Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 1) (19 page)

C
olleen O'Connell
, Psy.D., is the psychologist the hospital brings into my room the final week of my stay. The University of Chicago Hospital—my current home—prides itself on its holistic approach, so I get mental health clearance too before I'm released back into the world. Dr. O'Connell is a large woman, but friendly and—for want of a better term—feisty. She's always up for dueling wits with me.

"So who do you want to kill today?" she asks on my third session, the third in three days.

"Only the people who did this to me."

"What about the judge that did something—what was it?"

"Judge Pennington? Only got me indicted. Naw, I couldn't hold that against him."

"Bet me. He's on your hit list too, I take it."

"Actually, he's number two."

"And number one?"

"MexTel. A corporation that evidently thinks nothing of killing people."

"Can we talk about healthy ways of dealing with this anger or rage?"

"Rage."

"For example, there's always the old standby, physical workouts. I'd like you to get a gym membership and workout every day. Especially with the body bag. Remember me telling you how healthy it would be for you to work out on the body bag? Just be sure and wear boxing gloves because there's a lot of anger inside of you to be worked through."

"All right."

"Then there's the courthouse stuff. What do you do about Judge Penningford?"

"Pennington. I kind of think I know why he would want to involve me. It's actually not personal with him."

"Why would he want to hurt you?"

"Because at one time, I defended the man who murdered his wife. In some obtuse way, that has made him hate me. In fact, when he retained me to defend him he did it with the ulterior motive of involving me in his crime. He's very twisted, our dear federal judge."

"Can you prove that?"

"Can I or will I?"

"Either."

"Yes to both. I haven't even started yet," I say. The words lend me strength. The words draw me along much more than silence. Hating in silence, without words, without action, is futile.

"By the way, Michael, did I ever tell you it's okay to hate the people who did this to you?"

"Yes, you did."

"Hate is what preachers try to talk us out of on Sunday mornings. Hate is what I try to get my victims to use the other six days of the week. Hatred innervates; it can bring strength and focus where without it we might only know self-pity or anger. Hate moves us toward a goal of freedom from rage. Keep this close to your heart."

"Wow, I've never thought of hate as therapeutic."

"It's the new thinking. Take it in and try it out. Let me know what you think."

I
am released
the next morning, and it's Marcel who comes to take me home. We've spoken only once since the night I was immolated and Maddie was murdered, and that was just a drop-in to my hospital room. He's wearing washed out jeans and a green Lauren shirt with a vest over, and a cap worn low on the head, his eyes hidden behind purple shades.

He has come to get me in my own Mercedes 550, and I am glad to let him drive. It is still awkward for me to slide across the seat and turn my legs as it requires drawing my knees up toward my chest and that is very painful. I am told the scar tissue will loosen with time, but right now it's very tight and painful when forced, especially on my knees and elbows and fingers.

We leave UC Hospital and head for Lake Shore Drive. Marcel is quiet tonight, not his usual jocular self.

"So," he finally says as we head north on LSD, "have you heard any more from the dicks?"

"They think we were all four the victims of the same group."

"Any names getting thrown out there yet?"

"Not really. They keep saying they've got several leads, but they won't cut me in on the details. I keep telling them to look at MexTel and any of its security people that were in the U.S. when it happened. I don't know if they are."

He nods and checks the rearview.

"Well, I haven't told anyone this, I was waiting until you got out."

"What's that?"

"You remember we were following Maddie's Toyota that night? You had put us on it?"

"Yes. And we still need to talk about where your guys disappeared to. Following one vehicle shouldn't have been that difficult to do."

"Actually, I was in the car that got cut off by the truck that rear-ended them."

"You were? Did you tell this to the police?"

"No, I didn't."

"Why not, Marcel? Damn it to hell, man that's information they're dying to know. They keep telling me nobody stopped when Maddie was forced off the road. Nobody stopped."

"I called nine-one-one, but I also stayed on the trail of the white cube truck."

"Tell me about it."

"Well, it went north up to North Avenue then over to the ninety-four and the south back to the city. It came back down to Adams and then took back streets to a pay lot where it was left. Two guys got out, walked east a block, and disappeared inside a warehouse. The sign on the place was old and faded, but evidently they used to make chocolate there."

