The Sword of Justice
A Bruce West Novel
by
Ron Sharrow
Smashwords Edition
~•~•~
Copyright © 2006 by Ron Sharrow. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express permission of the copyright owner. For further information, you may write or e-mail:
Ronald M. Sharrow
111 Desert Holly Dr.
Palm Desert, CA 92211
E-mail:
ronsharrow@aol.com
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. To the author’s regret, the descriptions of sexual activity are all pure flights of fantasy.
Published by Ron Sharrrow at Smashwords
Available in print through all Bookstores and on-line booksellers
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person with whom you wish to share it. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to www.Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
~•~•~
Praise for The Sword of Justice
"The main character is a Columbo type lawyer, but we see under his raincoat. Ron Sharrow writes like Elmore Leonard ... but funnier and more pornographic.~Jerry London, Director of Shogun
~
"The Sword of Justice will make a great movie” ~ B.E. Fromm, Director of the Desert Film Society
~
"Attorneys will love this book. Some will relate to the story, others will wish they could."~ Barry T., Esq.
~
"Who said, 'Law is boring!' Read this book and it will take you on a ride on a side of law that lawyers must not talk about." ~ Ryan Shondel
~•~•~
For Jamie and Melissa
~•~•~
PROLOGUE
“The Sword of Justice has no scabbard”
Joseph De Maistre, 1821
~•~•~
1
“I was startled from a deep sleep by a man standing over me with something sharp pressed against my throat. I was terrified! I screamed as loud as I could.”
“And then what happened?”
“Well, he told me if I made another sound, he would kill me.”
My mind drifted away from the victim’s testimony, back to the day several months earlier when I first heard the name of the man against whom she was testifying, Jefferson Wilkes.
~ ~ ~
As I recall, that was a day that began when I stepped from the elevator into my office with no memory of the events leading up to that moment. I had no memory of leaving home, driving to work, arriving at the building, parking the car or pushing the button on the elevator. I did know where I was, which under the circumstances, was a good start.
This state of amnesia wasn’t something that happened to me all of the time. It occurred mostly on the mornings after a night of revelry at the Bear’s Den, one of Baltimore’s local watering holes. It was a popular hang out among the recently separated, recently divorced and currently running-around-married folks.
The Bear’s Den, from all outward appearances, is an ordinary looking neighborhood joint in a somewhat run-down, blue-collar part of town. It occupies the basements of two eighty-year-old row houses. The thick foundation walls had been broken through to combine the two spaces. At some point in time when the old buildings had been restored, the plaster was chipped off the walls to expose the original bricks, which now are a part of the decor. The dropped acoustical tile ceiling which has become yellowed with age and discolored from cigarette smoke gives you the feeling that you have just been swallowed by some giant creature, probably, not too much unlike Jonah’s experience with the whale.
To enter this fine establishment, patrons must descend four or five steps from the sidewalk to a door several feet below the level of the street. As the door swings open, you are immediately struck by the cacophony of loud voices straining to be heard over the blaring music from the jukebox. Once inside, you must descend yet more steps from the landing inside of the door to the basement floor. The acrid smoke drifting upward in its search for an escape from the windowless edifice and the stench of stale beer, combine to assault your eyes and nose so that your first reaction to the place would be best described as a teary-eyed gasp. This is before you even catch a glimpse of the mélange of humanity stirring in the haze on the floor below. No food is served in the place, so the establishment is able to avoid the smoking prohibitions imposed by law. And even if the place is not exempt from the smoking laws, nobody gives a shit anyway because none of the customers are in any position to complain.
Actually, the Den doesn’t really qualify as a neighborhood bar, because no self-respecting, blue-collar neighbor would set foot in the place. Yet, most week-nights people are four-deep at the bar and the place is literally bulging at the seams. As one steps into the throng of young nubile bodies, there is a sense of being swept away on a pulsating tide of human flesh engaged in some kind orgasmic frenzy. There’s no entertainment other than a jukebox screaming from a corner of the dance floor and no apparent reason for the establishment to be so busy every night, every night, that is except the weekends.
The mood of the place provokes a feeling of unfettered frivolity. Interestingly, not one person in the joint, including Charlie and Bill, the bartenders, lives anywhere near the Den and therein lays its attraction. It’s safe! It would be highly unlikely that you’d accidentally bump into an acquaintance from your real life.
The place swarms during the week with a smattering of newly separated women and the cheaters and assorted losers from Pikesville, an exclusive, upscale, upper-middle class sprawling neighborhood of businessmen and professionals on the other side of town. The Pikesville men flock to the Den, as it is affectionately called by the hangers-on, in search of the women who flock to the Den in search of the men who flock ... well you get the picture!
The Bear’s Den patrons are mostly married, but not to each other. These people are attracted like magnets to each other, forming liaisons, reminiscent of “Captain’s Paradise.” It’s like having two spouses, one on either side of town. They are all miserable being married, yet they mate with one of the other unhappily married cheaters, travel in cliques, party together and go out to dinner and movies in their little groups just as if they were married to each other. Then on the weekends they switch to their real spouses. Some of them even travel in the same circles, but never to the Den. This of course is the reason you can shoot a cannon in the Den on Saturday or Sunday night with not even a remote chance of hitting anything.
None of this makes sense to me, but the intrigue almost makes me wish I were married again. Actually, I probably wouldn’t mind marriage, but not for the same reason. But, that’s a whole other story.
Eventually, these folks will get divorced. Some will even marry their paramours. Those pathetic relationships will soon dissolve into hatred and they will resurrect their adulterous behavior. Most lamentable though is the fact that the Bear’s Den then becomes off-limits. My remedy for this nonsense, which I share generously with my friends and which I am pleased to share with you, is relatively simple. Just find a woman you hate from the start; buy her a house and give her half your money! It saves a lot of time, a lot of wear and tear and virtually eliminates the emotional trauma and financial stress caused by divorce.
