A few minutes later, as Marc was gulping down the last of his coffee, she came down the stairs and said, “You know, I’ve yet to see this alleged apartment of yours. For all I know, you’re just another married man having a little fling on the side.”
“Yeah, right,” he laughed. “And she hasn’t noticed how much I’ve been gone lately. Look,” he continued as he glanced at his watch, walked over to her and put both arms around her. “I have to go. I’ll call you later and we’ll make plans. You can come over and help me clean and wash clothes.”
“Sweet talker,” she said as they kissed. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time. Good luck in court. Let me know how it goes.”
Marc walked quickly down the sidewalk from the lot where he left his car, hurrying the short block to the federal court even though he knew he had plenty of time. Approaching the building’s entrance, he passed the blue and green newspaper boxes of the Twin Cities’ two daily papers in front of the building. Passing both, he looked through the plastic window of the dispensary machines. On the front page of each was the angry, twisted face of Carl Fornich making the obscene gesture. Marc stopped and read the headline of each, both with the same basic message informing the reader about the arrest. He went through the glass entryway door, stopped at the security desk to pass through the metal detector and headed directly to the bank of elevators.
He got off the elevator on the seventh floor at precisely 8:15 A.M., walked quickly down the hall to the wide, wooden double doors of the appropriate courtroom. When he stepped through the doors to the interior, he inhaled deeply, gulped a swallow and looked around the cavernous, oak-paneled room. It had been many years since he had been in one of the federal courtrooms in St. Paul. Being used to the newer, more modern but characterless and sterile state courts of the various counties around the area, the sight literally left him a bit breathless.
“Nice aren’t they?” he heard a female voice to his right say in the almost empty courtroom.
“Hi, Deirdre,” Marc whispered to the young woman sitting alone on one of the hard, wooden benches. “Yeah, it is something. I’d forgotten how nice these places are. It’s been a while,” Marc continued as they exchanged a quick handshake.
“They sure are,” Deirdre McConnell, the lawyer the United States Justice Department had flown in for the hearing said. “I travel all over, for my job,” she continued, “and these in St. Paul are my favorites. Really nice.”
“Excuse me, sir, you are... ?” Marc heard the court clerk ask. He gave her his name as both lawyers passed through the gate in the bar. They each took one of the long, dark, highly polished tables in front of the bench and spent the next several minutes arranging their files on the tabletop. Marc was seated with his back to his opponent and when he finished with his file, he turned the cushioned, leather chair to face the bench and made a little small talk with Deirdre while they waited for the judge.
“I see they made an arrest on the big serial killer case,” Deirdre said.
“Yeah, guess so,” Marc answered. “I just noticed it from the newspaper outside. You know about this?”
“Yeah, we heard about it in Washington. Besides, I’m from here originally. In fact, I’m working on getting transferred back. So, I kind of watch the news from here. I hope they nail this sicko.”
“I just hope it’s the right guy,” Marc said as the door behind the bench opened precisely at 8:30. Marc, not being used to punctual judges, was a bit startled and he practically jumped out of his chair as the bailiff said “All rise” as the judge swept through the door and took his seat on the bench.
“I understand there’s been a settlement of some of the issues. Is that correct counselor?” the distinguished looking silver-haired man in the black robe said while looking down at Marc.
“That’s correct, your Honor,” they both answered.
“Well, good,” the judge said genially. “Why don’t we put the terms of the settlement on the record before we get down to business. Ms. McConnell, go ahead and put the settlement on the record, please.”
“Certainly, your Honor,” she answered. They both stood while she told the judge that the Internal Revenue Service and the federal government had finally decided to drop Karen’s liability for the unpaid payroll taxes and refund that portion of the money the IRS had collected that was not barred by statute of limitations.
“Is that correct, Mr. Kadella?” the judge asked Marc when Deirdre had finished.
“Yes, your Honor,” Marc answered.
“So, as I understand it,” the judge continued, “all we have left is the matter of attorney fees. Correct?”
