“Yes, that’s correct,” Jefferson sighed.
“There’s that word ‘possible’ again, isn’t it Detective?”
“Objection,” Harris said but didn’t have the energy to stand.
“Sustained,” Koch said hiding a smile.
“I have nothing further, but again, I do reserve the right to recall,” Marc concluded.
FIFTY-FIVE
Marc was at his desk reviewing his trial book for approximately the twentieth time. He was going through it page-by-page trying to be careful and not miss anything.
When the testimony of Owen Jefferson finally concluded, the trial entered its middle part.
A real trial isn’t like those depicted on TV or in the movies. They normally move at a snail’s pace because the prosecution must build its case piece-by-piece, brick-by-brick. They must be sure that each and every element of every charge is proven beyond a reasonable doubt. And they must do it for every crime charged. This requires a number of witnesses who add minor details that are important to the final product. The next witness to be called by Harris was Marcie Sterling, Jefferson’s partner. She had taken the stand first thing this morning and was done by noon. Sterling had little more to offer than a confirmation of what Jefferson already told the jury.
The afternoon was spent with several witnesses who were only ancillary to the prosecution’s case. There was a list of a dozen people who either discovered the victims or were first responder police officers. The only one who offered any real evidence was the tech who had performed the analysis of the items found in Howie’s apartment. She testified that the barbed wire was the same as that found on the victims’ heads and the wire cutters mostly matched the cuts made on those crowns. Marc had his own expert, his criminalist Jason Briggs to testify and dispute those findings. Hopefully Briggs could create some reasonable doubt about this evidence.
First up were the two women who called the police and went to the home of Rhea Watson. They were her assistant, Tricia Dunlop, and Rhea’s immediate supervisor and friend, Jacqueline Neeley. Paul Ramsey did the direct-examination of both, his very first time questioning a real witness in a real case. He confidently guided each woman through her testimony then turned them over to Marc. Marc’s cross-exam amounted to little more than a few questions to elicit a confirmation that neither of them had anything to offer regarding who might have committed this crime.
The next witness was police sergeant Norman Anderson. His testimony was much more riveting. During his walk through of Rhea Watson house, he had used a small camera to take pictures. Prior to trial there had been an argument before Judge Koch about this. Marc tried to convince the judge that these photos were unnecessary and added nothing to the question of guilt. Koch had ruled that ten pictures could be shown and Koch herself selected those. When Anderson’s picture of Watson’s body went up on the TV it created virtually no reaction. By this time these gruesome photos had been seen too many times and their shock value had worn off.
The afternoon dragged along and by 4:30 the jurors were having a difficult time paying attention. Marc had noticed a couple of them even nod off. When Ramsey finished with the two women who found the posed body of Elliot Sanders at the picnic table in Mueller Park, Koch called a halt for the day.
Before she dismissed the jury she called the lawyers to the bench.
“Are you on schedule?” she asked Tommy Harris.
Assuring her that they were the judge dismissed the jury for the weekend. She also politely yet firmly admonished them they were not to discuss the case with anyone and were to avoid news reports concerning it.
Marc looked at the clock on his office wall, noticed it was already past 7:00 P.M. when his cell phone rang. He checked the I.D. and saw it was Margaret Tennant. Marc answered the call and for the next ten minutes found a little solace in her comforting voice.
Margaret not only knew Marc well she also knew trial work. Before calling she expected Marc would beg off spending the weekend with her. The stress and significance of the case were all consuming and he would need some time to himself, to be alone and decompress a little. Plus, during a trial like this, the weekend, even if the trial was in recess, would not be time off for the lawyers.
Moments after ending the call with Margaret, Marc heard the front door being unlocked and opened. Knowing who it was Marc watched through his open door waiting for her to appear.
“Hey,” Marc said when Connie Mickelson appeared in his doorway.
“I figured you’d still be here,” she answered him.
Connie placed her large, leather purse on Marc’s desk. She reached into it with both hands and when they emerged, she had two small glasses in her right hand and a bottle of bourbon in the other. She set the glasses on the desk blotter and poured three fingers in each one. She handed one to Marc, held hers toward him and he lightly touched it with his in a toast.
They each took a sip then Connie sat down and said, “Figured you could use a little pick-me-up.”
Marc took another small sip while Connie tossed all of her drink down. She refilled her glass, held up the bottle to Marc who smiled and declined.
“So, how you doing?” she asked after setting the bottle back on his desk and leaning back in her chair.
Marc also leaned back, opened a desk drawer and put his feet up on it. “Okay,” he answered.
“How’s the trial going?”
Marc thought about his answer, sipped the bourbon again then said, “Okay but I’ve got a couple problems.”
“The cigarette butts found on the roof?”
“Yeah,” Marc agreed. “That’s one.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m not sure. How do you know…”
“It was on the news, of course. The Princess,” Connie added sarcastically, “Melinda Pace, was practically giddy about it.”
“It was excluded by Judge Koch,” Marc said shaking his head. “They shouldn’t report it at all.”
“The jury heard it. They can’t ignore it,” Connie said.
“I know,” Marc agreed. “I’ll think of something. I hope.”
“What’s the other problem?”
