Media Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  It had been eight months since the crime was committed. Fall and winter had come and gone and a lot had happened during that time. The murder of a member of a well-known, respected, politically prominent family had generated a lot of publicity and media attention. Being a novice at dealing with the press, Marc could only hope he didn’t come across as too much of an inexperienced fool. For a solid hour after the case went to the jury, Marc, and the lead prosecutor, Rhea Watson, had both given multiple impromptu interviews here in the hallway. While replaying it in his mind, Marc appreciated the quiet and solitude even more.

  Marc began to go over the trial in his head. He knew it was a bad idea to do this. It would lead to second guessing himself and thinking of new things he should have done. But he couldn’t help himself.

  The first thing he mentally replayed was his cross examination of the medical examiner who had conducted the autopsy. During the man’s direct exam, he testified that there were microscopic cotton fibers found in the victim’s mouth and nose. These fibers, he testified, were an exact match with the pillow found next to the body. A lab tech had previously testified that there were traces of lipstick that matched the lipstick worn by the deceased. Also, DNA analysis showed saliva from the same spot on the pillow as the lipstick. This allowed the ME to testify that, in his medical opinion, someone held that pillow over the face of the victim and was the proximate cause of the heart attack that killed her.

  Replaying the cross exam, Marc was satisfied he had done as good a job as anyone could trying to find reasonable doubt about the cause of death. He was able to get the doctor to admit the lipstick and saliva on the pillow could have happened simply by the deceased rolling on her side or putting her mouth on it while she slept. And, this could have caused the small cotton particles to enter her nose and mouth.

  The problem he had was the bruising on the jawline. There was simply no reasonable explanation for how that could have happened except by someone holding the pillow over her fragile face. Between that and the DNA evidence from the hair and skin found under the victim’s fingernails, a 99% match, Howie’s goose was cooked. Howie Traynor was going down for the murder of Lucille Benson, second degree felony murder. Marc believed he was not going to get first degree premeditated murder. Howie did not go up those stairs intending to kill anyone. According to the state’s star witness, Jimmy Oliver, they believed no one was home, so how could anyone have gone into that bedroom planning to kill someone who wasn’t supposed to be there? Clearly the prosecution had overcharged.

  Marc thought it over for another fifteen or twenty minutes then satisfied himself that he had done a good job. Not only that but, being honest with himself, he wasn’t the least bit upset that Howie was going to prison for a long time. The simple truth was even if Howie did not admit it, he was guilty as hell. And, like just about everyone else who came in contact with him, Howie Traynor scared the hell out of Marc.

  “Replaying the case? Second guessing yourself?” Marc heard the voice of his counterpart, Rhea Watson say to him. He had been so lost in thought he didn’t notice her walk up next to him.

  Marc looked up at her, smiled and said, “Hey, Rhea.”

  “Mind if I join you?” she asked.

  “No, not at all. Have a seat,” Marc replied as he picked up the briefcase he had set on the seat next to him and put it on the floor.

  “Yeah, I was thinking it over,” Marc agreed as the lawyer sat down, crossed her legs and pulled her skirt down to her knees.

  “Don’t,” she said. “You did a good job. Old Mickey would have been proud of you. He may have been a bit of a drunk and notorious womanizer, but he was a damn fine trial lawyer. I bet you learned a lot from him.”

  “Yeah, I did,” he agreed. “Learned a lot the hard way the past few days.”

  “That’s probably the best way. You beat us on the first degree charge. I think we got you on everything else. I’ll make you a new offer. He pleads to second degree, we recommend thirty years. Peterson will go along with it,” she said referring to the judge. “Otherwise, we’re going to ask for an upward departure on the homicide and consecutive sentencing on everything else. He’ll get forty for sure. This guy scares everybody, including the judge.”

  The thirty year offer was ten years more than the original offer they had made six months ago.

  “I’ll go across the street and tell him but don’t hold your breath,” Marc said as he stood and retrieved his briefcase.

