TWENTY-FIVE
Gordon Prentiss pulled his Lincoln sedan into the line waiting for valet parking at the hotel. His was the fourth car in line and while waiting their turn, he reached across the car’s console and clamped his hand on Catherine’s knee. She grabbed his wrist to remove his hand but this caused him to squeeze harder on the soft spot directly above her kneecap.
“Gordon, please,” she begged. “You’re hurting me.”
“Yes, I know,” he snarled. “This is just to remind you that when we get in there you will conduct yourself the way you’re instructed. I will tolerate no more childish games from you. Am I being clear?”
“Yes,” she whispered as he released his grip on her leg. “You made yourself quite clear before we left,” she added as she turned her head away from him to stare out the passenger window.
Earlier that evening, after he had finished tying his black tuxedo bow-tie, he entered Catherine’s bedroom to find her seated at her vanity, dressed in a light robe, calmly sipping her third vodka tonic. She had not even begun to put on any makeup let alone fix her hair or start to dress. He stood in her doorway glaring at her, the anger clearly showing on his face and in his eyes. There was a time when this posture alone would be enough to get her moving, but the alcohol was dulling her senses and giving her courage.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said.
“I’m not going, Gordon. I don’t want to go and you obviously have no need of me. I don’t know why you would even want me to go,” she said with more conviction than she felt.
He did not say a word in response. Instead, Prentiss walked into her bathroom and returned with a bath towel. As he calmly walked across the heavily carpeted floor he slowly twisted the towel, winding it into a padded terry cloth rope.
As soon as she saw him enter her bathroom, Catherine rose from her chair and began to back away from him toward the far corner of the room. While he walked toward her, she held her arms out in front of her body for protection, her drink clutched in her right hand. As he twirled the towel, she said, “No, Gordon. Please don’t. I’ll get ready… I promise, please don’t…” she repeated.
He folded the towel in half and holding both ends in his right hand took two quick steps toward her and swung the weapon at her drink. The glass went flying and shattered against the wall and as it did so, the beating began.
After striking the glass, he hit her with the back swing in her midsection which knocked the wind out of her and buckled her knees. For the next minute, he calmly, slowly, methodically, whipped her with the towel as she lay curled on the floor trying to breathe and defend herself as best she could.
Finally, after a dozen or so lashes with his bath towel whip, he reached down with his free hand grabbed her by the hair, pulled her head up and quietly said, “You have twenty minutes to get ready and I had better be pleased with how you look.”
He stood up, turned and as he walked toward the bedroom door, tossed the towel into the bathroom and pushed down on the erection clearly showing in his pants.
Exactly twenty minutes later, Catherine descended down the front stairway where Gordon was waiting for her.
“You look fine, my dear,” he said as they walked toward the front door. “Now, let’s have a pleasant evening.”
They entered the ballroom and found their way to one of the tables being used by members of his old law firm. They said their hellos then Prentiss went to the bar to get drinks for them, a cocktail for him and a glass of fruit punch for her.
“I see your favorite judge is here,” Margaret said to Marc.
“You’re my favorite judge,” he replied, silently relieved he had thought of the correct response.
“That’s very sweet, but I meant that sarcastically.”
“Prentiss is here?” Marc asked turning his head in the direction Margaret was looking.
“At the end of the bar,” Carvelli answered him.
It was at that moment that Vivian stood which signaled the others it was time to enter the buffet line for their two thousand dollar per plate meal. While they ate they listened to several speakers give partisan speeches laced with bad jokes and pleas for more money. For Marc, the whole thing was a new experience that turned out to be quite boring. Margaret and Tony had swapped chairs so Margaret could sit next to Vivian and spent most of the time gabbing with her and Vivian’s granddaughter. The three women seemed to have a terrific time. Marc tried to probe Carvelli with questions about Vivian but Tony deftly deflected them.
