Dante's Dilemma (22 page)

“Please don't be mad at me,” Michelle said. She sounded as upset as when I'd answered her call that morning, though I couldn't imagine it was because of anything serious. In my experience, lawyers were prone to hand-wringing and overdramatization. Even levelheaded Hallie tended to view whatever case she was working on as an epic clash between the forces of good and evil, and to be cast into a pit of despair when she found herself on the losing side. No doubt Michelle ascribed similar feelings to me and was concerned I might be taking the Lazarus defeat too hard.

The bartender appeared with our drinks, an on-tap lager some sales whiz had christened the “House Special.” Against my better judgment, I took a sip. It tasted like it had been brewed in a Palmolive factory.

The bartender must have caught my expression. “Don't blame me,” he said. “I don't do the buying around here. Can I get you guys a bite to eat?

“A burger would really hit the spot,” I said. “Considering I'm going to be sick anyway.”

He laughed. “They're salmonella-free. I eat them myself.”

“I'll have one of those, then. Well-done, please. Michelle?”

“I'm not hungry, thank you.”

“So,” I said to Michelle when he'd taken himself off, “what is it you wanted to tell me about—so far away from organized civilization?”

“I . . . I just needed to know you're OK.”

Exactly as I suspected. I hastened to reassure her that the patient would live. “My ego has known better days, but that's nothing compared to what Rachel Lazarus must be feeling right now. I heard she decided not to appeal.”

“I know. That's why I decided we had to talk. Before the judgment becomes final.”

“It's not final already?”

“Not until she's sentenced. Until then, it can be reopened. Well, afterward too, but it's much harder under the law.”

It seemed like a forlorn hope. “You think there's any chance of that?”

“I don't know. I wish . . .” She sounded close to tears.

I'd always suspected that Michelle's sympathies lay with the woman she was supposed to be prosecuting, but the emotion in her voice confirmed it. Michelle hadn't reached out simply to comfort me.

“You can't blame yourself for her conviction,” I said, thinking I knew how to handle this. “You had a job to do. And it wasn't you calling the shots.”

“I was just following orders, is that what you mean?” she challenged bitterly.

I shook my head. “Look, you said to me you weren't comfortable in the job you're in. Maybe it's time to look for something else. Not everyone is cut out to be a prosecutor. I hate the result as much as you do, but Rachel got a fair trial.”

“You really think so?”

I backtracked. “Well, as fair as you can get under our system. The jury didn't buy my—I mean,
her
excuse. Partly because I screwed up. I accept that. I should have quit and let someone else take over. But that doesn't mean the verdict was flawed. The jury tried. Hallie, I . . . we all tried. But in the end it wasn't enough.” I wondered exactly who I was trying to convince.

Michelle interrupted my lofty sentiments. “That's honestly the way you see it?”

At least we had gotten over the troublesome syntax. “I
see
a young woman who has doubts about her role in sending a battered woman to prison—”

Michelle put a hand on my arm to stop me. “You were set up.”

“I know that. But—”

“No,” Michelle hissed. “I mean
really
set up.” Michelle removed her hand from my arm and sat back, as if waiting for me to catch on.

I took a swallow of the loathsome beer. “How, besides having intimate details of my childhood opened up for public inspection?”

Michelle didn't say anything.

“Michelle,” I said in my most disarmingly threatening tone. “I hope you didn't drag me halfway across the city—and through a raging blizzard—just to drop hints. What are you trying to say?”

“If I tell you, no one can know you heard it from me. All right?”

“Will ‘cross my heart and hope to die' be adequate?”

“You're not taking this seriously enough. You could be in danger.”

“The only danger I'm worried about right now is contracting an infection from being in this joint.”

“I mean it. There's a lot you don't know.”

“Well, my ears are wide open.”

More silence.

This was becoming maddening. “Dammit, Michelle. Just tell me.”

Evidently she came to some sort of decision, because she said in a rush, “Tony rewrote Dr. Stephens report to say the things it did—about Rachel lying. Dr. Stephens agreed with you about the PTSD.”

I should have been shocked, but I wasn't. And as much as I thought Di Marco capable of it, I didn't want to admit I'd been so easily duped. “How did he get to the report? I thought you said it stayed sealed—locked up in your desk.”

“I thought it did, too. But I was wrong. Tony must have gotten to it.”

“‘Must have'?”

“I can't say exactly how, but he must have forced the lock on my desk. All of the furniture at the office is government-issue—cheap stuff. It would have been easy. You could probably do it with a paper clip.”

I was still resistant. “That doesn't prove anything. How do you know the report was altered?”

“Because Dr. Stephens told me what he intended to say. Before he died. While I was helping him get ready.”

I nearly exploded. “That's not what you told me before the trial. When I asked, you said you were as in the dark as everyone else.”

“I thought I had to. To keep you on the case. I thought you were Rachel's only hope.”

She was right about one thing: if I'd had so much as a hint, I would have quit at once.

Michelle had commenced sobbing. I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket and gave it to her. “Michelle, tell me exactly what Brad said to you, in as close as possible to the words he used.”

“I really don't remember. It was all so technical. All I remember is that he agreed with what you said at the trial about her having a flashback and not really knowing what she was doing.”

“Did you make notes of the conversation—write it down anywhere?”

“No.”

“So there's no way to prove what he said to you.”

“Uh-uh.”

Just then, the bartender appeared with my burger, but I waved him away.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “But I'll have to charge you for it.”

