[Lady Justice 03] - Lady Justice Gets Lei'd

by Robert Thornhill

  This had obviously been billed as a special event, and I was the main attraction.

  I think at that moment I had a pretty good idea how the Christians might have felt as they were led into the arena of the Coliseum. If I had a choice, I probably would have chosen the lions over Jerome. At least the lions would get it over with quickly. I didn’t think that’s what Jerome had in mind.

  I was led to the empty chair and told to sit.

  Jerome strode to the center of the room. A hush fell as the assembled gang members waited anxiously for their leader to speak.

  “Dis is a great day. Your leader, my brother, has been disrespected by dis man, and dis is de day we exacts our revenge.” He turned and walked up to me. “Are you de man that shot Lil D?”

  I looked up at the tall black man silhouetted under the big glass skylight in the roof of the building.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Are you sorry you shot my brother?”

  “No, sir, I am not.”

  A collective gasp arose from the gang members.

  I had remembered seeing newsreel footage of American soldiers who had been captured by Middle East terrorists and had marveled at the outward calm they seemed to possess. I think that calm comes from knowing that your fate is no longer under your control and the last thing you possess that is yours alone is your dignity.

  “Your brother was a filthy scumbag who sold drugs to children and terrorized this city. He got what he deserved, and I would gladly do it again.”

  On reflection, that probably wasn’t the smartest thing I could have said.

  Jerome hit me squarely across the face with the back of his hand and sent me sprawling on the concrete floor.

  “Now it is time to pay. You shot my brother and disgraced him. You took away his manhood. An eye for an eye. Remove his pants.”

  I was jerked unceremoniously to my feet, and one guy held my arms while another one unbuckled my belt and dropped my pants around my ankles.

  So much for dignity.

  “Now you will know the suffering of my brother.”

  He drew a pistol from his belt, and the men holding me quickly backed away.

  I bit my lip and looked down at Mr. Winkie for what I assumed would be the last time. We had had some great times together. I swear I think he was pouting.

  I heard the click as Jerome pulled back the hammer of the pistol. I closed my eyes and waited.

  Instead of the pistol report I had expected, I heard a loud crash, and glass rained down on us from the shattered skylight overhead. The crash was followed by men descending on ropes with weapons drawn.

  Simultaneously, the outer doors burst open, and a flood of officers in flak jackets and helmets stormed the room.

  The Niners were caught unaware. It was over as quickly as it had begun.

  I couldn’t move. I just stood there like a dumbass while my fellow officers cuffed the last of the gang.

  Then I heard a familiar voice. “Hey, partner, you might want to pull your pants up.”

  I bent over to grab my trousers and came face to face with Mr. Winkie. It was probably that I was still in shock, just a figment of my imagination. I didn’t really believe he could actually smile.

  “Ox, how—?”

  “Captain Short, of course. He’s no fool. He told you to go home knowing full well that you’d do something stupid like this. He had Vince tailing you from the moment you left the 7-Eleven.”

  “So you guys knew all along?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you used me as bait to lead you the Niners?”

  “Yep.”

  “You assholes! You damn near got me shot.”

  “Hmm, so that’s the gratitude we get for saving your sorry ass? Oh, by the way, I think there’s someone outside who wants to see you.”

  I walked into the cool night air of the parking lot and saw Maggie standing with Vince and Willie. She ran into my arms and just held me for the longest time.

  Finally, she spoke. “Vince told me you didn’t know about the police backup.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “So you concocted this whole exchange thing and didn’t have a clue how it was going to end?”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “So you were willing to give your life to save mine?”

  “My life wouldn’t have been worth much without you.”

  “Nor mine without you.”

  “Isn’t that what love is all about?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Maggie stayed the night at my apartment.

  Both of us had believed that the love of our life had been taken from us forever, and we spent the night in each other’s arms, thanking the Big Guy for giving us another chance.

  We awoke as dawn’s first rays peeked through the bedroom curtains.

  “Maggie, I have a confession to make.”

  “What have you done now?”

  “I want to be with you more than anything in this world, but I have to tell you, since that night at the Sprint Center, I’ve been scared to death.”

  “So then it’s not just me?”

  “You too?”

  “Walt, we’re sixty-seven years old. I’ve always lived alone, and so have you. We’re set in our ways. This is going to be quite a new trick for a couple of old dogs to learn.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything and make you think that I don’t love you. You’re the best thing in my life.”

  “I felt the same. I guess if we had been honest with each other, we could have saved ourselves a lot of grief.”

  “Then let’s agree right here and now that we will always be honest and not hide our feelings.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  I soon discovered why guys don’t make deals like that.

  We suddenly found ourselves famished and headed to the kitchen for breakfast.

  I like to keep life simple, especially early in the morning. I put on a pot of coffee, get the newspaper, and read it over a bowl of Wheaties. When I’m through, I have a little wire rack thingy that holds my cup, spoon, and bowl after they’re washed, and they are there waiting for me the next morning.

