Exquisite Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  By now, a thoroughly confused Philo could only watch as if this drama being played out had nothing to do with him.

  “What have you been told about running Murphy’s?” Lewis asked again.

  “It’s just some white boy,” Lemar said, trying to defend himself.

  “You ain’t supposed to be doin’ it to anyone and this ain’t some ordinary white boy.”

  Lewis bent down and picked up the knife. He folded the blade into the handle, put it in his jacket pocket then looked at Philo.

  “You all right, Mr. Anson?” he asked.

  Surprised that this man knew his name, Philo picked up his drink and in one swallow tossed it down.

  “Yes. Yeah, I’m okay,” he said.

  “Good, I apologize for this,” Lewis said, then gave Bianca and Lemar a nasty look.

  “The man we work for would like to have a word with you. I know it’s late, but he keeps odd hours. Do you mind?” Lewis asked. “Monroe will drive your car since you’ve been drinking, and they might have drugged you. You can ride with me. It’s not far.”

  Maddy had followed Philo and the car following him to the apartment building. Only a few minutes had passed when she saw the two black men escort Philo out of the building. One of the men got in to drive Philo’s Jag while Philo and the other man got in the Tahoe.

  While using a few tricks—turning off her headlights, pulling over and stopping with lights off—Maddy was able to easily follow them. When they reached their destination, she saw them drive into Damone’s parking lot. Maddy stopped on the street after cruising past and seeing them enter the building. Although it was not the best neighborhood for a white woman to be in at night by herself, she decided to risk it and wait. Maddy drove up a block, turned around and parked a half block away on the opposite side of the street. With a handgun in her lap, she watched the parking lot and waited.

  Despite the lateness of the hour and the cool, late September weather, there was a ball game being played next to the parking lot. Maddy made herself comfortable and half watched the game, half watched the parking lot.

  “Come in, Mr. Anson. Please, have a seat. I’ve been meaning to meet you for a while now,” Damone cheerfully told Philo

  Lewis and Monroe had escorted Philo up to Damone’s second-floor conference room. Having called ahead, they knew Damone would be waiting.

  “I’m sorry about this, the way this came about,” Damone continued. He had stood up and was holding the chair for Philo to take. The seat was the one to Damone’s right; the one best suited for filming.

  “You’ve met Lewis and Monroe,” Damone said as he sat down again. “They have been watching those two who tried to rob you tonight for a while now. It isn’t the girl, it’s that pimp,” he continued saying the word ‘pimp’ with clear disgust.

  “No, I mean, thanks,” Philo said. “They saved my ass. I had no idea. The girl, Briana, she seems nice and well, she’s beautiful and hard to resist.”

  “Yes, I can understand that. Men are a little too susceptible to the pleasures of the flesh,” Damone said while placing his left hand on his Bible. “Fortunately, God is forgiving.

  “I wanted to meet you because of your fair coverage of the troubles the city is experiencing this summer. I read your paper every day and am very impressed.”

  For the next ten minutes, Damone went over a list of articles Philo had written. By the time he finished, Philo’s ego had been sufficiently primed.

  “I was especially impressed with how you were able to get a picture of poor Reverend Ferguson’s body lying in the street. Where were you when he was murdered? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Oh, no, not at all, Mr. Watson.”

  “Damone, please,” he said with a smile and turned his eyes toward Lewis and Monroe.

  “Damone, okay,” Philo said.

  It took him almost fifteen minutes to describe, in detail, where he was and how sincerely he participated in each day’s protest. By the time he finished bragging, it almost sounded like he was among the protest leadership.

  “As I understand it,” Damone said, interrupting Philo to shut him up, “you got the photo of Reverend Ferguson lying in the street, the one in the paper?”

  “Yes, I did,” Philo sadly said. “It was terrible, but I had to do it. I had to forget the shock and horror and be a professional. Much like Abraham Zapruder who filmed the assassination of Kennedy. Very heroic of him to take that risk.”

