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SEEKING  JUSTICE

 

Gawaine Caldwater Ross

 

            Carla woke up in the middle of the night. She heard the clattering of dishes being washed in the sink. She was sure she’d washed the dishes before she went to bed; this was odd and a bit frightening. If this is a ghost, why is a ghost washing my dishes? She then felt her skin crawl with fear as the usual signal warned her that something evil was coming. A net was cast over her, paralyzing her. She saw six spirit figures about her bed (even on the right side of her bed, which was against the wall). They all had drawn weapons. Two of them lifted her feet up and stroked her legs. Why are they trying to soothe me? She demanded, in thought, since she could not speak, “What do you want with me?”

            The one nearest her head replied, “We are guarding you.”

            She knew this was a complete lie. If they were guarding her, they would be facing outward. They’re here to kill me, she concluded. With that thought they parted to let a wolf jump over her bed. She could feel its rear paws drag across her abdomen. She screamed with absolute terror and then woke up. She got up to turn on all the lights. Her apartment door was still locked, and everything else seemed normal, except for the bloody dishes in the sink. She gulped and then searched her arms for fresh cuts. There were three slashes on her left forearm. Shit! Am I cutting myself in my sleep? I don’t remember doing this. This was just about as scary as the nightmare. Unable to sleep, she sat up to watch fascinating infomercials. She finally dozed until the early spring sunlight woke her up.

            She took a quick shower and then applied her heavy black make up. She could make friends, but she couldn’t hold onto them. This was an agonizing mystery to her which made her fear that she was ugly. So she constantly checked her face. She judged herself to be moderately attractive: she had thick black wavy hair that fell to her waist, one blue eye and one green eye, a few freckles and a strong jaw. She thought it was her strong jaw that kept her from being pretty, but there was nothing she could do about that. As for the rest she was scrawny and small, the result of convincing herself that she was never hungry enough to eat a big meal. She usually dressed as sexily as she could.

            She recorded her dream in her dream diary. Her dreams were plagued with wolves and with paralyzed episodes like the one last night. She drank nearly a quart of sweet creamy coffee, which she called breakfast. She looked over her calendar. She was disabled and lived on disability benefits. With her suicide attempt last year her new psychiatrist gave her a battery of tests. Carla scored high on the hostility and fear section. The psychiatrist gave her a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder in addition to her already familiar bi-polar disorder. She was still finding out what it meant, and she had an appointment with her therapist today, Lucille Brown, an amazing woman whom she deeply admired. The appointment was for 11 am. She had some things to do first, so she dressed warmly in a much too old sealskin coat. It was warm, though.

            Her ancient Nova was ready to die. This was a serious problem, as she had no money for repairs and a bad credit rating. Milwaukee had cold snowy winters and it was often cold and snowy until mid May. Getting about without a car was a problem. The nearest bus stop was three blocks away and these days hardly anyone shoveled their walks anymore. The car wouldn’t start.

            Desperate, she called Rollo on her cell phone. Rollo was Carla’s best friend’s brother, and had known her for fully twenty years.  He was snoozing when she called.

            “Speak to me,” he said.

            “Rollo, my dear old buddy and pal, my car won’t start.”

            Why does this always happen on my days off? He groaned but sat up. “Why won’t it start? Is your new battery dead already?”

            “No, the battery worked until it got tired. There must be something else wrong with it. I have appointments today. Can you come over and fix it?”

            “It’s Carla,” he said to his wife Marie. “You never pick a good hour for this kind of thing,” he remonstrated. “Please try to make your problems coincide with my days when I have to be at work. But yes, I’ll be there. Give me an hour or so, I just got up.”

            Marie had breakfast waiting for him when he came out of the shower. Amber and Jason had just gone off to school. She served him a Mexican omelet, complete with chiles. As she turned he grabbed her by the waist and leant her back in his arms. He gave her a loving kiss. “Honey, I’m so happy you’re in my life.”

