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Chapter One
The Hunted
Chapter One
The Hunted
I
Is chasing the devil revenge? The devil says it is. An eye for a child, a tooth for a child— those are terms not to his liking. No need to feel sorry for him; he can change the terms whenever he likes. What is it about truth that frightens the devil so, and leads others to take his side as they parade willingly behind him?
II
It was an early evening in spring when the decision to place the call was made, in Interlaken. Thirteen years, and I had reached this point— thirteen years of definition as a criminal, a prisoner, a fugitive, a prisoner, and a fugitive again, on three different continents, if those islands near Australia count as part of a continent.
The decision to phone was closer to carefully deliberated than it was impulsive. That the Swiss police might arrive shortly afterwards was fully understood, maybe as early as that same evening in this era of rapid international law enforcement cooperation. But, as I saw it by then— and still do— it made no difference. Some time ago I decided to devote my life to exposing this story.
If the Swiss police did get involved, it would be only the second time that I had any contact with them. Right after landing in Zurich, I took the train to Interlaken, got a good night’s sleep, and walked into the police station next morning with an unusual request. The look of consternation on the desk officer’s face meant it would take an argument, but I walked out of there with what I had come for— an arrest warrant issued in Switzerland at the behest of an American fugitive, for that fugitive’s lawyer.
From that day forward important people in the legal system in the USA, at federal and state levels, felt considerable pressure. Lawyers and judges unaccustomed to public embarrassment were embarrassed, and it was done openly and with impunity, each blow to the system astounding and strengthening me simultaneously. The near impossible had already been accomplished, and here the outside of the envelope was being pushed again, just a little farther, and perhaps beyond tolerance— we would see.
I stared at the phone for a while and then turned in the direction of the window and the blackness of the valley that led to the famous Eiger and Jungfrau mountains. The real rules were pondered one more time. So far, they had protected me from what should have been the wrath of angry judges, lawyers, and prosecutors— made material perhaps by restraining orders or forced appearances, right here in a Swiss court. Adequate incentive had certainly been provided. But it would be hard to argue coercion when the plaintiffs were hiding illegal conduct— lots of illegal conduct.
Anyway, I knew a secret, and they knew I knew; that would keep me safe, I thought. But the step I was about to take was one beyond what I could rationalize with certainty, even when applying the real rules.
That was fine, I decided. And I pulled the pin.
“Hello, I’d like to speak with Police Chief Banaszynski, please.”
“Who’s calling?” the secretary asked.
“I’m a friend of the chief,” I said, convincingly enough.
“Just one moment.”
I heard Banaszynski’s voice for the first time in thirteen years, on his answering machine. Well, I considered, I’ll let him have a recording, to play for the FBI. Why not?
“Chief,” I started, “This is Mark Inglin calling. You know my address and you know my phone number, and you know how to get a hold of me. The evidence you hid from a jury thirteen years ago— the evidence you e-mailed me— what I want you to do now is provide it to the District Attorney. As you know, that evidence can reunite me with my son; it proves you and Lofy lied, and that I told the truth. You’ve had enough opportunities. This time, if you don’t do as I ask, your family will pay the price, not just you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I hung up the phone, well aware of how far down a darkening path I was travelling, yet entirely convinced that morning would not follow— and justice could not be done— otherwise.
A few hours later, Margrith, my loyal, Swiss accomplice in the search for justice, left a second message for the chief, again on his answering machine.
“Please, Chief Banaszynski,” she pleaded sincerely in sweet, accented English, her voice tinged with practiced anxiety, “please help Mark contact his son and do as he asks. He is very angry. I’m afraid; I’m not sure what he’ll do next.”
After she hung-up the phone I smiled and gave her a big, grateful hug.
“Did I do well?” she asked with a look half-elfish, half-ashamed.
“I think he’ll soil his chief’s uniform after hearing that,” I replied, to her embarrassment. “You’re a great actress.”
“But Mark, I don’t know if this is the right thing to be doing. Surely he isn’t going to react favorably to such a thing, not a police chief. He probably won’t react at all. He’ll just ignore you, won’t he?”
