“No answer,” Lewis said. “It went to voicemail. I left a message, she is to call immediately.”
Damone pointed at the TV screen. On it was the good Reverend Ferguson. Next to him were two young black women, one of whom looked battered.
“Those two girls must be the ones involved with Ferguson’s victim. The moron he’s trying to turn into an Eagle Scout honor student. Find them and bring them to me. Pay them if you have to.”
At that moment, the white bitch was in a meeting at the mayor’s office. Along with Jalen Bryant, they were there representing the city council. Also present was the City Attorney, Trudy Spencer and her top deputy, Gail Symanski and the Chief of Police, Marvin Brown and his top deputy, Reggie Terrell. The mayor had requested this meeting to discuss the events outside the Old City Hall Building. Another mass protest was taking place, larger than the recent one regarding the white supremacist rumor.
All of the attendees were seated in a conference room watching a television. They were viewing the same thing Damone Watson was watching and at the same time. On camera, in front of a collection of microphones was the righteous Reverend Lionel Ferguson, all six-feet-five, three hundred pounds of him. In front of him, once again blocking Fifth Street except for light rail traffic, was an angry crowd ready to explode. The media would report their number at twenty thousand. The actual number was barely five thousand. Still, large enough to cause serious problems if things got out of control, which seemed likely.
“Once again,” Reverend Ferguson’s voice boomed over the crowd, “one of our innocent, young brothers was wantonly murdered by a racist white cop! An unarmed black man, preparing to attend college this fall on a scholarship, was gunned down for the crime of being born black! Mikal Tate had his entire life before him. A life where he could and would make a difference. A fine young man, a father of two beautiful children, two children who will grow up without their father…”
“Shut this off before I throw up,” Chief Brown demanded.
“…who was taken from them in front of their mother!”
Reverend Ferguson paused and looked over the crowd of both black and white faces. There was a low, stirring sound, an almost animal-like growl coming from them in anticipation of Ferguson’s next words. A palpable sense of anger, frustration and fury waiting to explode.
Ferguson turned to his right, placed an arm around the shoulders of a young black woman and gently pulled her to the podium. Holding Karenna as closely as possible to hide her injuries, Ferguson leaned into the microphones and quietly, sadly continued.
“And this is the mother of the two boys whose father was taken from them. And her friend next to her. Both of them witnessed the shooting and both are prepared to swear that Mikel Tate was unarmed acting peacefully and the entire sordid mess was another outrageous overreaction and an act of brutality by a racist white cop. Racist police that run rampant across this country.”
Ferguson paused again to embrace Karenna Hines while she wept into his chest. He held her for a calculated twelve seconds then went back to the microphones. He again moved his head back and forth looking over the crowd for several seconds.
“What do you want?” he finally bellowed.
“Justice!” the mob screamed back.
“When do we want it?”
“Now!”
For the next three minutes, Ferguson repeated this over and over.
“Shut it off,” Chief Brown said again.
This time Mayor Fogel did what the Chief requested.
“This is unadulterated bullshit,” Gail Symanski said. It was Gail who would had the unenviable task of dealing with this case in court for the city. “It’s time we find the balls to stand behind our police officers.”
“Let me remind you,” City Attorney Trudy Spencer chimed in, “we have two EMTs, one of whom needed medical treatment because he was assaulted by Tate who verify the officer’s statements one hundred percent.”
“There are political considerations…” Patti Chenault started to say.
“Fuck political considerations,” Symanski almost yelled.
“That kind of language is not acceptable,” Mayor Fogel said.
“We could probably quiet everything by hiring an outside firm to do an investigation,” Fogel’s Chief of Staff, Mary Heyer, said. “Perhaps a reputable law firm.”
“That’s a great idea,” Symanski said. “Let’s spend a million bucks of the taxpayer’s money for a ‘cover-your-ass’ commission. Or, I have a thought. How about we do what we are paid to do, do our jobs and let the police finish their investigation.”
