CORRUPT

JUSTICE

PETER O’MAHONEY

Corrupt Justice: A Legal Thriller

Peter O’Mahoney

Copyright © 2019

Published by Roam Free Publishing

1st edition.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

For Patrick.

You were charismatic, charming, and your contagious smile lit up a room.

My friend, you were taken much too soon.

CORRUPT JUSTICE

TEX HUNTER SERIES BOOK 3

PETER O’MAHONEY

The strong defend themselves. The mighty defend what’s right.

Chapter 1

For those under the glare of the public spotlight, for those hounded by the media, there can be a comfort in the night, a certain relief in the darkness. Like a cloak of invisibility, the shadows help the infamous and damaged walk free from recognition, free from the pressures of society. Not that the darkness helped tonight. Tonight, criminal defense attorney Tex Hunter was being targeted.

The streets of downtown Chicago were quiet as the time approached midnight, only filled with drunken revelers stumbling between bars. As Hunter walked out of his office building, almost as soon as he entered the dirty streets, he noticed the man following him, only a few feet behind. If the man was trying to hide his attempt at a tail, he wasn’t doing a good job. Clean cut with thick arms and a solid chest, perhaps a cop; Hunter reasoned. Not that being a cop was reassuring. These were dangerous times for the defense attorney, and he expected the pressure to come from every corner of the state. The man followed Hunter through the main thoroughfares of the city, keeping the imposing lawyer in his sights, even as he crossed the DuSable Bridge, never more than forty feet behind.

Hunter expected the follower to be carrying a gun, that was a given, although he didn’t expect him to use it. Not yet. That threat would come in time.

Defending an accused murderer in court is never easy, it’s never a simple case when they plead their innocence, but when the victim is a retired police officer, when the media runs headlines about the case, the stakes increase ten-fold. Hunter knew the dangers the moment he opened the file—he knew he was inviting risk into his world, he knew he was inviting pressure, and he knew he was going to be chased. But even with that knowledge, even with the fear that came with it, this was a case he couldn’t let go.

Two days after he accepted the case to defend Nina Aisha, Hunter felt safe enough to walk through the streets of Chicago, walking thirty minutes from his office to his apartment. He’d already received phone calls. He’d already received emails. And he was sure the physical attacks were to come next.

River North was usually filled with tourists during the day, and intoxicated idiots at night. Mostly, Hunter bypassed the idiots when he walked to his apartment, and mostly, he felt safe. One of the drunken idiots tried to assault him once, for apparently looking at him the wrong way, but Hunter put his fist through the man’s nose.

As the number of people around the neighborhood thinned out, and the number of potential witnesses dispersed, the follower turned up the hood of his coat. It was cold, but not cold enough for a hood.

The papers had run with the news of Hunter’s new case in the headlines. The media corporations knew his family name would sell papers. They knew Tex Hunter, the son of a convicted serial killer, was a name that attracted interest. He hated seeing his photo in the papers, and hated it even more when he saw the stories online. As much as he tried to avoid it, as much as he tried to push it away, the online abuse was hard to ignore. The keyboard warriors attacked him with vigor, as they often did, sending their hatred of him into the world.

‘Serial Killer’s Son Defends Cop Killer.’

That was the first headline, barely hours after he took on the case for the homeless defendant, and many others followed the same format. He hated that his father’s actions, his father’s crimes, still defined who he was. He hated that an incident from three decades ago still sold papers.

Sidney McCann was no ordinary cop. He wasn’t a beat cop, he wasn’t a captain, and he wasn’t an average desk jockey. Sidney McCann had the reputation as being one of the most crooked, twisted, and corrupt cops of the Chicago Police Department. The rumors had been circling for many years, even decades, and most knew McCann had a price. If the suspects could bring him the right amount of money in a brown paper bag, the evidence could disappear.

But that didn’t matter to the PD now. They were a family, and McCann was one of their own.

Hunter had numerous cases on his desk, his focus had been on Mary-Ann Steele, a seventy-year-old woman charged with stealing, and then torching, the car of a person she hated. With no criminal past to speak of, he couldn’t imagine she was guilty, but the evidence against her was strong.

Next, Hunter saw the man in the baseball cap. It was a Yankees cap—the man had to be a hired gun. No self-respecting Chicagoan would be seen wearing that. The first man stopped at a convenience store, and the man in the Yankees cap took over the task of following him. The walkway between LaSalle St. and North Wells St. was narrow, following along the edge of a building, and while usually well lit, this night, the lights were out.

That should’ve been his clear warning sign. That should’ve been the moment he turned back to the main road and called a cab to finish the remaining trip home. He should’ve stopped there, but Tex Hunter didn’t scare easily. He didn’t run from threats.

The day he met Sidney McCann was still clear in his mind. Although more than thirty years had passed, a lifetime, that day was still so vivid. It was the day when five cars skidded onto the lawn of their family home, knocking over the mailbox in the process. There were sirens, lights, yelling. Lots of yelling. Hunter was the first one to step onto the porch, the first to see all the weapons drawn, and he stood there for a moment, staring at the angry men, before his father called him back. Hunter was only ten years old when his father was taken away, ten years old when his life was changed forever, but his father’s conviction as a serial murderer made sure his face was never far from the media spotlight.

A third man, also dressed in a dark hood, was waiting on the walkway, leaning against the wall ahead of Hunter.

That should’ve been his next warning sign.

Hunter was sure his father was innocent of the crimes they charged him with. He had spent much of the last thirty years trying to convince people of that truth, but he had exhausted every court appeal, every piece of evidence, and every last chance. His only choice had been to wait for a new opportunity, a new opening, and as the years continued to tick past, time was against him, but McCann’s case had given him hope.

The man ahead of Hunter stepped forward, blocking the end of the alley. They had planned this—the perfect spot in Hunter’s routine walk home for no witnesses, no passing traffic, and no surveillance cameras.

Hunter turned, looking to backtrack his steps, but a baseball bat struck him in the stomach as soon as he moved.

He buckled under the assault, hitting the ground.

That’s where he should’ve stayed, that’s where he should’ve left it. This was an early warning, nothing more. They didn’t want to hurt him badly; they wanted him to know they were watching. He should’ve stayed on the ground. He should’ve left it there. But Tex Hunter was a fighter. He had to be. His whole life was against the tide; his whole world was against the grain.

He saw the boot come towards his ribs. He rolled out of the way and leapt back to his feet.

The bat came at him again, but he moved quickly. Decades of fighting had prepared him for these moments. He threw a left jab, followed by a crunching straight right. He could feel the man’s jaw snap. Hunter didn’t sense the third man behind him, and the punch in his kidneys sent pain pulsating through his body.

Hunter turned, leaning back to dodge the swinging right hand, and landed a left hook. It landed on the man’s jaw, and he crumbled.

The bat hit the back of Hunter’s legs, crippling him to the ground.

Five punches and two kicks later, and Hunter’s attack had turned to defense. His hands came up to protect his face, but that wasn’t their target. They didn’t want to leave any visible scars.

The three assailants didn’t say anything, they didn’t reach for his wallet, his phone or his briefcase, but they didn’t have to—the message was clear.

Once the men cleared out, Hunter slowly rose to his feet, gripping his ribs.

He took out his phone and went to dial 911, but then thought against it. It would’ve been a waste of time, a waste of his breath.

Because the police had already been there.

Chapter 2

Death is life’s great adversary.

No matter how a life is lived, no matter how much love is given or how much pain is caused, no matter how many fights are had or how many friends are left behind, no matter how many breaths are taken or how many trees are planted, death comes to every life, finishing it in the same unfathomable instant.

Some journeys to that moment are horrible, long drawn out affairs, others are relatively short and painless, and for Sidney McCann it was short, but certainly not painless. He died fighting for his life, succumbing to several punches. His assailant had hit him numerous times, leaving a deep wound in the back of his skull, and he bled out. His body was later dumped into the Chicago River, wrapped in a trash bag, rocks tied to his feet, and it would be another eight months before his corpse surfaced, due in part to a heavy downfall of rain that caused the river to swell.

“I haven’t been to a funeral I’ve liked.” Assistant Esther Wright rested her hand on the shoulder of Tex Hunter. “Death is something that I’ve never liked thinking about. It’s so final, so abrupt.”

Hunter watched the mourners leave the gathering, from across the street, leaning against his car, unsure of what to say next. He never enjoyed strong emotions, let alone streets full of them. But as the years began to pass, as age came to his associates, funerals were becoming common place. There were funerals he was happy to attend, others that broke his heart, but here, he felt indifferent.

The church stood tall, reflecting the sun as it hit its highest point, grand in its presence, as the somber souls filed out of the large oak doors. Once outside, the attendees greeted each other with subdued handshakes, small embraces, or gentle nods. At the bottom of the steps, parked in line with the front doors, the black hearse was ready to take another soul for a final ride. The driver stood by the car, his stance rigid, his clothes perfectly pressed.

The coffin was carried on the shoulders of retired cops, proud to have the honor of lifting a colleague higher than he would ever be again. The tears of a wailing widow came next, ringing through the Chicago air. Twenty years younger than her sixty-six-year-old husband, Li McCann was Sidney’s second wife, married a week after meeting the cop while he was vacationing in Vietnam. At the time, Sidney McCann was recently widowed himself, and he offered to save Li, to take her away from the gritty streets of Hanoi; an offer she couldn’t refuse. Married for twenty years, they tolerated each other at best. Her tears were real, if only because of the sense of loss. She was a slight Asian woman, small enough to pass for a teenager, with no children of her own and no desire to ever have them. Growing up with very little in Hanoi, other than the external pressure from her family, her life goal was to move to America, the land of the free, the land of opportunity. She never saw herself as the motherly type, only enduring cuddles from relative’s babies. The fact that she had to raise Rhys McCann, Sidney’s son, from the time he was four years old was painstakingly hard for her.

People were huddled around Li, comforting her, holding her together. Around them were the lines of police officers, outside of them other workers in the justice departments, and beyond that, the regular civilian folk.

“For the first sixty-five years, Sidney McCann was a terrible person. He spent his career as a corrupt cop. Someone who exploited the goodwill of others.” Hunter leaned against his car, looking to the blue sky before turning to watch the gloomy crowd. “That’s what everyone should’ve said, but there’s an unwritten law at funerals that you don’t speak ill of the deceased. Everyone talked about that last twelve months of his life, as if there was some redemptive quality to one good year out of sixty-six. But if you took out all the bad things that McCann had done in the first six and a half decades, you weren’t left with much else.”

“That must’ve been why the service was so short.” Esther smiled.

Sidney McCann was a life-long prick, and until his heart attack a year ago, spent most of his years alone at a bar. McCann possessed a sharp mind, a determined ability to work, and a complete lack of morals. Most of his conversations were spent shouting at people, yelling abuse, barely acknowledging other individuals. How he managed to get married twice was a surprise to most.

But a heart attack twelve months before his death had changed him—after facing death, after gazing into the light, he became a different man, a man determined to redeem his past wrongs. The problem was, there were many, many of those, more than he could redeem in a year.

“Cops are a funny bunch.” Esther whispered over her shoulder as the coffin was loaded into the hearse.

“There’s no comedy here.” Hunter made the sign of the cross, unsure if he should or not, not even sure of the denomination of the church.

“There was once a man at his mother’s funeral, and the lady next to him asked if she could say a word.” Esther smiled, looking up to Hunter. “He agreed, so she stood up and said ‘Plethora.’ ‘Thanks,’ the man said. ‘That means a lot.’”

Hunter struggled to control his reaction in the sober atmosphere of the street, but the dimples gave his response away.

“The shortest funeral I went to was for a guy I worked with once. He was killed by a tennis ball,” Esther smiled broadly. “It was a fast service.”

Hunter shook his head, smiling, and looked at the ground. He didn’t want to be seen laughing at Sidney McCann’s funeral as the crowd began to disperse. He had to be careful—his photo had been taken more times than he cared to count, and a photo of him smiling at this funeral would run on the front pages of most papers. Fifteen years ago, he could spot the potential photographers—professionals with large cameras lugging backpacks full of equipment—but now, in the age of the mobile phone, anyone could take a sneaky photo and share it with the news corporations. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.

“Tex Hunter. Really? You came to the funeral?” Alicia Carson walked across the road, stepping between the slow-moving traffic, flanked by prosecutor Pradesh Baron. Carson was an older woman who had done her time on the streets, beating down witnesses, and later in her career, beating corruption charges. Now she spent her working hours in the Chicago Police Department Headquarters, pushing papers around to keep the machine churning. Her dark hair, pulled back tightly, complemented her outfit—a knee-length black dress, a black cardigan to match—presenting the appearance of melancholy for her former detective colleague. “Why would you even be here? You hated Sidney McCann.”

“I had to come to his funeral.” Hunter responded, hands in his pockets as she came closer.

“For your father?”

“For me.”

“Tex.” Pradesh Baron, an alumnus of the University of Chicago Law School, shook Hunter’s hand firmly. Born in Wisconsin to Asian Indian parents, Pradesh Baron was destined to become a lawyer. He was short, thin, and had a thick mustache that looked like it had been shampooed, conditioned, and brushed daily. “I haven’t seen you in a while. You look good.”

“Looking better than Sidney McCann, at least.” Carson shook her head, standing on the road in front of Hunter and Esther. She folded her arms and tilted her head slightly to the left. “Why are you really here, Tex?”

“I came to see who was at the funeral. I don’t see McCann’s son, Rhys, over there. He wasn’t next to his stepmother, and I haven’t seen him leave.”

Baron took a step back and looked over his left shoulder. There, sitting on the trunk of a beaten-up Chevy sedan half-a-block away, was Rhys McCann, staring at the crowd in his work uniform. He worked as a security officer, the words emblazoned across his waterproof jacket, and he appeared portly, disheveled, and lost. His elbows rested on his knees as he stared at the mourners, slightly shaking his head.

“You know the McCann story is complicated.” Baron added. “I talked to his son last week. He said he didn’t want to come inside the church, but he wanted to be here. He never forgave his father for everything he did, but family is still family.”

“But this isn’t the time to be working.” Carson stepped closer, lowering her tone. “Nobody wants you here. Nobody wants you anywhere near this case. And I’ve heard you’ve already taken a beating.”

“And where would you have heard that?” Hunter questioned, having never reported his attack to the police.

“That’s a rumor in the department. Any time a defense lawyer defends a cop killer, they’re in for a hard time. But you,” She raised her index finger, waving it in his face. “You’re something special. You’re not only defending a cop killer, but you’re going after the cop that put your father behind bars. That’s personal—for you, and for the PD.”

“Sounds like you’re attempting to threaten me, Alicia.”

“No threats, only a warning.” Her eyes narrowed. “There’s a storm coming your way. And it’s going to be an almighty one.”

“Now, now.” Baron rested his hand on Carson’s arm, calming her. “This isn’t the time or the place for an argument about our jobs or the roles we play. If the girl doesn’t take the deal, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to make those arguments.”

Hunter didn’t offer a response.

“She’s a cold-blooded killer.” Carson’s teeth were clenched together. She looked angry, but she held no fear for Hunter. He was used to being hated. “And she’ll go down for this crime.”

“Did you come to make sure the job was finished?” Chicago PD detective John Yates fumed as he crossed the street, keys in hand, ready to enter his car, parked behind Hunter’s. Yates walked to the door of his car and opened it, and while a safe distance away from the lawyer, he continued. “Is that why you’re here, Hunter? You’re happy now? Going to drink some champagne after this?”

“The only funeral I’d be happy to go to is yours.” Hunter turned and stood up straight.

“You’ll have to wait a long time. I’ve taken up running. It’ll add years to my life.”

“Your poor wife. She must be so disappointed.”

“This isn’t a place for jokes.” Yates slammed his door closed, strutting closer until he was standing next to Carson. Yates only came up to Hunter’s chin, but they would qualify for the same weight division in a boxing match. With a double chin squashed into an old suit, Yates loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, alleviating the feeling of being strangled. “How dare you come here. This is a place for those grieving about what your client did eight months ago. Show some respect.”

“Sidney McCann was in my life for more than three decades.” Hunter stood tall, engulfing Yates under his shadow. “I came to say goodbye and show respect to a man that tried to turn his life around, which is more than I can say for you.”

Yates caught the eye of Carson, who turned quickly and walked away. She walked down the sidewalk, towards her car, blending into the crowd of people dressed in black.

“Don’t you dare discredit a good cop’s memory.” Yates gritted his teeth, chin up, before he followed Carson, jogging to catch up to her. Carson stopped and talked to Yates; their conversation animated, but out of earshot. There was tension in the air, an unease amongst the older cops; McCann’s shady past leaving its mark on many.

“Tex, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this.” Baron kept his voice low, resting his hand on Hunter’s arm. “You need to be careful with this case. You need to keep your head down and stay out of the papers. The CPD already hates you, but defending the killer of a murdered cop is next level. You have a homeless African American girl charged with his murder, and all the evidence is against you. The odds aren’t in her favor. And I’m sure I don’t have to warn you about what’s to come. Just… keep things quiet.”

“I can’t do that, Pradesh.”

“I thought that would be your answer.” The prosecutor sighed, shaking his head, before looking around at all the people snarling at the defense lawyer as they walked past. “But if you don’t keep your head down, then I can guarantee that every cop in this city is about to make your life a living hell.”

Chapter 3

Nina Aisha sat on the edge of the lower bunk bed, legs dangling over the side.

It was firm, almost like concrete, but it was a bed, at least. Comfortable enough to lay on, although she hadn’t slept much in the past few days. She enjoyed the pillow the most. Although it was lumpy, although it was old, she thought it was pure luxury. There were many times in her life when a used towel was the most comfortable item she could find to rest her head on.

Winters were always the worst. She feared when the leaves started to change, when the days started to shorten, when the morning air started to chill her lungs. Those days meant she had to find a place to stay, a way to save herself from freezing to death.

That meant going to see the men.

Her body was the only thing she owned, the only thing she truly had, and to sell it for a bed was soul crushing, but it was better than facing the frozen streets, better than being exposed in the cold nights of a Chicago winter.

When she was fifteen, a cop introduced her to Mr. Bishop, a math teacher at a different school, and she trusted him. He was a respectable man, a person in authority, someone she thought she could believe. She saw the comfort in his life, security in his apartment, the complete opposite of her world. That he lived alone at fifty-five was the first alarm bell. That he walked around the house naked on the first weekend she stayed there was the second alarm bell. Those nights, those long nights when he did whatever he wanted, were the worse. They were the ones that almost broke her.

But if there was one thing she had learned, one thing that she knew, it was to fight, to never give up, never let the terrors get to her. Being passed from foster family to foster family for more than a decade, she counted twenty homes in total, taught her the ability to adapt.

“Just going to sit there all day?” Denise Rodman, Nina’s cellmate, looked down at her.

Nina didn’t respond. The years had taught her to keep her mouth shut.

Before she was dragged into prison, handcuffed and beaten, she had been told by a friend to trust no one on the inside. It was a dog eat dog world, and those that seemed to be caring, those that seemed to have her interests in mind, were the ones to really watch out for, because as soon as her defenses were down, as soon as they had the chance, they would pounce.

Her first five days in prison had already been a terrifying experience, especially the cell. There wasn’t much light to speak of, the mold had started growing in the corner, and the smell was overbearing. The walls were cold, not only in color, but in emotion. This was a place painted in despair, desolation and despondency.

“One of those types, huh?” Denise was African American, in her fifties, and her wide body wobbled as she talked. She had tattoos down one arm, scars on her neck, and a black eye to match. Her black hair was cropped short, her clothes were dirty, and the prison uniform barely fit her frame. At six-foot-one and two-hundred-and-twenty pounds, there weren’t many uniform sizes bigger. “Don’t think I haven’t seen girls like you before.” Denise moved next to her, the firm mattress sinking under her weight. “I’ve seen lots of girls just like you in here. Your type comes and goes all the time. Let me guess, Daddy abused you?”

“Didn’t know my dad. He died when I was young.”

“Oh, would you look at that—the girl can talk!” She laughed, and her entire body shook. She stood up leaning over the top of Nina, showing her dominance, her arm resting on the bunk above. “I didn’t know my dad either. Mom died when I was twelve, been in and out of places like this ever since.”

“My mom died on the same day as my father. So did my brother.”

“What of?”

“I don’t know. Nobody ever told me.”

Denise stared at Nina. The girl was beautiful, no doubt about that, but pain was etched on her face. Her dirty black hair, her green eyes, her smooth skin. If she was cleaned up, she could have that sweet cheerleader look. She was the perfect candidate for a Hollywood make-over movie, the sort where the pretty girls take her under their wing.

“What’d they get you for?” Denise’s voice calmed. She didn’t often get to show her caring side anymore. When they took her children away from her, she stopped trying to care, stopped trying to feel, but there was something maternal that she was always drawn back to.

“I didn’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Murder.”

“Well, the first time they locked me up, I didn’t do it either.” Denise shook her head. “They got me for breaking and entering. The second time was me, I was guilty, and the third time, they said I stole a car, but I didn’t do it. This time though, I did it. Stabbed my boyfriend right through the stomach, but I’m pleading self-defense. He should’ve died, but somehow that abusive bastard survived. Lucky for me, it’s assault and nothing more.” She rolled her tongue around her mouth. “Who do they reckon you killed?”

“A cop.”

“Ha!” She slapped her leg. “Good on you. One less for us to worry about. When’s the trial?”

“Soon.”

“Don’t say much, eh?”

Nina nodded.

In truth, she wanted to say so much. She wanted to tell Denise about her last two years in and out of youth shelters, how she had no family, how she trusted no one. How she still had the picture of her mother in her pocket—her only possession of any worth—how she still remembered how her mother held her, how she still heard her voice at night.

But she had learned to keep her mouth shut.

“Well, little lady, stay close to me. There are dangerous things in here. You’ll see things that you never thought you’d see, but if you stay close to me, I’ll look after you in here.”

“Really?”

“Just stay close. If you’re a cop killer, then there’ll be people after you. Don’t even trust the guards. Those cops will want to make you pay, and they have the power to do it.” She reached out and held Nina’s hand, gripping it tight. “I won’t let them do to you what they did to me.”

Nina looked up; optimism stretched across her face.

For the first time in a long time, she had met someone she could trust.

Maybe.

Chapter 4

Sitting in the small meeting room, surrounded by unsympathetic concrete walls, almost close enough to feel like they were closing in on him, Tex Hunter stared at the young woman for an extended period. Nina Aisha flinched under the stare, not because she was guilty, not because she had something to fear, but because nerves filled her entire body. Growing up without a stable home could do that to a young woman.

Upon request, the assigned public defender, Eliza Lang, threw the case to Hunter, no questions asked. She had enough on her plate, more than enough criminal cases to review before adding the case of a homeless street kid to her pile. She was happy to file all the paperwork to move the case across to a defense lawyer who offered to take it off her hands.

Hunter had met with Nina Aisha twice already, although briefly, and the newspapers had run with the headlines, however, this was the first time they could sit down and discuss the best way to move forward.

“I’m doing this case pro-bono, which means that I’ve taken on your case for free.” Hunter sat in the prison meeting room, elbows on the table. The prison meeting room was cramped, space was at a premium, and the air was stuffy. There were no windows, only one door, and not much air flow to speak of.

The confidential meeting place felt empty—not empty in the sense that the table and two chairs didn’t fill the room, they did, but empty in the sense that this was a place without hope, without faith, and without any optimism for the future.

“What makes you a better person than the last one? She seemed nice.”

“I’m not a better person, not by any stretch of the imagination. Eliza Lang is a good woman, a great woman in fact, but she’s also a very busy person. She’s processing more cases at the moment than I usually process in six months. Your case is only one of many, many cases on her desk.” Hunter leaned forward. “Whether or not I’m a good person is not the issue. The issue is what sort of defense I will provide you, and I can tell you that it will be a very, very good defense. Usually, my fees run into the hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

“Then why do my case for free?”

He stared at her. “Do you recognize me?”

She nodded.

“Sidney McCann was one of the detectives that first arrested my father, he was one of six men that put him away for the murder of eight girls. I stood in my living room, at ten years old, and watched those six detectives punch my father repeatedly, blood pouring from my father’s nose, before McCann put the handcuffs on him. That image, that picture of my father being beaten ferociously, has never left me. Nor has the name Sidney McCann.”

She nodded again.

According to her file, Nina Aisha had an American mother and a Nigerian-born father. They had died when she was three-years-old, along with her older brother. The report didn’t mention how they died, only that she was put into the system as an orphan. There was a large burn mark on her left shoulder, and the first photo in the file, at five years old, showed she had large features, but after she hit her teenage years, she had grown into them.

The girl was skinny, only two months past her eighteenth birthday, and despite her light black skin, she had freckles on her face. There was no doubt the girl was attractive and growing up in the system didn’t change that.

“What makes this case harder than most is that Sidney McCann was a retired cop. Now, he wasn’t a nice guy, not by any stretch of the imagination, and he was the most corrupt cop that you will find. But that doesn’t mean anything to the other men and women in uniform now. They’re a family, and they’ll protect their own. I never liked McCann, not many people did, but there still could be a conflict of interest if challenged, due to my father’s arrest. I need you to sign this wavier, if I’m going to represent you.”

She stared at the piece of paper that was slid across to her. There were five pages in front of her. She read the pages quickly, running her fingers over the lines, but she didn’t take much in. She couldn’t. In the last few days, she had already taken in so much.

She picked up a pen in her left hand, held it awkwardly, and focused as she etched her name slowly onto the last line on the paper.

“I need to know everything that you know about this, Nina.” Hunter’s voice was calm. “I want you to close your eyes and take a deep breath. We’ve got time, and I’m here to listen to you. I want to help you, but I need you to be honest about this. Here, with me, is a safe place.”

“I don’t know where to start.” She took a large breath and exhaled. The tension eased from her shoulders, and the muscles in her face relaxed. She sat still, staring at nothing, but then ran her finger along the edge of the table. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Take your time. I told you this in our first meeting, but I’m going to tell you again, to make sure that you understand.” Hunter tried hard to appear calm. “We’re covered by the attorney-client privilege. This is your privilege to refuse to disclose any confidential communications between you and me. Also, I cannot be compelled to disclose matters conveyed in confidence. Nina, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’ve read the police file and the report of the murder many times already.” He flicked open the folder in front of him. “And I know what you’ve said to them, here’s the transcript, but I need you to tell me what occurred in your own words. I want to know where you were that night, what happened, and when you were there.”

“I saw this guy.” She pointed to the photo of the deceased on the first page of Hunter’s file. She stopped and bit her lip. It wasn’t the first dead person she’d seen, but it was the first time she had been accused of murder. “I was in Chinatown, looking for food. I was on the street begging—”

“Begging?”

“With my hat out.” She looked at the wall. “I’ve been staying in a shelter, and I haven’t been able to find work. That night,” she drew a long breath. “I hadn’t eaten anything for more than a day. I didn’t have any money and I was hungry. I thought about stealing food… this conversation is covered by the attorney-client privilege, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Hunter waited. “Go on.”

“I was begging and this guy gives me a ten, and he talks to me for a bit. He was real nice. Then he leaves and about thirty minutes later, he comes back with a sandwich. Subway. I was wary at first, guys usually want something more, but he was genuinely nice and wanted to help me. It was like he knew me, and it was the best sandwich I’d ever had. We talked for a while, he said he wanted to leave the world a better place, and he talked about how he was trying to redeem himself for his past sins. Then he started to say sorry.”

“What was he saying sorry for?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me, but once he started, he just kept saying sorry. He just kept saying it over and over. He wouldn’t shut-up.” She ran her hand over her dark hair. “And then he called me Antonina.”

“Antonina?”

“That’s my full name, but no one ever calls me that. No one. I think the only place it’s recorded is on my school records. Apparently, he knew me, but I didn’t recognize him, so I figured that he must’ve been the one that put Mr. Bishop in contact with me. That’s the only way he could’ve known my full name—he must’ve seen it on the school records. He must’ve referred me to Mr. Bishop.”

“And who is Mr. Bishop?”

“He was a teacher.” She crossed her arms across her chest and started to rock back and forth. “He saw me in my math class, and took me out to talk. He knew all about my past, I didn’t have to tell him anything. And I love math, you see, and he was the highest-level math teacher. He was very good at math.”

She didn’t continue but Hunter waited. He could see the girl needed time to say what she needed to say. After two minutes of silence, Nina worked up the courage to continue.

“I was staying with a foster parent at the time, and she was horrible to me. Horrible. I wouldn’t get any food for days, her house stunk, and she used to yell so much. She was only looking after me because of the money the state gave her. She had five foster kids, and never gave us anything, despite the state paying her every week.” She blinked back tears. “And then Mr. Bishop offers to take me in, look after me, and feed me, because he says that he can see potential in my math skills. Says I could go to college one day.” She paused again. “I can still go to college, can’t I? Even if I get a criminal record?”

“Let’s focus on what happened with Mr. Bishop and Sidney McCann.”

“So, I stay with Mr. Bishop for two weeks before it begins.”

“What begins?”

“What do you think?” she snapped.

“Did he abuse you?”

“Every single night for five months, before I hit him with a frying pan and told him that I was going to the cops.”

“And where is Mr. Bishop now?”

“Don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“He ran away.” She looked away, and brushed the tip of her nose. “A day after I left, he’d packed up all his things and I was told by his landlord that he’d left the country.”

“And you think Sidney McCann was the man that told Mr. Bishop about you? You think McCann got your information, gave your details to Bishop and received money in return?”

“That’s all I could think of. That’s the only reason he would be saying sorry. He must’ve been paid to provide Mr. Bishop with the names of vulnerable girls. Sort of like a human trafficking ring.” She leaned so far forward that her chest was touching the edge of the table. “So, I snapped.”

“At Sidney McCann?”

“I hit him. Mr. Bishop never saw justice, so I was determined to deal it out to this guy that set me up.” She stared at the table. “I punched him a lot. Even when he was on the ground. That hate just came out of me and I’m not sure where from. It was rage, pure rage, and I hit him hard, then I spat on him. There have only ever been two people that I’ve hit—Mr. Bishop and this guy. So I took his wallet, and any money he had. I figured I was owed that after what he put me through.”

“And then?”

“And then I left. I never saw him again.” She looked at the wall. “He was alive when I left, but maybe I did kill him. Maybe those punches left him out cold.”

“Nina, I don’t want you to talk to anyone else about this. Don’t mention that night to anyone but me. You can’t talk to the guards, a priest, not even your cellmate. Understood?”

She nodded.

“Now, what else can you remember about that night eight months ago?”

“Not a lot.” She looked sheepish. “I remember meeting my boyfriend later that night, because he thought that this guy was trying to use me. He thought that he was trying to take advantage of me. I told him that he wasn’t, but he wouldn’t believe me. I don’t think my boyfriend saw this guy again. He would’ve told me if he did. Emmett and I went different ways after some point in the night. We had an argument and he went one way and I ran the other way.”

“Boyfriend’s name?”

“Emmett.”

Hunter waited, pen ready.

“Emmett Jayson.”

“One week before Sidney McCann disappeared, he came to the shelter where you were staying and asked for you by name. He knew your name. That day that he found you wasn’t a coincidence. So you think this was about his apology?”

“All I was told was that a retired cop was looking for me.”

Hunter didn’t like the girl’s chances—not of getting off, not of getting free, and not even of getting a good deal.

“The prosecution has built quite the case against you already.” Hunter stated as he opened another file on McCann’s death and Nina’s subsequent arrest. “Sidney McCann died as a result of blood loss after he sustained an injury to the back of his skull. He was then wrapped in trash bags with rocks tied to his feet, and dumped in the Chicago River. According to the report, he was dead long before his body was thrown into the river. The injuries he sustained to the back of his head stopped the flow of blood to his brain. The prosecution has three witnesses that place you with Sidney McCann, two of whom claim they saw you punch him, on the last night he was seen alive. His wife, Li McCann, reported him missing the next day. You used his credit card five days after he went missing, and you were caught that day, although McCann was only reported as a missing person at the time. At the time, you stated that you had never seen McCann and you found the wallet on the sidewalk. That previous lie to the police doesn’t look good for you. Once they found McCann’s body in the river, you were arrested. The prosecution will show more evidence at your trial, but that’s the evidence you were arrested on. That’s strong evidence, Nina. That’s going to be hard to disprove in a court of law.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Nina blinked back tears. “But if I’m in here, I can survive. I can still do stuff, maybe even get my college degree. I want to become a nurse. I want to help people.”

Hunter drummed his fingers on the table.

Nina Aisha didn’t have the feel of a killer. She wasn’t arrogant, callous, or edgy. Hunter had the feeling that if she killed anyone, she would be guarded. And if it was an accident, she would be remorseful.

She was neither.

Five days after Sidney McCann was last seen, eight months before his body was found, Nina tried to use his credit card at a sandwich shop. The uniformed cops were close by and when they got the call about a stolen credit card, they found Nina trying to walk out of the shop. Upon her arrest, she stated she found the wallet on the street, and they released her with a warning. When they found McCann’s body, she was arrested within days.

“Nina, why don’t you tell me about yourself.”

She tried to fight it, tried to resist it, but the strong wall around her emotions finally broke down as she recounted her life. Once she started, she didn’t stop. She told her lawyer that she had lost her family when she was young, never settled in one place for long, and didn’t have any connections. She’d been on the streets for the last two years, but had been staying in a shelter for young women, completing her high school certificate. She was smart, mostly A’s at school, but it was hard to focus on schooling when she was struggling to find enough food every day.

That seemed to be her life—an offer of hope, a chance at a new life, only to be taken away by someone’s ill morals. Her honest tears were tugging on Hunter’s heartstrings, and he didn’t appreciate that one bit.

“Part of being a criminal lawyer is that we have to work out the best outcome for these charges. If it doesn’t look like we can defend you against the charges in court, then we may be able to make a good deal with the prosecution. If that’s the case, then we will work for the best deal possible, but you may have to do prison time.”

“It’s ok,” Nina shrugged. “There’s no men in here.”

“No men?”

“Except for the guards, I guess. Men… my whole life they’ve done bad things to me.”

A long silent pause spread over the room.

“I think that will do for this discussion.” Hunter closed the file, not wanting to be brought further into the emotional moment. “Thank you for being honest, Nina.”

“So, does this mean you’ll get me out of here?” Nina asked, almost begging.

“We’ll be in touch soon.”

Hunter left the meeting feeling unconvinced about being able to win the case, however he knew that for the girl’s sake, he would do everything he could to get the best outcome for her. He was willing to fight for Nina Aisha.

But there was something else driving Hunter, another powerful reason to take the case to court.

And he was sure that would be exposed soon.

Chapter 5

The morning spring air hit Esther Wright hard as she walked out of the coffee shop, sending a shiver up her spine, almost causing her to spill her coffee. She didn’t like the cold, she hated the wind even more, and the city had been experiencing an unusually heavy icy snap in late March. She had checked the weather report when she rolled over in bed, as she did every morning, but when she looked out the window at the blue sky, she chose to ignore the information from the meteorologists. It was a decision she would regret.

That morning, she had followed her habitual routine—she had sat in traffic for far too long, parked in the lot under the office building, waved to the parking attendant, and walked to the coffee shop. The barista had made small talk about the cold snap, joking that he should bring his skis to work, and she offered him a light smile, but her mind was elsewhere.

It was with Tex, her work, and her future. She loved her job, it was the best one she had ever had, but she loathed his obsession with work. When he was focused, when he was determined to win a case, everything else was forgotten about. It was commendable, even admirable, that he fought so hard for justice, that he fought so hard to help others, but she wasn’t sure it was the future she wanted.

Law and justice were her boss’s passions, his calling in life, and she didn’t want to challenge that. There was justice to be served, people to help, but it wasn’t her calling. She loved to paint, to write, and even just to sit and watch people come and go in the world.

As soon as Hunter took on the case for the accused young woman, Esther knew that she wouldn’t have the time to paint in the next five months. She would be pulling ten to twelve hour days, and would be too tired in her downtime. She loved her work, she loved that she was a part of something that changed people’s lives, part of something bigger than herself, but she also had her own life to live.

Although early in the morning, the office workers were perfectly dressed in their fine suits, the construction workers already stunk of nicotine, and the cycle delivery workers were zipping through the crowds on their bikes. The steps to the coffee shop were a hustle of people going someplace at some time for some reason. Nobody looked happy as they pushed past each other, but then, they were on their way into work for another weekday morning. A well-dressed couple, in their early forties, were arguing on the street—the man pleading for the woman to listen to his point of view, and the woman standing with her arms crossed, not looking the man in the eyes.

Esther slowed as she walked past them, hoping to catch a snippet of what they were arguing about. His text messages to another woman, apparently. As Esther slowly walked past, she caught sight of another woman standing by the wall at the edge of the street, pretending to read something on her phone, but clearly more interested in the argument of the strangers. The woman looked up from her phone, made a gesture to Esther about the couple, and then smiled.

Esther returned the smile, before realizing that she was smiling about the distress of others. She put her head down, turned and walked between the arguing couple.

“Excuse me,” she said as she walked between them on the busy street. “I didn’t mean to interrupt such beautiful people.”

That one moment of distraction, that one moment of interruption, broke their focus on winning the argument. The couple were quiet as Esther walked across the street at the traffic lights. Once across the street, she turned and looked back to the couple who were hugging in a moment of forgiveness. She caught the eye of the watching woman again, who held up her thumb in a show of a job well-done. Esther smiled, a small spring in her step as she walked towards the office.

One good deed done for the day, and it wasn’t even nine o’clock.

“Tex.” She called out as she was about to walk into the office building. He was looking stoic as he stepped out of the cab in his Italian fitted suit, briefcase in hand, staring up towards his office. She handed him a take-away coffee, and then took a sip from her own. “Please tell me that you transferred the case with the cop killer to someone else.”

“I have to defend her.”

“Why though? Why risk it all for her?” She walked beside him as they went through the revolving doors, into the foyer of their office building. Esther waved to the security guard at the desk, and then proceeded to the open elevator, where the doors closed behind them. “Sidney McCann was just doing his job when he arrested your father thirty years ago. It wasn’t personal. You don’t have to take revenge on him and his family by defending the girl.”

“This isn’t about revenge, Esther. This isn’t about the legacy that Sidney McCann left behind.” He pressed the button to the tenth floor. “This is about defending an innocent girl charged with murder. I saw it in her eyes—there was hope. That’s rare for people in her situation. Not only hope for this case, not only hope for this trial, but hope for the future.”

“Giving her hope isn’t a wise thing to do. Not with the case against her.”

“I didn’t give her that hope. She had that herself. She believed in our legal system. She believed, as an innocent girl, the system would work for her.”

“There are so many innocent people to save, Tex. You don’t have to save this one. You could walk into any prison and choose another person to save. This case is too personal for you. There’s too much riding on this. And she’s not just any killer, is she?” Esther pleaded for him to understand her point of view. “This girl killed one of the men that first arrested your father. He was a cop. The whole city will turn against you if you do this. Everyone will turn against you. The media, the public, the law fraternity. You will have nobody on your side in this case.”

“Nobody’s with me now.” He looked around the empty elevator, arms spread wide.

“What about me?”

His face softened. Esther was always there for him, always willing to be by his side no matter what, and her opinion didn’t even cross his mind. She was his support, that was all he knew, and without her, he would be a mess.

“Esther, that girl is innocent.” The elevator doors opened, leading them to the office. “I saw it in her eyes, and I can’t walk away from that.”

“You always think the young girls are innocent.” She said as she walked into their office. “And what if she’s not innocent? What if she did kill the cop?”

He sighed, placed his briefcase down, and leaned against her desk. The foyer to the office was large and spacious, with enough natural light flooding in the window to make it feel airy.

Hunter had spent the night unable to sleep, tossing and turning side to side, thinking about the girl’s life. If she hadn’t used that stolen credit card, then they never would’ve linked the murder to her. He understood that Nina was desperate, he understood that she was young, but the decision to use the credit card may have cost her freedom.

“Tex, you need to be prepared for the backlash that’s coming.” Esther set her bag down on the long table, threw her keys in the top drawer, and turned on her computer. “The media is going to have a field day once this hits the courts. We’re used to letters of hatred, even threats, but defending a cop killer is going to take it all to the next level. It’s going to be hell. We’re going to be attacked from all corners.”

“We can handle that. We’ve done it many times before.” He looked at the folder on the edge of her office desk. “Who do we have this morning?”

“The Steele case. Mary-Ann is coming at ten. That’s where your focus needs to be—on the fee paying clients. You have to try and think about this case.”

“I’ll try.”

Hunter waited at her desk for a moment, before moving towards his separate office.

“Tex.” Esther called out. He stopped. “You have to be prepared for the other possibility.”

“Which is?” He turned around to face her again.

“There’s so much evidence against Nina, there’s a chance that she’ll go to prison and you can’t help her at all. The system isn’t perfect. She’s had a hard life, and she’s not an angel. She’s—”

“People shouldn’t be convicted because of their past.”

“But people are. We’re all an accumulation of our past. Our life experiences are shaped by what we’ve experienced.”

“Don’t convict her because of the life she was thrown into. She’s a good girl. She’s smart, kind, and wants to do good in the world. All she needs is a chance in life.” Hunter stood tall. “And we don’t have to win this, but we do have to get her the best outcome.”

“That’s honorable. It really is. But you’re turning the whole city against you. Every cop in the city will hunt you down when this goes to trial. You won’t even be able to walk down the street without getting harassed. You’re a name in this city, and you’ll be an even bigger name in the police department.”

“I’m ready for it.”

“I know you’re ready for the attacks, I know that you’re ready for the danger. But there’s something else that you have to be prepared for,” Esther stood and looked up to her boss. “You have to be prepared for the fact that you can’t save them all.”

Chapter 6

Tex Hunter’s law office seemed a mile away from the busy streets below, almost a tranquil oasis amongst the chaos of the country’s third largest city. That’s how he preferred it—an escape, a place to spend time calmly thinking, a retreat from the courts. The walls were soundproofed, the windows double-glazed, and only the hum of the central heating could be heard above the silence. When the occasional polar vortex blew through the Midwest, making his city colder than the Artic, that hum was reassuring, a beautiful white noise that let him know he wasn’t going to freeze to death.