            Rollo was the sweetest man Marie had ever met, which was why she’d married him. She was a curvy woman from Mexico. “My bed is waiting for us,” she said breathily.

            He let her up. “Carla has asked for help again. I have a feeling it’s either her starter or her alternator. I won’t be able to fix either one, but I’ll get her a new one. I’ll drive her to see her therapist, and after that I’ll head right home.”

            He poured himself some coffee from the pot on the table.

            “I think you help Carla too much,” Marie objected. “I’m not jealous – I know she’s like a sister to you – but she isn’t really her sister and you’re always bailing her out. What does she give us or you in return?”

            The chiles were a little hotter than he’d expected. “It’s my spiritual duty to help people who need help,” he explained once again. “As a personal rule, I must always help if directly asked. She can be a pain in the ass, granted, but she was dealt a lousy hand at birth. I can’t not help her, at least for small things like this.”

            Marie admired his spirituality. He wasn’t a church goer, and rarely spoke of God, yet he was spiritual anyway.

            As he was leaving she walked him to the door. He pulled her by the buttocks for another deep kiss and then whispered, “Don’t forget, it’s my turn to cook tonight.”

            “Just don’t cook any more shoe leather,” she warned him.

 

            It took him nearly 45 minutes to drive to Carla’s neighborhood near Jacobus Park.

She came down when he called her. He got out of his van with his voltmeter in hand and embraced her on the sidewalk. “I can’t get in your car unless you unlock it.”

            “Doh!” she exclaimed, smacking herself in the forehead. He turned on the ignition. Clearly the battery was alive. He got out and opening the hood, had Carla turn on the current while he measured the voltage in the starter and the alternator. The alternator was dead. He extracted it and shut the hood. “You’re alternator’s dead,” he informed her. “I’ll get you a new one at Consumer Auto Parts. Do you need a ride somewhere?”

            “Yep. To my therapist and then to the library to return books before they’re late and then to-”

            “Hold on there, Speedy. I can take you to your therapist but you’re on your own after that. It’s my day off and I’ve got to spend time with Marie.”

            Carla almost took this as an act of betrayal. She reminded herself of all his past generosity and knew that she had to corral her reaction. “Okay, I’ll manage somehow.” She grabbed the library books in her car and went off with Rollo.

 

            That evening Carla met her best friend Liza at Carlo’s Pizza Shop. They were into their fifth pitcher of beer when Liza finally noted the new cuts on Carla’s forearm. Liza had thick blond hair done into dreads with crystal beads at the ends. She had a heart shaped face and luminous blue eyes. “So why have you cut yourself again?” she inquired gently.

            Carla stared at the traffic for some time. “I don’t even remember cutting myself this time. I don’t think I did it while sleepwalking; I’ve never done that as far as I know. I was only a little drunk when I went to bed.”

            Liza went pale. She was a paralegal, but she’d taken several psychology classes in college. She feared that Carla was decompensating – that is, falling apart. As she moved over to her to sit next to her, Carla’s face dropped to the table, where her hair lay in spilled beer. She sobbed quietly for a time as Liza rocked her saying, “Tell me what’s wrong, Carla. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

            Carla looked up at her and accepted the napkin to wipe away her tears and blow her nose.

“I didn’t want to tell anyone, and you have to promise to keep this confidential.”

            Liza agreed without asking why.

            Carla began to weep again. “Spenser raped me again,” she said very quietly. “That’s the 4^th time in the past 6 months.”

            Liza was aghast. “And this is the first time you tell anyone?”

            “Yes! You don’t know this, but we always had rough sex. I like rough sex, so that wasn’t a problem. We did a lot of B&D. He would tie my hands over my head, standing up, blindfold me and then say, “I really want to rape you. Can I rape you?” I always thought he was kidding, but he wasn’t. One night he got much too rough – he was choking me. I couldn’t tell him to stop, but I did finally kick him in the balls. 

