Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 1) (24 page)

A
fter Denny's
, I show up early for work and begin drafting a paragraph to add to Danny’s request for production of documents to MexTel. We are filing the civil suit against them today for harassment, assault and battery, kidnapping, and several other counts. The point is, Arnie and I have been harassed, kidnapped, burned, run off the road and injured, and we're both going after MexTel for restitution, medical bills, pain and suffering, and punitive damages. We know they will laugh at us and tell us we have no case. But that's not the point. The point of the lawsuit is to get them into a United States District Court where their assets can be attached.

Because, brother, do I have a surprise for them.

In the request for production of documents, I carefully list each and every document by name and date that exists in the smoking gun file Arnie made off with. MexTel still has all documents hidden away on its computer, and we know that. We also know they will deny that, because in the underlying litigation that Arnie was defending for them they have already said, on the record, subject to charges of perjury, that they didn't have foreknowledge of the toxicity of the chemicals they were dumping into the groundwater across Mexico as they laid their lines and built their towers and stored their petroleum products. They said they had no way of knowing ahead of time that they would injure and sicken and send to their graves with cancer thousands of citizens of Mexico and Latin America. They swore this under oath.

But we know better.

Now we ask them, in our lawsuit, to admit they do have such records. Which leaves them with two choices, as I see it. One, they can deny the records exist, but they don't dare do that because they know I will attach those identical records to a contradictory pleading in federal court and seek huge damages and criminal penalties for their lying. Or, two, they can come crawling to me and ask me how much I'll take for my injuries, Arnie's injuries, and damages for the wrongful death of Maddie to be paid to her family. In return, they will receive the smoking gun file, and we'll go away.

At least, that's what they'll think they've bought when they've paid each of us twenty million dollars. That's my asking amount. If they refuse, I'll go to twenty-five million.

You can see where this is going.

L
ess than a week later
, MexTel, through a series of phone calls and conference calls and meetings with Sam Shaw at Arnie's old firm, settles with us. Twenty million for me, for Arnie, and for Maddie's family. The money arrives in their lawyers' trust account twenty-four hours later and by the next day, the three plaintiffs have each received their settlements.

But it's not quite time to celebrate. Not just yet.

Imagine MexTel, sitting down in Mexico City, relieved to have purchased our silence for only sixty million dollars when they're fighting for their existence in the original lawsuit that seeks in excess of a billion dollars in damages. Imagine the corporate looks on their corporate faces when I click ENTER on my keyboard and, from their own servers, the entire smoking gun file is off-loaded and a service then emails their ten million subscribers.

I have Arnie to thank for that. He hid the documents there while defending MexTel. He knew where they were. And I simply acquired a one-time VPN and safely browsed over to MexTel's server and emailed their documents to all telephone company subscribers in Latin America by clicking one button on my keyboard:

ENTER

D
anny has agreed
to go with me to the House of Jazz to drink a toast to Maddie. It was Maddie's last stop before being hit from behind by MexTel's thug and forced off the road to her death.

We take Lake Shore down to Ellis and Ellis over to 59th and northwest. It is Saturday night, around nine, when we arrive. Valet parking takes my keys, and we are swept inside the club. Playing tonight is the Mark Kent Trio, consisting of bass, keys, and sax. It should be quite a show as these two guys and one gal are packing them in at every stop on their tour. I've made reservations and made a little payoff, so we're shown down front, directly in front of the bandstand.

Danny is excited to be out and listening to jazz. Her favorite of all musical instruments is the saxophone, and her favorite music is jazz. So we should be good to go, and we're both smiling ear to ear. We order drinks—her a Black Russian and me a Pepsi. It's time to sip and savor. We don't talk, as the trio is in the midst of what sounded like
Moonglow
when we first came in, but now I must admit I'm a little lost—although there are refrains that make me think I know the song.

