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Authors: Elizabeth Marx

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BOOK: Binding Arbitration
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And sometimes a woman hurls a fateball that leaves you on the disabled list.
The ump chortled through his brown leather mask, his gravelly voice packed as hard as the infield.

Libby’s words reverberated through me as I tried to eject the ump from my head. ‘The gaping lesion I’ll split open.’ A shot of raw pain blinded me, ricocheting from temple to temple. The last gash she’d left me with had barely scabbed over, I’d rather be traded down to the minors than see her.

My phone was still cradled in my death grip, when a petite pixie kneeled down and examined my face. “You’re going to need a huge band-aid for this.” She patted my cheek; her green eyes flickered like the stardust that sprinkled her concerned brow.

I felt the throbbing swell of my face. “I’m not bleeding.”

She stilled me by placing her hands around my wrist, her green eyes focusing on me intently. “You don’t bleed on the outside, Mister. All your hurts are on the inside.”

Another ragged flash of emotion fizzled through me and bottomed out in my stomach. The little girl’s eyes were focused on my wrist which started to tingle. My other hand connected the phone with my ear again. I wasn’t sure what words I intended to use but it didn’t matter. I was listening to drone dial tone.

My wrist seared. The burning snaked around my wrist like a lit charge. I held it up toward the lights, which captured and then reflected a thin chain of shimmering points. I rubbed it, but it was melded into my skin. I was torn between the shock of its radiant appearance and the fact that Libby had the audacity to not only threaten me, but to hang up on me.

Me! The number one celebrity athlete in all Chicagoland.

The old arbitrator in my head groused in his sarcastic upstate New York accent.
Glittery mirrors reflecting the soul, linked together by memories so old.

 

2

COURTROOM ANTICS

It is the trade of lawyers to question everything, yield nothing, and talk by the hour. Thomas Jefferson

Elizabeth

“Libby, Mr. Caster is on line one.” Vicki’s voice chirped through the intercom. “Your mother is on line two.”

“Tell Jeanne to swallow another Xanax for her antics, no more Bozo costumes on my credit card, and her buffoon-sized, red-and-pink glittered saddle shoes better not come within a hundred mile radius of Chicago.”

“Your mother is your cross to bear.” Vicki grunted. “And you need to get to the courthouse.”

I wondered how my best friend, who never wore a watch, kept time better than Raymond Weil. And deciding between the lesser of two evils—“I’ll take line one.”

There were no preliminary salutations before my boss started his diatribe. “I’m turning over a new client to you. If you can get Mr. Pervesis off,” he chuckled at his own joke, as Mr. Pervesis was a high profile pedophilia case. “It could earn you a partnership.”

I have more work than any other associate and I can’t bear another pervert. “I just turned down a
pro bono
case. With everything that’s going on, another case would bury me.”

“This gentleman’s already had three attorneys.”

“You are aware of the additional outside obligations I have right now.”
Life or death kind of responsibilities.

“I hope you’re keeping Accardo happy.” He lowered his voice. “But not too happy.”

I looked at my watch; if I didn’t get a move on; my client might have me fitted for the Saks Spring concrete shoe collection. “Send me the file. I’ll work Pervesis in next week.”

My boss’ panting reminded me of a man taking hits from an oxygen mask. “I’ll deliver the case file personally.”

I preferred the silent innuendo of his beady eyes, to the vulgar, oxygen-starved, catfish-out-of-water style breathing, but if he came to my office, I’d witness whiskers twitching in anticipation of his frisky fingers pawing me.

“Miss Tucker?”

“Court in fifteen minutes.” And I hung up before he could say my name again. Sometimes I swore he garbled Fuckher, instead of Tucker through the phone.

I go by Elizabeth, and I’m as precise about the letter of the law, as I am my name. I don’t respond to Beth or Betty or, heaven forbid, Liz or Lizzie. And only those near and dear call me Libby.

In what would appear diametrically opposed to that statement, I’m a criminal defense attorney in one of the largest law firms in the city. Whitney, Brown and Rodgers’ reputation was built on substantial connections to cops, crimes, and conspiracies that filtered through generations of Chicago families. Our cases run the gambit from Skid Row
pro bono
work to the North Shore elite, where quite often we polish brass off their gilded-edges.

