Primary Justice

by Dave Conifer

  ~~~

  Several blocks before he arrived at DMV he stopped at a traffic light at an intersection that was dominated by a huge, blocky brown complex that could only be one thing. Two fences topped with razor wire and marked by manned watchtowers spaced out every fifty yards confirmed it even before he read the sign. This was the New Jersey State Penitentiary, home of New Jersey’s finest.

  He wondered if it would be better to be confined within the borders of a city or in a fortress in the middle of nowhere, as he had been, and concluded that it wouldn’t make any difference at all. The brown behemoth in front of him had no windows. It could be anywhere, for all the inmates knew. He could only imagine the horrors going on inside, just a few feet away from where he sat in the car staring at the outside walls. The plan for the rest of his life was to stay out of trouble, but whatever happened, he’d never go back to prison. He’d rather die.

  The Department of Motor Vehicles was a nightmare, but based on the complaints he heard from the customers around him, it was the same for everybody. Despite his checkered past he didn’t expect any complications with the driver’s license. Somehow he’d managed to achieve a perfect driving record. Not even a DWI. Because it had been expired for so long he was required to take a written test, but he’d prepped himself for that before he was released from prison. He stood in one line waiting to be told what other lines to stand in, filled in forms, took the test, had his picture taken, and walked out with a shiny plastic driver’s license that looked nothing like any that he’d ever had before. It was too easy. He wasn’t even sure if they knew why he’d been unable to renew it for eleven years.

  There was a KFC across the street so he stopped in for some chicken and a break from his return to a world of red tape. He still felt uncomfortable and fought to maintain eye contact with the disinterested teenager behind the counter. It’s only been a couple of days, he reminded himself.

  When an electronic warble erupted from the pocket of his jeans it took him a few seconds to realize what it was. He stabbed at the button Bismarck had shown him after wiping barbecue sauce from his fingers onto his hoodie. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Fargo?” a voice asked. “This is Liz Faribault from Parole. Is this a good time to talk?”

  “Yep,” he said. Good thing Russ gave me this thing.

  “Are you still in Trenton?”

  “Yep. Got a brand new driver’s license and now I’m grabbing some chow.”

  “Great,” she said. “I did some checking with the state police about your case.” As she spoke he slid the phone around on his ear looking for a sweet spot as he struggled to hear her words. “I wasn’t sure who to call, so I picked a number and left a message. Twenty minutes later somebody called back.”

  “That’s good, right?” he asked.

  “They got right on it. Funny, I thought they’d be really busy over there and I wouldn’t hear back for weeks. But the man I talked to knew all about it.”

  “Will they give us all the stuff?” Fargo asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” she told him. “They were very clear about it. If you’d been charged, you or your lawyer would be provided with all case-related files. But you weren’t, so they won’t release.”

  He pounded the table with a fist. “That’s not fair! They could still charge me!”

  “They’re not going to charge you,” she said calmly. “Nobody is interested in prosecuting you for anything more.”

  “Well, goddamnit, I deserve to know what happened to those kids! Everybody thinks I killed them! I have a right!” Heads turned in his direction.

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Mr. Fargo. The law is the law. I wish you wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Easy for you to say,” he said, before slamming the phone onto the table. He didn’t know how to end the call, and could hear her voice as she continued speaking until she finally gave up.

  ~~~

  That sucks, he thought as he stomped out of the restaurant and back to the Monte Carlo. He didn’t think anybody was going to try to pin those murders on him now either, regardless of what he’d said to Faribault. But if he could get the files, it might help him find out who had committed them, and that was something he was determined to find out. There had to be another way.

  Partly because she’d told him it wasn’t necessary but mostly because he didn’t fucking feel like it, he decided not to bother going to the Social Security office, which was on the other side of the city. He’d done well, but it was time to call it a day. For a moment he considered buying a computer, but since he still had no place to plug into the internet, it seemed pointless. He started the engine and headed for Route 1, which would take him back across the river and down to Philadelphia. It was a clear violation of his parole deal, but he was sure nobody would notice. Who would care?

