CHAPTER ONE
CHICAGO, 2018
Judge Obadiah Wilson peers over his reading glasses at the two attorneys who stand before him, and he smiles. His smile is perceived as warm but menacing. It is an up-or-down moment and only one of the lawyers will go away happy. He is about to rule. “I must admit,” he says in his sonorous baritone, “that you two have given me quite a bit to read and digest.” He points to a stack of papers on his bench. Wilson’s pronouncements are carefully crafted, and delivered with a touch of an East Texas accent.
The eminent jurist has served the county judiciary for the better part of his forty professional years. Though age has bowed his solid frame a bit, his majestic bearing remains keen. Now serving as the presiding judge of the Cook County Law Division, he leans forward and says, “Do either of you have anything more you wish to add to this considerable record before I deliver my decision?”
Attorney Catherine Lockhart’s hands are clasped before her. She stands poised and confident with just the hint of a smile. The thirty-eight-year-old attorney has appeared before Judge Wilson many times and she knows his routine. His invitation to supplement the record is disingenuous. He does not want further argument; he’s ready to rule. If experience is any guide, he’s already written his opinion. “No, your honor,” she says. “Defendant will rest upon the briefs.”
The bony, angular man to Catherine’s right is nervous. He twitches and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Mustering up a bit of drama, he clears his throat, lifts his chin and says, “If your honor would like me to reiterate the considerable flaws in the defendant’s motion, I’d be most happy to comply, but I am satisfied that I have presented our position in a persuasive and compelling manner, and I am confident of the outcome.” His stilted response broadens the smile on Catherine’s lips. He resembles Ichabod Crane in a three-piece suit.
Judge Wilson stifles a short chuckle. “Hmm,” he says from deep down in his chest. “Well, perhaps not as compelling and persuasive as you had hoped, Mr. Coggins.” Wilson shifts his gaze to Catherine. “Defendant’s motion is granted, and this case is dismissed. Ms. Lockhart, you are given twenty-one days to file your petition for attorney’s fees and costs. Judgment will be entered accordingly. I’ve prepared a written opinion; you can pick it up from my clerk. That will be the order.” With a smack of his gavel, Judge Wilson rises, steps down from the bench and leaves the courtroom.
As Catherine stands at the counsel table gathering her papers and sliding them into her valise, a familiar voice addresses her from behind. “Nice work, Ms. Lockhart.”
“Hello, Walter,” she replies without turning around. “I thought I noticed you sitting in the back of the courtroom. What brings the eminent Walter Jenkins to Wilson’s morning motion call?”
As always, the founding partner of the firm of Jenkins and Fairchild cuts a stylish appearance: custom-tailored suit, monogrammed shirt and designer tie. His shoes are polished to a mirror shine and every styled gray hair lies in place. He is a force in the Chicago legal community. He is also Catherine’s former boss and a close friend.
“Whenever I happen to be in the courthouse and find myself with a bit of extra time,” he says, “I’ll duck into Obadiah’s domain. You never know what pearls of wisdom will roll off the old man’s tongue. He’s one of a kind, Catherine. A dying breed. Besides, it’s great theater.” He tips his head toward the bench and nods. “But today, however, I come on a mission. I tried to call you and your office told me you would be here. It’s actually a matter of some urgency to me. Do you have time for a cup of coffee with a tired old litigator?”
“With you, Walter? Always.”
At a small table in the corner of the first-floor coffee shop, and after an exchange of small talk, Walter sets his cup down and changes his expression. Catherine knows the look. He is troubled. “Are you acquainted with an establishment called The Melancholy Dane?” he says.
Catherine nods. “I believe so. If that’s the restaurant and bar up in Andersonville, I’ve been there once or twice. I seem to remember there were drawings and pictures of various Hamlet stage productions pasted all over the walls. It has a Shakespearean theme, in a noisy tavern sort of way.”
“That’s true. Other than the Hamlet posters, did you happen to notice the old black-and-white photographs of Mr. Ole Henryks, the restaurant’s owner? They’re on the wall behind the bar.”
