Stealing Justice

By Larry Axelrood

From a single courtroom, one prosecutor’s courageous stand threatens to expose a vast conspiracy and take down some of the city’s most powerful people.
Prosecutor Marisol Cuellar is ordered to facilitate the exoneration of a man wrongfully convicted of murder. Terry Jackson—known as T.J.—has spent nine years in prison for the murder of a young girl, and an exoneration is a key step toward his ability to recover millions of dollars for the wrongful conviction.
At first glance, this exoneration case seems straightforward, but while preparing for the court hearing, Cuellar makes a startling discovery: the evidence is overwhelming that T.J. is indeed guilty. Armed with this information, Cuellar shocks everyone at the hearing by calling key witnesses and bringing forward evidence of corruption at the top of her own office and beyond. She leaves the courtroom that day with her career in jeopardy; soon after, someone tries to kill her, and she’s forced to go underground to survive.

This unprecedented investigation takes the reader through a seamy intersection of crime, law, and politics in Chicago. With the help of a handful of elite cops, Cuellar races to expose the truth and save her career before she can be silenced for good.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Post Hill Press
• Release date: Sep 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888450222

Book preview

© 2023 by Larry Axelrood

All Rights Reserved

Cover design by Cody Corcoran

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Post Hill Press

New York • Nashville

posthillpress.com

Published in the United States of America

For Anne Sherman with love and gratitude.

To Jack and Claire,

I love you and love being your dad.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

About the Author

Prologue

Nine years earlier

There were four young men surrounding the front steps of a weathered house. One stood on the cement just below the first step; next to him was a friend standing on the first step. Two others sat on the third step. Between them was a large brown paper bag holding seven leftover cans of beer from the twelve pack they had started.

They hadn’t spotted the three cops in an unmarked car a few hundred feet away. The four friends were low-level dope slingers. The neighbors were trying to keep the block in somewhat decent shape and complained to the commander of the police district. Besides weed, customers could buy molly, meth, and occasionally cocaine from these guys.

Cullen, the cop in the driver’s seat, was using binoculars to get a better look. Jimenez was in the front passenger seat scrolling on his phone. Down the block, two young guys were riding bikes heading toward the house. Jesse Hunter reached over the seat and tapped Jimenez. He looked up and saw the bike riders, then placed his phone in a pocket on his vest and picked up the radio.

We got two on bikes. You got them?

There was a moment of silence before a distant voice broke over the air.

We got them.

The bike riders didn’t know that they were being watched, or that the cops were sitting on the house because of a neighbor’s complaints about drug dealing. Now, the cops were poised to see a hand-to-hand exchange. Money for drugs—the evidence they needed.

Three unmarked cars were sitting on the house with two marked squad cars a few blocks over. The bike riders were getting closer. One was wearing a green Notre Dame hoodie, the other a black Nike hoodie. Each had cinched the tie string under their chin. They stopped near the curb in front of the house. The guy in the black Nike sweatshirt pulled something from the front pouch and handed it to his friend. The guys on the porch were looking at the two but were delayed in processing what they saw. The Notre Dame guy raised the gun and began firing.

Cullen started the car and rushed forward. Jimenez activated the microphone on his radio.

Shots fired. The shooter is on a bike wearing a green Notre Dame sweatshirt. Second offender is wearing a black Nike hoodie, blue jeans, and black shoes.

The four guys on the stairs began to move. One ran into the house; two split up and ran in different directions. The fourth slumped on the stairs as blood spread across his shirt. The Nike guy dropped his bike and ran down the gangway between the houses. He disappeared from sight of the cops.

Cullen drove straight for the shooter. The shooter turned slightly before the undercover car crashed into him. Before he knew what happened, Jimenez had handcuffed him and had the shooter’s gun in his gloved hand. Hunter closed in. The other unmarked cars and two squads rolled up. Hunter ran to the stairs to check on the victim.

In the distance, the sounds of an ambulance filled the air. Jimenez stood over the shooter, who was face down on the street with his hands handcuffed behind his back. Hunter had seen enough shooting victims to know that this guy was in bad shape.

Two other officers had joined them. A uniformed officer with blue latex gloves ripped open a QuikClot kit, then pulled up the victim’s shirt to find the wound. A neat hole on his left side was easy to spot. The cop pushed the wound dressing firmly into the hole and held it tight.

Suddenly, the front door flew open, and a woman was hysterically crying for help.

They shot my baby! Help me! They shot my baby!

Cullen rushed up the stairs and pushed into the house. In the corner of the living room was a small girl lying lifeless in a growing pool of blood. More cops followed. Each of them stopped and remained silent upon seeing the young girl. The mother was a few feet behind, begging them to help her daughter. There was nothing to be done; the cops felt helpless as they waited for the mother to realize her daughter was dead.

