Rogue Lawyer (28 page)

Partner and I spend most of Saturday in the basement of the law offices of Harry & Harry, poring over juror questionnaires and ponderous reports put together by Cliff, a jury consultant, who, so far, has billed me $30,000. The tally for Tadeo's defense is just under $70,000, all from my pocket of course, and it will continue to climb. He and I have not discussed the payment of fees because it's a waste of time. He's broke, and Miguel and the rest of the drug gang have little interest in my compensation. They figure I made enough money from Tadeo's brief career. I assume they also think that in the rules of the streets the removal of Tubby and Razor is worth a bundle. Tit for tat. We're all even.

Cliff is of the opinion that the defense of Tadeo Zapate has quite a mountain to climb. He and his firm have done their usual work of (1) polling a thousand registered voters in this metropolitan area and asking hypothetical questions; (2) hurriedly researching the backgrounds of all two hundred prospective jurors; and (3) reviewing every news report that mentions the ugly incident in which Sean King was beaten. From the poll, an astonishing 31 percent of those questioned know a little or a lot about the case, and the vast majority of these favor conviction. Eighteen percent have seen the video. In the garden-variety murder case, regardless of how sensational, finding 10 percent who are aware of it is unusual.

Unlike most consultants, Cliff is known for his bluntness. That's why I use him. His bottom line: “Chances of an acquittal are slim. Chances of a conviction are high. Cut a deal; negotiate a plea bargain. Run for the hills.”

When I first read his report, I called him immediately and said, “Come on, Cliff, I'm paying you all this money and your best advice is to run for the hills?”

He's a real smart-ass and his reply was “No, actually, I'd sprint for the hills. Your client is toast and the jury will throw the book at him.”

Cliff will be in the courtroom Monday watching and taking notes. As much as I love the cameras and the attention, I'm not looking forward to it.

At 4:00 p.m., Partner and I climb into my sparkling-new customized Ford cargo van, complete with all the usual finery I need for such a splendid mobile office, and head for the university. At Partner's suggestion, I agreed to tone it down, to move away from conspicuous black to more of a soft bronze exterior color. Painted on both sides, in small block letters, are the words “Smith Contractors,” another nice touch Partner really wanted. He's convinced that we will now blend in with the world and be harder to spot by the police, Link, my own clients, and all the other bad guys, real and potential, lurking out there.

He drops me off in front of the university's aquatic center and leaves in search of a suitable parking place. I drift inside, hear the echoing voices, find the pool, and send a text message to Moss Korgan. Swarms of small, skinny kids are heavily involved in a swim meet. The bleachers are half-packed with noisy parents. A breaststroke race is under way and little girls splash and kick in all eight lanes of the fifty-meter pool.

Moss replies, “Right side, third section, top row.”

I look and see no one, but I'm sure he's watching. I'm wearing a leather jacket with my long hair under the collar, along with jeans and a blue-and-orange Mets cap. This is really not my crowd and I don't expect to be recognized, but I rarely take chances. Just last week Partner and I were having a sandwich in a café when a jerk walked over and informed me that, in his opinion, my little cage fighter should rot in jail for the rest of his life. I thanked him and asked him to please leave us alone. He called me a crook. Partner stood and the guy got lost.

As I climb the steps I get a nose full of the smell of chlorine. Starcher once mentioned swimming, but one of his mothers told him the sport was too dangerous because of all the chemicals they put in the water. I'm surprised they don't keep the kid in a bubble.

I sit alone for a moment, far away from anyone else, and watch the action in the pool. The parents yell and the noise gets louder and louder until it suddenly stops and the race is over. The kids pull themselves out of the water as their mothers wait with towels and advice. From here, they appear to be about ten years old.

Moss rises from a group of parents across the pool and slowly walks around it. He climbs the bleachers in front of me and eventually takes a seat, about three feet away. His body language says it all—he hates where he is and would rather be talking to a serial killer. “This better be good, Rudd,” he says without looking at me.

“And hello to you too, Moss. Which one is your kid?” Stupid question; there are about a thousand of them down there crawling around the pool.

“That one,” he says with a slight nod. What a smart-ass, but then I asked for it. “She's a twelve-year-old freestyler. Won't get wet for another thirty minutes. Can we get on with this?”

“I have another deal for you, and it's even more complicated than the last one.”

“That's what you said. I almost hung up, Rudd, until you mentioned the Kemp girl. Let's have it.”

