Exquisite Justice Page 2

  “No! I’m going to enjoy holding it over your head. And I’m going to worry about you. Get used to it. Don’t you worry about me?”

  Marc silently thought about the question. The honest answer was to say no because she was far more capable of taking care of herself than him. Plus, she carried a gun.

  “Well?”

  “Of course, I worry about you,” he said.

  “But you had to think about it?”

  “No. But you can take care of… wait. I didn’t mean…oh god, I’m in trouble again.”

  “You’re in a hole, babe. Stop digging,” she laughed. “I have to go meet a new client. A business guy Tony tossed to me. And I need to stop at my place first.”

  She kissed him again and said, “I’ll see you later. Give me a call and let me know how it went. This is a little weird.”

  Maddy turned to walk toward the front door. She looked back and said, “Love you. See you later.”

  Marc said, “Love you too. I’ll call.” Then under his breath, he said, “What did I get myself into?”

  “I heard that!” she yelled as she opened the door.

  When the door closed behind her, Marc quietly said to himself, “Great! That will give me something to look forward to tonight.”

  Marc turned onto the frontage road and drove past the sign that read Columbia Correctional Institution. He was arriving at a maximum-security prison in Portage, WI. Stopping for lunch at a Wendy’s in Wisconsin Dells had pushed the drive time to a little more than four hours, perfectly timed for his one o’clock meeting.

  He found a spot in the parking lot marked for visitors. As he walked toward the imposing structure, even though it was warm, early-summer weather, Marc felt a slight chill. Despite what certain big-mouth politicians liked to spread, even a so-called country club prison was still a prison. And a max-security was a scary place.

  Marc was meeting a former client who had been transferred to this facility. He was here at the client’s request, and Marc had made arrangements with the warden himself. Despite the presence of the warden to greet him—Marc had called ahead—he still had to go through the entire security screening process. At 1:10 the warden led Marc into the secured visitor’s area.

  As he entered, he immediately saw to his left, a row of booths. Each one was equipped with a telephone to talk to the inmate. There was bulletproof Plexiglas all the way to the ceiling. On the far end was an observation room with a corrections officer inside to observe and monitor.

  “Take whatever one you want,” the warden said indicating the empty booths.

  “How is he?” Marc asked.

  “Health-wise he’s fine. He’s only been here a couple of months. According to the staff he seems to have settled right in. I let them know you’re here. He’ll be brought in any minute.”

  “Thanks, Warden,” Marc replied.

  “You’re a lawyer. Legally, you can see him whenever you want.” The warden shrugged. He pointed at the observation booth and continued, “Obviously, we can’t monitor your conversation. But he’ll be watching. When you’re done just wave to him to let him know, and someone will come and get you.”

  As the two men shook hands, the secured door in the inmates’ area opened. A man Marc would not have recognized came in wearing blue prison dungarees. Despite the fact he was barely in his sixties, his hair and beard were snow white. He was sporting a full beard, and his hair was at least six inches longer, slicked back and three inches over his collar. He had also aged ten years, even though it was less than three years since Marc had last seen him.

  Marc sat down in the booth he was standing next to and picked up the phone. The inmate did the same.

  “Hello, Judge,” Marc said. The gaunt, white-haired man he saw through the Plexiglas was former Hennepin County District Court Judge J. Gordon Prentiss III.

  At one time Prentiss was an almost aristocratic member of Minnesota society. The son of an extremely well-connected lawyer, Gordon, the name he preferred, was the governor’s selection to the U.S. Senate. A Minnesota senator had suddenly died, and Prentiss III was headed toward the big time. Unfortunately, his wife was found lying on her bedroom floor with a knife in her chest. Almost on top of her, unconscious with his hand on the knife handle, was the would-be U.S. Senator. The cops took several photos before they brought him around. The photos, along with documented spousal abuse, cooked Prentiss’ goose. Marc was his lawyer.

  “I haven’t heard anyone call me that for quite some time.”

