[Marc Kadella 02.0] Desperate Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “Thank you, Mr. Drummond,” she said as she entered the back seat.

  With that Drummond quietly closed the car door behind her then ran around to the front passenger seat and climbed in. He didn’t know who this elegant, attractive woman was, but if the secretary himself dispatched limo and driver for her, Drummond would do all he could to make her happy.

  The driver pulled into the secure underground parking garage of the headquarters building of the Department of Homeland Security. The driver stopped by the elevators and let his two passengers exit before driving off to park. Drummond escorted Vivian up to the secretary’s palatial office and informed the head of Homeland Security she had arrived. Before Vivian had a chance to take a seat in the reception area, she was shown into the office for her prearranged meeting.

  “Hello, Vivian. It’s great to see you again. You look as beautiful as ever,” Henry Wilson, the Secretary of Homeland Security said as he walked across the plush carpet to greet her. Wilson was a career politician about ten years younger than Vivian. Due to her genes and his alcohol-fueled Washington lifestyle, he looked at least ten years older.

  First elected to Congress from Madison, Wisconsin at the age of thirty, the liberal Democrat and hardcore party-man had, at best, a mediocre career in the House and Senate and his reward was the office he now held.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Henry,” she replied as the two of them shook hands.

  As he led her to one of his couches by the large bay window looking out on D.C., he said, “Let me introduce Cameron Barnes and Anderson Kennedy. They’ll be sitting in our meeting today.”

  Both men had been seated on the couch opposite the one Vivian had been led to by Secretary Wilson. They both stood when she entered the room.

  As Vivian reached across the glass-covered coffee table between the two couches to shake the men’s hands, she smiled slightly and said, “And why is there a Deputy Director of both the CIA and the FBI joining us today, Henry?”

  The secretary, obviously a bit startled that Vivian would know who the two men were, replied, “Well, um, given the subject I believe you’re here to discuss, I thought they might be helpful.”

  “And what subject is that, Henry?” she asked after sitting down while the three, somewhat embarrassed men, took their seats as well.

  “Um, well…” Wilson stammered looking at the two professionals for a little help.

  “Mrs. Donahue, may I call you Vivian?” Anderson Kennedy, the Deputy Director of the FBI asked as he leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together.

  “No, you may not,” Vivian icily replied.

  “Very well,” an admonished Kennedy said. “We know that you, or more accurately, a private investigator acting on your behalf, have been looking into a certain individual…”

  “Leo Balkus,” Vivian said interrupting the FBI agent. “Let’s use his name, shall we?”

  “Okay, Leo Balkus,” Kennedy said. “At any rate, we want to know why you are interested in this man.”

  “You first. Why are you so obviously protecting him?” Vivian asked.

  “Who says we are?” Kennedy said.

  “Henry,” Vivian began as she turned toward Wilson. “I came here today because I thought you’d be straight with me. Clearly, that is not going to happen.”

  “A word of advice, Vivian,” Wilson said. “Leave this alone. I could get a National Security finding…”

  “What did you just say? Are you trying to threaten me, Henry Wilson?” a clearly aggravated Vivian Donahue said as both Kennedy and Barnes sat back and rolled their eyes at the stupidity of Wilson’s remark.

  “No, of course not,” a chastened Wilson said, quickly backtracking.

  “If I may, Secretary Wilson,” the CIA man said realizing it was time to step in and end this. “Mrs. Donahue, with all due respect, I’m afraid you’ve flown here for nothing. None of us have any idea who this Leo Balkus is and if we did, we certainly could not discuss it with you. Please accept my apology, but I’m afraid that will have to be the final word.”

  A startled Vivian Donahue sat up straight, looked back and forth between the three men while thinking over what she had heard. “Thank you for your candor, Mr. Barnes. I mean that. You have just verified for me everything I wanted to know. As for you, Secretary Wilson,” she continued as she turned back to look at the head of DHS, “your political career is now officially over.”

  “Vivian, be reasonable,” Wilson tried to say.

