CHAPTER 1

“They call this spring?” I ask indignantly as I shake snow off my coat before hanging it up on the free-standing wooden coat rack in the reception area of the Law Offices of Brooks, Valenti & Williams. I’m speaking to my partner, Penelope Brooks, and her mother, Joan Brooks, who is our receptionist, office manager, and den mother. I cut my eyes to the closed door of our third partner, Mike Williams. The raised voice of an irate woman can be heard from inside.

I glance at my watch. 8:35. “Who has Mike pissed off so early in the day?”

Penelope, a wholesome Kansas gal in her mid-thirties who stands all of five feet nothing, chuckles. Water droplets glisten on her shoulder-length blond hair, so she hasn’t beaten me to work by much. Penelope nods at her mother, a slightly dated carbon copy of her daughter, and says, “I’ll let Mom explain.”

Joan shrugs and frowns. “The young lady with Mr. Williams was waiting outside when I arrived this morning, very agitated and stressed out.”

“What does she want?” I ask.

“A lawyer, I imagine,” Joan replies deadpan.

“Duh,” Penelope adds with a laugh at my expense. Don’t be fooled by the apparent Kansas wholesomeness of these two—they’re very mean women … well, to me, anyway.

Joan continues, “She’s here about a cousin who’s been arrested and charged with murder.”

“No wonder she’s yelling,” I mutter. “Details?”

“She was near hysterical and wouldn’t tell me more after finding out I’m not a lawyer,” Joan replies. “‘I need to speak with a lawyer about this!’” she told me.

Our eyes all track to the closed door as the woman’s voice rises several additional decibels.

I frown. “Should we go in?”

“She isn’t any bigger than me,” Joan replies. “I don’t think Mike’s at risk.”

Unless she’s armed. A gun in pretty much anyone’s hand is the great equalizer.

Penelope rests a hand on my forearm. “Mike will call if he needs help, Tony. The woman doesn’t sound angry as much as distressed.”

“I suppose,” I mutter. Then again, Penelope can find a ray of sunshine in deepest, darkest night.

Mike opens the door and pokes his head out, then steps out when he sees that Penelope and I have arrived. “Morning, folks.”

“Everything okay in there?” I ask.

He shakes his head no. “Why don’t you two come in and hear what our visitor has to say? We may have ourselves a case.”

Penelope and I follow him into his office. He closes the door and makes introductions. We shake hands all around and then sit. Melissa—"call me Mel”—Vu perches at the edge of her seat, voice tight and eyes shiny with unshed tears as she prepares to tell her story. She’s a slight black woman with a reedy voice.

“My cousin was arrested for killing her husband and baby last night.”

“The murders happened last night?” I ask.

“No, on Easter morning,” Mel replies. “My cousin is a woman with a history of mental disturbances, so of course they accused her of murdering her husband and child! You need to speak with her—I’ve heard about you folks … you’re for the underdogs, right?”

“Whoa, slow down,” I say. “Let’s start with your cousin’s name.”

“Van. Van Booker.”

The case in question registers with me; it was all over the news for a hot minute a few weeks back. The murder hit the headlines hard, not least because of the furor over some lame-ass internet troll who dubbed the murders “The Easter Bunny Killings.” I don’t follow that crap online but my girlfriend, Pat, who is an award-winning journalist, brought it to my attention with a generous helping of disgust and outrage after she stumbled across it. At any rate, from what I recall, the killings took place in the early hours of Easter morning: a man and his daughter—infant or toddler, I forget the exact details—were murdered in a knife attack. Their bodies were discovered by a relative. Maybe Mel here? It was an awful story … and not something I’m eager to get involved in.

“Why would they suspect Van?” I ask. “Did they find her at the scene?”

“No, but she’s the spouse! Isn’t that how the cops roll on murder? Blame the spouse?”

“Do you think Van could have been involved?” Penelope asks.

“Of course not!” Mel replies indignantly. “Hurt her baby girl? No way.”

I note that there’s no protestation that Van wouldn’t have harmed her husband. Interesting.

“Yet she’s been arrested,” Mike says matter-of-factly.

Off the top of my head, I can’t think of a precedent for this. Men killing their wives and kids, yes; women murdering their children, not unheard of; but a woman butchering her whole family with a knife? I’m sure it’s probably happened, but I haven’t heard about it. I study Mel. I doubt she tips the scale at even a hundred pounds. Surely her cousin comes from a different gene pool? As I recall, this was a particularly vicious killing; it's hard to imagine someone as diminutive as Mel being involved. Maybe Van was the first black person they spotted in the vicinity? I think wryly.

“Why us?” I ask her. “The Lawyers to Little People and Lost Causes shtick?”

Mel responds to my question with a blank gaze. “The what?”

So, not that. We have a bit of a reputation—and history—of taking on cases in which our clients face long odds and often have limited resources with which to pay their lawyers. I decide it isn’t a bad thing that Mel doesn’t know that and isn’t necessarily here looking for free legal services. After all, I have a child in college, and the Lawyers to Little People and Lost Causes are in something of a financial crunch.

“Some local people gave us that nickname,” Penelope explains.

Mel shrugs off the explanation and looks back to me. “My husband is a member of FBI Special Agent Calista Fontenot’s bowling league team. He turned to her for guidance after Van was arrested. Calista steered us to you folks.”

“Your husband’s with the FBI?” I ask.

She smiles and shakes her head. “Hardly. He’s a plumber. His sister is an admin with the Feds … that‘s how he got on the bowling team. He’s a pretty good bowler.”

“A ringer, huh?”

“You could say that.” She smiles. “Plus, I work here in Cedar Heights, so I’ve heard good things about you folks.”

“What kind of work do you do?” Mike asks.

“I’m a supervisor at the food bank.”

Mike smiles and says, “Thanks for you service. You folks do great work.”

“Amen,” Penelope agrees, beaming like an oncoming freight train.

I interrupt the lovefest with a practical question. “Where’s your husband this morning?”

“He’s a working man, Mr. Valenti. You know folks like him can’t take time off work for stuff like this.”

It’s true … and a sad commentary on how working people are treated these days.

“I know you people will want money,” Mel continues. “We’ll find it somewhere. Ours is a big family, maybe not as tight as we’d all like, but I’m sure folks will step up. What are we talking here? Twenty K? Thirty?”

“More like a hundred K,” Mike replies softly.

Mel recoils as if he’d slapped her. “A hundred grand? Seriously?”

“Probably more if it goes to trial.”

Penelope jumps in. “Let’s not worry about that at the moment.”

I gape at her. Let’s not worry about $100K?

“We can pursue a few avenues that might help to keep the costs manageable,” Penelope continues. “Leave it with us. In the meantime, has Van been arraigned?”

“Been what?”

“Legal speak,” Penelope replies with a smile. “Give me a moment.” She calls Joan in and asks her to give the Cook County Courthouse a call to ask about Van’s arraignment.

While we wait, Mel eyes Penelope skeptically. “You think someone else is gonna pay for this?”

“No promises, but we can explore a couple of options if you’re agreeable.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Mel asks with a note of skepticism. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Penelope unleashes one of her luminescent smiles. “Nothing, Mel. There may be a program we can tap into. Give us a chance to look into it before we get your hopes up.”

I suppose we might be able to run this through the Public Defender’s office. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve used a justice department program that allows the chronically underfunded, understaffed Public Defender’s office to farm out a small percentage of its workload to qualified private attorneys. The catch is that we have to agree to do the work on a cost-plus basis. Our last significant case along these lines was defending a fifteen-year-old accused of murder. Are murder trials lucrative? Not unless the defendant is rich, but representing a murder defendant can be rewarding in other ways—especially if you believe your client is innocent. This might fit the bill … so long as it doesn’t bankrupt us.

“Do you have a washroom I can use?” Mel asks.

“Of course,” Penelope replies, then escorts her to the door and points. “Right there, across from the conference room.”

When she walks back into Mike’s office, Penelope says, “We can reach out to the PD and express our interest in handling the case if it hasn’t already been assigned.”

“Are you kidding?” Mike retorts. “If it hasn’t been assigned? Mark my words, my former colleagues at the Public Defender’s office ran the other way when this case rolled in the door. No one wants a case like this! I can see the headlines now. ‘Only twisted monsters would defend a mother who butchered her own family’!”

Mike took the words right out of my mouth. As for the referral from the FBI, Agent Calista Fontenot and I have crossed paths a couple of times, and I don’t think she’s a fan. Actually, she might happily feed that monster headline to the press herself. “I don’t think Agent Fontenot likes me,” I say.

“She likes you just fine,” Penelope retorts.

“Really? Friends don’t send friends referrals that involve infanticide!”

Mel returns with Joan hot on her heels.

“Van’s on the docket for arraignment this afternoon,” Joan says.

“What’s that mean?” Mel asks.

“People who’ve been arrested have to be charged formally and make a preliminary plea,” I reply. “The law says it has to be done promptly, so that’s why it’s already scheduled for this afternoon.”

“They call the schedule a docket,” Mike adds when Mel still looks uncertain. “You know, just to keep things confusing for you non-lawyer folks,” he adds with a wry grin.

Mel ventures a tight smile in reply. “Us non-lawyer folks, huh?”

Mike nods. He seems to be developing a surprisingly easy rapport with Mel. After all, wasn’t she just yelling at him five minutes ago?

Mel’s smile fades. “Shouldn’t Van have a lawyer for that?”

“She will,” Mike replies, “There’s always a Public Defender in attendance to represent people who don’t have a lawyer.”

“Who pays for that?” Mel asks. “Or are those the lawyers for poor people?”

“That’s them,” Mike replies. “The State covers their costs.”

“Can we hire you instead? Can one of you go down there this afternoon?”

“I’m booked for the afternoon,” Penelope replies with a frown. Her eyes track between me and Mike. “How about you guys?”

“I’ve got a deposition,” Mike replies.

Which leaves me.

Oh joy. Look what the Easter Bunny brought me.

CHAPTER 2

I arrive at the George N. Leighton Criminal Courts Building at California and 26th going on twelve thirty and walk over to one of the coterie of hardscrabble lawyers who hang around the courtroom, hoping to stumble across a case. They say Joe Bob Sparks was once a real up and comer, a hotshot young lawyer who flew a little too close to the cocaine sun before he tumbled out of the heavens and into a bottle. The way I hear it is that he’s still a pretty good lawyer when he makes it through a day more or less sober. I’ve always found him agreeable. After we exchange pleasantries, I get to the point by asking about the Van Booker case.

“Ah, the baby killer,” Joe Bob says. “That one blew through here fifteen minutes ago. Thereabouts, anyway.”

“Who handled it?” I ask.

Joe Bob tilts his head toward one of Mike’s former colleagues at the Public Defender’s Office. I’ve met her a time or two. Bella Something-or-Other is a fierce looking Black woman of forty or so. I saunter over and slide onto the bench beside her while the judge and an attorney argue about bail for a scruffy looking kid who’s gotten himself into B & E trouble, apparently not for the first time.

“Hey, Bella,” I say, reaching out to shake hands.

Her handshake is crisp and to the point. “Mike’s friend, right?”

I nod. “Tony Valenti.”

She smiles, resulting in a remarkable transformation from grim and taciturn to open and welcoming. Remarkable. “Aside from stealing one of our stud attorneys, I’m told you’re one of the good guys.”

I return her smile. “I like to think so.”

Her eyes stray back to from whence I came. “How’s Joe Bob?”

“Seems fine,” I reply.

“Good to hear,” she says. “I’ve always liked the dumb SOB. Man, he was something to see back in the day.”

Bella’s obvious admiration for Joe Bob’s legal skills and fondness for him as a person catch me by surprise. He’s more often a figure of scorn and ridicule. “You two have a history?” I ask.

She gives me a secret smile, then chuckles and changes the subject. “What’s up?”

“You handled Van Booker’s arraignment?”

“I did. If she’s your client, she didn’t say so.”

“She isn’t … at least not at the moment. Her cousin showed up at our office this morning. My partner is putting out feelers to your boss about taking the case under your co-op plan.”

Bella frowns. “It’s a mess.”

“I know. I took a gander at the Easter weekend newspaper headlines and the opening paragraph or two of the Trib and Sun-Times stories before I left the office.” The Sun-Times, in particular, was even more hysterical and over the top than I remembered. It latched onto the  “Easter Bunny Killer” as its lead story for the entire weekend and has kept the hysteria alive ever since.

“The punk from the State’s Attorney’s office thinks the ‘Easter Bunny Killer’ BS was a hoot,” Bella grumbles. “I wanted to kick the little turd’s ass.”

“You should’ve. Hell, even the Trib’s description in their opening paragraph was bad enough.”

“I don’t remember that one.”

“I looked it up this morning: Deranged ex-soldier slaughters her husband and four-year-old daughter in gruesome killing spree!”

“They weren’t particularly nuanced reporting the arrest, either,” Bella says tartly, then adds, sotto voice, “Gruesome Easter morning killer captured.”

“No poisoning of the jury pool going on there,” I mutter.

“Nope.”

“So. Bail?”

“Not happening.”

“So much for our brave new ‘no cash bond’ world, huh?” I grumble. A rallying cry to tackle systemic abuses with long overdue bail reform was all the rage during a recent election cycle. There was indeed a bill passed to reform the system. Tell that to Van Booker.

“A child is dead, Tony. Tough to get bond on that charge.”

“I suppose. I’d like to get a sense of Van. What’s your take?”

“I only had a few minutes with her. Formidable lady. Swears up and down she didn’t do it.”

“Don’t they all?”

Bella tilts her head thoughtfully. “Some more convincingly than others. I don’t see a plea deal in her future, no matter how hard the prosecution or judge pushes for one. Van won’t go down quietly. I’ll tell you that.”

I relay my thinking about the rarity of a woman butchering her husband and child.

Bella nods. “Had that thought myself. I imagine you’re hoping to see Ms. Booker?”

I nod glumly. “I was. Figured I’d step into the breach for the arraignment and have time for a chat to take her measure and decide if she’s someone we’d be comfortable representing.”

“So, you’re not quite ready to file an appearance notice?”

“No backing out of it once we go on record as her attorneys, Bella, so no. I’m reluctant to commit to taking on a case like this without knowing who we’re dealing with.”

“Understandable. Tell you what. If you don’t mind sticking around for an hour or so until my time in purgatory is done, I’ll get us in to see Van. Then you can decide.”

I smile. “Sounds like a plan. Thanks, Bella.”

She smiles back. “Oh, don’t thank me. You’re buying me a late lunch when we finish.”

I have a flash of inspiration and excuse myself.

CHAPTER 3

Fifty-nine minutes later, another lucky soul from the Public Defender’s office arrives to relieve Bella on arraignment duty. Bella immediately looks around for me and beams happily when she sees Mike Williams seated at my side. Van’s is a case that I think belongs in Mike’s capable hands—especially given the potential connection to the Public Defender’s office. I gave him a call after speaking with Bella earlier, and Mike came as soon as he finished with his deposition. We’ll meet with Van together, then I’ll gracefully bow out. That’s my plan, at any rate. I’m all for helping everyday folks get a fair shake from the legal system, but a child killer? As a father myself, that just doesn’t sit well with me. I’m happy to let Mike and Penelope run with this one.

Bella pauses for a hushed aside with a bailiff—who are Cook County Sheriff’s Deputies, but I still refer to as bailiffs—then walks over and gives Mike a warm hug and informs us that the bailiffs will take us to Van in fifteen or twenty minutes. Pretty lickety-split around here, at least in my experience. Bella gives us what little background she has about Van before adding her personal observations, then she and Mike shoot the breeze for a few minutes, catching up on family and whatnot while I hang off to one side and listen. A bailiff comes for us fifteen minutes later and ushers us into an attorney-client room. Only two visitor chairs, so I lean against the wall in the corner. While we wait, I list all the reasons why Mike should sit first chair on the case. He’s noncommittal but seems amused that I’m pushing hard for him to take the lead.

When Van shuffles in ten minutes later, Mel’s description of her cousin as being tough as nails sems to fit Van to a T. An ex-Special Forces operative who served at least two overseas rotations in the Middle East, Van is a stocky, well-muscled Black Hispanic who stands five-ten or thereabouts, a good half-foot and a bit shorter than Mike and me, who stand six-foot six and six-foot five, respectively. Her gray eyes are flinty, her thin lips are turned down in a grim frown, and the deep furrow in her brow suggests that the fierce countenance she’s wearing at this moment is standard fare. Formidable indeed. Her deep, gravelly voice completes the tough gal characterization.

“Who are you?” she asks harshly after giving me an icy once over. She seems to accept Mike’s presence at Bella’s side. White Bread Valenti; not so much.

Bella introduces me, explains how I’ve come to be here, then sits back with her hands in her lap.

Van’s expression and attitude toward me softens a smidgen. “Mel, huh?”

I nod.

“How’s she doing?”

“I just met her this morning,” I reply. “She’s upset about what’s going on with you.”

This prompts a tired smile, filled with regret. “Mel is my Dad’s brother’s kid. We grew up together. I hate that I’m doing this to her.”

I venture a smile of my own. “Well, unless you’re guilty, I wouldn’t say you’re the person who’s upsetting her.”

“Good point.” She nods grimly. “So, you want to be my lawyer?”

“Maybe,” I reply, then explain where things stand. “If we take the case, Mike here will likely be the guy in your corner.”

Van turns her eyes to Bella. “And you? What do you think about all this?”

“To be perfectly honest, I think you’re at least as well off with Tony and Mike’s firm as you would be with us. Likely better off, to be honest. They have significant murder trial experience—Mike was with our office for years—a pretty good track record, and they can probably devote more time to your case than I can. Our office is snowed under twenty-four seven, three hundred sixty-five.”

Van meets my gaze with an intensity that is a touch unnerving. “And you people won’t bleed Mel and the rest of my family dry?”

I shake my head no.

“Tell me about you,” she orders.

I deliver the Cliffs Notes biography of Tony Valenti: Youngest of three children to an Italian immigrant father and his second-generation immigrant wife, ex-Marquette University volleyball star with Olympic aspirations, unfulfilled, divorced single father to a DePaul University first-year student. “Which brings us to the major blemish on my curriculum vitae,” I conclude with a smile. “I’m a lawyer.”

Van’s upper lip twitches in what may be the ghost of a smile before she turns to Mike. “Your turn.”

He keeps it simple: law degree from Northwestern, former defense attorney with the public defender before Penelope and I lured him into private practice. He hooks a thumb at me as he wraps up his story, “Now I’m just like this guy … another legal whore for hire.”

Van cracks an amused smile for a brief second or two. It fades just as quickly.

“Your turn,” I tell her. “Who is Van Booker?”

She nods wearily and leans her shackled forearms on the enamel-painted steel table. Few men I’ve known have better musculature in their forearms. Her expression as she speaks is neutral, her eyes unblinking, her deep voice steady. “I take it you know a little about my time in the military?”

“Mel told us you served,” I reply. “Can you fill in the details?”

“Fair enough.” Her eyes settle on Mike as she begins her tale. “I’m an orphan. My birth father was an Irish cop—I know, cue the cliches. He was paralyzed in a shooting on the job when I was four. I barely remember him from before he became a quadriplegic. Mom checked out to points unknown a year after the shooting—didn’t much care for a lifetime gig caring for him, I suppose. Dad died a year after she walked out, leaving me to the tender mercies of the foster care system, aka Child Protective Services.”

“And?” Mike asks evenly. “How did that go?”

“Joined the Army at seventeen. That’s how CPS went. I didn’t depart feeling a lot of warm fuzzies, I’ll tell you that.”

Her brief monologue complete—short in length and shorter still on details—Van settles back in her seat and studies Mike, then me. There’s a disturbing hint of menace lurking behind those penetrating eyes and in her chiselled physique—almost a sense of pent-up rage on the verge of being unleashed. I have a hard time imagining her as a wife and mother, so I’m not sure how to evaluate the odds of her snapping and carving up her family. She’s certainly experienced enough trauma to be damaged, but that damaged? Hard to say, what with the limited information we have to work with. I sense that getting Van to open up on most anything is going to be an uphill battle, an unnecessary struggle that promises to make a difficult case harder by several orders of magnitude. For all that, I grudgingly like Van Booker. She’s articulate, measured, and direct … all qualities I appreciate.

Mike is deep in thought as we exit the Courts Building and walk into the parking lot.

“So?” I ask.

“Tough life,” he mutters. “Horrific crime. No question that she’s physically capable of doing it.”

“True,” I murmur, then wait for him to continue.

“Husband kills wife, wife kills husband … that shit happens, right?”

I nod.

“Mom kills her own toddler,” he muses. “Hard to wrap my head around that one.”

“For sure. That said, she admits to emotional and mental issues.”

He keeps his thoughts to himself as we turn into the lot and walk to his car. Now that he’s a respectable married man with one child on the way and more planned, he’s finally traded his seventeenth-century Toyota Corolla for a twenty-first century Subaru, which he claims is the perfect car for a growing young family. He married a terrific woman named Aretha a year or two ago. One might say that he married up. In fact, I do so frequently, albeit facetiously—they’re both pretty awesome.

We pause beside his car, eyes meeting across the roof.

“Do you like her?” I ask.

A slow nod. “Yeah, I think I do. You?”

I shrug. Nod.

“We’ll talk back at the office,” he says.

I arrive at my car, a six-year-old Porsche Panamera, and drive away from the jail with a reasonably good vibe about Van Booker, yet seriously unsure how I feel about us taking on her case.

CHAPTER 4

It’s crunch time. The Public Defender has given us until noon Monday to advise if we’re in or out defending Van Booker. He’s clearly on board with the idea of farming the case out to us but makes the valid point that there’s no time to waste—every day is crucial in preparing defense strategy in a murder case.

So, here we are at the office late the next morning, a Saturday. Mike and I have just returned from spending an hour at the jail with Van. We discussed the murders in depth, taking the measure of her as a potential defendant—which included us trying to poke holes in her story of having been out overnight before swinging by the house where her husband and child had just been butchered among the Easter decorations. That last detail was wrenching.

“Do you believe her?” Penelope asks us.

It is in some respects the key question. It’s not that we necessarily need to believe a client is innocent to represent them to the best of our abilities; we all ascribe to the belief that every criminal defendant is entitled to a robust defense. That said, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that we bring a little additional fire to the task when we truly believe in our client’s innocence. I like Van, but do I believe in my little heart of hearts that she’s innocent? The cops and State’s Attorney’s Office certainly don’t, and they appear to believe that they have Van dead to rights. Mind you, they always do, but their cockiness about this case gives me pause. But seeing as how this will likely be Mike’s case if we take it on, I defer to him.

“I think I do,” he replies.

Penelope turns her gaze to me. “And you?”

“Leaning that way,” I say. “I like Van, though, so that may be coloring my judgement.”

“Fair enough,” she says, then smiles. “Let’s take a walk.”

“Where to?” Mike asks.

Her eyes twinkle. “I have some news. You both know what time it is, don’t you?”

“It’s Sandwich Emporium time,” we dutifully reply.

“What’s the occasion?” I ask. The modest little eatery down the street is the go-to brasserie for the corporate expense luncheon crowd here at Brooks, Valenti & Williams, Shoe-String Budget Attorneys at Law.

“You’ll see when we get there,” she replies enigmatically.

Mike’s eyes meet mine with a hint of amusement. She’s up to something. Either we’re insolvent or Penelope has happy news. We’re pushing the Sandwich Emporium door open within five minutes. The tinny chime of a little bell above the door announces us.

“Tony-san!” a pleasantly rotund little woman with a big smile, boisterous laugh, and a playful nature exclaims form behind an old-fashioned cash register. Her eyes stray past me to Mike and Penelope. “With Michael-san and the better third of our esteemed local law firm, and on a Saturday, no less! Come, come. Let’s get your orders.”

Maiko and her husband, Brian, have been running their establishment in a repurposed  1920s-era bungalow ever since Brian returned from Navy duty with his Japanese-born wife. He glances up from the long table that serves as his sandwich-making station, sees the new arrivals and greets us with a grunt and maybe a half nod. Clearly, Maiko is the face of the establishment.

“No Daily Special on Saturdays,” Maiko informs us. The Daily Special is legendary—at least on this block of downtown Cedar Heights—and is normally our go to order. We decide on a trio of pastrami sandwiches with fries on the side. Brian rustles them up pronto and Maiko delivers them to us at a rickety round table with chairs straight from the house’s 1922 heyday.

“Eat up!” Maiko exhorts us before she returns to the cash register.

Mike delicately dips a toe into the purpose of our unusual Saturday outing. After all, our little firm exists on the knife-edge of disaster from month to month to never ending month. He meets Penelope’s gaze. “Have you brought us here to announce our pending insolvency?”

Penelope smiles without answering but makes a point of rolling her eyes while she drags out the moment.

I pick up a fry from the basket sitting beside my sandwich and study it for a long moment. “Maybe we should go without fries at our next lunch?” I suggest before popping it into my mouth.

“Maybe we should see if Maiko will take our food back for a refund?” Mike suggests.

Penelope’s eyes glitter with a touch of excitement. “Nah, we don’t need to do that. My tort case with Stephanie has gone from idle chatter to the cusp of reality this week.”

Penelope’s best friend in law school, Stephanie Morrison, stumbled across an egregious case of corporate malfeasance in Minnesota that rang a bell with me. Way back in my corporate law days after I moved back to Cedar Heights, I worked for a giant law firm called Fleiss Lansky, where one of my clients was a multi-national called Fafnir. In a case that played a big role in putting me off corporate law for good, I was tasked with quashing a lawsuit targeting a Fafnir subsidiary that manufactured a furnace component that failed. The failure initiated a natural gas explosion that annihilated a La Crosse home and its three inhabitants. Unfortunately, I succeeded in my work. The bereaved family received a pittance, and the faulty component lived on to haunt thousands more homes and untold unwitting homeowners and their loved ones.

When Penelope told me about a case Stephanie was working on that sounded eerily similar, I dug into the details of the catastrophe and quietly steered Penelope to the old news accounts of the La Crosse incident—attorney-client privilege be damned. As long as Penelope kept my name out of it, neither Fafnir nor my old law firm would be any the wiser, not unless they’d bugged a two-minute discussion I had with Penelope over a year ago in a nearby park.

“Someone sent Stephanie a package of internal corporate emails that blows the whistle on Fafnir and its subsidiary,” Penelope continues. She locks eyes with me, a smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “Not to mention your old friends at Fleiss Lansky.”

She’s excited, and not only at the prospect of a potential payday that will finally put our firm on a firm financial footing for the first time. There’s something magical about sussing out the bit of evidence that blows a tough case wide open—especially a David and Goliath case. And when you’re taking down scum like Fafnir and Fleiss Lansky, well, that’s just a cherry on top of the treat. I’m happy at the prospect of seeing the bastards humbled, delighted with the financial windfall that may be coming our way, and absolutely tickled to see my partner this excited.

But there’s always a catch, isn’t there? We’re already stretched thin, and if Penelope becomes immersed in the big tort case—and immersed doesn’t do justice to how completely Penelope will be absorbed in that lawsuit—Mike and I are going to be carrying the ball at BV& W for the foreseeable future. Not that Penelope isn’t acutely aware of it.

She frowns. “How do you guys feel about this? We all know what it will mean in terms of workload for you two.”

“Yeah, but the cash,” I mutter.

Mike nods in acknowledgement that at this moment, money is king. The bargain has been struck.

“Let’s discuss Van over dessert and tea,” Penelope suggests, waving to attract Maiko’s attention.

Mike and I exchange an amused glance. There’s something almost childlike about our beloved partner when she gets unabashedly excited about something.

It takes all of five minutes to reach a decision about Van’s case. We decide that Mike, who has spent a little more time with Van and seems to be connecting well with her, will sit first chair and I’ll support him as second chair. In reality, my role will be as lead investigator and part-time trial associate, which I’m okay with. Truth be told, the past year has taken a fearsome toll on me: physically, emotionally, and in terms of my mental health. I could use a few months away from the pressure cooker of a major trial. Mike, on the other hand, is in a good place and is raring to go. His wife Aretha is finally pregnant with their first child after what she described as a helluva lot of hard work. Mike grinned and shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad,” he’d cracked.

When I sink into my chair back in the office, I mentally replay the lunch discussion about Van’s case and feel a little niggle of nerves. Hearts definitely overruled brains on this one. I fear we may end up paying a steep price for our largesse.

CHAPTER 5

It’s late Friday afternoon of the week following our decision to take on Van’s case, and I’m in Mike’s office for the first of a proposed weekly discussion that he’s dubbed “The State of the Case”. Jackets are off, ties are tossed over chairs, and shirtsleeves are rolled up. Mike is sprawled in his desk chair and I’m draped across his top-drawer chrome and fabric visitor chairs. We begin with Mike asking for a quick preview of my weekend plans.

“Me?” I reply with a snort. “Not a damned thing. Britts is headed out to lovely Oxford, Ohio Saturday afternoon to see a play. Pat’s in Calgary, of course, but it looks like the dogs will be around to keep me company … unless they made plans without telling me.”

Mike smiles. “Sounds like a nice, peaceful couple of days to relax, my friend.”

“Sounds boring, is how it sounds, pal.”

“Stop whining,” Mike says with a chuckle. “Me, I’ll probably be running to the store for pickles and pineapple flavored ice cream in the middle of the night.”

“Aretha’s doing that wild appetite thing all of a sudden?” I ask in surprise. As far as I know, she’s been having an epically low-event pregnancy.

He shrugs. “Nah, I’m just funning with you. I’m probably gaining more weight with this kid than she is.”

“Ah, so you’re the pickle and pineapple guy. Shame on you for blaming dear Aretha!”

Mike sits up straight and slaps a hand on his desk. “If all you’re gonna do is sit there and insult me, let’s get to work.”

“And here I thought you were working yourself up to a Sunday dinner invitation.”

He tilts his head and shrugs. “Sure, unless you’ve got plans.”

“No plans, smartass, as I believe I made clear.”

“I’ll confirm with Aretha, but go ahead and pencil it in.”

The prospect cheers me. My daughter Brittany is finishing up her first year of university at DePaul, which has kept her living at home, even if she spends little time there. My girlfriend, Pat O’Toole, is living in Calgary, Alberta, Canada at the home of her deceased sister, who was killed in a car accident along with her husband a little over a year ago. Pat relocated so her nephew, Kevin, can continue living in his childhood home and attend school with the friends he’s grown up with. Very selfless of her; very selfish of me to occasionally resent her absence. We’ve made it work, so far. I’m not one-hundred-percent sure the arrangement is sustainable, but that’s a question for another day.

“Thanks,” I say, setting my feet on the floor and straightening up. I pop my pen open and hover it above a yellow legal pad. “Let’s get to work.”

“Indeed.”

“Probably helpful if we put together an initial investigative to do list and figure out how to parcel that out between myself and whoever is assigned to work with us. Should we start with that, or do you have something else in mind?”

He frowns. “About that. I spoke with Harry over at the Public Defender’s office this morning. They don’t have the manpower to assign an investigator to Van’s case.”

Not what I want to hear. “Seriously? They don’t have lawyers for Van, they don’t have an investigator for Van—what do they have over there besides excuses?”

Mike frowns at me with a hint of impatience. “You know the story at the PD’s office, Tony. Budget cuts even though they already lack the resources they need to do their jobs properly. It sucks, but that’s what the bean counters have delivered.”

And not just at the Public Defender’s Office, I think bitterly. It seems that the only thing the bean counters running the world focus on is how to pick everyone else’s pockets so they can plow the booty into their personal investment portfolios.

“All the more reason to get our ducks in order to prioritize the investigative tasks,” I mutter.

He nods sympathetically. “You do know that Sara’s gonna be at home all summer, right? She’d be happy to help, and it wouldn’t hurt her at all to build some investigative chops.”

Mike’s baby sister has graduated from law school and is chomping at the bit to get to work. We seem to be her employer of choice, at least for intern[NT1] purposes. She’s worked on and off with us over the last couple of years, whenever we’ve been able to scare up a few extra bucks to pay her. She’s going to be an outstanding attorney. If only we could afford to take advantage of the opportunity.

I chuckle. “You sell that idea to Penelope and I’ll be happy to dispense some of my sterling investigative wisdom.”

“You think Penelope might bite?”

I’m about to say, “Hell no!” when it occurs to me that we might be able to put Penelope’s guilt over leaving us in the lurch to work for us—especially with a potential tort payday on the horizon. I share my insight with Mike, who grins.

“You may be on to something there, pal. Let me check in with baby sis to make sure she’s on board before I brave the dragon’s lair to sell the idea.”

Our partner would be the world’s tiniest and most mild-mannered dragon, but Mike’s point is well taken. If she sees through our attempt to manipulate her via her good nature and takes offence, Mike will be scampering out of her office with his tail tucked firmly between his legs. Better him than me.

“Make it so, big bro,” I say.

“Who did the State’s Attorney assign the prosecution to?” I ask, not that it will matter much in the near term, aside from how aggressively they play the game of hiding evidence to the last possible moment. We’re going to be up against it in terms of assembling evidence and building Van’s defense—a prosecutor who operates at the very edge of discovery law will make things all that much harder.

Mike glances at the file folder sitting open on his desk blotter and pulls a page closer. We’re a low-tech firm in this regard, and for once it isn’t due to our limited resources. Mike and I have a healthy distrust of the bad actors in law enforcement and the State’s Attorney’s office. We’ve been burglarized, a break-in that targeted our computers in the midst of very heated trial. While our partner from Kansas is, to our minds, a little overly optimistic about the good character of our opponents, Mike and I limit how much of our case resides on hackable computers. They haven’t hacked any my legal pads yet—not as far as I know, anyway. It’s not as if we don’t use computers, but we’re resolved to never see a client sent to the slammer because some crooked SOB had a peek at the case files on our hard drives. Hell, our office has been broken into in the middle of the night more than once.

“Our prosecutor is a bit of a newbie over there,” Mike reports. “One Grayson Birch.”

“Grayson?” I ask. “Seriously? Someone named their kid Grayson in this century?”

“Yes, sir,” Mike replies. “Can’t say I’ve ever met the man or heard much about him. Harry told me not to underestimate him just because he’s new to this neck of the woods, I guess he’s been around the block a time or two—I forget exactly where.”

“You used to remember things,” I murmur with a slow shake of my head. “I’m afraid you’re not getting any younger, pal.”

“Same age as you,” he shoots back. “I remember that much!”

I make a note to do a little research into Grayson Birch, Esquire. “He’s now officially an item on my investigative to do list.”

Mike nods. “Perfect.”

I keep scribbling. “We need details about the killings. We also need to find out who and what Van’s husband was all about.” As I have a thing about working with lists of three items at a time, I cap my pen and drop it on my legal pad. “Any argument with me starting there?”

“Not at all.”

“What, if anything, have the prosecution and cops shared with us about the murder and why they’ve charged Van, aside from the obvious?”

“Not a damned thing, my friend.”

“Great. We have next to nothing beyond what’s been reported in the news, and we both know we can’t exactly rely on that—especially not in the midst of the feeding frenzy they went on.”

“Hell, that they’re still on!” Mike grumbles.

“Good point. How about Van? Can she shed any light on what went down, based on her interviews with the cops before and after they arrested her?”

“Good news and bad news. The good news is that she had enough sense to not talk to them … the bad news is that she didn’t talk to them, so she can’t enlighten us on what they were looking for aside from the non-alibi. That seemed to be enough for them, I guess.”

I slump back in my seat and blow out an exasperated sigh. “There has to be more!”

Mike meets my gaze. “Of course there is, but you’re gonna have to dig for it.”

Penelope, who’s been scarce this week even when she’s been in the office, working the most part with her door closed, pops in, wearing one of her wide-as-the-Kansas-plains smiles. “How are my favorite partners. All set—”

“Your only partners,” I interject. “Not much of a compliment there.”

She airily waves my interruption aside with a “Hrumph” before continuing, “All set for fun weekends?”

We recap our earlier chat on the topic.

Penelope turns her attention on Mike.  “How’s Aretha doing? Anything we can help with?”

“All is well,” Mike replies.

I decide not to mention pickles, pineapple, or ice cream.

“Glad to hear it,” Penelope says. “I’ll be out of the office most of next week.”

“Everything’s going well?” I ask.

She nods happily. “Sure is. I’m actually having fun … working with Stephanie has been a blast. What are you guys up to?”

We explain.

“Is there anything I can help with over the weekend?”

As if she’ll have time, but I put a brave face on it. “We have things under control.”

Mike shoots an amused glance my way that seems to suggest, Ha! Sure we do…

CHAPTER 6

My daughter, Brittany, rises late the next morning. She sweeps into the kitchen with wet hair and makes a beeline for the coffeepot. I put up a fresh pot while she was in the shower and have scrambled a half-dozen eggs to go with a package of fried breakfast sausages. She may be no more than a rather slight five feet six inches, but she can eat like a football lineman. Teenagers. I’ve set out plates and slid into my cane-backed chair at the oval maple table.

“Thanks, Pops,” she says, pecking my cheek before plopping her backside down with a steaming mug in hand.

“What time are you leaving?” I ask.

“Sara should be by around noon.”

“Seems a little late in the day to be starting out,” I say. The University of Miami, Ohio, is located in Oxford, Ohio, a short distance outside Cincinnati. It’s a four-plus hour drive from Chicago.

“The play isn’t until this evening and Jocelyn has a paper due Monday, so she’s spending the day at the library. We’ll have dinner with her and then go to the show.”

Jocelyn is a high school friend of Brittany’s who is in the performing arts program at Miami. She has a supporting role in a school production that is playing at a local theater this weekend. Brittany and Sara Williams, Mike’s younger sister, are making the trip in support of the budding thespian.

“We’ll be back in time for dinner tomorrow,” Brittany continues. “You gonna be around?”

“Where else would I be?”

She grins. “Good point. You need to get a life, old timer.”

Out of the mouths of babes. “I used to have a bit of a life,” I counter, which causes her to wince.

“Sorry, Pops. I suppose that was in poor taste.”

I shrug it aside and buckle down to my meal before my phone rings. The ring tone signifies that my long-distance girlfriend, Pat O’Toole, is calling from Calgary. The ring tone is a snippet from—what else?—the song Long Distance Love Affair, which replaced my initial selection of Stevie Wonder’s Part-time Lover, which was less than well-received by Pat after she decamped to Canada.

“Hey,” I say after taking the call on Facetime and putting it on speaker.

“Hi Pat!” Brittany exclaims from across the table, hurrying around to see the screen. Our three-legged Labrador retriever, Dolly, excitedly follows her to the table.

“Hey, girlfriend!” Pat replies.

“Are you at the airport yet?” Brittany asks breathlessly.

At the airport? What are they talking about?

Pat laughs. “Afraid not, kiddo.”

Brittany mock pouts. “But you’re coming soon, right?”

Wouldn’t that be nice, I think sourly. While it’s always nice to have Pat visit, it’s never for more than a day or two. She’s been living in Calgary with Kevin for a year now in the wake of her sister’s sudden death, and little fissures are opening in our long-distance relationship. Perhaps that’s an inevitable consequence of being 1,400 miles apart most of the time and will disappear over time. Perhaps not. The Chicago Tribune, where Pat worked as an award-winning local reporter for years, was quick to can her when her move afforded them an excuse for doing so—they’ve been putting the boot to older, more expensive journalists for years. I know it’s been hard on her, although she does her best to keep up a brave façade. I had hoped her link with the Trib might help keep her tethered to Chicago.

“Kev is chomping at the bit about visiting,” Pat replies in response to Brittany’s question.

“He’s not the only one,” I say, fending off Dolly, who’s jumped up with her paws on the table and is smiling happily in the direction of my phone screen. Can dogs recognize a face on a screen or is she responding to Pat’s voice … or is she just looking for a treat? The odds favor the latter.

Pat delivers a tolerant smile in response to our impatience for news. “Kev will want to tell you himself.”

“Come on!” Brittany pleads.

“He’ll disown me if I say anything.” Pat’s brow wrinkles in a look of annoyance as she looks away and calls out for Kevin to get his butt to the kitchen.

“Just a minute!” he shouts from somewhere deep in the house.

Brittany leans in and shouts, “Get your ass in gear, Kev!”

Pat shoots us an eye-roll. “He should be along any minute now.”

Dolly pushes in front of us, threatening to slobber on the phone as her aging canine companion, Deano, lumbers into the kitchen, looking bored.

“Dolly!” Pat exclaims happily. “How’s our gal?”

The mutt responds with more flapping jowls while her tail threatens to knock over my chair. I hold the phone down so Pat can see Deano collapse into his kitchen bed.

“Hey, Deano!” Pat shouts.

Deano replies by turning an eye in the general direction of the familiar voice. At least, I think his eye may have twitched.

Pat appears less than impressed with Deano’s enthusiastic response. “So. What’s new Valenti?” she asks me.

“Same old, same old.”

“Any interesting new cases to tell me about?”

Not that I want to discuss on a long-distance call with a pair of teenagers, I think, missing the days of hanging out and chatting for hours on end. “Nah,” I reply.

Kevin’s face pops into the picture seconds later, replacing my girlfriend. “Is Britts around?”

My daughter leans in, edging me out of the picture. Another downside of living fourteen-hundred-odd miles apart. “About time,” she says with a laugh. “So, are you two coming for a visit or what?”

“Absolutely,” Kev replies. “We’ll be there for the May long weekend.”

“The Canadian long weekend,” Pat clarifies. “That’s the week before Memorial Day down there.”

Brittany claps her hands delightedly. “Cool!”

“You’ll be done with school then, right?” Kev asks.

“Yeah, right,” Brittany scoffs. She’s in her freshman year at DePaul. “Spring term ends June thirteenth.”

“Seriously?” Kev exclaims. “We’re done with classes on May twenty-third. We can probably stay a week before I have to come back for grad.”

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Seriously,” he replies.

“What’s with Canadian high school?” Brittany asks tartly. “High schoolers should never be done with classes before the end of university terms!”

Kevin shrugs. “How has year one at DePaul gone?”

“Pretty good.”

“Drama club’s okay?”

Brittany smiles. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool.” She goes on to tell him about her upcoming trip to Ohio.

“Cool,” he says. “Say hi for me.”

“Will do. So, what are we talking here, Kev? Five weeks until you arrive?”

“Something like that,” he replies happily. “Jocelyn will be back for the summer?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Pat was telling me about your music group there. Will I get to hear you guys play?”

Brittany’s eyes cut to mine as her lips curl into a mischievous grin. “Maybe you will.”

“Not if they’re only here for a week,” I say. The local garage band she dubbed the Liberty Street Seven has a checkered past, to say the least. The lineup consists of my daughter and I, Jocelyn, a retired cop buddy of ours, Brittany’s friend (and Mike’s sister) Sara Williams, and a rotating cast of female backup singers, which sometimes includes Pat.

“Pshaw,” Pat says dismissively. She cribbed the phrase from a certain Kansas import.

“And just to be clear, Kevin,” I add. “We’re not exactly a happening thing around the greater Chicago music scene.”

“But in Cedar Heights, we’re a hit,” Pat says.

“All the five-year olds at the family picnic say so,” Brittany adds.

“Ha ha,” I say, but she has me chuckling. It might be a bit of a laugh to resurrect the band.

“So, Kev. You’re graduating,” Brittany says. “What’s on the agenda for next year? Any decision yet?”

“Nothing firm,” he replies, earning himself a sharp elbow from his aunt.

“You really need to decide soon, buddy!” Brittany says.

Something in his expression and Pat’s reaction tells me he already has and is saving the news for their visit. The conversation about school peters out after a few minutes and Pat announces that she and Kev need to run to some sort of graduation planning event or some such.

Brittany returns to her room after we end the call. I stay at the kitchen table pondering the future and decide it’s a good thing that Pat is coming. I feel like it’s time for us to have a serious chat about the future—specifically, about our future together.

CHAPTER 7

I pause a final time to study the front step of the Booker home, trying to assemble a picture of what Van came home to on Easter morning, but I can’t assemble the gruesome scene in my mind—especially on a glorious spring morning with the house bathed in sunlight. Tulips and/or daffodils line flowerbeds flanking the steps, and the surprisingly lush lawn has been freshly mowed. I’ve been here for the past hour, canvassing the neighborhood to learn more about the Booker family and, if lightning were to strike, something new about the events of Easter morning. Unsurprisingly, given the clear sky, lightning does not strike.

The Bookers were, by all accounts, a family who largely kept to themselves, with the exception of the little girl, Ally, who was described as a delightful neighborhood whirling dervish. Reading between the lines, friction between the parents was evident, although it didn’t spill beyond the confines of their tidy little Chicago-style red bungalow. The street is lined with similarly well-maintained bungalows, many largely hidden behind hedges that line the edge of the sidewalks. This isn’t a place one would expect to wake up to dead neighbors, especially not slaughtered ones.

The locals’ opinions toward Van and Syl Booker are a study in contrasts. Several, mostly women, remain well disposed toward Van as far as it goes with someone they didn’t know well, whereas all but one of the men I was able to speak with seemed to think well enough of the late husband. But there was subtext to all I heard. It wouldn’t be unfair to say that the women apparently despised Syl Booker, whereas the menfolk had plenty of caustic things to say about Van, albeit often disparaging her looks and lack of classic femininity. I suspect a lot of what I’ve heard owes much to the internal prejudices of the speakers, as opposed to valid insights into the Bookers themselves. That said, all were moved near to tears when they spoke of little Ally, who was apparently an unusually adorable toddler.

I arrived armed with basic biographic information about Syl Booker, largely gleaned from news stories, the stories told to reporters by friends and neighbors and otherwise pieced together from public records. Syl was a forty-one-year-old ex-jock, a football defensive back who starred in Division One NCAA football, before becoming a bit of a gym rat who boxed semi-competitively to keep in shape. Beyond what little the neighbors could tell me about the marriage and their less than in-depth impressions of Van and Syl, my morning hasn’t been terribly productive.

I pop the locks on my Porsche and slip behind the wheel. I’m about to put the car in gear when a nondescript, middle-aged woman in stretch trousers and an eye-popping floral peasant blouse crosses the street in front of me and stops in front of the car. She meets my eye, then walks around to my open driver’s side window.

She stands back and studies me for a moment, as if sizing me up. Her expression is neither friendly nor hostile. “I hear you been asking around about the Bookers?”

I nod. “True story.”

“Why? Who are you?”

She’s either the neighborhood busybody come to annoy me, or someone who knows something but isn’t disposed to reveal her knowledge to just anyone. I opt for door number two. I’ve seen my share of busy-bodies in my time and this woman doesn’t appear to fit the mold.

“My name’s Tony Valenti. I work for the law firm representing Val Booker.”

I think I may detect a bit of a thaw in her demeanor. Then she nods.

“Wanna hop in or talk out there?” I ask.

She leans closer and props her forearms on the top of the car. “I’m good right here, Mr. Valenti.”

“What can you tell me?” I ask.

“About?”

“The Bookers,” I reply as my eyes drift beyond her to the empty house, “And anything at all you may know about what happened over there on Easter morning.”

Her eyes follow mine and she winces a little as they land on the front door.

“You’re Van’s defence lawyer?”

I pluck a business card out of my pocket and hand it over. “Our firm is representing her. I’m one of the attorneys.”

She straightens and studies the card, then pulls a phone out of her pocket. “Checking you out.” Apparently satisfied after the better part of a minute, she leans closer again. “My name’s Esther Walker. What can I tell you about, Mr. Valenti?”

For the second time, I’m tempted to ask Esther to call me Tony but hold back. The distance established by formality appears to establish her comfort level with me.

“How well did you know the family?” I ask.

“Probably better than most folks around here.”

“Why is that?”

“I consider Van a friend. Not many folks here got to know her.”

“But you did?”

When she nods, her eyes well up and she waves a hand in embarrassment. “Sorry. I used to sit Ally now and again. Such a sweet child, God bless her little soul.”

I give her a minute.

“Me and Van used to talk a bit. She’s not the most open person, y’know?”

I smile and nod. “Oh, I know.”

She returns the smile. “She hasn’t had it easy, but God how she loved that little girl. As much of an asshole as her husband is—was—Van put up with him because they were a family … of sorts at least, and that wasn’t something she’d had in her life. There is no way Van would have killed Syl unless it was in self-defence and, to be honest, I bet she’d have been able to simply kick his ass if they got into a scrap. Man, I would not mess with that gal.”

“Why wouldn’t she kill him?”

“Van wouldn’t deprive her girl of a father, not even that father.”

“Would she do it to protect Ally?”

“From what?” Esther asks with a hint of suspicion. “Do you know something?”

I shake my head no.

“Well, if Ally had ever needed protecting, then yeah, I suppose she could. But that doesn’t sound like what happened.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Van’s the type men would call a standup guy, Mr. Valenti. She takes care of her own, and if she were to get into it with anyone, she would take them head on, not in the dead of night with a knife while they were sleeping. That wouldn’t be her style.”

“Got it.” Unless Esther’s reading it all wrong.

She leans her face almost into the car. “And I’ll tell you right now, Mr. Valenti, there ain’t no way Van carved up her baby girl.”

I hold her gaze for a long moment. “Tell me about Syl. I know about the football and all. What kind of man was he? What kind of husband?”

She considers her answer for long moment. “Syl Booker was bad news, Mr. Valenti. Bad, bad news. Ain’t a single woman around here wasn’t a little afraid of the man, y’know?”

“How so?”

She snorts. “Booker was the type of man who takes what he wants. You know the type?”

I nod.

“He ran with a bad crowd, too. Van ran them off a few times when she came home and found them there. She wouldn’t tolerate those folks, so mostly we only saw them when she wasn’t around, but we saw more of them than we cared to.”

“Specifics,” I say. “Bad crowd in what way? Neighborhood troublemakers?”

“Sure, probably since they been kids. Always carrying. Like that.”

“Drugs?”

“Probably so. Those punks all give off a vibe, y’know?”

“I do. Kinda surprising in a way, given his football history.”

She snorts. “Not a bit surprising, Mr. Valenti. Some folks take that kind of failure in stride. Guys like Syl Booker, not at all. That man did not gracefully accept his failure to catch on in pro football. She adopts a mocking tone. “Lord knows why all those NFL folks had it in for poor little Syl,” she says caustically.

It’s a telling comment, at least in my estimation. “So, Syl Booker was a man with a chip on his shoulder.”

“Syl had a canyon on his shoulder, Mr. Valenti, not a tiny chip. Ten years after they cut his sorry ass loose, he was still ranting about all those folks who did him wrong. A spoiled, poisonous manchild is what he was.”

“Anything else?” I ask with the hint of a smile.

She stares back at me for a moment, then lets out a little laugh. “What, ain’t that enough for you?”

I smile, then let it wane. “What about Easter morning? Anything?”

She threatens to tear up again. “I wasn’t here that morning. Wish I had been. Spent the weekend downstate with my folks.”

“Unless there’s something else, I’ve gotta run down to talk with the people Syl worked with.”

“Can’t think of a thing, other than you folks gotta get Van out of this mess.”

“We’re doing our best,” I reply. “You have my card if anything comes to mind.”

“Take my name and number, Mr. Valenti. If Van needs a character witness. If there’s anything I can do to help.”

“I appreciate it,” I reply, handing her my phone, open to a new contact listing. “Put it all there and I’ll be in touch.”

She records her details, then hands the phone back. “You’re going to Templeton?”

I nod. Templeton Steel was Syl’s final employer.

“Make sure you talk to a man named Albert Jenkins, goes by Big Al.”

“You know him?”

“Know of him. Big Al the asshole, if you ask me or Van. He was Syl’s running mate since they were in their teens, ‘cept when Syl was off playing ball.”

I make a note of the name.

“He’s a lying piece of crap,” Esther says, “but you might learn a thing or two from whatever BS he spins for you.”

I encounter a sea of mostly disinterested faces at Templeton Steel, worn by people who “didn’t know nothing about that,” but Albert Jenkins makes a few minutes for me, using my visit as an opportunity to slip out of the building for a smoke break. Sheesh, the guy must be packing well over three hundred pounds. Sure, he’s only an inch or two shorter than me, but still. I’m sure smoking is just what the doctor ordered, given his weight and all.

“So, you been running with Syl since back when you were kids?” I ask as he lights up.

“Sure.”

“Gangbangers?”

His eyes narrow before he pastes on an unconvincing smile. “Nah, we were never into that shit.”

“That’s not how I hear it.”

He shrugs. “Whoever the hell you been talking with don’t know shit.”

“Fair enough, Al. I figure you and Syl, maybe a couple of guys who like the ladies?”

He replies with an oily smile. “You might say that the ladies like us, my man. Syl had his way with a lot of pussy. A lot of it. He wasn’t shy about asking, and they was all more than happy to roll over for him.”

“He just took what he wanted, when he wanted it.”

“Yeah, I’d say he done that a time or two or three, y’know, when some piece got uppity with him. Ho’s gotta know her place, my man, and Syl weren’t shy about letting them know theirs.”

That’s got to give off a vibe, I think to myself. No wonder the women in the Booker neighborhood kept their distance. I feel a shudder of distaste and change gears. “What do you think about Syl’s murder?”

“That’s tough, man. He was a boxer. Tough hombre. He shouldn’t have gone down easy, y’know.”

“Yet he did.”

Big Al looks confused, which I imagine isn’t a particularly unusual expression for him.

I don’t have time to wait for his mind to kick back into gear. “Do you think Van did it, or maybe it had something to do with the people Syl was running with?” I ask.

Aside from offering up some vitriol about Van and assuring me that “the bitch sure as hell did kill my homey and that little girl”, Big Al does what he can to portray his lost friend as an all-around good guy: great husband, great daddy, great friend, a prince of a man no one could possibly think of hurting. “Syl was one helluva ball player, dude. Didja know that? Them football bastards really worked him over bad, man. Probably cause he be a Black man, y’know?”

I can’t quite bite back on a sarcastic reply. “Oh, yeah, I know. We don’t see many Black ball players in the NFL.”

This earns me a scowl and a little fist twitch, as if he’s thinking of working me over. Sadly for him, by the time his big meathead finishes processing the thought, I’ve stepped back inside and am headed for my car. I’ve learned all I need to from Big Al, and none of it paints Syl Booker in a flattering light. I smile at myself in the mirror as I pull away with a vision of Big Al’s confusion over the fact that his buddy “went down easily”. I can’t help wondering if and when it might occur to the big lug to wonder why I was questioning him in the first place. It sure as hell wasn’t to benefit his asshole buddy. Maybe someone else had a reason to come after Syl Booker. If so, it’s my job to figure out who and why. Simple as that. I wonder where the oversize puzzle piece of Big Al fits.

CHAPTER 8

So, having gathered at least a sense of what Syl Booker was all about, I feel like I’ve made a dent in at least one item on my investigative to do list, although I need to take a deeper dive into that muddle. It’s now early evening and I’m in my home office, floundering in my effort to get a handle on our prosecutor. The State’s Attorney website is a little light on Assistant State’s Attorney Grayson Birch’s background … similar to how forthcoming they’ve been with discovery to date, which is to say there isn’t jackshit. Birch has no social media presence that I can find. Mental note to self: engage Brittany’s assistance. She and her internet-savvy gang have unearthed a Rosetta Stone or two for us over the years.

As instructed by said daughter time and time again, I keep clicking through the online search results for Birch beyond the first couple of pages and eventually find a link to Birch’s bio as told in a hometown newspaper feature. Despite his blue-blood name, Birch turns out to be a man of modest beginnings: raised the son of a single father who worked at Grand Forks AFB, attended grades K – 8 at on-base schools before finishing up at Grand Forks Central High School. He continued his education locally with a B.S. in Criminal Justice Studies from the University of North Dakota at Grand Forks before putting a cherry atop his educational cake with a law degree from the same institution. Where did the money come from? Why, from Uncle Sam, of course, by way of the military’s Judge Advocate General office, who paid tuition in return for a commitment to serve after graduation. How do I know all this? Because Brittany has been looking at JAG as a career option, which surprised me until I had a look at the recruiting package and her research notes. For someone who isn’t hell-bent on occupying a corner office and desirous of county club membership, it sounds a sight more attractive than toiling away for a hundred hours per week or more as a poorly-paid associate at a white-glove law firm.

The Q & A portion of the newspaper article paints Birch as a humble man who remembers his roots, appreciates all he’s been given, and is committed to serving his community and country. What’s not to like about that? Oddly enough, we recently came up against another JAG graduate in a shit show of a case down in LaSalle County, who was a pretty fair trial lawyer. I sense that the same will prove true with our current opponent. So, Grayson Birch has an intriguing back story, one which would normally predispose me to liking the guy—if he wasn’t plying his trade for a bunch of wolves in sheep’s clothing. I’d also be more kindly disposed to him if his office would quit screwing around with discovery, but that’s essentially Mike’s issue to resolve. Hopefully, the impetus for the stonewalling is coming from the top and Birch will prove a little easier to work with as the case progresses. We’ll see.

In the meantime, I’ve come to the third item of my initial to-do list from my meeting with Mike: What happened at the Booker home in the early hours of Easter morning? The police investigation may not yet be complete, but there’s certainly evidence to share by now. The Medical Examiner’s report won’t change over time, the photographic evidence of the scene is fixed, and the basics of their evidence collection isn’t open to interpretation—this item was found in location A, blood evidence was collected in location B, etc. There’s no reason not to share these details with the defense team. Unless, of course, you’re an underhanded, politically-motivated State’s Attorney with a political agenda to eventually elevate yourself to the governor’s mansion on the back of a law-and-order platform, and what State’s Attorney doesn’t seem to be playing that game? Win at all costs is the name of the game, rules and justice be damned. It’s dirty pool … to put it in family-friendly terms.

I spend the next two hours tediously pouring over every single news report that’s been published by Chicago’s major media outlets, digging into every crackpot post I can find, and watching video of news reporting. The only thing new of minor interest I stumble across is a street interview of a neighbor who claims she was looking out her window Easter morning and noticed the police activity, which isn’t exactly newsworthy. She does say, however, that she noticed a clearly distraught Van approaching along the opposite side of the street, staring at the house with a look of horror for a long minute before sprinting into the yard, only to be stopped by a couple of cops. Even then, the witness says, Van seemed to be frantically trying to turn a wicker basket back upright so she could scoop a bevy of spilled painted Easter eggs back into it.

I pause to fix the heartbreaking scene in my mind and shudder. Then I replay the clip to take note of both the reporter and witness names so I can follow up with them. Perhaps there was something of value to me that ended up on the cutting room floor when the story was edited in the newsroom. What I just heard and saw isn’t exactly evidence we can use, but Van’s behavior sure doesn’t sound like the behavior of someone who only hours earlier slaughtered the occupants of the house. All well and good, but exactly what took place at 27 Maple Street hours earlier? Being in the dark isn’t merely annoying, it’s dangerous to the prospects of our case and the future of our client. Somehow or other, I need to get a sense of what the police have uncovered, and we can’t afford to keep waiting on discovery to do so.

I close my laptop, push my chair back from the desk, and head into the kitchen with the dogs in tow. I work through the problem while I pluck a Corona out of the fridge, pop the cap off, and upend it for a few seconds before snagging a bag of Vitner’s potato chips—original flavor, of course—out of the pantry. Then I walk to the living room and plop my butt into Papa’s ancient Laz-y-boy recliner, a chair that somehow or other seems to be as comfortable today as it was the first time I sat in it back in the day.

The crinkle of the potato chip bag, as always, activates Deano’s salivary glands in a manner akin to opening a fire hydrant. I do my best to ignore the lake spreading at my feet while I engage the dogs in discussion. After a few unproductive minutes, inspiration strikes.

“What about Max Maxwell?” I ask the mutts.

