[Marc Kadella 03.0] Media Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “She doesn’t admit to having a child on any of them.”

  Shannon thought about this for a moment then said, “I’m not sure that’s a big deal. She’s what, twenty-two? At that age would you advertise you had a kid on a first date?”

  “Yes, I would,” Kristin said. “But I see your point,” she agreed.

  Shannon stood up, stretched her back which was stiff from sitting still and staring at a computer screen for as long as she had, then said, “Let’s go. It’s time to meet with that girl, what’s-her-name…?”

  “Julia Day,” Kristin said.

  “Yeah, her. Let’s hear what she has to say.”

  TWELVE

  The Riley family waited patiently in the TV station’s reception area for Melinda Pace to come for them. They were an odd looking bunch. Brittany looked good. Her hair and makeup were done well and she was dressed casually but appropriately for a television appearance. Floyd was obviously uncomfortable in dress slacks and a white shirt, no tie but buttoned at the throat. Timmy looked a bit bored and sported a twenty-something disheveled look of Cargo pants, sneakers and a pullover golf shirt. And of course, his hair looked like he had just gotten out of bed. Barbara, however, looked as if she had just left Neiman Marcus with a stylish new hairdo and designer clothes down to her Jimmy Choo pumps.

  They had been waiting barely five minutes when the door opened next to the receptionist’s desk. All four of the Rileys looked at the door just as a pretty twenty-something, black woman in gray slacks and a navy blue blouse came through it. She walked up to Barbara, flashed a very charming smile and introduced herself as Cordelia Davis, an associate producer of Melinda’s show. After handshakes all around, she led the family through the building and into a conference room. They had barely taken their seats when Melinda came through the door, whirled around the table greeting each one by name, warmly shaking their hand and profusely thanking them for coming. Of, course, this attention by a legitimate TV star had its intended effect. Instead of taking the chair at the head of the table, Melinda took the chair in the middle directly opposite Barbara.

  “First of all,” Melinda began making eye contact with each of them, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about what’s happened. I can only imagine what you must be going through.

  “What I would like to do today,” she continued, “since we only have about sixteen minutes of air time is to first introduce each of you. Then, I’ll ask each some easy ‘How do you feel?’ questions to give each of you a chance to let the audience know what you are going through. Especially you, Brittany,” she finished looking directly at her.

  “If we could…” Barbara said.

  “What?” Melinda asked.

  “Well, we’re trying to get volunteers to start searching for Becky. There’s a large park in Dakota County, Lebanon Hills. We’d like to do a search of it, but we’ll need all of the volunteers we can get.”

  “Of course,” Melinda said. “That’s a great idea. We’ll see what we can do to help.”

  While this exchange was taking place, Cordelia was seated next to Melinda taking notes. She managed to maintain a neutral expression at the same time wondering what the normally cynical Melinda was up to.

  “Cordelia will take you to get ready. They’ll probably want to put a little makeup on you. The lights will give you a shiny face without it. Then we’ll bring you onto the set and start filming. Don’t worry about making a mistake. We’re not going live so we can edit the tape for the show. Okay?”

  “Melinda,” Cordelia asked when they were done filming the interview. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful but what are you doing?”

  Melinda, Cordelia and Robbie Nelson were watching the film of the Riley interview. Robbie was making notes about editing it down to sixteen minutes from the thirty-five minutes of filming that had been done. The problem he was having was, with the possible exception of Barbara, this was a pretty boring group of people.

  “I’m building rapport with this family,” Melinda answered Cordelia. “My instincts tell me there is something wrong here and it has to do with why Brittany didn’t report her daughter missing for ten days.”

  “I can get sixteen minutes of okay stuff, Melinda,” Robbie said. “But it’ll be twelve minutes of Barbara and four minutes of the rest of them.”

  “What’s up with the father, Floyd? He’s like a potted plant,” Cordelia said.

