Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: Secrets Girls Keep: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 2)

O
utside of Grand Jury Room
204 in Chicago, in the nook just beyond the elevators, is a black leather bench where I practice law. That's how much the federal judiciary thinks of me and other defense lawyers who, it is foreseeable, would wait outside the grand jury room in order to help our clients formulate their answers to questions posited by the U.S. Attorney. The U.S. Attorneys get offices in this court building with windows that look down on the mere mortals below, a lordly view. We defense attorneys, by contrast, are given a public bench--one to share among us--maybe leather, probably naugahyde. Which is how criminal defendants and their attorneys are treated by the justice system. The worst of the worst, the crummiest of the crummiest, always second-rate for second-rate citizens. Even the cops get their own office. But am I bitter? You're damn right I am.

Here's another thing as long as I'm making my case. I feel I am representing my client in the most half-assed way possible. He's under subpoena so he
has
to be inside the grand jury room with the grand jury. But I'm defense counsel so I'm not allowed to enter that sanctum. However, he has the right to come out into the hall and discuss questions and formulate answers with me. Which we're doing, one question at a time--which is also his right. Then he goes back inside and tells them what I think. How, you might wonder, would this be any different than me, Michael Gresham, being inside the grand jury room with him? The answer is that the identification of the grand jury is secret. If I were allowed inside, the rationale goes, the grand jury's anonymity might be compromised. So here I sit, tearing up the
New York Times
crossword, trying to flash on a four-letter word that means forlorn.
Down
? Might it be
down
? Surely it’s not that simple. It's from New York, after all, for the love of God.

My client is Thomas A. Meekins. He is the thrice-elected sheriff of Mackenzie County. Meekins is under investigation by the grand jury for embezzlement of public funds, money they say he ripped off from the sheriff's office with phony invoices and real checks. One $54,000 check, to Glock, Inc., was cashed at Imperial Casino in Wisconsin, ninety minutes north of Chicago. Was it my guy who presented the check to the cashier? Or did someone else? To solve such mysteries, grand juries are hatched, defendants are subpoenaed to appear and encouraged to give testimony against themselves, and lawyers like me are allowed to make camp on a sun-faded couch surrounded by crazies who look like they just stepped off some Martin Scorsese soundstage. They're waiting for their grand juries, too, and they don't mind standing close-by, where they just might pick up a gem of legal wisdom as I advise my sheriff. So we whisper and he frowns at me, stone deaf in his right ear from too many hours at the gun range and two tours as a tank commander in Iraq. Did he hear that I just told him to take the Fifth in answer to being asked whether he'd ever been to Imperial Casino? Or did he think I told him pay the rent before playing bingo? Frankly, I have no idea. My audience is probably getting more out of my admonitions than my client, if his perpetually troubled face is any indicator.

Here he is again. The tenth question in an hour.

"Is that my signature on the check?" he asks. His face is ashen and I don't like that. Fear is one thing; self-incrimination by skin tone is something else.

"Well, is it?"

He scrutinizes me. The crowd steps forward.

"I endorsed it," he whispers.

"Have they asked that?" I whisper in return.

"Not yet."

"Well, let's talk about that. If you admit you endorsed it, then bam, you're indicted. If you deny endorsing it, then bam, you're guilty of perjury. Perjury is the lesser of the two charges."

"Isn't there any other way?"

"Do you remember what I told you about the Fifth Amendment, Tom?"

"You told me if I'm unsure of something to take the Fifth."

"Right. This is one of those times."

"So take the Fifth?"

"Definitely."

"How long can they keep me in there?"

"All day. Days. A week."

"State grand juries take maybe an hour, tops," he says from experience.

"This is federal. No need for the prosecutors to get back to campaigning year-round like the state boys. These guys are full-time, professional prosecutors. They get to stay on for life if they want. So they don't give a damn if you're inside an hour or a month. It's all the same rate of pay to them. Now. Knowing how the cards are stacked, is there any reason you would ever want to give these people any answer other than your name, address, and employer's name?"

