The Defendants: Crime Fiction & Legal Thriller (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 1) Read online

  “Were you?”

  “I don’t think so. If I was, he used a condom. The ink didn’t come off.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Believe it or not, I took my tooth brush in the shower with me. I scraped some soap on it and scrubbed the letters on my breasts.”

  “Did it help?”

  “Not a bit. It just made it hurt more. Some of the scratches were so deep they started bleeding.”

  “Just a minute. Christine,” she was still sitting beside Ermeline, “how about some more coffee? I’ll bet Ermeline would like one now.”

  “Ermeline?”

  “Black,” said Ermeline. She put a hand on her chest and held it there.

  “Okay, so you probably weren’t raped and you took a shower.”

  “Then I went to bed and couldn’t sleep. Around seven I called my mom and she came over. I left her with Jaime and I went up to my doctor’s then to the Sheriff’s office. I talked to Sheriff Altiman and he said I should come see District Attorney Killen Erwin. I drove back home, got Jaime off to school, and drove back to the courthouse and parked next to Killen’s space. I sat out front until Killen arrived.”

  Christine returned with two coffees and set one on the desk before Ermeline. She passed the second one to Thaddeus and excused herself. “I’m going back out to get the phones. Don’t want to miss any exciting calls.”

  “Thanks,” said Thaddeus.

  “So what comes next?” Ermeline asked after swallowing a gulp of coffee. “Can you help me?”

  “I think so. I need to talk to Killen and Sheriff Altiman and see whether they plan to prosecute. Then I’ll call you and we’ll make some plans, is that okay?”

  “Did you want to get any more pictures?”

  “I think we’ve got enough,” he said. “Chris was trained to take pictures in the Army and does a very fine job for me.”

  “I’m going to go call a skin doctor in Quincy. I want to know if they can get this stuff off.”

  “Unknown. It might depend on the type of ink, but I’m just guessing and I don’t like to guess,” he said.

  “No more peasant blouses at work, not for a while anyway.”

  “It would show?”

  “Yes, I already tried. Sad to say. Thaddeus, can I ask one thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you sue Victor Harrow for me?”

  “I would, if the facts pan out. Right now it looks very promising. But I still need to talk to some people and read some law.”

  She placed her coffee cup back in its saucer. “Well, then, I guess we’re done here?”

  “For now. Remember the rule: don’t discuss this matter with anyone. Not even your mom. Everyone is a potential witness if you discuss the case with them.”

  “I’ll be quiet.”

  They shook hands and their eyes met like conspirators. Thaddeus walked Ermeline to the front door. They said their goodbyes and Thaddeus returned to his office and checked his watch. 10:15. Time to catch Killen at the Silver Dome. They had a lot to discuss.

  * * *

  That morning, Thaddeus had begun his day at 5:45 a.m. like he did every day except for Sunday. He flew out of bed wearing nothing but boxers, and mounted the Lifecycle, which he pedaled like a jackhammer for the next thirty minutes, working up a glistening sweat and matted hair.

  He dismounted the Lifecycle and went to the junior fridge in his studio. A new gallon of OJ awaited him. He spun the cap and drank half straight down and topped it off with a protein bar, the wrapper of which guaranteed increased muscle mass.

  At 6:25 he was in the shower, listening to Sirius on the waterproof pink radio, and flossing.

  Dressed in his gray pinstripes and black wingtips and fresh from the shower, Thaddeus had checked his briefcase that morning and counted files. Everything looked fine. Satisfied that the previous night’s work was accounted for, he stepped onto the small porch outside his front door. Thaddeus lived only four blocks off the Orbit County Square, where all the lawyers spun their webs.

  His porch faced Madison Street, to the south. The sun was still hiding behind the buildings on the town square off to his left, but its orange glow could be seen above the rooflines and trees. As quickly as the sun was coming up the clouds from last night’s rainstorm were burning off and large patches of blue sky could be seen. The air was clear, the mourning doves were calling, and two small boys came blasting by on skateboards, probably headed uptown to the best skating around the courthouse.

