[Lady Justice 22] - Lady Justice and the Conspiracy Trial

by Robert Thornhill

  For obvious reasons, they just weren’t buying the ‘serious’ part.

  “I love it,” Jerry said. “I’m on my way to amateur night at the Comedy Club. I’m doing some Rodney Dangerfield stuff, so this fits perfectly.”

  He paused for a moment. “I knew a girl so ugly they used her in prisons to cure sex offenders. The last time I saw a mouth like that, it had a hook in it.”

  “Okay, enough! I’d love to hang around and continue to be humiliated, but I have important work to do at the Foxy Lady. I’m out of here.”

  “Ooooh,” Jerry cooed. “The Foxy Lady, a drag bar. I’ve got some good icebreakers for you. What do you call a transvestite cow? A Dairy Queen, of course. What do you call a marathon where all the runners are transvestites? A drag race.”

  “Thanks for the support,” I mumbled, hobbling down the stairs in my two inch heels.

  Dad called out, “I’d say ‘break a leg,’ but you’re probably going to do that anyway.”

  As I drove north on Troost, I recalled my previous encounters with the LGBT community. In addition to my previous dalliance at the Foxy Lady, Vince Spaulding, another member of the City Retiree Action Patrol, and I, were sent undercover at the Cozy Corner, a gay bar in midtown. We were completely out of our element, but fortunately, we met Larry and Mike who took us under their wings.

  We became friends, and in fact, if it wasn’t for them, Ox and I would have been blown to bits when the Avenging Angels bombed the Gay Pride Parade a few years ago.

  I have always been a ‘live and let live’ kind of guy. I have never been judgmental of other people’s lifestyles. Lord knows I have enough quirks of my own. I find it difficult to understand why I’m ridiculed because the only kind of wine I like is Arbor Mist. Maybe that’s not quite in the same ballpark, so to speak, but you get the idea.

  Those were the thoughts running through my head as I parked a block and a half from the Foxy Lady.

  The dimly lit bar was pretty much as I had remembered it. On my first visit, I expected to see drag queens in sequin dresses and feather boas, but I soon learned that such extravagance was only found at the fancy clubs like the old Jewel Box Lounge.

  I took a seat at the bar and ordered a margarita, one of the few alcoholic drinks I could tolerate, and on most occasions it was usually accompanied by a taco. I figured I should nurse it slowly. On the rare occasions when I’ve had two, Maggie had to drive home. To say I’m a lightweight would be an understatement.

  Most of the patrons were couples huddled together at tables or occasionally on the dance floor. There were a few singles like myself scattered around the bar.

  I had been there for about an hour when an old guy who looked like Marjorie Main from the old Ma & Pa Kettle movies slipped onto the bar stool beside me.

  “Buy you a drink?” he asked.

  Since I had been nursing my margarita, my glass was still half full.

  “No thanks, I’m good,” I replied trying to be polite.

  “How about a dance?”

  “Don’t dance,” I replied. “Two left feet.”

  Not to be deterred, he pressed on. “Do you believe in the hereafter?”

  I recognized the line right away. It was from a Ruth Buzzi skit on Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In show from the late 1960’s. He was definitely old enough to have seen it in person. I figured I should let him have his fun.

  “Why, of course I believe in the hereafter.”

  He didn’t skip a beat. “Then you probably know what I’m here after.”

  I tried to let guy down easy. “I’m sure you’re a nice --- ahhh --- person, but I’m just not interested.”

  A look of disgust came over his face. “Really? I was trying to do you a favor. You’re not exactly setting the bar real high you know.”

  I was through being nice. “Maybe not, but I’m not desperate enough to hook up with you. Now beat it!”

  As he slid off the bar stool, he turned and gave me the finger.

  “Is that your mental age or IQ?” I shot back. Real mature.

  A moment later, I heard snickering in my earbud. I had forgotten that Ox and Kevin could hear everything being said. I just hoped they weren’t recording it.

  “Real smooth, Walt,” Kevin quipped. “Playing hard to get, I see.”

