Desperate Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  Ike licked his lips several times, slowly raised his hands, palms out and said, “Look there’s no need for this. We just, um, ya know, were told Leo wanted to talk. That’s all.”

  “Take your gun out with your left hand and slowly put it on the bar.”

  When Ike had finished doing this, Tony tossed Johnny aside like a rag doll sending him crashing into a chair before he dropped onto the floor. Tony picked up Ike’s automatic, stuffed it in his waistband looked at Ike and said, “Okay, let’s go hear what your dog trainer wants.”

  A half hour later the three of them walked through the restaurant and bar of The Blue Lady causing heads to turn watching the three of them. Ike was in the lead followed by Johnny who was holding his head back to keep from bleeding while Tony brought up the rear. Tony had put on a light jacket he had in the car which he used to cover up the two guns he had taken from the two men marching ahead of him.

  Ike knocked on Leo’s door and passed through without waiting for a response. He sheepishly, silently walked up to Leo’s desk as Tony pushed Johnny toward a sofa and gruffly ordered him to sit down. Leo looked over the three of them, frowned, and then looked at a large man quietly standing by several large, metal, secure file cabinets. Leo nodded at the man and looked toward Tony giving his employee the signal to frisk Tony for weapons.

  The man, obviously a weightlifter type, moved toward Tony with his hands held out in a gesture to let Tony know what was coming. Tony had been quietly waiting for this, his right hand in his coat pocket around a solid metal object the size and shape of a roll of quarters. When Leo’s thug got within two strides of him, Tony stepped into the man and with the metal object in his hand sucker punched him with a right cross to the jaw. The thug’s head snapped to the side, his eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped as if his puppet strings had been cut, flat on his back out cold.

  Tony quickly pulled the handgun from his back waistband and holding it at his side removed the unconscious man’s gun and slid his hand over the man’s legs and ankles. Satisfied the one weapon was the only one the man had on him he tossed the pistol in a chair behind himself and did the same with Ike’s gun.

  “Nicely done,” Leo calmly said. “He’s a strong, tough man. What I don’t understand is why you’re being so hostile, Mr. Carvelli. I only wanted to have a little chat with you. As for you two, we’ll discuss your situation later. For now, you can go.”

  “No,” Tony said, slightly waving Johnny’s gun at them. “You stay right where I can see you. Now, what do you want, Leo?”

  “Whatever,” Leo said with a shrug as he nodded at Ike and Johnny.

  Leo turned his attention back to Tony and smoothly said, “You see, Tony, you don’t mind if I call you Tony do you? I like to think of myself as a horticulturist. A sort of gardener. I plant and grow businesses. And I have had some success and I employ a lot of people.

  “Now I’m hearing these things that disturb me. Things such as you stomping around in my garden on behalf of a woman whose fabulous wealth, from what I hear, maybe isn’t totally legitimate. And I just can’t help wonder why? Why are you kicking around in my garden?”

  Tony was holding the gun in his left hand his arms crossed and dangling in front of the chair he was standing behind and leaning on in front of Leo’s desk. He casually looked down at Leo, pursed his lips and nodded his head several times.

  “Interesting,” he quietly replied. “Sorenson must’ve called you as soon as I left him.”

  “One of my associates saw you with Councilman Sorenson earlier this evening. You see, Carvelli, I have eyes and ears everywhere. Think of the late Councilman Bishop and that bartender friend of yours, what was his name?”

  “Jerry Hughes. Are you admitting you’re responsible for their deaths?” Tony calmly asked, doing his best to suppress his rising anger.

  “Now,” Leo continued ignoring Tony’s questions as he leaned on his desk and said with a stern and serious look on his face, “what the hell are you up to?”

  Tony stared back at the gangster for almost a full minute. Then, with a sly smile on his face said, “You can stuff the tough guy act. It may impress your two idiots here,” he nodded toward Ike and Johnny. “But not me, Leo. Your gorilla here on the floor doesn’t scare me, your chew-toy sitting on the couch doesn’t scare me and this dickless little shit standing next to me sure as hell doesn’t scare me.

