[Lady Justice 22] - Lady Justice and the Conspiracy Trial

by Robert Thornhill

  Totally bewildered, I stuffed the summons in my back pocket and headed for the can. I had to pee so bad my teeth were floating.

  I had just unzipped and was in mid-stream when I heard the door open. I casually glanced over my shoulder and was shocked to see a matronly woman making her way to one of the stalls.

  “Uhhh, excuse me! I think you might have taken a wrong turn.”

  “Nope, don’t think so,” she replied.

  “Didn’t you see the sign on the door? This is the men’s rest room.”

  “Better look again, buster.”

  “I’m kind of busy here. I’d like some privacy.”

  “If you want privacy, then you’d better find another john. It’s no big deal. I’ve seen a penis before.”

  Not mine, you haven’t, I thought.

  I finished, shook, and zipped, and as I headed out the door, I heard the tinkle coming from the stall. This just isn’t right!

  Back in the hall, I checked the sign on the door and was shocked to see the woman was correct.

  All Gender Restroom. I was still mulling over the implications of this new development when I entered the attorney-client room.

  “You look a bit perplexed,” Suzanne observed.

  “You could say that. I just had my first experience in an all gender restroom.”

  “It’s a new world, Walt.”

  “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. By the way, I have some bad news,” I said, pulling the subpoena from my pocket. “I’ve been served. Looks like I’ll be testifying for the prosecution.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Marchetti grumbled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just received the list of witnesses the prosecution intends to call,” Suzanne replied, handing me a document.

  Sure enough, my name was on it. Then I saw the other names.

  “Whoa! Calinda? They’re going to have a daughter testify against her father?”

  “Actually, that’s not unexpected. They need to establish a motive, and Calinda’s affair with Carson is a doosey.”

  I looked at the other names.

  “So who is Nick Valenti, and Melina Abadondo?”

  “Valenti manages The Rat Pack Lounge, one of Carmine’s ‘businesses,’ and Ms. Abadondo works at Elite Escort Services. Another tactic of theirs will be to tie Carmine to these questionable ventures to disparage his reputation.”

  “That shouldn’t be hard to do,” I observed.

  “Bite me, Williams!” Marchetti growled.

  The trial was about to begin, and poor Suzanne had to convince a jury that Carmine wasn’t such a bad guy.

  A daunting task indeed.

  Grant Marshall’s opening statement was short and to the point.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the charge against the defendant, Carmine Marchetti, is murder in the first degree in the death of Jack Carson, a reporter for the Kansas City Star.

  “I’m sure the defendant’s name is not new to most of you. He has been indicted numerous times for prostitution, drug trafficking, and a host of other crimes. The defense will hasten to point out that he has never been convicted in any of these charges, but as the old saying goes, where there is smoke, there is fire.

  “As this trial proceeds, the prosecution will establish two facts. Number one, Jack Carson was pursuing a story that would prove once and for all that Mr. Marchetti’s organization was masterminding the protection racket in northeast Kansas City. Second, during the course of his investigation, Carson met Calinda, Marchetti’s daughter, and the two became involved. Either of these events taken alone, could have provoked the defendant to take Jack Carson’s life, but together, there can be no doubt about the motive that drove Carmine Machetti to take the life of Jack Carson. Thank you.”

  Suzanne realized how ridiculous it would sound to stand up and try to convince the jury that Marchetti was really a good guy, falsely accused, so she elected to reserve her opening statement.

  The first person called to the stand by Grant Marshall was Dr. Grimm, the Medical Examiner.

  “Dr. Grimm, did you have the opportunity to autopsy the body of Jack Carson?”

  “I did.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “Mr. Carson’s body had been found in the Missouri River. The exposure was such that time of death was difficult to pin down accurately, but I would estimate that he had been in the water at least two weeks.”

  “What was the condition of the body?”

  “There were numerous bite marks and pieces of flesh had been torn away, most likely the result of river dwellers such as snapping turtles and gar.”

