“Justin Patrick McPhee, I don’t think we’ve met formally.” Lori Pope stretched out her hand.
Working hard to keep the surprise from lifting my eyebrows toward my admittedly receding hairline, I switched Morro’s leash from my right hand to left and without thinking took the county prosecutor’s hand in a firm shake. Hers was unusually cold for August.
“You…uh…live around here?” The words came out of my mouth in a jumble. I had no idea why I was nervous, but I was.
“Tremont? God, no. I’d never live this close to hipsters and wannabes. Rocky River born and bred.” Her take on Tremont wasn’t wrong in one respect—it was slowly being gentrified. But there was still quite a bit of diversity in the neighborhood.
Morro pulled at my left hand, undoubtedly upset that I’d stopped his information gathering mission along the diagonal path that bisected Lincoln Park.
“Good seeing you,” I said. Lifted my right hand to my forehead in a mock salute. Then switched the leash back. Morro, though generally well behaved, couldn’t contain himself around the swish of a bushy-tailed squirrel. I needed my stronger arm in control for when he lost his.
“Let me walk with you,” Pope said. She was in step with me and the dog, not giving me much in the way of choice of human companionship.
“Can we reach a plea agreement on Cooley?” I asked. I wasn’t sure why Pope was here, but I may as well argue my client’s case while I had the chance. Talking to the prosecutor was a rare opportunity for someone like me for whom criminal defense nor campaign donations weren’t my bread and butter.
“You haven’t donated to my campaign,” was Pope’s non-answer, as if she’d read my mind. Surely she wasn’t shaking me down. That had to violate at least a dozen laws. My nerves ratcheted up a notch. It was like having a parent or a teacher lurking about ready to punish you for something you’ve done when you weren’t sure what the infraction was.
“Just a Common Pleas lawyer.” I hated the hesitation in my voice. Somehow, I thought, a better man would be more confident. I hated that about myself. “Not much of a budget for political donations.”
“I heard you came into some cash recently. I think that should allow for a more generous financial plan.”
Was that the reason she’d held a hard line on Cooley? It couldn’t be that diabolically simple. I’d been thinking some kind of personal vendetta the whole time and maybe it only came down to something as simple as throwing a couple of hundred in the campaign coffers. I’d poo-pooed Casey when she’d asked about my donation strategy. Since I wasn’t waiting for judges to hand out cases to me, I didn’t see the need to keep up with who was running for office and who could grant favors.
“I’ll see what I can do.” I made a mental note to put a check in the mail this week, though it wasn’t something I could write off as an expense.
“I didn’t come here hat in hand, counselor. Nor did I come here ready to plea.”
The fuck? I couldn’t keep my annoyance at bay.
“Then why have you deigned to come down to our little hipster area of the westside?” I asked before I could filter. Nerves and anxiety were turning to aggravation. Working to keep my feelings in check meant that I couldn’t use my brain to figure out her motives, so I did the only thing I could do. Keep the dog at heel and wait.
“I’m actually working on a case and I thought that you could help.”
“I’m a criminal defense attorney. I think I’m not on your list of likely helpers.” I had to wonder if other lawyers sold out so quickly that she thought I might as well. I was all for justice, but her office was all about putting people in jail. Despite the overuse of the phrase “brought to justice,” those weren’t the same thing.
My dog chose that exact moment to squat and do his thing. The odor rose up quickly. Pope’s nose wrinkled in disgust. She waved a hand in front of her face.
“But you are.”
I pulled a plastic bag from the dispenser on the leash and bent down to pick up Morro’s poo.
“We think we’re smarter than them,” Pope observed while kicking dirt around my dog’s legs. “But clearly the pets are running the world. How is it they went from hunting and killing for us, to you picking up dog shit from the ground?”
“I usually find my evening walk to be a relaxing time. You’re harshing my mellow, so if you could get on with it. Otherwise, I need to get home and finalize my motions in the Cooley case. They’re due Monday.”
I found a trash can and pitched the excrement in there, while my usually friendly dog looked up at some kind of animal in a tree, but showed little interest in our walking companion. Morro was a good judge of character. He loved Casey almost as much as I did but wasn’t taken with Pope. I nearly gasped when I realized where my train of thought had taken me.
“You were saying…about this help you need,” I prompted, turning toward Pope. I realized now that she was wearing pretty tight short shorts and a matching top. All with that symbol from the store with lemon in the name. She was an objectively attractive woman but inspired nothing but the willies. I wanted to get out of her orbit, run away. But it seemed like it would be best to hear her out.
“I think you’ll remember Monsignor Gregory Quinn. He was in charge of service outreach at Saint Ignatius.”
I stumbled over something in the grass, probably a tree branch. Morro let out a small woof of protest at the awkward jerk of his leash. Quinn’s was a name I hadn’t heard in a long time. One I’d tried not to think about for an even longer time.
“Of course,” I started when the silence had gone on too long. “The monsignor led our service trip to Guatemala.”
“Along with, Jerry…Geraldo Morales who was a native from there. Did I get that right?”
“That’s what I remember,” I said. I pulled Morro’s leash hard and turned on my heel. Forget the regular route. It was time to get back to my apartment now. Right myself. Get back to those motions which wouldn’t write themselves. I was doing this case all on my own. I didn’t have Casey to rely on.
“Not so fast, Justin.” It was as if Pope were walking behind me in one moment, then materialized in front of me in the next, halting my progress. My normally friendly dog let out a very quiet growl of protest. “Don’t you want to know why we’re investigating?”
I didn’t want to know. At all. If there was one name I’d never wanted to think about or hear again, it was Quinn’s.
“I assume you’re going to tell me,” I said through gritted teeth, “so please share.”
“They somehow slipped through the crack of the Catholic church abuse investigation, Quinn and Morales, that is.”
I sped up my walk home, not taking any care to see if Pope was following. Morro, for once, heeled like he’d been trained, as if he could sense I would be unable to manage if he moved away. I wanted to point out to Lori Pope that his animal smarts extended to having a second sense, knowing when the people in their pack needed comfort and solace, then gave it willingly without any expectation of something in return.
“Some new evidence has come to light that they abused students at the school. Specifically on service trips to Guatemala.”
I stumbled again. This time on flat pavement. My pace quickened because I wanted to be anywhere but here. My curiosity got the better of me for a split second, and I spat out the question I’d been wondering.
“Are you going to prosecute?”
“That very much depends on what witnesses are willing to come forward. I was thinking you could help me with that.”
“How?” I choked out. A dark corner of my memory, one with a very closed door, shut very tight, locked with the key thrown away, was starting to show light through cracks.
“I’d love to know what other students you remember from the trip or trips you took.”
“Has someone come forward? Is that why you’re looking into this?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with you. What I can tell you is that it’s very important for my office to have this win. If you can help in any way, then we’ll do what we can to work with you on future matters.”
I sped away, and this time Pope let me go.