Exquisite Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “Don’t assume they won’t find something. And I want it all by next Monday.” Marc said.

  “Okay. I don’t have anything else to do.”

  “When is your family coming home?”

  “A few days before the trial starts,” Rob said.

  “Good. Did you talk to your parents and in-laws about attending the trial?”

  “Yeah, they’re in.”

  “Good. Okay, I guess that’s it for now. If I think of anything, I’ll call. You too. Any questions, call.

  “And Rob, nothing is too trivial. Whatever you think of, write it down. This is covered by privilege, so we won’t have to show it to the prosecution,” Arturo told him.

  “One last thing,” Marc said. “I am having a psychiatrist check you out. I just want to be sure…”

  “No way,” Rob began to angrily protest. “If that gets out my career as a cop will be over.”

  “She’ll be discreet and…”

  “No, and that’s final. I’m not copping to insanity…”

  “What about PTSD? And if you’re found guilty your career…”

  “No! End of discussion. I was checked out for PTSD before I left the army.”

  “It can come up years later,” Arturo said.

  “No.”

  Walking to their cars, Marc said to Arturo, “We may be able to use these civilian complaints to our advantage. If they try to use them, and I think they’ll have to for motive, we can throw it back in their face.”

  “Maybe,” Arturo agreed. “We’ll see how it plays out.”

  “We’ll need to talk to all of the cops involved,” Marc said.

  “Put Maddy on it. They’ll sing like canaries for her.”

  Thirty-Two

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Tony Carvelli grumbled as he groggily went to answer the pounding on his front door. He unlocked the door, flung it open and without looking to see who was there, yelled, “What?”

  Carvelli stood in the doorway in a black T-shirt and black boxer briefs. At the door were two people, a man and a woman. Both were dressed in similar, boring, off-the-rack business suits, probably from J.C. Penney.

  Calmly Carvelli looked at both, then said to the man, “Well. What an unpleasant surprise. And to what do I owe the pleasure, Agent Johnson?”

  “Mind if we come in?” FBI Agent Jeff Johnson asked.

  “Probably,” Carvelli said. “Oh, what the hell, come on in, Jeff.”

  Carvelli turned to go inside and the two FBI agents followed him.

  “Find a chair,” Carvelli said. “I’ll start the coffee,” he continued as he went into the kitchen.

  The two agents had barely sat down on his couch when they heard him yell, “Six o’clock! In the morning?”

  Carvelli stomped out to the living room, stopped and stared at them. “What the hell is wrong with you people? Is it really six o’clock? This had better be good.”

  By this point, Agent Johnson was laughing and his partner, Tess Richards was holding a laugh in.

  Carvelli stomped off and a minute later came back wearing a pair of gray sweats. With an annoyed look he sat down in an armchair across from his guests.

  “You want to wait until you’ve had some coffee?” Johnson asked.

  Carvelli sat silently thinking over the question. He could hear the coffee maker in the kitchen and decided waiting would be a good idea. A couple of minutes later he went into the kitchen and came back carrying a single cup.

  The two Feebs looked at him with an “Are you serious?” expression then Johnson says, “You’re quite the host, Carvelli.”

  Carvelli laughed and said, “I’m just kidding. I poured two cups for you. They’re on the counter in the kitchen.”

  “Do you mind, please?” Johnson asked Tess.

  “No, I’ll get them.”

  She returned and handed a cup to Johnson.

  “Thanks, Tess,” he said. “Now, the reason we’re here, we need to know what you’re up to.”

  “I was sleeping until you showed up.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. What are you up to with Jimmy Jones and his crew?”

  Carvelli sipped his coffee and with a puzzled expression said, “How do you…” and then he realized the answer to his question.

  “You’re set up on him. Why? Why is the FBI sitting on a street-level drug dealer? Shouldn’t you be tapping the phones of Republicans?”

  “Very funny, smartass,” Johnson said. “Now answer the question.”

