Justice For Some: Chicago Law, #1

By E.H. George

Justice for Some is an impressive series kickoff novel by E.H. George. This first book in The Chicago Law Series introduces the reader to the generational legal families, the Kepley's and the Roberts'. Lindsey Roberts is an assistant state's attorney trying to put her life in order. For more than ten years in the second largest prosecutor's office in the nation, the beautiful, intelligent attorney has seen it all – so she thinks.

The star prosecutor has just lost the highest profile case of her career. Not twenty-four hours later she barely escapes a car explosion that leaves her the scion of one of the most respected law firms in Chicago.

Her love life is filled with passion and seduction but lacks love and commitment. With her professional future in question and her personal life in shambles, she has important choices to make.

Mystery and romance weave a gripping tale in this thriller. Interesting supporting characters wind through chapters like a warm breeze on a summer day. Twists and turns will keep you turning the pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hough Publishing House
• Release date: Nov 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215708767

E.H. George

Evelyn Hough was born in Chicago, Illinois the youngest of five children. She grew up in the suburbs of Chicago and graduated from Eastern Illinois University in Charleston, Illinois. She lives in St. Augustine, Florida with her family and their paperanian, Buddy. She loves to bake, entertain, and spend time with her grandson. She has been a member of the Florida Writers Association since 2014.

Book preview

Chapter One

Outside the Cook County Criminal Court Building, the city buzzed with excitement. Thousands of Chicagoans gathered outside the building, squeezed together like bees in a hive. A carnival-like atmosphere crept up the well-worn marble steps and flowed like a raging river into Courtroom 5A. The air sizzled with anticipation.

Inside, Assistant State’s Attorney Lindsey Roberts and Nathan Winslow, her second seat, waited for the most anticipated verdict of the decade. Whispers and murmurs echoed around the courtroom housed in the Romanesque-style building.

The case of the State of Illinois versus Jackson Worthington had held the attention of the nation in a vise grip for more than six months. It garnered more press coverage than that infamous day in 1995 when OJ was acquitted.

The crime had shocked the city down to its granite bedrock. Sixteen-year-old Mia Nesmith had been brutally raped and murdered in her family’s palatial Winnetka home during the summer of 2016.

The beautiful, golden-haired teen was the daughter of US Supreme Court Justice Rhonda Nesmith Worthington and the stepdaughter of the man currently on trial.

For 187 days, Jackson Worthington sat at the defense table wearing a smug look on his face and meticulously tailored Kiton suits, and believed he was going to walk out of that courtroom a free man.

The six-month trial began on July 1. During that first month, Chicago experienced a heat wave that caused over seven hundred deaths. Despite this, the murder of a single young girl became the focus of every newspaper headline, current affairs program, and tabloid.

Throughout autumn and into winter, the public’s thirst for every tawdry detail of the murder and the famed filicide suspect, Jackson Worthington, never waned.

When an announcement was made that a verdict had been reached, tension rose in the courtroom, people lined the courthouse halls, and atavistic chanting murmured through the crowd gathered outside the halls of justice.

Family members sat quietly in their seats. The press worked on their electronic devices restlessly readying for the story to unfold. The remaining seats were filled with members of the public lucky enough to have won a spot in a lottery drawing. They all squeezed into the wood paneled courtroom, crowded together in anticipation.

In hushed tones, six defense lawyers spoke with their grinning client. A mere six feet away from the defendant’s entourage sat the two Assistant State’s Attorneys charged with the responsibility of putting a monster on death row.

The beautiful, intelligent lead prosecutor, Lindsey Roberts, looked formidable in a tailored blue pinstriped suit and vanilla silk blouse. Power surrounded and shimmered like a halo around her long, lean body.

Second chair Nathan Winslow was not so smartly turned out. He wore an off-the-rack, slightly frumpy suit. But beneath the creased suit was a young man who never reacted to courtroom situations. He anticipated what Lindsey needed, be it a document, an exhibit, or a cup of coffee.

Over the span of eighteen weeks, the dogged lead prosecutor had called fifty-eight witnesses and cross-examined fifty-three defense witnesses, ranging from young friends of the victim to FBI special agents to DNA forensic scientists. She questioned them all expertly.

Her closing argument had been organized and eloquent. The press wrote that her mix of poetry and prose, science and emotion, fact and supposition, was one of the most forceful summations ever delivered in a courtroom.