Catherine shrugs. “Not that I remember, but I know who he is. I know he’s involved in civic affairs and he frequently appears on local TV. Bushy white hair. A happy-go-lucky personality. I seem to recall he was making cocktails behind the bar when we were there.”
Walter concurs. “Right. His son, Nils, runs the business now, but Ole’s still around. He’s getting up in years, but he’ll come in to greet his regulars and shake a martini or two. Anyway, behind the bar are these three black-and-white photographs. They are pictures of Ole Henryks and his family taken seventy-five years ago in Copenhagen during the Nazi occupation. One of them shows Ole and his father standing in the harbor in front of a fishing boat. Ole is only too happy to tell anyone who will listen that in 1943, as a young man, he and his family helped Danish Jews flee to Sweden aboard those fishing boats in order to escape deportation to Nazi concentration camps.”
“I didn’t know that. So, he’s a certified hero?”
Walter twists his lips. “Personally, I can’t say, but that’s been Ole’s repute for many years. In fact, next month, Ole is scheduled to be inducted into the hall of fame of the Danish-American Association of Chicago, not only for his participation in several Chicago charitable and civic causes but in recognition of his heroism during the war. There was a fair amount of press when the honor was announced. The Tribune ran a full-page article complete with photos including that black-and-white of Ole and his father in the harbor.”
Catherine sips her coffee and gives a slight nod. “I saw the page in the Trib.”
“Ole has quite a following. Many people think the world of him.”
Catherine is puzzled. “Are you trying to hit me up for a donation?”
A laugh erupts. “Goodness no. As I told you, I’m here on a mission. A serious legal matter. Fits right into your book of business. While there are many who laud Ole and sing his praises, there is at least one person who doesn’t think very kindly of him. Quite the contrary. This person has been vilifying him by spray-painting nasty comments right on the outside wall of Ole’s restaurant.”
A slight grin comes to Catherine’s lips. “Seriously? Spray-painting insults about a tavern owner?”
“They’ve been on the news, Catherine. Haven’t you seen them?”
She shakes her head. “I’m afraid I missed that. What do they say?”
“Liar. Traitor. Betrayer. Nazi collaborator.” Walter taps his finger on the tabletop. “You get the idea. They are not humorous in the least. Someone is taking direct aim at Ole’s character. Ole believes that this individual is writing slanderous insults in order to sully his reputation in advance of his induction.”
“Perhaps it’s an effort to have the association change its mind?”
“If so, it’s not likely to happen. The association is solidly behind him. The words are cruel, and they are exacting a heavy toll on poor old Ole, or so I hear. He’s in fragile health to begin with. Hell, he’s ninety-five. I saw a TV interview the other day and Ole was clearly out of sorts; red-faced, shaking, jaw quivering.”
“That’s a shame. Does he have a clue who’s behind this?”
Walter shook his head. “I don’t think he does. At least, not yet. Ole told the TV reporter that it was probably some old German soldier trying to get even.”
“That doesn’t make much sense to me.”
“I agree. The remarks are always painted in the middle of the night. Ole’s son finds them when he comes to work the next day. He quickly removes them, but by then it’s too late. Someone has tipped off the TV stations and videos are shown on the morning news. The statements are always painted crudely, in a shaky script.”
“Doesn’t the restaurant have security cameras?”
“It didn’t. It does now.”
Catherine leans back in her chair with a puzzled expression. “Walter, I don’t know anything about Ole, his son or The Melancholy Dane. And I surely have no knowledge of whoever is spray-painting derogatory remarks on his building. Why did you seek me out today? What’s the urgent mission?”
“Ultimately, the person who’s painting these words will be caught and charged. Likely very soon, now that there are cameras. And it won’t be enough to prosecute her for misdemeanor property damage. No. Ole will want to be vindicated and repair the damage that’s been done to his reputation.”
“Oh Walter, surely some crackpot spray-painting insults on a building isn’t going to damage Ole’s standing in the community. He’s been a fixture on the North Side for fifty years—a happy, jovial tavern owner.”
Walter shakes his head dismissively. “Jovial no more. He’s distraught. Discouraged. He doesn’t even want to come into the tavern.”
