Judicious Murder Read online

  Amen to that.

  “Some defendants truly believe they’re innocent, in which case it’s the attorney’s fault they lost.”

  Al’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying Sam should have won her case?”

  I fingered the smooth black stone that sits on my desk. The words Never Quit were etched on it. Sam had given me the rock a few years ago in the middle of a trial I was sure I was losing.

  “He felt that way,” I answered slowly. “Personally, I don’t have a clue; it was before my time, like I said yesterday.”

  “What else did he say about Gillespie?” Tite’s eyes were vigilant, evaluating.

  I nodded to myself. I had something Tite wanted, lots of stories and tidbits about Sam he’d find helpful in his investigation. I had to play this right.

  I leaned back and tuned Tite out, trying to recall the incident clearly.

  Sam and I were in his chambers together. He pointed to the newspaper lying open on his working desk.

  “Jack Gillespie’s tying the knot.”

  “Related to Donna?” I inquired.

  “Former husband. He divorced her after the trial.” Sam’s fingers tap-danced on the desk.

  “So?” I asked.

  “Just thinking. Case still haunts me, Susan.”

  “I can see that. What about Jack Gillespie?”

  He stopped tapping. “He didn’t come across as the most enthusiastic believer in his wife’s innocence. It was his demeanor, the way he answered questions, the intangibles that give a message to the jury but don’t show up in the transcript.”

  “Maybe he did doubt her innocence,” I said.

  “Fine.” Sam’s hand crashed down on the desk. “But don’t torpedo the defense when we’re counting on you. The medical experts were so evenly divided in that case, the jury was scrutinizing every little thing.…” He shoved the newspaper to the floor in disgust.

  My mental movie ended.

  “I can help you, lieutenant, but I want this to be a two-way street. I can tell you exactly what Sam said about Gillespie. And after your… encouragement yesterday, I have some other interesting characters you may want to think about too. But I need to know what your investigation finds out. I want to be a silent partner in this.”

  Tite fished around in his pocket, produced a Tootsie Pop, unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. He placed the wrapper on my desk and carefully smoothed it out.

  “We don’t ‘partner’ with civilians, Ms. Marsh. You wanna find out who did your friend, start by telling me everything and I promise you, we’ll do our best to find the killer.”

  Maybe if I told him what Sam had done for Ryan, he’d understand the miracle that had happened in my family and see it my way. No, it was a story few people knew, and I doubted Tite should be one of them. I’d wait for the next opportunity.

  “Okay, lieutenant, we’ll do it your way.” I made no effort to hide my irritation, but recounted the conversation with Sam about Jack Gillespie.

  “Sam was bitter,” Tite commented.

  “He lost a case he thought he should’ve won,” I disagreed. “But if Gillespie did murder her kid, she’s capable of the kind of violence that killed Sam.”

  The Tootsie Pop journeyed from one side of his mouth to the other. “Interesting thought. Tell me what else you came up with.”

  “This one-way street never ends, does it?”

  I thought I saw a satisfied smirk flit across his face. I hoped I was mistaken.

  Sam had sued Roy Stevens, a local obstetrical gynecologist who failed to detect signs of fetal distress during labor. The sad result was a stillborn infant whose parents had been trying to have a baby for years. Sam got a half million-dollar verdict against Stevens and in a town the size of Joliet, that’s a career-buster. The doc’s business dried up before you could say “malpractice.”

  Mark Wheaton. A probate lawyer who had liquidated a substantial estate for his client, a ditsy woman with no talent for money other than spending it. Sam represented a niece of the deceased and became suspicious of Wheaton’s valuation of the holdings. An appraiser confirmed that the assets had been undervalued some $80,000 and the subsequent investigation revealed Wheaton was siphoning cash from the estate, hoping to make up the difference when the assets were sold. After Sam unearthed the fraud, the Attorney Disciplinary Commission jumped all over it. Wheaton lost his law license as well as a year of his liberty.

