“My pleasure, Sarge,” the policewoman said and from three feet away, aimed the weapon right at Traynor’s crotch. “Please give me a reason,” she said to him.
A few minutes later a uniformed police captain arrived. Both Waschke and Carvelli knew the man personally and were confident in his ability to take charge of the situation. Carvelli gave the captain a brief report on what happened. At the same time, Waschke found two large uniformed officers. They gathered up Traynor and half dragged and half carried him through the back door where Carvelli’s young partner had parked their car.
The two beefy patrolmen strapped Traynor into the back seat with the seat belt, his arms still cuffed behind him.
Carvelli was driving with Waschke in the front passenger seat. “Have you ever seen anybody do that, pull those Taser leads out of themselves like that?” Carvelli quietly asked Waschke.
“I’ve heard of it but never seen it myself.”
They were going west on Franklin toward downtown Minneapolis and the Old City Hall which housed the police department. They had traveled barely two blocks when Traynor said, “You two idiots really fucked up. I’m gonna walk from this. You forgot to read me my rights.” He laughed heartily at this as if he had pulled something over on them.
Carvelli simply smiled and Waschke turned to look at Traynor and said, “Holy shit. What a screw-up. I didn’t know you were a lawyer. Where did you go to law school, Harvard? I got some disappointing news for you, dickhead. We haven’t asked any questions so, technically, we don’t have to read you your rights yet. But as long as you brought it up, I’ll do it now.” Waschke recited them to him, smiled and said, “Now I want you to invoke your right to remain silent and shut your mouth for a while until we do ask you something.”
“I want a lawyer,” Traynor sullenly said.
“We’ll get you one. Now be quiet for a while.”
The detectives each held one of Traynor’s arms as they led him limping to the booking window. While Waschke removed the handcuffs, the sergeant in charge of booking said to Carvelli, “We heard about this. Great job for you guys. Excellent work.”
“Thanks, Frank,” Carvelli said. “Empty your pockets,” he told Traynor.
Traynor began removing the contents of his pants’ pockets while the booking sergeant began filling out an inventory envelope to record the contents. He pulled out a pack of Camel filters and a lighter and set them on the counter. Carvelli instantly recognized the lighter.
“Whoa! What have we here?” Carvelli said. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and used it to carefully pick up the lighter. He rolled it around in his hand careful not to let it touch his skin, then turned his head to look at Traynor.
“I found that,” Traynor said.
“Sure you did. And I know right where you found it. It was on the dresser in the bedroom of Lucille Benson. I saw a picture of it this morning. Her daughter brought it in to help us identify the shit you two assholes stole after you killed her mother. It’s an antique lighter that’s been in the family for almost a hundred years”
“I don’t know nothin’ about any of that. I found that lighter this morning,” Traynor replied showing nervousness for the first time.
“Good defense strategy,” Waschke chimed in. “I’d stick with that if I were you.”
The booking sergeant held open a clear plastic evidence bag and Carvelli dropped the lighter in it. He then held it in front of Traynor’s face and said, “What we have here is corroboration, proof that you were there. Then when the DNA comes back as a match, well, you’re gone, tough guy.”
“What DNA? You’re lying.”
“The hair and skin found under the victim’s fingernails. There’s enough to test,” Waschke said.
“It’s yours, moron. Bye bye,” Carvelli said.
Defiantly, Traynor glared at them and said, “I’ll be there to piss on both of your graves.”
SIX
Marc Kadella wearily sat on a padded bench in the hallway outside courtroom 1523 in the Hennepin County Government Center. The pain in his lower back was finally gone. The stress of doing his first homicide trial had tightened up his lower back muscles for the duration of the trial. Four days and no relief. The case had been given to the jury only two hours ago and the pain was already gone.
Marc leaned back against the hallway wall and vacantly stared across the empty space at the government side of the big building. He found himself taking simple pleasure watching through the windows as the county employees worked at their desks or busily scurried about. It felt good to have his mind in neutral; not thinking about the trial or what he should be doing to prepare for it. It was over. He had given it his best shot and there was nothing more he could do.
