My Justice My Revenge Read online

My Justice My Revenge

  By Terry J. Mickow

  Copyright © 2012 by Terry J. Mickow

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  My Justice My Revenge is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 1

  Looking around the courtroom I saw all the people who have been involved with this case from the beginning. On the pews, directly behind the States Attorney’s table, sat my immediate family and me. To the right and behind us sat other family members and our friends. My wife, who had endured endless hours, days, months, and even years of waiting for this moment, showed the tension on her face. To see the torment and fear in her eyes as she awaits the answers still upset me. My sons and daughters hoping it would soon be over sat quietly, not even a whisper between them. This was especially true for my one son who was affected by the whole occurrence the most. Nervously, he rocks back and forth, almost as if in his own world. There were other family members consoling and giving him words of encouragement. They too sensed the end was near.

  Behind me sit the police officers that worked very hard on a case that was very difficult for them, for the simple reason that at one time I was one of them, a police officer for thirty years. They were completely aware I knew what was going on in side room talks and armchair quarterbacking. There were the people from the children's center, psychologists, investigators, and other State's Attorneys, all in support of our family.

  Over on the other side of the room, behind him and his defense attorneys sat his family; his mother, father, two brothers and one sister. His mother was continuing her stare at me. She would never stop. Ever since this started four years ago, she had blamed me for bringing this hardship on her family.

  I had received letters from his sister as to the loss she will have to endure if something goes wrong for him. I have sat through testimony of his mother and father, that they had lied so poorly; there should be no doubts in anybody’s mind.

  Probably the hardest thing though, was to watch him sit at his table with his two attorneys, smiling, even laughing at times. Did he really think he would ever get off, walk out a free man?

  As I sat and watched I heard the State's Attorneys affirm, "Your Honor, the State rests." At which time the Judge gave the jurors their final instructions. As they exit the courtroom, I watched each and every one of them, trying my hardest to use all the training I had had, to read their body language. I could not get a good read. All that was left was to wait. We had been waiting four years since this investigation had started. Now it was time to wait some more.

  The jury was out for a total of two and a half days. They were not sequestered, as this case did not make much news, except for when the charges were originally alleged. There would be newspaper coverage after the trial, but not as it was going on. When the word went out of a verdict being reached, from the first sign of the jury pushing the button for the deputy, to the telephone calls made to all involved, people started arriving back into the courtroom. As everyone was brought back into the courtroom for the verdict, they took the same seats where they sat during the whole trial. Is it not strange how people become possessive of items that do not even belong to them? But for now, these seats were ours.

  Everyone was now standing, even the Judge, as the twelve jurors enter the courtroom. Judge Peterson says, “Everyone come to order.”

  The Judge asks the Forman of the jury, “Have you reached a verdict?”

  As the Forman looks right into my eyes, he states, “We have Your Honor.”

  I take this look as if it could be good or it could be bad. My mind starts racing. All these years, have they been for nothing? No one on the jury is looking my way. Everything that has happened over these last few years is going over and over in my head. Everyone’s pain. Again and again I hear the State’s Attorney say, “The State rests.”

  It is at this point everything slows to 33 and 1/3rd. I look at my family and friends. I look at the deputy, the Judge, the State’s Attorneys, the defense attorneys, his mother and father, then finally at him. I get up, and as if moving through water chest deep, I make my way towards him. My best friend, detective Evan Tonka, sees the gun in my hand. He yells, “No, Timmy no.” I have him, the rotten slime that hurt my son, right next to me. I pulled the trigger once, twice, three times; I’m not even sure. I hear the sound of bullets piercing the skin. It is a dull sound of skin breaking. Pop, pop, pop. It is all like a dream. There are screams from all sides of the room. The noise was so loud it was almost too loud to hear.

  Chapter 2

  The noise was almost too loud to hear. The babies were crying in their high chairs. The five year old screaming, “Daddy don’t, please don’t.”

  The mother yelling, “Get out of this house.”

  The father, perhaps loudest of all, “You’ll pay for this bitch.”

  There I was right in the middle, trying to restore some resemblance of calm to a turbulent ocean. I can’t believe that when I became a police officer, just three years prior, all I wanted was to save the world, or at least my town. I wanted to help everyone. Make the big arrest. I just wanted to be a good cop.

  But here I was standing in the middle of the every weekend Saturday night fights. I felt sorry for the kids, knowing this would follow them through their lives. Every fight, every word, would be remembered. The wife stood trembling, wearing her old dress that had seen many better days, but that was so long ago. Her hair was stringy and tied back. Was it that she had no one to fix herself up for? Would he not see the real beauty in her eyes? The eyes that now only held fear. The eyes that were now starting to turn purple from being struck.

