JUSTICE REBORN (A Charlie Taylor Novel Book 1)

by Ivan Bering

  At this point, I lose it and am not in the mode for this liberal critique. “You got that right lady. When it goes down, I don’t ask questions. And I never worry about any asshole who wants to kill me or member of our group.”

  This is a lie, but I wasn’t about to share my problems with her. On occasion I do react violently, at least to some crimes, a gut reaction like a reflex. Remorse sets in after, and when I close my eyes, I still see each asshole in living color. It’s an irritating aftermath which I can’t shake and don’t share, although it appears Sam and Monk are too perceptive and understand what is happening.

  “There you are. We’re miles apart. I hope you have a delightful evening.” She gets up, turns and walks right out of the café, an abrupt explosive departure.

  I’m not sure what that was all about. One minute she wants to talk; next minute she is pissed off because I don’t have enough empathy for the criminal set. Well, screw her. I don’t need some left wing academic analyzing me and judging me.

  I start to reach for the bottle of white wine when I see the Chief over at the bar looking right at me. I adjust my reach and convert it to a wave, and he acknowledges me; he must have come down to cheer up the troops.

  First I deal with Red, now I have the Chief; I know what he is hoping to see. Well, that’s not going to happen. My hand never touches the bottle.

  Jesus Christ, what a night.

  CHAPTER 16: A PRISON VISIT

  Last night Monk dreamt he stood in the hallway of death row and listened to the plaintive cries of ‘Lord Jesus save me’. The convicts’ voices rang as a loud, melancholy harmony and echoed all around him.

  This morning the Fort Green request came from a Ron Bowen. Since the man was on death row and time was short, Monk made a point of responding quickly, anticipating a heartfelt confession, one of many he expected to hear in the next few weeks.

  It was an easy morning drive to Fort Green prison. It gave Monk time to reflect. But his frustration nagged him; the issue: his failure to convince Charlie to stop the pointless drinking and face the fact his family was gone. It was time to move on. Whenever reality stepped in, Charlie turned to booze. Monk knew his strong feelings for his friend made it difficult to be objective.

  The traffic was light, and the road had only a few gentle curves. The cloudless sky with the hot sun in the clear blue sky made it very comfortable for someone encased in an air conditioned car. On the far horizon, he saw the foothills and the mountains, a peaceful scene, relaxing, with just the hum of his tires as company. It gave him a chance to think about his recent transition.

  It started at the end of Monk’s eighth professional football season. He attended the regular team wind-up party; next morning he woke up in a motel room with an unknown woman snoring on the other side of the bed. He dressed quietly, not wanting to wake the woman. He left the motel and started walking, first down to the river which was blanketed by a light fog, then along the river bank, his mind a turmoil of dissatisfaction. Monk followed the river for miles, oblivious to time and his surroundings, the fresh fall air a comfort. Finally he walked on to the bridge, across the river and towards St. Michael’s Cathedral.

  The church doors were propped open to catch the fresh river breeze. His midweek early morning visit meant a near-deserted church. Monk rested at the back, listening to the organ music. The early morning light shining through the stained glass danced across all the rows, a magnificent interior.

  He sprawled on one of the back benches for the remainder of the morning and most of the afternoon. For some time he felt his life was bereft of any significant meaning or purpose. Today, a replay of his mother’s words occupied his mind: ‘you are meant for the church’. He thought it would be too grand to say he had an epiphany, but he realized he was home, and this is where he belonged. His path now clear, the internal struggle over.

  This large gentle priest, now Father Ed, became known as someone with a sympathetic ear and an understanding of the real world, patience, and compassion his strengths. Monk managed his transition very well; his excess physical energy found outlets with Charlie and his athletic crowd; the elimination of soft drugs from his life was not difficult, only alcohol a recurring issue. He thought his alcohol habit was under control until Charlie started to ramp up his drinking and today it seemed they took turns initiating a session. At times, he felt he was on the same Ferris wheel as Charlie.

