Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  After Robert’s heart had given out from the pain, the intruders had turned their attention to Kit. Griffin’s throat tightened at the thought of the terror the young woman must have endured.

  No one knew why the home invaders had eventually left. Katherine, discovered a few hours later by a friend, was in shock. She had been hospitalized for weeks afterward.

  A break came in the case a few days after the incident, one of the animals caught trying to pawn Robert’s Rolex wristwatch. Houston’s finest had swept in and made an arrest.

  The man with the stolen timepiece claimed he had won the posh trinket in a poker game. The cops didn’t believe him, and neither did the grand jury.

  That’s when things had started falling apart. DNA found at the crime scene didn’t match the suspect, who refused to give up his cohorts. Throughout the investigation, the accused man insisted he was innocent.

  Griffin had read the trial’s transcripts, and from the marshal’s perspective, the DA on the case had run out of steam. All the while, Katherine sat in the courtroom, carefully noting every detail. She returned day after day, very seldom showing any emotion during the proceedings. After all, the men who had breached her home had worn masks. She couldn’t identify or disqualify any suspect based on what she had seen, and she couldn’t remember enough of the ordeal to help the prosecution in any other way.

  The jury deliberated for days, the image of the young widow haunting them in their pursuit of justice. In the end, the holes in the DA’s case left them with reasonable doubt. They couldn’t vote to convict, and a hung jury returned to the court. The perpetrator was set free, the prosecutor’s office deciding not to retry. To this day, the case remained open with one interesting footnote. The accused was caught robbing a liquor store a year later and was killed in a shootout with the police. A butane torch was found in the trunk of his car.

  “That’s when you changed,” Griffin nodded, scanning the photographs and mementos a second time. “That’s when you resigned from the law firm and applied to the FBI. Innocence lost. Your dreams destroyed by brutal pieces of shit disguised as men.”

  The FBI, however, wasn’t her answer.

  Kit had joined the organization to save the world, one crime at a time. During the investigation of Robert’s death, she had longed for a law enforcement advocate. Someone motivated only by “truth, justice, and the American way….” Someone who got out of bed every morning driven by an undeniable

  need to imprison the playground bullies and support law-abiding citizens. Someone like that would have made a difference in her life.

  She once told Marshall Storm that she soon discovered the federal agency was far more politicized than she had ever expected. “Partitions have fallen; the bureau’s independence has been lost. The Washington elite now have considerable influence where they should have none. The world’s greatest investigational organization has been compromised by partisan politics, and I can’t stomach it,” she had explained. “The judiciary is the only branch of government that hasn’t been corrupted by special interests and big money. Yeah, we have our problems, but they are isolated and the exception to the rule here. That’s why I left the bureau. That’s why I wanted a change.”

  His mood brightened when she strolled through the office door a moment later, his reaction amplified by the welcoming smile that spread across her face.

  Sensing that the marshal was there for more than a social visit, she offered, “Let’s hit my favorite sandwich shop. I’m starved.”

  They left the government building in silence, the two-block walk passing without a word being exchanged. Both seemed preoccupied.

  After ordering a tuna salad with extra pickles, Griff joined the federal prosecutor at the table.

  “I just had the weirdest encounter, Counselor,” Griffin began before taking a bite of his lunch.

  The marshal continued the story, describing Ms. Peterson’s reaction and manner in exacting detail.

  Carson shrugged, “You said she was working on the schedule and assignments, right?”

  “Yes.”

  The attorney waved a dismissive hand over the table, “That explains it. How federal judges are assigned to cases is top secret. Very confidential information. They do that to keep clever lawyers and prosecutors from judge shopping.”

  Griffin had heard the term numerous times before, always dismissing the topic as sour grapes or paranoia by those who lost important decisions. “I thought case assignment was purely random? What’s the big deal?”

