Sofia proffered a number of legal arguments and maneuvers, outlining what she believed was a winning strategy, even before the Ninth Circuit.
The silver-haired retired jurist listened patiently, deftly countering each point, parrying his daughter's legal thrusts, fencing with words.
Finally, he slapped the chair's arm.
"Sofie, that's enough! You are not spending more money on this case. Cooler heads are convinced you'll ultimately lose, and your backer refuses to sink another dollar into a losing proposition. It's over."
Sofia's jaw dropped. "He can't pull out, Dad! I'll win! And we don't know whether Metro would appeal. It's premature to crawl off the battlefield."
Kern shook his head. "They will appeal, Sofie! That's why Metro's attorneys have been so cocky and flippant. Remember how give-a-damn they were, during the summary judgment hearing? They don't care if you win the first round!
"From the day you filed, they were looking ahead to an appeal, knowing full well they'd win at the Ninth! And they have a bottomless barrel of taxpayer cash. Metro and Uriah can outlast you, because they can outspend you!"
"If the Ninth screws us over, I'll take this to the Supreme Court!" Sofia declared, slamming a fist into her palm. "Those bastards will taste the blood of Lady Justice's sword!"
The retired judge laughed. "Come on, baby! 'Taste the blood of justice's sword?' Even for you, that's trite banality born of unfounded optimism based on emotion, not facts.
"Wake up, Sofie! This isn't a college debate. You're playing big-league law here!
"Now," he added softly, "I applaud your spirit and righteous sense of honor. At the end of the day, though, this is a business, and the risk versus probability of reward ratio doesn't compute. It would cost millions to take the Steele case all the way to Washington, and your sponsor is unwilling to bet on this horse any longer."
Sofia glared at her dad, jaw muscles twitching in exasperation. "I want to talk to this 'sponsor.' If he sees a big payoff, I'll… ."
"No!" Kern barked. "You know the ground rules. Your backer only agreed to underwrite this case, because he felt its proper resolution was important to restoring the community's trust in Metro. But he can not be associated with any controversy over Erik's killing."
"Erik's murder," Sofia shot back.
"Whatever," he conceded with a dismissive wave. "Nevertheless, after I explained what you were up against at the Ninth Circuit, the sponsor pulled out. Unless your clients are prepared to pay the costs of protracted litigation, this case is closed."
Sofia wanted to scream.
"The Steeles can't, Dad. Yes, the media and police union imbeciles portrayed Win as a wealthy, retired colonel. As usual, they were wrong. Win can bring a hell of a lot of what he calls 'nontraditional firepower' to bear, but he doesn't have the financial wherewithal to take this case to the Supreme Court."
"Then drop the lawsuit," Kern declared.
"Lord God Almighty," Sophia breathed. After a moment, she said, "How do you propose I explain this stupid bullshit to the Steeles?"
The judge hesitated. "Won't be easy. Maybe you raised their expectations to unreasonable levels."
"Hell, I would have bet my first born that we had this one nailed! Every lawyer in Vegas wanted this case, because it was a slam dunk.
"Damned Ninth badge-licking asses!"
"Hmmm… . Let's give the old justices a break, hon. The damage was done by a complicit Congress, not the courts. The real jerks in this tragedy are immoral police unions and their greedy lobbyists. They played the law-and-order card so many times that elitist, beholden lawmakers rolled over and shoehorned 'Qualified Immunity' into law."
"That QI crap is another stacked deck!" Sofia fumed. "As a society, we bend over backward to protect cops, because we've been led to believe they keep us safe. Then cops turn around and violate that implied trust!
"Politicians and their union donors have taken advantage of people's fears to build a wall of immunity around pathetic killer-cops. The system's now grossly unfair to cops' victims!"
"Yes, the justice system is extraordinarily biased against victims of government malfeasance," Kern acknowledged. "But the law has nothing to do with justice. You and the Steeles have run smack-dab into one more colossal travesty of justice masquerading as 'right' under the law."
The ex-judge commiserated with his distraught daughter a few minutes more, then departed, citing an imminent tee time.
