[Marc Kadella 02.0] Desperate Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “They’re the same thing, dear,” Vivian added.

  “I’ve heard that,” Maddy said. “Anyway, my friend, and the people who work with him…”

  “FBI,” Tony silently mouthed the initials at Vivian.

  “…don’t know much more than that,” Maddy continued after poking Tony in the ribs. “But they figure he must be pretty valuable to receive the protection he gets.”

  Vivian looked at Tony and with a disgusted look on her face, shook her head and said, “Our government in action again. Well,” she continued turning back to Madeline, “you’ve done well. I know exactly what to do next.”

  Vivian looked at Tony again and said, “I’ll leave first thing in the morning and be gone for a day or two. In the meantime, you two sit tight and leave Mr. Balkus alone. One way or another, we will get to the bottom of this. I am more determined than ever. This is no longer about my nephew. In fact, I’m not sure it ever was. And don’t worry, dear,” she continued to Maddy. “Your friend’s employer will not find out about him from us.”

  SEVENTY-ONE

  “The state calls Lt. Carl Mikan, your Honor,” Gondeck intoned, beginning the second day of testimony.

  Mikan was brought into the courtroom, sworn in and took the stand. Gondeck started off, as they had with the first two witnesses, by using simple questions to establish his expertise with the jury. Gondeck then spent the rest of the morning session guiding the CSU tech through his actions at the Prentiss house. It would have been a lot more dull and boring than any TV show except for the crime scene photos. The first opportunity Gondeck had, he introduced more photos and a video of Catherine Prentiss’ bedroom. A photo of her body, this one without her husband lying on top of her holding the knife but with the knife still sticking out of her chest, was projected onto the same large screen in front of the jury while Mikan testified.

  He testified to the normal routine the CSU people went through in processing the bedroom and the rest of the house.

  “I’d like to talk about the bedroom again, Lieutenant. Did you find any physical evidence of a third person in the bedroom?”

  “No, we did not. As I said, we found a lot of evidence from both Mrs. Prentiss and the defendant but no one else.”

  “Based on your professional opinion,” Gondeck began the next question which caused Marc to straighten up a little, knowing where the prosecutor was going, “do you believe there was anyone else in that bedroom?”

  “Objection,” Marc was out of his chair before Gondeck was done asking the question. “The witness can testify to what he saw or what was found in the bedroom, your Honor. The inability of this witness to find evidence of a third person being in the room is not definitive proof that a third person was not there. The prosecutor is asking for a conclusion for which this witness is not qualified. He is getting into speculation, your Honor.”

  “I agree with Mr. Kadella, the objection is sustained, Mr. Gondeck,” Judge Rios ruled.

  Marc was inwardly grinning at being able to point out to the jury that a third person may have been there even though the police found no evidence of it.

  “Did you check the outside of the house for evidence of other people?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t very helpful. We found evidence of several different people on the grounds. The defendant had a lawn care service that had been there recently. We could not identify all of the footprints we found outside the house, in the garden and on the grounds.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, we checked with the lawn service and some of their employees are, um, undocumented workers.”

  “But you did try to eliminate as many of the people as you could?”

  “Yes, absolutely. But there could also be local neighborhood kids going through the yard any number of people who we couldn’t know about. Unlike TV, it is not possible to account for everything.”

  “What, if anything, did you discover about the knife that was found in the chest of Catherine Prentiss?”

  “It was an eight-inch butcher knife,” Mikan said referring to his notebook. “It was obviously part of a set of knives that we found in the kitchen. We checked it against the other knives of the set in a wooden block knife holder on a counter next to the refrigerator and it matched those. In fact, it was the only one missing from the set.”

  “Were there any firearms found in the house?”

  “None and we searched every inch of it for guns and other weapons.”

  With that exchange, Gondeck completed his questioning and turned Mikan over to Marc for cross-examination. Before Marc began, the lawyers were called to the bench. It was almost time for a lunch break and Judge Rios wanted to know how long Marc would be. He assured her he would not take long and agreed to get it done before the break but he wanted the bloody photo of Catherine taken off of the screen, which was done.

  “Lt. Mikan, isn’t it true you found DNA evidence of a third person on the first floor of the Prentiss home?” Marc asked, jumping right in without any preliminary questions at all.

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Someone other than Catherine and Judge Prentiss?”

  “Yes.”

  “Samples of how many people, other than the deceased and Judge Prentiss?”

  “Just one.”

  “And you weren’t able to identify it?”

  “No.”

  “Did you run it through the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension database?”

  “Well, um, actually, no, we did not,” the witness answered which, of course, Marc already knew.

  “Isn’t it true you made no attempt at all to identify this third person?”

  “Well, no because…”

  “Yes or no, Lieutenant, did you make any effort to identify this third person?”

  “No, we did not,” he answered sinking a little into his chair.

  “May I approach the witness, your Honor?” Marc asked as he stood up.

  The judge gave him permission and taking an eight by ten photo from his table, he walked up to Mikan.

  “Lt. Mikan, I’m showing you a photo that has been marked for identification as defense Exhibit A,” he began as he handed it to Mikan. “Do you recognize it?”

