The Best Lies

1

Leo

I hear them coming up the back stairs, the fire escape off the alley. Their footfalls are harsh, trudging, deliberate. So they're not coming to kill me. That's the good news.

The bad news is they're coming to arrest me.

You should reconsider your life choices when those are the only two possibilities.

Cops. Local or federal? I'm not sure which I should fear more. I'll know soon.

I pull out my phone and dial my law partner, Montgomery Morris.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he says.

"You busy?"

"On my way to the Bulls game. Why?"

"I'm gonna need a lawyer, Monty."

"You-what? Why?"

"It's a long story. They're about to take me into custody."

"Well . . . when?"

"In about eleven seconds," I say.

"Eleven sec-the Bulls are playing Giannis tonight. Is it serious?"

"Umm . . . probably. It depends on which crime they charge."

"There's more than one to choose from?"

"Depends on whether it's FBI or local cops."

"You don't even know that much? What did you do now, Leo?"

The fire escape from the second story to the third, where I live, is 14 stairs. Seven stairs, then a landing, then another 7. You'd think that would mean that, combined with the flight from the ground to the second floor, the total number of stairs is 28. But it's 29, as there's an extra step on the bottom. And 29 is not only a prime number but the sum of three consecutive squares (the squares of 2, 3, and 4), which helps me not at all right now but . . . yeah.

Three . . . two . . . one.

Two people appear at my back door. One is a guy I don't recognize. The other is Mary Cagnola, a sergeant with DPPD. Both with their badges out so I can see them.

"Deemer Park P.D.," I tell Monty and punch out the phone before he can object.

I slide open the door, a shock of cold air invading my condo.

"Leo Balanoff?" Sergeant Cagnola does the talking.

If I were cool, I'd say something like What took you so long?

"And here I didn't get a valentine for you guys," I say.

"No valentines, Leo. We have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Cyrus Balik."


The booking process at Deemer Park P.D. is a real treat. They photograph me, swab my cheek for DNA, and fingerprint me. But the highlight is the cavity search. It’s always a moment for self-reflection when someone’s snapping on rubber gloves and ordering you to bend over and spread your legs. On the bright side, it’s the most action I’ve had in months.


Interview Room A of the Deemer Park police station is about as exciting as a sensory deprivation tank. The room is paneled wood, if you can believe it, painted off-white. I sit at an old rickety table in an uncomfortable wooden chair that has uneven legs. Uneven, like the imbalanced scales of justice? Maybe I can work that into a line.

Cagnola and Dignan sit across from me. First time I've met Dignan. Ruddy complexion, decent head of hair, a face that's starting to surrender to age. Late forties, I figure, so he's close to his twenty if he wants to hang it up, and I'm betting he does. Beneath the false bravado, the show of authority that these cops try to project, he's nervous. His leg is bobbing up and down under the table.

He should be nervous.

"Are you willing to talk to us, Leo?" Cagnola will lead, apparently. Interesting. Frankly, I'm surprised she's in this room at all. She looks tired but otherwise the same as the last time I saw her-steely blue eyes that dominate her face, dirty-blond hair pulled back, kind of an overall go-fuck-yourself air about her.

"I didn't kill Cyrus Balik," I say. "I'm willing to listen to what you have to say, but this is a . . . gross miscarriage of justice."

It felt like that needed to be said.

Cagnola suppresses a smile. Shoots a look at my lawyer, Monty, and nods back toward me, as in Do you believe this guy?

The answer to that question, by the way, would be no. Monty probably doesn't completely believe me. That's not usually a healthy start to the attorney-client relationship.

"Okay, well, you can start by listening." Cagnola settles in. "But you already know what I'm gonna say."

I'd cross my arms, but that's not easy in handcuffs, unless I had the dexterity of Houdini.

That would be cool, to contort yourself like that.

"First off, nobody in this room is mourning the loss of Cyrus Balik. The guy was the worst of the worst. Human trafficker, gunrunner, drug dealer, and who knows how many murders. He lured in women, turned them into addicts and prostitutes, chewed them up and spit them out. He's what we call a destroyer. He's ruined a lot of people's lives. Truth be told, you did the world a favor, Leo."

