Assistant State's Attorney Zac Hennings leaned back in his
chair the second before a newspaper smacked against his desk.
"If there's any blowback on this," Ray Gardner said, "it's
yours."
Zac glanced at the newspaper. On page one, below the fold,
was a photo of a young woman?
brunette?gazing out a
window framed by a set of gold drapes. Someone's living
room. The headline read Fighting for Justice. He skimmed the
first few paragraphs. The Chelsea Moore murder.
A burst of adrenaline exploded in Zac's brain.
Big
case.
Turning from the newspaper, he looked back to his boss.
Ray's generic gray suit fit better than most he wore but
still hung loose on his lean frame. Once in a while, to keep
his staff sharp, Ray would show up in a blue or black suit.
Regardless, the guy needed a good tailor, but Zac wasn't
going to be the one to suggest it. Not when Ray led the
Criminal Prosecutions Bureau, the largest of the six
divisions of the Cook County State's Attorney's Office.
Ray gestured to the newspaper. "The Sinclairs got traction
with this. Steve Bennett?"
"The detective? The one who died last week?"
"That's him. Brain cancer. He apparently refused to face his
maker without clearing his conscience. He sent Emma Sinclair
a video?starring himself? telling her the witness who ID'ed
her brother wasn't sure he got the right guy. According to
Steve, detectives pressured the witness into saying he was
positive."
Zac took his time with that one, let it sink in. "We locked
up Brian Sinclair for murder and now we've got deathbed
revelations?"
"Something like that. The State's Attorney called me at six
this morning after seeing her newspaper. She wants the
office bulldog on this. That's you, by the way. You'll have
all the case files this afternoon."
More files. Every open space in Zac's office had been jammed
with stacks of folders containing all the lurid details of
crimes ranging from robberies to murders. Where he'd put
more files he had no idea, but as one of nine hundred
assistant prosecutors in Chicago, a city plagued with over
five hundred murders last year, he had bigger problems than
storage space.
Not for the first time, his responsibilities settled at the
base of his neck. He breathed in, gave that bit of tension
its due diligence and put it out of his mind. Unlike some of
the attorneys around him, he lived for moments like this.
Moments when that hot rush of scoring an important case made
him "the man," marching into court, going to battle and
kicking some tail.
The cases were often brutal, not to mention emotionally
paralyzing, but his goal would always be telling the
victim's loved ones they got a guilty verdict. No
exceptions. In this case, they'd already convicted someone.
Zac had to make it stick.
Adding to the drama was Chelsea's father, Dave, who was a
veteran Chicago homicide detective. A good, honest cop who'd
lost his child to a senseless act of violence.
In short, Zac wanted to win. Every time.
"We're already behind the curve with this article," Ray said.
"I'll get us caught up."
When Chelsea Moore's murder occurred, Zac had been grinding
his way through misdemeanors. After getting promoted to
felonies, he'd worked like a dog to win his cases and it
paid off. Big-time. Ray had just assigned him a politically
and emotionally volatile case that he'd bleed for in order
to keep Chelsea's killer behind bars.
No matter how hard Emma Sinclair came at them, Dave's
daughter deserved justice. And Zac would see that she got
it. He'd study the trial transcripts and learn the facts of
the case.
"The P.D. will go to the wall for Dave Moore," Ray said.
"Yep. The guy breaks cases no one else can. He won't
tolerate his daughter's murderer going free. His buddies
won't, either."
Ray pointed. "Bingo."
If Emma Sinclair managed to get her brother's conviction
overturned, the Chicago P.D. would not only be angry, they'd
also make sure Helen Jergins, the new State's Attorney who'd
promoted Zac, got run out of town. Hard.
Ray shifted toward the door then turned back. "Whatever you
need, you let me know. We have to win this one."
"I got this," Zac said. "Count on it."
Emma stood in front of the huge whiteboard she'd rolled to
her mother's basement wall and contemplated her revised list
of target defense attorneys. Given the newspaper article,
today would be the day to once again get cracking on Project
Sinclair.
Eighteen months ago her twenty-two-year-old brother, a guy
who had nothing but love for those around him, had been
convicted of strangling a young woman outside a nightclub.
Unable to withstand the injustice of the circumstantial
case?no fingerprints or DNA?Emma started banging on the
doors of defense attorneys all over the city, trying to win
a reversal. No matter how many times she was told no, she
would not be silenced. Not when her innocent brother was
rotting in prison.
She flicked her finger against the whiteboard. The new video
evidence would lure one of these lawyers in. It had to. The
case suddenly had all the political melodrama? corruption,
false witness testimony, withholding information?defense
attorneys thrived on.
