My Justice My Revenge

by Terry J. Mickow

  “I’ll be right down.” I still stood looking at the safe. Maybe I should just in case. I bent down, unlocked the safe, and removed my Smith and Wesson two-inch snub nose thirty-eight with its holster and clipped it to the small of my back on my pants. I stood up and called out, “On my way.”

  As I reached the bottom of the stairs Stephanie asked, “You all right?” She was looking straight into my eyes. She knew what I was going through. She probably knew best what we were all going through. For at some point or another she was the sounding block. The words of wisdom. The anchor of our ship.

  I couldn’t lie to her so I answered truthfully, “I’m fine. I just had to find my wallet.” Okay, maybe not completely truthful but in no way a lie. I did find my wallet right where I had left it, on the dresser. As we started out the door to the garage I glanced at our cat only to find one of the dogs realizing she was catching all the heat. He was as close as she would let her come to her. Both looking at me with the “I was here first look.” I was smiling as I walked through the door.

  I had started the car before I went upstairs so by now it was quite toasty. During the forty-five minute drive to the court house there was no talk of the trial. The day was cold, maybe around twenty-five degrees. The streets were a patchy white from the remnants of the salt on the melting ice. Traffic was moving normally for a morning rush hour. In my rear view mirror I saw Motter’s van. The one he used for work. But wait, was it his or just one that looked like his. As it moved up behind me I could tell it wasn’t his. This happened all the time to me. I never told anyone because the word paranoid would come up for sure. But I knew what Jeffrey Motter was capable of. I knew this man. But then again I never knew he could hurt my family as he had done. Maybe I didn’t know him. Anyway I would be ready, I had told myself. And now, with the help of a very small helper clipped to my back, I was.

  I parked in the parking garage, almost in the same spot as the time I saw Mrs. Motter, if I saw Mrs. Motter. We exited our car and walked up to the courthouse. I listened to the recording of what could not enter the courthouse. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, I thought. I instructed my family to walk through the security line as I made my way to the pass line.

  As I approached the deputy I recognized it was Bill Baker. He was smiling at me. “Today’s the day, huh?”

  “Yes, it is. Hopefully it’ll go well.” I smiled back not breaking my stride. I did not need any surprises of having to go through the security line myself.

  “Well, if it doesn’t… let me know… I’m packing.”

  “Yeah, I will.” And for your information I thought, so am I.

  We made our way to the courtroom with only a stop to use the bathroom. We entered and sat towards the front of the gallery. States Attorney Brent Clark walked over to us. “Would you all please follow me?” he asked. We stood up and followed him to a small room with only three chairs in it. “I’ll try to locate another chair.”

  “I’ll get it. I know where some are,” I said. I knew we would be excluded from the courtroom, as we could not hear the testimony of any of the other witnesses. We could sit together but not talk of the case. Sometimes there is a game played with the witnesses sitting in the courtroom and if the defense doesn’t ask for them to be removed they stay. Not happening today.

  I found three chairs I could relocate to our room. On my way back I ran into detective Evan Tonka. “How is everybody doing?” he inquired.

  “As good as could be expected.” We were shaking hands as this exchange of words was being communicated. A feeling came across to me just before the handshake was terminated; we’re almost done. I smiled as the handshake broke off. One thing was true among all the lies that Motter and his attorneys were spewing out; Tonka was a friend of mine.

  As we sat in the room with the door closed we made small talk of everyday life. Every so often the door would open up and we would stop talking and look at the door only to see different police officers, attorneys, and clerks looking for a place they could sit for awhile.

  Once when the door opened I recognized some faces. It was Lakeville police officers Matthew Williamson, Dominic Hattle, and Bill Wasmiak. Hand shakes and smiles were passed around. Along with the smiles I could see anxiety in the way of being afraid of botching the trial up. I thought I knew the pressure they were under, but I didn’t really find out until after the trial when I was told how some of them could not sleep at night afraid they would leave something out or forget a particular statement. This was one of their police brother’s sons violated and to error now would be almost sinful. Up to this point everything went by the book. No one wanted to be the one to mess it up.

  As we sat waiting for the trial to begin I started to ponder what I would do if the outcome were not to my liking. As I was thinking of this the attorneys were continuing to argue before the bench. But in what came to be the shortest arguments over the last three plus years, there was a knock on the door, States Attorney Brent Clark opened the door, “Tony, are you ready?”

  “Been ready for a long, long time,” was Tony’s reply. “This is it?”

  “This is it.” Clark held out a hand. As Tony walked pass Clark put his hand and arm over Tony’s shoulder. He then gave Tony a squeeze on his neck. “You can do this.”

  Tony walked out, never looking back. Clark walked Tony all the way to his desk. There he paused and declared, “The State calls Tony Carver as it’s first witness.”

  Tony walked up to the witness chair where he was sworn in. He then took the seat. Prior to his arrival to the witness chair the courtroom deputy had filled a glass with water. Tony picked it up and took a sip.