While the outspoken Gail Symanski was taking the lead on their behalf, the Chief and Deputy Chief, both in dress uniforms, sat quietly. The city attorney’s office and police department had the same attitude toward criminals; they should be locked up. This was a constant source of friction with the mayor’s office and city council. Because of Symanski’s willingness to speak truth to power, it had been decided beforehand by Trudy Spencer and Chief Brown to turn Symanski loose.
“What do you think, Jalen?” Chief Brown asked Jalen Bryant.
“I agree, I think that’s the thing to do. Let the internal investigation be completed. Then we’ll see at that point. Right now, it looks like a good shooting. If so, we need to take a stand and not give in to the mob.”
“Mr. Mayor?” Chief Brown asked.
“Yes, I suppose that’s the thing to do,” Fogel quietly said.
“You need to meet with Reverend Ferguson,” Chief Brown said.
“Is that necessary?” Fogel said looking around the room for some help.
“Yes,” Symanski said.
Chief Brown looked at Fogel’s Chief of Staff and said, “Set it up, Mary. I’ll be there and,” he turned to look at Trudy Spencer, “Trudy will be there too.”
“How about you, Jalen?” Brown asked Jalen Bryant.
“I’ll be there, no problem,” Bryant said.
“Today, this afternoon,” Trudy Spencer said. “We can’t let this fester.”
“I’ll set it up now and let you know the time,” Mary Heyer replied.
On the way back to the city attorney’s office, Chief Brown and Deputy Chief Terrell walked along with the two women from the city attorney’s office.
“If that man ever found a backbone,” Gail Symanski said to no one in particular, referring to Mayor Fogel, “he might be able to walk upright.”
“Now, now,” her boss said laughing quietly. “He is in charge.”
“That’s what worries me,” Symanski replied.
“Aren’t you worried about your job?” Terrell asked Symanski.
“I turn down one or two job offers a month,” Symanski said. “So, no, not really.”
“Thank you for coming, Reverend,” Mayor Foley said to Ferguson. “Please come into the conference room where we can discuss things.”
It was now 3:00 P.M. and Ferguson had agreed to meet with the mayor. The protestors were still on the streets around City Hall except now the temperature downtown was topping ninety-five and at least half from the morning crowd were gone.
Fogel held the conference room door for the reverend. Waiting inside were the same people who had met that morning.
Ferguson dropped his large frame in the empty chair at the head of the table. While he did this, he gave the attendees a warm smile and greeting. He knew each of them and they, in turn, were well acquainted with him.
Fogel took the chair at the opposite end and started things off. “Thank you for coming, Reverend Ferguson. As I told you on the phone, we,” he continued waving an arm around the table at the others, “want to bring you up to date on the tragic death of Mikal Tate.”
“Murder,” Ferguson said.
“Chief Brown,” Fogel said, ignoring the comment.
“We’ve interviewed all of the witnesses and the only ones who appear to have changed their story are the girlfriend of Mikal Tate, Karenna Hines and her neighbor Shelly Cornelius,” Chief
Brown said.
Reverend Ferguson was leaning back in his chair, his fingers locked together over his ample stomach. While Brown was speaking, Ferguson looked on with a mask of a total indifference on his face. He was tempted to fake a yawn just to emphasize the point.
“On Friday night, at the scene, both women gave a statement to our detectives. Their statements corroborated the obvious evidence of the beating Ms. Hines received from Mikal Tate. Their statements were absolutely consistent with the other witnesses, the EMTs, who were both assaulted by Mikal Tate, one of whom has a broken nose. The women’s statements were also consistent with the statements of the two officers involved.”
“What are you suggesting, Chief?” Ferguson asked.
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Brown replied. “The statements they gave Friday were typed up and signed by the women.”
“Obvious police coercion,” Ferguson said. “Anything else?”
“Yes, we’d like you to cool down the rhetoric and give us a chance to complete our investigation,” Brown said.
