Judge Me When I'm Wrong

by Cheryl A Head

  “It all adds up,” Fletcher said, staring quizzically.

  “Yeah, but what do they say about the casinos?” Charlie quipped. “The house always has the advantage. At least now the house is mine.”

  They chuckled, and chatted about their casino experiences until the jury foreman announced it was time to begin their work. The clerk stood at the door checking the roster as they lined up to enter the courtroom. She scowled at the latecomers. “We have a lot of witnesses today. Because we’re starting late, we’ll probably have shorter breaks. That’s the reason it’s so important to be on time,” she chided.

  Spivak and Gleason were efficient and managed to get in five witnesses before the late lunch break. The first witness was Canova’s young office assistant, Kendra Vaile, who answered questions about the huge sums of cash a parking company can accrue in a day. She corroborated the accountant’s testimony that she walked to the bank—sometimes accompanied by a guard—to make large cash deposits. She also testified that Canova held a large amount of cash in his office safe.

  “How much money is usually kept in the safe?” Gleason asked the witness.

  “I know I’ve given Mr. Canova ten thousand dollars for the safe.”

  “How often does Mr. Canova add cash to the safe, Ms. Vaile?”

  “Two or three times a week.”

  “Is it always ten thousand dollars?”

  “No. Usually it’s three to five thousand dollars.”

  “Did Mr. Canova ever tell you why he keeps so much cash in the office?”

  “No.”

  “Who has the combination to access the safe?”

  “Well, it used to be Mr. Canova and Harvey.”

  “And who is Harvey?”

  “The accountant, Harvey Rush. Now only Mr. Canova has the combination.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Vaile. I have no other questions.”

  The judge looked at the defense table. “Cross, Mr. Bateman?”

  “Yes, just a couple of questions, Your Honor.” Bateman referred to his legal pad for several seconds. “Ms. Vaile, isn’t it true that Mr. Canova sometimes uses cash to pay for things like office parties, employee birthday gifts, and lunches for staff?”

  “Yes. He does that all the time.”

  “Did Mr. Canova ever ask you to hide any of the cash that came across your desk from either Mr. Rush, or the auditor?”

  “No. He never asked me to hide any money, and I wouldn’t do that even if he did ask me,” Vaile said indignantly.

  “Of course you wouldn’t. No further questions.”

  “Redirect?” Judge Smoot tossed her question at the prosecutors.

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Gleason stood. “Ms. Vaile, when there is an office party or a staff lunch, are you the person who organizes those events?”

  “Yes. Sometimes I get help from one of the managers, but it’s mostly me.”

  “How much do you normally spend on these events?”

  “It varies. Office parties might run a couple of thousand dollars, since all the facility managers and parking attendants are invited.”

  “How often do you have office parties?”

  “Only once or twice a year. At Christmas, and sometimes we do a summer picnic.”

  “What about the employee birthday gifts, and staff lunches? Do you spend thousands on those things?”

  “Oh no. I spend maybe fifty dollars for a gift card or something like that for birthdays. The staff lunches are just for those in the office, they don’t cost much.”

  “And, just to be clear, you said you would prepare cash packets of three thousand dollars for Mr. Canova’s safe, two or three times a week?”

  “Right. Sometimes more than that.”

  “Your Honor, I have no more questions for Ms. Vaile.”

  Another prosecution witness was the Fleetstar parking facility manager who testified about the voluminous amounts of cash that passed hands at his downtown parking garage. Bateman questioned the company’s seven-year employee about cash management procedures, and surfaced testimony that several Fleetstar employees had been terminated for mishandling or stealing cash.

  The last two witnesses of the morning were procurement specialists with the city’s licensing department. Each one described the standard procedures of contract bidding, candidate vetting and selection, and the regulations in place to assure a fair process. Allan Bateman used his cross-exam privilege sparingly with the Canova employees, but his questioning of the city staffers was very aggressive. He was adept at creating doubt within the jury about the consistency of Detroit’s government procurement rules. By Charlie’s gauge, the morning had been a tie between the prosecution and the defense.

