Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: Secrets Girls Keep: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 2) (6 page)

G
uy Lafitte is
my newest narcotics distributor. His story is something you will have to judge for yourself. It all began with a call to me from his father.

"Michael!" exclaimed Kenneth Lafitte, a lawyer whom I know to be a civil litigator from one of the silk stocking firms downtown.

"Ken," I reply. "One of my clients is pissed and hired you to sue me?"

Ken laughs, one of those loud, rich-guy laughs that attracts attention across restaurants.

"Not hardly! My kid. Got himself arrested. Drug beef."

"How old?"

"Thirty."

"What's the charge?"

"I don't know. But it's state court. I refused to bail him out. Thought I'd let him cool his jets in jail for a day or two."

"That's probably a bad idea, Ken. The jail is a zoo. He could get seriously hurt in there."

"I knew it wasn't a fun place. But I was hoping it would teach him a lesson."

"No, if he were my kid I'd bust him out on bail first thing today. Word to the wise."

"If you say so. Look, could I retain you on his case? I'm looking for a plea, probation, and dismissal of the charges on successful completion."

"I could help with it, sure. Be glad to defend your son."

"I'll send over a retainer. Whatever you need."

"Mrs. Lingscheit will call your office. She's my secretary and she'll make the arrangements with your secretary."

So I'm in state court and waiting for Ken's son's first appearance. I talked to him last night and got the lowdown. To begin, Guy is a Yale law grad and should have known better. But he didn't. He was running out of cash. He needed to make a score. A disbarred lawyer (failed to file tax returns for ten years), he had no other skills by which he was capable of supporting himself even in the sparsest of conditions. So he took $30,000 from an accident settlement and bought a used sailboat. It was teak, very beautiful, and had been seized by the feds during a cocaine bust south of Miami and then re-sold at a government auction. Guy made the winning bid and became the lucky new owner.

Guy sailed his teak sailboat to Cuba, where he put in to port and toured the country for six months. During that time, he trekked into the jungle and became acquainted with cocaine producers. Would he like to take some cocaine back to the States and make his fortune? Guy was game, so they sold him twenty kilos of pure powder. Now, according to the Medellin Drug Cartel's chief bookkeeper, a kilo of cocaine costs $1500 in Bogota, $16,000 in Mexico, and $77,000 in Britain. That same kilo will sell for about $30,000 right here in Chicago. So there's a tremendous amount of profit in a kilo of coke
if
you can get it here. Guy paid $30,000 for twenty kilos in Havana. The money he invested was what remained from the accident case where he had been paid $150,000 for the loss of a kneecap in a car wreck. He had been T-boned at a stop sign. The wreck left him with a permanent limp and just enough cash to fund his adventure in the drug trade.

For some reason known only to the angels, Guy with his twenty kilos was able to sail into New York and up the St. Lawrence into the Great Lakes, eventually dropping anchor at the Chicago Yacht and Sailing Club on Lake Michigan's western shore. Why did he come all the way to Chicago? Guy has no plausible rationale for that trip, at least not that I have been able to discern. Except he was married to a female airline pilot at one time and her home base was O'Hare. At any rate, it was in Chicago that he set up the cocaine deal that would eventually bring him to the Law Offices of Michael Gresham.

He was a pure novice at the drug trade. He wouldn't have known an undercover agent from a made man if they wore name tags. The practice of law, for Guy, had him working for the Internal Revenue Service on bankruptcy cases where there was a tax debt owed the government that some slippery soul was attempting to discharge in bankruptcy. In would rush Guy for the IRS, the government debt would be excepted from the debtor's discharge, and off he would ride into the sunset, another day closer to the federal retirement gold ring. Except, like I mentioned, Guy neglected to file tax returns from 2003-2013 and when his employer found out, he was bounced out into the street. The IRS has no patience with non-filers, even if they happen to be one of their own. When he left behind the only job he'd ever held in law, he still had never dealt with any form of criminal element and he was as naive about the drug trade as any first grader.

So, coming ashore in late October, 2014, Guy knew only that he wanted to dispose of his coke and make it back down to Florida in his sailboat before winter sealed off the Midwest and the St. Lawrence and he was forced to store his boat for the winter. He had zero desire of spending one more day in Chicago than was absolutely required.

