Before they went to bed Margaret brought the subject up and he brushed it off with a look that should have told her, once again, to leave it alone. After they made love she took another shot at it, teasing him about the sexual benefits to be had. This time he told her flat out he wasn’t ready, at which point, in a faux pout, she rolled over and turned her bare back to him.
He kissed her lightly on the shoulder and whispered in her ear, “It won’t work.”
“It won’t?” she said with a smile he couldn’t see.
“Sorry, nope. Nice try.”
Marc thought about it after he parked his car in the small lot behind the Reardon Building which housed the offices he shared. He knew he was right and he wasn’t going to let Margaret guilt him into it, a thought that caused him a little concern. Are all women genetically predisposed to manipulate men, especially with sex, or is it something that is passed on from generation to generation Marc wondered?
He walked up the creaky, wooden stairs at the back of the building to the second-floor suite of offices, went in the main door, said hello to the staff and heard his landlord, Connie Mickelson, yell out, “Is that Marc? C’mon in here for a minute.”
“What’s up?” Marc asked as he closed her office door.
Connie had become a lawyer in the late sixties, before it became either acceptable or fashionable for women to go to law school. She had been an oddity for the times and not just because of her professional ambitions. Despite growing up in the sixties, she was not a feminist liberal, whom she derisively referred to as whiny, lazy, entitlement junkies. She was all for women’s equality but she considered herself an excellent example of a woman who didn’t wait for the government to give her something. Her attitude was always that if you want something, get off your lazy ass and go get it. Stop waiting for the government to give it to you. Connie just believed if a former Jewish Princess could do it, then you can too.
“Have you heard about Carlton Bishop?” she asked as Marc sat down in one of her client chairs.
“Sure, saw it on TV last night, why?”
“Word is already out, he’s looking to make a deal. Some politicians around town are worried. Like he has some dope on some people that he could trade for a walk on the charges.”
“Why would he throw away a political career over this chickenshit? It’s chump change for a guy like Bishop.”
“He’s had other problems in the past. Especially with drugs. Been busted a couple of times before he got on the city council. The Dems kept it quiet and the media played along or at least that’s how the story goes.”
“Still, why would he care? This won’t hurt him in his district. Hell, it will probably help him.”
“The word is that he’s going to run for Congress in a couple years. Mayor Gillette can’t win another term. Two terms for a Republican in this city, even a woman, is a miracle. And Congressman Rison wants to be mayor so that would open his seat for Bishop.
“Plus, he would likely get disbarred over this latest mess he’s gotten himself into. That could be a problem if he runs for higher office. City Council, no one would care, but Congress is a different deal.”
There was a soft knock on Connie’s door and without waiting for a reply, Carolyn stuck her head in and with a puzzled look said, “Marc, there‘s a Carlton Bishop on the phone for you.”
“You know him?” a clearly surprised Connie asked.
“A little. We were in law school together. This is a surprise,” he said as he stood to leave to take the call in his own office.
Marc spent the next ten minutes on the phone with the councilman who did almost all of the talking. He raged on and on about how he had been entrapped by a racist police department. Marc calmly listened wondering how racist the department could be since the Chief and several high-ranking officers were African-American. Bishop finally had to pause for breath which gave Marc the opening to ask the obvious question of why he was calling.
“Because I want you on my defense team,” he replied.
“Defense team? What is a defense team and why do you need an entire team?”
“To help me with this gross miscarriage of justice,” he practically bellowed into the phone which caused Marc to think, yeah, this is someone we need in Congress.
“Listen, Marc,” he continued, “will you just meet with my other team members? They…”
“No, Carlton. But I’ll give you Bruce Dolan’s number and…”
“I already called him. He turned me down.”
“What am I, the tenth or twelfth lawyer you’ve called?”
“No, I called you after I talked to Dolan and…”
“Sorry, Carlton. Your team will have to get along without me. Jesus, you got busted for two misdemeanors. I could’ve handled that ten minutes out of law school. Good luck, Carlton, you’ll be fine.”
Two minutes later, Connie knocked on his door and walked in with the entire office right behind her. She took one of the client chairs and waited for Marc.
“He thinks he’s O.J. Simpson. He wanted me to join his defense team,” Marc said.
“Team?” Barry Cline asked. “He needs a team to handle a couple of misdemeanor charges?”
“What did you tell him?” Connie asked.
“I told him no thanks. Personally, I hope they put him in prison, which I know isn’t possible but…”
TWENTY-ONE
The next day, unknown to Marc who had refused to join the defense team, the councilman and two members of his team met with the Minneapolis City Attorney, Trudy Spencer, in an attempt to have the charges dismissed. The five of them, the city attorney and a staff lawyer from her office, the head of criminal prosecutions for Minneapolis, met in Spencer’s office.
The councilman took one of the chairs in front of Spencer’s desk and the head of criminal prosecutions, Gail Symanski, took the other. The two lawyers from Bishop’s team, young Bishop worshippers, both sat on a couch behind their client.
