Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series)

by Dennis Carstens

  They greeted the judge, Lucinda Gilbert, who promptly asked the prosecutor, “What are you offering?”

  “Two hundred dollar fine,” your Honor.

  “And?” she said looking at Marc.

  “My guy won’t plead,” Marc said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s his right not to.”

  “You’re right,” the judge said. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  Never having appeared in front of this judge before, a new appointment to the bench, Marc was a little surprised at the apology.

  “How about an Alford plea? He admits there’s sufficient evidence to convict while maintaining his innocence?” Bicknell asked.

  “I’ve listened to the recording, counselor. I have a little trouble with him maintaining his innocence. But if he wants to go that route, that’s his right but…,” Gilbert started to say.

  “So, your Honor,” Marc said sitting up and leaning forward to stare directly at the judge, “you’ve already decided he’s guilty?”

  “I didn’t mean that,” a perplexed Gilbert said.

  Marc continued to stare at her and she avoided eye contact with him. Bicknell sat quietly, mildly amused at the display he was witnessing.

  Without blinking or taking his eyes off the judge, Marc said, “I’ll put it to my client and let him decide.”

  When they reached the hallway behind the courtroom Bicknell asked, “You going to file on her?”

  “I don’t know,” a still angry Marc answered. When the two men reached the door to the courtroom a calmer Marc added. “She’s new. She needs to learn to be a little more careful about what she says.”

  Marc took the chair at the defense table next to his uncle and quietly explained to him what had been offered. An Alford plea is one in which the defendant maintains his innocence but admits there is sufficient evidence to support a conviction. It is usually offered as a way to obtain a reasonable plea bargain with a recalcitrant defendant. It is also normally coupled with a threat of more dire consequences if the defendant rejects it.

  “No,” was Larry’s one word reply. “Marc, my boy, this is the most interesting thing I’ve done since Ellen passed. What can they do, put me in prison?”

  “She could give you some jail time.”

  “I’ll worry about that when it happens. When does the trial start?”

  “This isn’t a trial, Larry,” Marc said. “I told you, this is what’s called a Rasmussen hearing or, a suppression hearing. We’ll get a look at the evidence and witnesses. Then we’ll argue about whether or not the evidence the cops have should be allowed in court. It’s to let the judge see if the cops entrapped you into doing this.”

  “They did,” Larry said.

  Patiently Marc replied, “To legally entrap someone the cops have to get someone to commit a crime he otherwise would not have done. In other words, but for the cops behavior this would not have happened.”

  “It wouldn’t have,” Larry replied.

  “We’ll see,” Marc said.

  The hearing itself lasted about an hour and a half. There were five witnesses called by the prosecution. They were the four MPD cops who had operated the sting including the woman who had posed as the prostitute. This would also give Marc an opportunity to see the witnesses on the stand and gauge the strength of the prosecution’s case.

  The first witness called was the female decoy. She had been sitting with the other three cops and the tech and Marc had not noticed her before this.

  As she was being sworn in Marc whispered to his uncle, “You only offered her fifty bucks? I would have arrested you, too. She’s gorgeous for God’s sake.”

  Hers was the longest testimony and it was through her that the audio recording of the transaction was presented to the court. She was emphatic that Larry had approached her and she did nothing to entice him. The audio was clear that Larry had offered fifty dollars for oral sex. It was then that she identified herself as Officer Jennifer Hall and arrested him.

  One at a time the three male cops testified that the defendant was read his rights and taken to a local precinct for processing. Larry used a credit card to post bail and was released; every step done strictly by the book and in conformance with police procedure. Not wanting to tip his hand and show the prosecution his case, even though he didn’t have one, Marc had not asked a single question.

  At the conclusion of the testimony, Marc went through the formality of requesting that the evidence and testimony be excluded. This was quickly denied.

  “Your Honor,” Marc said. “I want the prosecution to produce a picture, an exact duplication of how Officer Hall was dressed and what she looked like on the day this event occurred.”