  I had played a minor role in these cases as a favor to Sam, learning just enough about the civil side of the law to realize that my heart would always be with my felony clients.

  I related the Roy Stevens and Mark Wheaton stories. When I finished, Tite tapped his note pad in a measured cadence.

  “The courthouse was invented for disputes like this. What makes these two cases so special?”

  “Lieutenant, you asked for my good faith assistance, and I’m doing my best. You’re the investigator. You figure it out. This is not a partnership.”

  Tite rotated his neck in a slow circle causing small popping noises.

  “People don’t kill each over professional licenses.” He leaned forward, crossing his arms on top of my desk. “I need solid leads, not ancient crap-o-la.” He pronounced the last word like some Italian pasta dish.

  “Maybe this case won’t be solved by talking to Susan Marshfield,” I snapped. “Maybe you’re going to have to get your butt out of my client chair and burn some shoe leather.”

  Tite leaned back and braced his hands behind his head as if we were sipping drinks at an outdoor cafe. His eyes behind half-closed lids never left my face.

  “Tell me about Sam’s last text.”

  Years of litigation had honed an ability to maintain a poker face even when cases took a disastrous turn. “You’re smooth, lieutenant.”

  “Ditto,” he replied. “What did he mean when he said he had some trouble? What did he think you could do?”

  The same question had kept me tossing and turning the previous night.

  “I wish I knew.” I sighed. “The truth is, since Sam went on the bench, we haven’t been as close as we used to be. Lawyers and judges have to keep a certain distance from each other and we…drifted apart.”

  Tite frowned, perhaps in empathy, more likely in disappointment. “Other than the text, what else haven’t you mentioned?” The dark eyes bored into mine.

  “Nothing.” If Righetti became more than just a bad feeling, I’d be sure to let him know. “And by the way, how’d you find the text?”

  “We didn’t go near your phone. We got it off Sam’s ‘sent’ texts. Simple.” He stood, towering over me. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the offense of obstructing justice, Ms. Marsh. If I can prove you’re holding something back, I’ll have a warrant the next time we meet.”

  I threw my shoulders back in anger. “Are you familiar with the crime of harassment, lieutenant? You’re just about there.” I distinctly enunciated each word of the last sentence.

  He stiffened, every muscle in his face knotted.

  “Marshland, this isn’t about who’s tougher or can make the bigger threats. It’s about catching a killer. I don’t want to fight you for information.”

  “Good, ’cause you’ll never win that battle.”

  Tite crossed his arms tightly across his chest. His gaze circled the office while the Tootsie Pop roiled back and forth.

  “And my name is Marshfield.”

  “Right.” He turned and lumbered to the door. It closed with a quiet click.

  Guess I charmed him.

  I ordered a BLT delivered to the office. It arrived with a young man who resembled my drug clients on a bad day. The sandwich was seven dollars. I gave him eight and he wandered off without acknowledgment.

  The afternoon calendar was stacked with pretrials, a moment in time when the opposing lawyers eyeball each other, cut to the chase on the real strengths and weaknesses of their case and try to resolve it, all in roughly two or three minutes. I got the same message on all ei
ght pretrials: no deals, no settlements; all my cases were going to trial. This was the state’s attorney’s office revenge play for yesterday’s Perry verdict. Two can play that game.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kevin and I met at the elevators at three-thirty, a time when most people hunkered down to finish the day’s work, and vertical travel in our three-story office building was limited. We rode down to the lobby, then transferred to the other elevator, the only one that went to the basement.

  “You have the key?”

  Kevin looked at me like he was Tiger Woods and I had asked if he could sink a six-inch putt.

  The elevator descended hesitantly, like an elderly woman going down unfamiliar steps. Finally the doors parted and we stepped out into inky blackness.

  “There’s a switch here somewhere,” Kevin mumbled as he disappeared.

  “Got it!” I heard a click and a dozen hundred-watt eyes suddenly burst out of the darkness.

