Authors: John Ellsworth
"When I leave here, I'll go by the U.S. Attorney's Office and see what I can find out. There's probably another indictment on file, too, a co-conspirator. I'll round that up and come back tonight, and we can go over whatever I find out."
"Thank you, Michael. I knew I could count on you."
It is too much to hold in. I have to ask.
"Judge Pennington, why me?"
"Why not you, Michael? You have tried two jury trials before me and participated in dozens of discovery and procedural motions. You are unyielding, obtuse, and brilliant. You were my first choice and, well, here you are. Now go do your pickups, including your check, and let's talk again tonight. As of now, I'm single-celled because of the position I hold in the judiciary. I'm going to go back there and try to catch a nap. I'm sixty years old and tired."
"I know the feeling. I'm fifty-five."
"I know you are. Fifty-five, divorced, living alone and working horrendous hours, so you don't fall behind on your alimony."
I am stunned at his knowledge. "How—how—"
"I have a computer too, Michael. Remember?"
"Thanks, Judge," I say.
I never know whether new clients are guilty or not. I'm one of those lawyers who doesn't want to know, either. I don't wish to know because it makes no difference to me whether a client is guilty. If they have the money to hire me and if I agree to the job, I'm in, period.
So when Judge Pennington swore up and down that he is innocent, I told him what I just said. It makes no difference to me. Besides, my mind is much further down the road than simple questions of guilt or innocence. My mind is spending the money the judge has just promised to pay me for his defense. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, ninety thousand of which will buy my freedom from Sue Ellen. Who can say? Maybe she'll even make me the child's godfather.
"When do I get initialed?" he asks. The initial appearance is where the subject of conditions of release might first be brought before the magistrate judge. There are time limits involved, but Pennington is more familiar with the ins and outs of all this than most federal lawyers. I read the second page of his paperwork. There is an order setting his initial appearance for tomorrow. Evidently he couldn't stand to read the second page; he is asking when he is initialed.
"Tomorrow. There's a note here from an Assistant U.S. Attorney that you will be brought before a magistrate who's coming up from the Central District tomorrow. Plus a motion for detention."
"Who's the magistrate?"
"Doesn't say. Does it matter?"
"Not really. They're not going to allow bail anyway."
"Hopefully, that's not true. I want you out of here ASAP."
"You'll help me?"
"Of course, I will. That's what I do. But why me? I've been thinking you must hate my guts for taking the Lamb case."
"Naw, you were just earning your keep. Somebody had to do it. Well, as it turned out, he was forced to confess anyway, so it turned out for the best when they dismissed it."
I can't tell him about the pictures Lamb led me to. This is neither the time nor the place.
"Well, I'm just glad there are no grudges against me. I really want to help you, Judge. Starting now. It's the least I can do."
"Good. Glad you're on my team, Michael."
He turns and leans back against the wall at the head of his bed. He is still in his orange jumpsuit and is wearing white socks with an indent between great toe and second toe where the thong of his sandals has forced its way in. I am struck with how far beneath this judge's dignity this whole setting is and I'm sure it must be totally surreal to him. I can't wait to spring him out of here.
I flip through his papers during a lull. He gives me several minutes to read.
Then he asks, “What do we know?"
"We know there are two co-defendants. An Emmanuel ‘Emmie' Ramon, and a Raul Demad Ramon. They reside in Tijuana. Ring any bells?"
“No bells.”
"Well, according to this, you met with Mr. Raul Ramon in Tijuana. And you also adjudicated the case of
USA v. Emmanuel Ramon
in your courtroom. Does that ring any bells?"
"None. Should it?"
"Maybe; maybe not. Okay, here's the twenty thousand foot view. The indictment states that you conspired with the two other defendants to murder James Lamb.”
"That's ridiculous!"
“It says you gave Emmie Ramon special treatment in your court and in return Emmie and Raul agreed to kill James Joseph Lamb."
"I only wish I had. That's a conspiracy I might seriously have considered involving myself in."
"So none of this rings a bell?"
He pushes air at me. "Of course not, Michael. If I was involved in any of these shenanigans, you'd be the first person I would tell. I know you must have the truth in order to defend me properly."
"That's right."
We both stare into space for a minute or more.
Then I need to move on it. "Let's talk about our theory of defense."
"I did nothing wrong. That’s my defense.”
