Dante's Wood Read online

  After I’d crossed the Michigan Avenue Bridge I turned right and continued on to the four hundred block of Wacker, where Nate’s lawyers, Wentworth, Feinstein & Shaw, had their shop in a big office building called the Acteon Center. The lobby echoed like the inside of a cathedral and a fountain gurgled somewhere near its center. “Security desk?” I asked someone passing on my right. “Straight ahead,” a woman answered. I thanked her and tapped across a sea of marble to a free-standing kiosk with a high, smooth counter.

  “You gotta be kidding,” the guard said to me after I’d handed him my ID.

  “Why?” I said. “It has a photo. A photo that looks like me.” I pulled off my glasses to show him.

  “This is a driver’s license.”

  I pretended to smack my forehead. “Damn those guys at the Secretary of State. You’d think they’d get it right.”

  “I’m impressed,” the guard said. “What did you have to pay them to get this?”

  “The usual number of Jacksons. Look, I know this is a little out of the ordinary, but I’m in a hurry. It’s a legitimate government ID. It’s unexpired. I promise I don’t have a sword concealed in my cane. Can’t you just let me in?”

  The guard didn’t reply right away. I put on my dullest blind stare to help convince him I wasn’t some cousin of Osama bin Laden in disguise.

  “All right,” he said finally. “I’m gonna trust my instincts on this one. But do yourself a favor and get a real ID. You might want to get on a plane someday.” He was right. I’d known for ages this was something I needed to do, but had put off going to the DMV, an ordeal that would try the patience of Father Flanagan in the best of circumstances, let alone with all the special paperwork I figured they’d have me filling out. I assured him I would see to it soon.

  “And don’t go driving any sports cars,” he added.

  “Scout’s honor,” I said.

  The receptionist at Wentworth, Feinstein & Shaw had been told to expect me and I was whisked speedily into a room where Nate’s huge form hung quivering against the bright light from the floor-to-ceiling window.

  “Nate,” I began. “I’m so sorry. If this has anything to do with—”

  He silenced me brusquely. “Of course it doesn’t. I know my son. He was clueless about what to do before I explained it to him. I blame myself for always bowing to Judith’s wishes where his education is concerned. But this . . .” he trailed off.

  “I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation.”

  “I hope to God there is. Apparently the cops are still questioning him. That’s what worries me the most. Charlie’s so simple-minded. Lord knows what he’s told them.”

  I had the same worry. Charlie had spent his entire life being guided by authority figures. Getting him to admit to something he didn’t do would be a cakewalk for even a rookie detective trained in interrogation techniques. “Nate,” I said, moving around a large table to where he was standing and reaching up for his shoulder. “The odds are it will turn out to be nothing. He’s a good boy. The cops will see that. Where’s Judith?”

  “She should be getting here any minute. She was out in the yard at our Michigan place when I finally got through to her. Her cell phone went missing just before she left home yesterday. You can imagine how she reacted. I told her to order a town car. I was worried about her driving all the way back from New Buffalo the way she must be feeling, but she insisted she was OK. I came over here right away when I got out of surgery. Chuck Feinstein is the family’s personal attorney—maybe you didn’t know Judith is related to the Taubs—”

  “I heard.”

  “—and he got us a lawyer right away. Sharp young thing named Sanchez, ten years as an assistant in the State’s Attorney’s office and on the fast track to partnership here. Feinstein thinks it’s an advantage to have a woman and a minority on a case like this, and she knows her way around the criminal court system like nobody else.”

  “Is she with Charlie now?”

  “She was going to try to get a few minutes with him.”

  “Will they hold him?”

  “Ms. Sanchez says it depends. But his being found where he was isn’t a good omen.”

  “How do they know he didn’t just happen on the victim after she was killed? What’s her name, anyway?”

  “I don’t know that either. The police haven’t released her identity and they asked the personnel at the center to stay mum until the family was contacted, though I gather it was someone who worked there.”