“Why? Let’s assume for a minute that your investigation finds what you claim to be a valid, legitimate, police shooting. So, what? You can’t be trusted. Why should we believe you? The police are murdering young black men in this country everyday…”
“That’s a lie and you know it,” Deputy Chief Terrell interjected. “Every honest study ever done refutes that nonsense. All you’re doing is stoking race hatred.”
“White racism is everywhere,” Ferguson said with a smile.
“Tell him,” Gail Symanski said to her boss.
Trudy Spencer looked at Ferguson and said, “If our investigation exonerates these two police officers, we will fight any lawsuit brought against the city. We’re all done caving in just for public relations purposes.”
“We’ll see. Besides this isn’t about money. It’s about justice,” Ferguson said.
“Reverend, Mikal Tate was out of his mind from smoking crack and snorting heroin,” Chief Brown said. “He beat his girlfriend, attacked two EMTs who tried to help her, assaulted a police officer, stole his gun and was about to shoot him. A black police officer with a family, you got the wrong martyr here.”
Ferguson stood up and said, “Good day, gentlemen, ladies.” With that, he left as calmly as possible.
Waiting for Reverend Ferguson in his church office was Philo Anson. When Ferguson got back to his office, the two of them spent over two hours together. When Philo was satisfied he had enough dirt on the cops, he hurried back to the Star Tribune building. His story, with an across the page headline, ran the next day on the paper’s front page.
By 10:00 A.M., because of Philo’s story, the Northside 4th Precinct was surrounded and shut down by the mob. Three hundred officers from other parts of the city were called in to assist. Wearing riot gear, they managed to keep a lid on things with only a few minor injuries and no arrests. Philo Anson celebrated with a night on the town in the company of a high-priced, beautiful call girl.
Eleven
Marc Kadella waited patiently while seated in the jury box of Judge Noran’s courtroom. There were six or seven other defense lawyers—he wasn’t sure because one of them looked like he could be a defendant—hanging about waiting to talk to the prosecutor. The prosecutor was a young black man Marc vaguely knew with the city attorney’s office. It appeared that Marc’s was the only felony case scheduled for a pretrial. The city attorney only handled misdemeanors.
While Marc waited for his clients and Jerry Krain to arrive, he looked over the gaggle of defense lawyers. By the obviously inexpensive suits they wore, he was reminded that very few lawyers, let alone criminal defense lawyers, got rich practicing law. Marc was doing well compared to most, but it was still a tough, competitive way to make a living.
The door opened and his clients, all three of the Kullens, came in; the stepfather, Ambrose Kullen, age 57, the mother, Susan, age 56, and Susan’s son, Troy Fontaine, age 32. They all wore the same sullen expression.
Marc went through the gate in the bar and waved them forward to greet them. He shook hands with all three and told them to sit in the front row. Troy sat first, three empty seats from his mother who sat in between Troy and Ambrose. While they were doing this Marc saw a familiar face come in from the hallway.
“Hey, Jennifer,” Marc said to the prosecutor. “Please tell me you’re here for me.”
“I’m here for you,” Jennifer Moore replied. “Let’s find a place to talk.”
Jennifer checked in with the judge’s clerk who told her the jury room was available. The two of them went in and took chairs at the table.
“Where’s the Nazi?” Marc asked, referring to Jerry Krain.
“He’s in trial, so this got handed to me late yesterday,” she replied, indicating Marc’s case. “Interesting reading,” she said with a touch of sarcasm. “I read through the case file—in fact, I couldn’t put it down—and I’ll tell you what Marc, the next time I go to a family reunion, I’m going to give everyone there a big hug. Some of them may have some issues, but at least they’re not this bunch.”
“Well, um, yeah,” Marc said rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “They, uh, don’t always get along too well.”
“They don’t get along too well? Let’s see,” Jennifer began. “Ambrose, the stepfather, and Troy, the stepson, get into an argument about a TV show.” She picked up a sheet of paper and read, “They were arguing about who should win the American Idol contest. Really?”