  “You see, Leo, it’s well known on the street that you dare not whack a cop or an ex-cop; too much heat. And when I am ready to let you know what I’m up to, you won’t have to ask.”

  Tony turned toward Ike who had been glaring at him the entire time. Carvelli smiled at him and took one quick step toward Ike and jabbed him in the throat with the U formed by the thumb and index finger on his right hand. Ike’s eyes bulged out, his hands went to his throat and he began gasping for air. Tony then pulled his right hand back and gave Ike a stiff-arm with the palm of his hand to the forehead that Adrian Peterson would be proud of.

  Ike hit the floor still gasping for air and Johnny started to get up from the sofa, thought better of it and stayed seated. Leo stood up, an angry look on his face as Tony stepped over to Ike and knelt down beside him.

  While looking at Leo, Tony said to Ike, “Now you know how Bob Corwin felt you damn psycho. Breathe asshole. You’ll be fine.”

  Tony stood up, stepped up to the front edge of Leo’s desk, looked him in the eye and said, “A last word of advice. You’d be well advised to steer clear of Vivian Donahue. You are way out of your league messing with that lady. Trust me. She could eat you for lunch. She has access to assets you couldn’t even dream about. This is not someone for you to mess with. I’m leaving now, Leo. Have a nice night.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Gordon Prentiss was in a foul mood and had been for several days. Even the two hours he had spent at Leo’s specialty sex house two nights ago had not alleviated his disposition. He checked the time on his watch and decided being twenty minutes late to hear the case waiting for him in his courtroom was about right. It served the purpose of making sure the lawyers knew who was in charge and would allow the insurance company defense lawyers the right to bill more time to their client.

  The judge was hearing a motion for summary judgment being brought by the insurance company lawyers. It was a medical malpractice case where liability was questionable and should be left for a jury to decide. Instead, on a routine motion to dismiss, which is what they were in court for, Prentiss had already made up his mind to rule in favor of the insurance company. Being a corporate lawyer before his appointment to the bench was a bias that he could not shake and did not want to.

  He finished signing the court orders and letters his clerk had written for him, dropped his Montblanc pen onto the desk blotter, stood and put his robe on.

  After taking his seat on the bench, he looked over the mostly empty courtroom. His clerk read the case names and court file number into the record and Prentiss addressed the four lawyers, three for the defense and one for the plaintiff. The judge gave instructions to both sides that, since he had read their pleadings and briefs, to keep it short.

  Prentiss silently listened, outwardly looking patient, interested and engaged while inwardly seething, especially at the lawyer for the plaintiff. He had little sympathy for medical malpractice victims who he believed were greedy, little losers trying to cash in on what was a simple, honest mistake by doctors doing their best to treat people.

  The case before him was seriously flawed, as far as he was concerned. The plaintiff had surgery done on his right leg to remove a benign cyst. The surgeon had unknowingly nicked an artery in the man’s leg that the surgeon had not noticed before closing up the incision. Internal bleeding from it had almost cost the man his leg, but except for a slight permanent limp and the use of a cane, the man seemed to have recovered. One of the surgical nurses had alleged the surgeon had been drinking at lunch two hours before. None of the other surgical team members would corroborate this and
Prentiss was not going to let this go before a jury. He would decide as a matter of law that there was no liability by the doctor and if the plaintiff wanted to appeal, he didn’t care.

  Normally a judge would not rule on a hearing of this type directly from the bench. Instead, he or she would take it under advisement and issue a written order. Prentiss was in the mood to bully someone and stroke his ego. He wanted to exert his power and authority, and for him there was no better way than to dismiss what he considered a frivolous lawsuit brought by an ambulance chaser on behalf of a greedy plaintiff.

  Prentiss listened to the plaintiff’s lawyer as he finished refuting the defendant’s claim that judgment should be granted in favor of the doctor and the insurance company. Before the man had returned to his chair, Prentiss said, “The defendant’s motion for summary judgment is hereby granted and the case is dismissed with prejudice.” With that, he stood up and quickly left the bench to return to his chambers.

