Wrongful Convictions, page 13
“Wow.” Chad wondered if Tavian could see the shit storm coming. He assumed that Tavian could and could not understand why Joanne was overlooking it.
“No fucking way.” Chad finally got a footing in the conversation.
“There are going to be some ethical concerns getting the ball rolling on this one.” Joanne wasn’t talking about legal ethics, though they all knew those would come into play in this at some point.
“Ken would like to have the student involved.” Chad couldn’t believe that Joanne was actually considering this.
“Who is the student?” Tavian’s tone was a clue. Chad knew that he was thinking the same thing he was right now. How in the hell could Ken know the witness was now a student!
“His name is Marcel Wright. He is an up and coming star, and if we can convince him to get on board there is no problem. This would garner so much press for the Innocence Institute.” Chad could see Joanne was almost salivating at the thought.
“What do we know about Wright? Any idea how he is going to take all this?” Tavian followed up.
“We have to sit down with him; take his temperature,” Tavian continued.
Chad looked at Tavian incredulously. Joanne was falling apart. Tavian knew that, yet Tavian wasn’t putting a stop to this. Chad felt he had to say something, but he had no idea what to say. Chad’s head was spinning again. He was oblivious to the hidden agendas in the room. Joanne had only shared a fraction of the big picture with them. Tavian was waiting for his moment. Chad’s only option was to lay in wait for the right moment to make his play.
30
“Good greatness! This operation has just become a clusterfuck.” Special Agent in Charge Kevin Josef said slamming down his headphones. He had been listening to Joanne Hart Benson, her lacky Chad Hunt, and Agent Tavian Springs, discuss their upcoming plans in a hotel room in St. Paul. The conversation was courtesy of a device concealed in the room by Agent Springs in an operation that was more akin to a monkey humping a football than it was to a special-op conducted by highly trained professionals. Tavian had recounted the events that took place, being in the palatial granite bathroom when the mobile team attempted to notify him of Hunt’s return. He had played a human shell game, eventually hiding under the bed before making his way out of the man’s room.
The investigation into Joanne Hart-Benson had been open for a little over two years. They had been working on the illegal prescription drug ring for almost three years now and they kept opening new rabbit holes. Joanne had been an unknown until a prisoner at Florence Federal complex had been found with a shitload of pills in his cell.
They had learned that Joanne had been the attorney for a front that was brokering deals all over the country. Tavian had uncovered operations in fifteen different prisons in ten states across the US. Joanne was the linchpin of the whole thing concealing the money and covering every detail, and she did an impeccable job of insulating herself from anything that could tie her to the deals.
They were now all in place, poised to take her down. Once they had her, they were certain that she would roll on her supplier. Whoever this big fish was, they were moving major weight. The agencies theory was that her supplier was probably manufacturing the stuff. The pills that turned up in Florence were a completely synthetic opioid that no major manufacturer was producing right now.
Some of the honchos had wanted to take her down and try to flip her; Josef knew better. Joanne was too high profile and she understood the system too well to give anything up. The gamble would have amounted to a high stakes bluff with all their chips in the middle and Joanne would have called it without batting an eye. She had the top hand. Everyone knew it. No one wanted this one to get away from them. Too many resources had been put into this. Josef had won out. Joanne was the central figure in the largest smuggling operation inside the U.S. prison system; Ms. Hart-Benson and her associates were responsible for over one hundred million dollars worth of drugs moved in the last five years. The number of murders associated with the ring was somewhere over one hundred and counting. Josef was going to take this thing down. Josef didn’t care that it was an underground op. On the outside, the public had no idea. That was the genius of network; it existed only within the walls of correctional facilities. Dealers and gangs weren’t shooting it out on the streets of places like Detroit and Washington DC. Innocent people weren’t being gunned down and kids weren’t getting hooked on free samples. There were no headlines about this epidemic; everything had taken place hidden away from society at large and more importantly, politicians didn’t give a shit about these things that didn’t carry political capital. It mattered to Josef, though.