  I put the coffee on and pulled the Wheaties out of the cupboard.

  Maggie looked at the Wheaties with disdain. “I guess you don’t have any granola. You know, something with some fiber?”

  “Fiber? Uh, no. Probably not, but I’ll look into it.”

  “Then I guess Wheaties it is.”

  I took the bowl out of the wire thingy and looked in the cabinet for another bowl. I actually had four place settings of just dishes and cups, but up till now, one bowl had been adequate.

  “You only have one bowl?”

  “Uh, looks that way. Oh, wait. Here’s an empty Cool Whip container. I can eat out of that.”

  Problem solved, but I made a mental note to get another bowl and something with “fiber,” whatever that is.

  I went for the paper while Maggie poured the coffee and Wheaties.

  Teamwork! I love it!

  It turned out that my little two-seat dinette table was just perfect for one guy and his paper. Double that, and encroachment became an issue.

  I was just spreading out when Maggie approached with her coffee and cereal.

  “Where am I supposed to eat?”

  I surveyed the familiar terrain and immediately discovered the problem.

  “Dopey me. Sorry about that.”

  I folded my paper and set it aside. Maybe later.

  Breakfast concluded without further incident, and we headed to the bathroom.

  My building was constructed in the 1930s. The apartments are adequate but certainly not spacious by today’s standards. I’ve seen walk-in closets bigger than my bedroom. My unit is a two bedroom with a Jack-and-Jill bath connecting the two. It has one tiny, little sink.

  Maggie had stocked a few provisions in the medicine cabinet for our occasional sleepovers.

  We each grabbed our toothbrush and started lathering u
p.

  As luck would have it, we both leaned toward the bowl to spit at the same time.

  “Ohmp, solly. You ‘pit.”

  “No, you ‘pit.”

  “Radies fust.”

  Split!

  Splat!

  It’s all a matter of timing.

  Dental hygiene had just concluded when Maggie whispered in my ear.

  “I think I may need some time alone.”

  “Have I done something wrong?”

  You know, the old guilt thing.

  “No, silly. I just need some bathroom time.”

  “Oh, got it.” I made a hasty exit.

  Again, modern bathrooms have the commode in a tiny little room with a door, just off the main bath area. My throne is prominently displayed as the main attraction.

  It doesn’t matter how intimate a couple may have been, there are just some things you don’t share. This is one of them.

  With all the emphasis on togetherness today, I still can’t recall any pundit declaring, “The family that poops together stays together.” In fact, it’s probably quite the opposite.

  I figured this might be a good time to read my paper, and I hoped I would have time to at least get through the sports page. I needn’t have worried.

  I finished the sports page, expecting Maggie to emerge from the loo at any time. When she didn’t appear, I started the front section, then the business section, and finally the comics.

  Having finished breakfast and my paper, I too began to get signals from Mother Nature.

  “You okay in there?”

  “Sure. Be right out.” But she wasn’t.

  My approach to bathroom time is much like my approach to shopping—get in and get it done. If I go to buy socks, I buy socks, and I’m out of there. Maggie, on the other hand, will go into a store for nylons and spend twenty minutes looking at slacks before she hits the stocking aisle.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what was taking so long.

  It must just be one of those guy/gal things.

  Fortunately, she relinquished the throne just in time.

  Any further delay would have resulted in me shopping for some new socks—and shorts too.

  It was a beautiful spring morning, and we decided to take a walk. As we strolled down Armour Boulevard, I decided to bring up the topic we had both avoided.

  “You know, we’ve never actually set a date yet.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Have you thought about what kind of wedding you would like to have?”

  I know I had thought about it, and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t seem to muster any enthusiasm for the actual event. The only thing that was important to me was to be with Maggie. I would do whatever was necessary to make that happen.

  But I’m not stupid. I’m well aware that weddings are all about the bride. It’s her special day, and I wanted it to be special for Maggie.

  “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know what I want. It doesn’t seem quite appropriate for a sixty-seven-year-old woman to walk down an aisle in a wedding gown. I don’t even know if I want a church wedding. I’ve thought about the rose garden at Loose Park, but I just don’t know.”

  “So are you thinking something big or a small intimate thing with just close friends?”

  “I don’t want anything big. You know, just the people closest to us.”

  “Well, we both worked at City Wide Realty. We’d probably want our friends there to attend. Plus some of our realtor friends from other offices. Oh, and our loan guy and our termite guy and the inspector.”

  “And what about your fellow officers from the precinct? How many would that be?

  “Probably thirty.”

  “Then there’s Willie and his friends and Mary and the professor and …”

  So much for a small wedding.

  We thoroughly enjoyed our early morning walk, but we were no closer to being hitched than the night I proposed.

  At least now we were talking about it.

  CHAPTER 5

  With Jerome and the Niners out of commission, activity at the precinct was scaled back to the usual routine.

  Unfortunately, part of the usual routine was to give a ration of shit to the old geezer who had, once again, set himself up as the comic relief of the squad room.

