close to finding this guy?”
“Trying. This guy is smart.”
“Then you need to be smarter.” Silver glanced at the framed photo of her six-year-old daughter, Jenny, next to her computer. It was the only personal item in the nine-by-twelve office that was slightly larger than the windowless space down the hall where she had worked for the past ten years. Her two file cabinets were mismatched shades of prison gray. Unpacked boxes of legal tomes and framed Bar Association citations were stacked in front of the teak veneer bookcase she’d purchased at Costco. Her dry cleaning hung from a nail she’d pounded into her door. Her window looked out at the inmates pumping iron in the exercise yard of County Jail #3. “You’re still coming to Al-Shahid’s prelim on Thursday, right?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” She took a sip of water from a maroon mug bearing U. of C. Law School logo. “The Trib ’s website said a woman from South Chicago was killed at the Art Institute.”
“It’s true. Turns out her mother is one of my father’s physical therapists. I just told him about it. He isn’t taking it well.”
“I’ll bet.” Silver understood the challenges in dealing with elderly parents. Her father had died a year earlier after a lengthy battle with lung cancer. Her mother had Alzheimer’s and lived in a nursing home in Evanston. “Anything I can do?”
“I need to talk to you about Al-Shahid. I don’t want to do it by phone.”
“I’m meeting with a judge in twenty minutes.”
“I need only ten. We’re pulling into the lot across the street. We’ll be up in five.”
* * *
The young man looked at the blinking red dot on his laptop. Gold and Battle had parked at 26th and California. They were probably trying to get inside to talk to Al-Shahid.
So predictable.
* * *
Gold took a deep breath of the stale air in Silver’s office. “We need to talk to Al-Shahid.” He was sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chair opposite Silver’s desk. Battle’s imposing frame filled the doorway.
Silver frowned. “If I was his attorney, I wouldn’t let him talk to anybody—especially you.”
“We need you to persuade his lawyer that it’s in his client’s best interest to cooperate.”
“That won’t be easy. Al-Shahid just hired Earl “the Pearl” Feldman.”
Dammit. “I thought Al-Shahid’s brother’s law firm was handling his case.”
“They’re a big corporate firm. They decided to bring in a real defense lawyer.”
“I heard Feldman was representing prisoners at Guantanamo.”
“He’s back.
“Game on.”
“No kidding.”
Earl “the Pearl” Feldman was a cagey defense lawyer from Hyde Park who had cut his teeth handling civil rights cases in the South in the sixties. He’d made a name for himself representing the legendary “Chicago Seven” after the 1968 Democratic Convention. Feldman had spent the past two decades teaching criminal procedure at the U. of C. Law School, where he had butted heads with Silver’s father, a retired federal judge who happened to be the dean. A lifelong member of the ACLU, Earl the Pearl also relished his self-appointed role as an enthusiastic thorn-in-the-side to both Daley administrations. A dozen years earlier, Silver had been one of his star students, and he’d written her a glowing recommendation when she had applied to the State’s Attorney’s office. Feldman had been one of the early mentors of a young community organizer and part-time law professor named Barack Obama.
Battle took off his glasses. “I know this isn’t politically correct, but why is a Jewish lawyer representing a Muslim terrorist?”
Silver shrugged. “Earl still thinks the constitution trumps religious affiliation. We spent this morning setting ground rules for Thursday’s hearing. He’s making noises about getting the charges against Al-Shahid dismissed.”
“He’s posturing,” Gold said. “The gun he used to kill Udell Jones was inside his
“Trying. This guy is smart.”
“Then you need to be smarter.” Silver glanced at the framed photo of her six-year-old daughter, Jenny, next to her computer. It was the only personal item in the nine-by-twelve office that was slightly larger than the windowless space down the hall where she had worked for the past ten years. Her two file cabinets were mismatched shades of prison gray. Unpacked boxes of legal tomes and framed Bar Association citations were stacked in front of the teak veneer bookcase she’d purchased at Costco. Her dry cleaning hung from a nail she’d pounded into her door. Her window looked out at the inmates pumping iron in the exercise yard of County Jail #3. “You’re still coming to Al-Shahid’s prelim on Thursday, right?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” She took a sip of water from a maroon mug bearing U. of C. Law School logo. “The Trib ’s website said a woman from South Chicago was killed at the Art Institute.”
“It’s true. Turns out her mother is one of my father’s physical therapists. I just told him about it. He isn’t taking it well.”
“I’ll bet.” Silver understood the challenges in dealing with elderly parents. Her father had died a year earlier after a lengthy battle with lung cancer. Her mother had Alzheimer’s and lived in a nursing home in Evanston. “Anything I can do?”
“I need to talk to you about Al-Shahid. I don’t want to do it by phone.”
“I’m meeting with a judge in twenty minutes.”
“I need only ten. We’re pulling into the lot across the street. We’ll be up in five.”
* * *
The young man looked at the blinking red dot on his laptop. Gold and Battle had parked at 26th and California. They were probably trying to get inside to talk to Al-Shahid.
So predictable.
* * *
Gold took a deep breath of the stale air in Silver’s office. “We need to talk to Al-Shahid.” He was sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chair opposite Silver’s desk. Battle’s imposing frame filled the doorway.
Silver frowned. “If I was his attorney, I wouldn’t let him talk to anybody—especially you.”
“We need you to persuade his lawyer that it’s in his client’s best interest to cooperate.”
“That won’t be easy. Al-Shahid just hired Earl “the Pearl” Feldman.”
Dammit. “I thought Al-Shahid’s brother’s law firm was handling his case.”
“They’re a big corporate firm. They decided to bring in a real defense lawyer.”
“I heard Feldman was representing prisoners at Guantanamo.”
“He’s back.
“Game on.”
“No kidding.”
Earl “the Pearl” Feldman was a cagey defense lawyer from Hyde Park who had cut his teeth handling civil rights cases in the South in the sixties. He’d made a name for himself representing the legendary “Chicago Seven” after the 1968 Democratic Convention. Feldman had spent the past two decades teaching criminal procedure at the U. of C. Law School, where he had butted heads with Silver’s father, a retired federal judge who happened to be the dean. A lifelong member of the ACLU, Earl the Pearl also relished his self-appointed role as an enthusiastic thorn-in-the-side to both Daley administrations. A dozen years earlier, Silver had been one of his star students, and he’d written her a glowing recommendation when she had applied to the State’s Attorney’s office. Feldman had been one of the early mentors of a young community organizer and part-time law professor named Barack Obama.
Battle took off his glasses. “I know this isn’t politically correct, but why is a Jewish lawyer representing a Muslim terrorist?”
Silver shrugged. “Earl still thinks the constitution trumps religious affiliation. We spent this morning setting ground rules for Thursday’s hearing. He’s making noises about getting the charges against Al-Shahid dismissed.”
“He’s posturing,” Gold said. “The gun he used to kill Udell Jones was inside his
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