We talk about the Notice of Dismissal that hit my desk yesterday morning. It seems like Marcel had it right about the Tijuana factor. Neither Ramon will come to the U.S. voluntarily, according to the U.S. Attorney's paperwork. They're afraid of being arrested for narcotics trafficking across and beyond the U.S. border with Mexico. Their American law firm filed a motion in the federal criminal case for a cease and desist order against the FBI, the agency that was trying to force the Mexicans to come here and testify against Judge Pennington and me. They put their foot down and without their testimony freely given the Justice Department has no choice but to dismiss the charges against both of us. The letter that Pennington wrote to the Tijuana cartel? I don't know how that played out; nobody asked me. But I suspect there was a huge insider deal being cut between Justice and Pennington for that to have happened. One thing: Pennington has agreed to resign from the bench. My tiny ears out on the street tell me the U.S. Attorney for Chicago is up for appointment to the departing judge's seat on the federal bench. It's a lifetime appointment, the pay is excellent, there are no politics and there is no way to be deposed. Unless you send a letter to Mexico asking for help in killing someone. I guess that's one way.

We've ordered appetizers when Danny reaches across the table and puts her hand on top of mine. Frankly, I am shocked. But she doesn't take it away. She leaves it there and turns her attention to the trio. I am immediately flooded with a thousand different feelings and images and hopes for a future, but I act nonchalant as if this happens to me every night of the week that some beautiful female a dozen years younger than me makes the first move. Sure, Michael, I'm thinking, sure it happens. Like never.

For appetizers, we have chosen Veneta Mussels prepared with white wine, superset, fennel seed and tomato
concasse
. The dish and two plates arrive, and we find we are starved. She removes her hand for something as mundane as using it to eat, and I am disappointed. I had already made a lifetime commitment, and I have to tell myself to slow the hell down and not scare anyone off with my drama.

Because we don't want to mix foods, we order vegetarian for our entree: the Malezana Sandwich, consisting of grilled eggplant, red peppers, zucchini, and brie cheese. Appetizers and entree take us about forty-five minutes to devour, as we are talking and joking the entire time we are eating. First, Danny tells me about her worst law school professor, and then I regale her with my version of Dr. Dandle, the woman who taught legal history to a hundred and eight unworthy freshman law students in one giant hall. She was a character, and I love her to this day. I think we all got more out of her class than any other during our three years in law school.

Talk turns to more serious office matters, too, though I wish upon wish that it didn't have to. Still, Danny seems to want to move our talk in that direction, so I don't resist.

"James Lamb has turned out to be a rather revolting character. Too bad, after all you did for him."

I pause and dab my mouth with a linen napkin.

"Not really all that bad. I don't vouch for these people Danny. I only defend them. Whatever they do after I'm through with them is really none of my concern."

"Come on, Michael, you know he beat his wife to death in that alley. That doesn't make you want to throttle him?"

"What do you mean, throttle him?"

"You know" — she raises both hands and makes a wringing motion.

"You mean do him in. Yes, I do have those thoughts. But no, that would never be me. I don't even kill spiders in the bathtub or mosquitoes in the summer. I'm a softie."

"I like that about you," she giggles. "Some of the nice-guy things I see you do. Giving people a partial refund so they can pay private school tuition. You really did that!"

"You heard about that? They were good people, Danny. It was the least I could do."

"And agreeing to pay your ex-wife. What was that you told me, ninety thousand dollars so she could have a baby with a younger man? Wow! You are some kind of easy, Michael."

"Yes, I suppose I am. I've never handled guilt very well. I always capsize under that kind of emotional load. Maybe someday I'll toughen up."

She reaches over and again rests her hand on mine.

"Oh, I didn't mean to hurt you. Did I hurt you?"

It is all I can do to let it pass by. She'll never know how happy I actually am to get the hell rid of Sue Ellen's alimony. For now, I'll let her think it was guilt. That certainly won't throw a damper on the evening and might even have a positive effect.