Tex Hunter unclipped his cuffs, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and opened the file on his desk, trying to keep his focus on the person sitting in front of him.

Having lived a quiet life, at seventy, Mary-Ann Steele was arrested and charged with arson for allegedly stealing a car, driving it two miles, and then torching it in a reserve near her home. She didn’t fit the typical type of defendant that Hunter came across—she seemed placid, serene, and even-tempered. He imagined her baking in the morning, cleaning in the afternoon, and telling her grandchildren to eat more in the evenings. She was wearing a long blue dress, a knitted cardigan, and a necklace that looked like it had been worn every day for the last fifty years. Her skin was dehydrated, her hair had become wispy, and her health had begun to deteriorate over the past months as the criminal charges were starting to take a toll.

But despite the stress on her face, despite the tension in her shoulders, there was life in her eyes, fire in her belly, and she had a determination to see this through, if only on principle alone.

Hunter had five other files sitting on the side of his desk, almost screaming at him to look over them as well. Justice had always been his focus, and at that moment, even with another client in his office, his head was flooded with thoughts about Nina’s guilt.

What if Nina was guilty? What if she murdered Sidney McCann in a moment of rage? Could he justify helping her get back on the street? Of course, he had to. That was his job, that was a part of the ethical preparation of a defense lawyer. Guilt, or the lack of it, didn’t factor into his planning, but it was always a nagging thought in his mind, always there to distract him at the wrong times.

There were two cases he refused to accept, no matter how much money was being thrown around—defending rapists or those accused of sexually abusing children. No matter how much he tried to justify it, no matter how much he tried to accept those acts as part of his work, they were the two issues he just couldn’t acknowledge. It was irrational to defend murderers and not rapists, he knew that, but it was his truth.

“Mary-Ann, you’ll be pleased to know that we’re getting to the point where witnesses won’t be as much of an issue anymore.” Hunter turned a page on the thick file, attempting to focus on the people in his office. “But the witnesses are still stating they saw you near the car that night. We’re dragging this case out as long as we can, because if it goes to trial, the longer the time between the witness statements and their testimony, the more likely it is that the witnesses will make a mistake in court. Their memory of that day won’t match their witness statements exactly, and we’ll be able to expose them in court.”

Mary-Ann Steele was flanked by her husband, Nathan Steele, to her left. He had celebrated his seventy-fifth birthday a week before, but there wasn’t a sign he was old. Every morning, he still managed to do fifty push-ups and fifty sit-ups. He had done that his whole life, conditioned from his years in the army, and he wasn’t going to stop now. His polo shirt was neatly tucked into his high-waist jeans, his white sports socks were showing, and his brown leather shoes had been polished within an inch of their life.

“All these lawyer tactics,” Nathan shook his head as he spoke. “Can’t we just take it to court and be done with it? I’m sick of having this arson charge hanging over our heads.”

“People are starting to think I’m actually guilty.” Mary-Ann added. “They’re starting to look at me differently. There’s now a reluctance in my friend’s manner, a second of hesitation before a response, as if they’re weighing up my guilt every time they see me. I’m feeling… numb.”

“If we took it to court now, then it’s still likely, based on the evidence, that you’ll be found guilty. And unfortunately, arson is a hot political topic at the moment. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. The State’s Attorney has been instructed to raise the percentage of arson cases that are solved, and they need convictions to boost the numbers in their annual report.”

Their adult son, twenty-eight-year-old Anthony Steele, had died at a construction site almost two years earlier, on a worksite owned by developer Kenneth Chow. After finishing a double shift as a building contractor, he fell from the fifth floor of the residential construction building, falling through the gaps in the steel bars. The Steele’s held Chow solely responsible, as Anthony had often complained of being overworked and at risk of losing his job, however, according to the police report his death was filed as an ‘unfortunate workplace accident’ under the Occupational Safety and Health Act.

At the time, there was enough evidence to conduct a police investigation into his death, but the investigation found that Chow and his development company were not responsible, despite the claim that Anthony was forced to work a mountain of unpaid overtime to keep his job, to the extent that he was subjected to extreme stress and tiredness.

His death left a young woman a widow, and a young child fatherless. The Steeles had taken it upon themselves to help their daughter-in-law and grandchild, and to chase justice for their son’s death. They had filed for wrongful death in the civil court, however due to the strength of the police report, their claim was quickly rejected.

On the day of the arson attack on the Jaguar sedan, Mary-Ann had a very vocal argument with the developer, Kenneth Chow, seen by numerous people. The witness that placed her near the scene of the crime hours later didn’t help either.

“I didn’t do it.” Mary-Ann looked worried. “That should be the reason I’m going to get off this. I didn’t light the fire in his car. I would’ve loved to harm that evil man, but I didn’t. I didn’t steal his car, drive it two miles to the reserve near my place, douse it in gas, and burn his car.”

“Yes, Mary-Ann.” Her husband patted her forearm, not entirely convinced by her statement.

“I didn’t do it. Kenneth Chow deserved it, the man is a murderer, but I didn’t light the car on fire.” She sat with a straight back, legs close together, an unyielding gaze in her eyes. “He’s responsible for the death of my son, but I didn’t try to get revenge on him.”

“I don’t care how you get her off, or why you get her off, but I need you to make sure there’s no record of this crime. Not now, not ever. We want to travel through Europe on a boat cruise next year, and we can’t get into a lot of countries with a criminal record. We’ve worked so hard for this retirement, and I don’t want it thrown away because some Chinese thug set us up.”

“I didn’t do it.” Mary-Ann continued. “That should be enough. I’ll go on the stand and say that.”

“It doesn’t matter what you say.” Nathan hushed her. He was a solid man, bald, and with what appeared to be a sadness in his eyes. He hadn’t been able to watch a game of football in the time since his son passed. “What matters is what this guy can do for the money. We’re paying him a lot of money to make sure we can enjoy our retirement.”

Hunter didn’t respond to the family dispute.

There was always more than one case, always more than one job on hand, and it was always a juggle. Hunter had become quite skilled at juggling cases, at least he thought he had. In truth, it was Esther Wright that had become skilled at juggling cases, and Hunter had become skilled at listening to her directions. That morning, when she placed Steele’s file on his desk, she reiterated her advice about focusing his energy on this case. She informed him that he didn’t have the time, or the capacity, to take on another case.

He knew she was right, she usually was, but Nina’s case was something he couldn’t let go. It was an opportunity too good to pass up.

Hunter sat looking at the file on his desk—Mary-Ann had given a statement to the police and admitted she was near where the car was stolen earlier that day, admitted that she argued with the developer earlier that afternoon, and admitted she hated the construction company and would have loved to harm Kenneth Chow. She stated she was driven by ‘vengeance’ when pressed by police, and was not going to stop until she had justice for her son’s death.

Mary-Ann had built a memorial for her son in front of the construction site, placing flowers there every day, and talking to anyone who entered the site. She was particularly chatty on Monday, August 2nd, the day the car was stolen.

After Chow’s car was stolen around midnight, and found burned in a reserve near the Steele’s home only hours later, the police started asking questions. The fire department managed to put out the car fire before it was completely destroyed, but the expensive sedan was still a write-off. With Nathan out of town on a golf trip, and the subsequent discovery of Mary-Ann’s burned handbag on the front seat of the vehicle, the police had no option but to arrest the mild-mannered Mary-Ann.

“Go on, ask him.” Mary-Ann whispered to her husband.

Nathan sat up straighter. “We’ve heard you’re defending the cop killer. Is that right?”

“I don’t discuss other cases with my clients,” Hunter shook his head, not raising his eyes from the file.

“We know why you want to defend her.” Mary-Ann leaned forward, her voice quiet. “And I would do exactly the same thing. If I had a chance to make Kenneth Chow pay for what he did to our son, I would do the same. Dead or not, I would do the same.”

“Thank you for your support.” Hunter raised his eyes. “I imagine there won’t be a lot of support in Chicago for that case.”

“That’s because most people don’t know what injustice feels like.”

“Many people do. Trust me, in this job, I see a lot of injustice.” Hunter replied, before directing the conversation back to the current case. “Has your feeling about the deal that the prosecution has offered changed?”

“I didn’t light that fire and I won’t be charged for it. I won’t admit to something that I didn’t do. I would rather go to prison for something that Chow tried to set me up for.”

“As the trial nears, this is what I can tell you so far.” Hunter closed the folder on his desk. “The prosecution doesn’t want to make a deal with no record at this point. They’ve charged you with a Class 2 felony for arson, and unfortunately, the rumor is Chow is tightly connected within the police force. They haven’t charged you with theft, yet, as so far, they haven’t been able to prove that you were driving the car. The specialized car was also worth around quarter of a million dollars.”

“What a ridiculous waste of money.” Nathan commented under his breath.

“The main pieces of evidence are your partially burnt handbag on the front seat of the vehicle, and the eyewitnesses that place you near the scene of the crime. So, we’ll push this case out for more months, because the more time that passes, the less reliable the eyewitnesses become in court. The prosecution knows this. Memories change all the time. It will be easy to have an eyewitness contradict their police statement in eighteen months’ time. The prosecution wants to take this to court now but the longer we push this case out; the better chance we have of receiving a deal from the prosecution that states you won’t have a record. Perhaps even without a conviction.”

“What if I wanted to take this to court now?” Mary-Ann pressed. “To try and get it over with. These past eight months have been so stressful, and my years are ticking past. I don’t want to spend my last years on this planet with a criminal charge hanging over my head.”

“Most criminal cases don’t make it to court. Most cases are dealt with long before they make it to trial. We’re going to go slow with this, because if we take it to court now, you might lose. The extra time is the best chance of getting this dismissed without a conviction. I’m going to negotiate with the prosecution many times over the coming month to see if we can get this to go away without a record. The longer it goes on; the more strength we have in our case. We’re due to go to court soon, but I’ll lodge numerous stalling tactics, and the prosecution is going to be forced to present a better deal if they want a conviction for this fire.”

“What if she did do it?” Nathan leaned forward, whispering.

She glared at him, almost cutting him in two with her stare.

“That doesn’t make a difference to our defense.” Hunter closed another file. “My job is to get you the best outcome for this case.”

“I didn’t do it.” She shook her head again, not taking her eyes off Nathan.

“That doesn’t matter, didn’t you hear him? This lawyer is going to make sure that we go free.” Nathan turned to his wife of forty-five years. “Kenneth Chow deserves all the bad karma in the world, and I hope that all his cars get stolen and torched, and next time, I hope he’s in one of the cars.”

Chapter 7

Li McCann sat on the edge of her sofa, staring at the television, softly calling out her guesses for the Price Is Right. It had been her daily routine for a decade; becoming so attached to the show that it was almost like a family member. She loved the host and adored the contestants, but her favorite was the handsome male model on the show—he smiled at the right times, winked at the crowds, and when he took his shirt off, well, Li just about melted.

She had spent the morning going through her deceased husband’s things, packing his clothes into a box, finally putting his possessions away, after being able to lay him to rest the week before. The longer those months went by, the longer she hadn’t heard from him, the more she was certain he had died, but even after eight months, she didn’t want to touch his things in case he came back.

It was the phone call she dreaded the whole time he was missing, the one she feared—that her husband’s body was found and it wasn’t an accident. For years, she’d worried about the call when he was working as a detective with the Chicago PD. Violence and gun crime were a part of his job. At his retirement, relief was her overwhelming feeling, even if his decision came on the back of a near-death experience.

Growing up in the chaos of Hanoi, Li McCann had learned to be fearful of authority, fearful of those in power. When she married Sidney, she thought he could take her away from all that stress, away from the fear that permeated through the poor areas of her home country. However, she arrived in Chicago to find that corruption wasn’t restricted to her city.

As the last item went on the Price Is Right, after the host wrapped the show, the doorbell rang. She stood, turned the coffee machine on, and walked to the door.

“Mrs. McCann?”

“I am.” She shook the man’s hand gently. She spoke English well, distinctly, but her accent was clearly foreign. “You must be Mr. Hunter. Please come in.”

She liked the man’s smile; it was warm and inviting. He was tall, well-dressed, and smelled successful, but more than anything, there was something cheeky about those dimples. She invited the lawyer into her home, poured him a cup of coffee, and offered him a seat on her living room couch.

Her living room was basic, not because she couldn’t afford more, but because she didn’t want more. She preferred comfort over luxury, coziness over gimmicks, and relaxation over extravagance. Photos lined the walls of the medium sized room, happy moments captured in an effort to convince friends they were a stable family, and albums filled the bookshelf. The sofa was firm but comfortable, the glass coffee table old but unblemished, and the carpet well-worn but spotless.

Her husband, Sidney, was the one who always wanted more—always talking about buying a nicer house, a nicer suit, a nicer car. He was always chasing the buck, although she had long known it wasn’t an honest one.

“I must say, I was surprised when you called my office and asked to meet.” Hunter smiled when she handed him a cup of coffee. He sipped at the coffee that was too hot, and too strong. “At first, I was sure it was a prank call to my office.”

“I know it must seem strange—the widow calling your office to talk about the trial.” She looked at the wall where there were pictures of her late husband. She hadn’t added a new picture in years. There hadn’t been many happy moments to celebrate over the past decade. “But I’ve always had a soft spot for you—that poor ten-year-old kid sitting through his father’s murder trial.”

“That’s a long time ago now.”

“It is, but I watched all the documentaries about that case many times over. I love true crime shows. Sidney gave evidence in your father’s trial and I liked watching the cases Sidney was involved in. I watched one of the documentaries again yesterday, and I was looking at the three of you children, you as the youngest, and I felt so sad. There was so much publicity about that trial, so much hatred and pressure. Even just watching it on the television, I could feel your pain.”

“They were hard days.” Hunter stared into his coffee for a few long moments, his thoughts drifting back to the days of his father’s trial. “How can I help you, Mrs. McCann?”

“Sidney said a lot of things before he died. Things that… well, he talked about things that he was warned not to say.” She nodded to the wall, at the framed medal hanging as the centerpiece of the picture display. It sat proudly on the wall, almost glowing with its reverence. “That was the turning point, that medal. That stupid bravery medal was the point where everything really fell apart for Sidney. Things weren’t going great before that, but after that award, life became almost unbearable.”

“How so?”

“After that medal, after the presentation, that’s the day I know he became an alcoholic. For the next fifteen years, he was barely sober. He and his partner, John Yates, ran into a burning house fire, and saved a little girl, but couldn’t save the rest of the family. The girl was so young, maybe four or five, and Yates and Sidney received medals for bravery, but it tore him apart to hear the screams of the rest of the family burning alive. He tried to run back in there, he tried hard to save their lives, but it was too hot, and the flames were too big. After that day, after people praised him for saving the girl, he turned to alcohol to try and squash the memories of the dying parents. Most nights, the nightmares would wake him up.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. McCann.” Hunter looked back into his coffee. “It was very brave of him to run into a burning building to save the girl. That girl must be very thankful that he saved her life.”

“I wouldn’t know.” She blinked back a tear. “Sidney never talked about that night again, he never wanted to. He wanted to move on and forget it all. All I know is that it was the moment that changed his life. He drank all the time after that fire—mornings, lunches, nights. I’d often wake in the mornings to find him passed out in the car parked in the driveway, a bottle of vodka on his lap. Things became very bad after that medal presentation, especially for Rhys and I.”

“Did he hit you?”

“Always.” She forced a smile, trying to hide her pain, but it was shaky. “As bad as it was for me, his son Rhys had it the worst. He was still so young when things changed, he was only two when his mother died, and two years later, I came into the picture. Sidney was nice when I first met him, charming, but after that day, five years into our marriage, it was horrible. I tried to tell Rhys that Sidney used to be a different man, that he used to have honor, and that it was alcohol that made him do these things, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“It must’ve been hard for Rhys.”

“It was. Rhys had a horrible upbringing. Horrible. I did my best to control it, but he would beat him, us, regularly. There were so many days I couldn’t leave the house because of my black eye, or my swollen lip, or my bruised arms, and Rhys saw that. He saw it all, and there were so many days he couldn’t even sit down at school because his father took to him with the belt. He would cry, and I would try to stop Sidney, but then I would just make it worse. Rhys used to say that he would save me, that he would take me away from him one day, and I was so proud of him for saying that.” She fought back the tears. “And now look at Rhys—he’s a deadbeat.”

She looked at the wall again, at the only photo of Rhys smiling. It was a blurry photo, taken after Rhys had finished the school cross country race, coming in second, and he proudly held up the ribbon he’d won. That day, more than fifteen years ago, was one of the last days she saw her stepson truly happy.

“I saw Rhys outside at the funeral. How come he didn’t come inside the church?”

“I asked him to come to the funeral.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue and tried to smile again, an attempt to hide the years of pain. “No matter how much good Sidney tried to do in the last twelve months, he would never redeem himself in Rhys’s eyes. All those childhood years of trauma, all that pain, both physical and emotional, was too much. It left a permanent scar on Rhys’s world.”

“Redemption is different for everyone.” Hunter sipped his coffee again, not that he wanted to, but he thought it was polite not to leave a full cup behind. “I’m sorry to hear about your pain.”

“My grandfather, rest his soul, was also a police officer in Vietnam, and a really good one. Growing up, he instilled a sense of integrity in me, which I thought Sidney had when we first married. And in those early years, Sidney did have honor. Those first few years he was so much like my grandfather—that strong sense of justice, that strong sense of fairness. I loved Sid so much in those years. Then the fire changed him. That pain never left him. It kept him awake at night, and it haunted his thoughts every time he closed his eyes. He turned to alcohol to self-medicate and it was the demon drink that really changed him. I don’t blame Sidney.”

“Back then, police officers didn’t have the support they do now.”

“Even now, it’s probably not enough. Looking back, it was clear it was PTSD that affected Sidney, but no one could help him then. They told him to tough it out, that he’d move on from it. Time heals all wounds, we were told.” She had tears in her eyes. “Alcohol was the only thing that helped him silence those memories. I never blamed Sidney for hitting me or Rhys. It wasn’t his fault. All we could do was support him. He risked his life to save others, and in the end, it cost him most of his.”

“You’re an honorable woman.”

“I tried. My whole life I’ve tried to live up to the ideals of honor.” She stared at the lawyer. “And the right thing was not to abandon Sidney. He did the right thing for his community, and my sacrifice was I had to do the right thing for him. I had to be there for him, no matter how hard it was.”

Hunter let the silence sit in the room for a long period of time before continuing.

“But that’s not why you called me here, is it, Mrs. McCann?”

“No, it’s not. I called you here because it’s what Sidney would’ve wanted.” She looked at him with wide eyes. “I’m not going to lie, Sidney spent fifteen years as a terrible person. He would risk his life for his community at work, but at home, he was terrible. But in the last twelve months, he became an honorable man again. For twelve months, I had my Sidney back.”

“After his heart attack.”

“He tried to redeem himself for all the wrongs he had done before. And it was only once he looked death in the face that he changed.” She paused and looked down into her coffee. “Do you think the young girl killed Sidney? The girl you’re defending, is she guilty?”

“I can’t discuss that with you.” Hunter shook his head.

She nodded and looked at the wall again, at the photos of her husband.

“I asked you here because there’s something I wanted to say. I’m sure you know Sidney was trying to right the wrongs of his past before his death. He wanted to leave a positive legacy behind. He tried to patch things up with Rhys, even though Rhys wouldn’t listen, he spent time with people at AA meetings, supporting them, and he spent time with women at the center for domestic violence. And that was fabulous, I was so proud of Sidney. For the first time in almost fifteen years, I was proud of my husband. It made sticking by him so worth it. In the end, Sidney changed the world for the better, Mr. Hunter. He really did.”

“A person can only try to redeem their past. That’s all we can do.” Hunter placed his mug on the table in front of him. “If there’s nothing else, Mrs. McCann, I really must go.”

“Wait.” She held up her hand and closed her eyes, composing herself before she went on. “He was doing the right thing by trying to fix the wrongs of the past, but I’m not sure he did that. He did so much wrong in the past, and I’m not sure if he even became the Pope that he would’ve been able to right all those wrongs. He was a person with authority, a trusted figure, and he abused that. I’m sure you realize we couldn’t have afforded this house on a detective’s wage. Not that I knew anything about what he did. I never asked.”

Hunter let the pause settle over them while she gathered the courage to continue. Her speech was calculated, planned; as if every word had been rehearsed.

“Two months before he disappeared…” She drew a deep breath. “He decided to right other wrongs of his past. Wrongs he had made in the police force. I told him to leave it alone, not to go against his old police department. I told him to stop, but his legacy… he kept talking about his legacy, and he wanted to correct the mistakes he had made for so many years.”

“Such as?”

“He wouldn’t talk about them to me. He said it was too dangerous to let me know, so I didn’t push the issue, but it was police corruption. It was pretty clear to me that’s what he was trying to fix. And then…” She bit her bottom lip. “And then the week before he went missing, he became really scared. He told me to keep the doors locked at all times, and to watch who was following me, even in the car. He was fearful of what was going to happen, but he was determined to right those wrongs.”

“Any idea what it might’ve been about?”

“I know there were a lot of people in the department that didn’t want Sidney’s secrets to come out. He’d been corrupt for a long time. Deep down, I knew that, but I never did anything about it. I didn’t want him to expose police corruption. It would’ve put us through so much pain. I would’ve been looking over my shoulder every second of every day. I didn’t want that.”

“You’re saying someone in the police department put a stop to what he was doing?” Hunter leaned forward.

“All I know is that Sidney isn’t here, and in the days before his disappearance, he was scared of someone in the police department. He said he could go to prison for what he was about to say, but he was working with the Department of Justice to strike a deal for immunity. People must have known what he was doing. Those cops know everything. I pleaded with him not to go through with it.”

“Why were you so strongly against exposing the corruption?”

“Because it would’ve destroyed my life. Those cops wouldn’t let him do it without a fight. After all those years of pain, after all those beatings, my life was finally good. I deserved that. Sidney was a good man doing good in the world, and for once, I was happy. I didn’t want to throw that away because of the past. I told Sidney to let the past be the past. I pleaded with him not to let corruption destroy our lives again.”

Hunter sat back in the sofa. There was hope, and not only for Nina’s case.

He was aware that hope was a dangerous feeling, but right now, he couldn’t stop that train of thought.

“If someone in the police department did this…” Li McCann looked down. “I don’t want to blame them, they were my family too, but I know Sidney worked so hard for the truth to come out. And maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe the girl did murder my Sidney, but… but I want to honor my husband’s memory and what he was trying to do in the end. If this is what he died for, if he died because he was trying to expose someone, then the truth must come out.”

“Thank you, Mrs. McCann.” Hunter stood. “Thank you for your honesty.”

He turned to the door, the thoughts racing through his head faster than he could process them.

There was hope for Nina.

There was hope for proving Sidney McCann’s corruption in court.

And that meant there was hope that every arrest McCann had ever made could be reviewed.

Including an arrest made thirty years ago.

Chapter 8

Tex Hunter was thinking deeply late at night, as he often did, on the indoor basketball court—ball in hand, freely shooting the ball into the hoop, hitting his fifth straight three-pointer in a row.

Alone on the court within the East Bank Club, a multi-level complex that could be described as a country club within city limits, Hunter had a place to think, a place to let his mind run free. The indoor court was like a high-school gym—covered by a high ceiling, one long stand of tiered seats to the left of the court, and an old scoreboard to the right. It was rarely used for basketball competitions, other than local games with middle-aged men trying to recapture their youth, but it was well-maintained, the floorboards almost spotless. It was where he did some of his best thinking: something physical to distract his hands, something mental to distract his thoughts, and something competitive to divert his attention from whiskey. With his mind on something else, something mindless, his brain was free to explore his deeper subconscious.

Before his father’s conviction, Hunter loved spending time on the basketball court. Taller and quicker than most, he dominated the court, even when playing two age groups higher. After the conviction, after his family name was spread through the country, no basketball team welcomed his last name on their roster. If he tried to enroll in a team, the mothers would withdraw their kids.

He had never known anything but pain in his family, nothing but the horrible agony of defending his name. His mother was a beautiful woman, someone full of caring and love, but she was convicted as an accessory to the murder of eight girls, although she had protested her innocence at every step of the process. To watch her wither in prison, to watch her soul being crushed by the system, broke his heart.

His father never denied the crimes to Hunter’s face, but he also never admitted that he murdered the eight girls. He pleaded ‘not guilty’ and was convicted during a trial, and his subsequent appeals were denied, but Alfred Hunter never looked his youngest son in the eyes and said that he was innocent. Hunter had asked that question many, many times, but his father always had a reason not to answer.

Hunter had always believed his father was innocent. He had to. It was all he had.

That notion of innocence had driven him through life, driven him through the late nights, through the pain, and through the rivers of hate that he had to swim through.

Legacy was a word he heard a lot of lately. He reasoned that maybe that’s why he was driven into law—on a subconscious level, he was trying to deal with his father’s past. There was a part of him that wanted to redeem his family name, a part of him that wanted the Hunter name to rise above the abuse.

“Tex.”

Hunter turned, unhappy that his thoughts had been interrupted.

“Alicia Carson.” He shot another three, but this time, the ball bounced off the rim. “You broke my streak.”

A Director within the Bureau of Organizational Development in the Chicago PD, Alicia Carson walked onto the court looking confident, wearing a dark suit that fitted her feminine figure well. She was usually confident. Graduated top of her class at the academy thirty years earlier, worked extremely long hours, and found success in the office. She did her time as a Detective, before moving into the administration branch of the department, where she ruthlessly climbed the corporate ladder. Inside the walls of the Police Department, she was a powerhouse, someone to be feared.

Outside of the office, however, was a different story. At fifty-five, she was never married—no man had lasted more than six months with the workaholic—and she lived alone in her penthouse apartment just outside the Loop. She loved that feeling of opening the blinds in the morning and looking down on everyone else.

“I wish I could say this was a coincidence.” Her voice was smooth, calm, but fake. It was a tone practiced many times over, in front of video recorders, tapes, and phone recordings. She had read that if her tone was too high-pitched, people wouldn’t respect her as a worker, and if it was too deep, people wouldn’t respect her as a woman. It took her years of practice to hit that middle tone. “But it’s not. The doorman at your apartment told me that I could find you here.”

Hunter’s path had crossed with Alicia Carson numerous times. He had never trusted her, as he was sure she didn’t trust herself. There was a coldness to her actions, a tension in her face, which kept her at arm’s length away from any personal attachment.

“What do you want, Alicia?” Hunter questioned.

“I came to say sorry for being so aggressive at the funeral.” She folded her arms. “But don’t tell me it’s true.”

Hunter didn’t respond.

“She’s not taking the deal, is she? She wants to take this to trial? You’re letting her take this to court?”

Hunter nodded. He picked up the ball, bounced it aggressively, and shot again. Again, the ball hit the rim, his rhythm disrupted.

“Why? She killed a cop. She murdered our Sidney. Our friend.” Her voice was slightly more high-pitched than normal, a truer tone than she had spoken in years. “Why don’t you let the public defenders do this? Why do you have to take this to court?”

“Sidney McCann was not my friend, and I’d be surprised if you truly called McCann a friend. For most of his life, that man took advantage of everyone and everything. For almost six decades, he only cared about himself.”

“He changed. He wanted to leave something positive behind. He chased redemption in that final year of his life. That’s got to be worth something.”

“McCann didn’t redeem himself in the eyes of his son, nor many, many other people.”

“Sidney wasn’t perfect. Nor are you, and nor am I.” She held her hands up. “But Sidney was still a colleague in justice. One of us. He’s the same as you and me. And you want to defend his killer? I can’t understand why you would want to do that. I haven’t heard of you taking on pro-bono cases for random people before. Don’t tell me that this is some sort of sick revenge for him putting the handcuffs on your father thirty years ago?”

Hunter shook his head.

“It wouldn’t be money. She couldn’t possibly afford your fees.”

“She can’t.”

“Then why? Why do you have to do this?”

They say that a lion can sense fear up to half-a-mile away, and there was no doubt that Hunter could sense the fear in her tone. She sighed, uncrossed her arms, and tapped her foot on the edge of the court. Her shoes made a loud sound on the boards, echoing throughout the room. After a few moments, she ran her hands over her skirt, folded her arms again, and smiled, although it was clearly forced.

“As you would be aware, I’ve been interviewed by the prosecution as a witness. The prosecution has requested my presence on the stand, if it gets to court.” She stood with a rigid back, not at all comfortable looking. “They want me to testify on the stand if this gets that far.”

“I wasn’t aware of that.” Hunter stopped bouncing the ball, turning his full attention to Carson.

“I guess they haven’t updated you with their witness lists yet. Lawyers, always so slow to get things done,” she scoffed. “Well, I’ll give you an update. I saw Sidney that day at a dinner function for a charity in Chinatown.”

She waited for Hunter to respond, however he didn’t.

“After I left the function, I went looking for a bite to eat. There’s a really, really good deep-dish pizza place that’s open twenty-four seven, and I’m sure you know that at these functions there’s a lot of alcohol. I had a lot to drink, and it was late, so I needed something to soak up the alcohol.”

Hunter waited, studying the woman opposite him. She had less wrinkles on her brow than he would expect for a woman her age, and mostly because she could afford Botox.

“When I was walking to the pizza joint, I saw two people arguing at the end of a street. They were loud and quite aggressive, then I realized that one of the people was Sidney McCann. One minute later, just after I had crossed the street, I heard some yelling and then saw the girl, Nina, walk away.”

“Are you sure it was Sidney McCann that you saw on the street?”

“I know what you’re doing, Tex, but this isn’t a court room. Yes, I was drunk, and yes, it was dark and yes, it was at night. But it was definitely Sidney that I saw. Absolutely.”

“Did you report this at the time?”

“What was there to report? I didn’t know who screamed, I didn’t know why it happened, and I didn’t know if anything actually happened. My call would’ve been a waste of police resources. It was only once I heard of Sidney’s disappearance that I reported it. And I didn’t even know that he was reported missing until I heard about his body being recovered in the river.”

“Did you investigate the screams, or did you just keep walking?”

“I don’t wear a cape, and I would never consider myself a hero. I have my own life to protect.” She rolled her eyes. “I looked briefly, didn’t see anything, and then kept walking to the pizza joint.”

“So, you’re going to testify that you saw Nina and Sidney McCann on the night of his death?” He stepped towards her, rolling the basketball in his hands.

“That’s what I said.” She ran her hands down her skirt again. It was a new skirt, as were most things in her wardrobe. Most items of clothing only lasted a month before she moved them on. “And if this case goes to court, then I will be on the stand, as will many of us cops. So, I came here to remind you that you owe me a favor.”

“How so?”

“Have you forgotten the Gillian case?” She leaned forward.

“That wasn’t a favor. You only acted in a way that helped your friend.”

“Regardless, the information that I provided you helped save your client from prison.”

“It helped save an innocent woman from criminal charges.” Hunter was firm.

“Still your client.” She brushed her hands over her hair and lifted her chin. “I expect to be treated kindly on that stand.”

Silence sat over them like a wet blanket.

Hunter formulated in his head what she was doing there—as a cop, she must’ve known that most cases didn’t make it to trial, especially cases where the homeless are charged with murder. Most deal out before the thought of a trial even happens.

“At the function, what were you arguing with McCann about?” Hunter stepped closer, gripping the basketball in both hands.

“How did you know I was arguing with him that night?” Her face showed her shock at the question.

“You wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Hunter kept his gaze on her. “If you were merely a witness, merely someone in the wrong place at the wrong time, then you would wait until this case has progressed further before you would worry about what to say on the stand.”

“It was a private issue.” She turned away. “Nothing I can discuss with you now.”

“Did he have something on you, Alicia? Is that what you were arguing about?” Hunter’s voice rose. “In his year of redemption, he finally wanted to address the issues that had plagued him his whole life—corruption. He was going to right the wrongs of his past.”

“What ridiculous talk.” She shook her head. “Sidney wasn’t corrupt.”

“You know he was, and you know he was going to expose a lot of people in the department.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not expecting that I will have to take the stand because you’ll have to deal out on this one. You have to do what’s best for your client, and that’s advise her to take the deal.”

“Don’t be so certain on that,” Hunter replied. “Nobody has done a deal yet.”

“She’s a homeless girl and numerous people saw her beat Sidney!” She snapped. “That’s some very damning evidence. Most lawyers would take a deal in that situation.”

“I’m not most lawyers.” Hunter turned the basketball in his hand.

“My argument with Sidney isn’t the only reason I’m here. I’ve been asked to be here, Tex. To see if I can talk some sense into you.”

“By who?”

“By very powerful people. They don’t like that you’re looking into McCann’s past. They don’t like it one bit. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that these people will stop at nothing to protect their department.”

“You think I’m going to be scared off by corrupt cops?” Hunter smiled. “My whole life has been lived in the shadow of the police department.”

“These people aren’t corrupt, they aren’t crooked, but they will, and I repeat, they will protect the police department with everything they have. The PD is their home. It’s their family. And they’ll do what it takes to protect its reputation.”

“They should’ve tried to protect the reputation of the department while Sidney McCann was taking money off criminals.” Hunter stepped closer. “I won’t walk away from this. Not for you. Not for your bosses. And certainly not for the reputation of a dirty cop.”

Alicia looked down, quivering under the stare of Hunter. She took a step back, and looked to the door.

“Just remember, the Chicago PD is like a family. We look after each other.” Carson turned to leave, her footsteps loud on the basketball court. Before she reached the door, she turned back to him. “And if you’re going to expose someone, then you’d better be prepared for an onslaught.”

Chapter 9

Private Investigator Ray Jones pumped out his fifth set of chin-ups, pulling hard to reach the last one. He loved exercising in the outdoors, preferring it over a fancy gym with clean benches. He stood next to the gym equipment in Burnham Park, hands on knees, looking out to Lake Michigan as he caught his breath. Cyclists rode past on the lakeside path, teenagers were kicking a soccer ball on the grass nearby, and a possible small-time drug deal was happening in the parking lot behind him. The perfect Chicago view, he thought.

Jones could never workout in a sterile, sweat-free environment—for him, working out meant grunting, sweating, doing the hard yards. It meant getting dirty, pumping muscles, and callused hands. It meant run-down equipment, rusty bars, and heavy metal music. He had no time for the modern gyms, with all their new equipment, clean seats, and cheesy pop songs.

He wanted to grunt, display his aggression, and outwardly exhibit his masculinity; of which, he had plenty.

Jones wiped his thick forearm across his brow, turned up the music on his portable speaker, and pumped out another set of chin-ups, his arms throbbing as he pulled his 260-pound muscular frame towards the bar.

After the set was completed, he stretched his arm across his chest, watching as a BMW sedan, its clean exterior shining in the spring sunshine, pulled into the parking lot next to the gym equipment. His friend, and colleague, Tex Hunter stepped out, dressed in a fitted European suit, loosening his tie. He took a moment to stare at the two older cars that had parked next to each other on the other side of the lot, and watched as a bag was exchanged through the windows, possibly heroin, or maybe ice. The two cars drove out of the lot under Hunter’s stare, but they weren’t going to cause him any trouble.

He was surprised they were there at all—there were two cameras in the parking lot, one at each end, recording the activity. A risky spot to do a deal, he reasoned, unless they wanted to get caught.

“Nice spot.” Hunter approached the outdoor gym equipment, staring out at the lake that was shimmering in the sunshine. “It’s a pity this exercise equipment blocks the view.”

“It’s my perfect gym,” Jones patted the rusty metal pole. They shook hands solidly, Jones’s grip hard after working out. “Why workout indoors when you can be out here in the sun? You should take off that jacket and join me in a set of chin-ups.”

“No thanks. I’d much prefer the loud music and specific gym equipment. It’s mindless, and it’s good to switch off for a while. I already do too much thinking about life. And I’ve heard the specialized machines specifically target muscle groups, which works for me.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear.” Jones walked around, but his frame was too wide to fit between some of the equipment. “There are only three things that tell the truth: drunk people, small children, and yoga pants.”

Hunter laughed out loud. “Well, last time I was at the gym, I asked the personal trainer which machine is best to impress the ladies—and he pointed outside to the ATM machine.”

“Ha!” Jones moved to the side of the exercise equipment. “I was reading something yesterday—”

“Didn’t know you could.”

“The paper I was reading said Oregon leads the country in both infidelity and depression.” He began to smile. “What a sad state of affairs.”

Hunter laughed again, patted his friend on the shoulder, and then walked across to Jones’s red Chevy truck, polished clean enough to see his own reflection.

“How’s the new girlfriend?” Hunter asked.

“Gone.”

“Already? This one only lasted a month. That’s quick, even for you. What happened?”

“She had a strange fetish.

“Which was?”

“She liked to dress up as herself and act like a nasty woman all the time.”

As Hunter laughed, Jones opened the door to his car, removing a folder off the passenger seat. The bond between the men was more than work, more than testing themselves against the underworld of Chicago, their bond was built on mutual respect and masculinity. In a world where the definition of masculinity was questioned, where the definition of strong was seen as threatening, these two men had the strength to be themselves.

“I don’t have a lot of information about the Mary-Ann Steele case yet. I’ve looked at a lot of the basic information, but nothing stands out.” Jones handed the folder across to Hunter, closed the door and leaned against his car. “The area in Chinatown where the car was stolen has a few shops, a few parking lots, and some residential buildings. I would’ve thought one of those buildings would have surveillance footage of that night.”

“But?”

“But there’s nothing. Not one piece of footage that shows the entrance to the construction site where Kenneth Chow claims his car was parked. Five cameras from the residential buildings across the road were turned off, the shops down the street had their cameras facing the other way, and one shop’s camera was ‘broken.’” He used his fingers to show quotation marks.

“Coincidence?”

“I don’t think so. Everyone seemed evasive when talking about the car theft. There was something those people didn’t want to discuss with me.” He wiped his brow again. He loved to sweat, to release the toxins from his body. That pain let him know he was alive. “I have a contact who runs a taxi company, Town-Side Cabs, and because he runs the company, forty cabs in his fleet, he knows a lot of the ins and outs in Chicago. He’s heard secrets that would make your mouth drop, and he has a theory about what happens around that area.”

“Things he’s seen firsthand, or heard from his drivers?”

“From his drivers. They say there’s a lot of underground poker games happening around the area of the car theft in Chinatown, and the cameras are intermittently turned off. Five or six phone calls are made, and then suddenly the cameras stop recording.”

“To avoid detection?”

“That’s what he says. He says it’s a known area for underground activity and when he sends a cab there late at night, he only sends his toughest guys. He’ll never send a female cab driver over there at night because he doesn’t know what’ll happen.”

“That’s good to know.” Hunter said. “Because it looks like I’m going to be spending a lot of time around there.”

“Why’s that?”

“Chinatown is also the neighborhood where Sidney McCann was last seen alive. Just one block from there, one week before the theft.”

“That’s heavy.” Jones raised his eyebrows. “Do you think that’s a coincidence?”

“I’m not sure yet. I need you to look into whether you can find any evidence that ties the developer, Kenneth Chow, to the force. Anything at all that connects him with corrupt cops, and also find out if Chow’s path ever crossed with McCann’s.”

“You think McCann may’ve been part of the corruption that happens around there?”

“I know both McCann and Chow were corrupt, but does that mean they’re connected? I’m not sure yet. All I know is that the people we’re looking into aren’t going to be friendly. Your contact with the cabs, ask him if he knows the name Kenneth Chow. If he does, find out what he knows.”

“Got any main suspects for the Sidney McCann case, or are you positioning the girl to take a deal? From what I’ve read in the media, it’s a strong case against her, and more than that—she’s a homeless black girl accused of murdering a retired, white cop. She doesn’t stand a chance in court.”

“It’s a strong case, and the deal may be her best option, but we still have to do due diligence, and look into what happened that night.” Hunter rested his hand against the truck, looking back to the skyline of Chicago, highlighted against the blue-sky backdrop. “McCann’s wife called me and said that, before he went missing, her husband was trying to expose the corruption that he’d been a part of. And then, a few days after he meets with the DOJ, he goes missing.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Jones stretched his arm across his chest again. “I had a dealing with Rhys McCann a few years back. He sold me a second-hand television, but I got it home and it didn’t work. I went around to his place, demanded my money back and he refused. So, I dealt out my own type of justice, just a few little taps around his ribs, you know?”

“A little tap from you would be hard enough to break most people’s ribs.”

“I roughed him up, looking to get my money back. I knew he was a security guard, but I didn’t know his father was a cop. Within a day, my apartment was being searched by a detective named Sidney McCann, supposedly because of a report of stolen goods. I’d thrown the television out, but it was clearly a set-up. He was looking for me to pay him off with a bribe. I’d since heard it was a scam they’d run a lot of. Rhys sells the stolen goods, his father comes in and finds the person in possession of the goods, and takes an extra payment, usually a few hundred in cash, to turn a blind eye to the crime. A good little scam if you’re running it every week and picking the right people.”

“I’m going to talk to Rhys tomorrow, and see what sort of life he leads. From what I’ve seen so far, it isn’t much of one.”

Jones took out his phone, which looked tiny in his huge hands, typed a few notes, and then placed it back into his pocket.

“Heads up.” Jones nodded to the entrance of the parking lot as a police patrol car drove in. “I can guarantee they’re here for you.”

The marked police car circled the parking lot once, driving slowly, and then parked behind Hunter’s sedan, blocking any chance of an exit. Hunter sighed, and shook his head. He knew what was coming. He knew he had months of this ahead of him.

Both officers, older men in uniform with a clear chip on their shoulder, stepped out of the patrol car with their hands on their guns, still resting in their belts.

“Sir, please step away from the car.”

Neither Hunter nor Jones moved.

“I said, please step away from the car.”

“What did we do wrong?” Jones raised his hands in the air and began to back off.

“We’ve had reports of a drug deal in the parking lot and we have suspicion that you have drugs with you.”

“What suspicion?”

“An anonymous tip-off.”

