CATHERINE STEPS OFF the elevator onto the twenty-first floor of the Richard J. Daley Center. Built in 1965 and located at the corner of Clark and Randolph Streets in Chicago’s Loop, the thirty-story courthouse is distinctive for its rust-colored patina, and for the controversial Picasso statue in the plaza. The wide hallways with their walls of windows and marble benches provide ample room for last-minute negotiations. It is often said that more business is conducted in the hallways than in the courtrooms themselves.
As soon as Catherine enters the hall, she realizes that her expectations were correct. This will be episode one of the Sterling Sparks Show. There are several groups of reporters congregating outside Judge Wilson’s courtroom even though the doors will not open for another thirty minutes. They should put up a warning sign, Catherine thinks. Circus in Progress. She gazes across the hall and recognizes CBS’s Vera Paulson talking with her cameraman.
Donning a blank expression, Catherine strolls over and innocently asks, “What’s the big occasion this morning, Vera? Is there something going on? The pack looks hungry.”
“Six-o’clock has a case on Obadiah’s call,” Vera responds. She wears a Cheshire grin. “It’s the one where the wacky old woman painted signs on the walls of The Melancholy Dane.”
Catherine places her hand on her chest in a mock gesture. “Really? I understand it’s up this morning on a routine motion to extend a protective order. Does a wacky old woman demand the attention of all four networks?”
“Are you kidding?” Vera answers. “The public loves this case. They eat it up. Besides, my anchor wants a statement from each of the attorneys for his evening broadcast. He wants video.”
“Obadiah doesn’t allow cameras in his courtroom.”
Vera shrugs it off. “Then we’ll get what we can out here in the hall. By the way, I love your suit.”
“Nordstrom. Where’s Sterling, I don’t see him?”
“Hasn’t shown up yet. You know Sparks; he’ll make a grand entrance, deliver his morning press briefing and give us a slew of good quotes. He could fill an entire segment. Do you have any idea who represents the old woman?”
Catherine smiles. “I guess you’ll find out soon enough. It’s me, Vera.”
“You stinker!” she says, biting the corner of her lip and quickly motioning for her cameraman. “Give me something, Catherine,” she whispers. “Something juicy and exclusive before these other vultures get to you.”
Fashioning quotable comments is not Catherine’s style, but she nods conspiratorially, leans over and whispers into the mic, “Always remember, there are two sides to every story.”
Vera scoffs. “Oh, hold the presses. Thanks a lot for nothing. Tell me one thing, are you going to plead a mental disability, diminished capacity—you know, not legally responsible for her conduct?”
“She’s as sane as you or me, Vera.”
Vera chuckles. “Well, speak for yourself, my dear. I don’t go sneaking around with a spray can in the middle of the night.”
At that instant, Sterling Sparks steps off the elevator and struts toward the courtroom door. The reporters flock to him, shouting questions, pushing their foam-covered mics into his face. In a majestic pose, Sparks holds up his hand for silence. “Easy, folks, you’ll all get your chance. One at a time, please.”
Looking for a sentimental lead on the lunch hour news, a reporter asks, “Tell us, Mr. Sharp, how is Mr. Henryks holding up? We’ve heard this is affecting his health.”
Sparks lowers his gaze and smiles at the reporter. The flamboyant lawyer is in his happy place. “It’s Sparks, honey, but some will say I’m sharp. Unfortunately, Mr. Henryks is not well, not well at all. This terrible ordeal has taken a heavy toll on a fragile elderly man.” Sparks scans the crowd. “Can any of you even remotely imagine what it would be like to be called a Nazi collaborator? Can you imagine anything worse? And then can you imagine what it would be like to have it spray-painted on your private property and then broadcast on television for a million people to see? I mean, all of you are in good health—strong young reporters. Imagine the toll such an ordeal would take on a ninety-five-year-old man.” Sparks closes his eyes, presses his lips tightly together and shakes his head. “It’s so sad. So wrong. I can only say that Ole Henryks is holding up the best he can. Of course, he’s under close medical supervision at all times. Twenty-four/seven.”
