The press conference lasted from 2:00 until almost 4:00. On the podium were the usual suspects of politicians and police. Each, in turn, stepped to the microphones to take questions. Even Marc. He was mostly tossed softballs concerning his client and how Rob was doing.
Felicia Jones, despite her youth and relative inexperience, was the one who came across best. She spent over forty-five minutes being grilled almost unmercifully. In their never-ending quest to prove their liberal credentials, the cable, national and local media demanded to know how Rob Dane could be let off. He had admittedly shot and killed an upstanding member of a minority. As they always see it, the media must serve and protect all minorities from the injustices of the system.
Felicia handled each question, calmly, rationally and stood by her––she took the hit––decision to dismiss the case.
“All right,” she looked over the crowd and said, “I’ll say this one more time. The death of Lionel Ferguson was a tragedy. You could even call it an accident. But Officer Dane no doubt responded to a gun being pointed at him justifiably. That’s all.” She then turned and walked away.
Saturday at 6:00 A.M., Maddy’s eyes popped open and she was wide awake. It was as if there was a clock in her head telling her it was time. Less than a minute later, while still lying in bed, she heard a very light plop sound coming from the front door.
After two or three minutes in the bathroom, Maddy was in the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. Wearing only a large, men’s white T-shirt and boxer shorts, she retrieved the paper. While walking into the living room, she admired the screaming headline at the top of page one:
Ferguson Accused of Pedophilia
The byline was Philo Anson.
For the next twenty minutes Maddy sat cross-legged on the couch reading the story. As a reward for finally coming forward and testifying, Marc had decided to give Philo the scoop on Ferguson’s behavior.
Two nights ago, Maddy called Sherry Bowen. Sherry had rounded up a half dozen girls willing to tell their stories of rape and molestation at the hands of Lionel Ferguson. Even Philo, as cynical as anyone, was almost moved to tears by what they told him.
The night before his day in court, Philo was up until 2:00 A.M. He wrote two stories. The first was the facts about Ferguson, his use of his church and authority over young, vulnerable girls. The second, a sidebar about the damage these girls had suffered. Of course, none of their names were used.
It had been Marc’s decision to do it in the hope that it would tamp down any sentiment people might feel. At least try to cool the resentment many would have from another white cop getting away with shooting an unarmed black man.
“How is it?” Marc asked, standing in the kitchen entryway sipping a cup. “We look like twins,” he noted, taking in their identical dress.
“It’s not good for the dearly departed Rev Ferguson,” Maddy replied.
Marc sat down next to her and she gave him a kiss. Maddy then asked, “What about this guy, this guy we think is someone named Charles Dudek?”
“I don’t know,” Marc said. “We told the cops what we know. It’s not really our problem and I don’t advise that we go looking for him. He’s very good at what he does. Oddly, I’d like to meet him. I’ll bet he’s an interesting guy.”
“You’d like to meet a sociopathic hitman? An assassin?”
“Well, yeah, um, you know. Him on one side of the plexiglass and me on the other,” Marc said. “Hey, I’ve had clients that I wouldn’t want my daughter bringing home. Some of them you’ve met. Remember?”
“True enough. But this guy might be a bridge too far.”
“So, this is what it’s like at five o’clock in the morning after you’ve been sleeping and then get up,” Carvelli said to Jeff Johnson.
“Here, Tony,” Tess Richards said, handing him a cup of black, freshly brewed from Dunkin’ Donuts.
“Oh, thanks, Tess. You’re a life saver.”
“There are some donuts over by that Suburban,” she said pointing to an SUV.
“No, thanks,” Carvelli replied. “So, what’s the game plan?”
The three of them, along with another sixteen agents, were one of four law enforcement teams gathered this morning. This one was in a strip mall parking lot a few blocks from North Minneapolis. Thanks to Carvelli’s infiltration of Damone Watson’s organization and Conrad’s wiretaps, there were over sixty arrest warrants to serve. And another fifty in Chicago this morning.
Jeff Johnson said, “Of the people here, there are four teams. The targets are under surveillance and all are reporting no activity.
“You get to tag along when we hit Damone. He’s been under surveillance for a couple of days. He was last seen arriving back at his building yesterday afternoon. He has not gone out again.”
“Okay,” Carvelli said. “Let’s go wake my pal Damone.”
There was a set of indoor stairs as a way into the back of Damone’s building. The plan was for every team to hit their target precisely at six A.M. This would make sure no one could get on the phone and start warning people. With about a minute to go, one of the SWAT guys with Johnson was going to hit the back door with a battering ram. As he swung it back, Carvelli stepped in.
“Wait a minute. Do you want to wake the whole neighborhood? There are more guns in this area than an NRA convention,” he quietly said as he stooped in front of the door.
“Give me a little light,” he said. Tess shined a flashlight on the lock while Carvelli worked with a couple of burglars’ picks.
“As a law enforcement officer, you should be ashamed that you even know how to do that,” Johnson said.
“That’s what my mother used to say to me about a lot of things,” Carvelli replied. The lock clicked and Carvelli opened it.
