Exquisite Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  Saadaq bowed his head and greeted Damone in English. Damone returned the greeting, respectfully in Arabic. Saadaq then led Damone to the men on the plastic.

  “These are the two fools,” Saadaq said, indicating the two of the three. The three were lined up left-to-right. The ones Saadaq pointed to were the one in the middle and the one to Damone’s right.

  “Have they confessed?” Damone asked.

  “Yes,” Saadaq replied.

  Damone looked at the two young men—both looked to be no older than eighteen—and asked, “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

  The one in the middle, noticeably less frightened than the other, replied, “They offended our women. They said hateful things to us about all Muslim women.”

  “What did they say?” Damone asked.

  “I cannot and will not repeat it,” the man said. “It was too offensive. They deserved to die.”

  “What should you have done instead of seeking justice yourself?” Damone asked.

  “We should have gone to Hanad Rahim, who would go to you for justice. I know that now,” the same one replied. He was referring to the third man standing on the plastic. Hanad Rahim was the Somali selected by Damone to oversee the Somali gangs, get them to work together and keep the peace.

  “You were ignorant of this before you acted so foolishly?” Damone asked.

  “Yes, sir,” both of the killers replied.

  Damone looked to his left at Hanad and said, “Did you fail to inform them that there are procedures in place to deal with trouble such as this? To maintain the peace?”

  Hanad started to say something but was abruptly cut off by Damone.

  “Do not lie to me.”

  Hanad stood up straight, shoulders back and stared straight ahead. “Perhaps,” he said.

  Damone turned around and took one step forward. He was less than a foot from Monroe who handed him an object that no one else could see. Damone held it for two seconds then quickly turned around and pointed it. The .40 caliber semi-auto sounded like a cannon being fired in the confines of the small basement. From barely three feet away, the bullet made a neat, round hole in Hanad’s forehead when it entered. It exited the back of his skull and blew a spray of bone, brains and blood all over the plastic sheet.

  While Hanad lay lifeless on the plastic-covered floor, the blood from his head spreading beneath him, Damone turned back to the two young Muslims. Pointing the handgun back and forth at their foreheads, he quietly asked, “Are you prepared to die for Allah?”

  “Yes,” both answered, each expecting to be lying next to Hanad at any moment.

  Instead, Damone lowered his hand with the gun and looked at both of them.

  “Good,” he said. He reached behind himself and handed the gun to Monroe.

  “You will go with this man and do what he tells you,” Damone said nodding his head toward the man wearing sunglasses. “You belong to him now,” Damone continued. “If you disobey him in any way, he has the right to punish you however he sees fit. Including death. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you object?”

  “No, sir,” they both said.

  The man with the sunglasses stood up and addressed his two new slaves.

  “You are giving your lives to Allah. You should be proud. There is no greater purpose in this life.”

  “Find a more capable replacement for this dog,” Damone told Saadaq referring to Hanad. “We cannot have these things happening. I have had to spend too much time the last three days keeping the peace. Choose someone this poorly again and I will beat you like a woman. Understood?”

  “Of course,” Saadaq nervously replied.

  As the three of them were leaving, Lewis handed Damone his Bible. Damone tucked it under his arm and went up the stairs behind Monroe.

  The ride toward Damone’s office was done in silence for the first five or six minutes. Damone had agreed to meet with Jalen Bryant again. Lewis and Monroe, knowing their boss’ moods, did not want to interrupt him. He was likely thinking about what the mayoral candidate wanted this time.

  “Lewis, I want you to get ahold of that political researcher, what’s-his-name…”

  “Addison Farmen,” Lewis answered.

  “Yes, that sleazy little man. Anyway, have him research Bryant’s opponent, Betsy Carpenter. Let’s see if we can help him.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lewis replied. “Consider it done. I’ll do it through a cutout, so he won’t know it’s you.”

  “Very good.”

  That morning’s Star Tribune was still lying on the backseat next to Damone. He picked it up and read the article about white supremacists again. When he finished, he read the byline with the reporter’s name.

  “Philo Anson,” Damone said. “What kind of name is Philo Anson?”

  “I have no idea,” Lewis replied.

  “Who is Philo Anson?” Monroe asked.

  “The reporter who wrote this story,” Damone said. “Let’s do a background check on him, too. Anyone who hates cops as much as he does might prove to be useful. Get that computer kid on it.”

  “You mean Delmar?” Monroe asked.

  “Yes, have him dig up what he can. We may want to hire a private investigator at some point, but have the kid check him out first.”

  “Councilman, what can I do for you?” Damone asked Jalen Bryant.

  Bryant had been escorted to the second-floor conference room by Lewis. When he was shown in, Damone put on a friendly display to welcome him.

  “No Kordell Glover with you?” Damone asked as the two men shook hands.

  “No, I would like to meet with you alone,” Bryant replied. He was referring to Lewis and Monroe.

  “I’m sorry,” Damone said with a smile. “That’s not possible. I never meet anyone without my two closest advisors. Please, have a seat.”

  “Well, all right,” Bryant said as he sat down at the conference table. “I’m going to speak bluntly, and you might not want them to hear this.”

