Betrayal in Black

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Betrayal in Black Page 8

by Mark M Bello


  “How many cases do you try, Mr. Bialy?”

  “Not as many as I used to. The district attorney is more of a political position than a courtroom one.”

  “With all due respect, Sir. If you don’t try cases, why would I want you to conduct my husband’s trial? Give me some of those ‘best people’ you mention.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Hayes,” laughs Bialy, surprised at her candor. “I can do that. Not a problem.”

  Bialy stands, subconsciously signally that the meeting is over, and tries to dismiss Sarah from his office. Sarah stands her ground.

  “Mr. Bialy?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Hayes?”

  Bialy turns his back and faces the window. He visibly inhales and rolls his eyes.

  “What can you tell me about Officer Jones? What’s his deal? Does he have some problem with black people?”

  Bialy turns back to her. A bead of sweat appears on his forehead. “We are checking and re-checking his background information, previous employment, and encounters with people of color. I assure you that we will leave no stone unturned in conducting this investigation.”

  He walks to the door and opens it. “If there is nothing else,” he utters. “I need to get back to work.”

  Again, Sarah is not easily dismissed. She sinks into her chair and smiles. She studies Bialy.

  “I’d like to meet some of these fine people that you are considering to handle this trial,” she demands.

  Bialy breaks eye contact in a classic game of chicken. The big-time prosecutor silently recoils at Sarah’s request. To his credit, though, he recovers nicely.

  “Excuse me a minute.”

  Bialy walks out of his office and leaves Sarah alone. She rises and begins to study some of the beautiful courtroom paintings. Minutes later, Bialy returns with a well-dressed, thirty-something black man.

  “Sarah Hayes, meet Jacoby Maynard.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hayes. My profound condolences.”

  Maynard approaches her and offers her his hand. Sarah shakes it firmly.

  “Thank you, sir. May I ask? How long have you been a lawyer?” She inquires somewhat more acerbically than she intended. Is he the office token? Why him?

  Maynard ignores her attitude. “I’ve been here for twelve years. I’m not into politics, like Mr. Bialy here. I like to try cases and see that justice is done for victims of crime.”

  Jacoby Maynard could not have given Sarah Hayes a better answer if he had known she was coming and prepared his remarks. He’s perfect, except, perhaps, for one thing.

  “Tell me, Mr. Maynard, how many cases have you tried and what percentage of those have ended up with the bad guy in jail?”

  “I have a ninety-seven percent conviction rate. That means that only three out of a hundred don’t do jail time on my watch,” he boasts.

  “And what percentages of defendants that you send to prison are white?”

  “Huh?” he stutters. The question was unexpected.

  “Please take a stab at it.”

  Jacoby thinks about it. “Not many, five percent or so.”

  An honest answer, I like that. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Black people are the majority population in the Detroit area, and Detroit is where the largest percentage of Wayne County crime is committed. I suppose that’s the major reason. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Do you think black citizens are arrested by cops at a higher rate than white citizens?”

  Sarah is studying him, working him over with her eyes. Jacoby looks uncomfortable. He glances over to Bialy for rescue or permission to respond. Bialy gestures to him to continue.

  “Honestly, Mrs. Hayes? Yes. I do believe that cops arrest black people at a greater rate than white people.”

  Sarah turns to Bialy. “Mr. Bialy, Mr. Jacoby Maynard suits me just fine. Keep me posted, please. It was nice meeting both of you. Thank you for seeing me, gentlemen. May I have a number where I can reach you, Mr. Maynard?” She stands, strolls toward him., and holds out her hand.

  “Sure. Here’s my card.” Maynard reaches into his suit jacket pocket, extracts, and extends his business card.

  “Mrs. Hayes,” Bialy interjects. “Rochelle Lynch, who’s not here right now, is handling the case in front of the grand jury. If an indictment is issued, Jacoby will take over.”

  Bialy again walks to and opens his office door, inviting an end to the meeting.

  “Okay.” Sarah pauses for effect.

