“In, your Honor,” Marc said after a long pause.
“You are the attorney of record for the defendant, Carl Milton Fornich, is that correct, Mr. Kadella?” Eason said formally for the court’s record.
“Yes, your Honor,” Marc reluctantly replied.
“As you know,” Eason continued, “if you have grounds you can always bring a motion to withdraw if done properly.”
“Yes, your Honor. I understand.” Marc said while thinking, “I’m in this thing up to my ass now. I sure hope Joe comes up with some money soon.”
“Good. Now, gentlemen,” Eason continued as he picked up the court’s file of Fornich’s case, “this has been assigned to Judge Prentiss. He’s in 1440. I believe he’s there now waiting for you both.”
“We’ll go right up, your Honor,” said Gondeck as he stepped forward to take the file the judge held toward him.
While the brief exchange between Marc and Eason was taking place, two floors above them J. Gordon Prentiss III was reclining in the big, overstuffed, leather chair behind his desk, contemplating what this case, with a proper verdict, would do for his future. He leaned back and stared at the picture in the antique gold frame sitting on the credenza. It was a photo of himself shaking hands with the man who had appointed him to his present position, Theodore Dahlstrom. A man whom TIME Magazine had labeled a real comer within the Republican Party. At the very least, a shoe-in for reelection next year, especially with the voter sympathy over the murder of his daughter.
My God, Prentiss thought, the polls must be skyrocketing for the man. And after that, who knows? He’s a picture perfect Republican. Handsome man, lots of sympathy and anti-abortion to boot. At the very least, Prentiss thought, nail this little weasel Fornich and a grateful Ted Dahlstrom will certainly put me on the Minnesota State Supreme Court. And at forty-four, if Dahlstrom gets to national prominence, who’s to say? A seat on the U.S. Supreme Court is not out of the question. All because he had the good fortune to go to law school with Daniel Waschke and have a father who was a founding partner in one of the state’s most political firms. He looked at the gold Rolex on his left wrist and realized the lawyers were probably on their way up. Getting this case assignment had been easier than he thought. A call to that fool of a Chief Judge, Jennrich, a call from Jennrich to Eason and the future looked bright indeed, he smiled.
Leaning back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, he thought about the two lawyers who would be here any minute. Handle them gently, he thought. Be firm with the prosecutor and friendly with the defense lawyer, whoever that scumball is. Prosecutor’s never file motions to remove judges. At least those that know what’s good for them. Defense lawyers do it all the time. Looking for a judge who’ll go easy on their slimy clients. Yeah, he continued thinking to himself, be a little pleasant, sympathetic even. The last thing I want is to lose this case to another judge. Plenty of time later to see to it that justice gets done.
He sat up, swiveled the chair around up to the desk at the sound of the soft knock on his open door and looked toward it to see his clerk standing in the opening.
“A couple of lawyers here to see you, judge,” she said.
“Fine, Barbara. Show them in, please,” he answered, surprising her with this unusual politeness.
“Come in, gentlemen,” Prentiss said when Marc and Gondeck appeared at his door. The two lawyers walked toward the desk as Prentiss rose to greet them. After handshakes and introductions, Gondeck and Marc sat in the two chairs in front of the desk. Prentiss looked at Marc, smiled and said, “Have we met? You look familiar.”
“We met a couple weeks ago at a restaurant, judge. I was with Margaret Tennant,” Marc replied.
“Oh, sure, sure. Now I remember. Are you seeing her? How is she?”
“Fine, judge. Yes, we’re dating.”
“Well, that’s nice. Anyway,” Prentiss continued turning to Gondeck, “where are we? Bearing in mind, I don’t know anything about this case. I assume you’re here on Fornich. I was informed this morning it was being assigned to me.”
“Well, your Honor. We’re going to need a blood sample for a DNA comparison. Mr. Kadella and I have talked a bit and it’s my understanding, he’s opposed. So, we’ll need a motion for that.”