  The cavern was divided into four aisles bordered by storage spaces marked by a floor-to-ceiling vinyl-coated chain link fence. I followed Kevin to the firm’s enclosure. He pulled out a large key with a tag attached and worked it into the padlock that secured the gate. A dank, musty smell came from everywhere and went nowhere. The basement was a tomb for files.

  He pulled the padlock open and we stepped inside the cage. “Every closed file is assigned a number. The first two digits are the year it’s closed, then a chronological number starting with one for the first closed file of the year. Righetti’s file was…” He fished a piece of paper from his pocket. “Fourteen sixty-seven which means…”

  “I get it. Very high-tech.”

  He grunted. “I didn’t want to ask any staff for help. I figured you’d want to keep this quiet.”

  “Good call. A certain senior partner might not be too pleased that I’m mucking around down here.” Theodore Iverson was the managing partner of the firm, and nobody called him Ted. Though he recognized the necessity of the firm’s litigation work, he regarded it as unsavory at best. His specialty was tax and estate planning, where the profits are astronomical and the clients are upper-crust.

  Rows of black metal racks were crammed full of files. Kevin squeezed down one aisle and I navigated down the next. Fortunately, the closed numbers were written in bold marker on the side of each file.

  “Seven!” I shouted.

  We turned the corner and started on the opposite side.

  “Eleven…”

  “Here’s fourteen sixty-seven! Bingo!”

  I hurried over and we wrestled three large brown accordion files from their nesting place, leaving a foot of empty shelf space.

  “Thirty pounds, easy,” Kevin estimated.

  “How do we get them out of here…

  “Without being seen?” He finished my thought.

  “They’re your files. You’re a partner. I, on the other hand, am a mere thief.”

  “Yeah, but if anyone sees me with three huge files, they’ll be more than curious.”

  “Let’s take them out one at a time. You take one, dump it in my trunk, I’ll follow a minute or two later with another one, then you come back for the last one.”

  “That’ll work, especially if we go now before anyone leaves for the day.”

  “Let’s take a quick look.”

  We knelt and riffled through the paper. The first file was devoted solely to research: copies of appellate court cases that were littered with Sam’s familiar scrawl. The other two contained interviews, police reports and areas of questioning for various witnesses. Each manila file was labeled, the papers neatly stacked inside.

  “Sam was never this neat,” I said.

  “The firm’s changed the policy on closed files,” Kevin answered. “The staff member who’s most familiar with the file closes it, and they have to make sure it’s complete and ship-shape before it comes down here. It costs secretarial time, but it’s worth it in the long run.”

  “Where would the trial transcript be?” This is the court reporter’s product, bound volumes of transcribed testimony.

  Kevin’s eyes searched the empty shelf space. “It should be stored with the file.”

  “It was huge, Kev. The original trial was a week long. I remember studying the transcript with Sam.”

  “Hmm. I’ll try to track it down.”

  “Do that.” I made a mental note. I balanced one file on my hip and inched my way back to the door of the cage where I noticed a clipboard hanging inside the fence with a sheaf of printout paper attached. I pointed at it with my free hand.

  “What’s that?

  Kevin almost crashed into me with his two files. He grunted as he lowered them to the floor and grabbed the clipboard.

  “Duplicate of the record we keep upstairs, listing the closed files alpha and chrono.” He leafed through it.

  “Where’s the list kept upstairs?” I asked.

  “The physical list is in the supply room. The up-to-date one is on the computer.”

  “Do you have to sign the files out when you look at them?”

  His forehead wrinkled. “We’re not that paranoid.”

  “Where’s the key to the padlock kept?”

  “In the drawer with the index,” he responded impatiently.

  “So…” I said, thinking aloud. “… if someone got hold of the key, they could come in at street level, catch the elevator down, find any file with the index here, and take whatever they wanted.”

  He looked at me like I was a noxious visitor from another galaxy.

  “I suppose. But who’d be interested in these things? And how would they know where we store them, and how could they get the key?”