  The State proceeded to ask the same questions that Tony had answered so many times before. How he met Jeffery Motter that he was his Godfather, what he bought for him, how he treated him and what was done to him.

  Tony’s answers were straightforward, no hesitation, no doubt. There were times that Tony became slightly emotional, but the jury seemed to take that with a sign of sincerity. He wasn’t putting on a show just showing what he’d been through and how he felt then and now.

  States Attorney Clark asked Tony why he brought these charges and what impact on his decision his father played in determining what he was about to do? Tony replied immediately he wanted Jeffrey Motter put away from other children. Tony then asked Clark to repeat the rest of his question.

  “What impact on you did your father have in going to the police?”

  “Actually, I feared at first he was not with me because he told me how I would be on trial. How Motter’s attorneys would try to make me a liar. I took it as all negative. But then he said it was my decision and he would back me one hundred percent.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “No matter what, I have to try, call the police.”

  Tony was on the stand for about ninety minutes for the State, and then the defense took over. Attorney Theodore Wilson II was very controlled in questioning Tony. Never raising his voice or pressuring him with any answers.

  He basically went over the same questions Clark had asked. He was trying to find a flaw, a change in testimony. There was none. He did ask, “Why did you come up with the locations over such a long period of time?”

  “It was because of you, really. You kept asking the judge for more information so I had to keep reliving it, thinking over and over about things I wanted to forget.” Tony was looking Wilson right in the eye as he answered.

  “I object, Your Honor.” Wilson bellowed out, “The witness did not answer the question. His remarks should be stricken.”

  “The witness did answer your question Mr. Wilson, please continue.” After about fifteen more minutes Wilson was done. The State had no more questions. The world was lifted from his shoulders. Those who were in the room said a light, some glow, sent from somewhere was emitting from his face. There was no more he could do now but wait. He stood up, looked at Jeffrey Motter, who had his face buried, looking down, and Tony walked
from the stand back to our waiting room. When he entered the room, although we did not know what transpired in the courtroom, we knew hugs were in order. And it was hugs around the room.

  Tony’s brother Douglas was next to the witness stand. His testimony was fairly short basically saying he was with Tony, sleeping, when the abuse occurred. He also stated

  Tony had told Kenneth Saucer and himself that Jeffrey Motter had done bad things to him. But Tony made them promise not to tell anyone.

  Next called to the witness chair was Detective Evan Tonka. He testified to the facts of how he was contacted, how he interviewed my family, and the incidents that led him in determining Motter should be arrested. When crossed examined Wilson seemed to cover again the same questions, but he was very interested in three points.

  “Detective Tonka, what type of shirt were you wearing that day when you approached Jeffrey?”

  “A polo shirt I believe.”

  “Would it have your department insignia on it?”

  “No.”

  “What color was it?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Could it have been white, brown, red?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “So Detective Tonka, just by looking at you there would have been no way to determine you were a police officer. Is this not correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “When you, Detective Tonka, took Jeffrey to the police station to interrogate him, isn’t it true you had to use some type of key to enter the room he was interrogated in?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you said you were friends with Tony Carver’s father. You were and still are good friends, are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, even though you were friends with him you did not turn this case over to someone else on the department or an outside agency, did you?”

  “It was my case and I saw it through to its end.”

  It was now the States turn to rebut the defense’s questions. States Attorney Clark started, “Detective Tonka, do you normally where a police uniform at work?”

  “No.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’m in plain clothes. I work in investigations.”

  “And do you wear different clothes through out your work week?”

  “Yes.”

  “You say you unlocked a door to the interview room, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “You enter the interview room from the outside vestibule so you are entering the police department at that time. You would be entering a secured part of the police station. You need a key to enter, but you can exit the room from the inside without a key.”

  “Would Jeffrey Motter have known this?”

  “I object, how does he know what Jeffrey knows?” defense attorney Wilson declared.

  “If Mr. Motter had ever been in that room before, perhaps he would know you can open it,” Tonka quickly said.

  “Over ruled,” Judge Peterson stated, “You may answer.”

  “Are you aware of Mr. Motter ever being in that room before, Detective Tonka?” Clark asked.

  “Since he was employed with us for awhile, he was in and out that door numerous times.”

  “And finally Detective, do you know Tony Carver’s father?”

  “Yes. I worked with him. He’s a retired police officer from my department. He has trained me and many others on our department.”

  “Why did he choose you?”

  “Simple, I’m the detective.”

  After he was done testifying Evan Tonka stopped by the room. “I’m working on another case so I have to go. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Good byes were said and our room had one less body in it.

  States Attorney Gary Wagner stuck his head inside the door, “Paul, you’re next.”

  Paul Hennesey from the children’s center stood up and walked towards the door. He stopped to put on his suit coat. He looked every bit the part of a well dressed, educated detective as he left the room. From his hair to his spit-polished shoes, nothing was out of place. He walked out through the doorway without ever looking back.

  I didn’t know Paul that well but I knew of his compassion for the job he did. He had said once his biggest problem with his job was he always came into contact with victims of child abuse after they were molested. He would give up all his pay if he had a way to find out about the abusiveness before it happened, to spot the red flags and be able to act upon them. He lost a little piece of himself every time he spoke with a new child brought in to see him.