  My fellow officers were not about to let me forget that I was standing in a warehouse surrounded by black gangbangers with my trousers down around my ankles and Mr. Winkie and the boys exposed to the world when the whole squad burst in for the rescue.

  I had heard comments like, “If you guys were comparing ‘equipment,’ I’m afraid you came out on the ‘short’ end.”

  Today, when I walked into the squad room, they were ready for me.

  Someone hit play on the boombox, and the words of the cult hit introduced on American Idol filled the room:

  Pants on the ground; pants on the ground.

  Lookin’ like a fool with your pants on the

  ground.

  Each officer in turn presented me with an old belt or pair of suspenders.

  How thoughtful.

  Once the laughter had subsided, Captain Short addressed the group with a grim face. “Officer Williams, I gave you explicit instructions to go home and stay there. You disobeyed a direct order.”

  Silence pervaded the room.

  I sat waiting for the axe to fall.

  “I would have been disappointed if you had done anything else. Congratulations, Walt.”

  The room burst into applause. Even the captain couldn’t resist harassing the old man.

  After a brief meeting, the rest of the squad was dismissed to their regular patrol duties. The captain asked Ox and me to stay behind.

  “I have a special assignment for the two of you. The body of an old man was found this morning propped up against a tree in a small neighborhood park on Oak Street. He had sustained a massive head wound that was most likely the cause of death. There was no identification on the body, so right now he’s a John Doe. Looks like some homeless guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “I’d like you to go to the morgue, find out what you can, canvass the area, and see if you can ID the guy. Maybe someone in the neighborhood heard something.”

  There are just some places that I avoid like the plague. High on my list are hospitals and nursing homes, but the morgue is at the top of the list.

  Each has their unique odor that makes my blood run cold, but the morgue is the worst.

  We stopped at the front desk and asked for Dr. Morton Dull, or “Morty,” as he preferred to be called.

  The small, bald doctor entered through a swinging door.

  “Well, if it isn’t the Dynamic Duo. What can I do for you today?”

  I was surprised that our reputation had reached the recesses of the morgue. I guess celebrity has its perks.

  Ox was holding his nose, so I replied, “Captain Short sent us over about the old man that was brought in this morning.”

  “Ah. I wondered how long it would take before someone showed up. This is a weird one.”

  “How so?”

  “Looks like the old guy died of a shark bite.”

  “Come again?”

  That probably would have been a normal conversation if we were in a morgue in California or Florida, but certainly not in the heart of the great Midwest.

  “I was cleaning the head wound and found some fragments of a bone-like material. My analysis showed that they were chips from the teeth of a great white shark.”

  That got Ox’s attention. “Were there other wounds on the body?”

  “Nope. Just the massive head wound with the tooth fragments. But I did find this.” He handed us a crumpled piece of paper. “It was stuffed in his mouth.”

  We looked at the paper and saw two words inscribed. “Mano nuha.”

  Ox stared at the strange words. “Any idea what that means?”

  “Not a clue,” I replied. But the words had a familiar ring. I copied them
and tucked the paper in my pocket.

  “I know there is usually massive blood loss with a head wound. Was there a lot of blood at the scene?”

  “No. Clean as a whistle. The attack obviously happened elsewhere, and he was transported to the park.”

  I handed the crumpled paper back to Morty. “Was there anything else found on the body that could help identify the victim?”

  “No, nothing.”

  Then came the moment I had been dreading.

  Ox sighed and said, “I guess we’d better take a look at the body.”

  We followed Morty into the frigid, smelly bowels of the morgue. Our John Doe was laid out on an autopsy table and covered with a sheet. Carefully, Morty pulled the sheet away, revealing the cold, gray corpse.

  “That’s no homeless guy!” I gasped. “That’s Uncle Ray!”

  I called the captain and told him what we knew at that point. Knowing the identity of our victim and his ties to the Hawaiian exhibit, Captain Short sent us to the Nelson Art Gallery.

  We stopped at the front desk and asked to speak to a representative from the History and Culture of the Ancient Hawaiians exhibit. Soon a young man in his late twenties approached us with his hand extended.

  “Aloha. My name is Buddy Kalakoa. How may I help you?”

  Both Ox and I winced at the same time. This was not going to be pleasant.

  Ox had been down this sad road before and took the lead. “Are you related to Raymond Kalakoa?”

  “Yes, he’s my grandfather. Is everything okay? I haven’t seen him yet this morning.”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

  A look of concern came over him as he led us to a small private office.

  “Mr. Kalakoa, I’m afraid we have some bad news.

  Your grandfather was found this morning in a small park about a half-mile from here. He had been murdered. I’m so sorry.”

  “Auwe, Kupuna Kane.” He moaned and slumped into a chair.

  I gave him a moment to regain his composure and asked, “When did you last see your grandfather?”

  “At supper. It was a beautiful, warm evening, and he said he wanted to take a walk before retiring. I haven’t seen him since. How did he die?”