JUSTICE REBORN (A Charlie Taylor Novel Book 1) (4 page)

“You grabbed a stranger’s bare breast?”

My brother, Sam, is screaming. I shouldn’t
have answered the phone. It’s early morning, and my departure has been delayed
by a few dirty dishes and by reading ancient to-do-lists stuck on the fridge
door; reminiscing should not be a full-time sport.

Monk must have called him as soon as he
dropped me off. Sam is a few years older than me; today, he is a clinical
psychologist with some big time clients. We are close, and he enjoys playing
the big brother role. Although I am not a scientist, I have established a
formula for our dynamic: Sam + Monk= Mother.

Sam has always been the academic in the
family. My university experience was dominated by the demands of a football
scholarship. By the time graduation arrived, I had collected enough knee damage
that a pro career was no longer an option. However, I had accumulated
sufficient credits to pursue a legal career but had trouble concentrating for
more than 30 minutes. Those volumes of legal texts presented too boring a
prospect for me.

After a few undirected years, I joined the
police force and worked my way up the ladder. I live with two personality
traits: first, a unique sense of humor and second, a tendency to lose my
temper. This is a dangerous combination when confronting the bureaucratic
bullshit which is ingrained in the regimental mindset of a police department.

Two other characteristics saved me: I’ve an
eye for detail and am able to discern patterns and relationships, not apparent
to others. So, even though I was known as a habitual hard ass with a big mouth,
I managed to progress up the ladder and solve some big cases.

 It’s ironic that an apostate should have a
priest as his best friend, but that’s what Monk has been since grade school.
The problem is that after a couple of beers in the relaxing company of Monk, I
revert to a superficial 16 –year- old. Bulletproof, shallow, a joker with a
world ready to be conquered.

 I try to calm him. “Listen big brother,
it’s not as bad as it sounds. Relax.”

“You crazy bastard. You were drinking,
weren’t you?  How much did you put away?”

When my wife and daughter were killed by a
drunk driver, I refused to acknowledge the new reality, even the grieving
process truncated.  I started drinking too much and exhibiting behavior of
someone who doesn’t give a damn about consequences. As a result, I’m in therapy
with a friend of Sam’s and have diminished my reputation in the department plus
gained a new nickname: Crazy Charlie.

I rationalize by observing if I only have a
few drinks, I can remain a humorous drunk or, on occasion, a belligerent
asshole, a fun evening with no major harm done. I think I told you logic was
not my strong suit.

This is going to be difficult. Damn Monk
can’t keep his mouth shut. I try to be light and funny. “I confess. I had a
couple with Monk before the game, but you know our spring dance will happen in
a few days. I have to get in shape and be ready for the big night.”

Sam isn’t placated with that comment.
Always the worrier, he’ll not let go.

“I’m listening. Tell me your version of
events. How does a homicide detective get arrested at a basketball game?”

“Jesus, cool off. I had a few drinks at
home while Monk prepared supper. After eating, we rushed to the game. The
University men’s team is strong, and it was a blowout, a bit boring.  We had a
few more beers and near the end of the game hunger arrives, annoying
distraction.

   Right in front of us are three women;
the one in the middle is miss-motor-mouth and she never stops talking. Her
companion on the left is also talking. I don’t think either one heard what the
other one said. The third woman, on the right, sleeps through all of this.
Honest to God she is sleeping. Now in between her and the center talkative
blond is a huge barrel or pail of popcorn.

Well, every now and then I reach down and
get a handful of popcorn. They never noticed, too busy talking. Near the end of
the game, I’m reaching down for my last handful, and the team executes one of
those dramatic ally-oop slam dunks. At this point, the center blond, for once
gets excited and jumps up to cheer, as my hand is going down ……and….and she
didn’t come straight up. It was more of a tilt right; my hand slips right on to
her right boob.”

Sam makes some noise. “Stupid,
stupid…..this is hard to believe. You son of a bitch. You had more than a
couple of glasses.”

