Revenge at Sea: (Quint Adler Book 1)

by Brian O'Sullivan

  What the hell had happened?

  17.

  Mercifully, Sunday managed to go fairly quickly. It’s not a day I’d want to live over and over Groundhog Day-style, I can assure that, but it wasn’t quite as bad as I expected.

  Likely because I spent the entire time inside my own head. I tried not to think about where my worldly body was. Instead, I focused on all the things I had in my favor.

  My situation was untenable, but my defense wouldn’t be.

  After all, I had innocence on my side.

  Monday morning. I had to take a bus from Santa Rita Jail to the courthouse in Oakland. The two bus rides I’d taken were more demeaning than being in jail. They felt like a public flogging without the whip.

  Upon arriving, I was led to a holding cell and given some alone time with Gary Rogers. I told him several of the things I’d remembered from the day before.

  “I appreciate them all, Quint. But again, none of them matter today. The judge isn’t going to drop the case. He or she will be loyal to the DA and the police. This is information we’ll use if and when we go to trial.”

  I understood what he was saying, but it was terribly frustrating. I wanted to have the trial that day, so I could tell my side.

  Gary left the holding cell with promises to see me soon.

  Twenty minutes later, my handcuffs were removed and I was escorted to a courtroom. I’d worked a few trials over the years and the courtrooms were always smaller than you expect. The movies make courtrooms look like a rollicking good time, but that’s rarely the case.

  I looked around and saw a few reporters in the back. So much for going unseen.

  Approximately fifteen defendants were there. And sadly, I assumed my case was the most infamous one.

  Most turned out to be breaking and entering or DUIs. There was one carjacking. I started to get the feeling they were holding the most extreme charges for last. Mine.

  I was proven correct, being the last defendant called. I stepped forward, flanked by Gary Rogers.

  The judge, the Honorable Howard Easton, was a black man in his sixties, with bright red glasses which seemed out of place considering the seriousness of his job. My impression of him from watching the earlier defendants was that he was tough, but fair. Not that it would really matter. It was unlikely he’d be my trial judge if it ever went that far.

  “Quint Adler, you are being charged with the murder of Griffin Bauer under section 187 of the California Penal Code. Mr. Brent Segal from the District Attorney’s office will be representing the state. Mr. Segal.”

  Brent Segal was young, maybe thirty-five. He was handsome and sharply dressed. I’m sure juries loved him. Detective Kintner and Detective Marks sat behind him. I looked in their direction and they looked back at me. But no expressions were exchanged.

  “Thank you, your honor. Mr. Adler is a reporter for the Walnut Creek Times and he was following the murder of Griff Bauer early on. He was at the crime scene within hours of the murder and continued to show up at another crime scene that the Oakland Police Department thought might be related. Detective Ray Kintner, a decorated member of the OPD, became a little suspicious. It seemed that Mr. Adler was a step ahead of the police. He even met with Tricia Knox before the police and she ended up dead less than a day later. Still, they had no proof he was involved. The OPD was recently notified that Mr. Adler got into a verbal argument with the deceased Mr. Bauer in Summit Hospital the night before his death. They brought this up to Mr. Adler, who denied it, although he did admit to being at the crime scene before the police and seeing the lifeless body of Mr. Bauer. He had not notified them of this before. Finally, they asked him if he was ever inside the house where Mr. Bauer was killed. He said no. Going back to the crime scene that afternoon, they found Mr. Adler’s DNA at the crime scene, as well as fingerprints on something belonging to him. Detective Kintner and his partner, Detective Marks, felt this information along with the continued lies were enough to charge him with murder. They arrested him Saturday night.”

  The courtroom fell silent as they lay out their case against me. When he mentioned Tricia Knox, it astonished me. Where they going to try and pin that murder on me too? The way things were headed, it wouldn’t have surprised me.

  Brent Segal was professional, but you could tell he had a killer instinct. He talked as if I should unquestionably be locked up with the key thrown away forever.

  “Is there anything you’d like to say, Mr. Rodgers?” Judge Easton asked.

  Gary Rodgers took an unnecessary step forward. He had on a bright red tie that matched the color of the judge’s glasses.

  “This case is thinner than the fishing line I use to catch bluegills.”

  A few muffled laughs came from around the courtroom. Gary Rodgers commanded the room. Of that, there was no debate. And he wasn’t done.

  “And I think fishing is a fair analogy, considering that’s what Detectives Kintner and Marks are doing, along with DA Segal. They know there isn’t enough to charge my client with murder, but they figured they’d arrest him and see what happened. See if they’d get a bite, if you follow my analogy.”

  “It would be hard not to, Mr. Rodgers. But as you well know, you are not arguing your case today.”

  “No, I’m not. But I am arguing for minimal bail. Mr. Adler is a respected member of his community and has never been in trouble with the law. Not even a parking ticket, your honor.”

  “This is a murder charge. I’m not sure what you mean by minimal. But considering your client’s lily-white past, I will not make his bail egregious. It will be set at $500,000. If you want to bail him, you can talk with the clerk.”

