Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  They flagged down a cab, and ten minutes later they entered a nicely appointed java joint with a definite bohemian flare. Griffin said, “Let’s play a game. It’s called ‘pick the lawyer out of the crowd.’”

  “Already done,” Kit grinned. “He’s right over there,” she proclaimed, pointing to a young man who was now waving at them to join his table.

  “That’s cheating!” Griffin laughed.

  “All is fair in war and law,” she grinned back.

  “I thought that was love and war?”

  “Love doesn’t exist, Griffin. It’s a chemical reaction in the brain. Only war and the law are real. You of all people should know that.”

  He started to respond but then hesitated. For some reason, her statement was sad, a reflection of how hollow the beautiful woman beside him must feel. Now, however, wasn’t the time. He wondered if there ever would be the right moment to broach the subject of her past.

  After they were seated with steaming cups of joe, Kit pulled Mr. Terret’s picture from her purse. “Is this the man you represent?”

  The lawyer nodded, then asked, “What’s this all about? A federal prosecutor and a US marshal? From Texas?”

  “We believe your client is an accessory to capital murder in the Lone Star State,” Kit stated coldly.

  The public defender whistled and then guessed the rest. “And you can’t find him.”

  “That’s correct,” Griffin replied. “We were wondering if you could produce this man, or at least help us locate him.”

  Shaking his head, the local lawyer admitted, “No, I have no idea where to locate him. I’ve not heard from him since his arraignment. You know, I kind of figured he would skip.”

  “I saw that he was released OR,” Kit said. “How on earth did you manage that?”

  “I didn’t,” replied the legal-eagle. “We had a judge who typically handles domestic stuff, not criminal. She let him go without as much as a single word from me.”

  “Wow,” Kit exhaled. “How lucky can this guy be?”

  Griffin continued the questioning, “So he didn’t give you any hints or clues about where he was from or where he lived?

  Shaking his head, the public defender responded, “He told me he was from Indiana, but he was lying. I would put his accent more like Kansas or Nebraska. He also said he was looking at enrolling at Purdue, but I didn’t believe that either. After doing this for 10 years, I’ve kind of gotten pretty good at telling when my clients are spewing crap.”

  “And you didn’t press him?” Griffin scolded, obviously unhappy with where the interview was going.

  “No, why would I? It was a minor charge, and it was probably going to get thrown out anyway. By the time I got over my shock at the judge letting him go, the guard was already taking him back to the cell. I haven’t heard from him again.”

  “And you said the judge’s name was Adams?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Okay, thank you, sir. We appreciate your helping us out. If you hear from Mr. Terret again, please notify my office immediately,” Kit announced, laying down a five-dollar bill for the coffee and handing her card to the public defender.

  Just like that, Griffin and Kit were out the door, leaving the bewildered lawyer in their wake.

  They ambled to a small, corner park and took a seat on a bench there.

  “A dead end,” Griffin grumbled, his voice revealing his dejection. “A complete waste of time. Sorry, I should have kept my mouth shut about taking this little expedition to Indiana.”

  Trying to form a reassuring smile, Kit shook her head, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It wasn’t a wasted effort. We confirmed just how wide and deep this problem has spread. I have no regrets. Besides, what were we going to do back in El Paso? Sit around and binge on reality TV? Wait for irate Border Patrol agents to ambush us? No thank you!”

  “So, what now? Our flight home isn’t until tomorrow morning. We have got several hours to kill before we turn in at the local safe house tonight, and then we’ll take a cab to the Indy airport around 9 a.m.”

  “Safehouse?”

  Griffin nodded, “You forget, the US Marshals Service manages the witness protection program. We keep a few safe houses in most major cities to stash witnesses during trials or processing. I checked before we left El Paso, and there is a vacancy at the inn.”

  “Oh, good. I was dreading having to sleep in a booth at an all-night cafe.”

  “Such is the life of those on the dodge. After this excursion, I’m wondering how in the hell outlaws manage to get anything done without a credit card or showing their ID.”

