JUSTICE REBORN (A Charlie Taylor Novel Book 1) (10 page)

The Chinese Supper is a tradition, an
annual event in the late spring.

 Almost everyone in the Investigative and
Forensic Divisions attends, with people arriving at different times during the
evening. As shifts end, they wander in wearing uniforms or office garb. It’s
very informal. The recent disturbing Spring Dance continues to be a hot item on
the minds of many people; I avoid such discussion groups but am aware of my
notoriety.

The reason for the short time between
events is the Prison Decommissioning project. Once it is fully operational,
there’ll be little time for staff to attend full-scale Sector events. The
Executive decided to establish an earlier date rather than cancel the supper.

I’m still thinking about the damn hotel
room and wondering how or why the prostitute gave the wrong room number to her
agent. But she didn’t, her controller sent her to room 272, and her audio
stated room 272. Wes is upset because he never recognized the room switch at
the first scene.

The noise is escalating as the booze starts
to loosen everyone up, and the mode kicks in.  I’m sipping, and I do mean
sipping, a cold glass of cheap house wine, my one and only for the night. The
two Divisions have the place reserved, and it’s like a large family gathering,
good news, and bad news. The place is your typical Chinese restaurant with lots
of red and gold, a few dragons hanging from the ceiling, and staff bustling
around with steaming bowls of food for deposit on the large round tables.

Wes and some of the gang begin to settle on
one spot. But table membership is rather dynamic as people wander from one
group to the next; gossip is a great mixer. The table is loaded with food, and
the carousel has a variety of dishes, some of which I can recognize, but many
are just a mass of something or other; someone asks the question. “What kind of
meat is that?”

  It’s dark meat, cut into thin strips. I
can’t resist; it’s not original and really not funny. “It’s Lassie but don’t
worry the collar was removed before the preparation started.”

 Groans and moans. I look over to the right
and there is Red; she doesn’t say anything just shakes her head, not impressed.
Next, she surprises me and comes over and sits next to me.

“I thought since we’re going to be working
together it’s better if we’re able to talk.”

“Sure, I’m all for that.” I know it isn’t a
brilliant answer, but I’m rather nervous. The food starts disappearing from the
carousel; the chatter is continuous and louder, as the wine is consumed
everyone becoming more animated.  Red and I are cautious, and the conversation
is a little awkward and stilted, on both sides. My phone rings; it's Karen and
have to answer.

“Karen, where the hell are you? We’ve saved
a seat for you; the food is good but disappearing.”

She is excited. “Charlie, I’d been thinking
about your question, you know……. ‘why did Horny Harry bend down close to her
ear and whisper his instructions?’…….. I don’t think he has a partner. The son
of a bitch is too self-centered. My theory is: he is recording everything for
the future. He wants to replay and by whispering his instructions so they are
not heard, her comments will play back as voluntary. A low whisper will not be
heard. The video plays like she is really sincere, and all her comments sound
spontaneous. Coming from her without any coercion. On playback, he comes across
as a great lover.”

I think she is on to something, and she is
pleased.  I minimize my challenge. “You think he may be creating a library of
his love conquests for a replay?  The problem is your victim remembers it was
dark, really dark; this is not a great setting to produce a porno video.”

“Yes, I know. I chased down the one tech
who hasn’t left for Chinese supper. He tells me it is possible, for top quality
you need to get some specialized equipment. It comes in a miniaturized version
and can be mounted almost anyplace. The good news is: it’s expensive and only a
few shops in the city handle the gear. If our lover boy purchases locally, we
may be on to him.”

“You might be right. Harry is in love with
himself. Great thinking. Now come on down and I’ll buy you a drink. You know
the food is good.”

 “I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

I hang up. Red and I are alone at the
table; the others have all finished eating and have moved on to the bar or
dance floor. I’m feeling good because I think Karen may have made a breakthrough,
and I get carried away. “Well Emma, do you want to have the first dance?”

She looks straight at me, speaks real soft
to ensure no one else will hear. “Charlie, you and I are never going to dance;
we’re miles apart.”

