Exquisite Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  The next day, Monday morning, every network and nationwide cable news show was leading their broadcast with the film. The crowd size estimates they gave ranged from a thousand to five thousand participants.

  At 7:00 A.M. on Monday morning, police Captain Jody Wells was at her desk sipping her coffee. She was scanning the Star Tribune front page when she heard a knock on her door.

  “Come in,” she said loudly without looking up.

  Sgt. Jason Moore hesitantly came in and quietly greeted his precinct Captain.

  “Have a seat,” Wells said. “What are you doing here so early?”

  “I have to tell you something, Captain,” Moore said.

  “Okay, what?” she asked.

  “Um, I, ah, think, I might be the source this reporter used for the white supremacist story,” Moore said.

  “What? How?”

  In less than a minute Moore told her about the brief conversation he had with Philo Anson and his off-hand comment about white supremacists.

  “You were joking?” she asked when he finished.

  “Of course,” Moore said shaking his head in disbelief. “I even told this arrogant little shit it was a gang killing. They were wearing gang colors. I didn’t even know who they were until their names were released. And now that I know their names, I know they were both drug dealers and gangbangers.”

  “I’m gonna send this up the line so the higher ups can get it out to the media. I think they’ll do it without using your name, but we’ll see. In the meantime, keep this to yourself.”

  “Sorry, Captain. It was a joke. I didn’t think he’d use it,” Moore said.

  “You’ve been around long enough to know you can’t trust these people,” Wells said, annoyance in her tone.

  By nine o’clock that Monday morning, traffic around the Hennepin County Government Center and the Old City Hall building across Fifth Street was at a standstill. The only things moving were the light rail trains on Fifth. A crowd of three thousand people had taken over the streets.

  On the steps of City Hall, at the Fifth Street entrance, Damone Watson was standing with a dozen civic leaders. There were microphones set up and each was taking a turn demanding to know what was being done to protect the black community. There were even references to the Ku Klux Klan being involved.

  At 10:30 those leaders, including Damone, were allowed into the building to attend a press conference. The police also selected another thirty members of the crowd to come in and watch. When everyone was settled in and reasonably quiet, Mayor Fogel, City Council President Patti Chenault, the Chief of Police, half dozen council members, Captain Wells and Sgt. Moore appeared.

  Mayor Fogel gave a brief statement then turned the lectern over to the Chief. Chief Marvin Brown, with homicide Lieutenant Owen Jefferson at his side, assured everyone there was no Klan presence in Minnesota. The murders were clearly gang-related. To which, after being introduced, Lt. Jefferson of the Homicide Division fully agreed.

  Finally, having been pressed into duty, Sgt. Jason Moore stepped up and told his story. Seated in the front row, almost dead center, was Philo Anson. Before Moore finished, he was staring down right at Philo.

  “I laughed and smiled when I jokingly agreed with what was a silly comment by you. You knew I was joking, and you used it anyway. Look at what your irresponsible behavior has caused.”

  Moore looked over the crowd and said for at least the fourth time, “It was a gang killing and he knew it. And I have known Lt. Jefferson for almost twenty years. He will make sure these killings will be thoroughly investigated.”

  As Moore stepped away from the microphone, every media member started shouting questions. The mayor’s press secretary held up his arms until they had quieted enough to tell them no questions would be taken.

  “I have another meeting with Bryant,” Damone reminded Lewis.

  They were in the Tahoe, Lewis driving as usual, leaving downtown.

  “Yes, boss,” Lewis replied. “We’re fine for time.”

  “How was the press conference?” Monroe asked Damone.

  “Amusing,” Damone answered. “But it did remind me to always be very careful what you say to the media.”

  Six

  “So, what’s your excuse this time?” Jerry Krain, the Hennepin County Assistant Attorney, asked Marc.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Krain,” Judge Philip Moran said. “Please allow me to take the lead in my chambers,” Moran added sarcastically.

  “Sorry, your Honor,” Krain insincerely apologized. “I just thought I’d cut to the chase.”