  Maynard heads back to his office, leaving Bialy alone with Sarah. As he watches her approach the door, he whispers. “One more suggestion, Mrs. Hayes.”

  “Yes, Mr. Bialy?” Sarah’s intrigued.

  “A criminal conviction is not the only way to obtain justice. I’ve talked to the feds. They’re looking into pursuing this as a hate crime. I’ve also reached out to a friend of mine, and he thinks you should consider pursuing a civil rights case for money damages.”

  “Like a police brutality case?”

  “Yes, a different name for the same type of case. These cases can be filed in a circuit court or in federal district court here in Detroit.”

  Bialy hands her a business card.

  “Take this lawyer’s card. He’s the best civil lawyer in town. Tell him I sent you.”

  Sarah stares at the name on the business card. “Zachary Blake?” Interesting that Bialy recommends the same lawsuit and the same lawyer I’m already considering. What are the odds?

  “Isn’t he the guy I saw you with on ViewPoint the other day?”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “He’ll take my case?”

  “We’ve already discussed it—he’s very interested.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bialy.”

  “You’re welcome. Good luck, Mrs. Hayes. Feel better about things?”

  “Yes, thank you. Have a nice day. I can find my way out.”

  Sarah Hayes turns and breezes out the door. She glides down the long hall toward the reception area. She feels Bialy’s eyes watching her but refuses to turn back and look.

  Sarah salutes the receptionist, exits the office, and presses the elevator button at the bank of elevators directly outside the office suite. An elevator door opens and Sarah enters. She leans against the back wall and waits for the doors to close before she lets out a sigh of relief and pumps her fist.

  “Good meeting, gentlemen,” she huffs aloud. “I’ll be in touch.” At that moment, Sarah Hayes begins to laugh, hard, so hard, in fact, tears roll down her cheeks. With little to laugh about since her husband’s passing, this feels good.

  She glances down and stares at the business card Bialy handed her.

  Zachary Blake is an extremely successful lawyer in this town, and he wants to talk to me about my husband’s case. This is good news, Sarah, good news indeed.

  Chapter Nine

  The intercom buzzes in Zachary Blake’s office. “Yes, Kristin?”

  “There’s a Sarah Hayes on the phone, Zack. She has a new case for us. She insists on talking only to you.”

  “Thanks, Kristin. Patch her through, please.”

  The call is automatically patched through to Zack.

  “Zack Blake, may I help you?”

  “Mr. Blake? My name is Sarah Hayes. Lawrence Bialy referred me. My husband was Marcus Hayes. He’s the man who was shot and killed by the Cedar Ridge policeman.”

  “I know who you are, Mrs. Hayes. I spoke to Larry. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. I saw you on the television a couple of weeks ago with Mr. Bialy. He referred me to you. Bialy told me the criminal case is only one way for us to get justice for Marcus and recommended you as the man to call for a case like this. Are you, Mr. Blake? Are you the lawyer who can help us?”

  “I have handled several police misconduct cases in my career. I haven’t seen all the evidence Larry has, but it sure looks like you have a compelling civil rights or police brutality case against the cop and the City of Cedar Ridge.”

&nb
sp; “Why would there be a case against the City of Cedar Ridge?”

  “Because the city employs and supervises the police officer who shot your husband and because, based on what I’ve heard, some Cedar Ridge police officers have a history of handling black citizens poorly. I think the department might have a systemic race problem.”

  “Systemic?”

  “Yes. The Cedar Ridge Police Department may have problems with people of color that are broader than any one case. There might be a race issue in the entire department.”

  “You mean they’re all racist?”

  “I don’t know that, Sarah. We have to investigate. Based on how they handled your husband’s traffic stop, and how they’ve handled other people of color in the past, we may have a deeper problem in Cedar Ridge, a pattern of bad behavior.”

  “How does that help my kids and me?”

