The two men sat silently at the kitchen table eating the lunches the priest had brought for them. Father Paul was a parish priest at St. Edward’s in Bloomington. He was a decade older than Douglas and had known the younger man since Douglas was in high school. Although Douglas was mostly a C and E Catholic, Christmas and Easter, they had maintained a sort of loose friendship over the years.
Father Paul finished eating before the younger man then set his empty box aside and patiently waited for Douglas. A few minutes later Douglas also finished and Father Paul suggested that Douglas wait in the living room while the priest cleaned up.
Expecting the news to be bad, Father Paul took a chair facing the couch where Douglas was seated.
“Do you want to talk about what the doctor told you?” Father Paul asked, looking across the glass-topped coffee table between them.
“Nothing good,” Douglas replied with a weak smile. “The treatments aren’t working and the cancer has spread. It’s in my bones and brain. They can give me more chemo and radiation for the brain tumors, but I’m not sure I want to.”
“What did Dr. Fedder say about that?”
“She said at best it might give me another few weeks,” he shrugged. His eyes watered up and he heavily sobbed. He took several deep breaths, wanly smiled and continued by saying, “It just really sucks. I am so disappointed about this. I’m too young. I wanted marriage, children, the whole deal and now…”
“I understand and….” Father Paul began.
“Don’t give me any of that ‘God’s plan’ bullshit! There’s no plan going on here. God is not micromanaging us. This is just, well… shit happens I guess.”
“Yes, you’re right. Shit happens,” The priest agreed.
The two of them had been down this path several times before with the same, basic result. Douglas pulled his slender legs up on the couch and silently stared at the table top between them. The priest waited for him to speak. After a full three minutes had passed between them, Douglas finally looked at his friend.
“There’s something else, Father Paul. Something that has been eating at me off and on ever since this started.”
Father Paul leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and said, “I know. Or, I’ve suspected it. Let’s have it. It’s time you got it out.”
Douglas looked directly in the priest’s eyes, nodded his head three or four times and said, “Will you hear my confession, Father?”
“Of course, my son,” the priest replied. He stood and walked around to the couch and sat down next to Douglas.
Douglas sat up, put his feet on the carpeted floor, turned to the priest and held out his hands for Father Paul to hold.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned a terrible sin that I cannot take to the grave,” he began.
When he finished, the priest, still holding his hands, said, “This is not something that can be remedied with a Hail Mary or two, Douglas. You will have to make this right. I will bless you and give you God’s forgiveness but you must inform the authorities and do what you can to fix this.”
“I want to, Father,” Douglas sincerely said. “I don’t know how. I don’t know who to go to. I’m afraid if I go to the police, they’ll sweep it under the rug and do nothing. Who do I go to?”
“I know someone, a lawyer. A man I grew up with and still see and play golf with. I’ll call him now. He can help us.”
Less than half an hour later, the priest and his penitent took the client chairs in front of the desk of Father Paul’s friend. The lawyer’s name was Michael Becker and he was a partner in a midsize firm of twenty-seven lawyers in Minneapolis. The priest had told him a little of the story over the phone. Becker sat back in his big, leather executive chair while Douglas told him the story in detail. When he finished, the lawyer had him go over it again, this time Becker took detailed notes.
When Douglas finished, the lawyer put down his pen, removed his cheaters and said, “Jesus Christ…”
“Mike…” the priest began to admonish him.
“Give me a break, Paul,” he smiled at his friend. He turned back to Douglas and continued. “I can’t even begin to count the number of felonies you’ve committed. Fortunately, the statute of limitations has run out on all of them I’m sure.”
Not having thought of this, Father Paul, with a little panic in his voice said, “Do you think they’ll want to prosecute him?”
“No. Time’s up. Plus the cancer’s terminal?” he asked Douglas.
Douglas nodded and said, “A couple of months.”
“I’m sorry,” the lawyer said. “What do you want to do about this?” he continued holding up the legal pad with his notes on it.
“I want to come clean. I want to make it right. At least as much as I can.”
“Okay. I have a friend in the attorney general’s office. I’ll call him right now and set up a meeting. Maybe even today.”
“Mikey,” Father Paul said, “he doesn’t have much money…”
Becker waved a hand at his friend and said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take this pro bono. This may sound a bit mercenary given the circumstances but the publicity this shit storm is going to raise will make it worth while. Besides,” he continued as he looked for a card in his Rolodex, “I try to be a good Christian even if my job won’t always let me.”
The three of them met with Becker’s friend, a man named Luis Aguilar and told Aguilar the story. By the end of the hour, Douglas had told it three more times including once to the AG herself and another in front of a camera.
Aguilar and Becker treated the filmed confession as a deposition. Aguilar conducted the questioning and Becker represented Douglas. All of the lawyers were satisfied he was telling the truth.
“Douglas is getting a little tired,” Father Paul said when they were done taking the deposition.
“You okay?” Becker asked him as the film tech and court reporter were leaving the conference room while Aguilar looked on.
