(2012) The Key to Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  There were minor, routine and necessary delays as well. Judge Prentiss had cases pending before him that could not be kept completely on hold. Several times during this period he would hear motions on other cases. Always early morning, between eight and nine. He would have the oral arguments by the opposing attorneys in the courtroom. Invariably these hearings would go beyond the allotted time, lawyers being the verbose creatures that they are. Prentiss would, naturally, need further time to dictate an Order, answer phone calls and, almost daily, have an in chambers meeting with Marc, Gondeck and Slocum for last minute arguments about upcoming testimony.

  It was Marc who usually requested these meetings. The parade of witnesses during this time had little to offer and Marc was continuously objecting to the prosecution’s tactics. Always to no avail. Long before the case had reached this point, Marc had come to realize that Prentiss was going to give the prosecution all of the room they needed to present their case. At the very least, Marc kept reminding himself, he would continue to object and build a record for a possible appeal. A thought that brought a black cloud of depression over him. The prospect of handling an appeal of a guilty verdict in this case was not something he looked forward to and, in fact, was something he was determined he simply would not do. If Carl lost and wanted an appeal, he was going to have to find another lawyer to do it.

  On the Wednesday of the third week following Jake Waschke’s testimony, an afternoon break necessitated by Prentiss’ golf game, Marc was seated at his desk going over the prosecution’s witness list. The trial itself was into its fifth week and Marc was beginning to feel the strain. Getting by on five or six hours of sleep each night and a diet of deli sandwiches and fast food was starting to take its toll. He consoled himself with the fact that Slocum’s list was starting to dwindle and they were entering the homestretch of the prosecution’s case.

  There had been some tense, uncomfortable moments when Marc had sensed, more than seen, Carl fidget slightly in his chair. Without being noticed by the jury, Marc would reach over and lightly place a hand on Carl’s arm to reassure and calm his client. When Detective Barnes testified about the locker key and the clothes obviously hidden in the mall locker. When family members of the victims had testified and the worst, the climax to this morning’s testimony, the introduction of Carl’s criminal record. Up until that point the jury’s boredom was starting to show and, in fact, several had even nodded off during some of the more mundane moments. Carl’s criminal history, especially the rape conviction, had sent a palpable jolt of energy through the courtroom and an obvious shot of adrenaline through the jury. Marc, of course, had known it was coming and had slyly studied the jury’s reaction. Several of the jurors were unable to resist casting a distasteful glance at Carl and Marc had caught himself unconsciously leaning slightly to his left. Away from Carl so as not to be held guilty by association in the minds of the jurors. He had stopped himself but smiled now at the recollection. A smile that quickly collapsed with the realization that the jury would have all day to think about Carl’s past and get it firmly imprinted into their collective memories.

  Marc laid the list he had been perusing on the desk, lifted his arms over his head and sat for a minute, rolling his head from side to side while stretching. He got up from his chair, went to the window, opened it and stood staring at the traffic under his office along Lake Street. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny mid-September day in Minnesota. The kind the citizenry really appreciated now with summer going, the kids back in school and the leaves starting to turn. Indications that winter’s ugly head would soon be rearing which, by January, would cause all of the saner inhabitants of the nation’s icebox to wonder just why the hell they lived there. It’s days like this one, Marc silently thought, that keep us here. He stood at the window staring at the people on the street, the traffic moving along and one particularly attractive young woman, barely older than his daughter, all the while fighting a battle with his conscience. The imaginary angel on one shoulder kept whispering in his ear to get back to work and the imaginary devil on the other telling him he deserved a half day off.

  Leaving the window open to allow in the fresh air and the noise from the street, a noise he found oddly soothing, he returned to his chair. Just as he was about to let the little devil win the argument, the buzz on his intercom went off. He stared at his phone with the little blinking light for several seconds in between buzzes. Finally, reluctantly, he picked up the receiver.

  “Marc,” he heard Sandy say, “there’s a woman on line one, a lawyer from Washington.”

  “Thanks, Sandy. I’ll get it,” he replied as he punched the button for the call. “Marc Kadella,” he said.

  “Mr. Kadella, my name is Sharon Marzell. I work for the Tax Division of the U.S. Justice Department,” he heard a frosty voice say. Great, he thought. One with an attitude. This could be interesting.

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Marzell,” he answered in a flat, professional tone.

  “I’ve just been assigned to handle this contempt motion of yours,” she said with obvious distaste. “Frankly, Mr. Kadella, no one here is amused by this so I thought I’d call and see what you are going to do to settle it.”

  “Excuse me,” Marc said feeling his neck muscles tighten and the warmth spread through his face. “What I’m going to do to settle it?”

  “Yes. Are you interested in settling this case or are you simply trying to embarrass the United States Government?” Marzell said, her attitude becoming even more hostile and condescending.

