When No One Is Watching (5 page)

 

Danny had been his closest friend since they attended law school together at Northwestern. Fate had brought them together as dormitory roommates their first year, and they quickly became fast friends. Law school had been a struggle for Blair at first, but Danny had made it his personal mission to see Blair succeed. Danny had helped him develop the organizational skills necessary to handle the massive amount of work and inspired Blair to push himself to do the best he possibly could. Danny had spent countless hours explaining the intricacies and nuances of contracts, torts, constitutional law, and all of the various other subjects they studied in law school. Largely due to Danny’s coaching and support, Blair had finished in the top third of their class and graduated from law school with a sense of accomplishment and confidence he was certain he would not have attained if left to his own devices.

Danny had graduated first in their class and was heavily recruited by all the premier law firms in Chicago. He joined Preston & Harrington, known to be the most selective law firm in the city. The firm was also known for its highly sophisticated and successful trial practice, and was unquestionably the most politically connected of all the city’s elite law firms. Its client list read like a
Who’s Who
of Corporate America. Danny was a natural in that environment. Although not flamboyant or one to seek the limelight, his legal talents were quickly recognized, and he rapidly rose through the ranks, becoming head of the firm’s powerhouse litigation department at the age of thirty-five. Danny also proved himself to be extremely adept at cultivating relationships within both the corporate universe and political circles. His manner was unfailingly low-key and unassuming, but his legal and political savvy, insights, and creativity quickly made him one of the most sought-after advisers in the city.

It was Danny who had paved the way for Blair to join Preston & Harrington eight years ago. It was Danny who was the mastermind behind the high-profile trials Blair had handled, even though Blair enjoyed most of the visibility and the credit. And it was Danny who had made the right introductions and paved the way for the launching of Blair’s political career. Danny had been there to help every step of the way. Now the tables were turned: Danny needed his help.

At six thirty Sunday morning, Blair pulled his black Lexus out of the driveway and drove through the quiet streets of North Beverly toward an unfamiliar destination, the lockup at the local precinct house. Danny had called twenty minutes earlier asking for help. Blair had not even been to bed yet, partly because he was too upset to sleep, but also because he was expecting Danny’s call. They were partners and best friends. Who else would Danny call? If the roles had been reversed, he certainly would have called Danny.

Danny had sounded uncharacteristically distressed when he called, and said nothing other than that he was in jail and in trouble, and needed help. Blair asked no questions and promised to be there as fast as he could. Having had absolutely no experience with arrests or lockups, Blair was clueless about the process for procuring Danny’s release; however, Sam had assured him that he’d make a call and that Blair would encounter no trouble.

Ten minutes later, Blair pulled up in front of a drab, old concrete building that resembled a fortress. The world seemed eerily quiet as he pulled the handle of the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. A balding, overweight police sergeant looked up from his Sunday newspaper as Blair approached.

“I’d like to see Danny Moran,” Blair said uncertainly. “I understand he’s in custody here.”

“And who are you?”

“My name is Van Howe. Blair Van Howe.”

“Okay, I was told you’d be coming. You can have a seat over there, and we’ll bring him out.” The sergeant motioned toward some time-worn wooden benches across the room.

Within minutes, Danny was escorted to the reception area by another paunchy, middle-aged police officer. Blair started at the sight of his partner. Danny was always impeccably dressed and groomed, with an air of self-confidence and positive energy about him. At the moment, he was none of those things. He was unshaven, his clothes were rumpled, and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked haggard. Even worse, he looked humiliated—and scared.

Danny smiled weakly at Blair as he was led past him to the duty sergeant behind the counter. He signed some documents relating to his discharge and personal effects.

“You’re free to go, Mr. Moran,” said the sergeant. “The State’s Attorney’s Office will be contacting you.” He glanced up from his paperwork and gave Danny a hard look. “You better hope that guy survives. If he doesn’t, you’ll be looking at homicide charges on top of the DUI and reckless driving.”

Danny said nothing. He collected his belongings and turned toward Blair, who was now standing behind him.