They had proof Joanne’s associates had delivered drugs to some of the most secure facilities in the nation. Sometimes it was delivered to crooked CO’s, who in turn delivered to the inmates for a nice little bonus every month. Sometimes it was brought in by lawyers, family members, and Joanne’s associates, all of them unwitting accomplices having no idea that the documents and care packages they delivered were concealing pills. She had used her status to cozy up to wardens and rig vending contracts, so that vending machines would be operated by her business partners’ shell corporation. The vending machine always contained an obscure item that normal inmates had little interest in. Joanne’s clients, however, always asked visitors for the item, and it was delivered with the supervising guards none the wiser. Joanne herself never touched a thing. Nothing in her conversations could tie her to the crime. There was no paper trail, either. Josef had listened to hundreds of hours of recordings made from wire taps on her phones, there was nothing. They were all at a loss for where she was getting the drugs. The inmate at Florence had no idea.
They had came close with a man named Milton Bosch. Bosch was a delivery driver who had been stocking the vending machines. They had been tracking Bosch, waiting for him to slip when he flipped his H2 in the Black Hills. He was on life support in a hospital in Rapid City with little hope for recovery. It was another dead end. Drug dogs had been searching all of the latest vending machine deliveries and they were clean. Drugs were not getting in through the vending machines anymore, but they were still getting it.
Less than a month ago, a corrections officer at a prison in Montana found a healthy supply of pills in a cell that belonged to an ex-state senator. The senator was serving time on an embezzlement charge. He was about to turn state’s evidence on an unrelated case when he ended up hanging from a makeshift noose in his cell. The investigators began looking into the ex-senator’s visitors. The senator’s wife and daughter were his only visitors. The daughter was a bible thumper who had been trying to start a ministry at the prison. The wife, on the other hand, was a drunk who had taken too many pills along with a half bottle of scotch and ended up in a cemetery plot next to her husband. Every time they got close to a key player, they ended up dead. It made for a more cumbersome investigation. The break that got the ball rolling, however was the wife’s attorney. It turned out that the wife’s attorney was none other than Joanne Benson. The pills in the cell were an exact chemical match with the ones found at Florence. There was a connection. With Bosch in the hospital and the senator and his wife fertilizing the lawn in Mountain View Cemetery, the investigation now turned to deep cover.
What they heard today in that hotel room made that responsibility all the more difficult. It was the worst case scenario; a media circus like this one was dangerous for his agent. Now Joanne needed his agent to take the lead because she couldn’t stay sober long enough to get out of bed in the morning. He knew there was no way he could allow Tavian to appear before a judge as Tavian Springs. The honchos would have his ass for that one back in DC. This whole scenario pushed their hand. They would have to make a move much sooner. Damn it, he needed a break, and he needed it in a hurry.
31
Marcel had just finished a grueling workout about the same time SAC Josef was listening in on the conversation in Chad Hunt’s apartment. The heat had gotten more oppressive this afternoon than any day in the last couple weeks, and he had sweat like a madman. This was important because he was having a hard time losing the last couple pounds he needed to make weight for the fight. He had showered and was sitting on a bench next to the ring when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number and let it go to voicemail. After it chimed, signaling he had new voicemail, he punched in the numbers and listened to the digitally recorded message.
Marcel, now only days away from the fight, had barricaded himself off from the rest of the world to prepare. Marcel had left a message for Shannon explaining that he wasn’t going to be at school until after the fight and he hadn’t heard back from her. He had talked to all of his professors briefly to get his course work and made the necessary arrangements. He was not able to get a hold of Joanne; she hadn’t been at her office. He had no way to track her down. However, he and Shannon had gotten their assignment done and he knew there wouldn’t be anything more until after the fight, so he wasn’t too concerned.