  ~~~

  Just before pulling onto the freeway ramp he saw the police lights flashing in his rear view mirror. Shit. What did I do? I was hardly moving. Second time a cop busted me today. Guess I better get used to this. Unsure where to go, he swerved as far to the right as he could. The police cruiser was inches behind him in seconds, its front-end turned menacingly toward the road with high beams lit and the reds and blues going strong on the roof. Too late to matter, he wondered if the paperwork for the car was in the glove compartment. It has tags so it must be registered, he reasoned.

  No more than a minute passed before a police officer emerged from each side of the cruiser and approached him. One inspected the passenger side of the car while the other walked directly to the driver’s side window. It was only when he saw the uniforms that he realized that these were New Jersey state troopers.

  “Driver’s license and registration?” he asked -- no, ordered – after Fargo rolled the window down.

  “What did I do?”

  “Driver’s license and registration,” he repeated. This time it wasn’t disguised as a question.

  “Here’s my license right here,” Fargo said after sliding the shiny new card from his sweatshirt. “I’ll look for the rest. This isn’t my car,” he explained.

  The officer’s face knotted up. He took the card, squinted at it, and even held it up above his head, as if more sunlight could clear up his confusion. He glared back into the car at Fargo, who hadn’t moved to look for the registration. “Where did this come from?” he demanded.

  “Department of Motor Vehicles,” Fargo answered, stifling the smartass retort that had popped into his head.

  “When did you get this?”

  “About two hours ago,” he explained. “I was away for a few years.”

  “Damn right you were,” the officer answered.

  “I just got around to renewing it today.”

  “Hmm,” the officer said. “Hang tight, I’ll be right back.” Fargo watched as he walked back to his vehicle with the license in hand. Some things never change. He considered searching for Bismarck’s registration and insurance information, but decided not to. The cop hadn’t asked for it, and probably wasn’t going to. Instead, he watched him in the cruiser as he talked into a microphone. It was at least ten minutes before he returned.

  “39 Wicker Street in Crosswicks. Is this your current address?” he asked, holding up the license.

  Fargo thought quickly. Although he hadn’t been there in years, he’d used it as his address because it was all he had. He didn’t even know if the house was still standing. If he said no, it could trigger a lot of problems. “Yes,” he answered.

  “Where are you heading now?”

  None of your goddamned business, he wanted to say. Am I in Russia now? “I, I was thinking about going over to get my Social Security card.”

  “This car has Pennsylvania tags.”

  Fargo felt a tingle in his armpits. He was going to start sweating now. “It belongs to a friend.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Bismarck. Russ Bismarck,” Fargo said.

  “Does he live in Crosswicks, too?”


  “No, he lives in Philadelphia. I didn’t have a car so he let me borrow his.”

  The officer stared at the license again. “I think I’ll let it go this time. I don’t need the paperwork. Drive safe,” he said before handing the license back and walking away.

  Let what go, Fargo asked himself for the second time that day.

  Getting onto Route 1 and driving into Pennsylvania might not be smart, Fargo decided, given that he’d just told a state trooper that he lived in Crosswicks. At least not right now. He drove past the freeway ramp and took the next right turn. When the cruiser didn’t follow he blew all the air out from his lungs and pulled into the parking lot of a dry cleaner to settle down.

  Two times in practically my first day out. Why was that guy hasslin’ me in the first place, he wondered. I didn’t do nothing wrong. And he didn’t even ask for registration. How could he tell what I am? I guess they’ll always know. He waited around for another hour to pass, just in case the trooper was still in the neighborhood, and then set off for Bismarck’s place in Philly. Just after he looked over at the Trenton Makes Bridge he saw a state police cruiser parked against the side rail, watching traffic heading across the Delaware River and out of the state.

