I fixed my glare on him. Okay, asshole. Here’s something new: “Kathy Rubinkowski was working on a lawsuit filed by LabelTek Industries against one of your clients, Global Harvest International. We were wondering if Kathy had ever expressed concern with you over anything related to that case.”
McCabe studied me for a long time. Then he said, “I thought you were conceding that your client shot Kathy. I thought this was only about insanity.”
“We’re exploring options,” I said.
“I see.” He drummed his fingers on the countertop of the conference room table. “Well, the answer is even if she did express concerns to me, I wouldn’t tell you.”
That’s the same answer I would have given. Probably the only one he
could
give.
“I see that the case settled,” I said. “Not six months into it, before depositions, just after the New Year in January.”
McCabe opened his hands. “Is there a question?”
“The question is why,” I said.
“You couldn’t possibly expect me to tell you why my client chose to settle a lawsuit.”
“If the case settled for thirty cents on the dollar, no. Or fifty cents. Or even eighty cents. But a hundred and thirty cents? Plus attorneys’ fees? Global Harvest gave LabelTek everything they asked for and much more.”
McCabe drilled a stare directly through me. He was the lead counsel on the case. At best, I was telling him he got his ass kicked. But we both knew I was suggesting something else—that he laid down, that his opponent was sniffing a little too close to something sensitive, and they paid a king’s ransom to make them go away.
“Since you seem to know so much about that case,” he said, “and because it’s a matter of public record, I don’t mind reminding you that LabelTek only
estimated
damages at three million dollars. In fact, it turned out that their information showed that number to be much higher.”
“C’mon, Counsel. Neither of us is stupid.”
McCabe chose to channel his anger into a forced smile. I do that sometimes, too. “Is there anything else, Mr. Kolarich?”
“Did you like Kathy Rubinkowski?”
“Of course I did. Everyone did. We were devastated by the news.”
“Then I would think you’d want to bring her killer to justice.”
“Of course I do. But I’m not going to abrogate the attorney-client privilege so you can go on a wild-goose chase.”
I nodded and thought for a moment. McCabe began to push himself out of his chair.
“You know anything about Summerset Farms?” I asked.
He settled back in his chair and looked out the window. “Summerset…”
“The company that was served with the subpoena just before you settled the lawsuit, Bruce. It was also the subject of a separate subpoena issued the same day to the state agriculture department. You haven’t heard of Summerset?”
“I… don’t recall anything about… about a Summerset Farms.”
“That’s odd,” I replied. “Because you’re their lawyer.”
It’s hard to keep a poker face when you’re busted that badly. McCabe wasn’t very good at it. He could have played it off any number of ways. He could have said yes, of course he was Summerset’s lawyer, he meant only that he couldn’t remember the subpoena.
Bradley John had made that connection yesterday. Summerset Farms was incorporated in this state, and every corporation has to designate someone as its agent for service of process and other matters. They named Bruce McCabe. That was strange, actually. Normally, you’d name one of the corporate officers or some employee. Summerset had named its outside counsel. It was another question I would try to answer, starting today.
“This meeting is over, Counsel.” McCabe got to his feet.
“Good enough,” I said. “I understand your position. You don’t hold the privilege. So I’ll have to go to the person who does.”
He blinked twice. “What’s that?”
“I’ll have to subpoena Randall Manning. The big guy at Global Harvest. The one who signed the settlement agreement.”
McCabe paused. “Just because he signed the settlement agreement doesn’t mean he has knowledge of the settlement.”
“Then he can tell me that. After I subpoena him.”
“I’ll quash that subpoena.”
“You mean you’ll
try
to quash it. You’ll fail. You ever met Judge Nash?”
McCabe grew tense. He was considering his options. I was learning more and more as I went along here. “I could speak to him about a limited waiver,” he suggested. “Maybe he’ll let me discuss this in more detail.”
I made a show of weighing that option. “Nah, my curiosity is piqued. I’m going with the subpoena.” I got to my feet. “Thanks for your time. I’ll copy you on the correspondence.”
“Wait,” he said.
I stopped at the door.
“What if I were to arrange something? You and Mr. Manning and I could have an informal discussion. There’s no need for a subpoena.”
