Certain Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “That would do it,” Rhea said. “I say we have enough probable cause for an arrest and a DNA swab.”

  “I agree,” Matthews said. “Rhea, go tell them to come back in. Then you do up an affidavit and get a warrant and DNA request signed.”

  “Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll have them both,” Watson said looking at the detectives.

  “We’ll wait in here or come to your office,” Carvelli told her.

  Matthews asked the two men, “Do we give this guy a walk?”

  “No,” Carvelli emphatically said. “He needs to do some time. A couple of years in Lino Lakes is fine, but he doesn’t walk completely from a felony murder without something.” Lino Lakes is a minimum security prison in a suburb of St. Paul. “And,” he continued, “I want a written confession of every burglary he’s done and who his fence is. We might as well clear some cases.”

  “Jake?” Matthews asked Waschke.

  “Yeah, I’m okay with that. I know this Traynor. He’s a bad boy that we need to get off the streets.”

  There was a light knock on the door before Jimmy and his lawyer came back into the room. They sat down in the same chairs, Ferguson removed a legal pad from his leather satchel and looked at Matthews.

  “Okay, here’s what we’ll offer,” Matthews began. “I’ll recommend ten years in prison…”

  “What?” Jimmy practically yelled.

  Ferguson placed his right hand gently on Jimmy’s left arm and calmly said, “Let him finish.”

  “I’ll recommend ten years in prison and ask the judge to stay eight years of it. You’ll do two years in Lino Lakes, sixteen months actually, then ten years of supervised probation. You’ll have the remaining eight years of jail time hanging over your head. You will fully cooperate in the prosecution of your partner, including testifying if necessary. You will be absolutely truthful and you will not withhold anything. Any lying and the deal’s off and we prosecute you for burglary and felony murder. Do you understand?”

  All eyes turned to Jimmy who sighed heavily, swallowed hard and said, “I hate the thought of going back to prison.”

  “It’s Lino Lakes,” Ferguson reminded him.

  “Or we can kick your ass loose and you can deal with Howie Traynor on your own,” Waschke said.

  Ferguson glared at the homicide detective and sternly said, “Those kind of threats aren’t necessary, Jake.”

  “Just a friendly reminder, Charlie,” Waschke replied.

  “And one other thing,” Carvelli said. “You will write down, in detail, everything about this case and every job you’ve done since you got out of Stillwater three years ago. And,” he continued pointing his right index finger at him, “just because we haven’t been able to bust you for them, doesn’t mean I don’t know about them. If you lie or leave anything out, I’ll know.”

  FIVE

  “Okay, any questions? Everybody know what to do?” Jake Waschke asked the five men and two women. The eight police officers had gathered behind a Taco Bell on Twenty-Eighth Avenue and Franklin in Minneapolis. They were less than a block away and across Franklin from their objective, the East End bar.

  Jimmy Oliver had suggested they try to find Traynor in this bar. It was where Jimmy had confronted him earlier that afternoon. Waschke had sent in an undercover cop he knew to check the place out. He had reported back that Traynor was there still shooting pool. The undercover officer was also still in the bar keeping an eye on him.

  The eight cops gathered at the Taco Bell to conduct the arrest were Waschke and his partner, Carvelli and his partner and two plainclothes from burglary. Carvelli had also rounded up two uniformed cops. The two women were one of the plainclothes from burglary and one of the uniforms.

  The plan was for Waschke, Carvelli, the two plainclothes and the two uniforms to go in the front. Waschke’s and Carvelli’s partners would come in through the back.

  Jimmy assured them Traynor would not have a gun but could not say he would not have a different weapon. He also assured them it was unlikely Traynor would go peacefully and quietly. Waschke made sure everyone had on a vest and the two plain clothes cops would carry Tasers.

  Everything went exactly as planned until they approached Howie Traynor. While the two uniforms blocked the front door and the two detectives came in through the back, Waschke walked up to Traynor holding the arrest warrant.

