Legal Thriller: The Trial Lawyer: A Courtroom Drama (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 9) Read online

  The Trial Lawyer

  John Ellsworth

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Also by John Ellsworth

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Email Signup

  Acknowledgments

  Reviews

  For Chase and Skittles

  1

  Killen Erwin wanted Mary Roberta to come home to him and the kids. He wanted her to stop drinking and dancing with other men as she did several nights a week. Most of all, he wanted her to stop picking them up and bedding them. He begged, he bribed; he appealed to the mother in her: "Celena and Parkus miss their mom. They cry themselves to sleep!"

  But nothing worked.

  So he followed her to the Copperhead Tavern and got himself good and drunk while he watched her dancing and rubbing up against Dave Daniels. A slow song played. Killen tried to cut in. Dave laughed at him, and Mary Roberta turned her face away, burying her beauty in the man's shoulder. She refused to look at her husband, refused to acknowledge him and wouldn't give him even one dance.

  Killen poured down the booze. There was a fire down below, and it refused to die.

  As he watched his wife dance a slow dance, he saw the man take a step to the side and the woman step into his groin with her own. It was intentional, and it was sexual and they hung there together, joined through their clothing, missing a full step of the dance. Killen broke a Cutty Sark bottle on the bar and threatened the old-timers who were perched along the bar like magpies on a wire. They scattered and broke for the door.

  Then he screamed, the sound of a cougar with its foot in a trap, "Mary Roberta! I'm coming for you, baby!" And he began making his way across the floor. He held the broken bottle out in front of him like a lance, away from his body, slashing at the air, scattering the dance crowd left and right.

  Mitt Henry, the massive bartender, pulled his baseball bat from behind the bar. It was a thirty-two inch Louisville Slugger spotted with blood.

  It was Killen's luck that he had an ally in the crowd of drinkers that night, a young, quiet man named Johnny Albertson. Johnny liked Killen and knew what he was going through. Johnny ran to him and slapped away the bottle. The green glass hit the cement dance floor and shattered, shards spinning out and out. Johnny shook his head at Mitt, who was stalking Killen with his baseball bat like a pinch-hitter intent on ending a tie game. "He's knee-walking," Johnny said and positioned himself between Killen and Mitt. Mitt pounded the sweet spot of the bat into the palm of his hand.

  "You've got ten seconds," Mitt told Johnny.

  Johnny bear-hugged Killen and began pulling him away.

  "Johnny?" Killen said. "You saved her!"

  Johnny dragged Killen outside. In the parking lot, he demanded the keys to Killen's pickup. Killen refused.

  So Johnny climbed in the passenger seat, resolute, arms crossed on his chest. "Then I'm coming too," he said. He would make sure Killen got home safely.

  Then the driver's side door opened and, as Killen was climbing in, Johnny heard a woman's voice tell Killen, to "Move your ass over, sit down and don't throw up."

  "Mary Roberta?" said Johnny. "What are you doing?"

  "If dumbass kills himself I lose my best babysitter!" She spat. "I'm taking him home. Then I'm coming back."

  Five minutes of bouncing along and Killen was passed out, chin to chest, bobbing and swaying with the road.

  "You think that string of slobber makes you irresistible," Mary Roberta said to her comatose husband. "But I'm onto your tricks," she laughed. She rapped Killen's head with her knuckles. He didn't move except to swing and sway with the road.

  Five minutes later they were coursing through the pitch black Illinois countryside, images of tall corn swaying in the soft summer breeze, dry leaves clashing together above a screaming chorus of riverine bugs and night fliers so in love and lust they soundtracked the landscape. Mary Roberta, chain-smoking, intent on the road, but every so often turning her head to answer or query Johnny on some fine point of furniture refinishing, his day job at his mother's antique shop.

  The pickup's headlights swept a quarter mile ahead and illuminated the Algonquin Levee Bridge. Mary Roberta's eyes were turned to Johnny and then swept to the front as Johnny's mouth fell open, and he soundlessly pointed at the road ahead and she turned to see what he had seen. Johnny heard the driver curse. "Son of a—" she cried as their lane ended.

  Upon impact, the bridge girder sheared away the truck's right side and Johnny went airborne in the night sky over the edge of the bridge. The spinning crew cab door tattooed him. He plunged to the sandy river bed where once there had flowed water but now there were dredge marks from the scoop line that had reclaimed that good earth. Shoes were found twenty yards beyond; one contained a foot. The catastrophic crash caused a farmer two miles north to sit up in bed.

  Killen survived. His Ford truck spun 360's along the asphalt, blocking all lanes where it came to rest. Traffic snarled and backed up. Someone dialed 911.

  A state trooper named Bill Janes, who lived on a farm less than two miles back the way the Ford had traveled, took the call. He dressed and fired up his squad and ran Code 3 out to the scene. The driver was ID'd as Killen Erwin. Sergeant Janes observed Erwin, smelled his breath, and spoke briefly. He needed no first aid. Erwin found himself handcuffed in the rear of the squad.

