Desperate Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  Desperate Justice

  A Marc Kadella legal mystery by the author of The Key To Justice

  Dennis L. Carstens

  Additional Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries

  The Key To Justice

  Media Justice

  Certain Justice

  Personal Justice

  Delayed Justice

  Copyright © 2013 by Dennis L Carstens

  www.denniscarstens.com

  Email me at: dcarstens514@gmail.com

  ONE

  Leonid ‘Leo’ Balkus picked up the telephone from its cradle on his desk, punched the intercom button and patiently waited for the maître d’ of his upscale St. Paul restaurant, The Blue Lady, to answer. When he did, Leo softly said, “Send Ike in here, please.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” the man replied.

  Less than a minute later Leo heard a soft knock on his office door which opened before Leo could respond. Leo looked at the door as Ivan ‘Ike’ Pitts came through the sound-proofed, heavy metal door and as he approached Leo’s desk said, “What do you need, boss?”

  “Sit down,” Leo replied pointing to one of the two tasteful, leather-covered Queen Annes in front of Leo’s large, mahogany desk.

  He then swiveled his chair around and turned on the switch of the electronic jamming device he kept on his credenza. The silent signal it emitted would block any listening devices that may have been planted in his office.

  Leo was a cautious crook. His office was swept for bugs twice a week; he rarely spoke over an outside telephone line and never, ever, used a cell phone. As a result, despite the fact that the cops and the FBI knew exactly who he was and what he did, Leo had never been convicted of anything.

  “I have a delicate job for you,” he continued as Ike sat down in the chair.

  “Let me guess,” Ike responded. “That weasely little shit, Bob Corwin.”

  “You got it,” Leo answered. “I’m tired of his whining and excuses. But listen,” he continued, leaning forward in his chair, both hands on the desktop and,” while sternly looking at Ike, said, “watch the rough stuff. I want the fear of God put into him, but he’s into me for over fifty grand and dead men don’t pay. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ike answered. “How far can I go?”

  Leo leaned back in his big, leather desk chair, looked up at the ceiling, reflected for a minute and then thoughtfully said, “It might do him some good to make a visit to an emergency room. Maybe even wear a sling for a couple weeks. Just so he knows I’m serious. The degenerate could get the money from his family anytime and I’m tired of waiting. Take Butch with you. That alone should scare the shit out of him.”

  “You got it, boss,” Ike said as he stood to leave. “We’ll take care of it tonight. I got a pretty good idea where to find him.”

  “Good,” Leo replied. “And I want a decent chunk of money from him in two days. I ain’t no goddamn bank.”

  “Absolutely,” his underling answered as he walked through the office door he had entered.

  Ike went back into the restaurant that served as a front for Leo’s more lucrative activities, walked into the bar area and spotted the man he wanted, seated by himself at the end of the bar. He walked up to the man and in a quiet voice said, “Hey, Butch, we got a little thing to take care of.”

  “Sure thing,” Butch responded as he set his glass of Coke on the coaster. He swiveled his chair toward the door, stood and said, “Let’s go.”

  The two men walking through the restaurant toward the parking lot door could not have looked, or been, more dissimilar. Ike, the older of the two and Leo’s right-hand man for more than five years, was only five feet eight and weighed one fifty with rocks in his pockets. Butch stood six feet four and was a chiseled two forty.

  Ike was dressed in an eight hundred dollar baby blue suede sport coat, white dress shirt, tan Armani slacks and light brown Ralph Lauren loafers and could pass the respectability test almost anywhere. Butch, on his best day, dressed and looked like a part-time stevedore, full-time weightlifter. Perfect examples of how looks could be deceiving.

  Oddly enough, it was Ike who was the hot-headed, loose screw who couldn’t be completely trusted to control himself. The problem with Ike was, and always had been, his inferiority complex about his size. Having grown up on the East Side of St. Paul during the time when Asian and black street gangs were taking over, Ike had learned to flee or fight at an early age. Ike, never one to flee, had formed his own gang, most of whose members were now either dead, in prison, or on the police force.