“Marcel, this is Joanne Hart-Benson from St. Stevens. I would like to sit down with you and talk about the next assignment. I would also like you to meet with my associate, Tavian Springs, who will be assisting on the case. Please call me back at your convenience. My number is six-five-one…” The voice on his voicemail spoke through the loudspeaker on his cell.
He hit the save button. He had no plans of calling her until after Saturday anyway.
He walked to the scales at the front of the gym by the large garage door. The door was open allowing the scorching heat in, but it was also allowing the stagnant air of the old warehouse to escape. One hundred fifty eight and a half, almost two pounds under. He was excited. He had made weight, and there was little time to spare. He and Jarvis were leaving for Grand Casino that night. They were going to check into their rooms, and then it was on to an interview scheduled that evening with a sports radio station out of the Twin Cities. It was a pre-recorded piece that would air on tomorrow’s show with Joe Cole, the stations boxing aficionado, and one of the few knowledgeable fight fans in the local media.
Tomorrow night would be the weigh-in, and a meet and greet with any fans that were around. It was Marcel’s least favorite part of big fights; he couldn’t imagine the world title fights in Vegas. Marcel wasn’t very good at schmoozing. Local fights were very small time in that respect. A few wealthy fight fans, folks from the commission, and a couple of reporters. There would be a decent buffet, and he was planning on making use of that for sure. He had been starving since training camp started.
32
Marcel sat in his dressing room waiting for a member of the commission to sign off on his hand wraps. This was done to ensure the fighters didn’t have illegal substances in the wraps; plaster or metal something to make the punches harder. The commission member would then watch the fighters glove up and check the gloves. It wasn’t beyond fighters; managers and promoters to pull these shenanigans to get themselves to the top.
Marcel had always been a student of the fight game, he knew the story of how Billy Collins’ life had been irreversibly altered when Luis Resto’s pads had been altered in his gloves in 1983 when the two men fought on the undercard of the Roberto Duran, Davey Moore fight. Collin’s ended up with a torn iris and permanently blurred vision; he never boxed again. He died a short time later in a car accident his family believed was tied directly to the fight. Luis Resto spent two and a half years in prison for assault because of the fight.
Marcel also knew about Antonio Margarito, In February he had his license suspended when he was caught with an illegal substance on his hand wraps before his fight with Shane Mosely. There were persistent rumors that he got away with using illegal hand wraps against Miguel Cotto, who took a savage beating in their fight prior to the Mosely incident.
Marcel closed his eyes. In the darkness of his mind, he pictured himself in the ring. He was fast. He moved fluidly and with grace. His punches were hard and accurate. He opened his eyes and looked around the small dressing room. Jarvis was talking with a man from the commission. A couple other fighters from his gym were there fidgeting with some equipment. He was ready to go. The heat of the dressing room was getting close to overtaking him. Right now he felt good, but if he was here much longer he would not. He looked at the guy from the commission and wanted to shout at him to get this thing going but didn’t. Marcel knew he needed to relax himself again right now. He dropped the hood of his sweatshirt and took two deep calming breaths. He knew it wouldn’t be long before Jarvis started giving him shit about the hood. Jarvis was in the shit giving business, and business was always good when Marcel was around. Marcel breathed and waited for Jarvis to say something.
As a challenger he was to be introduced first. The director of the arena came in and told him it was time. His entrance music was “Justice ” by Lil Pop. The song had a deep personal meaning to him; it had a desperate tone. In Marcel’s experience justice always had a tragic undercurrent. Lil Pop was an artist from Red Lake who had been close with his brother. He was a success story and a man that Marcel admired, plus the beat of the song got him going.
He left the dressing room. The base pounding from the arena’s sound system shot adrenaline through his entire body. In that moment he hated everyone.
“They say justice is blind, I say there is no justice,” Lil Pop’s voice announced to the crowd. Back in the dressing room it was muffled. Marcel listened waiting for his moment.
