Gates of Power

by Peter O'Mahoney

  “Got a file for me to look at?” Derrick pressed.

  “The case is in the courts and everything is confidential right now.”

  Derrick grunted again.

  “I’ll give you some advice for free, young man. To me, despite what the media has reported, despite what the prosecution is saying, this doesn’t look like a planned murder. This looks like a moment of rage, a moment of lost control.” He stood and whistled at Barclay. “So ask yourself, Valentine, which of your suspects could snap? Which of your suspects had the most potential to lash out, losing it in a moment of rage?”

  I didn’t answer, instead I looked out to the park and watched Winston chase Barclay.

  But I’ll give it to him, Derrick had asked a good question.

  And it was one with a very easy answer.

  Chapter 13

  My office door burst open.

  Standing there with a look of indignation slapped across her makeup caked face, was an attractive, although stern looking, woman in an expensive tailor-made business suit, throwing her best steely expression my way. I’d never seen her before, but I had an idea who she was and what she wanted; in fact, I was surprised she hadn’t made an appearance earlier.

  “You’re Jack Valentine?” The inflection in her voice sounded like she was less than impressed.

  “I am.”

  She looked around my office, and she was even less impressed.

  My office sat on the second floor off Clark St, in the Loop, near the Federal Prison. Not exactly prestigious, but not that bad either. The interior to my office was about as plain as it came. A football signed by the Bears sat on top of my bookshelf, and a baseball signed by the Cubs sat on the second shelf. There were three books on the middle shelf, only one of which I had read, and old sports magazines sat on the bottom shelf.

  My Oakwood desk sat prominently in the dimly lit room; a computer monitor to one side, and a pile of files on the other side. The walls were exposed brick, which I liked, and the door was wooden, which I didn’t like. The window let in enough sun to warm my back.

  Outside my office, I had room for a secretary; a spare desk surrounded by a couple of dying potted plants; but I hadn’t had a secretary in years. When Casey May, my assistant, came to the office, she would sit at that desk, although I wouldn’t dare ask her to make me a coffee. Her death stare alone would cut me in two.

  “My name is Betsy Jane, I’m the lead defense attorney for Mr. Alfie Rose,” announced the woman, in the manner of a schoolteacher scolding a wayward pupil. “And your involvement in our case is not appreciated, nor in the best interests of my client.”

  My response was a sarcastic expression that begged the question: is that right?

  From beneath my desk I pushed out the chair opposite with my foot.

  “Take a seat, Betsy.”

  She strode over and sat down, leaning forward in the chair, fixing me once more with the same steely glare. It might have been intimidating to one of her first or second-year associates in the office, but with me, she was dealing with a completely different animal.

  I’d faced down some seriously tough negotiators over the years—proper hardball players who knew the game and played for keeps—and I knew that I could top her, despite her reputation among the legal fraternity.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, up front,” I said with authority. “Mr. Rose is my client, as well as your client. And if he has any complaints about the work he’s commissioned me to do on his behalf, then that’s for him to tell me, not you. Just as, if he has any complaints about the representation you’re providing, then that’s for him to tell you, not me. Understood?”

  She gave a little nod, almost imperceptible but still there to see, betraying a small step backwards from her initial position. If negotiation was war, then she’d just retreated, and I’d advanced. She probably assumed that I’d be easily intimidated but standing up to her seemed to gain her respect.

  “Okay, Valentine. The thing is,” she said in a less confrontational tone. “My team and I have fought tooth and nail to get Alfie the deal the DOJ are offering up to him on a silver platter, and the reason Alfie’s not taking the deal is simple: you’ve given him false hope; he thinks you’re going to somehow wave a magic wand and prove the impossible, that he’s as pure and innocent as the driven snow.”

  “By which, I take it, you’re convinced of your own client’s guilt?”

