Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  It had taken Moore, as well as every other community leader, to calm things down. Outrage surged through the projects, calls for violence roaring from all quarters.

  Things had gotten especially tense when the Chicago police had announced that the dashcam of the closest cruiser hadn’t been functioning that fateful night. There was no video. It was the word of three veteran officers against a dead, black youth who wasn’t even old enough to vote.

  Fifteen minutes later, the music started, and class was underway. Relieved that all the usual participants had arrived safely, Reverend Samuel excused himself and retreated to his office. Running even a modest-sized, Baptist church demanded a lot more work than anyone realized.

  After paying the overdue water bill and balancing the wretchedly anemic checkbook, Moore fired up the barely functioning computer that had been donated second-hand. His first task was to check his email.

  He was greeted by the typical spam and junk, but one message caught his eye.

  The preview pane actually revealed the entirety of the succinct message. “The police dashcam was working. Here is the video.”

  He considered not opening the attachment, worried that it might be another of those annoying viruses or some sort of malware. He’d already fallen prey to such villainy last month, Mr. Roberson’s son recruited to repair the damage.

  Still, he couldn’t resist, clicking on the paperclip icon to see if the message were true.

  The old computer whirled, an hourglass spinning as it struggled to handle the video file. After nearly a minute, Moore found himself watching what was clearly a police car’s dashcam recording.

  The clip was only five minutes long. After studying it the first time, a single tear ran down his cheek. After the second viewing, he was angry. After the third, he was reaching for the phone.

  His first call was to a dear friend and deacon of the church, a man of good judgment and unquestionable character. Next, he contacted two other local men of the cloth, their facilities not far from his own. Finally, he dialed a friend who worked at the NAACP.

  By the time the class had completed, the small group of community leaders was gathered in Reverend Moore’s office.

  The email attachment demonstrated surprising audio and video capabilities and was remarkably clear despite having been filmed at night. There, in the police car’s headlights, a young man walked down the sidewalk alone.

  The cruiser pulled to the side and flipped on its blue and white lights. The teen stopped, turning to face the officers with a smile. His empty hands were at his side.

  “What are you doing out here, tonight?” the voice of authority demanded.

  “Going home after basketball practice, sir,” the kid replied.

  “We’ve had reports of someone breaking into vehicles along this road,” the cop countered. “Have you been cracking a few windows?”

  “No, sir, I’ve been at the game all night. I don’t break into cars.”

  Another cruiser arrived just then, two officers jumping out and rushing up as if an escaped felon had just been cornered. “Is this the guy we’re looking for?” one of the new arrivals could be heard asking.

  “Yeah, he just won’t admit it. I saw him running away from an SUV 20 minutes ago. Same kid.”

  “I was at the gym 20 minutes ago, sir. You can call my coach and ask him!” the teen complained, fear starting to grip his voice.

  They then ordered the boy to the police car and conducted a quick frisk… but found nothing. Obviously, the cops were disappointed to come up empty-handed.

  “He probably dumped the goods when he saw us coming,” one of the officers stated. Then turning to the now-frightened child, he said, “That’s okay. I’ve got a couple of hot cell phones in my trunk. We’ll put the pinch on this punk. Hell, I’m sure he’s done worse. Maybe not tonight, but for sure he’s been up to something.”

  The kid ran.

  He only made it two steps before one the policemen managed to catch his shirt. Knocked off balance, the youth fell to the ground right in front of the police car. When he rolled over, holding both hands above his head, the gunshots began tearing into his body.

  It was sickening, watching the terrified teen’s body jerk and bounce as the 9mm rounds tore through his flesh.

  Then, thankfully, the display ended.

  “That is murder, pure and simple,” hissed the reverend after watching the video in silence.

  “It is also conspiracy, obstruction of justice, and a whole list of other charges,” the NAACP representative declared. “They testified before a grand jury that there was no video evidence. It’s right there in the transcripts. The CPD said the camera was malfunctioning and did not record the incident.”

  “So, what do we do with this?” Moore asked. “We all know how this will go down. We all know the burning, and rioting, and suffering will torment our community for days. We all know it will be black businesses and black people that get hurt the most.”

  The deacon agreed. “Just like when Dr. King was murdered,” he whispered. “I was only a teenager, but I remember it well. They cordoned off the ghettos and let blacks hurt other blacks. They didn’t care what we did to ourselves, as long as we weren’t doing any damage to white folks.”

  “Times are different now,” chimed in the Methodist pastor. “We have more exposure. We’ve even had a black president. We should go to the media with this. I know someone down at Channel 3 News. I can call him.”

  The five men debated what to do for over an hour. In the end, they all looked to Reverend Moore. “It’s your video,” the deacon concluded. “It’s up to you.”

  For Moore, the injustice was what troubled him the most. Yet again, an innocent, young man had lost his life, executed by overzealous cops who were trying to escalate what should have been an uneventful encounter. All of the men in the preacher’s office had grown up in Chicago. It was easy for them to put themselves in the dead kid’s shoes.

  “It’s never going to stop,” Moore mumbled. “If we don’t seek justice… if we don’t demand justice, this will go on and on and on.”