  -- Chapter 4 --

  “That barracuda’s not here, is she?” Fargo asked after Bismarck let him in that evening after a ride back from Trenton with no further complications. It appeared that Bismarck was still wearing the rumpled clothing that he’d slept in. Fargo still hadn’t figured out how the old man supported himself, as meager an existence as it was, but that was for later.

  “Who?”

  “Joanie. Your niece. She was here last night.”

  “Oh, no, of course not,” he said. “Why’d you call her that?”

  “Come on. She don’t like me too much,” Fargo told him.

  “She can be a pisser, but I’d be lost without her. My brother’s little girl. She rents a house up in Bristol and she stops by here sometimes. She’s the main reason I moved back to Philly. Funny, I thought I’d be looking after her, but mostly she looks after me.”

  “Didn’t she get married again? I remember it didn’t go so good the first time.”

  “Nope. She’s still married to the first one. On paper, anyway. Costs too much to get a divorce, and besides, you got to find the son of a bitch and get him to sign. Poor thing can’t get a break. The next one was as bad as the first, but not as mean. He’s either in jail, or if he got out by now, just plain gone.” He looked Fargo up and down. “Don’t have much of a wardrobe yet, do you? Don’t you at least have another shirt?”

  “Not yet,” Fargo said. “I left the other one on the bus ‘cause it stunk so bad. Hey, how ya’ feeling?” he asked. “You didn’t seem so good last night.”

  “Ah, sure, I’m good,” Bismarck said. “Something must have gone down the wrong way or something. Where you been all day?”

  “I went up to Trenton. I had to meet my parole officer and I got my license renewed, too. I already got hassled by the cops, can you believe it? That didn’t take long. Twice. And I only been back two days.”

  “What happened?”

  “The first time was right down the street here. After you went to lay down I got into it with the barracuda. Joanie, I mean. She told me to get the hell out, so I did. But I didn’t have no place to go, so I got into the car and went to sleep. Next thing I know it’s almost morning and some cop’s bangin’ on the window. He didn’t bust me or nothin’, but he told me I can’t sleep out on the streets.”

  “Coulda’ been worse. Philly cop?” Bismarck asked.

  “Yeah. So later, when I’m finishing up in Trenton, all of a sudden this statie comes out of nowhere and pulls me over,” Fargo continued. “I still don’t know why. I wasn’t doing nothin’ wrong. And he never said I was. Good thing I just got my license renewed right before.”

  “So nothing happened?”

  “He took my license back to his car and checked me out, I guess. Not too friendly, but he let me go. Never did say what the fuck I did wrong. Hey, you got anything to eat?”

  Bismarck waved at the kitchen. “Go ahead and help yourself. I already ate.”

  He saw a box of Cheerios and a jug of milk on a painted wooden table in the kitchen. Was that dinner? But if it was good enough for Bismarck, it was good enough for him. He explored the cabinets and drawers until he found a bowl and a spoon, and poured a load of cereal into the bowl. His host was seated at the table even before the milk was poured.

  “I was thinking about what you said last night,” Bismarck said. “I know it’s hard, but you got to let it all go. I don’t think you should go stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong. You paid for what you did. Now, you know, just get a fresh start on life. You’re starting over. That’s all.”

  Fargo shoveled a heap of Cheerios into his mouth. Bismarck watched a dribble of milk as it ran down his chin and splashed onto the table. “I paid, all right,” Fargo said as a single Cheerio escaped from the corner of his mouth. “Paid for something I didn’t do.”

  “Maybe you did,” answered Bismarck. “I ain’t sayin’ otherwise. But you were talking about Rip Mankato last night. Bad idea. Don’t mess with him. Don’t even say his name out loud. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “See, I don’t give a crap about the rape anymore,” Fargo mumbled through the next mound of Cheerios. “I didn’t do it, but I got sent up for it anyway, so tough shit for anybody that’s sore about it. It’s Gail’s kids that I’m talking about. I didn’t kill them and I don’t like nobody thinkin’ that. Especially since I know who did.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  “Mankato, right? I’m not afraid of him,” Fargo said. “What’s he gonna do, send me to prison for eleven years? He already tried that and here I am.”