  “Two things,” Melinda began as Robbie stopped the tape and turned to Melinda to hear her answer a question he also had. “First, he’s a closet drunk. Trust me, I know the type. He sneaks his booze in small shots throughout the day. Second, and this is why he’s a drunk, his wife is a total control freak. And keep this to yourselves,” she whispered conspiratorially even though the three of them were alone, “Brittany knows more than she’s telling. From what I’m hearing from the sheriff’s office, I’m beginning to believe this boyfriend, this Bob Olson character, is a figment of her imagination.

  “But to answer your question, Cordelia, we’re going to stir this pot and be the driving force behind this investigation. Why are we going to do that?” she asked looking at Robbie.

  “To generate ratings,” Robbie answered.

  “Never, ever forget, Cordelia, that is always the only thing that really matters,” Melinda said. “Without them, we don’t get paid.”

  When Melinda got back to her private office, she called Gabriella Shriqui on her cell phone. Melinda asked to meet with her and Gabriella informed her she was in the building and would stop by right away.

  “What’s up?” Gabriella asked as she sat down on Melinda’s couch.

  Melinda, seated in a chair opposite Gabriella, told her about the interview with the Rileys, especially Barbara’s role. She went on to explain her suspicions about them and doubts about Brittany’s innocence.

  “Are you seeing your source in the sheriff’s office soon?” Melinda asked.

  “I don’t have anything set up but I could call him.”

  “I need to find out where the investigation is at.”

  “I talked to him yesterday and all he had was that they are in the initial stages of finding this guy, what’s-his-name…”

  “Bob Olson.”

  “Right, the boyfriend. Anyway, he really didn’t have anything. I’ve got a trial to cover in Washington County in Stillwater starting tomorrow. I could try to get a hold of my cop this afternoon. Maybe set something up for tonight or tomorrow.”

  “I need to pry Brittany away from her mother for an individual interview…”

  “My guy could probably help with that. I noticed last night they were maybe getting a little close.”

  “Brittany and your source?” Melinda asked.

  “Yeah. In fact, I think he might be trying to get in her pants. He’s a total pig.”

  “That would be perfect for us,” Melinda said.

  “Melinda! She’s a kid,” Gabriella came back at her.

  “She’s obviously old enough to know what she’s doing. I suppose you’re right, though. He shouldn’t be fooling around with a witness let alone a potential suspect. Find out what you can and get back to me.”

  Over the next several days the Rileys turned themselves into minor, yet sympathetic, celebrities. They were interviewed by every TV station’s news department and appeared on every local, daytime talk show. In addition, reporters from every newspaper in the state were clamoring for an in-depth interview.

  Initially, Barbara had planned this media campaign to keep interest in the search for Becky on the front pages. Also, they never failed to make a plea for volunteers to help in the search to be done on Saturday. After a couple of days, Barbara realized she enjoyed the attention and took to it like a fish to water. The culmination came when she watched herself and Floyd being interviewed by a well-known, highly respected, TV personality on CNN. The celebrity bug had definitely taken a bite out of Barbara.

  THIRTEEN

  Iceland Air flight 451 from London through R
eykjavik, Iceland was about an hour out of the Minneapolis-St. Paul International airport. Marc Kadella and his love, Margaret Tennant, were returning from a ten-day vacation. The two of them, seated in coach, had an empty seat in their row. This allowed Margaret to curl up and lie down with her head on a pillow in Marc’s lap and sleep for most of the flight home. Marc, who found it almost impossible to sleep on an airplane, was left with little to do after being forced to watch a terribly boring kid’s movie but contemplate their trip.

  Marc was a lawyer in private practice and as a sole-practitioner rented space in a suite of offices shared by other lawyers. His landlord, Connie Mickelson, a crusty, older woman working on her sixth marriage, did mostly family law and personal injury work. Also, there was Barry Cline, a man about Marc’s age, who was becoming modestly successful at business litigation. The fourth and final lawyer was Chris Grafton, a small business, corporate lawyer with a thriving practice who was a few years older than Marc and Barry.

