No Show of Remorse Read Online Free PDF

saw it. Shouting her outrage that women who stand up for principle must still endure that sort of demeaning sexist insult, she managed to keep the story alive week after week in the media.
    Within months of that she’d been tapped by the supreme court to serve out the term of an appellate court justice who resigned amid charges by his two women law clerks that he considered regular spankings a reasonable condition of their employment. Then, after hardly a year on the appellate court, the Democrats ran her for the supreme court. The people loved her. Billboards sprang up everywhere with her name and the words: “One tough broad … and just right for the Illinois Supreme Court.”
    Once on the court, Flanagan’s personality and connections made her a power to be reckoned with. She came out consistently “tough on crime” and a “moderate” when it came to big business and the insurance and medical lobbies. In other words, she was a Democrat, yes, but she never forgot where the money was. That’s about all I knew about Maura Flanagan as I sat in that conference room with Stefanie Randle. That, and the new information that Flanagan considered me an idiot, thought I might not live much longer if I didn’t cave in and drop my petition, and didn’t want the commission filing objections to my reinstatement. All in all, it made no sense. And here sat Stefanie, who yesterday seemed ready—even anxious—to file those objections, asking me what she should do.
    Fortunately, Renata returned just then, and insisted on leaving at once. “I’ll think about it,” I told Stefanie, “and get back to you.”
    *   *   *
    I RODE WITH R ENATA in a cab to the federal courthouse. “Well?” she finally asked, after two blocks of silence.
    â€œMs. Randle’s not in any hurry to reschedule my dep.”
    â€œFine. Nor am I. You should dismiss your petition and get on with your life.”
    â€œUh-huh.” I stared out the window. “So, what are you rushing to now?”
    â€œAt one-thirty,” she said, “I have a client being sentenced for his part in a heroin conspiracy. His name is Johnnie Lee Bedlow and he’s twenty-one years old. His older brother’s a major drug dealer, but Johnnie Lee himself kept pretty clean, at least for a kid from the projects on the west side. This was his third bust, though. He’s got two prior drug convictions, both guilty pleas to dealing coke, small amounts. While he was on probation for the last one he saw the light. He went back and got a high school diploma. Wants to go to college, be a social worker, work with gang kids.”
    â€œGreat,” I said. “Now he just has to wait until he gets out of the slammer to be a good guy.” It was a flippant, stupid remark, out before I could stop it.
    She turned toward me. “I’m so glad you think it’s great,” she said. “And guess how old he’ll be then.” The anger rose in her voice, directed at me, but only because I was handy. “Sixty-one. That’s how old, dammit. One night his big brother’s short a lookout, so he strongarms Johnnie Lee into standing on the corner and lifting his cap if he sees anyone driving by who looks like an undercover cop. Well, the kid missed one, so now he’s going away for forty years.” Her voice was trembling. “The goddamn sentencing guidelines make it mandatory. The judge knows how wrong it is, but he can’t do a thing about it. Even if the prosecutors were to ask for leniency—which God knows they won’t—his hands are tied.” The cab stopped at the federal building and Renata got out, then leaned down beside the open door. “So forgive me if I’m not overly excited about a case like yours, where you don’t even want what you’re asking for, but insist on going forward … so you can prove your so-called