"Well, unless they come up with some kind of evidence that you made a trip to Tijuana or San Diego, I think we go in and just deny any and all conversations between you and the Ramons. God only knows how close the FBI is to those two. If they've given them immunity in return for testifying against you, then that gives us even more ammunition against them. Otherwise, I say we just sandbag. One, you don't know them. Two, you've never met with them. Three, you've not been out to the West Coast in years. Four, there are no phone records showing calls to any area codes out there. And five, you have an alibi at or near the time they are saying any conspiracy was hatched."
"Sandbag them."
"Absolutely. You don't have to get down and play at their level. You're way above these losers, Judge."
"What else are we doing?"
"Well, we also need to get our discovery requests and motions on file. We need to know where any alleged meeting took place—Chicago or Tijuana? We also need to know what kind of payment was supposedly made by you in exchange for the hit. We also need to know what kind of evidence they have. Is it written or video? If they have hard evidence such as video, it will probably make their case. So then you've got to negotiate a deal. But without video or documents they lose nine times out of ten with a jury. This is about as much as I can tell you right now, Judge."
"They can't have written or video. I didn't do what they're saying."
"I understand. I'm just stating the possibilities, so we get a feel for your status in any case."
"You said there's a motion for detention?"
"There is. My guess is that they'll put a Special Agent on the stand to make the case about the weight of the evidence against you. You know the drill. So then I have to win on the other points. Such as whether you're a flight risk or a danger to the community. There will be conditions, but I'm hopeful we can spring you on bail."
"I would be surprised if they allowed me out. But I'm pulling for you, Michael."
"I'll talk to my investigator. He'll be working up your background data and he'll be my only witness. You, of course, won't testify."
That went without saying. We both look blankly at each other.
I say, "I'm sending him back along with a power of attorney. I need you to sign it so I can start gathering together copies of your credit card statements, cell phone records, and all the rest of what they might be looking at to make their case. I never trust them to turn all these things over to me in discovery; I get them on my own."
"I know you do. That's why I hired you, Michael."
I stand up and stretch, bending at the waist and touching my toes.
I come upright. "All right. My investigator will talk to you briefly in the morning when they bring you to court. Now, what assets do you have in case they set bail? How are we fixed?"
He sits back and flattens his spine against the wall.
"Paid for house. Probably one-point-two million. Federal retirement: nothing that can be cashed out or borrowed against. I had a five-hundred-thousand dollar life policy on my wife. That money is still at Fidelity in a low-yield mutual fund. I don't ever touch it. So there's that. Your payment will come from the sale of my holdings in Facebook stock. I was early in and once they learned how to monetize their website my stocks soared."
"About your bail, Judge. It sounds like all told we're talking about maybe one-point-seven or one-point-eight in money we can put our hands on."
"Yes."
"All right. We'll be putting together all the deeds, titles, and so forth to the unencumbered amounts available. We can take care of that in the morning. Now, part of the detention hearing is going to be taking a look at the weight of the evidence against you. That's going to be hearsay, of course. Like I said, expect to see a Special Agent on the stand lying his head off."
"Lying in a courtroom? Seriously?" His sense of sarcasm hasn't left him.
"I like to use the detention hearing more for discovery purposes than anything. I get to cross-examine their witness about all the facts of the case. So even if the magistrate allows the detention motion and you don't get out, all is not lost. We'll have their chief investigator's testimony nailed down, and that's a beginning as we build your defense and win this thing."
"Yes."
"Now, I have to ask you for the record: are there any crimes that I don't know about?"
He laughs; a scoff, actually. "Of course not, Michael. I couldn't continue my judgeship if there were."
"I know, but I have to ask. Forgive me."
"Forgiven."
I stand there and nod, allowing my eyes to break contact with his for several moments, giving him time to collect his thoughts in case there's something I've left out or something he wants to tell me.
Then, "All right then," I say, slowly.
"All right. Thank you, Michael."
"Not necessary to thank me, Judge. But let me thank you for your trust. I won't let you down."
"I know you won't. You're the best of the best."
"Thanks for that."
B
ack at the office
, I am going through the day's mail when Mrs. Lingscheit knocks on my open door and walks inside.
"Oh, this came over by courier."
She lays a plain envelope before me. I slice it open with my letter opener and pull out a check.