Alone, Sofia paced the office, mulling the pros and cons of Ben Donovan's findings and opinions. Her staff had scoured the very short list of police-abuse experts for an alternate, but none measured up to Donovan, an ex-police chief from the Northwest. He held every use-of-force credential America's legal eagles had created, and had testified in more than a hundred cases.
If Donovan had concluded Sofia and her clients couldn't win a wrongful death appeal, then it probably couldn't be won.
Via precedent, the Ninth Circuit's Bay Area fruitcakes had trampled the Steeles' rights, before a single hearing. Fairness and justice be damned.
She scribbled a few notes and braced herself to make one of the toughest calls of her career. Not since notifying a young wife that her Marine Corps husband had been killed in combat had Sofia been so disheartened and filled with pre-call dread.
* *
LAS VEGAS
Ben Donovan was waiting in a ground floor lobby, when the elevator doors opened and Judge Kern emerged.
"Thanks for waiting," Kern said. The two men chatted idly, while circling the nondescript, stone-faced high rise. Their cars were parked in the shade of a shelter reserved for the building's nine-to-five occupants.
The retired judge glanced about, pulled a sealed envelope from his pocket and handed it to Donovan.
"This is the bonus for 'above-and-beyond' services, Ben. Of course, Sofia will cover your consultation fees," he explained.
Donovan slipped the unopened envelope into his blazer's breast pocket.
"Much appreciated, sir. Did she buy it?"
"Yes, she bought it," Kern said grimly. "Reluctantly, but your documentation of the Ninth Circuit's record sealed the deal."
Donovan grinned. "That was a cherry-picked list, you know."
"Of course," Kern said. "And you know I double-checked those cases."
"I should have known." Donovan had worked with Judge Kern before. Like most Southern Nevada justices, Kern subscribed to "special rules"—pragmatic personal guidelines that typically involved large sums of money and offshore bank accounts.
Donovan shook the judge's hand and unlocked his car door. The expert hesitated, looked askance at Kern, and said, "Judge, Sofia could have won that case."
He waited, eying the former jurist, who had devoted a lifetime to the law.
Kern studied his shoes. "Yes, she could have. But the stakes are much larger than one redheaded white guy being shot to death by cretins with badges."
He nodded curtly and slipped into a silver Lexus.
* *
As the hired-gun expert waved from a departing Hertz rental, Kern started the Lexus and adjusted its air-conditioning controls. He tapped a cell phone icon, spoke his name and waited. Antone Galocci finally picked up, obviously outdoors, given the background noise.
"Hey, judge! How ya doin' this fine morning?"
"Very well, Antone. I'm on my way. Should be there within fifteen minutes."
"Good! It'll just be the two of us. I own the damned golf course!" He laughed, a guttural cackle.
The two men soon teed-off at Galocci's private course. They were, indeed, the only players on eighteen holes of perfectly manicured fairways and greens. Surrounded by a tall berm of rock and soil blanketed in tasteful, drought-tolerant trees, bushes and decorative grasses, the private oasis was surprisingly quiet. Hard to believe it was in the heart of a metropolitan city.
As Galocci eyed the third hole, he asked, "That Steele lawsuit issue get resolved?"
"It's taken care of," Kern replied. "Sof
ia's breaking the news to the Steeles, as we speak. She'll notify Metro's legal team next week, then file for dismissal."
"Hummph," Galocci grunted. He took a few practice swings, then whipped the high-grade composite driver through a powerful arc. The ball sailed skyward, dropped shy of the green and rolled to the far edge.
"Match that, old man!" he crowed.
Kern did. Two dimpled white balls waited on the emerald turf, as the men stowed their drivers and slid aboard Galocci's golf cart.
Like everything Antone Galocci touched, the electric rig was over-the-top extravagant, a six-seater painted gold with multicolored flames flowing along each side panel.
"How 'bout that use-of-force expert?" Galocci asked, returning to the primary purpose of their game. The aging powerbroker preferred to talk serious business here, literally on his own turf. After the Lashawn Miles fiasco, he no longer trusted his office environs for highly sensitive conversations.
"Donovan delivered an Oscar-worthy performance. He convinced Sofia that she couldn't win the case, and backed it up with Ninth Circuit precedents."
