As he drove up to the private parking in the back of the building, a deputy held up a hand to stop him. Marc buzzed his window down and the woman, who Marc recognized but could not remember her name, greeted him.
“Good morning, Mr. Kadella. I’m sorry but I can’t let you park back here anymore. Sherriff Cale’s orders. He says the trial is over and you’ll have to park out front.”
“Really? Does he know he may have a riot on his hands when the jury comes in?”
She leaned a little closer into Marc’s open window and said, “Believe me, all of the deputies know. We’ve been trying to get him to bring in some help from the state, but…” she shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows. “Sorry.”
Marc approached the deputy guarding the courtroom door. Before he could say anything she opened it and held it for him. “Thanks, Carla,” he said to her. Carla Mason had been one of six deputies in the courtroom during the entire trial. Marc had made a special effort to learn their names. He always figured it can’t hurt to be friendly with people who carry guns.
He placed his coat and briefcase in one of the client conference rooms then went back to see if Connors or his clerk were in. His clerk was at her desk and he knocked on her open door.
“Morning, Marion,” he said when she looked up and saw him.
“You’re here early,” she replied.
“Couldn’t sleep. Is the judge in yet?”
“Yeah, he’s around somewhere. The jury’s already at it.”
“Oh, really?” Marc asked a bit surprised. “I’ll be around in one of the conference rooms by the exit doors.”
“Okay. Let me know if you go anywhere, please.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Marc retreated to the small room and started to work through the pile he had brought along. Judge Connors stopped by to say hello and starting shortly after 8:00, Marc began taking phone calls. On the drive in this morning, he had stopped at a Starbucks for a large coffee and bought a copy of both the Minneapolis and St. Paul papers. Since the phone was going to continue to interrupt him anyway, he set aside his work. His mind wasn’t on it and he was more curious about what the papers had to say.
In between phone calls, the arrival of Brittany and her support group, he managed to read the paper’s accounts of yesterday’s events. To his surprise, both papers had very good things to say about him and his closing. The gist of it was that what had appeared to be a for sure conviction was no longer as certain.
Just before 9:00 he heard a light rap on the door and looked up to see the tempting dark eyes of Gabriella Shriqui when she poked her head through the door.
“Good morning, Gabriella.”
“Mind if I join you? If you’re busy…” she said when she saw the files on the table.
“Nah, come on in. I was going to try to do this,” he said waving a hand at the letters and documents on the table, “but I’m not getting anywhere with it anyway.”
Gabriella sat down across the table from him and Marc said, “We are off the record? No microphones or hidden cameras?”
“No, none of that,” she laughed. “Yes, we’re off the record. Seriously,” she continued, “how are you doing and how’s Brittany holding up?”
“I’m okay. I just spoke to Brittany. They’re down in the cafeteria. She didn’t sleep a wink last night. None of them did. They’re all pretty stressed.”
“I can’t even imagine. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about how we, the media, treated her. I’m not going to give you any bullshit about the public’s right to know or any other crap like that. Innocent or guilty, she did not deserve to be treated the way she was.”
“Thanks, Gabriella. I don’t mean to make you feel worse but she is innocent.”
“I believe that, now. And from what I’m hearing from my cynical brethren, it’s running about sixty-forty in your favor.”
“What are you doing here already?”
“Got a call from a source, told me the jury started up again at 7:00. So, here I am in case…”
“How do you get calls like that? I don’t get calls like that.”
“We, ah, have a cash expense account for such matters.”
The two of them chatted for the better part of an hour. Every few minutes they were interrupted by a phone call to Marc. Madeline called and Marc gave the phone to Gabriella. Marc finished glancing through the papers, mostly the sports sections, while the two women gabbed for twenty minutes.
At 10:00 there was a knock on the door and the judge’s clerk opened it, looked at the two of them and said, “They’re in. The judge wants the verdict read at 11:00.”
“Thanks, Marion.” Marc looked at Gabriella as the door closed and said, “Get out. I gotta make some calls.”
“What do you think?” Gabriella asked as she stood to leave.
“I don’t know,” Marc shrugged. “Really, I can’t guess these things.”
Gabriella reached across the table and took Marc’s right hand in both of hers, looked him in the eyes and said, “Good luck. I really mean that. I hope you win.”
Marc nervously smiled at her and said, “Thanks, kid. Now go. I have calls to make.”
When eleven o’clock rolled around, every local TV station, all of the networks, both broadcast and cable, were preempting their programming and carrying the courtroom feed live. They all had their “expert” commentators either live i-studio or on the phone line ready to give their view of why the jury was either right or wrong. Later, the numbers would show that more people nationwide watched the verdict being read than voted in the last presidential election.
There is an old belief among defense lawyers that if the jurors look at your client when they come into the courtroom with the verdict, it’s good news. Marc tended to believe it but he had not told Brittany this. She had enough on her plate as it was.
At 11:10 Connors took the bench and after everyone sat down, the judge spent a few minutes lecturing the crowd on court decorum. While he did this, Marc glanced over at Danica Hart. Their eyes met briefly and each smiled and nodded at the other.
