Exquisite Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “You’re a hard guy to track down for a private conversation,” Maddy said.

  “About what?” Philo nervously asked.

  Maddy looked at Carvelli and said, a bit sarcastically, “You want to call your two buddies and have them join us?”

  With a sheepish look, Carvelli said, “Oops. Hey, I can explain…”

  “Yeah, I know, Dad,” Maddy said.

  “We worry about you. All of us do. So…”

  “That’s very sweet. Now, call them.”

  “I’ll kick ‘em loose for the night.”

  “Hey! Over here,” Philo said. “Remember me?”

  “Sit down,” Carvelli barked pointing at an armchair.

  Philo meekly sat down on a chair next to a small table. Carvelli took the chair across from him and Maddy sat on the edge of the bed.

  “You’re a hard guy to get ahold of,” Carvelli repeated.

  Philo was nervously looking back and forth at his two kidnappers. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “Don’t you ever return your messages? We’ve left several…”

  “Hey, this is kidnapping,” Philo worked up the nerve to say.

  “It is not,” Carvelli said. “You came here of your own free will…”

  “Quite eagerly, in fact,” Maddy said.

  Philo quickly stood up and said, “Okay, I’m leaving.”

  “No, you’re not. Now sit down. We just want to talk to you. We have a few questions, then you can go,” Carvelli said.

  “Tell him,” Maddy said.

  “Okay,” Carvelli replied. “We’re private investigators working for Rob Dane’s lawyer. We have some questions.”

  “Why didn’t you just call me?”

  Maddy leaned forward, took an open-hand swipe at the side of his head and deliberately missed. “We’ve left messages!”

  Philo ducked then said, “Sorry, I can’t always find time for every call I get.”

  “We want to know what you saw,” Carvelli said.

  “Nothing,” Philo quickly replied. “Can I go now?”

  Maddy leaned forward again with her right-hand palm out and Philo put up his left arm for cover and ducked again.

  “I didn’t even ask you what you might have seen,” Carvelli said.

  “You’re working for that lawyer, Kadella. He represents Robert Dane, the guy who shot and killed Reverend Lionel Ferguson. How am I doing?” Without waiting for a reply, Philo continued, “You want to know if I saw the shooting and the answer is no. Now can I go?”

  “Calm down. What did you see? You were right there. You got pictures of Ferguson in the street. We’ve been told there was a homeless guy hanging around close to Ferguson the entire four days of the protests. Did you see him?”

  “Maybe. Why?”

  Carvelli leaned on the small table and looked directly into Philo’s eyes. “Why are you making this so hard? We think he was there and saw it all. Rob swears Ferguson pointed a gun at him. No gun was found. So, either he or you picked up the gun and took off with it.”

  “Hey, I didn’t take any gun. And yeah, I saw the guy you’re talking about but, well, after the shooting, I took off when I saw Ferguson on the street. I went back and took pictures of the body. That was it.”

  “We want copies of every photo you took that day,” Maddy said.

  “No chance. The paper has them. You may have heard of the First Amendment. Besides, all they have are shots of Ferguson lying in the street,” Philo replied.

  “I thought you said you had more?” Maddy asked.

  “I was just trying to impress you,” Philo meekly admitted.

  “Did you use a camera or your phone?” Carvelli asked.

  “My phone. Why?”

  “We want the SIM card,” Carvelli said.

  “No way. I’m not gonna give you that. There’s nothing on there. We, uh, the paper, uploaded the pictures and then I deleted everything. Besides, if I gave you the SIM card, wouldn’t I have to give it to the cops? There’s nothing on there that would help you.”

  Maddy started to say something, but Carvelli cut her off. “Okay, you can go. Go ahead, take off.”

  “That’s it?” Philo asked.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Carvelli said. “If we think of anything, I’d appreciate it if you could just return our calls.”

  “Yeah, okay, sure,” Philo replied a little too quickly.