  “That key is not secure. The supply room’s open to any employee. I’ve been in there a dozen times myself. Someone could ‘borrow’ the key, take it home for the night, duplicate it and return it the next day with no one being the wiser.”

  He frowned. “Yeah, you got a point.”

  I leaned against one of the racks and shoved my brain into the next gear. “Some of these files have sensitive information in them. Let’s say one of Iverson’s tax files shows that a business underreported its income. Iverson might not realize it, since he just gets what the client gives him. But in the wrong hands, that information could hurt someone. Or in litigation, maybe you dig up an old felony conviction on a witness or evidence that they’re lying. We dutifully write it all down and file it away.”

  “Okay, okay. Listen, I’ve got an appointment, and I can’t keep this client waiting.”

  We stepped outside the chain-link door. Kevin put his files down and bent over to lock the padlock. At that moment the elevator door started to slide open. We were right in the main aisle, as exposed as two convicts in an otherwise empty prison yard.

  “Kev, back inside!” I whispered urgently.

  He gave me an amused look but shoved the door back open and swept up the files. He pushed the gate closed and we plastered ourselves against the wall of paper.

  “Kevin, are you here?” The strident voice of Janice Curtis, Theodore Iverson’s administrative assistant and the office slave-driver was unmistakable.

  “Yeah, coming!” Kevin yelled back. Her stiletto heels punished the concrete floor as she headed our way. I grabbed a random file from the shelf, thrust it at Kevin and motioned for him to intercept her. He rushed from the enclosure to meet her. “What’s up?”

  “Mr. Iverson needs you now.”

  “Sure. Let’s go.”

  “The door?”

  The gate was at half-mast, key dangling from the lock. I was hidden six feet back inside, the Righetti files at my feet, invisible to them now but I’d be the star of the show for whichever of them closed the gate.

  “Right. Let me get that.” Kevin hurried back, shut the door and snapped the padlock. He didn’t give me a glance. “Done!”

  “Why didn’t you send Becky to fetch this?” Janine asked, irritated. “I really don’t appreciate having to track you
down.”

  “Uh, I need some special language for a trust I’m drafting. There were three or four files I had to look at—I didn’t want her to drag them all upstairs.” Kevin lied easily. “We better go. I don’t need Theodore upset with me.”

  They hurried off together. One of them dutifully turned off the lights just before they got back on the elevator. I was left in total darkness, locked in the cage.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Kevin would return as soon as he could, but it might be hours. Kelly was the only other person who knew what we were doing, but it was almost four o’clock, and the kids were home. It would be a huge imposition to ask her to come downtown, somehow procure the key and rescue me. Maybe I could find someone to call in my contact list. I tapped my phone.

  No Service. Of course: basement of an old reinforced steel and concrete building. I growled deep in my throat and settled back to wait. The storage room was drenched in darkness.

  I lowered myself gingerly to the cement floor and stretched my legs down the narrow aisle. In the thick blackness, I could discern nothing. My hearing went on hyper-alert but there was no sound to pick up: no electric hum, no old building creaks. This must be what life was like for the pharaohs buried in the pyramids. I twisted and turned, trying to make myself as comfortable as possible, but in lawyer duds on a concrete floor, comfort was not a viable option. I could deal with the darkness, the silence was manageable, but the deal-breaker was the absolute certainty that I couldn’t leave. I was hemmed in by antiquated, long forgotten cases that, let’s face it, no one cared about anymore. I wondered if there were rats or mice down here and propelled hurriedly off the floor. Maybe Kevin had been clever enough to fake locking the padlock, and I could maneuver the wire gate sufficiently to escape. I felt my way to the gate but it gave only a half-inch and I couldn’t fit my hand through the gap. Frustrated, I grabbed the fencing with both hands and shook it as hard as I could. No give. I kicked it for good measure. How much longer before Kevin would appear? Would he call someone to get me? For a second, I thought he might call Sam. He’d be here in a heartbeat. Then I remembered.