  “Howard Traynor,” Waschke began while his three compatriots spread out to form a semi-circle around him. The other two detectives remained blocking the back door.

  Traynor, his backside to the group, was bent over the pool table lining up a shot. After taking the shot, he stood up, turned to Waschke and casually asked, “Who wants to know?”

  “I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Lucille Benson,” Waschke announced.

  When he did this, the dozen or so people at and around the pool tables went completely silent. The ones closest to the table Traynor was leaning against quietly moved away. The East End was a tough bar in a tough neighborhood. Its patrons were not strangers to the police. But even these guys knew a murder warrant was not something in which any of them wanted to become embroiled.

  Traynor looked over the four cops with an indifferent expression while shifting the pool cue to turn it into a club. He looked at Waschke and said, “I’m not done with my game.” This comment drew some mild laughter from the spectators and a sinister smile from Tony Carvelli.

  “Howie, you’re coming with us and you know it. Put the cue down and let’s make this easy,” Carvelli said.

  “Tell you what,” Traynor said to Carvelli, “you take it away from me and then I’ll come nice and easy.”

  When he heard this, Waschke looked at the male plainclothes cop who had come in with them and nodded his head to him. Without hesitating, the man aimed the Taser he was holding behind his back and fired it at Traynor. The leads hit him in the mid-abdomen and fifty thousand volts began to course through his body.

  Howie’s knees began to buckle, he dropped the pool cue, let out a large groan and then did something amazing. He grabbed the Taser’s wires, jerked the leads out of his body and threw them at the cop who fired them. Before anyone could move, he charged the cop who shot him and drilled him with a wicked right hand punch that lifted the cop completely off of his feet and flat on his back.

  Waschke, for a big man, could move quick as a cat when he needed to. He swiftly jumped behind Traynor and as he did so, he flicked his wrist and expanded the twenty-one inch, steel, telescoping baton he was holding. He laid the weapon behind Traynor’s right knee immediately collapsing it sending him downward. He also hit him with the palm of his open left hand in the back of the head. As Traynor fell face first toward the floor, the woman plainclothes cop fired her Taser and hit him in the back. This time, the weapon did its job.

  The two police sergeants, Waschke and Carvelli, immediately went into action taking control of the situation. The woman who tased Howie, Helen Barkey, cuffed Howie then knelt next to the unconscious policeman. Waschke quickly walked away from the pool tables toward the front door. He walked through the curious crowd in the bar and told the senior patrolman, Owen Jefferson, what he wanted. No one was to leave without giving the cops their identification. While Waschke did this in the bar area, Carvelli told his partner and Waschke’s partner at the back door, the same thing. Get everyone’s name and no one leaves.

  Waschke came back, grabbed a chair and he and Carvelli, none too gently, slammed the now handcuffed Howie Traynor into it.

  Barkey stood up and said to the two sergeants, “Conlin’s hurt pretty bad. Maybe a busted jaw.” She then pulled her radio out and called for backup and an ambulance. Within ten minutes there were a dozen more cops in the place and two EMT’s were working on the assaulted policeman.

  While all of this was taking place, Traynor was yelling and cursing at the cops claiming police brutality and a broken leg. Waschke leaned over him until his face was three inches in front of him. Traynor f
inally shut his mouth with the big cop glaring at him.

  “Helen, come here,” Waschke said without looking away from Traynor. “You got your Taser and is it ready to go again?”

  Barkey checked the weapon then said, “Good to go, Sarge.”

  “Fine. If this asshole doesn’t shut up or if he even flinches, tase him in the balls. You got it?”

  “My pleasure, Sarge,” the policewoman said and from three feet away, aimed the weapon right at Traynor’s crotch. “Please give me a reason,” she said to him.

  A few minutes later a uniformed police captain arrived. Both Waschke and Carvelli knew the man personally and were confident in his ability to take charge of the situation. Carvelli gave the captain a brief report on what happened. At the same time, Waschke found two large uniformed officers. They gathered up Traynor and half dragged and half carried him through the back door where Carvelli’s young partner had parked their car.