Bishop, as arrogant as ever, started off by threatening to have Spencer and her entire staff fired which caused both of the women to roll their eyes and shake their heads. Being unable to stop himself and not act as if every word was being written down for posterity, Bishop went on for several minutes chastising the mayor, the police and the city attorney for their obvious racism and overzealous entrapment of an African-American public servant who was simply patrolling his district to get close to his constituents.
He finally stopped at which point Spencer interjected, “Are you done yet? There aren’t any cameras here, Mr. Bishop. The bust was clean and not your first one. Can we dispense with the histrionics and talk about why you asked to see me, personally? This is a courtesy, by the way. Don’t press your luck.”
Bishop spent an uncomfortable minute looking around the office while the two veteran city attorneys stared at him to let him know they would not be intimidated.
“I may have something to trade,” he finally said. “Deal for a dismissal.”
“Oh and what might that be?” Symanski said.
“Can we discuss this alone?” he asked Spencer.
“No,” she replied. “Anything you have to say to me I’ll tell her anyway. Besides, I’ll be honest, I don’t trust you so I want a witness to hear what you’re offering.”
During a long pause the councilman weighed his future against what he was looking at, then finally said, “Okay, here it is. I know the names of two judges in Hennepin County and can probably get you more and some politicians who are in Leo Balkus’s pocket…”
“Bullshit,” said Symanski.
“In exchange for which,” he continued ignoring the lawyers interruption, “I want a total walk. Plus, I want this office to issue a press release admitting I was an innocent victim of police entrapment.”
“Is that all?” Spencer sarcastically asked.
“No, be sure your press release includes an apology…”
“You’re quite the role model,” Symanski said.
&
nbsp; “Do you want to help root out serious corruption or do you simply want to embarrass me?” he asked Spencer.
“Names?” she asked.
“Sorry, you first,” he replied.
Spencer looked at her chief deputy, raised her eyebrows, shrugged her shoulders, held up her hands and asked. “What do you think?”
Symanski took a moment to ponder the question then answered by saying, “I don’t trust him one bit but at this point, I guess we don’t have anything to lose either.”
“True,” Spencer said, then looked back at Bishop and said, “Okay, we’ll bite. But this had better pan out or all bets are off. We’ll not only prosecute you for the drugs and solicitation, but anything we can think of that may arise from this investigation. If we find out you’re lying, we’ll have Slocum’s office go after you for obstruction of justice and put you in prison.
“Which reminds me,” she said turning back to Symanski, “we’ll need to coordinate this with Slocum’s office and the police. Now,” she continued turning back to Bishop, “I want names and how you know…”
“Not a chance, you get Slocum, the cops and the FBI on board and then we’ll talk,” Bishop said as he and his two toadies stood to leave. “You know how to get a hold of me. Get it all set up, everything in writing and then we’ll all get together. Call me when you’re set,” he said as he walked through the office door held open by one of his lawyers.
TWENTY-TWO
The next morning, Tony Carvelli slept in until shortly before 9:00 A.M. He spent the night before staked out at the home of Gordon Prentiss until almost midnight. It was the second night in a row he waited on the street a half block down from the McMansion Prentiss bought while still practicing at his father’s firm. Tony had waited for Prentiss to leave and maybe take him to Leo’s home for well-to-do sex perverts, degenerate gamblers and high-end junkies. And for the second night, he waited until all of the lights had been extinguished well past midnight before he called it a night and went home.
Tony retrieved the morning paper from the stoop of his small south Minneapolis bungalow, then went back into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. He sat down at his kitchen table and flipped the paper over to the front page of the A section. The screaming headline almost jumped off the page at him:
Councilman Carlton Bishop Murdered
Tony spent the next few minutes reading the story. The councilman had been found shortly after 10:00 P.M. the night before in a Northside alley, the apparent victim of a shooting. The story in the paper was short on details which, of course, did not surprise the former detective. When this edition of the paper went to press, there probably were not very many details for the police to give out. Tony knew who Bishop was and quietly said out loud to himself, “I’m surprised someone didn’t pop this guy a long time ago.”
Curious about what went down, he retrieved his cell phone from its charger where he had left it the night before and dialed a number he knew by heart. It was a direct line to a detective he knew in the department who Tony knew would have more details than the paper. The man answered on the first ring and after Carvelli identified himself, the two men spent a couple of minutes with the usual small talk banter and trading low-level insults.
“I was gonna call you today anyway,” Owen Jefferson said.
“Oh,” Carvelli asked, “what about?”
“You can bribe me with lunch around 11:30 at Artie’s and I’ll tell you then. It may be about what you’re working on,” Barnes told him.
“Okay, see you then.”
Tony continued to peruse the paper, mostly checking out the various headlines to see if anything looked interesting. When he finished reading the paper’s A section, he set it aside and started on the B section, the state and local news. He was just glancing over the headlines and he almost missed it. On the third page, in the lower left-hand corner, he noticed a story about a shooting victim being found in his apartment the previous afternoon. Normally Tony probably would not have bothered reading the story but he took the time to read this one and was shocked when he saw the victim’s name. It was Jerry Hughes, the bartender from the Hermitage who had witnessed the beating death of Bob Corwin. The story was scant on details except it did mention he was found shot to death and the police, so far, had no apparent motive.