  Marc and Judge Prentiss, while Prentiss was on the bench, had a long, acrimonious relationship. Most of the defense lawyers in Hennepin County also had a difficult time with then-Judge Prentiss. His attitude toward criminals was barely enough to let them have a trial before execution. At the time, to say Marc was stunned when Prentiss asked him to represent him would be putting it very mildly.

  “What can I do for you, Gordon?”

  “I just wanted to apologize to you, in person. And to tell you how terribly sorry I am about your friend,” Prentiss said.

  While doing his time in a prison in Indiana—it would be too risky to let a judge do prison time in his own state—Prentiss had become angry with Marc. After exhausting his state court appeals procedures, he hired a pair of thugs to murder Marc. This was done through a fellow inmate.

  The two hitmen followed Marc to a small town in Minnesota. Marc and his friend, a client by the name of Zach Evans, were leaving the courthouse. The hit was attempted by running Marc down as he crossed the street. The driver of the van that tried it, no one’s idea of a genius, hit and killed Zach instead. He did manage to hit Marc as well, but he survived.

  A couple of months later, Prentiss and his inmate co-conspirator had a falling out over the money Prentiss paid. The argument led to Prentiss being stabbed—a slight wound—that resulted in the entire story coming out. Additional time for Zach Evans’ death was tacked onto both men’s sentence. Enough extra time to ensure Gordon Prentiss was going to die in prison. They were also transferred to different prisons.

  Marc sat silently for almost thirty seconds staring at the old man. Finally, he said, “What the hell got into you? Did you really think killing me would accomplish anything? And now my friend is dead…”

  “I don’t expect you to understand or forgive me. I was angry. I was innocent of my wife’s death, and I needed to blame someone. I know it’s not rational. I know it’s not right, but these places can do things to you. That’s not an excuse. It’s just a fact.

  “I admitted what I did, and I’ll die in here. Or, maybe get out when I’m in my nineties. I just needed to say I’m sorry.”

  “Are you finding Jesus?” Marc asked.

  Prentiss laughed a little and said, “You won’t believe it, but I am. At least a little. It gives me a little solace. Not that it matters now, but I believe you know I was innocent of Catherine’s death.”

  “You’re right; it doesn’t matter,” Marc replied. “But you know what? I guess I do forgive you. Hanging onto that anger accomplishes nothing. And it won’t bring my friend back.”

  “Thank you,” Prentiss quietly said.

  “You should know, I had occasion to meet one of the jurors. She told me it was the photo of you lying on the floor with the knife sticking out of Catherine’s chest and your hand on it that did you in. She told me they couldn’t get past it,” Marc said.

  “It was too prejudicial. It should have never been allowed into evidence,” Prentiss said with obvious bitterness.

  “Stop it. There isn’t a judge out there, including you, that would not have allowed the jury to see it.”

  “Yes, I guess you’re right,” Prentiss agreed.

  “Take care of yourself, Gordon.”

  While Marc was walking back toward his car, he thought about Catherine Prentiss’ death. Gordon was absolutely, one hundred percent correct. He did not murder his wife. But he did drive her to suicide, and she brilliantly set him to take the fall for it.

  T
hree

  Minnesota State Senator Jamal Halane, a very light-skinned, second-generation Somali, was having breakfast at his usual restaurant, the Guriga. Guriga in Somali means home. The Guriga is located on Washington Avenue near the Cedar/Riverside area of Minneapolis. It is in the heart of the largest Somali community and is a popular meeting place. This, of course, was very dear to the hearts of most Somalis. Being driven from their homeland by terrorists and landing in this country of promiscuity, drugs, and crime made many yearn for a return. The good senator was not one of them. He was quite at home with the American dream, especially the promiscuity part.

  Halane had a reserved booth that he used daily whether or not the legislature was in session. Today, during the summer, it was not. He had been on the premises since 8:00 A.M., and it was now almost 10:00. Having finished his usual breakfast of Malawah—a sweet Somali pancake—he had stayed to greet constituents.

