16.

"Morning, Mrs. Lingscheit," I call out as I come into my reception room. It is snowing outside and I shake the snow out of the hood of my overcoat, stamp my feet, then hang up the coat and proceed into my office. Mrs. L hasn't responded because she's tied up on the phone. It's eight-thirty and she's probably been at the office a good hour already. Which always leaves me feeling a bit guilty. I try to hit the front doors between eight and eight-thirty, earlier if I've got a nine o'clock court call or trial, and then Danny comes in with Marcel usually an hour after me and stays an hour or two later than me. Why? Because Chicago is a dangerous place to drive and we don't want to make an orphan out of our daughter in one colossal accident. I don't know of other commuting couples who don't ride together, but Danny and I don't believe in tempting fate. So we travel separately. Always.

On top of the small stack of files on my desk I find the new indictment in USA v. Thomas Meekins, Defendant. While I make coffee with one hand I hold the indictment with the other and scan down through it. There are sixteen counts of theft by embezzlement and twenty-two counts of kidnapping and several lesser-though serious-counts having to do with bringing a firearm into a U.S. courthouse for improper reasons, discharging a firearm in a U.S. courthouse-enough of that kind of stuff to draw a good twenty years in Leavenworth alone.

The indictment stuns me. Last I heard, we were talking one count of theft and one count of kidnapping. No other charges were to be brought. I immediately sit down and dial up Rene San-Jish, the AUSA. The receptionist tells me she's in court but gives me her voicemail.

"Mrs. San-Jish, this is Michael Gresham. To say I was shocked by the new Meekins indictment is gross understatement. Our agreement was one count of theft and one count of kidnapping. Yet today you've given me an indictment with over forty counts. What in the world were you thinking? Or did you just forget? Please call me immediately or I'll be forced to file a motion to dismiss based on your failure to honor our agreement."

I have just had my first sip of coffee when Mrs. Lingscheit buzzes and tells me that Ms. San-Jish is on the line.

"Mr. Gresham, this is Rene San-Jish. I apologize for the indictment as we usually limit ourselves to fifteen or fewer counts. The AUSA who prepared the indictment got overly enthusiastic so we ended up with forty-four. I can amend if you'd prefer."

"What I'm really calling about was the plea we had going in. One count of theft and one count of kidnapping. What happened to that?"

"We've discovered additional acts of theft from the state employees' retirement fund. You probably haven't digested the indictment yet or read right over those. As to the kidnapping, the U.S. Attorney himself insisted on including all grand jurors because of the seriousness of the crime."

"But we had an agreement!"

"Not in writing, we didn't."

I slowly inhale, trying not to break into four letter words aimed at my adversary. Calm down, steady, I tell myself. This can still be done.

"Well, I am going to file to dismiss the indictment if you're unwilling to amend to reflect our agreement at the shooting scene."

"Mr. Gresham, you're more than welcome to file your dismissal motion. We shall oppose it vigorously. Like I said, things have changed since then."

"But we agreed.

"Not in writing, we didn't."

"I've been had."

"No, actually you saved your client's life. A federal SWAT team was about to burst into the room and open fire on him. He's alive because of you, Mr. Gresham. Please try to impress the reality of his situation on him."

"h.e.l.l, Ms. San-Jish, I'm trying to impress reality of any kind on him."

"Really? Is the evaluation underway?"

"He's done some paper testing. Now they're doing verbal. We'll know by Monday which way they're leaning."

"Let's talk then. I'm hanging up now, Mr. Gresham."

"Thanks for calling right back."

I hang up and sit there in silence for several minutes.

In a way, she's right. Our quick, on-the-spot plea agreement probably did save Tom's life. And maybe the lives of all the others in the room. Including me. But on the whole, she lied to me and to Tom. She agreed to a two count indictment pure and simple. Not forty-four counts. She flat out lied and I'm not going to put up with it. I begin drafting a motion to dismiss the entire indictment. Three hours later I have electronically signed the motion and filed it with the court. Ms. San-Jish will see it today or tomorrow morning at the latest and my hope is that she'll call me and agree to amend. While the law isn't wholly on my side, neither is it wholly on her side. There's room for argument either way. But the fact remains, we did have an agreement and she won't, I am positive, deny that. After all, Father Bjorn heard her state what plea she would agree to and he related it to us in front of a roomful of other witnesses. The deal was definitely struck and is no different than any other pre-indictment plea agreement.

