Exquisite Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  Marc continued with a few more personal questions until finally getting to the main one. He then went over the concepts of innocent until proven guilty, the prosecution’s burden of proof and proof beyond a reasonable doubt. Satisfied the man understood each of them, Marc moved on.

  “Mr. Howell, can I have your word that if you are selected to be on this jury, you will keep an open mind and wait until you’ve heard all of the testimony and seen all of the evidence before making a decision?”

  “Yes, sir, you have my word.”

  “I have no objections to this witness, your Honor.”

  Tennant had already questioned him about the presumption of innocence, the burden of proof and guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Normally Marc would go over these same subjects again. With the Marine Colonel, Marc sensed that was not necessary, it might offend the man and he would hear it again anyway.

  “Mr. Gondeck,” Judge Tennant said.

  Before he stood up, Gondeck stared at Marc, who ignored him for several seconds. What was running through his head was the question: What does Kadella know about this guy that I don’t? Why is he okay with a law and order Marine on this jury?

  Gondeck only spent ten minutes with the Colonel; mostly to sell himself to the man. Marc had spent very little time on this. This is not the type of person to be swayed by superfluous puffery. Men and women who work their way up through the ranks of the Marine Corp likely do not suffer fools gladly. Gondeck sensed this also and cut his void dire short.

  “Acceptable, your Honor,” he announced.

  “The deputy will take you to be situated before releasing you. You’ll be notified when the actual trial will begin.

  “You will not discuss this case with anyone or read newspapers or watch TV reports about it. I’m sure you realize that. In fact, don’t even tell anyone you’re on the jury. Avoid it entirely. Thank you, Mr. Howell.

  “We’ll take a fifteen-minute break,” Tennant announced.

  Marc noticed as Howell was being led out of the courtroom, he looked at neither the prosecution or defense table.

  “I think you’re right about him,” Arturo said.

  The four of them, Maddy included, had made a circle at the defense table with their chairs.

  “Yeah,” Marc agreed. “He’s smart, cool and tough. He’ll keep his word and decide based on the evidence. If we can deliver reasonable doubt to him, no one’s gonna talk him out of it. Plus, he’s got leadership written all over him. I’m hoping he’ll be the foreman.”

  “On the other hand,” Maddy interjected, “they will all look to him. If he doesn’t find reasonable doubt, he’ll convert any who do with little more than a stern look.”

  By the end of the first day, they had made one more selection. A sixty-two-year-old black grandmother that Marc had as a low-ranked ‘maybe.’ Marc wanted to use a peremptory on her, but he had already used two. At this rate, he would be out of them by Wednesday afternoon.

  Maddy liked her and reminded Marc about what Ferguson was really like. If they could get any of that in it would not sit well with this woman. Reluctantly, Marc acquiesced. Oddly, as the deputy held the gate for her, she turned and smiled at Maddy.

  While Marc, Maddy and Arturo were working on jury selection, Tony Carvelli a/k/a Rossi, was enjoying a latte at the Highland Hills Golf and Tennis Club. It was a beautiful early October day. The tennis courts were full and there were three foursomes lined up on the first tee. October in Minnesota is normally a month to enjoy in lieu of what was not far off.

  Carvelli was at an umbrella covered table watching Wendy ply their trade. They were starting to lose money only because there were a number of customers without a serious addiction. With the cutting of the oxy with OTC painkillers, some of the women were losing interest.

  “Hey, sailor, new in town?” Carvelli heard a familiar voice say from behind him. Gretchen dropped her bag in an empty chair, then sat next to Tony.

  “Sorry about not calling back,” she said to him. “Sundays are used for business and I forgot about you.

  “What happened Saturday night?” Gretchen asked.

  “I told you in the text I sent you,” Carvelli said. “We knew your date. Didn’t you get it?”

  The waiter appeared, and Gretchen ordered a light Margherita.

  “Is that what you wrote? Have you ever tried decoding one of your texts? So, you knew him and…?” Gretchen asked.