“Is that correct, Mr. Kadella?” Prentiss asked Marc.
“That is correct, your Honor,” Marc concurred.
“Okay. I assume the State wants that as soon as possible. What’s your schedule like?” he politely asked Marc. “I don’t want to push you, but I have to be fair to both of you. Is the first part of next week too soon?”
“No, your Honor,” Marc said while Gondeck sat silently listening.
“How about, say, Tuesday morning? Would that be okay?” he said, still looking at Marc. “Any other motions you have can be brought at the same time.”
Marc reached into the pocket of his suit coat and brought out his appointment book. The one he used exclusively for court appearances. He quickly found the appropriate page, and seeing nothing scheduled, told Prentiss the following Tuesday would be fine.
“Good. Ten o’clock okay with everybody?” Prentiss said looking back and forth at the two men.
“Fine, your Honor,” they both replied.
“I understand bail was set at two million,” Prentiss said as he opened the court’s file that Gondeck had placed on the desk.
“That’s correct, your Honor,” Marc said. “I plan on bringing a motion on it.”
“That’s fine,” Prentiss said, again looking at Marc. “Why don’t you bring it next Tuesday at the same time. We’ll do it first and then the evidentiary hearing on the prosecution’s motion for the blood sample.”
“You want a full blown evidentiary hearing for the blood request?” asked Gondeck while thinking, great, now I have to line up witnesses and have testimony and the whole nine yards for what should be a formality.
“Absolutely,” the judge replied while looking severely at Gondeck. “Look, Mr. Gondeck. This is an extremely serious matter and we’re going to do it by the book. There will be no cutting corners here. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, your Honor,” Gondeck replied, obviously chastened.
“That goes for you, too, Mr. Kadella,” Prentiss said much more mildly. “Any questions? After next week’s hearing, we’ll get together and discuss scheduling. I assume this is before the Grand Jury now?” he said looking at Gondeck.
“Yes, your Honor,” Gondeck answered.
“By next week, we should hear from them. Anything else today?” Prentiss asked, again looking at both of them.
“No, your Honor,” the two men again replied in unison. “Okay. Here,” Prentiss said as he opened a desk drawer, “let me give each of you one of my cards. If anything comes up, call me right away.” Prentiss stood as both lawyers rose from their seats.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Jake leaned back in his chair, feet on the desk, the phone propped between his chin and left shoulder, listening to the excuses coming from the crime lab people. He twirled a pencil with the fingers of his right hand silently rolling his eyes and occasionally shaking his head. Quietly cursing under his breath at what, he believed, was nothing more than bureaucratic bullshit coming from the other end of the line.
Finally, after two to three minutes, he let his size twelve feet drop to the floor with a loud thud, sat up straight in his chair and said “Listen, let’s cut to the chase here, okay? Why don’t I just have the chief or the mayor give you guys a call and explain some facts of life? This isn’t some bullshit deal. This isn’t some dickhead that we busted for peddling a couple ounces of weed. This is a serial killer that’s terrorized the city for months. You understand? Are we clear? This case gets your highest priority and I don’t want to hear anymore crap about how overworked and understaffed you are or the next voice you hear will be Deputy Chief Holby. Got it?”
“Okay, Jake,” he heard the voice say, “We’re doing our best.”
“Well, you
r best isn’t getting it done! It’s Friday. You’ve had all the stuff in this guy’s apartment for a week and I want some results by Monday.” Without waiting for a response, he slammed down the phone, muttered a few well chosen curses and ran a hand wearily across his face while surveying the paperwork on his desk.
He picked up the report Denise Anderson had written about her background check on Marty Hobbs. Hobbs looked good, as Jake had obviously known. But more importantly, Anderson failed to turn up anything that Jake might not have known about. No criminal convictions thanks to Jake years ago wiping his slate clean and having Hobbs in his pocket. A good report, he thought, not the CEO of 3M, but nothing that a defense lawyer could really use either.
