Certain Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “I’ll go across the street and tell him but don’t hold your breath,” Marc said as he stood and retrieved his briefcase.

  “Tell him it’s good for another hour only. I’ll be upstairs for a couple more hours. If he says okay, call me and we’ll see Peterson yet today.”

  “You think the jury will be back today?” Marc asked as the two of them walked toward the elevators.

  “Doubtful. They have way too much to go through with all of the charges on your guy.”

  “Please don’t call him my guy,” Marc protested as he pushed both the up and down buttons at the elevator bank. “I’ll call you one way or the other after I talk to him,” Marc said as he stepped onto the elevator that arrived to take him downstairs.

  “Will the defendant please rise,” Judge Ross Peterson intoned.

  Marc arose from his chair immediately but his client stood up as if this was little more than an annoyance.

  The jury had come back with a verdict before noon on the day after the trial concluded. It was now two hours later after allowing for lunch and to get all of the parties, including the media, together. In the back row, a serious looking man in a charcoal suit and stylish tie sat patiently waiting for the verdict to be read. He was the current head of the security for Vivian Corwin Donahue. He was to call her as soon as he had the news. Vivian was not a woman who liked to be kept waiting.

  The jury foreman, a man named Elliot Sanders, held up the paper with the verdicts written out. He cleared his throat and read the charges and the verdict for each.

  Marc had guessed correctly. The first one the foreman read was the murder one charge and the finding of not guilty. Every other charge, the felony murder second-degree, the assault on a police officer, resisting arrest, multiple breaking and entering and burglary charges were all guilty verdicts.

  While each was being read, Marc was thinking that with the not guilty of first-degree murder, Traynor could not be sentenced to life without parole. Later that day, he would find himself wondering if that was a good or bad thing.

  When the foreman finished, Peterson ordered a presentence investigation report and set the date for sentencing thirty days out. He thanked and dismissed the jury and adjourned.

  Before Traynor could be led away, he turned to Marc and sarcastically snarled, “Nice job rookie. I won’t forget it.”

  On the day of his sentencing, Marc and his client stood silently and patiently while Judge Peterson went over the list of reasons he was sentencing Howie to forty years in prison. This was a significant upward departure than what the sentencing guidelines called for and the judge was obligated to make a record of his reasons for it. In the event of an appeal, which Marc was extremely grateful he would not have to handle, the appeals court would have to know why the longer than normal sentence was given.

  The judge finished, looked at Howie and asked, “Do you have anything to say?”

  Howie opened his mouth as if to say something causing Marc to cringe at the thought of what might come out, then Traynor simply said, about as politely as he was capable of, “No, I guess not, your Honor.”

  Marc got off the elevator on the second floor of the building. He had his cell phone in hand and before he had walked twenty feet, he could hear the phone he dialed already ringing.

  “Hey, Karen, it’s Marc Kadella,” he said.

  “What did he get?”

  “Forty years total. It’s all yours now,” Marc told the lawyer with the Minnesota State Public Defenders office. They would be handling Howie’s appeal and Marc was delighted to wash his hands of it. “And good luck.”

  “Thanks,” she responded a touch sarcastically. “I’ll have someone get started on it. Do you want us to keep you informed?”

  “Not really,” Marc replied. He had arrived at the elevators in the corner of the building to go down into the underground parking area. He pushed the button and said, “I’ve seen all of Howie Traynor I care to.”

  SEVEN

  Present Day

  Douglas Dylan stifled a cough then held his breath hoping the urge to cough again would dissipate. His body went rigid and he gripped the arms of the chair he sat on as tightly as his weak, frail body could. Douglas lost his mini-battle and a hard cough came out of his lungs. He groaned and bent forward in an effort to alleviate the pain that wracked his rib cage and swept up to his shoulders and down into his groin. Two more coughs escaped and this time the pain almost caused a short blackout.