“Just wait. I’m getting to the good part.
She had on one of those very loose blouses that are cut so low it’s more like a
halter top, and my hand goes right under, and I have a handful of bare breast.
The proverbial crap hits the fan. She starts screaming and swearing, and
because she is jumping all over I can’t get my damn hand out. If I just yank,
I’m afraid I’ll tear the blouse or flip the breast out.

 Of course, the one who was sleeping is now
up, and I find out her favorite word is ‘pervert’. And this in combination with
‘fucking pervert’ is what she is yelling. Next, she picks up the barrel of
popcorn, and you know how you throw a pail of water to empty it? Well, that’s
how she empties the barrel, and I have popcorn all over me.”

My attitude seems rather flippant to Sam,
but I’m far from calm or casual.  For the last number of months, the Chief has
had me riding a desk in Records and has forbidden me to even come up to the
detective floor. The homicide squad has been warned not to discuss the serial
killers with me, the ostracism an embarrassment for my old crew and me. 

Now this bloody basketball blond is in the
queue. If any charges result, it will be difficult to keep out of the news,
meaning I’m either fired or it would be many years before I return to
Homicide.  Have I reached the end of the line? I should have moved forward, but
I keep slipping, living in a different world, oblivious to even the extreme
environmental temperatures.

Sam is groaning. “God…goddamn it ….damn it.”

“People are standing. A couple of teenagers
are cheering, laughing, and one of them provides the wolf whistle. The damn
blond keeps prancing with me caught in her bra, a reluctant partner to this
embarrassing dance. I use my free hand to wipe the popcorn from my face,
thinking maybe clear vision will help. Finally to the rescue…… Monk stands up
and holds the woman’s shoulder, forces her to sit in her chair and pulls my
hand out; he gestures and we slide away.”

“Didn’t anyone try and stop you?’

“Get serious. Monk is huge and not in a
good mood. No one was going to challenge us, and we almost made it. But I had
to visit the bathroom. And when we came out the security people were waiting. I
explained it all as a stupid accident, and we got lucky. The head of security
was one of the Monk’s parishioners. He smiled and told us to wait until he has
a chance to talk to the blonde one more time. Maybe she might be willing to let
it go.”

I pause because the rest is not the best
part of the evening.

 “Dumb shit! Come on Charlie, don’t leave
me in mid- air. What happened? Were you cleared? Or, were you arrested?”

It’s hard to go over this again, but I have
to tell him. “I thought we were in the clear, but when the security guy
returned he didn’t look happy, and I guessed this was going to the next level.
He told us she wouldn’t let it drop and wants to press charges.”

 “What’s her concern?”

“She doesn’t think it was an accident
because she claims, while my hand was on her breast I kept squeezing and
stroking.”

It’s known as the Mamma Mia case, and I’m
the prime suspect.

It turns out the blond at the pool is an
Italian tourist. So as soon as the woman surfaced, the Chief took charge and
immediately enforced a blackout. Nothing was to get out. Nothing. The last
thing he wanted was a front page splash with one of his men charged with
assaulting a tourist.

Of course, not many vessels are 100% air
tight and enough leaked that speculation roared around the station. Some smart
ass decided that when a strange hand slipped onto her bare breast the Italian
woman probably screamed. “Mamma Mia!” By placing the emphasis on different
syllables of the two words, it became a day’s entertainment for the station
staff. Thank god I am still downstairs in Records, away from the main crowd.

I understand why the Chief may have
placated the tourist and smoothed over the incident. But what I don’t
understand is: why he hasn’t ripped me apart?

I have to think about something else and
return to Doug Brewster’s Web site.  Back to where I was when Monk wanted to
stop; he said he was bored, but I think he hates the death sentence and avoids
talking about it. Doug Brewster’s site is complete and well designed. As the
Head of the Legal Division, it appears he supports Justice Reborn but I think
he’d flip in a microsecond if it would buy him one more rung up the ladder. If
I was the Judge, I would always keep this guy in front of me. Anyway here is
some more of the site:

Armstrong’s scientific
innovations allowed a dramatic paradigm shift, and the associated legislation
was passed in record time. The media hailed the new system as Justice Reborn
and the tag became part of a worldwide vocabulary. The basics included:

•    The system no longer had
prosecutors, defense lawyers or juries.