  “That’s a question I never answer, and, what’s more, it’s irrelevant to the professional representation I provide, whether a client is innocent or guilty, they can expect a first class defense, which is what Alfie is getting from me, and my team. It’s what we can prove in court that matters, what the jury can see and hear. And with this case, we’re up against it. Trust me, I’ve been doing this a long time, and everything points to the jury returning a guilty verdict.”

  “Well, that’s where you and I differ. I would expect a first-class defense to be fighting just as hard for a not guilty verdict. By the sounds of it you’ve already given up, thrown in the towel on his behalf after a few bumps in the road. Well, I haven’t, not by a long shot. While there’s breath still in me, I’ll keep fighting for him. You see, I do believe Alfie is innocent, and what’s more, I intend to prove it.”

  “That’s a fallacy, Mr. Valentine,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s cloud cuckoo land nonsense, even for a man of your reputation, it’s not going to happen. Saying something like that is easy, but actually following through and doing it is a very different matter altogether. Can’t you see what you’re doing to him? If Alfie turns down the DOJ’s offer, which we both know is the best he’s going to get, then the other most likely outcome is a life sentence for murder. How does that help him?”

  “An innocent man isn’t going to prison on my watch.”

  “Innocent? It doesn’t matter who did it! That’s irrelevant! What matters, what really matters, is what happens in that courtroom!” She was angry, but not with me. She was frustrated with herself, with her profession, knowing the words that came out of her mouth were as ridiculous as they sounded. “At this point in time, it doesn’t look like he’ll win. I don’t know how much clearer I can make that to you. He’ll go to prison for so much longer if this case goes to court. He has to agree to the deal.”

  “Alfie wouldn’t last six months in the joint, let alone ten years, which, correct me if I’m wrong, is the best the DOJ is offering. He’s dead either way, but if he takes their deal, you don’t lose a case, at least not on paper, more like a negotiated draw, I’d say, so you leave with your reputation intact. I think that’s what you’re really worried about.”

  Her momentary silence and haste to change the subject confirmed that I was right.

  “Mr. Valentine, I would encourage you to think beyond this individual case. I represent one of the biggest, most prestigious law firms in the city, clients of the highest order, many even bigger names than Mr. Rose. Should you take a step back from this particular case, then other opportunities could soon present themselves.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “We deal with top end case after top end case and have an ongoing requirement for in-house investigators; investigators who get the highest level of work and are provided with the highest level of resources to complete that work. A man with a reputation like yours, well, he could lead a team like that.

  “Is that right, and get the very best cases?”

  “Sure, he could cherry pick his own, make an even bigger name for himself.”

  “Mmm. That is interesting. I imagine an investigator like that would need some pretty impressive office space to work out of.”

  “Oh, he’d get nothing but the finest prime real estate.”

  “Yes, I can see how that would be a golden opportunity, if you get my meaning.”

  “Yes, indeed, those yearly retainers, well, an investigator like that would be well looked after financially, in fact, he’d be a highly successful man.”

&
nbsp; “Yes, very interesting. Very interesting indeed.”

  She smiled confidently.

  “There’s only one snag,” I said bluntly. “I’m not doing it.”

  Her smile turned first to surprise and then annoyance. She’d overplayed her hand and she knew it.

  “You see for me it’s all about the pursuit of justice.”

  “Let me speak frankly Mr. Valentine, I need you off the case and I’m willing to compensate you generously for your immediate withdrawal.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “Whatever Mr. Rose is paying you, we’ll double it.”

  “Double it, triple it, quadruple it, I’m not interested. It’s not about the money for me. If Alfie goes down, then justice isn’t served. There’ll be a miscarriage of justice, a big one, and soon after another murder, and probably a very gruesome one, only this time it will be Alfie’s. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Have you not seen or read any of the death threats Alfie’s been getting, laying out, step by step, how these sickos want to kill him, making it slow and painful?”