  “What was…” Maddy started to ask as soon as the door closed behind Philo. Carvelli held up a finger to stop her. He went to the room’s door and listened for a moment. He grabbed the door handle and quickly jerked it open. Carvelli looked up and down the hall. Satisfied, he returned to his chair.

  “He’s lying,” were the first words he spoke. “I could see it in his face.”

  “As soon as you asked about the SIM card,” Maddy said, “a light bead of sweat broke out at his hairline.”

  “And his eyes shifted back and forth, twice. Something on the SIM card made him nervous,” Carvelli added. “He’s lying. But what about?”

  “We could get a pro to steal his camera. I know a couple of them,” Maddy said.

  “I could find a dozen,” Carvelli replied. “But, if he does have anything in his phone, give him an hour, and it will be gone. And your feminine charms aren’t going to get it out of him now that he knows you.”

  Maddy looked at him with a twinkle in her eye and a devious smile. She leaned toward him as Carvelli said, “What?”

  “Know anyone who has honed her feminine wiles to professional status?”

  Carvelli looked at her with a puzzled expression. It took a moment, but the light went on. “Gretchen!”

  “Gretchen,” Maddy agreed. “Besides, I’d love to meet her.”

  Forty-One

  Marc, Arturo, and Jeff Modell were, once again, in Marc’s conference room. It was Monday morning and they were one week from jury selection. Arturo and Jeff were again going over the list of prospective jurors. They had received the report from Grayson, the jury consulting firm, first thing that morning. The two of them were comparing Grayson’s suggested jurors with their own. While they did this, Marc was going over his trial book.

  The trial book is a three-ring binder with sections for each part of the trial. Most lawyers preferred the convenience and organizational ability of a good laptop. There were still those who preferred the physical book, such as Marc. To be on the safe side, Jeff always loaded the physical book onto a laptop just to have a back-up.

  Arturo and Jeff had been at it for about a half-hour. Arturo started with the first name on the list, a retired Marine officer, and worked forward. Jeff started with the last name and worked back. Their job was to break the one hundred and fifty names into five categories. A one was a “must have,” a two was “acceptable,” a three “marginal,” a four “keep off” and a five was “poison.” It was a slow and tedious process, and they would work on it until the twelve jurors and six alternates were officially selected and sworn in.

  “How is it going?” Marc asked.

  “So far,” Arturo said, “their guesswork, Grayson’s, is pretty much the same as ours. You know, we’re basically looking for jurors who are the exact opposite of what we usually have. People who love cops and believe they can do no wrong.”

  “I know,” Marc replied and chuckled. “I’ll work on it too as soon as I am done here.”

  There was a knock on the door and Sandy, one of the assistants, stuck her head in.

  “Hey, Maddy’s on line one. She says to tell you that you’re supposed to always carry your cell phone, so she can get a hold of you any time.”

  “I know, that’s why I don’t.”

  “Oh, wait till I tell her that one,” Sandy replied.

  “She knows,” Marc said, then punched the flashing light on the office phone.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi,” Maddy replied. “We finally got the name of the bald investigator for Steve Gondeck. The one who talked to the girls an
d blew them off.”

  “I remember,” Marc said. “What is it?”

  “His name’s Dirk Shepherd. Forty-four years old. He did twenty with Duluth PD and retired as a sergeant last year. He’s double dipping with Hennepin County.”

  “Love those guys who spend their lives to get two pensions off the taxpayers,” Marc said. “What else do you have? Dirk Shepherd,” he said to Arturo.

  “I’m in my car. I’ll be at your office in ten minutes and help with the jury list and write up a bio on him for you. He seems pretty straight.”

  “He’s on Gondeck’s witness list,” Arturo said.

  Marc passed that along to Maddy and then ended the call.

  “He’s not on ours,” Jeff said.

  “That’s okay. We’ll subpoena him. Margaret will let him testify.”

  “What’s Gondeck going to do? Complain he didn’t have a chance to interview him?” Arturo added.

