Michael Gresham: Secrets Girls Keep Part 4

"I'm Michael Gresham. I'm an attorney a.s.signed to the case."

Never mind that I self-a.s.signed. In a way it's true, what I'm telling her. Of course it might sound like I'm with the DA's office. You could always get that confused if you were on your hands and knees combing through gra.s.s with a magnifying gla.s.s. Father Bjorn, shaking his head at my deceit, wanders off.

"She was garroted."

"Was the strangulation device found?"

She turns again.

"Who did you say you're with? The DA?"

"Not actually. I'm an attorney on the case, however."

"Who sent you here?"

"I sent myself. My client is Jana Emerich."

"I don't know her. Or him. Tell you what. If you have any more questions, why don't you go on over to those two guys by the evidence cart? They're the d.i.c.ks who caught the case a.s.signment."

I turn away and follow her line of sight. Of the two detectives, one is short and one is very tall. The shorter one looks Hispanic. He's chewing a cigar and spitting. The tall one looks African-very black skin, long neck and maybe six-ten. He's pulling at his necktie and giving me the big eye. I approach and keep my hand extended to shake. I tell them my name and introduce Father Bjorn, who's with me now.

"You are who, exactly?" says the short man.

"Michael Gresham. I represent Jana Emerich."

"What the f.u.c.k," exclaims the tall man. "Who let you clowns in here? Hey!" he calls to the same sergeant who cleared the way for us to enter. "Enzo! What the f.u.c.k these two civilians doing in my crime scene?"

"I just have a couple of quick questions," I say, hurrying my words as Enzo comes toward us from the far end of the stands.

"I know your questions. We'll cover those in court," says the black man.

"At least give me your card so I can call you," I protest, as Enzo steps into our circle.

The black man rolls his eyes but pulls a business card from his s.h.i.+eld case. He pa.s.ses it to me and I see that his name is Edward Ngo.

"Thank you, Detective," I say to him.

"Clear off my scene, sir," he says. "You're trespa.s.sing and I could run you in."

I don't bother to tell him that Sergeant Enzo allowed us inside. No point in getting that guy in bad with the d.i.c.ks.

"Please," I say, "please allow me to ask one question. What evidence do you have connecting Jana Emerich to this death? Please just answer that and I'll be on my way."

Father Bjorn adds, as if the collar might help, "Detective, I'm Jana's father. It would be a huge service if you would answer this one question."

The detective's lips part in a sneer. "You're thinking that collar works on me, Father? I'm actually a protestant. We kicked the pope's a.s.s out of Nigeria before you were even born. Take that bulls.h.i.+t elsewhere, Father."

"So," says Father Bjorn, "you're Nigerian? I actually served for a year in Niger."

The detective's eyes narrow. He clearly doesn't know whether he should buy it.

"You served in Niger? Doing what?"

"Orphanage. We were trying to locate parents of children abandoned when the war lords came into the villages and killed all the adults."

The detective's face softens. The sneer is replaced by an honest expression of something that maybe even approaches appreciation for the priest's service.

"I was one of those children," says the detective. "I was brought here by your church."

Father Bjorn beams from ear to ear. "I probably knew you way back when. I might even have processed you, Detective Ngo." He p.r.o.nounces it "Go."

The detective catches himself. "Maybe. But I am going to have to ask you two gentlemen to leave us now. We've got hours of work here and a crime scene that must be kept sterile from civilians. I'm sorry, but that's my job and I must enforce departmental rules. Sergeant Enzo? Please show our guests the fastest way out of here."

Two minutes later we find ourselves ejected and standing outside the bleacher crime scene.

Oh well.

We can and will continue this interview at the preliminary hearing.

Father Bjorn, in his conversation with two detective-supervisors, has learned the identification of the dead girl's father.

His name is Abraham Tanenbaum.

"That would be the mayor?"

"That's right," says Father Bjorn. "Trumps my diocese."

It means there will be no plea offers.

Jana is officially headed to trial.

7.

We arrive at the jail at dusk. Early winter snow flutters up against our faces as we walk the sidewalk along California Avenue from parking Lot A to the Cook County Jail. Jana is being held inside this ninety-acre facility's concrete walls and doors that buzz.

Father Bjorn is wearing a black suit and s.h.i.+rt, white collar, and a heavy black overcoat down to his ankles that I'm guessing was a gift, because the material is definitely cashmere. It makes me happy that he is warm. I cannot say how much I love this man. He has meant so much to me all through my life. As he walks along beside me, I want to scoop him into my arms and save him from the world that is about to inflict so much pain: there is the son and there is the murder. Either one alone would be extremely heart-wrenching from his perspective. Together, they must be unbearable. But I just continue walking, leading him in to meet his offspring. I am tall, and my long gait is difficult for him to pace. He double-times every fifth step in order to stay even with me. It is like our roles are reversed: I am the father guiding his son past the world of jails and dead children. It is an uneasy, harsh path.

