Media Justice Read online

  Media Justice

  A Marc Kadella legal mystery

  Dennis L. Carstens

  Additional Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries

  The Key To Justice

  Desperate Justice

  Certain Justice

  Copyright © 2014 by Dennis L Carstens

  www.denniscarstens.com

  email me at: [email protected]

  Author’s Note

  As a lawyer, as I am sure are almost all lawyers and judges, I am asked by friends and acquaintances to give my opinion about highly publicized trials. I always tell the person asking I do not follow trials in the media. Forming an opinion based on what you have received through the media is third or fourth hand knowledge filtered through any number of people involved in giving you the story.

  First there is a reporter or reporters watching the trial, probably part time, who may or may not know what they are watching. Then they write the story for the print media or television which will likely, unwittingly or not, contain their bias. Next it goes to at least one and probably two or more editors who check the story and make corrections, deletions and edits that may or may not be tainted by their biases. Finally, it is printed in the paper or read over the TV news to consumers who also have their opinions and biases. By the time all of this filtering is done, the story may not look at all like what is really going on in the courtroom.

  To truly form a reasonably accurate opinion, you have to sit in the courtroom all day every day, listen to the testimony, evaluate the credibility of witnesses and follow the judge’s rulings. How many members of the media that report this to you actually do this? I tell people to wait for the jury to decide since their opinion is the only one that matters anyway. When you finish this novel, it is my hope you will appreciate the difference between what is reported and what really happens.

  Finally, I must make a minor confession. The courts of Minnesota, much to their everlasting credit, do not allow television cameras in the courtrooms. I may be a bit old fashioned about this and if so, so be it. In this age of reality TV, this is one place that should not be televised for the amusement of the public. Trials are serious events and should not be shown for voyeuristic entertainment. I allowed a camera in the court for my trial simply for literary license purposes and today’s realism.

  Dennis Carstens

  A very special thanks to my good friend Kathy K. for all of her assistance, suggestions and help. I really appreciate it. Thanks again.

  “The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars but in ourselves.”

  Julius Caesar Act I Scene 2

  ONE

  October

  Eric Carson’s eyes snapped open when his internal clock awakened him before the alarm went off. He lay quietly in the dark staring up at the interior ceiling of the topper over the bed of his Toyota Tundra. Eric looked to his left and read the time on the dimly illuminated, portable alarm clock barely ten inches from his face. The alarm was set to go off in ten minutes, at four A.M, He reached over, switched off the alarm, rolled over to his right, and leaned on his elbow to look at his ten year old son. Jackson was still asleep, breathing peacefully, his back to his dad, one bare leg outside of his sleeping bag. Eric leaned over, lightly kissed the boy on the back of his head, then quietly gathered his clothes and still in his underwear, slipped out of the back of the truck bed.

  Eric quickly dressed, retrieved the thermos of coffee from the front seat of the truck, poured a cup, and then opened the door of the kennel for his black Lab, Blue. Excited to see his master, the dog jumped up and down several times while Eric scratched him behind his ears. Then Blue ran off toward some weeds to do his morning business.

  Eric noticed some of the other members of his hunting party stirring in their trucks and tents. He leaned against the side of his pick-up and looked up at the cloudless sky. Away from the lights of the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, the sight of billions of stars never failed to awe him and to make him realize how small and insignificant he was. Once again, he realized that was why God gave us children; to give us a purpose in life.

  The dog came back at the same time he felt his son stirring in the back of the truck. He scooped food into Blue’s dish and as he was pouring water into the dog’s bowl, he heard Jackson jump down off of the vehicle’s open tailgate.

  “Hey, Dad,” he heard Jackson say.

  “Morning, bud. Did you sleep okay?”

  “Yeah,” the boy said while yawning and stretching.

  “Get your coat on,” Eric told him. “It’s chilly out here.”

  “I’m okay,” Jackson insisted, noting his dad wasn’t wearing one.

  “I didn’t ask. Now, get a coat on.”

  Jackson grumbled as he climbed back into the truck to get his coat. Eric just shook his head and smiled at the knowledge he had been the same way at his son’s age.

  “It is a little chilly out here,” a voice came from behind Eric. He turned to face Chris Givens, his main hunting partner.

  Chris blew out a long stream of air that was clearly visible and said, “When you can see your breath that much, you know winter isn’t too far off. A few more weeks and it’ll be starting. Coffee?” he asked Eric as he held out his thermos toward him.

  “Sure,” Eric replied as Chris filled his cup. “Gonna be a nice day today though. Too nice. We could use some clouds and rain to keep the ducks flying lower.”

  “It’s been what, a couple months since it rained?”

  “Yeah,” Eric answered. “The river is pretty much back down to normal.”

  Jackson re-emerged and the three stood by the truck chatting about the upcoming day while waiting for the other four members of their party to join them. They were more or less camped in a parking area on a public hunting zone. The parking/camping lot was about two hundred yards from the Mississippi River, south of Hastings in Dakota County, Minnesota. It was their favorite spot and normally not too crowded.

