(2012) The Key to Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “You think he lied?”

  “No, not at all. At least I don’t think he lied. I think he was just stupid. Didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. We were lied to though. I’m sure of that. By a lot of those people down there,” Marc said, anger creeping into his voice.

  “I’ll bet they were fun to deal with, huh?”

  “Especially the time they threatened to take our house from us.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Oh yeah. I had to put us into a Chapter 13 bankruptcy to get them to back off. Between that and this tax thing, our credit is thoroughly shot. Well,” he continued with a resigned shrug, “at least the worst is over. It just kinda pisses me off that they pull this shit and nobody has to pay. No one’s ever responsible or accountable for it. They just do this shit to people and go about their merry business. ‘Too bad you got shafted but it’s not my job to fix it.’ You have no idea how many times we heard that line.”

  “I think this judge is gonna stick it right up their ass for this,” she said.

  “I hope so. We’ll see. I guess I should get some work done today. See ya’ later,” he said as he gathered up his coat and file and headed toward the door. He went through Connie’s office door and as he headed across the reception area he heard Sandy say into the telephone, “He just came out. Can you hold for a minute, please?”

  “Who is it?” Marc asked.

  “Linda Martin,” Sandy answered, reluctance in her voice.

  Marc stopped dead in his tracks, his shoulders slumped, head down and said, “Do I have to talk to her? Tell her I’m dead. Tell her you found me dead in my office.”

  “No,” Sandy said, laughing. “I’m not going to tell her you’re dead. Yes, you have to talk to her. Now, get in there and pick up line two.”

  “Go on, ya’ big baby,” Carolyn added.

  “You wanna talk to her?” he asked, looking at Carolyn.

  “She’s your client,” Carolyn said, both women laughing now.

  “That was a mistake,” he answered as he walked toward his office door. He quietly closed the door behind him, hung his coat on the hangar on the back of the door, took his seat at the desk and stared at the small, green light on his telephone blinking up at him. He sat like this for another thirty seconds or so until he heard Sandy yell at him through the door. He took a deep breath, exhaled loudly, removed the phone from its cradle, punched the blinking button and said, “Hello, Linda. What’s up?”

  “Do I have to let him see my kids?” he heard his client say without so much as a hello first.

  “What now?” he asked wearily while trying to remain pleasant.

  “The child support is late. Can I keep him from taking my kids for the weekend?”

  “First of all, Linda,” Marc began patiently, “they’re not your kids. You don’t own them. He’s their father and he has a right to spend time with them. And they need to spend time with him. We’ve been through this, remember? Secondly, it’s not his fault if the check is late. You wanted the County to withhold the money from his paycheck and send it to you. Call them if you haven’t gotten it.”

  “I can never get through to them,” she said.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. But, no you cannot withhold visitation from him.”

  “What if the girlfriend is there? That’s immoral and I don’t want my kids exposed to it.”

  “Linda, be reasonable. Do you expect the guy to be celibate? He’s their father and you’ll just have to trust that he’s careful around them. We talked to him and his lawyer and he said he would. Okay?”

  “It’s bullshit. He can do whatever he wants and I don’t get my money but, he can still have my kids for the weekend. It sucks.”

  “They’re not your kids only. They’re his too. Call the County about your money. They should have it. Anything else?” he asked, his patience now obviously gone.

  “No, I guess not,” she said.

  “I have to go, Linda,” he said, calmly.

  “All right, sorry Marc,” she said chastened. “I just needed to vent a bit, I guess.”

  “It’s all right, Linda. I do have to go now, though. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Bye, Marc,” he heard her say as he began to hang up the phone.

  He heard a soft knock on his door and, before he could answer, Sandy opened it and said, “How was she?”

  “Much better than usual,” Marc answered.

  “She needs a boyfriend. Someone to help her get over the anger and get on with her life,” Sandy said.

  “That’s the nice way of putting it,” Marc replied. “Leave the door open, Sandy,” he said as he swiveled in his chair and raised the window behind his desk to air the stuffy office.

  Marc spent the remainder of the day working at his desk. He went through several files of ongoing cases to make sure everything was up to date. Prepared some final paperwork for court appearances he would make in the near future, dictated several letters to go out the following week and, in general, used the time to catch up on the mundane, routine details of his practice and his cases. All the while listening to, and sometimes participating in, the office interplay and casual banter occurring in the office among its inhabitants.

  Finally, just before 4:00 o’clock, Connie stuck her mostly gray head into the open doorway and said, “You got one more week to score with Tennant or find a new girlfriend. Ya’ got it?”

  Marc laughed heartily with her and said, “Yes mom. I’ll do my best.”

  “Have a good weekend, Marc. I’m outta here,” Connie said. “Did I tell ya’? I may have husband number five lined up. And he has more money than any of the others”

  “Keep trying and good luck, Connie” Marc replied giving her a thumbs up sign.

  “Luck’s got nothin’ to do with it,” she said. “It’s how good a blow. . .”

  “I don’t want to know,” Marc hastily interrupted, laughing.

