Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 1) (22 page)

"
H
ey there
, cop killer!"

I am walking along the slant to my parking slot in underground parking, deep in thought, when I'm suddenly jarred by the epithet. I turn and can't quite make out the person. He draws nearer, and I realize it's Nathan Fordyce. He looks very dark, almost malevolent here in the dim basement. This is not the same squeaky-clean FBI agent I saw in the office of AUSA San-Jish.

He's wearing a black suit, white shirt, black tie, and Ray-Bans. I cannot see his eyes and I'm wondering why the Ray-Bans when he suddenly whips them off and gives me a glassy-eyed stare as he jerkily approaches. I am about to open the driver's door on my SUV when he puts his hand on my forearm and jerks it back.

"Easy, Hoss," he says. I can smell the overpowering smell of alcohol on his breath. Suddenly I'm on full alert.

"What is it?" I ask. "Am I being arrested again?"

"Not yet! I'm just here to ask you why you killed my partner?"

"Your partner's dead?"

"Last night. Shot outside his home in his own driveway. Where were you last night, Mr. Gresham?"

"I was with my ex-wife eating dinner," I tell him, knowing that Sue Ellen would actually cover for me if push ever came to shove. The truth is, I watched the Cubs lose to the Brewers last night, alone, in my own home.

"Well the SAIC has the case. I'm not actually assigned, you'll be glad to know, or I'd run your ass downtown."

"Well, I'm glad for that, then," I say, and allow an easy smile.

Which relaxes him somewhat.

"Seriously," I tell him, "I'm terribly sorry to hear about your partner. I really am."

The agent looks at me and catches himself as he sways on legs that are slightly out of control.

"Whoa," I say and extend my hand. He waves it off and catches himself on the side of my SUV.

"Jim Burns was his name, in case you forgot. He was driving the car the day I shook you down."

"I remember."

"He was with me when we got the indictment against you."

"Well, there you are then. I know he was just doing his job."

He pushes away from the side of my car and raises a finger and points it at my forehead. "Not so! Nobody's just doing their job. The Bureau isn't like that, sir. We believe you're guilty, and it's our duty to act on that. You called those bastards in Tijuana and conspired with them to change their story! We have a recording of that. If that's not good enough, MexTel has a recording too."

This last phrase hangs in the air like a plume of breath on an icy day. Then the words suddenly explode in my mind. MexTel has a recording.

"MexTel has a recording? How does MexTel have a recording?"

"Oh, no, brother. You're gonna have to ask MexTel about that!" He leans closer. "Do I really look that stupid to you?"

"No, sir. You don't look stupid at all. I'm just wondering how you found out MexTel was recording the cartel's phone call with me."

He points to the side of his head, and his eyes light up. "We have our ways," he says. "Your FBI doesn't miss anything!"

"Does MexTel have other recordings?" I know I'm going for the gold here, but, hey, it never hurts to ask.

"What recordings?" he says with a sneer, suddenly very crafty. "Did I say MexTel has recordings?"

"Yes, you said MexTel has recordings."

"All right, then. Go ask them. Bunch of goddamn Mexicans anyway." He makes a swipe at me with an open hand, groping for my necktie. I jerk back, and he gathers the lapel of my suit and wads it in his hand, pulling me toward him. He puts his face inches from mine and whispers, "Don't fucking move."

"Hey, what's this about?"

"You shot my partner last night, didn't you?"

"I've never killed anything or anybody. That's not who I am."

"Bullshit. It was you or the Mexicans. And I think they're too goddamn stupid."

"Would they have any reason to murder your partner?"

"MexTel?"

"No, the cartel."

He gives me a long, studied look. It's as if he's considering that I might actually know something.

"That's the question," he says. "I'm working on that."

"I see you are. Hey, are you driving today?"

"Naw, too drunk to drive. My new partner's waiting up at the pay booth."

"Okay, good. Well, go some place and coffee up, huh? Then go sleep it off, Agent Fordyce."

His eyes narrow and he gives me a dagger look. "As if you really give a good goddamn. You criminal lawyers are all the same. One of us goes down; you celebrate."

"Hey, I'm not celebrating. In fact, your partner getting murdered is sad."

"Then you might be one of the good guys. I'm going to let you go now, counselor. We'll talk again."

"All right, Agent Fordyce. I'm sorry about Jim Burns."

"Yeah. Me too," he says and manages to turn and lurch off toward who knows where.

I open the door to my SUV and climb in. When I start it up, I am grateful for the backing-up camera. Nothing would be worse than running over a passed-out FBI agent. Especially the one who's investigating me.

Halfway home to Evanston, my cell phone beeps. Marcel.

"Hey, Marce. What's up?"

"You headed home?"

"I am."