  “I didn’t want him to see us hanging around.”

  “He’s kind of a strange character,” Gretchen said. “Thank you,” she told the waiter. “Put it on his tab.” She took a swallow and said, “Not a bad guy or weird or anything. Nothing kinky. He just needs his ego stroked a bit like a lot of guys.”

  “Oh, baby, oh, baby,” Carvelli said. “You’re the best ever.”

  “No,” Gretchen laughed. “His work. His job as a reporter. He likes to brag. He told me about the shooting of Lionel Ferguson. Hey, that starts today doesn’t it?”

  “They’re in jury selection as we speak,” Carvelli said.

  “He said something strange to me. He said he knows something that would blow the case wide open. Well, by that point I’d had enough of his bragging and didn’t think much of it,” she continued.

  By now, Carvelli was pulled up to the table and listening intently. “What did he say? He was the one who got the photo for the paper of Ferguson lying dead in the street. He claims he didn’t see anything else. That’s what he told the cops and my friends, Kadella and Maddy.”

  “He backed off a bit when he said that, so I let go. Like I said, I thought he was just puffing out his chest.”

  “Do you have another date?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Can you make one? Set up one where we can monitor it? Or maybe you could just ply him with a little booze and get him talking?”

  “Maybe. If I don’t hear from him in a couple of days, I can call him and tell him I have an opening. You want to make up a discount if I have to give him one?”

  Carvelli looked her in the eyes and said, “I thought we were friends.”

  “It’s not my problem what you think.”

  “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “I know,” she replied.

  “Okay, I’ll cover it under miscellaneous field expenses.”

  A half-hour later, Wendy was back at the table with them.

  “How’d it go?” Carvelli asked.

  “Fine, except several of them are getting mild withdrawal symptoms,” Wendy replied.

  “Good, we’ll keep an eye on it.”

  The waiter stopped and they each ordered something. When he left, Carvelli decided to tease Gretchen.

  “He’s got an eye on you,” Carvelli said.

  “And he’s a hottie,” Wendy added.

  “I have shoes older than him,” Gretchen said. “Besides, see those two guys sitting by themselves next to the pool. The two nursing club sodas?”

  Carvelli took a casual look and then said, “They’re undercover cops from the sheriff’s office.”

  “Is that where they’re from? I knew they were cops, but I wasn’t sure who they worked for,” Gretchen said.

  “How did you know they were cops?” Wendy asked. “Shouldn’t we get out of here?”

  “It’s obvious by the way they’re acting and no, we should sit tight,” Carvelli answered her.

  Carvelli had taken out his personal phone, found a number and dialed it.

  “Watch them,” he said to Gretchen. “See if they follow me.”

  He got up and walked toward the clubhouse. When the phone call was answered, he did not bother with a greeting.

  “Hey, I need you to do something. I need you to call the Hennepin County Sheriff and tell them…”

  He explained where he was and why he called.

  Carvelli was back at the table in less than two minutes. He quietly asked Gretchen if the two sheriff’s investigators had watched.

  “No, paid no attention to
you at all,” Gretchen replied.

  A few minutes later, the older of the two men answered his phone. Carvelli watched and smiled when he saw the man talking with the caller. The exchange was very brief. The call ended. The man looked at his phone, then said something to his partner. Carvelli saw the partner spread his hands and spoke the word ‘why.’ At that point, they both stood and quickly left.

  “Pays to know people,” Carvelli said with a grin.

  “How did you…”

  “I called my FBI pals and asked them to call the sheriff. The sheriff was told they, the Feebs, are running an investigation and told him to get his guys out of here.”

  “Pretty slick. I’ll keep that in mind,” Gretchen said.

  “Has anyone hassled you?” Carvelli asked Wendy.

  “No, everything seems fine,” she replied.

  After the waiter brought their drinks, they waited another fifteen minutes after the deputies had left, then left themselves. When they got to the parking lot, Wendy got in Carvelli’s car and Gretchen left in hers.