  “How can you have justice when there’s no justice system? Everything failed that boy and his family… the police, the prosecutor, the courts. Why do you still have faith, Brother?”

  Shaking his head, Moore was determined. “Because I am a man of faith. What choice do I have? Call your friend at the TV station.”

  Arriving at the Indianapolis courthouse, the duo climbed several limestone steps and then entered the grand, old building. Griffin’s badge, as well as Kit’s federal identification, helped them bypass the metal detectors at the entrance, the friendly guards giving them directions to the correct office.

  It was a half hour before closing when they entered the clerk’s domain, a harassed-looking woman with red cat glasses and a matching necklace of oversized crimson beads greeting them at the counter. “Can I help you?” she spouted, throwing a glance at her watch as if to warn the visitors that it was almost time to go home and feed what Griffin guessed were at least a dozen felines.

  Her attitude changed instantly when both presented their federal IDs. “We’re investigating a capital murder case,” Kit explained with a business-like tone. She then went on to explain that the person of interest was recently arrested in the city on an assault charge.

  “That would be Judge Skyler’s domain,” the clerk nodded, now trying to be attentive.

  “Actually, it was Judge Adams that handled this specific case.”

  The woman frowned and then shook her head. “Judge Adams only does domestic cases, like divorces and adoptions, child abuse, that sort of thing.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Kit continued. “We’ve been told exactly what you just stated, but we are sure that Adams handled this specific case. We are curious why the unusual turn of events.”

  The woman moved to a nearby computer terminal and began hacking at the keyboard. After a few doze
n keystrokes, she motioned the two around the counter, so they could examine her display.

  “You’re right,” she acknowledged as Griffin and Kit approached. “This is the court’s schedule, and I see that Judge Margaret… err… Judge Adams was called in that night. That’s very odd, but if Skyler was ill, I could see it happening.”

  Griffin stepped closer to the screen, his eyes scanning the display with far more detail than Kit. She continued the interrogation, “Do you know Judge Adams well?”

  “Why yes, yes, I do,” the clerk blushed. Then lowering her voice so none of the other workers buzzing around could hear, she added, “She helped me get this job. She is a fine woman and a great judge.”

  Before the couple from Texas could ask another question, an elderly man standing nearby cleared his throat. Ms. Cat-glasses glanced up and inhaled sharply. “Oh, Judge Skyler, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you standing there. How can I help you?”

  Kit and Griffin exchanged a look as the newly arrived jurist explained, “I need the files for tonight’s session. I wanted to get an early start this evening.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Red-beads answered. “I have them right over here.”

  As the clerk moved off to retrieve a stack of manila folders, Kit stepped toward the judge and stuck out her hand, “Hello, Your Honor, my name is Katherine Carson, I am an Assistant US Attorney from El Paso.”

  Puzzlement tinted the judge’s face as he accepted Kit’s offered hand. “Hello, young lady. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

  “And allow me to introduce Marshal Griffin Storm, Your Honor. You see, you are actually part of the reason why we’re here,” Kit continued. “A person of interest in a case we’re investigating was scheduled to appear before you a few nights ago, but then another judge was assigned. We’re trying to find out why.”

  Skyler’s cheeks instantly flushed red with anger, his shoulders squaring off as if readying to fight. “I’ll be damned,” he hissed. “Twenty-three years on this bench, and I miss one, single day, and it’s a federal case. This is ridiculous! Preposterous!”

  Initially taken aback by the judge’s harsh reaction, Kit began shaking her head before her throat could form words. “No, sir, there’s no issue with you… none whatsoever. I’m afraid I formed my statement badly. We believe the man we’re after is involved in some very serious computer hacking, and we wanted to make sure that the city’s computer system hadn’t been breached.”

  It took the older jurist a moment to digest her words. When he finally processed what Kit was saying, his demeanor changed instantly. “I don’t know anything about hacking or computers. I had to stay home that night because my alarm system was going bonkers. The police came twice, then the fire department. The alarm was disturbing the neighbors and causing quite a ruckus. The repairmen couldn’t figure out what was going on and ended up having to disconnect the entire thing. Damn blue-hound gadgets, and toothless-whatevers. Anything hooked to the internet is flaky, if you ask me.”

  “When did the troubles with your alarm system begin, Judge?” Griffin stepped forward and asked.

  “About three hours before my night court was scheduled to begin,” the jurist explained. “By the time the alarm company disconnected their high-tech junk, it was too late to come in.”

  Miss Cat-eyes returned just then, the judge’s files in her hand. After a round of “Nice to have met you,” Skyler made his exit. Griffin signaled Kit that it was time for them to do the same.

  Outside, the marshal seemed anxious, but Kit was even more keyed up. “What do you want to bet Judge Skyler’s alarm system was compromised by our mad hackers?”

  “Can you do that to an alarm system? Even one hooked up to the internet?” Griffin questioned.

  “I don’t know, but I bet the cyber guys at the FBI would be able to fill us in.”

  “I saw something even more troubling in there, or at least I think it was important,” Griffin replied.

  “What?”

