by Bella Knight
“What does this have to do with murder?” asked Attorney David Marks-Powers.
He was trying not to sweat. He’d seen good information before, and discounted it. He’d even accused forensic accountants and police departments of having a vendetta against his clients. But, this was information released to authorities all the way up the chain, into three-letter agencies. These authorities had been working together for weeks, and had a great deal of information against his client. And, a jury would throw the book at his client for stealing from a little girl. The rich, fine. The working class didn’t mind that so much. But, stealing funds from a little girl, an orphan, would get them killed in court.
“Then, your client stole eight million dollars from one of his firm’s clients that had a stroke two months ago. She’s in her eighties. She used to have twenty-four million, but she’s been living on a million for years, and sixteen million has gone to charity. It seems he was offended that the money kept going to breast cancer research, to buy instruments, and pay for music and art teachers at underprivileged schools. We actually have statements from people he has worked with where he specifically said this about his client.”
David Marks-Powers attempted not to cringe. Looting money from a little old lady that had given millions to charity over the years would not look good to a jury, not at all.
Frenchie handed him the data. “Got him, in real time, stealing the money,” said Frenchie. “The LVMPD was watching. The LVMPD then worked on getting warrants, and then went through many more files, electronic and otherwise.” She grinned. “Let’s get to the really evil stuff. Then, with 1.3 million dollars, your client hired a racist mercenary group and hit squad called the Hessian Front to attack and take out… Let me read from the memo, ‘High Desert Security and Protection, any of their assets, and any of their allies.’” She put the memo down, along with the financial transaction information. “These guys are terrorists. Hence, the FBI.” Attorney David Marks-Powers took deep, cleansing breaths, and realized he’d broken a sweat.
Special Agent Cinna French put on a stone face, and tapped a manicured nail on the data. “So, he hires terrorists. Racist terrorists. They went after High Desert’s offices, which was just stupid. Their allies, because Gregory, one of the owners, is in a motorcycle club called the Nighthawks.”
David Marks-Powers looked visibly relaxed. “A violent motorcycle gang?”
Frenchie laughed. “No, they’ve worked with the police many times. Their head, Henry, trains motorcycle cops and regular riders with an Evade course to handle dealing with assaults on riders. The Nighthawks are associated with the Valkyries, a female riding club…” Frenchie saw David Marks-Powers stop sweating. “Many female law enforcement members are part of this group. The Nighthawks and the Valkyries, along with the Iron Knights, made up of ex-soldiers and law enforcement, and the Gearheads, a group that enjoys building and working on Harleys, also help with a very special project to help wounded ex-soldiers learn to build Harleys. It gives an income, or they can work in other areas, including for High Desert.”
David Marks-Powers started to realize what was going on. “Allies.”
“Precisely,” said Frenchie. “The Hessian Front sent sixteen people out to commit murder and mayhem. One group shoot up the farm where the Nighthawks congregate, along with teenagers from various Native American Nations, there to get their GEDs and to learn skills to get jobs.” Her face went flat, her blue-green hazel eyes were flashing. “There was also a brand-new baby, Tarak, in the house, along with a toddler, Ryder. There were also four boys in the house next to the greenhouse, and a whole mess of Nations teens. The main house and the house with the greenhouse were both assaulted. Thirty-seven bullet casings were recovered from semiautomatic weapons. That group went down.” She passed out morgue and crime scene photos. “The other side, the Nighthawks, only shot seven times. A man was injured, shot in a bulletproof vest, attempting to defend his four sons and the teens. He’s bruised, but will recover. Without the vest, he would have been dead.” Frenchie put down a picture of Chayton’s chest injuries.
“We’ve also got an assault on High Desert, and since they assaulted a security agency, they’re all dead too.” She passed out morgue photos. Chalke’s face was white, and he was obviously sweating. “They shot one of their ringleaders trying to escape. One of them won’t talk. The other is talking all about what happened, including that they were hired by your client too, specifically to commit murder.” Frenchie closed that folder and opened another, a red one that stood out against the blue.