  Marc was sandy-haired, blue-eyed of Scandinavian and Welsh ancestry. He was a little over six feet tall, in his mid-forties and the recently divorced father of two mostly grown children; his son, Eric, age nineteen and a daughter, Jessica, age eighteen. The vacation with Margaret was his first in years and became affordable when he received a very nice check from Connie Mickelson. Marc had referred a personal injury case to her for a client of his. The case had recently settled and the check was his portion of the attorney fees. A standard and quite ethical, practice among lawyers.

  He had needed the trip, despite the cost which would be over five thousand dollars for each of them. Marc had recently finished a highly publicized, stressful trial in which he had unsuccessfully represented a local judge for murdering his wife, a man whom Marc loathed and the feeling was reciprocated by his client.

  Margaret Tennant was the woman Marc had been exclusively involved with for well over a year. She was a few months younger than him, a very attractive woman of about average height who had done an excellent job of taking care of herself over the years.

  Margaret had divorced her first husband a self-absorbed investment banker with a lot of money of which Margaret had taken a healthy proportion. She was also successful on her own. A district court judge in Hennepin County, she had worked hard and had a well-deserved reputation as a fair, efficient and exceptional jurist.

  They had flown into Charles de Gaulle outside of Paris to begin their first extensive vacation together. The twelve-hour flight, which included a stop in New York, arrived in France at 7:00 A.M. and had given Marc his first real experience of jet lag by the time they arrived at their hotel, a Westin on the Rue de Rivoli near the Louvre and the Tuileries Garden. The two of them had spent the next three days roaming around Paris, a place Margaret had visited before but was still amazed by the beauty of the city. Even Marc, about as Midwestern American as any man could be, was absolutely astonished by Paris.

  On the fourth day, they took a day trip by tourist bus across France to the beaches of Normandy. Margaret especially had wanted to take the trip. She had a great uncle, an older brother of her grandfather, who was buried in the giant American cemetery behind Omaha Beach. They found his grave and while looking down at the white marble cross with the name of a man she had never known etched into it, she realized what he and the almost ten thousand others buried here had done. The emotion brought tears to her eyes and Marc held her as she gently sobbed. Later they would admit the visit to the cemetery was the highlight of the trip.

  The next day they took a train from the Gare du Nord in Paris to London. Except for the older, smaller houses of mostly brick construction, the French countryside appeared little different than Wisconsin or Minnesota.

  Going through the Chunnel, the tunnel between France and England under the English Channel, had been a disappointment, at least for Marc. There were no lights inside of it and it was just a half hour trip in complete darkness.

  Like Paris, this was Marc’s first visit to London and it too was not a disappointment. He found London to be not as beautiful as Paris and more crowded and expensive. London, however, is still one of the world’s truly great cities with an enormous number of things to see and do.

  It was while visiting London that Marc noticed a subtle change between himself and Margaret. It was nothing overt or even all that noticeable. Just a barely perceptible shift in the way they communicated, or more precisely, were not communicating. A couple of days after arriving in Britain, it was Margaret who brought it in the open by admitting they were getting on each other’s nerves a bit. They talked it out and realized that they had been together twenty-four hours a day for over a week and grating on each other a bit would be only natural for any couple.

  The Boeing 757 hit a patch of turbulence and the plane’s sudden jostling bounced Margaret awake. She sat up, yawned, stretched, ran her fingers through her hair to fluff it a bit and rolled her head back and forth to take the kink out of her neck.

  “Hey, sleep okay?” Marc asked.

  “Um, yeah. I guess. How about you? Get any sleep?” she said as she slipped her shoes on.

  “Not much. I’ve never been able to sleep on planes. Can’t get comfortable.”

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “About another hour,” he answered.

  “It’ll be nice to get home,” she said.

  Margaret looked him in the eyes without saying anything, then after a half minute or so Marc broke the silence and said, “What?”

  “Are we okay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You and me. Do you still love me?” she seriously asked.