  I noticed several women on the jury cover their mouths and wince.

  “There were ligature marks around the victim’s ankles and his lungs were filled with river water,” Grimm continued.

  “So, Dr. Grimm, would such findings be consistent with the notion that some heavy object was tied to Jack Carson’s feet and that he was thrown into the river to drown?”

  “That would be a reasonable assumption. There’s no doubt Mr. Carson was alive when he hit the water.”

  More wincing in the jury box. Marshall was painting a gruesome picture of Jack Carson’s demise.

  “Dr. Grimm,” Marshall continued, “in your many years as Medical Examiner, have you seen other cases similar to this one?”

  He thought for a moment. “Most definitely. Several years back I autopsied the body of Sven Marchand. If my memory serves me correctly, a man by the name of Tony ‘Shoes’ Gambini was convicted of his murder.”

  Suzanne leaped to her feet. “Objection, Your Honor. The death of Sven Marchand has absolutely nothing to do with this proceeding.”

  Judge Weathers turned to Marshall. “Counselor?”

  “Actually, it does, Your Honor. I’m simply establishing a pattern of behavior here. It was established at that trial that Marchand was a shopkeeper who refused to pay protection money to the mob. Tony Gambini was convicted of murdering Marchand by tying weights to his feet and hurling him into the Missouri River.”

  Romero was incensed. “I’ll restate my objection. I don’t see the relevance of that case to this proceeding.”

  “The relevance, Ms. Romero,” Marshall interjected, “is that Tony Gambini was a known associate of Carmine Marchetti.”

  Romero looked at Carmine and he shrugged his shoulders.

  “Objection overruled!” Weathers barked. “You may continue, Mr. Marshall.”

  “Thank you, Judge. Dr. Grimm, do you recall from that trial how Tony Gambini got the nickname, ‘shoes?’”

  “As I recall,” he replied, “Gambini would remove a shoe from each of his victims as a trophy before tossing them in the water. When the police searched his home, I understand they found a closet full.”

  More shudders from the jury panel.

  If this first witness was any indication, Grant Marshall wasn’t going to have any difficulty establishing Marchetti’s credentials as a really bad egg, and it was equally obvious that Judge Weathers wasn’t cutting Marchetti any slack.

  When offered the opportunity to cross-examine, Romero declined. There was nothing to be gained by dragging out the horrible death that Carson had endured.

  Marshall’s second witness was Michael Gross, Carson’s editor at the Star.

  “Mr. Gross, please describe your relationship with Jack Carson.”

  “Sure. Jack Carson was the crime reporter for the Kansas City Star. He had been with the paper about ten years. I was his editor. Jack was the consummate news man, a real bulldog. Once he got his teeth into a story, he just wouldn’t let go.”

  “Were you usually aware of the stories Mr. Carson was investigating?”

  “Most of the time, yes. Often, his investigations involved public figures and the paper’s attorneys were always concerned about any legal implications.”

  “And most recently, did one of his investigations involve the defendant, Carmine Marchetti?”

/>   “It did. Jack was looking into the protection racket in northeast Kansas City and had contacted one of the men the mob would send to collect the weekly protection money from the shopkeepers. The collector was disgruntled because he felt he wasn’t being treated fairly, and agreed to provide background information for Jack’s story and testify against the mob in exchange for witness protection.”

  “Do you know the name of this informant?”

  “His name was Salvatore Salucci.”

  “So, Mr. Gross, was Carson’s story ever published? I don’t recall seeing anything like it in the paper.”

  Gross shook his head. “No, it was a dead end.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Salvatore Salucci disappeared. One day he was meeting with Carson feeding him information, the next day he was gone. Without Salucci to testify as to the accuracy of the information, the story was dead.”

  Marshall zeroed in for the kill. “Pretty convenient, Salucci disappearing like that. Did you ever wonder if maybe he too was at the bottom of the river with cement blocks tied to his legs?”

  Suzanne leaped to her feet. “Objection! On so many counts. Leading the witness, presenting facts not in evidence. I could go on.”