•    A judge was assigned a
designated territory (a Sector) to administer.is staff consisted of four
Divisions: Legal, Investigative, Prisons and Forensic.

•    The focus was on
uncovering the actual sequence of events associated with each crime; motives
and underlying circumstances surrounding the incident were not to obscure the
fact that there was a victim. Technology allowed an infallible review of a
crime, culpability no longer a debate.

•    Prison time was a thing
of the past; penalties for noncapital crimes were the  30 to 60 days of
reorientation at facilities known as Farms.

•    Repeat offenders were
under close scrutiny and penalties escalated with each incident.

•    The death penalty was
reinstated, encompassing repeat offenders with the three and four strike
legislation in effect.

•    Criminal investigations
revolved around three levels of drug controlled interrogations. The progressive
levels of examination were known as Stage 1, Stage 2 and Stage 3 Protocol
Interrogations, now S1, S2, and S3.

•    The system was based on
the fact these interrogation techniques made it possible to know exactly what
happened, guilt or innocence no longer in doubt.

Since the entire planet was
living with a doomsday forecast, the execution of a few unrepentant citizens
did not seem to be an outlandish prospect. The executions were like the human
sacrifice of an ancient culture and seemed to alleviate tensions and frustrations.

 If it was impossible to
control the environment, at least society could manage its institutions. The
revised legal system was now a prominent and integral segment of the zeitgeist
of our times.

Most of the western world is in
the process of adopting the new justice model. The USA has an established
infrastructure and Justice Reborn is operational. England, Canada, and Germany
are close behind, developing the legislation to make this a feasible system for
their countries, with universities scrambling to enhance their science and
medical programs. The training of staff is a hurdle to overcome, the new
science complex, and the new legal paradigm a challenge. The learning curve is
steep, with no room for errors. Date: January 15, 2021.

   Let me add a few more details. The Judge
and his team of four Divisions met weekly to assess progress in the
implementation of Justice Reborn, review crime statistics, discuss any
unforeseen developments, and revise strategy, if necessary. The Divisions are:

 LEGAL: is mainly staffed by the original
prosecutor’s office.

INVESTIGATIVE: is a revamped police
department with all the standard units.

FORENSIC: is technical demanding with a
number of medical doctors, physicists, etc.

PRISONS: The challenge is the operation of
two parallel systems: old and new.

Some working details. Once suspects are
identified they have little choice but to cooperate. The Investigative and
Legal Divisions only require a minimum justification to initiate an
interrogation; interestingly, this drug-induced grilling regularly uncovers
more than the original charge, not a desired outcome for the accused. It’s in
the suspect’s best interests to confess early and avoid an S1.

 At this point White Rock Prison, in Sector
13, is the first prison to execute their death row inmates using S3. The
execution of 155 inmates in a matter of weeks was a shock even to our demanding
public. The news media, for once, stayed off the soap box and basically just
reported the events as they occurred.

 A second advance team is assembling at
Fort Green Prison, debriefing staff, installing equipment, getting prisoners
ready.  With the S3, there will be no doubt about the prisoner’s guilt and the
execution can proceed or if innocent, the inmate released.

Oh, I forgot to expand on the dangers
associated with an S3; if the scanning exceeds 45 minutes, there is always some
degree of permanent brain injury. The damage becomes particularly relevant if
the accused is found to be innocent.

Mamma Mia……………. can you believe this mess?

                                    ####

“Kiss my ass!”

Harry studied his facial expression in the
mirror and thought he should be smiling when he delivered the line. Earlier in
the week he’d read: John Wayne Gacy, the famous serial killer, the Clown Killer
from Chicago, had screamed these last words. He’d shouted at his guards who
were forcing him into the lethal injection room. Harry thought this was the way
to go out. If he was arrested, he would scream it at the reporters: more headlines
for a star, a killer, the way to go out.

On a daily basis, he practiced his
delivery.  Now with a sneer, rather than a smile, he tried again. “Kiss my
ass!” That was it. Perfect. “Kiss my ass!”