“I’m betting he’ll react as I assume he’ll react,” I said, only seventy-five percent convinced. The other twenty-five percent silently awaited a visit from the Interlaken constabulary.
“What counts,” I explained, “is what happens in his head. He has to deal with his guilt. Time hasn’t been his friend these years. If the police were hunting an ordinary citizen who’d done what he did, no one would question the method.”
One day went by, then two, then three. No knock at the door. What had I expected? It should have been a watershed moment. This I knew: a police chief doesn’t receive a phone call like mine without reacting. Normally, he’d contact officials up the chain, and quickly. In my case, no trace was necessary. Banaszynski already had my phone number and address, and police all over the world readily cooperate, especially when a fellow officer senses threat. But that would be true under normal circumstances. I wagered heavily that this situation was abnormal enough to offer protection.
After a few days I stopped worrying about the Swiss police. As usual, they would ignore my unconventional methods. And just as usual, the chief’s reaction was not as expected, as my astonishment demonstrated when I emptied the mailbox six days later.
The long, white envelope that arrived was postmarked USA, and read Shorewood Police Department. What I saw as I opened it riveted me. On official Shorewood Police stationary, signed by Chief Banaszynski, a message I would have thought impossible:
“Dear Mr. Inglin,
Per your request, I have forwarded a copy of the letter to Milwaukee County District Attorney John Chisholm. I have requested that he, as chief law enforcement officer in the county, handle this matter. I also told him that I would be available to answer any and all questions.
Hopefully this will be satisfactory on my part in the matter.
(signed)
David Banaszynski
Chief of Police"
Jesus! I thought, “Per your request?” What was this? Hadn’t I made “requests” politely for thirteen years, garnering responses of complete silence or outright antipathy for my efforts? Now, as a fugitive tied to a US arrest warrant, I had issued a missive with malicious overtones that should have brought the house down. And it becomes a
“request?”
The letter Banaszynski referred to was the evidence that he had e-mailed to me, in Switzerland, some months earlier— evidence that proved my innocence.
My expectations had never dared stray into such heady realms. After years of humiliation and failure, based on a hunch and because there was no longer any alternative, a police chief— who also happened to be the president of the Wisconsin Chiefs of Police— was manipulated into relinquishing self-incriminating evidence. The fugitive was busting the cop, and the chief cop at that. Well, it wasn’t luck; I knew that. The chief’s reaction was counterintuitive because I had introduced him to guilt and its brutish partner, fear.
These were new rules: Law and order yielded to guilt and fear, and legal theory was for those who didn’t care who won. Thirteen years ago, Banaszynski hadn’t counted among that group.
As a suburban police detective, Banaszynski had plans to reach high up the ranks. Like any good cop, he was hooked-in with lawyers and prosecutors in the system. Admitting a mistake only meant explanations that converted into career delay or shortfall; with the right friends, who needed that?
When a routine case requiring a back door fix came Banaszynski’s way, it was natural for him to call on friends. He hadn’t imagined then that he’d be communicating secretly with a fugitive in Switzerland all these years later, just to sleep nights. But he wasn’t the only one with sleepless nights. The affair was out of control. By now, it had stained lawyers and judges, psychologists, the D.A., and even the Wisconsin Bar Association. People felt threatened by the possible revelation of what they had done long before that spring evening in Interlaken. From the start, a well-coordinated smear campaign in the newspapers and on the Internet had been mounted to keep the damage in check. That effort had been successful.
Under the circumstances, the idea of telling the truth never occurred to anyone. Why would it? No one believed that the system couldn’t break one lone troublemaker, sooner or later. What had Oscar Wilde said? “What is the death of a vague individual if it enables an immortal work to blossom?” Replace “death” with “elimination” (by any means) and “an immortal work to blossom” with “to maintain career and reputation,” and an age-old rationale appears.
So bets in favour of the system kept being made and stakes kept piling higher. High enough, in fact, that contemplating loss was unthinkable. Yet Banaszynski also knew that the system couldn’t protect him from himself or his memories. And, under the awkward circumstances, the system wouldn’t venture to Europe to invoke law that had been trampled beyond recognition on the American side of the pond, nor— to be frank— would it place armed guards around his house 24 hours a day— or watch his children.
