“Jake’s,” Maddy said.
“Yeah, that would be good. Jake’s Limousine Service. I don’t know the street address, but he’s got a website.”
“I’ll find it and take care of that,” Helen replied. “Now, we’ll go downstairs and get a couple of different photos. One for the slightly used passport,” she added, “and one for your Minnesota driver’s license. We’ll have you all set to go by tomorrow. You have a flight back?”
“Yes,” Maddy said. “Five o’clock, United out of O’Hare.”
“Good. Okay, let’s get some photos and I’ll get them to my source,” Helen said.
“Then I’m taking everybody to dinner,” Sean announced.
“We’ll come back and spend this evening and tomorrow going over your new identity,” Helen said. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll believe you are Tony Russo.”
“What if they really dig too deep?” Maddy asked. “We don’t want his mother to worry.”
“Smartass,” Carvelli growled.
“It wouldn’t take much to run into a Witsec wall. If they get law enforcement to do it, whoever it is will recognize it as Witsec and that you’re gone.”
“That will actually verify what they want to hear about me.”
Maddy and Carvelli exited through the upper-level doors of the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport. Waiting for them, leaning against his Buick SUV parked at the curb, was Marc Kadella. Maddy almost jumped on him and then turned to Carvelli.
“Let me introduce you to Tony Russo. A former wiseguy, tired of life as a schmuck in Witsec about to become a major drug dealer.”
“I’m not surprised. I always knew there was a gangster right below the surface,” Marc said.
Carvelli held a finger to his nose and pushed it to bend it. “I feel liberated.”
“Did he take Paxton to dinner?” Marc asked Maddy.
“No, but they did sit awfully close to each other when Sean took us out,” she replied.
“Hey, will you two stop talking about me as if I’m not here?” Carvelli asked.
“Stop it. Don’t tell me you don’t find her attractive,” Maddy said.
“What about Vivian?” Marc asked.
“Don’t worry about Vivian,” Maddy replied. “We’ve, ah, talked a bit about this.”
Twenty-Three
Arturo Mendoza, Rob Dane’s union provided lawyer, was starting to wonder if he had made a huge mistake. Following Rob’s arrest, Arturo had represented him through his first appearance. Rob entered a not guilty verdict and then bail had been arranged. The first appearance was in front of Judge Eason in the arraignment court. Eason, who was under media and public pressure to deny bail, decided to figuratively flip them off by setting bail at half a million. Martin Eason was a couple of months from retirement and did not much give a damn.
Arturo had been contacted by at least two dozen big-name criminal defense lawyers soon after. Arturo was no naïve virgin. He had been around long enough to know what they were after; publicity. He was also honest with himself. This case was going to generate a lot of heat and he might be a bit over his head.
The police union set up a GoFundMe account for Rob. Donations came in from all over the country including several from well-known black conservatives. Within a few days, Rob had the money and was able to make bail. Eason restricted him to his home and ordered a monitoring bracelet to be attached. Leah and the girls were still at her parents’ cabin up North.
Arturo sat down with Rob and went over the list of lawyers offering their help. With Arturo’s recommendation, they had selected one. A well-known man from California who had successfully represented a long list of Hollywood celebrities for a variety of misdeeds, including murder.
This morning Arturo was slowly making his way across the second Floor Atrium of the Hennepin County Government Center along with three other lawyers, starry-eyed minions of Sheldon Burke, the lawyer Arturo had brought in.
Trailing in the wake of the great man while he held a slow-moving press conference, Arturo was getting annoyed. First was the constant ego-feeding Burke required. That was not too bad. With his own gaggle of ass-kissers in attendance, Arturo felt no need to join in. Second, a companion to the ego-feeding was the vanity attention. Burke was a tall, one-time very handsome man. Now in his sixties, his hair needed replenishment, his face needed makeup and wrinkle cream and body-parts were sagging and expanding.
None of this was much of a concern for Arturo, although it was a source of amusement. What really bothered him was the man’s attitude toward their client. Arturo was becoming concerned that Rob Dane was being treated as an afterthought; secondary to the great man’s needs. Which, of course, included making sure the GoFundMe account was still in place.
Regarding the client, Rob had made it abundantly clear that he did not want any delays. Despite their best efforts, the police had not located a gun on or around Ferguson. Not surprisingly, given the makeup of the crowd, no one would admit to seeing a gun. No one would admit to seeing anything except the cop who shot the now sainted Lionel Ferguson.
Rob believed that his testimony and the testimony of character witnesses on his behalf would create reasonable doubt. He wanted to get his life and family back as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, the great man did not agree. His strategy was to stall as long as possible. Although it was becoming obvious this was a strategy to milk the publicity.
Arturo, knowing this would annoy Burke’s ego, got in between him and the minicams. “We’re supposed to be upstairs in Judge Tennant’s court in five minutes,” Arturo told Burke.
One of Burke’s toadies almost pushed Arturo aside. Burke put on a big smile showing his highly polished mouthful of expensive teeth and stopped for the cameras.
“Well, I heard Judge Tennant is waiting for me, so I better go. Don’t want to get her upset,” he told the reporters.