  He paused on the red brick porch, flipped the Oakley’s over his eyes, inhaled a huge breath of the clear Illinois morning air, and reached the southwest corner of the square at exactly 7 a.m.

  He strolled past a few stores and took a right into the Silver Dome Inn, part of Bruce Blongeir’s spread. Here, Thaddeus drank his morning coffee and caught up with the latest.

  His coffee group consisted mostly of Orbit County farmers who came to town and had coffee with their gossip every day just like Thaddeus. And there was also one other lawyer in attendance, 89-year-old D.B. Leinager.

  Cece Seymour, came around with coffee, cup, and saucer for Thaddeus. She presided over the room, filling cups and taking breakfast orders, laughing and back-slapping and keeping the place happy and loud.

  One farmer, Jonas Meiling, was offering his two cents worth when Thaddeus’ coffee was poured.

  “From what I hear, some very funny business went down in Victor Harrow’s bus last night,” Meiling said. He raised a white eyebrow and waited to see if anyone else wanted to chime in. Not a nibble. “Harrow’s funny business involved a certain young lady we all know, I might add.”

  “Vic Harrow throws some wild parties in that bus,” Thaddeus offered.

  “Pure hearsay,” interjected D.B. Leinager, the emeritus lawyer in his loud, boisterous, German voice. “Victor Harrow is my client and a good and decent man. I don’t know where you people come up with such rubbish as that. No such thing as wild parties at his bus. For your information, that bus is his office. I’ve been there and I’ve never seen a single bottle of beer or jug of whiskey.”

  “Which means old Vic didn’t care enough to offer you a drink,” laughed Jonas Meiling. Both white eyebrows shot up in anticipation of D.B.’s comeback. But D.B. only snorted and forked a glob of scrambled eggs in his mouth.

  “So what did you hear, Jonas,” Thaddeus asked. “What kind of funny business went down last night in the bus?”

  Jonas Meiling snidely remarked, “Sheriff Altiman was paid a visit early this a.m. by a very distraught young woman who our fine sheriff referred over to the District Attorney. Seems she had been attacked by Victor Harrow—now this is just gossip and I’m the first to admit it. But I heard this from a deputy sheriff who shall remain anonymous.”

  “That wouldn’t be your son-in-law Deputy Mike Hermes, would it?” D.B. Leinager shot down the table. “This anonymous source a close family member?”

  Jonas Meiling spread his hands and shook his head, a smile playing around his mouth. “Can’t say.”

  “What about you, Thaddeus,” Frances Dorman asked, moving all eyes to Thaddeus. “Tell us what you’ve heard about last night.”

  Thaddeus took a sip of his coffee and shook his head. “Last night I watched my two shows on HBO and was fast asleep by eleven. I haven’t heard jack.”

  “Isn’t Harrow a client of yours?” Dorman persisted.

  Thaddeus smiled. “You know I couldn’t confess to that even if it was true. A lawyer can’t tell who his clients are and aren’t.”

  Dorman looked around the table. He cut off a half sausage and poked it in his mouth, which didn’t stop him from coming after Thaddeus. “From what I hear, you’re the one lawyer in town he doesn’t do business with. At least not yet. Victor Harrow likes to keep all you lawyers busy so none of you is free to sue him ever. Conflict of interest or some such thing.” Dorman smirked, letting everyone know he knew more than they might think.

  Thaddeus knew Vic Harrow’s m
oney came from the strategic relationships he maintained with politicos in Springfield, people who helped him file lowball bids on state highway jobs, especially the never-ending saga of the freeway between Springfield and Chicago. Like all Illinois highway boondoggles, this particular freeway had been under construction for forty years, and no less than eight general contractors had made enough to retire forever, thanks to this concrete plum. In return for getting hired as the general contractor on the freeway, Victor kicked back to the pols and the mob in Chicago. This way everyone remained happy—with the exception of the traveling public, who, in planning to journey between Springfield and Chicago, always allowed extra time for the twenty miles of construction zone that perpetually plagued the four-lane, like a flesh-eating pox that was always tearing-down and hauling away truckloads of dirt and concrete, which it later replaced with dirt and concrete that looked remarkably like what had just been removed.

