Crime Spells Part 10

Special. How I hated that word.

But I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started to make notes about all I could glean from the file.

At 12:13 A.M., neighbors near the Brickstone Mansion (and you'd have to be stretching it to call them neighbors, considering the three-block lawn, the half-mile driveway, and the large stone fence blocking the view) called 911 to report flames shooting into the sky "so high that it looked like the entire North Side is on fire." A few boats on Lake Michigan called in a ma.s.sive fire as well.

The fire seemed localized around the Brickstone Mansion. Fire crews were called in. When they arrived, they realized the doors were all bolted shut on the outside. The building was "fully engaged." When they attempted to put out the fire, the entire place exploded.

Debris fell all over that ma.s.sive yard, but somehow it managed to miss outbuildings, vehicles, and people. Fortunately, the flaming debris did not ignite secondary fires anywhere on the property or on nearby properties.

But the mansion itself was a total loss.

By six A.M., it was clear to fire investigators that at least sixteen people had died inside that building-all of them unidentified. An accurate body count was, according to the report, TK.

Investigators found my client hiding between the shrubs and the stone wall-on the inside of the Brickstone property. He smelled of gasoline, had soot marks on his hands, and "couldn't give a coherent account of where he had been or what had happened to him."

Finally, when pushed, he said, "I had to do it," and then clammed up.

The fire department called in the police, who arrested my client and brought him to the station.

I searched the file and found no mention of hospitals or trauma centers or counselors. I made a note of that too-because it was good for us.

Then I continued to read. At the police station, my client was offered breakfast, including coffee (they always make that sound like a service when, in fact, I think it part of the torture), which he declined. He was interrogated but refused to say much more than what he said to me, which was that no one would believe what actually happened.

Finally, the exasperated detectives figured they had enough to charge him and brought him into Judge Lewandowski, where the lucky defendant got introduced to me.

Which was going to make Mr. Palmer's day-or, rather, his tomorrow. Because I was filing a motion first thing to have his case immediately thrown out for lack of evidence. And for severe mistreatment on the part of the police and fire departments. The man was covered in soot and gasoline. He needed to go to a hospital. He was probably disoriented when they found him.

There was no proof that he wasn't in that house when it exploded and had somehow miraculously survived.

I was going to argue all of that in front of whatever sympathetic judge I could find (adding, of course, as much legal mumbo jumbo as I could a.s.semble by nine A.M.).

I was pretty good at putting together case dismissal arguments, so good I wouldn't need to do too much research on the case law. And I thought my client's appearance (I'd put him back in his street clothes for court), his nonconfession, and one or two well timed coughs on his part would be enough to get him off.

I was in a great mood as I outlined the argument on my trusty laptop-until I got the harebrained idea to look up Palmer himself.

Palmer is an old and venerable name in Chicago. During the last half of the nineteenth century, Potter Palmer and his wife Bertha remade Chicago into the city it is today. In addition to building the Palmer House Hotel, they donated their private art collection to the Art Inst.i.tute (those Monets? Bertha's), redesigned downtown Chicago into the configuration it has today, and built the very first mansion on Chicago 's Gold Coast.

In fact, it was their decision (rather, Bertha's) to move north that segregated the rich from the rest of the plebs in Chi-town. If there hadn't been Palmers in Chicago, there wouldn't have been a Brickstone mansion to burn down, over a century later.

Richard Mark Harrison Palmer the Third was related to those Palmers but not on the right side of the sheets. From what I could gather, the first Richard Mark Harrison Palmer was really Richard Mark Harrison until he got someone to admit something and prove that there was Palmer blood in the Harrison bloodline.

That didn't get Richard the First any money or any of the Palmer property (of which there is still a lot, at least according to city rumors), but it did give him some status among people who care about that kind of thing.

Which led to his son and his grandson getting the family name (and, apparently, the family sn.o.bbery), as well as inheriting the family business.

When Richard the First ran it, it was some kind of ghostly empire where a number of "real" mediums brought back the dead, if only for an evening and a bit of conversation. By the time Richard the Third inherited it, it had become a school for the psychic and those with magical abilities.

I didn't make a note of that or any of the rest of this, particularly the files I found all over the internet about Richard the Third being some kind of magical hero-a man with strong abilities who wasn't afraid to use them to fight the Forces of Darkness.

Stories like this-even though they came from places like the Star and the National Enquirer-would be enough to torpedo my case, if I couldn't get the d.a.m.n thing dismissed. At the moment, it wouldn't negate my client's mistreatment at the hands of the authorities, although it would explain that mistreatment.

No one likes a nutcase. Particularly a nutcase with delusions of grandeur.

And sure enough, the following morning, the prosecution brought it all up while we stood in front of the judge, arguing for dismissal. Palmer stood on the other side of me, reeking in his gasoline- and smoke-damaged clothing.

When we met just before court, I told him to look as pathetic as he could, which really wasn't hard for him, considering the ill treatment he'd gotten in jail the night before. I'd also asked him to give me at least two deep tuberculoid coughs, one at the beginning of the hearing and the other somewhere in the middle.

