The Law Partners (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 3) (7 page)

"
M
ira Morales received
a standing ovation after her speech at the Cook County Democratic Fundraiser," says Elmer Bancroft, the state chairman of the party.

We are sitting in his office at Worker Stedman, a tech fund on Lower Wacker in Chicago. Bancroft is the managing partner and a jovial politician who knows the first name of just about every precinct worker in his county. He is a large, big-boned man with heavy jowls, a bulbous nose, and eyes perpetually road-mapped with eyestrain from party business at some tavern or restaurant where plans were made, candidates selected in back room deals, and Cook County politics guided by the heavy hand of the chairman as they have been for a hundred years. Predecessors' party politics have resulted in assassinations: Anton Cermak in 1931; in nationally televised riots: Richard J. Daley in 1968; in demonstrations too many times to count now: from Richard M. Daley until 2010. It continues today. The Cook County Democratic Party is a volatile mashup of every conceivable economic, religious, and social interest group out there. And Elmer Bancroft is the front man for it all, the man who agreed that Mira Morales would be the party's candidate for District Attorney in the first place.

Danny and I are loyal contributors to both political parties in Chicago and it isn't from any deep-seated need to see any agenda furthered. No, we contribute so that, when we are picking juries, we have access to both parties' databases in order to get additional background information about prospective jurors. Everyone with a brain does this in Chicago, criminal lawyers and civil litigators alike. After all, jury panels come from voter registration rolls. It's only good business that we remain active so we have access to citizen demographics and likely social tendencies.

I ask him, "Did anyone notice Mira having words with someone? An altercation of some kind?"

Bancroft leans back in his deep leather chair. He places his fingertips together and shifts some imaginary weight between them. A red toothpick protrudes from the corner of his mouth. He switches it to the other side as he thinks.

"Well, I didn't see anything. Not that I would have even noticed, Michael. I get pretty wrapped up in what's happening on the dais to ever notice anything else. You might ask some of the precinct bosses who were there. I'm thinking in particular of Natty McMann."

"And who is Natty McMann?" asks Marcel. He has come here with me today as we try to put together a list of names among the party functionaries worth talking to.

"Natty is our sergeant-at-arms. He would likely have noticed if anyone got out of line."

"He has people roaming the crowd with their eyes open, is what you're saying," says Marcel.

Bancroft nods. "That's exactly what I'm saying." Then he changes the subject. "So what do you fellows think? Do we need to replace Mira on the ticket and not look back? Or is this going to wrap up and go away pretty soon? What do we do?"

The question is mine to field.

"It's not going to evaporate, if that's what you're hoping. Prosecutors going after one of their own are very, very careful, very circumspect. They know they will be in for the fight of their lives whenever they indict another prosecutor. No, this case will be around for a while. But that doesn't mean you should dump Mira. I'm strongly convinced she's not guilty."

Again with the toothpick. Other side of the mouth.

"That may be, but this case will be dragging on into the fall, am I right? Hell, boys, the election's in November. I think this pretty much gets her kicked out."

"We've had our initial appearance, Mr. Bancroft," I advise him. "The judge put this on the fast-track calendar. We have a trial date of October thirty-first. That's a firm date. So you'll know her status before the election. Everyone will. And if you dump her now it will look like you're admitting she's guilty of something. You'll also be dumping your best chance of beating out Lamont Johnstone in the general election. I would caution you against dumping her. In fact, as her attorney, I'm begging you not to. It would really hurt her case for the public to see her party pull away from her."

"There is that," Bancroft allows. "There is that. Tell you what. I'm going to sit on this through August and keep my ear to the ground. If it is looking good for her, I'll know by September one. We can still field a new face at that time if need be."

"Elegant," I say, suddenly hot under the collar. "A betrayal that's not. Because if you don't like what you're hearing in August or September, you're going to dump her and that's going to make choosing a jury very difficult, considering that Cook County juries run four-to-one Democrat in their makeup. A fallen star won't sit well with those folks. You'll make my job twice as hard."

