by Rusty Ellis
Law and Murder
A Ransom Walsh Novel - Book 3
Rusty Ellis
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Rusty Ellis
All rights reserved.
* * *
ISBN: 9781724127594 (print)
Created with Vellum
He who does not prevent a crime when he can, encourages it.
Lucius Annaeus Seneca
Contents
Prologue
I. Friday
Chapter 1
II. Saturday
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
III. Sunday
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
IV. Monday
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
V. Tuesday
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
VI. Wednesday
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
VII. Thursday
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
VIII. Friday
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Series Newsletter
Acknowledgments
Also by Rusty Ellis
Also by Rusty Ellis
About the Author
Prologue
The crowd sat silent in the wooden backed pews. The jury had returned. The criminal trial being held in Courtroom VII of the Eighth Judicial District Court for Clark County, Nevada, was a popular venue. Not so much for the defendant, but more so for the family name he carried. Valentino “Val” Sartori—the son of known mob boss Moreno Sartori—was on trial for manslaughter.
If Val’s victim was involved in the “family business” the story would have flashed and fizzled out. However, the victim was a single mother with two children. She’d made the poor decision to accept Val’s flowers and advances. Her best friend had discovered Val’s last name—and after a short search on the internet—rushed to warn her friend to cut ties with the son of Moreno Sartori. The more time the victim spent with Val in her ear, the more difficult it was to hear her friends pleadings to end the relationship. The warnings proved prophetic.
The police had arrived at the victim’s residence in a spectacle of lights and sirens. Neighbors watched out their windows, afraid to wander outside after hearing what sounded like two gunshots from the victim’s home.
Officers found the defendant sitting in the living room holding a bloody towel against his shoulder. They discovered the victim lying on her side on the kitchen floor. A pool of blood darkened the tile floor, emanating from a spot on the woman’s chest. A small caliber handgun set out in the open on the kitchen counter. A second gun was in the woman’s limp hand, her index finger inside the trigger guard.
Val told the police it had been self-defense. He claimed the woman was obsessed with him and was unwilling to let him leave her. The best friend told a contrary story when interviewed: Val was controlling, the victim was leaving the tumultuous relationship, and her best friend had threatened to expose their pillow-talk to authorities. The results were evident on the kitchen floor.
Attorney Averett Turing’s reputation had made its way to Moreno Sartori. He was hired to keep the man’s son from getting a conviction. Only partway through the trial did the attorney realize the case was bigger than himself. Between the media’s scrutiny of his client and the personal unrealistic expectations of his client’s father, Turing was trapped in a no-win situation. The District Attorney played to the media and intended to make an example and Val Sartori. Worried his case would be lost if he charged the defendant with murder, the DA decided to go after a lower hanging fruit—manslaughter—in large-part due to the disappearance of a critical witness prior to the start of trial; the victim’s best friend.
“Has the jury made a decision?” the judge asked the sole standing juror.
“Yes, Your Honor,” the woman answered and handed a piece of paper to the bailiff.
The bailiff walked the paper to the judge and waited while she glanced down at the decision.
The judge turned her attention back to the juror and then at the defendant, “Will the defendant please rise?”
Turing stood and nudged Val to stand up next to him. Val looked over his shoulder at his father and gave a smug grin.
“How do you find the defendant on the sole count of Manslaughter?” the judge asked the juror.
The juror fidgeted and tried to keep her gaze on the judge, “Your Honor, we the jury find the defendant, Valentino Sartori…guilty.”
The smug grin turned to a wild-eyed hatred as Val’s gaze landed on his attorney. He grabbed Turing by the front of his suit coat and shook him. Two bailiffs rushed to pull Turing from Val’s grip. The judge pounded her gavel as yells erupted from several people in the crowd. Threats and names were thrown in the direction of Turing and the jury. Though the jury found the defendant guilty, Moreno Sartori found the attorney guilty of not protecting his son.
With the defendant restrained by two bailiffs, the attorney looked into the crowd. Amidst the menacing faces, Turing found the defendant’s father, Moreno Sartori, standing between two large men. Sartori’s face was cold. His glare unflinching as he returned Turing’s gaze. Sartori gave a minute shake of his head and walked from the courtroom between his bodyguards.