~ ~ ~
It wouldn’t be unreasonable to ask why a successful, single, 36 year old, lawyer would want to hang out in an iniquitous sinkhole like the Den. I don’t live in Pikesville. I’m not cheating on anybody. I’m not a loser. I mean. I lose sometimes; hell, everybody loses sometimes, but I don’t … like ... lose all the time. I mean, I’m not lost in life like the other habitués of the Den. The women? Nah! That’s just a secondary benefit. I go there not to hang out with the losers, but to hang around them. Even though I am reluctant to reveal one of my most closely guarded secrets of success, let me tell you why I hang around a bunch of losers. Cheaters and losers always have problems; mostly legal problems. I have created a very busy little law practice helping to extricate the inveterates of places like the Bear’s Den from the quagmire of their perpetual legal problems.
Yes, I’m a lawyer. Try to keep in mind, if for no other reason than just for the sake of this story, that all lawyers are not really bad people. Lawyers don’t exactly enthrall me either, but I’m really different. You’ll see … I really want you to like me. Maybe you even know a nice girl for me! I hope you will grow to admire my firm and continuous desire to insure that the people I represent are rendered that, which is their due. In the story I am about to relate, you will observe first-hand the application of my keen Justinian sense of fair play.
I enjoy what some would, no doubt, consider a warped sense of humor. I’m often ... strike that ... less than often would be more accurate… charitable, understanding, compassionate, considerate and sympathetic. I try not to overdo any of these admirable traits, strongly believing in moderation for all things. I have also been known by some, just a few, to be a genuine son-of-a-bitch, but only as may be dictated by time and circumstances.
So, anyway, there I was, standing at the threshold of my office. C. Bruce West, Attorney-at-Law, slightly battered by the night before, but still quite dapper in my navy blue, seven-ounce gabardine, Super 100, twelve hundred dollar, Canali suit. My mere presence, I am sure, lighting the life of Kelly Clark, my secretary for the past eight years. Kelly is captain of the watch, protector of the fortress, confidant, straight man, office manager, receptionist, bookkeeper, paralegal, messenger, chauffeur, confessor and whatever else may be demanded of her from time to time. We have a great relationship. There’s a lot of good-natured teasing, good humor and a fair share of bullshit, but the job gets done. No romantic fantasies. Kelly is happily and comfortably married to a super guy and has two adorable little kids.
She’s from a large Irish Catholic family. Her parents were strict disciplinarians, who taught their children by example to adhere to an almost extinct work ethic. If the job is from nine to five, get in at eight-thirty and leave at six. If the work isn’t done, take it home with you. When you have a good job, work there until you die. If your boss is under fire, stand in front of him to take the bullets. That’s Kelly ― dedicated, loyal, honest, committed, protective and dependable. Whoever said a dog is a man’s best friend, couldn’t possibly have known anyone like Kelly.
I occupy a comfortable suite of offices in the tower of a twenty-story office building in downtown Baltimore. The suite fills the entire fifteenth floor of the building, which sounds like a big deal, but from the twelfth floor up, the tower is rather narrow, so the suite is only about eighteen-hundred square feet. I share the office with three other lawyers and their secretaries. Kelly’s desk is within earshot, just outside of the door to my office. We have a little combination file-room/kitchen, an impressive library and a comfortable conference room. Clients are genuinely impressed when the elevator doors open right into our waiting room. The ambiance declares our success. We have magnificent views of Baltimore’s inner-harbor and the world-renowned Harbor Place. In the summer, I walk the three blocks to one of the many outdoor cafes in the Harbor Place Food Pavilion and have lunch at the water’s edge.
“What brings you here so early?” Kelly greeted me, “Up all night?”
“Why? What time is it?”
“Quarter to ten.”
“I have a really good excuse. Do we have any coffee?”
“Every morning you ask if we have coffee. Every morning we do have coffee. We always have coffee! Why would you ask if we have coffee?”
“Okay, okay! Can I have some then?”
“No!”
“No! What do you mean, no?”
“Today, we don’t have any!” she teased. “You want coffee; help yourself”
“Where is it?” I asked, feigning helplessness.
“It’s in the coffee pot, where it always is!”
“Did the check come?” I called out from the coffee pot in the file-room, just to keep up the early morning banter.
“What check?”
“Any check!”
“No checks,” she hollered back. “You got here before the mail.”
“Did he call?”
“He … who?”
“The President of IBM, who else?” I hollered.
“Why, does he hang out at the Bear’s Den?” she retorted derisively.
“Well, if not him, then, anybody … did anybody call?”
“Matter of fact, Jennifer Dunn called … said you’d remember her from the Bear’s Den.”
“Jennifer! I was expecting her call,” I lied. “Did she say what it was about?”
“No, but I’ll get her for you.”
A couple of seconds latter, Kelly called out, “Miss Dunn is on line one.”
“Tell her to hold for a minute … where’s the sugar?”
“Oh, Jesus! … get the phone … I’ll get your coffee!” She said it in an exasperated tone of voice to be certain that I understood she knew all along that she would end up getting the coffee. She really didn’t mind, though.
“Jennifer!” I gushed into the phone. “Great to hear from you.” I attempted to sound as if my life was finally back on track now that she called.
“Do you remember me from the Bear’s Den?” she asked, somewhat puzzled, I supposed by my gushing into the phone. She probably could tell that I had no clue who she was.
“Of course … what’s up?”
“I didn’t think I’d be needing your services quite so soon,” she said, somewhat distressed.
“Well, what can I do for you?” I tried to sound very concerned.
“It’s not really for me … it’s for an employee. You know I’m the resident manager of the Western Creek Apartments. Our maintenance man was arrested this morning. It sounds pretty serious. He called from jail and asked me to help him. He asked me to get him a lawyer. I only met you last night and you’re the only lawyer I’ve met since I’ve gotten to Baltimore.”
Wanting to get right to the heart of the matter, I asked, “Jennifer, how is he going to pay for a lawyer?”
