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CHAPTER 1

LOS ANGELES SUPERIOR COURT LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

The buzz started once more when the man in the corduroy jacket, blue shirt, and tie walked into the courtroom. The presiding judge had ordered a three-hour lunch recess for more than just dietary reasons. The man was greeted immediately by his three attorneys, but they could see from his demeanor that he had not been swayed by the judge's earlier threats. As the bearded man with the wire-rimmed glasses took his seat at the counsel table, he locked eyes with the lead attorney across the way. His team of no less than five associates huddled around him, and they all seemed to be convinced the man they had on the hot seat was going to cave in to the court's demands. Professor Gabriel Kennedy smiled and winked, and the lead attorney immediately lost the confident smile he had shown for most of the morning.

"All rise," came the order from the large bailiff.

The judge rapped the gavel three times, and they all sat.

"Mr. Johnson, you had your recess. Did you consult with your client?"

"Your Honor, we still respectfully ask for at least a week of continuance before our client makes his decision, especially since that decision involves the personal lives of men and women outside of this trial."

The fifty-three-year-old judge pushed her glasses back up on her nose and then fixed her eyes not on the attorney but Kennedy himself.

"Counselor, is there a chance that your client's decision would be any different in a week's time than the three hours he has been afforded? He was warned last week that those names would be under subpoena."

The young attorney, the best that the UBC network could attain within the Los Angeles and Hollywood communities, looked from the bench to Kennedy. He took a deep breath as Gabriel sat stoically.

"Your Honor, we ask for this extended period for the reasons of convincing Professor Kennedy to think this over thoroughly. We —"

"Counselor, does your client have an answer to the question asked of him today, not next week or next year?"

"But if you will, Your Honor, we still —"

"Professor Kennedy," she interrupted, "will you comply with this court's order to produce the members of your scientific team for the purpose of placing their testimony into the official court record?"

Kennedy stood, buttoned the corduroy jacket, and then placed his right hand on the shoulder of his lawyer, who sat and took a deep breath.

"My answer is still the same as it was last month, last week, and today, Your Honor. I will not produce these people who have nothing to do with the conclusions of these cases that they were only assigned to by me. I am the person responsible for all conclusions on our cases. Not them. So, no, I will not produce my team." Kennedy nodded in deference to the judge. "With all due respect to the court," he finished and then sat. His lawyers all closed their eyes, waiting for the wrath of the judge to descend upon them. They didn't have to wait long.

In the courtroom, all the members of the press started talking at once, and a few even had to get up to leave to make calls, as they had expected the same thing as Kennedy's counsel. The man was going to go to jail. The judge pounded her gavel several times to get the gallery to settle.

"Before we continue with this, I'll ask for an opinion from the representatives of the aggrieved parties. Mr. Linden, do you or your clients have an opinion on Professor Kennedy's statement regarding the producing of his employees?"

The rotund man in the black suit who represented the most powerful producers in LA stood. His team at the table smiled, as they knew they had the ghost professor by the short and curlies on the point.

"Yes. The good professor's insistence that it was he and he alone who had the final say in the investigations, all seventy-seven of them discussed in these proceedings, is a whitewash of misinformation. I intend to show beyond any doubt that his team, jokingly called the Supernaturals" — here, he snorted, and Kennedy frowned, as he hated the nickname for his investigating team — "have come to many, many differing conclusions than the good professor on the authenticity of their investigations. Many of these team members will corroborate the testimony of the production companies we represent. He must allow us to depose these team members so we can start to get to the truth — the truth that they have conspired to say that there are no such things as hauntings, even though their very claim to fame is the result of the most notorious haunting in history that had been caught on tape — the incident at Summer Place over seven years ago."

"Your Honor, where in the record does it say that my client and his team of investigators have said unequivocally that there are no such things as real hauntings, or ghosts for that matter?"

The judge was about to speak when the opposing attorney stood, shooting to his feet.

"It doesn't have to be said in those exact words. Through seventy-seven investigations that were bought and paid for by many, many networks, this team has not found evidence of one haunting that actually took place. That means seventy-seven television broadcasts of reality programming were deemed hoaxes when there is actual proof on film that says Kennedy's team either ignored or overlooked evidence in the summation of their cases. They had an agenda of putting every one of these ghost-hunting shows out of business, regardless of their verifiable evidence."

"My client's organization was hired by these shows' own networks in the hopes that this famous scientific investigation team would verify outright lies and the gullibility of innocent viewers. In other words, the networks and their various heads of programming that hired Professor Kennedy fully expected a whitewash job on their behalf by those who they assumed would be team players in pulling the wool over viewers' eyes, or at the very least outright fabrications to justify their shows programming." Kennedy's attorney sat down and hoped he had swayed the judge as much as he could. He did not.