Part I
Friday
1
The surface of the metal desk raced goose-bumps up her forearms, curling around to the back of her neck. The base of the desk's legs were bolted to the concrete floor. An echo of clanging metal, bars and doors, floated through the air, reminding her of the small city of criminals being housed behind the building where she was sitting. The air was cold. The metal chair was cold. The metal desk was cold. Nothing in the room offered any form of heat. Concrete, metal, and steel. A soul draining atmosphere.
The loud clank of a door startled her and she jumped from the chair to a standing position. A bald man wearing a long-sleeved denim shirt and blue jeans stood where the door had been. Sara fought the overwhelming thought to flee. The man’s presence was menacing. The room seemed small, uncomfortably small. Clinching her fists, she gathered the strength to peek at the man and realized he was shackled in restraints at his wrists and ankles. The handcuffs on his wrists were attached to a chain wrapped around and locked at the front of his waist.
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nbsp; The man’s frame filled the doorway. The chains drooping from his waist and ankles, he stood staring at her. She couldn’t tell if he was sizing her up or waiting for instructions from someone.
From behind the man, a voice sounded, “Move it, Foster.”
The man took a step forward and a uniformed man appeared from behind him. The guard pointed to the chair and leered at his prisoner. The man smiled at the guard and shuffled toward the table. The chain between his ankles clanked and scraped across the concrete floor as he reached the chair and sat.
The guard looked at Sara and raised his eyebrows. Sara took the cue to sit back down in her chair, this time staying back from the table and tucking her hands in her lap.
“Do you have paperwork or any documents for him?” he asked.
Taken off guard by the question, she shook her head,” No…I’m just here to talk.”
The guard nodded and looked back to the man, “Stay in your seat. Don’t stand up and don’t pass anything back and forth. Got it, Foster?”
Foster simply nodded and smiled at the guard.
The guard glanced back at Sara, “I’ll be right here in the corner if you need anything, okay?”
She nodded as he walked the ten feet to the corner where he took up post and watched.
Foster looked across the table at Sara, no expression to offer. Sara was unsure of how to start the conversation. It was painfully obvious Larry Foster was not in a hurry. He had all day. In fact, he had his whole life; thus her reason for working up the courage to meet with him.
She examined his face. He looked the same. The same way he did in court seven years before. Shaved head. Small dark beard, now greying. She searched his eyes and saw it. The same man. The same person inside.
She drifted back to sitting in court for the sentencing. Her father insisted she not go. She demanded to see the man sentenced, the man who killed her mother. When Foster was instructed to stand and receive his sentence, he stood and turned his head to face Sara standing next to her father. No emotion.
Now she was three feet away from him. No longer a 12-year old who’d just lost her mother. Sara noticed Foster raise an eyebrow as she stared at him.
“Why?” she plainly asked.
“Why?” Foster returned.
“All these years and I just want to understand why,” she volleyed back. Sara looked down momentarily, then looked back at his face. “I know how you killed her. That came out in court. But what I never totally understood was why. So, why?”
Sara stood her ground. The thoughts of her mother and the plaguing question pushed adrenalin through her system. She no longer just wanted to know, she demanded to understand. Much the same as when she demanded to go to Foster’s sentencing.
“I got paid,” Foster said and then sat quiet.
“Who paid you?”
“I don’t know.”
Sara stood, knocking the chair backwards and toppling it to the floor. The guard looked up surprised and started to step forward, instead deciding to lean back against the wall and see what happened next.
Sara leaned on the table and directed an accusing finger at her mother’s killer while she yelled, “You have to know who paid you! How can you not know who paid you?”
Foster sat motionless, unaffected by Sara’s sudden movements. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs under the table.
“We weren’t on a first name basis, you know. The guy found me at a little biker bar just out of town. I wasn’t exactly hard to find.”
“How did he find you? And why did he want my mother dead?” the questions rattled out as fast as Sara could speak.
“Let’s see,” the man held up two fingers to answer her question. “One, my reputation makes my skills desirable to some folks. And two, I have no idea. I didn’t ask.”
