DEADLY

JUSTICE

PETER O’MAHONEY

Deadly Justice: A Legal Thriller

Peter O’Mahoney

Copyright © 2020

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.

DEADLY JUSTICE

TEX HUNTER SERIES BOOK 4

PETER O’MAHONEY

Also by Peter O’Mahoney

*****

In the Tex Hunter Series:

Power and Justice

Faith and Justice

Corrupt Justice

Coming soon:

Saving Justice: Tex Hunter 5

*****

In the Jack Valentine Series:

Gates of Power

Stolen Power

*****

In the Bill Harvey Legal Thriller Series:

Redeeming Justice

Fire and Justice

Will of Justice

A Time for Justice

Truth and Justice

*****

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

THE END

Author’s Note:

Bravery is the choice to stand up when everyone else has sat down.

Chapter 1

“The court of law is not a court of justice.”

Criminal defense attorney Tex Hunter hated that quote. He hated the connotation behind it, he hated the way it was delivered, and he particularly hated the person who first said it to him thirty years ago. That man was standing in front of him again. The man was now balder, and heavier, but his demeanor was unmistakable.

“I have no time for you. Go and buy someone else with your bribes.” Hunter moved past the man in the marbled foyer of the George N. Leighton Criminal Courthouse. The foyer was filled with lawyers, assistants, and defendants hustling past, eager to defend, defeat, or defy the judicial system.

“I think you’ll have time for me and my sense of justice.” The man called out as Hunter stepped around him. “It’s about your father.”

Hunter stopped in his tracks. Rick Cowan knew his father’s murder trial, and conviction, well. Most of Chicago did. More than thirty years earlier, Alfred Hunter, a mild-mannered accountant, was arrested for the murder of eight teenage girls, and the ensuing trial etched the Hunter name into the city’s folklore.

“You look good, Tex. You’re well groomed, you’re obviously keeping fit, and that’s an expensive suit. And it looks like you’ve grown even taller.” Rick Cowan looked up to take in Hunter’s towering figure. “It’s been a while since we talked, maybe a decade or more?”

“Still not long enough.”

“We need to talk somewhere in private. I promise I have something that’s worth your time. At least, it’s worth your father’s time. I hear he doesn’t have long left now? I hear that death is about to come knocking.”

“You have five minutes.” Hunter turned down an adjoining hallway, checked the meeting room schedule, and strode forward. He opened the door to a private room, scanned the area, and waited for Cowan to follow.

“They say time is the great healer, but I don’t think there’s enough time in the world to heal what happened to you. I couldn’t imagine being a ten-year-old boy and watching my father thrown behind bars. All that hate must’ve been a terrifying experience.” Cowan ambled through the door, rubbing his plump stomach and chewing on a piece of gum. He looked around the small room, shrugged, and kicked a wooden chair out from the table. “It was a horrible childhood you had to endure, but in hindsight, it’s been good for you. Look at you now—a successful lawyer defending justice at every turn, fighting for the little guy, chasing corruption out of this building. I’m sure your killer father is proud.”

Rick Cowan had been dating Natalie Hunter, the middle child of Alfred and Joan Hunter, when the case became headline news across the country. While Tex Hunter watched the trial as a ten-year-old, his sister Natalie was eighteen and starting to explore her dating options. Unfortunately, a young Rick Cowan was one of them.

“They’ve been talking about corruption in the news. I’m surprised you’re not leading the story. Whenever I hear someone talk about bribery, I think of you first.” Hunter closed the door. “Your name is never far from the discussions of dishonesty, perversion, or exploitation. So say what you’ve got to say, and stop wasting my time.”

“I’ve done my time, Tex. I did the crime and I did the time. Nobody’s perfect, and the law has never been on my side. I’m sure you know what that feels like. But I love this courthouse. I love the fact that Al Capone walked in these halls, sat in these rooms, and it’s barely changed since.” Cowan sat down, unbuttoning his suit jacket. He was a short man, and as he entered his fifties, his older suits struggled to fit his expanding waist.

The internal room had no windows, except for the frosted glass on the door, and the lighting was dim enough to sleep under. The wooden table had seen better days, rings of coffee mug stains covered the edges like the Olympic symbol, the chairs had little padding left, and a musty smell hung in the air.

“Get to the point, Cowan.”

“I want your skills.”

“No chance.”

Cowan leaned forward, elbows on the table, chewing his gum like a baseball coach. “The thing is, I’ve been hit with a felony drug charge, but I was set up. Some people want to take me out, and I’m cash poor, if you know what I mean. I have one thing left of any value, the club I own, and I’ve already borrowed heavily against it. I have no cash, and this made-up charge is the straw that’ll break the camel’s back. They’ve given me a court-appointed lawyer. Some kid who’s barely out of college. He’s an idiot, inexperienced, and not even interested in what I have to say.”

Hunter didn’t respond.

“My club was the target of a drug raid, and they busted in to find a pile of drugs in one of the rooms. I knew nothing about it, but they’ve charged me for it. I don’t know who set me up, but it was someone with links to the Chicago PD. The whole organization is corrupt and they’re trying to bring me down for a death that happened in my club last year. A girl overdosed in a private room, and they say I’m responsible. They couldn’t nail me for that, so they’re trying a made-up charge to extract their revenge.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you. You’ve played the game of corruption your entire life, and the game always catches up with people. The collector has come knocking. I don’t want anything to do with your corruption racket.” Hunter sat down on the chair furthest from Cowan.

“You see, it’s not that simple. I need you to defend me. Whoever set me up has got a vendetta against me. I’ve avoided them so far because I have some people on the inside, including ex-cop John Warden. He’s connected to a lot of people and he’s feeding me information.” Cowan paused, and watched Hunter’s face closely. “And Jerry Schultz is on my side; he’s helping me beat this thing.”

“Jerry Schultz?”

“You heard me.” A small grin escaped Cowan’s face when Hunter’s interest was clear. “Your old boss.”

“And a man that’s as twisted as you. I’m not risking my life for you and I’m steering clear of Schultz. I’m not interested in defending you and I’m not interested in playing your games.”

“I don’t want to play games. I want to win a court case, and you can help me do that. I’m sure you could.”

“I’ll make it clear—I don’t work for trash like you. I work for the justice system, not the people that have no regard for it. No amount of money could convince me to work for you.”

“That’s why I’m not just offering money, Tex. I know you never moved on from what happened to your father. Sure, your life looks great now—nice suits, nice watches, and nice cars—but I know what happened thirty years ago still eats you alive inside. I watched as you took your father’s conviction through every channel of the justice system.” Cowan leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. “But it was a different time. It didn’t matter whether your father was guilty or not, what mattered was what they put in the papers. They stopped a riot by convicting your father. You were still too young to remember it all, but the public outcry at the murders was overwhelming. The public wanted blood, and they got your father.”

Hunter stood, the chair falling backwards to the floor behind him. Cowan flinched.

“Sit down, Tex. I don’t want to fight you.” Cowan avoided eye contact. “I have something for you.”

Hunter remained standing, hands on the table, leaning towards Cowan. “This had better be good or I’m walking straight out of here.”

“Oh, it’s good, alright.”

Cowan reached into his inside jacket pocket. He took out a photo, placed it on the table, face down, and slid it across to Hunter.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a photo.”

Someone knocked on the door to the meeting room. Hunter told them the room was currently occupied.

“As you know, I was a witness in your father’s case. I was leaned on to ensure your father didn’t go free. It was the late 80s, there was no internet, no flood of information for the public to review. People could get things done by talking to other people, throwing money around, and bribery was rampant. We were all leaned on—cops, politicians, judges, lawyers, and me, one of the witnesses. And because of my involvement with your family, and the case, someone took a liking to me and sent me evidence.”

Hunter turned over the photo. It was a picture of his family—his father, his mother, and two older siblings—Patrick and Natalie Hunter. “I’ve never seen this photo before.”

“There’s a lot you haven’t seen.”

“You could’ve taken this from anywhere. You dated my sister for two years. You had access to my family’s photos. This means nothing.”

Cowan reached back into his coat pocket and removed a folded piece of paper. It was faded and creased by time, a staple still in the top corner.

“This is the first page of a missing file about your father’s case.”

Hunter’s glare was focused on Cowan for a few long moments, before he reached for the piece of paper and unfolded it.

“Cinco Casino? I’ve never heard of it.”

“This first page is just the start, and I can guarantee you’ll want to see the whole thing. I’ll give you five days to investigate the Cinco Casino, and then we can talk.” Cowan stood, buttoning his jacket over his stomach. “Defend me against my felony drug charges, and I’ll give you the whole file.”

“What exactly is this?” Hunter’s eyes stayed on the page.

“I’ll spell it out for you, Tex—for the last thirty years, I’ve buried information about your father’s trial and conviction.” He nodded to the photo. “And now, I’m using it as payment.”

Chapter 2

Tex Hunter had lived his life as a defender, an enforcer, an investigator, a determined rebel. Life had handed him challenges, many roadblocks, but his path was unavoidable, born out of a childhood woven with pain. Agony was a friend he knew well, and it was in her arms he found comfort. As the son of a convicted killer, his youth was littered with abuse, doubts, and often, outright hatred.

Along the journey through three decades, he’d found the odd clue, a moment of question, a small sliver of hope, that might overthrow his father’s guilty verdict. At the same time, he had a suspicion that even with the right evidence, he was fighting a lost cause, he was merely a pawn in the larger game, kidding himself along a futile crusade. The tension between these options kept him awake many nights, often sending him to the closest bar for a moment of respite from the constant questions in his mind.

He walked in a daze, hands wrapped around the warmth of his takeaway coffee, facing the breeze as it blew along the Chicago Riverwalk. Nestled in between the towering skyscrapers of Chicago, the walk was an escape for the city dwellers, a place where the overworked and overpaid could escape to reflect on the beauty of their modern city. Once the edge of a bustling shipping channel, the redesigned Riverwalk had transformed the Chicago River into a playground for the city’s inhabitants, with touches of nature, art, and restaurants sprinkled along the foreshore.

“You know his reputation, Tex. Everyone knows the reputation of Rick Cowan.” His Assistant, Esther Wright, walked beside him, one hand in her coat pocket, the other holding onto a takeaway coffee cup. “He was a media darling for years, always doing controversial interviews on the morning shows, until all the drama with the dead stripper in his club last year. Remember two witnesses went missing before charges could be filed? The case against him couldn’t even get off the ground and he never saw a day in court.”

“I remember it well.” Hunter squinted as he looked up, the morning light reflecting off the buildings that seemed to reach for the sky. “I know what I’m getting myself in for.”

“Then why take the case?”

Hunter didn’t respond. He continued walking forward, head down, avoiding eye contact. He couldn’t hide anything from his assistant. She could read him like an open book.

“What does he have on you?” Esther kept pace next to her boss. “This is about your family again, isn’t it?”

Hunter stopped. He didn’t want to let Esther know about the file, he didn’t want to explain the possibility, but there was no way he could keep it from her. The tall blonde knew him better than anyone, understanding the subtle differences between his various stoic looks.

“Cowan said…” Hunter paused and looked down the river before turning back to Esther. A riverboat full of tourists edged past, their cameras pointed to the towering skyscrapers. “He said he has a file on my father’s case, and the file may have information proving his innocence.”

“And you believe him?”

Hunter nodded in response.

“But why would Rick Cowan have it?”

“That’s the same question I’ve been asking.” Hunter turned and continued walking. “Thirty years ago, Cowan was the only witness who testified for the defense. Nobody wanted to be associated with my father, not even his best friends, but Cowan sat on the stand and said there was no way my father could’ve killed those girls. He appeared on my family’s side. And at the time, he was.”

Hunter looked over his shoulder. There were enough people walking along the shore for it to feel busy, but not enough to make it feel crowded. There were office workers taking the scenic route to work, tour groups being instructed to stare at the architecturally designed buildings, and joggers filling the air with sweat and steam. One person in the crowd caught Hunter’s eye. The person stopped when he stopped.

“Isn’t there another way you could get your hands on the file?” Esther pressed. “Couldn’t you get an investigator to break into his property and go through his things? He must have the file somewhere close.”

“Cowan isn’t stupid. He’ll be prepared for that. But you’re right, as always. It’s worth a shot, at least.”

“Things have just started to calm down after our last case, and now you want to take on a high-profile client? I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I was starting to enjoy having time after work for my hobbies. I’ve been painting, playing the piano, and reading again. Work isn’t everything, you know? There’s more to life than just your office and the courthouse.”

The man following them was dressed in black, wearing a hooded sweatshirt, and despite the overcast weather, he was also wearing sunglasses. Six-foot-five, at least. At first glance he looked of Pacific Islander heritage. Perhaps Samoan. Hunter had him in his peripheral vision, keeping an eye on him.

“Cowan gave me the name of an organization, Cinco Casino. I made some calls, did some digging, and followed a few leads. It was an underground casino in the 80s. Specialized in illegal poker games for regular Joes to blow their weekly paychecks. The name of the casino isn’t listed once in any of the police or court documents in my father’s case. From what I could find, the timeframe and locations fit, and the organization had enough connections to be a part of it all. Cinco Casino had a reputation for harshly dealing with people that didn’t pay, there were even rumors of missing bodies buried in the woods. I don’t trust Cowan, not one bit, but it looks like the information may help my father’s case. Cowan is broke, he has debts running into the millions, and he needs a lawyer. I’m his last hope.”

“He still has a lot of connections, and he’s made a lot of enemies in his time.” Esther pulled her coat tighter. “It’s a dangerous path to start on.”

“Life’s a rollercoaster. It’s the ups and downs that make it exciting, and a rollercoaster without ups and downs is only a train.”

“But some people adore train rides. Some of the most beautiful tours in the world are on trains. Not every trip has to be a rollercoaster.” Esther pleaded, walking alongside her boss. She admired his intensity, she admired his determined focus, but he was draining to work for. After a few long minutes of silence, she began to smile. “I don’t know if I ever told you but my first job was at a train company, and they fired me after a week. When I was leaving, the boss asked me how many trains I had derailed, and I said, ‘I don’t know. It was just so hard to keep track.’”

Hunter tried not to laugh, but his dimples gave his smile away.

“Oh, you’re not laughing?” Esther joked. “Well, I was also fired from my second job, but that was for something I didn’t do.”

“Which was?”

“Work.”

Hunter shook his head, his grin growing wider.

“At my next job, I managed a nightclub for men with erectile dysfunction.” Esther’s smile was broad. “But it was a total flop.”

“That’s terrible.” Hunter chuckled.

They continued their walk past another tour group, all taken in by the buildings rising off the edge of the river. Members of the group stood in the middle of the walkway, ignoring everyone else, attempting to snap the perfect shot in the morning hues. Hunter and Esther stepped around them, moving between the crowd of people dressed in Chicago sweatshirts, holding their conversation until they came to another clear patch of the walkway.

“We won’t have a lot of time for jokes in the coming months, Esther. Felony drug possession won’t be easy to defend against. He was sitting in his club when the cops busted in and found a large amount of cocaine in a private room. They busted in based on only one tip-off, which was unusual. There were a lot of things about the raid that don’t make sense.”

“You’re suggesting he was framed?”

“That’s what Cowan stated. He thinks someone set him up to knock him out of the game. The court-appointed lawyer got him bail, but he wants me to take over the case. Once behind bars, he’ll have little influence there. In fact, he’ll probably die behind bars with the enemies he’s made.”

Hunter looked over his shoulder at the man. He was edging closer, stepping through the crowd of tourists.

“Who called in the tip-off?”

“We don’t know yet. The prosecution has redacted a lot of the information so far. And as witnesses have previously disappeared in cases involving Rick Cowan, the prosecution is going to apply for a suppression of the names before discovery.”

The man came closer. Twenty-five yards away. It was a tail, and he wasn’t trying to hide it.

Hunter turned towards the man. The man held his gaze for a moment longer than what was comfortable, and then turned around, walking with his head down in the other direction.

More than a tail, it was a message.

“I know it’s dangerous, Esther, and I know it’s going to bring a lot of trouble.” Hunter stared at the back of the man as he walked away. “But I have to do this. I have to know what else is in the file.”

Chapter 3

Jasmine Langford stepped out of the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club in the West Loop and into the morning light. It took her eyes more than a few moments to adjust. The sun sneaked through the gaps between the buildings, throwing small rays of warmth onto the cold Chicago streets. Trash blew in the light breeze, puddles of stale water lay on the sidewalk, and the smell of exhaust fumes were thick enough to taste as the office workers began their regular journeys into the city.

Dressed in a long black coat, sneakers, and slacks, Jasmine began the walk home to her apartment. On the mornings she felt unsafe, after dancing for men through the night, she took a cab, but on the quiet mornings, on the mornings when she felt confident, she preferred to stroll through the streets, watching the world drift past in the other direction. The changes in landscape and social class were dramatic in her twenty-five-minute walk. One moment, she was in the West Loop, surrounded by clean cars and smooth roads, but within fifteen minutes of walking, she was in East Garfield Park, where the roads were littered with pot-holes, cars barely kept running, and trash cans were seldom emptied.

“Cold night, Phil?” She took two five-dollar bills from her night’s take, and placed them in the man’s hat. The man rested on the street, under a dark tartan blanket, his head resting on a small pillow. She came to sit next to the man, placing an old newspaper under her behind to avoid the damp sidewalk.

“Extremely cold, Jas,” the man replied as he began to sit up. “Colder than it’s been for a long time. Chilled me right to the bone.”

“Only going to get colder before winter’s here.”

Jasmine leaned her back against the wall. The Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club had been a part of her life for the last year, and Phil was a regular sight on her walk home. He had his own corner, his own spot on the street near an underpass off West Jackson. Apart from the meager bags of possessions and the clothes on his back, the corner was the only thing he owned. It was his place in the world. In the distance, the skyscrapers stood tall, peeking through the morning smog, a reminder there was wealth and opportunity nearby, but it seemed a world away for men like Phil.

As an African-American, Jasmine fit into the predominately black suburb, and felt safe walking the streets half the time. The other half, she had her hand on the Taser in her handbag.

“You’ve brightened my morning up though, Jas. It’s always lovely to wake up with a beautiful woman next to you.” Phil smiled. He was missing his front teeth, the years of alcohol abuse had left him with a speech impediment, and he smelled like he needed five hours in a bath. “Sometimes, when you’re sitting here, I’m sure that I’m still dreaming. I’ve never understood why you take the time to talk to me, but I’m sure glad you do.”

She knew why, but that was a story she held close to her heart, a story she didn’t disclose to many people. “I’m just after the morning lowdown on the gossip around here.”

“Been a bit happening on the streets this week. Be careful, Jas. Lots more muggings going on around here. I hope they don’t find you coming home from work, but if they do, you come running for me. I’ll help you.” Phil cleared his throat. “I sure hope this place changes soon. I hope things get better around here.”

“Life is about hope. Hope that something changes, or hope we can do better. Hope and faith are all I have.”

She talked with Phil for the next fifteen minutes, detailing her adventures and troubles from the night in the club, and Phil reminisced about his past employment as a painter, and how life had changed for him. He told her who came and went on the street, where the trouble was, and where to avoid.

“Stay warm.” She patted him on the shoulder before continuing the walk to her apartment.

She wished she didn’t have to do what she did, she dreamed of a better life, but dancing for money was the best work she could come by. After a number of years at various clubs, she felt like she was starting to get her life back together. The years of abuse she suffered at the hands of her step-father had left a mark on her soul, but she was determined it wasn’t going to rule her life. She knew it wasn’t what men were supposed to be like, she knew that real men wouldn’t beat their children, but she had to stick by her mother.

As she walked through the streets, catching brief rays of sunshine, she thought about how life would’ve been different if her father hadn’t died from a heart attack when she was five years old. She thought about how much more love they would’ve had in their lives. Her mother, broke with three young children, turned to the first man with money. Her step-father had money, he had a house, but he didn’t have love.

Work at the Five-Star was steady, but it wouldn’t last forever. The club had been raided by the police a week earlier and there were rumors the cops were trying to push the owner, Rick Cowan, into closing the club. She’d been serving drinks that afternoon, pulling in a few dollars in tips, when they charged in with guns drawn. After it was raided, she was interviewed for hours, all in the back of an unmarked van. At the time, she found it strange. No recording device and no cameras. She told the police she knew nothing about the drugs in the club, and she’d been steering clear of those highs for years.

She didn’t hate that Rick Cowan had been arrested. He often shouted at the old girls, hit the new girls, and generally, regarded all the dancers as pieces of meat. When her friend, Lana Nevis, died in the club from a drug overdose a year earlier, her heart broke.

Jasmine didn’t have long left in the stripping game, she knew that, as the older strippers turned to tricks to make ends meet. She didn’t want that life. She wanted to move away from the world of crime, corruption, and sleaze, into a normal life, and study to become an elementary school teacher. The daily smiles from the young children would fill her heart with joy.

The studio apartment in East Garfield Park was the best she could hope to afford on her income. The owner gave her a deal on the place, but it was nothing special. There was little security, the locks on the doors were barely hanging on, and anything of value had to be locked away and hidden. There were two cameras, one focused on the entrance, the other down the first floor hallway, but they offered little protection. As she walked to the doors of her building, she saw the silver sedan parked outside. It was much too new to belong in her neighborhood.

She walked up to her fifth-floor apartment, the top level of the brick building. She froze. The door was ajar. The lock didn’t look like it had been broken, not forcibly, but other than the landlord, nobody else had a key. She fumbled in her purse for her phone and the Taser.

She crept towards the door.

With a soft touch, she pushed the door open. Sitting in her living room, waiting, were two men. She recognized one of them, but not well enough to know his name.

They sat on her couch, arms and legs spread wide, unmoved at her presence. The older man was perhaps in his seventies, with pale, wrinkled skin. He wore a suit, without a tie, round glasses, and a gold watch. The second man, dressed in slacks, brown leather shoes, and with the collar of his sweater up, was younger, although his hair was graying as well.

“Hello, Jasmine Langford. Don’t be afraid. We’re not here to hurt you. Come on in.”

She didn’t respond, stepping into her apartment, but leaving the door open.

“There’s no need to panic. We’d just like to talk to you, Jasmine,” the second man said. “We thought it was best if we waited here, rather than disturb you at the Five-Star.”

“Are you police?”

“We could be.”

“What do you want from me?”

“We’ll get to that, but first, we’d like to talk about what we can offer you. We’re wealthy men, with a lot of connections, and we can help you achieve a lot of your goals in life.” The older man gestured towards the armchair opposite him. “So, please, sit down and let’s have a nice little chat.”

She didn’t move from the entrance. Her right hand was inside her bag, holding onto the Taser.

“We know about your past, Jasmine, and we know about your desire to get out of stripping. What we’d like to offer is a chance for you to do that.” The second man stepped close to her, towering over her, before he walked to the door. He pushed it closed. “We’re not here to hurt you, although we could.”

“What exactly are you here for?”

“We know what you said to the police officers in the van after the raid on the Five-Star. You told them that you want to study to become a teacher. How lovely. Warms my heart,” the older man said. “And we also know what you said about your knowledge of the raid. Rather unfortunately, the witness statement has gone missing. A clerical error. It happens all the time. So the officers at the precinct are about to make another call to you and they want to retake your statement. And we would like you to describe what you saw on the day of the raid, and what you were told before the raid.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We have connections and money, which equals power. We can do whatever we like, whenever we want to do it. If we say jump, people jump. If we say lie, then people lie.”

“So you want me to lie?”

“We want you to tell a version of the truth. We know Rick Cowan had the drugs in the club, but the case against him isn’t foolproof. We need more witnesses to testify. We would like you, along with some others, to help make the case against him watertight. All we’re asking is for you to help convict a criminal. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how badly he treats his staff.” The older man leaned forward. “Lana Nevis found out exactly how badly he treats his staff.”

“What’s this got to do with her?”

The second man stepped away from Jasmine, wandering around her apartment, casting his eyes over her possessions. “Rick Cowan has made the wrong people angry. I’m sure a smart woman like yourself can understand how these things work. You need to make a new statement to the detectives involved, and you need to include a few more specific details which you forgot to mention the first time.”

“And if you help us out, you will find a large sum of money will fall into your pocket,” the older man added. “I’m sure we can reach a mutual agreement. One that can help you achieve your dreams.”

“Let’s say I go along with it. How do I know you’ll deliver on your side of the bargain?”

“You don’t.”

“Then I don’t want any part of this.” She stepped back towards the door, her hand tight around the Taser in her bag.

“I don’t think you understand,” the second man scoffed. He took off his coat, exposing the handgun in his holster. “Jasmine, we’re not giving you a choice.”

Chapter 4

Despite the clear skies outside, the inside of the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club was dark on the weekday afternoon, allowing the lonely and desperate to escape themselves for a while, a privilege they paid well for. Red lights dotted the back wall, highlighting the brick façade, and the elevated walkway in the middle of the floor had lights focused on it, but for the remainder of the club, the lighting was almost nonexistent.

Tex Hunter walked through the entrance, past the large Samoan guard inside the door, running his hand along the velvet curtain, striding towards the main stage. There was a bar to one side, an open metal cage to the left. A girl, barely in her twenties, danced on stage, kicking her legs high, spinning around, wiggling her bare breasts. At the side of the stage, looking up, an older man in a suit clapped and cheered, and Hunter thought the old guy was creepy enough, but it was the man sitting in a booth at the furthest left of the room who really caught his attention.

Rick Cowan sat with one stumpy leg crossed over the other, studying the dancing girl. He had one hand on his chin, and the other hand was hidden under the table.

“Tex Hunter,” Cowan said as Hunter approached. “Welcome to the Five-Star. My pride and joy.”

The girl on stage stopped dancing, turned, and looked at Hunter. She winked and blew him a kiss. Hunter nodded in response.

The man who sat before Hunter had his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, exposing a thin gold chain, with pants too tight, and shoes that were too shiny to match the rest of his outfit. His thin black hair was slicked back and to the right, his olive-skin was greasy, and he smelled of cheap aftershave bought at a Walgreens.

“You’re the best lawyer a broke man can afford, eh?” Rick Cowan took a hard ball of gum out of his mouth and dropped it in an empty beer glass. “Not much, is it?”

Hunter unbuttoned his coat and hesitated before he sat down—he was sure the seat would be filled with the foulest germs. The red cushions in the semi-circle booth were soft but there was no comfort to them.

“Hemingway once said that tourists shouldn’t bother with churches, government buildings or city squares. If you want to know about a culture, if you want to know anything about a city, you should spend a night in its bars.” Hunter looked around. “And it looks like a sad, sad state of affairs in our city right now.”

“You think that’s funny? You think you can walk in here and talk dirt about my business? I’m the king in here. I own this club, I own this area, and I own every single one of these girls. You don’t treat me like that.” Cowan pointed his finger in Hunter’s face.

“Unless you want it broken, you should put your finger down.”

Cowan stared at him for a long moment, grunted, and put his finger down.

Within five days, Hunter was able to build a hefty file on Rick Cowan. Cowan had an anger problem. That was clear. Numerous accusations of violent attacks, a number of sexual assault accusations that didn’t stick, and a manslaughter charge that was later dropped when two key witnesses disappeared. Then there were the rumors of drug abuse, drug importation, and drug trafficking. Cowan had enemies, many of them, but he previously had friends in high places. Over the years, those friends had moved on to people with more money.

“This isn’t where I usually do my meetings,” Hunter said. “I don’t usually have naked women dancing around when I meet a client.”

“It’s where I do all of mine, and it’s where I love to do them. I think of it as a bonus to owning a strip club. And there are many bonuses to owning a club, if you catch my drift.”

Cowan signaled to the female bar tender to bring two drinks. One of the girls dressed in lingerie delivered two whiskeys to the table. She ran her hand over Hunter’s shoulders, but he leaned away. This wasn’t the type of place he wanted to spend any time. The girl went over to Cowan, whispered in his ear, and then winked at Hunter, before going back to the bar.

“She says you’re very handsome and she’d be willing to dance for you in private for free. And I’ll allow it, you lucky boy.”

“That’s not what I came here for.” Hunter placed his briefcase on the table, opened it and removed a file. “I need to know you’re not bluffing with the evidence on my father’s case.”

“You think I’m bluffing? Well, that’s understandable. Any smart person would feel like that. So, I’m going to give you another little present.”

Cowan reached down next to him, picked up a manila file folder, and tossed it on the table. Hunter reached forward and opened it. He read the first page, the second and the third. Cowan waited as Hunter looked over the pages.

“I haven’t seen this version of the police report before. This isn’t the official report. This isn’t the one that was presented at the trial.”

“Of course not. It’s the original report, and you’ll notice the changes.”

Hunter flicked between the pages, but even with the first review, he saw the differences. “Why would you keep this?”

“I knew your father, and I was in love with your sister. Natalie was my first real love, maybe my only real love, and those years broke my heart. Part of me wanted to keep all this. Sentimental value. They say you never forget your first, and I’ve never forgotten her. Her magical smile, and her tight behind. She was a star, your sister.” Cowan looked back to the stage. “Before the court case started, your father put Natalie on a plane and told her to disappear to Mexico. He told her to forget about the past and start a new life. I guess your father felt he had to protect his daughter more than anything else. He must’ve thought you and your brother could take care of yourselves. It was the end of my relationship with Natalie, and I was told never to tell anyone where she was. And I never did. People came asking, all sorts of people, but I never said a word. I kept her safe.”

Hunter shook his head, still staring at the police report. “How long have you had this?”

“That report? Maybe ten years. Maybe more. It’s just a taste of what I have.”

“How did you get your hands on this?”

“No, no, no.” Cowan shook his finger in the air. “No more questions about that. You have a choice to make—do you want all the evidence, or do you want to walk away from it? That’s the risk you have to take. It may sound strange to you, but you have to trust me. I have more information, things that may shock you.”

The music hit a crescendo in the background, the customer cheered again, but it didn’t distract Hunter from his thoughts.

He had always wondered what happened to the middle sibling of his family—she left not long after their father was arrested and never returned. Never called, never even sent a Christmas card. But he understood why she left. She wanted to avoid the pain, avoid the accusations, and avoid the agony his family was put through.

Hunter reached into his briefcase and pulled out five forms. “You need to sign these forms if you want me to represent you in this trial.”

Cowan read the forms, licking his finger as he turned each sheet, then picked a pen from his pocket, and signed his name on the last page.

A number of customers began to filter in through the doors. It was mid-afternoon, quitting time for the blue-collar workers, and the club was heading towards its busiest hours. The establishment tried to present an image of class, but the floors were sticky, the tables dirty, and the poles in the middle of the room had stains on them.

“Business appears to be going well.”

“We’ve got customers.” Cowan handed the forms back to Hunter before picking up his glass of whiskey. “But I’m a million in debt. I have cash flow problems. As my lawyer, I’ll inform you that I’m currently cooking the books so it looks like we’re turning over a million a year, but we’re struggling to do a tenth of that. On paper, we look like one of the most successful clubs in the country.”

“Then why do it?”

“I have my reasons. And even if I sold this place, I’d only get halfway to paying my debts off. I have loans up to my eyeballs and nobody will give me a cent more. And my big problem is the money is owed to people who you shouldn’t owe money to. People who’ll make sure they’ll get the money, or I’ll end up swimming with concrete blocks tied to my feet.”

Hunter nodded.

“I would’ve kept the court-appointed lawyer, but the kid was an idiot. Some of the girls here could’ve done a better job. The kid was twenty-five, and I was his first real case, but he was all they would give me. He got lost on the way to the bail hearing and I don’t think he even understood what was happening at the preliminary hearing. He even showed up with the wrong forms. How was I supposed to win with that idiot?”

“Maybe you weren’t.” Hunter kept his eyes on Cowan. “You’re charged with a Class 1 felony—possession of a controlled substance. With the amount of drugs they found, you’re lucky it’s not possession with the intent to distribute, but it would be harder to prove. They’ve taken the easier option to charge you. You were hit as part of the CPD’s Operation Take Down, which targets large street dealers. The prosecution is claiming you had more than $150,000 worth of pure cocaine delivered to this premises, and when they raided the club, it was found in a private room, which you admitted you were the only one with access to. That was a mistake.”

“I was confused at the time, but I didn’t order the drugs. Not this time, at least. This time it was a set-up. They clearly set me up to take me out of business. I know it was one of the crooked cops who did it. I know it was one of them.”

“How do you know it was them?”

“Because they were the ones who made sure I was here on the day of the arrest. I saw one of their undercover guys walk in here at around lunchtime, look straight at me, send a message on his phone, and then leave. He didn’t even buy a drink. Those sly, corrupt cops set me up from the start. And I know why—it’s about one of the dancers who died here last year. Lana. No-one was ever charged, but they’ve been after me ever since.”

“How did the girl die?”

“She was playing around with John Warden in a private room. He—”

“John Warden, the ex-police captain?”

“That’s my man. Our relationship soured after that, but he’s still a friend. He was in the room, he left, and then the girl overdosed.”

“At this point, with the amount of cocaine found, you’re looking at a minimum of ten years under the Illinois Controlled Substances Act, but it could go as high as twenty-five. The prosecution has indicated they’re going for the maximum. The major sticking point for them will be proving your constructive possession. That means a person knows about the presence of a controlled substance and has intent and capability to maintain control and possession of it, or has exclusive control of the area where the substance was located. There are a number of moves we can make. One—we can claim you didn’t have knowledge of the drugs in the public area, and two—we can discredit the integrity of the witnesses, throw doubt on the validity of the police raid, and try to find a reason to have this thrown out of court.”

Cowan’s mouth hung open a little. “I knew you were good. I’ve already heard more from you in the last five minutes than I ever did from the idiot lawyer the court gave me.”

“The issue we have,” Hunter read over the notes on his legal pad. “Is it doesn’t look like we’ll win. If this is a set-up, then they’ve covered most of their tracks. If it isn’t a set-up, then you’ve really shot yourself in the foot. If you were framed, my main question for you now is how did they get in here undetected if you have all these cameras in the club?”

“The cameras were off that day.”

“Who has the power to turn all the cameras off?”

“Anyone in the club could. The access code is next to the monitors.”

“Any idea who did it?”

“No.” He brushed the tip of his nose. “No idea.”

Hunter glared at Cowan for a few long moments. He was hiding something, but it wasn’t unusual for a man like Cowan. He’d built his entire business around scamming clients, built his wealth by exploiting innocent people, but it looked like it had finally come back to bite him.

“If we’re going to win this, I need you to be fully cooperative with me.”

“I don’t trust anyone that much. That’s what keeps me alive. I’ll tell you what I think you need to know and that’ll have to do. You can get me off with the information I’ve already given you. I was framed. You just need to prove that in court.”

“You may have been framed here, but you’re not innocent. You’ve gotten away with a lot, for many years. It may be time to admit that you’ve had a good time and plead guilty on this one. We should aim for the lowest sentence possible, which will end up around ten years, if we get lucky.”

“If you can get me a deal for under five years, I’ll take it. Two years would be my preferred option.” He coughed, leaned back in his chair, and brought the whiskey glass back to his lips. “Tell me the names of these witnesses, and I’ll deal with them. I’ll make sure they don’t testify against me. As soon as you get their names, you tell me. I’m sure one of them is a stripper here, but I don’t know which one. You tell me her name, and I’ll get rid of her.”

“That’s not going to happen. I won’t let you interfere with the witnesses. Some of the witness names are currently redacted, and the prosecution is asking that they remain redacted until the trial begins.”

“You should talk to Jerry Schultz, your old boss. He’ll have contacts to help me. He said he’d always have my back. He’ll be able to connect you with someone to give me the names of those witnesses. He knows how I work.”

“I’ll talk to him.” Hunter stood, collected the signed forms, placed them inside his briefcase and closed it. “In the meantime, keep your head down. If you have been set up, and they get a whiff that the case might be lost, then it’s going to ruffle some feathers. And the people you’re talking about won’t set you up twice. Next time, it’ll be a bullet with your name on it.”

Chapter 5

The interior of the art gallery was the height of modern affluence—towering white walls, polished wood flooring, and two crystal chandeliers sparkling overhead. In the three separate rooms of the gallery, the wealthy mingled, admiring the latest art works for sale. There was soon to be a bidding war in the auction hall next door, fueled by shallow egos and thick wallets. The well-connected members of high-class society conversed and talked about the latest scandals, the latest political movements, and the latest high-end backroom deals. Rumors abounded, accusations hinted at, and gossip snaked through the hundred and fifty people attending.

Tex Hunter waited next to a wide red painting, complete with splotches of yellow, streaks of blue, and dashes of purple. He wasn’t sure what the painting was trying to say, if anything at all, but it was pleasing to the eye. He stared at the artwork, acquired a champagne glass when the waitress offered, and waited for the right time to interrupt his first boss, Jerry Schultz.

Schultz, empty glass in hand, listened to a young female artist talk about her large paintings full of spots, stains, and dynamic brushstrokes. He leaned over her, much too close to her personal space, nodding when she nodded, acknowledging her ideas with small hums of approval. The artist played the game as well. She touched his arm, fluttered her eyelids, and faked her laughter when he delivered time-worn jokes.

Schultz flirted with the artist for five minutes, coming closer with each breath, before resting his hand on the small of her back. When she backed away, he turned to look at another painting, and caught Hunter staring at him.

Schultz looked twice.

“They’ll let anyone into these things,” Schultz said as he approached Hunter. “Even the children of convicted felons.”

“I’m not the one with a long line of accusations.”

“And none have ever stuck, if you remember.” Schultz shook his head, looking over his shoulder towards the security at the front door. “And if you’ve come to make a scene, I’ll call security and have you removed.”

“Rick Cowan told me I should talk to you.”

The statement caught Schultz off-guard. He squinted as he looked at Hunter, sighed, and then moved towards the auction hall adjoining the gallery. When the attendant attempted to stop them from entering, Schultz waved her away and stepped past the barrier. Hunter followed.

The empty auction hall was set up with a lectern at the front of the room, a large screen to display the paintings as they were called to auction, and five rows of elegant chairs, soon to be filled by eager bidders.

“I didn’t believe them when they said you were defending that piece of scum. I thought I taught you better than that.” Schultz stopped at the back corner of the room and checked for any eavesdroppers. “But here you are. I guess that should be enough evidence that you’ve taken the job.”

“Here I am. Talking to my first boss and wondering what he has to do with $150,000 of cocaine in a strip club.”

“How much do you know? Have you seen the witness list yet?” Schultz avoided eye contact.

“The witness list is currently redacted, and the prosecution is trying to keep it that way. I’ve filed a motion to release the names and that hits the courts tomorrow.”

“It’ll be harder for you to question the integrity of the witnesses if they remain redacted. I was surprised Cowan made bail, given his past. I certainly didn’t expect it. I thought they would’ve kept him locked up on the basis of the evidence.”

“The prosecution fumbled through the bail hearing and the judge had no choice. I don’t know everything yet, but I know enough to know it’s unwinnable. The state has an almost perfect case against your friend.”

“He’s no friend of mine.” Schultz shot Hunter a glare.

“That’s not what he told me.”

Schultz paused, groaned, and looked around the empty room. He lowered his elderly frame into one of the chairs.

Jerry Schultz spent five years as Hunter’s first boss, his legal mentor. While at the firm, Schultz saw an opportunity to use the Hunter family name. He exploited it, advertised it, and used it to raise the profile of his law office.

“I’m heading to court tomorrow morning to file the motion for the list of witnesses, but Cowan suggested I call you first.” Hunter stated. “He said you’d know how to get those names if the motion is denied. Your connections may be able to help us prepare for the trial.”

“I have no idea who the witnesses are.” Schultz relaxed his shoulders. “I might still be a partner in my firm, but we haven’t dealt with criminal law in a decade. There’s a lot more money in litigation, you know? We settled on another $100 million case last month. You should consider changing to litigation one day. Get away from criminal law. Might be a fresh start for you.”

“My integrity is worth more than dirty money.” Hunter stood over Schultz. “If you can’t help me, then why did Cowan tell me to come to you?”