“Well, that’s a shame, but it’s understandable. He’s ninety-five. People that age can be emotionally fragile. Still, Ole must realize that his lifelong reputation is secure. No one is going to believe insults spray-painted on brick walls in the middle of the night.”
“Don’t be so sure. Because the accusations are so bold, so brash, so outlandish, it’s human nature to permit them some degree of credibility. Why would someone paint these? What’s behind it? People will think maybe there’s something here? Could any of this really be true? Is Ole really a Nazi collaborator? People love to gossip and a story like this spreads like wildfire. Ole thinks so and he doesn’t know how to stop it.”
“Well, Walter, as you say, this vandal will soon be caught and arrested. A conviction will certainly put an end to this matter.”
Walter pulls on his lower lip. “Hmm, I’m not so sure. Neither are Ole or his son. I’ve spoken to Nils. Once the perpetrator has been identified, arrested and charged, Nils will urge his father to file suit to clear his name.”
Catherine nods, finishes her coffee and sets the cup down. “Okay. I acknowledge that this is an unfortunate circumstance that has befallen Ole Henryks and that a lawsuit is likely on the horizon. Now, do you want to tell me why you came to see me this morning?”
After a pause, Walter said, “Because I’m pretty sure I know the identity of the perpetrator.”
“And it’s a woman?”
Walter furrows his forehead. “How did you know?”
“A moment ago, you said it wouldn’t be enough to prosecute her.”
A smile creeps across Walter’s face and he claps softly. “That’s why you’re such an excellent cross-examiner; you don’t miss a thing. I’ve given you one side of the story, and now I’m going to give you the rest. At my firm, we have a young attorney, Emma Fisher. She’s a brilliant young woman who graduated at the top of her class and has recently passed the bar. We hired her three years ago when she had just begun law school. Talk about self-assured, she made an appointment at that time, sat right down in my office and told me she was about to commence her legal education but knew that there were lessons that could not be learned in a law school. She had researched my firm and decided that Jenkins and Fairchild would be an essential component to her legal development.”
Catherine is amused but impressed. “That took some guts.”
“Indeed, it did. She has that kind of drive. She reminds me of the young Catherine I met years ago. Well, the other day Emma asked to meet with me in private. I had no idea what to expect. Behind closed doors, she told me, in confidence, under the umbrella of attorney-client privilege, that she had reason to believe that her ninety-two-year-old grandmother was the person painting on the walls of The Melancholy Dane.”
Catherine is shocked. “A ninety-two-year-old woman? Spray-painting in the middle of the night? Is she sure?”
Walter nods. “Fairly certain. Emma thinks it’s only a matter of time until her grandmother gets arrested.”
“This gets stranger by the minute, Walter. Are you going to represent Emma’s grandmother?”
Walter leans forward and speaks softly. “Well now, here’s the rub. I would like to, I really would, but Jenkins and Fairchild has represented Ole Henryks personally and The Melancholy Dane as a corporate entity for years. I told Emma that I was constrained from delving too far into the dispute and I stopped her from giving me all the details, but I heard more than I should. Quite obviously, there could be a conflict.”
“Could be?” Catherine says. “There most certainly is a conflict. The identity of the perpetrator was revealed to you. Emma’s grandmother is committing criminal and tortious acts against your client. She is defacing Ole’s building with slanderous statements, she is directly attacking his reputation and you know her identity. Don’t you have an obligation to communicate that knowledge to your client?”
“I’m not sure, because the information was revealed to me in a confidential setting. It was a privileged communication. It’s probably de minimus in any event because Ole will quickly find out on his own, if he hasn’t already. The cameras have been running for a couple of days. But still, you’re right, I possess information crucial to a client.”
Catherine pauses to consider the ethical enigma. “Emma asked to see you to secure legal representation for her grandmother, is that not so?”
“I believe that was her intention, though the conversation did not proceed that far.”