  Carvelli said, “I’m going into the retail drug business. Now, why is the FBI and not the DEA set-up on Jimmy? You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

  “You know, we could bust your ass right now,” Johnson said.

  “Except you know that would be a really bad idea,” Carvelli answered him. “Hang on. Let me make a phone call,” Carvelli told them.

  He went back into the kitchen and called Marc who answered right away sounding awake.

  “Sorry,” Carvelli said. “I hope I didn’t wake you or Maddy.”

  “I was up and Maddy is at her place. What’s up?” Marc replied.

  Carvelli quickly told him what was going on with the two FBI agents in his living room.

  “You know this agent, Johnson?” Marc asked.

  “Yeah. Straight as an arrow,” Carvelli replied.

  “What about the woman?” Marc asked.

  “If she’s with Jeff, then she is too and whatever they’re up to is legitimate.”

  Marc went silent for a minute or so then said, “It’s your call. I don’t like the idea of any more people knowing what we’re up to, but they know something. What do you think?”

  “I’ll tell them a little, they’ll tell me a little then we’ll see,” Carvelli replied.

  “Okay,” Marc agreed. “Be careful.”

  “I’m doing undercover,” Carvelli told them when he went back to his chair.

  “We know that. Why else would you be in disguise? But who are you doing it for?”

  “I can’t tell you that. I will tell you it’s not for any law enforcement or government agency. Your turn.”

  “Sorry, can’t do it,” Johnson said.

  “Okay, be that way. Then Jimmy will be getting an anonymous phone call to let him know the Feds are watching him.”

  “You sonofabitch! I’ll have your ass…”

  “Stop it,” Tess quietly said. She put a hand on Johnson’s shoulder and pulled him back before he jumped up. “Think about it, Jeff. He could be just what we need; someone getting in on the inside. Tell him. You said yourself he was a straight guy you could trust.”

  Johnson took a deep breath then Carvelli left to go into the kitchen. When he returned, he had the coffee and filled everyone’s cup. By then Johnson had calmed down.

  “Okay,” Johnson began. “I’m gonna lay it all out for you, or, as much as we know. But, Tony, you have got to swear to me that what is said here does not leave this room. You tell no one. Not even your lawyer friend, Kadella and his girlfriend, Madeline Rivers. And none of your ex-cop friends.”

  “Okay,” Carvelli agreed.

  “No one in the local field office or the U.S. Attorney’s office knows anything about this.

  “A few months ago, the two of us were called to Washington. The Director himself briefed us. That’s why you gotta keep quiet. We, including you, could end up in prison if it gets out.

  “Anyway, the two of us, we’re told to come back here and find out what’s going on with the local drug business, especially opioids.”

  “Why not the DEA?” Tony asked.

  “There’s something big going on. Bigger than DEA drug trafficking. We don’t even know what.”

  “Besides, you know what cowboys they are,” Tess interrupted. “All the DEA higher-ups care about are pictures in the news of themselves and big drug busts.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Carvelli agreed.

  “We came back and started quietly poking around,” Johnson s
aid. “Our boss and the U.S. Attorney were specifically told to mind their own business.

  “Anyway, you know a local guy by the name of Damone Watson?”

  “Yeah, I know who he is,” Tony said. “Reformed gang banger and now a Bible-thumping, community organizer and soul saver.”

  “Yeah, well that’s the image. We think he is the center of the drug business,” Johnson said. “And the guy running things in the Somali community as well.

  “And we believe that what we’re really doing here is trying to find and trace a huge money laundering business being run by Somali gangsters with Damone Watson at the head,” Tess said. “We weren’t told this, but that’s what we’ve come to suspect.”

  “What makes you think it’s Damone Watson? He’s supposedly totally reformed and doing great things for the black community in both Minneapolis and across the river in St. Paul.”

  “Because we were able to tail your pal Jimmy twice to Damone’s community center that serves as his office and home,” Johnson said. “We even tried to get both a normal wiretap warrant and a FISA warrant to put listening devices in there. Turned down for both.”

