Exquisite Justice Page 12

  The protestors did this until 11:00 P.M. By then, except for a few hardcore marchers, the crowd had dwindled to almost nothing. But the real damage was done during the 4:00 to 6:00 rush hour. The downtown commute was virtually frozen in place.

  On the third day, the less-than-enthusiastic protestors, those that were there for the fun, started to melt away. On the fourth day, the crowd was down to barely one thousand. But these were mostly the angry, whipped-up-by-Ferguson, hardcore participants.

  Philo Anson parked the Jaguar in the Star Tribune lot. He whistled a tune he had heard on the radio as he passed through security. Philo was on top of the world. His ego told him he personally was responsible for shaking the foundation of the City’s government. And he could not have been prouder. When he reached his desk, there was a terse, hand-written Post-It note on his computer screen.

  ‘See me immediately’ was written on it followed by the word ‘Proctor’. Vince Proctor was Philo’s editor. A note like this, written and slapped on his screen like that, was not likely to be good news.

  Normally, Philo would hang up his suit coat, then wander to the break room for coffee. He would then take an hour to stroll around the room allowing his co-workers to congratulate him—or so he believed—for his latest piece of brilliant writing. The tenor of Proctor’s note told him today was not the day for such indulgence.

  Before Philo reached Proctor’s glass-enclosed office, Proctor was on his feet and coming out his door. He came out and abruptly said, “Follow me. They’re waiting.”

  A silent, short ride up on the elevator brought them to the publisher’s office. The ‘they’ who were waiting for them was the publisher, managing editor, and chief counselor. None of them looked happy to see Philo.

  “Come in, please,” Aidan Smith, the paper’s publisher told them. “Have a seat,” he continued, indicating the two armchairs in front of his glass-topped desk.

  The other two people in the room were Carl Bedford, the managing editor, Proctor’s boss, and Blane Weathers, chief counsel for the paper. Bedford was standing by a window leaning on the sill and the lawyer was seated next to and slightly behind Aidan Smith.

  Smith made introductions then reached across his desk and handed a multipage document to Philo.

  “Mr. Weathers and I had a meeting with the city attorney early this morning. With the okay from the mayor and city council, Ms. Spencer gave us this copy. They are also sending copies to all media outlets,” Smith said.

  “We got a copy ourselves ahead of the others because, according to Trudy Spencer,” Blane Weathers said, “your riot-inducing article was extremely one-sided and highly inflammatory. In fact, she claims the only source you used was Reverend Lionel Ferguson.”

  “Is that true?” Proctor’s boss, Carl Bedford, asked.

  “He was a significant source, yes,” a slightly nervous Philo replied. “Not the only one. He was at the meeting when the mayor told him, and others, that their investigation exonerated the cop who shot Mikal Tate. Ferguson assured me it was a total cover-up. Check my stories word-for-word. I made it clear that the information used came from sources who were briefed by the mayor and city and county attorneys. I told the truth. We’re covered.”

  “Yes, we know,” the lawyer said. “And you’re right. We’re covered. Sort of. You made it sound like others in the meeting agreed it was a cover-up but named no one.”

  “I even checked with the mayor’s office. All I got was a ‘no comment’,” Philo said. “What’s the problem?”

  Aidan Smith stood up and looked out the fifth-floor window at the Vikings’ new stadium a few blocks away. While he did this, the room remained silent. Finally, he turned back and looked from Proctor to Philo.

  “Okay, here’s what I want. You,” Smith said looking at Philo, “take that report and go through it line-by-line, item-by-item. Write up a thorough, unbiased, objective article for the front page of tomorrow’s paper.

  “I want it edited by both you and Carl and ready for me by 3:00 P.M.,” Smith told Proctor. “Any questions? Are we clear?” he asked Proctor and Philo.

  Both men said, “no, sir” and “yes, sir” in unison.

  As the two of them walked back to the elevator, Proctor said, “I guess the report is pretty credible. At least that’s what Bedford told me.”

  “Tell me something,” Philo bitterly said. “When did they start worrying about unbiased, objective reporting?”

