Desperate Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  Prentiss began stirring in his seat as soon as the girl had been brought out. He sat up straight, leaned forward and quietly said, “Now, this is more like it.”

  A hook was lowered from the ceiling and while Lady Lucille stood to the side watching, the unidentified man lifted the girl up and attached the ropes that bound her hands to the hook. It then receded back up into the ceiling until the girl’s feet were approximately eighteen inches off the floor. The man then reached up and ripped her clothing off her body leaving her completely naked.

  For the next fifteen minutes, the man and woman took turns whipping the poor girl. At first they used soft cloth whips and swung with minimal force. They struck her across the back, butt and legs while she twirled around clearly in discomfort. Before long, each of her tormentors took a single-strand soft leather whip exerting a little more force. There was a stirring in the crowd as this continued. Clearly this was the main event of the evening and the attendees were trying to savor every moment of it.

  After the first two strokes with the leather whips, the girl began to writhe and twirl faster and was obviously trying to scream. Despite the drugs she had been given, the pain was getting worse and after just two or three more strokes, her skin was broken and blood began to flow. She received another half dozen shots to her bloody back then the girl made one more pronounced movement, tried one last time to scream through her gag, arched her back as her eyes rolled up into her head and her body went limp, her chin resting on her upper chest.

  While several members of the audience began to applaud, Mistress Aneksi grabbed Prentiss by the elbow, stood up and whispered to him to get up, get moving and get out. The two of them quickly went through the door, up the stairs and out to Prentiss’ Lincoln.

  “What happened? Why are we leaving? It was just getting good,” Prentiss asked.

  “Shut up and get in the car, you fool. We have to get the hell out of here now. And take your mask off.”

  She got in the backseat and he drove her home without a word passing between them. When they reached her house, she didn’t wait for him. Instead, she began to open her door as soon as the car stopped.

  “I want to come in,” he pleaded. “You said it yourself. I’ve been bad and need some discipline.”

  “Go home, Gordon,” she answered as patiently as she could. “Just shut your mouth, go home and act like nothing happened. We weren’t there tonight. Do you understand?” she said forcefully commanding him.

  “Yes, I understand,” he replied even though he didn’t.

  “Good. Now go home,” she said slamming his door and walking toward her house.

  Two days later, Prentiss read a small story on page one of the Metro section of the paper. It was a short report of a group of kids hiking in the woods in a remote section of Dakota County, south of St. Paul. They had discovered the naked, badly beaten body of an Asian, teenage girl. Authorities believe she was a young girl whose parents had reported her missing three days before. It was only then that it finally dawned on Judge Gordon Prentiss what he had witnessed and how lucky he was to have gotten away when he did.

  FORTY-TWO

  Teeing off from the white markers on the par five, fourth hole at Phalen Golf Course, the Governor of Minnesota, Ted Dahlstrom, hit his best drive of the day, two hundred and forty plus yards straight down the middle of the fairway. It was a beautiful, sunny day, low humidity, plentiful sunshine and the governor had sneaked out with three good friends for a pleasant afternoon.

  Since the brutal murder of his daughter at the hands of a serial killer the previous year, few things had given him much joy. Grief counseling had helped somewhat. Running a state government and being the head of a major political party kept him busy and helped take his mind off of the tragedy. He was finding out what most parents who lost a child had learned. The passage of time brings a bit of relief, but there would always be a hole in his heart for his daughter.

  The governor and the other members of his foursome, all having teed off, got into their carts and headed down the fairway to find their golf balls. Following them in their own cart were two members of the governor’s security detail, Phil Monson and Ron Harlan.

  The two men guarding the governor were dressed as casual as the golfers except for the .40 caliber handguns and communication equipment they carried. Both of them were members of the state highway patrol specially selected for this duty.