  Evidently the other singles in the bar had seen my exchange with Ma Kettle and maybe figured it was my time of the month. No one else approached me the rest of the evening.

  At nine-thirty, I whispered, “Maybe we should call it a night. There’s nothing left of my margarita but melted ice and the bartender has asked me four times if I wanted another. I may be wearing out my welcome.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Ox replied. “When you leave, don’t be in a hurry to get to your car. Give the perp time to make his move.”

  “Will do.”

  My butt was asleep from sitting on the barstool for three hours and my legs were in a cramp. I’m sure I was a pathetic sight wobbling to the door in my two inch heels.

  I stepped out into the night, yawned, stretched, and made my way slowly to my car. I tried to be oblivious to what was going on around me, but it was hard not to sneak a peek down the dark alleys I passed.

  I just had to be confident that if I was accosted, Ox and Kevin would be Johnny on the spot.

  Much to my disappointment, I reached my car without incident. I had hoped the perp would attack. I really didn’t want to spend another night at the Foxy Lady.

  I rummaged around in my purse as long as I could and actually dropped my keys, hoping to give the perp ample opportunity to strike, but no such luck.

  Once safely in my car, Ox said, “Too bad. Let’s pack it in for tonight. Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”

  We said our good byes and headed for home.

  I was fortunate to find a parking spot in front of our building. I was really pooped and my feet hurt from hobbling around in those ungodly shoes. I was anxious to wash all the gunk off my face in a hot shower and hit the hay.

  I stepped out of my car and had just hit the lock button on my key fob when I felt something hard pressed against my back.

  “Put your hands behind your back and don’t move or this ends right here. Understand?”

  The perp had changed his M.O. Instead of hitting me at the club, he had followed me home.

  Not wanting to be found dead in a dress and wig, I readily complied. The perp bound my hands with a plastic tie and shoved me toward a car idling a half block away.

  He opened the back door and shoved me inside.

  “You’re all mine, faggot, and now you’re gonna pay.”

  My heart sank as he pulled away from the curb. Once I had said good night to Ox and Kevin, I disconnected my wire. The perp had me and nobody knew. I was on my own.

  Jerry the Joker had just returned from his gig at the Comedy Club. All the spots in front of the building were taken, so he parked a block away.

  He was halfway home when he saw Walt, still in drag, get out of his car. He was about to call out when he saw another figure accost Walt and press a shiny object against his back. He watched, horrified, as the man secured Walt’s hands and pushed him in the opposite direction to a waiting car.

  He knew immediately that something had gone terribly wrong with Walt’s undercover operation.

  He pulled out his cell. “John, something terrible has happened. Someone’s taken Walt at gunpoint and they’re about to drive away.”

  “Follow them, Jerry, and for God’s sake, don’t lose them. I’ll get my pants on and be right behind you. As soon as I’m in my car, I’ll call and get directions. In the meantime, call Ox and tell him to get his ass in gear.”

  The moment John Williams pulled away from the curb, he dialed Jerry. “Where are you?”

  “Heading east on Armour, almost to Paseo.”

  “Did you get ahold of Ox?”

  “He’s coming, but he’s at least fifteen minutes behind us.”

  “Shit! We’ve
got to do something. Walt may not have fifteen minutes. Where are you now?”

  “South on Paseo. The guy just pulled up in front of an apartment building at 4001 and they’re going inside.”

  “Follow them, find out which apartment and wait for me. Oh, and call Ox and give him the address.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “No time. Just do as I say.”

  As we were driving, I thought about the perp’s words, “You’re gonna pay.”

  “You said that I’m going to pay for something. Do you mind telling me exactly what I’m paying for?”

  “Are you kidding? Just look at yourself. You’re a man, for chrissakes, and you’re dressed like a two-bit hooker.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you upset because you think I’m a hooker or because of my clothes?”

  “The get-up, of course. I got nothin’ against hookers.”

  That was good to know.

  “So why is my outfit so offensive to you? I’m not hurting anyone.”