  After I get them to break it up, he sits in his chair. Looking like the king of the roost. Smelling like he had way too many beers. Talking in that slurred speech that only someone who was drinking with him could really understand.

  It was this night I was training our newest officer. This one was right out of the

  Marines. He stood back, watching. First I spoke to the woman. “Has he hit you?”

  “No,” the answer I had come to expect
. Because no matter how bad it was with him, it would be worse without him. Or so they thought. “He has just had a little too much to drink. He’ll be better tomorrow.”

  But what about the beating she would surely receive tonight, if for nothing else, for calling the police. “You know he’ll beat you after we leave.”

  The new trainee, Clifford Russle, asks me on the side, “Will he really beat her?”

  “Soon as we leave,” I told him.

  “Then let’s arrest him, to protect her,” he responded.

  “The right thing to do, but not the legal option,” I said.

  We could not make an arrest unless the victim would sign a complaint. There was nothing we could do unless we witnessed the crime. We would have to wait until she was battered more than she already was. And it was my bet; she would not call back, after this beating. Russle asked, “What can we do then? We can’t just leave.”

  I walked over to her husband. I crouched down by him in his chair. “Look at those kids,” I said. “Their eyes are as big as silver dollars. How can you continue this fighting in front of them?” He wasn’t yelling anymore. I could actually see a tear build up inside his eye as he looked at his children. “I know you and your wife are having some problems, but let’s keep it from them. They only see the two most important people in their lives fighting.”

  “And look at her over there; she must have really turned some heads in her day.”

  “Still does,” he corrected me.

  “You have here what many men can only dream of. How about this, you get yourself together a little bit, and I’ll take you anywhere in town and tomorrow I bet she’ll pick you up with a smile on her face.”

  He was breathing harder. His eyes were full with tears. His words were broken. “Do you…really…think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll …get ready.”

  Before we left I asked her if she would be all right for the night and if she’d pick him up in the morning. “Sure I will, he is a great guy. Sometimes he just drinks too much, when he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.”

  As we dropped him off at a friend’s house about eight blocks away he thanked us over and over again. “How did you do that?” Russle asked. “It was World War Three and you brought peace to the world.”

  “That’s why they call us peace officers.” I answered with a laugh. “Just treat people how you would want to be treated.”

  “Amazing, just amazing,” Russle said.

  Chapter 3

  There I was running late again for roll call. This three to eleven shift will kill me. But so will seven to three and eleven to seven. No rest for the wicked, I guess. Just get into my seat by two forty-five. All the normal guys sitting around, ha, that’s quite the word to use, normal. There’s Russle, Mike Mansolini, and Keith Sommers. Standing in front of our group is Sgt. Larry A. Waters. He shortened that to the initials LAW.

  He was a good sergeant, not liked much by the brass. Took too much time at calls, actually had feelings for the people he came into contact with. I always tried to pattern myself after that philosophy. He could be harsh but fair.

  Standing next to him was this kid around fifteen, maybe sixteen years old. Sergeant Waters told the group, “This is our new cadet. It will become his job to collect parking lot money, issue parking tickets; do dog calls, and what ever other Hell we decide to put him through. Class meet Jeffrey Motter.”

  Nobody really knew what he would be doing as he was our first cadet. “Timmy, you get to train him. He’ll ride with you for awhile.” Oh great. I had some personal business to get done tonight. Oh well, looks like that goes on hold.

  “Hi Jeffrey, what we’ll do is check out our car. Always make sure there are no new dents, scratches, missing bumpers, etc.” This is what you always told the new guys. For it was policy. Of course, when you were by yourself you would never take the time. Okay, some did, but what the hell. After checking for dents, I checked the trunk to make sure all the equipment was there. Then checked the inside and made sure all lights and equipment on the vehicle were working. Everything apparently in order, we got in and drove away.

  “So, how did you get this job?” I asked Jeffrey.

  “Just was talking to Chief Thomas Pettry and he mentioned he was thinking of adding the position. Told him I’d like a shot at it. I got some recommendations from my teachers and here I am.”

  “What do you want to be?”

  “I think a cop. Seems like a good job. What do you like most about being one?”

  “I don’t really know how to put it into words. I just like helping people. I would really like to work with kids. I think being around kids, working with them, can keep you young. Keep you up on what’s going on in the young world.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. I like talking to kids too.”

  We drove around, talking about our families and other work related issues. We stopped a few cars for speeding. But I didn’t give any tickets. “Don’t they want you to issue tickets?” Motter asked.

  “Well, let’s say they wouldn’t mind it, but at least it is up to us if we issue or not. Mostly they want you to have contact, you know, police presence.”

