Exquisite Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  With the roar of the water rushing over the falls, there was little chance of being overheard. And picking them up on any directional listening device was all but impossible.

  “Relax,” Charlie said after seeing the look in Damone’s eyes. “They’re fine. They should be back at your Tahoe by now. What do you need me for?”

  It took Damone almost fifteen minutes to explain what he wanted. When he finished, Charlie was thoughtfully quiet for another couple of minutes.

  “I can’t guarantee that. What you’re asking will be very difficult,” Charlie said.

  “I know,” Damone agreed. “Can it be done?”

  “Sure,” Charlie replied. “I didn’t say impossible. I said difficult. But, because I like a challenge, I’ll give it my best shot. It will take several days of surveillance…”

  “I know.”

  “…then I’ll let you know if I think I can do it. Let me check this out and see what I can come up with. If I don’t think it’s going to happen, I’ll call you and then you can decide what you want to do. I’m not suicidal or interested in spending the rest of my life in a cell. Understood?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll tell you now, one way or another I need it done. I do want you to call me if you can’t do it this way. How much?” Damone asked.

  “What were you told?”

  “One hundred,” Damone said, meaning one hundred thousand dollars.

  “That’s normal. But I won’t charge you extra for the difficulty. Like I said, I like a challenge. I’ll get you the wiring instructions. Just so we understand each other, no one has ever dared to stiff me.”

  “Deal,” Damone said then stuck out his hand for a deal-sealing handshake. Instead, Charlie handed him the two handguns he had taken from Lewis and Monroe then simply turned and walked away.

  Fourteen

  During the past few days, since the death of Mikal Tate, the initial outburst of rage over his death had cooled. The media, especially Philo Anson at the Minneapolis Star Tribune tried to keep it inflamed. Despite their blatant efforts to sell newspapers, most people were waiting for the police investigation to conclude.

  On June 12, the case was submitted to a grand jury. Reverend Ferguson did his best to help the two women involved—Karenna Hines and Shelly Cornelius— avoid testifying, they were both subpoenaed and forced to face the grand jury. Like most people, when seated in a witness chair in front of a grand jury and facing possible perjury charges, they both told the truth. It took the grand jury less than twenty minutes to No Bill the case and exonerate the police. Apparently, they concluded that if you assault a police officer, steal his gun and point it at him in a threatening way his partner is justified in the use of deadly force. Convincing the public of this was an entirely separate matter. On top of that, despite being warned that it was a mistake to do what he wanted to do, Mayor Fogel was about to make a huge mistake.

  Kordell Glover, Jalen Bryant’s mayoral campaign manager, paced about and checked his watch over and over. He was in the basement of the City Hall Building waiting for Bryant. Jalen was invited to attend this morning’s meeting in the mayor’s office and Glover wanted to talk to him beforehand. Glover was at the entrance to the tunnel under Fifth Street leading to the large Hennepin County Government Center. It was almost ten o’clock and the pedestrian traffic coming and going through the tunnel was still fairly heavy.

  Glover checked his watch again, 9:54, then saw Jalen heading toward him. Relieved, he waited patiently for his client.

  The two men shook hands, then Jalen said, “What more do we need to talk about?”

  “Nothing, really,” Glover replied. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

  “Relax, Kordell. We are. Stay as neutral as possible and don’t let anyone take my picture if Foley is going to be in it. I still think I should make a statement on behalf of the police. This was a clean shooting.”

  “Why did he shoot the kid three times?” Glover asked. “That will be the question. I hear Ferguson is going to use that to demand a trial. It was an overuse of force. An opportunity for a white cop to kill a young black man.”

  “Who was about to shoot his black partner,” Jalen reminded him.

  “Hey, I’m with you on this. It was a clean shooting. Go to the meeting and if anybody asks, give them a noncommittal quote about it being a tragedy and everyone needs to keep cool kind of thing. We’ll get the endorsement from the cops, don’t worry. Why is he doing this the day before the Fourth of July?” Glover asked.