“Yes, your Honor,” Marc again replied, a little surprised that the judge must have read the pleadings and knew what was being done today.
“Exactly how much are you asking for?” he said to Marc.
Before answering, Marc turned to the table, selected a document from his file, read the last line and said, “$9,190.00 in total, your Honor. “
“Okay. Fine. Let’s get going then. Mr. Kadella, it’s your motion so you’re first. We’re starting to run a little late so, try to make it brief, okay?” the judge politely told Marc.
Marc picked up the legal pad with his notes, stepped up to the lectern directly in front of the judge, introduced himself formally for the record and began his presentation. A little nervous in the beginning he concentrated on what the IRS had done and why the court should award attorney fees. Marc spoke for seven or eight minutes, totally without interruption from the judge, which struck him as a bit unusual since they are never shy about asking questions or interjecting statements. This one, though, did not say a word the entire time Marc spoke, merely solemnly nodded when Marc pounded a bit on the surface of the podium to emphasize the callous indifference of the IRS, the cavalier manner in which Karen had been assessed the unpaid taxes and the constant, official harassment by the federal government.
“One final point, your honor,” he said to sum up, “this entire fiasco should have never happened. There was a memo in the IRS file, a copy was submitted to the court with my pleadings for this morning’s hearing, written by an IRS supervisor. The supervisor wrote to the investigator who handled the case, clearly stating Karen was not liable for the taxes and her assessment should be re-evaluated. A memo that the investigator simply ignored because it was the easy way out. He just decided to lay it all on the bookkeeper. Take the easy way out and get the file off his desk.
“The standard for awarding attorney fees, as I am sure you are well aware, is: Did the government act reasonably? I submit, your Honor, that the federal government not only did not act reasonably but handled this matter up to, and including this hearing, with a shocking display of indifference to and a callous disregard for the rights of one of its citizens. For that, your Honor, at the very least, they should have to pay my fees. None of this would have happened if they had conducted themselves with a minimal amount of decency, competence and integrity. Thank you, your Honor.”
With that, still without a word from the bench, Marc gathered up his notes and returned to his seat as Deirdre McConnell took his place in front of the bench. She began to present the government’s defense, attempting to persuade the judge that the IRS and the Justice Department acted reasonably and attorney fees should not be assessed even though they had caved in and dropped the entire case. She spoke for, at most, one minute and then it hit the fan.
“You wouldn’t settle this case for seventeen hundred dollars?” the judge literally thundered down at her, a look of dismay clearly apparent on his face. “You’re down here wasting the court’s time and more money than that because you wouldn’t settle for seventeen hundred dollars?”
“Well, um, uh,” she stammered, “that amount of the refund is barred by statute of limitations, your Honor, and. . .”
“I know that,” the judge growled. “But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t settle for it and be done with this thing. It has nothing to do with attorney fe
es. I’ll tell you right now, I’m going to give him every dime he’s asking for.”
When the judge first let loose with his initial blast at the government’s lawyer, Marc stopped making notes for his rebuttal. With Deirdre directly in front of him blocking his view of the judge, he leaned in his seat to see around her so he could get a better view. With the last remark from the bench that the judge would award all he asked for, his back momentarily stiffened as he inhaled a large gulp of air and joyfully thought: Damn, he’s going to give me all of it. I should’ve asked for more. With that, he relaxed in his seat to enjoy the show.
“I just don’t know what those people in Washington think about,” the judge continued. “You put these people through ten years of hell, and he’s right, it should never have happened in the first place, and then you waste more of my time and the taxpayer’s money than he was willing to settle for. What do those people in Washington think about?”
For the next seven or eight minutes Marc gleefully sat back in his chair and listened to the judge rip the federal government, through its representative, up one side and down the other. Deirdre did her best to justify her client’s actions, obviously with no effect. At one point Marc was tempted to whisper to her to shut up and sit down. Finally, the judge calmed down and offered a slight personal apology to Deirdre, looked at Marc and said, “Do you have anything more to offer, Mr. Kadella?”