“Swanger tracked me down again. We met. He claims to know where she is, that she went full term with the pregnancy, the baby got sold by some traffickers who feed her heroin in exchange for all manner of sexual activities.”

“Swanger is a proven liar.”

“He certainly is but some of what he says is true.”

“Why did he contact you?”

“He says he needs help and, not surprisingly, he needs money. There's a chance he'll contact me again, and if he does I can possibly put the police on his trail. That trail might lead to Jiliana Kemp, or not. There's no way to know, but right now the police have nothing else.”

“So you're sacrificing your client again.”

“He's not my client. I made that clear to him. He may think of me as his lawyer, but it's a waste of time to analyze what Arch Swanger might be thinking.”

A loud buzzer goes off and eight boys plunge into the water. Instantly, the parents start yelling, as if the kids can hear them. Other than “Swim faster!” what can you scream at a splashing kid in the heat of a race? We watch them until they make the turn. Moss says, “And what do you want from us?”

“I go to trial Monday with my cage fighter. I want a better deal. I want a five-year plea bargain with a guarantee that he serves his time in the county penal farm. It's a softer place. There's a nice gym. The kid can stay in shape, serve about eighteen months, get paroled when he's, say, twenty-four, and still have a future in the ring. Otherwise, he'll serve fifteen and come out a hardened street thug with only one thing on his mind—more crime.”

He's already rolling his eyes. He exhales in disbelief, as if everything I've just said is a complete joke. He shakes his head; I must be an idiot.

Finally, with great effort, he manages to say, “We have no control over the prosecutor. You know that.”

“Mancini was appointed by the mayor and confirmed by the city council, same as you. Our interim police chief was appointed by the mayor and confirmed by the city council. Same for Roy Kemp, who's still on leave. Can't we find a way to work together here?”

“Mancini won't listen to Woody. He hates him.”

“Everybody hates Woody, and he hates everybody right back. Somehow he's survived three terms. Here's how you sell it to Woody. Are you listening?”

He has yet to look at me, but now he turns and glares. He looks back at the pool and crosses his arms over his chest, my signal to spill it.

“Okay, play along, Moss, help me walk through this. Let's assume I can lead the cops to Swanger, assume further that Swanger can lead the cops to Jiliana Kemp. Somewhere in west-central Chicago, by the way. Assume they rescue the girl, and guess what? Our beloved mayor, the Honorable L. Woodrow Sullivan III, gets to hold the first press conference. Imagine that scene, Moss. You know how Woody loves a press conference. It will be his finest moment. Woody in a dark suit, all smiles, a row of cops behind him, all grim-faced but happy because the girl has been saved. Woody makes the announcement as if he personally found her and pulled off the miracle. An hour later we get our first glimpse of the happy Kemp family reunited, with Woody, of course, wedging himself into the photo as only he can do. What a moment!”

Moss softens a bit as he absorbs this visual. It rattles around his brain. He wants to dismiss it and tell me to go to hell, but it's simply too rich. Creativity fails him, as usual, so he simply says, “You're crazy, Rudd.”

No surprise. I press on with “Since we're grasping for the truth here, and making bold assumptions, let's say that Swanger is not lying. If so, Jiliana is one of many girls snatched from their families and sold into bondage. Almost all are white American girls. If their ring is busted and the traffickers are caught, then the story echoes from coast to coast. Woody gets more than his share of the credit; certainly enough to shine in this town.”

“Mancini will never go along.”

“Then fire Mancini. On the spot. Call him on the carpet and force his resignation. The mayor has that power under our version of democracy. Replace him with one of those little ass-kissing bureaucrats. There are only a hundred of them.”

“I think there are fifteen,” he says.

“Sorry. So out of fifteen assistant city prosecutors, I'm sure you and Woody can find one with a bit of ambition, one who'll do what you tell him or her to do in exchange for the big office. Come on, Moss, this is not that complicated.”

He leans forward, deep in thought, elbows on knees. The noise fades. The crowd goes quiet as one race ends and the next one starts to get organized. Thankfully, I've never been to a swim meet, but it appears as if this ordeal goes on for hours. I thank Starcher's mothers and their fear of chlorine.

He needs some help, so I prod on. “Woody has the power, Moss. He can make this happen.”

“Why does it have to be a deal? Why can't you just do the right thing and cooperate with the police? If you believe Swanger, and if he's really not your client, then help out the cops here. Hell, you're talking about an innocent young woman.”

