Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 1) (10 page)

T
wo weeks
after the Lamb dismissal, I am behind my desk, reading the latest brochure on the Sundancer boat line. I'm thinking of getting a power boat for Lake Michigan. My doctor says it would be a great way for me to get away and wind down. So I've taken it into serious consideration. I'm thinking maybe thirty-five feet, sleeping four, all the latest electronic gear on the panel. I'm a sucker for electronics and will go for every last trinket they can stuff in front of me as I sit in the captain's seat and steer.

My phone buzzes and Mrs. Lingscheit says James Lamb wants to see me. He's in our outer office, no appointment, and he won't say what's up. I tell her to send him on in, and I fold the brochure and place it face-down on my desk.

Lamb comes in wearing his jeans dropped below his buttocks like all good gangbangers, a Crips blue rag on his head, and heavy, blackout sunglasses. He's also wearing a gold grill over his teeth. Totally ragged out.

Without being asked, he sits down across from me and exhales a huge sigh. Then he leans forward and places his smartphone on my desk.

I look at him, waiting for him to speak.

"I hate those fucks thinking they had the only good shit."

‘You mean the video?"

"Yeah. I mean I've got my own pictures. Want to see what I didn't tell about?"

"Sure. Let's see."

"I'm emailing you my Instagram link."

"You have these pictures up on Instagram?"

"Relax, Mr. Gresham. You said they can't come after me no more. Prejudice or some such."

"You were dismissed with prejudice, right. And no, they can't come after you."

I check emails on my laptop and find his email with the link to his Instagram account. I click on his page, and it shows me the first picture. At first I'm shocked; there is lots of blood and a woman lying on her back. She is wearing a thin dressing gown. In the next picture, her gown has been opened. Three bullet holes in her chest are displayed. Both pictures are close-ups, faceless torso shots. I click again. I am stunned. The dead woman is Judge Pennington's wife. These are death photos from the murder scene. Photos that I have never seen before. And I've seen all the official photos. That much I know.

"Where did these come from?" I ask as I continue through more shots and more, each one depicting the dead woman. My mind is careening down a long hallway that grows imminently darker the farther I go. "James, tell me."

"Shit, dude, I took ‘em."

"You took these pictures?"

"Course, man. I capped that bitch and made my own photo album. I figure fuck, everyone else has a family album, I should have one too. I even wore my roommate's big shoes. Pretty fuckin smart?"

"I—I—" I cannot form the words I want to say. There are no words. Just the quickening realization that I have been a party to a hoax, to a murder that is never going to be prosecuted. I could send these photos to LaGuardia this very instant, and there would be nothing he could do.

"We got the last laugh, dude!"

"James, you need to leave. Now!"

He stands and begins backing away. I remember that I have a pistol in my drawer that I keep for self-protection. It's not the silver Colt that Marcel gave me, but it's a nine millimeter, and it would drop this piece of shit in a heartbeat.

But I don't go for the gun.

I allow him to leave and then and only then do I stand, pull my coat off its hook, and leave my office without a word.

Mrs. Lingscheit is ignored as she tries to get my itinerary for the afternoon.

I am downstairs, in my car, and gone.

T
wo weeks
later I'm still tied up in knots. The better part of me wants to turn Lamb out of my mind and move on with my life. But another part of me wants to go gunning for him. I am plagued night and day with thoughts of this total asshole. I cannot sleep without awakening during the night two or three times with thoughts of the gold grill leering over the dead woman's body. I wrack my brain trying to think of ways the U.S. Attorney could prosecute him, and I'm a pretty damn good criminal lawyer, but I come up with nothing.

Marcel drops me at the Congress Building after court. It is nearing the end of April, and the air is warming up. Nights are still cool, but there is a hint of summertime humidity down here in the Lower Loop where I operate beside the Lake.

In the lobby downstairs there's a fairly decent restaurant or two, American and Chinese. I opt for the American and find myself all but alone in the rather large dining area. I check my watch. 11:15 a.m. Too early for the lunch bunch, but a good time for me to crawl off alone and steal a few minutes in which I just might consider my own life and time.

I call Mrs. Lingscheit to tell her I'm downstairs.

Immediately she asks, "Did you get a call from Judge Pennington?"

"No, but my phone's on vibrate. Let me check."

I check my calls. Sure enough, there's a 312 number that I didn't answer. Exactly eleven minutes ago.

"I think I've got it. I'm going to hang up and call him."

"Roger that, Michael. I'll see you by two?"

"Probably. I'm grabbing a sandwich and then returning his call."

Pennington's call is the call that no one ever expects. A person who once hated you now wants to talk? Maybe to tell me what a fool I am. Well, I deserve that. The thought of Judge Pennington causes Lamb's face to focus in my mind. There is a circular target drawn on his face and a bulls-eye right between his eyes. I force the image out of my mind and turn my attention to lunch.

