Judicious Murder Read online

  “If you can find the person who did this, I guarantee you I won’t be representing them.” I turned abruptly and brushed by Tite into the anteroom. He followed me and paused uncertainly.

  “This way.” I marched through narrow concrete hallways to an unmarked door on the other side of the building. It opened into a room that barely accommodated three straight-backed chairs and a table. Lawyers brought witnesses here to run them through their paces before show time in court.

  “Do you feel up to this?”

  “I’m ready, lieutenant.”

  “Please sit down, Ms. Marshfield. I’m sorry about what happened to your friend.”

  “Thanks. Good call.”

  His mouth twitched at the corners. He lowered himself onto a chair with surprising grace for someone of his bulk and sat, knees angled out from each other, feet directly underneath him, hands in repose on his thighs. “You and the judge were personal friends as well as business associates?”

  Tite’s tone was relaxed, conversational.

  I ran my hand over the back of the empty chair and tried to find the right words, but not too many of them.

  “I came to town five or six years ago. Sam and I hit it off right away. He was well known in legal circles — he had won a lot of high-profile trials, and I had heard him lecture. He was one of the founding partners of his law firm, Blane, Kendall and Montgomery. Sam had more cases than he or his firm could handle, and I needed cheap space, so he let me work on some of his files, with the clients’ permission, of course. Eventually the firm gave me a sub-lease and secretarial support. I’m not an employee—I’m totally independent. My office is down the hall from the firm. Sam and I would discuss cases, we collaborated…something special happened, issues crystallized, answers fell from the sky…it was magical. Eventually we teamed up and tried cases together.”

  I paused. Tite now had the big-picture truth, and he didn’t need to know the details.

  “Where are you from?”

  “I practiced in Springfield before I came here.”

  He studied my face the way people examine a canvas in a museum, curious but detached.

  “The two of you were very successful.”

  “Some verdicts went our way. We were lucky.”

  “You and Sam just do criminal defense together?” He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a notebook and plastic pen.

  “For a few years. Then he started doing plaintiff’s personal injury work. I stuck to the criminal. He was doing both when he was appointed to the bench.”

  “Other than your legal work, how often would you see the judge?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t take offense,” he chided. “I mean did you go your separate ways after work or did you socialize?”

  I sighed. “When you try a case, the judge and jurors go home at five. That’s when the lawyers begin their second shift. Sam and I were pretty much inseparable when we were on trial.”

  “What did his wife think of that?” His tone implied he was wondering about the weather.

  “Betty would joke that the only thing we didn’t know about each other was what we wore to bed.”

  Tite nodded nonchalantly.

  “She must have trusted both of you to an unusual degree.”

  “No reason not to trust, Lieutenant. Sam and Betty are like family to me.”

  Tite’s eyes grabbed mine and didn’t let go. They were gray, no, green. Whatever. I returned his gaze, knowing I told the absolute truth. Then I started to wonder how Betty was feeling at this moment and looked away. He clicked the pen into action.

  “Let’s start with his criminal work. Think disgruntled defendants, pissed off witnesses, anyone with a motive.”

  “We run into a lot of whack-jobs in our work, Lieutenant,” I warned.

  The light-bulb thief. He broke into women’s homes or apartments at night, unscrewed all the light bulbs and departed with them, leaving the occupant untouched. The jury found him insane, and some of his victims were upset that we got him committed to a mental facility instead of getting fifty years in the slammer.

  Drug cases. The prosecutors were on a mission from God, the defendants couldn’t communicate a narrative that made sense, and witnesses often had difficulty finding the courthouse.

  “Remember Simmons and Dale?” I asked him.

  “Sure. Undercover cops on a drug sting. You and Sam convinced the jury that the cops pressured the defendants to do the deal against their will.”

  “That’s the entrapment defense — where the cops induce a person to commit a crime he wouldn’t otherwise have committed. When the jury came back with its verdict, one of the cops, I forget which one, came up to us at counsel table. He said we should have our licenses yanked.”