“What does that mean?’

“This Justice Reborn is made for you.
Compassion minimized. You see everything in terms of black and white, guilty or
innocent, right or wrong. I live with a lot of grays.”

“Sounds like an introductory psychology
course review and still doesn’t explain anything.”

“Your reputation is a hard-nosed guy who
pushes staff, a man prepared to use his weapon, a relentless pursuer.  How many
people have you shot in the course of your career? I understand during your
time on the force your record is littered with entries related to use of
excessive force, unprofessional conduct and a series of sessions with Internal
Affairs. No one else has come close to that record.”

“Sounds right and your point is?”

“I’ll bet you never lost a minute’s sleep
over any of this and next day arrive early at the station to receive the
applause from all the boys. No tears, no remorse. No doubts about any shooting,
just another criminal off the streets.”

 At this point, I lose it and am not in the
mode for this liberal critique. “You got that right lady. When it goes down, I
don’t ask questions. And I never worry about any asshole who wants to kill me
or member of our group.”

This is a lie, but I wasn’t about to share
my problems with her. On occasion I do react violently, at least to some crimes,
a gut reaction like a reflex. Remorse sets in after, and when I close my eyes,
I still see each asshole in living color. It’s an irritating aftermath which I
can’t shake and don’t share, although it appears Sam and Monk are too
perceptive and understand what is happening.

“There you are. We’re miles apart. I hope
you have a delightful evening.” She gets up, turns and walks right out of the
café, an abrupt explosive departure.

I’m not sure what that was all about.  One
minute she wants to talk; next minute she is pissed off because I don’t have
enough empathy for the criminal set. Well, screw her. I don’t need some left
wing academic analyzing me and judging me.

I start to reach for the bottle of white
wine when I see the Chief over at the bar looking right at me. I adjust my
reach and convert it to a wave, and he acknowledges me; he must have come down
to cheer up the troops.

First I deal with Red, now I have the
Chief; I know what he is hoping to see. Well, that’s not going to happen. My
hand never touches the bottle.

 Jesus Christ, what a night.

Last night Monk dreamt he stood in the
hallway of death row and listened to the plaintive cries of ‘Lord Jesus save
me’. The convicts’ voices rang as a loud, melancholy harmony and echoed all
around him.

This morning the Fort Green request came
from a Ron Bowen. Since the man was on death row and time was short, Monk made
a point of responding quickly, anticipating a heartfelt confession, one of many
he expected to hear in the next few weeks.

 It was an easy morning drive to Fort Green
prison. It gave Monk time to reflect. But his frustration nagged him; the
issue: his failure to convince Charlie to stop the pointless drinking and face
the fact his family was gone. It was time to move on. Whenever reality stepped
in, Charlie turned to booze. Monk knew his strong feelings for his friend made
it difficult to be objective.

The traffic was light, and the road had
only a few gentle curves. The cloudless sky with the hot sun in the clear blue
sky made it very comfortable for someone encased in an air conditioned car. On
the far horizon, he saw the foothills and the mountains, a peaceful scene,
relaxing, with just the hum of his tires as company. It gave him a chance to
think about his recent transition.

It started at the end of Monk’s eighth
professional football season. He attended the regular team wind-up party; next
morning he woke up in a motel room with an unknown woman snoring on the other
side of the bed. He dressed quietly, not wanting to wake the woman. He left the
motel and started walking, first down to the river which was blanketed by a
light fog, then along the river bank, his mind a turmoil of dissatisfaction.
Monk followed the river for miles, oblivious to time and his surroundings, the
fresh fall air a comfort. Finally he walked on to the bridge, across the river
and towards St. Michael’s Cathedral.

The church doors were propped open to catch
the fresh river breeze. His midweek early morning visit meant a near-deserted
church. Monk rested at the back, listening to the organ music. The early
morning light shining through the stained glass danced across all the rows, a
magnificent interior.