"No--no--no."

"But you argued with me this morning when I told you that. You wanted to come here and clear your name. Remember that?"

"Yes. I was--it was damn stupid advice I gave myself."

"Yes. So let's agree that from now on, you do nothing but take the Fifth. Understand?"

"I understand. All right," he says and pushes up from the bench. The crowd takes a step away to give him room. He's wearing a uniform and a big black gun and scares the bejesus out of them. He goes back inside and the pneumatic door whooshes behind him.

"Why don't we do this?" I say to the crowd at large. "Why don't you come up to me one at a time and ask your questions? I'm a lawyer, I'm already paid, and I don't mind pitching in."

They quickly form a line along the bulletin board and watch as the first-in-line approaches me.

She is maybe twenty-five years old, wearing gray pleated slacks and a red blouse with a pink and white tie. She's still wearing her peacoat, unbuttoned and flopping loosely around her, looking like it might just be the property of someone much larger. She moves quite close and says in a low, rueful voice, "They want to ask me about shooting the president."

I look into her eyes and see this is no joke. I keep my voice equally low.

"Someone's saying you want to shoot the president?"

"Secret Service arrested me. Kept me in jail for three months before my dad found me. He called Senator Armstrong and the Senator raised hell. Then they released me but I have to appear today. A subpoena."

She holds out her subpoena.

It's the real thing and lists the witness's name as Phun Loc.

"Phun Loc--that's you?"

"Yes. Everyone calls me Fun Luck. That's my American name. I'm Vietnamese but I was born here."

"Okay. Well, have you spoken to a lawyer?"

"No. We can't afford a lawyer."

"Did you try to shoot the president?"

Her eyes wander off to one side then jerk back to the other.

"I don't want to say in here. It's a long story."

"Well, look, you're under subpoena, so let me try something."

"Folks," I say to the queue, "Would you all mind moving to the other side of the elevators? I just need a little more privacy here, and then it'll go faster for everyone."

For the most part--coupled with minor grousing--they assemble themselves on the far side of the elevator. Now Phun Loc and I can speak in normal voices.

"So. Tell me a little about what happened."

"My grandfather is American and he's a Vietnam veteran. He has PTSD and won't sleep inside. So he sleeps in the streets and begs for food. We try to bring him with us to our house, but he always runs away again. The VA has a ninety-day waiting period. If he doesn't show up on the exact date of his appointment, he goes back to the bottom of the list."

"And so you're mad at the VA?"

"They're inflexible. We get him in there finally and they say he doesn't have an appointment."

"You're very young. Where were you born?"

"In Chicago. But I don't see what that's got to do with anything. I'm as American as you are, sir."

"No, no, I wasn't implying anything. But I get it. You're angry as hell and so you wrote a letter to the president. Is that it?"

"Yes, I wrote a letter. I said they need to be careful before someone gets shot. Can you help me?"

"I'm a criminal lawyer, but I need more facts. Now, what else did you do?"

"The president lives in Chicago. Sometimes. I started watching his house whenever he was in town. The Secret Service found out and connected the letter to me and searched our home. They found some guns and now they want to indict me. I have to testify."

"You've been watching the president's house. That's probably not a good idea."

"Why not? It's a public sidewalk. If I want to stand on public property and look at that damn house, why not? Nobody can stop me can they?"

I must admit: it
is
public property in front of the president's house. Maybe he'll move elsewhere when he finishes up in office.

"Who did the guns belong to?"

"My grandfather. He brought them home from Vietnam."

"Do you know what kind of guns they are?"

"One's an M-something."

I know enough to ask, "M-16?"

"Yes. M-16. They confiscated grandfather's guns. That was one of them."

"Had you ever handled those guns?"

"Sure. I moved them every time I cleaned his room."

"He has a room in your house? Anyone else living in that room?"

"My grandma. She's old-country Vietnamese and won't speak English. She watches American TV but refuses to speak English. But she knows how. She laughs in all the right places."