Jake put the copy of the report in his case folder and picked up the inventory sheets for the items found in Fornich’s apartment. He read it over for the third time that morning and again, found nothing really useful or out of the ordinary. He placed it back on the desktop and picked up the booking inventory form listing the items Fornich had on his person when arrested.
A brown leather wallet with eleven dollars in it, some change, a comb, a set of keys and the clothing he had been wearing. He ran his eyes down the list and stopped at an item he didn’t understand. L. key 119. “What the hell is an L. key 119?” he whispered quietly to himself? It was listed on the form above the amount of money and change Fornich had when booked. Again, he thought, this is odd. What is an L. key 119? After a minute or so of contemplating the question, his curiosity got the better of him and he headed out the door, list in hand.
“Hey, Charlie,” Jake yelled through the opening in the wire mesh screen. He leaned against the counter looking into the huge property department holding area while waiting for the police officer to come to the window. Jake watched the man stroll slowly toward him, coming down the aisle between a row of ceiling high shelves piled with evidence of closed and in-progress cases. The man had a slight smile as he came toward Jake and Jake sarcastically said, “Take your time shithead. I got all day.”
The officer’s smile turned to a broad grin as he stepped up to the screen and said, “Hey, Jake. How you doing? What can I do for you?”
Jake slid the inventory sheet through the opening and said, “I need to see the envelope with these items in it, Charlie. It’s that Fornich guy. I want to check something.
“Sure, Jake. Be right back.”
Less than a minute later, the same man suddenly materialized at the counter, having come from the side out of Jake’s line of sight. He held a large manila envelope with the original of the inventory list stapled to the front.
Charlie handed Jake’s paperwork back through the aperture, turned the envelope over, placed it on the counter and as he began to unwind the string that held it closed, said, “Okay, Lieutenant. Let’s take a look.”
The attendant emptied the few contents onto the counter and as they spilled slowly out, Jake quietly said to himself, “Ah, that must be it.” He reached through the opening in the grillwork, picked up the object, turned it over in his fingers examining the heavy, brass key. It had a square handle and was slightly larger and heavier than a normal key. Jake turned it over and read the number 119 stamped into it.
“It’s a locker key,” Charlie said flatly.
“Very good, Sherlock,” Jake drolly replied. “I don’t understand why you haven’t made detective.”
“ ‘Cause I’m having too much fun down here.”
“Yeah, and probably getting rich in the process,” Jake added, drawing a chuckle from Charlie. “Listen,” Jake continued, “I want to check this key out.”
“Let me get a slip. You have to sign for it,” Charlie said opening a drawer under the counter and removed a small form. Jake continued to silently examine the key while the officer filled out the form. Charlie slid it through the screen and Jake finished filling it out writing his name and badge number on it. He scrawled his signature at the bottom, handed it back to the attendant, thanked him as he turned and walked off, dropping the key into his pants’ pocket.
THIRTY-NINE
Jake drove slowly along the crowded residential street in the pleasant, middle class suburban neighborhood looking for a place to park. It was the day after he had found the key in Fornich’s property envelope, a beautiful, warm, sunny June Saturday. Earlier, he had scanned through the want ads and had found an ad for a neighborhood garage sale where he figured he could easily find the items he sought. He had driven south on 35W to the advertised location where he now found himself slowly cruising the streets. “My God,” he muttered to himself in disbelief, “there must be a good square mile of houses involved in this sale and easily three or four thousand people walking around. Amazing. Garage sale season in Minnesota.”
Jake drove around for another five minutes and finally found a parking place a half mile from the center of the neighborhood. He then spent the next forty-five minutes walking around, going from house to house searching for the items on his short list. He made his four purchases from four different sales then found his way back to his car. Jake placed the items in a black plastic garbage bag, tossed it in the trunk, got in the car and headed back to Minneapolis.