“Oh,” she replied, I assume somewhat taken aback by my direct manner. “Well, he has a check here for two weeks pay. Do you think you might be able to help him?”
“How much is the check for?” I asked, trying not to sound overly eager or too avaricious.
“A little over five-hundred dollars.”
“I might be able to help him a little bit,” I responded, thinking to myself that a little bit is about all you can expect for five-hundred dollars.
“Why was he arrested?”
“I’m not sure. He said something about a rape, but he didn’t do it. I just know he didn’t … he couldn’t have,” she added. “You know what I mean?”
Now, why the hell does everybody always ask if you know what they mean? Most of the time you haven’t the slightest notion, but to be polite you feel compelled to say you do.
“Sure, I understand,” I said empathetically. “Where is he … I mean which jail … the police station? … City Jail … which one … do you know?”
“Baltimore City Jail, I think.”
I wasn’t really sure who Jennifer was. I had met several new people of the female persuasion the night before at the Den. Maybe she was the little blonde who was sitting at the end of the bar talking to Ted Kaufman, the owner of the Den. She wasn’t exactly a stand-out, but was kind of cute.
“What’s his name?”
“Jefferson,” she answered.
“What’s his first name?”
“Jefferson,” she said again.
“Okay, what’s his last name?”
“Wilkes.” She spelled it for me, “W-I-L-K-E-S.”
“Where does he live?”
“Here at the apartment complex. He’s on call most of the time, so they give him an apartment. It’s one of the benefits of the job.”
“Tell you what, Jennifer. I’ll go over to the jail and pay Jefferson Wilkes a visit. Get more details; see what he’s charged with and see if I will be able to help him. Then,” I suggested, “why don’t you and I meet somewhere for a drink. Say around seven this evening?”
“I’d like very much to do that,” she said, “but my car is in the shop.” She sounded as if she might start to cry.
So here’s where it gets to be serious. I’m going to go to jail to see Jefferson what’s-his-name, but I don’t get to pass Go or collect the five hundred and change. “Do you have his check?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you can maybe redeposit his check and write one payable to me?”
“He asked me to get him a lawyer, so I guess that would be okay.”
“Great! How about this … I’ll pick you up at your place around seven this evening and then we can talk about the situation over a drink?”
“Okay,” she replied … a bit hastily I thought.
“Where exactly do you live?”
“I live in the apartment complex too,” she replied. It’s one of the perks of my job also.”
“Okay … hang on a second … I’ll put my secretary back on the phone. Give her your address and I’ll see you at seven. Will that work for you?”
“That’ll be fine. I’m looking forward to it” she said.
“Thanks for thinking of me Jennifer … I really appreciate it.”
I put her on hold. “Kelly!” I called through the open door of my office.
“Yeah, yeah; I know. Get the address. Jesus! What the hell do you have that all these women are after? I don’t get it,” she mumbled in a tone of bewilderment.
“If you weren’t married, I’d show you.”
She groaned, “Yeah…Spare me.”
~ ~ ~
If the truth were known, what I really have is an empty life. It might not be readily apparent, because from the outside looking in, it would seem I have everything. Bon Vivant on the outside, but empty on the inside. The ambiance of wealth; lots of playmates, a lucrative business, a nice home, a nice car, but no one of any significance with whom I wish to share it. It’s the old story of money not being able to buy happiness. Sadly the only happiness I have is what I am able to buy. Somehow, true happiness has eluded me. I’m not particularly looking for a shoulder to cry on or for anyone to feel sorry for me. I just start feeling sorry for myself when people remind me that despite outward appearances, only I know what’s really going on inside.
I suspect that my parents are to blame for my lack of success in finding the perfect mate. Not for the usual reasons that people blame their parents for everything that happens to them, but because of the truly wonderful life they share with each other. Here are two people so well suited that they spend every day of their lives together and never to my knowledge have had an argument in the 40 years of their marriage. They are completely devoted to each other and created a home full of love, happiness, peace and comfort. It is the kind of place you would rush to after work; a haven to escape from the day-to-day pressures of life. For me, when I was a kid, it was a place to gather with my friends. It was the place I looked forward to going after school. There was always the excitement of going home. I had no way of knowing that marriage could be a living hell on earth; that home could be the place from which you longed to escape. I just naturally assumed that the home I grew up in was the paradigm of what I would have when I married. Au contraire, bon ami; I was totally unprepared for the realities of matrimony.
It’s possible that my marriage failed simply because of the unrealistic expectations resulting from my observation of the extraordinary relationship of my parents. In any event, for me, marriage was a Promethean nightmare. Thus, I have brought to each new potential relationship a frivolity that would impede the development of a serious romance. Unconsciously, I guess I have avoided women of any real quality or at the very least, have searched for love in all the wrong places. Deep within, I know that God created a younger version of my mother and that she’s drifting around out there someplace waiting for fate to thrust us into each other’s lives. Obviously, she’s not been hanging out at the Bear’s Den.
Well, enough of this morbid bullshit. Let’s get to the important stuff. Rape … five-hundred will get me to the jail, buy Jennifer a drink and if she’s the one I think I remember from last night, maybe a dinner in Little Italy.
“Kelly!” I called out again. I should tell you that we have this elaborate intercom system built into the phones and I scream all over the place, because I’ve never figured out how to use the damn thing. The fact is that since Kelley’s desk is right outside my door, she can hear everything said in my office anyway, so there is hardly ever any reason to use the intercom.
“Yeah, I know,” she hollered back. “Call the jail and ask them to bring what’s-his-face up to the Bull Pen and make sure he has his papers. What time are you going to go?”
“Name’s Jefferson Wilkes … W-i-l-k-e-s.” I spelled it for her. “He’s charged with rape. What’s scheduled this afternoon?”
“Besides lunch with Dr. Wheaton at twelve-thirty,” she replied. “You have Kim Steiner coming in at two o’clock to answer Interrogatories for her accident case, but I can take care of that.”