  The governor’s cart was being driven by the only African American member of the group, the head of the Minnesota Republican Party, Paul Thatch. The other cart carried the Minnesota Senate minority leader, Cal Renner and the Chief Judge of the Hennepin County District Court, Harold Jennrich. All four men were good friends and long time Republicans.

  Thatch and Governor Dahlstrom stopped their cart in the fairway where Jennrich’s ball had gone into the rough. While waiting for the judge to find his ball and play it, the two men quietly chatted about the weather, how badly the Twins were doing and what a nice drive Dahlstrom had made. The one rule the men had and tried to abide by was no politics on the golf course. They wanted to make it one of the few places they could get together and not talk shop.

  Jennrich found his ball just as Phil Monson, the security man driving the follow cart, pulled up alongside the governor.

  “Sorry, sir, it’s Laurie Anderson,” he said referring to the governor’s chief of staff as he held out a phone to him. “She says it’s extremely important.”

  Dahlstrom took the phone, got out of the cart and walked thirty feet farther onto the fairway so as not to disturb Jennrich. He put the phone to his ear and quietly said, “Yes, Laurie, what is it?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, sir, but we just got word that Alan Maslin is dead.”

  “Are you serious?” Dahlstrom asked as he turned and waved at Thatch for him to join the governor. “Has this been confirmed?” he said as Thatch approached him with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Yes, governor. It’s all over the news. CNN, Fox, CBS, all of them are reporting it.”

  “What?” Thatch silently mouthed the word when he got next to Dahlstrom.

  The governor removed the phone from his ear and said, “Alan Maslin is dead.”

  “No shit! How, when, what?”

  “Who are you talking to?” Laurie asked.

  “Paul Thatch,” Dahlstrom replied.

  “Oh good, I was hoping he was with you. He was going to be my next call. You’re going to love this. They are reporting an apparent heart attack and Fox is reporting, and they’re the only ones who are saying this so far, that he died in bed with another man.”

  “No! C’mon, what? You’re not serious,” Dahlstrom said.

  “That’s what Fox is reporting. Of course, none of the others are saying it. But if it’s true, sooner or later they will have it too.”

  “He’s a married man! He has kids!”

  “What?” Thatch asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

  “What’s going on?” Cal Renner asked when he and Jennrich pulled their cart up to the other two golfers.

  “And the best part is…”Laurie began.

  “There’s more?” Dahlstrom asked.

  “Oh, yeah. The Senator’s alleged lover is a guy named Keith Farrell. He’s a lobbyist with Citizens for the Second Amendment. It’s a gun rights advocacy group.”

  “This just keeps getting better,” Dahlstrom said shaking his head, the phone to his ear as his three companions, in unison, all said “What?”

  “The press is going to want a statement,” Laurie said.

  “Yeah, well, for now just give them the usual bullshit blather about our thoughts and prayers go out to his family. You know the drill. Tell them we’ll have more later.”

  “They’ll want to know about selecting a replacement.”

  “Just tell them it’s too early and that I haven’t had time to even think about it.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

  Dahlstrom
shut off the phone, looked back at the tee box and when he saw no one waiting for them, turned to his three friends. He told them what he just learned and waited for a response.

  “The limousine liberal, socialist senator from show-biz is dead. That’s a start,” Renner said. “The one who practically weeps if he is in front of a TV camera and someone uses the words ‘gun’ or ‘Second Amendment’, has a heart attack while in the sack with a gay gun rights lobbyist. It can’t get better than that.”

  “Show a little respect, Cal. The man was a U.S. Senator and he has died. Let’s not dance on his grave,” Dahlstrom politely admonished him.

  “Looks like we have a senate seat that we’ll win this fall,” Thatch said.

  “What about that, Ted?” Harold Jennrich asked. “Are you going to appoint someone to fill out his term?”

  “Yes, I think I will,” the governor answered. “They have some important votes coming up this fall and we should have representation.”

  “Anyone in mind?” Renner asked thinking primarily of himself.

  “Not you, Cal. I need you right where you are, not spending six months in Washington and then be out of a job.”