"Good boy, that Ben," Galocci muttered. "You took care of him?"
"Of course. I gave him the bonus check, before I called you. He's on an airplane to Seattle by now."
Galocci laughed. "Easiest hundred grand that smartass old cop ever scored! Worth every penny, though."
Kern nodded, silent. Galocci pontificated, as he wheeled the cart around paved, serpentine paths.
"That Steele situation could not have happened at a more inconvenient time. Know what I'm sayin'? Our boy, Uriah, is fightin' to hold onto his political gonads. Much as I dislike old Alex, he's still our dumbo sheriff. We gotta keep that toad in office, 'cause he's still useful.
"Sumbitch can't control his stooges, though. They keep killing the natives! Officer-involved shootings are attracting too damn much outta-town attention. They're a threat to… er… more sensitive businesses.
"The Steele shooting was way too damned high profile. We had to put that problem to bed directly! Understand what I'm sayin'?"
Kern nodded and muttered something that was ignored. He knew more than he cared to about Galocci's "sensitive businesses," which included coveys of high-class prostitutes and compacts with the deadly Sinaloa Mexican drug cartel.
However, when Galocci set up a child-sex ring, using morally bereft Las Vegas cops to kidnap and imprison runaway boys and girls, that was more than Stanton Kern could stomach. Consigning children to never ending horrors as sex slaves for foul, evil degenerates who flew to Vegas from the Middle East, Asia and South America, was intolerable. Even if you knew you were bound for hell, there were limits.
As a lawyer and a judge, he'd managed to derail, deflect and squash countless probes and investigations into Galocci's astonishing spectrum of illegal activities. Kern had retired from the bench early, intending to distance himself from the Mob boss's increasingly putrid "businesses." Once tainted, though, you were never free.
The men completed their game, without revisiting the Steele issue. After a refreshing beer from Galocci's private reserve, Kern was saying his so-longs, when the grizzled mobster gripped the former judge's hand a beat too long.
"Judge, 'bout that other issue. I'll take care of it right away. Know what I'm sayin'?"
"I presumed you would, Antone."
"You made the Steele case go away, and I always keep my end of a deal. You know that, huh?"
Kern nodded.
"I'm talkin' 'bout Gilbert, that shit-for-brains Metro cop, ya know? The one who raped your girl, when she was home on leave. He's gonna disappear, okay? Real soon."
He patted the former judge's arm and waddled toward the club's private lounge.
Kern watched the aging mobster a moment, then climbed into his Lexus. He was in desperate need of a long, hot shower. The round of golf hadn't been particularly strenuous, but he felt grubby and unclean.
Sadly, though, a shower would never cleanse the filth that clung to his being. The foulness was deep inside, staining even his soul, a place where soap and water could never touch.
In the span of a morning, he had undermined his daughter's airtight wrongful-death case, thereby thwarting an innocent family's last hope for holding Metro's killers and cover-up minions accountable for murder. He also had signed the death warrant of an arrogant, former Metro officer, who had gotten away with raping his daughter.
In God's eyes, Stanton Kern may be no better than the Metro pond scum he'd rescued from Steele-lawsuit purgatory. But, in return, he finally had secured justice for his baby girl. It had taken almost two decades, but an imperious rapist cop and police-union standard bearer would finally die an excruciating death.
* *
COLORADO SPRINGS
Via phone, Sofia Knight was doing her best to assuage a storm of shock and anger.
"How could we go from 'slam dunk' to 'drop the suit' so quickly?" Layna Steele demanded. "Didn't any of your lawyers research the Ninth's record, before we filed?"
On an extension, Win shook his head in silent exasperation. The couple had been arguing with Sophia for most of an hour, begging her to not drop the lawsuit against Erik's killers and Metro's cover-up criminals. The only result was a headache and renewed chest pains.
Sofia was as devastated and frustrated as her clients, but had no viable alternative to dropping the suit.
"In recent years, self-serving police unions recognized that the nine-eleven attacks had opened unlimited opportunities for law enforcement," Sofia explained. "The whole country was scared of terrorists. Union hacks ran to congressmen and senators, claiming a need for stronger legal protection of 'first responders.'
