“Rogers and a guy named Johnny Richards visit with Eli on a fairly regular basis. I’m curious about their connection.”
“Well, Rogers operates out of the same building Abe was in. Maybe even the same office, for all I know. Could be he took over Abe’s practice and sort of inherited Eli.”
“And Johnny Richards?”
“Not familiar with him.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Dantzler said, closing the folder.
Charlie shook his head. “You’re gonna pursue this, aren’t you?”
Dantzler shrugged.
“You’ve got no choice.” Charlie started to say something, hesitated for several seconds, then said, “There is only one thing worse that letting a guilty guy go free and that’s sending an innocent man to prison. God, I hate to think I let that happen. But-”
He looked up at Dantzler.
“Those damn fingerprints. That was the clincher.”
CHAPTER SIX
At five-thirty, Dantzler left the police station, walked several blocks down Vine Street, turned onto South Upper, crossed the street, and went into McCarthy’s Irish Bar. The place, crowded as usual, was crawling with attorneys, most of whom were standing together, chatting and drinking. Several nodded at him as he walked past.
Near the back, sitting alone, was Sean Montgomery. When he saw Dantzler, Montgomery picked up his empty pint glass and called out to the woman tending bar.
“Make it two of these,” he said, putting the glass back on the table.
Montgomery was an ex-Homicide detective who quit the force, went back to school, and earned his law degree. He was now a partner in one of the city’s biggest, most-prestigious firms, having moved up fast due to his great skills as a trial lawyer. He and Dantzler had worked several cases together in the early ’90s, and had remained close over the years. Even though Sean had gone over to the “evil empire” and become a defense attorney, he was one of the few people Dantzler trusted completely.
Dantzler sat just as the bartender placed a pint of Guinness in front of each man. Montgomery lifted his glass and downed half the contents in one long guzzle.
“Best darn Guinness outside of New York, Boston, or Chicago,” he said, putting down his glass. “Some days it’s even better. Of course, if you want the really good stuff, you have to go to Ireland. I’ve been there twice, and I can promise you the Guinness there is to die for.”
“This is good,” Dantzler said, after taking a drink. “I need to come here more often.”
“That you do, laddie. That you do.”
“Aren’t you Scottish, Sean, rather than Irish?”
“Which I suppose makes me first cousins to the Irish. Can’t say for sure. What I do know, though, is we both have a strong dislike for the Brits. The colonial bastards.” Montgomery took another long pull, almost emptying the glass. “Have you noticed how everybody in this country claims to be either part Irish or part Native American? Those seem to be the two ‘in’ ethnic groups to have in your background. I once dated a beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed, fair-skin lady-pure Scandinavian from head to toe. Could’ve easily been Miss Sweden or Miss Denmark. Anyway, we started discussing ethnicity and she claimed to be one-eighth Cherokee. I’m thinking, well, of course you are, my dear. How could you not be? Isn’t everyone?”
He laughed and said, “If that woman has a drop of Cherokee blood in her, I’ll give you a kiss on the lips out on Main Street.”
“I’ll take a pass on that,” Dantzler said, grinning, “regardless of her bloodlines.”
“Ready for another one?” Montgomery asked, holding up his glass.
“Not just yet. I’m savoring this one.”
“One more for me,” Montgomery said to the bartender. “And keep an eye on this guy. Get him another one when he runs dry.”
“Listen, Sean. What can you tell me about Colt Rogers?”
“He’s an asshole, not to be trusted. Why? Is he representing you on some matter?”
“No.”
“Good. I’d make you buy the next five rounds if that were the case.”
“You don’t like him?”
“Don’t like him or respect him.”
“What’s his reputation within the lawyer community?”
“Mediocre attorney, world-class bullshitter, master manipulator, courtroom coward.”
“Why do you refer to him as a courtroom coward?”
“Because he never goes to trial,” Montgomery said. “He always has his clients plead out. Convinces them they don’t have a chance to win, then has them cop a plea. He scares them into accepting the sentence recommendation rather than fight it out at trial. Then he takes credit for winning while his clients head off to jail without having been given a chance to beat the rap. They get four years instead of six, when, in many instances, with a little luck and a good attorney, they might have been acquitted. And most of them are dumb enough to believe he’s done them a big favor. Poor schmucks.”
“What types of cases does he normally handle?”
“He’ll take on pretty much anything, so long as the money is right.”
“You ever cross swords with him?”
Montgomery shook his head. “We’re both defense attorneys, so the chances of us crossing swords are nil. I have dealt with him a few times, but nothing serious. Like I said, he tends to dodge real challenges. If I did face off against him at trial, I would eat his lunch. Now, that I would savor.”
“Did he take over Abe Basham’s practice?”
“Oh, hell, no. ‘Honest Abe’ would have had nothing to do with a guy like Rogers. Trust me, Abe and Rogers were at opposite ends of the morals spectrum. Abe was revered, Rogers is reviled. They operated in different galaxies.”
“Doesn’t Rogers have an office in the same building where Abe’s practice was located? On West Short Street?”
“Yeah, but Rogers moved in after Abe died. Prior to that, Rogers had an office in Chevy Chase.”
“Has Rogers ever been in trouble?”
“You mean, with the Bar?”
“Any kind of trouble?”
“If he has, I’ve never heard about it. I figure him for one of those slick types who knows just how far to go without going over the line. Caught or not, I’m sure he’s done his share of shady dealings.”
“You know Johnny Richards?”
“Nope. What’s going on here, Jack? Why are you inquiring about a slimeball like Colt Rogers?”
“You remember the Eli Whitehouse case?” Dantzler asked.
“Vaguely. I was a kid when it happened. He was a preacher or evangelist-something along those lines, wasn’t he? Killed a couple of guys.”
“Yeah, well, I’m thinking about re-opening the case. Give it another look.”
“I know you pretty well, Jack. You wouldn’t do that unless you were convinced something was off. Are you?”
“No, I’m not convinced, and won’t be until or unless I find evidence that will convince me. But I do think there is reason for doubt.”
“Who was the lead detective on the case?”
“Charlie Bolton.”
“You’re pissing in the wind, my friend. Charlie never screwed up.”
“No. But I talked to him about it, and he admits he was never one-hundred percent certain Eli was guilty.” Dantzler got the bartender’s attention and ordered two more pints of Guinness. “Dan Matthews worked the case with Charlie. It was his first homicide investigation. Dan had no doubt about Eli’s guilt.”
“After you, Dan’s the best homicide detective I’ve ever run across. If he was convinced, and if Charlie didn’t prove the man’s innocence, I’d say you really are pissing in the wind.”
“I don’t know. My gut says otherwise.”
“A cop’s instincts can sometimes be more persuasive than the evidence. We’ve both known that to be the case. And no one has better instincts than you. If you feel it, give it a whirl.”