“Okay,” Marc said. “I’ll take it.” He punched the button next to the blinking red light on his phone console and said, “Marc Kadella.”
“Mr. Kadella,” he heard the voice reply “this is Andrea Elliott. I’m an attorney in the Tax Division at the Justice Department and I’ve been assigned to handle the appeal of Karen Kadella’s tax case.”
“Okay,” Marc replied. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, Mr. Kadella ...”
“Please,” he interrupted, “call me Marc.”
“Okay, Marc. Like I said, I’ve been assigned to handle the appeal and I was hoping you could give me some background on it. I don’t know anything about it and I just have a few questions.”
“You’re kidding, right? You’ve been assigned a case on appeal and you have been told nothing about it and now you’re calling me to get that information. I’m not surprised,” Marc said pleasantly. “What would you like to know?”
“Well, briefly, just a little bit about what the case is about,” Elliott said.
While opening his desk drawer and removing one of the case files to make notes and a record of the conversation, Marc began telling her the background of the case. He told her that his wife had been assessed unpaid payroll taxes for a restaurant she had worked for several years ago. That the IRS had hounded her and basically made their lives a living hell trying to collect the taxes. That they were told by the IRS and a number of self-proclaimed tax lawyers that because she signed checks for the business she was responsible for the taxes. Finally, after years of harassment, Marc had become fed up and sued the federal government. After several months of wasting the taxpayers money defending the case the government admitted that check signing is not enough for tax liability and had basically surrendered.
“We settled the issue of Karen’s liability but went to court over attorney fees. The judge was furious with the government’s conduct and awarded every penny of fees I requested. That’s pretty much it. That’s where we stand and I guess, you people are now appealing that decision even though you don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning,” he concluded, doing his best to keep his annoyance and aggravation with the government out of his voice.
“Oh, I see,” she meekly replied. “Um, ah, I was wondering if you could do me a little favor.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Well, could you fax me copies of the court’s order and any memos that might be pertinent?”
“Excuse me?” he asked, incredulously, “You don’t have them?”
“Well, um, uh, I’m sure they’re around here somewhere, but ah, no I haven’t seen them,” she said.
Still holding the phone to his ear with his left hand Marc placed his right elbow on the desktop, covered his eyes with his right hand and heavily sighed into the phone.
After a moment of silence, Marc continued by saying, “Let me see if I got this straight. You people are appealing an order that you can’t possibly win. You’ve been assigned to handle the appeal and know nothing about the case. You don’t have the file, haven’t seen the orders and now you’re asking me to send you copies. Why doesn’t any of this surprise me?”
“Well, of course, you don’t have to send them to me but it would be quicker than waiting for the file to turn up and I could make a determination on whether or not to recommend an appeal to the solicitor general’s office,” she said sounding defensive.
“Excuse me?” Marc asked sitting upright in his chair. “Make a recommendation to whom?”
“The solicitor general,” she said.
“I was told the SG’s office had the recommendation for no appeal weeks ago.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “It’s just now coming out of the trial division. You see, first the trial lawyer and the IRS make a recommendation. Then it goes to her boss at the trial division. That person then reviews the case and makes a recommendation. Then, it comes here to the appeals division and one of us reviews it and makes a recommendation. Then it goes to the head of the appeals division, my boss, and he reviews it and makes a recommendation and then it goes to the solicitor general’s office and they review it and make a final decision on whether or not to appeal the case.”
By this time Marc was again leaning on his elbow covering his eyes with his hand and shaking his head in disbelief. “So, it’s been sitting on someone’s desk at the trial division all this time,” he said, a statement not a question.
“It probably still is,” she softly replied.
“Okay, Andrea,” he said, again sighing heavily into the phone. “I’ll pull the file and fax you the stuff I think you’ll want to see. But I’m warning you right now, I’ve received orders about scheduling and things like that from the Eighth Circuit that I can’t ignore. The clock is ticking here and I can’t just sit here hoping that someday soon you people get your act together and drop this thing. If I have to so much as get out of my chair to do any more work on this case, you people are going to pay me to do it. Okay?”
“I can’t make that decision,” she said.
“I know a judge in St. Paul who will be happy to make that decision for you. I’m just warning you. Someday soon somebody had better get it together or it’s going to cost the taxpayers more money. I’ll fax the stuff to you in a few minutes. I know where my file is,” he added very sarcastically. “What’s your fax number?” he asked. He wrote down both her fax and phone numbers and then said, “As soon as you review the papers, give me a call and let me know what you think. Thank you,” he concluded and hung up the phone without waiting for her reply.
Leaning back in his chair, Marc tilted his head back to stare up at the ceiling and said aloud, “Ah yes. The glamour of practicing law. And the incredibly bright and interesting people you get to deal with.”
A short while later, he was back at his desk listening to Madeline’s latest report. “I checked with all of the bartenders at Chardelle’s, that joint where Carl says he picked up the Gavin woman. Two of them, a Julie Graf and Jerry Douglas,” she said, referring to her notes, “definitely remember seeing her in there on several occasions. Mostly weekends. Both the bartenders are college kids so, they work the weekend nights.