  “You might be right about Victor’s choice in lawyers,” Thaddeus finally said. “But I don’t know enough to be much help there, sorry.”

  Cece came wheeling around with the coffee pots and a tray of desserts. “Anyone?” she asked the table.

  Thaddeus covered his cup with his hand. “Nothing more for me, Cece. Gotta go make a buck.”

  “Knowing the lawyers in this town, you’ll make more today than most farmers make in a month!” Jonas Meiling shot at Thaddeus as he climbed to his feet.

  “That’s because I’m such a hard worker, Jonas,” Thaddeus replied, resting a hand on Jonas’ shoulder. “Unlike you, I don’t have hours to burn in the coffee shops around our little town. Later, Gents.”

  They all nodded goodbye and he paid his check at 7:50 and left the Silver Dome.

  The sky was flaming red in the east as the early morning yawned over the City of Orbit. Last night’s rain was gone and the air was clear and cool.

  As he did every weekday, Thaddeus scampered across Washington Street when he saw a break, and jumped up on the sidewalk on the east side of the square along Monroe Street.

  He was headed toward his office and kept a brisk step in his stride as if he had important business waiting at the office. In fact, he knew he had no appointments this morning and the best he could hope for was a DWI from Saturday night or a domestic dispute over the weekend that was continuing today with divorce lawyers.

  On his left was the courthouse, a magnificent structure built in 1890, according to its inscribed cornerstone, when so much of the rest of America was built in what must have been a gigantic building boom.

  Thaddeus crossed the street on the north side of the square, edged left two doors, and inserted his key. His office was directly above a Western Auto catalog store.

  At 8 a.m., on schedule, he sat behind his wide oak table and took a sip of coffee. He looked at his calendar for the day and sighed. He admitted to himself that it looked neither promising nor profitable. Yet, here he was, ahead of the crowd, and ready to rule it all across the street. Just biding my time, he thought. It will happen, sooner or later, the great case will walk in that door and I’ll be on my way.

  * * *

  Paralegal Christine Susmann had received her professional training in the U.S. Army. Following Basic Training, she had begun her career working as an M.P. and had served two years at a Black Ops detention center in Baghdad. She was under lifetime orders to never discuss what she had seen or done on that post, which was fine, she never wanted to discuss it anyway. Following two successful years working hand-in-glove with the CIA field officers, she had her choice of Army schools and selected paralegal school. She had seen all she ever wanted to see of detention centers, prisons, jails, or any other institution where people were held against their will. Paralegal training had dragged on for almost a year, but when she finished she was assigned to a JAG unit of busy lawyers in Germany.

  Christine was five-five and average weight, but that’s where “average” ended for her. For one thing, she was beautiful and had won Miss Hickam County in the summer of her senior year, right before enlisting. For another thing she was built like an NFL safety: broad, heavily muscled shoulders and upper arms, muscular thighs and calves, and she could still press 275 while she only weighed 135. She worked out religiously at the East Orbit Athletic Club with her husband, Sonny. Christine found working for Thaddeus to be pleasant yet difficult, mainly because Thaddeus knew so little about the practicalities of law practice, which drove Christine to the phones, where she was constantly calling her friends in other law offices with questions about how to do this and that, the nuts and bolts that pay the bills.

  Chris’s day began at 8:30. At 8:25 she came up the stairs two-at-a-time and bounced into the office. She called out good morning, made sure Thaddeus had coffee, checked the voice mails, and went over the day’s diary.

  Today she was wearing the outfit that always made it to the office at least one day a week: long gray skirt, embroidered top, and navy blazer with gold buttons. She kept the nails short and clear of polish; they would only be traumatized at the athletic club anyway.

  Following the scan of the calendar, Christine called into Thaddeus, “Got another hot chick for you next Saturday night!”

  Thaddeus winced. He answered her over their intercom system which consisted of the two of them shouting back and forth from their desks, down the short hallway separating them. “No thanks. I’ll do my own recruiting. Besides, my ideal woman is getting her Ph.D in English lit. I doubt you know her.”