“That’s the spirit, Bruce.” I tapped the door. “First thing next week, or I issue that subpoena.”
Randall Manning stood in the office of his lawyer, Bruce McCabe. Being one of the name partners at Dembrow, Lane, and McCabe meant a corner office with enough room for a conference table as well, with impressive views to the west suburbs and south of the industrial flats.
But the shades were drawn out of an abundance of caution, notwithstanding that they were thirty-two stories aboveground. Stanley Keane was smoothing out the map on the conference table. Bruce McCabe was waiting to present his information.
Manning watched each of them. His eyes wandered to Bruce’s impressive walnut desk. Like Manning himself, Bruce McCabe lined his desk with photographs of his family, in particular his oldest son, James.
Invariably, Manning’s attention turned to his only son, Quinn. Manning had always known that his son was smarter than he. He remembered the summers when Quinn would intern at the company that he was destined to take over one day, the fresh perspective he brought even as a high school kid, the insightful comments. It had been Quinn’s idea, not so long ago, to expand aggressively overseas. He’d done an entire workup without solicitation, projections and figures and strategies. “It says
Global
Harvest on the door, right, Dad?” he’d said. “And what does ‘International’ mean to you?”
And Randall Manning had made the biggest mistake of his life. He’d agreed to let Quinn explore the opportunities.
“Okay, here we go,” said Stanley Keane.
Bruce McCabe had a yellow highlighter, which he poised over the map of the city’s commercial district and near-north side. He drew on the map as he spoke. “The procession starts at noon on South Walter Drive next to the Hartz Building,” he said. “It will move north up Walter and wind around with the river. It will cross the Lerner Street Bridge. And once over the river, it’s only three blocks to the federal building.”
Manning nodded. That’s where the procession would end, at the north end of the federal building, known derisively as the “brown building” for its drab color and unexceptional architecture. It was home to the federal courts, the U. S. attorney’s office, and more than thirty agencies of the federal government. It was in the federal plaza that, immediately following the march, a brief outdoor commemoration would take place.
“Last year,” said Stanley Keane, “it took thirty-eight minutes to reach the federal plaza for the commemoration.”
“And the commemoration lasted how long?”
“Thirty-six minutes.”
“So one
P.M.
would be a safe target time.” Manning looked at Stanley.
“Yes, sir. That’s the plan.”
Manning nodded. “What about security?”
“Security.” Stanley Keane groaned. “You know how it is these days, Randy. They keep that stuff pretty close to the vest. All we can say is what happened last year.”
“Refresh me,” said Manning, though he didn’t require a refresher. He knew every aspect of the security from last year’s event. He just wanted to gauge Stanley Keane’s preparation.
Stanley used a pencil and marked up the map. “It was primarily a perimeter formation,” he said. “City police on foot, about six for every city block, lining the curb on each side. Vehicle blocks on each end, but only sporadically blocking the cross streets. Mostly the east-west streets were simply barricaded with traffic horses. It’s kind of a scaled-down version of what they’d do in a full-blown parade. I mean, it’s the middle of winter and all. Most people don’t care all that much about Pearl Harbor Day.”
They will now,
thought Manning. He asked, “And what about the state police?”
Stanley shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I’d imagine they’d stay very
close to the governor as he walks at the head of the pack. But I don’t know. The governor didn’t participate last year.”
But he would this year. Governor Trotter, plus one of the state’s U. S. senators and the city’s mayor, would be walking in the front row of the procession. They would be joined by a former brigadier general who lived in the city and who served in World War II. He was, in fact, serving in Pearl Harbor on the day it was attacked.
Manning looked out the window, through the drawn translucent shade, colored by the rays of the afternoon sun. He thought about what was going to happen nineteen days from now.
What had President Roosevelt said about December 7, 1941?
A date which will live in infamy
.
And what would be said about December 7 of this year? A different time, a different event, but no doubt similar proclamations, teeth-gnashing denunciations, self-righteous indignation.
But one day, Manning was sure, history would thank him.
“All right. Bruce, your turn,” said Manning. “Tell me about this visit you had this morning. Tell me about Jason Kolarich.”
