Chapter 17
Luke
“People versus Luke Rankin,” the clerk calls out, followed by a docket number. I peek back at the gallery. Other than Finley, seated in the front row, there is only a spatter of people here to watch.
Allison gets to her feet. “Good morning, Your Honor. Allison Brice for the defendant.”
This is the “preliminary hearing,” when the state is required to show probable cause to charge me with my crime. It’s a mere formality, Allison has told me, all but a foregone conclusion that the court will find probable cause.
“Bruce Ghadiali for the State.”
The prosecutor makes a good first impression, a tall, lean man with tightly cut hair of salt and pepper.
Allison predicted there would be a different lawyer today, a simple function of the division of labor in the state’s attorney’s office.
But one look at this guy and I suspect it’s more than that.
They’ve seen the media reports. They’ve upped their game.
This is a senior lawyer in the office, stepping in to make sure the office puts its best foot forward.
“We’re up on a preliminary hearing. State? Ready to proceed?” The judge is a man named Robert Archibald, with silver hair and a narrow, chiseled face.
“Yes, Your Honor. State calls Trooper Eric Langley.”
The trooper, sitting in the front row, assumes the witness stand and is sworn in. He looks younger in this setting than he did when he pulled me over. The uniform looks as silly as ever.
He gives his name and badge number. He’s been a state trooper for over six years.
“Turn your attention to Monday, February sixteenth, of this year,” says the prosecutor. “Who did you work for that day?”
“Illinois State Police, Troop 3,” he says. “I was assigned to Crim Pat.”
“Crime patrol?”
“Yes, the Crime Patrol Unit. I was on duty that day patrolling Interstate 57.”
“In a marked or unmarked vehicle?”
“Marked.”
“At approximately eleven a.m., did you conduct a traffic stop of a blue Toyota Corolla?”
“Yes, traveling southbound. I activated my lights and executed the stop.”
“Did you activate your body-worn camera?”
“I did.”
“Do you see in court today the individual who was driving the Corolla?”
“Stipulate to identification,” Allison says without even looking up.
“The record will reflect an in-court identification of the defendant,” says the judge.
That’s me, the “defendant.” Can’t they just say my name? Do I have to wear a pejorative label instead of just “Luke” or “Mr. Rankin”?
The prosecutor, Ghadiali, reviews his notes. “Did you come to learn whether the defendant was the owner of this vehicle?”
“I learned he was not. The car was registered to someone else, a Trinity Casto. The defendant informed me that he was running an errand for her.”
“I see. Did you seek consent to search the vehicle?”
“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?”