“I really don’t know. I’m just an old Jewish man dreading the idea of retirement. When the raid first happened, Cowan asked if I had anything to do with this, and I told him I didn’t. Then he asked if I was going to testify against him, and I said I wasn’t. But just because I’m not testifying, doesn’t mean I’m going to help him.”

“Why not?”

Schultz looked to the entrance as a staff member stepped inside the bidding hall. They kept their head down and moved to the other side of the room. “I’m done with him. I have no interest in helping that man. We may have been associates in the past, but I washed my hands clean of his dirt years ago.”

“You can’t walk away from all the corruption you’re involved in. The corruption has afforded this life, and it’s your deal with the devil—the price you pay for playing the game. Detective Holmes was the lead on the raid. I know he’s an old cop buddy of yours. I know you gave bribes to Holmes, even if Holmes was never convicted. Any time the two of you are involved in something, it gets messy.”

Schultz grunted, glaring at Hunter. “Things are always messy in this world. It’s full of backroom deals, payments, manipulation, threats, and hit-men. It’s money in paper bags, cash cleaned through small businesses, so many hundred-dollar bills you could swim in it. It’s daily doses of violence, so much double-crossing your eyes would water. You dance with the devil, waltz with your worst enemy, and tango with the tigers—all the while hoping someone hasn’t ordered a hit on you. Rules don’t apply here. Not your petty rules, at least. Rick Cowan is involved in the underworld, and the underworld doesn’t care about the courts, doesn’t care about the law, and doesn’t care about your precious justice system. All those things are paid for. In full and in cash.”

“Cowan was framed. I understand enough to know that’s illegal.”

“Illegal? The laws of the land don’t matter here. These people are above the law, above the constitution you hold so dear. This world is like Cowan’s strip club—if he pays people enough, then they dance for him. They wiggle, they undress, and they jump when he says jump. But when the money dries up, and it always dries up, the dancing stops. And now Cowan’s got some angry customers.”

“Including you?”

“This isn’t the right time or place to be discussing this. I’m in the middle of an art auction, Tex. Couldn’t you have called my office? Set up an official meeting?” He looked back to the door, looking for an escape from the conversation. “Tell Rick I’m done with his world. I don’t owe him any more favors. Any scores that we had were settled a long time ago. Tell that sleaze to fight his own battles.”

“So you won’t help him?”

Schultz didn’t respond as he stood and began to walk back towards the gallery. He smiled at another staff member who walked past, and then he stopped at the entrance.

“I’d warn you to be careful, but honestly, I don’t care if you get hurt in the process.” Schultz called back to Hunter. “But I’ll give you this piece of advice for free—Rick Cowan is dangerous. Just remember that before you cross him.”

Chapter 6

West of the skyscrapers that tourists came to see in their millions, far from the hustle of downtown Chicago, the George N Leighton Criminal Courthouse stood tall over the neighborhood of Little Village. It was imposing, not only in structure, but in its social authority over the area. The grim, seven-story limestone building, a neoclassical colossus, was bland in color, robust in design, and critical in purpose. It was where dreams were trampled, hope was dismissed, and punishment dealt.

Outside the courthouse, patches of nature were interspersed among the roads where, thanks to a recent dousing of rain, the grass was almost fluorescent green, the large trees across the road stood strong and healthy, and the streets were clear of trash. The flag poles clinked in the sporadic breeze, a small flock of birds chirped in the trees nearby, and a chorus of engine noise hummed down the road.

Tex Hunter walked from the parking lot, striding to the entrance, talking to his investigator Ray Jones on the phone. Esther had forwarded Jones the details of their current case, and Hunter ran him through the specifics. Hunter paused the conversation as he stepped through the security checkpoint, greeting the guards as he went, and then stepped into the busy foyer.

“What do you need me to do first?” Jones asked. “I haven’t got a lot going on—only a cheating husband on the books to investigate and I don’t think it’s going to take much time at all. The fool has been hooking up with his secretary after work in his car every Friday night. The wife is going to be there tomorrow to film the whole thing.”

“Ouch. Sounds painful.”

“Not for me, but I wouldn’t like this guy’s chance of producing any more kids after she deals with him. She’s one angry woman. So, what do you need me to do?”

“I need you to watch Rick Cowan’s movements this week. See if he’s associated with any place where he could store a secure file, maybe a storage facility, or a warehouse. I want to find a particular file before this case reaches its trial date.” Hunter checked the courthouse records to confirm his courtroom number.

“What sort of file is it?”

“It’s a file about my family and the history of my father’s case. Cowan is saying it has information the may clear my father’s name. He’s keeping it from me, using it as payment for this case, and I don’t trust him. I’d like to get my hands on the file as soon as possible. And I’d prefer to have the file before this case goes to trial.”

“And if I find a place where he might be keeping it?”

“Then find a way into the place and take the file.”

“On it.”

Hunter hung up the phone, checked his watch, and walked to the entrance of the courtroom. Although he strived to be on time to most places, his many appointments and meetings meant looking at his watch was often a source of frustration. For this motion, he made dead sure he was on time. First impressions counted, especially to judges who lived their lives by the book.

“Mr. Hunter?”

Hunter turned to see Samuel Spencer, Assistant State’s Attorney, and the opposing counsel. As ASA for the Narcotics Special Prosecutions Unit, Spencer was called upon to lead cases against the most dangerous drug dealers in Cook County. That wasn’t a good start for Cowan’s case.

Spencer was a well-dressed thirty-five-year-old, with an arrogant grin that seemed to be permanently fixed on his face. Even as the years went past Spencer, his baby face ensured he still looked like a smug little rich kid from the wealthiest school in town. Born into a family with affluence, connections, and an old boys club as strong as they came, he had the greatest head start in life anyone could hope for.

“Your client is so guilty that we should stop this case now.” Spencer leaned against the wall, the smugness radiating off him. “I don’t even know why he’s contesting this. He’s a strip club owner on the verge of bankruptcy and he was caught with cocaine during a drug raid. Everything is on the cop’s body cameras, and we have a strong list of witnesses. It would be best if he admitted guilt and saved us all a lot of time. The courts are busy, and I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

“He’s claiming he’s innocent, as is his right.”

“They all do. But I’ll tell you what,” Spencer raised a hand in the air. The skin on his little hands looked soft, as if they had never done a hard day’s work. “Out of all the cases I’ve prosecuted, this is the first one where I’m one-hundred-percent certain he’s guilty. Absolutely one-hundred percent certain. Guilty as they come. There’s zero doubt in this case.”

That annoyed Hunter. He’d faced Spencer once before in court, and spent the entire trial resisting the urge to punch Spencer in the face. Hunter ignored the shorter man, standing near the entrance to the courtroom, waiting to be called.

“And I must warn you, Mr. Hunter. Judge Marshall is from a different generation. He doesn’t like defense lawyers, and, I’m afraid to say it, I’ve even heard him say a few disparaging things about you personally. While we’re out playing golf together, which we do once a month, Judge Marshall talks quite freely, and I get why he hates you. You’re the son of a criminal, the son of one of this city’s worst killers. Your family name is mud, and nobody wants it in their courtroom. You tarnish the good name of this courthouse by just standing here.”

“Get out of my way, or you’ll spend a week in hospital.” Hunter’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer to Spencer, his chest almost pressing into the prosecutor’s face. “And I would happily go to prison for that.”

“Easy tiger. I’m sure the judge wouldn’t like to hear you’ve threatened me with violence. That wouldn’t be a smart start to your case.” Spencer stepped back, clearly physically intimidated. Somehow, his smugness remained.

“It’s time to go.” The clerk poked her head around the corner and held the door open for the lawyers to enter. “Judge Marshall is ready.”

“Good luck, sweetheart.” Spencer whispered and gave Hunter a wink.

Hunter paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and entered the courtroom.

The clerk read the case number in a robotic fashion, and the men took their places at the counsel tables as procedure dictated. Judge Marshall had to move through a dozen motions that day, and he needed the first motion hearing to be simple, short and sweet. He had no time to waste on pleasantries.

Hunter looked across to Spencer again, standing at the prosecution table with his shoulders back and chin up. When Spencer looked across, he gave Hunter another small wink and a smirk. Hunter considered how hard it would be to wink through a black eye.

Judge Marshall groaned as he read the file, his tone wearied after decades of courtroom drama. He had one wild eyebrow hair that stretched out on its own, his gray hair was untrimmed, and he sniffed constantly. It took forty years of laborious work as a prosecutor to reach the bench, his career triumph, and despite his thoughts of retiring to a golfing village in Florida, he wasn’t letting his hard-earned position go anytime soon.

“Proceed, counsel.” Judge Marshall was still reading the brief as he waved at the lawyers. “A Motion for a List of Witness Names?”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Hunter began. “The motion for the list of witness names, pursuant to 725 ILCS 5/114-9 and Illinois Supreme Court Rule 412a, has been filed to receive information from the prosecution as it’s currently being withheld.”

“It’s currently withheld?” Judge Marshall responded. “Please explain.”

“I can jump in there, Your Honor,” Spencer began. “The prosecution has been freely open with the release of discovery information in this case with the defense, however we’re fearful for the safety of five particular witnesses. Although there are fifty witness names listed on the discovery information, we have redacted the names and addresses of five. We have issued the witness statements to the defense, as requested, but have redacted any identifying information to maintain their safety. This is our normal and standard procedure for such a situation.”

“And what reason do you have to fear for their safety?”

“The defendant, Mr. Cowan, has made direct threats on the lives of all five of these witnesses and we’re satisfied with the truthfulness of the information.”

“And how did he make those threats?”

“In person, Your Honor, directly to their faces. He stated to these witnesses that if they ever testified against him, they, or their families, would be punished violently. As he reportedly made the same threat to numerous people, we believe he currently doesn’t know the names of the witnesses, and for their safety, we would like to keep their names suppressed for the next five weeks while we arrange for their protection. Illinois Supreme Court Rule 412i provides the discretion to deny this motion if there’s a substantial risk to the witness that outweighs the usefulness of the disclosure.”

“I’m well aware of the ruling.” Judge Marshall grunted. “The defendant has pleaded not guilty?”

“That’s correct, Your Honor.”

“And we’re set to start this trial in early December?”

“We are,” Spencer replied. “And the State requests the suppression of the witnesses’ names continues until the trial. The witnesses’ lives are at stake and we need to keep them safe, as is their right.”

“Your Honor,” Hunter argued. “This would severely weaken the defense’s ability to prepare for this case. These testimonies are vital to the charges against my client. The defense would be at a major disadvantage if these five names were to remain redacted. One week before the trial is not enough time to research the witnesses’ credibility. This would severely prejudice the case against the defendant.”

“You have the redacted witness statements, don’t you, Mr. Hunter?” The disdain in Judge Marshall’s voice was clear.

“The statements we’ve received are useless. To ensure a fair trial for the defendant, we must be able to assess the witnesses’ creditability and review their statements in full. We’re especially interested in the name of Witness A who provided the original tip-off, and Witnesses B and C, who accuse the defendant of being seen with the alleged material.”

“Your Honor, we’ve merely redacted any identifying information from the statements, and we have not redacted any of their testimonies, as the defense suggests,” Spencer argued. “We cannot risk losing these witnesses, and they have had substantial threats made against them in the past. The court would look like a fool if anything was to happen to these key witnesses.”

“And you’re currently arranging protection for these witnesses?” Judge Marshall looked at his golf partner over the top of his reading glasses.

“We are, but these witnesses live complicated lives and they’re currently preparing to go under police protection. The five-week timeframe is also to provide them time to prepare for this major change to their lives.” Spencer started to smirk. “And as you can understand, we have a limited budget to protect witnesses, and this trial is going to take months to resolve.”

“Your Honor, these are very inflammatory arguments. The defendant has never been convicted of any violent act nor associated with any violent actions. The threats are unsubstantiated.” Hunter stated. “The prosecution did not even seek to deny bail.”

“Your Honor, the prosecution was not aware of these claims of violence at the time of the bail hearing. The State is asking for the identifying information to continue to be redacted until the ability to protect these witnesses are put in place, which we think will be currently five weeks’ time. This is a standard procedure.”

“The defendant is a strip-club owner?” Judge Marshall read the report.

“Which is a legitimate business that provides a service to the community.” Hunter retorted. “There’s no evidence to suggest the contrary.”

“Given your client’s professional business, I’m inclined to agree with the prosecution. I completely understand the prosecution’s apprehension.” Judge Marshall continued to read the file. “If you need to perform a deposition before the release of the witness names it can be performed over the telephone or in writing through the prosecution. In the interest of fair procedure, the names of these five witnesses will be withheld until one week before the trial. In summary, I do not believe the defense will be disadvantaged, nor do I believe the defendant will suffer any unfairness due to the names and addresses of the witnesses being redacted. The defense has their testimonies, and their written statements, and any required depositions can still be performed via other means.”

“Your Honor, I must protest. Without identifying information, the defense is deprived of fairness in this case. The defense has the right to investigate the creditability of these five key witnesses.”

“And you shall have that information one week before the trial. The motion is denied, pursuant to Illinois Supreme Court Rule 412i, and the redacted statements shall stand as is.” Judge Marshall stated. “The names of the witnesses will be suppressed until one week before the trial is set to begin.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Spencer smiled.

Hunter picked up his briefcase, and moved towards the door, followed by Spencer, just a few steps behind.

“Sorry about that, pal,” Spencer stated in his most patronizing voice as they walked out of the courtroom.

In the hallway, Hunter stopped and turned to Spencer. “You smug little kid. You don’t get to play with people’s lives.”

“And nor do drug dealers like Rick Cowan.” Spencer lifted his chin. “I see the impact of drugs on a daily basis, and it’s my job to stop it. You may think that Cowan is innocent, but he’s not. He deals drugs. We all know it. He destroys innocent people’s lives.”

“He was set-up.”

“Set-up? That’s rich.” Spencer scoffed. “Get out of here, Hunter. None of us want you here. None of us want you in these courtrooms. Your name is mud in these halls. Your father is a criminal, and it’s in your blood to do the same.”

“My father is innocent.” Hunter stepped over Spencer, his breathing short and heart thumping against his chest. He could handle smugness, he could handle privileged kids, but he couldn’t handle the slander against his father’s name.

A squeak escaped Spencer’s mouth, scared of the figure looming over him. Thoughts of his boarding school days, days where the older kids would stand over the younger ones, flooded back in an instant.

“Everything alright here?” A bailiff stood next to them, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, saving Spencer from losing his front teeth, and Hunter from facing assault charges.

Hunter grunted and turned away from Spencer, walking down the halls of justice to the exit.

“I’m going to take you down as well, along with your guilty client.” Spencer called out after him, now full of bravery as he looked at Hunter’s back. “I’m going to prove that you’re no better than your father.”

Chapter 7

Patrick Hunter waited at a table inside Lou Malnati’s Pizzeria in the neighborhood of River North, cradling his pint of Goose Island IPA, sipping it occasionally. When he needed a hit of something filling, when he needed a taste to escape the world, Lou Malnati’s deep dish pie was his calling—the soul-filling layers of cheesy goodness, the dependable flavors, the love and care that went into each pie.

Two New Yorkers sat on the table next to him complaining that they, and only they, knew real pizza and they expected the meal would be more of a lasagna and pizza pie cross-over. Patrick loved New York pizza, those thin crusted slices layered with pepperoni, but even though the slices were large, it was still a snack, a few bites of punchy flavors, designed for a city on the go. Chicago-style pizza, on the other hand, was comforting in the cold, filling a diner’s insides with layers of warmth and contentment. It was about the caramelized crust, the quality toppings, the sheets of delicious Wisconsin mozzarella cheese.

Patrick Hunter had spent the day smashing golf balls around a course north of Chicago. His scorecard was terrible, but he had moments of brilliance. The activity was a release, a moment to express his rage. Sending a little white ball piercing through the air, when everything came together in the perfect drive off the tee, was a raw sensation, a raw expression of the anger he carried with him. Anger was something he had to manage his entire life, something he had to contain through meditation, yoga, and daily doses of valium.

Family had always been a source of pain, always a source of heartache. He considered changing his name, he considered leaving the country, but his heart was in Chicago, it was where his roots were. His sister, Natalie Hunter, was different. She chose to run away to Mexico. His youngest brother, Tex, took a different route—he didn’t just stay in Chicago, he devoted his life to defending the family name to the end. The more Patrick thought about their father’s case, the more the anger grew inside him. He wanted, almost needed, his younger brother to let the crusade go, to leave the past to gather dust.

“Nice choice.” Tex Hunter walked up behind his brother as he studied the menu. “Why do you even look at that thing? You know your order here is never going to change.”

“Nothing beats a sausage deep dish pie. I’ve already ordered for both of us. They should be here soon.” Patrick greeted his brother with a handshake, which morphed into a hug and a caring pat on the back. “But it’s nice to at least look at the other options. Look at that—they’ve even got a vegetarian option.”

“I thought of becoming a vegetarian once, but realized it would be a huge missed-steak.”

Patrick smiled. “Always the comedian.”

The restaurant was packed with people chatting, laughing, and gossiping. The tables were crammed next to each other, the servers almost had to climb over some tables to deliver pizza, but it was a place full of joy and the beautiful smells of tomato, sausage, and mozzarella.

A criminal psychiatrist, Patrick’s passion was understanding criminal behavior, driven by a need to understand his father’s actions. While Tex was gifted with winning the genetic lottery, Patrick was less physically intimidating. Law frustrated him, but he was proud of his brother’s fights in the courtroom. Patrick had spent his years studying, throwing himself into books, while his brother was throwing himself into every fight that came his way. Their relationship had been littered by constant arguments about their father’s innocence, about the past that Tex so dearly held onto.

“So what’s this about then? What’s so desperate it couldn’t wait until the weekend? Girls, perhaps? How’s the love life, Tex?”

Hunter didn’t respond.

“Oh.” Patrick leaned forward and waved his finger. “There was a twitch in your face then. You like someone. Is it Esther? Has it finally happened? Is she pregnant?”

Tex Hunter ignored his brother and ordered a drink. The server was charismatic, charming, and full of passion for his job. He talked for too long about the drink options, and lingered even longer, before leaving to fill the order.

“Tex, you’re getting older. Time is passing you by. Don’t waste your years chasing shadows. There has to be a time when you let all this go and fall in love. Love is what matters; you know? And Esther is the perfect girl for you. She’s pretty, she’s smart, she’s ambitious. She’s a winner. I’d marry her.”

“I didn’t come here to talk about girls.”

The New Yorkers next to them started to rave about their experience with deep dish pizza. There wasn’t a crumb left on their plates, not a piece of topping, not a splash of sauce. Chicago-style deep dish pizza had won the doubters over.

“I know what you want to talk about. I mean, why else would you contact me?” Patrick lowered his drink and stared at his brother. “But like I’ve told you a million times, I don’t want to keep having the same conversation about our family over and over again.”

“I’ve heard Natalie’s name a lot this week.”

“Natalie? I haven’t seen her in more than thirty years. I don’t even know if I would recognize her now. She could be sitting in this restaurant, sitting next to us, and I don’t think I’d know it was her. Last time I saw her; she was eighteen and she’d be over fifty now. She was still a kid when she left. An innocent kid. Who knows what life has dealt her? Children? Family? Divorce?”

“Her old boyfriend contacted me. Rick Cowan. He wants me to defend him in court.”

“Rick Cowan? That’s also a person I haven’t heard from in a long time, and let me say, I’m happy I haven’t heard from him. The guy was a sleaze. I never liked him. Why would you consider defending someone like him?”

The server delivered their pizzas, the dishes barely fitting on the small wooden table. The brothers thanked the server, and then blew the steam off their pizzas at the same time.

“Cowan has something I want and he’s offered it to pay for his defense.”

“Here we go. This is where you start on about our father again, right?”

His younger brother didn’t answer. He picked up a slice of pizza, blew more steam off the top, waited a moment, and then bit into it.

“Tex?” Patrick pressed. “How many times do you want to go through this? You’ve tried every path and every avenue. You’ve done everything you can to save him. There’s nothing left to do. Accept the reality. Drop this quest.”

“Our father said he was innocent, remember? And Cowan might have something to prove it. The reason I contacted you is because I need to find Natalie. You still have the contacts in the border patrol, don’t you?”

Patrick nodded his response.

“Use your contacts, and see if we can at least touch base with her. I want to know what she knows. It would be nice to talk to her, at least.”

“Come on, Tex. Why can’t we ever have a normal lunch? Why can’t we talk about the Cubs, the Bulls, or the Bears. Complain that Chicago sports isn’t what it used to be. Complain about the state of the traffic, or how the trains are falling apart. Normal things. That’s what we should be doing.” Patrick lowered his eyes. “It’s time to let this go. Our father was high on pain meds when he said he was innocent. It was the word of an old drugged up criminal who doesn’t have long left to live. He could’ve said anything.”

“That man is your father.”

“Still a drugged up criminal.”

“Cowan has been receiving evidence from someone over the last thirty years. As one of the few character witnesses to defend our father, someone has been sending him evidence that our father is innocent, and he’s been holding onto it.”

“And he hasn’t released it? Or passed it on?”

“He was pressured into making sure the case went away, and pressured into making sure the evidence was never seen, but he held onto it all. Kept it locked away.”

“Why would he do that? Guilt?” Patrick tried to work over the feelings in his head. He stared at the pizza, desperately wanting to dive into it. “And why would anyone send anything to Rick Cowan?”

“I don’t know, and he won’t tell me who it’s from, but it’s thirty years of details. Thirty years of evidence we haven’t seen. We have to get our hands on the file. This is our chance to make it right. This is our chance to clear our dad’s name and finally get justice.”

“Why do you trust him? The name Rick Cowan carries no trust.” Patrick reached for his slice of pizza. He pulled at it, the cheese trying to hold it back, and placed it on his plate. Using a knife and fork, he cut off the crust and bit into it, and his shoulders instantly relaxed. It was a moment, a rush of flavor he loved. When he finished his first bite, he looked back to his brother. “He could be using you, Tex. He knows how much you want to prove our father’s innocence; he knows how much you need this. You’ve never let it go, and he knows it.”

“I don’t trust Cowan, but this is too good a chance to let slip. There’s too much riding on this to let it go.”

“It must be guilt.” Patrick sighed, looked at his pizza slice, and then cut off another piece to eat. “That must be driving Cowan to keep those files. Perhaps he felt he didn’t do enough for his girlfriend’s father, or he didn’t tell the whole truth. He must have a deep-seated feeling of letting Natalie down. That must be driving his behavior.”

“Always using those psycho-analysis skills.”

“It’s my job, Tex. You can’t switch that stuff off just because you’re not in the office. A person’s work should be a representation of their skills, not something separate from the person. We should strive to work in the fields that suit our personalities. These are my skills and it’s a part of me.”

“Do you think if you used your contacts you could find Natalie? I’d like to send her an email, or talk to her on the phone, if at all possible.”

Patrick sighed, looked around the busy restaurant, and then leaned forward. “I’ve tried to find her before, maybe fifteen, or twenty years ago, but I had no luck. I couldn’t find a trace of her. I couldn’t even find a hint.”

“Life’s different now. There’s so many more ways to find someone. Fifteen years ago, we didn’t have access to the internet like we do now. This is our chance. This is our time to find her. Maybe we can find something on social media, or something online. I just need a starting point.”

“I don’t know. It’s been a long time, and when someone wants to stay hidden, it would be hard to find them.”

“Please, Patrick. For me. Let’s find Natalie.”

Patrick nodded. He loved his brother, but chasing this line of enquiry was a recipe for trouble.

And little did he know how right his instincts were.

Chapter 8

“Tex, this is too much.” Assistant Esther Wright tapped her fingers on the edge of the boardroom table with a rhythm that was only identifiable to her. “Rick Cowan has been taunting the police for a decade. There’s a list of charges as long as this table but nothing has stuck. You could almost track his life in mug-shots. How does someone escape the system so often?”

“He’s previously had money and contacts.” Hunter sat at the end of the boardroom table, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows, one long leg crossed over the other. “He doesn’t have that now. Money can buy all sorts of influence, and now that it’s gone, so have most of his friends. Nobody has his back now.”

The boardroom in the Law Office of Tex Hunter, Defense Attorney, was roomy; a vacant space that was barely used, filled by a long glass table, a whiteboard, and black 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. The floor to ceiling windows looked out to the buildings along West Jackson Boulevard, and if they looked down, they could see the streets below filled with people rushing to get out of the cold wind.

Esther Wright had organized Rick Cowan’s paperwork into piles, filling the boardroom table in a methodical pattern. There were witness statements in one pile, crime scene photos in another, and evidence documents in another. Each pile was organized with precision, lined up against the edges of the table, not a piece of paper out of place.

Although their records were stored on computers, safely protected in the world of cyberspace, Hunter still preferred to work with paper copies in front of him. The tactile feel of the paper files helped him think. Holding a photo in his hands, reading over a paper contract, or searching through pages of files was easier than staring at a glowing screen.

“If he was a betting man, he should take the odds of winning.” Ray Jones stood by one of the windows, arms folded, staring out at his city. “The last win in court was a jury decision?”

“Assault charge five years ago. Not guilty. Not even a hung jury.” Esther flicked open a file.

“This is twisted. These guys do whatever they want, whenever they want to do it. And because they’re paying the right people, they get away with it. It seems people like Cowan are above the law, while people like my neighbors are below it.” Jones ran his hand over his freshly waxed head. Of African-American heritage, he stood six-foot-four, with shoulders as wide as the doorframe. His muscle tone hadn’t disappeared as he went through his forties—the intense daily workouts ensured that. “Do you think it’s political?”

“He runs a strip club where influential officials have been known to attend. He’d have photos that powerful people don’t want released. That’s all the leverage he needs.” Hunter stood and walked around the boardroom table. “He’s been flaunting the fact he can break the law whenever he wants, and they’ve never been able to do anything about it. He knows he’s above the law. He knows he can get away with it.”

“He’s even been posting photos on Instagram of him using drugs.” Esther added, opening another file and sliding it across to Hunter. “But when the cops came after him, he said it was a stunt to increase his popularity on social media. There was nothing the cops could do. According to these files, his strip club has been raided five times in the past five years, and nothing has ever been found. It was raided twice for prostitution, twice for drug possession, and once for firearm possession. It seems that he’s been tipped off by someone on the inside each time. He’s spent the last decade openly laughing in the faces of the force.”

Hunter walked to the whiteboard, staring at the picture of Rick Cowan’s face stuck to the middle. There were scribbles down the side of the board, notes from Hunter’s thoughts, but he could barely read them himself.

“All the cameras were turned off that morning. That had to be an inside job. Someone inside the club must’ve turned those cameras off. That has to be a lead.” Esther added. “It’s too much of a coincidence.”

“You’re right. Find out who turned off the video surveillance footage, and we find out who set him up. Our best bet is to find footage outside the club, see who’s coming in and out. Is there another angle we can get on the entrance?” Hunter asked. “Perhaps something that will show the cops bringing the drugs into the club.”

“That will only work if what he says is true,” Jones opened a file. “I’ll look into the cameras up and down the street and see if there’s anything, but I imagine if this is a set-up, then the cops would’ve already found those cameras. There’s not much use chasing ghosts, especially if Cowan is lying to us. So he’s really claiming he’s innocent this time?” Jones asked as he moved to the chair closest to the door, and sat down. “Really innocent, or just innocent enough to beat the charges in court?”

“He was set-up. I’m convinced of that now. And it was someone with inside knowledge of the club—they knew how to turn off the cameras and they knew how to access the private room. And whoever set him up, whoever is behind this corruption racket, I’m going to take down.”

“That doesn’t make Cowan an innocent person,” Esther added.

“He didn’t order these drugs. That’s clear. And the cornerstone of our justice system is the innocent should not be intimidated by those who run it. The innocent should be free. If the cops want to get him for something else, then they should do that, but he didn’t do this. We’ve taken the case, and we’ll follow this to the end. He’s been set up, entrapment at its worst, and we’re going to prove that in court. That’s our role in the system.”

Jones threw his hands in the air in surrender. “I’ll check the surrounding businesses and see if we can get any angle on the entrance to the club.”

Jones already had to break bad news to Hunter that morning—there was no evidence Cowan had gone to any storage facility, or any office to check his files. The security around the Five-Star was tight, as was the security around Cowan’s apartment. Hunter didn’t expect Cowan to keep the files there anyway. Jones was still canvasing his contacts to find any potential leads, but hopes weren’t high.

“Our main tactic in court will be discrediting the witnesses themselves, so these redacted witness statements aren’t much use without a background check. These five key witnesses are hiding something, and the prosecution doesn’t want us to find out what that is.” Hunter tapped the pile of files on the edge of the table. “We need names so we can investigate their past and show the court they aren’t credible. They won’t be strong witnesses. The prosecution is trying to buy time for these guys.”

“I suggest Witness B is an exotic dancer.” Esther moved a report across the table. “In the witness statement, she said she works in an ‘Entertainment’ role. It shouldn’t be hard to discredit her on the stand.”

“Cowan won’t like that.” Jones added. “She’ll likely go missing before the trial if any of his past cases are an indication.”

Hunter sighed. He knew the statement was true.

“Who do you think the other suppressed witnesses are?” Esther asked. “Any clue?”

“None at this point. This statement,” Hunter opened a file, “is the original tip-off and is key to the prosecution case. Witness A stated they had inside information that the drugs were coming on that day. Most of their statement is redacted but it has to be someone close to Cowan.”

“A security guard at the club?” Jones suggested.

“Maybe. Have a look into that, and see if you can find anything. One of the guards has been following me over the past few weeks, so there might be something in that.”

“Lisa Forde could be a candidate as one of the redacted witnesses. That’s Cowan’s first wife. She was asked to be a witness in his last assault trial, and when she got to the stand, changed her whole story. She could’ve turned on him after all this time.” Esther pointed at the picture on the table of Rick Cowan’s former wife.

“Get her number and we’ll call her.”

“Should we do that? What if she’s protected witness?” Esther asked.

“If we don’t have the redacted witness names, then we can’t avoid them. We’re not talking to her as a potential redacted witness, we’re merely investigating the case. We’re allowed to scrutinize the evidence. And part of our investigation has led us to our client’s ex-wife. It’s all above board.”

Esther typed into her laptop computer and brought up the details of Lisa Forde. According to social media profiles, Lisa Forde was in her early thirties, struggling to get by, and if the photos were anything to go by, heavily addicted to drugs. Within five minutes of typing, Esther had information on Lisa Forde’s phone number, address, current employment, and every personal detail they could need.

Hunter typed the number into the conference phone on the table, putting the call on speaker phone.

“Lisa Forde?” Hunter asked when she answered after one ring.

“Yes.” The woman was cautious.

“My name is Tex Hunter. I’m a lawyer and I’m representing Rick Cowan.”

There was no answer.

“Ms. Forde?”

“Did Rick tell you to call me?”

“No.”

“Is he in prison? Locked away?” Her voice was shaky. “Is that why you’re calling?”

“He’s not, but he could use your assistance. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your involvement with the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club.”

“I can’t help you.”

The phone went dead. Hunter re-dialed the number. The call went immediately to voicemail.

“She’s blocked your number.” Esther dialed the number again, but it was the same result. “That was a quick reaction. She sounded spooked the second you mentioned Cowan. Even if we show up at her home, she’s not going to talk to us.”

“She’s scared of something,” Jones added. “And if you were smart, you’d be cautious as well.”

The evidence they had gathered had become clear: Rick Cowan was cunning, sly, and dangerous. Everyone seemed to know it, and everyone seemed to have a reason to avoid him.

Chapter 9

The mood in the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club was somber as Jasmine Langford finished her Tuesday afternoon shift, the worst, and counted her takings in the changing room. Not much to speak of. A couple of older men threw a few dollars her way in sympathy, but it was barely worth dancing for. Her shifts were getting worse. The prized Friday and Saturday night slots were being assigned to the younger girls. They couldn’t dance as well as she did, they couldn’t entertain like she could, but that didn’t matter. The men weren’t there to score the girls on their dancing performances. She looked over her shoulder as one of the other girls came into the changing room, about to begin her night shift. The twenty-year-old had a chest large enough to double as airbags.

The changing room was a tight space, filled with mirrors and tables, and Jasmine often questioned whether there were video cameras hidden in the shadows. It was eerie, moldy, and dampness clung to the air. The music could be heard pumping outside the door that didn’t shut properly, and most of the furniture was mismatched, collected from cheap yard sales. It wasn’t much, but then what were their choices? Work hard, study hard, and hope they got out of the game? She wished it was that simple. Jasmine had been around the block long enough to know it wasn’t that easy. Some of the hardest working people she knew where also the poorest. It didn’t matter how many hours they put in, it didn’t count for much on minimum wage.

Despite her circumstances, Jasmine still had hopes for her future, such high hopes, even though she didn’t know anyone who got out of the game and made money elsewhere. They’d all been drawn back after they realized they couldn’t earn a better wage in the real world.

When she received the text message she was waiting for, she left her shift, said goodbye to the Samoan guard, and walked down the street, back towards the city, her destination six blocks away. She walked fast in the icy wind, holding her coat tight across her chest. When she arrived at the underpass, the car was already there, waiting for her in the darkness.

She approached the car and rapped her knuckles against the driver’s side window. It was another minute before it moved down.

“I see you’ve made the statement to the police. I’ve read it. You did well. Said everything we wanted you to say.”

“The cops told me my name would be kept a secret for the next five weeks. That’s good. I can still go to work and do all the things I need to do before this gets to trial. The cops were happy to see me, and recorded everything on tape this time. I said everything just like you wanted me to say.”

The man handed an envelope out the window of the car. Jasmine checked down the street, and when she saw no one, she took the envelope. She held it in her hand, but it didn’t feel thick enough. She looked inside.

“What’s this?”

“Five thousand.”

“You said it was twenty-five thousand.”

“It’s not.”

“We had an agreement—my testimony for twenty-five thousand. I lied to the police for you. Just because I’m a poor black girl, doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want.”

“It does.” His response was blunt.

“I can’t start a new life with five thousand. That won’t last me more than a few months. I want to get away from all this and study. We said the payment for the statement was going to be twenty-five. This is a fifth of what you promised. That’s not how deals work.”

“That’s all you’re getting at the moment. You see, if we gave you the full amount, you’d be on the next bus to Miami, and we’d never see you again, but we’re going to need you to testify at the trial. That was part of the deal.”

“Am I going to get the full amount after the testimony?”

“Sure.”

She didn’t trust him. She didn’t even know his name.

“What if Rick finds out?”

“Then you’re in trouble, but you’re already in deep enough. You can’t walk away from this now.”

“I won’t testify until you give me at least fifteen thousand.”

He shot her an angry glance. “You can’t negotiate with me. If it comes out you lied in a statement to the police about the raid, Rick will come after you and five thousand won’t stop him.”

“What?”

“You have no choice, Jasmine. You’re not in a position of power, you’re a pawn for us to play with. Remember that. You do what we want, when we want you to do it. You have to testify if you want the rest of the money. And I don’t like your attitude right now. And if I don’t like something, then it disappears.”

She stared at him. Her whole life she had been trampled on, forgotten about, and used, and she’d had enough. “And if I don’t testify?”

“If you don’t testify, your name will be released, and then I can’t imagine Rick Cowan will let you walk these streets for long. He won’t treat you nicely after this.”

“But how can I trust you’ll pay the rest of the money after the trial?”

“You can’t.” The man started the engine of his car. “But that’s the risk you have to take.”

Chapter 10

Tex Hunter walked into his local grocer—a small store where people had to squeeze past each other in the aisles—and purchased a hearty rib-eye with a fresh bunch of asparagus to cook for dinner. He chatted to the Italian-born grocer, happy to be distracted by his ramblings on community, business, and politics. During their chat, the grocer delivered a commentary on all the week’s occurrences. A mugging nearby. Disputes between residents. Traffic getting worse. Aldermen breaking promises. Bears season looking hopeful. Hunter had lived in his River North apartment for the last five years, and small talk with the grocer was part of his weekly routine, a welcome connection to his local area.

As he stepped out of the grocer, Hunter noticed the silver Mercedes sedan waiting near the entrance to his apartment building. The building had security—a doorman, numerous security cameras, and a guard for the underground parking lot. If required, Hunter could call the doorman, who would ensure the back entrance, the delivery area for the adjoining shops, was open. He’d used that option before.

But Hunter was looking for answers, and anyone who was following him was likely to provide a lead. Hunter walked to the doorman and caught a glimpse of the person inside the driver’s seat of the sedan. The man was looking at him, watching him. Hunter greeted the doorman, handed his grocery items over, and asked him to look after them until he returned. Once the doorman had placed the items inside, Hunter drew a long breath, and stepped towards the sedan. He walked up beside the car, leaned his tall frame down, and tapped on the driver’s window.

“Tex Hunter?” The man asked as he wound down the window.

“Who are you?” Hunter brought his face close enough to smell the man’s minty breath.

The man was solid, clean-cut, with weathered skin and a solid jaw. The type of man that Hunter could reasonably assume was a cop.

“John Warden.” The man reached across his car and flicked open the passenger side door. “I’m an ex-cop and a good friend of Rick Cowan. You and I need to talk.”

Hunter waited a moment, looked up and down the street, and then to the security camera of his building. He didn’t want to stop to talk—he was looking forward to cooking his rib-eye—but it could be the lead he was after. He walked around the back of the sedan, opened the car door further and sat in the car, his knees squashing up against the dash.

“Alright.” Warden began. “Let me start with this—I’m here to help. I’m sure Cowan’s mentioned me. What I’ve found so far is that he’s been set up by someone in the CPD and we’re trying to figure out who it is. We’re close to finding out who, but I need to know what you know.”

“Nothing yet.”

“Come on. Don’t play me. I’m on your side, and I’m sure Cowan said I can help you out. And I can. We’re playing the same game, and we’re already ten points down. We’ve got to work as a team if we’re going to move this forward. You can help me, and I can help you. Tell me what you know.”

Hunter looked Warden over. He was in his mid-fifties, fit, with a short crop of salt and pepper hair. His white shirt was pressed within an inch of its life, and his watch looked like it had been polished.

“Jerry Schultz is now involved in this,” Warden continued. “He’s the man people turn to when they want things done. He’s connected to a lot of people, and when he’s involved, you can guarantee that something’s going to happen. Someone is paying somebody a lot of money to make things happen.”

“Schultz is connected to you as well. Rick Cowan did talk about you and so I read about your past, John Warden. Captain in the CPD, forced to retire after a long string of accusations, and now you spend your days using your connections to organize business deals for Schultz’s litigation firm. A consultant. I know what that means. You push money around to the right people, and move the chess pieces on the board. I’ve read your history, and it’s not clean. The fraud and bribery charges may have been wiped off your file, but you can’t erase the allegations.”

“This isn’t about me; this is about you and Rick Cowan. You’re being played, Hunter. Someone powerful is pulling the strings, setting both of you up for a fall, and you’re playing right into their hands,” Warden said. “You have to be careful.”

“What’s your involvement in this? Why would you even care?”

“We’re old friends, and we’ve worked together a lot. But Cowan and I also have a past. He has information on me, and I don’t want it getting out. I need to look after him to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Lana Nevis. The girl that overdosed in the club.”

“I had nothing to do with it, and no one was ever charged. She overdosed by herself. The girl was fine when I last saw her, maybe a little aggressive, and then she spent some time in the same room as Cowan. Five minutes later, she’s overdosed.”

“You think Cowan pumped her full of drugs?”

“I don’t know what happened, but I know the cops couldn’t pin it on me, so they blamed Cowan. The stripper was the sister of a beat cop. She had connections to the force. And the precinct was sick of girls overdosing in the Five-Star, so they came after him pretty hard. When it was a cop’s sister, it became personal for the CPD.”