  All four lawyers sat in totally stunned silence, none of them quite sure or believing what had just occurred. It was a ridiculously bad ruling and none of them had expected this result. In fact, the only reason the defense lawyers even brought it was to bill more hours to the case. The motion itself was a formality not to be taken seriously.

  “You’re going to lose on appeal, Jerry,” the plaintiff’s lawyer finally broke the stunned silence by saying. “What the hell is wrong with this guy?”

  “It was a bit of a surprise. I’m not sure what got into him. As far as an appeal goes, well,” the lead defense attorney continued as his two associates gathered up their case files, “take your best shot. We’ll see what happens. Or, you can take fifty grand and go away.”

  “Not a chance. I’ll appeal and file a complaint against this guy. This won’t stand but what an ass!”

  A short while later, Prentiss heard a soft knock on the door of his chambers. Before answering, he quickly put the photos he was admiring back in his bottom desk drawer and as always, made sure it was locked. The judge’s clerk let him know that there were two lawyers who wanted to see him on a criminal case he had been assigned.

  A moment later the two lawyers, both women, one from the county attorney’s office and one from the public defender, took the two chairs in front of his desk. His clerk came in with the court’s case file. The two lawyers were coming from a conference they had regarding a plea discussion to a burglary case. The defendant had been caught by a Minneapolis police officer as he climbed out a window of an apartment he was leaving. The burglar had a bag full of miscellaneous goods with a very small street value and had been charged with second-degree burglary.

  The county attorney’s office had agreed to reduce the charge to fourth-degree burglary, a gross misdemeanor. They had agreed he was to be sentenced to a year in jail and a three thousand dollar fine, all of which would be stayed if he successfully completed a certified drug rehab program and three years supervised probation. The two lawyers silently waited for Prentiss to respond. Normally, this would be accepted without a problem by any judge in the county.

  He reviewed the court’s file and the defendant’s criminal history looked at the lawyers then firmly replied, “Well, it’s not enough jail time. This is Mr. Micelli’s third time through the system and he doesn’t seem to want to learn anything.”

  “Excuse me, your Honor,” the prosecutor interrupted. “The first two are minor drug possession charges and…”

  “I can read, Ms. Harper.” Prentiss abruptly cut her off. “I can’t stop you from reducing the charge from a felony to a gross misdemeanor, but I don’t have to accept your agreement. I want some jail time. I won’t stay any of it. I’ll sentence him to the full year. He’ll do nine months.”

  “I’ll have to check in with him,” the public defender answered him not hiding her annoyance.

  “Get back to me when you talk to him,” Prentiss said by way of dismissal.

  Under normal circumstances, having put two lawyers in their place and dismissing what he considered a frivolous lawsuit, Gordon Prentiss would be in a better mood. Even slapping his disobedient wife a few times over the weekend had not alleviated the darkness that was starting to rise up within him.

  Later that afternoon while he was reading through the briefs and pleadings for a hearing he had the next day, he received a phone call on his personal, direct line. Prentiss checked the caller I.D., recognized the number and anxiously answered the call.

  “Hello, Gordon,” he heard the woman say. “You’ve been a bad boy.”

  “Yes, Mistress Aneksi,” he whispered into the phone, his breathing coming in shallow gasps.

  “You need some discipline, don’t you Gordon?”

  “Yes, Mistress Aneksi. I’ve been bad,” he croaked.

  “You will be at my house at 9:00 P.M. exactly. Not a minute later. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Mistress Aneksi,” he meekly answered as she hung up.

  At precisely nine o’clock that evening, the woman Prentiss knew as Mistress Aneksi opened her front door to find him standing on the stoop exactly as commanded. Mistress Aneksi was born Julie Olson. Now in her early forties, she had grown up on a farm near a Minnesota town not far from the South Dakota border. Her girl-next-door wholesome looks and natural blonde hair had long ago been replaced by jet black hair down past her shoulders, dark purple lipstick, pale, white skin and enough black eye-shadow to frighten Dracula. She was wearing a short, black leather dress and six-inch spiked, black leather boots that went past her knees.

