Directed Verdict (Failed Justice Book 1) (2 page)

CHAPTER 1

PART ONE

TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

William Lincoln Johnson was proud of who he was and what he had accomplished. He was an African American. At six foot four and a solid one ninety-five, he could have played small forward at the semi-pro level. Some said he was good enough for the pros. Although he ran five miles before work every morning, he had no intention of ending up as just another frustrated jock. Good health was the key to a good life, and running was always good health.

Bill had been in the executive trainee program with IBM for the past five months and knew that was where his future lay. He had the brains, ambition, and personality to make it in the corporate world.

I’m happy in what I do. That’s important.

Being selected to be on a jury was a childhood dream. It was the American way. Being named as its foreman, a major vote of confidence, was the icing on the cake. Bill knew he had to be alert every second and not be swayed by the others on the panel. He watched, he listened, and he mostly observed body language.

Involuntary eye and body movements cannot be faked.

There was no question in his mind the girl was telling the truth and the defendant was guilty as hell. Why, Anthony couldn’t even look her in the eyes. He was constantly twitching and fidgeting. There was even a smell, a body odor the defendant emitted, that Bill could pick up when Anthony crossed in front of him to counsel table. He actually reeked of remorse and guilt.

Of all the things he was grateful for, being an American citizen was what he was proudest of.

I would bet my life that man is guilty.

He was not the only one who came to that conclusion. When the jury finally got the case, Bill suggested a straw vote just to see where everyone stood. He opened and read aloud the results handwritten on small pieces of paper. Twelve for conviction, zero against. That was as clear cut as it could get. Foreman Johnson was not interested in any rush to judgment. He insisted each and every juror let the rest of the panel know why they felt that way.

Nothing changed. He was lying, she was not. The only thing that puzzled Bill and the rest of the jurors was the cavalier attitude of the judge. He had a difficult time concentrating, keeping his eyes open and his hand from twitching. It was as if the judge were merely going through the motions—which, of course, he was. This bothered Bill, but it was his first trial. He assumed the judge had heard it all before. Bill was one hundred percent correct in his assumptions.

“Guilty, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Ricardo, I have listened carefully to all witnesses. I have watched your demeanor and remorse for the past four and a half days. I have also observed the whispering between the complainant and the assistant district attorney. I do not know what the jury was hearing or thinking, but I simply cannot find her testimony to be credible.”

Bill Johnson had not believed his ears. The judge had to be joking—or someone was rigging the system.

“You can’t do that, Judge. You simply can’t do that. We heard the evidence. We believed the complainant, Ms. Cummings. We rendered our verdict, and you can’t just let that rapist bastard go scot-free.”

For a moment, he had forgotten who he was talking to. He was enraged. He was furious. This was not fair; this was not just; this was not how he was brought up; this was not the American way.

“He won’t get away with this. He will rue the day he allowed this travesty to happen.”

Bill didn’t care who had heard it. He wasn’t sure what to do or how to do it. He would file a complaint with the Chief Judge. He would write an article in the Letters to the Editor of the
Star–Ledger.
He would hire an attorney to see what other avenues were open to him. There was no way in hell that judge should be allowed on the bench ever again.

This is not Russia. This is the United States of America. This simply cannot be allowed to happen.

Bill was livid.

***

Victoria Sasha Cummings detested the fact that she had a big chest. To many, it defined who she was. To her, she was a freak of nature. In her sophomore year of high school, she was called
Little Ms. Big Boobs
behind her back
.

Vicky was only five foot one, no more than one hundred five pounds, long chestnut hair, big brown eyes and huge breasts. She was so top heavy, a good wind could have knocked her over. No one could take their eyes off her chest. The boys loved it; the girls hated it. She took to wearing oversized sweat shirts, men’s dress shirts not tucked in, or anything to hide them, usually to no avail. She was mortified during gym class when she had to wear a standard size t-shirt.

I hate all those crude remarks. Don’t they know I have feelings and can’t do anything about my breasts?

If there was ever a daddy’s little girl, Vicky was it. Her father was some kind of big shot official for the Teamsters Union in Utica, New York. The town had quite a reputation for making their own rules and breaking all others. Not one high school boy was willing to date her. It wasn’t worth a quick feel to have both their kneecaps cracked. As to even thinking of having sex with her, one would sooner move to Siberia or commit suicide rather than subject himself to what Alexey Cummings would do to them.

It was reported before Alexey moved to New York State he had lived in Leningrad and carried the last name Kummovitch. Cummings was far more American.

Anthony Ricardo knew none of this the first time he saw Victoria. If he had, he would have thought twice. Or a half dozen times.

Vicky was too shy for her own good. She didn’t make friends easily and preferred her own company. She was a loner. She swore as soon as she was twenty-one and had saved enough money, she would have a breast reduction.

Why would anyone want to walk around with these? They hurt my shoulders, hurt my back, and make boys look at them before they even look at me.

Vicky decided to try a junior college before making up her mind what and where she really wanted to do. Her Uncle Demetrius—at least he called himself an uncle—worked for the Teamsters and lived in Newark. The local community college seemed perfect for her. There was plenty of room in Uncle Demo’s five-bedroom house, and Vicky had her own private entrance. She could pretty much come and go as she liked. Demetrius and his wife Bella would not let so much as a single hair on her head be harmed.

When the call had come from the local police and he heard what happened, it was all Demetrius could do to keep from killing the boy with his bare hands. It would have saved the state a great deal of time and expense. He immediately called Vicky’s father. Alexey flew to Newark on the next flight. Fortunately for the boy, bail had not been set. He was still in jail.

The safest place in the world for you, my friend. At least for now.

“Papa. It wasn’t my fault. He told me he would help me with my geometry assignment. He sounded sincere, and I trusted him. I’d seen him in the library a few times, and he was in my class. I know I shouldn’t have gone to his room. I thought it was safe. There were other students around.”

Vicky began to cry.

“Papa, he forced me. I cried, I begged, I even bit and scratched him, but he’s six feet tall and weighs twice as much as me.”

As Victoria explained, Alexey’s blood boiled, the veins on his neck bulged.

There will be no need for a trial; there will be no reason to waste the state’s time and money. He will not live to see the American style of justice done.

Calmer heads prevailed and Alexey was sent to El Paso, Texas for several months. There were problems with theft. Trucks with missing merchandise were crossing the border daily. Apparently, the Mexican cartels had no respect for the Teamsters’ protected territory. Everyone knew Alexey had a bad habit of taking the law into his own hands, and no one wanted a college kid’s totally dismembered body turning up in the wastelands of New Jersey.

They were already overcrowded with known gangsters.

Alexey understood. He wasn’t happy, but he understood.

It was noted by the judge during the trial that there were two rather large men who sat quietly in the last row of the courtroom, observing. They wore black suits, black shirts, and black ties. They said nothing to anyone. When the judge asked who they were, the court attendant merely stated they were associates of a Mr. Cummings, the complainant’s father. They were identified only as No Neck One and No Neck Two.

“I don’t want them in my courtroom. Get rid of them. They bother me.”

The court attendant was not pleased, a gross understatement, when he was told to ask the two gentlemen to leave. They were back the next day. When again asked to leave, a top civil lawyer from New Jersey, one who had been a former assistant United States attorney, suddenly appeared, as if their removal were anticipated, and requested a sidebar with the judge.

Unless there was probable cause to have them removed, the lawyer saw no legal reason why they could not observe. It was an open court hearing. There was plenty of room. They were quiet and not bothering anyone.

“With all due respect, Your Honor, if necessary, I will ask for a TRO, a temporary restraining order forbidding this trial to go forward and personally serve this Court with an Order to Show Cause why my clients should not be able to attend this hearing.”

The judge was enraged.

Who does this smartass lawyer think he is dealing with
?

After a quick conference with the Chief Judge, Kolkolski reluctantly backed off. No Neck One and No Neck Two said nothing. They sat and watched. They watched the judge, they watched the defense lawyer, they watched Victoria, but most of all, they watched Anthony Pauli Ricardo.

They were there to observe and report. Nothing else.

It was creepy.

That should have been a warning to Judge Kolkolski that this was not your typical rape case, and perhaps he should be a bit more careful with his rulings.

It wasn’t.

Mistake number one.

This is my courtroom. I’ll run it any damn way I please. Thugs and hoodlums do not scare me.

They should have.

Mistake number two.

Walter A. Kolkolski had never been a very bright student. He was never overly ambitious and felt the world owed him a living. His attitude was take what you can while the taking is good. He graduated Seton Hall Law School by the skin of his teeth and became a political hack. At times, he was no more than a glorified messenger in the district attorney’s office. It was only through luck and an uncle who made some lightweight contributions to the Republican Party that Wally became an assistant district attorney in Essex County. For the first two years, he was assigned to traffic court.

He hated it.

It took close to twenty years to rise through the ranks. He paid his dues, looked the other way when he was told, and pushed when he was told to push. He was a regular at the Republican Party headquarters and could be counted on to do the dirty jobs. His reward in an off year election was a judgeship. It was the first time in his miserable life he had any real power and a living wage. Now no one was going to tell him what to do or when to do it.

Wally’s eldest son, Teddy, had moved to Florida to be with his mother after high school. There was not a great deal of communication in the Kolkolski family. It was not until after the indictment that Wally found out Teddy had been in jail awaiting trial on the charge of rape in the first degree. Teddy swore it was consensual. Judge Kolkolski flew down to Tallahassee where the overzealous state’s attorney wanted nothing to do with a superior court judge from New Jersey. This could be a high profile case and would be tried four months before the election. A juicy conviction would go far to assure his reelection.

“But my son said it was consensual. He had known her for months.”

“What did you expect him to say? ‘Dad, I forgot to mention, I took this girl out last night and when she said no, I decided to rape her.’ You should know better, Judge. If there’s nothing else, I must be in court in fifteen minutes. Have a safe flight back.”

Very few people knew a sitting judge in New Jersey had a son who was a convicted rapist sitting in prison in Florida. That would have effectively terminated Walter’s participation in criminal trials.

It was two and half years later Walter got the news that embittered him for the rest of his judicial life. Teddy was dead. He was in the shower when he was shanked by a fellow inmate. No one claimed to see a thing. The shower floor was a pool of blood, and there had to be a dozen knife wounds to the heart and chest.

Not uncommon for a convicted rapist.

The last time Walter saw Teddy, the boy was hoping the girl would recant her story. She had been afraid of what her parents would think if she were no longer a virgin. She was Catholic, and good Catholic girls waited for marriage.

“Pops, I swear to you on all that is holy, I would never rape a woman. I gave her every opportunity to say no, but she was excited. It was her first time, and she later freaked when her parents guessed what happened. That asshole DA refused to back off. All he wanted was a conviction and headlines. He didn’t give a shit about me—or justice.”