  “Reasonable? You are asking me to be reasonable? You drop this verminous sociopath in the middle of a basically decent community, turn him lose on that unsuspecting population, allow him to become a murderous, drug-dealing, pimp then protect him…”

  “There is no proof…” the FBI Deputy Director tried to interject.

  “Because you idiots cover up for him,” Vivian said glaring at Kennedy. “And do not interrupt me again!” She turned back to Wilson and finished by saying, “You now have the nerve to tell me to be reasonable. Tell me something; isn’t it your job to protect the citizens of this country?”

  “Vivian, there are larger, national security issues at stake and I cannot tell you more than that,” Wilson said avoiding the glaring look he was receiving from her.

  “Henry, if I wasn’t a lady, right about now I would say: fuck you. Thank you, gentlemen, it’s been quite enlightening. Fetch my car, Henry, and be quick about it,” she said as if speaking to a servant and not a high ranking cabinet member. “I’m leaving.”

  Twenty minutes after the Gulfstream V was airborne heading north along the eastern seaboard, Vivian used the plane’s intercom to ask the co-pilot to come back so she could ask him something.

  “Do either of you have a cell phone I can use?” she asked.

  “Well, ma’am, you can use the plane’s phone,” he answered her, somewhat confused.

  “I don’t want to use that phone or my own for the call I need to make. If you don’t mind…”

  “Certainly. No problem. Let me get it for you.”

  A minute later, Vivian heard a familiar voice answer her call. She quickly and cryptically explained that she wanted to meet him and the time and place, keeping the call short in case the government was trying to listen in. She ended the call without using her name or Dante’s.

  An hour after departing from Reagan National, Vivian was in the back seat of another limo being taken to another meeting. They had landed at Teterboro, New Jersey to avoid New York and she was on her way to a very modest Italian restaurant that served excellent food and complete discretion.

  “So, these three mooks in Washington stonewalled you,” Dante said, a statement, not a question. The two of them were in a private room guarded by two swarthy looking, somewhat large gentlemen who were friends of Dante. The room had been unnecessarily swept for listening devices, Dante had ordered for them both and Vivian told him about her meeting. “Which tells me something loud and clear; the government is protecting this Balkus jamoke for some reason.”

  “Clearly,” Vivian agreed.

  “And your source in Minnesota says Balkus is from Russia. He’s sure?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “If that’s true, then Leo Balkus may be very important. But I showed his picture to anyone and everyone. If he was an important defector of some kind, someone would know.”

  “Which leaves us where?”

  “Apparently, I need to trace this back to the Motherland. And I know just who to contact.”

  “Are you sure this will be okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. Now they’ve got me curious. Let’s have lunch, then you can go home and I’ll see what I can find out.”

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  “Everything is fine, Leo,” Conrad Hilton told him as he began to pack up his equipment. Conrad was finishing his sweep of Leo’s office for any “bugs” and had found none. None that is except the one he himself had installed to keep track of any suspicions Leo might have regarding Co
nrad and the help he had given Bruce Dolan. So far, the listening device had presented him with no cause for concern.

  “Great, thanks, Conrad. Pay him,” Leo told Ike Pitts. Ike peeled five one hundred dollar bills from a roll of cash in his pocket, handed them to Conrad who quietly slipped out of Leo’s office.

  Leo and Ike were relaxing in Leo’s office watching the TV. They were watching the live afternoon showing of The Court Reporter. The on-site reporter, Gabriella Shriqui, was reporting that day’s news of the Prentiss trial. Leo was sitting at his desk, his feet up on it, admiring his new Italian loafers. Ike was sitting in front of the TV, admiring Gabriella when he said, “Man, what I could do to that chick to make her smile.”

  “Yeah?” Leo answered. “What would that be besides not getting within a hundred yards of her?”

  “Kiss my ass,” Ike said which elicited a loud laugh from Leo.

  Leo’s private office phone rang and Leo told Ike to get it. Ike picked up the handle of the phone, listened for a minute, said, “Bring him here,” and abruptly hung up.

  “What?’