  I was about to remark on how upsetting that must have been for Charlie when Judith exploded through the door.

  “Oh, Nate,” she said, teetering across the room and collapsing into him. She shook there for a few minutes before noticing me. When she did, she said, “What’s he doing here?”

  “I asked him to come. Charlie’s lawyer said we might need him.”

  Judith quickly disentangled herself from Nate and moved to within an inch of me. “I blame you for this,” she spat. A drop of the stuff landed on my cheek.

  “Judith,” Nate said, pulling her away. “How can you say that? Unless you think Charlie’s guilty of something.”

  Judith backed off instantly. “Of course not.”

  I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket and wiped my face. “Mrs. Dickerson,” I said, “I know how upset you must be. But I’m certain Charlie’s in no trouble, or won’t be when we get to the bottom of things.”

  “That’s just what I’d expect you to say. Nate, do you think they have him in a cell? Oh, my poor boy!” I heard a wet sob.

  I said, “Perhaps you should sit down.”

  “Yes, darling,” Nate said. “You’re as white as a sheet. Please sit, have a drink of water. You must be exhausted from all that driving and the worry. Charlie’s lawyer will be back soon and we’ll find out what’s going on.”

  Nate guided his wife to a chair while I searched around for the refreshments I was sure a pricey law firm would have laid out for their clients. On a credenza against the wall there was a coffee urn, some cans of soda, and a pitcher of ice water. I poured a glass for Judith and brought it back to where she was seated. Her hand shook as she took it from me and some of the water sloshed onto my sleeve.

  “When did you last eat?” I asked.

  “Early this morning. But I’m not hungry.”

  “I wonder if there’s somewhere she can lie down,” I said to Nate. “Do you want me to ask?”

  “No,” Judith said weakly. “I don’t want to make a scene. I’ll just stay here. It will pass.”

  Nate’s cell phone went off then, and he spent a few moments in hushed conversation with the caller.

  “That was Ms. Sanchez,” he said after ringing off. “She’s in a cab coming back. She’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “Is Charlie with her?” Judith asked hopefully.

  “No, darling, I’m afraid not. Ms. Sanchez said she’d explain when she got back. Here, give me your hand.”

  While we waited I took a seat on one of the leather chairs around the conference table, stowing my cane on the floor. The top was some sort of polished stone and there were legal pads and pencils arranged along its sides. I picked up one of the pencils. I was once a champion doodler and still indulged in the habit when I was by myself, but I thought the Dickersons would find it odd behavior for a blind man, so I just worried the point with my finger.

  A sharp rap on the door five minutes later announced the arrival of a crowd of people who quickly filled the room.

  “Hello, I’m Hallie Sanchez,” one of them said, circling the table to where Judith was seated. “No, don’t get up. I’m pleased to meet you, though I wish it were under different circumstances.” She had a brisk, commanding air, a woman accustomed to being in charge. I pictured her in a smart business suit and sensible pumps, late thirties maybe, with a pert haircut and subdued makeup, though of course she could have looked completely different.

  “First tell me how Charlie is,” Judith said, risin
g anyway.

  “He was fine when I left him. He was eating a bologna sandwich. They were getting ready to take him to Cook County jail. I arranged for him to be placed in protective custody overnight. He’ll have a cell to himself and won’t be exposed to the general population.”

  “So he won’t be coming home?” Nate said. Resignation had gripped him and it was more a statement than a question.

  “I’m afraid not,” Hallie answered.

  “But how can they do that—he’s only a child!” Judith keened like a civil-defense siren. “Why weren’t we called in immediately? We’re his parents. We have a right to be with him!”

  Hallie said evenly, “Mrs. Dickerson, your son is past his seventeenth birthday. That means he can be arrested and tried as an adult, even if he has the mind of a child. You have no right to anything.”

  “But isn’t he entitled to any special consideration? He’s retarded,” Judith wailed.