  While this exchange took place, Marc was looking at Krain with a slight, smartass smirk on his face.

  Jerry Krain was a thirty-year lifer with the county attorney’s office. He was a solid, methodical prosecutor with an excellent win/loss record. Of course, like most prosecutors who like to brag about their wins and losses, Krain only tried cases that he had a 100% chance of winning. Defense lawyers did not have that luxury.

  Jerry Krain, because of a Gibraltar-size chip on his shoulder, had managed to make enemies of just about everyone. Defense lawyers despised him and called him the Nazi even to his face. Krain actually enjoyed the appellation. Bad enough that every defense lawyer loathed the man, his compatriots in the county attorney’s office felt the same way.

  “What about it, Mr. Kadella?” Judge Moran asked. “This is our third attempt at a pretrial and no report from your psychiatrist yet. What’s going on?”

  “Well, your Honor…” Marc began.

  “This should be good,” Krain snidely said interrupting him.

  Marc looked at Krain, narrowed his eyes and used his thumb and index finger to make a key turning gesture at his own lips. The universal signal to lock your mouth shut.

  Krain’s face reddened and he gave Marc a dirty look which did not go unnoticed by Judge Moran.

  “All right you two,” Moran said. “Put an end to it.”

  “As I was saying, your Honor,” Marc continued, “Dr. Butler is, um, how shall I put this? Finding the Kullen family to be, without violating privilege, an interesting challenge.”

  “I’ll bet she is,” Krain said.

  “But she assures me she will have a report with a treatment recommendation by the end of the week,” Marc finished while ignoring Krain.

  “Your Honor, these psychos don’t need treatment, they need prison time,” Krain said.

  “So, you admit my clients have psychological problems?” Marc quickly asked Krain. “If so, then obviously they need therapy which they won’t get in prison.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Besides, this fiasco has gone on long enough. He’s obviously using defense tactic number one; stall, stall and stall some more. We need a speedy trial date,” Krain said.

  “It’s my client that has the right to a speedy trial, not you. Is there a clock running somewhere? Are we in a hurry, your Honor? My clients are not going anywhere.”

  “Is there a reason we can’t set a trial date today?” Judge Moran asked. “Will you need more discovery time?”

  “I may want to amend my plea, your Honor,” Marc said referring to a possible insanity defense.

  “And if he does, we’ll have to have him court-ordered examined,” Moran said looking at Krain.

  “Okay,” Moran continued while pulling up his schedule on his laptop. “How does next Wednesday look for you two? I have a short trial starting Monday morning and a long weekend starting Thursday.”

  “Judge,” Krain said, “I’m booked full until Friday.”

  Perfect, Marc thought.

  “Wednesday is fine with me, Judge,” Marc quickly said. Let Krain be the problem.

  “What time, Marc?” Moran asked.

  “Whatever time works for you, your Honor,” Marc said.

  “Ten o’clock,” Moran said.

  “Your Honor, I can’t…” Krain tried to say.

  “Have somebody sit in for you. It’s a pretrial,” Moran said cutting him
off. “I’ve got a fishing trip to Canada scheduled and I’m not rescheduling to accommodate you.”

  “Yes, your Honor,” Krain sullenly agreed. “I’ll have somebody sit in if I can’t make it.”

  “We can only hope,” Marc said under his breath, loud enough to be heard.

  “Let’s have that report no later than noon on Monday, Mr. Kadella,” Moran said.

  “Yes, your Honor. I’ll deliver it myself if I have to,” Marc said.

  “Email will be fine,” Krain said.

  “I meant to Judge Moran,” Marc said.

  “Are we done? Thank you, your Honor,” Krain said then stood and walked off and out of Moran’s chambers without waiting for a reply.

  “Marc,” Moran said while Marc was preparing to leave, “this bickering between you two has to stop.”

  “He’s pissed off at me, Judge, because I handed him his ass at an evidentiary hearing a few months ago. He and his detective did a sloppy job and he paid for it.”