Deano nudges my knee in response, leaving a dark smudge on my pants. Somehow or other, I suspect he isn’t thinking of Max. Dolly, however, former police dog that she was, meets my gaze steadily, seemingly in approval. Okay then, that’s encouraging ... the ex-cop is in favor or trying to recruit another ex-cop.

“So, you’re in favor of talking to Max?” I ask Dolly.

She inches closer and delicately takes a chip from my fingers.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say before risking my arm by extending a chip to Deano. It’s gone in a flash, leaving me to dry my fingers on my shirt.

But how to recruit Max, that’s the question. I first got to know Max through Cedar Heights Chief of Police Jake Plummer, with whom I’ve grown friendly over the years. Max spent most of his adult life working as a Chicago cop, climbing from patrolman to a highly-regarded homicide detective before retiring several years ago. Aside from drumming for our basement band, in retirement Max has done a little detective work, even working with us on and off, although he hung up his investigative spurs for good a year or two ago. Still, it can’t hurt to ask. It’s not as if I have any other brilliant ideas. Now I just need a plan to minimize the odds of Max turning me down flat.

I smile and rub the crowns of the dogs’ heads in turn as the answer comes to mind. They say the way to man’s heart is through his stomach, but there are other avenues; especially for audiophiles. I pop to my feet and step over to my parents’ vintage Sylvania console stereo, which has occupied this corner of the living room since the day Papa splurged on it so Mama could listen to her beloved Dean Martin LPs on a high-quality stereo system. It doesn’t get much use nowadays—especially not the 8-track player, which chewed up our last Joe Cocker tape years and years ago—but Papa lovingly refinished it after Mama passed five years ago. I occasionally power up the AM/FM radio to listen to the oldies station, but that tends to make me feel more lonely than nostalgic. Yet there are more than a few treasures tucked away in the cabinet that holds the old LPs.

“How did I forget about this?” I ask the dogs, foraging for a LP I bought at a flea market several months ago. I had Max in mind when I did so, but the day was smack in the middle of a trial and events erased the purchase from my mind before I had a chance to call Max, who is a committed vinyl audiophile. “A little serendipity, wouldn’t you say?”

Just under an hour later, the resonant rumbling of a massive eight-cylinder muscle car engine announces Max’s arrival. I peer out the window as he parks his Carousel Red 1969 Pontiac GTO Judge in the driveway behind my Porsche and climbs out. He’s an old school kinda guy, Max is. Muscle cars and vinyl records. He’s a hero of mine. I meet him at the door and we shake hands. I’m not a little guy and I’m twenty years Max’s junior, yet I have no doubt that the sinewy mitt that grips my hand could crush all twenty-seven bones in my hand in two seconds should he choose to do so. He’s an aging grizzly of a man, although he can fool you with his teddy bear routine if you’re on good terms.

We exchange greetings, he roughhouses with Dolly for a minute, commiserates about getting “old and portly” with Deano, then accepts a beer and settles across from me in Mama’s old sitting chair.

He looks around, runs a hand across the deep mahogany of the stereo console, and chuckles. “It’s like the fucking Smithsonian in here, Tony. Love it!”

Cops, soldiers, athletes. Potty mouths all. I return his smile.

“So, what’s this big mystery I’m gonna love?” he asks.

I don’t reply, just sit and study him until he frowns and leans down to make eye contact with Deano. “I sense a set up here, buddy. What’s your old man plotting?”

“I bought something a few months back with you in mind,” I finally say.

“And what? I need to sit and beg to get it? Do tricks?”

“Something more along the lines of a trick,” I reply before laying out my troubles with getting the lay of the land around 27 Maple Street on the morning of March thirty-first.

“The Easter morning murders,’ he says slowly.

I nod.

“Is she guilty?” he asks. Max has had more than one attack of conscience working the defense side of things with us. It’s not that he’s a man with a closed mind, but he struggles with the idea that maybe his side isn’t always firmly aligned on the side of justice. It’s been a bit of an eye opener for him once or twice, but I realized going in that the idea of us defending a woman accused of killing her baby was going to be a bit of a reach for Max.

“I’m not going to pretend to know for sure, Max, but none of us think Van is good for this.”

“But the cops and State’s Attorney do,” he counters.

“They do.”

“Tell me what you want from me and I’ll tell you if it’s something I’m comfortable with. Then you can give me whatever bribe you’ve got, no matter what I decide.”

“What do you think, girl?” I ask Dolly. “Should we give it to him?”

Dolly leaves the decision to me, so I walk over to the stereo and retrieve an LP from inside it. Max’s eyes pop open wide when I present it to him. He handles it as if it’s a precious museum artifact as a delighted smile of wonder crosses his face. “No shit? Is this an original pressing?”

“Near as I can tell,” I reply. Not that I’m an expert, but he does hold a copy of the Tamala Records LP United, the first album cut by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell singing as a duo back in 1967.

“Jesus God, Tony. I’ll have to check to see if it’s from the first pressing, but even if it’s not, it’s sure as a hell a copy from 1967. Don’t see those every day. This must have set you back a few bucks?”

I smile. “Three bucks at a thrift shop.”

He slaps his knee and laughs. “There are probably hundreds of record collectors trolling for one of these on discog sites.”

I stare back blankly.

“Discography sites, Tony. Folks with a damn sight more patience and smarts than me catalogue old records with every sort of minutiae imaginable. I’ll look this up on one of those sites later.”

I tilt my head at the stereo. “Wanna have a listen on a contemporaneous stereo?”

“Hell, yeah!”

I hold my tongue and tap my foot straight through the end of the opening track, “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough”, before venturing to advance my agenda.

“Damned if that doesn’t take me back to my youth,” Max exclaims happily.

“And what does young Max Maxwell think of my proposition?”

The brief flash of irritation on his face vanishes as track two plays on and he remembers that the LP isn’t changing hands for free. “Tell me what you want.”

I tell him about the lack of discovery.

“Hmm. What do you know for sure?”

“That Syl and Ally Booker were murdered in their home on Easter morning. That’s it, Max. The State claims in their pleading that these were vicious killings perpetrated by a cold-blooded killer. Beyond that, what you read in the press.”

“Seriously? That’s all you’ve got almost two months after the fact in a death penalty case?”

“You see my problem.”

“Hell, that ain’t right, Tony. They could have sent a few things your way by now. God, that Timothy Walker son of a bitch turns my stomach.”

He’s referring to Cook County State’s Attorney Timothy Walker, a slick former prosecutor who we’ve run afoul of a time or two. Of course, it’s been more than a little fun besting him in court a time or two. Which probably helps explain how close to the line they’re skating on discovery in this case.

I tell Max what I’m hoping he can do, assuming he’s comfortable doing so.

He hefts the empty album cover a few inches off his knee and cracks a smile. “I suppose you’ve earned it. Plus, it’s just flat out wrong that Walker is playing games in a murder case. Let me poke around a bit with my contacts, see what I can scare up.”

I nod.

He nods back. “Now, can we listen to the fucking record in peace?”

So we do.

CHAPTER 9

On Friday morning, less than a week later, I’m sitting in Mike’s office announcing that I’ve come to bring him up to speed on the stellar investigative efforts of his partner. Max has come through, albeit with information I could mostly do without.

“About time you got your finger out of your ass,” Mike replies … by way of appreciation, one supposes. “Let’s start with some bad news first.”

“By all means, let’s,” I grumble.

“Sara accepted an offer to go study in Norway for the summer semester. She didn’t get in initially, but a spot opened up. She’ll be gone for a couple of months. School is six weeks and she plans to backpack around for a few weeks afterward.”

“Sounds great. For her, anyway.”

Mike frowns. “Yeah, it’s a great opportunity.”

“What will she be studying?”

“Something to do with gender equality in the Nordic countries.”

I don’t hide my surprise. “I’ve never heard her talk about that.”

“Exactly what the family said.”

“And her reply?”

“That they must have a lot to teach us, given all the female political and corporate leaders in that part of the world.”

I chuckle. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Damn straight,” he says. “Mom’s tickled pink, says she’s bursting with pride that one of her children wants to take a stab at tackling one of America’s big failings.”

“As opposed to her mercenary lawyer son?” I ask innocently.

He laughs, “Oh, she caught herself right away and spent ten minutes assuring me that she’s as proud of me as can be, and I know she is. But it’s a good point.”

“Don’t take it too hard,” I say. “You’re not a policy type.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” he says with a grin. “So, let’s hear what you’ve unearthed.”

I start with the simple stuff; Grayson Birch.

“Interesting bio, and agreed that maybe he doesn’t eat babies, but he’s still working for Mordor,” Mike says when I finish.

“True story,” I mutter, then fill him in on the Syl Booker story, at least to the extent I’ve been able to uncover it so far.

“Sounds like an unsavory SOB,” Mike allows. “More than a little room there to raise the specter of a boogeyman or two among the characters he ran with.”

“A definite possibility,” I agree.

“That’s all you got on him, huh?”

“You make it sound as if you think I dropped the ball,” I mutter.

“Nah, I wouldn’t do that,” he replies easily as a grin spreads across his face. “Mind you, I’ve been on the hardwood with you, my friend. You are a little prone to dropping the ball…”

I chuckle. Mike and I have a longstanding tradition of playing a little one-on-one hoops at the Cedar Heights RecPlex. I’m still looking for my first win after three years, so I have no standing to argue the point.

“Speaking of hoops, I do believe it’s high time for me to lay another beat down on you,” Mike continues

“Next week?”

With the same broad, cocky smile that’s haunted me on the RecPlex hardwood for the last few years, he nods and slaps a hand on his desktop. “Put some ass kicking on your calendar for Thursday morning, my man.”

I nod, then get back to the matter at hand. “I asked Joan to track down Syl’s police records, subpoena court records, the usual.”

I want to know about any criminal activities or legal troubles Syl might have been involved in over the years and, equally important in light of what I’ve heard in the past week, who he might have been associated with.

“What’s your gut feeling?” Mike asks.

“He’s a nasty one,” I reply. “How nasty remains to be seen, but I’ll be surprised if we don’t turn up a scumbag or two.”

“Besides him, you mean.”

I return Mike’s grin. “Right.”

“Fair enough. Now for the good stuff.”

“What good stuff?”

“Come on,” he says. “You always save the good stuff for last.”

“I do?” I ask, genuinely surprised by his statement.

He nods.

“Well, I’ll have to fix that in future so you leave our little get togethers all downcast and in tears.”

“Coffee before we get into the rest of it?” Mike suggests.

“Sure.”

Joan glances up as we exit Mike’s office and, having utilized whatever black magic she possesses for knowing exactly what we need before we realize it, announces, “There’s a fresh pot of coffee.”

Mike and I exchange an amused glance, then walk over to the coffee corner to fix ourselves a cup each while Joan brings us up to date on my records requests.

“I should have most of it by end of work today,” she concludes.

Of course she will.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Joan says as we reach the office door.

We turn back, both in something approaching shock at the notion of Joan forgetting—or even coming close to forgetting—anything.

“Aretha called a little while ago,” she tells Mike.

“Why didn’t you put her through?”

“I was going to but she wouldn’t let me. Said it wasn’t anything important and she’d send you a text.”

Mike shakes his head. “Now y’all got me thinking something’s wrong,” he mutters as he walks into his office, studying his phone.

“Message?” I ask, following him in and resuming my seat.

“This sounds like fun,” he says without enthusiasm.

“What’s up?”

“Aretha’s gonna get together with a few old girlfriends on Wednesday evening for a baby shower type thing.”

“At least you won’t have to go.”

He grins and blows out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Thank the gods for that!”

I smile and bring up the notes I made while chatting with Max Maxwell last evening. “So, here’s what Max turned up. It’s not much, I’m afraid, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Which is exactly what we had yesterday,” Mike adds with an edge. The pressure of the case is starting to get to him: the lack of discovery, Van’s unwillingness to open up to any great degree—convinced as she is that there isn’t any valuable information trapped inside her that’s worth the pain of dredging up.

“Oh,” I say, remembering that I do have one other minor bit of news to impart. I tell him about the neighbor I saw on television a few days back. “I circled back and spoke with her and the reporter, who dug up the original video from the segment. For what it’s worth, this neighbor is pretty convincing in her opinion that Van first encountered the crime scene while the cops were there. “Unless Van blacked out while committing the crime, there’s no way she wasn’t surprised to discover what had happened.”

Mike frowns. “‘Unless she blacked out’,” he mutters soto voice. “Which hands the State a convenient explanation for her seemingly innocent behavior.”

“Hey, it’s something we might be able to use,” I retort. “They’re both willing to testify.”

He shrugs. “Good work. Sorry. I’m feeling the heat on this.”

“We all are, Mike. So. Max.”

He rolls his hand at the wrist in a “come on” gesture.

While Max succeeded in prying some news out of his cop buddy, I can’t say I’m looking forward to delivering it to Mike. “According to Max’s buddy, the coroner report states that Syl Booker died of multiple stab wounds and blunt force trauma in what he described as a frenzied killing that, judging by a lack of defensive wounds, clearly caught him by surprise.”

“Frenzied,” Mike mutters.

“Yeah,” I  mutter back.

“As in a crime of passion. Maybe at the hands of a mentally disturbed wife—someone with a personal grudge to settle.”

There’s no way to soften that dagger, so I don’t try. Mind you, the next bit of information I have for Mike isn’t any better for us. “Ally, on the other hand, was stabbed once through the heart, a surgical wound that undoubtedly killed her instantly. In contrast with the husband’s killing, this one seemed to have been very calculated and carried out as if the killer didn’t want the child to suffer.”

“Almost as if her mother didn’t want her baby to suffer,” Mike grumbles dejectedly after considering the news.

“Afraid so. That interpretation might be hard to get around, assuming the prosecution picks up on it.”

“Oh, they’ll pick up on it all right, Tony. I think we can make bank on that. I’m afraid that we’re screwed on this case, pal,” Mike says disconsolately, displaying a defeatism I’ve never seen in him before. But he makes a valid point. I wish I had something to cheer him up, but I don’t.

Mike remains morose for the last half hour we spend in the office, heading home for the weekend in a bit of a funk. I’ll soon have cause to wish I’d never had this conversation with him.

CHAPTER 10

Once Kevin planted the seed of reuniting the Liberty Street Seven in Brittany’s mind, there was no turning back. It’s Tuesday night, and she’s dragged me into the basement to do what she refers to as “A little preparatory guitar work to get us back in the swing of things.”

Max Maxwell, curse his fat old ass, had jumped at the suggestion of putting the band back together instead of driving a stake into the heart of the idea by depriving us of a drummer. If only the old coot would have elected to just stay home to listen to his records all summer, maybe I wouldn’t find myself in the basement noodling on my Epiphone Casino guitar. Not that I’m adverse to noodling, I quite enjoy it, just not so much with a musical drill sergeant putting me through my paces as if an upcoming stadium tour depends on me hitting every note “just so.”

“Come on, focus, old timer!” Brittany says with a grin after I flub a simple chord transition for the fifth time, despite having mastered it years ago.

“Tough day at work,” I mutter. “Things aren’t going well.”

“That Easter case?’

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been poking around social media, Pops. Van just doesn’t do it, y’know … social media, I mean. That’s kinda impressive these days. God, the time we all waste online.”

“No kidding.”

“The dead guy, Syl, was there on and off. Bit of ghost at times.”

“Nothing useful, huh?”

“I didn’t say that. The profiles of some gangbanger groups seem to intersect with a couple of his contacts. I haven’t been able to find anything connecting him directly to the gang types, but I’ll keep looking. Something might click.”

While a little disappointed in the lack of concrete answers, I’m at least mildly encouraged to hear that there might be something to this angle. Lord knows we need a break or two, and soon. We chat for a moment about how hard the lack of progress in the case is hitting Mike.

“Doesn’t sound like him,” Brittany says. “I’ll dig harder. Maybe ask Sara to give me a hand.”

“Did she tell you about Norway?”

“Norway?”

So, no. I tell her about Sara’s summer plans. My daughter turns green with envy, then switches off her amplifier and darts upstairs, phone in hand, berating Sara for not sharing the news.

I knuckle down to master the piece we’ve been working on, “Free Fallin’” by Tom Petty. Simple structure and chords but executed oh so effectively. Sans drillmaster, I’m soon breezing through the entire number without a stumble, so I grab my Martin acoustic and move on to a piece I’ve never mastered but enjoy the hell out of mangling.

“Is that supposed to be the intro to ‘Crazy on You?’” my smartassed daughter asks as she bounces back down the stairs after I’ve flailed away for several minutes.

“You know damned well it is,” I retort. Never let it be said that my finger picking technique is better than Deano’s, but if you listen real closely, you’ll hear me hit a couple of the simpler notes at least a few times.

“If he says so,” she says to the dogs in a stage whisper.

“Have a good time chewing Sara out?” I ask, eager to change the subject.

“Man, that lucky witch,” Brittany replies. “Oslo sounds awesome. If I wasn’t going to Europe myself, I’d be totally jealous. As it is, I’m only a little jealous.”

While I’ve known for a couple of months about my daughter’s plans to head to Europe as soon as she finishes her school year, we haven’t discussed the details. It’s become something of an annual pilgrimage for Brittany to visit her mother in Brussels and her grandfather in Italy. I’m going to have to tag along sometime soon, at least for the Italian leg of the trip.

“Got your dates all worked out?” I ask.

“Yup! I’ll spend the first week in Brussels with Mom, complete with a shopping day trip to Paris.”

Ah yes, the devoted mother of my daughter, a Coca-Cola VP in a determined climb to scale the heights of the corporate ladder, which stands tall in Atlanta, Georgia. “Don’t get your hopes up about Paris,” I warn, all too aware of the latchkey kid vacations Brittany has endured in Brussels when her mother “simply couldn’t get away” from her time-critical HR duties.

Brittany shoots me a somewhat annoyed glance. “I won’t.”

I’m never sure in these moments if her annoyance is all attributable to me, if she’s annoyed at memories of her mother choosing Coke over Brittany, or some combination of the two.

She quickly moves us on to a happier topic. “Allessandra is going to meet me in Rome so we can take the train down to Orsomarso together.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“She’s fun,” Brittany says.

“You two are going to take another shot at prying Papa off the farm?”

“That’s the plan,” she replies, following that with a grin. “I’m banking some tears to spill at opportune moments.”

“He hates that,” I note. “It might work.”

“Yup! That’s the hope.”

“I should be there for that,” I mutter. Allessandra is Papa’s sister, so responsibility certainly falls on her, but Brittany is just a kid. He’s my father; I should be there to share the load.

“You know the way,” my daughter says.

I nod, wondering just how unfair it would be for me to leave Mike on his own for even a few days.

“So, lots to look forward to over the next couple of months,” Brittany says happily as she eases the acoustic out of my hands and replaces it with the Casino. “Pat and Kevin in a few weeks, then Brussels and Italy. I might even shoot up to Norway for a couple of days.”

“World traveller, huh?”

She smiles. “I’m just getting started, Pops.”

Meaning I’m going to be spending the start of summer by myself, without anyone to do internet sleuthing for me. So be it; it’s not as if I don’t have enough to keep me busy. Heck, I might even take a quick trip to Italy.

Drill Sergeant Valenti interrupts my reverie with an imperious command to run through “Free Fallin” one more time. And then another. And another.

CHAPTER 11

Thursday morning dawns bright and sunny with all the makings of another glorious spring day. The dogs seem to share my appreciation for the weather as we stroll through our morning constitutional in Independence Park, which sits at the end of our block of Liberty Street. After a quick breakfast with Brittany, I’m up and on my way out the door almost before she realizes I’m on my way out.

“What’s the hurry, Pops?”

“Mike’s gonna clean my clock at the RecPlex before work. I just realized that my gym bag is in my office, so I’ll have to stop there to pick it up on the way. I need to get going.”

She smiles. “Good. You two haven’t done that for a while, have you?”

“Nope.”

“It’ll be good therapy to blow off some steam. You both seem more than a little stressed these days. Even Sara mentioned it to me on Tuesday.”

“She’s right. We’re both feeling the pressure of this case.”

“I’ll be happy to see the end of it,” she mutters.

“You and me both, kiddo. How’s your day looking?”

“Nothing special. I have a paper due that I’m going to work on in the library, that’s about it.”

“Home for dinner?”

She smiles. “I can be. What’s cooking?”

“Burgers?”

“I’m here for that!”

Tony Valenti’s famous burgers bring a crowd every time. “Maybe I should invite the work gang. It would do us all good. I’ll pick up some ground sirloin and burger buns on my way home this afternoon.”

“I’ll slap together a salad of some sort,” she says. “It’ll be fun.”

Yes, it will. I waltz into our reception area five minutes later and find an uncharacteristically disheveled George Williams, Mike’s normally uber distinguished father, talking quietly with Joan. She looks horrified. Not good. Mr. Williams’s tone, demeanor, and his presence here at eight o’clock in the morning are evidence aplenty that he’s arrived bearing ill tidings.

“What’s up?” I ask softly.

“Mike and Aretha were in a car wreck last night,” he replies.

I’m reluctant to ask the obvious next question—George Williams’s ashen expression telegraphs that the answer will be devastating. “And?” I whisper.

“Aretha and the baby are gone.”

“Good God,” I gasp. “Mike?”

“In a coma. He may or may not make it.”

I sag into one of the guest chairs. I recall Aretha sweeping into the office two months ago, too excited to wait until Mike got home to break the news that she was pregnant. Mike had, if anything, been even more jubilant than Aretha. My eyes drift to the open door of Mike’s office as my memory conjures up the scene of all of us laughing and crying as we celebrated the blessed news.

Jesus.

“What are you doing here?” I ask George rather indelicately. After all, if his son is clinging to life in hospital, shouldn’t he be there with his wife?

He slumps into the chair next to mine and sighs heavily. “They had to sedate Althea. She’s out cold. The other kids are there at the hospital. I just needed to get away from it all for a few minutes, and this isn’t news I wanted to deliver to you folks by phone, Tony. So I hopped in a cab and shot over. Maybe not the best idea.”

I place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “We appreciate you coming, Mr. Williams.”

The three of us sit mostly in shocked silence for the next couple of minutes, while George periodically lets slip a few additional details before again falling silent. Joan pours coffee for everyone, then rejoins us.

“Seeing Aretha’s mother get the news about tore my heart in two,” George says softly. “We all hurried to the hospital as soon as the police let us know there’d been a wreck. We arrived first and already knew dear Aretha was gone. Heartbreaking.”

“Did she suffer?” Joan asks softly.

“Don’t think so,” George replies. “One of the police officers told us it was a horrific scene. A speeding pickup truck t-boned Aretha’s door, traveling much, much too fast. Sounds like she probably died instantly.”

Joan crosses herself and dabs her eyes with a tissue. “That would be a blessing.”

“It would be, indeed,” George agrees before lapsing back into silence. After a minute or two longer, his eyes drift to the door.

“Why don’t I drive you back to the hospital?” I suggest.

“No need to trouble yourself, Tony.”

“No trouble at all,” I reply, coming this close to saying that my plans for the morning at the RecPlex won’t be playing out as intended. He may well know what those plans were. If so, he doesn’t mention it.

It’s little more than a ten-minute drive to the hospital, during which George doesn’t utter anything more than saying thank you for the ride a couple of times. We park in the Emergency lot and I follow him inside, where his wife and kids remain right where he left them in the waiting room. Mike’s brother Reg gets his father settled beside his sleeping wife, then motions me back toward the entrance. I’ve known Reg for a few years now, ever since I represented him at trial.

“Where did you find him?” Reg asks with a nod back at his dad as we walk away. “We didn’t realize he was gone for a bit. Figured he just went to the john or something. Sara had to text him to find out he was going to your office. I guess he made it.”

I nod. “Says he took a cab.”

“Well, thanks for bringing him back. I could have come for him.”

I wave the thought away. “No problem at all, Reg. How are you holding up?”

He shrugs. “Can’t really say, I suppose. I’m numb.”

I think back to the moment my father called with the news that Mama had passed. To the instant I heard that my sister had been killed on active duty in the US Army. I nod. “Yeah.”

Reg stares off into space. “This might even be worse than hearing about Marsha getting murdered. Maybe not. It’s certainly fresher, so maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s them losing the baby that hits so hard.” His chin sags to his barrel chest “Hell, I dunno. This sucks, Tony.”

I hadn’t thought about the fact that he had been through the murder of his ex-wife only a couple of years ago. I remember how hard that hit him. My eyes drift toward the ceiling while I ask God if this family hasn’t already been through enough damned grief.

He lifts his chin and our eyes meet for a long moment.

“Mike?” I ask.

“Hard to get a handle on how things stand. Multiple internal injuries, we know that much. Skull fracture, no idea if there’s been brain damage. Once they had him more or less stabilized, the emergency doc told us that they’ll work their way through the injuries with an eye toward fixing the most life-threatening issues first. Once they get through that list, they’ll start thinking longer-term.”

I take it in without comment, but feel a weight settle deeper within my chest at the news that my best friend isn’t out of the woods just yet. All the news is horrible, of course, but the situation with Aretha and the baby is settled. There will be time to grieve for them, and I will, but Mike’s future hangs in the balance and the uncertainty feels unbearable. If he has a future, it’s going to look a lot different than it did yesterday, and I’ll need to be there for him and his family. And I will be.

Reg touches my arm. “You okay, man?”

I start to nod, then shake my head. “How can we be?”

Reg pulls me in for a hug. “We’ll get through this, my friend. One way or another, we’ll have to.”

I nod while a few tears drip down my cheek.

“Let’s check in with the fam and then grab a coffee in the cafeteria,” Reg suggests. “It’s probably shitty, but I could use a jolt of caffeine.”

I nod and tag along as he walks back to the emergency waiting room. As suspected, there’s no news. Reg announces our intentions and we walk away. Sara catches us as we leave Emergency and we hold hands all the way to the basement and the coffee urns. Coffees in hand, we settle at a table and stare at each other with looks pregnant with unspoken meaning.

“George gave us the basics,” I finally say. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Sara answers. “Aretha was meeting up with some friends for a baby shower, but she doesn’t like driving, what with the big belly squeezed in behind the wheel and all. So Mike took her to the party and picked her up a little after eleven. Some maniac doing sixty or seventy on Division ran a red light and crushed Aretha and the baby. The police told us they wouldn’t have lasted a minute after that impact.”

“Cops figure the bitch in the truck was drunk, stoned out of her mind, or both,” Reg says in a voiced dripping with contempt. “You ask me, the wrong fucking people died.”

No doubt about that in my mind, either.

CHAPTER 12

It’s the tail end of an emotionally draining day. Plenty of tears have been shed over the course of this day and surely more have yet to fall. I’ve been back and forth between the office, home, and the hospital. Brittany picked up dinner on her way home from Sara’s. Penelope is due to arrive within the next few minutes, having driven straight through from Minneapolis. She’s been on the road almost all day, initially setting off to work on her tort case in Minneapolis at the tail end of a three-day visit to relatives in Kansas. Having been in the middle of nowhere, it was noon before she checked her phone and discovered that Joan had been calling for hours. The assumption is that Penelope fell victim to sketchy cell phone coverage way out there in the middle of nowhere. Once she called Joan and received the news about Mike and Aretha, she’d checked in with her colleagues in Minneapolis, handed off her files, and pointed the car east. Between meal and pee breaks, construction delays, and a prairie hail and thunderstorm that all but shut things down for close to an hour, she’s been on the road from Minnesota for over seven hours.

I clear away the mess left behind after our Portillo’s takeout dinner and decide to sit down at the kitchen table for a minute. I’m surprised to be awakened by the dogs’ excited barking and am working a kink out of my neck when Brittany blows past to find Penelope on our doorstep. The two woman eyeball each other for a moment, then fall into one another’s arms in tears. I shrug and join in. It’s been that kind of day.

By the time we’re disentangled and seated around the kitchen table, the kettle is on, a trio of hot chocolate mugs sits on the kitchen counter, and we’re discussing the status of Penelope’s involvement in the Minnesota tort case.

“Maybe I need to bow out and come home,” Penelope murmurs.

“You committed to them.”

“That was then, Tony. Things are different now.”

“No hasty decisions,” I caution. “This is all too fresh and we’re all upset.”

“I can’t be two places at once,” she snaps. “I can’t go back. Who do you think is going to handle the cases we have here?”

I bite my tongue in deference to the sheen of tears in her eyes. I have given these questions some thought throughout the day and have arrived at a different conclusion, but we’ll have time for that tomorrow. Penelope is exhausted and emotionally drained. We all are.

When the kettle boils, I wave Brittany back into her seat and take care of the drinks myself. I need a minute or two to gather my thoughts. By the time I return and set the mugs down, the atmosphere feels a little more settled.

“We don’t have to decide anything tonight,” I say after I sit down. “This all comes as a shock. We have a lot more questions than answers at the moment.”

Penelope nods with a demeanor I seldom experience with her: a complete willingness to be guided. It’s clearly all too much to take in after the day she’s had. Bad as my day has been, and it’s been hellish, my poor partner has been cut off, alone in a car with her thoughts all day, no doubt filling the blank spaces in her knowledge of events by imagining the worst. There are few worse places to be stuck, and she’s been there for ten hours or more.

I rest my hand on hers and give it a squeeze. “How about we just consider options this evening without even trying to make any decisions. I don’t think we’re in any condition to do so.”

She turns her hand in mine and intertwines our fingers with a weary smile. “Every once in a while, you’re the wise elder in our partnership.”

I chuckle softly and counter with, “You’re not so much younger yourself.”

“Everything’s relative.”

“Let’s finish our hot chocolate before we get to work.” I suggest.

Nods all around. In no hurry to get back to work matters, I ask Brittany to fill Penelope in on her European travel plans.

“Oh, and Sara is going to Norway to study!” Brittany adds after telling Penelope about her own plans.

The table falls silent as each of us realizes that Sara’s summer plans may well have been torpedoed by the events on Division Street last evening. Which leads to the realization that all our lives have likely changed to one degree or another.

“I need to get a little bit of classwork done for tomorrow and get some rest,” Brittany announces after finishing her hot chocolate. She pushes off the edge of the table to stand, and makes the rounds of hugs, kisses, and “Good nights” before she trundles off toward her room with Dolly in tow.

We watch her go, then Penelope and I study each other for a long minute.

“Should we get to work?” she asks.

I nod, then go to my office and return with a couple of legal pads and pens.

“So,” I begin. “Our options.”

“I withdraw from the torts case,” she says.

I’m about to argue but then stop myself. It’s an option, albeit one that might bankrupt the firm. I jot it down. “We could withdraw from Van’s case.”

“Or we could ask for a continuance.”

I frown. “Neither of which is guaranteed to be approved.”

“Only one way to know,” she says with a shrug.

“If we have to keep the case, then what?”

“You know the case better than I do,” she says. “You sit first chair and I sit second.”

“Who investigates?”

“Hmmm. Maybe we can hire someone?”

Unlikely, at least not anyone I’d be comfortable with, but I make a note of the option.

“For that matter,” I add, “I suppose we could look at bringing someone else on to sit second chair and you can stay on the torts case.”

She resists the inclination to argue the point and asks if I dropped by the jail to tell Van about the accident.

I groan. “I thought of it a couple of times and never got around to it. Damn it. She’s gonna hear about it through the grapevine down there, sure as shit.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, partner. What’s done is done … or not done, I suppose. She needs to hear the options and weigh in on the course forward. Should we go see her now?”

“I doubt they’ll let us in, but I suppose we can ask.”

Penelope has her phone in hand and is dialing within seconds. The call seeking permission, including long pauses while the first correctional officer speaks to another correctional officer who then speaks with a third person, is over within a few minutes. Due to the potential disruption in staff and facility routines, our request cannot be granted this evening, to hell with the requirement not to put barriers between attorneys and their incarcerated clients. In Illinois, a request for a confidential meeting has to be made in writing with as many other obstacles put in the way as the State can get away with. It’s a truism that keeping a defendant in jail with limited attorney contact is a boon to prosecutors, so the justice system strives to tilt the playing field ever further to facilitate convictions. Whoever Penelope is speaking with at least has the grace to mark us down for an attorney-client meeting at nine-thirty tomorrow morning.

“Is it too late to visit the hospital?” Penelope wonders aloud.

“We can’t see Mike,” I reply. “It probably wouldn’t hurt to stop and say hi to his family, though, assuming they’re still there.”

“I’m sure they are.”

I slide my phone in front of me and scroll through my contacts. “You’re probably right. Let me check with Reg and we can take it from there.”

“I’m here by myself at the moment, Tony,” he says. “We finally talked Mom and Dad into going home for some rest, and everyone else is tucking in their kids. Sara’s gonna come back in a bit to keep me company until ten. My sister and brother are going to take a shift each overnight. This looks to be a long haul, so everyone needs to get enough rest to see it through.”

“Any updates on Mike?”

“Nothing much. They’ve gotten the internal injuries patched up and relieved the pressure on his brain, so he’s stabilized. They put him in a medically-induced coma when he threatened to come around, which they say will take some strain off his systems and help keep him stable. Something along those lines, anyway. It’s all a bit over my head, to be honest.”

“It’s over most of our heads, my friend,” I say.

“I suppose. They’ll turn their attention back to his brain in another day or two. Whatever else is going on upstairs doesn’t appear to be life threatening, so they’ll keep him under until they’re ready to tackle that.

“Penelope is back,” I tell him. “Any point in her coming by?”

“Put her on the line.”

“You want to let us know you’re thinking of us and pass along your condolences?” I overhear him ask.

“I do.”

“I understand you had yourself a helluva travel day, ma’am.”

“How did you know?”

“Tony’s been in touch all day.”

“Ah.”

“So, Miss Penelope, consider your condolences and best wishes passed along and go get yourself some rest. Coming all the way down here right now isn’t gonna let you speak with anyone else but me, and we just did that.”

Penelope sits with tears in her eyes.

“You still there?” Reg asks.

“I am. Thank you and God Bless, Reg.”

“Back at you, ma’am.”

“Guess it’s bedtime all around,” I say after she hands the phone back and I say my goodnights to Reg.

“I just feel like I should do more,” she says in frustration.

“Sometimes there isn’t any more to do, partner. You should get on home to your wife. I imagine Becky’s been going stir crazy waiting for you to get home safely.”

“Oh, we talked a few times,” Penelope says with a wan smile. “She knows I made it here.”

I walk my partner to the door, where we hold each other in a lengthy hug before I send her out into the night with a promise to shoot me a text when she gets home. Then I pull a bottle of Maker’s Mark out of the cabinet above the fridge, pour myself a healthy glass, and sip on it while the dogs despondently poke around the backyard and go potty. If they had their druthers, we’d be making our way around Independence Park for the usual pre-bed walk.

“Sorry, mutts,” I tell them as I let them back into the house. “I’m just not up to it tonight.”

By the time Penelope texts me, I’m sound asleep at the kitchen table and startle awake when the phone dings. I acknowledge the message, thank her for sending it, and say goodnight. It’s been a day for the ages. Tomorrow promises to be another, and I suspect they’ll continue on in like manner for the foreseeable future.

CHAPTER 13

Penelope and I meet for breakfast on our way to the jail the next morning and map out a tentative strategy to begin addressing the situation we suddenly find ourselves in. The plan is in trouble the moment Van is ushered into the visitation room wearing an expression of aggrieved annoyance.

“You’ve heard the news about Mike,” I say, framing the words as a question, the answer to which is written plainly on her face.

Her eyes bore into mine. “As you might have guessed, the guards were plenty happy to share the news with me directly.”

I cringe.

“Any updates on Mike’s condition?” she asks.

“Depends on what you’ve heard,” I reply, then fill her in on all we knew as of our final chat with Reg last evening, concluding with, “I spoke with Mike’s father while we were on our way here. Nothing new to report.”

Van’s eyes shift to Penelope. “Did you know his wife?”

“Not as well as Tony did, but yes. Lovely woman.”

“She was pregnant, wasn’t she?”

I nod, then shake my head in answer to the unspoken question that followed.

Van winces, then gathers herself. “So, now what? We wait for Mike to return to work?”

Penelope answers. “Unlikely in the extreme, Van. We have no idea what kind of recovery period he’s looking at, and the court is unlikely to grant us much latitude. Moving the docket forward is a priority for the court system. We’ll have to work around the situation.”

“To that end, we’ve requested an emergency meeting with the judge and hope to have that granted for this afternoon,” I say. “That would give us an understanding of the lay of the land.”

“The lay of the land,” Van parrots dismissively. “You make it sound like a military operation.”

I stare back long and hard while I rein in my temper. Her attitude toward me has always rankled, but I’m really not in an emotional place to tolerate bullshit this morning. I pass that thought long. “If you don’t yet realize that a murder trial is a form of warfare, you’d best get your head out of your ass and get with the program in a hurry, lady.”

Penelope’s hand lands on mine and the stare she fixes me with is both startled and angry. “Tony’s has a tough—”

Van cuts her off. “Mike’s had a tough time of it. Aretha had a tough time of it. Their baby had a tough time of it. Where were you people yesterday?”

Penelope explains her day on the road.

Van nods sympathetically, then cuts her gaze to me. “And you?”

“I’m sorry. I meant to get in touch but the day got away from me.”

“The day got away from you,” Van parrots back.

“Your mocking is annoying and disrespectful, to say the least,” I shoot back.

“You wanna talk disrespect, how about the fact you had other things to do than to communicate the fact of my attorney’s near death to me? Do you have any idea what is was like to have those shitass guards taunting me with the news? Lord knows they thought it was fun breaking the news and making me beg them for details.”

“We’re sorry,” Penelope murmurs.

Van gives her a sympathetic look. “You have nothing to be sorry about, Penelope. You were essentially out of reach most of the day.”

“I already apologized,” I say. “We should be talking about the case, but if you’re more interested in bitching me out, I have other things to do.”

Penelope throws her hands up in the air. “Tony. Maybe you should wait outside.”

“No,” Van says sharply. “Let’s get this settled now.”

“What is this?” I ask equally sharply.

“My case,” she replies, eyes shifting to meet Penelope’s. “You’ll take over for Mike?”

“Nothing has been decided,” Penelope replies. “We’re just beginning to explore our options.”

“It isn’t going to be him,” Van states with a nod in my direction, speaking in a tone she must assume will brook no argument.

“And why is that?” I ask.

“I’m not gonna let you bleed my family dry in a lost cause.”

“But Mike…” Penelope murmurs in confusion.

“Was Mike,” Van says. “I had faith in him.”

“And you think this is a lost cause without him?” I ask.

“Could be.”

“You’re suggesting I’m some fly-by-night shyster who lines my pockets at the expense of the families of our clients?”

She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t back away from the accusation, either.

“You don’t think I have better things to do”—I fling my arm out to encompass the dingy room—“than to hang around dumps like this trying to save the asses of people like you?”

Van eases back, eyes on fire, and locks her gaze on mine. “Maybe that’s exactly what I think.”

“I’m not going to take any more of your bullshit,” I mutter.

“I can’t listen to this,” Penelope says with a disgusted expression that encompasses both of us. “We’ll make a motion to withdraw as counsel.”

“What does that mean?” Van asks. “You’re quitting?”

I can’t restrain an incredulous bark of laughter at her tone of indignance. Both women turn smoldering eyes on me. “You’ve got some nerve, lady,” I snap. “Don’t you dare insult me, insult Mike, and insult Penelope.”

Van’s eyes flicker to Penelope. “I didn’t mean to insult you or Mike.”

“I’m talking to you,” I growl, leaning into Penelope’s space to capture Van’s gaze. “We’re a team at our law firm. We’re all good lawyers, we all bend over backward to accommodate and serve our clients, we all made the decision to represent you when there were a thousand good reasons not to, and this is the thanks we get from you?” I push back in my seat and stand. “Hell, I don’t want you as client, Van Booker. You can rot in jail for all I care. I can do without being seen as the lawyer who’s trying to get a baby killer off.”

The room is silent and still as I stand at the door with my back to Van and Penelope. I’m raising my hand to pound for the Sheriff's Deputy to let me out when I hear Van’s voice behind me.

“Can he do that in court?” she asks Penelope.

“Yeah, he does.”

“I want that,” Van says.

I turn my head and meet her gaze. “You want what?”

“That fire. That commitment. That power.”

I sense that my mouth has fallen open as I turn to fully face Van. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

“I’m not shittin’ anyone.”

My eyes shift to Penelope. “Can you believe this?”

She shrugs. I lock eyes with Van. There’s a hint of laughter dancing in her eyes as she stares back at me. I slowly walk back to the table and sit down.

“Will you accept my apology?” Van asks me. “I was out of line. Upset about what happened to Mike, I suppose. Maybe a little afraid of losing my lawyers.”

All I can do is laugh. “Afraid of losing your lawyers? What do you do when you want people to stick around?”

“Tony accepts your apology,” Penelope interjects.

I glance over at her and shake my head. “So, now what?”

“I assume we get to work,” Van replies.

I roll my eyes but toss my notebook on the table and click my pen open.

“Not so fast,” Penelope says. “We probably want to wait until we’ve had a chance to speak with Judge Morgan and see where his head is at with all this.”

CHAPTER 14

We’re about to get an answer to Penelope’s concern at four o’clock that afternoon when we walk into Judge Morgan’s chambers alongside Grayson Birch and his sidekick, a young lawyer named Sheila Evans. I inadvertently wondered aloud if she went by the name Sheila E. outside the courtroom when we first saw her name listed as co-counsel for the prosecution. Penelope responded to my lighthearted query with a questioning look. “What?” Maybe Prince wasn’t big in Kansas during the early 2000s.

“Let’s get this over with,” Morgan says by way of greeting.

I figure Morgan to be in his early to mid-sixties. Somewhere along the way, the poor bugger seems to have either lost or misplaced his personality.

The judge motions us into chairs ranged around a small conference table and turns to us when everyone is in place. “Sorry about your partner.”

Penelope dips her chin. “Thank you.”

I don’t bother to respond. Morgan might as well have been telling us he was sorry to hear that a goldfish had died.

“Tough turn,” Birch says. “Please pass along my condolences to Mike and offer our best wishes for a speedy recovery.”

I can’t get a handle on this guy. There’s no questioning the sincerity of his words.

“Thanks,” I murmur in time with Penelope.

Morgan waits for a beat, then gets to work, fixing his gaze on Penelope. “We’re here at your request.”

“Thanks for seeing us, Your Honor,” she begins. “As you might imagine with Mike sitting first chair on our case, events have scrambled things for us in a major way. We are, to put it mildly, somewhat off balance.”

“And?”

“We have to consider our options around this case.”

“How do your options concern my court?”

“I’m in the middle of a complicated torts action in Minnesota,” she begins. “We need to decide where I can best devote my attention. We’re a small firm with limited resources.”

No response, though the flicker of Morgan’s eyebrow might telegraph a measure of impatience.

“An option we may need to consider is withdrawing as counsel from this case,” she continues. “Or perhaps we could get by with a continuance.”

“Neither of which is guaranteed to be approved,” Birch counters. “We, of course, are anxious to bring Booker to justice and will oppose any effort to delay giving the family closure.”

Penelope turns to him with an annoyed expression. “If you don’t mind, I’m addressing the judge. He’ll decide where we go from here.”

Birch’s lips part in the beginnings of a rejoinder, but he cuts his eyes to Morgan before speaking. Whatever he sees there causes him to reconsider.

Morgan’s eyes track between Penelope and me. “You’re both attorneys with criminal law experience, are you not?”

We nod.

“What Mr. Birch suggested rather indelicately has merit. The case is in progress and not only the victims’ family but this court prefers a speedy resolution. If you’re unable to provide effective trial representation or unwilling to do so in favor of other priorities, might I suggest that plea bargain negotiations may be an expeditious resolution.”

“It’s a little soon for that,” I counter, angry that the old SOB even suggested it.

Morgan is shrewder than to get into a back-and-forth argument. He has the hammer, after all, and wisely limits any discussion that may prove to be fertile fodder for a future appeal. He waits us out.

“One of our options is to beef up our staffing,” Penelope says. “Mr. Valenti has been shouldering most our investigative efforts. If he takes lead chair in court, we’ll need to hire someone to manage that aspect of the case. If I remain on the torts case, we’ll need someone to sit second chair. You see our problem?”

Morgan nods. “I do. However, as you so succinctly put it, they are your problems, Miss Brooks. It’s not the responsibility of the courts to facilitate counsel’s staffing shortcomings.”

Penelope goes rigid and replies through clenched teeth, “Be that as it may, Your Honor, we ask that you take our requests under consideration and issue a written ruling as to the options you are amenable to considering.”

Morgan studies her for a long moment, no doubt weighing the possible implications of his next words. “As you haven’t put forward any formal motions, nor have we argued a motion here this afternoon, I won’t be issuing a ruling, Miss Brooks. What I will commit to is delivering written guidance to all counsel by close of business on Monday.”

“And the nature of that guidance?” I ask for clarification. Best to pin the slippery SOB down as best we can.

Morgan’s eyes swing to me. “I’ll speak to any potential motion seeking withdrawal of counsel and to the notion of a continuance. In the event I indicate that I may be favorably inclined to consider a motion for continuance, I’ll offer guidance as to the length of continuance I’d be willing to consider. Bear in mind that we can probably expect argument from opposing counsel against any such remedies, so whatever I deliver should be considered nothing more than guidance. Are we clear?”

As if our reply matters. I nod. Penelope verbalizes our acquiescence.

Birch thanks the judge for taking the time to make his wishes clearly understood. A cynic might interpret his words as an expression of the prosecution’s gratitude about being sent home for the weekend knowing full well that Morgan is going to serve up their wishes in full on a platter.

“So, it’s just you and me, kid,” I say to Penelope as we walk out of chambers.

She nods glumly.

“Have you got dinner plans?” I ask.

“We’re planning to stop by the hospital for a few minutes. Why?”

“That leaves a few hours unaccounted for. We have no time to waste in deciding where we go from here.”

“That may be true, partner, but not tonight. I need time to digest all this. Let’s meet at the office tomorrow morning around ten or thereabouts?”

“It’ll be nice to sleep in,” I admit.

“Maybe we’ll run into you at the hospital,” she calls over her shoulder as our courses start to diverge and she unlocks her Audi A5.

I replay the hearing in my mind as I drive home to Liberty Street. Annoying, yes … unexpected, no. It’s now water under the bridge. We move forward. Grayson Birch recognized that we’re vulnerable and jumped on that with both feet, which I can’t really fault. With the chance to kick an opponent when they’re down, I probably would have done the same thing in his shoes. I certainly used to do so back in my corporate legal weenie days. Have I changed? Some, I suppose, but probably not that much. That may turn out to be a good thing by the time the dust settles on this case.

CHAPTER 15

Penelope and I came to few concrete decisions on Saturday morning. We did agree that our best course of action is to proceed on the assumption that Morgan won’t agree to an ounce of relief. So we’re proceeding on the basis that I’m going to sit first chair in Van’s case, which I conditioned on our client and I having a come to Jesus heart-to-heart that lays down the law on the rules I’m willing to proceed under, if at all. Penelope is going to try to balance second chair and the torts case, which I could have told her isn’t going to work, but I know she’s determined to throw her weight behind our effort to surmount the manpower crisis we’re facing ... or the womanpower crisis, or whatever terminology is in vogue to express the thought.

After pleading my case to the powers that be at Cook County Jail, doing so with plentiful references to the tragedy that befell us with Mike’s accident on Wednesday evening, I’ve been able to finagle access to a private attorney-client meeting room for late Monday morning and am here now. From here, I have a funeral to go to, and then we’ll find out what Judge Morgan has to say. Just another day in the glamorous life of a small-firm criminal defense lawyer. If I sound glib, it’s only because I’m trying to get through the day with at least a sliver of my sanity intact, such as it is.

Van arrives without undue delay for a change—perhaps one or more of her jailers isn’t a complete asshole. She seems to be a little tentative as we exchange greetings, which I suppose I understand.

She sits down, meets my gaze, and smiles. “So, you’re Jesus?”

“Come again?”

Her smile widens. “Penelope dropped by to let me know this is a come to Jesus meeting.”

Despite mild annoyance about my partner’s meddling, I chuckle. None of which changes my objectives for the next half-hour.

“Yes it is,” I say.

“Ground rules?”

“Come again?”

“Are you up for setting a few ground rules?”

This certainly isn’t how I imagined the first minute of the meeting going. “Such as?”

“Tempers stowed. No swearing.”

“No physical violence,” I add.

“Hardly seems fair to take away my clearest advantage,” she replies with a lazy smile that transforms her entire demeanor from hard to … well, let’s just say not rock hard.

Where the hell has that been? Mental note: finagle that smile out of her in the courtroom and make sure the jurors see it. “Non-negotiable,” I say with an answering smile.

“Fair enough.”

“As for the swearing and temper prohibitions, I propose we loosen those to no swearing about each other and no displays of temper directed at each other.”

“I can live with that,” she says. “So, are we now all kissy face and good to go?”

“I’ll check with my girlfriend on the kissy face stuff. Otherwise, I’d say we’re good. Did you and Penelope talk about our meeting with the judge on Friday afternoon?”

She frowns and nods. “Sounds like some good news and bad news all tangled up together.”

“I suppose you might say so, but it went pretty much as expected.”

“Penelope seemed disappointed.”

I smile. “She’s from Kansas, so she believes in the fundamental goodness of human beings.”

“And you’re from Chicago.”

I nod. “And I doubt you harbor any delusions about the purity of the average human soul.”

“I do not.”

“Whatever else happens, I think it’s a safe bet that I’m going to sit first chair on your defense team, Van. Is that going to be a problem?”

“You know what?” she replies. “I don’t think it will be.”

“You’re sure? We simply don’t have time for any more drama between us.”

She smiles. “A little birdie told me that Mike insisted you sit first chair in the murder trial of his brother. Tweety thought it was absolutely the correct decision, borne out by you pulling several rabbits out of hats to get him acquitted.”

I shake my head and smile. “Would this little birdie happen to hail from Kansas?”

“She might.”

As Van and I sit back and stare at one another, smiles of wonder spread across both our faces.

“I’ll be damned if I don’t believe we’re going to work well together,” I finally say.

“I’ll be damned if I don’t believe you’re going to live to tell stories about how you defended a cranky old soldier in a trumped-up murder trial, hopefully with a rabbit tale or two included in the story.”

“Cute pun,” I say. “Intended?”

“Absolutely.”

I’ll be damned if I’m not starting to really like this woman. How can that be? I was ready to strangle her—what?—yesterday, the day before? Time to put that theory to the test. I declare an end to the happy talk.

“We’re having a moment, Van, but let’s fully clear the air.”

Her eyes narrow.

“I think we can manage so long as things are going smoothly. What about when we hit a shoal? What if you don’t like something I do? Are you going to be able to keep your powder dry when something really pisses you off?”

“Cross those bridges when we come to them,” she says with a bit of a shrug.

“Not good enough,” I reply. “Do you have any idea of what’s coming your way in that courtroom?”

“No. Tell me.”

“Every hour or two a prosecutor is going to point at you and tell all the world that you’re a heartless, calculating animal who carved out the heart of her only child owing to whatever selfish motive they choose to ascribe to you. And they’re going to have a picture of Ally sitting out in the open every minute they can get away with doing so.”

Her lips tighten in an expression that’s a hair’s breadth away from a snarl.

“Well?”

“It might be a challenge.”

“Judging by how you looked just now, I’d say that’s putting it mildly. It can’t be.”

“What the hell do expect out of me?”

“A performance, Van. A performance. If this is going to work for us, Van Booker needs to sit meekly through every minute of the trial, taking punch after punch in the face with no visible reaction."

She groans. “How do you expect me to manage that? I’m anything but some meek chick who happily turns the other cheek and invites people to hit me again.”

“I’m going to teach you how, Van. But you have to willing to learn, and you need to be a quick study. I’m not going to have hours upon hours to work with you on your courtroom demeanor.”

“I am who I am,” she grumbles.

“Of course you are. We just need you to be that meek cheek you referred to for a handful of days.”

“Is that how long the trial will be? I thought murder trials were long.”

“Don’t flatter yourself about how notorious you are.”

She flips me the bird, but does so with a smile.

“Seriously, Van. That matters, believe it or not. I’ll be surprised if we’re in court for a full week. Think you can hold out that long?”

“I can try.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that, but let’s set it aside for now.” Left unsaid is that I have my doubts about pulling this off. I’d like our chances better if Van was out on bail so we’d have far more time and opportunity to prepare her. But hey, I wanted a pony throughout my entire childhood; there was nothing doing with that either and I muddled through.

“Let’s talk about Van Booker as I understand the woman, shall we?” I suggest. “I want to make sure I have a firm grasp of my pupil.”

“I hate that third person crap, Tony.”

I smile. “You and me, both, but bear with me for a minute or two.”

She sighs, sags back into her chair, and nods.

“You’re a tough-as-nails female ex-special forces soldier, and an anti-hero type at that.”

“I was cannon fodder, Tony. We all were. Took me some time to work that out, so let’s skip over the American hero, bullshit, shall we?”

The vitriol in that statement is caustic. There has to be a story there. I file the topic away for future reference. “You’re also an orphan who was abandoned to the foster care system at a young age and still wears the emotional scars and battles residual trauma from the experience. I suspect you found a home and a sense of belonging in the military, perhaps for the first time in your life. I suspect leaving the military was traumatic, perhaps because you know what it means to suffer alone. It should come as no surprise that you have significant trust issues. How am I doing?”

She slow claps a response. “How does any of that matter, Tony?”

“It humanizes you, Van. We want the jury to see you as a whole person, not some deranged, damaged killing machine.”

“My, my. Isn’t that a flattering depiction?”

“It fits.”

“Pardon me?”

“It fits a stereotype.”

Her expression darkens. “Screw that. Anyone who buys into that is an idiot.”

“You don’t give a damn if the world thinks you butchered your own baby?”

The accusation clearly stings. “Of course I care!”

“Not from where I stand you don’t!” I snap back.

Her face is a mask of angry confusion, and the cords of the muscles in her shoulders and neck stand out in the open collar of her prison overalls as she rises halfway out of her seat. “What is this bullshit, Tony?”

“A preview, my friend. You need to learn how to turn the other cheek, not only when you’re attacked directly, but also when a lawyer is talking smack about you in the courtroom.”

She collapses back into her seat and meets my gaze. “I have a lot to learn, huh?”

I smile and nod. “But that’s not all bad.”

“How so?”

“You’re a quick study. You have to be to have survived foster care and to progress as quickly and as far as you did in the army. I’ll bet you lapped up training.”

She smiles. “I did.”

“Boot camp’s got nothing on what I’m going to put you through.”

She laughs. “Hardly. You have no idea.”

My return smile is tight. “Neither do you.”

A sharp rap on the door signals that our time is coming to an end.

“One minute!” a guard hollers through the closed door.

Are we good? Van asks.

“We’re good. Now, your homework.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Who are your husband’s enemies— real, imagined, potential? Yours? I want names, Van. Lots and lots of names. Don’t screen, make a note of everyone who comes to mind. I’m happy for us to wade through mountains of names if it unearths the one or two who are paydirt.”

She gives me a long look. “Mike and I spent a few minutes doing that.”

I shrug. “Sorry, but we’re going to do it again.”

“That’s not it,” she says. “I don’t have a problem doing it. You’re thorough. Methodical. I like that.”

I wink at her as I tuck my portfolio under my arm and wait for the door to open. “We’ll see if you still approve by the time I finish schooling you on acceptable courtroom decorum.”

CHAPTER 16

Pat and Brittany are whipping up a late multi-course breakfast to satisfy the needs of the crowd accumulating in our kitchen on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. Aside from the cooks, our guests include Pat’s nephew Kevin, who arrived with her from Calgary last evening with him a wee bit under the weather from grad partying into the early hours of yesterday. They pushed their plans back by a week to be here for the U.S. long weekend, giving them consecutive three-day weekends. We’re celebrating Kevin’s high school graduation alongside Memorial Day. In fact, Canadian bacon is being served in his honor.

“Are we growing famous, Pops?” Brittany calls out to me.

“Us?” I reply with a laugh. “How do you figure that?”

“We always seem to attract a crowd every Memorial Day weekend, don’t we?”

She might have a bit of a point. Perhaps word of the Valenti Memorial Day weekend festivities has spread far and wide. After all, we have not only the Chicago contingent on hand (me, and possibly Pat, although she’s currently an ex-Pat … ha ha), but also a Canadian in from Calgary, Brittany’s BFF, Jocelyn, is home from her classes in Ohio and in attendance, and we’re expecting the Kansas and New York City delegations shortly—our Kansas gal, Penelope, and her wife, Becky, who originally hails from the Big Apple. Aren’t we just the most cosmopolitan bunch ever? Maybe for an hour or two today, at least in the little burgh of Cedar Heights.

Pat sidles up to me and glances down at the phone in my hand. “You do realize that looking at a weather app every five minutes isn’t going to change anything, don’t you?”

I shrug. “I was looking forward to hanging out at the park and grilling some burgers later.”

“So it might rain. Doesn’t mean we can’t have a nice day indoors, Valenti.”

True, and I’m being an ass wasting our limited time together moping about. It will be hours yet before we know if our plans are officially dashed.

She nudges my arm. “Besides, goofball, it’s not as if any weather forecast in Chicago is accurate beyond the next thirty minutes.”

“And sometimes not even then,” I add with a smile.

“There you go. Why don’t you chip in and char some toast for your guests?”

Kevin appears at my side and sets a tray of butter down within seconds of Pat’s return to her duties at the stovetop.

“Man, this is way different from my last visit here, huh?” he says with a grin.

“I’ll say,” I reply, thinking back to the ill-advised cross-border adventure he and Brittany embarked on little more than a year ago. We’re lucky they got through it all with minimal damage—physically and emotionally, not to mention legally.

Brittany, having overheard, adds, “Seems like a dream now, doesn’t it?”

“Or a nightmare,” I counter.

Breakfast is served five minutes later: farm fresh eggs—scrambled and over easy, sausage links, a pound of bacon, home fries, pancakes, and a plate of exquisite, golden, perfectly-buttered sourdough toast.

Everyone has tucked in when Brittany turns to Jocelyn. “Ask Kevin about his bombshell school plans.”

“I’m going to RMC in September,” Kevin announces.

“What’s RMC?” Jocelyn asks. “Is it a school?”

“It’s the military.”

“You’re joining the army?” Jocelyn asks in horror.

“It’s like…” Kevin looks to me for help.

“West Point, Annapolis,” I offer helpfully.

“Never heard of it.”

Brittany appears to be somewhat aghast that her friend isn’t aware of the schools. “Kevin goes to University on a full scholarship in return for serving five years as an officer after he graduates. It’s five years, right?”

“More or less,” Kevin replies. “It depends on how many months I’m in school and a few other things, but five years after getting my undergraduate degree is about right.”

“And he gets a salary while he studies,” Pat adds.

I decide to get in on the action. “And summer work.”

“But then they hand you a rifle?” Jocelyn asks, apparently still not convinced of the wisdom of Kevin’s plans.

He appears a little annoyed. “Then I serve my country.”

Jocelyn’s startled gaze cuts back to Kevin. “Sorry, I didn’t mean, well….”

Kevin waves it off. “No worries.”

“So, what brought this on?” she asks.

“RMC will be more or less home for me, well away from my stupid Texas relatives. They can’t hassle me at RMC.”

“You won’t be living at home?” she asks. “Where is this place?”

Brittany replies, “Kingston, Ontario. Do you know where Toronto is?”

Jocelyn nods. “Sure.”

“A couple hours east, but still on Lake Ontario.”

“What about your house in Calgary?”

