Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 1) (9 page)

M
aking
my way across the crosswalk—Marcel has dropped me on the opposite side of the street from my building—I receive a call from the Cook County Jail. James Lamb needs to speak with me immediately. There has been a stabbing. That's all the caller can or will tell me. From the lobby of my building, I take the elevator down to the parking garage and jump into my SUV. I head for California Avenue.

Instead of the infirmary, this time, I head straight for the lockup. They review my ID and usher me right through. The detective squad, I am told, is in Conference Room 111, alone with my client.

Just as I feared, it is two Chicago Police Department detectives. One is Anglo, and one is Asian-American. One is holding a notepad, and one is holding a smartphone. They have Lamb between them at the table, firing questions at him. Lamb is handcuffed to the table through a metal eyelet, and his head is hanging forward. When I walk into the room, he barely raises his eyes and doesn't speak to me.

I sit down at the table and wave at the detectives to back off.

"You realize this is my client, and I have previously told his jailers that he is exercising his right to remain silent?" I remind them.

The white guy smiles and moves closer.

"Not so fast. We're not talking to your man about the Pennington murders. We're here on a new beef."

"What might that be?"

"Your client stabbed an inmate to death."

"Really? Did you witness this?"

"No, of course not."

"Did anyone in the jail tell you they witnessed it?"

"No, it happened in the cafeteria. There were thirty guys at the table, and no one saw it. But according to a guard who was across the room, the victim was sitting across from Lamb, and he suddenly keels over. Your guy stands up and says, ‘Piece of shit!' or some such. So he gets pulled in here, and they call us because we're the CPD investigators on Pennington. Hope he has the money you need because he's looking at his second murder indictment."

"All right, have you taken any statements from Mr. Lamb?"

The Asian-American laughs, a big horsey laugh. "He ain't talking, Gresham. You've got this guy sealed off better'n a cheap bottle of wine."

"No statements?"

"None."

Lamb shakes his head No.

"Then we're done here. You two guys are excused; please leave me alone with my client now."

The two cops look at each other.

Then the Anglo leans down and yells into Lamb's left ear, "We'll be back with papers for you, shithead! Don't run off!"

I stand and rap on the door. A pause, then it opens, and the jailer sticks her head in.

"We all done here?"

"They are. I'm not."

"How long for you?"

"Ten."

The two detectives slowly move out of the room. There are whispers between them, and one laughs a nasty, low laugh. Then the door closes, and I am alone with James Lamb.

"All right, buddy," I begin. "Let's have it."

"It was the guy who put me in the infirmary."

"How bad is he?"

"They said he was dead. I stuck a fork in his throat."

"Who witnessed this?"

"Everyone."

"Everyone? Who's everyone?"

"Everyone at the table. They were pissed because I hit an artery. There was fuckin blood everywhere, man."

"But no one saw you do this other than the inmates?"

"Right."

"That explains why you haven't been hauled off to jail."

"Hey, fuckhead, I am in jail."

"I'm talking segregation. You still may be. And watch your mouth, James. People call me those kinds of names often find themselves alone at the next court session."

He eyes me bitterly. He bites his lower lip and drops his head. This is definitely a new, more aggressive and intelligent James Lamb than I knew existed.

"Can you get me uncuffed?"

"No. You're officially in custody on the murder case."

"So what can you do for me?"

"What can I do for you? I can cash your check for fifty thousand dollars when you pay me to defend you. Up until then, you're on your own. I've only been paid for the Pennington case, and that was just twenty-five hundred. Deal of the century, so don't start in on me with this what can I do for you bullshit!"

"Jesus, lighten up, Mr. Gresham. I was only asking."

"You know, you led me to believe you had a severe mental deficiency, James. But the more I see of you, the more time I spend with you, you're starting to come across to me as just another street hoodlum."

"Hey, you got that from my parole officer. I never told you mental stuff."

"No, but when I asked you before you went along with what she said. You played dumb."

"Well, I am. Kind of. I keep getting caught, don't I?"

"So what about the Pennington case? Did you kill the wife and you're not telling me?"

"What difference would it make?"

"Probably none. Maybe lots. I don't know."

"I didn't kill anyone that didn't have it coming, ever."

"So is that a yes or a no?"

"Did they have it coming?"

"No."

"Then it's a no. No, I didn't kill the lady. I'm not that kind of punk. I sell drugs, small time. Satisfied?"

"Not really. I don't believe you anymore, James. Not since you just stabbed a guy in the throat with a fork and killed him."

"Who said he was dead? You know that for a fact?"

"The deputy who brought me here said Mr. Jarinmosa died an hour after. They couldn't save him. He lost too much blood and went into shock. Someone is looking at a murder one charge. You'd better hope your lunch crowd keeps its mouth shut."

"Relax. None of them's talking."

"You know this how?"

"That's the Crips table, dude. I'm eating with my brothers."

"So how do you kill a brother Crip and no one gets upset?"

"Shit happens. Guys die."

"Did you give the cops anything?"

"I told them to stick it up their ass."

"We'll talk in the morning. So long, James. Remember, you don't talk."

"Shit, dude."

