Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 1) (16 page)

A
fter I leave
Quinone's office, I am in shock. I have been played. I, who have played the system all these thirty-some years: I have now been played by Judge Pennington. My hands shake and I have trouble putting one foot in front of the other as I make my way to my car. Can I even pull myself together enough to drive through this rush-hour traffic north to Evanston? Do I have any choice? I can't just sit in my car parked in some garage on Jackson. I turn the key and the radio blares. It's immediately shut off by slapping the volume knob.

I turn and roll up the ramp and pay the ticket.

I have been played; I want to tell somebody.

Then I think of Marcel. Marcel, my investigator. He will be someone I can confide in, and he will know what to do. I would typically turn to Arnie, as well. Arnie is the smartest lawyer in America. He would surely know what I should do. But Arnie is gone. And I've done nothing to help him except stay in Chicago and pray he's okay. I have let him down when he's really needed me. Worse, I have let me down.

I call Mrs. Lingscheit and tell her to stop payment on Sue Ellen's check. The fee will be returned to Pennington, and I don't have the money to cover her check. I tell Mrs. Lingscheit also to call Sue Ellen and tell her. Tell her the check's no good.

Thirty minutes later, I'm rolling north on Lake Shore Drive when my cell phone chimes. I pull it out of my pocket. Sue Ellen. That's great; this won't be fun.

"Hello?"

"Michael, what the hell!"

"Yeah. I had to stop payment."

"But why? What the hell, Michael, was this all a gag?"

"No. I was paying you with money I had just earned. Then the case fell through, and I had to return the fee."

"It must have been one helluva fee!"

"It was. A quarter million bucks. Gone."

"I'm sorry for you, but what about me?"

"I'll work something out. I really want you to have the baby. Things happen."

"You're not just saying that? This wouldn't just be a jealousy ploy by you? That's the first thing Eddie said."

"Well tell Eddie I said to go—"

"No need, Michael. When I told Eddie about the money getting stopped, he took off. He was furious and said he had to get out."

"Where would he go? Back to the swimming pool to drown himself?"

"C'mon, Michael. Don't be like that. I'm apprehensive right now. My abandonment issues are kicking in."

"Come over to my place for dinner. I won't abandon you."

"You wouldn't, would you?"

"Did I ever?"

"No, you always stood in the gap for me."

I'm coming up on a line of bicyclists in the bike lane. They are hanging half into the traffic lane, and I have to squeeze by them. In between doing that and balancing my phone, my hands are full. I hear Sue Ellen say she's got another call, that she'll call me back.

I put the phone back up to my ear, but she's gone.

Then the phone rings back just two minutes later. Her again. At that exact moment, I think I've spotted someone following me. But in a long line of northbound traffic, it's just too hard to tell. I force it out of my mind. Whatever. If MexTel or the FBI wants to know what I do on Friday nights, tell them to come ahead.

Her crying into the phone brings me back.

"Michael, it's Eddie. He's moving out."

She's sobbing in heaving gasps and exhalations.

"That's pretty childish. You can't get money, so he leaves you? Come on, what kind of relationship is that, Sue Ellen?"

She's crying quite violently right now. I'm not even sure she's still listening to me.

Then she pulls herself together long enough to say, "He's met another girl. She's a lifeguard too, and she goes to U of I where she's studying physical therapy. She wants to have a baby before she goes for the advanced degree. That's what he said. She wants her family spaced out correctly, she told him. She asked him if he'd be her sperm donor! What the hell, Michael!"

"Sue Ellen, you knew he was younger when you got together. Surely it occurred to you that he might want a family one day."

"I didn't think he'd throw me over to get one! He said I was the perfect sexual match for him. He said—"

"Whoa, you know, I don't want to hear this stuff right now. I'm hungry, and I'm angry, and I'm lonely, and I'm tired. That spells HALT. I'm going to halt and get something to eat and drive slowly the rest of the way and try to forget all about today. It's going to be a quiet Friday night for me. Bill Maher is on at nine then I think I'm going to bed early and start over again tomorrow. Your sex thing with Eddie is really TMI right now. You guys work that out."

