But he’d been rash. With the name ‘Malcolm Mohommad’ in his head, and an urgent, panicky need to silence that person prodding him on, Allen had done everything on the fly.
He’d used a pre-paid junk phone to call in a report of a little girl seen struggling with a large black male who was dragging her into the abandoned Brewster-Williams project. He’d been colorful and alarmist, breathlessly telling the 9-1-1 operator that the little girl was naked and screaming and that the man was tossing her around “like a rag doll”.
As an afterthought, right before hanging up and breaking the phone into pieces, he’d added “Also, she was a little white girl. Blonde.”
Two-minutes later, his “official” cell had rung, relaying the report to him. Kidnapping. Suspected sexual violence. Abandoned project.
It had all seemed very plausible. His team would enter Malcolm’s little hideout. Malcolm would not surrender. Darnell had been exact and certain about that. This was a man whose only response to police in his home would be outright, unrelenting violence.
“Man’s on auto-pilot craziness,” the drug dealer had said. “Word is he got an arsenal stashed up there. And he see you coming in there? You best know he will fight. He dreamin’ that day comes, like Christmas.”
Now Darnell was a corpse in the woods of south-east Michigan, his super-duper black assassin was very much on the loose, and Allen was either suspended without pay or outright terminated.
‘Chill out. Losing the job’s not the end of the world. This is all manageable. Close out the scene and stay in command. Even if super-negro doesn’t get found, he’ll know just who it is that’s on his ass. He’ll be Greyhounding it south. Forget him. Clear the scene. Get Noel’s situation and make a decision there. Then it’s done and you can sleep like a—fuck…the Indian. You still have to get the Indian…’
It was difficult to keep the panic off of his face. He knew how to recognize anxiety, and he had a hundred practiced ways of cutting it off. But this was spiraling, he knew. This was a situation threatening to unravel all around him. Allen sucked three sharp breaths in through his mouth and forced himself to look back down at the blueprints.
“Any sign of the kidnapped girl?”
Allen turned and looked at the man standing close on his right side. It was the same man who had pointed out the tunnels on the blueprints—a tall, fit-looking blond man in a black suit and tie. Allen didn’t recognize him.
“Who the hell are you supposed to be?”
The man smiled and stuck out a hand.
“Schultz,” he said. “FBI.”
Allen stared into Schultz’s clear blue eyes for a beat, not certain what to do with the information. He settled on disdain, and turned back to the blueprints without shaking the man’s outstretched hand.
“Dunno what you would want down here,” he growled. “Far as I can see, this ain’t a federal issue.”
“Sure it is. That’s a federal building,” Schultz said, and stuck a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the southern tower. The fire engine had extended its ladder, a hose-wielding fireman positioned in the bucket at its top. As Allen watched, the hose began to fire a high-pressure jet of water into the base of the black smoke-plumes. Sirens were sounding from not far away, heralding the arrival of more water-trucks.
In the few minutes since the apartment in the upper floor had become an inferno the number of marked police cars had multiplied without Allen noticing. Uniform officers were running yellow tape around a wide perimeter. Two more ambulances had positioned themselves near the first. He glanced around, looking for the inevitable local TV news van, but didn’t spot any.
‘Soon enough,’ he thought. ‘This’ll be all they run tonight, the fuckers.’
“You telling me the Bureau is interested in running this show?” Allen said, inwardly relishing the notion of just gathering up his men and walking away from this mess.
“Not at all. You can go ahead and keep this situation all to yourself, Lieutenant.”
Allen rounded on the smirking bastard, his face a seething grimace.
“Then just why the fuck are you standing here wasting my time?”
Schultz reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick white envelope. He tossed it casually on the ground between himself and Allen Phelps.
“What the hell is that supposed to be?”
Schultz leaned forward, so the two men were nearly nose-to-nose. He spoke in a whisper, the words carrying no further than Allen’s ears.
“Those are subpoenas, Lieutenant. One’s to get your ass seated in front of a federal grand jury. The other is so you make sure to bring along all the evidence records the U.S. Attorney wants to discuss with you.”
The two men stood staring at one another while the scene continued to unfold—more jets of water joining the first as the responding engines arrived in a flurry of lights and belching horns, EMTs surrounding the returning TAC Team members with offerings of oxygen, uniformed officers milling about and snapping cell-phone photos of the blazing upper floor.
“Grand Jury convenes soon, Lieutenant,” Schultz said. “I suggest you get busy gathering those evidence logs.”
Agent Schultz turned on his heel and marched away from the chaos and sirens.
Allen looked down at the envelope on the ground. He thought of the smart-mouth lawyer, serving a lawsuit in court earlier. And now, on the same day, a federal inquiry into TAC Team evidence records. Allen stared at the envelope, but he was looking past it, into a future which had suddenly been transformed into nothing less than all of his worst fears.
Everything was coming undone.
ELEVEN
Tuesday morning found Issabella inexplicably upbeat. She warbled along with her little wall-mounted shower radio. She hummed through breakfast. On the drive out to Detroit, she skipped the morning ritual of stopping for coffee and zoomed happily into town.