  Grunting, Carson’s tone switched to that of the professor educating a naive student. “Random is an interesting, if not misleading word. For example, some federal courts admit that the chief justice can override random assignments in order to allot a specific judge a ‘related’ case. This is often done in the name of efficiency. Then there are the scheduling variables, such as a court’s workload, vacation requests, a jurist’s health, and a variety of other factors that can figure into it.”

  “So, it’s not really random?”

  “No. Case assignment has been an ongoing hot topic in the legal community for years. Quite a few universities, including Harvard, have completed numerous studies and produced volumes of statistics showing trends that pose serious questions about the accuracy of ‘randomized’ judge selection. It’s entertaining at times, the judicial branch’s own little anthill of conspiracy.”

  “Why doesn’t someone just publish what the rules of the process are and kill the conspiracy theory dead in its tracks?” Griffin inquired, his brows knotted in confusion.

  Chuckling at her friend’s commonsense, black and white reasoning, Carson responded, “And what would be the fun in that? Lawyers need something to gossip and complain about, too. Besides, eliminating the excuse of an unfavorable court would cut off one of the legal profession’s favorite scapegoats. If an ambulance-chaser doesn’t have a hostile judge to complain about, that means any failure points straight at the attorney. The legal eagles couldn’t have that, could they?”

  Lawyer bashing was one of Griffin’s favorite pastimes, but today he wasn’t in the mood. Sharon’s reaction still troubled him, and he wanted to stay in that lane. “So, you think people actually get away with judge shopping?”

  “In some cases, yes. Each jurisdiction, district, and region has its own secret way of assigning judges. There is no common standard at all. Over the last decade, a few have publicly stated that they use computer software. The vast majority, however, won’t disclose their exact method or tools.”

  “And why doesn’t Congress, or the Supreme Court, or somebody do something about it? Sounds like a big hole in our legal structure if you ask me.”

  Carson shrugged, “For the most part, the system works. Sure, there have been a few examples where clever people have taken advantage. One of my favorites involved hiring one of the judge’s relatives as co-counsel if the trial wasn’t going well. The judge would have to recuse herself, and the trial would have to start anew.”

  “People actually have done that?”

  Nodding, Carson said, “Yes, they have. And it worked for a while until the rule makers caught on and plugged the loophole. And sometimes the judges seemed to take advantage of the system, too. A New York district recently had to change its rules after the American Bar Association called them out for assigning judges based on ‘related cases.’ Their jurists were becoming specialists and developing a clear bias.”

  “Wow,” Griffin said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I had no idea. Hell, I’ve worked in and around the federal court system since coming out of the Marines and didn’t have a clue.”

  “Now you know why Ms. Peterson was so nervous. You walked in right as she was about to expose their super-secret, ultra-sensitive ritual. I’m surprised she didn’t call in the National Guard and have you removed from the building.”

  “I’m surprised they don’t sacrifice a goat first.”

  “How do you know th
ey don’t? Did you search the room? Was there an altar?” Carson asked, struggling to maintain a straight face.

  “Funny,” Griffin scoffed. “Very funny.”

  Chapter 5

  Griff knew something was terribly wrong with Kit the moment he laid eyes on the prosecutor.

  He had been just about to enter the courthouse when that unmistakable, yellow Jeep roared into the basement garage. Surprised, and a bit concerned by her early arrival, he decided to wait for his friend and share an elevator. Not only was she an hour ahead of schedule, the lady was obviously pressing the limits of the 4-wheel drive vehicle’s suspension.

  Watching her trudge across the parking area, he noted that her normally, perfectly coiffed hair was loosely tied back from her face, her shoulders slumped and her head down. “What the hell,” he grumbled.

  Without a smile or a hello, she wasted no time before dropping the bad-news bomb. “The appeal failed. They’re releasing the prisoners even as we speak.”

  “Shit!” Griff barked, “How in the hell….”