  “Because he’s not a deep thinker. He says he wants to get it out to the public as soon as possible––no cover-up. Besides, this way, more people will be off work tomorrow to help burn the city down,” Jalen replied.

  “That would help us,” Glover said.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Jalen said. “I have to go,” he continued as his elevator arrived.

  “Thank you for coming,” Mayor Fogel said to the crowd assembled in his conference room.

  Instead of taking his chair at the head of the table, Fogel stood at that place. On the table was a small podium on which Fogel placed his papers.

  Seated around the conference room table were the main players. At the other end of the table was Reverend Ferguson. The others around the table were Hennepin County Attorney, Felicia Jones, the Chief of the MPD, Marvin Brown, City Attorney Trudy Spencer, Jalen Bryant and Patti Chenault. Seated along the wall, each behind his or her boss, were deputies and assistants. Also in attendance, and sitting at the table, Bible in hand, was Damone Watson. On the same side of the table as Damone were three more community leaders from the black community.

  Mayor Fogel’s Chief of Staff, Mary Heyer, was going around the table handing out copies of a report. As she did this, Fogel began the briefing.

  “The police department, in conjunction with the FBI who graciously assisted, has completed their investigation of the death of Mikal Tate,” Fogel began.

  “Try calling it what it was: a cold-blooded murder of an unarmed young black man by a white, racist cop,” Ferguson said.

  Mary Heyer placed a copy of the report in front of Ferguson. He picked it up and disdainfully tossed it the length of the table at Fogel. The report hit the podium in front of Fogel which caused the mayor to jump backward.

  The room went silent while everyone waited for the mayor to respond. When it became obvious that he would not, the city attorney, Trudy Spencer did.

  She was seated three chairs from Ferguson facing Fogel. She swiveled her chair around, crossed her arms on the table, leaned forward and glared at the abusive minister.

  “Is this what you call being open-minded?” she snarled. “You don’t even wait…”

  “I know what’s in this stack of lies,” Ferguson said dismissively. “You are going to let this racist cop go free without even facing a trial, aren’t you? Go ahead, deny it.”

  “I’m not going to deny it,” Spencer said. “It was a justified shooting. Even those two girls you were able to get to lie for you told the truth in front of the grand jury.”

  “That’s ridiculous, woman,” Ferguson said as if speaking to a child. “You and your cops threatened and intimidated two poor, young, black girls into telling you what you wanted to hear.”

  “That will make for an interesting opening statement at your next press conference,” Felicia Jones said.

  “Are you, or are you not, going to bring charges against this racist cop?” Ferguson thundered, then slammed his fist on the table.

  By now, there was a definite stirring along the wall behind Ferguson. There were a dozen or so members of the black community either seated or standing. Several heads were nodding in support of the reverend.

  “He had the black officer’s gun and was about to shoot him!” Spencer yelled back at him.

  “There is no proof of that,” Ferguson said more calmly. “Besides, that should be something for a jury to decide. Not white government bureaucrats.”

  T
he murmuring and head bobbing along the wall picked up.

  While all of this was taking place, Damone Watson sat silently keeping his own counsel. At one point, he suppressed a laugh when he saw the panicked look in the eyes of Mayor Fogel. Other than that, he simply watched with detached silence.

  Felicia Jones leaned back and motioned for her chief of felony litigation, Steve Gondeck, to come to her. The two of them exchanged several whispers, then the county attorney turned back to Ferguson.

  “You want us to spend a half a million dollars or more on a criminal trial we don’t believe in and can’t win. Is that it? Just to placate you,” Jones firmly said to Ferguson. “Not to mention that doing so would be extremely unethical.”

  “That’s a laugh,” Ferguson said with a fake chuckle. “Lawyers and ethics. What a joke.”

  Ferguson glared back at Jones and said, “It’s not to placate me. It’s to show the black community that justice is not an empty word.”