  “That’s reasonable. So ordered. You will provide the photo to Mr. Kadella. When can you get it?’

  “A moment, your Honor,” Bicknell replied. He turned to the officers who were still in the court and waved one forward. He was the detective who was in charge of the sting. Bicknell whispered to him then turned to the judge and said, “Tomorrow, your Honor. I’ll messenger it to him tomorrow.”

  “Good enough,” Gilbert said.

  “Since it is obviously available now, I’m wondering why I haven’t been given it before this?” Marc asked.

  “He didn’t ask, your Honor.”

  “I shouldn’t have to…”

  “All right. Enough you two. You’ll get the photo. Anything else?” she asked Marc. He gave her a negative reply and she waved the lawyers up to the bench.

  “What about a trial date? How’s next week look?” she asked.

  “I’m booked,” Bicknell replied.

  “The week after? Find a day, Mr. Bicknell. Let’s get this over with.”

  “My client wants a jury, your Honor.”

  “Okay, that’s his right,” Gilbert answered. She looked at the small calendar taped to the bench and said, “How about Wednesday, October 6? Even with a jury we won’t need more than a day.”

  “I’m okay with that,” Marc said.

  “Me, too,” Bicknell agreed.

  “Okay, Wednesday, October sixth at 9:00 A.M. All discovery and witness lists to be done no later than Thursday, October first. I’ll put out an order today.”

  On their way out of the courtroom after waiting for everyone else to leave, Marc spoke with the man seated in the back by himself. When he finished, Marc escorted his client out of the front of the building to the light rail platform. He waited for the train with his uncle then found his car and drove back to the office.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Cara Meyers hurried quickly down the back steps of the Church of Christ church on Forty-Eighth and Dupont in South Minneapolis. She nodded and pleasantly said good night to several of the people in her group before heading to the parking lot. Her Addicts Anonymous meeting had lasted longer than normal and she wanted to get home, shower and go to bed.

  “Hell of a way to spend a Sunday night,” she muttered.

  Cara pushed the button on her key fob and unlocked her two-year-old Accord. She had parked under a light and took a moment to cautiously look around. There were several people from her group getting into their cars and she did not see anything unusual in the lot.

  Cara was a thirty-eight-year-old senior associate in an insurance defense firm in downtown Minneapolis. The firm, Howard, Caine and Nugent, took up two floors of the U.S. Bank Plaza, a forty story glass and chrome building in downtown Minneapolis. Cara had just completed her sixth year with the firm. She had been rejected for partnership three times. After the most recent rejection about a month ago, she had been flat-out told by the managing partner that a partnership would not happen. Cara was under no threat of being fired and could stay as long as she met her billable hours requirement, an average of fifty per week.

  On her drive home, Cara again pondered her situation. The money was good, with bonuses and 401k benefits over two hundred per year. The simple truth was she hated the place. Hated the firm, ha
ted what she did, with few exceptions she could barely tolerate most of the lawyers and she hated herself for selling her soul for money. Cara was also quite trapped.

  At one time she had been a very good criminal defense lawyer. Cara had originally joined up with a local heavyweight criminal defense lawyer and was soon well on her way to becoming one herself. Even though she made less than half of what she made now she actually had a life and was happy.

  Six years ago Howard, Caine and Nugent had offered a lot more money and a phony promise of partnership. A good friend who knew the firm warned her but she didn’t listen. And now she was driving away from an Addicts Anonymous meeting because she had become addicted to speed and meth. The drugs were mostly to help her keep up and bill enough hours to keep her job.

  Cara pulled the Accord into the underground lot of her condo building. She lived six blocks from work which allowed her to walk to work; the only exercise she had time for.

  While walking toward the elevator she moved her head around in a circle as if taking the kinks out of her neck. Cara walked past a concrete support pole and the next thing she knew she was sitting on the floor of the garage, her back against that same pole, in a lot of pain and unable to move or speak.