Hunter groaned, and then raised his hands. He knew how this play worked—one cop anonymously reports a suspected drug deal on the tip-off line, and then dispatch sends a patrol car to the spot to rough them up legally, searching for drugs. When nothing is found after the aggressive search, and perhaps a punch or two, the suspects would be free to go, with only a few bruises to show for the encounter.

“Sir.” The officer with a trimmed beard walked behind Hunter. “Place your hands on the car in front of you.”

Hunter waited, asserting his dominance, and then did what he was asked, as did Jones. One of the officers began to search Jones’s truck, turning his neat car upside down. He emptied the glove box, emptied a paper file, and turned everything around.

“Is this your car?” The officer asked of Hunter.

Hunter didn’t respond.

“Sir, I asked if this is your car?”

“I don’t have to answer your question.” Hunter turned and stood tall, then nodded to the end of the parking lot. “That camera is currently recording what happens in this area. You can choose to do what you want next, but I’ll warn you that the footage would be hard to erase.”

The officers shared a look of surprise, stared at the camera, and nodded back to their patrol car. They hadn’t expected the cameras to be placed there.

“Look at you, with all your lawyer talk.” The first officer came up behind Hunter as he walked to his car. “You may be a lawyer, but we’re the law.”

The cop pressed his finger into Hunter’s chest.

“And we protect our own,” the cop whispered into Hunter’s ear. “Watch your step, or you’ll be the next body to end up in the bottom of the lake.”

Chapter 10

Despite all the government documents, despite all the cameras, despite even the mass of information available online, the greatest way to know a person, to really understand them, was to watch them in their daily routine.

Tex Hunter knew that better than most. He followed Rhys McCann, the son of the murdered Sidney McCann, staying half-a-block behind, on the cool Saturday morning, and not for one moment did he like what he saw.

In East Pilsen, on Chicago’s Lower West Side, Rhys McCann walked from his apartment to the nearest convenience store, yelling at three strangers, all in flashes of rage. The first was at a woman taking photos of a beautiful tree, as she had dared to stop in the middle of the sidewalk. McCann could’ve easily stepped around her, but decided to bump the woman with his elbow and follow it with a tirade of abuse. His second outburst of rage was when he walked out in front of traffic and someone almost ran him over, as if it was the driver’s fault that an idiot stumbled out onto the street. The third, and loudest, was reserved for a homeless person that dared ask him for help.

There was no doubt this man had anger issues, and it was clear the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. If it wasn’t for his anger, no one on the streets would’ve looked at Rhys McCann twice. He was everyman, the man that blended into the background with nothing special to add to the world, nothing unique to give to anyone. Twenty-four, never married, no kids, and he possessed a stomach that hung over his cargo shorts, occasionally showing under his dirty t-shirt.

After failing the police entrance exams twice, Rhys McCann had spent the last five years contracting for a security company, driving from site to site to check on alarms. He enjoyed the job in his late teens, the work was easy and mindless, but now, as he went through his mid-twenties, he was beginning to realize there was no future in his job. He’d never seen any action, never fired a gun, and never played the hero. The bravery that young Rhys McCann once had, the bravery that his stepmother talked about, had been slowly drummed out of him through years of failure, an alcohol addiction, and a dead-end job.

As he walked out of the convenience store eating a hotdog that was likely to cause food poisoning, with his face scrunched up in anger at the hatred he had for himself, Rhys grunted loudly. Hunter approached him, standing in his way on the sidewalk. Rhys stopped the instant he noticed Hunter’s towering figure. From his height, Hunter could see Rhys was struggling to find enough hair to brush over the top of his bald patch.

“I imagine this isn’t a coincidence.” Rhys grumbled once he regained composure.

“No, it’s not.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you.” Rhys began walking again. The sidewalk was uneven, dirty, and littered with trash. “I’ve worked all night, and I’m tired. I’ve got nothing to add about anything. Go and bother someone else.”

Hunter knew it wouldn’t take much to light a fire in the dragon, it wouldn’t take much to produce an angry response—all he needed to do was prod the right area and his rage couldn’t be contained.

“I wanted to talk about your father.” Hunter stood still on the street as McCann started to walk away.

“My father?” McCann’s son turned around. “He wasn’t much of a father. I wouldn’t even call him that. He was a bastard to me most of my life. He used to beat my stepmother and I regularly, as if it were some sort of sport. What a guy, eh? Bet they didn’t say that at his funeral.”

Hunter didn’t reply as McCann’s son walked back towards him. The street around them was quiet, except for the traffic a few feet away, and the shop next to them was empty, with a broken door to match the boarded up window.

“But you’d know about bad fathers, wouldn’t you, Tex Hunter? Here you are—the son of a serial killer—talking to the son of a drunk, corrupt cop. What a moment.”

“What a moment indeed.” Hunter nodded. “Did you want your father dead?”

“Want him dead? Of course!” Rhys’s buttons had been pushed, not that it took much. Even if Rhys accidently pressed the wrong digit on his television remote, it was enough to see it thrown across the room. “I wanted him dead for years! So many days when I was a kid, I wish he got shot at work. I wish he wouldn’t come home, and I wish he wouldn’t beat my stepmother. Yeah, I wanted him dead.” He stepped closer to Hunter, within a foot of his towering figure. “But ‘did I want him dead’ and ‘did I kill him?’ are two different questions.”

“Did you?”

“Kill him?” He shook his head. “One of my life’s great regrets will always be that I didn’t do it. I thought about it, dreamed about it, longed for it, over so many years, but I didn’t have the guts to do it. I would’ve loved to have killed him.”

“Your father changed in his last months. He tried to redeem himself. He wanted to leave behind a positive legacy.”

“Changed! Are you serious?” The anger was starting to rage through Rhys. His left arm flailed around, narrowly missing an older lady walking past, but McCann didn’t care. “He was corrupt and evil! People like that don’t change! He even used me as part of a set-up to bribe people. His own son was being used so he could harass people!”

“People can change, Rhys. Your father tried to redeem himself, and tried to leave the world a better place. There were a lot of people at his funeral, people that came to pay their respects to a man that helped them, but you wouldn’t know that, would you?”

“He didn’t deserve my attendance at his funeral. That man ruined my life.” Rhys shook his head. “He took me into a life of crime.”

“Took you into a life of crime?” Hunter’s head tilted to the side. “What do you mean by that, Rhys?”

“He used to pay me to sell stolen televisions to unsuspecting idiots, who he then went and bribed. It was the only way I would talk to him—if he paid me, that is. He tried to get me to sell a stolen freezer once, but I said that was too much.” McCann ran his fingers through his hair and looked away. “What do you want? You asking about my freezer?”

“Your freezer?”

“I sold my freezer last year. I don’t even have one any more.”

Confused, Hunter stared at him for a long moment.

Rhys McCann looked tired; not the sort of tired that came from missing one night of sleep, not the sort of tired that came from lacking a few hours of shut-eye, but the sort of tired that came from hating your entire existence. The bags under his eyes were heavy, his skin looked dehydrated, and his shoulders were tensed with years of nervous energy.

“Where were you on July 26th last year?”

“No.” He scrunched up the trash from his hotdog, and threw it into the gutter. “I’m not a suspect. You have nothing on me. Nothing!”

“You should come into my office and we’ll talk about it further. I have something I would like to discuss with you.”

“No!” McCann stepped forward, his eyes barely coming up to Hunter’s chin. “You stay away from me or I’ll make sure you regret it!”

“It’s important, Rhys.”

“Not a chance. I want nothing to do with people like you. Keep me out of it.” Rhys turned, storming down the street, yelling to himself about his father. “And I want nothing to do with him!”

Hunter waited a few moments, watching Rhys until he turned the corner of the next block, before he walked back to his car, pondering the encounter and the man himself. That Rhys McCann had a temper was unquestionable. He was impulsive, abusive, and quick to anger—the sort of person who could have lashed out and struck his own father after years of built-up rage, and then callously dumped the body in the Chicago River. If Nina Aisha didn’t do it, then Hunter had found a new suspect.

Hunter wasn’t sure what his next move would be, but one thing was clear: he hadn’t finished with Rhys McCann yet.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter 11

Six miles from Chicago's soaring skyscrapers, in a suburb where tourists rarely ventured, sat the Cook County Jail, one of the largest prison complexes in the country. It sprawled across the neighborhood of Little Village, a colossal structure, both in terms of its walls and its social presence, leaving its permanent mark on the area. Those who were lucky enough to leave, those who had served their time for their crime, were often kicked out the front gate, not even with a wave goodbye, and told to make their own way home. Often, new releases wandered the streets of Little Village, testing their first few moments of freedom. A fast food joint sat near the entrance, the first stop for many, but it had been shot up by gangs so many times that the owners were considering closing its doors permanently.

Close to the fried chicken shop, behind the mighty great concrete barrier to freedom, behind the rolled barbed wire, was Division Four of the Cook County Jail, holding seven hundred female inmates, and amongst them, at least one lost soul.

After weeks without her freedom, after weeks locked away from her city, Nina Aisha was adrift amongst a sea of pain, regret, and anger. Her new home was a place where dreams had been long lost, hopes had been squashed, and any chance of a happy future had been dashed. That pain, that devastating helplessness, was soaked into the walls. She could feel it all around her. That vast emptiness was the loneliest sensation she’d ever encountered. It left her new associates looking like zombies.

But the new blood, the sweet face of a new girl, had snapped the other inmates out of their trance.

Nina Aisha stood near her new friend Denise Rodman, whose bulk was large enough to hide behind. The sun streamed into the exercise yard, warming Nina’s skin, as it was the first direct sunlight she’d seen in weeks. The small patch of grass was green, fresh, and the dew hung in the air as the sky remained blue. A number of women were walking around the yard, stretching their legs, as the others were sitting, soaking in the sun’s rays. Denise had told her to keep moving, that the worst thing she could do inside was to lose her mobility or her fitness. Once that goes in here, she said, it’s gone forever.

The yard wasn’t big, barely the size of a baseball diamond, but compared to her small cell, it felt massive. As she sat on the cold metal bench at the edge of the yard, Nina kept her eyes down, avoiding eye contact with everyone and anyone that circled near her.

“Oh, a new pretty one. So cute. Look at that skin. I wish I had skin like that. I could lick it all day long.” A group of women, led by another large woman, called out to Denise. “What’s the girl in for?”

“Murder.”

“Anyone good?”

“A cop.”

“Oooh.” The women sounded like they were still in high school, but that was normal for them, as most of them didn’t finish school. The lead woman smiled and turned to Nina. Her eyes went wide, wider than what would be considered normal. “Did he touch ya? I hate it when they do that. Those cops think they’re almighty and can do whatever they want. But we can fight back.”

“I punched him.” Nina replied. “But I didn’t kill him.”

“Of course. We’re all innocent here, sweetheart.” The other women laughed loudly. “Why did you punch him?”

“Because he came to say sorry that he ruined my life.” Nina backed away, sliding along the bench. “He came to say sorry for what he did in the past, all the pain he caused me, so I hit him.”

“Sounds like he deserved it.” The larger woman said. “Sounds like the man had it coming.”

“Someone had it coming for a long time. Someone had to pay for what happened to me.”

“What happened to you?” Denise rested her foot on the bench, leaning her elbow on her knee. “Another man?”

“A teacher.” Nina nodded, and the women collectively made a noise of understanding. That had been the story of much of their lives—they were commodities, things to be used, objects to be taken advantage of.

But as much as they sympathized with her, as much as they understood her past, it was a dog-eat-dog world, and, in this yard, this group were the pit bulls.

The group of women pushed past Denise, standing over Nina, reaching down to play with her hair, touching the skin of her face.

“She’s so cute.” “Yum.” “Tasty.”

The words were thrown around her, echoing in her head. Nina knew she was a target, fresh meat for the gangs, and no one could stop them from taking what they wanted—not her, not Denise, not even the guards. As much as Denise was her new protector, there was a clear social structure that had to be adhered to. Prison was an almost primal reflection on society—what the world would be like without hope.

Nina stood, unsure of where to go next. The women circled her, cutting her off from Denise, and any hope of help.

The first push came from behind Nina, and she fell into the chest of a six-foot African American woman. The woman’s hair was cut short, her shoulders broad, and her thighs were like tree trunks. If she wasn’t in a women’s prison, Nina would’ve called her ‘sir.’

The alarm went off for the end of their exercise session, and the relief for Nina was palpable. The other women began moving away, not even they were brave enough to fight against the end of yard time.

“You’re going to be ours soon, Freshie.”

“I can’t wait to taste you.”

Nina started walking with the crowd, moving away from the group of women, and the tears welled up in her eyes.

She owned her body. It was hers. It was the only thing she had ever owned, but it had been taken so many times, used and abused by others, that she didn’t want anything to do with it.

Her only possession in this world was the object that got her into the most trouble.

And she knew if she stayed in prison, if she stayed behind those walls, her only possession would be theirs to take.

Another woman, smaller and still in her early twenties, walked beside Nina, and whispered.

“Be careful around Denise. She’s been known to snitch to the cops.”

“And what happens if she does?”

“People go missing.” She clicked her fingers. “Just like that, they disappear, never to be heard of again.”

And then it became clear—she was between a rock and a hard place.

Agony, or death, was coming for her.

Chapter 12

“I should’ve known you’d find a way to talk.”

“You didn’t return my calls, Tex. I left messages. Many of them.” Pradesh Baron walked into the bar as Hunter finished his steak and vegetables. Hunter often enjoyed eating alone—there was something about having his thoughts only on the meal in front of him that made him feel focused.

The Berghoff Restaurant in Chicago was mostly known as a beer stop, established in the 1890s by a German immigrant for the Chicago World’s Fair. The restaurant was small, having been in the same location on West Adams St. for more than a hundred years. In the age of corporations and egotistical advancement, this business was a rarity—a family run business where the understanding of customer satisfaction was passed from one generation to the next, and that loyalty was only matched by the staff, some of whom had worked there for more than forty years.

The inside of the building was filled with old-world charm—subdued lighting, recently polished dark-wood paneling, new leather on the dining chairs. A bar ran along one side of the room, filled with a mix of tourists and locals, and the restaurant was to the right, the tables and chairs were close to each other but not packed in. Despite the number of people, despite the chatter of noise, it was a pleasant atmosphere, one full of enjoyment.

Whenever the rib eye came on the specials board, Hunter made sure he stopped in. The beautifully seared steak melted under his knife, the side of asparagus was perfectly cooked, and the fingerling potatoes were flawless, leaving a sense of satisfaction that was only matched by the stein of locally crafted lager. It was a meal, a moment, that Hunter didn’t want to be distracted from.

Mercifully, he had finished his meal before Pradesh Baron broke that focus.

Born in Wisconsin to hard working Asian Indian parents, Baron had grown up as an outcast, an Asian foreigner in a sea of white, and having no social life meant he had little choice but to take on his parents’ work ethic. As a prosecutor, Baron developed a reputation as one of the calmest people in the business, his relaxed face never showed any signs of stress, despite the eighty-hour weeks and five children at home. His wife, his mother-in-law, and his eldest daughter all made sure the house ran smoothly.

“How do you do it, Tex? How do you defend cold-blooded killers when you know they shouldn’t be out on the streets again? How do you let that happen?” Baron pulled out a chair at the round table, sitting down without an invitation.

“That’s my job, Pradesh. I give people the chance at a defense. That’s an essential part of the legal system.”

“Ah.” Baron opened his arms out wide. “The defense that your father never had. Yes, yes. I do remember reading about that. I guess we’re all motivated by something, aren’t we?”

Hunter didn’t respond. He reached across, took his napkin, wiped his mouth, placed the knife and fork neatly on his plate, closed his eyes for one last moment to savor the taste of the steak, and smiled gently. In a world full of stress, in a world full of chaos, this steak was his rose, his object to stop and smell.

“I’ve since heard you asked for this girl’s case. You chased it. This didn’t fall into your lap by some strange coincidence, you wanted to defend this girl. You wanted to take revenge on Sidney McCann for what he did to your family. You want to punish his family because he did his job.” Baron leaned forward on the table. “Did you really hate Sidney McCann that much?”

Again, Hunter didn’t respond.

He opened his eyes and studied the man opposite him—the creases under his eyes showed a lack of sleep, the stain on his collar meant the shirt hadn’t been washed properly, and his stubble was at least two days old.

“When did she find out about your affair?”

“What?” Baron was affronted. “What are you talking about?”

“Your wife. When did she find out?”

“How would you know that?” Baron’s mouth hung open.

“You look stressed, untidy, and tired. That’s a very different look for you.” Hunter lifted his stein and smelled the lager. It was strong enough to feel the effect of alcohol from the smell alone. “I doubt you’re stressed about a case, because you never get personally involved. Your finances would be fine, as your job is secure as a prosecutor, and I haven’t heard of any complaints against you. That leaves your family as the cause of your pain.”

“You were always good at reading people, Tex. I guess that’s why you’re so good at your job.” Baron brushed his hair down. “My wife and I, we’re… working things out. We’ll find a way to make it work. We don’t do divorce very well in the culture of our parents. It was a mishap on my behalf, that’s all. I’ve profusely apologized.”

Hunter had a love of psychology, trying to understand what motivated people, and himself, to do what they do. Why does a person choose their career? Why does a worker continue to show up to a job they hate? Why spend a life in an office when the sun makes a person feel happy? He knew his answer, the answer to his questions, but often wondered about others. For him, it was always the same answer when he asked those questions in the mirror—he did what he did for justice.

“But I’m not here to talk about my family. That’s my business.” Baron recomposed himself, moving uncomfortably in the chair. “I’m here to find out why you would betray your own—the people that are paid to protect this city. Why would you want to let a killer, a cold-blooded murderer, back out on the streets of Chicago? Why? So she can kill another cop?”

“What do you want me to say, Pradesh? That I’m double-crossing the girl? That I’m doing it to make sure that the girl gets a lengthy conviction?”

“That would be a start.”

“I’m not going to do that, Pradesh.” Hunter sipped his lager again. He nodded once the smooth flavor filled his mouth. Smooth and delicate, it was clear this beer was made with passion. “I’m going to do what’s best for this girl, and that means looking into McCann’s life, which also means looking into your department. And that’s the real reason you’re here—you don’t want me sniffing around the department’s business. Someone has asked you to be here, haven’t they?”

“This is a simple case.” Baron remained calm. “You don’t have to look into our business. This homeless girl killed McCann. All the evidence is there—motive, witnesses, video footage. It’s cut and dry. Don’t go digging into the departments that protect Chicago, don’t go digging into the procedures, because you may find things that will cause a lot of trouble for a lot of people. Things this city doesn’t need right now.”

Hunter looked at Baron, held his stare for a moment, then turned his focus back to his lager. He sipped it again, and then smiled. It was good beer, but then, Hunter enjoyed most beers.

“Do you know how many cops there are like him, Tex? Sidney McCann was a real cop, a real hero. He was what this city needed and there aren’t many people out there like him. He ran into a burning building to save a child. Do you remember seeing that? It’s incredible footage. If you need a reminder of how good a cop he was, then watch that footage. In the age before phones recorded everything, this was the most viral footage you can get. A beefed-up cop running into a burning building, and returning with a young child, before handing the baby off and returning to the flames to try and save her family.”

“I remember it clearly.”

“And I’m sure you remember Blackstone’s ratio from school—the notion that it’s better to have ten guilty people walk free, than have one innocent person suffer.” Baron flattened his tie down the front of his shirt. “That’s how I saw McCann’s police work. It was better he did one great thing, one life changing act, than nothing at all. He was a man that did great things.”

“Being a man that does great things doesn’t make him a great man.”

“True, but he also didn’t just go to work and punch a clock. He saved lives.”

“At what cost?”

“Ask the girl he pulled out of the fire. That’s something great.”

“So you turned a blind eye to his corrupt behavior because he did great things?”

“Not a blind eye.”

“You knew what he was doing?”

“There was never any evidence we could prosecute on.”

Hunter leaned back in his chair, their conversation disturbed as the server came and took his plate. When the server indicated to Hunter’s stein, suggesting Hunter had finished when there was still another mouthful, Hunter waved him away. He wanted every last drop.

“Why are you here, Pradesh? Why have you been chasing me? To tell me not to do my job?”

“Not at all. By all means, defend your client. Do your job. Play your role in the system.”

“But?”

“But don’t destroy this city. Don’t run this city into the ground because you think something should be exposed. Don’t let this city burn for a homeless girl.” He shook his head. “There are people very high up that will make sure you don’t destroy this city.”

“Destroy the city? Are you referring to the deal McCann made with the DOJ to expose corruption in the CPD?”

Baron sat back, shocked the information was already known to the defense lawyer. “That’s privileged information and you know I can’t discuss individual cases. I have no idea where you heard that information, but I suggest, for your own safety, you don’t tell anyone else about it.”

“And if, in the normal course of the investigation, it comes out McCann spent thirty years as a corrupt cop?”

“Then every conviction, every case, every day of his working life is going to be re-examined and those arrests may be challenged. Hundreds, if not thousands, of cases will be re-opened. Every career criminal in the city will try to have their cases reheard. Can you imagine the drama? Can you imagine the distrust Chicagoans would have for the force if the truth came out? It would be a PR nightmare, not to mention the chance for riots. You would destroy this city.”

Hunter sat back. Hunter’s calmness at the notion surprised Baron, and it took him a moment to work out why.

Then the truth hit him like a truck.

“But you knew this, didn’t you?” Baron leaned forward, his eyes wide with shock. “You knew McCann was the man that arrested your father, and if you could prove in court he was corrupt for decades, then there would be the chance that the case would be reopened. That’s why you’ve asked for it. For your father’s case. McCann is your father’s only hope.”

“Hope is a dangerous feeling, Pradesh. It makes people do crazy things.”

Pradesh stood suddenly, the shock written across his face.

He tried to compose himself, but the thoughts steamrolled through his head. How could he have not seen it from the start? “You want the chance, in court, to prove McCann was corrupt, you want the chance to dispute all his arrests… and the only way to do that is to take the case of the girl. Of course.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“I’m only going to warn you once. And I’m going to say it quietly.” Baron leaned down to the table. “Don’t dig too deep. Don’t dig too deep into McCann, don’t dig too deep into the potential deal with the DOJ, don’t dig too deep into his past. By all means, defend your girl, defend your place in the system, but please, please, don’t rip open the old wounds caused by McCann. For your sake, and for the sake of your city. There are people in this city that are very dangerous and they’re very determined that the past will remain the past.”

“I’ll do my job.” Hunter stood, dwarfing Baron’s shorter stature. “I’m not scared of the corrupt.”

Baron took a step back.

“There are people involved in this, high powered people, that you should be scared of, Tex. These people will make sure the police department’s reputation remains intact.” Baron looked to Hunter, his eyes pleading with him. “And they’ll do it at whatever the cost. Even if it costs a defense lawyer his life.”

Chapter 13

Tex Hunter was looking forward to this coffee—the new coffee shop, run by Italians, had a fast building reputation as the best latte in Chicago. The small café was squeezed into an old building off West Jackson Avenue, only a block from Hunter’s office. He ordered two large takeaway coffees from the older Italian man, moustache and all, who was shouting at his staff at regular intervals, which also added to the sense the café was straight from the streets of Rome. A red Vespa scooter sat near the door, the pictures on the walls were of the vineyards in Tuscany, and the menu was littered with Italian words.

Hunter waited until he had returned to his office before tasting the coffee, handing one takeaway cup to Esther. He walked into his separate office, where he removed the lid of his cup and took in a deep breath. Slowly, delicately, he sipped the coffee, closed his eyes, and then nodded. The reviewers were right—it was mighty fine coffee.

After his strong hit of caffeine, Hunter opened the paper files on his desk, reading through the information on Nina Aisha. After an hour, he closed the files, turning to look out to his view of Chicago. He knew he was lucky. He only had to look out the window to realize that. People lived their whole lives and never had the chance to view Chicago like he did.

His office was large, spacious, and in the middle of the action. Esther had added an indoor plant near his door, attempting to bring greenery into the office, but he found it distracting. This wasn’t a forest, he argued, this was a place of work. But she wouldn’t listen to him, arguing that he spent too much time in the city, walking amongst the concrete buildings, never quite getting out into nature. The area around his office had been through quite a change over the past two years—once an area filled by only busy government offices, the cashed-up entrepreneurs had started to move in, bringing with them new coffee shops, restaurants, and a new vibe.

But despite all that, despite all the successes of capitalism, there was a part of Chicago life that he could never get his head around—the part where generational disadvantage was growing, where kids didn’t have a chance, where hope was as rare as a bed. These were places drenched in abuse, neglect and deep agony. They were the places where Nina Aisha grew up.

She had numerous valuations of her psychological assessment in the Shelter for Young Women where she had stayed for much of the last year, and they all stated she was a very intelligent girl who had experienced too much pain in her life. Lashing out was the only way she could deal with what she had experienced.

The more he read about the child, the more he learned about her past, the clearer it became why it was important to help. There were children in his city that had never had a chance in their young lives, never had a hope, and the best he could do was attempt to give one tiny sliver of optimism.

And if there was one thing he felt strongly about, it was that no child deserved to be born without hope.

As he turned back to his desk, Hunter remembered one of the first cases he had as a defense attorney, back in the days when he was starting out, trying to break free of his father’s shadow, when he took any case that came across his desk. Kane Anderson was quick-witted, intelligent, and driven to succeed. His desire to succeed had been born out of the fact that his twenty-two years of life had been spent in turmoil—both his parents were in prison, he grew up surrounded by drugs, and his peers were dying at a rapid rate.

When his name came across Hunter’s desk, it was because Kane had broken into a clothing store late at night and stole only one item—a black suit. He had needed it the next day for a job interview, and the only clothes he owned all had holes in them. All he wanted to do was work. Kane landed the job in sales, but then security footage identified him and he was charged for the robbery. The prosecution put a deal on the table for a month behind bars, but Hunter wouldn’t take it. He wanted to keep Kane’s record clean.

They took the case to trial, got him off on a technicality, and kept a conviction off his record. As they were leaving court, Hunter gave Kane the number of a large supermarket chain that his friend worked at. Within five years, Kane was the manager of the supermarket with a wife, two kids, and a nice house in the suburbs. Hunter was happy to break the generational cycle of poverty—not so much for Kane, but for his children.

“Tex?” Esther leaned her head in the door. “Have you got a minute?”

Esther swayed into the office, her steps small in her tight business skirt. Two strands of blonde hair had escaped her ponytail, falling across her face, and she pushed them back over her ears. She was tall enough to play volleyball in high school, had broad enough shoulders to race on the swim team, and was confident enough to try everything. She walked across the long office space, checking on the indoor plant in the corner. Her gentle smile disarmed the emotional walls around Hunter’s heart.

“Anything I can help you with on this case?”

“Possibly,” Hunter handed the second file across to Esther. “This girl had no hope.” He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table, thinking over whether he should keep talking.

“And you’ll risk everything to save her?”

“It’s not just her.” Hunter leaned forward. “If I can prove Sidney McCann was corrupt, if I can prove he had false arrests in his past, then I not only help this girl, but I also help every other innocent person he put away.”

It took a few moments for the information to process in Esther’s mind. “Including your father.”

Hunter nodded.

“Nina has a strong case against her—witnesses saw them together on the last night before McCann went missing, and she’s admitted to hitting him, even when he was on the ground. So now you’re going to state McCann was a corrupt cop and he was trying to blackmail her?”

“Blackmail, extortion, bribery, violence, attempted rape. Take your pick.” Hunter tapped his finger on the desk, looking down. “If we can find anything of substance, then we can have all of McCann’s previous cases reviewed.”

“But you’re not chasing this one hundred percent. Something is holding you back.”

“You know me too well.” He turned away from Esther.

“What is it?”

“Sidney McCann. Why did he have to have one final year of goodness?”

“You’re scared of tarnishing a man’s legacy.”

“I’m going to do my job, no matter what it takes, but…” He shook his head. “But McCann tried to change his life. He tried to change everything he did. He tried to redeem himself. And redemption may have even gotten him killed.”

Hunter stared at his desk—he had an opportunity, something he had been searching years for, and now it was in his lap, he didn’t feel he could take it.

For thirty years, he worked to find a gap in the law to free his father. For thirty years, he worked to find a piece of legal wording that could take his father’s case to trial again.

Despite never stating he was innocent, or guilty, Hunter had absolute faith his father was innocent of the murders of eight teenage girls. He knew, even as a ten-year-old, even as a child, he knew his father couldn’t have slit the throats of those girls and buried them in the forest. His brother, Patrick Hunter, along with the rest of the country, was less convinced of his father’s innocence. In fact, most of the country thought he was outright guilty, even with the little evidence presented by the prosecution. That experience, that drama, drove Hunter into law, drove him to become a defense lawyer and fight against injustice.

“Where can I help?” Esther asked.

“I want you to look into the McCann family. Look into the wife, Li McCann, and the son, Rhys McCann. I want you to have a look at their bank accounts and pay close attention to their spending habits.” Hunter drummed his fingers on the table again. “And find out if there was anything unusual in the weeks before or after McCann’s disappearance. See if you can find anything about a freezer.”

“A freezer?”

“Rhys McCann mentioned his freezer when I questioned him. It could be nothing, but look into it.”

“I’ll see what I can find.” She smiled. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ve been thinking about Nina. She had a look in her eyes. She was innocent—she had a look of complete purity. She didn’t have the look of a murderer, but that won’t save her in court.” He stood. “To get her off, I’m going to have to find Sidney McCann’s real killer.”

Chapter 14

Kenneth Chow was a hard man to meet with.

The only way Hunter could tie him down for a meeting outside of a deposition was to threaten the Chinese-born businessman with a second subpoena, plus a subsequent appearance in court, and only then, after Chow had discussed the case with his lawyers, did he reluctantly agree. He only met on his terms—his day, his time, and his choice of site; a construction building on the edge of Chinatown.

As Hunter parked next to the worksite, he could imagine what it would look like in ten years—due to Chow’s reputation for cutting corners, all of his previous residential developments were plagued with problems. Cracks in walls, unstable foundations, windows coming loose. Of course, Chow argued none of the problems were his fault, nor his responsibility, the faults had to be caused by the building maintenance companies managed by the Homeowners Associations. Despite his long history of faulty constructions, despite his long history of avoiding responsibility, his building developments continued to be approved, with dollars thrown at the right officials, and people continued to buy them, unable to refuse the cheaper prices.

As Hunter parked his BMW at the entrance to the construction site, he saw a familiar figure waiting next to a dark sedan parked across the road—Detective John Yates. An old partner of Sidney McCann, his reputation was as sordid as McCann’s. Hunter stepped out of his car, staring at Yates, who was leaning against the driver’s side door of his vehicle. He made no attempt to hide his presence, clearly visible as he ate his hamburger wrapped in paper. A piece of lettuce fell from the burger onto his overflowing stomach, and Yates flicked it aside. If he didn’t eat the lettuce on his burger, he would struggle to eat any vegetables at all.

Hunter stared at the detective for a long moment from across the road, Yates ignoring him to focus on his food.

It wasn’t a good sign.

Hunter turned and walked to the tall chain-link fence, covered in black netting, making it impossible to see what was happening on the other side. Early evening on a Thursday, the site was closed down, with no working noises coming from inside the building.

Also, not a good sign.

Hunter stepped into the murky entrance, the ground a mixture of concrete, mud and dust, and he looked up to the unfinished shell of the five-level apartment building. He could already see cracks in the concrete, although he was sure they would be painted over.

The gate closed behind him.

He turned to see a burly six-foot-five construction worker wrapping a chain around the gate. He was either a construction worker or gang member—from his tattoos, Hunter couldn’t tell the difference. As the chain went around the gate, three other men, equal in size, width, and tattoos as the first, came from inside the concrete shell.

They were all dressed in the same construction uniform—boots, dirty jeans, and high-visibility tops. Their forearms were as thick as baseball bats, and their chests were as wide as barrels. Their knuckles had seen enough action to be hardened, and their boots were made for kicking.

“Chow wants to talk to you inside.” The first one grunted. “Not safe out here, being a construction site. We wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself. Follow us.”

The men were there to intimidate Hunter, scare him into backing off, but it didn’t work. After the life he had lived, Hunter wasn’t scared of violence, he wasn’t afraid of a physical altercation.

They walked into the concrete shell of the building, the fading daylight barely coming through the gaps in the walls, and into the center room of a ground-floor apartment, designed to be a dining room in the future. As he stepped inside the room, Hunter saw it was a makeshift office—one foldaway table in the middle, two office chairs on either side of the table, and three lights powered by a generator outside the room. This was no regular office, and this was no friendly get-together.

Kenneth Chow sat behind the table, his expensive leather shoes resting on the plastic tabletop, his relaxed pose stating he was in charge. He was a small man of Chinese descent, thin and wearied. His hair was cropped short, his skin wrinkled, and his shoulders looked weak. He was in his late-fifties, but he hadn’t aged well.

“Thank you for meeting with me.” Hunter offered his hand to shake but Chow waved it away, feet still up on the desk.

“It seems I didn’t have much of a choice.” Chow’s voice was loud, his accent a grating mixture of Chinese and Chicagoan. “Have a seat, Mr. Hunter, and get straight to the point. I don’t want to waste time here today.”

Hunter folded his tall frame into the office chair, his body barely fitting between the arms.

“What was your relationship with Sidney McCann?”

“Pardon?” Chow sat up straight, taking his feet off the table. “I’m confused. I thought you were here to discuss the woman who stole my car from outside these gates, and then torched it. I thought this was about the case with Mary-Ann Steele.”

“It is.”

“And what does Sidney McCann have to do with that?”

“He’s connected to Mary-Ann Steele.” Hunter leaned forward. “Like I said over the phone—you can either answer my questions here, or in court. That choice is yours.”

Chow paused and looked at the closed door. He took a few moments to compose himself, flared his nostrils, and grunted. He’d been in enough courtrooms to know that he wasn’t a fan of them.

“I knew Sidney McCann.” He looked around the room, which had holes in the walls for the future plumbing. It was cold, no windows, and had one small door. It felt more like an interrogation room for the CIA than a future area for families to gather. “McCann was a detective around this area for a while, and I built a lot of the apartment buildings around here. Our paths crossed occasionally.”

“Did you ever pay him bribes?”

“What?” He laughed, slapping the table with his hand. “You can’t prove that. The man’s dead, I’m sure he won’t be making a testimony against me.”

“He was going to make a testimony against you. He’d worked out a deal with the Department of Justice to expose your practices.” Hunter’s voice was firm. “You paid him bribes to look the other way when your unsafe work practices were reported as illegal. He made those reports in your favor, and you paid him for it. McCann signed off on Anthony Steele’s work accident report. McCann stated there were no unsafe work practices leading to Steele’s death.”

“Sidney McCann signed Anthony Steele’s document because it was the truth. That report is more than two years old, and you have no evidence he ever received a bribe.” He continued laughing. “If you did have evidence that I paid bribes to the police, I would’ve been arrested a long time ago.”

“I’m getting closer to uncovering your practices. They’re going to be exposed—loud and clear for everyone to hear. We’ll be reviewing the report on Anthony Steele’s death as part of this trial, and we will also be reviewing Sidney McCann’s bank accounts.”

“Did McCann’s wife tell you this? Because she came to me and said she was against Sidney exposing all his corrupt behavior. She didn’t want him talking. Of course, I didn’t know what she was referring to.”

“Li McCann came to see you? Why?”

“She said she didn’t want Sidney telling anyone about his old ways. She didn’t think she could take the pressure of exposure. She mentioned Anthony Steele’s report—I could only imagine that she’d been talking to that stupid old woman, Mary-Ann. Do you know that stupid woman protested outside my work sites for two years? Can you believe that? Two years of harassment. Doesn’t she have anything better to do?”

Chow held Hunter’s stare for a moment, and then flinched. Under the power of the stare, he broke first, leaning back in his chair, spreading his arms wide.

“If you paid McCann to sign off on that accident report, then I will find the money trail.”

“Let me tell you something.” His voice snarled. “My grandparents were victims of World War ll. The stories, the atrocities that the Japanese soldiers did, prepared me to play in this world, here in Chicago. But the pain that war caused, the horrors it created, have nothing on what I can do to you.”

“Don’t threaten me.” Hunter leaned forward, his face shadowed by the lack of light. “Or I’ll make it my life’s work to bring your world of corruption crashing down on top of your head.”

“You’re a brave man, Hunter, very brave. Walking into a construction site where the foundations of concrete are still being laid, and making threats.” He laughed nervously. “You’d be surprised what is buried under the foundations of a building. Concrete covers most things.”

“Nothing would surprise me with you.”

“The truth is that old woman protested too much outside my apartment developments. She was disrupting the workers! Once I told her to move on, she stole my car and burned it, all because her son was stupid enough to have an accident on my work site. That’s what you’re here to talk about, and that’s all I can tell you about. I parked my car outside my worksite, and I left my keys in the car, which I often do. That old woman took advantage of me, stealing my car. She then had the nerve to drive the car out to a reserve and burn it. What a crazy old woman!”

“Her son had worked five eighteen-hour shifts in five days, that’s not an accident. That’s unsafe work practices and an unsafe worksite, making you responsible for his death.” Hunter growled at Chow. “That’s going to come out in court.”

“The police report doesn’t agree with you.” Chow smiled. “Anthony Steele is on the books as working five ten-hour shifts over five separate days, which is perfectly legal. He signed those pay-slips as having worked those hours. If he made a personal decision to be onsite for longer than that, that’s something outside of my control, but legally, we only asked him to work those hours. He showed signs of a suicide risk in the days before the event, and then he fell off the fifth level of the apartment building. I can’t help that. That’s not my fault.”

“He was working unpaid overtime to try and keep his job. You know that. That’s what your entire business is built upon—preying on those that are desperate to keep their jobs. Working them to death. You’re a vulture. Anthony Steele never had an accident before his death. He slipped and fell due to fatigue caused by your unlawful work practices.”

“Money can make amazing things happen,” Chow stood and circled around the plastic table. Even standing, he was barely as tall as the lawyer sitting down. “Do you have any more questions about the case where Mary-Ann Steele stole my car?”

“What did you burn in the car?”

“Pardon?” He laughed at Hunter’s abruptness.

“When you burned your car, you burned the evidence in the back. There’s evidence something heavy was dragged out of the trunk. You made it look like a stolen car, then you dumped the car in the reserve near Mary-Ann Steele’s house. Not only did you take her son away from her, but then you rubbed it in her face by framing her for stealing a car. That’s low, even for scum like you.”

“Interesting theory.” Chow raised his eyebrows. “But you have no proof. I wasn’t there. My solid alibi will tell you that.”

“You didn’t steal the car, but you paid someone to move it for you.” Hunter pressed his finger into the table. “And I’m going to find out who.”

“It’s time for you to go. I don’t want to listen to this anymore.” Chow walked to the door of the dark room and opened it. “Watch your step on the way out, Mr. Hunter. This is a worksite, and I would hate it if you fell over and broke a rib.”

Chapter 15

As Hunter began to exit the future dining room, he stood next to Chow for one long moment, dominating him with his height. He lingered at the door, groaning deeply, staring at the businessman, before turning to the construction site. The biggest of the men was standing near the entrance of the building, Chow providing him a small nod.

That wasn’t a good sign.

As Hunter began to walk out into the yard, he saw the other three men waiting for him. Over his shoulder, he saw the first man give them a nod, and they did the same in return.

Definitely, not a good sign.

Hunter looked towards the gates at the entrance to the site, twenty-five, maybe thirty feet away.

They were locked.

The chain had been wrapped around the inside of the gate, with the heavy padlock holding them together.

The men stepped closer.

There was no use yelling for help. Hunter had no doubt that on the other side of the chain was Detective John Yates, waiting to take the case if someone called in Hunter’s yells.

The first fights Hunter became involved in were stuck in his mind. At ten years old, he was the target at school and his first fight was hopeless. There were five boys from an older grade, holding him down while they punched him in the face and ribs. When a teacher cleared them out, she helped him up and warned him that he’d better get used to it—there was going to be much more of that to come, and the teachers couldn’t protect him all the time.

She was right, of course.

It became almost a weekly ritual.

And those were the days when Hunter began to learn to fight. He watched hours and hours of boxing videos, watching the greats move with ease—their evasive head movement, the quickness of their hands, the lightness on their feet.

He read the training manuals of the great boxers, the notes from the great trainers, the biographies of the fighters; the start of one of his life’s great passions. At first, he would only land one or two punches on the attackers, and that would only make them angrier, but after a few months, he started to land more punches than they did, and after a year, it was a brave person who dared to fight Tex Hunter.

At twelve, he walked into the boxing gym close to his house, begged to start training, and they took him under their wings. There, in the concrete shell of a gym—full of sweat, loud music, and grunting—he found a brotherhood, a gym full of future delinquents, felons, and gang members. It was a place where people accepted him for who he was.

As he stepped out onto the mud in the construction site, the men moved closer. It was dark, only the single light next to the fence providing any illumination. Hunter calmed his breathing, checked he could see all the men in his peripheral vision, and continued walking.

Ten feet to the locked gate.

After years of boxing, Hunter began to expand his training into Muay Thai and Brazilian Jiu-jitsu. He respected the moves and awareness those sports gave him, but it was always boxing that had his heart.

“Gate’s locked.” One of the men stepped closer. “Can’t get out that way.”

“Which way is out then?” Hunter turned.

“Through us.”

The first swinging fist came from the left, and Hunter’s head movement easily evaded the punch. The second fist came from another man, throwing a wild hook, and Hunter’s foot movement placed him out of range.

“Bit of a fighter, eh?” One the men smiled. “You’re going to regret that.”

That smile was wiped off by Hunter’s solid straight right, slamming the guy into the mud. The second man charged at Hunter, but a swinging left hook took care of that problem. The second man wobbled and leaned against the fence.

He came back at Hunter, swinging wildly again, but Hunter’s feet were still quick, placing him in the perfect position to land a right hook to the man’s ribs, followed by another left hook to the man’s jaw. The man fell heavily into the mud.

That’s when Hunter saw the gun.

A Glock pointed at his face by the third man.

As much as he enjoyed fighting, as skillful as he was, he wasn’t going to evade a bullet.