  With her eyes glazing over for a moment, Kit’s mind began to whirl. Griffin could almost hear the cranial machinery between her ears.

  “What if,” she began, then paused, shaking her head. “No, it’s a bad idea.”

  “No, go on,” he insisted. “We’re at a dead end right now. I got nothing.”

  “What if our credit cards, cell phones, and emails suddenly started showing up in Indianapolis? Rather than hiding, what if we advertised we’re here?”

  Rubbing his chin, Griffin considered the idea. “Go loud and proud? Flash the neon? Are you thinking it might shake something loose? Lure the black hats into making a mistake?”

  Nodding vigorously, she continued, “Yes, basically, I want to see if we can force them to commit an error. We both went dark in El Paso, and if I were monitoring our movements, I would wonder how in the hell we made it to Indy without showing up on the radar. If these people are as smart as I think they are, they might reach the conclusion that we’re onto them and panic… make a blunder.”

  “Hmmm, might work. Worst case is that we could catch a commercial flight back home, and that wouldn’t bother me at all.”

  Removing her powered-down cell phone from her purse, Kit made a display of unwrapping the tin foil while laughing to make sure he understood it was a joke. Griffin wasn’t entirely sure, and worse yet, he didn’t blame her.

  “You good?” she asked, finger hovering over the power button.

  “Let’s do it. Hello, world! We’re here!”

  Pressing the button, she waited while her cell figured out exactly where it was. It was anti-climactic when the blue screen appeared, along with an extensive list of emails and text messages.

  Peering around, Griffin whispered, “Well, a dozen hit men didn’t emerge instantly from the bushes.” He then scanned the blue, later afternoon sky. “And I don’t see any rogue black helicopters coming for us. What now?”

  Fishing out her wallet, she produced a credit card. “Let’s go get something good to eat.”

  They found a pub that advertised the best Ribeye in the Midwest and were seated quickly due to arriving before the normal dinner rush. Griffin desperately wanted a beer, or three, but ordered ice tea instead.

  As they ascertained their new surroundings, the marshal began wondering why he hadn’t ordered a cold one. Why do I care if she sees me having a brew? he thought. It’s not like we’re dating or some shit, and even if we were….

  Interrupting his thoughts, she rose to visit the powder room. “Be back in a sec,” she stated before wandering toward the back of the tavern.

  It then occurred to Griffin that he did care what Kit thought about him, and that in of itself was a mystery. Why? he considered. Other than working on a few cases together and being friends?

  Why had they bonded?

  It was an unlikely scenario. He was the all-American male, into sports, heavy drinking, combat, tanks, bacon, and things masculine. He knew dozens of guys just like him in the service. Hell, he ate lunch with them practically every day. Yet, it was Kit whom he respected more than any of his muscular, manly coworkers. Why?

  “She could ask herself that same question,” he whispered, taking a sip of his tea. “What would a super-bright, classy lady like that want with a ‘bull in the china shop’ friend who believes he walked
the earth dozens of times before?”

  Catching an image of himself in the bar’s mirror, he concluded that he wasn’t a bad looking guy. “Average, I suppose,” he chided. Still, he was so far out of Kit’s league, it wasn’t even funny. He had never considered himself worthy of anything beyond a platonic, professional relationship.

  For sure, neither of them was wealthy. While Kit probably made twice his salary, that hardly put the woman in the top one percent.

  Suddenly, it dawned on him. They were both damaged goods. That was the connective tissue. That was why they felt comfortable with each other.

  The justification for Kit’s issues was well documented. While the marshal had never broached the reincarnation subject with her, she had to have guessed that he had dirty laundry. He was assigned to West Texas. He had only reached the rank of an inspector. Clearly not a man on the fast track of career advancement.

  Other than that, did she know about his problems? There were no entries on his personnel files, at least as far as he knew. “She must have sensed it,” he decided, now more impressed with her than ever. “She must be some kind of borderline mystic or one damned perceptive woman.”