  Weeks of stress, tension and sleepless nights came boiling up in Marc and the last comment was the pin prick that released the pressure. “Am I willing to settle it?” he exploded. “Let me tell you something. I have done nothing but try to settle this thing for ten years! All I’ve gotten out of the U.S. Government, the IRS and the Justice Department is indifference, inefficiency and incompetence! And I gotta tell ya’, Ms. Marzell,” he continued bellowing into the phone as Sandy quietly closed his door, “I’m getting a little tired of it. Embarrass the United States Government? You people should be embarrassed. But I’ll tell ya’ something, no, I’m not trying to embarrass the Government. I’m trying to get you people to do your job, take Court Orders seriously and stop jerkin’ people around like this. And I’ll drag your asses into every court in this country if I have to to get you to do it!”

  “Um, ah, I’m, ah sorry, Mr. Kadella,” she meekly replied. “I didn’t mean ..., I guess, um, I didn’t know you were having problems. It’s just, well I was just handed this so, whatever happened before really isn’t my fault and ...”

  “And that’s another thing,” Marc let loose with another blast. “Every time I turn around I’ve got another government employee telling me ‘It’s not my fault. Sorry, I’m not to blame, I’m not responsible.’ Is that line of bullshit part of your training? Something you’re all taught your first day on the job? Well, I don’t give a shit anymore. It’s time somebody in Washington took responsibility and time for you people to decide what you’re going to do to settle this thing. Don’t lay it on me!”

  “Well, um, I’ll ah, certainly look into it right away and get back to you,” Marzell softly said, obviously wanting to end this phone call as quickly as possible.

  “Please do,” Marc replied, going from blistering anger to icy calm in the space of a heart beat. “I’d appreciate that. Goodbye,” he concluded, gently hanging up the phone without waiting for a response.

  SEVENTY

  Later that night, Jake Waschke parked his department issued sedan in the back of the strip mall and restaurant where he had met Marty Hobbs and where his irrevocable journey had begun. He went into the restaurant through the same back door and seated himself in the same booth facing the front to await the arrival of his late evening companion.

  Jake ordered a glass of beer and after the waitress delivered it, silently sipped at the glass while he waited. The strain of the trial was starting to show on Jake. His original belief th
at a witness and weapon would be enough for a conviction had begun to fade. Replaced by uncertainty and doubt. He kept reminding himself that an acquittal wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen. If this guy Fornich were to walk it wouldn’t be Jake’s fault. At least the killings have stopped, his brother was getting help and maybe the tugging he constantly felt at his conscience would cease. A pressure that he contained with the certainty that putting this scumball Fornich away was likely crime prevention. The guy had a history, Jake reminded himself, and sooner or later would attack another woman. ‘So, how come you’re not sleepin’ so well?’ Waschke silently thought to himself.

  He looked up at the sound of the door opening in the sparsely populated restaurant and saw the man he was waiting for come in. Jake slid over on the booth’s bench seat as far as he could while Eddie Davis dropped heavily onto the seat across from him. Jake ordered two more beers and they silently waited until the waitress had served them and left.

  “It’s gettin’ a little cool around here at night to be dressed like that isn’t it?” Jake asked, referring to the sleeveless black sweatshirt Eddie was wearing “Why don’t ya’ get a couple more tats? I think you’ve missed a spot or two,” Jake continued, referring to Eddie’s arms.

  “It’s street shit, man. Helps me blend in. Besides, I kinda like it. It’s artsy, ya’ know.”

  “So, where are we with this snitch? What’s his name, Wally…”

  “Bingham. Wally Bingham,” Eddie said. “Oh, Wally’s comin’ along just fine. In fact, I had a little chat with him today. At his request without his lawyer. He’s all set. No problem.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Oh yeah,” Eddie said as he rolled back his head and laughed. “We got all his assets frozen. Everything. A good bust and his ass is goin’ down. He can’t even make bail. Two hundred grand. Cash. No bond. We got the judge convinced Wally’s a flight risk.”

  “How about you? You okay with this?”

  “Look, Jake,” Eddie whispered as he leaned forward on the table. “There aint a cop in this town doesn’t owe you. Or, at least, respect you. If you say this guy Fornich is guilty, that’s good enough for me. I got no problem here. I’ll trade a grass dealer for a serial killer any day. You just tell me when you want him. No problem.”

  “All right Eddie. I appreciate that,” Jake replied as he took a drink of his beer.

  The trial picked up the next day with the testimony of Mildred Jackson and Marvin Henderson. Mildred testified about seeing what would turn out to be the last victim, Alice Darwin, being led into Powderhorn Park. She told the jury of her call to the police and the difficulty she was having dealing with her own guilt. How she couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe if she had acted a little more quickly or done something right away, Alice would still be alive.

  Marvin told the story of his late evening stroll along the walkway surrounding Lake Calhoun, an event he was no longer able to enjoy because of what happened that night. The night he interrupted the mad killer and discovered Donna Anderson. Marvin choked back tears as he relived the horror in vivid detail. Describing for the jury the sight of the naked, muddy, bloody corpse and how he had been unable to sleep through a single night since. Awakened every night, usually several times, by the image of the body and the eerie, cold laughter of the man who had ran from the bushes.

