Final Exam: A Legal Thriller (16 page)

The whole thing took about an hour.
 
Megan was searched, fingerprinted and photographed.
 
Her belongings were inventoried and she was forced to change out of her clothing and into an orange prison jumpsuit and dingy tennis shoes without laces.
 
When they were done, Nelson brought her out to a small corridor where Ben waited.
 

“Can I have a couple of minutes alone with her?” Ben asked.
 

“Sure,” Nelson said, “why don’t you go in here.
 
Just knock on the door when you’re done.”
 

They went into a small conference room with a square table and four metal chairs.
 
They didn’t sit down.
 
Ben faced her and put his hands on her shoulders.
 
“You’re doing a great job,” he said.
 
“I’m very proud of you.”
 

She laughed a mirthless laugh.
 
“Proud of me the way I’m handling my first arrest?
 
I can hear it now.
 
‘Gee Mom, you should have been there when I had my fingerprints taken.
 
You would have been proud of me.’”
 

“Okay, okay,” Ben said.
 
“If you’re going to do something, you may as well do it right.”
 
He smiled and shook a finger at her.
 
“And don’t talk to anyone.
 
Even here.
 
You never know who may be listening.”
 
She nodded.
 
“You can do this.
 
I know you can,” Ben said.
 
“I’ll see you in the morning for Court.”
 

“Can you call Joe later and check on A.J. for me?” she asked.
 

“Of course.
 
I was going to call him and let him know how things were going anyway.
 
Don’t worry about that.
 
We’ll take care of everything out here and hopefully by this time tomorrow, you’ll be back at home sitting in your freshly vacuumed house with the lights out.”
 

She shrugged.
 
“About the only thing worse than getting arrested, I figured, was getting arrested and coming home to a messy house.”
 

“Well, if it’s any consolation to you,” Ben said, “you’ve probably got the neatest house of anybody who got arrested tonight.”
 
As he said this, he put his arms around her and held her long enough so she would know he really meant it.
 
“All right.
 
Now take care of yourself.
 
Don’t talk to anybody and I’ll see you in the morning,” he whispered in her ear.

Ben knocked on the door, it opened and they stepped out into the hallway.
 
Detective Nelson took Meg by the arm and began to lead her down the hallway toward the back of the building.
 
As he did so, Megan grabbed Ben’s hand and gave it a short squeeze.
 
He nodded and said, “Take care of yourself,” again and turned and headed in the opposite direction toward the front of the building.
 
As Ben emerged from inside, he stood on the front steps and looked at his watch - eight-thirty.
  
A cold gust of wind blew open the front of his coat, and he grabbed it and buttoned it, pulling his gloves from his pockets and putting them on.
 
He looked around.
 
No reporters.
 
True to his word, Nelson had kept a lid on the news.
 
Ben walked around the side of the building to the parking lot, clicked open the locks with his keyless remote and climbed inside.
 
He took his cell phone from its belt clip and punched in Joseph
Cavallaro’s
home phone number.

About an hour later, just as Benjamin
Lohmeier
pulled into his driveway, a news brief came on Channel 7, the local ABC affiliate in Chicago.
 
“An arrest is made in the Law School Murder case.
 
Details at ten,” the talking head said.
 

***

The Protector sat in a small room paying bills, the TV serving as little more than background noise when the news brief came on.
 
It was over before the Protector could locate the remote and turn up the sound.
 
The Protector quickly searched through the other channels looking for more local news, but couldn’t find the story anywhere.
 
I’ll just have to wait until
ten
, the Protector thought.
 

The Protector was ready when the ten o’clock news began on Channel 7.
 

“Our top story tonight,” the anchor began, “an arrest has been made in the New Years Eve murder of Professor Daniel Greenfield in his office at the Chicago College of Law.
 
We go now to Channel 7 reporter, Randy Shaw at District 4 headquarters.
 
Randy?”

The Protector sat upright, head cocked toward the television, the aroma of tonight’s dinner still filling the air.

“Thank you, Ron.
 
At about eight o’clock this evening, Chicago Police Department detectives arrested one Megan Rand
Cavallaro
, age 39, of 1200 North Dearborn in Chicago on charges of first degree murder in the death of Professor Daniel Greenfield of the Chicago College of Law.
 
Ms.
Cavallaro
surrendered into police custody at that time and was taken here for processing.
 

“It is believed that she has already been transported to the main lockup at the Cook County Jail, where she will await a bond hearing at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.
 
According to police sources, Mrs.
Cavallaro
, the wife of prominent Chicago personal injury lawyer, Joseph
Cavallaro
, is a former student of Professor Greenfield’s at the law school, graduating in 1992.
 
Police sources confirm that Mrs.
Cavallaro
has been tied to the crime scene through physical and other evidence.
 
Authorities have still not confirmed how Daniel Greenfield died.

“The
accused’s
husband, Joseph
Cavallaro
, has been unavailable for comment.
 
A spokesman for Cook County State’s Attorney, Richard McBride, told Channel 7 News just a few minutes ago that more details about this case will be available tomorrow morning after Mrs.
Cavallaro’s
appearance in Bond Court.
 
Back to you, Ron.”
 

The Protector
surfed
the other channels, but could find no additional information.
 