“Yeah,” Douglas said. “I am pretty tired. It’s the cancer and chemo. But I feel a lot better. It feels good to get that off my chest. Now what?” he asked looking at the AG’s lawyer. “What’s going to happen to me?”
Aguilar looked at him, uncertain about what he meant. He finally said, “You mean are we going to prosecute you?”
“Yeah.”
“No, Douglas. It’s too late. The statute of limitations has run out. Plus, can you imagine the political fallout if we prosecuted a terminal cancer patient?” This last comment was aimed at Becker.
“We might get a new AG,” Becker said. “One that’s a little more even handed. One that doesn’t see her job as being everyone’s do-gooder mommy.”
“Ssshhh,” Aguilar said smiling as he put his finger to his lips. “The room might be bugged. Now,” he continued again looking at Douglas, “we start pulling case files and contacting lawyers. I’ll get you a copy of the tape and the transcript and keep you informed,” he said to Becker.
EIGHT
Marc Kadella finished proofreading the divorce settlement he had prepared for a client he represented. Satisfied that it contained all of the terms the wife’s lawyer, Marc and their clients had agreed to, he signed the last page. Marc slipped it into the large envelope Carolyn had provided to mail the document to the other lawyer. This case had been a bit of a headache proving, once again, hell hath no fury as a woman scorned.
Marc was a lawyer in private practice and as a sole practitioner rented space in a suite of offices shared by other lawyers. His landlord, Connie Mickelson, a crusty, older woman, working on her sixth marriage, did mostly family law and personal injury work. The others were Barry Cline, a man about Marc’s age who was becoming modestly successful at criminal defense and business litigation. The fourth lawyer was Chris Grafton, a small business, corporate lawyer with a thriving practice who was a few years older than Marc and Barry.
Marc was a sandy-haired, blue-eyed man of Scandinavian and Welsh ancestry. He was a little over six feet
tall, in his mid-forties and the recently divorced father of two mostly grown children; his son, Eric age nineteen and a daughter, Jessica, age eighteen.
Marc placed the envelope on a corner of his desk then swiveled his chair around. His office, with the door closed, was getting a little stuffy so he opened a window overlooking Charles and Lake Street. The intercom on his phone buzzed, he swiveled back around and picked up the handle of the phone.
“What?” he asked.
“Marc, there’s a man out here, a walk-in, who says he’s your Uncle Larry. He says he has a serious problem and he needs to see you right away.”
“Larry’s here? Okay, I’ll be right out.”
Wondering what his seventy-five-year-old uncle who probably never had so much as a speeding ticket in his life needed to see him about, Marc stood and went through his office door. He immediately saw his mother’s brother seated in one of the waiting room chairs. Once again Marc noticed Larry’s full head of hair and flat stomach and hoped those genes had been passed on to him.
“Hey, Uncle,” Marc said as he walked over to the older man.
Larry almost jumped out of his chair, rushed up to Marc and threw his arms around his nephew. Marc stiffened up as if this was an awkward moment and when Larry released him said, “You’re hugging me? I don’t think you’ve hugged me since I turned five. This must be serious.”
“It’s a great case for you. The publicity will make your practice,” the older man replied while holding Marc’s shoulders at arm’s length. “You’ll see.”
“Larry, I’ve had all of the publicity I need for a while,” Marc replied while thinking: Why do I doubt this?
Marc turned to lead Larry back to his office and saw everyone staring at him. “C’mon back,” he said as he walked to his door ignoring the inquisitive looks.
Thirty-five minutes later, Marc and his uncle emerged. Marc walked Larry to the exit door where they shook hands as Marc said, “I’ll look into it. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
Larry looked at his nephew and said, “Okay but let’s go and you know what I want to do so, show them who’s in charge.”
“Larry….” He began to sternly reply then thought better of it. “I’ll get back to you. Okay?”
With that, Marc opened the door and politely ushered the older man out. Marc closed the door, turned to face the wall and while everyone in the office waited to hear about this meeting, leaned forward and lightly thumped his forehead several times on the wall.
Connie Mickelson came out of her office laughing while he did this then said, “What was that about?”
Marc turned to face her. Drew a deep breath, shook his head and said, “You can choose your friends but not your family.”
Marc sat down in one of the waiting area chairs to face all of his officemates who were now quite curious to find out what this was about. He looked up at the ceiling, laughed an ironic laugh, looked at his friends and said, “First of all, Larry’s wife passed away about three years ago. Ellen. Nice lady. I liked her a lot and Larry was hit pretty hard. Anyway, he’s been alone ever since.”
“Oh, oh,” Connie said correctly guessing where this was headed.
“Larry,” Marc paused before continuing, “got arrested yesterday for soliciting a prostitute. He got caught up in a sting downtown…” he tried to continue amid the laughter.
“Good for him,” Chris Grafton said.
“What’s the big deal?” Connie added. “The cops should’ve let him slide on it.”
“Actually, that’s what I thought when he told me,” Marc agreed with a big smile. “But,” he continued, “that’s not the problem. Larry says he won’t plead. He says he wants a trial. And he wants the TV and newspaper people to cover it.”
“What?” Carolyn said as the others burst into another round of laughter.
