“So you don’t think Earl has heard the last of the police.”
“I know he hasn’t. But Mike’s smart. Now that he knows about Tyrone Jackson, he won’t let the D.A. file charges until they’ve figured out a way to break Tyrone’s story. Or work around it. For once, though, thanks to Lieutenant Prescott’s enormous incompetence, we have an advantage—we know Earl is a suspect and that charges will likely be forthcoming. So let’s make the most of that advantage. That means starting work now.”
“All right, you’ve got it. Do you have any theories?”
“Not yet. Maybe after I’ve sifted through all this material.” He smiled in admiration. “I can’t believe how quickly you put this together. I’d almost forgotten—” He looked up abruptly. “Thanks, Christina.”
She did a little curtsy. “I live to please.”
Ben grinned. “Next, I’d like you to see what you can find out about Tyrone.
“Okay. Anything in particular?”
Ben shrugged. “He’s a former Crip. Small-time con artist. Earl tells me there are a couple of warrants out for him. He’s afraid that if he testifies, the cops’ll come down on him hard.” Ben paused. “I’m afraid the prosecutor will wave the warrants in his face and offer him a deal if he doesn’t testify.”
“Wouldn’t that be suppressing evidence? Violating the Brady rule?”
Ben blinked. Her command of legal jargon and procedure had certainly improved. “I believe the prosecutor’s office would refer to it as impeaching controvertible evidence.”
“Ah.”
“So find out what you can so we can buttress Tyrone’s testimony as much as possible. And stay close to the police station. If you get any hint that they’re ready to move against Earl, let me know immediately.”
“Got it.”
“What about me?” Jones asked. He was leaning forward like a terrier hankering for a bone. “I could be using my sharply honed investigative skills—”
“Actually, I need some typing done lickety-split.”
“But I could do some of the detective work—”
“I want to be ready with motions the second they decide to press charges. Motion to dismiss, motion to set bail …” Ben waved his hand in the air. “You know the drill.”
Jones’s face was set and sullen. “I certainly do.”
“What about me?” Loving said. “I wanna be in on this.”
Ben had to grin. There was a certain excitement in the room, almost like an electric charge. He had to admit there was something … invigorating about it. Something that felt very right. And he’d never seen his staff so eager to go to work. During his hiatus from the law, they’d obviously become very motivated—or very bored.
“I’ve got a tough one for you, Loving. I’d like you to track down the man who brought the rug to the club shortly before I, er, discovered the body.”
“Got a description?”
“I didn’t get a good look at him. Plus, according to Tyrone, all I saw was a disguise.”
“Think he’s associated with a real rug company?”
“I very much doubt it.”
Loving’s broad chest rose and fell. “You’re not givin’ me much to go on here, Skipper.”
“I know it won’t be easy. That’s why I need you.”
“You old sweet-talker you. How’d he get to the club?”
Ben snapped his fingers. “He had a van. I saw it through the window.”
“What color was it?”
Ben’s eyes went upward. “Well …”
“Do you know the make? Model?”
“You know I don’t know anything about cars.”
“True. I was just bein’ hopeful. Could you draw me a picture?”
Ben nodded. “I can try.”
“Well, that’s somethin’. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Anything for you, Skipper.”
“Ditto,” Jones said. “It’s good to have you back, Boss.”
Ben held up a finger. “Now you understand, this is just for the one case. After that, I’m outta here.”
He saw Jones give Christina a wink. “Sure, Boss. Whatever you say.”
“I’m serious. I’m not letting myself get dragged back into practicing law. I’m just helping a friend.”
Loving nodded, already on his way to his desk. “Gotcha.”
“I’m serious!”
Christina patted him on the shoulder. “We know, Ben. You’re always serious.” She grinned. “But that doesn’t mean we have to take you seriously.”
Chapter 21
ALTHOUGH BEN HAD nothing but admiration for Jones and Loving’s South Side digs, he was reminded of the advantages of his former low-rent downtown office as soon as he got into his van. The old place may have been seedy and cheap and surrounded by pawnshops and bail bondsmen, but it was close to the courthouses, close to the city offices, and close to the central police headquarters. Even valet parking couldn’t make him overlook the twenty minutes along Riverside Drive it took to get downtown.
After he parked in the underground garage, he hopped up the stairs to the plaza level. On his way to police headquarters, he passed by the county courthouse. Once he’d been there on an almost daily basis, but this was the first he’d seen the building in six months. Walking by, he was flooded with a host of memories, some cherished, some not. This was the scene of so many professional triumphs. And disasters.
He recalled his first visit ever, pleading a hopeless adoption suit. What a wreck he’d been that day. He’d never become any kind of courtroom master, but he had at least learned when to stand up, when to sit down, when to speak, and when to shut up.
One memory sparked another. He remembered urging summary judgment for the now-defunct Apollo Consortium, remembered pleading for the life of a mentally challenged defendant. And perhaps his greatest professional triumph, defending Christina when she was charged with murder. The day he got those charges dismissed was a day he was proud to be a lawyer. Even in his darkest moments, when trials degenerated, his personal life crashed, or he was forced to endure an idiotic lawyer joke for the five millionth time, he could flash back to that case and immediately know why he was doing what he was doing.
Until the Wallace Barrett case. After that wrapped up, it was as if everything he knew, or thought he knew, had been erased, invalidated. He learned he couldn’t single-handedly ensure that justice was done; he’d learned that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Suddenly he didn’t know why he was a lawyer. Worse, he didn’t want to be a lawyer. Despite the pleading and cajoling from Christina and Jones and Loving, he just couldn’t do it. He didn’t know what the point was, what he was hoping to accomplish.
Except … here he was again, back on a case. But he still didn’t have answers to the questions that had plagued him for the last six months. He had come back to work because a friend needed help and had few options. He couldn’t let Earl down.
He rode the elevator up to the third floor of the city offices and made his way to police headquarters. The officer at the front desk recognized him. He glowered, but waved Ben through. Guess he doesn’t like my tie, Ben mused.
He wound his way through the partitions until he found a closed wooden door bearing a nameplate: MICHAELANGELO J. MORELLI, HOMICIDE.
Ben cracked open the door and stuck his head through. “Is it soup yet?”
Fortunately, Mike was alone. He looked up, then glanced at the digital clock on his desk. “Yes!”
Ben stepped inside. “Bad time?”
“No, perfect. And with mere seconds to spare.”
Ben looked at his watch. It was two minutes till noon. “I don’t follow.”