The cars crawled past them in the traffic, the occasional horn sounding. Despite the years of planning, the roads in the city were getting busier, creating regular traffic jams that frustrated even the most seasoned of drivers. For Hunter, there was a familiar comfort in the noise, loud enough to drown the thoughts that were constantly running through his head.

“What is it you want, Warden?”

“I want…” Warden paused, looked out the window to the traffic, and then drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s not about what I want, it’s about what I can do for you. I can help you and Cowan win this thing, but you have to trust me.”

“Trust is in short supply around here.”

“Then I’ll give you something for free. A symbol of my goodwill. I have a name that may help you identify a witness—Jasmine.”

“Who’s Jasmine?”

“A contact in the CPD fed me the name. She’s one of the witnesses, but before you go chasing her, you should know this—” Warden flinched, and his micro-expression gave away his thoughts—he was hiding something. “You’re being played by someone, so watch your step. They want to take Cowan down, but they’ll happily take you down in the process. You’ll be collateral damage if you get too close.”

Hunter didn’t respond. He opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. As soon as the sedan drove away, Hunter called investigator Ray Jones.

“Find me any girl working in the club named Jasmine.” Hunter’s voice was strong. “She’s one of our mystery witnesses.”

Chapter 11

Ray Jones was able to track down the details of Witness B. With the name John Warden provided, Jones searched the files of the Five-Star, before going into the club and talking to the regulars. All the girls had stage names, but when he heard one of the staff say Jasmine was late for her shift, he had a lead. He talked to her briefly in the club, and within a few hours of internet searching, he had her full name, birthdate, past addresses, social security number, social media profiles, and family history. Connecting the dots was easy in the age of the internet. All the information was there, all the data was available, and his only challenge was knowing where to start.

After meeting her in person, Jones called Hunter and offered to talk to the exotic dancer over dinner, perhaps with an ulterior motive. Hunter insisted it was a job for him alone.

The apartment building in the neighborhood of East Garfield Park was less than half occupied. It was falling apart at the edges, one of the first floor windows was smashed, and a strong stench radiated from the storm drain nearby. A dirty tent sat next to the building, and the fence was cracked, missing more than a few bricks. Not the sort of place that dreams were made of.

Tex Hunter ensured his BMW sedan was locked, checking it twice, before he stepped into the apartment building. He walked up the stairs to level five, rather than risk being trapped in the elevator. He didn’t trust elevators at the best of times, and this one looked like it hadn’t been serviced in years.

When he reached apartment 505, he looked up and down the hallway, searching for any cameras. There was one, although it was smashed and not likely to be working.

After three heavy knocks, a voice called from behind the door.

“What do you want?”

“My name is Tex Hunter and I would like to talk with Jasmine Langford.”

“Sorry, you must have the wrong apartment.” The voice behind the door was shaky.

“I don’t.” Hunter responded. “And I can talk to you now, or I can call your boss Rick Cowan and have him come down to talk to you.”

There was a long pause. Not a sound of movement from behind the door for fifteen seconds. Then the door clicked twice, the unlocking of the door bolts was loud, and the door edged open a touch. Jasmine peered out from behind the door, sheltering her body behind it. “Go on.”

“I’m a defense lawyer and I’m representing Rick Cowan.”

“Does he know you’re here? Did he send you?”

“He doesn’t know I’m here. I’m investigating his case, and the road has lead to you. I know you’re involved somehow.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have a very good investigator.”

“I don’t know if I should let you in.” She looked up to him, eyes wide with fear. “The police said they’re going to put security on the door, but not for another month. They told me not to talk to anyone about it until then.”

“If you talk with me now, I won’t disclose your details to Rick.”

She nodded, and opened the door wider. Caught between a rock and a hard place, she didn’t have a choice. She was twenty-five, with dark hair and a toned, fit body. Wearing a loose top, cardigan, and sweats, she looked like she hadn’t planned on leaving the house, or having visitors, for the rest of the day.

Hunter ducked his head as he walked through the low door frame. The décor in the small apartment was busy, mismatched items scattered across the room, but it was clean. It was a one-bedroom apartment with a tiny living space, kitchen to the left, bathroom to the right. There was one window for the main area, and a desk tucked into the corner. An open math textbook sat on the table, a pencil and calculator next to that.

When Jasmine Langford first went into stripping, she had dreams of becoming a star. At first, her twenty-one-year-old body made a lot of money, and she thought it would last forever. But over the years, as she got older, her income decreased. She was no longer the top billing at the Five-Star, no longer the draw-card that Cowan put on the posters. Her income had become a slow trickle of five-dollar bills, rather than a steady stream of fifties.

“Have a seat.” Jasmine pointed to the gray two-seater couch, before bolting the door shut again.

The couch was small enough to be used in a kindergarten, and the low coffee table was filled with beauty magazines. Jasmine walked over to the laptop computer on her desk, typed a few lines, and then switched it off.

“Recording something?” Hunter sat down, and pointed at the small camera on the side of the desk, easily missed if not looking for it.

“Got to earn money somehow.”

“Webcam shows?”

“Not quite. People pay money to watch girls do their everyday things. They watch me cooking, watching TV, cleaning. All the everyday stuff. I leave the camera recording all day and when someone watches it, I get a small payment. People around the world pay to be Peeping Toms into my life.”

“People pay for that?”

“They don’t pay a lot, but it’s something. Some weeks it’s five dollars, and other weeks it’s fifty, but I don’t have to do anything different, just leave the camera running all day. They watch me eating dinner, or ironing, or dusting. Sometimes I do those things half naked, and they all love that. I just live my life doing normal things, and people pay to watch it. It’s like reality television without the drama. It’s a website called ‘Peep Into My Home.’ I’ve got nothing to hide, so I let people watch.”

“And you have it running all the time?”

“It’s easier money than stripping. I leave it on and forget about it, but I’ve turned it off for this chat.” She bit her lip. “Does this mean Rick’s going to find out about me now? The other lawyer told me I had weeks before the information was released. I thought I still had time to work this out.”

“I won’t tell Rick Cowan about you until the witness list is officially released by the prosecution.”

“Can I even talk to you now?” She questioned. “Is that what I’m supposed to do? They never told me what to do.”

“Why don’t you begin by telling me what you saw that day.” Hunter leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I want to know what you saw when you claim to have seen Rick Cowan with the drugs.”

“You might be handsome, but you still need to pay for any of my information. That’s how things work out here,” she said. “If you want what I’ve got, then you need to pay for it.”

“That’s not how things work. You’ll be on the stand. We can talk there.”

“That’s fine with me.” She was firm. “You can walk back out the door where you came from.”

Hunter held her gaze for a long moment before conceding. He reached into his pocket, removed his wallet, and placed two fifty-dollar bills on the coffee table.

“That’s good. This is all off the record, ok? The only official statement I’ve made is to the cops.”

Hunter nodded. She picked up the money and placed it in the pocket of her sweats.

“I’m glad we came to an understanding. I saw Rick pay someone, in cash, for the delivery of drugs.”

Hunter waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. She nodded to the table when he didn’t pick up her hint. Hunter withdrew another fifty along with a twenty and placed them on the table. The world was a marketplace, a place to sell her knowledge, and while she worked hard, she was also street-smart. Hunter held open his wallet, showing he had no more cash on him.

“You made the witness statement days after the raid on the club. Why not tell the truth at the time?”

“I did make a report to the police at the time. I talked to them for hours, but the police lost my first statement. They told me it was a clerical error. Then an old guy came here and convinced me to go back into the station and tell the truth.” She picked up the remaining bills. She didn’t have long left at the club. As soon as her name was released, she couldn’t go back there. She’d have to quit. With the trial coming in a matter of weeks, she would need every cent.

“Which old guy?”

“Some old guy. I don’t know his name, but a few days after the raid, he showed up in my apartment. He was with a younger guy as well. I think the second guy was a cop. He sure looked like it. He said if I wanted some money, then I should go to the cops and tell them what I saw on the day of the raid.”

“What did the old guy look like?”

“Gray hair. In his seventies. He told me there’d be more cash coming if I testified against Rick.” She ran her hand over her dark hair. It was neat, but hadn’t been brushed in a number of days.

“You’re saying you were paid to make the statement to the police?”

“They didn’t give me a choice. They came here, to my apartment, and offered me money to go to the precinct and make a statement. That’s not illegal, is it? They didn’t say I shouldn’t tell you that.”

Hunter sat back. “How much were you paid?”

“They said it was going to be twenty-five thousand. That’d be enough to get me out of here. It’d be enough to move away from here and go back to school for teaching.”

“Under the witness protection program?” Hunter was cautious. They rarely did that for state cases.

“Not witness protection. I don’t think this money is on the books. But with twenty-five thousand, I figured I’ll be far enough away for Cowan never to touch me.” She picked up a tourist brochure from the table and handed it to Hunter. “Florida could be a nice place. I’d miss Chicago, but Rick couldn’t get to me down there.”

She paused for a moment, as Hunter flicked through the brochure, before he handed it back. She stared at the front page, then shrugged and continued. “Then I went to collect the money and the guy gives me five thousand. I did what they asked, and they didn’t pay me.”

“Did you tell the police that?”

“No, but when I went to make my second statement to the police, they said I had to do exactly what I was told or they’d release my name to Cowan. He would get to me before the trial, and make sure I wouldn’t testify. Then the cop told me they’d at least get Cowan for witness tampering charges, but that’s cold comfort if I’m floating face down in the river.”

“You’re making a brave move by testifying against your boss.”

“It’s not brave. It’s my only choice. I have nothing left here. You don’t know the life I’ve lived. I live week to week, I struggle to pay bills, and I’m getting older. Older strippers don’t earn much money. I’d have to start turning tricks to earn any money. I don’t want that. I never want that.”

“You need the money for drugs?”

“No way. I don’t touch the stuff. Tried it a few times when I was younger, but I haven’t done drugs for years. Not my thing. It’s a bad spiral to get into. But I know this, it’s time for me to get out of this business. Out of this life. I’d even take a cleaning job, if I could get one. But I can’t. I can’t do anything. I want to settle down, have kids, live my life. I can’t do it here, but I need money to get out of this mess.”

“And this is your chance to start again?”

“This is my chance. And I’ll do whatever it takes, or say whatever I need to say, to get out of here.” She stood up. “And if it means putting a sleaze like Rick Cowan behind bars, then that’s what I’ll do.”

Chapter 12

The tension in the Five-Star was thick. None of the girls were smiling. Jasmine Langford could hear it from her colleagues, feel it in the dressing room, and notice it from the managers. They were angry—word had gotten out that someone within the club was listed as one of the redacted witnesses. Rumors were circulating, gossip was buzzing, and speculation was rife. Jasmine spent the entire afternoon shift on edge, her heart pounding hard enough to feel it with her hand, jumping at every movement, avoiding every shadow.

Her floor manager didn’t threaten her directly, but made it clear if anyone was contemplating a testimony against Cowan, there would be trouble. And not the sort of trouble people recovered from. She couldn’t show her worry to anyone in the club. Lana was the only person she was close to in the club, every other girl was working for the competitive edge. They were all trying to push each other out of the way, trying to win better shifts, and earn more money for selling their dignity.

When her afternoon shift finished, Jasmine didn’t feel comfortable walking home. Riding in the cab, she kept looking out the back window, watching for anyone following her. She could sense danger, she could sense the anxiety, and if anyone found out it was her listed as Witness B, she was sure her days were numbered. Riding in the cab, her knees were weak, her hands were trembling, and she struggled to hold down the sickness in her stomach.

The cab driver dropped her at her front door, and she snuck into her apartment building, keeping her head down. After running up the stairs, she bolted the door shut, took a deep breath, and then pushed the couch in front of the entrance. She pushed it hard against the door. It could still move if the door was opened, but it was the heaviest thing in her apartment. She sat on the couch, rested her head in her hands, and began to sob.

Minutes later, when her sobbing had slowed, a knock on her door echoed through the room.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Careful not to make a sound, she took off her sneakers and stepped on the cushions of the couch, peering through the peephole. She recognized the man on the other side.

She’d had a stalker before, but this was different. This wasn’t going to be a friendly conversation, and she wasn’t sure how much Cowan already knew. Was Cowan sending a guy out to every girl’s house? Or did he already know it was her? She liked the lawyer, she could’ve trusted him, but in reality, if he knew she was Witness B, it was likely Cowan knew it as well.

Making a loud noise, she moved to the window and opened it. She made as much noise as possible. If the man on the other side of the door heard the window rattling, he’d think she’d made a run for it down the outside fire escape.

The man knocked again. Louder this time.

She couldn’t run. She understood how this worked. There’d be a guy on the street on lookout, waiting for her to run out the entrance. The outside fire escape would buy her a little time, but not much. And running wasn’t her best skill.

As the knocking became louder, she left the window open, and crept to her bedroom, opening her closet, where there was a large cardboard box she’d used when she first moved in. She slipped inside, closed the closet door, and then tucked herself into the box.

She heard the front door break open with force. She could hear the couch being pushed across the room. It was no match for the strength of the man coming into her apartment.

Being Witness B in the case against Cowan was a stupid decision, but she wasn’t given a choice.

Money was always a problem, always a source of tension in her life. She never expected to be a millionaire, but she watched her mother, and everyone she had known, struggle to find enough money to pay the bills.

She reached for her phone. She wanted to call 911, but she couldn’t trust the cops. They would expose her the second she didn’t obey their rules. She was nothing but a pawn to them.

She’d handed out thirty resumes in the last month alone, and no one called her back. Her resume looked good—a former straight A student, volunteered with a homeless shelter, and had recommendations from respected people in the community. But competition for work was fierce, and she lacked experience. There was nothing else she could do. Nothing she could master.

She tried to apply for a job with a rival strip club, but their books were full. Cowan wouldn’t have let it happen anyway. She’d heard the owner of the other club treated his girls well, like angels, where Cowan treated them like slaves.

She heard the man’s footsteps move towards the open window. The footsteps paused there before continuing around the apartment.

Waiting inside the cardboard box with the lid closed, she tried to keep her breath quiet.

The intruder was moving around the apartment, looking for her.

Cowan would’ve been able to put two and two together. He wasn’t stupid.

The man opened her bedroom door.

She held her breath. Didn’t move.

And then the man moved towards her closet.

Chapter 13

The Western Men’s Club was painted bright yellow, a beacon for the lost, a symbol for the lonely. The building sat on land detached from the businesses next door, distinctive and unmistakable in its purpose. Sitting five blocks from Rick Cowan’s strip club, The Western Men’s Club was in direct competition with Hunter’s client, however, they charged more for drinks, more for entry, and more for private dances, attempting to attract wealthier customers. The effect of the business tactic was evident the moment Hunter drove towards the lot—all the cars parked near the club were luxury vehicles—collectively worth as much as a small bank—all perfectly clean and shiny.

As Hunter drove into the lot, he watched the car exiting. It was the same silver sedan that was parked in front of his apartment only days before. Hunter tried to look at the driver, and in a fleeting moment of passing, he recognized John Warden.

Hunter parked his BMW between a Ferrari and an Audi, and walked into the club. The second he opened the front door, he was blasted with pop music, pumping much too loud for lunchtime. The club was half-filled with young men in suits drinking, admiring the female form, and cheering for the performances. Probably young lawyers, Hunter reasoned. The bar was lengthy, the lights were dim, and the floor was smooth enough to slide on. The air was thick with the smell of booze, cigars, and female perfumes.

Hunter had spent the past day thinking about Jasmine’s decisions. If life had dealt him the same hand, perhaps he would’ve been desperate enough to obtain any job. Perhaps he would’ve done everything he could to survive. Given Jasmine’s circumstances, he might’ve ended up in a joint like the Five-Star, he reasoned, providing muscle to scumbags like Cowan.

Jasmine Langford had no family left, no support, and no backup. She had no safety net. She had to turn to the only thing she was good at, the only thing she owned of any worth. He felt sorry for her, but that was life in the city. Not everyone blossomed, and not everyone could be a winner.

Ray Jones was proving his worth. Not only had he located Jasmine Langford, but he managed to identify a second witness out of the five redacted names. Witness C testified that Cowan contacted him with the information about the drug delivery, offering him a slice of the action, and witnessed the exchange of drugs on the day. The witness was essential in the prosecution’s case by stating Cowan knowingly had possession of the drugs. Hunter wasted no time in setting up a meeting.

“Tony Kokkinos?”

“Mr. Hunter, the defense lawyer. Always my favorite type of person.” Kokkinos looked Hunter up and down, and then stepped away from the half-naked girl he was talking with. “This is a conversation we need to have in private. Let’s go to my office.”

The strip club owner led him away from the lunch-time crowd in The Western Men’s Club. Kokkinos towered over most people, although he didn’t stand as tall as Hunter. His looks were classic Greek—thick dark hair, olive skin, broad shoulders. In his early fifties, he never had a problem with the ladies. His Mediterranean looks were smooth, as was his voice and his sense of easy style.

“I heard a joke about lawyers this morning.” Kokkinos smiled as he held the door open for Hunter to enter. “There were three surgeons talking about which patients they preferred. The first surgeon said he preferred librarians, because all their organs were alphabetized. The second said she preferred mathematicians, because their organs were numbered. And the third said he preferred lawyers… because they’re heartless, gutless, spineless, and their heads and rear-ends are interchangeable.”

Hunter didn’t laugh.

“I thought it was funny anyway.” Kokkinos closed the door behind him. “I can imagine you’ve received the witness list. I was told you might contact me when you found out my name was on there, but I thought it wouldn’t be for a few more weeks’.”

“I haven’t received the list yet, but I’ve received a tip that you’re on it.”

Kokkinos squinted. That caught him off-guard.

The office was spacious, a place for entertaining guests as much as a place to work. There were two red couches on each side of the room, a large television screen to the back and a small bar fridge near the door. An office desk sat at the top corner of the room, tucked away and filled by three computer monitors.

“Why were you at a rival strip club on October 5th?” Hunter questioned.

“Straight to the point.” Kokkinos replied, holding his hand out for Hunter to sit down on one of the couches. “Why don’t you take a seat first?”

The cushion sank a long way as Hunter sat down.

“Coffee?” Kokkinos moved to the coffee machine on top of the small fridge. “Anything to drink?”

“Let’s not waste anyone’s time. I’m sure you’re a busy man. So why don’t you tell me why you were at a rival strip club on the day of a drug raid?”

“Haven’t I already answered these questions in a written statement?”

Hunter was silent.

“Listen…” Kokkinos drew a long breath, and poured a mug of coffee. “I was scoping out my rival. It’s that simple. That’s how business is done, and I’m sure you understand it. The Five-Star is a rival of my club, and if they’re doing anything new, I have to know about it.”

“How often are you there?”

Hunter’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

“Every two or maybe three months. Cowan does the same. He comes in here to check out how things are for me. We’re rival businesses, but we’ve worked together in the past.” He sipped his coffee and leaned against the arm of the second couch. “And yes, Cowan told me he was going to receive a shipment of drugs, and offered me a slice of the pie. It’s illegal to have cocaine delivered to your door, you know? I was there when Cowan had the drugs delivered. I saw it all. I saw him pay the dealer for the drugs. When the cops approached me after the raid, I told them the truth.”

“Is it true you tried to set up Cowan before?”

Kokkinos’ mouth hung open for a moment, and then he smiled. “You’re good. You’re obviously well-informed.”

Hunter’s phone buzzed again. He removed it, looked at the number. It was Esther. Hunter hesitated, before sending the call to voicemail.

“Esther?” Kokkinos leaned across and read the name on the screen of Hunter’s mobile. “Girlfriend? Wife? Mistress?”

“Assistant.” Hunter put the phone back in his pocket. “You didn’t answer my question about your attempt to set up Cowan.”

“I’ve said all I need to say in the written testimony. Cowan had the drugs delivered to his club. It’s that simple. He was the only one with a key to the room. I saw it all. He’s guilty, and with the evidence against him, I can’t see how he’s going to get out of it. He’s been warned in the past—when you play so close to the edge, some day you’re going to fall over it.”

“I know you’re connected with John Warden. I saw him driving out of here as I drove in.”

“Many people come in and out of here. That’s the nature of my business. I don’t know them all, and you can’t prove that I do. We’re—”

Hunter’s phone buzzed again. He removed it from his pocket. It was Esther again.

“Sounds urgent.” Kokkinos pointed to the phone. “She wants something.”

Hunter looked at the number, but again sent it to voicemail. He was in the middle of pressing a witness and didn’t want to be disturbed.

“It can wait.” Hunter responded. “Your history with Cowan?”

“Listen, Cowan and I have a past, there’s no denying it. And I’m sure you’re going to try and exploit our past on the stand, but I’m prepared for it. I heard what I heard and I saw what I saw. That piece of trash bought those drugs. I saw it with my own eyes. He treats those girls so terribly, you know? He’s a terrible boss, gives us all a bad reputation. You have to treat your girls with love and respect. Be a great boss. Treat them like angels.”

“If Cowan gets fifteen years behind bars, then you’ll get his club for cheap. Sounds like a motive to me.”

“You think he’s been set up? Gee. Who would’ve thought? A man who buys his way out of everything has finally had his day.” The sarcasm was clear.

“You—” Hunter stopped as his phone pinged again. He looked at the message.

It was from Esther.

Urgent.

“I have to take this.” Hunter stood and began to walk out of the room. Kokkinos followed him and opened the office door. Hunter stepped outside the building before calling Esther back. “Esther.”

“Tex.” She responded. “You’re not going to like this.”

Esther explained the information that had arrived on her desk. It was from the prosecution.

The news they didn’t want. The news Hunter dreaded.

The news that could change the course of the case.

Hunter listened to what Esther said, and asked her to repeat it, but there was no miscommunication, there was no doubting what she stated—Witness B, Jasmine Langford, was missing.

Chapter 14

During the next five weeks, Tex Hunter found it impossible to sleep more than a few hours. He tossed and turned during the long nights, frustrated at his inability to switch off, his thoughts dashing everywhere but rest. He thought about the sleaze of Rick Cowan. The involvement of John Warden. Tony Kokkinos. The Samoan guard. They all played in his head like it was a playground, a place to run wild and free, but mostly his thoughts were with the missing witness. Jasmine Langford didn’t deserve to be attacked. She didn’t deserve the fate that was handed to her.

No body had been found. That gave him some hope. He ran Jasmine’s conversation over and over in his head—the police threatened to release her name to Cowan, so they could nail him for witness tampering. ‘Not much good if I’m floating down the river,’ she had said. The statement swam in his mind for weeks, repeating itself the second he tried to switch off.

No witness tampering charge had been filed. Whoever made the hit, did it cleanly. There was evidence of a broken lock at Jasmine’s apartment, but no witnesses had come forward, and nothing of significance had been left behind. There was no further trace of her. She hadn’t contacted friends, she hadn’t used her credit cards, and her phone was left in the apartment. Cowan was suspect number one, but there were also other people in the mix. The people that paid her to testify might’ve changed their minds, and considered her too much of a risk. Without a body, there was little chance of an arrest.

Hunter had spent five weeks investigating the case—following leads, conducting interviews, and attempting to have evidence thrown out of court—but still, he was no closer to finding out who framed Cowan. His client admitted he was tipped off and was aware the raid was coming. He said there was a small amount of cocaine in the club, no more than a few hundred dollars’ worth, but he continued to deny any knowledge of the larger amount. Cowan was convinced someone in the CPD planted the drugs before the raid took place.

There was pressure coming on Hunter from all sides of the law—detectives had followed him on numerous days, beat cops had harassed him for jaywalking, and the telephone calls from the prosecution’s office were constant.

As he drove to his apartment, he was rehearsing his opening statement, confident they had the chance to win the case at trial. The case against his client was solid, but not unbeatable. The State had witnesses, constructive possession, and body-cam footage from the day of the raid, but there was still room to doubt he took possession of the product knowingly. The door was still ajar, and Hunter was trying to put his foot through it.

As the gates to the parking lot under his apartment building opened, Tex Hunter noticed the figure standing on the side of the road. The gates raised, and the figure slipped underneath, walking in as Hunter parked his car. Hunter opened his door as soon as he parked.

The closing gates blocked any light from the outside, but the artificial lights were bright. The parking lot was cold, damp, and was half-filled on the Thursday evening. The residents’ parking lot was spacious and filled with new model BMWs, Mercedes, and Audis.

“Tex.” Ray Jones walked down the ramp towards Hunter’s car. “There’s still no sign of Jasmine Langford. No body, no lead, nothing. Five weeks of trying to find this girl and we have nothing. If she’s hiding, she’s doing it well, but a better guess would be that she’s on the bottom of the river.”

“I haven’t given up yet.” Hunter sighed as he stepped out of his BMW. He closed the door and leaned against the side of the vehicle. “Two detectives came to my office today, questioning me about her whereabouts. I told them that I was investigating the case, and had nothing to do with her disappearance, but rumor is the CPD are looking closely at me, and it doesn’t look good, Ray. They have a file and already they’re talking about arrests. And I get it—I go and talk to her, and one day later, she’s missing. This doesn’t look good for me at all.”

“I’ve got a contact in the department.” Jones stood across from Hunter, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Your name is high up on the list in the witness tampering claims. They fed you the name, Tex. They knew you would lead Cowan’s men to her. John Warden set you up.”

“Seems to be the only consistent thing for Jasmine Langford. People played with her life like it was some sort of game. Whoever fed Warden the name of the girl didn’t care about her at all. Rick Cowan is still denying any culpability. Says he knew nothing about it. The first he heard she was the witness was when I told him.” Hunter leaned his head back. “There’s not much chance she’s still alive, is there?”

“It doesn’t look that way. And I get it. I feel responsible as well. I feel like this is our fault. If we didn’t find her, if we didn’t go and talk to her, then she would’ve been safe from Cowan. Winning a case is one thing, risking the life of a young woman is another.”

Another car drove into the parking lot, parking a row away from Hunter’s car. Hunter gave the driver a slight nod, and they did the same in return.

He didn’t know many people in his apartment building, and the ones he did, he knew by sight only. He’d never taken the time to get to know his neighbors, something he often regretted. He understood the need for community, but with working so much, finding the time to chat wasn’t something he felt he could do.

“It’s all one big set up by this corruption racket, but I’m not going to let them play with the system. I won’t let them do whatever they want.” The phone buzzed in Hunter’s pocket. He recognized the number. “Excuse me, Ray. I have to get this. I imagine this is about the witness list.”

Hunter answered the phone, and before he could say a word the person on the other end of the line began yelling.

“I’m going to deliver the redacted witness list in person at 10am on Monday, and no one else better go missing.” Prosecutor Samuel Spencer wasted no time getting to the point. “Do you hear me, Hunter? After I deliver the list, Cowan better not get his hands on these witnesses.”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”

“The stripper. Witness B. A day after you paid her a visit, she went missing. That’s not a coincidence. Nobody else on the list is to be touched. Do you understand me?”

“I had nothing to do with it.”

“I know how this works, Hunter.” The venom in Spencer’s voice was clear. “You play dumb, get the information you need, and relay it to Cowan. But let me tell you this, we will not rest on this case. With or without her testimony, we’re coming for Cowan. And after that, we’re coming for you. Witness tampering is a federal crime, and you’re going to prison for this. We’ve already built a strong case against you.”

“Are you sure she didn’t take a vacation? Florida is appealing this time of year.”

“Don’t you dare.” The sound of spit hitting the phone was clear. “When I find out what you had to do with this, I’m going to bring the full force of the law down on-top of you. You visited her before the redacted witness list was released. You had enough time to plan this. I know you’re involved in making sure this witness went missing. I’m coming after you, Hunter. We all are. Witness tampering carries a long prison sentence. You’ll have a family reunion with your father behind bars soon.”

Hunter didn’t answer. As Cowan’s lawyer, Hunter was being painted with the same brush that tarnished his client.

“Do you hear me, Hunter? New evidence has come across our desk that ties you to this. You think you can make witnesses go missing and not have consequences? I expected better from you. You don’t own this game. I do. I own this game. And I’ve already built the file against you. Your fingerprints are in her apartment. We have footage of your car outside her building. You have motive. I’m coming for you, and I’m going to relish the chance to take you down.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Hunter ended the call and looked back to Jones. “Where were we?”

“Sorry, Tex. I’ve exhausted every lead and I don’t have any more information about Jasmine.” Jones kept his hands in his pockets. “When you went to visit her, did you see anyone following you?”

“I had a sense there was someone there, but I couldn’t see anyone.” He shook his head. “I had a tail over the few days beforehand. A Samoan. He looked like the guard from the club, but I thought I shook him before I went to her apartment.”

“They had this planned from the start, didn’t they?”

“It looks like it. And I don’t think Cowan has finished his scare tactics yet. The other witnesses may still be in danger.” Hunter said. “We have to keep him close. That’s the only way we can move forward. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll give us a hint where the girl is buried.”

Chapter 15

The sounds reverberated off the outdoor basketball court, a mixture of disappointment and elation, in the aptly named Wicker Park, which was in the neighborhood of Wicker Park, and off North Wicker Park Ave. Under lights in the early evening cold, the basketball players hustled next to each other, working their sweaty bodies, trying to win the pick-up game. On the first court, the enthusiasm of the young men was high, they were feeling strong, with determined grunts echoing through the air. On the second court, closest to the road, a number of older men were trying to maintain any semblance of their youth, missing more shots than they cared to admit. The trash talk was brash, the knocks were solid, and the effort was determined.

On his day off, Chicago PD Detective Henry Holmes looked slow on the public-use court even when compared to the older players—bouncing the basketball in his left hand, holding out his right hand as a defense, and yelling abuse to the others who dared to step onto the court with him. Despite being at least thirty, maybe even forty, years past their prime, the men on Court 2 were still determined to play like they were in their teens. Muscle definition was being lost by the year and every knee on the court was strapped, but in their minds, they were still competing for a spot on a NBA roster.

Holmes spotted the well-dressed lawyer at the edge of the court, grunted, and when the opposition player also looked in Tex Hunter’s direction, Holmes moved the ball, and proceeded to race through a lay-up, which hit the rim, and was rebounded by another player. The first player complained, and Holmes replied with more comical trash talk.

With the speed of a vintage car, Holmes found the ball again and sprung back into the air, jumping around another sixty-year-old. He hit the jump shot, his first in five, and followed the basket with a few words of poignant wisdom, a high-five and more jibes about the man’s ability.

Five minutes later, Holmes had finally hit another shot, high-fiving the other members of his pick-up team, celebrating a win on court. He bowed out of the game, picked up his towel and water bottle, and walked over to see Hunter.

“Looking great out there, Holmes. The Bulls should be calling soon.”

“If they’d made an offer forty years ago, I would’ve jumped at the chance. But today, all I’d give them is a cranky old man. The only thing that’s gotten better is my trash-talking.”

“Come on,” Hunter smiled. “You don’t look a day over seventy-five.”

“Youth is not an achievement, Tex. We’ve all been there and done that.” The steam poured off his bald head. “And I can see gray hairs on your head. There’s no mistaking you for a twenty-five-year-old.”

One of the other players called Holmes back to the court, but he declined the offer, his endurance almost spent. He put on a sweatshirt, the steam rising off his head like a boiling pot, and then wiped his brow with the towel once more. He was a solid six-foot, a linebacker in high school, and still retained a broad set of shoulders. His skin had lost it’s tone over the past few years, and the good looks of his youth were nothing more than a memory. With forty-five years of service in the Chicago PD, his time as a cop was respected, if not revered, among the younger recruits.

“But I hear a certain witness might not grow old. I guess that’s why you’re here. You want to find out how close we are to arresting you for getting rid of her.”

“You still owe me a favor, Holmes. I’m calling it in. I want to know what you know about the girl.”

Holmes turned and looked at the players on the court, checking to see if anyone was listening. They all knew he was a cop, his reputation preceded him, but he tried to keep that world separate from the pick-up games. The same players had been attending the weekly meets for much of the past twenty years, and there was a strength in the male bonds forged through physical endeavor. Some players had moved on, and some had been buried, but there was an unbreakable sense of community between them. If needed, they would be there for each other in a heartbeat.

“That’s the thing about retiring—people are in a rush to call the favors in.” Holmes looked back towards the courts. “Lots of people have been asking for favors lately.”

“Is that what happened when you lead the task force raid on the Five-Star?”

“I can’t talk to you about the raid, unless you do it officially.” He shook his head, checked the court again, and then turned back to Hunter. “But I’ll tell you how close we are for the missing witness—your name and picture are on a whiteboard with lines connecting you to other people. You’re a suspect, Tex, and we’ve had people watching you. The file has been built on your past cases and this has happened before. Five years ago, a prosecution witness died before the trial you were involved in, brakes failed on her car. That’s a pattern.”

“I had nothing to do with the disappearance.”

“You and Rick Cowan are the main suspects in the disappearance of Witness B, and Cowan has also been involved with similar crimes in the past. The man is scum. The worst sort too—he takes advantage of vulnerable women and uses them to make money.”

“You’re talking about his dancers?”

“He prowls the streets for vulnerable eighteen-year-old girls, girls that aren’t even old enough to drink, and then throws money at them until they agree to become one of his strippers. From there, they’re trapped into that life. He cuts them off from everything. Gets them addicted to drugs and the lifestyle. Once they’re in his game, a lot of these girls have no way out.”

“Like Jasmine Langford.”

“She saw her chance to take down Cowan, and not only free herself, but also save the lives of all the girls who worked at that stinking club. She was friends with the girl who overdosed, and Lana Nevis was the estranged daughter of a beat cop. The girls in that club are given everything—heroin, opioids, cocaine, ecstasy. You name it, Cowan loads them up with it until they’re all addicted to drugs and money. This isn’t about one case, one drug bust, one little incident—this is about stopping Cowan from doing whatever he wants. This is about stopping bribery. This is about stopping one of the biggest pieces of dirt in the city. We have the chance to stop him, and we will.”

“Sounds like you’re familiar with the club?”

“Been there once or twice.” Holmes looked away, brushing the tip of his nose. “I know what happens there. And I know the missing witness isn’t a coincidence.”

“John Warden fed the name of the witness to me, and he did it on purpose. This whole thing is a set-up. He knew how Cowan worked and he knew what he was going to do. That name was fed to Warden by someone in the department, someone close. You’re friends with John Warden. Old friends. Former colleagues in the PD. That could be considered entrapment.”

“You’ve got to be joking.” Holmes mocked, shaking his head. “You think someone forced Cowan to take care of the girl? No chance. He did it all of his own choosing. Nobody even suggested he should do that. Even if the name of Witness B was deliberately leaked, Cowan still made the choice to take her out. Cowan needs to be more like Tony Kokkinos—tough business man but treats his employees like angels.”

“How do you know Kokkinos?”

“We’ve met a few times over the years. He gives me information when needed, and he wants to buy Rick Cowan out. He’s waiting for the right time.”

“Perhaps when Cowan’s facing fifteen years in prison?”

“Maybe.”

The ball bounced nearby and one of the other guys came close to them. Holmes kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, as the man picked up the ball. The player kept his eyes on Hunter longer than a casual glance. Hunter nodded towards the man as he jogged back onto the court.

“Sometimes, I don’t know if I’ve done enough.” Holmes ran a hand over his head. “You know, I’m retiring next year and I’ve been trying to take down guys like Rick Cowan for four decades. The guys above him, the real movers and shakers, they’re the ones I should’ve went for. You always regret the ones that got away.”

“You still have time to change that.” Hunter responded.

“Have I? I’ve made some bad decisions, Tex. Decisions that have let one person go to catch another. Decisions that I still think about a lot. Decisions that wake me up in the middle of the night, wondering was that the right thing? I’ve broken the law to nab guys because I know what they’ve done. I know Schultz is—”

“Jerry Schultz? How is he involved?”

Holmes shot Hunter a look that said more than words could. “Be careful where you go, Tex. These people are all connected high up, and they all know how to pull strings. This isn’t about arresting someone and seeing them pay for the crime. There’s so many layers needed to make a person like Cowan go down. It’s corruption, it’s backroom deals, it’s payments going to the right people to make things happen. And you’re mixed up in it. Deeply. What are you planning to do?”

“I’m going to expose them all.”

Holmes laughed, and when the lawyer didn’t return the smile, he shook his head. “Then I’ll get my best suit dry-cleaned. It’ll be your funeral that I’m going to next.”

Chapter 16

As the cars arrived at the opening night of a performance by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, Tex Hunter waited on the sidewalk near the entrance to the Symphony Center. The dress code was clear—tuxedos for men, evening gowns for the ladies, and jewels and accessories worth more than the average monthly salary.

Built in 1904 by renowned Chicago architect Daniel Burnham, the building off Michigan Ave became a symbol of excess wealth and power, where deals were made and the future of the city decided. The opulence of Orchestra Hall was the perfect cover for powerbrokers to mingle without the prying eyes of the public.

A 1955 Bentley R-Type Continental Coupe, a collector’s classic from England, parked at the entrance, and valets opened the two front doors. Jerry Schultz stepped out first, followed by his third wife, Victoria Schultz. He never believed in having a driver—he had often said if he was going to spend that amount of money on a beautiful car, then he would be the one to enjoy the thrill of driving it.

Hunter stepped out of the shadows and stood near the entrance. Jerry Schultz looked up, took a second glance, and then sighed. He whispered something to his wife, and she proceeded into the theater alone.

“Couldn’t you pick a better time?” Schultz stated. “I have a phone; you could ask to meet.”

“You weren’t answering my calls. I go to trial in a matter of days, and I don’t have time to waste chasing you.”

“I didn’t answer your calls because I didn’t want to meet with you.” Schultz replied without a hint of irony. He led Hunter into the busy foyer of the theater, then spoke a soft word to one of the ushers, before handing across a number of bills. The usher led them down a closed hallway and into a small room, usually reserved for staff.

Schultz stepped into the room, and Hunter ensured the door was closed behind him. The room was cramped—a sink and fridge to one side with a round table and six chairs filling the space.

“Keeping tabs on me?” Schultz questioned as he walked to the side of the room, sitting down on one of the padded chairs. “Although I can’t imagine that it’s hard. I’m not quick anymore. I wouldn’t be able to outrun anyone.”

“What happened to Jasmine Langford?”

He snapped his glare towards Hunter. “You think that was me? How dare you. I had nothing to do with her disappearance. Nothing at all to do with this mess.”

“But you know about it.”

“Of course I know about it! A key witness went missing. That’s not a good look but I had nothing to do with it. It was all Rick Cowan. And I would rather Cowan went behind bars for the rest of his life, than have to rescue that man again.”

“I don’t believe a single word that’s coming out of your mouth. It’s too convenient, too well-orchestrated.” Hunter stood by the door, holding his gaze on Schultz. “All roads are leading back to you.”

“I will tell you this—Cowan got rid of the girl. The police might’ve set him up for the drugs, and they might have fed you the name of the witness on purpose, but Cowan is still the one who went through with it.” He paused, looked to the floor, before raising his eyes to meet Hunter’s. “He’s going down for witness tampering, or at least, kidnapping. Pick one, because he’s done both. And if this felony drug charge fails, then they’ll throw the book at him for the missing girl. And who knows? If they can find her body, then they’ll get him for murder.”

Someone knocked on the door of the room, and Hunter told them they would be another five minutes. That didn’t sit easy with Schultz. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in the room with Hunter.

“Do you know any of the other witnesses yet? Have you seen the list of redacted names?” Schultz looked away, staring at the wall covered with posters signed by musical stars thanking the performance crew.

“I haven’t seen the list of names yet, but we’re certain of three of them. We found out about Kokkinos, who is an old friend of yours, if my research serves me correctly.”

“Tony Kokkinos, yes. We’ve worked together in the past. I defended him on an insurance claim from an employee and we worked well together. Got along like a couple of old pals. I had that case thrown out on a technicality, and it was a magnificent piece of legal work. I found a tiny little loophole, the sort of success every lawyer dreams about.” Schultz sat up straighter as he remembered his past successes. “Kokkinos. Sure, sure. He’s had his fingerprints on everything that’s happened in the area. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had something to do with it.”

