“I guess so, okay,” Conrad said.
Tony leaned over the bed to unlock the cuffs and as he did so said, “My name is Tony Carvelli. I’m a P.I. and retired Minneapolis cop.”
“Okay, sure, now I remember,” Conrad said as he sat up in the bed. “Who’s the broad? You two are in a lot of trouble for this,” he continued as he rubbed his wrists.
“Who she is, Conrad, is none of your business. She’s a friend of mine doing me a favor.”
“She a hooker?”
“No, Conrad. As far as us being in trouble, no we aren’t. I just want to talk to you. Tell me what I need and you go home with an extra tax-free grand in your pocket. Besides, what will you do, go to the cops? Tell cops who know you that you got suckered into coming here and getting locked to a bed by a woman? I don’t think so.”
“What do you want?” he sullenly asked.
“I want to know what you’ve been doing at the big house you visited last night out in East Oaks.”
“How do you know about that? Why didn’t you just call me? You didn’t have to pull this bullshit.”
“I needed it to be a surprise because I know how you are at surveillance and bugs and cameras. This needs to be just between you and me.”
“I ain’t telling you shit. I can’t and you know it.”
“Okay, Conrad. I figure you have the whole place wired for sound and cameras. What I want to know is: Who is Leo blackmailing, especially a certain judge?”
“I can’t tell you that. I’d be dead in a week.”
“Not if Leo doesn’t find out, which is why this is just the two of us. Now, I want to know all of it and I know you have diagrams of the whole place. I’ll want those, too. Either that or I make a call to cop friends and they bring in the Fibbies and your ass is gone, now.”
The two men sat silently staring at each. Tony could almost see the wheels turning in Conrad’s head as he thought over his options, which were very few.
Finally, with a resigned look on his face, he said, “Okay, but you gotta promise to keep me out of it. If Leo Balkus finds out, well you know what he’ll do to me.”
With that Tony removed a small recorder from a coat pocket, placed it on the bed, turned it on and said, “Let’s hear it. All of it. What is going on in that house and who is involved?”
For the next hour, while Tony recorded every word, Conrad Hilton told Tony everything he knew about Leo’s political blackmail operation.
“Okay, Conrad, I want names and I want to know how to get access to Leo’s computer so I can get everything he has.”
“No chance, Leo would have my balls…”
“It’s too late for you to get reluctant now. You either totally cooperate with me or Leo gets a copy of this tape.”
“You sonofabitch! You said you’d protect me and now you’re gonna …”
“Shut your mouth! You signed on to this when you went to work for Leo. Don’t whine now. In fact, at this point, with what I have sooner or later the cops will be in this and your ass is nailed anyway. Your only hope is to help me nail this guy.”
Conrad pouted for another minute or so then, realizing the futility of his situation and the fact he had no cards to play right now, reluctantly said, “Yeah, okay. But I don’t have the names and stuff memorized. I have them at home and I’ll get them for you tomorrow.”
“Don’t jerk me around, Conrad. I will call you tomorrow and you’d better be ready to deliver.”
“I will, I will, I swear. You’re right. Listen, I been thinking about this and trying to figure a way out from under Leo’s thumb and …”
“This is your chance. Don’t screw it up.”
THIRTY-ONE
Marc swiveled his desk chair around so he could face the window directly behind his desk. He raised the window to let in some fresh morning air. The four-story Reardon Building on Lake and Charles had been built back in the twenties and it was one of the few buildings that still allowed the windows to open and let in fresh air. Having been closed all weekend, the entire office was a bit stuffy and could use some airing out. The weather promised to be a perfect sunny, low-humidity, early summer, gorgeous Minnesota day.
Marc picked up his cup of coffee and sat silently staring at the morning traffic moving slowly through the intersection. It was eight A.M. and he had been in the office for over an hour. He was finishing up the discovery request from the Minnesota Attorney General’s office for the lawsuit brought against the small business client of Chris Grafton. Marc wanted to call the deputy handling the case but since it wasn’t nine o’clock yet he would not be in the office. Marc had left a message for him the previous Friday, but since it was after four P.M. when he called, the call had not been returned.
“See anything interesting?” he heard Grafton say behind him.
“Should be a nice day,” Marc answered spinning his chair back around. “Probably a great day to play golf if I didn’t suck at it so much. Did you see this?” he continued as he held up several pages of papers for Grafton to look at.
“I don’t know,” Grafton answered as he took the proffered document and settled into one of the client chairs. “What is it?”
“It’s a letter Stan Engel sent to the deputy A.G. along with the documents to prove that the people who are complaining, the ones that got the Minnesota Attorney General to act as their lawyer for free, are lying.”
“Oh, yeah. I have seen this,” Grafton replied.
“Stan mailed it to this dipshit bureaucrat weeks ago and he hasn’t even replied to the letter.”
“Well, you know how overworked they are, which is why you can’t get a hold of them before nine or after four. Every once in a while they actually have to work more than a forty-hour week.”