  “Of course, I’ve read those notes, and I understand your concerns. But the fact remains, ten years is the best he’s going to get, less with good behavior. It’s a very generous offer, given the circumstances. At the end of the day, it’s the prison system’s responsibility to provide adequate protection to vulnerable inmates, and I have faith in the system to fulfil its obligations in that regard, especially given his high-profile status. He can survive in there. We can get him solitary confinement until the heat dies down. Alfie has nothing to worry about there, he’ll be monitored and well looked after.”

  “Wow,” I said, sitting back in my chair in amazement. “And you accuse me of living in cloud cuckoo land? That is some of the biggest BS I’ve ever heard in my life; and I’ve heard a lot, especially from lawyers… imagine that.”

  Her blasé disregard for Alfie had gotten my blood heated up now, she was putting him at risk for her own self-interest, and so I dropped any pretense at civility.

  “You know, I’m not sure what worries me the most,” I said. “That you might really believe what you just said, or that you don’t believe it but are saying it regardless. Either way, Alfie is in dire trouble; if you don’t believe it, then Alfie’s got himself a lawyer who has zero concern for his wellbeing, so long as her reputation, and the reputation of her team, remains intact; and that they’re well remunerated too, of course. But if you do believe it, then you’ve been spending too much time with the rest of the power suit set, cut off from the real world.”

  “I resent your fatuous insults, Mr. Valentine. Of course, I believe what I said. Just remember, I’ve been on this case a lot longer than you, doing the hard yards since the start, not coming along towards the end trying to scoop up the glory at the last minute.”

  “Now you listen and listen good. I was on the front line, pumping precious life back into Alfie’s chest after the attempt on his life, while you were doing what? Probably having fancy business lunches at the Four Seasons with your friends at the DOJ, scarfing down foie gras and truffles, while quaffing three hundred-dollar glasses of Chateau Latour—and billing your client for the privilege, no doubt.”

  “Trust me. That’s not how it works.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen how it works. And I’ve seen what happens to the Alfies of this world in prison. Don’t believe the PR spin: Prisons aren’t run by the book but by the crook, lots of them, all struggling inside for their own power and advantage. It’s multi-layered, with everybody fighting for their little bit, no matter how small or far down the chain they are. Throats are cut and skulls are cracked for sport. There’s always going to be some wannabe looking to build their reputation, and Alfie’s going to be the perfect target. I’m telling you straight: if Alfie goes to prison, he will die there. I’ve seen it many times—and there wasn’t ever a heroic prison guard stepping in to ensure fair play—I sure as hell don’t want to see it happen here. You need to fight for Alfie, just like I’m doing, build a not guilty case, because that’s what he is.”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job. I’ve won case after case and worked tirelessly for the DOJ offer that you and Alfie seem determined to squander. I’ll let you know, I’m a former Harvard law professor, one of the most respected and powerful lawyers in Chicago, not some two-bit PI working out of a glorified closet.”

  “Well, as Margret Thatcher once said, being powerful is like being a lady... if you have to tell people you are, you aren’t.”

  “It seems I’m wasting my time,” she said, standing up from the desk. “I had hoped you’d be able to see some sense, to see that not only is the DOJ offer the best offer Alfie is going to get, but that it’s the only offer he’s going to get; in fact, it’s the only realistic option he has. Everything else is a dead end. If you insist on pursuing your own fantasy of cracking this case wide open then that’s up to you, but I resent what you’ve done to our case and, by extension, Mr. Rose.”

  “And I resent that a good man like Alfie Rose finds himself with such a highly educated fool for his leading defense council.”

  She turned and marched out the door, slamming it on the way out.

  I sat back in my chair and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply.

  As meetings go it was hardly a success, but it wasn’t entirely unproductive either. It hit home something I already knew: I needed to redouble my efforts, to step it up another gear. Alfie’s only hope was me. His trial was around the corner, and it was too late for him to switch defense teams now. He was saddled with what he had: a defense team who was more interested in defending their reputation than their client, fighting for a draw.

  When I fought, it was only ever to win.

