Desperate Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “I don’t think anything,” he said. “One of my sources in the police department filled me in on what they know. It looks like it might have been a professional murder. He answered his door and someone shot him twice in the forehead with a small caliber handgun,” he said as he continued to closely watch her reaction.

  Vivian sat back in her chair and stared past him at the lake, not speaking for more than a full minute, clearly reflecting on this news.

  “Do you think his death might be related to our inquiries?” she asked breaking the silence.

  “At this point, I have no idea,” he answered.

  “If it is, then we need to stop, immediately. I won’t have more people killed because of this despicable business. Robert’s death is not worth…”

  “Don’t go there,” Tony stopped her by interrupting. “You have no idea what brought this on. Besides, I have no doubt that Leo Balkus is ultimately responsible for what happened to your nephew,” he told her becoming convinced of her sincerity. “If you want me to stop, that’s your call. But do it for the right reason and this guy’s death isn’t it. Also, what if we find out Leo had him killed? Or Ike Pitts? They need to pay for that.”

  Vivian thought it over for a moment then said, “Yes, I see that. You’re right, of course.” Looking directly into his eyes, she continued by saying “Continue with your investigation and keep me informed. I have to go in now,” she said standing up. “Let me walk you out.”

  As the two of them strolled up the pathway toward the mansion, she casually put her arm through his which caused an interesting tingle to run through Tony. They walked along like this in silence until they were almost to the now empty pool.

  Vivian stopped, removed her arm, looked up at him and said, “Would you be willing to do me a personal favor?”

  “Depends on what it is.”

  “Well, this is a little awkward, but I was wondering if you would escort me to an event tomorrow night. A fundraiser for the Republican candidate for the U.S. Senate.”

  “Are you kidding?” he said with a big smile. “I’d be delighted. Oh, one thing, do I need to wear a tux?”

  “No, no. A suit will be fine. The one you wore to our first meeting will do. You looked quite handsome in it,” she smiled back.

  “Okay,” he said as they continued around the pool toward the house. “Do I pick you up in my Camaro or how do you want to do this?”

  “Oh, wonderful!” she laughed. “Yes, by all means, let’s take your sports car. I haven’t been in one in years and I must confess, I really like the looks of yours. Pick me up around 8:00,” she said.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The parking attendant opened the driver’s side door for Marc while a second young man did the same for Margaret. As he stepped from the car, Margaret’s three-year-old Mercedes, he handed the keys to the attendant then walked around the front of the car while straightening his Hermes tie, a gift from Margaret, and smoothing his Italian wool suit.

  Margaret patiently waited for him in front of the hotel to escort her into the fundraiser. As Marc approached her, he was struck again by how great she looked. She was wearing black Gucci’s with four-inch spikes, a black gown and matching shawl with gold trim. Her hair had cost two hundred dollars to be styled just for the evening. She reached up and straightened the knot in his tie, slipped her arm through his and the two of them began to walk toward the front entrance of the Leamington Hotel. They were there to attend the two-thousand dollar a plate fundraiser for the Republican candidate for the U.S. Senate in the upcoming election. Margaret had been given two tickets by a friend who could not be there. Although neither one of them would normally spend that kind of money on a political donation, they decided it might make for an interesting evening to hang out with well-to-do, politically motivated people. It wouldn’t hurt Margaret either since she would be up for re-election in a few years. The odds were good she would run unopposed, but she could never be too careful.

  The event was being covered by all of the local media outlets, both print and TV. One of the TV reporters, a very attractive thirty-something blonde woman recognized Marc and rushed up to him, microphone extended and her cameraman trailing closely behind.

  “Hello, Marc,” Claudia Renfro said into her mic as the cameraman began to film.

  “Hi, Claudia. What’s up?” he asked as he and Margaret stopped to talk to the reporter.

  “Are you a supporter of Ms. Dorn?” she asked then held the camera. At that moment several other reporters joined them with cameras blazing and mics extended.

  “Are you guys that desperate for a story you’re going to interview me? Look,” he continued, while staring at one of the other female reporters, “we got a couple of free tickets. That’s it. No big deal. Nice to see you again, Claudia,” he finished as Margaret tugged his arm to get him moving.

  As they continued toward the hotel’s entrance, Margaret jabbed a finger into his ribs and said, “I saw you looking at that pretty girl from Channel 8. The one we saw on TV the other night at…”

  “That’s where I saw her,” Marc said. “I knew I recognized her from somewhere. The one you said was goddamn gorgeous,” he said smiling at her.

  “She is. The camera doesn’t do her justice,” Margaret said. “Why would they cover something like this? What a waste of time.”

  “So they can put it on the air and in the papers that the Republicans raised a truckload of money from millionaire and billionaire fat cats. They do it so that their liberal Senator, that despicable, foul-mouthed Alan Maslin will look like a champion of the little guy. They’ll somehow forget to mention that he’s getting his money from millionaire and billionaire fat cat limousine liberals in New York and Hollywood.”

  “Are you saying the media is biased?” she said feigning indignation.

  “No, actually, they’re not biased. At least they no longer bother trying to hide it.”