  “That’s a start.” Tite made a note.

  I studied him discreetly. Most cops would have rushed to the defense of a brother officer and condemned me and Sam for making them out to be liars.

  “Who discovered Sam’s body?”

  Tite’s head rose slowly from his notebook. He sat, inscrutable, then shrugged.

  “The chief bailiff discovered Judge Kendall’s body at eight thirty-five.”

  He tapped the notebook with his pen. “You said he took up civil work after a while. He ever nail someone for a big judgment?”

  “Several, but there was always insurance. He never forced a defendant into bankruptcy.”

  “But he must have humiliated people on the stand?”

  How had this guy made lieutenant? Did he have a clue? “Sometimes people do things they aren’t proud of. When those things become public in a courtroom…” I shrugged. “If they’re humiliated, it’s their own fault.”

  The lines around his mouth deepened. “So is there anyone Sam exposed and coincidentally humiliated so badly they’d want to off him?”

  The faces of rape victims, bitter prosecutors, and mistaken eyewitnesses flipped like Rolodex cards through my head.

  “I’d have to give that question some thought, lieutenant, look at some old files.” This seemed like a good time to go on the offensive. “Tite, just between us, what was the murder weapon?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Ross can be difficult.”

  “There’s a charitable word choice.”

  He reached in his pants pocket, pulled out a Tootsie Pop, unwrapped it and stuck it in his mouth. He worked it back and forth, up and down. If there was ever a picture of what a man in deep thought looks like, this was it.

  “No harm in telling ya.” He removed the sucker and held it in his left hand. “Someone tried out his three-wood on him. Very messy, very thorough.”

  A company of trapeze artists somersaulted in my gut.

  “Righty or lefty?”

  “Hard to say. The head was a mess, and the golf club’s at the state lab. The handle was wrapped in some material that doesn’t hold a print.”

  I don’t know where the next few frames of my life went, but I do know my conscious mind left the building for a while.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Marsh. That’s not a pleasant image.”

  “It hasn’t been a pleasant day.”

  “Yeah.” He examined his Tootsie Pop like it held the clue that would solve Sam’s murder, then looked up as he pounced.

  “Donna Gillespie.”

  “Who?”

  “A client of Sam’s who accused him of malpractice. Why didn’t you tell me about her?”

  “You didn’t ask. Never crossed my mind. Pick one.”

  It was his turn to flash the skeptic look.

  “You work fast, lieutenant. That case ended before I came to town— before I even knew Sam. So, it’s not like right on the tip of my tongue, you know?”

  Tite carefully rewrapped the sucker. “Tell me what you do know.”

  “O…kay.” With a major effort I smothered my irritation. “Gillespie was charged with murder of her own kid. The child was less than a year old; it died of severe head trauma
. Gillespie claimed the kid fell down the basement steps when she turned her back for a second. The state’s experts said the injuries were caused by the child being struck with a blunt object. Sam’s doctors testified that the injuries were consistent with what the mom said, so it was a battle of the experts. As I heard the story, Gillespie literally had a fit in the courtroom when the jury came back with a guilty verdict. She had to be restrained and carried out.”

  “What about her malpractice claim against Sam?”

  “She claimed ineffective assistance of counsel on appeal,” I corrected him. “The claim was dismissed as having no merit.” I settled back in my chair. “When is she due out?”

  I expected him to tell me to go scratch.

  “We’re checking with Corrections on that. How about Sam’s personal life?”

  “How about it?”

  “Was he cheating on his wife, hurting for money, acting unusual?” Tite machine-gunned through the list, deadpan.

  I burst out laughing. “No, no, and no. You gotta understand, lieutenant. Sam’s whole life was the law. He was a zealot for every client. The idea of him cheating on Betty is ridiculous. He revered her. When they were together, he was so gentle and kind you’d never think it was the same guy who nailed folks to the wall in the courtroom. They were… a special couple.”

