Authors: John Ellsworth
J
ames Lamb called
my office and made an appointment. Real appointment; not a walk-in. I told Mrs. Lingscheit to go ahead and put him in the book; if he admits anything about the death of Sylvia to me, I will go straight to the police and nail his ass.
He comes in again wearing a grill, this one silver with fake diamonds—they have to be fake, there's no way he could afford this many diamonds. His eyes are hidden behind silverized sunglass lenses, and I make him take them off if he wants to talk. Then I see why he's wearing them: his pupils are huge, and he's making wide, erratic swings in his greetings to me when he arrives. First I'm the hot-dog, and then I'm the great guy, and now I'm the courtroom chump. He is insulting, evil, and I wish I could shoot him myself on the spot. Or I wish that someone else would.
"Dude, what happened to your face?" he asks me. "I mean it's all like fucked up and sick, Dude."
I ignore him. He hasn't seen me since I was burned and not only have my looks changed but I've changed too. I'm fighting down the urge to take out my gun and rid the world of this goddamn animal. But I don't.
"All right, James. Why are you here?"
"I need help with a baby."
My antennae go up.
"What kind of help? What baby?"
"It's my baby, Dude. But I can't afford to keep it. I want to adopt it out."
"Adopt it out to who?"
"There's a couple in Lafayette, Louisiana. Detembre and Anna Blake. They want to adopt. Here's their name and digits." He writes their name and phone number on the back of one of my cards and passes it to me.
"Well, James, the adoption should be held in Louisiana, and their own lawyer should do the work. Why would you need me? What would I do?"
"Well, that's just it. They're also paying me a fee for the baby."
"A fee? James, exactly what the fuck are you talking about here?"
"You know. Twenty grand and I give up all my rights. I'll cut you in for a third if you'll talk to their lawyer and get it done like they want."
"You're asking me to help you sell your baby?"
"Not sell it. Adopt it out, Dude. I can still see it if I want."
"You'll be going from Chicago to Louisiana how many times a year to see this child? And tell me something. Why did you kill Sylvia?"
"Who told you that! She was selling her ass behind a seven-eleven, and somebody knocked her around. Bitch fuckin died and left me with her kid. That's why I'm selling it."
This is wrong in so many different ways I don't even know where to begin.
"I can't help you with this, and I want you to turn right around and leave my office. You and I are through, James. Don't call me again."
"You aren't gonna help me? What if I give you half? Is that what this is about, Dude?"
"No, Dude. This is about me trying to avoid killing you. Now get up and get out."
He stands and leans across my desk.
"You should watch that killing talk, cracker. You won't even believe where that kinda talk gets you with me."
"Forget it. Just leave."
He stands upright and points at me.
"You tell anyone I was here and you in a world of hurt, chump. Dig me?"
"I dig you. Goodbye, James."
"Yeah. And fuck you too, cracker man."
D
anny
and I await the arrival of Assistant U.S. Attorney San-Jish for my arraignment, set for ten o'clock this morning. It is the first of July and the day is already hot and humid. The air conditioners in this courtroom 9804 are working overtime to keep a chill in the room. Involuntarily, I shiver and Danny, next to me at counsel table, gives me one of her quizzical looks. I tell her it's nothing, that my body temperature has trouble modulating since I was burned. She is quickly picking up Mrs. Lingscheit's ways, however, because I don't think she believes me. She asks if it's not because I'm just a little bit frightened; I don't know what to say. Maybe she's right; maybe I am frightened. It's not every day I'm arraigned in U.S. District Court for a crime I didn't commit.
Finally, the AUSA appears, alone, Nathan Fordyce nowhere in sight, nor did we expect him to be. Judge Delores S. Sappington takes the bench and peers down at us over her reading glasses. From where I sit, her nose is long and aquiline, and her graying hair lays flat on her head, a sign that it is thinning with age. She is known as an exceptional jurist, and I am glad for that, but she is also a graduate of the U.S. Attorney's Office where they turn out these District Court judges like Denny's does pancakes.
Judge Pennington isn't here, nor should he be. He's already been arraigned. Today is my arraignment.