  “Yes,” the witness said, “I believe it is one of the photos I took of the crime scene; the floor behind the door.”

  Marc took the print back from him and put it into evidence by giving it to Judge Rios who had it marked by her clerk. Marc then walked back to his table, picked up a copy for Gondeck and using his laptop, projected that photo onto the screen in front of the jury.

  Standing in front of the screen and using a laser pointer, Marc asked, “This area of the photo here, the dark part on the carpeting. Did you test what caused that discoloration?”

  “Yes, I did. It was the vodka from the bottle the deceased hit the defendant with.”

  Marc could have used the judge to verbally slap the witness for embellishing his answer. Instead, he decided to do it himself.

  “Did you see Catherine Prentiss hit her husband with a bottle of vodka? If you did, I’m surprised you didn’t mention it before.”

  “Well, um, no, I was just, um…”

  “Assuming,” Marc said, finishing it for him. “Let’s not assume, okay?

  “Now, Lieutenant,” Marc continued turning back to the screen and using the pointer again he said, “Do you see this area here, this part of the carpet that has vodka splashed on it?” he pointed to the place that looked like the splashing liquid had formed around something.

  “Yes.”

  “Could that be the image of a shoe print?”

  “Yes, I suppose it’s possible,” the witness agreed with obvious reluctance.

  “Was the photo, taken by you, given to the prosecution?”

  “Yes, we gave them everything.”

  “Do you know why the prosecution decided to keep this photo from the jury?”

  “Objection!” Gondeck practically yelled.

  Ha
ving anticipated this, Marc innocently looked at the judge and said, “Your Honor, the state made no effort to present this photo to the jury and I am merely asking the state’s witness, the one who took the picture, if he knows why the prosecution tried to keep it from the jury.” This statement, which Marc had actually rehearsed to get it just right, elicited an audible stirring from the gallery and several jurors turned their heads toward Gondeck with disapproving looks.

  “All right, Mr. Kadella, that’s quite enough,” Judge Rios admonished him. “However,” she continued, “I am going to overrule the objection. The witness can answer.”

  By this point, Mikan had lost track of what the question was so Marc gleefully had the court reporter read it back to him. This caused Jennifer Moore to slump down in her chair and Gondeck to think, great, let’s let the jury hear it again!

  “No, I don’t know why.”

  “I have nothing further, your Honor,” Marc said, having scored about all he could hope from this witness.

  Gondeck, fearing more damage, declined to redirect the witness. At that point, Judge Rios broke for lunch.

  When Marc returned to the defense table, Prentiss was actually smiling and grabbed Marc’s right hand and pumped it several times. “That was really good,” he beamed.

  “Relax, Judge,” Marc said extracting his hand. “They still have a picture of you lying on your wife, covered in her blood with your hand on the handle of the knife sticking out of her chest. What I just did is a card trick compared to that. We’ll keep fighting and poke some holes in their case but,” he shrugged, “don’t get too high or too low.”

  “You’re right of course.”

  “I’ll see you after lunch.”

  SEVENTY-TWO

  The afternoon session began with a fingerprint expert from the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Amanda Evans was called to the stand to be questioned by Jennifer Moore. Amanda looked to be anything but a bookish, technically-oriented, criminal evidence analyst. A petite, pretty blonde in her late forties, Amanda had turned down job offers from all over the country, including the FBI, in order to stay close to home and family. She had been with the state BCA for twenty years and what Amanda had to say about a set of prints was the final word on the subject.

  Her sole purpose was to verify that the prints on the handle of the knife were Gordon Prentiss’ and there were no other prints on the murder weapon.

  Jennifer Moore walked her through her credentials establishing Amanda to the jury as a credible expert. Amanda had testified in hundreds of trials over the years and could easily testify without any help from the prosecution.

  Marc sat quietly listening to it all, marveling at the absurdity of it. The jury had a picture of Gordon holding the knife which made his fingerprints on it quite obvious. Marc also knew that it was necessary for the prosecution to show there were no other prints on the knife, only those of the accused.

  Amanda’s testimony took a little more than an hour. Before trial, Marc had been willing to stipulate to Prentiss’ fingerprints being on the knife but the prosecution would not agree. It could not hurt their case to have this extremely competent, highly credentialed expert explain it to the jury. Plus, Amanda was one of those rare expert witnesses that connected with jurors on a personal level. Unlike most experts at trial, she was able to explain it all to a jury, using pictures and slides of the prints put up on the screen. Even though he had heard it all before, Marc still enjoyed watching Amanda testify.

  Marc declined to cross-examine her and Judge Rios ordered a break.

  “You could’ve come up with something to cross-examine her about,” Prentiss growled at Marc.

  “We’ve been through this. I’ve told you before, that would only alienate the jury. Plus, it would give her an opportunity to even more emphatically state that yours are the only prints on the knife. Let her say it once, then move on.”

