Final Justice

by W. E. B Griffin

  Matt couldn’t think of a reply.

  “And I just thought of something else,” Washington said. “When I spoke with Commissioner Coughlin, he suggested that your father might like you to call. And I had the feeling that the commissioner would not consider a call from you to be an unwelcome intrusion on his time.”

  “Well, I guess I’d better do that right now,” Matt said. “Before I become incoherent.”

  He got up from the table and went through a plate-glass door to an area between the hotel building and the bay. They could see him taking out his cellular.

  “I think what we have here is raging testosterone,” Cohen said. “And I’m not making fun of him.”

  “For that reason, I was deaf to his insolence,” Washington said. He looked between Chief Yancey and Sergeant Kenny.

  “I think a word of explanation is in order. Sergeant Payne is carrying his father’s badge. Shortly before Matt was born, his father was killed on duty, answering a silent alarm. Deputy Commissioner Coughlin was his father’s best friend. He is Matt’s godfather.”

  “Being a cop’s in his blood, huh?” Sergeant Kenny said.

  “Prefacing this by saying I am—perhaps too obviously— fond of our young sergeant, I sometimes wonder if he’s not flying a little too high for his experience.”

  “He did a good job with Daniels, Jason,” Steve Cohen said. “Absolutely professional.”

  “And now he knows it. That’s my point, Steve. Our Matty is not burdened with over-modesty.”

  “And he’s going to be money in the bank on the stand,” Cohen pursued. “If we’re taking a poll, I’d say Matt is a hell of a good cop.”

  “I associate myself with the shyster,” O’Hara said. “Now, can we get something to drink, for Christ’s sake?”

  [FOUR]

  “The Nesbitt residence,” the Nesbitt butler answered the call.

  “Brewster Payne, Porter. Is Mr. Nesbitt available?”

  “I’m sure he will be at home for you, Mr. Payne. One moment, please.”

  Several moments later, Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III, Chairman of the Executive Committee of Nesfoods International, Inc., who had been practicing with a new putter on the practice green behind the left wing of his home, came on the line.

  “If you weren’t my lawyer, I’d be happy to hear from you. What’s the bad news you really hate to have to tell me this time? IRS, or something else?”

  “Actually, Tom, this does have a certain IRS connection.”

  “Oh, God, now what?”

  “Your assets have been seized and you may have to go to prison.”

  “I don’t think that’s funny.”

  “I had drinks with Denny Coughlin at the Rittenhouse just before I started home.”

  “Jesus, I didn’t even say the appropriate things about Matty, did I? It was all over the TV. You must be proud as hell of him. Hell, we all are.”

  “I am. I just spoke to him. He confirmed what Denny Coughlin told me. There’s no doubt this is the fellow who killed the Williamson girl.”

  “And now what happens to him? He pleads he had an unhappy childhood, and they award him damages?”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen. As a matter of fact, the only thing Denny seemed worried about is how to get him back to Philadelphia.”

  “He’s going to fight extradition? Do we have diplomatic relations with Alabama?”

  “The problem is one of transportation, Tom. Bringing him back on the airlines poses a number of problems, as you can well imagine. The press, for one. The restrictions on even policemen carrying firearms on airplanes, for another.”

  “Cut to the chase, Brewster. Your pal Denny Coughlin would like to use Nesfoods’s Citation to bring this character back here, right? And suggested you call me?”

  “No, he did not. I really don’t think using your airplane has ever entered his mind.”

  “This is your idea?”

  “Which I had moments ago, just before I called.”

  “After drink number what?”

  “Four, possibly five.”

  “You’re my legal counsel— counsel me. Why should I?”

  “Well, for one thing, all expenses would be fully deductible.”

  “As you have so often pointed out to me, you have to spend money before you can claim it was spent for business purposes and is thus deductible from income. You know how much it costs to operate that airplane.”

  “It would have undeniable good public relations aspects, Tom.”

