Authors: John Ellsworth
I
t's almost
ten-twenty when Marcel and I step off the elevator on our floor.
"Hello, Mrs. Lingscheit," I call to her as Marcel and I pass by. She's on the phone, of course, and only nods and raises one finger.
She punches a button on her phone and says to me, "Danny's in her office. She has really been wanting to see you, so get ready."
I stick my head into Danny's office. "Hey, you got a few?" I ask.
Her face brightens up. "Oh, I am so glad to see you. I came once while you were in the hospital, but I doubt if you remember. You were pretty out of it."
"Tell the truth, I don't remember much. Especially at first. Now you know, Marcel, right?"
"Oh yes," says Marcel from beside me. "We've talked about a few cases while you're been on the rest cure. Hiya, Danny."
"Hello, Marcel. Happy to see you too."
"Come y'all," I say in a sunny southern drawl, trying to put everyone at ease. There's a definite tension in the air. And why wouldn't there be if your boss were under indictment? It's time to speak to everyone.
We three traipse into my office, and everyone gets comfortable. Marcel goes to the Keurig and makes a cup, which he then holds up to me and raises his eyebrows. I nod affirmatively. "Cream?" he says. "Half and half," I say, nodding at the under-counter refrigerator. Danny has brought along a stack of yellow pads and appears anxious to discuss. I think she probably keeps a pad inside each file folder as she's learned by now I like to do. One yellow tablet per file, with all notes, questions, etc. Written down so, like as happened here, if someone comes down ill or gets run over then the next lawyer to come along will have the previous one's thoughts and notes, etc. Most law firms do that on their case management software today; I still prefer the old legal pads. I can also pull them out during a trial and check witness questions and answers against my notes.
"Danny," I say as Marcel hands me a cup, "you know I've been indicted."
"Hold it," says Mrs. Lingscheit, hustling in to join us. "Phones are on hold. I want you to start from the top, please."
I nod and take a sip of Marcel's brew. Fine.
"I've been indicted. I was indicted because I did a foolish thing. I called a witness in a federal criminal case, and the FBI found out about it."
"How did they find out?" asks Marcel.
"The witness called the FBI. Rather, the witness's lawyer called the FBI. Turned me in. The transcript of what I said is inside this file," I say, directing this to Danny in particular. "You, Danny, will be working on this case with me. Start with the transcript of my call, please."
"Why will I be on it?" Danny asks. "You have Valentine Quinones, don't you?"
I smile. "As of about one hour ago, no, I don't. She fired me. Or I fired her, I'm not certain. What I am sure about is that she recommended I enter into plea negotiations and when I told her there wouldn't be a plea she said she wouldn't take the case to trial. Too risky for her reputation."
"Good heavens!" Danny exclaims.
"That's what happens when you get too popular," says Marcel. "You can't afford to lose. So you start refusing cases all over if they look like losers. Sorry, Michael, I didn't mean yours looks like a loser."
"Tell the truth," says Mrs. Lingscheit, "I'm glad she's out of the picture. Michael is ten times the lawyer the rest of these people are. Good work, Mr. Gresham."
"Thanks, Mrs. L. Anyway, Danny and I will take the case to trial."
Danny is beaming now. She apparently hasn't expected to hit the courtroom so soon. And on a case that promises to gain much media attention, since there's a judge and a semi-high-profile member of the federal defense bar on trial.
"So here's my plan. First, Danny I want you to give me a brief on Seventh Circuit witness tampering cases. Obstruction of justice where witnesses were involved, too. Do it more in the form of a motion for directed verdict, since we'll be needing just that when the government rests its case after it has called all of its witnesses."
"I'm on it. What kind of priority?"
"This is a one."
She nods.
"Marcel, I need you to try to talk to these jerks in Tijuana. I don't want to put you in danger, so I'm hoping you can arrange something in broad daylight, in a public place, and take an interpreter with you and one of your own guys for backup. In fact, take two of your own guys for backup."
"What's my goal line?"
"Your goal line is a statement from them to the effect that they didn't take my phone call as an attempt to get them to tell anything but the truth. That they didn't think I was asking them to lie. If we can get that, then we can begin formulating a case where the government says the words mean one thing, but the people who heard them thought they meant something else. We're going to take the approach that my call was harmless."