“How could he be involved?”

“Kokkinos is a smart businessman. He wants to expand. He can’t just shoot someone like Cowan, he needs to take his business down first, and then buy it for nothing. If Cowan was dead, the club would go to his estate, and Kokkinos would have to pay full price. But if Cowan’s name is discredited, if he can drag the club through the mud, then people will stop going to Cowan’s filthy place. Kokkinos could then buy the Five-Star at a bargain basement price. It’s nothing personal.”

Hunter stared at Schultz, using silence as his weapon. It was another minute before either of them spoke again.

“This isn’t as simple as you want it to be.” Schultz broke the silence. “Rick Cowan has made the wrong people angry, and he doesn’t have the resources to buy them off anymore. He’s a man that’s done a lot of wrong in the world, he’s pushed a lot of boundaries, and a lot of people want to ensure he doesn’t have the chance to continue. He’s got no friends left, and there are lots of people ready to trample on his grave. He deserves to be behind bars, whether guilty of this crime or not.”

“You’re a defense attorney. You know better than that. He shouldn’t go down for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“Former defense attorney. I haven’t worked in criminal law for more than a decade. Litigation is a different game; different focus, different rules. I was never a good match for criminal law. All that right and wrong. Leave that for the church, I say. And what about the crimes Cowan did commit and got away with? Justice isn’t black and white.”

“This isn’t how justice works, Schultz. The corrupt don’t get to be the judge, jury, and executioner. They don’t get to set up someone because they think they’re guilty of another crime.”

“Think? Think they’re guilty?” Schultz slapped his hand against the table. “They don’t think he’s guilty, they know he’s guilty. There’s no disputing it. He’s a murderer, a drug dealer, and he takes advantage of vulnerable people. He deserves everything that’s coming to him.”

“This system isn’t theirs to play with. This system isn’t there for people like you, Kokkinos, Warden or Holmes to manipulate. This system has to be bigger than that. We all have to be bigger than that. That’s not how the courts work, and that’s not how this case is going to go down. We’re following the law and that means proving someone set him up with the drugs. The whole raid was a set-up, right from the first tip-off. And we’ll do it with or without your help.”

“You think you’re strong enough to stop this?” Schultz snarled. “This is bigger than you. A whole lot bigger than you. Cowan is going down, whether you like it or not. The ASAs will step into the courtroom and they’ll tell a great story about Cowan and his past. Cowan has dug his own grave. It’s over for him. And if I were you, I would distance myself from the case now, because your name is being thrown around as well. The witness tampering accusations could damage your career beyond repair, and even land you in prison. Word is they’re close to an arrest.”

“I’m not going down for witness tampering.”

Schultz grinned and then leaned back. He paused for a moment, and then chuckled to himself. “No, you’ll do what’s right, won’t you? You always do. That’s what you hold onto so strongly. And the right thing to do is defend Rick Cowan, even if it means risking your freedom. And who knows, Cowan might just win. That’s the beauty of a jury trial—twelve fools get to decide his fate. But if you win, you’d better be prepared for the oncoming charges. They won’t hesitate coming for you next.”

“I’ll do what’s right.” Hunter brought his nose within a few inches of the older man’s. “I know you’re involved with all of this somehow and when I find out how, I’m going to take you down.”

Chapter 17

Hunter woke on Saturday morning with a hangover. The weeks were taking their toll. There were days when he needed relief from the stresses of the judicial system, days where he needed to escape the grind, however this was not to be one of them. Two aspirin and a large glass of water later, he was out the door to travel to the Cook County Jail. On a massive 96 acres of land in South Lawndale, the prison assisted Cook County in facilitating the third largest inmate population in the country. It was designed as a punishment and a deterrent to crime. It wasn’t working. The numbers of prisoners continued to grow year after year, criminals were not fearful or afraid of the time behind bars.

Hunter entered the Cook County Prison as routine dictated, acknowledging the administration workers at the front desk, nodding to the same guards as he had done for years, and walking past the same meeting rooms he always did. The halls were recently painted, the smell of wet paint still in the air, but even two coats of white paint couldn’t hide the decades of agony that was etched into the walls.

As his father’s lawyer, Hunter was afforded certain comforts not granted to other families when they visited. He always listed his visits as professional ones, to ensure they had a private room to discuss whatever they needed to. As one of his father’s only visitors for the past five years, he had become his father’s only human contact with the outside world, the only way to know there was still life outside the thick concrete walls.

Hunter had been waiting on the cold metal chair for an hour before the guards walked his father in. It was a game the guards liked to play—a way to show they were the most powerful people there, and a way to punish the lawyer for daring to defend criminals.

Alfred Hunter staggered into the room—his fragility becoming clearer with each visit. Since Hunter’s last visit, his father’s cheek bones had become prominent, his neck thinner, and his skin appeared even more dehydrated. Alfred Hunter scratched the skin on his cheek after they uncuffed him, and a small piece of skin tore, creating another splotch of blood on his skin. He tried to pat down his wispy hair, but there wasn’t much use—there wasn’t much of it left.

“Tex.” Alfred greeted his son with a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

Hunter didn’t hug his father too tightly for fear of snapping him in two.

“You don’t look well,” Hunter said as he let go of the embrace, guiding his father to sit on the metal chair.

Alfred shuffled side to side on the chair, trying to find a comfortable position. The room was narrow, the lighting was barely existent, and the damp smell was all-consuming.

“The doctor called today, Tex. Said he had two types of news: bad news and even worse news. I said give it to me straight, doc, and give me the bad news first, so he told me I had twenty-four hours to live. What’s the even worse news? I asked. He said, I should’ve called you yesterday.” Alfred tried to smile and his lips cracked slightly. “Get it?”

“You told that joke thirty years ago, and it hasn’t gotten any funnier.” Hunter replied. “Have you seen an actual doctor lately?”

“Ah,” Alfred waved him away. “They’re useless around here. I saw one last week but he’s reluctant to give me a timeframe anymore. He said I’ll keep living for a while. Still. Every time I see him, he tells me something different. I’m in my late seventies, and I don’t want to keep fighting. I don’t have any fight left in me. That idiot keeps giving me hope I might continue to live on, and he expects me to be happy about it.”

“It’s good he’s given you extra time.”

“Is it?” Alfred looked at his son with questioning eyes. “I’ve got nothing left here. Honestly, Tex, I’m done. I’ve spent more than thirty years in here. Phones, computers, electronics, shops, buildings, homes, cars—it’s all changed. I can’t remember what it’s like to walk free, how to dance, how to work. I wouldn’t know where the shops are, I wouldn’t know the grocer, I wouldn’t know the streets. For all the opportunities in the city, for all it has to offer, it’s moved on. And that’s what cities do, they grow, they evolve, they challenge the successful. The city doesn’t care about the people left behind—the city doesn’t care about the broke, the poor, the prisoners, the destitute. We’re the forgotten ones in the endless strive for success. Life in Chicago has changed, and it changed without me.”

“If you choose hope, anything is possible.”

“The only true sign of failure is when you live your life without hope. And I’ve failed, Tex. I have no hope anymore. My time couldn’t come soon enough.”

Hunter held his gaze on his father. Once, his father had been so full of life, so full of energy, so full of positivity, but time, illness, and prison had taken its toll. A hard working man, Alfred Hunter had been a symbol of the American ideal—stable job, beautiful family, a nice house in the suburbs. He mowed his yard on Sunday mornings, coached his kid’s sports team, and took his family for an annual vacation to the remote Platte River Campground in Michigan during the summers. Life was postcard perfect.

The murders of eight teenage girls changed all that in a heartbeat.

“There’s a file that might prove your innocence, and I hope to get my hands on it. That might be something worth living for.” Hunter stared straight at his father, searching for his reaction.

Alfred Hunter’s mouth hung open for a few moments, before he looked away and sighed. “Every morning I wake up and open my eyes, I hope I’m in heaven. I hope to see your mother up there, smiling, holding my hand again. My only hope is that it’s over.”

“Rick Cowan has the file,” Hunter continued. “I haven’t seen everything in it yet, but he told me he’d been receiving information from an anonymous source for the past thirty years, and he’s kept it all. That information could get you out of here.”

“And he told you this now? Why? Why now, after all this time?” Alfred squinted. “He’s blackmailing you, isn’t he?”

Alfred Hunter struggled to find the energy to sound angry. The cancer hadn’t just eaten away at his body; it had also eaten away at his resolve. Once a stoic man who was determined to live life moving forward, he was now longing for the end. The prison meals were tasteless, the environment hadn’t changed in decades, even the cigarettes didn’t give him much joy anymore. Life had just about lost its appeal.

“He gave me the name of an organization.” Hunter leaned forward, searching for a clue based on his father’s reaction. “Cinco Casino.”

Alfred Hunter’s mouth dropped open for a few moments, his face blank with shock. He hadn’t heard the name said out loud for thirty years, although it was a place he had thought about often. Through those long sleepless nights, through those long monotonous days, through the years that seemed to blend into one, he had thought about the underground poker games at the Cinco Casino.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?” Alfred whispered. “I could’ve told you to stay away from it.”

Alfred had his secrets, and he had his reasons to keep them. His city of Chicago, even the whole country, thought he was guilty. He’d watched the documentaries about his life come and go on television. He’d listened to the radio calls. He’d heard the pop culture references made about his family name. It was a level of fame he never desired or sought.

But he did what he had to do.

“Tex…” Alfred Hunter leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and blinked back a tear. “It’s time to let it go.”

“Let it go?”

“It’s time, Tex. It’s my time. It’s come.”

“When we finally get the chance to prove you’re innocent, you’re telling me, after thirty years of suffering, to simply ‘let it go?’ To forget about the past three decades of anguish?”

“Life, if lived with purpose, is always long enough. My life has been long enough. I’ve lived it with purpose. I’ve lived it with honor. There’s no use fighting this anymore. There’s no use pushing this any longer. You have to let this go. I made my decisions, and I’m comfortable with them. I did what I had to do, and I made the right choices. We all choose our own fate, whether we want to or not. The best years of your life will begin when you decide that you own your pain. Don’t blame me, don’t blame your mother, and don’t blame society. The best years of your life come when you realize that you, and only you, are in control of your destiny.”

“What does that mean?” Hunter leaned forward, pressing his finger into the table. “How do you know the name of the underground casino? How is this linked to the murders?”

Alfred looked away. “I can’t tell you. But someone out there must’ve known something. Sometimes secrets have a way of getting out. Time has a way of revealing everything.”

“How is it connected?”

Alfred didn’t answer. He stared at the wall.

“You’re protecting someone,” Hunter’s mouth dropped open. “You knew the Cinco Casino was connected to your case and in thirty years, you hadn’t told me. Why?”

“Tex…” Alfred’s voice trailed off.

“Why?” Hunter slapped the table. “I’ve taken your case through every avenue, through every court, I’ve spent my life trying to defend you, and there’s still something you haven’t told me. Why?”

“It’s complicated, Tex. Life is complicated. Each of us must choose our own path through life. There’s no manual, no college course, to teach people how to navigate what I’ve seen. The right path for me is not the right path for everyone. And yet, I know I made the right decision. I know it here.” Alfred tapped his chest. “Love is what matters. Love is what has always mattered. Love, even in the face of danger, even in the face of destroying your life, is what matters.”

“The casino. Tell me about it.”

“I knew dangerous people and I had to protect the people I loved. This isn’t your average case. These people, the people you want to talk about, are still alive, and I risk losing thirty years of sacrifice if the secret comes out now. That underground casino was forgotten about and it needs to stay that way.”

“What?” Hunter’s voice softened. “Why?”

“Tex,” Alfred reached forward and held his son’s hand. “It’s time to let it go. My life is ending, and so is this chapter of your life. It’s time to let go of this case. It’s time. My time. But it’s not your ending. It’s not your time. This is the point where you start a new chapter.”

“Who were you protecting?” Hunter’s voice was soft.

“Let me die here in peace. Let my sacrifice be worth it. Look at the file, make your own assumptions, but leave me to die in peace.” Alfred stared at his son with pleading eyes.

Hunter stood. “I deserve the truth. With all this has put our family through, with everything that our family has sacrificed for justice, I deserve the truth.”

Chapter 18

Esther Wright walked into the café near the Lincoln Park Zoo, greeted the barista, talked about the weather, and ordered a small latte. The barista was charming—blue eyes, blonde shoulder length hair, and a cute smile. He was attractive for a twenty-five-year-old, she reasoned. As Esther approached her mid-thirties, she started to ponder deeply about life, love and everything in-between. She considered whether she wanted to start a family, whether she wanted the joy of children, whether she wanted to hold her own baby in her arms. The answer was always a resounding yes. It was what she dreamed of, and as much as she hated to admit it, she could sense her clock ticking. Her mother, her grandmother, and every other elderly woman in her life, had warned her many times that she only had a small window of opportunity to have a child. Her time to start a family was now, and the time to start thinking about the future was upon her.

Her mother had started asking more questions, it was almost a weekly bombardment. Her older sister had recently had another child, and the questions were beginning to swirl.

Every question was followed by advice, and every piece of advice seemed to conflict with the next.

Wait for love, but go out and search for it.

They’ll come when you least expect it, but you have to expect the best.

Don’t settle for anything less than perfect, but nothing is perfect.

It all made her head spin. The advice came from a place of love, of a desire to see her happy, but now that she was asking the same questions of herself, it was overwhelming.

Esther had no trouble getting attention from men, she never had, but she got bored of the men she had dated, dreading the thought of spending every day with someone who was too concerned about wealth, fashion, or status.

Esther looked in the mirror at the side of the café. She was pretty, no doubt about it. Blonde, tanned skin, blue eyes. Straight white teeth, and a smile that made most men weak at the knees. She first realized the power in her looks during senior high, when she was struggling to make the volleyball team. There were many girls better than her, many with more speed, height or aggression, but she was the coach’s favorite. It embarrassed her to receive all the favoritism, she never asked for it, and never went out of her way to chase it. But it was clear the coach—a young single male—wanted her on the team.

Boyfriends had come and gone, and most were good-looking guys with little substance behind them. She was seduced by their love for her, their desire to be with her, but they never lived up to her expectations. Her father had set the standards high—he was a hard worker, an honorable man, and a man who taught Esther her own worth.

Tex Hunter lived up to those standards.

But he was married to the job, married to a sense of justice, and nothing seemed to pull him away from that. She didn’t know if she could live like that. Did they even have anything in common outside of the job? Esther didn’t know the answer.

She had worked for him for more years than she cared to count, and in that time, she had seen him go on five dates. She was sure women fell at his feet—he was tall, good-looking, and financially successful—but he didn’t seem to have time for the women who wanted to be a part of that life.

Earlier that Sunday morning, she had spent more time than she expected in front of the mirror, perfecting the casual, but seductive, look. To the average male eye, it would’ve looked like she rolled out of bed looking that gorgeous, but it was two hours of work to perfect the look.

When the message pinged on her phone, she finished her coffee, took one last deep breath, and then left the café to meet Hunter on the street, ready for a morning walk along the park on Stockton Drive, near the shore of Lake Michigan.

Hunter looked happy as she walked to the entrance of the park.

“What’s up, big guy?” She playfully asked as they began to walk side by side.

“The sky.”

“Oh, come on. You can do better than that.” Esther laughed. “You’re not a father yet, you don’t need to make terrible dad jokes.

“Well, I’ve got an actual joke for you.” Hunter said. “I read something interesting in a science manual yesterday. It was a study about how ‘I before E except after C’ has been disapproved by science.”

It took Esther a moment, and then she laughed. “Oh dear. Your delivery was terrible.”

“Got a better one?”

“Alligators can grow up to twenty feet, but most only grow four.”

Hunter chuckled. “You know, one of your fellow blondes went to a bookstore and asked the lady at the desk for a book on turtles. ‘Hard back?’ the lady asked. ‘Yeah,’ said the blonde. ‘That’s them. With little heads as well.’”

“Oh, you’re going with blonde jokes now?” Esther playfully punched his arm. “Well, a lawyer was sitting at the doctor's office. The doctor walks in and says, ‘I have some bad news. I'm afraid you're going to have to stop masturbating.’ ‘I don't understand, doc. Why?’ the lawyer asks. ‘Because,’ the doctor says. ‘I'm trying to examine you.’”

Hunter laughed out loud. “You really are a construction worker trapped in a model’s body, Esther.”

They laughed together as they walked, swapping the best, and worst, jokes they knew. They talked about the weather, the Cubs, and the traffic in their city. Esther filled him in on the latest hit reality television show, and Hunter shook his head the entire time. She talked about the latest viral dance challenges, showing him a few embarrassing moves, and about the latest online prank craze. He talked about the news, politics, and rumors that plagued the political landscape. They talked about the snow. They talked about the courts; old cases, and new ones. They talked about fashion. They talked about investments, about skiing, about running a marathon. They talked about anything.

But all the while they were talking, she could sense his mind was elsewhere.

“Nervous about next week?” she asked, turning the conversation back to work after walking for more than an hour.

“Not nervous, but apprehensive. If we’re going to win it, then we need the perfect case. We can’t miss anything. I need the perfect jury, the perfect judge, and the perfect story in the courtroom to win. Someone set him up, and I won’t let them play with the system. I can’t, and I won’t, let the players own the game and do whatever they want whenever they want to do it. If I win this case, then I can break them apart. I can knock down another corruption racket. That’s got to be the focus. That’s justice.”

“Moral justice isn’t the same as legal justice.”

“Legal justice is what the system is built on. Moral justice is for Batman.”

Hunter stopped walking, resting against a metal barrier. Esther stopped next to him, and watched a small robin land on a branch nearby. It stood proud, chest out, scanning the grass ahead, before chirping to the other birds. She loved Chicago’s birds—even in all the chaos of the city, even in all the concrete, they adapted and found a way to survive.

“And moral justice would also see my father walk free,” Hunter said.

“Is that what this is all about? You look at Cowan like you do your father?”

“I went and saw my father yesterday.” Hunter turned away from Esther, his hands gripping the barrier. “He knew there was a file, and he clearly recognized the name Cowan gave me—Cinco Casino. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours trying to imagine why he never mentioned it to me.”

“Maybe he was protecting someone.”

“Who?” Hunter squinted. “After all this time, who could he be protecting?”

“You.” Esther put her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “He’s protecting you, Tex. He’s protecting his son from getting involved. He knows his time is coming and he wants you to let it go. And maybe he’s right.”

Hunter went silent. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. Esther turned and continued walking, followed by Hunter a few moments later. They walked in silence for the next five minutes, walking past the lake and the trees, the ducks and the birds, and past the joggers that seemed so determined to get somewhere fast on a Sunday morning.

“Why do you do this to yourself, Tex?” Esther broke the silence. “His case is so ingrained in the psyche of this city, and even if he gets off, it won’t change public opinion unless you find the real serial killer. Eight girls died. Someone slit their throats and buried them in the woods. Even if a court lets him off, the city won’t forget it. The hatred for your name will be even worse. Is that really what you want?”

Hunter didn’t respond in anger. There was no one else that could talk to him with such bluntness. “I’ve been thinking about my sister Natalie a lot lately. I haven’t heard from her in thirty years. She must know something we don’t.”

“No, Tex, it’s likely she has no idea what this has put you through. She didn’t want anything to do with what your father did, and I don’t blame her. She was able to start over in a new country, in a new place, in a new life. She restarted her life in a country where the Hunter name didn’t mean she was the daughter of a serial killer. And who knows what happened to her? Maybe she got married, changed her name, and never had to think about it again. Why didn’t you do that too? You didn’t even have to change countries, you could’ve moved to Montana, and started life in a new state. Bought a farm, or even defended small town criminals. You didn’t have to stay here.”

“I stayed because he’s innocent.” Hunter stated. “I asked my brother Patrick to look for Natalie. His contacts in the border patrol have looked at the files, and it appears she changed her name after she got to Mexico, and it looks like she renounced her US citizenship. That trail went cold.”

“But?”

“But there’s also a lead with her new name. Patrick has another government contact looking into it for me, and they’re searching for her.”

They continued walking for another thirty minutes, the conversation drifting away from Hunter’s past and towards the news, current events, and the state of their city. After walking the loop track, they returned to Esther’s car, parked on the side of the road.

“What’s on for the rest of your day?” She asked, almost pleading with him to say something other than case work. “Not going to the office on a Sunday, I hope.”

“I need to review the files before tomorrow. Samuel Spencer is going to deliver the information about the redacted witnesses in the morning, and I need to make sure I haven’t missed anything. We’ve got a tight deadline before the case goes to trial.”

Her heart sank a little. She wasn’t sure this was the life she wanted. She unlocked her Volvo with a beep, and then opened the door.

“Thanks for today, Tex. I really enjoy time with you away from work.”

“So do I. I mean, I enjoy time with you away from work, not time with myself away from work.” He stumbled over his words. “If you get what I mean.”

Esther took off her jacket and placed it in the car, unsure of what to say next. She offered him a half-smile, before leaving during an uncomfortable silence.

Chapter 19

Jasmine Langford avoided the young African-American men on the corner. She walked with her head down, dark hair hanging over her face, head under a hood, avoiding attention. Since evading the man in her apartment by hiding in a cardboard box, she tried to avoid any further contact with men. After the man briefly searched her apartment, no doubt anxious about being seen breaking in, he left, leaving her hiding in the box for the next few hours. When the night came, she packed anything of value, stuffed her clothes inside a backpack, and ran. She didn’t know where she was going, she didn’t know where she was running to, but her apartment wasn’t safe.

Phil, her friend on the street, saw her running. He stopped her. He saw the worry in her eyes. He knew what it meant, he knew what she’d been through, he’d seen it so many times before. When he stopped her, she cried in fear. He hugged her, told her that he understood, and gave her the address of a women’s shelter in Englewood. It wasn’t much, Phil said, but it was safe.

After she arrived at the shelter, two other women explained Phil had helped them get away from domestic violence. Phil was a hero, they said, an angel on the streets.

On the second floor of a brick apartment building, above a closed convenience store, was the women’s shelter, a secret location known by only a few. Run by a survivor of domestic abuse, Wilma Woods, it was a haven from violence, an escape for those with nowhere else to go. Wilma had bought the building five years earlier, with the money left by her husband in his will. Death was her only escape from violence, and she appeared determined that other women shouldn’t suffer the same fate.

In the five weeks Jasmine had been staying there, the shop below had been for sale the entire time. The real estate office listed the shop as ‘a potential retail store in an up-and-coming area.’ The advertisement fooled no one. The entrance next to the shop was boarded up, and the metal door at the end of the building was supposed to be locked at all times, but the lock had been broken more times than they could fix.

Jasmine walked into the dark entrance, stepping up the cracked steps, over the needles, and into the damp smelling corridor. She fumbled with her keys in the three locks on the second floor, and then walked into the kitchen, watching Wilma busy over a large pot, cooking another batch of spaghetti and meatballs.

“I got the cans of tomatoes you asked for,” Jasmine placed the bag on the counter next to Wilma. She placed her hands on Wilma’s shoulders, guiding her to a nearby seat. “Now, you sit down and let me take over this.”

Wilma smiled. She handed the spatula to Jasmine, and sat on the nearby chair, happy to take a load off her feet.

On the second floor of the old brick building, there were fifteen African-American women, each with their own problems, each with their own past. Some had young children, others didn’t, but they all had memories they needed to forget, homes they needed to escape.

“The years are drifting past and I’m starting to feel it in my bones. Even cooking is taking it out of me,” Wilma said. “You’re the biggest help I’ve had in this place, Jasmine. You’re always helping everyone. Once all this blows over for you, you’re welcome to stay and help me here. I can’t afford to pay you, but if you help to cook and clean and teach those kids, like you’ve been doing, I can give you free rent and food. There’s a bed for you always. I’m getting old, and I could really use someone like you here all the time. You could even study teaching while you’re here.”

“I would love that.” Jasmine smiled. Helping people—cooking, cleaning, and teaching the children—she felt at home, felt she found her calling. She spent hours each day reading to the young kids, teaching them math, teaching them to write. The smiles of achievement filled her heart with joy.

There were fifteen bedrooms in the building—a former low-budget hotel that was empty for years before Wilma moved in. She had enough money to keep it running, enough money to feed the victims of violence for years to come. The insurance for the place was relatively high, but her occupation was a dangerous one.

“When does the trial begin?” Wilma moved a math book across the second-hand wooden table.

“Next week.”

Wilma waited for Jasmine to continue, but she didn’t. Jasmine didn’t know how to talk about it. On the news, and on the internet, she had kept up-to-date with all the events of the trial preparation, including the day the witness list would be released. There had been no local news about her disappearance, no public appeal, and no one out looking for her.

“And when do they find out you’re a witness?”

“Tomorrow. My old boss, Rick Cowan, isn’t going to be happy when he sees the list of witnesses. He’s going to send out someone else looking for me, and they won’t be friendly. I can’t be around here next week. If they find me here, I might put the other women in danger. I can’t do that.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Wilma was firm. “I said I would look after you and I will. Don’t worry about your old boss. He’ll already know you’re missing. The lawyers may even tell him that they think you’re dead.”

“That won’t stop him. Not a man like Rick Cowan. Without a body, he’ll come looking for me, no doubt. I can’t lead him here and put the other girls at risk.” Jasmine put the spatula down, a small splotch of sauce dropping on the wooden counter. “I have to leave this place.”

“Not yet.” Wilma stood and moved to hold her hand. “Stay indoors until this blows over and then you’ll be safer out there. You can’t go out there before the trial starts.”

“I can’t believe this has happened to me.” Jasmine turned to Wilma, tears in her eyes. “I was clean, I was working, I said my prayers every night. I helped people. I was doing everything right. I was just trying to get by, and then all this chaos happened because some man wants to set up some other man. I didn’t deserve this chaos.”

“There is a lesson in everything that life blesses us with. The lesson and beauty of chaos is that focus is narrowed. The trivial things don’t matter. Trust me, I know. The things that matter when life is in chaos are the things that are truly important. What matters to you now?”

“This. All of this.” Jasmine blinked back her tears. “Teaching those kids. Their innocent smiles matter. Helping them matters. But I don’t know what I’m going to do, Wilma. Even after all this is finished, Rick won’t forget. If he gets off on the charges, he’ll hunt me down.”

Wilma Woods drew Jasmine into a hug, holding her tight for a number of minutes. Jasmine sobbed on her shoulder.

“Thanks,” Jasmine said, wiping the tears away with her sleeve as she moved back to the pot. “Thanks for everything.”

“If you stay here, you have to realize that this place is more than just providing a bed, a meal, and a secure place to escape to. It’s also about emotional support, helping the women through the violence they’ve experienced. It’s about encouraging everyone to tell the truth. This place is built on honesty. I’m almost seventy-five, but I won’t let age beat me. My deceased drunken husband physically beat me every night, but he never broke my spirit.” Wilma rubbed Jasmine’s back. “Are you going to call the prosecution and tell them you’re alive? You still have the opportunity to tell the truth. It’s important to tell the truth.”

“If I testify, I’m lying.” Jasmine shook her head. “But both options are equally bad. If I testify against Rick, he’ll come after me, and if I testify for Rick and say those men bribed me to lie, then the other side will come after me. I’m a pawn in their game. I mean nothing to them.”

“You mean something to me. And if you ever want to know what God thinks of power and money, look at some of the people he gave it to. You’re a good girl, Jasmine, not a money hungry soul like some of those guys out there. And remember, money doesn’t buy happiness.”

“I wish I had some money to prove the saying wrong.” Jasmine joked. “And I know you’re about to tell me that love is more important than money. Unfortunately, I love money.”

Wilma smiled and then picked up another spatula. She started stirring the large pot of bolognese sauce, enough to feed all the women and families in the building.

“We all have choices, Jasmine. Even when you don’t think you have a choice, you still have options. You’re in a hard place now, but you can still choose to do what’s right. You can still choose love, and you can still choose the truth. Fate isn’t written in the stars; it isn’t written in some faraway place; fate is written in your heart.” Wilma stared at Jasmine for a long period, her eyes unflinching. “You have to trust your heart. Trust it to do the right thing, because the true test of your heart is what happens when nobody is watching.”

“Nobody is ever watching me unless I’m dancing.”

“I’m watching you.” Wilma reached across and held her hand tight. “I want you to promise me that when the time comes, when the truest test of your character presents itself, you’ll choose the right option.”

Jasmine looked away.

“Jasmine?” She gripped her hand tighter. “Promise me you’ll make the right choice, even if nobody is watching. Promise me you’ll let your heart decide your fate. Honesty has to be the way forward. You have to tell the truth. Even in the face of danger, you have to do what’s right.”

“I’ll try.” Jasmine’s voice was soft. Her words weren’t convincing.

Because she didn’t know if it was a promise she could keep.

Chapter 20

The mid-morning sun peeked through the thick clouds, the light reflected off the tall buildings in Downtown Chicago, and a gentle rain fell onto the window of Tex Hunter’s office.

Hunter loved Chicago’s architecture. People from all around the world traveled to his great city to admire the buildings born out of the ashes of the 1871 Great Chicago Fire. Rather than representing the long history of Chicago, most of the buildings were born out of the rebuild, the need for innovation was driven by the necessity to provide jobs for the public. The buildings were noted for their originality rather than their antiquity, their flair rather than their past.

With the case due to hit the courts within a week, the nerves were building for Hunter. He tried to settle them as best he could, through deep breathing exercises and meditation, but whiskey was always the easiest fix. He had spent weeks building information on the witnesses, breaking down the raid second by second, and finding evidence to cast doubt on everyone who was involved in the arrest of Rick Cowan.

Although he had some names, the remaining redacted witnesses were causing difficulties in his investigation. Redacted Witness B, Jasmine Langford, was no longer a problem, however that issue cut him deeply. But Redacted Witness C, Tony Kokkinos, was a problem—he looked likable, reliable, and dependable, someone the jury could warm to, depending on perspective.

Hunter assumed Witness D was Cowan’s ex-wife, Lisa Forde. She didn’t have a clean past, she didn’t look trustworthy, and she’d been in trouble with the law many times. Her criminal record was extensive, as was her social media footprint. Finding information about her was easy, and her creditability on the stand was going to be shaky. The jury would doubt anything she said.

He had less luck with the other two redacted witnesses. Ray Jones had searched for the names of the other witnesses, checking every lead, scanning every document, investigating every idea. Jones had searched through a mountain of paperwork, tailed numerous employees, and listened to a long line of interviews and depositions. He had suspicions, but nothing solid.

The redacted statements from Witness E didn’t add much to the case, and Hunter would be surprised if the prosecution called them to the stand at all. He was sure Witness E was a diversion.

Witness A was causing Hunter the biggest headache. As the person who originally called in the tip-off, Witness A was one of the strongest witnesses for the prosecution. The deposition, via email, provided some information, but not enough. Witness A was testifying that Cowan had talked numerous times about the delivery of drugs, how Cowan was going to sell them, when it was going to arrive, and how much money was going to be made. If the person appeared reliable on the stand, it was going to be a major roadblock.

Cowan wasn’t easy to deal with, but Hunter never assumed he would be. Every conversation was laced with sleaze, every comment made with angst, and every action performed with an ulterior motive. Hunter didn’t trust a word the man said, nor did he believe any story he told.

He wasn’t convinced Cowan was guilty, not of the felony drug charge, at least. He was sure Cowan was guilty of so much more, but the drug charges were a beat-up, a set-up to try and nail a man who had made the wrong people angry.

Jerry Schultz wasn’t returning Hunter’s calls. That was expected after Hunter confronted him. Schultz had gone underground, as had the tail. Hunter had expected no less.

His assistant’s knock on his office door caught him by surprise.

“Prosecutor Samuel Spencer is here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment, but says you’ll take the time if you want the file he has.”

Hunter thanked Esther and asked her to send him through. Spencer walked in with confidence, a hop in his step, and an arrogant smile. He was well-dressed in a dark suit, his blue tie was a perfect Windsor knot, and his cuffs were half-an-inch too short, no doubt deliberate in an attempt to show off his Cartier watch.

“I thought I would personally drop this file off.” Spencer scoffed with a grin. “I’m sure it’ll be good reading for you, and I’m sure you’ll be interested in the names of the remaining redacted witnesses.”

Spencer sat down without invitation, resting his briefcase on his lap. He opened it and removed a large manila folder, and then placed his briefcase on the floor. Spencer tapped his fingers on the folder as he looked around the room, before bringing his attention back to Hunter. “Make no mistake, this case is about catching a criminal, but I must warn you there are other people involved. I want you to tread gently around these people. Some of these witnesses have a lot of influence and they’re scared for their lives. As part of the law fraternity, it’s our job to make sure these powerful people remain protected.”

“Those who chase power have fragile egos, and when the power comes crashing down, they turn into scared little rats, scurrying away down the sewer. You’ll find no sympathy for the corrupt here.”

“It’s all so simple to you, isn’t it?” Spencer scoffed. “But on this side of the law, over here on the side of the truth, if you want an influential person to go down, if you want to take down one of the people at the top, you’ve got to play the game with the top brass. I’ve played the game, we’ve gotten the arrest, and now it’s my job to ensure Cowan gets nailed for what he’s done.”

“Your job is to seek justice, not merely to convict. You owe a duty to not only the State, but also to the defendant. Your job isn’t to nail someone, it’s to find the truth.”

Spencer held his stare for a few moments before looking away. He tapped his finger on the file again. “I’m going to give you a warning, and I’m going to make it clear. These witnesses are currently protected by police escorts. If you or Cowan, or anyone that’s associated with Cowan, come within a mile of these witnesses, we’ll be bringing the full weight of the law down on you. We’re already looking into you for the apparent kidnapping, or murder, of Jasmine Langford. If they find her body, you’ll be one of the first people we interview. You’ll be suspect number one.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

The smile widened across Spencer’s face. “Criminals aren’t just the people we lock up. Criminals are the people that break the law. You know Rick Cowan is a criminal. You know that. Just because he’s beaten the system so far doesn’t mean he’s any less guilty. And we can’t let criminals openly laugh in the face of the PD and the justice system.” Spencer sat straight—shoulders back, chin up, chest out. “We have to give criminals what they deserve. Give a person what they’re due. That’s what real justice is. Rick Cowan is a criminal. We all know that.”

“I don’t know what they taught when you studied philosophy in your Ivy League college, but this is the real world, not a university lecture. If you start putting people away because you merely ‘think’ they’re guilty, you’re going down a slippery slope.”

Hunter wanted nothing more than to punch the smirk off Spencer’s face. Spencer had never struggled for a dime, never once struggled against the tide, never knew what it was like to be without anything. He had everything handed to him on a silver platter, everything given to him before he had to ask. His life was mapped out before he was born, an easy path, all he had to do was take advantage of his family’s considerable connections, wealth, and power.

“In this folder is the list of redacted witness names. I’ll have my assistant send the electronic file this afternoon, but I wanted to personally deliver the paper copy first.” Spencer stood, took a deep breath, and placed the file on the desk in front of Hunter. “I’ll see you in court next week, but I’ll warn you once more—these witnesses had better remain safe or I’ll be back here to watch you get arrested.”

Spencer walked out without turning around. Hunter stared at the file for a few moments, before Esther stepped into the office.

“He’s left, but I imagine he came to drop off the redacted witness names?” Esther walked into the room with two mugs of coffee, the smell filling the air with a hard-hitting aroma. She handed a steaming mug over to him. “It’s a new brand. I thought we might try something different. The coffee is sourced from the hills of Hawaii.” She sipped from her mug, and her eyes opened wide. “Wow. That really has some punch. That’s really, really strong coffee.”

Hunter lifted the mug near his nose, smelled the intensity, and gave her a little nod. “The smell alone is strong enough to keep me awake for days, but right now, the stronger the better. Over the next few days we’re going to have an intense workload. The work we do now is what will win the case in the courtroom.”

“When isn’t there a lot to do?” Esther smiled. “You’re always working.”

“As the great Muhammad Ali once said, the fight is won or lost far away from the bright lights—it’s won behind the lines, in the gym, and out there on the road, long before the big dance starts. This is our time to win. This is our time to do the work.”

Hunter picked up his pen. A well-weighted pen gave him freedom of thought, freedom to express his thoughts on a page. He never felt the same with typing. He had read that handwriting was a lot more of a creative process, and accessed different parts of the brain than typing. He was sure that was true. And he never completely trusted computers or the internet—there were too many people skilled at breaking firewalls, breaking passcodes, and scamming those who placed their complete trust in technology.

Hunter opened the file on his desk that Spencer left behind. He read the first page with the listing of the witness names. His mouth dropped open.

“Who is it? Do we know any of the other witnesses?” Esther blew the steam off her coffee.

Hunter stared at the page, looking at the details. The first page had the five witness names listed, followed by their alias.

He stared at the name of Witness A.

He’d been played. He’d been set up from the start.

“Who is it, Tex? Who is Witness A?”

He turned the file around and pushed the page in front of his assistant.

“No.” Esther whispered. “Really?”

“That’s right. Our mystery witness, Witness A, the person that made the tip-off and started all of this, is Jerry Schultz.”

Chapter 21

The George N. Leighton Criminal Court Building stood five miles away from Downtown Chicago, on the city’s Southwest Side, in the mostly Hispanic neighborhood of Little Village. Its location was problematic for defendants, lawyers, and the general public. An area with high unemployment, the surrounding streets were filled by graffitied walls, boarded up shops, and groups of young men standing on street corners. Using any public transport to the area was intimidating, filled with the potential to be mugged, and it was hard to reach the courthouse without building a prejudice against those charged with crimes.

After two months of posturing, after two months of turmoil, Rick Cowan had his day in the criminal court. The prosecution had put forward a number of deals, all including prison time of ten years plus. Cowan refused each deal, arguing for between one and five years.

Dressed respectfully in a fitted suit, Cowan followed Tex Hunter into the courtroom. The consequences of Cowan’s life choices had become clear—his life of crime and corruption was calling for its toll to be paid. When he was first charged with felony drug possession, when the police first raided the club and claimed to have found five kilograms of cocaine, he laughed in their faces. He knew the amount of drugs that came in and out of his club, and he knew the amount he had at the time. The cocaine in the private room wasn’t his, but the evidence against him was solid.

His knees were weak as he walked to his seat, nerves filling his body. He fidgeted with the pens on the table after he sat down, looking up to the vacant jury box. It was there he would be judged. Not only for this crime, but for all his life choices. As a strip club owner, the bias would be against him the second the prosecution mentioned it.

Cowan denied all knowledge of Schultz’s involvement, but he didn’t look surprised. When Hunter told him, Cowan shrugged like he was expecting it. At first, Cowan claimed that Schultz wouldn’t testify against him, that he was tricking the opposition, but when Hunter presented the witness statement and deposition, the disappointment on Cowan’s face was clear. The feeling of betrayal hit him like a sucker punch to the stomach. He said he’d confronted Schultz just after the raid, and Schultz refuted any involvement. Even with the evidence in front of him, Cowan didn’t want to believe it.

The prosecution team walked in thirty minutes later, all of them smiling ear to ear, making their jovial conversations heard. Their confidence was clear, and they weren’t threatened by the case, by Cowan, or by the evidence. They were already marking it down as an easy win.

“Five minutes,” the bailiff called out, alerting everyone that Judge Marshall would soon enter the courtroom, and the trial was about to begin.

Cowan had no support in the courtroom, no one cared enough to take the time to sit behind him. He considered paying some of his exotic dancers to attend for support, however, Hunter advised against it. They weren’t the right look, he advised.

“All rise. The court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Marshall presiding.”

Judge Marshall walked into the courtroom, in no rush to arrive at his desk. Once he sat down, he looked over the names on the file, moved the microphone closer, clicked his pen, coughed, and then raised his eyes to look at the almost empty courtroom before him.