  Owen Jefferson was leaning against the trunk of a car casually watching the M.E. examine the body. The car’s owner was steaming mad because it was parked inside the police tape surrounding the crime scene. He was late for work and needed his car. Ten minutes ago he had given up and called a cab cursing at the cops for making him spend the money. On top of that it was raining and his umbrella was in his car but because he had raised such a fuss none of the cops would get it for him.

  Marcie Sterling was standing a few feet behind the M.E. looking over his shoulder. After a few minutes she walked across the parking ramp aisle to join Jefferson.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “He didn’t have time to do the job completely. Looks like her throat was slit the same way and she has the barbed wire crown. Her fingers are still intact and he had no way to finish posing her.”

  “Or a copy cat,” Marcie said.

  “Could be but I don’t think so. Doesn’t feel like it.”

  Marcie was holding the victim’s purse. Both she and Jefferson wore gloves, and she held up the woman’s driver’s license. “Cara Meyers. Five-foot-seven, one thirty-five, brown and brown, thirty-eight years old. Address is here, in this building,” Marcie cryptically read from the license.

  Marcie set the purse on the back of the car Jefferson leaned on and started going through the bill fold. Jefferson turned back to watch the M.E.

  A minute later Marcie held up a laminated card and said, “Check this out. Ms. Meyers is, was, a lawyer.”

  She handed it to Jefferson, who read it and said, “That probably takes care of the copycat theory.”

  The M.E., Clyde Marston, stood holding up a clear plastic bag for the two detectives to see.

  “Tell me you have something!” Jefferson said as he straightened to greet Marston.

  “Maybe,” Marston said as he handed the little bag to the tall detective. “It’s a hair and I don’t think it’s hers. Lighter in color and shorter.”

  “Can we get DNA off of it?” Marcie asked.

  “Probably,” Marston shrugged. “For sure if the follicle is still attached.”

  “I’m taking possession of this. Note that in your report for chain-of-custody. I’ll run this over to St. Paul to the state crime lab myself. Anything else?” Jefferson said.

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Marston replied. “I’ll check more thoroughly when I get her downtown.”

  Despite the steady rain, with lights and sirens, Jefferson and Marcie made it to the East Side of St. Paul in under twenty minutes. While Jefferson drove, Marcie called Selena Kane and told her what they had. Kane called the deputy chief who called the chief and he called the mayor. By coincidence, Mayor Gillette was on the phone with Governor Dahlstrom when the chief called. One of the mayor’s assistants interrupted the call with the news.

  Jefferson pulled up to the BCA building on Maryland Avenue and the wheels having been greased by a phone call from the governor, a crowd of lab people were already waiting for them. Leading the parade of BCA personnel through the rain was the BCA director herself, Anne Scanlon.

  Jefferson illegally parked his car in a fire lane and the two detectives got out. Jefferson looked at Scanlon, a former MPD deputy chief and said, “Anne, what’s going on?”

  “I got a call from Governor Dahlstrom and he made it abundantly clear we’re to give this a priority,” she replied.

  Marcie handed the precious piece of evidence to a man who introduced himself as the lead lab tech.

  “We’ll keep an accurate chain-of custody record,” the director said.

  “Call us when you know something,” Jefferson said holding his trench coat at the collar against the rain.

  Jeff Miller hurried to the homicide detectives’ squad room. On their way back from St. Paul, Marcie had called him and told him to run a check on the latest victim. He had news for them and was taking this opportunity to deliver it personality. And see Marcie.

  “You could’ve called,” Jefferson said when Jeff came through the conference room door.

  “I, ah, yes, I suppose,” Jeff stammered.

  “Did you find something, Jeff?” Marcie politely asked while giving Jefferson a stern look.

  Jeff looked at her, smiled and said, “Yeah, I did.” He walked over to the whiteboard, picked up a marker and circled a name.