  The two beefy patrolmen strapped Traynor into the back seat with the seat belt, his arms still cuffed behind him.

  Carvelli was driving with Waschke in the front passenger seat. “Have you ever seen anybody do that, pull those Taser leads out of themselves like that?” Carvelli quietly asked Waschke.

  “I’ve heard of it but never seen it myself.”

  They were going west on Franklin toward downtown Minneapolis and the Old City Hall which housed the police department. They had traveled barely two blocks when Traynor said, “You two idiots really fucked up. I’m gonna walk from this. You forgot to read me my rights.” He laughed heartily at this as if he had pulled something over on them.

  Carvelli simply smiled and Waschke turned to look at Traynor and said, “Holy shit. What a screw-up. I didn’t know you were a lawyer. Where did you go to law school, Harvard? I got some disappointing news for you, dickhead. We haven’t asked any questions so, technically, we don’t have to read you your rights yet. But as long as you brought it up, I’ll do it now.” Waschke recited them to him, smiled and said, “Now I want you to invoke your right to remain silent and shut your mouth for a while until we do ask you something.”

  “I want a lawyer,” Traynor sullenly said.

  “We’ll get you one. Now be quiet for a while.”

  The detectives each held one of Traynor’s arms as they led him limping to the booking window. While Waschke removed the handcuffs, the sergeant in charge of booking said to Carvelli, “We heard about this. Great job for you guys. Excellent work.”

  “Thanks, Frank,” Carvelli said. “Empty your pockets,” he told Traynor.

  Traynor began removing the contents of his pants’ pockets while the booking sergeant began filling out an inventory envelope to record the contents. He pulled out a pack of Camel filters and a lighter and set them on the counter. Carvelli instantly recognized the lighter.

  “Whoa! What have we here?” Carvelli said. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and used it to carefully pick up the lighter. He rolled it around in his hand careful not to let it touch his skin, then turned his head to look at Traynor.

  “I found that,” Traynor said.

  “Sure you did. And I know right where you found it. It was on the dresser in the bedroom of Lucille Benson. I saw a picture of it this morning. Her daughter brought it in to help us identify the shit you two assholes stole after you killed her mother. It’s an antique lighter that’s been in the family for almost a hundred years”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about any of that. I found that lighter this morning,” Traynor replied showing nervousness for the first time.

  “Good defense strategy,” Waschke chimed in. “I’d stick with that if I were you.”

  The booking sergeant held open a clear plastic evidence bag and Carvelli dropped the lighter in it. He then held it in front of Traynor’s face and said, “What we have here is corroboration, proof that you were there. Then when the DNA comes back as a match, well, you’re gone, tough guy.”

  “What DNA? You’re lying.”

  “The hair and skin found under the victim’s fingernails. There’s enough to test,” Waschke said.

  “It’s yours, moron. Bye bye,” Carvelli said.

  Defiantly, Traynor glared at them and said, “I’ll be there to piss on both of your graves.”

  SIX

  Marc Kadella wearily sat on a padded bench in the hallway outside courtroom 1523 in the Hennepin County Government Center. The pain in his lower back was finally gone. The stress of doing his first homicide trial had tightened up his lower back muscles for the duration of the trial. Four days and no relief. The case had been given to the jury only two hours ago and the pain was already gone.

  Marc leaned back against the hallway wall and vacantly stared across the empty space at the government side of the big building. He found himself taking simple pleasure watching through the windows as the county employees worked at their desks or busily scurried about. It felt good to have his mind in neutral; not thinking about the trial or what he should be doing to prepare for it. It was over. He had given it his best shot and there was nothing more he could do.

  Marc thought about his client, Howie Traynor. He was accused of first and second-degree murder in the death of an elderly woman during the commission of a burglary. Going into the trial, Marc believed he could beat the first-degree charge but probably not the second-degree. His client was likely looking at three serious felony convictions, including assault on a police officer. If convicted of everything but the first degree murder charge, he was looking at thirty years, minimum.