  She returned just then, her expression making it clear that she had been thinking again. “Why don’t we go visit the judge that set our man free without requiring bail?”

  “I thought about that, but most judges don’t appreciate cops and prosecutors asking them to justify their decisions.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to go over the line with her, just make sure she knows that we’re investigating a wide range of potential issues. If she is working with the black hats, they’ll get the word.”

  Griffin wasn’t convinced, “Are we investigating a wide range of potential issues? I mean officially? Detective Royce and the El Paso PD have jurisdiction on the protest day shootings. While he asked for your help in identifying a person of interest, they are still the lead sled dogs. The FBI is chasing down the men who tried to kill yours truly. To the best of my knowledge, Agent Sands hasn’t asked for our assistance. So, which investigation are we working on? And what exactly do you want to find out from Judge Adams?”

  Kit had to consider that issue for a moment, his logic difficult to fault. With a shrug of her shoulders, she admitted, “I don’t know for sure… I was going to play it by ear. I’m dying to know how she could let him go without bail. I’m curious about what transpired to transfer her from civil to criminal court – what was the catalyst that assigned her to Mr. Terret’s case?”

  Shaking his head, Griffin challenged, “I’ve never met a judge who appreciated explaining his or her reasoning for any decision. If you go in there all high and mighty, she’s going to start making phone calls, and there’s no telling how well connected the woman might be. As far as the… what did you call it? Judge shopping? As far as that goes, I would think a visit to the local clerk might prove more revealing, and it would be far less of a risk to our careers.”

  Before Kit could respond, their steaks arrived. Griffin, after deeply inhaling his rib eye’s aroma, suddenly realized just how hungry he was. In a flash, his knife was carving through the thick beef.

  Consuming her pasta dish in silence, Kit reflected on her friend’s suggestion. He, as usual, was right.

  With Griffin’s attention focused on his steak and dripping-with-butter potato, she took a moment to study him in the pub’s dim light.

  Why am I so comfortable with this man? she questioned. What is it about him that allows me to relax so completely? Why do I feel such a deep calm when he’s around?

  She had heard various rumors about Marshal Storm, some of the stories dating back to her days with the FBI. He was known as a hard drinker, one of biggest boys of law enforcement’s boy’s club. She had also listened to tales of a dark side.

  One rumor had it that he’d seen horrific action in Iraq and had been mentally scarred. She had read the official divorce filings, as well as his personnel files from both the Marine Corps and the US Marshals Service. While technically both were as pure as fresh snow, Kit had been around long enough to detect issues between the glowing reviews.

  El Paso wasn’t exactly the most prestigious assignment for any member of the DOJ. Washington, New York, Seattle, and Miami were where the attention-grabbing, promotion-earning headlines were generated. Griff’s seniority and record should have earned him any assignment he wanted. Why was he still in West Texas? What did his superiors know that wasn’t in the man’s file?

  After all, why would a freshly promoted, well-regarded captain leave the Marine Corps? That rarely happened so quickly after earning a higher rank. The timing of his return from combat, his promotion, and subsequent divorce all pointed toward a man with some serious emotional baggage. Yet, she had seen nothing but professionalism from Marshal Griffin Storm.

  I trust him, she realized. He doesn’t objectify me. He treats me as an equal, yet he respects my differences as a woman.

  Griff was one of the few males in her daily life who hadn’t made a pass at her, even when she had baited him to do it. He didn’t flirt, stare at her ass, or engage in immature sexual innuendo. It was as if the marshal recognized her intellect, education, and reasoning abilities as superior to his own, and was just fine with it. Most of the alpha types in their lines of work were too competitive to acknowledge any inferiority, real or imagined.

  There was something more, however. An aspect she couldn’t quite identify. An elusive factor in his character that made their friendship gel.

  Glancing at his watch, Griffin interrupted her thoughts, “If we’re going to make it to the clerk’s office before they close, we had better hurry.”