"You said something in the car about Judge Pennington turning on you."
"Not exactly how I said it."
Marcel shrugs. "Okay, so you said he was trying to fuck you."
Mrs. Lingscheit waves her hand like she's brushing off flies. "My goodness. How the hospital has affected our language. Did they talk like that over there, Mr. Gresham?"
My turn to shrug. "Worse. They talked much worse."
"When do you want me to go?" Marcel asks.
"Now. Yesterday. And try to get it on tape."
"They're going to be very leery and probably won't agree to talk."
"That's all right. I can then put you on the stand and let the jury know they were uncooperative and that the U.S. Attorney was probably instructing them not to speak to me. Juries don't like prosecutors who clam up their witnesses. They think it's very unfair and judge accordingly."
"Can I say something?" Danny asks.
I open my hands. Go ahead.
"Well, I'm just thinking outside the box for a minute. I'm thinking about your brother and his troubles with MexTel."
"Mrs. Lingscheit has been sharing with you."
"She has. Your brother has a very powerful group of Mexican businessmen after him. You have a very powerful group of Mexican businessmen after you. Is there any chance those two are connected?"
She has hit a raw nerve with me. I tell them about thinking I heard Special Agent Fordyce's voice just before they set me on fire. I tell them I've been wondering why—if at all—Fordyce would be having anything at all to do with a case that involved the MexTel communications group when his own case was a thousand miles away in Tijuana. What could they possibly have in common?"
"Easy," says Danny. "Don't you see it?"
"No," says Marcel.
"I don't see any connection," says Mrs. Lingscheit.
"Not yet I don't," I tell her. "Please enlighten me."
"Well. Cartels do all their business by cell phone. The FBI and Mexican government intercept cell phone calls and that's how they prosecute cartels. My guess is that MexTel has probably provided some kind of protected cell phone service to the cartels."
"In exchange for? What do the cartels give them back?"
"Protection. Like in your brother's case. Those weren't MexTel guys who grabbed you. Those were cartel guys. That explains why Fordyce would be with them."
"You're saying the cartel was doing the bidding of MexTel by grabbing me to get its secret file back?"
"Of course. Mexican communication companies don't burn people up. Cartels do."
I look at Marcel. At Mrs. Lingscheit.
"Thoughts?"
"It makes sense, Michael, if it was Fordyce you heard."
"I'm sure it was Fordyce. My ears were on high alert at that moment."
"Then she's probably right. It's probably the cartel that grabbed you and that killed Maddie and tried to kill Arnie."
"Then those would be cartel hitmen who came to the office with Arnie's client," says Mrs. Lingscheit. The two thug-looking men."
"Yes," says Danny. "I believe that would be right."
"How do I make this connection between the two companies," I ask Danny. "And what effect does this have on the case against me?"
"I'll have to think about that," she says. "Give me a day or three."
"Fine. You've got it. I don't think your theory changes how we work up my defense, does it?"
"I don't think so," Danny says.
"Not that I can see," Marcel adds.
"Then, Danny, here's a twist. One more job for you. I want you to put together a federal lawsuit against MexTel. We're filing a civil suit."
"Who's the plaintiff?"
"Me."
"What's the theory of the cause of action?"
"Personal injury. They or their agents set me on fire."
"Does this help keep you out of jail?"
"What do you think?"
"I think it gives you the right to take depositions and get documents. Is that where you're headed?"
"That is exactly where I am headed. Without a civil suit pending, I don't have any vehicle for getting inside MexTel because on paper they've got nothing to do with the criminal case. But now that you've made that connection, we need to sue them and get inside their computers and their protected cell phone setup. We just might blow the living hell out of this thing. And there's one other thing, a pressure point."
She looks at me and waits.
"Sure," I say, "what if we invent some way to subpoena their secret file? They'll tell us there is no such thing, knowing we have it, and then they'll have to settle the case to keep us from blowing the lid off. Maybe, if they're connected to the cartel, we get rid of the cartel good ole boys at the same time. Everybody goes down."