The two men chatted for a while about the case, their weekends and the banal things people talk about in the office. Grafton returned to his office and Marc picked up a client’s divorce case file and began working on it.
At 9:15, Marc called the deputy A.G. and left another message. About an hour and a half later the man called back. Marc introduced himself to Matt Sheldon, the attorney handling the case for the A.G. and let him know who it was that Marc represented then he got right to the point.
“I’m putting together your discovery requests, which, we’re probably going to fight about since you’re clearly on a fishing expedition and requesting information that is grossly outside the scope of this lawsuit,” Marc began. “I’ll have them for you by the end of the week.”
“The discovery is already late and we don’t think we are fishing, as you call it.”
“Have you seen the letter my client sent to you dated April 23 and the documents he attached to it?” Marc asked ignoring the man’s response.
“I’m sure I have but I don’t specifically recall what it was about.”
“It’s the letter and documentary evidence that proves the people who you represent, the one’s bringing this complaint, are lying.”
“Oh yeah, I remember it. The one in which your client claims my complainants are lying. We don’t believe they are. There have been a number of complaints about your client and we feel we need to stop them.”
“Have you done anything to investigate whether or not the people you represent are being honest?”
“No, our office does not believe we have any obligation to do that. It’s not up to us to prove these people are telling the truth. It’s up to you to prove they aren’t. Apparently, you believe you have a case. Fine, bring it.”
Marc was dumbstruck listening to this lawyer from the attorney general’s office explain their policy toward the truth. He sat silently staring at his phone for almost a full minute trying to think of something to say to this level of indifference the state’s highest law enforcement office had to their ethical obligations.
“Are you still there?” the arrogant young man asked.
“Yeah, I am. Let me see if I understand you. You’re telling me the Minnesota Attorney General’s of
fice has no obligation to make sure the witnesses they will use in a lawsuit are telling the truth. And when provided with documents that prove they are in fact lying, you have no obligation to investigate any of this. Is that correct?”
“We don’t believe they are lying and it’s not up to us to prove they are telling the truth. It is presumed they are.”
Marc contemplated for a minute whether or not to warn him what would happen to him if he put a single witness on the stand that lied. Instead, he decided to keep quiet about that and use it at trial if it came to that.
“Can I ask you a question?” Marc said and without waiting for a reply, continued by asking, “How long have you practiced law?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m just curious. You sound kind of young is all.”
“That’s irrelevant. We have a mediation session scheduled.”
“I know, I got the notice,” Marc replied.
“Unless you have something else, we’ll see you then,” he icily said and hung up before Marc could respond.
Marc looked up to find Chris Grafton leaning against the frame of Marc’s office door, his arms folded across his chest and a slight smile on his face.
“Arrogant little shit, isn’t he?” Grafton asked.
“Have you talked to him?” Marc asked.
“Once. Cocky little asshole. Acts like he’s a hotshot because he scored a job with the A.G.”
“Let me tell you something. He’s running a very real risk of getting disbarred if he’s not careful. Did you know the A.G.’s office has no obligation to make sure their witnesses are not going to lie on a witness stand even if they are given documentary evidence that they are lying? If we go to trial and I am able to show that just one of his witnesses is lying and that we warned the A.G.’s office they were lying, the judge’s head will explode and this arrogant little asshole will have to explain to mommy and daddy that the hundred grand they spent educating this idiot was all for nothing.”
“What do you mean, if you go to trial? Why wouldn’t you?” Grafton asked.
“You tell me. Do Stan and Jim Engel have seventy plus thousand dollars to spend on fees and costs fighting this? Can they afford that?”
“No, they can’t.”
“And that’s the shame of it. I’ve already used up the retainer they gave me and by the time we get through the mediation session, they’ll owe me another five or six grand easy. And even if we win, they don’t get their money back. Pretty unlikely the judge would award attorney fees against the state for this. What we have here is the heavy hand of the government coming down on people just because they can.”
“And the A.G.’s office doesn’t care,” Grafton added, “because they don’t have to go to a client for fees. The taxpayers get stuck with the bill and they’ll never find out how much money gets spent on her crusade to treat everybody as a child that needs her protection.”
“Exactly. We’ll probably agree to a settlement at the mediation session just because it is a lot cheaper than fighting them, and they know it. Even if we pressed them all the way to the courthouse door and get a better settlement just before trial than we will now, it will still cost our clients a lot more money.”
Just before lunch Sandy informed him that Butch Koll’s lawyer, Chuck McReady, the one handling Butch’s appeal, was on the phone. He took the call and talked to Chuck for a few minutes to get an update on Butch’s case. As predicted Prentiss had turned down his request to withdraw his guilty plea and go to trial so Chuck could now file the appeal and get it out of the hands of Gordon Prentiss. Also, Butch had been transferred to the state prison in Michigan City, Indiana to protect him from Leo.