And Banaszynski wasn’t the only one having sleepless nights. There were two good reasons why he became a target. The rest of the characters hadn’t bracketed the story the way he had. He was there from the start; he would have made the difference, if he had told the truth, right at the start.
It was Banaszynski’s fear of personal criticism that mobilized the legal system to hide facts on his behalf. He was still there at the end, too, his power and position only stronger on the back of the injustice. In that sense, the malodorous cop-and-prosecutor tainted-trial paradigm, so much a part of American contemporary legal folklore, played out perfectly— until someone went off the reservation.
The second reason why the focus illuminated Banaszynski: He was a Chief Cop. If the system would go the distance to protect anyone, it would do it for him. When the system remained passive and silent, I had the answer— and the inspiration— that I had gone looking for.
III
Police, prosecutors, and lawyers: sometimes it’s difficult to untangle them. Priorities become confused and distorted. Enforcing and practicing law pay a salary, but legal theory doesn’t command loyalty, and theory won’t protect or advance a career. Members of the system, they do that.
When a young lawyer just out of law school— let’s call him Attorney Jeffrey Hughes right from the start— took on a case that required exposing corruption in the legal system, he didn’t give the matter a second thought, at first. But when the opposing lawyer, who represented a well-connected but crooked lawyer in-tight with a corrupt judge, explained the facts of practical legal life to this clean-cut young man, Hughes felt trapped.
In spite of his deep, Christian faith, Hughes made a bad choice that also happened to be immoral and unethical. He concluded that his client had less clout and, like a third-rate prize fighter who needs rent money, Attorney Hughes took a dive. One day, many years after the betrayal, after he had made partner at the firm and his three-piece suits came from a better rack, his phone rang in his Milwaukee suburb.
“Jeff Hughes speaking.”
“This is Mark Inglin calling. How are you?”
Silence. I heard birds singing in the garden. I noticed the sun illuminate alpine snow far above me a brilliant white as I held the receiver, anxious and determined.
“You have to stop practicing law, Jeff,” I advised. “You aren’t very good at it. In fact, you do harm. In all these years, it never occurred to you to tell the truth. That figures, I guess. You were a coward then. I don’t expect you grew testicles this late after puberty.”
“You’re really crazy, Mark, You’re just a crazy fugitive. There is nothing you can do to me now,” Hughes boasted.
I listened carefully to the tenor of his voice; it was not steady.
“In time,” I explained, “You’ll come to see the wisdom of my suggestion.” Hughes laughed heartily as he hung up the phone.
Over the next six months Attorney Hughes and his law firm received unusual communications. E-mails had been sent to businesses and citizens throughout Hughes’ community, Menomonee Falls, explaining in detail why Hughes should not continue the practice of law. Essays outlined his betrayal of a client and his young son, violations of legal ethics, lies glibly thrown at a judge to protect himself— right after he took a large sum of money to continue his representation.
Phone calls were placed. Someone claiming to be Attorney Hughes phoned the Menomonee Falls Police Department, leaving a message that he wished to confess unethical, possibly illegal conduct. “Could the chief phone my office when he gets back?”
This was odd. A smart, young lawyer like Hughes with a promising future allowing his reputation to evaporate before his eyes, little by little, week by week. And his partners at the firm, they stood by in disbelief as their phones rang, too. Likelihood was, someone at that firm had advised Hughes poorly right at the starting gate, when he’d been so fresh at the practice of law that he didn’t dare act on his own.
Tracing phone calls back to their origins wouldn’t have been difficult for Hughes or his firm. In fact, the e-mails— thousands of them— contained the name, address and phone number of their author. Under Swiss law, you can’t publish false claims and expect to get away with them. Libel laws are strict in Switzerland, too. With a lawyer, and there were plenty ready to take such a case, you can walk right into Swiss court— evidence helps, of course.
When curious people asked Milwaukee lawyers, “Why are you all putting up with this harassment?” the answer was practiced to rote: “Swiss law is really peculiar. You just can’t get into court over there.” Or, sometimes, more disingenuously, “But we don’t know where he is.”