Catherine is surprised her former mentor has fallen into an ethical web. “She came to you in an effort to obtain legal representation and she provided information in that privileged setting. You shouldn’t have taken that information to begin with, but since you did, you can’t disclose it. You’re going to have to bow out of this dispute entirely. You are totally conflicted from representing either Henryks or the grandmother.”
“No argument here.”
“Is that why you contacted me this morning, to get my advice that you need to step away from this matter?”
“No, I don’t need your advice. I know the rules. I fell into a rabbit hole.”
“Then tell me, Walter, why am I here?”
“Because I’m going to ask you to do something. Of all the lawyers I know, you’re the only one I trust to make sense out of this mess. I sat there yesterday listening to Emma and I heard more than I should have. Far more than I should have, but I was fascinated. Emma loves her grandmother, and she came to me for help. She doesn’t want to see her grandmother charged with a crime or sitting at the defendant’s table in a high-profile lawsuit. When she asked to speak to me, she didn’t know that the firm had represented Ole and The Melancholy Dane. She was hoping I could help her grandmother and resolve the matter out of court. As she was speaking, I thought perhaps I could bring about some type of compromise. I like Emma, and I sat there listening to her and I let her go on for too long.”
Catherine’s eyebrows narrow. “A compromise solution? Did it also occur to you that maybe Ole and Nils wouldn’t want a brokered solution? Maybe they want Emma’s grandmother prosecuted and punished. Maybe they want a very conspicuous lawsuit for defamation to show the public that the statements on the wall are false. Besides, how do you compromise what’s already been done? How do you un-ring a bell?”
Walter wears a pained expression. “We’re talking about a ninety-two-year-old woman doing some pretty bizarre things. I thought if I could get the woman to stop, maybe apologize, I could move forward with a peaceful resolution and help Emma’s grandmother. Maybe it’s a mental health issue, who knows? It’s some pretty crazy stuff. Maybe Ole would see it that way.”
“Okay, I get it. You tried to be a peacemaker. But Walter, you crossed the line getting involved at all.”
Walter cringes. He is freely willing to concede his errors. “I know, but I asked Emma to talk to her grandmother and determine whether she’d go along with a peaceful solution. I even offered to try to set a meeting in my office with all concerned. Kind of like a settlement conference. I thought whatever might be on this woman’s mind, perhaps we could clear the air. I asked Emma to reach out to her grandmother and see if she’d be willing to meet.”
“And…?”
Walter firmly shakes his head. “Nope, not a chance. Emma’s grandmother, by the way her name is Britta Stein, rejected the proposal outright. Turned me down flat. She says she knows exactly what she’s doing, she’s not going to stop and she’s not going to meet with any ‘hotshot lawyer who represents a lying traitor.’”
A laugh bursts from Catherine. “She said that about you? The ninety-two-year-old woman?”
Walter nods sheepishly. “She said that.”
“Okay, so now they’ve installed cameras and they’re going to catch her, and then what?”
“Nils has already contacted my office. He spoke to Howard Foreman yesterday. They will want aggressive legal action.”
Catherine tries to cover a coy smile. “You’re in a pickle, Walter. What are you going to do?”
“Not a damn thing. What can I do? I can’t handle this case.” He shrugs. “Ole will learn Mrs. Stein’s identity soon enough and then he’ll ask us to represent him, and I’ll have to turn him down. My firm can’t sue Britta Stein.”
“So that’s it? You want me to sue Emma’s grandmother? Seriously?”
Walter slowly swivels his head. “No, Catherine, that will not be necessary. Ole won’t have any trouble finding a lawyer to sue Mrs. Stein. They’ll line up like kids at an ice cream truck.”
Catherine spreads her hands. “Then why am I the only one you trust with this matter, and what are you trusting me to do?”
“I want you to sit down and talk to Emma. I want you to consider defending Britta Stein. From the short visit I had with Emma, from the bits of information that I learned, I’m sure there’s something here; I can feel it. Behind those painted statements there is a story. As they say, turbulent waters run beneath a placid surface. There’s a viable defense, I know it. Call it the sixth sense that comes to old trial lawyers. You would know—we’re two of a kind.”
“Old?”