  “Why do you need a warrant?” Carvelli innocently asked.

  “Because that’s what we would have to do legally,” Johnson said obviously aggravated with Carvelli’s cavalier attitude toward the Constitution.

  “I’m just kidding, relax. Besides, if he is who you think he is, he’s not some Mafia moron. He’ll have the place swept often enough to quickly find them.

  “So, you think this Watson guy is a phony and is probably Jimmy’s boss?”

  “Looks like it,” Tess answered.

  “Is Washington on your asses yet to make more progress?” Carvelli asked.

  “A little yeah,” Johnson said.

  “I told Jimmy I have big plans and that I would have to meet his boss and soon,” Carvelli said.

  “Perfect!”

  “There’s a leak,” Carvelli said. “Somewhere in Minneapolis. Either the city council or the MPD. I’m betting the city council.”

  “I would, too,” Johnson said.

  “The city council falls all over this guy, Watson,” Tess said.

  “Well, we’ll see,” Carvelli replied. “We better stay in touch. Every day if we can. Are you sitting on Jimmy or filming?”

  “We have a camera on the front of his place twenty-four hours a day. Sometimes we watch him. So far, we have identified most of his crew.”

  “I’ll want that,” Carvelli said.

  Tess reached in her jacket pocket and removed a two-page document.

  “Here’s what we have. If you can fill in some blanks, do so,” she said.

  “We have his crew, but we don’t know any other wholesalers working for Watson.”

  “Okay,” Tony said as he looked over the list. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “Are you selling to this guy’s customers? Chip Osborne?” Tess asked.

  Carvelli looked at Johnson then Tess. Before he could say anything, Johnson did.

  “There are some things you don’t want to ask. Some things best left unsaid, Tess.”

  “Have you ever done undercover work?” Carvelli asked.

  “No,” she replied looking a bit embarrassed.

  “It’s okay that you haven’t,” Carvelli said. “It’s not a character flaw. Doing undercover, the idea is to look and act legitimate to the assholes,” Carvelli said. “These are very nasty people. If they get even a tiny whiff that you aren’t who you say you are, they’ll kill you without a second thought. You have to be realistic. If I’m going to make my way to the top dog, I have to deliver.”

  “I understand,” Tess said. “Sorry I asked.”

  “Don’t be,” Carvelli said with a reassuring smile.

  Thirty-Three

  Two hours after the FBI agents left Carvelli’s home, he parked the rented Lincoln two doors down from Jake’s Limo Service. There was a meeting scheduled. Although Carvelli was not actively involved with Rob Dane’s murder trial, since he would know everyone, Marc asked him to attend anyway.

  Carvelli made the short walk to Jake’s garage and recognized several cars parked nearby. He entered the building through the customer service door and went into Jake’s office. Once inside, he found a dozen people, almost all ex-cops, sitting around doing what cops do when together; trading insults.

  Carvelli went around the room shaking hands while Marc talked to Jake and Franklin Washington at the desk. By the time Carvelli made his way back to the desk, Dan Sorenson was there as well.

  “Put the makeup and glasses back on Tony,” Sorenson said.

  “Don’t go there,” Carvelli replied knowing an insult was coming.

  Marc looked at him and asked, “How did it go?” Obviously referring to Carvelli’s early morning visitors.

  “Okay,” Carvelli cryptically replied.

  “All right. Let’s get started,” Marc said.

  Marc stood at the end of Jake’s desk to address the small crowd.

  “I wasn’t here when you were hired to do some investigation,” he began.

  “Where is Maddy?” one of the ex-cops asked, one Marc did not know. “Imagine our disappointment that she’s not here,” the man continued with a smile.

  Another ex-cop, one that Marc did know, named Tommy Craven, leaned over, cupped his hand and whispered into the inquisitive man’s ear.

  “Oops,” the man said. “Look, um, sorry, I, ah didn’t know you and Maddy were, ah…”

  “Never mind,” Marc laughed. “I’d like to get a brief, verbal report from each of you about how it’s going. First of all, before we start, did any of you get a written, signed statement from anyone you interviewed?”