In early 2009 I phoned Attorney Hughes’ law firm and asked to speak to him.
“Attorney Hughes,” the secretary said, “is no longer associated with this law firm.”
Checking the Wisconsin Bar website, Mr. Hughes’s law license member type was listed as “inactive.”
IV
There is this story about an old whore from a small, Western cow-town who falls in love with a cattleman. She seals her love by promising to remain faithful to her new lover from that special moment forward. One day, she receives an offer that she cannot refuse from another man; she breaks her promise. The cattleman discovers the betrayal and asks her if she slept with the man.
“No, I did not,” she assures him without blushing.
The cattleman’s hand strikes her hard across the face, and he says, “Now, if you didn’t do it, you can hit me right back, just as hard.”
A female lawyer with a license to practice law in the USA and New Zealand knew all about hitting back, and hard. Once, she threatened the wife of a prominent man in her small, rural town with a restraining order if she ever phoned her again, too early on a Saturday morning, asking her to help pick fruit in a nearby orchard, for needy people.
“I don’t pick fruit. I’m a lawyer. And if you ever phone me again, I’ll have a restraining order slapped on you,”
Thada-Anne was one tough lawyer. Born and raised in South Africa, daughter and wife of prominent doctors, she saw life from the perspective of the wealthy and the white. In her world Nelson Mandela was at least an inconvenient disruptor. When white rule ended, so did her love of country and her search began for... “some place more civilized.” The exchange rate for the South African rand on the black market in those days, however, dented what was a fortune at home, considering black servants earned the equivalent of 30 dollars a month. A team of Maoris wouldn’t eagerly build a swimming pool in New Zealand for what a lawyer like Thada earned in less than one good week in Johannesburg, as Zulu or Xhosa would.
“Life is hard,” Thada-Anne was fond of asserting as she spread her delicately painted nails like a cat just ending a refreshing nap. “You have to be prepared to do what’s necessary to survive.” And there was no intent of lowering standards well established in the process.
Thada-Anne may not have picked fruit, but she sure could pick banks. And the art of handling men was as familiar to her as to... well, an old whore.
With a bogus power of attorney, a fax machine and a powerful will, Thada-Anne phoned the Sparkasse Horgen, in Canton Zurich, Switzerland, where she knew her client kept money. She phoned the bank manager one morning and the conversation went along these lines:
Good day, Mr. Buehler, my client is urgently in need of funds. I have in my possession his power of attorney. Two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars are to be wired immediately to an account I will stipulate. Delays are costly, Mr. Buehler. I remind you, I am a lawyer. If my instructions are not carried out with dispatch, I will take the necessary legal action.
Now, any fool knows that you can’t fax a bogus power of attorney to a banker and expect to have one-quarter million dollars delivered to your account immediately, even if you are a pushy female lawyer— and most certainly not in Switzerland, with its vaunted banks and bankers. But any fool would have been wrong.
The appropriate paperwork was later filed by the Bezirksanwaltschaft Horgen in Zurich, and Thada-Anne was invited, in abstentia, to appear in Switzerland on charges of bank fraud.
Lawyer Thada-Anne was certainly no fool. She kept the money and her license to practice law in New Zealand because she practiced the real rules, stayed out of Switzerland, worked the system, and covered up her crime effectively. But when essays from abroad began to circulate widely in Auckland, reporting her banking activities and a few others, well, this was one time when it just became impossible for her to hit back.
As it emerged, Hughes, Banaszynski and Thada-Anne were not the only members of the system with something to hide. Two men and a woman do not constitute a system. Police, lawyers and judges, they constitute a system. Corrupt police, lawyers and judges, they constitute a system waiting to be brought down.
V
Safe from harassment today and with perspective gained by distance, I paint a landscape I admit looks grotesque, inhabited as it is by characters unrecognizable when viewed through the lens of pedestrian expectations. Rows of books stuffed full of law melt on shelves as if in a Dalí painting, oozing onto the floor, their statutes and intents barely recognizable. Gargoyles mingle in black robes, while prosecutors and police fuse into gruesome figures, multiple heads atop intertwined tentacles with hideous expressions of delight.
