I might have been a worm slithering away from the early birds, but my reward was the morning rush hour. Lake Shore Drive at this hour is pretty much a parking lot. It may be the most beautiful parking lot in the world, with the waves on nearby Lake Michigan dancing and preening in the sunlight, but it was still slow and tedious going.
I was early enough to find street parking three blocks from the County building and took the stairs up to the records room, where I paid twenty dollars for a chance to look at the microform. It didn’t include the trial transcript—those are expensive. Only the lawyers involved in a trial order up copies, so if Stella’s lawyer hadn’t done so, there was no transcript available. I did find a list of the exhibits used at the trial, and the names of both the state’s attorney and the defense counsel. Stella had been represented by a Joel Previn.
CALLING TIME
Previn is one of those names you think is common, maybe because of André and Dory, but there aren’t very many of them. I’d only ever heard of one in Chicago: Ira.
Ira Previn’s about ninety now and at least according to local lore, still goes into court once or twice a month. He’d been a legend as a labor and civil rights lawyer in my childhood, when he battled the Daley Machine from his storefront practice on the South Side. He’d taken on the Steelworkers over racial discrimination, gone after the fast-food industry for wage discrimination, supported equal pay for women and African-American janitors at City Hall. The fact that he’d lost many of his battles didn’t make him any less heroic, at least not to me.
I looked up Joel. Sure enough, he was Ira’s son. He was about my age, had attended Swarthmore College, then Kent Marshall School of Law. Never married. Lived in an apartment in the Jackson Park Highlands in the same building as Ira, worked out of Ira’s office. They must be a tight-knit family. Joel would have handled Stella’s defense when he was new to the bar; surely he’d remember one of his first cases.
Traffic had eased by the time I finished at the County building: I made the run from Buckingham Fountain to Seventy-first Street in twelve minutes. The route led past the South Shore Cultural Center. It’s run now by the park district, which can barely afford to maintain the main building, but when I was growing up, it was an exclusive country club with guards at the gates and horses stabled near the private beach. In those days, Jews were banned from membership along with African-Americans, even though the club sat smack in the middle of what used to be a vibrant Jewish community.
The South Shore Club could handle living cheek by jowl with Jews, but the arrival of African-Americans had been too much for everyone: white Chicagoans looking in fear at black neighbors had fled to the suburbs like a pack of jackals smelling a lion. The Catholics mostly bolted westward while Jews ran north. Only Ira stayed on.
Previn’s office was on Jeffery, in a building like the one with the fancy shops of my childhood: little stores on the street level, two floors of apartments overhead. I didn’t see the entrance at first and passed two bars, “Flo’s Clothes, All Dresses $10 or Under,” and five storefronts for rent before I found it tucked between a fried fish outlet and a wig shop.
It looked as though Previn maintained his own cleaning crew: the bottles and fast-food detritus on the sidewalk stopped where his office started. The sign on the window, Previn & Previn, Attorneys at Law, had been painted recently; a phone number and a website were both listed underneath.
The Previns weren’t blind to the risks of the area: white circles indicating an alarm system were mounted on the windows. They had installed a security camera in the doorway. Its red eye took me in when I rang the bell. After a long moment, a buzzer sounded, an old-fashioned noise like a school fire bell. I pulled the door open.
An African-American woman who seemed eighty or ninety herself was alone in the small room. Under the low-hanging fluorescent lamps, her face showed a network of lines, like the cracked patina of an ancient oriental vase. She wore a severely tailored suit, which might have come from France. Certainly not from Flo’s. The pearls in her ears looked real.
“What can we do for you here?” Her voice quavered slightly with age, but the assessing look she gave me, taking in everything from my faded jeans to my expensive boots, was shrewd.
“My name is V. I. Warshawski. I’m a private investigator and I was hoping to speak to Mr. Joel Previn about a woman he represented some years ago.”
“Is he expecting you? He had an early meeting outside the office.”
I looked at my watch. Nine-thirty. I said I could wait half an hour.
“He doesn’t—I don’t know what time he might get here. Tell me what you want; I’m familiar with most of the cases the office handles.”
“Stella Guzzo. She—”
“Oh, yes.” The woman’s face took on an expression I couldn’t interpret, sadness, maybe, or wariness. “She murdered her daughter. I remember it well.”
“Hnnh. Stella Guzzo. What kind of business are you doing with her?”
I turned, startled. Ira Previn had come into the room through a door behind me. Age had shrunk him. His missing inches had settled around his midriff, which looked like the mound in the middle of the boa constrictor that ate the elephant. His face and hands were covered with dark age spots, but his voice was still deep and authoritative.
I repeated my name.
“Hnnh. Warshawski. You connected to the hockey player?”
“His cousin,” I said. “His goalie when he was ten and couldn’t get on a rink. His executor when he died.”
“Eunice, did you already look at her ID?”
I took out my wallet and showed them my PI and driver’s licenses. Ira looked at them, grunted again and moved to a desk on the far side of the room. His gait was uneven: it was hard for him to move his right leg, but he frowned at Eunice when she reached for a cane propped against her desk. When he was seated in the old-fashioned swivel chair, he took his time getting settled—patting his forehead with a handkerchief, refolding the cloth and putting it back in his breast pocket, lining up a couple of pencils next to a legal pad. These were his courtroom strategies, buying him time, annoying opposing counsel, but they’d probably become second nature now.
“Saw your cousin play a few times, back in the old Stadium, when your eardrums could burst from the sound. So you were his goalie. And now you think you need to block shots aimed at him after death.”
I couldn’t help smiling at the metaphor. “Something like that, sir.”
“And what are you planning on doing?”
“That depends on what kind of information I can get about Stella Guzzo’s trial. I’m thinking she invented the story about my cousin when she was doing time, but if I could see the transcript, there might be something to suggest she’d already thought about it when she was arrested.”
Doing time, what a strange expression. You and time behind bars, you’re suspended in time, or passing time. Time is doing things to you, not you to it.
Eunice and Ira exchanged looks. They were a team with a lot of years of shorthand between them. Eunice said, “If you’re thinking of suing Joel for malpractice, the statute of limitations—”
“No, ma’am!” It hadn’t occurred to me, but of course, that was one reason a stranger might be nosing around the case. “I’m trying to figure out why Stella Guzzo is making this preposterous claim. She’s saying Annie—her daughter—kept a diary that she only stumbled on now, long after the murder. I find it hard to believe it’s genuine, but I wondered if she said anything to Mr. Joel Previn at the time. About Annie and my cousin, or Annie and a diary, or another possible suspect.”