Exquisite Justice

by Dennis Carstens

“No, he’s twenty-nine and this is marriage number three for him. And right now he’s in the house I’m watching, having a little afternoon romp between the sheets with another forty-something divorcee.”

  “Is he cute?” Marc asked trying to bait her.

  “I guess, maybe,” Maddy replied. “In that pretty, bad-boy kind of thing that does nothing for me,” Maddy lied.

  Marc laughed and said, “You liar. You probably have enough pictures of him to fill a photo album.”

  “Wait a minute,” Maddy said turning serious. “Hang on a second. Someone pulled into the driveway.”

  Maddy set her phone on the passenger seat and picked up her small, Bushnell binoculars. She watched as a woman exited the black Lexus sedan and started walking toward the front.

  “What is this?” she whispered to herself while she watched. When the woman reached the front door, she turned her head so Maddy could see her face.

  Maddy picked up her phone as she watched the woman enter the house. “Marc,” she said, “it’s Nicolette, the wife.”

  Maddy tossed the glasses onto the passenger seat and said, “I need to get in there.”

  “No, wait!” Marc yelled. “Don’t go in there! She may have a gun.”

  Maddy was out of her car and hurrying toward the house, phone still at her ear. When she reached the driveway, she heard the shots.

  “Pow, pow,” two quick shots, a pause, then three more quick ones, another pause and one final shot.

  Maddy stopped in the driveway and knelt down behind the Lexus the woman was driving. “Shots fired, Marc. Call 911 and give them this address,” she said then told him the street address.

  “Madeline? You stay the hell out of there,” Marc yelled into an empty phone.

  Maddy slipped her phone into the back pocket of her jeans. By this point, she was holding her 9 mm Beretta in her right hand. She waited a few seconds then sprinted to the house.

  “Six shots,” she whispered to herself. “Maybe that’s all she had.”

  Maddy got to the front door and listened for roughly twenty seconds. Hearing nothing, she quietly turned the doorknob then threw the door open, jumped in and went to one knee. Holding her handgun in front of her, she swept the room with it until she saw Nicolette calmly sitting in the living room.

  “Let me see your hands,” she barked out an order pointing the gun at her.

  Nicolette held up both hands, palms out and said, “The gun is on the table,” indicating the coffee table in front of her. On it was a .38 caliber six-shot revolver.

  “I was about to call the police,” Nicolette calmly said.

  Without lowering her gun, Maddy took a chair directly across the room from her. She retrieved her phone and called Marc.

  “Are you all right?” Marc said.

  “Yeah. I’m in the house. Nicolette is here, and I have her. Did you call the police?”

  “Yes, they’re on the way and so am I. Connie’s with me. If traffic is okay, we’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Marc said.

  “Call 911 and tell them to send an ambulance ASAP. Tell them I’m in the house and everything is under control and I have a gun.”

  “Have you asked her any questions?”

  “No,” Maddy replied.

  “Don’t. In fact, tell her you have a lawyer on the way and that she is to keep her mouth shut. Don’t ask her any questions. You are now a witness for the state. Got it?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Okay,” Maddy said. “Hurry.”

  Maddy put the phone away and said, “My name is Maddy Rivers and I’m…”

  “I know who you are,” Nicolette interrupted. “Aunt Vivian speaks very highly of you.”

  “Please, listen to me,” Maddy said. She then told her what Marc had said about being quiet.

  “I understand,” Nicolette said with a rueful smile. “Believe me, I know plenty of lawyers.”

  The house was located in the fairly affluent suburb of St. Paul of Shoreview. By the time Marc and Connie arrived, there were two Shoreview police squad cars and two others from the Ramsey County Sheriff’s patrol in front of the house. There was also an unmarked Sheriff’s investigator’s car and an ambulance, all with their lights flashing. The normal crowd of people, neighbors mostly, was gathering across the street.

  Mark parked on the street behind Maddy’s car and he and Connie hurried toward the house. As they did, the ambulance slowly pulled out of the driveway and drove off. As it did, a hearse from the medical examiner’s office took its place behind the Lexus.