“Megan Rand
Cavallaro
,” the Protector said aloud.
 
“I wonder.”
 

Meanwhile, Benjamin and Libby
Lohmeier
watched the same news report from the couch of their family room.
 
Ben sat silent and still, his eyes fixated on the TV screen, a piece of cold pizza in one hand and a bottle of Rolling Rock in the other, as Randy Shaw gave his report.
 
As the anchor began the next news story, Libby grabbed the remote, clicked the pause button on the
Tivo
and turned to her husband, who was still staring silently at the stilled screen.
 
“So,” she said, “when is the phone going to start ringing?”
 

He took a bite of the pizza and washed it down with a sip of the beer.
 
“Soon,” he said.
 
“You’d better get used to not answering it.”

15

The Cook County Criminal Courts building is an imposing dirty-white stone structure that is the kind of place where people go never to return again.
 
Neither architecturally significant nor aesthetically pleasing, the Criminal Courthouse looks like exactly what it is - a brutish factory of waste and despair, churning out inmates every year by the thousands.
 
Connected to its rear is the sprawling campus surrounded by circular rings of barbed wire that is the Cook County Jail.
 
The jail complex contains more than ten different buildings, a couple of which were designed specifically to house female inmates.
 
A separate building even provides maternity care for female prisoners in need of it.
 
Ben tried not to think about Meg spending the night in one of the cells behind those walls.
 

Although Ben didn’t necessarily realize it at the time, the dirt and grime that clogged the wheels of justice in Cook County infected all of those who worked there as well.
 
No matter how hard you washed or scrubbed, you took a bit of the grime of the Cook County Criminal Court system with you when you left this place.
 

Ben and Mark made it through the metal detectors unscathed and found Megan’s name and case number on a bulletin board outside Room 101.
 

“We’re pretty far down the call,” Mark said.
 
“Why don’t we go and check in?
 
Sometimes they take the cases out of order if you check in early enough.”
 

They pushed through the doors and into the large courtroom.
 
On the near side of a wall of bulletproof glass, members of the media jostled for spots in the front row of the visitor’s section.
 
Across the way, at the table reserved for prosecutors, stood Bridget Fahey.
 
Even with her back to them, Ben would know Bridget Fahey anywhere.
 
Mark let out a low whistle.
 
“Wow,” he said under his breath.
 
“They’re bringing out the big guns for this one.
 
This has to be for our case.”
 
Ben nodded in agreement.
 

Tall, slim and attractive, Bridget Fahey wore her reddish-blond hair straight and parted on the right, much like her current politics.
 
She turned to grab something from her briefcase and they got a better look at her.
 
Her dark gray suit looked professionally tailored, and her black heels freshly shined.
 
Her pale blue eyes were covered in fashionable frameless lenses, probably just props, Ben thought, to make her look more intelligent.
 

“You know her, don’t you?” Mark said under his breath.
 

“Yeah,” Ben said, “we used to work together.”
 

For a time, Ben and Bridget Fahey were fellow Assistant State’s Attorneys assigned to Judge Patrick Maloney’s courtroom.
 
Bridget was the senior assistant in the courtroom at that time and, therefore, received most of the best assignments, leaving few plums for the less experienced prosecutors like Ben.
 
Nevertheless, Ben got a few good cases now and then and managed to catch the attention of his wing supervisor.
 
During the year or so they shared the courtroom, Ben and Bridget got to know each other fairly well.
 
They handled a number of cases together, including some fairly significant prosecutions.
 
Ben’s skills in the courtroom earned Bridget’s respect in those days, and Ben had to admit that she was a fine trial lawyer herself.
 

When he saw her, Ben realized that he should have expected that this case could draw Bridget Fahey back into the courtroom.
 
Ben turned to Mark and slowly shook his head.
 
“Don’t bother checking in.
 
With her here, you can rest assured that we’ll be first on the call.
 
Come on, I’d better go pay my respects.”
 

Ben led Mark through the door and down the center aisle.
 
They walked over to the counsel table, where Fahey was looking through a file, and Ben said in a loud theatrical voice just as they arrived, “Why, if it isn’t the Honorable Bridget Fahey.
 
Good to see you slumming this morning.”
 

“Counselor,” she replied looking up, “it’s been a long time.
 
Have you gained weight?”
 
She gave him a thin smile and extended her hand, which Ben shook.
 
Never one to be intimidated, she squeezed Ben’s hand more firmly than necessary.
 
Her hand felt cool and dry.

“No, just wisdom,” he said.
 
“Bridget, I’d like to introduce you to my colleague, Mark Schaefer.”
 
He gestured to Mark, who was now standing beside him.
 
“Mark, this is Bridget Fahey, the First Assistant State’s Attorney of Cook County.”
 

“Nice to meet you,” Mark said.
 

“Likewise.”
 

They shook hands.
 
Ben continued.
 
“Mark’s going to be helping me with this case.
 
So, I can assume from your presence that this case is not quite big enough to draw Mr. McBride himself?”
 

She gave Ben a chilly glare.
 
“Not at this point.
 
Nelson told me you were handling this case.
 
I guess that explains how you managed to surrender your client in the dark of night with absolute secrecy.”