Trenton Dead

By Linda Stein

As gang warfare breaks out in Trenton, a judge is murdered just outside the courthouse, plunging a young newspaper reporter into danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Stein
• Release date: Apr 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476092690

Linda Stein

Linda Stein lives with her husband, Phil, and dog, Zoey, near Philadelphia. The mother of two grown children, she is a veteran journalist who has covered the courts for newspapers in Pennsylvania, New Jersey and Arizona.

Book preview

Trenton Dead

By Linda Stein

Trenton Dead is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and businesses in the book are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Linda Stein

Cover by Bill Mathesius

Chapter 1

Get the hell out of my chambers! Ovid Sweetwater bellowed. Sweetwater did not suffer fools gladly and the young assistant prosecutor whom he’d reduced to tears, turned and ran, her improbably high heels clicking down the halls of the old courthouse in Trenton. Sweetwater shot an icy glare at the more experienced defense counsel, Leaf Martin, who was grinning smugly and tossing her faux-blonde mane, and growled, You, too. Martin left, but not before hitting him with one of her ‘come hither’ looks, arching her brows over her remarkable hazel eyes.

When he was sitting behind his massive, polished rosewood desk you would never know that Sweetwater had lost both legs in Vietnam and employed a wheelchair to get around. A rumor spread that the loss of his legs was the source of his mercurial temperament, but Sweetwater had always had a temper, even as a boy.

Born to privilege in one of Trenton’s oldest families, Sweetwater had long since left the poverty and gang-ridden city for the fields and forests of Robbinsville Township where he owned a twelve-acre estate, complete with a duck pond that he’d managed to keep despite a rather wounding divorce thirteen years ago. Gun-shy, Sweetwater never remarried although he looked much younger than his 60 years.

Although many of those who appeared before him might disagree -- both members of the bar and defendants alike -- Sweetwater believed that he was well-suited to his present occupation, with his quick wit and no- nonsense approach. When he began to lose his hair, Sweetwater shaved his head, a look that, coupled with his bushy eyebrows gave him the appearance of a slightly peeved owl.

The case they’d been discussing before he’d cleared his chambers was a routine aggravated assault, something that should probably be pled out but now, because of the ineptitude of the young prosecutor, would likely clutter his trial calendar. His brow furrowed.

Once again members of the Trenton police had mucked things up and run roughshod over basic Miranda rights, leaving the prosecutor’s office holding the bag. The city and the county were now run, if you could call it that, by Democrats, Sweetwater mused. They used their positions like fiefdoms to put their relatives and cronies into jobs, regardless of competence.

Trenton, like many cities in America, was being colonized by violent gangs. Crips, several sects of the Bloods, Latin Kings, Netas, M-13, you name it. The gangs, fueled by drug money and machismo, shot their perceived opponents, no questions asked.

Most people with the means had left the city and the public schools turned out less well-educated graduates every year as the tax base declined, even with a massive infusion of Supreme Court-ordered state funds.

Got a minute, O? Sweetwater’s close friend and fellow jurist Arthur Kaplan asked as he walked into Sweetwater’s chambers and sat down on the tufted, burgundy leather couch. A massive de Kooning, part of his large personal art collection, hung behind Sweetwater’s head. A collage of New Yorker cartoons lampooning lawyers and judges attested to his sense of humor. Interspersed along the shelves among law books were various models of airplanes and jets that Sweetwater, although no longer a pilot, admired.

For you, I have an hour. Sweetwater offered Kaplan a toast, both men taking their Scotch neat. L’chaim. They touched glasses and e ach sipped the restorative nectar.

Do you believe in instincts? the younger jurist asked.

Sure, Sweetwater said, after a pause. I’m not all red-hot intellect. He grinned.

Well, Kaplan said. I’ve already spoken to Sheriff Sullivan about this but I’d like your input.

Shoot.

Kaplan winced and took another sip of his drink.

That’s what I’m afraid of. My jury just convicted Wendell Big Mac McDaniels of murder and he didn’t take it too kindly. He’s facing thirty to life, which I have no problem giving him. Had a bit of a profane tantrum. Threatened me, my wife, my kids. Knows what car I drive, where we live. Now, I don’t want to worry Betty, but I think we need to take some precautions since the goddam Bloods will do just about anything McDaniels says. I’ve had threats before but this time, I don’t know, I felt a chill, like someone walked on my grave.

Sweetwater gave his friend a somber look.