  “How much are you going to make on a civil suit against the city?” a female voice from behind Trudy Spencer was heard asking. When Trudy heard it, she clenched her teeth and tried to swivel her chair around before it got worse. Too late, her chief assistant, Gail Symanski, was already on her feet.

  “I resent that,” Ferguson replied.

  “Yeah, fine, resent away,” Symanski said flipping the back of her hand at him. “Answer the question.”

  “I don’t have to answer any damn fool question from you, woman,” Ferguson indignantly said.

  “You can do it now, or if a civil case is brought, I’ll put your fat ass on a witness stand, and you can answer it then,” Symanski said. She looked at Trudy who was drawing a finger across her own throat in a sign for Symanski to stop. “Well?” Symanski asked.

  Ferguson nervously looked around the room and saw over twenty pairs of eyes watching him.

  “I, uh, I have advised, um, Mikal Tate’s family that they have a, ah, right to bring suit. There was, um, nothing, I mean well, nothing decided about a, ah, donation to the church they might make from any proceeds. That would be up to them.”

  “Uh-huh,” Trudy sarcastically replied. “As their spiritual adviser? Have you started shopping for your new Mercedes?”

  “I’m leaving,” Ferguson said. “I won’t take this abuse. But,” he continued after rolling back his chair and standing and pointing a long finger at Fogel, “if you insist on this cover-up, the politicians in this room will regret it at the polls.”

  With that, all of the black attendees, except for Damone and Jalen Bryant, followed Ferguson out the door. None of them bothered to take a copy of the investigation report with them.

  A minute or so after they left, Damone picked up his copy of the report and his Bible. He looked at Fogel and said, “Mr. Mayor.” Then he smiled at those still in the room, wished them a good day and quietly left.

  After another moment of silence, Chief Brown said, “Well, that went better than I thought it would.”

  This broke the ice and elicited laughter from those still in the room–– everyone except Mayor Fogel.

  Trudy swiveled around again to look at her top assistant, smiled at her and said, “You just can’t keep your mouth shut, can you?”

  Symanski sheepishly shrugged and replied, “You know me. Because you do know me, I figure it’s your fault for bringing me along. You know I can’t help it.”

  “True enough,” Trudy said.

  “Gail, you slammed him, and he had it coming,” Steve Gondeck said. “If Trudy fires you, come across the street. We’ll find a place for you.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind, Steve, thanks.”

  Having finally gathered himself together, Mayor Fogel, who had taken Damone’s empty chair, said, “We need to decide what to do next. We have released a statement to the media about the findings already.”

  “So they can start reporting it on their noon news shows,” Mary Heyer chimed in.

  “Any suggestions?” Fogel asked.

  “To do what?” Chief Brown asked. “It was an obviously legitimate, justified use of deadly force. My guys were exonerated. The FBI and DOJ are both on board with that. What more is there to do?”

  “I think we should consider making a financial settlement offer to the family,” Fogel said.

  “Absolutely not!” Chief Brown thundered. “It will open the floodgates for this type of extortion.”

  “And law enforcement across the nation already believe their civilian governments don’t have their back,” Deputy Chief Terrell added. “That causes more crime. More civilian and police casualties. You’re telling the criminals to go ahead, take a shot at a cop. If he shoots back, the city will pay.”

  “That’s an overreaction,” Mary Heyer said.

  “Since this doesn’t involve the county, it is strictly a city matter, we’re leaving. I don’t want to hear more,” Felicia Jones said. The room went quiet while Jones and Steve Gondeck left.

  “Along with the city’s liability insurance and what we, the city can do,” Fogel said, “we can offer them six million dollars right now to wrap it up and make it go away. Opinions?” Fogel asked looking at the others.

  He turned first to City Councilwoman Patti Chenault.

  “I think it’s probably the thing to do,” she replied.

  “Mr. Bryant?” Fogel asked Jalen.

  “No,” Jalen answered. “I think we need to stand with our police department on this. Plus, it’s way too early to make such an exorbitant offer. This isn’t Baltimore or New York. Let’s not get carried away.”

  “I assume you’re a no, Marvin?” Fogel asked Chief Brown.