"Good. Stay there. I'm headed up."

"I'll put the coffee on."

"Thirty minutes, Michael. Don't go anyplace else."

"All right. Can you give me some clue—"

"Go straight home and don't leave."

We hang up, and I find myself checking traffic out of my rearview mirror. I even reach and point the rearview down so I can check the backseat of my SUV. A shiver works its way up my spine, and I realize I am terrified.

I want to go someplace safe.

M
arcel calls
me when he's two blocks from my house. He tells me to open the garage, that he's coming in. Two minutes later I've got the door up and he's rolling inside.

His first words to me, as he's coming up the stairs out of the garage: "Never ask me to go to Tijuana again, Michael."

"Too dangerous?"

"Border crossing is three hours coming back. Homeland Security at work. Some woman ahead of me in line had evidently had a heart scan done. You know, radioactive isotopes injected into the blood stream. So she sets off Geiger counters at the border crossing from ten cars back. All these little soldiers in blue uniforms are running up and down the line of cars with Geiger counters. Then they find her and half-convince her that she's a terrorist. She's in her seventies, and they're holding her in secondary while they're passing these wands all over her body. Last I hear, she's laughing and telling them she gets to choose who does the body cavity search!"

"No way!"

"Way. Anyhow, the whole trip wasn't nearly as much fun. Those are some serious
narcotraficantes
down there, Michael. The upshot is, yes, they've been harassed by the FBI and promised the moon if they testify against Judge Pennington. You, you're a gnat on their radar screen. Here's the best part. They've broken off negotiations with the FBI, and they're not going to testify at all. Never were planning to testify. The FBI has been spoofing everyone."

"That's good news, right? They're not going to testify against me?"

"Good as it comes, I'd say. But they did tell me one thing about you."

"Yes?"

"Judge Pennington tried to buy a hit on you. This was during Lamb's trial. These guys refused, lucky for you."

"So why did they tell you all this?"

"Because they remember my name from Interpol. I called the dogs off them at one time years ago, and they haven't forgotten."

"One small question. Was it these guys who burned me?"

"No. They don't burn and extinguish. With these dogs, they burn, and you die. No, it was MexTel who did all that."

"I told you I heard Fordyce that night."

"Maybe him too. I can see him helping MexTel."

"What about getting to Arnie through me? Would the FBI be helping MexTel get Arnie's file away from him?"

"Entirely possible. MexTel is a tremendous intel source for our triple alphabet: FBI and CIA and NSA. Wouldn't surprise me for a second to find the FBI in bed with them."

"He threw the lighter on me. I know it was him. I heard him."

"Maybe, maybe not. We'll probably never know."

"Did you ask Ramon about it at all?"

"No. These guys aren't working you, Michael. You're nothing to them."

"Okay. Now tell me about this new thing with the judge. Should I be worried?"

"Only if he's managed to buy off some other hitter. Short version: hell yes, be worried. Until something happens and he's trucked off to prison or the narcos kill him, you’ve got me on your six every second."

"You're taking this all the way serious."

"That I am, Señor Gresham."

"All right. So how do we work it? You know what? Screw this! I'm going to go over to this crazy bastard's house and confront him!"

"That would be a terrible idea. He'd shoot you and get away with it. Slow down and think: local lawyer accused by judge is shot trying to break into judge's house. Not your best headline. Or obit, depending on how good a shot he is."

"I hear he practices every week. He's probably quite good."

Marcel places his shoulder bag down on the table we've arranged ourselves around. There is a light overhead in a brass fixture, and the light burnishes the silver of the gun as Marcel draws it out of the bag and places it in front of me.

"Nickel plated Colt .45," he says, a hint of wonder in his voice. "Colt Series Seventy."

"This is for me?"

"That, and this," he says, and slips an ammo clip out of the bag. Next comes a shoulder holster, and he inserts the ammo clip into a small case attached to the shoulder holster. Then he takes up the gun, releases its clip, works the slide to show me it's unloaded, inserts the magazine, works the slide once again to chamber a fat forty-five round, and slides the loaded weapon in the shoulder holster. He holds the unit out to me and motions I should put it on. I shrug into it, and I am impressed with the weight of the gun and bullets. I know I must look like something I've seen on TV ten thousand times, but that's good. I find that I am comfortable being armed and, because of all the rounds we've shot on the range, I feel quite comfortable in the rig.

"Nice," I say and pat the gun. "Good fit, too."

"This gun is now yours, Michael. Never sell it; it can't be replaced."

"I won't. I'll treasure this. How can I thank you? Do I pay you or what?"

"Don't insult me. This gun is a gift. And it's a necessity right now with John Dillinger alive and well on the streets of Chicago again."

"Not to change the subject. Have you heard about Jim Burns?"