The first man, wiping the blood from his jaw, stepped closer to Hunter. “I’m going to punch you six times in the ribs, and you’re going to enjoy it.”

Hunter stepped back.

“Or we can sort this out another way.” The man indicated towards the gun. “Things get buried at construction sites. Buried for good.”

The Glock looked steady in the man’s hands. He wasn’t nervous and he’d clearly shot a weapon before. At five feet away, the man with the gun was too far away for Hunter to run at, but close enough not to miss a shot.

One of the other men walked closer to Hunter, gripping his fist tightly, making a snarling face as he took a long wind-up, landing a smashing right hand into Hunter’s ribs. The wind was knocked out of Hunter, the pain echoing through his body, hunching him over. The second punch landed in the same spot, smashing more pain through his body, and Hunter could already taste blood.

The next four punches all landed in the same area.

Hunter desperately tried to suck in the air, leaning forward to draw it in, while at the same time, tried to cough up the blood that was pooling in his throat.

The men stood over him, watching him suffer, and it was the kick to his ribs, landed with a steel-capped boot, that sucked all the resistance from Hunter. He fell to his side, gripping his left ribs tightly, providing his chest any defense he could.

On the ground, shattered but not beaten, Hunter looked at the gates, slowly being opened by one of the men. And there, waiting for him on the sidewalk, was Detective John Yates.

“What happened here?” Yates asked as he stepped into the construction site, puffing hard on a cigarette. “Looks like an accident to me.”

“The lawyer fell over on the way out. We all saw it.” The first guy rubbed his jaw. “It sure is slippery out here. We warned him to watch his step, but he slipped and fell over. I think he might’ve hurt his ribs pretty bad in the fall.”

“That’s no good.” Yates blew a large puff of smoke. “But Mr. Hunter, if you want to file a police report, I can be a witness for you. I’ll state that I was here to see you slip.”

Chapter 16

When they called her name for the mail call, Nina Aisha didn’t respond.

It was not only the first letter Nina Aisha had received in prison, but the first she could remember receiving for many years on the outside. She couldn’t imagine who it was from. She figured if someone was sending her a letter, then it couldn’t be good news.

She sat in the beige colored mess hall, row upon row of tables behind her, and with the cold meats sitting on her plastic tray, she stared at the barely edible substance until her name was called again.

She understood the authorities painted their environment in such plain colors to sedate them, but before she came into prison, she’d been reading about how colors can impact a person’s mood. She stumbled across an internet site detailing the powers of choosing the right wall paint for moods—a yellow colored wall was preferred for happiness, red for motivation—and the more she read about it, the more she felt color had an impact on her mood. Too much color in a place made her feel overwhelmed; too little and she felt tired, rundown, and depressed.

“Nina,” Denise leaned over. “They’re calling you. You’ve got to go up and collect the letter once you’ve finished your food.”

So far, the food had been a culinary nightmare. Nina picked at her mash potato again. It was pure white, almost glowing, and she couldn’t figure out what the black specks in it were. She hoped it was the ash from the pots. She hadn’t eaten much since she came into prison, and the weight loss was starting to become noticeable. The food was repulsive, but that wasn’t the problem; it was the stress, the tension that continued to build every day. This was her life now, no longer was she studying to complete high school, no longer was she looking for a job, no longer was she thinking about the future, her life was now all behind solid twenty-five-foot-tall walls, with a cold bed and not much else.

She wondered what they would think at the shelter she stayed at—whether they would even notice her gone. Her backpack was still there; her bed was still made. They would’ve thrown out her backpack already, she reasoned. Someone else would have already moved into her room.

After staying with Mr. Bishop, she never thought life could become much worse, but every day in prison, she was being proven wrong. Life, as she had known it, had completely changed.

When she had picked at enough of her food, she took the tray to the counter and placed it on the dishwashing rack. There was a chill in the air, a sense of lost hope, and Nina felt it creeping into her soul. She walked to the guard, provided her name, and the guard handed her a letter.

The top of the letter had been opened already, stuck back together with tape, and the contents had surely been read. She wasn’t sure who would want to read it, but she knew it would be trouble.

Guardedly, she sat down on a plastic chair and read the letter:

*****

Dear Nina,

I hope this finds you well. I hope prison isn’t too bad and you can find something positive from the experience.

My name is Li McCann and they say you killed my husband, Sidney McCann. If you did kill him, I forgive you.

I know my Sidney wasn’t a nice man for much of his life. In fact, for a long time, he was quite horrible. He used to beat his son and I regularly.

But my Sidney changed. He had a heart attack a year ago and tried to change his life around, he tried to make things better in the world. He wanted to leave a positive legacy behind. He struck a deal to expose all the wrongs he had done in the past.

As a part of redeeming his past wrong doings, he went looking for you. He told me he had to say sorry to Antonina Aisha. I didn’t know what for, and I didn’t ask. I never asked about his work.

All I know is that whatever he did to you, I wanted to let you know that I’m sorry.

Sidney was sorry as well. I pray you forgive him.

I forgive whoever murdered my Sidney. In many ways, he had it coming.

Many blessings,

Li McCann

*****

Tears threaten to roll out of Nina’s eyes, but she knew she couldn’t cry here. No weakness could be shown in these walls.

Mr. Bishop had been so horrible to her, used her so much, that she wasn’t sure she had the forgiveness inside her. Could she forgive Sidney McCann for selling her off? She desperately wanted to, she wanted to let go of the past, let go of all that hurt, but she wasn’t sure she had enough strength.

Every punch she landed on Sidney McCann was satisfying. Every kick she landed while he was on the ground was fulfilling. Walking away, leaving that evil man withering in pain, felt even better. She reasoned that maybe she did kill him. Maybe he died as a result of the injuries, and later, someone else came and took advantage of the dead man’s body.

She didn’t tie him up and dump him in the river, but that wasn’t what she was charged with—it was murder that put her behind bars.

Nina folded the letter and placed it in her pocket. She knew someone had already read it, she knew the letter would only complicate things further, but she wasn’t sure what she could do about it.

If there was one thing she had learned on the streets, if there was one thing she knew, it was that she was a fighter.

And that wasn’t going to stop in prison.

Chapter 17

Ray Jones was waiting patiently at a table in the food court of the Chicago French Market. Off Clinton Ave in the Loop, the building felt industrial, hitting the mark with its hipster chic vibe. The market was filled with an array of flavors from around the world. There were European, African and Asian flavors, along with an electric mix of characters serving the food. The tables and chairs were made to feel Parisian, the typography made to feel French, and the bright smattering of colors were made to feel European. Even though the seating was indoors, there were still bright yellow umbrellas over the tables, if only to emphasize this was indeed a French-style market.

Jones waved to Hunter, standing at the counter ordering a plate of food for lunch.

It took Hunter five days to begin to recover from his beating.

He sat on the couch most of the first day, ice pack after ice pack on his ribs. The bruising was deep, colored black and purple, and the x-ray showed a fracture of his lower two ribs. The doctors couldn’t do much, only prescribing him rest, ibuprofen, and deep breathing exercises once the pain began to subside.

“I see they have a new manager here.” Hunter said as he walked towards Jones’s table. “There was a sign as I walked in. It said: ‘Our new manager is Helen Burn. If you have a complaint, please go to Helen Burn.”

Ray Jones chuckled. He loved a good word pun. The hipster crowd around them pushed past, desperate to get a new styled doughnut at a nearby stall, if only to post the photos on their social media feeds.

“Have you ever thought about the word ‘Island’?” Ray smiled.

“How so?”

“It’s literally written as ‘Is land.’ I guess when you’re sailing out in the ocean, the water ‘Isn’t land.’”

“Ha,” Hunter laughed, and gripped his side, his ribs still sore. “The English language isn’t as complicated as some people think.”

“It can be really complicated though—I mean the word phonetic doesn’t even start with ‘f’.”

Hunter tried not to laugh, and placed two plates of food on the table. “Ray, I’ve seen that look before—you look concerned.”

“Not concerned, but… uneasy.” Jones looked around.

“About?”

“Those things.” He pointed to the camera above them on the roof. They were placed every twenty feet or so, covering every inch of the market. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Everything we do is recorded, Tex. There are cameras in streets, cameras in shops, cameras in parking lots. There are drones in the sky, cameras in apartments, and even cameras on laptops. Every person here has a camera in their phone. Everywhere we go has cameras to record every inch of modern life. Even the taxi I caught here had a dash-cam that recorded everything in front of it. All that data is sent into the clouds to be accessed.”

“It’s a new world, Ray. Life is being chronicled by the camera, not the pen. Perhaps one day, we’ll see writing things down as old fashioned. Perhaps, in the future, we’ll be recording everything.”

“Like the ways that taxis have dash-cam footage recording their drive, maybe in the future we’ll all have personal-cam footage. Maybe everyone will be carrying around a little camera on their shoulder, recording every minute, every conversation. If someone disputes we said this or that, we can rewind the footage, find the right time of day, and replay the conversation.”

“Been hitting the joints again?” Hunter smiled.

“It’s more than a joke, Tex.” Jones leaned forward, pressing his finger into the table. “The future is here. Can you imagine having a personal-cam on your shoulder? Every time you think you could’ve had a better interaction, every time there’s confusion about a conversation, you can go back and review the footage of the day. Imagine that? There’ll never be another argument about who said what again.”

“Sure.” Hunter leaned back in his chair. “But that’s some very heavy thinking for a Monday.”

“And yet, when we need the footage for the Steele case, coincidentally, none of the cameras are working. That’s too much of a coincidence for me. The developer, Chow, must’ve turned them off. He must’ve known what was down that street and had them turned off.”

“Chow is as dirty and as nasty as they come. I’ve had a firsthand account of that.”

“Something you need me to do?” Jones raised his eyebrows. As much as Hunter loved fighting, Jones lived off it. It was where he could flex his muscles, demonstrate his power, and outwardly display his best skills. “Or someone you need me to beat up?”

Having spent fifteen years as a private investigator on the streets of Chicago, Ray Jones had enough contacts to fill up his phone. People respected him. He was a likable giant, a man that knew a kind word could bring out as much as the threat of a punch. The fact he was six-foot-four and had a love of viciousness also helped get most people to talk.

He’d been arrested twice in his time as a PI—both times for violent assault. Both charges were dropped when it was found he acted in self-defense. When the police released him the second time, they were almost falling to the floor in laughter about the people who would be stupid enough to try and intimidate him. A group of men showed up at his apartment, banging on the door, threatening Jones with violence if he kept digging into their business. Politely, he let them into his apartment, locked the door, and then beat them all into the ground. With five bloodied bodies on the floor of his kitchen, he thought it was best to have the cops involved.

“Thanks for the offer Ray, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” Hunter shook his head. “What’ve you found?”

“Pork Buns.” Jones pushed a plate across the table. “The best in the place. You should try one.”

“Thanks. They look delicious.” Hunter smirked. “But I meant—what’ve you found in the arson case.”

“Right. I’ve got a theory and that’s about it at the moment. The shop keepers down that street are close knit, some of them are related to each other, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Chow told them the cameras needed to be turned off that night.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they deliberately switched off the surveillance footage in the street the night his car was stolen.” Jones pulled a file from his shoulder bag. “There are five potential surveillance footage cameras that focus on the apartment development where the car was parked and all five were turned off, and all five building owners are connected to Mr. Chow personally.”

“There has to be something, you said it yourself, everything is recorded. Maybe a video from across the street?”

“Tried that. We’ve got nothing.” Jones threw his hands up in the air. “In an era of monitoring, we’ve got nothing about something that matters.”

“Drones?”

“They’re not that invasive yet.”

“Footage is about the only thing that will prove Mary-Ann didn’t steal his car, drive it to the reserve and light the fire. We need footage of that night.”

“The question we should be asking, if it was organized by Chow, why would he need to burn his own car?”

“Two reasons: one to set-up Mary-Ann Steele. She was becoming a nuisance on his site, contractors were starting to quit the work site because of Mary-Ann’s protests. People in City Hall, the right people, were also starting to listen to her. She had been saying too much, been protesting so often, that people were starting to ask questions about the report on the workplace accident. And if they looked into that, then it’s a corrupt trail that would take years to figure out.”

“The squeaky wheel gets the most oil.”

“Exactly. Chow couldn’t touch her, he knew that would be a bad look for his business, even the underworld wouldn’t respect a guy that beats on an old lady. But if he could set her up for a crime, set her up for something relatively minor, suddenly Mary-Ann Steele isn’t a problem. She’s out of the picture.” Hunter bit into the pork bun, nodding, acknowledging that this was indeed a good pork bun. “And the second reason would be to hide evidence, but then the question is what could he burn in a car fire?”

“Something heavy.” Jones removed another folder from his backpack and slid it across to Hunter. “The report by the fire department states there was evidence of something heavy being dragged from the trunk of the car. What that was, well, we’ll never know.”

“I don’t see a seventy-year-old woman breaking into a car, stealing it, driving it to a reserve and then torching it. The evidence against her is solid, but clearly it’s a set-up. Her handbag was found in the car, there are witnesses that say they saw her there, and she has no reliable alibi for the time. Witnesses are fine, we can deal with that, but the handbag is a problem.”

“What’ve the cops given you on that?”

“They’re not very helpful at the moment, given my other case.” Hunter finished his pork bun, and began eyeing the second one. “That’s why I need you tomorrow.”

“I figured that’s why you were taking me out to lunch. What do you need me for?”

“I need your size. I’m going to talk to the people at the shelter where Nina was staying.”

“My size is my greatest asset.” Jones leaned back, opening his arm span as far as it could go. “Ten o’clock work for you?”

“Meet me at my office and we’ll drive out from there.”

Jones stood, picked up the last pork bun, patted Hunter on the shoulder, and walked back into the crowded mess of people. Hunter followed a few moments later, walking out of the stalls, and back into the sunshine, to his sedan parked on the edge of the street.

He saw the note folded under his windshield wipers. A folded piece of paper. He expected a flippant piece of advertising. He expected to read about a local store’s spectacular sale.

He didn’t expect a threat:

Be careful where you walk. We don’t play nicely.

Especially with pretty girls like your assistant.

Chapter 18

The Shelter for Young Women in Bridgeport, Chicago, was an old hostel that was long past its best days. The two-story brick building sat just off the sidewalk, the short brick fence barely a few feet from the entrance. The front door was barely clinging to the hinges, some of the windows were boarded up, and the brickwork was chipped. Not that the place stood out; it didn’t, at least not on this street. As Tex Hunter stepped out of Ray Jones’s truck, the first thing to hit him was the odor. It was a wave of hormonal stench, likely to be the result of many years of men and women sweating together. No amount of cleaning products could take out that smell—it was ingrained into the area.

“Smells familiar.” Investigator Ray Jones closed the driver’s side door of his truck. “I spent some time in an at-risk shelter like this one. When my mother was homeless, back in L.A, we came to places like this, and they helped her get back on her feet. Gave us a place to stay.” Jones rested his hand against his truck and took in a deep breath. “These places are genuine lifesavers.”

“Ray, you’re a testament to what these places can do. People need help, not punishment.”

Jones nodded, walking forward to knock on the front door. “These places have a live-in care-taker, someone who keeps everyone in check, and keeps the place running.”

Jones knocked loudly on the dull red colored door at the front of the building, and a man immediately opened it. He was tall, skinny, and stood with a posture that could only be described as proud. Hunter immediately saw the veteran in the man—his neat appearance, his shoulders pulled back, the way his t-shirt was still tucked into his ripped jeans.

“You a detective? FBI?” The man was immediately suspicious of a person dressed in a nice suit. His twang sounded southern, and he had a nervous twitch in his lips.

“No, sir.” Hunter was respectful. “My name is Tex Hunter, and I’m a lawyer. This is Ray Jones, and he’s a private investigator.”

“A PI, eh?” The older man did his best 1920s crime noir accent, running his fingers over his chin.

“That’s the one.” Jones chuckled, not because he thought it was funny, but because he knew it was a way to bond with the man.

“I was an infantry soldier in a different life,” the man said proudly, holding out his hand to Hunter. “Damien Samuel Lynch. Originally from Alabama.”

They shook hands, solidly. “We’re looking for information on Nina Aisha.”

“She stays here.” The man nodded to the hallway behind him. “My wife and I run this place and we help the young girls that need it. We’re both veterans. I guess that makes a lot of the girls feel safe, having two former army veterans near the front door. That Nina sure is a sweetheart. Smartest girl we’ve ever had through here. Smarter than I’ll ever be.” He stood up straighter, his chest puffed out with pride. “Where is Nina? We haven’t seen her in over a week.”

“She’s in the slammer.” Jones stood to the left of the man. “She’s been charged with killing a retired cop.”

“Nina Aisha? Are you sure? No way.” The man frowned, ran his hand over his hair, and then cupped his hands behind his back. “They’ve got the wrong one there. She’s no killer. She’s an angel.”

“Did she have a permanent room here?”

“You sure you’re on her side?” Lynch stepped between Jones and the entrance to the building.

Jones held his hand over his heart and then nodded.

“Then follow me.”

Lynch led them into the building, through the narrow dark halls, up the creaky stairs that threatened to give way at any second, and onto the second floor where the smell of pain only became stronger. He opened a door and indicated to a bunk bed and a locker.

“This used to be a backpacker hostel, that’s why most of the rooms have private bathrooms. We sleep four or five girls in a room, and they come to the communal kitchen to eat. The hostel went out of business ten years ago, not much need for a hostel out here anymore. Then a donor bought the building and donated it to our organization. We get government funding, but it’s not enough. We struggle to make ends meet most weeks, mostly in food and electricity.”

“What makes up the difference?”

“Donations. Usually there are several private donors, but one of ours just passed away. We’re certainly doing it tight right now.” The man opened one of the doors and asked a young woman to leave for a few moments. “This here is Nina’s bed.”

There wasn’t much to look at—a sleeping bag on the bottom bunk, a box of cereal, and a backpack full of clothes. The emptiness spoke more than anything. This was her life, her world, and it was barely anything at all. In a city full of excess, in a city full of money, all Nina’s belongings fit inside a small backpack. When the powers that be handed out opportunities, they handed none to Nina.

“Not much to see in there but I can tell you she didn’t kill anyone.”

“Why do you say that?” Hunter questioned.

The man studied Hunter before responding, he was less trusting of a suit than Jones’s jeans and black t-shirt.

“We deal with homeless families and youths around here. Nina first came here after her foster father skipped town. Sad story. But you could see she was more than that, and she wasn’t going to let her past define her future. She was one of the girls with hope. She’s a smart, smart girl. Smarter than all of us combined. She could even go to college if she wanted to. She wanted to train to be a nurse. She wants to help people. I can tell you for sure that she’s not a killer.”

Hunter didn’t respond. Even though he had only just met the man, he had complete faith in his ability to judge a person.

“Kids here have seen more than most should ever see. They smell urine on the streets daily, they’ve seen people shooting up drugs by the time they’re five, and most have seen murders by the time they’re adults. When they’re here, we can give them support, an apple or a banana, maybe some plain rice. We give them a chance, and in return, they give me hope. Hope that some of them, at least one of them, can get out of this mess. Nina gave me the most hope.”

“How many people do you have around here?”

“In the rooms? All together we have between ten to fifteen families, and ten to fifteen young women. They bring their own stuff, we just provide the room, so sometimes, we have kids sleeping on the floor, but we’re doing the best we can with what we’ve got. The first two rooms we passed, were the permanents. We’re all ex-army. It’s like we’re bodyguards for any families that come past. It’s gives us a purpose.”

“That’s honorable work.” Jones added.

“It’s our legacy.” He leaned his arm against the wall, a piece of chipped paint falling away as he did. “I saw… I saw a lot of pain in Afghanistan, families torn apart, and I knew when I returned home, I wanted to help less fortunate families. I wanted to leave some good in the world. Impress the big man upstairs, you know? Give myself at least a small chance of getting into heaven.”

He made the sign of the cross, and then blew a kiss upwards.

“Joan, my wife, is certainly going to heaven. That woman is an angel, and I’m just doing my best to join her up there when our time comes.”

“Then you’re a lucky man. No chances left for me.” Jones smiled. “What more can you tell us about Nina?”

“Nina was such a bright star. She never knew her real family. They all died when she was very young. After she reported her foster father for abuse, she found herself in here. They wouldn’t place her back into another foster home because she was sixteen, but we took her in. Gave her a place to stay. Despite everything she’d seen, she was so lovely. An amazing girl. Honestly, it was like having another volunteer here. She tutored the younger kids in math and history, she helped out in the kitchen, and was always cleaning something. She just wanted to help. But her skill, her real talent was caring for others. She was so warm, and that’s why she would’ve been an amazing nurse.”

Hunter paused for a moment. He loved his city, he loved his state, but it was so easy for someone to fall through the cracks. In this instance, the cracks were as wide as a fault line.

“We do our best, but the gangs offer so much more.” Lynch continued. “The gangs around here have all sorts of killers wandering the streets. They’re angry young men, and it wouldn’t take much to trigger them off. If Nina had looked at one of them sideways, it could have set them off. Yates was always here trying to keep the gangs away from our block.”

“That’s not Detective John Yates, is it?” Hunter questioned.

“It is,” Damien said. “He’s creepy and crooked, but it’s good to have a police presence in a place like this every once in a while. It keeps people on their toes. Detective Yates comes into the shelter to look around. I know he’s probably on the take, but he’s still a cop. That badge is good to have around the block.”

Lynch led them back down the stairs, pulling at a cobweb on his way down, then back to the front door. His presence was calm, a contrast to the unease that seemed to exist in the building. The halls were tidy, but not clean, and the doors to the separate rooms were all shut, perhaps from the anxiety of its residents. Hunter heard the occasional noise from the rooms, but mostly, the noise in the building was subdued. Escaping danger would make most people guarded, he thought.

“Now you mention it, we had two people asking about Nina last month, which was strange because nobody had ever asked about her before.” Lynch opened the front door, letting sunlight into the dark hall. “That might have something to do with the murder.”

“Is this one of them?” Hunter opened a photo of Sidney McCann on his phone.

“Yeah, that’s him. He was asking about Antonina Aisha. I’d never heard her called that. He said he wanted to tell her something.”

“And the other person?”

“Detective Yates. He said he wanted to talk to Nina privately.”

Hunter and Jones exchanged a knowing nod as they stepped back onto the street.

The picture was becoming clearer.

Chapter 19

West Jackson Boulevard was busier than usual. Traffic was backed up block after block, cab drivers were yelling out their windows, and a chorus of car horns rang through the air like an angry Christmas song. Despite all the anger around, despite the constant rage, Tex Hunter was calm. He didn’t have anywhere to be, no deadline to meet, and he was thankful for the thinking time. He stared out the window from the passenger seat in Ray Jones’s truck, watching the world go by, albeit slowly. Ray Jones was also calm, sitting high amongst the sea of sedans, able to see a block ahead, realizing he wasn’t going anywhere quick. When stopped at another set of red lights, Jones reached across, opened his dash compartment, and removed a recently rolled joint.

“I need it for the traffic.” He lowered his window, lit the joint, and drew one long breath. “It’s the only thing that stops me from getting out of this truck and punching everyone in front of me.” He offered the joint to Hunter. “Need some?”

“Not my thing.” Hunter waved him away. “I’d much prefer a whiskey.”

“It works for me.” Jones grinned. “This here green stuff makes anyone enjoy doing nothing.”

That may have been true, but by the time they had reached Hunter’s office, thirty minutes later than expected, even Jones’s drug-induced patience was wearing thin.

They saw the illegally parked car as soon as they pulled up to the curb. Long, black, shiny, tinted windows, spotless and with specialized number plates. Parked directly outside the doors in front of his office building.

“Need me to stay for a while?” Jones nodded to the black limousine.

“I’ll handle it.” Hunter closed the door to the truck, and as he did, the door to the limousine opened.

The sidewalk around them wasn’t busy, but there were enough people to be witnesses. Hunter took a step to his right, directly under the line of the video surveillance camera for his office building. When he first moved into the building, he made sure he knew where to stand to be recorded. If something ever happened to him, they had a record of him at the building; a starting point, at least.

“Mr. Hunter.” As Hunter stepped towards his building, the driver of the car called for his attention. Dressed in a suit appropriate for a driver, complete with leather gloves, the man stood by the open backseat door. The tinted windows were dark, darker than what was legal in the state of Illinois, but Hunter wasn’t concerned. If someone was going to attack him, this wasn’t the place to do it.

Hunter walked to the car, leaned down and looked inside the backseat. “First Deputy Superintendent.”

The man sitting on the back seat grunted his response.

There was no handshake between them, no pleasant introduction. John Steven Whaler had greying hair, a pleasant face, and a smooth Irish charm, however he was showing none of that to Hunter. Whaler was a sniper’s dream—even for a man who was six-foot tall and carrying too much extra body fat, his head looked oversized.

“I’m disappointed they sent you.” Hunter stepped into the comfortable back seat of the limousine, the dark leather squeaking as he sat down. “I would’ve expected the Superintendent, at least. If not, the Mayor.”

“You think you’re funny?” Whaler snapped. “This city is on edge and you’re making jokes. I don’t have time for your games.”

“You seem to have enough time to wait outside my office.”

“I know your every movement right now, Hunter. I knew you were at the Shelter for Young Women in Bridgeport, and I knew when you were returning. The department has eyes all over this city.”

“I guess that should be reassuring.”

“For you, it’s not.” Whaler looked out the window. Dressed in a uniform that was perfectly pressed, he chewed his gum aggressively, like a baseball coach in the middle of the World Series. “We need to talk.”

“That’s no surprise. I was expecting it.”

“Then you know what I’m going to say.” Whaler turned to him, shifting his whole body to stare at Hunter. “Don’t do it. Don’t go opening the wounds of the police department because you want to reopen your father’s case. You have to look at the bigger picture. You have to see what impact this case will have on this city.”

“I’m going to do my job defending Nina Aisha,” Hunter stated. “And if that involves uncovering the corruption of Sidney McCann, then that’s what I’ll do. I won’t step away from this.”

“Police corruption has already been dragged through the headlines. We cannot, and will not, let this happen again. We won’t give you the opportunity to dispute cases in court because of Sidney McCann’s past. Can you imagine what it’ll do to the courts? There will be hundreds of cases that will have the potential to be reopened.”

“That’s not my fault.” Hunter’s fist clenched. “That’s the fault of your department. Your corrupt cops.”

“Don’t you dare!” Whaler moved closer to Hunter. “You’ll clog up the system for years with criminals seeking exonerations! The floodgates will open. After what happened in Watt’s case, you might as well just open the doors to the prisons. Let them all out.”

“That’s not something I can control.”

“So you would choose to let the guilty back out onto the street, risking the lives of innocent people, because you see an opportunity to exploit a dead man’s past? All because you want your killer father out of prison? McCann is not even a cop anymore! He’s not even alive! Let bygones be bygones. It’s the past. Let it go.”

“And what about Detective Yates? Or Carson? You still have a lot of corruption in your ranks. You still have people willing to take bribes. Don’t preach to me about how clean your department is.”

“My point is…” Whaler paused, staring at Hunter for a few long moments. “Don’t send this city into riots because you want revenge.”

“Revenge? That’s what you think this is about? You know as well as I do that Sidney McCann took money for bribes from people on the street.”

“You’ll never get a cop to talk about it. The code of silence is real.” Whaler’s tone became flat. “You won’t be able to prove anything.”

“If you really thought that was true, if you really thought I couldn’t prove anything, you wouldn’t be here.”

Whaler sighed, turning his attention out the window again, staring at the cars that were passing them. He rubbed his thumb and his forefinger together, angry he had to be negotiating with a defense lawyer.

He had spent much of his life proud of being a cop, proud of serving his community, but in the previous ten years, the force was beginning to lose the public relations battle. There had always been bad eggs, and there had always been people that hated the force, but the numbers of both camps were growing at an alarming rate. There was a corrosive level of cynicism towards his department, and it was one that they were struggling to turn around, even with a hard line on corruption.

There was change happening in the department—change in the attitudes, change in the training, and change in the transparency—but the hangover of the past was still clear to see. The days of bribing, harassing and dishonesty had left their mark for the next generation to overcome.

That change, that movement towards a new PD, couldn’t come quick enough for people like Whaler.

“I guess the question is,” Whaler sighed, defeated. “What does the girl want?”

“A clean record.”

“We can’t drop the charges. We can’t do that.” Whaler grunted again, shaking his head. “You know she can’t have that. You know she killed a retired cop and we can’t let that go. If we did, we’d have revolts in our ranks.”

“The head of the fish rots first.” Hunter stared at the man. “You’re trying to cover it up again. Even if this had nothing to do with getting Nina off the charges, even if McCann didn’t arrest my father, I would still be chasing this path. You can’t cover up the past any more. The truth about corruption has to come out.”

“We can’t let her off.”

Hunter reached for the door, and attempted to open it, but it was locked. He looked at Whaler, who exhaled loudly through his nostrils, before providing a nod to the driver standing outside the door. After a moment, the door clicked open.

“You’ll need to double the people in your Police Integrity Unit, because they’re going to get busy.” Hunter stepped out, before turning back to Whaler. “This is just the start.”

“Tex. Don’t go after revenge. Think about your city, about what it’ll do to Chicago.” Whaler leaned across the seat, his face heavy with fear. “Because an eye for an eye will leave everyone blind.”

Chapter 20

“Esther,” Hunter stormed into his office, slamming the door, his movements fueled by anger. “Give me everything we’ve got on Nina’s case. We’re taking this one all the way.”

His assistant knew that tone; she’d heard it so many times before. That tone, that driven determination, that tension, meant something, or someone, had pushed his buttons.

Within twenty minutes, the boardroom was filled with papers laid out across the large glass table. Although all their files were on computers, stored on disks and in the clouds, Hunter still worked so much better with the paper copies in front of him. It frustrated Esther to print so much paper, to inadvertently cut down so many trees, but she was younger and more computer savvy, and screens were a part of her life.

“This is all we have,” Esther circled the table. “And there’s not a lot to go on. All the information leads to dead ends, and I can’t find anything that might help you. There are no other witnesses that saw McCann after Nina hit him, and Ray has said there’s no video footage that looks down the street, or any other footage that shows McCann alive after his interaction with Nina. We have nothing that casts doubt about her guilt.”

“That’s not what I want to hear.” Hunter leaned on the table, pushing two pieces of paper apart. He stared at the papers, wishing the answers would jump out at him, hoping he had missed a vital clue. “There has to be something that proves her innocence. Something that shows she didn’t kill this man.”

“An eighteen-year-old homeless girl beats a retired cop, and then drags his body two blocks in a trash bag, ties rocks to his hands and feet, and then dumps him in the river—and nobody saw anything after they fought? I would question that, and I think the jury will have questions as well. All the prosecution has is three witnesses that saw her beat McCann, the fact she used his credit card and admitted to taking his wallet, and the information that she was the last person to see him alive. Sure, he was asking about Nina the week before he went missing, but that doesn’t prove anything. There’s nothing to prove she dumped the body.”

“They’re not going to let her go.” He sat down, almost defeated, and then turned his chair to look at the view of Chicago out of the floor to ceiling window. The boardroom was roomy, an empty space that was barely used, filled by a long glass table, a whiteboard, and leather office chairs. Hunter didn’t like working from such a vast space. The view of Chicago from the boardroom, however, was something he did enjoy. “They’re going to make sure she goes down for this. Even if we have the perfect case, even if we have the evidence that proves her innocence, they’ll find a way to convict her. They’re not going to let the killer of a retired cop back onto the streets—the State’s Attorney’s office and the police department are already on the brink of war with each other, and if they let her go, this would be one of the final wedges.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“We have to take it to court, and that’ll be my opportunity to prove how corrupt McCann was. If we can prove in court, on the record, that McCann was corrupt, then we can at least throw doubt over the case. Did you find anything about his wife and the son’s financial records?”

“I haven’t had the chance to look at the information yet, but the file of Rhys McCann’s financial records is on the table.”

“Which file?”

“It’s in the open-your-eyes section.” She tapped the folder directly in front of him.

He smiled. “What would I do without you, Esther?”

“Probably die in a pile of printed folders. I still don’t see why you have to print all these files. There are trees to save, you know? The world is burning, the population is increasing, and we have to start planting more trees, not cut them down.”

“In two weeks,” He turned and leaned his arms on the table. “They’re conducting a tree planting day outside the Morton Arboretum. Why don’t you come out there with me? We can plant some trees and you can feel better about all that printing.”

“That’s a deal.” She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “But only if you talk to Nina again about the deal that’s still on the table.” She reached across and picked up the offer from the prosecution. “Ten years. It could be her only option to get out of this mess. She’ll only be twenty-eight by the time she gets out, and she could still build a life after that. You have to talk to her about seriously considering the deal.”

Hunter ran his finger over the first page of information again. He read the offer; however, he knew what Nina’s reaction would be.

“Abraham Lincoln once said that character is like the tree, and reputation is like the shadow.”

“What does that mean?”

“The shadow isn’t consistent and changes with the sources of light, growing longer or shorter, or moving left to right. But the tree, that solid trunk, it doesn’t change, it always stays strong. That’s all a person can control.” He rested in a chair at the head of the boardroom table. “And that’s what Nina has to do now. She has to stay strong. That’s her character. No matter what the light does, no matter what the sky does, she has to stay true to her character.”

Esther understood what he meant, but that wasn’t her outlook on life. In Nina’s situation, she would prefer to take the easier option, the path of least resistance. Ten years seemed like a number she could manage, a period of time she could get through, even counting down the days. But twenty years behind bars, possibly more, seemed like an insurmountable period, a peak too large to climb, almost a lifetime lost to prison.

“If we took McCann’s corruption out of the picture, what’s the best option for Nina?” Esther asked.

“It’s 50/50. If Nina was a white girl that had grown up in a nice home, and McCann was an average Joe, the answer would be to take it to court and fight. A jury would have a hard time convicting her on the basis that some witnesses saw her punch him. In fact, I’d be surprised if they even arrested her.” He took a moment to shake his head. “But that’s not our situation—what we have is a homeless African American orphan that’s charged with killing an award-winning retired cop. We can cast doubt on the fact she dragged the body two blocks to the river, and nobody saw her do that, but that doesn’t prove she didn’t kill him in the first place.”

“So what gets her off?”

“Surveillance footage is the key.” He tapped his finger on the table. “Without it, we can’t prove McCann was alive after his interaction with Nina. If we had something, anything, that proved McCann was somewhere else that night then we can win this in court.”

Esther picked up a page of notes from Hunter’s legal pad, reading the first paragraph. It stated Mrs. Li McCann’s first thought was that her husband was killed because of his threat to expose corruption in the police department. “What if it’s more than a coincidence? What if all this is a set-up to get rid of McCann?”

“I’ve thought the same thing from the start, Esther.” They made eye contact; Esther providing a knowing nod to Hunter. “It’s going to be a hard battle, and I think we can win, but it would break my heart if we didn’t. I can’t imagine the moment I would have to look at Nina while handcuffs are put on her before being sent to prison. I’m not letting that happen. This girl has already been through enough. Footage is the key to winning this in court. We need to prove McCann was alive after he talked to Nina.”

“Tex.” Esther paused, biting her bottom lip. “Are you taking it to court for Nina, or for you?”

The words hit him like a hammer. He kept his eyes on the pages in front of him, the evening sun reflecting off them, and then dropped his head.

“Tex, you have to do what’s best for Nina. Even if it means giving up the chance to have your father’s case looked at again, even if it means giving up hope, then you have to do what’s best for this girl. Perhaps the deal is the best option. You have to give it serious consideration.”

Hunter was always uneasy with the idea of plea bargaining, the pressure of coercion on a possibly innocent client.

The power in plea bargaining didn’t rest with the evidence, it didn’t rest with the strength of the witnesses, it didn’t rest with the jury.

The power in plea bargaining, the power of negotiation, depended on the notion of a maximum sentence, versus a lower sentence, a lower charge, or a lower charge count.

Faced with Nina’s situation, faced with a court process biased against her, Hunter considered whether the plea was the best option, whether Nina should pay for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Detective Yates must know something,” Hunter added.

“Yates? That creepy guy? Why?” Esther asked.

“He’s corrupt, I know that, and he was waiting outside of Chow’s construction site when I was leaving.” A thought ran through his mind. “And he was an old partner of Sidney McCann.”

“So he’s also connected to Chow?” Esther asked. “All of this is connected to Chow?”

“I don’t have evidence of that.” Hunter stared at the table, thinking about the connection. “But right now, we don’t have anything else.”

Chapter 21

The fried chicken shop was buzzing with people hunting for their next meal. Over the door, the sign read ‘Fast Food Here,’ but the ‘s’ had unfortunately, or truthfully, dropped off. The best Southern fried chicken in Chicago was their claim, placed in bold letters on the window, although the sign didn’t stipulate who made that noteworthy statement.

Hunter walked past the busy counter, past the lingering line of people choosing their menu options, and stood next to a well-used stool at the long table to the side of the room. The shop was filled with bright red chairs, while the rest of the shop was mostly white, highlighting the main color.

“It’s said the color red makes people feel hungrier, and in turn, they buy more food.” Hunter stated as he sat down on the stool that was bolted into the floor.

The man eating his fried chicken stopped, raised his eyebrows, and then licked each of his fingers twice.

“Although,” Hunter continued. “I can’t imagine that it would take much to encourage you to buy more food.”

“What do you want to talk about, Hunter?” Chicago PD Detective John Yates wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m eating here, and it was quite an enjoyable experience until you arrived.”

“Kenneth Chow.”

Yates sighed, his moment of joy in the fried chicken shop spoiled by the man next to him.

Yates looked at his fried chicken, and picked off the remaining bits of skin. He could take or leave the chicken itself, but the crispy skin, filled with southern spices, well, that was something else all-together. He placed a chicken bone back down on his takeaway tray and a piece of chicken fell from his plate onto the floor, not that it made a difference. The floor looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a week.

“I’m sorry you slipped over at the work site. It happens more than you would think.”

“I know it happens a lot.”

“You can’t prove anything.”

“I can prove you’re corrupt.”

The diner next to them turned, staring at the detective and lawyer. Yates nodded to his belt, where his badge was hanging, and then nodded for the young girl to walk away. She didn’t think twice.

“The girl you’re defending is some piece of work, Hunter.” Yates leaned closer, keeping his voice low. “She murders a guy for trying to help her. Poor Sid. Tries to help someone, but gets beaten up, and then dumped in the bottom of the river.”

“The girl? Nina? That’s not what I’m here to talk about.” Hunter lied. “I was here to talk about your connections to Mary-Ann Steele’s arson case.”

Yates sat back, shocked he had let the connection slip.

“You’ve just admitted Chow has connections to Nina Aisha’s murder case.” Hunter’s voice grew louder. “How?”

Yates looked over his shoulder, the crowd was beginning to look at them.

“How, Yates? How are they connected?”

“Alright. Alright.” Yates looked over his shoulder again, then leaned into Hunter’s space. “This isn’t the place to talk about it. Let’s step outside.”

“You try anything, and I’ll belt you into tomorrow.”

“I know what you’re capable of. One of the guys on the construction site had to get his jaw wired back into place.”

Yates grabbed his soda, moved to the exit, and pushed hard against the squeaky glass door, stepping outside into the darkness. Hunter waited a few moments, checked his surroundings, and followed.

They stepped onto the street outside the fried chicken store. The sidewalk was dark, thanks to the broken streetlight, only lit by the bright sign above them. The brick building was decorated with graffiti, the trashcan nearby was overflowing with fast-food wrappers, and a puddle crossed half the sidewalk.

“Sid and I were partners once. When we arrested your father, it made our careers. There were six of us there that day, and we all got promoted within a year. It was a once in a lifetime arrest, and we were fortunate enough to be there.”

“Lucky you.”

“We all had a bond about that day, but Sid and I, well, when you work closely with someone for two decades, they start to get under your skin.” He looked over his shoulder, back to the entrance to ensure nobody was listening. “Last year, Sid came to me saying how much his life had changed, how much better he felt about himself. He tried to get me to do the same, to change my ways, so to speak. Repent for the past.”

“What’s his connection to Chow?” Hunter was blunt.

“Chow had a lot of construction projects in Sid’s district. Last year, word got out Sid was looking to strike a deal with the DOJ and turn over everything he knew, including all the payments he’d taken over the years. The stupid guy, he must’ve known something was going to happen. He must’ve known he was stepping into a dangerous world.”

“What were the payments for?” Hunter stepped closer to the cop.

“Insurance and workplace claims. Cover-ups. I’d heard Sid had even torched construction sites that were losing money for Chow, and then signed off on the investigative paperwork to say it was an accident, even when the Fire Department didn’t think so. They were tight for years.”

“Chow was going to be exposed by the deal with the DOJ.”

“That’s right.” He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “And let’s say it appeared that Chow’s affairs weren’t in order. Sid’s statements were about to blow something wide open. That’s all I know. If they didn’t pick up the girl with McCann’s wallet, then they would’ve been looking into what he was doing the week before his death.”

Hunter had gotten the information he wanted. He turned to walk away before Yates reached out to touch Hunter’s arm. Hunter turned sharply, and Yates instantly held his hands up in the air.

“Listen, Hunter, she’s a homeless kid that’s grown up without a family; time in prison will probably do her some good. It would give her a bed, at least.” Yates’s voice was flat. “Kids like that need structure and guidance in their lives. Innocent or not, you’ll be doing her a favor by sending her to prison. She could even learn some life skills in there. If not, she’ll just end up dead like the rest of them should be. You know, without those types of kids, my job would be so much easier. If they were all just locked-up tomorrow, it’d half the work of the force.”

The coldness in Yates’s statement sent a shiver down Hunter’s spine. If Yates wasn’t allowed to shoot, bully, and bribe people for a living, Hunter was sure he would seek out a career in something to satisfy his immoral urges—a serial killer, slaughterhouse worker, or telemarketer, at least.

“If she’s innocent, she shouldn’t be locked up. These kids need help, not more persecution. She shouldn’t have to go to prison for opportunities. She’s had enough pain in her life. We need to help kids like her.”