"Did you follow them? Confront them?"

"Nope. I parked in the alley, turned my lights off, and waited. It was half-past nine by now and very deserted. Plus, I was alone. I wasn't about to storm the place by myself. So I pulled out my Nikon, put on my night gear, and took some pictures."

He reaches inside his vest and pulls out a half-dozen pictures.

"Recognize these assholes?"

I flip through the photographs, unsure about anything or anyone, until the fourth one down. Immediately I recognize the face of the man walking toward the camera. He's about one hundred feet away, and he is grasping the arms of a body. With his back to the camera, another man has the legs. The face of the man I can see is one of the guys from the video Marcel made of the four men sitting in the MexTel CEO's hotel room at the Hyatt. The photo is very clear, and the man has a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face, although in truth he wouldn't have seen Marcel taking pictures from that distance and in that lighting, such as it was.

"Holy hell," I say, "that's MexTel's guy."

"Yeah. And you know who they're carrying?"

"Who?"

"That, my friend, would be you. Your shirt is burned off, that's it, next photograph, when they turn you sideways to put you in the backseat of the Cherokee. There you are suspended between those two assholes, your clothes missing."

I can't breathe. My air catches in my throat and won't pass through. My throat is closing out of reaction to the poor burned up soul in the picture. It is a sympathetic reaction, and I know it will pass. It does, and I take in a huge lungful of air.

"You okay?" Marcel asks.

"Who—who—who are the other two guys in these first shots."

"Believe it or not, the guy in the suit of clothes is Aguilar."

"Chief counsel of MexTel."

"That's right. The other guy—I can't make his face out, but I'm willing to bet it's someone we know."

"Perez? The CEO? He wouldn't be in on this kind of dirty work."

"Neither would the lawyer. But there he is."

"How—why would they?"

"I think it shows how fearful they are of that file ever surfacing in Mexico. I think their jobs, their holdings, even their freedom depends on getting that file away from Arnie."

"They took the thumb drive from me."

"What thumb drive?"

"The one Arnie gave me that night. I felt them tear into my pocket and rip it out. I'm sure that’s what it was because they plugged it in a computer and confirmed it."

"Assholes."

"So let me ask you one thing. Did you know that was me?"

"Michael, look at the picture. I know it's grainy, but can you make out any features on that guy's face, the one that's actually you? It's all black and burned up. There was no way I was going to recognize you."

"So what happened after they loaded me into the Cherokee?"

"Evidently they took you to the hospital at UC."

"Didn't you follow?"

"No. I waited until they were gone, and then I went back inside the warehouse."

"Did you find anything."

"Nope. But it wasn't for lack of trying. I took my light in with me and searched both floors of that place. There was a black spot where they had burned something, and there was the smell of gasoline hanging in the air, but I didn't link that to anything."

"And you haven't told any of this to the cops?"

"Nope?"

"Why not?"

"Because I knew you would want first shot at them."

We ride on in silence for a mile or more. I roll the entire scene around in my head. But then my anger begins surfacing. I want the guys that burned me.

"How's Arnie doing in his place you got for him?"

"Arnie is fine. He doesn't ever go out except to buy groceries at the local market and to take Esmeralda to the doctor for her checkups."

"So I take it she's still expecting?"

"Last I heard, Michael, that doesn't just go away by itself. Yes, she's still expecting."

"What I meant was, the accident didn't hurt the baby?"

"Like I told you before, she came through without a scratch."

"How's Arnie with the crutches by now?"

"He's down to a single cane now. He's going to have a pretty bad limp."

"But he's still alive. A miracle there."

"And Maddie's family? Did they ever try to contact anyone?"

"Her mother sent you a card. It came to your house. No one opened it. It's waiting for you."

"How do you know it's a card then?"

"You have gotten very suspicious of everything, Michael. You have definitely changed."

"Yes, I have definitely changed."

"So. When are we going after these guys?" he asks me, watching my reaction out of the corner of his eye as he drives us along.

I feel a twinge of pain in both hips. I'm cramping from sitting in the car.

"We are going soon. We are going to find the people who did this to me."

"And then what? We're going to sue them?"