            “He came back the next night to rape me for real, claiming that I was a stupid whore who had given him permission to rape me and then had changed my mind. I drove him out of my apartment and he disappeared for a while. He came back after a couple of weeks, high on gambling, and offered to take me out to apologize. He got me high on cocaine and then dragged me into an alley and raped me by a dumpster, choking me just enough that I couldn’t scream. Now I thought I was really stupid for allowing myself to be set up. It was embarrassing, really. Then I ran into him at Molly’s New Year’s Eve bash. He arrived after I was already really drunk and I couldn’t decide if I should make a scene. He followed me out when I left and raped me between some cars. And now the last time was a week ago when he ambushed me on the front porch of my apartment building.”

            Liza had tears falling down her face. “This is so awful. I can’t believe someone would be so cruel to you.” They cried together for a time and then Liza put her legal mind to work. None of these rapes had been witnessed, presumably. In two of the rapes Carla had been very drunk or high on cocaine. Those details wouldn’t reflect credibly upon her in court. This was a case of she said, he said. “Did you scratch him or get his blood on you?”

            “Sure, but I washed it off.”

            Liza’s face became bright red with anger. “He ought to have his balls cut off,” she said savagely. She deeply regretted having made the promise to not tell anyone. Poor Carla was in a terrible position. If she went to court, her drug use and her psychiatric diagnoses would be used against her. She couldn’t get justice in court. She now really understood why people get angry enough to kill someone. She knew she couldn’t keep her promise.

 

            The following night was Thursday, when Rollo and Shanille and an assortment of other friends from the brewery went to Liza’s place to drink and play poker. Ordinarily Liza would serve them stout and then retire into her bedroom with her headset on. The men were noisy, but at least they cleaned up after themselves. None of the men’s wives would allow these poker games, so by default it was Liza’s job. Once in a while they’d hire a stripper. Liza was much too loyal to Rollo to tell Marie this, so she pretended this never happened. When she came out of her shower she could hear them in the living room. She dressed and then met Rollo and Shanille. Rollo had a key and had let the two of them in. The two other men were arriving. Liza dragged Rollo and Shanille into her bedroom and locked her door. The guys sat on her bed. Of Rollo’s friends she liked Shanille the best; he had a wild sense of humor.

            “Carla made me promise not to tell anyone this. But I can’t keep it secret, she’s in danger. Spenser has raped her four times in the past six months.”

            Rollo slammed his fist on a table. “Charlie Spenser? That fucking weasel?”

            Shanille volunteered, “He needs to have the living shit kicked out of him.”

            “I agree,” Liza hissed. Rollo nodded. He had been an Army Ranger for years and he was still lean and powerful, even if his brown hair was graying. He was so angry he could barely think. Carla had been a victim all her life, and now this! He wanted to hack Spenser to death. “Is he in Milwaukee?” he asked his sister.

            She was pacing. “Probably. Carla says he hangs out at a couple of dives downtown where illegal gambling goes on.”

            “I have a good idea where they’re at,” Shanille said, standing up. He was tall with very muscular arms and shoulders.

            Rollo hugged Liza closely. “Don’t you worry, Sis. Shanille and I will take care of this. And the less you know about this, the better.” She nodded. “I never said a word.”

 

            Three nights later Rollo, Shanille and Jack all had the same night off. Jack was new to the brewery and was a punk rocker. He hated racism. He was so angry he scared people, despite his small frame, so he lived alone in a hole.  Shanille found that he did have good qualities. He was trying to become a better person through Buddhist meditation, and that impressed both Shanille and Rollo. They began at about 11 pm to cruise from one disreputable tavern to another. They stopped by 2 when they hadn’t found him.

            In the third week of the hunt they got lucky. One of Shanille’s friend said he was hanging out at a place called River Tavern near Kern Park. It was late April, snowing and cold. Rollo, Shanille and Jack wore their hooded sweatshirts and arrived at about midnight. They ordered pitchers of beer and sat at a table at an angle to the front entrance. Jack was still dubious about this mission; he could see the need for justice but he was known to the police as a brawler and didn’t want to get arrested again. The brewery job was the best job he’d ever had and he was just beginning to get on his feet.