  “This is different. It’s not about our beloved president. It’s about a local cop who we crucified and maybe unjustly.”

  Philo Anson stormed out of the Star Tribune building. He had completed his article to cover the paper’s ass, but that was not enough. What the higher-ups wanted was an apology from Philo personally for inciting the protests. At least that was the impression Philo got out of the meeting. He submitted his article and decided to let his boss, Vince Proctor, make the changes.

  When he reached his car, Philo checked his watch. It was a few minutes past 3:00. Instead of driving off, he realized he had time for a quick drink then go to the protest. There was a bar across the street from the parking lot, the Front Page, that attracted a clientele from the paper. Normally Philo steered clear of the place not wanting to fraternize. It was still early enough that the bar would not be crowded. It was also close enough to ground zero of the protest that he could walk there by 4:00 and leave his car in the paper’s lot.

  Charlie Dudek, in disguise, was hanging out in front of the Government Center. He was wearing an old, battered Twins’ baseball hat, wrap around, very dark sunglasses and a scraggly beard. He had a loose fitting, dark-brown, long-sleeve shirt, well-worn jeans and sneakers. Charlie looked like a street person just hanging out with the protestor crowd. For the past three days, he had been scouting his target by walking along with the protestors. Mostly he was checking out the TV cameras.

  Charlie had found a place along the protest route where he might be able to pull it off. It was risky in the extreme, but the idea of it got his juices moving. He had not done anything this risky in years. Besides, he reminded himself, if the opportunity was not there, he would walk away and get him somewhere else.

  Rob Dane had been with the MPD for 6 years. In the army at 18, 8 years with the 82nd Airborne, then back home to Minneapolis. His high school girlfriend, Leah Johanson, had stayed loyal and waited for him. Three months after his discharge, they were married, and a month later, Rob was an MPD cop. Now, five years and two little girls later, he was extremely happy and on the list for promotion to sergeant.

  “Be careful tonight,” Leah told him while watching him dress for duty.

  “I will, babe,” Rob said and smiled at his wife. Leah was a classic Scandinavian-Minnesota girl. Blonde, blue-eyes and girl-next-door pretty. Rob truly believed he was the luckiest guy alive. And their two little copies of the mother had Daddy wrapped around their little fingers.

  “It’s actually calming down a bit. They yell a lot, but so far, no real violence.”

  “I wish they’d stop spitting on you. It’s disgusting,” Leah said.

  “You know something?” Rob said while hitching his belt around his waist, “It’s more degrading for the ones who act like that. They really don’t understand how bad that makes them look.”

  “It’s still disgusting,” Leah said. “Remember, helmet and vest.”

  By 4:30 the protestors were again marching West on Sixth. Charlie had fallen into his usual place, but today he was quietly walking along. In fact, he had stuffed earplugs in each ear to keep the noise out. Each night he would end up with a headache from the same overdone chant— “No justice, no peace”—over and over. They had not even begun the march when it started up.

  Couldn’t someone please come up with something new? Charlie again started thinking. That same tiresome, banal, clichéd chant had passed its sell-by date years ago.

  While he walked along, once in a while, Charlie would pump his fist in the air like everyone else. Behind the glasse
s, Charlie’s eyes were in constant motion. He was looking for something in particular and was relieved not to see them––TV cameras. The first two days they had been everywhere. Starting yesterday, there were very few and today, so far none.

  Philo Anson was on the very far left end right behind the Black Lives Matter sign holders. He was getting hot, tired and sweaty and started to wish he had not stopped for a drink. Or if he had just one instead of a quick three, that would have helped.

  Philo was in the exact same spot as the previous three days. He was a step to the left of Reverend Ferguson and six or seven feet in front of him. They had walked less than three blocks and Philo was already feeling it. The Nicollet Mall was coming up and he was thinking he might slip away there. Philo looked ahead and saw the same cop who was there yesterday, twenty feet from the Mall’s corner. Today, with a smaller, less raucous crowd, there were fewer cops and they were spaced out a bit farther apart.

