Brent Marks Legal Thriller Series: Box Set Two

by Kenneth Eade

  “Well now, Mr. Banks, you have been charged with the murder in the first degree of Ronald Bennett and James Bennett. To that charge, sir, how do you plea?” Uncle Burt put on his best serious expression. He looked a lot like Charlie Brown from Peanuts.

  “I have been the prisoner of a demon, Judge! A most vile creature!”

  “Mr. Banks, the only available pleas to you are ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty.’ Mr. Marks, please advise your client.”

  Brent whispered to Banks. “Just say not guilty,” and Banks nodded.

  “As God is my witness, Judge, I am not guilty.”

  “Okay, fine.”

  Uncle Burt set the matter for preliminary hearing and went into recess to clear the decks for the regular day’s business. Banks was taken back to his holding cell by several bailiffs and the gallery unloaded like a church on Sunday after a too-long sermon. Brent avoided talking to the press, but Chernow was only too happy to oblige all questions.

  A young woman reporter from the ABC news affiliate ran after Brent and stuck her microphone in his face.

  “Mr. Marks, how do you respond to the State Bar complaint made against you for unethical conduct?”

  What? What complaint? Brent must have looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights, because she felt the need to explain her question.

  “The complaint filed by Susan Fredericks, the victim’s sister, that you have a conflict of interest in representing Joshua Banks.”

  “No comment.”

  Chernow heard the question and volunteered his own answer. “The District Attorney’s office is looking into these allegations and has the option to file a motion to recuse Mr. Marks if we determine they are well founded.”

  Thanks, Brad. I knew I could count on you.

  ***

  Brent received his discovery package from the District Attorney’s office. The blood on Banks’ shirt and pants matched the DNA of both Ronald and James Bennett. No surprise there. The murder weapon or weapons were never found. The task force was continuing to gather evidence against Banks to pin the other murders on him. They were sure they had found their maniac.

  “Brent, Doctor Orozco on one.”

  “Thanks, Mims. Hello, Doc.”

  “Brent, I’ve got the tox report back on Banks. He was loaded with PCP.”

  “PCP?”

  “Does Banks have a history of drug abuse?”

  “No.”

  “Alright. I’ll fax the report over to your office.

  “Thanks, Doc."

  In going over the discovery package, so many things didn’t add up to Brent - and now, PCP. Who was driving the truck that hit the jail bus? And why doesn’t Salas’s description of the stalker fit Banks?

  ***

  “Brent, the D.A. has made his decision and that’s that. We’ve got our guy.”

  Brent couldn’t believe Angela could let a possibly innocent man go to prison, or perhaps lose his life. She was as convinced as Tomassi that they had their man.

  “You know, Brent, that every case is like a puzzle within a puzzle within another puzzle. Some pieces are always missing, and some never would fit no matter what. We call that police work.”

  “We call it reasonable doubt.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Brent had spent the weeks leading up to the trial going over the evidence that had been produced to him by the D.A., while Jack tried to take up where the task force had stopped investigating and started turning their investigation into a witch hunt against Joshua Banks. Once Banks had been captured wearing clothes covered with the blood of the first two victims, they had stopped pursuing all other leads and focused only on the evidence that would nail their man.

  The only good thing about that was that Angela had gone back to her regular assignment. She would be called as a witness at the trial, but was no longer on the “hanging crew” with Tomassi. The case was considered solved and had turned into getting all the ducks in a row for the next murder case against Banks.

  ***

  Roland Tomassi had reluctantly accepted a meeting with Jack Ruder, but he didn’t expect it to include Brent Marks. When they stepped into Tomassi’s office and sat down in front of his desk, he was on the phone. Tomassi finished up his call, put down the receiver, and looked at them with disgust.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Technically, he’s my boss, Rolly.”

  “It’s bad enough that you’ve crossed over. Now you’ve got to involve the defense lawyer. And the same one who screwed our case.”

  Tomassi looked indignantly at Brent.

  “I screwed your case?”

  “You heard me. Out there playing detective, interfering with police business.”

  “What about the truck? What about the driver? Who’s following up on those leads?”

  “I can’t disclose details of an ongoing investigation. You know that.”

  “You can when it’s relevant to my client’s defense.”

  “You talk that over with Chernow, okay? Are we done here, Jack?”

  Brent wouldn’t let it go. “I’ll tell you why you’ve given up on this investigation. It’s because you’re sure you’ve got your guy.”

  “Of course we have our guy. There haven’t been any murders since he’s been back in jail.”

  “Oh, that certainly is proof beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “And we’re going to fry him. He’s a walking dead man, Marks.”

  “And who was driving the truck? A ghost? Remote control?”

  Tomassi didn’t answer. He just pointed to the door with his head and then went back to his files.

  “How did he escape from his shackles in the bus and kill all the deputies and prisoners? Magic?”

  Jack took Brent by the elbow and ushered him out of the office. “Well, I thought that went well.”

