The Law Partners (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 3) (22 page)

"
M
ovant calls Tory Stormont
," I proclaim.

The bailiff steps into the hallway and returns with Stormont in tow. Stormont, on my earlier motion, has been barred from the courtroom while other witnesses have testified throughout this trial. This is his first visit here with the jury present.

Stormont takes the witness stand.

He is a burly man, rough around the edges like Shaughnessy. I am struck by the resemblance between the two men: both large and raw-boned, rough-hewn, with solid jaws and that kind of charisma that makes you eager to vote in their favor. For his part, Stormont radiates it. The man will be hard to hate. But it must happen. Now.

"Tell us your name."

"Officer Tory Stormont."

"Your first name. It's 'officer?’”

"No. It's Torrance. The 'officer' designates that I'm a sworn police officer with the Chicago Police Department."

"Well, thanks for straightening that out."

His answer hasn't been angry, not even heavy-handed, as I had hoped it would be. He has been friendly and not at all insulted or belittled.

"Are you acquainted with District Attorney Ronald Shaughnessy?"

"Distantly, I suppose. He was prosecuting me."

"For what?"

There is a long sigh. “Murder in the shooting of Johnny Washington, a young black man in South Chicago. Mr. Shaughnessy must have thought I was guilty because he turned Mr. Harrow loose on me.”

"Really? Has he told you he thinks you are guilty?"

"No."

"Has he sent you a letter or an email saying he thinks you're guilty?"

"Well, he was prosecuting me."

"He was or his office was?”

"Well...his office, I guess. But his name's on all the papers, including the indictment."

"Because it's all being done in his name as the elected official, correct?"

"Yes."

"Not because he's personally on your case?"

"No, I guess not."

"That was Darrell Harrow, correct?"

"Correct."

"Until you shot him to death, correct?"

"Shot him to death? Are you serious?"

"It's true, you shot him and tried to make it look like Miranda Morales was the shooter, didn't you?"

"No. I mean
no
!"

"Not only that, Friday night you shot and killed a lawyer on my defense team, didn't you?"

"Yes, but only after I was threatened by her."

"How did she threaten you? Look over at the jury and tell them that."

"She--she was with you and your bodyguard outside my door. I know you had guns!"

"Did Harley Sturgis have a gun?"

"I don't know."

"Did you know when you shot her to death Friday night?"

At this point a juror stands up and begins waving her arms. "Wait a minute, Judge, are we talking about that nice lady at the lawyers' table? She's been
shot
?"

"Ladies and gentlemen, the court has just learned over the weekend that Attorney Harley Sturgis of Mr. Gresham's firm was shot and killed Friday night by Tory Stormont. I have seen the initial police reports and know this to be true. Tory Stormont has claimed the shooting was justified. Your job is not to decide that. This is neither the time nor forum for that. Your job is to decide whether he's giving truthful answers to the questions put here today and that is all. Please proceed."

The jurors sit back uncomfortably. The scenery has been changed. There are no raised hands, no questions. But they are clearly upset. Several are crying openly, two women and one man.

I lean down to Mira. "We are making progress," I whisper.

She says nothing.

"I'm waiting to hear your answer, Officer Stormont. Did you know Friday night when you shot Harley Sturgis whether she was armed?"

"No. I didn't know."

"Did you later find out whether she was armed?"

"I did."

"And what did you find out?"

"Detective Pamlico of Arlington PD told me she was not armed."

"What?"

"She was unarmed."

"What?"

The witness looks at the judge.

"Let me rephrase," I tell the court. "Are you telling us that you just shot and killed your second unarmed civilian in Cook County last Friday night because you felt threatened by her?"

Dead still, deathly quiet.

It is a good point. The jury has picked it up and embraced it.

The man is a killer.

"When speaking to you, we also need to keep in mind you shot and killed Johnny Washington this past year because you felt threatened by him too. So let me ask, do you feel threatened right now? Should we feel threatened by you?"

At that point, the prosecution against Mira is all but over and I know it. It is just a matter of finishing out the trial at this point. Finish the trial and wait for a defense verdict of not guilty.

But there is one more thing. I'm going to break this wide open with the video that Marcel so carefully put together for me. Danny comes forward and keys it up for me on my laptop.

"Permission to play the defendant's video for the witness, Your Honor."

"You may proceed."

