The k team, p.1
The K Team, page 1
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It was the type of situation John Lowry knew he should avoid.
He was at Rafferty’s Bar in Passaic; one of eight patrons left, which could be considered a healthy number since it was two thirty in the morning. Lowry remembered a football coach named Herm Edwards saying, “Nothing good ever happened after two A.M.,” but in truth Lowry was aware of that long before Edwards said it.
Plenty of bad things had happened to Lowry at that time of the morning over the years, and almost every one of them was Lowry’s fault. He had a temper, maybe the shortest fuse of anyone he had ever known, and alcohol made it even shorter. Rafferty’s Bar, not surprisingly, sold alcohol.
So though Lowry had long ago resolved to avoid situations like this, he had frequently ignored that resolution. But the reality was that showing discipline, while always a weak point for Lowry, had suddenly become far more important than ever before.
It was going to take a year, maybe longer, but he was going to be rich. Not just rich, incredibly rich. Never work again, never worry again … that kind of rich. In fact, his visit to the bar that night was ironically a celebration of the events of that day.
He had proven himself to the people he needed to impress, the people who would become his partners. They would supply the money, the organization, and the expertise. But he was absolutely essential to the process, as he had demonstrated today.
The other irony is that Lowry was acting honorably. He saw a couple arguing in a booth. The woman looked scared of the guy, and as it turned out, she had a right to be.
He was a big man, at least as big as Lowry, which meant he was very big. Lowry was six-four, two forty, and although the guy was sitting down, he looked to be just as tall and maybe even heavier. The difference between the guy and Lowry was that the guy had some layers of fat, and Lowry did not.
Lowry was in outstanding shape because he worked at it. He started his adult life as a boxer, but after winning only twelve of twenty fights, he realized that his possessing knockout power in both hands was not going to be enough. He exited the fight game and never looked back, but he took with him a strong workout ethic.
Lowry liked working out, liked how it made him feel. The guy in the booth clearly did not share that view. He obviously liked eating; liked how it made him feel.
As Lowry watched from his vantage point at the other side of the room, the guy suddenly reached across the table and smacked the woman in the face. Not with anywhere close to full force, but enough to draw some blood at the side of her mouth, and more than enough to make her cry.
And way more than enough to piss Lowry off.
So he went over to the table and said to the guy in a controlled voice, not at all slurred from alcohol, “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, asshole. You’re going to stand up and get out of here. She stays.”
The guy stood up, but was not inclined to obey. Instead, he was inclined to say, “Why don’t you try and make me leave?”
Lowry’s voice remained calm. “I’ll give you one more opportunity to make the right decision. You can walk out or be carried out. It’s your choice, but hurry up. I don’t want to spend more time with you than I have to.”
The woman, no longer sobbing, said, “Randy—”
It was impossible to know what she was going to say because Randy said, “Shut up, Carla.” He then turned back to Lowry, his fists already clenched, and said, “Beat it, dipshit.”
Lowry’s short fuse was thereby lit, and the short right cross followed seconds later. It landed a little too perfectly. In the ring, with gloves on, it would have accomplished its mission and hurt the opponent, probably even knocking him down or out.
In this case, in Rafferty’s Bar at two thirty in the morning and with no gloves on, it drove Randy’s chin and nose up into his head, puncturing his brain and sending him back into his seat in the booth.
Dead.
The police arrived within minutes, and Lowry was taken into custody. He knew all too well he was going down for this; people must have seen him throw the first and only punch. Carla certainly had seen it all. Lowry could be going away for a long time.
In the blink of an eye, it had gone from being the best day of John Lowry’s life to the worst.
We call ourselves the K Team.
The name wasn’t my idea; I didn’t even think we needed a name. One of my partners, Laurie Collins, thought we should have one, and she came up with K Team. I’m fine with it, but I would also have been fine without it. My name is Corey Douglas and people know me as an easygoing guy, except when I’m not.
Actually, I’m not usually a team kind of guy, and the last team I was on that had a name was back in Little League, right here in Paterson, New Jersey. We were called the 10th Avenue Citizens, which in retrospect seems pretty bizarre, since I don’t recall any of us living on Tenth Avenue.
The other members of the K team are Marcus Clark and Simon Garfunkel. Marcus has become something of a legend here in the Paterson, New Jersey, area. I’m told he’s a good investigator, but that’s not what he’s known for. He’s going to be our muscle, our enforcer, for lack of better words, because he is known for being the toughest, scariest guy on the planet, and he combines that with an apparent lack of both conscience and fear.
It’s probably good that Marcus is on our side.
Simon Garfunkel is a German shepherd. He and I worked together as members of the Paterson Police Department until last month. I retired, and after much resistance, the powers that be caved and let Simon retire with me. We’re as close as two buddies can be, and Simon might be the best cop I ever worked with.