"Po-leese must be shielded from victims' lawyers, because those brave li'l ol' cops were putting their lives on the line to protect citizens from the al Qaeda bogeyman!
"The bright bulbs in Congress—who get a boatload of campaign money from public-employee unions—were only too happy to stick 'Qualified Immunity' clauses into federal law. Courts like the Ninth Circuit, which consider that Constitution thingy an out-of-date nuisance, glommed onto the QI excuse big time.
"Consequently, cops now kill and go free, because Qualified Immunity gives them a get-out-of-jail-free card! Police officers really do have a permit to kill, and it's open season on us peons!"
"We hear you, Sofia," Win finally said, resigned. "I can't stomach the thought of those damned Metro killers getting off absolutely scot-free. But, unless you come up with a legal miracle, we'll have to drop the suit."
Layna reluctantly agreed, and the lawyer said she'd draw up the paperwork to dismiss.
After they signed off, Win took Layna in his arms. "I feel like we just lost Erik again," she said.
"We did, Princess. Every time we anticipate a tidbit of justice, the Vegas system kicks us in the teeth."
"Let's walk over to the bench," she suggested. Donations from friends and neighbors had funded an Erik Steele memorial bench overlooking a pond in Fox Run Park.
They trekked through the forest in silence, holding hands. A long marriage had fostered a comfortable, relaxed meshing of hearts and minds. There was no need to talk. Since Erik's murder, the cloud of shared pain always hovered nearby. Each felt the other's hurt.
Whereas the loss of a child often led to divorce, Win and Layna had grown closer. They fervently appreciated still having Kyler and his family—more than their remaining son could possibly fathom. But Win and Layna were equally grateful to have each other.
The Steeles settled on the memorial bench, with the inscribed brass plate between them:
In Loving Memory of Our Son & Brother
Erik B. Steele
1972-2010
Fox Run Friends & Family
Arm draped across the bench's backrest, Win absorbed the tranquil beauty. Erik's bench faced snow-covered Pikes Peak, the massif framed by a blue-green spruce and a towering pine. Known as America's mountain, Pikes Peak soared from the plains to 14,115 feet above se
a level. Dark forest blanketed steep slopes to timberline around 11,000 feet, where trees surrendered to rugged granite, tundra and snow.
A stunning, 360-degree panorama from the summit of what locals simply referred to as The Peak had inspired Katharine Lee Bates to pen the lyrics of a patriotic classic, "America the Beautiful."
To most Fox Run Park visitors, Erik's memorial bench was merely a rest stop with a great view. But for Win and Layna, it had morphed into something precious, a place for private conversations with Erik. Because their son's ashes had been scattered over the Pacific Ocean, there was no grave to visit, no headstone proclaiming a message of love for the ages. Erik's bench had become a blend of the outer and the inner—visual grandeur and emotional serenity—for the parents' shattered hearts.
"Somehow, I feel like I've let Erik down," Win confessed. "Dropping the lawsuit seems like giving in, but those bastards have to be held accountable! Shoot a man in cold blood and not a damn thing happens to the killer—if he's an untouchable. A cop!"
"Forget it, Win. There's nothing more we can do," Layna said gently. "Maybe it is time to move on. For me, dropping the suit is actually a relief. We don't have to go through those awful depositions."
Win nodded. Layna's reluctance was understandable. Privately, he'd been looking forward to dueling with Metro's egomaniacal legal team. But to Layna, that was merely proof of Steele bullheadedness, an exercise in futility.
None of that mattered now.
Win watched a long-legged crane swoop low over the partially frozen pond, flare and land gently on a shoreline of dormant grass. It tiptoed into the patch of open water and stabbed a long beak at the frigid liquid.
"Why, Princess?" Win asked. "Why do we keep getting slammed? What did we do to warrant such blatant unfairness at the hands of a corrupt police department?"
Layna threw a sharp glance at him. "Your overdeveloped sense of fairness again. Life's not fair! Never was, never will be!"
He looked away. She never hesitated to remind him about that particular trait, a crippling fault of which he was only too aware. Nothing annoyed a guy more than a wife who knew his every shortcoming—and reminded him frequently thereof.
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