I nod to Danny. She presses
PLAY
and we all watch the video where Officer Stormont enters the video view surrounding the elevator vestibule. The camera mounted on the far wall recorded a gun clearly bulging in Stormont’s hip pocket. When we are finished we turn up the lights and I again approach Stormont.

"Now, let me ask, since we're all wondering. As you're leaving the Morales floor the night of the murder of Darrell Harrow, whose gun is it we see bulging in your back pocket?"

His eyes dart around the courtroom. "You know, I want to talk to my lawyer. I'm taking the Fifth Amendment. I'm done here."

So I look up at the judge.

As simply as I can, I say, "Your Honor, the defense rests its case."

The defense case would never be stronger than at that very moment. Something about quitting while you're ahead.

So I quit. I have bagged my man.

He is my first kill of the new week.

And it's only Monday.

W
hile the jury
is out deliberating, Danny and I walk back outside and down to the jail. We ask to see our client, Marcel Rainford.

Ten minutes later, we are alone with Marcel in a conference room. He looks very tired but he is keeping his spirits up, he tells us, by reviewing court papers with other prisoners who are coming to him for advice. "I'm not a lawyer, I told them. But that doesn't matter. I work for a lawyer and that's enough for them. It keeps me from thinking every second about Harley. I got that girl killed, you know."

"No, Stormont did that. We were just doing our job, trying to serve him with process. Please don't beat yourself up, Marcel. We're all in this together."

He looks to Danny and back to me. We both nod that we're in agreement on this. It was a horrible thing, but, in the end, it was part of our job.

"So how close am I to getting out? Any movement on that?"

"Yes, the judge signed an order releasing you OR. You'll be out in the next hour. We just didn't want to leave you hanging."

"The jury's out?"

"The jury's out."

"How did it go?"

"Well, you know I didn't have a confession or even a statement from anyone because the police never did investigate this case beyond immediately pointing the finger at Mira. And of course Stormont made himself totally unavailable, so I went with what I had."

"Which was?"

I sit back and lace my fingers together on the table.

"I went with logic. That good old standby, logic."

"Also known as common sense," adds Danny. "He was terrific. He called Shaughnessy and Stormont and drew the lines that connected them. The jury definitely bought it."

"They didn't have much choice, once Stormont shot poor Harley. He as much as admitted he had also killed Harrow when he did that.
Sayonara
, fool."

"It sounds like a defense verdict is on the horizon for some time today, then," Marcel says.

"Yes, then it's off to the news media. We've got a hell of a story that we have to get out there before voting starts tomorrow."

"How's Mira feeling?"

"You know, when we left she said she was going to go for a long walk. I asked her why. She said she needed some space to start thinking about her staff as the new District Attorney. She's come back around."

"That's good to hear," says Marcel. "She's been through hell over this."

"Yes," says Danny, "she was a pawn in their little game. Pure and simple."

"That's all over," says Marcel. "Thanks to our boy, Michael Gresham."

"Thanks to all of us," I add. "We're all responsible for whatever happens next."

Speaking of which, the jailer comes for me one last time.

"The court called," he says. "You have a verdict."

The three of us look at each other.

"How long they been out, Boss?"

"Less than two hours."

"Oh, my God. I'll be over as soon as they spring me out. Please stick around."

"You know we will, Marcel. We'll be waiting right there."

Danny and I leave the room and walk outside. Early November snow is spitting. The air is flaked with sideways-blowing particles of the white stuff. A vulnerable part of me deep inside suddenly wants to get home away from all this. Away from the court, the black robes, the detective shields, the police uniforms, the jail and jailers. Get home and never leave again. That just might happen, too.

Mira is already at counsel table when we walk into the courtroom. Judge Itaglia is on the bench, the courtroom is packed with media and court watchers, and the State is settled in at their table.

"Mr. Gresham," says the judge, "the court has received notice from the bailiff that the jury has a verdict. Are you ready, sir?"

"We're ready, Your Honor, thank you."

"Very well, the bailiff will bring in the jury."

Minutes later they are led in single file, all twelve of them--the alternates have been excused--and they take their places in the box. The verdict is passed from the jury forewoman and handed to Judge Itaglia, who studies it. She then hands it back to the clerk.

"The clerk will read the verdict."

The clerk stands and studies the paper, then he reads. "We the jury duly impaneled in the case titled
State of Illinois v. Miranda Morales
do find the defendant not guilty on all counts."

"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 .

Y
es
, 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.

S
ix 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 that 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.