  “Do you remember our conversation about judge shopping a few days ago?”

  “Yes,” she replied, a hint of impatience creeping into her tone.

  “When I was in the room with Sharon Peterson, I noticed a computer display with a unique logo. The company was called Cyber Ace Scheduling Software, and I just saw their logo again on this clerk’s computer. Evidently, that firm peddles its product to a lot of different courts.”

  Frowning, Kit tried to tie the similarities together into a nice, neat package but was struggling. “Are you positive the company was the same?”

  “Yes,” Griffin nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “I’m still not sure how you’re connecting those dots.”

  “Kendall’s decision regarding the illegals detained in Texas caused a lot of trauma. We know that ruling was on the hacker’s radar because Mr. Terret was most-likely sent there to incite a riot. We both thought Kendall’s decision was weird at the time. Then I have Ms. Peterson acting like I was a three-headed monster from Mars when I found that open door. Now we have another odd judicial occurrence, the release of Mr. Terret without having to post bail, and there is Cyber Ace’s logo again.”

  “So, you think our computer whiz-hackers are judge shopping via this software, and somehow that’s connected to Mr. Terret’s amazing ability to escape justice?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She stopped walking, staring hard at Griffin for several seconds. Finally, “I think you’re onto something, Griff. I think we need to look more closely at Cyber Ace Software.”

  Kit pulled out her smartphone, her fingers hovering, ready to do a quick internet search right then and there. Griffin stopped her. “That’s not the best idea… this is different.”

  “Huh?”

  “I think we want surprise on our side this time. It’s okay to broadcast that we’re here in Indy, but anything involving Cyber Ace needs to be done anonymously. From where I’m standing, it’s okay to show a few of our cards, but literally… not the ace up our sleeve.”

  Scowling, she countered, “Wait a second. First, you want to go loud and proud, advertise we’re in Indy with the Goodyear Blimp and flashing neon lights. Now you want to head back underground? I don’t get it.”

  “Let’s get to the safehouse. I’ll explain it there,” he answered, now peering over his shoulder. “And can you please wrap that rascal again?”

  “What?” she snapped, not believing what the gentleman beside her had just said.

  “Turn it off, and wrap your cell phone in tin foil, please,” he whispered, shaking his head at her reaction. “I don’t want anyone knowing where we’re staying tonight.”

  They finally managed to hail a cab three blocks from the courthouse, the yellow taxis rare as the office buildings around them began to dislodge Indianapolis’ workforce.

  Griffin gave the driver an address that was two streets removed from the safehouse, just in case. Taxi companies had grown more sophisticated in recent years, and he didn’t want anyone knowing where their accommodations were located. Secrecy would give him the best chance of sleeping tonight.

  The driver executed a series of turns that, given Griffin’s limited knowledge of the Indiana capital, seemed correct.

  “I’m beat,” the marshal announced. “Let’s head to the inn and call it a night.”

  “I’m with you,” Kit nodded, obviously exhausted from the stress and travel. “But then again, what choice do I have?” she teased.

  Griffin had the hack drop them off a few blocks from the real address, a standard operating procedure that now seemed more critical than it had before recent events.

  After paying the cabbie, Griffin turned to Kit and checked, “Sure your cell phone is off?”

  Reaching into her handbag, she produced the device in question, demonstrating that it was completely wrapped in crumpled tin foil. “I found an old sandwich in the break room refrigerator. I confiscated the tin foil.”

  “Yummy,”
he grinned. “Let’s go.”

  The neighborhood was middle class, filled with rows of nicely kept bungalows constructed shortly after WWII. The cars parked along the street weren’t luxury models by any sense of the imagination, but they were well kept and mostly less than a few years old. It was typical, urban, mainstream, working America.

  In fact, the ambiance would have been very quaint were it not for the nagging sense that they were under surveillance. “Little pink houses,” Griffin chuckled, noticing his friend’s admiration at a tree swing in the front yard of the home they were passing.

  They approached a white clapboard, English tutor, a dim light burning somewhere in the interior. “Are you sure no one is home?” Kit asked.

  “It’s a light on a timer,” he explained. “Still, I’ll have a look around. Stay here and cover the front if you don’t mind.”

  It took Griffin only a few minutes to orbit the place, his trespass in the backyard causing a neighborhood hound to sound its barking protest. “All clear,” he reported. The marshal welcomed the dog-alarm’s presence.

  A digital combination lock secured the front door, a feature which Griffin declared was one of the century’s most ingenious inventions. “You don’t know how much hassle it was to keep track of the keys or where they were hidden,” he grunted.

  The haven smelled clean but somehow empty. “The marshals use a local maid service. We also tell the neighbors that it is a corporate property for out of town executives to use while visiting the Indy branch. That way, no one is suspicious of the revolving door occupants.”

  After taking a quick tour of the three small bedrooms and one and a half baths, Kit announced that she was hungry again. “You should eat more meat and potatoes,” Griff kidded. “That rabbit food you consume isn’t fit for an active, on-the-go lifestyle.”

  “But rabbits reproduce a lot,” she teased. “They are getting all that energy from somewhere.”