“Graf remembers her leaving a couple times with men. Very obviously much to Ms. Graf’s disapproval. She says that’s why she remembers her.”
“Why’s that?” Marc asked.
“Because she wore a wedding ring. Didn’t hide it at all. Women don’t really approve of that behavior the way men do. And they tend to notice it a little more.”
“Bullshit,” Marc said with a laugh.
“No, I think that’s generally true,” Maddy said staring back at him. “Anyway,” she continued, “they both remember seeing Carl in there, which, I had gotten from them before. But neither of them ever saw Carl leave with anyone.”
“What kind of place is it?”
“That’s kind of the funny thing. It’s a pretty nice place but basically a meat market. Carl seems to be more of a shot and a beer guy at the local saloon. Not a place he would hang out.”
“How often did he go there?”
“Not much. Couple times a month or so. Usually sat at the bar. Stayed to himself, according to the bartenders.”
“Did either of them ever see him talking to Gavin? Or any other women?”
“Julie Graf said she thinks he may have struck up a conversation with Gavin once or twice, but she wasn’t sure.”
“What about the other bartender, what’s his name?”
“Jerry Douglas. He never saw them together that he can recall,” Maddy answered, without referring to her notes.
“Carl swears he picked her up there once,” Marc said. “Recognized her picture as soon as I showed it to him. Says it was the night before she was murdered. A Saturday.”
“How can he be so sure?” she asked.
“You kidding? You’ve met Carl. He scores with a woman, any woman, even if he pays her, he probably marks it on his calendar.
I can see that being something Carl would remember.”
“I suppose,” she said laughing.
“We’ll need to subpoena both bartenders,” Marc said.
“I asked them if they’d testify and both said they would,” she answered.
“Still, I want to make sure. Drop subpoenas on both of them. I don’t know if they’ll do us any good or not, but at the very least the girl’s testimony will show that the Gavin woman wasn’t exactly a saint. And there were other men involved. Maybe one of them could’ve done it. Or, better yet, could be the killer of all these women. What about identification? Could Graf identify either of the men she saw leave with her?”
“No,” Maddy answered. “She didn’t think they were regulars. It can be a busy place on weekends, though. I have a few names to run down. Guys who the bartenders know who are in there regularly. I’ll start with them and see if any can tell us anything.”
“Good. Now, what about this eyewitness of theirs? This Hobbs guy.”
“Martin Dale Hobbs,” she began after flipping through a few pages in her notebook. “Not a lot on him. Seems to be a bit of street person. You know, kind of hanging around the fringes of the criminal types. No record, though. Which strikes me as a little odd, actually.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, you know the type. Never really seriously involved in anything real bad, but always kind of around it. Tony did some quiet checking for me, especially with the drug crowd, found out a few of them kind of knew him. Or, at least know the name.”
“Hmmm,” Marc said, lightly tapping an index finger on his chin while he listened.
“And I mean, no record. Nothing. No convictions. No arrests. Not even a speeding ticket on his driving record. Nothing.”
“That is odd,” Marc softly replied. “Did you set up a time for an interview with him?”
“Tomorrow evening,” she said. “Do you still want to be there?”
“Yeah, I do,” he answered.
“The one thing I keep wondering about this Hobbs guy is: What was he doing there in that neighborhood at that time of night? It’s nowhere near where he lives or his usual hangouts and it’s not exactly the best place for a white guy to be wandering around. What was he doing there?”
“Good question,” Marc said. “Drugs?”
“Maybe. But he can find drugs in other places,” she answered.
“A hooker?”
“Same answer,” she said shrugging.
“That could be a good possibility for us at trial,” Marc mused aloud.
“Very carefully,” she said. “Remember, he could have a perfectly sensible answer to that question.”
“So, you don’t ask the question. Ask it in a way that lets the jury answer the question. Or, at least try to cast a little doubt on his credibility,” Marc answered. “What about Waschke? Have you started on him?”
“Just a little. Mostly stuff Tony gave me,” she answered, again referring to her notes. “Exemplary cop, actually. Couple of shootings. Both justified. Citations for bravery, dedication etcetera. Regular promotions and a good history of closing cases with arrests and convictions. Also, his brother is the governor’s Chief of Staff.”
“Yeah, I know. Good political connections. Anything in his background? Anything useful?”
“Don’t know yet. I’ll start on that next. This won’t be easy checking out people like this,” she said.
“Be careful. Discretion.”
“I know,” she said. “Have you got a trial date yet?”
“We’ll set it this afternoon. I have a pretrial with the judge today,” Marc answered.
“Um, Marc,” she said with hesitation, “I’m, uh, gonna need...”
“More money,” he said without letting her finish. “I know. I’m working on it. How much?”
“Well, I figure, minimum, another grand right now and ...”
“I can give you half that now. Will that be okay for a few days? Joe’s supposed to be coming in with more early next week.”
“That’ll be fine,” she said flashing her dazzling smile. “How about you? How are you doing?”
“Hanging in there,” he said with a shrug.