  Marc explained who they were to the deputy who had stopped them. The deputy used his radio to have the lead investigator come out of the house.

  A minute later, two plainclothes cops came outside; a black man whose name was Kendell Walker and a younger white woman, Ruth McGowan. They joined Marc and Connie on the driveway next to the coroner’s hearse.

  “What can you tell me?” Marc asked.

  “Two dead. A man and a woman naked and on the bed. Looks like three shots each,” Walker said. “We recovered a .38 revolver that was on the living room coffee table. All six shots were taken. From the size of the wounds, that is likely the murder weapon.”

  “I need to see my client,” Marc said.

  “Sure, follow me,” Walker said.

  He led both of them into the house. They showed IDs to the deputy at the door who recorded their names. When they entered the living room, Walker asked Marc if he knew Maddy.

  “Um, yeah, we’re acquainted,” Marc said. “Ms. Mickelson will represent her…”

  “She’s not a suspect. She’s a witness,” Walker tried to protest.

  “I’m representing Madeline Rivers,” Connie said with authority.

  “Take Maddy outside and wait for me,” Marc told Connie. “I need to talk to Mrs. Osborne alone.”

  When they were alone, Marc pulled a chair up next to Nicolette.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked.

  “Terribly,” she replied. “Are they going to arrest me?”

  “Yes, they are,” Marc admitted. “Look, you need to know, I can’t represent you after today.”

  “Why? Aunt Vivian knows you.”

  “Because I have a conflict. The woman who found you…”

  “Maddy?”

  “Yes, her. She is going to be a witness for the state. We have a personal, romantic relationship. It would be unethical for me to represent you because of that. In fact, it might be unethical for me to be this involved.

  “I know some terrific lawyers,” Marc continued. “I’ll talk to Vivian and we’ll get you someone good. Until then, keep quiet, don’t talk to anybody, especially anyone in jail. They might put someone in with you and try to get you to talk. Don’t do it.

  “You’ll be brought before a judge, probably sometime tomorrow. We’ll find a lawyer for you and have him or her meet with you yet today.”

  “Hey,” Marc heard Connie’s voice from behind. “Tony’s here and he brought Vivian. Harriet Kennedy is here, too,” she said referring to Nicolette’s divorce lawyer.

  “Can Harriet come in?” Nicolette asked.

  “Yes, I’ll have her come in,” Marc said.

  “What about Aunt Vivian?”

  “No,” Marc replied. “They won’t let her in.”

  When Marc joined Connie, she was with Harriet Kennedy. Connie told Marc, “Harriet and I have been talking. We don’t think Maddy should give a statement to the cops.”

  “She was working for me and my client. Anything she saw or heard is privileged,” Harriet said.

  Marc looked at Maddy then back at Harriet. “We can take that position today, but it won’t fly. She’s a witness to a crime that was outside the scope of her employment. A judge will make her talk.”

  Marc saw Vivian coming toward them and he held up a hand to stop her. “I don’t want you to hear any of this.”

  “Privileged?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” Vivian said then walked away.
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br />   “If that happens, okay,” Harriet said. “But for now, I’m the one who is really Nicolette’s lawyer and Maddy’s employer.” She turned to Maddy and said, “Sorry, kiddo, but I’m not letting you talk to the cops today.”

  “Okay by me,” Maddy said.

  Marc’s phone rang, he looked at the ID and said to Harriet, “Why don’t you tell the investigators. I need to take this call.”

  Marc answered his phone by saying, “Did you get her number?”

  Marc had called the office and asked Carolyn to find the number of a female lawyer he knew. Her name was Adison Greer and she was a bit of a feminist crusader. Despite that, Greer was a very capable lawyer who would do a great job with Nicolette’s case.

  “Yeah, here it is,” Carolyn said and read it to him.

  A short while later, while Marc was on the phone with Adison Greer, Nicolette was being escorted out. She was now officially under arrest and wearing handcuffs.

  Vivian went to her and tried to hug her but was stopped by the deputy. Marc told Greer what was happening and assured her he would make sure Nicolette knew Greer would meet her at the jail.