This depiction of reality is repulsive; I know it disturbs. Yet the task begs: Exhibit this unattractive canvass to the public, ask them to look at what they would rather not believe, escort exhibit attendees down the rabbit hole first, then through a rat hole. Otherwise, life turns meaningless.
This may be a Salvador Dalí landscape, but the rules are pure Mafia. Well, that isn’t quite true: Mafia don’t harm children. Here, primitive creatures in modern dress are force-fit into a cityscape filled with electric cars and solar rooftops, applying rules attributable to no one today but fanatical devotees of Darwin, or to the few remaining Amazon tribes. In fact, those rules are all too real for comfort, but they apply in this narrative.
I once read that the Greek mathematician, Hippasus of Metapontum— a follower of Pythagorus— discovered that the diagonal of a unit square was not an exact fraction. As legend has it, he was crossing the Mediterranean Sea when he dropped this news on his fellow Pythagorean travellers, who were so distraught at a discovery contrary to their beliefs that they threw him out of the boat.
There are many ways to drown a man. Prison can do it, so can a mental institution. American courtrooms can do it, sometimes with the aid of the press, or friends, neighbours or even relatives. It all depends on how important it is to deny the truth. I wasn’t defending recondite principles of geometry when they threw me out of the boat; I was defending my only son.
They said, “Our priorities are more important than your only child. We’ll break all the rules— all the laws— to serve our priorities. But the rules for you, they remain.”
And I replied, “No.”
VI
Baseball great, Reggie Jackson, had it about right: When you play the game, you better know the rules. Not the official rules, but those the umpires and players abide by. Baseball, you might be surprised, has a lot in common with the legal system.
Concerned that a pitcher was intent on deliberately throwing straight at him, Jackson explained the rules this way:
“Sure enough, the first pitch was up and in. I turned around at the catcher, and I said, ‘I’m not going to be able to get to the pitcher’s mound, but if he hits me, I’m going to rip your face mask off and whoop you right here at home plate.’ The catcher called time, went to the mound, looked at the umpire, who looked at Jackson, and then the catcher said something to the pitcher. The next three pitches were over in the right hand hitter batter’s box.”
And how does the umpire see the rules? Like when he really didn’t see a play clearly: You just make the call. You’ve got a 50/50 chance of getting it right. You make the call as if you had seen it. There is no alternative. If you blow it, you blow it. Admitting that you couldn’t see it is not an alternative, because once you do that you’ve completely lost your authority in the game. Every decision from then on is open for question.
After his brother, President John F. Kennedy, was assassinated, Bobby Kennedy gained surprising insight into the lurid intrigue that surround, then pervaded his brother’s death: “I found out something I never knew. I found out that my world was not the real world.”
I felt just like Kennedy when I exited my dream world as taught in textbooks, television and by American myth. I entered the horrors of the legal system as if I had gone to sleep in my own bed but had been awakened in a desert land ruled by a despot. I would never be the same, but neither would they, I vowed. To get truth, and not what someone else decided should pass as truth, I had to break rules.
The shift from hunted to hunter disturbs and causes tension. Even when the innocent are finally found innocent, sometimes years after suffering unjust punishment by the legal system, and the source of the injustice becomes apparent (corruption, incompetence: lawyers, police)… well, you can’t go there because that’s no man’s land: No hunting permitted.
The tension that this story creates is the same as any other story, when truth threatens an empowered status quo. Mighty armies can assemble and parade united for a righteous cause, but until a cause is revealed to be righteous, marauding gangs of snipers from unexpected sources and all angles lay in wait to ambush truth. I recognize the problem; I have experienced it innumerable times. I must accept that suspicion is roused when a victim decides that sympathy and understanding are unacceptable substitutes for justice, that such gifts are of little value and ephemeral. How else to break the iron grip of lawyer-police-prosecutor corruption than by causing tension?
Right down the line and in single file, predators in the system have become prey in a box, transfixed by light shined on them, gazing upward, wide-eyed and waiting.
Now would not be the time to stop... .