Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: Secrets Girls Keep: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 2) (20 page)

T
rey Dickinson
, Assistant State's Attorney, walked in here five days ago with a win-loss record of 65-0. As we're waiting for the jury following the judge's jury instructions and ten-minute recess, Dickinson leans across the four feet separating his table from mine and says with a smile that becomes a smirk, "So. I'm gonna start calling you Ole Sixty-Six."

I give him an empty look.

"What? You don't get it, Michael? I'm just a few hours away from my sixty-sixth win before a jury."

"I'll bet that means more money in your pocket, right, Dick?" I say with all the sarcasm I can muster.

"Fuck you and fuck that liar sitting next to you."

He leans forward and looks at Jana.

"I'm talking about you, boy. You're going away for a long time. Bubba's Bitch. That's your new name."

"Hey, easy, Dick. You're personalizing," I say.

"Yeah? Maybe that's because I stood in at Amy's autopsy, eh? I saw the mouse in the mouth. I observed the half-eaten cheek. Then you know what? Dr. Tsung opened her eyes. They were eyes of terror."

He suddenly laughs and leans back to his own side of the aisle. He waves at me as if waving me off.

"You had to be there," he says, finished.

And five minutes later, he's making his closing argument to the jury. The same anger and rage that he spewed at us only minutes ago comes spilling out into the space separating him from the jury and ignites those people. Honestly, he has them and carries them for the next thirty minutes. At some point during this discourse every head nods along with him and refuses to look at Jana. Or at me.

I know we are finished. Dead in the water.

Unless I can put something together that surpasses where Dickinson has taken them.

He sits and draws a deep breath. The judge looks at me so I proceed to the lectern. I have a prepared closing argument with notes on a yellow pad but I set those aside. The energy in the room seeps into me and I step up to the jury.

"A killer walks among you," I begin. "So when you head off to bed tonight please double-check your door locks and window latches. Count the noses of your loved ones. Batten down the hatches because he is coming for his next victim."

A look passes among the jury. They stir. They are uncomfortable. Press on.

"What nobody has talked about--and what this case is really about, is the fact of three homicides at Wendover High over these past five months. We've been here in this courtroom day after day discussing a third of that killer's work. One homicide. And we are being asked by the state to blame that one on a young man who, no one doubts, had nothing to do with the subsequent two murders."

They lean forward in their chairs; not much, imperceptible, as a buckle in the wind on a fall day. But they have reacted; I push on.

"A student named Franny Arlington has died since Amy Tanenbaum. Was that the work of Jana Emerich? No one has said it is. No State's Attorney has indicted him for the crime. A third student has died, as well. Her name is Scarlett Newson and she was a young woman who spent most of her life confined to a wheelchair. Without regard to her disability or her desire to live, the same killer who killed Amy and Franny also killed Scarlett. But have they charged Jana with that crime? No. Nor will they."

Two jurors are nodding with me now. A third has uncrossed her arms and her frown has relented somewhat.

"And please remember. The police force in Chicago is thousands strong. The prosecutors in the Cook County State's Attorney's office are hundreds--maybe thousands--strong as well. And how many of these thousands of America's best prosecutors and law enforcement officials have pointed to Jana Emerich and said 'Young man, you've killed three now and you're done?'"

Another juror and yet another nod. They continue nodding as I press on.

"Let there be no mistake," I tell them, chopping at the air with my hand, "There is a killer loose among you and he hasn't been brought to justice, not yet.

And what? Are we to believe the state that Jana Emerich killed Amy Tanenbaum and this somehow inspired this killer to kill Franny and then kill yet again?”

"Nonsense. While the State's case is inviting at its cellular level, when viewed as a whole we all know it has entirely missed the point. The overview, the big picture, cries out for justice. The overview isn't your responsibility. It is the State's responsibility to come in here and present you with a coherent view of your world, the world of Wendover High, the world of Amy, Franny, and Scarlett. And guess what? The state has failed utterly to do that. Instead it has pursued a boy who was an outsider and whom no one knew very well and was thus fair game. Until his father, a priest in Chicago, heard what was happening. And he said, ‘Enough! Enough! I am going to go before the people and help my son.’ So I was retained to come here and defend him against this wrong-headed attack."