“The trial begins on December first,” I said to Joel Lightner. “That’s eleven days from now. Anyone mention that to you yet?”
“Did anyone mention to
you
that the FBI has tried to come up with the identity of Gin Rummy for the last
three years
and drawn a blank?”
We were walking down Gehringer Street. It was Saturday, early evening, and the Franzen Park neighborhood was alive. The taverns and restaurants we passed were full. The sidewalks were crowded with people. Everyone was having a good time. Everyone but me.
To everyone else, Saturday meant the weekend, time with family, drinking and socializing and relaxing. To me, it meant people were harder to find, government offices and professional workplaces were closed. And after the weekend, it would be a short week for Thanksgiving. People would be halfway out the door by noon on Wednesday. And then forget it, there’s no chance of finding anybody until the following Monday.
And the Monday after Thanksgiving was November 29—two days before we started selecting a jury.
Joel Lightner had spent the last week trying to nail down the Gin Rummy question. He’d tapped all his connections at the local, state, and federal levels and come up empty.
“Just the last three years?” Tori asked. Yes, I’d brought her along. She’d visited the other crime scene with us, why not this one, too? Besides, she’d shown a real interest in this case and her non-lawyer, lay perspective had proven helpful on more than one occasion thus far.
Clearly, then, I had several reasons for bringing her along. It wasn’t like I was trying to impress her or win her over. Good. Glad that was settled.
“The name Gin Rummy first came over a wiretap about four years ago,” said Joel. “Second-rate sources. Not Paulie Capparelli or anybody at the top. So the FBI, they jot the name down, but they don’t think much of it. Right? I mean, these guys, they all have about five nicknames, anyway.”
“Okay,” said Tori, though she probably had no idea.
“But then there’s a prison tap. Rico Capparelli, the top guy, who’s inside for life now, he mentions the name. So now the FBI is paying attention. As best they can tell, Gin Rummy has about ten hits to his name over the last couple of years. Remember Anthony Moretti?”
I did, in passing, at least. The Moretti family, which had connections out east in New Jersey, was the principal rival of the Capparellis. About a year ago, Anthony Moretti, the capo, was shot in his bed. Two bodyguards in the apartment were found dead, too.
“That was Gin Rummy?” I asked.
“That’s what everyone thinks.”
Tori looked at me. “So you’re messing with a pretty big guy.”
“I like to keep things interesting. But I have to
find
this guy first.”
We crossed Mulligan at the crosswalk and passed a shoe store that Talia used to love.
“I love this store,” Tori said. It stood to reason, fashionista that she was. I can’t believe the word “fashionista” was even in my vocabulary. The boys back home would be ashamed. Maybe I was getting soft.
We got halfway down the block on the west side of the street and stopped. Lightner fished out copies of the photographs from a manila envelope.
“Here,” he said, pointing to a tree that had been planted in the middle of the sidewalk. I didn’t understand why the city bothered. Regardless, this time of year, the branches were naked, leaving it looking more like a gigantic, ugly weed.
“The shell casing was found in the dirt at the base of the tree,” said Joel. He took a couple of steps to his left, which put him almost up against a tall privacy fence that served an apartment building. Behind that
five-foot privacy fence was a condo building where a witness, Sheldon Pierson, was prepared to testify that he was outside, untangling Christmas decorations, during the interval of time in which the medical examiner estimated the murder occurred, but unfortunately he didn’t hear a thing or obviously see anything.
On the opposite side of the street were walk-up three-flats and some single-families. Some were renovated in the last decade and some looked like they’d barely survived an aerial bombing. A neighborhood in progress, halted by the economic downturn.
Joel extended his right arm and made a gun with his hand. “So he shot her from here. The casing probably landed straight in the dirt.”
Using one of the evidence photos as a guide, I walked over to the curb and found the spot where Kathy Rubinkowski had fallen dead. There was a diagonal crack in the curb that I could use as a reference point from the photographs. Plus I pretty much knew it, anyway, as this wasn’t my first trip to the crime scene. It’s absolutely vital that you visit the crime scene. It’s almost as important that you visit it a second time, and a third. You have to see things up close. You have to play out the scene. Otherwise, you could miss something that could make or break the case.