Authors: John Ellsworth
Now it's up to me to make the property posting and work up the rest of the conditions.
Judge Pennington can hardly restrain himself.
He pumps my hand and thanks me over and over. Tears come into his eyes, and he blinks them away. Marcel shakes his hand and then the judge turns back to me and spreads his arms. He wants to hug. I jerk my head toward the hallway and begin marching up the aisle.
Courtrooms are no place for judges and lawyers to be seen hugging.
Particularly a courtroom jammed with members of the media.
Which that one was.
The case will be all over the local, state, and national news all weekend. CNN will carry it every day and do three-minute updates like it does with significant developments in government affairs. Plus, the major networks had previously done the very sad and tragic story when the judge's wife was murdered. You might imagine they won't let go now that the judge's murderer has been targeted.
We won't find an unbiased juror in the entire state when the case comes up for trial.
Maybe that's not such a bad thing, all things considered. The judge's wife was killed by the guy the judge now stands accused of plotting to kill.
Lots of people call that an eye for an eye.
I know I do.
What about the fact he may have lied to me, telling me he's uninvolved? These thoughts process in my mind as I open the door and begin walking the hallway toward the elevators. So what if he's involved? Now that I've had a chance to see how the government is pulling out all the stops to nail my client, I'm outraged. Making all kinds of deals with Mexican drug lords in order to put a federal judge in prison? How is that fair when those witnesses have killed thousands of people with their drugs and murdered thousands more who they had disputes with? Give them all a pass for one federal judge whose wife was murdered?
I find myself just that much more alarmed at the lengths to which the government will go to make itself look good.
But this time, that's not going to happen.
This time, the whole truth is going to come out.
Because my entire thinking has changed. Sandbag the case? Hell, why not claim temporary insanity. I know I would be temporarily insane if someone slaughtered my wife.
Perhaps the judge was insane too.
It's worth a look, I decide.
I step into the elevator and plunge toward the lobby.
Marcel is ahead of me, waiting just outside my elevator. Good, now I can discuss Arnie with him.
Arnie, who's about to get himself murdered.
Arnie, my beloved brother.
M
arcel drops
me in front of the Congress building then swings back into traffic and roars off. They are installing a new security system at my home, and Marcel wants to be there.
In the lobby is a Fox and Hound, a charbroiled burger/charbroiled steak and seafood place, which people in my building heavily support as the food is the best. So, I stop in at the Fox and place an order for a charburger with mushrooms, onion rings, and milk. My ulcer is rumbling in my lower right gut, so I will lay off the soft drinks and caffeine for the rest of the day. When my food comes, I dig a ten out of my wallet and pay the guy, who's so busy balancing new orders and checking customers through the long line that he's unable to stop and even thank me for my patronage. Which is all right; the place is the best around, and I'll be back.
The elevator is slow today. It is jammed, and several people look at my bag of food and smile. I open the bag of onion rings and hold it out, and everyone looks away. It has occurred to me that onions might not be the best influence on my ulcer right now, especially deep-fried, but there are no takers. I can't even give them away. Oh well, I'll have just one. Maybe three, but that's it.
"Hello, Mrs. Lingscheit!" I call out on my way through the outer office.
She looks up from her computer monitor, speaking into her clear telephone headset as she nods at me and raises one finger.
I pause. She usually follows me into my office. This must be significant.
Her call clears and she reads a note she's made.
"Sue Ellen has called and called. She just has to see you again."
"We just met. Tell her to come here."
"No, not here. She wants to meet you for lunch again tomorrow."
"I'll call her tonight and find out what's changed in the past two hours."
"Okay, here's the breaking news. The AUSA has filed an emergency motion in the Hudson case. Seems William Francis Hudson, III hasn't returned from Seattle, and poor Mr. McDermott is worried he's fled and isn't coming back. He wants Hudson's bail revoked and a warrant issued for Hudson's arrest."
"You put the motion up on the server?"
"Of course, Michael. When haven't I?"
"All right. What time's the motion?"
"Two o'clock. New judge since Pennington's off."
"Who?"
"Israel Benachem. The guy from Sanderson Royal and Hague."
"Sounds like the U.N. All right. I don't know much about Benachem. Why don't you call around and see what you can find out? Is he defense oriented or is he out of the U.S. Attorney's judge mill?"
"Will do. One other thing. I got the judge's check deposited and guess what? It cleared. We've now got almost three hundred thousand in the general account."
"Cut a check for ninety thousand to Sue Ellen, please. I'll take it along with me to lunch tomorrow."
"Are you sure, Michael?"
"Mrs. Lingscheit, why don't you believe me when I tell you things? Just once I'd like you to trust that I'm telling you the truth."
"It's just that it's so much money. You have your retirement you should be funding."