“Son you can’t escape, that game called fate?” The song opened, Marcel pulled the towel over his head and let the music sink into him. He knew he was ready for this fight and there wasn’t anything Rico Jones could do to slow him down.
“It’s too late on the judgment you must await.” His cue from Lil Pop to exit the dressing room. He entered the arena. The crowd erupted. It was a very good crowd. He had fought in front of smaller, that was for sure. Tonight the arena was packed; The radio station had done a very good job of hyping the fight and more importantly, the co-main event featured a member of the Minnesota Vikings who was fighting in his first professional fight. That had garnered a lot of interest. The fight ended in a knockout; a bloodlust surged through the crowd.
“Against the ropes, drownin, your lost, there’s no hope.” Lil Pop droned over the the crowd.
“Sins of the past, creepin fast, This ain’t no joke.”
Marcel moved closer to the ring, head down a towel draped over it to cover his eyes, no distractions.
“You’ll soon be lost, all for not, you be left to rot.” Marcel nodded his head to the beat willing himself into the zone. That unknown dimension where anything but peak performance was impossible.
“What’s done is done, on the run, forget number one” He was there now, the crowd was gone everything was gone. All that remained was the ring and Lil Pop.
“We bleedin for the rez make no mistake, believe no one finds justice at Red Lake.” He was in the ring, bobbing slightly left to right to the beat of the song, eyes closed head down.
Lil Pop was silenced replaced with Three Six Mafia as the lights when completely out in the arena.
The lyrics to It’s a Fight opened and invigorated the segment of the crowd that was there to support Marcel’s opponent. A spotlight lit up the walkway from the dressing room where Rico Jones bounced and shadow boxed. He was much more of a showman than Marcel. Marcel’s crowd appeal was solely a result of his actions in the ring.
Jones, the defending champ, had what seemed like twenty-five men and women in his entourage as he came to the ring. He was dressed in a flashy robe and wore a stocking hat with the logo of one of his sponsors on it. Sponsors for local fighters gave them just about enough to buy the stocking hat on it with the logo, and Jarvis hadn’t bothered yet to find sponsors for Marcel. He would if Marcel won this title and got a shot on an undercard in Vegas.
Marcel fought out of the red corner. As usual, he wore all black; black trunks, black shoes with black socks. Jones had much more pizzazz in his ensemble as well. He wore camouflage trunks with frills that matched his ring shoes.
Jones was a conventional fighter. Marcel a southpaw. Marcel was the taller of the two men at just over six feet. Jones was three inches shorter. Both had weighed in at exactly one sixty last night, this morning Jones was an unofficial one sixty-eight, Marcel one sixty-five.
Marcel watched Jones intently as he bounced around the ring during introductions, never taking his eyes off his opponent. Marcel couldn’t stand his opponent moving around so much. When the two men met, Jones continued his show, pounding his chest several times with his glove. All the while Marcel stood pat watching the man thinking how scared the man had to be to put on this show. Marcel had learned long ago that the guys who made the most noise were the most afraid. Like the birds that puff themselves to seem bigger and more ferocious when in reality they were just songbirds about to get pounced on. Marcel saw himself as that predator. He almost laughed when he pictured himself leaping from the corner onto this chump. They touched gloves and headed for their respective corners.
Bing. The bell rang and the two men came out. Jones confirmed Marcel’s impression of him by throwing a couple wild haymakers, trying to end the fight with each swing. Marcel stayed calm. He held back in the disciplined style that Jarvis preached; waiting to pick his spot. He landed a jab, then another, moving to his right cutting the ring off for Jones. He kept Jones in his power alley. Marcel threw a lead left cross that glanced off Jones’ forehead. Jones countered with a jab cross combination; Jones threw the cross hard. Marcel believed it was everything Jones had, and smiled. The punch didn’t phase him. Jones, not known for having heavy hands, was actually a much lighter puncher than Marcel had anticipated. Marcel thought, he can’t hurt me. I just took this guy’s best. He has nothing.