She spun back to the oblong folding table, shoved aside an
open banker's box, grabbed the binder with her latest set of
research and made a note to study up on
Brady and
Giglio material. Being a first-year law student, a
field she'd never imagined for herself, she hadn't yet
mastered the concepts, but they involved impeaching a
witness and items prosecutors were required to share with
the defense. Maybe in the next few days she'd have a defense
attorney?preferably pro bono, considering that she was
broke?to help her slice through the technical aspects of the
case.
Above her head, the exposed water pipe clunked. Her mother
flushing the toilet. Emma sighed. She should move all this
stuff upstairs to Brian's old room, but her mother didn't
need to see a daily reminder that her son was a convicted
murderer. Bad enough the poor woman had to think about it,
never mind see it every time she walked upstairs.
So Emma and her effort to free her brother would stay in the
cold, dreary basement, surrounded by cobwebs that, no matter
how many times she brushed them away, kept returning. When
the time came for her to move out on her own again, she'd
have a finished basement. No doubt about it. For now, she'd
left her cute little apartment in Wrigleyville so her
widowed mother wouldn't have to face her demons alone.
A rapid click-click-click of heels hitting the battered
hardwood came from the first floor. Emma had spent countless
hours listening to her mother's footsteps above. Whether
early morning or the darkness of night when sleep eluded
them, Emma recognized the sound of her mother's shoes. The
ones she'd just heard didn't belong to her mom.
Someone's here.
"Emma?" her mother called from the doorway.
"Yes?"
"There's a Penny Hennings here to see you."
Emma froze.
Penny Hennings. She perused her
whiteboard, where she'd alphabetized the lawyers' names.
Hennings. There it was. Not Penny, though. Gerald, from
Hennings and Solomon.
Maybe Penny was a relative sent to check her out for Gerald
Hennings, who might want to take the case. And if said
relation fought downtown traffic on a weekday morning and
hauled herself to the North Side, to Parkland, it had to be
serious. Emma linked her fingers together and squeezed.
Please, let it be.
"Be right up, Mom."
She glanced down at her sweats, torn T-shirt and pink fuzzy
slippers. Great. She'd have to face some snazzy lady from a
big-time law firm in this getup. She plucked a rubber band
from the little bowl with the paper clips. Least she could
do was tie back her tangled hair.
Rotten luck.
Forget it. She had to put her appearance out of her
mind. For all she knew, Penny Hennings could be a cosmetics
saleswoman.
But what were the chances of that? Particularly at 9:00 a.m.
on the morning an article about Brian ran?
"Emma?" her mother called.
"Coming."
She straightened. If Penny Hennings
was from
Hennings and Solomon, Emma had to go into full sales mode
and convince this woman that her firm should take Brian's
case. After eighteen months of studying overturned
convictions and hounding lawyers, it was time for their odds
to change. And Hennings and Solomon could make that happen.
Emma ditched her slippers at the base of the stairs and
marched up. She looked like hell, but she'd dazzle this
would-be-lawyer-slash-cosmetics-saleswoman with her powers
of persuasion.
The basement door stood open and Mom's voice carried from
the living room. Emma closed her eyes.
This could be
it. After a long, streaming breath, she stepped out of
the short hallway.
A minuscule woman?maybe late twenties?with shoulder-length
blond hair sat on the sofa. The plaid, overstuffed chair
tried to swallow her, but her red power suit refused to be
smothered. No, that puppy screamed strength and defiance and
promise. Could be a good sign.
Plus, to the woman's credit, she kept her gaze on Emma's
face and not her attire. One cool cookie, this blonde.
Emma extended her hand to the now standing woman. "Hello.
I'm Emma Sinclair."
"Good morning. I'm Penny Hennings. I'm an attorney from
Hennings and Solomon. I'm sorry to barge in, but I saw the
story on your brother this morning."
Emma glanced at her mother, took in her cloudy, drooping
brown eyes and flat mouth. A heavy heart had stolen her
mother's joy. Ten years ago, at the age of forty, the woman
had been widowed and learned that hope could be a fickle
thing. Emma, though, couldn't give in to that defeatist
thinking. There was a reason she'd been left fatherless at
sixteen and now, with her brother in prison, had assumed the
role her father would want her to take. To watch over Mom
and free Brian.
Some would say she didn't deserve all this loss. Why not? It
turned out their family had crummy luck. Her father's sudden
death from a brain aneurysm had left a void so deep she'd
never really acknowledged it for fear that she'd be consumed
by it and would cease experiencing the joy the world
offered. Ignoring that vast hole inside her seemed easier.