  “I know, I heard. But…”

  “I don’t see this going to trial. If someone reasonable from the prosecutor’s office shows up next week, we can probably work something out. I have a pretty good idea what the shrink’s report will look like. Thanks, Judge,” Marc said then turned to leave.

  When Marc went into the back hallway, Jerry Krain was coming back.

  “What did you tell the judge?”

  “I told him that you were really a sweet guy. Just a little misunderstood.”

  “If I find out you had an ex parte discussion…”

  “The next time you won’t leave early,” Marc said finishing for him. “Jerry, seriously, you need to lighten up. You’re really not carrying the burden of the world on your shoulders. Relax.”

  Krain glared at him then snarled, “I owe you one.”

  “Or, maybe you can send someone to Auschwitz. That should make you feel better.”

  Krain’s face and bald head turned beet red. He pursed his lips, turned and stomped off. As he walked away, Marc clicked his heels together then silently raised his arm in a Nazi salute.

  Marc got off the elevator on level two, then hurried into the courtyard. When he took the right turn away from the elevators, he was stopped by the crowd milling about on the second floor. He saw a lawyer he knew and muscled through the crowd toward her.

  “Hey, Beth,” he said.

  “Hi, Marc,” she replied.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s the protest across the street at City Hall. The one about the report that it was a white supremacist group who killed those two black kids Friday night,” Beth answered.

  “It was the Klan,” a black teen who looked to be about fifteen turned to them and said.

  “The Klan?” Beth incredulously asked. “In Minnesota? I doubt it.”

  “That’s what they’re sayin’,” the kid said.

  “My car’s downstairs,” Marc said. “I need to get out of here.”

  A sheriff’s deputy Marc recognized strolled over to them. Marc asked the man if they could get out. “They’re not letting anyone out the North exit,” the deputy said.

  “My car’s downstairs,” Marc said.

  “Mine too,” Beth added.

  “You can get out that way. The cops have Fourth open. I’ll guide you to the elevator,” the deputy said.

  With the deputy in the lead, the three of them made their way toward the corner where the parking ramp elevators were. As they were about to break through the crowd, Marc heard a very familiar voice call out his name. Marc turned and saw Gabriella Shriqui waving at him.

  “That’s Gabriella Shriqui waving at you,” Beth said. “I’m impressed. Tell her I’m available to do her show anytime.”

  “Divorces don’t generate a lot of ratings unless you get a juicy one with rich people and a lot of infidelity,” Marc said.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Beth replied.

  “Give me your card. If she wants someone, I’ll recommend you,” Marc said.

  “No shit? You can’t buy that kind of publicity. Do I owe you a blow job or something?”

  Marc laughed and said, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  A minute later, Marc was being led by Gabriella to the building’s exit door.

  There was a reporter who works for Gabriella and a cameraman waiting. While they made their way through the crowd, he handed Gabriella his friend’s business card.

  “If you need a lawyer for your show to do a divorce segment, give her a call. She’s really good and could use the publicity,” Marc said.

  Gabriella looked at the card, flicked it with her index finger, and then said, “That’s not a bad idea. I think I’ll look into it. What did she offer you for this?”

  Marc told her what Beth had said and Gabriella heartily laughed.

  “I can’t wait to tell Maddy about this,” she said.

  Marc hung his head, shook it, looked at Gabriella and said, “I didn’t even do anything and I’m in trouble.”

  “Relax, big boy. I’m kidding. Although I think I will tell her. She’ll laugh too.”

  When they reached the front of the crowd, they found sheriff’s deputies blocking the exits. No one was coming in or getting out that way.

  “What’s going on?” Marc asked.

  They were looking through the glass doors across the plaza and Fifth Street. On the steps of City Hall, in front of a bank of microphones using a bullhorn to be heard was a black man making a statement. Unfortunately, they could not hear what he was saying. In fact, he was the only one of the speakers who was trying to calm down the crowd.

  “Everybody’s all wound up because they think there’s some Neo-Nazi, Klan, white supremacist group hunting down black men. The word I got from the cops was that it’s bullshit. Those two that were shot Friday evening were executed, likely by a rival gang. The mayor’s having a press conference in a few minutes,” Gabriella explained.