To Lindsey, an eternity stretched between each tick of the clock. The air was thick and oppressive. When she breathed in deep, she smelled the crowd’s sweat, perfume, and blood lust. For a few minutes, she let the scents seep into her system. Anxious, she began shuffling files and papers for no particular reason. Surprisingly, she was a bundle of nerves. She hadn’t expected to be.

She had a love-hate relationship with that moment when the jury had made their decision. When they knew and she didn’t. And the countless hours she had spent researching, organizing, studying, and thinking had been judged along with the defendant. Lindsey realized the verdict would impact her life regardless of what the jury decided. This trial was bigger than any of the people playing their parts in the sad saga.

Leaning over to Nathan, she spoke rapidly. Did I do enough? Did the DNA evidence confuse the jurors? Do you think the technical jargon was over their heads? Juror number six worries me. I should have dismissed her with a peremptory challenge. Dammit. I don’t know why Alex insisted we use a jury consultant. I’ve always had good instincts about people, and number six worried me from day one. Her normal long and slow breaths had become short and clipped. Anxiety grew with each inhale.

Take a deep breath before you pass out, Lindsey, Nathan comforted.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I’m never this nervous.

Nathan put his hand on her bouncing leg. Don’t worry. You made your case, Lindsey.

She heard Nathan’s words clear enough, but before she could acknowledge the overconfident statement of her second seat, the bailiff called for the court to rise, and the jury filed in. With her stomach tied in knots, a bead of cold sweat rolled down her spine.

After eight days of deliberation, the jurors entered the jury box. Lindsey focused on each one of them for tells.

Eleven jurors with downcast eyes made their way into the jury box. Every juror, save one, gave nothing away. When juror number six’s eyes drew up in a slow arc towards the defense table, Lindsey’s stomach turned over.

She hung the jury. With clear focus, Lindsey calmed. She had lost, period. The relentless murmuring that a moment ago seemed to come from everywhere silenced eerily. Every twitching nerve in her body became still. Lindsey’s nerves stopped their twitching. Dammit, she swore under her breath.

WATCHING LINDSEY STAND by the parlor window with the fading sunlight warming her back, her grandmother poured a tumbler of scotch, reached out, and gently rubbed her hand over Lindsey’s arm.

Ada Kepley had lost her share of high-profile cases throughout her career, so she knew how Lindsey was feeling. Welcome home, here you go, Ada said as she handed Lindsey the tumbler. The fading sunlight shot subtle rainbow prisms off the crystal glass.

Thanks. Lindsey downed the two fingers of sun-kissed bronze liquid in one gulp. Aah, I needed that. She studied her empty glass.

I’m sorry, Lindsey. Your case was compelling and powerfully presented. But, you know as well as I, the only thing predictable about a jury is unpredictability. Surely Worthington will be retried? She carefully poured Lindsey more scotch, this time three fingers.

Ada Kepley, a successful attorney in her own right, knew her granddaughter might never get over today’s verdict. Some losses were tough to swallow. It had been a lengthy, expensive investigation and an emotionally charged trial. Yes, it would be quite some time before Lindsey fully recovered. If she ever did.

Not my call. I thought we had him, Gran. He got away with it. Taking a long, slow swig of the smooth amber liquid, she rubbed her temple hoping to ward off the headache brewing behind her eyes.

Have you spoken with Alexander? He doesn’t blame you for the verdict, does he? I can’t imagine him not wanting to have another go at that bastard.

Her grandmother, a delicate flower in her elegant parlor but a wolf in the courtroom, rarely used such language. Except, of course, when she was mad.

No. I slipped out the back. She said it on a moan of resignation, frustration, and anger all at once. He was on the courthouse steps talking to the press. I’m sure he’s not too happy with me." Sighing, she rubbed her thumb and index finger over one of her perfectly arched eyebrows.

This morning we were talking about going out for a celebratory dinner. Looking into the eyes of her grandmother, one of Chicago’s most respected defense attorneys, the weight of failure soured her stomach.

Well into her seventies, her grandmother limited her courtroom appearances. These days she preferred working with the Innocence Project. The two women were strong willed, successful, and equally passionate. Each worked for justice. It just so happened to be from opposing sides of the courtroom.

Do you remember the first time I brought you to court, Lindsey? Ada asked as a distraction.