With a booming voice, deep enough to be a bass in a barbershop quartet, Judge Marshall welcomed the parties to the court, and announced the procedure for the defendant. When instructed, the bailiff walked to the door in the front corner of the room, guiding the members of the jury to their seats. They all looked at the defendant first. Cowan kept his eyes on the table in front of him.

After Judge Marshall spoke to the jury about their responsibilities, prosecutor Samuel Spencer stood to begin his argument.

*****

“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. My name is Samuel Spencer, and these are my colleagues, Michael Hall and Stephen Collins. We’re here to present the charges against the defendant, Mr. Rick Cowan. As Judge Marshall has explained to you, Mr. Cowan is charged with the Possession of a Controlled Substance, under the Illinois Controlled Substances Act. In this opening statement, I will provide an overview of what the evidence presented during this trial will show, as nothing I say to you now is considered evidence.

As prosecutors, we represent the State of Illinois. We work in the Narcotics Prosecution Bureau of the State’s Attorney’s Office, and our section is responsible for the prosecution of narcotics cases throughout Cook County. We represent the commitment by the State’s Attorney’s Office to combat the devastating effects of drugs in our communities.

Mr. Cowan is accused of possessing more than five kilograms of cocaine. Our law uses kilograms as a measurement as it’s the international standard for quantifying drug amounts. Five kilograms is equal to a little over eleven pounds. This large amount of cocaine was found in a private, locked room in the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club, which is owned and managed by the defendant. The five kilograms of cocaine has a street value of more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

Don’t fool yourself and think that because there was no violence this wasn’t a serious crime—it was. Five kilograms of cocaine is off the streets thanks to the hard work of the Chicago Police Department. That amount of drugs had the opportunity to cause pain, real pain, to the people of this city. This crime must have real consequences.

The impact of illegal drugs is far-reaching. Our neighborhoods are troubled by dealers, increased street violence, and the menace of gangs that support themselves with drug money. Here, today, we have the opportunity to break the cycle of poverty and pain caused by illegal narcotics.

When this file first arrived on my desk, I was disappointed. I was disappointed because I realized this crime still happens in our city. In our everyday lives, we rarely see the underbelly of crime that exists. We know it’s there, of course, but we don’t see it first hand.

The Chicago Police Department, led by Operation Take Down detective Henry Holmes, raided the club on the basis of a tip-off at 2pm on October 5th.

Over the coming days, we will present witnesses to you, and they will provide the evidence in this case. You will hear from Detective Holmes personally, detailing the raid, and explaining how the keys to the locked room were found in Mr. Cowan’s pocket. You will see the footage from his body camera, and the footage from other officer’s body cameras during the raid. You will see, with your own eyes, the moment the drugs were discovered.

You will hear from Mr. Cowan’s friend, respected lawyer, Jerry Schultz, about why he provided the tip-off. You will hear from Mr. Cowan’s ex-wife, Ms. Forde, explaining that Mr. Cowan advised her he was about to receive a large delivery of cocaine. You will hear from Mr. Tony Kokkinos, a fellow club owner, who will explain that Mr. Cowan offered him the option to fund the delivery of drugs. You will hear from expert witnesses who will explain the type of drugs found.

There is no doubt the drugs were found in a locked room of Mr. Cowan’s strip club. We have that evidence on video footage.

The defense will try and explain the drugs were not in Mr. Cowan’s physical possession and he had no knowledge of the drugs. That’s not true. Constructive possession means the drugs were not directly on the person, however, the person had the ability to control the substance.

These charges require the reasonable control of the substance. Mr. Cowan clearly had that.

Mr. Cowan does not have the right to destroy other people’s lives. He does not have the right to have that amount of drugs in his possession. He does not have the right to destroy our communities.

This was an inexcusable crime, and it deserves to be severely punished.

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 Mr. Rick Cowan is guilty.

Thank you for your time.”

*****

During the opening statement, juror number five stared at Cowan for the entire time, not taking his eyes off him once. The majority of the other jurors studied Cowan, judging his demeanor to check if he looked capable of bringing in that amount of drugs. Two of them already appeared to mark him as guilty, shaking their heads any time his name was mentioned.

Prosecutor Spencer needed straight jury members, the type that had never puffed a joint in college. For the most part, he got his wish. During the voir dire, the juror selection process, he researched the potential candidates, dismissing anyone who looked like they had experimented with drugs and anyone who might sympathize with the club owner.

When juror five answered questions for his selection, Spencer couldn’t have been happier. Juror five was a manager of a retail store, a dedicated family man, and most importantly, an active member of his church community. He was strong in his beliefs, strong in his voice, and held himself to high standards. He was sure to be a leader in the deliberation room.

Reaching the leaders on the jury was as important as the evidence—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 ten was there—at first glance, she appeared as a hard-working single mother in her mid-forties. But with a little digging, Hunter found that she was also an active member of a roller-derby team, and had a past as an equal rights protestor. She was a rebel, a woman who almost certainly took drugs in her youth, and had an opinion as strong as a brick wall.

With two leaders on the panel, likely to be on opposite sides, it was sure to be a long debate in the jury room.

As soon as Spencer finished his opening statement, Tex Hunter stood, folder in one hand, ready to deliver his opening. Spencer sat down, and Hunter moved to the lectern, opening his folder, his actions exaggerated to gain the attention of the jury. He moved quickly because he didn’t want to give the jury the chance to think, a chance to ponder the ideas thrown up by the prosecution.

As soon as Judge Marshall invited him 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 here to represent the defendant, Mr. Rick Cowan.

There’s a saying amongst pilots that states if there is any reasonable doubt, then there’s no doubt.

If you, as a pilot, have any reasonable doubt whether you’ll make it from point A to point B, then there is no doubt. If there’s any reasonable doubt if you can complete the journey, then you don’t fly the plane. It’s that simple.

If there’s any reasonable doubt, then there’s no doubt.

A court case is the same—if you come to the end of this trial with any reasonable doubt, any reasonable uncertainty, then there is no doubt. No doubt.

You must find the defendant not guilty.

In the State of Illinois, it’s only a crime to knowingly possess a controlled substance. A person cannot be convicted if they were not aware of drugs being present on their person or within their control. The Illinois Controlled Substances Act defines knowledge to mean acting intentionally and willfully.

The prosecution must prove Mr. Cowan had knowledge of the drugs. If they don’t prove this through the evidence presented, then you cannot convict the defendant.

Our criminal court system is based on the adversary system where opposing parties present evidence and challenge the validity of the other party’s claims. We do this because our system rests on the assumption that such an adversarial process is most likely to determine an accurate result. As such, you will hear the defense team analyze the prosecution witness’s claims and question their validity. This isn’t because we want to destroy a person’s reputation or attack a person individually—it’s because we are working towards an accurate, reasonable, and fair result in this case.

In the process of this court case, your role as a juror is to make decisions based on the evidence, or lack thereof. In making your determination at the end of this case, the only evidence that can be considered is the evidence which has been presented during the trial.

You cannot use the defendant’s career choices, his business decisions, the way he looks, your gut feeling, or a general vibe to form a decision.

You must only use the evidence presented at this trial.

And in making your decision, you must be unbiased. You must be impartial. And above all else, you must be fair.

Mr. Rick Cowan had no knowledge of any drugs in his club. I’ll repeat that for you so it is clear—Mr. Cowan had no knowledge of any drugs in his club.

The room where the drugs were found was used by various staff members to store items. Mr. Cowan did not keep a record of who used the room at all times, however he did lend the key to numerous staff members in the week preceding the raid. When the raid occurred, Mr. Cowan was not even near the room. He was in his office, on the opposite side of the club, talking to his clients.

Mr. Cowan was not aware the drugs were in the club.

Right now, Mr. Cowan is innocent. That’s our starting point and the prosecution must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Mr. Cowan had possession and knowledge of the drugs. They must present evidence that convinces you beyond a reasonable doubt.

They won’t be able to, of course.

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. You are the pilots on this flight, and you must remember that if there’s any reasonable doubt, then there’s no doubt.

Your decision will be not guilty.

Thank you for your service to our great justice system.”

Chapter 22

When the first witness walked to the stand, Hunter was reviewing the pages of notes he had on the table before him. He had opened well, but the make-up of the jury fell in the prosecution’s favor. Harder than anything else, Hunter had to manage his own bias throughout the trial—he hated losing, hated being beaten in court, but he also hated defending the likes of Rick Cowan. There was no doubt Cowan used the system to his advantage, no doubt he was a criminal, but Hunter was there to do a job. And the promise of his father’s file kept him going.

Detective Holmes walked to the stand as a proud man—his solid chest was puffed out, his shoulders were pulled back, and his chin was held high. He wore a suit with a tie, shiny black shoes, and a gold watch. He’d walked to the stand many times over the past forty-five years in the force, he knew the drill, but it was still one of the least liked aspects of his job. He would rather bust into a room full of felons with guns, than face lawyers with sharp minds.

Holmes had a long history of trying to please his superiors. Never the smartest in the room, never the quickest, nor the hardest working, he knew his way to get ahead was to polish the shoes of those above him. In his decades in the Chicago PD, that was certainly true. He’d worked his way through the ranks, pleasing the right people at the right times, producing the right arrests when needed, and doing what he was asked without question. He’d arrested the right people, he’d let the right people go, and he’d made sure the evidence always matched his task. He’d struck deals with felons, negotiated with prisoners, and exchanged information with offenders. He did what he had to do.

Samuel Spencer, flanked by equally as arrogant junior lawyers, typed into his laptop, read over the lines and lines of notes, and then greeted his first witness.

“Detective Holmes, thank you for taking the time from your busy schedule.” Spencer opened, although he didn’t lift his eyes from the computer in front of him. “Can you please tell the court your profession, and your connection to this case?”

“My name is Detective Henry Holmes and I’ve been proudly employed by the Chicago Police Department for the past forty-five years. I’m retiring next year. Currently, I’m a lead detective within a drug task force that’s focused on reducing the criminal drug trade within Chicago. It’s a great honor to be allowed to help society through such actions.” Holmes checked his blue tie. “And I was the lead detective on the investigation, raid, and subsequent arrest of Mr. Rick Cowan that occurred on October 5th.”

“Detective Holmes, have you previously led raids into premises for the purpose of drug possession? Are you experienced in leading this sort of action?”

“Over the past five years in the drug task force, I’ve led many raids into homes and businesses within Chicago. Every raid I’ve led has resulted in arrests for drug possession, or other drug related charges.”

“Can you please explain to the court why you made the bust on the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club on the afternoon of October 5th?”

“We’d received a tip-off from a reliable source that Mr. Cowan was about to take possession of a large quantity of drugs. We investigated the tip-off, found the information was credible, and then proceeded to monitor the premises for the delivery of the drugs.”

“Did you know where the drugs were coming from?”

“We’d been told it was an interstate shipment. We weren’t aware of how it was entering the state. What we knew was the shipment was being delivered to Mr. Cowan’s club in the back of a delivery van on the day of October 5th.”

“And what made you think this tip-off was legitimate?”

“The information provided was all confirmed to be correct. We trusted the tip-off because it came from a source close to Mr. Cowan, and the person had provided information to us previously, which also proved to be correct. We had no reason to doubt it.”

Spencer typed into his laptop computer again. “Detective Holmes, do you have a transcript of this tip-off?”

“No, we don’t.”

“And why is that?”

“The tip-off came via a private call, directly to my cell phone.”

“And who made the tip-off?”

“Mr. Jerry Schultz. He’s connected to Rick Cowan through their friendship and business interests. Mr. Cowan had let him know he was receiving a large quantity of drugs.”

“Did you arrest Mr. Cowan at the time of the raid?”

“We did. I was the one who placed handcuffs on him and read him his rights.”

“Did you find anything on Mr. Cowan?”

“We found his phone in one pocket, and a set of keys in the other pocket. Mr. Cowan admitted that one of the keys was used for the private room where the drugs were found. I asked Mr. Cowan directly if anyone else had access to the room, and he replied that there was only one key to the room.”

“Detective Holmes, can you take us through the details of what happened the day of the raid?”

For the next five hours, Holmes detailed the steps the task-force took to ensure the Five-Star was monitored and covered for the delivery of the drugs. He detailed how many people were working on the case, what steps they took to enter the club after the delivery, and how the arrest was made on Mr. Cowan. They ran footage from Holmes’ body-cam on the court monitor, and the jury watched with intent, captivated by the footage of the raid. It was reality television at its realest.

Hunter struggled to maintain focus during most of the testimony, his mind elsewhere, distracted by the options that lay before him.

“Mr. Hunter?” Judge Marshall broke Hunter’s thoughts. “Would you actually like to question this witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Hunter nodded, and flicked open his notepad. He scanned the first few lines on the pad, and started his questioning. “Detective Holmes, how many police officers were monitoring the premises that day?”

“We had fifteen drug task-force members monitoring the club starting at 10am on October 5th.”

“Now, tell me, Detective Holmes, in all the information I have, I seem to be missing the report on the arrest of the truck driver who delivered the drugs. In fact, I can’t find his statement at all. Can you please explain what the delivery driver said in his statement?”

“Well,” Holmes shifted in his chair. “We didn’t have a statement by the delivery driver.”

“And why is that, Detective Holmes?”

“As you can see in the police report,” Holmes grunted. “In the intensity of preparing for the day, the driver managed to slip by our surveillance.”

“There were fifteen task-force members there, monitoring the entire premises for the day, and the delivery driver slipped away?”

“Yes.”

“That’s convenient, don’t you think?”

“It happens sometimes. There’s a lot of moving parts in a raid, and we assumed the driver slipped out the doors when they saw the police come in. We then lost track of the vehicle, however we did have the plates and it was registered as stolen the day before. Raids can be tricky because it’s an unknown environment and we can’t control everything.”

Hunter nodded, and turned a page in his notes. “Detective Holmes, had you been in contact with Mr. Schultz previously?”

“I had.”

“And what was the purpose of those interactions?”

“Jerry Schultz is…” Holmes shrugged. “He’s a person with a lot of connections in the police force. I had talked to him previously about a different case.”

“During those interactions, did you give him your personal phone number?”

“I don’t think so.”

“So, someone else must’ve provided your personal phone number to him if he called you directly for the tip-off?”

“Ah,” Holmes paused. “I guess so. I didn’t ask how he had my phone number. It must’ve been passed onto him by another member of the team.”

Hunter waited for a few moments before he continued, allowing the line of questioning to sink into the minds of the jury members. “Did you or any members of the task force see Mr. Cowan pay for the drugs? Perhaps you saw money exchange hands?”

“No. We weren’t inside the club at the time.”

“Did you, or any other members of the task force, see Mr. Cowan take possession of the drugs?”

“No. Again, we weren’t in the club at that time.”

“Did you, or any other member of the task force, see Mr. Cowan handle the drugs?”

“We didn’t.”

“Did you, or any member of the task force, see Mr. Cowan take the drugs from the delivery van and transfer them into the club?”

“We didn’t have eyes on that, no.”

“Did you, or any other officer, see Mr. Cowan use the drugs?”

“No.”

“So the only reason you arrested Mr. Cowan is because the drugs were on his premises, a premises that is open to public access?”

“He was the only person who had control of the drugs.”

Hunter exaggerated his expressions for the benefit of the jury. One nodded in return.

“No further questions.”

Chapter 23

Rick Cowan’s first wife was always going to lay the lies on thick.

Lisa Forde was a tall woman, once good looking with an ample bust, but years of partying, alcohol, and drug abuse had taken its toll. She looked exhausted—not due to a lack of sleep, but due to years of neglecting her health. The years had eroded her tenacity, the drugs had worn down her body, and time was eating away at her chances of getting clean. Her son, with the man who came after Rick, had been taken away from her and placed in foster care. She was sleeping in a one-bedroom apartment in South Chicago, where she was working as a cleaner for a large corporation.

Listed as Witness D in the redacted files, Lisa Forde walked to the stand with her arms folded across her chest and her head down. Her flannel shirt was clean, her black hair tied back tightly, but her jeans were dirty. Her skin looked pale and dry, and her eyes were twitching. Her early photos, hanging off the arm of Rick Cowan, only ten years earlier, showed a country girl who moved to the bright lights of the city and was seduced by Cowan’s wealth and charm. Champagne was flowing in almost every picture, and her squeals of delight could almost be heard through the photographs. Ten years ago, she was young, naïve, and energetic, and now she was anything but.

“Thank you for taking the time to talk with us today, Ms. Forde.” Spencer began, seated behind his desk. “Do you know Mr. Cowan, the defendant in this case?”

“Rick and I were married for five years, but we’re divorced now. I first met Rick when I moved to Chicago from Kansas, and he showed me around the city. We didn’t date for long before the marriage, everything seemed perfect at the time, but I was twenty-one and he was already in his forties.” She leaned forward into the microphone, but still, her voice wasn’t loud. “We’ve been divorced for the last five years.”

“During your time married to Mr. Cowan, did you take drugs in his presence?”

“Objection.” Hunter stated. “The defendant has never been charged with any drug crimes previously, and this information is merely hearsay. It’s of no relevance to this case.”

“I argue that it is relevant, Your Honor. We’re asking the witness to describe her personal experiences, and the things she has personally witnessed. We’re not asking her to relay anything she has not seen.”

“I’ll allow it.” Judge Marshall responded. “However, Ms. Forde, you’re to only talk about your personal experiences.”

Spencer looked across to Hunter, smiled, and then continued. “During your time married to Mr. Cowan, did you take drugs in his presence?”

“I did.”

“Ms. Forde, had you personally purchased drugs while in the presence of Mr. Cowan?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been in the presence of Mr. Cowan in a room with a small quantity of cocaine?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been in the presence of Mr. Cowan in a room with a large quantity of cocaine?”

“Yes.”

“And have you maintained a relationship with Mr. Cowan since the divorce?”

“I wouldn’t say relationship.”

“But you’ve kept in contact?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “We’ve kept in contact.”

“And why have you kept in contact?”

“I would…” She paused, bit her lip and looked up to the judge. He nodded for her to continue. “I would buy drugs from him. He kept my habit going.”

“What sort of drugs, Ms. Forde?”

“Cocaine, meth, weed, ice. Anything he had. Anytime I needed to get high, I got a supply from Rick.”

“How often would you buy drugs from Mr. Cowan?”

“Every month I would go to the club, he would walk into a private room, that’s where he kept all his drugs, and he’d bring out a bag of something. I didn’t really care what he brought out, just as long as it got me high. Sometimes I didn’t even ask what it was, I just took it.”

“And were you due to buy drugs from Mr. Cowan after the date of October 5th?”

“Yes.” She refused to look at Cowan or even in his direction. “I was going to pick up another hit on that night but the raid happened. Rick said he was getting a new shipment in and he said I’d like what he’s got. He said he was receiving the shipment on Wednesday afternoon, that was October 5th.”

“How did he say this to you?”

“In a text message.” She brushed the tip of her nose. “He said I’d love the quality of the drugs he’s got for me.”

“The prosecution would like to introduce Exhibit 15 into the court. These are the transcripts of the text messages between Ms. Forde and Mr. Cowan on the days before the raid.” Spencer held up a number of pieces of paper, before handing one to the witness. “Ms. Forde, can you confirm these are the text messages you received from Mr. Cowan?”

“Looks like it.”

“Can you please read the message from Mr. Cowan on September 25th?”

She cleared her throat. “It says, ‘Shipment coming in on October 5th. You’ll love what I’ve got for you.’” She scratched her fingernails along the inside of her elbow, avoiding any eye contact with the jury, Cowan, or even the prosecution. “That’s all I knew. I didn’t know any other details. He didn’t usually tell me much. I didn’t know where he bought the drugs from.”

“Were you in the Five-Star at the time of the raid?”

“No, I was going down that evening, but then one of the girls called me and said the place had been raided. I didn’t go near the club then.”

“So how did the police contact you, if you weren’t there that day?”

“I was arrested for drug possession after that day, but I wasn’t charged. I guess the cops talked to me because I’m Rick’s ex-wife. After they talked to me, I told them everything I knew and gave them access to my text messages.”

“Thank you, Ms. Forde.” Spencer’s tone was flat. “No further questions.”

Although she didn’t appear reliable, she was a solid witness for the prosecution, her presence alone served to closely associate Cowan with a heavy drug user. Every jury member was questioning their relationship, and how, after five years of divorce, Cowan could still look wealthy, while his ex-wife looked homeless and broken.

When asked by the judge, Hunter stood and moved to the lectern. He stared at Ms. Forde, took a long breath, and reviewed his notes. She spent the time scratching the inside of her elbows—first the right, then the left, alternating every few seconds.

“Ms. Forde, did you see Mr. Cowan on the day of October 5th?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did you see him take the delivery of the drugs on October 5th?”

“No.” She stopped scratching and finally looked up at Hunter. “I didn’t see that.”

“Ms. Forde, were you at the club that day?”

“No.”

“Near the club?”

“No, but he told me—”

“Ms. Forde,” Hunter interrupted before she could continue. “Did Mr. Cowan show you a video of him receiving the drugs?”

“Of course not.”

“Interesting.” Hunter nodded, flipping over to a page in his notes. “Ms. Forde, have you been offered a deal from the prosecution to testify today? Did they tell you that if you told the court Mr. Cowan discussed the delivery of the drugs, you would satisfy that deal?”

“I was told that if I testified they would drop the charges of drug possession.”

“And when were you arrested for drug possession?”

“October 10th.”

“You were arrested five days after the raid on Mr. Cowan’s club?”

“I guess so.”

“And did you want the charges against you dropped?”

“Of course. I would’ve lost my job as a cleaner if I was convicted. It’s not much of a job, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment.”

“And when was the offer to testify given to you?”

“On the same day I was arrested.”

“Do you believe you were targeted on October 10th?”

“Targeted? What do you mean?”

“Let me rephrase that. Do you take drugs often?”

“Daily.”

“And is that widely known in your community?”

“I guess so.”

“And had you been arrested for drug possession before?”

“Twice.” She nodded. “Twice in the past.”

“But not in the last year?”

“I think that’s right. It’s been years since I’ve been arrested.”

“Do you think the police targeted you on October 10th so they could convince you to give a testimony against Mr. Cowan?”

“Objection. Speculation.” Spencer stood up. “The witness is in no position to answer that question.”

“Overruled.” Judge Marshall said. “Move on, Mr. Hunter.”

Hunter made a number of exaggerated nods, signaling to the jury this was important information. He waited a few moments, and then he heard an ‘ah’ sound from one of the jurors, a signal they understood why she had been targeted by the police.

“When Mr. Cowan gave you the drugs, how would you pay for them?”

She shook her head.

“Ms. Forde,” Hunter continued. “How would you pay your ex-husband for the drugs you allegedly purchased?”

“I would give him favors.”

“Sexual favors, Ms. Forde?”

“Um, yes.” She averted eye contact again. “He would ask me to do things that other women wouldn’t do for him.”

“Ms. Forde, do you receive alimony from Mr. Cowan?”

“Never a cent.” There was venom in her voice this time. Finally, some fire in her demeanor. “Nothing in the divorce settlement either. He made me sign a pre-nuptial agreement before we got married, and I was only twenty-one, so of course I signed it. He had all these high-powered lawyers and made threats against me once we divorced.”

“And were you angry when you saw him jetting all around the world, with the pictures widely available on social media, all the while you’re struggling to pay the rent in a one-bedroom apartment in Chicago’s Southside?”

“Of course.”

“Vindictive, perhaps?”

“Objection. Accusatory.”

“Sustained. You know better than that, Mr. Hunter. Move on.”

Hunter stared at Lisa Forde, her twitchy movements highlighting her drug use. One of the jury members grimaced when she coughed, moving away from her, careful to avoid whatever germs she was carrying.

Hunter turned to the jury and when he saw three heads shaking in disappointment at her performance, he closed the folder on the lectern.

“No further questions.”

Chapter 24

The following days of the trial came and went in a flurry of activity. Expert drug analysis witnesses talked the talk, announcing their seemingly boundless knowledge about the make-up of cocaine, members of the drug task force testified about the intensity of the raid, and members of the community discussed how they had used drugs in the Five-Star previously. The prosecution’s strategy was clear to all—they were attempting to paint a picture of Rick Cowan’s drug-affected lifestyle. By the fifth day of the trial, that painting had become a masterpiece. The prosecution had used the witness list to great success, hinting at Cowan’s activities, business interests, and illegal deals. It was clear to everyone in the courtroom, Hunter included, that Cowan was involved in a long string of illegal activity. Hunter objected where he could, and called to question the integrity of the witnesses, but there was little he could do about the amount of testimonies that came forward.

A year earlier, nobody would’ve been brave enough to take the stand against Cowan. But with a well of money that was almost dried up, his influence had diminished, his power had waned, and there was now a long line of people waiting to take shots at Cowan. They were happy to trample on him when he was down, in the hope he never stood back up.

Esther, sitting behind Hunter in the courtroom, indicated to the laptop sitting on the defense table. ‘Email,’ she whispered. Hunter opened the laptop and read the first email. The email was brief but the message was sharp.

Tex,

I know you think I did this, but I didn’t. I’m caught up in this as well. Here’s something you don’t know—Rick Cowan took out an insurance policy on his freedom.

Jerry Schultz.

Hunter turned to look at Esther. She raised her eyebrows. Hunter nodded. Esther stood, and left the courtroom, a busy day of research ahead of her. It could’ve been a distraction from Schultz, he was well known for such tactics, but it was worth a look.

John Warden, seated in the back row of the courtroom, stared at Esther as she walked out. Warden was seated nearest to the exit, and caught Hunter’s eye. Hunter held his gaze for a few moments, and then turned back to his notes.

The next prosecution witness, Tony Kokkinos was called to the stand. He walked to the stand in a light blue suit, collar open, and a skinny gold chain around his neck. He smiled at the judge, the bailiff and the jury as he walked in. Charm came easily to him.

A fifty-year-old rival strip club owner, Kokkinos knew the game well. If Cowan went to prison, he could low-ball an offer for Cowan’s club, and add to his current collection of five. A clever business move, if there ever was one. Every new club added to his growing reputation, written about in the papers that mattered, and every new media piece fueled his ego.

“Mr. Kokkinos,” Spencer began after welcoming Kokkinos to the courtroom. “How do you know the defendant?”

“My path has crossed with Rick Cowan’s many times over the years. We run rival clubs. I own the Golden Pole franchise, and we have five clubs in Illinois. We’re looking at buying another club soon. All my clubs are legitimate businesses in wonderful settings that provide entertainment to members of the public.” He didn’t miss the opportunity to advertise his clubs. “Over the years, I had lent Mr. Cowan money, and usually he paid me back, but now, he owes me a lot, and as per our deal, it’s increasing with interest.”

“How much money does Mr. Cowan owe you?”

“I lent him quarter of a million in cash last year for an investment into a restaurant. I figured if Rick went into the restaurant trade, then I would be best placed to buy his club. But the restaurant failed, and he hasn’t paid a cent of the money back.”

“Did you ask Mr. Cowan directly if he could pay you back?”

“I asked him politely, of course. He avoided me for a long time, but then he called to say he wanted to meet. When we met he told me that he was getting a shipment in that could pay back some of his debts.”

“A shipment?” Spencer questioned. It was a rehearsed line, and they were playing it well. “Did Mr. Cowan tell you what the shipment was of?”

“Mr. Cowan told me he was getting a shipment of drugs. Cocaine. That didn’t shock me, not with Rick’s history. He said it was a large delivery and it’d pay back some of his debts once he could move the gear.”

“He told you this directly?”

“To my face. In person.” He brushed the tip of his nose with his thumb. “He said this was how he could pay me back for the failed restaurant venture.”

Hunter could sense the anger coming off Cowan next to him. All his rivals were involved in the set up—his so-called friends, his ex-wife, rival business owners. They all wanted to see him go down, and they would all happily join the celebration party once he was convicted.

“Where were you on the day of October 5th?”

“I was at the Five-Star just after lunchtime.”

“What did you see while you were in the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club?”

“I saw Mr. Cowan take a bag from a man in a white shirt and jeans, and then put them in the private room. Mr. Cowan said that the drugs were in the bag. Then I left. This was before the raid on the club happened.”

“What time did you witness this?”

“Around 1:30pm.”

“Did you see cocaine in the bag?”

“Objection.” Hunter called out. “The witness is in no position to answer what the substance was.”

“Sustained.” Judge Marshall stated.

“I’ll rephrase.” Spencer said. “Mr. Kokkinos, did you see a white powder in the bag?”

“I was standing next to Mr. Cowan when the man handed the bag over. Once he had the bag, Mr. Cowan unzipped it, checked the package was in there, and then walked away from me. I watched Mr. Cowan unlock the private room with a key, and put the bag of drugs in there.”

“And when did the police contact you?”

“They contacted me that afternoon once they found evidence I was in the club. I’d left before the raid. When the police contacted me, I told them the truth.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kokkinos.” Spencer finished. “No further questions.”

Hunter waited a few moments before he began questioning Kokkinos. He was asserting his power in the courtroom, and could see it agitated the witness. Kokkinos squirmed in his chair, anxious to get the court appearance over with.

“Mr. Kokkinos, did you believe the delivery was coming that afternoon?”

“Of course. I had no reason to doubt what Mr. Cowan told me.”

“Were you aware these drugs were going to be part of a raid?”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Really?” Hunter raised his eyebrows. “Can you please tell us what you were doing meeting with Detective Holmes in the days before the sting?”

“I…” Kokkinos shook his head. “How would you know that?”

“Please answer the question, Mr. Kokkinos.” Hunter said. “Can you please tell the court what you were doing meeting with Detective Holmes in the days before the sting?”

“We were…” He looked around the courtroom. “He’s someone who visits my club sometimes. I know him as a customer, it was nothing more than that. I like to make a point of meeting my customers. Keep things personal, you know? That’s good business practice.”

“Days before a drug sting on your rival club owner, you met with a lead detective from the drug task force, and you expect the court to believe it was a meeting with old friends?”

“Objection.” Spencer interjected. “Asked and answered.”

“Withdrawn.” Hunter’s response was quick. “Mr. Kokkinos, is the witness statement you provided to the police about your actions in the club full and complete?”

“It is. I talked to Rick for around twenty-five minutes that day and then left after he took the bag.”

“Did you do anything other than talk to Mr. Cowan while in the club?”

“I walked in, had a quick look around, talked to Mr. Cowan, and then left.”

“Did you leave anything behind when you went into the club?”

“No.”

“And is this you on the footage that monitors the entrance?”

Hunter introduced the evidence to the court. He turned to the court monitors, and hit play. It was footage of the entrance to the Five-Star. Ray Jones had lucked out with the commercial property across the street—a software development start-up. They had footage of their entrance, and in the top corner of the footage, the entrance to the Five-Star could be seen. Kokkinos looked to the prosecution, and then to John Warden sitting in the back row of the courtroom. They hadn’t prepared him for the footage.

“Mr. Kokkinos?” Hunter paused the footage using his laptop, and zoomed in on the top corner. The picture was high quality and clear. “Can you please answer the question—is it you entering the club?”

“I guess so. It appears to be.”

“And is that you with a black duffle bag?”

“I suppose.”

“You can tell by the way the bag is sitting that it looks quite full and heavy. Can you please tell the court what was in the bag?”

“Bits and pieces.”

“Such as?”

“I took some things into the club.”

“Interesting. Do you think the bag could hold ten pounds, or say five kilograms, of goods?”

“I suppose so.”

Hunter ran the footage again and skipped to twenty-five minutes later. “And is this you leaving the club almost half-an-hour later?”

Kokkinos stared at the footage. He nodded.

“Please answer the question verbally, Mr. Kokkinos.”

“That’s me.”

Hunter hit pause on the footage at the moment Kokkinos had stepped outside the doors. The duffle bag was creased together, clearly empty. “The bag does not look as full as it was when you entered, Mr. Kokkinos. Can you please tell the court what you left behind in the club?”

Kokkinos moved back in his chair. His mouth hung open for a few moments while the excuses ran through his head.

“Some drinks.”

“Some drinks?”

“That’s what I said. I left five bottles of expensive whiskey in the club. A present for Mr. Cowan. I forgot about them before, but now that you’ve run the footage I remember. It was a few months ago, and my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“You can imagine my surprise at that answer, Mr. Kokkinos, as you’ve not mentioned it in your witness statement to the police. And only moments ago, you stated your witness statement, five pages of testimony, was full and complete. And now you would like the court to believe you forgot this vital piece of information?”

“I guess so.”

“Mr. Kokkinos, when did you carry five kilograms of cocaine into the club?”

“Objection!” Spencer rose to his feet. “Accusation!”

“You’re treading a fine line, Mr. Hunter.” Judge Marshall stated.

Hunter turned to the jury. Two of the members were squinting, staring at Kokkinos, trying to process the new evidence. “I withdraw the question. And for now, I have nothing further for this witness, however we reserve the right to call him as a defense witness.”

The courtroom doors opened, and Esther Wright snuck back into the room.

She had spent the last hour calling in favors, calling associate after associate, trying to track down details about their current client. By the time Judge Marshall had called a recess for lunch, Esther had a copy of the material she needed.

When she handed the new information to Hunter, she could sense the rage burning off him.

Chapter 25

“You have an insurance policy on your freedom?” Hunter slapped a file on the table in front of Cowan. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

The client conference room was tight. One wooden table sat in the middle with four chairs surrounding it, and not much else could fit. There was nothing to lighten the mood—no windows, no artwork, no paintings, not even a plant. The halls of the court house hummed outside the closed door, people rushing past to ensure justice was—or wasn’t—served. Currently, Hunter wasn’t sure what side he was on.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cowan sniffed as he sat at the table, directly under the dim light. “This is news to me.”

Hunter turned the pieces of paper towards Cowan and slid them across the table.

“Where did you get this from?” Cowan squinted.

“That’s why you’ve been cooking the books, isn’t it? That’s why you faked a huge increase in the earnings for your business. That’s why you’ve changed the accounting to look like you’re taking in a million a year.”

Cowan looked at the photocopied pages. “I have no idea how you got your hands on this. This is a privacy issue.”

“We’re a team with connections. If we want something, we find it. Why didn’t you tell me about the policy?”

“Listen,” Cowan paused for a few moments, and a look of defeat spread across his face. “It’s Key Person Insurance. That’s common for businesses like mine and the policy isn’t on me personally. The policy is registered to the company and the company is insured against any CEO losing the capacity to work. It’s a loss of earnings policy. Without the ability to have a management specialist, with years of specific company knowledge, the business is susceptible to losses. That’s normal practice in medium sized companies.”

“So you set yourself up?”

“That’s what you think this is? I didn’t do that. Why would I take that risk with five kilograms of cocaine? Key Person Insurance is common. I know the risks in my business, and so does the insurance company. It’s not unusual to insure against the loss of a CEO due to extenuating circumstances. I wouldn’t be paid the money personally; it would go to the business.”

“The business you own.”

“That’s the game. There are dangers to running a strip club in Chicago. If I can’t work, as CEO, if I can’t continue my role, then the insurance company pays the business. I then fold the business down, and receive a pay-out as the owner. This policy isn’t unusual. It’s a gamble for the insurance firm, but that’s what they do. They underwrite risk. I explained my risks when I first took out the policy years ago. They drafted it, and I pay a premium for the privilege of a specialized contract.”

“You think you can play me? You think that’s what you can do? I’ve read the policy, and it’s not a standard insurance contract. Section 25.5 is where the reading becomes interesting—Insured for loss of earnings if the CEO of the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club is unable to work; including incapacity, critical illness, or, and this is the specialized wording you’ve requested, a prison term for less than five years. It’s conditional to section 25.5.1, which is a non-violence clause—no assault, no homicide, and no sexual charges. Insured for the loss of income of up to a million dollars a year. If you take five years in prison, that’s a five-million-dollar payout from the insurance company. That’s quite the motive to strike a deal.”

“I don’t remember the specifics of the policy.”

“And the next section states, and this is where it’s particularly relevant, the business must provide an adequate legal defense for the Key Personnel.”

“Again, I don’t remember the exact wording.”

“Your first kid lawyer wasn’t any good. The insurance company would’ve argued he didn’t provide an adequate defense, and they would’ve refused to pay out. If the kid made a mistake, then they were off the hook.”

Cowan scoffed, shook his head, and then smiled. “But no one could’ve disputed your expertise, Tex.”

Hunter slapped the table. Not only was he being lied to by the witnesses, not only was he being lied to in court, but he was being lied to by his own client.

Cowan drew a breath, leaned his elbows on the table and lowered his voice. “That policy is null and void if I’m given more than five years. I don’t get a cent from the insurance company if they put me away for fifteen. You think I’d do that to myself? It’s too much of a risk. I want you to talk to the prosecutor, that Samuel Spencer, and tell him I’d be willing to make a two-million-dollar donation to the bank account of his choice. He gives me five years in a nice prison, not a day over, and I take the insurance payout. Then I transfer him some of it. Everyone walks away happy.”

“You think you can buy your way out of this?”

“It’s worked in the past.”

“I’m not going near your dirty bribes.” Hunter shook his head. “You’ve got a lot of corrupt people against you. Along with everything the jury has already heard, Schultz is going to testify on Monday, and it’s going to sting. They’re all in this together. Schultz is pulling the strings, Holmes is ready to dance on your grave, Kokkinos is calling in all his favors. You’ve made powerful enemies and you’ve achieved the impossible—bringing everyone together to battle a common enemy.”

“That doesn’t mean I should go down for something I didn’t do.” Cowan replied. “Just because they’re all in this corrupt game together, doesn’t mean I should pay for this. You can’t let this corruption racket throw whoever they want in prison, whenever they want to do it.”

Hunter hated, deeply hated, that Rick Cowan was right.

Chapter 26

Tex Hunter rode the elevator down from his office to the first floor. Jerry Schultz was due to hit the stand after the weekend, and Hunter had done everything he could to prepare for the forthcoming lies. He’d read the witness statement many times, memorizing it line by line, and had different directions of questioning primed. He’d prepared for the prosecution’s list of potential questions, and where he expected to object and break the prosecution’s rhythm. He suspected they were going to build the eye-witness account of the days before the delivery, and detail the information that led to the tip-off. Schultz was a strong witness, but it was what he did behind the scenes that worried Hunter the most.

Hunter stepped out of the elevator and into the spacious foyer of his office building. He nodded to the security guard at the front desk, who was trying to charm a woman in the reception area, and proceeded towards the revolving door. In his briefcase were the notes for the coming days in court, and he would spend until at least midnight reviewing them. After many long days, he felt it was better to do that at his apartment, with a glass of whiskey in hand, than to spend another long night at his desk.

The closer he came to the end of the case, the more he could sense the threats. There were people involved that didn’t want to see them win, and people who would stop at nothing to see Cowan behind bars. In the early hours of that morning, during another sleepless night, Hunter considered firing his assistant, Esther. She would be safer if she worked for another law firm. She would be safer if she worked for another company. She was smart, methodical, clever, and perceptive, and he was sure she could find another job with a wage equal to what he paid her.

But he also couldn’t afford to lose her skills.

She was so much more than an assistant. She was an ally in his work, an investigator, an ideas person, and an organizer. Nobody could replace her.

Not in his office, and not in his life.

Hunter stepped out onto the street to check if he could see Esther with the takeaway cups of coffee he requested, and when he couldn’t, he sat on the sidewalk next to the homeless veteran begging for money. The man had a sign written on a piece of cardboard that said, ‘This is a private sign. Please do not read. Penalty - $1.’

Hunter laughed as he sat down on the sidewalk, apologized for reading the private sign, and asked the man about his day. The man was surprised at first, wary, until he saw Hunter was no threat. The two men, one dressed in a fitted Italian suit and the other dressed in clothes that hadn’t been washed in days, joked about the cold weather, talked about the people that walked past, and laughed at the traffic. Hunter knew the man, if only in passing, as they’d conversed briefly many times over the past year. Burt Grayson, the man said his name was. At least, that’s what he remembered it to be. He hadn’t introduced himself to anyone in a long time.