Marc rose from his chair, as Deirdre slumped into hers, and began walking toward the bench. “Be careful, now,” the judge said with a smile, “you’re on a winning roll here.”
“Oh no, no, your Honor,” Marc said returning the judge’s smile, wondering if he should mention that it was not seventeen hundred they refused to settle for but half that amount. Deciding to give Deirdre a break he did not bring it up and continued with. “You obviously don’t need any help from me. I just want to submit to the court an affidavit from me itemizing my time on this case, if I may.”
“Certainly,” the judge said as he took the document from Marc’s outstretched hand. “Did you put some time on here for this morning?” he asked Marc.
“Yes, your Honor, I did.”
“Good. We don’t want to miss anything. Ms. McConnell, do you have a copy of this?”
“Yes, your Honor,” Deirdre meekly replied. “I got it this morning.”
“Okay. I’ll give the government two weeks to object to the affidavit before my order becomes final. Any objections?” the judge asked both lawyers.
“No, your Honor,” they responded.
“Good. Well, good luck, Mr. Kadella,” the judge said to Marc, obviously ending the hearing. Little did Marc know how much he would need that last remark.
THIRTY-ONE
“Well, how’d it go?” Carolyn asked as Marc stepped into the office and closed the door. He turned to face the secretaries’ work stations, saw Chris Grafton and Barry Cline came out of their offices and slowly said, “That’s the most fun I’ve ever had in a courtroom. The judge was absolutely livid with the government.”
“What about fees?” he heard Grafton ask.
“He’s giving me all of it. Every dime. I just had the pleasure of witnessing the best ass chewing I’ve ever seen in a courtroom. You should’ve seen the guy. I’ve never seen a judge so pissed off.”
“Damn,” said Grafton, “now I wish I’d gone. I thought about it too. I almost went down there.”
With that, the small room exploded as all four of them offered hearty congratulations amid a great deal of laughter, handshaking and backslapping while Marc told them the details. After several minutes the celebration for one of their own whipping the IRS and federal government, Carolyn said, “Marc, someone’s here to see you.” She nodded her head slightly at the man quietly, patiently waiting unnoticed in one of the reception area chairs,
Marc turned and said, “Hey, Joe, what’s up? I didn’t know you were coming in.”
“I need to see you,” the man said as he rose from the chair and shook Marc’s hand. “I need to see you right away. Big problem.”
“Sure, Joe, no problem. Do I have time now?” he said as he turned to Sandra, the secretary with the office’s appointment book.
“You don’t have anything until this afternoon,” she answered.
“Okay, Joe. Come on in,” he said as he headed toward his office door. “What can I do for you?” Marc continued after both men took their seats.
“What was that all about?” his client asked.
“An ass whipping I just handed to the IRS,” Marc said. “Now, what’re you up to. This looks serious.”
“Well, uh, let’s see,” he began. “It’s not me. It’s my brother, Carl. Have you seen the paper today?”
“Not yet, no,” Marc answered warily, figuring it must be some kind of serious criminal matter if it was in the newspaper. “What’s he done?”
Without answering, Joe stood up and left the room, returned a few seconds later with the A section of the morning Star Tribune from the reception area. He closed the door and silently placed the paper in front of Marc, then slumped back into the chair in front of the desk. Joe leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his open palms as Marc stared down at the face he had seen in the machines in front of the federal court earlier that morning. Marc picked up the paper and held it closer to read the caption that went with the picture. When he read the name of the accused killer, his jaw dropped open, he lowered the paper and said to his client, “This guy here. The guy accused of murdering all these women. This is your brother? Carl Fomich? Holy shit,” Marc said incredulously while Joe, with his face still in his hands, nodded his assent. “Jesus Christ, Joe. I mean, I didn’t know. I hadn’t heard the guys name till just now. How, I mean. . ., what the hell. How are you holding up?”