"No, you didn't hurt me. Sue Ellen deserves everything she gets. And so does James Lamb. All right, can we talk jazz now? It seems like the perfect place for it."

"Certainly we can. Do you want to talk about Thelonius or Louie?"

"Neither. I want to talk about you and why you love jazz. That's what I want to hear about."

After dinner, we drive leisurely along the lake. I've had several espressos at this point, so I'm wide-awake and ready to carry on until late. Danny is curled up in the passenger seat, leaning as near me as she can with the console blocking her, legs tucked up under her, slowly tapping her fingers on my shoulder in time to the twelve-speaker sound system. Bose—one word says it all. If that's not their motto, it ought to be.

And an hour later we have exhausted ourselves on each other in my bedroom, and it's not even midnight. So we make love a second time, and I am amazed at what I can still accomplish in bed, given half a chance. But it's easy. This woman is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, especially without clothes, and I want the night to last forever.

She confirms my own sensuality when she says, softly, "I don't want tonight to end. Let's go in and go through your records and find our favorite song. We need to start building a history together right now. That is if you're ready."

I am above her and looking into her eyes.

"Absolutely," I tell her and lower myself onto her.

Thirty minutes later we are in the family room, on the floor, both wearing bathrobes from my health club, surrounded by records and CD's.

History, one might say, is being made.

T
he Department
of Corrections provides a bonding facility controlled by the Clerk of Cook County to accommodate family members of incarcerated detainees to post bond on site by means of credit card, cash or certified check from 9:00 a.m. to 8:30 p.m. Roland Lamb accompanies me to that location.

Fifty thousand dollars in cash has been sourced. It has been provided to me by Judge Pennington. James Lamb's brother, Roland, is given the money, and I take great pains to explain to him exactly what steps he needs to take to bail his brother out of jail. Then he is to bring James around the corner to my car, where I'll be waiting to take him to my office. This is to protect him against more police harassment. Roland understands, and he goes into the jail to post bail.

I wait an hour. Two hours. Finally, at nine-thirty at night, around the corner comes Roland Lamb with his brother, James. They start to get in. I stop them. Only James is to ride with me; it's too dangerous for Roland to go with us. I slip Roland a hundred dollar bill and tell him to call a cab. He looks puzzled but then shrugs and walks off, stuffing the bill into his pocket.

James Lamb stinks. Of foul breath, body odor, and cigarette smoke. Evidently the CCSD doesn't require an inmate to take a shower before turning them loose on bail. I think there ought to be such a law.

We start to back out when Lamb suddenly reaches across and turns off the ignition on my car.

"Hold up! Last time we talked you wanted to kill me. What's changed? Why are you bailing me out?"

"Because there's real money to be made, James. I've been working a case for you."

"For me?"

"Uh-huh. Against the cops that busted out your teeth.

"Oh yeah? Like what? They gonna pay me or something?"

"Three hundred thousand dollars."

He whistles and slaps himself. "Wake up, dude. This honky man done you right!"

I smile. "Of course, I'm doing you right. Haven't I always? But there's one catch James. I get one-third of the money because I got it for you."

"That's cool. How much is one-third?"

"Hundred grand."

"So's I know: I get two hundred grand, you get one hundred? That's the deal?"

"It is."

"Who's doing' this?"

"Well, that's just it. This is being done on the down low, little brother. So no one finds out you've been paid off. The other part of the deal: once you have the money you have to immediately leave for Los Angeles."

"I gotta leave Chicago?"

"Right."

"That's cool. Maybe I swing by and get the twenty grand for my baby on the way. You know them fuckin people stiffed me?"

"Make them pay up, James. They owe you big time."

"You know, Mr. Gresham, you all right. Shit, I thought we was done, man. But here you are."

"Always taking care of you, James. Plus myself. A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money to me."

"I don't feel bad. I owe you for gettin rid of that murder beef they put on me. We only paid you a couple thousand. This is better."

"Deal?"

"Deal."