  Leo had taken an interest in him when Ike committed his first murder. The victim was a member of an Asian gang who were encroaching on Ike’s drug trade. Ike picked the young man at random just to send the gang a clear “don’t mess with me” message. When Leo heard about Ike’s arrest he sent his personal lawyer, a superstar criminal defense attorney named Bruce Dolan, to take care of the kid. Four years later, having been released from the juvenile system, Ike joined Leo and has been as loyal to Leo as a pet pit bull ever since. And pit bull is the perfect way to describe him.

  Butch Koll was Ike’s exact opposite which is why Leo preferred to have him tag along when Leo sent the two of them on a collection errand. Butch could be counted on to remain calm and level-headed. With his size and demeanor he could normally intimidate anyone into a promise of cooperation. Ike always liked to get physical first and use persuasive reasoning as a last resort. The only time Butch had ever lost his temper was when a former friend had gotten Butch in trouble with the law and then flipped on him after giving Butch his word that he wouldn’t. To Butch, your word meant everything and a deal was a deal. He always kept his end and reasonably expected you to do the same. When Butch got out of jail, the former friend spent a month in the hospital, but this time, kept his mouth shut.

  The day had been an unseasonably warm one for late October in Minnesota. The temperature had risen to over seventy and the evening was still very pleasant as the two men conducted their search. Shortly past dark Ike parked his Escalade next to the service entrance in the alley behind the Hermitage, a restaurant just outside of downtown Minneapolis, the third bar they would check for the elusive Bob Corwin. He shut off the engine and as the two of them got out of the big black SUV, Ike pointed toward the street and said, “You go in front this time and I’ll go through the back,” nodding his head at the door where he had parked.

  “Give me a minute before you go in,” Butch replied as he began walking up the alley toward the front of the building.

  Ike patiently watched the back of his compatriot until Butch turned at the corner of the building. He waited another ten seconds then flipped his cigarette away and went through the door. Ignoring the kitchen staff, Ike quickly made his way out to the bar area.

  The man they were searching for spotted Ike at the exact same moment Ike saw him. Ike casually walked along the length of the long bar toward his quarry who had started to run for the front door as soon as he saw Ike. Moving swiftly through the semi-crowded bar, Corwin had his head turned looking at Ike and just as he was about to reach the door and make a dash for safety, Butch stood up from the seat he had taken and Corwin ran head first into Butch’s chest, bounced and landed flat on his back.

  “Hey, Bobby,” Ike said while looking down at the man on the floor. “We’ve been looking for you. How’ve you been?”

  While Ike helped the man get to his feet, Butch looked solemnly over the people in the bar who were watching the scene with understandable curiosity.

  “No problem, folks,” Ike turned to the bar patrons, smiled and said, “he’s a friend of ours,” he continued as he patted Corwin on the cheek.

  At the same time, the bartender standing closest to Butch gestu
red with his eyes and a slight nod of his head toward the door in an obvious “take it outside” gesture. Butch nodded back at the man, turned, walked through the door and held it open as Ike pushed Corwin out the door and onto the sidewalk.

  “I was comin’ to see Leo in a couple of days, I swear…” Corwin began to babble.

  “Shut up you cockroach and get yer ass back here,” Ike snarled as he started walking toward the alley.

  With Butch following, Ike led Corwin along the side of the building, through the dark alley and when he reached the back of the SUV Ike wheeled around and gave Corwin a backhand slap that snapped his head back and staggered him. “Watch the door,” he said to Butch as he stepped up to his prey, grabbed the bigger man by his coat lapels and slammed him up against the building’s brick wall.

  Despite the fact that Corwin was four inches taller and at least forty pounds heavier than Ike, he did little to prevent the beating he was receiving. For almost two minutes, while Butch calmly watched to make sure his partner didn’t get too carried away, Ike methodically punched and kicked his victim over most of his face and body. Ike was quite experienced and knew exactly how to break bones and inflict pain in a way that would cause maximum discomfort with little concern for permanent damage.

  He finally stopped, took a step back and looked over his handiwork while his breathing and heart rate normalized. “Look at me you disgusting degenerate,” Ike said to a bloodied, broken and whimpering Corwin who had slid down the wall and onto his knees. Corwin turned his head up toward his tormentor just as Ike reached down, grabbed him by the hair and began to pull him upright.

  “Aaaah! Stop, please. I’ll pay him. I’ll get the money,” he pleaded as he rose from his knees, his hair being pulled by Ike.