Kevin shrugs. “I haven’t decided. We might sell it, might rent it out. We’ll see. It’s lonely at home, even with Auntie Pat there. No matter what we do, no matter how good a time we may be having, the ghosts of Mom and Dad are never far away, y’know? The house just isn’t home without them. Maybe that will get better over time.”

The mention of Kevin’s late parents softens Jocelyn’s expression, reminding her of the trauma he’s been through over the past year and a half.

“Wow,” she says. “What brought this on? You weren’t talking about it last year, were you?”

“My best bud, Ben Mohsen, is going to RMC, which planted the seed. Once I started looking into it, I decided it was the way to go.”

“I hope it works out for you,” Jocelyn says.

We shoo Jocelyn and Kevin away and clear the table. By the time we finish loading the dishwasher, Pat has also disappeared.

“Britts, hurry!” Pat shouts from the living room as the television comes to life with an inane commercial for a local furniture store. I’m reminded of equally inane comedy skits. Which, come to think of it is probably the point. P-a-r-o-d-y, Valenti. Duh.

I beat Brittany into the room, where Pat sits with a copy of the Chicago Tribune Sunday print edition TV listings in hand. Yep, we still subscribe to the Sunday edition. It’s not like we have a choice—Pat was a long-time reporter for the paper, Papa and Mama subscribed forever, and I didn’t dare cancel in case Pat noticed or Papa came home. And, of course, it’s a Valenti family tradition, and I’m loath to lose any more of those.

Brittany brushes past me with a quizzical look as she hops onto the sofa beside Pat.

Pat grins at my daughter and smacks the paper. “Look here. A documentary about life during Chubby’s childhood is about to start!”

“Chubby” being a nickname Pat bestowed on me after we became reacquainted shortly after Brittany and I returned from Atlanta. Pat and I were classmates at St. Aloysius Catholic High School back in the day. Maybe I weigh a few pounds more than I did when I was a teenager, but not that many more.

Brittany turns a quizzical gaze on Pat. “Okaaay…”

I settle into my father’s old Laz-Z-Boy recliner as the commercial ends. Pat claps her hands in delight when her “documentary” begins.

I start to chuckle as familiar big band music begins, punctuated by the hoot of a steam whistle and a man shouting “Yabba-dabba-doo!” Pat is clapping with delight and laughing as a chorus launches into the theme song of a classic television cartoon shows from the days of our youth.

“Flintstones … meet the Flintstones … they’re the modern stone-age fam-i-leee…”

“Well played, O’Toole,” I say as she and Brittany erupt in laughter.

Brittany wipes tears from her eyes and staggers over to grab Jocelyn’s arm. “I’m sorry. Do you know about the Flintstones?”

“Of course I know The Flintstones. Best cartoon ever! Mom and Dad love it.”

Brittany, wide-eyed and smiling, asks, “Really?”

Jocelyn takes a step back and winks at me. “My parents aren’t that much younger than your Dad.”

As Brittany collapses in laughter, I meet Pat’s eye and smile. I miss having Jocelyn around. The girl is a riot. She’s good for my daughter.

“Why didn’t I know this about your childhood?” Brittany asks Jocelyn as they settle on the sofa to watch.

“It’s not like we ever watched Saturday morning cartoons together as kids.”

“I suppose,” Brittany replies. The truth is that we were still living in Atlanta with her mother when my daughter was of cartoon age.

Penelope and Becky are the last guests to arrive, as they tend to be. As I watch them chatting with everyone, I’m blindsided by an acute sense of loss as the absence of Mike and Aretha registers. They’re a big part of our crowd, not to mention an essential element of my life. A vision of Aretha’s stark funeral pops unbidden into my mind … so many tears shed. At least Mike’s recovering, although exactly how far back he’s likely to come remains unclear.

Penelope gives Pat a hug. “I hope you’re enjoying living in Canada.”

Pat smiles. “Loving it, actually. Big change, of course, but spending time in those mountains is fabulous.”

Becky steps in to hug Pat. “I was looking at your Facebook pictures online. Everything looks pretty cool.”

“No doubt about it,” Pat agrees. “I see why my sister fell in love with the place and Kevin didn’t want to leave.”

Pat leans in to give my partner another hug and a big thank you. “I owe you a big night out.”

“Pshaw,” Penelope replies, batting the offer aside. “You don’t owe me a penny.”

Pshaw my ass. Pat definitely owes Penelope. Big time. She hired Penelope to go toe-to-toe with the Tribune attorneys regarding Pat’s dismissal from the newspaper and came away with a far more generous severance package than the newspaper originally put on the table. It’s given Pat some breathing room as she ponders where her journalism career goes from here.

When Pat opens her mouth to argue, Penelope holds up a hand in warning and says firmly, albeit with a smile, “Don’t you dare.”

They leave it at that.

“How long are you here for?” Becky asks Pat.

“We’ll fly home tomorrow evening.”

“Drat! We were going to ask you over for dinner one evening next week.”

“Sorry, but we’ll have time this summer,” Pat says. “Me and Kevin will split the summer between Calgary and my place here. We’re looking forward to it.”

As am I. They’ll be in Chicago much more than they managed last year in the wake of the turmoil about where Kevin was going to live.

After making the obligatory effort to socialize with the adults, the girls snag Kevin and troop downstairs. Upstairs, discussion turns to Van Booker’s case.

“What became of the motions you asked for after Mike’s accident?” Pat asks me. “We haven’t talked about the trial since. How did that go?”

“We’re still batting zero with Morgan,” I grouse. “He wouldn’t entertain the idea of us withdrawing and shut down discussion of a continuance.” I make air quotes with my fingers and, mimicking Morgan, say, “We’re just in the process of exchanging discovery, anyway”.

“Tony has things under control,” Penelope says with easy assurance that prompts a side-eye from me. Does she really think so?

“Discovery is trickling in,” I say. “We’re in what is usually the hurry up and wait stage, but I can’t afford to take my foot off the gas for even a moment. I need to make these days count.”

Penelope touches my arm sympathetically. “I should be helping Tony more, but there just aren’t enough hours in the day.”

“It doesn’t help that she’s in Minneapolis most of the time,” Becky adds with, dare I say it, a touch of snark. Understandable, of course. I know a thing or two about being home alone while a partner is out of town.

“What about physical evidence? “ Becky asks me. “I don’t think I’ve heard about much of that.”

“That would be because there really isn’t any, at least not that we’ve seen. There’s no blood evidence against Van, but her DNA and prints are all over the crime scene.”

“Of course they are,” Penelope says dismissively. “She lived there at the time.”

“Not full time,” I clarify. Details remain a bit sketchy, but Van split her time between their Walton Street home, Mel Vu’s house, and parts unknown.

Pat cocks her head to the left and tucks a strand of red hair behind an ear. “Witnesses?”

“Not many,” I reply. “Van’s alibi is that she was blotto and passed out in her car behind a bar. We have a couple corroborating witnesses, but the prosecutors will have a field day with them.”

“Why?”

“Not exactly the type of fine, upstanding citizens the powers that be generally approve of. I’m hoping they clean up well and can hold it together on the stand.”

“What about witnesses against Van?”

“Only one that we know of at this point. I imagine they’ll drag a couple more out of the weeds by the time we go to trial. The witness statement of the guy we know about refers to a stocky person in a hoodie running in the shadows near the scene. I’m sure that will become a positive ID of Van standing under a streetlight with a bloody knife in hand by the time it becomes testimony at trial.”

I’m getting worked up, so I smile and change the subject to Becky’s recent trip home to New York City. We keep things light the rest of the day, even squeezing in a few hours at Independence Park, playing catch, tossing a frisbee, and soaking up a little unexpected sun before the heavens finally open. Instead of my planned barbeque dinner, I drag out my newly purchased jumbo air fryer/indoor grill and make a godawful mess grilling two dozen burgers. A mess, yes, but a tasty mess.

The topic of Pat’s career resurfaces later in the evening after everyone except Pat and Kevin has gone home, leaving the four of us around the kitchen table. Brittany broaches the topic.

“I saw an article by you on an online news site,” Brittany says.

Pat shrugs. “I’ve been dabbling with a couple of those. Some of them are okay, but even the best ones go places I’m not comfortable with.”

“Such as?” I ask.

“All the celebrity crap, muckraking, stuff like that. I don’t like being associated with it.”

Brittany waves the concern aside. “You’re not writing that stuff, so what’s the big deal?”

Pat smiles sheepishly. “I suppose I’m being a bit of a snob. It’s not the same as being on staff at a prestigious paper.”

“Their loss,” Brittany says. “What else can you do? Can’t you do, like, freelance work and stuff like that?”

“Maybe you can do more in-depth pieces,” I suggest. “Some in-depth investigative projects.”

Pat frowns. “Easier done if I’m here to meet with people face-to-face. There’s not much on offer for local Chicago news, especially for someone who isn’t on the ground here when stories break.”

“Yeah, but the local papers aren’t doing a good job, right?”

“No.”

“So, take them on with some sort of ‘Pat O’Toole, Chicago Girl With the News’ gig,” Brittany suggests, slapping air quotes around her proposed title for the venture.

“That’s not the worst idea,” I add. “Why not take a run at it?”

Brittany grabs Pat’s hand. “I’ll help you!”

Pat chuckles. “Let me think on it. That has a certain appeal, but I always worked on the ground, out in the community. That’ll be tough to do from Calgary.”

Then come back to Chicago, I think, but don’t say. I’m wondering if it might happen when Kevin starts school in the fall but haven’t yet worked up the courage to broach the subject.

Pat smiles an hour later when it’s only the two of us visiting, swaying gently in Mama’s and Papa’s swing for two in the backyard. “I wasn’t about to mention it while your daughter was all worked up about the idea, but I’ve been considering diving into a little guerrilla journalism in Chicago.”

“What the heck is guerrilla journalism?” I ask.

“In a nutshell, stories on underreported and neglected topics in a community. Some folks say Woodward and Bernstein were the first. I don’t know about that, but they were certainly operating around the fringes of that territory.”

“How so?”

“Regardless of how the story was told later, it seems to me that they were coloring outside the lines, flying without a net. If the whole thing had blown up in their faces, I have my doubts whether or not Washington Post management would have had their backs. To use more current terminology, having deliberately kept their distance while the reporters dug would have allowed them to claim plausible deniability.”

I smile.  “I wonder if how you parted ways with the Trib colors your view.”

She returns the smile. “Maybe just a tad.”

“So. Guerrilla journalism.”

“I’m not even sure what I’m thinking of doing fits most people’s definition of what that is. Maybe I’m just trying to romanticize it.”

“Nothing wrong with a little romance here and there,” I say, delivering the words with a decidedly lewd smile.

She barely breaks stride, but a flicker of amusement passes across her face before she carries on, warming to the topic as she goes. “The idea, in my mind, at least, is to root out the stories local journalism used to ferret out and expose to the light of day—the stuff corporate journalism shies away from because it hits a little close to where they now live.”

I get it. After all, she’s been carving out a niche for herself in the past few months by filling the vacuum created by corporate media’s retreat from meaningful local news. “Who’s going to bankroll this?”

“Maybe a local celebrity type? They’re not all lightweights.”

I think of most of the local celebrities I’ve encountered. “You could have fooled me.”

“For the most part, the ones who are eager to appear on morning shows and newspaper features aren’t serious people, Tony. But there are other folks working in the shadows, doing their best to make a difference. Some of them have surprisingly deep pockets.”

“Hell, I’ll go hat in hand all through the streets of Chicago if money is all we need to get you back here on a permanent basis.”

She hugs my arm and leans her head on my shoulder. “We’ll see.”

CHAPTER 17

“Mr. Valenti, sir,” Joan says from my office door after clearing her throat. She’s good that way, subtly warning me to her presence. If I didn’t know better, I may have suspected her of gently reprimanding me for wool-gathering in the midst of a workday. As if. I’ve been in silent despair about the state of Van’s case.

I glance over my shoulder in the general direction of the door. “Yes, Joan?”

She steps inside and pulls the door closed to afford us complete privacy. “There’s a young man here to see you on a matter of some importance. Perhaps you can speak with him. He’s listed on your calendar as your nine-thirty appointment.”

I sigh, then drop my feet to the floor and spin my chair to face Joan, glancing at my old-fashioned desk calendar as I do. “Michael Martin” is scribbled in the nine-thirty time slot. The next entry on my calendar reads: lunch. “I may be able to squeeze Mr. Martin into my schedule.”

“I’m sure Mr. Martin will appreciate that ever so much, Counselor,” Joan says sweetly, adding, “As do I.”

I smile benevolently and nod. “I’ll be out to collect him presently.”

What’s with the silliness when I’m all but bent double under the weight of the workload I’m shouldering? I’m still riding a bit of a high after the weekend success of the doctors who brought Mike all the way back from the medically induced coma he’s been in for over a month. Now comes the hard, grinding road back, but far better that than us visiting his grave.

My thoughts turn back to the Booker case. I need to discuss our lack of resources with Penelope, if I can corner her for a few minutes the next time I see her before she escapes to Minneapolis. I blow out a lengthy sigh of frustration. If. If. If.

Enough ifs. Events have conspired to put this case squarely into my hands. I don’t need anyone else’s permission to move things forward by whatever means I can. There’s no harm in consulting, collaborating, or soliciting opinions, but the clock is running and it’s my responsibility, and mine alone, to be ready for trial—a trial that is creeping ever closer.

The root problem is that I simply have too many balls in the air. I need help, and there’s no help to be found at BV&W. End of story. I’m going to have to set aside my conviction that I can’t fully trust anyone else to help carry the ball in this case. A case of runaway ego on my part? Maybe so, but past experience has made me a little gun-shy about delegating responsibility in a big case, and understandably so. But the reality is that I’ve worked with plenty of capable folks over the years. None are likely to be available at short notice, so I need to find bench strength elsewhere. Van’s future likely depends on my ability to bring reinforcements on board, and soon. The time to act was yesterday, if not last month.

But first I have a potential client to see.

As Joan schedules most of our appointments, I open the company calendar on my computer desktop and skim through her notes for Mr. Martin’s visit. It seems that he’s been arrested and charged with petty theft. So, he stole cash or goods valued at less than five-hundred dollars. We handle all the big-time Chicagoland crooks. Had our grandparents been attorneys back in the day, they would have undoubtedly represented Al Capone and the big-time crooks of their day. After all, Cicero is just down the road a mile or so.

I take a moment to allow my pulse to settle from the budding excitement of my coming brush with notoriety, then step into the lobby. A wiry little man with dirty, stringy hair and a sparse mustache to match is the only occupant of our waiting room. His feet are shod in a pair of dirty sneakers that have seen a great many better days, his blue jeans are worn through on one knee, which I suspect is not an intentional fashion statement, and a threadbare off-white t-shirt displays his bony shoulders to good effect. On closer look, I decide his t-shirt may simply be dirty as opposed to off-white. The poor bugger was probably trying to feed himself and/or his family with whatever he stole. Utilizing a clever process of elimination that discounts the empty waiting room chairs, I determine he’s my nine-thirty appointment. I peg his age at mid- to late thirties.

I stifle a deep sigh. I don’t have time for cases like these, but most of them are relatively simple matters that bring in ready cash. Penelope, who generally pushes these cases through the system to generate cash flow, is chasing a monster tort fee in the Land of 10,000 Lakes or whatever the heck Minnesota’s state vehicle license plate blurb is. While the tort windfall will be welcome and solve a lot of problems, she isn’t generating any billings in the course of the hunt. Mike’s out of commission indefinitely. Which leaves it up to poor little old me to keep the lights on here at Brooks, Valenti, and Williams, Lawyers Hanging in There With Duct Tape and Baling Wire. I shake my head and admonish myself to suck it up and be as expeditious as possible in doing so.

I stride confidently past Joan’s desk with hand extended. “Mr. Martin?”

He pulls his nose out of a three-month-old People magazine and shuffles to his feet.

”That’s me,” he says uncertainly. His handshake is firm, his blue eyes clear, and his smile reveals a healthy set of teeth. All in all, a man more likely down on his luck than the habitual petty thief I’d imagined him to be at first blush.

“Tony Valenti,” I say, standing aside and waving him into our conference room. “Coffee?” I ask as he passes.

“I’d kill for a cup.”

“I’ll be right in with it,” Joan says.

I mentally upgrade Mr. Martin’s potential criminal pedigree and follow him into my office, wondering if perhaps Joan erred when making the appointment. Could Mr. Martin be bringing us a much meatier case for me to tackle? I haven’t worked a good, meaty felony case for months! Oh wait.

I direct him to a pair of top-drawer chrome and fabric stacking chairs as we make small talk while we wait for Joan to deliver the coffee. Mr. Martin—“Call me Mick, everyone does!”—is unmarried with no dependents and works part-time washing dishes at a family restaurant. “Enough hours to get by, right?” he says. “Who wants to spend all their time slaving away?”

Okay, so I won’t be arguing for clemency based on a sob tale of an embattled everyman doing his level best to put food on the table and clean diapers on the little tails of one or more adorable little babies. “Have a heart, Your Honor!” I’d been imagining myself crying out in court, gesturing to the sobbing young wife and mother cradling untold numbers of cute-as-a button waifs in her lap while waiting for the ax to fall on her breadwinner’s slender neck. Still, I’d be lying if I said ole Mick wasn’t giving off a bit of a loveable rogue vibe.

Joan delivers coffee service for two, plus a bread plate with a pair of her homemade banana muffins. Never let it be said that Joan doesn’t spoil us. And Mick, of course. He inhales a muffin before I finish reaching for mine. I meet his hungry gaze, gesture for him to by all means help himself to the second muffin, then balance a yellow legal pad on my knee while I watch my muffin vanish in two bites. I hope Joan has more of them. Her banana muffins are to die for.

“So,” I say brightly after Mick washes the muffin down with a noisy slurp of coffee. “Tell me what you hope we can do for you.”

“Great coffee!” he exclaims while wiping his chin.

I stifle a chuckle, nod in agreement, and wait.

Mick sets his coffee mug aside, sits forward, plants his elbows on his knees, and meets my gaze. “Had a bit of a misunderstanding with a buddy,” he says.

I wait for him to expand upon his explanation. I was kinda sorta hoping to learn a bit more about why he’s here.

After a moment, he seems to twig onto the reason for my silence. “See, Petey invested a few hundred dollars into a joint venture we were planning. One thing led to another and the plan simply never left the launchpad, y’know? Shit happens.”

“And Petey wasn’t pleased?”

“Hell, no!” Mick says with a chuckle. “Can’t say I blame him. Ain’t the first time we had a bit of a setback.”

“I see. What does Petey propose to do about this? Has he hired an attorney?”

“We ain’t those kinda businessmen. I hear Petey’s been looking for me, carrying a Louisville slugger in hand as he does. I was kinda hoping y’all might be able to get one of them there restraining order things to protect me.”

Well, I certainly didn’t see this coming, not even after Mick spilled the revelation about a joint investment going south. I don’t recall ever taking on a client fleeing a business partner wielding a baseball bat. I wonder what the law textbooks have to say on the matter?

“So, you can take care of that for me right, Tony?”

“There would be a cost for doing so,” I reply. “Payable in advance, of course.”

Mick flashes a smile and points. “You’re a sharp cookie. Payable in advance!”

I nod.

He frowns. “I was hoping maybe you guys were one of those firms that does, what do you call it for folks who is down and out? Pro bono?”

“People like you then?” I ask lightly.

“You got it,” he says, beaming as if I’ve correctly answered the skill-testing question to qualify for the jackpot of offering free legal services. “Saw that sign of yours out front. Lawyers for little people or whatever?”

“Lawyers to Little People and Lost Causes,” I say helpfully.

“Yessir, that!” He settles back in his seat and waits for me to resolve his legal woes.

I also settle back in my seat and stare thoughtfully out the window for a long moment before casting my gaze back to meet Mick’s. “You think Petey will abide by the terms of a restraining order?”

“The terms?”

“Sure. A restraining order is simply a piece of paper ordering someone to stay away from a person and the places they frequent—home, place of work, that sort of thing. It’s signed by a judge, but it’s still just a piece of paper.”

“But he has to obey it, right?”

“He’s supposed to Mick. Not the same thing. If Petey chooses to ignore it, he won’t think twice about showing up on your doorstep, and I don’t imagine the piece of paper will convince him not to bring that baseball bat along it he has a mind to.” Or do much to protect you from a big swing of that bat.

“But the cops will arrest him if he does, right?”

“Probably not. It’s not as if they’re going to be waiting out front in case he shows up. If you complain after the fact, the judge may act on that by fining Petey.”

“But how does this thing protect me?”

“It doesn’t, Mick. Petey will suffer the consequences of violating a restraining order after he beats the crap out of you.”

“Then what’s the point of the friggin’ thing?”

“They sometimes deter otherwise law-abiding folks, but the kinda guy I think Petey is? Not so much.”

“Hardly worth paying for.”

Not that you were looking to pay, I think.

“Listen, Mick. You know how often we hear about some poor woman getting killed by a boyfriend or spouse?”

He nods.

“Often as not, she took out a restraining order against the guy who ended up killing her. Doesn’t do any good if the guy isn’t inclined to respect a court order.”

“What the hell am I gonna do?” Mick asks, and for the first time, his voice and eyes project real fear. Not good.

“One of two things,” I reply. “Make things right with Petey or make yourself real scarce until Petey cools down.”

“He ain’t gonna cool down, man.”

“Then make yourself real scarce, my friend.”

“I got a little girl I see every other weekend. He knows about her … shit, you don’t think he’d hurt her, do you?”

“Mick, I don’t know Petey. If you think he might, then you need to work things out with him.”

“Can I get a restraining order to protect my girl?”

“Same answer. Might not make a difference.”

“Not even for a kid? Jesus. Can’t the cops keep an eye on her?”

I shake my head no. “Not enough cops.”

He drops his head into his hands and moans.

“Make things right with Petey, Mick.”

“I can’t! Where am I gonna come up with a thousand bucks?”

“A thousand?” I ask in surprise. “You said this was about petty theft. That’s capped at five-hundred dollars.”

“Petey knows that. He’s suing me for five hundred. He ain’t gonna call a lawyer to chase after me for the full amount.”

“Can you raise the money anywhere? Friends? Family? A loan or cash advance on a credit card?”

“Don’t have any friends left who would lend me a dime. Same with family. And I ain’t even got a bank account, let alone credit cards and loans and such.” He slumps and blows a long sigh. “Guess my time’s up, huh?”

I’m about to tell him that we’re not on the clock when I realize what he means. Mick doesn’t seem to have anyone. A half-baked idea occurs to me. “Aside from washing dishes, what can you do, Mick?”

He shrugs.

I press ahead. “What other jobs have you had? Training? Schooling?”

“What’s this, a job interview?” he asks with a crooked smile.

“Answer the question, please.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Okay, I’ll bite. Graduated high school, did a tour in the Navy.”

“Oh yeah? Did you have a specialty?”

“Cannon fodder,” he says bitterly.

Shades of Van Booker, I think. Maybe that’s where Mick’s journey to this morning began. “You must know how to follow orders?” I ask.

“I know how, but I’m not real big on being told what to do, y’know? I prefer being the guy giving the orders.”

Right, and look where your executive skills have landed you. “Are you a hard worker?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “You know, I’ve never really worked out what that question means. Am I happy to work up a big sweat doing whatever some dumb-shit Walmart overseer demands of me? No, I sure as hell ain’t. But if you wanna know if I’ll bust my ass doing something that pays off for me? Damned straight I will, and if it’s something I enjoy doing, I’ll happily work both day and night to get the job done. And if the people I’m working for are good folks who give a damn about me and my mates, then I’ll do it all with a smile on my face, a bounce in my step—all the while whistling a happy tune or two.”

Can’t argue with that. Substitute “corporate weenie” for “Walmart overseer” and it’s something I might have said myself. Whatever failings Mick may be guilty of, I sense that a lack of native intelligence and initiative aren’t on the list. How much imagination does this guy have? Guts and nerve? How sharp is he?

“Tell me about some of these business opportunities you’ve cooked up, Mike.”

“Why?”

“Humor me.”

“Couple of heists, maybe a little financial scam here and there.”

I have him flesh out those ideas, ask a few questions about logistics, ask him to give the Cliffs Notes version of how they played out. He won one or two, crashed and burned a little more often. It seems as if his planning was generally pretty good, but his execution of the plans that didn’t work out seems to have been found wanting.

“What happened when the wheels fell off, Mick? Did you try to shoot your way out of the sticky spots?”

“Hell no. You think I was dumb enough to pull an armed heist? There’s a big difference between getting a slap on the wrist with probation or being trucked off to the slammer for a good, long visit.”

“So, no violence,” I clarify.

“I didn’t say no violence, man. Things got dicey once or twice. Having a beast like Petey riding shotgun came in handy when those situations arose.”

“Did your plans involve people getting hurt?”

“Not unless things went sideways.”

“Violence was a contingency plan?”

He shakes his head no. “Never, but it’s how things played out a couple of times. Nothing beyond a bonk on the head from Petey. We generally got as good as we gave.”

“Can you look after yourself without Petey?”

“Look, man, what’s with the third degree? You gonna hand me over to the cops if you don’t like my answers?”

“Sorry, Mick. It’s not like that at all. I’m sizing you up for something.”

He tilts his head to the side and studies me, perhaps trying to divine whatever hustle I’m trying to work on him. “Yeah, I can take care of myself well enough. I’m not exactly a heavyweight, though. That’s where someone like Petey is useful.”

I give him a good look up and down, scrunching my nose in distaste. “Do you clean up well?”

He glances down at himself, then looks away. Does he know how to clean up? Probably, if and when he feels like it. The army surely taught him how. He finally nods, wearing an off-kilter grin. “Sure do.”

“What’s it gonna take to make Petey go away?” I ask.

A note of suspicion creeps into his voice. “What d’ya mean, go away?”

“How much money will it take to clear your obligation?”

Mick’s eyes glitter. He strokes his chin thoughtfully and looks away, I stifle a chuckle. He knows exactly what he owes Petey, so he’s either trying to work out how much of it he can stick me with, or how much more cash over and above his actual debt he might be able to score from the dumb, sympathetic lawyer he thinks he’s lucked into.

“Actually, all told, Petey seems to think I owe him upwards of two grand, but I bet he’d call things square for an even two.”

“Got a record, Mick?”

He smiles proudly. “Never been caught.”

“Give me a number I can reach you at, then sit tight.”

Confusion clouds his face as his easy score slips away.

I slide a legal pad and my pen across the table. “Phone number.”

“Why? What are you gonna do with it?”

I inch the pad and paper nearer to him. “The number, Mick.”

“Fine.” He scribbles a phone number on the page and pushes it back. “Now what?”

“You go hide under a rock where Petey can’t find you while I look into resolving your cash shortage. That’s why you came this morning, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” he grumbles.

I get to my feet and walk him out. “I might have an idea or two, Mick. Sit tight. I’ll touch base with you no later than tomorrow.”

I’m surprised to see Mel Vu sitting in the waiting room, happily chatting with Joan about who knows what. After I usher Mick out, I discover that she wants to discuss being a witness for Van, so I invite her into the conference room for a brief chat. “I have a full schedule today, Mel, but let’s chat for a bit and see what we might be able to work out.”

By the time she leaves a full half-hour later, I’m intrigued. She’s certainly a far more vivacious personality than I picked up on the morning she came here looking for a lawyer to represent Van.

“There seemed to be a lot of laughing in there,” Joan say with a nod at the conference room door.

“There was some fun,” I allow. “She wants to testify.”

“I know. I think she should.”

“Oh yeah?” I say with a smile. “And why is that?”

“She’ll soften some of Van’s rough edges.”

“Good point.” One I hadn’t thought of.

“She made some good points in favor of putting her on the stand,” Joan continues. “She shared several anecdotes about Van that were warm without lapsing into fawning. And she’s someone that knows Van well and understood the relationship between Syl and Van. She wasn’t afraid to lay the blame for their troubles at the feet of them both. I think she genuinely liked Syl at the same time as she thought her cousin could do better. If anyone is going to humanize Van in front of a skeptical jury, it’s going to be Mel.”

I think back on the visit I just had with Mel and can’t find fault with Joan’s analysis. “I think you’re right.”

She smiles. “Of course I’m right, Counselor. And think of the other bonus if Mel testifies?”

“What’s that?”

“We’ll get to see more of her.”

I chuckle. “Good point!”

Joan has been gathering up her things while we’ve been speaking. “I’m going to be on my way, Tony. Don’t stay all night.”

The glow of my visit with Mel fades as my thoughts turn to other matters from her cousin’s case. With Mike out of commission and Penelope otherwise occupied, I’m sitting first and second chair in Van Booker’s case, so I don’t have time or the bandwidth to fill the role of firm investigator, which leaves me without one. My efforts to bring in an experienced person went nowhere fast—especially given our current cash-flow shortcomings. So, the next option is to snag someone with less experience and commensurately lower wage expectations, someone we can offer steady work while they build their investigative chops toward a future solo gig. We might be able to make the math for that work; we might not. Then there’s the hassle of trying to get someone interested.

Which brings us back to Mick Martin? Is that a totally insane prospect? Why, yes it is. Nonetheless…

CHAPTER 18

“Any news on Mike?” Always the first question when I see Van.

“Still on the road to recovery,” I reply. “Still no certainty about how long that road may be or where it might run.”

“Slow and steady wins the race,” she murmurs. “I suppose it’s time to stop hoping he makes it back for the trial?”

“High time, Van. You’re stuck with me.”

She smiles. “Damn.”

“Damn indeed.”

She slides a 5x8-inch yellow foolscap notepad across the table. “Got you your names, Counselor. Lots and lots and lots of names. This should keep you busy for a while.”

I pull the pad close and flip through two pages covered in precise block lettering. “That is a lot of names!”

“Is that gonna be a problem?” she asks with concern. “I know you’re a one-man band and that you’re swamped.”

“It’s just what I wanted, Van. I may be on the trail of an extra body to help us wade through this sort of thing.”

“Who is it?”

I don’t want to shake Van’s confidence in her defense team, so I deflect. “Nothing’s settled yet, so let’s sit on that. I’ll be speaking with Penelope later.” I lift the notepad and smile. “With luck, we’ll bring him on board and put him to work with this.”

She holds up crossed fingers with a rattle of the restraints that shackle her hands to the tabletop.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t get any easier for you from here. We need to maximize our productivity every time we get a private room like this.”

She nods.

“I need every detail I can assemble about what went on that night. Discovery is beginning to trickle in, but they aren’t giving us much to work with.  I need you to paint a picture of what you saw, what you heard, even what you smelled that night and on Easter morning.”

A budding snarl signals that she hates the idea.

“What are you hoping to accomplish?” she asks. “I’ve told you what happened.”

“Only in general terms,” I reply. “I don’t want just the highlights, like in a trailer or preview or whatever. We need to see the entire, uncut movie.”

“Why?” she asks with a plaintive note.

I feel like a heel but push on. “It’s often an unseen detail or a forgotten snippet that ends up being the most valuable thing locked inside here,” I reply, tapping my temple as I finish.

“Hypnotize me,” she grumbles.

“I would if I could.”

“You do remember that I was shitfaced that night?”

“Give me whatever you can, Van. This is important. Believe me when I say that I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”

She holds my gaze for a long minute, then swallows and nods. I sit stock still as Van wriggles deeper into her seat in an effort to get comfortable, slows her breathing, and seems to go into something of a trance, almost as if she’s practicing some form of self-hypnosis. Is there such a thing?

I slip a hand inside my suit jacket and press the Record button on a diminutive hand-held digital recorder, then uncap my pen to make notes about anything I want to circle back to. 

In a voice thoroughly devoid of emotion—the voice of an automaton—Van reaches back in time to confront the memories she’s worked hard to bury. “I grilled a few dogs out back after work.”

“Out back” most likely referring to Mel Vu’s home. Van was splitting time between Mel’s and the Booker family home on Maple Street while she and Syl tried to work things out. Whoever had Ally for the weekend stayed home; the other spouse made alternate sleeping and living arrangements.

“I drove to Prancing Pony around nine o’clock.”

JRR Tolkien’s Prancing Pony? She’s either lost the thread or some bar owner picked an inspired name for a pub. I bite off the questions that immediately spring to mind in favor of taking notes. Best to leave Van deep in whatever state she’s settled into and seek clarification later.

“I shot a couple games of pool with Nick and Fred, then did serious drinking in a back corner. Couldn’t say how many brews I pounded down, but more than enough to drown my sorrows. I don’t remember much beyond snippets after that … a few faces flashing across my mind. My next clear memory is waking up in my car in the parking lot behind the bar and feeling like shit. There were a couple of dudes in the ally, guys who more or less live there year-round. I can’t remember if I spoke to them that night or just saw them. I’m there pretty often … sometimes we talk, sometimes we don’t, depending on our alcohol intake.”

I make a note to follow-up on these guys.

“The next thing I remember clearly is sitting on the riverbank in Gompers Park. I love it there, especially at night. Quiet. Peaceful. For the most part, nobody ever hassles me there. I do a little fishing when the spirit moves me.”

A smile washes over Van’s face as she continues. “Ah, yeah. I bought a big old picnic basket and stopped by Mel’s to decorate a couple dozen Easter eggs for Ally. I set the basket on the front porch and taped a note to the kitchen window so Syl and Ally would know to look for it as soon as she got up.”

Van pauses for a long moment, as if maybe she’s reluctant to go on. I hold my breath, willing her to stay the course as we edge closer to the critical hours.

“Sometime later—I couldn’t tell you the exact time—I drove back to our neighborhood when the sun was close to coming up. I parked one street over from our house and walked the rest of the way. I’m not sure if I had a plan to try to see Ally, but it was Easter morning and I wanted to be near my little girl, even if Syl wasn’t going to let us spend Easter together At the least, I hoped to see her find the eggs on the front step. She would have been so excited.”

The muscles around Van’s mouth tighten and she squeezes her eyes more tightly closed as her breath grows shallower than at any time in the last ten minutes. The dash of emotion that entered her voice while we remembered the Easter eggs has vanished, and Van is back to speaking in the stilted, robotic voice.

“When I reached our block, police and EMS were already there. The front screen door was propped open. I watched for a minute or so, I guess, then I started running. When I reached the end of the sidewalk, I saw a stretcher being wheeled toward the front door from deeper in the house and I knew—I just knew because the person covered up was so small! It’s all a blur after that. I can see a couple of cops stopping me. We struggled. The ambulance took Ally away, and I could see Syl’s body on the floor inside … I could see all the way to the living room because the sun was coming up. There was blood. A broken lamp in the living room. The eggs were spilled on the step, so I tried to put them back into the basket but they wouldn’t let me. Why not?”

Van falls silent for the better part of a minute, then her eyes slowly open and meet mine.

“Thanks,” I murmur. “Are you okay?”

She nods. “Is that gonna help?”

“It isn’t going to hurt any, Van.”

“Assuming you remember it all,” she says with the ghost of a smile.

I reach into my jacket pocket and slide the recorder out just far enough for her to see. “Got every word of it right here.”

Her eyes widen. “Are you allowed?

“Depends who you ask,” I reply. “The average prison guard hasn’t got a clue what the law is with regard to inmate rights when it comes to dealing with attorneys, and the Department of Corrections likes it that way. Even here, where the guards are Sheriff’s Deputies who really should know better, and probably do, the default instinct is to always screw the inmates and their lawyers. Every stupid rule they dream up, every restrictive policy, every bending of the law is part of a concerted effort to make sure the State wins in court. If a Sheriff’s Deputy were to confiscate this now, you can bet your ass it would be on the prosecutor’s desk tomorrow morning, but no one here would know anything about its whereabouts, or that it ever existed.”

Her lips curl into a little grin. “So, no?”

“Actually, I can record you and whatever is on the recording is privileged information. The State can’t access it.”

“I’ll bet they respect that rule.”

I smile. “You’re getting the picture. Anyway, I’ll have Joan transcribe this back at the office and we’ll go through it next time we’re together.”

“You’re gonna ask me all those questions you’ve got written down there?”

“I was thinking we’d cover those along with the transcription.”

She nods. “So you have everything you need from me?”

“For today,” I reply, then add, “Actually, there is one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The Prancing Pony?”

She laughs. “Gotta love that. Comes complete with some Middle Earth paraphernalia.”

“So I guessed right. I thought maybe you were hallucinating and I was going to start hearing about dwarves and elves and dragons.”

“Ha,” she says with a smile. “Not my thing.”

“I’m more of a Gryffindor guy, myself.”

“You’re a Potterhead?”

“My daughter is. You?”

“Absolutely!”

“Ally?” I ask, then immediately regret the question.

She shakes her head slowly. “I thought it might be fun to start her off at eleven-years-old and do a book a year, pretty much the way it was done originally, so Gumby would age with the characters.”

“Gumby?”

Van’s expression and voice grow wistful. “You know the cartoon character?”

I nod.

“Syl tagged Ally with the name Gumby because she was flexible like the toy and somewhat mischievous and impulsive. He called me Pokey, and while I’m not sure the concept of Pokey as her sidekick fully registered in her three-year-old brain, Ally was delighted that it made us a team.”

I smile. It’s a cute story.

“Of course, things were never that simple with Syl. Ally-Gumby was the fun one, Van-Pokey was the character whose caution and pragmatism often saved the day. When Syl was feeling nasty—which was more often than not toward the end—he’d characterize my Pokey persona as a stick in the mud who always ruined Ally’s fun.”

Great way to ruin what should have been a fun memory for a kid. The more Syl Booker comes into focus, the less I care for him.

The guard knocks and announces that the clock is winding down on our time.

“It always goes by so fast,” Van says with a frown.

I imagine she’s talking about having company, which I’m sure is a welcome distraction from the endless hours stuck in this place. For my part, I rue how drastically Van’s incarceration cripples our trial preparations.

“Have fun with those names,” she says with a grin and a trace of humor in her voice.

“More homework,” I say as a thought comes to me.

She groans, but the smile remains in place. “Hit me.”

“As best you can without the list in hand, run these names through your mind with an eye to identifying anyone who might have targeted Syl and Ally as a means of getting at you—particularly anyone who wouldn’t have the guts to take you on directly.”

Her eyes go cold at the thought. “I’ll give it some thought, but I’ll tell you this much. Your premise is wrong. Anyone who really wanted me to suffer would know better than to come after me. Taking my baby away hurt me far more than anything they could possibly do to me, including killing me.”

“Then think about who might have done that.”

“I will.”

Her murderous expression sends a chill through me. In this moment, I have no doubt that Van would chew through the bars on her cell and kick down the prison walls to get at the person who killed her baby girl.

CHAPTER 19

Penelope arrives in the office from Minneapolis for the weekend late that afternoon. We’re having a working dinner in the lavish Brooks, Valenti & Williams conference room. The table would fit comfortably into a modest family dining room; the chairs are chrome and fabric chic, something you might find in a hotel meeting room. The meal? Thai takeout.

“Life in the lap of luxury,” Penelope says with a little laugh as she pushes her paper plate away and dips her fingers in a glass of lemon water she scrounged up in the kitchen.

We’ve kept it light over dinner, chatting about family and the like, basically catching up after not having seen each other all week.

“How are things going in Minnesota?” I ask when I return and sit down after dumping our trash in the kitchen.

“Slow,” she says. “Tedious. Those people drown in paperwork, and so much of the case is pure theater. I can’t imagine a steady diet of tort work. This had better pay off, especially given the havoc it’s wreaking around here.”

“I’m sure it will,” I say diplomatically, glad to know that she at least has an inkling of what her absence is costing the rest of us. That said, I wonder if she fully appreciates the hellishness of my days and nights.

“Are we making progress with Van’s case?”

We?

My peeved reaction surprises me. Truth be told, however, I’ve felt my resentment brewing for the past few weeks, especially since Mike’s accident. Sure, on paper Penelope is sitting second chair on Van’s case, but her rear end hasn’t once touched down in the seat. It isn’t working and she knows it. I’ll bring it up later. For now, I tell her about my meeting with Van earlier today, mention a handful of seemingly insignificant discovery papers that arrived during the week, and bring her up to speed on the status of a handful of other mundane files I’m nursing along.

“Glad to hear that we’re keeping our heads above water,” she says when I finish.

“Just barely, Penelope.”

Which brings me to my chat with Mick Martin this morning. Appearances aside, I got a good vibe from the guy. He seems to be sharp, creative, and willing to bend the rules without coloring too far outside the lines—all attributes I’ve come to think make for a good investigator. Might he be open to a career change, one that will include hard work, crappy hours, and a need for stringent self-discipline, including overcoming the temptation to use the position and its tools to work a scam or two? Perhaps the Petey fright will scare him straight? I’d like to think so, especially as it’s forced him to confront the possibility of his antics putting his daughter at risk. The fear that thought engendered in him wasn’t faked, not unless this guy is the unusual dishwasher who’s on his way to earning a string of Oscars. I relay my thoughts to Penelope, who seems less than impressed.

“Of course, I only have his word that he doesn’t have a criminal record stretching from sea to shining sea,” I say. “I submitted the records request this afternoon. If the search comes back clean, I’m going to bring him on board on a trial basis.”

“Even if everything checks out on this guy, I still want to meet him before we commit, Tony. And then he’s not going anywhere near Van’s case until I have a chance to see what kind of work he can do.”

My inclination is to acquiesce, but I instead dig in my heels. “With all due respect, partner, I’m going to make this call. I’m the one who’s drowning and Van is the person who’s going to pay the price for that. I need help and a potential lifeline is available. I’m going to grab it. We’ll see where it goes.”

My assertiveness appears to have startled her; she’s accustomed to having the final say far more often than anyone else in the firm. Which is fine so far as it goes; she generally has the best judgement of the partners and has earned our utmost respect.

“If you feel that strongly, Tony, go ahead. Can we talk again before you make a firm commitment?”

“Before we bring him on board full-time, yes.”

She nods her agreement, albeit reluctantly. Now for the second chair dilemma.

“I’m also going to need support in the courtroom, Penelope. More all the time as we near trial. I think it’s clear that you’re not going to be available, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m trying, partner,” she says.

“And you’re failing,” I counter bluntly; there’s no sugar-coating it. “You haven’t made it to court once.”

“I have the trial date set aside on my calendar.”

I give her a long look and she wilts under it. “You know there’s a lot more to the proceedings in a murder case than just the trial itself, Penelope. The hearings. The motions. Interviews and witness prep. Planning direct and cross examination. The pace is going to start picking up soon, and it will be relentless from there right through to the verdict. As much as I wish I could, I can’t do it all myself … not well, at any rate. You know this.”

She nods her head, reluctantly.

“You need to be in Minnesota.”

“Maybe I should be here,” she counters.

“We’ve been over this, partner. A piece of that tort settlement will finally allow us to put the firm on a sound footing. We’ve gone this far with it, too far to walk away from the prize. You need to see it through.”

“And Van’s case, Tony? Are we willing to see her go to prison so we can win a big settlement?”

“I don’t view this as a binary argument.”

“What’s the other option?”

An alternative I know she’ll hate and resist until the cows come home, but I lay it out there for consideration anyway. We’re only six weeks from trial. “We bring someone from outside to sit second chair.”

After recovering from her initial shock, she shakes her head. “Seriously? Did another derelict walk into the office this week, someone you think might prove adequate to sit second chair?”

Whoa. She really hates this idea.  Perhaps it was a tactical error to tackle more than one mad personnel idea at a single meeting. Take the minor victory and run, Valenti.

“I’ll explore my options first,” she tells me. “Then we’ll give this some serious thought before we do anything.”

This time, in the interest of partnership harmony, I fold my tent in the face of Penelope’s implacability and silently steal away with at least a minor victory under my belt. I can return to fight this battle another day. But it had better be one day soon.

CHAPTER 20

A few minutes before nine o’clock on Monday morning just over a week later, I arrive at the George N. Leighton Criminal Court Building—aka 26th and California for those of us in the know. We were served a startling notice last Thursday that Judge Morgan is off the case. No explanation was offered as to why, and none is likely to be forthcoming. We’re here to meet the new boss, Judge Jane Ellison. A little research revealed her to be on the youngish side, appointed in Cook County last year following a move from Cincinnati. I uncovered no indication of what prompted the move. We have no experience with her, and nobody we’ve spoken with has argued a case in her courtroom. She’s an enigma, a magistrate who worked in Cincinnati’s civil courts, so she had precious little exposure to criminal law prior to landing in Cook County. For all intents and purposes, a rookie criminal court judge. How in hell did we reach a point where politicians are appointing judges seemingly without regard to their suitability for and demonstrated competence in the critical role they’ll play in the judicial system?

Not to prejudge her or anything.

I can’t say I’m unhappy to see the backside of Morgan, but that doesn’t necessarily mean we’re going to like what follows. Things might be worse—as bad as Morgan could be, he was at least the devil we knew. Ellison has the potential to be one of three things: Worse than Morgan, new boss same as the old boss, or a breath of fresh air. She’s asked counsel to make an appearance in her chambers five minutes prior to open court. I arrive in her reception area, girding myself for the potential of yet another prosecutorial ambush.

Judge Ellison’s clerk, formerly the clerk for Judge Morgan and others over the years, is an old hand nearing retirement. I’m fond of her. She greets me with a sunny, “Good morning, Mr. Valenti! Nice to see you.”

I return the smile and reach across the desk to shake hands with the short, roundish woman. A shock of flaming red hair and a fair complexion reflect her Irish ancestry, which she’s quick to celebrate. “Top o’ the morning to you, Ella!”

She winks and turns to the new arrival who has trailed me into the office. Grayson Birch is greeted with a simple hello.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. O’Reilly, ” Birch appends to his own greeting.

I dare to hope that this is also Birch’s first time meeting our judge, nurturing the undoubtedly forlorn hope that we might be stepping onto a level playing field for a change.

Expecting to be summoned into or dispatched to the judge’s chambers, I’m surprised when Judge Ellison steps into the room dressed in taupe linen slacks and a robin’s-egg blue, short-sleeved, button up blouse. She smiles at us, then cuts her gaze to Ella O’Reilly with one eyebrow cocked a fraction of an inch.

Ella gestures toward Birch and introduces him as our prosecutor.

Ellison extends a hand in greeting. “Jane Ellison. Pleased to meet you.”

Birch delivers a winsome, toothsome smile that appears genuine. “Pleased to meet you, Judge.”

Ellison turns to gaze up at me from her comparatively modest height of perhaps five-and-a-half-feet and smiles. “Using my elevated powers of judicial deduction leads me to conclude that you must be Mr. Tony Valenti, our defence counsel.”

I shake her hand. “Good guess,” I reply with a smile. Humor is a first in my experience of judicial introductions.

She takes a step back and crosses her hands in front of herself. “In the interest of time, let me answer a couple of questions I imagine you have. One: Don’t expect an explanation about the change in judges. Two: I’ve read through all the documentation on file in this case, including every transcript of the proceedings. Three: If there are any prior decisions you wish to revisit, the door is open to doing so.”

She pauses, offering us a chance to comment. Where did this come from? The potential ramifications of the door she just opened may be far reaching, but is that a good thing or a bad thing for us? It's a lot to take in, coming out of the blue as it has. Something to consider after we’re done here this morning, once I have time to digest it all. I keep quiet.

When no one takes the judge up on her offer, she continues. “Four. If you wish to revisit anything, don’t waste my time with disingenuous or superfluous motions in an effort to gain tactical advantage. Present a succinct argument outlining your concerns and potential remedies. Five, do not seek to delay the trial. And be forewarned, wasting my and opposing counsel’s time just might poison the well the next time you seek relief. Any questions?”

A thousand; and none.

Ellison surprises me again by wrapping up the meet and greet without further ado. “I like to know who I’m dealing with before we all don our courtroom armor and personas, so thanks for stopping by, Counselors. I hope our pleasant little interlude here will carry on into a measure of decorum and civility in the courtroom.”

With that, she turns away and sweeps back into her chambers, leaving us staring after her. My eyes track to Ella, who is considering us with a gentle smile.

“Back to work, gentlemen,” she says by way of dismissal.

Birch is out the door like a shot, passing up the opportunity to practice the civility Judge Ellison was just preaching. Apparently, the judge’s appeal was lost on Grayson Birch. Or maybe he just doesn’t give a damn about the judge’s wishes.

Five minutes later, we’re in the courtroom waiting for the hearing to begin. I’m surprised to see Joe Bob Sparks sitting in the back row of the courtroom. We exchange nods as the door opens and Van is escorted in by a pair of bailiffs, fully shackled and wearing a faded orange prison romper. Ellison enters unannounced and steps onto the bench, seemingly catching the staff by surprise.

Ella bounces to her feet and belatedly intones, “Cook County Criminal Court is hereby in session, Judge Jane Ellison presiding.”

Rather than taking umbrage over the stumble in courtroom decorum, Ellison appears mildly amused by what was most likely simple teething pains as the new magistrate and her new courtroom staff adapt to one another. Who knows—maybe we’re witnessing a magistrate who lacks the distressingly common oversized judicial ego. A defense attorney can dream, right?

I study Ellison as she organizes herself for the hearing. She wouldn’t look at all out of place at the front of a university lecture hall, she would fit in well at a neighborhood barbeque in Cedar Heights, and yet I can see her strutting into a boardroom in a power suit. Shoulder length brown hair, trim, a pair of sensible glasses perched on her slightly upturned nose. Whatever other qualities she may lack, judicial demeanor and confidence don’t appear to be on the list. Her handshake was firm and her gaze steady when she introduced herself to counsel, and she seemed to regard me without any sense of bias, unwitting or not. Given the unholy bonhomie that exists between prosecutors and magistrates who have come to the bench directly from their ranks, perhaps it’s something to take comfort in.

“I summoned you here this morning to satisfy myself that we’re on track for a timely start to our trial. I’d like updates from both sides on the status of discovery matters, any anticipated pre-trial motions—particularly any concerning evidentiary matters. I’m open to other ideas to help us comply with the requirements of affording the defendant a timely resolution of the charges against her.”

Wow.

Ellison turns her gaze on me. “Let’s begin with the defense. Is the State delivering discovery in a timely manner?”

“We’ve received precious little discovery, Your Honor.”

She frowns. “Given your experience in capital cases, would you care to estimate the percentage of final discovery that is in your possession?”

It’s an interesting way to phrase the question, and an effective one. I think on it for a minute before replying, “Ten or fifteen percent. Perhaps twenty.”

The judge turns to Birch. “The defendant was taken into custody on April eleventh, Mr. Birch. Trial is due to begin on August ninth. How is it that two months after arrest and less than two months prior to trial, you have delivered scant discovery to defense counsel?”

The pointed question takes my opponent by surprise.

“It’s a complex case, Your Honor,” he replies with a touch of condescension, which I suspect he’ll regret. “All homicides are. Evidence continues to be gathered and developed, witnesses need to be interviewed, forensics must be analyzed. We’re doing the best we can.”

Ellison surprises me by not responding. She simply stares at Birch.

“Your Honor?” he eventually asks.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t realize you were finished.”

“I answered your question, Judge.”

“I guess I missed that,” she says as her expression hardens. “What I heard was a little lecture to enlighten me on the process of a murder investigation. One would assume that a good deal of that work was in hand prior to your office making the decision to charge the defendant, so I fail to see why it has yet to be delivered as per your discovery obligations. Would you care to explain that to me?”

Birch has suddenly taken on something of a deer in the headlights expression, which quickly morphs into one expressing indignation. “We’ve delivered what was available, Your Honor.”

“Such as?”

“Some witness statements, initial police reports.”

“Some witness statements and initial police reports? How about forensics?”

“I’d have to check.”

“Autopsy reports?”

“I’d have to check into that, Judge.”

“Seriously?” Ellison turns back to me. “Mr. Valenti, may I ask you to please have someone in your office forward to the court a list of the discovery evidence you’ve received to date?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor.”

“Thank you.”

She spins back to Birch. “By Friday, I’ll expect delivery to defense counsel of all existing witness statements in the possession of your office and the investigating police departments, plus whatever police reports led your office to file charges.”

He nods, but there’s little to no sincerity in it. “If it pleases the court, may I speak to the matter of the proposed trial date?”

“We’ll get to that later, Mr. Birch.”

She looks down at me. “Does the defense anticipate filing any motions to exclude evidence?”

I’m on the verge of blurting out, “What evidence?” when my brain inches ahead of my mouth and stifles it. “Not at this time, Your Honor. If we receive any such evidence, I’ll make an undertaking now to bring it to your attention at the earliest possible moment.”

There we go, the same message delivered in grownup fashion.

“Does your office anticipate any difficulty preparing for our trial to begin on August ninth?”

I pause. No more so than the degree of difficulty I might have in winning an Olympic Decathlon gold medal while balancing an egg on the tip of my nose. I keep that thought to myself and reply, “Assuming we receive discovery in a timely manner, I don’t believe we will.”

“Excellent. Let’s keep our fingers crossed, shall we?” She turns to Birch. “How about the State? You’ll also be ready to start on August ninth?”

“You’ll recall that I wished to speak to the issue of the trial date, Judge.”

“I do. And?”

“It certainly poses a challenge.”

“How so?”

“Cook County is very heavily populated, Your Honor, with more than our fair share of miscreants. Our State’s Attorney’s office is burdened with an exceptional workload. As consideration for these facts, Cook County courts have traditionally recognized the wisdom of wide flexibility in granting the People extensions when case-specific factors justify them. I imagine the judge is aware that this is codified in 725 ILCS 5/103-5.”

“The judge is fully cognizant of the statue, Counsel. Please allow me to clarify your apparent misunderstanding of what is codified in Illinois 725 ILCS 5/103-5. Courts are afforded a degree of flexibility in considering requests that are justified by exigent circumstances. In lay terms, certain circumstances, such as complex cases involving multiple defendants or extensive evidence, may necessitate additional preparation time. In such instances, the court may grant continuances if the prosecution demonstrates that case-specific factors provide good cause.”

Sounds about right to me. There’s a reason why the legislation is colloquially known as “the speedy trial bill.”

“As the State has put forward no showing suggesting the existence of such circumstances in this case, the Court finds no basis to consider delaying this trial. Might I also remind counsel that both the United States and Illinois State constitutions guaranty defendants the right to a speedy trial? Had the State done a better job of affording defendants that basic right, Bill 725 ILCS 5/103-5 wouldn’t have been necessary.”

She pauses, all but daring Birch to challenge her assertions. When she’s satisfied that he isn’t going to, she proclaims, “This matter is on my docket for August ninth, and there it will remain. Questions?”

“I respectfully suggest that you’re not allowing the People adequate time to prepare for trial, Judge. That could come back to haunt us.”

“To haunt us, Counselor?”

“A failure to afford the parties adequate time to prepare for trial could be a costly mistake,” he replies with a dramatic flair.

Ellison all but snorts. “Perhaps the State’s Attorney should think about how hard it fights to keep defendants in jail prior to trial. If you hadn’t put Van Booker behind bars for the duration, by statute you could have bought yourself another forty days before trial.”

Birch’s face pinches in outrage, as if to exclaim, “How dare a mere judge second guess the decision of the elected chief law enforcement officer of Cook County!”

Ellison continues, “I’m well aware that incarceration has the potential to compromise the defendant’s availability for trial preparation with defense counsel, Mr. Birch. Coupled with the speedy trial statute, one might argue that strategic incarceration has the potential to cripple the defense team’s ability to prepare for trial.”

“Be that at as it may, Your Honor, the trial clock is paused when a delay is the result of actions of the defendant.”

Ellison acknowledges the point with a dip of the chin. “Go on.”

“The record will show that defense counsel made a request on May third to withdraw from the case and, failing that, to have the court grant a continuance.”

The skin around Ellison’s eyes tightens and her lips thin in an expression of aggrieved distaste. “Don’t try my patience, Mr. Birch. I’m not a rube. There’s a world of difference between defense counsel filing a motion for continuance or withdrawal and seeking guidance from the court on such matters in the days immediately following a fatal traffic accident involving one of their partners. Rather than ascribing Machiavellian motives to defense counsel in exploring their legitimate options in the circumstances, isn’t it possible they rightfully sought the court’s guidance as to the best way forward, in the interests of all concerned?”

Hurray for the moral superiority of defense attorneys everywhere!

“Be that as it may,” Birch says.

“Be that as it may, Counselor? No motions were filed on May third. I trust you merely misspoke in implying otherwise and were not attempting to mislead this court.”

Silence.

Judge Ellison reiterates that August ninth will be our trial date, confirms that we have no additional questions for her, and reminds us of the undertakings we’ve committed to over the course of the hearing. “I’ll be in touch to set a date for pretrial hearings early next month and again ten to fourteen days prior to our August ninth start date.”

And that’s that. Now that it’s over, I find myself marveling at how aggressively Judge Ellison took on good old Grayson Birch. I am, in fact, mildly uncomfortable with the tone she took with him, not that I’m complaining if our judge has a bug up her ass about our adversary. Now, if Mick Martin is making progress on running down the whereabouts of the people whose names I handed him a week ago, this just may be the day to go buy a lottery ticket.

I find myself several steps behind Joe Bob Sparks after we leave the courtroom and hurry to catch up. I’m curious as to why he was in our courtroom.

“Hey, Joe Bob,” I say as I pull abreast of him. “I saw you at our hearing this morning.”

He shrugs. “I take in a lot of hearings.”

I wonder if he lives in the courthouse, lurking the hallways and courtrooms in a perpetual search for paying clients. I’m certainly not going to ask. “Why ours?”

He shrugs. “l guess you might call it homework.”

Homework? “How so?” I ask with a hint of confusion.

“Birch and Ellison are relatively new around here. I haven’t come up against Birch yet, and Ellison hasn’t sat on one of my cases. I try to make a point of knowing who’s who in the zoo around here.”

“That sounds like a wise practice,” I say. Maybe there’s more to this guy than people realize. “What did you make of how Ellison took down Birch? I’ve gotta tell you—how close it skirted with being a personal attack made me a pinch uncomfortable.”

Joe Bob shakes his head. “I doubt it was intended as a personal attack on Birch, Tony. I suspect the judge just sent a very pointed message to the State’s Attorney.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I heard through the grapevine that one of the senior Assistant State’s Attorneys gave Judge Ellison a hard time about a ruling, enough to get herself sanctioned. The State’s Attorney responded by filing an official complaint against Ellison. Things got out of hand when the State described the judge as a woefully unqualified rookie judge whose incompetence compromised the prosecution of a rabid threat to the well-being of our community. Or pompous words to that effect. Ellison was not amused.”

I shake my head. “Imagine that.”

“I suspect Ellison just showed her teeth, with poor Grayson Birch delegated to pass along the message to his boss that the new judge has a nasty bite.”

After we say our goodbyes, I make a mental note to ask around about Joe Bob Sparks. I’m impressed. Is anyone else, or is there a consensus that he’s all washed up; a once-sharp attorney grown too erratic to trust?

CHAPTER 21

I meet with Van Booker the following day. After a minute of small talk, I smile and announce, “Lots to talk about today.”

Van answers my smile with one of her own. “Is that right?”

“It is. Loads of fun on tap.”

She side-eyes me. “That has the distinct ring of insincerity, Counselor.”

I shrug and dig into my portfolio bag. “The transcript of your recital last week,” I say while setting a stack of pages before her. I set a single page in front of myself. “And my notes.”

She flips a corner of the pile. “It felt like I droned on longer than that.”

“Guess you’re not quite the droner you imagine yourself to be, Van.”

This elicits an eye-roll. “Let’s get on with it.”

“I suggest you read through the transcript and I’ll pose the questions I listed in my notes as we go. Sound fair?”

“Whatever you say.”

“You grilled dinner and ate. At Mel’s house, I presume?”

She nods.

“Was anyone with you?”