“Yeah, he, ah, wants the publicity. See Larry lives in a senior apartment complex…”
“Oh no,” Connie said covering her mouth to stifle more laughter.
“Exactly,” Marc said looking at Connie. “He wants it to get out to all of the single women living there that he still has, as he put it, plenty of lead in the pencil.”
This revelation brought another roar from the small crowd that could be heard in the hallway. Even Marc couldn’t help himself and joined in.
“Actually,” Marc continued when the laughter died down, “the best part, for me at least, is he wants me to make sure his sister, my mother, doesn’t find out about it. How I’m supposed to get this on TV and not let my mother see it? He didn’t have that part figured out.”
“And of course, he’s not paying you,” Barry Cline asked.
“No, of course not,” Marc said as he stood up.
“What are you going to do?” Connie asked.
“I don’t know,” Marc sighed. “I’m not going to trial, that’s for sure.”
A short while later Marc was out of his chair and putting on his suit coat to go to lunch with Barry and Chris when the intercom buzzed.
“Chuck McReady’s on the phone,” he heard Sandy say when he answered it. “He says it’s important.”
“Really? Okay, put him through,” Marc said. McReady was the number two lawyer at the State Public Defender’s office. They handled appeals for indigent defendants and McReady had recently handled one successfully for a client of Marc. Before McReady came on the line. Marc searched his memory for any current cases but came up blank.
“Do you want the bad news first or the bad news first?” McReady asked him.
“Please, by all means, give me the bad news first. I hardly ever get any bad news doing criminal defense work,” Marc sarcastically replied while he sat down again.
“That’s a good point,” McReady replied. “Criminal defense is all feel good, peaches and cream. Anyway, I hope you’re sitting down. Do you remember a client of yours by the name of Howard Traynor?”
“Sure, he was my first homicide trial. The case, and my client, both scared the hell out of me. Why, what’s up?” Marc said.
“Have you seen today’s paper?”
“No, come to think of it, I haven’t,” Marc said.
“You got the Star Tribune there?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Go get it, the Metro section. I’ll wait,” McReady said.
Marc went out into the common area to find Barry and Chris waiting for him. “Ready?” Barry asked.
“No,” Marc said as he picked up the paper from a table of magazines. “I’m on a call and I may be a while,” he said looking over the front page of the “B” section. He looked at Barry and said, “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up if I can but don’t wait for me.”
Marc returned to his desk, sat down and picked up the receiver. “Okay, what am I looking for?”
“Below the fold on page one, the one with the headline about tainted evidence,” McReady said.
“Okay, found it,” Marc quietly said while he started to read the story.
“Take a minute to read it,” McReady said.
Half-way through the article, Marc said into the phone, “Holy shit! Is this true?”
“We got a call from the AG’s office yesterday afternoon. They’ve known about it for about a week but kept it quiet while they checked up on it. They called us because we handled the appeal for all six of them and the AG wanted to give us a heads up. Then they released the statement to the media. We’re calling all of the trial lawyers.”
“Okay, now what?” Marc asked.
”I’ve been assigned your guy’s case. I’m going to schedule a motion to have him released as soon as possible. You should be there. I’ll put your name on the pleadings and you’ll have to sign off.”
Without realizing it, sweat broke out along Marc’s hairline. “The appeal was based on ineffective assistance of counsel because I didn’t get an independent DNA test done. I’m going to get disbarred,” Marc said.
“Stop it,” McReady said. “It wasn’t your fault. I read t
he case file. Judge Peterson denied your request for money to have the test done. You’re not obliged to pay for it out of your own pocket on a public defender assignment case.”
Feeling a little better, a little relieved, Marc said, “So, they’re going to let Howie Traynor out. I have to tell you, Chuck, that does not give me a warm, fuzzy glow. In all my years of practice, I’ve never met a guy quite like him and I’ve represented some bad dudes.”
“All of these guys are serious assholes,” McReady said. “Except for a couple of them who were, past tense, serious assholes.”
“Two of them are dead?”
“Yeah, both died in prison.”
“Well, that’s something,” Marc replied.
“As defense lawyers, aren’t we supposed to be glad that we’re getting these people released?” McReady asked.
“I’ve heard that somewhere,” Marc answered. “Normally, I would be but Howie Traynor…”
“I’ll let you know when the hearing is and send the pleadings over when they’re done, probably later today.”
Mark took out his personal phone and pressed a button to dial a friend. The man he was calling answered on the second ring.
“Hey, counselor,” he heard the gruff voice of his private investigator friend, Tony Carvelli. “What’s up?”
“What are you doing for lunch?” Marc asked.
“I’d planned on letting you buy me lunch today,” Carvelli answered.
“Well, I’m glad I called. See you in a little bit,” Marc replied.
Tony Carvelli was a Minneapolis police detective who retired from the force about ten years before. He started his own P.I. business and had thrived. He did mostly corporate security, background checks and investigations. Tony also did the occasional investigation for criminal defense lawyers which is how he met Marc. The two of them, kind of an odd couple in reality, had become good friends.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 143