An Albert Einstein quote bounced around Hunter’s mind— ‘The world is a dangerous place, not because of the evil, but because of the people that look on and do nothing.’

The man on the street needed acknowledgement and respect as much as he did money and food.

As Hunter sat on the sidewalk, he looked across the street and saw a young African-American woman in a hooded sweatshirt staring at them. She had sunglasses on, but Hunter had no doubt she was looking straight at him. It could’ve been the fact that a man in a suit was sitting next to a homeless man, but Hunter felt it was something more.

When Hunter’s phone pinged with a message from Esther, he placed a fifty next to the man, patted him on the shoulder, and wished him a good weekend. The man smiled broadly, not for the money, but overjoyed to feel recognized and valued, a part of the world again. Hunter stood, staring at the girl across the road, before he brushed off his backside, and walked towards Esther. She was half a block down with two takeaway cups in her hands.

“I can’t believe you’re going home this early on a Friday night.” She looked at her watch as he approached. “This is about the earliest I’ve ever seen you leave the office.”

“The work is in here.” Hunter tapped his briefcase. “I’ve got to review the Key Person Insurance policy and everything connected to it. On paper, Cowan started increasing the amount of money the Five-Star made about a year ago, and I have to find out if that’s connected to the case. He claims it isn’t, but I don’t trust a word that man says.”

The sidewalk was quiet, as was customary along that section of West Jackson on a Friday evening. A block away, the street bustled with bars, restaurants, and clubs. Cars rolled down the road, waiting in constant traffic, but the sidewalk was almost empty.

Hunter looked over his shoulder again. The girl had followed him further down the street. She had moved closer. Hunter turned back to Esther, and then noticed the truck in the distance. It was banged up. Probably stolen. In a part of the city where old cars weren’t common, the truck stood out.

Hunter sensed it. Something was wrong.

He stepped to the other side of Esther, between her and the truck. He looked back to the girl watching them. With her head down, she was walking closer.

“Are you sure the insurance claim is linked to the case? Cowan wouldn’t do that, would he?”

“From first glance, it looks like too much of a risk. A day over five years in prison and the claim is null and void. And he’d know there was no way he’d get five years in prison for the amount of cocaine he had in the club. He’s not dumb enough to set himself up.”

The window of the truck rolled down. The road was clear.

Hunter kept his eyes on it.

The truck engine roared to life.

“But it explains why he was so determined to deal for a sentence under five years.” Esther sipped her coffee. “He was smart to add that clause. I guess it’s like a model insuring her legs, or a guitarist insuring his fingers.”

“It’s not unusual to have specialized policies, but the insurance company took a big risk with this policy, given Cowan’s past.”

The truck sped out of its parking spot.

Hunter looked back to the girl, a few yards away, and then back to the truck.

A handgun became visible out the driver’s side window.

“Move!” Hunter pushed Esther to the ground, covering her body with his. “Get down!”

A shot fired.

The noise echoed through the air.

It was followed by five more shots in quick succession.

The truck sped down the street, using part of the sidewalk to get away.

Hunter checked Esther, then himself.

No blood.

No injuries.

If the shooter wanted, they could’ve hit them. He and Esther were sitting ducks.

But they weren’t the target.

Hunter looked for the girl amongst the panic on the street, but she was already gone.

Chapter 27

Jasmine Langford had nowhere to go.

With the hood of her black sweater still up, she sprinted down the side alley, not wide enough for a car, moving between the dumpsters. Fear pulsed through her body, her heart rate reached its maximum, and her ears were still ringing from the echoing sounds of gunshots. Once out the other side of the alley, she checked the street, searching for the truck, and then ducked into the 7-11. She moved to the back of the store, waiting for the truck to race past.

If they knew she was alive, then she couldn’t go back to the shelter. Word must’ve gotten out. They’d already be looking for her there. She couldn’t bring trouble to the women that had already experienced so much. She had to keep them safe. From the front corner of the 7-11, staring over the top row of shelving near the door, she watched the cars go past, waiting for the truck.

A set of police sirens wailed by, followed by another one. There was panic in the street, a fear the gunshots may continue.

“Hey, you buying anything?” The man behind the counter looked edgy. He’d heard the gunshots. “You there. What are you buying?”

She didn’t look in the man’s direction, waiting for another car to go past.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” the man continued. “You. The girl in the hood. Are you buying anything?”

Jasmine didn’t respond, instead she stepped out onto the street. She looked both ways, looking for anything suspicious. It was a targeted hit. Cowan didn’t want her to testify—not about the raid, not about the club, and not about what she saw the night Lana died. Cowan had already warned her once not to say anything after Lana’s death. He wouldn’t warn her again.

She stepped into the street, amongst the crowds coming to see what happened. She walked around the block, keeping her head down, staying near the wall, looking for any suspicious movements. While she hurried through, she remembered the words of her mother—stay strong, and always keep moving.

She had vivid memories of her mother.

Her clearest memory was in the kitchen, with her mother dressed in an apron, whisk in hand, a splatter of red sauce on her sleeve. She was a solid African-American woman with long black hair, strong forearms, and shoulders strong enough to carry the weight of the world. She always danced as she cooked. Swaying her hips side to side with a broad smile on her face.

Her worst memory of her mother’s life was at the funeral. At fifteen years old, it was the moment when everything became real. It was the moment when it sunk in that her mother wasn’t coming back. There would be no more cuddles. There would be no shoulder to cry on. There would be no more help. Her step-father kicked her out of home a month later.

She felt her mother’s presence every once in a while. Like a ghost in the room, she could sense when she was nearby. That loving touch, that caring smile, that guiding hand, a burst of warm air.

She needed her now.

Jasmine moved to the end of a block on West Jackson Boulevard, the area already cordoned off by the cops. From down the street, she could see the police were speaking to the lawyer and his companion. They were both standing. They’d survived the shooting. The paramedics were there, but they didn’t look too concerned. There was no rush to save lives, no desperate noise of panic.

Ten minutes before, when she heard the lawyer’s yells to move, she dove behind a trash can. The bullets peppered her location, and once the truck had passed, she ran down the nearest alley. She wasn’t going to wait for them to come back for her. She couldn’t trust the people on the street, and she trusted the police even less. She caught a quick glimpse of the man with the gun. She recognized him from the club. The shooter must’ve been following the lawyer, keeping an eye on him, and when they saw her approaching, they took their opportunity.

As the crowd began to gather, she saw a dark sedan in the traffic, half a block away. Moving behind a taller man, she sheltered from view. The traffic light turned green. The car edged forward. Slower than it should’ve been going.

The crowd was beginning to file down the road, and she moved between the people around her.

The car stopped.

With her hood still on, she turned and walked away from the drama on West Jackson.

She couldn’t trust any of them—not Cowan, not the men that came to her apartment, not the police. They all had connections, and they were all willing to use her as a pawn in their games. She trusted Cowan the least. The man was a sleaze, taking advantage of the vulnerable and using them to do whatever he wanted. She saw it happen to Lana. She wished she had the power to stop them, she wished she had the power to end the run of hatred.

She recognized the face of one of the men that first came to her apartment. The younger man. He had been at the club the night Lana died. Along with Cowan, he walked into the private room that Lana never walked out of.

She had enough money to run. She had enough money to stay on the streets for a few days, hitching rides and sleeping in parks. She could even make it to Florida. Try to start again. That was her favorite option.

Telling the truth was another option. It was dangerous, deadly even, but in her heart, it was the path she knew she had to take. Not just for her, but for every girl in the club, and for every girl that was being used.

She knew what she had to do.

But she also knew the cost.

Chapter 28

Tex Hunter raged through the busy Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club, pushing customers out of the way, searching for the owner. Investigator Ray Jones followed him through the Friday night crowd, struggling to match the pace of his boss. The main performance room of the Five-Star was hectic, men throwing dollars around, drinking heavily, and cheering on the twirling performances from the dancers.

“Where is she?!” Tex Hunter stormed into the office of Rick Cowan, swinging the door wide open, followed by Jones. Hunter’s teeth were clenched together as he came to stand over Cowan. The office in the back of the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club was shadowy, and stunk of smoke, sleaze, and stale liquor. The liquor cabinet behind the desk was well-stocked, and a couch to the side of the room was well-used. Posters of past performances lined one wall, paintings of naked women on the other.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” Cowan sat in the large leather chair, feet on his desk, one leg crossed over the other, cigar in his mouth. “Come to watch some girls dance? I’m sure we can give you a good deal. Perhaps a private dance for free. Choose your girl and we’ll look after you.”

“Where is she?” Hunter repeated as he slammed his hands on the desk.

“Who are you talking about?” Cowan took his feet off the table. “I didn’t pick you as the sort of guy that would be desperate to find one particular girl to dance for you, but whatever you want. You’re helping me in court, so I’ll help you with the girls. Let these girls relieve some of the stress you’re carrying around.”

“I want to know where Jasmine Langford is.”

“Jasmine?” Cowan squinted. “You won’t find her here; I can tell you that. She won’t be dancing for you.”

“Jasmine Langford attempted to approach me on the street this evening, and as she did, she was shot at by a passing truck. They missed, and Jasmine ran away, and luckily, there were no casualties. But Esther and I were almost caught in the line of fire.”

Cowan hesitated, and for a rare moment, he looked concerned. “Is your assistant ok?”

“She’s fine. She’s shaken up, but she’s made of steel.”

“I’m sorry to hear you were shot at, but I have to say, I told you so.” It didn’t take long for his arrogance to return. “It was Schultz’s work, for sure. I know how that guy works, and it sounds exactly like his work.”

“Don’t blame someone else. Don’t lie to me. I know it was you. You wanted to take her out, but she was coming to talk to me. We could’ve convinced her to tell the truth.”

“I’ll be honest with you—I’d heard a rumor she was still alive. She was hiding from me. She’d slipped through our grasp before, and it wasn’t going to happen again. A girl like that has to be taught a lesson. I put a tail on you because I thought she might try and talk to you.” He smiled. “My friend John Warden passed on information about her whereabouts, and I just wanted to talk to her. That’s all. Just a friendly chat.”

Cowan looked away, picked up his cigar, and took a long drag before taking it out of his mouth. He looked at the end of the cigar, and then blew a large puff of smoke in Hunter’s direction.

He would come to realize it wasn’t a smart move.

Hunter shoved the security monitor off the desk, and stormed forward to face Cowan. The club owner leaped to his feet, hands out. Hunter stood over him and pressed his finger into his chest.

A noise came from the entrance to the office, and the large Samoan guard appeared at the door. Ray Jones stepped forward. There were many times when it was beneficial to be six-foot-four and as wide as a door. Jones was happy to use his size to stand between the bouncer and his boss.

“It’s a meeting between a lawyer and his client.” Jones stated, holding out his hand as a stop sign. “Nothing to worry about.”

Jones opened his leather jacket, revealing the weapon on his belt.

“Don’t look at them, look at me.” Hunter snarled into Cowan’s face. “I’m not your employee. I’m not your friend. If anyone gets hurt during this trial, I’m blaming you.”

“Now, now.” Cowan tried to smile, but he was uneasy. “Need I remind you of our deal. The file you so desperately need?”

“I’ll get that file.” Hunter brought his mouth to Cowan’s ear. “And if anyone comes near Esther, Jasmine Langford, or me again, there’ll be hell to pay. And I’ve got the best team of debt collectors.”

Hunter could smell the fear coming off Cowan as he pushed his index finger into the space at the base of Cowan’s throat.

Cowan’s hands came to Hunter’s wrist, trying to pull it back, but Hunter was too strong, too powerful.

“I get it. Don’t touch your friends. Stay away from them. You’ve made your point.”

Hunter stared deep into Cowan’s eyes, and when he could see the fear of death, he removed his finger and began to leave the room.

“Tex.” Cowan called out as Hunter reached the door.

Hunter stopped and turned around.

“I won’t touch your friends, but I can’t promise the same for Jerry Schultz.”

Chapter 29

Hunter’s anger hadn’t disappeared by the time the trial restarted on Monday morning. Justice was his life, the courtroom was his world, and the law was something he believed in. Even when he defended guilty clients, he did it as an important piece of the system. The constitution required that all defendants, regardless of guilt, received a fair, non-biased and impartial trial. The entire liberty of the country depended on people receiving a just outcome, and it required fairness regardless of wealth, skin color, or history. Every accused person deserved a chance to show they were innocent. Of course, the system wasn’t perfect. Hunter knew that. There was an unconscious bias to the system, as there was in the human conscience, be it racial background, gender, or social class.

But it was the people that exploited it—the people who used their money and power to control the system—that earned Hunter’s fury. The people who thought they were above the law, the people who thought they made the rules, the people who believed they could do whatever they wanted.

Throughout the morning, a number of additional expert evidence witnesses came and went, talking about the drugs and the locations, as Spencer built towards the close of the prosecution’s case. He’d only used half of his witness list, but the facts had been drummed into the minds of the jurors over and over again—yes, the drugs were in the club, yes, Rick Cowan had the keys to the room, and yes, people had heard him talk about the delivery of drugs before.

With thick low-lying cloud cover outside, the lighting in the courtroom seemed dimmer than normal. The wood paneling seemed darker, the chairs seemed bleaker, and the atmosphere of the room seemed even more melancholic than usual.

There were five people in the audience of the courtroom that morning. Three were law students, notepads out, pens ready, watching the morning’s testimony with interest. They occasionally talked amongst themselves, and Judge Marshall scolded them when they became too loud.

John Warden sat at the back of the room, watching with interest, arms folded most of the time, nodding when he heard a piece of factual information. Dressed in jeans, shirt, and sports jacket, he looked relaxed, the case building towards the conclusion he wanted.

But it was the fifth person, the person seated in the front row, who really stood out. Seated behind the prosecution’s table, he was twitchy, unable to sit still for more than a minute. Tattoos ran up his neck, poking out above the flannel-shirt collar, his skin was weathered, and his untrimmed goatee was gray. He was hardened, not just in his appearance, but in his eyes. On the street, most people would’ve avoided him, and in an almost empty courtroom, Hunter was cautious.

The man brought with him a feeling that spread through the room, a nervousness that affected everyone there. Even Spencer seemed unsettled by the presence behind him. As Spencer asked questions of the witnesses, he fiddled with his pens, moving them side to side constantly.

“Don’t disrupt this courtroom.” Hunter turned to Cowan when Judge Marshall called a short recess between witnesses. “This isn’t the place to play games. Now isn’t the time to disrupt the process.”

“You need to focus on winning this case. I’m not going away for fifteen years.” Cowan whispered, his eyes looking forward. “And I make my own rules. You don’t get to tell me the rules of my game.”

“Jerry Schultz is on the list for this afternoon. Don’t you try anything.” Hunter was guarded when Judge Marshall left the courtroom.

“I know who’s on the list.” Cowan said, and looked to the tattooed man. The tattooed man nodded and then walked out of the courtroom.

John Warden, seated in the back row, stood as well, following the tattooed man. Hunter followed them.

Hunter stepped into the hallway outside the courtroom, and looked to his right. There, seated on a metal chair backed against the wall, waiting for his turn to testify, was Jerry Schultz. He stood once he saw Hunter in the distance. Dressed in a black suit, complete with a black tie and polished shoes, his movements were slow but elegant. As the next witness, originally named Witness A, Schultz ambled forward, not even looking in the direction of the tattooed man who came towards him. A deputy sheriff was to his left, the tattooed man walking past on his right.

The tattooed man turned.

In one swift movement, he leapt towards Schultz, throwing a wild punch. A heavy left hook connected with Schultz’s cheek.

Schultz crumbled, the unexpected attack sending him to the floor. He yelled in fear.

The deputy sheriff was quick in his movements, racing to the tattooed man. His reaction time was impressive, grabbing the tattooed man in a chokehold, and wrestling him to the ground. He pinned him to the floor, diving on top of him, his body weight serving to subdue the attacker.

“Don’t move!” He held the man to the floor, pushing his head down, and holding the tattooed man’s arm behind his back. “Don’t move!”

John Warden rushed to assist the officer, ready to defend Schultz, but he wasn’t needed. Schultz was holding his bloodied face. There was a slow tickle of blood from his eye that seeped through his fingers.

“Remain still!” The sheriff continued to shout as more officers rushed into the commotion to assist. “Stop resisting!”

Cowan stepped out into the hallway and leaned against the wall, unfazed by the disorder. A smile spread across his face as he watched Schultz try to get to his feet. Cowan gave Schultz a wave when he looked in his direction.

As the tattooed man was locked in handcuffs, another deputy sheriff came to the aid of Schultz. The officers called for back-up on their radios, and soon, the halls were filled with officers who had no sympathy for the well-being of the handcuffed man.

Once the officers began to clear, Cowan turned to Hunter.

“This is how I do business, Hunter. Schultz was my friend, a good friend, and he crossed me. This was a symbol of my reach. I’ve let him know I can get to him anywhere.” Cowan leaned close to Hunter and whispered. “It’s a warning, a threat to let Schultz know wherever he goes, I will get to him.”

Chapter 30

“I’ve read your motion for a mistrial.” Judge Marshall looked at his watch, moved a file across his desk, and leaned back in his chair. “And you’d better have a mighty fine argument for this conference, Mr. Hunter. I know what you’re claiming, but I won’t be manipulated. Not by you, not by the defendant, and not by thugs who treat my courtroom like a boxing ring.”

Timeworn law books lined the walls of Judge Marshall’s chambers, a dark antique leather couch sat near the entrance, and a burgundy Persian rug lead to the judge’s hefty Mahogany desk. Judge Marshall waited behind his desk in the narrow chambers, his heavy arms spread wide, staring at the defense attorney, waiting for the excuses to come. The trial wasn’t going how the judge planned, it was taking longer than he thought, and he was a man who didn’t like surprises. He liked defense lawyers even less. The rug in front of the judge’s desk was well-worn, a patch of gray where the color had faded, but the chairs looked barely used. This was a place where most lawyers had to stand, not sit, and it was clear Judge Marshall had no time for small talk with lawyers he didn’t know.

However, Samuel Spencer was seated in front of the desk, lounging back, looking extremely comfortable, as if he was discussing menu options at the country club instead of discussing a man’s future.

In the five hours since the attack, Judge Marshall had gathered all the relevant information, reviewed Hunter’s motion for a mistrial, and made a number of calls, concerned for the safety of the witness.

“This case has to be declared a mistrial.” Hunter began. “The jury could not possibly remain impartial after what happened out there. Their decisions will be influenced by the commotion. They cannot possibly be expected to make an unbiased decision on the guilt of Mr. Cowan.”

“Mr. Spencer?” Judge Marshall turned to the seated lawyer.

“The jury saw nothing. They weren’t even in the room. And there was no connection between the defendant and this attacker. There was no interaction between the assailant and Mr. Cowan, no words spoken, no non-verbal clues, and there was nothing to bias the decision of the court. We cannot be held at ransom by thugs who think they can come into the court and threaten our witnesses. We had a missing witness, and now this? The law cannot let this man go. This trial must not be held hostage by people who think they can do whatever they want.”

“The defendant cannot possibly receive a fair trial after this incident. The opinion of the jury is going to be clearly biased.” Hunter stood behind one of the chairs. “There is no choice but to declare a mistrial. Mr. Cowan will be judged on what happened, and we cannot dismiss that.”

“Are you saying your client had a hand in this?” Judge Marshall raised his eyebrows, looking at Hunter over his glasses.

“Your Honor, I have no knowledge of what happened out there, and I can’t comment on it. Even if my client didn’t have a hand in it, the jury will assume he did. There will be extreme prejudice against Mr. Cowan and this jury cannot possibly provide a fair resolution to this case.”

“How is the condition of the witness, Mr. Spencer?”

“He’s suffered a cut above the eye, and he’s a little shaken, but he’s still willing to testify and tell the court what he knows to be true about this case. He’ll be good to return to the courtroom tomorrow morning, and due to the behavior he’s encountered today, he’d prefer to testify as soon as possible.”

Judge Marshall sat back in his chair, the afternoon sun streaming in behind him. He’d made a lot of decisions in his chambers, life or death decisions, decisions that affected the lives of so many people. He looked at the paper in front of him, considering his options, thinking about his next steps.

“The assailant is reportedly saying he’s never met Mr. Cowan, and he attacked the witness because he had a personal issue with him. He’s stated it was nothing to do with this case,” Spencer continued. “He claims he was previously employed by Mr. Schultz and he was sacked without cause. The assailant is claiming this was the only time he could get to him because Mr. Schultz has been in hiding. He wanted to punch Mr. Schultz, and this was his only chance.”

“So he attacked him in a courthouse?” Judge Marshall scoffed. “This courthouse is not a joke. I will see to it that the assailant receives the harshest penalty possible for such ludicrous behavior.”

“And such ludicrous behavior cannot be excluded from the minds of the jurors.” Hunter added. “Perhaps even they feel threatened now. Their decisions will be blinded by this incident. A fair trial cannot take place from here. This jury cannot possibly remain impartial.”

“I won’t be played, Mr. Hunter.” Judge Marshall shook his head again, groaning. “This is a court of law, not a place to play petty games.”

“If this case continues, then this is a reversible error. You’re denying Mr. Cowan due process.”

“Don’t lecture me on the law! We have a missing witness, and another witness was attacked in my courthouse. I don’t accept the games these people want to play. This court will stand above these petty moves. The court will explain to the jurors this incident had nothing to do with Mr. Cowan, that it was a personal matter between the assailant and the witness, and they cannot factor the attack into their decision for this trial. Any reasonable person will accept that determination. It’s reasonable, fair and just, that the jury will determine there is no undue influence in this case.”

“Your Honor—”

“My decision is made. The trial shall proceed behind closed doors, beginning tomorrow morning.” Judge Marshall indicated to the door. “Now get out of my chambers and stop wasting my time.”

Chapter 31

Tex Hunter sat in the bar, staring at his whiskey instead of drinking it. Ray Jones cradled a pint of pale ale in his large hands, and Esther Wright sipped a glass of Sauvignon blanc. The dive bar in Downtown Chicago was first opened in the 1980s, and the décor hadn’t changed since—pictures of 80s sporting legends hung on the brick walls, photos of past celebrities were pinned above the bar, and a number of old signed film posters, including the first Lethal Weapon and Die Hard movies, lined the entrance. There was a comfort to remaining in the past, especially while the city constantly changed around them.

“You could walk away.” Ray Jones stated as he brought the beer to his lips. “Forget about your father’s file and leave it all behind. You’ve got nothing tying you to this man. You could walk up to the judge and say your position has been compromised as you’re aware he’s beating witnesses.”

“I can’t do that now.” Hunter shook his head. “I have a chance to crumble the corrupt house of cards these liars have built. I have the chance to take them down, and expose their dishonesty and fraud. This is my chance.”

“But why?” Esther asked. “It doesn’t end with this case. Schultz will keep going. He’ll keep doing what he always has—using his connections and influence to make more money. You won’t stop him.”

“I have to do what I can,” Hunter responded. “These men have spent decades building their connections, making power moves and shifting chess pieces around the board so they can own the game. If we can stop the dealmakers, then we start to clean up the city. We start to clean up this mess.”

“Cowan is a criminal, and you saw that today.” Jones sat back and leaned against the leather cushion in the booth. “It’s bad enough he tried to take out a witness before the trial, but the idiot paid someone to attack a witness in court. He’s doing whatever he can to rock the boat.”

“He’s not an idiot. He was going for a mistrial.” Hunter replied. “Judge Marshall has denied the motion, but it puts us in a strong position for an appeal on the basis of a reversible error. We can argue the jury couldn’t have remained impartial, and the state has failed in its duty to maintain a fair trial. He’d still be behind bars for months while the process goes through the courts, but it’s our best chance.”

“You’re not a cop, Tex. This isn’t your job. Your job isn’t to police the corrupt.”

“Change doesn’t happen because one person at the top decides to do something. Real change, the type that matters, happens when everybody decides to do their part. Not just me, not just you, but everybody. And this is my part. The systemic corruption has to stop, and this is the role I have to play in overcoming it. I don’t want to live in a city where money is worth more than justice.”

A silence hung over them as they looked around the bar.

There were a number of gray-haired men watching a Lakers game on the television screen that hung near the entrance. They were arguing about whether Michael Jordan or LeBron James was the better basketball player. The guy arguing for LeBron James had to be an outsider, no self-respecting Chicagoan would argue against the impact Jordan had on basketball. Those who saw it first hand could never argue against Jordan—the way the sporting ability of one man transformed the whole city. The argument became heated, and the older of the two men stood, pointing his finger into the other man’s chest. The younger man, still at least seventy, stood to the challenge, yelling his responses.

They began to scuffle, but everything they did appeared to be in slow motion. They were two men trying to capture the aggression they had fifty years ago. The bartender broke them up before a punch was thrown, and told them both to sit down. He scolded them like school boys, and both men were happy to sit down to catch their breath. They sipped their drinks, and then shook hands.

Although they had some aggression left, maturity was their greatest asset.

“If we knew who turned off the cameras in the Five-Star on the day of the raid, we’d have enough proof to take down Schultz.” Hunter added. “Whoever turned off the cameras is our answer. That’s the key. Or if we can find any footage within the club, then it might prove that Kokkinos planted the drugs. Maybe someone was recording one of the girls dancing on their phone? Or maybe someone was talking on a video call in the club? We need something, anything, to prove someone planted the drugs.”

Neither Esther nor Jones responded. They had followed every lead and pushed every boundary to find the person who turned off the cameras.

Esther looked across at the two men as their voices rose again, before the bartender interrupted them and told them to quiet down. They did as they were told.

“And the file?” Esther turned back to the table. “What happens to that if Cowan goes to prison to await another trial? He won’t give it to you if he goes behind bars.”

Hunter raised his eyebrows towards Jones.

“I do have some information on that.” Jones drew a long breath. “Schultz and Cowan were close for years, and a contact told me that anything Cowan needed hidden, he gave to Schultz.”

“You’re saying Schultz has the file?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s a strong possibility. If Cowan received anything legal, he would’ve passed it onto Schultz. Although they’re not on the same team now, they were for a long time. Cowan adored Schultz, right up until his name was released as a witness.”

Hunter’s head tilted backwards, leaning against the top of the booth.

“Sorry, Tex.” Jones added. “I know it’s not good news, but it’s where all the information has led.”

“What hope do you have?” Esther said. “Schultz will go underground after this. Possibly even shred the files if he knows you’re coming after them. He’s probably moved the files already.”

Hunter didn’t respond.

It wasn’t the news he wanted after the day’s events. He’d become tangled in a mess of lies, deception, and danger, and for possibly no benefit at all.

“I’m working to see if there’s a way I could get to Schultz’s old files.” Jones tried to remain positive. “There’s an old storage facility his law firm uses, but it’s fairly secure. It’s not the type of place I can break into and spend hours looking through old boxes. But if I can find someone on the inside, then maybe they can give us a tip. I’ll work on it, but there’s no guarantees.”

Hunter remained silent for a long period of time. He risked it all to defend a sleaze, a corrupt businessman, and he was facing the very real possibility that he could walk away with nothing.

“What else can I do?” Hunter broke the silence. “I have to defend him. If he’s innocent of these charges, then I have to convince the jury of the truth. That’s my job. That’s my part in the justice system. I have to get him off.”

The three work colleagues and friends, sat at the booth, remaining quiet, contemplating their possible defeat. Defeat wasn’t something Hunter was used to, it was something he didn’t like, and he wasn’t accepting of it. A number of minutes passed before Hunter’s phone broke their solitude.

“Tex Hunter.” Hunter answered the call from a blocked number.

“Hello?” The woman asked as soon as Hunter answered. “Are you the defense attorney?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“I wanted to know why you sat with the homeless man last week?”

“Which homeless man?”

“The one on the street. The one you sat next to and talked with for a while after you left the office on Friday.”

“Who is this?”

“I want to know why you helped the man on the street.”

Hunter was silent.

“Someone wise told me the true value of a person is known when nobody is watching.” The woman on the phone continued after a long pause. “I saw your true value, and I know something that can help you.”

Chapter 32

The following morning, the courtroom was empty, soulless. With the gallery closed and the doors locked shut, the space behind the lawyers felt cold, cavernous, and almost haunted. Judge Marshall explained to the jury that the incident outside the doors had nothing to do with the case, and was rather, a personal vendetta against a witness. Judge Marshall asked the jury a number of questions about their bias, and when satisfied, he allowed the lawyers to continue.

Jerry Schultz walked to the stand in the empty courtroom, a bandage wrapped around the top of his head. The area under his right eye was purple, his cheek was slightly swollen, and he hobbled a little when he walked, but his suit was immaculate.

Hunter made a motion to dismiss the witness testimony due to the witness’ professional and legal relationship with the defendant, but Judge Marshall threw it out as well. The judge was becoming sick of the trial antics, sick of the games, and wanted the case pushed through as quickly as possible.

“Please state your name for the court.” Spencer began after Schultz was sworn in.

“Jerry Schultz.”

“Do you know the defendant?”

“I do. I’ve been an attorney for forty-five years and Mr. Cowan was a former client of mine. We worked together on a number of cases, however, our firm made a shift towards litigation law ten years ago, and I haven’t worked with Mr. Cowan during that time. After our professional relationship ended, Mr. Cowan became a friend. He confided many things to me during our friendship.”

“Are you able to disclose the things he confided in you while you were his defense attorney?”

“No, that would be a clear breach of the client-attorney confidentiality agreement.” Schultz moved in his chair. “I haven’t worked as a defense attorney for more than ten years, and like I said, Mr. Cowan has become my friend during that time. There was a clear distinction between my work as his attorney and my time as his friend.”

“Did you report anything to the police on the day of September 25th?”

He leaned to talk into the microphone. “I did. I called Detective Holmes and stated Mr. Cowan was expecting a shipment of drugs to arrive on October 5th.”

“What did you say in the tip-off call?”

“When I called on September 25th, I said that Mr. Cowan told me directly he was going to receive a large shipment of cocaine. Mr. Cowan and I were talking, as friends, and he stated his money problems were getting worse, but he had a way to fix them. He said the drugs would clear most of his debts.” Schultz looked towards the jury. “He said the cocaine had originally come from another country, somewhere in South America. He’d received word the shipment had landed in Florida, and was on the way to Chicago. He was excited because that amount of money would clear his debts.”

“Were those his exact words? ‘Clear his debts?’”

“They were. We were talking about the debts he owed and he said he had no way out of the predicament he was in. He said this was his only choice to pay them off.”

“And why did you choose to call Detective Holmes about this?”

“Because it was illegal. I felt it was my civil duty to stop the shipment of drugs from ruining the lives of the people in my community. I’m sick of seeing drugged-up fools walking the streets. Drugs are a terrible, terrible thing.”

“Why did you call Detective Holmes directly? Why not, say, call the drug tip-off line?”

“I didn’t trust the tip-off line and I knew Detective Holmes worked in the drug task force with the Chicago Police Department. It made sense to call him directly. I asked around and a friend of mine gave me his direct cell number.”

“Had you provided information to the police previously through tip-offs?”

“I had, but not about Mr. Cowan.”

“Did you believe Mr. Cowan when he told you about the drugs?”

“I had no reason to doubt him and I couldn’t see a reason why he would lie to me as his friend.”

“Did you see Mr. Cowan take delivery of the drugs on October 5th?”

“Not personally, but he sent me a text message saying the drugs had been delivered.”

Spencer introduced a copy of the text message exchange to the court. “Can you please read the text message Mr. Cowan sent you that day, at 1:58pm?”

Spencer handed a piece of paper to Schultz, and also highlighted the text message on the court monitor. Schultz put on his reading glasses, cleared his throat, and read the first line. “‘The coke has arrived. This is money in the bank.’”

“What do you think Mr. Cowan was referring to when he said ‘coke?’”

“Objection. Calls for speculation.”

Spencer shot Hunter a hot glance. “Withdrawn. Let me rephrase that. When you received that text message, what did you do?”

“I informed Detective Holmes.”

“Was this the point you confirmed Mr. Cowan personally received the cocaine he was expecting?”

“Objection.” Hunter called out. “Calls for a conclusion.”

“Sustained.” Judge Marshall replied immediately.

Spencer didn’t mind. It was easy to wipe a statement from a court transcript, but the same couldn’t be said for the jury. Statements said in court remained stuck in the subconscious, no matter how many times a judge dismissed them.

“Mr. Schultz, did you know the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club was about to be raided?” Spencer continued.

“Detective Holmes had asked me to contact him the second I became aware Mr. Cowan had the drugs in his possession so I assumed he was going to track the drugs. I was not made aware it was going to be a raid.”

Spencer asked Schultz numerous questions over the next hour, and all of it seemed damning. Hunter objected where he could, attempting to throw doubt on the testimony, but the jury trusted Schultz and his no-nonsense answers.

Spencer had built his case well. Despite the small doubts, days of testimony and evidence were guiding the jury towards a guilty verdict. Schultz and all his connections were close to squashing the ant they thought Cowan was.

They were confident it was over.

But Hunter was about to shock them all.

Chapter 33

Every prosecution case has a hammer; either a star witness or a piece of evidence that finishes the job, and smashes the final nail into the coffin of guilt. Jerry Schultz was that hammer—the witness that tidied everything up into a neat little bundle, confirming all the information that had been laid out over the past five days. Everything else had built up to the final prosecution’s witness—a man, respectable in appearance, pointing the finger squarely at Cowan. He was the man to finish him off, and he was taking great pride in it. His testimony was uncomplicated, easily understood, and extremely condemning. Almost the perfect prosecution witness.

Almost.

“Thank you for taking the time to discuss the case, Mr. Schultz.” Hunter moved to the lectern with a folder in front of him. Schultz nodded a response to his former employee. “Mr. Schultz, would you call yourself friends with Mr. Cowan currently?”

“We’ve had a strained relationship over the last year.”

“Have you stated your life would be better if Mr. Cowan was out of the picture?”

“Not true.”

“Mr. Schultz, can you please read the text message you sent on September 5th to Mr. Cowan?” Hunter walked to the stand and handed Schultz another piece of paper.

Schultz took his glasses from the top pocket of his suit, and ran his eyes over the line. “Oh, come on.” Schultz scoffed. “I didn’t mean that. That was stated in the heat of the moment.”

“Please read the message to the court.

“This is out of context.”

“Are you denying you sent the message?”

“I sent this message, but—”

“Then please read it to the court.”

Schultz groaned. “‘Stop contacting me. It’d be better if you were behind bars. If you don’t back off, I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life there.’ But you’re taking that out of context.”

“I can’t imagine a context where the statement means anything different, Mr. Schultz. Can you please inform the court how many times Mr. Cowan called you in the five months before the arrest?”

“I don’t know.”

“I do.” Hunter held up a telephone listing and introduced it as evidence. “This telephone listing states that Mr. Cowan called you fifty-five times. That’s how many times he called you in the five months before his arrest. And do you know how many times you answered his call?”

“I don’t.” Schultz shook his head.

“Five times.” Hunter stated. “So that’s fifty missed calls from Mr. Cowan to your phone in the five months before his arrest. Did you find his calls annoying?”

“I suppose I did.”

“And what was the reason you didn’t answer all those calls?”

“I was busy.”

“You were busy fifty times?”

“I’m a busy man.”

Hunter paused, walked back to his table, and picked up another sheet of paper.

“Mr. Schultz, can you please tell the court how you know the arresting officer of this case, Detective Holmes of the Chicago PD?”

“We know each other well.”

“You’ve had dinner with him?”

“That’s right. There’s no crime in that.”

“Mr. Schultz, have you been into the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club previously?”

“I have.”

“And are you aware of the layout? Enough to advise Detective Holmes where the drugs would be located?”

“That’s correct.”

Hunter nodded. “Can you please tell the court how you know Tony Kokkinos?”

“He’s a friend.”

“Monthly golf games?”

“Yes, but again, there’s no crime in that.”

“Before the raid, did you discuss the delivery of drugs with Mr. Kokkinos?”

“We didn’t, no.”

“But you did meet with him in the days before the raid?”

“I can’t remember the specific day, but I’m sure we did.”

“And what did you discuss?”

“I can’t remember the exact conversation, but it was likely we discussed business. That’s what we usually talked about. I know a lot of people and I’m well-connected.”

“It appears that way.” Hunter replied. “According to the police report, the drugs were delivered by a white van, but the driver slipped away before the time of the raid. The license plate numbers were recorded on surveillance footage outside the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club. Mr. Schultz, do you know the owner of the white van?”

Schultz stared at Hunter, not responding.

“Mr. Schultz? Do you know the van owner?”

“The van was reported stolen the day before the raid.”

“But you’re a part owner of the company that owns the van, aren’t you?”

“I have a lot of business interests and I’m not involved in all of them.” Schultz responded. “But I may own part of the company.”

“May own? The defense would like to introduce the ownership of the van company to the court as Exhibit 75. Can you please read the name of the person who owns twenty-five percent of the company?” Hunter handed the file to the witness.

“It says ‘Barrel Associates’ owns part of the delivery company.”

“And are you part owner of ‘Barrel Associates?’”

He moved in his chair, pulling his suit jacket tighter. “I have a financial interest in it, but again the van was stolen before the raid. It was nothing to do with me.”

“Mr. Schultz,” Hunter’s voice rose. “Did you have lunch with Mr. Cowan’s ex-wife, Ms. Forde, one week before the arrest?”

Schultz sat back. He wasn’t prepared for that question.

“Mr. Schultz?” Hunter pressed. “Did you and Mr. Cowan’s ex-wife have lunch one week before the raid?”

“We were old friends catching up.”

“Really?” Hunter feigned surprise. “When was the last time you saw her before that lunch?”

Schultz shrugged. “Years ago.”

“And you would like the court to believe that you, a respected member of the community, had caught up for lunch with Mr. Cowan’s ex-wife, a known drug-addict and a witness in this case, by chance only a week before the raid?”

“That’s what happened.”

“Did you transfer Mr. Cowan’s ex-wife any money after that lunch?”

Schultz shifted again in his chair. Hunter moved to the defense table and tapped his finger on the file at the edge of the desk. Schultz had no idea what information Hunter had. He didn’t know if it was a bluff, or whether he was going to pull out her bank statements. Schultz taught Hunter the trick when he first started in law—the folder could be a bluff, or it could be a trap. The witness had to make a decision, under pressure, to either tell the truth and confirm what was in the folder, or to lie, and risk the validity of the entire testimony if there was evidence.

“After we had lunch together, I felt sorry for her. She’s a lovely lady.” Schultz conceded. “She’s had a hard life, so I transferred her some money to help her get back on her feet. That’s all it was. Just old friends helping each other out.”

“And how much money did you transfer to help get her back on her feet?” Hunter tapped the folder again.

“Fifteen thousand.”

“Fifteen thousand? To someone you haven’t seen in years? Because you just ‘felt sorry’ for her?” Hunter looked to the jury and saw a number of confused faces. “Are you sure the payment wasn’t for helping to set up Mr. Cowan?”

“Objection!” Spencer jumped to his feet. “Accusation! I’m not sure what the defense is implying here, but it’s not worthy of this court’s time.”

“Withdrawn.” Hunter was quick to respond. “Mr. Schultz, have you been charged with fraud related offences in the past?”

“Objection!” Spencer stood again. “Relevance. The witness isn’t on trial here.”

“Your Honor, the defense is trying to establish the credibility of the witness. The court deserves to know the history of the man that initiated this whole process.”

“Overruled. You may answer the question, Mr. Schultz.”

Schultz paused for a long while before responding. “I’ve had ridiculous and ludicrous charges laid against me.”

“And you were convicted of those charges?”

“Those charges were overturned on appeal.”

“Did you serve time in prison?”

“You know the answer to that.” Schultz looked away and grunted. “I served two months before the decisions were overturned.”

“Mr. Schultz, can you tell the court why you’re so closely connected to all the eye-witnesses in this trial?”

“Coincidence. That’s the way life is some days.”