“Because I don't work that way,” I say, though I've lost sleep trying to answer his question. “I have a client to represent, one who's guilty, as most are, and I'm desperate for ways to help him. I don't get clients who have the potential to make a lot of money, legally, but this kid is different. He could lift himself and his rather large and growing family out of the ghetto.”

“A ghetto here is better than where they came from,” he blurts, and immediately wishes he hadn't said it.

Wisely, and uncharacteristically, I let it pass.

We watch a group of taller boys limber up and stretch nervously at the start. I say, “There's something else.”

“Oh, a multipart deal. What a surprise.”

“About a month ago, the cops found a couple of bodies at the landfill. Two thugs who worked for Link Scanlon. For some reason, I'm a suspect. Don't know how serious things are, but I'd rather not deal with it.”

“I thought Link was your client.”

“He was, but let's say that when he vanished he was less than pleased with my services. He sent the two thugs to squeeze some money out of me.”

“Who whacked them?”

“I don't know but it wasn't me. Seriously, you think I'd run the risk?”

“Probably.”

I snort a cheap laugh. “No way. These guys are career goons with lots of enemies. Whoever whacked them comes from a long list of folks who wanted to.”

“So, let me get this straight. First, you want the mayor to force Mancini to lighten up on your cage fighter so he can plead to a sweet deal and protect his career. Second, you want the mayor to lean on the police department to look elsewhere for whoever rubbed out Link's boys. And, third, what was third?”

“The best part. Swanger.”

“Oh right. And in return for the mayor putting his neck on the block, you might be able to help the police find Swanger, who just might be telling the truth and who just might be able to lead them to the girl. That right, Rudd?”

“That covers it.”

“What a crock of shit.”

I watch him as he walks down the aisle in the bleachers and circles around the far end of the pool. On the other side, he walks up four rows and returns to his seat beside his wife. From far away, I stare at him for a long time, and he never casts even the slightest glance in my direction.

C, for Catfish Cave. It's a few miles east of town in a dingy suburb, a bedroom community of tract houses built sixty years ago with materials designed to last fifty years. The restaurant offers bargain buffets of fish and vegetables, all now battered and fried to hell and back but previously frozen for months, even years. For only ten bucks, the customers can graze and gorge for hours without limits. They heap their platters as if they're starving, and wash it all down with gallons of sugary tea. For some reason alcohol is served but people do not come here for the booze. Tucked away in a dark, neglected corner is an empty bar, and it is here that I occasionally meet Nate Spurio.

The last time we met it was B for a bagel shop. The time before it was A, for an Arby's roast beef joint in another suburb. Nate's career hit a dead end a decade ago. He can't be fired, and, evidently, he can't be promoted. But if by some chance he was spotted having an off-duty drink with me, he would find himself directing traffic in front of an elementary school. He's too honest for police work in this town.

His boss is a Captain Truitt, a decent guy who's very close to Roy Kemp. If I want to deliver a message to Kemp, the path begins here over a couple of drinks. I lay it all on the table. Nate is surprised that I hold even the faintest hope that Jiliana Kemp is still alive. I assure him that I don't know what to believe and believing anything Swanger says is probably a mistake. But, what is there to lose? He certainly knows something, which is a lot more than our investigators can say. The more we talk and drink, the more Nate is convinced that the police department and its union can pressure both the mayor and Max Mancini. Our former chief of police was an idiot who allowed our force to become what it is, but Roy Kemp is still held in high regard by his brothers. Saving his daughter is worth a reduced plea bargain for every defendant now sitting in jail.

I repeatedly caution Nate that finding her is against the odds. First, I'm not sure I can find Swanger, or that he'll want to see me again. The last time we met I almost shot him. I have the prepaid cell phone but haven't used it since our last meeting. If it doesn't work, or if he doesn't answer it, then we're out of luck. And if I meet him and the police are able to follow him, what are the odds that he'll lead them to the strip club in west-central Chicago? Pretty slim, I think.

Nate has the emotional range of a monk but he can't hide his excitement. When we leave the bar he says he's headed to Truitt's house. There, they'll talk off the record, and he expects Truitt to immediately inform Roy Kemp that a possible deal is brewing. It's a long shot, but when it's your daughter you'll try anything. I urge him to hustle up; the trial starts tomorrow.