"No, I was thinking of bypassing the court system this time."

I look out the window and flex my hands. The knuckles are sore and I realize I've been clenching my hands since getting into the car.

"What's that mean?"

"It means I need to talk to Arnie. Let's go there first."

"No, I haven't told you this yet, Boss. Your lawyer wants to see you ASAP."

"Valentine Quinones wants to see me? Why didn't you tell me this, Marcel?"

"You were in the hospital. Your docs would have killed me if I had upset you."

"Well, what's she thinking?"

"She didn't say. She called Evie—Mrs. Lingscheit—and Evie called me. You've got an appointment with Ms. Quinones at nine o'clock on the dot in the morning."

I feel my pulse quicken. My mouth is suddenly dry and not from the loss of half of my salivary glands from the fire I inhaled. No, this rapid racing pulse and dry mouth are related to only one thing: my freedom.

I do not want to lose my freedom for some imaginary federal crime I did not commit.

"I'll be ready for you to drive me downtown at eight," I say weakly.

Marcel stares straight ahead. But he nods. He'll be there.

M
s. Quinones is wearing
a navy leather suit that looks incredibly soft and is tailored to fit her without a wrinkle or pull. Her hair is pulled back, and her face is without makeup—again—as makeup would be a step down for her beauty. She is at her desk when I am shown in, and she doesn't stand to greet me.

"Sit down, Michael, let me have a look."

I sit, and she leans forward in her chair and studies my face.

"Son of bitching bastards," she mutters. "They really did torch you, didn't they?"

The scarring on my face is pronounced. I am going to require surgery to revise some of it. It was all discussed and scheduled with the team that did the first two go-arounds.

"They did torch me."

"Enlighten me, please. I want to see if we can make a connection here."

"Well, the MexTel guys grabbed me outside a jazz club. Who they were really after was my brother, but he got away. So they used me to set an example for him once they discovered I'd been given a copy of the file they were after."

"What file is that?"

"What I call the smoking gun file. MexTel is being sued in toxic tort litigation. Thousands of penniless people are claiming they have lost loved ones and been made sick themselves by some of MexTel's groundwater practices where they have communications emplacements. MexTel denies this and the suit is pending in the U.S. because many of those injured are U.S. citizens living in certain enclaves in Mexico where the groundwater has been ruined."

"Go on."

"Well, the guys that grabbed me know that Arnie, my brother—"

"I know Arnold Gresham. Everyone does."

"They know Arnie has their file, and they were sending him a warning. Plus using me to convince him that his resistance to turning back their property just isn't worth it."

"So they burned you to set an example?"

"That and the fact I was found in possession of their file. They don't like people who have their secret files.”

"And you had the file because Arnie was afraid for himself?"

"Exactly. I was to turn the file over to the plaintiffs in the lawsuit if anything should happen to Arnie."

"Did you?

"No. That would be the end of both of us if that happened. They would stop at nothing to get revenge."

"So does any of this fit with our Tijuana cartel problem?"

She leans back and takes a sip of her coffee. It is contained in a 16-ounce cup that says Starbucks in vertical lettering. She's a fan, and I like her for that as I am too.

"I'm not seeing a connection at this point. But let me think about that. I'll get back to you."

"Fine."

"Here's where we're at, Michael. While you were recuperating, I've received the discovery documents and copies of video and letters from the U.S. Attorney. For openers, the case is being worked up by Nathan Fordyce. He's a premier fifteen year veteran of the FBI. He's their go-to guy when they absolutely have to have a conviction on a case. He was originally selected because it was a federal judge. Unfortunately for you, now that the case has expanded to include you, he is now your lion tamer too."

"How fortunate for me," I say, my post-hospital sarcasm surfacing again. The injury and the painful treatment has made me very paranoid, very suspicious of everyone and their motives, and very angry about those who would torture me further. It looks like Nathan Fordyce is one of those and I do not view him with anything but pure hatred right now. "If he had a single cell of honesty in his body he'd see right through Judge Pennington's flimsy attempt to include me in his goddamn scheme against James Lamb and the prosecution he's facing. He'd be the first to admit I was only doing my job when I contacted the Tijuana guys and asked them to do the right thing when they testify. But no, he's used my involvement to widen his net and maybe catch another big fish—a defense lawyer. The guy is an utter asshole. Excuse my language."

