Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series)

by Dennis Carstens

  Marc looked in the mirror at Maddy in the backseat and said, “Hey, ex-cop, tell her what cops think when someone passes the test.”

  “They figure you found a way to beat the machine,” Maddy said.

  “And if you failed it, I guarantee the media would be reporting it before we left the building,” Marc added.

  “So they’d figure I cheated if I passed the test and try to use it against me if I didn’t,” Mackenzie said.

  “That’s right,” Marc and Madeline said together.

  EIGHT

  The three police detectives and both prosecutors were about to watch a replay of the video when the interrogation room door opened. A handsome black man with the build, moves and grace of a natural athlete, entered. He took the chair that Maddy Rivers used to join the group.

  “What did you think, Max?” the detective lieutenant asked him.

  “She’s lying,” Detective Max Coolidge replied. “She’s good at it but I told you, I’ve known Bob Sutherland for twenty-five years. He’s a helluva nice guy who wouldn’t do what she claims. I’m not buying it.”

  “Let’s watch the video, then we’ll talk,” Heather Anderson said.

  The six of them silently reviewed Mackenzie’s entire statement. When it ended all six of them quietly waited for someone else to say something.

  “Make sure we get a copy of that to her lawyer,” Anderson broke the silence and told the other prosecutor, Wade Keenan.

  “Will do,” he answered.

  “She agreed to take a lie detector test,” Finney said to Coolidge.

  “She knew her lawyer would say no,” Coolidge replied.

  “Max…” Evans started to say.

  “Look,” Anderson interrupted him, “the forensics and the scene at the house match her story. His fingerprints are on the handle of the fireplace poker…”

  “He wasn’t in the chair. He must have stood up and grabbed the poker before she shot him,” Finney interjected. “It matches her story.”

  “The 9-1-1 call sounds legitimate and if this other lawyer, Cooper Thomas, verifies that Sutherland threatened her…” Anderson said.

  “That will do it,” Evans finished.

  “So, we’ll just take the easy way out and let her walk. It’s at least manslaughter,” Max almost pleaded. “Take it to a grand jury.”

  “She has the right to defend herself in her own home,” Finney reminded him.

  “I told you I talked to Bob at his dad’s funeral. All three kids said she was a manipulative bitch,” Max started to say.

  “A beautiful, younger woman marries a rich widower and the kids resent it. That’s hardly a news flash. If this other lawyer verifies that he threatened her….” Evans repeated.

  “And I’m sure both he and the security guy who was there will or she wouldn’t have told us about it,” Finney added.

  “Then it’s a solid self-defense case that we can’t win and the county attorney’s office won’t bring,” Anderson said.

  Silence descended on the small room again. The five people seated across the table from him all patiently waited for Coolidge, informally known as Max Cool, to say something.

  A full minute went by, then Coolidge looked at his boss, the lieutenant, and asked, “You mind if I dig around myself?”

  “Yes I do mind but I know it’s pointless to argue with you,” Evans replied.

  “I don’t like him looking over my shoulder and second-guessing me,” Finney’s partner, Dale Kubik, said obviously annoyed.

  “Relax, Dale. He’s not second-guessing anything. Besides, the family still needs to be interviewed. He knows them, let him do it,” Finney told him.

  “I still don’t like it,” Kubik said.

  “I’ll do it on my own time. Paige, Bob’s wife, asked me to. I’ve known her since before they were married. I watched their kids grow up. If I check it out and don’t find anything, she’ll probably be more willing to accept what happened.”

  “You be very careful around Mackenzie Sutherland,” Anderson sternly told him. “You don’t ask her anything without her lawyer. I know him. He won’t sit still for it.”

  “I’ll only talk to her if I find something and you guys agree to bring her in for more questioning. Okay?”

  “All right,” Evans told him.

  The two lawyers from the county attorney’s office and the lieutenant waited for the detectives to leave. When they were gone Anderson turned to Wade Keenan, himself an experienced prosecutor.

  “What do you think, Wade?” she asked.