  “What about our candidate, Monica Dorn?” Renner asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. She’s practically a shoe-in to win unless they pick the grieving widow to run in Maslin’s place.”

  “I don’t see that happening,” Thatch replied. “She’s about to have a shit storm of shame and embarrassment come down on her. Besides, have you ever met her? She’s a decent enough person, but Dorn would eat her for lunch in a debate and do it without getting her any sympathy.”

  “Who else?” asked Jennrich.

  “Don’t know,” Dahlstrom replied. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “It has to be someone willing to go to Washington, vote the way he’s told and be willing to step aside in January,” Thatch said.

  “I know, Paul,” the governor agreed. “Think about it and let me know if you have any suggestions.”

  The four men continued their golf game but with the news of Minnesota’s junior senator’s surprise death, none of them were really concentrating on their game. Plus, the “no politics on the golf course” rule was not holding up. When they reached the seventeenth tee Jennrich stepped up to Dahlstrom while Renner was teeing up his ball.

  “I have a suggestion,” the judge quietly said, which caught the attention of the state’s GOP chairman who turned to listen. “I know someone who would be perfect for us and we could kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Okay, I’m listening,” Dahlstrom said.

  “You remember Gordon Prentiss? The judge who handled the serial killer case last year? He’d jump at the chance.”

  “Go on, Harold,” a skeptical Dahlstrom said. “Convince me.”

  “He’s arrogant and ambitious enough to think this could be a stepping stone to greater things. He’s always acted as if being a state district court judge was somehow beneath him. And he’s a born conservative Republican. He wouldn’t go to the john without getting permission.”

  “What do you think, Paul?”

  “I’ve heard crazier things. Why do you want this, Harold?”

  “Because the man is a horseshit judge and a gigantic pain-in-the-ass. Even the prosecutors are starting to complain about him,” the judge admitted.

  “And I owe you one,” Dahlstrom said as he patted the judge on the shoulder.

  “I wasn’t going to bring it up…”

  “I know you wouldn’t. Let me think about it.”

  Laurie Anderson knocked softly on the door of the governor’s office and without waiting for a response opened it and stepped aside for their visitor and followed Paul Thatch inside. Dahlstrom was seated at his desk leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desktop. He had his phone to his ear, with a bored look on his face as he listened. Seeing him on the phone, his visitor hesitated as Laurie closed the door behind them.

  Dahlstrom silently waved the two of them to come forward as he said, “Thank you for your input senator. I certainly appreciate your position and will give it careful thought before I do anything.”

  He continued listening for another twenty seconds before politely saying goodbye. As he set the phone in its cradle, he looked at the phone and said, “Kiss my ass you crotchety old bastard.”

  Laurie and Paul Thatch both laughed as Thatch asked, “Who was that?”

  “Senator Harry Opperman, the Dems leader in the senate.”

  “You mean the talking cadaver?” Thatch replied, “The man looks like he should be lying on a slab at a university somewhere waiting to be the next medical school project. What did he want?”

  “He’s trying to get me to pick a Democrat to replace Maslin. I also got a call from the president this morning wanting the same thing and the minority leader in the house.”

  “That woman gives me the creeps,” Laurie said. “I swear she sleeps hanging upside down from the rafters.”

  “Now, now, Laurie,” Dahlstrom falsely admonished her. “She and her pals never say anything bad about conservative women.”

  “What did the president have to say?” Thatch asked.

  “Pretty much what everyone else wants to talk to me about. He’s trying to keep the seat in Democratic hands as long as possible. We had a polite conversation during which I committed to nothing. Have you heard anything from the state Democrats about who they’re going to run in Maslin’s place?” Dahlstrom asked Thatch.

  “Not so far. I talked to Mark Poling, Maslin’s campaign manager, he said he’d let me know as soon as they decided something. I also called Claire Archer the chair of the state Democratic party…”

  “Sure, I know Claire. Nice lady. Smart. Wish we could get her to switch teams,” Dahlstrom said.

