Exquisite Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “Isn’t it also true you vote to exonerate a black police officer far more than a white one? I’ll subpoena the committee’s voting records.”

  “If that is true, it’s because black officers deserve more leeway because they are not treated with the same level of respect white officers are.”

  “Really, and you know this because of your many years of experience riding in a police car?”

  “Objection, argumentative,” Jennifer said.

  “Withdrawn,” Marc said.

  “Tell me something, Doctor, who has the real race problem? White police officers or you?”

  “Objection!” Jennifer yelled.

  “Sustained,” Margaret ruled just when Wright was indignantly claiming he did not.

  “Mr. Kadella, I’m on the verge of fining you or putting you in a cell,” Tennant said.

  “I have nothing further, your Honor,” Marc said.

  “Redirect?” Tennant asked Jennifer.

  “A moment, your Honor,” Jennifer said then conferred with Gondeck. They quickly came to the conclusion that to try to rehabilitate the witness would likely make it worse.

  “Your Honor, the State objects to the entire cross-examination as argumentative and defense counsel’s use of confidential committee voting information is improper and sets a bad precedent.”

  “Overruled,” Tennant quickly said. “We’ll take a short break.”

  Jennifer Moore also conducted the direct examination of Officer Daniel Schilling, the cop who went to Jermaine Fontana with claims of Rob Dane’s racism. He had little else to offer other than the locker room talk.

  “What exactly did Officer Dane say to you?” Jennifer asked.

  “Look, you gotta understand, there was a lot of angry talk in the locker room before we went on duty. Everyone was getting tired of the marches and protests. It seemed like we’d been doing them all summer. A lot of people were griping,” Schilling said, trying to sound reluctant.

  “What did he say?” Jennifer asked again.

  “He said, ‘I’m sick of this bullshit and I hate that fuckin’,” Schilling paused, looked at Tennant and said, “he called him the ‘N’ word, your Honor, Reverend Ferguson. Then he said, ‘I hate all these black assholes. They all sit on their ass on welfare then protest cops who protect them. I’m tired of them screaming, cussing, and spitting at us.’”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him he needed to calm down and not take that anger and attitude out on the street—words to that effect.

  “He said, ‘yeah, you’re right’ and that was it. I thought that was the end of it.”

  “Your witness,” Moore said.

  Arturo had convinced Marc to let him do the cross-examination of this witness. For appearance’s sake, a person of color would be better.

  “Officer Schilling, how many people were in the locker room with you?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably about thirty.”

  “Would it surprise you if I told you there were fifty-four police officers there?” Arturo asked. This was a number Arturo and Marc picked out of thin air. They actually had no idea how many there were. He was asking Schilling if it would surprise him. He did not state it as a fact.

  Schilling squirmed a little knowing where Arturo was going before answering, “No, I guess not.”

  “And yet you were the only one who heard Officer Dane use racial epithets and hateful speech about Reverend Ferguson, is that what you want this jury to believe?”

  “I don’t know what anyone else may or may not have heard. I heard what I testified,” Schilling smugly said, sat back and looked at the jury.

  “Isn’t it true there were quite a few of them complaining about the protests?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “They were tired of being screamed at, including yourself?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Tired of being cursed, including you?”

  “Yeah,” he answered more meekly.

  “Tired of being spat upon, including you?”

  “Yes, of course, wouldn’t you?”

  “Your Honor,” Arturo said.

  “Answer the question as put to you, Officer,” Tennant told him.

  “Isn’t it also true that several, if not many officers in the locker room, angry about their treatment by the protestors, were spewing what could be called inappropriate racial statements?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “Including a number of African American officers? You’re under oath, Officer.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Are you a friend of Officer Dane?”

  “Sure,” Schilling answered.

  “Really? Ever been to his house?”

  “No, not that I recall.”

  “Go out for a beer, just the two of you?”

  “No,”

  “You barely know the man, but it was you and only you hanging out with him in the locker room and you who he so carelessly, foolishly spoke such vile, racist things to. That’s what you want this jury to believe?”

  By now, Schilling was starting to look a little pale. He took a deep breath and gathered himself before slowly, carefully answering.

  “The jury can believe whatever it wants. I know what I heard him say.”

  Fifty-Six

  When Arturo finished his cross of Schilling, the State’s case was complete. Gondeck and Moore had crossed all of the t’s and dotted all of the i’s to get into evidence every element of every charge.

  Margaret Tennant had called a recess until Monday morning. An extra day for the defense to prepare.

  As the crowded courtroom emptied, Maddy Rivers came in and fought her way through the crowd going upstream toward the gate. When she reached it, Marc looked at her with his eyebrows raised.

  “Got him,” she said. “I caught up with him in a bar a couple of blocks from here. I saw him leaving the building down on the second floor and followed him.”

  “Who?” Rob asked.

  “Dirk Shepherd,” Marc replied. “He’s one of the investigators who work for the county attorney.”

  “He’s got quite a mouth on him, too. Called me the ‘C’ word once, the ‘B’ word several times.”