  “Yes, it was,” Damone agreed, still filling Philo’s head with flattery to make him get on with it.

  “Well, I saw Ferguson lying in the street, obviously dead. Within seconds there were cops around him. But I didn’t let that deter me. I barged right through them and using my phone, took seven pictures.”

  “Seven? The paper only printed one. Do you have the others still on your phone? I’d love to see them,” Damone said.

  Philo paused for a moment then said, “Ah, no, no, I don’t. The paper took them.”

  He’s lying, Damone thought.

  “That’s a shame,” Damone said. “Well, the reason I’m asking about it is because there is a rumor out there,” he continued, waving his hand toward the windows, “that there was an unidentified man, a white man, near Reverend Ferguson. Did you see anyone like that?”

  “You know, I, ah, I did actually. I mean, I’m not sure how near he was. In fact, he had been around for every protest march. I saw him, now that you mention it. I remember thinking he kind of looked out of place. He looked like a homeless guy. You know, a bum, really. He seemed to be just hanging around.”

  “Did you ever get a picture of him? Maybe in the background of another photo?” Damone asked.

  “No, uh, uh,” Philo answered. “The only pictures I took at all were the ones of Ferguson in the street.”

  “None of the cop who shot him?”

  “No, I wasn’t sure who shot him. Not right away. I heard some cops talking. That’s how I got his name for the paper,” Philo said.

  While he told the story, Philo was very careful not to mention that his first instinct was to run. Philo figured there was no reason to muddle up a good story with irrelevant facts.

  “Well,” Damone said. “Thanks for stopping by. And don’t worry about what happened tonight. I’ll see to it that it won’t happen again.”

  Maddy had become so engrossed in the late-night ball game she almost missed him. It startled her for a couple of seconds when she noticed Philo’s Jag pulling out of the lot. It took a moment to get her bearings, then she quickly went after him.

  To her disappointment, Philo hurried straight home. Maddy was hoping Philo’s drinking problem would cause him to stop at a bar other than a strip club. She was beginning to realize following him was a waste time.

  When Philo got to his townhouse, the first thing he did was pour a double shot of Cognac. To calm himself, he drank it down in two swallows. He poured another one, then went into his den.

  He turned on his laptop and, while waiting for it to warm up, he removed the SIM card from his phone. He placed it into a USB port adapter and uploaded the pictures he had taken at the crime scene onto his computer. He then downloaded them onto a memory stick. When that was done, he deleted the photos from his laptop and the SIM card. Fifteen minutes and another drink later, he changed his mind and reloaded them onto his phone.

  Thirty-Six

  Marc was in the office’s conference room with Arturo and Jeff Modell. It was almost noon on the Friday he was to receive all of the final discovery. Fortunately, there were only two more boxes. If Gondeck were being true to form, most of it would be a waste of time, Jeff’s time.

  What they were currently reviewing was the list of prospective jurors––a list of one hundred fifty names of Hennepin County residents. For each name, there was some bio information: age, marital status, address, employment and race. This last piece, race, was always a delicate matter and normally not allowed. With the significance of the racial aspect of this trial,
Judge Tennant risked being overturned on appeal and had it included.

  “What do you think?” Arturo asked.

  “I hope you don’t have plans for the weekend,” Marc replied. “We’ll send this to Grayson and let them run it,” Marc said. Grayson was Grayson Trial Support, a jury consulting firm in Boston. The police union insisted on using them and agreed to pay for it.

  “While they’re doing that, we’ll go over it ourselves…”

  There was a bit of a commotion in the outer office at that moment. All three men turned to look through the conference room windows to see Maddy come in.

  “Ah, there she is,” Marc said. He was expecting her.

  A moment later, after making the rounds in the office, she joined them.

  “So, you’re not having any luck with the reporter. Tell us about last night,” Marc said.

  When she finished telling them about tailing Philo, the hooker and the two guys and then Philo and just the two guys, it was Arturo who responded.

  “That sounds like Damone Watson’s building,” he said. “What would he want with the reporter? Especially that late?”