  Still bent at the waist, he wrapped his arms around his chest, closed his eyes and forced himself to calmly breathe. Thirty or forty seconds later the pain was gone and he was able to relax and sit upright in the chair. Douglas took several deep breaths and thought, “Getting better. Not as bad as it used to be.”

  Two minutes later he pushed himself up and out of the chair and stepped over to the window. Looking down from the sixth floor of the Southdale Medical Center building, he could see the roof of the parking ramp next door and the cars on the Crosstown Highway spraying the rain as they hurried past.

  A single tear trickled down his cheek and he emitted a slight sob while watching the rain come down. Douglas wondered how much longer he would be able to see such mundane, everyday sights; the traffic hurrying by, a cloudy sky, a rainy day? It had been three weeks since his last chemo treatment and two weeks since the most recent PET scan. His oncologist had the results of the scan and in his heart of hearts, Douglas knew that he was waiting in this exam room for bad news.

  There was a light knock on the door and he turned to see the doctor, Gail Fedder come in. She was carrying his inch thick file, smiled at him and said, “Good morning, Doug. How are you feeling?”

  Douglas sat down in his chair before answering. “Better. A little more energy and I’m sleeping a bit better. Coughing doesn’t hurt as much.”

  The doctor took the chair at the room’s work station, set the file on top of the table and turned on the computer. She called up his file and took a minute to pretend to read it over. She knew what was in it. Once again she had to perform the worst part of being a cancer doctor. The doctor looked at her patient and said, “Doug, I’ve always been completely honest and upfront with you and I’m not going to stop now. We got the results of the PET scan back and…”

  “They’re not good,” Doug said.

  Gail hesitated then said, “No, they’re not.”

  “How long?” he quietly asked the question anyone in his position would ask.

  “I can’t say for sure. Over the last month or so, it has spread quite a bit. I’d say a month, maybe two.”

  He lowered his head and quietly sobbed while he cried. Douglas knew this was what he would be told today yet there was always a sliver of hope. That word, hope, had become enormously important since his diagnosis almost two years ago. Now it seemed even that word was no longer available to him.

  The doctor reached over and took his hand in hers. At the same time she handed him a box of Kleenex. He took it and used three or four to blow his nose and wipe his eyes.

  “Do I need to go into a hospice?”

  “Not if you don’t want to. We can set up a bed and nurse you at home if you prefer,” she answered. “I want you to come in once a week, sooner, if you need to.” She hesitated a moment then said, “What are you thinking?”

  He sat silently for a half a minute then said, “I’m just disappointed. I mean, you know, so damn disappointed. I’m not even angry anymore. Just disappointed and of course, a little sad. I’m thirty-seven. I’ve never smoked or spent much time around smokers. I’ve led a pretty healthy life and I get lung cancer. I don’t know. I don’t know what to say.”

  The two of them sat silently for another minute or so, Douglas staring blankly at the far wall while the doctor patiently waited, holding his hand.

  “Doug, you should go see your priest, Father Paul. Talk to him. You need him now.”

  Douglas nodded his head, looked at his doctor and weakly smiled. “Yes, I was just thinkin
g that. I’ll call him when I get home.”

  Douglas opened the door to his parents’ home in west Bloomington and let Father Paul come in. Because of his illness and the difficulty he had caring for himself, he had given up his apartment several months ago. The priest was carrying a plastic bag which contained two boxes of combo meals from Kentucky Fried Chicken. Douglas had discovered early on in his fight against cancer that KFC meals were quick, inexpensive and tasted fairly good. Chemotherapy didn’t make food taste bad, that was caused mostly from radiation therapy. The problem with food and chemo was that the patient was almost never hungry. One simply did not feel much like eating.

  The two men sat silently at the kitchen table eating the lunches the priest had brought for them. Father Paul was a parish priest at St. Edward’s in Bloomington. He was a decade older than Douglas and had known the younger man since Douglas was in high school. Although Douglas was mostly a C and E Catholic, Christmas and Easter, they had maintained a sort of loose friendship over the years.