I turn the ignition key, and we finish backing out and drive away on California Avenue. Four miles southwest, there's a park. We're headed there.

It isn't long before I say, "This is Haley Park. We meet them here."

"We be meeting who, dude?"

His eyes are cutting all around as he tries to understand the plan. On the one hand, he is very suspicious. On the other, he is already somewhere over Colorado on a straight-through to L.A.

"Okay, we turn in here. There's a bench down here by the duck pond. That's where we get out."

"Where someone else?"

"On the way. We're a little early. Ten o'clock."

We park and exit my car. We step up onto the grass and walk down thirty yards to pond-side. A green bench is placed so visitors can sit and watch the water and the ducks and toss them breadcrumbs.

"We need breadcrumbs," I say to James as we sit down. I am on one end of the bench; he is on the other. He keeps looking around, and I can tell he wants to run but, damn, he also wants that windfall, that two hundred thousand dollars. After all, he's got it coming to him and he knows it.

"What for breadcrumbs?"

"Feed the ducks."

"I don't see no ducks."

"See that tall grass? That's where they nest at night."

"How you know that? You been here before, dude?"

"Sure. Lots of times. It's very peaceful here."

At just that moment, headlights come winding up the road, and a car pulls in behind mine. The car remains running, and a door opens and closes. In the flash of the ambient light, if you were watching, you would see the decal on the driver's side: Chicago Police Department. James turns around and sees silhouetted in the light a rather tall man carrying a bag. He is certain his money has arrived.

He remains swiveled on the bench as the man approaches. Then he sees and realizes.

It is Judge Pennington.

Pennington reaches into the bag, removes a pistol with a silencer screwed on the end of its barrel, and points it at James Lamb's face. "PSSST!" the gun hisses. Lamb is blasted backward off the bench, a huge round hole in his forehead. Judge Pennington squeezes off two more shots into his heart and drops the gun on the newly deceased murderer of Pennington’s wife.

Then Pennington looks at me for the first time. He removes his gloves and places them in the pocket of his dark pants. He fidgets. He begins to stoop down as if to pick up the gun.

I tell him, “My bodyguard has you in his sights right now. You would do well to just turn around and leave the same way you came.”

Pennington turns around and takes a step away. Then he pauses and turns back.

“He was after me for more, you know?”

I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“Lamb? After you?”

“Oh, yes. He was paid in full when he killed my wife. I held up my end of it. But then he got greedy. He came back for more. Now look at him.”

“You paid him to kill your wife? Now I get it. You needed him dead to protect yourself.”

“Michael, you’re amazing,” he says sarcastically. “I think you’ve finally got it.”

Pennington turns Lamb’s head with the toe of his shoe. He shakes his head in disgust.

“I had them send the confession to you. You know that?”

“No,” I tell him. “I didn’t know that.”

“Oh, yes. The video was part of the deal. It saved his life. I needed him out of jail.”

“Wait. Are you saying that Fordyce and Burns—”

He raises a hand. “No more, Michael. Stay clear of this.”

He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lights up. He blows a long plume of smoke across the night air and I can see his troubled eyes in the glow of his ember. Suddenly I want to run, to get away from this person. But I force myself to stay. Running would be a terrible mistake.

“I owe you, Michael. I won’t forget tonight.”

“Call off the dogs,” I tell him.

"Consider it done."

He reaches out to shake my hand.

But I turn my back instead and begin walking slowly back to my car. I have crossed a line, and I will never be Michael Gresham again. Not the Michael Gresham that drove in here.

It is hot, and I am tired and need to just go home and go to bed. I am walking so slowly that Pennington strides past me and climbs back into the cop car. I don't even look up to see who's driving. I no longer care. Then they are gone.

I start the engine of my SUV and turn around in the narrow street.

As I am leaving, I think I hear a duck quack.

Or maybe not.

It's hot, and I'm so tired.

Sleep. I just need to sleep. Without my gun underneath my pillow.

It will be good to be free of that inconvenience.