  “Yeah, I like her too. We had a nice chat. She said the liberals are more pissed off that the guy was in bed with a gun rights lobbyist than the fact that Maslin was a married man having a gay affair.”

  “Have you heard from the RNC and Dorn’s campaign?” Thatch asked.

  “Yeah, both. I talked to Monica and told her I would not appoint her and she agreed that would look terrible. The RNC just wants someone who will do what he’s told. Occupy the chair and vote the way the leadership wants.”

  “I have a few names for you,” Thatch said as he reached across the desk and handed the governor a slip of paper.

  Dahlstrom took it from him, unfolded it and read the list of six names, four men and two women. All six were solid Republican legislators. He ran his left hand across his chin and thought about the names for a minute before saying, “The problem with all of these people is if I were to pick any of them their seat would be open. Their district would have a special election and we might lose it. We can’t really afford that right now.”

  “Okay, so who do you have in mind?” Laurie asked.

  “You could go with someone like the judge suggested,” added Thatch.

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking about. In fact,” he continued looking at his chief-of-staff, “get a hold of Harold Jennrich and set up a time tomorrow for him to bring Judge Prentiss over here for a meeting. Wait, better yet. See if you can get them to come to the mansion tonight, say around nine. Have them come in the back so we don’t create a stir. And when you get Harold on the phone, let me know. I’ll want to talk to him about this.”

  “Yes, sir,” Laurie said as she rose to leave. “I’ll try right now.”

  Thatch asked, “Are you really going to do this?”

  “Sure, why not? What’s the downside? If Prentiss assures us he’ll play ball, he’ll do just fine. Hell, all we need is an ass in the chair.”

  “What if he won’t take it?”

  “He’ll take it. He’s an arrogant fool. The thought of people calling him senator the rest of his life will be enough. If not, I’ll dangle a possible seat on the state supreme court the next time one opens up or maybe a federal judgeship.”


  “You wouldn’t really appoint him to…”

  “Hell no but he doesn’t have to know that.”

  At that moment, his intercom buzzed and Laurie informed him Harold Jennrich was on hold for him. Dahlstrom spent the next couple of minutes discussing what he had in mind with the judge and verifying that evening’s meeting at the Governor’s Mansion in St. Paul.

  At precisely 8:55 P.M., Gordon Prentiss driving his beloved Lincoln, followed Harold Jennrich through the gate and down the driveway of the mansion. The two men parked their cars in back after driving separately because Jennrich could not abide the thought of being alone in a car with Prentiss.

  The last time the two men were here together was the night when Prentiss was told he would preside over the most serious serial killer trial in the state’s history. Jennrich had not told him a word about this evening’s meeting and because of the way that trial went, Prentiss was both surprised and a little disturbed to be here again.

  The two of them were met at the door by a member of the security detail who guided them up the mansion’s back stairs and to the governor’s study. The security man knocked and without waiting for a response, opened the door and stood aside to let the two judges enter.

  They entered the spacious den and Dahlstrom gave them both a warm greeting along with a firm politician’s handshake. He introduced Prentiss to Paul Thatch and pointed to the opposite sofa for the two men to sit on. He then spent the next half hour explaining why Prentiss was there and what would be expected of him.

  FORTY-THREE

  Gordon Prentiss pulled his Lincoln into his driveway, pressed the button to activate the garage door opener then stopped the car and waited for the door to ascend. The full moon was almost directly overhead, its reflected light beaming down through the car’s windshield while Prentiss stared expressionlessly at his space in the garage. His mind was almost completely blank. In fact, he had no recollection of the drive back from the governor’s mansion following his meeting with Ted Dahlstrom. As he sat in the idling car staring through the windshield, the words Senator J. Gordon Prentiss III kept repeating themselves in his mind like an audio tape on a replay loop.