  Using Kit’s Uber account and on-file credit card, she ordered them a ride, which was to be waiting in front of the pub in 10 minutes. She paid the bill using her plastic, flashing Griffin a sly look and adding, “Now you owe me a lunch, Mister.”

  As they slid into the private car, Griffin whispered, “If this doesn’t set off their alarm bells, nothing will.”

  “They are in Indianapolis?” Sebastian hissed, doing a double-take at the bank of computer monitors. “How in the hell did they manage to….”

  For a moment, he contemplated contacting the members of the Komitet, but then forced himself to settle down and reconsider. Employees of the United States government had numerous travel options that might have been overlooked by his network of data collectors. However, the fact that the prosecutor’s phone suddenly went live in the middle of the day, in a city almost 2,000 kilometers away from where she should have been, was alarming.

  After reflecting for a few moments, he decided it could all be explained away. Still, it wasn’t Sebastian’s habit to take chances. His fingers flew across the keyboard, the pace of his typing showing more purpose and emotion than usual. “I need to fix this, once and for all.”

  Just as quickly as his anger had flashed, calm, cold reasoning returned. His campaign of leaks against the president was going well, the Washington Post just dropping another bombshell that was sure to cause at least one international incident.

  Moving on, he checked on a protest in Miami, verified the progress of a firearms appeal case facing the Ninth Circuit, and initiated the planting of a story about the governor of Colorado’s son having an addiction problem.

  Still, he couldn’t shake the nagging thought that the two feds in Indianapolis were a problem. “Nip it in the bud,” he whispered, his focus returning to the marshal and prosecutor. “Distract them. Toss them a red herring. Send them off on a false trail. Arrange an accident.”

  The bikers in El Paso had failed, either from ineptitude on their part or luck being on the marshal’s side. “I wonder if the Texas lawman can get lucky twice? Still, I have even bigger fish to fry.”

  Deciding to address Storm and Carson later, Sebastian’s fingers attacked the keyboard, a cloudburst of strokes and commands setting several digital wheels in motion. After 40 minutes of intens
e activity, he finally leaned back and pronounced, “This is a masterpiece… some of my best work yet.”

  The Reverend Samuel Jefferson Moore accepted Mrs. Harcourt’s tray of snacks with a broad smile. He motioned the widow to join the other ladies at the far end of Beulah Missionary Baptist Church’s basement. “Nothing like starting the day with a little exercise,” the man of God said.

  Deep down inside, the pastor hated Jazzercize Day, but he wasn’t about to let a single member of his congregation in on that little secret. That was between him and the Lord.

  To begin with, it wasn’t safe for the ladies to travel, even after he’d rescheduled the weekly gathering to an afternoon event. In the 31 years he’d been guiding the flock at this house of worship, the surrounding neighborhood had gone from dirt poor to downright dangerous.

  Drugs, combined with young men who had no hope or faith, led to gangs. On the south side of Chicago, that equated to guns, violence, and murder. It didn’t matter that Mrs. Harcourt was 74 years old, had blue hair, and made the worst oatmeal cookies in Cook County. If she was walking in the wrong place at the wrong time….

  Secondly, Pastor Moore had better things to do. He was trying to organize his community to fight the violence while at the same time trying to protect the local youth from the Chicago Police Department. Rather than the devil and the deep blue sea, the reverend was pinned between a community that believed no one cared and cops who felt like they were under attack from all directions.

  Law enforcement on his side of the Windy City, in so many ways, had exasperated the problem. Rather than trying to work with, or integrate into, the community, they had adopted a policy of zero tolerance, domineering interaction, and excessive force. Headlines sensationalized a myriad of questionable shootings, borderline legal arrests, and a Machiavellian atmosphere of distrust.

  On some days, the reverend didn’t know who was worse, the gangs or the police.

  Just last week, a grand jury had acquitted yet another CPD officer of wrongdoing. In this latest case, an unarmed 16-year-old boy had been gunned down while walking home from a school event. The police had claimed that the kid was breaking into cars and had reached for his waistline after being stopped for questioning. Three white patrolmen had shot him 14 times.