"Right, then."

O
n my way in
, Marcel calls me. He says he's onto something that can change the Pennington trial and bring it to a screeching halt. I get down to the office, park, and hurry upstairs.

"He's in your office, Marcel," Mrs. Lingscheit says.

"Morning to you, too."

In my office, his back to the door sits Marcel, the
Sun-Times
spread on my desk before him.

"Marcel."

"Hey. You ain't gonna believe this, Boss."

I plop down in my chair. Mrs. Lingscheit enters and makes a Keurig cup. She hands it to Marcel and asks if I'd like one. I wave her off.

"Try me. Let's see if I believe or not."

Marcel holds up his iPad. He clicks the PLAY arrow, and a video takes form and rolls. I don't recognize the room, but I recognize the men. Same setting as an hour ago, different date and place. Fordyce and Burns are standing behind James Lamb, who's seated at a table in what I can only imagine is an interrogation room at the FBI installation.

"FBI office?” I say, pointing to the screen.

"Uh-huh. Just keep watching."

"Louder."

The sound comes up.

The two agents are telling Lamb they know he murdered the judge's wife. They are holding up a gun and saying it came from under his mattress. Lamb is cool, sitting back with his hands clasped behind his head, legs crossed, staring up at the ceiling and ignoring them.

Their questions start coming faster.

Lamb doesn't respond.

Their voices turn angry and they threaten him with every conceivable kind of criminal charge they can think of if he doesn't cooperate.

He still ignores them.

Then it is still for several minutes as the detectives step away from the Lamb.

Suddenly, without warning, Agent Burns drives his fist into the side of Lamb's head. The impact knocks him out of the chair onto the floor, where he rolls onto his back, holding his head. Then, in one sweeping motion, Burns produces a foot-long sap and, while Lamb is writhing on the ground, slaps him hard across the mouth with the lead embedded end of the hard leather sap. Lamb screams, a long crying scream of someone in great pain. The agents each grab an arm and jerk him back up to the table. A sheet of paper is pushed at him.

"Sign," says Fordyce, "or else I'm going to turn him loose on you again."

Without hesitation, Lamb takes the pen from Fordyce and scribbles across the paper.

"And put the date there, too."

The kid asks the date and Fordyce prompts him.

Then both cops turn to the lens of the corner camera and Burns mouths the words, "This thing on?"

The screen then goes black, and the video ends.

"Holy shit," I say. "Did you see how hard he hit that poor bastard?"

"Took four front teeth right off at the gum line. And no, I've never seen anyone sapped like that and live to tell about it."

"So it wasn't resisting arrest. Our kid really was beaten out of a confession."

"Yeppers. Trial's over, Hoss."

"Yes, this trial's over. The obvious question: where did you get this?"

"Don't know. Whoever sent it was clever. Couldn't trace it."

"So it came from some unknown friend of the court? It's got to be from the FBI."

"Our very own Deep Throat. Richard Nixon must be spinning in his grave."

"So I'll resuscitate my motion for directed verdict. Based on the fact the video confession should have been kept out, etc. The sanctions I'll be seeking will be complete dismissal with prejudice so they can't file again."

"I'd say you win on that one." He blows across his coffee cup and sips.

"Now get this. Lamb was questioned by the PD this morning. Someone got stabbed in the jail cafeteria."

Marcel groans and sits back. "You gotta be shitting me."

"Nope. Two detectives were there. Robbery-homicide dicks."

"Did he say anything?"

"No, the kid's a pro. Kept it zipped."

"Well, that's a win. Were there witnesses?"

"Dozens. All Crips."

"I
thought
that was a blue Crips rag I saw at his place."

"Remember the P.O. saying he couldn't qualify for his GED? I don't know where the hell his P.O. got that."

"I thought you said his IQ was eighty-something."

"Eighty. That's what his parole officer told me. They had him tested in prison and he was too damn dumb to get his GED. That had all the social workers crazy. I mean how do you rehabilitate someone who can't pass the GED?"

"Damned if I know. Give them their Crips rag back, I guess. Spot them a hundred to buy a stash and get to pushing product."

"Or maybe give them a badge and call them ‘detective.'"

"Don't say that too loud."

"Yes, well, I think the stash thing is more or less what's been happening. I mean we know he's dealing."

"Yeah. Small time."

"But we didn't know he was a killer until he stuck a fork in someone's carotid artery this morning."

"Guess not."

"So let's do this. Email me the video and I'll pass it along to Bob LaGuardia over at the U.S. Attorney's office. We might even have a voluntary dismissal in the next few hours."

"Roger that. On the way."

"Damn."

"I know."

"Damn."

I
file
my renewed motion to direct a verdict and Judge Amberlos responds by calling us into chambers at one o'clock sharp. Marcel accompanies me to the courthouse, and we talk about Lamb as we hit all traffic lights on green—a new record. We park in an off-street lot and walk up the sidewalk to the double doors. There's a fifteen-minute delay while we go through security. Then up to Judge Amberlos' chambers and in we go. Bob LaGuardia has beat us there because his office is inside the Dirksen Building. He looks grim and shuffles his feet when we take up the only remaining seats—one on either side of him.