There were eight of them in total––four for the second floor, and four, led by Johnson with Carvelli behind, to go up to the third-floor apartment. Having been given an excellent drawing by Conrad, they knew exactly where to go.
Fifteen minutes later, Carvelli was sitting in Damone’s expensively furnished living room. Johnson came in and joined him.
“Gone,” Carvelli said.
“Looks like,” Johnson said.
“I thought you had this place under surveillance.”
“We did. Hell, there’re a hundred ways to beat that if you know about it.”
“You think he was tipped off?”
“Probably. Otherwise, where is he?”
Johnson’s radio beeped from the second-floor team.
“Find anything?”
“Really? I’ll be right down,” Johnson replied when he was told what was on the second floor.
A minute later, while Tess finished the third-floor search, Johnson and Carvelli were standing over the bodies of two large, black men.
“Hello, Lewis, you’re looking well. Except, of course, for that third eye you have in your forehead.”
“You know them?”
“Lewis Freeh and Monroe Ervin,” Carvelli said. “Damone’s two main guys.”
“What do you think?”
“I think Damone got a tip and knew the party was over. He’s in the wind. Probably on a beach somewhere.”
“Sooner or later, we will find his ass,” an angry Jeff Johnson said.
By noon every warrant had been served with four notable exceptions.
Damone, of course, and his brother, Jeron, were missing as was a Somali man by the name of Saadaq Khalid. He had been identified as Damone’s liaison with the Somalis.
The fourth unserved warrant was for Imam Abdallah Sadia. At six o’clock the Imam was already up and at prayer. When he heard the door crash from the battering ram, he immediately knew what it was. Barely a minute later, two of the agents kicked open his locked bedroom door. The Imam was staring at them with a pistol in his mouth. Before either man could respond, the Imam pulled the trigger.
While everyone else at FBI headquarters in Minneapolis was slapping each other on the back,
Carvelli took a phone call.
“What’s up?” he asked his hacker friend, Paul Baker.
“Hey, dude, I’m seeing a big bust on a TV. Congrats.”
“What have I told you about calling me dude,” Carvelli said.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Listen, Tony, I ah, made a mistake.”
“I want that in writing,” Carvelli said.
“No, seriously. When I ran that phone number for you, well, I should have checked for family members. I think the caller is a relative. In fact, I’m positive. It’s gotta be her brother.”
“Jesus, you’re kidding me,” Carvelli quietly said after Paul gave him the name. He thanked him then hung up.
A minute later he found Jeff Johnson and pulled him away from the celebration.
“Hey, did either Lewis or Monroe have a phone on him?”
“Yeah, they both did,” Johnson replied.
“What’s the time of death for them?”
“Don’t know yet. Has to be after two and before five or six Saturday afternoon, by the rigor and how cold they were.”
“You got a tech guy around here who can check both of those phones for incoming calls yesterday afternoon?”
“Well, hell, I can do that. Why?”
“I may be able to tell you who gave Damone the heads up we were coming.”
“Let’s go. I know right where the phones are.”
Johnson drove his government car with Carvelli in the passenger seat. Tess had begged off, preferring to stay in the office. Johnson parked on the street in front of the small bungalow. Both men sat quietly staring at the house.
“I hate this,” Carvelli said. “He seems like a good guy.”
“Well, let’s go get him,” Johnson said.
When they reached the front door, Carvelli rang the bell while Johnson prepared his phone.
When the door opened, the man looked at the two of them with a startled expression.
“Hey, Tony, what’s up?”
“We need to talk to you, Arturo. Can we come in?”
At that moment, Johnson having pushed the send button on his phone, Arturo’s phone began to ring.
“Ah, yeah, sure. Let me get my phone.”
They stepped into the foyer as Arturo answered his phone.
“Hello.”
“Arturo Mendoza?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
Johnson pushed the end button as he and Carvelli entered the living room.
“My name is Agent Johnson with the FBI, Mr. Mendoza. You are under arrest for impeding a federal investigation and obstruction of justice and likely other crimes that we’ll think up later.”
Arturo turned to face them as Johnson started to say, “You have the night to remain silent…”
Sixty-Three
“Excuse me, sir,” the flight attendant quietly said while lightly shaking the passenger’s shoulder.
“Yes, what is it?” the man answered. He had been sleeping but fortunately he was a light sleeper. He normally woke up almost instantly.
“We’re making our final approach. The captain has put on the seatbelt sign,” she replied while locking in the man’s tray table.
“Of course, thank you. How much longer?” he asked while buckling up.
“About twenty minutes.”
While the woman walked off to other duties for her business class passengers, Damone Watson leaned his head back on the seat headrest. He had been on the move since the phone call he received four days ago on Saturday afternoon.
Saadaq Khalid had called with the news that the FBI was about to arrest Damone, his brother Jeron and a least one hundred others. Damone and Saadaq had known since the beginning that eventually this would happen. Because of that, they had an escape plan in place and ready at the drop of a hat.