"Thank you." The judge nodded and looked at Kennedy instead of his attorneys. "Let's go through this one name at a time so I can count up the offenses, Professor." She raised a sheet of paper and then looked it over. "This George Cordero, are you aware of this man's whereabouts, Professor?"

Kennedy looked at his team of attorneys. Then with a sad nod, the lead counsel told Kennedy to answer.

"George has always been a little flighty. He could be anywhere from Maine to Berlin. Mr. Cordero isn't well, and my knowledge of his whereabouts has always been limited."

"So, you deny knowing where we can find George Cordero?" the judge asked as she checked off the first name.

"Not a denial. I just don't know," Gabriel said.

"Mr. Leonard Sickles?"

"Leonard is the most brilliant software and practical application engineer in the country. I haven't a clue as to what he is doing." Kennedy smiled and looked over at the counsel for the networks. "The last time I spoke to him he mentioned going to the moon to think."

Again, the judge angrily banged her gavel down, silencing the crowded room of laughing reporters. Again, Kennedy's legal team all lowered their heads.

"So, you deny knowing where Mr. Sickles is at the current time?"

"Most definitely."

She checked off another name. "I understand that a deposition has been received from a member of your team, a Ms. Kelly Delaphoy."

"Which was nothing but lie upon lie, Your Honor." The counsel for the production companies stood angrily and faced Kennedy. "She was one of the main architects and field producer of the original Summer Place haunting. Of course, she would tell the lies that the good professor here would ask her to tell. After all, it made her quite famous as a producer."

"Ms. Delaphoy is a rather famous producer. So famous, the woman can no longer find work in her chosen field in film and television production after the revelations at Summer Place. The events in Pennsylvania not only cost her a job, it cost her the future she had fought for. She gave her deposition against my will, but Kelly told you the truth under oath. The people these gentlemen represent are thieves of not only money but of spirit and goodwill toward the home and business owners they were supposedly there to assist, and the viewers that watched them. In most cases, the producers of these so-called reality shows did what is known as 'tricking out' the houses and properties before shooting their footage. Hoaxes which my team exposed. We didn't start out to do this until we saw a pattern of deceit by the varying networks and their contracted producers."

"You make statements when I ask you to make statements, Professor. Now where are John Lonetree and Dr. Jennifer Tilden?"

Gabriel sat for the briefest of moments thinking about his best friend, John, a man he had gone to Harvard with and a person he would always protect. Lonetree, a former police chief of his reservation in Montana, was linked to Jenny in no uncertain terms, and Kennedy knew he would never interfere with either their personal or their professional lives ever again. Jenny Tilden, a doctor of paleontology, was also one he would never allow to sit in a court of law, explaining her unique abilities. She and John, and their special talents, had to be protected at all costs.

"I lost track of John and Jennifer after June of last year. They are on a sabbatical to Africa, if I'm not mistaken. May I suggest putting out feelers in Kenya or Somalia, perhaps?"

Again, that pen movement as the judge checked off two more names and ignored the small chuckles around the room.

"Can you tell us where Ms. Julie Reilly, former field reporter for the UBC network, is?"

"Ms. Reilly and I have not spoken since our last show airing two years ago."

Kennedy had just lied to the court for the first time. He knew exactly where Julie was. She was out with Jenny and John trying to find and warn Damian about what was happening in Los Angeles and the court case Gabriel was trying desperately to keep him out of. Another checkmark on the judge's sheet of paper.

"Now, former Pennsylvania State Police inspector Damian Jackson. Where is Mr. Jackson, Professor?"

"He's six foot four inches tall, and you can't find him?" Kennedy chuckled uncomfortably. "He's probably the only black man in the world who still wears a trench coat and fedora."

Again, the laughter erupted in the gallery, and again the gavel came down with an angry look from the judge.

"Well, here's something you also didn't know, Professor, and after your refusals to answer today, you will be seeing him very soon. We have former inspector Jackson in police custody for refusing to answer a court summons. Counsel found him last week, and he came up with the same excuse as you have. He refused to give a deposition, and now, sir, he is in contempt of this court."

Kennedy felt his heart skip a beat as he realized his weeks of planning at hiding everyone had failed and now poor Damian was paying for it.

"So, let's see here, Professor Kennedy. We have one, two, three, four, and now five. One last time. Do you know the whereabouts of these men and women?"

Kennedy stood, and for the first time, he allowed his anger to show as he removed his glasses. He looked at the offending team of lawyers from the combined networks first.