“Now, onto the Rock House, as we call it, a farmhouse where several Valkyries from New York live, along with a group of wounded women soldiers. Most of them are missing limbs. Every single one of them is being treated for post-traumatic stress.” Frenchie showed the crime scene photos. “However, assaulting Valkyries, who train nearly every day, or ex-soldiers, is… problematic.” She laid out the morgue photos.
“Now, we also have the nightclub shooting. The Hessian Front members were all killed as they shot a drummer and a woman that was attempting to run away, a mother of two girls.” She laid out the crime scene photos. “Both the High Desert Security operatives were shot; both are recovering. One went down with broken ribs. The other one was shot in the gut, and now he’s permanently missing part of his small intestine.”
Chalke looked green when she put that photo down, the one with Shiva trying to hold her broken ribs with one hand, and trying to stop Mike’s bleeding with the other hand.
Her eyes narrowed. “They were shot trying to defend a fourteen-year-old singer. Her mother was frantic because it took hours to reunite them.” She put down a picture of CrystalLyne, looking cherubic with braids in her hair, in a white tee and jeans. “So, two counts of murder.” She pointed to each autopsy photo.
“Then we have the assault at the Tristan Montague concert.” David Marks-Powers went white. He was a fan. “Shot at Tristan and Quella. Shot over the heads of the audience; thank the Universe, to try to take out the two operatives covering David and Quella, his songwriter-partner, and a hell of a singer in her own right. Hotel security took out those shooters.” She passed out more autopsy photos. “One survived, but then died en route to the hospital.”
Frenchie glared at Chalke. He had turned a pale color. It was not looking good for him at all.
“And that’s how we get to sixteen counts of attempted murder. Probably get more charges, as these are hate crimes. Their second-in-command said they deliberately went after any operative, client, or ally of color. They are neo-Nazis.” She showed pictures of their swastikas and other tattoos. “They’re on terror watch lists.” She smiled a humorless smile at Chalke. “They got into the country, after using the money you embezzled, to purchase false identities, to commit hate crimes on US soil.” She swept up the materials, and put them back in their various files. “Two people dead, four injured. Sixteen bad guys, dead. The last three were rounded up, one dead, the second in command singing like a canary.” She looked at Chalke’s hands. “How does it feel to have the blood of twenty-two people on your hands?”
Chalke was now covered in flop sweat. Frenchie handed over sealed water bottles, one to Chalke, and one to his attorney. Chalke groaned. His lawyer, David Marks-Powers, looked far less natty than he had when he’d walked in.
“I have no idea why you’re here,” Frenchie said to David Marks-Powers. “He has been disassociated from his firm. His accounts are frozen, his property confiscated, the LVMPD going through his records to find other clients he’s stolen from; I’m sure they’ll find more. The SEC is completing their investigation against him for insider trading. He was found on a plane with hookers after he ordered people killed. You’re used to dealing with people who just fiddle with other people’s money. This man, your client, is a cold-hearted killer,” said Frenchie.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” said Chalke, as he stared at the water bottle. “I…”
“Say nothing,” advised David M
arks-Powers.
“The death penalty is on the table, but they’ll be sure to charge you with everything first,” said Frenchie. “That could take years. You’ll be on death row in a maximum security prison as a mass murderer, just waiting for all your trials to complete.” She looked at David Marks-Powers. “Good luck getting paid. And you’ll be one of the most hated lawyers in America for trying to get a mass murderer off. Who sent racist killers off to kill children in public. Vegas, especially, does not do well with nightclub shootings. Very public. This is a tourist town. No one wants terrified tourists. The pressure on the LVMPD is enormous to wrap this up, let alone the FBI to get you, Mr. Chalke, into a small cell.”
“I’m not a murderer,” said Chalke. The smell of fear and flop sweat was strong.
“Please let me confer with my client,” said David Marks-Powers.
