Lady Justice and the Pharaoh's Curse

by Robert Thornhill

  The first one involved a Mexican drug cartel that was smuggling their product into Kansas City on barges by way of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers.

  There had been a modern-day gunfight at the OK Corral on the banks of the Missouri River. I had nearly been blown to bits by a grenade launched by one of the Mexican sicarios.

  Once the DEU shut down the cartel’s river pipeline into the city, it didn’t take them long to find a new and definitely grotesque way to get their drugs onto the Kansas City streets. Young Latino girls were hired to go to Mexico where bags of heroin were surgically implanted in their breasts.

  Ox and I found ourselves in the middle of that one also, thanks to two senior citizens that stumbled onto the cartel’s latest scheme.

  If this new assignment was anything like the first two, I figured it was time to put on our asbestos underwear because things were going to heat up fast.

  Rocky extended his hand. “Thanks for coming. I requested the two of you because you’ve worked with our unit in the past. No sense in breaking in two new guys when you’re available.”

  Lucky us, I thought. “So what’s the assignment? Is the cartel back in business?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. This is a simple drug bust. We got a tip that some citizen is growing pot in his basement. No cartel, no inner-city gang, just some joe-schmo tending his grow-light garden. We should be in and out before lunch.”

  I wasn’t convinced. Nothing is ever as easy as it seems.

  Ox and I followed the DEU guys in our cruiser. Rocky and another officer were in an unmarked unit and two other guys were in a paddy wagon that was along to haul away any contraband.

  The address was on Winchester Avenue just east of Swope Park. It was a sparsely populated part of town. Older bungalows sat on large lots with plenty of green space in between.

  On the way, I had visions of old board-ups and run-down tenements, the structures that usually housed the meth labs and pot farms of Kansas City’s drug trade.

  I was surprised when we pulled up in front of a tidy little bungalow with a freshly mown lawn and a white picket fence. A pair of flower boxes brimming with bright colored blooms sat on the porch rails and an old-fashioned swing gently swayed in the gentle breeze. It looked like a house that would have belonged to Ward and June Cleaver in their retirement years.

  We followed Winkler and his men onto the porch. Winkler opened the screen and pounded on the door.

  “Kansas City Police. Open up please!”

  A few moments later, the door opened. A man dressed in bib overalls was clinging to a woman wearing a flowered apron like my grandmother used to make out of feed sacks. They appeared to be in their early sixties.

  Winkler read from a document in his hand. “Ralph and Doris McDonald?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, what’s this all about?”

  Winkler handed her the document. “Mrs. McDonald, we have a warrant to search your premises. Please step back.”

  “But --- but, I don’t understand.”

  “Ma’am, please step back. I’ll not ask you nicely again.”

  Obviously frightened by the tone of Winkler’s voice, the couple retreated into the living room.

  “Walt, Ox,” Winkler ordered, “you two stay here with the McDonalds while we execute the warrant.”

  When Winkler and his men were gone, I motioned to the couch. “Why don’t the two of you have a seat? This may take a while.”

  The woman, obviously shaken, guided her husband to the couch.

  I noticed for the first time that something didn’t look right with Mr. McDonald’s eyes.

  Ralph McDonald held his wife’s hand. “I knew we were taking a chance, Doris, but I never thought it would come to this. I’m so sorry to put you through this.”

  “Nonsense,” she replied, patting his hand. “We were just doing what had to be done.”

  I could see that Ox was confused. “What exactly is that, Ma’am?”

  “The marijuana in the basement,” she replied. “That’s what they’re here for. It’s for Ralph’s eyes. He has glaucoma. It helps reduce his IOP.”

  “IOP? I don’t understand.”

  “Intraocular pressure. Fluid builds up in his eyes. The marijuana relieves the pressure. He only uses it when he has to. If he doesn’t treat it, he will be completely blind.”

  “But why the pot?” I asked. “Surely there are medications.”

  “We tried them all, but nothing works as well, plus, the side effects were almost as bad as the glaucoma. Look, Officer, Ralph hasn’t been able to work for six years. He’s on disability. That’s our only income except for the baby sitting and house cleaning jobs I get now and then. The drugs were expensive. The marijuana costs us nothing.”

  “Do you sell any of it to other people?” Ox asked.

  “My goodness, no! We barely grow enough for Ralph’s treatments. We aren’t drug dealers!” she replied, indignantly.

  About that time, one of Winkler’s men came through the room carrying a box of plants.

  I saw tears well in Doris McDonald’s eyes, as she watched the source of her husband’s relief being taken away.

  Another officer followed close behind with a box containing the grow lights from their little farm.

  A third officer entered the room carrying an old twelve gauge shotgun.

  “Please! You can’t take that!” Ralph cried. “It belonged to my grandfather. He gave it to my dad and my dad gave it to me. It’s a family heirloom.”

  “Sorry, Pal. When we find drugs and guns together, we have to take everything.”

  Rocky Winkler came into the room carrying a bag of the dried weed. He had found Ralph’s stash.

  He shook his head as he held up the bag. “It’s more than thirty grams. That’s a Class D Felony. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to take you into the station. Walt, Ox, cuff them and transport them in your cruiser.”

