“Let’s get to the stop, Detective. You testified you pulled him over for failing to signal a turn isn’t that true?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Did you give him a ticket?”
“What?” Kubik asked, a little confused.
“A traffic citation, you know, a ticket.”
“Oh, no,” Kubik answered. “I’m a detective,” he added somewhat pleased with himself.
“Did you have your ticket book with you?”
“What? No, I don’t have a ticket book, I’m a detective,” Kubik repeated.
“How about your partner, Richard Newsom, did he have a ticket book?”
“I don’t think so, no. He’s a detective. We don’t issue traffic citations.”
“Over the course of the last month, Detective, how many traffic stops have you made?” Marc asked.
“Um,” Kubik began while squirming a little more, “I’m not really sure.”
“Over the past two years, you’ve had three different partners, have you not, yes or no, Detective?”
“Yes.”
“If we bring them in how many traffic stops would they say you made in the past two years?”
“I, ah, don’t know,” Kubik said.
“Wouldn’t it be a grand total of none, Detective Kubik?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t think it’s that,” Kubik started to protest.
“Your Honor,” Marc said as he stood up, “Would you remind the witness that he’s under oath please?”
“You’re sworn and under oath, Detective,” O’Donnell sternly reminded him.
“Okay, none,” a relieved Dale Kubik finally admitted.
“Isn’t it true that the last time you arrested Mr. Grant, you tried to get him to become an informant for you? That you told him you would make the charges go away if he agreed to become an informant, a snitch for you?”
“I may have, I talk to a lot of guys I arrest and try to turn them. We all do,” Kubik answered.
“Really? Isn’t it true you worked on him all day, eight hours and he refused, didn’t he?”
“I don’t remember working on him for eight hours. That’s not true. Maybe an hour or two.”
“And he turned you down, didn’t he?”
“Yes, some do,” Kubik shrugged.
“In fact, he told you the same thing over and over, didn’t he? What did he say to you?”
“I don’t recall,” Kubik said squirming again.
“Yes, you do, Detective. What did he tell you to do to yourself?”
“Objection your Honor, the witness has answered the question,” Fenton almost yelled at the judge.
“Goes to credibility, your Honor,” Marc said.
“Overruled,” O’Donnell said.
“I don’t recall,” Kubik said again.
“He told you, over and over, to go fuck yourself. That he’d rather do time than snitch for you, didn’t he?”
“Could be, I don’t recall.”
“Then after eight hours of it, you grabbed him by his shirt, slammed him up against a wall and screamed in his face, ‘You spoiled, rich little asshole. I’m gonna make you sorry you were ever born’, didn’t you, Detective?”
“Never happened,” Kubik said with a smartass smirk.
“Then two weeks later, after you found out he was given probation and doing rehab, you saw him on the street and saw your chance to get him, didn’t you?”
“Objection! Argumentative,” Fenton yelled again.
“Sustained. Tone it down, Mr. Kadella,” O’Donnell ruled.
If looks could kill Marc would be a dead man. Kubik was staring holes into Marc’s forehead while thinking about how much fun it would be to get this shyster lawyer in a cell. Unfortunately, Judge O’Donnell saw it and it confirmed what she already believed. Kubik was lying.
“Since you had no intention or way to do so,” Marc calmly continued, “you did not give him a ticket, correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Kubik answered also more calmly.
“Then why did you put him in your car?”
“I told you, to check for drugs. He was a known drug dealer. And maybe guns. Drug dealers usually carry guns.”
“You were driving your car, not Detective Newsom?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you parked it, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I drove, I parked it,” Kubik said as if speaking to a child, a little cop arrogance returning.
“And it was you who told Newsom to put handcuffs on Mr. Grant and take him back to your car. Isn’t that true?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“And that’s when you planted the drugs in my client’s car, while Newsom was too busy and couldn’t see you?”
“No, counselor. I did not plant the drugs.”
“Were the packages the drugs came in dusted for fingerprints?”
“Um, yes,” Kubik reluctantly replied.
“And my client’s fingerprints were not found on either package, were they, Detective?”
“That doesn’t mean …”
“Nonresponsive, your Honor,” Marc said.
“Answer the question, Detective,” O’Donnell said.
“No, they were not,” Kubik admitted.
“I have nothing further, your Honor,” Marc said in his best dismissive tone.
“Would you like to redirect?” O’Donnell asked a clearly rattled Gloria Fenton.
“Um, yes, your Honor,” she answered.
Fenton gathered herself well enough to spend fifteen minutes getting Kubik to restate his case that he was not on a vendetta when he did the stop and search.
While Fenton was trying to rehabilitate her star witness, Maddy Rivers came into the courtroom. When he saw her, Kubik, of course, immediately recognized her and remembered her from the bar. At first, he could not process what she could possibly be doing here until she sat down next to Blake Grant behind Marc. Then a cold panic swept over him as he tried to remember what he might have said to her.
Fenton finished her redirect and Marc had no more questions. Kubik was excused and took his seat behind Fenton in front of the rail. O’Donnell asked Fenton if she had any more witnesses and Fenton replied she did not.
“Mr. Kadella, do you have any witnesses to call?”
