Page 6

Mickey O’Herlihy stood in the open doorway of Marc Kadella’s office. He waited patiently for his most recent protégé to look up. Marc, head down, was concentrating on a brief he was preparing for Mickey.

“Knock, knock,” Mickey finally said to get Marc’s attention.

“What?” Marc said.

“I got a call a few minutes ago from two New York lawyers. They’re in town and need local counsel to tag along with them,” Mickey said.

“And?” Marc asked.

“I can’t make it. They need him today, this afternoon, and I have to be in Fed Court in Minneapolis later today.”

“For?”

“That gambling ring case,” Mickey answered.

“Oh, yeah, that nefarious gambling ring busted by the Feds. Bars selling numbers on football games. The great RICO case,”

Mickey laughed and said, “Yep, that’s the one. The great gambling syndicate.

“Anyway, Judge Larson was adamant. No more continuances. So, we’re bringing our motion to dismiss.”

“Okay, so what are the New York guys here…Oh, wait a minute. They arrested that guy from the Carver’s campaign and are charging him with what, a manslaughter charge?”

“First and second degree.”

“Seriously? On an accidental overdose case?”

“The girl’s dad is a heavyweight state senator from Stillwater,” Mickey said.

“Great, politics involved,” Marc said.

“Easiest five grand you’ll make,” Mickey said.

“Five? Seriously? Done,” Marc said. “But what if it goes to trial?”

“Get more money from them. I’ll have Kevin write up an ironclad retainer for you,” Mickey said referring to the office paralegal, Kevin Stuart .

“Besides, I spoke to DeWitt,” Mickey said. DeWitt was the elected Ramsey County Attorney. “He assured me it’s not going to trial,” Mickey said.

Marc stared at his mentor and good friend without speaking for a long half minute.

“The Carvers flew in a couple of high rent guns from New York to get out here and shove a plea deal down his throat. I could sense something sleazy about those two, the Carvers,” Mickey told Marc.

“This Billy Stover kid,” Marc said, “may be taking the rap for Carver.”

“You have painted an accurate picture, my young apprentice,” Mickey said.

“And you’re running across the river because you don’t want any part of this,” Marc said.

“No, well, that’s a, ah, benefit, but what I told you about Judge Larson is true. I can’t get out of it.”

“When’s he being railroaded, I mean, arraigned?” Marc asked.

“One o’clock,” Mickey said, “Gwen Bryant is handling it for DeWitt’s office. Give her a call. I’ll get your retainer.”

“Gwen, it’s Marc Kadella,” Marc told Gwen Bryant.

“Hey, Marc,” she replied.

“I understand you’re handling this Billy Stover case,” Marc said.

“Yeah, why…oh, wait. Mickey dropped this in your lap. What do you need?”

“Mickey has a conflict in Minneapolis. I understand there are a couple heavy hitters from the Big Apple in town.”

“Yes, have you spoken to them?”

“No, not yet.”

“I’ll see you at one. That’s the arraignment. Judge Weaver, courtroom fourteen ten. I’ll see you then.”

Marc arrived at the correct courtroom at 12:55. As he walked up the center aisle, he noticed a dozen or so media types in the gallery. Some he knew were locals, others looked to be network people. What he did not see were any lawyers .

Marc checked in with the clerk who pointed him toward the jury room. Before he got there, the three lawyers came into the courtroom, including Gwen Bryant.

After Marc introduced himself to the New York lawyers––they had spoken on the phone––they went back into the jury room. At the same time, a deputy brought Billy Stover into the courtroom.

Before anything else, Marc had the retainer signed by both lawyers. Once that was done, he folded the check and put it in his pocket.

“We’ve reached a plea agreement,” Gwen told him.

“Does our client know this?” Marc asked.

“We were about to tell him,” Peter Simpson, the younger of the two lawyers said.

“To be clear, we will be lead counsel on this case,” the older one, Nelson McGovern condescendingly told Marc.

Marc looked at the older man, obviously a senior partner, right in the eye and said, “Actually, you’re not. You’re here as a courtesy. I’m the only one licensed in this state.”

“I see, well, I, ah, suppose…” McGovern started to stammer.

“What’s the deal?” Marc asked Gwen.

“Twenty-four months. Five years unsupervised probation at the end of which it drops to a misdemeanor. There’s more,” Gwen said when Marc started to speak.

“His mother is ill. She lives in Colorado. He’ll be allowed to serve it in a Colorado prison because of her illness. It’s a good deal Marc.”

Too good, if he’s guilty , Marc thought.

“I need to talk to him, alone,” Marc said. “I’ll tell him it’s so I’m satisfied he understands everything.”

Because of the media presence in the courtroom, and the fact it was the only case on the docket, Judge Weaver took the plea in chambers. Afterward, while Billy was led away, the lawyers went out through the courtroom.

Marc gently grabbed Gwen’s arm and whispered to her that he wanted to talk. She looked around, saw the New York guys gesturing to the media. With Marc following, they went back to the jury room.