He grins. “I didn’t mean that you are old. I meant to say you have the soul of an old trial lawyer, even if you don’t have the miles. I’d like you to sit down with Emma, talk with her awhile, maybe with Britta Stein as well, and see if you get the same vibrations.”
“Oh, Walter…”
“Don’t turn me down yet. Talk to Emma. She’s a very sharp young lady, and the things she told me about her grandmother, well … there’s a story there.” Walter slides a business card with a phone number written on the back.
“Walter, please…”
“Talk to Emma, Catherine. I think you’ll sense it too. You’re perfect for this case. You’ll thank me.” He stands and reaches into his pocket. “I’ll get the coffee.”
CHAPTER TWO
LIAM TAGGART LIES on the floor of his living room with Ben, Catherine and Liam’s two-year-old son. They are busy building a castle with plastic bricks. The evening news is playing on the TV and the announcer is recounting the circumstances of an arrest made earlier that afternoon.
“Wow,” Liam says, “would you look at that. The Fifth District booked a ninety-two-year-old woman for spray-painting insults on the wall of The Melancholy Dane.” He chuckles. “They perp-walked that old lady into the Belmont station. Cuffed. Can you believe it? That’s our CPD for you. ‘We Serve and Protect.’ The streets are immeasurably safer now that this dangerous ninety-two-year-old and her lethal spray can are in custody.”
“Liam,” Catherine calls out from the kitchen, “would you pause that program for me?”
“Seriously? The news report?”
With a dish towel in her hand, she walks into the living room. “Back it up, please, Liam. That’s the woman Walter was telling me about.” As the report continues, the screen displays a grainy nighttime video of a woman in a long overcoat scrawling “Nazi Agent” on an exterior brick wall.
The female reporter, standing outside the police station, suppresses a smile and says, “The alleged offender, a senior citizen, Mrs. Britta Stein, has been charged with violating a Chicago municipal ordinance entitled ‘Criminal Defacement of Property with Paint.’ You can’t make this stuff up. We’re told that violation of the ordinance carries a fine of seven hundred and fifty dollars.”
Liam chuckles. “They perp-walked that old lady into the station on a seven-hundred-fifty-dollar graffiti misdemeanor.”
“That’s the least of her worries,” Catherine answers quietly. They watch as another news reporter interviews Sterling Sparks, identifying him as the attorney for the restaurant’s owner, Ole Henryks. Known to be overly dramatic, and often accused of trying his cases on the six o’clock news, Sparks has earned the sobriquet “Six-o’clock Sparks.” He leans over and speaks directly into the reporter’s microphone. His eyebrows are furrowed, his lips are curled, and he delivers his responses in angry bursts of righteous indignation.
“Mr. Henryks is outraged and saddened by the false and defamatory statements that have been plastered on his private property by this troubled person,” Sparks declares. “Mr. Henryks is baffled; who would do such a mean thing? He initially assumed that it must have been some kind of prank by neighborhood punks who have no conception of the hurt such meanspirited words can cause. It isn’t bad enough that these nasty comments appear on the walls of his establishment, but that the insensitive media has broadcast them for the whole city to see. Maybe the whole country! Mr. Henryks is a strong man, a good man, but he’s ninety-five years old and these words hit him like a sucker punch in the gut, and they’ve taken their toll on his physical well-being. He’s under a doctor’s care. We’re talking about a man who lived through the Nazi occupation of his homeland. Do you understand?”
The reporter interjects, “I think it’s pretty well-known that Mr. Henryks immigrated here from Denmark after the war.”
“Right, and it’s no secret that back in his home country, Mr. Henryks was regarded as a war hero. That’s why the nasty lies painted on his restaurant are so hurtful. Today we learned that the words were not pranks painted by neighborhood youth, but by a grown woman as part of a purposeful campaign to destroy the man’s reputation. I will tell you this right now, whatever this wicked woman has in mind, we’re going to put a stop to it and hold that woman legally responsible!”
“You just referred to Mr. Henryks as a war hero,” the reporter continues. “The latest sign reads ‘Nazi Agent.’”
