(2012) The Key to Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  The two of them went in past the looks of the obviously annoyed detectives and Marc inaudibly gasped at the sight of her. He went to the bedside and gently took her hand in his and smiled down at her as she weakly opened her eyes and looked up at him.

  “Hi sweetheart,” he whispered. “How ya doin?”

  “Just great,” she groaned, clearing her throat from the discomfort of the tubes in her nose.

  “Hi Tony,” she said weakly as she squeezed Marc’s hand.

  “You’re gonna be fine, baby,” Marc said.

  “Carl. Is he dead?” she rasped.

  “Oh, yeah. Extremely,” Tony answered.

  She closed her eyes, softly sighed, opened them, looked directly at Marc and said, “Good, the sonofabitch.”

  She woke up a little bit then and they stayed in her room for a few more minutes. The three of them making awkward small talk, mostly reassuring themselves that she would, indeed, be all right. It didn’t take long before she began to tire and the two men decided it was time to go. As they were preparing to leave, Marc bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek and, knowing it would cheer her up a bit, said, “Ya’ know, I never thought I’d live to say this, but you look like hell.”

  She smiled weakly at him and said, “So do you, asshole.”

  “Yeah, but I just got outta bed,” he laughed. “I’ll be back later today. Get some rest.”

  They stopped in the hall to talk to the police who agreed, reluctantly, to leave her alone for now. Marc made it clear that he was her lawyer and there was to be no questioning without him being present. The police left with one of the uniforms staying behind to guard the door. Satisfied, Marc and Tony headed out themselves.

  When they reached the sidewalk, Tony said, “That’s something isn’t it. All along they had the right guy and didn’t know it.”

  “I feel like an idiot,” Marc answered.

  “Why? How would you know? Besides, you did your job. I feel bad for Jake though. Threw it all away ‘cause he thought he was protecting his brother and look at that now.”

  “What do you mean?” Marc asked.

  “You haven’t heard? Daniel Waschke was found in his car in the garage yesterday with the engine running. His wife found him when she came home. Rumor has it he wrote a note to Jake. Says he’s innocent. The only thing botherin’ him was his wife was havin’ an affair,” Tony related to an obviously stunned Marc who was staring back at him, his eyes wide and his mouth open.

  “Well, counselor, it’s almost 7:00 a.m. and I been up most of the night. See ya’ later.”

  “Wait a minute,” Marc said. “How’d you find out about Maddy?”

  “Cop friend called me from the hospital. Knew I knew her. I’m gonna take off. See ya’ later,” Carvelli said as he turned and walked off down the street.

  Marc, still a bit shocked by the events of the past twenty four hours, strolled over to a small retaining wall that circled the hospital’s entryway. He sat down on it watching the light, early morning downtown traffic cruising past him on the wet street. He sat there contemplating those events with a sense of wonder and relief. After about fifteen minutes he heard a voice from beside him say, “Hey sailor, lookin’ for a good time?”

  He turned his head toward the voice, smiled at the sight of Margaret Tennant and, as his heart picked up a couple of beats, said, “God, is it nice to see you.”

  “How is she?” Margaret asked as she sat down next to him and slipped an arm through his.

  “She’ll be fine,” Marc answered. “With the scars she’ll have, no more posing for PLAYBOY any time soon, but I don’t think that’s a problem,” he said smiling at her as he lightly brushed his fingers across her cheek.

  “How about you? How’re you doing?”

  “Me?” he asked. “I’m okay,” he shrugged. “No. No, that’s not really true,” he continued as he turned away from her to look straight ahead. “I feel a little shitty, truth be told.”

  “Well, little wonder. The guy you believed was innocent ...” she began to say.

  “No, that’s not the problem. In fact, that doesn’t bother me at all,” he interrupted her. “You know what’s bothering me?”

  “What?”

  “I’m beginning to believe every rotten thing you’ve ever heard about lawyers is absolutely true.”

  “Why?” she asked, laughing softly.