Chapter 1

Candlelite was an old-school neighborhood bar on the far north side of Chicago. Being a Monday night, the place was slow. Henry Barnes sat at a table in the back far from the other patrons, nursing a Maker’s Mark over ice. There were two glasses of ice water on the table.

Lenny Moretti was the president of the Cook County Board. He was responsible for the budgets of every department of the county government. A longtime politician, he was always being stopped by somebody who wanted to bend his ear or ask for a favor. He liked Candlelite because people left him alone. Candlelite wasn’t the type of place where people wanting favors from politicians would hang out.

Moretti walked into the bar and scanned the place. He saw Henry and smiled. Moretti shuffled like an old football player; he walked with two different limps. He passed the bar and walked deep into the restaurant part to join his friend.

Barney, I’m sorry I’m late.

Henry stood to shake hands and then they both sat down. Moretti glanced around. Amy was their waitress, and she knew to bring Lenny an Arnold Palmer when she brought the menus.

All of Henry’s friends called him Barney. Moretti was his friend. Barney knew that Moretti had something specific to talk about, but he wasn’t in a hurry. Moretti sipped his Arnold Palmer. The menus sat on the table unopened.

How’s work? Moretti asked.

It’s great. I’m enjoying it immensely.

Barney eyed him with a glimmer of a smirk on his face.

Okay, Lenny…you didn’t ask me here to ask me about mediations and arbitrations. What’s going on?

Well, Lenny began, nine years ago, there was a shooting. A little girl was killed, and a jamoke was wounded. Some cops were sitting on the house because of complaints of drug dealing. As the cops are watching, two guys ride up on bikes. One guy hands the other guy a gun, and then that guy starts shooting. One bullet goes through the house and kills the little girl. One of the suspected drug dealers is shot but doesn’t die. The cops grab the shooter, but the other guy gets away. A few weeks later, the cops arrest the accomplice. Both guys get convicted in separate trials. Each of them exhausted their appeals and are doing their time.

Barney took a long sip of his drink. He gently swirled the ice in his glass and took another sip. He placed his glass down and looked at his friend.

So, something is amiss? Barney asked playfully.

Moretti looked pained. He made a bit too much of a show of looking around, which brought Amy to the table.

Do you guys want to order? she asked pleasantly.

As regulars, they didn’t have to look at the menu. They gave her their order, and she left. When she was out of sight, Lenny turned back with a serious look.

The shooter found God in the joint. I mean, he seriously turned his life to Jesus. He ordered his lawyers to stop any attempts at post-conviction relief. The accomplice, Tom Jackson, gets shot down on every attempt. He changes lawyers, and now the narrative is that he’s an innocent man framed by corrupt cops, unethical prosecutors, and lazy, stupid judges.

Barney leaned in. Was I this kid’s judge?

Lenny waved him off. No. You never had a piece of this.

So, why am I here? Barney asked.

Tom Jackson suddenly became innocent when he hired the firm of Berman and Baroni. It seems that Berman and Baroni have the ear of our elected state’s attorney. The state’s attorney has dismissed four cases in a row for Berman and Baroni clients. Some judges have approached me because they think some guilty people are getting a ‘get out of jail free card.’

Amy brought their food and fresh drinks. Barney cut into his chicken breast and began to chew. Moretti took a bite of his sandwich. Barney ran a napkin across his face, swallowed his food, and began speaking.

This is all everybody at 26th Street is talking about. They were doing a post-conviction hearing on a guy. They said a prisoner confessed to the murder. Barney spoke slowly and just above a whisper. The state goes and interviews the guy, and the inmate tells him that Berman and Baroni offered him five hundred thousand dollars from the proceeds of the wrongful conviction lawsuit if he confesses, and so the other guy gets out. Before the state can bring him in to testify, our state’s attorney, Kyle Coleman, orders the line prosecutor to drop the case and admit a wrongful conviction. The young prosecutor goes to a different judge and asks him what to do. The judge orders Coleman to appear for a hearing on a rule to show cause to determine if he should be held in contempt—

Moretti cut in. Now Coleman has asked the county board to pay for outside lawyers to represent him?

Barney responded immediately. No, no way—ain’t gonna happen. I don’t want to represent that asshole.

Moretti took a large bite of his sandwich, savoring the moment. He leaned back and gave Barney his full attention.

I didn’t come here to ask you to represent Coleman.

"Good, because I hope that asshole goes to the joint. He and his sponsor Carlton Edwards!" Barney exclaimed.

Shh, keep your voice down. I’m not done, Lenny pleaded.

Barney ate some broccoli and began cutting another piece of chicken. Lenny leaned in and lowered his voice.