  “Good point,” Jeff said.

  A couple of hours later, after they were about forty names through the list, Marc called for a lunch break. Arturo reminded him he had to go back to his own office for the afternoon.

  As they were packing up, Maddy received a call from Gabriella Shriqui.

  “I think I found the guy you’re looking for,” Gabriella told Maddy.

  “Hey,” Maddy said to Marc. “She thinks she found your guy. Here,” Maddy said handing him her phone.

  “What do you have?” Marc asked.

  “We got him,” she said. “Quite a few times and always in the vicinity of Ferguson. And we made several prints for you. We even blew one up. I had Hunter and some others look at it. Marc,” she continued, “no one could swear to it positively, but we all think he’s wearing a disguise. Makeup and some facial putty to change his face. And he’s always wearing a hat and wrap-around sunglasses.”

  “When can I come in?” Marc asked.

  “Now would be a good time. I’m rehearsing at three,” Gabriella said.

  “I’ll bring your pal and we’ll be there as soon as we can get there.”

  On the way to the Channel 8 building west of downtown, Marc called Carvelli.

  “Hey, I may need your hacker, Paul,” Marc told him.

  “For what?”

  Marc briefly told him about the homeless guy in the crowd of protestors and what Gabriella had found.

  “Okay,” Carvelli said. “I’m downtown now. How about I meet you at Channel 8 and we’ll all take a look?”

  “Fine, see you then.”

  * * *

  The three of them, along with Gabriella and a woman from the makeup department, were in a small room viewing tape and photo prints the station had made. It took more than an hour and a half, especially with the station’s make up expert giving her take. At one point Gabriella’s boss, Hunter Oswood, the news director, joined them. He brought a non-disclosure, proprietary property agreement for Marc to sign. Basically, it protected the station’s rights to the film and Marc agreed he would use it only in court and not sell it.

  “What do you think he did?” Oswood asked.

  “Hunter, I can’t get into that without violating the judge’s gag order,” Marc said.

  “The judge is his ex-girlfriend and she’d probably love to throw his ass in jail,” Gabriella told her boss.

  “Now that would be newsworthy,” Oswood laughed.

  “Please don’t use that,” Marc said. “A couple of other stations already have, and the chief judge had to issue a statement that there had been full disclosure and there was no conflict.”

  “Gabriella gets an exclusive interview after the trial?” Oswood asked.

  “She does,” Marc said.

  “Okay, good enough,” Oswood said, then left.

  “There is one other thing I want to show you,” Gabriella said. “Watch.”

  She ran the film of Ferguson, with the homeless man behind him, during the first two days of the protests. It was the part of the film taken when they were going past Rob Dane’s position just before the corner of Sixth and Nicollet. As they did, the homeless man made an obvious effort to look over the area, including the buildings. Gabriella allowed the film to continue showing the protestors walking away until they were out of range.

  The filming of the third day was different. For the first two days, it appeared the man was also checking out the cameras. On the third day, there were very few cameras and he appeared to be looking for them. What was really odd was once the homeless man reached Nicollet Mall, he turned right and hurried away.

  “What do you think?” Marc asked Carvelli.

  “Run it again,” he said.

  Gabriella ran the part where the homeless man hurries away two more times

  “He didn’t pick up the gun and run off after the shooting,” Carvelli said. “He was the one who pointed the gun at Rob. He had his escape route scouted out ahead of time.”

  “You cannot use that,” Marc emphatically told Gabriella.

  “I know,” she agreed.

  “He may have found the gun and ran off,” Carvelli said. “But I don’t think so. He was doing recon the first three days and he found his spot and his pigeon. This guy, if I’m right, is no homeless guy just hanging out.”

  “I didn’t think so either,” Gabriella said.

  “He could be, but I don’t think so. No, this is a pro’s pro,” Carvelli said still staring at the frozen image of the man scurrying away.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t get any film on that fourth day when Ferguson was shot,” Gabriella said.