  A few feet before he reached the helmeted cop, Philo looked back to see if Ferguson was watching him. A small crowd of admiring, ass-kissing sycophants, Philo thought, was close to the reverend. Philo also noticed a scruffy looking, likely homeless guy, shuffling along and coming up behind and to the right of Ferguson. Philo removed his phone from his pocket and took a few pictures.

  * * *

  Charlie had been gradually creeping up on the fat man as the crowd moved along. After two blocks, even with earplugs, he would have paid each one of them a crisp C-note to stop the inane chanting; “No justice, no peace, no justice, no peace.”

  When they were halfway down Sixth Street on the third block, he looked ahead and saw his mark. He could see a little man in a shirt and tie just ahead of the reverend turn and look at him. The man looked to be on the verge of collapse.

  When the fat minister was fifteen feet from his mark, Charlie made his move. He stepped up directly behind the reverend and grabbed his shirttail in his left hand to hold him for a second or two, then reached around him on his right, pinning Ferguson’s right arm to his side. For the second or two it would take, the long-sleeve brown shirt would fool the mark into believing it was Ferguson’s arm and hand pointing a gun at him.

  Rob Dane had been on station at his normal spot, twenty feet from the corner of Sixth and Nicollet Mall. Today the protest was actually a little boring. The numbers were way down and his colleagues down the line had reported very little cursing at them and, so far, no spitting.

  Rob looked East along Sixth and watched the Black Lives Matter sign get closer. Every time he saw one, he wondered the same thing, How many back lives are saved across America every day by blue lives? Someone should do a study.

  Rob watched the sign holders go by then saw Reverend Ferguson close behind. Ferguson seemed to stutter step then looked at Rob with a mask of rage on his face. It was then he saw the arm come up and point right at him.

  Without hesitation, Rob’s army and police training took over. He drew his sidearm, went into a shooter’s stance and yelled “gun” at least three times. He also fired three quick shots into the large man’s chest. Two went through Ferguson’s heart, and the third through his left lung. Ferguson was dead by the time he hit the street.

  Rob Dane maintained his shooter’s stance for another two or three seconds. As Ferguson’s large body fell, for Rob, the entire scene took on an eerie, almost ethereal silence and slow-motion, film-like quality. It took that long for his conscious brain to realize what he had done and for the crowd to react. When the people around Ferguson finally realized what happened, all hell broke loose.

  As quiet as a whisper, Charlie Dudek vanished.

  Nineteen

  “I’m telling you, I saw a gun. That fat reverend, Ferguson, was glaring right at me. He had hate in his eyes. I was watching him and the next thing I saw was his right arm come up. He had a gun in his hand pointed right at me. I drew and fired.”

  A tired, anxious, frustrated and a little bit scared Rob Dane finished giving his statement, for the third time, to Internal Affairs. The two I.A. cops were Lt. Kevin Scott, a white man, and Sgt. Bowie Jackson, a black man. Both were veterans and had the reputation of being fair, honest and very thorough. Also in the interrogation room at the downtown headquarters was Arturo Mendoza. Mendoza was a lawyer brought in by the police union to represent Rob.

  Lt. Scott shut off the recorder on the table. He looked at his partner who shook his head indicating he had no more questions. It was after 9:00 P.M. and they had been at it since 6:00.

  Scott looked across the table at Rob and said, “All right, officer. That’s it for tonight. I have to tell you that you are officially on paid administrative leave pending our investigation. We will need your badge and your gun and the second one you have on your inventory card.

  “Off the record,” Scott continued, “I have to tell you, no one’s come up with a gun and nobody else saw it…”

  “He had a gun, goddamnit!” Rob yelled. “I told you, it was a small automatic. A thirty-two or twenty-five.”

  “Stop,” Scott said. “They’re looking. The investigation is just starting. You need to go home.”

  “A suggestion, officer,” Sgt. Jackson said. “You may want to get your family out of the house for at least a few days. This isn’t going to calm things down.”