“Just me.”

“Okay. You shot some pool at the Prancing Pony with Nick and Fred. Last names?”

Van searches her memory. “If I’ve ever heard them, I don’t remember. I’ll think on it.”

“Can I usually find Nick and Fred at the pub?”

“Most weekend evenings.”

“Got it,” I mutter. I’m making notes to my notes as we go. Can’t have enough notes. “You mentioned being able to recall glimpses of random faces in the bar over the course of the evening.”

She nods. “Kind of disassociated, I guess you might say. It was almost as if they just swam by in the ether now and then.”

“People you know? Knew? Just saw around?”

“All strangers, I think.” She pauses. “I suppose that’s unlikely.”

“You have no recollection of interacting with any of them?”

She throws her hands up as far as her shackles allow. “No.”

“Did you talk to anyone else in the bar while you drank?”

“Probably, but I couldn’t say who.”

“How about the bartender?”

“I most always chat with one of the bartenders when she’s working. Sandy.”

“Was she working that night?”

“Yeah, I think she was.”

“Would she know what time you arrived and left?”

“I couldn’t say. Those folks keep a keen eye on things, but whether or not they attach times to their observations, I dunno.”

“How about a server?”

“I either sit at the bar or collect my own drinks there, so no.” After reading the passage about waking up in the car in the parking lot behind the bar, she buries her face in her hands and groans. “How pathetic is that?”

“Stuff happens, Van. You’re neither the first nor last person who will do that.”

“About Nick and Fred. Sandy might know their last names.”

“Good thinking. I’ll ask her. Let’s talk about what time you went out to the car and what time you came to out there. Did you use your phone? If so, we can check phone records for times.”

She shakes her head no. “Probably not, anyway.”

I press on. “ Do you remember looking at the time on your watch? On the car clock?”

She shrugs helplessly.

“Close your eyes and try to bring the scene to mind.”

She falls silent, closes her eyes, and thinks for a full minute before shaking her head with a frown.  “Nothing. Sorry.”

“No worries. That’s fine. What about the guys in the alley? Do you know their names?”

“Not that I recall. I’ll think on it some.”

”Am I likely to find them there most nights?”

“I think so,” she replies. “Maybe.”

“Will they talk to me? Do they know your name?”

“I don’t know and I don’t know,” she spits out in frustration. “I’m not doing well, am I?”

“You’re doing great, Van. All things considered, your recall is pretty good, and we’re  systematically identifying possible witnesses and narrowing time frames. It’s all progress.”

“If you say so.”

I smile and say “I do” as she sips some of the bottled water I brought. “Ready to continue?”

She swipes a hand across her lips and nods.

“Did you stay parked there after you woke up? If so, do remember how long you were there?”

“I didn’t leave right away, but I don’t how long I stayed, either. I may have dozed a little.”

“Or you may not have?”

“I suppose that’s so.”

“Where in God’s name is Gompers Park?”

“It’s on the North Branch of the Chicago River west of the NEIU campus.”

“Nice spot?”

“Very. Go hang out there some afternoon or evening. Take a fishing pole along if you’re so inclined.”

“I just might.”

“You’ll have company. It’s a popular fishing hole.”

“Cool. Did you go anywhere else on the way to Gompers Park? If so, how long were you there? Where did you park? Actually, come to think of it, same question for Gompers Park.”

“I don’t recall any detours on the way there. I can usually find a spot on one of the side streets off Foster, but sometimes I have to park at a Jewel a couple of blocks away. Pulaski and Foster, I guess it would be.”

“You don’t remember for sure?”

“I’m gonna say the Jewel lot. I seem to recall being nervous about getting tagged. They have the usual No Overnight Parking signs.”

“That could be good for us. They probably have cameras covering the parking lot. Knowing when you came and left might prove helpful—especially if the medical examiner is able to narrow the time of death.”

“Or it might make it look like I was there at the right time.”

“Man, the glass is half-empty for you today, my friend,” I say. “But listen. Things can’t get worse. They already claim you were there at the time of the killings, so any opportunity we get to challenge that narrative could be a key fact in our favor.”

Speaking of nailing down times. “When did you drop off the Easter basket, Van? Before the trip to the bar? Between waking up behind the bar and arriving at Gompers Park? Some other time?”

“Before I went to the bar. Ally’s bedtime is eight o’clock. I dropped off the basket and went to the bar.”

I scribble another note. “You said that you drove back to your neighborhood just as the sun was about to rise. I checked, and sunrise was at six-thirty-five, so the sky would have started to lighten around five thirty, quarter of six. Thereabouts, anyway. The first call to 911 was at six-thirty-seven. Far from conclusive either way. I spent some time trying to run down traffic camera and other CCTV footage that might have captured you driving, but I was flying blind. The Gompers Park detail and a general time frame will help. I’ll get an investigator back out there.”

“What investigator?”

“The guy I mentioned last week.”

“So it’s no longer just you.”

Nope.”

“Cool. I hope he isn’t costing Mel her retirement savings.”

“Cool indeed, and Mel’s retirement is safe. He’s working off his representation.”

She chuckles. “Legal service bartering. Is that even a thing?”

“It is now. Let’s discuss the Easter arrangements for Ally. Were you shut out and, if so, did that violate the terms of your shared custody agreement?”

“Are you asking if I should have been able to see Ally on Easter and Syl prevented it?”

“Exactly. Was this a point of friction that weekend?” I dearly hope it wasn’t.

“I wouldn’t say so. We don’t—didn’t—have a formal agreement through lawyers and all that. We weren’t even legally separated. That was Syl’s weekend to have her, but we did a pretty good job of accommodating things so Ally saw both of us on special days.”

“Okay,” I say with relief. “We can work with that.”

She waits for me to continue.

“Actually, let’s talk about your marriage for a minute, Van. I have a couple of questions.”

“I don’t really want to, Tony. My love life isn’t anyone else’s business, and I don’t see how it’s relevant here.”

“Deciding what is and is not relevant is up to me, Van. Period.”

“There are limits to what I’m prepared to throw into the mix, Tony.”

“Because you’re concerned with what I’ll think? With what others might think if I talk out of turn or, Heaven forbid, want to use any of it to save your ass at trial?”

Her eyes narrow.

“You seem to have trust issues, Van.”

“Trust issues? You’re damn right I do.”

“We need to get past that or this isn’t going to work.”

“In the immortal words of Popeye the Sailor Man, I yam what I am, Tony. I can’t help that.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a quitter.”

Her eyes blaze. “What?”

“Are we moving forward here?”

She shakes her head no.

“And why is that, Van?”

“Because I have issues. That doesn’t make me a quitter!”

“Ah, but we’ve stopped even attempting to move forward because you can’t get past your issues. In my book, that’s quitting.”

She doesn’t reply; she doesn’t have to. I hit my mark.

“So, me and Syl,” she says. “It was a rocky road at times, but we loved each other in our own quirky ways … the best of times, the worst of times, y’know?”

“Oh, I know.”

“You too?”

“The stories I could tell.”

“Go ahead.”

I smile and wag a finger. “Uh uh. Today is your turn.”

“Military life is hard on a spouse. Lengthy absences, often on short notice, the uncertainty about when, or even if, some is coming home. I get it.”

“Syl didn’t?”

“Nah, he did, but still.”

“But there came a breaking point?”

“Not really. We were trying to stitch the pieces back together right up to the end. The roughest patch probably came when he told me he’d had an affair while I was deployed overseas. My last tour.”

“Ouch.”

She nods. “I was pissed, as you might imagine, but when I thought things through, I kind of got it. He wasn’t happy about me accepting the second tour in Afghanistan.”

“Like you had a choice.”

She frowns. “Actually, I could have said no that time, but my CO told me they were sending me somewhere that year. I just wanted to get it over with. Selfish, I suppose. Syl wasn’t happy, but we talked things out and got past it.”

“So the marriage wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t irretrievably broken.”

She nods. “Nothing there to set me off on a murderous rage.”

I pause to consider how to position the next couple of minutes, because we’re about to discuss the moments when she realized her husband and daughter had been murdered and, for all I know, when she may have seen her daughter’s corpse. I want to probe for telling details we may be able to use at trial, or detect potential landmines we may otherwise unwittingly stumble upon in front of the jury. How can I do this while minimizing the potential to trigger a shut down or an emotional meltdown? Yeah, good luck with that.

“Last thing on the agenda for this morning,” I say.

She slow claps and says, “Fair enough.”

“I want to discuss your encounter with the cops on the front porch.”

The skin around her eyes tightens, but she nods.

“Did you immediately identify yourself as part of the family?”

She thinks on it. “I must have, but don’t ask me to remember exactly what I said.”

“Whatever it was, they realized you were Ally’s mother when you approached the house?”

She swallows and nods.

“Did they immediately tell you what had happened? That Syl and Ally were dead?”

She shrugs. “Maybe? I don’t recall anyone saying that, but I knew something awful had happened, either from their demeanor or from what I could see with my own eyes.”

“Fair enough. Any chance you can dig deep to come up with the names of the cops you were dealing with? Maybe visualize a name tag on a uniform?”

She thinks on it, then shakes her head. “I can go back and try when I’m alone, but not right now. Move on.”

I interpret her statement imploring me to move on as a warning signal that she isn’t going to hold up for much longer.

“What was their demeanor with you, Van? Suspicious? Empathetic?” I’m searching for hints as to the cops’ take on Van in those moments. It could be a building block in presenting her as a surprised and heartbroken mother stumbling across her daughter’s murder scene, rather than a cold-blooded murderer returning to the scene of the crime.

“They were … fine with me. Just trying to keep me away.”

“Were they rough with you? Aggressive?”

Her eyes flicker to me from wherever she’s withdrawn to. She wears a tight little smile when she asks, “What, are we gonna file an excessive force complaint?”

I chuckle. “I have this idea that we might be able to use their demeanor in court.”

“In what way?”

“In whatever way works for us. Did they perceive you as a threat or did they recognize that they were dealing with a frightened, frantic mother? I can work with either.”

She rolls her eyes. “Lawyers.”

“We work with what we have, Van.”

“Are we done with this?” she asks hopefully.

“For now.”

She doesn’t ask for further explanation and I offer none. As I drive back to the office, I replay the interview in my mind, pondering how a version of it might play out in front of a jury.

CHAPTER 22

Mick Martin has been on the job for two weeks when we meet in my office late Friday afternoon. His official title is “Probationary Assistant Investigator,” which I made up on the spot to go with his official State of Illinois rookie PI license. After completing the prescribed number of hours building his gumshoe chops under my expert tutelage and successfully passing whatever additional exams and whatnot the bureaucracy has cooked up, the S[NT2]tate will declare Mick an official gumshoe. I’m not thinking that far ahead. I fronted Mick a grand and accompanied him to a dive bar to get Petey out of his life, delivering a stern warning to the big lug that was liberally spiced with grand-sounding legalese designed to convince him that the one-thousand-dollar money order we placed in his hand absolutely, positively, unequivocally prevented him from ever again contacting one Mick Martin on pain of immediate arrest and prosecution for having violated the terms of a legally binding agreement. He seemed to lap it all up and wandered off, seemingly happy to be up a grand and, I suspect, content to see the backside of his good buddy Mick. Mick is pleased, as well, and I’m relieved to have my rookie investigator on hand. Isn’t this what the new-age, corporate pop psychology weenie crowd call a win-win outcome? Never let it be said that our little popsicle stand outfit can’t run with the big dogs when we choose to.

Mick has done surprisingly well with his first official assignment, which was sorting through the plethora of names Van delivered to me. He’s tracked down a surprising number of them and spoken with several. The odds of any of them proving useful are miniscule, but the purpose of casting a wide net is to increase the odds of landing a useful catch that we don’t simply toss back into the sea[NT3]. All we need to make the project worthwhile is a single person with a valuable snippet of information, although more than a single nugget would be nice.

“So. Syl Booker,” he says with a smug expression.

“What about him?” With the bucket of names off my desk, my plan was to assemble a proper file on Syl.

“Not the most savory character,” Mick continues. “It seems he liked to play hide the salami with the fifteen-year-old babysitter.”

I expect to find a bruise after my chin slams down on the floor. “You’ve been looking into Syl?”

“You mentioned that we need to know all there is to know about him.”

Did I? Apparently Mick was paying attention. “Where did this babysitter story come from, Mick?”

“Neighbor lady. She figured it was just a matter of time until the girl’s steelworker daddy got wind of what was going on. ‘That’s kinda what I figured happened when I heard there’d been a murder at the Booker house’ is how she put it. She abandoned the theory when she heard about the little girl being killed too.”

“Are you sure, Mick? How did she know what was going on?”

“I guess someone should have told Syl to close the curtains, turn off the lights, or both.”

I gaze out the window at the twenty- and thirty-foot-tall skyscrapers that line the main drag of downtown Cedar Heights. Does Van know about the babysitter business? If so, she didn’t mention it … which would be a bad sign.

“You want me to dig deeper into that?” Mick asks.

I nod, unsure of how he’ll go about doing so, but he ferreted out the babysitter info on his own initiative. Who knows what else he might stumble onto? I start thinking of additional assignments I can hand off to him. “I assume you’ve been working out of the trunk of your car this week?”

He grins and nods. “Lincoln Lawyer style.”

I roll my eyes and chuckle. “Yeah, just like that. We’ll get you set up in the conference room starting Monday. I’ll pair him up with Joan, who’s a wizard when it comes to research and compiling data. Might things be looking up a bit?

“Penelope called,” Joan announces while poking her head inside my office door. “She’ll be here in five minutes and wants fresh coffee. How about you boys, should I make enough for three?”

Mick nods. I say yes. Joan withdraws.

The tort firm is now paying for Penelope to fly back and forth, ostensibly so she has time to help out with Van’s case. Good intentions, but I don’t see that happening. Trying to integrate her into Van’s defense team would cost me as much time, if not more, than she’d save me. Joan is shuffling our other case files in her daughter’s direction, much to Penelope’s dismay.

“I’m looking forward to meeting my other boss,” Mick says.

“Careful what you wish for,” slips out before I can stifle it. Penelope sees him as more of a Tony reclamation project than a potential asset to the firm. She’s determined to meet him “before he makes himself too much at home”, which leaves me more than a little apprehensive as we await her arrival. I suspect she has more in mind than a simple meet and greet, but if so, she hasn’t shared her intentions with me. Things could get ugly, or at least as ugly as they get at BV&W.

He turns startled eyes at me. “What do you mean? All I hear around here is how smart she is … and how nice.”

I try to paste a reassuring smile on my face. “She’s that, and more.”

He chuckles. “Ah, you were just screwing with me. Ha ha!”

“Ha ha,” I reply.

“I’m gonna hit the head before Penelope gets here,” Mick announces. He may no longer be a sailor, but he still swears like one and appears to have a never-ending supply a quirky naval terms to spew. “Head”, for example, which means bathroom in navy lingo. Don’t ask for the logic behind that one.

My thoughts turn to the approaching summer while I wait. The DePaul spring semester ended yesterday, so Brittany is starting her Europe sojourn tomorrow. I’ll deliver her to the airport in the afternoon for her flight to Brussels. After a week there to visit her mother, she’ll hop down to Rome to meet her great aunt Allessandra and they’ll take the train to Orsomarso to spend a week with Papa. She should be home in time to welcome Pat and Kevin to Chicago, although there’s been a little chatter about a visit to Oslo.

Pat and Kevin will be staying at Pat’s house across the street from Humboldt Park. It’ll be great to have them in town. I haven’t tried to look beyond that[NT4]. Will Pat and I pick up where we left off a year ago? I like to think so. Does she?

“What are you wool gathering about?” Joan asks as she walks in, carrying three cups of coffee on a tray, complete with a pair of bone China cream jugs—one filled with milk, the other with 10% cream—and a matching bowl stuffed with packets of sugar and sweetener.

I smile and thank her before answering the question. “I’m anticipating all the fun everyone I know is going to have this summer.”

“No fun for Tony?”

I point at the stacks of case files on my desk. “Duh.”

She laughs and backs out to allow Mick to walk back in.

“Mom!” Penelope calls out a minute later.

I hear rushing footsteps and a bunch of happy talk, roll my eyes at Mick while I allow mother and daughter their moment, then motion him to follow as I walk out of the office.

“Hey, Partner!” Penelope exclaims, hurrying over to deliver a hug. When she steps back, her eyes find Mick, who remains standing in the open doorway of my office, looking as if he feels more than a little out of place amongst all this affection.

Penelope walks over and offers her hand. “Penelope Brooks. You must be Mick.”

He shakes her hand, mumbles that she guessed right, and says, “Good to finally meet you.”

“Finally?” she asks with a grin. “How long have you been here now? A week?”

“Close to two.”

This is my first time seeing Mick awkward and tongue tied. Have I somehow managed to spook him with regard to Penelope, despite setting out to do the opposite?

We spend a few minutes chatting about Penelope’s flight and our weekend plans, and finish with a quick summary of summer plans. Then Penelope walks into her office, summons Mick and I inside, and closes the door. She walks around her desk and drops into an office chair before waving us into the guest chairs. It feels for all the world as if she’s the boss fixing to ream out a couple of underlings. I suspect she’s about to do exactly what I feared; subject Mick to some sort of interrogation or test to take his measure. She might have asked me; I have the answers already. I sense my hackles rising and make a mental note to keep my expression, voice, and demeanor neutral at all costs.

She begins by asking Mick a few questions about his work history before asking him about the training he’s taken for his PI license. Again, nothing she couldn’t have simply asked me instead of putting the poor guy on the spot. It’s not as if we’re conducting an initial job interview.

“He’s already done some good work,” I interject, following my interruption with a brief description of his success tracking down Van’s contacts, then finish with a flourish by revealing Mick’s big discovery concerning Syl and the babysitter. Judging by the look of disgust that crosses her face when I include his colorful reference to hiding the salami, I may have erred in my excitement to present him in a favorable light. After all, I imagine Penelope was most likely a teenage babysitter back in the halcyon days of her tender Kansas youth. The thought of a sick old man accosting her probably turns her stomach.

Probably? Duh, Valenti.

“I’ve given some thought to how we might assess your abilities,” Penelope says. “I have a case in which our client is a young woman who is eager to file a sexual abuse claim against her ex-boyfriend.”

Mick listens attentively. I focus on that neutral expression/keep my annoyance well-hidden thing I mentioned.

She frowns. “This may be a case of our client wanting to punish a young man for dumping her.”

Penelope’s eyes are locked on Mick. Will he be foolish enough to say something idiotically mannish? If so, I suspect his trial run with the firm will come to a quick and inglorious end. To my satisfaction and what I’m pretty sure is Penelope’s surprise, Mick takes it all in and turns it over in his mind for a long moment.

“But maybe not, right?” he posits. “We want to be sure of what’s going on. If it’s legit, we come down on this guy’s head like a steamroller, but if she’s not on the up and up, we cut her loose and get on with our lives?”

Penelope nods. “Exactly. Her story is that she dropped by his new pad with a few of his belongings, and he showed his appreciation by throwing her down on his sofa and raping her. She claims this wasn’t the first time he raped her, said it happened all through their relationship.”

“Did she go to the cops?” Mick asks.

Penelope shakes her head no.

“To the hospital for a rape kit?”

“Nope.”

“Any witnesses? A past history of this guy mistreating women?”

“Nothing she was willing to share.”

“And your read is that she was lying?”

Penelope’s face hardens into a mask of consternation. “Let’s just say it’s a possibility. As much as I hate the idea of women being abused, I abhor the notion of anyone exploiting my revulsion to weaponize a grudge.”

Mick and I remain silent. For my part, I’m impressed with how Mick is handling this—almost as if he’s a real investigator.

“Where did you leave it with her?” he asks Penelope.

She sighs, sinks deeper into her seat, and crosses her legs. “I told her we’d talk things over and get back to her.”

“I assume you want me to poke around a bit, being careful not to tip our hand?”

Penelope nods. I suspect she’s surprised by how the meeting is progressing. I’m not. Hell, Mick washed his hair and scrubbed those few wispy hairs off his chin. Clean clothes, too.

“Fair enough,” Mick says, his eyes drifting to me. “Then we’ll decide if we want the case?”

Penelope shifts her gaze to me. “I’ll make that call,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument.

I feel my control slipping as I stare back at her and bite back a snarky reply. We’ll clear the air one-on-one after Mick and Joan go home.

“Mick, I’ll leave the file with Tony for Monday,” Penelope says.

Joan sticks her head in to ask if we need anything before she leaves for the day. Perhaps judging that he’s free to escape the tense atmosphere that suddenly envelopes the office, Mick takes the opportunity to escape by offering to walk Joan out.

After we hear the front door close, Penelope and I lock eyes. She senses full well that I’m displeased and somehow appears to be surprised by it. I abandon all the admonishments I’d been imagining unleashing on her and get up.

“I’m going to visit with Mike.”

“Have you been to see him?”

I nod. “Last evening. He was sleeping, so I sat for a few minutes and went home.”

“Did you talk to his folks to ask how he’s doing?”

“Reg was there. He told me Mike’s good for five or ten minutes of visiting at a time, but says he still spends most of his time sleeping.”

Penelope gives me a long, appraising look. “Can I tag along with you?”

“Is that a peace offering?” I ask.

“Is one needed?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry,” she says before disarming me with one of her billion-watt smiles.

It just isn’t fair that one partner should be so full of charm and the other one is … well, me. But there’s a silver lining. The drive to the hospital affords me a chance to discuss a motion I dearly wish to file with our new judge. She hears me out, nods and agrees with my reasoning.

“It could make all the difference,” I say.

“Consider it done. I’ll crank it out over the weekend.”

Penelope’s brilliance in crafting a compelling legal motion as compared to my scribbling is like comparing Michaelangelo’s triumph in the Sistine Chapel to a toddler’s finger painting on the wall above his or her crib … without crayons, if you get my drift.

CHAPTER 23

With Brittany off galivanting about Europe, I’m free to work all the ungodly hours I wish. So long as I complete all my household chores, of course. Until my daughter returns, that entails not only dog care, but also Tony care and goldfish duty. I’m in Brittany’s bedroom, face-to-face with Puckerface—or maybe the fifth or sixth iteration of Puckerface; who can keep track of all the toilet burials at sea? I sprinkle flakes of fish food on top of the water, grimace at the smell, and flee.

The dogs welcome me back into the kitchen; Deano even struggles up off his doggy bed to rest his head in my lap and gaze up at me with a pair of soft, sad eyes. I don’t know if he’s begging for food without the youthful enthusiasm and commitment he once brought to the endeavor, simply in search of a little attention, or if he’s attempting to convey a message about his increasingly broken-down body. I feel a wave of sadness wash over me as I take his face in my hands and massage behind his ears. I fear there isn’t much time left for dear old Deano.

After giving Deano a show of affection until he ambles away and crashes back onto his bed, I walk out to my Porsche and hit the road for the Bookers’ Maple Street neighborhood. Gumshoe Valenti is on the job this evening. My first destination is a pit stop at the home of Mick’s babysitter informant to take the measure of her for myself. Is she an astute observer with her finger on the pulse of their neighborhood, or merely the neighborhood chinwag? That crap doesn’t cut it in a courtroom.

“Sam Schmidt?” I ask the thin, long-bodied women who answers after I ring her doorbell.

“Who’s asking?”

I explain, being sure to mention Mick so I can gauge her reaction.

The severe, skeptical expression gives way to a smile, albeit not a particularly warm and welcoming one. I count that as a positive—this isn’t someone merely happy to have someone to chat with, but perhaps a person with something to say. We recap Mick’s story about Syl and the babysitter, which reveals an additional nugget that may prove significant. She steps out onto her porch and closes the door behind her.

“Just to clarify—not that it makes the whole sordid thing acceptable—Syl’s relationship with the sitter struck me as a consensual relationship, or at least as consensual as things ever get between kids and adults. Anyway, I remembered something after Mick left, so I may as well tell you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“The girl’s father, who isn’t exactly razor sharp, had his suspicions for some reason and confronted Syl a couple of weeks before Easter. The timing of that didn’t make much sense to me, as most of the hanky panky went on while Van was overseas.”

“When you say ‘confront,’ are we talking about a shouting match or a physical altercation … maybe both?”

“Could have been. Everyone heard the shouting, but it took place in the Bookers’ backyard so nobody I know of saw what went down. If it got physical, I didn’t see any evidence of it on Syl the next day.”

“And now the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Sam.”

“Do I think the man killed Syl Booker?”

I nod.

She shrugs. “Couldn’t say. If so, wouldn’t he have done it the day they argued?”

“Not if the guy has a brain in his head. A smart guy would walk away and come back in the dead of night.”

She gazes at me for a long moment, then nods. “Yeah.”

I thank her and hand over a business card. “If you think of anything else that might be of interest to us…”

“Are you interested in knowing more about who and what Syl was?”

“Do you by any chance know Esther Walker?”

Sam smiles. “Great gal. You know her?”

“Met her once. She wasn’t a big fan of Syl.”

“None of us were, Mr. Valenti.”

“Esther said he ran with a bad crowd. Suspected he might have been into drugs. Your thoughts?”

“Oh, I feel pretty sure Syl and his gang were definitely into drugs in a big way. There’s an abandoned warehouse…”

An hour later, I’ve stopped at home to change into a pair of black chinos and a long -sleeved mock turtleneck, also black, and switched vehicles, swapping out the Porsche for Brittany’s innocuous Toyota Carolla. I douse the headlights when I spy the warehouse in the Austin neighborhood Sam directed me to, and creep closer, finally stopping in the mouth of an alley where I have a view of the warehouse and can take the pulse of the neighborhood. It isn’t difficult to measure. Windows are boarded up and/or broken out, weeds and scruffy tufts of grass dot the parking lot, and the few streetlight posts in evidence are unlit. It’s exactly the type of place I would choose if I wanted to stay under the radar.

Apparently, stealth is not one of my strengths.

Something solid presses into my temple through my open driver’s side window.

“Don’t move, mother fucker.”

My stomach drops into my shoes as I realize that the cold metal pressing against my skin is almost certainly the tip of a gun barrel. Apparently, Syl Booker did hang with a bad crowd. I nod, careful not to move more than a fraction of an inch.

“Whatcha doing here?” The voice sounds youngish, with a little hitch. Whoever this kid is, he’s almost as scared as me.

Almost. His gun is a pound or two of pressure on the trigger away from blowing my brains out. My Glock is securely stowed in a gun safe on the top shelf of my bedroom closet. I can see it there in my mind’s eye. Shit.

“Lost?” I say softly in response to the question of why I’m there, instantly regretting the rise in my voice at the end of the word that turns it into a question.

“The fuck?” He grunts with a derisive snort. “Lost out here in a shitty part of town, parked for the past five minutes while you eyeball our crib?”

I turn my head a fraction of inch, just enough to catch sight of the man’s face in my peripheral vision. If he realizes what I’ve done, he doesn’t react to it. Because he’s a teenager, albeit one crowding adulthood, or because I’m not leaving here alive to ID anyone?

“Eye’s front. Hands on the steering wheel.”

After I comply, he leans closer, enough so that I can smell pot on his raspy breath. “Hey, ain’t you the dude what’s trying to get Syl Booker’s bitch off for wasting him?”

I decide against the instinct to pontificate about the right of each and every American to a robust legal defense—even ones who waste your homey.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I admit.

“The fuck you doin’ here, man?” the kid asks. Something has changed in whatever calculations he’s been making. Sympathy for Van? Weighing the consequences of wasting an officer of the court as opposed to gunning down a fellow gangbanger whose demise doesn’t much matter to the Cook County hoity toity anyway?

“I’m looking for answers,” I murmur. “I want to know what really went down at the Booker house on Easter morning. Don’t you?”

“Thought the bitch done it,” he mutters. “We all think so.”

“You, a bunch of cops, and the State’s Attorney’s office. Is that whose side you’re on?”

The pressure on my temple eases off, but only a smidgen. Apparently, thinking while holding a defenseless lawyer at gunpoint is a challenge for my assailant. It occurs to me that I should be more generous in my assessment. After all, my brains aren’t yet splattered across Brittany’s windshield. I hold still while whatever thought process is occurring over my shoulder runs its course. My mind enters hyper speed in the search for a story that won’t end up with a bullet in my head. Hell, I’d settle for a pithy phrase that springs me from this jam.

An icy bead of sweat slithers down every vertebrae of my spine before finally seeping into the waistband of my boxers. I dare to hope that the length of our one-sided standoff bodes well. Maybe he’s gonna let me off with warning, kinda like the cops he and his homies are siding with in the case of State of Illinois versus Van Booker might do. Go and sin no more, mother fucker.

Or not.

A gruff voice in the shadows hollers, “Who ya got there?”

“It’s that lawyer repping Syl Booker’s bitch.”

“The fuck?”

I sit quietly, awaiting the arrival of my next interrogator. Maybe the man’s mother failed  to impart a sense of courtesy to her young charge, perhaps the grown man has a thing about lawyers, or he might just be a murderous bastard. In any event, he doesn’t feel the need to introduce himself. “Waste that mother fucker, bro!” he shouts.

I sense the kid at my window tense, perhaps in a moment of doubt or simple reluctance to pull the trigger. I’m not waiting around to determine why he’s paused or how long his hesitation might last. I crank the steering wheel hard left and mash the gas pedal to the floorboards, sideswiping my would-be assailant enough to throw him off balance and into the dirty brick of the building flanking the left side of the alley. The rear quarter of the car follows suit as Brittany’s 160-horsepower beast shoots out of the mouth of the alley and rockets away in the direction of Division Street and, hopefully, safety.

CHAPTER 24

I pull into the drive-thru of our downtown Cedar Heights Dunkin’ several minutes later, still threatening to hyperventilate as my near escape plays on an endless loop in my head. After dropping my wallet and spilling its contents when it comes time to pay, I almost impale myself on the credit card machine on a stick when I fling the car door open to retrieve my wallet.

“Are you okay, mister?” an alarmed teenaged girl asks as she rears back from the open window separating us.

Sure, he didn’t pull the trigger probably isn’t an appropriate reply, although it’s certainly the correct response. I paste on some semblance of a smile and attempt to wave her concern away. “First day with a new pair of hands.”

Perhaps the expression hasn’t aged well, for her expression suggests she’s facing down some sort of lunatic. Well, screw you too, honey. We found that term amusing back in grade school. I pay, climb back into the car, and drive forward to the pickup window, where I promptly fumble the handoff of my coffee and donut order. I curse, discard my immediate inclination to clean up my mess, and head home, where a mittful of peanut butter cookies with a stiff shot of Maker’s Mark chaser begins to settle my nerves.

Deano and Dolly immediately picked up on the fragility of my emotional state when I walked into the house and are doing their best to offer support. One leans on either side of me as I slouch in a kitchen chair and ponder next steps. My knee-jerk reaction is to call the cops, but what are they going to do? If Chicago PD is aware of the cretins loitering in Austin, they don’t seem to be much interested in taking them off the streets, probably because either them or a crew much like them would move right back in. Or perhaps palms have been greased. Whatever the reasons, so long as our society insists on ingesting endless tons of illicit substances in an effort to dull the pain of existence, the likes of the Austin warehouse and its attendant cretins will be with us.

“So, no cops, doggies,” I announce.

“That’s okay,” Deano’s eyes seem to suggest. “Giving me a corner of that cookie will make you feel much better.”

I do, but I can’t say the gesture noticeably slows my racing heart. That’s okay, I guess. Deano looks happy.

I select another cookie, ponder it for a long moment, and then chomp it in half as I consider my options for the rest of the evening. I’ve only completed two of the three tasks PI Valenti set out to accomplish after dinner. I hold my hands out and study them. Only minor shaking at this point. I can drive, right? Prudence says I should polish off the plate of cookies and drain the shot of bourbon before embarking on another adventure, and I’m nothing if not prudent.

Having changed into a pair of slacks and a button-up shirt that are not sweat soaked, I exchange the Toyota for the Porsche and arrive at the Prancing Pony forty minutes later. The pub proves to be a bit of a disappointment. For starters, it isn’t cavernous, folks sit at tables instead of long benches, and pansy ass glasses stand in for the generous tankards of ale favored in Middle Earth. The patrons appear distressingly ordinary, as well—not a pointy ear, hairy foot, or wizard’s staff in evidence to even my highly attuned PI eye.

I pull up a seat at one of the many empty stools lining the bar.

“What’ll you have?” a busty bartender asks. Dressed as she is in form-fitting blue jeans and a flannel shirt under an apron, I don’t see her landing a role in any future Lord of the Rings productions. She seems friendly enough, yet wary. I imagine anyone who looks like her has to fend off more than her share of creepy advances in a place like this. That said, someone who looks like her probably pockets more than her fair share of the tips handed out by those same creepy drinkers.

We agree on a glass of Jameson before I get to work. “You wouldn’t happen to be Sandy, would you?”

She pauses in the midst of polishing a glass—what could be more cliché in a bar scene?—and nods with a heightened air of suspicion.

“Van Booker tells me she used to frequent this place back in the day[NT5].”

Van’s name clearly registers. The barkeep nods without a word, waiting me out. She’s good at this.

“I’m Van’s defense attorney, Sandy. She sent me here.”

Apparently deciding that we’re allies of a sort, Sandy sets the glass and dishcloth aside and leans her elbows on the bar. “I’m Sandy. How’s Van holding up?”

“About as you might expect.”

“Does she have a chance of beating the rap?”

“We always have a chance of beating the rap. Are you willing to help?”

“How so?” she asks in surprise.

“Just by answering a few questions. And maybe putting me onto a few people she says hang out here.”

Sandy’s eyes remain wary, even as her body language relaxes. “What kind of questions?”

“I’m busting my ass to put together a timeline of her whereabouts the night of the murders. She says she was here, but she also says she was three sheets to the wind. I’m hoping you and the others who were here can help pin down some of the timeline.”

“Trying to prove she couldn’t have been at the crime scene, huh? Okay, I get it. Let me think on this for a minute.”

“Take as long as you need.”

Sandy steers me to Nick and Fred, who are shooting pool at the back of the bar and assure us they’ll be around for the next hour or thereabouts, and then she walks me out to the parking lot, where a pair of clearly disreputable drunks huddles by a dumpster. Chip and Zack. They profess to have no idea who Van Booker is. A photo prompts a vague, “Yeah, we remember her … maybe. Why?”

When I reach for my wallet to freshen their memories, Sandy lays a hand on my arm to stop me. “Can you imagine these two on a witness stand, Tony? Don’t waste your time.”

She’s right. I nod, thank her, and return to speak with Nick and Fred.

I leave thirty minutes later with the contact information for a trio of potential witness safely tucked into my back pocket. Well, actually, the information resides on my iPhone, which is jammed into my pocket, but the truth in the digital age doesn’t sound anywhere near as cool, does it?

CHAPTER 25

Wednesday morning finds me back in Judge Ellison’s courtroom, as she promptly scheduled a hearing to address Penelope’s motion after I delivered it first thing Monday morning. She’s efficient, I’ll give her that. I arrived ten minutes early, said a quick hello to Joe Bob Sparks on the way in, and am now seated and ready to go. Could this really happen?

An indignant Grayson Birch sweeps in in the same moment Van is escorted into the courtroom. He shoots me a disgusted look and mutters, “What a colossal waste of our time this is going to be.” Sheila Evans, Birch’s trusty sidekick, delivers a sharp nod in support of her boss.

Screw the both of you, I think.

Ella O’Reilly pokes her head into the courtroom. “Judge Ellison will be another minute or two. She apologizes.”

I meet the clerk’s gaze, smile, and nod an acknowledgement. Birch barely glances up, but the set of his mouth when he glares at Ella leaves no doubt about his annoyance at having to be here. To now suffer the further indignity of having to cool his ever so important highly-glossed brogue shoes that shod his ever so busy feet is surely intolerable.

Van, who I haven’t had time to meet with this week, slides into the seat beside mine and leans close. “What’s this about?”

I decide to be cagey; I love a good surprise. I deflect by giving her a quick recap of the highlights of my Sunday evening.

Her eyes widen in alarm. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for being that big an idiot, Tony. What the hell were you thinking going down there by yourself?”

“That we need answers, Van. I tried to round up our whole crew of big, strong investigators, but everyone was otherwise occupied.”

She shakes her head in wonder, but a ghost of a smile twitches the corner of her lip. “Oh, that’s clever, but I know you were shitting your pants out there.”

“Well, perhaps a touch of leakage, but no poo.”

“There’s nothing funny about having a gun held to your head!”

“I like Sandy, but the way. Nick and Fred too.”

She shakes her head again but decides to let my dressing down go by the wayside. “Did you learn anything new?”

“Not really, but it was good to have your story corroborated.”

“What, did you think I lied?” she asks sharply.

I chuckle. “No. By your own admission, your recollections were the ramblings of a tanked-up drunk.”

“Well, there is that,” she allows.

I explain that I’ve decided my nocturnal adventure Sunday evening may yet turn out to be an important turning point in our investigation. The Prancing Pony crew tightens the timeline, and perhaps something useful will tumble to the ground after my having given the tree a little shake in Austin—something more useful than my allegedly soiled underwear.

She appears skeptical. “Let’s hope that the fruits of the Austin tree don’t turn out to be more guns.”

“Now that’s a sobering thought, but for all the chatter about lawyers being in danger owing to their work, we’re apparently no more statically at risk in our jobs than teachers.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“A state bar association workshop of some kind.”

“A friend of a neighbor told me that something like ten percent of all teachers have been assaulted at school these days.”

I gulp. “Oh.”

“Hello, folks,” Judge Ellison says as she sweeps into the courtroom, once again doing so unannounced. She waves the clerk back into her seat. “Please announce the case.”

Ella visibly resists the ingrained urge to stand as she calls us to order.

The judge cocks her head to the side. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Counselors. I was chasing down a precedent a colleague told me about that he thought might apply to our deliberations here today.”

She studies Birch for a longish moment as he keeps his head down, scribbling on a legal pad about who knows what.

“Are you with us, Mr. Birch?” she asks with an edge in her voice.

He looks up and nods. “Of course. Let’s get on with this.”

“We can,” Ellison replies, turning her attention to me. “Miss Brooks isn’t joining us this morning?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Honor. She’s in Minneapolis working another case.”

“That’s too bad,” Ellison says with a little smile. “I wanted to commend her on the quality of the motion you filed.”

Of course she does, I think, suppressing a smile at the sight of Birch as the potential implication of the judge’s admiration registers. “I’ll pass that along.”

Ellison nods. “Now, let’s discuss the motion.”

Birch dismissively tosses aside his copy of Penelope’s motion. “Smoke and mirrors, Your Honor. Let’s not allow ourselves to be dazzled by a little clever word play. The law remains the law. Reconsidering bail at this late date would wreak irreparable harm on the People’s case.”

I sense Van’s surprise at my side. At the mention of bail, she snapped upright wearing an expression of shocked disbelief. Surprise!

Ellison’s eyes narrow at Birch. “I don’t recall giving you leave to speak, Counselor.”

He musters up something of a chagrined expression but undoes any benefit it may have afforded him by saying, “My apologies, but the sheer gall of the defense in bringing this motion simply beggars belief. This is beyond inappropriate.”

“Well, Mr. Birch, the fact that we’re sitting here this morning argues against your assessment, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t think so, Judge.”

“Yet it is this Court’s opinion that determines how this trial will unfold, sir. Things will proceed far more smoothly once you accept that reality. Do I make myself clear?”

Over the next fifteen minutes, we cover the same ground we did with Judge Morgan two months ago: Van’s clean criminal record, her military service, her community ties, the circumstantial nature of the evidence against her—the full laundry list of why the reformed Illinois cash bond system, applied as it was intended to be, should have set her free while awaiting trial.

Whereas Judge Morgan had brushed off the entirety of our arguments in his rush to do the prosecution’s bidding, Jane Ellison, so-called rookie magistrate, appears set to do her job according to the laws she is sworn to uphold. Imagine that in a Cook County courtroom. A quick glance across the aisle suggests that our esteemed colleagues of the Illinois Bar are having trouble grasping this shifted reality.

Not that any of that guarantees a win for the good guys.

Birch rises. “If I may, Your Honor?”

“Please proceed, Counselor.”

“As was amply demonstrated in our initial bail hearing, Van Booker is a mentally unstable ex-soldier with angers issues, an anti-social individual who suffers from who knows how many psychoses. She’s a trained killer, proficient in the arts of killing and deception, and—critical to consider in our current context—expertly-trained in evasion and concealment. Leaving her at large presents not only a flight risk, but it also exposes our community to the worst sort of deranged killer.”

Ellison’s gaze shifts to me. “Mr. Valenti?”

I cast a doleful glance Birch’s way; why I don’t know. There’s no jury here today, but, hey, I suppose it’s good practice for trial. “Mr. Birch  mentioned smoke and mirrors earlier, and the last minute or two reveal that he’s a subject matter expert on the topic. Not once in that entire morass of blather did he mention a single thing that is borne out by any evidence presented in the initial hearing before Judge Morgan. The prosecutor, I posit, has delivered us nothing more than a lengthy screed of scare-mongering dressed up as reasoned argument. Van Booker is assumed to be innocent until proven guilty, yet Mr. Birch argues as if she’s been convicted ten times over. I ask you to see beyond this gambit to disadvantage the defendant, Your Honor, which I suspect is nothing more than a naked, cynical attempt to gain tactical advantage at trial … as if the State need maneuver for more advantage than they already hold in our system.”

“That’s an outrageous claim!” Birch exclaims, leaping to his feet to, I suppose, defend the supposed honor of his office.

“Point taken, Mr. Birch,” Ellison responds, waving him back into his seat. She turns back to me wearing an expression that telegraphs disapproval, perhaps even disappointment. “I take exception to ad hominin attacks on opposing counsel in my courtroom, Mr. Valenti.” When Birch displays perhaps a little too much glee at seeing me put in my place, Ellison adds, “That applies to all counsel.”

I sink into my seat and avoid the reproachful facial expression I feel sure is pasted on the face of my client. I’ve just suffered an entirely self-inflicted wound. I breath a sigh of relief when it doesn’t appear to have been fatal.

Ellison’s attention has returned to Birch. “Aside from the unfortunate way in which he delivered them, opposing counsel made several cogent points. As the daughter in a military family, I was troubled by how your comments seemingly sought to, for want of a better term, besmirch the defendant and, I might add, all the brave men and women who serve our country.”

“I had no such intention, Your—”

A raised hand and flash of anger in Ellison’s eyes shut Birch down. “Is it your contention that the justice system is to judge our veterans to be a clear menace to our streets?”

“Again, Your Honor, not in any way my intention.”

“Which compels me to ask you, sir, exactly what point were you intending to make in describing Van Booker’s military training as a risk to society that should be kept off the streets?”

“I would argue that the nature of this crime, the horrific butchering of two innocent people—one a mere child!—is sufficient grounds to keep this individual tucked safely behind bars until such time as the justice system either locks her away permanently, or puts her to death, as she so richly deserves.”

Ellison’s expression has grown increasingly grave over the course of Birch’s soliloquy. She eases back deeper into her seat and appraises Birch over the rims of her glasses, as if in deep thought. If she’s preparing to rule, I’m optimistic.

Van’s hand shuffles sideways on the table to latch onto my wrist as the moment drags on, seemingly interminably.

Ellison finally pulls herself back up to the microphone. “The court finds that the ruling that bound the defendant over for trial was taken in error, particularly in light of the Illinois SAFE-T Act.”

Yet another silly name cooked up by a marketing intern for a piece of legislation. Why not simply call it the Speedy Trial Act and be done with it?

Birch appears stunned but recovers quickly. “If the Court is truly considering the release of the defendant back into society, we request a hearing to consider setting an appropriate surety with an eye toward safeguarding the public.”

Simple translation: He intends to argue in favor of setting bail impossibly high to ensure that Van remains in jail pending trial.

When I lean forward to argue, Ellison’s gaze flickers my way and she subtly waves me off before she again fixes her gaze on Birch.

“I did a thorough review of the transcripts for the original bail hearing, Mr. Birch. So, in the interests of time and fairness, we can forego a repeat hearing. The SAFE-T Act sought to rebalance a system that had fallen significantly out of balance, in that the default position on bail was to punish defendants with incarceration merely for being charged with a crime. Are there defendants with a criminal history that argues in favor binding them over for trial? Of course there are, but for folks accused of a crime who have no history of criminality and have significant ties to our community, SAFE-T requires that the system not punish a defendant with incarceration when they have not been convicted of any crime. In keeping with both the spirit and letter of this law, the Court hereby vacates Judge Morgan’s decision to bind the defendant over for trial.”

The judge’s eyes find Van’s. “You are hereby released from custody on your own recognizance. You are directed to appear in court for your trial and such pretrial hearings as may be scheduled in the interim. Should you fail to appear, I will issue a bench warrant for your arrest, in which case you shall remain in custody until the completion of your trial. Is that clear?”

Van nods. I nudge her. “Out loud.”

Van rises. “Crystal clear, Your Honor. Thank you.”

Ellison favors Van with the briefest of smiles before declaring court in recess. We stare after her for a long moment before Van turns to face me with tears in her eyes. “Did that just happen?”

I smile. “It did.”

After giving them a full minute to do so, I impatiently take Van by the arm and march her directly to the Sheriff’s Deputies who are responsible for transporting her. I hold her hands out to them. “We don’t have all day, gentlemen. The judge has ordered Van released, so let’s get on with the show.”

The larger of the two men scoffs. “She’ll be out when we finish processing her.”

“You don’t need her present to do that. Uncuff her. I’ll ensure we’re there to take position of her belongings and sign your paperwork at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“That’s not how it works, Counselor.”

“Were you here for the hearing?”

“Sure. Your client is our responsibility.”

“You fellas heard the judge. Van shouldn’t have been in custody in the first place. She’s free to go.”

“We got procedures to follow.”

“Procedures that have raised a middle finger to the law for far too long. Should I call the judge out here to tell us what to do?”

They glare at me, clearly trying to work out how to defy my request. As one tugs on Van’s arm in a bid to lead her away, I look over to Ella O’Reilly, who has stayed back to watch the developing drama.

“Ella, will you please ask Judge Ellison to step back into the courtroom?”

“Sure will.” Her eyes lock onto those of the senior deputy. “Hold tight right there for a minute.”

“Oh, fuck it,” the older deputy mutters in disgust. “Cut her loose.” Then to me, “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning at the processing office or her shit goes straight into the lost and found.”

No doubt never to be seen again.

Van pushes her hands to within six inches of the man’s face. I don’t know about him, but I’m a little afraid of what might happen when he uncuffs her. I pull her hands back. “Easy, Van.”

We exit the courtroom two minutes later, with Van rubbing her wrists.

“Bathroom?” she asks me.

I nod and lead the way along the corridor toward the ladies room. I notice Joe Bob heading my way while I wait.

“Wow,” he says as we lean against the wall.

“Wow, indeed.”

“Great job in there, Tony.”

I shrug the compliment aside. “I’m not sure anything I said or did in there made a whit of difference, Joe Bob. Penelope Brooks wrote a whale of a motion and I suspect Judge Ellison did exactly what she set out to do, no thanks to me or Grayson Birch.”

Joe Bob chuckles. “Old Grayson didn’t do anything to help his cause.”

I can’t argue the point, yet remain wary of Birch[NT6].

“You’re becoming a fixture in my courtrooms, Joe Bob. What’s up?”

“Already told you,” he replies easily. “But I gotta say, the more I watch, the more absorbed I am in this case, and I’m growing increasingly intrigued by how you go about your business.”

Sucking up is he? If so, why? I push off the wall and smile. Get over yourself, Valenti.

“Do you intend to go through this entire case by yourself?” Joe Bob asks. “I keep expecting to see someone sitting second chair, but no.”

“There’s only three of us at our firm. Penelope Brooks is up to her neck in a tort case out of Minneapolis, and Mike Williams is still in the hospital, so it looks like I’ll be flying solo for now.”

“Even at trial?” he asks incredulously.

How to answer that? “I’m hoping Penelope can carve out time, but we’ll have to wait and see.”

He opens his mouth, then swallows whatever he was about to say.

I give him a piercing look. “What? Can you see yourself sitting there?”

He splutters without saying one way or the other. The moment passes when Van steps out of the washroom and beams at me.

“How weird is it that something as mundane as taking a pee without someone watching felt like a luxury?” she asks.

“Pretty weird,” I agree.

“Good God, I’m free!” she marvels as we walk out into a blaze of sunshine on California Avenue.

“Hah,” I say in response. “What Judge Ellison said about you being free to help with your trial defense was no joke. Your ass is now mine. Be ready to get it into the saddle tomorrow morning.”

“Doing?”

I chuckle. “You know what? This all went down so quickly that I haven’t yet given it a thought. Why don’t you just enjoy yourself tomorrow and I’ll figure things out. You can come to the office on Friday.”

“I don’t even know where your office is,” she says.

“You’ll learn soon enough.”

“Do I need to be at the jail with you tomorrow to get my stuff?”

“I think that would be best.”

“How am I gonna get there? I don’t have my car keys. I don’t even have my phone. They’ll give it back tomorrow, right?”

“It’s probably in evidence. Same with the car.”

Her face falls. “So I don’t get them back?”

“Not before trial. Hopefully afterward.”

She’s quick to understand what hopefully signifies.

“Where are you going to go now?” I ask.

“I guess I’ll call Mel to come pick me up. I imagine I can stay with them for a few days while I get myself organized.”

“Come on. I’ll drop you off,” I say before setting out for the car. “We can get you a phone along the way.”

“I don’t have money. Actually I don’t have anything … no purse, no wallet, and definitely no cash.”

“Not to worry, I’ll stake you to a burner phone.”

“It may take a while before I can pay you back.”

“No need to,” I reply lightly. “I’ll bill my client for it as a trial expense.”

“A trial expense, my ass. Don’t you dare try to soak my family for that!”

“But it will be a trial expense[NT7], Van. Now that you’re out of the slammer, I need you to be available twenty-four-seven.”

She side-eyes me and falls in step alongside, setting a brisk pace on the way to the parking lot. I imagine she’s anxious to put as much yardage between herself and the Cook County Jail as she can, as fast as she can.

CHAPTER 26

Brittany returned home from Europe last evening, having extended her original two-week itinerary by a week to visit Sara Williams in Oslo. She flew LOT Airlines, connecting through Warsaw and arriving, in her words, knackered. I can’t say I’ve heard that term in some time. She waved off my efforts to debrief her and was asleep in the passenger seat before we merged onto I-294 after exiting O’Hare via I-190, having covered a good four miles or so before she passed out. I had to all but carry her into bed while the dogs bounced around us when we reached Liberty Street, so the debriefing has had to wait until this morning.

When she finally stumbles into the kitchen a few minutes after ten, I’m lying in wait with a plate of bacon and eggs, toast, and a steaming mug of coffee.

“We can talk over breakfast,” I suggest. “Tell me about Europe, blow-by-blow.”

“By blow?”

“I want to hear about all the blows before you leave the table.”

“Color me waylaid,” she says with a laugh. “Sorry I didn’t call while I was away.”

“That’s not true, kiddo. We had a five-minute conversation when you walked me through buying your tickets to Oslo and back.”

“Oslo was awesome! It’s the coolest school setup, Pops.”

“It’s right in the city?”

“Uh huh,” she says, spearing a chunk of egg and pausing with the fork halfway to her mouth. “It’s spread across a couple of neighborhoods, but it’s easy to get around.”

“Is Sara fluent yet?” I ask with a smile. “From my experience with Germanic languages, she’ll be lucky to return home knowing how to say hi and bye.”

“She’s babbling like a native, Pops! One of her new friends gave her hell for not speaking enough English around me.”

Okay, so maybe I’m not the best linguist around. “Good for her. Did you pick up any Norwegian?”

She lays her fork down and reaches for a piece of toast as a grin forms on her face. “Did I pick up what? A phrase or two, or are you asking about the Norwegian beefcakes we took home every night?”

I point my fork at her. “There better not have been any beefcakes.”

“Slutt å være tullete, Pops.”

“And what, pray tell, does that mean?”

“I’m told it means ‘don’t be silly’. If not, Sara may have been swearing at me all week.”

“Okay then, I’ll assume there was no cavorting with Viking studs. Good girl.”

I turn the floor over to my daughter and stick to clearing my plate while she tells me about seeing mountains, fjords, wild architecture, and a sun that never seems to set.

“Never?” I ask in astonishment. We’re just past Summer Solstice, so long days make sense, but that long?

“Maybe for an hour or so. It’s crazy. Anyway, you’re probably wondering how Papa is.”

“I am. Plus Alessandra,” I say, referencing Papa’s younger sister.

“Gotcha. Alessandra was waiting at the airport when I got off the plane in Rome. We took a way cool express train from inside the airport straight to the train station.”

“We can do that on the L from O’Hare to Union Station, kiddo.”

She rolls her eyes. “Puh-lease, Pops! Romans don’t have to trek to a remote parking lot to catch the train, which is by the way, clean, quiet, and space-age cool. Direct shot straight to the train station, non-stop.”

“Oh.”

“She treated me to lunch.”

“Gelato?”

She smiles. “Eventually.”

“Where did you eat?”

“I would have been fine with fast food in the train station, but Alessandra was appalled that I would even consider it. She was right, of course. She knew of a little trattoria that was a five-minute walk, so we ate lunch there. I wanted to order gelato there, but apparently “real” Italians don’t get their gelato in restaurants. I’m not sure if she was pulling my leg about that or if she just wanted to go to a little sidewalk shop where she seems to know the owner. It was awesome, but I’m not sure I noticed the difference between that gelato and stuff I had elsewhere.”

I smile. “Alessandra can be a bit of kidder.”

“That she is. Heck, compared to Papa, she’s the epitome of a free spirit.”

Yet Alessandra is fairly straight-laced. That alone says plenty about my father’s crusty disposition. Mind you, if anyone loosens him up, it’s my daughter.

After polishing off the last corner of toast while Brittany tops up our coffees, I settle back to hear about the visit with Papa. From Rome, Brittany and Alessandra caught the train to the Valenti ancestral village of Orsomarso, located in the mountains toward the northern edges of Cosenza Province. If you picture the boot of Italy, Orsomarso is about where we tie our shoelaces. Papa returned to Orsomarso two years ago, following the death of a cousin who had been operating the farm in a caretaking capacity ever since a teenaged Papa had fled the local Mafia after he took revenge on a Mafioso who had kidnapped and raped Alessandra. Papa, who is now into his eighth decade, is on an insane quest to save the family farm. Insane, that is, to everyone save him.

“How’s Papa holding up? Still determined to make a go of it on the farm?”

“I’m afraid so. Aunt Alessandra is worried about the stubborn old goat. She’s determined to convince him to give up the farm before he kills himself.”

“Can’t argue with that. How did he seem to you?”

She laughs. “Pretty good, actually, although a day hacking at rock wears him out.”

“He seems happy?”

“He does, Pops.”

So he’s on track to kill himself but is at least happily on his way to the grave. How on earth do we fix that? Should we even try to? I’ll have to speak with Alessandra, who also lives in Italy, although nowhere near Papa. She moved far away at the same time Papa fled the neighborhood for America. She’s well-established with her extended family in Penne, which is located a few hours northeast of Rome on the far side of the spine of mountains that separate the east and west Italian coasts. It’s a gorgeous, bucolic setting. Papa lived with her for a couple of years after they reconnected, before the insane idea of returning to Orsomarso caught hold in his fevered imagination. Alessandra and I have been after him ever since to sell the family farm and either move back in with his sister and her family or buy himself a home in the pretty village she’s lived in for the last fifty years. Progress is admittedly slow.

Brittany frowns and pushes her empty plate aside. “Allesandra says it gets real cold there in the winter, Dad. Like freezing cold. We need to get Papa off the farm before the snow flies.”

I nod, well aware of how brutal winter is at the farm. Who knew that the season that far south could be almost as nasty as it gets in Chicago? A problem for another day, I suppose. I’ll have to find time for a visit to try reasoning with him in person, preferably with support from Allessandra. Any time I bring it up with him on the phone, he’s off the call within a minute, rushing to keep the farm from toppling off the rocky mountaintop, I suppose.

Dolly has been pushing her snout into Brittany’s thigh for the last couple of minutes, why I can’t imagine. The mutts dragged me around Independence Park for close to an hour this morning, after which they were fed and watered. When conversation pauses, my daughter bends over and lifts the dog’s snout to her face. “What do you want, girl?”

Dolly happily trots into the hall at the back door and noses her leash. Seriously?

Brittany turns an accusing look on me. “You didn’t walk the dogs this morning?”

“Like they would allow that,” I reply a little more testily than I would have liked.

“Down, boy,” Brittany retorts with an eye roll. “Nobody suggested you suffer from encroaching senility. Mind you…”

I get to my feet with a shake of my head. “I was kinda hoping Smartass Britts might have missed the flight home yesterday.”

She smiles as she clips a leash onto Dolly’s harness. “Nope.”

Deano has expressed no interest in leaving the comfort of his kitchen doggie bed to join us.

“Are you coming?” Brittany asks in surprise when I slip my feet into a pair of beat-up sneakers I keep by the back door.

“Why not? Perhaps my brain will reboot if I get the blood circulating.”

“Good point.”

Brittany resumes the story of her visit to Orsomarso as we walk along Liberty Street to the park. The tale contains some amusing anecdotes, particularly the stories of Alessandra managing to work a plea for Papa to relocate into pretty much every conversation they have. No luck, of course, and I’m not the least bit surprised to discover that Papa ran out of patience with the topic. Frankly, I can’t say I blame him. That said, I don’t want to hear any more about Papa’s mulish determination to break rocks. I change the topic to the first leg of Brittany’s European adventure, the stop in Brussels to visit her mother. I don’t much care how my ex-wife is, but I’m going to hear about the visit sooner or later. May as well get it over with.

“How is your mother?” I ask. Brittany works hard to maintain something of a connection with the woman who abruptly walked out of our lives to chase her career aspirations, so I humor her. Even across an ocean in Brussels, though, Michelle Rice isn’t far enough away to suit me.

Brittany expels a long sigh, then snags the sleeve of my shirt and steers me to a nearby picnic bench, where we sit down shoulder-to-shoulder with our backs against the tabletop. The dog settles beside us, looking none too thrilled about the stop.

“About Mom,” Brittany begins. “I have a little news to share.”

She pauses, apparently undecided about how to break whatever news she has. Maybe Michelle is marrying the co-worker she’s shacked up with. To be honest, I don’t really care if she does. I’ve moved on and am in a much better place than I ever was with her—even if Pat is half a continent away.

“Go ahead,” I say after a moment. “Just tell me.”

Brittany frowns. “She’s moving back to Atlanta.”

“Good for her,” I say with a decided lack of interest. I assume she’s moving up the Coca Cola corporate ladder again, back to the Atlanta corporate world headquarters, as today’s multi-nationals grandly refer to what used to be called the head office. Same difference, of course. As for Michelle’s move, it makes no difference to me where she lives.

“She made a point of asking me about regular visits with her in Atlanta,” my daughter continues. “She says she wants to see more of me. Is it true that the whole custody thing is still an issue until I finish university?”

I roll my eyes, then apologize. “You just turned eighteen, kiddo, so you’re an adult and can live wherever you want.”

“Mom says that if you’re gonna keep making her pay for me, she wants me to visit her regularly. She made it sound like she can make me do that.”

“She can’t,” I reply, battling to keep from unloading a pile of vitriol directed at my darling ex-wife.

Brittany looks relieved, then gives me a quizzical look. “What did she mean about having to send you money for me, Dad?”

