Chapter 13
Three cups of coffee later and Beau Lee still hadn’t smoothed things over with Alvarez. She wasn’t difficult to read. In fact, there was no mystery at all about how she felt about working with him. She clearly saw him as an interloper, but it didn’t stop him from trying to win her over.
“So…where are you from?” Beau Lee asked while flipping through a stack of briefs.
“West Side of Chicago,” she said. “Born and raised.”
He smiled. “That explains a lot.”
“No offense to folks who think it’s all rough and tumble, but there’s so much more to my neighborhood than what the news shows.”
“I don’t doubt that. I know Chicago’s got layers.”
“You’re absolutely right.”
“Why Chicago, though?”
“Besides the fact that it’s home? The food, the people, the rhythm of it all. Chicago summers. The block parties. The music blasting from somebody’s front porch. It’s a culture all its own,” she said. “There’s no place like it on earth.”
“Sounds like the same love I’ve got for Houston. And how’d you end up back here practicing law?”
“That’s a long story…”
“How about the summary?”
“I left Chicago for college—got my BA in social science from UCLA, then my master’s in social welfare from USC, and my JD from Stanford. I was twenty-five by the time I wrapped all that up. Then I went abroad to Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar and completed a degree in civil law.”
“Impressive doesn’t quite cover it. You’re a powerhouse.”
“After school, I clerked for a judge, then did some time at a few high-profile firms in L.A. and New York—corporate law mostly. Cutthroat stuff. Represented companies with more money than sense. You already know how that goes.”
“Working for yourself means less tyranny?”
“Are you referring to my banking clients?”
“Not specifically, but if I were to cast this in biblical terms, they’d be Goliath.”
“As much as I’d love to only take cases like the Montroses’, I’d be paying off student loans until retirement.”
“You get no flak from me,” he said. “But what made you decide to leave Southern California?”
“I loved L.A.—the weather, the energy, the West Coast vibe. But something in me knew it wasn’t where I was meant to plant roots,” she said.
“I thought about trying D.C., Boston, maybe New York…but none of those places felt right, either. They were already oversaturated, crowded with people doing the same kind of work. Chicago just kept tugging at me. It’s home.
It’s where this Puerto Rican abogada belongs.
It’s where I was meant to be. And even with all its challenges, there’s real opportunity here.
It was six years ago that I started my own practice here.
I’ve been building ever since. I serve as outside counsel for many corporations.
It allows me to make sure my overhead’s covered and do some necessary good for the community. ”
She shifted to grab a stack of manila folders from her briefcase and placed it on the coffee table between them. “Here’s everything I have on the CPD. Plenty of corroboration for Hollis’s claims, along with a copy of the complaint he filed. The trouble was, I couldn’t get anyone to go on record.”
“What’s the case’s status now?”
“It’s stalled,” she said, putting the pen down.
“And, if I’m being honest, things aren’t as clear-cut as I originally thought.
Hollis made some incendiary statements about the department online.
Venting, really, but they were enough to color him ‘disgruntled.’ All I can say is that the lawsuit made enough of a fuss that a good number of the cops named in it were forced into early retirement.
A small consolation given what Hollis experienced. ”
“A small consolation, indeed.”
“So, how much do you think you’ll get out of the CPD?” she asked.
“I plan to sue for fifty million.”
“Sure, Mrs. Montrose told me that, but how much do you think you’ll actually get?”
“Fifty million. Maybe more.”
Alvarez nearly choked. “While it wouldn’t be the first lawsuit, it would be one of the largest civil suits against the police department in Chicago history.”
“Good—it’s what they deserve.”
Alvarez knew the importance of this fight, but she also knew the history of the Chicago Police Department all too well.
“Beau Lee, you may not be aware, but in the late nineteen-sixties, a group of Black officers formed the Afro-American Patrolman’s League (AAPL), led by Edward ‘Buzz’ Palmer.
Those officers had seen enough injustice and began documenting complaints from Black citizens and fellow officers about harassment, brutality, wrongful shootings, theft, intimidation.
Over time, they compiled more than three-hundred thirty-one boxes of evidence.
Lawsuits were filed. Investigations were launched.
The AAPL demanded accountability and pushed for the advancement of Black officers within a system built to keep them in the margins.
And you know what happened? The CPD retaliated—they had a machine within the system.
Officers who spoke out were reassigned to powerless beats.
Passed over for promotions. Blackballed.
The message was clear: stay in line or be erased.
Rocky said that Hollis knew this history well. He admired Palmer. He saw himself in the fight the AAPL had waged. But even with all that came before, no case had ever cracked the system open the way Hollis was hoping to. No victory had ever come close.”
Alvarez continued. “I mean, you just got here. You don’t know how this city works.
If you think the powers that be are just going to sit back and let you file some massive lawsuit and make the city’s police department out to be a corrupt, racist, or anything else they are organization, then you’re going to have a war on your hands. ”
“I’m prepared,” Beau Lee said. “Been fighting injustice since I was a boy. I don’t know anything different. The same goes for my firm. We fight for those who are forgotten, marginalized, and silenced. A lawsuit like the one I intend to file will force people to finally pay attention.”
Alvarez gave an approving nod. “The invisible becomes seen…”
“What’s that?”
“Just something my mother used to say. She was what some people called the ideal Catholic. Never missed mass. Quick to offer a scripture for what ailed you. Anytime things got rough, she’d remind me that God might not be seen with the naked eye, but he always makes his presence known—visible.”
“Reminds me of mine. At eighty-eight, she makes it to church every Sunday.”
“My mom would say that seeing the invisible meant walking in faith. Believing with your whole heart that God can and will move mountains.”
“A wise woman.”
Alvarez nodded. “We lost her four years ago to a car accident.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Thank you. She lived a rich and full life. Something I aspire to.”
“Prayerfully, my mother is still here and will be for more years to come,” he said. “Not sure what I’d do without her.”
“I like to think that even though my mom is gone, I honor her with the work I do.”
Beau Lee smiled, and for the first time since meeting Alvarez, he felt like they had found some common ground.
“Another cappuccino?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“Cinnamon?”
“You read my mind.”