“Yes, your Honor. The defense calls Alan Niemi.”
By this time Maddy was back at the entryway door holding it open for Marc’s witness. Unable to serve him the subpoena over the weekend, she was up early and caught him coming out of his apartment this morning.
When Kubik heard the name Alan Niemi, he wondered who this could possibly be. When he turned around to face the door, the blood drained from his face as he watched the man he knew as Richie Newsom, his partner, walk up the center aisle.
“Wait a minute,” Kubik jumped up and yelled. “What the hell is this? This is Richie Newsom, my partner. Who the hell is this Alan guy?”
“Alan Niemi,” Marc said after standing to address the court.
“What’s going on?” Fenton asked. “Who is this man?”
“All right. Everybody sit down and shut up. Mr. Kadella, please explain,” O’Donnell said taking control of her courtroom.
“Perhaps we should take a few minutes in chambers, your Honor,” Marc said.
“Very well, lawyers in my chambers. Doug,” she said to the court deputy, “you keep an eye on everybody. I want no one discussing anything with each other until I come back. Mr. Niemi, please sit up here,” she said indicating the witness stand, “and we’ll be out in ten minutes.”
“All right,” O’Donnell said settling into her chair while the lawyers still stood. “What is going on?”
“That man’s name is not Richard Newsom, newly minted detective of the St. Paul police. His real name is Sergeant Alan Niemi of the Duluth P.D. your Honor,” Marc replied.
“And?” O’Donnell said.
“Sergeant Alan Niemi of the Duluth P.D. Internal Affairs Uni
t. I’m not sure, but my guess is he’s on loan as an undercover investigating your star witness,” he said to Fenton who looked as if she needed to sit down, “who is up to his ass in corruption and trouble with the police department.”
Marc looked down at a frowning Judge O’Donnell and said, “I’ve also been investigating Kubik, your Honor. We have a bad cop here.”
“Why didn’t you bring this to me?” Fenton asked, seriously steaming.
“And give your office a chance to try to fix things and still come after my client? Not likely. First, it’s not my job. Second and more importantly, I wanted everybody under oath to expose him, let him perjure himself and force a dismissal.”
O’Donnell punched a number on her desk phone, waited a moment then said, “Darlene, bring the guy in the witness chair back here please.”
A minute later Alan Niemi joined them.
“Is it true?” O’Donnell asked. “Is your name Alan Niemi and are you on loan from Duluth?”
Niemi looked back and forth at the lawyers, shrugged and said, “Yes, your Honor.”
“Are you going to tell us on the witness stand that you’re doing undercover on Kubik for St. Paul?” Marc asked.
“If asked,” he reluctantly agreed. “I won’t lie about it.”
O’Donnell looked at Fenton and said, “I’m going out there and entertain Mr. Kadella’s motion to dismiss with prejudice to refile. A motion I will grant. You can put your objections on the record for appeal but I will include that your detective, in my opinion, planted those drugs and committed perjury.”
Ten minutes later, after O’Donnell dismissed the case, Dale Kubik, knowing his life as a cop was done, sat fuming. While Marc accepted congratulations from the Grants, Kubik sat staring at Maddy Rivers, who he blamed for exposing him, with a burning hatred in his heart.
ELEVEN
“Hello, David,” Vivian Donahue said to her nephew. David Corwin was in the foyer of the Corwin Mansion and his aunt was approaching him with, as usual, a warm smile on her face and her arms extended. The two of them gave each other a very warm and genuinely affectionate embrace. Vivian then took her nephew’s arm and the two of them walked together through the big house into the library.
Of all of the Corwins and Donahues of David’s generation, David was secretly Vivian’s favorite. Too many of his cousins were a little too self-indulgent and their progeny, Vivian’s grandnephews and nieces, the millennials, were proving to be totally self-absorbed slackers. But David and a few others were genuinely hard-working, solid citizens.
The two of them sat opposite each other on the matching sofas set perpendicular to the fireplace. But before she sat down, Vivian poured coffee from the silver antique pot on the coffee table between them. Vivian took her seat and straightened her skirt while David sipped his coffee and patiently waited.
“David,” she began, “I had a very difficult time wrestling with the decision to ask you here to meet with me. To be blunt, of all of my nieces and nephews, I trust your judgment above all of them.”
“Well, thank you, Vivian. I appreciate that,” a slightly startled David responded to the compliment.
“And I am very reluctant to stick my nose into your business,” Vivian added.
“You never have stuck your nose into my business before, Vivian. Out with it. What’s on your mind?” David asked as he leaned forward, placed his cup in the saucer on the table and looked directly at his aunt.
“Very well,” she said. “How well do you know this Corbin Reed person you introduced me to at the party?”
“Personally? Not well at all. He was introduced to me through a mutual friend, a man you know, Alan Phelps. Alan’s been investing with him for a couple of years and he swears by him. Exceptional returns. Alan told me CAR Securities has a couple of genius analysts that are gods at anticipating market fluctuations, which is how they stay ahead of the curve and are able to get steady, solid, twelve to thirteen percent returns. Alan told me he hasn’t pulled a dime out of CAR Securities. In fact, he has transferred his entire portfolio into his account with them.