  Father Paul finished eating before the younger man then set his empty box aside and patiently waited for Douglas. A few minutes later Douglas also finished and Father Paul suggested that Douglas wait in the living room while the priest cleaned up.

  Expecting the news to be bad, Father Paul took a chair facing the couch where Douglas was seated.

  “Do you want to talk about what the doctor told you?” Father Paul asked, looking across the glass-topped coffee table between them.

  “Nothing good,” Douglas replied with a weak smile. “The treatments aren’t working and the cancer has spread. It’s in my bones and brain. They can give me more chemo and radiation for the brain tumors, but I’m not sure I want to.”

  “What did Dr. Fedder say about that?”

  “She said at best it might give me another few weeks,” he shrugged. His eyes watered up and he heavily sobbed. He took several deep breaths, wanly smiled and continued by saying, “It just really sucks. I am so disappointed about this. I’m too young. I wanted marriage, children, the whole deal and now…”

  “I understand and….” Father Paul began.

  “Don’t give me any of that ‘God’s plan’ bullshit! There’s no plan going on here. God is not micromanaging us. This is just, well… shit happens I guess.”

  “Yes, you’re right. Shit happens,” The priest agreed.

  The two of them had been down this path several times before with the same, basic result. Douglas pulled his slender legs up on the couch and silently stared at the table top between them. The priest waited for him to speak. After a full three minutes had passed between them, Douglas finally looked at his friend.

  “There’s something else, Father Paul. Something that has been eating at me off and on ever since this started.”

  Father Paul leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and said, “I know. Or, I’ve suspected it. Let’s have it. It’s time you got it out.”

  Douglas looked directly in the priest’s eyes, nodded his head three or four times and said, “Will you hear my confession, Father?”

  “Of course, my son,” the priest replied. He stood and walked around to the couch and sat down next to Douglas.

  Douglas sat up, put his feet on the carpeted floor, turned to the priest and held out his hands for Father Paul to hold.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned a terrible sin that I cannot take to the grave,” he began.

  When he finished, the priest, still holding his hands, said, “This is not something that can be remedied with a Hail Mary or two, Douglas. You will have to make this right. I will bless you and give you God’s forgiveness but you must inform the authorities and do what you can to fix this.”

  “I want to, Father,” Douglas sincerely said. “I don’t know how. I don’t know who to go to. I’m afraid if I go to the police, they’ll sweep it under the rug and do nothing. Who do I go to?”

  “I know someone, a lawyer. A man I grew up with and still see and play golf with. I’ll call him now. He can help us.”

  Less than half an hour later, the priest and his penitent took the client chairs in front of the desk of Father Paul’s friend. The lawyer’s name was Michael Becker and he was a partner in a midsize firm of twenty-seven lawyers in Minneapolis. The priest had told him a little of the story over the phone. Becker sat back in his big, leather executive chair while Douglas told him the story in detail. When he finished, the lawyer had him go over it again, this time Becker took detailed notes.

  When Douglas finished, the lawyer put down his pen, removed his cheaters and said, “Jesus Christ…”

  “Mike…” the priest began to admonish him.

  “Give me a break, Paul,” he smiled at his friend. He turned back to Douglas and continued. “I can’t even begin to count the number of felonies you’ve committed. Fortunately, the statute of limitations has run out on all of them I’m sure.”

  Not having thought of this, Father Paul, with a little panic in his voice said, “Do you think they’ll want to prosecute him?”

  “No. Time’s up. Plus the cancer’s terminal?” he asked Douglas.

  Douglas nodded and said, “A couple of months.”

  “I’m sorry,” the lawyer said. “What do you want to do about this?” he continued holding up the legal pad with his notes on it.

  “I want to come clean. I want to make it right. At least as much as I can.”

  “Okay. I have a friend in the attorney general’s office. I’ll call him right now and set up a meeting. Maybe even today.”

