Читать книгу False Impressions - Laura Caldwell, Leslie S. Klinger - Страница 9

2

If I was going to take a temporary gig with Mayburn, I had to talk to Maggie.

The next day, in a cab after visiting a new client (a prominent doctor accused of writing prescriptions for cash), I called Q. “Where is she?”

“Trial,” he said. “The Cortadero case.”

Q had been my assistant at Baltimore & Brown, the big civil firm where I’d formerly worked. We had long ago dropped the pleasantries and adapted the skill of being able to talk in shorthand. Now Q and I worked together at Bristol & Associates.

“Nice! Good for Maggie,” I said, smiling. Then I paused and frowned. How had I come to a point in my life and my law practice where I was praising my boss for trying a case on behalf of a Mexican drug cartel? Alleged cartel, I corrected myself.

“Closings today,” Q said.

“Nice!” I said again. Now, that was truly something to get excited about—a closing argument by one of the best lawyers I knew, who also happened to be my best friend. I leaned forward and asked the taxi to change directions and take me to 26th and Cal.

The epicenter of Chicago’s criminal/legal world was at 26th Street and California Avenue. It housed, in addition to a dozen jails, the busiest criminal courthouse in the country.

The cab driver, who was talking on his headset in a language I did not understand, said nothing in response to my request. Instead, he calmly swung the cab around in the middle of LaSalle Street, crossing three lanes of traffic. The move drew a few perfunctory honks from other drivers, but mostly everyone went on talking in their own earpieces or singing to the radio. Chicagoans didn’t get particularly aggrieved by poor or even aggressive driving. Everyone seemed to realize we were all just trying to get somewhere, that was all.

The driver headed west. Outside, the January sky was moody and heavy, but with teasing glimpses of a distant sun-lit blue sky. But as we approached 26th and Cal, the weather made up its mind—distinctly cold and smothered with gray.

I hurried up the steps when we reached the courthouse. Inside, I flashed my ID, calling, “Hey, Tommy!” to a sheriff I knew well by now. I hurried up to the fifth floor and found the grand courtroom where Q said Maggie would be.

Inside, it was quiet and still. The only inhabitants were Maggie, standing at the counsel’s table, and two guys who looked like state’s attorneys. (You could tell—it was something to do with the inherent cockiness they exuded, mixed with friendliness. And why shouldn’t they have such an attitude? The state won the vast percentage of criminal cases in Cook County.)

Maggie was eight months pregnant, but as I walked toward her, I noticed that she barely looked as if she was nearing childbirth. She had a round bump, but she was still tiny everywhere else.

“Great cross,” I heard Maggie say to one of the guys. “Really. And that shit you pulled with Officer Cooper? Hysterical.”

Maggie was complimenting the state’s attorneys, which could only mean one thing—the jury was out. I took a breath, waved and walked toward her.

Ah, the sweet, sweet—sweet—time between when a jury is sent to deliberate and when they return with a verdict. The law, which has names for nearly everything—voir dire, res ipsa loquitur and so forth—has no name for this odd bit of time. It’s not exactly purgatory. It’s not limbo, either. It’s something much more…hopeful. When a jury is out to consider the verdict—to mentally duke it out in an airless back room when the attorneys’ jobs are over—anything is possible.

Which meant it was a good time to ask my boss for time to work a new job. I couldn’t really explain too much. Mayburn had a strict policy that I not talk to anyone about my private investigative jobs with him. I’d been forced to tell Maggie once before. But now, I planned to simply mention I had a gig with Mayburn, say little else and hope for the best.

If I thought Maggie would have an issue with my time out of the office, I was wrong.

“Oh, thank God.” She clapped. We were seated at her counsel’s table now, the state’s attorneys having gone to their lair in the other part of the building. “I’d love for you to work outside the firm for a bit.”

“Really? You told me I needed to take more responsibility, and I know we don’t have a lot of time to spare....”

“No, we do!” Maggie said. “What I meant when we talked was that eventually—like, when I go into labor—you’ll need to take more responsibility, but in the meantime, have at it. Enjoy yourself.”

“Really?” This was the second time in the last year that one of my lawyer friends had suggested enjoying my professional life. Not everyone in the law enjoyed it, not even close, so I liked the reminder.

“Absolutely,” Maggie said. “I need you to take time off and do whatever you want because when I have this baby—” she gestured toward her belly “—I need you to essentially manage the firm. Marty is going to come in for a while.” Marty was Martin Bristol, Maggie’s partner and grandfather. “But he’s pretty much retired, and you know more about our cases now than he does.”

I nodded fast and swallowed hard now that she was getting specific about my upcoming responsibilities. A mood passed over me, almost a sense of dread.

“You’re nervous,” Maggie said.

“I guess I’m overwhelmed by the thought of managing a firm. One that I didn’t even work at a year ago. Not to mention the fact that I haven’t been practicing criminal law even a year.” I heard the anxious tone in my voice. “But I want to help, too. In any way. So I’m in.” Maggie and I had been there for each other since we met in law school.

“You have been contributing,” Maggie said. “You’ve been great.”

“But since I’m not a mom myself, there’s no advice I can give you.” Truth was, I still didn’t know if having kids would ever be for me.

Maggie rolled her eyes again. “Thank God. Because I am so sick of mommy advice. It’s overwhelming.” She put her hand on her pregnant belly, draped in an empire-waist black dress. “But it’s reassuring to know you’re going to be at the office when I’m not.”

“Are you just trying to make me feel better?”

“Hell, no. I would be a nut job if it weren’t for you.” She paused, her eyes looked directly into mine. “So take the time you need. Now.”

“Okay, good,” I said. “Thanks.” I nodded at the bench. “How was your judge for the case?”

“Good. But if we lose we are so screwed. You know what they call him?”

“What?”

“Father Time.”

“Long sentences if there’s a guilty verdict?”

“Yep. Looonnnng.” She sighed. “So, since you’re not going to be at the firm much in the meantime, where are you going to be?”

“Michigan Avenue. That’s about all I can tell you.”

“When do you start?”

“Tonight, if it’s cool with you.”

“Go get ’em, Iz.”