  With Nicolette in the back seat with a female deputy, the sheriff’s car drove off. The little group on the front lawn of the crime scene could only watch her go.

  Nine

  Shelly Cornelius nervously paced about on the thin carpeting in her apartment’s living room. For almost an hour she could hear the fighting between the couple across the hall. Shelly paced and chain-smoked Salems while trying to stay calm. This was their third big, loud fight in five days and Shelly was scared to death for her neighbor and good friend, Karenna Hines.

  Karenna’s boyfriend, 22-year-old Mikal Tate, was a part-time gangbanger, part-time junkie and, by Shelly’s opinion, a full-time asshole. Karenna insisted when Mikal was not using, he was a decent boyfriend. But then Karenna at 19 already had two babies by Mikal.

  Shelly stopped next to her second-hand coffee table. She reached down, stubbed out her cigarette in the metal ashtray and lit another one. As she set the plastic lighter on top of her cigarettes, she heard a loud crash from across the hall. A moment later, Shelly heard Karenna’s door slam and Karenna pleading with Shelly to let her in.

  Shelly quickly opened the door to find a battered Karenna crying and staggered into Shelly’s arms. Her nose, lips and left ear were bleeding. The left of Karenna’s face was swollen and bruised and there were bruises around her neck where she had been choked.

  Shelly closed the door and activated all four locks. It was likely a futile gesture. If Mikal wanted to kick it in—he had done it before—the locks would offer little resistance.

  Karenna was on her knees at the table, blood and tears running down her face trying to light one of Shelly’s cigarettes.

  “My god, baby,” Shelly said as she knelt down next to her. “Let me look at you.”

  Shelly wiped her friend’s tears then went into the small kitchen. She returned with a washcloth and a butcher knife.

  While Shelly wiped the blood, tears and snot from Karenna’s face, she said, “I swear, girl, if that asshole comes in here after you, I will stab that motherfucker in the throat, I swear it.”

  “No, no, you can’t…”

  “Where are the babies?” Shelly asked referring to Karenna’s children, a two-year-old boy and a nine-month-old girl.

  “My Momma’s,” Karenna said.

  “I’m calling an ambulance. Your ear looks bad.”

  Karenna took a drag on the cigarette and as she blew out the smoke said, “I can’t hear with it. He hit me, but he doesn’t mean to,” she quickly added. “It’s the dope.”

  “It’s because he’s a mean sonofabitch,” Shelly said while punching in 911 on her iPhone.

  MPD officer Colby Houston came out of a Super America station on Plymouth Avenue carrying two coffees. His partner, Ross Marcott, was leaning on the side of their patrol car two spaces from the door.

  “Thanks, Colby,” Marcott said as he reached for the paper cup. He blew on it to cool it off, took a sip then heard their call sign come over the radio. Marcott answered it with his shoulder mic.

  “There is a disturbance involving an EMT vehicle,” the dispatcher said. She gave them the address and what little information she had received from the person who called it.

  “We’re a minute away,” Marcott told the dispatcher. “Will respond ASAP.”

  Less than 90 seconds later, Colby Houston, with lights flashing, stopped behind the ambulance. The officers quickly got out to deal with the scene on the yard in front of the apartment building.

  One of the EMTs was holding a small towel to his bleeding nose. The other was looking at his partner. The one with the broken nose also had the beginning of a black eye showing. The one helping him had a swollen left cheek.

  There were two women on the ground next to the EMTs’ gurney which had been tipped over and was lying on its side. One of the women was trying to help the other while screaming at the young man prancing around yelling obscenities at everyone, including the cops.

  A furious and raging Mikal Tate was stomping around the small yard. He pointed at the EMTs and yelled, “I told you not to take my woman. I told you, I warned…” He stopped when he saw the two police officers.

  “What?” Mikal said looking at the cops. “Hey, dude, I warned them.”

  “You talk to him,” Marcott told Colby. “I’ll check the girls.”

  Colby was a 28-year-old black man with a talent for cooling out angry black youths. While Marcott went to check on Karenna and Shelly, Colby approached Mikal with his hands out in a non-confrontational gesture.