Lindsey’s eyes narrowed a moment before she smiled recognition. Yeah, I do. It was April, and it was hot. One of the ceiling fans whirled frantically trying to move the stale air. It spun at an obtuse angle and made a deep, grinding noise.

She closed her eyes to bring it all back. I remember the smell. Opening her eyes, she grinned. Hot air, leather, and aged wood. Lindsey rubbed the knuckle of her index finger under her nose. And Chanel No.5.

Ada laughed and her eyes pricked with tears. My signature scent. She covered her mouth with her hand to hold back the tide of emotion. The years had rolled by too quickly. When had the years before her become so few and the ones behind so many?

I still remember the judge’s baritone voice and the three raps of his gavel when the prosecutor started bickering about some point of law, Lindsey added.

Blinking rapidly, Lindsey grinned with blurry eyes filled with admiration. And I remember you. Her breathing slowed as the memory fluttered and filled her belly. You were magnificent. I have absolutely no recollection what the case was or what you said, but oh, my god, I wanted to be just like you. How old was I? Her eyebrows drew together in concentration.

Eight. You nagged me for weeks begging to come to court. You and Henry were in fourth grade and out of school for spring break. Your grandfather took Henry fishing that day. Ada sipped delicately from her crystal tumbler. She gave herself a moment to miss those precious days and those precious children who were now adults.

I remember watching you cross back and forth across the parquet floor. Your high heels clicked delicately on the wood. They were a rich chocolate brown, and patterned, I think. Lindsey closed her eyes to recreate them in her head. She opened her eyes and grinned.

Alligator. They were alligator.

Her grandmother smiled, amazed by the clarity of her granddaughter’s memory.

Your suit was the color of vanilla buttercream with big gold buttons running down the front.

That was Chanel too. I never wore that suit again, but it’s still in my closet. Ada’s belly laugh lightened Lindsey’s gloom.

Did you win? She didn’t recall that part of the story.

No. And that’s why I never wore that suit again. Her voice was low and quiet. Superstitious. She shrugged her shoulders. I kept it to remind me to keep looking forward. But to never forget the past either.

These women, opposites in many ways, the same in many more, were more than grandmother and granddaughter. Ada was not only Lindsey’s grandmother but her mentor, her touchstone, her best friend, and the lawyer she aspired to be.

Their passion for the law was linked to their DNA. The first woman to graduate from law school in the United States, Ada Harriet Miser Kepley, was their ancestor.

Among the youngest generation of Kepleys, it was Lindsey who carried her ancestor’s name proudly. Though her legal name was Ada Lindsey Kepley Roberts, she preferred to be called Lindsey. To her, Ada sounded like a woman from a small rural farm community who wore an apron and gathered chicken eggs at dawn.

Her lineage was a source of pride to Lindsey. The DNA she inherited from that ancestor didn’t make her a carbon copy of Ada, but it contained a record of that amazing woman.

After Ada graduated from Northwestern in 1870, she applied for her license to practice law. She was informed that an Illinois bill forbade women from practicing law. But she wasn’t going to let something as transient as an arcane law stand in her way.

She, along with her lawyer husband, challenged the ruling. They drafted a bill prohibiting sex discrimination in the legal and other professions. It passed and became law.

When Lindsey was six or seven, her grandmother brought her to her ancestor’s grave site in an old churchyard in Effingham, Illinois. Standing in front of the grave marker, which was pitted and weathered with age, Lindsey was struck by its lack of pomp. Though she didn’t realize it then, the woman who was interred beneath that marker smoothed a path for tens of thousands of women to practice law.

On that sunny June day, her grandmother told her about Ada being beaten over the head and shot at for her outspoken views. When she added that Ada’s dog had taken a bullet meant for her, Lindsey had an epiphany. She decided it was her duty to carry on the struggle that brave woman, her great, great, however many greats it was grandmother began over one hundred years earlier.

Lindsey had knelt beside the small, understated marker and pledged to carry on in Ada’s footsteps.

Her grandmother’s voice pulled her from her musing. Lindsey, where were you, dear? I could make an educated guess. Somewhere in southern Illinois?

Lindsey was tall and lanky in her meticulously tailored suit. Her thick, wavy hair spilled to just below her shoulders and was the color of roasted almonds with a streaky hint of butter that matched her eyes. She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it over the back of the sofa.

Yeah, thinking about that damn dog being shot. It still pisses me off. Shaking her head, she dragged herself back to the now.