Burke and his entourage entered Courtroom 1745 with a flourish, as if he was expecting trumpets to announce him. Instead, he found an almost empty room. Judge Tennant’s clerk, Lois, was seated next to the judge’s bench. To Burke’s right, seated at one of the tables, were two people, obviously lawyers.
They passed through the gate as the prosecutors stood to greet them. Burke’s assistants took chairs in front of the bar while Arturo and Burke stopped to meet the prosecutors.
“Hey, Steve,” Arturo said shaking the man’s hand. “Good morning, Jennifer,” he said to the woman lawyer.
“Steve,” he began the introductions, “this is Sheldon Burke. Sheldon, Steve Gondeck and Jennifer Moore. Steve is the head of felony litigation for the county attorney and Jennifer is a very capable prosecutor in her own right.”
“So, rolling out the big guns against me,” Burke said shaking Gondeck’s hand.
While Burke shook hands with Jennifer, Steve Gondeck was thinking, It’s going to be a pleasure to hand this blow hard his ass.
“You’re looking for a continuance?” Gondeck asked Burke.
“That’s right. We can’t possibly be ready to go to trial in sixty days.”
“It’s actually less than that,” Gondeck said. “The clock has been ticking since he pleaded not guilty and demanded a speedy trial.”
“Yes, yes,” Burke replied as if speaking to a child. “We can waive it anytime we want.”
“Where’s your client?” Jennifer asked.
“I decided it’s not necessary for him to be here,” Burke said with a patronizing tone.
Jennifer looked at Arturo, a man she knew and respected, who moved his eyes toward the ceiling.
“Does he know about this?” Gondeck asked. “He seemed quite adamant when he requested…”
“Now, Steve,” Burke interrupted him. “That’s a privileged communication.”
While this was taking place, Lois had called back to Margaret Tennant to let her know everyone was in court.
“All rise,” the deputy said, interrupting them as he led the judge and her court report
er in from the back.
“Keep your seats,” the judge quickly said as she ascended to the bench. She silently waited for her reporter to set up while Burke and Arturo went to their table. When the reporter indicated she was ready, Judge Tennant began.
“Off the record,” was the first thing she said.
“Mr. Burke,” she began while looking at him with a slight smile. “First let me welcome you and your team to Minnesota…”
“Thank you, your Honor. It’s a-”
“… and don’t you ever keep me waiting again and don’t interrupt me. Do I make myself clear?”
Burke had started to rise when he spoke to thank her. Halfway up he froze in place. Fully admonished, he sat back down and said, “My apologies, your Honor.”
“Mr. Mendoza,” Tennant said to Arturo, “you know better.”
Judge Tennant then went on the record and read the case name and court file number for the reporter.
“It is my understanding that the defense is now willing to waive the right to a speedy trial. Is that correct, Mr. Burke?”
Burke stood and politely said, “It is, your Honor.”
“Why?” Tennant asked.
“Your Honor, I have only recently been retained. I’ve barely had time to study the police report. We cannot possibly be ready within the statutory sixty days.”
“Mr. Gondeck, what is the state’s position?” Tennant asked.
“We could go today, your Honor,” he replied. “This is not a complicated case. The only discovery left to be provided is the toxicology report from the victim’s autopsy.”
“You have provided all of the other discovery to the defense?” Tennant asked.
“As I said, your Honor, this is not a complicated case. The fact that the defendant did the shooting that caused the Reverend Ferguson’s death is not in dispute.”
“It seems to me you’re a little light on motive,” Tennant said. “It’s not a legal necessity, but you’re likely going to need that for first-degree.”
“We believe we have sufficient motive, your Honor,” Gondeck replied.
Tennant turned back to Burke and asked, “Where’s your client? Does he know what you’re up to?”
“I decided his presence was not necessary and any communication with my client is privileged,” Burke said.
“Oh, I see,” the judge replied. “You decided his presence was not necessary and the information about this motion, telling your client about it, is privileged.
“Okay, here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m denying your motion to waive a speedy trial until you bring Mr. Dane in and I hear from him. Was there anything else?”
“Yes, your Honor,” Gondeck stood and said. “It has come to my attention that Mr. Burke is quite fond of press publicity…”
“I object,” Burke jumped up and bellowed.
Judge Tennant motioned with her hand for him to sit down while saying, “Overruled. It’s come to my attention, also.”
“As I was saying, your Honor,” Gondeck continued, “Mr. Burke has been holding sessions with the media almost daily. The state asks for a gag order to be put in place. This case is already inflammatory enough. Let’s not make it worse.”
Gondeck sat down and Burke started to rise. As he did, the judge held up an index finger and silently used it to stop him and indicate she wanted Burke to sit down.
“Mr. Mendoza, I want to hear from you about this,” she said.
Arturo stood up to address the court. “Your Honor, we strongly oppose any gag order. We’re all grown-ups here. We know these things never really apply to the prosecution.”
Gondeck started to stand to object, but Judge Tennant held up her hand, palm out and used it to sit him down.