  “Nobody else did either. At least according to our witnesses and Philo,” Maddy said.

  “If one of the other stations had, they would have run it by now,” Marc said. “It would be the Zapruder film for this event.”

  There was silence in the little room while everyone waited for Marc.

  “We need to do one of three things. Find out why he did it and who put him up to it, find out who he is, or somehow come up with a witness who can put that gun in his hand,” Marc said. “Do you have anything else?” he asked Gabriella.

  “No,” she said. “We’ve been through our film with a magnifying glass. Unless you want film of him finishing the protest march.”

  “I might,” Marc said. “Do you have film of him doing the entire route for the first two days?”

  “Not specifically on him the entire way. But bits and pieces of him walking along with Ferguson until the end of the protest. And it’s odd. Everyone else was raising a fist and shouting. He was faking it. Or, at least, not showing much enthusiasm.”

  “Yeah, get me that film on a DVD, will you?”

  “Sure,” Gabriella said.

  “I’ll pay…”

  “Never mind,” Gabriella smiled.

  “I’ll get this over to Paul today,” Carvelli told Marc.

  The three of them were in the parking lot of the TV station. Carvelli was holding a print of the best facial shot of the homeless man. He was still wearing the wrap-around sunglasses and a battered baseball cap. He was also sporting what looked to be a five or six-day beard.

  “Paul can clean it up, get rid of the shades, the hat and stubble. He’ll probably have at least four or five possibilities.”

  “I’ll get a few prints of it first,” Maddy said. “Then I’ll get together with some of the guys and we’ll take it to Tent City and any other places where homeless hang out.”

  “Go ahead and do it, but we won’t find him that way,” Marc told her. “This guy isn’t homeless.”

  “Probably not,” Carvelli agreed. “I got a feeling this guy’s a pro.”

  “If that’s true, then why was he brought here and by who?” Marc said.

  “Whom,” Maddy corrected him, then quickly said, “I’m sorry. Bad habit.”

  “Okay, grammar Nazi. Whom.”

  “Play nice, kids,” Carvelli said. “Do you need to take a timeout?”

  “Yeah! Actually, we do,” Maddy said.

  “No ki
dding,” Marc agreed.

  Carvelli’s phone rang. He looked at the ID and answered it.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  He listened for a minute, looked at his watch and said, “That’ll be fine. See you then.

  “My Feebs,” he told Marc and Maddy. “They want to see me today. I’ll get this to Paul and see what the Feds want.”

  “Hey, I need to come with. I need prints of that one,” Maddy said.

  “We’ll take my car and then I’ll drop you off back at your car before I see Paul. Let’s go.”

  Forty-Two

  Damone was at the table in his office going over financials with his accountant, Donald Leach. The amount of money the opioid business was making shocked even Damone. The amount of profit from each pill multiplied by the millions his network was selling, outstripped every drug he had ever peddled.

  The crack cocaine business, while still quite lucrative due to its addictive capability, was still very good. But the overhead, especially the labor involved, was significantly higher. Opioids required no manufacturing facilities. They almost sold themselves and there was money for everyone. Doctors, pharmacy companies, you name it, they were all swimming in cash. Fentanyl was even better and deadlier.

  “What is this all about?” Damone asked pointing at a spreadsheet for crack cocaine. Sales were down as were profits, but costs had risen.

  “Demand is down all over the country,” the accountant replied.

  “And so is the price of cocaine,” Damone said. “So why are costs up?”

  “Because of the labor force we have to carry,” Donald answered. “We can’t just fire people. They tend to get pissed and go to the cops.”

  Damone went quiet thinking over the problem. Crack was still quite profitable, but not as profitable as opioids and heroin. He did not want to get into heroin because of the manufacturing costs. Heroin—street heroin—was something he had done before, and it had earned him twenty years in prison. Damone had already tried to wholesale out crack away from the Cities. Because of the margins for opioids, the salesmen were not anxious to deal crack.