  “Shut your mouth,” Ike snarled, his nose almost touching Corwin’s. “You’re into my boss for fifty grand. You’re a degenerate gambler, junkie, loser and I’d love to throw your ass off a bridge into the river. It’d be fun just to watch you try to fly. But we want the money. You got forty-eight hours. You understand me?”

  “Yeah,” Corwin croaked.

  “What?” Ike said. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes, I’ll get it, Ike. Please, I swear. I was going to anyway.”

  “See that you do and don’t make me come looking for you. C’mon,” he said to Butch. “Let’s go.” He turned to get into the Escalade as Butch started toward the passenger side.

  It was then Ike decided to give his victim one last bit of persuasion. One last shot to make sure Corwin understood. He pivoted on his right foot and at the same time came around with his left fist aimed at where he thought Corwin’s solar plexus would be. Except, when Ike had turned to leave, Corwin’s knees buckled and he started to slide down the wall on which he was leaning. Instead of the punch hitting him in the midsection, Ike’s fist drilled him squarely in the throat. With a sickening crunch, the man’s larynx was crushed causing his windpipe to close and the flow of air to his lungs shut off.

  Corwin slumped onto the alley floor, staring up at the sky, making acking, gurgling and hacking sounds in a desperate and futile attempt to breathe. His eyes were wide open, a terrified look on his face, hands grasping his throat and his legs flailing on the alley floor.

  Butch knelt over him and felt his throat as Corwin lay dying while Ike stood over the two of them with a stupefied look on his face.

  “Is he okay?” Ike asked. Repeating it several times hoping he had not monumentally made a mess of his assignment.

  “No,” Butch calmly said as he rose to his full height. “He’ll be dead in two to three minutes. C’mon. We need to get out of here.”

  TWO

  Marc Kadella set his meal on his small dining room table, an unidentifiable mass of a frozen diet-food concoction, his feeble attempt to lose a few pounds. 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’ 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.” He then 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” with criminal defense and divorce work being his bread and butter.

  At about the same time that his marriage was breaking up and Marc was giving serious thought to getting out and finding something else, as most lawyers do at some time in their career, a notorious serial killer case had landed in his lap or, more accurately, crashed down onto his head.

  The accused’s brother was a former client of Marc’s who practically begged him to take the case. He had assured Marc of the man’s innocence and guaranteed that Marc would be fully paid, win or lose.

  Marc became convinced that his client was in fact innocent and being framed by the head police officer investigating the case and he threw himself into it, devoting almost all of his time and effort into what became not a case but a cause. He drove himself almost into bankruptcy because he had lost client after client due to the notoriety of the case. He eventually uncovered the evidence to clear the man, obtained a dismissal of all charges and the arrest of the cop who framed him. Because he had done such an outstanding job defending the man, his practice had improved significantly. Marc now found himself heading toward a downtown courtroom and a jury verdict because of the publicity from that case.

  About six months ago another lawyer, whom Marc had casually known named 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 of interest. 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 warnings.

  “What case is it?” Marc had asked.

  “The Corwin killing,” Dolan replied.

  Bob Corwin’s death had been all over the news since the body was found in a Minneapolis alley a week earlier. At least a dozen witnesses, including several of the bar patrons, had identified the two defendants leaving the bar with the victim and both bartenders had known Ike and Butch by name. Both men had been picked up within forty-eight hours and arrested on suspicion of several counts of assault and homicide. They had cooled their heels in the Hennepin County jail while the case
was presented to a Grand Jury which quickly returned indictments against both Ike and Butch for second-degree murder, first-degree manslaughter and first, third and fifth-degree assault.

  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 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 Cash Man Bail Bonds, a silent subsidiary of Leo Balkus, and Ike and Butch were released that same day.

  What made this particular case a matter of intense public interest was the fact that Bob Corwin’s family was quite socially prominent, politically connected and old-money wealthy. The lineage could be traced directly back to the 1840s when the family patriarch, Edward Corwin, immigrated to the mostly empty prairie that was Minnesota at that time, started farming and began building an agricultural empire that was now worth billions. The family itself was no longer involved in Corwin Agricultural but the current head of the family, sixty-eight-year-old Vivian Corwin Donahue, could still move political mountains and when she called a governor, senator, congressman or mayor, that person had better sit up and pay attention.