No Justice: A Michael Sykora Novel

by Darcia Helle

  Where does Michael Sykora's character come from - is he based on real-life people or events?

  Michael Sykora’s character was sparked by a conversation I was having with my husband. We were discussing the circumstances under which an average person could or would kill. I think most of us agree that we would kill to protect our child or spouse, providing there was an immediate threat. But when does self-defense turn into revenge? And, if you know the threat is not immediate but that a criminal will kill or rape again in the future, is murder ever an acceptable option? My husband’s responses prompted Michael Sykora’s creation.

  Is the criminal justice system truly as corrupt - and often inept - as you portray it to be in your books?

  I’d love to say it’s not, though my opinion is that our justice system is a mess. The U.S. has approximately 2.3 million inmates in our jails and prisons (not including juveniles). We make up less than 5% of the world’s population but we house 25% of the world’s prison inmates. We toss the mentally ill in with the guys who like to smoke a little marijuana on the weekend, and we toss those people in with the gangbangers and murderers. Prison teaches inmates to fight, to lie, and to be better criminals. We house them like animals. Then we set them free, somehow expecting them to have been rehabilitated. Society is then shocked when the nonviolent criminal serves 5 years, only to murder someone upon his release. We have overcrowding and underfunding. Many prisons are now privately owned and have become a money-making business. Consequently, there is little to no incentive to keep people out of the prison system and every incentive to put them in.

  Contrarily, as our prisons welcome new inmates, our court system allows criminals to walk free. A murderer sentenced to life is often walking the street in as little as 5 years. Only 2% of rapists are convicted and serve prison time. The victim has her entire past displayed on trial, while the law protects the rapist from having his past exposed, no matter how relevant to the crime. The recidivism rate for child molesters released from prison is approximately 13% (that we are aware of). Of the 551,000 registered sex offenders in the U.S., at any given time about 100,000 are missing. We are no better at tracking our sex offenders than we are at tracking our immigrants.

  So, yes, our system has many flaws and victims often do not find justice.

  ###

  The Story Behind The Story Of No Justice

  Some time ago, I served on a jury for the murder trial of a man accused of raping and murdering his girlfriend. While I had known that our justice system had flaws, this was a close-up view of those injustices behind our justice system. We, the jury, were not allowed to hear anything about the plaintiff’s past. His life was a locked box. The victim, however, had no such privacy. The defense attorney gleefully flaunted the victim’s past, including her sexual history from as far back as her teen years. I will never forget the look of anguish on her parents’ faces.

  The defense did a great job of spinning the tale and making the victim out to be less than virtuous. After a week of this, when we were sent to deliberate, only two of the 12 jurors initially voted for murder one. I was one of them. The other 10 wanted involuntary manslaughter, citing her behavior and his cocaine use as “excuses”. I should mention here that the man had left his dead girlfriend in his bed, while he went out and partied with friends all night. Also, according to witnesses, he was quite sober at the time of the murder.

  The other juror and I fought for, and eventually won, a murder one conviction. Before we left the courthouse, the judge spoke to us privately. She congratulated and thanked us for the conviction. At that time, she was able to tell us what had been carefully kept from us throughout the trial; the man we’d just convicted had a long history of abusing women. He’d already been convicted of several assaults and one rape. An involuntary manslaughter charge would have been little more than a slap on the wrist. He’d have been out in no time, free to rape and murder yet another woman.

  My husband and I were discussing this one day; that case specifically and the justice system in general. That’s when the character Michael Sykora was born. In many ways, Sykora is my husband’s alter ego. (But, to be clear, my husband does not moonlight as a hit man!)

  As for the specific plot, that developed from a combination of the characters’ voices and the conversation with my husband. I don’t write from an outline. I start with a character and a vague idea. Then I listen and follow where that leads me. About midway through writing No Justice, I realized that I had way too many plots and subplots going on. At that point, I knew that Michael Sykora needed to be a series. He wasn’t happy with one book. I stripped down that initial manuscript and told the story of where I thought the series needed to begin.

  ###

  Beyond Salvation Excerpt

  The following is an excerpt from Beyond Salvation, the second book in the Michael Sykora series by Darcia Helle. A teenage runaway disappears from the streets. Michael Sykora, part-time hit man, is asked to find her. He tracks her down with the help of street-smart friend, Nicki and friend and hit man, Sean. In the process, they uncover a world where salvation comes with a price tag and God's words are used to incite fear in a congregation of believers.

  ***

  Chapter 1

  Nicki had a way of turning Michael on, even while wearing yellow rubber gloves and an oversized Buccaneers t-shirt. So what if her amber eyes flashed with bleach-induced craziness. That was part of her charm. Michael stubbornly stuck with his “just friends” façade, while underneath it all he couldn’t deny that sizzle.

  “This place still feels contaminated,” Nicki said.

  She stood in her kitchen, gripping a wet sponge in one dripping yellow-gloved hand. Michael leaned against the wall, straight-faced because even cracking a smile would likely earn him a slap. He said, “It smells like a truckload of Clorox exploded in here.”

  “I’ve scrubbed everything twice,” Nicki said. “Not counting the cleaning you and I did before I moved back in. But I can still smell him.”