You're welcome.

"So sentencing on something like this-if you cooperate with us, tell us what happened, I'd be prepared to recommend a lenient sentence."

I nod, like I'm considering it. I'm not.

"This isn't your first offense," she continues. "You punched that cop back in college."

"I didn't punch that cop," I say.

"Of course not. Of course you didn't. You just pled guilty to something you didn't do, right? That happens all the time, right?"

It happens more often than people think.

"But the good news for us," she says, "is your arrest back in college gave us your fingerprints and DNA. Those ended up being very helpful."

Yeah, more on that later, I assume.

"Then there's that stunt you pulled once you became a lawyer. You perpetrated a 'fraud on the court.' You lost your law license for . . . What did they give you-a nickel?"

Yes, a five-year suspension. I've been reinstated for a year now. Long story.

"And you were-the bar disciplinary committee, they had an expert who diagnosed you as a pathological liar. Right? You're a pathological liar?"

In other words, go ahead and try to talk your way out of this, but no one's going to believe you.

"That's what they said," I answer, which is not the same thing as yes.

Cagnola seems pleased with her summary. "So let's talk about the reason you're here. We know you were trying to get law enforcement to go after Cyrus Balik. We know that your, uh, client, Bonnie Tressler, was going to testify against him. And we know she died."

"She was murdered," I correct.

Monty puts a hand on my arm. "We're just listening right now."

"She was murdered," says Cagnola, happy to use that. "Murdered by Cyrus, you figure? I mean, that's the thing, right? You think Cyrus murdered Bonnie."

Of course I think he killed her. That's what we in the legal profession call my "motive."

Monty interjects again. "Just listening right now."

Cagnola nods, but she's looking at me, not him. "And we know you went to see Cyrus Balik afterward-after Bonnie's death."

That's true.

"And we know that your meeting didn't go well."

That's an understatement. That's like saying the maiden voyage of the Titanic fell short of expectations.

"And then, not long after that, Cyrus ends up dead from a fatal stab wound."

Roger that.

"Then, the forensics," she says, looking at me for a reaction. "We found your blood-your DNA-on Cyrus's shirtsleeve."

I'll be the first to admit, that whole thing didn't go quite as smoothly as expected.

"And we found your fingerprints on the knife sticking out of Cyrus's neck."

That was just plain sloppy. I'm not gonna sugarcoat it.

"So?" Cagnola parts her hands. "We have all kinds of motive, and we have forensic evidence putting you at the scene with the knife in your hand. We got you, Leo. You're done. Anything you'd like to say?"

Not really. I have an alibi, but it wouldn't hold up under close scrutiny. And the odds of a mistake in DNA profiling are one in a billion.

"Maybe it was self-defense," she says, prodding me.

No, it wasn't. She knows that. Not under the legal definition, at least.

"Maybe it was a moment of panic," she tries.

It was anything but a moment of panic.

"This is a chance to help yourself," says Dignan. "Explain how it happened."

I look at Monty. Nothing I can say will help me. He knows it, I know it.

For the first time in my life, I can't talk my way out of something.

One Year Earlier

January 2023

2

Leo

"I still have nightmares. I'm still afraid of him. Is that weird?" Her knees up on her couch, the shadows playing on her face, Bonnie Tressler chews her thumbnail while she looks outside at her scenic view of a brick wall on the other side of the alley. With the dim lighting and her sunken eyes, she looks far older than her forty-nine years. Decades of drug use didn't help, either.

"It's not weird at all," I say.

She smiles, appreciative but sure I could never understand. "I'm tired of being afraid of him. I mean." She lets out a breath. "I got away twenty years ago. He's forgotten all about me. I'd be no use to him, anyway, at this point. I mean, look at me. A middle-aged junkie?"

There's nothing wrong with Bonnie's appearance-her mouse-colored hair streaked with blue, the multiple piercings on her face-but she does have the look of someone who weathered her share of storms.

"Ex-junkie," I say.

She has three hoops in each ear, a stud above her lip, one in the side of her nose, and one on her left cheek at the dimple. She has five visible tattoos-one on each ankle, a small heart on her right cheek, a cross on her forearm, and a skull on the back of her neck. She has crossed or uncrossed her legs six times since we've been sitting together and has licked her lips-a nervous habit-seven times.