  “So, Philo goes into an apartment with the hooker, the two black guys follow and a few minutes later they escort Philo out?” Marc asked.

  “Yeah. And they were in the strip club and I’ll bet anything they were watching Philo. I think it was a setup. I’ll bet that when she got him in her apartment, a guy came in, angry, maybe waving a gun and the rescue was a setup.

  “When I followed Philo to the strip club the two black guys were in front of me. They were following him, too. Why else would they do that? Follow him to the strip club, then leave right after him and coincidentally show up at the hooker’s and drive him to-”

  “Damone Watson’s,” Arturo said.

  “Okay,” Marc said. “But what does Damone Watson, the city’s new community organizer darling, have to do with this?”

  “Are you getting side-tracked?” Jeff asked.

  “Maybe,” Marc answered him. “But Philo took the photo of Ferguson that was used in the paper. The caption gave him credit. He must’ve seen the homeless guy.”

  “And?” Arturo asked. “You think he saw something?”

  “I don’t know, maybe, yes,” Marc replied. He looked at Maddy and said, “Let’s get a subpoena and go after him.”

  “Let me try something, first,” she said. “Trust me,” she continued when she saw Marc give her a suspicious what-are-you-up-to look.

  “Okay,” Marc quietly said. “When are you going after him?”

  “Tonight, or tomorrow. As soon as I can get at him, but I need to talk to Tony,” Maddy said.

  “Oh man,” Marc said shaking his head. “Try not to commit any more felonies than you have to and please be careful.”

  “And you,” Maddy said looking at Marc, “don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.

  “Now you get to work on your jury list. I’ve got a list of cops to meet this afternoon. Have you thought about using Tony’s hacker? Paul?”

  “I resent that,” Jeff said. “I’m a pretty good hacker, myself.”

  “Not like this guy, Jeff. Be thankful you’re not. And, yeah, we might use him,” Marc told him.

  Maddy had the list of every cop involved with Rob and the civilian complaints against him. She had talked to each one on the phone already. They all sounded eager to cooperate and would have done so over the phone. A phone interview of a potential witness is not the same as one done in person.

  She started with the two cops first on the scene of the mini-riot between Somalis and African American gangs. Sergeant Dave Powell and Officer Diane Logan agreed to meet with her on their lunch hour. Having read the complaint and hearing it from Rob, Maddy was pretty well versed in what happened.

  Powell and Logan corroborated both the official account and Rob’s.

  “We were all lucky Rob punched that guy. If he had stabbed Rob and gotten his gun, we would’ve all been in serious trouble. The complaint was filed because Rob smashed the side of the guy’s face. The doctor who patched him up, a Somali himself, didn’t believe one punch could do that much damage. But I saw it. A strong man fighting for his life, no problem.”

  Without even being asked, both Powell and Logan agreed to testify.

  “I’ll tell you something else,” Powell said. “The word is, they’re out to show Rob is a racist and that’s why he shot Ferguson. I don’t buy it. I know Rob. He’s no saint, just like all of us, but I’ve never seen or heard any reason to believe he’s a racist. And we’ve all heard some things about the dearly departed Lionel Ferguson. He did something to get Rob to do that. Maybe not on purpose, but Ferguson did something.”

  “Was there a gun?” Logan asked. “We’ve heard Rob says there was.”

  “Rob insists there was. Pointed right at him,” Maddy replied.

  “If he says it, I believe it,” Powell said.

  The rest of her day went basically the same way. Maddy interviewed every one of the cops who were involved in the complaints. All of them said the same basic things about each incident. And they all offered to testify.

  She also asked them about Ferguson’s reputation. Many of them had heard rumors, but none could swear to any of it.

  At 4:00 P.M., she was finishing up her notes from inside her car when her phone rang.

  “Maddy Rivers,” she answered.

  “Maddy, it’s Sherry Bowen,” she heard the caller say.

  “Hey, Sherry. What’s up?”

  “Can we meet, like, right away?” Sherry asked.

  “Now?”