The jurors were led in and Marc’s heart jumped a bit when he saw each and every one of them look directly at Brittany. At least half of them even smiled. The verdict form was handed to the judge who read it and sent it back to the jury foreman. Connors looked down at Marc and Brittany and politely told her to stand which they both did.
The foreman, the retired dentist named Allan Cheever, rose and looked at the judge. Connors nodded slightly giving him permission to speak. By this point, no one in the courtroom was breathing.
“We the jury, in the matter of the State of Minnesota versus Brittany Ann Riley, unanimously find the defendant not guilty of all charges.”
The instant she heard the man say “not guilty” Brittany burst into tears, brought her hands to her face and started to collapse. When her knees started to buckle Marc grabbed her under the arms and gently lowered her to her chair. The courtroom erupted and it took Connors three full minutes of gavel pounding to get the place quiet again.
An hour later, Marc stood at the entrance to the courthouse looking out toward the parking areas. To his left, by the administration building, were almost two hundred marchers carrying signs supportive of Brittany. To his right, along the sidewalk in front of the jail, was more than twice that number in the anti-Brittany crowd. In between them were more than fifty sheriff’s deputies from Dakota and several other surrounding counties. Apparently Sheriff Cale had seen the light and called in the cavalry. So far they had kept the crowd separated and peaceful.
Butch Koll said to Marc, “We’ll walk her out over by the friendlier crowd on the left over by those TV vans. The deputies think she’ll be okay. They’ve been gauging the mood out there and they believe it’s pretty quiet. That’s my truck in the reserved spot up front. We’ll get her there.”
Marc and Butch turned away from the window and walked back to Brittany. Along with Butch and Andy, Maddy was there we
aring a handgun holstered to her belt. Interesting that none of the deputies said a word to her about it. There were also four deputies, including a woman and three large men. The woman, the one Marc knew as Carla, was helping Brittany put on a bullet proof vest.
“Melinda wants film of her leaving the building all the way up to her getting in the car,” Robbie Nelson reminded Gabriella and her cameraman, Kyle Bronson for the third or fourth time.
“I don’t work for Melinda,” an irritated Gabriella said in retort.
Robbie gave her his best wounded puppy look and said, “Gabriella, give me a break. You know what she’s like. If I don’t get this film for her I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Here, hold this,” Kyle told Robbie as he handed him the camera. Kyle opened the passenger door and used the back of the seat to climb up on the roof. Robbie handed Kyle the camera. Kyle stood up on the roof, looked through the camera’s lens and declared himself to be all set.
“I’m going to try to squeeze through the crowd and see if I can get a quote,” Gabriella told Robbie.
“Good luck with that,” Robbie replied as he watched her try to muscle her way through the crowd in front of the van.
Gabriella, carrying her recording equipment by a strap on her shoulder, managed to squeeze through the crowd. She recognized Butch Koll’s truck and believed they would pass close to her. Unknown to her, not that Gabriella or Brittany would have recognized him from the drawings of him Bob Olson stood less than twenty feet from Gabriella. He was toward the back of the crowd, up on his toes, trying to get a glimpse of Brittany as she was escorted to the parking lot.
The small crowd of security surrounding the diminutive blonde Brittany went out through the door. When they saw them heading their way with Brittany in the middle, the pro-Brittany crowd began to cheer and applaud. Those lined up on the jail side of the complex kept a respectful distance and with a few exceptions, were silently, sullenly watching.
Despite the deputies aligned along the route, the pro-marchers surged forward as if to greet a hero. Suddenly, less than fifty feet from Butch’s truck, a young woman squeezed through the crowd to the front when Brittany was about to pass by her. In her hand was a .38 caliber handgun that belonged to her father. Brittany, less than fifteen feet from her assailant, looked directly at the girl as the first shot exploded from the barrel.
The first three shots hit Brittany squarely in the chest. Fortunately, the vest absorbed all three with little more damage than severe bruising. A man in the crowd standing next to the girl grabbed her right wrist and jerked it upward. This caused the fifth shot to sail over the building and land harmlessly in a snow-covered field a half mile away. Unfortunately, he was less than a second too late.
The fourth shot was the bullet that did the damage. Because the first three shots knocked her backwards into Butch, the fourth one missed the vest, blew through the left side of her neck and took a one-inch section of her carotid artery with it. It then punched through Butch Koll’s coat, took out a good part of two ribs, went through his left lung and lodged in his back.
Bedlam exploded.
In an instant the shooter was on the ground, her hands cuffed behind her. Both sections of the crowd broke into hysteria and stampeded toward the parking lot. Almost three dozen of them would end up in the hospital that day, most for relatively minor scrapes and bruises but several with serious broken bones or concussions.
While Carla, the deputy, tried valiantly to stop the blood from spurting out of her neck, Marc found himself holding Brittany’s head in his lap. Madeline and another deputy were helping Butch and Andy was sprinting toward Butch’s suburban.
Brittany’s blood was everywhere. Carla had it on her face, her hair and the front of her uniform blouse was soaked in it. In less than a minute every bit of color drained from Brittany’s face and even if a surgeon had been there, she still would not have been saved.