To answer your original question. No, I doubt Alex blames me for the verdict, but I didn’t want to deal with him. Gran, I hate feeling like a loser. Tears of frustration trickled down her flushed cheeks.

Lindsey, none of this self-pity crap. Pull it in and get it together. It wasn’t a total loss, more like a tie. She couldn’t believe what she was saying, but right now she’d do anything to remove that look of despair from her granddaughter’s eyes. No matter how old Lindsey was, Ada would always be compelled to protect her heart.

Yeah, right. A tie. There is no such thing. You win or you lose. Whatever kind of bow you want to wrap around it, I lost today. The creep isn’t locked up at Statesville’s death row, but probably drinking twenty-year-old scotch in his over decorated Winnetka home. She spoke in a brisk, angry tone.

You can have another shot at him. I think juror number six hung your jury. There was something scripted in her answers during voir dire. I couldn’t put my finger on it then, or now, but it seemed . . . feigned. With a snap, she added, Why the hell didn’t you use a peremptory challenge and dismiss her?

Alexander insisted we use that bitch of a jury consultant, Miranda Jamison. Lindsey raised her eyes to her hero and shook her head.

She and I went back and forth about juror number six. I didn’t want her on my jury, but Miranda was damn sure her sympathies were in our camp. Both she and Alex thought the fact she had a teenage daughter was a compelling factor in our favor. But I had this tingle up my spine I should have acknowledged. Taking another sip of her drink, Lindsey lamented her failure.

Shaking her head, her grandmother said, I have never used a jury consultant. Of course, they’re a pretty recent phenomenon. Even so, I would never dismiss my gut instinct and relinquish such an important decision or any decision, for that matter, to anyone. You shouldn’t have either. I’m sorry to say, but ultimately it was your decision, not the consultant’s, not Nathan’s, and not Alexander’s. She laid a hand on Lindsey’s cheek.

Crap. That stung, but Lindsey knew she was right.

Gran, I’m going to bed to lick my wounds. I’m sure I’ll be better tomorrow. I couldn’t be any worse. With a heavy sigh, Lindsey refilled her glass, kissed her grandmother good night, and made her way up to her bedroom.

Leaving a trail of clothing from the bedroom door to the bathroom, she stepped into the steam shower. Sky blue lights winked on when she tapped the sparkling glass control pad. She set the water temperature to one hundred two degrees and body jets on full pulse and then set the rain showerhead to mizzle. She wanted to boil the frustration from her body and remove every remnant of courthouse grime. Steam swirled around her, condensing the air until the white vapor seeped into every pore of her body.

Pressing her fingers against one of the glass tiles revealed a hidden compartment. Emerald green liquid soap infused with the scent of cucumbers filled her palm. Being bombarded with hot water from all sides, she let the bone-warming heat melt away the pent-up tension. She switched on the body dryer, and swirling hot air dried her entire body. By the time she stepped out of the shower, she was relaxed, drowsy, and ready for bed. At least one thing was going precisely as planned.

She had paperwork to finish up—there was always more paperwork—but it could wait. Settling under her fluffy down comforter, Lindsey worked up the courage to look at her phone. Twenty-two missed calls. She figured most of the messages were from the media wanting a statement.

As far as Lindsey was concerned, they could kiss her ass. There were four missed calls and four voice messages from Michelle Burris, her longtime friend, and writer for the Chicago Tribune. Knowing Shelly, Lindsey was positive each successive message was longer, louder, and more insistent.

They had become fast friends years ago. Michelle had moved to Chicago from Savannah in the middle of seventh grade when her father took a position at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Lindsey would call her back, but not quite yet. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

Skimming down the list, there was only one call she was compelled to return, that of Alexander Mezzanotte, her sometimes lover and her boss. His beautiful Italian name meant midnight. Like the color of his dark, hauntingly dangerous eyes, it suited him.

Emptying the last drop of scotch, she FaceTimed her dark, gorgeous lover and braced herself for the inevitable tongue-lashing.

Well, good evening, Lindsey. Isn’t it kind of you to finally return my call? The gentle twang of his Southern roots turned the syllables of finally into three distinct words.

Thrown off balance by his seductive tone, Lindsey sighed before responding. Sorry, Alex. I just checked my messages. Today’s verdict made me want to scream, and I didn’t think it wise to speak to anyone until I’d calmed down. Which, when I come to think of it, I still haven’t.