Kim Steiner, a secretary at the Baltimore headquarters of the FBI, was another little tidbit from the Bear’s Den. She got rear ended on the Jones Falls Expressway by some drunk at two in the morning, shortly after the bars closed. When the case is over, maybe I’ll take a shot at Kim and try to find out what bar the drunk was coming from … probably a lot of business there too.
“There’s a new case scheduled in at two-thirty and another new matter scheduled for four-thirty,” she read from the appointment book. “I’m sure I can handle the four-thirty. I’ll set you up at the jail at three-thirty with the raper,” she said with an air of authority.
“Rapist,” I corrected. “I’ll try to get back for the four-thirty appointment. Oh and make a reservation for me at Sabatino’s … eight-thirty, for two.” Just in case Jennifer turns out to be the one at the end of the bar, I thought to myself.
“I can handle the four-thirty for you. That’ll give you enough time to see the raper and then go home to get dolled up for your date with what’s her name. It’s almost poetic,” she laughed. I could just see her eyes rolling toward the top of her head and the look on her face from the tone of her voice.
~•~•~
2
The Baltimore City Jail and Detention Center is located on the Northeastern fringe of the heart of downtown Baltimore, about ten or twelve blocks from my office. It is a relatively modern looking square building with rows of barred windows and is topped with coils of razor-wire. The comparatively new jail was built next to the Maryland Penitentiary, which by contrast was built early in the nineteenth century of gray stone with eight-foot thick walls crowned with towers, giving it the appearance of a formidable medieval castle. Armed guards are ever present walking along the top of the walls.
These are not very nice places. Just seeing them from the outside is scary enough to keep you from ever wanting to go inside, even as a visitor. As you enter the Jail, you are assaulted by the noise and the stench. It’s almost like walking into the Bear’s Den, except that the Bears Den has a happy kind of noise. The jail noise is like a rumbling echo emanating from the bowels of hell. It stinks, not like the malodorous aroma in the Bear’s Den from the stale cigarette smoke and stale beer, but a putrid kind of smell from the body odors of thousands of rank bad guys amalgamated with the Lysol disinfectant I think they must use for deodorant. It’s a gruesome and brutal place.
The people here have legal problems too, but a lot worse than the folks at the Den. The prison population is a bunch of bad dudes; a real bunch of assholes. The inmates aren’t especially nice either. Not remotely akin to the people at the Bear’s Den. You know what I mean?
All conversations are sifted through steel bars which are covered with wire mesh. This is truly a vile place. It’s portentous to come here even knowing you’re going to be on the good guy side of the bars and that they’ll let you out when you’re ready to leave. They search your briefcase when you come in and require you to pass through a metal detector. Christ, they act like you’re going to plunder the place and abscond with the prisoners. I hate this place. Can you imagine what it must be like to be imprisoned or have to work in such a place?
“What can I do for you, Counselor?” asked the guard, as if there were really something he could do for me or for that matter, that there could possibly be more than one reason for my being there in the first place. I have to tell you that all lawyers hate being called counselor. And everybody in law- enforcement and the courts always call lawyers “Counselor.” They use the word like a term of derision. Why can’t they call me “Mr. West” or “Bruce” or “Mr. Counselor?” I don’t call them “Correctional Officer.” You know what I mean?
“I’m here to steal a prisoner, asshole!” I thought to myself. I would have liked to actually say that, but there was genuine apprehension of the possibility that they might not let me out when I was ready to leave.
“I’d like to see Jefferson Wilkes,” I replied in my most pleasant voice. “My secretary called earlier and arranged to have him brought up here to the Bull Pen.”
The guard turned his head toward the holding cell and shouted, “Wilkes! Your lawyer’s here.”
What I’ve never understood is why this place is called the Bull Pen. This is the place they should call the Bear’s Den. It smells like a place where bears, live ... and eat … and shit. It’s like a big cage about forty feet long and fifteen feet wide, divided down the middle by steel bars and wire mesh from the ceiling to the floor. There is a narrow counter with stools on each side. There’s a narrow slot about an inch high and twelve inches wide through which you can pass papers. And last but not least, the people on the other side of the bars look, act, smell and sound like animals.
A smarmy looking weasel, about five foot eight, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, who I guessed was in his mid twenties, swaggered over and took a seat on the stool opposite me on the bad-guy side of the bars. Actually, he didn’t exactly take a seat. What he did was sort of propped his ass against the front edge of the stool with his legs spread, extended forward and locked at the knees. His hands were clasped behind his head with his elbows pointing East and West like a pair of oars sticking out of the sides of a rowboat. He was leaning away from the counter, so at the very least we’d have to scream at each other to be heard above the jailhouse roar. I believe this was calculated to be a demonstration of att-i-tude.
He was dressed in a pair of what probably started out as black cotton pants that had been worn so much and laundered so often they were now a washed-out, faded shade of gray. The fibers of the fabric were so stretched and limp that the pants had absolutely no shape. The fact that the fabric had not totally disintegrated was a tribute to the quality of goods produced by the Amalgamated Clothing Workers of America.
To top off the outfit, he was attired in a t-shirt, the color of which was no longer discernible, emblazoned with an illustration of a shiv protruding through a skull with blood running from its orifices, extolling devotion to some rap group.
The finishing touch to this haute couture was a pair of high-top basketball sneakers that appeared to be at least two sizes too big with untied laces. In short, the clothes, like Jefferson, had lived through better times, but they still delivered the message ... baaad! It was love at first sight. I just knew I was really going to like this guy!
“Are you Jefferson?”
“Uh-Huh,” he replied.
“Lean forward.” I shouted. “Our meeting is supposed to be confidential and I don’t want everybody in this place to hear what we’re saying.”
Begrudgingly, he moved his hands from behind his head, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his elbows on the counter.
“I’m Mr. West … Bruce West. I’m a lawyer,” I introduced myself and slid one of my cards through the slot.
“Uh-huh,” was his only response.