  As they passed through the lobby of the newly refurbished art-deco style hotel, Marc looked around and noted with relief that the men were dressed about half and half; half wearing tuxedos and half in normal business suits. He was also smugly pleased and proud to have Margaret on his arm. Most of the men were either with women past their prime or trophy wives who made the men look slightly ridiculous.

  They gave the security guard their invitations then entered the half full hotel convention room and slowly began to stroll around the crowd. There was a bar and a large buffet up against the far wall, a speaker’s platform to the left of the entryway and tables set up for the five hundred attendees.

  As they made their way through the crowd, Marc was unable to locate anyone he knew. Margaret on the other hand having been married to a successful, local investment banker, had been to a number of these events and seemed to know most of the people in the room. Despite the fact she had been appointed to the bench a few years earlier by a Democrat, she apparently knew plenty of people on the Republican side of the aisle as well.

  While Margaret caught up with a couple that she had known for many years that Marc had met before, Marc went to the bar to get them a drink. He tried to act as if being in this crowd was a natural routine for him. Nodding politely to people who caught his eye and even making a little small talk with an older gentleman while standing in line at the bar.

  After a few minutes he returned with their drinks, scotch and soda for him and a flute of luke-warm champagne for her.

  “Are you okay?” she asked him.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he quietly replied. “I’m just not real outgoing in situations like this. But don’t worry about it, I’m good.”

  Just then, a slight but unmistakable murmur went through the crowd, almost like a warm breeze passing through a wheat field. It started by the doors and quickly swept through the crowd causing all heads to turn toward the source. Marc and Margaret both turned toward the entryway doors as Vivian Corwin Donahue entered the room, escorted by a man whose head was turned to the side.

  “Who
is she?” Margaret asked her friend.

  “The Queen of the Corwin Clan,” her friend’s husband responded. “Vivian Donahue. Her nephew was recently murdered. Robert Corwin. You probably heard about it.”

  “Oh, sure, we did…” Margaret started to say but was cut off by Marc.

  “Oh, my God,” Marc slowly said staring across the room, a stunned look on his face. “You have got to be shitting me.”

  “Watch your language,” Margaret whispered while poking his ribs with her elbow. “What’s wrong?” she continued as she turned her head to see what he was staring at. “Is that who I think it is with Vivian Donahue? That man looks like your friend, Tony.”

  “It is Tony,” Marc answered in disbelief. “This should be good. I can’t wait to hear this story. What the hell is Carvelli doing with her?”

  The moment she saw Vivian, the guest of honor herself the Republican candidate Monica Dorn, rushed toward Vivian. The crowd parted like the Red Sea to allow her through and they greeted each other with genuine warmth and a sincere hug. Dorn whispered in Vivian’s ear and began leading her toward the front of the large ballroom.

  With Vivian’s left hand casually holding his right arm, Carvelli followed Dorn and led Vivian toward a table with a reserved sign on it located directly in front of the speaker’s platform. As they made their way through the crowd, Vivian smiled and nodded at the people she recognized, which was most of those in attendance. Tony and she were closely followed by Vivian’s granddaughter, Adrienne and her date, Geoff Pond, a long-time friend and accommodating escort for her whenever she needed one.

  Marc and Margaret, their mouths slightly agape, watched this most unlikely of couples make their way through the crowd. Tony held the chair for Vivian as she sat down at the front row, middle table. He leaned over and she told him what she wanted from the bar. As Carvelli made his way to the bar area, half the people there watched him and wondered who he was.

  “I have got to find out what this is all about,” Marc said to Margaret. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Oh no you don’t!” she replied. “I’m going with you. I want to hear this myself,” she said as she took his hand while the two of them began weaving their way through the crowd. A minute later they sidled up behind Carvelli, who was standing in line at the bar.

  “Interesting date you have there, Tony,” Marc whispered in his ear.

  A startled Carvelli abruptly turned around, and when he saw who had spoken to him, said with a big grin, “Hey counselor, I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. I guess they’ll let anyone sneak in.”

  “Ahem!” Margaret said with a feigned, indignant expression. “I beg your pardon,” she icily replied.

  “Oops,” Tony said. “Sorry, your Honor. I should’ve known you’d be his ticket in here. You look gorgeous, Judge.”

  “Now that will get you out of trouble in my court every time,” she said as she put her arms around Tony’s neck for a friendly hug.

  “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” he replied while giving her a slight squeeze.

  “Okay, Chicago wise guy,” Marc said, “how do you know Vivian Donahue?”

  Before Tony could respond the light went on in Marc’s head and he quietly answered his own question. “Oh, I get it. She’s your client. You’re looking into the Corwin murder for her. I should’ve known when you took me to lunch.”

  “Why are you…?” Margaret began to ask.

  “Shhh,” Carvelli quietly whispered holding an index finger to his lips. “I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourselves.”

  By this time, they were at the bar and Carvelli ordered drinks for them as well as himself and Vivian. While waiting for the bartender he quietly said, “She needed an escort tonight, she asked, so I said okay. That’s all there is to it. Besides, she’s a nice lady. I like her. Would you like to meet her?”

  “Absolutely,” Margaret quickly said.