"Fordyce's partner? Not only heard about it, I know who did it."

"Judge Pennington?"

"Naw, he's too fucking smart to kill a Fibbie. Now this was a TJ whack job. The cartel got him."

"But why?"

"He was down there last week threatening them with a busload of hurt if they didn't agree to come to Chicago and give testimony to a new grand jury. Evidently they were adding more charges against the judge."

"What about against me?"

"Not included this time around, mister. The Fibbies got a recording from MexTel. The recording was the call from Judge Pennington to Raul Ramon where he's offering the guy a hundred grand to murder you. Mr. Ramon laughed at him and said he makes a hundred grand every hour, and he never has to leave his TV set."

"That is scary. It was me he was trying to have killed, you’re sure?”

"That's why I'm here, Michael. Anyway, long story short, the cartel doesn't like being threatened. They had a local thumper hit Jim Burns outside his home. Some guy on a bicycle of all things."

"Oh my God."

"Yes. The good part is, you're clear with the TJ guys. They've got nothing for you. But you're not clear with Pennington, and you're not clear with Nathan Fordyce."

"How do you know that?"

"After Burns got shot, Fordyce calls Raul Ramon and cusses him a blue streak. Evidently Fordyce is drunk and threatens Ramon too, if they won't testify against you."

"So are they going to come here and testify against me?"

"What do you think, Michael? These people are wealthy beyond Bill Gates, and they're anybody's worst nightmare. They're not under the FBI's thumb or anyone else's thumb. Sorry to let you down, kid, but you basically don't amount to shit with them. Nope, they won't be coming to your anointing on September fifteenth when you begin your trial."

I gasp and release an enormous sigh of relief. My head is just about spinning with all this, some good, some frightening.

"I should send you to TJ more often, Marcel."

"Never going back. While I was waiting in line at the border, I bought a four-foot statue of Elvis, two pork tacos, and a guitar made out of pressed fiberboard. There was nothing else to pass the time."

I'm laughing now and about to offer my poor, overworked bodyguard a drink. Or offer to take him to dinner.

He reads my mind.

"I'm taking the couch tonight. I've already told Evie I have your ass covered."

"Really? When were you talking to Mrs. Lingscheit?"

He winks and rolls his eyes. "When aren't I talking to her, you mean. Love that gal, Michael. All woman. All German, all hard-working and hard-saving. My kind of gal, that one."

"Okay, okay. I'll order in some Chinese. You grab the TV remote and see who's playing who tonight. Do you like the Cubbies?"

"You kidding? I'm a working stiff. White Sox for me."

"All right. Let's see who's on."

"I'm on it. Hot and spicy General Tso's Chicken for me, Michael."

"I already knew that. You've been here before, Marcel."

"All right! I knew you were good, kid, I just didn't know how good."

S
unday morning Marcel
has insisted I go spend time at the shooting range. Last night, Danny and I went out to the jazz club, and it was quite a letdown. A letdown because Marcel tagged along. He had a man follow us and he stayed right with us. Did it cramp my style? That question assumes I even have a style. After a few lame attempts at having some laughs with Danny the tension finally got the best of both of us and we went home early. We dropped her at her place and drove home in silence.

The shooting range sounds uninteresting to me, but I go along with it because Marcel says I need to. While I'm there, and I'm armed, he will take his truck in for maintenance at QuikLube. The range outside Palatine is built on the back end of a firearms store that at one time was a barn on the Hosea Johnson King Seed farm. At least according to the sign along the highway as you enter the parking lot. There are maybe a dozen cars snuggled up along the first parking lane. Marcel pulls up, engine running, and I climb out carrying my utility bag with my gun and enough ammo to keep me squeezing off rounds for an hour or two. I slap the side of his truck, and he pulls off.

I go inside and examine the pistols in the display cases and ask to hold two of them. One that I like is the Glock 26 with the fifteen round magazine because I have large hands, and it fits me better than the regulation magazine. The other one I like is the hugely popular Glock 19. It's made for self-defense and has a history of reliability as good as any gun ever made.

After my window-shopping, I pay for my alley, select several targets, and walk through the north door into the shooting range. My earmuffs block out most of the sound from the dozen or so shooters in various stages of shooting, retrieving and replacing targets, reloading, cleaning, and taking cigarette breaks. It is loud and noisy and intense. As I'm walking along to my alley, I suddenly realize I'm looking at the back of the head of Francis Pennington Jr. He is standing at my right, directly facing his target and using a two-handed grip. His shooting glasses are yellow, and he is wearing in-the-ear hearing protection. He doesn't see me.