Marc tried to engage Adrienne’s friend Geoff in a little small talk but quickly discovered he was even worse at it than Marc and Tony. The three of them spent their time doing what men are good at; checking out the women in the room and making sexist comments about them to each other.
While this was going on and unknown to the other two men, Carvelli was also checking out Gordon and Catherine Prentiss. It was obvious, even from a distance that this was not a happy couple. At one point, Catherine stood to make her third trip to the bar, Gordon tried to grab her wrist and she clearly jerked it away.
“I feel bad for her,” Margaret whispered to Tony when she noticed him watching Catherine walk a little unsteadily across the ballroom floor.
“You know her?” he whispered back.
“Yes, I’ve known them both for a few years now. He’s an arrogant ass, but Catherine…”
“What?”
“Why do you want to know?” Margaret asked.
He leaned close to her ear and quietly whispered, “Let’s just say professional reasons.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’m not sure, but something’s not right. She’s a lovely woman, but she seems so sad, so empty. I imagine it must be because she’s married to him but then why doesn’t she get out? I know a dozen terrific divorce lawyers that would love to represent her and get a chance to flail him.”
A few minutes later, Vivian announced she had had enough and was ready to leave. Marc and Margaret agreed and as the three men left to retrieve the cars, Tony noticed the Prentisses also preparing to depart.
TWENTY-SIX
That same Saturday night while the fundraiser was taking place, Bruce Dolan stood before the mirror in his bathroom adjusting the knot in his tie. He tied and untied it attempting to get it just right; the exact way he wanted it. At his third attempt at tying it, he angrily pulled the tie completely off and tossed it through the bedroom door and onto the floor.
Dolan continued to stare at his reflection in the mirror as he unbuttoned the top three buttons of his two hundred dollar silk shirt. The face staring back at him looked younger than its fifty-six years, but its owner felt much older than that.
He walked back to his bedroom, the bedroom he no longer shared with wife number three, the silicone enhanced, flaming hot, former pole-dancer he had met at one of Leo’s euphemistically named gentlemen’s clubs. Dolan sat on the edge of the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Of late, he had done a lot of reflecting on his life and the journey he had taken to arrive where he was today. Two failed marriages and a third in flames. Four children, three girls and one son from the first two wives. He had been such a miserable excuse of a father that none of his offspring would piss on him if he was on fire.
Dolan’s career had begun thirty years ago after graduating third in his class from the much respected University of Michigan Law School. He had taken a job as an assistant U.S. Attorney in the Minneapolis office directly out of law school. Over the next seven years Dolan had proven himself to be the best trial lawyer in the office, successfully prosecuting scores of criminal defendants, especially drug dealers, and routinely securing long prison sentences for them.
It was then that his immediate superior, the head of the criminal prosecution department, left to go into private practice. Dolan believed he had earned the top job and when he had been passed over for the promotion, he petulantly resigned and switched sides.
During his time as a prosecutor he tried case afte
r case against high-priced lawyers with less ability than he had. Lawyers that made a lot more money than Dolan did. At the time, it didn’t occur to him, and he wouldn’t have cared if it had, that representing drug dealers might have paid well but it would put him on the social rung just below prostitutes.
He joined the firm of a well-known defense lawyer and for the next three years he took every case that paid. Drug dealers, hookers, pimps, anyone with a problem and cash would get excellent representation from Bruce Dolan, former prosecutor. Having been on the other side for so long, he knew all of the tricks, all of the ways they cut corners to get convictions and he used this knowledge to build a reputation as a ruthless, if somewhat ethically questionable, advocate.
At the time he was able to convince himself he was merely playing an important role in seeing to it that his clients did not get railroaded. Gradually it grew to absorb him. The money and notoriety became like a drug. He needed more and more of it to feed his ego and appetite.
It was about this time that Dolan realized he would do better on his own. He set up his own office, met Leo Balkus and at the same time wife number one took the first two kids and divorced him, almost bankrupting him in the process.