Saadaq had used his underground contacts to obtain three sets of IDs for each of them. Complete with legitimate passports, U.S. and International driver’s licenses, valid credit cards, a car, and cash. For security reasons, neither man knew the other’s ultimate route out of the country, but they did know each other’s destination. Saadaq had also made the same arrangement for Jeron Watson.
After finishing the call with Saadaq, Damone told Lewis and Monroe to wait in the conference room on the second floor. Damone went up to his apartment to prepare for his departure. He had a “Go Bag” ready with clothing and toiletries to last for several days. He placed the most important item, his laptop, in its bag for carrying. The laptop contained all the business transactions and information for Damone’s drug business.
When he finished upstairs and was ready to leave, he had one more duty to perform. He retrieved a .45 caliber semi-auto handgun from his bed stand. He checked it to make sure it was loaded and had one in the chamber. Satisfied, he started downstairs to say goodbye to Lewis and Monroe.
Oddly, on his way down, he was feeling guilt and regret. They were both loyal employees, good men and had become almost friends.
When he entered the conference room the two men were seated at the table. They stood up, and without a word, Damone’s hand behind his back came forward. Lewis, from the look on his face, knew immediately his life was over. Monroe seemed more surprised than Lewis and was startled and shocked by what he saw.
Damone fired two quick shots, first to Lewis in his forehead and then Monroe, who was looking at Lewis, was hit in the temple.
Damone stood over them for a minute and said a silent prayer. When he finished, he said, “Goodbye, my friends. I regret this, but I could not take you or let you stay.”
Ten minutes later, he slipped out the back door and into the back seat of a dark blue Chevy Impala; a very unnoticeable car.
Saadaq drove away and three blocks later pulled into a church parking lot next to his identical Chevy.
“Did you take care of him?”
“Yes, the fire department should be there by now,” Saadaq replied. He was referring to the accountant. It was Saadaq’s job to kill him and burn him and his office/home completely to erase any evidence.
The two men faced each other and Damone said, “If we don’t see each other in a few days, we will meet again in paradise.”
They embraced, then Saadaq said, “In-sha Allah.”
“In-sha Allah,” Damone replied.
Damone drove to Houston where, the next morning, he used a credit card for a flight to Belize. For the next three days, he moved around the Caribbean until he ended up in Marseilles, France. It was from Marseilles that the flight he was now on had originated. This was supposed to be the next to last leg of his journey. The rest of his trip would be made by car.
The Air France A380’s wheels gently bumped onto the tarmac. The crew threw on the big jet’s brakes pushing Danone slightly forward in his seat. He turned and looked past the empty seat to his right and watched as the airliner slowed.
“This is your Captain,” he heard a man’s voice come over the intercom and say, “welcoming you to Beirut. We’re a few minutes ahead of schedule which is always good news. As you can see, it is a partly cloudy day with a very pleasant temperature of twenty-six degrees celsius, seventy-eight Fahrenheit. We will be at the gate in just a few minutes. Thank you for flying Air France and enjoy the rest of your day.”
For the first time since his release from prison, Damone felt truly free and at home. He could now stop pretending. He hated America and everything it was and stood for. America truly was the enemy, the Great Satan. But for American power, Israel would be long gone, the Jews would all be dead, and Islam would be marching toward Allah’s goal of world domination.
While in prison, Damone had not found Christ and Christianity. In fact, just the opposite. He had become a radicalized Muslim.
Having been taken under the wing of an undercover, radicalized Muslim by the American name of Terry Schofield, Damone had seen the light. America, with its freedom, liberty and the corruption that came with it, was indeed, the great oppressor.
Damone’s talent for crim
e and drug dealing had been put to good use. He was assigned to sell poison to the Americans and funnel the money to radical, political groups in the Middle East. According to his go-between contact, Saadaq Khalid, Damone was very successful.
Having retrieved his large piece of luggage––too big to carry on––Damone left the airport’s security area. He saw the door where he was to meet Jeron and Saadaq and went toward it. His heart leaped a bit when he saw his younger brother waving to him and his friend and ally, Saadaq, waiting with Jeron.
When he reached them, they joyfully greeted each other with traditional Muslim greetings. Jeron then took Damone’s bag and followed Saadaq out to the car. Waiting by the curb was a slightly battered Land Rover with a serious looking Lebanese man leaning against it.
In Arabic, Saadaq said to the man, “Let’s get on the road before it starts getting dark.”
Fifteen minutes into the ride, Damone asked for water. Saadaq was riding in the front passenger seat and Jeron was in back with Damone. Saadaq silently handed Damone an open liter of a local brand of bottled water.
Damone drank almost half of it then gave it to Jeron. He, in turn, drank almost two hundred milliliters of what remained.
“Thirsty?” Saadaq asked smiling.
“Yes,” Damone said smiling back. He leaned forward and slapped Saadaq on the shoulder and almost yelled, “It is so good to have us all here.”
“Allah qad ‘aradaha,” Saadaq replied. “Allah has willed it,” he then said in English for Jeron.
The car went quiet and ten minutes later both Damone and Jeron were sound asleep.
Saadaq turned around and tried to shake both men awake without success. He looked through the back window and saw another Land Rover following them.
Exquisite Justice Page 40