  “This morning, on the way down here, after Tony called and told me what happened and I knew that Maddy was gonna be okay. Well, all I could think of was: After Carl went out that window, there isn’t a snow-balls-chance-in-hell that Joe Fornich is gonna pay me now.”

  Thank you for your patronage and I truly hope you enjoyed The Key To Justice, my very first attempt at writing a novel. It was a great experience and I am very gratified to know that so many readers liked it and that my efforts were not wasted. If you are interested in obtaining a signed, physical copy, please go to my website at www.denniscarstens.com. Again, thank you and be sure to tell your friends.

  Dennis Carstens

  Desperate Justice

  Look for the next novel by Dennis Carstens, Desperate Justice, due out in the Fall of 2013. The following is an excerpt:

  Marc Kadella set his meal, an unidentifiable mass of a frozen diet-food concoction, his feeble attempt to lose a few pounds, on his small dining room table. As he was pulling out the chair to sit down to his supper, he heard the ring of his cell phone go off on the coffee table in the living room.

  “That was quick,” he said aloud as he rose from his seat to retrieve the phone.

  “Yeah, this is Marc,” he said as he put it to his ear.

  “Mr. Kadella, this is Judge Prentiss’s clerk, Rhonda Petrie,” he heard the female voice say.

  “Will you please stop calling me that,” Marc answered her pleasantly. “You say Mr. Kadella and I want to hand the phone to my Dad. Please, Marc will do just fine.”

  “I know,” he heard her say laughing softly. “It’s just that the judge was walking past my desk just then and he can be a stickler about protocol.”

  “I take it the jury’s in,” Marc said.

  “Yes they are. We’re calling everyone. Thirty minutes?” she replied.

  “I’ll be there,” Marc responded. He folded the telephone closed, picked up his meal, dropped it in the garbage and joyfully said, “There’s my excuse for grabbing a burger later,” grabbed his suit coat off the couch and headed toward the door.

  As he drove toward downtown Minneapolis, Marc let his mind wander to reflect back over the past few months and the events that brought him to where he was now. Marc had been a mostly anonymous lawyer, one of tens of thousands, eking out a living as a solo practitioner, struggling along the way, some good years, some not-so-good years, renting space from a successful woman lawyer, Connie Mickelson. They shared the space with two other lawyers in a building on Lake Street, a couple of miles from downtown Minneapolis. Marc mostly enjoyed what he did, practicing ‘street law’, criminal defense and divorce work being his bread and butter.

  About six months ago, another lawyer whom Marc had barely known, Bruce Dolan, had contacted him. Dolan had called him about representing a friend of a good client of his. There were two co-defendants and Dolan could not represent both due to a potential conflict. He went on about how impressed he had been with Marc’s handling of the Fornich case and because of the seriousness of the charges, his client wanted to be sure the man Dolan could not represent would receive good representation. Would Marc be interested and when could they meet?

  Marc had been quite flattered that an attorney with a national reputation such as Bruce Dolan would think of him to co-counsel a case but, at the same time, a little alarm bell in the back of his mind began to go off. Marc had been around long enough to heed these types of signals.

  Dolan had represented the men at the bail hearing and assured the judge, a typical Hennepin County liberal woman, that the defendants were not a flight risk, the public was not
at risk of harm from either man and reasonable bail should be set. In fact, by the time Dolan got done portraying the two accused as misunderstood Boy Scouts, the audience half-expected the judge to apologize to them for the inconvenience of their arrest. At the same time, the lawyer from the County Attorney’s office was practically jumping out of her own skin in an effort to be heard. She presented ample evidence that the two men were really career criminals and jail was precisely where they belonged.

  In the end, almost starry-eyed at having the great Bruce Dolan in her courtroom, along with her normal empathy for all criminal defendants who were obviously driven to crime by being victims themselves, the judge bought Dolan’s argument which surprised even Dolan. Bail was granted in the amount of half a million dollars each which was quickly provided by Cashman Bail Bonds, a silent subsidiary of Leo Balkus, and Ike and Butch were released that same day.

