Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 1) (17 page)

S
aturday evening rolls around
. I have been despondent all day, thinking about the young mother that Lamb—who else would it be?—has murdered and left behind a 7-Eleven. I am kicking myself for helping turn that animal loose on the streets. A review of my professional life is underway. In my home office, seated behind my desk, I am wearing boxer shorts and drinking a Diet Coke. There is no joy today in Mudville; the great Gresham has struck out.

Maddie arrives at seven-thirty sharp. By prior arrangement, she has one of my garage door openers and comes right into the garage. The door closes down behind her. She comes inside the house, and we have drinks: one-half of one of Sue Ellen's wine coolers for Maddie; an iced latte for me.

We finish our drinks and "catching up" conversation and load into her Highlander. She backs out of the garage while I lie flat in the backseat.

We pull down the street, and I wait for the sweep of headlights behind us to see if we're being followed. So far, so good, because it is all dark behind us, no telltale lights bearing down, no cautious lights hanging back.

Maddie announces we're at Lake Shore Drive, and now she turns right and I come upright.

"Well," she says enthusiastically, "I think that actually worked, Michael."

She swerves into a 7-Eleven, pulls around back, and I step out and climb into the front seat. Then we're off again, southbound on Lake Shore.

There's lots of traffic on LSD tonight, but there's always lots of traffic on Lake Shore Drive on a Saturday night. Everyone seems headed downtown; Maddie and I are breezing along with the mob, the windows rolled down, the sweet sounds of John Coltrane coming at us through eight speakers, and no cares.

"So who's the greatest guitarist?" she says.

"Mark Knopfler."

"Why do you say that."

"The songs. The bridges. The purity of expression. Even Chet Atkins was knocked on his ass when Mark played."

"But he's not jazz."

"Believe me. If he wanted to be, he would be."

She smiles, thinking.

She says, "Who's the greatest on the black and whites?"

"Art Tatum. The most virtuosic pianist in the history of jazz. Tremendous technique and could play at dizzying speeds."

"I'm thinking
Tiger Rag
."

"Exactly. Insanely fast, the 1933 recording of
Tiger Rag
."

"Not Thelonius?"

"Nope. Tatum. Number one in my book. How about you?"

She laughs. "Art Tatum."

"See?"

"I know."

We continue southbound and finally enter the Chicago city limits. I am trying not to keep watching behind but, in truth, I am a rank amateur and can't keep looking to see if we're being followed. Marcel has told me he'll have eyes on us tonight so even if I did spot something suspicious it could just as easily be Marcel's guys as MexTel. I have a quiet talk with myself and commit to just enjoying the evening. No more swiveling around in my seat.

We continue south, passing through the University of Chicago, and take Lake Shore Drive to Ellis Avenue then northwest of 59th near UC. House of Jazz appears on our right and Maddie starts looking for parking. We pull up closer and find valet parking.

"Out of the way?" I tease. "With valet parking? I guess."

"I've got a surprise for you, Mr. Worrywart. Let's get inside."

She hands the keys over to a college kid and we duck inside and are immediately greeted with the sweet sounds of a three piece jazz ensemble passing the tune around. Maddie waves off the hostess and says to her, "I see our table. It's being saved."

We move toward the front of the club and seem to be heading to a table populated by a man with a beard who's wearing a black beret, and a college-age girl.

We come up beside them, and I am stunned.

It's Arnie. And Esmeralda.

"Sit down and don't act surprised," Arnie murmurs out of the corner of his mouth.

Maddie and I place ourselves on either side of Arnie. Esmeralda is across from him.

"How—"

"He called me," Maddie says. "He didn't trust your phone line."

"I called her last night from an OXXO. They sold me a phone card and I remembered Maddie's number and called her."

"God, man, I am so glad to see you!" I say under my breath. I want to wrap my arms around him and bearhug him for five minutes. But I don't.

Maddie reaches and takes Esmeralda's hand. "How are you, sweetheart?"

Her eyes light up. "I'm pregnant. The stick turned blue this morning when we got back across the border."

"Congratulations!" Maddie says and squeezes the young girl's hand.

"Yes," I say, as I'm becoming resigned to whatever this is. "Congratulations. Let's order an appetizer to celebrate."