Catherine feels the bile rise in her throat, mumbles “Academy Award,” turns and walks away.
THE COURTROOM SEATS are filled with reporters, shoulder to shoulder. The overflow stands two deep along the walls. Anticipation grows, the corner door opens and a giant of a man steps into the courtroom, his black robe unbuttoned and flowing. As he mounts the steps to his elevated bench, he draws a deep breath through his nostrils. He gazes out at his packed courtroom and slowly shakes his head. He has presided over his share of headline cases and has little patience left for the theatrics. Finally, he turns to the side and nods to his courtroom deputy, who slams the gavel and loudly proclaims, “All rise. This branch of the Circuit Court of Cook County is now in session pursuant to adjournment, the Honorable Obadiah J. Wilson presiding. Please be seated and come to order. And silence your phones.”
“I suppose we should get right to the main event,” the judge says to his clerk. “Call Six-o’clock’s case.”
The clerk announces, “Case number 18-L-20998, Henryks v. Stein. Motion to extend a temporary restraining order.”
There is a rattle of papers and an undercurrent of comments as Catherine and Sparks approach the bench. Wilson wrinkles his forehead and announces to the gallery, “This is a Cook County courtroom, not a sports arena. I will insist on proper decorum at all times. Take all the notes you want, but if it comes to my attention that an audio or video clip of this morning’s proceeding has made its way onto the nightly news, I’ll consider that direct contempt and the violator will find himself or herself standing before me the very next morning. You don’t want to be that person.” Then he peers down at Catherine and smiles. “Ms. Lockhart, it’s nice to see you back in my courtroom so soon again. I take it you will be representing the defendant, Britta Stein?”
“Yes, your honor, I filed my appearance this morning and I will be seeking twenty-one days to file Mrs. Stein’s initial responsive pleading.” Wilson nods, begins to make a note in his judge’s notebook, and is about to speak when Sparks interrupts.
“May it please the court,” Sparks says. “Plaintiff objects to defendant’s request.”
In one of Wilson’s patented facial expressions—furrowed eyebrows, squinted eyes and a broad smile just short of breaking into a bold laugh, he says, “So, it’s going to be that kind of day, is it? You object to the defendant’s request to file an appearance and respond to your lawsuit, Mr. Sparks? Are we going to bar her from having a defense at all? Are we no longer in the United States of America, Mister Sparks?”
“No sir. I mean yes sir, we are in America, but I don’t object to her right to file a response. I object to twenty-one days.” He hands a set of papers up to the judge. “This is the plaintiff’s motion to accelerate the case for trial.”
“Your honor,” Catherine says, “defendant has had no notice of such a motion. I have just filed my appearance and we are here on a hearing to extend a protective order. Twenty-one days is not an unreasonable amount of time to file my initial response.”
“Oh, yes it is,” Sparks snaps. “In this case it is. My client is ninety-five years old and thanks to the criminal conduct of the defendant, he is now in very poor health. I can see right through Ms. Lockhart’s tactics. Why, I’d do it myself if I were her. Delay and delay, file motions, kick it down the calendar and pretty soon one or both of these nonagenarians will have passed on. I demand an immediate trial setting.” For emphasis, Sparks slaps his hand on the podium.
Wilson curls his lips. Sparks is in hot water. “Do that again, Mr. Sparks, and I will have you removed.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
“You demand?”
Sparks tips his head from side to side. “All right, I mean I humbly request. My client deserves his day in court and if Ms. Lockhart has her way, he won’t live long enough.”
The judge turns his attention to Catherine. “He has a point. How long do you really need to file an answer to the complaint?”
“Your honor, the defendant has a right to prepare and present a thorough defense. As much as Mr. Sparks may disapprove, due process requires that we be given sufficient time. The rules grant me the right to file a motion to dismiss, which I intend to do.”
Wilson rolls his eyes. “Naturally.”
