Jake Farms moved to a small town in Iowa when his parents abandoned him after he turned eighteen. The only time he traveled was when his contact left him a message that justice needed to be done. His last job, he witnessed a crime in Minneapolis against a certain judge, but he went back home to Iowa instead of reporting what he saw. Now he was falling in love, and he needed to rectify his past before he could justify his future with the love of his life. Travel with them on their journey back to Minneapolis and then to Omaha as they seek justice.
Justice in Omaha
The Jake and Peggy SeriesBy Barbara E. SaefkeTrafford Publishing
Copyright © 2013 Barbara E. Saefke
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4669-7197-4Chapter One
Jake Farms was instructed to make sure a shady judge in Minneapolis was no longer able to let guilty people off and sentence innocent people to jail. Jake's contact said he wanted him stopped from presiding on the rape trial of Senator Ames' son, and didn't care how Jake did it.
Jake devised a plan, and now he was sitting in the living room of Judge Howard Klein pretending he was a college student at the University of Minnesota, and wanted to interview him about the justice system. Then Jake planned on bringing up the trial in hopes to get information from the judge. Jake was uncertain what would happen after that.
Klein, being the arrogant judge that he was, was wondering why it took so long for someone to realize he was a good judge; and only now, after being on the bench for so long, was someone finally realizing it.
* * *
Norman, as he was called, was a hired hit man. His contact was anonymous, and Norman didn't particularly care. He was contacted about a job. He did the job, and was paid. That's all he cared about, the money.
Norman was instructed to injure a shady judge in Minneapolis so he could not return to work. In the past, Norman just did away with them. That way he didn't have to hear them scream, and there was never the possibility of the victim identifying him. For him, it was a business; so he dressed as if he were going to a corporate job, a dark pin-striped suit, white shirt, and a fashionable tie. He even carried a briefcase.
Six blocks away from the judge's home, the cabdriver dropped Norman off, and then he walked the rest of the way. It was dusk, and he noticed the light was on in the den, just as his contact told him it would be. Confident, he rang the doorbell and waited. After several minutes the porch light went on, and a man in his late fifties opened the door.
* * *
"Excuse me, Jake. I'd better answer the door. My wife probably forgot her key again." Klein went into the foyer and opened the door. He never thought to look through the security hole in the door to see who was knocking.
The visitor didn't say anything, but the look on his face had the judge stepping back into the foyer, but it was too late. The bullet grazed his temple and he fell to the floor. Norman quietly shut the door.
Jake saw everything. The gunman apparently was too cocky to realize someone else could be in the house. He stayed where he was, stunned at what happened. He hadn't encountered this Norman person before, but Jake's contact had warned him about Norman several times.
Jake had never seen Norman's work. He would get into town either before or after the killing, never seeing it, being there, experiencing it.
Jake heard a groan and wiped his face with his hand to clear his head, then went to the judge. He thought of helping him into the chair in the foyer, but realized he had to leave. He wiped his prints off everything he thought he touched. Luckily, he'd declined a beverage earlier. Jake saw the phone, picked it up with a cloth napkin and placed the phone on the floor next to the judge's face, then punched in 911 with the napkin covering his finger.
There was so much blood. Jake took his tablet and pen and decided to go out the back door. He knew he should've stayed to give an account of what happened and to identify the shooter, but reality was the last thing that played on his senses. The urge to flee was so strong he could think of little else.
Jake went out the back door and ran to his car down the block.
* * *
Norman was now in the bathroom at the Minneapolis—Saint Paul International Airport. In the locked stall, he opened his briefcase and straddled it across the toilet seat. He pulled his jeans and T-shirt from a vacuum-sealed bag. With his slim frame, the suit he was wearing was easily rolled up, fitting nicely in his briefcase. He took out the gun, wiped it down to erase his fingerprints, and wrapped it in a monogrammed towel from the hotel he stayed in last year: Hilton, Los Angeles. He took out a bag with the same hotel name on it and placed the wrapped gun inside.
Before leaving the stall, he mussed his hair with his hands. With all the hairspray he used to hold it down, he took on the look of a punk rocker. He made sure no one was watching, and before he left the bathroom, he dumped the bag in the trash, then went through security.
So far, the disposal of the gun was fail proof. He could get a gun in the poor neighborhoods of any city he visited. Since he raised his price, he didn't get as many jobs as he once did. He thought at a higher price the jobs would stop, but as long as there weren't as many, he was happy. He didn't drink and hang out at bars, and didn't brag to friends about what he did for a living, so there was no chance of getting caught.
The flight attendant offered him a beverage, but he declined. Now was his time to sleep and forget all about what he did to a crooked judge in Minnesota, to forget the pain on the judge's face, and the way his hands held his head before he fell to the ground.
He knew exactly where to shoot to create damage, and a long recovery once the victim was out of intensive care. The judge was to oversee a trial in two days, but the Honorable Howard Klein would be in ICU for several weeks knocking on death's door, and they would get a judge to replace him. But Norman didn't care. He did his part and was paid handsomely for it.
Norman landed in Chicago, hailed a taxi to the train station, purchased a ticket, and waited an hour before boarding for home. He liked the hustle and bustle of the airport, and if he wanted to get a good cup of coffee, he could. However, he enjoyed not having to go through security, taking off his shoes, and emptying his pockets. There was something invasive about that, he thought. He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. When he arrived home, he was hoping to have a relaxing weekend without traveling.
* * *
The ambulance was racing to Fairview Riverside Hospital as an all-points bulletin aired on CNN. The Honorable Howard Klein was shot in his South Minneapolis home just after dusk this evening. The judge was able to get to the phone and call 911 just before he passed out. Monday morning he was to preside over a long-awaited trial. The courts will decide if they want to continue without him or to wait for the judge's recovery.
The police want people to be on the lookout for a man in his forties, with meticulously styled hair, glasses, and a birthmark on his left temple.
* * *
"Dammit, Ed, with Howard out of commission, we'll lose the case." He poured himself a bourbon. "The senator's kid will be locked up for a long time. I can't think of another judge that would get him off."
"With a jury, there's not much the judge can do anyway," said Ed.
"Howard was prepared to say the prosecution's evidence was inadmissible because it was obtained unlawfully."
"Why do you care about this kid so much? He's slime. He raped a minor and stole money from a safe in the parents' bedroom."
"The senator will be humiliated when his son is found guilty. He's a good man. His son is giving him a bad name."
"I'll ask again. Why do you care?"
Roy just looked at Ed Dawson like he'd said something in a foreign language. He remembered the day the judge came to his home and said he needed help in acquitting the senator's son. Roy didn't want anything to do with it. He and his...