  “I see,” he nodded. “Can you look at your old files today?”

  “Umm. That’ll be difficult. I’m on trial now and the court calls will be messed up for a few days with the funeral…”

  In the defense business, the name of the game is postponement. Witnesses may disappear; more important matters may shove yours to the end of the line.

  “I’ll be at your office at one o’clock tomorrow, Ms. Marsh.” He stood and the room shrunk around him.

  “What?” I was sure I hadn’t heard correctly.

  “Have some names for me by then.” His eyes were gray now, and hard in the fluorescent light. He slid a business card across the table and held on to it with two fingers.

  “I’m sure tomorrow will be more productive.”

  He was at the door in two strides.

  “It’s Marshfield!” I crumpled up the card and threw it at him. It bounced harmlessly off his back.

  He turned and stared at the wadded up card on the floor. I waited with interest for his reaction. Without raising his head he looked at me like a middle school teacher might regard a student he just caught throwing a spitball. He held up his right index finger, mouthed the word “one,” and then pointed it directly at me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Judge Denault told us the Perry case had to go to the jury Wednesday no matter how late we had to work. Sam’s funeral would paralyze the courthouse for a few days, and Denault didn’t want the jurors to come back to deliberate after a long break when the facts might not be fresh in their minds. When we reconvened, Roger had the cop back on the stand, but he couldn’t show that my client knew the drugs were in his car. He rested his case. I called only one witness for the defense.

  “Mrs. Witherspoon, you live on a one-way street?”

  “Yes, I do. River Street is one-way southbound.”

  “In the early morning hours of last November 17, approximately 12:30 a.m., can you tell us where you were?”

  “I was in my living room waiting for my daughter to come home.”

  “Where were you in your living room?”

  “I was sitting by the window, looking for her. She’s seventeen and she had a midnight curfew. I was getting worried.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual?”

  “I shore did. That neighborhood ain’t the greatest; you gotta be careful all the time. Well, two cars come a flyin’ up my street, both goin’ the wrong way, real fast. Looked like the one was chasin’ the other. I ran out on the porch, and real soon a police car comes along, lights a flashin’ like the Fourth of July and one of the speeders stopped right away, I think it was the first one. I dunno where the other car went.”

  My investigator had discovered Mrs. Witherspoon when we canvassed the vicinity of my client’s arrest. If my client Perry testified, the prosecutor could inform the jury of his two previous convictions for possession of a controlled substance. Those twelve good citizens, no matter how well intentioned, assign enormous weight to previous convictions, and I might as well plead Perry guilty. If I didn’t put him on the stand, they’d never know about his old run-ins with the law. McBroom, his girlfriend that evening, may have been able to explain the white powder and the prescription bottle, but she had disappeared from drug treatment and, unfortunately, from town.

  Roger couldn’t score any points on Witherspoon. The woman was as sure of what she saw that evening as she was of her own eye color, and she had no ax to grind either way. The perfect witness.

  In my final argument, I hammered home the lack of any direct evidence that my client knew about the drugs. That, coupled with the independent verification of the car chasing Perry to explain his speeding, led to a “not guilty” in less than an hour.

  My client wanted to hug me. I clutched my briefcase to my chest in self-defense and asked that he refer his friends, only the innocent ones.

  Nothing matches the rush of beating the state; it even blocked out this morning’s tragedy for a brief interlude.

  I floated to the three-story office building kitty-corner from the courthouse that I call home during the workday. It was built in the middle of the last century. A recent remodel by a new owner resulted in attractive carpet, new paint and a serious rent increase. Sam’s former law firm occupies the entire second floor. My suite is down the hall, tucked away from their imposing entrance. Our agreement lets me access their very competent staff and brainstorm with their twelve crackerjack lawyers. My clients check in at the firm’s reception area and wait till I come for them. I’m totally independent, I don’t stress over law firm politics, and I pay my rent on time.