“Miss Dunn asked me to come see you.”
“Who?” he asked.
“Miss Dunn … Jennifer Dunn,” I repeated.
“Who dat?”
“The lady at Western Creek Apartments,” I explained.
“I din’ do it,” he mumbled.
“You didn’t do what?” I asked incredulously.
“To da lady at da potment.”
Christ! I thought to myself, this is really going to be fun. I wasn’t exactly expecting a rocket scientist, but I also didn’t think I’d end up with a space cadet.
This was reminiscent of the time I came over to the jail when I was a young lawyer, fresh out of law school. I had gotten myself on the referral list from the Public Defender’s Office. They would assign their overload cases to the young lawyers scratching around for business and pay us on an hourly basis. I had been assigned three cases and had already talked with the Assistant State’s Attorneys handling the prosecutions before coming over to see the clients.
I had negotiated tentative plea bargains, which I had come to discuss with my new clients. After going through the same routine I just encountered to see Wilkes, I had the three clients lined up waiting to speak with me. I hollered out for Gregory Johnson. A young inmate took the stool in front of me.
“Greg,” I said, “I’ve worked out a pretty good deal with the State’s Attorney. You’re charged with felony murder ... murder during the commission of an armed robbery. The State will recommend a fifteen-year sentence with five years suspended if you will agree to plead guilty to Second Degree murder. How does that sound to you?”
“Sounds real good,” he replied.
“Good,” I said, “let me get some background information.”
“You’re twenty-five years old, married and have one child. Is that correct?”
“Dat ain right,” he responded.
“Aren’t you Gregory Johnson … 1351 West Lyndvale Street?”
“Nope, I be Antoine Jackson,” he replied.
“Antoine Jackson?” I asked rather perplexed.
I looked through my files and pulled out Antoine’s file. He had been charged with shoplifting. Shoplifting, for Christ’s sake! Would you believe it?
“Antoine,” I said. “You’re charged with shoplifting. Why on earth were you so willing to accept a plea to Second Degree Murder?”
“Sounded like a pretty good deal to me,” he responded.
If the truth be known, he had probably committed a murder and robbery, but wasn’t exactly sure for which crime he’d been arrested. I was young and inexperienced then. I had barely gotten started, but the way things were going with Jefferson, I was beginning to think I was talking to the wrong person.
“Hold it! Are you Jefferson Wilkes?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You work at Western Creek Apartments? Don’t you?” I asked.
“Usta.”
“What do you mean … used to?”
“Till I were ‘rested.”
“That was last night, wasn’t it?” I asked.
“Uh-uh,” he replied, expanding his vocabulary.
“Uh-uh? Whadya mean uh-uh … when were you arrested?” I demanded.
“Early dis mownin’,” he said.
“Jesus, Jefferson!” I bemoaned out of near total frustration. “We’re not doin’ too good here. The clocks ticking and you’re gonna run outa money soon ― let’s start over.”
“You’re Jefferson Wilkes. You were arrested this morning. Up until you were arrested you worked as a maintenance man at Western Creek Apartments. The Lady who works there, Jennifer Dunn … she’s the manager. You called her and asked her to get you a lawyer. I’m the lawyer she called … C. Bruce West … that’s me. I came here to see if I can help you. You want me to help you don’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” he muttered.
“Good, now we’re getting somewhere.”
“I din’ do it,” he blurted out.
“You didn’t do what, Jefferson?” I asked impatiently.
“Wha dey sayin’,” he replied.
“And what are they saying?”
“You know … to dat girl ... I din’ do it,” he insisted.
Here we go again with the ‘you know.’ It’s like contagious … you know?
“Do you have your papers?”
“Wha papers?”
“Your charge papers.”
“You mean dese?” he asked, holding up a thick wad of totally crumpled papers.
“Yeah, Jefferson … those. Pass them through the slot to me.” I rejoiced feeling, mistakenly as it turned out, that I might finally be getting somewhere.
“I don’ think dey gonna fit through da hole,” he stated, waiving the wad of papers in the air as if they were a trophy he’d just won in a public speaking contest or an Oscar for worst performance by a bad actor.
“That’s what I was afraid of. Slide a couple at a time through the slot,” I suggested, trying to be helpful.
The Criminal Statutes are contained in Article 27 of the Annotated Code of Maryland. It is a book about two and one half inches thick and contains all of the deeds and misdeeds, which in the wisdom of our elected officials from the founding of the original thirteen colonies to date constitute crimes against the State. From the appearance of the wad of papers in Jefferson’s hand, he had been charged by the People of the Free State of Maryland with violating the entirety of Article 27 and probably the Ten Commandments as well.
“Are you sure you were arrested this morning?” I asked sarcastically.
“Yeah …why?”
“From the condition of these papers, it looks like you’ve had them about six months. What happened to them?” I asked. “I’m going to have to iron them out before I can read them.”
“I dunno ... I didn’ have no good place ta keep um.”
I tried to flatten the charging documents and smooth them out enough to decipher what crimes this innocent until proven guilty individual had been accused of having committed. There I was with my yellow pad in its luxuriously soft, elegant lambskin case from Mark Cross and my Mont Blanc fountain pen ready to impress everybody and not only wasn’t he even slightly impressed, he wouldn’t have known what they were, could have cared less and so far he hadn’t said a single word that was worth writing down other than “uh-huh.”
“Jefferson, my man, they sayin’ some nasty stuff ‘bout you in these papers,” I said. “Rape, Sexual Offenses, Common Law Assault, Assault with a Deadly Weapon, Nighttime Breaking and Entering of a dwelling house, Rogue and Vagabond. What do you have to say?” I asked, knowing full well what the reply would be.
“I din’ do it?” he said matter-of-factly.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“Ain’t nuffin’ ta tell … I din’ do it,” he repeated.
“Help me, Jefferson,” I pleaded. “You mind if I call you Jefferson?” I asked as an aside. “I need a little more to go on than just, I didn’t do it.”