Speaking in an even tone, Catherine continues. “I would expect the motion to be fully briefed by both sides and given its due consideration. Depending on the outcome of my motion, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were further preliminary pleadings and motions like every other case in this building. There will be depositions and pretrial discovery. Just because the plaintiff is in his nineties doesn’t mean that we abandon the Illinois Code of Civil Procedure. An immediate court date is out of the question.”
“You see?” says Sparks, turning his head briefly to the rear of the courtroom to acknowledge the reporters. “It’s just like I said. A motion here, a motion there, and pretty soon we’re three years down the road without a trial.”
Wilson reaches up and scratches his head. “Ms. Lockhart, I have to tell you, I’ve seen the closed-circuit video. Mr. Sparks played it for me the other day when I granted his protective order. Is your client going to deny that it is she in the video with the spray paint in her hand?”
“No sir. She won’t contest that it was she who painted words on the building wall.”
“Is she going to deny that she trespassed on Mr. Henryks’s property?”
“Well, she was standing on a public sidewalk. Most of the time.”
“And the six painted signs, Ms. Lockhart, all of that accusatory language, was that her handiwork?”
“I believe it was.”
“Then truly, I’m at a loss to see why Mr. Sparks’s motion to accelerate doesn’t raise a valid concern. Why should we prolong the discovery process? Enlighten me, Ms. Lockhart. Why do you need time?”
“My client is being sued for defamation. Five million dollars, I believe. Mr. Henryks alleges that the words painted on the walls of The Melancholy Dane were false and defamatory. Some of the words—liar, for example—are statements of opinion and cannot constitute defamation. I will move to strike them. As to the balance, Mrs. Stein will deny they are defamatory and affirmatively assert that each and every one of the remaining statements is true, and thus privileged.”
A rumble of muffled chatter skitters through the courtroom. The deputy bangs the gavel. “Quiet, please. Silence in the court.”
Judge Wilson pulls on his lip. “You intend to prove that Mr. Henryks was a Nazi collaborator and a traitor to his country? Seriously? In my courtroom?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
Wilson takes a deep breath. “Well, I sure get the assignments, don’t I? A war crimes case in Obadiah’s courtroom. Do you have such proof, Ms. Lockhart? Do you have the proof that he was a Nazi collaborator?”
“I’m not prepared to discuss the evidence at this time, your honor, but rest assured, I’m working on it.”
“Exactly!” Sparks shouts. “She doesn’t have any proof; she doesn’t have anything. She wants years of delay to manufacture facts that don’t exist, hoping that the case outlives the participants. But from my client’s perspective, the longer this case sits unresolved on the court’s docket, the longer these defamatory statements are allowed to float around in the winds of Chicago, the more they will be bandied about online, in the papers and on the streets. Until these defamatory statements are snuffed out once and for all, Mr. Henryks’s injuries compound. He deserves the right to have this court issue a judgment clearing his name at the earliest possible time. Justice is served by bringing this matter to a prompt conclusion. We demand, I mean I request, that this case be set for trial immediately! Justice must be served!” Sparks swivels around and smiles at the gallery, as if pausing for his standing ovation.
Wilson takes another deep breath through his nostrils and rolls his eyes. “Give it a rest, Mr. Sparks; there is no jury sitting here. Not yet.” Then turning to Catherine, he says, “Ms. Lockhart, I have to admit, he makes a persuasive argument. To call these words mere opinion would be a gross understatement. They contain accusations of the most extreme and odious nature. The longer they are allowed to linger, the longer their perceived legitimacy remains unadjudicated, the more they generate discussion. Mr. Henryks is entitled to snip these accusations in the bud, if he can. I’ll give you until next Wednesday to file your motion. Mr. Sparks, you will have two days to brief your response.”
“Two days?”
Wilson smiles. “I’ll give you two months if you like. Do you want more time?”
“No, no, two days. That’s all I’ll need.”
“Good. Then I’ll see everyone back here a week from Monday. Nine a.m.” He nods to his clerk. “Call the next case.”
The clerk, wearing his irritation like a face mask, waits while the rush of reporters stampedes out the door to make their phone calls.