Foster sat quiet again as Sara retrieved her chair and sat back down. Disappointed, the guard leaned back against the wall once more.
“Why is it so important to you?” Foster asked. “She’s gone. You can’t change that. Sorry, kid. That’s life.”
Sara scooted her chair up to the table and rested her forearms on top of the chilled surface.
Sara leaned forward, so the guard wouldn't hear and whispered, “Because I think you know more than you’re telling me. You’re already going to be in here the rest of your life. What does it matter if you tell me what you know?”
Foster leaned forward, “Because I still have a life in here. Well, if you want to call it a life. But I’d rather not jeopardize that. The people involved have really long arms. They can reach me. And they can reach you. You should just let it go little girl. Move on.”
Foster sat back with a deadpan stare fixed across the table at Sara. Sara stood again, the sound of the metal chair’s legs scraped across the floor. The guard pushed off the wall and stepped toward the table.
“I’m done here,” she said to the guard and turned to leave.
“Have a good day, Sara,” Foster said coolly, causing a hesitation in Sara’s step at hearing her name from his lips.
A door directly behind Sara was pushed open by another guard for her exit. Clenching her fists yet again, she stormed out of the room, no wiser. Her questions unanswered.
“Alright Foster, get up,” the guard was ready to return Foster to general population.
Foster stood and faced the guard, “I need to make a call.”
The guard tilted his head at Foster's comment, “Who wants to talk to you, Foster?”
“The guy that arrested me,” Foster smiled as he started to shuffle to the door.
Part II
Saturday
2
For some reason, the air always felt hotter just outside of town. The lack of buildings and driving in the barren desert had a way of bumping up the temperature, if only in Ransom’s mind. Civilization ended abruptly on US 95 just short of the Mt. Charleston turnoff. You had two choices for entertainment after that, the radio or conversation.
“I haven’t been up to Southern Desert for a long time. You?” Ransom asked and continued to stare off in the direction of the mountains to the northeast of the Las Vegas valley.
“I do my best to interview people at the detention center downtown. I’d rather not burn the time driving all the way out to the prison,” Leesa responded.
A few more minutes of silence was broken by Leesa, “Larry Foster.”
Ransom let the name set in before responding, “Never thought I’d hear that name again.”
“How long ago was that? Six, seven years?”
“Seven,” Ransom answered cooly. “I wish it’d been longer.”
Ransom replayed the day of Foster’s sentencing in the Eighth Judicial District Court in his head. Judge Adkins had lost her cool during the sentencing phase, visibly miffed at Foster’s lack of remorse. The case was airtight and Foster’s attorney didn’t have a chance. The prosecutor held all the cards. Ransom had worked the case. A disturbing tip had come into the police department exposing the whereabouts of both Foster and the weapon he’d used; a small .22 caliber pistol. It was disturbing due to how anonymous and accurate it was. Someone wanted Foster to fall for the crime. Yes, he’d committed the crime, but someone wanted to make sure he was accountable for it and the case was solidly closed.
Foster refused to give up any information about the case. He refused to point a finger at anyone, giving no reason for the crime, other than echoing his stance of, “Prove it.” Again, his attorney had no options. He went through the motions and made sure Foster’s rights were soundly exercised during every phase of the trial and subsequent sentencing. Foster never flinched. He refused to testify and didn’t provide any witnesses for his attorney to present as contradicting evidence to the DA’s case.
“Hello? Are you in there somewhere?” Leesa interrupted.
“Yeah. This case always irked me.”
“Irked you? That was about as solid a conviction as you’ll ever get.”
“Too soli
d,” Ransom turned to his former partner. “I always knew there was more behind it. I just couldn’t connect the dots.”
“Hard to connect when there weren’t any to connect,” Leesa answered.
A tower came into view on the west side of the highway, acting as a beacon to the prison yard beneath. Leesa pulled into the left lane and turned onto Cold Creek Road. The road split the prison in two, a newer addition to the right and the older facility to the left. Leesa made a right turn into the parking area of the newer compound and found a spot close to the administration building. The building stood and greeted its visitors, a buffer between the parking lot and the maze of fences and barbed wire surrounding the prison units and yard.