Frenchie stood. “Know that there will be no plea agreement for anything at all. Ever. Either he pleads guilty to every charge or he goes to trial and gets convicted, with a little girl testifying to watching her security be shot as the star witness.” She stood and walked out, the LVMPD detective right behind her.
Frenchie put her head into the monitoring room. Assistant District Attorney Jacqueline Raulo nodded. “You’re right. No dropped charges, no anything. Winning this trial is absolute. Too much evidence. He’d be crazy not to capitulate.”
“Rather not put the taxpayers and a little girl through that,” said Frenchie. ADA Raulo nodded, abashed.
Gregory nodded. “Best he just go down, and end up in his cage.”
“Lose any clients?” asked ADA Raulo.
Frenchie glared at her. “His people were shot, and that’s your question?”
“What?” she said. “I’m getting a soda.” She strode out.
“No,” said Gregory, to her back. Raulo turned back. “Our people were willing to spend their lives to protect our principals, and that came through. We sent the last one out this morning. We have people lining up to sign on, singers who want to sign onto the label. We’ll have to hire, expand.” He sighed. “What you have to remember is two things. First, two people lost their lives, and five were injured. I would gladly give up all our new business to have that not have happened.”
Gregory narrowed his eyes at Raulo. He wanted her to understand how hateful a crime it had been. It wasn’t funny at all, it was murder being disgustingly tried against innocent people.
“I hid my own children, and the children of my friends, in my home.” He stepped forward, his bulk suddenly seeming twice as big. “My friends were shot at, and shot.” He stepped forward again. “We had children in hiding, their parents defending them.” He took another step forward. “My wife escaped being shot because the racist fucks that idiot hired wanted to kill my best friends instead, just for their skin color.” He stepped forward again, and looked down his nose at Raulo. “Secondly, children were targeted. Ex-soldiers were targeted. Every single one of those women have had their nightmares come back. He damaged the very people we were trying to rebuild.” He smiled ferally, with no humor, his eyes snapping. “My wife is having nightmares. I met her on the night her ex-husband attacked her daughter, now my girl, with acid, and now our Elena is having nightmares, too.” He narrowed his eyes. “If you don’t make sure he pleads guilty to every damn charge, I don’t know how you will sleep at night. I guarantee that you’ll have nightmares too.”
Raulo had the intelligence to remain still, and not back up. She’d poked a lion looking for fresh meat, and was beginning to recognize her mistake. “I… of course,” she said. “He’ll plead. I’ll make sure of it.” She turned, and walked at twice her normal speed toward the soda machine down the hall.
Frenchie sighed. “The woman is young, and has a little rock where her heart should be. And, she’ll quit after five to ten years to go work for three times her current salary. But, she knows the law inside and out, and she’s personally helped add charges. And, her boss lit a fire under her feet to get this headache out of his county.” She grinned. “Plus, federal charges. He won’t walk. The worst that will happen is that there will be expensive trials. Trying to avoid that. He’ll go into a teeny tiny cage in a supermax for hiring terrorists. We’ll make damn sure of that.”
David Marks-Powers stuck his head out the door. “My client wishes to make a statement,” said the attorney. The man looked ten years older, his face going gray under the florescent lights. They went in, sat down.
Raulo joined Gregory to watch behind the glass. Wraith kept silent in the corner, her eyes snapping. No one was stupid enough to speak to her or even look at her. Gregory was genuinely worried she’d smash the glass and strangle the man who nearly got her operatives and friends murdered.
Frenchie and the lawyer sat down. “My client… he wishes to state that he had no idea he was hiring such… horrible people.”
“Lie,” said Frenchie. She handed over internet searches, and the dark web ad for the organization. “They specifically said they loved to target ‘enemies of the white race.’” She pointed out the highlighted segment.
David Marks-Powers turned slightly grayer. He sighed. “My client does not want to plead guilty to murder. He says he was trying to distract High Desert to make his escape, and to punish them for discovering about his… fiddling.”