Sparks is ready for the question. He reaches down and pulls out a copy of a photograph. There are three people in the picture—a tall man and two younger men, all standing side by side before a large fishing boat. The boat itself has a small cabin on the bow. It appears to be docked in a slip, along with several other fishing boats in a commercial harbor. “Do you see this?” Sparks says. “This is a picture of Copenhagen Harbor in World War II. This photo hangs proudly behind the bar at The Melancholy Dane. That’s Ole and his father. You better believe that ‘hero’ is the correct description for Ole Henryks. His family helped to rescue hundreds of Jews from the gas chambers. Maybe thousands. Ole and his father snuck Jewish families out of Denmark in their fishing boat in the middle of the night. Risking their lives, I might add. He’s a certified hero.”
The reporter nods empathetically. “Well, notwithstanding those slanderous comments on his wall, we understand that Mr. Henryks is going to be honored next month by the Danish-American Association of Chicago.”
“You’re absolutely right, Erin. He’ll be inducted into a prestigious hall of fame! I just hope he regains his health enough so he can attend and accept the honor.” Sparks pauses and appears to suppress his emotions. “This should be one of the happiest moments of his life…,” Sparks shakes his head, “… but along comes this depraved woman, for reasons known only to her, and viciously attacks his reputation with a succession of slanderous, vituperous epithets.” Sparks raises his chin and waits for the media to digest and appreciate his savory oratory. Pure Six-o’clock.
“Does Mr. Henryks know this woman? We are told her name is Britta Stein.”
Sparks responds dismissively. “Know her? Absolutely not. He’s never seen her before in his life. He has no idea why she would choose to attack him in such a vicious manner.”
“Then I assume Mr. Henryks intends to press charges?”
“Are you serious? Of course he does, and that’s not all. Mr. Henryks’s good name has been assailed and it must be redeemed. The only way to do that is in a court of law. I am announcing that first thing tomorrow morning, I will file a lawsuit against Britta Stein for defamation, and we will seek compensation for all the damage and injury she has brought upon my client. We will ask the court to award him a civil damage award of five million dollars. This woman must be taught a lesson.”
“Five million!” the newscaster says with the hint of a smile. “Do you think this elderly woman has that much money?”
“Whether she does or she doesn’t is entirely beside the point. The measure of damages is what a man’s good name is worth, not how much money the criminal defendant has. Five million is probably a small fraction of the value of Mr. Henryks’s reputation, which he has earned by a lifetime of service and good deeds. I assure you that he will be vindicated in a court of law!”
“Well, thank you for talking to us tonight, Mr. Sparks.”
Liam shakes his head and utters, “Good luck defending this case, Mrs. Stein.”
Catherine stares at the screen, backs up the video and replays the newscast. “There’s something here, Liam. Walter felt it and so do I.” Catherine fishes through her purse and pulls out the business card Walter gave her a few days ago. “I’m afraid I’m about to do something really stupid,” she says. She dials the number on the back of the card. “Maybe I’m the crazy one.”
“Hello?”
“Is this Emma Fisher?”
“Yes,” she says tentatively. “Who’s calling?”
“My name is Catherine Lockhart. I’m a friend of Walter Jenkins. I met with him a couple of days ago, and…”
Catherine hears the young woman’s sigh of relief. “Oh my God, thank you so much. I was so hoping that you would call me. Mr. Jenkins speaks so highly of you and he said that if anyone could help my grandmother, it would be you.”
“Walter is very persuasive. Would you be able to bring your grandmother to my office tomorrow afternoon, say about three o’clock?”
“You’ll take her case?”
Catherine hesitates. She takes a breath. She’s about to jump into deep, unknown waters and she knows it. “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Emma. Walter thinks I should talk to you, and I respect Walter’s judgment. Have they released your grandmother yet?”
“I was just getting ready to go pick her up. I’m certain we could be at your office tomorrow at three. Thank you so much.”
Liam shakes his head in bewilderment. “Cat, what in the world are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”
She nods. “Oh well, maybe. Or maybe I really do have the soul of an old trial lawyer.”
Copyright © 2021 by Ronald H. Balson
