Corrupt Justice

by Peter O'Mahoney

  “So what gets her off?”

  “Surveillance footage is the key.” He tapped his finger on the table. “Without it, we can’t prove McCann was alive after his interaction with Nina. If we had something, anything, that proved McCann was somewhere else that night then we can win this in court.”

  Esther picked up a page of notes from Hunter’s legal pad, reading the first paragraph. It stated Mrs. Li McCann’s first thought was that her husband was killed because of his threat to expose corruption in the police department. “What if it’s more than a coincidence? What if all this is a set-up to get rid of McCann?”

  “I’ve thought the same thing from the start, Esther.” They made eye contact; Esther providing a knowing nod to Hunter. “It’s going to be a hard battle, and I think we can win, but it would break my heart if we didn’t. I can’t imagine the moment I would have to look at Nina while handcuffs are put on her before being sent to prison. I’m not letting that happen. This girl has already been through enough. Footage is the key to winning this in court. We need to prove McCann was alive after he talked to Nina.”

  “Tex.” Esther paused, biting her bottom lip. “Are you taking it to court for Nina, or for you?”

  The words hit him like a hammer. He kept his eyes on the pages in front of him, the evening sun reflecting off them, and then dropped his head.

  “Tex, you have to do what’s best for Nina. Even if it means giving up the chance to have your father’s case looked at again, even if it means giving up hope, then you have to do what’s best for this girl. Perhaps the deal is the best option. You have to give it serious consideration.”

  Hunter was always uneasy with the idea of plea bargaining, the pressure of coercion on a possibly innocent client.

  The power in plea bargaining didn’t rest with the evidence, it didn’t rest with the strength of the witnesses, it didn’t rest with the jury.

  The power in plea bargaining, the power of negotiation, depended on the notion of a maximum sentence, versus a lower sentence, a lower charge, or a lower charge count.

  Faced with Nina’s situation, faced with a court process biased against her, Hunter considered whether the plea was the best option, whether Nina should pay for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Detective Yates must know something,” Hunter added.

  “Yates? That creepy guy? Why?” Esther asked.

  “He’s corrupt, I know that, and he was waiting outside of Chow’s construction site when I was leaving.” A thought ran through his mind. “And he was an old partner of Sidney McCann.”

  “So he’s also connected to Chow?” Esther asked. “All of this is connected to Chow?”

  “I don’t have evidence of that.” Hunter stared at the table, thinking about the connection. “But right now, we don’t have anything else.”

  Chapter 21

  The fried chicken shop was buzzing with people hunting for their next meal. Over the door, the sign read ‘Fast Food Here,’ but the ‘s’ had unfortunately, or truthfully, dropped off. The best Southern fried chicken in Chicago was their claim, placed in bold letters on the window, although the sign didn’t stipulate who made that noteworthy statement.

  Hunter walked past the busy counter, past the lingering line of people choosing their menu options, and stood next to a well-used stool at the long table to the side of the room. The shop was filled with bright red chairs, while the rest of the shop was mostly white, highlighting the main color.

  “It’s said the color red makes people feel hungrier, and in turn, they buy more food.” Hunter stated as he sat down on the stool that was bolted into the floor.

  The man eating his fried chicken stopped, raised his eyebrows, and then licked each of his fingers twice.

  “Although,” Hunter continued. “I can’t imagine that it would take much to encourage you to buy more food.”

  “What do you want to talk about, Hunter?” Chicago PD Detective John Yates wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m eating here, and it was quite an enjoyable experience until you arrived.”

  “Kenneth Chow.”

  Yates sighed, his moment of joy in the fried chicken shop spoiled by the man next to him.

  Yates looked at his fried chicken, and picked off the remaining bits of skin. He could take or leave the chicken itself, but the crispy skin, filled with southern spices, well, that was something else all-together. He placed a chicken bone back down on his takeaway tray and a piece of chicken fell from his plate onto the floor, not that it made a difference. The floor looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a week.

  “I’m sorry you slipped over at the work site. It happens more than you would think.”

  “I know it happens a lot.”

  “You can’t prove anything.”

  “I can prove you’re corrupt.”

  The diner next to them turned, staring at the detective and lawyer. Yates nodded to his belt, where his badge was hanging, and then nodded for the young girl to walk away. She didn’t think twice.

  “The girl you’re defending is some piece of work, Hunter.” Yates leaned closer, keeping his voice low. “She murders a guy for trying to help her. Poor Sid. Tries to help someone, but gets beaten up, and then dumped in the bottom of the river.”

  “The girl? Nina? That’s not what I’m here to talk about.” Hunter lied. “I was here to talk about your connections to Mary-Ann Steele’s arson case.”

  Yates sat back, shocked he had let the connection slip.

  “You’ve just admitted Chow has connections to Nina Aisha’s murder case.” Hunter’s voice grew louder. “How?”

  Yates looked over his shoulder, the crowd was beginning to look at them.

  “How, Yates? How are they connected?”