  “Definitely,” Brown replied.

  “Trudy?” Fogel asked Trudy Spencer.

  “Gail, go ahead,” Spencer said.

  Symanski stood up and looked over the others. “Let me see if I understand this,” she began by addressing the mayor and his overpaid, glorified secretary, “You want to pay six million dollars to the family of an unemployed, high school dropout junkie for a wrongful death case that the city legally has no liability for?”

  “You can’t say we have no liability,” Fogel protested. “I’m a lawyer too and I’m not so sure.”

  “Yeah, okay, whatever,” Symanski said with obvious disrespect.

  She held up a sheet of paper she had been holding in her hand and said, “Would you like me to enlighten you about the family? The mother,” she continued reading from the paper, “of Mikal Tate is an alcoholic crack whore with eight arrests and three convictions for prostitution. The father, Emmanuel Tate, is far worse. He is forty-two and has spent seventeen of the last twenty-four years in prison…”

  “There are the two boys, the sons of Mikal Tate,” Chenault said.

  “Fine,” Trudy replied. “Set up a college fund for them. Give their mother a hundred grand to raise them. Six million? Every drug dealer in the Upper Midwest will be after Karenna and Tate’s mother and father.

  “We can win this thing at trial for a lot less than six million,” Trudy Spencer said. Otherwise, Jalen Bryant will shove this right up your ass in the election, she thought.

  Fifteen

  “You’re pretty quiet this morning,” Marc said to Maddy. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine,” she said with a small smile.

  “This is nothing today. You won’t have to do anything,” Marc said.

  “Oh, yeah, I know. But what if the judge asks me something?”

  “Answer her truthfully, but don’t get carried away. If she asks you a question, answer just that question. And it’s okay to ask her to repeat it if you’re not sure what she is asking. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine,” Marc assured her then reached over and squeezed her hand.

  They were in Marc’s car on I-94 crossing the Mississippi River bridge into St. Paul. The motion to prevent Maddy from testifying in Nicolette’s trial was today in Ramsey County. They were on their way to attend it.

  “What happens if the judge rules I don’t
have to testify?”

  Marc paused for a moment before answering her. As he was about to, a guy in a huge pickup truck swerved in front of him causing Marc to hit his brakes.

  “Asshole!” Marc yelled then hit his horn.

  The driver of the pickup looked in his mirror then flipped him off.

  “Don’t,” Maddy sternly told him. “Let it go. The last thing we need is to get in a fight with some redneck idiot. Be a little patient.”

  Marc looked at Maddy and said, “That’s great. You’re telling me to be patient. Have you ever watched the way you drive? One hand on the wheel, one hand on the horn.”

  “That’s different. Now, answer my question,” she said.

  “Why is it always different?”

  “Move along,” she snarled.

  “Yes, ma’am. What was the question?”

  “What happens if….”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, if you aren’t allowed to testify, I think the state’s case is over. Without you, they can’t tie her to the time of the shooting or the gun. The M.E. can give a time of death, but it’s not that precise. Greer can argue they were already dead when she got there. There were no prints on the gun. It wasn’t registered to Nicolette, her husband or anyone she knows.”

  “The gunshot residue on her hands and clothes?” Maddy asked.

  “She was at a shooting range she regularly goes to that morning. Didn’t I tell you that?” Marc asked.

  “No.”

  “Yeah, she’s been a sport shooter for many years. There’s video of her there earlier that day,” Marc said. He looked at Maddy and continued, “Lucky for her no one saw what she was shooting with.”

  “What was she…”

  “I don’t know, but it doesn’t look like she had a long gun with her.”

  “She was practicing with that handgun,” Maddy quietly said.

  “Maybe, but there’s no evidence of it,” Marc said.

  “What about you calling 9-1-1?”

  “They can make me testify that I was the one who did it,” Marc said. “But they can’t make me testify how I knew to do it––where I got the information. I got it from you and if I try to say that, Greer will object. It’s hearsay.”