Judge Sappington calls the court to order and asks whether I have a copy of the indictment. I stand and reply affirmatively. She asks do I understand it? I answer in the affirmative yet again. She then reads the charge, despite my offer to waive reading. The indictment consists of two counts, one under the intimidation/threat portion of 18 USC 1512, and one under the harassment portion. The former can result in a penitentiary sentence of twenty years; the latter can put me away for only three years. Only three years, I think; how inured I have become in such a short time to the prospect of spending my days in some rank federal prison in lockdown twenty-three hours a day and glimpsing the sunlight through a window only one hour a day. The reality of it makes me shiver again, and Judge Sappington concludes the reading. I feel like I am going to vomit when she's done, and I swallow hard.
"Are you going to retain counsel, Mr. Gresham?"
"I am acting as my own lawyer, Your Honor."
"Well, you know the old saying."
"I do. And no one has ever called me a fool inside a courtroom."
The judge then asks for my plea. I inform the court that I will be pleading not guilty. AUSA San-Jish shoots me a look out of the corner of her eye from counsel table, but I ignore her reaction. We are beyond being intimidated by the awesome power of the U.S. Government in criminal prosecutions. We are prepared to stand and fight back. My Rule One of trial practice comes into play: no matter how many of them there are, they can only talk one at a time. And I can keep up with anyone if it's one at a time. So my back straightens, and I suck in a deep lungful of air and dare my body to shiver again. Next time I won't allow it. No fear.
The court then asks the clerk for a trial date and the clerk reports the trial date as September 15. We will have a pre-trial conference in thirty days. And that is all; the judge leaves the bench as Danny and I stand, and we begin putting our papers away.
Ms. San-Jish appears at my side. "Would you like to talk?" she asks.
"Go ahead," I say. "Danny is assisting me with the case. Feel free to speak in front of her."
"Would you be prepared to discuss a plea?"
"Such as?"
"Plead guilty to the lesser charge, one-year incarceration, three years probation."
I turn to face her. "You know," I say, "that's a fair resolution, and I appreciate your willingness to talk. But the truth? I didn't do anything wrong. A plea of guilty to a felony guarantees the loss of my law license and ruin of my business. I'm not financially able to do that, to walk away from what I've built up over the last thirty years. So no, I won't be interested in pleading guilty to a felony. Not any felony."
"Well, there are not appropriate misdemeanors, and I wouldn't recommend a misdemeanor to the U.S. Attorney anyway."
"Your boss must be appeased. I understand that. So thanks for talking, but no thanks."
"I won't be agreeing to any trial continuations."
I give her a hard look. "Neither will I. Be sure you're ready on September fifteenth. You and Agent Fordyce are about to get the living hell kicked out of you in this courtroom where we're standing."
She smiles and tosses off a light laugh.
"Of course," she says. "Of course."
"He's serious," Danny adds. "He won't countenance
any
plea offers. So please save your breath. We're going to trial."
I turn to look at her from beneath raised eyebrows. We won't countenance
any
plea offers? Really? I guess Danny's made up her mind, too.
Danny and I leave the courthouse on the Dearborn side and begin walking up the street. Marcel has joined us outside the courtroom and accompanies us, his eyes often darting to the street as he surveils the passing traffic. At the corner City Java, Danny asks if I'd mind stopping so she can get a coffee. I tell her that does sound good. Marcel says he will wait outside. He is restless and watchful this morning, and I am glad he's nearby.
We decide to sit and kick back after we have our orders. Danny has a mocha latte, and I have gone for my old standby, the venti bold. An empty table with two chairs beside the window catches our attention and we hurry over before the crowd can beat us.
"So," I say to Danny once we're seated and sipping, "you're from Alton, and now you're living in Mt. Pleasant?"
"Yes, but I'm thinking of moving closer. Something downtown, if the price is right."
I study her without trying to stare. She's a charming woman who has yet to show wrinkles around the eyes and mouth. I think she is forty-two or -three. I wonder about previous lives, whether there are children or ex-husbands, but I decide to stay away from the personal stuff. She'll tell me these things if and when she's ever ready. But then she catches me staring: Her dark blond hair is brushed back on the sides and brushed over on top, giving her the look of a college senior, and I realize I am smitten. I almost cannot believe myself. The natural color in her cheeks, the blond hair, the first attraction is there. Plus I am leaning on her now to some degree since she's helping me defend myself. I couldn't tell you why, but that fact alone makes her even more attractive to me. I'm prepared to do something stupid like ask her to dinner when Marcel suddenly leans around and knocks on the window from outside. He points at his wristwatch. It's 10:45 and I cannot understand why he's pointing out the time. Then he points at his mouth. I had forgotten: he has a dental appointment at noon. I wave at him as if waving goodbye, and mouth the words, "Take off now!" and he gets the gist of what I'm saying. He holds up a hand goodbye and saunters off down the street. He will retrieve his truck from our underground parking and make it to his appointment with time to spare, as it's on the near west side.