  “Alright. Alright.” Yates looked over his shoulder again, then leaned into Hunter’s space. “This isn’t the place to talk about it. Let’s step outside.”

  “You try anything, and I’ll belt you into tomorrow.”

  “I know what you’re capable of. One of the guys on the construction site had to get his jaw wired back into place.”

  Yates grabbed his soda, moved to the exit, and pushed hard against the squeaky glass door, stepping outside into the darkness. Hunter waited a few moments, checked his surroundings, and followed.

  They stepped onto the street outside the fried chicken store. The sidewalk was dark, thanks to the broken streetlight, only lit by the bright sign above them. The brick building was decorated with graffiti, the trashcan nearby was overflowing with fast-food wrappers, and a puddle crossed half the sidewalk.

  “Sid and I were partners once. When we arrested your father, it made our careers. There were six of us there that day, and we all got promoted within a year. It was a once in a lifetime arrest, and we were fortunate enough to be there.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “We all had a bond about that day, but Sid and I, well, when you work closely with someone for two decades, they start to get under your skin.” He looked over his shoulder, back to the entrance to ensure nobody was listening. “Last year, Sid came to me saying how much his life had changed, how much better he felt about himself. He tried to get me to do the same, to change my ways, so to speak. Repent for the past.”

  “What’s his connection to Chow?” Hunter was blunt.

  “Chow had a lot of construction projects in Sid’s district. Last year, word got out Sid was looking to strike a deal with the DOJ and turn over everything he knew, including all the payments he’d taken over the years. The stupid guy, he must’ve known something was going to happen. He must’ve known he was stepping into a dangerous world.”

  “What were the payments for?” Hunter stepped closer to the cop.

  “Insurance and workplace claims. Cover-ups. I’d heard Sid had even torched construction sites that were losing money for Chow, and then signed off on the investigative paperwork to say it was an accident, even when the Fire Department didn’t think so. They were tight for yea
rs.”

  “Chow was going to be exposed by the deal with the DOJ.”

  “That’s right.” He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “And let’s say it appeared that Chow’s affairs weren’t in order. Sid’s statements were about to blow something wide open. That’s all I know. If they didn’t pick up the girl with McCann’s wallet, then they would’ve been looking into what he was doing the week before his death.”

  Hunter had gotten the information he wanted. He turned to walk away before Yates reached out to touch Hunter’s arm. Hunter turned sharply, and Yates instantly held his hands up in the air.

  “Listen, Hunter, she’s a homeless kid that’s grown up without a family; time in prison will probably do her some good. It would give her a bed, at least.” Yates’s voice was flat. “Kids like that need structure and guidance in their lives. Innocent or not, you’ll be doing her a favor by sending her to prison. She could even learn some life skills in there. If not, she’ll just end up dead like the rest of them should be. You know, without those types of kids, my job would be so much easier. If they were all just locked-up tomorrow, it’d half the work of the force.”

  The coldness in Yates’s statement sent a shiver down Hunter’s spine. If Yates wasn’t allowed to shoot, bully, and bribe people for a living, Hunter was sure he would seek out a career in something to satisfy his immoral urges—a serial killer, slaughterhouse worker, or telemarketer, at least.

  “If she’s innocent, she shouldn’t be locked up. These kids need help, not more persecution. She shouldn’t have to go to prison for opportunities. She’s had enough pain in her life. We need to help kids like her.”

  “Don’t get all idealistic on me now, Hunter. You’ve got to do what’s best for her and what’s best for society. That’s what police work is all about. Helping people. Helping the community become better.”

  “By locking them up?”

  “Sometimes, the best thing to do is to protect these people from themselves.”

  “You’re trash, Yates,” Hunter stepped close to the detective. “And if you talk like that again, you’ll find out what I’m really capable of.”

  Chapter 22

  Taking a moment to calm himself in the busy surroundings of his city, Tex Hunter stared at the famed Chicago Picasso sculpture, proudly displayed in a square off West Washington Ave. He loved that Pablo Picasso donated the sculpture, refusing any payment, stating that he loved creating art for one of the world’s great gangster cities. More than half a century later, that was still true—the city was still full of gangsters, criminals, and racketeers—and still, one couldn’t be sure which side of the law they were on. In the lower-class neighborhoods, to the South and to the West, it was clear gangs ran the streets, tattoos clearly marking those members, but in the city, amongst the well-dressed suits and briefcases, it was harder to spot the immoral.

  Chicago had a long history of corruption, mobsters, and mass violence, and no matter how loudly a politician beat their chest, no matter how strongly a representative campaigned, that wasn’t changing any time soon. It was ingrained in the fabric of their existence, passed from one generation to the next, and breaking that line, breaking that generational bond, was a task almost too large to even try.

  There were good people in the city, good people in the political ranks, good people who fought hard against the dishonesty, but they were fighting against more than a century of backroom deals, payoffs, and kickbacks.