His first day ashore, he tried to locate his ex-wife. Failing that, he turned his efforts to unloading his Cuban booty. He decided a dance club would be the place to start looking for drug dealers. It didn't take him long to locate the Cheshire Club downtown, where the DJ's rocked the crowd while the coke for sale right on the dance floor kept the patrons happy and hopping.

On Saturday night at ten o'clock, Guy paid his way into the Cheshire, where he immediately went to the bar, bought himself a scotch, and placed his back against the bar so that he could look out over the frenzied, dancing sea of faces years younger than him. As he watched, he thought he saw the drug buys going down, as dancers swirled into and out of the penumbra of a tall, Latin looking man with a pencil mustache and yellow-lensed glasses. The man seemed to be under the care of three other men, who casually examined all comers, searching with their eyes, Guy thought, for weapons that might be used to hurt the dealer he had spotted. Two more scotches and Guy himself sauntered up to the dealer. They talked.

Four hours later, the three torpedoes and the dealer were guests of Guy aboard his sailboat at the Yacht club. It was freezing that night, so the deal was rushed as there was no heat on the boat.

Guy and Monte--the central figure's name--bartered for a good ten minutes before finally agreeing on twelve thousand per kilo. It was far less than Guy knew he could get if he had more time to look around ashore, but even that night the lake effect snow was blowing across the deck of
GUY'S FOLLY
as the men below deck haggled.

Once the price was agreed, only the terms of payment and delivery remained.

"Do you take checks?" Monte casually asked Guy.

Like I've said, Guy knew next to nothing about drug deals.

"Is the check any good?" he asked.

"The money's all right there. Fifth Third Bank on Wacker. There will be no problem for you."

"What if the check's no good?" Guy thought to ask.

"Sue me," said Monte. "Take me to court and sue me. You're a lawyer."

Guy's eyes narrowed and he thought about that. He thought about suing Monte in court over a bad check offered for the purchase of cocaine. It seemed wrong in so many ways, but Guy didn't want to come across as naive, so he agreed. The check appeared and Monte wrote it out. He blew on it and handed it across the small galley table to Guy. Guy took the check, studied it, and carefully folded it before placing it in his shirt pocket. Two-hundred-and-forty thousand dollars. He could retire on the money but, it also was occurring to him, he could also repeat this exercise in drug sales.

So he asked Monte, "If I come back with more, will you buy it?"

Monte looked at his bodyguards and smiles appeared.

"Of course. I will buy as much as you can bring."

"Then I'll be back in the Spring. I'll bring fifty kilos next time."

Monte snapped his fingers. "Done!" he said, "I don't have a card, but you know where to find me."

Guy held out his hand and Monte took it and shook. To show his complete dedication to future transactions, Guy then went from bodyguard to bodyguard and shook their hands, too. The bodyguards wouldn't meet his eyes, but Guy accepted that as part of how it worked with drug dealers.

The men went up on deck then climbed back onto the boat ramp. As they made their way off in the night--with Guy's twenty kilos of pure Cuban coke--Guy heard laughter that at first he wasn't sure was human. It sounded very much like the hyenas he had heard in the jungle. Then there it was again, and this time a sudden bolt of fear in his abdomen caused him to lay down on his bed and stare at the ceiling. He patted his pocket. The check was still there, so it was all good.

The next day he took a cab to Fifth Third Bank on Wacker Drive on the Chicago Lower Loop.

The teller explained once, twice, then three times that the check wasn't good. So Guy had her produce her manager. The manager bent to the terminal, brought up Monte's account, and for the fourth time delivered the bad news: the check was NSF. Guy went back that afternoon and tried again. He went back the next day and the next and presented the check four more times and was rejected four more times for non-sufficient funds.

Thinking he would broach the problem head-on, Guy returned to the Cheshire Club three nights running. But Monte was nowhere to be seen. True, drug deals were still going down on the dance floor even while Guy watched, but none of the dealers looked anything like Monte or any of his henchmen from the night the sale was consummated.

So Guy did the next indicated thing. He took the check and showed up at the office of the Cook County State’s Attorney. That's right, he decided to press charges against this Monte character. He made up a song and dance about the check, telling the warrants attorney that it was actually payment for a load of industrial solvent, because he knew better than to try to collect on a check passed in a drug deal. The warrant was issued and, much to Guy's great surprise, an arrest of Monte was made. He received a phone call to that effect on the Monday of the second week since he had dropped anchor in Chicago. That was fast, Guy thought, but he was well-pleased with the SA's efficiency.