  “Go ahead. Speak bluntly.” Damone was sitting on the table top, one foot on the floor, three seats from Bryant looking down at him. A position of power.

  “Okay. I know who you are, I know what you’re up to and if you want to continue, I want a million dollars wired into an offshore account.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Damone said. He gestured with a flip of his hand to Monroe and Lewis. The two of them went to Bryant and literally lifted him out of his chair.

  “Hey! What the hell…” Bryant tried to protest. He looked at Damone who smiled and held an index finger to his lips.

  “I will not be quiet…what do you think you’re doing?” he yelled.

  While Lewis held the much smaller man in a grip like a vise, Monroe started undressing him.

  “Relax and you won’t get hurt,” Lewis whispered in his ear.

  In less than a minute the councilman was stripped completely naked. Monroe did a quick visual search which included looking in his ears. Satisfied, the two bodyguards returned to where they had been standing.

  “You thought I was wired?”

  “Please get dressed,” Damone said.

  “This is outrageous,” Bryant protested as he pulled up his underwear and pants. “I won’t…”

  “You come here demanding a million-dollar bribe and you’re upset if we suspect foul play? Please, spare me your indignation.

  “Of course, I’m not going to give you a million dollars. Where would I get a million dollars? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Bryant looked nervously around the room as he finished dressing.

  “How do I know you don’t have this room wired?” he asked.

  “You don’t,” Damone replied. “You should have thought of that before coming here and insulting me like this. But, to show you there are no hard feelings, I’m still going to work for you.

  “Was there anything else, Mr. Bryant?” Damone asked.

  “Ah, no,”
he nervously replied.

  “Have a nice rest of your day,” Damone said.

  While Monroe was escorting their visitor downstairs, Damone told Lewis to check the monitoring system to make sure it was working, and they had the councilman filmed. In fact, the room was wired for both audio and video. And Jalen Bryant had assumed it was.

  Councilman Bryant drove six blocks to a parking lot near a small park. When he got there, he found three men waiting for him. One was his campaign manager, Kordell Glover. The other two were FBI agents. Satisfied he had not been followed, Bryant parked his car and joined the three men in the agents’ car.

  “How did it go?” the older, male agent, Jeff Johnson, asked from the front passenger seat.

  “About like we expected,” Bryant replied. “He acted offended. His two thugs even stripped me down to check for a wire.”

  “You okay?” Kordell asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “You weren’t followed?” the younger female agent, Tess Richards, asked.

  “No, I drove around. No one was after me,” Bryant assured them. “He’s not what he seems to be. I’m sure of it.”

  “We tossed the bait at him,” agent Johnson said. “Give it time. He’ll come back for something.”

  When Lewis and Monroe were done escorting Bryant out and checking the monitoring, they joined Damone in his office. They took the comfortable, leather armchairs in front of his big desk.

  “I want this place swept for bugs at least twice a week,” Damone said.

  “I’ll see to it,” Lewis replied. “That shifty tech guy…”

  “Conrad Hilton?” Damone asked.

  “Yeah, him. He’s quick and thorough. Comes highly recommended,” Lewis said.

  “He did a good job setting up the monitoring system, too,” Monroe said.

  “Make sure he does my apartment, too.”

  Monroe’s phone rang, he answered it, briefly listened then said, “I’ll be right there.”

  He put the phone away and said, “Rondall is here with five of his guys.”

  Damone shook his head in disgust and said, “I told him I would see him alone. Bring him up by himself. Put him in the conference room,” Damone looked at Lewis and said, “While Monroe does that, shut off the monitoring equipment in the conference room please, Lewis.”

  Five minutes later, Damone had finished informing Rondall Brown what he had done with the two Muslims. The victims of the Friday night murders were members of Rondall’s gang, the Northside NWA. Of course, Damone had lied to him. He told Rondall that the Muslims were dead.

  Rondall stood up, quite angry and stomped around the conference room.

  “I told you I wanted to take care of them!” he yelled pounding an indignant fist against his chest while glaring at Damone.

  “You told me, did you?” Damone calmly replied. “You told me? Who are you to tell me anything? I decided what was best for business and to keep the peace. You don’t get a vote.”

  “Yeah? We’ll see about…”

  “Don’t,” Damone calmly, but clearly warned him. “They insulted Muslim women. It was a foolish thing to do…”

  “Muslim women? Muslim women?” Rondall sneered. He was standing now at the opposite end of the table, staring down at Damone. Almost silently, Monroe slipped into the room behind Rondall. He stood by the door holding his hands together. Rondall turned, saw him and his demeanor changed immediately.

  He looked at Damone and quietly said, “I accept your decision.”

  “Good,” Damone said. He got up and walked down the table to where Rondall was nervously looking at Monroe. Damone and Rondall went through a series of hand gestures while Monroe opened the door.

  Damone went back to his office while Monroe escorted Rondall back to the first-floor exit. When Damone entered his office, Lewis was there waiting for him.

  Eight

  Marc entered the suite of offices he shared with his friends to find most of them laughing. He stood in the doorway with a quizzical look on his face. It was Barry Cline, one of the other lawyers, who was the first one to notice him.