  “And your pal Denny had nothing to do with this idea of yours, right?”

  “I told you he didn’t, Tom,” Payne said. There was a chill in his tone.

  “So you did. And I’m still listening.”

  “My thought is that there would be benefits to both parties if you were to telephone Alvin Martin and say it has come to your attention—you may use my name, if you like—that the police are having a problem transporting this fellow back here, and that Nesfoods International, as concerned, good, corporate citizens of our fair community . . .”

  “And you just happen to have the mayor’s unlisted number, right?”

  “No, but I have one he gave me in case I ever wanted to get in touch with him, day or night.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  [FIVE]

  Homer C. Daniels looked up as the door to his cell slid open. A moment later, the enormous black sergeant and the nearly-as -big white cop who followed him around appeared at the entrance, carrying the prisoner restraint system.

  “You want to stand up, please?” Kenny ordered.

  “Is all of this necessary?” Daniels asked. “I’m cooperating. I’m not going to try to get away.”

  “It’s procedure,” Sergeant Kenny said, gesturing with his finger for him to turn around.

  If I had my way, you white trash pervert, you’d spend the rest of your life in this thing.

  “If you have to go to the john, do it now,” Kenny ordered. “You won’t have another chance for a while.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “You agreed to waive extradition to Philadelphia, right?”

  Daniels nodded.

  “That’s where you’re going.”

  Daniels relieved his bladder.

  Sergeant Kenny and Officer Andrew Terry put the belts on Daniels. Then each put a hand on his arms and led him, shuffling, out of the detention area, down a corridor, and through another door.

  They were now outside.

  There was a line of police patrol cars, two with Daphne police department insignia on their doors, two with STATE TROOPER lettered largely on their trunks, and two black sedans—a Ford and a Mercury—with several antennae on their trunks and roofs but without police insignia. There were also, incongruously, both a red Ford Mustang convertible and a Lincoln Town Car in the line of cars.

  A flash went off and Daniels saw that a redheaded man in a loud sports coat had taken his picture with a digital camera.

  The rear door of the Daphne police department car nearest to the door was open, and Sergeant Kenny led him to it, taking care that he didn’t bump his head, and then got in beside him, pulled the seat belt over Daniels’s lap and then closed the door. The big white cop got behind the wheel.

  When he looked out the window, Daniels saw the young homicide sergeant from Philadelphia, the homicide detective who’d shown up a couple of days before, the assistant district attorney, and four other men in civilian clothing who could have been detectives or lawyers.

  As he watched, they distributed themselves among the other cars.

  There was another flash, and Daniels saw that the redheaded man had taken his picture again.

  Sergeant Kenny spoke to the microphone pinned to his shirt.

  “We’re ready here.”

  “Where are we going?” Daniels asked.

  “You have to sign the waiver before a judge,” Kenny said.

  The line of cars began to move, in a sweeping circle, through
the parking lot. Daniels saw that the lights on the roof of the state trooper car leading the procession were flashing red and blue, but only on that car.

  They came out of the Joseph Hall Criminal Justice Center onto a four-lane highway. Two more Daphne police cars blocked traffic in both directions to permit the convoy to enter the highway.

  The convoy turned left and moved at just under the speed limit out of Daphne and toward Fairhope. Several times, cars ahead of the convoy spotted the warning lights and, thinking it was a funeral procession, respectfully pulled left and slowed—or stopped—and looked in vain for the hearse and flower car.

  In Fairhope, at a shopping mall, the convoy turned left off U.S. Highway 98, and then, a half-mile down a two-lane macadam road, turned left again into a complex of one-story brick buildings.

  Daniels saw a sign: “Baldwin County Satellite Courthouse. ”

  The car with Daniels in it stopped about halfway down the building. As Kenny got out of the backseat, bright lights came on, and when Daniels got out, he saw that he was being videotaped by cameras bearing the logotypes of three different television stations.

