Marc, who had been waiting for the man, was the first one to greet him.
“Marc Kadella, Professor Bronfman. Thanks for coming,” Marc said as they shook hands.
“Please, call me Julian. I don’t even let my students call me professor.”
“May I take your coat?” Carolyn asked.
As Bronfman was removing his coat and scarf, Carolyn asked, “Can I get you some coffee?”
“Tea would be nice, Earl Grey if you have any,” he replied.
“Coming right up,” Carolyn said.
With Connie leading the way, they went into the office’s conference room, situated between Connie’s and Marc’s personal offices. Waiting for them were Tony Carvelli, Vivian Donahue and Barry Cline. After introductions were made and Carolyn had delivered Bronfman’s tea, they all took chairs around the table.
“I hope you don’t mind my being here,” Vivian politely said.
“Not at all, Mrs. Donahue,” Bronfman replied. “It’s my pleasure to meet you. If Marc believes there is something to be covered by privilege…”
“We’ve hired her as office staff,” Marc interrupted. “She’s technically covered.”
“Well, I hope they’re paying you sufficiently,” Bronfman said with a sly smile.
“A dollar a year. It’s the first job I’ve had in years.”
Bronfman had an expandable, canvas briefcase with him. He removed a stack of paper and a legal pad from it and placed both on the table.
“Might as well get started,” he said. He laid a hand on the stack of paper and said, “I’ve been over the transcript a couple of times and Marc, I don’t understand why they found her guilty or, more accurately, how the jury failed to find reasonable doubt.”
“It was the photo, I believe,” Marc said. “The one of Maddy lying on the bedroom floor covered in blood, with the knife in her hand.”
“So you think she’s innocent?” Vivian asked showing obvious optimism.
“I didn’t say that,” Bronfman replied. “I said I’m surprised they didn’t find reasonable doubt.”
“But you think you can convince the Court of Appeals the jury was wrong?” Vivian said.
“Unfortunately, no, that’s not their job. The Court of Appeals won’t retry the case. They aren’t supposed to second-guess a jury. That’s not what they do. They review the judge’s rulings to determine if he made any mistakes, if he didn’t apply the law correctly or acted outside the scope of his discretion.
“Now, we will certainly slide in evidence to suggest the jury was wrong. These people, the appeals justices, are human. Maybe,” he continued holding his hands out, palms up, “if they believe she should have been found not guilty, they’ll find a way to rule in our favor.”
“But that’s not what they’re supposed to do,” Marc quietly said to Vivian. He looked at the professor and said, “What do you think? Are there grounds?”
“Of course,” Bronfman smiled at Marc. “There are always grounds. We can challenge every ruling he made that didn’t go in our favor. The first one is that very photograph you referred to. In my opinion, it is highly prejudicial and has no probative value beyond shocking the jury. The question is: was Judge Graham wrong in allowing it to be shown and entered as evidence?”
“You don’t think a photo of the accused passed out at the crime scene holding the murder weapon helps prove she did it?” Carvelli, the ex-cop asked.
“In reality world, of course it does,” Bronfman replied with a wink at Tony. “But in a legal world, we can argue that it really doesn’t. They didn’t show how she stabbed him or how she came to be lying unconscious on the floor.
“Look,” he continued moving his eyes around the rectangular table to make contact with each of them, “I’ll be honest. A winning appellate decision in this case is, well, the odds are not in our favor. What you need to do is prove her innocence.”
“I thought Justice Scalia said, rather infamously,” Barry Cline said, “that a finding of innocence doesn’t matter in the appeal process.”
“And he was absolutely correct,” Bronfman said. “It’s not up to an appeals court, even the U.S. Supreme Court, to determine guilt or innocence. But if we can really prove she did not do this, sooner or later we’ll find a way to get her out. Until then, we’ll have to start the process.”
He looked at Marc again and said, “I’m putting together a group of students to work on it. I need our client’s permission to do this. Will you get that for me?”
