Authors: John Ellsworth
This just might work. In more than one way, I’m thinking, but then I pull myself up short.
Stop, I excoriate myself. Leave. It. Alone.
F
ollowing
the two o’clock court call, as we stroll back to the Congress building office, I assign Danny's next task to her. First I explain the case against Judge Pennington. We're still talking as we ascend in the elevator.
"Come on in, and we'll give you some details, and then I'll show you your office."
"Excellent," she says, "let me hit the ladies' room and I'll be right there."
I go into my office, Mrs. Lingscheit hot on my heels, and plop down in my chair.
"Well," she says, "haven't we had an exciting couple of days?"
"I mean, can you even believe this?" I say. "Judge Pennington?"
"And don't forget your ex. She only wants ninety grand."
"Did you cut the check to her?"
She grimaces, standing before me with a legal pad hugged to her chest under her crossed arms.
"I did. It was damn hard, Michael, but I followed your instructions."
All because of me, a new baby will be born.
It sidetracks my one-track mind for just a moment, and I am glad.
Babies can do that.
A
t mid-morning
I'm returning from the County Clerk's office where I've been checking through old criminal records. Anything I can find on James Joseph Lamb I have pulled and read. The juvie files are all sealed, of course, but there's the natural progression of less serious to more serious in adult court.
The cab deposits me in front of my building on LaSalle, and I step up onto the sidewalk. My attention is on my briefcase, and I don't see the two men approach me.
Then Agents Fordyce and Burns each have an arm, and they're guiding me toward a tan, late model sedan. I struggle and push to the left and to the right, but they are young, burly, and resist my efforts without much exertion.
"Just relax," says Fordyce, the larger of the two. "We just want to talk. Give us five minutes, okay?"
I am surprised at his understated request. Then I feel his hip holster through my blazer.
Agent Burns releases my right arm and opens the back door of the sedan. It's parked in front of Bank of America on LaSalle, right down from my entrance. Fordyce, hanging off my left arm, places his hand on top of my head and steers me down and into the backseat. A real cop move, I'm thinking, and I relax just a little. Then he slides in beside me, pushing me on over.
He removes his Ray-Bans and turns to me in the seat.
"Good to see you, Mr. Gresham. Thanks for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice."
"So why am I being held against my will? Do you know there's a crime for that? Something like false imprisonment? Kidnapping?"
"Please, don't start," says Agent Fordyce. "We only want to talk. We didn't go to your office and wait there because most defense attorneys don't want FBI agents flashing their ID in their waiting room."
"You're doing me a favor? I get it now."
"No need for sarcasm, either. We can be friends here. Or maybe no, after you hear what we have to say to you."
"Four minutes," I tell him.
Burns slaps the steering wheel and looks out the window. "Lawyers," I hear him say as if it's a bad taste in his mouth.
"You are talking to our friend Judge Pennington. That's all well and good. But know this: the book isn't closed on the right Honorable Judge Pennington, yet. Meaning, our investigation is ongoing. If it should turn out that we find you are helping him cover up in any way the chain of events that he has been indicted for, we're more than happy to bring charges against you too, Mr. Gresham."
"What?" I exclaim. "You're threatening me for defending Pennington while he's exercising his Constitutional right to an attorney? What a load of crap! Let me out! Move it!"
"Don't go all postal," Burns says. "We're just explaining our boundaries. You're still free to make any moves you think you need to make."
"I'll do that. Are we done here?"
"Just watch your step. We aren't done rounding up bad guys yet."
“Speaking of that, how come
you
haven’t been rounded up yet? Seems to me you and Burns would be right at the top of the
FBI’s Most Wanted
list after the way you beat the hell out of James Lamb and then lied about it.”
Fordyce smiles. Burns, in the rearview, joins him.
“Need-to-know-basis, counselor. You’re not on that list of who gets to know these things, it appears.”
"I'll just bet not. Okay, let me out."
He opens the door and gets out. "Come ahead, sir."
I step out onto the sidewalk.
"Do I copy you on my letter to the U.S. Attorney where I'm seeking obstruction of justice charges?"
Fordyce grins a real, big grin.
"We thought you might try something like that. We're here at the request of the U.S. Attorney. One step ahead of you, counselor. Sorry about that."
"You might want to tell your U.S. Attorney this. Tell her I'm not about to back down or back off or even backtrack. I'm here, I'm on the case, and I'm going to win a not guilty verdict for my client. He didn't do what you're claiming, and I'm going to prove it."
Empty words, coming from me. I have nothing to back them up with, but I'm saying them anyway. At this point, I have absolutely no clue about the pros and cons of Judge Pennington's case. But I do know this: these people are in for a fight. I've been waiting all my career to land a case with as much visibility upside as this one. I don't plan on allowing a conviction. The fact is, I'm way down the road on that. Even if it turns out my guy did what they claim, they don't have him on video or tape soliciting the hit. In cases like this, it's one guy's word against another guy's word. Whoever they fish out of the sewers down in Mexico to testify, my guy's side of the street is cleaner.