  “I know,” Rob quietly replied. “Her parents have a lake place up North. I’ll see if they can take her and the kids up there. I’m gonna need a lawyer…”

  “The union will pay me to take your case. If you’re not comfortable with me, we’ll find someone else who is contracted with the union,” Mendoza said. “I won’t be insulted if you want someone else. You need to be comfortable with who you have.”

  “Don’t you want it?” Rob asked. He knew Mendoza a bit. A couple of his fellow officers had used him, and Mendoza had done Rob and Leah’s Wills.

  “Yes, I do,” Mendoza said. “But you have to decide. Think about it and give me a call. You have my card. Call anytime.”

  While Internal Affairs was wrapping up the statement of Rob Dane, Philo Anson was in his favorite “gentlemen’s club” enjoying the show. There were two girls, in particular, he was especially fond of. Both were long-legged, five-hundred-a-night Russians. Given his luck today, he was thinking about a thousand-dollar, hot tub threesome treat. Unfortunately, because of this afternoon’s event, Philo was having a hard time concentrating.

  Philo was less than ten feet away from both Reverend Ferguson and the cop who shot him. When he heard the shots, he froze for 2 or 3 seconds before he saw what happened. First, he looked at Ferguson lying in the street. His feet and arms were twitching because his heart was dead but not his brain. When Philo thought about the sight, he closed his eyes and shook his head. He knew that image was going to give him sleep problems for quite a while.

  He stared at Ferguson for several more seconds then turned his head toward the source of the shots. A cop in a shooter’s stance, his gun still pointed at the dead man, was yelling something Philo could not make out.

  Running down Sixth on both sides were at least a half dozen cops. Panic took over Philo and he ran to Nicollet Mall and hid behind a tree. He stayed there, terrified, for two or three minutes while the police surrounded the body and sealed off the area. It was then Philo remembered he was a reporter.

  He carefully stood up and cautiously walked over to the scene. Inexplicably, none of the now 8 or 10 cops around Ferguson paid any attention to him. He managed to walk up to the body within three feet. Philo, phone in hand, stood there for almost ten seconds taking photos before a police sergeant spotted him.

  Two of the cops grabbed him while the sergeant grappled with him to get his phone. All the while Philo was yelling that he was a reporter with the Star Tribune. This finally caught the sergeant’s attention and he allowed Philo to show his ID. At which point, phone in hand, Philo was not very pleasantly escorted away.

  On the way back to the Star Tribune building he emailed the photos of Ferguson’s body to h
is company email. He also called Vince Proctor to let him know what he had. An eyewitness account and photos of Ferguson’s killing. Proctor had not even heard the news yet.

  Tomorrow’s front page story was written and ready for the morning’s edition by six o’clock. The big argument with the top management was over the photos. Philo wanted them all in the paper, including the one he had sneaked of the cop shooter, Rob Dane. The brass decided to use one photo of Ferguson on an inside page but refused to run the cop’s photo. Sensibly, they decided it would be irresponsible to run the photo until they knew for sure he was the accused shooter.

  As a side benefit, the apology story Philo had reluctantly typed up earlier that day lost its juice. Instead of a below the fold, A Section front page article, it went to the B Section of the Metro news.

  Philo sat at the bar ignoring the strippers, staring at a photo on his phone. It had been a stroke of blind, dumb luck, he realized. But, nonetheless, there it was in full color and crystal clear.

  “That’s something about that big mouth black guy that got popped today,” the bartender said bringing Philo back to reality.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah,” Philo said while shutting off his phone. “I was there. I saw it.”

  “Seriously?” the scantily-clad bartender responded. “Did you write it up for the Strib?”

  Philo was a regular enough customer so that the bartender knew him and what he did.

  “Yeah, I did,” Philo said beaming. “A Pulitzer Prize!”

  “You want another one?” the bartender asked referring to Philo’s twenty-dollar watered-down brandy soda.

  “Uh, no, I think I’m gonna take off, Colleen. Thanks.”

  Philo, feeling pretty good, left a twenty on the bar and headed for home.