  “It’s up to us now, Jack. We have to solve this case for them.”

  “And if we can’t?”

  “Then Joshua Banks will be one step closer to God, and a lot sooner than he thought.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Jack canvassed every business in a three mile radius of the bus crash, but couldn’t identify any witnesses. He covered every truck repair shop from Santa Barbara to the San Fernando Valley. Nobody had seen a large truck with the type of damage that would have been suffered hitting the bus. Something that big just couldn’t have disappeared.

  He checked the junkyards to see if any big rig had been junked lately. Another dead end, and he was at the end of his resources. Time to call in a favor. He took out his cell phone and called an old friend.

  “Hey, Babs, what’s up?”

  “Jack?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Jack, I haven’t heard from you in ages.” A pause, then: “That means you want something.”

  “Come on, Babs, can’t I call an old friend?”

  “Who you callin’ old? What do you want, Jack?”

  “Can you take a little peek into NCIC for me?”

  “Hell, no! I could get fired for that. Or maybe worse.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I’m at a dead end here.”

  “Hypothetically speaking, Jack – and this is only hypothetical – if you had access to NCIC, what would you be looking for?”

  “A stolen vehicle. From the Santa Barbara area. About two months ago.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. But whatever you do, you can’t use it officially.”

  “I’ll just use it to give me a boost; it won’t get back to you or the Bureau.”

  ***

  Jack’s meeting with Tomassi went so well that he decided to follow it up with a meeting with Salas. For that, he called her and arranged to see her away from her office. The Fess Parker Resort on Cabrillo Blvd. had a great view of the beach and the Santa Barbara Pier, but it was also a quiet place to catch a drink in “unofficial circles.” Jack smiled as he walked into the lounge and saw Salas sitting there, waiting for h
im.

  “What are you grinning about?”

  Jack sat down next to Salas. “I’m just happy to see you.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Jack. The only reason I agreed to see you is because you were a really good cop, and I’m not feeling good about the way this investigation went down.”

  “In what way?”

  Salas looked around, like she was paranoid.

  “They could have my badge for this. I’m not going to repeat any of what I’m telling you now. It’s just conjecture on my part.”

  Jack motioned with his hands. “What gives?”

  “This is strictly off the record.”

  “Agreed: off the record.”

  “I’m not happy with the loose ends of the investigation.”

  “Me neither.”

  “But you have an ulterior motive. You want to get your guy off. I think he’s guilty as hell.”

  “I want to get to the truth. Getting him off is Brent’s business.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “What loose ends?”

  “The truck, for one thing. Banks was inside the bus when the truck hit. Either it’s a hit and run, or…”

  “Or Banks isn’t your guy.”

  “Or he has a partner. And he’s still out there somewhere.”

  “What can you tell me on the record?”

  “What I told the D.A. It’s got to be in your discovery package.”

  “Black and white letters. It says that the guy who attacked you was about six-foot-six. Banks is five-foot eight. Tell me how you told it.”

  “I don’t think the guy who attacked me could have been Joshua Banks.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  The preliminary hearing was more like an inquisition. It was a joke really – one of the old vestiges of due process – something that Brent felt had become more of a concept than a reality in American law these days. In fact, the legal system had probably been more just under the Magna Carta than it was now. The present justice system had not much to do with anything that the so-called Founding Fathers had in mind when they broke the colonies off from the Motherland; especially in federal court, where the prosecutor has all the power and less than 3% of cases go to jury trial.

  As a result, many an innocent defendant had pleaded guilty in a plea bargain – an offer they couldn’t refuse. Once a person was accused of a crime, unless he could afford a very high bail, he could look forward to spending all the time in jail that it would take to resolve his case. A defense lawyer had little time to prepare for the case and discuss it with his client, unlike the prosecutor, who had at his disposal a battery of expert criminologists and technicians. And he usually held over the defendant’s head a higher punishment if he went to trial and lost than if he would have taken the deal. I’ll take what’s behind door number three did not work too well in the modern justice system, which was all system and no justice.

  But everything was different in Joshua Banks’ case. Everyone except for Brent, who had already decided that he was a serial killer; and Brent’s vote (which was still undecided) didn’t count. Plead guilty and throw yourself on the mercy of the court was the offer Bradley Chernow had made. This would be the fight of Joshua Banks’ life, for his life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Jack raised his eyebrows and leaned in to Salas.

  “The guy who attacked me had super strength. Like a body builder or something. I kneed him square in the balls at full force and it didn’t even faze him.”

  “You’re not going to dummy up in court and say that you have no independent recollection of anything but what’s in the police report, are you?”

  “Jack, it’s my opinion. And, even if it wasn’t, it’s a completely different case.”

  Jack frowned. “It wasn’t a different case before you guys zeroed in on Joshua Banks.”

  Jack’s cell phone rang, and he reached for it. “Excuse me a second. Jack Ruder…”

  “Jack, it’s Babs. I’ve got something for you. Can you meet me tonight?”