I place my order for a roast beef sandwich, heavy on the Dijon, fat-free mayonnaise. Then I have second thoughts and switch to the Cobb salad. Healthier, I'm thinking. With coffee. The girl smiles, and I notice a large bruise on her upper arm. Plus one eye is drooping. I wonder if she's a victim—

My phone begins wildly vibrating. It's the 312 number again.

"Yes?" I say after punching to accept.

"Michael? This is Judge Pennington. I need to meet with you without delay."

"Is this about James Lamb? I honestly wasn't trying to—"

"No, this is about me personally. I've been arrested."

A chill etches its way down my spine. Where I spend my days, judges don't get arrested. This is highly improbable, but I do recognize the judge's voice and I know he's the last person on earth who would lie to me about such a thing.

"Where are you, Judge?"

"California Street."

"Talk to no one. I'm on my way."

"Of course. Hurry, Michael. This isn't looking good."

I toss a twenty on the table and sprint for the lobby entrance. I blast through the double doors on the right of the revolving doors and dash to the curb. A cab a half-block away sees me waving frantically and moves from the center lane to the right. I'm good.

"Twenty-Sixth and California," I shout over the seat.

The cabby nods and turns his head. "You going to jail?"

"I'm going to the jail. I'm not going to jail."

"Same difference," he shrugs.

"No," I say, adamant. "Not the same thing at all."

A
t the jail
, they run my briefcase through a scanner and then I step through the security ring. No beeps.

I wait for them to buzz the door and allow me inside.

Finally it buzzes and I pull the handle. Inside the airlock I wait for the second door. A voice comes over a loudspeaker above my head. "Please wait just inside the door," it instructs me. "We're very busy today. Someone will come for you."

I do as I'm told, holding up just on the other side of door two.

Ten minutes later, a deputy sheriff, female, comes up to me all out of breath and wiping a damp swatch of hair from her forehead. "You're Pennington?" she says.

"I am. I'm Michael Gresham, his attorney."

"Right. Mr. Gresham, would you mind meeting with Mr. Pennington in his cell? Our conference rooms are bursting at the seams."

"Not at all. He's single-celled, right?"

"He is. I've had him out twice to make phone calls. One time was to you."

"How would you know that?"

"I listened in on an extension. We always do that during the first forty-eight just to make sure someone's not going to hang himself with a shirt or something."

"I'll have to remember that."

"Lawyers are too smart to discuss stuff with their clients on jail lines anyway. Aren't you?"

"Sure. Never, no way, and I make sure my clients know it."

We access a long hallway with cells lining both walls. The hallway floor is gray cement, the walls are lime green cinderblock, and the only light is thrown down from parallel fluorescents that run the length of the hallway. We reach the end. She speaks into her shoulder mike, and moments later my client's cell door buzzes open. Electronic everything. I've only been inside California Avenue jail cells a couple of times, so it's a relatively new experience for me.

Judge Pennington looks up at me. He is seated on his cement "bed," which really is a six-foot slab raised up off the floor with a thin mattress loose along its top. A brushed stainless steel unit composed of a toilet and a wash basin complete the decor at the far end of the cell. I say "far end"; it actually is about eight feet deep by six feet wide. There are no radios, no TVs, no computers or laptops, no reading materials, nothing to while away the time for an active mind such as one belonging to a United States District Court Judge.

He waves weakly.

"Come, Michael," he says, "sit by me."

There's no other choice. I sit beside him and turn to my left.

I say, “Start at the beginning.” He knows what I need to hear.

"All right. I got home from my Christmas golf outing, and there's a confidential letter waiting for me. It's from the Chicago field office of the FBI."

"Do you still have it?"

"Of course."

"What did it say?"

"It said that their computers had returned a hit."

"On?"

"On a conspiracy to murder James Joseph Lamb."

“How would the computers know something like that?”

“They said the decedent had appeared before me, that I had sentenced him to a term in prison, that he had done his time and that he had later on been on trial for murdering my wife. They said I had then conspired to purchase the murder of Lamb.”

"What was the upshot?"

"The upshot was that they wanted to send an agent to speak with me. Just for the record. They made that very clear. I wasn't indicted yet or anything. They just wanted to be able to say they had made contact with me."

"What did you do?"

"I agreed to meet with them."

I am flabbergasted. I am dumbstruck that a sitting judge would agree to meet with the FBI on a case involving the potential death of the man who had killed the judge's wife. Dumbstruck is an understatement; I am rendered mute. I simply sit there, not knowing what to say next. And I am wondering how far the plan moved down the tracks: is Lamb still alive?

So the judge speaks up. "So, we met."

I recover enough to say, "And now you're in jail and don't know why?"

I am struggling to grasp what he is telling me. Early this morning, I appeared before this same judge, and he allowed my client to go to Seattle on business. The judge did ask for my cell number after court was over, but I thought nothing of it. I thought it had to do with the insider trading client. Wrong: he called me on that same cell number just as I was about to bite into my roast beef sandwich in the lobby restaurant of the Willis Tower. So he knew—or was afraid—something was coming, and he wanted my number. Which I consider a huge compliment, that he would select me to represent him out of the 60,000 lawyers in Chicago. This will be great for business and really may mean I eventually get to retire when news of my landing the biggest fish in Chicago hits the streets and back rooms where my client roster gathers and plots their crimes.