  Before Carvelli dropped Wendy off, she had given him a small, brown leather satchel with today’s proceeds and the leftover inventory.

  “How much longer?” Wendy asked. By now Wendy knew what they were really up to.

  They were parked in the underground garage of Wendy’s luxury townhouse association. Carvelli sat silently thinking for a moment before saying, “Not much longer. I’m not sure why, but I got this cop feeling that something’s coming to a head. Why?”

  “Now that I’m clean and sober,” Wendy replied, “I don’t want to do this. These people are friends and friends of friends. If one of them was to OD and die…”

  “If it makes you feel any better, the dosages we’re giving them probably aren’t enough to cause an OD. Unless they start shopping somewhere else.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Carvelli’s phone rang and he answered it. “Yeah, Dan, what do you have?”

  “You need to get over here ASAP. I just hit pay dirt and I’ll tell you, I think Conrad’s holding back,” Dan Sorenson said.

  In the background, Carvelli heard Conrad yell, “No, I’m not!”

  “I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  Forty-Nine

  “So, what do you have?” Carvelli asked Sorenson.

  Carvelli, Sorenson, Franklin Washington and Conrad were in Conrad’s kitchen. Conrad had a small two-bedroom he had converted into a one bedroom with a large office out of the second bedroom, a few blocks south of Lake and Thirty-Fourth. The four of them were sipping a beer, taking a break.

  “A very interesting conversation between the dearly departed Reverend Ferguson and the City’s newest community organizer slash choirboy,” Sorenson said.

  “Damone Watson?” Carvelli asked. “What about?”

  “Church contributions,” Franklin quickly said with a laugh.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Sorenson said. “Ferguson is hitting him up for church contributions.”

  Realizing they were being sarcastic, Carvelli joined. “Yeah. That’s nice. How much did the good Rev get out of him?”

  “Not much. We’re all set up for you to listen in,” Sorenson replied.

  “Why don’t we have video? I know damn well I was being filmed when I was there. That’s why he insisted I sit in a particular chair. Then when I didn’t, he didn’t look pleased,” Carvelli said, addressing Conrad.

  “I didn’t set it up to get the video, just the audio,” Conrad said with a suspicious look that Carvelli noticed.

  “Except?” Carvelli asked him while staring into his eyes.

  “Ah, no, I…”

  “Conrad, you’re the worst poker player on the planet,” Carvelli said.

  “Why haven’t we invited him to a game with us?” Sorenson asked.

  “Okay, okay, I, ah, thought you wanted the stuff in order. Sure, I have some video,” Conrad said.

  “How much?” Carvelli asked.

  “Actually, a lot. A couple hundred hours’ worth. But most of it is nothing,” he quickly added. “Although there is a lot about him and his drug business. And, ah, other things. Women and such.”

  “You have his bedroom wired, don’t you?” Sorenson asked.

  “Yeah,” Conrad reluctantly admitted. “And his private apartment, his office and just about anywhere he could meet with people.

  “Hey! This guy’s a crook. I needed some leverage…”

  “Do you know what he would do to you if he knew?” Franklin asked. “Boy, you’d end up fish shit in Lake Mille Lacs.”

  “Let’s go listen to what you found,” Carvelli said.

  All four of them went upstairs to Conrad’s workshop. His recording equipment was all set up to play what Carvelli was there to hear.

  “Come in, Reverend,” they heard a voice, that Conrad identified as Damone, say.

  “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,” they heard a black man’s voice interrupt Damone rather abruptly. Conrad identified the voice as Lionel Ferguson.

  “I know who and what you are, so what do you say we cut to the chase and get down to business?”

  There was a pause of several seconds before they heard Damone calmly reply. “I, ah, I don’t understand. I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Get him out of here,” they heard Ferguson say. A moment later they heard the conference room door open and close as someone left.

  “Who?” Carvelli asked.

  “Don’t know,” Conrad replied. “One of Damone’s guys. Lewis or Monroe.”