  “Good question. I can’t bring Marcus back. I wish I could, but obviously, I can’t. The law provides for a family to get a financial reward, compensation, for the wrongful death of a loved one. Money can’t replace your husband, but it is the only means the law provides to compensate you for your loss. The more serious or systemic the problems, the more serious the compensation.”

  “I’ve lost my husband and my husband’s income. I was a stay-at-home- mom. I’m a college-educated woman, but I’ve got to look for a job for the first time in years. I’ve been out of the job market for quite a while. I’m sure I’ll be fine eventually, but compensation would certainly be helpful. Frankly, I can use the money. How much is something like this worth?”

  “I wouldn’t predict the value of any case without seeing the evidence, but assuming the evidence breaks our way and assuming the City of Cedar Ridge is a reasonable negotiating partner, this could be a substantial case.”

  “You talk like a lawyer,” she chuckles.

  Zack laughs. “I’m sorry, Sarah, you’re right. I can speak ‘legalese’ with the best of them. Allow me to rephrase. If we can prove that this guy was a bad cop and the city knew he was bad and did nothing, this case might be worth a lot of money. If I can prove there is a systemic race problem in the City of Cedar Ridge, the case might be worth a whole lot more. Is that better?”

  “Much better. How much is a ‘whole lot?’”

  “Sarah, honestly, it’s way too early to answer questions like these. I can’t promise specific amounts. I can promise that I will do the absolute best job I can for you and your kids. Are we good to go?” She’s straightforward—I like that in a client.

  “Good to go, Mr. Blake.” Smart man. Knows his stuff.

  “Please call me Zack.”

  “And you can call me Sarah.”

  “I already have. Now, I need you to do a few things for me, a bit of homework before you come in.”

  “Okay?”

  “I want you to get out a piece of paper and write down all the reasons you and your kids miss your husband and daddy. I want to know everything there is to know about Marcus. I want to see cards, letters, emails, and texts he might have written to you or you to him and anything else that can show a judge or a jury what kind of guy he is.

  “Do you have videotape, audiotape, or photos of you guys having a good time together? Ask his employer for a letter indicating he worked there and how much he was paid. Do you have recent paystubs? Bring those.

  “Ask friends and family, church members, and co-workers to write a page or two about what your husband meant to them. I need to get to know Marcus, Sarah.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Yes. You were in the car with him when this happened?”

  “Yes, I was.” Sarah begins to cry.

  Zack doesn’t wait for her to regain her composure. “I want you to write down everything you remember about that night; I mean everything. Don’t leave anything out. It is all important.”

  “I have a cellphone video of the whole incident,” Sarah reveals, trying to remain composed.

  “That’s right, Larry told me! I’d forgotten. I understand the police bagged the phone as evidence. Have they returned it?

  “Yes.”

  “Please bring your phone to our meeting. The video is a vital piece of evidence. My computer guys will duplicate it. That was unbelievably good thinking under terrible circumstances.

  “Still, write the synopsis, please. Tell us how you felt as all of this was unfolding. Obviously, the officer mistreated your husband; that is a foregone conclusion. How did he treat you?”

  “It was terrible, Zack.” Sarah sobs.

  She pulls a tissue from her purse and dabs her eyes and cheeks as she continues.

  “He wouldn’t listen to either of us. He shoots Marcus to death in front of us, then another cop arrests me and takes me in handcuffs to police headquarters.

  “I’m not permitted to go with my kids or with my husband. I’m terrified. It’s the worst night of my life, hands down. I will never forget it,” Sarah moans.

  “Write it all down, Sarah. These memories are vital. I’m going to give you back to Kristin. She’ll make an appointment for you to come in.”

  “I don’t have a car. The police consider our car a potential crime scene and are still processing it.”

  “Then I’ll come to you. Have Kristin check my schedule for enough time to make a house call. Give her your address and the nearest major crossroads.”

  “That is so nice, Zack. Thank you. I appreciate it. Mr. Bialy might have mentioned you were a good guy.”

