Keep Them Close(23)

“I did. The defendant consented.”

“Did you conduct a search of the vehicle?”

“Yes.” He proceeds to run through the search briefly, which included looking through every nook and cranny of the car’s interior and removing a large amount of clothes from the back seat. “Yes,” he says, in response to a question, “we ultimately searched the area beneath the trunk, the area where a spare tire is typically kept.”

“Did you find anything besides a spare tire?”

“We did. We found a shopping bag. Inside that shopping bag were a number of pills and a tube of lipstick.”

“Lipstick?” I whisper to Allison. “Lipstick?”

“Hearing this for the first time,” she whispers back. “Let me listen.”

The trooper goes on to explain that he considered the pills to be “suspect oxycodone” and counted out one hundred pills. The street value, he says, is about a dollar for each milligram, making each eighty-milligram tablet worth $80. So the street value of the batch was $8,000.

“One more thing, Trooper,” says Ghadiali. “Tell us why you stopped this vehicle.”

“Yes, sir.” The trooper clears his throat. “The state police received information from a confidential source to be on the lookout for this vehicle, traveling southbound on Interstate 57 toward Bourbonnais, on a Monday morning. We were told that the vehicle might be transporting suspect contraband. Oxycodone, specifically.”

I reach for Allison’s arm. “What does that mean? What’s going on?”

She is all business, leaning slightly forward, eyes narrowed, intent with concentration.

“No further questions,” says the prosecutor.

The judge looks at the defense table. “Cross?”

Allison gets to her feet. “Trooper, the state police had a confidential informant?”

“Yes, we did.”

“Did the informant identify a specific car?”

“Yes.”

“By a specific license plate?”

“Yes.”

“And a specific name?”

“I…well, yes, as I said, the car was registered to an individual named Trinity Casto.”

“You never heard the name Luke Rankin associated with that vehicle.”

“No,” he says. “I had no information regarding Luke Rankin.”



* * *





As expected, the judge takes little time finding probable cause to hold my case over for trial. The court adjourns a moment later. Allison walks over to the prosecutor, Ghadiali. “I want testing on everything found in that trunk,” she says. “The bag, the pills, the lipstick. DNA and prints. I’ll file a motion if you won’t agree.”

“We’re already planning to do that,” he replies. “File a motion if you want.”

Allison nods and returns to the defense table as people filter out of the courtroom.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “What does this mean?”

Allison turns to me. “What does it mean? It means somebody told the cops that the car you were driving contained drugs. It means you were set up, Luke.” She leans in and whispers in my ear. “Still wanna plead guilty?”





18


Allison

“Who? Who would’ve set me up?” Luke asks as we leave the criminal courts building and walk to the parking garage across California Avenue.

“That’s confidential, isn’t it?” says Finley. “I thought they didn’t reveal their sources.”

“Stop it, both of you,” I hiss under my breath. “Not until we’re inside the car. Not another word until then.”

A photographer approaches with a press credential affixed to his coat. I put out my hand like a stop sign. “Could we do that another time?”

The photographer, about to squat down before us, stands and smiles. “Allison, it’s Barry, from the AP.”

Right, the Associated Press photog. “Oh, Barry—good to see you. It’s been a long time. Not since the senator’s trial.”

“You look well,” he says. “Listen, I need a shot today. Those are my orders. We can do it however you want. I just need the photo.”

It’s a tough time for newspapers. An even tougher time for photographers. Plus, he’ll snap the shot whether we like it or not. “Can you give us two seconds?” I ask.

“Will you be in it, too?”

“You want me in it?”

“Are you kidding? You’re part of the story.”

I sigh. It’s not as if we have a choice. “Promise you’ll make him look good?”

“Promise.”

I turn to Luke. “We do this once and they won’t bother us again,” I say. “Carry my briefcase. You’ll look chivalrous. And turn to me as if explaining something. Explain…explain to me how to throw a changeup. Don’t smile, don’t frown, just look matter-of-fact. We’ll just walk and talk like the photog isn’t there. It will be over before you know it.”

Luke takes the briefcase from my hand. “They teach you that in law school?”

Finley pulls away from us. Luke and I walk toward California Avenue while the photographer snaps away.