“Coincidence.” Hunter repeated, looking at the jury. “It seems a bit more than that. There are important witnesses, eye-witnesses, from all walks of life, from all professions, and they’re all connected to you. So, I’ll ask you directly, did you set Mr. Cowan up to get him out of your life?”

“Objection!” Spencer pleaded. “Your Honor, this is an outrageous accusation.”

“Sustained. Don’t make me hold you in contempt, Mr. Hunter.” Judge Marshall stated.

Hunter nodded. “Mr. Schultz, have you paid witnesses to lie in this courtroom?”

“Objection!”

“Withdrawn.” Hunter replied before Judge Marshall could respond. “Mr. Schultz, would it make you happy to see Mr. Cowan behind bars?”

Schultz sat with his mouth ajar, contemplating his answer for a few long moments before responding. “I suppose it would.”

Hunter looked to the jury and saw a number of them were sitting with their mouths open, staring at the witness, stunned by all the coincidences.

“No further questions.”

Hunter returned to his seat at the defense table, knowing his cross-examination had gone well, but not sure if it was enough to win the case.

Spencer declined a chance to redirect. He would only be digging a bigger hole. “The prosecution rests.”

Chapter 34

With the case hanging in the balance, with the opportunity to access his father’s file disappearing, Tex Hunter only had one witness to call. He’d done all he could to raise doubt in the prosecution’s case, he’d done all he could to question the validity of the raid.

Calling his witness was a risk, but so was most of the case. The name would stir the opposition, they would object, and he planned on that. He’d met the witness for only the second time that morning, an hour before court, with little time to prepare the questions. He was sure he could’ve missed something, he was sure he didn’t know the whole picture, but he had to take the chance, he had to roll the dice.

Hunter stood, knowing his witness had the chance to change the course of the trial.

“The defense calls Jasmine Langford to the stand.”

“What?” Spencer’s mouth dropped open. “Objection. Your Honor. She’s not listed on the defense witness list.”

“But she is on the prosecution’s list.”

“Approach.” Judge Marshall called them forward. “Care to explain what is going on?”

“Jasmine Langford is a prosecution witness,” Spencer began as he approached the bench. “But she was reported missing more than five weeks ago. Nobody has heard from her in over a month. We presumed she was dead, at least kidnapped. Her name is on the police missing persons’ list. I would hate to think the defense has been hiding her.”

“Your Honor, we were contacted two days ago by the witness and she informed us that she would like the chance to tell the truth about this case. We would like to give her the opportunity to tell the truth.”

“Are you sure you want to call a prosecution witness as your first witness, Mr. Hunter?”

“As our only witness, Your Honor.”

“It’s your case, counselor. If she was a prosecution witness, then I presume you’ve seen her witness statement. I’ll allow it.”

The court doors opened, and Jasmine Langford was timid as she walked to the stand. She didn’t look like a stripper, and the last five weeks had been good to her. Wearing a cardigan to cover her ample chest, with jeans and boots to match, she refused to look at the prosecution table, or at Rick Cowan. They were all staring at her intensely.

“Miss Langford, thank you for coming to testify today.” Hunter stood after Jasmine took her oath. “I understand that coming to this courtroom is hard for you. I’ll start by asking if you originally provided a witness statement to the police about your knowledge of the events that occurred on the October 5th?”

“The first statement I made was on the day of the raid in the back of a van.”

“Do you know what happened to that statement?”

“I was told it was lost in a clerical error.”

“And did you make another statement?”

“I did.”

“Is this the statement you made claiming to have seen Mr. Cowan with the drugs?” Hunter picked up a piece of paper and handed it to the witness.

“I guess so.”

“And is that witness statement true and correct?”

“No.”

“Is any of it true and correct?”

“Apart from my name, no. I was told what to say, and I signed my name on the bottom.”

There was an audible gasp from one of the jury members.

“Why would you lie to the police on a witness statement?” Hunter walked towards the jury box.

“Because Jerry Schultz, along with another man, came to my apartment and promised to pay me twenty-five thousand dollars if I went to the police and told them exactly what they wanted me to say. They threatened me with a gun and said if I didn’t take the deal, they would hurt me.”

More members of the jury gasped. They were easily taken in by Jasmine’s honest demeanor.

“And what would you do with the money?”

“The money would help me start a new life, and it would protect me from men like Rick Cowan. Jerry Schultz came to my apartment and wrote down exactly what I had to say, and I went to the police station and said it.”

“Did you receive money for doing that?”

“Yes.” Her reply was meek. “But they only gave me five thousand.”

“Why didn’t you receive twenty-five thousand as promised?”

“The other man, I don’t know his name, said I would receive the rest of the money once I testified in court.”

“Were they paying you to tell the truth in court?”

“No. They wanted me to say exactly what they’d written down.”

“Are you telling the truth now?”

“Yes.”

Jasmine fought back tears as she kept her eyes focused on the microphone in front of her. Hunter paused for a long moment, and looked across to the jury. They were hanging off her every word, taken in by her sad eyes, but Hunter knew the prosecution would destroy her in cross. His job was to make them so convinced by her testimony, they doubted anything that would come next.

“How do you know Mr. Cowan?”

“I worked as an exotic dancer in his club.”

“Are you aware of the location of the cameras in the club?”

“Yes. Every inch of the club is covered by video cameras. It’s for our safety.”

“And were you aware the cameras were turned off on October 5th?”

“There was a problem with the cameras that morning, but we were told they would be back up and running by that night.”

“Was that unusual?”

“Very unusual. I’d never seen all the cameras out before.”

“In your original police statement, did you state you saw Mr. Cowan receive the shipment of drugs?”

“Yes.”

“And is that true?”

“No.”

“Mr. Schultz paid you to say Mr. Cowan had drugs on him?”

“Yes.”

“On October 5th, did you see Mr. Cowan receive any drugs?”

“No.”

“Have you ever seen Mr. Cowan receive a shipment of drugs?”

“No.”

“Have you ever seen Mr. Cowan take drugs?”

“No.”

“And on October 5th, did you see Mr. Cowan handle the drugs?”

“No.”

Hunter paused for dramatic effect. He walked back to the lectern, waited a few moments, and then continued. “Did you meet with Jerry Schultz and the unidentified person after October 5th?”

“Yes. They came to my apartment and offered a deal. They said they’d read my original statement and they made it disappear. Then they asked me to say whatever they said, and the other man threatened me with a gun. They said that they had also paid other witnesses to testify against Mr. Cowan. They didn’t tell me the names of the other witnesses.”

“Did they explain why they wanted to do this?”

“They said it was time to take Rick Cowan down.”

“Did you want to take him down?”

“Not really. I wanted a new start. I wanted to move away.”

“And was it at this point they offered to pay you to lie?”

“It wasn’t really an offer. They didn’t give me a choice.”

“Why have you changed your mind, and come to this courtroom to tell the truth?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Thank you for coming forward and telling the truth, Miss Langford.” Hunter nodded. “No further questions.”

Spencer waited a few moments before moving. He sat at his desk, tapping his pen on the table, staring into nothingness. He hesitated a number of times, before smirking and making a number of scoffing noises. It was all a performance for the jury. Finally, he began his questioning, still behind his desk. “Miss Langford, what do you do for work?”

“I’m an exotic dancer.”

“And by exotic dancer, you mean stripper, as in you take your clothes off for money?”

“That’s part of the job.”

“Did you always dream about becoming a stripper?”

“Objection. Relevance.” Hunter interrupted.

“Sustained.” Judge Marshall’s response was quick.

“Miss Langford, these are serious claims you’re making, and I hope you understand the ramifications of these statements.” Spencer was at his patronizing best. “Do you understand that you’re under oath?”

“I do. I’m here to tell the truth, and the whole truth.”

“Do you understand you’re accusing Mr. Schultz of bribery and corruption?”

“I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I’m just telling the truth.”

“You say you were offered money to provide a police statement, which says your words can be bought by the highest bidder. Have you been offered money to testify today?”

“I haven’t, no.”

“Are you telling the truth right now?”

“I am.”

“How can we believe that?” Spencer’s voice rose. “Your testimony is on the table for the highest bidder! And the defense could’ve bought your testimony, couldn’t they?”

“They haven’t.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“I’m doing this because it’s right.”

“Did that cross your mind when you provided the statement to the police for money?” Spencer openly laughed at the witness.

“No,” Jasmine shook her head. “They threatened me with a gun.”

“And now you’ve got some of the money, five thousand dollars as you say, you’ve suddenly changed your mind?” Spencer took a long breath. “Miss Langford, you’ve admitted to lying in your original police statement. By your own admission, you’ve lied to the police. You’ve lied to the authorities. Why should we believe you today?”

“Because I have nothing to gain from this.”

“So the situation is that you’re a liar, and we cannot trust your word.”

“I’m not lying.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“I’m telling the truth.” The tears began to well up in her eyes.

“We’ve already established you’re a liar. You provide your words to the highest bidder. We’ve established that you change your testimony whenever it suits you, and we’ve established you’re comfortable lying to get whatever it is you want. How much can your lies be bought for this time? Five thousand? Ten thousand?”

“I’m telling the truth.” She pleaded. “This is what happened.”

“Has Mr. Cowan paid you to change your story?”

“No.” A tear ran down her cheek. “Jerry Schultz paid me.”

“How convenient. And did you give Mr. Schultz your bank account number? Perhaps something to show how easily your testimony can be bought? Do you have any evidence of the payment?”

“No. He paid me in cash.”

“You’re a liar!” Spencer slammed his hand on the table. “How can you expect the court to believe you?”

“Because I’m under oath.” She began to cry. “You have to believe me.”

“Your word is not enough, Miss Langford.” Spencer looked to the jury and shrugged. A few jurors shook their heads in response. “No further questions.”

Chapter 35

Hunter rested the defense case after only one witness. Judge Marshall called a fifteen-minute recess, but decided on an extra fifteen minutes after that, and the extra time only served to build the nerves in the pit of Hunter’s stomach. He hated this part. The uncertainty, the doubt, the fact that twelve individuals were about to make a decision on the rule of law.

Rick Cowan’s leg twitched under the table next to him. If Cowan went to prison, it was over. He couldn’t do fifteen years. It would be the death of him. He was used to hearty meals, expensive champagne, and mingling with young women; none of which would be available in prison. He’d have no power, no influence, and no reach behind bars.

Samuel Spencer waited impatiently at the prosecution table, anxious but smug. He fidgeted constantly, only stopping to bark instructions at his underlings. Jasmine’s testimony cast doubt on what should have been a winnable case for the prosecution. When Judge Marshall returned, Spencer tightened his tie and sat up straight, like a schoolboy before the principal.

Before calling for closing statements, Judge Marshall spoke to the jury about their civic duty and the legal definitions, and made sure they were clear on their responsibilities. When called, Spencer stood to begin his close.

*****

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for taking the time to listen to this case. I understand the process has been long, and at times, boring, however, you must not forget why you’re here.

This is an easy case.

The application of law is really simple, the evidence is really simple, and the outcome is really simple. It’s all really easy. Don’t confuse yourself with twists and turns, don’t confuse the facts with a good story.

The defense wants you to believe in coincidences, they want you to listen to their fanciful tales, and they want you to be fooled by their story. Don’t be. Don’t be sucked in by their wishful tales of woe and corruption. Don’t be sucked in by their research that uncovered quirks in this crime. And don’t be sucked in by a lying witness whose testimony is for sale to the highest bidder.

That the drugs were on the premises is not up for dispute. The amount of drugs is not up for dispute. The type of drugs is not up for dispute.

The facts are indisputable—$150,000 of cocaine was found in the club that Mr. Cowan owned, inside a room that only he had keys to.

So it really is simple—Rick Cowan was the only person who had control of those drugs.

Nobody else put the drugs there. Nobody else tried to fool him into accepting the drugs. Nobody else had control of those drugs. He even admitted to the police that he, and only he, had access to the room where the drugs were found.

You’ve heard from many witnesses that have stated Mr. Cowan talked about the drugs before they arrived. You’ve heard from the Detectives that conducted the raid on the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club. You’ve seen the police body-cam footage. You know the truth. And you’ve heard from Mr. Schultz, who provided the details of the original tip-off. The details are even contained in a text message.

This is not a coincidence.

This is a chance for the justice system to take out a drug dealer. This is the chance for the justice system to convict a criminal. This is a chance for you, the jury, to take drugs off the street and convict a man of felony drug possession.

You have the chance to stop these drugs from reaching vulnerable people. You have the chance to stop these drugs from destroying more lives. And you have the chance to stop Mr. Rick Cowan’s drug business.

Don’t be fooled by the tall tales from the defense team. The only reasonable conclusion you can make after this trial is guilty.

Thank you for your time.”

*****

Spencer walked back to his seat with a strut. He looked to the defense table, his face turned away from the jury, and winked. Hunter ignored Spencer’s bravado, making numerous notes across his closing statement, and then stood behind the lectern.

Juror ten looked unconvinced by Spencer’s closing statement, shaking her head a number of times when Spencer restated the claims of the witnesses. She would become Hunter’s focus.

The decision on Rick Cowan’s guilt or innocence was about to fall into the hands of twelve regular people and Tex Hunter was determined to convince them of the real story.

*****

“Rick Cowan was framed. That should be clear to you now. Really clear.

He had no knowledge of the drugs in the room. Remember, to be convicted, the prosecution must have proved, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Mr. Cowan had knowledge of the drugs. He didn’t.

Those drugs were put there by someone else.

This occurrence was more than a coincidence. A coincidence is running into a friend on the street, it’s wearing the same shirt as someone else to dinner, it’s thinking about someone at the same time they call you. They’re coincidences.

A coincidence is not the overwhelming stack of facts that point to one thing. That’s what we have in this case. An overwhelming pile of facts you cannot ignore.

You heard what witness after witness claimed to have seen, and it was too clean, too precise, and too well rehearsed. Life is not like that. Life is messy. You know that, and I know that.

But none of what was presented by the prosecution in this case was messy. None of it. Everything fit perfectly—the missing delivery driver, the timing of the raid, the witnesses themselves. Every eye-witness called by the prosecution had a personal vendetta against Mr. Cowan. That’s too clean, and life is messy.

Mr. Schultz provided the tip-off for the raid, calling Detective Holmes on his personal phone number. Why didn’t he call the tip-off line? Why didn’t he report the crime through the proper channels? You can make your own decisions about why that happened.

Mr. Kokkinos claims to have seen Mr. Cowan take delivery of the drugs, but Mr. Kokkinos would also benefit greatly by Mr. Cowan’s conviction. You’ve seen the footage of Mr. Kokkinos walking into the club on the day of the raid. When he walked in, his duffle bag was full, and when he exited half-an-hour later, the bag was empty.

You’ve heard the area of the drug exchange is constantly under video camera surveillance, however, the camera was turned off that day. That’s not a coincidence.

The van that was used to deliver the drugs is part-owned by Mr. Schultz.

Mr. Schultz had connections to every eye-witness that sat on this stand. He was personal friends with a number of witnesses, and the ones he wasn’t friends with, he admitted to meeting them in the weeks before the raid and transferring money to their bank accounts. He admitted he transferred money to Ms. Forde’s bank account. Fifteen thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money. Think about why he transferred the money to Ms. Forde. Really think about that.

It’s not a coincidence. It’s not messy. And when life isn’t messy, you can be guaranteed it’s made up.

That’s what this is.

A story that has been orchestrated by Mr. Schultz.

We’ve even had a witness in this trial directly state she was promised money to testify against Mr. Cowan. Jasmine Langford was offered, and paid, money to lie to the police. Before she arrived in court, she thought better of it, and made the right decision to come to this courtroom and tell the truth. She told the court, under oath, that she was paid by Mr. Schultz to lie.

This is your chance to recognize corruption exists in our city. This is your chance to say that we won’t accept it anymore. We won’t stand for it. We, the people, won’t let Mr. Schultz do whatever he wants. We won’t accept this behavior from people who think they’re above the law. This is your chance to acknowledge the systemic perversion of justice, and your chance to stop it.

At this point, it’s clear you should have reasonable doubts about the guilt of Mr. Rick Cowan. Remember the pilot’s adage I told you in the opening statement—if you have any reasonable doubt, then there’s no doubt. If you have any reasonable doubt, you don’t fly the plane.

And I can tell, you have reasonable doubts.

Mr. Cowan had no knowledge of the drugs.

Those doubts mean you can reasonably only come to one conclusion—not guilty. That is clear.

Thank you for your service to justice.”

Chapter 36

The sirens were wailing in the night, the circle rhythm of lights whirling in the shadows, and the smell of burning ash filled the air. A breeze blew down the street like a wind tunnel, fanning the flames that burnt the inside of the brick building, highlighting the sky in an orange glow.

Jasmine Langford was cautious as she approached the fire. She could feel the heat from fifty yards away. The women she had come to know so well were standing on the street, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. Huddled away from the shelter, standing on the opposite side of the road, some were tearful their homes had been taken away from them again. Babies wailed, young children hugged their mother’s legs, and young adults looked on in shock.

Jasmine watched as Wilma Woods comforted the other women however she could. Wilma told them it was going to be alright, they were going to get through this. Life had dealt out another blow, she said, but we’re strong and we’ll get through this.

The police were asking questions, asking names and addresses, and every single one of the women on the street were scared to answer them. They weren’t about to give their locations to the men they were running from.

“Wilma, what happened?” Jasmine approached the crowd.

Wilma turned from the woman she was with, and stared at Jasmine. She looked over her left shoulder and then the right one. She checked that the police weren’t watching her and then came closer. With a gentle hand on her elbow, she led Jasmine towards the shadows of a nearby apartment building. Near the wall, she checked her surroundings again.

“The fire is under control now. The worst of it is over. We got everyone out, and there shouldn’t be too much damage. The insurance will cover it, and we should be able to fix it. We’ve got to be hopeful.”

“What started it?”

“It was a Molotov Cocktail, thrown through one of the windows.” Wilma looked back to the building. “We were targeted.”

Jasmine bit her lip as she stared up towards the building, the fire starting to be extinguished, the heat starting to disappear from the street.

“Is anyone hurt?”

“Luckily, no.” Wilma looked down the street to the fire again. “Everyone’s ok, but we’ve still got to find a place for these girls tonight. It’s cold out here. The church has a few beds they can help with, but some of the girls are going to be sleeping on the floor.”

A strong gust blew down the street. One of the firefighters yelled out, and six people raced to his assistance. A new set of flames had sprung up. The firefighters turned the hoses to the corner of the building, punishing the second floor window with a flood of water.

Jasmine folded her arms across her chest. “Any idea who did this?”

Wilma hesitated before responding. “Someone came to the front door and he looked like trouble. He was asking a lot of questions.”

“About me?”

Wilma nodded her response.

“What did they want?”

“He wanted to know how long you’ve been staying here, and I told him we don’t talk about the people that stay at our shelters. I didn’t tell him anything.”

“Who was it?”

“He didn’t say his name, but…” She paused and placed a hand on Jasmine’s. “He said he was going to hurt you, and I couldn’t stop him. I called the police, and they came out, but they couldn’t do anything. I gave them his description but they said there’s little chance of actually finding him. And then this fire happens five hours later.”

“I’m sorry.” Jasmine looked away, blinking back the tears in her eyes. “What do I do now? Should I go and see the lawyer?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. Whoever is looking for you is going to be looking for you there as well. You need to keep your head down and get out of here.”

“Where do I go?”

“Here,” Wilma took an envelope out of her pocket. “It’s five hundred. It’s all I could grab as the building burned. You did the right thing getting up in court, standing up for what’s right and telling the truth, but they’re going to come after you. Take this money, keep your head down, and get the hell out of Chicago. You can’t come back here.”

Jasmine looked towards the fire. She looked at the damage, she looked at the pain on the faces of the women on the street, and she considered how the system was owned by people who had more power than her.

“Use the money for these women and kids.” Jasmine placed the envelope back in Wilma’s hands. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter 37

“Five days and they still don’t have a decision?” Ray Jones waited by the barbeque, tongs in hand. He was wearing a black apron, although it was too small for him. Most things were. “The jury is probably doing this on purpose. They’re trying to torture you for making them sit through a trial about a corrupt businessman.”

Jones flipped the two massive pieces of T-bone steak, at least as thick as a novel, searing them on the grill. His round grill was bulky, robust, smoking heavily, and clearly well-used. It was a sense of pride for Jones, as was his yard—grass clipped, a shed in the back corner, a new fence. There was a set of weights under the patio, sitting next to a bench press, and an old stationary bicycle next to that. The table and chairs were plastic, as was the covering for the patio. Although a small home, it was in the agreeable neighborhood of Kenwood on the city’s South Side.

“The timeframe means there’s doubt in the jury room. We have at least one person on our side in there. Someone is in that jury room arguing for the truth.” Hunter leaned against the brick wall close to the grill, careful not to get any grease on his suit. “I hate waiting and the longer it goes on, the less I like it. I don’t know which way it’ll go. They’ve already come back and asked the judge a lot of questions, but they’ve given no hints to the outcome.”

Jones flipped the steak again, drawing in a long breath of meaty goodness. “Such a good smell.”

“Didn’t anyone teach you that you should only turn a steak once?” Hunter smiled, moving closer to the barbeque. “Sear each side to trap the juices and then let it cook.”

“I tell you something, ain’t nobody cook a steak like my Dad did.” Jones smiled. “Standing around the grill as a small kid were my best memories with him.”

“And this must’ve been a massive cow because that’s a mighty big bite of steak.” Hunter took a whiff of the flavor coming off the barbeque. “Especially for lunch.”

“Hey, I’m a growing boy.” Jones laughed. “And I’d rather cook a steak outside, in the sunshine, than wait till it’s dark and cold to cook this beautiful thing. Look at it—it’s a work of art. Museums ain’t got nothing on this piece of art.”

After a quiet morning, Jones offered lunch at his home, and Hunter jumped at the chance the second he suggested it. Of course, they were there to talk business, but Jones’ barbequed T-bone steaks, lathered with his family’s secret smoky sauce, were the best in the city.

Hunter loosened his tie and took it off, followed by his jacket, and hung them over the back of the plastic outdoor chair. He rolled up his sleeves and smiled again. Sunshine in December, especially after days of snow, was something to celebrate.

“What happens to the girl that called you? Can they build a corruption case against Schultz from that?”

“There’s no evidence, it’s basically her word against his. And I don’t like her chances of convincing a prosecutor to press charges. Schultz doesn’t often get people to sign contracts for bribes. There’s no evidence to back up her story, so even though it may convince the jury in this trial, it won’t stand alone as a charge.”

The steaks sizzled, filling the air with the smell of charred meat. He turned the meat again, and Hunter shook his head with a grin.

“The reason I called you for lunch is I managed to find a contact in Schultz’s old law firm. A friend of a friend who owes me a few favors. She’s a paralegal but she knows a lot of what happens around there.” Jones started to stir his famed smoky sauce in a small bowl. “She’s looking into where they store old files. Asking around to see where they store all the forgotten about papers.”

“I don’t hold much hope. I got screwed on this case. I took a chance, dived into a world I wanted no part of, and if the decision goes against us, I’ve lost the chance to see the file. This was the outcome I least wanted.”

The grill sizzled again as Jones turned the steaks. Jones was sure the light breeze would fill the whole neighborhood with the salivating smell. He was surprised the neighbors weren’t trying to jump over the fence to steal his lunch.

“If you don’t get the file from Cowan, what do you want in court?” Jones asked. “Guilty?”

“He didn’t do this. He didn’t order those drugs. Someone set him up. That I know. Was it Schultz? Probably. The verdict for this case has to be not guilty.” Hunter sat on a plastic chair, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. “But should Cowan be a free man, walking the streets of Chicago without any punishment? I don’t know the answer to that. But I never want to see a person go to prison for something they didn’t do.”

Hunter’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out and answered it. “Esther, what have we got?”

“The jury has a decision.” She responded. “Judge Marshall wants everyone back in court as soon as possible.”

“Thanks Esther. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

Hunter ended the call as Jones took the steaks off the grill. The smell was overwhelming, and the juicy steaks looked perfect.

The jury decision would have to wait until after lunch.

Chapter 38

As Hunter walked to the defense table, Rick Cowan was already there, waiting in his finest suit. Cowan still had swagger, he still had confidence, but his head had dropped. Hunter saw the cracks in the unbreakable arrogance. Hunter placed his briefcase on the defense table, greeted Cowan, and then opened a file.

“Is this it?” Cowan asked. “They’ve got a decision?”

“This is it.” Hunter responded. “The jury has reached a decision.”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re a man that’s spent many years breaking the law.” Hunter stared at him. “And today is my last day with you. That was the deal. You’ll give me the file as payment and we’ll go our separate ways.”

“Our deal ends when I say it ends. The file gets handed to you when I say it should be handed to you. If I lose, then you’ll appeal the sentence. I’m not going away for more than five years. No way. You’re going to use every appeal, every avenue, to secure an agreeable prison term.”

“I’ll get the file. Guilty or not, I’ll get my hands on the file. I know where it’s kept.” Hunter bluffed.

“How could you know that?”

“Did you really think I would trust you? Of course not. You couldn’t possibly believe anyone would trust you. My investigator has been working around the clock to find the file. It would be easier for you to give me the file, but if not, we’ll find a way to take it.”

Cowan’s mouth hung open for a few moments before responding. “I should’ve known. You’re a smart man, Hunter, but don’t think I won’t make a call to have the file destroyed if I lose this case.”

The door to Judge Marshall’s chambers opened and the bailiff stepped out first.

Hunter’s heart pounded in his chest. He wasn’t sure what he wanted the jury to say. If Cowan was found guilty, he’d do a long stretch. A minimum of fifteen years in the slammer, perhaps even twenty-five, as Judge Marshall was known to be particularly harsh on drug offences.

But Hunter also knew Schultz set Cowan up. Schultz pulled every string and called in every favor to run Cowan down. There was no honor in that.

Hunter tried to slow his heart rate with breathing exercises, but it wasn’t working.

Judge Marshall was in no hurry as he approached his seat, ambling forward without a concern for time.

Jasmine Langford would need to run out of town as quickly as possible. Hunter had been trying to contact her, but she was on the run. He couldn’t find her. He was comforted by the fact Cowan didn’t have the resources to chase a former dancer, especially not after she turned her testimony around to support him.

But if they won, she needed to worry about Schultz.

If Cowan was found not guilty, Schultz, Warden, and Kokkinos would have to step carefully, but they knew Cowan’s influence was almost gone. If he got off, they would take another crack at Cowan, no doubt, and it would have a more violent outcome. Not a set-up, but a hit. They all had secrets they couldn’t risk getting out, and Cowan was known for his vengeful streak.

The bailiff brought the jury in. They were uneasy, averting eye contact with Cowan as they walked in.

Cowan stared at them, hoping for one of them to give him a sign, a wink perhaps, but they offered nothing.

Hunter and Cowan stood.

Judge Marshall turned to the jury. “Jury Foreman, have you reached your verdict?”

“We have, Your Honor.” The jury member stood tall and proud. “We’ve reached a verdict.”

The jury foreman handed a piece of paper to the bailiff, who in turn, handed it to Judge Marshall.

Guilty or not, Hunter needed to end his association with Cowan.

Judge Marshall took a few moments to read the verdict, and then passed the sheet of paper back to the foreman. The foreman stood tall, proud in the collective decision.

“In the charges of Possession of a Controlled Substance, more than 900grams of cocaine, how do you find the defendant, Mr. Rick Cowan?”

The moment they had been waiting for. The moment they had worked towards.

“We the jury, in the charges of Possession of a Controlled Substance, more than 900grams of cocaine, find the defendant, Mr. Rick Cowan...”

Hunter thought of Esther, working in the office. More than anything, he wanted to keep her safe.

He took a long breath, and looked back to the jury.

“Not guilty.”

Chapter 39

Tex Hunter parked his BMW sedan at the front of the strip club, took a deep breath, and exited his vehicle. It was time to get paid, time to end his association with the owner of the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club, and time to leave the nightmare behind him. Cowan was set up by Schultz, that was clear to everyone involved. If the corruption racket wanted Cowan in prison, Hunter reasoned, they would need to do it legitimately and within the confines of the law.

A paper sign hung on the front door of The Five-Star, announcing it was closed for the night to celebrate a private event. This was no time to entertain customers, this was no time to worry about money, this was time for Rick Cowan to celebrate his escape from the clutches of the law.

Hunter looked at the entrance to the club, shook his head, and rang the bell at the side of the building. One of the exotic dancers, barely clothed, answered the door. She giggled and appeared excited, or at least a little drunk. Hunter walked through the narrow entrance, running his hand along the velvet curtain, and stepped into the main room.

As he entered, Rick Cowan popped another champagne bottle, the excess fizz spraying onto one of the girls. She squealed with delight. Apart from the dancing girls, there were five more people in the room, hangers on, people who wanted to celebrate with free alcohol. The music was loud, the atmosphere was full of celebration, and the drinks were flowing freely.

“Ah!” Cowan shouted. “My new favorite lawyer!”

Cowan brushed one of the girls off his arm and stood, unsteady on his feet. He’d been celebrating for hours already, and it showed, but he’d still be celebrating long into the night. There was nothing like the threat of prison to help a person realize how much they valued freedom.

Cowan approached Hunter and held out his arms like he wanted a hug. Hunter shook his head.

“Sure, sure. We’re not family.” Cowan laughed. Even a rejected hug wasn’t going to spoil his mood. “At least have a drink on the house.”

Another one of the dancers, also scantily clad, walked over with a champagne glass and a half-filled bottle. Hunter shook his head again.

“I’ve come to get paid.” Hunter turned back to Cowan. “I’ve held up my end of the job, I got you off the charges, now it’s time for you to deliver.”

“Of course, of course. What a job it was too! What a win. You showed those corrupt pricks who’s boss.” Cowan turned around and walked back to the table at the far side of the room. “Come and sit down. Share a drink. Indulge me in a few moments of success first.”

Hunter didn’t respond, following Cowan as he stepped towards the table in the middle of the room.

“This is my good friend—Tex Hunter.” Cowan announced to the group of half-naked ladies. “The best lawyer in town!”

The girls cheered, giggled, and then laughed.

“I’m no friend of yours.”

Cowan paused, looked down at his glass, and nodded at one of the girls with a champagne bottle. He placed the glass on the table and walked towards the office at the side of the club, signaling for Hunter to follow him. He swayed as he walked. Cowan walked into his office, leaving the door open for Hunter to follow.

“You did well with the dancer, Jasmine. I don’t know what you told her, but you turned her around. Her testimony was the clincher. It was beautiful. Even if I told her what to say, I don’t think she could’ve done any better.”

“You’ll leave Jasmine alone.”

“I’m not going to chase her, but she needs to be careful. She crossed some powerful players, and they won’t be happy with what she did up there on the stand. She knows a lot about me, and she knows a lot about what happens in the club. All these girls do. That’s going to change. In future, I’m going to have to carefully select the girls I let into my inner circle. But if what she said was true, she also knows a lot about Schultz, and he’s the type of person who will hold a grudge. She’ll need to check over her shoulder at every corner, screen every phone call, watch every car following her.”

“Schultz framed you from day one.”

“I don’t believe that. Schultz is still my friend. They must’ve had something big over him, and used that to pressure him into testifying. I don’t blame him for it. That’s just the world we live in.”

“Even with all the evidence against him, you still don’t believe Schultz did it?”

Cowan ignored him, and walked to the office desk, pulling a folder out of the first drawer. He gave Hunter a thin folder, holding no more than five printed pages.

Hunter flicked it open. He stood in front of Cowan’s desk, reading a police report, and looking at two old family photos.

“This is it?” Hunter squinted, scanning the size of the folder. “That’s your thirty years of evidence? This is nothing more than what you showed me on the first day.”

“It’s not everything, but it’s a taste.”

Hunter’s mouth hung open for a moment, before he realized what was happening.

“You see,” Cowan waved his hand in the air. “They’re going to come back after me. They’re going to attack again. I know these people, and they won’t rest. They’ll keep coming until I’m behind bars. They want me to go down for what happened to the girl, Lana. And I saw what you did in court. I saw how you destroyed those witnesses. I thought there was no way I could’ve won, no way I could’ve beaten those charges, but somehow, you managed to convince those twelve idiots I’m an innocent man. You must be a magician.”

Hunter’s jaw ground together as his shock turned to anger.

“I need you, Tex. You’ll get the next part of the file when you defend me again.”

“I’m not defending you. I’m not having anything to do with you ever again. Our deal was the file, all the evidence, for this job. I got you off. I got you back out here to your club. And I need to get paid.”

“Now, now, settle down, big guy.” Cowan reached back into the drawer of his desk and removed a Glock handgun. He placed it on the table, facing Hunter. “Let’s not make any rash decisions we might come to regret later on.”

Cowan rested his hand on the weapon as Hunter stepped forward. Cowan hesitated for a moment, and that moment, that one second of reluctance, was all Hunter needed.

Hunter’s left hand went to Cowan’s wrist, blocking the weapon from being pointed at him, and his right hand went to Cowan’s collar. Within a split second, Cowan found himself squashed against the wall, fingers gripped around his collar, unable to reach the weapon.

Hunter pressed his knuckles into Cowan’s throat. “Tell me where the rest of the file is.”

Cowan tried to struggle, tried to move free, but Hunter was too big, too strong, and too determined, to allow Cowan even the slightest of movements.

Cowan tried to take a large breath but gagged as Hunter’s hand pushed deeper. His eyes became wide as he tried fighting off the pressure. Cowan lunged his knee towards Hunter, hitting his thigh, but Hunter didn’t flinch. Rage had engulfed him.

“The file.”

Cowan moved his eyes towards the table. Hunter released some of the pressure from Cowan’s throat, allowing him to draw a breath. Hunter held the strip club owner against the wall, waiting for him to continue.

“I don’t have it here, but I’ll show you where it is.” Cowan swallowed hard. “I’ll take you there now.”

“No,” Hunter’s voice was firm. “You’ll tell me exactly where it is.”

Cowan nodded, and swallowed again. “Schultz still has it.”

Cowan avoided eye contact as Hunter held his stare on him for a long moment.

Hunter released his grasp from Cowan’s throat.

Desperate to draw breath, Cowan put his hands on his knees, sucking in deep gulps while struggling not to gag. When he finally regained his composure, Cowan stepped away from Hunter, back towards the door, the gun, and his partying friends.

“What can I say,” Cowan held his palms up. “I can’t be trusted. You should’ve known that from the start.” Cowan rubbed his throat and then started to smile. “Jerry Schultz was my lawyer. I gave him all my legal information. I didn’t know he crossed me until a few weeks ago. I trusted that man. Every piece of information I received, I gave to him. I thought that was the right thing to do. Those items,” he pointed to the file on the table, “are the few things I received after I parted ways with Schultz’s law firm. And I’m sure if you ask nicely, he’ll give you the file. You used to work together, right?”

Hunter looked to the weapon on the table. He’d fired a gun before in self-defense, but never in anger.

“Everything ok in here?” A dancer stepped through the open door. “We want to keep celebrating. There’s more champagne to open!”

Hunter looked at the girl. She was a witness. Something Hunter didn’t want.

“We’re all good, sweetheart.” Cowan smiled. “Mr. Hunter was just leaving to start chasing a file.”

Chapter 40

“He’s not at home.” The lady at the front door of the mansion said. “I don’t know where he is.”

“I saw him in the window as I parked. I know he’s here.” Tex Hunter stood on the front step of the enormous home, which was hidden from the road behind a number of grand Oak trees. It was there, in the wealthy suburb of Highland Park, that Hunter was determined to bring down the corrupt. “And I’m going to talk to him.”

The lady didn’t know how to respond. She hesitated, went to say something, before someone else called out.

“It’s alright. I’ll deal with it.” There was a grumpiness to the voice. “I’m coming.”

Hunter stood at the door, the lady blocking his entrance, until Jerry Schultz appeared in the hallway. Schultz stepped around his wife, and onto the front step, pulling the heavy door closed behind him. He took an extra step down onto the gravel driveway, gazing out to his garden. He walked forward, away from the house, and indicated for Hunter to follow him.

“I have a gardener these days.” Schultz pointed to his vast lawn. The grass was weed-free, luscious, and groomed. A collection of shrubs grew at the end of the driveway, clipped to look like they were from a real estate magazine. “I used to do it all myself, but I can’t do as much now. I still use the riding lawnmower, I love that thing, but I can’t spend all day on my hands and knees, digging around this garden. Not good for the back.”

Hunter stood behind him, waiting for him to talk.

“I know you’re angry, Tex. I know Cowan promised the file to you as payment for defending him. He called me about the idea first, and I advised him against it. I said it was trouble, and warned him that you never took a backward step, but he went ahead with it anyway. When I saw you took the case, I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. You shouldn’t have trusted him.” Schultz paused, ran his hand over the leaves of the tallest shrub, and then looked towards the street. “Martin Luther King Jr. said the ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. You always stand up, Tex. No matter what, you always stand up. I respect that.”

“Why did you let me work for Cowan when you knew he didn’t have the file?”

“I tried to warn you, but what else could I say? I was a key witness in the case. Any connection to me would have made all that work null and void. Even when you came to me, I couldn’t tell you.”

“You set him up, didn’t you?”

“Set him up? That’s a stretch.” Schultz scoffed. “He let us into the club, Tex. It was Cowan who turned off the cameras. He wanted the raid to happen so he could collect the insurance money. It was his plan, not ours. He came to me a year ago, asked me for business advice, and I told him the easiest way to make two million was to spend two years in prison with his specialized Key Person Insurance policy. Then he demanded that I help him set the whole thing up. That’s the world that we work in.”

“What?”

“You didn’t know? Cowan paid me to organize the raid from the drug task force. He turned off the cameras, he gave Kokkinos the key to enter the room, he even messaged me to say he was ready for the raid. It was all planned from day one. He was cooking the books for over a year. He was preparing for it. With the contacts John Warden still had on the force, we made it happen. He paid me to tip them off. He knew I could get it done, but he only wanted 500grams of cocaine. Just enough for a year or two in prison and under the threshold for the insurance claim.”

“But you gave him five kilograms.”

“I was sick of him. He’s trash. Always demanding things.” Schultz sneered. “Warden and I talked to Kokkinos and saw the opportunity. It was our chance to take him down within the law, and then Kokkinos could swoop in and buy the club at a bargain price. And hand us a nice little commission, of course.”

“You did this.”

“He did it to himself. Everyone knew what was happening except for Cowan. You can’t play in the mud without getting your hands dirty. We changed the amount, paid a few witnesses, but in the end, it was still Cowan’s plan. I would’ve loved to have seen the shock on Cowan’s face when the police told him it was five kilograms.” Schultz paused. “We did release Jasmine Langford’s name to you. She became too much of a risk for us after we underpaid her. I’m sorry that I almost got you involved in a witness tampering charge. That wasn’t the plan.”

Blood surged to Hunter’s limbs. His hands gripped tight. His breathing deepened.

“Kokkinos is a good man. He treats those girls well.” Schultz continued. “But he’s also a businessman. He wanted the Five-Star. If Cowan went away for a year, and was a million or two richer, then he’d never get his hands on it. But fifteen years, well, that would destroy Cowan’s reputation, destroy his businesses, and Kokkinos could get the club for cheap.”

“Cowan’s own plan backfired. And you were all in this together.”

“After the raid, Cowan asked me whether I was involved. I denied everything, of course. I told him that someone in the PD planted the larger amount of drugs during the raid. We set him up for 500grams, just like he asked. I said I wasn’t involved and that someone else was going to testify about the original tip-off. Someone else was Witness A. I explained that the police must’ve seized the opportunity to take him down.”

“And he believed you?”

“Of course he did. He had no reason to doubt me. We were tight, and we’ve run this racket for a decade. Power and connections for hire, but it was bound to burn someone in the end. And I must say, out of everyone, I’m glad it burned Cowan.”

“Except he hasn’t gone down.”