Marc thought about his client, Howie Traynor. He was accused of first and second-degree murder in the death of an elderly woman during the commission of a burglary. Going into the trial, Marc believed he could beat the first-degree charge but probably not the second-degree. His client was likely looking at three serious felony convictions, including assault on a police officer. If convicted of everything but the first degree murder charge, he was looking at thirty years, minimum.
It had been eight months since the crime was committed. Fall and winter had come and gone and a lot had happened during that time. The murder of a member of a well-known, respected, politically prominent family had generated a lot of publicity and media attention. Being a novice at dealing with the press, Marc could only hope he didn’t come across as too much of an inexperienced fool. For a solid hour after the case went to the jury, Marc, and the lead prosecutor, Rhea Watson, had both given multiple impromptu interviews here in the hallway. While replaying it in his mind, Marc appreciated the quiet and solitude even more.
Marc began to go over the trial in his head. He knew it was a bad idea to do this. It would lead to second guessing himself and thinking of new things he should have done. But he couldn’t help himself.
The first thing he mentally replayed was his cross-examination of the medical examiner who had conducted the autopsy. During the man’s direct-exam, he testified that there were microscopic cotton fibers found in the victim’s mouth and nose. These fibers, he testified, were an exact match with the pillow found next to the body. A lab tech had previously testified that there were traces of lipstick that matched the lipstick worn by the deceased. Also, DNA analysis showed saliva from the same spot on the pillow as the lipstick. This allowed the ME to testify that, in his medical opinion, someone held that pillow over the face of the victim and was the proximate cause of the heart attack that killed her.
Replaying the cross-exam, Marc was satisfied he had done as good a job as anyone could trying to find reasonable doubt about the cause of death. He was able to get the doctor to admit the lipstick and saliva on the pillow could have happened simply by the deceased rolling on her side or putting her mouth on it while she slept. And this could have caused the small cotton particles to enter her nose and mouth.
The problem he had was the bruising on the jawline. There was simply no reasonable explanation for how that could have happened except by someone holding the pillow over her fragile face. Between that and the DNA evidence from the hair and skin found under the victim’s fingernails, a 99% match, Howie’s goose was cooked. Howie Traynor was going down for the murder of Lucille Benson, second-degree felony murder. Marc believed he was not going to get first-degree premeditated murder. Howie did not go up those stairs intending to kill anyone. According to the state’s star witness, Jimmy Oliver, they believed no one was home, so how could anyone have gone into that bedroom planning to kill someone who wasn’t supposed to be there? Clearly the prosecution had overcharged.
Marc thought it over for another fifteen or twenty minutes then satisfied himself that he had done a good job. Not only that, but being honest with himself, he wasn’t the least bit upset that Howie was going to prison for a long time. The simple truth was even if Howie did not admit it, he was guilty
as hell. And like just about everyone else who came in contact with him, Howie Traynor scared the hell out of Marc Kadella.
“Replaying the case? Second guessing yourself?” Marc heard the voice of his counterpart, Rhea Watson say to him. He had been so lost in thought he didn’t notice her walk up next to him.
Marc looked up at her, smiled and said, “Hey, Rhea.”
“Mind if I join you?” she asked.
“No, not at all. Have a seat,” Marc replied as he picked up the briefcase he had set on the seat next to him and put it on the floor.
“Yeah, I was thinking it over,” Marc agreed as the lawyer sat down, crossed her legs and pulled her skirt down to her knees.
“Don’t,” she said. “You did a good job. Old Mickey would have been proud of you. He may have been a bit of a drunk and notorious womanizer, but he was a damn fine trial lawyer. I bet you learned a lot from him.”
“Yeah, I did,” he agreed. “Learned a lot the hard way the past few days.”