"Including Agent Fordyce."
"I'm working on that," I tell her.
"Keep going. This is brilliant."
"I love this," Danny says, her voice full of excitement. "I'm so glad they didn't kill you!"
Marcel and Mrs. Lingscheit look at me and burst out laughing. "Me, too!" says Mrs. Lingscheit. "I'm too old to have to train someone else!"
We laugh but then it turns serious again.
"We need to go see Arnie," I suddenly say to Marcel. "We need his input on Danny's theory."
"I'm ready. I'm yours today, Boss."
"Then let's go. Thanks, everyone."
Marcel and I leave the office and ride the elevator to the basement.
"Let's take my truck," he says, "in case they're following your car."
We arrived in my car that morning. Now we will leave in Marcel's truck. It makes perfect sense. "Lead on, sir."
We walk down two levels, giving us a chance to make sure no one is following us, and giving me a chance to get some exercise. By the time we reach his truck I am glad it's been downhill.
We drive south toward Interstate 90, and I am surprised when, instead of turning west into Illinois, he takes the junction with 94 and goes southeast toward Indiana. Twenty minutes later we're across the border and shooting up and down neighborhood streets, making sure we're not followed. The city limits sign says Hammond, Indiana, but it's my first time here, and I'm completely lost.
"They'd never think to come down here," Marcel says.
I can only agree.
"So you've hidden him in Hammond?"
"Yeppers. Right down here behind the courthouse. Lots of cops around here. He's one of the good guys, so I wanted him just behind the courthouse parking lot."
He's right. The U.S. District Court in Hammond can be seen one block away from the duplex where we've pulled up. Smart man, Marcel, I've got to give him credit yet again.
"Follow me."
I do, and he leads me inside the right door of the double front doors and we begin climbing upstairs.
Without speaking or calling out, Arnie appears at the top of the landing, and he's wearing a pistol on his hip. He hasn't drawn the gun; I'm sure he watched us walk up from the street.
"Gentlemen," he says casually. "So nice to see you."
"Cut the bullshit, Arnie," I say in half-feigned anger, "if it weren't for you we wouldn't be here in Hooterville, Indiana."
"Hammond, little brother."
"Hooterville to me," I say. "Bumpkinville."
"Who's that, honey?" I hear Esmeralda's young voice call.
"Nobody," says Arnie, and he laughs. "C'mon up, boys!"
W
e spoke twice
in the hospital, Arnie and me, but we've never spoken about the events of that terrible night. But that's why I've come here, and I know he senses it.
He shows us inside his upper half of the duplex, and I am first struck by how clean the place is. Evidently Esmeralda is something of a homemaker, and she has made the place their own. New curtains are in place—you can tell by how they hang away from the wall, and nice, relaxing furniture has probably replaced the original, century-old stuff that came with the place. On the kitchen table—which stands between us and the kitchen—is a collection of cell phones and notepads.
Esmeralda comes to the table from the kitchen and greets us, hands extended, and I respond in kind. She is a sincere woman, from all I have gleaned about her, and I'm growing fond of her. I want to tell her that but now isn't the time.
"C'mon in," she says, make yourselves comfortable. Michael, you take the overstuffed chair; Marcel, take the couch. It sinks in more so let's let Michael have the good support there. Arnie, why don't you sit over here by Marcel and I'll go make some coffee."
"Honey," says Arnie, "first tell them your joke."
He looks at his young—girlfriend? wife?—and she pauses and turns around to us. "Okay, but you have to promise you'll laugh."
"Promise," says Marcel, holding up his Scout's salute.
"Me, too."
"All right. Dr. Epstein was a renowned physician who earned his medical degree in his hometown and then left for Manhattan.
"Soon he was invited to give a speech in his hometown. As he placed his papers on the lectern they slid off onto the floor and when he bent over to retrieve them, at precisely the wrong instant, he farted, and the microphone amplified it throughout the room. He was embarrassed but regained his composure to deliver his paper. As he concluded, he raced out the stage door, never to be seen in his hometown again.
