Page 16 of Precise Justice

“Hey, sunshine, still pouting about the election?” Alice Merkel asked. Alice was a legal assistant.

“Oh, I’m not really pouting,” Marc said. “I learned some things about the Carvers that, if you knew these things, who and what they really are, you wouldn’t be impressed with them.”

“So, tell me,” Alice said.

“Nope, coffee please,” Marc said holding his cup, toward Alice. While she filled it, Marc said, “Besides now that they’re in you’ll probably learn all about them. Unless the media continues to cover up for them.”

“He’s a hottie,” Marge Bearth said. “I can see why women go after him.”

“When I hear women say that kind of thing about a politician, I think maybe it’s time to take another look and rethink the nineteenth amendment,” Marc said while looking at Kevin Stuart, the office paralegal.

“I’m with you,” Kevin replied. “I voted for Baker. There’s something a little too slick and sleazy about the Carvers,” Kevin said holding his fist out to Marc for a solidarity fist bump.

“Very funny,” Alice said. “Time to get started.”

On his third and final cup of coffee, his feet up on a desk drawer, Marc was taking a break with the morning paper. While scanning the Metro section, a small headline, page three below the fold, caught his attention.

It was a brief, three-paragraph article about a young man found dead in a Colorado prison cell. What put it in the Metro section of the St. Paul paper was quite obvious to Marc.

“Oh, my God,” Marc whispered to himself while reading.

William Stover, Marc’s client from a year ago by way of the Carvers. According to this brief article in the paper, Billy Stover was dead. An apparent suicide.

Marc finished reading then leaned back and stared at the wall. After a few seconds, he said, “He couldn’t have had more than three or four months to go to make parole.”

Suicide? I don’t think so, Marc thought.

“Could they have…?” Marc said out loud to himself.

A voice from outside his office yelled his name, snapping Marc out of his thoughts about Billy.

Before he could answer, Alice appeared in his doorway saying, “We just got a call from the hospital. Regions. They have Mickey. He’s had a heart attack.”

Marc jumped up while yanking his suit coat off the back of his chair. He almost knocked Alice out of the way going through his doorway. On his way to the coat rack and his overcoat, he found Kevin Stuart coming after him.

“I want to go,” Kevin said several times.

“Sure, come on, let’s go,” Marc replied.

The Cathedral of St. Paul, situated on Cathedral Hill, has one of the most distinctive views in Minnesota. It overlooks downtown St. Paul, the Mississippi River and the state Capitol. It has also been designated a National Shrine of the Apostle Paul. The United States Conference of Catholic Bishops and the Vatican conferred this well-deserved honor.

Despite being a modest Catholic, at best, Mickey O’Herlihy’s funeral was held in the Cathedral. Archbishop Connor MacBreen, being a fellow Irish Catholic and, likely more important, a poker pal of Mickey’s, personally allowed the funeral site.

The Cathedral’s seating capacity of 3,000 was filled. If a bomb had gone off, a serious section of the Twin Cities bar would be eliminated. Of course, a large number of irreverent jokes would follow.

The mayors of both Minneapolis and St. Paul gave eulogies that would have embarrassed old Mickey. Still, all in all, it was a nice service and a grand send off for those that loved him and hated him.

Unknown to Marc, indeed most people, Mickey O’Herlihy was an army veteran. The interment took place at Ft. Snelling where a live bugler played taps and Mickey received a twenty-one-gun salute. Perhaps the best final tribute to be had for anyone.

With the flag still draping the coffin, Marc, who was in attendance by himself, turned down to walk off. More tears came to his red eyes while thinking about how much he would miss the old Irishman.

With almost a thousand people packed in, traffic would be slow. Marc did not care. He had plenty of time. Ft. Snelling, with over 260,000 headstones for veterans, was a beautiful site with rows upon rows of white headstones marking the final resting place for those who have served.

The crowd was slowly starting to disperse. Mark had barely gone twenty feet when he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a familiar voice.

“Hey, Marc, you got a minute?”

Marc turned around and found two of the three grown children of Mickey. Brian and David, the two sons, both of whom were several years older than Marc.

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