I caught the elevator and pushed through the heavy glass lobby doors on my way to the street. A damp breeze off the lake kept everyone huddled against raised coat collars and made cabs a commodity so hot they could have been exchanged at the Board of Trade. So I hoofed it to the Daley Center in my silver, three-inch, faux lizard-skin boots.

Crossing the plaza, planters filled with ripe plum, vibrant red, and burnished gold mums heralded the season. Pumpkins decorated haystacks; scarecrows displayed the hometown team’s jerseys—Sox, Bulls, Blackhawks, and Bears. Wouldn’t you know the Cubs jersey had to be number thirteen? Band-Aid was everywhere. It was a miracle that his sphere and mine hadn’t already collided.

In the lobby of the Dirkson Federal building, I forced my frozen fingers to deposit my briefcase on the x-ray machine and reset my mind on my job, the only thing keeping me sane.

I was representing Tony Accardo III, the grandson of Tony the Big Fish Accardo, who had been the greatest mob boss the Chicago outfit had since Al Capone. My Mr. Accardo had recently inherited a horse racing park through his grandfather’s estate, and I was representing him on tax evasion counts involving said entertainment venue in Villa Park. I reviewed the books myself, and they looked on the up and up. Whether they were the sole set of books, I couldn’t say.

Mr. Accardo developed real estate all over the city and had recently opened a supper club, making him appear as legit as possible. His personal life was squeaky clean, no abused girlfriends or illegitimate kids, the guy didn’t even have a parking ticket. But who was I kidding: he wasn’t the kind of guy who parked his own car.

He unwound his six foot frame as I approached, placed his phone in his hand-tailored suit pocket, and took my briefcase. He kissed me on both cheeks offering his elbow to escort me into the courtroom. When he put his hand over mine, a guttural hum escaped him. “You could use some warming up.”

I pulled my hand from his grasp. “Let’s speak in private.” I glanced about trying to ascertain if we had an audience.

He leaned in closer, placing his lips a hair’s breadth away from my ear. “I would love to be alone with you, but I have a tail.” He nodded in the direction of the water fountain. “Blond guy, who’s pretending to read the paper.” He sighed. “Mmm, you smell too good to be a lawyer, too.”

Only by willful determination did I remain unaffected, but I elbowed him a safe distance away anyway. No matter how attractive the packaging—and Mr. Accardo was no slacker in that department—-I was determined to keep things professional. He was born with just the right kind of Italian DNA: tall frame, olive skin, piercing blue eyes, and a chiseled jaw line. The stubbly surface of his chin made his face appear shadowy. There were secrets in those darkened recesses, the kind that led women into dim corners and dangerous situations.

I glared a warning at him, before clenching my teeth. “You would appear more professional, and therefore more confident, if you’d maintain a reasonable distance from your attorney.”

His brow tangled, causing a scar over his right eyebrow to move toward his hairline. The single flaw in his perfectly proportioned face didn’t make him deficient; it made him look determined. He took a step back. “It was a cheap shot to get next to you, but the copper irritates me. I thought I’d give them something new to mull over down in the satellite truck.” He spoke as he held the door open and we found empty seats in the back of the gallery as the case before ours was still underway.

“Try to behave, Mr. Accardo.”

“Accept my deepest apologies, and please call me Tony.” The corners of his lips folded into a sly smile.

I dug through my briefcase for his file. “Stop. For good.”

“I have no intention of giving up so easily.” He winked.

His eyes beckoned from my periphery. A woman could get lost in eyes like that, the surrounding framework of black lashes making them appear even bluer. The bluest I’d ever seen. Almost.

I scanned the courtroom. The DA assigned to the case wasn’t in the gallery, but his superior was. Although everything seemed in order in the mahogany chamber, I couldn’t set aside my suspicions. “Mr. Accardo,” I whispered. “Remember to remain impassive during the proceedings, no matter what happens.”

He drew an eyebrow up, and raked his gaze around the perimeter of the room. The door behind us opened and the Assistant District Attorney assigned to our case sauntered in.

Jaxson Xavier Wagner had been a former classmate of mine at Northwestern, and he was an exceptional attorney. We had managed to remain friends, despite the fact that we were on opposing sides of the bench. He strolled to a seat behind the prosecution’s table. His boss, Eve Moore pushed off the wall and took a seat alongside Jax and whispered in his ear. Moore was known for her hard-nosed prosecutions and soaring conviction rates. I watched Jax’s classic profile, but his facial expressions gave nothing away. Moore turned and pinpointed our exact location with a piercing gaze.