  The ghost man, Casper whatever his name was, had not appeared in court for the morning session, so Charlie retrieved her cell phone at the lunch break to call the office. When she turned on the phone, it beeped with a voice message from Don. Call in when you can. You’re going to love what we found out about Casper the not-so-friendly ghost. With a shortened lunch period, she’d have to combine lunch and business. Charlie grabbed her coat and backpack, and sat outside on a low ledge at the side of the courthouse. Judy picked up on the first ring and put Charlie on speaker.

  “A courier dropped off an eight-page DHS dossier,” Don said. “Your mystery guy has been one step away from incarceration for the last ten years.”

  “What are the highlights?” Charlie asked, pouring coffee into her thermos top.

  “His full name is Caspar Goulet; that’s spelled C-A-S-P-A-R—not like the ghost. He’s originally from Newark. He served time in a New Jersey state prison for armed robbery, then became an associate to one of the Italian mob families in Jersey for a couple of decades. After that he moved to the Tampa area in the late ’90s. Like I remembered, he was under suspicion in a money laundering racket connected to a couple of the 9/11 terrorists. His name came up when DHS investigated the flying schools where the terrorists were trained. We couldn’t locate him, because by that time he was serving time at a Florida correctional facility under another name and later dropped off the radar,” Don finished.

  “Hmm. I guess I saw his photo at DHS,” Charlie said, sticking a plastic fork into the salad she’d brought for lunch.

  “Nope. That’s not it,” Judy said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve seen the guy more recently than that.”

  “When?”

  “During the Abrams case.”

  “Stop with the cat-and-mouse, Novak,” Don’s voice bellowed through the speaker.

  “Okay, okay. You tell me, Don,” Charlie ordered.

  “You remember Owens?”

  “Owen Owens? Who could forget him?” Charlie said of the sleazy criminal whose actions had put her in peril two years ago.

  “Well, Goulet was one of Owens’s associates in the human trafficking scheme. We all saw him at the arraignment. He was one of the men who ran the illegal boarding house crammed with all those undocumented workers.”

  “Exactly!” Charlie shouted. “That’s why his mug stuck out for me. Shouldn’t he be in prison?”

  “He should be. Judy did a database search. He had a bunch of charges thrown at him connected to the trafficking, and also the money laundering. Somehow, he was released on bail. He’s been on the loose ever since.”

  “So, does DHS want him?”

  “They don’t seem to, but I bet the FBI does,” Don said. “There’s sure to be an outstanding warrant on him. Should I call them?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Why not, Mack?”

  “Well for one thing, he wasn’t even in the courtroom today.”

  “What’s the other thing?”

  “I’d like to find out what he’s up to before we call in the cavalry,” Charlie said. “Judy, where’s Gil?”

  “He went to meet the Ferrys at their house.”

  “Can you both stay an extra hour or so tonight?”

  “Sure,” Don said.

&n
bsp; “I can too,” Judy agreed.

  “Okay. Let Gil know, when you hear from him. I’ll see you tonight.”

  # # #

  The Mack partners were fifteen minutes into their impromptu brainstorming session and making short work of a basket of assorted chip packets and soft drinks. Don used the whiteboard to make an investigation diagram. In the center was a blowup of Charlie’s photo of Caspar Goulet. It was taped alongside a prison photo provided by DHS. Don had used a marker to draw spokes connecting the photos to a New Jersey organized crime syndicate; an evidence-tampering charge in Venice, Florida; the local trafficking case; and the sighting at the Canova trial. Under the heading Homeland Security was a bulleted list of details received from the agency.

  “What do you think he’s after?” Gil asked.

  “Probably working for that scumbag, Canova,” Don said.

  “That seems likely since they share ties to organized crime,” Charlie agreed.

  “He really looks different in those two photos,” Judy noted.

  “But you can still tell it’s him,” Don offered. “Maybe the FBI has an updated photo.”