“He specifically asked for Gregory and Bannon to be killed,” said Frenchie. “He sent a link to High Desert’s About Us page with pictures of the two men there, and offered a little bonus for them to be killed.”
David Marks-Powers read the ad’s reply carefully. He looked at his client. “I need to converse with my client.”
“Mr. Chalke,” said Frenchie. “You lied to your attorney, thinking we couldn’t retrieve your dark web work. We have. Do you comprehend how much evidence we have of you hiring racist mercenaries to attack Americans on American soil? That’s terrorism. We haven’t called Homeland… yet. Give us six minutes, and we can have their representative here.”
David Marks-Powers narrowed his eyes. “That would… please wait.” He whispered into Mr. Chalke’s ear. Chalke blanched. He whispered back in his attorney’s ear. David Marks-Powers shook his head.
“I am not a terrorist,” said Chalke, his arrogant voice snapping with fear. “I wanted to distract High Desert and that obstructive bastard Gregory from interfering. No one could interfere.” He tapped on the table. “Mexico. Let me go, and you’ll never see me again.”
“Your client is obviously delusional,” said Frenchie.
She pulled out the evidence again, piece by piece, including the autopsy photos. She walked through every link, bit by bit, from Chalke to the mercenaries to the injuries and deaths, all on American soil, done by people labeled as terrorists Chalke had specifically paid to enter the country illegally.
“That’s the last time I lay this out for you, Mr. Chalke. You can’t obfuscate, lie, or skate on the charges. You are going to prison. You will have death penalty charges. You cannot avoid the train running over you, Mr. Chalke. Plead guilty now, or wait to go to trial, after trial, after trial. Local court, federal court. Local charges, federal charges. Over and over and over again, until every single charge has been filed, prosecuted, and received a guilty verdict.” She stood. “Homeland will love prosecuting you for enabling terrorism on American soil.” She stood, began to walk out.
“Wait,” said Chalke. “I’m not a terrorist.”
“Yes, you are, because you hired them,” said Frenchie. “You enabled them to come into the country.”
“Well, how else were they supposed to work?” said Chalke.
Frenchie handed over a legal and cheap plastic pen. “Start with your first attempt at embezzling, and work your way to your private plane flight,” she said. “Are you hungry? This will take a while. I can order pizza.”
“I will have lobster bisque,” said Chalke.
Frenchie laughed without mirth. “It’s a better class of sandwiches for you, perhaps chicken, rather tha
n the baloney and cheese you’ll have for the rest of your life.”
“Lemon chicken with olive tapenade,” said Chalke, as he fussily wrote the date and time on the top of his paper.
Frenchie laughed. “Try Quizno’s or Subway.” She grinned, and handed over a photocopied paper with the menu. “How to eat like the hoi polloi 101.” She stood. “Have fun.” She began leaving.
The LVMPD officer sat down in her place. “Meatball sub,” he said. Frenchie nodded, and then she was gone.
Four hours later, they caught Chalke in multiple lies. He tried to put himself in the best light, a money manager needing to fund his ex-wife and a series of high-class prostitutes he tried to keep in the lifestyle to which they would like to become accustomed. He was forced to rewrite segments over and over as Frenchie pointed out his lies. He finished his self-serving monologue, in which he said he was terrified of the Hessian Front and didn’t want to offend them by reining them in. They went over and over his statement, finding lies, pointing out all his attempts to avoid responsibility.
The SEC sent a man and a woman, and they forced him into writing out four separate instances of insider trading where he heard things about companies from one client, then told another. They left with their statement, and had their own attorney file the charges in federal court. Then, they called Homeland Security, filled them in, and Frenchie watched with glee as a man named Bernard Singh-Roan stood there in a Brooks Brothers suit and went over all the terrorism charges, with Chalke getting one charge for each of the terrorists entering the country illegally. And with special charges added from using embezzled funds to hire the said terrorists to commit murder on American soil.