  With Kenny holding one arm and a state trooper the other, Daniels shuffled into the building and was led to a small courtroom. The courtroom, to judge by the signs on the walls, was often used as the place where driver’s license tests were administered.

  Roswell Bernhardt, Esq., was sitting at one of two tables facing the judge’s bench. He stood up, gave his hand to Daniels, and then watched as Kenny removed the prisoner restraint system, and then motioned for him to sit beside Bernhardt.

  The Philadelphia assistant district attorney, and another man who looked like a lawyer, sat down at the other table facing the judge’s bench, laid briefcases on it, and then checked their contents. The young homicide sergeant and others took seats in the first couple of rows of benches.

  A large man in a two-tone brown police-type uniform—he had both a badge and a large-caliber revolver—looked into the room, pulled his head back, and then, a moment later, stepped inside.

  “All rise!” he ordered.

  Everybody stood up.

  A pleasant-looking man wearing a judge’s robe—who looked as if he was no stranger to heavily laden tables— entered the room and sat down in a high-backed leather chair.

  “The circuit court of Baldwin County is now in session, the Honorable Reade W. James presiding,” the man in the brown uniform intoned.

  “Good morning,” Judge James said. “Please be seated.”

  Everybody sat down.

  “The court recognizes the presence of the attorney general of Alabama,” Judge James said. “And why are we so honored?”

  The man sitting beside Steve Cohen stood up.

  “Good morning, Your Honor. If it pleases the court, may I introduce Mr. Steven Cohen, who is an assistant district attorney of Philadelphia, Commonwealth of Pennsylvania?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Cohen. Welcome to Alabama. You have business to bring before this court?”

  “Good morning, Your Honor. May it please the court, a warrant has been issued in Philadelphia for the arrest of Mr. Homer C. Daniels alleging violation of Paragraph 2502(b) of the Criminal Code of Pennsylvania, which is Murder of the Second Degree. It is my understanding, Your Honor, that Mr. Daniels, who is present with counsel in this court, is willing to waive his rights to an extradition hearing and prepared to return to Philadelphia to answer this and other related charges.”

  “Which are?” Judge James asked.

  “In brief, Your Honor, Murder of the Third Degree; Rape; Involuntary Deviate Sexual Intercourse; Robbery; Theft; Receiving Stolen Property; Aggravated Assault; Simple Assault; Recklessly Endangering Another Person; Burglary; Criminal Trespass; Possession of Instrument of a Crime; and Abuse of a Corpse.”

  “Mr. Bernhardt,” Judge James said, “may the court presume that the man beside you is Mr. Homer C. Daniels, and that you are serving as his counsel?”

  Bernhardt stood up.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Daniels—” Judge James said, and interrupted himself to say, “would you please rise, sir?”

  Homer C. Daniels stood up.

  "Have you any problems with Mr. Bernhardt serving as your counsel?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you aware of the nature and specifics of all the charges being brought against you in Pennsylvania?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And has Mr. Bernhardt explained that, should you desire, you have the right in the law to ask for an extradition hearing, at which you may offer evidence as to why you should not be returned to Philadelphia to face any and all charges laid against you there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And having been made aware of your rights in the law in this matter, you wish to waive same, which means that sometime within the next ten days, your person will be turned over to appropriate Pennsylvania law enforcement officers, who will then return you to Pennsylvania, there to face whatever charges have been laid against you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This court is satisfied that Mr. Daniels is aware of his rights in this matter, and is voluntarily waiving same,” Judge James said, and made a gesture which Steve Cohen correctly interpreted to mean that he could now place the appropriate documents before Mr. Daniels.

  He walked to Daniels’s table, laid a bound legal folder before Daniels, and handed him his pen. Daniels quickly scrawled his signature on them.

  “May I approach the bench, Your Honor?” Cohen asked.

  Judge James waved him to the bench. Cohen handed him the legal folder. James looked at it for a moment, then signed it.

  “You understand, Mr. Cohen, that the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania must take Mr. Daniels into custody within ten days?”