  (The driver was sitting in the center of his Ford's front seat, now sitting on the asphalt, cursing because the truck wouldn't go. He still possessed the steering wheel said the police report.)

  The trooper placed flares and reflectors. Traffic was stopped in both directions. Now he could look the scene over while help came on.

  Sergeant Janes pulled out his Canon and began snapping. He gave particular attention to the northwest lane, which was under repair. The vehicle had shredded the blinking sawhorses and sent the orange cones flying. The paint markings on the roadway remained as at the time of the accident.

  Erwin cursed from the back seat. He vomited down his Rolling Stones T-shirt.

&nbs
p; (Words were slurred and the eyes bloodshot and there was a strong odor of alcoholic beverage said the police report.)

  The officer backed up fifty yards, lights flashing. He snapped the approach to the bridge. He pulled forward. He snapped the roadway paint indicating a lane drop. The paint job puzzled the veteran highway cop. He made a note to check the traffic engineering rules adopted by Illinois.

  EMTs came and scattered into the dry river bed, looking for the shorn half of the Ford. Among the debris, they found Johnny. Stethoscopes returned only silence. A stretcher was packed in and the body loaded.

  The Ford was removed. Wreckers tugged and hoisted as the frame, the engine, glass and debris were winched and swept away. Then an EMT dually removed the body from the scene and headed to the morgue.

  After the Ford had been taken away, Sergeant Janes spoke to the two vehicles waiting to cross from the south. These would be the vehicles that were following Killen's truck when it struck the bridge. In the first car, a yellow Mitsubishi, sat a seventy-year-old woman named Anita Brushkart. She told Janes that she had witnessed a figure fleeing the scene of the accident. Was it a man or a woman? She said she could only guess because the figure was wearing blue jeans and a shapeless top, but she would have to suppose that was a woman.

  "Where did the fleeing woman go?" asked the officer.

  "Why, she run off the bridge and jumped in a pickup that stopped ahead of the one that crashed. It was already across. It was red and had lights on the roof that was pointed back at us. Blinded us but I could clearly see the gal run up to the truck and then she was gone. Ain't nothin more to add."

  Anita Brushkart lived in Summer Hill, and she had been going to the hospital in Orbit because she was dizzy, and her chest felt tight. Later that morning, Sergeant Janes filled out some of his police report. But he left out the part about the fleeing woman. The witness was sick and probably hallucinating, so he purposely omitted her comment. She had agreed to ride into Orbit with Sergeant Janes as he was going to the hospital anyway. Nothing further had been said about the phantom woman driver.

  Sergeant Janes rushed Erwin and Brushkart into Orbit. She was admitted to the hospital for tests. Erwin refused to submit to a blood draw, so Sergeant Janes read the mandatory consent form and Erwin fell to his side on the examining table, asleep.

  (Subject passed out and physician revived with smelling salts and requested consent for blood draw. Consent to blood draw was refused said the police report.)

  So Sergeant Janes ordered the blood be drawn: the sergeant's legal right and obligation.

  The needle bit into the vein. Erwin struggled awake. His free arm beat the air. "I want to see my lawyer."

  "Mr. Erwin, it's Sergeant Bill Janes. You are a lawyer."

  "I'm a lawyer? Well."

  "You are the District Attorney. We have cases together."

  The ER physician capped a purple tube of blood. "He is? How's that gonna work?"

  "It will be politics as usual," said the sergeant.

  Sergeant Janes drove the District Attorney back to the Orbit Jail. He was single-celled because the District Attorney couldn't be commingled with the general jail population—consisting of two drunks and a domestic violence enthusiast.

  By noon the next day the DA was regaining sobriety. He demanded to make his phone call.

  "Hello, Thaddeus?" he said into the pay phone in the jail hallway. "It's Killen Erwin. I've been arrested."

  2

  He turned off the ignition switch.

  Here he was back in Orbit, south of Chicago on a slant to the Mississippi River. The stately Hickam County Courthouse filled his windshield like a wedding cake.

  A woman walking by on the courthouse sidewalk recognized him through the windshield. She was well-fed and round and looked to Thaddeus like a woman who served pork chops every week. She waved and smiled. He waved back and smiled at her. He was a clear-eyed, hard-driving attorney with almost eight years of experience in the trial game and he felt every minute of it deep in his bones where he carried the pain of the people he represented. Their agony always became his own; he was just that kind of lawyer. Thaddeus was tall—he had played college basketball—and wore his brown hair down to his collar in back and short on the sides. Sunglasses were Oakley amber with interchangeable lenses for mountain biking and skiing. A day's growth—maybe two—wasn't unusual. But wife Katy hated it and made him shave before entertaining his advances.

  The clerk had faxed him the police report. Thaddeus read it while he listened to Pearl Jam and kept time with his fingers drumming against the leather seat.

  He drew a deep breath and looked up again.