Then I drive out to California Avenue to pay a visit to Tom. I want to make sure I have a chance to talk with him before he sees the indictment and goes off the deep end in shock. Fifteen minutes later, I am waiting in attorney conference room 202 and the deputies are fetching Tom for our one-on-one.

A single deputy comes in five minutes later, without Tom.

"You're Michael Gresham?" she asks.

"I am."

"Mr. Gresham, I have some very disturbing news for you."

The hair along the back of my neck p.r.i.c.kles up. Instantly I know he saw the indictment.

"Please tell me."

"Your client, Thomas Meekins, was just now found dead in his cell. He hung himself with the trouser leg of his jump suit."

"I thought the jail took precautions against that! What are you telling me?"

"He was found with his papers stuffed in his shorts."

"Papers? What papers?"

"The indictment that came to him this afternoon. The log says he was crying when he read it."

"Oh, my G.o.d! Did anyone send for help for him?"

"He was on a mental watch. A nurse was paged but hadn't seen him before he took his life."

"No! Is his family aware?"

"Family Services is taking care of that as we speak. I am very sorry, Mr. Gresham. I'm going to escort you to the jail exit now. Please come with me."

I'm in a fog but I manage to follow her. This all feels surreal: they knew he was mental, knew he was being evaluated, yet they somehow, in some way, made it possible for Tom to take his life? Over a trumped-up indictment?

A lawsuit was now begging to be filed.

But first was the matter of a funeral and time for his family to mourn.

After that, I would offer to help. I had promised Tom I wouldn't let him down.

And I won't.

17.

Franny Arlington rode with her father in silence to the Friday night game against the Owls. There was a stormy standoff between the freshman girl and her parents over the issue of yoga tights and football. The girl thought that the yoga tights were perfect under a short skirt for the game, especially now that the nights were cold. But her mother-who enlisted her father's help-was dead set against it, claiming that yoga tights were not to be worn in public. She could wear regular tights, her mother had proclaimed, but not yoga tights. Franny's mother held the position that the yoga tights were too revealing and she wasn't going to budge. Finally, in total frustration and feeling beaten down, Franny had grudgingly changed into jeans and a pink blouse beneath a hoodie. The hoodie was black, the blouse pink, and the jeans were black as well. Franny wasn't Goth-that was so yesterday and besides, her parents would never allow it-but she did love her black outfits. So, mother and daughter struggled in that age-old struggle for social sensibility that has existed between teen daughters and their mothers for a million years or more.

Franny's father, Henry Arlington-"Hank," at the Ford plant-was a third generation auto worker who had worked his way up from transmission service to quality control in twenty years. Hank's specialty vehicle was the Ford Interceptor Police car and reconnaissance vehicles at the Torrence Road plant. He was well-liked by the men who worked around him and could always be counted on for a great dirty joke on Friday evenings after the week was over and the workers had gathered for beer call at Waldo's on Torrence Avenue. So as he drove Franny to her ballgame he was calculating that he had had his last beer two hours earlier, that he had downed four altogether, and he was fairly certain that he was under the legal limit as they made their way toward Wendover Field. Plus, he'd come home and s.h.i.t, showered, and shaved, so that detour had certainly helped burn off any residual alcohol since his last mug of draught.

"You reek of alcohol," said Franny as they drove south on eighty-seventh. "Why do you always do this?"

She actually had a loving-doting-relationship with her father, and she could say anything to him without bringing down the parental ire that she tried to dodge from her mother.

"I gargled with mouthwash and I've eaten your mother's supper. My guess is that my breath doesn't reek of alcohol, as you so delicately put it," said Hank.

"And I suppose you're going to hover around me all night?"

Hank smiled. "That's the general idea. Since the Tanenbaum girl got killed, I'm guessing I won't be the only worried father hovering around his kid."

"Well I just hope my friends don't see you loitering around us. I would be mortified if they did, Hank."

"Well, they won't. I'm very good at becoming anonymous in the stands at football games."

"I hope so. Don't think I'm embarra.s.sed about you, either. It's not that."

He reached across the car and gently cuffed his daughter on the back of her neck.

"I know that. You'd feel the same way if I was bank president."

"That's exactly right, Hank."

"And please stop calling me that. I'm your dad."

"All my friends call their parents by their names. It's inevitable."

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean, 'it's inevitable?' Where do you hear such bologna?"