  “He could do a lot worse. Now, lemme’ get this straight. So you sayin’ you didn’t rape that girl?”

  “Hell yes, that’s what I’m sayin’,” Fargo replied. “Slept with, yes. Raped, no.”

  “Hmm,” the old man grunted. “That was my next question. Because I heard there was tons of evidence against you.”

  “DNA. Yup, I left her a damn good sample of DNA. It had been a long time, if you know what I mean. I was just sittin’ in that bar on 130 in Bordentown, whatever it’s called. I wasn’t even looking at no ladies when all of a sudden this girl’s all over me. For a second I thought I must have known her from somewhere, but she said no, and her name didn’t sound familiar. Eileen Wahpeton. Don’t think I’ll ever forget that name, now.”

  “So where did all this happen?”

  “I told you, I can’t remember the name of the place. Right on 130.”

  “No, I mean where did you sleep with her?”

  “Oh. In the back of her van out in the parking lot.”

  “That was convenient. Whose idea was that?”

  “Hers, if you can believe it. When we were done she went her way, I went mine,” he said. “Which was home, alone. And I kept drinkin’. Never saw her again. Too bad so many people saw us leave the bar together. Next thing I know it’s Sunday morning, I got a mouth full of cotton and a killer headache, and the cops are at my door. Right there on Wicker Street in Crosswicks. I remember when they dragged me out in cuffs, every frickin’ person who lived on the street was outside watching. I’ll bet you were, too.”

  “Yeah, I was.” Bismarck sat back and put his hands behind his head. “I remember that part. Where’d they find her? On the bridge up in Trenton, right?”

  “Under it,” Fargo corrected. “She was halfway in the river. And of course, everybody saw us leave that bar together, but nobody saw her after that. Not until they found her under that bridge.” He slurped up the last of the cereal and pushed the bowl aside. “It couldn’t have looked any worse for me. If I wasn’t just some Joe Slapdick, I’d think it was a setup. It was too perfect. This hot woman comes onto me for no reason, pulls me into her van and attacks me, and then disap
pears. Too perfect. But why would anybody want to set me up?”

  “Set you up for what?” Bismarck asked. “You think she went and got herself killed just to make you look bad?”

  “Yeah, I know, it sounds stupid as shit. But here’s the thing. They’re telling me I parked on the bridge and threw her over the side. But Russ, I’m telling you, her body was in perfect shape except somebody smashed her skull. No scratches, no broken bones. That body wasn’t thrown off no bridge. I looked at that bridge today. There’s nothing but rocks and boulders where they said they found her. She woulda’ been all busted up if she landed on that.”

  “Why didn’t your lawyer say something?”

  “That asshole didn’t give two shits about me,” Fargo scoffed. “He got stuck with the case but he didn’t do nothin’ for me. He just wanted it over with. And I didn’t know any of this shit until years later.”

  “You knew you didn’t do it, right?” Bismarck asked. “Why’d you let him railroad you if you were innocent?”

  “Shit, Russ. You remember. I was drunk day and night for about two years. I hardly remember any of this. I can’t even picture my lawyer’s fuckin’ face. When all this was going on I wasn’t really sure myself if I did it or not. I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “You sound like you know the case pretty good now,” Bismarck said.

  “Wasn’t I tellin’ you that last night? I learned how to play the game once I got into prison, after I dried my ass out. I filed a bunch of petitions and they had to give me copies of all the records. I read through all the police reports and stuff. I guarantee my lawyer never did. But that’s how I know so much. A lot more than I knew then. Damn lawyer coulda’ got me off, but what’s it to him?”

  “So they made a deal.”

  “Yeah. I guess they didn’t have enough to pin her murder on me,” Fargo said. “Or at least it wasn’t worth their time. Rape was enough to put my butt away for a good long time.”