"Getting rid of this alimony payment by giving her a lump sum is the first step in retirement planning. That's seventy-five hundred a month I can get out of it. Cut the check, please."
"Yes, sir. All right. Your desk is all organized, and Hudson's file is pulled. Have an excellent lunch."
"Thanks, Mrs. Lingscheit."
She's already peering at her flat screen and tapping her keyboard. The conversation has apparently come to an end.
I go into my office and close the door behind me. Tearing off a paper towel from the roll on my sink, I lay down a grease barrier on my desk for the sandwich bag and paper-wrapped food inside. The bag flies apart in my greedy hands, and the first bite of charburger is heaven. Ketchup packets. None. Under my sink is a mini-fridge. I search it for ketchup and find a half dozen ketchup packets in the door. They will do just fine. Back at my desk, I squeeze ketchup onto the sandwich paper and dip an onion ring. Three onion rings just won't be enough; I can already tell, although I have limited myself to just three of any such delicacies. Food is my weakness. In the basement of my house is a treadmill. I try to hit it at least, four times a week for an hour. There is also an elliptical machine and I try to do it at least three times—good for flexibility in the low back and legs. Up in my bedroom is a recumbent bike and it's good for a half an hour just about every morning, just to get the blood flowing. So I'm pretty good with cardio stuff, and that helps keep me reasonably trim. So…I eat two more onion rings before diving back into the charburger.
The burger's half-gone when my desk phone buzzes.
"Yeah?" I say over a mouthful of charburger and rings.
"Michael, there's an Esmeralda Settles on the line for you. It's about Arnold."
I punch line two.
"This is Michael. Is this Esmeralda?"
Crying gushes through the receiver and drums against my ear. Visions of my brother in a gutter with a bullet hole in the back of his head—it all comes racing in my mind.
"Mr. Gresham, it's Esme. Esmeralda. Arnie's gone."
"Okay, let's settle down. Esmeralda, where are you?"
"I'm in Hermosillo."
"Mexico."
"Yes. He was supposed to meet me here and then we were going to cross the border at Tucson."
"Why Tucson?"
"We were coming back to Chicago. Arnie said he had an idea. He was coming to see you."
"But he didn't make it?"
"We took two flights so they couldn't follow us both. I went first; then he was supposed to be right behind me on the ten o'clock. But he's not here, and I'm scared, Mr. Gresham!"
Crying breaks out again. I'm somewhat stupefied. The notion that a teenage prostitute who probably hasn't known my brother more than six weeks suddenly crying for him and being this upset just baffles me.
"Esmeralda, why are you so upset? It's not like you and my brother are married."
I stop. Cold. All stop.
I continue. "You're not married, are you?"
"How did you know? We got married in Cozumel, and we’re trying to get pregnant.”
"Pregnant after one night? Seriously?"
"No, I've been with Arnie for a month now. We stopped using birth control after the first week. Arnie said it was time he had a love child with me."
"A love child."
"He doesn't have any kids, you know?"
So he must have told her. Arnie actually has two kids by his first marriage and three more by his third marriage. All five are out of college and launched. Well, giving him the benefit of the doubt—I have to give him that at this point—maybe none of those was an actual love child. How does one even know these things?
"He told you he doesn't have any kids, and he wanted a love child? That sure sounds like Arnie, all right. So, listen now. I want you to come on ahead and come to Chicago. Let me know when you get here and I'll pick you up at the airport, okay?"
I don't have a clue what I'm saying or why. I have absolutely no idea what I'll do with her once I pick her up at O'Hare. I'm making it up as I go. That's what I'm usually doing when I'm dealing with one of Arnie's messes—making it up as I go. And, frankly, I'm exhausted with it. I've spent my whole life following my brother and sweeping up the shit. Now I'm beat down.
"You think I should leave Hermosillo?"
"Definitely. You need to get to Chicago and let me pick you up. Then we can decide what to do about the pregnancy."
Dead still calm quiet.
"What do you mean, do about the pregnancy? I'm going to have the pregnancy. Have his baby. What else were you thinking about?"
"Esmeralda, my brother, in case you haven't noticed, is a good half-a-bubble off level. You really don't want to have a baby with him. And I can almost tell you the Mexican marriage is invalid here. Arnie doesn't have the necessary state of mind to give legal consent to the wedding. It won't hold up, and it shouldn't hold up."
Crying again. "He warned me about you, Mr. Gresham. He said you never have supported his best things."
"His best things? Like marrying a teenager when he's sixty years old and getting her pregnant?"
"Age means nothing. This is about love. I've been looking for a man like Arnie forever."
"You mean a father figure. No, a grandfather figure would be more like it. Did you miss out on having a grandfather, Esmeralda?"
As soon as I say it, I regret it. It's catty and mean, and I don't mean it.