  “Parlow! Are you sure she’s connected to Eugene Parlow?” Jefferson asked with a bewildered look on his face.

  “Cara Meyers was Parlow’s lawyer when the faulty DNA was used to convict him,” Jeff proudly told them.

  “Are you sure she isn’t connected to any other names on our list?” Marcie asked.

  “I ran all of the suspects on the board and Parlow was the only one that came up,” Miller answered. “And Judge Peterson was his trial judge; Judge Smith, the victim up North, decided his appeal and Rhea Watson was the prosecutor.”

  “This is too much of a coincidence. What are the odds of this happening?” Marcie asked. “We need to get a hold of Lieutenant Schiller and double check their surveillance,” Marcie continued. “According to the surveillance reports, Parlow is the one they’re having the most trouble keeping track of.”

  Jeff took a chair next to Marcie and said, “The odds of this happening are probably better than you think. Rhea Watson, during that time, was the chief criminal prosecutor for the county. She had over a hundred cases.”

  “I remember it,” Jefferson said. “Word was she was very ambitious and had her eye on the top job. Plus the judge, Peterson, had a bit of a reputation for believing in DNA evidence. Most of the prosecutors with DNA cases tried to get him.”

  “Okay,” Marcie said. “What about the appellate judge, Smith?” she continued pointing at his name on the whiteboard.

  “That one could simply be a coincidence,” Jefferson said. “Every homicide case gets appealed and he maybe just got unlucky. I need to go see someone, a civilian ex-cop. Marcie, I want you to go to the M.E.’s office and check on the autopsy. Then get a hold of the detectives who are running checks on the other suspects.”

  Jefferson wearily sat back in his chair and studied the whiteboard for a minute or so.

  “I don’t know where the hell we are,” he said. “I still think its Traynor or, more likely, Forsberg but…”

  “We’ve had them under surveillance,” Marcie said.

  “Yeah,” Jefferson said turning to look at Marcie. “And it’s a helluva an alibi, isn’t it?”

  Marcie and Jeff Miller left and Jefferson made a phone call. Tony Carvelli agreed to meet him and the two men settled on a place to do so. Twenty minutes later, Jefferson entered a chain Italian restaurant, removed his trench coat to shake the rain off and took an empty booth in the bar.

  A few minu
tes later Carvelli arrived and the two men shook hands. They both ordered coffee from the server then Jefferson said, “I need a fresh pair of eyes and an uncluttered mind.”

  The server brought two cups into which he poured their coffee. When the young woman left Jefferson went over everything they had about the killings while Carvelli quietly listened. When he finished, Jefferson said, “What do you think?”

  “What about the hair that was found this morning?” Tony asked.

  “You know something, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if it wasn’t planted. Why, all of a sudden, does he get that careless and we find just one hair?”

  “Maybe you’re right. Or maybe he had to hurry. He’s in a parking garage with lights and people who could show up any time. Occam’s razor,” Tony said. “The simplest solution, the simplest answer is probably the correct one.”

  “Is that what Occam’s razor is?”

  “That’s the simplified version,” Tony said. Carvelli leaned forward almost halfway across the table. Jefferson did the same so the two men’s heads were inches apart. “In my gut, I think it’s Traynor. I’m just not buying his ‘I found Jesus’ act.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “I know,” Tony interrupted. “We’ve watched him like a hawk. I just remember what a goddamn psycho he was; is. I’m not buying that he could switch that off. Listen, let me think about it and if I come up with anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks, Tony. I needed to talk to someone about this,” Jefferson said. “It’s making me a little crazy.”

  “Anytime.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  When Jefferson got back downtown to the department, Marcie was back from the M.E.’s office. Jefferson hung up his coat and wearily sat down. He looked at Marcie and said, “I’m open to suggestions, Marcie, if you have any.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “What if it’s one guy and he did one or two victims just to confuse us.”