“So, I’m told,” Marc hesitantly replied.
“They start throwing punches, trash most of the house including smashing the TV. All the while Susan, Troy’s mom, is screaming hysterically.
“She gets them settled down until Troy runs out to the garage and comes back wielding an axe. Ambrose hikes it into the bedroom, slams and locks the door while Troy is after him with the axe.”
Jennifer looks up from her notes, smiles and says to Marc, “This is my favorite part.
“Troy starts in on the door with the axe. He smashes a hole in it and does… is this really true?” she asks Marc who silently nods his head knowing what’s coming.
Jennifer continues to read from her notes. “…does a Jack Nicholson imitation from The Shining, sticks his face in the hole he cut in the door and says, ‘Heeeere’s Johnny.’ At which point the old man blows a hole in the door a foot from the idiot stepson’s head with a .357 magnum.
“Is that pretty much it?” Jennifer asked.
“Well, they did settle down then,” Marc said trying not to laugh.
“The cops come because Susan has called them and arrest both of these geniuses. And, it is now the ninth time in the past twelve months the cops have been called to break up a fight at this place. Either between Ambrose and Troy or Ambrose and Susan. You won’t see this one on Leave it to Beaver,” Jennifer said.
“What do you mean?” Marc asked. “You don’t see Wally and the Beav getting into it like this while Ward and June look on?”
Jennifer laughed and said, “I’m having a hard time keeping a straight face with this. You want to do what now with the All-American family?”
Turning serious, Marc said, “They’ve been seeing a shrink…”
“I saw her report,” Jennifer said.
“And she thinks they understand they need anger management,” Marc said.
“They need a year or two behind bars,” Jennifer replied.
“What good will that do? You put either or both of these knuckleheads in jail they’ll come out worse than they are now.” Marc continued, “Plead each of them to a gross misdemeanor assault, sentence them to a year on the county and suspend it for a couple of years. They agree to anger management counseling and supervised probation to make sure they do it.”
“Nope, they plead to third-degree assault with twenty-four months in a real prison suspended but hanging over their heads. Five years probation, two supervised, three unsupervised, if they complete the therapy,” Jennifer said.
“And Troy needs to move out. He’s thirty-two. When is he gonna cut the cord?”
“I told him that. Make it part of the package,” Marc said.
“How did you get this case, anyway?” Jennifer asked.
“The wife is a cousin of a former client. They were recommended to me. I quoted them a fee that I thought would make them run screaming out the door. Instead, Ambrose wrote a check.”
“Serves you right for being greedy,” Jennifer smiled.
“They’re not getting a refund,” Marc said. “Should we go see the judge and get this over with?”
“Krain’s gonna be pissed, but I got the okay from Steve to make this go away,” Jennifer said referring to her boss, Steve Gondeck. “Let’s do it.”
“Krain’s always pissed. You’re doing him a favor giving him something to be pissed about. That will actually make him happy. He won’t have to find anything else today,” Marc replied.
Twelve
“Come in, Reverend,” Damone said to the Reverend Ferguson.
Lewis had escorted Ferguson up to the second floor where Damone was waiting for them in the conference room. Damone saw them through the window in the door and quickly jumped up to hold it open for him. As Ferguson strolled into the room, Damone held out his hand. Ferguson almost reluctantly shook it then took the chair at the head of the table. Damone took a seat to his right.
“Thank you for coming. I’ve wanted an opportunity to meet you since moving to this fair city. You’re a legend in the community and-”
“Don’t give me your shuck and jive bullshit, boy,” Ferguson said. “I know who and what you are so what do you say we cut to the chase and get down to business.”
Damone stared at the man for several seconds with a perplexed look on his face. While he did this, he lightly brushed the fingers of his right hand on the polished tabletop while leaning on his left elbow.
“I, ah, I don’t understand. I’m not sure what you mean,” Damone said.
Exquisite Justice Page 7
