Judge Me When I'm Wrong
Page 1
Table of Contents
Titlepage
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Cast of Characters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
About the Author
Copyright
About Bywater
This book is dedicated to Aretha Franklin,
the Queen of Soul (1942-2018).
She belonged to the world, but mostly to Detroit.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my Bywater Books family:
Marianne K. Martin, Salem West, Ann McMan, Kelly Smith, Nancy Squires. And to Fay Jacobs and Elizabeth Andersen for all the heavy lifting.
Gratitude to my beta readers, and content experts: AJ Head, Lynne Blinkenberg, Veronica Flaggs, Traci Tait, Angie Kim, and the Writers Writing Group.
And thanks, always, to Detroit for my roots, tenacity and swagger.
Cast of Characters
Charlene “Charlie” Mack
Mack Investigations Principal;
Former Homeland Security Agent
Don Rutkowski
Mack Investigations Partner; Former Police Officer;
Former Homeland Security Trainer
Gil Acosta
Mack Investigations Partner; Attorney;
Former Homeland Security Agent
Judy Novak
Office Manager, Mack Investigations
Mandy Porter
Grosse Pointe Park Police Officer; Charlie’s girlfriend
Bruce, Brenda, and Jason Ferry
Mack clients
Maya Hebert
Rape victim
Gene Spivak, Karen Gleason, Earl Thompson
Wayne County prosecutors
Willa Harrington-Smoot
Judge, Third Judicial Circuit Court of Michigan
Allan Bateman
Defense attorney
Francis Canova
Defendant
Caspar “The Ghost” Goulet
Fugitive
Richard Fletcher, Mr. Naidu, Mrs. Andrews,
Clint Lakeside, Trina Bradley, Mr. Pizzemente,
Mr. Kelly, and Lucille Murphy
Jurors
Chapter 1
Detroit, October 2007
Friday
Charlie and Gil had an appointment with Bruce and Brenda Ferry in their Palmer Woods home. They perched on Queen Anne chairs in a little-used parlor with heavy drapes and delicate, antique furnishings. A uniformed maid brought crystal glasses of lemonade on a silver tray. Given the circumstances of the meeting, Charlie thought the setting pretentious.
Bruce, a judge on the Michigan Court of Appeals and grandson of one of Detroit’s African-American, old-money families, worked hard at keeping up the appearances of his social status. He was a solidly built man with trimmed gray hair and a matching mustache. His suit was dark, his tie a conservative maroon, and his white shirt complete with amber cuff links. His polished shoes caught the glint of the Tiffany lamp next to him. Mrs. Ferry was tall and slender—delicate like the furniture. She wore her silver hair pulled back in a bun complementing patrician cheekbones and pearl cluster earrings. Although her plain navy skirt and white blouse gave her an almost schoolgirl innocence, she exuded the fortitude required of the wife of one of the city’s prominent judges. Brenda warmed quickly to Gil, but Judge Ferry—diligent in his homework—had learned of Gil’s recent difficulties with the police.
“Are you predisposed to championing prostitutes, Mr. Acosta?”
Ferry, who insisted on being addressed by his title, was as fastidious in diction as he was in grooming. When he spoke, his full baritone voice occupied the room.
“I beg your pardon?” Gil responded.
“My sources tell me the police were perturbed by your interference in one of their cases last year when you defended a transgender woman involved in the sex trade.”
Bruce and Gil stared eye-to-eye for ten seconds before Brenda interjected. “Dear, you don’t have to be rude. This man is going to help us with Jason . . .” She stopped speaking under her husband’s glowering stare.
“For the record,” Gil said without flinching, “we had a case that involved a dirty cop. The woman I tried to help was one of our informants. With her assistance, we identified that cop as a serial killer.”
“Be that as it may, I need assurance that your inclination to assist vulnerable women will not affect your diligence in investigating the girl making accusations against Jason.”
Two weeks ago, the Ferrys had hired Mack Investigations to dig deeper into the first-degree sexual assault charges against their only son. Jason was one of four men charged in the rape of a college freshman at a university in western Michigan.
Charlie didn’t wait for Gil to reply to the demand. “As I’ve told you, Your Honor, I believe we should concentrate on proving Jason’s innocence rather than bashing the victim.”
Bruce slammed his sweating lemonade glass onto the fragile side table with just short of shattering force.
“An aggressive approach is required to contest these false allegations, not political correctness. Jason appears before a grand jury in three weeks. Maybe you’re not the right investigators for us.”
Brenda was on her feet dabbing with a napkin at the wet ring on the cherrywood table. She placed a coaster under the glass and settled a hand on her husband’s trembling shoulder.
“Ms. Mack,” she said “you came highly recommended for your discretion and honesty. Frankly, with no offense meant to Mr. Acosta, we hired your firm believing our son’s defense would have your personal, full-time attention. We hoped you’d be our point person in this work.”