"That's it? Us guys should work it out? Is there any room in there for me, Michael?"

I'm coming up on a red light that's backed up for a good two blocks. I might as well keep talking.

"Any room in where for you?"

"In your Friday night."

"What? Do you want to come over, is that it?"

"I might. It sounds cozy and sane. These younger men are very unstable sometimes."

"Sue Ellen, for years you complained because I was too stable. You called me boring. You want excitement, remember? Well, you've got excitement now. Maybe not the kind you wanted, but it's exciting, waiting to see whether your lover is coming or going."

"Damn you, Michael! I'm coming over, and you can just feed me too. I happen to like Bill Maher, too. Or have you forgotten?"

My head slumps. My chin is on my chest, and I'm moving from side to side in the seat like someone held in restraints against their will.

"No, I haven't forgotten," I finally say in a whisper. "Come on over if you want. I'll stop and pick up some Mexican food. Do you still like the
chile rellenos
?"

"Yes. And a beef taco.
Carne asada
."

Her choices seem pretty particular to me. And the crazy is gone from her voice. In fact, she sounds pretty sane right now. Did I just get set up?

"I'll get you all of that, and I have some of your wine coolers from last summer. But I'm going to bed at ten o'clock. So plan on getting home and dealing with Eddie yet tonight."

"Of course. Eddie and I just have some things we need to work on. I'm sure it will be all right."

I hold the phone away and stare at it. This is an entirely different person, suddenly, talking to me. She's level and low-key. What the hell?

"Sue Ellen, why did you call me?"

"I called you because you stopped payment on my check."

"Truth time. Did you already know you wanted to come over tonight?"

"Well, I did sort of push Eddie out the door. Just a tiny bit. Forgive me! He started talking about the baby thing, and I'm thinking mani and pedi and hair color—for me, not for some infant. Besides, I don't want stretch marks. I couldn't stand to look at stretch marks."

"Okay, see you there in about an hour, I'd guess."

Without another word, she has hung up.

The line surges ahead, and I make it across the main light between Chicago and Evanston with only two changes. That's a new record for this time of day.

Some days the low hanging fruit is all picked and missing. On those days, you settle for a fast traffic light and call it your big win. Then I remember Maddie. We're going to the jazz club tomorrow night. Sue Ellen will definitely not be spending the weekend with me; I don't care how many sperm-stalking lifeguards come on to Eddie.

Now I can laugh. What's the worst that can happen? Easy. I go to prison for something I didn't do, and Sue Ellen is the only one who'll come on visiting days for the next twenty years and each time it's about Eddie. Now that's cruel and unusual punishment in violation of the Eighth Amendment.

I'm glad I haven't lost my sense of humor. I'm going to need it.

S
aturday morning
I'm up early. It's still half-dark outside, and I pat the bed beside me. Yes, I'm alone. I sent Sue Ellen home just after the news at ten. It was a mutually agreed parting: time for her to go face Eddie if, in fact, Eddie had come home. She didn't call and try to involve me in her soap opera again so I can only assume they're working things out.

I pull on my cycling pants and a gray sweatshirt, white running shoes and a cap that says FBI above the bill and make a quick cup of Keurig's, which I pour into my bike's plastic bottle. It is a moment of perfection when I back my bike out of the garage, lower the door, and ride off down the street. I head to the lakefront where I can follow Lake Michigan for several miles and pretty much avoid automobile traffic. Plus, it's early, and the soccer moms aren't doing their carpools yet.