Now the Catholics are with me. I hate to be so base about it, but there you are. We win these cases one mind at a time. A pebble at a time, never an avalanche.

On I continue. Building to a review of the facts in the case, which I spend not all that much time on as the jury knows all too well the simple facts of the State's case against Jana.

Then I discuss reasonable doubt and go through the judge's instructions on the law. When I am done I have covered the facts and the law. Plus, I have covered what so often is forgotten in these rooms: the jury's need to do justice. All juries have it and there's the secret to winning: help them do justice.

"So bring what has been so sorely lacking in this courtroom. Bring it because you can. I am talking about justice. Only you are allowed to do justice. Only you are burdened with doing justice. I am trusting you for it. Jana trusts you too. Vote not guilty. Go in there and vote and come back and tell this young man he is free to live his life, to go out from here relieved of the terrible burden placed on him by this detective and this team of prosecutors. Give him justice and be done with it. Thank you."

It is silent when I am done and silent when I take my seat.

The judge sends the jury to the jury room and, when they are gone, bedlam erupts. The press, too long quiet and respectful, suddenly are talking animatedly among themselves, phones are produced and connections made, and the TV camera--in violation of the court's order--pans the courtroom, sweeping east and west, north and south.

Danny makes her way through the crowd and reaches us. Then comes Father Bjorn. He sweeps his son into his arms and hugs him--a first for them both. Danny throws her arms around me and lays her head on my chest and breathes. "It's over," she whispers above the bedlam. "It's over."

Two hours later, there has been no word from the jury so the judge calls them into the courtroom and recesses the trial for the day. She admonishes the jury: they are to avoid all TV and newspapers and radio stations that are beaming out any news of the trial. They are to refrain from discussing it with anyone. They are to tell the judge immediately if anyone approaches them about the trial and tries to influence their vote.

Then we are gone.

Marcel drives us north to our home and pulls my car into our garage. His truck is parked in the driveway, where it's been all day since he came and drove us in this morning. Priscilla packs up and leaves us.

Then we are alone. Me, Danny, and our baby.

I lock the doors and check the window latches that night before bed.

I finally know I am right: the arrest of Jana has solved nothing.

He is out there loose, searching out his next victim.

T
he next morning
, I swing my Mercedes into its underground parking slot. I am climbing out when I turn and am suddenly confronted by the larger-than-life seven-foot frame of Detective Ngo. He towers over me and smiles at me. I dart my eyes back and forth. There is no one else around. Is this it? I wonder. He warned me that our time would come. What was it he said? That he was going to fuck me up?

During the trial a year ago of James Lamb, I took to wearing a gun. Not because of James Lamb; because of the husband of Lamb's victim, a federal judge. Marcel taught me how to use that gun and I shot at least a thousand rounds through it before he was happy with my knowledge and skill. I don't wear that gun everyday like I did back then, but today I've decided to wear it. In fact, ever since Ngo cornered me in the courtroom and threatened me I have been wearing my gun.

He sees me move my hand inside of my coat and he steps back. He is wary, watching my hand, watching my eyes.

I turn and pull my briefcase off the seat and lock my car. Then I return my free hand back inside my suit coat. Ngo is still watching my every move.

"Did you have something to say to me?" I ask him.

"I'm not here to talk. I'm here to observe."

"Observe what?"

"Observe where you park. Observe where you work."

"I'm filing a complaint against you."

He laughs. "Be my guest. Spell my name correctly."

He spells his name but he's moving backward, allowing me to pass out from between the parked cars. I head off toward the elevators. He doesn't follow, but I keep my hand inside my coat.

Then I realize. This man respects only force.

And I am glad I am wearing my gun. I decide I won't stop wearing it this time.