 He sprawled on one of the back benches for
the remainder of the morning and most of the afternoon. For some time he felt
his life was bereft of any significant meaning or purpose. Today, a replay of
his mother’s words occupied his mind:  ‘you are meant for the church’. He
thought it would be too grand to say he had an epiphany, but he realized he was
home, and this is where he belonged. His path now clear, the internal struggle
over.

This large gentle priest, now Father Ed,
became known as someone with a sympathetic ear and an understanding of the real
world, patience, and compassion his strengths. Monk managed his transition very
well; his excess physical energy found outlets with Charlie and his athletic
crowd; the elimination of soft drugs from his life was not difficult, only
alcohol a recurring issue. He thought his alcohol habit was under control until
Charlie started to ramp up his drinking and today it seemed they took turns
initiating a session. At times, he felt he was on the same Ferris wheel as
Charlie.

His daydreams brought him to his first days
at the new primary school. Monk remembered his embarrassment as he struggled
with the English language; the entire family were recent immigrants, all
learning to read and write at the same time. His classmates were relentless and
if it wasn’t recess, it would be an ambush on his way home. They imitated his
speech patterns but because of his size kept out of his reach as they taunted
him, his mannerisms, his clothes, and his big feet. His unhappiness at school
changed when a kid with a quick smile approached him.

“Big guy it’s time you learned the game.
What are looking at? Show up after school at the south park grounds. You
understand? Yes?   Shake your head. OK, we’re on.”

It turned out the game was football, and
the kid was Charlie. He was recruiting for an upcoming game, Southside versus
Northside, no trophy just bragging rights.

As organizer and coach he assigned
positions and made up plays. The first few practices were a blur for Monk but
watching the televised games helped with his understanding of the game. The day
of the game Charlie gave him a set of shoulder pads and a large sweater, all
borrowed from his older brother’s closet. There were few rules, no helmets,
some had pads, and, of course, there was no referee. Monk was surprised at the
number of hard hits which took place and even more surprised: he enjoyed it.
All his anger and frustration had an outlet, and as the game went on it became
apparent the big foreign kid was special. They lost, but he and Charlie walked
home together; from that day on they became a pair, and Monk no longer had any
concerns at school.

It progressed, and in the winter it was
basketball. Then nature took over and they were looking at girls; the girls had
changed shape and some of the older boys were already bragging.

As he turned off the main highway and into
the Fort Green prison’s parking lot, his mind reverted to the present. As
Father Ed, he had been to the Fort Green prison numerous times and knew his way
through the various gates, security checks and the long hallway to the
visitors’ room where the convict was waiting. As sports fans, most of the
convicts knew him as Monk, and this is how they addressed him; he didn’t mind.
It seemed to make the conversation flow, particularly when he was willing to
discuss some of the old games.

 It was a small room, one table, and two
chairs. The guard stayed outside observing, not particularly concerned; he knew
both participants.  Ronald Bowen a resident on death row for a few years was
the last one scheduled for an S3 interrogation. Ron understood the process. The
convict grapevine distributed most of the details before the Black Angel and
her advance team arrived at Fort Green.

“Good morning Monk. Thanks for coming. I’m
sure you don’t know why I requested this visit.”

The tall man’s body reflected hours of
weight lifting. Monk sensed someone who was unpretentious but now a determined
man. Monk’s limited research uncovered part of Ron’s story:  a sensitive young
boy who had made some mistakes during the turmoil of his teens.

It appeared these errors dominated his emotional
life for years to come, and kept him on a path of self-destruction and
eventually ruined most of his adult life. In a story-book progression, his
intelligence and demeanor might have carried him beyond his environment and to
a profitable profession with all the perks of a family and home. But for Ron
this was not the case, a severe penalty for teenage hormones.

 He looked to be in his early 50s, but Monk
knew he was in his the late 30s, in another age probably called ‘white trash’.
His underprivileged housing and upbringing (one grandmother to fight for him
but too timid to mount an aggressive defense) were all too familiar a story of
many in the prison.

“You’re right I’m curious. I gather you
know about me because I visit and talk with some prisoners, including a number
on death row.”