I pause and watch him shoot. Before he's emptied the magazine, I realize the judge is probably the best shooter I've ever watched. His groups are tight and centered, his trigger action is fast, and he's shooting without aiming so much as just looking. He seems to have mastered the sport. I realize he's shooting his regular Sunday morning box of 1000 rounds. He doesn't see me but neither do I want him to feel my eyes on his back, so I move on along. When I stop, there are four individuals in between us and I relax, knowing he very likely won't notice me because he would have no reason to approach my end of the shooting gallery.

Loading my pistol and affixing my target to the frame, I am keeping one eye on Judge Pennington. A shooter that was between us has shut down and left; now there are but three separating us and I'm only just beginning. Hopefully, the two remaining women and one man won't wrap up soon.

I quickly put a hundred rounds through my Colt. It is a heavy gun, and I'm impressed with how much of the recoil the gun eats up, not transferring it into my hands. I have nine empty magazines and pause to reload. To my right, I realize there are but two people standing between the judge and me. He is still shooting—very quick shots, tat-tat-tat-tat-tat, and repeat—and I'm quite certain he hasn't noticed me. Now I find myself praying the two shooters between us stand their ground. I am rewarded when a third shooter shows up and begins organizing her practice between us. At one moment Judge Pennington looks directly at me, but I believe he fails to recognize me thanks to my cap, muffs, and amber lenses.

Thirty minutes go by. I put hundreds of rounds through my weapon, stopping when I must to reload and wipe the barrel and have a drink of my Orange Crush. During one of these breaks I ease my gaze over to the right and discover Pennington is nowhere to be seen. I turn and face that way, removing the shooting glasses from my face, and just as I do he comes bursting through the far door, lugging a case of ammo under his arm and carrying his gun in his hip holster. He sees me, and he freezes. I don't turn away, and it is a standoff. For the first several moments I am numb. I am holding my gun, but the magazine is on the small wood ledge to my left. His right-hand moves down toward his gun and, almost unbelievably, he draws and aims the muzzle directly at me. He smiles evilly. I panic and fall to my left, behind two other shooters, and my hand flops around on the ledge above me in a futile effort to locate a loaded magazine so that I may defend myself.

Finally, I secure a magazine that I had been loading. It is about half-full but I insert it into my Colt and slam it home and in the next moment I rack the slide and lodge a bullet in the chamber for firing. Ever so slowly from my crouched position, I edge my head out to look for the judge. At first I don't see him, so I come out further. Now other shooters are noticing me in this crouched position, and they are looking left/right and left/right trying to understand what I'm doing kneeled down on the concrete floor. So I act as if I have misplaced something and slowly begin to stand, all the while looking carefully to my left to see if I can locate the bastard who pointed the gun at me.

Now coming fully upright I step into the aisle and, to my enormous relief, see that he has left the area. Just at that moment, Marcel comes through the door. He is wearing his gun in a shoulder holster and carrying a large storage box of ammo, evidently intent on taking the space just beyond me and firing off a few hundred rounds.

He approaches me and sees that I am broken out in sweat.

"What?" he says.

"Pennington was here!"

"Here, here?"

"Yes, four units down. He pointed his gun at me.”

"What?" Marcel is moving back toward the door he just came through, obviously after the judge. He shoves ahead, scattering two shooters who are trying to enter, and disappears as the door closes. Again I am alone, and I'm loading my magazines as fast as my fingers and hands will work. One fully loaded magazine replaces the partial magazine I had inserted earlier. New rounds are stuffed down inside the magazine and soon every magazine I have is fully loaded and ready to fire. These are target loads but believe me, they will do more than tear a target to shreds. A man would quickly die from just one well-placed round.

Five minutes later, Marcel returns. He shrugs as he comes toward me.

"You're sure it was Judge Pennington?"

"Of course, I'm sure. I've known the guy a dozen years or more."

"And he aimed a gun at you?"

"Yes."

"Then we need to call the police and file a report."

"No. He'll just deny it. Nobody else was looking. One on one."

"Okay. How are you feeling?"

"Scared. I'm not going to be a combat shooter. That became very apparent to me."

"Well stand back because I am and I'm not leaving you alone again for one minute."

"He lives in Barrington. This must be where he shoots on Sundays," I say lamely, still trying to believe it just happened that we ran into each other.

"Small world when it comes to ranges. I always see lots of gun owners I know."

"Marcel. He
aimed
that thing at me."

"Next time, aim back and pull the trigger. That's called self-defense."

"He's good. I saw his grouping."

"He probably is. Now get back over here and let's light up some targets. We've got a lot of work to do to get you up to speed."

"I think I'm done. I think there has to be another way for me to handle this thing with him."

"Oh yeah? Care to share your idea?"

"I don't know."

"So belly up here and let's shoot."

"All right."

But my heart isn't in it. I already know I'm not going to shoot someone.

I'm in way over my head.

Way over.