  “Does he smell like bleach?”

  “No, but keep it up and you will.”

  “The best forensic team in the country wouldn’t be able to find a trace of that guy in here.”

  Nicki dropped the sponge in the bucket and pulled off her gloves. She said, “But I know he was here, touching everything, breathing my air.”

  Michael stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Nicki. A loose ponytail held her long deep brown hair away from her face, though a few stray strands had managed to free themselves to caress her cheeks. Golden highlights shimmered in the stream of sunlight coming in through the window. The faint scent of her perfume managed to capture him through the haze of bleach. As always, Michael’s body reacted despite his mind’s protests.

  Michael did his best to ignore the desire that always came with being close to Nicki. He said, “It’s been three weeks.”

  “I know,” Nicki said. “I’m being stupid. I can’t help it.”

  Having someone break into your apartment, rip the place apart, hide out there, then drag you outside in an attempt to kidnap, gang rape, and kill you, would make most anyone behave a little nuts. Thinking about how close Nicki had come to death still made his stomach clench. He said, “You’re safe now.”

  “Thanks to you,” Nicki replied. She planted a kiss on Michael’s cheek, then spun on her bare toes, doing a little twirl before heading toward the refrigerator. “Which brings me back to my earlier proposition. Have you thought about it?”

  Michael shook his head. “I already told you, the answer is no.”

  “So you haven’t thought about it then. Want a root beer? Or a water? I bought you Perrier.”

  “You’re trying to bribe me with water?”

  “Desperate measures.”

  “I’ll take the water,” Michael said. But the answer is still no.”

  Nicki handed Michael a bottle of Perrier and opened a root beer for herself. “We’d make great partners,” she said.

&nb
sp; “No.”

  “I could be an asset. I still have connections on the street. And, back when I was in the business, a local cop was one of my regulars. I’m sure he’d rather provide me with occasional information than have his captain find out he was paying for sex.”

  “Nicki -”

  “And I’ve even come up with a name for our business.”

  Michael sank onto one of the kitchen chairs. He put his Perrier bottle on the table and rubbed his hands over his face. “We have no business for you to name,” he said into his palms.

  “Lost and Found,” Nicki said

  She plopped onto a chair beside him, grinning like a happy child. Whether her happiness came from the concept of running a business together or from tormenting him was hard to tell. Probably a little of both. Despite his resistance, Michael found himself saying, “Lost and Found?”

  “Catchy, don’t you think?” Nicki replied. “We’ll be a place where people go to find someone they’ve lost. A missing family member, a runaway kid, things like that. The cops don’t do much in those situations. So we’d find them. Hence, Lost and Found.”

  “That’s what P.I.s are for.”

  “Sure, private investigators do that, too. But we’d be better at it because we wouldn’t be constrained by all the nuisance laws that licensed investigators have to follow. It would be our specialty.”

  “Our specialty,” Michael said.

  “Now you’re catching on,” Nicki replied with a wink.

  “No.”

  “Then, of course, there’d be the other side of the business.”

  “Other side?”

  “Yeah, like you do now but you’d have me to help you.”

  “Jesus…” Michael muttered.

  “Restoring the balance,” Nicki said. “Isn’t that how you put it the other day?”

  In a slow, deliberate tone, Michael said, “Nicki, you are not a hit man.”

  “Hell, I know that silly. I’d be your assistant.”

  “My assistant.”

  “Why do you keep repeating my words?”

  “I’m hoping they will somehow sound better the second time around.”

  Nicki chuckled. “Don’t be so uptight. You know this would work. You could give up the software design. And don’t deny having told me that you’re tired of it.”

  “I’m not denying that.”

  “The Lost and Found name works perfectly for both aspects of our business. The legitimate end speaks for itself. Then, for that other segment of people who need us, we’ll find the bad guys and make them disappear. Lost and Found in reverse.”

  “No.”

  Undaunted, Nicki said, “Think about it. I have a feeling the idea will grow on you.”

  “No.”

  “We’ll talk about it more later,” Nicki said. “I’m going to shower, then you can take me out for Mexican food.”

  Michael shook his head in exasperation. Nicki had more determination than anyone he’d ever met. And while his common sense screamed for him to put an end to her crazy ideas, a part of him was intrigued. He sighed, took a swallow of Perrier, and acknowledged that he very well may have lost his mind.

  ###

  Love and Loyalty (and other tales) Excerpt

  The following is from Love and Loyalty (and other tales), by Maria Savva. This is a diverse collection of thought-provoking, memorable tales of life and love, luck and loss, deceit and lies, the unexpected and the true to life.

  You can learn more about Maria and her books at: www.MariaSavva.com

  One thing leads to another...

  When I posted the Valentine’s card that day, I just wanted to see how she would react—what her face would be like when she came to work. I had no way of knowing it would spiral so out of control.

  *

  DC Kirby ducked down to avoid the yellow tape, and walked towards the door of the Victorian terraced house. It looked the same as any of the other houses on the street. The only thing that made it stand out today, was that this was now a crime scene. As Kirby walked into the house, he could see the forensics team gathering evidence: carefully preserving imprints of fingerprints; taking photographs, etc.

