Certain Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  At eight o’clock, Howie came out of the apartment dressed for work at the church carrying a thermos and a bag lunch. Maddy decided to take a chance that he was going to the church. Instead of following him, she took a different route and got there ahead of him. She found a spot on the street, parked and within seconds Traynor arrived and parked in the church’s parking lot.

  During that day, Maddy and two of Tony’s retired cop friends switched off watching the church. Shortly after 1:00 P.M. Maddy was back on stakeout. At 1:30 Howie came out and drove off. Within a few blocks, having followed him downtown twice before on the same route, she knew exactly where he was going.

  The light up ahead turned green and a driver to her right honked his horn. “Relax, pal,” she whispered to herself. “This is Minneapolis, not New York.”

  Maddy drove through the intersection, pulled to the curb in a no parking zone and stopped. In less than a minute she saw Traynor emerge from the parking ramp. He looked to his right for traffic then jogged across Seventh to the office building he was going to in mid-block between Second and LaSalle. She waited two minutes to be sure he wasn’t coming out then picked up her phone from the passenger seat and speed dialed a number.

  Maddy reported in with Carvelli who told her to give it five more minutes then go. He would send one of the other guys, a new guy by the name of Franklin Washington, to pick up the tail of Howie.

  When Howie Traynor came through the door of the parking ramp onto the sidewalk on Seventh, he looked to his right to check traffic. As he did this, he saw the brunette in the black Audi parked at the curb. He trotted across Seventh with a small, barely discernible smile on his face.

  He entered the art deco office building. The building was the old Raines Building named after a long deceased railroad Baron. Built in the 1920’s, the artwork of stylish marble and granite flooring and walls still attracted art, design and architecture students from all over the country. Of course, this was totally lost on Howie Traynor.

  Ignoring the looks his somewhat shabby appearance generated, he went immediately to the bank of elevators. The after lunch crowd was still returning to work and the elevator he rode to the sixth floor was practically elbow-to-elbow.

  Disembarking, Traynor quickly went to the tastefully decorated offices of Adams & McBride, an all-female law firm. The firm normally and almost exclusively catered to women clients dealing with women’s issues. They were not “man-haters”. In fact, all seven lawyers were happily married. The two founding partners simply decided to concentrate their business on women. Glenda Albright liked to portray herself as a hard-core feminist in public. In private she was a pragmatic, self-promoting, publicity hound and money chaser. She was renting space in the office to handle the wrongful imprisonment suit for her tainted DNA clients.

  Howie looked around the familiar reception area and saw two men seated in client chairs. One of them, Gene Parlow, he knew from prison. The other, Aaron Forsberg, was not someone he recognized.

  Howie checked in with the receptionist who pleasantly informed him that Glenda would be out soon. He stepped over to the two men as Parlow arose from his chair. Howie and Parlow exchanged a prison yard handshake and awkward man hug.

  “Hey, dude,” Parlow said. “Good to see you again.”

  “Yeah, you too Gene,” Howie answered him. Traynor turned to the third man, extended his hand and said, “Howie Traynor.”

  Forsberg hesitated for a moment, looked up at Howie then almost reluctantly took the proffered hand and slightly shook it while saying, “Aaron Forsberg.”

  Howie sat down on Parlow’s left and asked, “You both here to see Glenda Albright?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s up? Did she tell you anything?” he asked looking back and forth at them.

  Parlow shrugged his shoulders and said, “No.”

  Forsberg said nothing, just shaking his head slightly.

  The door to the offices opened and Glenda came out to collect her clients. The woman was in her late sixties but could easily pass for mid-forties. Of course living in Southern California gave her access to some of the finest plastic surgeons in the country. She also knew how to dress, especially for the cameras.

  Albright quickly shook hands with the men who stood up when she came through the door. They followed her back to a glass-enclosed conference room with a great view of South Minneapolis. They all took a chair at the long conference table. With Glenda at the head, she started to explain the purpose of the meeting.