  The moment she opened the door and Prentiss saw her, he audibly gasped, his knees began to quiver and his palms became sweaty. She stood in the doorway with a bored, indifferent expression on her face while he cowered in front of her. After at least thirty to forty seconds, she finally said, “Get your car, Gordon. We’re going out for a while.”

  A short while later Prentiss pulled the car into a driveway of what had once been a mansion of a very well to do family on Summit Avenue in St. Paul. Prentiss and the woman in the back seat had been here several times before. Mistress Aneksi had been introduced to him by a hostess who worked at Leo’s brothel. Since meeting her a little over a year ago, Prentiss had sunk deeper and deeper into the darker, more underground world of the S & M culture in the Twin Cities. Most of it was harmless, consensual and legal as long as there was no sexual contact involved when money was being paid. Tonight’s events did not include pay for play and since it was allegedly voluntary and consensual, the authorities turned a blind eye.

  Prentiss parked his car in back of the big house, ran around to Mistress Aneksi’s door to open it for her and obediently stood by while she got out of the vehicle. She reached in her large leather bag, removed a full face white mask and silently handed it to Prentiss who promptly put it on while following her toward the home’s back door. Just before reaching the door, she pulled another mask from her bag, this one a half-mask with decorative feathers and put it on herself.

  Prentiss followed her down a set of carpeted stairs to the building’s basement. The door they passed through at the bottom of the stairs closed behind them indicating the show was about to begin.

  The room had a twelve-foot high ceiling, was sound-proofed and laid out like a small amphitheatre. There were twenty-seven plush, cloth covered chairs that were set up on three semi-circular levels, nine chairs per level. Each chair was situated so that everyone in attendance had a completely unobstructed view of the fifteen by twenty-foot stage built onto the floor directly in front of the seating area. The entrance to the stage was to its right from which the evening’s “entertainment” would appear.

  Mistress Aneksi looked over the crowd in the dimly lit theater while Prentiss stood obediently behind her. There were about twenty people in attendance. A few were male-female couples, several male-male and female-female couples and a smattering of single men. One of the men was sitting by himself at the end of the second tier in the chair closest to the door. Mistress Aneksi stepped ove
r to him, stood above him, glared down at him and after ten seconds, the man mumbled an apology, stood up and scurried to the other side of the room. She sat down in the second seat in from the aisle and pointed to the aisle seat indicating Prentiss could take it.

  A few minutes later the theater lights went out, replaced by several lights strategically located above the stage to give the audience a well-lit view. A very attractive woman, probably in her early thirties, appeared from backstage wearing a very revealing dominatrix, black-fetish, lingerie costume bodysuit. Like all of the guests, she was also wearing a mask similar to the one Mistress Aneksi had put on.

  She introduced herself as Lady Lucille and she would be the Mistress of Ceremonies for the evening. She welcomed everyone to the festivities, gave a brief run-down of the acts to follow, and snapped the whip she held in her right hand with a sharp crack that signaled the show was to begin.

  For the next two hours Mistress Aneksi, Prentiss and the other spectators were entertained, if any normal person could use that word, by some of the most depraved spectacles imaginable. And there was nothing fake or phony about it. Women whipping men while the man crawled around the stage on all fours seemed to be the main attraction, but there were plenty of other depravities as well. They watched the first hour and a half or so then Prentiss began to fidget in his seat.

  “I’m bored,” he whispered to his date. “You know what I want to see.”

  “You’ll see it soon enough,” she whispered back lightly patting him on the knee. “Besides, it’s good for you to watch what you have coming later.”

  At that moment, there was a break in the entertainment. A man dressed only in a leather hood and thong bikini underwear came out on stage with a large garden hose and used it to spray off the blood that was on the floor. When he finished, he went backstage with the hose and a minute later came back with Lady Lucille and a young Asian girl. The girl could not have been much older than sixteen. Her hands were bound with rope in front of her and her mouth had a ball gag in it strapped to her head. Her eyes were glassed over and she stood lethargically giving her the appearance of someone who had been drugged.