  “You don’t know what you’re missin’. See ya’ Monday,” she said as she turned to leave.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Marc rang the doorbell at Margaret’s upscale suburban home and stood patiently waiting for her to answer. He shifted the dozen long-stemmed red roses from hand to hand as he looked over the front of the house. Has to be six hundred grand if it’s a penny, he thought. And I live in a six hundred dollar a month one bedroom apartment. She’s done all right for herself.

  Just then, he heard the doorknob click and a moment later she stood in the open entryway wearing a black cocktail dress that came just below the knees and black high heeled shoes. He stood staring at her, literally holding his breath without realizing it, for about ten seconds. Finally, she broke the silence by saying, “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think you look incredible,” he managed to mutter.

  “Got the effect I wanted,” she said. “For me?” she added referring to the flowers.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said as he handed them to her.

  She took the roses from him and said, “They’re beautiful. You’re sweet and you shouldn’t have. Come in,” she added as she backed into the house. “Let me put these in some water and we’ll go. I made reservations for 7:30. My treat tonight okay?”

  “I remember,” he said. “Where we goin’?” He followed her into the kitchen and waited while she put water and the flowers in a vase. “I like your hair. Looks great.”

  “Really? Thank God. I spent two hours at the hair salon today so, you better like it,” she said as she playfully poked a finger into his chest.

  He took the hand she had poked him with and they exchanged a light kiss. “It’s always a risk to compliment a woman on her hair,” he said. “because, if she doesn’t like it, you look like an idiot. If she does like it, you’re okay but, ya’ never know. It’s just risky. Where are we going?” he asked, again.

  “The Riverview Room. Ever been there?” she answered as she turned to the table to get her shawl and a small purse.

  “No, I haven’t,
” he said. “I hear it’s a nice place.”

  “Let’s go,” she said as she took his arm and they headed to the door. “Nice suit. You look good.”

  Thirty minutes later, they followed the snooty Maitre’d through the crowded dining room, along the edge of the empty dance floor in front of the unoccupied bandstand with the idle quartet instruments leaning in their stands. He reached their table and held the chair for Margaret. Marc could not help noticing the admiring glances of several male patrons as they made their way to the table. It made him feel good that other men noticed the woman he was with and reminded him of the early years of his marriage to Karen. She too could be an attractive lady when she took the time to fix herself up a bit. Unlike a lot of men, it made him proud to know that his taste was shared by others.

  She ordered wine and an appetizer and the two of them made awkward small talk for a while even though it was not their first date and they were becoming quite comfortable with each other. It’s a strange ritual, he thought, this dating business. It’s a wonder people manage to get together at all.

  After a while, they ordered dinner and between the wine and the music that had started up, they both began to relax, laugh and enjoy each other’s company. The restaurant is a popular place with the downtown legal world. A world in which Marc had had little opportunity, or inclination, to frequent. Margaret was quite at home in the setting as she occasionally nodded or briefly waved an acknowledgement to people, mostly lawyers and other judges, she recognized.

  The evening wore on as they ate their meal and he took her onto the dance floor. They laughed at their own clumsiness, their lack of dancing polish. They made several trips back and forth from the table and the wine to the dance floor, becoming more and more oblivious to the other patrons in the restaurant. Caught up in their own laughter and the sight and scent of each other. This went on for the entire evening and, after the third bottle of wine had been emptied, were sitting at their table, fingers locked together, sipping coffee and looking at each other like teenagers, when a tall, handsome man with a full head of mostly brown hair, graying at the temples, suddenly appeared at their table.

  “Hello, Margaret,” the man said. “Nice to see you here.”

  “Oh, hello, Gordon,” Margaret responded as she released Marc’s hand, obviously slightly startled at the sudden intrusion.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt. . .,” the man began to say.

  “No, it’s all right Gordon,” Margaret said, back in control.

  “I saw you when I came in and I just wanted to say hello,” the man continued with, what Marc thought, a slightly arrogant, condescending air. “Marc, this is Judge Gordon Prentiss,” Margaret said introducing the man as Marc rose from his chair and exchanged a brief handshake.

  “Marc Kadella, judge,” Marc said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ he added politely.

  “Pleased,” Prentiss said as he released his grip.

  “When did you get here, Gordon? I didn’t see you come in,” said Margaret.

  “Just a few minutes ago,” the tall judge replied. “I’m having a late supper with a law school classmate,” he added nodding toward a man seated in a booth across the room. He put up his left hand and gestured with it to his dinner companion, indicating that the man should join them. The three of them waited silently the few seconds it took for the average sized man in the obviously expensive double-breasted suit to make his way to their table. When he was within hearing distance, Prentiss turned to Margaret and said, “Perhaps you know him. Margaret, this is Governor Dahlstrom’s Chief-of-Staff, Daniel Waschke. Daniel, Judge Margaret Tennant.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Daniel said flashing his politician’s smile as he reached down to shake her hand.

  Prentiss turned to Marc, who had remained standing, and said, “And this is Margaret’s friend. . ., I’m sorry, your name is. . .”

  “Kadella, Marc Kadella,” Marc said as he shook hands with Daniel. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Waschke.”