  “Okay,” she began. “We’ve had a settlement offer from the City of Minneapolis and Hennepin County with the backing of the State of Minnesota.”

  “How much?” Parlow quickly asked with obvious lust in his eyes. Traynor and Forsberg sat quietly assuming she would get to it.

  “They all want to settle as quickly as possible. They don’t want to drag this out for three or four years.”

  “Three or four years?” Parlow asked. “It could take that long?”

  “If we have to go to trial, it will easily take that long,” Albright answered him.

  “I thought there were four of us,” Forsberg said. “Where’s the other guy, the Mexican?”

  “I don’t know,” Albright said. “I haven’t been able to get a hold of him. Don’t worry about it. The offer is quite a bit more than I thought it would be. I was looking for between one point two and one point six million.”

  “How much?” an anxious Parlow asked again.

  “Two point eight million,” Glenda finally answered him. “After fees you will each receive…”

  “Four hundred sixty-nine thousand,” said Forsberg, the former investment banker who was able to run the numbers in his head. “And you’ll get nine hundred twenty-four thousand which is bullshit, Glenda.”

  “Four hundred grand!” Parlow said. “When do I get it?”

  “Wait, Aaron,” Albright said. “I know all of you agreed to the standard fees of one-third. But because I’ve been able to scare them into a big early settlement without going to trial, I’ll cut that down to twenty percent.”

  “That’s five hundred sixty-grand each, including you,” Forsberg said. “I’m not taking it, Glenda. It’s more than enough for these guys. They’re career criminals, street thugs…”

  “Who the fuck you think you are, asshole?” an angry Parlow asked glaring at Forsberg.

  “I was an investment banker. A very successful one making seven figures every year,” he said glaring back at Parlow. “That’s twice as much as this every year.” With that he slammed his fist down on the table, stood up and angrily stormed out of the room.

  While all of this was taking place, Howie pushed his chair away from the table about two feet. He leaned back, crossed his legs, folded his hands in his lap and quietly listened.

  After Forsberg slammed the door behind him, Albright looked at the other two men. “There’s more,” she began. “You wouldn’t get the money all at once. It would be structured over ten years.”

  “What does that mean?” Parlow asked. “I wouldn’t get it for ten years…”

  “No, you’d get it in equal payments paid monthly for ten years,” Albright said She looked at a legal pad she had placed on the table in front of herself. It was filled with notes and figures. When she found the one she was looking for, she continued by saying, “Four thousand six hundred sixty-six dollars per month.”

  Being told he wouldn’t get the money up front, Gene Parlow slumped back in his chair.

  “What if we say yes and he still says no?” Howie asked pointing a thumb at Forsberg’s now empty chair.

  “I don’t know,” Albright said. “I don’t think they would go for that but I can ask. Look,” she continued, “You don’t have to decide anything this minute. I obviously need to let him cool down,” she continued referring to the departed Forsberg. “I’ll talk to him in a couple days. Give it a few days and we’ll meet again.”

  Howie Traynor parked his ca
r in the small lot behind the Reardon Building on Lake Street and Charles. He was facing the south side of the building and turned his head slightly to his left. Howie was looking for the black man in the Chevy sedan who had followed him from his lawyer’s office. He saw the man drive by and the man was looking into the lot for Howie as he continued down Charles. Howie got out of his car and walked toward the back door.

  Howie had never before been to Marc Kadella’s office. He looked him up in the yellow pages and decided it was time to pay him a visit. Plus, he genuinely wanted a second opinion about the settlement offer. As he went up the long flight of stairs to the second floor he again thought about not calling ahead for an appointment and simply ignored the thought. He found Marc’s name listed by the door along with the other lawyers, lightly knocked and went in.

  Marc was at his desk working on a divorce case when the intercom sounded. He picked up the phone and heard Carolyn say, “Marc there’s a man here who says he’s an old client, Howie Traynor. He’d like a few minutes if you can spare it.”