  There were eight ex-cops involved; three black men including Franklin, two white men including Tommy Craven and three women. Two black and one white. All of them shook their heads to indicate the answer was no. These were the people who were interviewing everyone on the list that the cops and prosecutor’s investigators had interviewed––the list provided to Marc with one-hundred-fifty-three names on it.

  “Okay, good. Tommy,” he continued, looking at Craven, “you want to get us started? Anything of interest?”

  “Craven was in a chair and stood up to address the crowd. Not much, so far,” he said. Reading from his notes, he continued, “Of the twenty names on my list, I’ve interviewed fourteen in person and three by phone. The other three called me a few names my mother would disapprove of, then slammed a door in my face.”

  “What name could someone possibly call you that your mother would disapprove of? Remember, I’ve met your mother,” Carvelli said.

  Tommy waited for the laughter to die down before starting again. “Anyway,” he said trying to get back on track. “None of them saw anyone with a gun. Most of them didn’t even see the shooting. The ones that slammed the door on me were holding the Black Lives Matter banner. The rest were pretty close to Ferguson, but every one of them said they didn’t see the shooting. They heard the shots but didn’t react until they saw Ferguson on the ground. By then people were screaming and running for cover.

  “But,” Tommy said, “not sure if you ever met her.” He paused and pointed a finger at a black woman sitting a couple chairs to Tommy’s left.

  “Sorry, no, I don’t think so,” Marc said.

  “This is Sherry Bowen. Sherry looks twenty-five, but don’t let that fool you. She’s like the rest of us, retired off the job. You want to tell him what you found, Sherry?”

  “Sure,” she said, then stood. “Most of my list were dry holes, too,” she began. “I’m from Texas, originally. A dry hole is….”

  Marc smiled and said, “I get the reference. Please, go ahead.”

  “I did find three girls, three black teens, who were there. None were on my list. I was told about them by someone who was who thought they might have seen something. They were friends and had attended every protest, mostly for the fun of it.”
<
br />   Sherry was speaking from memory now but held a notepad in her hands.

  “Their names are,” she recited from her notes, “Tonya Howard, age sixteen… they’re all sixteen. The others are Bethany Morris and Ronnie Mitchell. I got addresses, phone numbers, parents’ names, too.

  “They all say they saw a shabby looking old white man following behind Reverend Ferguson. They say he looked like a homeless guy which is why they noticed him. He looked out of place. Ferguson was on the left-hand side of the street, just a few feet from the curb, according to the police report,” she continued.

  “Yeah,” Marc said, thoroughly engrossed by now.

  The girls were more in the middle about fifteen or thirty feet away from Ferguson. Pretty close to him. But, they said, because the crowd size was way down on the day of the shooting, they had a clear look at Ferguson.”

  “Did they see a gun?”

  “No, and I pressed them on it. They weren’t looking at him when they heard the shots. And they told me they didn’t want to get any closer to him, to Ferguson.”

  “What, why?” Marc asked.

  Sherry paused for just a moment before continuing. “Because the girls said they had heard some rumors around the neighborhood about Ferguson and young girls. And some other things that he was into. I pressed them on this, but I didn’t want to push them away. I’m sure they know more than what they told me.”

  “Like?”

  “Not sure. Like maybe they knew a girl or two who might’ve been, I don’t know, seduced, molested, I’m not sure. You’re gonna love this, Mr. Kadella...”

  “Marc,” he replied.

  “Marc. They all went downtown and were interviewed by an old, bald white man. They told him about the homeless guy running away from Ferguson. Why they weren’t on our list I don’t know.”

  “You believe them? They’re credible…”

  “Yeah, they’re nice kids and they said they would be willing to talk to you if their parents would let them.”

  “What happened to the homeless guy?” Marc asked.

  “The girls heard the shots—they know what gunfire sounds like—but at first they weren’t sure where it came from.”