  Dakota County is located south of the Twin Cities metro area. It is mostly rural farming with the population centers along the Northern border abutting the Minnesota and Mississippi rivers. It is a fairly affluent, second tier suburb of St Paul with great access to both St Paul and Minneapolis and plenty of parks and recreation areas. It also borders Wisconsin along the Mississippi where our story begins in an open hunting zone along the river that divides the nation.

  There was a nice sized backwater of the river here, roughly ten to twelve acres with a little bit of a current but shallow enough for decoys. They hunted on a small peninsula that jutted out about a hundred feet into the water which allowed the six men to cover the entire area. There was also excellent natural cover which they could use for blinds. A thick growth of five to six foot tall cattails had expanded out approximately ten feet into the river covering the entire shoreline of the backwater.

  The other four men joined them and they carried the three small boats down to the shore where they had cleared a small launch area through the cattails. They quietly loaded the boats with decoys and while Jackson waited on the shore with Blue and Louie, a golden Lab owned by one of the older hunters, the men quietly paddled out into the calm water. As they did so, they could hear the unmistakable sound of ducks flapping their wings and lightly splashing the water as they took off in the dark to flee from the intruders.

  Even with two men per boat, it took six of them an hour to set all of the decoys in the water in a pattern to attract their game. Shortly after 5:30 they got back on shore, pulled the boats out of the water and hid them in the weeds.

  Satisfied the decoys were set and the boats sufficiently hidden, they all hurried back to the parking area to retrieve their shotguns, ammo and other equipment. They carried these things and small portable cha
irs out to the duck blinds. Still too early to shoot, the group hunkered down in the weeds underneath several small trees on the peninsula to await the sunrise.

  This was Jackson’s first time out with his dad and he was determined to make him proud. Eric, Jackson and Chris covered the left side of the backwater. The other four men, including Chris’s dad Don, were to their right. They all had lightweight portable stools to sit on. The ground they were on was dry and firm. There were several small trees scattered about. Between the trees, the normal growth, the cattails and their camo clothing, the men were almost invisible.

  Jackson sat quietly, content, and happy to be hunting with his dad and Chris even though he wouldn’t touch a gun. He had his earmuff style noise suppressors draped around his neck while he quietly ate a power bar and sipped water from a canteen. Blue, a superbly disciplined dog, sat on his haunches, absolutely still, between Jackson’s legs. The dog had been hunting many times and was probably the most excited one in the party; anxious for the sun to come up to get the action started.

  There was a slight breeze coming across the river out of the east where the sun would rise shortly after 7:00. They could legally start shooting a half-hour before the official sunrise but waiting in the blinds, with the sky full of stars and an almost full moon, it was already light enough to shoot.

  Every few minutes they would see a dark shadow flit across the sky. A moment later they would hear wings flap and a quiet splash as the ducks began to drop into their decoys. Blue could also hear them and he lifted his nose into the wind, his eagerness apparent.

  Gradually, the horizon directly across the river began to turn light gray. Eric held up his left wrist into the moonlight to check the time. By prearrangement, the men had decided to stand and shoot at precisely 6:45, exactly a half hour before the scheduled sunrise. He flashed the five fingers on his left hand twice at Chris to indicate ten more minutes. Eric scratched Blue behind the ears, gave Jackson a brief hug then shifted slightly to make standing quicker and easier. Listening to the birds come in, he had mentally calculated there must be close to two dozen on each side of their small peninsula.

  By 6:40, the red of the sun was clearly starting to show to their front. At 6:45 all of the hunters looked over their shoulders, nodded at each other and quickly stood up as did young Jackson with his ear protectors firmly in place, his hand on Blue’s collar.

  The water exploded as the startled ducks jumped into the air, desperately trying to flee from the sudden appearance of the men with guns. In less than thirty seconds, all six guns were empty with decidedly mixed results. Eric and Chris each scored two birds and a fifth one that they weren’t sure which one of them had hit. The other four men, all older than Eric and Chris had knocked down only three between them. They were already in a heated argument over who shot what.

  Jackson released Blue. The dog was off in a flash through the cattails and into the river. He spent the next fifteen minutes swimming in and out of the decoys retrieving the downed birds. Louie did the same on the other side of the peninsula.

  For the next two hours they sat in their blinds patiently waiting for their quarry to come to them. One of the older men was fairly good with a duck call and every few minutes two or three birds would be drawn in. Eric and Chris each bagged two more, a pair of drake Mallards, a male Wood Duck and a Green-winged Teal. Whenever a bird or two showed any interest in the decoys in front of the other four men, all four of them would completely unload their guns at the curious fowl, making the small cove sound like a combat zone. More often than not, the bird would turn tail and speedily fly off, frightened but otherwise unscathed, much to the amusement of Eric, Chris and Jackson.

  By nine o’clock the sun was heating up the air, the birds were flying higher over the river and the action had slowed considerably. Jackson, a little bored, though determined not to admit it, had yawned a few times and almost nodded off.

  “Hey, bud,” Eric said to his son. “Take the keys, go on back to the truck and lie down for a while.”

  “No, Dad. I’m okay.”

