all. At least that's what his face and body language said. Deep down--again, in that inner place where lawyers hide their true feelings--he knew the court was very likely going to allow bail and that there was a slight chance the defendant would get out on a signature bond. His own recognizance. Stephenson caught his breath and tapped his fingers against the tabletop, his Morse code to the judge that the court shouldn't take but a moment or two before dismissing the defense motion and sending this criminal back to the jail where he so obviously belonged. His tapping turned to drumming turned to demanding.
The judge looked up and looked at Stephenson's hand and said, simply, "Please. I'm thinking."
"Sorry, Your Honor," said Stephenson. "I'm just anxious to protect the people against this man.""
"Hold on," cried Thaddeus, "there's no evidence showing my client is a danger. None at all!"
"What about him shooting Suzanne Fairmont? Isn't that a pretty damn good indicator of his character?"
"In your dreams," said Thaddeus. "He's not only not a threat, I'm going to prove to you he didn't commit this crime, fingerprints and DNA be damned!"
"Gentlemen," said the judge. "Please. Oral argument is over."
"Thank you, Judge," said Thaddeus, as is the wont of lawyers whether they get their way or not.
"Thank you, Your Honor," chimed in Stephenson.
To the casual onlooker it would have been impossible at that moment to tell the winner from the loser--both attorneys thanking the judge and both attorneys wearing the look of success.
But, that was court and that was the public affect all lawyers wore.
What happened next was totally unpredicted by either attorney.
"Gentlemen," the judge began, "Let me begin by saying that I personally know Ansel Largent. In fact, for a period while in law school, I clerked for him. I know Ansel Largent to be diligent, community-minded, and forthright in his dealings with authority. Mr. Largent, will you come to court if I let you out on your own recognizance?"
"Yes,
Judge."
"Well, that's fine, because I'm not going to do that. And here's why. The court owes a duty to the citizens of this state to protect them. And it owes a concomitant duty to act in good faith and, perhaps as important, to maintain the appearance of good faith. If I let a man indicted for murder loose on just his signature, imagine what kind of message that would send to the people of Chicago. On the other hand, if I set an exorbitant bail, that wouldn't be fair to the defendant who does, in fact, have commendable ties to the community and has a top notch reputation with the judges of this circuit. So I'm going to demonstrate how Solomon was a piker."
The lawyers looked at each other. That didn't ring a bell with either of them.
"What I'm saying is, in my Solomonic wisdom, I am going to order bail on signature release, but only if and when the defendant proves by the testimony of the court's very own psychiatric witness that he's neither a flight risk nor a danger to others. That's my order. Paper to follow. We're adjourned."
With that the judge was up and retreating to his office.
First words out of Ansel's mouth, "What the hell did he just do?"
"Cut the baby in half without actually cutting it in half," Thaddeus said with a wry grin.
"You mean he let me out but not yet."
"Exactly. He wants to see what goes on in that noodle of yours. Does he know about your mental problems?"
"Well, I believe--yes I'm sure--he was working for me the day I forgot to pull up my pants coming out of the men's room back at the office."
"What? Repeat that?"
"It happened right about the same time I saw my first shrink. I walked down the hall with my pants down around my ankles."
"And the judge was there."
"He wasn't a judge then. He was a law student."
"But he did see."
"Actually he gave me a ride to the doctor's office. That's how he knows so much about me. I was crying on the way and I guess he hasn't forgotten."
"Damnation, Ansel. This case gets wackier about every ten minutes. No, I'm sorry I said that. Let me take that back."
The Mental Case (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 6) Page 17