Simon pretty much defines friendship and teamwork, at least as I see it. We give each other space, but we’re there for each other when the chips are down. In the business we were in, the cop business, the chips were down fairly often. The next time Simon lets me down, or I let him down, will be the first.
The K Team has only been in existence for two weeks, so we haven’t had any actual cases or assignments to work on yet. I haven’t minded because after twenty-five years on the force I could use a break. Having said that, I’m sure my desire to be active will kick in any minute, as will my desire to earn money.
Both desires may be satisfied pretty soon. Laurie and I are at my old hunting grounds, the downtown headquarters of the Paterson Police Department, for a meeting with Pete Stanton, the captain in charge of the Homicide Division. Pete had called Laurie and asked to meet with us on an important matter, without going into any more detail about it. Laurie used to be with Paterson PD also, as a lieutenant, so we both know our way around here.
The strange part about it is that he said that while it wasn’t necessary for Marcus to come along, he insisted that Andy Carpenter be here. In addition to being Laurie’s husband, Andy is a smart, annoying, talented, sarcastic, successful, and irritating criminal defense attorney, probably the most famous that Paterson has to offer. Of course, that’s a low bar; Paterson has never been known as a breeding ground for big-time lawyers.
Andy is not technically a part of our team, though we will be doing his investigative work when he takes on a case. He is not at all eager to take on clients, which is why I left “hardworking” out of my description of him.
My experiences with Andy have been mixed, to say the least. A few years ago he chewed me up in a cross-examination during a murder trial, and I strongly considered shooting him in revenge. There isn’t a cop or judge in New Jersey that would have blamed me; Andy is not exactly worshiped by the law enforcement community.
I’m glad I let him live, because he recently sued the police department on Simon’s behalf, earning him the first early retirement in Paterson K-9 cop history. It was a brilliant piece of lawyering, and it’s accurate to say that Andy is the reason Simon is a member of our team and isn’t still working nine-to-five as a cop.
I’m grateful to Andy for doing that, even though I know he was doing it for Simon, and not for me. Andy is a dog lover; in addition to he and Laurie having two of their own, he co-runs a dog rescue organization as a hobby.
So in addition to not knowing why Pete called this meeting, I have no idea why he wanted Andy to be a part of it. I know they are friends and share a regular table at Charlie’s Sports Bar, but I’m pretty sure we’re not here on a social call.
Andy is supposed to meet Laurie and me here, but he hasn’t arrived yet, and we get called in to meet with Pete. I’m surprised when we get back there and Pete is alone; I would have thought he’d have at least one other officer in the meeting, just to keep a record of what is said. There must be something confidential about this.
“Hey, guys. Thanks for coming.” Pete gives Laurie a quick kiss on the cheek. Fortunately he limit
“Right here.” Andy comes into the office as if on cue. He looks around the messy office. “I love what you’ve done with the place.” Then, “What am I doing here?”
“It wasn’t my idea, believe me,” Pete says.
“Why don’t you tell us why we’re all here?” I say, trying to move this along.
Pete nods. “Okay, but before I do, I should tell you that the only other person in the department who knows about this meeting is the chief. And I’m relying on your honor that if you aren’t interested in what I am about to say, then you will keep all of this in confidence.”
Laurie and I look at each other, and we both give reluctant nods.
“Okay,” Laurie says. “Dependent, of course, on what it is you have to say.”
“I’m not going to confess to a felony, if that’s what you mean,” Pete says. “There is someone who wants to meet with you. A potential client.”
“I’m retired,” Andy says.
Pete nods. “I can only hope the justice system will survive without you. But either way, you’re not a participant in this in any meaningful way. So even though it goes against your history and everything you stand for, I suggest you shut up and listen.”
“Who’s the client?” Laurie asks.
“Judge Henry Henderson.”
I’m sure we’re all surprised, but it’s Andy who speaks first. “Hatchet?”
Pete nods. “The very one.”
I know Judge Henderson in that I’ve testified in cases over which he presided. He’s always struck me as tough but fair. That toughness usually comes out when he is dealing with lawyers; he’s never seemed fond of them. “Why is he called Hatchet?” I ask.
Andy fields the question. “Because it is said that he chops the testicles off lawyers. I can’t say whether that’s true, but when he walks, you can hear stuff rattling in his pockets. They ain’t Tic Tacs, that’s for sure.”
“Do you want to hear the rest?” Pete asks. It’s a general question, aimed at Laurie and me.
“I’m not defending him, I can tell you that,” Andy says.
“That’s the first accurate thing you’ve said since I’ve known you,” Pete says. “As I previously mentioned, you are not a key player here; try to manage your ego and understand that.”
Then Pete turns to Laurie and me. “The Judge wants to meet with you. Andy is invited for that first meeting only. Hatchet, I mean, Judge Henderson, will explain everything. I would tell you more if I knew more, which I don’t. My job was to set up the meeting.”
