The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2)

by Russell Moran

  I pinched her firm little ass while helping her set the table. “Hey, later, baby. We have a distinguished guest coming.”

  “Agreed, later.”

  The doorbell rang. It was Bennie. This was the first time he had been to our apartment.

  “Holy shit, this place is beautiful,” said Bennie as he walked in with a bouquet of flowers. “I can’t believe the view of Lake Michigan,” he said as he walked over to the living room window. This is even better than that place the FBI found for you when you were in the Witness Protection Program. Do you still carry a gun, Diana?”

  “Let’s change the conversation to a more pleasant subject,” I said. “but to answer your question, Dee still carries a gun, like me.”

  Dee served seafood salad as a starter. It was delicious.

  “How about some white wine, Ben? I believe you like pinot grigio, yes?” Diana said.

  “Sure, but let me ask you two a question. Since you’ve both been clean and sober and riding the wagon for a few years, does it bother you to serve alcohol to somebody?”

  “Not at all, Ben. I just swig from a bottle of vodka I keep under the sink.”

  We cracked up. Dee loves to make fun of her past substance abuse.

  After our main course, Dee served a mouth-watering crème brûlé. Definitely going to have to hit the stationary bike after this, I thought.

  “As you know, my wife Maggie is a college professor at NYU,” Bennie said. “I never thought you academic types could be such great cooks, but you both are. And I’ve got the waistline to prove it.”

  “I love that your wife’s name is Maggie, Ben, the same name as Matt’s late fiancée, his guardian angel. Somehow it makes our friendship with you even more special.”

  A tear ran down Bennie’s face. Gotta love this guy. He’s totally in touch with his emotions and isn’t afraid to let them show.

  ***

  “So, Ben, tell us what we’re dying to hear. How did your interview go with the guy Matt calls Mr. Scumbag?”

  “Hey, I told you I’d never call him that again. Stop picking on me.”

  Dee leaned over and kissed me.

  “Ali Yamani, or Al as he insists on being called,” Bennie said, “is one of the straightest shooters I’ve met in a long time. I ran him through my full patented bullshit detector test, every one of 12 observations I use to pick up lies. He’s either a truth-teller or the most talented psychopath I’ve ever met. He’s comfortable in his skin, well about as comfortable as a man can be with all the chains and shackles. I didn’t detect one evasion, one exaggeration, or even a slight attempt at making an excuse. The guy told me the truth. Now, as you guys well know, it’s not my job to evaluate the truth, but only to size up the speaker to see if he believes the story is true. The guy is clear as crystal. No bullshit whatsoever.”

  “That was exactly my experience of him,” I said. “I’m just glad to hear it from the nation’s top lie detector.”

  “But what about the 12-foot gorilla in the room in the room?” Diana said, “The gorilla that wears a big bandanna that says ‘evidence’? So the guy is a straight-shooting truth teller. Great. What about his prints, his DNA, and not to mention the video showing him next to the bomb?”

  “You’re one hell of a perceptive lady, kiddo.” Bennie said. “You’ve led us right to the heart of the matter. Yes, I specifically asked him about that when I confronted him with the overwhelming evidence.”

  “I did too,” I said. “And this is what freaks me out. Go ahead, Bennie.”

  “He didn’t deny that the evidence exists. He didn’t try to shuck and jive away from it. He simply insists that he did not detonate the bomb, nor did he know anything about it. But here’s the weird part. Weird? Hell, it’s almost spooky. When I asked him why someone or some group would try to frame him, he clammed up. He actually told me that he wouldn’t talk about it. He simply told me not to go there. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to address the question of why somebody would want to frame him.”

  “That’s exactly what happened when I interviewed him. He knows something, something that may get him off. And he’s not willing to talk about it.”

  “He may not want to talk about the big WHY,” Diana said, “but does that mean he’s not willing to participate in his own defense? If we turn bloodhound Woody Donovan loose, he’ll find a lot of inconsistencies. So what if Yamani won’t give us his opinion about motive, do we really need that?”