The waitress has arrived, and she takes our drink orders, and I ask for the sautéed mushroom appetizer.

Arnie's beard is glue-on, I see from up close.

"Nice," I say, stroking my imaginary beard.

"Found a costume shop in Cozumel. I'm thinking of adding the real thing. Before I forget, here's something I want you to have. Plug it into your computer only if something happens to me."

He takes my hand under the table and drops a USB computer memory stick onto my palm. He closes my fingers around the present.

"Jeez, man, don't say that. That's a real downer," I complain, little brother to big brother. "What is it?"

He puts a finger to his lips. "You're on a need to know basis. But it's the file everyone's going ga-ga over."

"MexTel?"

"Uh-huh."

I shove it into my jeans pocket and look nonchalantly around. No one in the immediate vicinity seems to give a damn, so the exchange is made, unexpected—and even unwanted—as it is.

"Not too much conversation," Arnie says to us.

"You've become an expert in this dark world of evading people," Maddie says with a giggle.

"Girl," Arnie says, "did you hear me?"

"What, laughing is out? Move off it, Arnie. We're having a night out. People laugh on a night out."

I'm not looking at him when I ask, behind my casually placed hand, "MexTel is after you. I think they're after me. Why don't we just turn the file over to them and go on with our lives? You're going to be a father; I've already got some bad stuff on my plate. Why don't we just skip all the drama and skip off down the street?"

"Can't do that," Arnie says. "I'm committed to the people of Mexico."

He sounds like he's back on his meds. So I ask. "Are you taking your Risperidone again?"

"As of last night. I needed to bring it down a notch for the move."

"I see. Well, that's a relief."

"It's only temporary. My thoughts are confused already. None of that startling clarity as I get when I'm sans meds."

"Oh, that's a loss," I say sarcastically. It isn't lost on Arnie.

"You'll see. We're talking huge headlines in the next week."

"In Chicago?"

"Mexico City. All of Mexico."

"Arnie, tell me you're not getting ready to turn the file over to the Mexican press?"

"That little drive I just gave you? That's got everything on it, in case something happens to me. Michael. Make sure it gets out if they get me."

"Come on, Arnie, lay off that negativity, huh? I almost liked you better off the meds." I realize it's the wrong thing to say because he'll take it literally.

"I definitely do like me better off the meds. It's just a matter of time."

Our mushrooms arrive with our drinks. The ensemble takes a break, and the noise volume increases as respect for the band dissipates and everyone's talking at once. Esmeralda excuses herself and heads off to the bathroom. Maddie goes with her: moral support; I can only guess.

"Listen, Michael," Arnie says confidentially, "that's my baby inside that woman. Please take care of it like it was your own if—"

"If something happens to you. Got it. Arnie, have you stopped to consider you're forty years older than the mother of your child?"

"What does age have to do with anything? We're both happier than we've been in years. Happy is all that counts, Michael. Are you ever going to get ahold of that truism?"

I remember the indictment. My happy meter plunges.

"I got myself indicted with the Judge Pennington case," I tell him.

"Who's Judge Pennington? You mean federal Judge Pennington?"

"I'm defending him. I made the mistake of trusting a client, and I made a call to a witness. The USA indicted me for it."

"Obstruction of justice?"

"Uh-huh. And conspiracy."

"Jesus. I'm going to have to get you out of that, I suppose."

"Not necessary. I hired Valentine Quinones."

"Val is the best. Second only to me, probably."

You know, he's right. My brother probably is the best when he's in town. I don't comment.

Just then, two Hispanic men enter the room. It's a half-light atmosphere, but I think—I can, I can make out their faces. It's the same two guys that accompanied Perez and Aguilar to my office.

"Don't look, Arnie. The goon squad just came in. I wonder if there's a back entrance. We need to leave, now."

Arnie, for once, listens to me and doesn't turn to look. They either haven't spotted me or are doing a damn good job of acting like they haven't spotted me. In an instant I realize it's the latter; why else would they be here? Latinos are not known for being jazz buffs—excuse the stereotype.

"Who is it?" Arnie asks.

"Two nasty-looking thugs. They came to my office with your client and his lawyer."