“Hello, Dano,” Blair said softly. “I don’t know what happened, but whatever it is, I’m here for you. You’ll get through this.” He did his best to sound reassuring.

Danny was unable to meet his gaze. He stared at the grimy tile floor, a tear trickling down his cheek.

“Come on, pal, we can talk outside,” Blair said, putting his arm around Danny’s shoulder and leading him outside.

They walked in silence to Blair’s Lexus and climbed in. As Blair started the ignition, Danny turned and faced him. “I’m in serious trouble, Blair. I almost killed someone last night. This is such a nightmare.” He sounded despondent.

Blair turned off the ignition and gave his friend his full attention. “Take it slow, Dano. Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”

“That’s just it—that’s the worst part. I don’t even know what happened. I don’t remember anything! All I remember is waking up in my car a block from my house with a policeman staring me in the face, telling me that I had run somebody off the road. He said the guy was really hurt and that he might not make it.”

“You don’t remember anything about the accident at all?”

“Nothing. It’s a total blank!”

“Well, don’t be too quick to jump to conclusions. Maybe it wasn’t your fault. Maybe the other guy was driving recklessly.”

Danny looked doubtful. “But that won’t matter in court. I was drunk. There’d be a presumption that I was at fault. And I probably was. Hell, I blacked out. I’d have to be really drunk for that to happen. But it just doesn’t make any sense. I know sometimes I drink too much, but I never drive when I’m drunk. I just don’t. That’s been programmed into my brain forever. How could I have done that?”

“We’ll find the best DUI lawyer in town, Dano. You may not be able to get off completely, but—”

“I’m not worried about getting off! I’m worried about what I’ve done! This guy might die because of me. And the cop told me he’s got two little kids. How can I live with that?”

“Well, don’t assume the worst. Maybe he’ll pull through.”

Danny turned toward the window and wiped tears from his eyes. “It’s so scary, Blair, not having the faintest recollection of what happened.” There was pain etched across his face and anguish in his voice.

“What’s the last thing you remember, Dano?”

Danny closed his eyes and thought for a moment. “I remember having a couple of pints of Guinness with Brendan. After that, it’s just a total blank. I’ve been trying all night to force my memory to come back, but it’s no use. It’s just not there.” Danny hung his head and took a deep breath as if bracing himself for the cold truth. “I guess it doesn’t matter,” he said with quiet resignation. “Whether I remember it or not, it’s pretty clear what happened. I got loaded, I tried to drive home, then I either passed out at the wheel and ran that poor guy off the road, or I ran him off the road and then passed out. Any way you cut it, I’m responsible. It’s my fault, and now I’ve got to deal with the consequences.”

“Let’s get you home, pal,” Blair said sympathetically, starting the ignition. “You need some rest. Are Karen and Allie home yet?” he asked, referring to Danny’s wife and teenage daughter, who had been visiting relatives in California during the trial.

“Not yet,” Danny replied. “They get home this afternoon.”

Throughout their conversation, Blair had been struggling with his own anguish. He was trying to play the role, trying to act as if he knew nothing. That’s what he had promised Sam and Kimberly he would do. However, his resolve was wavering as he witnessed the damage that course of action was inflicting upon his friend. And that damage and pain would only get worse over time. Danny could go to jail. He would almost certainly be sued. He would be publicly disgraced, and perhaps worst of all, he’d have to live with guilt he didn’t deserve. And this was Danny Moran, his best friend, who had done so much for him. But just when Blair thought it was a role he couldn’t play, when he was within seconds of revealing the truth, Danny had made it easy. “I’m responsible,” Danny had said. “It’s my fault.” And Danny truly believed that. It was just too easy to let him continue believing it.

CHAPTER 6
D
etective Victor Slazak sat in the leather recliner in his living room, intently watching the baseball game on his new big-screen TV. The room was hot and stuffy, but he didn’t mind. It felt like the old days, before central air-conditioning had become commonplace, and that’s how baseball should be watched on a Sunday afternoon during June in Chicago.