“I know both Steve Gondeck and Jennifer Moore, your Honor. I don’t doubt they will obey your order. But let’s face it. Police departments and prosecutor’s offices leak like a bucket with a hole in it and Mr. Gondeck will not be able to prevent it. Gag orders only stop one side from using the press, the defense.”
Gondeck started to stand again and again Tennant held up her left hand to stop him.
“I’m going to issue the order,” she said. “Even though he has a point,” she continued looking at the two prosecutors, “I’m going to be personally monitoring the news about this case. If I see a lot of leaks coming from either side, there will be consequences. Do I make myself clear?”
Both tables acknowledged her admonition.
“Mr. Burke,” she continued, looking back at him, “now that you won’t be holding news conferences, you should have more time to prepare for trial. If you want to have me reconsider my ruling, bring Mr. Dane in with you.”
The judge continued by asking, “Anything else?” When no one spoke, she adjourned.
The elevator car on the ride down was empty except for the defense lawyers. There was an awkward silence until Arturo Mendoza broke it.
“Did you or did you not get Rob Dane’s permission to waive speedy trial?” he indignantly asked Sheldon Burke.
Burke casually replied, “I thought so. Didn’t I tell one of you guys to talk to him?” he asked the three baggage carriers.
They all looked back and forth at each and then shrugged and shook their heads.
“Minor oversight, I guess,” Burke said.
“Minor oversight? That’s a serious ethical violation,” Arturo said.
“Oh, come on,” Burke said with his patronizing smile. “Every lawyer knows what’s really best for his client. Don’t make too big a deal out of it. We can’t get his permission for every little thing that comes up. Relax.”
A dumbstruck Arturo Mendoza stared wide-eyed at Burke while thinking, What the hell have I done allowing this arrogant fool into this?
Twenty-Four
The good-looking passenger in the two-thousand-dollar, gray, pinstripe Italian wool suit was third to disembark. He smiled at the flight attendants who had worked the first-class section where he sat, then thanked the captain for a smooth flight.
At six feet, one hundred ninety trim pounds, with a perpetual three-day beard and the wrap around Ray Bans, the swarthy man could turn female heads. Tired from traveling, he was in a hurry to get through the airport to his awaiting transportation.
Without a word, not even the traditional Muslim greeting, the man with the wrap-a-rounds got in the back seat of the mini-van. The driver, a Somali cabbie, scurried to place his suitcase in the back, then got in the driver’s seat. This was the third time this same lackey had picked him up at the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. He liked that because the cabbie knew better than to make small talk with him.
Despite the fact that the passenger had spent the better part of two days traveling, he felt refreshed just by being here. The Middle East was nothing like this. The bright-green foliage everywhere and the enormous amount of space these people had accented their affluence. The only significant downside was the humidity. While not as hot as the Middle East, it could be considerably more uncomfortable.
The mini-van left the airport and the driver got on an old stretch of freeway, County Road 62. As he drove toward downtown, his passenger stared out of the window at the rain. A very scary man, the driver thought.
The mini-van stopped in front of a Marriott near the Cedar/Riverside Somali community. The passenger got out and waited out of the rain under the hotel’s canopy. The driver retrieved his suitcase and hurried inside. By the time the man with the sunglasses reached the front desk, the clerk was ready for him. He paid with a legitimate American Express card under the same name as his Italian passport. He left instructions for a wakeup call, then spoke the only word he ever did to the driver. “Go,” he said.
Relieved that he was no longer needed, the driver made a hasty retreat. He waited until he was back in his mini-van cab before cursing to Allah about, once again, receiving no compensation for his work.
Four hours later, at 2:00 P.M., Damone was in a meeting at his office. The thirty-two-year-old gang banger
he was meeting with was doing his best to make excuses.
“I’m tellin’ ya, bro,” he said for the fourth or fifth time, “crack ain’t what’s happenin’ like it used to be. It’s smack that they want,” Jimmy Jones said.
Jimmy Jones was one of four people—two black men and two white men—
that managed both a crack and opioid distribution unit. Each had their own geographic location in which to operate. And none of them knew each other.
Jones had been doing this same song and dance for twenty minutes. Damone was seated in his usual place; the head of the table. Lewis and Monroe were at the opposite end and Jones was to Damone’s right in between Damone and Lewis.
Damone had several sources on the streets giving him price information. Jones was partially correct; heroin was the number one street demand. There was still plenty of market for crack cocaine and it drew a lot less attention from the police. Heroin required more maintenance, more cutting and much more overhead to get it on the street. Crack, per gram, was still more profitable. But, Damone also knew he was being scammed by Jimmy Jones.
“The average price of rock on the street is down two and three quarters percent in the last twelve months,” Damone quietly said. “Your overall quantity of sales is actually up over three percent during that same period. Yet the profits are down almost ten percent. How do you account for that, Jimmy?”
After saying this, Damone leaned forward, crossed his arms on the tabletop and stared at Jones with a blank expression. He sat motionless this way for more than a long minute watching the sweat break out on Jones’ forehead.
Finally, in a friendly way, Damone said, “I like you, Jimmy. I really do. Here’s the deal. It’s not me, it’s Lewis and Monroe. They don’t like you. They believe you’re skimming.”
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