  “If the lawyer, Cooper Thomas, corroborates her claim that Sutherland threatened her, there’s no way we convict her of anything,” Keenan answered her.

  “Manslaughter?” Evans asked the two lawyers.

  “Maybe,” Anderson said. “But she has a good lawyer and the physical evidence backs up a self-defense claim.”

  “What about the gun?” Keenan asked.

  “It’s legal,” Evans replied. “We ran the serial number and it was purchased by a William Sutherland almost eight years ago. What about the fact she had a gun in her pocket?”

  Anderson shrugged then said, “Nothing illegal about carrying a gun around inside your own home. And she has a plausible explanation.”

  “You know,” Keenan said, “she could be telling the truth. This could be a legitimate case of self-defense.”

  “Even if it isn’t, what do we do about motive? Why would she shoot him? She got everything,” Anderson said.

  “To prevent the second autopsy,” Keenan answered him. “But that’s thin. What about Coolidge?” Keenan said to Evans.

  “He can be a bulldog,” Evans told him. “I say we quietly let him go and see what he comes up with.”

  The two lawyers looked at each other then Anderson said, “I’m okay with it. We’ll see what he finds.”

  Marc and Madeline came through the office’s exterior door at almost precisely noon. The office TV set was on and everyone was gathered around it. The local noon news was coming on.

  “Hey you two,” Connie Mickelson, Marc’s landlady said. “You’ve been on the radio so we figured…”

  “Ssssh, here it is,” Carolyn told Connie.

  Marc and Maddy joined the group in front of the TV as the male anchor started reading the story.

  “Mackenzie Sutherland was questioned at the headquarters of the St. Paul police this morning about the shooting death of her stepson, Robert Sutherland.”

  He then went on to remind the viewers who the Sutherlands were and that Mackenzie had shot Robert in her home the previous evening. He tossed in the noise about a dispute over the estate then handed the story off to his female co-anchor.

  Her name was Faith Peterson and she was about as Minnesota Swedish as a woman could be. A pretty, girl-next-door type with perfect teeth, hair and diction and was a bookend for the blow-dried male anchor. The female of the duo informed the audience about Mackenzie’s claim at self-defense.

  “Mrs. Sutherland was represented by local high-priced attorney Marc Kadella.”

  Everyone turned to look at Marc and Barry Cline another lawyer in the office asked him, “When did you become high-priced?”

  “Right this minute,” Marc replied which caused a round of laughs.

  “It has also been confirmed,” the perky blonde continued, “that the police requested that Mrs. Sutherland take a lie detector test and her lawyer adamantly refused to let her.”

  “Goddamnit, I told them…” Marc said steaming.

  “They’re not always accurate,” Dalton said.

  “That’s true,” Faith agreed.

  “That’s the most sensible thought to ever come out of his tiny little head,” Marc said, still annoyed about the leak regarding the polygraph test.

  “Do you know him?” Sandy asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve met him,” Marc admitted.

  “He’s gorgeous,” Sandy told him.

  “Good thing, too,” Marc answered her. “That is his gift t
o the world. He looks good and can read a teleprompter. There isn’t much between those ears. This reminds me,” Marc said looking at Maddy, “I meant to ask Mac if I should go on Gabriella’s show.”

  “You have a couple messages from Gabriella,” Carolyn said.

  “Hello, Mr. Kadella,” Gabriella’s producer, Cordelia Davis greeted Marc.

  He was seated in the reception room of the Channel 8 TV station. Marc had called Mackenzie and received permission to do the show. Mackenzie even suggested that she go on as well. Marc made her realize it would look unseemly the day after the shooting and Mackenzie agreed.

  Maddy was unofficially assigned to babysit Mackenzie. For now, that meant helping her get more clothing and personal items out of the house. It was still considered a crime scene and was taped off with yellow crime-scene tape. Marc spoke to Heather Anderson and got permission for Mackenzie and Maddy to go into the house as long as a cop was present. After leaving Marc’s office, Maddy drove back to St. Paul and the two women went to do that while Marc was taping the show.