  “Your Honor, Sergeant Matthew Payne, of the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia police department—and other Philadelphia police officers—are present in this court, and prepared to take custody of Mr. Daniels within the time prescribed. ”

  “Then that would seem to conclude this matter,” Judge James said, and stood up.

  “All rise!” the man in the two-tone brown uniform ordered.

  Everyone stood up.

  Judge James left the courtroom.

  Sergeant Kenny began to place Daniels in the prisoner restraint system. When he was finished, Kenny and the state trooper led him shuffling back through the satellite courthouse and put him back in the rear seat of the Daphne police car.

  Then the convoy left the satellite courthouse complex, went back to U.S. Highway 98, and turned left onto it. Three miles farther along, it turned left onto a two-lane macadam road, and half a mile down that turned into the Fairhope Municipal Airport.

  There the convoy drove onto the parking tarmac and up to a Cessna Citation. There was an almost identical Citation on the ramp, and half a dozen other business aircraft.

  Mickey O’Hara jumped out of the Lincoln and ran up the line of cars to be in place when Daniels was taken from the Daphne police car.

  He was there in plenty of time to see the little ceremony.

  The attorney general of Alabama got out of one black Mercury and walked toward the Daphne car holding Daniels. The driver and the state troopers moved quickly to stand behind him.

  Steve Cohen walked up to the car. He had ridden with O’Hara in the Lincoln. Matt Payne and Joe D’Amata took up positions behind him. Chief Yancey, several of his officers, and Detectives Martinez and McFadden stood to one side.

  At a nod from the man in civilian clothing, one of the state troopers opened the door of the police car and helped first Sergeant Kenny and then Mr. Daniels out.

  “Mr. Daniels,” the man said. “I’m Baxley Williams, Attorney General of the State of Alabama. And this is Sergeant Matthew Payne, a Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, police officer, who has a warrant for your arrest.”

  Daniels did not reply.

  Williams turned to Matt.

  “You ma
y now take custody of the prisoner.”

  Matt put his hand on Daniels’s arm. Sergeant Kenny took his hand off.

  Cohen signaled D’Amata with a finger. D’Amata took handcuffs from his belt, went to Daniels, and put them on him.

  “Sergeant Kenny, you want to help me with this?” D’Amata asked.

  Kenny began to remove the prisoner restraint system.

  When he had finished, D’Amata said, “Come with me, please,” and led Daniels toward the Cessna Citation.

  Matt walked quickly to the airplane, got there first, and went inside.

  When Daniels came into the cabin, Matt showed him where he was to sit, the rearmost seat, usually occupied by the steward. Then he took handcuffs from his belt, added one cuff to Daniels’s left wrist, and snapped the other around the aluminum pipe work of the seat.

  D’Amata watched.

  Steve Cohen came aboard, followed by Mickey O’Hara.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Matt walked forward and knocked on the cockpit door. A man in a blue shirt with first officer shoulder boards opened it.

  O’Hara took his picture.

  “Any time,” Matt said.

  The copilot walked through the cabin and operated the door-closing mechanism.

  O’Hara took his picture.

  Before the copilot could get back to the cockpit, there was the whine of an engine starting.

  Joe D’Amata went to Homer Daniels.

  Mickey O’Hara took their picture.

  “The law says you cannot be restrained during takeoff, flight, or landing,” D’Amata said. “The law also says I have the authority to use what force is necessary to ensure that you remain in custody. What I’m going to do now is take those cuffs off you. What you’re going to do is fasten the seat belt. If you even look like you’re thinking of getting out of that seat, I’m going to shoot you. Do we understand each other?”

  Daniels nodded.

  D’Amata took the cuffs off.

  The Citation started to move.

  From where he was sitting, Matt could see everybody waiting for them to take off.

  He didn’t think they could see him through the darkened windows of the Citation, but he waved anyway.

  The Citation taxied down the runway, turned around, and immediately began the takeoff roll.