  Every morning the restaurant would fill with those who would respectfully approach him. Halane had developed a politician’s memory and amazed himself at the number of names he remembered. This would invariably impress the supplicants who would pass it on to friends and family. In the coming election, Halane would receive ninety percent of their votes. A solid constituency.

  Halane looked toward the door and saw a small man come in. He was about Halane’s age—fortyish—and dressed in traditional Muslim clerical garb. Halane checked his watch and smiled at the man’s punctuality.

  It took the man almost ten minutes to make his way to Halane’s booth. The customers crowded around him to give and receive traditional Muslim greetings. His name was Imam Abdullah Sadia and he was the most respected Imam of the main Minneapolis Mosque.

  “As-salamu alaykum,” the Imam politely said to Halane as he sat down across from him. The standard ‘peace be upon you’ greeting among Muslims.

  “Wa aykumn as-salam,” Halane replied. ‘And upon you, peace’ was the reply.

  A waiter appeared—no woman could wait on the Imam—with a cup of his favorite coffee. The Imam nodded and gave the man the same greeting then sipped the spiced French press brew.

  While this took place, the booths in front and back of them emptied as did the nearby tables. It was well understood that these two community leaders demanded privacy.

  “Are you meeting with our friend?” the Imam asked.

  “Yes,” Halane replied. “He will be here in about a half-hour.”

  “And?”

  “All is proceeding on schedule.”

  “I have heard from our friends,” the Imam said. “They are impatient. Grateful, but impatient.”

  Halane smiled and replied, “Allah’s plans are long-range plans…”

  “You are aware of how long Allah’s plans are for?” the Imam chastised the senator. “Do not speak blasphemy.”

  “I meant no disrespect, Imam. I only meant these things will proceed as Allah wills them,” Halane quickly, nervously replied.

  “Of course.”

  “The young ones are doing their duty, even though they don’t know it,” Halane said.

  “This accursed country fills the heads of our children with many temptations. Too many are lured by the trivialities of greed and luxury they believe they can have. They throw away Paradise for foolish pleasures here in the land of Satan.”

  Halane had no response to the Imams rant. If he said anything at all, he feared the Imam would throw it in his face. Halane had no idea how much this man, whom he considered a fanatic, knew about the senator’s own wanderings from the path to Paradise.

  Halane had heard this man’s tirades about the land of Satan many times. The last thing he wanted was to trigger another one. Halane knew what really galled the Imam was a loss of control over people’s lives. And their money. Fortunately, he saw the man he was meeting pull up at the curb in front of the restaurant early.

  “He’s here,” Halane quietly said.

  “Go and bring back good news.”

  “Insha Allah,” Halane replied. God willing.

  Senator Halane hurried out of the restaurant. He left no money for the bill, believing quite incorrectly the owner would be insulted. The owner of the Guriga Restaurant was not a particularly devout Muslim. He was simply adept at portraying himself as one. As to the good senator, he was glad he brought in customers willing to kiss the politician’s ass but despised Halane for being a cheap, petty phony.

  When he reached the sidewalk, Halane ran, or at least moved with what passed for running for him, toward the vehicle. Years of soft living on other people’s money had left the politician a chubby candidate for an early heart attack. He went around to the street-side backseat passenger door. His ego expected someone to open the door for him. Instead, when no one got out to open it, he opened it himself and climbed into the backseat of the Chevy Tahoe.

  Halane closed the door behind himself and said, “As-salamu alaykum,” while buckling his seatbelt.

  “And peace be unto you, brother,” Damone Watson replied in English. “How is the Imam this morning?”

  “Impatient,” Halane said as Lewis drove the Tahoe through the light traffic.

  “Unfortunate, but that is your problem. These things take time,” Damone said. “He will have his representative back in the State Senate this fall,” Damone confidentially said referring to Halane.

  “Insha Allah,” Halane said.