  “Luck of the draw, I suppose,” she responded. “Somehow the case landed in the lap of the most liberal appeals judge in the Fifth Circuit. She ruled that we must release the detainees immediately. My entire department is up in arms.”

  His first thought was of the odd encounter with Ms. Peterson yesterday. Kit read his mind and instantly tried to steer him down a different path, “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t go there. There wasn’t enough time for anyone to mess with the system. Besides, the Fifth Circuit is in Dallas. A completely independent organization. There’s no way somebody managed to do any judge shopping.”

  He started to disagree, but then paused as a group of police officers strolled within earshot, that group followed by two clerks smiling and issuing their ‘good mornings.’

  Seeing that the garage with thick with law enforcement types and federal employees arriving for the workday, Griff motioned toward the street. “Let’s go someplace where we can talk. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  She started to decline, but then changed her mind. “Okay. I’m so mad I’m about to spit nails. Maybe I shouldn’t go into the office just yet. I might request the death penalty for the next jaywalker.”

  They sauntered toward Kansas Avenue and then took a left. The Java Hut was located just two blocks away, and while the caffeine joint was typically frequented by their coworkers, there were usually private tables in the back.

  As expected, a line of badges and briefcases, waiting for a bagel and cup of steaming brew, greeted the duo. They took their place at the back of the queue, Griffin and Kit both nodding at several familiar faces while they waited their turn to order.

  Kit opted for a skinny mocha, deciding that the chocolate’s impact on her brain chemistry might be a worthwhile indulgence. Griff ordered his usual, a butt-kicking dark roast.

  Just as he had expected, the seating area was unoccupied. Nodding toward a secluded table, they each took a test sip before uttering a word.

  “So, you’re convinced that this was just another random occurrence?” the marshal opened.

  Before Kit could reply, their table was darkened by a shadow. Peering up, they noticed a rather large framed man in the green uniform of the border patrol, his rank a Deputy Chief.

  “Are you Assistant US Attorney Carson?” he growled, staring hard at Kit.

  “I am. Who might you be, Chief?” Kit replied, her voice polite.

  “My name is Aldridge; I’m the sector supervisor of the US Border Patrol. I saw you walk in,” he replied.

  “And what could I do for you, Chief?”

  “I just wanted to get a closer look at the person who is responsible for our having to release over 300 criminals today,” he retorted, the man’s baritone voice sounding above the café’s hubbub.

  “I’m not the one who issued the order. You need to express any objections to Judge Kendall,” Kit answered with a cool tone.

  “Of course, if you do threaten a federal judge, I’ll have to pay you a visit, sir. And you don’t want that,” Griff added, laying his marshal’s badge on the table.

  Aldridge was a clearly pissed mountain of muscle and flesh. Leaning down to be face to face with Griff, he hissed, “Save your bullshit, Marshal Storm. If you hadn’t fucked up executing that warrant, Kendall wouldn’t have even been involved in this affair. You’re as much to blame as this… this… woman.”

  “Be very careful, Deputy Chief. Your tone is beginning to annoy me, and I haven’t had my coffee yet,” Griffin answered.

  “I’ve got an entire district up in arms over this development. We had good men and women putting their asses on the line to bring in those felons, and now, thanks to you two and your incompetent superiors, they are going to be loose on the streets again. This episode has crippled our morale. I have officers who are asking why they should even bother. Why should they jeopardize their lives? Why risk detaining the lawbreakers when the DOJ is just going to issue get-out-of-jail free cards?”

  “You know damn well that neither the marshal nor I set anybody free,” Kit pushed back. “We have a system of law and order in this country, and that means judges don’t always do what you and I would like. If I were in your shoes, Chief, I’d be spending my time educating my people on why our judicial process is the best mankind has ever created and not waste my energy berating my fellow law enforcement professionals.”

  Now Aldridge was turning red, his significant mass rolling onto the balls of his feet. “Don’t sit there and preach to me, Prosecutor. I don’t need some desk jockey telling me how to manage my department.”