  “Why aren’t you in there?”

  “Because I got stuck in here. We have a camera and reporter in there,” she said referring to the TV station she worked for, Channel 8.

  “You know that guy with the bullhorn?” Marc asked.

  “Yep,” Gabriella replied. “That’s Damone Watson. He’s the latest hot thing in Minneapolis. Reformed drug dealer, gangbanger from Chicago. Now he’s bringing Jesus and light to Minneapolis.”

  “You sound pretty skeptical. I like your cynical side. Very sexy.”

  “Speaking of sexy, how are things with you and Maddy?”

  “Good. Truth be told, I’m head over heels,” Marc admitted.

  “I was wondering when that was going to happen,” Gabriella said.

  “Everybody says that. Why didn’t we know?”

  “Maddy did. She was waiting for you to figure it out. If she ever kicks you to the curb, let me know.”

  “Why?” Marc asked.

  “Seriously? You don’t know why? Maddy has nice things to say about you. Plus, you have a job. Okay, you’re a lawyer, but still, those men are rare.”

  “Oh, so, it isn’t my overpowering sex appeal?”

  “Well, um, yeah, that too,” Gabriella said and laughed. “Hey, got anything juicy going?”

  Marc thought it over and said, “Well, yeah. Not juicy, but bizarre and interesting. Different.”

  “That’s right,” Gabriella snapped, remembering the case. “You have that Kullen family thing. The one where the son went after the father with an axe. Is it true that he tried to chop his way through the bedroom door like Jack Nicholson in The Shining? Is it true the old man took a shot at him? What can you tell me?”

  “Nothing. I have to go,” Marc said.

  “Thanks a lot,” Gabriella said.

  “Maybe when it’s over,” Marc said. He kissed her on the cheek, she gave him a hug and Marc went to his car wondering about Damone Watson.

  Seven

  The object of Marc’s attention was in the back seat of the Tahoe being driven back t
o his office. Before Lewis reached Washington Avenue, he asked his boss, “Do you believe the cop who said he was joking about the white supremacist killing Simmons and King?”

  “Of course,” Damone replied.

  As he said this, Monroe took a call on his phone. He listened for a minute, thanked the caller, and hung up.

  “That was Saadaq,” Monroe turned around and told Damone. “They have the answer.”

  “Good,” Damone replied.

  “Do you want me to…?” Lewis started to ask.

  “Yes,” Damone said knowing Lewis was going to ask if he should change their destination.

  Monroe told Lewis where to go. Instead of turning left on Washington to go to the office, Lewis turned right. Ten minutes later, he parked the Tahoe in a residential garage near Cedar/Riverside.

  A young Somali man was waiting and opened the garage door. When Lewis shut off the engine, the man closed it.

  Damone, still carrying his Bible, got out of the Tahoe and said, “As-salamu alaykum,” to the young man.

  The Somali bowed his head reverently and returned the greeting. He then led the three men into the house and down the creaky, wooden stairs to the basement.

  The house itself was built shortly after World War II. Unlike most of the ones in this neighborhood, this one had a semi-finished basement. The concrete floor had a fresh coat of gray paint. The cinder block walls were a bright white and the ground-level windows were painted black. The entire area was well lit with several bare lightbulbs attached to the ceiling.

  Waiting for Damone were six Muslim men. Three were standing nervously on a large, plastic sheet in the middle of the room. A fourth man stood next to the three on the plastic. This man was casually holding the universal firearm of choice for revolutionaries and radicals: a knockoff AK-47. A fifth man was seated in a comfortable chair along the wall to Damone’s right. He was a much more light-skinned man wearing Ray-Ban wraparounds and sporting a very stylish three-day beard.

  The sixth man was Saadaq Khalid. He was the one who had called Monroe a few minutes ago. Saadaq was a 27-year-old Middle Eastern Muslim and Damone’s liaison in the Somali community. Being Damone’s man was well known among the Somalis which made Saadaq both highly respected and feared.