  “Oh, god,” Marc said. “Is he okay? Is he in the hospital? You didn’t…?”

  “No, I just left, although I might go back and have a little chat with the bartender. He thought it was pretty amusing,” Maddy replied.

  “Don’t, please,” Marc pleaded. “Just leave it alone.”

  “What?” Arturo asked.

  “Usually, when someone talks to her like that, they find themselves on their back wondering why everything hurts.

  “Well, everybody,” Marc said as he picked up his briefcase. “First thing Monday morning, we’re up.”

  Carvelli had parked the Lincoln in a lot near the Guthrie Theater downtown. He turned up the collar of his trench coat against the wind that was blowing along the River. Other than the wind, it was a pleasant enough October day. But why meet outdoors? he wondered.

  Carvelli followed the pathway along the river until he came to a park bench. A lone man was sitting on it, watching the water go over St. Anthony Falls while waiting for Carvelli.

  “Where’s Tess?” Carvelli asked FBI Agent Jeff Johnson.

  “Paperwork,” Johnson replied.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nice view,” Johnson said. “Especially with the leaves changing colors along the river.”

  “Yeah, it’s lovely,” the cynical ex-cop in Carvelli answered.

  “I’m finding out there’s been a lot of things going on, Tony. Almost swirling around us that I didn’t know about and neither did you, that the higher-ups, I mean Washington, at the Bureau and DOJ have been less than open about.”

  “This shocks you, does it?” Carvelli sarcastically asked. “Why should those of us out here, with our ass hanging out, know what’s going on?

  “What can you tell me, Jeff?”

>   “Not much, except things are moving fast. Ten days, two weeks at most. There’s been a secret Grand Jury impaneled in Washington. Everything from here and Chicago has been fed to it. Indictments are already being issued so, be ready.”

  “Am I going to be arrested?”

  “No, no,” Johnson said with assurance. “They know what you’ve been doing. Um, I sort of broke your trust and told them. Sorry.”

  “I knew you would. I guess I kind of counted on it,” Carvelli said.

  Carvelli’s personal phone vibrated in his coat pocket. He looked at the ID and saw a text message come through. He read it and put his phone away.

  “I gotta go. Anything else?” Carvelli asked.

  “Yeah, me too,” Johnson answered and stood up. “When the shit hits the fan, it will happen quick. No one wants anything leaking out. I’ll keep you in the loop as much as I can.”

  “What do you need?” Carvelli said into his phone. He was on his way back to the Lincoln calling the person who sent the text.

  “Why can’t you text? Never mind,” Gretchen started to ask.

  “I’m too stupid,” Carvelli replied.

  “At least an honest answer,” Gretchen said. “Can you come by? We need to talk about Philo.”

  “About what?”

  “It’s getting complicated,” Gretchen said.

  “Oh, oh. Don’t tell me you’re falling in love.”

  Carvelli waited for twenty seconds before saying, “Stop laughing. It’s not impossible. I’m in my car. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Come in,” Gretchen said. She had buzzed Carvelli into the building and he had signed in at the security desk. The armed security guard had been informed that Carvelli was coming as a visitor.

  Gretchen led him into the sunken living room as he, again, looked around the luxury condo.

  “I wish I could afford something like this,” he told her.

  “You’re in the wrong business,” she replied. “Have a seat. You want something to drink?”

  “A water,” Carvelli said. “I’m thirsty.”

  A minute later Gretchen returned with ice cubes in a stemmed, crystal glass and a bottle of Evian. While Carvelli filled the glass, Gretchen took a seat across from him.

  “I saw Philo again last night,” she said. “Something is eating at him. Tony, we just went out to dinner. He drank way too much, and I had to put him in a cab.”

  “He has a drinking problem. That’s not news,” Carvelli replied.

  “No, there’s more to it. He starts out with his usual hubris. Then the more he drinks, the more melancholy he becomes. And he’ll drift off like he’s thinking about something. And I think it has something to do with Marc’s trial.”

  “What?” Carvelli asked, suddenly showing more interest.

  “He muttered something about a picture of a homeless guy they asked him about. I asked him, ‘what about the homeless guy?’ Then he looked at me, shook his head and said, ‘Nothing, I was just thinking out loud.’”

  “Does he owe you money?”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Gretchen said waving him off.

  “When are you seeing him again?”

  “I’m not sure. He said he had to go home for a few days for his mother’s birthday.”

  Carvelli thought for a long minute, then said, “He knows something. Or saw something and it’s bothering him––something to do with Rob Dane. When he gets back, as soon as you hear from him, give me a call. I need to have a little ‘Come to Jesus’ chat with him.”

  “He said he’d be back by Wednesday or Thursday. He told me he would call me for a date,” Gretchen said.

  “Are you becoming his mother figure? Does he have a little Oedipal complex problem?” Carvelli asked with a salacious grin.

  “God, I hope not. I’ve had that happen before. Hey, how did you come up with the Oedipal complex?”

  “The ignorant cop? I’ve read more than just Playboy and the S.I. swimsuit issue.”