As I ride along, I notice my white fingers extending out the half-gloves. I like those white fingers, I'm thinking, and I like the rest of the package. I don't want to see it have to go through a criminal trial, but I don't know how to escape it, either. My head is clear after all the chaos of yesterday, and I'm in a pretty positive frame of mind as I recall my conversation with Valentine and how she said, "Let's see if we can make this go away." I liked that, and I liked her relaxed manner. A no-drama kind of lawyer. At least in her own office. In court, she's known for being a head-knocker, a hard-hitting, knowledgeable litigator with little use for prosecutors with thin cases. Which is how I hope she thinks of mine: thin.

At Irving and Cross, I turn right and head into a small alcove where I can park my bike and walk ten yards and be at the edge of the water. For several minutes I throw rocks across the lapping waters, skimming two and sometimes three times. One was even a four.

All right, I'll admit it. Despite my calm exterior and Saturday morning ritual, I'm hopelessly lost.

For the first time, I'm beginning to understand my own clients. Their irrational fear has become my own: irrational in the sense they oftentimes refuse to allow me to take over and carry them when they're unable to carry themselves. Maybe I need just to sit back and let Valentine take it from here.

Ten minutes later I'm on my way back home.

It's time to call Marcel.

Time to turn my attention outward.

M
arcel will be
at my house at noon. He has some video to show me from the hotel room of the MexTel CEO. Evidently the deposition continued until yesterday, and evidently it's going to continue even until Monday. Marcel told me the CEO is now being represented by Sam Shaw himself since Arnie disappeared.

Marcel pulls into my driveway in a shiny Ram pickup, black. It has lights on the roof and dark tinted windows. They look illegal to me, but what do I know?

"Come on in," I say, and we do a fist bump.

"Hey, brother, I heard the news from Evie—Mrs. Lingscheit. What the hell, man?"

"I know. I'm still in shock."

We go into my office and take a seat on either side of my conference table.

"Well, how can I help with your case?" Marcel asks. "Do I need to go to Mexico and take down the Tijuana cartel?"

"That might help. But no, I've hired Valentine Quinones to defend me."

"She's the best, boss—after you, I mean." He smiles and drums his fingers on the table.

"So what do you have for me?"

He pulls a Macbook from his scarred leather satchel, a survivor of the wars Marcel and I have fought together.

"Got this," he says and opens the laptop. It fires right up, revealing a downshot of a typical hotel dining table. "Carbon monoxide warning device. They never even look up."

"Is it still there?"

"You bet. Still there and still taking names and kicking ass. It's motion-activated, and the battery lasts a long time. It'll still be recording on Monday when they head back to the depo. I've got some places marked on here. Let me fast forward to the first one. Yes, here we are. The guy at the top of the screen is the MexTel CEO, Juan Carlos Munoz Perez. He's wearing the dark glasses and chewing on the cigar. Next to him, your right as you're looking at the screen is the MexTel chief legal counsel—"

"Roberto Aguilar. I remember that pushy so-and-so from my office."

"The other two guys, I don't get their names. Someone calls one of them Hermano or something like that. The other one might be Jakarta. It's fuzzy."

"‘Hermano' is 'brother'. Maybe he's someone's brother? Or just a common term or reference?"

"Don't know, boss. Now listen to what Perez is saying here. It's in Mexican but Maddie helped me translate, and I did the captions you'll be able to follow."

"Maddie did this? Since last night?"

Marcel smiles. "She loves you, Boss. That girl would do anything to help you."

Yes, and I'm going to go hear jazz with her tonight. Maybe what he says is true.

The video rolls and I watch the captions:

"So this snake, you say he's outside Cozumel?"

"We think so. We can geo-locate his phone off our cell towers."

"Can you put eyes on him?"

"Not yet. He's very sly about getting located. He makes a call one place and an hour later he makes a call twenty miles away."

"So he's driving to avoid being chased down. That shouldn't stop your men from finding him and taking him out."

"I've passed along what you said. If he is found, it is the end of him."

"Good. Now, what about his brother, Michael Gresham? Can we put pressure on him?"

The man lights his cigar and looks from man to man while they hesitate. Then Aguilar picks it up.