Back to my coffee date.
"So," I say, despite my earlier admonition to myself, "do you have children?"
She looks at me and giggles. "No. No kids. Do you?"
"No, and now I'm divorced and probably won't have any. Besides, I'm too old. I'm fifty-five."
"Nonsense," she says with a tilt of her head and bright smile, "I think Clint Eastwood was seventy when he had another baby. Mick Jagger was ninety!" She laughs at her joke. But the point is made: I am not ruled out of the baby-having class. Interesting.
I am silent. I've told her my age. Maybe she'll reciprocate.
"What was that U.S. Attorney even thinking, asking you for a year's incarceration. I almost pushed her down!"
"Don't do that. Those people are very touchy about such things. You would find yourself on the wrong end of some horrible indictment for some esoteric area of federal criminal law no one knows about."
"Yes," she says, "that's how it goes with the feds. Mucho laws."
She holds her cup and swirls the liquid inside. Clearly she is not going to tell me her age. Time to move on.
"I'm forty-one," she says. "In case you're wondering."
"I was, and I'm surprised. I would have guessed thirty-two or -three."
"You're a cunning man. But no, forty-one. Married once at nineteen to an air force pilot. We did a full tour of duty, and I found out he had a girlfriend in every port. Airport that is."
"So you left him?"
"Actually, he left me. For another man. Now that, my friend, was one helluva surprise. It was also no contest. I couldn't compete against smelly gym socks and a jockstrap."
We both laugh.
I am melting. It is time to move along and let this poor woman get on with the business of finding someone her own age, someone whose face isn't modeled after a recent assault, and get on with her life. Maybe have a baby. It's not too late for her.
"So, you about ready?" I ask, turning in my seat as if to stand.
"Yep. We've got a lot to do. Would you mind when we get back if we review the contents of the file Ms. Quinones returned to you?"
"Great idea. Let's get after it."
"Thanks for the latte."
"Yes, thanks for the laughs."
She smiles and tosses her head. "Maybe it's not too late for you. Your sense of humor will get you far."
"
H
ello
, Mrs. Lingscheit!" I call out as Danny and I pass through the outer office. We're both carrying our coffee cups, just a little bit wired, and ready to dive into the file Valentine Quinones turned over to me.
Then I hear behind, "Hello, Mrs. Lingscheit!" and realize Danny is mimicking me. Good, there's that sense of humor again, and I like it. I like it a lot this time.
We go into the conference room and plop down the file on the table. She takes one side; I take the end next to her. She begins pulling file folders out of the Redrope file.
"Okay," she says, "this CD is marked ‘gas pump.' Any idea what that means?"
"Yes, the judge was videoed at a gas pump within a mile or so from a San Diego hotel. The theory is that he was there in the vicinity of Tijuana. The up-close view is this was taken at or near the time he arranged for the murder of James Joseph Lamb."
"Good. The next CD is marked ‘judge/hotel.' I assume they obtained surveillance video where he was staying in San Diego."
"Must be. Haven't heard anything about it yet."
"Okay. I'll go over it when we're done here, and I'll give you a report on the contents of both CD's."
"Perfect."
"Then we have a file marked ‘Transcript- Pennington Dismissal Ramon Case.'"
"That would be the transcript of Judge Pennington when he dismissed the case against Emmie Ramon."
"The godfather's son."
"Exactly. The theory is Judge Pennington gave the kid a break on a drug trafficking case in return for the father and son agreeing to murder James Joseph Lamb."
"Sweet deal, if you're the judge."
"Well, money must have changed hands, too."
"How do you know that?"
"Hmm. I guess I don't, actually. I'm just guessing."
"Let's keep guessing to a minimum, shall we?"
I look at her. My first appraisal of her as a complete novice is rapidly fading. She is becoming someone with some judgment that I might actually trust. That's very rare for me.
"Then we have a file with a transcript in it. This one says it's Michael Gresham's recording from Raul Ramon's voice mail. So this is their smoking gun on you?"
"Yes."
"Can you give me some background?"