  Of course neither of these witnesses could identify Carl, or anyone else. They could add nothing to the real question before the jury. The sole purpose of their testimony, as far as Marc could tell, was to inflame the jury’s passions. Show the jurors, like the family members of the victims, that these murders touched people. Affected the lives of more than just the victims themselves. Marc’s cross exam of both witnesses was very brief and mild. Two or three soft and easy questions to point out to the jury that neither could identify Carl except in a very general way. Approximate height and weight that could be Carl but could also be any one of thousands of others.

  The rest of that day was taken up by the head of the police crime lab, Paul Jacobson. Slocum started slowly, showing Jacobson’s credentials and building his credibility in the minds of the jurors. Rather than gloss over the scarcity of physical evidence, Slocum met it head on. Laid it out in the open and have his expert now on the stand explain it away. There were three good reasons for him to do this: First, take away the defense’s thunder. Don’t give the defense attorney the opportunity to use this fact the way he wanted. Second, bring it out. There is no point denying that there wasn’t much physical evidence found to tie the defendant to the crimes. Let the jury know that in a way that your expert can rationally explain. Finally, give the jury an explanation for the lack of evidence.

  “Now then, Mr. Jacobson, would you say it’s unusual to not find hair samples, fibers, blood stains from crimes like these?”

  “Unusual?” Jacobson began his answer. “I suppose you could call it that. But it’s not surprising to me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “We searched his apartment and car and analyzed all of the clothing and items found. None of the victims, as far as we know, were ever in his apartment or his car. So, it’s hardly surprising there were no samples from any of the victims found there. And, if the clothing that was worn by whoever committed these crimes was not kept there, he wouldn’t have brought any samples home. Any hair, blood or fibers.”

  “What about the car?”

  “Same answer. If he didn’t use the car immediately after the crimes, if he got rid of the clothes he was wearing and washed himself off before getting in the car, again, no samples.”

  “Objection, speculation,” Marc said as he rose from his seat.

  “Overruled,” Prentiss said. “This witness is an expert and I’ll allow some rational explanation here.”

  “Mr. Jacobson, the knife, the murder weapon, was found in the defendant’s apartment with traces of blood on it. Were the sink pipes in the apartment examined?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Anything found?”

  “No, they were completely clean.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Not really. The pipes were pretty new. Completely clean of any residue at all. No hair, blood or even soap scum. Hot water would’ve easily rinsed anything away.”

  After asking for and receiving permission to approach the witness, Slocum picked up the clothing found in the locker and held them up in front of the witness.

  “Now then, Mr. Jacobson, I’m showing you the clothing found in the locker, opened by the key the defendant had in his possession when arrested. Do you recognize these items?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Were these items analyzed?”

  “Certainly.”

  “What, if anything, did you find?”

  “Well,” he began, “we found no blood or hair or other samples on the clothes. But, we did find the clothes and the bag had been thoroughly washed in a very strong industrial strength detergent. In fact, they had been recently washed several times. At least three or four times.”

  “How do you know that?” Slocum asked while he slowly turned and stepped toward the jury box while holding up the clothes.

  “Because there was substantial evidence, chemical residue, from the detergent. It was layered on the clothes. Especially the blue jeans. A simple rinsing from a normal wash cycle will not remove all of the chemical compounds from the clothes. Not a detergent this strong.”

  “Would a detergent as strong as the one used on these clothes,” Slocum said as he draped the jeans and windbreaker on the jury box rail and placed the tennis shoes on it as well, “remove blood stains?”

  “Objection, ...” Marc said as he began to rise.

  “Overruled,” Prentiss ordered before Marc could finish.

  “Absolutely. In fact, quite easily with just one washing,” the witness answered.

  “Were the clothes washers in the defendant’s apartment building analyzed?”

  “Yes, both of them.”
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  “Did you find any evidence of the detergent used to wash these clothes in either washer?”

  “No, none at all.”

  “Did you find evidence of other detergents?”

  “Sure. Quite a bit. There’s always some residue. The machine itself will not completely rinse away the detergent. There’s always some left over. Especially under the lid.”

  “What, if anything did that tell you?”

  “Objection, specula ...”

  “Overruled, Mr. Kadella,” Prentiss said barely containing his obvious annoyance.

  “The clothes were not washed at his apartment.”

  “Do you know where they were washed?”

  “There are a lot of laundromats in this city. No, we never did find it, but we can’t possibly check them all.”

  Slocum turned, faced the jury and stood silently, expressionless, and looked over each one of the jurors. He took a minute and Looked into the eyes of each of them to satisfy himself that they all got the point. The point, of course, being that the reason there was so little physical evidence was because Carl Fornich was a very clever man. Smart enough to know to keep the clothes thoroughly cleaned and away from his apartment and car. Smart enough to hide the evidence.

  Slocum slowly, carefully, picked up the clothes, walked back to the evidence table and put them back in place. He returned to his seat, faced Prentiss and said, “I have no further questions, your Honor.”