  “Mikey,” Father Paul said, “he doesn’t have much money…”

  Becker waved a hand at his friend and said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take this pro bono. This may sound a bit mercenary given the circumstances but the publicity this shit storm is going to raise will make it worth while. Besides,” he continued as he looked for a card in his Rolodex, “I try to be a good Christian even if my job won’t always let me.”

  The three of them met with Becker’s friend, a man named Luis Aguilar and told Aguilar the story. By the end of the hour, Douglas had told it three more times including once to the AG herself and another in front of a camera.

  Aguilar and Becker treated the filmed confession as a deposition. Aguilar conducted the questioning and Becker represented Douglas. All of the lawyers were satisfied he was telling the truth.

  “Douglas is getting a little tired,” Father Paul said when they were done taking the deposition.

  “You okay?” Becker asked him as the film tech and court reporter were leaving the conference room while Aguilar looked on.

  “Yeah,” Douglas said. “I am pretty tired. It’s the cancer and chemo. But I feel a lot better. It feels good to get that off my chest. Now what?” he asked looking at the AG’s lawyer. “What’s going to happen to me?”

  Aguilar looked at him, uncertain about what he meant. He finally said, “You mean are we going to prosecute you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, Douglas. It’s too late. The statute of limitations has run out. Plus, can you imagine the political fallout if we prosecuted a terminal cancer patient?” This last comment was aimed at Becker.

  “We might get a new AG,” Becker said. “One that’s a little more even handed. One that doesn’t see her job as being everyone’s do-gooder mommy.”

  “Ssshhh,” Aguilar said smiling as he put his finger to his lips. “The room might be bugged. Now,” he continued again looking at Douglas, “we start pulling case files and contacting lawyers. I’ll get you a copy of the tape and the transcript and keep you informed,” he said to Becker.

  EIGHT

  Marc Kadella finished proofreading the divorce settlement he had prepared for a client he represented. Satisfied that it contained all of the terms the wife’s lawyer, Marc and their clients had agreed to, he signed the last page. Marc slipped it into the large envelope Carolyn had provided to mail the document to the other lawyer. This case had been a bit of a headache proving, once again, h
ell hath no fury as a woman scorned.

  Marc was a lawyer in private practice and as a sole practitioner rented space in a suite of offices shared by other lawyers. His landlord, Connie Mickelson, a crusty, older woman, working on her sixth marriage, did mostly family law and personal injury work. The others were Barry Cline, a man about Marc’s age who was becoming modestly successful at criminal defense and business litigation. The fourth lawyer was Chris Grafton, a small business, corporate lawyer with a thriving practice who was a few years older than Marc and Barry.

  Marc was a sandy-haired, blue-eyed man of Scandinavian and Welsh ancestry. He was a little over six feet tall, in his mid-forties and the recently divorced father of two mostly grown children; his son, Eric age nineteen and a daughter, Jessica, age eighteen.

  Marc placed the envelope on a corner of his desk then swiveled his chair around. His office, with the door closed, was getting a little stuffy so he opened a window overlooking Charles and Lake Street. The intercom on his phone buzzed, he swiveled back around and picked up the handle of the phone.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Marc, there’s a man out here, a walk-in, who says he’s your Uncle Larry. He says he has a serious problem and he needs to see you right away.”

  “Larry’s here? Okay, I’ll be right out.”

  Wondering what his seventy-five-year-old uncle who probably never had so much as a speeding ticket in his life needed to see him about, Marc stood and went through his office door. He immediately saw his mother’s brother seated in one of the waiting room chairs. Once again Marc noticed Larry’s full head of hair and flat stomach and hoped those genes had been passed on to him.

  “Hey, Uncle,” Marc said as he walked over to the older man.

  Larry almost jumped out of his chair, rushed up to Marc and threw his arms around his nephew. Marc stiffened up as if this was an awkward moment and when Larry released him said, “You’re hugging me? I don’t think you’ve hugged me since I turned five. This must be serious.”