"Where the hell did you get the video?" he half-whispers to me.

"From my investigator."

"Where did he get it?"

"Email. Unknown who. They didn't exactly sign off on it."

"I'd like a copy of the email he received. We'll try to trace it."

"Uh-uh. Marcel says he tried tracing back to the mailing address. The sender used an IP out of Argentina, it turns out."

"No shit? Man, someone's in big trouble with me. You've got to believe me, Michael, I had no idea this video even existed."

I've known Bob LaGuardia for a long time. I probably mentioned before that he's an honest, career prosecutor who doesn't play games. I do believe he didn't know anything about the video. He's as astonished as me at what it shows.

"I don't believe you did know about it, Bob. I'm going on the record with that."

He reaches into his manila file folder and hands me a single sheet of paper bearing his signature. I glance over it and look at him.

"You're dismissing with prejudice?"

"Hey, the judge is going to do that, so I beat him to it."

I know the politics behind the dismissal. The SA's office doesn't want to appear to be in bed with the FBI over this one. Someone over there has committed perjury, starting with Fordyce and Burns. This one has legs.

"So, what happens to the two dicks?" I ask.

"Powers greater than me are making that decision as we speak. Honestly, I have no idea. But I'm betting on criminal complaints before closing time. With a press conference featuring our U.S. Attorney himself, exonerating his office and explaining the dismissal. The video has already been leaked to the
Tribune
and
Sun-Times
. So we're ahead of the curve on it."

Our little talk is interrupted by the judge's chambers secretary, Marilyn Sweeney. She is a relaxed, calm force that rules the office with an iron-fist. "Go on in, people."

Danny and I follow LaGuardia into the judge's wood-paneled sacristry. The air smells of bourbon, and I wonder how the man is still holding his calendar together. Of course, it's Marilyn, out front, who's the enabler. She's an accomplished enabler, too, from where I'm sitting, enabling his alcoholism to flourish and continue. But the rumors are rampant the JEC is about to pull rank and either jerk his ticket or send him to rehab in Wickenburg. Wouldn't be the worst thing.

"Gentlemen, and lady," says the judge in an almost morose tone. "We're on the record in
USA v. James J. Lamb
. The court reporter is here and taking this down. The court has, within the last hour, received a
Notice of Dismissal
from the U.S. Attorney's Office. The
Notice of Dismissal
is with prejudice so the charges can never be renewed. I would ask for your comments on the record. You first, Mr. LaGuardia, it's your
Notice
."

LaGuardia settles back in is chair and picks at his sock. Then he begins.

"Judge and Counsel, I just want to put on the record that no person in the U.S. Attorney's Office was aware of this video and no one was aware of the incident it has captured and portrays. It's easy to see that the so-called confession of Mr. Lamb was coerced—no—obtained with physical violence. Even as we sit here, the person or persons guilty of this violence and perjury are being addressed in our offices by the U.S. Attorney himself. I was directed to dismiss with prejudice, and I have done that. Thank you."

The judge turns his rheumy eyes on me.

"I can only report that my client is happy to be vindicated. He has told me all along that the so-called confession was obtained from him by his being beaten, and now we can all see he was telling the truth. It remains his position, too, that the gun that was reportedly found beneath is mattress was also a lie concocted by Special Agents Fordyce and Burns. The gun bore no fingerprints and will never be connected to my client by these two liars. This afternoon, after my client is released from jail, I intend to counsel fully on the need for him to retain civil counsel to sue the FBI for this horrible prosecution, for the mental anguish it's brought to him. Thank you."

We then file into the courtroom and James Joseph Lamb is brought in wearing handcuffs, a waist chain, and ankle chains. The judge has him brought up to the lectern, and he then explains what has happened. Lamb begins smiling, turns to me and winks and nods, and I return his look without blinking. The court instructs the Cook County Sheriff to immediately release without delay Mr. Lamb and return his personal effects to him.

Then we are in recess and Lamb is returned to the jail for processing out.

My representation of him is officially at an end, and I am glad. While it makes no difference in how I work, I've never totally trusted James Lamb and especially now, with a dead man investigation ongoing, my distrust appears justified.

Marcel leads as we exit the doors of the court building, and we hasten our return to the car.

"It will be good to get back to the office and put our feet up," I tell him.

"This has been a tough one, hasn't it?"

"Very. You can feel very helpless at times doing this work. Very helpless."

"So, who sent the video?"

"I have no idea. Somebody within the FBI. But why they would do that, I really don't know. Unless."

He is starting up my SUV and backing out when he turns to me and says, "Unless what?"

"Unless someone wanted him out of jail where they could get to him."

"Oh my God, you are a suspicious man."

I look at him and give him a tight smile.

"It comes with the territory, Marcel. Trust no one."

"Not even you?"

I grimace. "No one. The bottom line is the system is run by imperfect people. Do not trust it or them, ever."

"Not even you?" he repeats. I can see his smile out of the corner of my eye.

"The jury's still out on that one. Patience, Marcel."

"Well, I think you're someone I do trust. Until proven otherwise, at least."

"Fair enough."