  “That was Larry, the guy that runs our South Minneapolis book. Says he has a guy with some serious information about Bruce Dolan and didn’t want to talk on the phone. He’ll be here in about ten minutes.”

  Ten minutes later, Ike opened the door for the man on the phone who entered, followed by a young, white kid in his early twenties wearing jeans and a Vikings pullover shirt. Larry introduced the young man to Leo and Ike, then said, “Okay, Tommy, tell Mr. Balkus what you told me.”

  Tommy and Larry had taken the chairs in front of Leo’s desk. Ike stood off to one side and an obviously nervous Tommy began with, “Well, see, Mr. Balkus. I was on grand jury duty last week and the Hennepin County Attorney brought in a case for us to consider.”

  “Relax, kid. You’re among friends here,” Larry told him.

  “I could get in a lot of trouble for this, Mr. Balkus.”

  “Don’t give it another thought. What’s said in this room, stays in this room,” Leo assured him. “What case did they bring to you?”

  “About Bruce Dolan. A lawyer. Anyway, I didn’t know this guy from Adam, but the county attorney has a DVD and he shows it to us. This Dolan guy and another guy, that judge that’s on trial, are talking into the camera about stuff Dolan took from you and sold to that judge dude. I mean, it was a complete confession. Dolan was blackmailing this judge with pictures and they admitted he got the stuff from you. I wasn’t sure what to do, but Larry here,” he continued nodding at the man who brought him, “convinced me to come see you and tell you this.”

  “That sonofa…” Ike started to say but stopped when Leo held up a hand.

  “Did the grand jury indict?” Leo asked.

  “Yeah, for, ah, conspiracy, theft and extortion and I think maybe one or two other things.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last Friday.”

  “Take him out in the bar and get him a drink,” Leo said to Ike.

  When they left, Leo asked Larry, “How reliable is this kid?”

  “I think he’s straight,” Larry shrugged. “He’s placed a few bets with us. Never much. Wins a little, loses a little. Doesn’t seem to bet more than he can afford. Never gets in too deep and always pays.”

  The two of them talked for a few more minutes, mostly about everybody keeping quiet about this. Finally, Leo told the bookie to get the kid and bring him and Ike back in.

  Tommy sat back down in the same chair he had before as Leo reached in a desk drawer. Leo pulled out a metal box, opened it, counted out ten one hundred dollar bills and handed them to Tommy.

  Leo leaned on the desktop, sternly looked at the young man and said, “You did good kid. Now be smart. You were never here, never talked to me and you don’t know nothing about nothing. Got it?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Balkus.”

  Larry led the young man out and Leo said to Ike, “Here’s what we’ll do. You call Dolan and tell him I want to see him tonight, ten o’clock, his office. Tell him that’s the only time I can make it. You call Artie to get in that building and shut down all of the security at 9:45. When you’re done with that, you call John Hutton and tell him to get his ass here now.”

  As soon as Leo said that, his private line rang and Ike picked it up. He listened, then said, “Leo’s here now. Come on by. We’ll be here, John.”

  Ike hung up the phone and said, “Speak of the Devil, John Hutton will be here in an hour.”

  “And he better have a good excuse for why I had to hear this from this kid.”

  An hour later, Ike led Hutton into Leo’s office from the bar. Leo was at his desk and said, “Have a seat, John.”

  “I’ll stand. I won’t be here long. I have something for you. With this, we’re done.”

  “I’ll decide when…”

  “No, you won’t,” Hutton said forcefully. “Here’s a DVD,” he continued as he removed the disk from his inside coat pocket, holding it with a handkerchief. “I’ve wiped it clean so no prints of mine are on it. I’ve written up a complete history of our arrangement. If anything happens to me or my family, it and a copy of this disk goes to the cops. If I hear from you again, even if it ruins me, it goes to the cops. After you see this, you’re going to kill Bruce Dolan. I’m sorry about that, but I have to use this to get out from under your thumb. With what I have written up and this disk, if the county attorney’s office gets their hands on it, they’ll convict you of Dolan’s murder. So that’s it. I’m gone.”