  “It hurts me. Barbara Walters’ ‘Most Fascinating Person of 2015,’ Time Magazine’s ‘Person of the Year.’ Give me a break.”

  Then it hit me, Bruce Jenner’s transition to Caitlyn was definitely his hot button.

  I was about to pursue the subject when we pulled up in front of an apartment building on Paseo.

  “Okay, out,” he ordered, “and no funny stuff or I’ll ice you right where you stand.”

  Naturally, I complied.

  Once inside, he bound me to a wooden chair and produced a straight-edge razor like barbers use.

  “So, you guys want to be women? Well I’m going to help you with that. After all, you can’t be a real gal with all that junk between your legs. I’m going to take care of that for you.”

  Seeing the sharp razor and hearing its intended use made my hiney pucker.

  I tried to stall for time.

  “I just don’t get it. Why is this cross-dressing thing so difficult for you?”

  “It’s an abomination. It says so in the Bible.”

  After seeing the guy and his apartment, I seriously doubted he was a Bible-toting zealot.

  “So you believe everything in the Bible.”

  “Well, sure.”

  “I think it says somewhere in there you’re not supposed to eat pork, and I see a can of Spam on your counter.”

  He looked confused.

  “The Good Book also says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Surely you know that if you do what you said, I’ll bleed to death. So do you believe the Bible, or not?”

  “I --- I don’t know. You’re messing with me and I don’t like it.”

  “Look, uhhh, gee I don’t even know your name.”

  “Jerome. It’s Jerome.”

  “Look Jerome. I think I know what’s bothering you. I’ll bet Bruce Jenner, the Olympic athlete, was a hero of yours. I’ll bet you even had the Wheaties box with his picture on it. Then he got hooked up with the Kardashians and ultimately wound up as Caitlyn. That had to be hard for you.”

  I saw a tear glisten in his eye. “Yeah, it was.”

  “You’re not alone, Jerome. People are just people and sometimes our heroes let us down. Pete Rose was one of the greatest ballplayers of all time and he turned out to be a gambler. Does that mean we should start mugging ballplayers? Lance Armstrong won the Tour De France seven times and was stripped of his titles for doping. Should we start running all bikers off the road? It looks like our beloved Bill Cosby was a pervert. Should we start whacking all black men and comedians, or just black comedians? See what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah, I see what you’re doing, all right, but it don’t change nothin’. I got a job to do and I’m gonna do it.”

  He came at me and lifted my skirt and I figured I was about to part ways with Mr. Winkie and the boys, when there was a knock on the door.

  “Go away!” he shouted.

  “It’s the pizza guy,” came the muffled reply.

  “I didn’t order no pizza. Now go away!”

  “That’s not what it says here. If I don’t deliver this pizza I’m in big trouble. I might even get fired. Help me out here.”

  “Aww, shit,” Jerome muttered. “You don’t say a word or the pizza guy gets it too. Understand?”

  I nodded.

  Jerome opened the door and I distinctly heard my father’s voice. “That’ll be twelve dollars, please.”

  “But I didn’t order no pizza.”

  “Isn’t this 4001 Paseo, apartment 2B? Well somebody from here ordered a pizza. I guess it’s the age old question, 2B or not 2B.”

  Leave it to my dad to quote Hamlet at a time like this.

  “If I buy the damned pizza, will you go away?”

  “Of course. I’m just a delivery guy trying to do my job.”

  “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

  Jerome went into another room and I heard him rummaging around.

  Soon, he returned. “Here’s twelve bucks. Now beat it!”

  “What? No tip? Look, man, I’m just trying to earn a living. I got rent, a car payment. You know how it is. Can’t you spring for a few bucks?”

  I could see the steam coming from Jerome as he stomped back into his bedroom.

  When he returned, he found himself staring down the barrel of Ox’s .45.

  My dad had stalled him just long enough.

  After I had been freed and Jerome was in cuffs, Ox looked at the pizza box.

  “Papa John’s Pizza. Poetic justice. Walt’s Papa, John, used a Papa John to save his kid. I love it!”

  I was glad it was over and I vowed I’d never dress in drag again. Ox reminded me that was what I said the last time.