  “Go ahead,” Eric quietly encouraged him. “It’s okay. You’re doing great. Besides, we’ll be taking a break in about an hour to eat. Go lie down and get a nap in.”

  Secretly happy to get the offer, Jackson took the keys and started back toward where the vehicles were parked. He had to pee and at his age, he was a little too self-conscious to do it in front of the others. When he reached the open space between the river and the parking area, he turned to his right and ran along the edge of the cattails until he found a good spot to relieve himself.

  There was a slight indentation in the ground about a hundred feet from the path to the duck blinds. It was an open spot of bare earth, about three feet high at the top edge, sloping down about ten feet into the cattails. The indentation was a semi-circle about fifteen feet across where the river had washed away the foliage and the water had receded leaving dry ground.

  Jackson dropped down into it and walked up to the edge of the cattails. He quickly finished and as he was zipping up his pants, he noticed something in the water. It was about five feet out and looked like it might be a rag or maybe a doll stuck in the weeds. Jackson was wearing water proof boots that went up to mid-thigh, so he cautiously waded into the water and began to make his way toward the object. When he reached it, he pushed aside several of the tall cattails and bent over to get a better look.

  There were some cloth remnants of what could be a small child’s pink, flannel pajamas, what was left of a cotton blanket and a smooth, white ball with what looked like several strands of dirty blonde hair attached. He reached down, gently rolled the ball over and instantly recognized it as a mud splattered, human skull.

  TWO

  July, Two Months Earlier

  Brittany Riley stood in the kitchen doorway of her parents’ home in Apple Valley, Minnesota. It was 8:15 on a Friday morning of what was predicted to be the first really nice weekend of the summer. Between the cold, snowy winter, the wet spring and summer, pleasant weekends had become a bit of a rarity.

  Brittany watched her two and a half year old daughter, Becky, sitting on the couch with Becky’s grandfather, Floyd Riley eating her favorite breakfast; a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and a sip-cup full of chocolate milk. Becky was the joy of the world. She was a beautiful, little blonde haired, blue-eyed bundle of smiles, hugs and happiness. Becky melted the heart of anyone who came in contact with her. Even her cold-hearted great-grandmother, who disliked just about everyone, lit up like a Christmas tree at the sight of her.

  Brittany became pregnant at nineteen by her twenty-one year old boyfriend, Greg Mead. Greg was a full-time mechanic at a local Goodyear store while attending night school at Dakota County Vo-Tech in their Heavy Duty Truck Technology program. He was the first boyfriend Brittany had who was employed with a decent paying job, was in school to secure a good career for himself and was more interested in Brittany than video games.

  Despite a fairly strict upbringing or, more likely because of it, Brittany had been quite sexually active through most of her high school years. She was a very attractive, blue-eyed blonde, just like her mother Barbara and her daughter Becky. Even so, she was very insecure, sexually naïve and was quite willing to give the boys what they wanted, believing it would make her popular.

  Greg knew of her reputation and knew there was a chance that he was not Becky’s father but he didn’t care because he was totally in love with Brittany. The thought of becoming a father, something Greg barely had while growing up, brought him a joy he could not possibly have imagined. When Brittany was still nineteen and six months pregnant, much to the disapproval of Brittany’s mother, they were married. It was quite possibly the first time Brittany had so blatantly defied Barbara. Even so, the expectant newlyweds, at Barbara’s insistence, moved into the Riley home.

  She would never openly admit it but, in Barbara’s eyes, a mechanic was beneath even consideration as a husband for her daughter. A doctor or a succe
ssful lawyer at least, but certainly not someone who worked with his hands for a living. The irony of the fact that Barbara was married to a postal employee shift-worker apparently never occurred to her.

  The house was pleasant enough. It was a two-story, three bedroom located at 2155 MacArthur Street in Apple Valley. It wasn’t the best arrangement for the newlyweds, especially for Greg, but as busy as he was, he made the best of it and even started saving some money for a home of their own.

  A month after Brittany’s twentieth birthday, Becky was born and the Riley household had a new star to revolve around. Even Brittany’s older brother, Tim, who was living back home after another stint in drug rehab, was absolutely smitten by the tiny little girl. Barbara, who had insisted on being in the delivery room practically elbowing Greg out of the way, seemed to soften toward the baby’s father. Perhaps, it was because Barbara had been the first to hold the child when she took it away from the nurse in the delivery room. Unknown to Greg, Barbara had insisted to Brittany that the child be named Becky, after Barbara’s maternal grandmother. The fact that the three females of this family were named Barbara Ann, Brittany Ann and Becky Ann was no coincidence.

  Two months after the baby was born, shortly before 10:00 P.M. on a cold wintry night, they received a knock on the door. Floyd answered it and two Dakota County Sheriff’s deputies brought them the news that Greg was dead. He had been driving home through Rosemount after classes at the Vo-Tech when a drunk in a pickup barreled through a stop sign, T-boning Greg’s car on the driver’s side. Medics were there within minutes but he was already gone. The driver of the pickup was barely hurt. He had a broken nose and two black eyes from the truck’s airbag but was otherwise uninjured.