“I assume she’s griping about having to help pay for you to attend DePaul,” I reply. “That’s a standard thing in child support. It ends at age eighteen unless the kid is a full-time student. We’ll work something out if she won’t leave it alone.”

“What’s the issue?” she asks.

The issue, of course, is that her mother’s rich family think nothing of spending thousands of dollars on lawyers to make my life miserable, yet they’re reluctant to spend a dime to ease Brittany’s way through childhood. I’ve been back and forth with the Rice family lawyers about this, with Michelle doing her utmost to shave every possible penny from her obligation. Not that I’m going to explain that to my daughter. She’s largely overcome the abandonment issues that rocked her in the aftermath of her mother’s abrupt departure; I don’t want to resurface those by telling her the unvarnished truth. As much as the thought galls me, I’ll shoulder all of Brittany’s university costs myself before I let Michelle drag our daughter into yet another petty squabble.

I shrug. “Just legal crap, honey. No big deal, and definitely nothing for you to worry about or get involved with.” I manufacture a grin. “If you follow through on this law school business, you’re gonna spend way more time on this type of nonsense than you’ll ever want to.”

She thinks on that, then elects to set the matter of her mother aside.

“What’s been happening on the home front?” she asks, propping her chin on the back of her hand to listen.

Before I’m ten seconds into the exhilarating tale of Tony’s time alone at home in the midst of his daughter’s European adventure, my phone pings with an incoming text. Pat. She and Kevin also arrived back in Chicago last night, albeit a few hours after Brittany.

“Pat and Kevin are on their way. Why don’t we park Tales from the Home Front so I only have to tell the story once?”

Our guests are waiting on the front porch when we arrive back at the house.

Hugs and kisses all around, then we march inside and do it all over again with Deano before fresh coffee is brewed and we settle around the kitchen table.

Aside from legal talk, there isn’t much to tell about my past week or two. I explain how the last ten days have been a whirlwind, what with transitioning Van back into the world and working her into the mix at work. Between her, Mick, and myself, we’ve ramped up the investigative work to an impressive degree. “I even made the unilateral and highly unpopular decision to bring on an outside attorney to sit second chair, reasoning that he’s more up to speed on the case than Penelope’s ever likely going to be at this late stage.”

“Who?” Brittany asks. “Anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so. His name is Joe Bob Sparks.”

Pat’s eyes widen in surprise. “Isn’t Joe Bob Sparks a washed up drunk?”

Brittany’s eyes shoot between Pat and me. “That guy?”

I’ve apparently mentioned him around my daughter. “We’re up against it, Joe Bob has been in the courtroom a lot over the course of this case, and he’s been around the legal block a time or two. Besides, everyone deserves a second chance, right?” I add with perhaps a touch of snark. What does this crowd know about lawyering?

“Why has he been in your courtroom?” Pat asks. “Doesn’t he have clients of his own?”

I’m on the cusp of mounting a defense of my actions before pressing my lips tight. Having to answer this same set of questions from Penelope when I informed her of my decision to draft Joe Bob as second chair was one time too many. I sense the sharp legal mind lurking behind Joe Bob’s often puffy, bloodshot eyes. If he’s drinking a little too much, I don’t smell it on him. Nor do I detect any hint of his mental acuity being in any way compromised. I’ll be damned if I’m going to argue my legal judgement with my daughter and girlfriend.

Rather than reply to Pat, I settle back in my chair, pout, and cross my arms in a classic display of toddler sulk.

“So, what else can we talk about?” Pat says with a knowing smile.

Turns out, not much. We catch up a little more and then, reasoning that they have all month to visit with the adults, the kids head to the basement and some measure of privacy from nosy old folks. Pat and I, like a pair of randy teenagers, creep down the hallway to my bedroom and indulge in a half-hour of what a lot of frustrated hot-blooded teenagers only aspire to.

Afterward, Pat tucks a strand of shoulder length red hair behind her ear and smiles. “God, it’s going to be heaven to do this whenever we want to again.”

So I wrestle onto her back and we do it again.

Afterward, I prop myself up on one arm and look down into Pat’s eyes, realizing that we won’t be doing this as much as we want to in the immediate future.

“We’re barely a month from trial and desperately trying to pull things together in time, Pat. “

“How’s that going?” she asks.

“Actually, better than expected. It’s nice to finally have some bodies I can put to work.”

“Are you really putting Van to work?” she asks.

“It’s all hands on deck.”

“Rather than in bed, huh?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to hop out of bed now and again.”

“If you have to,” she gripes with exaggerated weariness.

“Says the woman who is planning to go on a cross-country trek in Canada next month.”

“Which will end right back here visiting with this little guy every night ... and sometimes during the day,” she says with a grin while bouncing my little guy in her open palm, who magically rises Phoenix-like from the embers of our passion.

“Well, I’ll be darned, Magic Man,” she says to me after round three. “Even after you’ve burned things right to the wick, you still manage to find a little magic to spare.”

“Magic Man, my ass,” I retort. “That’s just a guy in a song. Chalk tonight up to prolonged abstinence.”

She bounces the magician’s assistant in her hand again and emits a low wolf’s whistle. “Be still my heart.”

CHAPTER 27

The pounding rain that was tattooing a drum solo on the roof while I wrestled with sleep last night after Pat took Kevin home has softened to a gentle mist backlit with the rising sun when I peek through the blinds a few minutes after seven the next morning. There’s something peaceful about it, and for some reason it brings to mind a vision of the soft Irish countryside, not that I’ve ever been to the Emerald Isle. Must be a movie vision or some such. A spring Sunday in Limerick, maybe?

Dolly and Deano are stirring, stretching out the doggy kinks in anticipation of a trip to Independence Park. I intertwine my hands and attempt to do likewise, stretching them high above my head, which elicits a gasp that startles the mutts. My back is stiff, my upper back aches, and someone’s driven a railroad spike between my shoulder blades. Too much time at a desk and not enough time breaking a sweat. I slip into a pair of exercise shorts and an old Marquette U t-shirt, pluck a pair of ankle socks out of a dresser drawer, and snag a pair of sneakers from the closet. I set the coffee maker timer to brew a cup to be ready in thirty minutes, take a minute or two to stretch a little in the living room, then open the curtains.

An unfamiliar beat-up old Honda Civic sits in the driveway behind my Porsche; its oxidized paint is an indeterminate color. Perhaps one of Brittany’s new DePaul friends stayed the night? A drunken neighbor couldn’t find the right driveway?

The dogs are dancing by the door, so I set that mystery aside. Plenty of time to investigate after we get home. I leash the beasts and set out for Independence Park at a slow jog. The cars we pass are misted in moisture from the cool overnight air. A neighbor is using a squeegee to clear his windows. We exchange friendly nods in passing.

My thoughts turn to the case as we enter the park and the sun begins to burn through the mist to warm the air. It’s perfect weather for a run and I settle into a comfortable run, moving around the park at a pace somewhat faster than one of the neighborhood senior citizens might have set with a walker. My thoughts inevitably turn to Van’s case. Are we making progress with Van’s trial preparation? As much as it seems as if we take a step or two back for every step forward, we are making headway, if only in terms of eliminating theories and distractions.

“Put on your Pollyanna cap, Valenti!” I recall Pat once admonishing me when I was bellyaching about something to do with a case sometime in the past. Good advice seldom heeded.

Okay, so what’s going well with the world? First off, of course, on a personal note, Mike is on the mend. Also on the personal front, Pat will be here for the next month. At the office, while it’s adding to an already onerous workload, the possible SODDI suspects that keep popping up on our radar are encouraging. Most are unlikely to hold up under serious scrutiny—they seldom do—but we can hope that a viable needle exists somewhere in that growing haystack. I frown. There’s that glass half-full or half-empty quandary again. Can we afford to have Mick spend all of his time wading through that haystack?

I make the final turn for the parking lot and home and decide that, yes, we can. True, our new judge, while welcome, hasn’t added a single day to the trial timeline, and time is still growing short. Yet I’m increasingly in sync with our client, I have adequate support, and the nascent trial strategy that has been lost in the fog of my brain is finally swimming into focus.

We amble around the park—slow enough to allow Deano to dawdle along with us; not so fast as to damage me to the point where climbing out of bed tomorrow will be a struggle—has done me good. I’d forgotten how well my brain works on the track; it has since back in my university days. By the time we slow to a walk as we cover the final fifty yards to the house, I’m feeling invigorated … at least in a mental and emotional sense. Physically, I’m dragging my ass and dreaming wistfully of a walker.

As we near the house, I note that the warming sun is rapidly clearing the car windshields around us. I slow to have a closer look at the derelict wreck in our driveway.

“Jesus!” I exclaim while backing away in revulsion, startling the dogs, who stare up at me in surprise as I stumble and fall on my ass in the damp grass edging the driveway. I try to shake the horror in the car from my mind as I break into a sweat far wetter than what I worked up in the park, praying that the ghastly image isn’t who I think it is. I stare at the car for a long moment as I struggle to bring my breathing under control. I don’t want to look again but know I must. But maybe not until I get the dogs inside and think on this for a minute longer. One thing is for sure, a few minutes one way or another won’t matter to the corpse in the Civic.

CHAPTER 28

Just over an hour later, the Cedar Heights Chief of Police waves me forward as I exit the house, where I had been banished when the police arrived. Chief Jake Plummer, now officially a senior citizen—complete with a little paunch, a halo of gray hair ringing his otherwise bald head from ear to ear, and snowy-white mustache—is positioned a few feet away from the open driver’s side door of the death car in my driveway. A Cedar Heights PD patrol car arrived within two minutes of my call to 911; an ambulance was close on its heels. The paramedics stayed no longer than fifteen minutes or thereabouts before departing along with their lifesaving skills, which were clearly not needed here. I assume that one or more of the coroners from the Medical Examiner’s office are on the way to join the crime scene technicians who are pouring over the driveway and our front yard.

I reluctantly make my way over to stand with Jake. The body of a familiar women is sitting upright in the driver’s seat, her head hanging down with the point of her chin resting on her chest. There’s a single, neat bullet hole in her temple that is ringed with blood, a small trickle of which has run down her cheek. The front of her blouse is matted with a patch of dried blood. I don’t want to see the exit wound on the other side of her face, which otherwise appears much as I remember it.

“I didn’t hear a thing,” I tell Jake. “Brittany must have slept through it too. The dogs were quiet all night—so far as I know, anyway. How did I not hear any of this?”

“She wasn’t shot in the car, Tony.”

I turn a confused look on him. “Where was she killed? And if that’s the case, how did she end up in my driveway?”

He shrugs. “That’s why we investigate, my friend. To find out what happened.”

A startling thought shoots into my brain. “You don’t think someone’s trying to set me up for this, do you?”

“I suppose that’s a possibility, Tony. Not that I’m buying it.”

I snort. “But you’re not a Cook County prosecutor, Jake. There’s a few folks there who would love to get a shot at sending a Valenti up the river.” I successfully defended my father on a bogus murder charge some years ago, embarrassing both the Cook County Sheriff’s office and county prosecutors all in one shot. I’m not a popular guy around those parts.

Jake changes the subject back to the matter at hand with a look back toward the car. “You told my people that you know her.”

“Her name is Mel Vu. She’s related to the murder case I’m working on.”

His eyebrows arch in surprise. “The baby killer?”

I nod.

When I don’t say more, he nudges my arm. “What’s her involvement?”

“Mel brought the case to us. She’s Van Booker’s cousin.”

“Exactly how is she involved?”

“That’s it,” I reply. “Oh, and as a potential witness.”

He studies me for a long moment. “So what’s this? A message? A statement of some sort?”

“I have no idea, Jake.”

We watch the crime scene technicians for several seconds before I turn away and vomit into the hedge separating our yard from our next-door neighbors, the Vaccaros. Jake and his people politely turn away and let me do my business. When I’ve finished, Jake lays a hand on my shoulder and steers me away.

“Maybe we should go in and get you some water,” he suggests.

I nod numbly and lead the way back inside and to the kitchen. The dogs greet Jake enthusiastically, particularly Deano, with whom Jake has some history. It’s been some time since his last visit. I met Chief Plummer, then a homicide detective, a couple of weeks after Brittany and I returned to Cedar Heights after my corporate law career and marriage in Atlanta cratered. The occasion was my father shooting a Cedar Heights cop dead on our front porch. Despite that less than auspicious beginning, we’ve since managed to coexist around town. I even dare to consider Jake a friend.

Jake disengages from the dogs and pulls a glass out of the sink drying rack, fills it with ice and water from the dispenser in our refrigerator door, and hands it to me. “Maybe the paper tucked under the windshield wiper will shed some light on what this is all about,” he mutters.

“What paper?”

“You didn’t notice it?”

I shake my head no.

“Piece of memo paper from one of those realtor pads. It’s damp,  pasted to the glass, barely noticeable. I asked my guys to let me know when they get to it.”

“Can’t they just bag it and show us?”

“They’ll work their way into the crime scene from the outside so as not to disturb evidence,” he replies. “You know the drill.”

I do. It’s just difficult to imagine our driveway as a crime scene. I drain the glass and walk over to start a pot of coffee. I’m grateful that Brittany, off in her room sleeping the teenage sleep of the dead, isn’t awake to see any of this. That said, there won’t be any hiding it when she wakes up. Hopefully the body will be gone by then. That would be a small mercy.

I pour two cups of coffee and carry them to the kitchen table, where Jack and I settle into seats facing each other across the table.

“What brings you out on an early Sunday morning call?” I ask. It isn’t unusual for Jake to attend crime scenes, but it sometimes seems as if he’s never off the clock.

“I’m always notified about serious crimes that take place in our little burgh, and I take note of certain locations … especially when units are dispatched to investigate a dead body at the home of someone I know.”

I nod glumly. We’ve had more than our fair share of police activity here at 47 Liberty Street since I came back to town.

“Especially at a location that’s somewhat notorious as a hotbed of crime here in Cedar Heights,” he adds with a knowing wink

“Not in the mood for humor, Jake,” I mutter. Jake and his cop buddies cope with the horrors of the job by escaping behind a veil of dark humor. I get it, I’ve even done it myself, but I can do without it while the corpse of a person I know grows cold in my driveway.

“I figure it’s just a matter of time before a call comes through and it’s you,” Jake says. The corner of his lip twitches upward as his eyes pass beyond me to where Brittany is strolling into the kitchen. His gaze returns to me and he winks. “You, or maybe someone I actually like. That would be a tragedy.”

I’m still beyond the reach of humor and am desperate to change the subject with Brittany present. I do so by asking Jake about his grandchildren. Works every time. Jake always has an amusing anecdote or two to share about his little gremlins; today is no exception.

Brittany excuses herself after three kiddy tales. “Shower time!” she announces.

I’m amazed she didn’t ask why Jake is sitting in our kitchen on a Sunday morning. I feel like we dodged the first bullet, but can we keep her away from the Honda when she returns?

“Keep the blinds closed, cross your fingers, and hope she has things to do in the basement,” Jake says when I ask.

He asks how Van’s case is coming along. Relating details of our trial planning, such as it is, is out of bounds, but I can and do whine about our dearth of resources.

“What do you need?”

“Investigative and forensic expert support, for starters.”

“Is the issue finding people, paying for them, or both?”

“Both.”

“Hmm. You’ve never had trouble getting expert witnesses and subject experts, have you?”

I shake my head no, ruing the good old days.

“I’ve always been impressed with the quality of the people you put on the stand,” Jakes says.

“Van’s people aren’t overly flush and the Public Defender’s office hasn’t given us any investigative support.”

“Why the hell not? You’re working their damn case for them.”

“Budget bullshit, Jake. You know the drill.”

He frowns. “That I certainly do, my friend.”

It occurs to me that the only possible good to come from Mel’s death—and it’s a very slender reed indeed—is if Jake’s investigation of Mel’s killing turns up something that helps us with Van’s case. We sit in glum silence for a good minute before he says, “I may have an idea to get you some help. Let me make a call or two and I’ll get back with you.”

“What kind of help?”

“Don’t get your hopes up, but there’s an organization called the Vidocq Society, mostly retired people with the kind of expertise you’re after. I know they work with law enforcement … I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of them working with you characters on the dark side. Can’t hurt to ask around.”

Before I have a chance to probe more deeply, Jake’s phone pings and he studies it for a long moment before turning the screen for me to see. “Here’s the note from the windshield.”

His phone displays a picture of a soggy note in a plastic baggie. In the runny blue marker ink, I read :

Who’s Next?

CHAPTER 29

I stick around until Pat arrives with Kevin it tow and the shaken kids have been dispatched to the basement with an admonition to stay there until I return. Then, with the Porsche blocked in by the death car, I borrow Pat’s crappy little Mitsubishi rental and drive to Van’s house. With nowhere else to go after she decided she’s imposed on Mel more than was fair—not to mention having grown tired of having her cousin’s three toddlers underfoot—Van reluctantly decided to move back to the house she shared with Syl and Ally.

I park on the street out front, undoubtedly exactly where the cops and EMS had been on Easter morning when Van stumbled across them. Van’s description of the scattered basket of Easter eggs floats into my mind’s eye as I climb the front steps and ring the doorbell.

Nothing.

Unease seeps into me as I lean across to peer in the front window after giving the bell a prolonged push. Still nothing. A vision of Mel Vu’s shattered head swims into my mind as I back down the steps. Maybe Van is out back, hopefully in better shape than Mel. Funny how it hadn’t occurred to me that Van might also be in danger. Shit … shit … shit!

I peek into every window I pass a I scurry to the backyard. I’m about to go up the rear steps when I hear music and look around. The door leading into the garage from the yard stands open. The chorus of Bon Jovi’s hit “Livin’ on a Prayer” floats out. I approach cautiously—how good an idea can it be to startle an already rattled special forces commando?

I knock on the open door. “Van, it’s Tony.”

I hear a dry chuckle from the shadows inside. “Relax. I won’t shoot.”

It’s an unfortunate verbal faux pas given the grim tidings I bear. I step inside and pause while my eyes adjust from the brightness of the afternoon sun to the interior gloom of the garage. Van is sprawled on a fold-out gravity lawn chair with a hand wrapped around a can of Miller Lite beer resting in her lap. Wearing a lopsided grin as she does, Van waves a hand around in a circle to encompass her surroundings. “Welcome to my abode, humble though it may be.”

She’s actually set up well in here in the finished double garage. Drywall covers the walls and ceiling, the space opposite the big doors contains a work bench and prefab cabinets, and steel shelving and racks cover most of the other wall and ceiling space. In addition to the chair, there’s a camp cot immaculately made up, with what I imagine to be military precision, and a Weber gas grill sits just inside the overhead garage door. There’s even a compact, two-seat table and kitchen set.

“Just like the old days overseas, only better because the rations are all mine!”

I begin to suspect that the beer in her hand isn’t her first of the day. I flash a tight smile as my eyes sweep the garage a second time, this time settling on a white, single-door refrigerator.

Her forced gaiety falters. She gestures at the open door and the house beyond. “I just can’t be in there, Tony.”

“No need to explain,” I murmur. What a hellish spectre to sleep twenty feet away from.

Van stands and crushes her beer can on the table. “Can I get you one?”

I shake my head no.

“Teetotaller even on a Sunday afternoon?” she asks with a forced note of joviality in her voice.

When I don’t respond, Van’s grin falters. “Why are you here, Tony?”

‘Mel’s dead,” I reply.

“Mel? My cousin Mel? Mel Vu?”

I nod.

Her expression skews from disbelief to confusion. “Why are you the person telling me?”

It’s a nonsensical response to news of a loved one’s death, but death makes little sense much of the time, so why not.

She sags back into the chair as I explain, setting her head in hands as the tears and sobs come. They last a minute or more, than peter out. “Poor, sweet Mel,” Van says, looking up and dabbing tears from the corners of her eyes. I shrug and drop onto the edge of her cot and wait.

A hint of the customary bite returns to her voice. “Why Mel?”

“The Cedar Heights police are investigating.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “You just found her like that in your driveway? No warning?”

I shrug. She knows the answers already.

“How in hell did she even know where you live, Tony? I don’t.”

“Jake doesn’t think she was killed at our house.” I add the hews about the note on the windshield .

Something in Van’s gaze shifts. Hardens. “Do you remember me telling you to steer clear of the crowd Syl ran with?”

“I do. I did.”

“This is why you give people like that a wide birth, Tony,” she snaps while rising to her feet to tower over me. “Nothing good comes from rubbing shoulders with a bunch of low life drug peddlers, god dammit!”

I barely manage to speak past the lump of guilt that suddenly threatens to choke me. “We don’t know for sure that that’s who did this.”

“Who else, Tony? Given the timing and Mel being dumped in your driveway? Who else?”

CHAPTER 30

After Van vented for another few minutes about my stupidity, followed by declaring icily that “Those fuckers made a huge mistake by messing with my family,” we parted ways—Van to go console Mel’s family; me to drag my ass home to lick my wounds and wonder about the meaning and consequences of Mel Vu’s death. Did I get Mel killed? Could it be as simple as me spooking Syl’s punk buddies by sniffing around their Austin crib? It seems unlikely … or perhaps my guilty conscience simply prefers to see it that way because if it’s true, everyone around me could become a target. My daughter. My girlfriend. My law colleagues. Standing in  my shadow could become the proverbial wrong place at the wrong time. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.

And because it’s happened before, I have the reinforced windows and doors, plus the security cameras, emergency lighting, and alarm system that Jake and I once referred to as Fortress Valenti. I pay a visit to the gun safe bolted to the basement floor in the utility room and spend the next hour stripping, cleaning, and reassembling my arsenal: a Glock 19 pistol, Remington 700 bolt-action rifle, and a Mosberg 500M shotgun. Then, mindful of Chekhov’s dictum that a rifle placed on the wall must be fired, I tuck everything but the Glock back into the safe. That I put back in the nightstand beside my pillow.

Pat, who had taken the kids to her house to escape my bleak company after I returned from Van’s, calls a little after five o’clock. “Dinner will be ready at six. Be here. You need to eat.” While I’m cooking up a viable excuse to duck dinner, her voice shifts to command mode. “Be here, Valenti,” she orders, punctuating it by cutting the call. Supper turns out to be a welcome distraction and tasty to boot: store-bought fried chicken with fries and coleslaw. I’m scarfing down a jumbo slice of cherry pie when Van calls on my cell.

“We need to talk, Tony.”

“About?”

“They’re gonna, pay, Tony. You come after my people you’re going down.” Her words slur; she’s been into the sauce and is working herself into a state. I should have seen this coming earlier. I start trying to buy time while I consider options.

“Who, Van?”

“C’mon, Tony. We know who did this! Enough fucking around.”

Is there anyone I can call? And tell them what exactly?

“The police are on Mel’s case, Van. We’re on top of yours.”

“Enough fucking legalese, dude. The wrath of God is coming their way.”

This is down to me to control. “Where are you, Van?”

“At home. Mel’s people needed time alone.”

“I’m coming by.”

“Not unless I invite you,” she snaps.

An image of Van decked out as a bandana-wearing Rambo explodes in my brain. Jesus! “We can’t do this on the phone, Van.”

The line goes silent in my ear. I take it as an invitation, make my apologies while snagging my keys and toss a “thank you!” over my shoulder as I bolt out the door to the Porsche. I drive the car as a Porsche is meant to be driven and jog around the back corner of the Booker house ten minutes later. The door to the garage stands open. Van stands at the workbench, her back to the door, with what looks like a gunstock in her hands. I plant myself in the doorway and call her name.

She isn’t pleased to see me. “Didn’t your parents teach you to knock?”

“Not at the door of a burning building when I know there’s someone inside.”

She grunts and waves me in. “What do you want?”

I remain dead center in the doorway. “You’re not going hunting this evening. Don’t throw away all the work we’ve done to get you out of that damned jail.”

Her shoulders square and her expression hardens. “You rule in the courtroom, Tony. I rule out here in the jungle.”

“Like hell,” I retort. “You’re not going to do something that stupid.”

“Who’s gonna stop me?” The cold smile, hard eyes, and guttural growl chill me.

“I’ll have Judge Ellison throw you back in jail before I’ll let you kill anyone!”

The tight smile vanishes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, but I would. I’ll be damned if I’m going to listen to Grayson Birch tell our judge and jury that my client can’t join us in court because she’s standing trial for a different murder in a different courtroom.”

Her anger doesn’t dissipate, but the meaning of my words registers. I point at the chair. “Sit.”

The malevolence in her eyes warns that I’m treading on thin ice, but I continue to stand my ground, hoping Van isn’t aware of the spaghetti legs that threaten to collapse beneath me or the tenuous grasp I have on my bladder.

She sighs and tosses an oily cloth over what I suspect is a silencer, then stomps to the fridge and yanks two beers out, throws one at me more than tosses it over, and kicks the fridge door shut. “Okay, tough guy. Let’s talk.”

It isn’t lost on me that Van came perilously close to cracking a smile when she muttered the words “tough guy”.

“For starters, I talk, you listen.”

She frowns.

“We can’t wait any longer to take a deeper dive into your past, Van. The answer to who’s killing your people may lie there.”

Her frown deepens. “This isn’t top of mind tonight Tony.”

“I know, but you need to get your mind off what happened this morning. So do I.”

“Mel,” she murmurs ruefully, all of the fight in her suddenly draining away.

“Mel,” I confirm. “Ready?”

She walks back over the refrigerator. “I’m going to need a spot more liquid courage. You?”

I don’t, but when in Rome. We’re building bridges here.

“You’re always bitching about my trust issues,” Van mutters. “Why don’t we start there?”

I’ll take it. “Foster care.”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect. Fire away.”

“My parents’ deaths left me to the tender mercies of the foster care system, aka Child Protective Services ... protective, my ass,” she snarls. “I went through three homes in the first year, the first two were a nightmare, the third couple were more or less okay and I ended up there for close to a year, but the couple had a huge blind spot when it came to their asshole teenaged son. He did his level best to get into my pants starting maybe three minutes after I first set foot in the house. When I brought it up to my social worker, she just shrugged it off. ‘Teenage hormones, honey. Suck it up.’”

“Ouch,” I mutter.

She shrugs in an almost nonchalant gesture I interpret to mean I survived. “Thankfully, as a high school graduate, I was able to escape to the Army at age seventeen, so I got my ass out of the foster system and never looked back. I kinda liked the army and they kinda liked me: decent IQ, an athlete, and tough as nails—even then. I applied for Special Forces right out of the gate and ended up getting into Ranger training my second year. That went well and I progressed pretty rapidly up the special forces food chain. All good until I was deployed to Afghanistan and Somalia, where I came to understand that I was glorified cannon-fodder for an imperial government. Far from being some hero parachuting in to defend and promote democracy, human rights, and apple pie, I felt like I was just one more misguided soul oppressing people who hadn’t done a damned thing to me.”

She’s barely scratched the surface, yet I sense her already pulling back. “And?”

“And what?”

“Come on, Van. There’s more.”

“Says who?”

“Me.” Damn it, I’m losing her. She likes fishing, does she? I toss a line in the water, intending to hook her and reel her back in. “Let me tell you a story.”

Her eyes flash. “So long as it isn’t some bullshit morality play that’s supposed to shame me into talking.”

“My sister flew Special Forces choppers,” I begin. “She died on a covert, illegal mission in South America. Instead of coming clean, the army or CIA or whoever the hell was in operational command dumped her body in an unmarked grave down there and intimated that she was eaten by crocs after some sort of in-air mishap. So you can guess what kind of headspace that left me in, vis-à-vis our government military and intelligence agencies.”

“God, they can be such bastards,” Van mutters in quiet fury. “So you kind of understand my sense of betrayal when I realized how Uncle Sam plays their soldiers with their ‘we’re all here to protect mom and apple pie’ bullshit.”

I nod and continue. “So Uncle Sam lost his luster for me. Then my high-flying corporate law career cratered when my Fortune 500 company imploded in a financial, legal, and most every other type of scandal you can imagine. I came away from that highly disillusioned with Corporate America, which I by then realized was pretty much an extension of Uncle Sam … or maybe it’s the other way around. And then, just in case I still had faith in any level of government, Cook County tried to convict and execute my seventy-two-year-old father for shooting a crooked cop on our front step. So yeah, Van, I do know a thing about betrayal. I get where you’re coming from.”

Van snorts. “And I’m now invited to bare my soul to reveal my deepest, darkest hurts, like you just did?”

“It’s time for more names, Van. The folks that didn’t make the initial list. I know they’re there.”

“You know, do you?” she all but growls.

“I know how it feels when the people you hand your trust to—your comrades in arms, so to speak—fail you and betray that trust.”

She doesn’t reply, but I think I got through. “Enough navel gazing, Van. Perhaps there’s an Iraqi or Afghan with a grudge from your time overseas? Anyone come to mind?”

She snorts. “What’s the combined population over there, ninety million or thereabouts?”

“What about someone you served with who had a beef with you. Someone with a particularly violent streak who wasn’t your best buddy?”

Van’s laugh is caustic. “We all had a violent streak—we were trained to be fierce bastards. That’s why they selected us, for Christ’s sake. We were all badass killers. As for who might’ve been pissed with me, take your pick: the assholes I wouldn’t fuck, the macho boys whose asses I pulled out of the flames a time or two or three who didn’t appreciate being saved by a broad, the officers we finally told to fuck off when they tasked us with one suicide mission too many, or one of the misogynistic neanderthals who was threatened by consistently finishing second to a woman he didn’t think should even by allowed to wear a uniform.”

She pauses to reflect for a long moment. “But can I imagine any of those guys killing my baby? No, I don’t think so. Maybe one, but only one.”

“Did he come home?” I ask.

She nods. “As far as I know. Probably right back to French Lick, Indiana, the shithole that vomited him out.”

Wow. If he feels the same way about her, who knows what the guy might do? “Name?”

She shakes her head no. “He was an asshole, but also a brother-in-arms. Giving up bad shit about him breaks the code.”

“Screw the code, Van. If this guy had anything to do with Ally’s death, doesn’t that break your precious code?”

She’s wavering.

I remain silent, hold my gaze steady on hers, and wait.

She eventually sighs and drains her can of beer before crushing the can in anger at what she’s about to reveal, or maybe at me for dragging it out of her.

“Fine. Michel Fontaine from French Lick. He’s embarrassed by his French ancestry, so goes by Slick, believe it or not.”

“Slick the dick,” I say.

She shoots me a scowl.

Slick move, Valenti. “What is Slick’s beef with you?” I ask to get us back on track.

“Slick imagines himself to be a serious hunk of beef. I didn’t think so.”

I think I see where this is going, so I shut up.

“We did a lot of patrolling in the mountains. Our teams were small, sometimes no more than two or three of us. Three of us walked into an ambush one evening and lost a buddy in a lengthy cat and mouse firefight. We pulled Doug’s body into a cave so we could come back for him when it was time to pull out. You never left a buddy behind to be picked over by the bastard Taliban or whoever was waiting in the weeds that night.”

She pauses and stares up at the ceiling for a long moment, during which I suspect she is visualizing either the scene or the face of her lost comrade. I reach for my beer and wait.

“Anyway, when we got back to the cave, dawn was coming fast and we were worried that the bad guys might still be out there or on their way back with friends. We couldn’t raise any help on the radio, which really pissed me off until I realized the enemy had plugged Doug’s radio set. So Slick and I hunkered down to catch some shuteye in the cave during the day and make our way back to good guys in darkness. We took two-hour watches while our partner got some shuteye. I took the first watch while Slick slept.”

She pauses and looks me in the eye for a long minute, then drains her beer and angrily crushes the can against her knee.

“It was my turn to sleep later in the afternoon. I woke up to find Slick with his hand pushing into the waistband of my camo pants. He’d already worked the zipper loose. Slick is a big fucker. By the time I finally managed to push his sorry ass off of me, my pants were down around my knees and my shirt was up around my ears.”

“Jesus. At least you managed to get him off you before…” It suddenly occurs to me that she may not have gotten out from under him before.

Van notes my hesitation and answers my unspoken question. “A Yarborough is a girl’s best friend,” she says drily.

“A Yarborough?”

“Tactical knife every newbie Green Beret receives upon graduating from Q School. Some think of it as a ceremonial thing, but I never leave home without mine.”

I look hard into her eyes. “Even now?’

“Even now.”

“Slick survived his encounter?”

A tight little smile accompanies her reply. “Not unscathed. He tried to pass his carved-up ass as a battle wound to the medics, but they didn’t buy it.”

“Did you bust him?”

“With command?”

I nod.

“Hell no.”

“You left him free to run amuck with someone else?”

Her eyes narrow. “There wasn’t a soul on our base who didn’t pretty much figure out what went down in that cave.”

“So why not mention it?”

“To who? I guarantee you that our officers knew about it, but only one tried to address it with me, and that was a half-assed effort designed to fail. Who needs that kind of a headache in-theater?”

“It just seems wrong.”

“Agreed. I hope the son of a bitch learned a lesson. Word is that he was quietly cashiered as soon as we rotated back stateside.”

“Is Slick from French Lick the kind of guy to nurse a grudge?”

“Against me?” she asks.

I nod.

“I suppose it’s possible. Not that I’d waste an ounce of sweat worrying over that. I doubt Slick wants to tangle with me again.”

“But he might have the jam to tangle with a toddler and her sleeping father.”

Her expression darkens. “You think?”

“I think in terms of possibilities, Van. I have nothing to suggest this one is likely, but who’s to say it isn’t? We need to track this guy down and eliminate the possibility he’s still on the warpath all this time later.”

“Jesus.”

“Starting to see why we need to go back in time?”

“Yeah.”

She snags another pair of beers, tosses one to me, cracks hers open, and pours half of it down her throat before she comes back up for air.

“Let’s finish the foster care story,” I suggest.

Her eyes narrow again. “What foster care story?”

“What ultimately happened with the asshole kid at the last foster home, Van? You were there for close to a year and then you bolted from what seems to have been a halfway stable environment with halfway decent foster parents. Sounds to me like a precursor to Slick might have been in the mix.”

She stares back at me. “You’re pretty good at this interrogation gig. Did you ever think about being a cop?”

“That’s a helluva thing to say to a defense attorney.”

“Is an apology in order?”

“Damn right it is. Let’s get back to our asshole teenaged son.”

She sighs. “I worried about being caught alone with the guy from day one. Fortunately, the family had a decent home gym and I started working out at home. I dived into the fitness equipment at school, bulking up in the weight room, and I pestered my foster mom to enroll me in karate classes so I could learn how to defend myself.” She smiles with a little guffaw. “Course, she never dreamed I was doing it all to kick her son’s ass when the time came. I figured it was bound to come to that sooner or later with that asshole.”

“And I’m guessing it did.”

She nods. “Thankfully, he was seldom home when I was during the school year—I worked night shifts and weekends as a hospital porter and slept with my bedroom door barricaded when I didn’t have class or work. That said, his days off were still a bit of a challenge, so I volunteered at a nearby retirement residence. For the most part, I was able to avoid him when he was lurking around the house.”

She frowns, something in her eyes hardening as she continues, “Then he got his ass fired in April of my senior high school year when my classes were winding down. I was home more and he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to go back to work—like that wasn’t a recipe for trouble. I had been planning to work over the summer and go to community college for a couple of years starting that fall, but that’s not how things played out. I broke junior’s arm when I woke up and he had his hand down my shorts, pawing at me with one hand and trying to tear my pajama top off with the other. I was pretty strong by then and used a few karate tricks to put a stop to his bullshit.” She pauses. “That seems to be something of a pattern with me, doesn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Waking up with some asshole pawing me.”

I shrug and venture a grin. “Try not to fall asleep so much.”

“Right. Anyway, I bloodied his nose, crushed his balls, and wounded his pride. I probably should have stopped with that, but I ended up laying a serious ass-kicking on him once I got started. The family chose not to press charges when one of the other foster kids stepped up to tell it like it happened, but my time there was over.”

“The kid’s name?”

“Pete Kincaid.”

“Who would be how old now?”

“Couple years older than me.”

“So, we have another name to chase down.”

“Alternate suspects, huh?”

“People to check out, anyway. We’ll see where it leads.”

Van’s unfathomably expressive eyes actually seem to darken in line with her moods. It’s unnerving, perhaps even a little alarming to experience at close range. “If Pete or Slick killed my baby, I think you know exactly where that leads.”

CHAPTER 31

The mood in the office the following morning is subdued, even solemn. Penelope has delayed her weekly Monday morning departure to be with us as we absorb yesterday’s tragedy and try to make sense out of what it may mean for our case. For those few of us who met Mel Vu, it’s impossible not to think back on her initial entry into our lives the morning after Van was arrested, her single-minded insistence that we take the case. From there, once we’d done her bidding, she was a delight to be around. Mel was shaping up to be a compelling witness for Van: articulate, supportive, consistent, and well-versed in the relationships between Van, her husband, and their baby girl. I can’t imagine anyone delivering a more compelling declaration of Van’s innocence. And now she’s gone.

Van, slouched in a chair pushed into a corner of the conference room, looks like she didn’t get a wink of sleep after I left her in the garage late last evening. Her eyes are puffy and her gaze drifts a thousand miles away and back again, seemingly by the minute. I wonder where her head is at. Remembering Mel? Dreaming of avenging her murder? Likely both.

Joan tops up six cups of coffee, then sits. The gang’s all here: Her, Penelope, Mick, Joe Bob, Van, and me. To my mind, Mike is here in spirit.

Penelope and I agreed that I should lead this morning’s meeting. I am, after all, first chair on Van’s case and have established working relationships with everyone seated around the table. My partner seemed a little disconsolate to realize just how far she has distanced herself from the firm she helped to establish.

“Mel’s murder comes as a shock to all of us,” I say to kick off the meeting. “As of this morning, we know nothing about who did this, what motivated them, or if this is related to Van’s case, although the fact that the killer left poor Mel in my driveway suggests a connection.”

“Suggests?” Van says with a snort. “A smoking gun, in my estimation.”

“Tough to argue with that,” I admit. “But we don’t know anything for certain. At this stage, we’ll be best served by trying to keep our minds open to the greatest extent possible, difficult as that may be.”

“Van, if what you say turns out to be true, fair enough,” Penelope says. “But we don’t want to close our minds to other possibilities and miss something important.”

Van shrugs, unconvinced but not prepared to argue the point.

I let my gaze roam over my colleagues. “Some of you are new to us, here on a transactional basis. I fully understand if you’re unwilling to continue on with us in the wake of this. If anyone is going to drop out, please do so this morning so we can reassign your duties.”

Before I can canvass the group for their intentions, Joe Bob shoots me a marginally insulted look and mutters, “I’m in.”

Mick follows. Penelope raises a hand, and I do, as well. Van, appearing moved and pleased by the show of support, and with a sardonic smile, says, “Like I have a choice. Count me in.”

With last night’s revelations in hand, I reorient the investigation. Mick is assigned the task of tracking down Van’s foster home nemesis, Pete Kincaid. “Find out where he is, what he does, and if he could have been here on Easter weekend.”

“I’ll look through his social media accounts. I’m on that, but do you have any suggestions on what else to do?”

“See if you can track him down first, then we’ll tackle that,” I reply.

He nods. “You got it, boss.”

The next investigative target on my list is Van’s creepy former comrade-in-arms, French Lick Slick. I ask Van if she’s willing to tackle the assignment. “You know your way around the military, including whatever record systems we need to access. You’ll know how to approach and speak to the people you and Slick served with. I have no idea what all else you’ll bring to the task that none of us can, but throw that into the mix too. What do you say?”

With an expression of rank distaste, she accepts.

Joe Bob leans in Van’s direction. “Your orders, soldier, are to observe and report. Nothing more.”

Van looks pleasantly surprised. “You served?”

He nods. “Civil War.”

“Van and I also discussed the possibility that an Iraqi or Afghan national bearing a grudge related to her time overseas service might have decided to act on it.”

She waves the concern aside. “As I told Tony, that leaves us with some ninety million possible suspects. Nothing we can do about something like that.”

We exchange tight smiles. “Right. Finally, that brings us to the father of the fifteen-year-old babysitter Syl Booker often hired to sit Ally when Van was away.”

Mick chuckles. “And the fallout from Syl playing hide the salami with the sweet thing.”

Van shoots him a look that could reduce a glacier to a puddle in a single glance. Penelope is appalled, Joan even more so. I kick myself for not warning him off the expression the first time I heard it pass his lips. Van mutters “asshole” under her breath. I don’t think Mick noticed, which I score as a minor win. I’m going to have a talk with the boy.

I re-focus on Joe Bob. “Mr. Slater, can I shanghai you into following up on this one? Is he known to the police? Was a complaint filed about this incident? Any other incidents? We already know he confronted Syl in public. Might he have done more?”

He nods. “I get the picture. I’m on it.”

“A final point, folks,” I say. “For safety’s sake, I’d like to mandate that two of you be together at all times outside the office, but we simply don’t have enough bodies for that. I will, however, stipulate that nobody goes anywhere sketchy alone, and make sure you buddy-up every time you’re working in the field at night. Are we clear on that?”

Nods all around with the exception of Van, who delivers a mocking look that I’m sure conveys a message somewhat along the lines of, “I ain’t dragging any of this dead weight around behind me.”

And yes, I suspect I’m included in that assessment of our utility to Van in a jam.

CHAPTER 32

I spend the next half-hour staring out my office window with my feet propped up on an open desk drawer, my thoughts on the next wave of issues to address in the wake of Mel’s murder. I made a courtesy call on her newly-widowed husband and children on my way to the office this morning to pass along my condolences and drop off a pair of chicken casseroles Pat and Brittany prepared last evening. I assured them of our support in any manner they require, including Penelope’s offer to manage probate on a pro bono basis. I also mentioned that I would leverage my relationship with Jake Plummer to keep them at least somewhat informed on the progress of the murder investigation. I toe the drawer closed. I have one more stop to make before I disappear back into the investigation.

Mike may not be back to work yet, but he’s working hard in therapy—physical and emotional—and he’s intensely curious about what’s happening with Van’s case. I suspect that a near-impossible effort to distract himself from the loss of his wife and unborn child has a lot to do with that, but I’m happy to do what I can to help. On a selfish note, I miss my best friend all to hell.

“I’m going to drop by the hospital for a quick visit to update Mike,” I inform Joan as I sweep through reception.

“Say hi for me!” she calls after me.

I can tell by the fury in Mike’s eyes when I tell him about Mel’s death that he’s much less medicated this week. He’s been slow coming around from the coma, but his recovery is clearly gathering steam.

“Who?” he mutters.

“Not a clue yet,” I reply. “Jake’s on it.”

Confusion registers in his eyes. “Plummer?”

I explain about finding Mel in my driveway, “Which gives Jake jurisdiction for the moment.”

“For the moment?”

“He thinks she was killed elsewhere and then delivered to my driveway.”

Alarm registers on his face. “Tell me Brittany didn’t find Mel.”

“I did. Thankfully, we were able to keep her away, but it was plenty hard on her just knowing what was out there.”

He frowns. “Mel. Your house. This is about Van’s case.”

“Seems to be.”

“They were pretty tight, and Van’s circle is small. Keep an eye on her.”

I nod. “Maybe it’s time for you and her to spend a little time together, Mike. You two clicked, and she misses you.”

“She knows where to find me. Tell her she’s welcome anytime.”

“I will. And Mike?”

“Yeah?”

“Van has murder in her eyes. We both know how this plays out if she gets an inkling, justified or not, of who did this.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Yeah. We do. Can’t let that happen, partner.”

We set that aside and chat about Van’s tricked-out garage crash pad, Pat and Kevin’s arrival from Calgary, and Brittany’s trip to Europe.”

He smiles. “Sara said they had a blast.”

We talk about how Mick and Joe Bob are fitting in.

“Joe Bob Sparks,” Mike muses with a hearty chuckle. “I’m looking forward to seeing Joe Bob and Penelope working cheek to jowl, my friend.”

I smile. “I’m looking forward to having you back in the office to watch.”

He sighs. “From your lips to God’s ears, Tony. They say another month or so in here if I bust my ass to please the little Nazi who’s in charge of my physical rehab.”

“Little Nazi, huh?”

“She’s a nice enough little Führer, but still. Mind you, I’m bored out of my skull in here when she’s not ministering to me. Why don’t you run some of your trial issues and ideas by me every day or two?”

“That’s not the worst idea,” I reply. Mike has a very sharp legal mind, accompanied by a wealth of murder trial experience to draw on. Not that the nature of our friendship allows me to dispense such puffery. “I have Joe Bob as second chair now, so I’m not sure how much help you can be, but I suppose it can’t hurt to humor you.”

He reaches for my hand and smiles. “Thanks for the ego rub, asshole. I don’t imagine you ever had the pleasure of seeing Joe Bob at trial in his prime?”

“I did not.”

Mike’s eyes stray toward the window, perhaps to a point in the past in which Joe Bob was center stage. “He was something to see, partner.”

I allow Mike his moment of uninterrupted reverie.

His eyelids droop unexpectedly. Time’s up. I steal away quietly as he drifts off.

I call Van while I’m driving back to the office. “You should visit Mike.”

Surprise registers in her voice. “Really?”

“Why not?”

“You’re my guy now, right? I can’t imagine Mike wants to be bothered with me now.”

“Mike’s still part of the team here, Van. He cares about you. Do you care about him?”

“Of course!” she replies indignantly.

“Then go show him.”

After an afternoon fruitlessly working my way through three boxes of largely irrelevant discovery material, I decide to knock off at a human hour for a change. Dinner at home with Brittany is about as good a pick-me-up as a father can ask for, and I’m in need of a little boost.

Jake Plummer calls as I approach home on Liberty Street. I take the call hands-free. “What’s up, Copper?”

He chuckles. “I haven’t heard that one out of you for some time. What puts you in such good spirits on a Monday?”

I signal and pull into the driveway. “Nothing, actually. I’m putting on a good front?”

“That you are.”

Mel’s car is gone, of course. I stop, put the car in park and stare straight ahead. Nothing remains of what took place here yesterday. If I hadn’t seen it all with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it really happened at all, except for the images that remain burned into my memory. I suspect they’ll be there for years to come.

“Still with me, Counselor?” Jakes asks.

“Sorry. My mind got away from me for a moment.”

“Get used to it, pal. I mentioned the Vidocq Society yesterday.”

“I remember.”

“I made a couple calls and have a name and number for you to call.”

“Thanks, Jake.”

“I’m afraid I’m not overly optimistic. But make the call anyway.”

“Why the lack of optimism?”

“Let’s just say that my inquiry wasn’t greeted with the degree of warmth one grows accustomed to when dealing with one’s fellow law enforcement colleagues.”

“What was said?”

“‘We’re ex-law enforcement, Jake!’” he exclaims, sotto voice. “‘We don’t work for the devil!’ That may not capture the reply word-for-word, but you get the drift.”

“Oh, I do, all right. What the hell did you say about me to prompt that?”

“Before I could stop it, the truth slipped out. I told them you’re a defense attorney. My bad.”

I laugh. “Fair enough. What’s the drill now?”

“You call, give them the lay of the land, explain what you need and why, and throw yourself on their tender mercies. Simple as that. They only accept cases directly from law enforcement, so they will not officially take on your case, but you may get a little unofficial help, just not under the official auspices of the organization.”

“Official is vastly over-rated,” I reply. “I’ll take any help I can get.”

“Always,” he agrees.

“Well, would you look at that,” I say when Pat pulls into the driveway behind me. She,  Brittany, and Kevin pile out, loaded down with bags of Portillo’s take out.

“What’s up?” Jake asks.

I explain, he tries to invite himself to dinner, I say no, and he calls me a bad name.

“One last thing, Tony,” he adds following the term of endearment. “Make sure you play up Van’s military service to the Vidocq folks. Some of the guys are vets themselves. One or two of them may feel a little kinship and cut her a break.”

“Good thinking, Jake. Thanks for this.”

“Good luck.”

CHAPTER 33

It’s lunch time on Thursday and I’ve just returned from the Sandwich Emporium with takeout for Van, Joan, and myself. Today’s Daily Special is a truly inspired concoction, a pretzel bun layered with a burger patty and apple compote, topped off with a fried egg and leaf lettuce. “Apple Slider Fry!” Maiko had happily declared when she handed over the steaming paper bag containing our order. I deposit Joan’s goodies on the corner of her desk and carry the rest through to the conference room.

“This is fucking outrageous!” Van exclaims happily after swallowing her first bite. “They do something like this every day?”

I nod and explain how it goes. Maiko shops food warehouses every morning and returns with whatever was on sale; Brian fashions her purchases into a sandwich no matter how incompatible the ingredients may seem, and Maiko christens it with a catchy title. “Apple Slider Fry, for example.”

Van shakes her head and laughs. “I may have to reconsider my immediate career options in light of this.”

“How so?”

“I’m happy to help with my defense, of course, but really? The last few weeks have kinda soured me on what I always thought was the glamorous life of a PI.”

I settle back and meet her gaze. “To be honest, I’ve been thinking that you’re well-suited to it. Bright. Tenacious. Tough enough to look out for yourself.”

“I can go along with the tough part. Speaking of which,” she adds as a smile animates her face, “I hope you don’t send little Micky anywhere more dangerous than a schoolyard, and an elementary one at that.”

“I like to think that what Mick may lack in physical prowess is made up for with a certain verbal panache he can call upon to work his ass out of a crack.”

She snorts. “But not every crack, Tony. Can he tell the difference?”

“Did I ever tell you how Mick came to be on your defense team?”

“I guess I just assumed he’s been here since before I darkened your door.”

I tell her about the Mick origin story at BV&W. “So, I suppose the moral of the story is that no, Mick can’t always tell the difference between an escapable crack and one that’s going to crush his ass.”

“That’s a colorful way of putting it.”

I dip my head in a little bow before lifting my sandwich to bite off another gooey chunk. Van pauses to do likewise and we put the chat on hold until we finish eating.

“Can we talk about Mel for a minute?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“Are you or the cops anywhere nearer to figuring out who or why?”

I shake my head no. “But it’s early days for a murder investigation.” I don’t mention how badly Mel’s demise has spooked me.

“The Chicago cops didn’t waste much time deciding to collar me.”

“You’re worried that they’ll target your brother-in-law?”

She nods.

“Cedar Heights PD isn’t too likely to point a finger at Mel’s husband without a good reason. Jake Plummer is good people.”

“He’s the top cop around here, right?”

I nod. “Good man.”

“How about a good guess as to why? It’s driving me crazy.”

“What’s your best guess about why Mel was killed, Tony? Any ideas?”[NT8]

“I’ve been wracking my brain over that, Van. It has to be related to your case. Your cousin, your lawyer’s home. Mel’s death may seem like a senseless murder, but a killing that coldly calculated had to have been done for a reason.”

“To send a message? Maybe a warning of some sort.”

“A warning about what? To whom?”

She shrugs and waits.

I blow out a long breath. “Mel’s name was on our preliminary witness list. Could that be it? She knew something the real perpetrator is afraid might come to light, or the killer at least suspects she may have known?”

“You think she was targeted because she was on your witness list?”

“I wonder about it.”

“Who has access to the list, Tony?”

“In addition to our office, the State’s Attorney must have copies of it lying around the offices of their attorneys, investigators, and managers. They may have even supplied the names to the police, along with a directive to dig up dirt the prosecution can use to discredit them.”

“They do that? Really?”

I nod.

“That’s fucked up, dude.”

I don’t argue the point. “How on earth can we ever hope to track down and plug a leak like that, Van? We can’t, simple as that.”

“Does that mean all our potential witnesses are at risk?”

“We’re going to have to assume so.”

“Tell you what,” she says, her voice steady and eyes ice-cold. “I may not be qualified to do much, but I am trained in the rudiments of close protection of high-value targets. If you’re worried about a witness, I’ll sit on them for as long as it takes and escort them to court. All this BS has got me feeling mighty mean, Tony. Anyone tries to fuck with us, they’re going down in a world of hurt.”

I don’t doubt it for a minute, but Van’s barely restrained fury has cast a distinct chill over the room. Time to try to lighten the mood.

“If you’re turning your back on becoming a gumshoe, what alternate career plans are you pondering?” I ask while rolling my sandwich wrapper into a compact ball that sails unerringly into the trash basket.

When her effort falls short of the target, she cuts a severe side-eye my way—apparently erroneously believing it might forestall me trash talking her pathetic effort. Silly girl.

“I hope you don’t have visions of a hoops career, Van. Maybe dodgeball? I wonder how that pays…”

Her effort to manufacture a severe expression dissolves into a laugh. “Can it be worse than the PI pay here?”

“Hell, I’m not in this for the pissant money we’re getting paid to defend you. Just kidding,” I add quickly when her smile falters.

Her eyes search mine for a moment while she gauges my sincerity, so I reach for unabashed candor. “About your abilities, don’t sell yourself short. You’re doing a good job.”

“For a rookie.”

I smile. “You are a rookie … of the rankest type. Anyway, there’s more to life than money, Van. HR surveys consistently seek to convince the undercompensated masses that money isn’t a big factor in employee satisfaction, so quit asking for more, dammit.”

“Thanks for lunch, boss,” she says, getting up to collect her stray sandwich wrapper. She heads for the door and drops the litter into the waste basket. “Never let it be said that I don’t pick up after myself.”

As I watch her go, my emotions ping pong between an unsettling sense that Van is perpetually no more than a hair’s breadth away from unleashing mayhem. Yet she’s also flashing fresh aspects of a multi-faceted personality. I now see humor, empathy, anger, and sorrow in her makeup; sometimes she whipsaws between extremes so quickly that it leaves my head spinning.

A phone call from Jake Plummer ends my reverie. “No luck with Vidocq, huh?”

“About as much as I had with the ladies back in the day,” I grumble. They turned me down flat, directing me to the statement on their website home page stating that they only accept work from law enforcement agencies. Fair enough; it isn’t as if I had been banking on their help. If nothing is ever ventured, nothing is ever gained. Onward and upward. Onward Christian soldiers … blah, blah, blah …cue the cliched exhortations. I may not have been banking on the help, but I certainly would have welcomed it, particularly with regard to the technical expertise we lack.

“Meaning no luck at all,” Jake says drily.

“Right,” I mutter.

“Don’t despair, my friend. There may yet be a sliver of hope there.”

My ears perk up. “Oh yeah?”

“One of the folks there, someone named Larry, circled back to me. US Army veteran. After doing a little research on his own and making a few calls, Larry decided that Van may be someone who deserves his help, but he can’t do so under the auspices of Vidocq.”

“Tell me more, Jake.”

“Larry gave me the phone number of someone who is willing to have a look at the medical evidence. Perhaps Larry himself, perhaps someone connected to him. I tell you, Tony, this cat is a little squirrely. At any rate, if this person sees anything of potential value to Van’s case, he’ll flag it. It’ll be up to you to do something with anything they find. They won’t send you an official report or become officially involved in any way. I’m not sure if that helps much, but it’s the best I could do.”

“Much appreciated, Jake. Every brick in the wall, y’know.”

“If I’m not mistaken, you lifted that line from the Jake Plummer Official Guide to Helping Rookie Investigators Find Their Asses with Both Hands.”

“Come to think of it, I well may have.” There was a time when I was under the unofficial tutelage of Jake while he was showing me a few of the basic investigative ropes. His lessons remain integral to my efforts, and I’m passing them along to Mick as quickly as I can.

“Caio, Tony.”

“Cheers, Chief.”

Perhaps the offer doesn’t sound like much, but I know a retired medical examiner who’s great on a witness stand. We can’t afford the full freight to bring Theo de Jong on board with the usual mandate to make an exhaustive review of the original autopsy report and poke holes in it, but if Larry’s person is able to unearth a useful nugget or two for Theo to run with, we could be in business … and at a discount price we can manage.

CHAPTER 34

On Monday morning a week and a half later, I’ve gathered the team in the conference room for a status update. The temptation to drag all six of us in here daily has been almost irresistible, but the clock is ticking. A minute spent here is six minutes of missed work product. We’re at T-19, or nineteen days until trial, so we don’t have a minute to waste, let alone six.

Penelope’s drawn face reflects the unrelenting pressure we all feel.  “We have less than three weeks to pull it all together, Tony. Are we in a good place? I worry.”

I sit back and look around the table, plastering a confident smile on my face. It’s halfway genuine. Everyone has done and continues to do well as we pull together the strands of the investigative puzzle that we hope will eventually chart a path to Van’s freedom. We’re doing better than I expected we would—not that my expectations had set the bar very high … a baby squirrel probably could have hopped over that barrier. Our evidentiary hearings have gone fairly well, and our way forward is rounding nicely into shape. All in all, I’m feeling pretty good about the case.

“I think we’re in a pretty good place, Penelope. Plenty more to do, of course.”

Everyone seems pleased that I’m pleased. They don’t call me Suzy Sunshine for nothing.

“Let’s go around the table and everyone can give us a snapshot of where they’re at.,” I suggest. “Sound fair?”

Heads nod all around. I turn my gaze on Mick. “What’s the story with Pete Kincaid?”

“He’s living downstate in Carbondale. Drives a gravel truck by day. Lives alone in a crappy littler singlewide trailer in a crappy trailer park on the crappy side of town.”

“Probably so he has easy access to the co-eds at SIU,” Van mutters.

“Southern Illinois University,” Mick adds helpfully for the benefit of anyone who might not know. “For recreation, Pete disappears into what appears, at least from a distance, to be some sort of military-style facility … without any evidence that the US military is involved. Militia crap maybe? I reached out to Van for help, figuring she might know about that stuff.”

“Good thinking,” I say. Despite the rough edges, his instincts are sharp. And what’s with the corporate speak? ‘Reached out’?

Van shifts to set her hands on the tabletop. “I contacted a Special Forces guy I’ve stayed in touch with. Chris is a section leader of an Illinois State Police SWAT team. So Chris checks it out, and Mick called it. Peter Kincaid is deep into the militia-style soldier of fortune fantasy.” She flashes a wicked grin at Mick, whose stock appears to be rising in her estimation. “Like all operators, Chris longs to take down chickenshit posers like Kincaid to give them a taste of how real soldiers do things. Clearing out a nest of assholes like that is a wet dream for SF operators.”

I’ll bet. And I’d also wager that my somewhat prissy partner from Kansas would prefer not to hear about anyone’s wet dreams … probably not even her own.

“Are you and this Chris guy planning to drop in on Pete and his pals?” I ask lightly.

“I’d love to. Preferably from a Little Bird with a full combat load.”

“My sister used to fly choppers for the army” I say by way of explanation to preface my Vansplaining. “Van wants to repel out of a Special Forces helicopter, armed to the teeth, to play a little shoot ‘em up with Pete and his fellow play soldiers.”

Van grins back at me. “Exactly.”

“Any luck tracking Kincaid to the Chicago area over Easter?” I ask Mick.

He shakes his head no. “Not a whiff of him. Near as I can tell, he jerks off in the woods with his militia buddies every chance he gets. They post plenty of pictures of themselves in action poses and playing Cowboys and Indians, which I suppose political correctness dictates that we call red-blooded White American boys chasing after people who have different color skin.”

“You keep surprising me, dude,” Van says with something nearing a pinch of affection. Yup, Mick is the little brother nobody wanted.

“Good work, Mick. Keep digging,” I say, then turn my attention to Van. “As long as you’re already part of the discussion, what can you tell us about Monsieur Fontaine of French Lick?”

“He’s a fucking ghost,” she mutters. “Web search engines come up empty. There’s no sign of him in or around French Link, no hits on him in my searches of public records and databases. No one in my admittedly small circle of Army pals kept in touch with him or knows anyone who did. As you know,” she adds with a look that warns me off explaining the reference, “he was toxic by the time our team pulled out of Stan.”

“Afghanistan,” I say by way of explanation, this time with a wink in Van’s direction.