His first cough, just after Judge Galica entered, was a tour-de-force of shudders and phlegm. It was so convincing that the judge himself asked Palmer if he needed water or a lozenge or-heaven forbid-a break. But Palmer managed to shake his head, and the prosecutor used that moment to shoot me an accusatory glare as if I'd been the one to do the coughing.

This time, the prosecutor wasn't a baby. It was Rita Varona, one of the office's very best. Normally she made me nervous.

This morning, she didn't. They'd sent her because of the judge we'd been a.s.signed.

Judge Joseph Galica had gone from law school to the Fair Housing Council and later became an advocate for the homeless before getting appointed to the bench. He was as liberal as possible, someone who knew the excesses of the Chicago police (some say because he was in the middle of the 1968 riots and got tearga.s.sed), and who actually believed that all defendants should be treated with respect.

Yes, I milked Galica's att.i.tude. But I did focus on the legal argument as well. I was brilliant, and was about to make my most important point when Palmer interrupted me with another prolonged coughing spell-this one requiring a gla.s.s of water from the bailiff.

That spell got Varona to b.u.t.t in, saying what a fake Palmer was, both in his life and his profession, that he had a hatred of the Brickstones, and he'd told a number of people that the house on the coast was "evil" and had to be destroyed.

I carefully did not look at my client while these arguments were made. Varona talked a lot about my client's beliefs, and finally she made the slip I was hoping for.

"He claims he's a magician, Judge," she said. "Once the arson squad's reports come back, we'll be able to show that he used the wonders of science-chemistry and physics-to explode that house as if he'd performed a spell on it."

"Why would he do that?" I asked in my best snide manner.

Varona gave me a sideways glance. She'd hoped for that question. "To cement his claim that he's the best wizard in the city of Chicago. To get rid of a family that he considered to be his enemies and to increase his business traffic and visibility at the same time."

Then she launched into his family's history of quackery as if that were proof of his murderous tendencies.

I let her talk, even though the judge kept glancing at me, clearly wanting me to object.

Finally, the judge himself said in a blatant hint-hint, nudge-nudge kinda way, "Mr. Lundgren, what do you have to say about Ms. Varona's claims?"

I made sure I didn't grin. This was the moment I'd been waiting for.

"Simply this, Your Honor. If my client really were Chicagoland's best wizard, then he should have been able to get himself out of jail. In fact, he would have cast some kind of spell on the responding officers to leave him alone or on the fire investigators so that they wouldn't find him. Instead, he spent the night in lock-up and has the bruises to prove it."

"Your Honor," Varona said. "I never claimed he was a wizard. Just that he advertised himself to be one."

"And if he's not a wizard," I said over her, "then all you have to do is look at the family history that Ms. Varona outlined to see that there's a solid record of mental instability here. And the Chicago PD knows it. That's why they didn't take him to the hospital. That's why they conducted such a shoddy interrogation. And that's why the fire investigator's report doesn't record what my client actually said when they found him. Just that he-and I quote-'couldn't give a coherent account of where he had been or what had happened to him.' "

"He's clearly guilty, your honor," Varona said. "He was on the scene. He's wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday, and I'm sure you can tell from there that they stink of smoke and gasoline. He-"

"Gasoline?" I said, trying not to overplay my incredulousness. "Your Honor, Brickstone mansion was built of stone. Gasoline couldn't burn that place down. Nor could it cause an explosion of the magnitude described in the other reports. I got a.s.signed this case while Mr. Palmer was standing alone in front of Judge Lewandowski. I didn't get the file until late last night. That's why we're here. If I'd had any of this information, I would have asked for dismissal then."

Varona rolled her eyes. "Your Honor, Mr. Palmer is a very dangerous man-"

"If that's true," the judge said, "you should have waited until you had a real case before charging him. I'm going to drop all the charges against this poor man, and I'm going to instruct his attorney to get him to the hospital immediately."

And the gavel came down.

Palmer turned to me. His mouth was open, and his eyes were wide. I'd never seen a man look so astonished.

"That," he said, "was pure magic. You're amazing."

I shrugged. It was less egotistical than agreeing. Then I touched his arm. "You heard the judge. I have to make sure you get medical treatment."

Palmer nodded. We walked out of the courtroom together, and I surrept.i.tiously checked my watch. Another two hours before I had to be back. I actually could take the guy to get medical care.

Besides, the judge would probably check, so I wanted to be able to prove I'd followed instructions.

"You know," I said as we walked down the stairs, "you might want to pull every favor you have and hire a good attorney. Because the prosecutor's office will come after you again."

"I'm not worried," he said.

"Yesterday, you were ready to chuck it all."

He smiled. "Yesterday I had no idea what a good defense lawyer can do."

I permitted myself one small smile of satisfaction.

