Rogue Lawyer

“A ghetto here is better than where they came from,” he blurts, and immediately wishes he hadn’t said it.

Wisely, and uncharacteristically, I let it pass.

We watch a group of taller boys limber up and stretch nervously at the start. I say, “There’s something else.”

“Oh, a multipart deal. What a surprise.”

“About a month ago, the cops found a couple of bodies at the landfill. Two thugs who worked for Link Scanlon. For some reason, I’m a suspect. Don’t know how serious things are, but I’d rather not deal with it.”

“I thought Link was your client.”

“He was, but let’s say that when he vanished he was less than pleased with my services. He sent the two thugs to squeeze some money out of me.”

“Who whacked them?”

“I don’t know but it wasn’t me. Seriously, you think I’d run the risk?”

“Probably.”

I snort a cheap laugh. “No way. These guys are career goons with lots of enemies. Whoever whacked them comes from a long list of folks who wanted to.”

“So, let me get this straight. First, you want the mayor to force Mancini to lighten up on your cage fighter so he can plead to a sweet deal and protect his career. Second, you want the mayor to lean on the police department to look elsewhere for whoever rubbed out Link’s boys. And, third, what was third?”

“The best part. Swanger.”

“Oh right. And in return for the mayor putting his neck on the block, you might be able to help the police find Swanger, who just might be telling the truth and who just might be able to lead them to the girl. That right, Rudd?”

“That covers it.”

“What a crock of shit.”

I watch him as he walks down the aisle in the bleachers and circles around the far end of the pool. On the other side, he walks up four rows and returns to his seat beside his wife. From far away, I stare at him for a long time, and he never casts even the slightest glance in my direction.

4.

C, for Catfish Cave. It’s a few miles east of town in a dingy suburb, a bedroom community of tract houses built sixty years ago with materials designed to last fifty years. The restaurant offers bargain buffets of fish and vegetables, all now battered and fried to hell and back but previously frozen for months, even years. For only ten bucks, the customers can graze and gorge for hours without limits. They heap their platters as if they’re starving, and wash it all down with gallons of sugary tea. For some reason alcohol is served but people do not come here for the booze. Tucked away in a dark, neglected corner is an empty bar, and it is here that I occasionally meet Nate Spurio.

The last time we met it was B for a bagel shop. The time before it was A, for an Arby’s roast beef joint in another suburb. Nate’s career hit a dead end a decade ago. He can’t be fired, and, evidently, he can’t be promoted. But if by some chance he was spotted having an off-duty drink with me, he would find himself directing traffic in front of an elementary school. He’s too honest for police work in this town.

His boss is a Captain Truitt, a decent guy who’s very close to Roy Kemp. If I want to deliver a message to Kemp, the path begins here over a couple of drinks. I lay it all on the table. Nate is surprised that I hold even the faintest hope that Jiliana Kemp is still alive. I assure him that I don’t know what to believe and believing anything Swanger says is probably a mistake. But, what is there to lose? He certainly knows something, which is a lot more than our investigators can say. The more we talk and drink, the more Nate is convinced that the police department and its union can pressure both the mayor and Max Mancini. Our former chief of police was an idiot who allowed our force to become what it is, but Roy Kemp is still held in high regard by his brothers. Saving his daughter is worth a reduced plea bargain for every defendant now sitting in jail.

I repeatedly caution Nate that finding her is against the odds. First, I’m not sure I can find Swanger, or that he’ll want to see me again. The last time we met I almost shot him. I have the prepaid cell phone but haven’t used it since our last meeting. If it doesn’t work, or if he doesn’t answer it, then we’re out of luck. And if I meet him and the police are able to follow him, what are the odds that he’ll lead them to the strip club in west-central Chicago? Pretty slim, I think.

Nate has the emotional range of a monk but he can’t hide his excitement. When we leave the bar he says he’s headed to Truitt’s house. There, they’ll talk off the record, and he expects Truitt to immediately inform Roy Kemp that a possible deal is brewing. It’s a long shot, but when it’s your daughter you’ll try anything. I urge him to hustle up; the trial starts tomorrow.

5.

Late Sunday night, Partner and I go to the city jail for the last pretrial meeting with our client. After half an hour of sniping with the jailers, I’m finally allowed to see Tadeo.

The kid frightens me. During his time in jail, he has absorbed a lot of free advice from his new pals, and he’s also convinced himself that he’s famous. Because of the video, he gets a lot of mail, almost all of it from admirers. He thinks he’s about to walk away from the trial a free man, beloved by many and ready to continue his brilliant career. I’ve tried to bring him back to reality and convince him that the people writing him letters are not necessarily the same type of people who’ll be sitting in the jury box. The letter writers are from the fringe; several have even proposed marriage. The jurors will be registered voters from our community, few of whom have any fondness for cage fighting.

As always, I pass along the latest plea offer of fifteen years for second-degree murder. He laughs with a cocky smirk, same as before. He doesn’t ask for my advice and I don’t offer it. He’s turned down fifteen years so many times it’s not worth discussing. Wisely, he has followed my advice and shaved and trimmed his hair. I’ve brought along a secondhand navy suit, with a white shirt and tie, an outfit his mother found at Goodwill. On his neck below his left ear is a tattoo of some baffling origin, and it will be partially visible above his collar. Since most of my clients have tattoos I deal with this issue all the time. It’s best to keep them away from the jurors. In Tadeo’s case, though, our jurors will be treated to his astonishing display of ink when they see the video.

Evidently, when a guy makes the decision to become a cage fighter, his first stop on the way to the gym is the tattoo parlor.

There’s a gap between us that’s been growing for some time. He thinks he’ll walk. I think he’ll go to prison. He sees my doubts of a successful outcome as not only a lack of confidence in him but also in my own ability in the courtroom. What’s really bothersome is his insistence on testifying. He truly believes he can take the stand and con the jury into believing (1) the fight was stolen from him by Sean King, and (2) he snapped, attacked, blacked out, and went temporarily insane, and (3) now feels real bad about it. After he explains everything to the jury, he wants to make a dramatic, emotional apology to the King family. Then all will be well and the jury will rush back with the proper verdict.

I have attempted to describe the rough treatment he’ll get when I turn him over to Max Mancini for a bit of cross-examination. But, as usual, he has no appreciation for what happens in the heat of a trial. Hell, I’m not always sure what’s about to happen.