"I don't know," she said, and looked vacantly out the pa.s.senger window as they pulled into the parking lot of Wendover Field. The place was packed, she observed, so Amy's murder hadn't deterred the crowd one bit. In a way she was glad; she loved going to the games with her friends. But in a way the enthusiasm of the fans also depressed her; shouldn't there be some kind of respect for Amy? Something to remember her by? Like black arm bands? Maybe she would bring it up with her friends. Maybe they needed to do some kind of a.s.sembly at school in memory of Amy Tanenbaum.

JANA EMERICH WAS ESCORTED to the game by Marcel Rainford, who served as key investigator, bodyguard, and chauffeur for Michael Gresham. Marcel drove a Ram 2500 and, Jana had to admit, as they moved along South State Street, he enjoyed riding perched on the pa.s.senger's seat of such a popular ride. Everyone wanted a Ram truck, whether you were living in Santa Monica or Chicago.

"Look, Mr. Rainford," said Jana.

"Call me Marcel, Jana. That's my name."

"All right. Look, Marcel. I'm really impressed that you're bringing me to the game and everything, but could you let me out a block away?"

"Why's that? You embarra.s.sed to be seen with me?"

Jana twisted his hands together. "No, man, it's not that. It's just that I'm a senior and I should be driving my own ride to the game, not being driven in by someone. It's just uncool."

"Uncool or not, I'm sticking to you like an ex-wife after past-due alimony. You and I are joined at the hip tonight, little brother," Marcel said. "But don't worry. None of your buds is going to notice a thing. I make my living around the edges. Tonight won't be any different. No one will know."

"I hope so. Nothing about you, Marcel. It's just so hard to come into a school your senior year and expect to have any friends. These kids have been buds since first grade. They don't give a d.a.m.n about somebody like me. Much less someone with a babysitter attached to them."

"Not to worry. No one will notice a thing. And as for you and having friends, my old man bought me a crotch rocket when I was your age. Only thing he ever bought me. And you know why? Because he was tired of hauling my dumb a.s.s around town. He was burned out. So I'm suggesting you raise the subject with Michael or your dad."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you need to start lobbying for a motorcycle. There's nothing cooler than a guy showing up on a bike."

Jana was nodding and scrunching down in the seat as they pulled into the parking lot at Wendover Field.

"Maybe I'll just do that. Maybe I'll shoot for a G.o.ddam bike."

They parked and Marcel told Jana he would give him a five-minute head start. He told Jana not to look for him, that it wasn't necessary for Jana to see him. But he would have Jana in sight. At all times. So just act normal and try to have a good time.

Jana climbed up into the stands. He was keeping an eye out for Franny Arlington. There was just something about that girl.

He thought she had even smiled at him during College English.

It was definitely worth finding out.

RUDY GOMEZ RODE his bike from his babysitting job down to the game. The twins he was sitting were preoccupied with Bad Start IV, the newest rage in s.p.a.ce opera video games. They would never miss him.

He nosed his bike into the metal bike stand and pa.s.sed the locking chain through the front tire and around the frame. Bike theft was raging in this part of town as the kids who lived around here all had expensive bikes, including Rudy. His dad was an oral surgeon who advertised on TV and employed four a.s.sociate dentists in his practice to handle all the patients scared up by the TV spots. Dr. Gomez, who was seldom at home by suppertime due to the long hours he kept at the clinic, had spared no expense on Rudy's bike. It was t.i.tanium and had cost over two grand, enough to make the old man's head swim when he gave his Visa over to the sales clerk. But Rudy had picked it out and seemed to know what he liked without question, so the dentist stayed out of the process, coming up with his professional practice's Visa card to clinch the deal. Besides, it was the least the dentist felt he could do.

Dr. Gomez staggered under enormous guilt when reflecting on how well he did or didn't know his son: the truth was that he hadn't been there for Rudy at all. Once the practice began to bloom, Dr. Gomez just dove in that much deeper, keeping as many patients for himself as possible, no matter the twelve-hour days, until he was finally forced to hire his first a.s.sociate. By then, Rudy was in tenth grade and the damage was done. The father looked at his relationship with his son in the same light as decay: below the surface, lurking, and who knew what was there? He fully intended to one day dig in and repair the damage, but it hadn't happened yet. Rudy's mother was also an absent parent since all her time was spent keeping her youth and helping others. When would it occur to parents that helping others needed to start with their own children?