“What my Van-speak to English interpreter said,” she shoots back. She’s smiling, so apparently we’re good.

“Which brings us to Joe Bob,” I say. Given the lack of progress in our hunt to connect Kincaid or Slick to Syl’s and Ally’s murders, exploring our babysitter papa’s potential connection to our case is taking on additional urgency. After all, if not one of these three guys, who is our SODDI?

Joe Bob proceeds to ratchet up my blossoming anxiety. “If there’s anything there, I can’t find it. Dad seems to be an unassuming family man. Steady job, married to the same woman for eleven years. No criminal record and my contacts didn’t turn up any charges that made it to conviction. Likewise, no near misses—nothing to suggest there’s even a hint of violence in his nature.”

I’ve been nodding along the whole time, not in the least surprised by what I’m hearing. Despite my SODDI target anxiety, it’s clear we’ve spent enough time and resources investigating this man.

“The idea of this guy as Syl’s killer never quite squared with him also being Ally’s murderer,” I say.

“Why not? Mick asks.

“I just can’t imagine an enraged father who had just taken revenge on the man who abused his daughter immediately turning around to take the life of someone else’s daughter.”

“Could be a blood-fueled killing rage in the moment,” Van says. When I shoot her a skeptical look, she shrugs. “It happens.”

I don’t dare ask how she knows.

Van leans back and expels a long sigh. “Tony’s probably right to suggest setting that guy aside. The reasoning sounds right to me. Let’s focus on finding the bastard who killed my little girl."

“I should drop it?” Joe Bob asks.

Nods all around.

“Is that everyone?” Penelope asks after I fall silent.

Just me, but I elect not to be entirely forthcoming. I’ve been quietly investigating Syl Booker’s life, being careful to keep my effort below Van’s radar. Not with an eye toward victim shaming by arguing in front of the jury: What the hell, Syl wasn’t such a good guy and he probably deserved to die, so let’s just say what’s done is done and let Van walk, okay? I’m probing to discover the real killer, not that the effort is going well. I’ve been unable to get a bead on exactly what was going on with Syl Booker during the final few months of his life. Max Maxwell has been poking around with the help of his former Chicago PD buddies, exploring Syl’s extensive petty criminal and court records. While he’d eventually learned how to keep himself out jail, the people he ran with ensured he was never completely off the police’s radar. But Max’s contacts revealed that in the last six-plus months of Syl’s relatively short life, he inexplicably dropped off law enforcement radar; inexplicably because, so far as we’ve heard from Van, neighbors, and coworkers not named Big Al—the people who would know—Syl Booker was running with his usual crowd right to the end. So why did all official law enforcement mention of him abruptly cease? It’s a mystery I’m no closer to solving today than I was the day I first started looking into Syl Booker.

But that isn’t all I’ve been up to. On Saturday, Larry from Vidocq, to whom I’d sent a copy of the autopsy materials we received via discovery, came through with an impressively detailed analysis of Syl’s extensive wounds. His thoughts differ in a handful of key instances  from the findings expressed in the original autopsy report. I inform my colleagues of the new analysis, which comes as a complete surprise because I’ve never mentioned Vidocq to them.

“Whether or not this will prove useful at trial remains to be seen, but it may be a promising development,” I conclude. “Fingers crossed.”

“Why didn’t we know about this?” Joe Bob asks sharply.

“You know now,” I reply. “I didn’t expect anything to come of it, so it seemed like an unnecessary distraction.”

“What did the report say?” Van asks.

You don’t want to know and you sure as hell don’t want to see the pictures.

“I gave it a cursory look before passing it along to Theo de Jong.” Doing so on a wing and a prayer that he’ll latch onto the salient points without my assistance.

“Why didn’t you take a closer look?” Penelope asks.

Who has time when their primary partner is out of state week after week after week? Of course I don’t say that, and I’m ashamed that the thought even entered my head.

“I didn’t take a closer look because A) I didn’t know what I was looking at, and B) I didn’t have time to go down a terminology rabbit hole to figure it out. I sent it along to Theo de Jong.”

“To who?” Joe Bob asks.

“Retired medical examiner we use,” I reply. “I’ll touch base with him again if I haven’t heard an encouraging response by noon tomorrow.”

Or, perhaps I’ll ask Penelope to make the call via Zoom. Theo can never say no in the face of my partner’s megawatt smile and winning disposition.

“You think it might help for me to speak with Theo?” Penelope asks.

Bingo.

“I thought you’d never ask,” I reply with a wink.

After the meeting breaks up and I’m once again gazing out my office window, I take stock. With almost all of discovery finally in hand—at least according to Grayson Birch’s undertaking to Judge Ellison—Van’s trial is shaping up to be a crapshoot, an assessment I regard as us having made progress. I believe we have an innocent client. However, given the state of the evidence as things now stand, convincing a jury of that is going to be one hell of a heavy lift. With the recent additions of Joe Bob and Mick, Van’s defense team may resemble a bit of a reclamation project, yet I feel oddly confident about this team’s ability to at least bloody Grayson Birch’s nose. I’ll certainly take some satisfaction in doing so, but we’re going to need to do much better than that to keep Van off death row[NT9].

CHAPTER 35

We’re in Judge Ellison’s chambers with the court reporter the following Wednesday, having already burned through half of the remaining time to trial. Save some emergency issue coming to light that necessitates another evidentiary or procedural hearing, this morning represents our final face time in front of Judge Ellison before Van will stand trial for murder. “Sobering shit,” in the succinct words of the defendant as we arrived at the courthouse thirty minutes ago.

Ellison spends the first few minutes setting her expectations for how our trial will play out in her courtroom. “There’s no reason we shouldn’t wrap this up within a week,” she concludes.

She’s correct. This isn’t an overly complex case: the issues are clear, the amount of evidence is limited, and there’s no financial incentive for criminal attorneys, unlike their corporate cousins, to drag things out. Nobody’s getting rich off this. Yet the reality of the judge’s timeline pronouncement settles over me like a premonition of doom. The last thing I need just now is to feel even an ounce of additional weight on my shoulders. We’re at T-10.

For the most part, it’s the usual laundry wish list of judicial trial aspirations: that we’ll be respectful of opposing counsel, that we’ll refrain from ad hominin attacks at all costs, and particularly in the presence of the jury, that we limit objections to only those that are absolutely appropriate “in the circumstance,” that we respect both the court’s and the jury’s time by being prompt to court, arriving well prepared, and blah, blah, blah and so on and so forth. As our ability to feign hanging on her every word begins to flag, she snaps us back to attention.

“I assume none of you are anxious to spend time in jail?” she asks out of the blue, her almost breezy demeanor of the last five minutes suddenly gone.

A chorus of, “No, Your Honor,” greets her query.

“Then listen up. Now that we’ve gotten all the usual crappola out of the way, let’s get down to brass tacks.”

I nod, my antennae now fully extended and tuned exclusively to Judge Ellison’s frequency. I suspect every attorney in the room has joined me in this. If not, they’re fools; wherever she’s headed with this chat, Ellison means business.

Her eyes traverse between me and Birch. “I’ve been reasonably tolerant with the alpha males in this case, at least to this point. That ends this morning. Understood?”

I nod and see out the corner of my eye that Birch does the same.

“There’s only room for one alpha in this room, and she isn’t an attorney,” Ellison continues. “Challenging my supremacy in the courtroom will end badly for whoever does so. Guaranteed. Any questions in that regard, gentlemen?”

None.

“Like any magistrate, the prospect of being reversed on appeal doesn’t appeal to me, but fear of it doesn’t cripple me, so don’t go there. It will also end badly for any attorney who dares to do so.”

More nods.

“No more displays of schoolyard histrionics. All the squabbling ends today. Actually, let’s say it ended yesterday.”

As she delivers additional admonitions in the same vein, I decide I like what I’m hearing. While it’s true that I’ve been known to push boundaries of courtroom decorum every once in a while, I generally do so in response to prosecutorial and or judicial conduct that has disadvantaged the fairness of my client’s trial in some fashion. I’m usually trying to repair damage or relevel the playing field. Nothing more. I’m not at all afraid of wading into battle with Grayson Birch on a level playing field. For one thing, I think I’m the better lawyer. For another, I doubt the smarmy SOB has ever been made to fight a truly fair trial in Cook County.

I tune back in, alarmed to realize that I’ve tuned the judge out even for a few seconds.

Ellison has paused and is looking at me. “Still with us, Counselor?”

“Absolutely.”

Her eyes tell me that she knows better, but it doesn’t seem to cost me.

“Are there any motions outstanding that I’ve failed to address to your satisfaction?”

“None, Your Honor.”

“Is anyone contemplating filing additional motions prior to trial?”

Negative.

“Have both parties met your discovery burdens?”

Such a stupid, archaic term that is: Met your burden. Why not just: Yeah, we did it, Judge?

Both sides answer in the affirmative … speaking of archaic terms in a courtroom.

“Are we anticipating additional updates to your proposed witness lists?”

Silence.

Ellison sighs. “How many witnesses have you failed to disclose, Mr. Valenti?”

We get into a bit of a tussle about the defendant’s obligations vis-à-vis disclosing potential rebuttal witnesses. “Until we hear the prosecution’s case and have a chance to examine their evidence, we can’t reasonably be expected to know who we might call on. We’ve provided the names of every witness who we currently contemplate calling, including those who are unlikely to be called, and a couple we have on standby pending expert analysis of evidence we only came into possession of or are merely hopeful of receiving.”

“I don’t have an issue with that, Counselor,” Ellison says. “Assuming it’s a good faith representation of the facts.”

“It is. That said, trial is still over a week away, Your Honor. We continue to investigate, assess evidence and speak with potential witnesses. We reserve the right to add to our evidence and witnesses lists as appropriate.”

“Sounds to me like the defense is planning to disrupt proceedings with some bullsh—” At a warning glance from Ellison, he catches himself with a disarming grin. “Sorry, Judge. I get worked up about the, er … stunts defense counsel is known for.”

“Stunts?” I shoot back. “Such as mounting a vigorous defence on behalf of my client?”

“Boys,” Ellison says sharply, delivering the admonishment as if to a couple of wayward children. Which, of course, we very much resemble at the moment.

“This time without the histrionics, where were you going with the notion that defense counsel was planning some sort of disruption, Mr. Birch?”

“Mr. Valenti is well known around here for bending the rules far beyond what even his defense attorney colleagues are comfortable seeing.”

Ellison sighs. “Still trying to prey on the fact that I didn’t attend kindergarten in Chicago, Mr. Birch?”

“Judge?” he asks in an unconvincing display of confusion.

“I’ve been on the bench for a number of years, Counselor. I didn’t arrive in Cook County yesterday. I have colleagues I speak with on a regular basis, and if you think we don’t exchange notes on the lawyers who appear before us, well … that would exhibit a level of naivete I know neither of you possesses.”

“Mr. Valenti will undoubtedly attempt to spring one or more SODDI suspects on this court and our jurors,” Birch says. “It’s what he does.”

I’m about to respond with righteous indignation when the judge speaks. “Let’s talk about that, Mr. Valenti,” the judge says. “Are you anticipating introducing the idea of alternate suspects at large during our trial?”

Trying to pin me down. Perhaps fixing to admonish against pursuing a SODDI defense, maybe even considering an order forbidding me from doing so. Damn.

“Not at this time, Judge. But as I said, we’re still investigating and pursuing leads.” Slippery enough? I wonder.

She looks at me long and hard. “In the event you discover what you believe to be a credible suspect, come talk to me. We’ll discuss it, you can preview whatever persuasive evidence you have in hand—and you’d better have some before approaching the bench—and we’ll proceed from there.”

As if we can say no to that. I nod. Never lie to a judge.

Birch shoots a smug smile my way. “Bravo, Your Honor.”

“Your celebration may prove premature,” Ellison retorts. “In no way was that meant to discourage defense counsel. These are ground rules. I’m open to considering legitimate alternate suspects.”

Birch reacts to his comeuppance with a petulant lip curl that borders on insolence.

Ellison sighs and looks away. “I’d like to thank all of you for working hard to ensure that Mrs. Booker’s trial will begin in accordance with her constitutional right to a speedy trial under both Illinois and United States law.”

I stifle a smile. Take that, Grayson, old buddy.

“Finally,” the judge continues in an almost conversational tone, “I warned you early on that I will have no patience for petty squabbling. I assume, based on the unpleasantness surrounding the subject of a potential SODDI defense strategy, that the message wasn’t adequately absorbed by Misters Valenti and Birch.”

I reflexively blurt, “I’m sorry, Your Honor.”

“I’m sure you are, Mr. Valenti, and thank you for your apology. I also warned you and Mr. Birch that I wasn’t shy about sanctioning wayward attorneys.” Her eyes track between me and Birch. “So, gentlemen, your contentious little tete-a-tete this morning will cost each of you a five-hundred-dollar sanction.”

Birch’s face reddens. “That is beyond reasonable, Judge!”

“We’re done here,” Ellison snaps, pointing to the door. “Mr. Valenti and Mr. Birch, please make arrangements with Mrs. O’Reilly to pay your fines before you leave the building.”

As we exit the judge’s chambers, an old-fashioned wall calendar catches my eye. July 31. When that page is turned tomorrow morning, Van’s trial date of August ninth will come into view, presaging the proceedings that will either set Van Booker free or sentence to her to life in prison. Or worse.

CHAPTER 36

By noon on the first day of Van’s trial, it’s clear that Judge Ellison will be true to her word about moving Van’s trial along at a brisk pace. The judge dispensed with a few final trial housekeeping matters in a ten-minute meeting before court was called into session at nine o’clock on the dot,  during which we handed over our “final” witness list—subject to revision, of course. Ellison then managed to seat our jury before we were granted lunch recess, largely doing so by limiting the usual lawyerly gamesmanship that has been known to slow proceedings.

After wolfing down a sandwich during a quick team debrief, I’ve retired to a vacant courtroom to review my opening statement. At the rate we’re going, I may have to deliver it this afternoon. Grayson Birch is scheduled to fire the first arrows from his prosecutorial quiver when we return from lunch. My phone pings with a text from Pat. After spending July staying at Pat’s home in Chicago, she and Kevin returned to Calgary last week to close up the Tyler family home and move Kevin to Kingston to start school at RMC.

Good time to talk?

Did she forget what the opening day of trial is like? Probably not, so I decide to give her a quick call to make sure everything’s okay, peeling the wrapper off a Hershey’s chocolate bar as I do. A jolt of sugar-laced confectionary is a de rigueur method of delivering a critically needed energy boost during trial. I’m sure this was mentioned somewhere along the way in law school. It’s an adage I live by.

“Happy Friday,” Pat says. “Just checking in. How was the morning?”

I fill her in quickly. She’s shocked to hear that the jury is already in place. “So you’re busier than I thought you’d be. Sorry.”

“No worries. I have a minute.”

“Did you at least get a good jury?” she asks, with “good” meaning one inclined to lean in our direction.

I deliver my stock response. “Ask me again after the verdict comes in.”

I hear the smile in her voice when she says, “How did I know you were gonna say that. I won’t keep you any longer. Godspeed this afternoon.”

After pocketing my phone, I continue reciting my opening statement under my breath. I only finished drafting it last night with the intent of memorizing it over the weekend for delivery on Monday. Surely I won’t need to do it today, will I? If so, I’ll have to read the damn thing. The last time I did that was in moot court back in law school. That hadn’t gone well. Ten minutes later, I wolf down the last half of the neglected Hershey’s bar in two bites and I gather my things. After a quick washroom stop, I’m back in the courtroom with a minute to spare. I’m organizing myself when I hear a familiar voice from behind the bar.

“Hey. Tony.”

I turn to meet the eyes of Mike Williams, who is seated in the first row of seats behind the defense table. What a sight for sore eyes! I step over and give him a hug as he gets halfway to his feet with his brother, Reg, supporting him. The concerned expression Reg turns my way lets me know that he, at least, doesn’t think Mike’s presence here is the best idea.

“Not that I’m unhappy to see you up and around, pal, but is being here a good idea?” I ask Mike after Reg eases him back into his seat.

Mike hooks his thumb in the direction of his brother—a gesture I long ago picked up from him and have dearly missed these past three months—and mutters, “I’m good. This one worries too much.”

“I imagine it’s good to be out and about.”

“So long as it isn’t to visit that little Nazi I mentioned.”

I chuckle. “Right.”

Someone nudges my elbow as they ease in beside me. I’m startled to see that it’s Grayson Birch, who reaches for Mike’s hand.

“Good to see you back, Mike.”

Slug him, Mike! I think, but my partner does no such thing.

“Thanks, man,” he says. Birch nods.

The prosecutor excuses himself as he steps by me again and returns to his seat. I’ll be damned if I can work out this guy’s game. Just when I work up a good hate for the man, he goes and does something decent. Go figure. But so long as he’s on the other side of the aisle from me in the midst of battle, Birch can dress up in a nun’s habit, monk robes, or a Catholic Bishop’s clerical frock and still appear as the devil in my eyes.

Hearing activity in the area of the bench, I give Mike’s arm a final squeeze. “Back to the mines.”

He nods.

Checking over my shoulder, I see that the judge hasn’t re-entered the courtroom; it’s just Ella O’Reilly that I heard bustling about. I could chat with Mike for another moment or two but elect not to. I feel that my butt should be firmly planted in defense chair one. Now.

The morning festivities were minor skirmishing. The curtain is about to go up on the main event, a harrowing battle for the life of Van Booker.

CHAPTER 37

After swearing the jury in before lunch, Judge Ellison delivered a thorough overview of what’s to come and a very explicit recitation of what she expects of them. In its way, the lecture wasn’t all that dissimilar to the discussion we had with her last week that left Birch and I five-hundred dollars lighter in the wallet. Having dispensed with that bit of housekeeping beforehand, when the jury files into the courtroom and settles into the jury box, and Ella O’Reilly calls the court to order, it’s show time.

“Court is in session,” Ellison announces. “The prosecution will now deliver its opening statement.”

Birch rises solemnly and takes a slow stroll into the center of the well, the open area within the bar that divides the judge’s bench, the jury box, and the tables where the attorneys are seated. He uses the time to meet the gaze of as many jurors as he can before he begins to talk. After droning on for a full minute spinning platitudes to assure the jurors that he, Grayson Birch, the State’s Attorney, and the justice systems of the State of Illinois and United States of America, are deeply grateful for these fine citizens’ service, “To the cause of justice in the Great State of Illinois and our beloved nation,” Judge Ellison clears her throat.

Move things along, old chap.

Birch next wraps himself in the flag with the old canard that equates he and his colleagues with the notion of We, the People. The People will establish this, the People will prove that, the People will serve hot slices of apple pie to the jurors, complete with a full scoop of vanilla ice cream on top! I find it difficult to understand why this is permitted. If it’s true that the justice system operates equally on behalf of all citizens, how is it that “the people” doesn’t refer to both parties in a criminal trial? Ah, semantics.

Birch summons the full indignity of the aggrieved. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we’re here to deliver justice to the bereaved loved ones of Sylvester Booker and his lovely three-year-old daughter, Ally, who were ripped violently from their family in an act of shocking brutality. Even seasoned first responders who discovered their butchered corpses were shocked into silence by what they witnessed at 27 Maple Street. These hardened men and women suffer nightmares of this case to this day.”

And now we’re into it, complete with half-truths in Birch’s first sentence—"their” butchered corpses when Ally suffered only a single surgical wound; “the bereaved loved ones,” none of whom are more aggrieved than Van Booker herself; and finally, “EMS members who suffer nightmares.” I have no doubt that many EMS personnel do suffer crippling nightmares related to their work, but solely as a result of this case?

Ands so it goes, one exaggerated, emotionally loaded assertion after another; never mind that we hear few allusions to evidence Birch will introduce to support the accusations. Which is not say that he’s floundering up there. The Assistant State’s Attorney knows exactly what he’s doing, which is a masterful job of inflaming the jurors’ emotions and justifiable sense of moral outrage over the crime he’s describing. The furor of the jurors grows in step with each new, horrible accusation about the monster who inflicted the wounds and who has shown absolutely no remorse for this heinous crime. If Birch mentions once that the frenzied killing of Syl Booker points to a crime of passion, he points to it a hundred times.

“And we all know that a crime of passion is, by definition, a crime carried out in rage against someone the killer loves or is otherwise fixated on.”

When the subject of physical evidence finally arises, Birch falls short yet again. “The People will show that the murder weapon was the exact same make and model of lethal knife the defendant was issued by the military and was known to use throughout her career”—here Birch inserts a pregnant pause sufficient to shoot the jury a knowing look—“and which has not yet been accounted for or recovered. We can only surmise that the defendant disposed of the murder weapon after she butchered her family.”

Van mutters “Bullshit” under her breath; I’m halfway to my feet to object before I catch myself. The absence of a weapon is hardly “evidence” that is properly previewed in an opening statement, but objections delivered in the midst of an opening statement are considered poor form by both judge and jury. Besides, I’ll have plenty of opportunity to turn Birch’s cheeky “the knife has not yet been found or accounted for” horse crap on its head.

I settle back into my seat and lean close to Van’s ear. “What’s bullshit?”

“Like I’d ever toss my knife away.”

She still has her knife? Why don’t I know this? “We’ll talk later,” I mutter.

By the time I push this unpleasant surprise aside and refocus, Birch has moved on to the troubling uncertainty surrounding the whereabouts of the defendant during the early hours on Easter morning, once again framing prosecutorial ignorance as evidence of guilt. You know what, folks? If I don’t know where Van Booker was on Easter morning, you must assume she was killing her husband and daughter, and you are therefore obligated to put her to death.

Unfortunately, I sense that a handful of jurors seem to be either buying in or are growing increasingly susceptible to doing so. I make another note to tweak my opening statement.

Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, we learn that the investigating Chicago PD officers, detectives, and crime scene technicians will come into court and explain to the jury how they arrived at the irrefutable certainly that Van Boker was the murderer that morning. We’ll hear from a mental health professional who will seek to explain the inexplicable; that a mother would slaughter her child in cold blood and feel not a shred of remorse.

Birch next assures us that the testimony of the Medical Examiner of Cook County will confirm these investigative findings in what Birch regrets to say will be shocking, gruesome testimony accompanied my dreadful scenes depicting human suffering; language sure to titillate and draw a media horde to the prosecutor’s doorstep.

“So, ladies and gentlemen, the People will show to a near certainty that the defendant is guilty of this horrific crime. Birch pauses for dramatic effect, undoubtedly inching toward winding thigs up. “But why did this troubled woman decide to slaughter her family? Was it because her husband had filed the paperwork to divorce her three days before she killed him, a divorce petition in which he sought custody of their three-year-old daughter?”

Divorce? I cut eyes to Van, who is staring at the prosecutor, open mouthed. I quickly gather myself and tune Birch back in.

“Or, was it perhaps rage over something her husband did … or that the defendant, in her confused mind, imagined he had done? Perhaps the defendant simply didn’t wish to be a mother, and now that she was back from overseas and was face-to-face with the obligation, simply decided to remove the source of the problem. She is, after all, a highly-proficient killer, someone who is no stranger to delivering violent death.”

He leaves the questions hanging and moves in closer to the jurors, lowering his voice to establish an increased sense of intimacy with them. Yes, you can trust me. “The truth is that only one person knows exactly what happened at 27 Maple Street during the wee hours on Easter morning … and why. But she’s not saying. At the end of the day, Van Booker’s silence doesn’t matter. We know what happened,” he says, gesturing between himself and them to reinforce that they’re in this together. “By the end of this trial you will have no doubt whatsoever about that. As to why, we simply don’t know for sure, nor do we need to know in order to deliver the justice the defendant’s despicable act so urgently demands.”

Birch shoots his cuffs, and after a final contemptuous glare at Van, sits down. If he hadn’t just set the table for my client’s conviction by setting me an almost impossible bar to surmount, I’d deem Birch’s performance worthy of applause. Ellison calls for the afternoon recess.

As the jurors file out, Van side-eyes the prosecutor. “He better put me away, because if he doesn’t, he’s gonna answer for that bullshit.”

I lean well into Van’s space, and with an angry whisper, say, “Divorce papers, Van? What the hell?”

Seeing that the jurors have all exited the courtroom, I stand. “If I may, Your Honor?”

Interrupted in the midst of pushing back to stand up, Ellison pauses and meets my eyes. “What is it, Counselor?”

“May we approach?”

She eases her chair back into place and nods, holding her hand out, palm up, and wangles her fingers in a “come” gesture I recall using to summon Brittany. And the dogs, for that matter. Birch and Evans follow Joe Bob and me to the bench.

“Your Honor, I couldn’t help noting that Mr. Birch mentioned divorce proceedings in his opening statement,” I say. “We have no knowledge of any such proceedings and, quite frankly, I have to wonder how this information has come to the attention of prosecution. Mr. Booker is no longer with us. How is it that knowledge of such a lawsuit, if legitimate, came to the attention of the State? Further, why was it not included with the State’s discovery materials?”

“It wasn’t?” Ellison asks sharply.

I shake my head no.

Ellison’s eyes settle on Birch. “In that case, I confess to having the same question, Counselor.” She pushes her seat back and rises. “I’ll see you all in my chambers in ten minutes.”

She leaves us standing there as she marches away. I dismiss whatever Birch is attempting to say with a snarky “Save it for the judge” and stomp back to our table, where I snatch up my phone and gesture for Van and Joe Bob to follow.

When I see Reg Williams all but wrestling Mike out through the doors at the rear of the courtroom, I briefly consider hurrying to help. Then I feel Van’s presence close at hand and my anger reasserts its primacy. I pull her along until we’re out of Ellison’s courtroom and into another, empty one. Joe Bob Sparks nervously follows us in. I decide that I welcome his presence, either to keep me from becoming unhinged, or perhaps to dissuade Van from beating the crap out of me if I do.

I decide to deal with the first unwelcome revelation from Birch’s opening. I move to within a foot of Van, forcing her to look up if she wants to meet my gaze. “Why didn’t you tell me you still had your knife?”

Van doesn’t shy away. “Did you ask?”

“I don’t know, but ‘any weapons’ and more specifically ‘a knife’ were listed on the search warrant. You were obligated to surrender it. The fact that you didn’t is going to reflect on you poorly—the classic what else is she lying about?—and may well redound on me, compromising my credibility in the eyes of the judge and the jury.”

She looks a little chagrined when she replies, “It wasn’t at Mel’s, and it wasn’t in our house.”

“Where was it?”

“Here, there, everywhere … depending on the day and hour, but mostly it was in my car. Safely tucked away in a sheath under the passenger seat.”

“They searched your car, Van. They wouldn’t have missed that.”

She smiles. “I could see that warrant coming from a mile off, Tony. Let’s just say my knife wasn’t anywhere the cops were likely to be searching.”

“A shell game?”

“Pretty much. It worked, didn’t it?”

Clever, but to what end? More importantly, what do I do with the information now? Should I take the knife into evidence now … assuming she’d hand it over to me?

“It doesn’t make any difference where it is, Tony,” Van reasons. “Birch is gonna make whatever claims he wants to, whether he has the knife or not.”

She’s probably right, but that doesn’t lessen my ethical dilemma.

“As I believe you know,” she says. “I don’t leave home without my knife.”

“Except to come to court, right.”

She nods. “Damn metal detectors.”

So it’s probably somewhere in the garage, awaiting her return from court. I decide to let it slide for now. We have bigger issues to address. In particular, the little matter of divorce papers.

I glance at Joe Bob. “Stay with her, will you? I need to get over to Judge Ellison’s chambers.”

“He doesn’t need to babysit me,” Van snaps as she stalks out.

We follow, making sure she walks directly to her seat at our table.

“What do you think?” I ask Joe Bob. “Are we safe to leave her there while we’re with the judge?”

He looks away, then nods. “I think so.

I sure as hell hope so. We haven’t had a thing go our way so far today. We don’t need any more complications this afternoon, such as trying to mollify the judge if our client decides to take a walk.

CHAPTER 38

Birch spends the initial minute in Judge Ellison’s chambers fudging the issue of how he came into possession of divorce papers that allowed him to accuse Van of killing her husband as a result of being served those very same papers. His claim that the knowledge originated somewhere in the police investigation and had only just now come to their attention is just so much bullshit—if you ask me, anyway.

“The package landed on your desk, allowing just enough time for you to include it your opening statement, but not in time to share it with us?” I ask acerbically.

He has the gall to shoot an accusing glare my way. “Did you know about this and then suppressed it?”

“Oh, that’s rich, Grayson,” I shoot back.

“Let’s stick with what we know,” Ellison suggests. “Which is that this surfaced somewhere on your side of the fence, somewhat fortuitously and at a highly convenient time for you, Mr. Birch.”

Birch doesn’t even bother to mask his smirk. “Someone dropped the ball, I guess. We’ll address the issue.”

“What of any attendant attorney-client privilege?” Ellison asks. “Did you reach out to the attorneys involved? Did you query the police on how this information came to be in their possession?”

“As I believe I said, Judge, this just now fell onto our plate. I would also remind you of the time constraints we’re facing due to the tight timeline you’ve imposed on these proceedings.”

Ellison’s eyes narrow, Birch really knows how to push her buttons. Either that, or he simply lacks the self-awareness to recognize how much his arrogance annoys Judge Ellison. All to the good from our perspective, I suppose.

“You’re referring to the fact that our trial has begun in the timeframe imposed on it by Illinois statute?” Ellison pointedly asks Birch.

Birch doesn’t verbalize his reply, but his eyes clearly convey his disapproval of how she is handling the case.

Oh, boo-hoo, Grayson Poo.

Ellison crosses her arms in front of herself and leans over her desktop in Birch’s direction. “I’ll expect a full accounting of this matter on my desk no later than noon on Monday, Counselor. Full details, beginning with the initial contact to law enforcement, complete with date and time, the flow of information through the police department to your office, and then a complete accounting of how it came to be in my courtroom this morning. I want names, contact information of everyone involved, including the attorney or attorneys who are, or were, litigating the divorce matter.”

“It’s Friday, Your Honor. You’re allowing us only a few business hours here.”

“Then its lucky for you that you have all weekend to pull things together, isn’t it?”

And so, day one of State of Illinois vs. Van Booker passes into history.

At least the courtroom portion does. I afford Van no latitude whatsoever to come up with a convincing story when we’re alone in my car in the court parking garage ten minutes later. “Where the hell did the divorce come from, Van?”

She shrugs.

I bore in. “Birch said the paperwork was filed. There wasn’t a peep about it in discovery. That doesn’t happen without your knowledge. You lied to us!”

“I did not! I had no idea. I told you things had been rocky, but I thought we were trying to work through our issues.” She seems genuinely hurt and distraught by the news that she’d gotten it wrong. “He wasn’t happy about me accepting the second tour in Afghanistan. I told you that!”

She also told me that she thought they’d worked through the issue. Maybe she really did think they had. The whirlwind of shocking revelations swirling around Van has thrown me off balance to the point of feeling as if the case I’m supposedly managing has spun wildly out of control in little more than five hours. In addition to feeling utterly unmoored, a crushing headache is pushing the ability for coherent thought out of my head.

Van abruptly shoves the passenger door open and launches herself out of car. I stare after her for a long time before leaning across to pull the door closed. First the knife, now the divorce. Are her explanations credible? I sink into my seat and find my bloodshot eyes staring back at me in the rearview mirror. The angry red crevices that snake across the whites of my eyes are not unlike the fissures in a shattered windshield. Which is about how my confidence feels at the moment. Shattered. I’m suddenly face-to-face with new evidence that my client may well be guilty, evidence we can’t explain away, even if its appearance at this point seems improbable, inexplicable, and of questionable provenance. It shakes me to the core, threatening to knock the pins out from under the twin pillars that support both the theory I’ve built our defense strategy upon and my personal belief in my client. It isn’t simply being betrayed and played by a client that is shattering. Been there, done that. The thing that’s rocked my world is the possibility that I may be defending a baby killer.

I feel my stomach lurch.

I asked Joe Bob to organize a staff debrief as he was leaving the courthouse, but I’m now reluctant to face the world. I punch up Joan’s number on my car’s phone display.

“Hey,” she says. “Sounds like a tough go of it this afternoon.”

“It was. Is everyone there?”

“Filtering in. Why?”

“I need a little time, Joan.”

“How little? Mick seems a little antsy. Joe Bob’s just staring off into space.”

“Van?”

“Not here yet.”

Crap. “Can you do me a favor?”

“I can try, Tony.”

“Make up a story about me being hung up in traffic or at court, or anything else that comes to mind that seems credible. Then order pizza on my credit card to tide them over. I need to get my head on square before I face that crowd.”

CHAPTER 39

When I arrive back at Brooks, Valenti & Williams forty-five minutes later and walk into the conference room, the first set of eyes I see staring back at me are Van’s. They’re as frigid as the twelfth moon of Saturn, which happens to be named Pandora. We’ve certainly opened that box this afternoon. I’m not sure how I feel about Van’s presence: surprised that she’s here at all; relieved; angry that she’s forcing a confrontation that I’d much rather have postponed to a time and place of my choosing—and then only after I’d had a chance to gather my thoughts and get my feet back beneath me?

Tempted to vacillate a bit longer before tackling the problem of the eight-hundred-pound gorilla facing me down, I give myself a mental kick in the pants. The debrief will be irrelevant if the friction between Van and I erupts into a full-on blowout. No client. No case. Ergo, no debrief. I motion for Van to follow, then think better of anything that may smack of an imperious summons. “A minute please, Van?”

She stares back for a long moment, a display of passive-aggressive behavior that’s as nakedly transparent to me as I’m sure she intended it to be. Then she plucks her phone off the table and stalks into my office, holding the door open until I follow. Who’s summoning who here? The door slamming at my back offers a hint.

I turn around and see Van plopping herself into one of my guest chairs, so maybe the power balance isn’t all in her favor. Unless we come to blows.

“You’re supposed to be my lawyer, Tony,” she snaps as I lower myself into the second visitor chair, reasoning it might count as a sign of reconciliation. Her eyes widen a smidgen at the gesture, which apparently is not wasted on her.

“I am your lawyer, Van. Which means you’re supposed to be one-hundred-percent, brutally, unflinchingly honest with me. About everything.”

“Which I have been.”

“No inkling whatsoever about a divorce?”

Her expression is equal measure anger, betrayal, and hurt when she shakes her head no. I understand all three if she’s being honest with me. The knife is another matter.

“And the knife, Van? You’re not going to convince me that was an innocent oversight.”

“I didn’t try to, Tony. I made a judgment call; one I felt was mine to make.”

“And that’s a prob—”

She cuts me off with a flash of hand and a fiery gaze. “I was about to say that might have been a mistake on my part.”

“Might have been.”

“Might have been. That knife has pulled my ass out of a few fires over the years.”

I sigh. “The question is what we do with it now.”

“No, Tony. The question is whether or not we’re gonna keep working together. If we are, we’ll worry about the knife then.”

I sink back in my seat. “Go on.”

“As you’ve said time and time again, this is gonna be a tough case to win.  I’m wondering if I can do so if my lawyer doesn’t believe in me.”

As if she has much choice with the case underway. The court would frown upon an attempt to fire us, but Ellison can’t prevent her from doing so. That said, canning us would force Ellison to declare a mistrial. Of course, the judge wouldn’t be without means of persuasion to influence Van’s decision-making, some of which I decide to list for her here and now.

“That’s your call, Van, but you should only do so with your eyes wide open to the consequences.”

“What consequences? I get new lawyers, we start over.”

“Judge Ellison would be forced to declare a mistrial, which sends you back to square one, not far ahead of where things stood the day you were first arrested.”

“But then she would just set a new trial date.” This assertion is delivered with a little less certainty than the last one.

“Actually, that would put the case back on the docket for reassignment. You might get Judge Ellison, but that’s unlikely. And that’s not the only thing you need to think about, Van. A different judge will be less interested in delivering on the promise of a speedy trial. I’ll guarantee you that we’d still be months from trial if Judge Morgan had retained your case. Ellison is the exception, not the rule.”

“Anything else I should know?” she asks, clearly hoping there isn’t.

“A new magistrate may lean toward Morgan’s preference for keeping the accused behind bars until after their trial, whenever that may be.”

She thinks on her options while studying me; expression neutral, eyes flat; demeanor calm. I wonder what’s going to rule her decision making. Head? Heart? Pride?

“Totally my decision?” she asks. “You’re not going to leave me in the lurch regardless of what you believe?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” I reply sharply.

“I suppose I do.” An unexpected grin curls her upper lip as she inclines her head toward the closed door. “We’d better get back in there if you’re hoping to snag a slice of pizza.”

I don’t know whether to be relieved or incensed.

Joe Bob studies us as we walk back into the conference room and take our places at the table, pull paper plates with slices of pizza close, and pop the tabs on a couple of cans of soda. “We all good?” he asks.

“Sure,” Van says, almost as if this evening is just like all the others we’ve spent here preparing for the trial.

Is it really going to be this easy? I wonder, catching Van’s gaze. She looks back at me nonchalantly. I guess it will be that easy.

While Van and I tuck into our pizza, Joe Bob takes the floor. “Joan tracked down Michel Fontaine this afternoon.”

My eyes cut to Van. She’s wearing an expression of acute interest. Whether that interest reflects curiosity or ill intent is hard to say.

“And where is Slick?” she asks Joan with a ferocious intensity that suggests her intent leans in the direction of ill intent.

Joan slides a photocopied page across the table to each of us. It’s a newspaper article.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Van mutters, looking at the same headline I’m reading.

It seems that during our search we didn’t bargain on Slick having enough sense to get out of the country to someplace where he could outrun his dishonorable discharge. Unfortunately, he couldn’t outrun his sordid proclivities. Under the headline “Former US Special Forces Soldier Shot Dead in Gastown” is a Vancouver Sun article about Slick meeting his demise while attempting to rape a female undercover Vancouver police officer on a vice assignment.

“So,” Van says when her eyes rise from the article as she finishes reading. “The worthless prick finally got what he deserved. Good on her.”

Unfortunately, this takes Slick—who I considered our most viable SODDI candidate—out of the mix. Sometimes good news is tempered by its impact on a good cause. Damn. I remark on this, which erases a bit of the righteous satisfaction that greeted the news of Slick’s demise.

“With Slick out of the picture, that elevates Pete Kincaid to top spot in our SODDI candidate pool,” Joe Bob says.

Joe Bob and Mick have no idea just how viable a reason Kincaid has to bear a grudge toward Van. All they know is that they parted on bad terms that somehow or other resulted in serious issues for Kincaid.

So, based only on the fact that Van and Pete had a serious falling out that boded ill for Kincaid’s future, Joe Bob, Mick, and Penelope proceed to add Kincaid’s apparent access to a semblance of military training and weapons to elevate the risk he posed to Van and her family. Thin gruel indeed to hang a murder charge on him, but he’s all we have left in our SODDI suspect pool. Unfortunately, we haven’t turned up a scintilla of evidence that he’s even been in Chicago since Van’s return from overseas, let alone over the Easter weekend. His folks are dead, he was an only child, and his social media feeds make no mention of him having been outside the sticks in the past three years. There should be a rule that potential suspects have to check-in on their social media accounts every time they leave home, thereby making Facebook and its ilk useful in at least one respect.

Mick slaps a hand down on the tabletop in frustration. “Who is the killer? Maybe it was a crime of passion, just one that involved Van’s hubby but not her.”

“Such as?” I ask.

Mick proposes an increasingly unhinged list of possibilities. “How about a robbery gone wrong? A failed ‘business’ deal, especially one involving drugs? A jilted lover? The enraged spouse of a lover? A gay partner? Especially in light of the babysitter incident, isn’t it reasonable to assume that Syl had trouble keeping it in his pants? Maybe he was screwing someone else and that put him in the crosshairs of a jealous spouse?”

Mick’s wild-eyed ponderings might not be entirely off the mark. Well, perhaps a couple of the wilder ones, but it does offer us food for thought. Or we could end up chasing our tails for no good reason, burning time we can’t afford to waste on fanciful possibilities. And we’re doing just that. Judge Ellison has delivered me time I feared I wouldn’t have to craft an opening statement to counter that delivered this afternoon by Grayson Birch. It’s a formidable challenge, one that I should be tackling instead of chasing rainbows over pizza.

“We don’t have time to check out every one of those theories, Mick,” I say diplomatically. “I’d like you to beat the bushes in search of two of those possibilities: the failed business deal and the enraged spouse. Don’t get too far lost in the weeds doing so. We still need you to chase down the other things you’ve been assigned.”

Maybe something will come of it, maybe not. It’s not as if we have much else in the way of urgent investigative initiatives.

As the team scatters, Joe Bob heading home, Mick disappearing behind his open laptop as he gets back to work, Van staring into space, and me walking back to my office, Joan hands me a sheaf of paper. “This arrived by courier a few minutes ago. The printed transcripts from today.” Delivery is followed by a wondering shake of her head. “I remember when we had to rely on our notes and memories.”

“Feeling nostalgic?”

“Heck no!”

She heads back to her desk and starts organizing herself to head home for the weekend, although I suspect we’ll find her at her desk tomorrow and Sunday. As I settle down behind my desk and ponder next steps, an idea pops into my head.

“Joan?” I call out, hopeful that she hasn’t yet escaped my clutches.

I’m relieved when she pokes her head back into my office with an eyebrow cocked in question. I lift a corner of the transcript she handed me a minute earlier.

“Do we have an electronic version of this?”

She rolls her eyes and tut tuts. “Check your email, Tony. For once!”

“Why do they send a courier if it’s electronic?”

She steps fully into the office, smiles, and leans her butt against the doorframe. “It’s a darned good thing you have my daughter around to save you from yourself.”

“Absolutely, but she isn’t even here at the moment. What has she saved me from, and how?”

“Criminal computer illiteracy.”

I shrug helplessly, not even beginning to follow her train of thought.

“Email isn’t exactly secure, Tony. You know that, right? Remember when our office was ransacked?”

I nod. “Thank heaven everything was backed up.”

“Which you didn’t know about.”

“True.” I smile. “That’s Penelope’s job. Well, her and her mother.”

Joan pushes off the doorframe. “Pleasant as it is talking shop with you, I have places to go and people to see.”

I gesture toward the lobby. “By all means.”

“To answer your question—”

“What question?” I ask.

“About the courier. The court will send the daily transcript on an SSD disk for a fee. We have them do so, then I print copies.”

“So that’s how that works.”

She nods.

“Seems a little inefficient, doesn’t it? Printed and electronic copies. Print is a little old school, isn’t it?”

“We considered trying to set you up on the court’s secure server, Tony, but Penelope feared you might crash the Cook County Court system if we did.”

“Well, let’s not stop there,” I suggest grandly. “I bet I could crash the entire state’s system, if not the whole country’s!”

She rolls her eyes and walks out, wearing a smile, of course.

But I feel righteous in my ignorance. I still mark up things on paper. I vaguely understand that many people do their mark ups electronically in this century, but I’ve shied away from the practice ever since I deleted a two-thousand-word essay while assisting Brittany with a homework assignment in her junior year of high school.

“The wonder of it is that you somehow managed to eliminate all traces of it,” my daughter had marvelled at the time.

I’d countered that if her teenaged cyber skills had been up to snuff,  she would have known where to look.

I’m waffling between tackling my opening statement here or at home when I remember why I asked Joan about an electronic copy of the transcript in the first place. After clearing the request through a reluctant Reg Williams, I call Mike and ask if he’d mind reading through our daily transcripts, looking  for things I’ve missed, and inviting him to weigh in with any suggestions he might have.

CHAPTER 40

I arrive at the courthouse Monday morning feeling singularly ill-equipped to meet the day. I was still awake at three o’clock in the morning putting the final touches to our opening statement, after having been in the office until after midnight both Saturday and Sunday nights. My plans for an orderly weekend went off the rails in all sorts of unexpected directions, beginning at the tail end of breakfast on Saturday.

The mayhem kicked off with a call from the attorney who drafted Syl Booker’s divorce papers, a Marcus Davis. Davis couldn’t meet with us over the weekend as he wanted to consult with someone about how much, if anything, he can tell us, but it’s clear that something in the narrative Birch is spinning isn’t kosher. The idea that the divorce story as told to the court may be utter BS beggars the imagination. Somehow, I can’t quite wrap my head around the idea that Birch is guilty of that level of prosecutorial misconduct. On the other hand, I know that his boss is capable of misconduct on an industrial scale, having proven it time and time again at every stage of his rise to power. What if the divorce story is fabricated? How might that play out in court? After talking it around in circles for alarming chunks of the weekend, I dropped in on Mike Williams to hash it out.

The inescapable fact at the heart of the divorce story, assuming Van really was ignorant of the filing, is that the killings were carried out in such a way as to set her up. If so, a SODDI suspect is somewhere out there. Try as we might, we haven’t been able to identify a single individual we can plausibly place at the scene of the crime. At best, we can spray suspicion in the direction of a handful of possible villains—undoubtably over vociferous objection from Birch—and that’s assuming Judge Ellison would even permit us to try, which is no sure thing.

That leaves us the option of putting Van on the stand to profess her innocence while casting aspersions at others. For that strategy to work, we’d be hoping the jury likes her, that she’s able to smear folks without losing the jury’s sympathy, and that she doesn’t launch herself out of the witness box to obliterate Grayson Birch in a devastating display of battle-hardened demolition. So we’ll hold that option in reserve as long as we can. I sense that Van expects and wants to testify; I’m in no hurry get into a knock-down, drag-out fight about it. I decide to park the idea.

And that was only the first curveball that was pitched our way over the weekend, causing me to consider holding our opening statement back until we better understand the shifting lay of the land. Until we do, we can’t know what we need to highlight, let alone what evidence we’ll ultimately be in a position to promise the jury. What if we have to pull something off the table, or retract a promise I make? Will the jury then believe anything I tell them? Proceeding with our opening today will position me on a knife edge with dire risks lurking on all sides. And yet, forging ahead seems to me to be the lesser of two evils. I’m a firm believer that failing to quickly and forcefully push back against the preferred narrative of the prosecution, as presented in their [NT10]opening statement, risks that the jurors’ minds could well be closed by the time the prosecution rests their case-in-chief and we finally get our kick at the can. Holding back is something I’ve never done before. I’m not going to start this morning.

All of this cycles through my mind for the umpteenth time while the courtroom players take up their positions. My palms are moist, butterflies tickle my stomach, and my throat is dry while I wait for the judge to officially call court into session. It’s always this way going into action; has been since my days as an Olympic-caliber collegiate volleyball player. I’ve long since learned to embrace my nerves, to allow them to summon the adrenaline that will fuel me through the stress of taking the first crucial step in convincing twelve jurors to free my client. When Judge Ellison invites me to address the court, I stand to my full height and stride confidently into the fray.

Positioning myself dead center before the jury, I smile at them, but it isn’t a full-wattage smile. What kind of person is happy and cheerful about what we’ll be discussing here? Grayson Birch, that’s who. The high-voltage smiles were perhaps his only stumble on Friday. At three days removed, I doubt the jurors will make note of the contrast I’m presenting, but I can hope it registers on some level, positioning me as the serious man: The lawyer who doesn’t think this is a game to be won or lost; the lawyer we should listen to.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Tony Valenti, and I have the honor of defending a woman who has spent a good portion of her life defending you and me. You see, Van Booker is not only a loving mother, she is also a decorated Special Forces soldier in the US Army. She’s seen service is some truly horrible theaters of action and has been highly-trained to successfully carry out her duties. This she did, often in brutal circumstances, before returning home to her beloved little girl, Ally, whose picture Van carried in a plastic baggie over her heart every day she was in-theater. Indeed, she carried that picture close to her heart every minute she was deployed by the US Army.”

I’ve made my way back across the courtroom to stand beside Van, reasoning that I’m making a statement of solidarity with her. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder as opposed to circling behind her to lay a fatherly hand on her shoulder feels like the thing to do. It’s an instinctual adjustment to my usual routine.

“Mr. Birch made a great many assertions on Friday, many of which certainly sounded convincing despite having no basis in fact. I ask that you hold him to his promise that he will present evidence to support those claims—solid, indisputable facts that prove beyond a reasonable doubt that what he asks you to believe is indeed the truth. We often hear the exhortation to question everything, and that’s an extremely valuable mindset for you folks to bring to this endeavor. I ascribe to dictum to hold everything and everyone to that exacting standard in this trial.” After pausing for a beat to flash a self-deprecating smile, I add, “Including the defense attorneys.”

I let the smile linger a moment longer. “I imagine Mr. Birch might say, especially the defense attorney,” which earns me a handful of smiles and even a chuckle or two. I pause for a sip of water before I continue.

“The truth is that Van Booker is smart, brave, dedicated, and loyal to a fault, all qualities that are essential to the makeup of a capable Special Forces operative. We might use exactly the same adjectives to describe Van as a human being, to which we can add loving. Those skills and qualities are something to admire, not to be suspicious of. Yet the prosecutor in this case subtly steered you toward exactly that insidious mindset on Friday. I take issue with this, as should you, ladies and gentlemen.

“Van loved Ally more than anything in this world, the truth of which you’ll hear testified to by those who know her best, including some who intimately knew the Booker family. Van Booker has nothing to hide on that score.”

I step away from Van and walk back to the center of the well. “Please bear with me while I catalogue a few other statements Mr. Birch made that I also take issue with. For example, do you recall him suggesting that Ally had been mutilated? As you’ll see, this isn’t true, but it sure caught your attention and upset you, didn’t it?”

A couple of people nod, casting angry looks Birch’s way.

“Weren’t you angry at Van in that moment?” A couple of reluctant nods. “And yet you shouldn’t have been angry at Van about something that didn’t happen, right?”

A couple more sheepish nods.

I shrug and hold my hands out, palms up, absolving them of all responsibility for their ill-considered animosity. “Beware of tricks like this … naked appeals to your emotions that are offered for the singular purpose of calling forth anger and disgust that can be directed toward Van. And why?” I ask while turning to look at Van. “Because she’s sitting right there. How many times did Mr. Birch tell you that Van Booker is mentally disturbed, or mentally unbalanced, or a dangerous and vindictive loose cannon armed to the nth degree with murderous skills that she unleashes on innocent, unsuspecting citizens? Ask yourself this: How often did Mr. Birch accompany those assertions with the promise of supporting evidence?”

Sensing that the jury is with me, or perhaps it’s simply that they’re fresh off the weekend and haven’t started to lag in the face of an attorney droning on and on and on, I tackle a few more of Birch’s claims that I might not have otherwise. I’m not unaware of the fact that I’m attempting to take advantage of a rare opportunity to walk them right to the edge of becoming comatose before I hand them over for the start of the prosecution’s case-in-chief.

At the first hint of a single juror beginning to flag, I step closer with an appreciative smile. “Thank you for patience, ladies and gentlemen. You’ve been more than kind in allowing me to tell you more about Van this morning. As I said earlier, I ask that you please, please maintain an open mind as the case progresses. It’s all too easy to fall prey to a good story, especially when it is told in such a way as to inflame your emotions and offend your sense of what is good and true, of those things that we all hold dear. Who isn’t anxious to strike back at wanton cruelty, the death of a child? I suggest that all decent people can be stirred into feeling a thirst for justice in the face of a murdered child, and understandably so. But that isn’t your role in these proceedings, regardless of how hard you may be pushed in that direction. In this courtroom, you are the arbiters of justice, civil society’s guards on the walls of the city, the final barrier between justice for all, or justice for the few.

“Aristotle once said that the weak are always anxious for justice and equality, whereas the strong pay no heed to either. In this courtroom today, Van Booker—despite the truth of her ferocity in battle—represents the weak, whereas the State of Illinois, in the persons of Grayson Birch and Sheila Evans, represents the strong … a State’s Attorney’s office that employs over twelve hundred people, and that can summon the resources of a twelve-thousand-member police force to do its bidding, plus untold additional resources of the city, county, and state, all with assistance from federal law enforcement resources as needed.” I pause to let the magnitude of those numbers register. “The State’s Attorney is only the leading edge of a massive bureaucracy dedicated to winning whatever court cases they choose to bring.”

I let that hang in the air for a beat. “I mentioned a moment ago that Van Booker, in contrast, represents the weak who are always anxious for justice and equality. She stands alone against the State, with only a little law practice totalling three partners to protect her interests.”

I take a step back and study the faces of the jurors. “And she has you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. This is not to say that the decision before you in this trial will be to side with either David or Goliath. Your job is to ensure that you listen to all the evidence put before you. If Mr. Birch is able to convince you beyond a reasonable doubt that Van Booker committed this crime in the manner he claims that it was done, then so be it. He’ll have done his job of marshalling the considerable resources at his disposal to present facts and evidence that erase all doubt from your minds about what occurred at 27 Maple Street on Easter morning. If, on the other hand, that effort falls short and you are not dead certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt of Van’s guilt, then Mr. Birch will have fallen short of carrying his considerable burden, and you must allow Van Booker to walk free.”

“The job of myself and my handful of colleagues is to help expose inconsistencies in the State’s chosen narrative, to assist Judge Ellison in holding the State accountable in the event proper evidentiary standards are not strictly maintained, and to challenge those elements of their narrative that we take exception to.

“I ask that you weigh critically the evidence as it is presented to you, resisting all temptation to allow yourself to be persuaded one way or the other before you’ve had every opportunity to carefully assess the totality of evidence that will be presented by the prosecution and defense. I’m confident that if you do, you’ll arrive at a just verdict, whatever that may be. Open minds, open hearts, open to reason. Let these be your guiding lights.”

I pause to replay that last sentence in my mind. Where in hell did that new-age rubbish come from, Valenti? Sit down and shut up!

I cast my gaze from one end of the jury box to the other, making eye contact with as many  jurors as will allow it. “Thank you.”

So we’re on the playing field, hopefully with a least a solid toehold on the jury’s sympathies. We immediately cede back the courtroom for the prosecution to begin their case in chief. Storytime is over; now come facts, figures, and witness testimony.

The morning passes in a familiar blur as Birch and Evans methodically build the underpinnings of their case with the help of the 911 operator who fielded the initial call, the Chicago PD officers and EMS technicians who responded, police department evidence technicians who processed the scene, and the representatives of the medical examiner’s office who removed the bodies to the morgue. Evans calls the crime scene photographer to confirm that she snapped every single one of the endless stream of nauseatingly gruesome crime scene pictures that Evans displays and enters into evidence. There’s nothing much to challenge in this kind of testimony; it’s merely professional civil servants reciting what they saw, heard, and did. But Joe Bob and I are lawyers, dadgummit! We ask a few questions here and there, not to be contentious, but merely to clarify points. Occasionally, we gently question evidence that may prove unfavorable to Van. It’s a fine art to nurture a niggle of doubt about a piece of evidence or witness in the minds of the jurors that may give them pause when they encounter the evidence again. The prosectors are laying the necessary foundation to support their case. Our job is to undermine it. It’s a couple hours of tough sledding. By the time Birch is ready to call the lead detective to the stand, Ellison declares that it’s time for our lunch recess.

CHAPTER 41

When court resumes after the break, Chicago PD Homicide Detective Anselmo Pappalardi—a trim, olive-skinned heartbreaker-type Mama might have described as a nice Italian boy suitable to be paired off with my sister Amy—is settled on the witness stand. Nothing surprising emerges from the back and forth between Birch and the detective: more building blocks for their case, a dry recitation of what the police saw at the scene that morning, what they heard from witnesses and observers then and later, followed by what they subsequently learned as the investigation progressed. They work in all the gruesome photos then possibly can in support of the detective’s testimony. It sure doesn’t sound like they missed a thing in this most thorough and meticulous investigation.

But I know better.

When Birch finally finishes, the jury is deep into its post-lunch lethargy. I need to hit the detective hard and fast to jolt them awake. What better way to do so than to immediately set the stage for an altercation; the promise of fisticuffs (albeit, of the verbal variety) right here! Right now! I dispense with the usual niceties and march directly to the witness stand to plant myself just a little too close, forcing Pappalardi to lean back a few inches to meet my gaze. Seeing me bearing down on the detective stirs the jury’s interest. My first booming question brings them to attention.

“We’ve clashed before, haven’t we, Detective?”

For the first time since he sat down, the polished act the detective has worked years to refine for court appearances—the world-weary façade that says he’s seen it all, the schtick that whatever this is all about, it ain’t no biggie—falls away, replaced by a jolt of surprise that morphs into an angry glare, which he immediately wrestles back into the placid veneer of an unruffled cop on the witness stand. It took only a moment, but he unmasked himself as the battles lines were drawn, and the jury caught it all.

“I wouldn’t know,” he replies with a nonchalant shrug. “I’ve seen a lot of defense attorneys over the years.”

I smile. “I’m sure you have, and I’ve had to correct the testimony of many a detective. That’s what we’ll being doing here this afternoon, Detective.”

He smirks.

“You told Mr. Birch about the details of your investigation. Did you leave anything out?”

“Such as?”

“Details. I think that was the briefest description of a murder investigation I’ve ever heard in a courtroom. Are you an unusually efficient investigator compared to your peers?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“How extensive was your search for witnesses? Just the immediate neighbors? A block either side? Two doors down?”

“Very extensive.”

“Think of us as civilians, Detective. Please define ‘very extensive’ for us.”

“As far and wide as we deem to be necessary. It varies from case to case.”

“And in this case, Detective? What kind of perimeter did you draw around the crime scene. Five blocks? Ten? Can you share with us the streets that marked the boundaries of the search area?”

“To the best of my recollection, a few blocks in all directions.”

“A few. So at least two blocks?”

“At least.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Birch rises. “Your Honor, can we please spare Detective Pappalardi the sarcasm?”

Ellison looks at me. “That isn’t necessary, Counselor.”

I make a patently insincere apology and forge ahead. “And you spoke with all neighbors, right?”

“Of course we did.”

“Did you learn anything of interest?”

“Nothing of interest.”

“Nobody mentioned a recent falling out between Syl Booker and a neighbor?”

“No.”

“An altercation maybe?”

“Covered in my last answer.”

“That’s a no?”

“Correct.” He pauses, then covers his backside. He knows I’m headed somewhere with this line of questioning. “Not that I heard about.”

“And you looked hard, correct?”

“Asked and answered, Your Honor,” Birch snaps.

“Let’s back up for a moment, Detective” I suggest, disrupting my rhythm only long enough to allow Ellison to overrule the objection, ruining Birch’s ploy to arrest my forward momentum. “You said you spoke with all the neighbors within a couple of blocks of the Booker home.”

“That’s right.”

“Personally. You spoke with everyone … that’s what you meant to say?”

“We had uniforms out knocking on doors all that morning.”

“But not you?”

“That’s right. Standard procedure.”

“You didn’t do any of this door knocking?”

“Not my job.”

I talk a half step back and study him with two fingers touching my chin, the very picture of curiosity. “Detectives don’t detect? You hope the patrol officers, at least some of whom are probably fresh out of the police academy, ask the right questions in a murder investigation?”

“That’s how it’s done.”

“Is that the practice of all homicide detectives, or are you speaking only to your investigations?”

“Mine.”

I can see that I’m getting under his skin, but he’s a pro. His studied nonchalance is formulated to signal: No worries here.

“What about Mr. Booker’s friends, Detective?”

“He didn’t seem to have many, but we spoke with them all at length.”

“At length,” I parrot with feigned admiration. “What did you learn?”

“Nothing of interest. Syl Booker led an unremarkable life.”

“What did his coworkers have to say?”

Pappalardi shifts in his seat, donning a bored beyond all understanding expression. “He seemed to be liked well enough. Beyond that, he was just a guy who went to work every day. Steady. Unremarkable.”

“How about Mr. Booker’s criminal associates, Detective? Did they have any ideas about who might have killed Mr. Booker?”