  “You’re never going to call me Marc are you?” he smiled while shaking Cordelia’s hand. “Mr. Kadella makes me think you either don’t like me or I’m getting old.”

  “Both,” Cordelia said suppressing a smile.

  “Now that’s cold,” Marc laughed.

  “Okay, Marc,” she said. “We’ll get you to make up and then to the studio.”

  Gabriella and Marc were seated at the ‘casual set’. It had two comfortable living-room chairs and a small, round table between them. When the director told Gabriella they were ready she looked into the camera to begin taping.

  “We’re fortunate to have as a guest today, criminal defense attorney Marc Kadella. Mr. Kadella has agreed to come on and discuss last night’s shooting of Robert Sutherland.”

  Gabriella turned to face Marc and started to say, “Mr. Kadella…”

  “What happened to the short skirt you promised to wear? She has great legs folks,” Marc said into the camera while everyone in the room started laughing.

  “Stop!” Gabriella yelled while laughing herself. She regained control and said to Marc. “Is this what we’re going to do?”

  “Hey, you promised,” Marc said in mock protest.

  “Very funny,” Gabriella said. “We’ll start over and you,” she continued pointing a stern finger at Marc, “will behave yourself. I need twelve to thirteen minutes and I don’t want it to take two hours to get it!”

  “Okay, Mom,” Marc insincerely replied. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

  Having had his fun at Gabriella’s expense, Marc settled down. The interview took less than thirty minutes with only a few stops to get a question or answer straight.

  Marc was able to communicate that Mackenzie had a strong self-defense claim without giving too many details. He also made it clear why he would not allow Mackenzie or any client to take a polygraph test. Gabriella did her best to get the juicy, gossipy information out of him about the family squabbles. Marc pled ignorance of this using the excuse that he was a criminal lawyer and not privy to any of that. When pressed he simply fell back on the fact that other lawyers, whom he refused to name, handled William Sutherland’s estate. When they finally called a halt to it, Gabriella did not look happy.

  “I might be able to get twelve minutes out of that,” she told Marc. “You used me to get out that self-defense story.”

  “Yes, I did,” Marc admitted looking her directly in the eye. “Your station reported that I wouldn’t let Mackenzie take a lie detector and said nothing about self-defense. Is that fair?”

  “No,” Gabriella reluctantly admitted.

  “So I set the record straight. And you got an exclusive so what’s the big deal?”

  “You owe me…” Gabriella started to say but couldn’t suppress a smile.

  “Great! Here we go with that ‘you owe me’ line again,” Marc said.

  Gabriella laughed, threw her arms around his neck, kissed him on the cheek and said, “Why aren’t you about ten years younger?”

  Marc returned her embrace, ignored the question and said, “Next time, wear the short skirt.”

  NINE

  Max Coolidge was at his desk reading through a file about an East Side street gang. Starting in the mid-eighties the east side of St. Paul, for decades a predominantly working class area of the city started to see an influx of street gangs. It was an equal opportunity, diverse collection of white, black, Latino and Asians. The predominantly liberal Democrats that ran the city wanted to treat them as, at worst, indiscreet up and coming urban entrepreneurs. The cops had the archaic attitude that the drug trade should be treated as crime. At the street level, the cops held sway and mostly kept a lid on the worst of the violence.

  Occasionally there would be an act of violence that even the city council and media could not ignore. Not too long ago there was a vicious gang beating of an innocent man whose sole offense was walking down the sidewalk. The victim was left with brain damage and was barely able to walk. A half-dozen of these street corner capitalists were arrested amid cries of: “How could this happen in our city?” A few of the miscreants were even sentenced to, what the cops believed, mild prison terms.

  Max, a detective in the intelligence unit was one of those whose job it was to keep his finger in the dyke and make sure this particular sewer did not back up into certain other, nicer neighborhoods.