  Two days after the bail hearing, Marc Kadella received the call from Dolan. He was in his office, the one he rented from one of his office mates, Connie Mickelson, his landlord and good friend, when one of the secretaries buzzed him to let him know Dolan was on the phone for him. After fifteen minutes on the phone listening to Dolan’s explanation, Marc agreed to come to his St. Paul office and meet with him and the two defendants.

  Marc grabbed his suit coat from the hook on the back of his office door, picked up a briefcase and went into the reception room area to find the entire office standing around waiting for him.

  After a ten second silence during which they all stared at him and he looked them over with a puzzled expression, Connie broke the awkward silence and asked, “What’s up with you and Dolan? You gonna get too famous for the rest of us?”

  “Very funny,” Marc replied.

  “So, what did he want,” asked another of the lawyers in the office, Chris Grafton.

  “He’s got a case with co-defendants and he’s asked me to take one of them and co-counsel,” Marc said. “Could be a good deal. Says I could get a decent check out of it and he’d do the heavy lifting. Besides, I could learn some things doing a trial with him.”

  “From what I’ve heard, he could learn a few things from you about ethics and honesty,” Marc heard one of the secretaries, Carolyn Lucas, say.

  “Now, now, Mrs. Cop’s wife” Marc said to her in reply while waving an index finger at her and smiling. “Judge not, less ye be judged, or however that goes.”

  “Just the same,” Connie interjected. “His reputation is well deserved. Don’t turn your back on him and remember who you represent. You know who Leo Balkus is?”

  “Yeah,” Marc answered. “I know who he is. And I know Dolan is his lawyer, so?”

  “Just be careful,” Connie said.

  “Yeah, why?” Marc answered.

  “I hear those two jamokes that got arrested are Leo’s guys,” Connie said. “Just be careful. Remember who Dolan works for and it’s not those two idiots. His first priority will be to protect Leo.”

  “How do you know that?” Barry Reed, another one of the lawyers that shared office space with Marc asked.

  “I know people and hear things,” Connie said.

  “No, no,” Marc said, holding up a hand to Barry. “She’s got a point. I’ll keep it in mind, Connie. And thanks. I better go,” he continued as he headed toward the door.

  Marc followed the shapely, young receptionist toward the back of the suite of offices until they came to what was obviously a conference room. She opened the door and stood aside for him and, as he entered the room, she said, “Bruce will join you in just a few minutes. There’s coffee and water for you and I’m sure it won’t be long.” She turned to leave and the two men seated at the oval-shaped conference table both tilted their heads to watch her as she closed the door.

  Marc introduced himself to the men, reaching across the table to shake hands. As he took one of the very comfortable, slightly over-stuffed leather chairs across from them, the larger of the two men said, “So, you must be the lawyer Bruce found to represent me.”

  “That’s up to you, not Bruce,” replied to Butch Koll. “He asked me if I’d be interested and I said I’d come and meet you. Whether or not I represent you will be your call, and mine. Not his.”

  “Okay,” Butch said. “Bruce says you’re pretty good. You did that serial killer case last year.”

  “I remember that,” Ike interjected snapping his fingers, “You got him off. You did good work on that case, counselor.”

  “Thanks,” Marc replied with a slight shrug, silently pleased with the compliment, even if it came from a career criminal.

  At that moment Dolan came in through the door and stepped right up to Marc, extended his hand to shake and said, “Sorry to keep you waiting. You’ve met our clients?” he asked nodding toward Ike and Butch as he walked to the head of the table and pulled out a chair.

  As he did so, Marc looked him over and was again as impressed as the first time he had seen the man. Dolan stood six foot three, weighed a trim two hundred pounds. He had dark hair with just the right touch of gray at the temples and in his mid-fifties looked to be in great shape. About ten years ago, Marc sat in the gallery of a trial Bruce was conducting. Marc had spent several days watching him and the prosecutor of the case, who was also a terrific trial lawyer himself, dueling with each other. Marc could no longer remember much about the case but, he had learned a lot from both of them.