  The instant he heard Howie’s name announced Marc’s immediate reaction was to wonder: Oh, God, now what?

  “Um, yeah, okay,” he stuttered. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Two minutes later he was again seated at his desk, the door closed and Howie Traynor in one of the client chairs.

  “I really appreciate you taking the time to see me,” Howie said for the second time.

  “It’s all right,” Marc answered a lot more casually than he felt. “What can I do for you?”

  “I, ah, just came from my lawyers and I’m, well,” he nervously began. “I was wondering if I could get your opinion about a settlement offer we got.”

  Traynor went on to give Marc a complete account of the entire meeting. Who was there, who was missing, who liked the deal and who didn’t. He made sure to tell him about Forsberg stomping out and that Parlow was ready to accept it up until Albright told them about the settlement being structured for a ten year payout.

  When he finished he leaned back, looked at Marc and said, “Well, what do you think?”

  After hesitating for a moment as if thinking it over, Marc replied, “Howie, I can’t really say if it’s good or bad. I don’t do these types of cases. I have no idea if it’s good or bad. Let me ask you this: What do you think of the offer?”

  “The more I think about it. The better it sounds. It wouldn’t make me rich but it would be a nice, steady check coming in every month. I don’t think the other guys will take it, though. Forsberg was really pissed. What an asshole he is thinking he’s worth more than the rest of us.”

  “I can see his point,” Marc softly said. “These things are normally based on how much earning power someone has. How much income he made before it happened. He was making a lot of money, according to the news reports. What about the fourth guy, what’s his name?”

  “Suarez,” Howie said. “I don’t know him. He wasn’t there. I did meet him once but I have no idea what he would do. I was thinking I’ll tell her I’ll take it. I don’t want to screw around for another two or three years. What do you think?”

  “I think Howie, to be honest, I’m a little surprised you would want my opinion,” Marc said.

  “Really? Why?” Howie asked.

  “Well, the first time we met your case didn’t exactly go too well and…”

  “Oh, that wasn’t your fault. That was some guy at some lab who screwed me and the other guys.”

  “Did you know he died?” Marc asked.

  “Seriously? He died? How?”

  “Cancer. It was in yesterday’s paper. He had terminal cancer and that’s why he came clean, or so I heard. He didn’t want to die with that on his conscience.”

  With a mildly surprised look on his face, Howie said, “Well, I guess I’m glad he confessed to what he done.”

  Howie stood up, extended his hand to Marc as Marc arose from his chair and Howie said, “Listen, thanks for seeing me, Mr. Kadella. I think I’ll take the deal, if I can.”

  TWENTY

  After leaving the meeting with Glenda Albright and her other two clients, Aaron Forsberg began driving out of downtown in an easterly direction. He was still steaming mad because of the paltry settlement he was offered. As he drove east on Eighth Street Forsberg mentally kicked himself for signing on with Albright in the first place. He should have known better than to attach himself to a self-promoting gasbag lawyer and the other three scumbags she represented.

  When he reached Eleventh Avenue, satisfied he was past the construction for the new stadium, he turned left on Eleventh to go the two blocks north to Sixth Street. At sixth he turned right and punched the gas to take the freeway ramp onto I-94 east to St. Paul.

  On his way to St. Paul, Forsberg reflected on his current mental and emotional well-being. Before his wife’s murder and his subsequent trial he had been a relatively well-adjusted man; at least he would have said so. About the only anomaly to which he would admit was an overly driven need to succeed.

  Forsberg had graduated in three and a half years from Notre Dame with a degree in Business Administration. He then obtained a master’s degree in Finance from the Carlson School of Business at the University of Minnesota. While working on his MBA, he had gone to work for a large investment bank, Landon & Fletcher in their Minneapolis office. By the time he was thirty, he was married, a second child was on the way and his salary and bonuses would top a million dollars. Aaron Forsberg worked hard, put in a lot of hours and had a gift for sales and market analysis. His clients made money, his firm made money and he made money. Life was good.