  After taking a few moments of calm, Hunter walked into the nearby building, into the elevator to the twentieth floor, checking in with the receptionist before being waved through. He walked past the doors with the lengthy titles, past the expansive boardrooms that had seen many legal battles over the years, and all the way down to the back of the floor, to a sprawling office, roomy enough to pass as a small flat.

  Pradesh Baron was leading the case for the State’s Attorney, and by putting away another cop killer, putting away Hunter’s defendant, Baron had an opportunity to make his career, a chance to put his name in the right conversations for a move into politics.

  “Nervous?” Hunter asked as he stepped through the door.

  Pradesh Baron looked up at him with confused eyes, his pen hovering over more paperwork. “Maybe.” He shrugged. “But not as nervous as your client should be.”

  “Nina Aisha didn’t do it.” Hunter walked in and sat on the armchair opposite Baron’s hefty desk. It was a comfortable chair, old enough to be found in an antique store if ever sold, but sturdy enough to take even the heaviest of people. “Nina believes in justice. She believes in the system.”

  “I’m not fresh out of high school, Tex.” Baron stopped writing and then leaned forward. “You should know better than that. That approach isn’t going to work with me.”

  “Smooth things over with your wife?” Hunter nodded to the two family photos sitting on his desk. They looked so happy, so joyous, smiling as they hugged in front of their five children, all with beaming smiles to match. A perfect portrait, a snapshot in time, a moment to be remembered.

  And that’s the beauty of a photograph—it’s a moment in time, a door into the past, never changing, even when the people in the picture do.

  “Things are better. She’s welcomed me back home, but she’s still icy. We’ll never divorce, at least not while her parents are still around, and they’ll be kicking along well into their nineties. Divorce would break my mother’s heart.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Tex, come on.” Baron placed his pen down and closed the folder in front of him. “You’re not a psychologist. Don’t try and solve my family problems. You should look at your own family before you try and solve someone else’s issues.”

  The verbal jab hit Hunter where it hurt, but he wouldn’t let it show. Not here. Not in this office. Not in a place where a weakness would be exposed.

  “I’m just making small talk.” Hunter held up his hands. “But clearly, Pradesh, you’d rather get straight into why this girl should be released from prison. Evidently, you’d rather talk about justice and when we should release her.”

  “Justice would see this young woman go to prison. She’s a murderer. A cop killer. The evidence clearly shows she killed Sidney McCann. I really hope you’ve come here to discuss a deal for your client, because the best option is for your client to admit guilt, take a few years in prison, and try to rebuild her life once she has completed her sentence. She’s young; she has a long life still left to lead. I really hope she doesn’t spend that life in prison.”

  “Are the timeframes still the same as the last offer?”

  “She could get ten years for second-degree murder. We’ll say McCann tried to touch her, she defended herself, and although she knew she would kill him, she was acting under intense passion. She then panicked and dumped his body in the river. If she took the ten years, the young woman will only be twenty-eight by the time she comes out of prison. She has a whole life to lead after that. Think of the deal as an opportunity to rebuild a life after an unfortunate incident.”

  “It’s not much of a life to rebuild if you’re a convicted criminal.”

  “But it’s still more of a life than she would get if she were to spend it all behind bars for first-degree murder.”

  Leaning back in the chair, Hunter shook his head. His eyes were drawn back to the pictures on Baron’s wall, numerous degrees proudly displayed in wooden frames.

  Fighting crime was certainly big business in Chicago, on both sides of the law. Criminality kept people in jobs, it kept the economy going, there was no doubt about that. Law enforcement, administration, lawyers, lab technicians, counsellors, coroners; the list of those that were kept busy by the law system was extensive.

  Without crime, without the jobs it demanded, the economy would stall.

  “I’m sure you know most of this already.” Baron reached across and closed another file on his desk, protecting it from Hunter’s eyes. “It was in the information we se
nt to you. We have witnesses that state they saw her beating Sidney McCann on the night he was last seen, and she has no alibi for the remainder of the evening. She’s even admitted she was with McCann that night. They were together. Clearly, they had an argument, and Nina killed McCann. This is cut and dry. I’m not sure why you seem determined to take it to trial.”

  “Tell me more about your witnesses.”

  “We have an older male from the nearby diner who will testify he saw Nina and McCann together that night. We have a male resident of the apartment building across the road who will testify he saw Nina punching McCann. And we have Alicia Carson who will testify she saw Nina and McCann arguing in the street as well. She’s going to testify that she saw Nina punch McCann numerous times. A good strong group of respectable witnesses that’s hard to dispute.”

  “Carson is saying she saw Nina punch McCann?” Hunter spread his arms wide. “That’s not what she said to me.”

  “In a deposition?”

  “No, in general conversation.”

  “I’m sure you misheard her. Carson has signed a witness statement in which she says she saw the accused punch McCann numerous times.” Baron held out his hands. “And apart from that, I’m not sure what else you could argue about.”

  “I have something.” Hunter squinted, watching Baron’s reaction closely. “The deal McCann was making with Department of Justice included corruption charges against a Chinatown businessman named Kenneth Chow.”