“Don’t get all idealistic on me now, Hunter. You’ve got to do what’s best for her and what’s best for society. That’s what police work is all about. Helping people. Helping the community become better.”

“By locking them up?”

“Sometimes, the best thing to do is to protect these people from themselves.”

“You’re trash, Yates,” Hunter stepped close to the detective. “And if you talk like that again, you’ll find out what I’m really capable of.”

Chapter 22

Taking a moment to calm himself in the busy surroundings of his city, Tex Hunter stared at the famed Chicago Picasso sculpture, proudly displayed in a square off West Washington Ave. He loved that Pablo Picasso donated the sculpture, refusing any payment, stating that he loved creating art for one of the world’s great gangster cities. More than half a century later, that was still true—the city was still full of gangsters, criminals, and racketeers—and still, one couldn’t be sure which side of the law they were on. In the lower-class neighborhoods, to the South and to the West, it was clear gangs ran the streets, tattoos clearly marking those members, but in the city, amongst the well-dressed suits and briefcases, it was harder to spot the immoral.

Chicago had a long history of corruption, mobsters, and mass violence, and no matter how loudly a politician beat their chest, no matter how strongly a representative campaigned, that wasn’t changing any time soon. It was ingrained in the fabric of their existence, passed from one generation to the next, and breaking that line, breaking that generational bond, was a task almost too large to even try.

There were good people in the city, good people in the political ranks, good people who fought hard against the dishonesty, but they were fighting against more than a century of backroom deals, payoffs, and kickbacks.

After taking a few moments of calm, Hunter walked into the nearby building, into the elevator to the twentieth floor, checking in with the receptionist before being waved through. He walked past the doors with the lengthy titles, past the expansive boardrooms that had seen many legal battles over the years, and all the way down to the back of the floor, to a sprawling office, roomy enough to pass as a small flat.

Pradesh Baron was leading the case for the State’s Attorney, and by putting away another cop killer, putting away Hunter’s defendant, Baron had an opportunity to make his career, a chance to put his name in the right conversations for a move into politics.

“Nervous?” Hunter asked as he stepped through the door.

Pradesh Baron looked up at him with confused eyes, his pen hovering over more paperwork. “Maybe.” He shrugged. “But not as nervous as your client should be.”

“Nina Aisha didn’t do it.” Hunter walked in and sat on the armchair opposite Baron’s hefty desk. It was a comfortable chair, old enough to be found in an antique store if ever sold, but sturdy enough to take even the heaviest of people. “Nina believes in justice. She believes in the system.”

“I’m not fresh out of high school, Tex.” Baron stopped writing and then leaned forward. “You should know better than that. That approach isn’t going to work with me.”

“Smooth things over with your wife?” Hunter nodded to the two family photos sitting on his desk. They looked so happy, so joyous, smiling as they hugged in front of their five children, all with beaming smiles to match. A perfect portrait, a snapshot in time, a moment to be remembered.

And that’s the beauty of a photograph—it’s a moment in time, a door into the past, never changing, even when the people in the picture do.

“Things are better. She’s welcomed me back home, but she’s still icy. We’ll never divorce, at least not while her parents are still around, and they’ll be kicking along well into their nineties. Divorce would break my mother’s heart.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Tex, come on.” Baron placed his pen down and closed the folder in front of him. “You’re not a psychologist. Don’t try and solve my family problems. You should look at your own family before you try and solve someone else’s issues.”

The verbal jab hit Hunter where it hurt, but he wouldn’t let it show. Not here. Not in this office. Not in a place where a weakness would be exposed.

“I’m just making small talk.” Hunter held up his hands. “But clearly, Pradesh, you’d rather get straight into why this girl should be released from prison. Evidently, you’d rather talk about justice and when we should release her.”

“Justice would see this young woman go to prison. She’s a murderer. A cop killer. The evidence clearly shows she killed Sidney McCann. I really hope you’ve come here to discuss a deal for your client, because the best option is for your client to admit guilt, take a few years in prison, and try to rebuild her life once she has completed her sentence. She’s young; she has a long life still left to lead. I really hope she doesn’t spend that life in prison.”

“Are the timeframes still the same as the last offer?”

“She could get ten years for second-degree murder. We’ll say McCann tried to touch her, she defended herself, and although she knew she would kill him, she was acting under intense passion. She then panicked and dumped his body in the river. If she took the ten years, the young woman will only be twenty-eight by the time she comes out of prison. She has a whole life to lead after that. Think of the deal as an opportunity to rebuild a life after an unfortunate incident.”

“It’s not much of a life to rebuild if you’re a convicted criminal.”

“But it’s still more of a life than she would get if she were to spend it all behind bars for first-degree murder.”

Leaning back in the chair, Hunter shook his head. His eyes were drawn back to the pictures on Baron’s wall, numerous degrees proudly displayed in wooden frames.

Fighting crime was certainly big business in Chicago, on both sides of the law. Criminality kept people in jobs, it kept the economy going, there was no doubt about that. Law enforcement, administration, lawyers, lab technicians, counsellors, coroners; the list of those that were kept busy by the law system was extensive.

Without crime, without the jobs it demanded, the economy would stall.

“I’m sure you know most of this already.” Baron reached across and closed another file on his desk, protecting it from Hunter’s eyes. “It was in the information we sent to you. We have witnesses that state they saw her beating Sidney McCann on the night he was last seen, and she has no alibi for the remainder of the evening. She’s even admitted she was with McCann that night. They were together. Clearly, they had an argument, and Nina killed McCann. This is cut and dry. I’m not sure why you seem determined to take it to trial.”

“Tell me more about your witnesses.”

“We have an older male from the nearby diner who will testify he saw Nina and McCann together that night. We have a male resident of the apartment building across the road who will testify he saw Nina punching McCann. And we have Alicia Carson who will testify she saw Nina and McCann arguing in the street as well. She’s going to testify that she saw Nina punch McCann numerous times. A good strong group of respectable witnesses that’s hard to dispute.”

“Carson is saying she saw Nina punch McCann?” Hunter spread his arms wide. “That’s not what she said to me.”

“In a deposition?”

“No, in general conversation.”

“I’m sure you misheard her. Carson has signed a witness statement in which she says she saw the accused punch McCann numerous times.” Baron held out his hands. “And apart from that, I’m not sure what else you could argue about.”

“I have something.” Hunter squinted, watching Baron’s reaction closely. “The deal McCann was making with Department of Justice included corruption charges against a Chinatown businessman named Kenneth Chow.”

“I know the name, but if you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about, then you’d also know I can’t discuss any ongoing investigations with you,” Baron looked away. “And that’s well outside the boundaries of this case. Well, well outside the boundaries. It’s not even my department to comment on—you’re talking about federal laws, federal departments. Bigger than this office.”

“I’ll subpoena all the records if I have to.”

“That wouldn’t be very wise.”

“They’re the reason he was killed.”

“They are not!” The sudden snap in attitude caught Hunter by surprise.

Baron spent a few moments shaking his head, disappointed he snapped so easily. His usually calm demeanor was rocked by the potential truth.

“Pradesh.” Hunter leaned forward, his elbows on the edge of the table. “Are you protecting the corrupt?”

“I know what you’re doing, Tex. Everyone knows what you’re doing.” Baron stood, moving his anxious body, and pacing the floor behind his chair. “But you’re going to rip this city apart if you chase that line of enquiry.”

“Justice shouldn’t run from fear.”

“It’s more than fear. It’s reality!” Baron slammed his hand on the table. “The picture you will paint is of corrupt cops paying off people in Chinatown! Can you imagine what the national media is going to do with that? Can you imagine it? It’ll lead every national news bulletin, every paper headline, every online news source. You’ll destroy the reputation of the Chicago PD, and that’s not what this city needs right now.”

“I’m not sacrificing an innocent girl for a corrupt cop.”

“Look at the big picture!” Baron kept pacing the room. “The girl killed McCann. We know that. And now you’re going to risk Chicago’s reputation, the safety of all Chicago residents, just to try and get a better deal. No, I can’t let you do that.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I might not, but I’m not the only one at play here.” Baron stood by the window, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest.

Baron had great respect for the Cook County State’s Attorney Office. It was his life’s work, and he had sacrificed so much for the reputation of the office. Worst of all, more than the long hours, more than the late nights away from home, he’d sacrificed his morals. He’d convinced himself it was all for the greater good, all for the big picture, but there was always a feeling in the back of his mind that he was taking the wrong path.

He’d made deals with killers so they would expose crime gangs, he’d reduced prison sentences for drug dealers so they would expose their suppliers, and he’d let thieves walk free so they would expose the masterminds behind their crews. In the big picture, looking at all the options, the decisions made sense, it was all the right thing to do.

But on the individual scale, on the scale that mattered to Baron, he’d let criminals back out onto the streets, he’d let killers reduce their time behind bars.

“Tex, the Mayor and the Superintendent have taken a very keen interest in this case. They want this dealt with quickly, quietly, and without a fuss. They don’t want this case in the headlines, but they know they’re walking a fine line. McCann, even if he was corrupt, was still a police officer. They can’t let the girl off lightly, or the rank and file in the force will revolt. They have to protect their own.”

Hunter nodded. There was an understanding between them, a mutual respect built on similar morals. In a different life, in a different world, Hunter could see them as friends, men who could share a beer, a laugh, and stories of their misfortune.

“And it doesn’t matter what I want to do, Tex. It doesn’t matter what I try and say.” Baron shook his head. “The people that matter, the people in power, don’t want Chicago torn apart on the back of McCann’s corrupt legacy. They’re not going to let you take this to court.”

“What about your legacy, Pradesh?” Hunter said. “What are you going to leave behind? A legacy of sweeping things under the carpet to keep those in power happy? Is that what you want to be remembered for?”

Pradesh looked to his bookshelf, the one filled with law textbooks.

His morals had always been his guiding light, his sense of direction. Even in school, he was the Hall Monitor, the Librarian’s Assistant, and spent his weekends as a referee for junior sports. His sense of right and wrong were once so clear-cut, so black and white.

The higher he went in the State’s Attorney’s Office, the more he climbed the corporate and political ladders, the more he saw that right and wrong weren’t so clear, the more he learned that grey existed in all areas of life.

Sacrifice for the greater good became his mantra, his way of convincing himself he was doing the right thing.

“You’ve got to look at the big picture, Tex. You can’t do this. You can’t expose McCann’s past in court.”

“I didn’t make McCann corrupt and I’m not going to take the blame for a corrupt system. I’m not going to take the blame for a corrupt city.” Hunter stood, his presence towering over the desk. “But I will expose it.”

Chapter 23

Nina Aisha hated the showers the most.

That’s what she found the scariest. She thought the men on the outside were bad, she thought they were her worst nightmare, but the women inside were proving to be equally as bad. There were good souls there, people who had a bad run in life and ended up on the wrong side of the tracks, but they weren’t strong enough to defeat the tormenters.

Amongst the chaos, amongst the terrors and heartache, there were women in prison who gave her hope, that even in the worst situation life had to offer, there were still good people. Some women had found God, and turned to the good book to find their path. Others turned to learning, working hard to gain their high school certificates, and a few had turned to meditation. These were the decent people, working within a justice system that tried to rehabilitate them. That’s what the prison system was designed to do—punish the criminals for their crimes, and rehabilitate them before their release. Get them back on their feet. Get them ready to venture back out into the real world.

But unfortunately, in the majority of cases, it didn’t work out like that.

Most detainees worked in the interest of self-preservation, survival, and that meant turning to the gangs.

There was protection in the gangs, they were groups of people who were willing to die for each other, willing to risk it all for their new family. And once they were back out on the streets, once they were back out in society, those bonds stayed blended together. They entered prison as lone criminals, and exited with gang associations.

That’s not where Nina Aisha wanted to go. That’s not the life she wanted to lead. She wanted to learn, to make something of her life, make a difference in the world.

The only foster parent she had ever liked was a nurse—a loving, caring soul, whose life ended too early. She would hug Nina, hold her tight, make her feel safe. It took a long time for Nina to feel safe in a hug. Her life hadn’t been filled with human touch, it hadn’t been filled with hugs, and it had never felt safe. But in the arms of her foster mother, Claire, a small round woman with a broad smile, she felt comfortable. That smile, that warm touch, that loving heart, gave her hope.

Nurses had been her only sense of optimism—the only shining lights in an otherwise dull path.

The changing rooms next to the showers were so cold, so emotionless. The floor was cold on her feet, the walls were solid concrete blocks, and the metal bench felt like it had been taken out of the refrigerator. The showers were enclosed in cubicles, complete with a small swinging door for privacy, but that didn’t help her feel safe.

She avoided entering the showers, waiting fully dressed on the long bench in the changing room. As she waited for the others in her group to finish their showers, she tried to think about the night she saw Sidney McCann. Ten months had passed, and her memory of that night was fading, becoming confused with other memories.

McCann knew who she was. He said he had been looking for her.

And he was so sorry.

He had tears in his eyes as he apologized to her.

At first, she thought he must’ve been mistaken, or crazy, at least.

But he was insistent.

He called her Antonina, a name she didn’t hear often. He said it was her birth name, but she had never been called that to her face. She asked him what he was sorry for, but he had too many tears in his eyes. He couldn’t get the words out.

She thought he must’ve been saying sorry for letting her stay at Mr. Bishop’s house. She reasoned that it was why he knew her full name—he must’ve seen her school records.

He must’ve been the one that arranged for her to go to his home. He must’ve been the one that arranged those bad experiences. If he had set it up, he would’ve known what Mr. Bishop did to her. McCann had probably set up other girls before.

So she hit him. He deserved it. He didn’t even fight back.

After the first punch, the anger came out like an explosion—all that hate, all that regret, all that madness, flooded out into a number of swings.

He didn’t resist at all. He fell to the ground, tears streaming down his face, and he kept saying sorry despite the mouth full of blood. That was all he could say, and he seemed determined to take all the pain. When his face was full of blood, tears, and regret, she took his wallet and walked away. She left him on the ground to suffer in pain.

She wished she’d asked him to explain it all—explain exactly why he was saying sorry, why he was looking for her, why he took the time to track her down.

The letter from Li McCann helped. It went further into explaining why he was eager to find her. She wrote back to Li McCann explaining she had met Sidney that night, and that she did punch him.

And she stated she didn’t kill Li McCann’s husband.

Once she started writing the letter to Li McCann, she couldn’t stop. She filled five pages about her life, almost a cathartic release of her anguish. She wrote about her childhood, how she never knew her parents, how she grew up in foster homes. She wrote about the future she hoped to have, how she hoped to be a mother one day, how she hoped to have a family of her own.

She wrote about how she dreamed of becoming a nurse, how she dreamed of helping others. Once the five pages were filled, they were drops of tears falling on the pages.

She wished Li McCann would write back, and let her know about her life, about how she has lived her path.

“You going to shower?” The female guard stepped over the top of Nina. The guard was tall and broad, dwarfing Nina with her presence.

“Already have.” Nina replied, keeping her eyes down. She had wet her hair when she first went into the changing rooms, in the sink, because she knew the guard would ask her.

The guard ran her hand along Nina’s wet hair, and then walked back to the door.

“I have to log this session in the book.” The guard turned to the door. “I’m going to lock this door, and I’ll be back in two minutes. Do not misbehave in that time.”

Fear flooded through Nina.

The room was full of eight women—all of whom had served more than a year on the inside, all of whom had been longing for new blood to touch.

Nina didn’t want to be left alone in the room full of hungry women. It was her nightmare. She wanted to say something to the guard, to ask her not to leave, but she knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t be seen as a snitch.

There was no Denise this time—she had been called away on laundry duty. Denise was known in the prison, with gang affiliations, as a protector. She was known to take people under her wing and guide them through the system. Whether or not that meant becoming a member of a gang, Nina wasn’t sure.

The door to the shower room shut.

The lock twisted.

And they instantly pounced on Nina.

She was pushed to the floor.

Her shirt was being ripped. Hungry hands grabbed at her.

She wanted to fight back, she wanted to struggle, but she knew she couldn’t.

That would only make it worse.

Their faces were filled with rage, desperation in their eyes, like Nina had become their conquest, their mountain to climb. They were ravenous, frantic, to lay their hands on her body.

“Hey!” The guard stepped back into the room, and the women instantly dispersed.

Nina quickly pulled her top back down.

“What happened?” the guard asked.

Nina shook her head.

She knew she had to keep her mouth shut.

And she knew that if she was going to make it through prison, then Denise had to be her protection.

She had to trust that woman, whether she wanted to or not.

Chapter 24

The Steele’s home opposite the McKinley Park reserve was exactly as Tex Hunter expected—green lawn, freshly painted front door, and an old motorhome parked in the driveway. In the yard, the small hedge was perfectly clipped, the grass was weed free, and the flowers were aligned in seamless rows. The exterior of the two-story 1920s Chicago greystone house was clean, not a speck of dirt to see, with the American flag hanging over the porch. Built primarily with limestone from Bedford, Indiana, the greystone was Chicago’s answer to New York’s brownstone, with roughly 30,000 built from the 1890s to the 1930s, and they had stood proudly ever since.

The trees on the street outside the home were plentiful, providing shade and privacy, but the street was busy, both with cars and pedestrians walking to and from McKinley Park, which featured a baseball diamond, a lagoon, playground, sports grounds and plenty of natural space within its seventy-acre boundary.

Hunter walked from the boat-ramp parking lot where the burned car was found, tracing the quickest route back to the Steele’s residence, making the distance within ten minutes. Even taking the backstreets, he found it hard to believe a seventy-year-old woman walked the distance in the middle of the night, after burning a car, and nobody saw her.

“Mr. Hunter.” Nathan Steele was as formal as ever as he stood at the front door. His shirt was tucked in, his hair neatly combed, and his grip was firm. “Welcome to our home.”

“Mr. Steele. It’s a lovely home.” Hunter returned the handshake solidly before walking into the entrance, wiping his shoes, and then continuing into the living room at the front of the house. “Hello, Mary-Ann.”

“Tex, I have a hot pot of coffee and freshly baked cookies waiting just for you.” Mary-Ann undid the strings of her apron, and welcomed the lawyer into their home. “Please, sit down.”

The main living room was filled with furniture that looked like it had barely been used. The three-seat fabric sofa was clean, not an indent to indicate any use, and the matching armchair was the same. The bookshelf to the left was filled with never-read classics, the mantel above the fireplace was filled with smiling family photos, and the coffee table in the middle of the room was covered by five Reader’s Digest magazines. It was clear this was the formal living room, the one used to impress new visitors.

Hunter looked over his shoulder, past the kitchen, and spotted the secondary living room, the one with the television, the footstools, and the well-worn couch; the room the Steeles used on a regular basis.

Apart from the photos, there was barely a personal touch in the main living room, except for the contents on the furthest wall from the entrance. There, hanging proudly, was the unmistakable shrine to their lost son, Anthony Steele. His portrait was proudly displayed in the middle of the wall, and directly underneath was a fresh bouquet of daisies on a stand, with a leaflet from his funeral. A picture of his child sat on one side of the vase, and a picture of his widow on the other.

“I hope you’ve got good news today, Tex. I’m not sure I can take much more of this. This threat of going to prison for something I didn’t do is starting to wear me down.”

“Mary-Ann is a tough one—she’s seen more than most—but I can tell this is starting to get to her.” Nathan added. “We need a solution. We need you to take the prospect of prison off the table.”

“It’s still a very real possibility.” Hunter was honest. Now was not the time to string them along. “You may be looking at time behind bars.”

“I’m not going to prison for a crime I didn’t do. I never stole his car, I didn’t set fire to it, and I certainly have never considered revenge on his property. It’s not something I would do. Why doesn’t anyone understand that?” Mary-Ann was pleading with him.

“You could sign the deal with the prosecution. That’s still on the table. You would avoid prison time.”

“And admit guilt when I’m innocent? I can’t even fathom doing that.” She wiped her eyes, shook her head numerous times, and then placed her coffee mug on the table. “I’m innocent. The system should protect me.”

“The system’s not perfect.”

She stood, walked into the kitchen, dabbed her eyes with a tissue, and then checked under a tea towel, before removing the freshly baked cookies. Carrying them back into the living room, the baked goods filled the air with a pleasant, homey smell. She placed them on the table and offered Hunter one, which he gladly accepted.

He tasted the cookie, and then provided her a nod of approval. “These are very, very good.”

“It’s what I do when I’m stressed—I bake.”

“And the nearby nursing home has never received so many baked goods as they have over the last nine months.” Nathan laughed. “Because there’s no way I could eat all the food she’s baked.”

“And all this stress, all these worries, are almost sending me into that nursing home. It’s driving me insane, and the only thing keeping me from going down that path is your ability in the courtroom. I won’t let my legacy, my history, go down as a criminal. I won’t let my family bury me with this over my head.” She stared into her coffee. “People are already turning away from me. People are already doubting what I say. They won’t say it to my face, but I can see it in their eyes. I can tell the longer this goes on, the more they’re judging me. People are starting to think I actually did it.”

“I understand, and that’s why we’re seeing this case through to the end.” Hunter removed his phone, opened his photos, and zoomed in on a picture. “Do you know this man?”

“That’s the retired cop that was killed. He’s been on the news.”

“Did you know him before you saw his picture on the news?”

Mary-Ann sighed and looked across to her husband.

“We had a run-in with him once, about two years ago, maybe less than that. It was not long after Anthony died.” Nathan gripped his cup tightly. “I say we had a run-in with him, but in truth it was with his son. It was only when trouble started that Sidney McCann stepped into the picture. We tried to report Sidney to the Internal Investigations Department but nobody listened to us.”

“This man?” Hunter zoomed in on a picture of Rhys McCann.

“That’s him. Rhys. He was the security guard at the site where Anthony was killed.”

“Rhys McCann worked for Kenneth Chow?” The shock drifted over Hunter’s face.

“He didn’t work directly for Chow, but he was a contractor for a security company on the work-site. Every day, we went to the worksite and placed flowers there for our son, not doing anything bad, or disturbing anyone. Just flowering and praying—that’s what we called it. Flowering and praying. We’d been doing it for around a month before this grubby security guard tried to stop us. He stomped on the flowers I put down for Anthony. He stomped on them, and then demanded we get out of there. He had no respect for the deceased at all.”

Nathan looked to the picture of his son on the wall.

“What happened then?”

“I hit him. Solid right hook to the jaw. I used to box when I was a kid, and that never leaves you. I had to hit him, there was so much rage in me. How dare he stomp on Anthony’s flowers.” His hand tightened around his mug. “And then the boy whimpers away crying.”

“And that’s when Sidney McCann showed up?”

“It was the next day. I went back to do our daily flowering and praying, but as soon as I did, Sidney McCann ran out of his car and said I was being booked for loitering. He didn’t charge me, but he sure roughed me up. Slammed my head into his car, twisted my arm behind my back, which popped my shoulder out of joint, and punched me in the stomach. There was nothing else I could’ve done.” A smile drifted over his face. “But I heard that the week after Sidney McCann attacked me, he had a heart attack. I saw that as karma.”

“We tried to report him for police brutality, but our reports kept disappearing. We even tried to take the case to the Mayor’s office, but they said because McCann had retired after his heart attack, there was nothing we could do.” Mary-Ann sipped her coffee. “And about two months later we received a call from Sidney McCann himself. He called us and said he was so sorry for trying to harass us, and that we should continue to place flowers for Anthony. He even offered to pay for the flowers for the next month, which was a lovely thing to do.”

“Did you keep putting the flowers there?”

“Every day.” Nathan smiled.

Hunter liked the couple—they were hard-working, honorable people. He often wondered if his generation, and the generations to come after him, would grow old this gracefully. Would the Millennials still be arguing about ideals on social media when they were older? Or does a certain amount of decorum come to a person when they reach their later years, when people start to see the finish line in the not-too-distant future?

“So what’s this about?” Mary-Ann asked. “Does Sidney McCann have something to do with the stolen car?”

“Sidney McCann was dead for a week before Chow’s car was stolen, but he had connections to these people.” Hunter stated. “Kenneth Chow is our man. I will argue that he had planned this for a while before it happened. My theory is he had your handbag stolen the week before, then paid someone to steal his car and burn it out. My theory is you were set up from the start.”

“So that’s it then. He lit the fire himself.” Nathan clapped his hands together.

“It’s not that simple. Chow had an alibi, as did every member of his family, as did the assistants in the business. It’s going to be hard to prove in court, however there may be a piece of information that will give us enough leverage to convince the prosecution to drop the case.”

“But how do you prove it?” Nathan looked perplexed. “How do you pressure him without taking it to court?”

“Everyone, even the scariest of people, have associates that are willing to talk.” Hunter said. “And my job is to find someone that will roll-over on him.”

Chapter 25

The trail around the outside of the Morton Arboretum was usually empty on a Sunday morning, except for the occasional enthusiastic hiker, however, the trail was currently filled with thirty volunteers, all with shovels at the ready. It was too early for most of the city, the sun had barely touched the horizon and dew was still covering the ground. Later in the day, the trails inside the Morton Arboretum would be overrun by locals and tourists, hoping to catch a moment of peace away from the chaos. The sprawling 1700-acre public garden, forty-five minutes from Chicago, was a horticultural oasis, a diverse woodland for families, walkers, and romantic proposals by picnic baskets.

Tex Hunter pushed his shovel into the ground. He pressed his foot on the edge of the shovel, digging deep into the soft soil, and tossed it to the side. Esther Wright lifted a young tree, around five-feet tall, from its pot, and placed it into the hole.

Together, they brushed the dirt over the top of the new tree and patted it down, hoping that one day the tree would grow into a giant pine, like the ones that were only a hundred feet away.

“You’re sure this is good for the environment?” Hunter began digging another hole. “Because it’s hell for my back.”

“You’ve always said life is about new experiences.” Esther opened her arms wide and began to walk back to the pick-up truck to lift another young tree into place. “You’ve lived in Chicago your whole life and you’ve only walked through this area once. It’s time to look at things differently.”

Even early in the morning, he liked her enthusiasm. She looked fresh, with her make-up minimal, and her hair was messy enough to convey a casual look. Her gardening gloves were too large, her jeans were dirty, and her denim jacket had a hole in the elbow. What Hunter didn’t know was that Esther had spent two hours perfecting her look, unable to sleep the night before. She knew, they both knew, that they were coming closer, stepping ever so gently to the point where they could be more than work colleagues.

She lifted the tree, their tenth for the morning, into place, and then patted down the dirt surrounding it.

“I think I’m going to name this one Bruce.” Esther stood back from the tree.

“Bruce?”

“Like spruce. Bruce the spruce.”

“Well, he’ll never get lonely.” Hunter smiled.

“Why not?”

“Because trees are so social. They’re always branching out.”

She laughed heartily, looking up to the sky, when a soaring bird caught her eye. The bald eagle glided effortlessly down the valley, over the trees, almost as if it were keeping an eye on its patch of soil.

Ten trees later, along with many moans about Hunter’s sore back, the duo moved to take a break from their morning of physical work. Sitting on a nearby park bench, covered in words of scribbled love from others, they looked out towards the forest. The land was so flat, so vast, and those pillars of modern society, the skyscrapers, reached up towards the sky in the distance.

“It’s so nice to step out here, watch the sun rise, and get away from it all.” Esther said.

“It is.”

Esther had longed for this—a moment with Tex away from the hassles, away from the pressure, away from the work. Even when they had met outside working hours before, the cases were never far from his mind. She appreciated that, she appreciated it was his passion, she loved that drive, but she had to know if there was something more. She needed to know who he was outside of the world of justice.

“What’s going through your head?”

“I’m puffing too hard for anything to go through my head.”

“I know that’s not true. You’re always thinking.”

He looked off to the distance again.

“It’s work, isn’t it?” She asked the question, almost pleading for him to lie to her.

“I can’t understand why all the cameras were off in the street that night.”

“The Steele case?”

“That’s it. There were five surveillance cameras that could’ve seen who stole the car, and all of them were turned off. That’s more than a coincidence.”

“It is.” She sighed. “It’s a tight knit community there.”

“And that’s the thing—if they all knew to turn off the cameras that night, then they must’ve all known why the cameras were off.”

“Ray has already talked to the people around the area in Chinatown. Nobody is saying anything. They’re all keeping their mouths shut. Nobody wants to talk.”

“Which means they’re scared of Chow.” Hunter moved to the left, his ribs tender under his jacket. He grimaced slightly, not wanting to show Esther any sign of weakness. “All roads seem to lead to Chow. Both for Mary-Ann and Nina.”

“You just need to find someone who will talk. A weak spot. Someone who will expose him.”

“Or a weak person.” He stared off into the distance. “Rhys McCann.”

“The son?”

“He hated his father, he had interactions with the Steeles, and he works for Chow as a security guard. If I twist him enough, if I have enough leverage, he’ll talk about Chow. He could give us a lead, a hint, or maybe even the evidence we need. He’s our weak spot.”

“I had a further look into his financial records. I got his bank records from a contact, and there was one large purchase after the arson attack, but that was because Rhys’s car was in the mechanics for five weeks around that time, so he didn’t use it to drive anywhere. I looked for another large purchase of gasoline and found he was spending small daily amounts at a gas station for the week before the arson attack. So I called them and asked about it, and they remembered him, because he wasn’t buying gas, he was buying bags of ice everyday for a week.”

“Bags of ice?”

“In the week before the arson, he bought around fifty bags of ice in total. They thought it was strange, but didn’t ask any questions.”

“Good job, Esther.”

Esther looked back to the trees in the field behind them, proud of the work they’d done. Here, in the early morning air, she felt refreshed and revived; free from the stresses of city life.

“Tex.” She looked at her watch. “It’s nine o’clock on a Sunday morning, the sun has barely risen, and we’re out here in a beautiful piece of nature. Doesn’t your mind ever switch off from work? Isn’t it tiring?”

“As the race car driver Mario Andretti once said—if everything seems under control, then you’re not going fast enough.” Hunter stood and picked up his shovel again. “I have to fight. It’s in my blood. I have to keep moving forward, keep pushing, keep driving towards justice. It’s who I am.”

“Remember, every dead body on Mt. Everest was a driven hiker once.” Esther followed him back to the pick-up truck. “Surely a little rest wouldn’t hurt? Maybe slow down for a little period of time?”

“The need for justice never rests.” Hunter stood and picked up his shovel. “And nor do I.”

And Esther’s heart broke, just a little.

Chapter 26

Rhys McCann drank alone. He often did. After his long hours at work, he felt he had earned the right to get drunk. He had worked a twelve-hour shift as a security guard, from midnight to midday, and the taste of an ale was the reward he gave himself. Not that he was enjoying it. He didn’t enjoy much anymore. Even his addictions, the habits he used to turn to for relief, had beaten him. Alcohol was no longer enjoyable, it was no longer an escape, it was a necessity, an item he couldn’t make it through the day without.

The bar was dimly lit, the stools were cracked, and the long wooden tables were covered in scratches. Country music hummed in the background, an older man talked to himself at the end of the bar, and the server wasn’t interested in conversation. The air stunk of loneliness, but for Rhys McCann, that was comforting.

When a man sat next to him, he barely lifted his eyes from his amber liquid, but he could feel the large presence, closer than what was comfortable.

“Tex Hunter.” He lifted his eyes to the well-suited man. “I imagine this isn’t a coincidence again.”

“It’s not.” The man didn’t elaborate any further, instead he turned his focus to the whiskey shelf where he ordered the finest on there. It wasn’t fine whiskey, but he didn’t expect to find that here. The server barely mentioned a word to him before turning her attention back to her phone.

It was a few long moments before Rhys broke the silence again.

“What is it you want?”

“Your father was working with the DOJ to secure a deal to expose corruption in the police ranks and within the Chinatown community.”

“So?”

“What do you know about it?”

“What makes you think I know anything about it?”

Hunter waited.

Silence is a very effective weapon in any conversation. Under silence, under the thunderous weight of quiet, nerves can become the most deafening noise. Rhys McCann’s life was mostly filled with nerves, which he tried to settle with alcohol. That was a spiral no person should suffer. The constant presence of alcohol in his system only served to increase his nerves, increase his inability to live life without it.

Rhys looked to the server at one end of the bar, but she was too engrossed in the artificial glow of her phone. He turned to look at the man at the other end of the bar, but he was too engrossed in the lack of his own sanity.

“I knew of the deal. My stepmother asked me to talk him out of it. So I went and talked to Sid, and he told me he was trying to make the world a better place, leave a legacy of goodwill behind.”

“Sid?”

“That’s his name.” Rhys hadn’t called his father by any other name in years. It didn’t feel right calling his father ‘Dad,’ not after the man had done his best to destroy Rhys’s childhood. “But what does it matter? What does legacy even matter? He’s not here to see it. He’s not here at all anymore.”

“Legacy matters.” Hunter stated. “It matters because death informs us of life. It matters because it affects the ones you leave behind. It matters because it’s our lasting statement on this earth.”

Rhys ran his hand along the edge of the bar. It was bumpy and hard, so many people had left their scratches over the many years the place had been open. Rhys had fought a number of people in the bar, he could throw a good punch, but the worst fight was when his head was slammed into the bar by a barely legal-age college boy. It was embarrassing, but embarrassment was something he was used to.

“What does it really matter? The girl didn’t kill him because of his legacy. She didn’t care about what good he had done. She only cared about what he did in her past. That’s what the prosecution has told my stepmom and I.”

“The girl didn’t kill him.”

That statement sent a tremor through Rhys, ever so slight, but his slight change in facial expression was clear to see for the observant Hunter. “Then who did?”

“Kenneth Chow.”

Rhys turned to look at Hunter, eyebrows raised. “You’re really going after Chow?”

“That’s right. Your boss.”

“He’s not my boss. I work for a contracting company, Benson Security, and Chow hires our services. I don’t work for him directly. Never have.”

“But you know him?”

“Yeah, I know him.”

“And as a security guard, I’m sure you know a thing or two about him. Things that could help put away the man who killed your father.”

“So you came to me looking for an answer?” He shook his head as he looked back to his beer. “I’m not going to turn on Chow for some dead guy, even if that dead guy was Sid. If he’d been more of a father, if he had cared about his legacy when he was beating me as a kid, then sure, I might feel stronger about it, but I don’t. That’s not the world I live in.”

Rhys took one long swig of his ale, and then waved to the server. She looked disgusted to be drawn away from her phone again. The beer was poured with haste, with a larger head than was acceptable, but when the glass was thumped on the table, most of the head tipped over the side of the glass. Rhys threw a note on the table, leaned forward, and then sucked in most of the remaining froth.

“Mary-Ann Steele’s case is due before the courts next month. She’s the woman charged with arson on Chow’s car. I can subpoena you to appear in court for your attack on Nathan Steele, and I’m sure your boss at Benson Security wouldn’t want his business name dragged through the mud. I’ll talk to Benson Security and let them know what I’m going to ask you about their business practices while you’re on the stand. I’ve read up about Benson Security, and their reputation is everything. Your boss will fire you before you even get to court and testify.”

“You’re threatening me?”

Hunter didn’t respond, sitting legs apart, staring at Rhys.

“Alright, alright.” He held his hands out wide, calming Hunter down. His work as a security guard was the only thing he was qualified to do, and work had been sporadic in the industry. The overtime was barely acceptable, the hours were bad, but it was the only way he could afford to live the life he was living, not that it was something to be proud of. “What do you want?”

“Tell me what you saw in the weeks before the arson attack.”

“I didn’t see anything because I didn’t work that week. I called in sick with the flu. The whole week. I didn’t work a day.”

“But you bought an unusual amount of ice that week.”

“How would you know that?” He sat upright, shocked.

“Everything is recorded, Rhys. Everything.”

“My… freezer was broken.” He stumbled for an answer. “I was using the ice to keep stuff cold. I sold it two weeks later.”

“You sold a broken freezer?”

“Got to make money somehow.” He shrugged. “But I can tell you something.” He raised his finger in the air, leaned towards Hunter, then checked the door. It was closed, as it often was. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be looking at Chow. He’s dangerous, but I don’t think he killed Sid. From the first day Sid went missing, I thought it was the cops.”

“Go on.”

For Rhys McCann, his whole life had been wheeling and dealing, always turning on someone. The only person who ever trusted him, the only person who ever thought he had an ounce of good in him, was his stepmother, Li.

And even she had started to doubt him.

“It was the cops. It had to be. I’ve thought that all along. Like you said, Sid was going to turn on them and expose all their dirty little secrets. My stepmom, Li, came to me and said I had to talk Sid out of it. She was so scared. You think that’s a coincidence? It’s not. If Sid did what he was trying to do, it would’ve sent the department into a meltdown, even the whole city. Imagine if it came out that a career cop was dirty and got away with it for thirty years. Every arrest he ever made would’ve been up for review before a court. They weren’t going to let that happen.”

“Anyone in mind?”

“A few.”

“Names.”

“Yates and Carson. That’s all I really know. That’s all my father talked about over the years. They’re both former partners of his, and I’d say they’re both as dirty as my father.”

“Did you know them?”

“I’d met them. Sid wanted me to be a cop, like him, and in my mid-teens, he took me around a few places. Yates and Carson were always there. I even saw Yates take money off a guy on the street, and when we went back to the car, Sid told me never to mention it again. I didn’t, of course, because what could I say? I knew they were all dirty.”

“And you think they killed him?”

“All I know is that Sid was scared the week before he went missing. We’d been talking more, he kept apologizing for my upbringing, and he kept going on about how he was going to clear our family name. And he told me that if Yates or Carson comes around asking for him, to walk away.”

“And did they?”

Rhys chugged the rest of his beer, his fourth for the afternoon, and then grabbed his keys off the bar.

“I’ve got to go and get some rest. Got to work at midnight.” He stood and walked towards the door. “Have fun looking into those cops.”

Chapter 27

In some instances, hectic is an understatement.

The office of Alicia Carson, a Director within the Bureau of Organizational Development in the Chicago PD, was just that—ridiculously hectic. Spotted by ornaments, souvenirs, and small antiques, the room wasn’t messy—everything had its place, but every place had a thing. The long office, which spread along the side of the building, had a couch filled with too many pillows, an overflowing bookshelf that could pass as a small library, and then, at the head of the room, a large wooden desk covered in files sitting in different, non-aligned stacks. Carson’s numerous degrees were displayed on the walls, with her Master of Business Administration taking pride of place behind her desk. Under the degrees were various photos of movie stars, politicians, and even a former president, shaking hands with Carson. If there was one thing that was clear, it was Carson liked the look of her own pearly whites.

“It’s a long trek from the entrance to your office to your desk.” Hunter stated as he walked towards Carson.

“Ah, yes.” Carson looked up from her computer. She was neatly dressed in a dark power-suit, black hair tightly pulled back, and her face was affected by a frown. “Your brother’s a criminal psychiatrist, yes?”

“He is.”

“Then I’m sure he would have told you a lot about human behavior. The long walk is intimidation. It’s an opportunity for my staff to walk towards the towering desk, building their nerves. I was taught that trick by my father, he was a very good lawyer, but more than that, he was a very intimidating man.”

“It must be especially effective for junior staff.” Hunter walked close to the desk, placed his briefcase down, and when offered by Carson, sat in the leather chair opposite the desk. “It must be quite daunting for new staff.”

“The things we do for the illusion of power.” Carson scoffed.

“The illusion, yes.” Hunter flattened his tie and nodded back to the door. “It’s busy out there. It’s almost like the floor of the stock exchange. The stress on the faces of your staff would be enough to make a Buddhist monk faint.”

“I push my staff hard, but not as hard as I push myself.” Carson closed a file on her desk, and offered half a smile. “I was reluctant to meet with you, Tex, but I hoped that bringing you here, making you walk through the halls where McCann spent some of his days serving his community, seeing the effect this office has on the city, would be enough to see that you’re making a mistake.”

“Mistake?”

“Defending Nina Aisha is a mistake. Stop defending her, and stop pushing to take this to court. Get her to take the deal. Don’t string this case out any longer than it has to go.”

“I wouldn’t call justice a mistake.”

“Justice. What would you know about that? You let killers back out on the streets. That’s not justice. Letting McCann’s killer go is a mistake. If all you’re going to do is argue about how bad cops are, then you can leave the office now.”

Hunter shook his head. It was a line he heard often from the police—that they were the law, and defense lawyers were the ones bringing the system down. The professionals in the force, of which there were many, understood that defense attorneys were also professionals doing their job, but the less professional in the ranks, the self-obsessed, viewed those in his profession as evil reincarnated.

What Hunter wished people would understand was that he was there to defend the constitution. The sixth amendment stated that the defendants had the right to a speedy and public trial by an impartial jury—everyone deserved a fair hearing, a chance to defend themselves in front of an unbiased panel. His role in the process may not be the front line, it may not put him in the line of fire, but his role in the system was essential to the notion of fairness.

“We can either have this discussion informally or we can wait until you’re deposed as a witness and have it then.” Hunter went to grab his briefcase. “That choice is yours.”

“Wait.” Carson held out her hand. “We all know what you’re doing, Tex, we can all see it a mile away, but let me warn you, it’s not worth it. It’s not worth bringing the whole police department down for this case of a homeless girl.” She shook her head, leaning back in her large armchair, bouncing a little on the springs. “We know that you want to expose McCann’s past as a dirty cop, and throw doubt over every one of his arrests. And we all know what that means—if you can prove McCann was corrupt in an open court, then it means you get to have a chance at re-opening your father’s case.”

“I’m defending an innocent girl. If I uncover the past of a dirty cop, then that’s a bonus. Weeding out the dirty cops should be seen as a positive for your department. You should be supportive of that approach.”

She tapped her finger on the table, looking towards the door, and then stood, and walked to make sure it was closed. Once she had locked the door, she turned her attention back to Hunter.

“From what I hear, your father is struggling in prison. He’s a frail man, and it would be very sad if he ran into the wrong people.”

“What are you saying?” Hunter raised his eyebrows.

“Like I said,” She shrugged her shoulders. “There are people out there that are determined this case won’t expose McCann’s past. If that means a few people get hurt along the way, then I’m sure these people will do it, but the case won’t make it to trial. There are too many people invested in making sure it doesn’t happen.”