"I'm sorry. I'm just upset. This is all taking its toll on me, Esmeralda."
I wait for her to reply. And wait.
I swing around and look at the desk phone. The line is dead.
That crack about the grandfather did it. I frantically do a callback, but there's no answer and I am reasonably confident she called from a payphone in the airport.
Never mind, my intercom buzzes again. I pick up. Maybe she's thought better of hanging up.
"Michael, Ms. LaGrande is back to see you. She doesn't have an appointment, but she was wondering if you got a chance to read her resume."
I hold the phone away from my ear and look at it. Is this really happening? Did someone leave their resume with me? But even as I think it, a new thought takes hold. I'm flush. For the first time in thirty years, I'm flush as a lawyer. If I want to, I can actually hire an attorney—maybe part-time at first—and get out from under the double-calendar appearances that are showing up more and more often. That's when I'm supposed to be in two different courts at once. Criminal calendars are difficult to manage because so much of criminal procedure is statutory, set forth by law, and various court events are required by law to be done a certain number of days after the initial appearance. This is done to protect defendants' rights, so we no longer see people languish in jail for a year without ever seeing a judge. But what it does to a sole practitioner like me is make my calendar tough to manage. Then there are the emergency motions, such as the one this afternoon filed by McDermott. Those crop up all over, and they're like weeds trying to stamp them out. So there's a young woman out front—it's coming back to me—who graduated from St. Louis University School of Law and is desperately beating the streets, handing out resumes, trying to land something—anything—with some lawyer or firm. My mind is made up for me by my calendar problem.
"Give me five and send her in," I tell Mrs. Lingscheit.
"You're sure? You've got that emergency hearing—"
"Please, Mrs. Lingscheit. If you can't believe me, then humor me. I'm really sure I want to talk to her. Five minutes."
Five minutes later, in she comes, visitor striding confidently through the doorway, a happy-to-see-you smile on her face and her hand extended to shake.
She is older than I remembered. I guess early forties. Wearing a gray knit suit with a white silk shirt and pointed collar held together by a gold clasp. Her hair is probably ear length and brushed back on the sides, brushed over on top, dark blond. She has a lamplight flush of color in her cheeks that I am sure is natural and when she wants to shake my hand I know I'm in the company of a solid personality. She says that with her eyes, firm handshake, and her carriage. This is no child and no flighty, overnight law school stamp-out.
"Please, have a seat, Ms. LaGrande."
"Danny, please. It's Dania, but everyone calls me Danny."
"All right, Danny it is. So, you've left me a resume. Let me apologize right up front, I can't put my hands on it."
She nods and immediately two-fingers another document from her shoulder bag.
"There," she says, and passes it across the desk to me. "My resume. As you can see, I've been working out of my dining room trying to scare up clients. But it's very hard in this town to get any kind of traction."
"It is," I say, glancing over her paperwork. "Chicago law practice can be brutal. Where are you located?"
"I'm in Mount Pleasant. Lots of blue collars there, so I was tacking up my card where workers might shop or stop for coffee--anywhere there's a cork board. I've tried going to church and making friends. I've tried joining Rotary and—"
"Got it," I interrupt her. "How much court time do you have?"
"Next to none. I did have one drunk driving case that I got dismissed. But that was city court."
"Now you must have a past life somewhere that I should probably ask about. What made you go to law school?"
"I was a kindergarten teacher. Fifteen years, but I always wanted my own condo and after all that time I still hadn't been able to save a down payment. So, I changed horses midstream and went to law school."
"Are you from Saint Louis?"
"East Alton. I crossed the river every day to attend class. A little bit of a commute, but what the hey. Can I just say that I read in the paper you were defending that judge? I knew you'd be swamped and need help with it. Or help with the other cases. So I decided to come see you."
"Good timing. In fact, I do need some help. I was hoping for someone with a year or two around the criminal courts, however."
She leans forward and raises her hands. "Please. Let me follow you around for one week, go to court with you, get to know some files, at no charge. I won't ask for a penny until you feel I'm ready to earn a salary. I'm even willing to start part-time."
Bingo. Exactly what I had in mind. And no down payment? What's not to like? If it works out, she's worth her weight in gold to me, and she'll be well-paid. So I plunge ahead.
"When can you begin?"
"Right now."
"Done. We have a two o'clock court appearance. So you go on back to the waiting room and start reading the rules of criminal procedure, federal. Federal court is where you'll be starting. I will stay here and finish my sandwich and onion rings."
"Yes, it looks like I interrupted. But it smells good, though."
She smiles, and her side of the desk lights up. I like that. And I like that she's able to carry on such a natural conversational tone with me although she's only just met me.
Now, why can't Arnie find someone like this to woo? Hell, why can't I?