  “Dee nailed it, as usual,” I said. “In terms of reasonable doubt, who cares why he may have been framed? If we can establish that he was framed, why he was framed is irrelevant, although it would be useful to get it in front of the jury.”

  “There’s a terrific medical forensic expert at the Pritzker School of Medicine at the University of Chicago, Max Moon. We need to get him aboard.”

  “Max Moon?” both Dee and I blurted. “Max fucking Moon?”

  “Hey, okay. Weird name but big brain. I want to talk to him about the fingerprints, the DNA, and the video. I’ve worked with Max on cases before. He’s a good guy. He would normally get a zillion dollars to consult on a case like this, but just let me talk to him. He owes me some favors. And, like me, when his antenna goes up, it’s like a hard-on that won’t go away. Sorry Diana.”

  Dee laughed and flipped a teaspoonful of ice water at Bennie.

  “Guys,” Bennie said, “this is going to be more fun than the Spellman case.”

  Dee and I just looked at each other.

  Chapter 8

  Okay, here’s where I tell you about Diana and me in the Witness Protection Program. The case of Diana Spellman vs. Harold Morgan and Gulf Oil Company was the strangest lawsuit I’d ever worked on. Some of the memories of the case are great—I met my wonderful wife. And some of the memories I’d just as soon forget—like the two of us almost getting killed in a gun battle.

  Diana’s late husband, Jim Spellman, was a talented investigated journalist. His research led him toward a conspiracy, a gigantic conspiracy, one that involved not only a secretive group of al-Qaeda leaders, but also some people at the top of the US government and corporate America. Jim Spellman was killed in a sideswipe collision, and that’s what the case was all about, a wrongful death lawsuit brought by Blake & Randolph on behalf of Diana. What seemed like a simple case personal injury case, turned out to be amazingly complex, involving the FBI and the CIA. At the center of it all was Diana herself. She was Jim Spellman’s informal editor as well as his wife. She held the key to the massive conspiracy. She was also a target for murder.

  It didn’t take the FBI long to figure out that Diana was not only a key to the investigation, but a murder target as well. Three gunmen shot up our engagement party at a fancy restaurant in Chicago. Dee and I were stuck in a traffic jam and never made it to the event. That’s why we’re alive. The feds convinced Dee and I to move to New York and enter the Witness Protection Program.

  Dee and I fell in love after two meetings, crazy in love. I had lost my fiancée, Maggie, after I graduated from law school, and Diana lost her Jim, both in car accidents. We often say that fate brought us together. We had gone through similar traumas in our lives, as well as a romance with booze and drugs. That was before we met. We both went through rehab, and have been clean and sober since. We help each other and support each other. That’s because we love each other.

  We quietly married in the Witness Protection Program at our secret undisclosed location in New York City. You can’t make this shit up.

  Our lives came close to being snuffed out at a beautiful vacation house in East Hampton, Long Island. The place was owned by our FBI handler, Rick Bellamy, who invited us for a relaxing weekend, a different venue from our Witness Protection Program “home” in New York City. Dee and I survived a wild gunfight at that lovely home. We were attacked by gunmen who wanted to kill her.

  I’m a former Marine officer. Well a Marine is never a former Marine. I saw more combat in Iraq than I want to remember. When th
e bullets started flying in East Hampton, I did what any Marine would do—I let my training take over. But Dee, although she knew how to use a gun, was introduced to combat as an untrained civilian. She actually killed three of our attackers. She saved my life. Before that incident, I loved Dee for what she was, a beautiful, intelligent woman. What I learned in that shootout was that Dee is also a woman of raw courage. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.

  After the Long Island gun battle, Dee and I graduated from the Witness Protection Program and returned to Chicago. That was over three years ago, and I still feel about Dee like the day we first met. I’m still crazy in love with her. She’s my wife, my lover, my unofficial law partner, and my best friend. And she’s also my baseball catch partner.