  His daydreams brought him to his first days at the new primary school. Monk remembered his embarrassment as he struggled with the English language; the entire family were recent immigrants, all learning to read and write at the same time. His classmates were relentless and if it wasn’t recess, it would be an ambush on his way home. They imitated his speech patterns but because of his size kept out of his reach as they taunted him, his mannerisms, his clothes, and his big feet. His unhappiness at school changed when a kid with a quick smile approached him.

  “Big guy it’s time you learned the game. What are looking at? Show up after school at the south park grounds. You understand? Yes? Shake your head. OK, we’re on.”

  It turned out the game was football, and the kid was Charlie. He was recruiting for an upcoming game, Southside versus Northside, no trophy just bragging rights.

  As organizer and coach he assigned positions and made up plays. The first few practices were a blur for Monk but watching the televised games helped with his understanding of the game. The day of the game Charlie gave him a set of shoulder pads and a large sweater, all borrowed from his older brother’s closet. There were few rules, no helmets, some had pads, and, of course, there was no referee. Monk was surprised at the number of hard hits which took place and even more surprised: he enjoyed it. All his anger and frustration had an outlet, and as the game went on it became apparent the big foreign kid was special. They lost, but he and Charlie walked home together; from that day on they became a pair, and Monk no longer had any concerns at school.

  It progressed, and in the winter it was basketball. Then nature took over and they were looking at girls; the girls had changed shape and some of the older boys were already bragging.

  As he turned off the main highway and into the Fort Green prison’s parking lot, his mind reverted to the present. As Father Ed, he had been to the Fort Green prison numerous times and knew his way through the various gates, security checks and the long hallway to the visitors’ room where the convict was waiting. As sports fans, most of the convicts knew him as Monk, and this is how they addressed him; he didn’t mind. It seemed to make the conversation flow, particularly when he was willing to discuss some of the old games.

  It was a small room, one table, and two chairs. The guard stayed outside observing, not particularly concerned; he knew both participants. Ronald Bowen a resident on death row for a few years was the last one scheduled for an S3 interrogation. Ron understood the process. The convict grapevine distributed most of the details before the Black Angel and her advance team arrived at Fort Green.

  “Good morning Monk. Thanks for coming. I’m sure you don’t know why I requested this visit.”

  The tall man’s body reflected hours of weight lifting. Monk sensed someone who was unpretentious but now a determined man. Monk’s limited research uncovered part of Ron’s story: a sensitive young boy who had made some mistakes during the turmoil of his teens.

  It appeared these errors dominated his emotional life for years to come, and kept him on a path of self-destruction and eventually ruined most of his adult life. In a story-book progression, his intelligence and demeanor might have carried him beyond his environment and to a profitable profession with all the perks of a family and home. But for Ron this was not the case, a severe penalty for teenage hormones.

  He looked to be in his early 50s, but Monk knew he was in his the late 30s, in another age probably called ‘white trash’. His underprivileged housing and upbringing (one grandmother to fight for him but too timid to mount an aggressive defense) were all too familiar a story of many in
the prison.

  “You’re right I’m curious. I gather you know about me because I visit and talk with some prisoners, including a number on death row.”

  “Yes and through the grapevine learned more about you than you might imagine. I’m the last man scheduled for an S3, and since I’m innocent, I’m going for the full show. I’ll undergo the complete scanning probe. I know the risk but am innocent and that’s all that matters.”

  “That still doesn’t help me understand why I’m here?”

  “S3 allows me to have one or more Watchers to assist with the memory search, and I need you to convince a witness to be my observer, my Watcher.”

  “Alright let’s hear the rest.”

  “I understand you and Detective Charlie Taylor are close friends. You guys go way back, played ball together. You were best man at his wedding. He is the man I need.”

  Monk was baffled. Years ago, this robbery/murder had been a high profile news item, with strong public opinion that Ron was innocent, the arrest and trial an example of a harassed prosecutor and justice in a hurry. The outcry had been intense but didn’t change anything and here 16 years later Ron was being queued up to be executed.