  But I needed to fight quickly.

  And it was time now to fight dirty.

  Chapter 14

  I glanced at the clock on the office wall: nearly midnight.

  Fatigue ate away at me, testing my resolve to continue, gnawing away at my purpose, tempting me with beguiling images of rest. I was running on empty, eking out the last of the dirty fuel of caffeine and nicotine in my tank. I sloshed another serving of coffee into my mug and gulped it down like bad tasting medicine, desirous of effect on my body not sensation on my palate.

  I’d been working on a link chart on my bulletin board; you know, those charts you see on the television cop shows where detectives investigating a crime pin pictures of people, locations, cars etc., with lines linking one picture to another. They’re a great way of connecting people and evidence with visual links—my personal preference for processing information. They come into their own during complex longitudinal investigations, with multiple players, addresses—both physical and IP—telephone numbers, vehicles and so on.

  In the center of my chart was a photo of Brian Gates, the same cheesy publicity shot that had been used at his memorial, taken from a program I’d acquired on that day. The links coming from it were mindboggling, like the spectrum of rays emanating from the sun: woman after woman, after woman; one big, happy, merry-go-round of infidelity, spreading out to the four corners of my wall.

  An intermingling spaghetti junction of jilted husbands added to the complexity, as did aggrieved former work colleagues, those who benefitted in some way from his death, and vocal critics in the media.

  I’d been adding information on Packman, new intel that Casey had dug up in the last twenty-four hours, business deals he’d done with production companies, and proposed deals he’d penciled in with networks, which, had Brian Gates jumped ship and gone it alone without him, would have been dead. There was big money involved, but unless Brian was part of the program too, it was all null and void.

  Money is one almighty motivator and the loss of it likewise, but money comes and goes; it seemed obvious to me from Packman’s reaction to my enquiries that betrayal, and quite possibly jealousy, was as much, if not more, of a factor in his hatred towards Gates than financial loss. Gates had everything Packman secretly d
esired: all the adulation, all the fame, all the column inches talking about him, even all the controversy, and certainly all the women.

  Packman on the other hand, got his share of the money, which, as a producer, was substantial. But it wasn’t enough. No, it seemed to me that Packman fancied himself in Gates’ shoes, and in his deluded mind probably even believed he could do what Gates did, as the anchor man in front of the camera, not the unsung producer behind it.

  Everyone knew Gates, but for Packman, outside of the little media production bubble in which he worked, nobody knew him.

  I stared at the link chart, following the lines from one person to the other, slightly letting go of conscious thought, letting my subconscious wander freely in the hope it would pick something up that I had missed.

  It didn’t happen.

  I was flagging, I needed rest to be effective and decided to turn in for the night. There was no point pushing on, lest I miss something that a clear head after sufficient sleep would spot in the morning.

  I grabbed my coat and headed outside, breathing in the surprisingly cool night air, summer was in full swing, but you wouldn’t know it tonight. It was cold and windy, but it perked me up as I walked along the street toward the “L” station, making my way past the radiance of downtown bars with their raucous patrons breathing life into the night, and ubiquitous late night food joints, tempting me to stop with aromas of juicy meats and hot sauces. I was hungry, but more for rest than sustenance. Bed was calling my name, and it wouldn’t be denied.

  It was a short walk to the station, and only five minutes wait on the platform before I boarded the sleep-inducing warmth of the first train car. It was occupied by drunks celebrating in their myriad forms: the happy incoherent babbler, the silent wall-staring depressive, and everybody’s favorite, the aggressive foul-mouthed shouter.

  I was tempted by a moment’s shuteye, but the yelling emanating from the foul-mouthed shouter at the far end of the car had me remaining awake instead, just in case he got physically aggressive with someone and I had to administer my own brand of sleeping medication for him, in the form of a solid right hander to the jaw. It wouldn’t be the first time on a late-night journey home, but he got off soon after without incident, and by the time I arrived at my stop I was exhausted.