  The file he was perusing was one concerning a Hmong gang called the East Side Hmong Boys. Max was reading over a report he did for the intelligence unit about an uptick in heroin in the Cities. Max worked with another cop, an Asian undercover, who was convinced this gang was responsible. They had made a connection with an Asian gang in Los Angeles a few months back and now had a steady supply. Of course, the local hospitals were seeing a concomitant increase in heroin overdoses along with several deaths. Apparently the local geniuses in this particular group of Asian entrepreneurs were not too adept at cutting the quality down. The dope was cheaper than crack and too potent and deadly.

  Having trouble concentrating on his report, Max finally got through it and placed his hard copy in the physical file. Satisfied with its content, he emailed copies from his computer to the appropriate people.

  Max Coolidge was christened by his parents as Eugene Maximillian Coolidge forty years ago. He was named by his mother, Harriet, after her father and a favorite uncle. Born in St. Paul, his mother was a fairly devout Baptist. His father, Alfred, was just religious enough to satisfy Harriet and keep the peace.

  Max grew up in the predominately black Selby Dale area of St. Paul. When he was around eight or nine, one of his friends came up with the nickname Max Cool and it stuck. An athletic kid, Max helped St. Paul Central’s basketball team to the state tournament twice. High school was where he met Bob Sutherland. During their senior year, Bob got Max a job working with him at the Sutherland’s grocery store in the Midway area. Max was well on his way to a solid career in the company when an event occurred that changed his life forever.

  When Max was growing up, a younger smaller kid lived down the street from him. He was a very smart, bookish youngster that Max took under his wing for protection. Max was a tough kid in whom his parents instilled proper values. He wanted nothing to do with gangs, drugs or crime.

  One day, a year or so after he graduated from high school, Max was at work. His little pal, Jimmy Jefferson, while innocently walking down a street was caught up in a drive-by shooting and took a bullet in the head, killing him instantly. A promising young life was gone forever. It was that act that sent Max to school to become a police officer. It was also the Sutherland family who helped him financially the way his bus driver father could not.

  Finished with his report, he took a few minutes to think about the interview of Mackenzie Sutherland. Knowing Bob for twenty-five years, Max simply could not believe Bob Sutherland would grab a fireplace poker and threaten her with it.

  “Hey, what do you think?” Max hear
d a voice alongside him ask.

  Having been deep in thought, literally staring off at nothing, Max had not noticed Anna Finney walk up. He swiveled in his chair as she sat down next to his desk.

  “Hi, Anna,” he said to her. “Where’s Sherlock Holmes?” he asked referring to her partner, Dale Kubik.

  “Off dealing with his bookie. He doesn’t think I know but he’s got a couple of problems and sooner or later they will catch up with him,” Finney replied.

  “Don’t let it rub off on you.”

  “I work with him. That’s it. I spend no time with him outside of the office. Anyway, what do you think about this morning?”

  “I’m not buying it,” Max said.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve known Bob Sutherland since high school. I just don’t see it.”

  “How much time have you spent with him lately? How well do you know him now?”

  Max thought about this for a moment before answering. “Not much, to be honest. We get together for lunch once or twice a year. I was at both funerals of his parents. I knew them pretty well.”

  “How was he at his dad’s funeral?”

  “Angry,” Max admitted. “All three kids were. When I talked to him he even said he believed Mackenzie killed the old man.”

  Finney gave him a serious look then said, “Jesus Christ, Max. You didn’t think that was relevant enough to tell me?”

  “I didn’t think he would or even could do something…” Max started to explain.

  “I don’t give a shit,” Finney whispered so as not to be overheard by other cops in the room. She took out her case notebook, flipped it open to a blank page and while holding a pen said, “I want it all, every word. What did he say?”

  “Okay,” he began. “Out at the cemetery, after the graveside service, I found Bob to say hello. We gave each other a little hug. Then he said, ‘I know that bitch murdered him’. Then I asked him, ‘Do you have any evidence to back that up?’ or words to that effect. He admitted he didn’t. Then I told him to be careful about throwing accusations like that around.”