Despite the damage to his personal life he had never looked back, never bothered to consider what he had done, how much he had compromised, sacrificed and squandered. And for what? As he sat on the edge of the bed and thought, not for the first time, about what an ungodly mess he had made of his life and the lives of others whom he really did love and who he wished still loved him. On top of it, he had virtually nothing to show for it.
Both divorces had all but cleaned him out. The child support and alimony payments still crushed him. To keep up appearances he had a four thousand square foot condo he couldn’t afford and didn’t want and a law practice that was totally tied to the fortunes of a gangster who wouldn’t hesitate to have Dolan killed if he thought it was necessary.
“I’m going out, don’t wait up,” he heard wife number three, Tiffany the pole-dancer, say.
“Okay,” he softly replied not caring one way or another what she did.
Five minutes after his wife left, Dolan went into the garage, started the Lincoln he couldn’t afford and drove off to spend the rest of the evening with his number one client.
Twenty minutes later Dolan knocked on the office door of Leo Balkus and not waiting for a response, began to open it when he heard Leo say, “Come in. Hey, Bruce,” Leo continued when he saw who it was, “How ya doin’?”
Dolan looked at Leo, stretched out on a large, overstuffed, leather trimmed sofa. Ike Pitts was seated at the desk intently watching the PC Monitor on Leo’s desk, the unmistakable sounds of sex coming from the speakers. Dolan walked to the desk and spun the monitor around so he could see what Ike was watching. On the screen was a portly, mostly bald, grey-haired man, a St. Paul City Council member that Dolan recognized, lying naked on his back. Riding on top of him was a very young, small-breasted, naked Asian girl.
“Jesus Christ, Ike,” Dolan said as he repositioned the screen so Ike could see it. “If you want to watch porn, watch real porn and not this shit. It’s embarrassing.”
“Kiss my ass,” Ike said. “Mind your own business.”
“Would you like some time alone?” Dolan sarcastically asked Leo’s attack dog whom Dolan despised and did little to hide it.
“Grab a chair, Bruce,” Leo said laughing at his lawyer’s remark. “Leave Ike alone. He’s keeping an eye on things for me.”
“I see that,” Dolan said as he set his drink on the coffee table in front of the couch and moved one of the chairs in front of the big desk to face Leo.
“What’s up?” Leo asked as Dolan took his seat and Ike went back to his show.
“I’ve got a question for you and I’d like an answer. How’d you find out about Carlton Bishop so fast?”
“What makes you think I had anything to do with the untimely demise of the dearly departed Councilman Bishop?”
“Rumor around the courthouse is,” Dolan continued ignoring Leo’s sarcasm, “after he got busted for the drugs and the hooker, he went to the city attorney to make a deal. Name some names. She contacted Slocum’s office at Hennepin County to bring Slocum into it and that night he ends up in an alley with three bullet holes. I want to know how you found out so I can use the same connection. Did I tell you that Bishop called me to represent him?”
“Really? That’s interesting. What did you say?”
“Obviously I politely declined. He wanted me to head up his “team”. I told him I don’t do teams. So how’d you find out?”
There was a silence between the two men that lasted for almost two minutes while Leo contemplated the question. During this time the only noise in the room was that emanating from the speakers on Leo’s desktop. While Leo and Dolan carried on their conversation, Ike, totally oblivious to what they were talking about, continued to watch the action on the twenty-four inch monitor.
What Ike was viewing was a live feed coming from Leo’s upscale pleasure palace. The entire building, every individual room, was completely wired for both audio and video and the feed for all of them was securely wired directly into Leo’s office and stored on his server.
Every day a young man with excellent tech skills and a fairly serious heroin problem would go through the previous day’s filming. He would separate them all by individual person, date and time and securely store them on the server’s hard drive. Then Leo’s techie would make individual disks of each one to give to Leo as a backup which Leo stored in fireproof, secure file cabinets in his office.