  “Tell him it’s good for another hour only. I’ll be upstairs for a couple more hours. If he says okay, call me and we’ll see Peterson yet today.”

  “You think the jury will be back today?” Marc asked as the two of them walked toward the elevators.

  “Doubtful. They have way too much to go through with all of the charges on your guy.”

  “Please don’t call him my guy,” Marc protested as he pushed both the up and down buttons at the elevator bank. “I’ll call you one way or the other after I talk to him,” Marc said as he stepped onto the elevator that arrived to take him down stairs.

  “Will the defendant please rise,” Judge Ross Peterson intoned.

  Marc arose from his chair immediately but his client stood up as if this was little more than an annoyance.

  The jury had come back with a verdict before noon on the day after the trial concluded. It was now two hours later after allowing for lunch and to get all of the parties, including the media, together. In the back row, a serious looking man in a charcoal suit and stylish tie sat patiently waiting for the verdict to be read. He was the current head of the security for Vivian Corwin Donahue. He was to call her as soon as he had the news. Vivian was not a woman who liked to be kept waiting.

  The jury foreman, a man named Elliot Sanders, held up the paper with the verdicts written out. He cleared his throat and read the charges and the verdict for each.

  Marc had guessed correctly. The first one the foreman read was the murder one charge and the finding of not guilty. Every other charge, the felony murder second degree; assault on a police officer; resisting arrest; multiple breaking and entering and burglary charges were all guilty verdicts.

  While each was being read, Marc was thinking that with the not guilty of first degree murder, Traynor could not be sentenced to life without parole. Later that day, he would find himself wondering if that was a good or bad thing.

  When the foreman finished, Peterson ordered a presentence investigation report and set the date for sentencing thirty days out. He thanked and dismissed the jury and adjourned.

  Before Traynor could be led away, he turned to Marc and sarcastically snarled, “Nice job rookie. I won’t forget it.”

  On the day of his sentencing, Marc and his client stood silently and patiently while Judge Peterson went over the list of reasons he was sentencing Howie to forty years in prison. This was a significant upward departure than what the sentencing guidelines called for and the judge was obligated to make a record of his reasons for it. In the event of an appeal, which Marc was extremely grateful he would not have to handle, the appeals court would have to know why the longer than normal sentence was given.

  The judge finished, looked at Howie and asked, “Do you have anything to say?”

  Howie opened his mouth as if to say something causing Marc to cringe at the thought of what might come out, then Traynor simply said, about as politely as he was capable of, “No, I guess not, your Honor.”

  Marc got off the elevator on the second floor of the building. He had his cell phone in hand and before he had walked twenty feet, he could hear the phone he dialed already ringing.

  “Hey Karen, its Marc,” he said.

  “What did he get?”

  “Forty years total. It’s all yours now,” Marc told the lawyer with the Minnesota State Public Defenders office. They would be handling Howie’s appeal and Marc was delighted to wash his hands of it. “And good luck.”

  “Thanks,” she responded a touch sarcastically. “I’ll have
someone get started on it. Do you want us to keep you informed?”

  “Not really,” Marc replied. He had arrived at the elevators in the corner of the building to go down into the underground parking area. He pushed the button and said, “I’ve seen all of Howie Traynor I care to.”

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  TWENTY FOUR

  TWENTY FIVE

  TWENTY SIX

  TWENTY SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY ONE

  THIRTY TWO

  THIRTY THREE

  THIRTY FOUR

  THIRTY FIVE

  THIRTY SIX

  THIRTY SEVEN

  THIRTY EIGHT

  THIRTY NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY ONE

  FORTY TWO

  FORTY THREE

  FORTY FOUR

  FORTY FIVE

  Forty Six

  FORTY SEVEN

  FORTY EIGHT

  FORTY NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY ONE

  FIFTY TWO

  FIFTY THREE

  FIFTY FOUR

  FIFTY FIVE

  FIFTY SIX

  FIFTY SEVEN

  FIFTY EIGHT

  FIFTY NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  SIXTY-NINE

  SEVENTY

  SEVENTY-ONE