  As I jogged up the steps to the second floor, I reflected on the parts of my history with Sam that I hadn’t shared with Tite. When I came home the summer after my first year in college, my brother Ryan, four years older than I, was arrested for rape. At the time he was one year away from completing a five-year engineering program and was on the Dean’s List. He insisted he was innocent, but the case went to trial, he lost, and was sentenced to sixteen years in the penitentiary. My mom got a different lawyer, Sam Kendall, to take over Ryan’s case on appeal, which at this juncture was a half-step above hopeless. Sam discovered a witness had lied about a key piece of evidence, the prosecutor knew about the lie and had encouraged the witness to testify falsely. By the time Sam got the conviction overturned, I was in law school. More importantly, my brother had been forced to join a gang in prison and, when released after serving three years of his sentence, chose the gang over the family. The engineering program welcomed him back but he refused to return. Ryan lives in Chicago now. He calls once in a while but he never tells me what he’s doing, and I’ve learned not to ask.

  I had met Sam a few times when he represented my brother. After I began practicing, we ran into each other at conferences, and though I contained my gratitude, I’m sure I overwhelmed him with admiration. He had saved my brother’s life. What Ryan chose to do with that life was his issue, but Sam…he’s my hero. Was my hero.

  I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and rummaged around for the photo I knew was there. I had taken the picture a few days after Ryan’s release from the pen. He and Sam were standing on the Michigan Avenue Bridge that spans the Chicago River, arms around each other’s shoulders. Sam’s energy was palpable, but Ryan appeared a little uncertain. At that point, no one knew the damage the prison experience had inflicted.

  I turned on the computer, clicked on the client index and scrolled through the alphabetized list of gang-bangers, druggies, burglars and child molesters, Joliet’s finest citizenry. I racked my brain as the names streamed by, hoping the murderer’s face would pop up like a target in a shooting gallery
.

  By “L,” I doubted the card was in the deck. I had practiced with Sam five or six years; he had co-counseled with me on maybe a third of my cases. His legal career spanned more than three decades. But I scrolled on.

  “R.” Righetti, Ellen. I paused. She was not a run-of-the-mill street defendant. Sam and I had been appointed to represent her long after she was convicted of murdering her next-door neighbor, Gordon Haskins. I struggled to remember the details of the case and went in search of my closed file. It was in the back of my tiny closet, wedged among discarded shoes and long-forgotten cleaning supplies. I wiped away a thin coat of dust and slid the elastic cord off. Pleadings, notes, and copies of cases we had used in argument were jammed into the folder in an unsightly mess. I grabbed a handful of paper and sifted through it in an attempt to jog my memory. In the middle of the stack I found the case summary and settled back to read.

  A .22 caliber bullet abruptly ended Dr. Gordon Haskins’ life one Saturday morning as he slept. His wife Brenda discovered the body and called the cops who arrived immediately. The coroner got there shortly after that and swore that Gordon had been a living, breathing specimen within the last hour.

  The cops turned the Haskins home and surroundings upside out but failed to find a murder weapon. The cars in the garage were cold, and neighbors neither saw nor heard any vehicles leave the Haskins’ house that morning. The freshly widowed Ms. Haskins told the cops the marriage was not burning as brightly as it once did, but she had no reason to snuff his candle. She had risen early, gone downstairs while the doc slept, made coffee, retrieved the paper and perused it, then brought a cup of java to her husband. Sadly, not even the caffeine could jolt him awake.

  The widow was the original suspect, but without a gun it was just a nice theory. The police decided to bird-dog her till she made a wrong move.

  Brenda didn’t make wrong moves.

  Our client, Ellen Righetti, was a recently divorced mother of two who lived next door to the Haskins. About a week after the murder, her baby-sitter, a fifteen-year-old named Cheryl Daniels, called the cops and told them she had discovered a gun in a linen closet in Ellen’s home. Her concern was that Ellen’s young children could get to it.