“Tell me about Corbin Reed,” Vivian said.
David continued by explaining that Phelps had bragged about him for months. Then David finally gave in and asked to meet Reed and was impressed by the man. Over the next several months, the three of them met occasionally and not once did Reed ever bring up the subject of money, investing or CAR Securities.
“When I finally became convinced, after reviewing a year’s worth of Alan’s account statements, I practically had to beg Corbin to take my money. Why, what’s wrong?”
Vivian sighed, set her cup down for David to refill then finally said, “At the party, when you introduced me to him, for lack of a better way of putting it, I got a really bad vibe from him. I know, that’s my generation’s kind of a statement,” Vivian said with a smile when her nephew gave her a dubious look.
David thought for a moment before saying, “Aunt Vivian, I have the greatest respect for you and your instincts, you know that. Actually, I’m glad you told me this. And because of that, I’m going to keep a close eye on this.”
“You’re not offended with your old aunt sticking her nose into your business?” Vivian smiled.
“Of course not,” David replied. “I trust your judgment.”
“May I ask how much you gave them?” This, of course, was not a request but a pleasant command.
“Twenty million,” David replied.
“Twenty million dollars is still a lot of money, David.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
“Would you be terribly offended if I did a little snooping and checked this man and his company out myself?” Vivian asked.
“Of course not. In fact, with your ‘bad vibe’ I’d appreciate it if you did. You have resources I don’t have. Please, go ahead,” David sincerely replied.
Vivian smiled and said, “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you the other night. How are Mitchell, Jennifer and Scott doing?”
“They’re great,” David replied. “You know, Mitchell starts high school this year,” he added referring to his oldest son.
“Oh my god, really? Time passes too fast,” Vivian said.
For another twenty minutes they chatted about family and other small talk before David finally excused himself.
Later that same day, Vivian received a phone call from Tony Carvelli. He told her he had some preliminary news to tell her from his investigation into Corbin Reed and CAR Securities Management. Vivian invited him over for dinner and Tony accepted agreeing to a six o’clock time.
Carvelli reached for the mansion’s front doorbell and before he could push it, the door was flung open and a beautiful, twenty-year-old girl jumped on him. Adrienne Donahue, Vivian’s favorite granddaughter, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek while laughing at his shocked expression.
“Gotcha,” she said, still laughing.
Holding his right hand over his heart feigning a heart attack, Tony said. “Will you stop that? One of these times I’m going to flop down on the ground with a real heart attack.”
“No chance,” Adrienne smiled. “You’re too much of a stud.”
“Too much of a what?” they heard Vivian icily ask from the doorway.
“Oh, oh,” Adrienne smiled at her grandmother then looked back at Tony, winked and said, “She hates it when I try to steal her boyfriends.”
Tony cringed at the precocious kid while Vivian said, “Go to your room, young lady.”
“I’m actually heading out,” Adrienne said as she started down the eight semicircular, granite steps to the parking area in front of the mansion. “Have a nice night you two. Don’t wait up.”
Vivian led Tony by the arm into the mansion toward a small, intimate dining room. As they walked along she said of Adrienne, “That child is incorrigible.”
“And an absolute delight, you love her to death and enjoy having her around for the summer,” Tony added.
“All true,” Vivian laughed.
While they enjoyed their dinner, Vivian told Tony about her meeting and conversation with her nephew, David. When they finished eating and Vivian had completed her story, she suggested coffee on the patio by the pool. Having sent the household staff home, Vivian served the coffee herself.
The two of them were stretched out in patio lounge chairs facing Lake Minnetonka and quietly enjoying their coffee and the view of the lake. After several minutes, Vivian broke the silence.
“No matter how long I’ve been here I still love this site. A pleasant summer evening and that view of the lake. I’ll tell you what,” she continued, “I know this is very snobbish and elitist, but if I had my way I’d ban motorized boats from the lake after six P.M. Just sailboats. I love to watch them silently glide past.”
“Especially ones like that one,” Tony said referring to the two-masted boat directly in front of them.
“You mean the one with the four young girls in bikinis?” Vivian slyly asked.
“Oh, gosh, I didn’t notice them,” Tony poorly lied.
“Okay, time to stop watching the girls and tell me what you found out,” Vivian smiled as she held out her cup for Tony to refill.
Tony poured the coffee then swiveled around to sit on the edge of the lounge chair facing her. He pulled a small notebook from his back pocket, flipped it open and began.
“Corbin Andrew Reed. Age 42, single, no kids, never married. CEO and founder of CAR Securities Management, LLC. It’s his initials that make up the acronym, CAR. Graduate of Penn State University with a BA in finance. Then he got an MBA from the Wharton School of Business.”
Tony sipped his coffee and then placed the cup on the small, wrought iron table between them.
“He worked on Wall Street for almost ten years for four of the larger firms. His employment history with them is a little murky. Not sure why he moved around so much. Don’t know if he moved on or got fired but we’re still digging.”
“Yes, do that,” Vivian said. “There could be something worth knowing.”
“Founded CAR Securities about four or five years ago after moving from New York to our fair city.” Tony continued.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 229