  “You want me to get Charlie Taylor to be your Watcher for the most important event in your life. This doesn’t make sense. Does Charlie even know you? Was he even involved in your arrest and conviction?”

  “I know this is a gamble but the way I see it this is my best bet. I’ll tell you a story and how this all has to play out. I just need you……..need you, to confirm that this is covered under the confidentiality vows.”

  “You have my word “

  “Then here is my story and here is my plan. It’s a long shot but I think necessary.”

  Ron started slowly and maintained the pace throughout his presentation and pitch. He had thought about all the issues and understood what had to be said. What he was asking could wreck careers if the scheme was uncovered; it went beyond bold. Ron knew he needed Monk to convince Charlie.

  # # #

  Monk could scarcely remember the long walk back to his car.

  He limped most of the way back, the curse of two bad knees, today being an arthritic flare-up day. Maybe he should have stopped football sooner or maybe it wouldn’t have matter. A surgeon was on his hold-and-delay list.

  He rested in the car and waited for some of the tension to fade. Charlie was the issue and Monk did not want to add to his problems with this scheme of Ron’s. There’re too many unknowns. The question was: how to approach Charlie and put the proposition to him? It was only because Ron had suffered so much, and there was no doubt in Monk’s mind that he was innocent of the robbery/ murder. The man’s life had been ruined by a false conviction; he deserved help.

  Monk had faith in Charlie; he was an outrageous individual, but he had more grit than most people realized. But this scheme went beyond physical courage. It wasn't smart to push Charlie. Then again one might argue maybe this challenge might help; it would indeed require discipline and a cool head in an unfamiliar setting, provide Charlie with a focus beyond his own demons.

  Monk eased his car out of the lot. The plan Ron had in mind was bold and dangerous; it could ruin them all. They would have to beat an S3 interrogation.

  He knew Charlie was physically strong, muscular, with a rigorous workout schedule which up to this point was his defense against the heavy drinking. For the most part Charlie maintained his grooming except some of his wardrobe was showing the need for replacement, a woman’s touch would help. His brown hair was short without any streaks of gray, his face symmetrical, which some women found attractive but in total nothing extraordinary, easy for people to underestimate his native intelligence and tenacity.

  Prior to the accidental death of his wife and young daughter, he had always been able to move on. When one door shut, he was able to recover and look for the next opportunity. Monk remembered when the pros passed on Charlie, a knee too problematic to warrant a draft choice. Charlie took the rejection in stride and surprised everyone by not pressing or trying the European or Canadian league. He walked away and went on with life. But the loss of his wife and daughter had been too much. The psychological impact a burden he couldn’t appear to shake for more than a couple of weeks at a time.

  On the return trip, Monk ignored the blue sky and the mountains on the horizon, his driving on automatic, passing cars, handling curves and aggressive truckers without any conscious thought. Compassion was fine, but the risks in Ron’s idea seemed immense; even the planning seemed dangerous and perfidious. Could they be charged with collusion to manipulate an S3 interrogation? No, it was worse: the plan would be perceived as an attempt to free a convicted killer.

  Should he tell Charlie? What he really meant was: should he recruit Charlie?

  CHAPTER 17: First Brainstorming Session

  It was early morning.

  The squad occupied the largest incident room available in the Hall of Justice. The facility contained numerous electronic whiteboards which served as perimeter fencing around the central conference table. No windows. A perfect room for their wireless network and the isolation the group needed.

  Charlie drove the process and used his tablet to capture key words or terms as they surfaced, occasional a phrase but rarely a full sentence. His efforts reflected immediately on one of the electronic whiteboards and would be there for all to see. Charlie believed a visual array of word and phrases with a variety of colored fonts would stimulate creative thinking and encourage people to speculate. If his contribution triggered an entry onto one the whiteboards, a detective was secretly pleased.