  “No, this is different. Her name’s Lila and she went through Basic with me. She’s coming for a visit.”

  “She’s too old for me if she went through Basic with you. I don’t date older women, I told you that.”

  “Thad, I’m five years older than you. So’s Lila. That’s not an ‘older woman,’ as you so hatefully put it.”

  “Not hatefully, not scornfully, just cautiously.”

  “We need to get you matched up with someone.”

  “Why is that again?”

  “So you can be truly happy. Like Sonny.”

  He knew better than to say anything about her husband.

  “Killen Erwin, Junior just called from the DA’s office. He’s sending over a young woman for you to talk to.”

  “Probably a divorce client. Here’s hoping she’s got fifteen hundred bucks.”

  “I’ll second that!”

  While Christine was busy in her office, Thaddeus went back to updating his Facebook page. Status: Single. But looking.

  Ten minutes later Ermeline Ransom was standing on the other side of his desk, unbuttoning her blouse, while Thaddeus, for once, was speechless.

  2

  The governor’s mansion was located in Springfield. But, because of the huge number of state employees—not to mention registered voters—in Chicago, most governors maintained a residence there, too. On the taxpayers’ dime, of course. And Governor Cleman L. Walker was no different. He kept a beautiful 1920 tri-level on the Gold Coast.

  The Governor himself was short in stature but long on mythology: it was said while he was a Chicago precinct committeeman he had seen more than one uncooperative political crony chained and dumped in nearby Lake Michigan, and that, while he was quick to pull the trigger on politicians of the opposite political party, he was equally as quick to head up a dozen charitable drives a year.

  His favorite charities were the ones that got the big headlines: veterans and orphans and dying children without insurance. He was known to have a huge heart, it was true, but he was just as well known for having a heavy hand when it came to running his state. He was red-faced from his booze and cigars and high stress levels.

  A week before the Ermeline Ransom incident, the governor was in his private study, reclined in a leather chair, whiskey and water in hand, a Cuban cigar burning nearby, enjoying the trouncing the Bears were handing to the Cowboys.

  Occasionally he would check his Rolex. Bang Bang Moltinari was already a half hour late and Cleman L. Walker was beginning to w
onder if the man was late simply because something unexpected had come up or was his late arrival aimed at proving a point about his sovereignty from the Governor?

  He took another deep drag off the rolled Cuban tobacco leaves. “The best,” he murmured and rolled the cigar in his fingers admiringly. He closed his pale blue eyes, savoring what few Americans got to savor anymore, Cuban smoke. Within two minutes one of his three cellphones rang. It was Robert K. Amistaggio, the Illinois Attorney General.

  “Bob?” the Governor said. “I’m going to need to talk to you for about ten minutes tomorrow. Confidential, my office.”

  “Done. What time?”

  “Noon. We’ll have lunch brought in. You still like the oysters?”

  “I do. Should I bring any files along?”

  “Bring what you have on Victor Harrow.”

  “Who?”

  “Victor Harrow of Harrow and Sons. He’s a two-bit contractor out of Orbit. He has the contract on the Springfield-Chicago run.”

  “Name doesn’t ring a bell. We need to control him?”

  “We do. And if we can’t do it through your office I’ll have to go the mat with him.”

  “Anything I should look for?” said the AG.

  “We need to figure out where he’s vulnerable. He’s stiffing us.”

  “How far behind?”

  “The contract is seventy-five percent paid out. We’re in for half, he’s paid us less than one-fourth. Word is, he’s done and refuses to pay another dime. This cannot continue. Either the AG’s office or Bang Bang is going to have to enforce.”

  “Another cowboy.”

  “Yes, he’s got a wild hair from somewhere; you know what I always say.”

  “A wild hair from somewhere.”

  “See you at noon, then.”

  * * *

  Ricardo “Bang Bang” Moltinari was the namesake and head of the Moltinari mob. This was the mob that controlled Chicago, operating primarily out of Skokie, where the key labor unions and building trades offices were located.