He smiles and leans forward in a rush. He withdraws the toothpick and points it at me.

"That, Michael Gresham, is exactly why you get paid the big bucks. Because you can make wine out of water, pull rabbits from hats, and slay dragons in the courtrooms of Chicago. I know, I've watched your star rise. Especially since you left your old firm. Where, I believe, you were asked to leave."

He does know everyone's business. I
was
asked to leave my old firm, and it really
was
my old firm since I started it. But because my book of business had all but ceased to exist, I was voted out. Since then, my business has come roaring back like a tornado. Bancroft knows this too, but I don't push the point. No reason to defend or justify myself, not with this opportunistic hack.

"Where do we find Natty McMann?" asks Marcel, sensing that I'm about finished up here.

"Natty works in the County Clerk's office. He's second-in-command there. But catch him early in the morning. After lunch he's usually oiled up pretty good and you wouldn't want to put all your marbles on what he might tell you then."

"Will do," I say, and extend my hand.

We shake across the desk and turn to leave, when he stops me in my tracks.

"Michael, there was one thing you should know about the fundraiser."

I turn back around. "Yes?"

"Darrell Harrow showed up that night. My sources tell me he was in hot pursuit of Mira."

"What's that mean?"

"It means they were an item. So I am told. Don't take my word for it."

"Whose word should I take?"

"Talk to Natty. He's my source."

Maybe--I am hoping--Mira avoided having anything to do with Harrow in public that night. But knowing Mira and her bent for married men, I'm afraid I know what I will hear. Truth be told, I'm not eager to talk to Natty, though I must. Besides, I am certain beyond a reasonable doubt that the District Attorney's investigators--democrats in an office of democrats--have already been to see him. And, I'm equally certain they have his recorded statement and will add him to their witness list, a witness against Mira.

Cook County politics, Cook County government.

It is what it is.

M
arcel drives
us up to Daley Plaza in his truck and we find underground parking at only fifty bucks a day. A steal, given where we are. A dash across the street and into the Daley Center, where we enter the County Clerk's office on the East Concourse and ask for Natty McMann. Who is asking? Michael Gresham, the attorney for Mira Morales, I reply. The clerk turns to page Mr. McMann. Moments later, she returns and leads us into the second office from the last down a long, wood-floored hallway. There are ancient radiators along the walls and the windows at the end of the hall look like they have been painted shut for a century or more. A reminder that not all Cook County tax dollars go for infrastructure.

There, near the end, she opens a door with opaque glass on which is stenciled,

We step inside and find ourselves in an outer office with an empty desk. So we take a seat as the clerk directs, and we wait.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes crawl by.

Finally, the inner door opens and a swarthy, bald man with a stubby nose invites us into his office. "Natty McMann," he says once he shows us to the two visitors' chairs. He takes his seat behind his desk without offering to shake our hands. "I'm very busy and have a lunch date in fifteen minutes, so let's cut to the chase. You're Mira's lawyer and you must be the associate," he says to Marcel, who lets it slide. "What can I tell you about the fundraiser that you don't already know from Elmer?"

"You've spoken to him?” I ask.

"He gave me a jingle. Said I should take extra good care of you. Which of course I will. But about Mira Morales. I don't know much about her. She's never really had much to do with the County Clerk's office. She's mostly in the criminal courts. But I do know her when I see her and I saw her the night of the fundraiser. She was standing off to the side of the stage when this Darrell Harrow fellow comes up behind her. He wraps both hands up around her eyes and says something into her ear. She slips out from under and pushes him away. Her look is anything but friendly. I'm watching all this from the stage as I'm not ten feet away from her."

"Were you able to hear any of what either one of them said?" I ask.

"Yes. I heard Harrow say he had come to make a donation in her private place."

"Swear to God?"

Marcel and I lean closer.