I remain in the office that morning, trying to concentrate on other cases and kidding myself into thinking I'm being successful at that. I'm not, of course, no more than any other trial lawyer with a jury out deliberating.

It is a difficult time, too. My breath comes and goes sharply in and out. Danny made sure I had a heavy breakfast this morning before leaving home. She remained behind, her day off to spend with Dania. In a way I envy them; but not too much. There is no better in-your-face experience than waiting for your jury. My pulse pounds and my sight flickers as I look beyond my office windows at Lake Michigan. Seagulls float and rise and descend in time with the music of the wind. Spreading their wings and drawing their feet to their bodies they are free--I think an astronaut said--from the bonds of the earth. In a few hours--a day at most--I will keep them company from my boat,
CONDITION OF RELEASE.
As when the court says to the defendant being admitted to bail, "Here are your conditions of release." While I am very concerned, deep down I am at peace because I know I have done my best for my client. That is all the trial lawyer can really ask of him- or herself. Do your best and leave it all in the courtroom.

At eleven-thirty, Mrs. Lingscheit comes into my office with the news. They're back. The judge is waiting.

Marcel drives me to court on California Avenue, where we park and hurry inside.

When we push through the door, all heads turn to watch us--then just me--walk up the aisle and come through the bar. I nod at the judge and take my place.

"We have a verdict," the judge says flatly, and she nods at the bailiff. He disappears into the short hallway that leads out to the room where the jury deliberates. Within minutes, they are following him back into the courtroom, twelve serious-looking citizens who have also done their best.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?"

"We have, Your Honor," says the CEO of a software startup in the Union Station building.

"Please pass your verdict to the clerk."

I am scanning jurors' faces just now, looking for a hint, some indication. But they all look away and I take that as a warning of bad news to follow.

The clerk hands the verdict to the court and she reads it quickly. She hands it back to the clerk.

"Ladies and gentlemen, is this your verdict?"

All jurors indicate that it is their verdict.

The clerk will read the verdict.

With a flourish of the wrist and a clearing of the throat the clerk reads, simply, "We the duly impaneled jury do find the defendant, Jana Emerich, not guilty."

Final ministrations of gratitude are passed by the judge to the jury in a short speech thanking them for their service, telling them they are free to go, telling them they may now talk to the press but only if they wish.

Then we are adjourned.

Mayor Tanenbaum bursts through the gate and heads straight for the prosecutor. Trey Dickinson begins talking, folding his arms on his chest and giving the mayor defeated looks as he listens to what can only be a scathing diatribe. Voices are raised, completely ignoring those nearby. Marcel comes forward, prepared to walk us through the press and spectators.

Jana turns to me. He looks into my eyes.

Then he turns away. Without a word he is gone. Father Bjorn catches up to him just beyond the gate and attempts to talk but the boy brushes him away with a querulous look and a quickening step. Then Father Bjorn is swallowed up by the press as it surges up the aisle in an effort to get a statement from the man whose life has been restored. Whether they are successful I do not know as they all disappear through the courtroom's double doors, propped open now by the bailiffs as they stare grimly at the throng passing through.

Father Bjorn makes it through the gate and up to me.

"Well," he says, "thank you, Michael."

"You're welcome."

"Well done, boss," says Marcel.

Dickinson breaks away from the mayor and begins packing his bag. I step over and try to shake his hand but he keeps his back to me.

Then, in a snarl, he turns his head. "Sixty-five and one. Enjoy it, Gresham. It will never happen again."

Then he is gone.

I return to my small group and we all grab a stack of books or a stuffed briefcase and move through the gate and up the aisle.

It is finished.

Outside the room are TV cameras and crews. One mike and then another are jammed in my face.

I nod. "A killer walks among us. The Chicago Police Department needs to step up and tell the citizens they are at risk. He must be found and brought to justice. It awaits him inside that courtroom we have just vacated. It is waiting."

I turn and Marcel shoulders our way through the crush of reporters and gawkers and then we are on the elevator with a handful of occupants and we are sailing down, down, down.

Free at last.