“I imagine there’ll be repercussions to that fact.” He waved his hand at Hunter. “I’m old, Tex. Much too old to be fielding calls from people like Rick Cowan every week. That guy wouldn’t leave me alone, he kept calling, and kept drawing me into his problems. He would never listen to me.”

“The justice system isn’t yours to play with. You lied in court, and they’ll be coming after you for perjury.”

“No, they won’t,” Schultz scoffed again. “You might’ve convinced those twelve fools in court of the set up, but there’s not enough evidence to convict us for it. It’s our word against the word of a stripper. That’s never going to stand up in court, and you know it. Warden and Kokkinos certainly aren’t going to testify against me. There’s no way that any of it will stick.”

“You paid Jasmine to lie.”

“I pay a lot of people a lot of money to get things done. It’s the way of the world. It’s how I keep moving forward. But it shouldn’t surprise you. You’ve always known what I’m capable of.” Schultz shook his head, and then turned back to Hunter. “I guess you want the file?”

Hunter nodded.

“I kept it all these years and I have a good reason for that, but nothing comes for free, Tex. Give me the location of the girl, and I’ll give you the file. Jasmine Langford can’t get away with what she did to me in the courtroom. She betrayed me on the stand, and I can’t let her walk away. That wouldn’t look good for my reputation. I know you’ve kept in contact with her. My offer, and my only offer, is the girl’s location for your father’s file.”

“No.” Hunter was firm.

“Of course that would be your first reaction, but I’ll give you some time to think about it. If you want the file, and if you want to know why I kept it, be at the Mensa Storage parking lot at 10pm with the location of the girl.”

Schultz began walking back towards the house, before he stopped and turned back to Hunter.

“And be alone, Tex. I’m too old for trouble.”

Chapter 41

Hunter drove out of Schultz’s driveway, and parked further down the road. A teenager bounced a basketball in his hands as he walked past, the noise echoing down the otherwise quiet street. Trees lined the edges of the yards, and Hunter waited, watching to see if Schultz was going to drive anywhere in a hurry.

Hunter hated that he was being played, hated that he was being led down the wrong path by Schultz, but he didn’t have a choice. If he wanted the file, if he wanted the truth, he would have to play their game. He couldn’t break into a secure facility to steal legal files—he’d be disbarred the second anyone found out. If Schultz had stored the files with his legal firm, the files would be protected by heavy security. He searched ‘Mensa Storage’ on his phone, and found they took great pride in their security. And no doubt the file would be buried amongst years of paperwork.

When he first became a lawyer, under the mentorship of Schultz, he’d heard about files being buried, going missing, or being ignored altogether. When things were on paper, without the technology of computer tracing, it was much easier to bury a piece of information, redraft another file without the evidence, or run a file through the shredder. It would’ve been easy for those in power to bury any information that made the case against his father any weaker.

After five minutes of no activity from Schultz’s driveway, Hunter called Ray Jones.

“Tell me you got the file.” Jones answered the call. “Tell me this is good news.”

“Not yet.” Hunter responded. “Where are you now?”

“At home. Watching the internet. Just scrolling through different web pages. Man, there’s some crazy stuff out there. If you’ve got a fetish, it won’t take you long to find it. People can buy anything on the net. Some people even just sell their time. There’s one guy, who lives on a tropical island, who sells access to a live video stream from his home, just so you can feel like you’re there with him.”

Hunter when silent for a moment, a thought crashing through his head.

“Tex? Are you still there?”

“How long will it take you to get to Highland Park?”

“Highland Park? I’m at least forty-five minutes away. What do you need me for?”

“I need you to follow Jerry Schultz. He said he’ll pick up the file tonight once he gains access to the security from his law firm. His version of the story is that the file is stored in a facility called ‘Mensa Security,’ and he wants me to meet him there tonight at 10pm.”

“Do you trust him?”

“No. That’s why I need you to follow him. I’m here now, and I’ll keep an eye on the place, but I have something else left to do before I meet him tonight. I need evidence to take Schultz down. I’m not letting him walk away from this, but I need something more than the word of an exotic dancer. Her word won’t stand up in court. And if I bluff, he’ll call me on it.”

“Alright. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Jones responded. “Text me the address, and keep me updated if anything changes.”

Jones ended the call and Hunter looked at his phone, searching through the recent contacts.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to find in the file, but he had to get his hands on it. When he worked for Schultz, his father’s case came up in conversation numerous times. It was clear now Schultz was testing the water, he was searching to see how much Hunter knew about the case.

Their working history was troublesome. Hunter was trying to find his way in the law profession, and Schultz was trying to exploit his name. Although the experience of working for Schultz made him the lawyer he was today; it was still a problematic beginning. The sixty-five-hour-weeks, fifty weeks a year, took their toll, and after five years of being exploited for his name, Hunter left the firm on uneasy terms.

He never trusted Schultz, right from the first day. It was a job and a paycheck for a young man that didn’t have much else. While working for the firm, there were many rumors that Schultz paid witnesses to lie, paid people to change their stories, but nobody was ever able to prove anything. Hunter hated the firm, but it was a start, a beginning to the career he needed.

Hunter sat in the driver’s seat of his car, scrolling through the contacts, looking for the call on the right date and time.

Hunter trusted Rick Cowan even less. He never trusted a word the man said.

He didn’t expect either of them would ever come back into his life.

When Hunter found the right number on his phone, he made the call. He still had one play.

He’d won a case. He’d been pushed to the limit.

But he hadn’t taken down the corrupt.

Not yet.

Chapter 42

Hunter checked his watch: 9:35pm. Twenty-five minutes until Schultz was to arrive. The parking lot was weakly lit, damp, but the recently laid asphalt was seamless. There wasn’t a lump, bump, or crack out of place. The white lines were freshly painted, and the spaces were almost wide enough to fit two cars. A light wind brushed across Hunter’s face as he leaned against the passenger side door of his BMW, and it brought the smell of the nearby mechanic with it.

The gates to the parking lot were left unlocked. Hunter was sure it was Schultz’s work as well. The secure facility closed at 5pm each day, and there wasn’t even a light on in the warehouse. The main storage building was a long orange shed, with no windows, no skylights, and no easy access. There was a roller door next to the office, which was a separate brick outpost, sitting at the entrance to the parking lot.

The parking lot was used for all the surrounding warehouses, including a furniture factory to his left, and the mechanics behind him. There were two security cameras pointed towards the middle of the lot—one at the east end and the other at the west. Hunter was sure that for the right price both those camera files could be bought, and he had no doubt Schultz had already done that. Perhaps they were already turned off.

He’d made contact with Jasmine Langford. He had her location. He still had a move to make, a shuffling of the chess pieces, but he had to get the file out of the secure storage facility first. He had to lure Schultz into the open.

He placed his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground, contemplating his position. His desire for information on his father’s case had led him down many dangerous roads, but none more so than this one. The eight girls were members of the same school, found buried in the same woodland, each grave barely ten feet apart. They all knew each other as friends or acquaintances, and went missing over a period of five weeks. There were signs of a struggle on each of the girls, signs of the girls fighting back.

He’d met two of the mothers years ago. After he graduated law school, they contacted him. They talked, he listened. The women sympathized with his plight—they still saw him as the innocent ten-year-old kid who was put through the trial of the decade. They were good people—hard-working, loving, caring. Good families who laid flowers on their daughter’s grave every month, and despite their doubts, still went to church every Sunday. When they met, they asked Hunter not to challenge his father’s convictions, not to take it to appeal, and not to put the families through such heartache again. They wanted to move on. They wanted to close that chapter of their lives.

Hunter didn’t want to discredit the memories of the teenage girls, but he had to follow that path. He had a hunger for the truth, a desperate craving for the missing pieces.

A witness stated they had seen Alfred Hunter walking through the wooded area a day before the bodies were found. There was evidence that Alfred had met all of the girls and their fathers. Natalie Hunter attended the same school as the girls.

The prosecution told a fabulous story in court—a story of how Alfred stalked the girls from his daughter’s high school, how he stalked his friend’s children, how he was an obsessive psychotic man who snapped. It was Alfred who took advantage of the girls, one by one, they said, and killed them all in a ruthless, heartless fashion.

Despite the lack of strong evidence, the jury bought the story, as did everyone else in Chicago.

A set of headlights appeared in the night. Hunter looked to the road but the car kept driving past.

He was wary of any movement. There was an animal, a raccoon perhaps, scurrying near the fence, but not much else. He was surrounded by industrial warehouses, large lots, and the nearest house was at least a mile away. No witnesses. No one to report the sounds of gunshots.

He checked his watch again. Closer now.

The call he made earlier had gone well. Just as he expected. Jasmine Langford was willing to listen to his thoughts. She was apprehensive, but determined for the truth to come out.

He had a weapon in the car. He considered having it on him, but in his experience, guns only escalated tense scenarios, instead of calming them down. It was a risk to leave the weapon in the car, but a calculated one.

Hunter checked his watch again.

Closer.

There was one other vehicle on the street, a truck, parked further down the road. It was parked in the shadows, without plates. Hunter was suspicious. He had to be. He was dealing with dangerous people who thought they owned the law.

A set of car lights edged down the road. It rolled into the parking lot. It was a black Audi. Not the car Hunter was expecting.

The car was early, which was also unlike Schultz.

He expected Jones to be tailing Schultz, maybe a few minutes behind. That was the back-up he needed. Jones had eyes on Schultz for the evening, while Hunter went to a meeting with someone connected to the case.

Jones had texted to say Schultz was on the move at 9pm, which worked for their timeline.

Hunter felt sick to his stomach, weak at the knees. If his play went wrong, he would never see the file, and he would risk Jasmine’s life. He wanted neither of those outcomes.

The Audi parked four places across from Hunter. Its windows were tinted, too dark to see inside. Hunter waited, staring at the car.

He was a sitting duck if there was trouble. Schultz had already proven he did what was needed to get rid of the people that annoyed him. The problem with his profession, the criminal underworld, was that nobody actually retired from it. Nobody really escaped that world.

Especially people like Jerry Schultz. He was in that world up to his neck. People wouldn’t forget the things he did.

The door to the Audi opened.

A person stepped out.

And the man was holding a Glock in his right hand.

Chapter 43

“You.” Rick Cowan stepped out of the Audi, gun in hand, staring at Tex Hunter. “It was you all along.”

“What?” Hunter replied. “What are you talking about?”

“I got a call from your old boss Jerry Schultz an hour ago, and he said he could square things up with me. He told me you were coming out here to meet with Detective Holmes, and give him all the information on Lana’s death in my club. You were going to set me up for the death of the stripper.”

“You’re an idiot if you think I was going to set you up. I’m here for the file.”

“Schultz said you had all the information about her death, you’ve found all the evidence, and you were feeding it to the police. He said you had a vendetta against me for what happened with the file. And I can see that now. I can see what you’re going to do. You want to take me down.”

Cowan stumbled, but the aggression was clear. He waved the gun at Hunter, showing off his power.

“You’re drunk, Cowan. I got you off the charges, you idiot.” Hunter scoffed, and leaned against the car. “I’m not here to double cross you. Schultz told me the file is in that building and I’m here waiting for him. But by the looks of things, he isn’t coming.”

Schultz had played him again. Hunter needed Schultz to come through with the file, and instead, Cowan had been sent out to deal with his problems. Schultz knew Hunter would come after him for trying to set up Cowan, for using Jasmine, and for feeding him lies. This was his way to sort the problem out.

“Where is she? Is she here? I’ll shoot her.” Cowan waved the gun around.

“Who?”

“The girl. Jasmine. She’s going to testify again, isn’t she? She’s going to testify against me for Lana’s death. That’s what you’re doing here, isn’t it?”

“No. Not even close. The file is in that building, and Schultz told me he would give it to me.”

“No, no, no.” Cowan slurred his words, stumbling as he paced the parking lot. “I asked Schultz whether he did this. I asked him after the raid and he said no, and I asked him after the case, and he said no. He said he had nothing to do with it! It was all Kokkinos. Kokkinos threatened him and forced him to make the testimony. Schultz was scared for his life. That’s why he did it. Schultz is on my side. It was all Kokkinos. He did it all.”

“Of course Schultz would say that. He’s trying to deflect the blame.”

“And Schultz said you would deny everything. He said Detective Holmes is going to be here any minute and you’re going to tell him everything. He said you were sick of me, and you wanted to put me behind bars where I belong. Schultz said you were playing me. He said you’re going to stop me once and for all.”

“And can you see any cops? There’s no one else here. Put the gun away. I didn’t set you up. Schultz lied to you, and he’s lied to me as well. He said he’d meet me here and give me the file, but he’s not coming. He’s played both of us. He’s probably on a plane to the Bahamas by now.”

“That’s not true! Jerry Schultz is my friend! He wouldn’t cross me. It was all you. You wanted to build my trust. You played me from the start!”

“You’re a fool, Cowan. How could that even make sense? You came to me at the start. You wanted my services. And I won the case in court. If I wanted to take you down, if I wanted to see you behind bars, I would’ve thrown the trial. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.”

Cowan paused and looked down at the weapon in his hand. He swayed side to side, uneasy on his feet. The evening of celebration was showing its effects. He tried to process his feelings, staring at the ground.

A thought tracked through Hunter’s mind. “So Holmes isn’t involved in your corruption racket?”

“That guy? No way. He plays by the book. A straight-laced man. He had nothing to do with it. I paid Schultz to set up the raid, and he was supposed to put 500grams in the room. I asked him to call in the tip-off. I asked him to help me, and he did. When everything went wrong, I knew it was someone else. It was Kokkinos. He did it all.”

“You turned off your own surveillance cameras.”

“I gave them free reign. Schultz set it all up and Kokkinos was going to plant a small amount of drugs, I’d take a year or two in prison, and walk away a few million dollars richer. It was the perfect scam until Kokkinos planted five kilograms of cocaine. He wanted to see me go down. That prick. You’re working with him, aren’t you?”

“Schultz is still playing you. Don’t you see it? He was the one who set this whole thing up. He wanted you to go down. He asked Kokkinos to deliver the larger amount. He testified against you. How don’t you understand? It was Schultz.”

“No, no, no. It was Kokkinos. He took advantage of the situation. Schultz is my old buddy. He wouldn’t do that to me. I trust him. And he said…” Cowan swayed, spat on the ground, and came closer to Hunter. “He said I’d find you here waiting for Holmes. You good guys are all the same. Schultz said you’d found evidence I killed Lana and you were going to turn it over to the police, but I won’t let that happen.”

“You left your exotic dancers behind so you could hang out in a parking lot?”

“I left the dancers so I could stop you from exposing me.”

In his drunken state, Cowan stepped close to Hunter. Hunter moved and pushed him aside.

Cowan fell to the ground, stumbling over his own feet.

“You prick!” Cowan climbed back to his feet, inches away from Hunter. “I won’t let you cross me!”

Cowan raised the gun. Hunter saw the anger in his eyes. Hunter moved his left hand towards Cowan’s outstretched wrist, and moved the gun away. Hunter’s right hand went to Cowan’s collar, and he slammed him against his car door, still holding onto his wrist tightly.

In anger, with the gun held away from him, Cowan fired the first shot.

“I’ll kill you before you speak to the cops!” Cowan yelled. “You’re dead, Hunter.”

Hunter tried to remove the gun from Cowan’s hands, but he wasn’t letting go. Cowan fired again.

Hunter moved Cowan’s wrists. He pointed the gun away from them, trying to shake the gun free. Hunter pushed Cowan’s wrists towards the ground, struggling to free the weapon.

Cowan fired again.

And then he yelled in pain.

The bullet went through his upper thigh. He fell to the ground.

Hunter fell with him, still holding onto Cowan’s wrist.

Blood was gushing out of Cowan’s leg. With his arm pushed away from him, still under the pressure of Hunter’s hand, Cowan fired again.

And again.

But he weakened.

Cowan’s resistance stopped. He let go of the gun.

Hunter slapped the gun away with the back of his hand, and Cowan’s hand went to his thigh. On the ground, he doubled over.

Cowan looked up at Hunter, not saying another word, and then he blacked out.

Chapter 44

The first squad car arrived five minutes after Hunter called them. The EMT vehicle five minutes after that. Twenty-five minutes later, lights were whirling around the parking lot, and it wasn’t long before the area was cordoned off and officially declared a crime scene.

The lot was filled with people taking photos, laying down markers, and scanning the area, looking for clues. Detective Holmes had arrived not long after the paramedics, in enough time to see them declare Rick Cowan dead at the scene.

“It’s a lot of blood. Much more than I’ve seen in a while.” Holmes approached Hunter. “Watching a man bleed out isn’t a pretty sight.”

Hunter didn’t respond. He rested on a step at the edge of the parking lot, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, head down. He did his best to save Rick Cowan, but the bullet hit the femoral artery in his thigh, and there was nothing Hunter could do. While he held pressure on the wound, he watched the life drain from Cowan’s eyes, and his skin turn ghostly pale, before the rush of blood eventually slowed to a trickle. The first paramedics at the scene spent five minutes with Cowan before they accepted the truth. They covered Cowan’s body with a white cloth before they checked on Hunter. They cleaned a lot of the blood of Hunter’s hands and face, before providing a large jacket to replace his blood soaked one. Hunter had seen people die before, but never so close, and never so fast.

“I know this is hard, but I have to ask you questions about the shooting. It’s procedure.” Holmes folded his arms across his chest, and leaned against a pole near Hunter. “What were the both of you doing here, in an empty parking lot, late at night?”

“Am I under arrest?” Hunter lifted his head.

“Not yet.”

“Look at those cameras.” Hunter pointed to the two cameras at both ends of the lot. “They’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

Holmes exhaled, walking forward to sit on the step next to Hunter. “You and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, but we’re on the same team, Tex. We’re fighting the same battle. Everything I’ve ever done in this job, has been to try and take them all down. Sometimes, I have to dance with the devil to get the information I need, and sometimes, I have to cross the border, but I can’t get these guys the traditional way. I have to break the law to bring them down. Trust me, I’m one of the good guys.”

“Trust you?”

“I would’ve done what you did over there.” Holmes nodded towards the body lying under the white cloth. “As retirement comes closer, I’ve been wondering if I did enough. Did I do enough in my career as a cop? Could I have done more? I’ve tried to take down Cowan, Schultz, and Warden for years, and I’ve never gotten close. They’ve always traded out information to stop us touching them. Always wheeling and dealing. Occasionally, I’ve been caught up in it, but I did what I had to do to stop crime. I’ve stopped drug importations, murders, and burglaries, just because these guys have always dealt out when we got close. They’ve been untouchable. If I had the chance, one last chance, to stop them, then I would’ve done what you did.”

Hunter looked at the man sitting next to him. His lawyer instincts told him not to say a word, but he was tired of people like Schultz running their own game. “Jerry Schultz told me to meet him here. He was going to give me a file on my father’s case, a file he buried for thirty years, but Rick Cowan showed up instead. Schultz told Cowan I was going to double-cross him, and he was drunk. Schultz convinced Cowan that he had nothing to do with the set-up. Cowan argued with me, then pulled a gun, we got in a fight, and he started pulling the trigger. I had hold of his wrists, but the fool shot himself in the leg. I tried to stop the blood, but he bled out in minutes.”

“Sounds believable.” Holmes patted Hunter on the shoulder and stood. “I know this isn’t how you planned it, but at least you stopped part of a corruption racket. You finally stopped Rick Cowan.”

“But Schultz and Warden will walk free. Their hands are still clean. And now, they’ll keep doing this to someone else.”

“Guys like Schultz are untouchable. No one can get to them. He never gets his hands dirty. He pays people to do his dirty work. Buys witnesses, buys testimonies, buys people like he buys loaves of bread.” Holmes looked up to the cameras. “I’ll check the cameras, and if they back up your story, then we’ll write it up as self-defense.”

“Schultz will probably get to the cameras before you do.”

“If there’s one thing Schultz doesn’t know, it’s technology. He does all his work the old-fashioned way. He wouldn’t even know to check for cameras. John Warden does all that for him, but usually he just smashes the cameras rather than override the technology.”

A thought crossed Hunter’s mind. He stood. “Holmes, I still have one play left to make, but I need your help.”

Chapter 45

“Such a pity about Rick Cowan, wouldn’t you agree? Such a terrible loss to the community.” Jerry Schultz shuffled into Tex Hunter’s office with a smug arrogant smile. “I read the police report—he hit the artery in his thigh when he shot himself. Bled out within five minutes. There was no way that you or the paramedics could’ve stopped him from dying. Such a terrible loss.”

Hunter didn’t react, sitting behind his desk, staring at the man as he approached. Five days after Rick Cowan shot himself, the police report of the incident was finalized, citing a self-defensive action by Hunter. The only fingerprints on the weapon were Cowan’s, there was no bullet residue on Hunter’s hand, and the surveillance camera in the parking lot confirmed Hunter’s story.

Hunter was open and honest with the police investigation, talking for hours with Detective Holmes, detailing everything he knew about the situation. He’d kept in contact with Holmes over the past week, talking about their options to charge Schultz with a crime.

There weren’t many.

Schultz was clever, always keeping his hands clean, always a step away from the action. He’d played the game of corruption most of his life, and he wasn’t about to let anyone beat him at it.

Hunter spent the previous night barely able to sleep, wondering how many other times Schultz had done this to others. How many other times had he gone above the law to sort out his problems? Hunter was uneasy about letting Schultz into his office, letting him into his inner sanctum, and giving him a voice.

John Warden stepped into the office after Schultz. Hunter liked that even less.

“Not even a handshake for your old boss?” Schultz smiled.

Hunter didn’t. He didn’t flinch, didn’t avert his eyes, staying seated behind his desk, one long leg crossed over the other.

“Ok, ok. I get it. It’s been a rough few months for our relationship.” Schultz moved to the seat opposite Hunter’s desk, awkward as he sat down. “I hope we can forgive each other and come to an understanding. What’s that old saying? All’s fair in love and war. It was a little tiff between us, wasn’t it? Nothing serious, and nothing we can’t come to an agreement on. I’m glad you came to your senses and agreed to our deal. I’ll give you the file, and you give me the girl.”

Hunter leaned forward, reached for his phone, and sent a text message. He placed the phone down, and then turned his attention to Schultz. “Say what you’ve got to say and then get out.”

“Alright, alright, tough guy. Settle down. We don’t want you to shoot us like you shot Rick.” Schultz smiled. He reached forward and unclipped his briefcase. He paused as it opened. “I’m too old to be playing games anymore.”

“You sent me to get shot in that parking lot.”

“Who knows what would’ve happened there?” Schultz shrugged. “We didn’t know what Rick was going to do.”

“You did know.” Hunter was firm. “And that’s why you sent him.”

“Listen, we’ve known each other for a long time, and we’re a lot alike. We’re both willing to do what it takes, we both see the bigger picture, and we’re both hard workers. I hope you can see the similarities between us. We’re the same, you and me. We’re men of action.”

“Get to the point.”

“The point is…” Schultz paused, looked to Warden, and then back to Hunter. “The point is that I don’t want you chasing me. You’re like a hungry lion chasing a zebra, and I’m an old zebra now. I can’t move like I used to. So I’m calling a truce after this deal. When they first asked me to employ you, I was reluctant. I—”

“What?” Hunter interrupted. “Who asked you to employ me?”

“You think I chose to employ you all those years ago? Far from it. People asked me to hire you out of law school. Powerful people. People who had more money and influence than I could dream of. I was reluctant, but they had something on me, and after I hired you, I saw how good it was for business. Having the Hunter name in our criminal law offices was a marketing master stroke. If the client was guilty, of course they would want a criminal’s son on their defense team.”

“Why were you asked to employ me?”

“To keep an eye on you. There were a lot of people who didn’t like that you became a lawyer. They could see what you were doing, they could see how you were going to appeal your father’s convictions.”

“Who were they?” Hunter stood.

“Sit down.” Schultz looked away. “They came after me once. I made the wrong people angry, but I told them I had this file, I told them what was in it, and I’d release it if they came any closer. They backed away after that. That’s why I kept it all these years, I saw the power in it. It was blackmail. Not for you, but for the people who were coming after me.” Schultz took the file from his briefcase, running his finger over the edge. “You’ve got to understand the late eighties were a different time. It’s more than thirty years since your father’s case, and the world has changed a lot since then. There were people who wanted to keep the information quiet and keep the case out of the headlines. There was a lot of anger towards your father, and a lot of the general public needed a conviction. They didn’t want to think there was a serial killer roaming their streets, and your father’s conviction gave them comfort.”

“I was working for you, and you knew I was fighting to free him. You kept that information from me. You kept an innocent man in prison.”

“Life as a lawyer isn’t simple. It isn’t black and white. Our world, our lives, exist in the gray.” Schultz looked down at the file. “I was always taught you should never bite the hand that feeds you. Always respect the power.”

“Who pressured you to keep the information quiet?”

“That doesn’t matter now. It’s too long ago. Decades have passed. I was told to bury the information by people who were looking after our firm. The firm took a chance on you and gave you a job. We gave you a start. And what does it matter now? Your father is almost dead, those eight murdered girls have been dead for decades, and everyone connected to the case has moved on.”

“It matters to me.” Hunter snarled.

Schultz remained seated, tapping his finger on the yellow folder. It was timeworn, and filled with faded pages.

Hunter’s phone pinged with a message. It was Esther. She was ready.

“Who paid you to employ me?”

Schultz smiled. “Follow the trail in the file. You’ll find them. But after I give you this file, I don’t want you chasing me. This is everything Cowan gave me while he was a client of mine. Everything that was passed between us about your father.” Schultz placed the file on the edge of the desk. “Some of it’s useless, trash really. But some of it, well, there was a reason I was told to bury it and there was a reason why people were scared of it coming out.”

Hunter remained standing, holding his gaze on Schultz.

“That’s it, Tex.” Schultz opened his arms wide. “That’s all of it. Everything I have that’s related to your father’s case. I have nothing else to give. So can we now call a truce?”

“You want a truce?”

“I do. I want you to leave me alone.” Schultz looked to Warden. He then closed his briefcase and stood. “I trust we won’t see each other ever again. I’d wish you well, but I couldn’t care less what happens to you. Don’t come chasing me, because I can still make things happen. Now it’s time for you to hold up your end of the deal. Where’s the girl?”

Hunter grunted, walked around his desk and to his office door, standing in front of Schultz and Warden. He held his hand on the door handle. “Jasmine’s waiting right here for you.”

Chapter 46

“What’s this?” Jerry Schultz stepped out into the reception area of Hunter’s office. “Some sort of set-up? You can’t be serious.”

“It’s the end of the road.” Hunter stood by the door, and nodded towards the five people waiting in the reception area. “It’s over, Schultz. Decades of corruption has finally caught up with you. It’s finally over.”

Esther stood behind her desk, but in front of Jasmine Langford. Esther wanted to shelter the young woman from the two men exiting Hunter’s office. Detective Holmes stood near the entrance, two police officers behind him. The reception area was spacious, but felt small in the midst of a stand-off.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Schultz began to laugh. “The stripper? No one is ever going to believe her. She’s not a reliable witness. Good luck getting that one through court.”

Jasmine raised her head, staring at Schultz and Warden.

“That’s them.” Jasmine nodded. “They came into my apartment and offered me twenty-five thousand for the testimony against Cowan. They broke into my apartment and threatened me.”

Schultz continued to laugh and moved towards the exit. “This is ridiculous. This will be thrown out the second you place the charges. You think the word of a stripper is going to stand up in court? No chance. No judge will give it the light of day.” Schultz turned back to Hunter. “I expected better from you, Tex. I taught you better than this.”

“How about video footage that proves you were there and proves what you said,” Holmes stated. “Would that work for you?”

“There’s no video footage around her place. The cameras in her apartment building were smashed.” Warden stepped forward, chest out. “You’ve got no proof of anyone entering her building.”

“We found it unusual that all the cameras in Jasmine’s building were physically destroyed. And we checked—they were smashed the night before she entered the police station to make her second statement,” Holmes said.

“So you have nothing.” Schultz scoffed. “What a waste of time.”

“We have no footage of you entering the building.” Holmes smiled. “But Jasmine runs a webcam for an internet site called ‘Peep Into My Home.’ She doesn’t earn much money from it, but it’s enough to convince her to leave her two webcams running all day long. All. Day. Long. Audio and all.”

Schultz’s mouth dropped open. “That’s not admissible.”

“We have footage of you and John Warden breaking into her apartment, threatening her, and then offering her money to testify against Cowan.” Hunter stood tall behind Schultz. “And we also have you, John Warden, breaking into her apartment weeks later, on the same day she disappeared.”

Schultz looked at Hunter, then to Detective Holmes, and then to the door. He was too old to run. Too old to fight his way out.

“Miss Langford didn’t have access to her old video footage at the time of Cowan’s trial.” Holmes stated. “She didn’t even know how to access it. It’s a live stream, but the old footage is stored on a large server in California. When I asked the website management company for the previous data, they happily handed it over to my department.”

“No, no, no.” Schultz shook his head. “This is ridiculous. It wasn’t me. The footage must be fake.”

Esther turned the computer monitor towards them and pressed play. The video of Warden and Schultz sitting in Jasmine’s apartment, clearly visible and identifiable, played. Schultz’s mouth dropped, as did Warden’s.

“The corruption racket that you’ve run for decades has finally crumbled.” Hunter leaned down to whisper near Schultz’s face. “It’s over. Your whole house of cards has come crashing down. All your connections, all the people that will help you, won’t come close to you on this one. Your whole law firm will crumble under this evidence. You’re done, Schultz. It’s over.”

“Do you remember who I am? I’m one of the most connected people in this city! You can’t do this to me.”

“Every single connection you have will abandon you the second these charges are filed. Nobody wants to be associated with a man facing these accusations. They know if we connect them to you, they’ll be facing federal charges as well. They’ll know that we’re going to follow the leads, and all your friends are going to be running for the hills. Trust me, nobody is going to return your calls.”

Schultz’s eyes flicked over the room. “I’m innocent. It was Tony Kokkinos. He made me go there under false pretenses. It was all his idea.”

“Mr. Kokkinos is already in custody and discussing a deal.” Holmes replied. “He’s already told us what he knows and has implicated both of you.”

“It wasn’t me that agreed to help Kokkinos. It was John Warden. It was all John Warden.” The desperation in Schultz’s voice was clear.

Warden turned to Schultz, shock written on his face. “You’re going to turn on me that easily? You dirty dog.”

“There’s plenty of time for talking.” Holmes nodded to the two uniformed police officers. “Jerry Schultz and John Warden, you’re under arrest for the crimes of Witness Tampering and Intimidation.”

“What does it matter? Rick Cowan is dead. This is over already!” Schultz argued as the uniformed officers took out their handcuffs. “We don’t need to do this. I can make it worth your while to drop these charges. Tell me what you need. It’s all behind us. These charges don’t matter!”

“Justice matters.” Hunter stepped back from them. “And it always has.”

Chapter 47

Jasmine Langford walked through the back-door of the Englewood building. She unlocked the four bolts, walked up the narrow stairs, and onto the top floor. There were three workers near the kitchen, all volunteers from the nearby church, assisting in the renovation of the recently burned building. Her friend from the street, Phil, was putting the finishing touches on the hallway, painting the edges with a small brush.

“Used to be a painter once.” Phil greeted Jasmine with a toothy smile. “Been a while since I’ve done that, but you don’t forget the skills. Had some troubles along the way too.”

Jasmine rubbed his shoulder with a gentle touch.

“Been sober five days now though.” Phil continued. “Ever since you asked me to come here and help put this place back together, I’ve got a purpose. A real purpose. I’m going to keep helping people. It’s a calling.”

The fire damage wasn’t structural. Although the flames took hold of the building within minutes, the emergency services had been quick in their response, and thanks to an internal sprinkler system, there was only superficial damage to the walls, carpet, and furnishings.

The insurance money came in quick for Wilma Woods. She called Jasmine the second it arrived, the happiest she’d ever been. They paid out big. Wilma added new beds, new couches, and appliances in the kitchen. Thanks to her connections in the church, Wilma had a team of volunteers refurbish the interior within a matter of days. There was new drywall where needed, new carpet, and a fresh coat of paint, helping the place look better than ever.

Jasmine walked into the kitchen with bags of groceries, and placed them on the counter.

“I thought I heard you come back in.” Wilma stood in the doorway of the kitchen. “Thank you for coming back and staying. I need you here. We should have the girls back in here tomorrow, and I’m going to need an extra pair of hands to keep them all fed and happy.”

“Someone special to me said the true measure of a person is shown when no one is watching, and I believe that. This was my chance to make things right.”

“Bravery is the choice to stand up when everyone else has sat down. That’s what you did. You chose to stand up against the biggest intimidators out there. If we’re going to change the system, everyone has to be brave, and stand up against injustice. You were amazing.”

Jasmine opened the new fridge, and placed the cartons of milk inside. “The lawyer said the charges are going to stick to the corrupt old guys and they carry a hefty prison sentence. I’ll have to testify if it goes to trial, but he doesn’t think it’ll make it that far. He thinks Schultz and Warden will take deals long before that. They won’t be bullying anyone else anytime soon.”

The evidence that Holmes needed was all there—right from the moment the two men walked into Jasmine’s home. The live stream captured all the details of Schultz and Warden in her apartment, when they bribed her to testify, and when Warden later broke in again and couldn’t find her hidden in the closet.

The video was clear, as was the audio, saved to a website server.

She had played her part in taking down the corrupt.

“So if there are no bad guys chasing you, does that mean you’ll stay for good? The offer of a bed and free rent if you help out is still on the table.”

“I could think of nothing better.”

Wilma embraced Jasmine, pulling her in tight. “Thank you,” she whispered in Jasmine’s ear, tears welling in her eyes. “Thank you. I need you here.”

Jasmine withdrew from the hug, wiped her eyes with the back of her sweater sleeve, and smiled.

Chapter 48

Tex Hunter closed the door to his apartment, ensuring it didn’t make a sound, placed his briefcase on the dining table, and then walked to his liquor cabinet. He removed his favorite whiskey and poured a generous amount. Taking a long sip of the Pappy Van Winkle Family Reserve Bourbon, he held it in his mouth for a long moment, feeling the flavors roll around his tongue. He followed with a deep breath, before turning back to the dining table.

Hunter stared at his briefcase for a long period of time, not moving as he stood near the door, glass in hand. He didn’t want to keep the file in his office, instead, he packed it and took it home.

After Schultz and Warden were arrested, he shared a glass of champagne with Esther and Jasmine, celebrating their triumph, happy to bring down the corruption racket, but his mind was elsewhere.

As Hunter drove home, his brother Patrick called. He had found a lead with their sister, Natalie. He said he even had an address in Mexico. Hunter was excited, but that would have to wait.

Hunter wasn’t sure what he would find in the folder. It was a collection of more than thirty years of information. For all he knew, it could’ve been a collection of newspaper clippings.

The memory of his father’s arrest was clear. He was ten years old when he stood on the front porch of their family home, watching as six police cars sped onto the front lawn. The police knocked down the mailbox, and raced out of the cars, pointing their weapons in anger. There was yelling, so much yelling.

His father called him back inside, knowing what was to come next.

As a young boy, Hunter watched those police officers beat his father, their rage at the serial killings spilling into the abuse. There was so much blood on the living room floor after his father was taken away. Hunter was interviewed for weeks after that day, asked the same questions over and over. He knew nothing. There was nothing unusual in the weeks leading up to the arrest. There was nothing to suggest his father had done anything criminal. Nothing at all that he could remember.

Before the case hit the courts, his older sister, Natalie, had already gone. She’d fled to Mexico. His brother, Patrick, stayed to support their mother.

Hunter stepped towards the table. His heart pounded in his chest.

Hunter remembered the rocks that were thrown through the windows of their home in the weeks that followed, the physical attacks that haunted him for years, and the verbal abuse that shadowed him for much of his life. He was always fighting against those who carried hatred for his father, those who carried hatred for the Hunter name. He carried the guilt of the girl’s murders with him most of his life. He didn’t kill those girls, but he felt their families’ pain. That guilt, that undeniable weight, almost broke him a number of times. He had no choice but to build a wall around his emotions. It was survival.

He opened the briefcase. The file rested on top.

His mother went to prison a year after his father was locked away. She was convicted as an accessory, although she had no association with the crimes. His mother was a beautiful woman, once full of love, joy and happiness. He remembered the smell of her Sunday roasts, still the best cooking he had ever tasted. He remembered the way she used to laugh at his silly jokes, hugging him tightly afterwards. He remembered that eleven-year-old boy who cried through the nights after his mother was convicted.

He remembered burying her.

He placed the whiskey glass on the edge of the table, took one more deep breath, and reached for the cover of the folder.

He turned the page, looking at the first piece of information, a newspaper clipping, followed by an attached letter. He stared at the signature on the letter. He turned the next page, a report, with another attached note. He read the name signed at the end. Next page. Another letter. Same name.

He scanned the file. Every piece of information had an accompanying letter. Reports, newspaper clippings, lists of names. Events, photos, pages of handwritten notes. The letters referenced the illegal club, Cinco Casino, they referenced the cops who were in charge of the case, and they referenced the names of the witnesses.

But it was the name on every piece of information that caught Hunter’s eye.

It was all from the same person.

There was a note on one of the letters: ‘Don’t show this to Tex.’ Why were they hiding it from him? What did it mean?

He flicked through the folder again. Checked the name.

There was no mistaking it. No denying it.

Every piece of information, all fifty sheets, came from one source. All the information was from one person.

Hunter closed the folder.

He tried to let it all sink in. He tried to let all the information process in his head.

It was too much. Too much evidence. Too much news.

He stared at the title of the file. Reading it over and over again.

The person who sent all the information wasn’t just searching for the truth, they weren’t chasing an abstract idea. The person knew, they knew, what happened to those murdered girls. This wasn’t a random file.

This person wanted to expose the truth.

Hunter slumped into a nearby chair.

It was all there. It was all clear to him now.

The main report named a new suspect and a new witness. He knew the suspect’s name, but it was the witness’s name that sent his head spinning. She claimed to have seen a man at the site. She claimed to have seen a person with a number of the girls. She had information about the suspect.

There was a witness whose voice was never heard in court—his sister, Natalie Hunter.

Hunter closed the file, staring into nothingness. Why did she run? What else did she know? How was she involved? There was only one person that could answer those questions.

After an absence of more than thirty years, Tex Hunter needed to see his sister.

THE END

Author’s Note:

Thank you for reading Deadly Justice. I hope you enjoyed the twists and turns of this plot.

It took a long time to write this book, twice as long as usual, as when I was writing it, the Corona virus pandemic struck. For all those affected by the pandemic, whether it is the loss of a loved one, or the loss of work, my thoughts are with you.

Although I had planned the twists of the plot a long time ago, I found it really hard to write while sheltering-in-place. With my children also learning from home, I didn’t have a lot of interaction with the outside world, and really struggled to find the spark of inspiration and creativity. I’ve since realized that it’s a conversation, an experience, or even watching something happen on the street, that feeds my writing. It’s a word, a chat, or a discussion, that’s the foundation for most of my creative ideas. Once I started to interact with the outside world again, the writing came easily. For me, it was a lesson learned in troubling times and one that I’ll take into the future.

I’ve started writing Saving Justice, the fifth book in the series, and am looking forward to revealing more about Tex Hunter’s family. There’s a number of big twists to come in that tale.

To all my readers, stay safe and well.

Much love,

Peter O’Mahoney

Also by Peter O’Mahoney

*****

In the Tex Hunter Series:

Power and Justice

Faith and Justice

Corrupt Justice

Coming soon:

Saving Justice: Tex Hunter 5

*****

In the Jack Valentine Series:

Gates of Power

Stolen Power

*****

In the Bill Harvey Legal Thriller Series:

Redeeming Justice

Fire and Justice

Will of Justice

A Time for Justice

Truth and Justice

*****

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

THE END

Author’s Note: