Directed Verdict (Failed Justice Book 1) (5 page)

CHAPTER 6

The Chief Judge refused to see the former foreman of the jury. It was not in his providence to second guess the rulings of a fellow colleague; besides he knew Walter had a tendency to be off the wall with some of his rulings. Walter had problems only a shrink could understand.

I should have accepted that appointment as Dean of the law school—far less stress.

“Please tell Mr. Johnson I cannot interfere. If he would like to file a formal complaint we’ll look at it. You might add it will be a waste of time.” The Chief Judge paused. “Please ask Judge Kolkolski if he has a minute for a cup of coffee later today.”

The secretary understood. She had heard it all before. Too many times, in fact.

***

If there was one thing Bill had learned at IBM, it was never to take no for an answer.

Of course I will file a formal complaint, but it will not end there.

Bill decided to Google Walter A. Kolkolski. Something was going on. Something did not smell right.

There has to be more than meets the eye and I’m going to find out. You can darn well believe that.

Bill was taught at a young age never to swear or take the lord’s name in vain.

He was an IBMer. If there was something to find, he would find it. He had the time, the computers, and the desire. What else was there?

Judge Kolkolski underestimated Bill Johnson and the power of the internet.

Mistakes 3 and 4.

They were piling up—fast.

***

There was nothing illegal about a blog. Anyone could post one and the entire world was free to read it.

Bill must have had a half dozen starts. Each one had something wrong about it. He knew he had one shot and wanted it right.

Newark New Jersey Superior Court Judge Walter Kolkolski thinks he can play God. Tell him he can’t. After a recent 4 day rape case the jury found the defendant guilty. The vote took 15 minutes. 12 to 0. No one believed the defendant. No one except Judge Kolkolski, who took the highly unusual step of directing a verdict of not guilty. The judge was sleeping during half the trial. He woke up for recess so he could drink, smoke, and stop the trembling in his hands. He stated he did not believe the complainant. He was the only one. Everyone else was awake and listening. Why even bother to have a jury if a judge can overrule them just because he has the power? Please write to P.O. Box 1719, Newark, NJ 03212 for more information and contact Chief Judge Steven Saltmeyer to voice your concern. You could be his next mistake.

Chief Judge Saltmeyer had no idea of the power of the internet. His computer froze four days later. He had more than 13,781 emails and over 200 handwritten letters, all looking for an explanation.

He had none.

Like a snowball, the voices began to pick up speed, power and numbers. The media picked it up and like a hungry dog with a new bone, would not let go.

The picket line formed first thing Monday morning:

DIRECT A VERDICT TO IMPEACH

JUDGE KOLKOLSKI

There had to be three dozen signs. There were at least fifty to sixty people protesting. Among the interested spectators were two large men in black suits, black shirts, and black ties. They appeared to have no necks. They stood, watched, and later reported.

The local police eventually dispersed the crowd, but not until the TV cameras recorded the incident for the six o’clock news.

By noon Judge K was sitting in the Chief Judge’s chambers. Pressure had been put upon the Chief Justice to clean up his own mess.

“Walt, don’t you have some vacation time accumulated? Your caseload is not so bad it can’t be distributed among your colleagues for thirty days or so.”

“I don’t need a vacation. I don’t want a vacation. I’m doing just fine, but thanks for asking.”

“Walt, that was not a suggestion. As of five o’clock today you’re on vacation. Do you really want me to spell it out? Now I assume you’ll be busy for the next four or five hours making notes and scheduling adjournments, that sort of thing. Oh, one last thing. A trip out of town, maybe to California or the Caribbean, would be a good idea. Enjoy your time away from the courthouse.”

With that the Chief Judge took Walter by the elbow and walked him to the door.

Judge Walter Kolkolski had summarily been dismissed.

Word spread like the proverbial wildfire. By five that afternoon everyone in the courthouse knew what was going on. Judge K was humiliated. He waited till well after six p.m. before he snuck out one of the side doors. The guard pretended he was busy reading the sports section of the paper so as to not acknowledge his timed exit.

The following morning, the signs and pickets were gone.

So was Judge K’s self-esteem and reputation.

His next assignment, whenever that happened, would probably be jay-walking cases.

***

Bob Sugarman was aware of what had happened. He had a gut feeling he would be next. He sat in his office waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I never should have taken the case; I never should have made the motion to dismiss; I should have allowed the jury verdict to stand; I should have become a dentist or podiatrist.

He wasn’t serious about the dentist part. It was an inside joke for the past twenty-five years. The two things he could never imagine doing for the rest of his life was sticking his hands in someone else’s mouth or lancing a boil on someone’s feet. He would rather shovel shit against the tide.

JUSTICE FOR SALE—

HOW TO BEAT THE SYSTEM

PAY YOUR LAWYER;

HAVE HIM PAY OFF THE JUDGE.

CALL ME—BOB SUGARMAN, ATTY AT LAW.

The flyers were everywhere. They were on the windshields of every car within a four block radius. They were stapled to trees and poles. They were in the lobby of his office building. There was even a blog on the internet.

No one saw who did it. As usual, no one saw a single thing. It must have been an invisible ghost who did it all in broad daylight. There was one exception. Two rather large gentlemen in black suits, black shirts, and black ties saw everything. They did nothing. They were there merely to observe—and report.

The call from the chairman of the Ethics Committee of the County Bar Association was not unexpected.

“Of course I didn’t do it. Do you think I’m crazy? Someone is pissed at Judge Kolkolski’s ruling and started a vendetta. Yes, I can be there tomorrow at ten. Yes, I know I have a right to have counsel with me. I have nothing to hide. I’ll be there by myself. Thanks.”

Asshole.

Later that day, Mr. Sugarman’s sole secretary thought she heard a click when she answered the phone. Brenda had been with Bob from the very beginning, starting as a high school graduate who got a job in the secretary pool at the DA’s office. After two years, when Bob was transferred to the felony unit, she became his permanent secretary. She hoped and prayed it would turn out to be more. To Bob she was the best Gal Friday, and no more.

The first rule of a business relationship is
You don’t shit where you eat
. Bob never broke that rule. He was happy at home and no one can really afford a divorce. Not if you have any sizeable assets.

Brenda was a whiz at preparing legal papers, Order to Show Cause, Writ of Habeas Corpus, Motion to Suppress, Stay Order, and the usual potpourri of subpoenas. It was certainly not the first time she had heard that type of click when she answered the phone.

“Bob,” in front of clients it was always Mr. Sugarman, “I think your lines are tapped.”

Sugarman was not surprised. He should have anticipated it. He made a call on his cell phone to an acquaintance at New Jersey Bell. The tap would be gone before five o’clock. He had one phone call to make before then. He winked at Brenda and called his own law office from his cell. He had an idea.

“Mr. Sugarman, please.”

“He’s not in, but this is Brenda, his personal secretary. May I take a message?”

“Yes, tell him it’s Steve at the New York FBI field office. He was right. We’ve located the tap and traced it back. We know who initiated it and will be getting a warrant later today. Tell him he owes me a big steak dinner and a bottle of Cutty. Oh, and tell that cheap bastard I’ll pick the restaurant this time.”

The line then went dead.

Brenda and Bob grinned at each other. Whoever was listening on the other end would disconnect the tap faster than you could say, ‘
Not Guilty, Your Honor.’

Problem #1 resolved. Problem #2 is who’s tapping my lines. I’m pretty sure I know why.

Bob had another brain fart and he had to act quickly, before it was too late. He picked up Brenda’s cell phone and called the office.

“Hi Brenda, it’s me, Bob. Looks like I have to be away from the office for a few days. Something came up in Miami. Nothing in the office is pressing, so why don’t you put the phones on automatic and take a few days off. You’ve earned it. Don’t worry about the files on my desk; they’ll be there when I get back. Have fun, whatever you do.”

“Thanks, Bob. I appreciate it. I’ll be out of here in fifteen minutes.”

“Well, we laid the trap. Let’s see who’s after the cheese.”

Bob had several spy cams installed by a client, a professional con artist, some time ago. They were voice and motion activated. Anyone walking into his offices would be video recorded from front, rear, and side. Then the actual recording would be uploaded to iCloud so no one could touch or destroy it.

Bob was betting it was No Neck One and No Neck Two.

Bob would have been wrong.

He did not know No Neck One’s given name was Boris. He was big, he was ugly, and he hardly ever smiled. In fact he hardly talked. He would not be your first choice at a social event. No Neck Two was born Viktor but was called Vik by his close friends. He was as tall as Boris at six feet one but not as heavy. He considered himself good looking. His mother had once told him he was handsome. Their clothes were clearly off-the-rack, from the GUM department store in downtown Moscow.

Neither were rocket scientists; more like graduates from the School of Hard Knocks. Better make that post-graduates.

CHAPTER 7

Vicky dropped out of school. She felt she had no choice. She couldn’t face the looks and whispers. She was sure everyone was talking about her. She didn’t realize she was yesterday’s news. The public’s memory was about as short as Anthony’s penis.

That made Victoria laugh for the first time in days.

Her father suggested a shrink. She said no. She wasn’t crazy, she was mad. Mad was really not close to how she felt. She wanted to torture Anthony. She wanted to tie him spread-eagle on his back to a bed post and stick a broom handle up his rear. She wanted to hear him beg and cry and plead and suffer, just like she had begged and cried and suffered.

Vicky, to her utter amazement, wanted revenge. She wanted her pound of flesh. Actually she wanted his pound of flesh.

She knew better than to tell her father what she was thinking. Her wish would have been answered in a heartbeat. Her father would have tortured him for days and days and loved every last minute of it.

She thought about Uncle Demo.

Can I trust him not tell Papa what I’m thinking?

Victoria knew Demo’s allegiance ran to her father, not her. Demo would lay down his life for her father and her, but in the end, she was the daughter and her papa was the decision maker. All he had to do was blink an eye or make the smallest little nod of the head and someone else’s head would roll.

That was the world he lived in. There were no second chances. It was only a matter of time and opportunity.

***

The first wave of relief soon passed. He had been spared and didn’t know why. When Anthony heard the judge order his release, he didn’t understand how or why. He still didn’t. At the time all he knew was he was free. Free to go home to his mama. Free to go to sleep at night knowing Big Bubba wasn’t sleeping above or below him. Free to live each day as it unfolded.

He also knew tomorrow could be his last. That he was painfully aware of. He had raped the wrong person.

Anthony almost strained his neck from turning around every five minutes to see if the two huge men in black suits, black shirts, and black ties were still there. The two goons never moved. They never talked, they never took breaks. They sat and listened. And reported. It did not take a Rhodes Scholar to figure out who they were reporting to. Anthony knew who Victoria’s father was. He knew he would be safer in prison. Any prison.

Maybe I can just get lost. Disappear. Go into a witness protection program for people who are not witnesses, just plain scared.

Anthony desperately wanted to graduate junior college. He desperately wanted to get admitted to Rutgers for his B.A. He desperately wanted to fulfill his promise to his late father and go to law school and be admitted to the bar. But most important, he wanted to live, to survive.

To see another sunrise and sunset.

He remembered once reading that when the Russian mafia wants you, there is no place to run, nowhere to hide. Anthony was quickly getting the idea. He decided to call Mr. Sugarman. He wasn’t sure why but he needed to talk to someone.

Anthony knew Sugarman no longer represented him. He had done his job and done it good. And he had been paid in full. He knew all about lawyers,
Free advice is worth what you pay for it
. Anthony knew Mr. Sugarman would never take his call.

I have nothing to do this afternoon. I’ll just drive to his office and walk in unannounced. Then he’ll have to talk to me—and maybe give me some answers. I deserve it.

***

Bob decided to leave the front door unlocked—by mistake/on purpose. He didn’t want it picked, or worse yet, broken down. No telling what the thief would do.

He didn’t have to wait long. Less than two hours later there was a knock on the door. No one answered. Sugarman and Brenda were in a vacant office in the same building, one story up. They were staring at a TV monitor. Bob immediately recognized the young man knocking on his door.

It couldn’t be. Why would his own client, the one he had just gotten off, be here? It made no sense.

Bob Sugarman was never a lightweight. He had played high school football, wide receiver, and tried out for his college team. He was big and fast but his hands weren’t soft enough. And he had a healthy respect for the body given to him. The only one he would ever have.

He dropped the easy ones. Maybe it had something to do with the fact the split second after he caught the ball, some linebacker, maybe two, would slam two hundred twenty pounds each into the small of his back with the intent of displacing as many ribs as possible and forcing Bob to drop the ball.

He never made the team—for which he was eternally grateful.

Bob knew he now outweighed Anthony by close to seventy-five pounds and the kid would crap his pants if surprised. Without warning Brenda or even thinking it through, Sugarman raced down the single flight of stairs, two at a time, and threw the full weight of his left shoulder into the upper legs of poor, unsuspecting Anthony.

“Whatta you doing here, punk?

Anthony was now lying on the ground too stunned to realize how much he was hurt. The pain would come later. Now he was in shock.

“I needed to talk to you. I had a feeling you would blow me off on the phone so I drove down. I knocked on the door and when no one answered, I just walked in. It was unlocked. Is that a crime? Now can you please get off me? I think you may have broken my leg.”

Bob’s first thought was a law suit against him for negligence. The next one was assault and battery with intent. A third degree felony.

“Sorry. I thought you were a thief.”

“Do I look like a thief? It’s broad daylight. I knocked and the door was open. I think I should call an ambulance—and the police. You just attacked me. You know, I have rights and I think you just violated them.”

Anthony was now in severe pain. So was Sugarman, but for far different reasons.