  I could see first the shock, then the disbelief and finally the anguish as Winkler’s words registered.

  Doris sobbed and fell into her husband’s arms. They both wept, clinging to one another for support.

  In my five years on the force, I had dealt with drug cartels, gang bangers and serial killers, but nothing I had encountered was as difficult as pulling the old couple apart and cuffing their hands.

  Once they were tucked away in the cruiser, I cornered Winkler.

  “Really? The Drug Enforcement Unit of the Kansas City Police Department has nothing better to do than roust an old couple growing a few plants in their basement for medical purposes? What about the cartels? What about the meth houses? Is the city so clean you have to resort to this?”

  “Hey!” Winkler said, holding up his hands defensively. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I had nothing to do with this. With all the crap going on, do you think I’d waste my time with Old McDonald and his pot farm? This came from upstairs. I was just following orders.”

  “Upstairs? Surely not from the chief?”

  “Higher than that.”

  “The mayor?”

  “Close. City Councilman Victor Carson. He’s up for re-election and he’s running on a ‘tough-on-crime’ ticket. Apparently he has a shirt-tail relative that lives around here someplace. The relative heard about the McDonald’s extracurricular activities and tipped off the councilman. I guess he figured that Kansas City would be a safer place with Doris and Ralph McDonald behind bars, plus he could grab the credit for a legitimate drug bust.”

  “Unbelievable!”

  “No kidding. Sorry I had to drag you into this. I figured that if I had to bring them in, you and Ox would give them as much dignity as possible.”

  For the first time, I looked around the neighborhood. People were standing in their yards and on their porches, watching their long-time neighbors being led away in handcuffs.

  So much for dignity.

  When we arrived at the station, the McDonalds went straight to booking where they would be photographed and fingerpri
nted.

  Thankfully, our part of the ordeal was over and we were heading back to our cruiser when I spotted Suzanne Romero.

  When she saw me, she waved. I could tell she wanted to talk.

  Romero was, without a doubt, the best attorney I had ever met.

  As council for the defense, she had a reputation for being a thorn in the side of law enforcement. Every prosecuting attorney knew that if there was a hole anywhere in their case, she would find it. Every officer knew that if they had strayed from the straight and narrow and violated a defendant’s rights, she would destroy them on the stand.

  Romero was not a bleeding heart. I saw her more as a champion of due process and if the prosecution ever crossed the line, she would be there to point out the error of their ways.

  I had seen her in court and I knew that if I or anyone I loved ever needed an attorney, she would be the one.

  That time came when Mary Murphy shot and killed an intruder that had threatened her with a knife.

  An overzealous D.A. was ready to throw the book at my old friend, but Suzanne had prevailed with a brilliant ‘stand-your-ground’ defense.

  “Good to see you again, Walt,” she said extending her hand.

  “Likewise. What brings you to our humble abode?”

  She nodded toward the McDonalds who were being led away.

  “Really? How could you know about that? We just brought them in. They haven’t even had time for a phone call.”

  Romero smiled. “I have my sources. I thought they might need some help.”

  “I don’t know how much you know about the McDonalds, but they tell me they live on a monthly disability check. I know you don’t come cheap.”

  “This one’s a freebie --- pro bono --- if they’ll have me.”

  “Are you kidding? They’d be lucky to have you. Why the interest?”

  “Politics, plain and simple. These poor folks are pawns in a re-election campaign and I just don’t want to see them railroaded.”

  “So you know about Councilman Carson.”

  She nodded. “He’s a douchebag and I’m not going to let him get away with this. What did Winkler find?”

  “You know I’m not supposed to talk about this stuff.”

  “Come on, Walt. You know I’ll have it before the end of the day. I just need a head’s up.”

  I sighed, “You didn’t hear this from me, but I think they confiscated about 40 scrawny plants and Winkler said the bag he found was more than 30 grams.”

  “Shit! That’s a Class D Felony. They could get up to three years in prison and a $10,000.00 fine. I’ve got my work cut out for me on this one. Thanks for your help. I won’t forget it.”

  For the first time since I cuffed the McDonalds, I thought they had a fighting chance.

  CHAPTER 8

  I had heard through the grapevine that Suzanne Romero had approached the Prosecuting Attorney about a plea deal, bumping the charges down to a misdemeanor. Under normal circumstances, given the fact that the defendants were first time offenders and senior citizens to boot, the disposition of a case such as this should have been a slam dunk.

  The P.A. told Romero, almost apologetically, that he had been instructed to vigorously prosecute the case to the fullest extent of the law.

  It looked like the McDonald’s would be going to trial.

  In our five years together, Ox and I had arrested hundreds of scumbags and low lifes. Without exception they were predators; thieves and rapists preying on the weak and helpless or drug lords selling their dope to addicts and young kids. They were a cancer that needed to be exorcised from society.

  The McDonalds bore no resemblance to them whatsoever. They were grandma in the kitchen baking cookies and grandpa on the front porch teaching little Billy how to whittle. They were the neighbor that takes a casserole dish to the family of a recently deceased. They were the kind of folks that anyone would love to have living next door.