“Ma frens calls me “Slats,” he responded.
Don’t even ask … just let it go, I told myself. But, no, driven by some unexplained compulsion, I asked anyway, “Slats … why Slats …why not Jeff?”
“I dunno ... Da’s jus’ wha dey calls me.”
See? I knew not to ask.
“Okay, Jefferson, tell me why they sayn’ all this stuff about you.”
“Ma frens calls me “Slats,” he repeated.
“Yeah, but we’re not friends and I don’t know you well enough yet to call you Slats, so I’ll just call you Jefferson, okay?”
Once again I tried. “Now, tell me one more time why they sayin’ all this stuff. Tell me what happened ... say starting when you got off from work last night.” Christ, I thought, I’ve only been here ten minutes and I’m already starting to sound like him.
“Well,” he started, “I works at da Western Creek Potments ... You know?”
Hot damn! This time I did know!
“I’z da maint-nance man ― so I gits off roun’ six.”
“In the evening?” I asked.
“Uh-huh and were just spacin’ roun’ wid some frens.”
“Just spacin’ round ... where?”
“You know, man, jus here ‘nere … no place special … jus signifyin’ is all. Know what I mean?”
Christ he did it again. “Know what I mean?” If I told him I didn’t know what he meant and I didn’t, he’d think I was stupid or not with it.
“So you were signifying with some friends. What are their names?”
“One I be knowin as “Zippo” ‘n his girfren ... ain’t zackly sure a her name … sompin’ like Lukeshia, er Lakasha, er Luteshia ... like dat, man.”
Forget it, I thought to myself. I’ll just pretend I know why his friend’s nickname is Zippo and not even comment about it. “So there you are just spacing around and signifying ... no place special, with Zippo and his girlfriend, ‘till what time ... approximately?”
“Till we split up when we git off da bus,” he responded.
At the rate this guy’s going, I thought, I’ll be here so long they’ll mistake me for a fucking inmate. “Off the bus … what bus?”
“Numma 15,” he replied.
Finally … Something to write! I began scribbling on my legal pad. Call Mike, check on the Number 15 ― route, schedule, etc. “Where did you get on this bus?”
“Roun’ Hampden somewhere ... I ain’t zackly sure.”
“And where did you and Zippo and Luckshin get off?”
“Someplace near Tweny-Ninf Streek, I thinks.”
See now we were starting to get someplace. He was starting to talk in words other than uh-huh. And I was getting some solid details. They were spac’n ‘round someplace … got on a bus somewhere and got off someplace else, but he wasn’t exactly sure where. Specifics! The facts! I continued my questioning, “So, then what happened?”
“Dey wen’ up da streek dat way,” he informed, pointing toward the far wall, like I’m supposed to know where dat way is. At least he didn’t say know what I mean? “Den, I started ta walk down Calvert Streek,” he narrated.
“And where were they going?”
“I dunno, I guesses maybe home,” he speculated.
“You know where they live? You’ll be able to get me their real names and where they live and their phone number, so we can use them as witnesses.”
“I ain’t zackly sho, but uh-huh … I get it fo’ ya,” he assured me.
“So they went home. What time was this?”
“I ain’t zackly sure, but I guesses maybe ‘roun three, three-thirty, maybe, er maybe four, four-thirty … ‘bout … I ain’t zackly sure … I din’ have no watch.”
“But it was still dark, wasn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, the papers here say these terrible things they are blaming you for happened about four forty-five in the morning. So would you guess it was pretty close to that time when you got off the bus?”
He replied with his standard answer, “Uh-huh.”
“Okay. You started to walk down Calvert Street from Twenty-Ninth Street and where exactly were you going at four-thirty in the morning?”
“I were gonna see my wife.”
“You’re married? I was told you stayed at the apartments where you work.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Uh-huh … what … you’re married or you stay at the apartments?”
“Well, I were, but not zackly … she was like my fiancée,” he said, “but not no more.”
“How long you been divorced or separated or whatever?”
“Roun’ bout five years,” he guessed.
“Do you have kids to support?”
“Not wit’ her … uh-uh.”
“What’s her name?”
“Who?”
“Your wife, who you weren’t married to … fiancée … who you were going to see at four- thirty in the morning … what’s her name?”
“You mean LaDelle?” he asked.
“Does LaDelle have a last name?”
“Uh-huh … were Harris, but I ain’t zackly sure wha’ she go by now.”
“So, where does LaDelle live?”
“Over near Warwick Avenue someplace.”
“But you’re not exactly sure of the address?” I asked incredulously.
“Well I knows da place when I sees it.”
“Forgive me, Jefferson,” I interjected, “but I just have to ask you this. Why, at four- thirty in the morning were you going to visit LaDelle who you’ve been separated from for five-years and whose address you don’t know?”
He replied matter-of-factly, “Were our anniversary,” as if that made perfect sense.
“Your anniversary! You’re telling me that you still celebrate your anniversary after you’ve been split for five years, at four-thirty in morning?” I asked in astonishment.
“Fahv-thirty,” he mumbled.
“What … five-thirty?”
“I wou’na got dere till bout fahv-thirty,” he explained.
“Jefferson, why in the hell would you go to see her at five-thirty in the morning?”
He proceeded to explain. “See, she wuks night shif’ an I wuks days, so on’yist way we git ta see each uva be when she git off wuk.”
“How were you planning to get from Twenty-Ninth and Calvert to Warwick Avenue. Warwick is on the other side of town,” I said. (Not the side where the Bear’s Den group comes from.) This guy starts out in Northwest Baltimore ― not far from the city limits. He travels to East Baltimore on a bus, not very far from the Bear’s den and then starts to walk south toward the very same Baltimore City Jail, where it seems we both now reside, to get to a destination in West Baltimore. By that route, my best guess is he has to cover ... minimum ... twenty or thirty miles.