  “Yeah, now if you can,” Sherry replied.

  “Okay. Where?”

  Sherry gave her the name and location of a restaurant on the North side and Maddy agreed to meet her.

  Maddy knew Sherry Bowen, so when she entered the restaurant, she spotted Sherry right away. Maddy slid in opposite Sherry. They were in a horseshoe-shaped booth in back by themselves. There were two girls between them. Sherry introduced them as Kendra Parker and Tonya Howard.

  “Tonya is one of the girls I talked to about the shooting of Lionel Ferguson. She was at the scene when it happened. This is her friend, Kendra, who has had a bad experience with Ferguson.”

  “Kendra’s sister is more my friend,” Tonya said. “Kendra is a senior this year and I’ll be a sophomore.”

  “How old are you, Kendra?” Sherry asked.

  “Seventeen, I’ll be eighteen in October,” she quietly replied.

  “Are you okay to tell me about Reverend Ferguson?” Maddy softly asked.

  At that moment the waitress appeared. Maddy ordered coffee and another soda for the girls.

  “He raped her,” Tonya blurted out as soon as the waitress left.

  “Tonya,” Sherry said, “let her tell it.”

  “Sorry. But he did and she’s not the only one.”

  “Tonya,” Sherry chastised her again.

  “Sorry.”

  “What happened?” Maddy asked. “Can you tell me?”

  “I ain’t goin’ to the police or court,” she said.

  “No one’s talking about that,” Maddy said. “I’m just trying to find out what kind of man he was.”

  “He’s an asshole and it’s a good thing someone shot him,” Tonya said.

  “Tonya!” Sherry said again.

  The waitress brought their drinks and left, then Maddy tried again.

  “It was at church,” Kendra began. She explained to Maddy and Sherry about how she became involved with Ferguson and the church. She alluded to the fact that she had been a problem for her mother growing up. When she became involved with Ferguson, her mother was very happy.

  “He was good, at first. Helping me understand that going to school, getting an education and doing good with my life was the way up. He was doing the same thing with other girls, too. And some boys.

  “We became close, too close. I don’t know where my father is. I know who he is,
but he’s never been around. Reverend Ferguson was the first black man to even take an interest in me, ever tried to help me. Momma is always so busy workin’ two jobs and all.

  “Then after a few months, I was at church alone, in his office. We was studyin’ the Bible and he was explainin’ to me about how we should comfort each other, like the Bible says. He was holdin’ my hand and lookin’ at me in the eye and the next thing I know, he’s on top of me, kissin’ me and pullin’ my pants down. I was so scared and shocked. I didn’t know what to do.

  “Then, at one point, he asked if I was willin’ to comfort him. I think I said yes, then he was in me and…”

  At this point, Kendra was getting teary-eyed. They stopped for a moment to let her collect herself. A couple of minutes later she continued.

  “I wasn’t a virgin. I’d been with a couple of boys. Boys I liked who said they loved me and then we would do it. But they always used a condom. We learned that in school. The fat ass reverend didn’t use no condom and I was scared I might be pregnant, but I got my period, so I knew I was okay. I never went back to church. After, I found out he did other girls even younger than me. As young as eleven or twelve.”

  “Did you tell your mother?” Maddy asked.

  “No, I was too ashamed. I just wanted to forget it. But I told my sister. When he got shot, I was happy, and she wanted to know why. So, I told her.”

  “Her sister told me,” Tonya said.

  “Please, you can’t tell anyone. You promised,” she pleaded, looking at Sherry.

  “We won’t,” Maddy said. “I would like the names of some of the other girls.”

  “I have those,” Sherry said.

  “I don’t understand what this has to do with who shot Ferguson,” Tonya said. “That white cop shot him, didn’t he?”

  “That hasn’t been proven yet,” Maddy said. “Right now, we’re just investigating. Part of an investigation into a case like this is the background of the victim.”

  “He’s no victim,” Kendra sullenly said. “He’s a child molester and an asshole and got what he deserved.”