Lee Strobel - The Ambition

As he walked toward the metal detector in the lobby of the Cook County Criminal Courts building, Tom OSullivans heart pounded so hard and so fast and so loud that he was almost afraid a sheriffs deputy would hear it. Or that someone would notice the sweat on his upper lip. Or that a security guards suspicion might be aroused by his awkward smile, a rather transparent attempt to act naturally.

Through the years, Thomas Ryan OSullivan III, attorney at law, had entered the squat, concrete building on Chicagos West Side countless times to defend drug dealers and secondrate thugs charged with felonies. But this time was different; today this scion of a oncepowerful political family was coming to commit an egregious crime of his own.

A sheriffs deputy picked up Toms attach case from where hed dropped it on a table for inspection. The deputy made brief eye contact with him; there was a glimmer of recognition, and the officer didnt even bother to open the case. Tom had counted on the fact that attorneys warrant only casual attention from the security force, especially frequent visitors like himself.

Gmorning, counselor, the deputy said with a nod, handing Tom the briefcase after he emerged from the metal detector.

Tom didnt linger. Have a good one, he said, grabbing his case with one hand and scooping his watch and car keys from the plastic container with his other. He turned and walked briskly toward the elevator. His footsteps echoed loudly in the cavernous hall, and he forced himself to slow down.

Is the deputy still watching me? Should I have shot the breeze for a few minutes? What about the security cameras will anyone watch where Im going?

Reaching the elevator, Tom glanced back toward the entrance. The deputy was busy patting down a defendant who had arrived for trial. Tom sighed deeply, shoved his personal effects into his pocket, and pushed the call button. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the perspiration from under the modest wave of reddishbrown hair that swept across his forehead.

How many times, he wondered, had his father dispatched thugs the kind Tom usually represented on clandestine missions like this? It was the first time he had ever allowed himself such a thought. He preferred to remember his dad the way he saw him while growing up powerful, connected, warranting universal recognition and admiration.

He tried to suppress memories of the way his fathers life ended the dishonor and ignominy, their entire family buried in humiliation. And now, here he was, wallowing in the same corruption the last place he ever expected to find himself.

More than anything, Tom wanted to run, to hide, to escape, to call off everything. But he knew he had no choice. And in a twisted way, that provided some comfort. The decision had been made. There could be no backing out. The consequences of abandoning his assignment went beyond his imagination.

He gave his lapels a yank to straighten out the gray pinstripe suit. The only thing he could do at this point was to concentrate on not getting caught.

Garry Strider threw himself into a maroon vinyl booth at Gilkes Tap. The usual, he called over to the bartender. Just keep em coming, Jerry.

The place was virtually empty. Jerry glanced at his watch a little after three and let out a low whistle. He hustled together a J&B Scotch with a splash of water and brought it over, slipping into the seat across from his longtime customer.

Had lunch? Jerry asked. Want a burger?

Strider didnt hear the questions. Its unbelievable. Unbelievable! he said, gulping his drink.

For seventeen years, Jerry had run a holeinthewall tavern strategically located between the offices of the Chicago Tribune and the Chicago Examiner. During that time he had learned more about newspapers than most ivory tower journalism professors would ever know.

For him, the clues on this particular day were obvious: it was midafternoon in the first week of April and the chief investigative reporter of the citys second largest paper looked like he should be on suicide watch.

So, said Jerry. The Pulitzers were announced.

Strider downed the rest of his drink and removed his wirerim glasses, tossing them on the table and massaging the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut.

We worked eighteen months on that series, he said, more to himself than to Jerry. We proved that lousy forensic work by the Chicago police lab had tainted dozens of criminal cases. Scores of cases. Two guys were released from death row. Seven cops resigned; a grand jury is investigating. We may nail the chief yet. We won every award in the state. What more do we have to do?

Jerry knew more drinks were in order. He stepped behind the bar while Strider kept talking. And who do they give it to? The Miami Journal for a series on nursing homes. Cmon nursing homes? Who even cares, except in Florida?

Jerry shoved another drink into Striders hand and plopped down a bowl of pretzels.

You remember Shelly Wilson, Strider continued. The redhead? Nice legs?

Oh, yeah, I had to pry the two of you apart a couple of times. Strider shot him a sour look. Dont tell me she won it.

She was an intern when I hired her, Strider said. I taught her everything undercover work, public records, Internet research, milking informants. Maybe I taught her too well she dumped me and ran to the Journal when they offered her more money and her own team. And now she screws me again.

Jerry shook his head. He felt terrible for his friend. For as long as he had known him, all of Striders focus had been on winning a Pulitzer although Strider had never come right out and admitted it.

They both knew it: a Pulitzer turbocharges a career like nothing else. It means a shot at the