  The detective in charge of the case, DCI Robertson, was already there: ‘Hi, Pete.’

  ‘Hi,’ answered DC Kirby.

  ‘Be careful not to touch anything; they’re not finished here yet.’

  ‘Any leads?’

  ‘Not sure,’ said DCI Robertson, holding up an envelope. ‘This was on the doormat when we arrived. It hadn’t been opened.’ He handed it to Kirby who read the enclosed Valentine’s card, which had a big red heart on the front with the words ‘Forever Mine’ emblazoned across it:

  ‘Dearest Joan,

  You are, and always will be, the one I love,

  Anon xxxxxxxxxxx’

  ‘Hmm,’ Kirby looked at the envelope, as if it would hold a clue as to the sender’s identity.

  ‘It’s not even postmarked, so whoever wrote this must have hand delivered it,’ said Robertson.

  ‘Looks like it may have been a crime of passion.’

  ‘Not sure.’ Robertson rubbed his chin, and narrowed his eyes behind his round glasses. ‘This is a woman who lived alone, and according to her neighbours, she didn’t have a boyfriend; at least, no one ever saw any men come into the house. By all accounts, she was quiet; kept herself to herself.’

  ‘Do you want me to arrange handwriting analysis of this card?’

  ‘Yes, Pete, that would be a start, and DNA testing. We’ll have to question her work colleagues, her family and friends, and get samples of their DNA and handwriting. Also, check with the neighbours to see if anyone saw who posted the card.’

  *

  ‘James Holloway, we’d like to talk to you in connection with the disappearance of Joan Ember.’ When the police turned up at the office that morning, I was shocked, to say the least. To begin with, I didn’t know Joan had disappeared. She had taken two weeks annual leave, and was due back today, but we worked on flexitime, so I wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t come in first thing. She said she was going to spend a week in Spain on the Costa Del Sol, and then spend a week at home catching up with old friends. That had been her plan.

  I looked at the police officers, and after my initial speechless moment, my next thought was that this was some kind of practical joke. I thought that Joan was getting back at me for posting the anonymous card. So I said: ‘Ha, ha, very funny... you don’t even look like real policemen!’ Big mistake—they were real policemen, of the plain-clothes variety.

  They didn’t find me amusing.

  I began to feel uncomfortable. ‘Where’s Joan?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s something we are hoping you will be able to help us with, Mr. Holloway. She was reported missing over a week ago, and the only lead we have is this card. Is this your handwriting?’

  ‘Yes, but...’ I thought back to a conversation we’d had last month: Valentine’s Day was coming up, and Joan had seemed a bit upset that she wouldn’t receive any cards...

  ‘You’d be more freaked out if you had a bunch of flowers from a stranger; you’d think he was a stalker,’ I said.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Joan, wistfully. ‘At my age, I’d just be glad for some attention!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, it would be romantic to have a secret admirer. Living alone at the age of forty is soul destroying. Sometimes I feel invisible. If I took off somewhere, no one would miss me. If I died in my house, it would probably be a few weeks before someone found me.’ She shook her head, as if to rid it of the unsavoury thoughts.

  I had worked in the same office as Joan for three years. She was like a sister to me. She was twelve years older than me, but she was young at heart. She had always appeared to be very fond of me, and I thought she was great. I often accompanied her on nights out, when she wanted to go to a party or out with friends. I even pretended to
be her boyfriend once, to make one of her ex-boyfriends jealous. We’d always been good friends, and had never even had an argument before, but here I was, a suspect in her disappearance.

  The police officers didn’t say much in the car, but by the time we got to the station, I had managed to ascertain that Joan’s mother had reported her missing on Saturday morning, when she hadn’t turned up for a pre-arranged visit. The police had found blood stains on her living room carpet, which seemed quite fresh, and it matched Joan’s blood type. One of the windows was wide open, and the lock on the back garden door was broken. She was not answering her mobile phone.

  The most significant point, as far as they could see, was that her cat, Tiddles, was alone in the house. She had asked her neighbour, Mrs. Davy, to feed him for the week she was due to be abroad, but had not left enough money for the following week. Mrs. Davy said she felt worried. She said it was very out of character for Joan, because she loved Tiddles.

  The police let me go after I told them my story, but they said they would need me for further questioning when they had made more enquiries. I felt so anxious that week. Every knock on the door, and every time the telephone rang, it could have been the police with the news that Joan’s body had been found and I was being arrested for murder. I had nightmares, waking up in the pitch dark, in a cold sweat, after dreaming about being interrogated by the police. The worse thing was, I really cared about Joan. She had been a close friend, so I was worried about her; and that was on top of my anxiety about the fear of being sent to prison for something I hadn’t done. Why did I post that card? If I could turn back time...

  *

  Two weeks to the day that I’d first been questioned by the police, Joan waltzed into the office, looking tanned, and smiling broadly. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her that happy. She seemed oblivious to the drama that had revolved around her absence. ‘Hi, everyone!’ she said, happily. ‘Oh, isn’t life wonderful when you’re in love?’ She ruffled my hair as she walked past my desk.