  “Relax. Of course…pretty much…more or less….ouch! Why’d you kick me? I was kidding.”

  “Are you all right?” the female flight attendant who was passing by asked him.

  “This woman just assaulted me. I want her arrested,” Marc said trying to sound serious.

  “He had it coming,” Margaret told her.

  “Don’t they all?” the attendant said with a smile. “I’m guessing you’ll live,” and walked away.

  The next day, at 9:00 A.M., Marc trudged up the back stairs of the Reardon Building on Lake Street and Charles. When he reached the second floor, he stood in the empty hall in front of the entry to his office and stared at it for several long seconds. He was trying to decide if he wanted to go in, uncertain what awaited him on the other side and if he wanted to deal with any of it. He took a deep breath, turned the handle, opened the door and stepped into the office’s reception area.

  The first thing Marc noticed was a middle-aged couple sitting on client chairs obviously awaiting an appointment. He said a pleasant hello and felt a slight twinge in the back of his mind. There was something familiar about the woman but he couldn’t place her as a client.

  “Hey, here he is,” his landlord, Connie Mickelson, said when she saw him come in. Connie had the corner office directly across from the entryway. With her door open she could see whoever came through the hallway door.

  Marc spent the next ten minutes giving his officemates a brief description of the trip. When he was finished, Connie asked, “So, are you and her Honor still good? Those kind of trips can be relationship killers.”

  “Yeah,” Marc said looking directly at her. “You would certainly know about killing relationships. And yes, we’re still good.”

  The office settled down and Carolyn, one of the secretaries, said, “Marc, this is Charlotte and John Daniels. They’ve been waiting since 8:00. You don’t have any other appointments this morning.”

  Marc turned away from the Daniels, looked directly at Carolyn and with a serious look including raised eyebrows, sending her the clear silent message, “What were you thinking making this appointment this early my first day back?” He turned back to the patiently waiting couple, stepped over to them, extended his hand as they stood and said, “Hi. I just got here, which is obvious. Give me a few minutes and we’ll talk.” Of course, they both readily agreed.


  Marc headed toward his office and gestured for Carolyn to follow him. When she closed the door he asked, “What’s going on with them?”

  “Marc, they were here at 8:00. They’re walk-ins. Just showed up. Said it was important to see you today.”

  “Who are they? Did they say why…?”

  “No, not really. Sorry,” she said.

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll see what’s up.”

  Three minutes later he held the door for them and politely invited them to sit in the client chairs in front of his desk.

  When he was seated he looked at the husband and pleasantly asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Daniels?”

  “It’s my niece,” the wife answered. “She’s been arrested.”

  When Marc turned his head to look at her, the light in his memory clicked on as he recognized her. “I remember you,” he said. “You were juror number, let me think…seven,” he said as he snapped his fingers. “I thought you looked familiar but it took me a few minutes.”

  “You’re right,” she said clinging to the purse she held in her lap. “I hope this is all right, me being a juror on a case you tried.”

  Marc sat silently for a few seconds thinking it over then said, “As far as I know, it’s okay. The trial’s over and I don’t represent Prentiss anymore.”

  “I thought you did a really good job so here we are.”

  “We both did,” John said. “I sat in on the trial a few days and you were really good.”

  “Well, thank you, I appreciate that. Now, tell me about your niece. What’s her name and why was she arrested?”

  “Her name is Brittany Riley,” Charlotte said then waited for a response from Marc.

  He looked at her for a few seconds then said, “Doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”

  FOURTEEN

  While Marc Kadella and Margaret Tennant were still sightseeing in London, Sheriff Cale, in a freshly laundered uniform complete with a new campaign hat, looked over the crowd of volunteers that were gathering at the entrance of the Lebanon Hills Park. Barely 7:00 A.M. on Saturday morning, he estimated the crowd to be close to three thousand people. While cruising through the main parking lot he had noticed license plates from all of the Upper Midwest states and as far away as Texas and Pennsylvania.