THIRTY-TWO
Catherine Prentiss parked her car at the back of the lot of her therapist’s office, the same spot she normally used even though the lot was less than half-full. Had she thought about it she would have realized she was selecting the same parking spot for the comfort and sense of security this simple act brought to her. It gave her a moment of peace and serenity from the emotional wreckage that had become her life.
Catherine had called the doctor’s office the minute Gordon left for work in the hope of getting in to see him that day. Luckily the doctor’s 11:00 A.M. patient had canceled and Catherine gladly accepted the opening in the psychiatrist’s schedule. The next thing she did was call her best friend, Ava Hammond, and make a lunch date with her.
Catherine paced slowly back and forth alongside her car, smoking one of the four cigarettes she allowed herself each day. The smoking was an indulgence she found herself enjoying more frequently of late. She had to smile at herself while thinking of the time and effort she had taken to prepare for the doctor’s appointment. She had spent over a half-hour putting on her make-up and almost that long to fix her hair. At the time, she found herself wondering why she was going to so much trouble, but now she realized she was trying to impress Dr. Chase. What made her smile was the fact that he wasn’t the least bit attractive to her yet she still needed to know that men found her appealing, even one she wouldn’t look at twice.
Catherine inhaled a long deep drag from the cigarette and as she slowly exhaled, noticed a bright red male cardinal watching her from the maple tree in front of her car.
“Don’t crap on my car, you little shit,” she said out loud to the bird then laughed at herself for chastising it as he flew off. She looked at her watch, took one last drag on the cigarette before crushing it underfoot and hurried toward the building.
“Was this appointment scheduled?” the doctor asked as he closed the office door while Catherine sat down in one of the patient chairs. “I don’t remember you being on my schedule for today,” he continued as he took his seat and reached down to turn on the recorder sitting on the coffee table between them.
“It wasn’t,” Catherine replied. “I called this morning and you had a cancellation.”
“Okay. What’s wrong? Why did you feel the need to see me? Did something happen?”
Chase sat back and waited for her to respond. Catherine was sitting straight up in her chair, breathing shallowly and squeezing her hands together, a sure sign of her stress and anxiety.
The therapist waited almost a full minute like this then said, “Catherine, you need to get it out.”
“I know,” she replied. “I’m just trying to think of the best way to start. It was, well, a very bad weekend and…”
“Okay, that’s a start. Now tell me about it,” he said urging her to continue.
And tell him about it, she did.
For fifteen minutes, she spoke almost without interruption, pausing only to catch her breath and gather her thoughts. She even told him about the physical abuse, the assault with the bath towel. When she finished, she sat back and allowed an obvious look of relief to come over her demeanor.
“It’s time you went to the police,” Chase said.
“I know,” she answered. “But who will they believe? And I think he is going to kill me. Or, drive me to suicide.”
“Has he threatened your life?”
“No, not really.”
“Have you had suicidal thoughts?”
“No,” she lied. “I mean, maybe a little. But never serious.” She paused then continued by saying, “You know why I would never do that? Because of my son and daughter. Whenever I get that down, that depressed, I see their faces and I know I could never do that to them.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I love them too much to cause that level of pain.”
“Good, hang on to that. Are you still taking your meds? We can increase the dosage if you think it will help.”
“Yes, I’m taking them and I don’t want to increase it,” She replied.
“What about…?” he began to ask but stopped when she interrupted him.
“I lied a minute ago when you asked if he’d ever threatened to kill me.”
“All right, what happened?” he gently asked as he sat
up straight.
“He did threaten me Saturday night. And it’s not the first time,” she quietly told him.
“How many times and when?”
“Not that many,” she answered almost defensively. “Maybe three or four over the past year. I don’t believe he’d actually do it. Or at least I didn’t until Saturday.”
“Why was this time different?”
“Because he wasn’t angry when he said it. In fact, he was quite calm.”
“What exactly did he say?’
“Well, um, after he, ah, got through hitting me with the towel, he very calmly said, and I want to be sure I get it right, he said, ‘One of these times you’re going to disobey me and I’ll kill you and be done with it.’ I’m pretty sure that’s an exact quote. I never brought up his threats before because I never really believed him, but now I’m not so sure.”
“You have to go to the police and…”
“And what?” she interrupted. “Tell them a respected judge is an abuser? He knows everything and everyone in the system. He’ll never answer for it. I have no proof and he knows it. And,” she hesitantly continued, “there’s something else.”
“Okay, what?” he quietly asked urging her to go on.
“It seems, or so he says and I believe him, he’s kept a journal, a record of all of my problems. Every therapy session I’ve ever had, every doctor I’ve ever seen, including you, and all of my medication over the years. Everything. And he’s threatened to use it to have me institutionalized unless I do what he says. He’s holding it over my head.”
“I see. Well,” Chase said, “I actually don’t think you have much to worry about. I would certainly testify…”
“You don’t know him! The lawyers and judges he knows! With his money he could do it,” Catherine practically screamed.
“Catherine, relax. I’ll help you through this.”
Desperate Justice Page 14