Bronfman handed Marc a single page document with signature lines on it and Marc said, “Sure, I’m going out to see her tomorrow. Ineffective assistance of counsel,” Marc said.
“It’s on the list. Sorry, even though I thought she should’ve gotten off because of you, we’ll argue you were incompetent…”
“Tell them I was drunk every day and fell asleep,” Marc said. “I don’t care. Do what you have to do. Would you like to ride along and meet her tomorrow?”
“Yes, I would but I can’t. I do need to meet her and soon. We’ll set something up.”
The next morning at eight o’clock, Marc and Carvelli were driving south on 35W out of Minneapolis. Since they were heading in the opposite direction of rush hour traffic they were making good time. The day before, following the meeting with Julian Bronfman, Marc had called ahead to arrange a meeting with Maddy. The administration of the Shakopee Correctional Facility, the prison for women, assured him she would be waiting.
The prison in Shakopee is about twenty-five miles driving distance from Marc’s office. Since Maddy’s transfer to it from Minneapolis a month ago, Marc had made the trip at least three times each week.
“Been a pretty mild winter so far,” Carvelli said breaking the silence between them.
“Yeah,” Marc muttered in agreement.
“Probably means more snow in July,” Carvelli said wondering where Marc’s head was.
“Might happen,” Marc absently agreed.
“Hey!” Carvelli said.
“What?” Marc replied turning his head to look at him.
“Snow in July. Even in Minnesota it doesn’t snow in July.”
“Who said it does? What are you talking about?”
“Where are you? She’s okay you know.”
“Twenty-five years, Tony. Twenty-five,” Marc quietly repeated as he slid his SUV to the right to take the ramp on Highway 13 in Burnsville to go to Shakopee. “And we know she didn’t do this.”
“We’ll get her out. You’ll see.”
“I’ve been thinking about sitting down with Steve Gondeck and let him know what we know.”
“Be careful, we don’t need more people in jail, especially me. Although I’d trade places with her in a heartbeat if I could. What can Gondeck do?”
“I don’t know. It’s something I’ve thought about. We’ll see.”
When the two men reached the prison, Maddy was waiting for them. The facility, opened in 1986, is almost a college dormitory. In fact, it wasn’t until the Spring of 2016 that a fence was built around it. And instead of the normal grey concrete wall with razor wire, the fence is a chic wrought iron with attractive brick columns. If you had to go to prison, there are a lot of worse places. But no matter how modern the facility or comfortable the amenities, it is still a prison. Your life is theirs, not yours.
“How are you doing?” Marc asked her after their greetings. The three of them were in a comfortable, private conference room used by attorneys to meet with clients.
“I’m okay,” she shrugged, forcing a smile.
“I told you,” Carvelli said, “you find the number one bad-ass chick in the place, walk right up to her and punch her in the face.”
“Carvelli, you’ve been watching too many movies,” Maddy laughed. “It’s not like that. I’m fine. Besides, word spread pretty quick about who I am. Court TV is one of the most popular shows in here.
“You know what though?” she continued turning back to Marc. “The next time you hea
r someone, especially some big-mouth, nitwit politician, talking about how good inmates have it in prison, tell them they’re full of shit. You get up when they tell you, go to bed when they tell you, eat, shower, you name it when they tell you. Yeah, it’s okay in here but it’s still prison. There’s no freedom at all,” she finished then wiped a tear that had trickled down her cheek.
“I know,” Marc softly replied and took her hand. “I’ve been in just about every jail in the metro area and the prison here and the ones in Oak Park Heights and Stillwater. They’re no country club.
“Anyway, let me bring you up to speed. We met with Connie’s pal, the guy handling your appeal, Julian Bronfman. He’s a bit of a character, you’ll like him, but a really smart guy…”
A little before noon, after hugs and kisses and reassuring Maddy they were going to get her out, Marc and Tony went out to the parking lot. Neither would admit it but both were fighting back tears of their own.