"I understand. You're hurt, and you're bitter. I get that. But I also get that part of what he's working with is of your own doing. Have you seen the transcript of the message you left on Raul Ramon's phone? I have it here, if you didn't read through it before you turned your file over to me."

"No, I didn't read it. I was afraid to, I guess."

"Well, let me read it to you. Ready?"

"Let her rip."

"Instead of me reading it, let me give you the print-out. Here you are."

I begin reading:

I hear it and I am horrified. I read it through again.

"I cannot believe I left myself open like that," I tell Ms. Quinones. "No one who knows me would believe it. What the hell was I even thinking?" I want to slap the side of my head out of self-anger and frustration at my naiveté but I don't. It would just hurt too damn much.

"Michael, you have made their case for them. They have you soliciting a witness to change his story. That's enough to get to a jury. In my opinion, this letter will get you convicted if this case goes to trial."

This sudden change in direction alarms me. What does she mean, if this case goes to trial? Of course, this case is going to trial. I'm innocent, damn it all!

"I don't like the tenor of what you just said," I tell her. "Of course, this case is going to trial. Why wouldn't it?"

"I cannot in good faith take this to trial. You would have to change your story from what's recorded by you. You would be telling a lie if you tried to change. That would be an ethical violation for me to help you tell something else. Which actually is a very small part of my thinking as it's not for certain the facts would break that way. But what is certain—at least in my opinion from trying hundreds of federal jury trials—is that you will be convicted if you go to trial. For that reason, I must decline your representation if you insist on taking this case to trial.”

"What? I thought you have agreed to defend me! I've paid you five hundred thousand dollars, Ms. Quinones!"

She takes up an envelope and passes it across the desk to me.

"Your full refund," she says. "I won't take this case to trial."

"Tell the truth. Is it because you're worried about your public trial record? Is that it, you can't stand to have a black mark on your record?"

She nods slowly. "Yes, that's part of it. You and I know that our trial records are our pedigree. I've never lost a case in federal court. Not in the past ten years. I can't afford a loss now. The practice of law in Chicago is enormously competitive, as I'm sure you know. Our trial records are really all we have to recommend us."

"Okay. Say I agree to plead guilty. Do you see me doing any jail time?"

She leans back, her eyes wide. "Are you serious? On a conspiracy to commit murder case? Of course, there would be imprisonment. Ten years minimum, I'm thinking."

"No way. I'd be sixty-five and penniless and without a law license. That's not an option."

"Well, Michael, going to trial with me sitting in the chair next to you is not an option, either. So we'll just have to agree to disagree. It's best we part company now, before you waste any more time with me."

"Could I run one more thing by your before I leave?"

She checks her watch. "Sure. But I need to get ready—"

"Two minutes. Right before they threw gasoline on me and lit me on fire, I thought I could hear the voice of Special Agent Fordyce with the MexTel thugs. Does that even begin to make any sense in any of this, that he would be involved in MexTel kidnapping me?"

"Not for a second. No, I imagine it was someone else, and your mind just told you it was him. Well, I'd best get ready for my next client, Michael. If you need a reference for other attorneys who might be willing to take you to trial, let me know, and I'll get a list together."

"That won't be necessary. I've already found my new attorney."

Her eyebrows immediately arch upward as she hands me my file. "You have? Who?"

"Me," I tell her and take back my file.

We shake hands, and we are done here.

Marcel is waiting for me in the waiting room. I didn't go into the meeting with a file, but I have one now.

"You're taking your file back," he says in the elevator.

I shrug. "She fired me."

"Seriously?"

"She didn't want to go to trial. I don't blame her. It's one she could lose and she doesn't want a blemish on her record."

"Well, that's pure bullshit!"

"Actually, I'm glad she told me. My lawyer has to be a hundred percent certain about me."

"Who's going to be that?"

I pull my file up under my arm.

"Me."

Once we're in the car, I call Mrs. Lingscheit and ask her to let Danny know we're going to all meet at ten-thirty. It's time to clear the air I tell her.

And time to buckle down. We have a conspiracy case to defend.