            The bar was extremely noisy. There were 3 large screen TV’s, all tuned to sporting events, which patrons betted on boisterously. Not far from where they sat they saw three men rolling dice. Sometimes the noise was so loud it was difficult for Rollo to hear his friends.

            About an hour later Spenser came in, shaking the snow off his hat and coat. He was a good looking guy with black hair and a slim physique. He always dressed in the latest expensive fashions, if his winnings allowed it. The guys turned away from him as he took his seat next to the dicers.

            About 20 minutes later Shanille sat in a stall and waited for Spenser. Luckily, when he came in Shanille was the only other man present. Shanille rushed out and shoved his face against the wall with a small .22 jammed into his neck. “You Charlie Spenser?”

            “That’s the name, gamblin’s the game,” he said coolly. “What’s this all about?”

            Shanille slapped the side of his pistol against his ear and then re-jammed it into his neck. “You raped Carla 4 times, and now’s payback.”

            “That stupid cunt can’t remember who’s she’s been with!”

            Shanille whacked the butt of the pistol against his teeth. “Don’t you ever insult her again! You’re comin’ out with me. I’ll have this pistol in my pocket, aimed right at you. You tell the guys you owe us a bunch of money, pick up your winnings, and leave with us. I’ll shoot you if I have to!”

            As they emerged Rollo and Jack converged upon the table. Spenser yelled, “They’re trying to kidnap me!”

            Through his sweatshirt pocket Shanille shot him in the right buttock. The ejected shell went no further than his pocket, and the crack of the small pistol was only heard by the guys at the table. The bar was much too noisy for the pistol shot to be heard by the other patrons. Rollo and Jack dared the men at the table to make a move. “You owe us an awful lot of money,”

Shanille reminded him. “Pick up your winnings and grab your coat.”

            This time he obeyed. The heavy fabrics he was wearing had stopped any blood spatter. They marched him over to Rollo’s van. Fortunately the license plate was covered with snow. Rollo had put some moving blankets on the back seat. Spenser was placed in the middle between Jack and Shanille. Jack was wiping his knife on his pants. They drove quickly to Kern Park and marched Spenser under some trees. It was difficult to see the group through the falling snow and the shadows of the trees. Rollo stood in front of him, with Jack on his left and Shanille on his right. Rollo had a baseball bat with him. He poked Spenser in the face. “You raped Carla, a dear friend of mine for the past 20 years. Not only did you rape her, you did it 4 times. Should we cut your balls off?”

            Jack had been a medic in the Navy. “Let’s not,” he advised. “It doesn’t work. Rapists who have been castrated just rape people with objects, or they turn into murderers. It’s got to be worse.”

            Spenser screamed. Rollo dealt him a heavy blow to the chin which knocked him face down. He stepped on his neck. “Let’s not kill him,” he demanded. We need to make him permanently incapacitated.”

            Jack took that to mean paralyzed. He shoved the dagger into Spenser’s spine at about the level of his navel. He would never walk again. Shanille kicked him repeatedly in the ribs while Rollo pulverized his hands for good measure. Rollo drove and made suggestions. “Throw away your clothing; it might have his blood on it. You might not be able to see any, but chemicals can pick it up right quick. I know I have blood on my nice new shoes. I’ll have to get rid of them, which will make Marie ask questions, but it can’t be helped.” He drove Shanille and Jack home. Shanille walked out and threw his pistol into the Milwaukee River. When Rollo got home, he used coarse sandpaper on his baseball bat to remove fingerprints, and dumped it into a neighbor’s trash.

 

            He sat awake all night on the reclining chair in the living room, sweating and restless with anxiety. What if Spenser died? They’d given him a terrible thrashing, and now the temperature was 16˚ F. At least Marie wouldn’t question him much when she woke up; this was poker night after all.