  It wasn’t what we had planned, but the good guys won again.

  Lady Justice works in mysterious ways.

  CHAPTER 3

  Seeing a wacko come at your private parts with a straight razor can be quite unnerving, and having just endured such an experience, my plan was to lay low for a few days and decompress.

  I didn’t have that luxury when I was a cop. I was expected to be back on my beat the next day. Crime never takes a holiday.

  That was one of the reasons I turned in my badge and opened my own P.I. business. No pressure. I am my own boss and if I want to take a few days off, well, who cares?

  But it wasn’t to be.

  I had just crawled out of bed and was about to have my first cup of coffee and read the morning paper when the phone rang.

  “Walt? Kevin here. Ox told me about your little adventure last night. Well done. Glad you’re okay.”

  “Thanks, I ----.”

  “Listen,” he interrupted, “if you’re not doing anything today, let’s hop up to the K.C. Expo Center. The Gun & Knife Show opens this morning and I need to stock up on some ammo. You probably do too.”

  “Well, actually ---.”

  “Good! I’ll pick you up in a half hour.”

  The line went dead.

  “Well, crap!” I muttered. “So much for a quiet day at home.”

  I put my paper aside, wolfed down a bowl of Wheaties and had just dressed and brushed my teeth when I heard him pull up in front of the building and toot.

  As I slid into my seat, he said, “Should have called earlier. They’re expecting a big crowd today.”

  The Expo Center is near the K.C. International Airport, about forty-five minutes north of the city. I had attended one other gun show there several years ago. It is a HUGE building and a hundred or more vendors have tables set up selling everything from pocket knives to military assault rifles.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said, fishtailing away from the curb. “It’s a long ride up and back and I appreciate the company. Been needing to stock up on .45’s for my Glock and .40’s for my back-up. Are you needing ammo for that peashooter of yours?”

  When I joined the force five years ago, I discovered that most of the officers carried the Glock .45. It was just too much gun for me. I had a nine shot .22 cali
ber revolver that I had hunted with since I was a kid. I was comfortable with the .22 and qualified easily with it. I was able to convince my captain that it would be much better to hit my target with a .22 than miss with a .45.

  Needless to say, I was ribbed unmercifully by my fellow officers. They had been trained that if they had to shoot, they were to shoot to kill. They were quick to point out that if I was being attacked by some dope head high on PCP, my .22 would probably just piss him off, while a well- placed .45 would drop him in his tracks.

  Fortunately, I only had to use my gun a few times during my five years.

  The first time, I was in a dark basement being fired at by Lil’ D, a black gangbanger. When he charged, I fired and hit him in the left nut. Now I don’t care what the detractors say, if you shoot someone in the gonads with a .22 slug, it will get their attention.

  Every so often, I go to the firing range and pop off a box of shells just to keep in practice. After my last session, I was definitely low on ammo. I called Walmart and two gun stores, but there wasn’t a box to be found.

  “Yeah, I could use a few rounds. I hope they have .22’s. I haven’t been able to find them anywhere.”

  “If anybody has them, they will.”

  We just chatted about guy stuff and were soon near the airport.

  As we turned off the freeway onto the road that led to the Expo Center, Kevin let out a low whistle. “Holy crap!”

  Not only was the huge parking lot adjacent to the Expo Center completely full, so was the grassy field across the street. Cars were lined up along the road from the Center all the way back to the freeway.

  The show had opened at eight. It was just eight-thirty and hundreds of cars were scrambling for a place to park.

  Fortunately, Kevin had a four-wheel drive. He pulled over the curb and parked on a grassy knoll a quarter of a mile away from the entrance.

  “Looks like we hike.”

  At the entrance, a line had formed stretching fifty yards back. There was nothing to do but get in line and wait as it inched forward.

  As we stood there, I looked at the people in the growing crowd. I had expected to see redneck types in flannel shirts and overalls, and militia types wearing camo, and, sure enough they were there. But at least half the crowd were women and ordinary folks you might see at the bank or the supermarket.