To his credit, Pappalardi meets my eye without visible reaction, but it’s telling that he hedges his bets when he replies. “To the best of my knowledge, Mr. Booker wasn’t involved in any criminal activities.”

If I knew how drop my jaw to the floor, I would. Aside from being a heck of a parlour trick, it would signal to the jury in a big way that the nice detective just fed them a big seaming pile of BS. My startled step backward is a poor substitute, but it’s all I have. “Surely, your investigation included a search of the Chicago Police Department’s own files? Cook County court records?”

He’s calculating his reply, trying to work out what I might know, and masking it by taking a sip of water and very slowly and deliberately replacing the water bottle.

“Of course I asked people to look at that.”

“People. Police officers?”

“Of course,” he snaps. “I’m told there was nothing there that related to this case.”

He was told; nothing related to this case. Utter crap; but telling.

“Perhaps you can expand on that for us, Detective?”

“There were indications that Syl Booker may have floated around the fringes of petty criminal activity when he was young, but he was never a big player and seems to have left that life behind.”

That dropped jaw trick would be handy yet again. I substitute a wow! expression in its place. “If you say so,” I mutter as an aside loud enough to reach the jury box.

“Mister Valenti,” Judge Ellison says with an undisguised note of warning. It isn’t unlike my mother’s “Anthony” when she was annoyed with me.

“Sorry, Your Honor. It’s just that Detective Pappalardi is the only person I’ve heard that story from.”

Ellison sighs. “That’s gonna cost you five-hundred dollars, Counselor.”

A small price to pay to slip that in.

“Did you discover if Mr. Booker had any extra-marital affairs, Detective?”

“No”, he replies, then adds with a smirk, “but perhaps the defendant knows more about that than we do. Maybe that had something to do with why she went off the rails?”

“Why do you say that, Detective? Do you know something you haven’t told us?”

The smirk disappears. “No.”

When I cut the detective loose, a flicker of relief flashes across his face. Whatever bombshell I’ve lit a fuse to isn’t going to go off under his ass, so it truly is no worries, at least not for him, and that’s all that seems to matter to Detective Anselmo Pappalardi.

Judge Ellison breaks for our afternoon recess. I lean close to Joe Bob. “Notify Esther Walker that we’re going to need her here Wednesday or Thursday. Let her know that we’ll confirm which day as soon as we can.”

CHAPTER 42

When court is called back into session, Cook County Medical Examiner Aarav Devi takes the witness stand.

I lean closer to Van. “This is going to be difficult for you to sit through. Tough as it may be to do so, keep your cool.”

After the usual tedium of working through the doctor’s admittedly impressive curriculum vitae, Birch elicits a detailed accounting of Syl Booker’s vital statistics, followed by a detailed, scratch-by-scratch accounting of the wounds that had been inflicted on Syl back on Easter morning, all lavishly illustrated by every cold, clinical, abhorrent photo Birch was able to cram into evidence. Possibly even more so than the impact of the gruesome crime scene photos they witnessed this morning, these photos leave the jury visibly appalled and sickened, and rightly so.

A handful of photos are all that is needed to illustrate the points Devi will make, but the prosecution always goes for overkill. Any why not? Someone needs to pay for this! the angry expressions of the jurors declare as their gazes inevitably land on my client. More and more photos come—Birch keeps at it over my objections—until Judge Ellison finally calls a temporary halt to the bloodletting after almost an hour.

“We’ll take a fifteen-minute recess now,” she declares to everyone’s relief.

“Coming outside with us for a few minutes?” I ask Van. She waves off our invitation, continuing a practice she established on the day we selected our jury. Van seldom leaves the sanctuary of the defense counsel table, where she’s sheltered from the media and other unwelcome individuals who otherwise pester her at every turn. We leave her behind and exit through a side door into a fenced-in cage used by courtroom smokers. A screen of Dogwood shrubs keeps the looky-loos at bay. We don’t really have enough time to have come outside, but I was desperate to escape the pall of gloom that Devi seems to lug around. Even five minutes of sun and air should help.

“I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a more gruesome witness interrogation,” I mutter.

Joe Bob shrugs. “I’m not so sure about that, Tony … for either you or me. This scene is freshest in our minds, and that makes it the worst one.”

He might be right. Still.

“If the objective was to shock, disgust, and inflame the jurors, Birch may well be succeeding,” I grumble. “I noticed that the attention of a couple of jurors flagged a little here and there at the sheer tedium of it all, but the assault on their senses and emotions was compelling. I worry they may be well on the way to becoming a killing mob.”

Joe Bob concurs. I was afraid he might.

When court resumes, the questioning shifts its focus from gore to education. Birch asks Dr. Devi if he was able to determine Syl Booker’s cause of death.

“Exsanguination resulting from extensive stabbing and puncture wounds, exacerbated by blunt force trauma. Several wounds were potentially fatal.” In other words, Syl bled out after being carved up like a turkey, plus someone beat the bejesus out of him.

“Any other observations concerning the wounds to Mr. Booker, Doctor?” Birch asks.

“Due to the lack of defensive words, I concluded that Mr. Booker died in a frenzied killing that clearly caught him by surprise.”

I could object about the loaded characterization of the attack as frenzied, but who would I be kidding? More worrying was that Birch and Devi snuck in the opinion that Syl was caught by surprise. I make a note to challenge that assumption on cross.

The moment I’ve dreaded most arrives when Birch turns to the subject of Ally’s autopsy. He wisely keeps things brief, putting a single photo of the toddler up and referencing the solitary surgical-like incision in her chest. Even that is almost too much for Van to bear. She’s gone rigid at my side, eyes filled with horror and eventually tears, mouth agape, and edging dangerously toward hyperventilating. I considered letting her preview Ally’s autopsy photos to prepare her for the shock of seeing them but, perhaps selfishly, elected not to. I was hoping for exactly this: the jury witnessing her visceral reaction to the sight of her lifeless child.

Birch nods at Sheila Evans, who, almost reluctantly, takes the photo down. The heartless bitch will make a hell of a mother someday, I think. Unfairly, I know. Witnessing the aftermath of a toddler’s death is difficult on all of us.

In keeping with the minimalist approach he has adopted toward Ally’s demise, Birch invites Devi to describe—“As briefly as possible, if you will, please”— his findings at Ally’s postmortem.

Little Ally is described as a healthy toddler of thirty-five pounds, who stood thirty-six inches in height. “Ally had been stabbed once through the heart, a surgical wound that would have stopped her heart almost instantly. In contrast with her father’s killing, Ally’s death seems to have been very calculated.”

Birch says, “As if perhaps the killer didn’t want the child to suffer?”

I’m on my feet instantly. “Objection! Mr. Birch testifying, leading question, assumes facts not in evidence … take your pick, Your Honor.”

“I’ll rephrase,” Birch says quickly, turning back to the doctor before Ellison can speak. “In your expert opinion, Doctor, why do you think that was?”

“Perhaps the mother—"

I’ve remained standing and cut Devi off, doing so in a cutting voice that drowns him out. “Once again, Your Honor, objection!”

Ellison glares at Birch. “Sustained on all counts.” Her eyes swing to the jury. “You will disregard Dr. Devi’s inappropriate characterization of why Ally Booker’s assailant chose to kill her in the manner they did.”

I stand. “If I may, Your Honor?”

“What is it, Mr. Valenti?”

“As an expert witness with dozens or more experiences of testifying under his belt, Dr. Devi knew full well that his answers were far outside the bounds of acceptable testimony. I think it would be appropriate for the court to either sanction him or, at a minimum, warn him against further misconduct while delivering his testimony.”

Ellison nods. “So noted. Dr. Devi, be very cautious over the balance of your testimony here today.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge isn’t yet done with Birch. With her eyes ranging over the jury box, voice hard, eyes ablaze, she directs them, “You will also disregard the second inappropriate exchange between counsel and his witness concerning the nature of the victim’s wounds. The question should not have been asked, let alone answered. I suspect Mr. Birch knew full well that he was playing fast and loose with the rules in doing so.” Her eyes finally settle on Birch himself. “Another stunt like that, Counselor, and you’ll be spending a night or two in jail.”

There’s no masking the fury in Birch’s eyes. Ellison probably shouldn’t have hit him with that much vitriol in front of the jury. On the other hand, he tried to pull a fast one and got caught.

Ellison 1. Birch 0. This is not a judge to screw with.

Hopefully, the premise of Birch’s question and answer that set off all the fireworks got lost somewhere in all the excitement. The distinction between the manners of death is absolutely worthy of consideration, and I’d be lying if I said that the doctor’s interpretation hasn’t crossed my mind more than once.

Birch reminds us that the murder weapon remains missing, but with the help of Devi—and over my vociferous objections—Birch enters into evidence a tactical knife that he claims is identical to one issued to Van in the army—prompting an even more vociferous objection from me. It’s a nasty-looking bit of work.

After the evidence bag containing the alleged murder weapon facsimile circulates through the jury, Sheila Evans waves it toward our table in a proforma gesture as she walks it back to the clerk to file along with the other evidence.

“Let me see that,” Van snaps. She examines the knife for a moment, then pushes it back across the table for Evans to collect. Van turns to me, eyes ablaze. “That—” she begins in a harsh whisper I immediately cut off.

“Not here. Not now, Van.” I hold her gaze until she accepts that, for whatever reason, it’s best to hold her fire. “Later.”

She sighs and nods.

Later arrives within fifteen minutes, with Devi marching smartly out of the courtroom in the wake of a surprisingly brief cross exam I delegated to Joe Bob, head held high and proud after having played his part in the State of Illinois’s pantomime of justice. My objections had dented the impact of the prosecution’s ill-advised attempt to solicit testimony beyond the proper scope of a coroner’s report. Joe Bob hammered home the point that perhaps Dr. Devi wasn’t the most reliable medical expert around, setting the table nicely for Theo de Jong.

After the jury and most everyone else has filed out of the courtroom, I quietly ask Van why the knife agitated her so.

“I assume they had to send you a picture of it?” she asks.

I nod and turn to Joe Bob, who is pretty technically savvy for a guy who’s a generation older than me. “Do they have it uploaded yet?”

“Way ahead of you … kid,” he replies, turning the screen for us to see.

Van stabs a fingertip at the image, then cuts her eyes back so mine, and sneers. “This isn’t a Yarborough, Tony.”

“It isn’t? Birch says it is. It’s labeled in evidence as such.”

“You haven’t yet worked out that ninety percent of the drivel that flows out of that man’s mouth is bullshit?”

“Actually, I have. Why lie about this?”

“He might not even be lying, not intentionally.” She again stabs a finger down on the image. “This thing is a CRK Green Beret knife, often passed off to the incurious as the real deal. Anyone can buy one online for a couple hundred bucks plus shipping.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. The real thing is stamped ‘Yarborough’ on the blade, complete with a serial number.”

“And the military tracks the numbers?”

“Damned straight, they do. I imagine the records are kept at the JFK Special Warfare School or the museum at Fort Bragg.”

“You need to call Birch on this,” Joe Bob says urgently.

Yes, I do. And I will.

CHAPTER 43

“Before we get started this morning, may we approach the bench?” Grayson Birch asks Judge Ellison in court the next day.

Van isn’t here yet. And now Birch has more bullshit on tap?

“We have new evidence,” he announces as soon as all four attorneys are tightly clustered around the judge.

Sheils Evans behaves as if her colleague has just mentioned in casual conversation that the sun came up this morning. The judge’s eyes widen. Joe Bob and I simultaneously exclaim, “Again?”

Birch ignores me and produces a photo of an evidence baggie with a nasty-looking knife tucked inside. “We believe this to be the murder weapon, Your Honor. Forensic testing is ongoing.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I mutter with a note of disbelief. “Where did this come from? Was it found under the divorce petition the police found last week? Maybe a cop shuffled some papers on his or her desk, found the knife sitting right there and smacked their forehead. ‘How on earth didn’t I notice that before?’ How transparent is this, Your Honor?”

Birch manages to muster a measure of indignity, straightening the US flag pin on his lapel before launching into his defense of himself, Mom, and apple pie. “Chicago PD retrieved the murder weapon from a place of concealment within a drainage pipe a mere three blocks away from the crime scene.”

Did I just hear that correctly? Place of concealment? A hiding place. “Buried somewhere within that morass of words, Mr. Birch, are you telling us that the cops found a knife hidden in a drainpipe near the crime scene?”

He nods.

“Three blocks, huh? Has their ‘exhaustive search’ for evidence just now spread out to the three-block range, or was it just dumb luck that a cop happened to peek in that particular pipe just now?”

“My understanding is that the police received a tip.”

“Perhaps a call from the same phone number that was used to tell them about the divorce proceedings? Whoever the hell that number is listed to ought to be on your payroll, pal—assuming the call wasn’t made from somewhere inside 69 West Washington. Or was it?”

The executive offices of the State’s Attorney are located within the George W. Dunne Cook County Administration Building at that address. I may have gone just a wee bit too far with my anger and sarcasm.

Judge Ellison’s eyes flash angrily behind her glasses when she turns to me. “Mr. Valenti, while I appreciate that you may be feeling somewhat exasperated by a second big evidentiary shock within a matter of days, I ask that you dial back the attitude. Are we clear?”

“Sorry, Your Honor,” I mutter, struggling and failing to keep my tone civil.

“Perhaps your apology would be better directed to Mr. Birch?” she suggests.

I hold her gaze when I reply, “Perhaps.”

Her eyes flash in annoyance, or possibly a hint of anger. What the hell does she expect? Birch is making a mockery of her courtroom.

“Where do we go from here?” Joe Bob asks in a reasonable tone, thus saving me another five-hundred bucks—or possibly worse—at the hands of Judge Ellison.

The judge thinks on that for a long moment before coming to a decision. We can see that she isn’t pleased. The question is who or what she’s pissed about. She turns her gaze to me. “Next steps, Mr. Valenti?”

“We’ll have a motion on your desk in short order to suppress this crap.”

She nods, choosing to ignore my characterization of the proposed evidence. “Mr. Birch?”

“We’ll vigorously oppose any attempt to keep the evidence out of sight of our jury, Your Honor.”

“The jury isn’t listening, Grayson,” I mutter with an exaggerated eye-roll. The jackass could have simply said they’d contest our motion.

The judge lays a finger on the knife photo sitting before us. “I want motions from either side on my desk by eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Mr. Birch, your submission will include a complete accounting from the Chicago police department detailing how this knife came to be in their possession. It will include who called in the tip, when, and an official transcript of the phone call. I want the names and badge numbers of the responding officers and copies of those portions of their patrol logs that are related to this matter. You are to include whatever preliminary or final forensic reports are available as of, let’s say, seven o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll rule on the admissibility of the evidence by noon.”

Birch sighs. “That’s not a realistic time window, Judge. We’ll need more time.”

“You’ve had four-and-a-half months, Counselor.”

“We’ll accept the undertaking on a best-effort basis, Your Honor. Are we now in recess until noon tomorrow?”

Ellison blows out an exasperated sigh. Her reply is curt and to the point. “You’ll continue presenting your case when we’re finished here. I want your case in chief finished by end of day tomorrow, Counselor.”

“That’s not reasonable, Judge,” Birch counters. “We need time to consider the impact this new evidence will have on our trial planning, plus the opportunity to craft strategy adjustments as we may deem advisable. All of this takes time.”

“Then I guess we should be thankful that you have many thousands of capable people available to you.” Ellison turns her gaze to me. “What did you tell us that number was, Mr. Valenti?”

“Somewhere between thirteen and fourteen thousand,” I reply. “That’s a conservative estimate.”

Ellison’s eyes lock onto Birch’s. “That ought to be enough folks to do the trick, Mr. Birch. If you haven’t yet worked it out for yourself, this habit you seem to have of discovering new evidence on a daily basis isn’t going to buy you time. Nor is it likely to win you any favor with the court. Do I make myself clear?”

He nods, the simmering anger burning behind his eyes a clue as to why he didn’t trust himself with a verbal response.

“As to your ‘offer’ to undertake complying with a judicial order on a best-efforts basis, Counselor, I wasn’t asking if this might be to your convenience. Your best-efforts better yield exactly the information I requested, in full, by eight o’clock tomorrow morning or there will be sanctions, up to and including not only throwing out your new knife evidence, but also a day or two behind bars for you. Have I now made my wishes clear?”

She stares him down for a good fifteen seconds before he finds his voice. “Yes, Judge.”

Ellison uses a fingertip to nudge the knife photo back toward Birch, wearing a look of distaste as she does. “Let’s get started. Mr. Birch, is your next witness in court and ready to go?”

When we turn to return to our table, I note than Van has arrived.

“She’s gonna love this,” Joe Bob mutters to me, almost under his breath.

“Yeah,” I agree, my eyes on Van every step of the way. Her head is down and something in the way she holds herself seems off. After I sit down and lean closer to say good morning and she looks up to reply, I see why.

“What the hell?” I exclaim. She’s got a bit of shiner surrounding a puffy left eye and there’s a nasty scrape on her chin, almost as if she’d taken a tumble off a bicycle and slid on pavement. She’s holding her left arm stiffly, pinned close to her ribs. Sore arm or protecting her side?

“Someone jumped me when I walked out of the garage last night to go inside for a leak.”

I absorb the news soberly. So much for my original assumption that she was in a car accident or something. “Does the other guy at least look worse than you?”

Her smile is wicked. “Oh yeah.”

I ask Joe Bob to call Penelope and ask her to get started on a motion to suppress the new knife evidence.

“Shouldn’t we wait until we get a few more details?” he asks.

“No time for that. Penelope Brooks isn’t like we mere mortal lawyers, anyway. Give her the Cliffs Notes version of what’s going on. She’ll take it from there.”

He nods, wearing an expression laced with skepticism before he turns and hustles out of the courtroom on his errand.

Ella O’Reilly calls court to order.

“You don’t need to be here this morning,” I whisper to Van. “The judge will understand.”

“I’m fine.” She tilts her head in the direction of the bench. “What was that all about? Things looked a little heated.”

“Mr. Birch, call your witness,” Ellison says.

I meet Van’s swollen, bloodshot eye. “About the sidebar, I’ll fill you in later.”

Dante Moss, the eyewitness to Van arriving at the scene of the crime at dawn on Easter morning, is called to the stand and sworn in. Moss’s statement was sent to us as part of discovery, so we have a good sense of where this is headed. His direct testimony rolls out pretty much as expected with only a few embellishments, so I only need to add a single minor tweak to my planned cross examination. When I first saw that the prosecution had an eyewitness placing Van at the crime scene, I immediately decided I would have to attack the witness hard from the get-go. I wanted him to be off-balance, rattled, and frightened as I proceeded to tear his story to shreds.

Wrong plan. Dante Moss seems to be a forthright young man, and a likeable one at that. When the judge invites me to cross examine the witness in the wake of Sheila Evans’s questioning, I stand, button my jacket, and allow the corners of my eyes to crinkle as I offer up a smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Moss.”

“Hi there.”

“Let me ask, did you get a look at this person’s face? I mean a really solid look. Could you describe it well enough for an artist to make a sketch? For example, a police sketch artist?”

“Nope.” With his shoulder-length blond hair and wide-open expression, I can well imagine his lanky frame riding a surfboard.

“How about clothing?” I ask. “Style? Colors?”

“Nah, it was dark.”

“Hair color?”

“No, like I said, the dude was wearing a hoodie with the top pulled up.”

I’m surprised when Evans doesn’t react to Moss’s characterization of the person he saw as masculine. I stand back and study the witness, as if I’m assessing his credibility, then nod in the affirmative. “So, you can’t really say anything much about this individual other than it was dark and he was in a bit of a hurry?”

“I guess so. Yeah.”

“And when you say stocky, might it have simply been a person wearing baggy clothes?”

“Sure, I ‘spose that could be true.”

“Maybe someone a little overweight as opposed to solid, muscular?”

“Could be,” he agrees. “Sure.”

“Yet your direct testimony pointed toward Van Booker as the person you saw Easter morning, Mr. Moss. You weren’t anywhere near this vague. Why were you so much more certain when you were speaking with Miss Evans?”

“Well, it was like, we, uh, practiced, y’know?”

“Your direct testimony was practiced?”

He nods forthrightly. “With a little, what do y’all call it, coaching?”

Evans bounces to her feet. “Objection!”

Now she’s bitching? She’s a couple minutes late and several bucks short.

I pause for the five seconds it takes Judge Ellison to blow Evans’s concerns aside.

“Call it whatever you will, Dante. Did Miss Evans tell you what to say here today?”

“Objection!”

I catch the eye of a juror and offer the teeniest shared expression of exasperation.

“Denied!” Ellison snaps. “Answer the question, Mr. Moss.”

Moss looks from the judge back to me. “Y’all mean, like, did she put words in my mouth?”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah, like that. A little any way. She didn’t come right out and tell me exactly what words to use, but it was pretty clear what she wanted.”

“Which was?”

“That Van Booker was the person I saw.”

“But you weren’t sure who you saw, right?”

“That’s right,” he agrees, then flashes a winning smile. “Coulda been my gran wearing my clothes, y’know?”

“Thank you, Dante,” I say in response, barely managing to suppress a smile of open delight at Dante’s final comment. “I have no further questions for Mr. Moss, Your Honor.”

CHAPTER 44

I’m a little surprised when the Prancing Pony bartender is called by the prosecution. Granted that Sandy appeared on their potential witness list, but we figured her inclusion was nothing more than part of the avalanche of misdirection the State eventually delivered in discovery, using the well-established tactic of withholding evidence to the last minute and then backing up a dump truck to defense counsel’s door. The list of potential witnesses that weren’t law enforcement related numbered a ridiculous one hundred and three. The idea is to overwhelm us, burying useful nuggets of evidence within boxes filled with every scrap of paper they can conceivably argue to be related to the case: meal receipts, logs of mailbox contents, including a complete accounting of sales flyers and a wealth of other equally relevant evidence. Apart from being a colossal waste of our limited time and resources, the prosecution is hoping and praying that we’ll miss key evidence. I found critical documents tucked and even stapled into the middle of totally unrelated packets of paperwork. This is a modern prosecutor’s warped interpretation of a search for justice? How utterly pathetic.

Sheila Evans once again stands to the do the questioning. Birch seems distracted, leaning back to ask questions of and dispatching the State’s Attorney’s flunkies on some critical mission or other. I’ve seen them return with coffee, a sweater for Sheila Evans, and even what appear to be documents, but Grayson’s harried demeanor suggests that all is not right in his world. Perhaps that explains Sandy’s presence in our courtroom. Maybe an expected witness is late or—Dear God, please! —a no show who had a change of heart and is hiding out in someone’s out of state attic. Perhaps Judge Ellison blowing a hole in the plan to drop the knife bombshell into the proceedings could be the issue that so perplexes Birch. For whatever the reason, the prosecution apparently isn’t ready to go and needs to put someone on the stand. Heaven forbid things should come a standstill, thus opening the door for me to demand and Judge Ellison acquiesce with a ruling forcing them to rest their case. Thus, Sandy from the Prancing Pony.

Sandy is dressed much as I remember her being the evening we spoke at the bar, albeit without the apron. The tight jeans and button-up flannel shirt might even be the same ones. Her hair is piled up in a messy bun. They either dragged Sandy out of the Prancing Pony today or she doesn’t think dressing up for court is worth the bother. I smile to myself. Yeah, I can imagine that: Court? Naw, I ain’t getting changed for that. As she gets settled on the witness stand, her eyes sweep the courtroom and stop on Van. She does a double-take at the sight of her friend and cocks an eyebrow.

“Are you okay?” she mouths.

Van waves the concern aside and mouths, “I’m good,” in  return.

Sandy’s eyes shift to mine in silent query. I flash a thumbs up.

By the time Shelia Evans has asked Sandy three questions, it’s apparent that the prosecutor is not seeking to enlighten the jury about what happened at 27 Maple Street the evening before Easter. This is a straight-up attempt at character assassination. I wonder if Evans spoke with Sandy before today or even read the cops’ interview notes. If she has, Evans is an even worse lawyer than she’s demonstrated so far, and that hasn’t been overly impressive. When I stand to begin my cross-examination after Evans passes the witness, I note the simmering anger in the bartender’s eyes.

Well done, Sheila!

Sandy acknowledges me with a dip of the chin and twitch at the corner of her lip. She’s with us. I don a smile while delivering my opening question. “Am I correct to say that you and Van have known each other for some time?”

“For a couple of years now,” Sandy replies with a smile in Van’s direction, which is reciprocated. “She’s a regular.”

“Is the old adage true that regulars tell bartenders all about their woes?”

“I’m afraid so,” she replies deadpan.

I smile. “Did Van habitually lay her woes on you?”

Sandy waves the concern aside. “Van kept to herself for the most part, but we always chatted some on the nights she was there and, yes, even griped about things a little now and then … me as much as her. She was a good listener. I told her more than once that she should tend bar.”

Their eyes meet again and a smile touches Sandy’s lips when she continues.

“The one thing I could always count on hearing about was five or ten minutes of Van talking about Ally. Ally drew a picture of a dog today! Ally remembered all the words to ‘Sing a Song’ from Sesame Street! Ally drank out of a big girl cup! God, how she loved that little girl.”

Evans proves her lawyer chops by rising to complain that the questioning, “Goes beyond the scope of direct.”

Judge Ellison tells her to sit down and shut up a moment before I have to do so. Just kidding, Ellison phrased it a little more professionally, but the end result is the same.

“Sandy, did you ever get the impression that Van might present a risk to her family?” I ask.

“Of course not. Like most of us, she said a couple of times that she felt like kicking hubby’s butt over some silly infraction. Who doesn’t?”

“Miss Evans suggested a few times that Van is a very troubled woman. Emotionally disturbed. Volatile. Those were a few of the words she used when probing your relationship with Van. Does any of that sound like the Van Booker you observed?”

“No, I wouldn’t say she’s any more troubled than the next person … than you or I.”

“Fair enough. Now, let’s go back to the evening of March thirtieth. Do you recall Van visiting the Prancing Pony that evening and into the early morning hours of the next day.”

Sandy’s demeanor sobers. “I do.”

“Your testimony was that she arrived somewhere between nine and ten o’clock?”

“Right.” Evans had poo-pooed Sandy’s ability to recall the time. I imagine one night at the bar is much like any other. Idiot.

I ask the follow-up question Evans should have. “Why did Van’s arrival stick in your mind?”

Sandy smiles. “My sister makes Easter baskets. Big wicker ones. She was delivering a few to bar staff a couple of weeks before Easter. Van was in the bar and loved them. She ordered one and was just so excited about giving it to Ally. When she came in that night, I knew she’d been planning to paint a couple of dozen eggs, fill the basket, and leave it on the front step as an Easter morning surprise for Ally. When she arrived that evening, I asked if she had dropped off the basket and she told me that she waited until Ally went to sleep and then left it on the front porch. ‘Ally’s bedtime is nine o’clock’ she told me, and I remember looking up at the clock. I forget exactly what time it was, but it was somewhere between nine and ten o’clock.”

“You told Miss Evans that Van had quite a bit to drink that night.”

“She did. More than usual.”

“To your knowledge, Van Booker isn’t a person who habitually drinks a great deal, as Miss Evans suggested?”

“Not at my bar. I know she was a little sad that evening because she wasn’t going to spend Easter day with Ally.”

“Did she seem angry about that?’

“Nah, just a little bummed. What mother wouldn’t be? Maybe that had something to do with how much she drank.”

“Can you describe her demeanor when she left the bar that evening?”

“Well, first of all, it wasn’t that evening. Van drank until closing time, which is one in the morning. I walked her out to her car in our parking lot and made sure she was locked inside.”

“Locked inside.”

“She was full on blotto, Mr. Valenti. Drop dead drunk. I put her in the backseat, covered her with a blanket, and made sure she locked the doors.”

“Is that safe?” I blurt, sounding as if I don’t approve, and instantly regretting it

Sandy takes it in stride. “Safer than letting her drive. We have a few folks who hang out in the alley and parking lot, if you know what I mean. Good enough guys, down on their luck. They would have raised an alarm if anyone tried to get in the car.”

“That’s the last you saw of Van that night?”

Sandy smiles ruefully. “Given how loaded she was, I’d be surprised if Van woke up before noon.”

As much as I’d like to drop an aside about how that doesn’t sound like someone who’d be in any condition to carry out a well-planned murder a couple of hours later—which would be way beyond the scope of the prosecutor’s direct questioning—I simply thank Sandy for her testimony and pass her back to Shelia Evans. Evans wisely passes on the opportunity and Sandy heads back to the Prancing Pony, shooting a sly wink at us as she passes by that the jury can’t see.

“That went well,” Joe Bob says drily. “Maybe we should call Nick and Frank as witnesses?” he suggests, referring to Van’s pool-playing buddies from the bar.

“Absolutely not,” I reply. As of now, the Prancing Pony has been a solid win for our side, but there’s such a thing as going back to the well one time too many. What guarantee do we have that Nick and Frank won’t turn out to be twin disasters who undo all the good Sandy has done us? We’ve had a good morning with Dante Moss and Sandy on the stand. I love it when a prosecution witness pumps our tires and slashes the prosecution’s. And to have two in a row? All is right with the world. Perhaps I’ve died and gone to Heaven. Nirvana!

At least for the moment.

CHAPTER 45

As soon as we’re excused for lunch recess and Joe Bob hurries ahead to collect our lunch from Mick, who is delivering it from the Sandwich Emporium, I steer Van into an empty courtroom, wincing when my steering causes her to wince. At least she doesn’t slug me.

“Out with it, Van. All the details of what went on with you last night. Who jumped you?”

She shrugs. “No idea. It was the strangest thing. Not a word was spoken. The guy was tough, much tougher than he showed in the scrap. I’m not gonna say he let me kick his butt, but things went a little too well for me. Can’t figure it out.”

“Maybe you’re just tougher than you think,” I say with a shrug and a grin.

“Nah, I know exactly how tough I am, Tony. Things should have gone better for the other guy.”

“Maybe you got lucky?”

She shakes her head in confusion. “It’s more a case of him leaving himself open to a couple of good shots I’m pretty sure he should have been able to block. Or maybe ones that he deflected more than blocked, so that the blow didn’t land as hard as it might have.”

I try to imagine the scene: Van, already sporting the beginnings of a black eye and with bruised ribs and who knows what all, pounding the hell out of her assailant and wondering why it was playing out too easily? Sounds like nonsense to me. Maybe she got a knock on the head that isn’t apparent?

Despite the timing, we conclude that the attack on Van is most likely unrelated to our case. After all, nothing was said, and what possible purpose could it serve? Even if it was some sort of misguided attempt at retribution for Syl’s murder or some wingnut attempting to deliver vigilante justice on behalf of Ally, that would be tangential to the murder case. The conversation about the fight peters out quickly after Joe Bob returns bearing goodies from Maiko and Brian. We spend the balance of the noon break reliving the glory of my morning cross examinations of Sandy and Dante, wonder what the afternoon might bring, then look ahead to our case-in-chief, which could start as early as tomorrow morning. We arrive back from lunch recess five minutes early.

Birch initiates another sidebar before court is called back into session. My annoyance turns to anger when I realize he’s pitching more newly-found evidence. Sure, today is August thirteenth, but it’s not Friday the thirteenth. What’s with the never-ending stream of prosecutorial horse crap and other bad tidings?

“If anyone else was wondering what happened to the defendant’s face, we have an answer,” he announces before dropping a sheaf of papers on the bench. I see a Chicago PD crest on the cover page. “It seems that the defendant assaulted a citizen last evening, inflicted a serious beating on the unfortunate man.”

“That’s not how we heard it,” I retort.

Birch pushes the police incident report to me and casts a disgusted look over my shoulder toward where Van sits, anxiously waiting to hear what’s going on up here. She isn’t going to believe this.

I flip through the brief report that appears to have been hastily slapped together and sent directly to the State’s Attorney. Why would Chicago PD do this? No matter. The purpose of this gambit is immediately clear; it’s a smear job designed to paint Van as a menace to society … better lock this one up and throw away the keys! I address the judge in a voice laced with disgust. “This isn’t germane to our case, Your Honor, so why are we taking time out to see it? Surely the State can’t hope to make a showing demonstrating relevance.”

Birch immediately confirms my suspicions. “This is absolutely relevant to our case, Your Honor. This unprovoked attack on an unsuspecting citizen is yet another indication that the murderer we have on trial is prone to excessive violence and is a menace to the people she crosses paths with. She needs to be taken off the streets.”

Ellison, whose expression leans to skeptical, turns back to me. “Mr. Valenti?”

“Mrs. Booker states that this was an unprovoked surprise attack in her own backyard. The prosecution wants to use the fact that she bested her assailant at trial to reinforce their narrative that Val is a dangerous loose cannon.”

Birch flips through the report until he stops at picture of a man who has been beaten to a near pulp. Van wasn’t kidding when she told me the other guy looked worse.

I take the report and flip to the beginning. We have only Van’s word for who initiated the confrontation, and now I see that the complainant doesn’t even admit to having been in Van’s yard. “The police claim that they just happened to be cruising along Maple Street and found this guy wandering in front of Van’s house?” I ask.

“Apparently so,” Birch replies smugly.

“What was he doing there, I wonder?” I ask with a derisive snort. “Did anyone ask?”

“That’s a question for the police,” Birch says.

“How very convenient,” I shoot back before turning my attention back to the judge. “Whatever else may be true about this latest questionable evidence, trotting it into our courtroom is a transparent effort to prejudice the jury.”

As we’ve been arguing, I’ve been wondering if there might not be an alternate explanation for what motivated the attack on Van. This is the second attack on one of our potential witnesses, the first having been Mel’s murder, which came within a few days of us adding her name to our witness list. We added Van to the final witness list we handed to the prosecutors on Friday morning. She was attacked three days later. Coincidence? I ascribe to the notion that coincidences, at least in relation to criminal cases, are generally random pieces of a puzzle that haven’t yet found their proper place. Though tempted, I don’t draw attention to this fact, understanding all too well that I might come across as a bit unhinged were I to do so.

“Do you have a copy of this report for us?” I ask Birch.

“We just received it now,” he replies glibly. “I’ll get a copy to you sometime later today or by tomorrow morning.”

Ellison shakes her head, pulls the package to herself and waves Ella O’Reilly over. She hands the papers to Ella with instructions to make two copies of every page, right now. “One for defense counsel and one for the court.”

When Birch opens his mouth to object or possibly merely to express an opinion, the molten eyes Ellison turns on him stop him cold. “You’re facing an uphill slog to get this into evidence, Counselor.”

We wait for the photocopies in uncomfortable silence. Birch has been silenced; Ellison appears to be on the verge of a meltdown. It probably isn’t the moment for a rant from me pointing out that the sheer outlandishness of Birch bringing this here at this time and place is reason enough to keep this BS away from the jury.

After Ella hands me our photocopy, Joe Bob and I return to the defense table, where I immediately instruct him to hand the paperwork off to Mick with orders to find out everything he can about Van’s assailant just as fast as he can. I observe Judge Ellison having an animated chat with Ella, who summons one of the junior courtroom clerks, marks up the judge’s copy of the Chicago PD paperwork, and then sends the clerk scurrying away. I wonder what that was all about. In fact, I continue to wonder throughout the questioning of a service station attendant who seems to have seen and heard nothing over the course of his March thirtieth – March thirty-first night shift, not even the Easter Bunny. I only emerge from my post-lunch torpor when the clerk hurries back in ten minutes later, hands the paperwork back to O’Reilly, and rushes out again.

While I was suffering through the service station attendant’s testimony alongside Van, all manner of dark thoughts swarmed through my brain. Did the same person who killed Syl and Abby come after Mel Vu and Van? If so, did he do so because they were added to our witness list? If so, why? Is everyone working for Van in danger? If so, from whom? The same questions that have been tormenting me for weeks. The same lack of answers.

The logical answer, or maybe it’s just the most frightening one and so sticks in my mind, is that Syl’s assailant is responsible. Is the killer still at work, covering his tracks? But if Van has no idea who he is, she can hardly finger him for a crime she knows nothing about, so why risk attacking her? And is he done?

We suffer through the testimony of a specialist prosecution psychiatrist-therapist put before the jury to spew whatever stream of incomprehensible drivel suits the State’s Attorney’s theory of the case—the curse of the assassin for hire professional witnesses that plague our courtrooms. I spend five minutes poking holes in her assessment, relieved that her BS was easy enough to defuse. We had neither the time nor resources to hire our own assassin.

The answer to what Ella and the judge set in motion comes within the hour, when Ellison abruptly calls a recess and summons the attorneys to join her in chambers. There we find an agitated Chicago PD supervisor nervously holding what appears to be yet another copy of Chicago PD’s latest ginned-up evidence against Van. Ellison thanks him for coming on short notice—I suspect he received an unceremonious summons to appear at a command performance and to do so now.

“I’m going to question Supervisor Simington on the record,” she informs us, which is when I realize a courtroom reporter is sitting in the corner. “The supervisor is here to enlighten us about the backstory of the package that was delivered to Mr. Birch today.”

“Highly unusual, Your Honor,” Birch notes.

“Yet well within my authority,” she replies, doing so with an edge. “This is the third time in two days that you’ve appeared with new evidence, Mr. Birch. It’s always perfectly timed to support your case and always arrives in what I imagine Mr. Valenti would describe as suspicious circumstances … and I certainly wouldn’t begrudge him some measure of grievance about the steady stream of late-arriving evidence entering our courtroom.”

We learn that while Simington was aware of a pair of patrol officers picking someone up last night on the same block of Morgan Street as the Booker residence, he wasn’t included in the loop when the information was disseminated to the State’s Attorney’s office. Nor did anyone think to inform him of the potential connection to a somewhat high-profile murder case currently being prosecuted. To put it mildly, given the supervisor’s facial expression and the angry timber of his voice as he relates these details, I suspect there are a couple of Chicago PD patrol officers wandering around town missing large chucks of their asses.

“The patrolmen didn’t have a satisfactory explanation for their behavior , Judge,” he concludes with admirable restraint.

“Have there been other instances of these officers working, for want of a better term, behind your back?” Ellison asks. When Simington pauses, she informs him that answering isn’t optional, but also that he need not worry about confidentiality, which “our office takes very seriously.”

Simington nods and answers, “Yesterday I would have said no, but scuttlebutt I heard this morning suggests I may have a couple of bad eggs on my team. I’ll be doing a deeper dive beginning this afternoon.”

“While you’re doing that,” I interject, “you may want to ask about the mysterious recent appearances of a knife and some divorce paperwork that are also related to this case. Ask if anyone knows how, where, or when those items fell into the hands of the State’s Attorney’s office.”

Birch objects, claiming I have no standing to speak. “This is not Mr. Valenti’s hearing, Judge.”

Ellison doesn’t respond directly, simply tells Simington to do as I asked. After she dismisses the police supervisor, the judge informs us that she’ll be taking this hearing into account while considering the admissibility of last night’s altercation.

Joe Bob is waiting with Van when I return to the courtroom, wearing a grim smile while he hands back the copy of the PD report. Resting on top is a screen shot of Van’s assailant in better times and a little background. “All Mick had to do was Google this clown to rule him out as the killer.”

I slide the picture to Van.

“I haven’t got a clue who he is,” she says.

Joe Bob continues. “Van’s sparring partner has a bit of history as a hired gun, but he was in a Nebraska prison cell on Easter weekend. He was released in late May.”

“Not our killer,” I murmur. “At least not where Syl and Ally are concerned.”

“Nope.”

But he has been free to go wherever he pleased since June, giving him over a month to make his way to Chicago before Mel died. This plays on my mind while Sheila Evans sleepwalks her way through the largely inconsequential testimony of yet another marginal witness who adds nothing to the prosecution’s case. Joe Bob conducts a half-assed cross. By the time Judge Ellison summons us to a sidebar a few minutes after three o’clock, it’s clear that Birch’s machinations have slowed the momentum of his case to crawl. I’m bored, the judge is impatient to moves things along, and the jury is growing restless. If all is right in the cosmos, our jurors are royally pissed that the State is keeping them away from their families to listen to this drivel.

Judge Ellison rides to their rescue. After gathering us at the side of her bench and activating the discrete white-noise machine designed to mask our whispering voices from the rest of the courtroom, she announces, “The jury will not be hearing about last night’s altercation.”

“I believe this warrants a closed hearing in chambers,” Birch says.

Ellison starts to respond, then thinks better of it and turns to me. After all, we’re the truly aggrieved party in all this BS. “Your thoughts, Mr. Valenti?”

To my surprise, I realize that I don’t much care. Today’s drama has been a meaningless distraction, a step too far by the prosecution in their never-ending efforts to tilt the playing field in their favor. And for what? To discover that some guy who is most likely unrelated to our case got his ass handed to him by Van? Even if her assailant is part of whatever is happening in the shadows, it’s probably immaterial to what’s going to happen in this courtroom over the course of the next day or two.

“That’s fine with us, Your Honor. No evidence. No hearing. Let’s move on.”

Ellison gives me a curious, appraising look. “You’re not anxious to get to the bottom of this and our other newly arrived evidentiary mysteries?”

I meet her gaze. “I’ll be interested to hear the truth about it all at some point, Your Honor, but we have a trial to conclude. That’s all I’m anxious about this afternoon.”

She nods. “Then let’s get on with it, by all means.”

Birch stands mute.

Ellison calls the situation correctly. “I assume we’ve been wasting our time all day waiting for you to present this new evidence of yours before resting, Mr. Birch?”

No doubt hoping to go out with a bang.

I meet Birch’s gaze with a sideways smile as we turn to walk back to our respective tables and whisper, “How does it feel to have that little stunt blow up in your face, Counselor?”

CHAPTER 46

If you had asked me three days ago to provide an outline of the case-in-chief we planned to present when our turn came, I would have admitted that our plan didn’t amount to much more than aspirations to poke holes in the prosecution’s case and hope that would be enough. As I stand to call our first witness, I’m still in a bit of disbelief at how decisively the tables have turned in our favor. At least that’s what I like to think. We’ll know if I’ve called it right soon enough … perhaps even as soon as this afternoon.

After a thirty-second consultation with Shiela Evans after the sidebar yesterday afternoon, Grayson Birch had rested the prosecution’s case: Proudly, after we have proven the defendant’s guilt beyond any conceivable doubt. Because the clown had made the declaration in front of the jury, Judge Ellison felt the need to slap him down in the presence of those same twelve citizens, and I harbor a suspicion that she took some satisfaction in doing so.

“Argument, including any claims about how the attorneys feel about their cases, and most certainly any statements as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant, are properly the provenance of closing arguments,” she’d informed the jury. “Mr. Birch was, perhaps, a little overly eager to do so here this afternoon. Please disregard his words. They are not evidence, and we remain in the stage of trial where the attorneys should properly restrict themselves to evidentiary matters.”

Which brings us to this morning. Newly armed with a handful of startling disclosures that have fallen into our hands since the weekend, we’ve stripped down our original trial plan in favor of landing a succession of what Van labelled “quick hits” of sufficient impact to carry the day. In response to Judge Ellison’s query about how long she should allow for us to present our case, I’d surprised her—and I suspect greatly pleased her—with the answer, “We hope to finish today, Judge.”

But we still need to set the table for the big revelations to come. Much as the state had built their case from the ground up, starting with the 911 call, we begin with our own building blocks.

“The defense calls to the witness stand Esther Walker.”

I walk Esther through the morning we first met across the street from the Booker residence. I still haven’t quite decided if Esther is more interested bystander or neighborhood gossip, but that’s one of the many details a trial never resolves—some of which are considerably more consequential. While I frame Esther’s testimony primarily as that of a favorable character witness, my ulterior motive aims to serve a darker purpose, one that may eventually get Judge Ellison’s dander up.

My direct questioning is essentially a replay of our initial chat. “How well did you know the Booker family, Esther?” I ask.

“I knew them well, Van in particular. I babysat little Ally … such a sweet girl.”

I tighten the focus. “Tell us about Van.”

Esther’s eyes drift beyond me to the defense table. “We used to talk some. She’s a little closed, if you know what I mean. Not in a bad way, but she plays things close to the vest, as my mother used to say. Van is my friend.”

This is exactly the folksy charm I was hoping for from Esther. I smile and nod, cocking an eyebrow to invite her to continue. She doesn’t need much of a nudge, bless her soul.

“Van has in no way lived an easy life, but there was still plenty of love in her heart, especially for that little girl of hers. Syl Booker wasn’t an easy man to put up with. Lord knows I wouldn’t have done so, but Van tolerated all his nonsense—"

Grayson Birch stands. “Your Honor, please advise Counsel and the witness that we aren’t here to pass judgement on a dead man.”

Ellison arches an eyebrow at me in warning, then smiles at Esther. “Please keep any opinions as to the nature of Mr. Booker’s character to yourself, Mrs. Walker.”

I remind Esther of where we left off. “I believe you were about make a comment about why Van remained in what sounds like a less-than-ideal marriage?”

“Your Honor!” Birch exclaims. Unwisely, as it turns out.

“The question doesn’t ask the witness for any commentary on Mr. Booker’s character,” I counter.

“Objection overruled,” Ellison rules curtly. “You may answer the question, Mrs. Walker.”

Esther thanks the judge and turns back to the jury. “I suspect Van was in that marriage as much for Ally’s sake as anything—although there was some love between those two people.”

“What did you think when you heard that Van had been arrested for the murders of Syl and Ally?” I ask.

“I wondered what the cops had been smoking, Mr. Valenti. Van would never have taken Ally’s daddy from her, and the idea that she would harm a single hair on that little angel’s head is … well, that’s just plain stupid!”

I see out of the corner of my eye that Birch is once again conferring with one of his minions. I still have a couple of Syl gems that Esther and I are hoping to get into testimony. Time to strike.

“Syl had a bit of a reputation among the women in the neighborhood, didn’t he?” I ask.

“Sure did. A man who took what he wanted from a woman. He made all of us nervous. Ran with a bad crowd too. We didn’t like them around. Van had to run them off more than once when she came home and found them lurking about.”

“They’re at it again!” Birch shouts when he finally clues in.

I wave his graceless objection aside. “I have no more questions for this witness.”

As Birch gets to his feet to cross examine Esther, Ellison’s gaze warns me that I haven’t heard the last of this.

So be it. The dig at Syl was foundation to support my next witness. Between the two of them, they represent my only shot at suggesting that a neighbor bore a grudge against Syl. It isn’t the last arrow I intend to shoot Syl’s way, but there’s no guarantee I’ll get any of the others out of my quiver. I considered also calling Esther’s neighbor and friend, Sam, who steered me to the warehouse I almost died at. While her testimony might prove useful in supporting Esther’s testimony about Syl’s more unsavory proclivities, the more explosive elements of her testimony pointed[NT11] a finger directly at the people I now consider most likely to have killed Mel Vu. I’m not about expose Sam to that risk.

I shake my head at the tone Birch is taking with Esther. Who wants to see Granny bullied? I tune it out and look ahead.

My next witness is the wife of Babysitter Papa, who surprised us with a phone call on Friday afternoon. She’s sworn in, we establish that she was a neighbor of the Bookers, and then Joe Bob gets to the point.

“Your fifteen-year-old daughter used to babysit Ally, correct?”

“Yes,” she replies grimly. I notice a couple of jurors inch forward. Might fireworks lay just ahead?

Hell, yeah.

“Did your husband and Syl Booker have a falling out at some point shortly before Mr. Booker was killed?”

“Sure did.”

Joe Bob inches closer and bends down a few inches to establish intimacy. “Did things get heated?”

“Sure did.”

“Can you tell us the nature of the dispute?”

“Hearsay!” Birch shouts.

“Mr. Birch hasn’t even heard the answer,” Joe Bob says when Ellison asks for a response. “Your Honor, I’m not soliciting hearsay, I’m simply asking the witness what she witnessed and her knowledge of what was at the root of the problem.”

“Does this in some way touch upon the defendant?”

Joe Bob nods. “It does.”

Well, sorta.

“I’ll allow the question, Mr. Sparks. But let’s wrap this up soon.”

Joe Bob turns back to his witness. “Do you have firsthand knowledge of what this dispute was about?”

Her eyes smoulder as she answers. “Our daughter sometimes babysat Ally when Van was away. We caught Syl screwing our little girl one night—I guess he’d been carrying on with her for some time. My Alex and Syl had words about it. Alex warned Syl that it wasn’t over.”

“What wasn’t over?”

Ellison’s response to Birch’s outraged shout of “Objection!” is to summon us to a sidebar.

This is Joe Bob’s witness but I’m first chair. I’m also the guy who received the pointed SODDI warnings from the judge, so the heat comes my way. There’s no hiding from the anger in her eyes and voice, but hey, I’m a big boy. I’m also secure in my belief that I’ve done no wrong. Also that I’m on the side of the angels. I just haven’t yet convinced the angry magistrate confronting me of any of those things.

“Mr. Valenti, I told you there would be no SODDI nonsense unless I pre-screened and approved it.”

“This wasn’t SODDI, Your Honor. Just a rebuttal of Detective Pappalardi’s claim that they diligently investigated the neighborhood. Sounds like pretty sloppy detective work to have missed something this obvious. We’re well within our rights to explore this topic.”

Ellison lets her gaze linger on mine for a long minute. We both know that Joe Bob colored a little outside the lines she established, but it was a legitimate line of inquiry and he did not point the finger at Babysitter Papa as a potential suspect. Of course, only an idiot wouldn’t draw that conclusion if they thought about it for more than … let’s say more than a second, but I’m confident we elegantly threaded the needle by framing it as taking a shot at the police investigation. And if you think that was impressive, wait until you see our next trick.

Mike Williams has been helpful behind the scenes this week by commenting on what he sees in the daily transcripts, and he’s suggested a few dynamite questions that have paid off handsomely. But it was in teaming up with Max Maxwell that he did his best work. They’ve been working diligently to fill the hole in the police records concerning Syl Booker, and the explanation turns out to have been a doozy. You want SODDI? We got SODDI.

Ella O’Reilly swears in a hard-looking woman somewhere in the neighborhood of forty years old named Antonia Sanchez. As she settles into her seat on the witness stand, she pushes the sides of her suit jacket aside.

“Hell, she could my sister,” Van mutters.

“Sidebar, Your Honor,” Birch demands, making his way toward the bench even before the judge summons us. “We had no knowledge of this witness’s appearance until Mr. Valenti handed us the notification seconds before he called her to the stand.”

“Late breaking news,” I say, more flippantly than is prudent, but it’s worth it to see Birch’s blood get up into his cheeks.

Ellison doesn’t exactly smile, but she doesn’t step on me too harshly. “Mr. Valenti?”

“We received a tip only this morning, Your Honor,” I say, doing my best to mimic Birch as I do. I’m tired of the prosecutor’s trial bullshit and am happy to hold a spoonful up to his lips.

“What’s the deal here, Counselor?” Ellison asks me.

“We hope to confirm or rebut a possibility that has arisen in our investigations, Your Honor.”

“What is the nature of this inquiry?”

I dodge a direct answer, which prompts Birch to explode. “This is SODDI, Judge. You warned Mr. Valenti not to do this. Didn’t I warn you?”

“It isn’t SODDI, Your Honor,” I say. “We believe that this is the only witness who can speak to a critical question we have about the murders. We have a single question for her. Depending on how she answers, we may have one or two follow-ups. Maybe not. That’s it. On and off the witness stand lickety-split.”

Ellison studies me. There’s no way she can rule against allowing this witness to take the stand without risking reversal, even if she were inclined to, and I suspect she isn’t. “Make it quick, Mr. Valenti, or I will.”

We file back to our places, then I button my jacket and meet the fiery eyes of my next witness. She may not meet the legal definition of a hostile witness, but she’s plenty pissed about being here.

“How long have you worked for the Drug Enforcement Agency, Agent Sanchez?”

“Fourteen years.”

“What is your current job title, and what responsibilities attach to that role?”

“I’m the Special Agent in Charge of DEA’s Chicago Division.”

A quick glance toward the jury box confirms that they’re locked in. Perfect.

“Is it true that Sylvester Booker was a DEA confidential informant during the seven months immediately preceding his murder?”

A gasp circles the gallery. A warning glance from the judge silences it.

My eyes remain locked on Sanchez’s.

“I can’t speak to confidential information, Mr. Valenti.” She replies curtly. Her eyes harden. “You know this.”

So, yes. A follow up glance at the jurors’ faces suggests that they seem to understand the subtext. Perfect, because this isn’t going to be allowed to go on much longer.

“Is it also true that DEA has asked the FBI to investigate the murder of Syl Booker, suggesting that he may have been killed in retaliation for his informant activities?”

“Objection!” Birch all but screams. “Relevance! Foundation!”

Judge Ellison knows as well as I do what the answer to my question will be, so she nods. “I’ll allow the question.”

“No comment,” Sanchez replies coldly.

I shoot a quick look at our jurors, making eye contact with the accountant I’ve long since tagged as a Van skeptic. He’s hanging on every word of this.

“I note that you don’t deny the allegation, Agent Sanchez,” I retort as my gaze returns to  meet hers. Ain’t being under oath a bitch?

“No more questions,” I announce. Birch declines to cross-examine.

“Is that a chill I feel in the air?” a deep, melodious voice says from just behind my ear after Agent Sanchez stomps past on her way back to whatever it is a DEA Special Agent in Charge does around town.

I turn and smile at Mike Williams, who is seated behind our table, determined to last the day as we put on our case. He has a hand in this now and wants to see things through. To make sure you don’t screw up the good stuff I gave you, in his telling.

“How’d I do?” I ask.

“Out of the park, brother. Out of the park and onto Waveland Avenue.”

I smile at the reference to the street beyond the left-field wall of Chicago’s Wrigley Field, the home park of the city’s fabled Chicago Cub baseball team. They’re working on another lengthy drought between World Series wins, at least that’s the story from Mike, who is a White Sox fan and enjoys ribbing me about the Cubs’ futility. As if he has room to talk. But back to the courtroom.

“We’ll take our lunch recess at this time,” Judge Ellison announces. “It’s a wee bit early, but it feels as if we’ve had a full morning. Please be ready to resume at twelve-thirty.”

CHAPTER 47

I slip into an empty booth on the back wall of a dingy internet café a few blocks from the courthouse, an establishment that our sometime dazzling cyber-sleuth, Chippy, introduced me to last year. “Oh, puh-lease, Mr. V.” she laughed when I suggested that we take a working break at a nearby coffee house between court sessions. “Nobody with an ounce of smarts tries to work at a coffee shop with all the kids and mommies screeching.”

While I may have taken exception to being lumped in with the people who lack smarts crowd (not the first time I’ve heard that), there’s no arguing that she made the right call. I’m tucked in tight here, the people around me are lost in their own little worlds and wearing headphones, and I can think clearly. Bonus? I don’t have to worry about the courthouse lunch crowd stumbling across me and demanding time I can’t afford to give them. I briefly wonder what Chippy might have brought to the table on this case but quickly set the thought aside. She’s away for a year—maybe less, maybe more—traipsing around Southeast Asia. “Thailand, Malaysia, and Vietnam, maybe with a side of the Himalayas,” she told us. We have no potential return date for her. Hopefully by the next time we’re in desperate need of a master hacker.

I spend forty minutes sipping bad coffee and reading through my notes for the afternoon. Only two witnesses to go, but they’re both critical. Despite having my laptop open to my notes, I’m here as much to re-center myself as I am for the final review. This morning went well, perhaps too well. Just as it doesn’t pay to wallow in despair when a witness crashes and burns, it’s an equally powerful truism that euphoria after a good run can be equally dangerous, at least for me. One of my greatest courtroom humiliations came hard on the heels of happy talk and a premature celebration of a momentary triumph, after which I lost my edge with the next witness—momentarily losing sight of the danger that every witness represents a potential step into the unknown. Tough lesson not soon forgotten.

When I call my next witness at twelve-thirty-one, my little cyber escape has done its job.

“Please state your name for the record,” I ask the dapper little man settling into the witness seat.

“Marcus Davis,” he says.

I had the perhaps uncharitable thought when I first laid eyes on him five minutes ago that Mr. Davis reminded me of the equally dapper little fellows who used to circulate through the neighborhood, selling life insurance policies door-to-door. In fact, he’s the attorney Syl Booker retained to begin divorce proceedings against Van. Life insurance salesman; divorce lawyer … maybe we’re not so very different.

I may never have been in the same room with Marcus before now, but we’ve talked on the phone a couple of times. The first time was Saturday when he first gave us a heads-up that something might be off about the divorce story Grayson Birch was spinning. Whatever ethical dilemma he was facing was resolved to his satisfaction by the dinner hour yesterday, and the tale he told me then prompted me to add him to our witness list for today. As he is something of a rebuttal witness to Birch’s claims that Van may have killed Syl to deny him a divorce or, failing that, in retaliation for filing, Birch’s proforma objection to him appearing on short notice was brushed aside like a fly on an elephant’s butt.

“Can you tell us how you’ve come to be here this afternoon?” I ask.

“I watch the evening new religiously. On Friday last week, I saw a clip about the opening day of this trial. I was startled to learn that the topic of Syl Booker’s divorce petition came up, so I paid a little more attention to it than I do to most stories. But I was shocked when I went online in search of additional details of your day in court and saw a reference to service on Mrs. Booker.”

“Why did that surprise you, Mr. Davis? You prepared the divorce petition, did you not?”

“I did. Syl had me draft a petition and file it, but that’s as far as things went before he died.”

“Pardon me?” I ask theatrically, making good and sure the jurors realize something critical is occurring before their eyes. “Are you suggesting that a divorce petition between Syl and Van Booker wasn’t formally in the works?”

“Technically, no. “

“Can you explain that distinction for the jury’s benefit?”

“Until notice is of an intent to divorce is officially served on the defendant spouse in divorce proceeding, things are at a standstill. It’s as if the petition is in limbo, I suppose you might say.”

“And it stays that way until service is effected?”

“Exactly. Service can be completed a few ways, but in every case save one, an officer of the court places the divorce petition in the hands of the defendant spouse and swears out an affidavit declaring that service is complete. At that point, we have a bona fide divorce action on the books.”

“I see. And in this case, was Van Booker served with divorce papers?”

“Not in the manner I’ve described.”

“Is there an alternative to personal service?” I ask. We’ve finally gotten to the meat of the matter.

Davis shoots an apologetic look at the jury, which is good. He has their attention  and is demonstrating respect for their time. Nothing wrong with that. As we might expect from a lawyer, he’s a good witness; knows the ropes, knows what we like to see out of a witness. The funny thing is that most lawyers make crappy witnesses. Go figure. Probably because most of us generally think we’re the smartest lawyer in the room.

Davis turns in his seat, just enough so he can address the jury head-on. “I’ll explain the alternative service. In amicable situations, the most straightforward method is service by agreement, which avoids using a sheriff or private process server. This is done with a form called an Affidavit of Waiver of Service. The filing spouse provides the other spouse with a copy of the filed Petition and the waiver form. By signing this document, the receiving spouse acknowledges they have received the divorce papers and waives their right to be formally served. Signing the waiver does not mean the spouse agrees with the terms in the Petition, only that they have received it. The signed waiver, which is often notarized, is then filed with the court clerk.”

“As was done in this case, Mr. Davis, was it not?” I ask with studied confusion, as if to shout to the jury: Holy crap! Listen to this!

“No,” Davis replies, his eyes cutting to the prosecution table with an expression of admonition. “Certainly not by signing an agreement of waiver that originated in my office.”

So, Van had told us the truth about that, I remember thinking with relief when Davis first told me what had happened. Or, more correctly, what had not occurred. We still don’t know what all transpired.

“And this prompted you to dig deeper?” I ask.