So I return Fordyce's grin with an even bigger one of my own.
"You fellows have yourselves a nice day, now. I know I am."
Then I turn and enter my building. There's no looking back over my shoulder. They're watching, I know it. But I'm not giving them points for intimidation by looking back.
Score it 1-0, my favor.
Why? Because my defense is already in place and I haven't even seen the entire case yet. I've been defending people for thirty years, and I'm an impossible adversary in the courtroom.
I tell myself this over and over as door closes behind me.
M
rs. Lingscheit nails
me at the door when I walk in.
"Michael, the U.S. Attorney wants to talk to you. They have a meeting they would like you to attend at two o'clock."
I check my watch. 12:15.
"Any idea what's up? Did they say anything?"
"Mrs. San-Jish—I think that's her name—said it was about your client Judge Pennington. Do you have a witness interview or something you're trying to get?"
"Nope. This is all new to me."
I decide to head on over to 219 S. Dearborn where the USA is officed. I'll stop along the way, pick up a Starbucks and sit in on one of the criminal courts while I'm waiting for two o'clock. The educational process never ends, and I always learn something watching other attorneys navigating the slippery slope of federal criminal court. It is an art form, practicing successfully in those rooms, especially given the horrendously complicated maze of rules governing federal sentencing. Practitioners like me also know that when the feds go after someone, they're usually going to be successful. Cases are worked up months in advance of indictments coming down, by the FBI, the greatest collection of criminal investigators the world has ever known. I know there's a lot of downsizing of the brilliance and smarts of these federal agents in film and fiction, but the average citizen and the most gifted lawyer is wise to disregard such naive commentary. These men and women are the best in the world, and they'll get you if it falls under the U.S. Code as a violation of one of the thousands of federal crimes scattered hither and yon through the books. A slippery slope, indeed.
Coming up Dearborn I pop into my favorite Starbucks where the baristas (the female ones) are head and shoulders above any other coffee bar in town. I can't tell you why it is; it just is. It's fun to go window-shopping at my age. Just remembering what once was and never will be again. Well, damn, that sounds tragic, and I don't mean for it to be. Actually, I'm quite okay with my bachelorhood right now. I just need to figure out how to make it work for me, so I'm not so dumbstruck lonely all the time. Maybe a dog's the answer, who knows?
Venti in hand, I proceed toward the court. There will be no taking my drink inside, so I ordered an iced latte and will have it mostly down by the time I reach my destination.
The city is getting less friendly traffic-wise as I near the federal enclave. Both sides of the street are lined with pillars and posts and contraptions of all manner, shape and size designed to prevent vehicles from standing or pulling over or parking along there with the idea of bringing a bomb close up and detonating it. Cops are everywhere, and I'm sure there are armed men around whose job it is to watch the traffic go by and make sure it keeps moving and to return fire immediately if shooting breaks out. It's only a matter of time before someone tries to storm one of these buildings and take out a floor of district court judges. I am hoping they are stopped before any part of that plan is pulled off and so, going inside and passing through the long security lines, I'm not put off by the wait. Whatever it takes is fine by me. Seriously fine.
Finally, I make it to the fifth floor and find the office where I'm expected. I come up to the glassed-in receptionist's window in the sealed airlock, and she asks if I have an appointment. I explain I was called over and she buzzes the door, allowing me into a small waiting room with a small love seat and two side chairs. There is a table, no magazines, and a picture of the President on the wall. He is smiling as if to tell me all is well in Department of Justice land. He looks happy and confident; I feel nervous and just a little unhinged. I've never been summoned to a U.S. Attorney's office, and it's not conducive to restful thinking. In fact, my mind is racing, wondering whether I have crossed some imaginary federal line and done something I'm going to regret greatly in about seven minutes when the clock says two o'clock. Yes, I'm nervous. This is the Big Leagues, the feds, and above all else I've always gone out of my way to avoid crossing them. That's not to say I won't zealously represent my federal clients; I will. But careful is as careful does. And careful I do.
Several minutes later, the inside office door snaps open, and there stands AUSA San-Jish, dressed in saffron, this wrap being stitched together in very bright orange and yellow hues. She extends her hand and greets me warmly. A part of me is put at ease, but the overseeing part says, "Not so fast. This is neither the time nor the place to feel at ease. This is the DMZ."
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Gresham. Please follow me."
We pass through a short hallway and then turn right, into her office. Special Agent Nathan Fordyce is already there. He half-smiles when he sees me. Ms. San-Jish takes her place in her high-back chair and waves at me to sit down.
I sit, and Fordyce reaches across and we shake hands without words. I wonder if San-Jish is aware of the confrontation. I decide she is not.
"Mr. Gresham, you represent Judge Francis Pennington Junior."