Dolan had always considered Ike a sick little twist and his interest, almost an obsession, at watching this amateur porn only confirmed it. While Dolan waited for Leo to respond, Ike continued to stare at the screen using the mouse to jump from scene-to-scene, giggling like a little kid at the images.
“Will you please turn the sound down?” Leo asked Ike who promptly complied.
“John Hutton,” Leo finally answered his lawyer.
“John Hutton! Bullshit. He’s the straightest shooter in Slocum’s office. What could you possibly have on him?”
“Not him; his kid. He’s got a son, Robbie, with a drug problem. I’ve got pictures.”
“Sonofabitch,” Dolan softly said. “You know Leo, you really are a rotten bastard…”
“Hey, business is business. It’s this kind of intel that keeps things running smooth,” said Leo as he leaned forward with a fierce look on his face, poked a finger at his lawyer and continued by saying, “and don’t forget it. I don’t create people’s problems, they…”
“No, you just prey on them, on their weaknesses.”
“And it keeps you in hot wives, nice clothes, homes and cars. Anytime you want out, counselor, just say so.”
“No, no, I didn’t mean that,” Dolan protested knowing “out” did not mean walk away. “Out” had a much more permanent meaning. “It’s just, I don’t know,” he continued as Leo sat back on the couch sipping his drink, “I’ve known John Hutton for years. It just surprised me. He would’ve been the last person I would’ve thought…and I know his son too, Robbie.”
“Life’s a bitch,” Leo said. “As far as Carlton Bishop goes, he’s been asking for that for years. He’s been playing the street gangs off each other for a long time. Any one of them could’ve done it. From what I hear, the cops aren’t too hot to find out.
“What do you say we get a table and some dinner, Bruce? Relax a bit,” Leo said as he rose from the couch. He looked at Ike and was tempted to say something then, deciding against it, just shook his head and led Dolan through the door and into the restaurant.
TWENTY-SEVEN
When the Prentisses arrived back at their home, Catherine hurried into the house and went straight to the bar while Gordon was still parking the car in the driveway. He did not bother to put it in its space in the detached four car garage. Gordon intended on staying only long enough to chan
ge clothes. At 11:30 it was still early and he had an ache that needed attention.
He entered the twelve room house through the side entrance, the door closest to the driveway. A single light coming from the front sitting room was on, the one containing the bar from which Catherine had fixed a drink. Gordon stood in the doorway, a look of disgust on his face, staring at his wife while she gulped a large vodka on the rocks.
“If you won’t divorce me, why don’t you kill me and get it over with?” She flatly asked him with no inflection, anger or malice in her voice.
“You’re drunk,” he said.
“Actually, I’m not,” she answered. “In fact, I’m not sure I can get drunk anymore. About all I ever get,” she continued holding up the glass, “is numb, which helps somewhat.
“I’m thinking about going public, Gordon,” she continued. “I’ll hire a lawyer myself and start a divorce and let the whole world know what you are really like. And I’ll drag your entire goddamn family into it too. Especially your dear sweet Daddy. How would you like that, my darling husband?”
She had been thinking about this conversation, this threat, for several days. Catherine doubted she would have the courage to say it to him, let alone go through with it. The day’s events had been enough to drive her to the point where, at least at this moment, she no longer cared. She fully expected him to attack her and she was prepared to finally resist and fight back as best she could.
Instead of coming after her, Gordon calmly walked over to a chair a few feet from her, turned it to face her and sat down. He leaned back in the chair, casually crossed his legs and calmly folded his hands in his lap. They sat this way for a full minute, Gordon staring directly at her, Catherine sipping her drink while avoiding his eyes.
“Go ahead,” he said, “But before you do, let me tell you how this will go. I have a journal in which I have documented your entire psychiatric history. Every therapist you have seen, every appointment you have had, every prescription you have filled for your clear and obvious psychiatric problems; a complete history.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 59