Just before 11:30, as Carvelli was exiting his car in the parking lot of Artie’s, he looked up to see Jefferson pull into the lot. He waited until the detective had parked his car then the two men said hello, shook hands, then went into the restaurant.
They each gave the waitress their lunch orders and when she left, Tony looked at his friend and said, “So, what do you want to talk about?”
“It’s the Bishop shooting,” Jefferson answered, “I figured you’d be curious, but I didn’t want to talk about it on the phone. He was shot three times. Once in the back which was probably the first one. That knocked him down. Then, someone gave him a double tap to the back of the head while he was lying in the alley with a large caliber gun, a .357 or .44 hollow points. All they could get were fragments of the bullets.”
“Professional,” Carvelli said, a statement, not a question.
“Looks like it.”
“Anyone report hearing the shots or seeing anything?” Tony asked.
“In that neighborhood they hear shots every day and mind their own business. And the thing is, there’s a hot rumor around the department that yesterday he met with Trudy Spencer, the city attorney…”
“Yeah,” Tony interjected, “I know who she is.”
“And her chief criminal prosecutor, Gail Symanski…”
“I know Gail. Good lawyer.”
“And,” Jefferson continued, “He was, supposedly, willing to deal a couple crooked judges to get a walk on the crack buy and solicitation charge. Before he could name names, he gets popped in that alley. And at this point rumor only, he claimed they were in the pocket of Leo Balkus.”
“How the hell would Leo find out about this that fast?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? It could be bullshit though. This guy had other enemies. Plenty of people he pissed off over the years. He was a first class asshole,” Jefferson said.
“Owen, I’m shocked, shocked, that you, being a fellow African-American and all, would speak so poorly of the late and no doubt dearly beloved city councilman,” Tony said with feigned sincerity which made Jefferson laugh.
“Dearly beloved, that’s priceless,” Jefferson said. “Anyway,” he continued, “after our talk the other day, when you told me you were looking into the Corwin murder, and with Leo’s name coming up on this deal, I figured you’d want to know.”
“A couple of judges, you say. That’s the word? He was willing to rat out a couple of judges to save his ass and then he gets popped by what looks to be a pro. You’re right, I am interested. It could be a total coincidence but maybe not. Just between you and me, I am looking at a judge now. If you hear anything more, let me know.”
“No problem,” Jefferson answered as the waitress arrived with their meals.
“One other thing, there was a guy killed in his apartment yesterday, a Jerry Hughes. What do you know about it?”
“Not my case but I did see a preliminary report on it. Shot twice in the forehead with a small caliber gun, probably a .22. Looks like he opened the door and someone shot him twice as he stood there. No motive that we can tell. Looks like whoever shot him just closed the door and left him. Nothing missing from the apartment as far as we can see and no evidence anyone else even went in it.
“When he didn’t show for work a friend went to check on him and got the manager to open the door. Interesting cause no one heard the shots and there were people in their apartments on that floor. How do you know him?”
“He was a witness in the Corwin murder. A bartender at the place Corwin was killed. I talked to him the other day about it. Said he saw the beating take place but wouldn’t testify against Ike Pitts. Interesting because now he’s
dead. You think whoever did it used a silencer? A pro?”
“Don’t know. Maybe. You think maybe Ike did it?”
“Possible. Doesn’t feel like him. This guy was scared of his own shadow. He’d never rat Ike and it wouldn’t matter. Ike can’t be tried again anyway. No, this feels like something else. Check on it for me will ya? Let me know what you find out.”
“Sure thing, Tony.”
It wasn’t until he had left the restaurant and was driving to his next meeting that it occurred to Tony the only people he told what Jerry Hughes saw the night Robert Corwin was killed was Corwin’s aunt, Vivian Donahue and her head of security, Steven Fallon.
TWENTY-THREE
Instead of going to meet the witness he had an appointment with, Carvelli called Vivian Donahue and received permission to drop by the estate and give her a report. He wanted to tell her about Jerry Hughes and gauge her reaction to the news of his death. Twenty plus years as a cop had given him a good sense of when someone was lying. On his way he called the witness who was in the bar the night Bob Corwin was killed and rescheduled.
Tony parked his car, left his lightweight, tan, suede coat on the passenger seat and dressed more casually in slacks, a white silk shirt and loafers, hurried up the stairs to the front door. The housekeeper led him through the house, out the back and onto an enormous patio overlooking the large oval shaped outdoor pool. He stood on the patio for about two minutes watching a bikini clad girl swim laps until she rolled onto her back and noticed him standing there.
“Are you here to see my grandmother?” the very attractive young woman asked.
“Yeah, I guess so. If your grandmother is Vivian Donahue,” he replied.
“You must be Mr. Carvelli,” she said as she climbed out of the pool and picked up a towel from one of the reclining chairs positioned at poolside.
“That’s me,” he said. “Is she here?”
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 57