"I do."
"He is charged with two counts of conspiracy to commit murder, which involves the man who killed the judge's wife and walked away free. That man, James Joseph Lamb, was released on a coerced confession. We have evidence that your client visited San Diego and met with a gentleman in Tijuana who has now confessed to being hired to kill Mr. Lamb."
"I assume this so-called gentleman has also been given immunity to say these things."
"Yes," she says, "he has. As well as his son. He's been given immunity too, because he was to be the actual trigger man."
"I didn't know that. But let me ask you this. Independent of what this Tijuana Dynamic Duo tell you the judge did or didn't do, what corroborating evidence is there that my guy was even involved? Is it all hearsay, or do you actually have a case?"
"We have commercial records placing your man in San Diego within thirty days of the homicide. And we have video."
I am stunned. "Video? Video of what?"
"Video of your man filling up his gas tank one block away from the hotel where we found his registration. He paid in cash and our agents then did a review of all video shot within a one-mile radius of that same hotel, hoping to turn up pictures of your client, and, lo and behold, they found him gassing up his car, a 2014 Volvo sedan."
For several moments, I am speechless. This can't actually be happening! Judge Pennington assured me—promised me—that he had nothing to do with any plot to murder James Joseph Lamb. Now this? The feds actually have something? Plus, they went out into the streets and hunted down video of my guy in the area within thirty days of the conspiracy? I sit back in my chair and try to appear relaxed as if I expected these items to be turned up and as if they can easily be explained away with a flick of the wrist. This is the defense attorney's best reaction at such moments: to try to minimize the importance of what he's just been told. With all my acting ability summoned, I attempt to evince a look and posture that minimizes their hearsay, their hotel registry, and their video.
But it doesn't work.
"This evidence puts this case to bed for us," says Agent Fordyce. "Except for one minor thing. Our investigation was just about concluded until we intercepted a letter from your client written to the Tijuana Dynamic Duo, as you call them."
"A letter?"
"A letter," says Ms. San-Jish.
"What does the letter say?"
"You'll be receiving a copy of all discovery before you leave here today, so you can read it for yourself. But let me just summarize. The Judge, in writing to the Ramons in Tijuana, says, buried in the middle of the letter, that you were complicit in setting up the hit on Mr. Lamb."
Now I am stunned. A line has been crossed against me that has never been crossed before. Warning lights and bells are going off all over my body: I am no longer regarded by my hosts as some reasonable defense attorney out to do his job: now I am the enemy. And the hounds of hell are headed my way. It is time to seek counsel of my own, to shut up and say no more, to take the Fifth.
I gather myself and ask, innocently, "He uses my name?"
"He uses your name if you are Michael Gresham of Evanston, Illinois."
"And the letter—how do you get around the federal law that prohibits anyone interfering with the U.S. Mail?"
"He was out on bail. Part of the conditions of his release was that he commit no other crimes. We received a tip that he was sending the letter and we intercepted it because the attempt to influence a witness in a federal investigation is obstruction of justice and witness tampering. Added to the underlying conspiracy to commit murder charges and you've suddenly got yourself a client who is going away for a very long time. My intention is to make sure he loses track of all time, never sees the sunlight again, and knows the month only from what others tell him."
It's Fordyce’s turn. "Which brings us to you, Mr. Gresham. I would like to interview you about the contents of that letter and the things being said about you. Can we set up a time to meet at my office?"
"I—I—no. No, I won't be meeting with you."
Fordyce smiles, and I realize what a great, handsome, attractive witness he is going to make in the case against me.
"You won't meet with us?"
"No. I'll be seeking counsel as soon as I leave here. I'm sure she won't want me speaking to you."
"She?"
"She will identify herself to you just as soon as I have her retained. That should be by Monday."
"We're sorry it has come to this," says the AUSA. "We never like to see defense attorneys get bitten by the hand that feeds them.
I wonder what sage U.S. Attorney aphorism that has descended from.
She passes me a thick Redrope expanding folder. It is packed with documents and, at least, two CD's (videos). They really do have video.
And they really do have a letter that involves me in this crime.
I want to pinch myself. I have just been admitted to the dark world of conspirators in a federal murder case. If this inquiry proceeds, I will be facing the same charges that Judge Pennington is facing.
"One last thing," Ms. San-Jish says with a huge smile. "Let me hand you this." She turns around a document on her glass desktop and hands it across to me.
My hand shakes as I accept the document. I am almost too frightened to look because I almost know what it's going to be.
It is. An indictment. A formal criminal charge.
With my name on it. "Michael Gresham," it says in large print in the caption, "Defendant."
I find myself on my feet and lurching for my door.
"We're not going to have you arrested, Mr. Gresham. Just be sure to appear for your initial appearance at nine Monday morning before Judge Howard Staunton. We won't oppose unsecured conditions of release."
What a relief.
They're not taking me directly to jail.
At least not yet.