Gwen placed her briefcase on the table, then sat down on the tabletop next to it. She looked at Marc, shook her head and asked, “Yeah?”

“What the hell just happened here?” Marc asked. “Why do I feel the need to go home and shower?”

“Yeah, I know how you feel, me too,” Gwen said.

Gwen looked at Marc, her hands down, palms flat on the tabletop, her feet dangling down, she nodded a couple times then said, “Okay, I’ll tell you. But, if you ever tell anyone and it gets back to me, I’ll deny it.”

“Okay, what?” Marc asked who, by now, was also plopped on the table, one foot on the floor.

“The word came down from on high, the governor’s chief of staff. He called the mayor, she called DeWitt, DeWitt called me. Make this thing go away as quickly and quietly as possible.”

“That explains it,” Marc said. “Did you see the photos of her, Abby Connolly. She was a doll. No way was that girl gonna end up in the sack with Billy Stover with a hound like Tom Carver circling around. This whole thing was a cover up for an overdose caused by a future president. Son of a bitch,” Marc said.

“Like I said, I’ll deny everything,” Gwen said.

Gwen made the small jump off the table, picked up her briefcase, looked at Marc and said, “I won’t be voting for Tom Carver.”

Mickey O’Herlihy’s personal office took up the entire front of the building on the second floor. A testament to his ego, however well deserved. Marc knocked and went in.

“Got a minute?” Marc asked.

“Sure, what’s up?

“I need to talk to someone about this and you’re the best candidate I know,” Marc said after taking a client chair in front of Mickey’s black glass and chrome desk.

“Should I be flattered?” Mickey asked.

“Probably not,” Marc said.

“Okay, what’s bothering you, Marc?”

“Billy Stover,” Marc said .

“I heard it on the radio on the drive back from Minneapolis. Go on.”

Marc proceeded to tell Mickey everything especially what Gwen confessed to afterward, including her denial.

“I figured it was something like that, you know, to make it happen that quick. Welcome to the wonderful world of politics and the law,” Mickey said.

“Hang on a minute,” Mickey said then dialed a phone number by heart.

“Candace? It’s Mickey. I need a favor.”

“Only one,” St. Paul Police Captain Candace Sullivan replied.

“We’ll get to that later,” Mickey said.

“A girl can only wait so long, you old curmudgeon,” she said.

“Who were the lead detectives on the dead girl found overdosed with the Carvers?”

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing nefarious,” Mickey said.

“They took a plea this afternoon. Case closed. Don’t dig too deep.”

“Have I ever?”

“Yes, many times,” Candace replied.

“Names, my darling, please.”

Mickey had finished his supper and now sipped his beer. He was in O’Gara’s, practically a landmark saloon on Snelling and Selby in St. Paul. Right on time, Mickey saw them come in. Knowing where Mickey’s booth was, the two men walked right at him.

Parker Mills, St. Paul P.D. detective knew Mickey well. Mills had his testimony in trials turned upside down by the old lawyer more times than he cared to remember.

“Hey, Mickey,” Mills said sliding into the booth while shaking Mickey’s hand. “You know my partner, Nathan Hough.”

“We have had the pleasure a couple of times,” Mickey said.

“It may have been a pleasure for you, not so much for me,” Hough said shaking Mickey’s hand.

The waitress arrived and they each ordered a glass of beer. Mickey told her to put it on his tab.

“I understand you two were lead investigators in the overdose death of that young girl. Tell me about it,” Mickey said.

Mills leaned forward and whispered, “Something’s wrong here, Mick. We’re pretty sure that girl’s body was moved, postmortem. The M.E. thinks so, too.”

“Who’s the M.E.?” Mickey asked.

“Anand Bhatt,” Mills said.

“Carver’s top guy, his bodyguard or gofer or whatever, we think he lied to us,” Hough said. “He told us Carver slept with his wife in her room. But the bed itself has no evidence of two people in it.”

“But the maids are certain someone slept in Carver’s room. Two people,” Mills said.

“And we found out Tom Carver is a complete hound. Will bang anything female with tits.

“When we went back to interview the maids again, both were gone. Quit and no one knows where they are,” Mills said.

“That’s when the case was pulled from us,” Hough added. “The maids told us when we first talked to them there was a sheet missing from Carver’s room. Exactly something you would use to cover a body.”

“DNA?” Mickey asked.

“Carver’s room was cleaned as was the missus,” Mills said. “There was the girl’s DNA in Stover’s bed, but nowhere else.”

“That kid, Stover, he took one for the team,” Hough said.

“Plenty of money around to take care of him,” Mickey said.

The next day Mickey told Marc what he had learned.

“We should do something,” Marc said. “The whole thing is a corrupt mess.”

“Marc, a piece of advice from an old warrior to a young one. You’ll get nowhere in this business tilting at windmills the size of the Carvers. Besides, what do we have? The belief of a couple of detectives from flyover country.”

“It still sucks,” Marc said.

“Amen, but then much of what we do does,” Mickey reminded him.