  “I think we have a different definition of egregious, your honor. But yes, we plan on bailing Mr. Adler,” Gary Rodgers said.

  That was news to me. It delighted me, obviously, but I hoped Rodgers hadn’t gone to my mother behind my back. I wouldn’t have allowed her to put up her house as collateral.

  “We will reconvene in three weeks for the preliminary hearing,” Judge Easton said.

  This was no time to celebrate, but all things considered, things had gone as well as I could have hoped.

  Brent Segal and the two detectives left the courtroom.

  “Now let’s get you out of here,” Gary said.

  “How? You didn’t talk my mother into putting up her home, did you?”

  “Nope. I put up my own,” he said.

  “You’re kidding! You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I know,” he said. “But I felt your father looking down at me and pushing me in that direction. Funny for a guy who doesn’t believe in the afterlife.”

  I was floored. “How can I ever repay you?”

  “We’ll deal with that down the line. For now, let’s get you out of this hell hole,” he said.

  A bailiff led me away, but it looked like my time in jail was coming to a close. For the time being, at least.

  I was bailed a few hours later. It’s a long process, and part of me wondered if there was going to be some glitch and I’d have to remain in jail. Luckily that didn’t prove to be the case, and at 12:21 p.m. on Monday afternoon, I was released back into the general population.

  Bad choice of words. The general population that didn’t have bars surrounding them.

  They gave me back the clothes I was wearing on Saturday night. In them, I walked out the front gate of the Oakland Courthouse. My phone hadn’t been returned, but I had a lot of people I needed to call. Cara would be at the top of my list.

  Gary Rodgers stood outside with my mother, who broke down in tears as soon as she saw me. I approached and gave her a huge hug. She kept sobbing to the point where I became concerned.

  “It’s going to be okay, Mom. I’m innocent. Just let it play out.”

  Gary mouthed the words “Not guilty” to me.

  More tears from my mother.

  “I’ve got the best lawyer around,” I said and smiled at Gary.

  It was nice to be able
to smile. There likely wouldn’t be an abundance of opportunities in the near future.

  Finally, my mother stopped crying and hugged me tighter.

  “I wanted to be here earlier and see you in court, but Cara called and we talked for a long time.”

  “I was just going to call her. How did she know?”

  “Apparently an Oakland blogger said a suspect for the Bauer murder was arrested on Saturday night.” My mom sighed. “They used your name.”

  My smile vanished. If Cara had found about it, surely at least one of my co-workers had, which meant Tom and Krissy would know.

  “A blogger is the least of your concerns,” Gary Rodgers said. “I saw KRON and KTVU with cameras outside.”

  Those were two of the most famous Bay Area news stations.

  “Yeah, I saw them too,” I said.

  Gary Rodgers took a cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to me.

  “Your phone is state’s evidence now. Here’s a cheap backup. I’ve texted you my number.”

  “Thank you, Gary.”

  “Only keep in touch with those people closest to you. You never know what might get back to the DA.”

  “My mother, you, and Cara. That’s about all I can think of,” I said.

  “Don’t tell Cara too much about the case. For that matter, try not to talk to anyone about the case.”

  “You have nothing to worry about with her, Gary. She’s a fabulous young woman,” my mother said.

  “Then what’s she doing with an old man like Quint?” Gary deadpanned.

  My mother’s puffy eyes were at odds with her newfound laughter.

  “Hey, forty seems young to me,” she said.

  “Touché,” Gary responded.

  We stood there for a second and no one said anything.

  “Come with me, Quint,” my mother said. “I’m driving you home.”

  “Go catch up on your sleep. And come by my office tomorrow morning and we’ll talk,” Gary said.

  I shook his hand vehemently. “Thanks for everything.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Thanks for getting my baby out,” my mother said.

  And they hugged. It was a mutual admiration society, but for all the wrong reasons.

  Gary started walking one way and my mother and I went another. As we approached her car, I used my new phone to log in to email, where I could check the text messages from my old phone.

  There were over twenty emails of texts, but one caught my attention immediately. It was from Tom Butler.

  I wish there was another way, Quint. I really do.

  That was all that fit on the subject line, but the rest wasn’t really necessary.

  I knew I’d been fired.

  18.

  “Why are these police detectives such assholes?”

  It wasn’t like my mother to use profanity, but clearly, this was a special case. I had ignored Gary Rodgers’s orders and spent most of the drive telling her all that had happened. I assumed he didn’t mean blood relatives.

  Luckily, my mother didn’t focus on my ample missteps, instead focusing on the crime I didn’t commit. Namely, murder.

  “I think they jumped the gun,” I said. “This case, and the other murders, are getting a lot of attention and they wanted to make an arrest. After what they’d seen as my lie about not being in the house, they jumped on it. A bit too early, obviously, since they arrested the wrong guy.”

  We were pulling up to my complex when she finally asked, “What about your job?”

  “I’ve got a feeling it will be mutually beneficial if we take a break from each other.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mom, they can hardly have their lead reporter be a suspect in the murders he’s covering.”

  “But you’re innocent.”

  “I am, but not in the eyes of the public. Yet.”

  “They’ll find the truth out soon,” my mother said.