  “You, she’ll definitely like,” Carvelli said looking at Margaret. “You,” he continued turning his head to Marc, “I’m not so sure about.”

  As the three of them made their way toward the table, Carvelli said to both of them, “Don’t say anything to her about you representing Butch Koll. I’m not sure how she would take that.”

  After introductions were made, Vivian insisted that Marc and Margaret join them at their table. As they were taking the last two seats at the table for six, Vivian surprised all three of them by looking at Marc and saying, “Mr. Kadella, how did you become associated with Bruce Dolan?”

  Marc, looking mildly shocked, could only stare at her with a surprised expression. At the same time Margaret actually moved her chair an inch or two away from him as if he had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  “Well, um, ma’am…” he began to stammer.

  “Yes, Mr. Kadella,” she said with a smile and a twinkle in her eye as she looked at him across the table, “I do know who you are. Adrienne,” she said to her granddaughter, “Mr. Kadella is the lawyer who represented that Koll fellow, one of the men responsible for Robert’s death.”

  “Really…” the young woman frostily said turning her attention to Marc.

  “Well, you see, Mrs. Donahue,” Marc tried to explain as Margaret leaned a little farther away from him, “I’m not associated with Bruce Dolan at all,” he said looking at Carvelli for a little help.

  “You’re on your own, counselor,” Tony said with a smile, clearly enjoying his friend’s discomfort.

  “In fact, I had never worked with him before. And if my presence makes you uncomfortable, perhaps…”

  “Not at all,” Vivian smiled. “From what I understand you did a really good job for your client, as you should. I was just having a little sport with you.”

  “It was good, wasn’t it Grandma?” Adrienne said with a hearty laugh. “It was fun to make a lawyer squirm for a change.”

  While they all laughed at Marc’s discomfort, he played along by admitting, “Don’t kid yourself, I’ve had a lot of judges make me squirm.”

  “Why, Margaret,” Vivian said, “you must tell me what your secret is for making men squirm.”

  “Withholding sex will do it every time,” the judge answered as Marc was taking a drink and almost choked on it while the two women laughed at his embarrassment.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Gordon Prentiss pulled his Lincoln sedan into the line waiting for valet parking at the hotel. His was the fourth car in line and while waiting their turn, he reached across the car’s console and clamped his hand on Catherine’s knee. She grabbed his wrist to remove his hand but this caused him to squeeze harder on the soft spot directly above her kneecap.

  “Gordon, please,” she begged. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Yes, I know,” he snarled. “This is just to remind you that when we get in there you will conduct yourself the way you’re instructed. I will tolerate no more childish games from you. Am I being clear?”

  “Yes,” she whispered as he released his grip on her leg. “You made yourself quite clear before we left,” she added as she turned her head away from him to stare out the passenger window.

  Earlier that evening, after he had finished tying his black tuxedo bow-tie, he entered Catherine’s bedroom to find her seated at her vanity, dressed in a light robe, calmly sipping her third vodka tonic. She had not even begun to put on any makeup let alone fix her hair or start to dress. He stood in her doorway glaring at her, the anger clearly showing on his face and in his eyes. There was a time when this posture alone would be enough to get her moving, but the alcohol was dulling her senses and giving her courage.

  “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said.

  “I’m not going, Gordon. I don’t want to go and you obviously have no need of me. I don’t know why you would even want me to go,” she said with more conviction than she felt.

  He did not say a word in response. Instead, Prentiss walked into her bathroom and returned with a bath towel.
As he calmly walked across the heavily carpeted floor he slowly twisted the towel, winding it into a padded terry cloth rope.

  As soon as she saw him enter her bathroom, Catherine rose from her chair and began to back away from him toward the far corner of the room. While he walked toward her, she held her arms out in front of her body for protection, her drink clutched in her right hand. As he twirled the towel, she said, “No, Gordon. Please don’t. I’ll get ready… I promise, please don’t…” she repeated.

  He folded the towel in half and holding both ends in his right hand took two quick steps toward her and swung the weapon at her drink. The glass went flying and shattered against the wall and as it did so, the beating began.

  After striking the glass, he hit her with the back swing in her midsection which knocked the wind out of her and buckled her knees. For the next minute, he calmly, slowly, methodically, whipped her with the towel as she lay curled on the floor trying to breathe and defend herself as best she could.

  Finally, after a dozen or so lashes with his bath towel whip, he reached down with his free hand grabbed her by the hair, pulled her head up and quietly said, “You have twenty minutes to get ready and I had better be pleased with how you look.”

  He stood up, turned and as he walked toward the bedroom door, tossed the towel into the bathroom and pushed down on the erection clearly showing in his pants.

  Exactly twenty minutes later, Catherine descended down the front stairway where Gordon was waiting for her.

  “You look fine, my dear,” he said as they walked toward the front door. “Now, let’s have a pleasant evening.”

  They entered the ballroom and found their way to one of the tables being used by members of his old law firm. They said their hellos then Prentiss went to the bar to get drinks for them, a cocktail for him and a glass of fruit punch for her.

  “I see your favorite judge is here,” Margaret said to Marc.