Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series)

by Paul Sekulich

  Malay turned his back to the jury and paced across the wide corridor in front of the judge’s bench, the index finger of his right hand waggling above his head as he continued.

  "The State has produced no motive, not one fingerprint, not one eyewitness to the actual crime upon which you could begin to prove his guilt. On top of this, he has sworn eyewitnesses as to his own whereabouts during the entire day that the crimes took place. Barbara Chalmers has testified that she heard unusual noises and sounds coming from the Dugan house, and when she went over to investigate, she saw four men, one loosely fitting the description of the accused in this case, running from the scene.”

  Frank looked back at his aunt and smiled.

  “She further stated,” Malay said, “that she followed them on foot, saw them get into a older model, black Chevrolet sedan and speed away. They sped away. But not before, she claims, not before she saw their license plate number and memorized it. She claims to have done all that, but cannot positively identify one of the accused men in this crime, including the defendant, Ernest Gaither. Not one. Let me put the question to you, ladies and gentlemen: How would you like to be convicted of murder solely on the grounds that someone frantically misread or misinterpreted your car license number? During this trial, we went to a lot of trouble to show you more than thirty vehicles in this city that fit Ms. Chalmer’s recollection of the car, but differ by but a single digit or letter of their license number. Anyone could, under the circumstances, misread a character on a license plate. Any of us. When we took Ms. Chalmers to test her auto recognition abilities, out of ten cars pointed to from forty feet away, she couldn’t properly identify the make of the vehicle in seven of the instances. Seven. She was wrong seventy percent of the time under ideal and unstressed circumstances.”

  Malay took a moment to sip water from a glass on the defense table, then continued.

  “It’s not her fault. Lots of cars look alike these days. Car makers routinely copy each other’s designs. Any of us could mistake a Chevrolet for an Oldsmobile or a Pontiac. And, as if dubious recognition weren’t enough, the car in question, the one owned by Mr. Gaither, and supposedly seen by this same Ms. Chalmers, was proved to be in a reputable auto shop for repairs at the time of the crimes. If you sat there where Mr. Gaither is sitting, would you like to be convicted of murder based on the evidence shown in this trial?”

  Malay was silent for a moment.

  “You wouldn’t want to be convicted of speeding on such shaky testimony. I want each one of you to ask yourselves this question: Is there reasonable doubt? If the answer is yes, acquit this fellow citizen and let’s find the real killer, bring in real evidence against him, and serve the real meaning of justice. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for bearing this awesome responsibility of judging the life and death of your fellow citizens with honor and dignity.”

  Malay crossed to the defense table and faced the bench.

  “The defense rests, Your Honor.” Malay said and took his seat.

  Every eye in the courtroom turned toward the jury.

  Chapter 6

  Frank Dugan and Marty Dimino walked the wide hallway in the courthouse, their steps clicking on the terrazzo.

  "You did good in there, Mr. Dimino," Frank said.

  "Marty, please."

  “How long will it take?” Frank asked, adjusting his uncomfortable black tie.

  “For the jury to reach a decision? It varies. Guilty verdicts usually come back fast. Usually,” Dimino said and glanced at his watch. “Long deliberations usually spell trouble for getting a conviction. This case though, I don’t know. Mezza, mezza. I’m not taking any bets.”

  “I want to be sure they did it,” Frank said.

  “We all do. If they let Gaither off we’ll never know about the other three.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If we can’t convict Gaither, we’ll play hell getting indictments against his buddies. The only thing we’ve got on them is complicity with Gaither. He flies, that’s it. They all fly.”

  “My gut says they’re guilty. I’ve interviewed enough mooks like them. I can feel their guilt when I look them in the eye.”

  “Don’t plan on making jury selection expert your next career.”

  “Where did they get this Malay guy?” Frank asked.

  “He’s a little glitzy, but good. Guzman bought him.”

  “Rico Guzman?”

  “Anything stronger than aspirin sold in LA goes through him. He’s the Grand Poobah of drugs in Southern Cal.”

  “I know who he is. We’re investigating his operation right now. What’s his interest in this case?”

  “Those are his boys in here. His street urchins. They lean on people, sell a little, steal a lot. He doesn’t want them tempted to turn state’s evidence to cop a plea. Could hurt him. So he buys them a lawyer on the rise that the judges haven’t learned to hate yet.”

  A court clerk called to them from the corridor.

  “Mr. Dimino, Detective Dugan, the jury’s coming returning,” the clerk said.

  Frank looked at Marty for a read. Marty checked his watch.

  “Twenty‑two minutes,” Marty said and looked at Frank. “I got nothing.”

  * * *

  Silence swept over the courtroom. Everyone was back where they were before the jury left to deliberate. The judge faced the jury.

  “Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?”

  The foreman stood.

  “We have, Your Honor.”

  “Please read the verdict.”

  “We find the defendant, Ernest Bernard Gaither, on all counts, not guilty.”

  Bedlam ensued in the courtroom. The suspects, their friends, and Malay rejoiced. Reporters scurried from the room. Frank Dugan and Marty Dimino sat stone-faced. The Judge demanded order, hammering his gavel repeatedly, as if driving ten-penny nails.