"Decades later, when his elderly mother was ill, he returned to visit her. He reserved a hotel room under a false name, Solomon Levy, and arrived under cover of darkness. The desk clerk asked him, ‘Is this your first visit to our city, Mr. Levy?'"
"Dr. Epstein replied, ‘Well, young man, no, it isn't. I grew up here but then I moved away.'"
"‘Why haven't you visited?' asked the desk clerk."
"'I did visit once, many years ago, but an embarrassing thing happened and since then I've been too ashamed to return.'"
"The clerk consoled him. 'Sir, while I don't have your life experience, one thing I have learned is that often what seems embarrassing to me isn't even remembered by others. I bet that's true of your incident too.'"
"Dr. Epstein replied, ‘Son, I doubt that's the case with my incident.'"
‘''Was it a long time ago?'"
‘''Yes, many years.'"
"The clerk asked, ‘Was it before or after the Epstein Fart?'"
We explode in laughter.
Esmeralda is quick on the uptake. "You gents even want coffee?"
"I'm in," I say.
"Me too," says Marcel.
"Pass," says Arnie. "I'm jittery enough."
"Worried, Arnie?" I ask.
"Who wouldn't be? Those are some mean people after me. Look what they've already done."
"What are you thinking?" I ask.
He looks at me quizzically. "Thinking about what?"
"About how we're going to hit back and with what?"
"Let me ask about that. Did they get the thumb drive away from you that night?"
"Yep. In the garage or warehouse, whatever it was."
"Thought so."
"But it's still on my cell phone. The Internet address and the command."
"Good. I say we bomb them with the file. Turn it loose on all telephone customers in Latin America."
"I've thought about that. But you know what? I'm going to sue MexTel. And I want to save that bomb. I want to bring them down and make a ton of money while we do it. They've hurt us both bad; they should have to pay us for the pain and suffering and for our permanent disfigurement. So let me ask you, Arnie. Are you in?"
"In?"
"Do you want in on my lawsuit?"
His smile beams at me. "Do I? You bet your ass I do. In fact, I'd like to first-chair the trial."
"Well, you're the civil litigator. I wouldn't have any objection. But what about your conflict? You've previously represented them."
"You're right. Okay, I'll just be a party. They owe me for this," he indicates his legs with a smack across his thighs with his cane.
"Agree."
"And your face. I'm sorry, Michael, you don't look much like my brother anymore."
That is the most disheartening thing I've heard in weeks. My immediate response is to feel bad, to feel sorry for myself. But I check my feelings and say Wait a minute! The time for feeling sorry is past. Let's think about feeling angry, about taking that hate and striking back! Dr. O'Connell at the psychology department at UC Hospital would be proud to see me thinking down this path. If I'm going to be disfigured and unattractive to anyone then by god I'm going to be paid for it. They've probably sentenced me to a life alone because, I might as well admit it; no woman is ever going to want to kiss this face again. The red, tight lips, the plastic face, the stunted eyelashes and eyebrows.
"I don't know that I ever will," I tell Arnie. "The jury's still out on my face because the doctors aren't done yet."
He forces a laugh. "Don't get me wrong. You weren't exactly Antonio Banderas before."
"But at least I looked like me. The worst thing is looking into a mirror and seeing a stranger. That's the killer."
Marcelo shifts his weight on his end of the couch.
"I had a lot of friends come home from Iraq with bad burns," he says. "Their wives took them in and loved them maybe more than ever."
"But Michael doesn't have a wife to do that for him, remember?” Arnie says.
At just that moment Esmeralda reappears holding three mugs of coffee in her fingers.
"Michael needs a wife?" she says. "I've got lots of friends who would love to date Michael. Young ones, too."
"Well, I'm not in the market for a wife," I tell the gathering. "In fact, my most recent one, last time I saw her, tried to invite herself to stay overnight with me."
"Did you let her?" Esmeralda says.
"Hell, no. She's run off with some young stud who's trying to get her pregnant. She was toxic on hormones and ready to conceive. Or I was afraid she was."
"I know a girl named Lucinda Larrapol who would be just right for you, Michael," says Esmeralda. "Let me give her a call. You can date her, and if you like her, you can start going out with her and see it it's a fit. One drawback is she has twin boys about two. I don't know how you would feel about that."