By all means. Hire a guard, Sweetwater said. I think the state will spring for it. And charge that bastard with terroristic threats. Add another eighteen months to that life term. Sweetwater glanced at his watch and added, Let’s call it a day.

Plenty of perps would like to gun me down, too, Sweetwater thought as he rolled to the elevator a bit later, the squeak of his wheelchair echoing in the nearly empty hallway in the aging courthouse. After ten years on the bench, I’ve made plenty of enemies, worse than in politics. Probably most of the judges have made decisions that angered someone, even in family court. There you saw people at their worst. Not much could produce more bile than a child custody dispute.

In an underground parking lot reserved for judges and a few other high-ranking court officials, Sweetwater swung himself into his specially designed van and and hoisted and folded his chair, shooing away a hovering sheriff’s officer. Over the years, his arms had grown muscular through repeated exertions and he’d learned to do most things for himself. Outside the dim garage the summer sun reflected off the hot concrete as Sweetwater turned on some Beethoven and headed for home.

Just over an hour later, two men headed south, piloting an old, stolen Ford across a creaky bridge with the iconic sign that bore the words: Trenton Makes the World Takes. Most of the factories that generated that boast had long since migrated to China or Mexico where cheap labor was plentiful, leaving many city residents to struggle with chronic unemployment and a booming underground drug trade. The pair crossed the Delaware River and into Pennsylvania, pulled into a bank parking lot and got into a waiting Buick, abandoning a sawed-off shotgun in the stolen vehicle. They headed down Route 1 toward I-95 and South Carolina where both had family who could be relied upon to put them up and keep their mouths shut.

Chapter 2

Marco Marconi got the call from Tony Thornton, the Trenton police chief, as he piloted his Mercedes SUV home to his suburban Hamilton horse farm.

Got trouble, Thornton said. You’d better get back to the courthouse. Motherfuckers shot themselves a judge.

Shit, the county prosecutor said and made a U-turn. Which one? There were several members of the bench who tended be soft when sentencing. He’d like to shoot a couple of them himself.

Kaplan.

No, Marconi groaned. Art Kaplan was one of his favorite people. Always had a joke for you. Tough on crime. And he had a wife and teenage children. What a tragedy.

The medical examiner was already on the scene when the prosecutor arrived. The sheriff’s officers and city police had Broad Street blocked off with yellow crime scene tape. Marconi strode up, a tall, barrel-chested man. An ex-marine and former FBI agent, he immediately took charge, barking out orders to his chief homicide detective, Sherman Wilson.

Get those paparazzi out of here! Marconi told the cops, seeing photographers from The Trenton Tempo and the Trentabulous angling for shots. A television news chopper circled overhead.

What happened? Marconi asked.

Drive-by. Wilson said. Shotgun blast. He’s hit in the chest and the leg. They must have been waiting for him to leave the courthouse. You heard about the scene in his courtroom when McDaniels got convicted.

What can you tell me for deadline, Marco? asked Rachel Havens, the courthouse reporter for The Tempo.

How the fuck did you get here, princess? Marconi said, noting she was behind the crime scene lines. Havens gestured to the courthouse steps. She’d been in her tiny courthouse office banging out the McDaniels’ conviction story when she heard shots.

You heard Wilson, Marconi said. You know what I know. Now beat it.

Havens went back inside to call her editors out of the din of the helicopter. Sal Flame, the night city editor who’d been in the newsroom since typewriters were state of the art, picked up.

I’ll be in to write what I can on deadline, Havens told him. Can somebody pull the clips on Kaplan for me? Okay. Great.

Meanwhile, Marconi looked at his watch. Where was Thornton? You’d think the police chief would want to come to the scene when something this heinous happened. Sloan, the evidence guy, a gray-haired veteran officer, busily snapped shots of poor Kaplan’s lifeless body and the meat wagon stood by like a bulky vulture. A scrum of TV and radio reporters had already set up a lectern with their mikes and cameras at the ready outside the tape.

It was war now, Marconi thought as he walked toward the media, not waiting any longer for Thornton to show up. Those gang thugs are not going to know what hit them.

That night Marconi got scant sleep, wondering how his so-called gang task force didn’t see this coming. Where was the sheriff’s officer who was supposed to escort the judge to his car? To top it off, Marconi had looked terrible on the evening news, his five-o’clock shadow visible. Why did this have to happen on my watch? And to such a nice guy?

Havens filed her article and hung around the desk while Flame did the