FORTY-SEVEN
Tony Carvelli was walking toward his car while turning on his phone to check for messages. He was leaving the corporate headquarters of the 3M Company in Maplewood, Minnesota, a suburb east of St. Paul. Carvelli carried the weight of Maddy’s incarceration 24/7 but had other clients to look after, including his best one; 3M. And he still had to make a living. As he approached the Camaro in the visitor’s lot, he noticed a call from an unusual source. It was a woman he had not seen or spoken to in a couple of years. Tony stood next to the driver’s side door while listening to the message. When it finished, he pressed the dial button to return her call as he got into his car.
“Hey, Paulette,” he greeted her when she answered, “it’s Carvelli calling back. What’s up?”
Paulette Horne worked in the medical examiner’s office in Minneapolis. The two of them had what would best be described as a fling several years ago. Paulette was going through a divorce at the time and the affair ended when she reconciled with her husband.
“Hey, Carvelli. It’s great to hear your voice again,” she said. Like a lot of people in and around the MPD who knew him well, she never called him Tony. It was always Carvelli, as if he only had one name.
“You too, sweetheart. How are you? Still married?”
“Ah, no at least not to Darren anymore. But probably, yes, again pretty soon,” she replied.
“You mean I missed my chance?”
Paulette went silent for several seconds then said, “I don’t want to go down that path. I have very fond memories of you, Carvelli. Can we just leave it at that?”
“Of course, hon,” Tony softly said. “So, why did you call?”
“Okay,” she began getting back on track. “Something strange happened yesterday. Do you have time to swing by the office?”
“I guess,” Tony said. “Is it important?”
“Yeah, at least I think so. You’ll have to decide but I think you’ll want to see this.”
“All right. I’m in Maplewood but I’ll come right over. Half an hour?”
“Good. Have them buzz me and I’ll come get you.”
Paulette closed the door to her office while Tony took a chair. She sat at her desk and began.
“Yesterday, something kind of odd happened. I was in the storage area, where we keep our guests, the bodies, when a couple of guys in suits showed up with a federal court order for us to release a body to them.”
“Who were they after?”
“Robert Judd,” she answered.
“He’s just now being released for burial? And why would….”
“Let me finish. These weren’t just two guys,” she said.
“Feds?”
“U.S. Marshalls.”
“Seriously? Why would U.S. Marshalls want to have the remains of Rob Judd released to them?”
“Don’t know. But I remembered seeing you on TV working for the defense in the trial of his girlfriend and I thought you might want to know. Let me show you something,” Paulette continued as she turned her laptop so Tony could see the screen. Having prepared for Carvelli’s visit she only needed to hit one key and a video image came up.
“This is the security footage of the two of them. Do you recognize them?”
Tony stared at the frozen screen for a while then quietly said, “Yeah, I do. I saw them outside the condo building on the morning after Judd was killed. I don’t know who they are but I remember thinking they look like cops. Or law enforcement from somewhere. Did you get their names?”
“Just this one,” Paulette said pointing a finger at one of them. “His name is Keegan Mitchell.”
Tony removed a small notebook from his pocket, flipped it open to a blank page and wrote down the name, date and time on the screen and a note to go along with it.
Ten minutes later, following a few minutes of small talk about Paulette’s new beau, an MPD lieutenant of Carvelli’s acquaintance, Tony exited the building. A pleasant, fairly warm winter day, Carvelli’s black, full-length leather coat was open and flapped as he ran across Chicago Avenue to his car. He had lied when he told Paulette he did not know why the U.S. Marshall’s had picked up Judd’s body. At least he had a pretty good idea, a rational theory, of why this happened.
Carvelli wheeled the Camaro into the light traffic on Chicago then turned west on Seventh Street. While driving down Seventh toward downtown he made a call on his cell to let Vivian know he was on the way. A few minutes later he was through downtown and onto I-394 westbound to go to the Corwin Mansion. Tony needed some information from a shady source that Vivian, his friend with benefits, had access to.