  “Not necessary, Your Honor,” Marshall said, smiling. “I’ll withdraw the question. I have nothing further for this witness.”

  Marshall had made his point. There wasn’t a person in the courtroom, myself included, who didn’t believe that poor Salvatore was turtle food.

  “Your witness, Ms. Romero.”

  “So sorry for your loss, Mr. Gross. I know Jack Carson was a valuable asset to your paper. I’ve seen his name in the byline many times. As an investigative reporter, I would imagine that over the years he has, for lack of a better word, pissed off a lot of people. Are you aware of any threats he may have received?”

  “Oh, sure. We have a file full of letters and emails threatening everything from emasculation to mayhem, but nothing has ever come from them. They’re just a lot of blustering and hot air.”

  “How can you be so sure? Isn’t it possible that someone in that file might have made good on their threat?”

  He thought for a moment. “I --- I guess that’s possible, but ---.”

  Suzanne cut him off. “Thank you, Mr. Gross.”

  It was a small victory, but Suzanne had at least planted the possibility that someone other than Marchetti had an axe to grind with Carson.

  “One more thing, Mr. Gross. I would think, with all the crime in Kansas City, Jack Carson would have been working on multiple stories at the same time.”

  “Yes, Jack was amazing that way.”

  “At the time of his disappearance, were you aware of any other major stories he was pursuing?”

  “Ummm, I’m not sure what you’re after. He was always on to something new.”

  “I’m referring specifically to the death of Dale Fox, an Air Force pilot. Wasn’t he looking into that?”

  “Oh, that thing. Yes, he came to me about it, but it was a dead end. The police ruled Fox’s death an accident and that was the end of it.”

  “Did Jack tell you why he was so interested in a run-of-the-mill auto accident?”

  Gross sighed, and glanced at Grant Marshall. It was obvious he was uncomfortable discussing the subject.

  “Mr. Gross.” Suzanne prodded.

  “Jack was way out in left field on this one,” Gross replied, reluctantly. “Supposedly, this Dale Fox had given Jack information about some government program that involved spraying chemicals into the atmosphere. I knew Jack wouldn’t just let this go, so I contacted the Air Force and the Environmental Protection Agency. Both categorically denied that anything of that nature was taking place. I told Jack to drop the story.”

  “Hmmm,” Suzanne replied, pensively. “When Jack was working on the protection racket story, did you call Carmine Marchetti and ask him if he was breaking the law?”

  “No, of course not. There was no way he would have admitted he was involved in illegal activity.”

  “And yet, isn’t that exactly what you did when you called the Air Force and the EPA?”

  Gross knew he’d been had. “Well --- that was different. It was the government.”

  “And the government doesn’t lie? Is that what you’re telling me, Mr. Gross? It seems to me I read an article in your paper about the NSA lying about snooping into our emails and phone conversations. Come on, Mr. Gross. If what Dale Fox had told Carson was true, it would have been the story of the century, and yet you told him to drop it?”

  You could see the beads of sweat popping out on Gross’s forehead.

  “It was no different than when Salvatore Salucci disappeared. With Dale Fox dead, there was no one to corroborate his information. End of story.”

  Now it was Suzanne’s turn to move in for the kill.

  “As I recall, Mr. Marshall characterized Salucci’s disappearance as ‘convenient’ and alluded to the possibility that Carmine Marchetti had orchestrated his demise. The death of Dale Fox might also be thought of as convenient. I wonder if there’s any possibility the government could have orchestrated Fox’s death to prevent him from exposing any more of their dirty little secrets. Oh, wait! Like you said, it’s the government and they’d never do anything wrong!”

  Now it was Grant Marshall jumping to his feet. “Objection! Ms. Romero is testifying.”

  “Withdrawn,” Suzanne replied, smiling. “No further questions.”

  It was a victory of sorts. She had gotten the chemtrail conspiracy in the door.