“I understand that but it can’t be helped. I’ve been selected for jury duty on a case expected to take two weeks. Therefore, I’m assigning the case to Mr. Acosta. He’s been fully briefed, he’s a licensed attorney, and he’s very capable.”
“You might have mentioned my name to be excused from your jury obligation,” Judge Ferry muttered. He was still agitated but Brenda had calmed him a bit. His suggestion was offered at lower decibels. Charlie was taken aback.
“I didn’t think it appropriate, sir.”
The judge looked contrite.
“Are you absolutely sure your focus on Jason, and not the girl, is the best strategy?” Brenda asked.
“You’ve told me your son is innocent of the charges against him.” Charlie took in both parents with narrowing eyes. “Is that still your belief?”
Judge Ferry leaned forward in his seat, no longer shaking and fully in control again. He fixed a glare on Charlie that probably made inexperienced courtroom lawyers cower.
“I’m one hundred percent certain of my son’s innocence, Ms. Mack. Jason would confide in me if he’d committed the crime with which he is charged.”
Charlie and Gil shifted in their chairs. Teenaged boys always had secrets from their parents. But so far, Charlie’s inquiries about Jason Ferry had turned up only a couple of youthful indiscretions—nothing criminal, nor sinister. Which was more than she could say for two of his codefendants. Charlie silently sig
naled that Gil should respond to Bruce and Brenda.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ferry, I’m well versed on the case, and the information that’s available to date,” Gil said. “Our continued strategy is to acquire evidence that Jason was not an actor in the sexual assault. The young woman—her name is Maya Hebert—was given a date-rape drug. Whatever else is in her background is superfluous to that fact. I know your family attorney, and others, are pursuing a blame-the-victim line of inquiry, but we decline to do so. If that means we’re the wrong investigators for you, so be it.”
# # #
It was nearly three o’clock when Charlie and Gil left the Ferry home, but it had been a good investment of time to ease the concerns of these top-paying clients.
“You handled yourself well in there,” Charlie said, tilting against her Corvette. “They’re good folks, just frightened for their son.”
“Judge Ferry is pretty much a pompous ass.”
“He’s a piece of work, all right. But I agree with him about Jason. I don’t think he participated in the rape.”
“I’d like to go up to Kalamazoo to see the boy, and judge for myself.”
“Fair enough,” Charlie agreed. “Let’s get back to the office.”
# # #
Judy’s color-coded filing system was lost on the temp from the employment agency, and the girl’s face held a panicked grimace. Charlie had insisted on bringing someone in to help around the office during her two weeks at jury duty. She signaled a “have patience” look to Judy, who answered by rolling her eyes. The girl sighed, audibly, when Judy said she could leave early.
The Mack partners gathered in their bullpen to map out the fortnight without Charlie. It was space they’d shared for almost four years in a downtown office building that had been restored to its original architectural splendor.
“How did you even catch a jury trial?” Don raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you tell them you run a private investigation firm?”
“I did. I even told the defense attorneys I have a law degree, work with a former police officer, and quit Homeland Security. Still here I am. Juror number 540704, sitting on a criminal case involving conspiracy and bribery.”
Charlie tucked her juror ID into her purse, leaned back in her chair, and took in her partners’ stares with resignation.
“Well, at least you’re taking on your civic responsibility,” Judy offered.
“The courts really do need people to show up for jury duty,” Gil agreed.
“I’d go crazy sitting around for two weeks,” Don stated.
“Yeah. That’ll be a challenge,” Charlie said.
“What do you think of the temp?” Gil asked Judy.
“Oh, she’ll do just fine. But she won’t be touching my files.”
“That’s because you’re OCD.”
Don’s statement hung in the air like a giant fart. The others watched now as he engaged in the twice-a-week ritual of cleaning his guns. He disassembled his two pistols onto a canvas cloth, unpacked an array of bottles and tiny brushes onto his desk, and used what looked like a short knitting needle to shove a cleaning cloth through the muzzle of his Ruger. He was oblivious to the similarity between Judy’s incessant file organization, and his obsessive gun maintenance.
Charlie took advantage of Don’s busywork to control the portable whiteboard. She drew a four-cell matrix and labeled each square with a case name. Two of their current investigations were simple domestic surveillances. Charlie hated these “cheating husband” cases, and they had been outsourced to two freelancers under Don’s supervision. The third case was work for the office of the Wayne County Supervisor, doing background checks on two incoming director-level staffers. Gil had been the lead on that work, but Judy would now handle the required phone calls and document gathering.
“How did the Ferrys handle turning the case over to Gil?” Judy asked.
“Gil did a good job of answering their questions, but they didn’t totally buy into me stepping away from the day-to-day work. Judge Ferry was clearly irritated.”
“You have jury duty. Plain and simple,” Don said peering into the muzzle of his pistol. “He’s a judge; he should understand that.”
“Maybe he could use his influence to get you off the jury,” Judy lobbed.
Charlie shook her head. “He actually suggested that, but I wouldn’t want to do it. The last time I served was eight years ago. The courts are always chronically short of African-American jurors. I just want to serve and get it over with.”