  “You don’t want a good guy representing you in situations like this one. You want a barracuda when it comes to dealing with bad cops, negligent police departments, and attorneys who represent them. They are afraid of me; they think I’m a bad guy. Please don’t give away my secret.”

  Sarah chuckles through her tears. He has an easy way about him. I hope he’s an ass-kicker in court.

  “Your secret is safe with me, Zack. Thanks for the advice.”

  “No problem, Sarah. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise. Hang in there. See you soon. Here comes Kristin.”

  Zack turns the call over to Kristin. He feels terrible for Sarah and her kids. What a nightmare! Based on everything Larry told me, this case is a keg of dynamite for the City of Cedar Ridge. These people have one chance and one chance only to make these bastards pay. And I can’t wait to begin.

  Chapter Ten

  “My dad was a cop. His dad was a cop. All I ever wanted to be was a cop. In an instant, my career is over, flushed down the toilet.”

  Randy Jones grimaces and hangs his head. His wife, Brenda tightly grips his hand.

  “You don’t know that, Randy. Not yet, anyway,” she reassures.

  “Oh, but I do. I not only know that my law enforcement career is over, honey, but I’m almost positive I’m going to get charged with murder. The tables have completely turned. Even my friends on the force are calling me a criminal. I’m going to prison, Brenda,” he agonizes.

  Brenda turns to him and holds both of his hands. “Now, you look at me, Randy Jones.”

  He hangs his head and avoids her eyes. She tries to turn his head toward hers, but he resists.

  “Alright, don’t look at me, but you must listen. You are not going to prison. People think it’s so easy out there, dealing with all different kinds of people, good people, bad people, people on drugs, drunks, people with weapons, people who might want to hurt or even kill you. Let these people try being a cop. Just once, let all these politically correct critics try working the streets. I see how you are when you come home. If you are charged and this goes to a jury, the jurors will see what I see, a good and kind man who was just trying to do his job, trying to keep our streets and our people safe,” Brenda insists.

  Slowly, Randy raises his chin and permits his eyes to meet hers. He appreciates her strong, heartfelt words. “Being a cop is an honor. I’m proud to protect and serve my city and my fellow citizens. That’s why I chose the academy in the first place. I don’t go out on patrol t
hinking, ‘who can I push around today?’ or ‘I wonder if I will get to use my gun?’ I try to do the right thing out there. Protect the good guys and put away the bad guys. I deal with a lot out there. I try to keep people safe, even when there is anger and violence.

  “Cops put their lives on the line, every day. To have my career end like this, in disgrace—I didn’t mean to shoot that guy, Brenda. But he’s got these dreads, looks like a hoodlum. He’s threatening me with a gun, his wife is screaming, and his kids are crying. On a damn traffic stop! I was frightened, dammit! Wouldn’t you be? No one thinks to walk a mile in my shoes. Oh my God, Brenda! How in the hell did this happen?”

  Randy Jones buries his wife’s lap and sobs. His wife cradles his head and begins to rock him back and forth.

  “What is the department psychologist telling you? You’re meeting with him, right? Is he helping?”

  Randy pulls away from her, wipes his eyes with his sleeve, and attempts to regain his composure. “I’d rather talk to you! These guys don’t understand what it’s like to deal with these people on the streets,” he groans.

  “You need a professional. If you don’t like the guy you’re seeing, Cedar Ridge has other people for you to talk to, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I’ve never really checked. Never had the need.”

  “Well, I think you need someone you are comfortable talking with now.”

  “You know, this is all comes down to a lack of respect for law enforcement and police officers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is an element out there that doesn’t show cops the respect that they deserve. Some think we’re as bad as criminals, maybe worse. I’m not saying there aren’t bad cops out there, cops on the take, selfish or abusive cops. There are, but I’m not one of them. I’m not like that, and the vast majority of cops aren’t either. Most of us are honest, hard-working people. Are all blacks criminals? I’m sure some are terrific people. Are all white cops racists, all Hispanics drug dealers? These are similar stereotypes. All cops are bad all right—until you need one.”

 

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