  A silver dome capped the courthouse. Each ninety on the compass offered stairs and double doors. An acre of green August grass, sprinklers tossing long combs of water, enough dandelions to rank second on the agenda of the County Board, and very busy mom-and-pops all around the square—a postcard of a town. On the north side was a state bank; on the south a federal bank. According to their digital signs, both were paying less than two percent on savings. They also blinked out hog prices, time and temperature and a welcome back to the seniors of 2015-16.

  At least fifty pickups sat nosed-in all around while their owners did their weekly shopping, for it was late Friday afternoon, and everything would be open until nine.

  At the moment he shut off his engine, both the federal and state bank had it at 4:10 p.m. Just enough time to accompany his best friend to court.

  Killen Erwin had called when Thaddeus was chewing his first bite of lunch pita stuffed with hummus and walnuts—wife Katy's idea—no mayo. Nine hundred feet above Chicago in his office at Federal Tower, Thaddeus accepted the collect call.

  "I'm in jail, man. I need you."

  "Slow down, Kill. Have you been charged with a crime?"

  "Last night, man, I was driving—"

  "Don't say it on the phone."

  "I've already said too damn much."

  "Just stop there. You've been charged with a crime?"

  "Yes. I go to court today. Four forty-five.'

  "What crime?"

  "Negligent homicide."

  "Okay. Don't speak about the facts. Is it in Hickam County?"

  "Yes."

  "That's where you're going to court?"

  "Yes."

  It just so happened it was Thaddeus' birthday. He would miss the surprise birthday party. But he had no choice. His wife was his best friend in the world. But Killen was his second best. He had referred Thaddeus' first hundred clients to him; Thaddeus felt he owed him his law practice.

  "Who's the judge?"

  "Richard Mason Wren."

  "Bird Nest? What's he doing in Hickam County? Judge Veinne recused herself?"

  "Sure she recused herself. We're bridge buddies."

  "Okay, sit tight, I'm on my way."

  "Sitting tight is easy. No bail. Johnny Albertson was in my truck. I didn't know it. He died."

  "I say this to everyone, Kill. I'll say it to you: Don't talk to anyone about the case. Got me?"

  "Hell, I already have. I've talked to everyone."

  "Why?"

  "Waggle tongue. It comes in a Stoli vodka bottle."

  "Okay, that's enough."

  Drinking and driving. Hard cases to beat under the best of circumstances. But a dead body in the aftermath? Damn near impossible. Thaddeus had tried hundreds of fender-benders, rear-enders, and DWIs—he was an expert on vehicle cases—and none was so hard to beat as a drunk driving case. Why? Because the cops loved those cases. The evidence was chemistry and physics—easy to prove in court using the right experts, plus the state provided the experts free to the prosecution. The HGN test, the heel-to-toe test, touch your nose test, alphabet test—hard to pass even stone cold sober; impossible if you were knee-walking drunk.

  So that's what it sounded like. Drunk driving and a negligent homicide. Thaddeus wouldn't have wished that on his worst enemy.

  Much less his best friend.

&n
bsp; "Cancel me out," he told Janet on the intercom. "I'm going to Orbit. Call Katy, tell her I'm sorry about the surprise party but it's about Killen and I had no choice. JT will pick her up from the shelter."

  Three bottles of Aquafina went with when he pulled out. Two hours south of Chicago, a mad dash inside a rest area. Another two hours and he was on the Orbit town square recovering from road hypnosis.

  An internal debate was underway as his eyes roamed over the wedding cake courthouse. Did he go inside and defend the guy or did he just throw up his hands and leave? The case was crap to begin with, and any trial lawyer would tell you that crap cases don't get better with time. But he was Thaddeus' best friend, and he had killed a guy. Which didn't reduce him in the young lawyer's sight because he'd seen all the sins. None of them offended him, and he forgave them all because he wasn't put there to judge. He was put there to defend.

  It was the only way he ever found it possible to do such dirty work.

  * * *

  The Mustang's A/C popped as it cooled.

  He looked both ways across the square.

  Now both banks agreed it was 4:20 p.m. In a fit of what could only be price-fixing, they both blinked they would pay 1.04% on savings.

  He resisted going inside. He would give it another ten.

  His mental image of Killen was of a professional District Attorney, a guy maybe mid-thirties, five-six, weighing in at 125, dressed resplendently in expensive suits with pocket squares, tie tacks, and a heavy gold Rolex on his wrist, something with serious diamonds. He was effusive when he talked, explosive almost. High, high energy level, forever challenging everyone about the facts of any case in court when he was prosecuting. He thought himself always right. He protected his cops and to hell with those who did evil. He made sure he returned evil tenfold with long jury trials and refusals to plea bargain, preferring prison terms to probation.

  Now there he was in jail, with it all falling down around him.

  Thaddeus considered what he would tell the judge about Killen when he made an argument for bail. He knew Killen was an ex-jock. When he was sixteen, he started racing thoroughbreds at county fairs. Wearing silks sewn for men, he swam in the garments and people often laughed.