“That’s probably the best way. You beat us on the first-degree charge. I think we got you on everything else. I’ll make you a new offer. He pleads to second-degree, we recommend thirty years. Peterson will go along with it,” she said referring to the judge. “Otherwise, we’re going to ask for an upward departure on the homicide and consecutive sentencing on everything else. He’ll get forty for sure. This guy scares everybody, including the judge.”
The thirty-year offer was ten years more than the original offer they had made six months ago.
“I’ll go across the street and tell him but don’t hold your breath,” Marc said as he stood and retrieved his briefcase.
“Tell him it’s good for another hour only. I’ll be upstairs for a couple more hours. If he says okay, call me and we’ll see Peterson yet today.”
“You think the jury will be back today?” Marc asked as the two of them walked toward the elevators.
“Doubtful. They have way too much to go through with all of the charges on your guy.”
“Please don’t call him my guy,” Marc protested as he pushed both the up and down buttons at the elevator bank. “I’ll call you one way or the other after I talk to him,” Marc said as he stepped onto the elevator that arrived to take him downstairs.
“Will the defendant please rise,” Judge Ross Peterson intoned.
Marc arose from his chair immediately but his client stood up as if this was little more than an annoyance.
The jury had come back with a verdict before noon on the day after the trial concluded. It was now two hours later after allowing for lunch and to get all of the parties, including the media, together. In the back row, a serious looking man in a charcoal suit and stylish tie sat patiently waiting for the verdict to be read. He was the current head of the security for Vivian Corwin Donahue. He was to call her as soon as he had the news. Vivian was not a woman who liked to be kept waiting.
The jury foreman, a man named Elliot Sanders, held up the paper with the verdicts written out. He cleared his throat and read the charges and the verdict for each.
Marc had guessed correctly. The first one the foreman read was the murder one charge and the finding of not guilty. Every other charge, the felony murder second-degree, the assault on a police officer, resisting arrest, multiple breaking and entering and burglary charges were all guilty verdicts.
While each was being read, Marc was thinking that with the not guilty of first-degree murder, Traynor could not be sentenced to life without parole. Later that day, he would find himself wondering if that was a good or bad thing.
When the foreman finished, Peterson ordered a presentence investigation report and set the date for sentencing thirty days out. He thanked and dismissed the jury and adjourned.
Before Traynor could be led away, he turned to Marc and sarcastically snarled, “Nice job rookie. I won’t forget it.”
On the day of his sentencing, Marc and his client stood silently and patiently while Judge Peterson went over the list of reasons he was sentencing Howie to forty years in prison. This was a significant upward departure than what the sentencing guidelines called for and the judge was obligated to make a record of his reasons for it. In the event of an appeal, which Marc was extremely grateful he would not have to handle, the appeals court would have to know why the longer than normal sentence was given.
The judge finished, looked at Howie and asked, “Do you have anything to say?”
Howie opened his mouth as if to say something causing Marc to cringe at the thought of what might come out, then Traynor simply said, about as politely as he was capable of, “No, I guess not, your Honor.”
Marc got off the elevator on the second floor of the building. He had his cell phone in hand and before he had walked twenty feet, he could hear the phone he dialed already ringing.
“Hey, Karen, it’s Marc Kadella,” he said.
“What did he get?”
“Forty years total. It’s all yours now,” Marc told the lawyer with the Minnesota State Public Defenders office. They would be handling Howie’s appeal and Marc was delighted to wash his hands of it. “And good luck.”
“Thanks,” she responded a touch sarcastically. “I’ll have someone get started on it. Do you want us to keep you informed?”
“Not really,” Marc replied. He had arrived at the elevators in the corner of the building to go down into the underground parking area. He pushed the button and said, “I’ve seen all of Howie Traynor I care to.”