“I’m a bit shocked. I don’t know what to think,” Joe said while Marc continued to stare. “I got a call from him around midnight last night. Told me he’d been arrested and needed a lawyer. I went down to the jail and they let me talk to him for a few minutes. I been up all night. Marc,” he continued, leaning forward on the desk, pleading, “he swears he’s innocent. Swears they got the wrong guy, this time.”
“What do you mean, this time?” Marc asked.
“Okay, I better tell you up front,” Joe continued, as he sat back in the chair. “I’ll be honest with you. . .”
“That would be good,” Marc said, trying not to be sarcastic.
Marc’s client sighed heavily before he continued, “He just got out of prison a few months ago. Got out in December. Did almost four years for rape.”
“Okay,” Marc said trying not to sound judgmental.
“He said he was innocent then, too. But the witnesses had him cold and. . .”
“Witnesses? More than one witness to a rape?” Marc asked.
“More than one rape. They only convicted him of one. But there were at least two others and all three identified Carl as the guy,” he shrugged.
“So, he copped a plea to one. Made a deal, right?”
“Yeah, I think that’s right. His lawyer talked him into it.”
“Don’t blame it on the lawyer. He probably made a damn good deal for him.”
“I’m not even sure he had a lawyer. I think it might’ve been a public defender guy.”
“Public Defenders are lawyers and most of them are damn good ones,” Marc said.
“Well, anyway, I figured you’d better hear that from me cause you’ll probably find out about the prison thing sooner or later,” Joe said.
“What do you want with me, Joe?”
“I want you to represent him, of course,” he answered staring at Marc with a puzzled look on his face.
“I don’t think so, Joe,” Marc said leaning back in his chair. “I don’t think this is a case I want to get involved with. You’re going to want one of the local heavyweight criminal lawyers here in town. Someone like Klingenbach or Bruce Dolan, over in St. Paul. Those guys drool over ca
ses like this. They love the attention and publicity.”
“I don’t want one of those assholes. I want you,” he began as Marc leaned forward and held his hands up to stop Joe. “No, wait. Hear me out. Okay? Just listen a minute, Marc. Please,” he continued as Marc sat back again, with a slight, resigned shrug.
“Okay. I’m listening,” Marc said.
“Look,” Joe began, “I’m thirty-eight years old and I’ve been around the block a couple times. I mean, you know, two divorces and a few scrapes with the law. Nothing serious. You know that. But I’ve dealt with a lotta lawyers in my time and you’re the first one that I feel didn’t screw me over. The first one I think was straight with me and really tried to help me and not just take my money.”
“Well,” Marc said, “that’s nice to hear. Nice of you to say especially since the divorce I did could’ve gone better.”
“Hey, that wasn’t your fault. I know that. Besides, it went better than the first one. Anyway, I trust you and I know Carl trusts me. Okay?”
“Did he see a lawyer last night?” Marc asked. “Or, this morning?”
“He saw a guy from the public defender’s office before he called me. He don’t want no damn public defender again, Marc. Please. Will you just go down there with me and see him?”
“What’d the public defender tell him?”
“Just to keep his mouth shut.”
“Good advice,” Marc agreed. “A little late, maybe, “ he said as he pointed at the newspaper on his desk.
“Will you see him? Please?” Joe again pleaded, looking directly into Marc’s eyes.
Marc folded his arms across his chest, wrinkling his shirt and tie, leaned back in his chair, rolled his eyes up at the ceiling and said, “Oh shit. Why not? I’ve just had one of the best days I’ve had for a long time. Might as well see if I can ruin it.”
“All right,” Joe said as he jumped from his chair. “I really appreciate this. And I’ll see to it you get paid. Money’s no problem. Don’t worry about it.”
“Money’s no problem?” Marc asked as he rose and began to slip into his suit coat. “I know how much you have, remember? Besides, I didn’t say I’d take the case, yet. Only that I’d go meet with him.”
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 16