  I felt I understood him as I was being eaten up by what we were going through. I wanted to go into the courtroom and look at Jeffrey Motter right now. I wanted to see for myself how he was taking this. Was there any remorse? Or was he trying to beat this, anyway he could? I stood up but it was only to stretch my legs. I couldn’t do anything stupid, at least not yet.

  Paul Hennesey gave about the same testimony as Evan Tonka did. The same questions came up about clothes, friendships, everything that Tonka had answered. But defense attorney Theodore Wilson II also went over the confession and Motter’s receiving of his Miranda Rights.

  Even through Wilson lost his appeal in the hearing about excluding the confession he was able to put some of his arguments to the jury. “Investigator Hennesey, when you handed a copy of the Miranda Rights to Jeffrey was he wearing his reading glasses?”

  “No.”

  “Were you aware of his need for reading glasses? Was he ever asked about his ability to read without glasses?”

  “I was not aware of his need for glasses.”

  “But yet he told you he understood them. Do you know why?”

  “I assume…”

  “I’m sorry Investigator, but I did not ask for an assumption, I asked if you knew?”

  “No, I don’t know why he said it, only that he did say it.”

  “Your Honor I ask that the last part of his statement be stricken from the record. It was meant as a yes or no answer.”

  Judge Peterson advised the jury to strike the last part of the answer.

  “So Investigator,” Wilson continued, “could it have been Jeffrey was nervous, perhaps even scared of what was going on around him that he told you he understood, but in fact could have been confused and didn’t hear or understand your question?”

  “I don’t understand your question.” Hennesey replied.

  There was a quiet laughter from around the courtroom. Wilson smiled, “How many times have you testified Investigator Hennesey?”

  “Hundreds.”

  “And sometimes you become nervous?”

  “I wouldn’t say nervous.”

  “Confused? Are you ever unable to understand a question? Like what just happened now and you asked for it to be repeated?”

  “If I don’t understand, I ask it to be repeated.”

  Wilson walked slowly toward the witness stand. Looking down, pondering Hennesey’s answer, and leading all the jurors with him as he asked his next question. “Well then Investigator, my question was, is it possible for someone who is nervous and is scared, able to answer a question without completely understanding it?”

  “I guess… it is possible.”

  “No more questions of this witness at this time Your Honor.” Wilson turned and walked slowly back to his seat turning his head and looking at the jury as he walked.

  Hennesey was upset that he took the bait Wilson had laid out for him. But he walked off the stand with the same solid, assured composure as which he had when he walked in. No one would see he was distressed.

  Hennesey didn’t come back into the room where we were all seated. He left the building. Later he would tell me he was just pissed at himself. But he was back in the hallways the next day, waiting with the rest of us.

  But our day wasn’t over yet. States Attorney Gary Wagner opened the door; “The judge has adjourned until two o’clock. So everybody should be back by one forty-five.”


  Detective Evan Tonka and the other police officers decided where they would go for lunch. My son and daughter from my first marriage said they had to leave but would be back tomorrow. Tony, Douglas, Stephanie, Stephanie’s mother and her cousin Lee Hunter, who was giving terrific support just by being there, and myself, decided to go to a local restaurant just a few blocks away. Time wise we had one and a half hours, and I knew since we were not testifying, we didn’t have to make it back right on time.

  As we pulled up to the restaurant there was a parking spot open right in front. “Front row parking,” I exclaimed. Then I pulled in. Just as I shut my door I observed three men walking in the restaurant’s front door. Though I didn’t know their names I knew them to be lawyers. I prayed that Motter’s lawyers and Motter himself in fact would not show up here. We entered and a lady of about sixty greeted us.

  She asked how many of us there were, and then showed us to our table. She was very pleasant. There are times when you can look at someone say a few words and know they are just good people. It was that way with her.

  She was very cheerful having short comments for nearly every table we past. “How’s that hamburger? Your steak cooked right? Not too much salad dressing is there? Is your cold better?” She knew everybody and really showed she cared for everyone.

  “Your waitress will be with you shortly. Is this your first time here?” she asked as she waited for us to be seated.

  Stephanie answered, “Yes. We are involved in a trial at the court house.”

  The lady took a look around our table and said, “I hope it works out for you. Don’t let it get you down.”

  How could she know we were the victims? Did we show it that much? Somehow she knew because she looked right at me, put a warm smile on her face and said, “It’ll be all right.” She then turned to leave saying to the table right next to ours, “New shoes Margaret?”

  Our waitress came and she was every bit as friendly as the first lady was. As we ate our lunch which was prepared as if we were family, I noticed the attorneys around us. Some smiling, some laughing, some even boasting how they made they State shudder. As we sat there I wondered if they realized at all what they held in their hands. They held the lives of their clients, the anticipation of their opponents; it was the world within their world. How many have forgotten right from wrong? How many can only see people as money, not as victims or offenders. How many have sold their souls?