While the tears streamed down Marc’s bloody face, he looked down at her as she moved her lips trying to speak. He leaned down, blood still erupting from the wound and put his left ear on her lips.
“Thank you, Marc,” she whispered.
Brittany Riley lived for another minute or so. Marc stared down into her eyes, oblivious to the chaos swirling around them. She didn’t speak again and he could think of nothing to say as the light in her eyes flickered out.
SIXTY-NINE
April
Spring came early to Minnesota and the rest of the upper Midwest. By mid-March, daytime temperatures were pushing into the 60’s. The snow was gone, the ice was coming off of the lakes and most of the golf courses were open before April 1st.
The trial of Brittany Riley was already receding to a painful, even embarrassing, memory. The Minneapolis newspaper combined with a local TV station commissioned a statewide poll a few days after her death. Somewhat disturbingly, 63% of those polled believed she got what she deserved.
The young woman who shot and killed Brittany became the focus of attention for a week or so. Her name was Katelyn Parker, a twenty-four-year-old single woman who had lost a baby due to a miscarriage. After losing her baby three years ago, she became a hard-core, anti-abortion, right-to-life advocate. The authorities conducted a search of her apartment and found hundreds of newspaper clippings concerning the disappearance of Becky Riley and all of the subsequent events, especially the trial. One of the detectives thought to check what she had stored in her DVR library. It was completely full of shows of The Court Reporter starring Melinda Pace.
Of course, every television news outlet in America found a reason to broadcast the shooting, over and over. The anchor who solemnly introduced the film always issued a standard warning about upcoming disturbing images. This was allegedly done to give parents a chance to remove children from the room. Some cynics might say it is really a notification to be sure to watch because something gruesome was about to be shown, so sit tight.
A week after the death of Brittany Riley, the Rileys held a double funeral for Brittany and Becky. They were buried next to Brittany’s husband and Becky’s father, Greg Mead. Becky was finally laid to rest between her parents.
Marc attended with Margaret Tennant and sat behind the Rileys with Maddy, Tony Carvelli, Vivian Donahue, Andy Whitmore, Gabriella Shriqui and Robbie Nelson. Gabriella had called Marc to ask if he thought it would be okay for her to attend, not as a reporter but as just another mourner. She brought Robbie along just for a little companionship. The only one not in attendance was the still hospitalized Butch Koll.
The sheriff’s office cordoned off a section of the cemetery for the media. They were out in full force filming the burial for “the public’s right to know”. It would be the lead story throughout the day from coast to coast, a sad and tragic ending to the story, or so they would opine.
After the shooting, Butch and Brittany had been rushed to a hospital in Hastings in an ambulance that one of the sheriff’s deputies presciently had standing by. Brittany was officially pronounced DOA but the presence of the ambulance probably saved Butch’s life. He spent two days in intensive care then was taken by helicopter to Regions Hospital in St. Paul. Regions is far more suited to handle gunshot wounds. The surgeons were able to repair the damage and in a few months, Butch would be almost good as new. Marc, Maddy, Andy and a busload of friends visited him daily which started driving him a little crazy after a week or so.
Marc, with Margaret Tennant on his arm, was walking slowly away from the gravesite when a woman approached them. It was Brittany’s psychiatrist, Lorraine McDowell. They talked for a few minutes then the doctor gave Marc her card and he promised to call and make an appointment. Three days later he had his first session with her to help him cope with what he had been through.
Marc was in his office, leaning on the sill of the open window behind his desk. A beautiful April day was forecast; sunny with temps in the low seventies. He smiled while he watched two girls in their mid-teens walking down the sidewalk across the street. Th
ey were both dressed in skin tight jeans that accentuated their cute little butts. He then realized they were both younger than his daughter and feeling a little embarrassed, looked around the room to see if anyone had noticed.
Marc softly laughed to himself then quietly said, “Getting back to normal.”
At about the same time that Marc was enjoying the view from his office window, Gabriella entered her boss’s office. Hunter Oswood pointed to a chair in front of his desk and after she sat down said, “So, kid, what’s up?”
This was a meeting Gabriella had requested and she wasn’t quite sure how to begin. After a moment, she looked at Hunter and said, “What are we doing? What is this bullshit we do all about?”
Oswood leaned back in his leather executive chair, placed his hands behind his head and said, “Ah. Having the ‘what is this all about’ dilemma, are you?”
“I suppose, yeah,” Gabriella agreed.
“Don’t feel too bad. Most reporters if they have a conscience and a soul which, I’ll grant you most lose, go through this.” Oswood came forward, leaned on his desk with his hands lightly clasped together on the desktop.
“Believe it or not, Gabriella, we do give people the news. Not all of it is what we used to call hard news but it is still news. Stories that need to be reported, for the most part, are reported.
“Keep something in mind. Whether we like it or not, this TV station is, as are all media outlets, a business. We are in business to make money and that includes the news division. I don’t know about you, but I like getting paid. We don’t do this as a charity.”
Gabriella started to protest but Oswood held up a hand to stop her.
“Sure, there’s a public service aspect to it, but if we don’t make money, like any business, sooner or later we close the doors. Look at what’s happening to newspapers in this country. They’re dying thanks to the internet and other things.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 137