You didn’t even want to speak to your boss, Ms. Roberts? Undaunted, he asked.

I’m calling you now. Yours is the only call I’ve returned. What do you want from me? I had my ass handed to me today, and I needed a little pout. I hate losing. It pisses me off. You have a problem with that? Sarcasm fumed.

If you weren’t pissed, there most definitely would be a problem. But you didn’t lose or win. A mistrial due to a hung jury is more like . . . Let’s call it a tie, he offered.

What the hell is it with you people? I don’t believe there’s a box on the verdict form for a tie. Seething and frustrated, she stomped out from under her warm, comfortable comforter and paced back and forth across the thick bedroom carpet.

If we have another go at him, you know the case can’t be assigned to you. Let it be for now. Allow your emotions to settle, and then we’ll talk about it. What are you doing now, Lindsey? His voice was silky smooth.

Looking at her clock, Lindsey saw it was past ten o’clock. What the hell did he think she was doing? Out dancing the tango? I’m in bed. Well, I was. Now I’m pacing. Why?

Well, if I’m not mistaken, we had a dinner date.

I wasn’t in a celebratory mood. When I left the courthouse, you were busy with the press. I went out the back and came home. More like snuck out the back, she thought.

Lindsey, I am a man who’s accustomed to getting precisely what I want when I want it, one way or another. And tonight, I want you. His dark, keen eyes swam onscreen.

I was in bed Alex, and I’m not getting dressed to go out.

Who said anything about getting dressed or going out? How about I come up and console you? he asked smooth as midnight velvet.

Where are you?

Go to the window. The words rolled like silk off his tongue.

Shaking her head, she walked over to the bay window and looked down on Michigan Avenue. Leaning on the side of his car with his legs casually crossed at the ankles was Cook County’s top prosecutor.

Looking up, he half smiled. Buzz me in, now. It was the careless order of a man used to giving them and having them obeyed. He followed the order with a wicked grin that had her quickly hitting the entry buzzer.

Looking down at her appearance, Lindsey just grinned. She wore a white tank top, white cotton panties, and white bobby socks that kept her perpetually cold feet warm. She never understood women who donned fancy satin or silk nightgowns. They just twisted, turned, and bunched up around your body while you slept. Before she crossed the room, Alex was closing her bedroom door. With his hand behind his back, he turned the lock. His eyes took a slow, steady gaze down her body from head to toe.

My, my. Don’t you look sexy in your little white bobby socks, he purred, arching a perfect eyebrow.

The powers that be were extraordinarily generous on the day he was conceived. Thick, ebony hair framed his tawny skin, moss-green eyes sparkled, and his sexy mouth curved into a half smile. His five thousand dollar bespoke suit shouted power.

As he crossed the room to her, his slow, panther-like movements made Lindsey weak in the knees and warm in all the right places. When his hands slipped through her silky hair, then slid down her back, her breath stuttered, and her heart pounded. His familiar touch, those skillful fingers, and his steady gaze drew her close. His lips curved into a playful smile before meeting hers. When their lips met, every remaining fragment of tension whispered away.

His mouth took hers confidently, warm and soft, drawing her into the kiss until she lost her breath.

Skimming his lips down her neck, scraping his teeth over her breasts through thin cotton. His clever hands dragged her shirt up and over her head. Tasting her small, firm breasts, he eased her panties down, nibbling his way lower.

Her heart pounded in anticipation. Her fingers curled through and grabbed his hair. She didn’t want to come, not yet. They were equally controlled, he in the giving, her in the taking.

His nimble tongue flicked and swirled, making her moan, and weakened her knees. She braced herself for the onslaught of pleasure.

Shifting his hands, wanting her smooth skin under his fingers, he stroked her backside. Her skin was warm, and her muscles strained. He loved the feel of her, the lines of her, the soft, delicate curves of her. Her scent filled him with desire.

Her hands fisted in his hair as his mouth got to work.

When his mouth nipped obligingly wet flesh, the orgasm ripped through her.

As she cried out in satisfaction, he began kissing his way up her body over her silken skin. Her racing heart hammered beneath his mouth.

His grinning lips found hers ready and welcoming. That was better than dinner, he whispered against her neck. How he loved to watch her face when she lost herself.

She gasped for air. Yeah, she answered. And fewer calories.

Always the pragmatic romantic, Ms. Roberts, he stated with a chuckle.

"I’m taking you