  We didn’t get any calls until about nine o’clock. The scratchy voice of our dispatcher, Anna Lynn, came over the radio. “Nine-eighteen at 1645 Baker Street. A. D. T. Security Alarm Company will be in route. ETA thirty minutes.”

  I told Jeffrey it was an alarm and the company wouldn’t get there for about thirty minutes. I also told him to wait in the car once we got there.

  Upon our arrival, Mike Mansolini arrived from the west. “Where are you coming from?” I asked, knowing he had a patrol zone to the east of us.

  “I had to stop at the hardware store in Romoville after work. But since it closes at ten I thought I’d do now what I won’t be able to do later.”

  I had to laugh, but also thought of how he would explain his arrival before the Sergeant. No time to think about it now though, we had to see if it was another false alarm or was someone entering without permission.

  We started at the front of Plasticworks. This was a company that manufactured the helmets for pro football teams. All doors and windows appeared secured. While walking around the building we saw the side door on the east side closed, but it had some fresh wood broken by the doorknob. A slight pull of the door and it opened.

  I called out to dispatch there was an open door. I also advised to let the alarm company know. This was so they would not walk into the building without us knowing it. Sergeant Waters would have heard me over the radio talking to the dispatcher, so he was aware of the situation.

  We entered the building, no more talking too loud. We were now in police mode. Nothing mattered but our safety. We are looking in every direction, including up, as some times an offender would climb up and be watching from above. Also listening came into play. All the sounds you would never normally hear, you now heard. Too bad I listened to my music a little too loud because some of my hearing was not what it once was.

  Then we heard what sounded like just a mumble. Sounded like two maybe three males. No distinctive words could be understood but voices that sounded quite perturbed.

  As we slowly walked toward the voices we heard, "What the fuck. You said there would be a large amount of money from the sale last week."

  "How was I to know they would have banked the money already?" I saw from around the corner the last one to speak was a male, about twenty-five. He looked like he worked out everyday of the week.

  "Next time your company sells all that equipment; make sure the money is here for us. This is too risky for us with no benefit and it looks like there will be no benefit for us tonight."

  I looked at Mansolini. He nodded. It was time to let them know not only the money was not there, the cops were.

  "Everyone freeze." Yeah just like in the movies, but it gets the point across.

  They looked at each other like deer caught in the
headlights of a car. No one even ran. We cuffed them, gave them their rights, and walked them to the side door.

  Waiting outside was Sergeant Waters. “Good job guys.”

  After we had them secured in our cars Sergeant Waters asked Mansolini why he was there. “I heard the call and was on my way for a coffee. I thought I’d save you the trouble of walking through the warehouse so I backed Timmy up. Good thing too, right Timmy? I mean the way they ran, the one climbing the ladder. Never thought he’d come back down on his own. But you know what; leave me out of it Timmy just make yourself look good. Say, I don’t know, say like they just gave up in the report.”

  Sergeant Waters just said to figure it out our selves. We told him okay, went back to the police station, booked and then transported the three to DuPaca County Jail.

  On the way back from jail we both laughed over and over about what had to be done to fight crime. It wasn’t always what you did but how you had to go about getting the job done. Hey, sometimes it made the job bearable.

  Chapter 4

  The night was a beautiful July night. Although for me the seventy-two degrees was still a little chilly. But being that it was eleven o’clock in the evening, I guess it was not too bad. There was a slight breeze and a full moon. Oddly enough, there was not much noise coming from the street. Not much traffic.

  As we stepped outside from the station I heard officer Bill Wasmiak say, “Boys I can smell ‘em.” With that he pulled the air to his nose with his right hand. “Yeah, they are out there.”

  He was referring to lovers. He was known to walk up to cars with lovers in them, wait until he knew the guy was about to blow a load, hammer the hood of the car and watch an explosion occur as the guy backed off his date at the worst time. There would be soilage all over the car, the girl, and the guy himself. Then he would ask, “What’s going on?”

  On a night like this he was sure some would turn up at some time and he would probably be correct.

  It was relatively a slow night for a Saturday night. We did our patrols, and then waited. There were some officers working radar, some looking for drunk drivers.

  It was about two in the morning when a call came in. The dispatcher gave it out as an accident with injuries. It involved a motorcycle. We knew right away it would not be nice. I arrived at the intersection of Route 4 and Butnam Street. The motorcycle was split completely in two. The driver was still lying on the roadway, no helmet. The car that struck him was off to the side of the road. I heard the sirens of the fire department coming. There were also additional squads in route. The woman driver of the car was screaming, “I never saw him. He didn’t have his lights on.” She was a lady of around sixty years of age. Gray hair wrinkled skin on her face and hands. Her hands were shaking, almost uncontrollably. I asked for her driver’s license and told her to wait by her car.