"Swear to God."

"Did she respond?"

"She did. She said, word-for-word, 'You do realize you're speaking in public, Mr. Harrow?'"

"Meaning?"

"He had a full load on. He was rocking up and back on his feet and reaching for her. I think he was trying to keep his balance."

"Was there alcohol being served at the fundraiser?"

"Naive, are you? This is a Democrat fundraiser. Of course there's booze. The micks and the grease balls can't pull a voting lever without a good load on. You know that, Mr. Gresham. You're Irish."

"Actually the name is Irish. But my lineage is English. Long story. So how long were they having their say at the fundraiser?"

"She was introduced and went up on stage probably ten minutes later. During that time, he kept saying rude things to her, crude things, out loud where everyone around them could hear. The gist of it seemed to be that she had once had a thing with him and had recently called it off and he was mad as hell about that."

"Did she ever turn on him? Threaten him?"

"Naw. She kept her cool. Elmer told me Mira's like that. She's been around the block too many times to lose it to someone like Darrell Harrow."

"How did they leave it?"

"Right before she goes onstage she finally agrees to meet him after the fundraiser. She tells him in the meantime he should go find the coffee bar and try to sober up. She wasn't going to talk to him if he didn't."

"What did he say to that?"

"He just laughed and had to grab some guy next to him to keep from falling down. She turned away in total disgust and pretended not to hear him again. That was how she left it with him: coffee then talk."

"Mr. McMann, have you spoken to the police about what you saw?"

"Sure. Two detectives came around a day or two after she killed Harrow. They asked me all kinds of things."

"Such as?"

"Where was I sitting, what did I hear, describe their relationship, describe their affect, whether they had been drinking, what I saw--that kind of stuff."

"Had she been drinking, by the way?"

"I never saw it if she was. She was fine when she spoke at the mike."

"Did you see anything at all that led you to believe she might shoot him later that night?"

"Like I told the dicks, nothing like that. They asked me the same thing as you. I didn't see anything to indicate she was going to plug the guy."

"Mr. McMann, would it be okay if I sent Marcel here back to record your statement?"

"No. I don't like that because you'll use it to trip me up in court if my words change even one syllable. I know lawyers, brother, and I ain't going there."

"All right. Well, I guess we're done here," I tell him, and he looks away dismissively.

Marcel and I gather our notepads and load up to leave.

"One last thing, Michael," he suddenly blurts out. "You didn't ask me what I heard around the courthouse. The big rumor."

"Which is?"

"That Lamont Johnstone actually took the guy into Mira's living room and shot him while she was passed out. He drugged her and then shot her lover."

"This is a rumor? Seriously?"

"Mira has a lot of friends around here."

I say, “Evidently Johnstone doesn't. You know, that's so far-fetched that I'm not even going to honor it with a serious reply. Lamont Johnstone is an honest prosecutor. He would never do something like that."

The assistant clerk spreads his hands.

McMann says, “Hey, I said it was rumor. Frankly, I'm not buying it either. I've got my own ideas about what happened."

"Such as?"

"Such as he shot himself."

"Won't work. No suicide weapon found nearby. Sorry."

"Well, I'm still working on it."

"If you come up with anything else, please give a call. I don't bite. And by the way, I wouldn't have used your statement against you in court. I just wanted it to show I've done my job in talking to everyone. Due diligence."

"That's all?" he asks. "Then send your guy back around. I'll give you what you want."

"Can't thank you enough, Mr. McMann."

"Just be sure it's before noon. I’m very hard to get ahold of in the afternoons. That's our busy time."

"We’ll do that," I say, remembering what Elmer Bancroft has told me about Natty McMann's drinking habits.

So we leave the clerk to get back to whatever it is county clerks do. I've never really known, never had need of their services, and would be bored to death working in that particular office.

Even the air smells stale.

Outside, the sun is shining and I am happy to be alive and free as we dart back across Washington Street to our DayPark.