It occurred to her as she made the exit that would take her to Winkle’s Tavern-- she was happy and invigorated because the case of Vernon Pullins was not over. Was she still having trouble grasping the enormity of what Agent Schultz believed to be the real cause of her client’s death? Absolutely. But as the asphalt under her wheels became more and more pock-marked, Issabella wasn’t thinking about the ugly implications that would have to be confronted if Agent Schultz was right about the Detroit Police Department’s Tactical Response Team.
She was thinking about telling all of it to Darren. She was thinking about working with him again. No matter how boorish he’d been the last time they were in her office, Issabella wanted to feel the way she had in Vernon’s crematorium.
She thought about him munching the apple he’d brought with him, smiling with amusement as she’d presented her case. She thought about him leaning close to her and giving her the apple he’d brought just for her.
She smiled and kept zipping through the ruined city.
Issabella wanted to keep playing Darren’s game.
*
Theresa was eating cold pizza for breakfast. In between bites, she plucked her cigarette from the hollowed back of Butts the Ashtray Unicorn, dragged a lungful in, and flipped a page in the most recent copy of Entertainment Weekly.
It was the Summer Blockbuster issue, where they provided big splashy previews of all the big splashy movies coming out in the next few months. Theresa hadn’t been to a movie theater in years, and wasn’t planning on going anytime in the future. But the pictures of the movie stars were beautiful, and the accompanying articles always managed to touch on their personal lives, so she was content to pour over the magazine like a treasure hunter, ferreting out any little mention of rehab or divorce.
The little bell screwed into the wall above the front door chimed.
“We ain’t open yet,” she said, without looking up from the magazine, “You need your medicine this early, run on down to the corner store.”
Then she saw it was the pretty lawyer-lady, scooting her little behind up and onto the stool dire
ctly in front of Theresa. The woman was smiling like it was Christmas and she was a kid with really great parents. Theresa managed not to scowl.
“Darren ain’t in.”
“Good morning, Theresa,” Issabella said with what seemed like genuine cheer. “Do you know if he’s coming by here soon? I tried his cell but it’s going right to voicemail.”
Theresa stared at her. She looked like the same girl Theresa had picked up in her van the week before—the one who was all scowls and frowns, who didn’t much want to talk to Theresa at all. But here she was now, going out of her way to beam white-toothed goodwill, looking perky and asking for Fletcher.
Normally, Theresa would have no patience for the type of person she assumed Issabella to be. She had no illusions about how she appeared to the world, with her unicorn herd and her weight. She was who she was, and there was nothing more to the subject than that. But she also knew what young, good-looking career women like this one thought about her. All her life she’d borne the nasty expressions and acid remarks of girls who looked a lot like Issabella Bright.
But Fletcher liked this one. And Darren Fletcher was Theresa’s friend.
So instead of throwing the perky little lawyer out on her skinny rump, Theresa put her magazine away and walked over to the coffee pot.
“You want some coffee?” she asked. “You should like it. It’s that stuff we brought over from your place.”
“Thank you. I’d love a cup.”
Theresa poured two cups of coffee for them, lit another cigarette, and settled back on her perch.
“Darren hasn’t been in. I thought that case with you was over.”
Issabella held the coffee mug in both her palms and took a sip.
“Is this his, um… only office?”
“Yep. He used to have one downtown, I guess. But that closed when he won that kidnapping case.”
Issabella glanced up from her coffee mug.
“His office closed because he won a case?”
Theresa regarded her for a long, quiet moment. She tapped the end of her cigarette onto the plate that held her unfinished pizza.
“You two haven’t done much talking,” she said.
“Some, I guess. Not much.”
“I guess he wouldn’t want me blabbering on about it.”
“Theresa, what—“
“If he comes back, I’ll mention you came by. But right now, I’m late for the market.”
Theresa stood, picked up her mug and ambled away toward the back of the bar. Issabella stared after her, dumbstruck.
“Theresa?” she called after the retreating woman.
“Sorry, Izzy,” the big woman shouted, disappearing into the back rooms, “You go ahead and finish that coffee. I gotta go, though.”
Fifteen minutes later, Issabella burst into her office. She tossed her briefcase on the client chair, fired up the computer and set about learning everything she could find about the search term “Darren Fletcher”.
*
April 3, 2002
Bernard Wright
Freepress Staff Writer
Officials of the Detroit Police Department report that a thirty-three year-old man has been arrested as a suspect in the December twenty-fourth kidnapping of eight-year-old Shoshanna Green.
Shoshanna was last seen in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, according to her parents, David and Michele Green, who first noticed her disappearance when she failed to come in for dinner from their east-side home’s backyard. A county-wide search conducted by cooperating law enforcement agencies yielded no clues.
Then, on February seventh, the first of a series of ransom notes arrived at the Green’s address. While the contents of the ransom notes have not been made public, it is known that a large sum of money was demanded for the safe return of Shoshanna. Mr. Green is an executive at General Motors, and Mrs. Green is a vice president of the University of Michigan Credit Union. Law enforcement sources have contended the Greens were targeted because of their considerable personal wealth.