  Charlie grabbed three packets of sticky notes and moved to the whiteboard. She peeled off two green notes and quickly wrote the questions: Why is the ghost interested in the Canova trial? Who was the man he was talking to last week in the corridor? She placed the notes on the board.

  “I don’t really see how we go about answering those questions unless we can observe his comings and goings,” Don said.

  Gil stared at the board. “Has there been a pattern to his showing up at the trial?”

  Charlie returned to her seat. She absentmindedly picked up a bag of Cheetos and started munching.

  “Well, let’s see. I’ve seen Caspar, with a p-a-r, the ghost three times now. He was in the courtroom the first day of the trial. That’s when I also saw him in the corridor, but he wasn’t there the whole day.”

  “Who were the witnesses that day?”

  “The bodyguard-slash-chauffeur who had cut a deal with the prosecution.”

  “When did you see him next?”

  “Wednesday. That’s when we stayed late to hear the testimony of Canova’s accountant.”

  “He wasn’t in the courtroom at all on Tuesday?” Gil asked.

  “I don’t think so. We had police witnesses that day. And he didn’t show up today either when we heard testimony from the city employees.”

  “Do you usually know in advance what witnesses you’ll hear?” Don asked.

  Charlie shook her head. “No. But Monday is the beginning of the second week of the trial so the prosecution should, hopefully, be winding down their case, and the defense will present their witnesses.”

  “What does this Caspar guy do when he’s in the courtroom?” Gil asked.

  “When the accountant was testifying, I thought he might be taking notes.”

  “Blending in?” Don asked.

  “Could be. He always seems to be checking out the people in the room—like I am. We made eye contact a couple of times. When I saw him in the car across the street from the courthouse, he was just sitting there. He had the window rolled down, and he wore sunglasses.”

  “He doesn’t have on sunglasses in your photo,” Judy noted.

  “That’s right. I forgot. He put on the sunglasses when I looked his way. That’s what made me suspicious. When I doubled back and sneaked up on him from the rear, the sunglasses were gone again.”

  “I have another question to add to the board,” Gil said. “If you recognize him, does he recognize you?”

  “I’ll add that.” Charlie scribbled and affixed the green Post-it to the whiteboard.

  “I doubt he’d remember you from the Owens arraignment,” Don said. “The courtroom was packed. There was a lot of press, police, other defendants, and a bunch of other people.”

  “Right,” Charlie acknowledged.

  “But for sure he’s noticed you in the jury box.”

  “I know he has.”

  “If you see him again, can you contact one of us?” Gil asked, then added, “But you can’t have your phone inside the courthouse, can you?”

  “No. I’d have to alert you during a break. Then one of you could come over.”

  “That may not work if he comes and goes,” Don said. “He might be gone by the time one of us gets to the courthouse.”

  “That’s true, but it doesn’t make sense for you or Gil to sit in the courtroom all day. We have casework to do.”

  “I could do it,” Judy said tentatively.

  Three pairs of eyes landed on her smile.

  “Nobody knows me from Adam. Tamela’s doing a fine job in the office, and I’d find it interesting to listen to a trial.”

  Charlie waited for Don or Gil to object. They didn’t. Now Judy’s face was one big eager question mark.

  “I guess I could signal you from the jury box if he comes into the courtroom,” Charlie considered.

  “You could. And I’ve seen the ghost’s picture, so I know who to look for,” Judy said, getting into the shorthand.

  “Then what?” Don asked.

  “Well, let’s talk about it,” Charlie began. “When I signal Judy, she can leave the courthouse and immediately call you, Don. Then you can come over and keep an eye on him. See who he talks to, check out what car he drives, maybe even follow him. What do you think?”

  “What’s the objective, Charlie?” Gil asked. “Why not just notify DHS or the FBI that we’ve seen Caspar and let them handle it?”

  “That’s a good question, Mack.” Don leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head.

  “I want to know what he’s up to?”