Sometimes I count things.

"You don't have to tell us." Trace, sitting next to her, puts his hand over hers. "I know I've been pushing, but you don't have to, Bon. It's okay."

She gives him a kind smile, her eyes welling up. "No, it's not okay. You know why it's not okay? Because he could be doing it to other women right now. He probably is."

He probably is. Whoever he is, if he's not dead or in prison, he's still preying on women. Human trafficking is too profitable to give up. And the people who do it are not the kind who grow consciences.

"Fuck it." She sits forward, pins back her hair with her hands. The overworked radiator picks that moment to bellow and hiss. "Cyrus," she says. "His name is Cyrus." She messes up her hair and lets out a decisive breath, a breath she's been holding for twenty years.

"Cyrus Balik."


”We take this to law enforcement. I’ll go with you,” I quickly add, seeing the look on Bonnie’s face. “I’ll be your attorney, so they’ll have to work through me.”

"You can do that now? You're back to being a lawyer?"

"My license was reinstated last week."

Last Friday, the five-year suspension ended. My law license is reactivated.

Long story, but here's the short version: I fucked up.

"We know a cop in Deemer Park, right?" says Trace, peeking at me for a reaction.

"Oh, of course-Andi." Bonnie lights up. "Of course! But . . . you've been on the outs."

"On the outs for the last five years." I shoot Trace a look. "Without a single word to each other since. Andi would welcome a call from me like she welcomes gridlock traffic."

"Well, but she's the obvious person to call." Trace opens his hands.

I roll my neck. "I was thinking federal," I say. "FBI."

But Trace is right. Andi is the obvious person for this, and Deemer Park-her jurisdiction-is where Bonnie thinks Cyrus still does some of his business.

"Okay, I'll reach out." I pull out my phone and type a quick note to Andi:

Law enforcement issue for a client. Need your assistance.

That's as much as I'm willing to say over text. I hit "send," then type a second message:

This is Leo, by the way, if you've deleted my contact.

"She might have a different number now," I say. "And even if this is the right number, I might be hearing back . . . never."

"You can't really blame her," says Bonnie.

I never said I did. I don't blame her. I'd have dumped me, too, after the stunt I pulled.

"Hell yes you can blame her." Trace to my defense. "You did a good thing. You did the right thing. Who cares if you broke some stupid lawyer rules?"

The state supreme court cared, for one. A five-year suspension isn't a slap on the wrist.

My phone buzzes. Andi. That was fast:

I left the department. Private security now. Call Sgt Mary Cagnola, DPPD. I trust her.

I do a slow burn. Andi quit the force? The Andi I know would never. I feel it in a way I never have before-I no longer know her. We're over. She's gone. Forever.

"Seriously?" Trace says after I show him the text, rereading it like it's written in a foreign language. "Andi's not a cop anymore? The fuck is that all about?" He throws the phone down on the floor. Then he kicks it.

"That's my phone, T, not yours."

3

Chris

"Let me see if I understand this." Special Agent Christopher Roberti sits across from Bonnie Tressler and her lawyer, Leo Balanoff. On his side of the table is Sergeant Mary Cagnola, Deemer Park Police-his sister-who brought him in. "Ms. Tressler-"

"Bonnie," she says. "Everyone calls me Bonnie."

Bonnie and the lawyer are both looking him over, or at least that's how it feels to Chris. He knows his hair is only half-grown back, in thin, wispy sprouts. That the skin on his face sags from the significant weight loss. That his clothes don't quite fit-the shirt collar too wide, the shoulders of the suit hanging. They're thinking-crash diet, or illness? The hair usually tips it to the latter.

"Okay, Bonnie," Chris says. "You're saying you ran away from your home in Indiana when you were fourteen. Cyrus Balik took you in. He kept you. He gave you drugs. He raped you repeatedly. And then you got pregnant."

"That's right." Bonnie plays with her hands, keeps looking over at Balanoff, her lawyer. "I cleaned up after I found out. I didn't take drugs when I was pregnant."