"It's weather like this," he says, "that makes me want to shelter away from the world, stay inside by a toasty fire and read Kant."

"So your son is about seventeen years old?"

"I guess that's about right." I can see his gloved fingers curl as he counts years. "Yes, just seventeen in August."

"Has he ever been in trouble before?"

The priest shrugs. "Don't know. Haven't asked, I'm ashamed to say."

We push through the double doors and approach the gla.s.sed-in deputy. We show our IDs and she asks our business. I'm easy, I'm the attorney. Father Bjorn gets a little more ha.s.sle but finally manages to convince the gatekeeper that he is, in fact, a priest the penitent has asked to see.

We are shown into a conference room by a deputy wearing the liver and chocolate outfit of the Cook County Jail staff. She is polite and silent as she pushes open the heavy steel door and stands to the side. The furnis.h.i.+ngs are bleak: a metal table bolted to the floor surrounded by four backless metal chairs. Everything is painted the same ubiquitous mint color that threatens to swallow you up.

The prisoner enters five minutes later. Jana Emerich is a wide-eyed boy-young man-who enters the conference room with a bewildered look on his face. He is average height, very thin, very angular in body and face, and he reminds me of the kids who operated the movie projectors back when I was in high school. He stops just inside the door and looks from Father Bjorn to me and back again. You can see the connection as his brain makes it: this is my father, his face says and he almost looks embarra.s.sed. Then there is a look of disbelief that comes into his eyes as he realizes he is seeing his father for the first time in his life. And that his father is seeing him in that same light.

He steps forward and takes the seat across from Father Bjorn and me.

"Let's introduce everyone," I say, and reach out to shake. "I am Michael Gresham. I'm a lawyer."

He offers me his hand. It is warm and moist and we shake and he then takes his father's hand and shakes again. Flesh of my flesh, say the priest's eyes as their hands grip. Like the son, his look is one of bewilderment. They both fall silent and try not to stare each other down. Clearly it's going to be up to me to start things off.

"Okay," I say with a friendly sigh, "Jana, this is Father Bjorn. He is your father. Notice I didn't say he's your dad. He's not. But he's your father and I want you to get to know him like I do. When you have, you will know that you can trust him with any secret. You can even trust him with your life."

"Let me write that down," says Jana. "Do you have paper and a pen?" he asks me with full-blown sarcasm.

"Just try to work with me here," I tell him. "Right now you need us a h.e.l.l of a lot more than we need you. Don't forget that."

He sits bolt upright on his stool and gives me a second appraisal.

Both men turn their eyes on each other and then flee back to me.

"We're here because your mother called your father."

Father Bjorn nods and the boy sits there mute, frozen still in disbelief now that the sarcasm has left him wordless. It is surreal to him and he blinks hard several times.

"Your father asked me to come visit with you today. Is it okay that I'm here?"

"I guess."

"Now. You've been arrested and we've heard a very small bit about maybe why you're here. So I'm going to ask you some questions. At first, my questions can be answered yes or no. I'm doing this so that you can feel as comfortable as possible.

He nods weakly, but I see that he has heard and understood.

"Now. Is it true you have been arrested?"

"Yes."

"When were you picked up?"

"I don't know. Today, maybe around noon."

"And have they told you why you were arrested?"

"Yes."

"Has someone died or been killed?"

"Yes."

d.a.m.n multiple choice questions.

"Killed?"

"Yes."

"Did you kill someone?"

He looks at his father and drops his eyes to the metal table top. He shakes his head as a child might in trying to avoid a spoonful of medicine.

"No."

"Did the police say you killed someone?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you tell me the name of the person they're saying you killed. If you know."

"A freshman. Her name's Amy Tanenbaum."

"Did Amy go to your school?"

"Yes."

"Did you know her?"

"Not really. I know who she is. But I'm a senior."

The implication being that senior boys don't have much truck with freshman girls. Fair enough.

"Have you told the police you killed someone?"

"No."

"All right. Now I'm going to change the rules for a question or two. Try to answer my next question as completely as you can. Here we go: Please tell us what you know about her death."

He swallows hard and belches. He looks up at the ceiling and then takes a darting look at his father, who is sitting fully erect, his hands folded in front of him. His face says he's holding four and drawing to an inside straight, hoping for his son to pull through all this. He's all heart, you can tell by the shallow breath and the soft eyes. He actually loves this kid. See? I want to say to both of them. This isn't so hard.

"Someone told me she was found under the bleachers after the football game. They said she was choked and rolled on her back. I heard they put something in her mouth."

"Who told you these things? Do you remember?"

"Bobby Knupp. He's my best friend. We're partners in physics lab."

"Taking physics your senior year? Do you plan on studying science in college?"