 

            When Liza returned home from her job that evening she turned on the local news. The redheaded reporter Helga Olafsson was speaking into the camera. “Police this morning found a savagely beaten man last night in Kern Park. He was taken to Mercy Hospital, where he died this morning from his injuries. Police are considering this a homicide. The victim’s name is Charles Spenser, of no known address. People are encouraged to contact police if they have any information whatsoever.”

            Liza felt as if she had been kicked in the gut. She fell into her sofa, stunned by this awful news.  Her brain whirled in a dizzying pattern of ramifications. She poured herself a big glass of Tequila and washed it down with orange juice.

            She dialed Rollo directly at work.

            “Speak to me.”

            “Rollo, the evening news is horrible. Go watch the news on your break. You’re not going to like it.”

            He understood the need for discretion in phone calls. He already knew what had happened, but he agreed to watch the news.

 

            Shortly after the public appeal for help Detective Otto Sten received an anonymous tip about the River Tavern. He gathered a team of officers and drove directly there. They evicted everyone but kept them for questioning. Two officers began questioning potential witnesses. While the two policemen inside searched for evidence, Sten questioned the bartender. “You know anything about this murder?”

            The bartender had an economic interest in not telling the truth. He did not want the bar shut down for gambling. “No sir. I was mixing drinks and washing dishes. I didn’t see or hear anything.”

            Sten gave him his card. “Withholding information is obstruction of justice. Call me if you remember anything.” He then turned his attention to his companions. “The tip said that he was taken away from one of these tables opposite the central TV. Look for blood spatter.” They sprayed the area down and did find blood stains, but they were not in a pattern, and looked very pale, which indicated that they were old. Sten was puzzled that he couldn’t find the ejected shell or a bullet embedded in the walls. There was nothing.

            The police continued to interview the potential witnesses as Sten headed for the morgue.

He never could get used to the strange assortment of odors that saturated the place. “Say Willie, how’s it hanging?”

            Willie was the county coroner. He finished washing his hands and retorted, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

            “You mean behind corpses and shit?”

            “Yeah. People could think we’re up to necrophilia.”

            “What have you found?”

            Willie pointed to something small and dark on a piece of 4x4. Sten picked it up and examined it under his magnifying glass as Willie said, “I dug it out of his right ilium. The bullet struck the bone, broke, and got flattened.”

            “Only the one bullet?”

            “Affirmative.”

            The bullet was flattened and broken. It was useless as evidence. He’d been hoping to get a clue from the bullet wound at least. “Well, it looks like it came from a .22, but we’ll never be able to match it to a gun. Cause of death?”

            “Aside from having his spine severed, his ribs broken and hands pulverized, it was exposure.”

            “Thanks,” Sten said on his way out. This was not a robbery. His attackers must have been really pissed.

 

            Rollo almost vomited when he saw the news. A murderer! I’ve become a murderer! This isn’t what I wanted at all! Now what? How long will it take them to track us down? He walked around to inform the other guys. He could barely finish his shift. On the way home Liza called him again. “We need to meet tomorrow morning before I go to work,” she stated. “You need to cover your ass.” He agreed and fell into bed, again without sleeping.

            They met at 7:30 am at a Greek pastry shop. She’d already downed her coffee by the time Rollo came in. Hugging her, he sat down beside her. They spoke in whispers.

            “Brother, you need an airtight alibi. You and the fellas were with me all evening. You got too drunk to continue playing, so you all took naps before leaving. I woke up all of you at 3 and told you to go home. Get the other guys to be with you.”

            “You don’t hate me for being a mur.?”

            She gazed directly into his eyes. “I had a part in this too. I’m just as guilty as you are. No, I still love you.”

            His hair was plastered to his skull with perspiration. “You don’t think Marie will hate me?”

            “She adores you. Tell her so she won’t feel betrayed when she does find out. Remember, a wife cannot be forced to testify against her husband. Tell her why it happened. She’ll think you’re a hero.”

            She embraced him, kissed his cheek, and ran off to work.