I need you to regain your composure. Have you ever said anything like that about Edwards or Coleman to anybody else? It’s important, Lenny asked with urgency.

Barney finished chewing while Lenny studied him. He thought about it.

No, I haven’t talked about either of those guys to anybody. I’ve been out of criminal law for ten years, remember?

Actually, it’s been nine years and seven months next Wednesday, Lenny said, taking Barney a little by surprise.

What are you thinking? Barney asked.

We need a special prosecutor. I can’t think of anybody better than you. Your experience and reputation are beyond reproach.

Barney looked uncomfortable. He interrupted his friend.

Bob Mueller had a great reputation. He had to endure endless crap. He kept his mouth shut and did his job, but he was constantly attacked. That will happen here too, Barney said.

That’s why I want you. You’ll be fair, thorough, and fearless. You’re not looking for this. You’re not looking for a higher office or fame. You will follow the evidence. We need you.

Moretti’s words hung in the air. They ate silently. Moretti had said his piece and wasn’t going to rush him. He knew Barney was thinking through the proposal. Barney reached over and grabbed some tater tots from Lenny’s plate. He caught Amy’s eye and she came over.

Amy, can I have a large thin pizza with bacon, mushrooms, and onions? My friend and I have a lot to talk about.

Of course. Do you want another drink too? she asked.

No. I’m switching to water. Thanks.

Chapter 2

It was a city park, crowded with children being watched by young mothers, nannies, and au pairs. Young families paying four thousand dollars a month for a two-bedroom apartment or living in overpriced condos or row houses filled the neighborhoods. Barney wondered why more of them didn’t pay half as much for twice the space in a suburb on the Metra line.

He spied Allison walking a French Bulldog while watching her daughter playing nearby. She hadn’t seen him until he was a few feet behind her.

Hello, Judge, she said as she gave him a half hug while holding the leash in her right hand.

Emily is getting so big. She’s so cute, Barney said, admiring her daughter.

Barney squatted down and offered the back of his hand to the dog. Suspiciously, the dog inched forward to smell the hand. After a few sniffs, he moved closer to Barney. Barney petted him softly, and soon after, more robustly. Finally, Barney was rubbing the dog’s head with one hand while rubbing his chest with his other.

I think he likes me, Barney said as he looked up.

He likes everybody. Now, if you had some bacon, he’d love you, she replied.

Allison gently pulled the leash, and the dog followed. She sat on an empty bench. Her dog plopped on the ground by her feet. They were a good distance from anyone else with an unobstructed view of Emily. Barney sat on the same bench a few feet away.

"What’s the dog’s name?’

That’s Max, she said before pausing and changing the subject. Why are you here, Judge?

Something came up. I’m going to speak to you in confidence. This is privileged and confidential. Understand?

Of course. I understand, she replied.

I’ve been asked and I’m considering being a special prosecutor.

He watched her face brighten. He took that as a good sign. She said nothing but was now leaning in toward him. He continued.

There is some question about the state’s attorney and his approach to exonerations. More specifically, one law firm seems to have exceptional access to the State’s Attorney, and their clients have had remarkable success in the exoneration process and the subsequent lawsuits.

Let me guess, she began. Berman and Baroni. Am I right?

He paused to look around the park. He felt certain that none of the people in the park had given any thought to claims of innocence by convicted murderers. Emily was engaged with two other children on a berm a few feet from the playground. They seemed to be enjoying themselves.

That’s a pretty good guess, he said, turning back to Allison.

Did you even read my résumé before you hired me?

Of course I did. Chicago-Kent Law School, University of Iowa undergrad, and Stevenson High School. You clerked for your father’s firm and worked for the Innocence Project before interning for Judge Santos. Did I miss anything? He smiled broadly.

I forgot who I was talking to for a moment. That’s why you’re here. I was still volunteering for the Innocence Project while I was working for you, Allison said with a tired smile.

Look, I know that you have a great life right now. Emily is beautiful, and time with her is precious, but I’d like you to work with me on this project. Your mom and mother-in-law would love to spend more time with Emily. Would you consider joining the team?

She sat on the bench looking forward. Max was on his side snoring loudly. Emily and her friends were now surrounding a digging apparatus in the sand. One of them, a boy, climbed up and sat on the digger’s seat. Barney sat back and spread his arms on the back of the bench. Finally, Allison was ready to resume the conversation.

What do you have in mind? she asked.

We need to start looking at the individual cases and figure out what’s happening. After that, we go wherever the evidence takes us. You can do a lot of this from home when Emily is sleeping. From time to time we’ll have to meet. You’ll be paid, but it will be a government rate. At some point, we’ll have to impanel a special grand jury. For obvious reasons, it can’t be at the criminal courthouse.