It's from Judge Pennington's CPA. It's made out to me, and I have to study the zeroes.
$250,000.00 it says.
I hand it back to Mrs. Lingscheit.
"Please stamp this and deposit it. General account."
Without looking at it, she stuffs it back inside its envelope.
"Will do. Now you run along home, Michael."
"You first."
"I'm on my way," she says.
Ten minutes later, I'm alone in the office. The front door is locked. I checked it after she was gone.
I start moving the pieces around in my mind—Pennington, Ramon, Ramon, Fordyce, Lamb.
I told my new client I would be back tonight.
That is one promise I will definitely keep.
I
live
in a Tudor north of Chicago. My home is located on Lake Michigan. At seven o’clock it’s time to head home because Maddie's cooking tonight.
I decide to drive home—rather than take the L train—since I'm coming back down to the jail anyway. I head over to Lake Shore Drive and slowly make my way north. At Sheridan, I continue north, putting the sun roof back on my SUV and letting the cool air off Lake Michigan blow through my hair. Looks-wise, I'm not much. Never turned many heads, although I've pretty much been able to go out with whatever women I chose—at least when I was younger. Sue Ellen and I were together so long that I'm not sure whether that would still be the case or not. The truth is, I haven't been on a date since we separated, and the divorce went through. It just isn't in my DNA to feel like I have to rush right out and make a connection. That's just not how I'm wired.
Coming north on Sheridan, I'm able to cut over to Lake Shore Boulevard and a few miles down I hit the garage door opener and pull into my garage. I'm a block over from a frontage road that parallels Lake Michigan. Houses in my area don't turn over that often, and I'm lucky to have this one. The previous owners went down in an airliner crash while they were visiting Austria. A probate lawyer friend of mine, who was settling up the estate for the heirs, remembered that I was newly separated and living out of a suitcase in the Palmer House. He called me up, gave me a key, and I took one look and had to have it. My banker balked at the price (excess of one million) but a mortgage company liked my $200,000 down, which came out of my SEP-IRA, and they financed me. The payments are less than what I pay Sue Ellen in alimony, but not by much.
Three nights a week Maddie Jefferson comes to my house and cooks dinner. She's an energetic black woman in her early thirties who's getting her Ph.D. in romance languages, and our paths crossed when I put an ad in the local paper looking for some help around the house. She needed the extra income while she wrote her dissertation, I needed meals, and it's worked great for both of us. Not to be stereotypical, but I've learned to love turnip greens, grits, old-time fried chicken (and lots of it), mashed potatoes and gravy, cornbread, fried okra, ribs, and the occasional ham and navy bean soup. Dishes like that. Maddie's mother was from Magnolia, Georgia and she passed along to Maddie what she knew about cooking. Maddie can do Yankee; it's just that I've come to prefer southern since she introduced me to it.
Friday nights there's a poker game that rotates between the homes of the six guys. One of our group is a circuit court judge, one is a computer programmer, three are lawyers and the sixth is either a psychologist or a parish priest, depending on who wants in. We have a few drinks, smoke enough cigars that we stink up the place, and gobble down KFC and Ben and Jerry's before we clear the table and spread the green velvet table cover. I bring the chips and the table cover and the beer; the other guys do the rest. Our usual game is straight poker, nothing wild, and, of course, Texas Hold ‘Em. Once the deal is face down and the hole cards are dealt, then it's free-for-all check, bet/call, raise or fold until the wee hours of the morning. The most I've ever lost was a hundred and fifty dollars. The most I've ever won is seventy-five. Nobody gets hurt; nobody gets drunk, and nobody goes away mad.
That's about the extent of my social life.
But there is a particular woman who has been very friendly to me. She works as a trainer at my gym, and I've had a few training sessions with her. By now she's probably wondering why I keep hiring her, and yet my extra ten pounds isn't going away, no matter how fast she has me pound the treadmill or how many minutes I log on the elliptical. The weight remains and, in between sessions with her, I'm usually found relaxing in the steam room and the sauna, after I've skipped the workout, which is where I do my best thinking. Her name is Ann Horford, and I haven’t noticed a ring but, come to think of it, she mostly wears gloves. She’s very friendly, smiling and encouraging my pathetic efforts to please her as she moves me through the stations.