"Perez came to your office? With Aguilar?"

"Uh-huh. They're hot on your trail, brother."

"Oh, hell. I'm going to go over and confront them," Arnie says.

I seize his arm and keep him seated.

"Are you nuts? Look, you head back toward the restrooms. The kitchen has an outside entrance. Go take it and gather up the girls when you go by. I'll wait here, so they don't follow you."

"No way I'm leaving you."

"Arnie, this isn't open for discussion. Go. Now!"

For once in his life, Arnie actually listens to his younger brother. He tosses down the rest of his scotch and heads toward the restrooms. I purposely look directly at the two hit-men. They return my look, and their eyes sweep right on by. They're good. But…they stay in their seats. So far it's working. I remember the thumb drive in my jeans pocket. It wouldn't go well for me if these thugs laid hands on me and found me holding the drive. I have no doubt they'd kill me: after they had relieved me of the drive, that is. My eyes dart around the room while the two are avoiding making eye contact. I can't come up with anyplace to stash the drive.

Five minutes pass by. Seven. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the two men, the big guy, casually stand, stretch his arms and inhale mightily, and saunter toward the restrooms. He doesn't look at me as he passes me by. Cool Hand Luke, I'm thinking. In my imagination, I see his route: into the hallway and down to the men's room. Looking inside, no one there. At least, Arnie's not there. Back across to the ladies'. Pushes inside, shrieks of women in various stages of undress, ignoring them, realizes the women, too, are missing. Then a quick dance down to the hall to the kitchen doors and he's inside the kitchen, his eyes on fire, and looking at the back door, open to the alley and the cool night air.

He returns and almost runs past me. They don't go to the back as I'm predicting. Instead, they're out the front entrance in a flash, and I am suddenly off their radar. It's clearly Arnie they're interested in now that they've probably realized who the guy with the beard was. Arnie, not me.

So I lay two twenties on the table and head for the back door. By this time, I am sure Maddie and Arnie and Esmeralda have made their getaway, and now it's my turn.

The alley is dark, and two men are coming toward me from the near end. I turn and start walking as fast as I can walk in the opposite direction. I hear steps behind me that are the sound of running, not walking. I break into a run and make the corner and head back left, along the side of the House of Jazz, and then left again, heading toward the valet parking stand.

The twosome closes on me as I stand as close as possible to the valet stand. They boldly walk up and seize me by the arms and move me off.

A van pulls up just then, and the door slides open. I am pushed and dragged and forced inside and the door slams shut. My heart is pounding. My breath is coming in short gasps. I am thrown onto the floor, and someone straddles me, pinning my arms to the floor with their knees. A cloth bag is pulled down over my head and at the same time I am flipped over and my hands are handcuffed behind my back. Then the same person is straddling me again, sitting on my arms and hands. It hurts.

"Hey," I cry out, "please! You're killing my arms."

"
Cállate estúpido!
" someone growls at me.

My face is pressed to the floor, sideways, and I am hyperventilating. I try to slow my breathing by closing my eyes and forcing myself to breathe through my nose. Somehow I manage to slow down, and the dizziness begins subsiding. Whoever is upon my back rolls off and strong arms pull me up into a sitting position.

"
Puta
, where is our file?"

"I don't know where your file is!"

Hands jam down into my jeans pockets. The USB thumb drive is found and ripped out.

"
Aqui, Martino
! This pig had this in its pocket!"

"Plug it in the laptop," an Anglo voice responds.

I shout, "Arnie! Are you in here?" and someone backhands me across the mouth. It splits my bottom lip, and I can taste blood. Not a lot, so I'm not worried. Best of all, Arnie didn't answer. I'm hoping my three partners made it out of the alley and located Maddie's SUV in valet parking. As for me, we're rolling along, slowing at stop signs somewhere in the vicinity of the University of Chicago where there are lots of stop signs. Then I lose all sense of direction and lose any inner map of where we are. I am lost.

"
Puta
, you had our file!" the Latino voice exclaims again, and again I'm punched in the mouth. This time, there's lots of blood, and I'm swallowing it down and feeling my teeth with my tongue. My teeth feel intact, and I cringe, finding a seat with my back, hoping they don't hit me again.