  “Nice try,” Gretchen laughed while Carvelli answered his phone.

  “What’s up, Dan?”

  “We’re done,” Sorenson replied. “Everything of value is on DVDs and CDs. We came across something a bit interesting.”

  “Which is?” Carvelli asked.

  “Someone has been calling Damone every day with an update of Marc’s trial.”

  “What are they telling him?”

  “We’re only getting one side of the conversation. Most of it seems to be pretty routine stuff,” Sorenson answered.

  “He probably has someone in the audience,” Carvelli said. “We think he’s the guy who hired the homeless guy to set up Rob. Of course he’d want to know what’s going on. Makes sense.”

  “Sure,” Sorenson agreed. “Are you coming by to pick up the disks for your pals?”

  “Yeah,” Carvelli replied.

  “Meet me at Jake’s. I need to get out of here.”

  “Don’t leave Conrad alone. He needs protection.”

  “We’re moving him this afternoon,” Sorenson said.

  “I’ll see you in a while,” Carvelli replied.

  On his way to Jake’s, something occurred to Carvelli.

  “Hey,” he said when Sorenson answered his call back. “I just thought of something. On the tapes, because Damone changes phones every day, whoever calls him has to call Lewis first and get the new number.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. So?”

  “So, I have Lewis’ phone number. If you can get the time that this mystery man in court calls Damone, I can get my guy to track the calls Lewis gets, come up with a phone number and get this guy’s name.”

  “That’s why you’re a detective,” Sorenson replied with a mocking, smart-ass manner.

  “And don’t you forget it.”

  “I’ll give Conrad a call and have him get on that,” Sorenson said.

  Fifty-Seven

  “The defense calls, Lieutenant Colonel Gabriel Stewart,” Marc told the court.

  Friday morning, three days ago, the entire office staff, the lawyers, Marc, Maddy and Arturo, had a two-hour debate. Who to call first for the defense? It is well known that people tend to hold in their memory primacy and recency. What this means is that people recall best the first and last things, and witnesses, they have heard.

  It was generally believed by the office members that the jury should hear from Rob first. They had been waiting several days to hear from him. Get him up there and let him tell them what happened. It was Barry Cline who argued otherwise.

  The last witness the state put on the stand was the cop who adamantly testified about Rob as a racist. The jury had three days to dwell on it—the racist claim needed to be refuted right away.

  As the opinions and arguments went around the room, Marc was finally persuaded Barry was right. What convinced him were the opinions of the staff. The non-lawyers, including Maddy, thinking like ordinary people, came around to agree with Barry that the racist claim needed to be refuted right away.

  Lt. Colonel Stewart came through the doors and strolled up the center aisle as if he owned the place. He was ramrod straight and a six-foot-three, trim one-ninety. Wearing his dress blues with shoulder straps, five rows of campaign ribbons and his airborne insignia; he was enough to make anyone proud to be an American. He was also a black man.

  Marc tossed him a few soft questions to get him started. He asked him about his background, years of service, deployments in combat and current billet.

  “Colonel Stewart, how did you come to be here today?”

  “I watch the news. I heard about the protests and the shooting of Reverend Ferguson. When I found out it was Rob Dane who was accused of it, my jaw almost hit the floor.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “Well, I made sure it was the same Rob Dane I had served with, then I found out who his lawyer was. I contacted you and offered to do whatever I could.”

  “Why would you go to such trouble?”

  “Fi
rst, because the news was portraying him as some mad racist who murdered Ferguson without cause. This was not the Rob Dane I knew.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Sergeant Robert Dane, that man sitting next to you, was awarded a Bronze Star with valor for saving my life in Afghanistan.”

  “Tell the jury how this happened?”

  “I was a captain at the time, in command of a company in Kandahar Province. We were on patrol having been told there were Taliban in our area. To make a long story shorter, we were set up and ambushed.

  “A Taliban RPG—rocket-propelled grenade—almost hit me. The explosion knocked me down and unconscious. Sergeant Dane helped set up a defensive zone then volunteered to crawl on his belly almost a hundred meters to where I was.

  “When he got there, I was coming to but still very groggy. We were taking small arms fire. Rob threw me over his back and carried me back to the rest of the company.”

  The colonel looked directly at each of the jurors and asked, “Does that sound like something a racist would do?”

  Gondeck almost objected to this embellishment but decided it was too late. Best to let it go.

  “Colonel,” Marc began asking, “how many men were under your command at that time?”

  “Two hundred, give or take.”

  “What does that mean, ‘give or take’?”

  “We were almost never at full strength. Wounded men were evacuated, there were always some on sick call, things like that.”

  “Killed?”

  “Yes,” Stewart quietly said. “I lost seven KIA during that tour.”

  “How many men were African Americans?”

  “There were sixty-seven black soldiers when we first deployed in country. I actually don’t like that term, African Americans. It sets people apart and divides us. We are all Americans.”

  “Thank you for that. Was there racial trouble between the soldiers in your command?”

  “A little, I suppose. It’s generally not like that in the military. The military is a great equalizer, especially in combat.”