  And, thank God, she doesn’t put up with my bullshit. My client Al Yamani should thank God for that too.

  Chapter 9

  For early November it was a frigid day, even in Chicago. The temperature was 32 degrees and a fierce wind off the Lake made it feel more like 15. Dee and I walked to the Blake & Randolph building on La Salle Street. I find it unbelievable that for her substantial salary at Northwestern, Dee only has to teach four classes a week. And they’re all on just two days. Besides her limited teaching schedule and a few hours of office time, Dee isn’t required to be present at the university, giving her plenty of time for writing, or for her other passion, working on cases with me.

  Woody Donovan and Bennie walked into the conference room at 10 a.m. Dee and I were already there. As the attorney in charge of the case it was my job to conduct the meeting. I think I’m a pretty smart guy, but I don’t kid myself. I was not the smartest person in the room, especially because Diana was there.

  “Woody,” I said, “please tell us about your meeting with our client yesterday. Bennie and I have filled you in on what he told us. I just want to know if he gave you anything new.”

  “Well, this case is all about a bombing,” Woody said, “so for openers today, I’m going to drop a bomb on the table. Al told me all about the same stuff he told you guys, except for one gigantic thing. I asked Al if he had recently seen a doctor or had a physical. I was looking for anything that could explain his thumbprint and the DNA.”

  I suddenly felt horrible. I don’t think of myself as being dumb. Actually I think I’m kind of smart. Hell, I graduated from one of the best law schools in the country. But I’m listening to Woody tell us about a question I should have asked. The evidence against Al included a thumbprint and DNA from a small amount of blood. Whether he’d seen a doctor recently is an obvious question, but I didn’t ask it.

  “So get this, folks,” Woody said, “our client told me he had a routine physical that’s required from the Chicago School System. He got a call from a woman—no, he can’t remember her name—asking him to appear at a clinic on South Michigan Avenue for a routine school physical. Al didn’t think anything about it, but he did think it was strange because he already had a physical before he was hired a few months earlier. When he asked the woman why they wanted another physical she told him it was just routine. I asked him where his first exam was held, and he told me it was done at the nurse’s office in the central school administrative building—six months before this second physical. Then I asked him about the clinic where he was told to report. He said it looked strange for a medical clinic, with a couple of posters on the walls, and one handwritten sign on the door that said, ‘Clinic.’

  He couldn’t remember the address, but remembered that the building was between a Taco Bell on one side and an Arby’s on the other, and that it was near West 35th Street. So I went to the neighborhood and spotted the building that supposedly houses a medical clinic, figuring I’d snoop around a bit. Folks—there is no fucking clinic there. The building now houses a check cashing place. Remember, Al just had his physical at that location just a few weeks ago. So I go into the check cashing place and they told me they had just set up shop, two weeks before. I asked if they knew what was there before them, and they said the real estate broker told them it had been vacant for two years. I called the real estate broker. She confirmed that the place had been empty for two years. So now I’m really starting to get my mojo on. When I got back to the office I called the Chicago School System administrative headquarters. They said there is no such thing as a required annual physical, only the pre-hire one. Then I asked if they ever did physicals at an outside clinic, and they said absolutely not. Any physical would be held in the admin building. So here’s the bottom line, folks. Somebody called Al and convinced him that he had to go to this clinic and that it was just a routine exam. So what’s Al supposed to think? He had just recently landed his teaching job.

  I went to the jail to see Al. I have a lot of contacts at the lockup so I got in easily. I asked Al more about the physical. They drew blood, naturally, something you’d expect at a physical, but get this, they also fingerprinted him, including thumbprints. Al thought it was a bit strange, but he didn’t bother to ask questions. So four fucking days before the bombing, our guy is set up for a phony physical, where he gives blood and fingerprints.”

  “Holy shit,” I said. “Woody, did Al give you the name of the doctor or nurse?”