  Damone laughed and said, “You can stop pretending you are a devout Muslim. We both know better.”

  “Are you sure we can speak freely in here?” Halane asked.

  “Yes, it is checked for listening devices at least daily. And GPS location devices. Is your phone off?” Damone asked.

  “I do not have it with me. I left it in my car.”

  For the next forty minutes, Lewis, with Monroe literally riding shotgun, drove around while the two men talked. The fall elections were only a few months off and campaigning was already in full swing. Halane was being challenged by a well-known black woman and his re-election was anything but certain. He was counting on Damone’s support. Damone quietly put out the word through the black community. For solid business reasons and his attitude toward women, Damone was going to help the groveling fool sitting next to him.

  “What do you think of Jalen Bryant? What do you think of the woman who is running, Carpenter?” Damone asked referring to the mayoral race in Minneapolis.

  The fact that Damone was asking Halane his opinion about anything was a boost to Halane’s ego. He threw his shoulders back, sat up straight and paused as if considering the question. After a few seconds, he said, “Jalen Bryant is a crusader, or at least claims to be. Carpenter is a lightweight fool. But she’s a very appealing liberal which plays well with white, Minneapolis liberals.”

  “You don’t think a black man such as Jalen would appeal to white liberals?” Damone asked.

  “In Minneapolis, certainly. Jalen could defeat Carpenter,” Halane replied.

  “I agree,” Damone said. “This will do, Lewis,” Damone said to his driver.

  Lewis pulled the Tahoe to the curb and stopped. Lewis watched the senator in his mirror, Monroe turned his head to look at him as did Damone.

  “Thank you for your time, Senator. I will be in touch.”

  Halane nervously looked about the interior of the vehicle and said, “You want me to get out here? How will I get back?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Damone replied.

  This time Lewis exited the car and opened Halane’s door for him. Lewis stood patiently in the street waiting while the bought and paid for senator fumbled with his seatbelt before getting out. Lewis shut the door with a solid thump and without a word climbed back in, took his seat and drove off.

  “I don’t know which is worse,” Halane muttered as he walked to the sidewalk. “Dealing with the fanatic Muslims or the arrogant blacks.”

  He reached inside his coat to retrieve his phone to call Uber. The empty pocket reminded him he had left it in
his car. He cursed loudly drawing attention from a passerby, then started walking.

  “He is an insufferable little man,” Monroe said to Damone after Lewis started driving away.

  “Yes,” Damone said with a sigh, “but useful. I have it on good authority that his Senate colleagues hold him in high regard. They’re terrified of being labeled a racist, so he is eagerly accepted.

  “Now,” Damone continued, “Lewis, I want you to contact Jalen’s campaign manager, Kordell Glover. Set up a meeting in our office for this evening. Helping elect a black mayor will offset our support of this dog, Halane.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lewis replied.

  “The more I think about it, the more ambivalent I become about getting his endorsement,” Jalen Bryant said. He was in the passenger seat of his campaign manager’s car on his way to meet Damone Watson. “What does he want, and can we really trust him?”

  Kordell Glover was driving and laughed at his client’s statement. “What, you mean that maybe all of this ‘man of the people, rehabilitated gangbanger, drug dealing murderer’ might not be as it seems?”

  “I don’t know,” Jalen said. “I’m not sure what to make of him.”

  “We’ll use him, get you in office and then we can decide whether or not to keep him around.”

  Jalen Bryant was a thirty-seven-year-old married father of two children, an eight-year-old and a five-year-old, both boys. Unknown to everyone except his wife and Kordell was Jalen’s true political philosophy. He was a closet law and order candidate who, unlike previous mayors and city council members leaned toward the police. Criminals needed to be taken off the streets and locked up. He was secretly in favor of school choice. Children of all races, especially inner-city black children, deserved better schools and the opportunity to go to the same schools as the children of the white politicians. As bad as these beliefs were, his worst sin was the abortion statistics that showed the black community was being decimated by careless sexual behavior and irresponsibility.