Marc drained his glass, cringed a little as the liquid burned down his throat, then held the glass out to Connie. Connie had finished her second drink and splashed more into both glasses.
“Madeline Rivers,” Marc said in answer to Connie’s inquiry.
“I figured,” Connie said. “You have to go after her.”
“I know,” Marc sighed. He looked away from Connie and stared vacantly at the drink in his hand. Up to this very moment he had been putting off dealing with this particular dilemma. He still did not want to, but talking about it with Connie might help.
Marc was still leaning back in his brown leather desk chair, his feet on the opened drawer. He turned his head to Connie, drank half the bourbon in his glass and said, “I can either force her to commit perjury or admit to a felony.”
“You didn’t send her into Traynor’s apartment. That was a choice she and Carvelli made,” Connie reminded him.
“Connie, she’s just like you. She’s my pal, my girl. This sickens me.” Marc looked at the wall clock, tossed down what remained in his glass and said, “I have to get out of here. If I don’t, I’ll stay until that bottle’s empty.”
“It might be just what you need,” Connie smiled.
Marc dropped his feet onto the floor, swiveled his chair to face forward, handed the empty glass to Connie and said, “Probably, but I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
Marc’s personal phone rang at that moment and he checked the I.D. It was not a number he recognized and he almost did not answer it. Marc’s curiosity got the better of him and he picked up the phone and put it to his ear.
“Hey, Marc,” he heard a man’s voice say, a voice he recognized but couldn’t place. “It’s Steve Gondeck.”
“Steve,” Marc said. “What’s up?” Marc continued as he lo
oked at Connie with a puzzled expression.
“Look, Marc,” Gondeck continued speaking almost in a whisper. “I have some information for you but I can’t tell you over the phone. Can we meet tonight?”
“What, you think the NSA is listening in? Trust me, Steve. I’ve been dealing with the IRS and the Feds for twenty years. They’re not that competent.”
“Marc, I’m serious,” Gondeck said.
“Okay. Where and when?”
Gondeck gave him the name of a restaurant on the 494 strip in Bloomington and Marc agreed to meet him in twenty minutes.
Marc walked into the restaurant, stood in the dining room entryway and looked for Gondeck. At first, he did not see him then finally noticed him waving from a table in the back. Approaching the table, Marc realized why he didn’t recognize him. Marc had never seen Steve Gondeck wearing anything but a business suit, white shirt and tie. This man had on a cotton pullover and jeans.
The two lawyers shook hands and took their seats. Gondeck was sipping a short glass of beer and Marc ordered the same. While the waiter went to get it, the two of them made small talk about the Vikings, the weather and the upcoming Holidays.
“Okay,” Marc said after a swallow of his beer while patting his mouth with a napkin. “What’s up?”
Gondeck hesitated for a long moment once again thinking about the information he had. His professional responsibility divided between his ethical obligation to his job and clients, the people of Hennepin County and the State of Minnesota, and his ethical obligation as an officer of the court. He had been weighing these commitments most of the day. Normally they did not contrast as they did now. Gondeck had finally decided that his duty as an officer of the court and his responsibility to seek justice outweighed his loyalty to the county attorney’s office.
“It’s about Craig Slocum and your trial,” he began.
“Okay, what?” Marc asked not the least bit surprised that Slocum might be trying to pull something.
Gondeck removed a folded single sheet of paper from his back pocket. On it was a handwritten list of names and job titles. He gave it to Marc who looked it over. There were a dozen names listed.
“So, what are these?” Marc asked.
“They’re the names of people in the county attorney’s office who know how much Slocum hates you personally. How much he blames you for damaging his political career.”
“So what?” Marc asked.
“They also know the stunt he pulled to surprise you at trial,” Gondeck said.
For the next ten minutes he explained to Marc what he was talking about. What Craig Slocum had done to abuse his power in an attempt to convict Howie Traynor and get even with Marc.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Gondeck said when he finished.
“I’m not,” Marc calmly replied. “I’m not the only defense lawyer who has had problems with your boss.”
“True,” Gondeck admitted.
“How did you find out?”
“His secretary. She’s on the list,” Gondeck said pointing a finger at her name.
“This is all real nice,” Marc said with a shrug. “But it’s also confidential and privileged. None of these people can be forced to testify.”
“Maybe,” Gondeck agreed, “maybe not. This is at least unethical and probably illegal. You’re a smart guy. You’ll figure out a way to use this.”
Marc silently looked at his friendly adversary for a while before saying, “Why are you doing this? You could get disbarred for this.”
Gondeck drained what was left in his glass. “Because it is flat out wrong. Aside from whether or not it is legal, illegal, ethical or unethical, it is simply wrong.
“You know me, Marc. I like to win as much as the next guy and I still believe your client is guilty. But this is bullshit. And,” he quietly continued, “this isn’t the first time. Slocum has the attitude that rules are for others and don’t really apply to him. He has that ‘ends justifies the means’ Christian hypocrite problem. Besides, like I said, you’re a smart guy, you’ll think of something and protect me.”
“Okay and thanks for putting me on the spot,” Marc replied with a touch of lawyer sarcasm.