“I were gonna walk down Calvert Streek to Fayette Streek and catch the numma 8,” he explained. “That’s about twenty-seven blocks … several miles … you were going to walk? I questioned.
“I did’n know it were dat far.”
“Okay. So, then what happened?”
“Well, I walks a couple blocks down Calvert and dere be dis guy ona porch,” he began.
“What guy … what porch?”
“You know … the porch dey say where it happen.”
“What guy?” I demanded.
“Dis guy … he be a white guy ... sittin’ … you know … like on da side da porch ― like dis li’l wall between da porch nex doh.”
“What’s his name?”
“How da fuck I spoza know dat?”
“So you never saw him before … you didn’t know him? Can you describe him?”
“Yeah, he be dis white guy wida beard … kinda reddish beard … you know … on his face. He wuddn’ wearin’ no shirt, er shoes, er nuffin’ … I mean ... he had on like pants.”
“And at four-thirty … quarter to five in the morning, he’s just sitting out on the porch. What was he doing?” I asked in amazement.
“He aksed me do I got a light …’n so I went up onto da porch ‘n put down da flaers ‘n stop to gima light.”
“Hold it … you put down the what?”
“Flaers ... I done picked some flaers to take to Ladelle. I already tol’ you it were our anniversry!” he said with a degree of exasperation in his voice. Like he was probably thinking, what is it with this honky?
“You picked flowers!” I repeated in astonishment.
I couldn’t wait to get out of this place and tell somebody this story. He picked flowers for Christ’s sake!
“Yeah, ‘n you know what?” he asked.
“No … what?” I responded in a sudden frenzy of curiosity.
“He were smokin’ a reefer.”
“Reefer!” I exclaimed in total disbelief.
“Uh-huh … whatchu think a dat?”
“I think he was committing a crime,” I said flatly. “You didn’t smoke reefer with him did you?” I asked accusingly.
“No man, whatchu think I am, man? I don’ do dat shit.” He was indignant.
Well, old Jefferson’s not all bad ladies and gentlemen of the jury. He don’t smoke reefer, I thought to myself.
“But he offer me some ‘n I say no, so he aksed me did I wana drink,” he continued.
“A drink!” I once again exclaimed in total disbelief.
“Uh-huh … you know … it be August ... da what … da six I guesses …(I know, you didn’t have a calendar, I thought to myself) … I ain’t zackly sure, but … you know … it be hot ‘n I be sweatin’ ‘n thirsty, so I say okay.”
“What kind of drink was he offering?”
“Neva foun’ out. Cause as I walks in da house ... it were real dark ... ‘n I taken a couple steps in ‘n I hears dis loud screamin’ ... some woman screamin’ verbal words out her mouf, ‘he rape me! Hep! He rape me!’” He related, demonstrating a little animation for the first time during our interview.
“Verbal words outa her mouth … Then what happened?” I asked, urging him on.
“Well, he run out da house ‘n da cops runs right in ‘n dey tackles me onto da flo ‘n dey stan’ on ma face ... wid his shoe on ma face ... ‘n I wants ta file charges for pó-lice brutality!” he exclaimed all in one breath.
“Whoa! One thing at a time …let’s back up a little. You walked into the house … the white guy with the beard … did he open the door for you or did you open the door?”
“It were already op’n. You know … da screen were prop op’n wid da li’l thing on da top … like da thing on da thing what make da doh close … ‘n the front doh were op’n, so you could walk right through. Cause I guesses it were real hot … it bein’ like August ... but I ain’t zackly sure why,” he rambled on.
I interjected, “So the cops ran in as the bearded guy ran out and they stood on your face. Did you get a look at the girl who was screaming … I mean, can you describe her to me?”
“Man, like I done aready tol’ you … it were dark in ‘ere … the cop he were stanin’ on my face ‘n he were like pushin’ my face into da flo … I couldn’ see shit.”
“Did the girl get a good look at you?”
“No way, man, I keeps tellin’ ya it were dark? The cop’s standin’ on ma face … ma face be pointin’ in a opp’sit drekshin, so she couldn’ see me neeva,” he emphasized.
“So, If they have a line-up or if we make her identify you in court, she won’t be able to identify you?” I asked.
“Ain’ no way, man … dat’s what I keeps tellin’ ya!”
“Jefferson, you’ve been watching me write all this stuff down (on my fancy Legal Pad with my fancy pen). Now, I’m going to summarize all this for you to make sure I didn’t leave out anything important. Stop me if I got anything wrong … okay?”
“At approximately four-thirty on the morning of August sixth … more than six hours after you got off from work you were with two friends whose names you don’t know … coming from no place in particular not far from where you work in Northwest Baltimore. You were traveling in an easterly direction to Twenty-Ninth and Calvert Streets where you then headed South to visit your ex-fiancée, LaDelle, whose last name you don’t know and who lives on the West side of town, but you don’t know her address. You’ve been split with her for about five years, but you were taking her flowers for your anniversary. On the way … an unknown white man with a red beard … no shoes … no shirt … sitting on a porch smoking marijuana invites you in through an already open door for a drink of you know not what because it was very hot,” I read from my notes.
I continued, “As you entered the house, a woman screamed rape … the man with the red beard, no shirt and no shoes ran out … the police ran in … tackled you and stood on your face.”
“How am I doing so far?” I asked and continued reading. “You’ve never seen the woman … don’t know what she looks like … she doesn’t know you … has never seen you before and cannot possibly identify you. Is that about it?”
“I din’ do it,” was his only response.
“Here’s the deal, Jefferson,” I explained. “Since you didn’t do it, we’re going to have to go to trial and make the State of Maryland prove, beyond a reasonable doubt and to a moral certainty that you did these horrible things they have written here on these papers. (From what I’ve heard so far, they’d have no difficulty whatever doing that.) That’s going to cost about five-thousand dollars in legal fees plus the money I have to pay my investigator to track down witnesses, investigate the facts, dig up what he can on the lady who says you raped her and get some information on any of the other prosecution witnesses.”