SEVEN
Present Day
Douglas Dylan stifled a cough then held his breath hoping the urge to cough again would dissipate. His body went rigid and he gripped the arms of the chair he sat on as tightly as his weak, frail body could. Douglas lost his mini-battle and a hard cough came out of his lungs. He groaned and bent forward in an effort to alleviate the pain that wracked his rib cage and swept up to his shoulders and down into his groin. Two more coughs escaped and this time the pain almost caused a short blackout.
Still bent at the waist, he wrapped his arms around his chest, closed his eyes and forced himself to calmly breathe. Thirty or forty seconds later the pain was gone and he was able to relax and sit upright in the chair. Douglas took several deep breaths and thought, “Getting better. Not as bad as it used to be.”
Two minutes later he pushed himself up and out of the chair and stepped over to the window. Looking down from the sixth floor of the Southdale Medical Center building, he could see the roof of the parking ramp next door and the cars on the Crosstown Highway spraying the rain as they hurried past.
A single tear trickled down his cheek and he emitted a slight sob while watching the rain come down. Douglas wondered how much longer he would be able to see such mundane, everyday sights; the traffic hurrying by, a cloudy sky, a rainy day? It had been three weeks since his last chemo treatment and two weeks since the most recent PET scan. His oncologist had the results of the scan and in his heart of hearts, Douglas knew that he was waiting in this exam room for bad news.
There was a light knock on the door and he turned to see the doctor, Gail Fedder come in. She was carrying his inch thick file, smiled at him and said, “Good morning, Doug. How are you feeling?”
Douglas sat down in his chair before answering. “Better. A little more energy and I’m sleeping a bit better. Coughing doesn’t hurt as much.”
The doctor took the chair at the room’s work station, set the file on top of the table and turned on the computer. She called up his file and took a minute to pretend to read it over. She knew what was in it. Once again she had to perform the worst part of being a cancer doctor. The doctor looked at her patient and said, “Doug, I’ve always been completely honest and upfront with you and I’m not going to stop now. We got the results of the PET scan back and…”
“They’re not good,” Doug said.
Gail hesitated then said, “No, they’re not.”
“How long?” he quietly asked the question anyone in his position would ask.
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br /> “I can’t say for sure. Over the last month or so, it has spread quite a bit. I’d say a month, maybe two.”
He lowered his head and quietly sobbed while he cried. Douglas knew this was what he would be told today yet there was always a sliver of hope. That word, hope, had become enormously important since his diagnosis almost two years ago. Now it seemed even that word was no longer available to him.
The doctor reached over and took his hand in hers. At the same time she handed him a box of Kleenex. He took it and used three or four to blow his nose and wipe his eyes.
“Do I need to go into a hospice?”
“Not if you don’t want to. We can set up a bed and nurse you at home if you prefer,” she answered. “I want you to come in once a week, sooner, if you need to.” She hesitated a moment then said, “What are you thinking?”
He sat silently for a half a minute then said, “I’m just disappointed. I mean, you know, so damn disappointed. I’m not even angry anymore. Just disappointed and of course, a little sad. I’m thirty-seven. I’ve never smoked or spent much time around smokers. I’ve led a pretty healthy life and I get lung cancer. I don’t know. I don’t know what to say.”
The two of them sat silently for another minute or so, Douglas staring blankly at the far wall while the doctor patiently waited, holding his hand.
“Doug, you should go see your priest, Father Paul. Talk to him. You need him now.”
Douglas nodded his head, looked at his doctor and weakly smiled. “Yes, I was just thinking that. I’ll call him when I get home.”
Douglas opened the door to his parents’ home in west Bloomington and let Father Paul come in. Because of his illness and the difficulty he had caring for himself, he had given up his apartment several months ago. The priest was carrying a plastic bag which contained two boxes of combo meals from Kentucky Fried Chicken. Douglas had discovered early on in his fight against cancer that KFC meals were quick, inexpensive and tasted fairly good. Chemotherapy didn’t make food taste bad, that was caused mostly from radiation therapy. The problem with food and chemo was that the patient was almost never hungry. One simply did not feel much like eating.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 142