"Judge Pennington and I decided, during the course of my defense of him, that the cartel boss had been threatened by the FBI. We decided they were being forced to fabricate a story about the judge in order to convict him because the FBI wanted him so badly."
"So you decided to call the cartel guys and ask them about it. Not my move, but, hey, what's done is done."
I blush. "I know. But believe me, I really trusted Judge Pennington. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine he would actually conspire to kill someone."
"Even the guy who murdered his wife? You didn't think that might happen?"
"Like I said, I believed him."
"Next, we have a copy of what must be the judge's letter to the Ramons. Here's where he incriminates you, correct?"
"Yes. He tells them that I helped plan my own client's murder by revealing to Judge Pennington where he is living now. Of course I would do that, I mean what lawyer doesn't want his client dead?"
"Ridiculous."
"You know, the judge wasn't stupid. He knew his mail was being intercepted and read. That's always done on people on federal bail."
"But why does he want you involved? You were doing your best to save his ass?"
"That's just it. It's always been about the fact I at one time defended Lamb. The judge has never forgotten that or forgiven me. He's out of control, Danny. That's all it is. The murder of his wife has driven him mad. Who wouldn't it make crazy?"
"All right." She pulls out two more files. "Statements. Father and son."
"Summarize and report."
"Check. Then we have FBI activity reports."
"Same thing."
"Check again."
"Now. What's happening with my civil case against MexTel for injuring me?"
She smiles. "See the Litigation File on the server. It's captioned
Gresham v. MexTel
. There's a forty-four count complaint."
"Federal court?"
"Right here. Chicago."
"Is it ready to file?"
"Just read and review and I'll get it filed and served."
"Do they have a registered agent in the U.S. for service?"
"Yes. One of the corporations will accept service."
"Fine. I'll review that next, print and sign, and let's file it yet today."
"Done."
"Now let me talk to you about affirmative defenses. We are going to defend this under the statute that says any prosecution for witness tampering can be justified by a defendant having the sole intention to encourage, induce, or cause the Ramons to testify truthfully."
"So you're going to admit the phone call, of course. But you're going to say it was done because you were afraid they were going to lie."
"Yes, that the FBI had induced them to lie."
"Wow. I like it."
"Take a look at the federal rules. See if we're required to disclose it as an affirmative defense in any pleading."
"I think we are. But let me double-check."
"Before digging into the file from Quinones, I would also like you to prepare and file with the civil complaint a request for documents directed to MexTel."
"What do you want me to request."
"I'll give you a paragraph in an email. Basically, I'm looking for files that indicate MexTel had prior knowledge of toxic groundwater spills when it was constructing new towers and right of way. The smoking gun files."
"Sounds great, Michael. You want them to deny there are any such documents because you know you already have them."
"Yes. They'll realize that if they deny having them, we'll simply produce our own and run over to court and tell the judge they're lying, and sanctions for lying should include a judgment in our favor for ten million bucks. On the other hand, if they produce the records they know they're going to lose the litigation that Arnie was defending them on where thousands of Mexican citizens are suing them for diseases caused by toxic groundwater."
"So, either way, they lose."
"Exactly."
"Unless they just settle quietly with you."
I smile. "That will work to keep me quiet. But only to a point."
"What point is that?"
"Time will tell."
"I've never seen you smiling like this before. What's that mean, ‘time will tell?'"
"Let me answer that with a question. All right?"
"Fire away."
I gather my courage. "Do you like Jazz?"
"I love jazz."
"Would you like to go sometime to a new jazz club?"
"Would I? With you?"
"Uh-huh."
"Are you asking me on a date?"
"I'm asking you to go listen to jazz with me."
"Sounds like a date, Michael."
"It would be."
"Hey, would I have to get dressed up? I'm kind of a jeans and sweaters girl."
"It's down by the University of Chicago. No high-flyers allowed."
"What time are you picking me up?"
"Seven."
"Saturday night?"
"Saturday night."
"Jeans and sweater?"
"It's summertime, almost. No sweater required."
"I'll be waiting at seven."
I almost stagger out of the conference room, swelling up with this huge feeling of relief she didn't tell me no.
"You're a funny man, Michael Gresham," she calls after me. "You know I could sue you for sexual harassment, right?"
"Yes."
"But I won't. Not if you'll let me buy the first round."
"Bring ten bucks. Sounds like a very reasonable settlement to me."