We walked in silence through the hallways that connected the courthouse with the Public Defender's office. Because Palmer reeked so bad, I stopped at a desk and asked for an official car to take us to the hospital. I didn't want Palmer in my used Lexus.

As we waited, Palmer turned to me. "You seem to love what you do."

"Yeah," I said.

"Because you appreciate the challenge." That sense I'd had of his intelligence came back. He'd seen through me faster than most did.

"Yes," I said.

"Would you consider continuing to defend me?"

"If they charge you again, you can come to me," I said, hoping it wouldn't come to that. Then I realized I already had a strategy in place. I'd work the evidence, and if that turned against us, then I'd get a few shrinks to examine the family history and Palmer himself and declare him mentally incompetent. He'd probably get time in a mental hospital or some outpatient counseling, but that wouldn't necessarily be bad-if all those articles on his past had even a smidgeon of truth.

"Good," he said. "Then you won't mind handling the most difficult part of the case."

And Lord help me, I thought he was still talking about the criminal case. Because egotistical me, I said, "The difficult part of any case is my favorite part."

Which is how I ended up here in this glade, surrounded by willow trees and strong oak and all sorts of green plants I don't recognize. A place where the breeze is warm and smells of roses, and the little creatures who bring me food and drink have human faces and multicolored wings.

You see, the most difficult part of the case is arguing to get Palmer's magic back. Apparently, the magical world has laws and rules and regulations just like ours. And while there isn't jail per se, there are worse punishments, like taking away someone's magical abilities.

Palmer is Chicagoland's greatest wizard. He can wave a wand and bring down lightning from the sky to ignite a puddle of magically enhanced gasoline to destroy a mansion made of stone. (And yes, I checked just before I got whisked here. There was a lightning storm that night.) It seems no one here cares that Palmer destroyed the house. They're not even that upset that he managed to kill the beings inside, which were-if the files I have scattered across the gra.s.s are to be believed-dragons that could a.s.sume human form.

Seems the dragons had a plan to steal every treasure in the City of Chicago, starting with the contents of the Art Inst.i.tute but ending with very human treasure like the Chicago Bears-the actual team members, not the team ownership. When dragons steal a city's treasure, they don't move it. They just take over the city. Chicago would have been a haven for evil-that's what Palmer says-and after seeing the folks who run the magical justice system, I'm inclined to believe him.

Not that I have to. I just have to defend him. I have to make the case that even though he used his magic injudiciously and caused sixteen deaths and-worse, under magic laws-called attention to himself in the nonmagical world, he was justified in doing so.

Palmer's right; this is the most difficult part of the case. Not to make the argument-I'm great at argument. But to understand the stupid magical laws. I have to know the system before I can beat it.

Which is why his magical friends dumped me here, in this glade which is run by faeries. And what I didn't know at first was these faeries are the kind Rip Van Winkle ran into on his famous night of bowling and carousing. These folks control time. They make it go slow or they speed it up.

Palmer promises me I'll have all the time in the world to do my research. I won't lose a day of my life. I'll be here, I'll make my arguments, I'll win my case (I'd better, considering what these people can do), and then I'll go home as if nothing's happened.

Of course, I'll be a little older, a little grayer, a little paunchier. They can't completely negate the effects of time on a human being.

But, as Palmer says, now at least I'll know how people seem to age overnight.

As if that's supposed to cheer me up while I sit here in sunshine-filled h.e.l.l, eating the best food and drinking tea by the gallon, reading parchment and watching tiny replays of arguments made through the ages.

And I do mean ages.

Magic has existed a long, long time. Longer than the United States. Longer than the Magna Carta. Longer than England or the Roman Empire or ancient Greece.

Our laws aren't based on Greek conventions or English common law. They're a modification-an improvement (believe me)-of magical law.

Which just makes it all the more confusing.

And, I'm told, defense attorneys aren't required here. So no one goes into that side of the magical legal system.

After reviewing one-one-thousandth of the doc.u.mentation before me, I can see why. It's hard to defend these people against anything. And not just because of the convoluted law, but because of all the things they've done.

Fortunately for Palmer, I'm not one of those liberal-hippie types who gets appalled when his client is actually guilty. I'm not in this to provide a fair trial. I'm in this to provide the best defense I possibly can.

Because I like to argue, and I like to win against impossible odds.

And that's exactly what I'm going to do.

Call of the Second Wolf.

by Steven Mohan, Jr.

Last night about two in morning, after I left Charlene the blonde hooker and was home sleeping, someone crept into burned-out south side warehouse and iced five members of Chinese mob in middle of business transaction.

I do not mean killed, I mean iced, changed into crystalline statues of frozen water.

Good news is that it was cold last night, clear and twenty-two at Midway, so Chinese thugs did not have chance to melt before Chicago PD showed up in morning and changed them back. Otherwise the bloodbath would've already begun.

Bad news is anonymous someone stole 47 kilos of Afghani H from the Chinese and, of course, they are blaming us.

Worse news is Georgi Dorbayeva wants me to fix it.