I pulled out my wallet and handed him a couple of twenties. “Is that enough to buy us some time alone?”

“You bet,” he said. I could almost hear the wink.

I turned back to Michelle. “All right. But what makes you so sure it was Tony who rewrote the report—aside from the high esteem in which we both hold him?”

“There's other missing evidence.”

“Go on.”

“Notes the police made when they were first investigating the case. Conversations with Westlake's neighbors about who was seen going in and out of the house. I saw them when I first got assigned to the case, but when it was time to hand them over to the defense, the file was gone.”

“Did you remember what was in the notes?”

“Not really. After Rachel confessed, we weren't pursuing other suspects.”

“And you think . . . ?”

“Tony got rid of them. It had to be him.”

I was beyond exasperated. “Michelle, if what you think is true, we're talking about obstruction of justice. You have to go to the authorities. At least bring it to Linda O'Malley's attention.”

“I can't,” Michelle wailed. “It's what you said. It will just be my word over his. No one will ever believe me. I'll lose my job and . . . and . . .”

Her whining left me without sympathy. “Why come to me, then? What do you expect me to do?”

“I thought, maybe . . . maybe you could tell your friend Hallie. Maybe you two could call for an investigation, get the verdict reopened—whatever.”

I shook my head at such foolishness. “Not without proof.”

“Please,” Michelle implored. “Don't you get it? If someone else was in Westlake's house that night, Rachel might be innocent!”

“Yes, I see that, but—”

“And if I'm right about Tony and the report, it's even worse than that. Haven't you ever wondered what really happened to your friend?”

Her words stopped me in midsentence. A possibility had opened up, like a trap door at my feet.

Brad Stephens believed the same thing I did.

Brad Stephens died an untimely death.

Was it really an accident?

TWENTY

I needed to get to Hallie.

But first, I had some homework to do. So after Michelle left me at the Outpost—with more tearful pleas about keeping her name out of it—I searched my contacts list for a number. Either it wasn't in my phone or I was too worked up to find it. On the slim chance that I would find her there, I tried Yelena at the office.

She surprised me by picking up right away. “It's snowing,” she said.

“Is that so? I hadn't noticed.”

“I couldn't see two feet in front of me when I came back from the hairdresser.”

“Welcome to the club. Can you look up a telephone number for me?”

“Directory assistance isn't working?”

“They fired all their employees. For being uncooperative.”

“Some thanks I get for coming to work in a blizzard.”

If I knew Yelena, it was only the cataclysm of missing her monthly cut and color that had dragged her downtown that day. “Have you asked Dr. Goldman about leaving early?”

“Of course. He was very concerned about my safety.”

Unlike the cruel despot she was presently speaking to. “He's right,” I said. “You should go home.”

Yelena was too flabbergasted to speak.

“But not until you get me that number.”

A few minutes later, I had reached Brad Stephens's former assistant and explained who I was.

“Of course I remember you. Dr. Stephens was a great admirer. What can I help you with?”

I didn't want to raise any alarm bells, so I launched into a story about needing to check a few references in Brad's report that appeared to be missing from the background materials sent to me. “I'm sure it was just an oversight, but I'm getting ready to box up my own files, and I'd like to be sure everything's there and accounted for.”

“I'm so sorry, but Dr. Stephens did all his work on the Lazarus case at home. He felt it was inappropriate to use hospital resources when he'd been retained independently.”

“So there's nothing you can point me to—no drafts, notes, nothing like it left in his office?”

“They just finished clearing it out last week. It was so sad. Of course, Inga—that's his wife—came in to collect all his personal items. She's such a wonderful lady, even brought along brownies for the staff. She was worried about how we were taking the loss.”

I asked how Brad's wife was taking it.

“OK I guess, though it must be just awful for her. Dr. Stephens was a very doting husband. Toward the end, when it was becoming harder and harder for him to get around, he often asked me to run out and pick up flowers or a box of candy for her. But not in the way some bosses do—like it's expected. More like you were doing him an enormous favor. That's the way he was—always making you feel appreciated.” She sniffled. “I already miss him so much.”

I commiserated a bit before asking my next question. “Do you think Mrs. Stephens would mind it if I contacted her?”

“Mind? Oh no. I'm sure she'd appreciate hearing from one of his friends.”

“Does she work during the day?”

“Yes. She's an artist—a sculptor—pretty famous around Chicago, actually. Most days, she's in her studio in Wicker Park. I can't say if she's there now, but it may be worth a try.”

She gave me a phone number and an address, which I memorized by repeating it out loud before thanking her and ringing off. I tried the number several times, only to get kicked to an answering machine. Still seated in the grimy booth at the Outpost, I tapped at the table with a finger before calling the bartender over.

“How likely is it that I can get a cab to around here?”

He gave me an insider's chuckle. “Maybe if it was August and eighty degrees outside. But today? You'd have better luck trying to score rink-side tickets to the Hawks.”

“That's what I thought. Do you happen to know how far we are from Wicker Park?”

“Not far at all. Where exactly are you going?”

I gave him the address.

“You're in luck. That's only ten or twelve blocks from here. But how're you going to get there by yourself—I mean, with your girlfriend gone and all? Great-looking chick by the way.” He stopped suddenly, as if embarrassed by something.

“Yes?” I said, scowling up at him.

“I feel for you, dude. I just hope she's not toying with your emotions.”