Fifteen minutes after Madeline left, Marc placed two manila file folders, each about two inches thick with papers, in his briefcase. He draped his suit coat over his left arm, grabbed the briefcase and headed for the door. Just before he reached the door leading to the exterior hallway, he heard Carolyn say, “Are you coming back today?”
“Yeah, probably later. Around four,” he answered.
“Why are you leaving so soon?” she asked. “You don’t have court ‘til two.”
“I’m going to go to the library and start working on Karen’s appeal. I have to start working on it anyway and need to think of something besides Carl Fornich for a while,” Marc answered.
“Starting to wear you down?” Sandy asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I guess it is a bit. It’s just that, well, every time I turn around there’s more bad news with that damn case. Some day I’m going to learn to listen to myself and go with my first reaction. I knew I shouldn’t get involved with it, but now I’m up to my ass in it and there’s no turning back. How’s that old saying go? ‘When you’re up to your ass in alligators it’s difficult to remember that your initial objective was to drain the swamp’. I’m starting to see exactly what that means. I’ll see you later. I have to get out of here for a while,” he said as he opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
FIFTY-THREE
Marc went down the backstairs and into the parking lot, his eyes blinking rapidly in the blazing midday sunlight. He went to his car, opened the driver’s door, casually tossed the briefcase and coat onto the passenger seat and got into the steaming car. Marc tried to insert the key in the ignition, but they slipped from his hand and fell on the floor. He reached down to retrieve them and noticed his right hand was shaking. He picked up the keys and stared at them, transfixed by the increasing trembling of his hand. Marc held up his left hand and saw that it, too, was shaking rapidly as he stared, almost as though the hands weren’t his, uncertainty and confusion clouding his thoughts.
Marc again attempted to stick the key in the ignition but now his hand was shaking so badly he had to grip his right hand with his left and carefully guide the key into the slot. Before starting the engine, he sat back in the seat, head back, eyes staring at the ceiling, his breath coming in short gulps, gasps and swallows. He could feel his heart beating rapidly as he tried to control his breathing. Attempting to normalize his functions, confusion and fear washing over him like a wave.
Slowly holding his hands up, now shaking so badly they looked blurred. His mind was acting as though he was outside of his body, watching himself as somebody else, his breathing still fast and shallow. Marc watched his hands, almost involuntarily, slowly move toward the steering wheel, still violently trembling as his eyes darted back and forth between them. When his hands came within an inch of the wheel he felt his arms quickly spring forward and his hands tightly grasp the wheel. At the same instant that his fingers made contact with the plastic surface, all of the air in his lungs rushed out and he slumped forward on the seat, his forehead lightly thumping against the top of the steering wheel.
Marc stayed like this, gripping the steering wheel, head and shoulders slumped over, eyes wide open and mouth agape, for almost four minutes. Slowly, while the sweat streamed down his face, back and underarms, his breathing began to normalize. Finally, he gently pushed himself from the steering wheel and sat back in the seat.
Releasing his grip he noted that his breathing was normal again and he could no longer feel his heart pounding. He held his hands up in front of his face and clenched and unclenched his fingers several times, finally holding them both out, fingers extended, and saw that the trembling was gone. Marc placed his left hand on his chest, took several deep breaths to assure himself that he had normalized and th
en, sheepishly looked around the parking lot to see if anyone else had witnessed this spectacle.
Satisfied that the anxiety attack had passed, Marc started the car and slowly drove out of the parking lot. As he headed for Park Avenue and the quick trip into downtown Minneapolis, his mind kept replaying the scene in the parking lot his body and mind had just taken him through. He was still having trouble with his concentration and he gripped the steering wheel so tightly the knuckles of both hands were white. He continued to breathe in long, deep breaths as his body attempted to calm him and bring him back in control.
Arriving downtown Marc turned west on Seventh toward the government center, now relaxed but wishing he still smoked and had a cigarette. He parked his car in the underground ramp of the government center, gathered up his coat and briefcase and headed for the top floor law library.
He spent the next two hours in the library, poring over federal appeals court jurisdiction and procedures. Reviewing cases on the issue of a judge’s discretion in awarding attorney fees against the U.S. Government and quickly learned that it is a relatively rare occurrence. While the government is involved in thousands of lawsuits annually, they usually win and almost never have to pay, even when they lose.
He began outlining his brief for the appeal, very confident that he would win and eventually get his money and even more because the government was wasting more of the court’s time and resources, a source of great annoyance for all judge’s.
After a while, an idea began to germinate in his mind. A way to possibly slap the government around a bit more and have some fun with their inefficiency and incompetence. He spent another hour researching that prospect before he had to put the large stack of books piled on the table away and head downstairs to his pretrial in Prentiss’ courtroom.
On the elevator ride down to the fourteenth floor he stood silently staring at the console as the numbers for the floors ticked off as it descended. It stopped on 19 and two women got on, both lawyers whom he vaguely recognized as staff attorneys with the prosecutor’s office. Marc’s thoughts were still on the tax case and his idea for tweaking the government’s nose.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 26