It is not known if any attempts were made to pay the ransom, and authorities have been clear from the beginning of the investigation that they would not comment for fear of jeopardizing Shoshanna’s safety.
However, officials are now stating that a pre-dawn raid on a residence located in Ann Arbor has resulted in the arrest of a man they describe as “a suspect” in Shoshanna’s kidnapping.
July 12, 2002
Shelly Hurn
Freepress Staff Writer
The Freepress has learned from court records filed this morning in Wayne County Circuit Court that the lawyer representing James Klodd in the kidnapping and ransom of eight-year-old Shoshanna Green is challenging the constitutionality of the search warrant issued in relation to the April third raid on Mr. Klodd’s Ann Arbor residence.
Mr. Klodd’s lawyer, Darren Fletcher, spoke with local news agencies on the courthouse steps after filing the motion to suppress the search warrant, stating “Every last one of us is entitled to our rights under the constitution. My client is no exception to this fundamental tenet of our society.”
If the motion prevails, legal experts suggest it would be a fatal blow to the State’s case against Mr. Klodd, who has maintained his innocence since his arrest.
Shoshanna Green, whose ninth birthday passed seven days ago, is and has been missing since Christmas Eve of last year.
Law enforcement officials have previously stated that an anonymous tip lead to the raid on Mr. Klodd’s home, and that evidence found there lead to his subsequent arrest.
Neighbors of Mr. Klodd describe him as an outgoing and gregarious man, known for keeping his property well-tended, and additionally for hosting a neighborhood-favorite “haunted garage” every Halloween.
Mr. Klodd is an adjunct professor of Literature at nearby University of Michigan. Since his arrest, the University has stated that Mr. Klodd is on indefinite, unpaid leave until the case is resolved.
Shoshanna Green has not been found, despite Mr. Klodd’s arrest. Law enforcement officials close to the case have refused to speculate about Shoshanna’ whereabouts or her well-being, insisting that the case is still on-going.
Issabella clicked an accompanying video clip on the website. She folded her arms across her stomach and leaned forward with a sick feeling.
Darren Fletcher, clean shaven and polished, appeared on her monitor. His hair was cropped and conservative. His suit was elegant and ironed, a blood-red tie knotted perfectly at his throat.
When he smiled into the cameras assembled on the courthouse steps, there was no irony or mischief to be seen. It was a victorious and proud smile. He looked like a different man.
“As you all know, the court made the right call this afternoon. I have no intention of going into details about the particulars of Mr. Klodd’s case. But I can say that this is a good day to be a constitutional defender. When law enforcement over-reaches, at the expense of our personal liberties, it cannot be allowed to stand. The court recognized this. Manufacturing an “anonymous source” as a pretext to invade a citizen’s home is a betrayal of our system of democracy and individual liberty. Liberty won out, today. Thank you. That’s all for now.”
The clip cut to the local reporter at the scene, and Issabella closed her internet browser. She didn’t need to see the rest, because she knew what must have happened. The motion had prevailed. Without a legally sufficient search warrant to justify the police raid of James Klodd’s home, whatever evidence they had found there was excluded as “fruit of the poisonous tree”. The State’s case had collapsed into nothing.
She sat back in her chair and stared at the keyboard. There was more to the story, she knew. Getting a client off on a motion to suppress a search warrant wasn’t a reason to transform from hot-shot lawyer to unshaven wreck. The Darren Fletcher in that clip was a wholly different person—a man who looked like he wore success as an afterthought, the sort of lawyer whose business card appeared in the contact folders of important people.
But if Theresa’s ominous evasion of the subject was any indication, this case had re-shaped Darren from a litigation shark, into an unkempt, heavy-drinking court-appointed hack who worked out of a bar booth.
Whatever happened after that motion won the day, whatever transpired once James Klodd was free, had broken Darren Fletcher. She didn’t particularly want to re-open her browser. She didn’t want to find out that Darren Fletcher had maybe done something so bad he couldn’t forgive himself. She didn’t want to find out that he had done something she could never forgive.
Still, she had to know who she was working with. Drawing a deep sigh, Issabella leaned forward and put her hand on the mouse.
Her cell rang, and she was never so grateful to answer it than at that moment. She stood, leaned over the desk and snatched the cell out of her purse.
“Hello?”
“Izzy?”
“Theresa?”
“Oh good,” Theresa said. “Darren said to call you. They wouldn’t let him have his phone to look up your number, so I had to find a yellow pages. Nobody has those anymore. I went four places and nothing. But I found a gas station that had one, so—“
“Who wouldn’t let him have his phone? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Oh. Yeah, sorry. Darren got held in contempt again. Says it’s a five hundred cash bond. You know where the jail is, right?”
Issabella collapsed back into her chair in a baffled and confounded heap. Darren was in jail? He was held in contempt again? Again?
“Wait. Theresa, you’re going too fast. What…what are you talking about? What did Darren do?”
She could almost hear Theresa shrug on the other end of the phone.
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