  It had been eight months since the crime was committed. Fall and winter had come and gone and a lot had happened during that time. The murder of a member of a well-known, respected, politically prominent family had generated a lot of publicity and media attention. Being a novice at dealing with the press, Marc could only hope he didn’t come across as too much of an inexperienced fool. For a solid hour after the case went to the jury, Marc, and the lead prosecutor, Rhea Watson, had both given multiple impromptu interviews here in the hallway. While replaying it in his mind, Marc appreciated the quiet and solitude even more.

  Marc began to go over the trial in his head. He knew it was a bad idea to do this. It would lead to second guessing himself and thinking of new things he should have done. But he couldn’t help himself.

  The first thing he mentally replayed was his cross-examination of the medical examiner who had conducted the autopsy. During the man’s direct-exam, he testified that there were microscopic cotton fibers found in the victim’s mouth and nose. These fibers, he testified, were an exact match with the pillow found next to the body. A lab tech had previously testified that there were traces of lipstick that matched the lipstick worn by the deceased. Also, DNA analysis showed saliva from the same spot on the pillow as the lipstick. This allowed the ME to testify that, in his medical opinion, someone held that pillow over the face of the victim and was the proximate cause of the heart attack that killed her.

  Replaying the cross-exam, Marc was satisfied he had done as good a job as anyone could trying to find reasonable doubt about the cause of death. He was able to get the doctor to admit the lipstick and saliva on the pillow could have happened simply by the deceased rolling on her side or putting her mouth on it while she slept. And this could have caused the small cotton particles to enter her nose and mouth.

  The problem he had was the bruising on the jawline. There was simply no reasonable explanation for how that could have happened except by someone holding the pillow over her fragile face. Between that and the DNA evidence from the hair and skin found under the victim’s fingernails, a 99% match, Howie’s goose was cooked. Howie Traynor was going down for the murder of Lucille Benson, second-degree felony murder. Marc believed he was not going to get first-degree premeditated murder. Howie did not go up those stairs intending to kill anyone. According to the state’s star witness, Jimmy Oliver, they believed no one was home, so how could anyone have gone into that bedroom planning to kill som
eone who wasn’t supposed to be there? Clearly the prosecution had overcharged.

  Marc thought it over for another fifteen or twenty minutes then satisfied himself that he had done a good job. Not only that, but being honest with himself, he wasn’t the least bit upset that Howie was going to prison for a long time. The simple truth was even if Howie did not admit it, he was guilty as hell. And like just about everyone else who came in contact with him, Howie Traynor scared the hell out of Marc Kadella.

  “Replaying the case? Second guessing yourself?” Marc heard the voice of his counterpart, Rhea Watson say to him. He had been so lost in thought he didn’t notice her walk up next to him.

  Marc looked up at her, smiled and said, “Hey, Rhea.”

  “Mind if I join you?” she asked.

  “No, not at all. Have a seat,” Marc replied as he picked up the briefcase he had set on the seat next to him and put it on the floor.

  “Yeah, I was thinking it over,” Marc agreed as the lawyer sat down, crossed her legs and pulled her skirt down to her knees.

  “Don’t,” she said. “You did a good job. Old Mickey would have been proud of you. He may have been a bit of a drunk and notorious womanizer, but he was a damn fine trial lawyer. I bet you learned a lot from him.”

  “Yeah, I did,” he agreed. “Learned a lot the hard way the past few days.”

  “That’s probably the best way. You beat us on the first-degree charge. I think we got you on everything else. I’ll make you a new offer. He pleads to second-degree, we recommend thirty years. Peterson will go along with it,” she said referring to the judge. “Otherwise, we’re going to ask for an upward departure on the homicide and consecutive sentencing on everything else. He’ll get forty for sure. This guy scares everybody, including the judge.”

  The thirty-year offer was ten years more than the original offer they had made six months ago.