Tonight is a Maddie night, and as I come inside through the garage, I can smell the unique fragrance of ribs barbecuing on the Jenn-Aire mingled with the boiling collard greens and simmering green beans. The oven light is on, and I’m guessing cornbread. A sumptuous meal awaits, and I could kiss the cook.
Instead, I say my warmest hello.
"Maddie, it smells like heaven in here. And you're my special angel."
Maddie is early thirties, lithe and beautiful, a Halle Berry lookalike, and she turns from the stovetop and wipes her hands on her apron.
"Well, look who finally decided to come home. I've been treading water with all this food since you called and said you were on your way—an hour and a half ago. What happened?"
"You know what, I had some papers come in that needed to be looked at and I didn't get to leave when I said I was. Sorry about that."
"No problem. I just turned everything down and fired up my iPad and did some editing."
"Dissertation?"
"Uh-huh. Working on the bibliography."
"Ouch. That's all got to be APA format, am I right?"
"More or less."
"I hated that stuff in college."
"It's become another language to me. When I'm teaching full-time next fall, I'm going to need it lots."
I go to the refrigerator and open the door. Surveying the contents, I ask if there's any Diet Coke. She steps into the pantry where I have a second refrigerator and returns with an icy can.
"Ice?" she says.
"No. Straight out of the can. So what are you teaching?"
"Just signed my contract since I saw you. I'll be teaching freshman French and a literature course."
"French literature?"
"Yes."
"Books in French?"
"Yes."
"God. Don't know how you do that."
"Well, that makes two of us. Don't know how you do law."
I knock down a slug of Coke. "How's Jethro, by the way? Is he still taking care of your every need?"
We're old friends. I can talk to her like this.
"You know what? Jethro and I are no longer an item. He's going to run off to California and try to make it as a studio musician."
"What's wrong with Chicago?"
"I don't know. He says L.A is where it's happening for him."
"So, just like that?"
"Just like that. Gone, baby, gone."
"I thought you were engaged or something."
She steps past me and turns the ribs on the range.
"Or something," she says, but doesn't go into it, and I don't pry.
An idea suddenly hits me, but I ignore it. I'm far too old for her, and it's a stupid thing even to think.
"Okay, well, I'm gonna go in and change. Then I'll chow down and head back downtown. I've got a client waiting to see me yet tonight."
"My, we are keeping long hours!”
"He's in jail. It's the least I can do to let him know someone actually gives a damn about him."
"Love that about you," she says and laughs. But she gives me a look that's more than just a look if you know what I mean. It's more like an invitation to ask maybe a little more about what else she loves about me. But I turn away and head for my bedroom. I'd only make an ass out of myself, and I don't want to risk losing a cook where I don't know—forget it. Maddie's way too young for an oldster like me.
Just before eight o'clock, I'm headed south again.
Judge Pennington has called me. The reality of his being in jail is settling over him like a cloud. He sounds depressed. It always sets in in the first forty-eight hours of incarceration. My job right now is to give my client some hope, something to cling to, some reason to think things are going to get better.
The only thing is, I've got to make sure I'm not just blowing smoke.
I really do have to have a plan.
Which makes the judge a happy client, because I do. Have a plan, I mean.
A good one.
My cell phone chimes as I'm driving southbound on Sheridan. It's Maddie.
"Hey," I say, "I left your check by the phone."
"No, this isn't about that. Do you like jazz?"
"I do. Coltrane, Miles, B.B. King. Why?"
"I know a club on the South Side. We should hit it."
"We should? I'd like that." It blurts out before I can edit it.
"Saturday night. I'm coming by to get you. This isn't a date. Just a couple of single people—I didn't say lonely—going out to dig some tunes."
"I'm in."
"I'll pull in around eight. We'll take my car."
"Okay. Thanks, Maddie. This will be a blast."
"We can have some drinks and laughs. Oh, you don't drink. Well, I'll have some drinks. Maybe we should take your car."
"We'll take my car," I agree. "I'm the DD."
"See you then."
I hang up.
No matter how hard I try to repress it, a smile crosses my face.
I step on it. There's an anxious, very frightened member of the federal judiciary waiting for me to come and help. It's a critical case both for the judge and—I'm embarrassed to say because it makes me seem so small—for my career. This could be the case that fills my office with new work, allows me to hire an associate attorney, and begin the long process of retiring from the law.
Then there's Maddie and jazz.
Now I can't stop smiling.