  “I just had a call from a woman who should be on our top ten list of dumbest potential clients,” Barry told him.

  “What?” Marc asked, laughing a bit before even hearing the story.

  “Woman wants to sue Target for discrimination,” Barry began. “She went to Target with a Target coupon and was told she couldn’t use it because it had expired. She told the Target clerk that she was out of town when the coupon came out and since it wasn’t her fault, Target should allow her to use it to buy the item.”

  “What? How…what?” Marc said.

  “It wasn’t her fault because she was out of town and Target should still honor the coupon.”

  “That expired,” Marc said.

  “Right. But it wasn’t her fault,” Barry repeated.

  “And…I’m sorry,” Marc said, “I’m trying not to laugh. What is her discrimination claim? Is she black or gay or what?”

  “Maybe there’s a religious thing here,” Connie Mickelson chimed in. “Maybe she’s a Druid and this was their holy time and she was hanging out in the forest.”

  “I asked, and she didn’t have anything specific. In fact, she got mad and said, quote, I thought that’s what lawyers were for, to come up with things like that. I, politely as possible told her it wasn’t a case I’d be interested in,” Barry said.

  “Don’t tell me you gave her my phone number,” Marc said. “I’m still pissed about the last time you did that.”

  “No, no, I didn’t,” Barry said. “In fact, she said she was going to sue me, too.”

  “I’m just glad someone else got this call. I’ve had my share,” Marc said.

  “Oh, please,” Connie replied. “I was getting calls like this when you were still a twinkle in your daddy’s eye.”

  “How did your case go?” Barry asked.

  “What case?” Connie asked.

  “The Kullens,” Marc replied. “The most dysfunctional family since the Borgias. I got another postponement. Dr. Butler promised to have her psyche eval done by Friday. She said she’s trying to decide if she should laugh then move to a different state and hide from them.”

  “What are you going to do with it?” Carolyn Lucas asked.

  “I have no idea. I’m hoping something will come to me after I get the shrink’s report. I told Lorraine to give me a good recommendation.”

  “You cannot let this bunch of lunatics go to trial,” Connie said.

  “Maybe I should,” Marc said. “Let the courts and justice system deal with them. I’ll think of something.

  “Oh, more news,” Marc continued. “I found out Margaret is getting married.”

  Marc was referring to his ex-lover, Judge Margaret Tennant. They had recently split-up for the third or fourth, but definitely final, time.

  “How do you feel about that?” Carolyn asked.

  Marc looked at Carolyn, smiled and said, “I’m fine, Mom. In fact, I wish her well. She’s a terrific lady and I hope she’s happy.”

  “There you go,” Connie said. “Me, I always hope my exes die a slow and painful death.”

  “Right after you squeeze them for all the money you take them for in the divorce.”

  “Earned every penny,” Connie said barely able to avoid joining in on the laughter.

  “And now,” Marc said. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m going to go into my office, crawl under my desk and sulk for an hour about Margaret. My safe space.”

  “Shut up!” Barry almost yelled. “You got the best consolation prize of all time: Maddy.”

  “I’d be very careful if I were you,” Marc said. “Don’t let her find out you called her a consolation prize.”

  “Good point,” Barry agreed. “I better make sure my health insurance is current in case she ever finds out I said it.”

  “Okay, so I won’t be sulking,” Marc said as he walked toward his office.

 
Marc was at his desk, more precisely seated with his back to his desk. He was leaning on his credenza, the window open behind it watching the traffic on Charles and Lake. A beautiful summer day was enticing him to set aside his work and play hooky for the afternoon. Marc leaned out a little further to watch two teenage girls in shorts crossing the intersection. Realizing that at his age, his daughter would extremely chastise him for looking at girls that young no matter how cute they were. As his guilt was kicking in for leering the way he was, the intercom on his phone buzzed. It startled him and he banged his head on the window.

  “Owww!” he said a little too loudly.

  Rubbing the back of his head, he answered his phone.

  “Maddy’s on line two,” Carolyn told him. “Why are you yelling?”

  “Never mind,” Marc said as he answered Maddy’s call.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” he asked trying not to sound guilty.

  “I’m sitting in my car a couple of houses down from my philandering subject,” Maddy said. “How did court go this morning?”

  “You must be bored,” Marc said.

  “I am,” Maddy replied. “I should know better than to take a divorce case.”

  “Why did you?” Marc asked.

  “The money’s good and Harriet was good to me when I was starting out,” Maddy reminded him, referring to a divorce lawyer friend of Marc, Maddy and Connie Mickelson. “Oh, shoot! That reminds me. You’re not gonna believe what I found out this morning.”

  “What?” Marc asked, the pain from the thump on his head subsiding.

  “Harriet’s client, the wife I’m doing this for, is Vivian’s niece.”

  “Seriously? Does Vivian know what you’re up to?”

  “I doubt it. Get this. Her name is Nicolette Osborne. She is forty-seven and two years ago she left her first husband after twenty-two years for number two, Bradley Osborne, now age twenty-nine.”

  Marc chuckled then said, “Are you kidding?”