  The only glitch was the more he made and the better he did, it never seemed to be enough. Aaron Forsberg was addicted to the opiate of greed and success. And because of that, he worked ninety to one hundred hours per week. Many nights he would simply sleep in his office. It was the best way to stay on top of foreign markets and the global economy.

  Between the ages of thirty and thirty-five, he took a grand total of three short vacations with his family lasting barely one week each. Even then his phone and at least two laptops came with him. And yet he was shocked to find out his wife was having an affair.

  Prison life had taken a serious toll on Forsberg. Before prison, even though he was consumed by a drive to succeed, he was always a fairly affable man. His colleagues, the only friends he had, genuinely liked him and he got along well with them. During this time he even had a couple of harmless affairs. At least, he believed they were harmless. After all, he was killing himself at work to provide a lavish lifestyle for his wife and children. He deserved a little fling or two. Then it all came crashing down like an avalanche the night he found his murdered wife.

  Driving east toward downtown St. Paul he replayed it again. The arrest, trial and conviction for something he didn’t do, the years in prison and the loss of his family and his life. Now that he was free he looked back upon all of it as if it were a surreal bad dream. Except it wasn’t.

  Prison had hardened him as it does many people. Aaron had an edge, a cynicism and mistrust that were not there before.

  When he first arrived at the state prison in Michigan City, Indiana, the terror of where he was had taken two weeks to dissipate. He expected to be beaten, raped and sold for a pack of cigarettes at any minute. Once he realized that wasn’t going to happen, he calmed down and settled in. That is when he noticed it in other inmates; the convict attitude. Don’t let anyone get too close, don’t make friends and be very careful whom you trusted.

  Aaron Forsberg needed help and he knew it. He should be in counseling and probably drug therapy. Unfortunately, Aaron wasn’t interested. He liked being in the mental and emotional state that he was in and the edge he felt it gave him. Perhaps when everything was over he would seek treatment, but not yet.

  Forsberg exited I-94 at the Marion Street exit and drove the van straight ahead to pick up Kellogg Boulevard. He traveled on Kellogg into downtown and found a metered parking space on
Kellogg just before St. Peter Street. Not bothering with the semaphores on the corner, Aaron ran across Kellogg and then St. Peter to get to his destination. He entered the Ramsey County Courthouse through the Kellogg entrance.

  This was Forsberg’s first time in the art deco style building and he walked past the elevators and into the ground floor hall. Not all of his education and appreciation for life had been knocked out of him by prison. He could still enjoy the architecture and design of the twenty story limestone building built during the Great Depression. He took a quick tour of the ground floor, admiring the old-style workmanship and the building’s centerpiece, the thirty-eight foot, white onyx statue of the Indian God of Peace.

  Remembering why he came, he checked the directory and found the destination he wanted. A couple of minutes later he quietly opened the door for courtroom 1230 and slipped unobtrusively onto a bench in the back.

  A trial of some kind was taking place with a witness on the stand giving testimony to the judge. There was no jury and only a few spectators in the gallery. Forsberg sat silently watching the trial and the surroundings of the mahogany paneled room.

  Ignoring the participants he finally turned his attention to the judge. The man’s hair was thinner and completely white and the face was more lined. His former lawyer, Julian Segal, was not aging particularly well. Forsberg guessed his age to be about sixty and he looked at least seventy. But there he sat up high on his throne. The longer Forsberg stared at him, the higher his blood pressure went. There sat the one man who could have kept him from prison if he had done his job. If he had been more forceful, more demanding and fought the admission of the DNA test harder, Forsberg would have been acquitted. Or so he believed.

  Before twenty minutes was up Forsberg decided he couldn’t take another minute of the judge and the last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself. He quietly stood up and left the courtroom.