  “Order in this court! Order in this court!”

  The hubbub subsided. People retook seats, voices hushed to murmurs.

  “This court is still in session,” the judge said. “I realize that passionate beliefs are at issue here, but they will be considered in an orderly manner.

  The judge cast his eyes to the jury.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the court thanks you for your service and consideration in this case.”

  Judge Spellman turned to the defense table.

  “Mr. Gaither, you have been acquitted by a jury of your peers and are free to go. Jurors, you are dismissed. This court is adjourned.”

  The judge banged his gavel once and the courtroom cleared of almost everyone. Frank remained in his seat while Dimino stood, gathered his papers, and stuffed them into a leather briefcase. Ernie Gaither and his three friends filed slowly past Frank, looking down at him with derisive smiles.

  “Well, I guess they’re gonna have to find someone else to hang this broad’s murder on,” Ernie said to the other three.

  “And them two little dorks,” Dwayne said.

  Frank sprung to his feet and faced them. Marty Dimino dropped his briefcase and restrained him. Ernie stopped next to Frank, faced him, bold in his arrogance.

  “Yeah, and them two little ... .kids. We’re real sorry about what happened to your family, Mr. Dugan. Real sorry.”

  Marty tightened his grip on Frank’s arms as the four young men strolled away with the detective’s eyes burning into the backs of their heads.

  “They wasn’t kids, Ernie. They was dorks,” Dwayne said. “Don’t be mistakin’ no dorks for kids. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

  As the four suspects merged with the rest of the exiting people, Ernie Gaither raised a hand at a chicly-dressed man centered between two trim men at the rear wall.

  “The guy in the gray sharkskin suit is Rico Guzman,” Marty said, releasing his grip on Frank. “The other two with him are hired help.”

  Frank eyed the quartet of suspects as they exited the courtroom, followed by Guzman and his henchmen. Frank’s gl
are followed them until they disappeared.

  “They call him The Candy Man,” Marty said, returning to his briefcase.

  “Candy Man?” Frank said.

  “Whatever you crave, he’s got.”

  “I’ve only seen department photos of the guy. Drug business must be good. He looks well off.”

  Marty stepped to the center aisle and turned to Frank.

  “I’m sorry, Frank. I don’t know what I could’ve done to convict that sonofabitch, but I’m taking full responsibility for that. We just didn’t have enough reliable hosses to win the race.”

  “You did all you could,” Frank said. “Ball’s in my court now.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Frank was silent and stared at Dimino.

  ”If you’re thinking of doing anything on your own, please forget it,” Dimino said.

  ”Forget it?” Frank said. “Forget it? I can’t forget it. I see Amy every night. Little Billy and Deborah sitting on my lap. When I try to lose myself in a TV show, or the newspaper, I’ll be reminded of them, I’ll read about my family every day in the grocery store checkout line. Anywhere there’s a gossip rag I see them sensationalized in the media’s bullshit captions. No one out there’s going to let me forget it, and I’ll never let myself forget it.”

  “The very thing we couldn’t make stick against Gaither, a motive, will be bright as sunshine on your head if you personally claim revenge on those punks. Sure, they might’ve done it, but you’re the one who’ll dance if you do anything to them now. If Gaither nicks himself shaving, you could get arrested. Everyone in this country knows how you feel. This isn’t a shoplifting case at Bullock’s, it’s national news, maybe international.”

  “My life’s over, Marty,” Frank said. “Over. Got that? They took away the only life I know. They’re not going to destroy my life and just walk away.”

  “Leave vengeance to God, and leave playing vigilante cop to Dirty Harry and Charles Bronson.”

  “I don’t want to live anymore. What does it matter?”

  “You want to know why I never committed suicide? And believe me there were times I seriously considered it. You want to know why I didn’t do it?”

  Frank shook his head.

  “Because I knew in three days I’d be pissed off about it. You need to structure some time now. Time to insulate yourself from this. This has been a tremendous blow to you. It’s going to take more than these past few months. I know you don’t believe it right this minute, but you will feel better in time.”

  Frank stared into space.

  “Tell you what,” Dimino said, “I’ll show you how to pass the next few hours in a positive way.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Knocking down some classy bourbon at Harry’s Place.”

  “How is that positive?”

  “After a few of Harry’s Wild Turkey Flashfires, I’m positive we’ll both be unable to say: ‘I wish to wash my Irish wristwatch.’”

  Chapter 7

  The interior of Harry’s Place presented itself as a comfortable, old fashioned English pub and smelled of sautéed onions and charred beef. Frank and Marty sat at the bar with opened jackets, unbuttoned shirts, and slack ties. Empty shot glasses and beer bottles sat in front of them.

  “I know what you’re saying, but our legal system doesn’t allow for it,” Marty said.

  “These thugs have prior convictions running onto five rap sheets,” Frank said. “Isn’t that different from a man who’s never been in trouble?”

  “Maybe, but it’s usually not admissible to offer in court. Look, there are guys who commit dozens of crimes and then somehow get religion, see the light. I don’t know how or why, but they do, and later they get arrested on a bum circumstance, a suspicion, whatever, but this time the guy didn’t do it. Really didn’t do it. Are we going to hang him because he used to be less than a choirboy?”