“What time do you report Monday?” Judy asked.
“We’ve been told to be ready to work by 8:30 a.m. The good thing is I can park at the office and walk over to the courthouse.”
“I’m out Monday, too,” said Gil. “I’m driving to Kalamazoo to meet Jason Ferry. I’ve confirmed it with him.”
“Well, I’ll be right here,” Don said. “Holding down the fort.”
“And you’ll be well-armed,” Judy mocked.
Chapter 2
Monday
Charlie added the finishing touches to her makeup just as Mandy appeared in the mirror behind her. She felt strong arms encircle her, and a nuzzle on her neck. She leaned back into her lover’s embrace.
A fit thirty-four years old, and five-foot-nine barefoot, Charlie always wore her curly, dark hair short for easy maintenance, but the style was right for her oval face and brown eyes. Mandy, six-years younger and an inch shorter, had a shock of thick, red hair and hazel-green eyes.
“You look good,” Mandy said, appraising Charlie in the mirror.
“That’s why I insisted on upgrading this bathroom light, so I could at least think I was presentable before heading out the door. You can’t fix what you can’t see.”
“And what do you see?” Mandy said, focusing on their reflection.
“I see that we make a striking couple if I do say so myself.”
“Except with you in that four-hundred-dollar navy-blue suit, and me in my brown cotton uniform we look more like I’m escorting you to a shareholders meeting.”
Charlie laughed and turned into Mandy’s waiting kiss. They held onto each other for nearly a minute. Then Charlie clasped Mandy’s hand and pulled her out of the master bathroom. “I gotta get going.” She lifted a small leather backpack from the bed and slipped into high heels.
“You’re carrying a backpack with that suit?”
“Yeah. I want to dress like a professional, but I don’t want to look like one of the attorneys.”
“What do you have in there?”
“A paperback, a Snickers bar, my earbuds, apple slices, aspirin, and the report from the campus police on the fraternity rape case.”
“I thought Gil had the case now,” Mandy said, following Charlie downstairs with Hamm, their new four-legged family member, at their heels.
“He does, but the report came in late yesterday. I’m curious about it, and didn’t have a chance to read it.”
Charlie scooped her keys from the entry table and removed her coat from the clothes tree. Hamm looked back and forth between Mandy and Charlie, waiting for one of them to pick up his leash.
“He’s ready for his walk. Sorry I can’t do it this morning,” Charlie said.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Will that leave you enough time for breakfast?”
“I’ll just grab some coffee and a breakfast bar. Should I take something out for dinner? Maybe fish?”
“That sounds good. I think we have cod filets and tilapia. Whatever you choose is fine with me. We can bake it, and I’ll make a pasta salad. Don’t I get a goodbye kiss, Officer Porter?”
Mandy stepped the short distance between them and executed a kiss that would last the full day.
# # #
The recently remodeled courtroom in the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice included recessed lights, high-traffic carpeting, and maple-wood benches, desks, and paneling. The jury box had comfortable mid-back leather chairs, and plenty of leg room. All twelve jurors, an
d two alternates, were Wayne County residents, and among them Charlie counted four other black jurors. She sat in the second row between a retired custodian and a young woman Charlie guessed was about twenty-two. The retiree had worked for more than thirty years at the Detroit Recreation Department. He wore a sports jacket with shirt and tie, and was freshly barbered, radiating Old Spice. He wore a large ring with the Mason insignia on his right hand, and a wedding band on the left. The young woman carried a designer bag larger than Charlie’s backpack, and wore the fashionable garb of her generation—fitted, calf-length pants under a geometric-patterned tunic. Her weave, parted in the middle, was shoulder length and fluffed, accentuating the large gold hoop earrings dangling to meet her hair tips.
“Nice shoes,” the woman said to Charlie.
“Yours too,” Charlie answered, eyeing the woman’s red-bottomed boots.
The clerk, court reporter, and Wayne County sheriff were at their stations, as was the presiding judge, the Honorable Willa Harrington-Smoot. Their case, the State of Michigan v. Francis Canova, involved an elaborate scheme of kickbacks to Detroit city employees in exchange for lucrative city parking franchises. Charlie recalled reading newspaper accounts of the charges more than a year ago.
Canova was president of Fleetstar Corporation, and owned and/or operated a dozen parking facilities in the region. He sat at the defense table with a defiant set to his shoulders. He wore a dark business suit, and his hair was salon-styled. Canova’s defense team looked like the big-money lawyers they were. One of them, Allan Bateman, was well known from his frequent television appearances.
Prosecuting Attorney Gene Spivak wore round wire-rimmed glasses over penetrating blue eyes. His fleshy face was framed in wiry, gray hair. He was assisted by Karen Gleason, a youngish woman with medium-length brown hair needing a good cut. She was too slim to look healthy, and her body type was more suited to slacks than the pencil skirt and small pumps that mocked her lean legs.