  After the door closed, Ferguson spoke again. “You’re a drug dealer and a gangster.”

  There was a short pause, then Ferguson spoke again. “Don’t bullshit me, boy. You think I was born yesterday?”

  “I talked to the two girls; Karenna Hines and her friend, Shelly Cornelius.” This was the next thing that Damone said.

  “Stop it,” Sorenson said to Conrad referring to the playback.

  “Who are they?” Carvelli asked.

  “You remember the cop shooting of that drugged out gang banger, Mikal Tate?” Sorenson asked.

  Carvelli paused for a moment and then remembered. “The guy who beat up his girlfriend, a couple of EMT’s got the gun away from one of the patrol guys whose partner then shot and killed him? Yeah, I got it. So, who are the girls?”

  “Karenna Hines was the girlfriend Tate beat on a regular basis,” Franklin told him. “Shelly Cornelius was a neighbor friend of Karenna’s. Ferguson got a hold of them and convinced them there would be money from a lawsuit for them if they just got their story straight. Ferguson dragged them out in front of an angry mob on the steps of City Hall. They lied and changed their story to make it sound like Tate was a model of the community gunned down by racist cops for no reason.”

  “I remember that. I remember when they found out the two of them couldn’t cash in on this because they weren’t related to Tate, they went back to their original story and the cops were cleared,” Carvelli said.

  “That’s them,” Franklin said. “It really hurts my heart when black hustlers like Ferguson try to exploit black people like that.”

  “Start it again, Conrad,” Sorenson said.

  Instead, Carvelli said, “Go back, I want to hear that again, what Damone just said.”

  “Okay,” Conrad agreed.

  “I talked to the two girls, Karenna Hines and Shelly Cornelius,” they heard Damone say again.

  “I know you did. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Do you think I give a fuck?”

  “Such language from a man of the cloth,” they heard Damone quietly, casually respond. “That collar you wear is a nice prop. I want you to stop this nonsense. You know those two cops are innocent.”

  “So, what?” Ferguson bellowed. “It makes the point that needs to be made. White cops gun
ning down young black men is epidemic in this country.”

  They heard Damone heartily laugh before speaking. “We both know that’s not true. No, you’re just exploiting a tragedy for your own purposes. How much money have you taken in from contributions? Enough for that new Mercedes?”

  “This is absurd coming from a drug-dealing gangster. All right, gangster-boy. You want to shut it down. Why?”

  “Because it’s not true and what the community needs are good relations with the police.”

  That statement, coming from Damone, made the three ex-cops look at each other with mildly astonished expressions.

  Ferguson was laughing for quite a while before saying, “Not good for the community? Oh shit, boy. That’s rich.”

  There was another pause and they heard Ferguson take two or three deep breaths.

  “Okay,” Ferguson finally continued. “I want a hundred, no, make that one twenty, every month. I’ll get you the bank account information. Oh, and I’ll take that new Mercedes. Make it a nice S-Class Sedan. Black. I’ll look good in it.”

  “Where do you propose I get that kind of money? Even I don’t have a car like that.”

  They heard a chair being pushed away from the table, then Ferguson’s voice again.

  “If you want to stay in my city and if you want calm in my city, that’s the price. And I’ll want an answer, the car and the first payment in two days.”

  They heard the room’s door open again and someone come in.

  “Thank you for coming by. Have a pleasant day, Reverend. Lewis will show you out.”

  “Stop it,” Carvelli said to Conrad. “Well,” he continued, “there it is. Ferguson was eliciting bribes, or more accurately extortion, from Damone Watson.

  “But what do we do with this?” Carvelli asked. “Can it be used in court for Rob Danes case?”

  “There’s more coming up,” Sorenson said. “I gotta pee. Let’s take a quick break and we’ll get to it.”

  When they resumed, Conrad told Carvelli, “You’re going to hear a phone call between Damone and his brother, Jeron. He runs the family business in Chicago.”