“Yes and through the grapevine learned more
about you than you might imagine. I’m the last man scheduled for an S3, and
since I’m innocent, I’m going for the full show. I’ll undergo the complete
scanning probe.  I know the risk but am innocent and that’s all that matters.”

“That still doesn’t help me understand why
I’m here?”

“S3 allows me to have one or more Watchers
to assist with the memory search, and I need you to convince a witness to be my
observer, my Watcher.”

“Alright let’s hear the rest.”

“I understand you and Detective Charlie
Taylor are close friends. You guys go way back, played ball together. You were
best man at his wedding. He is the man I need.”

Monk was baffled. Years ago, this
robbery/murder had been a high profile news item, with strong public opinion
that Ron was innocent, the arrest and trial an example of a harassed prosecutor
and justice in a hurry. The outcry had been intense but didn’t change anything
and here 16 years later Ron was being queued up to be executed.

 “You want me to get Charlie Taylor to be
your Watcher for the most important event in your life. This doesn’t make
sense. Does Charlie even know you? Was he even involved in your arrest and
conviction?”

“I know this is a gamble but the way I see
it this is my best bet. I’ll tell you a story and how this all has to play out.
I just need you……..need you, to confirm that this is covered under the
confidentiality vows.”

“You have my word “

“Then here is my story and here is my plan.
It’s a long shot but I think necessary.”

Ron started slowly and maintained the pace
throughout his presentation and pitch. He had thought about all the issues and
understood what had to be said. What he was asking could wreck careers if the
scheme was uncovered; it went beyond bold. Ron knew he needed Monk to convince
Charlie.

                                           
# # #

Monk could scarcely remember the long walk
back to his car.

He limped most of the way back, the curse
of two bad knees, today being an arthritic flare-up day. Maybe he should have
stopped football sooner or maybe it wouldn’t have matter. A surgeon was on his
hold-and-delay list.

He rested in the car and waited for some of
the tension to fade. Charlie was the issue and Monk did not want to add to his
problems with this scheme of Ron’s. There’re too many unknowns. The question
was: how to approach Charlie and put the proposition to him? It was only
because Ron had suffered so much, and there was no doubt in Monk’s mind that he
was innocent of the robbery/ murder. The man’s life had been ruined by a false
conviction; he deserved help.

Monk had faith in Charlie; he was an
outrageous individual, but he had more grit than most people realized. But this
scheme went beyond physical courage. It wasn't smart to push Charlie.  Then
again one might argue maybe this challenge might help; it would indeed require
discipline and a cool head in an unfamiliar setting, provide Charlie with a
focus beyond his own demons.

Monk eased his car out of the lot. The plan
Ron had in mind was bold and dangerous; it could ruin them all. They would have
to beat an S3 interrogation. 

He knew Charlie was physically strong,
muscular, with a rigorous workout schedule which up to this point was his
defense against the heavy drinking. For the most part Charlie maintained his
grooming except some of his wardrobe was showing the need for replacement, a
woman’s touch would help. His brown hair was short without any streaks of gray,
his face symmetrical, which some women found attractive but in total nothing
extraordinary, easy for people to underestimate his native intelligence and
tenacity.

Prior to the accidental death of his wife
and young daughter, he had always been able to move on. When one door shut, he
was able to recover and look for the next opportunity. Monk remembered when the
pros passed on Charlie, a knee too problematic to warrant a draft choice.
Charlie took the rejection in stride and surprised everyone by not pressing or
trying the European or Canadian league. He walked away and went on with life.
But the loss of his wife and daughter had been too much. The psychological
impact a burden he couldn’t appear to shake for more than a couple of weeks at
a time.

On the return trip, Monk ignored the blue
sky and the mountains on the horizon, his driving on automatic, passing cars,
handling curves and aggressive truckers without any conscious thought.
Compassion was fine, but the risks in Ron’s idea seemed immense; even the
planning seemed dangerous and perfidious. Could they be charged with collusion
to manipulate an S3 interrogation? No, it was worse: the plan would be
perceived as an attempt to free a convicted killer.

Should he tell Charlie? What he really
meant was: should he recruit Charlie?