  “No, but that’s an exceptional case.”

  “And how about the reverse? A guy goes through forty years of life without ever taking a paperclip, then boom, he steals a million from the bank vault, or goes to the local McDonald’s and starts popping everyone in sight. Never had any prior record. Gonna let him off because he was always a good boy before he broke bad? You’ve gotta judge each case on its own merit. It’s not perfect, but it’s the way it is.”

  Marty rattled a shot glass against one of the beer bottles. The bartender acknowledged the signal with a raised hand.

  “Over all, it’s a good system,” Marty said, shoving the empties toward the inside edge of the bar.

  “The system stinks. It lets people who have shown extreme antisocial behavior back out on the street to repeat their crimes.”

  “What are you gonna do? If you lock up everybody who demonstrates antisocial behavior, you put two thirds of the world in jail. You could arrest everybody in Dodger Stadium when the Giants are in town.”

  Frank waved a hand in disgust.

  “Look, Frank, you’re American born and over 25. You don’t like the system? Run for office and change it. I wasn’t born in the D.A.’s office. I got fed up with being a lawyer who only sets up corporate charters and handles divorces. I wanted to make a difference. So I got into the political ring and slugged it out. When the smoke cleared, I got elected. It was hard knocks. I took a lot of shit. You ever want to get into politics, come see me. I’ll save you a lot of grief.”

  The bartender removed the empty shot glasses and disposed of the beer bottles.

  “Give us thirty more,” Marty said.

  “Coming up, Mr. Dimino,” the bartender said.

  “Bet he only brings back two,” Marty said. “That’s the trouble with these trendy new bartenders. Can’t count worth a milk fart at a dairy farm.”

  “How many have we had?”

  “I don’t know. Two?”

  Frank stared emptily across the bar. Marty watched him for a moment.

  “Why don’t you come home with me tonight?” Marty said. “Sharon’ll make us a couple of steaks, hurl a couple of cold beers, watch a movie ... ”

  “Thanks, Marty, but I’d better get on home. Amy’s got ... ”

  Frank looked away.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Marty said, with a pat on Frank’s shoulder.

  The bartender returned with the drinks.

  “Right now there’s work to be done,” Marty said and raised one of the shots. “Come on, grab onto that Kentucky varnish. Remember, it’s only healthy if you drink alone or in groups.

  Frank forced a smile and lifted his drink. They clinked glasses, belted the shots back, and took swigs of their beers.

  “If you won’t come home with me, I want you to stay at my beach house tonight. It’s fully stocked with everything you’ll need. Beer, booze, coffee. Got TV in the bedroom. Even new toothbrushes. My dentist was a former client. And the bastard thinks I charge too much.”

  “Marty, the department’s put me in an efficiency at the Beachcomber until my house is taken off crime scene status. I can—”

  “Fuck that tourist flophouse. You stay at my place. There. That’s settled.”

  Frank took another sip of beer and sighed.

  “Okay, okay. Uncle.”

  “Give me your keys,” Marty said. “We’re not driving tonight. Too many cops around.”

  Frank bunched his mouth and stared at Marty.

  “Your keys,” Marty said, his hand extended.

  Frank slid his keys down the bar where they collided with Marty’s beer.

  “We’ll get through this, Frank,” Marty said and signaled the bartender. “Fifty‑two more of these, Chuckles.”

  The bartender shook his lowered head, smiled.

  “Do they ever cut you off in here?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah, when I tell Chuckles he’s pretty.”

  * * *

  The taxi drove north on the moonlit San Diego Freeway that paralleled the Pacific’s shoreline. As the car curved around La Jolla Parkway to Tor
rey Pines Road, Marty Dimino directed the driver onto a smaller road that wended its way to a row of beach houses.

  “It’s the last one in this row,” Marty said to the driver. “Pull into the driveway.”

  Marty activated the automatic garage door with a remote control on a key ring.

  “Wait here. I’ll be right back,” Marty said to the cabbie.

  Marty and Frank entered the house through a door that connected the garage with the kitchen.

  “This is the place,” Marty said and gave Frank the house key linked to the remote. “I’ll come over in the morning with one of my interns to bring you your car. Help yourself to anything here.”

  Marty pulled a business card and a pen from his jacket pocket, scrawled a few numbers on the card, and jammed it into Frank’s hand.

  “It’s my cell number and private line at work,” Marty said. “Treasure it. I rarely give them out.”

  “This place is beautiful,” Frank said. “Smack on the ocean, no less.”

  “Yeah, it’s what twenty-five years of contingencies, divorces, and retainers will get you. See you in the morning. And hey, no funny stuff, okay. We had a good night. There will be many more of them for you, so keep the faith.”

  “I’m good. Got your card. Go home.”

  “Why? Am I beginning to look pretty?” Marty said and bumbled his way out through the garage.

  * * *

  Frank patrolled the long hallway and peeked into rooms until he came to one that looked “guesty.” He doffed his clothes and flopped nude on top of the bed.