  “My pleasure, entirely,” Daniel said far more sincerely than Prentiss.

  “Waschke. I know that name from somewhere,” Marc said with a puzzled look. “Do you have a brother or cousin?”

  “Jacob,” Daniel answered. “Jake Waschke. He’s a lieutenant with the Minneapolis police.”

  “Oh sure,” Marc said. “Now I remember. Big guy, right? I defended a case he was involved with. I remember him, now. Decent guy. Straight cop.”

  “You’re a criminal defense lawyer?” Prentiss asked with that same slight condescension that was beginning to annoy Marc. “Well, I suppose someone must.”

  “It was nice to see you, Gordon,” said Margaret almost in dismissal. “And it was nice to meet you, Mr. Waschke,”

  “Me too,” Daniel said, bowing slightly to Margaret.

  “Have a nice evening, Margaret, Mr. Kadella,” said Prentiss as he nodded his head slightly at both of them and headed toward his table.

  Marc took his seat and Margaret reached across the table, took his hand and said, “You okay?”

  “Fine,” Marc said with genuine sincerity. “We should probably go, though.”

  They made the ride back to her home in silence, Margaret worried that the intrusion had done some damage to their evening. Marc, lost in his own thoughts, pulled into her driveway, put the car in park and shut off the engine. He turned in his seat to face her, she looked at him and asked, “A penny for your thoughts?”

  Marc leaned on the armrest between them, reached over with his left hand and took her right hand in it, silently wrapping their fingers together. He paused like this for a moment then, finally smiled and said, “J. Gordon Prentiss the third. Or is it the fourth, fifth or eleventh. I can never keep it straight with these guys.”

  “Is that what’s bothering you? That pompous ass?”

  He leaned over toward her and she moved slightly to meet him, exchanging a solid, open-mouthed kiss. When they stopped he continued saying, “No. He’s not bothering me. I don’t let people like that bother me. In fact, I find him and his attitude amusing. But, I better not tell Connie I ran into him. She’ll blow a gasket.”

  “Connie? Who’s Connie?” Margaret asked in a feigned jealous voice.

  “Connie Mickelson. She’s in my office. A few years back she had a personal injury case. Five year old little girl badly mauled by a dog. A mean damn thing. A Doberman as I recall. Anyway, Prentiss was the insurance company’s lawyer and he was an absolute asshole to deal with. Convinced the judge it was the kid’s fault and found some obscure way to screw the kid out of any money. The judge caved into him and Connie didn’t get a dime for the kid.”

  “She should’ve appealed. I can’t believe she wouldn’t have won on appeal,” said Margaret.

  “Probably. The judge screwed up. But the parents were so intimidated by Prentiss that they didn’t want to put the little girl through any more of it so, they dropped it. Connie’s still mad about it. She offered to cut her fee for the whole thing to ten percent but Prentiss had done it to the parents, but good.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Yeah, it is. Well, it happens. What’re ya’ gonna do? Move on,” Marc said. “How well do you know him?”

  “Not very. He’s been on the bench for a couple years. Was appointed shortly after Dahlstrom’s election. He and his firm have heavy political connections,” she answered.

  “Obviously,” Marc said with a laugh, referring to Prentiss’ dinner companion.

  “From what little I’ve seen of him, he thinks he should be on the Supreme Court. Not the Minnesota Supreme Court. The United States.”

  “Well, he’s got his eye on you.”

  “Get outta here.”

  “I’m serious. I know the look.”

  “Like the one you have now,” she said as he continued to lean on the armrest staring straight into her eyes.

  He straightened up, removed the keys from the ignition and, as he opened his door to get out, said, “That’s the one.
”

  They stood at the doorway, their arms wrapped around each other, their mouths locked together. She broke the grip and, still in his arms, leaned back and looked up at him. They exchanged several more light, affectionate kisses while he held her and she held the lapels of his suit coat. Finally, she stepped back breaking his hold, smoothed his coat and said, “Hmmm. Ah, what is this, our third date?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Our third official date, I suppose,” he agreed.

  “Well, I guess that’s enough, isn’t it?” she asked as she grabbed his tie below his chin and gently began to pull him toward the door. “Come with me, mister. I have use for you.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  As the calendar crept closer to the summer solstice, the sun continued to rise higher in the sky and the days became increasingly longer. Jake had some time to kill, another half hour, maybe a little less, before he took up his Wednesday and Thursday night vigil. This would be the third week in a row he would spend these evenings on his unauthorized stakeout, keeping watch on a house that was not even located in his city. So far, his efforts had yielded no results and it was becoming more difficult to convince his superiors that he was on the streets of Minneapolis with the rest of task force. He was supposed to be cruising the streets, checking informants, hoping for a break that would lead to an arrest.

  Maybe that’s why everyone’s interest was heightened by a case like this one. A serial killer and rapist on the loose was different; a break from the monotony and routine. Jake Waschke, for one would like nothing better than a return to the routine of life. If what he did for a living could ever be called routine. At least an arrest would give the media something else to focus their macabre voyeurism on besides the lack of progress.