He thought about the information he had been given then said, “Well, I’m not sure what I can do with it yet but I’ll give it some thought and figure out something, I hope.”
FIFTY-SIX
Over the weekend temperatures climbed into the upper 40’s. The snow was gone, the streets clean and clear and car washes were doing a booming business.
Monday morning Marc arrived at the government center shortly after 7:00. Both Friday and Saturday nights, having been relieved of the stress of trial for two days, Marc had slept the sleep of the dead. Last night, Sunday, he tossed and turned most of the night before giving up shortly after 5:00 A.M.
Judge Koch’s courtroom door was unlocked when he arrived and the media herd was not there yet. While he was arranging his table with the items he would need, the judge’s clerk, Andy Combs, came into the courtroom. They greeted each other then Combs set up his desk next to the judge’s bench.
“You’re early,” Combs said to Marc.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Marc replied. “Is the judge in yet?”
“Oh yeah,” Combs replied. “She’s here every day by 6:30. Do you need to see her?”
“No,” Marc replied, “just curious.”
“The state calls Martin Colstad,” Harris declared after Koch gave him the go ahead.
Colstad was the clerk for Judge Ross Peterson. It was Colstad who alerted the police that Peterson was missing and it was Colstad, along with Officer Rhonda Dean, who found the judge’s body.
Martin Colstad and Officer Dean combined were on the stand for about an hour and a half. The trial was still in its slow boring phase. The witnesses to be heard for the next few days would offer little to the question of guilty or not guilty. They were essential to paint a complete verbal picture for the jury of the death of each victim.
Between the two of them, Colstad and Dean explained what they did and why, how they came to search for the missing judge and what they found at his house. When he finished first with Colstad and then Dean, Ramsey passed each of the witnesses over to Marc.
Colstad was a career government employee. He had a degree as a paralegal and worked in the Hennepin County courts for over sixteen years, the last ten as Judge Peterson’s personal clerk. Because of his position with the judge, Colstad would have firsthand knowledge of Peterson as a judge.
Marc amiably asked a few questions to establish that fact then quickly changed to a more serious manner.
“Isn’t it true that Judge Peterson would not be described as a pleasant man?”
Colstad, despite watching hundreds of others testify in trials over the years was a little nervous. This question caught him off guard and he visibly shifted in his seat.
“Objection,” Ramsey said rising to address the court. “Judge Peterson’s personality is not on trial and is irrelevant.”
“If you will indulge me a bit, your Honor, I’ll be able to demonstrate the relevance,” Marc said.
“I’ll overrule the objection, for now, but I expect you to get there,” Koch ruled. “The witness will answer.”
“Well, um, yes, you could say that.”
“Isn’t it also true that Judge Peterson was known to be more favorable to the prosecution in criminal matters?”
“Well, I don’t think…”
“You’re under oath, Mr. Colstad,” Marc sharply reminded him.
“Yes, he was,” Colstad quietly agreed.
“Objection, relevance,” Ramsey tried again.
“I’m getting there, your Honor,” Marc said in rebuttal.
“Overruled,” Koch said again as Ramsey sat down.
“Isn’t it also true that he was known as a law and order judge who gave out harsh, stiff sentences to guilty defendants?”
Ramsey started to rise but Koch held out a hand and said, �
�Keep your seat, Mr. Ramsey. I see where he’s going.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Colstad reluctantly admitted.
“During the ten years you clerked for him, did the judge receive death threats from people he had sent to prison?”
“All judges do,” Colstad said.
“Nonresponsive, your Honor,” Marc said while continuing to stare at Colstad.
“Answer the question, Mr. Colstad,” Koch firmly admonished him.
“Yes, he did,” Colstad agreed.
“How many?”
“Oh, I don’t know the exact number,” Colstad answered.
“When the judge did receive a threatening letter, you notified the police didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
Marc reached into his briefcase and removed a stack of paper that looked like copies of letters. He placed the two-inch thick stack on the table and asked again, “How many did he receive?”
Colstad looked around the room hoping for a reprieve from answering. When one was obviously not forthcoming he said, “Over four hundred.”
This answer caused a minor stirring in the courtroom which brought one sharp, loud bang from Judge Koch’s gavel.
“Isn’t it also true that not a single one of the more than four hundred threatening letters Judge Peterson received was written by my client, Howie Traynor?”
“I, ah, don’t believe so,” Colstad answered.
“Is that a yes, Mr. Colstad? None of those letters was written by Howie Traynor?”
“Yes, that’s true,” Colstad agreed.
“Judge Peterson had a lot of people wanting to do him harm, didn’t he Mr. Colstad?”
“Argumentative,” Ramsey objected.
“Sustained. You made your point, Mr. Kadella. Move it along.”
Having obtained what he wanted from Peterson’s clerk, the obvious admission that others wanted him dead also, Marc ended his questioning.
Marc had only a few questions for Rhonda Dean. These were designed to fortify the fact that there were differences in the way Peterson’s body looked than the others. Since the M.E. and CSU people would have to testify, Dean’s corroboration would verify that the body was found with no blood on it or mangled fingers and toes. The greater details of how he died would come later.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 174
