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.”