But there was one hitch. The SA wanted to meet with Guy again. There were questions. Guy appeared at the SA's office as directed.

The prosecutor who had drawn the assignment was a young woman I had encountered before, working out of the SA's office. Her name was Linda Lyons and she was a top-ten graduate of the University of Chicago law school. I knew her to be quick-witted and very fair, and she was also ruthless in the prosecution of the cases the SA's office assigned to her. Ruthless would even be an understatement. She was death on drug dealers, her area of practice.

Linda showed Guy into her office. A second man was waiting there. He was introduced as the narcotics officer who had worked up the case they were about to discuss.

"Narcotics officer?" asked Guy. "Why a narcotics officer?"

Ms. Lyons cut right to the chase.

"The man who gave you the check? You know him as Monte? He's actually an undercover narcotics officer with the Chicago Area Drug Task Force. He came to the Task Force from the DEA and runs his own squad. Now you know why we wanted to see you."

"Oh my God," Guy managed to squeak out. "A narcotics officer? But I saw him selling drugs."

"No, you thought you saw him selling drugs. The whole show at the Cheshire Club is staged for the benefit of players like you, Mr. Lafitte. Now if you'll stand up, Officer Jericho here will apply a set of handcuffs to your wrists. I'm sure you understand."

Guy staggered to his feet and the arrest was made official.

His dad calls me, retains, and it's all uphill from here on.

The jailers produce Guy in court, chained to a dozen other unfortunates who are also appearing. He looks forlornly at me and I nod at him. We met last night, put our heads together, and came to decide that we would have to ask for an unsecured bail bond. Unsecured, because Guy has no money and no assets to put as surety on the bail. His boat,
GUY'S FOLLY
, was seized under the RICO laws and will be auctioned off and more toys purchased for use by the Task Force. Or maybe they'll keep the boat and use it in future stings; the point being, the boat no longer belongs to my client and so he has no property to bail him out of this mess.

The judge, after a perfunctory hearing, sets the bail at two million dollars. The amount is high because of the amount of narcotics in Guy's possession. Plus there is the indisputable fact that Guy has no ties to the community and thus poses a flight risk and that, too, helped enhance the need for a higher bail.

After our appearance the deputies take Guy away. Back to jail he goes, and I am left with a sale of narcotics case that is easily proved with a signed check made out by the starring member of the Drug Task Force and endorsed for deposit by my client. Open and shut.

Except for one tiny thing. I have asked that a sample of the cocaine be produced so that I can have it tested. I take nothing for granted, including the SA's claim that it was cocaine. Why? Because my client was so naive I'm not convinced it was even cocaine he was peddling. It might have been baby powder for all I know.

And guess what? The SA so far is dragging her feet in making a sample available to my laboratory.

I'm wondering whether they might have misplaced the largesse from the midnight drug transaction. Now that would be a great help to the defense of Guy. It would mean the charges would be dismissed, the boat returned, and Guy sent sailing away.

He should be so lucky.

Still, I am waiting.

I
file
a motion to dismiss the case against Guy Lafitte. The basis for my motion is that the state has failed to provide me with the sample I requested for testing. My request was in writing and I attached a copy with my motion. The law is very clear.

That motion is argued and I win. The case against Lafitte, the drug dealer of the bad bank checks is dismissed. With prejudice, once the state admits the contraband is missing from the police evidence room. Evidently they've done a search of the entire storage building and Lafitte's cocaine was clocked in but then disappeared. It's simply run off on its own, we are led by the state to believe. The judge is disgusted and the case is over.

Interestingly enough, I have a visit from my Vietnamese friend Phun Loc that same afternoon. The grand jury has declined to prosecute her. She believes it's because they have "obeyed the First Amendment and let her have free speech." She says she hasn't been back near the President's house since the grand jury call. I believe that's why she hasn't been indicted. The Secret Service subpoenas loonies and forces them to appear for grand jury testimony and that puts the fear of God in them. It's got nothing to do with the First Amendment and I tell her so.

Deaf ears. She's determined her First Amendment rights have carried the day.

She says she's planning to return to the sidewalk in front of his house.

I tell her that would be a huge mistake.

She laughs and tosses her head. She leaves my office.

I cross her off my possible client list. I won't be there for her when she comes back, her tail between her legs. And she will be back.

The Secret Service, like Neil Young’s rust, never sleeps.