  “Have we met?” Dolan asked him as he took his seat at the head of the table. “You look familiar.”

  “We had lunch at the same table at a CLE seminar a couple years ago.”

  “Sure,” Dolan said snapping his fingers in recognition. “Now I remember. You were sitting next to Judge Tennant. Anyway, these are for you,” he continued as he handed a stack of papers to Marc. “Police reports, witness statements that the cops got from the people in the bar. Prelim autopsy report.”

  “I need to talk to Mr. Koll alone, if you don’t mind,” Marc said.

  “I knew you would,” Dolan replied. “Tell you what, Ike and I will go to my office and you two can use this room. Take all the time you need. I’m down the hall in the corner. Just let me know when you’re done.”

  After the two men left, Marc spent fifteen minutes quickly scanning the police report, giving a cursory look through the stack of witness statements not bothering with the preliminary autopsy report at all. If he took the case the final report would be more informative.

  About an hour later, after Marc had received his retainer by a check drawn on Dolan’s Trust account and after Marc and Butch had left, Leo, Ike and Dolan listened to the recording of the conversation they had made from the bug in the conference room. After the third time, Leo asked Dolan, “What do you think?”

  “I was right about Kadella. He’s even quicker than I expected. This should work out just fine,” the lawyer replied.

  Catherine Prentiss checked the time on her watch, took one last drag of her cigarette before dropping it on the ground and crushing it with her shoe. She began walking slowly toward the building’s entryway and, as she got to the door, paused to look over her reflection in the glass. Even with everything that weighed her down mentally and emotionally, she still took pride in her appearance. Her dark blonde hair with the light blonde highlights was stylishly cut. Her navy blue silk blouse and tan skirt accented her still trim figure. For forty-seven, she thought, she still looked damn good.

  “How are you feeling?” her psychiatrist, Dr. Jeffrey Chase began after they had taken their seats and he turned on the recorder that would make an audio record of the session on his laptop.

  “About the same,” she replied.

  “Do you think the medication is helping?”

  “Mmmmm. Possibly. I guess I’m feeling a little more level. Not quite as much up and down.”

  “Are you still drinking?”

  “No, at least very little,” she lied.

  “If you drink alcohol and take antidepressants, the alcohol can counterac
t the benefits of the medication. It can even make things worse.”

  “I know, Jeff,” she replied obviously a little irritated.

  “Okay, this is now, what, your fourth session?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Do you feel it’s helping you?”

  “Yes, definitely,” she lied again.

  “Really? That’s interesting since I don’t believe you’re being completely forthcoming. We haven’t even started to talk about what’s really causing your problems.”

  “Oh, and just what do you think that is?” she said with obvious annoyance.

  “I’m not sure,” the therapist said ignoring her sarcasm. “I have some ideas but it would be best to hear them from you. It’s better if you search within yourself and be honest with yourself. It doesn’t help you to lie to me.”

  “You think I’m lying?” she asked looking away from him to avoid eye contact.

  “You need to answer that question. We can sit here for months avoiding the problem but, it won’t do you any good.”

  She continued to silently stare out the window, not sure how she wanted to respond. Like any good therapist, Dr. Chase quietly, patiently waited for her reaction. They stayed this way for almost five minutes while Catherine contemplated her next step.

  Catherine turned her head away from the window, looked back at Dr. Chase, heavily sighed and said, “You’re right, I have to open up and talk to someone about this. I know you are bound by patient confidentiality but, I want your word, I want to hear you say it, that you will not tell anyone.”

  “Of course, you have my word, I won’t tell anyone. Now Catherine, you need to tell me why you are so afraid of your husband that you can’t even admit it.”

  “How did you know that?” She asked, genuinely surprised.

  “I’ve been doing this over thirty years,” the balding, slightly pudgy mid-fifties psychiatrist replied. “So tell me.”