Vivian Donahue stood on the top step of the semi-circular granite stairs looking out over the front grounds of the estate enjoying the beautiful winter day. She decided to get out of the house for a while. Normally, during January, February and March, she would be staying at any of several homes the family had in much warmer climates. Because of her love for Madeline Rivers, she had stayed in Minnesota just to be near her to help in any way she could. Anthony’s phone call, while somewhat cryptic, made her realize something was up.
Despite the temperature still below freezing, the sun was shining, there was no wind and Vivian wore a light, almost spring-like jacket and slacks. Vivian heard the Camaro’s low growl coming down the mansion’s long driveway then looked to her left and saw it through the trees. Vivian descended the steps and held up a hand to have him stop at the bottom. She got in the car, settled into the passenger seat, reached over to gently kiss him, then buckled up.
“I need to get out of the house. Let’s go for a drive. We can talk in the car.”
“Okay,” he replied. “How about we drive around the lake? We’ll stop somewhere for a bite to eat.”
Tony talked while he drove and brought her up to speed on where the investigation was. When he got to the part about the U.S. Marshall’s retrieving Rob Judd’s remains, she twisted in her seat to look directly at him.
“What? I don’t understand. Why would U.S. Marshalls show up with a federal court order and claim his body?” she asked.
“There’s only one reason I can think of: Judd was in witness protection,” Tony answered.
“Anthony, that’s preposterous,” Vivian exclaimed. “I met him with Madeline, remember? So did you. He was no mob gangster.”
“Vivian,” Tony calmly replied, “you don’t have to be a mob gangster to get put in witness protection. He could have been a witness to something or any number of reasons. I need you to give your old pal on the East Coast a call and have him check around. See if he can find out anything. Will you do that?”
“Certainly,” she replied. “In fact, I’ll fly out myself and see him in person.”
“You don’t need to go see him in person,” Tony said with more than a touch of irritation in his voice.
“I don’t mind,” Vivian said.
“It’s not necessary for you to go see him,” Carvelli said a little more forcefully.
Vivian leaned forward as far as the shoulder strap would al
low, turned to a now obviously annoyed Carvelli and looked at his face.
“Why, Anthony,” she said with a mischievous smile, “are you jealous? That’s wonderful!”
“No, I’m not…”
“You are too and it’s very sweet. Relax, that ended between us decades ago,” she said which irritated Tony some more. She patted him affectionately on the knee and said, “I know him. He’ll take me more seriously if I see him in person. Stop up ahead here at Fletcher’s. I’ll buy lunch.”
When Vivian was in college many years ago, she, along with several girlfriends, made a trip to New York City. While there she met a handsome, very charming, young Italian man. At first, the young man identified himself as Paul Renaldi. Vivian, smitten with first love, came home only to be confronted by her protective father. Dad had her followed in New York and came up with the true identity of Vivian’s Italian lover. His real name was Dante Ferraro, the son of a capo in the DiMartino crime family. To make things worse, two months later Vivian and her mother were on an airplane to Switzerland. The family never again discussed the abortion she had obtained while there.
Over the years the two young lovers continued their affair even though Dante followed his father into the family business. As they grew older, the flame died out but they remained good friends. If anyone could come up with information about Rob Judd being involved in witness protection, it was Dante Ferraro, even though he was now semi-retired. His name still carried a lot of weight with all of the family members.
The Corwin Family Gulfstream set down at the Teterboro airport shortly after 8:00 P.M. The plane had barely stopped when the door opened and Vivian went down the steps to a waiting limousine. Inside the shiny Cadillac was the man she had flown a quick one thousand miles to see. Delighted to see her, despite the lateness of her arrival, Dante had arranged an evening out across the river in the city.
After attending the huge Broadway hit, Hamilton, they were escorted to a private room with a view of the East River at the Riverpark restaurant. A ridiculously priced, grossly overrated meal was served after which Vivian finally had the chance to explain to Dante what she wanted.
[Marc Kadella 06.0] Delayed Justice Page 31