“Justice doesn’t run from the truth.”

Carson took a breath. She wasn’t used to being challenged. She wasn’t used to being on the defensive. She wasn’t used to being spoken to like that in her own office.

Intimidation was very important to what she did. She loved the feeling of people parting ways whenever she walked through the office. She had two hundred staff indirectly reporting to her, and they all knew she had the power to fire any of them, at any time. When the department took on the yearly group of new recruits, Carson would stand at the front of the boardroom while they searched through files for a spelling error. The last to find an error was told to leave for the remainder of the day, with no pay. The practice had no rhyme or reason, but it was effective in showing new staff she had the power, and the anger, to sack them all.

“You and Sidney,” Hunter stood and walked towards the window, his hands crossed behind his back. He gazed out at the view, five levels up, watching the police cars come and go. “You were close, weren’t you?”

He was digging, pushing, prying into Carson’s life, looking for a clue. He needed a hint, an idea, that could grow into a fully-fledged defense, and he knew Carson could hold that key.

“We worked side by side for many years. You get to know a person when you spend that much time with them.”

“Did you know his son well?”

“Rhys?” She expressed surprise, her bottom lip making a frown. “I knew Rhys was a disappointment to his father. Sid thought Rhys was a lazy slob in a dead-end job as a security contractor, and they didn’t talk much for years and years, not until after the heart attack, and then Sid tried to patch things up with him.”

“Did you talk to Rhys often?”

“Not often, but we talked sometimes. I felt sorry for the kid, for everything he had to put up with.”

“Did you see him the night you claim to have seen McCann and Nina together?”

“Tex.” She smiled. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been a witness in a case. I haven’t been on the beat for more than a decade, but I still remember how this works. You’re not going to trap me into saying something I shouldn’t. What I saw that night is clear, and it’s all in the witness statement. I saw the girl punch Sid when he was on the ground.”

“That’s not what you told me last time we talked.” Hunter turned back to her. “After you saw them fight, how did you get home?”

“Uh-uh. Nope.” She shook her finger at Hunter. “You’re not blaming me or pulling me into this.”

“You’re already involved in the search for the truth.”

“I’ll give you the truth. The girl killed a cop! Our colleague in the pursuit of justice.” She slammed her hand on the large table. The pen jumped a little, and the monitor on the side of her desk shook. “And now you’re trying to defend her by blaming someone else? Sidney McCann was a cop and you walk into this office, into his workplace, and dispute his murder? You’re a cold man, Tex.”

Hunter stared at her. “Is it true McCann wanted to come after you?”

“Don’t you dare.”

“He struck a deal with the DOJ for immunity to uncover corruption in your ranks. Things that had happened under your watch. Things that may come back to bite you personally. You saw him that night—that’s more than a coincidence.”

“It looks like you’ve managed to get your hands on some sensitive information. I don’t know how, or who told you that, but that’s not relevant to this case. Whatever you’ve heard isn’t applicable here.”

“And you thought you could silence him.”

She squinted. “What are you implying, Tex?”

“Sidney McCann was going to sign a deal with the DOJ that would expose the corruption in these halls. He was coming after you, and John Yates.”

She tried to disguise her increased heart rate, drawing in deep breaths, but the redness in her face was giving her nerves away. “If that’s what you think got him killed, then you’re a very brave man to be chasing that avenue.” She leaned further forward, pressing her finger into the table. “Because if Sid was killed for it, then it could happen again.”

Chapter 28

She hated it.

Every second of it.

Nina Aisha hated the restrictions, she hated the fear that drenched her, and she hated the itchiness the uniform caused to her skin. The dread of violent attacks covered her every step, the chaos within the yard filled her with anxiety, and the thought that this was her life now made her eyes water.

She’d read about happy children in the books she’d found, how they smiled and laughed with each other, with a freedom she could only fantasize about. She dreamed about smiling that much, running through a forest to make a tree house, or running home to the hugs of her family.

Those were luxuries she could never have.

It would’ve been easier to turn to drugs. It would’ve been easier to find an escape. It would’ve been easier to stop fighting.

But she never wanted that. She never wanted to be controlled by an exterior force.

For all life had thrown at her, for all the fear, terror, and chaos, she remained strong.

She imagined her mother was once the same. That she would’ve been a strong woman who stood up for others, a woman who tried to save the less fortunate. One day she hoped she would find information about her family—who they were, what they did, or even how they died. That was information never shared with her, information nobody knew.

All she knew was that they had died when she was three years old.

She imagined it was a car accident, something that killed her mother, father and brother at once, and left her alive. Why else would a three-year-old be without her family?

The older she became, the more she desired that knowledge. The further she went from the past, the more she needed to know. She’d asked the foster families to help find out about her past, people at the orphanages, but nobody would take the time to help, nobody had the time to give her.

Maybe her mother tried to save her? Maybe her mother died protecting her? That would’ve been a legacy to remember, a legacy to honor. She dreamed her parents were respected in their community, they were well-dressed people who attended church every Sunday, they were loving folks who readily gave out hugs.

For all the dreams, for all the hopes, the reality was she knew nothing. The state had passed on very few details—not the date they died, not the jobs they held, not even their former address. The files were empty. She had one photo of her mother, one photo that she held onto dearly, but she had nothing else.

Her young life was filled with misfortune, filled with painful experiences, however there were none more so than prison. Her only saving grace inside was Denise, the woman who could protect her, the woman who could save her from the attacks. Denise had connections inside, and she could make life easier for Nina, but the certainty was that she needed to help Denise in return.

As Nina sat in the mess hall, the cold metal chair numbing her behind, she stared at her mashed potatoes and processed ham. She pushed at the potatoes, side to side on her plate, moving it around with no purpose. Her plastic fork bent as she tried to move the pile of slop at once, the food only adding to her feeling of nausea.

The guards stood above them on the platform, staring down at the groups of women eating lunch in the hall, watching their every move. The guards were cautious, but they always were. Some were known to be violent, but clearly none of them loved their jobs. They weren’t there to help the inmates, they weren’t there to make their life easier, they were there to punish them. Make them pay for their mistakes.

There was one in particular that Nina was scared of, one guard that struck fear into her—the large female head of the department. The woman scared her more than any of the inmates. She had connections to the police, connections to the people that wanted her dead.

“I need to talk to you.” Denise sat next to Nina, leaning close enough for her breath to brush Nina’s skin. “But you have to be quiet.”

Nina looked up to the guards, none had their eyes on them. “What is it?”

“I can tell you if you promise never to talk about it, ok?”

“Ok.” She was apprehensive. She kept staring at her mashed potatoes, trying to avoid the gaze of the guards. “What is it?”

Denise moved her body weight to the side, and slid a small brown envelope from under her bottom. Nina slid it under her bottom in one small movement, unsure of what was inside.

“It’s five hundred in cash. You’ve got to protect that money.”

“What?” Nina jumped up.

“Settle down.” Grabbing her wrist, Denise pulled her back down to the table. “Someone gave it to me to give to you.” Denise paused and looked over her right shoulder, then the other one, before turning back to Nina. “But here’s the real twister—they want to deposit ten thousand in your account. You do have a bank account, don’t you?”

“What?”

“Do you say anything else other than ‘what’?”

“I don’t know what to say. Who did this?”

“I can’t tell you that. It’s someone that knows someone that I know.” Denise looked back over her shoulder. “But there’s a catch.”

Shaking, Nina couldn’t look at Denise. If found, the envelope under her bottom would cause weeks in solitary confinement.

“They’ll only deposit the ten grand if you take the deal.”

“What deal?” Her voice trembled.

“The murder deal, stupid. You’ve got to take the fall, do the ten years, but never, never, never tell anyone about it. You’ll be dead if you do.”

“They want me to confess to something I didn’t do?”

“Quiet.” Denise hushed her. “Not so loud.”

“They want me to take the deal?” Nina leaned closer, tears in her eyes.

“But you can’t tell anyone. Not even your lawyer.”

“How do I know they’ll deposit the money?” Nina was young, but she was street smart. “Can I trust them?”

“You don’t have a choice. You’ve just got to take the risk. That five hundred will get you a lot in here, just imagine what ten thousand could do.”

“Who is it from? I have to know.”

“My brother came to see me, and someone had come to see him.” Denise shook her head. “They knew we were cell-mates and he gets five hundred if you take the deal, and so do I. So, I suggest you take the deal because I get five hundred out of it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then girl,” Denise looked around the room, then up to the guards. “You’re not going to have a good time in here.”

Chapter 29

It was a walk he never enjoyed, never looked forward to, but Tex Hunter had consigned that walking through the halls of the Cook County Jail Prison Hospital was a part of his life. He knew the older nurses at the prison hospital by their first names, the attendants by their faces, and the guards by appearance.

It was the screams he hated the most—those blood-curdling screams of people in pain that echoed through the halls. There were those screaming in pain from violent attacks, those fighting diseases of the body, but the worst screams, the ones that chilled him to the bone, were the screams from the inmates fighting diseases of the mind.

When he was in his teens, the prison hospital was usually where he would visit his father.

After Alfred Hunter was first arrested, his father received regular beatings from the other prisoners, the guards, and anyone else who could get their hands on him. He was public enemy number one, and target number one behind bars.

Over the years, as the crimes faded into past memories, the beatings became less regular, less frequent, but there was still an ever-present threat of violence. Alfred Hunter was a tall man, but not a large one. He became an easy target for the battle-hardened gang members, someone to prey on when pent-up aggression needed to be released.

Hunter received the call from the prison only a day after talking with Alicia Carson, and it was a coincidence he couldn’t shake. Tex was listed as next of kin, attorney, and only associate of Alfred Hunter. Alfred had no one else to put on those forms.

“He’s not well.” Nurse Jackie Hansen told Hunter as he signed into the prison registration office. She was older, in her late sixties, kind, and had the soul of an angel. Her caring hands had provided so much support to the men and women of the prison for the last forty years. “He’s had problems with his heart.”

“I didn’t know he had a heart.” The nearby guard quipped as Hunter handed back the clipboard. “You have to have a heart to have heart problems. Get it?”

“He gets it.” Jackie replied as she took Hunter by the arm. “Ignore him, Tex.”

She used her swipe card to enter into the halls of the prison hospital, and as the doors opened, the yelling became clearer. Even from behind closed doors, locked down and contained, the screams reverberated through the halls, into the souls of those that dared walk the long way. The hall was extensive, empty, and soulless, but it was a necessary walk to the ward where they kept the older patients.

“He’s on a lot of pain medication so he’s not very lucid at the moment. He’s been given a high dose of Endone, which is an oxycodone. He’s reacted well to the high doses, but he’s been saying a lot of strange things.” The nurse walked Hunter to the entrance of the minimum security rooms, and stopped. She held the folder across her chest, looking down. “Tex, he received quite a beating this time.”

“Beating?”

“You know how this works.” She sighed. “It’s listed by the guards that he slipped and fell down the stairs, but it was the stairwell with no cameras, nor witnesses. This shouldn’t be a surprise to you. You’ve been here before.”

“I’ve been here many times before, but I’ve never heard you say the word ‘beating.’”

“Maybe I’m becoming more honest in my old age.”

“Twenty-one isn’t old.”

“Oh, stop.” She slapped him gently on the wrist with a smile. “I’m a bit older than twenty-one. Try tripling it, and you might get close.”

“You don’t look a day over twenty-one to me.” His dimples showed as he grinned. “Is he in here?”

“He’s in this ward, Room 203, but I want to tell you what happened out here first, away from the guards in there.” She looked down the hall, and then over her shoulder. “Whatever happened caused him to hit his head, and he possibly fractured his wrist. He has cancer, and that has weakened him considerably, but it looks like he’ll still pull through, even with the head injuries. He’ll be in here a while, and we’ll monitor him, but he might make it back out there in general population within the month.”

“How promising.”

“I know it isn’t much to look forward to, but we have to follow our processes. The doctors say the cancer will get to him in a year, at most. He’s refused treatment, so there’s not a lot else we can do.”

“Thank you.” He placed his hand on her arm. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Jackie.”

“Tex, there’s something else.” She bit her lip, drew a breath, and looked up to the lawyer. “He’s been saying things on the drugs, things I’ve never heard before. It’s known to happen to people when they take a high dose of Endone. That’s not to say what he’s been saying is true, but he has been saying the same thing over and over.”

“What is it?”

She looked to the floor, smiled, and led him down the hall to room 203. Hunter nodded, and she took out the swipe card to let him enter. With a beep, the doors opened to a narrow room with four beds, separated by hospital blinds. Alfred Hunter wasn’t considered dangerous anymore, if he ever had been, and was housed in the low security section of the prison hospital. There was one guard at the door, but he was more interested in reading his magazine than paying attention to the people in the beds. A young nurse came and went between rooms, not concerned with the low risk, recovering patients. Behind the curtains, the occasional groan came out, but there wasn’t much activity.

After he said thank you to nurse Jackie, Tex stepped through the gap in the blue curtains, taking a moment to stand at the end of the sterile hospital bed. He looked at his father lying under the white blanket, skinny, frail, and weary; hooked up to machines that monitored his heart rate and breathing. He had a drip connected to his arm, a monitor clamped on his finger, and a cuff on his wrist.

Stepping closer, Hunter rested his hand on the frail wrist of his father. It didn’t feel like the body he used to know. This body was dehydrated, tired, almost bereft of life.

The warm touch caused Alfred Hunter to roll over and turn to the person next to his bed, his eyes not focusing on anything in particular. There was a bruise on his left eye, almost black, and cuts over his forehead. Dried blood sat on top of his bald head, his fragile skin breaking easily. His lips were cracking, and his eyes were tinged yellow.

“Patrick? Is that you?” Alfred could barely keep his eyes open.

“No. It’s Tex.”

“Tex.” A small smile, almost indistinguishable, escaped his lips. “Thank you for the flowers.”

Hunter looked around the room—there were no flowers, no gifts, and almost no color.

“Who attacked you?”

“It was them.” Alfred Hunter’s head wobbled slowly from side to side, as if the muscles in his neck weren’t fully functioning. “They said it was because of Tex’s case.”

Hunter drew a long breath. His jaw clenched, his muscles tightened, and his fingernails dug into the palms of his hands. He reached across to the plastic chair next to the bed. He placed it near his father’s head, sitting down, resting his hand on his father’s forearm.

His father had been beaten many times over the years, too many to count, but as the years had passed, as age had started to weary his body, the scenes were becoming more confronting. The end was in sight.

Tex’s mother had passed away over two years ago, going to her grave still claiming her innocence. She spent thirty years in prison for being an accomplice to the murder of eight girls, thirty years of telling her children that she didn’t know anything about it.

Alfred, however, never claimed he was innocent, but also never admitted guilt. Despite his son’s pleas, despite the years of needing an answer, Alfred Hunter never said what happened, always cryptic in his statements. He had pleaded Not Guilty at his trial, and his subsequent appeals, but he never looked his son in the eyes and told the truth.

That lack of knowledge, that lack of information, had almost broken Tex many times over. He spent most of his life fighting to prove his father’s innocence, fighting to clear his name, because he felt there was no way his father could have done it, no way the man he loved could’ve cut the throats of eight teenage girls.

“I remember,” Alfred’s head fell to one side, looking away from Tex. “I remember my first day in prison. It was horrible. They all hated me so much.” Alfred wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, his focus looking into the distance. “They beat me every chance they had. For years, they beat me.”

“Prison is a tough place.” Tex looked over his shoulder, checking to see if there were any shadows behind the curtains. “Terrible things happen here.”

“It’s tough, Patrick. Your brother Tex used to come here often.”

“I am Tex.” Hunter stated, but it didn’t matter. His words were barely being processed by the semi-lucid detainee. “Patrick isn’t here.”

“Tex is so strong. He stands up for what’s right.” Alfred went to raise his hand, but didn’t have the ability. “I once told him that the strong defend themselves, but the mighty defend what’s right. I think that’s Tex. He’s mighty, our Tex.”

“Thank you.” Hunter’s voice was softly spoken.

“The strong defend themselves, but the mighty defend what’s right.” He repeated. “That’s our Tex. Mighty.” His head wobbled again. “Your sister Natalie came here last week.”

“What?” Hunter gripped his father’s forearm a little tighter.

“Natalie…” His head tossed over to the other side, back towards Tex. “She was a nice girl before it all happened. We were a nice family.”

“You saw Natalie?” Hunter leaned forward. “I haven’t seen her, or heard from her, in over two decades since she moved to Mexico.”

“Natalie...” Alfred’s eyes closed. “When she smiled, she looked so much like her mother. Such a beautiful woman.”

Hunter’s head dropped, looking towards the floor, holding onto his father.

Alfred’s eyes remained closed as his breathing became lighter, his chest barely moving up and down. His time was coming, they were all fully aware of that, and there would be many people celebrating his demise. As a convicted serial killer, his death would be notable, not least by the families that lost their daughters.

Hunter sat with his father, the man he knew was innocent, and the wall around his heart began to break down. The years of anguish, the years of abuse, the decades of pain, started to build in his stomach, filling his body with tension. His breathing shortened, his eyes filled with tears, and his face began to frown. He tried to fight it, he tried to clench his muscles to push the emotions away, but it was no use.

The emotions were winning.

As a tear fell down Hunter’s cheek, rolling over the frowned face, Alfred took a sharp breath. Hunter sat up, wiped his cheek with his hand, and looked at his father.

“Life has taught me many things, but I can feel the end is coming. I can almost taste it. It tastes like… metal.” Alfred’s tongue rolled around his mouth before his head wobbled again. “Enjoying life, even a life in here, is not about having more, but the ability to enjoy less. That’s life’s greatest skill—the ability to enjoy less.”

Hunter held his hand.

“I’ve been blessed, Patrick. I’ve had you, Tex, and Natalie. I’ve had your mother. Your beautiful mother. I’ve had food, a bed, a roof over my head my whole life. But,” His eyes closed. “But for me, death may be the greatest of all blessings.”

“It’s coming for you.” Hunter nodded.

“Patrick, before I die, before I go, I have to tell you something.” Alfred’s head wobbled again. “Patrick…”

“I’m not Patrick. I’m Tex.”

“Patrick,” Alfred whispered, his eyes rolling to the side. “I didn’t do it.”

“What?” The statement caught Hunter off-guard. “Do what?”

“It.”

Hunter leaned closer. “What didn’t you do?”

Alfred rolled back over, turning away from his son.

Hunter rushed around the bed to the other side, squatting down to look his father in the eyes.

“Did you kill those girls?”

“I’m innocent.” There were tears in Alfred’s yellow-tinged eyes. “I always have been.”

Chapter 30

Patrick Hunter stood at the edge of the outdoor football facility at Halas Hall, hands in his coat pockets, looking on as the Chicago Bears tested potential new recruits. The football field in front of them was large, the grass was almost a fluorescent green, and the white lines were freshly marked. A small crowd had gathered at the side of the two outdoor fields, where the assistant defensive coach was yelling instructions to the men. Most of the day’s crowd were in the indoor facility nearby, out of the fresh breeze, where the offensive teams were running set plays. The third-string defense were training hard, away from the masses at the furthest edge of the field, and Patrick Hunter studied one of the team’s most promising new recruits.

“This kid is going to be something, Tex. He’s from Florida U, and he’s big, strong and quicker than any defensive lineman I’ve seen in the last twenty years.” Patrick pointed to the large padded man walking across the field. “But he’s got to read the play better. He gets faked out too easily. Someone throws a step, does a little move, and he almost falls over. It’s his balance. He needs a tighter core.”

“He finally said it.” Tex Hunter’s tone was flat.

“Who said what?” Patrick Hunter squinted, confused, staring out to the field in front of him. He turned to look at his brother when he didn’t respond immediately. “Oh no, Tex. Not that again.”

“Did you hear me, Patrick?” Hunter ignored the training drills in front of them. “He finally answered the question.”

Patrick Hunter was spending the day assessing the Bears’ chances for the upcoming football season at their public training session. A thin rope separated them from the hulking giants of sport, close enough to hear the bone rattling collisions, even in pre-season training. As a criminal psychiatrist, he hated to think what those collisions were doing to the men’s heads, especially the decision-making areas of their brains. He could see a day when their brain scans could present a defense in court, a defense against criminal damage, the same way a person could plead insanity.

Much of his research in psychiatry was focused on brain scans, and predicting whether a person could be insane based on their brain’s behavior. In CBT, often found in footballers, the results were clear—the years of high-level impact could affect their brain’s decision-making and aggression controlling centers.

His convicted serial killer father had played football in high school, and he wondered what his brain patterns would show, if any difference at all. Long ago, while planning for the future, Patrick had his father sign a form donating his brain to medical research, where people could study his father’s brain once the man passed away.

“I heard you, Tex, but right now, I’m watching the future of football. This guy could change the game, he could be the MVP, if he can just get his balance right. Ready, here’s a play. Watch this.” Patrick nodded to the field as the defense ran a set play. The running back took the ball, sprinted, and then easily stepped inside the young defensive end, flying past him. “See. There he goes. Tripped over his own two feet. A lack of balance and a lack of core muscles.”

Patrick Hunter loved defense, something the Bears prided themselves on, but he worried whether the team could find enough avenues to score in the upcoming season. However, he was comforted by the age-old adage that defense wins championships, something he repeated to himself as he watched the defense coach take the youngster aside, talking more with his hands than his voice.

“I didn’t drive out here to talk about football, Patrick.” Tex Hunter stepped closer to his smaller brother. “I drove out here to tell you that your father has finally admitted the truth—he’s innocent.”

“Keep your voice down,” Patrick hushed him. Although older, Patrick Hunter wasn’t blessed with the genetic package that Tex received—he was shorter, skinnier, and had a hard time doing any fitness activity now he was in his early fifties. “I was having quite a nice day out here until you arrived.”

“This is it, Patrick. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for.”

“No, it’s not. It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for, not us. Don’t include me in this. I accepted he was guilty a long time ago, as did most of the country.” Patrick turned to his brother. “Why did he answer the question now?”

“He was beaten up, badly, and he was in hospital. I went to visit him. He’s dying, you know. He doesn’t have long left.”

“And why was he beaten up this time?”

“Because of my case against a dirty cop.”

“Well,” Patrick laughed. “That’s a change of roles. You spent most of your school years fighting off people who wanted to beat you up because of your father, and now I guess, it’s your father’s turn to deal with that.”

“Our father.”

“Sure.” Patrick shrugged. “If that makes you feel better—our father’s turn to deal with it. It’s only fair he pays for your mistakes, because we’ve certainly paid for his.”

“He said he was innocent, Patrick. Don’t you understand?”

Shaking his head, Patrick led them further away from the crowds, further away from any prying ears. Standing near the fence at the edge of the facility, Patrick waited for a moment, and then turned to make sure nobody else was in earshot.

“I heard you.” Patrick sighed. “But I don’t want to listen to it. I’ve spent most of my years, three decades, dealing with his mistakes. We both have. We’ve been through so much pain, so much anguish, because of what that man was convicted of doing. I’m not going to dig up the past, dig up all that anger, just to give him a chance. He’s had his life, he’s run his race, it’s time for you to move on.”

“How can you let an innocent man rot in prison?” Hunter snarled, stepping closer. “And not just any innocent man, but a member of your family. I could never turn my back on my family.”

“Our father is guilty.” Patrick looked over his shoulder again as a large cheer went through the crowd. “You said he was in hospital. What drugs was he on?”

“The main one was Endone.”

“Oh.” Patrick threw his hands up in the air. “He was high. He wasn’t lucid, Tex. Who knows what else he said? He probably thought you were a ghost and there were elephants chasing him. I’ve dealt with clients before that have said things while high on drugs, and their statements mean nothing. Nothing. There’s no truth to them.”

The crowd cheered again, and the players started high fiving each other. There was a buzz for this group, an anticipation that the Bears could be contenders for the division title in the years to come.

“Why even tell me this, Tex?” Patrick shook his head. “You know I don’t want to talk about it. You know I’ve left this in the past long ago.”

“I’m telling you because I care about justice, and I care about the truth. And I thought you were the same.”

“I’m not the same, Tex.”

While his older brother didn’t believe Alfred Hunter was innocent—not now, and not from day one—Tex had never given up hope, never accepted his father was guilty, never let justice escape him. He knew the case against his father was weak, he knew the evidence was light, and none of it would stand a chance in the current courts. He had watched as his father was defended by incompetent court-appointed defense lawyers, as no paid lawyer wanted to go near the case.

He watched as the court of public opinion convicted him long before the courts had their chance. He watched as the jury first walked into the courtroom, with their minds already made up. His father had no chance to prove his innocence against the system that convicted him long before the judge’s gavel slammed.

“You have to stop this, Tex. Go and live your life without this shadow hanging over you. He’ll be gone soon. It’s time to let it go.”

“The path to the truth is littered with obstacles, filled with roadblocks, and I’m not going to stop.” Tex rested a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Not until I find out what really happened.”

Chapter 31

It was Tex Hunter’s third trip to the Cook County Jail in under a week, and he was liking the visits less and less each time. It was busier this time, more people around, and the long stream of people walking through the metal detectors said one thing—the Cook County Department of Corrections wasn’t just a jail—it was a business with an inexhaustible stream of customers.

After he signed in, he was questioned, scanned, and patted down, before being led through the narrow corridors to the interview room.

The small balding guard, Terry Whitman, groaned when he saw Hunter approach. They had clashed many times before, each time Whitman was determined to show Hunter he was in charge, that he was a small man with a lot of power. As a prison guard, within those walls, that may have been true, but he had no power over Tex Hunter.

“I should lock you up as well, Hunter. Criminality is in your DNA. You’ll be in these prison walls one day soon and I’ll be your king. In fact, it’d be better if I just locked you up now. You’re going to do something stupid, I know it. This will save us the effort.”

“If stupidity was a crime, you would’ve been locked away a long time ago, Whitman.” Hunter towered over the aging man, stepping closer to his personal space. “Everyone has the right to be stupid, but you’re abusing the privilege.”

“You watch yourself. These are my walls in here.” Whitman stepped back, unlocked the door, opening it for Hunter to enter, before dangling the key in the air. “I may forget the key one day.”

“You’ve certainly forgotten to exercise lately.” Hunter smiled.

Whitman didn’t.

Hunter stepped into the conference room, stopping momentarily, hit by the smell. Despite the fact that Nina Aisha had spent a month in prison, despite the access to daily showers, despite the opportunity to clean up, there was still an element of unwashed.

It would take years to wash that smell away.

Hunter stepped into the small room only big enough to fit a table fixed to the floor, two chairs that were bolted down, and nothing else. The walls were concrete blocks, the type one would imagine in a dungeon. There were no windows, only one small air vent at the top of the wall, and one light that flickered occasionally. Desperation was soaked into the atmosphere, as was the sense of despair.

“How’s life in here?”

Nina shrugged. Hunter raised his eyebrows. Something was wrong.

“I can finish my high school certificate.” She ran her finger over the edge of the table. “If I stay, then they’ll give me a chance to finish high school. Maybe even college stuff. They say I’m the smartest girl they’ve had in here. I love math. There’s always a right answer to math.”

“Sorry?” Hunter placed his briefcase on the table. “You want to stay in prison?”

“It’s a bed. It’s food. It’s everything I’ve fought hard for.”

“What about your freedom?”

“Freedom? You think I’ve got freedom out there?” She shook her head, her black hair falling over her face. “I can’t go anywhere without people judging me. I can’t afford to do anything. Nobody will employ me. I can’t move forward in life. I don’t have freedom out there.”

“Why did you call me?” Cautiously, Hunter sat down. “You said it was urgent and it was about the case.”

She hesitated, before blinking back the tears. She didn’t want to say the words.

“Nina? Why did you call me here?”

“I’m going to plead guilty.” The words fell out of her mouth without emotion. “I want to change my plea.”

“Pardon?” Hunter leaned forward.

“I want to stay in prison. One of the older women says she likes me, and she said she’ll look after me. I’ve got protection in here.” Nina looked up, but avoided eye contact. “And they say that if I stay, they’ll give me the best high school teacher. I might even be able to qualify for college. I could study to be a nurse; I’ve always wanted that.”

“You can complete high school on the outside. You can become a nurse out there. You don’t need to stay in here to do that.”

“I want to stay here. I want to take the deal.”

Hunter’s mouth hung open, unsure what to say next. The thoughts were crashing through his head at a rapid rate—he was sure someone had gotten to her, someone had pressured her into changing her plea.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you killed Sidney McCann.”

She looked up, made eye contact with Hunter, but then quickly looked away. It was obvious she had spent the night crying; obvious she hadn’t slept in days. Her eyes were bloodshot, the bags under her eyes were dark, and her skin was lighter than Hunter had seen it before.

“What does it matter if I did it or not?” She shook her head. “I’ll sign the deal for ten years. It’s better than twenty.”

“I can’t tell you what to do.” Hunter’s voice was calm as he tried to think of his next steps. “But if you didn’t do this crime, then you shouldn’t be going away for it. We can fight this. I can take this to court, and we’ve still got a chance.”

“I won’t win in court.” She folded her arms across her chest, shoulders leaning forward. “I’m a homeless black girl and he was a hero cop. He won bravery awards. They’ll convict me before I even walk into that room. And when it gets to the courts, the guards have warned me that things will get really bad back here.”

She held her arms tight across her chest, rocking back and forth slightly. Her chair was freezing, sending shivers up her spine, but worse than that, worse than the bitter cold, was the idea she was going to spend the next decade within these walls. Life had dealt her a tough hand, but she was going to make sure she would get through it. She was sure she could handle it.

“We can still win this in court. I’m close, so close, to finding evidence about the people who really killed Sidney McCann.” Hunter placed his hands on the table. “If we take this to court, I’m sure we’ve got a chance of winning this case.”

“I can’t.” She shook her head, her hair waving side to side. “I can’t take it to court.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to do twenty years in here.” She was fighting back tears. She trusted Hunter, trusted the man that was trying to keep her out of prison. “I can’t take that risk.”

The silence sat over the room for a long time.

Hunter stared at the girl, staring at his client who he was certain was innocent. He needed more time, at least another month to look into the corruption he was positive killed Sidney McCann. The case was building; the evidence was starting to point him in the right direction.

“Please.” Nina eventually broke the silence, a tear escaping down her cheek. “Let me plead guilty. Let me take the deal.”

“It’s your choice.” Hunter stated. “I can’t make that choice for you, but my advice, my legal advice, is to hold on. We’re close to finding out who killed McCann.”

“I can’t. I can’t.” She stared at nothing, her head continuing to shake. “I don’t want to go through the trial and the courts. I want to take the deal. I’ve got protection in here. I can make it through this.”

“You’ve got freedom out there.” Hunter pointed back towards the door, but he understood freedom was a foreign concept to her. “As your lawyer, I advise that you think about this very carefully. You’ll be behind bars for ten years and you’ll leave with a criminal record.”

“It’s not what I want.” She replied. “But it’s what I’ve got, it’s the hand I’ve been dealt. I was thinking if I lose in court, I’ll be at least thirty-eight when I get out. Life would’ve gone past me. The chance to have kids or the chance to build a career, it would’ve already gone. I’d rather be getting out of here at twenty-eight. I can still have kids then.”

“You understand what happens when the prosecution walks in here with the deal? There’s no going back, there’s no changing this. Once you confess, you’re convicted for life. That stain, that mark, is on you for life. Even if someone else confesses, or it’s proven that someone else did it, then it’s still a long process to clear your name.”

“I understand.”

Without her approval, without her plea, he couldn’t take the case to trial, he couldn’t expose Sidney McCann’s career in an open court, and he couldn’t have the old cases reviewed.

Hunter stared at her, devastated with the development.

He couldn’t save Nina Aisha.

And that meant he couldn’t save his father.

Chapter 32

The Chicago air, fresh and cold, blew across Navy Pier, a 3,000-foot-long stretch of concrete situated outside the cluster of skyscrapers, on the edge of Lake Michigan. Complete with a Ferris Wheel, cinema, museum, and grand ballroom, along with restaurants and bars, the destination drew more than two million people each year, mostly tourists looking to check an attraction off their list.

Tex Hunter stood at the end of the pier, near a bronzed statue of Bob Newhart, hands in his coat pockets, staring out to the large mass of water. A boat sailed on the horizon, almost disappearing into the haze, creating a sense that escape wasn’t far away. Escape was something Hunter never contemplated, giving in was not in his nature. He was a fighter, a man who dug his heels in and took on whatever was in front of him.

The sun was setting behind him, highlighting the Chicago skyline in a soft pink haze. As a child, long before his father’s conviction, his family would spend the summer camping in the town of Empire, Michigan, a six-hour drive from Chicago. On those long summer nights, when dusk seemed to go on forever, their tent nestled amongst the tall pines at the Platte River Campground, Hunter would sit on the beach and watch the sunset over Lake Michigan. In all his years since, in all his travels, he had never seen the stunning colors of that sunset again.

No photo could do justice to the sunsets over Lake Michigan.

That raw beauty, those spectacular colors, that sense of calm, had felt like they were painted by the hand of God.

He had never felt closer to heaven than his moments alone on that beach as a nine-year-old boy.

“It’s a beautiful evening.” Esther Wright walked up behind him, mouth full of food, hotdog in her right hand. The ketchup dropped from the end of the bun onto the concrete beneath her, and she frowned at the loss of such a large dollop of sauce. Despite her beauty, despite her stunning eyes, despite her model looks, her eating habits were abhorrent. Hunter raised an eyebrow as she continued to force a large piece of hotdog bun into her mouth, more than what was considered polite.

“You’re eating habits are getting worse, Esther.”

“Ugh. I’m almost…” She tried to talk with a mouth full of food, but as soon as a piece of bun dropped out of her mouth, Hunter held out his hand as a stop sign.

“You should take more time with eating hotdogs.” Hunter smiled. “Especially the sauces. You should really relish the moment.”

“Oh dear. That’s a terrible joke.” She grinned while finishing her mouth full of food. She took a large gulp, forced another bite of the bun into her mouth, and began chewing again. “But I’ve got a good one for you—why do all hotdogs look the same?”

“Why?”

“Because they’re all in-bread.”

“That’s worse than my joke.” Hunter tried to look serious, but his dimples gave his delight away. He shook his head as Esther ate more of the hotdog with another mouthful.

“Mine was way better.” Esther laughed loudly, but as she did, the remaining piece of hotdog slipped from her hand onto the ground. “Oh no. You caused me to lose my hotdog. You owe me another one now.”

“I’m surprised you hadn’t finished it yet. No one could ever accuse you of being a slow eater.”

“Well, I tried to eat a wall clock once.” The smirk stretched across her face as she picked up the remaining hotdog and threw it in the trash. “Talk about time-consuming. Especially when I went for seconds.”

“Oh no,” Hunter laughed as he looked away, shaking his head. “You’ve really nailed the corny jokes today.”

They stood for a moment, smiles stretched across their faces, staring across the lake, the sky starting to darken on the horizon.

“It’s so beautiful. I don’t walk out along the lake enough.” Esther crossed her arms over her chest as a gust blew through. “And you only walk out here when you’ve got something on your mind. I’ve seen it so many times before, Tex. So, what’s up?”

“Prisoners don’t get to experience this beauty, Esther. People like Nina Aisha, she won’t see a sunset like this for the next ten years.”

“What are you talking about?” She turned to him. “Did she take the deal?”

Hunter’s day was spent occupied with dealings in the prosecution’s offices, pushing and pulling to get Nina the best deal. When the forms were signed, when her guilt was admitted, Hunter shook her hand, rested his other hand on her shoulder, and wished her luck. He made it clear that if she needed him, if she needed help, she was to reach out to his office first. Nina thanked him, tears in her eyes, before turning and walking out the door to her next ten years in a confined space.

“Against my advice.” Hunter sighed, then nodded. “Nina took the ten years. She wanted to do ten instead of twenty. She figures that’s a better outcome.”

“But?”

“But she didn’t kill Sidney McCann. She’s innocent.” His teeth clenched. “And it means I can’t expose Sidney McCann’s corrupt past in court. I can’t have his old cases reviewed and I’ve lost the chance to review my father’s case.”

“Can’t you go to the police corruption unit? Won’t they do something with the information you’ve dug up?”

“They won’t touch it. They won’t look into a retired, and now deceased, cop’s past, even if he was going to do a deal with the DOJ. Without solid evidence, without something concrete, they won’t even consider it. I know because I’ve tried in the past.”

“And that means your father’s case stays closed, and he never gets to see a sunset like this.” She pulled a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Do you think someone got to her? Someone got into Nina’s ear?”

“I’m sure of it. I could see it in her eyes.” He leaned on the metal bar that separated them from the water. “I don’t know what they threatened her with, I don’t know what leverage they had on her, but they got to her. They made her change her mind. I knew it was coming, I knew they wouldn’t let us take it to court, but I still don’t like it.”

Hunter looked over his shoulder. Amongst the crowd, there was a man with a baseball cap. A Yankees cap. He was lurking around, keeping an eye on them, trying to disguise himself in the background.

“Come on.” Hunter stood on the other side of Esther, between him and the man behind them. “It’s getting cold.”

“I’m sorry, Tex. I know how much this meant to you. Not just with Nina, but with McCann and your father. I know how much was riding on this.”

“As much as I wanted to get this case to court, I couldn’t push my own agenda more than hers. I had to do what’s right by Nina first, and if she wanted to take the deal, that’s what had to happen. I had to respect that.” He kept the man in his peripheral vision. “And she’s got nothing out here. In there, behind bars, she can grow her skills. Build a life, get an education, and get out when she’s twenty-eight, maybe earlier if she gets early parole. She wants to be a nurse.”

“And find work with a criminal record?”

“It’s not my choice.”

The man in the cap stayed at a distance, loitering behind them.

“All the beauty out here.” Esther looked up to the Chicago skyline as they walked along the edge of the pier, back towards Chicago. “I couldn’t dream of never seeing this again.”

“We haven’t lived her life, Esther.” Hunter checked for the man in the cap, and he was nowhere to be seen, but the night was becoming dark quickly, reducing his field of vision. “Her file reads like a horror story, and all she’s ever experienced is pain. She’s always been against it, always had life turning on her. She may see prison as a bed and a place for stability.”

“But then what? What happens in ten years’ time?”

“I don’t know, Esther.” Hunter shook his head. “I don’t know.”

They walked the rest of the journey to the parking lot in silence, the thoughts of Nina Aisha’s life filling their own. Life had been good to them, at least in relative comparison.

As they approached the parking lot, they dodged a person on an electric scooter going too fast, moving quickly in the crowd. Hunter shook his head, looked around, and looked over his left shoulder. He saw the man in the Yankees cap again.

And he was close.

Too close for comfort.

Chapter 33

The man came at them quickly.

He had been hiding in the shadows, hiding in the growing darkness. His speed was alarming, as was his ability to target them.

Hunter had spent most of his life on edge, most of his life highly stressed. One month ago, he booked a massage, and the woman spent the hour commenting how tight his shoulders were. After an hour of being pulled every different direction, his shoulders were relaxed, but he didn’t enjoy the feeling one bit.

Relaxation was foreign to him.

He had been checking the shadows, checking over his shoulder, with increased vigor for the last month, ready for the pressure to come. He had always hated the shadows. For years, he fought the shadows, fought the ideas that his family name was tarnished, fought the people that were determined to break him down. This time, the man in the shadows wasn’t targeting Hunter.

The man in the shadows was coming straight for Esther.

Straight for his assistant.

His friend.

The first time Hunter was beaten by a random group on the street, it was by a car full of drunk rednecks. Then, a fifteen-year-old Hunter had been walking home after a boxing class. He was tired, run-down, and didn’t have much energy left. The rednecks jumped out of their truck, confirmed his name was Tex Hunter, and then proceeded to attack him. When they attacked, when they lunged at him, Hunter landed five solid punches before he was taken down by someone behind him. The boots on the ground hurt the most. That attack, that menacing beating, left him with one broken finger, lots of bruises, and a lifetime of fear.

The man from the shadows lunged towards Esther.

Hunter reacted, moving his shoulder into the direction of the punch.

Esther squealed as the first punch connected with Hunter’s shoulder, only inches from her face. With his back turned to the man in the Yankees cap, Hunter didn’t see the second punch, coming from the left over his shoulder, and connecting with his jaw.

It dazed him, made his feet wobble.

Hunter looked to Esther, the fear in her eyes clear.

He couldn’t let the man get to her. He couldn’t let her be hurt.

Not again.

His fists clenched, his vision focused, and he turned.

The man was smaller than him, lighter, and he held a boxer’s pose, his head ducking side to side, ready to punch again.

Boxing is often referred to as the ‘sweet science,’ the art of throwing a punch without being hit.

The movement of the head, the reaction times, the defense, are essential skills in any fighting situation. With a focus on footwork, speed, and accuracy, boxing is one of the best forms of self-defense and attack for any fight. A skilled boxer can take out most people with a single punch. Unfortunately for this boxer, the main weakness of boxing as an art form is the inability to defend against low kicks, especially those used in Muay Thai, a kickboxing art that Hunter was more than familiar with.

As the man threw another punch, Hunter leaned back, and threw a solid leg kick to the man’s thigh. With the stabbing pain, the man dropped his hands, allowing Hunter the perfect time to throw a left hook onto the man’s jaw.

Under the sudden impact of Hunter’s swinging left, the man fell to the ground, almost as solid as a statue. The onlookers started to rush in, some people pulling out their phones to record the moment. Hunter had never understood the need to record every moment, the need to pull out a phone whilst in danger, the need to document life’s worst events.

On the ground, the man rolled away, pulling a knife from his coat.

Hunter was ready, striking a defensive pose, but the man wasn’t after Hunter. He wasn’t going for the man that could beat him.

He wanted Esther.

Working for Tex Hunter, Esther Wright knew danger was a part of the job. She had been in his office for years, organizing his life, organizing his world to serve justice. On her first week in the job, someone broke into their office, spray painted the word ‘Killer’ over the walls, and left the office turned upside down. She thought it would be a one-time thing, a moment in time where a member of the public went crazy. Within a month of opening hate mail, she realized she was wrong.