That evening he spent several hours at his apartment, watching the Twins drop another game while working on his laundry in the room down the hall. Along with his own clothing, but in a separate machine, he was washing his purchases in a heavy strength lye detergent. In fact, he washed and dried all five items three times using up the entire small box of soap. After completing the third laundering, he carefully placed the five items back in the garbage bag, carried it back to his car and put it in the trunk.
Back in the car, he drove north on 35W to the area of Minneapolis he had cruised the night before. Then, his destination had been uncertain. He had known what he was looking for but it had taken several stops to find the right place. Now, knowing the exact destination, there was no need for him to take side streets. He wanted to get where he was going and the freeway was the obvious best route.
Jake pulled into the parking lot of the thirty year old small shopping mall and quickly drove around to the back. Parking the car by the mall’s back door, he opened the trunk and holding a clean rag in his right hand removed the items from the plastic bag. He took out the nylon zippered carryall and carefully placed the other four items inside of it, being careful with how he handled the separate pieces. He zipped up the bag and holding it by the nylon straps, went into the mall through the back door.
Jake entered a hallway with a row of metal lockers lining one side from the floor to just above head height. Finding the one he wanted he reached in his pants’ pocket and removed a key, placed it in the lock and opened the door. Turning his head for a quick look to see if he was being observed, satisfied that he wasn’t, Jake placed the carryall in the locker removed four quarters from his pocket and used the handkerchief to rub the coins clean of fingerprints. One by one he dropped them in the slot, turned the key to lock the door, removed it and as he headed back toward the exit, turned it over in his fingers to read the number 119 stamped in the side of the square handled metal key.
FORTY
“You wanted to see me, Jake?” Jake heard Owen Jefferson ask as Jefferson stepped through the open doorway of Jake’s office.
“Yeah Owen, come on in and sit down a second. I’ve got a job for you,” Waschke said.
“What’s up?” Jefferson asked as he slid his six foot five basketball player frame into a chair in front of his lieutenant’s desk. Jefferson and Waschke had known each other for over ten years. Jefferson had been a young patrolman and had been the first cop on the scene of Jake’s first case after being promoted to a detective sergeant. They had worked together off and on over the years when their cases overlapped. Jefferson had become a detective in narcotics and with Jake working homicide, overlapping caseloads were a frequent occurrence.
Despite their acquaintance and professional relationship, Jefferson had been mildly, but pleasant
ly, surprised when Jake had selected the street-wise former Gopher basketball player as a member of the Task Force. He would still smile every time he thought about Waschke’s response when Jefferson had thanked him for the selection. Waschke had simply looked at him with an indifferent expression and said, “Don’t screw it up,” turned and walked away.
Jake reached into the top right hand drawer of his desk and came out holding a square handled, heavy brass key. He held the key up for Jefferson to see then lightly tossed it across the desk to the detective. Jefferson held it in the palm of his right hand and stared at it for two or three seconds.
Looking at Jake he said, “It’s a locker key. So?”
“So,’’ Jake began as he closed the desk drawer, “I want you to find the locker it goes to.”
Jefferson continued to silently watch his superior for another moment only now his eyebrows were raised with the corners of his mouth silently downturned.
“I know,” Jake said, holding up his hands, palms out toward Jefferson. “It seems kind of trivial but it’s not.” He let his hands fall quietly to the desk top as he continued. “That key was on Fornich when he was picked up. It may be nothing, it may be something. I don’t know. I wanted somebody good to go look for it. I don’t want to give this to somebody who might not take it seriously. I want someone who knows his way around this town and will give it his best shot. I’d really like to know what’s in that locker.”
“Okay, that’s cool,” Jefferson replied knowing he was not being sent on a fool’s errand just to give him something to do. “Where do I find lockers?” he asked, mostly to himself, as he began counting off the number of places on the fingers of his left hand.
“The bus station, although that’s probably too obvious.”
“Check it anyway, Owen.”
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 19