"I was never happy or proud to prove these reality shows as fakes or outright hoaxes, but I was protecting the innocent families who believe in a possible afterlife, and not to let them be used by men in powerful positions. They cared for no one or anything but their bottom line. The houses and properties we investigated showed zero signs of actual paranormal activity, and we refuse to lie to make money." He turned back to face the judge.

"Answer this court, Professor Kennedy, or you will be charged with contempt."

Kennedy smiled. "That falls far short of the contempt I have for the leeches these gentlemen represent" — he gestured to the table to his right — "and also the contempt I have for this court." He sat down as many in the gallery laughed and then applauded.

This time, the judge rapped the gavel so hard that Kennedy's lawyers thought it would snap in two.

"If that's the way you want to play this, Professor, that's fine by me. I hereby order the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department to exercise the judgment of this court. You are to be immediately taken into custody for incarceration for contempt of my court. Thirty days in jail for each team member you have protected with your misguided thinking." The gavel came down again. "This proceeding is in recess until such a time as the good professor starts acting like a responsible citizen." Whack, whack, the gavel cried as the court was adjourned.

*
The jail was crowded and loud. The orange jumpsuit with the sandals made Kennedy feel guilty even though he was only in for contempt of court. The looks he received were frightening at best and murderous at worst. He waited at the large cell door for his restraints to be removed from himself and fifteen others as he held his bedsheet, pillow, and blanket closely to his chest.

Gabriel moved down the central aisle, the number of bunk-style beds stacked three high looked as if this place could hold three hundred. It was designed for only fifty-seven inmates. He noticed that most of these sleeping areas were already occupied. He walked down the central aisle until he spied a bed with no sheets or blanket near the far back wall.

"That's my space, tall and lanky," came the voice.

Gabriel looked up through his wire-rimmed glasses and saw the largest man he had ever seen in his life. The gentleman looked like the epitome of a biker. The large arms covered in tattoos that bulged from his orange jumpsuit explained to Kennedy in no uncertain terms that, indeed, this was the man's space.

"Sorry," he said as he gathered his folded bedding and stood as a few more of the inmates took notice. It was as if the men in the cell could smell blood in the air, and they wanted to witness where that blood was about to emerge from. Before Gabriel could stand up with his sheet, pillow, and blanket, the large hand came down on his shoulder and held him in place.

"That beard reminds me of that sweet spot between my old lady's legs," said the brute with the goatee and the piercings throughout his facial area. Gabriel knew he should have shaved his beard.

"Yeah, and if you ever want to see that old lady again, I suggest you start stepping, my fat, bearded, and very artfully colored friend."

The large man and his cronies turned, and Gabriel caught sight of the second-largest man he had seen that day. Former Pennsylvania police detective Damian Jackson stood looking at the assembled inmates, and Gabriel held his breath. As big as Jackson was, he was still graying in the hair area, and this was not one but many larger men confronting him.

"That right, Buckwheat?" the man said as he faced the smaller Jackson.

Damian looked down at Kennedy, and a smirk etched his lips. "Did you hear that? I believe that was a blatant black-a-phobia-style racist statement."

"Black-a-what?" the large biker said as even more interested parties joined the growing circle of fandom.

"Is this big, ugly pile of shit bothering you, Doc?"

"Uh, no, not really, at least not yet," Kennedy said as he studied his exit strategy. There was none.

"You're either awfully stupid or crazy. Can you count, Buckwheat?" "Can you?" Damian countered.

The large men looked behind Jackson and saw at least five other black men and six angry-looking Mexicans. The man could count. With his three bikers in tow, they were quite outnumbered and in a bad spot for defensive purposes being in a corner. Gabriel hoped they went on the attack and didn't go to a fallback position, which of course would be right on top of him. The large biker examined the man confronting him and decided he spoke from the position of power. The eyes went from the missing fingers on Damian's left hand as it curled into a large fist and then to the fierceness in his brown eyes. The decision was quickly reached.

"We'll talk later, Buckwheat," he said as he sidestepped Jackson and his gang and moved off with his own group.

Damian looked back and then tossed the largest man of the black group behind him a wadded-up bill. Then he did the same with the leader of the Mexicans. Each unwadded the offering, and Gabriel saw the hundred-dollar bills Damian had just paid. He shook his head as the men moved off. Damian stood over Gabriel and then shook his head.

"Mind if I sit on your bed?" he asked as he sat anyway. "You owe me two hundred dollars."

"How in the hell did you get that money in here?" Kennedy asked as he slid over on the unmade bunk.

"You don't want to know, Doc."

"Oh."

"Not even five minutes and you almost get yourself raped and murdered by Los Angeles citizenry. Has to be some kinda record."

"And I thought you made a nice group of friends, winning them over with your sparkling personality."

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "In the Still of the Night"
by .
Copyright © 2017 David L. Golemon.
Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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