“I have the indictment. I’m just having trouble reading it all the way through. I’ve been charged with conspiracy to murder James Lamb. Now, I need a lawyer. How much do you need, Michael?"

“You’re sure you want the guy who defended your wife’s killer?”

“I have to have the best. How much?”

"Two hundred fifty."

"My CPA will send over your check. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"It could run more, if there's an extensive trial, if we need expert witnesses, or if there's an appeal. You would be responsible for all those things."

"I just don't want to lose my federal retirement. And of course, my freedom."

"Let's talk about this a little more. It was the FBI that arrested you?"

"Yes. The same agent I spoke with initially."

"Who is that?"

"Nathan Fordyce."

“He’s still working for the FBI? After trying to frame my client with a coerced confession?”

The judge spreads his hands. “Strange things over there in FBI Land. I know better than to ask.”

“He’s after you now that Lamb walked free?”

“Evidently.”

"He brought you here?"

"Two U.S. Marshals brought me here. Both have served in my courtroom at various times."

“May I see the charging documents?"

He passes his papers to me. He is charged with conspiracy to commit homicide, a charge being brought by the U.S. Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois. Pursuant to 18 U.S. Code §371, two types of conspiracies can be prosecuted. The first type lists a Conspiracy to Commit a Federal Crime, which requires that the underlying criminal activity be a crime that is outlawed by federal statutes. Murder is one of these, and this statute could be used against the judge. The second type of conspiracy listed in §371 is a Conspiracy to Defraud the United States. This kind of allegation does not require that the underlying criminal activity be a federal crime, although, as a practical matter, such a conspiracy charged in a federal court Indictment would often, if not likely, allege criminal conduct that is an offense against the federal criminal statutes.

"We're looking at a three-seventy-one case."

"Yes," he says. "So it appears."

“Have you discussed this idea of killing Lamb with anyone?”

“No one. They’re saying it’s cartel hoodlums in Tijuana I contacted.”

"Have you been to Mexico in the last year?"

"No. I've been to Maine for skiing and Florida for golf. But Mexico is way off my beaten path."

"If you had been there, would anyone be able to trace that?"

"You mean, would I have been stupid enough to use credit cards? No, I wouldn't. But I didn't go anyway. You'll just have to believe me on that. Remember from this morning, when you said you couldn't prove a negative? Well, that's my exact same position right now. I can't prove I didn't go to Mexico, but neither can they prove I did."

"Understand. Now, I have to ask. Have you ever talked to anyone about getting revenge for the murder of your wife?"

"Never. Ridiculous."

He is flustered with me. "Please, Michael, don't reduce me to the status of a common defendant who might have done something that stupid. That's not at all how my mind works.
I
don't work that way."

"You know, I know that. But I'd be remiss if I didn't ask. You might hate me later if I missed something really obvious and you went down because of it. So bear with me."

He sits back, and his flip-flops fall to the floor. It is an awkward moment, a sitting federal judge barefoot in jail. Could I say it's unnerving? Yes, but more than that, it's surreal. That's it; this should never be happening, and I almost want to pinch myself. I bite my cheek instead. The pain reminds me that yes, I am here, and this is my life.

"Okay, now tell me about the hit on the FBI computer. The one they first contacted you about. What kind of hit was it?"

"The thing that stands out the most is the agent said I had had in my courtroom the son of a Tijuana drug lord. They said I gave him a break and in return he would kill James Lamb for me.”

"Their computers made that connection?"

"FBI computers are capable of predicting the most remote connections that humans would never begin to dream of. It is artificial intelligence built on top of a very suspicious neighbor watching your every move out of her window. Have you wondered how they are able to track a terrorist living in Boise, Idaho, who goes to Pakistan and a year later shoots up a college in Maine? Did you know those connections would have been made at the time of the original trip and would have been assigned a numerical value of interest? Sixes and fives might be ignored for manpower reasons. Fours and threes would get reviewed. Twos and ones would have agents actively knocking on doors and asking questions."

"So you were a two or a one?"

"Well, I got the confidential letter, didn't I?"

"But this isn't a case of terrorism. Why would the FBI be concerned about the commission of what could just as easily be a state crime?"

"Because I am a federal judge. We're all subject to constant oversight. It comes with the territory."

"You and—"

"Me and every other judge, U.S. Attorney or assistant, congressmen, senators, administrative chiefs and their second level staff, cabinet members. Even the president is watched by the FBI."

"So we're not at all surprised your name went into a search string."

"Not at all. Happens every day."

"All right. Now about some housekeeping."

"Yes, time to talk about getting me out of here," he says. He wilts somewhat as he says this, knowing he's caught up in the federal system where he holds office, which means it will take days to find another federal judge to come to Chicago and hear a bail motion. Of course, there are statutory time limits, so there's always that.