  But they had broken the law.

  As hard as I tried, I couldn’t erase from my mind the anguish on their faces as Ox and I pulled them apart and placed them in cuffs. The disbelief, despair and tearful desperation on their faces kept me awake in the wee hours of the morning.

  I had always been proud to serve Lady Justice, but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t see how destroying the McDonalds was making my city a safer place.

  Their situation had become personal to me, and something in my gut made me want to follow their case through to the end.

  I had built up a lot of vacation days and knowing their trial was about to get underway, I asked the captain if I could take some personal days. There had been no new leads in the King Tut thing, and the flu bug seemed to have run its course, so he readily agreed.

  No one in my little group, Maggie included, understood why I would waste precious vacation time sitting in a courtroom.

  It was just something I had to do.

  Although the McDonalds were sympathetic defendants, the prosecution’s case seemed airtight.

  The Drug Enforcement Unit had acted on a tip that the McDonalds were growing marijuana, a Schedule I drug, in their basement. They had obtained and executed a warrant to search the premises, and sure enough, live plants as well as 35 grams of processed marijuana were found and confiscated.

  The fact that they were growing the weed for medicinal purposes, and not to sell, had no bearing on the situation. What they were doing was against the law, plain and simple.

  Under normal circumstances, the prosecution would be able to present its entire case and rest with the testimony of Rocky Winkler, the head of the Drug Enforcement Unit.

  Clark Benson was shuffling a stack of papers at the prosecutor’s table. I had been on the stand testifying in several of Benson’s cases. He was thorough and he was tough, both traits which I admired when the defendant was a scumbag, but I feared his being there today didn’t bode well for the McDonalds.

  A murmur went through the courtroom as Suzanne Romero and the McDonalds took their places at the defense table.

  Ralph and Doris McDonald had been free on bond since their arrest, but I could see that the ordeal had taken its toll. There were dark circles under Doris’s eyes and Ralph’s eyes and eyelids were red and swollen.

  As soon as they were seated, the bailiff stood and announced, “Hear ye! Hear ye! All rise for the Honorable Judge Harrison Hartley.”

  “Be seated,” Hartley said, taking his place on the bench.

  I had been in Hartley’s court as well. He had a reputation for being fair, but definitely tough on crime.

  No bleeding heart liberals in the courtroom today. I couldn’t help but wonder, with Hartley on the bench and Benson as the prosecutor, if the deck had been stacked against the McDonalds.

  For his first order of business, Hartley addressed the McDonalds and asked if they understood that they were entitled to separate counsel. They both nodded. I heard they had been married forty-one years. I figured they weren’t about to be separated and testify against one another at this point in their lives. Whatever the outcome, they were going to face it together.

  “Very well then,” Hartley said. “Mr. Benson, are you ready to proceed with your opening statement?”

  “Yes, your Honor,” Benson said, striding confidently to the well in front of the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I’ll not bore you with a long opening statement. The matter before you is really quite clear cut. In Missouri, marijuana is classified as a Schedule 1 drug, the same classification as both heroin and LSD. It is illegal to grow or possess marijuana in any quantity, and in our case today, the prosecution will present evidence that Ralph and Doris McDonald had in their possession live marijuana plants and 35 grams of processed marijuana, enough to raise the charges against them to a felony. The defense will undoubtedly claim that the marijuana was being grown for medicinal purposes and not for sale, but you must understand that Missouri law does not make that distinction. Possession of marijuana in any quantity for
any reason is against the law. The evidence in this case is clear and indisputable. Once you have heard it, you will see that the only possible verdict is ‘guilty.’ ”

  Having been on the scene, I knew Benson was right. The pot was definitely there and as far as I knew, it had been discovered and seized legally. I figured that Romero would use the medical angle as a defense, but Benson had just taken the wind out of that sail.

  The judge turned to Suzanne. “Ms. Romero, are you ready with your opening statement?”

  Suzanne rose, “Your Honor, I would like to reserve my remarks until after the prosecution has presented its case.”

  “Very well then. Mr. Benson, you may call your first witness.”

  As I figured, Benson called Rocky Winkler to the stand.

  Benson used the first twenty minutes of Winkler’s testimony to establish his credentials not only as a seasoned officer, but as the head of the Drug Enforcement Unit.

  With the preliminaries out of the way, Benson got down to business.

  “Officer Winkler, on the morning of May 2nd of this year, did you and your unit execute a search warrant on the premises of Ralph and Doris McDonald?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “Who authorized this warrant?”

  “Judge Reeder.”

  “What exactly was the probable cause that prompted you to seek this warrant?”

  “We received a tip from a neighbor that the McDonalds were growing marijuana plants in their basement.”

  “Is that an unusual occurrence?”

  “Not really. There are drug problems all over the city. There is no way we can be aware of all of them. In many cases, we are tipped off by a neighbor that has witnessed suspicious activity. When that happens, we investigate and if there is sufficient evidence, we obtain a warrant.”

  “Is that what happened in this case?”

  “Yes, we interviewed the original complainant, then interviewed other neighbors on the street. After obtaining two more witnesses that had knowledge of the situation, we obtained the warrant.”