  “They will. In the meantime, don’t watch too much news or go checking the internet. That’s a rabbit hole you don’t want to go down. I don’t want you to see that stuff.”

  “No guarantees, but I’ll try to avoid it,” she said.

  “That’s all I can ask,” I said. “You can drop me off right up here.”

  She did and gave me another huge hug. “Call me later today.”

  “I will,” I said. “I’ve got a lot to deal with. And some sleep I need to catch up on.”

  “Of course. When you have time.”

  “I always have time for you, Mom.”

  I hugged her and walked into Avalon Walnut Creek, the place I’d been taken out of in handcuffs only two days previously.

  Cara was beautiful, sweet, smart, sexy, and all the other superlatives you could throw at her, but she could also be a bulldog when she wanted. As she was in this case, telling me she was coming over. Not asking. Telling.

  This had come literally seconds after I’d texted her my new number. And before I’d had a chance to take a nap.

  Truth was, I looked forward to seeing her. Especially after being surrounded by inmates and prison guards for the last few days. I could use a woman’s touch. In the figurative sense. Not that I couldn’t use it in the literal sense, that just wasn’t front and center in my mind.

  I’d scrolled through all of my remaining emails and knew I’d have to address them at some point. The only one I texted back was Tom Butler.

  I said: I was just released, Tom. This is my new phone. I promise you with all my heart that I’m innocent of these charges. But I do understand why you can’t have me working right now. Can we meet up and talk tomorrow?

  Less than a minute later, I received a follow-up text: Sure, let’s do that. But not at the Times or in public. I’m sure you understand why.

  Is that what I’d become? A social leper you couldn’t be seen out with?

  The weeks (or months) before the trial were going to be a lot more difficult than I’d prepared myself for.

  I went against my own advice, googled myself, and instantly knew it was a mistake. Several articles said I’d been arraigned on the murder of Griffin Bauer. These included local outlets like KRON and KTVU, which ensured that I’d been on the T.V. news as well.

  A loud knock at the door instantly sent me back to Saturday night when the cops came to arrest me. But then I heard that sweet, soft voice.

  “It’s me.”

  I opened the door to find Cara, in jean shorts and a lightweight white hoodie. We kissed for one second and hugged for ten.

  I locked the door behind her and we made our way to the couch.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m alright. More worried about my mother.”

  I told her about googling myself.

  “You may not want to hear this, but I watched the news at noon today and they led with your arraignment.”

  “Great,” I said sarcastically. “Lucky, she was already at the courthouse by then. I might text her and tell her not to watch the local evening news.”

  “I love your mother, Quint, but that’s not what you should be worried about. They are charging you with murder! That should be your concern.”

  “I feel like a recorded message, but I didn’t do this, Cara. You of all people know I’m not capable of something like this.”

  “Of course not. But the important thing is why the police think you did.”

  I respected Gary Rodgers and my life was in his hands, but I had to tell Cara about the case. I trusted her with all my being. Cara and my mother. That was it. Any friendships I had at the Walnut Creek Times had gone out the window.

  I ran through most everything that had happened, leaving out the part about my father and my “meeting” with Dennis McCarthy. Those didn’t seem pertinent to the Bauer murder. At least, not to why they charged me.

  “That’s a lot of information,” Cara said. “If Rodgers is right and they have DNA from the house, how did it get there? And if you’re assuming it was p
lanted there after the fact, there wouldn’t be any on the murder weapon, right?”

  “Yeah, but that could be explained away. That I wiped down the hammer immediately after, but didn’t have the time to get rid of all of my DNA.”

  “To me, saying this all started over a fight in the hospital sounds ridiculous. I saw you that night. You weren’t agitated.”

  “Thanks. Now that I think of it, you may well be called as a witness.”

  “I’ll say the defendant is handsome. And sexy.”

  I laughed. “Guess I’ve got nothing to worry about,” I said.

  She gave me a huge hug. “You’re going to be okay.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself. But they wouldn’t charge me if they thought they couldn’t win.”

  “What else could they have? Did someone see you near his house?”

  “Sadly, that’s very possible.”

  “You’re not going to like this, Quint. I’m obviously trying to spin a positive light on this, but maybe their case isn’t as poor as you think. There’s an argument at a hospital. One of the two arguers ends up dead. And the other guy was seen in the vicinity of the murder victim’s house. And his DNA was found there. Plus, he repeatedly lied to the cops.”

  She was right.

  “You’re scaring me. But that’s all predicated on there being an argument at the hospital. There wasn’t.”

  “That means someone called the cops and lied. That makes it even scarier. If they lied about that, what else could they lie about?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I said, getting more petrified by the moment. Was I really going to spend the rest of my life in jail for a crime I didn’t commit?

  “Okay,” Cara said. “I just want you to know I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And I appreciate you coming by, but I think I need to be alone right now. I’ve slept terribly the last few days and just want to take a five-hour nap.”

  I thought she’d protest, but she knew this was important to me.

  “I’ll get out of here. Just know I’m a call away.”

  “I appreciate it, Cara. We’ll see each other soon.”