  With that John Hutton turned and as bravely as possible, walked out of Leo’s office and back to his life to try to live with the knowledge he had just helped murder Bruce Dolan.

  Later that evening, shortly before ten o’clock, Conrad Hilton, alone in his basement, was listening to the recording his eavesdropping device had received from Leo’s office. By the time he finished, the blood had drained from his face, sweat was pouring down his forehead and his hands were trembling uncontrollably. What he had just heard was not only Dolan’s death sentence but his own as well. Conrad knew all Leo had to do was confront Dolan and he would tell Leo about Conrad’s involvement in an attempt to save himself.

  Conrad looked at his watch and believing Leo and his sadistic little sycophant, Ike Pitts, were already on their way to get him, ran to his bedroom, threw as much clothing into a bag as he could, grabbed all of his money and was out the door, in his van and gone by 10:15.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  Marc Kadella, after three attempts, finally got the knot in his tie just the way he wanted it. Appearance in front of a jury wasn’t the most important thing. A good looking lawyer will not win his or her client’s case on that alone. But a sloppy, slovenly, poorly dressed one just might lose it. A jury won’t hold it against you if you are not born physically attractive. That doesn’t mean you have to dress poorly and come across as careless, unprepared or, worst of all, indifferent to what jurors think of you. “Look, dress and act like a professional”, a judge once told Marc in law school.

  Marc was taking one last look in the bathroom mirror the morning of the third day of testimony when his phone went off. He quickly walked into his apartment bedroom wondering who was calling at 8:00 A.M.

  “This is Marc,” he answered.

  “Mr. Kadella, this is your office answering service. We just got a call from the Hennepin County jail. The man calling said it was important and asked us to have you call back right away.” The young woman gave Marc the name of the deputy who called and a call back number.

  The deputy answered Marc’s call on the first ring and quickly told Marc that Judge Prentiss had been attacked in the bathroom that morning. Another inmate had tried to stab him with a makeshift plastic knife. Fortunately, a pair of deputies entered the room in time to stop it and Marc’s client had not been hurt.

  “Is he still at the jail or was he taken to Hennepin County Medical Center?”

  “He’s still here. He was a little shook up
but otherwise unhurt. We offered to take him to the hospital, but he refused. He asked us to call you. He’s in protective lock-up now.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Maybe twenty minutes.”

  In the car on the way downtown, Marc called the office of the county attorney to see if he could track down Steve Gondeck. After being on hold for a couple of minutes while he crawled along through traffic, Gondeck came on the line.

  “I heard,” was the first thing Gondeck said.

  “I want him in protective custody now, Steve,” Marc calmly replied.

  “Sure, no problem. I’ll see to it personally. Um, Marc,” he continued. “It gets worse.”

  “How so?”

  “Bruce Dolan was found this morning in his office. Two small caliber bullet holes in his forehead.”

  “Dolan’s dead? Holy shit!”

  “Yeah. The crime scene guys are there now…”

  “Wow, no shit. Dolan. What does this have to do with Prentiss?”

  “I’m not sure if anything. Look, after you’ve seen Prentiss, come up to my office. I have to show you something. I’ll call Rios and tell her what’s going on and we’ll be late.”

  “What the hell is going on, Steve?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. You’ll see when you get here.”

  Marc met with Prentiss and assured himself the judge was all right. He told Prentiss that Gondeck would put him under protective custody to keep him safe.

  “Bruce Dolan was found dead today,” he abruptly told Prentiss while Marc looked for a response.

  “Are you serious? How did he die?” an ashen-faced, startled Prentiss responded.

  “Shot to death in his office. I don’t have the details. Do you know anything about it?”

  “How would I know anything about it?” Prentiss answered, shifting his eyes enough for Marc to notice.

  “I don’t know. It just seems a little too coincidental he gets killed the same time you get attacked.”

  “Bruce Dolan was a criminal defense lawyer who probably has a long list of disgruntled ex-clients,” Prentiss almost arrogantly stated as he regained control of himself.