  “Sure: where at?”

  “How about the bar at Chateau Marmont?”

  “What time?”

  “After work. Around six-thirty?”

  “See you there.”

  ***

  Brent had arranged to get back into the Bennett home to survey the scene of the crime; something he had been planning to do when Banks had escaped custody. When he pulled up to the cottage, Susan Fredericks was there waiting, her arms crossed defensively.

  “Hello, Susan.”

  “Brent.” Her one word greeting was cold and calculated.

  “So you still think your little angel is innocent?”

  “Susan, I can’t discuss the case with you. I just need to get in to see the house.”

  Susan stepped aside and made a sweeping motion toward the open door, facetiously. Brent ignored her and walked on past.

  “Thank you.”

  Brent started in the living room. The stained carpet had been removed and the lettering painted over, but Brent just needed a lay of the land. They’re probably selling the house. He pulled out the photographs to remind him of the positions of the bodies. As he imagined them there, he looked out the picturesque window.

  “This was my brother’s dream home.”

  “I know.”

  Brent felt bad for Susan, but it had nothing to do with his job. Whether Banks was guilty or not, he had to defend him. And, if he wasn’t guilty, Jack was hot on the trail of whoever was.

  Brent walked the corridor, imagining the blood trail from the pictures. Then he got to the bedroom.

  The killer crept up on Ron and James while they were sleeping; both nude. First he thrust his blade into James’s chest, letting Ron watch in horror for a couple of seconds. Ron tried to get off the bed to run, but the killer stabbed him in the back, bringing him down in front of the bed, then stabbed him in the chest and stomach. Then he went back to James and finished him off, if he wasn’t already. Finally, in a violent rage, he stabbed each already-dead body multiple times. Then he dragged first Ron, then James, down the hallway and arranged them in the quasi-sexual position. His signature was the writing on the wall in the victims’ own blood.

  When Brent exited the bedroom, Susan was there.

  “Are you finished?”

  “Yes, Susan. I can’t discuss the case with you, but I can assure you that I firmly believe that justice will be done.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  The Santa Barbara Courthouse had a beauty that didn’t seem to fit with the work that went on inside of it. It looked more like an art museum than a courthouse. But, still, the old building held the soul of every lawyer who ever had the good fortune to make a legal argument between its adobe walls. For that reason, Brent both adored and respected it. Brent had made a motion for a change of venue on the grounds that the jury pool had been tainted by the numerous stories of the case in the media. But there was no community in the state, or even the nation, that had not been inundated by stories of the Honeymoon Stalker; so the motion had been denied.

  Judge Melinda Carlyle ran an efficient courtroom. Married to a star player in the D.A.’s office, she was, herself, an ex- Assistant District Attorney who had been appointed to the post by Governor Schwarzenegger (aka “The Governator.”) She was quite attractive and feminine until she put the black robe on. A mother of two small children, Judge Carlyle had decided to leave her maternal instinct and her femininity at home. Her courtroom was a place for tough decisions and she had to look and act the part.

  Before the process of selecting a jury, Chernow had made several motions in limine, to exclude certain evidence. One of the motions was to exclude any evidence of the other Honeymoon Stalker crimes being investigated.

  A motion in limine is used to suppress or limit evidence on a particular issue or issues. If granted, it essentially blocks a party’s right to present the evidence to the jury.

  Chernow’s motion sought to preclude the ment
ion of any evidence uncovered in any investigation that was previously considered related to the Bennet case, but not yet solved. In other words: he was trying to prevent Brent from presenting any defenses.

  Judge Carlyle called the court to order and got straight to business.

  “Gentlemen, I have reviewed the People’s motion and the opposition. Please don’t cover anything in your argument that I have already read.”

  I hope she really read them. There’s nothing else to talk about.

  Chernow went ahead and touched on all the points in his motion anyway and Carlyle politely listened. She didn’t want to appear disinterested in front of a crowd of reporters and potential voters.

  “Your Honor, the People believe the defense will seek to poke holes in our case by introducing alleged inconsistencies between this case and other, as yet unsolved, murder investigations.”

  Damn right I do.

  “These other murders have not been fully investigated and it would be highly prejudicial to the People’s case if the defense were to be allowed to argue the differences between them and the case at hand.”

  Brent stood up. “Your Honor, Sheriff Thomas stood in front of a national audience and proclaimed that he had caught the Honeymoon Stalker. Never mind that my client voluntarily turned himself in. Now the State wants to keep to itself all the evidence that makes the crimes similar and related so they can prosecute my client for the other murders, yet exclude the evidence that is inconsistent. We cannot try each of these cases in a vacuum, Your Honor. They are either related or they are not.”

  Judge Carlyle took a deep breath. She knew this case could make the difference between a long or short judicial career. And she knew that every ruling she made would be looked at critically; not just by the Court of Appeal, but the media and public as well.