Tony gave her a dazzling smile and winked. She acknowledged him with a slight nod of her head. As soon as Moore turned away, I elbowed Tony and gave him a narrow-eyed examination of my own, before watching Jax’s brow furrow and Moore grimace.

“They’re up to no good,” I whispered.

“Yeah?”

I shrugged a shoulder. “The bozo in the corridor isn’t watching you around the clock for fashion tips. This is more than a fishing expedition.” I narrowed my expression so he’d catch the magnitude of the situation. “The Feds cast a wide net, one large enough to ensnare a Blue Barracuda.”

He instinctively blanched at the reference before a slow smile took his face. “Your brains traverse your beauty.”

“And your old-world charm, animal magnetism, and dazzling eyes aren’t about to sidetrack me.”

The judge’s gavel brought me to attention. “Case number one-zero-zero-nine-nine-nine, the State of Illinois vs. Anthony Accardo.” The court reporter scoffed and Judge Foreman gave her a look before he asked Jax and me to approach the bench.

He placed his hand over the microphone and nodded at the bailiff. “Jax, what the hell is going on in your office? This trial was supposed to start today. Then, I get a note that you need a continuance. For what? I’d like to know. Either you have the evidence, or you don’t.”

“The state doesn’t believe in wasting the court’s time. The District Attorney’s office begs your apology in this matter, but the State wishes to bring additional charges against Accardo.”

I felt Jax’s eyes fall on me. My lawyerdar hit the cautious zone, but I steadied my expression.

The judge glared through his thick glasses and when his hand went to his chin he expelled a heavy breath fogging up his glasses. “What the hell is going on, Jax?”

“The state would like Mr. Accardo remanded into custody.”

“Like bloody Hell.” The judge grabbed a bottle of Mylanta and took a sputtering gulp straight from the bottle. “What in Sam Hill are they teaching you youngsters at Northwestern Law School?” He backhanded his mouth.

Judge Foreman was known for strange outbursts and tangents. Before he got off too far on one, I thought I might jump in. “Your honor, if the state wishes to bring additional charges against Mr. Accardo, that’s their prerogative.” I smiled at Jax, even as I gave him the evil eye. “I assume the surveillance detail pertains to these additional charges?”

Jax dropped his head, shaking it like a drenched golden retriever shedding rainwater. “He has surveillance because he’s a flight risk, Libby.”

“Don’t you dare ‘Libby’ me, Jaxson Wagner.”

“Don’t you care to know what the charges are?” The judge took the forms and reviewed them through his oversized gold rimmed glasses, coming to a quick conclusion. “They’re doozies.”

“The DA’s office has it out for my client, who is nothing more than a law-abiding citizen. Since we’re all assembled, the charges can be read in open court.” My overconfidence had always irked Jax. “Your honor, I would like the record to reflect my opposition to the manner in which this was arranged.”

“Always look toward appeal, Ms. Tucker.”

Jax was smiling like a puppy with a new bone. I maintained my composure by smoothing the lapel of my blazer on my way back to the defendant. I was barely planted, before the judge cleared his throat in the microphone and said, “The State of Illinois is bringing the additional charges of racketeering and aggravated assault against Anthony Accardo.” The courtroom erupted as Judge Foreman dropped his gavel.

Jax stood and cleared his throat. “Your honor, the state would like Mr. Accardo remanded into custody until his defense is ready to respond to the charges. We wouldn’t want him flying the coop on his private jet or sailing his yacht away.”

I got to my feet. “Your honor, Mr. Accardo’s defense appeared today in response to a continuance. If the state wanted the pleasure of taking my client to jail, then they should have gotten an arrest warrant. They cannot march into the courtroom and levy additional charges and try to revoke his bail all in one stroke. The charges, while grievous, have not been proven and no one is in imminent danger.”

“That’s not what our key witness would say. He’s in critical condition at Cook County Hospital.” Jax retorted.

I turned on Jax like I was animal control and he a rabid coyote. “How long has the security detail been on my client?”

“Approximately ten days.”

“I assume a warrant was issued for this surveillance.”

BOOK: Binding Arbitration
11.18Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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