“This is at least a thousand dollar story you’ve just told me,” I explained, “but we’ll just apply the check Miss Dunn has to the balance of my fee. What arrangements do you want to make for the rest of the fee and the expenses?”
“I gits da money soon as I gits outta here. Ha much is ma bail?”
“They haven’t set bail yet … we’ll have to request a bail review,” I explained. “I’ll do the bail review as a part of the five-thousand dollar fee. How are you going to pay for the bail?”
“I dunno, but I gits it,” he assured me.
“On the other hand, Jefferson … it seems to me like a total waste of money to pay bail and all this money for my fee and the investigator if you are going to tell a jury the same story you just told me.”
“It be da truf man …I swear it,” he retorted emphatically.
“Oh, I believe you, Jefferson. The problem is I don’t think anybody else will.”
“But dat be wha really happen,” he insisted.
“I’m sure it is,” I said, suppressing my utter disbelief. “This place is full of people who didn’t do anything; who told the truth, but nobody believed them.” “So, here’s what we’ll do,” I went on. “Let’s forget that I was here today (Except for the fee part, of course). I’ll come back ... say in a couple of days. In the meantime, you think up a better story to tell me when I come back, ‘cause, trust me Jefferson, nobody is going to believe this story.”
“I ain’ gonna lie, man. Da’s da truf … da’s wha’ really happen,” he insisted.
“On the other hand, maybe we could work out a quiet little deal with the prosecutor if he’s one of my friends and it will only cost you about fifteen-hundred.”
“I ain’ goin’ fur no deals. I din’ do nuffin’ … I keeps tellin’ ya,” he was adamant.
“Okay, I’ll talk to your boss … see if she can advance your bail money and some of the fee and investigative expense. Is there anybody else you want me to talk to about getting you out of here … should I call LaDelle?”
“Uh-uh, man … she dunno nothin’ ‘bout dis. I don’ waner knowin’ ma biness,” he confided. “Besides, I dunno her numma.”
“But, don’t you think she’s been wondering what happened to you … why you didn’t show up with the flowers?”
“She din know I were comin’… it were gonna be a sprize!” he said dejectedly.
“Here’s another one of my cards,” I offered. “You might meet somebody in here who needs a good lawyer. If you think of something else or a different story, call me. I’m going to keep these papers … take them home and maybe iron them so I can read some of the details. I’ll be in touch.”
Correctional Officer … let me the fuck out of here! I screamed silently.
~•~•~
3
August in Baltimore is always hot and humid. It must have been one hundred ten degrees in the jail. When I came out, the sun was beating down to the tune of about ninety-two degrees and the humidity was hovering around eighty-nine per cent. You could actually see the heat rising in waves off of the asphalt paving of the parking lot. Still, compared to that goddamned jail, it felt cool outside. I removed my jacket, loosened my tie and opened my shirt. I climbed into my fire-engine red 500 SL, put the top down and cranked the air conditioning to as cold as it would go.
The Baltimore City Jail and Detention Center is located not too many blocks east of the Condominium building where I live. I can actually see my apartment building from the parking lot. Conversely, I have a view of the City Jail and the Maryland State Penitentiary from the windows on the east side of my apartment, but a great view of the Baltimore skyline and harbor from the windows on the south side. In fact, I can see my office building from the living room windows.
It was nearly five o’clock by the time I started to pull from the parking lot at the jail, so I called Kelly on my cell phone to let her know that I decided to just head home instead of going back to the office. She answered on the second ring, “Mr. West’s Office.”
“It’s me,” I said. “No point in coming back to the office. “What’s happening?”
“Everything’s under control,” she responded. “I’m here with Mr. Martin now. He was your four-thirty appointment. I explained to him that you expected to be out of court by now and apologized for you. He’s very nice … we’re almost finished here. Shall I refer him to Dr. Wheaton for treatment?”
“Only the best for Mr. Martin … make sure it’s convenient for him to get to Wheaton’s office.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I almost forgot … the brief on the Bartlett appeal must be mailed tonight in order for it to arrive at The Court of Special Appeals in Annapolis before the deadline. I thought you were coming back to the office. Will you be able to take it to the post office tonight?”
“Can’t you just mail it?” I asked.
“It needs to go Certified with a return receipt and I’ve really got to get home a little early tonight. How about if I drop it off at your apartment building on my way home. You could take it to the Main Post Office before you go to dinner with the raper’s boss.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “Ask the doorman to send it up to my apartment … it’s rapist. Oh ... one more thing … call Mike Richards and see if he’s available to help me with this case.”
By the time the conversation ended, I was already sitting in my parking space in the underground garage of my apartment building. I stopped at the front desk on my way up to the twenty-first floor to pick up the mail and mention to Hiram, the doorman, that my secretary was going to drop off a package. I slipped him a buck and asked that he bring it up when it arrived, as I would be going out early and needed to take it with me. I think it’s really neat to have a doorman named Hiram. It’s almost as good as having a butler named Jeeves.
~ ~ ~
I love this building. It is a stately, twenty-two story structure in the Mount Vernon section of mid-town Baltimore. The condo employs uniformed door men and has around the clock security, concierge and phone answering services. It’s convenient to the Jones Falls Expressway which runs north out of the city to Baltimore County and connects with the Baltimore Beltway which rings the entire city of Baltimore. Getting almost anywhere is only a matter of minutes. It is less than one mile from the heart of the city and less than ten minutes from the Bear’s Den. I could walk to my office if I had to and can walk to many of the better downtown restaurants.
The condo which I’ve owned about five years is a large two-bedroom and den with two and a half baths, an eat-in kitchen and a huge living room and dining room. It was decorated with quiet elegance in traditional furnishings by Alexander Baker, Baltimore’s hottest interior decorator. He selected everything from the towels to the dishes. It exudes a feeling of comfort … an invitation to fall into the furniture and be enfolded by its warmth. It is perfect for a high-living, fast-moving man about town.