  “Chill,” Griff offered, the muscle-bound officer’s posture now threatening. “We’re all on the same team here.”

  “You’re not part of my team,” Aldridge barked. Then, using two fingers, he poked Griff in the chest for emphasis, “My team puts criminals behind bars. We enforce the law. We protect our country. All you and your kind are doing is kissing the feet of liberal politicians, so you can get promoted to a higher pay grade.”

  “You touch me again, and I’ll break your fucking arm,” Griff whispered, standing so quickly that his chair tipped backward with a thud. “Now get the hell away from us before I lose my temper.”

  A smirk crossed the chief’s face; then he shrugged and pretended to turn away. Halfway through the maneuver, his hips spun with surprising speed for such a big man, his grapefruit-sized fist soaring toward Griffin’s face.

  But the marshal wasn’t there.

  Finding nothing but empty air, Aldridge’s haymaker pulled the big man’s weight forward, his feet forced to take a half-step just to remain upright. By the time he retrieved his over-extended arm, Griffin was behind him.

  Griff’s arms shot out, each hand grabbing one of the behemoth’s shoulders from behind. He pulled back and down with significant force.

  Despite outweighing the marshal by over 100 pounds, Aldridge hit the ground like a felled oak. As he passed, Griffin reached in with both hands, securing a grip on the captain’s left wrist.

  Two quick leg movements had Griff stepping over the downed officer while maintaining his grasp. Now straddling his foe, the marshal twisted and pulled on Aldridge’s extended limb.

  A howl of pain roared from the prone man’s throat as his shoulder popped like a party balloon.

  Before the echo of the chief’s wail had faded from the coffee shop’s walls, the marshal was calmly sitting back at the table.

  Aldridge tried to rise, collapsing in a heap with a groan, his left arm unable to support his weight. He tried again a moment later, this time trusting his opposite limb as he struggled to stand.

  Just as he was about to achieve an upright position, Marshal Storm’s foot shot out from under the table and pushed against the chief’s ankle. His support suddenly missing, the large officer again flopped ungracefully back to the floor.

  “Are we done, Aldridge?” Griffin asked with
a quiet voice. “Because if we’re not, I’m going to finish sipping my coffee and then put my heart into beating your big ass to a pulp. If our disagreement is over, then I’ll be glad to help you up. Your call.”

  “You broke my arm!” Aldridge complained.

  “No, I didn’t. I dislocated your shoulder. Now, if you’re nice… if you apologize to the lady and display a little professionalism, I might even put it back into the socket for you. If not, I’m going to keep knocking you down until I’m done with my java, and then I’m going to get mean. Real mean. How’s it going to be?”

  Again, Aldridge tried to stand, this time moving his feet away from Griffin’s reach. Faster than before, the marshal reached with his hand and knocked the captain’s good arm out from under him.

  The border patrol officer landed on his bad shoulder, sucking in a chest full of air as a bolt of agony ripped through his torso. “Damn you!”

  It took all of Kit’s willpower to keep from laughing, despite her concerns about the legal ramifications of two federal officers duking it out.

  Either from the agony or embarrassment, Aldridge adjusted his attitude. “Okay,” he exhaled. “We’re done.”

  Setting down his cup, Griff rose and then bent to help the chief to his feet. For a second, Kit thought the jolly green giant was going to take another swing at her friend, but he didn’t.

  “Do you want me to fix your arm?” Griff asked.

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself,” Griffin shrugged.

  Holding his clipped wing close to his side, the chief pivoted to leave and then paused. Turning back to look at Kit and Griffin, he warned, “I wouldn’t be taking any trips down along the border.”

  “Are you threatening us?” Kit snapped.

  “Not at all, Prosecutor. I’m merely demonstrating my professionalism by letting you know that there are a ton of agents out there who are losing faith in the system. They feel like the moral fiber of the United States is in decay. It’s impossible to predict how they will react in the future.”