  “No. He said it wasn’t important to him, so he didn’t even notice. Sounds logical to me. Do any of you guys remember the name of the last person who gave you a physical, unless it was your regular doctor? But besides that, assuming this health clinic was a con job, do you think the doctor and nurse would have their real names on their badges?”

  “Did he give you a physical description?” Dee asked.

  “All he remembered was that they were both short, especially the nurse. He said she was less than five feet. He did recall that she wore a Muslim-type scarf over her head, and that she spoke with a Middle Eastern accent. Oh, this is important, he did notice that she was missing the first digit on her right ring finger. He said the doctor was about five-two or three, and that he had a red beard and red hair. He also spoke with a Middle Eastern accent.”

  “Can anybody say the words ‘reasonable doubt’?” I asked. I was still feeling guilty for not asking this stuff myself, but I was happy that Woody picked up where I dropped the ball. Woody is more than worth every nickel we pay him.

  “Woody,” I said, “Bennie and I are convinced the guy’s telling the truth. What’s your take, especially in light of this bomb you just dropped?”

  “I’m convinced he’s telling the truth, too,” Woody said. “He’s a solid a guy, one of the most straightforward people I’ve interviewed in a long time. This phony health clinic stuff nailed it for me.”

  “This obviously changes everything,” Diana said. “If we can find this fake doctor and nurse and get a few witnesses under oath, Al becomes a free man.”

  I looked at Diana and noticed that she was furiously scribbling notes, in a structured outline as is her habit.

  “Hey, Professor Dee,” I said, “Why don’t you go over to the board and help us understand what we’ve just heard.”

  Diana walked up to the white board and wrote across the top:

  “The Shit that Doesn’t Fit.”

  “I think that’s the perfect title for your notes, Diana,” Bennie said, “if not the perfect title for this case.”

  “First of all,” Dee said, “let’s take a look at some superficial stuff that’s hanging out there.”

  “Guys,” I said. “You’re about to hear notes from a lecture that Diana gave me on diligently representing a client.”

  Dee walked over and mussed my hair. “Hey, Matt, I was just reminding you about something you already knew.”

  “If Al was the bad guy,” Diana said, “we have to look at a few preliminary questions. First, why didn’t he wear latex gloves to avoid leaving his thumbprint or DNA on the detonator? This only puts an exclamation point to what Woody just told us about the fictitious health clinic.

  Second, why didn’t he stash the detonator, rather than leave it out in the
open to be discovered as evidence?

  Third, why didn’t he wear a simple disguise? A mall is a public place where photos and videos are taken all the time.

  And lastly, why did they use a guy like Al, rather than one of the countless willing suicide bombers out there?”

  “So let’s ask the big question,” I said. “Why would somebody hatch an elaborate plot to frame Al?”

  “Let’s get the rest of the evidence down first, hon,” Diana said as she wrote. “Now what about the famous video? It’s definitely Al standing there next to the green parcel. The time and date stamp show that it was five minutes before the explosion.”

  “It’s easy to fake that evidence,” Woody said. “All you have to do is reset the date and time on the menu in the video device. I have our forensic doctor friend, Max Moon, examining the video to see if he can figure out what brand camera it was taken with.”

  “So let’s get clear on this,” Diana said. “Even though the date and time stamp on the video shows the time and date of the bombing, by simply changing the settings, the date could have been before the actual event.”

  I called a 20-minute break. We all needed time to digest the enormous amount of detailed information we just heard. We also needed time to adjust to what we all started to believe—our client may be completely innocent. We also needed to pee.

  ***

  Everybody filed back into the conference room after our break.

  I walked up to the board containing Diana’s work.

  “The shit that doesn’t fit,” I said. “Diana’s title is perfect. But there’s one big question, one big piece of shit that still doesn’t fit. WHY would somebody or some group pull this off? Jihadis are good at bombings, suicide or not. It’s like a walk in the park for them. Why the hell go through an elaborate hoax to frame a simple school teacher? Is there something about Al Yamani that led them to hatch this crazy plot?”