  Hallie said, “I know you’re not going to like this, but in the eyes of the law the only thing he’s entitled to is a lawyer. I don’t want to frighten you, but there are prisons all over this country filled with retarded inmates. Charlie won’t be treated any differently because he’s slow. If anything, he’ll be presumed guilty because of it.”

  She was frightening me, and I wasn’t one of Charlie’s parents.

  Judith protested, “Surely there’s someone we can call . . . Nate?”

  Nate said, “We do know people, of course.”

  Hallie said, “Save the phone calls for now. It’ll only make the cops dig their heels in further. I had a few words with his arresting officer, a detective named O’Leary. He seems like a decent sort, old school but without the usual cop swagger and not completely convinced they have the right guy, if I’m reading him correctly. He gave me a few minutes with the police reports. I’ve also got a call in to one of my former colleagues in the State’s Attorney’s office to see if we can get Charlie out on bond quickly. That’s why I wanted to see the shrink you mentioned. Is he here?”

  “You must mean me,” I said, raising my hand. Suddenly, I could feel everyone’s eyes on me.

  Nate said, “My apologies. I should have introduced you two right away. This is Dr. Angelotti.”

  Hallie walked over to where I was seated and stood there a moment, apparently looking me up and down. I gave her my best Marcus Welby, MD smile, along with one of my new business cards, which gave my full name—D. Mark Angelotti—in ink and an abbreviated version in Braille.

  “What does the D stand for?” she asked after a minute.

  “Dante. But I never use it.”

  “And you’re a doctor.”

  “According to the diploma on my wall.”

  I waited for the usual expressions of disbelief, but Hallie simply said, “You ever testify before?”

  “Only in traffic court.”

  “A comedian, too. How well do you know Charlie?”

  “He’s not under my regular care, but I did speak to him once several months ago about some problems he was having sleeping.” I didn’t think I should go into the details without obtaining the Dickersons’ explicit permission.

  “Would you be able to state under oath that Charlie’s not violent?”

  “I could state it truthfully, if that’s what you’re asking, but I’m not qualified to be an expert witness. Normally the kind of testimony you’re after would only be given after a full psychological workup by someone board certified in forensic psychiatry.”

  “Yeah, but right now you’re all I’ve got. Kevin,” she snapped to one of her assistants, “go find out if he needs to be a certified forensics guy to put him on the stand.” Kevin scuttled out the door. Back to me: “Can you have someone fax your résumé here?”

  “Sure,” I said. “But perhaps you could clue us in to what’s going on first?”

  Hallie sighed loudly and said, “You’re right. I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s all sit down. Somebody get me a coffee. And a sandwich too, if there’s one left in the lunch room.” Another minion jumped up to do her bidding.

  Hallie could only tell us what she had learned from the police reports and a brief telephone conversation with Alice Lowe, the New Horizons Center’s director. Apparently, a little after 8:00 a.m. that morning, a uniformed Chicago police officer had passed on foot by the center’s rear entrance, where he heard sobbing coming from behind a car parked on the opposite side of the alley. Rounding the driver’s side of the car, he found Charlie hovering over the body of a dead woman, hugging his knees and crying. Judging from the warmth of the body and the absence of rigor, the woman had been dead for only a short time. A wound to the chest just below the sternum appeared to be the cause. Blood from the wound had seeped into a puddle on the ground and soaked Charlie’s sneakers. There was also blood on Charlie’s hands and shirt. The patrolman asked Charlie what was going on, and he replied, “She won’t wake up anymore.”