“Actually, it didn’t. I figured that so long as the police and the State’s Attorney’s office were taking care of business, it wasn’t my concern. I had a peek at the online case forms. Everything looked to be in order on my end, so I signed off and went to bed,” He gives me an almost apologetic shrug. “Maybe a bit of a lazy approach.”

“Not necessarily,” I say. “You assumed other people would do their jobs.”

“True. What I didn’t reckon on was a late-night phone call telling me to mind my own business and to keep my mouth shut regarding Syl and Van Booker.”

I join in the general atmosphere of shock permeating the courtroom as the tale descends into Mafioso-caliber macabre. I don’t gasp, however; that would be a little over the top.

“That must have been disturbing, Mr. Davis. Frightening even … perhaps enough to frighten you off.”

This prompts a tight smile. “So you’d think. That probably would have been the smart thing. Instead, I called you.”

Enough with the melodrama.

“Yes, you did. But I’m still a little confused. We’ve seen a copy of a signed document that was filed with Cook County Court,” I say with furrowed brow. “Mr. Birch stood right here and delivered it to the clerk of the court.”

“I don’t know how her signature got on that Affidavit of Waiver of Service form, Mr. Valenti, but my office had nothing to with it. Hell, I have no idea where the damned thing came from. We keep originals or certified copies of all executed documents at our Iron Mountain storage facility, and we did not have anything on file there, neither original nor certified copy. Furthermore, our case file makes no mention of such a thing having taken place or even having been contemplated.”

I’m impressed; this is a guy who takes his document security seriously. At Penelope’s instigation, our sensitive documents are tucked away in an Irom Mountain facility until we need the physical copies, just the way Davis does. Electronic copies suffice for most eventualities, but we still need to retrieve originals for court and a handful of other events. Anyone who mirrors Penelope’s practices is alright by me.

“So, Mr. Davis, your testimony is unequivocally that your firm did not, at any point, prepare an affidavit of service to be served on Van Booker?”

“We did not.”

“And your office did not prepare the Affidavit of Waiver of Service that Mr. Birch placed into evidence with this court, despite his representation that the affidavit originated with your law office? You swear to that, as well.”

“I do.”

Birch is on his feet, arms flailing and lips flapping in full on indignation. “Your Honor, as an officer of the court, it is beneath contempt that Mr. Valenti just stood in open court and accused me of being complicit in document forgery and an attempt to mislead this court. I demand a retraction and that you sanction this contemptible behavior!”

Ellison turns her attention to me. It occurs to me that she hasn’t had much cause to intervene in my witness questioning. It’s a good sign. On the other hand, if Birch’s outrage gains traction, that could be a problem for me, both in this courtroom and beyond. I’m not yet two years removed from disciplinary action with the bar.

“How do you respond to that, Mr. Valenti?”

One thing that’s said to be a strength of mine is the ability to quickly think on my feet, and it serves me well now. I do not want to get into a knock down fight over this in front of the jury, and I certainly don’t want to afford Birch an opportunity to make any reference to my disciplinary trouble. Even if the judge subsequently directs the jury to disregard any such mention, who are we kidding? Nobody unhears what enters their ears.

“Sidebar, Your Honor?”

She nods and summons us forward. We descend upon her bench like a pack of hyenas who were last fed when humans were still swimming in primordial soup.

Birch again starts whining, which I have neither time nor patience for. “If I may, Your Honor?”

Ellison shushes Birch, which is an enjoyable instant in its own right. I elect to take the high road in an effort to placate the whiny turd at my elbow. “My apologies if you took my statement the wrong way, Grayson. I accused you of no such thing. The fact is that you did enter that affidavit into evidence, did you not?”

“At no point did I attempt to mislead this court!” he hisses.

“Nobody accused you of doing so,” I remind him.

“But the insinuation was there. I—”

Ellison’s hand leaps off the surface of the bench and she leans toward Birch. “There was no accusation, and no insinuations were made, Counselor. Did you place that exhibit into evidence?”

When he appears to be gearing up for another outburst, Ellison’s expression darkens and her voice drops dangerously low. “I asked you a question, Counselor. Yes? Or no?”

“I suppose not, but—”

“Stop!” Ellison snaps. “Did you not stand in my courtroom and state that the affidavit was executed by Mr. Davis’s law firm?”

His cheeks redden. “If I did—”

“Oh, you did,” Ellison says. “Would you like me to have the court reporter read it back to us?”

“No.” Like a little boy up to his elbow in the cookie jar denying everything.

“We have a jury waiting,” the judge says, clearly done with the matter. “Everything they’ve heard in the last few minutes is supported by the facts, Mr. Birch. If you wish to take the matter up again later, outside the hearing of our jury, you know where to find me.”

Grayson Birch is going to go after Davis with a sledgehammer, so I get out ahead of the line of attack that is most likely to damage Davis. “Let’s discuss you coming forward, Mr. Davis. I assume most folks are at least familiar with the term attorney-client privilege, which protects communications between lawyers and their clients. That includes work product, which these documents would be. Can you explain why you would potentially risk disciplinary action by revealing these matters in open court?”

The truth is that Davis made enquiries before committing to testifying, and Penelope concurs with the advice he received, so we’ve concluded this isn’t much of a concern. So, the considerations in deciding to talk this through in front of the jury were twofold. First, to blunt Birch’s inevitable attack, and secondly, Birch is a criminal prosecutor, not a divorce or estate attorney. While we lawyers all have at least a passing acquaintance with most aspects of the law, we’re not subject matter experts on the areas of law we seldom encounter. I didn’t know the answers to most of Davis’s concerns, and I doubt Grayson Birch or Sheila Evans are aware of them, either … not off the tops of their heads, and that’s all the preparation time I intend to afford them. Get this out in the open, wrap up my direct examination, and pass the witness to the State. And if I can throw another hand grenade into the proceedings in the process, why not?

“You know, I’m not sure I would have done anything without that phone call warning me off,” Davis says. “That made it clear that something wasn’t right. The question at that point for me became what was the right thing to do.”

“There are limited exceptions to the rules about attorney-client privilege,” I say. “Did you seek regulatory guidance?”

“Unfortunately, this took place over the weekend.”

“But you’re comfortable being here today?”

“As comfortable as I can be.”

“Nothing further, Your Honor.”

Davis remains pissed with Birch for throwing him under the bus without so much as a courtesy call, so when we talked by phone last night to do a quick once over of his testimony, he was happy to hop aboard the plan to lay a little trap for Birch. Now we’ll see if the prosecutor takes the bait. If he does, great; he’ll look a little less knowledgeable, a bit diminished as an attorney in the eyes of the jury. If he doesn’t step in the doo doo, no biggie. It’s not as if we’re dealing with a necessary evidentiary matter that will impact the trial. Just Grayson Birch’s competence in the eyes of the jury.

Grayson is up and at Davis almost the instant my ass lands in the chair beside Van.

“Ethics is a big thing for an attorney, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Davis?”

“A very big thing, Mr. Birch. I certainly never want to be seen as an attorney who plays fast and loose with the rules of evidence in a criminal trial.”

I smile at Van, lean close, and whisper in her ear. “This is about to get interesting.”

“Big time courtroom fun,” she says sardonically. Aside from the fact that her life is in jeopardy, she’s pronounced court and the law in general as, “A yawner.”

“I found it interesting that you told defense counsel that you’re not completely familiar with the implications of a client’s death on the attorney-client privilege,” Birch says. “I find it quite disturbing that you are sitting here today in violation of the oath you took to honor that privilege. Why should this jury have confidence in the words of someone who clearly doesn’t feel compelled to respect the rules he’s sworn to uphold.”

Davis appears non-plussed. “Who are you referring to, Mr. Birch? Me? Mr. Valenti? Yourself?”

Birch turns his torso halfway toward the jury box with a knowing look and reaches for the jugular. “You, sir, are the only attorney here this afternoon who has admitted to knowingly violating the attorney-client privilege.”

“That’s not correct,” Davis retorts, seemingly unperturbed by the serious accusation.

“Oh, come, Counselor. Did you not just tell us that you were unable to seek regulatory guidance over the weekend?”

“That’s correct. I was able to speak to someone on Monday and Tuesday, however. What was perplexing was that one of the exceptions to the privilege in the event of death is in relation to the legal representative of the deceased.  In this case, that is the accused, Van Booker, who is identified as Syl’s executor and sole heir in his will. As you are no doubt aware, the transfer of estate assets is called into jeopardy if the beneficiary is deemed to have been responsible for the death of the decedent in a criminal circumstance.”

“As is the case here,” Birch says.

“Not at this point in time. In the event Mrs. Booker should be convicted of this crime, that effectively disinherits her. That much is true. Yet she remains her husband’s executor and legal representative in death, in which instance the privilege passes to her.”

“And your point is?” Birch snaps, clearly growing bored with the extended answers. I imagine he hopes the jurors are, as well. My hope, of course, is that they hang in for another minute or two.

“My point, Mr. Birch, is that this was a rather unique circumstance. One that of necessity demanded extensive research and consultation. Thankfully, I was able to ascertain that the privilege did indeed pass to Mrs. Booker, who was in turn able to extend the privilege to her legal representative, who just so happens to be Mr. Valenti.”

Birch tut tuts. “It all sounds rather incestuous to me, Mr. Davis. Unfortunately for you, none of what you have said here seems to have given you the legal authority to have spoken of these matters in open court.”

The jury is clearly tiring of the topic. Should I object in some way to move things along?

Birch turns away from the witness and runs his gaze the full length of the jury box. “Unless you have a legal defense for having come into court today with the intention of dishonoring your vow to maintain attorney-client privilege to the victim in the murder case here before us, I believe we are done here, Mr. Davis.”

I stand. “If I may, Your Honor?”

She nods. “Go ahead, Mr. Valenti. Briefly.”

“I would like the court to make sure that our jury has not been misled during this cross examination, Your Honor. Mr. Davis did not violate the attorney-client privilege, as he attempted to explain to Mr. Birch. The jury needs to understand the truth of that, whether opposing counsel chooses to recognize the truth or not.”

Birch’s ensuing temper tantrum at least wakes the jury. Judge Ellison does a nice job of fulfilling my request, and we chalk up another “W” on the scoreboard. We take a brief break before I call my next witness. The judge summons us to the bench after the jury files out.

“Are we about done, Mr. Valenti? Aside from Mr. De Jong, do you anticipate calling any additional witnesses?”

In other words, will we be calling Van? It’s not yet two o’clock in the afternoon. The judge is calculating timing. If Theo De Jong is going to be our final witness, maybe she can squeeze both closing statements in before the end of the court day, even if it means running a little long to do so. That would allow a full day tomorrow for bench directions and jury deliberations, hopefully clearing us out of her courtroom before Friday so she can take care of the judicial housekeeping that inevitably piles up during a trial. I bet she’d like a weekend free of trial concerns; two entire days free of refereeing an unwieldy gaggle of lawyers.

I offer Ellison an apologetic smile. “As yet undetermined, Your Honor.”

“Any idea when you’ll know for sure?”

“Let’s see how things go after the break. To be honest, I didn’t expect Mr. Davis’s testimony to take more than a half-hour. Had that been the case, I was hoping to fit Mr. De Jong in before the afternoon break.”

I don’t expect Theo’s time on the stand to last long. Which gives me an idea, if I can sell it.

“Come to think of it, Your Honor. It may not take all that long for our team to reach a decision about our other potential witness. If you can see your way clear to allowing a full hour for this recess, we can try to get it resolved.” I smile. “Like you, I’d like clarity on the matter and will do my level best to reach a decision.”

Ellison turns to Birch. “Any difficulties with that, Counsel?”

He shakes his head no, but there was a little hesitation. Probably trying to figure out what my angle is. Projection, pure and simple.

“In the interest of time, finding somewhere secure in the courthouse with room for five people to meet would be helpful,” I tell the judge. She summons Ella, who can’t think of anywhere. “Not if you’re looking for serious privacy, no.”

“Crap,” I mutter. I don’t want to burn up any of our limited time going to and from. The BV&W office is a good ten-minute drive each way at the best of times.

Ellison snaps her fingers. “Don’t despair. I have a solution. Follow me.”

CHAPTER 48

Ella O’Reilly hands me an Arby’s menu after Judge Ellison settles us in her chambers. “Two blocks west, one block east. You can call ahead for pickup and food will be ready by the time someone gets there.”

To no one’s surprise, Mick gets the assignment, leaving me, Van, Mike, and Joe Bob seated around the judge’s cherry maple conference table, one that looks suspiciously like an eight-place dining room table complete with high-back upholstered chairs. Quite a bit more character and comfort than the standard conference room setup.

“What’s up?” Van asks.

“Lunch, and anything that comes to mind for the closing statement based on what went on in court this morning, a quick preview of Theo De Jong’s upcoming testimony, and a discussion about where we go from there.”

“Isn’t De Jong the end of the line before me?” Van asks.

I nod. Joe Bob and Mike get the message that I want to defer the Van discussion until we’ve cleared the agenda of all else. I expect that Van will make the discuss contentious and I don’t want it dragging out to the exclusion of all else. Being up against the deadline to return from recess will keep the discussion from continuing ad infinitum.

“Things went well this morning,” I say. “Notes for closing?”

We spend a couple of minutes deciding on the key takeaways to work into my closing argument. Mick returns with a stupid number of sandwiches, or so I think until I realize that he, Mike, and Van have each laid out three for themselves. I take one. Joe Bob shakes his head at me with a grin as he pulls one in front of himself. While we eat, I preview Theo’s testimony.”

“That’s it?” Van asks in surprise.

“Plus a few minutes of preliminary filler,” I reply. “His CV, a recap of the medical evidence, and then dropping the bomb. That will create some excitement, but even that should have limited shelf life.”

“Which brings us to me,” Van says.

“It does,” I confirm. “Let’s get started.”

Van wants to testify—has since the earliest days of the case. She has it in her head that she owes the jury an explanation for why it wasn’t her. I grew hoarse trying to disabuse her of that notion before finally giving up. I realized after the trial was underway that she had misinterpreted my weary withdrawal from the topic as victory. She’d been surprised to discover that the battle wasn’t yet over.

She makes clear her intention to testify. “The way a few of those jurors eyeball me gives me the shivers. I kinda get it … hell, I feel it too—the rage about Ally and the conviction that someone needs to pay. I’m the obvious target, right?”

I nod but remain silent. Van and I have been having variations of this debate for the past week, and for a couple of months before that. The time for a decision is upon us. I know what she thinks, I know what I believe—now I want to take the temperature of the other people in this room.

“But we don’t know what they’re thinking,” Joe Bob says. “We can make what feels like an educated guess based on our observations, we can guess at a juror’s disposition toward you based on watching them, we can even speculate about what’s going through their minds, but we can’t know.”

“That’s all well and good—"

Mike cuts off Van’s response. “Trust Tony on this, Van. Trust us,” he adds with a look that sweeps around the conference table. “Aside from Mick, we have years of experience in the quirks of trials and courtrooms. I’m not saying that testifying is absolutely the right or wrong choice, but it is the riskiest choice a defendant can make. So many things can go wrong. I’ve seen more than one defendant turn probable acquittal into a conviction after taking the stand.”

Van stares back at him, mind obviously churning.

“Am I right?” Mike asks the table at large.

Heads nod all around, with the exception of Mick. I’ve been growing a little proud of him as time has gone on, particularly his awareness of when he doesn’t have the knowledge and experience to weigh in.

How wrong I am.

“If I was on that jury, I’d want to hear what Van has to say,” he pipes up. “If she tells the truth, I bet the jury will pick up on her sincerity and realize she wouldn’t have harmed Ally.”

“Two points on that, Mick,” I say a little more sharply than I mean to, but perhaps I should deliver this response with a hard edge. “One, you’re not on the jury, so what you’d prefer if you were is irrelevant. Two, what you don’t want to hear is Grayson Birch twisting Van’s words, tossing half-truths and untruths about at every turn, and maneuvering Van into opening the door to avenues of questioning and evidence that would otherwise remain closed to him.”

Van is eyeballing me with interest. She’s heard this all before, albeit perhaps not delivered this passionately. Shame on me. I hold her gaze as I continue. “Asking a defendant to testify is, in almost all cases, an act of desperation. Is anyone here feeling desperate?”

Heads shake.

“I was marveling earlier at how thin the prosecution’s case turned out to be when we held it up to the looking glass,” I say. “Think of how completely we’ve torn down the pillars of their case, such as they are. Without the gamesmanship and games with evidence, what do they really have?”

“Not a whole lot,” Joe Bob says.

“In my estimation,” I continue, “we have reasonable doubt here ten ways from Heaven.” Counting on my fingers, I begin listing them. “One: The mere fact of divorce paperwork and the convoluted story surrounding it. Two: The knife wounds aren’t consistent with Van’s own knife. Three: The magically-appearing alleged murder weapon itself. How did it come to be part of the case? Does anyone think it would have been ‘found’ if the prosecution or the real killer had known Van’s Yarborough was liable to surface? Theo De Jong’s testimony will drive a stake through the heart of the State’s case. The prosecution can’t put Van at the scene forensically or timewise. Four: Aside from the pending divorce angle, which I believe has been effectively blown into tiny bits of confetti, they’ve yet to articulate a shred of believable motive. Five: Who’s attempting to silence our witnesses? Did Van try to shut herself up last week in a street brawl with herself? We just won’t need your testimony, Van. And I haven’t even mentioned the DEA angle.”

“And you won’t,” Mike says sharply.

“We probably won’t need it,” I say, pushing back gently. Mike shares Penelope’s concern about putting ourselves in the crosshairs of what seems to be a federal agency that has been known to go rogue to get its way. Their concern isn’t misplaced, but it certainly runs counter to how I perceive my obligations to our client, which is to fight every battle and skirmish to the bitter end, doing so with every ounce of guile and fight I have in me. I’ve never before thought it might be otherwise in my partners’ estimation.

We engage in a bit of a stare down without realizing we’ve begun one. When I realize what’s happening, I smile and look away.

Mike accepts my olive branch with a slow smile. “Was that a preview of your closing argument a minute ago, Tony? Because if it was, it sounded pretty damn good.”

He has a point. Maybe that’s all I needed to hear to firmly put a stop to Van’s nonsense. But before I have a chance to put my metaphorical foot down, Mike steals my thunder.

“Does my opinion matter now that I’m on the fringes of this?” he asks Van.

“Of course,” she says.

He smiles. “Thanks, Tony’s right. You’re wrong. Time to fold your tent and steal quietly off to an acquittal.”

She clamps her lips shut and looks away, and I have a nightmare vision of having to capitulate in the face of her making an appeal to the bench. Judge Ellison is too good and conscientious a judge to allow Van to make such a momentous decision and potentially monumental mistake lightly. I expect she would quietly argue against it, but at the end of the day, none of us can stop Van if she insists on testifying. It’s her right.

We all have the right to our stupidity.

CHAPTER 49

When I intimated to Judge Ellison before the break that my last witness of the day might not take too long, I deliberately padded my estimate with a little extra time[NT12]. I’m trying to keep my options open, if for no other reason than to give us an offramp if we need one to buy more time to dissuade Van from getting on the damned witness stand. I put that out of mind as best I can and call our next—and hopefully last—witness.

Theo De Jong, a retired medical examiner and BV&W’s go-to medical expert, lumbers to the witness box and settles in. Theo has the blocky build of the university linebacker he’d once been, the incongruously slender fingers of the pianist his mother insisted he try to become when his father wasn’t driving him to ball practice of one sort or another, and widely-spaced eyes that remind me of, of all things, the liquid brown orbs of our beloved Deano. The total package brings to mind an intelligent teddy bear. Go figure.

After a few minutes, it’s clear that this man has the tools to speak knowledgeably to our jury about the medical issues in the case. He has conducted thousands of autopsies in his time, most as the Chief Coroner of a Midwestern city. One thing I love about Theo is that he isn’t willing to be anybody’s attack dog and never has been. If he disagrees with a finding, he’s happy to analyze both sides of the debate and explain exactly how and why he may hold an opposing position, and he does it all without disparaging his fellow medical examiners. “This a tough job” he said in front of the first jury I presented him to. “We all get things wrong now and then. None of us do, or should, take issue with a second professional opinion.” Then he’d added, with a disarming smile, “I probably learned more by screwing up than I ever learned in medical school.” Finally, he’d laid a finger aside his nose. “Please don’t tell my professors.” What’s not to love about the guy?

True to form, when we discuss the work of the medical examiner’s office in our case, he’s generous in his assessment of the autopsy work done on Syl and Ally Booker. “It was good work, actually. I found no issues with how the post-mortems were conducted, and the final reports were fine pieces of work, with one exception.”

I’m surprised when he turns to me and says, “But before we get to that, I’d like to speak to an issue of concern that came to mind as I listened to you referring to the victims’ wounds. I mention it only because there are distinctions in this case that we must be careful not to confuse.”

“Okay,” I say. “Please do.” This is a first for me with Theo.

“There is a tendency for lay people to describe knife wounds somewhat too broadly. While this seldom makes a material difference when discussing a crime scene where a single victim was wounded with a single blade, when we add dynamics such as multiple victims and weapons, it becomes essential to be clear with our terminology. Mr. Booker’s injuries were inflicted by what is often referred to as a combat or fighting knife, which is characterized by a sharp blade well suited to creating slashing and stabbing wounds. The autopsy photos of Mr. Booker’s body clearly show the variety of wounds that may be inflicted with such a knife.”

He pauses with a minor pinching of the crease between his eyes. “In stark contrast, Ally suffered a single, penetrating puncture wound directly into her heart that would have stopped it beating immediately, resulting in instantaneous death.”

“So, a different manner of death in terms of how the wounds were inflicted?” I ask in some confusion. For the first time, Theo and I aren’t in sync. It’s almost as if the elements of his planned testimony were shattered into a dozen pieces and he’s picking them up at random.

He nods. “There are two distinctions to recognize here. Number one is the method of inflicting the wounds. Whereas Mr. Booker suffered a very violent attack resulting in a truly shocking number of wounds, several of which would have been fatal on their own, Ally was killed with a single precise, thrusting, penetrating wound. Very deliberate, very well placed. The contrast is striking. Precision versus overkill. I wonder if there might have been separate attackers.”

He pauses to make sure I’m still with him. I am, but he’s now veered off in a direction we didn’t discuss in advance. My mind starts to play with the ramifications of multiple attackers until I shut it down. Not here, not now.

“I also found the different weapons used in the killing to be an interesting contrast,” Theo continues. “A combat knife, such as that used in the attack on Mr. Booker, is common enough not to raise any eyebrows, but the stiletto knife used to attack Ally was most unusual. Stilettos come in all shapes and sizes, but seldom with as long and slender a blade as we see here.”

“Why is that significant, Doctor?” It never hurts to remind jurors that medical examiners were regular medical doctors or specialists before they become pathologists.

He gives me a long, considered look, almost as if he’s just returned from a daydream. “Actually, from a medical perspective, it really isn’t.”

And we’re talking about this because?

“Sorry,” he says, shaking off whatever wool he’s been gathering.  “I’m a bit of an amateur knife collector. The type of stiletto knife used here dates back many, many years … to Medieval times, in fact. We seldom see them outside museums.”

A fascinating bit of trivia that may prove useful to the cops when they get around to properly investigating these murders, but of no use to me right now. I swallow my irritation and prod Theo forward. With luck, the jurors will regard the brief detour as a further indication of the breadth of Theo’s expertise. Either that or they’re all asleep. I kick myself for losing control of my own witness. If there’s a silver lining, Van seems to take some comfort from Theo’s certainty that Ally went fast and didn’t suffer.

I walk back to our table and hold out my hand to Joe Bob, who is a bit overdramatic when he slaps a small cardboard box into my hands. Seeing it coming fast startles me; it’s all I can do not to jerk my hand back. Inside the box is an evidence bag containing Van’s Yarborough combat knife, complete with the brand name and a serial number stenciled on the blade. I shoot Joe Bob a look and carry the box to the witness stand, where I place it in Theo’s hands.

“Do you recognize this, Dr. De Jong?”

“I do. This is a Yarborough combat knife that I understand belongs to the defendant. You asked me to conduct certain tests on the weapon.”

Guess who’s on his feet behind us, all but apoplectic as he shouts, “Your Honor! We object to this … this unacceptable ambush by opposing counsel.”

Rather than attempt to unravel the mishmash of words, Judge Ellison summons us to the bench. “What is this about, Mr. Valenti?”

“Mr. Birch was a little too clever by half with the knife he brought to court on Tuesday, Judge. We’re introducing Van Booker’s knife into evidence and intend to have Dr. De Jong give us the benefit of his expertise concerning the wounds and whether or not that knife can be ruled in or out as the murder weapon.”

“They can’t do this, Your Honor. That knife should have been surrendered to the police during the investigation. Search warrants were served! We have no idea where it’s been!”

I turn a sardonic smile on him. “Oh, that’s rich, Grayson. Unlike the knife you pulled out a drainpipe three months after the fact, this knife lacks provenance and should be excluded because you don’t know where it’s been? Gee, where have I heard that before?”

Birch glares at the box still resting in Theo’s hands, then takes a step toward the witness stand.

“Stop right there, Counselor,” Ellison snaps, shooting a look at one of the bailiffs, who jolts to attention. “Where are you going, Mr. Birch?”

“That knife belongs in police custody. There was a warrant.”

“There were search warrants for Van’s house and car,” I say. “There was not a search warrant specifically for a Yarborough knife.”

“Oh, get serious!” he fires back.

“Settle down!” the judge whispers furiously.

“Your Honor, you cannot allow this,” Birch says urgently when he’s finally eased back into place at my side.

I sigh. The circus has run its course. Birch has made an ass of himself in front of the jury, which is about to be underscored. “The knife is being offered into evidence for the purpose of impeaching the testimony of the State’s expert medical witness, Your Honor.”

Thus ends our little confab before the judge’s bench. As we return to our seats, Birch with his tail firmly tucked between his legs, I take the side that allows me to turn my head to Birch without the jury being able to see when I deliver a “fuck you” smirk.

And that, my friend, is that!

I now move quickly to wrap up Theo’s testimony. The shorter it is, the less Birch will have to ask about on cross, and the sooner we can put a bow on the case and hand it to the jury.

After introducing the knife into evidence, I continue questioning Theo while the box carrying Van’s knife is passed from hand to hand through the jury box. “We asked you to examine the Yarborough knife that we told you belongs to Van Booker, correct?”

“Correct.”

“We also asked you to look carefully at the wounds on the body of Syl Booker and to offer an opinion as to whether the wounds could have been inflicted by that same Yarborough knife.”

“Yes, you did. At your request I made a careful study of Mr. Booker’s wounds and took such measurements and conducted such other examination of the medical evidence as I deemed necessary to form an opinion.”

“And what conclusion did you reach? Could these wounds have been inflicted using the Yarborough knife?”

“No.”

“That simple, Doctor? A simple, unequivocal no.”

“That’s correct.”

“Can you explain to us how you can be sure?”

“Certainly. There are imperfections in the blade of the Yarborough that would reveal themselves in any wounds they inflict.”

“Can you describe these imperfections for us?”

He nods and slips a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and thumbs through a handful of pages. “Ah, here it is. There is an imperfection, a notch, if you will, three-sixteenths of an inch from the tip of the blade on the upper ridge. There is another slight imperfection approximately halfway along the lower length off the blade. Both of these imperfections would have appeared along the margins of the knife wounds if Mrs. Booker’s knife had been used in this crime. There were no such imperfections along the margins of the victim’s wounds. Ergo, the Yarborough knife was not the murder weapon.”

“Is there any question that this particular knife belongs to Van Booker?”

“I’m sure there is, but there’s no question about where it came from and if it belonged to her at some point in time.”

“How can you be sure of that?

“Every graduate from the US Army Special Forces Qualification school is presented with a special Yarborough tactical knife. Each knife is engraved with a unique serial number that is kept on record at the US Army’s JFK Special Warfare School at Fort Bragg.”

I walk back toward our table and hold my hand to Joe Bob. “And you took the trouble to verify all of this for us, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

I take a notarized copy of the letter the army handed to Theo when he “swung by” Fort Bragg a couple of weeks ago. And when I say, “swung by,” you want to take that literally. I assumed he’d send away and told him to make sure he billed us for whatever courier or other costs he incurred. I was more than a little surprised to discover he’d picked it up in person. “Plenty of good golf and fishing down that way.”

I ask Ella to retrieve the CRK Green Beret knife Birch placed into evidence yesterday, the one I derisively refer to in front of the jury as the drainpipe knife. Theo points to a number of stylistic differences between this knife and Van’s Yarborough. He agrees with Dr. Devi that Syl’s wounds might very well have been inflicted by the CRK knife in evidence, or one just like it.

And that’s really all Theo can do for our cause, but given how loud and long the prosecution has been pounding the drums suggesting that Van’s tactical knife was the murder weapon, it’s significant. I thank Theo and turn him over to Birch, who proceeds to poke a couple of holes in our presentation.

I smile as the prosecutor hammers away on a key weakness we’re aware of, not succeeding in rattling Theo but making at least one excellent point that we saw coming. Of course there’s nothing in the autopsy identifying who actually wielded the knife that killed Syl Booker. It could have been Van, but it also could have been one of the other eight billion people walking the earth.

Reasonable doubt anyone?

After Birch finishes flailing away at Theo and what I hope will be our final witness walks out of the courtroom, I ask the judge for a moment to confer with our client. We push back to the bar so Mike Williams can lean close to join the conversation.

“So?” I ask Van, who looks to Mike.

“So?” Mike parrots, holding her gaze.

“I don’t know….”

“I do, Van,” I say. “It’s time to rest our case.”

“What he said,” Mike adds.

She looks from me to Mike and back again, before finally settling her gaze on the witness box. Picturing herself there, or reliving Theo up there confidently making a case for her innocence. Maybe replaying it all: my cross-examination victories, us scoring points with our own evidence and witnesses, perhaps even Grayson Birch closing in on our witnesses, wondering how she’ll hold up. The moment stretches out, seemingly interminably, although I realize we’re barely a minute into her reverie.

Judge Ellison’s eyes meet mine. The almost imperceptible lifting of a single eyebrow in query is followed by the ghost of smile.

I almost miss Van’s nod as her eyes drop from the witness chair. “I’m good,” she announces.

Good with what, though?

Mike verbalizes the question. “You’re good with resting our case?”

She nods.

I’m on my feet before she can change her mind. “Your Honor, the defense rests.”

CHAPTER 50

At nine o’clock the following morning, the usual butterflies and elephants careening around my insides are just gearing up for an hours-long rampage as Judge Ellison briefly welcomes our jurors and then gets down to business.

“Now that both sides have rested their cases, we’re entering the closing stages of the trial.” She pauses to return the smiles lighting up faces in the jury box. “In a few minutes, we’ll hear closing arguments from Mr. Birch and Mr. Valenti, and then I’ll have a chat with you to explain relevant points of law you’ll need to be aware of in the course of your deliberations. After that, the case will be yours to decide. Any questions?”

A voice in the back row of the jury box stage-whispers, “Can we skip the lawyer parts?”

There’s a clown in every class.

Grayson Birch stands, flashes the jury a tight smile, and walks very deliberately into the well. “Good morning,” he says gravely. This is not the prosecutor I expected to be facing this morning. I fully expected to be watching Birch shoot his shirt cuffs as he strode into battle where he would proceed to huff, puff, and attempt to blow down what he hopes the jury perceives to be our house of cards. Not happening, at least not in the style I’ve been picturing.

Having been at least partially disarmed of a handful of the “facts” he promised to prove in his opening statement—by the brilliant lawyering of one Anthony Valenti, Esquire—there’s noticeably less swagger to the Assistant State’s Attorney today as he starts to find his rhythm a short way into his speech. This isn’t the elixir for our side one might imagine it to be, as I’ve suspected all along that the cocky Birch wasn’t exactly endearing himself to the folks in the jury box who might not self-identify as a Bro. As he calmly and confidently presents a cogent argument on behalf of the prosecution, my recognition of the glaring weaknesses in their case is reinforced ten-fold. And yet, will it matter? Birch is smooth this morning, the jurors are following his sleight of hand with rapt attention, with a few thoughtfully nodding along when he animates his voice to throw light on a key point. Not good.

When Birch thanks the jury and resumes his seat after forty-five minutes, my thoughts are a little scrambled. Getting perhaps a little too high on my own press and an insider’s realization of exactly how thin this sham of a case has been, I realize that I’ve fallen victim to exactly the hubris I warned myself against at the internet café yesterday. Without the support of the underhanded evidence games the State has been playing throughout this trial, I somehow expected that the jury would see the truth through my eyes, and the whole rancid edifice would crumble like a child’s sandcastle when the tide comes in.

You’re an ass, Valenti, I scold myself. If I want the jury to see something through my eyes, it’s my job to paint the scene for them. I metaphorically roll up my sleeves to get to work, having mentally charted a handful of detours from my planned statement. It’s not as if I need to worry about droning on too long; it’s only going to take a handful of powerful points to realize my vision of a few waves washing away the State’s case. Or so I tell myself.

A vison of Pat muttering a sardonic: Be the sea, Valenti! washes away the anthill of anxiety that poked its head above the ramparts as I slip an index card of prompts into my jacket pocket. It’s been several years since I last needed to consult notes, but I learned the hard way that finding myself tongue-tied and mute in front of a jury is a painful, trial-killing experience. Once was enough, thank you very much.

I stride into the well and greet the now-familiar faces of the jury. “Let’s begin by examining the sloppy police investigation that unsurprisingly ended up with a singular focus on the trusty old usual suspect … in this case, Van Booker has been trotted out as the murderous spouse. While it’s clear that the focus of Detective Pappalardi’s investigation was misplaced—we all remember the homicide detective who told us that detecting isn’t his job, don’t we?— should we be surprised? Of course not. After all, who knows how much of the homicide detective’s work was shuffled off onto the shoulders of a few green new recruits. I don’t know about you, but that concerns me very much. No wonder police didn’t stumble across a knife resting just inside a clearly visible drainpipe sooner than three months after the fact .. unless maybe the knife wasn’t in the drainpipe until the morning an unknown caller told the police to go have a look? We’ll circle back to the knife, folks.

“The police investigation missed quite a few things, didn’t it?” I’m happy to see a few nods as I pile on. “Now, it isn’t my job to spend my time pursuing investigative lines of inquiry, but if the police aren’t going to talk to the neighbors about what occurred on and around Maple Street in the days and weeks and months leading up that tragic Easter morning, then I suppose it’s up to you and me, isn’t it?” A couple of smiles appear, which surprises me, but I choose to see it as a good omen. “Might it have been helpful for investigators to speak with the people who knew the Bookers best? I’ve been struck by the universal narrative of Van’s overwhelming love for her daughter. Who can imagine that adoration, devotion, and unbridled love suddenly turning to murderous intent? What could possibly drive a devoted mother to such an utterly inexplicable act?”

I pause for a strategically-timed sip of water while the jury turns that question over in their minds. 

“What to make of the ever-present current of criminality that ran like a thread through the life of Syl Booker?” I continue. “Don’t misunderstand me, ladies and gentlemen—I’m in no way suggesting that Syl Booker somehow deserved the fate that befell him or that he was a bad guy best taken out of circulation. Not at all, but assuming there is truth to the suggestion that Syl flirted with the danger inherent in any association with criminal elements, might this not have been a potentially fruitful avenue for Detective Pappalardi and his equally incurious colleagues to have pursued … especially in light of Syl’s apparent connections to the DEA toward the end of his life? You might think so, but we’d be wrong, ladies and gentlemen. Instead, these Chicago Police Department detectives concocted a simple story of the spouse killing her husband in a fit of rage about … about what, exactly? They didn’t tell us that, did they? They trotted out a prosecution-friendly hack professional witness … er, excuse me, psychologist, to paint an unconvincing picture of Van’s mental health that bears no resemblance to the woman you’ve observed in this courtroom for the past week.” I pause to look at Van, drawing the jury’s eyes to her, as well. “It’s a picture completely at odds with how the people who know Van best have described her, and that I’d wager was deliberately portrayed as a cold, distant mother to ensure you could be sold on that fiction and not be swayed by the overwhelming evidence that Van Booker was a loving, devoted mother. And let’s not forget that Van had been Syl’s wife for several years. You’ll recall Esther Walker telling us that there was love between the Bookers. Another instance of Van being a warm human being with the capacity for tenderness and great love.”

I’ve made my way back to the defense table by the time I mention Esther. I lean close to Joe Bob while I retrieve my water bottle. “Thoughts?”

“ All good,” he replies. “You’re reeling them back in.”

My gaze lifts to Mike as Joe Bob replies. He flashes a confident smile and a thumbs up.

Two more topics to cover and I’m done. “Speaking of a prosecution with a curious amount of suspicious evidence, what are we to make of the phantom divorce paperwork that the State trotted before you a few days ago? How did someone manage to forge those documents and then fool Mr. Birch into placing them before you as a potential motive for murder? As curious as I am to learn how all that played out, the essential questions for us today are who did this and why? Who had a motive to falsely incriminate Van in her husband’s murder? Why did this party go to such efforts to trick us into believing Van had a possible reason to fly off the handle and butcher her husband for having the temerity to seek a divorce? The obvious answer, of course, is that a still unknown assailant did so, successfully diverting investigators from looking any further than Syl’s own backyard for his killer.”

An image of a defenseless Ally Booker swims into my mind, unbidden. She’s asleep in innocent childhood slumber with a well-worn Snoopy stuffy resting against her cheek as the shadow of a slender stiletto knife suddenly looms on the wall above her bed. I swallow the lump trying to rise in my throat, battling the tears that threaten to well up in my eyes. I retreat to our table until the moment passes, apologize to the jury for my unexpected diversion, and use the horror of the imagery and the brutal callousness of it as fuel when I launch into my next topic.

“As for what we are to make of Ally’s comparatively merciful killing, we suggest that this was a diabolically clever stroke, a masterful sleight of hand that the police and State’s Attorney’s office eagerly latched onto in support of their all-too-predictable investigative bias.” I take a step back and raise my fingers into well-established pantomime of air quotations. “‘Look, everyone! The mother didn’t have the heart to see her child suffer.’ How disgustingly underhanded was that? The cold-hearted murder of a three-year-old child in the service of covering the real killer’s tracks.”

I ruefully shake my head in what is a genuine display of sorrow over the death of a child. Time to bring it home.

“Finally, ladies and gentlemen, let’s revisit the knife evidence. You’ll recall that the State’s introduction of a knife of unknown provenance, which they placed into evidence the morning after their witness sought to convince you that the murder weapon was also that exact type of CRK Green Beret knife.” I walk to the witness stand and stare down into it with a look of disdain. “Their witness sat in this chair and claimed, incorrectly I might add, that the CRK Green Beret is the exact type of tactical knife that is given to all Green Beret soldiers when they graduate from qualifying school. Not coincidentally, it emerged in testimony that Van Booker was a graduate of that very program The implication they sought to sell to you was that Van had been issued just such a knife. ‘Imagine that! Don’t we all know what she ended up doing with that knife?’ And just in case you weren’t completely sold on this narrative, mere hours later this the police received a tip that a CRK Green Beret knife was waiting to be collected from a drainpipe near the crime scene … four months after the fact. What a lucky break!”

With my mouth growing parched and my voice threatening to break, I pause for a final drink of water. I set it down and walk directly into the well and plant myself dead center in front of the jury, casting my eyes along the row of faces staring back at me with what I hope is rapt attention.

I shake my head while delivering a long-suffering expression of weary exasperation. “Of course, the prosecution once again had their facts wrong. Mr. Birch incorrectly described and placed into evidence a CRK Green Beret knife, claiming it was a Yarborough knife. As you’ll recall, the CRK Green Beret knife has no official association with the US Army. Van Booker was awarded a different knife altogether, the one she still proudly owns today—a Yarborough tactical knife with a unique serial number that we know from the records of the US Army is the exact same one awarded to her on the proud morning she became a Green Beret.”

I start walking toward our table, then pause and look back, Columbo-like. “How can you trust anything Mr. Birch told you about knives?”

I pause and allow Theo De Jong’s explosive revelations to resurface in their minds. “So what do we make of this copycat mail order knockoff knife that dropped from the Heavens at the most opportune moment for the prosecution? I think we can all agree that this stunt doesn’t pass the smell test, ladies and gentlemen. And if it doesn’t, what does that tell you about the other questionable evidence that’s been introduced by the State?”

I let that question hang in the air for a long moment as I move closer to the jury box, angling my approach so I can meet the eye of each and every one of them. “Ladies and gentlemen, on this evidence alone, as well all the other questionable evidence they’ve placed before you, the State itself has introduced doubt—reasonable doubt—into their own case. By that measure alone, you have no alternative but to return a verdict of not guilty. Coupled with the many unexplained, erroneous, or, quite frankly, inexplicably moronic conclusions they’ve attempted to sell to you to send Van Booker to prison for these crimes would be as grave a travesty of justice as I have ever seen attempted.” I pause for a final beat and rise to my full height. “Justice and simple decency demand that you set Van Booker free from these preposterous charges.”

CHAPTER 51

“Got plans?” I ask Mike as we file out of the courtroom an hour and a half later. Judge Ellison has instructed the jury in her minimalist yet thorough manner that I’ve come to admire; the jurors have been sent back to the jury room to deliberate. I always feel an odd combination of relief and angst at this point in a trial—relief that my work is done, tempered by apprehension that my work wasn’t good enough.

“Maybe a little snooze, nothing too strenuous,” Mike says.

“How about dinner at the prestigious law offices of Brooks, Valenti, and Williams?”

“Williams, you say? Anyone I know?”

“Nah, just a lazy layabout who hasn’t been in the office for months.”

“And did you mention something about ‘prestigious’ offices, my man?”

“I did.”

“Well then, by all means, let’s see these news digs of yours.”

We exchange fond smiles. God I’ve missed having this guy riding shotgun. Joe Bob’s been great, for sure, but the difference is kind of like picking up a somewhat battered glove from the side of the road on a frigid day as opposed to slipping on a pair of exceedingly comfortable Himalayan-quality mittens that have been molded to your grip through years of use. Workable, functional even, but simply not the same experience.

Mike’s brother Reg helps us wrestle Mike into a seven-seat Toyota Sienna Reg picked up for business reasons, scoffing at my offer to drive Mike in my car. “You trying to kill the poor guy? I’d have a hard time squeezing my beagle into that thing, let alone this guy, especially with him being all gimped up.”

Taking umbrage, I leap to the defense of my auto manufacturer. “The Panamera is classified as a family sedan.”

“Maybe a family of Chihuahuas, dude. Nah, I’ll swing by and drop him off, then go grab myself some ribs and maybe a beer while you folks talk shop. I ain’t going through another three months of babysitting and chauffeuring this guy around.”

“Hey!” Penelope says when we step through the door into our offices. “I just got here from the airport. Mom told me you were on your way, so here I am.”

Hellos are exchanged all around.

Penelope waves at us to follow her into the conference room, where we find water glasses, coffee mugs, utensils, and paper napkins neatly arranged in front of seats for seven: the partners and Joan, Van, and couple of places set for Mick and Joe Bob. Joan probably didn’t even break a sweat laying this out; she’s known for over fifteen minutes that we were coming.

“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here!” Penelope exclaims.

“Man oh man,” Mike says with a chuckle. “Ain’t she just Kansas personified?”

Penelope dazzles him with a smile of blinding intensity. “Like ten suns!” she’d once retorted in response to his comparing her smile to the sun. She turns her attention back the rest of us. “I hope everyone’s okay with a Daily Special?”

Van’s ears perk up. “From that Sandwich Emporium place?”

Penelope nods and winks. “There’s only one Daily Special around these parts.”

“That’s a mighty fine idea,” Mike drawls as he eases ever-so-gently into a chair at the head of the conference table.

We recap the day’s proceedings for Penelope and Joan and ponder our chances while we wolf down the food. Eventually noting that Van’s nerves are taut enough without us pondering the odds of this possibly being her last meal as a free woman—not that anyone has used those words—I steer the conversation to summer vacations and such. Oddly enough, none of us has taken one, but we make do with tales of Brittany in Europe and Sara slumming it in Scandinavia. Before you know it, Mike has his phone out and we’re marveling at photos of the midnight sky over Oslo.

“The flip side,” Van informs us as we babble about how cool it would be to have those long summer nights without darkness, “A[NT13]re the days on end above the Arctic Circle when the sun never quite manages to struggle above the horizon in the dead of winter. Trust me, that sucks.”

“Where have you been to experience that?” Penelope asks.

Van thinks on it, as if there’s a long list. Who knew?

“Been to Alaska for that, Greenland, Iceland and Norway … Sweden … and, oh, Russia.”

“Russia?” Mike asks in surprise. “Recently?”

It’s a good question. The Cold War has been on again for much if not all of Van’s adult life, and certainly for the entirety of her military career.

She shoots Mike a wink and enigmatically says, “Well, maybe not officially.”

Undoubtedly as a US Army Green Beret doing who knows what under cover of perpetual darkness. I stifle the impulse to ask for details, which I suspect she’d be unwilling or unable to share.

Penelope picks up on the hesitation and redirects the conversation to Minnesota. “Great outdoor opportunities within a hop, skip, and jump of downtown Minneapolis,” she marvels. “Whenever Becky can get away, we head out for one of those ten thousand lakes they brag on.”

“Who counted?” Mike asks with a smile.

“What do you think Goldy does all summer?”

Mike laughs. “You’re quick on your feet today, partner!”

I have no idea what they’re talking about, but thankfully, Mick is far less reluctant to put his limited onomastic knowledge on display. Yeah, I had to look it up too. Onomastics is the study of proper names. Mind you, that raises the question of what makes a name proper. Anyway, back to the story.

“Who is Goldy?” Mick asks.

“Goldy Gopher,” Penelope replies.

“Mascot of the University of Minnesota,” Van adds. “Cute little thing.”

Joe Bob nods in agreement.

So it’s just Mick and me who are trivia-challenged?

Brian Campbell himself, USN retired, master sandwich maker, beleaguered husband to the endlessly perky and in motion Maiko, walks into the office with an armful of bags. “Lunch!”

Having thus expended his full quota of socializing for the day, he waves as he walks back out.

Sated and bored within twenty minutes, we drift out of the conference room. Mick heads home to feed his cat, Joe Bob departs to check in with his office (which I believe is at home), Mike summons Reg for the trip home, and Joan returns to the never-ending job of keeping the BV&W motor humming along, leaving only Penelope and I to tidy up. She has a metabolic engine that never quits, and my stress level has been spinning up by several additional RPM with each and every passing minute of jury deliberation. We bend to our task with gusto. It takes a good thirty seconds to power our way through the sandwich wrappers and empty cans.

“As long you’re going to pace endlessly, why not get some air while you’re at it?” Penelope asks a few minutes later.

“Are you asking me out for a walk?”

“I am.”

“Like on a date?”

“Pshaw. You wish, buster.”

“Don’t take that mocking tone with me,” I retort while changing into a pair of smelly old Addidas sneakers I keep on hand for just this purpose, plus the hoops beatdowns at Mike’s hands. “Your wife once told me that if you were ever going to do it with a guy, she suspects it would be with me.”

She waves the thought aside with a snicker. “You can’t believe anything that old hag says.”

We elevate the nature of our conversation when we hit the street, with me feeling free to discuss my concerns and worries about what may be taking place in the jury room. I double-guess my decision to push the judge for an all-or-nothing jury instruction, leaving no off-ramp for the jury to opt for a compromise verdict of second-degree murder or manslaughter in its many guises.

“I just felt sure we could win outright,” I conclude.

Penelope grins. “I believe this is the type of decision that Mike calls your Big Ball moments.”

“Maybe I underestimated Birch.”

“It doesn’t sound like you did. Mike says you were your usual dominating self.”

I laugh. “He said that?”

“He did. Come on, Tony, false modesty doesn’t become you.”

“It’s not that, it’s—"

“You’re claiming not to have a surplus of false modesty?”

“Dammit, Penelope, I’m trying to have a discussion with you!”

She slows, takes my arm in her hand, and turns me to face her. “Sorry, partner. Now breathe. Calm down. I didn’t realize how wound up you are.”

Tears come unbidden to my eyes. I wipe them away angrily. “Ally was so damned tiny in those picture, Penelope.”

She pulls me close and stretches up on her tippy toes to place her hand at the back of my neck. It’s an almost comical picture; her trying to comfort a man twice her size with a gesture Mama used to comfort me back when I was a little boy.

“Change the subject,” I say as I ease out of her embrace and resume walking after a long minute. “Maybe we can talk Goldy Gopher or something.”

She musters a smile. “Let’s go with something.”

“Shoot.”

“I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, but things may finally be winding down in Minneapolis.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Settlement talks are picking up steam and Stephanie thinks we’re probably in the home stretch.”

“Which is likely to end when?”

“Probably sometime in the fall, what with time for everyone to fight about terminology and such.”

“In a last-ditch effort to screw over one another,” I say.

“Absolutely, but I won’t need to stay for all that. Once we come to terms, my job will pretty much be over with. I imagine I’ll have a hand in preparing and reviewing redlines on the contracts, but I can do that from home.”

“It’ll be nice to have you back.”

“Assuming all goes according to plan. Hopefully, we’ll have Mike back relatively soon too.”

I smile at the prospect of having all three of us back in the fold. “Wherever will we put everyone?”

“Back in our own offices. Finally.”

“I, uh, might have given yours away.”

She’s in the process of assaulting me, or perhaps merely landing a light slap on my arm, when we see Joan emerge onto the sidewalk outside our offices to flag us down. Our cell phones ding with twin incoming texts in the same moment.

The texts are from Joe Bob: Verdict is in.

That was quick.

“Mom’s so old school,” Penelope says with affection as we pick up the pace and watch as Joan’s waves become more energetic.

I offer a half-smile in response, fruitlessly pondering what a speedy verdict portends. Despite what talking heads on court television channels may say, the speed of a verdict is what it is; the length of time any given set of twelve people require to reach agreement in a complex trial. The wonder is that they ever do.

Having defied more than one traffic law along the way, we arrive at the courthouse seven minutes later.

Birch and Evans are already seated. Grayson confounds me yet again by stepping across the aisle, hand extended. “You put up a hell of a fight, Tony. Win or lose, it was an honor to go up against you.”

What do I say to that after a week struggling to restrain myself from strangling this guy? I pretend I’m from Kansas. “Likewise.”

Ella O’Reilly peeks her head into the courtroom, sees me, and ducks out. Within a minute, a second doors open and Judge Ellison strides in and takes her seat at the bench. Finally, a third door opens and the jury files in, eyes straight ahead.

Van stiffens at my side and I take her hand, which she somewhat surprisingly works deeper into my grasp.

The judge goes through the excruciating ritual of the jury foreperson, not surprisingly and somewhat concerningly my accountant friend,[NT14] handing the paper with their decision to a Sheriff’s Deputy, who hands it to the judge, who gives it a quick read before handing it back to the Deputy, who hands it back to jury foreperson, who then nervously clears his throat in preparation to read their decision aloud.

Couldn’t they just read the damned thing to us without the relay race? Of course not. A committee meeting in 1818 or thereabouts after Illinois achieved statehood probably devised this little song and dance to allow folks to reach the courthouse from their far-flung farm fields … and tradition, y’know?

Van’s truncated fingernails nonetheless manage to dig into my skin as the little note is unfolded.

“We, the jury, find the defendant, Vannessa Booker, not guilty on one count of premeditated, first-degree murder in the death of Sylvester Booker, and not guilty on one count of premeditated, first-degree murder in the death of Allison Booker.”

I feel Van going down beside me and steer her collapse into her seat. Her faint results in a brief flurry of panicked activity before her eyes flutter open in confusion as a pair of medics barge through the rear doors of the courtroom and hurry through the gate in the bar that is being held open by Joe Bob Sparks.

Van is acutely embarrassed as she tries to wave off the paramedics. “I’m fine!”

A female paramedic who I imagine Van could consume in a single bite in a fight slams Van’s arm back into place in her lap to refasten the cuff of a blood pressure collar. “Stay still!” she mutters in frustration as her partner slips a thermometer into Van’s mouth.

“Down, girl,” I say when Van’s eyes find mine. “You had a little faint. Let these folks do their jobs so we can get you out of here once and for all.”

That seems to do the trick. Several minutes later, the paramedics have run all the tests they need to, packed their gear, and advised Van to visit her doctor if she isn’t feeling back to normal by tomorrow morning. I thank the paramedics and assure them that Van will be just fine, “So long as she isn’t again acquitted of murder before the sun rises.”

After a startled glance back at me, the paramedics get the joke and depart with a smile.

“And so we conclude our trial with a little excitement,” Judge Ellison says with a smile at the jury. “Thank you, Jury, for your service today. Court is adjourned.”

Her eyes then swing down to meet Van’s, filled with a measure of empathy I’ve seldom seen in the eyes of a magistrate. “Mrs. Booker, you’re free to go.”

CHAPTER 52

The sun is shining brightly up in the Heavens, the guests at the annual Valenti Labor Day Barbeque (and Extravaganza? Maybe spruce up that title for next year?) are a sea of smiling faces, and tangy fumes boiling out of the barbeque have attracted all manner of wildlife and domesticated creatures from around the neighborhood … and even a few from beyond.

Front and center at the grill, of course, is dear old Deano, not quite crowded out by Dolly, who knows a thing or two about not giving Deano the split second needed—even at his advanced age—to snag more than his share of falling spoils.

Other attendees include Mike Williams and his kid sister Sara freshly arrived from Oslo, and my gal Pat, newly arrived from north of the border. Penelope and her wife, Becky, who truncated one of their insanity-induced multi-day cycling sojourns just to be here, a handful of neighbors who have been drifting in and out over the course of the afternoon, and Brittany, fresh out of the shower.

An unbidden tear escapes the corner of my eye when a familiar wet nose nudges my ankle in a time-honored ritual. I break a chuck off a sizzling patty and set aside to cool for a minute. Deano is on his way out—there can be no denying that the poor old guy doesn’t have much left in the tank, but he’s a trooper … camped out by the grill even before I brought the burgers out. Deano knows Labor Day.

My thoughts turn to Van’s trial for perhaps the last time, at least with anything beyond a passing thought. We’ve completed our customary trial post-mortem. We still don’t know who wielded the knives that killed Syl and Ally, but we feel like we can now sense the nature of the shadowy forces behind the deed. Although we remain interested in where the investigation may lead, it’s no longer BV&W’s burden; solving the murders of Syl and Ally Booker is firmly back in the hands of the Chicago PD … hopefully with a new detective in charge. I wish them well in a speedy resolution and the conviction of the lowlifes responsible, and not merely to slake my thirst for justice. Until the day Syl and Ally’s killer is locked away in prison, I’ll awaken each day in fear that Van Booker arrives at the answers first … and there’s no question in my mind as to the nature of the justice she will deliver, with potentially disastrous consequences for herself.

“How much longer over there?” Pat shouts from the back door. She and Brittany have been slapping together side dishes ever since Pat arrived after breakfast, having come straight from the shower at her Humboldt Park area home. She looks a little ragged, having slept a paltry  five-hours in the wake of making the twelve-hour plane, train, and automobile journey from Kingston after dropping Kevin off to begin his studies at the Royal Military College of Canada. She and Kevin made the thirty-seven-hour drive to Kingston from Calgary last week, taking their time to stop and savor the spectacular cross-country scenery along the way. After a couple of days to get Kevin settled in at school, she headed home.

Mike joins me at the grill to talk shop. He’s targeting a Thanksgiving return to the office. “But I’ll start easing back in this month.”

Dreams do come true. Penelope will be packing up her files in Minneapolis at the end of the week.

Joe Bob Sparks seemed almost relieved to get back to his own practice, claiming to be reenergized by his first murder trial in over a decade. He did well, flashing the trial chops that made him a legend; hopefully enough so that people will allow him to make a fresh start. Mick Martin’s future at the firm remain uncertain, but I’m a supporter. Even if we can’t afford to bring him on board full-time, I intend to make sure he has enough work to keep his PI prospects alive, either by giving him work ourselves or by encouraging others to give him a try.

As the meal winds down, several of us have gathered around the grill. Conversation turns to the recently-completed trial, particularly some of the outsized personalities who were involved. I ramble on for a minute about being baffled by Grayson Birch. “I mean, the guy’s the epitome of the self-righteous, win-at-all cost jackass prosecutor, right? And then I think he’s going cry tears of joy when finds Mike back in the courtroom. I’ll be damned if he didn’t make it seem legitimate.”

“Maybe it was,” Mike murmurs.

“Like hell.”

“You don’t buy it?” Joe Bob asks.

“Hell no!”

“That’s funny, Tony,” he says. “You wanna know why true believers like Grayson Birch get under your skin so easily?”

“Because they’re assholes?” I ask with a grin.

Joe Bob smiles right back. “You might not wanna reach for that adjective too quickly.”

“Because?”

“You and Grayson are two sides of the same coin. Neither of you can accept that. Rather than look into the mirror too closely, you demonize and throw poo at each other.”

Penelope laughs. Pat laughs. Mike chuckles. Penelope and Becky look on with  knowing smiles. Even my daughter gives me a knowing look as she snickers and leans against Joe Bob’s shoulder. “My God, you’re right!”

“But Birch is a jerk!” I argue, feeling a flush spreading up my neck.

Joe Bob reaches out to lay a hand on my arm. “Think about this possibility, Tony. You’re both good guys who are hell bent on going to the wall to win, and you take no prisoners along the way.”

“But I’m on the side of the angels,” I argue.

“Yeah, well, he thinks that too…”

Well.

Van declined the offer to join us today but met me and Mike for dinner last night at a diner not far from the Williams’s family home, where Mike continues to recuperate. Reg wheeled Mike the five blocks in an old wheelchair left behind by their granny before dumping him at the entrance with his crutches. He kept us waiting for a half-hour while he finished his beer before returning for Mike when he was summoned back for return wheeling duty. “Gettin’ damn tired of this Big Bro,” he’d said as he wheeled Mike away from the diner. Ah, brotherly love. It’s probably a good thing Sara is back in town to share the load.

By way of explanation for having begged off the BBQ invite, Van explained that she’s having some struggles adjusting to life on her own. She put the Maple Street house up for sale and decided that Sandy’s suggestion of giving bartending a try wasn’t the worst idea, after all. She’s at the Prancing Pony this evening, shadowing Sandy. Good thing we won her trial; she tells me that the bar doesn’t hire people with criminal records.

THE END

[NT1]Isn’t this just a Canadian thing?

[NT2]?

[NT3]Delete this?  I'm not sure how it relates as a benefit of casting a wide net.

[NT4]Should this be "I've tried not to look beyond that"?

[NT5]wasn't it just a few months ago? or is this sarcasm?

[NT6]Should this say Joe Bob? Remaining wary of Birch doesn't seem to follow from the first part of this sentence.

[NT7]Won't trial expenses get billed to the PD's office?

[NT8]Shouldn't these two sentences be combined into a single paragraph of dialogue?

[NT9]From a quick search, it looks like Illinois doesn't have the death penalty anymore?

[NT10]This should be "its" but I'm not sure if you would go with grammatically correct here, or more informal as it's just Tony's thoughts.  Same for the "their" two lines below.

[NT11]This should be "would have pointed" shouldn't it?  This is referring to testimony that was never given?

[NT12]It's not clear to me if this is saying he made it sound like the witness would take longer or less time than expected. Is there another way this could be phrased?

[NT13]should this be lower case since it's a continuation from the sentence started on the previous line?

[NT14]This wording makes this a really clunky sentence, and I can't think of a way to streamline it while incorporating this wording.  Do you think it could be deleted?