  A big part of Grant Marshall’s plan was to impugn Carmine Marchetti’s character and reinforce in the jury’s mind that he really was a bad apple and perfectly capable of murdering Jack Carson.

  So far, he had done an admirable job and he wasn’t through yet.

  Nick Valenti was Marshall’s next witness.

  “Mr. Valenti, who is your employer?”

  “I work for Mr. Marchetti.”

  “And what do you do for him?”

  “I manage one of his clubs, The Rat Pack Lounge.”

  When I was on the force, I had been in the Rat Pack a few times. In keeping with its name, the walls were filled with photos of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Joey Bishop and Peter Lawford. New York, New York, That’s Amore and all the other iconic classics were constantly being played in the background. Everyone on the force knew the place was a mob hangout, but there were relatively few trouble calls there. Carmine’s hired muscle kept a lid on things so the cops would have no reason to come snooping around.

  “Tell me about the lounge, Mr. Valenti.”

  He looked confused. “What’s to tell? It’s a bar. We serve liquor and a light menu. There’s live music on the weekends.”

  “Tell me about the VIP room.”

  Nick glanced at Carmine. “Oh that. It’s just a room we set aside for some of our regular customers.”

  “Why do they need a special room? What goes on in there?”

  “Oh, just stuff. Sometimes they have a friendly card game.”

  “Card game? You mean like poker?”

  “Uhh, sometimes. Penny-ante stuff. You know what I mean.”

  “Come on, Mr. Valenti. Isn’t the VIP room used for high stakes gambling? Before you answer, remember that you’re under oath and perjury is a criminal offense.”

  Nick looked at Carmine, obviously scared to death. The poor guy was between a rock and a hard place.

  Carmine threw up his hands and nodded.

  “Uhh, maybe sometimes, I guess.”

  “Thank you for your candor, Mr. Valenti. No further questions.”

  He turned to the jury. “Looks like we can add illegal gambling to Mr. Marchetti’s résumé.”

  Suzanne declined to cross examine.

  Marshall’s next witness was Melina Abadondo.

  A murmur went through the courtroom as she took the stand.

  Melina was a gorgeous blonde. She was the closest thing
I had ever seen to Marilyn Monroe. If her boobs weren’t store bought, they should have been in the Guinness Book of Natural Wonders, and as the song from South Pacific states, “She was broad where a broad should be broad.”

  I looked at the jury. The women were shocked and I could see them mouthing the words, “Oh, my!” The men, on the other hand, were desperately trying to keep their eyes from popping out of their sockets.

  Grant Marshall approached. “Ms. Abadondo. May I call you Melina?”

  “Sure, Sweetie,” she replied coyly. “You can call me anything that makes it work for you.”

  A snicker went through the courtroom.

  “Order!” Judge Weathers barked, slamming his gavel.

  “Melina,” Marshall continued, red-faced. “Are you employed?”

  “I’m a working girl, if that’s what you mean.”

  Another snicker.

  “Where do you work?”

  “For Elite Escorts.”

  “And what do you do there?”

  “Duh! I’m an escort!”

  I wondered if Marshall was regretting calling Ms. Abandondo to the stand.

  “And what exactly does an escort do?”

  “We escort people, of course. That’s why we’re called escorts.”

  Marshall was getting nowhere fast.

  “Who do you escort?”

  “Men mostly, but sometimes we get a woman who’s looking for something different, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t know what you mean. What do you do when a woman calls?”

  Melina looked puzzled. “Escort them! That’s what we do.”

  “If I wanted to hire you as an escort, how much would it cost me?”

  “How long do you want to be escorted?”

  “Let’s say two hours.”

  “That would be fifteen hundred dollars.”

  Another murmur went through the courtroom.

  “How much of that do you get?”

  “I get five hundred and the company gets a thousand.”

  “And who exactly is the company. Who do you work for?”

  “Mr. Marchetti, of course. Hi Carmine,” she said, giving the defendant a little finger wave.

  “And what does the client get for his fifteen hundred?”