  After the break, it was the turn of the medical examiner who had conducted the autopsy, Dr. Joel Alfred. If Amanda Evans was a dream witness in that she could do it in her sleep, Dr. Alfred was a nightmare. Despite fifteen years as an M.E. testifying was not his forte. A short, stocky, mostly bald man in his mid-forties, he came across as anything but a smooth professional. His problem was, despite the fact he had testified too many times to count, it simply made him very nervous. What saved him was that underneath that somewhat slovenly exterior was a very bright, almost genius level mind and a nearly photographic memory. Dr. Alfred could remember minute details of autopsies he had performed years ago and could recall those details in an instant.

  In spite of his remarkable mind and memory, because of his borderline glossophobia, it took Jennifer Moore almost three hours to go over his testimony. As ridiculous as it might seem, his testimony was a legal necessity. He was the one that had to establish for the jury that Catherine Prentiss was dead and the knife they had all seen sticking out of her chest was the cause of her death. Finally, just before six o’clock, an exhausted Jennifer Moore turned the doctor over to Marc for cross-exam.

  This witness had almost nothing he could offer to help Marc’s case. His direct testimony, though long, fractured, tedious and mostly boring, had clearly established a significant element of the crimes charged. Dr. Alfred had also irrefutably made it clear that the knife entered her chest and severed her aorta at a downward thrust, indicating that she was stabbed by someone taller than herself.

  Marc could have easily passed and not questioned him at all. Instead, being a little bored with the day’s testimony, he decided to have a little sport with the nervous doctor. Marc put his left elbow on the table, leaned forward and put his chin in the palm of his left hand. He sat this way, staring directly at the doctor who actually started to shake, squirm and sweat more than he already had. All the while Marc had all he could do not to start laughing at the man’s discomfort.

  After a full minute of this, during which there was absolute silence in the courtroom, Judge Rios finally said, “Mr. Kadella, do you have any questions for this witness?”

  “Just one, your Honor,” he answered her as he relaxed in his chair.

  “Dr. Alfred, from the results of your autopsy and examination, isn’t it true that you cannot testify as to how that knife got in Catherine Prentiss’s chest, can you?”

  The pathologist, after realizing that Marc wasn’t going to attack him and had only one question, gladly, almost gleefully, answered, “Oh no, I mean yes, I mean, um, ah, that is, you’re absolutely right, I, I, ah, have no idea how the knife got there.”

  “Is that a yes, to my question, Dr. Alfred?” Marc politely asked.

  “Yes, yes it is.”

  After that brief exchange, the judge again warned the jury to avoid watching or reading any news stories about the case and adjourned for the day.

  Later that night, Marc and Margaret Tennant were relaxing on the couch watching a replay of that day’s showing of The Court Reporter. Gabriella was again on the north side courtyard facing Fifth Street reporting the day’s highlights. She made a special effort to relay to Melinda’s audience Marc’s ability to show the jury that the prosecution tried to keep something from them.

  “Yeah, great,” Melinda said with obvious distaste. “A tricky lawyer trying to confuse the jury with irrelevant nonsense. His client’s guilty and he knows it. Kadella should be ashamed of himself.”

  “Maybe, Melinda,” Gabriella said. “But his client deserves to be defended and I thought what he did was a very clever piece of lawyering.”

  “Be careful, Gabriella,” Melinda said with a laugh. “Don’t go over to the dark side.”

  At that point, the show went to a commercial and Marc snapped his fingers and said, “Now I remember what’s been bugging me about Gabriella.”

  “It’s Gabriella, now?” Margaret said sternly looking at him with arched eyebrows. “When did the two of you get on a first name basis?”

  “Oh, c’mon. Give me a break. Her name’s Gabriella…”

&nb
sp; “You are so easy to rattle when it comes to her,” Margaret laughed.

  “Now I’m not going to tell you what I remembered.”

  “Oh, c’mon tell me,” she said poking him in the ribs.

  He looked at her and said, “I’m never going to hear the end of this. I can see that already, but I can’t help it.”

  “What?”

  “It just popped into my head. Remember that old song from the sixties, Temptation Eyes?”

  “Yeah, a little. Why?”

  “I heard it on the radio the other day and I’ve been trying to remember who the song reminded me of?”

  “And it wasn’t me?” she said giving him a sour look.

  “Um, ah well, yeah, but um…”

  “Nice try, buster,” Margaret laughed. “Besides, you’re right, she does have temptation eyes.”

  SEVENTY-THREE

  The Corwin family Gulfstream V eased up to the private passenger jet area at Reagan National with its single passenger. The two-hour flight from the downtown airport in St. Paul had been as smooth as silk, which was always a relief to the pilots; especially when the passenger was the Grand Old Lady herself.

  Vivian Donahue was at the exit door before the sleek jet had come to a complete stop. The co-pilot, John Schuler, was already waiting for her at the door and popped it open as soon as the jet stopped. Vivian, as always, took a moment to thank the two men for another pleasant flight, then descended the stairs and walked toward the waiting limousine.

  “Welcome to Washington, Mrs. Donahue,” greeted the genial, almost obsequious, middle-aged man who held the car door for her as she approached.

  “And who are you?” she pleasantly asked.

  “Donald Drummond, Mrs. Donahue. I’m a Deputy Assistant Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security. The secretary sent me to transport you to your meeting with him this morning.”