It was a part of their life, a part of their world. They had procedures in place to lock down the office, emergency buttons under the reception desk, and security guards routinely walking on regular routes past the office door.

The man lunged, knife in hand, towards Esther.

Hunter pounced.

Driven by adrenaline, he grabbed the man’s wrist with his left-hand, and threw another punch with his right.

The man fell again, and Hunter stepped forward.

This time, the man rolled away and ran back through the crowd.

The onlookers all held their breath as they watched the man sprint back towards the city, back towards the shadows of the Lake Shore Drive overpass. Hunter didn’t chase him.

There were videos of the attack, witnesses, and people to report it, however Hunter knew no charges would be filed. There were too many people pulling strings, too many people with a vested interest in threatening his world.

The man hadn’t come for Hunter, the man didn’t yell for his wallet—the man wanted to harm his assistant, his friend, Esther Wright. He knew what that meant. The attack wasn’t for Nina’s case; it wasn’t the cops protecting their own. It was his other case, Mary-Ann Steele’s, that was attracting the attention. The message was received loud and clear.

“Tex. Tex? Are you ok?” Esther came next to Hunter, her voice frantic. “Do you need an ambulance?”

“I’m good.” He stated firmly as the crowd gathered around him. “He didn’t land a shot on me.”

“Don’t you need to get checked out? I could take you to hospital.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He brushed his shoulder. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, Esther.”

“Good.” She smiled. “Because you still owe me that hotdog.”

Chapter 34

George N. Leighton Criminal Court Building on the city’s Southwest Side stood proudly, strong, as one of the nation’s busiest courthouses, consolidating all of Chicago’s criminal felony cases in one very inconvenient location.

Forty minutes from the center of Chicago by cab, an hour by public transport, or a two-hour walk through crime-ridden neighborhoods made this location problematic for defendants, lawyers, and the general public. The predominately Mexican community of South Lawndale surrounded the courthouse, and as an area filled with high unemployment, misconduct, and gang activity, it was hard for prospective jurors to ignore any subconscious racial bias as they arrived.

After a year of posturing, after a year of stress, after twelve months of turmoil, Mary-Ann Steele had the chance to face her day in court. The prosecution had offered a solid deal—a suspended prison sentence, however a conviction would be recorded, the best Mary-Ann could hope for in the situation, but on principle alone, Mary-Ann chose not to sign on the dotted line.

Dressed in her best outfit, a long white dress with a red cardigan, Mary-Ann followed Tex Hunter into the empty courtroom, a shiver dancing up her spine as she walked past the rows of empty benches. The room was too dark, too depressive for her liking. She reasoned that a nice bunch of flowers, a bright piece of artwork, and lighter colored blinds would provide the room so much more happiness.

But this was not a place where happiness was found—this room was a place where the consequences of people’s actions were fully realized. Her lawyer was confident, he always seemed to be, and he led her to the seat at the defense table. Her husband sat behind her, his support essential, as it had been every step of the way.

When she was first charged with arson, when the police first took her in, her husband had offered to take the guilt, even though he was out-of-town on a hunting trip that night. He offered to plead guilty to save his wife the stress of having to proceed through the justice system, but she wouldn’t hear of it, not even entertaining the idea for a second—she was innocent, and she was determined to see it through to the end.

She took two deep breaths as she sat down, fixing her dress first. From this position, from this chair, she would be judged. Not only her guilt, but her life, all her ups and downs, victories and mistakes. It was all open for the court to hear.

She looked up to where the jury would sit, their seats separated from the rest of the courtroom by a long wooden barrier that sat at hip height, and she wondered who would sit in those seats, who had the right to judge her.

It was another hour before anyone else arrived, and Mary-Ann fought back tears every minute of that time.

The prosecution team walked in first.

They walked in with smirks on their faces, their shoulders back, almost jovial. Mary-Ann wanted to grab the nearest wooden spoon and whack their behinds, demanding they show respect for others.

The two younger lawyers, who had the excitement only a new employee could have, smiled at Mary-Ann as they went through their processes with the lead prosecutor, Harold Alwen. Alwen was a good leader, a decent man who took the time to explain processes to others. He had a caring touch, a soft voice, and a trust-worthy face. Perfect to sucker the jury into his theories.

Mary-Ann’s friends arrived next. They were dressed like they were attending a golf function—nice, semi-formal, and not too rigid—and it was a good look for the jury. How could they convict such an active member of the older community?

“Five minutes,” the bailiff called out, alerting everyone that Judge Edmond Ramos was to enter the courtroom, and the show was about to begin.

Her lawyer was reading his opening statement again, then rested his hand on Mary-Ann’s. He squeezed it gently, and she provided a smile in response, too nervous to speak. After seventy years of life, after seven decades of helping others, her fate lay in the opinions of strangers, her future in the hands of someone else.

“All rise. The Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Ramos presiding.”

The strong and solid figure of Judge Ramos slowly walked through the courtroom, in no rush to arrive anywhere. Once he sat down, he moved the microphone closer to him, clicked his pen, groaned, and then raised his eyes to look at the almost empty courtroom before him.

Loudly, he welcomed the attendees, and announced the process for the audience and defendant. The bailiff walked to the door in the front corner of the room, guiding the members of the jury into the courtroom. They all looked at the defendant first. They all wanted to have an idea if the person was guilty.

After Judge Ramos spoke to the jury about their responsibilities, Alwen stood to begin his argument.

*****

“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. As you have heard, my name is Harold Alwen, and these are my colleagues, Miles Darcy and James Love. We’re here to present the case of arson against Mrs. Mary-Ann Claire Steele.

I’m the lead prosecutor and I represent the State of Illinois. I’m here to present the evidence of this crime, and after you have deliberated, you will decide if this evidence proves the defendant’s guilt.

Mrs. Steele is accused of arson of a Jaguar sedan, worth more than two-hundred thousand dollars, that belonged to Mr. Kenneth Chow. This was a real crime, with real pain, and these actions must have real consequences.

When I first read this file, it made me sad. It made me sad because I realized some people live in a world very different than ours. We rarely get to see the hatred that lives in our city. Occasionally, this hatred is shown to us. Here, a person set a car on fire for revenge. Mrs. Steele wanted payback. She wanted retaliation.

Her son, Anthony Steele, unfortunately passed away after a workplace accident on a construction site owned by Mr. Chow. For the first two years after the accident, Mrs. Steele had been relentlessly harassing Mr. Chow. We will present evidence of this harassment, and witnesses who will testify about Mrs. Steele’s constant aggravation towards Mr. Chow.

Over the coming days, we will present witnesses to you, and they will provide the evidence in this case, as anything I say now is not evidence. I’m addressing you to provide an overview of the prosecution’s case to decide this vicious crime. This overview will give you a road map of our evidence before we call the first witness.

We will present witnesses who will state they saw Mrs. Steele next to Mr. Chow’s car on August 2nd. We will present witnesses who will state they saw Mrs. Steele driving the car only hours before it was set on fire. In addition to this, expert witnesses will describe what evidence was gathered after the arson attack, and describe the crime scene in detail.

You will hear from Chicago Police Department Officer Garry Ball, who will explain they found Mrs. Steele’s handbag on the front seat of the car, and he will explain why the police made the decision to arrest Mrs. Steele. You will hear from arson expert Thomas Davidson who will explain how the fire was started. And you will also hear from Mr. Kenneth Chow. Mr. Chow will explain to the court what happened that night, and how the arson attack on his vehicle has affected his life.

Mrs. Steele set fire to the property belonging to another person. That is a crime.

I don’t need to tell you that arson needs to be punished.

Like me, you can feel sorry for Mrs. Steele and the loss of her son. You can feel sad for Mrs. Steele. Let her story touch your heart. That’s a normal human reaction. But you cannot, and I repeat, cannot, let that sympathy influence the facts.

Mrs. Steele’s past does not give her the right to destroy someone else’s property.

I state that Mary-Ann Steele is guilty of arson because this crime was deliberate and planned. Mrs. Steele knowingly used fire to damage the property of another.

This was an inexcusable action.

At the end of this case, I will address you again and ask you to consider all the evidence we have presented and to conclude beyond a reasonable doubt that Mrs. Steele is guilty of arson. Thank you for your time.”

*****

During the opening statement, juror one stared at Mary-Ann for a long time, too long to be comfortable, then made an expression of surprise. Most people were surprised at the age of the lady sitting at the defense table. It certainly wasn’t who they were expecting when they were told they would be listening to a case of arson.

Under Illinois law, arson was a class two felony, with a prison sentence between five to seven years.

Prosecutor Alwen knew he needed emotionally flat jury members, he knew he needed people who would focus on the facts, not the age of the defendant. During the voir dire, the juror selection process, he researched the potential candidates, instantly dismissing anyone who had a close relationship with their grandmother. Any reasonable person, any off-the-street guy, would struggle to convict their grandmother of arson. And that’s what they saw when they looked at Mary-Ann—a nice lady who had lived a life of service to others.

When juror nine came up for selection, Alwen couldn’t have been happier. Juror nine was middle-aged, ran a successful trucking company, and, most importantly, grew up in foster homes. He never knew his parents, grandparents, or siblings. He was tall, had a strong voice with a deep tone, and was clearly a leader. He played Quarterback in college, started his own business at twenty-two, and was now in charge of more than forty people. A leader if there ever was one.

Leaders in the jury room were important—a loud voice, a strong character, and a forceful opinion in the jury room could do so much more than a lawyer ever could.

Hunter was equally glad juror eleven was there—a respected doctor in his mid-forties, handsome, and perfectly dressed in a suit. He was a man of honor, a man of process, and could clearly see Mary-Ann as his own mother. Hunter’s research into juror eleven showed he was interested in helping older people—working in nursing homes, and conducting studies into the effects of early alcohol use on dementia later in life.

With two leaders in the room, it was sure to be a long deliberation process.

As soon as Alwen finished at the lectern, Tex Hunter stood, folder in one hand, ready to deliver his opening. Alwen stepped away, and Hunter opened his folder, his actions exaggerated to gain the attention of the jury. He didn’t want to give them a chance to think, a chance to ponder the ideas thrown up by the prosecution.

When invited by Judge Ramos to begin, Hunter started immediately.

*****

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Your Honor, my name is Tex Hunter. I’m a criminal defense attorney, and I’m proud and privileged to represent Mrs. Mary-Ann Claire Steele.

Mrs. Steele did not set fire to the Jaguar sedan, she did not steal the car, and she did not seek vengeance on Mr. Kenneth Chow. Over the coming days, I will show you that there’s no evidence to charge her with this crime, or any other crime. There’s simply not enough evidence to convict the defendant with arson.

There are four important roles in this courtroom: the judge, the prosecution, the defense, and you, the jury. Judge Ramos is here to preside over the proceedings, to ensure the process of the court is followed. The prosecution is here to try and convict someone of this crime. This crime deserves to be solved, but it deserves to be solved by convicting the right person. My role, as a defense attorney, is to be a protector of justice. I’m here to represent those that have been accused but are innocent.

Your role as a juror is to make your decisions based on the evidence, or lack thereof. You must be impartial. You must be fair. And above all else, you must listen closely. Don’t be fooled by the tricks of the prosecution. Don’t be fooled by the long arguments. Don’t be fooled by hearsay.

As a juror, the role you play is very important. You’re tasked with making the decision on whether or not there is enough evidence to charge this person with a crime.

And let’s make a very important distinction here—your job isn’t to decide whether or not you think Mrs. Steele is guilty, your job is to decide whether there’s enough evidence to prove it.

That’s a very important distinction to make, and one that I want you to keep in mind as we go through this trial.

You’re not to base your decision on a feeling, on a thought, or on a hunch. You’re not to guess. You’re not here to solve this case. You’re not here to piece the puzzle together. That’s not your job.

You’re here, in this court, to base your decision on whether there’s enough evidence to reasonably convict Mrs. Steele for the crime of arson. That’s it.

Your role is evidence based, and that’s all you can use to decide this case. Our justice system, our great justice system, states that you may only convict a person if you believe they are guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That decision can only be made based on evidence.

On proof. On facts.

And the onus of that proof is with the prosecution.

Right now, Mrs. Steele is innocent. That’s our starting point and the prosecution must prove Mrs. Steele set fire to someone else’s property. They must present evidence that convinces you beyond a reasonable doubt. They won’t be able to, of course.

The police selected Mrs. Steele as a suspect due to the circumstances surrounding the fire. The level of evidence the police need to arrest someone is ‘probable cause.’ ‘Probable cause’ requires more than mere suspicion, but it’s not an absolute certainty the crime took place. ‘Probable cause’ is the standard used in our great justice system to determine if there’s enough evidence to charge a person with a crime.

But it’s a relatively low standard of evidence.

The standard of evidence that must be presented to you in the courtroom is much higher, much more stringent. When the prosecution has delivered their side of the argument, you will be disappointed that they have not completed their role.

When this case is drawing to a close, I will stand before you again and point out the ways in which the prosecution has failed to present enough evidence. At that point, you will use your common sense to make a decision. That decision will be ‘Not Guilty.’

By saying that Mrs. Steele is not guilty, you will tell the prosecution that there’s not enough evidence to solve this case.

Thank you for your service to our great justice system.”

Chapter 35

The first punch came from Nina’s left.

She didn’t expect it, she didn’t see it coming, but she didn’t react too much. She’d been hit many times before. She turned to see who swung the punch, looking deep into the eyes of a 300-pound prisoner who never had a hope of getting out. There was rage in the woman’s eyes, a desperate stare that appeared almost primitive.

Behind the six-foot tall woman stood five others, with her friend, her protector, Denise to the side.

“That’s the one.” Denise pointed at Nina, but wouldn’t look at her directly. “She’s got a whole lot of money now. Enough to share around and make sure we’re all looked after.”

They were standing in the laundry room—a small concrete space with five washing machines lined against one wall. The floor was stained brown, the walls were covered in filth, and the smell of mold was overwhelming. There was one door in or out, and the guards only periodically ventured past. It was a place to be feared, a place where the worst could happen to those who found themselves there at the wrong time.

“I’m sorry,” Nina stepped back to the corner of the room, thick with mold. “It’s not my money. I didn’t ask for it.”

“We want the money.” Denise moved forward. “And if we don’t get some of that action, we’re going to make sure your life in here is hell.”

“I thought we were friends?”

“Aw. Isn’t that sweet.” Denise snorted, turning to the others in the room, who laughed loudly with her. “This isn’t high school anymore, sweetheart. This is the real world where adults do things that will make you regret everything that you’ve ever done.”

The group of women stepped closer to Nina, blocking any hope that anyone could even see her.

She had learned not to yell. She had learned not to attract attention. In her short life, in the eighteen years she had been alive, she had learned that yelling only makes it worse. Yelling only makes them hit you harder.

“Give her a taste of what will happen to her if she doesn’t follow our suggestions.” Denise turned to the door, keeping watch for any passing guards. “Just keep her quiet.”

The largest woman smiled. On the outside, Tracey Mason had no skills. She didn’t finish high school, she couldn’t keep a job for any longer than a month, and she had no family to speak of. But in prison, inside the walls where influence was given to the strongest, she was a force to be reckoned with.

Inmates came to her when they needed someone dealt with, her size alone intimidated most women. Tracey pushed Nina into the corner with a shove worthy of a spot on an NFL offensive line. Nina’s head slammed against the hard-concrete wall, and she fell to the floor, with her arms raised above her head.

The first punch came down on her right side, slamming into her head just above the ear. Instinctively, her hand moved to block the area, leaving her ribs exposed.

The second punch crashed into her ribs, robbing her of any breath.

Nina’s knees went to her chest, before the third punch, coming from the left, landed onto her cheekbone. It was a weaker punch, not much force behind it, but it was followed by another right punch to her skull.

Before prison, Tracey had never been violent, she had never been a fighter. After she was locked up for the death of a pedestrian she hit with her car when drunk, she found a world where people wanted to fight her, if only for the challenge. After pushing her way out of many fights in the first month, her cellmate taught her how to throw a punch. She practiced and practiced throwing punches, but only ever on her right, leaving her left punch weak and basically useless. When someone was on the ground, her kicks became effective. Tracey was naturally good at those.

“Alright, alright.” Denise stepped back into the narrow room, pulling Tracey back. “She understands it now. She understands what we can do. Don’t you, Nina?”

Nina didn’t respond, keeping her hands over her head, keeping a defense against any more punches.

Denise was well-connected inside the walls, as were her friends. Once the money landed into Nina’s bank account, once she knew how much money Nina had, Denise demanded a piece of it. A large piece of it.

“I need protection money.” Denise came over the top of Nina, kneeling close to her. “You keep paying me every month, and I’ll make sure you have a lovely time in prison. You need to get someone on the outside to set up a regular transfer to my account. Every month.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf, girl?” Denise leaned in close to Nina’s ear. “I said I want money transferred into my account each month. I’ll share the money with these girls. The money that got transferred to your account for killing the cop, that’s going to be shared with everyone. We’re all going to be rewarded for your good deed.”

“I didn’t kill him.” Nina was fighting back the tears.

“What!” Denise grabbed a fist full of Nina’s hair. “You think that matters now?! I know how much you got paid to take the deal, I know how much money is in your account! I helped it happen! You will pay us!”

“Or what?”

“Or what? Or what!” Denise snarled into Nina’s face, close enough for the spit to splatter in her eyes. “Or this will be your future! Every. Single. Day. I will make sure you don’t last ten years, you dirty piece of scum!”

Nina tried to shake her head, tried to say no, but her hair was pulled back tightly as she fought back the tears. “I thought we were friends?”

“You and I are no longer friends! You’re a wimp, you’re nothing like me. To think I thought you were like me. You’re crying. Crying girls don’t last long in here.”

Nina struggled to hold back more tears, but she couldn’t. Her shoulder was being rubbed into the mold on the walls, her body was sitting in a pool of stale water, and her face was being covered with Denise’s spit.

“One hundred a month, every month, to my bank account until the money runs out.” Denise whispered into her ear. “And if it doesn’t happen, you’ll be beaten daily until you change your mind. And trust me, you’ll change your mind.”

Nina was good at math; it was something she thrived in.

And she knew instantly that she would be leaving her ten-year stint with no money, no future, and no chance on the outside.

The deal she signed was worthless.

Chapter 36

When the prosecution called their first witness, Chicago Police Department Officer Garry Ball, the pressure was already building on the defense. Mary-Ann’s foot tapped incessantly under the table, her cheek twitched nervously, and her eyes were focused on the pen in front of her. The fear of judgment, the fear of prison, was real. Tex Hunter rested his hand on her shoulder, calming her, before reviewing his notes on the witness.

Officer Garry Ball walked to the stand full of false bravado. His shoulders were strung up towards his ears, his chest puffed out, and he had a fake swagger, which could’ve been easily mistaken for a limp. Ball was doing his very best to present a confident image to the jury, however, it was clear his confidence was paper thin.

Prosecutor Alwen used Officer Ball to introduce the basic facts of the case—where the car was found, what state the car was in, when the incident could have occurred. Officer Ball had little to offer the jury, other than what he saw when he arrived at the scene, however, he was painting the first layer on the canvas, providing the groundwork for the prosecution.

As the first layer of evidence was being painted, Hunter objected where he could, interjected for the sake of breaking the prosecution’s rhythm, and waited patiently for his chance to wash the canvas clean.

“Access to the Richard J. Daley Park boat ramp is locked after 11pm, and there were no reports of any cars left in the parking lot when the person in charge closed the gate. We know the gate was broken after that time, and the car fire was first reported at 1:03am by a person driving across the Western Avenue Bridge.”

Officer Ball took the jury through the crime scene photos, detailing exactly what state the car was found in, and how the car must have been driven there. The prosecution presented a satellite photo, and took them through how close the reserve was to Mary-Ann’s home, only a ten-minute walk away via the back streets past the Stevenson Expressway.

Ball’s voice stuttered occasionally, and wavered at other times, shaking a little when he was unsure of the answers. It was his first appearance in court, his first time on the stand, and although the court was almost empty, except for Mary-Ann’s supporters, the eyes of the jury were almost burning into him.

He spent two hours describing the scene, two hours creating the perfect bottom layer for the prosecution, and when he was done, when the prosecution was happy with his responses, the judge turned him over to the defense.

And it became Hunter’s job to wash the canvas clean.

“Officer Ball,” Hunter remained seated, opening his files on the table, and looked up to the witness. “Thank you for taking the time to talk with us today, and thank you for your service to our community. Your testimony is a very important starting point for this case, and I’m going to ask you some questions to establish the details of the event. There may be some questions you don’t know the answer to, but I would ask you to answer them in the most honest way possible.”

“I’ll do my best,” he stated, shifting in the chair.

“Thank you,” Hunter reviewed his notes before continuing, running his eyes over the questions he had planned. “Do you believe this incident, this arson attack on the vehicle, could have been the result of a car theft gone wrong?”

“It doesn’t appear that way.”

“And why would you say that?”

“I say that because nothing was reported as stolen from the scene.”

“Nothing was reported as stolen?”

“Nothing.”

“Other than the car?”

“Of course.” He scoffed. “Nothing other than the car appeared to be stolen. In the investigation, we found evidence that something heavy had been dragged out of the trunk of the car, and a badly burned handbag on the front seat, that was later identified to belong to Mrs. Steele. The handbag had her name on the inside, and it was still visible. If it were a car theft, one would’ve expected the thief to steal the handbag.”

“Can you be certain nothing was stolen from the car?”

“Mr. Chow, the vehicle owner, didn’t report anything as stolen from the car.” He ran his hand over his thighs, smoothing out any creases on his trousers. “If there was anything else to steal in the car, then he would’ve reported it.”

“Are items from the vehicle always stolen during car thefts?”

“No, not always.”

Hunter nodded, exaggerated enough for the jury to notice. The line of questioning wasn’t breaking the case open, however Hunter was attempting to establish that everything reported wasn’t comprehensive. They were the drops of water he needed to wash the canvas with.

“Were Mrs. Steele’s fingerprints found on the vehicle?”

“It was burned out.” He scoffed, shaking his head.

“Can you please answer the question?” Hunter’s voice grew louder. “Were Mrs. Steele’s fingerprints found on the vehicle?”

“Of course not. No. It was too burned—”

“DNA?” Hunter interrupted. “Was there any DNA found from Mrs. Steele on the vehicle?”

“No, it wasn’t—”

“Were there any witnesses that saw anyone light a fire?”

“There wasn’t—”

“Yes or no. It’s a simple question, Officer Ball, and it has a yes or no answer. We’re not here today to listen to spin, mistruths, or opinion, we’re here today to listen to the facts. The facts. So I’ll ask you again, were there any witnesses that saw anyone light the fire?”

“No.” He groaned loudly. “The witnesses—”

“Any video footage that shows Mrs. Steele lighting the fire?”

“No.”

“Any footage that shows Mrs. Steele entering the car?”

“There wasn’t—”

“Yes or no.”

“No.”

Hunter shook his head, and moved a piece of paper closer to him.

“From those answers,” he ran his finger along the top of the piece of paper. “Can you confirm that you have no direct evidence, none at all, that shows Mrs. Steele lighting that fire?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“You don’t have any evidence, do you? None. Nothing to say, directly, that Mrs. Steele lit that fire?”

“Her handbag was found—”

“Yes, the handbag,” Hunter said. “Does the presence of her handbag directly show she lit the fire? Perhaps there was something in there that shows her lighting the fire? A lighter perhaps?”

He shook his head.

“Sorry, Officer Ball, you will have to answer the question verbally.”

“What we had was—”

“Officer Ball,” Hunter interrupted again. “Please, answer the question directly. In any way, does the presence of the handbag directly prove that Mrs. Steele lit the fire?”

“No.” He looked away. The prosecution had tried to prepare him for this line of questioning, they tried to spend time with Officer Ball, however, as with most confident young officers, he refused to listen to them. His confidence was misplaced.

“So, I’ll ask you again, and this question can be answered with a yes or no response. Officer Ball, is there any evidence, any direct evidence at all, that shows Mrs. Steele lit the fire?”

“No,” he sighed. “But—”

“Thank you, Officer Ball.” Hunter interrupted. “And can you tell the court if there is any evidence, anything at all, that proves Mrs. Steele was near the car when the fire was lit?”

“No.”

“Other than the witnesses, is there any evidence, anything, that shows Mrs. Steele inside the car?”

“There isn’t, no.”

“Other than the witnesses, is there any evidence, even the smallest piece of direct evidence, that proves Mrs. Steele was driving the car?”

“What we have—”

“It’s a simple question, Officer Ball, and this court would appreciate a direct response. Yes or no. Is there any direct evidence that proves Mrs. Steele was driving the stolen car?”

Officer Ball shook his head, looked away and sighed. “No.” He conceded. “But we have her—”

“Thank you, Officer Ball. No further questions.”

Hunter nodded, happy with the small success, but it wouldn’t be enough to win the case. He needed something big to swing it his way, something that showed another possibility for the handbag. As well as the questioning went, as well as the Officer’s testimony had gone for him, he hadn’t destroyed the witness, he hadn’t done enough to throw the case out, but he had at least created doubt.

There was only one thing that was going to win the case, one thing that would prove Mary-Ann Steele’s innocence—he needed footage of that night.

Chapter 37

Nearing the end of day one, post lunch and with little air conditioning in the courtroom, it was tempting for the jurors to doze into a siesta. Apart from Steele’s husband and two closest friends, and one inquisitive spectator, there was nobody else in the seats of the courtroom. The remaining chairs looked perfectly clean in the emptiness, almost lonely, creating a room that felt devoid of any optimism. The curtains were drawn closed as the sun started to dip, preventing any natural light, and one of the ceiling lights blew in the back corner of the room, creating a little patch of darkness.

“The prosecution calls Mr. Robert Huang to the stand.” Alwen stood as one of his star witnesses walked through the court room.

Robert Huang walked through the court with the look of a determined man—shoulders back, steely gaze, chin up. He was wearing his best suit, the one he had only worn twice before, and his hair was neatly clipped. A first generation Chinese American, Huang had lived most of his sixty years around Chinatown in Chicago, cooking his famous noodle soup for a living. He’d worked seven days a week for all of his adult life, only taking two weeks’ vacation in the Chinese New Year, and retirement was not a notion he was comfortable with. He swore his oath, sat in the stand, and stared at the defense table.

“Mr. Huang,” Alwen began. “For the benefit of the court, can you please explain what you do for a living?”

“I work as a cook and manager in my noodle restaurant.” Huang’s accent was a high-pitched tone, with a Chinese accent. “My wife and I have owned the restaurant in Chinatown for forty years. We work very hard to provide noodles for our customers.”

“What time did you leave your place of work on the night of August 2nd?”

“11pm exactly.”

“Is this a usual time to leave?”

“On a Monday night, yes. 11pm is usual. Most nights I leave around 10pm, but Mondays are spent ordering food for the week ahead.” He was solid in the chair, barely moving at all. “I was the only one left at that time.”

“And when you left your restaurant, what did you see?”

“I saw Mr. Chow’s white Jaguar sedan parked in the street. It’s a very nice car and it wasn’t usually parked there, that’s why I noticed it.”

“This car?” Alwen pointed to a picture of Chow’s sedan.

“That’s correct.”

“And did you see anyone near the car?”

“Yes.”

“Is that person in the courtroom?”

“They are. It’s that person there.” He pointed to Mary-Ann Steele.

“Let the court records show Mr. Huang has identified the defendant.” Alwen moved a folder on his desk. “And what was the defendant doing near the car?”

“She was acting suspiciously. She was looking in the windows and lurking around the car. It takes me around one to two minutes to walk from the back entrance of the restaurant to where I park my car, and she was around the car the whole time.”

“Mr. Huang, how can you be sure it was this person?

“I thought it was very strange for this person, or anyone, to be next to the car at 11pm on a Monday. I thought it was very strange anyone was out at that time, but particularly strange for an elderly lady to be there.”

“And did you provide a written witness statement reporting what you saw?”

“That’s correct.”

“And is this the statement here?” Alwen held up a paper file.

“It appears so.”

“From this statement, can you please explain what else you saw that night?”

For the next twenty minutes, Huang went through the details of the witness statement, almost exactly word for word. Hunter stared at the paper in front of him, barely acknowledging that Huang was on the stand. He didn’t need to listen; he’d already read the statement ten times.

His mind was elsewhere, not only away from the case, not only from the courtroom, but with the innocent girl that was languishing behind bars. How could he let her life wither away? How could he not have seen that they were going to pay her off? He should’ve warned her. He should’ve stopped them.

It felt like he was going through his father’s pain all over again—an innocent person suffering in prison without a defense, without a hope. Those were feelings he didn’t like to confront; feelings he didn’t like to admit existed.

He had spent much of his life trying to fight those feelings, trying to push that pain aside, fighting back the thoughts of helplessness, of weakness. He saw Nina’s case as he did his father’s—it was his fault the cases failed, his fault he wasn’t able to navigate the system and find a way out for the innocent.

The years that he took his father’s appeals through the highest courts in the land were the most stressful of his life, almost turning his hair grey in his late twenties. Those repeated failures, those repeated disappointments, had never left him, only been pushed aside, pushed down. Nina’s case, his failings to protect her innocence, had reopened those unhealed wounds.

“Mr. Hunter?” Judge Ramos interrupted his thoughts. “I asked if you were ready to question the witness?”

“Yes. Of course.” Hunter snapped out of his thoughts of despair. “Yes, Your Honor, I do have questions for this witness.”

Hunter moved a piece of paper on his table, reviewed the first lines of the file, and turned his attention to the man on the stand. He squinted at the man, before standing to question him.

“Mr. Huang, how long have you known the owner of the stolen vehicle, Mr. Kenneth Chow?”

“Many years. Even decades.”

“And you consider him a friend?”

“Yes.”

“Would you do anything to help your friend?”

“Objection. Accusation.” Alwen interrupted. “The statement is implying Mr. Huang is guilty of wrongdoing.”

“Withdrawn.” Hunter was quick to respond; however, the seed had been planted in the jurors’ minds. This was the Elephant—the idea that if you tell someone, ‘Whatever you do, don’t think of an elephant,’ the first thing they’ll think of is an elephant. It was a plant in the jurors’ minds, an idea that otherwise would not be allowed to be admitted into the testimony. “Mr. Huang, do you wear glasses?”

“No.” He shook his head, confused by the question.

“When was the last time you took an eye test?”

Huang thought for a moment before responding. “Years ago. I have good eyesight.”

“Mr. Huang, can you please read the first line of your witness statement, word for word, to the court?” Hunter picked up a piece of paper and handed it to Huang. The font was deliberately small, the first five lines deliberately smudged, and the color of the words were dark blue, rather than black.

Huang stared at the page for a moment, and then, instinctively, moved it further away from his face, looking for a clearer view. Even with perfect eyesight, the words would’ve been hard to read.

“Mr. Huang, before you read that line, can you please explain to the court why you moved the page further from your eyes?”

“Objection.” Alwen interrupted. “Relevance. This is merely a game by the defense as it’s not an official vision test.”

“Overruled.” Judge Ramos turned to the witness. “Please answer the question, Mr. Huang.”

“I moved my arms to see the words better. The writing on this page isn’t very clear.”

“Interesting.” Hunter stated and took the paper back from the witness. “Mr. Huang, was there much lighting in that street on August 2nd?”

“Like I said in the witness statement, there was a broken streetlight but the moon was very bright. It was a clear night. The moon was high in the sky, that’s how I saw her. I was able to see the whole street.”

“And you have stated you were thirty feet away from the car, correct?”

“Yes. That’s what I said in the witness statement.”

“Almost word for word.” Hunter moved to his desk, and held up a piece of paper. “In my hand is a report from NASA on the phases of the moon.”

One of the young prosecutors audibly groaned, and Hunter turned to look at him. When the young prosecutor saw the eyes of the court were on him, he made a face to indicate his regret.

“As I was saying, this is a report from NASA on the phases of the moon. In your witness statement, you state the moonlight was very bright that night, however, NASA reports that the phase of the moon on August 2nd was called a ‘waning crescent.’ Do you know how much of the moon is visible on a night during the waning crescent phase, Mr. Huang?”

“I don’t.”

“It’s 8.8%. Merely 8.8%, Mr. Huang. Certainly not enough light to highlight a street and make anything very visible. So, tell me, which is correct—are you telling the truth about the lighting of the moon, or do the scientists at NASA have their recordings of the moon incorrect?”

“Maybe it wasn’t the moon. It must have been a bright light, like the streetlights.”

“Maybe it wasn’t the moon and it was the streetlights?” Hunter smiled. “Which is also interesting, Mr. Huang. As you’ve said, the streetlight wasn’t working, and because you stated that in your witness statement, we requested a report by the City of Chicago about the relevant streetlights, which I have here. With the testimony from the prosecution witness, the defense would like to offer this as evidence.” Hunter handed the report to the judge, to the prosecution, and then to the jury members. When the prosecution offered no objections, Hunter continued. “There are five streetlights in that area, two of which would have been directly shining near the Jaguar, and those two streetlights, along with the others, were not working at the time. As you can see in this report, a member of the public reported the lights as broken on July 10th, and they were not fixed until September 8th. During that time, the relevant streetlights were not working.  So, tell me, Mr. Huang, which bright light could light up the entire street, enabling you, with poor eyesight, to see someone thirty feet away and identify them?”

“I don’t know.” Huang shook his head, clearly confused.

“You don’t know? Do you know if you saw Mrs. Steele?”

“I’m…” Huang struggled to find the right words. “I’m sure I saw her.”

“Under the non-existent moonlight?”

“Yes, I mean no.” The confusion was stretched across his face. “I don’t understand the question.”

“Thank you, Mr. Huang.” Hunter walked back to his table, tapping his finger on a file. Once he was sure the jury members were all looking at him, Hunter made a facial expression that demonstrated his surprise. “No further questions.”

Chapter 38

The next four days of prosecution evidence were cumbersome. It appeared as if the prosecution were trying to bore the jury into a guilty verdict. Alwen laid down question after question to apparent experts, repeating the same information over and over and over, and Hunter objected where he could.

The jury started each day with fresh eyes, fresh focus, but by the end of day five, they were struggling to stay awake. It was Alwen’s plan all along—present a mountain of circumstantial evidence, present so much indirect proof, that the jury would be so convinced they couldn’t dispute it.

After the jury had filed out for the end of day five, followed by the judge, and then the prosecution team, Hunter took his time in the courtroom, placing his documents into his briefcase with slow movements. He could sense the stress on Mary-Ann, he could sense her anguish next to him. When he turned to look at her, he saw that she looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

“Are we winning?” There was desperation in her voice, tears in her eyes. “Please, I have to know we’re in front. Tell me what the jury is thinking.”

“It’s not a strong case against you.” Hunter closed his briefcase. “But there’s a lot of circumstantial evidence, and that’s starting to build in the jury’s mind.”

“What does that mean?” Her eyes were pleading with him.

“It means the jury is 50/50. At this point, this case could go either way.”

She turned to her husband, tears welling in her eyes. It was almost too much to lose her son, her only child, but then to let the man that caused his death go free without any consequences, almost drove her to an early grave.

To then be accused of attacking that man’s property was finally breaking her strong resolve.

“Don’t worry.” Her husband calmed her. “We’ll get through this. The system always works.”

Hunter nodded, not because he agreed, he didn’t, but because Nathan Steele’s voice was reassuring to his client. After they had walked out of the courtroom, Nathan’s arm around his wife holding her close, Hunter paused for a moment, leaned on the table, and shook his head.

Most of the time, the system worked.

But the times it didn’t, the times when the innocent were taken behind bars, they were the times that nearly forced Hunter to walk away from his profession. He had faith in the house of justice, faith in the people that ran it, but nobody was perfect, and no system was faultless.

The adage that it was better to let one hundred guilty people go than send one innocent person to prison was good in theory, written on a piece of paper it was more than convincing, but what if those hundred people were desperate rapists, murderers, and thieves. Is one person a suitable sacrifice to keep the streets safe?

Those thoughts sat with him as he walked out of the courthouse, onto the busy street, and stepped into the back of the cab. He greeted the taxi driver, made polite small talk as always, and then stared out the window. The driver was Irish, his twang as clear as his pasty white skin.

“Are you from Dublin?” Hunter asked.

“No, no. I’m from a small town in County Kilkenny, called Inistioge. Beautiful place. Very green, very quiet, and full of Guinness.”

“Sounds fabulous. Why would you ever move from there?”

“There was no work. I had the choice to move to Dublin for work, or to the US of A. I chose here.” He laughed, not at anything, but more because it was his usual state of mind. “Good place, this Chicago. All this grey weather reminds me of home.”

The traffic around them was bad, heavier than usual, and there were people stepping between the slow-moving cars, but the worst were the bicycles zipping between vehicles at high speed.

The thoughts that pounded in Hunter’s head, the thoughts of justice, crime, and prison, were almost driving him insane. Trying to distract himself from the day’s work, trying to push all that emotion into the back of his mind, Hunter turned back to the driver.

“Busy day?”

“Always a busy day for me. And what do you do for a crust, pal?” The Irishman asked.

“I’m a defense attorney.”

“Ah, a lawyer.” The cab driver laughed again. “Why aren’t there any Irish lawyers?”

“Why?” Hunter quizzed, a little confused.

“Because they couldn’t pass the bar!” The driver slapped his steering wheel, laughing heartily. Hunter couldn’t help but smile in the back seat.

“You like that joke, eh?” The driver looked in the rearview mirror. “Well, if you like that one, I’ve got another joke.”

“Go on.” Hunter nodded.

“When I first came to Chicago, I was dating a Communist, but I had no idea. She seemed nice and she seemed so modern. In hindsight, I should’ve seen all the red flags.”

Hunter laughed loudly, surprised at the joke delivered by the Irishman.

“Tell me something.” Hunter questioned, leaning forward, happy to be distracted. “How do all the cab drivers know not to turn up to the same place at the same time?”

“GPS data. We’ve all got them now.” The driver tapped his dashboard. “It’s all run through our phones, available at the touch of a button. All that data, all that technology, makes it so easy to communicate now.”

Hunter shrugged. Even technology had gotten through to the cabs. Unavoidable. Everything was monitored, assessed, tracked, diced, sliced, and stored.

“So your boss knows where you are at all times?” Hunter leaned back in the seat. “Keeping an eye on you every step of the way. That’s micro-managing at its worst.”

“He knows everything about me and every cab in his business. He knows when we pull into gas stations, when we stop by our homes to pick something up, or when we swing past a bar for lunch. My boss knows where everyone is at all times.”

As one light turned green, the taxi driver went to move forward through the traffic, but as soon as he picked up speed, he slammed on the brakes.

“What happened?” Hunter jumped forward.

“Sorry, mate. It was that guy. He just came out in front of me.” The driver pointed to the cyclist riding away in the distance. “I could’ve run him over. Stupid, stupid cyclist. They come out of nowhere and you can’t see them.”

“You’re lucky I’m a lawyer.” Hunter replied. “I would’ve been a good witness for you in court.”

“No need for witnesses. I’ve got this.” He tapped a device attached underneath the rearview mirror.

“What’s that?” Hunter leaned forward.

“A dash-cam recorder. It records my entire day for insurance purposes. Ain’t nobody taking me to court for running them over, because this is all the evidence I need. If I’d hit that cyclist, I could’ve proved he blindsided me. This thing is invaluable.”

“That could work two ways.” Hunter responded. “What if the accident was your fault and the dash-cam proved it?”

“Then the footage would conveniently disappear.” The driver snapped his fingers. “Gone.”

“Sounds like a similar story I’ve heard too much this year.” Hunter looked out the window, rubbing his brow. “Much too similar.”

It took a moment, but a realization sunk into Hunter’s mind. When it did, when a piece of knowledge lodged itself into his thoughts, he picked up the phone and called his investigator. “Ray. I need your help.”

Chapter 39

The door to Tex Hunter’s office represented so much.

When he first moved into the office, he painstakingly spent hours deciding what should go on the door. After stepping out of the elevator, there were two options on the level—to the left were the offices of Spencer and Dolan Architects, well known for their cutting-edge design renovations, and to the right, The Law Offices of Tex Hunter, Defense Attorney.

He spent so long wondering if his name should have gone on the door, or if he should have hidden it under another title. He knew his name was an invitation for violence and abuse, but he had to be proud of it, he had to hold strong in the face of the fiercest winds.

When he first moved to the floor, the other office was occupied by another law firm, however after they saw Hunter’s name on the door, they had moved to another floor within six months. The office remained empty for years, despite being a popular part of the city, until the architecture firm moved in a year later, the reduced rent too much to ignore.

Two further days of prosecution evidence had passed, two further days of laborious testimonies. Expert after expert came to the stand, each presenting a small fragment of evidence like corners of a giant puzzle. However, the middle of the puzzle, the section that puts it all together, was still missing.

The jury had to know that, Hunter reasoned, but they still had to make a decision on whether the corner pieces of the puzzle were enough for a guilty verdict.

Hunter called his local police precinct on the drive back to his office after another day in court, three weeks after the attack at Navy Pier. With all the footage available, he made the effort to report the incident to the police. They informed him no leads had been followed, no attacker identified, and despite all the evidence available to the police, no arrests had been made. He scolded them for doing a poor job, not doing enough to make an arrest, however, that was expected. He never anticipated an arrest; he never expected the case to progress any further than a file on a desk. The desk officer gave him the spiel about not enough man hours, prioritizing cases, saving people’s lives, but none of that mattered. Hunter knew his name mattered, it was his name that would ensure the case was never solved.

“Tex, you’re not going to like this email.” Esther stood as Hunter walked into the office. She followed him into his separate office, where he placed his briefcase down, sat behind his desk, and turned his computer on. “But you have to read it.”

“Esther, I don’t like any emails. And what are you still doing in the office? It’s late.”

“I was waiting for you because it’s not a nice email. It’s one of the worst.” She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, looking down to the ground. Her blonde hair fell over her face, gently dangling over her cheeks. “It’s in the business email account.”

He typed in his password, opened his emails, and right at the top, there was an email from the women’s prison. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes. “It’s Nina, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Esther nodded. “You need to read it.”