            Rollo doubted that Marie would see him as a hero, and the thought that he might lose his children almost panicked him. But he went outside and dialed the guys.

 

            For four days Liza tried to reach Carla, but all she got was the answering machine or her voice mail. Alarmed, she drove over to Carla’s place. She called her land line and cell phone, again with no response. She parked and ran up the stairs to the third floor. She pounded on the door. “Carla, it’s me! Open up!” No response. She banged and kicked the door. “Get up goddamn you! Get up!”

            Now she was really alarmed. She didn’t know who her landlord was. Carla had no parents. Liza called the police, who arrived quickly.

            The officers met her on the landing. The young one was Rico and his older partner Neumann. Neumann said, “You’re afraid something has happened to her?”

            “I sure am. We hardly ever go for a day without talking. I can’t reach her at all. We’ve been friends forever.”

            Rico pounded the door with his nightstick. “Police! Open up in the name of the law!” He took full swings at the door. “Open up! Police!” No response.

            “I understand you don’t know the landlord,” Neumann said.

            “That’s right, and she has no parents.”

            “What do you say, Rico? I think we need to break in now.”

            “I’ll get the hammer,” he offered. He returned in a minute with a sledge hammer. The first blow against the panel shattered the wood, enabling them to open all the locks.

            Ominously, her fish were dead. As the police looked in her bedroom and bathroom, Liza saw the note upon the desk. She still used hearts to dot her I’s. “Well, Liza, I can’t take it any more. My suffering never stops or even slows down. All I know is despair. And you, my best friend, betrayed me! Because of you Spenser is dead! I told you not to tell any one and yet you did. It had to be you. Goodbye.”

            Liza wailed and sunk in a chair. “She’s dead! She’s dead!”

            Neumann took the note from her and read it. He passed it to Rico and suggested they look for her in the basement.

            She was there, propped up against the oil tank with vomit all around her. Her instruments of death lay about her: 4 pints of Southern Comfort and a big empty bottle of Tylenol. She was ash grey and as cold as the floor. Liza flew upon her and beat her breasts. “NO! You can’t do this to me! No! No! No!” Sobbing hysterically, Rico drew her off as they took photos. Liza began to hyperventilate which set off her asthma, so they called an ambulance for her. At the hospital she said she was suicidal, so they admitted her to the psych unit for observation.

            Sten arrived the next morning. He found her sitting alone on the sofa after the morning’s group therapy session. He flashed his badge. “Are you Liza Wittgenstien?”

            She nodded.

            “I’m Detective Otto Sten of the Milwaukee Police. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” He rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I hate having to say that.

I’m sorry that you have lost your best friend. Can you explain her suicide note?”

            Liza tensely took a puff from her asthma inhaler. She read the note again. “Carla was seriously crazy. She had a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder and bi-polar disorder. She was not a rational person. I’ll have to say, I’m not rational right now either,” referring to the psych unit.

            Clever. “You’re a person of interest, Ms. Wittgenstein. Come to my office to make a deposition as soon as you get out. You’ll be getting out in about 4 days. If you don’t show up by the 5^th, I’ll put out a warrant for your arrest.”

            She nodded, barely able to speak.

 

            She went to the police station with a lawyer. She told the story as the alibi had it. Shortly after this Sten went to question Rollo and his pals but their alibi was airtight.

 

            No one went to Spenser’s burial. He had no family or friends. Carla’s funeral was highly emotional. It almost killed Rollo to throw the first lump of dirt over her coffin; he broke down and wept in front of everyone.

            Rollo went back to the Catholic Church. Shanille went back to his Baptist church, while Jack felt no guilt at all – Spenser had gotten what he’d deserved.

            Once the police knew that the victim had been a repeat rapist, they developed an unprofessional disinterest in pursuing the case. Sten put the case folder in a tray marked Urgent on his desk, where it stayed for many years.

 

 

 

 

The Chickasaw Plum  -  Volume VI - Number 9 - September 2009

 

 

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