So, she began, who do we report to? What limitations would we have? Who else will be on our team?

He liked the questions. In his mind, it meant that she was thinking about it.

At some point, we have to report to the County Board. They’re paying us, but really, we report to the County Board President Lenny Moretti. He’s going to protect us, and initially, he’s giving us carte blanche.

Emily came running up to them. She was excitingly telling them about something as Allison gave her a juice drink. Emily climbed into her lap and grew silent as she sipped from the straw.

How much heat is your friend Lenny willing to take for us? she asked.

He’s seventy-two-years old. He was unopposed in the primary, and he’ll get elected for four more years. I don’t think he’ll run again after that. He has a great track record with the minority community, so they can only go so far in attacking him if they’re unhappy with our work. He’s pretty insulated, but we’re not. If this becomes a racial thing, we’re probably going to have very little support. You might end up moving to the suburbs.

She laughed. Emily looked up and began to touch Allison’s face.

Is Linda okay with you doing this? Allison asked.

The funny thing is that she was happy that I asked her first. Usually, I just do my thing and tell her about it somewhere on the path. She pointed out that this must be something big if I’m checking with her first. Obviously, I suggest you run it past Brian, and maybe your dad, too.

What do you expect to find? she asked.

I don’t know…but if Coleman is up to no good, maybe that means his mentor, Carlton Edwards, has some exposure too; going after the elected state’s attorney and the senate president is a tall order. Throw in that Edwards is also the head of the Cook County Democratic Party and that both of them are African American, and this could be explosive. It won’t matter that Berman and Baroni are white. If we put this together, the evidence has to be airtight and overwhelming.

Emily was in that twilight period just before falling asleep. She was still working the straw while her head rested on Allison’s side.

Anything else for me to think about? Allison asked.

Yes, one more thing. You have to call me Henry or Barney. I’m not a judge, and you’re not a law clerk. Okay?

We’ll see, Judge.

Chapter 3

There were two reporters sitting in the jury box. Marisol Cuellar was rolling a cart up the aisle in the courtroom, the shelves filled with files. She was wearing a navy-blue power suit with her dark hair pulled back. After getting to the prosecution table, she left the cart and walked through the well of the courtroom. In the back of the court, in a room outside of the judge’s chambers, was a man in prison garb surrounded by three officers from the Illinois Department of Corrections.

DeAngelo Shambley never had a chance at a good life. He grew up in a high-rise housing project in an apartment with numerous other children of various ages and tenuous biological ties to Anna May Cannon. Anna May was the person who tried to take care of the children left behind by others. Now, DeAngelo was doing life for a crime spree that culminated in murder.

Marisol Cuellar stepped toward him. His hands were handcuffed and attached to a chain that was secured to a large leather belt. She could see his leg shackles below the hard wooden chair. DeAngelo was dragged out of his cell at two o’clock in the morning for the drive from the prison to Chicago. For most people, being dragged into a van with handcuffs and leg shackles for a four-hour drive through the flat and dull landscape of Illinois would be an annoyance. For a man eight years into a life bit, it was something different, and different for DeAngelo was good.

He looked up as Marisol approached him.

Lawyer lady. That suit doesn’t do much for me. Can’t you wear something that I can use later?

Marisol didn’t react. She smiled for the guard and stopped two feet from DeAngelo. She leaned in and spoke softly.

I just want you to tell the truth. No games. No bullshit. Just tell the truth. Do you understand?

He looked at her but said nothing. She was focused and looking him in the eyes. The guards straightened up a little. There was an intensity emanating from her. DeAngelo dropped his eyes, and she walked out.

Marisol took her seat at the counsel table. At the other table, Joshua Berman was seated next to two associate attorneys in his firm. Both were in their early thirties. A woman with dark shoulder-length hair wore a conservative charcoal blazer and skirt. Next to her was a thin man with a sparse beard and a pinstripe gray suit. Berman was wearing a bespoke textured black suit. His cufflinks were black, with a scale of justice made from diamond chips. A sheriff banged on the side of the bench. Everybody stood up, and Judge James B. Rosen took the bench.

Rosen had a tan face and dark black hair. He was trim with sharp features. With a glance to the court clerk to his left, the case was called. The clerk stood.

In the matter of Thomas Jackson, this court is called back to order. The clerk sat and hunched over something on her desk as Rosen took over.

State, the petitioner rested. Do you have any witnesses to call? Rosen asked.

Yes, Your Honor. The state will call Eric Mohler, Marisol said.

Berman shot to his feet. We object. Mr. Mohler’s testimony would be rote hearsay, more prejudicial than probative, and inherently unreliable.

Objection overruled, the judge responded unemotionally.

A man wearing