"Okay. Look, will you come back and talk to me after you're done in there?"

"Can't you help me?"

"I can't go in with you, no. The law won't allow me inside the grand jury room."

"What if I take the Fifth?"

At last; someone after my own heart.

"I was going to suggest you do that. Make them do their job without you."

"Okay. I'll be back."

Phun Loc turns on her heel and walks to the grand jury room entrance. She presses her back against the wall and waits.

The queue moves up a notch as the next client heads my way. He is a slight, weather-beaten man of about sixty. As we're about to shake hands, my client Tom Meekins comes out of the room and scurries over to my bench.

"Now what?"

"Can you wait over there?" he asks my newest customer. He indicates the bulletin board. The old man nods and backs away.

"Here's what. They're telling me they've done an audit of the sheriff's books. My books. I had no idea."

"So what are they asking about it?"

He blanches. "They're saying the missing funds total over a million dollars."

"Do they?"

"I don't know. I didn't think so."

"So what's the question, Tom? What's pending right now?"

"They want me to admit I bought my lakeside property with the money."

Lakeside--Lake Michigan--property is horribly expensive in Chicago. Only the Richie Riches of the world can touch that inventory.

"Did you?"

Meekins darts his eyes around.

"Actually? Yes."

"So you took money from the sheriff's budget and bought real estate?"

"A condo. It's a third floor condo on the south side, so not all that great a view."

"Sure. Well, you want to take the Fifth again."

"But they wanted to know the address and asked about the deed. I think they're getting ready to seize it."

"Which they have a right to do if you used embezzled funds to buy it. Get used to it, Tom. RICO seizures happen every day."

"Carol is going to murder me, Michael."

"Carol would be who?"

"My girlfriend."

"I thought you were married."

"I am. I keep Carol on the side. My wife doesn't know."

"Tom, you and I need to talk when we're done here. You haven't been entirely forthcoming with me."

"You never asked me about a property."

There it is, red flag. He's right. I never specifically asked him whether he had used embezzled money to buy a condo. I've been down this road with criminal minds before. Not that I'm making a diagnosis or anything, but I can see a malpractice claim nibbling around the edges of the case because I failed to ask germane questions. My office generally has three or four such malcontents just waiting to sue me for malpractice. People who are unwilling to accept responsibility. So they want me to co-sign their bullshit, like I'm somehow responsible. Sorry, but no thanks.

"I asked whether you had embezzled funds and you told me no. Why would I ask about fruits of the crime?"

He slumps down onto the bench and holds his face in his hands.

"God, oh God, oh, what have I got myself into?"

I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Just take the Fifth on everything. Any and everything tends to incriminate you at this point, so just let them know you're not answering any further questions."

He stands and suddenly wheels on me, pointing and accusatory, shouting, "I paid you to defend me, Gresham! And you can't even go in there with me! Why didn't you tell me that?"

"Calm down, Tom, please."

He reaches and touches the big black gun on his hip.

"I'm going--"

"Wait, Tom. Please sit down."

He ignores me, heading back to the grand jury room. There, at the entrance, Phun Loc is waiting to be called inside. Without warning, Sheriff Meekins wraps his arm around the Vietnamese girl, whips his gun out, and disappears back inside. She is dragged along. The door whooshes shut and I can hear excited voices as from a great distance. I can only imagine the pandemonium inside and I'm wondering what I might do to help, when suddenly the door flies back open and the sheriff comes out into the hallway, still dragging his hostage, and orders a man in a gray suit to press the elevator DOWN button. The man holds up his hands and averts his head from the muzzle of gun, but manages to keep presence of mind enough to press the button as ordered. He shrinks back away from the sheriff.

"Tom," I call out, "this isn't right! Let the girl go and let's talk. Nobody's hurt and we can end this peacefully and get you some help!"

He ignores me. The elevator door slides open and gunman and hostage disappear inside. Just as quickly, they come right back out. Sheriff Meekins again drags Phun Loc into the grand jury room and the door again whooshes closed.