"Not right," I say with all the smile I can generate. "But thanks for the mention. No, I think I'll let some time go past, let the surgeons carve on my face, and then see where I am."
Marcel wonders if we should see what Arnie thinks of Danny's theory. I explain to Arnie what Danny has come up with, meaning the possible relationship between MexTel and the Tijuana cartel, where the one keeps things on the down low, and the other does the dirty work. Arnie is thinking. He leans back on the couch, drawing his right knee up inside his interlocking fingers. But the strain is too much, and he releases his grip. The pain is evident on his face, and I curse under my breath.
"Let me put it this way," he finally says. "I represented MexTel in its litigation as outside counsel for over twenty years, three years on the groundwater case alone. I know a lot about that company. I know a lot of things I'm not supposed to know, too. But to be honest, I've never come across any connection between MexTel and any of the cartels. I'm not saying it doesn't happen. I'm just saying I can't give you names and dates and places where it did. Sorry, gentlemen."
Marcel looks at me and shrugs. "So now what?"
"Easy," I tell him with a smile. "Act as if."
"As if?"
"Act as if there is a relationship. When I heard Nathan Fordyce's voice in that warehouse that night, it etched in my mind. The FBI and the Tijuana bad boys are in bed together. I don't know how or why, but I'm almost a hundred percent sure of it. I know I heard his voice there, and I know it was two crazy looking Mexican hitmen who dragged me into that van and took me there. Nothing will ever change my mind about that. You know what else? I also think the FBI has access to MexTel's scrambled phone lines. I believe they know everything about the cartels, thanks to MexTel."
"So why are so many drugs getting smuggled in if the FBI knows all and sees all?"
"I don't know. But there's a connection there. I'll probably never be able to prove it, and that's okay. That's a case for another day. Thanks to you, Arnie, I have a smoking gun that belongs to MexTel. Thanks to you I'm going to ruin them with that. Or at least cost them enough in damages to several hundred thousand of their fellow citizens that it hurts real bad. Not to mention the ten or twenty million I plan to drag off for me and you, Arnie."
Esmeralda returns and takes a seat beside Arnie. She begins rubbing his knee. He looks at her and their eyes meet. They both smile. In that moment, I know that I am not going to say the rest of what I came here to say. That is no longer any of my business. If my brother wants to destroy his life with a teenage hooker, so be it.
"So, Arnie, what's the plan for your life," I say, choosing my words carefully. "I'm talking professionally. Are you going back to your old firm?"
"You mean once this is all over and they're not looking for me?"
"Yes. Yes, that's what I mean."
"I don't know. I've got a bank vault full of money I've saved over the past thirty-five years, so I don't really have to work anymore."
"I'm voting we return to Cozumel when it's safe," Esmeralda says. "Me and Arnie and our baby."
"So…it's official? There's a baby on the way?"
Arnie shrugs and turns to Esmeralda. She grins and tosses her head back. Girlish laughter erupts, and she kicks her legs.
"The wand turned blue this morning!"
"You did the piss test?" Marcel says, ever the savant.
"Yes. It turned blue. I'm pregnant. We're pregnant!"
"Congratulations, Arnie, and Esmeralda," I say. Arnie's eyes well up. He never expected me to support him in this. "Let's celebrate with another cup of coffee, Esme'—can I call you Esme?"
"My folks call me Esme. Yes, you can call me that too."
Marcel stands and crosses the room. He draws aside a curtain and looks down at the street.
"I hate to break up a good thing," he says, "but weren't you going to take your mom to lunch, Michael?"
He's right. I had told him I wanted to be back in time for that. It's been a long time since I've been able to see her.
We say our goodbyes, telling Esme to cancel the coffee refills. She returns, wiping her hands on an honest-to-god apron, and leans up to kiss me. I turn my cheek. "Uh-uh," she says, "I want to be the first woman to try out those new lips."
She kisses me fully on the mouth.
"You pass the first test," she says with a laugh.
I turn away and head for the stairs, gripping the railing, so I don't trip and stumble. It's the tears in my eyes that might cause a fall. Lots of tears.