Then Brian went to prison?more crummy luck?and the hole
inside grew. The thing she held on to day after day, the
thing that kept her focused and sane and standing, was the
fight to free her brother.
Whatever it took, she'd find a way to put their family back
together.
"Ms. Sinclair?"
Make this happen. "Forgive me. I'mβ¦well, I'm trying
not to get ahead of myself, but you're the first attorney to
contact me in eighteen months and I'm really,
really happy to see you."
Penny offered a wide smile and instantly Emma's pulse
settled. "Please, have a seat. Would you like coffee?"
"No, thank you. I can't stay long. I spoke to my father?
Gerald Hennings?on the way over. He indicated that you'd
contacted him about this case some months back."
Emma sat on the love seat and rested her hand over her
mother's. Maybe they'd finally get the break they deserved.
"Yes. He was kind enough to review the case, but said there
was nothing he could do."
"At the time, that was true, but I'm intrigued by this video
you've obtained. If the video is accurate, we might be able
to prove that your brother's constitutional rights were
violated. Any information regarding witness testimony should
have been turned over to the defense before trial."
"It's
Giglio material, right?" Emma asked.
Penny cocked her head. "You've brushed up."
"Yes. I'm also a first-year law student at Northwestern. I
left a job at a public relations firm so I'd be available
during the day to work on my brother's case. With the
hands-on experience, I figured I might as well go to law
school. I waitress at night and work my classes in around
everything else."
"Wow. You're good."
Emma shrugged. "Not really. My brother is innocent and he's
slated to spend the next twenty-five years in prison. I
can't let that happen."
Penny's expression remained neutral, her lips free of any
tightening or forced smiles. No pity. Good. They didn't need
pity. They needed a shrewd legal rainmaker.
"That's why I'm here. I'd like to review the information
you've collected and possibly take your case. Pro bono. I'm
not going to lie: this will be tough. The victim's father is
a Chicago P.D. detective. The State's Attorney will go to
war with us to keep your brother in prison, but I won't back
down. If Brian's rights were violated, I'll prove it.
Besides that, I'm hungry for a big case and I think yours
might just be the one."
Suddenly, Penny Hennings seemed young. Idealistic maybe. Not
the battle-hardened defense attorney her father was. Did it
matter? Her wanting to step out from under her father's
shadow and make a name for herself was a great motivator.
She's a rainmaker, smart and determined.
Emma gestured down the hall to the basement door. "Would you
like to see what I have on the case?"
Penny smiled. "You bet I would."
Zac pushed his rolling cart stuffed with case files from the
courtroom to his fifth-floor office. Along the way he passed
other prosecutors dragging their own heavy loads and their
stone faces or smirking, sly grins told the tales of their
wins and losses.
Zac's day had consisted of jury selection for a murder trial
he was scheduled to prosecute. The pool of candidates wasn't
ideal, but his evidence was strong and he'd parlay that into
a win.
He nudged the cart through his doorway and turned back to
the bull pen for Four O'clock Fun. On most days, prosecutors
coming from court gathered to compare notes, discuss the
personalities of judges and opposing lawyers, anything that
might be good information for one of the other ASAs. Some
days, Four O'clock Fun turned into a stream of stories that
would scandalize the average person, but that prosecutors
found humorous. For Zac, gallows humor was a form of
self-protection. A way to keep his sanity in the face of the
day-to-day evil he grappled with.
"Zac," Stew Henry yelled, "Pierson got his butt kicked by
Judge Alred today."
"Seriously?"
Alred had to be the easiest-going guy on the bench. It took
a lot to aggravate him. Two steps toward the bull pen, Zac's
cell phone rang. He checked the screen. Alex Belson, the
public defender on the Sinclair case, returning his call.
"Have to take this," Zac yelled to the bull pen before
heading back to his office. "Alex, hey, thanks for getting
back to me."
"No prob. Got to say, screwy timing since your sister called
me today, too."
"My sister?"
What's that about?
"Yeah. She's taking the Sinclair case. Wants copies of all
my notes."
Zac dropped into his chair to absorb this info. "You didn't
know?" Alex asked.
Penny had left a voice mail earlier in the day, but he'd
been in court and hadn't had a chance to get back to her. "I
haven't talked to her today."
Another call beeped in and Zac checked the screen. Penny.
"Alex, let me call you back." He flashed over to his sister.
"Pen?"
The sound of a horn blasted. Outdoors.
"Hi," she said. "Are you in your office?"
"Yeah."
"I'm walking into the lobby. Be there in two minutes."
She was here. "What's this about your taking the Sinclair case?"
"Word travels fast. How'd you know?"
"The PD told me. Pen, I caught this case."
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