“When?” Laurie asks.
“Now. The Judge is waiting for you at his home.”
It takes less than twenty minutes to drive to Judge Henderson’s house in Fair Lawn.
It’s in a nice but unexceptional suburban neighborhood, the kind of place where people take pride in their lawns being neatly mowed, and where weeds are viewed as a mortal enemy.
We’ve come here in two cars because that’s how many we had at Pete’s office. Laurie drove with me rather than Andy, which I think is a sign of her being a team player, rather than an unhappy wife. Andy didn’t seem to mind; I think he was too busy minding that he was involved in this in the first place.
As we walk up onto the porch, the Judge opens the door to let us enter. He doesn’t say a word, although both Laurie and I give half-hearted hellos. The only expression I can see on his face is a slight sneer at Andy. I’m assuming there’s a history there, but Andy is on the invited list, so maybe there is also some respect.
“Anything to drink?” is the first thing Hatchet says.
Laurie and I decline, and Andy says, “I’ll have a nonfat, venti, decaf cappuccino with extra foam. And maybe a raspberry scone, but warm it up first.”
That gets no reaction from anyone except an eye roll from Laurie. The Judge tells us to follow him into the den and then to sit down. So we follow and sit; I think people have a tendency to do what Judge Henderson says.
“First some ground rules,” the Judge says, speaking with such authority that I expect him to pound a gavel. “I am considering hiring the group that I understand calls themselves the K Team, though the fact that you’ve chosen a childish name like that causes me to preemptively question my decision. Nevertheless, both the chief and Captain Stanton have recommended you. The fact that you will be employed in this effort by Mr. Carpenter makes it particularly attractive.”
“Aw, shucks. All this time I never realized how much you were impressed by me,” Andy says.
“Don’t flatter yourself. Your involvement ends with this meeting. But you are an attorney, so if I hire you, and then you hire them as investigators, they are subject to the same ironclad attorney-client confidentiality. Because in this matter I insist on strict confidentiality.”
“That hurts,” Andy says.
“As a result of this, of course, the resulting conflict will mean that I will never again be able to preside over a case in which you are the defense attorney.”
Andy nods. “That eases the pain somewhat.”
The Judge hands Andy a dollar. “So you are now officially my attorney, at least for the moment. Does everybody understand the implications of this?”
Laurie and I both nod. “This question requires a verbal response,” the Judge says, so Laurie and I both give him one. Andy doesn’t, but Henderson doesn’t push it. Instead he nods and says, “Good. I received this three days ago.”
He removes an envelope from his desk drawer and takes a piece of paper out, handing it to us. It’s a message printed in clear block letters: “Soon you will be called upon to do us a service, and you will deliver. You have already been well paid, and we have other proof as well. Don’t make us show it to you.”
The questions are obvious, and Laurie asks them: “Do you know who this is from?”
“No.”
“Do you know what they mean by a ‘service’?”
“No.”
“Do you know what they mean when they say you have been ‘well paid’?”
I am expecting another quick no, but that’s not what we get. Instead Hatchet reaches into the same envelope and pulls out another piece of paper. It is a bank statement from an account in the Cayman Islands, in the name of Henry Henderson. “This came with it.”
I look carefully at the statement, which is from last month. It shows a wire-transfer deposit of $20,000, which is the only entry of any kind for the month. The balance at the bottom shows that this deposit brings the total in the account to in excess of $390,000.
“I was sent the other statements as well,” the Judge says. “It shows that someone has been depositing the same amount in this account for at least eighteen months. Interest has accrued.”
My turn to do the questioning. “Did you open the account?”
“Of course not.”
“When did you find out about it?”
“Three days ago.”
“And no idea who sent this to you?”
“Asked and answered,” he says, showing some frustration.
“Have you ever been to the Caymans or had contact with any entity or person there?”
“No.”
“Do you know how they could have opened this account without your knowledge?”
“That would be one of the things for you to find out, if you decide to accept the assignment.”
I certainly am in favor of taking the job. First of all, it’s intriguing, and second of all, it’s a job. I look at Laurie, and her slight nod indicates her agreement. We should probably talk about it with Marcus as well, but even in the unlikely event that he is opposed, he’s already outvoted. Andy doesn’t have a vote and doesn’t show any desire to weigh in.
“We’re in,” I say, then run through our fees.
The Judge says, “Fine; I will give you a retainer. I want to be kept up-to-date on all developments. But I want no personal involvement whatsoever. I need to stay out of any physical presence in this.”
“We’ll do our best to keep you in the loop,” Laurie says, “but you can’t micromanage this. We are professionals.”
Henderson nods. “I understand. I am a professional as well, with a professional reputation that must be considered and protected. That is what this is about.”