  The officer radioed for reinforcements and several squad cars rushed in with flashing lights and sirens to secure the area. A crowd began to form. Several of the center’s employees arriving for work in their cars were redirected to the streets adjacent to the center. One of them observed Charlie with the officers and alerted Lowe, who had been working in her office on the opposite side of the building and hadn’t heard the commotion. She attempted to gain access to Charlie, but was told to wait to one side. The police continued to sequester Charlie while the evidence technicians arrived and began laying out yellow tape and setting up their equipment. Initial observation revealed no signs of a struggle, and the victim’s handbag was on the driver’s seat of the car with her wallet, phone, and keys still in it. At 9:00 a.m., Detective O’Leary approached Lowe and asked her to confirm Charlie’s name and date of birth. After that he was taken in a squad car to the station house. He remained there until shortly after 1:00 p.m., when he signed a written confession admitting to slashing the victim to death with a knife.

  “A confession!” Nate moaned. “That’s exactly what I was afraid of.”

  Judith simply moaned.

  Hallie said, “They do work fast, don’t they? I’m sorry I can’t tell you much more. I did speak to Charlie as well, but he was understandably confused by what was happening. He knew the woman was dead, which was why he was crying, but I couldn’t get a coherent story out of him. When I asked him about the knife he didn’t know what I was talking about. I asked for a copy of his statement but they wouldn’t give it to me. By the way, can he read?”

  “Not really,” Judith said.

  “Sign his name?”

  “Yes,” Nate said. “But why wasn’t he allowed to have a lawyer with him before he signed a statement?”

  “I’m guessing they gave him his Miranda warnings and he waived the right to counsel. The interrogation will be on videotape—it’s a new state law requirement in homicide cases—so the cops can’t lie about what happened. But they’re very good at persuasion.”

  “You don’t mean . . . ?” Nate said.

  “No,” Hallie said. “I’m sure they didn’t touch him. They’re not stupid enough to do it on tape and Charlie had no marks on him I could see. When I asked him about how he’d been treated he said the police were nice to him and gave him pop. Apparently quite a lot of it.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Charlie would be just as vulnerable to bribes and friendly persuasion as physical intimidation. But it should have been obvious to them from the start that he’s mentally handicapped. Weren’t they worried about getting a false confession?”

  “Hell no,” Hallie scoffed. “You’re a shrink. You ought to know how powerful confessions are with juries. The cops know it too, so they do everything they can to get one, no matter how hard they have to work. I’ve seen convictions based on confessions that were obvious fabrications—the defendant said he killed a white woman when the victim was black, or with a shotgun when the murder weapon was a hunting knife.”

  I said, “I’ve read news storie
s like that too, but are the police really that bad?”

  Hallie said, “Not always. But they’re human like everyone else and under intense pressure to get convictions. Usually the suspect has priors and they figure he’s a just a scumbag who’ll go off and kill somebody else if he walks, so what’s the big deal? Jurors think along the same lines. Try convincing them that the defendant would admit to a crime he didn’t commit.”

  She was right. The idea that only the guilty confess to crimes was deeply ingrained in the collective imagination. Psychologists and social scientists had been battling the perception for years, but it wasn’t until DNA testing became widely available that they were able to prove their theories right.

  “But Charlie’s not a hardened criminal,” I said. “He’s a nice kid.” I knew what her reply would be even before my words were out.

  “To you he’s a nice kid. To them he’s a big, not very bright guy who was found with a dead body and blood on his hands.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Nate said. From the timbre of his voice, he seemed to have aged several decades in the last hour.

  “I know it seems unreal,” Hallie said, “and I’m deeply sorry you have to go through this. The good news is that I’m here to help. Most people like Charlie aren’t so lucky. They get talked into half the unsolved crimes on the books before they even get to see a lawyer. In any event, we’ll challenge the confession, but that’s not our first order of business, which is getting him out of that cell.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Nate said, some of his fight returning. “Judith and I will put up any amount of bail.”

  “Unfortunately it’s not going to be that easy,” Hallie said. “In Illinois, judges are required to deny bail if there’s strong evidence of guilt and a threat to public safety. That’s where the good doctor comes in.”

  “If you think I can help,” I said, my earlier reservations evaporating under the weight of my concern for Charlie.