  The large room allowed participants to get up and wander around. Ideas and challenges flowed freely; the intent was to have new avenues of thinking surface. A couple of paper flip-charts rested in a far corner, but they were only used if the discussion became so convoluted they needed a series of diagrams to follow what was being proposed.

  Wes arrived early, distributed relevant paper, ensured the network was operational, tested the recording equipment, and made sure the coffee arrived on time. He would kick off and Charlie expected a first rate summary, would interrupt, correct and aggressively pursue any loose ends, friendship didn’t count at this point.

  The 24-hour delay in getting this session going annoyed Wes, an entire day since they had been at the hotel; but Charlie insisted he needed a specific outsider. He wanted the Sector’s busy Historian whose schedule didn’t allow attendance until today.

  Wes knew, even though Charlie at times appeared to be a joker, when it came to criminals the senior detective was a hard-liner and expected his team to reflect that attitude. The outlook a surprise to many because Charlie’s quick tongue mislead them into thinking he was flippant and casual.

  Early in their careers Charlie’s family, his wife Nancy and daughter Linda, with Wes and his wife frequently escaped the city. Camping, picnics, hiking, even some fishing and many camp fire suppers. It was one large family, and the young daughter had two sets of parents which she enjoyed and learnt to manipulate to everyone’s amusement. The accident left two dead, Nancy and Linda, and the third occupant of the car Wes’s wife, Millie, with some broken bones and some permanent facial scars.

  The impact on Charlie was dramatic and visible, for Wes and Millie the situation less open. Wes didn’t discuss Millie’s depression with anyone, afraid the gossip would get back to Charlie, already on the edge and struggling for too long. Maybe it was because of her inability to conceive, maybe she just loved the vibrant youngster too much, for whatever the reason, Millie’s mourning was a regular part of their marriage.

  The two workhorses, Terry Patterson and Manuel Moreno, had been first to arrive and first to the coffee. Both could be tiresome jokers, but they had bulldog tenacity and knew the streets.

  Karen came in on their heels. She excelled in these sessions, prepared to think out loud and go off in odd directions. Wes liked her and was glad she could be there, but her appearance s
urprised him. Her black jeans and leather jacket appeared a trifle harsh for a senior detective. Was she trying to beat father time? Some nasty rumors, including the Chief, were making the rounds. Wes had a problem with that innuendo.

  The last participant appeared to be an out-of-place middle-aged man. He nodded his head to Wes and said: Charlie invited him. He strode in and introduced himself to each member of the group as: John Wojecki. A humorless man, his distracters said ‘cold fish’, who was able to bring logic to even the most highly charged emotional scenes: a tall, slender man, nondescript face, long sleeve flannel shirt and corduroy pants, a thin goatee, and bedroom slippers. In many ways, he was the archetypical university professor, able to live in whatever time zone he chose, his concentration intense.

  This gift man could read a complex technical manual and understand most of the material after the one reading. And, his phenomenal memory stunned the uninitiated; but, history remained his primary love and given an opportunity this is where he spent his time, in a different century or era. This was the man they’d been waiting for: the Historian.

  Finally, Charlie arrived with his recording tablet. “Good morning group. Make sure you have your coffee, muffins or donuts. We need this brainstorming session. I want some wild ideas. Something that will get us.. ”

  An interruption from the end of the table. “Charlie is it true you are on record as saying that the brain is your second most favorite organ?” Lots of laughter filled the room, even Charlie laughed, although he recognized the line was stolen from Woody Allen.

  “Good start.” He typed on his tablet and ‘organ’ appeared on one of the whiteboards in bold red font. “Let me point out I asked Karen to attend.”

  This was greeted with a whistle, a wolf howl and a rowdy cheer, just what to expect with Terry and Manuel. “She hasn’t been working the case, but we need fresh eyes. And that brings me to John Wojecki. He is the Historian for the Forensic Section, again someone without any preconceived views.