  “Easy, man, easy,” Colby said as he slowly approached Mikal.

  “It’s cool,” Mikal replied holding up his hands in a don’t shoot gesture.

  “What’s the problem?” Colby asked when he stopped a couple of feet from Mikal.

  “They try to take my woman,” Mikal said pointing at the EMTs.

  “Okay, let’s just chill out and talk about it,” Colby said still holding his hands up.

  Mikal, in his incoherent, drugged out-state, prattled on trying to justify his assaults on the EMTs, Shelly and Karenna. While this was taking place, Marcott was with Shelly and Karenna. Seeing Karenna badly beaten he gestured for the EMTs to join him.

  The bleeding nose had stopped and the EMTs had lifted up the gurney. They were helping Karenna to her feet when they heard Colby Houston yell something.

  While Mikal was telling his tale, for a brief moment, Colby turned his head to look at his partner. In that instant, Mikal stepped toward him and sucker punched him in the ear. As Colby was going down, Mikal jumped on Colby and slammed him to the ground. As he lay on top of the stunned policeman, Mikal jerked Colby’s gun out of its holster. Mikal stumbled to his feet, took a step back, pointed Colby’s gun at him and muttered, “Motherfuckin’ pig...”

  What the EMTs and Ross Marcott heard Colby Houston yell were two words: ‘gun’ and ‘don’t’.

  Marcott turned to his partner and saw him lying on the ground, his left arm extended. Marcott also saw Mikal Tate pointing a gun at Colby. In an instant, Marcott’s twelve years of police work and training took over. He drew his sidearm and quickly aimed it. Three loud, rapid, explosions came out of the business end of his .40 caliber.

  The first shot hit Mikal in the middle of his ribs on his right side. The second under his right armpit and the third between his ear and right eye. Either of the first two would have killed him, eventually. But the third one dropped him dead on the ground.

  It took four or five seconds for Shelly and Karenna to realize what had just happened. When it did, both of the young women started screaming the most vile, foul, obscenities Marcott had ever heard. And they were screaming them at him.

  Both EMTs ran to Mikal. They checked him over and immediately knew he was gone. They also knew that they needed to get him out of there. In less than thirty seconds, while the two women continued t
o berate Ross Marcott, they grabbed the gurney, tossed Mikal onto it then shoved Mikal’s body in the ambulance and took off.

  Colby got to his feet. While this was going on, he came to his senses, started breathing again and radioed the incident in. Within minutes, there were four more squad cars at the scene. Another one was taking a sobbing Karenna and Shelly to the Hennepin County Medical Center.

  As the ambulance with the dead Mikal Tate in it pulled away, Marcott, with Shelly and a hysterical Karenna still screaming, quietly said to Colby, “Please tell me you had our body camera on.”

  “I did,” Colby whispered back. “But I’m not sure what it recorded.”

  Ten

  Damone Watson used the TV’s remote to turn up the volume on the 65-inch, High Def Sony in his office. He had been monitoring events in the city for the past two days. It was now Monday morning and the news was getting worse. Damone did not like bad news. Bad news stirred things up. Chaos was bad for business and events were becoming more and more chaotic.

  Damone placed the remote on his desk and tersely said, “Lewis, get that white bitch on the phone. I need to know what the hell is going on in city hall.”

  The white bitch he was referring to was his city council concubine, Patti Chenault.

  “You got it, boss,” Lewis said.

  While Lewis sat with his phone to his ear, Monroe came in with more bad news.

  “I just got a call from our friend at Cedar/Riverside. The holy man wants to know if this protest is going to get out of hand. The last time something like this happened, there was serious trouble between the Somalis and Americans,” Monroe said. The holy man he referred to meant Imam Sadia. The trouble was between Somali street gangs and African American street gangs. Damone had brokered—enforced would be a more accurate description—a tenuous peace between them. But there was definitely no love lost between the two groups. In fact, there was a good deal of racial prejudice involved with Somalis looking down on African Americans as not black enough.

  “Call them back and tell them I am working on it,” Damone replied.