  “As a juror, you can’t do your own investigation of the case you’re hearing,” Gil said, wearing his lawyer hat.

  “This isn’t an investigation of the case. We’ll be getting information on a known fugitive.”

  “How do we know his presence in the courtroom isn’t related to the case?” Gil argued.

  “Acosta’s right, Mack. This Goulet isn’t the kind of man who just sits in on trials. He’s on somebody’s payroll.”

  “So, whose payroll?” Charlie asked.

  “Like I said. Canova,” Don growled.

  “Could be,” Gil said. “Or maybe he’s keeping an eye on the trial to make sure Canova doesn’t say the wrong thing. He could even be working for one of Canova’s enemies.”

  “You think Canova’s being set up for a hit?” Don asked.

  “It’s a possibility,” Gil said.

  “That’s the point, we just don’t know,” Charlie said. “So, we need to find out what the ghost is really up to.”

  The rest of the Mack Team gave Charlie looks ranging from dubious to disagreement.

  “You’re suggesting we invest quite a bit of time on something we’re not getting paid for,” Don said.

  “We’ve done that before,” Judy reminded them.

  “Yes, but for friends or family,” Don argued.

  “So, I’ll ask again,” Gil said. “What’s our objective?”

  “We’re doing a favor for a friend. Me.”

  Charlie’s levity hadn’t worked. Three stern faces stared back at her. She pointed to the board.

  “Aww, come on, guys. Aren’t you just a little bit curious to know what he’s up to? Let’s just see what happens next week. What do you say?”

  Chapter 8

  Monday

  Within ten minutes of tasting the sweet, spiked punch Maya felt her stomach lurch and her head swim. The music seemed, at once, louder and harder to hear. Her face spasmed as if the pounding bass was connected to her muscles. She rose from the couch on rubbery legs, leaning hard against the armrest to steady herself. “I’m okay,” she said in response to her friend’s query. Not sure why she lied.

  She took a few shaky steps toward the archway separating the living room from the dining room. The music was louder here. She eyed the punchbowl on the card table, and the legs
of a lanky boy who lingered there. She couldn’t quite lift her eyes to assess his guilt, but the toes of his shoes pointed at her in a wide stance. “I feel sick,” she thought she said, but was not sure if the call for help escaped her lips. She reached out for the wall beside her and grasped at its coolness, willing her legs to move toward the bathroom. She saw the outline of the open door, light spilling onto the floor, and she could smell the faint odor of urine. She slumped to her knees; the room now spinning out of control, feeling strong hands lifting her, guiding her.

  The blackness was very deep. Her eyelids jerked open in panic. The music was distant, muddled with odd chants and the grunts of wild boars. She stared at a white space. Gray around the edges. Then a human face, contorted. It disappeared. Then returned. Different eyes—mouth open. She became aware of pressure against her back. Her torso being lifted. Strong hands gripping her arms. Helping her? Maya heard shouting and laughter. No, not laughing, hooting. She began to run, but couldn’t feel her legs move. Her knees were forced apart. A searing pain dashed up her spine. Another face, this one with teeth clenched. The pressure came from front and back now. The white space roiled so she closed her eyes. Tightened her fists. Screamed.

  Charlie shouted and jerked back on her pillow. She looked at her legs that were weighted down by Hamm, then turned her head and met Mandy’s gaze.

  “Bad dream?”

  “Yes. But not mine.”

  Charlie pushed up to lean against the headboard. When she did, Hamm jumped from the bed. She reached for the glass of water on the bed stand.

  “It’s that Ferry case. Gil spoke to the rape victim last week. I guess she got into my head.”

  “It feels like you’re getting too personally involved in both these trial cases, Charlie. Don’t forget what the therapist said about developing a mechanism to help you separate the work you do from who you are.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “That’s why people get paid to help with the hard, emotional stuff,” Mandy said, kissing Charlie on the cheek. “Okay, I’m on doggie patrol for another week, so I’m going to put Hamm out. Happy Monday. It’s another great day for jury duty.”