Shaking his head, he turned to the screen.

He opened the email, reading it slowly, and his heart sank.

*****

Mr. Hunter,

I’m innocent. I didn’t kill the cop.

Someone paid me money to sign the deal. They said if I took the deal, I would get paid. I don’t know who it was, but the money is in my bank account. The money is worthless. I need it just to survive in here. It’s horrible in here. I don’t think I’m going to make it ten years. I’ll be dead before then.

Help me get out of here.

Nina.

*****

Hunter could tell the tone of the email was anxious, it was desperate. He’d seen it happen many times before—she trusted someone, was taken in by their word, but that person had turned on her in prison, and taken her to the cleaners.

But there was nothing he could do.

She signed the confession, she admitted she killed Sidney McCann, and she took the deal. There was no disputing that.

“I’m sorry, Tex.” Esther stepped close to him, rubbing his arm with a caring touch. “I’m so sorry.”

“Maybe we could prove who deposited the money into her bank account.” Hunter stood, moving towards his liquor cabinet at the left side of the room. “Maybe we could trace the amount? Prove the money was put in the bank for a deal to sign the confession.”

“Would they’ve been that sloppy? They know you’re on the case, and I doubt whether they would’ve taken any risks. They’re professionals. The people that deposited money into her bank account wouldn’t have left a trace.”

“We’ll look, but of course, it’ll be a dead end. It always is.” Hunter poured a glass of Lagavulin 16-year-old single malt whisky, tipping in more than he usually would. After he dropped a cube of ice in from the bar freezer, he paused, resting his forehead against the cabinet door. “It’ll be a cash deposit through an anonymous source, most likely from someone who has already disappeared back across the border to Mexico. That’s how they work these things—take an illegal immigrant, give them no option to disagree, but pay them well, and send them back across the border. There’ll be no trace, and no one left to question.”

“I really am sorry about this one.” She bit her lip. “But I finally have the files on Chow’s business dealings. It could help with Mary-Ann’s case.”

“Go on.”

“Chow has been connected to possible arson in the past. A fire eight years earlier—a residential building in need of demolition, but the demolition would’ve been too expensive. A fire started suspiciously, but no one was ever charged. The building was then condemned, Chow collected the insurance money, and then constructed a new apartment building in its place, making a lot of money.” She placed the first file on the table. “And guess who was the Detective in charge of investigating the possible arson?”

“Sidney McCann.”

“That’s right.” She replied. “No one was hurt in that fire. And the police report, written by McCann, concluded it was an accident, despite the fire department’s arson team reporting it was suspicious. And because of the police report, it meant Chow could take the full insurance pay-out.”

“We knew this was a possibility, so tell me you have something else?”

“On a hunch, I looked into other fires in the past twenty years that were apartment blocks that were since redeveloped, and there were two more. I followed the trail of who owned those buildings, and they both lead to an investment consortium from China, and with a little more digging, guess what?”

“Chow was involved in both.” Hunter placed his finger on the table. “Meaning it was possible McCann was getting money from Chow to sign those police reports and brush the arson information under the carpet.”

“Kenneth Chow arrived in the US under a different name. I wasn’t able to find his Chinese past originally, but then I was able to track the date of his arrival, and joined the dots to his history in China.”

Hunter stood and paced the room.

“Maybe if we push hard enough, maybe if we pressure the right people, we might get a start. The prosecution may listen to us if we can bring them something solid, something real.” Hunter moved behind his table, placing his whisky glass next to his keyboard, before turning to look at his computer. “But first we need to sort out this money trail for Nina. Esther, get me the video footage from the bank. Let’s see who made the deposit. Let’s see if there’s a starting point. See if there’s a chance.”

Esther didn’t move. She remained standing before his desk, waiting.

“Esther?”

She stared at him directly.

“Tex, you have to leave this alone. We can’t do this today. This has to wait.” Esther was firm. “You can’t let Mary-Ann go to prison because you’re trying to get Nina out of there. You have to let this rest.”

“We can do both.”

“No, we can’t, and you know that. Nina’s case is going to have to wait for another two weeks, at least. We have to focus on the current case. Nina’s case can wait; she’s not going anywhere.” Esther stared at him. “Focus on Mary-Ann’s case. We can’t let two innocent people go to prison.”

He sighed, sipped his whisky, and then stared at the email.

“You’re right.”

“I usually am.” She smiled.

Hunter looked at the email again, reading it word for word, ensuring he didn’t miss anything. It broke his heart that she was languishing in prison, but he knew Esther was right.

“Kenneth Chow comes to the stand tomorrow as a prosecution witness, however, I’m going to reserve the right to bring him back at the end of the case as a defense witness. Our last man on the stand. That’ll buy us time to investigate the links to the Chinese consortium. I want you in the courtroom taking notes about what he says tomorrow.”

“Speaking of the case, Rhys McCann has been calling the office a lot. I’ve said I’ll take a message, but he doesn’t want to leave one for you.”

“Good. Don’t take a message. He’s our first defense witness.”

“What?” The shock was written on her face. “How did you convince him to come to the stand?”

“I didn’t. I sent him a subpoena a week ago. That’s why he’s been calling the office.”

“And that’s why you haven’t returned his calls.” She took a moment to let the new play sink in. “Tex, I hope you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”

“I’m going to question what Rhys McCann saw while working for Kenneth Chow. He’s connected to this case. He worked for Chow in the months before the car was stolen.”

“Tex. No.” She shook her head. “I can see it. The whole court will see it. You’re going to try and prove Sidney McCann’s corruption is related to this case. This is the wrong way to get your father out of prison.”

“If it comes out that Rhys McCann’s father was corrupt, then I can’t stop it.”

“But this isn’t about Mary-Ann’s case anymore. You’ve put your focus somewhere else.”

“This is about Mary-Ann’s case.” Hunter stood. “This is about keeping an innocent woman out of prison, and it’s about cleaning up the history of corruption in this city.”

“But he won’t talk. He won’t cross Chow. There’s bound to be pressure from him to say exactly what Chow wants him to say.”

“He will talk. He will say what he’s seen in the past.” Hunter paused, and then tapped his finger on the table again. “Because Ray has found new information that Rhys McCann can’t dispute.”

Chapter 40

Kenneth Chow was led to the witness stand by the bailiff, walking through the court with a remarkable tranquility. Although cunning and sly outside the courtroom walls, the well-dressed Chow appeared intelligent and respectful. He wore his best black business suit, with a dark blue silk tie in a perfect Windsor knot, and his black shoes were polished to appear brand new. He looked like he was successful, in something at least. He swore his oath as directed, nodded to the jury, and sat in the witness stand, awaiting the questions from the prosecution.

For Chow, stepping into the courtroom was a part of the game, a part of the role he had to play in staying a successful businessman.

“Mr. Chow,” Alwen began. “Do you know Mary-Ann Steele, the defendant?”

“I do.”

“And how do you know Mrs. Steele?”

“Her son, Anthony Steele, was involved in a workplace accident at a residential development site I owned. Unfortunately, Anthony Steele passed away in that accident more than two years ago.” Chow did his best to convey his false sadness—the shaking of the head, the quick blinking, the fake frown. “Since Anthony’s death, Mrs. Steele has been protesting at various development sites about workplace safety, however I have assured her many times that the developments I manage are safe. She has been relentless over the past few years.”

“The prosecution would like to introduce evidence from the Workplace Safety Report into Anthony Steele’s passing. The report is signed by a member of the Chicago Police Department.” Alwen presented a copy of the report to the judge, the defense, and then to the jurors. “Mr. Chow, can you please inform the court what is written in the conclusion of this report?”

“The report concludes,” Chow flicked through the five-page document until he reached the end. “’There were no circumstances within the safety guidelines that could have prevented Anthony Steele’s death.’”

“Did Mrs. Steele speak to you on August 2nd of last year?”

“She did.”

“And what did she say?”

“She yelled at me, called me many different names, a lot that weren’t very nice. She said she held me responsible for the death of her son.” He’d practiced his lines over and over at home, practiced his facial expressions in the mirror, and practiced his tone with the prosecution. His manner, his expressions, the nuances that convince a person of the truth, were all part of the game for Chow. It was all part of the play. “As I walked into the current development I manage, she said, and I quote, that I ‘would pay a price.’”

“Those were her exact words? ‘Pay a price?’”

“Yes.”

“Did she elaborate on how you would pay that price?”

“No.”

“Had you ever felt threatened by Mrs. Steele?”

“I haven’t, no.”

“And when you first realized your car had been stolen, who did you suspect?”

“Objection. Calls for speculation.” Hunter stated loudly. “The answer to that question has no basis in fact.”

“Sustained. Move on, counsellor.” Judge Ramos responded.

“Yes, Your Honor.” Alwen flicked another file open. “Mr. Chow, can you please describe to the court your actions that evening, and why you left the keys in the car?”

Detailing the steps he took that night, Chow went through his actions, explaining why he left the keys in the car, as he often did, and why he left his car in that location, choosing to catch a cab home after a few drinks that night, rather than risk driving home drunk. Plausible, but not convincing.

After an hour of further testimony, the prosecution handed the witness to the defense. Hunter waited a moment before he began his cross-examination, reviewed his file, took a sip of water and then stood, walking in front of the lectern, his left hand in his pocket.

“Thank you for taking the time to be with us here today, Mr. Chow.” Hunter began. “Can you please tell the court if you were totally honest in your testimony today?”

“I was.”

“And will you continue to do so?”

“Of course.”

“Mr. Chow, have you ever been convicted of a crime?”

“No.”

“Neither here nor overseas?”

“That’s correct.”

“Have you ever been convicted of a felony?”

“No, I have not.”

“Have you ever been convicted of a misdemeanor?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had any trouble with the law, either here or overseas?”

“Never.”

“Have you ever been arrested?”

“No.”

“Have you ever spent time in prison, either here or overseas?”

“No.”

“Have you been as truthful in those answers as you have been with the rest of your testimony?”

There it was. The clincher. The big swinging right fist. The one that would rattle Chow’s cage.

“Of course.”

“Mr. Chow, were you born in China?”

“I was.”

“What age were you when you arrived from China to this country?”

“Nineteen.”

“Have you returned to China since?”

“Not since 1981.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I love America. I’m an American citizen.”

“Have you ever been known by the name Sun Jing Chow?”

He glanced at the prosecution table and shook his head. There was panic in his eyes.

“Mr. Chow?”

The witness squirmed in his chair.

“Mr. Chow, on your immigration record, is the name Sun Jing Chow recorded?”

“It’s not on my passport. It’s never been a name that I’ve been called in the US. I took the name Kenneth when I arrived. That’s what’s on my passport.”

“That’s not the question I asked.” Hunter shook his index finger. “So, I’ll ask you again, on your immigration record, is the name Sun Jing Chow recorded?”

“It could be.”

“And do you still maintain you have been truthful to this court in declaring you have never been convicted of a crime?”

Chow’s mouth hung open for a few moments.

“I…” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“The defense would like to offer into evidence the arrest report of Sun Jing Chow in the Guangdong Province of China for the crime of arson, dated January 1981.” Hunter handed a file to the opposing counsel, then the judge, and with no objections forthcoming, he continued. “Mr. Chow, in the arrest report of Sun Jing Chow, there’s a photo of the person who was convicted of the crime. Can you please tell the court if this is a photo of you?”

The men at the prosecution table seemed to shake their heads in unison as Hunter handed the file to the witness.

“Listen, it is me but,” Chow responded softly. “It was in China. It wasn’t here. I—”

“No further questions at this point.” Hunter walked back to his table. “However, we reserve the right to recall this man as a defense witness.”

Chow stepped off the stand, looking defeated, looking like the liar he was. The jury members stared at him as he walked past the prosecution table, their thoughts about his testimony almost loud enough to hear.

“The prosecution rests.” Alwen stated after Chow exited the court.

It was the ending to the prosecution’s witnesses that Hunter was after. The jury members were beginning to ask questions. The doubt had begun to rise.

The game was on.

Chapter 41

Rhys McCann hated the attention. The eyes of the jury, the ears of the judge, and the focus of the lawyers were going to be squarely on him. He hated that thought. He hated even looking at himself in the mirror, and he hated what other people would think when they looked at him.

He spent the morning preparing as best he could—four Advil for the hangover, with two extra in his pocket, a hot shower for the body odor, and two coffees for his mind. This was his day in court, the day he’d been dreading. He knew the lawyers were smart, smarter than he was, and they would try and trick him with their convoluted questions.

And that’s the problem with lies—they’re so easily taken apart.

He stepped into the courtroom when called as a witness, looked to Mary-Ann, the desperation on her face, and then to the jury, the apprehension on their faces. Wearing a suit one size too big, and a pair of old shoes, he looked like he worked for minimum wage. The sweat was already starting to build under his shirt, and he was glad he had a jacket to hide the growing wet patches.

Li McCann was sitting on a seat in the courtroom, supporting her stepson, waiting for his version of events from a year prior. They talked about what he would say, they discussed what the lawyers would ask, and they were nervous about the mistakes he could make. As a contracted security guard, he’d provided a witness statement to police after the car was found in the reserve, and he almost memorized every word. Once Rhys McCann was sworn in, he turned to the defense lawyer, staring at him, waiting for the lawyer to try and outwit him.

“Can you state your name for the court?” Hunter stood, ready to begin the defense case.

“Rhys McCann.” Rhys leaned forward to the microphone.

“And can you inform the court who your father is?” Hunter planted the question early in the testimony to poke the belly of the beast, to get under the skin of his witness. Hunter already knew what the answer would be.

“No.”

“Pardon, Mr. McCann? Are you refusing to answer the question?”

“I don’t want to talk about him here. He has nothing to do with this case.”

“Permission to treat the witness as hostile, Your Honor.” Hunter turned to the judge.

“He’s your witness, Mr. Hunter. You called him and we’re only two questions into your case.”

“And he has information he’s not sharing.” Hunter replied. “Mr. McCann’s testimony is essential to the truth, and he’s clearly withholding information.”

Judge Ramos looked to the prosecution table, watched them talk amongst themselves for a moment, and when they offered no objection, he waved Hunter on. “Permission is granted to treat this witness as hostile.”

“Is deceased detective Sidney McCann your father?”

“That’s right.”

“And can you please inform the court what your relationship is with the car owner, Mr. Kenneth Chow?”

“I work for a security company, Benson Security, and we’re contracted to provide security monitoring to Mr. Chow’s work site.” His tone was nice, formal, if not friendly. “It’s a solid job.”

“Did you work there on August 2nd last year?”

“No.”

“Did you work at that site in Chinatown in the week prior to the car being stolen?”

“No. I was at home sick all that week. I had the flu.”

“Were you anywhere near the site on that day?”

“I was at home in my apartment all day.”

“Interesting.” Hunter shrugged. He leaned against the lectern. “I’m going to play you footage of that night and can you please tell me if you are in the picture?”

“Footage?” The shock was plastered on his face. “I wasn’t told about any footage.”

“The defense would like to introduce recently obtained footage from the Town-Side Cab Company. This footage has been provided by the cab company for the night in question.”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Alwen stood. “Lack of foundation. We have no idea of the authenticity of this evidence. We will need time for our experts to determine the authenticity of the footage.”

“I assure you, Your Honor, the foundation of this evidence will be quickly established. It was given by the Town-Side Cab Company, and the Managing Director of that company has signed an affidavit on its accuracy.” Hunter retorted, picking up a piece of paper and handing it to Judge Ramos.

Ramos read the words purposely, then nodded. “I’ll allow it. The objection is overruled, but get to the point quickly, Mr. Hunter.”

“The footage we have obtained is from the dash-cameras of the cabs that drove through the area that night.” Hunter nodded to Esther, sitting at the defense table, and she typed on her laptop to start the first piece of footage on the court monitor at the side of the room. “You see, Mr. McCann, some cabs are fitted with dash-cameras for insurance and security purposes. The by-product of that system is they record everything they drive past. All cabs also have GPS trackers, so we can see where a cab was, what street they were in, and what exact time they were there. By tracking the GPS data, we have evidence there were two cabs in that street over the fifteen minutes between 11:11pm and 11:24pm. Everything is recorded, Mr. McCann, even when we think things aren’t being recorded, in this day and age, we always find something. As you can see from the timestamp on the dash-camera footage, this recording starts at 11:11pm on August 2nd. Can you please inform the court if you see Mr. Chow’s Jaguar sedan?”

The footage ran, the name of the street clearly visible as the cab rounded the corner, and Esther paused the footage as the cab drove past a parked white car. There appeared to be a person, dressed in black, leaning against the back of the car, however the picture wasn’t clear.

“Mr. McCann, do you recognize any car in that footage?”

“Who knows?” He looked to the jury and scoffed. “A lot of cars look the same. Looks like the same make and model as the stolen car, but there are many of those cars in Chicago.”

“Do you know the license plate number for the sedan that was stolen?”

“No, I don’t.”

“It was plate number, AU 72670.” Hunter moved across to the screen. “Mr. McCann, can you please tell the court the numbers on that vehicle?”

He leaned forward. “AU 72670.”

“In that footage, can you see a person leaning against the back of the car?”

“I can.”

“And do you know who that is?”

“No.”

“Are you sure, Mr. McCann?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Roll the footage of the next cab.”

Esther did as instructed; the second cab coming from the other direction down the empty road, first past a clear street sign, and then traveling further down the road. As the cab approached the parked Jaguar, the footage paused for a moment. From the dash-cam footage, the face of the person leaning against the sedan was clear.

“Can you please tell the court who is leaning against the back of the sedan?”

Rhys sat back, mouth agape.

“Mr. McCann? Can you please tell the court who is leaning against the car?”

“It appears to be me.”

“Appears to be?” Hunter walked back over to the screen and tapped on the screen. “Appears to be?! I’m not sure how often you look in the mirror, Mr. McCann, but that picture looks exactly like you. Is it you or not?”

“Look, it was a long time ago.” Rhys started talking with large hand movements. “I probably got my nights mixed up. You know how it is with working late, one night blends into the next. Who knows where I was one night a year ago?”

“So I’ll ask you again, where were you on the night the car was stolen and later torched?”

“It looks like I was near the car.”

“And what were you doing there that night? You don’t appear to be in work uniform?”

“Just hanging around.”

Hunter raised his eyebrows. The sweat started to appear on Rhys’s brow, and he turned away from the jury, before wiping it away. He knew at this point; he was almost trapped, and he had to do what he had always done—talk his way out of it.

“Mr. McCann, can you please tell us what happened after this cab drove past?”

“I went home.”

“How did you get home?” Hunter continued.

“I guess…” Rhys looked to his stepmother. “I guess I walked home.”

“Is it a long way to your apartment from there?”

“I needed the exercise.”

“Before your father died, police officer Sidney McCann, talked about legacy. He talked about the legacy he would leave behind. What’s your legacy? What is it that you are going to leave behind?”

“Objection.” The prosecutor cut in. “Irrelevant. This family talk is not relevant to this case.”

The turmoil was clear on Rhys’s face.

“Sustained. Move on, Mr. Hunter.”

Hunter nodded, but the seed had been planted in Rhys’s mind.

“Mr. McCann,” Hunter walked across the room, standing in front of where Li McCann sat. “Did you have anything to do with stealing the Jaguar?”

“Objection,” Alwen interrupted. “Leading the witness. Clearly, this is an attempt at distraction.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. McCann, do you know anything about who stole the car?”

Rhys looked at his stepmother, then the judge, and then the jury. His pause was long enough to be a time-out in a football game.

“Mr. McCann,” Judge Ramos insisted. “Please answer the question.”

“Sorry… what was the question again?”

“Do you know who stole the car?”

“No.”

“When a cab is active, it records the dash-cam footage, immediately uploading its location and visual information to the cloud.” Hunter continued. “That data is then available to review. We have that information here, listed in this report. This location data places you at that Chinatown location exactly between 11:11 pm and 11:24 pm. We can see you next to the car. Who are you protecting?”

Rhys drew in a breath, moved in his chair, and pulled his shoulders back.

“Alright. I saw the car that night.” He began to look flustered. He couldn’t sit still. His eyes were on the exit. He began to formulate the best way out of his dilemma.

“Mr. McCann, the evidence is here. The charade is over. It’s time to let go of your secrets. It’s time to give up. Who stole the car?”

Rhys bit his lip, looking at the people in the courtroom, tears building in his eyes. “I was there, but I didn’t steal the car.”

“It’s over.” Hunter’s voice was low. “We have footage of you next to the car. We know you’ve lied to the court. Now is the time to be honest. Save your own skin. Don’t go down for someone else’s crime. Save yourself. Who told you to steal the car?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Rhys stared at the door. There were too many people between him and the exit. “I didn’t commit any crime.”

“There’s no more running, Rhys. There’s no more hiding. It’s time to admit the truth. Who stole the car?”

Rhys rubbed his face, looked down.

“Mr. McCann?” Hunter pressed.

“My life is hell anyway.” Rhys whispered.

“Sorry?”

“Chow can’t make my life any worse than it already is.” He murmured. “My life is hell.”

“Do you admit to stealing the car?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—”

“Of course, you know! How could you forget taking the car?! The evidence is here!” Hunter slapped his hand on the lectern.

“I didn’t—”

“You did! You drove that car away, didn’t you?!”

“I didn’t steal it!”

“You set her up!” Hunter shouted. “You set the defendant up for money, didn’t you?!”

“No!” Rhys bit his lip, looking at his stepmother, tears building in his eyes. “I took the car, but I didn’t steal it!”

“You admit you drove the Jaguar, license plate AU 72670, away from the scene on August 2nd?”

“I drove it away.” He conceded. “But I didn’t break the law by taking the car. I didn’t steal it.”

“What do you mean you didn’t steal it?”

“I had the keys.”

“Mr. Chow gave you the keys to his car?”

“That’s right.”

“And why did Mr. Chow give you the keys to his car?” Hunter turned and looked to Mrs. Li McCann. Her stepson did the same, before looking into his hands.

“I was paid by Chow to steal Mary-Ann’s handbag, and then pretend to steal his car. He didn’t pay me to burn it. I was supposed to take the car, put the handbag on the front seat, and leave it in the reserve near Mary-Ann’s place. Then the cops would find it, and harass Mary-Ann. She was never supposed to have charges filed against her, just roughed up and told to leave the site alone, or Chow would press charges.”

“Which cops?”

“Chow was in the pockets of some cops, I don’t know which ones. He was paying someone.” Rhys fought back the tears. “He paid me to steal the handbag and dump the car near her house. Just to get her off the work site. She was causing trouble for the workers. Too much disruption.”

“How much were you paid?”

“Five hundred.” He whispered. “Five hundred to drive the car to the reserve. I didn’t break the law. All I did was drive a car.”

“Then why burn the car? Why set it alight?”

“Because of stupid Sid.”

Rhys didn’t elaborate, but he didn’t have to.

Hunter had already figured it out.

Chapter 42

The pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

It was all there, all the information he was after—the week off work, the bags of ice, the sale of the freezer. Something heavy dragged out of the trunk of the car.

“Where was your father from July 26th until August 2nd?” Hunter questioned.

“How would I know?”

“You were the only one that knew where Sidney McCann was for the week after the July 26th.”

“I didn’t mean to say Sid.”

“You took the week off work. You filled your freezer with bags of ice. You sold your freezer the week after.” Hunter’s tone was soft. “That’s what was dragged out of the trunk. That’s why you torched the car. That’s why you had to get rid of the freezer. To destroy the evidence. Did he start to smell? Is that why you had to dump the body? You didn’t have a car, but you used Chow’s car to transport his body.”

Rhys McCann didn’t respond.

“The truth, Mr. McCann. It’s time for the truth.”

“Stupid Sid. He shouldn’t have tried to make everything right,” he whispered. “Sid shouldn’t have done that to her.”

“Her?”

“No! That’s not what I said!” He slammed his hand on the arm of his chair. “I didn’t say her!”

“Her?” Hunter leaned forward. “Who?! Who are you talking about?!”

Rhys looked up, to the seats of the courtroom, and his eyes landed on the woman who had stood up suddenly. She clutched her bag to her chest, trying to shield herself from the truth. Li McCann stood motionless, caught under the direct gaze of everyone in the courtroom. Every single pair of eyes was locked onto her.

On instinct, she moved, keeping her head down, her hair dropping over her face, making her way towards the exit. At the end of the row of seats, Nathan Steele, large enough to cast a long shadow, stood, blocking her path.

Li McCann looked back to her stepson seated on the witness stand, but he looked away, avoiding eye contact. She had no option but to sit back down, and she did it slowly, gripping her handbag to her chest.

“What happened?” Hunter turned back to his witness.

“I… I don’t know,” he stated, trying to save his own skin. “She called me.”

“Who called you?”

“Li. My stepmother.”

“And what did she say?”

“That I had to talk some sense into Sid. I had to do something. She begged me to do something. She begged me to stop him. Stupid Sid said he was ready to uncover everything. He was ready to turn over on everyone he ever knew. Li didn’t want that. She didn’t want to go through all the pain again. She wanted me to help her.”

“So you killed him?”

“It was self-defense!” Rhys pleaded. “He came to my apartment after he talked to Nina Aisha. Stupid Sid said he felt like he had to expose everything for Nina. He had to do it for the girl. For the girl! What about me? Why couldn’t he have done anything for me?!” Knowing his lies had been blown, Rhys formulated the best option to talk his way out of the situation. “He tried to attack me, but I moved in self-defense. It was self-defense. I didn’t mean to hit him that hard. He tried to grab me, push me against the wall, so I hit him. I was trying to save myself.” Rhys shook his head, the whole court on edge until he continued. “After I punched him, he fell and knocked his head on the side of my freezer. I didn’t mean to kill him. It was an accident. I only hit him once.”

“What happened next?”

“I panicked. There was so much blood and I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t call the police. They’re so corrupt, they would’ve arrested me on the spot. They’re all corrupt. I couldn’t trust them.”

“What did you do?”

“I wrapped him in five trash bags, and put him into my freezer.”

“You put your dad in the freezer and covered him with ice. That’s why you bought the bags of ice.”

“After a week, he started to smell. I had to get rid of his body, but I didn’t have my car. It was in the workshop. When Chow paid me to take his car, I knew it was my opportunity to get rid of his body.”

“And you drove the Jaguar to your apartment, put your father in the trunk, and then drove it to the reserve.”

“Li picked me up afterwards. She said she was proud of me. That all our troubles were now gone.” Rhys shook his head. “Chow didn’t know I burned the car. He thought someone else did it. That it was a coincidence.” He wiped his eyes and looked up. “But it was self-defense. Sid tried to attack me. Sid wanted to attack me. I was defending myself. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Rhys McCann, the time for lies is over. You called your father to your apartment, punched him, and then dumped his body in the river a week later.” Hunter stared at the man on the witness stand. “That’s not self-defense. That’s cold-blooded murder.”

Hunter had a killer. He had an arsonist. A fraudster.

But he didn’t have a dirty cop.

Not yet.

Chapter 43

Joy filled the room in the Italian restaurant off Halsted St.

The restaurant was the Steele family’s favorite—it was the place that had seen so many celebrations for their family, so many successes. The restaurant owner was a good friend, and he heartily filled their plates with pasta and cups with wine, joining in on the success of the court case. Nathan was louder than usual, unable to contain his excitement, Mary-Ann couldn’t wipe the grin off her face, and Esther’s broad smile lit up the room.

Satisfaction was the strongest feeling for Hunter—satisfaction that he had kept Mary-Ann out of prison, satisfaction that Nina Aisha was soon to be freed, and satisfaction that the house of justice, the house he had faith in, still stood strong.

“We cannot thank you enough,” Nathan Steele shook Hunter’s hand again. It was the fifth time in the past hour. “What you did in the courtroom was amazing. We have our lives back. We were set-up by that creep, and now he’s the one in prison. That’ll teach him to mess with good people.”

“Well, at least teach him not to mess with Tex Hunter.” Mary-Ann smiled, reaching across to rub his arm. “Thank you so, so much, Tex. I can’t thank you enough. All this stress, all these worries, I’ll be able to put them behind me and move on.

“So what happens now?” Nathan drank more of the red wine. “Apart from more celebrating, of course.”

He clinked his glass with Esther’s, smiles beaming across the room. They were unable to contain it, unable to hold it in any longer. The drops of red wine spilled on the red table cloth, but it didn’t matter. For the four people at the table, this was no time to think about the little things.

“All the charges against you have been dropped, and you’re free to go and live your life. Rhys McCann admitted to setting you up for the arson attempt, and to dumping his father’s body, and he’ll be going away for a very long time.”

“And Chow?” Nathan asked. “Tell me he’ll be joining him behind bars.”

“He’ll be charged as an accessory to the fraudulent activity; however, I have a feeling that Rhys will spill everything he knows about Chow and his operations. If Rhys does talk, Chow will be in prison for a long time as well. But even without those charges, with a criminal record for fraudulent behavior, Chow will be banned from running another business in this country. He’ll have his directorships cancelled.”

“Yay!” Mary-Ann clapped her hands together. “It won’t bring my son back, but it’s worth celebrating.”

“And for the girl? Nina?”

“The paperwork for her release is being processed as we speak.” Esther replied. “She’ll be out of prison soon, but the confession is still going to be hard to overturn. She should be out within the month.”

For the next few hours, they laughed, they smiled, and even sang together. The buzz of winning a case, the joy of taking victory against the odds, was a moment Hunter enjoyed immensely.

As they said their goodbyes, hugs abounding on the sidewalk, Mary-Ann had tears in her eyes, a chapter of her life now closed. After the Steeles left in their cab, hangovers sure to follow them in the morning, Hunter waved goodbye, before turning on the dark street to stare into nothingness.

“What is it, Tex?” Esther stood beside him on the quiet sidewalk as the sun started to dip behind the skyline of their city.

“Sorry?”

“I’ve seen that look so many times before, and I know exactly what it means.” She crossed her arms as a cold wind blew around them. “It means there’s something in your head.”

“It’s the connection between McCann and Nina that’s bugging me. We’ve looked at all the cases, all the things that could tie them together, and there’s nothing. Nothing. Even though Nina thought it was because of Mr. Bishop, there’s nothing that ties McCann to her. He had nothing to do with the school. So why was he looking for her that night? Why was he saying sorry?”

“Who knows? Sidney McCann was a corrupt cop. He could’ve done anything. Maybe he shot Nina’s parents in a drug bust, or maybe he hit them with his car? Maybe Sidney McCann’s the reason Nina doesn’t have any parents, and that’s why he went to say sorry.”

“Of course.” Hunter turned to the street, hailing a cab. “Of course, Esther.”

“Tex?” Esther turned. “Where are you going?”

“To finish this.”

CHAPTER 44

The fried chicken always tasted better on a Tuesday night.

John Yates wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe it was the cook that was scheduled on, or maybe the chicken had soaked in batter that extra bit longer, after the weekend’s rush, but late-night Tuesday was always his favorite. The floor beneath his stool was dirty, with small pieces of food littered all over it.

His younger detective partner stood in front of the car, eating her vegetable wrap. She wouldn’t even step into the chicken joint, too greasy for her. That, and she had a great disgust for anything Yates did. He was sexist, a pig, a man whose attitudes were stuck in the seventies. He knew why they assigned her to him—she was watching him like a hawk, making sure he didn’t step out of line in the year before his retirement.

She didn’t want to share dinner with him, she even struggled to share a car with him, but he didn’t care.

It was that moment of crispy chicken, that moment of divine joy, that he was craving. She insisted that they needed to run another interview on the case they were working, but he couldn’t take another step before he refueled.

His moment of joy was interrupted by the car that parked in front of the shop.

He knew that car.

He knew what it meant.

It wasn’t a coincidence, and it wasn’t by chance that the car pulled up directly outside his dinner spot.

Onto the sidewalk stepped First Deputy Superintendent John Steven Whaler. The man stood tall as he nodded to his partner, who then pointed to the chicken shop. She’d ratted him out, told Whaler his whereabouts. But he expected that.

What Yates didn’t expect to see was the man that stepped out on the other side of the car—defense attorney Tex Hunter.

Yates subtly checked his gun. Unclipped it. Readied himself for what was to come next.

Another car pulled up on the street. He knew the two detectives that stepped out of the car.

Both men were from the Internal Affairs Division.

They knew him well, and he knew them. The two tall men from the first car led the IA detectives into the quiet shop, staring straight at Yates. Not a good sign.

“John Yates.”

Yates didn’t respond, not even looking up, keeping his eyes on his dinner.

The four men kept their distance at the end of the long red counter, standing strong as they stared at him.

“Yates.” First Deputy Superintendent Whaler repeated. “We have to talk.”

“The way I see it; the talking has already been done.” Yates licked his fingers, cherishing the flavor. “And I guess a lot of the talking has been done by the defense lawyer there. And when someone like that does some talking, he convinces everyone of his lies. But you shouldn’t listen to him—he’s a killer’s son. The son of a criminal.”

“Tell us what happened when you won the bravery award.” Hunter stepped forward. “The day you and Sidney McCann rescued the girl from the burning building.”

“The award? That’s what this is about?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Of course. Sidney McCann.” He shook his head in disbelief, picking up another piece of chicken. He picked at the skin again, his favorite punch of flavor. “Even from beyond the grave, his little turnaround in life is still making a difference. His legacy, eh?”

“You lit the fire, didn’t you?” Hunter stood tall, next to the First Deputy Superintendent and in front of the two Detectives. “The fire that you got an award for, you started it. The building was owned by a consortium that Kenneth Chow was a part of, and he paid you to light the fire.”

“Chow?” He scoffed again. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“He’s in custody right now.” Hunter continued. “He’s trying to do a deal to save his own skin. The time is up.”

“You’ve got Chow in custody? Well, that’s it then.” He was sarcastic, throwing his hands up in the air. “Come and arrest me right now.”

“How about you put your gun on the table first.” Whaler was firm.

Yates slid off the stool.

“You think I’m going to prison for this? This was all Sid’s idea. Take the money for the burning building, take the money from Chow. It was how it was all supposed to work. The buildings were losing money, and they were supposed to be empty worksites. That’s what Chow told us. The family wasn’t supposed to be in the building. They were squatters.”

“Squatters?” Hunter questioned.

“The building was supposed to be empty. Chow told us it was going to be empty, so we lit the fire. But the screams for help, the screams, they…” He shook his head. The years of nightmares had gotten to him, eaten away at his resolve. “They never leave you. You hear them at night, when you try to go to sleep, whenever you close your eyes. The building was supposed to be empty.”

“So you ran into the burning building to save them?”

“We both did. We could only save the little girl, who was sleeping in a different room from the rest of the family. We took her out, and tried to go back in, but the fire was too strong. I pulled Sid back, I had to stop my partner from being burned alive. If it wasn’t for me holding him back, he would’ve died in the fire along with the family.” He rested one hand on the bench. “And then Chow paid us double the payment, five thousand each. Five thousand to Sid McCann, and five thousand to me. That’s all we got for it. Five grand.”

“Three people died in the building fire for your money.”

“Three died and one girl survived. The stupid girl that Sid went looking for. Nina. As if saying sorry to her was going to make a difference. As if saying sorry to the girl was going to change anything for her.”

“Three people died in a building fire, one girl was left with nothing, and you got five thousand dollars, and a bravery award.”

“We started the fire. What’s brave about that?” Yates paused for a long moment, spotting one last piece of crispy skin chicken. “You know, I’m glad you found me here.” He picked at the chicken, closed his eyes, and relished the zest. “Because for a last meal, this chicken is perfect.”

He turned. Reached for his gun. Pulled it out. Lifted it towards Hunter. The defense lawyer.

If he was going down, he would take Hunter with him.

Before he could pull the trigger, five shots powered into his torso.

John Yates fell for the last time.

A dirty cop on a dirty floor.

CHAPTER 45

The residential apartment building on the edge of Chinatown was fifteen years old. The trees next to the sidewalk had grown tall, the waist-high brick fence around the yard was recently replaced, and the building had been given a new coat of paint. There were five levels of apartments, each with different curtains, each with their own seemingly unique character. The building had been through an extensive renovation in the past year, required after it failed a routine City Council building inspection, providing the complex a fresh look. Next to the building was a park, a small green space to contrast the concrete jungle beyond the street.

Tex Hunter’s BMW pulled up to the sidewalk, parking only a few feet from the entrance. Hunter exited the car and walked around to the passenger door, opening it and waiting for the nervous girl to exit.

“Is this it?” Nina Aisha stepped out of Hunter’s car, holding a bouquet of flowers.

“It is.”

Tears filled Nina’s eyes as she looked at the building, the one built on the ashes of her family. Quietly, slowly, she placed the bouquet of flowers at the foot of the fence in front of the building, leaving them on the sidewalk, and then made the sign of the cross.

It took her a long time to write the words in the card.

She wasn’t sure what she should write, if anything. No words seem fitting. Finally, after hours of contemplation, she settled on the words: Mom, Dad, Reginald. Rest in Peace. Love, Antonina. Leaving the flowers and the card on the edge of the sidewalk, she stepped back, crossed her arms, and held back the tears that threatened to pour out.

“Fifteen years ago, this is where my father, my mother and my brother died. All because two corrupt cops wanted more money.”

“Yates, McCann and Chow had run the racket for a while—they would burn the buildings down, and then sign off on the insurance report, despite what the fire department had stated. This was the last of them. They never did it again after this one.” Hunter leaned against the car. “And now, they’ll never have the chance to be corrupt again.”

“Thanks to Sidney McCann.” Nina added. “I forgive him. I really do. I hold no anger or hatred for his actions. He tried to redeem himself. He even found me and said sorry. That’s worth something.”

Nina walked forward and rested her hand on the wall, tears welling in her eyes.

“Bye Mom. Bye Dad. Bye brother.” She whispered. “I love you.”

She stayed there for ten minutes, barely moving, staring at the brick fence, a moment to connect with the family she never knew. She had found their photo in a police file about the fire, and they looked exactly like she’d imagined—strong, proud, and smiling. Her brother’s first school photo, at five years old, was the cutest thing she’d ever seen.

When she finally took her hand off the fence, she moved back to Hunter’s car, leaning next to him.

“One of the guards said you only took my case because you could get your father out of prison. Can you do that now?”

“It’s complicated, Nina.” Hunter responded. “There’s a culture of silence, a culture of looking after each other, and they won’t look into dead cops.”

“So he’s got no chance of getting out?”

“I don’t know.” Hunter kept his hands in his pockets. “It’s not likely, he’s only got another year to live, but you never know what the future holds. You never know what can happen. That’s what hope is—the ability to wish for the best even when faced with the worst. And hope is all I have at the moment.”

“At least I’ve come out of this with hope for the future. The bribe money certainly helps.”

Hunter smiled. “From what we’ve found, the money was a cash deposit into your account by a citizen of Mexico. Most likely the money came from the top, or it could’ve even come from Yates. We don’t know, but what I do know is that they won’t be coming after it. It’s too risky for them.”

“So the cops won’t come after me?”

“Not a chance. The web of lies spun by McCann, Yates, and Chow is starting to be unraveled, and there are many more people going down with this case. We’ve destroyed a corruption racket. Chow was paying off a lot of people, and those names are being arrested as we speak. We’ve done good, Nina.”

“What about the man that paid the cops to burn the buildings down?”

“A number of people have turned over on Chow, including Rhys McCann. They spilled the beans on who Chow was paying, what he was paying them for, and the reports have been brought before the courts. He may even be charged in relation to your family’s deaths, but already, with just the fraud charges, he’s going away for a very long time.”

Nina smiled.

Not for revenge or retaliation, but because the memory of her family wasn’t forgotten.

It took Hunter a month to overturn Nina’s confession, even with Rhys McCann’s admission of guilt. It was a slow process, a mountain of paperwork, but the courts couldn’t charge two people with the same crime and different theories. The evidence was against McCann, and he struck a deal for ten years, exposing everything he knew about his father and Chow in the process.

“I’ve got more good news. They’ve found Mr. Bishop, the man who abused you.”

“How’s that good news?”

“He’s currently serving a five-year sentence in prison in Chile for abusing another teenager, and I’ve heard he isn’t having a good time. Chances are he won’t make it to the end of his sentence alive.”

Nina didn’t react. She felt nothing for the man—no hatred, loathing, or vengeance. Her life journey, as short as it had been so far, had already taught her that holding onto hate only hurts her. Mr. Bishop deserved to be punished for his crimes, but she had already moved on.

“What’s next for you, Nina?”

“With the money I’ve got from the bribe, I’m going to study at a community college. I’m going to study nursing. I want to help people.”

Hunter smiled. He may not have saved his father, but he saved a good person from suffering a terrible fate.

“My grandfather, may he rest in peace, always repeated one thing, and he always made sure I believed in it.” Hunter rested a hand on her shoulder. “From the darkest ashes rise the strongest trees. And Nina, I hope that’s true for you.”

THE END

Author’s Note:

Thank you for reading Corrupt Justice. I hope you enjoyed the twists and turns of this plot.

As I was writing this story, I lost two old friends and it affected me deeply. The main focus of the plot was corruption, but as I was writing I began to think about legacy. Why do we do what we do? What do we leave behind? Why are some people taken much too early?

Life experience greatly affects the way I write about characters, and that was particularly true this time.

Patrick was the quarterback of his high school football team. During his adventures across the globe, he charmed everyone he ever met with his wide, warm and welcoming smile. At only 42, his sudden passing left behind his wife Jessica, and two energetic children, Dylan and Amelia.

Derek was seemingly born with a cheeky grin on his face. I’ll forever remember him from our college days, standing in the hallway of our share house, loudly singing his favorite childhood song—Rainbow Connection by Kermit the Frog.

May they rest in peace.

Much love,

Peter O’Mahoney

Also by Peter O’Mahoney

*****

In the Tex Hunter Series:

Power and Justice

Faith and Justice

Coming soon: Tex Hunter 4

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In the Bill Harvey Legal Thriller Series:

Redeeming Justice

Will of Justice

Fire and Justice

A Time for Justice

Truth and Justice

*****

In the Jack Valentine Series:

Gates of Power