 

The house was a 1950s-era bungalow in Mount Greenwood, a working-class neighborhood on the southwestern outskirts of the city. Like many of his neighbors, Slazak had grown up in Mount Greenwood and had never found any reason to leave. Most of the residents were policemen, firemen, or other city workers, drawn there by the availability of affordable housing within the city limits.

The yellow brick bungalow was small, but that didn’t bother Slazak; he lived alone and liked it that way. He had tried marriage twice, and each marriage had lasted less than a year. Now forty-four years old, he was content with his station in life and felt no need for companionship, either at home or on the job. He wasn’t good at relationships, he told himself. They were messy and complicated. They required tact and diplomacy, which meant holding your tongue and dancing around the truth. They required flexibility and compromise. He wasn’t good at any of those things and had no desire to be.

On the job, he was brutally honest and direct with his colleagues. He said what was on his mind, without apologies and without making any effort to be politically correct or considerate of the feelings of others. Not surprisingly, he had alienated more partners than he could count, but the department tolerated him and allowed him to work alone, for one simple reason: he was unquestionably the best detective on the force. What he lacked in diplomacy, he made up for with uncanny intuition, street smarts, a tireless work ethic, and a relentless drive to find the truth. He was a perfectionist who got results. And his job was his passion.

His other passion was baseball. It was his only real interest outside of the job. His father had raised him to be a White Sox fan from the time he could talk, and he had started traveling to Comiskey Park on his own at the age of eight. A true “South-Sider,” he despised the cross-town rival Cubs. He would tell anyone who asked that he had two favorite baseball teams, the White Sox being one, and whoever happened to be playing the Cubs, the other. He took great pride in the fact that he had never set foot in Wrigley Field, home of the Cubs on the city’s north side, and never would.

Today was Slazak’s idea of the perfect day for baseball. The White Sox were playing the Cubs as part of their annual interleague series, and he was relishing the prospect of watching every pitch on his new high-definition TV, one of the few luxuries he permitted himself.

By the third inning, Slazak realized that one of his passions was interfering with the other. He was watching every pitch, but he was distracted. He couldn’t stop thinking about the car wreck he’d been called to the previous night. He couldn’t shake the rage he felt at that hotshot lawyer who had almost killed Terry McGrath and left two young children without a father. Yet something else was distracting him, too—a nagging sense of duty that was telling him he should be investigating the incident right now. Witnesses needed to be interviewed while events were still fresh, before their memories became fuzzy and before they had a chance to concoct some other version of what had happened.

Slazak picked up the old Titleist golf ball on the table beside him and began tossing it softly from one hand to the other as he stared at the TV. It was an old habit. When the wheels began turning in his mind, he tossed the golf ball back and forth. The more intense the deliberations, the quicker the tosses became.

There seemed to be little mystery to the previous evening’s events. A guy got drunk and ran somebody off the road. How much simpler could it get? Still, some part of him required certainty, and the only way to attain that was through diligence, hard work, and attention to detail. Experience had taught him that, every once in a while, things were not as they seemed. He had seen other detectives embarrassed when they got it wrong. He had seen them ridiculed by their colleagues and criticized by their bosses. He refused to subject himself to those risks, so he forced himself to be thorough and meticulous in his handling of even the simplest cases.

“You shithead! Can’t you get anybody out?” Slazak yelled at the White Sox pitcher. It was just the top of the third inning and the Cubs had already scored five runs, putting him in a foul mood. His cursing was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone.

“What?” Slazak shouted impatiently into the phone.

“Detective? This is Officer Wilson. We met last night at that car wreck. You asked me to call you today.”

“Yeah, fill me in, Wilson. Did you take him to the ER?” Slazak had instructed Wilson to take the suspect to the hospital for two reasons: first, to protect the police department against liability claims in case the suspect had been seriously injured, and second, because the emergency room routinely took blood tests, and it was a great way to get irrefutable evidence of intoxication. Most people signed the consent form along with all of the other hospital paperwork and didn’t think to object to a hospital-administered blood test.