"He is under surveillance from the U.S. already. It must be about that judge he's defending."

"You didn't answer my question, friend. Can we put enough pressure on him to bring Arnold Gresham back to us?"

"We could kidnap him and call his brother and let them talk. Maybe that would flush the rabbit."

"Kidnap Michael Gresham? How does that work, with the feds watching him every minute? Do you really think they're going to let us take him right out from under their nose?"

Perez reaches over and slaps Aguilar on the back of the head, emphasizing his point and his employee's wrong thinking. "
Stupido
!" he cries.

Aguilar pulls away. "Boss, boss. No need for that. We're on the same team here. What do you want us to do?"

"First, I want you to find this Arnold Gresham and shut him up. Second, I want my file back. Last, I want another law firm in this case. Sam Shaw knows there's a missing file, and he's already making noise like we're violating rules by not turning something over. I don't like this man. Don't trust him one inch."

Marcel interrupts at that moment and fast forwards ahead to his next location.

"Here's the best part. They're talking about you, Michael."

"Our legal department called me this afternoon late." It is Aguilar talking, the chief counsel to MexTel. "They tell me that a new criminal charge was filed today in the judge's case. It is against Michael Gresham himself."

"What?" CEO Perez asks, incredulous. "Gresham, you say?"

"Indeed. He tried to get Ramon in Tijuana to change his testimony in the judge's case."

"We can—we can make that case go away, no? What if we offer to Gresham to flush that case down the toilet? Will that gain his cooperation?"

Aguilar folds his hands and begins tapping the table. "Maybe. It might be just the thing if we get our friends to tell the FBI they won't cooperate."

"How do they do that? I'm sure the FBI has other plans for them if they don't cooperate."

"We have their entire business on our servers."

"The scrambled phone lines."

"Yes, we have recorded all conversations with Ramon for twenty months now. We know everything."

"But he will kill us all if we threaten."

"Yes, but—"

Marcel says, "Then the room service arrives, and they don't talk about any of this again. Perez spends the rest of the time until dinner on the phone to Mexico. Running MexTel from his hotel room in downtown Chicago."

"All right. So what do we know? One, we know they will kill Arnie on sight."

"Afraid so, Boss."

"Two, we know they would grab me if the FBI wasn't already surveilling me around-the-clock."

"And that could stop any minute. Now that you're indicted they might just back off."

"You're right. Which makes me an attractive target for MexTel."

"I should put a couple of guys on you. Get our first string on this."

"Yes, that would be a good idea. Have them keep a high profile, so MexTel thinks twice about grabbing me."

"You should hang around home this weekend, Boss. You're easier to guard that way."

"Will do. Except tonight when I go out with Maddie for dinner and drinks. Some jazz club."

"I don't like that. Can you change those plans?"

I push away from the table and look out the large bank of windows that open onto my manicured backyard.

"No, I won't change those plans. I'm not willing to become a prisoner because of something my brother did. I've been his prisoner too many times to do it again. I'm going out tonight with Maddie. We'll be in her car. Tell your guys to stay close."

"Will do. I would prefer you home, but if you're going where the Mexicans can't set up first, I think you'll be okay."

"You think?"

He spreads his hands. "Hey, if I had my druthers, you'd be staying in tonight and tomorrow night until the Mexicans leave town. I've told you how I want it played."

"Fair enough, Marce. Fair enough."

"You want to go to the range and put some more rounds through that Glock?"

"I don't think so. I think this afternoon I'll catch up with some cases that need motions and filings. Get that done while I can."

"All right. Tell you what. I'll go in the living room, make some calls, and hang out here until my guys show. Does that work for you?"

"Yes. Thanks, Marcel."

He reaches over and squeezes my shoulder.

"Think nothing of it, Boss. We're going to just hang in there and make this all go away."

Make it all go away. The second time in two days I've heard that.

It is hard, giving up control. But I'm going to do that now.

What choice do I have?