Thirty to forty officers converged in the Crypt area, including members of the Capitol Police Hazardous Device Unit, the Federal Bureau of Investigation Joint Terrorism Task Force, and Detective William Bosswick who had handcuffed Thurman. Detective Bosswick wore a boring buzz cut and was known to have steroid induced spurts of violence. Thurman’s costume was cautiously being cut from his body, as Detective Bosswick asked, “Are there any wires or explosives in your costume?”
“No,” Thurman said through clenched teeth. He was face down on the ground with an officer’s knee in his back and another on his neck, as he was aggressively frisked.
“I’m wearing it for artistic purposes. Is that a crime?”
“I’ll let you know,” Detective Bosswick said, “but know that the only performers in this building have senator or representative in front of their name.”
Watching an officer leave the area, gingerly carrying the costume, Thuman asked, “Where are you taking my property?"
“To be x-rayed and preliminary testing to determine if it contains any explosives, chemical agents, or radiation.”
Thurman snickered. “Wasn’t that tested prior to my admission?”
“In the interim you’re going to be taken to the Capitol Hill Police Processing Center, interrogated, and arrested.”
“That’s fine,” Thurman said, grinning into Brandy’s camera. “Lawyer please.”
__________
David Thurman was strip-searched and police confiscated a set of car keys, which had been matched to a 2003 Ford Expedition. Police located the van in the three hundred block of Third Street NE, four blocks from the Capitol Building. Because his costume resembled a vest associated with a suicide bomber, there was concern that there may be explosives inside of the truck. Perhaps, there were explosives inside of the truck, because the suspect may have been engaging in a “dry run” to test security, observe response procedures, and capabilities at the Capitol Building.
Capitol Police, Kevin Malloy, looked at the truck, and recorded the out-of-state license plate, before looking inside of it. It was filthy, and he said to his captain, “I think he lives out of this thing. The plate is from New York. I’ll assume he’s from there.”
Daniel Finnerty, the Commander of the Hazardous Incident Response Division of the Capitol Police, simply furrowed his brows. An intelligent reply. The captain wore a crisp suit over his taut, tawny physique. After canvassing the neighborhood he was informed that neighbors and restaurant employees had agreed that the truck had been parked in the same location since at least nine a.m.
A canine search of the van’s exterior didn’t reveal any traces of explosives, but while conducting the search canine officers observed large containers in the rear of the van covered by blankets and clothing. Captain Finnerty ordered that the entire block where the van was parked be cleared of vehicular and pedestrian traffic. Neighbors were told to go the backside of their homes and seek cover until someone knocked on their doors. He then OK’d bomb technicians to perform a diagnostic inspection of the van’s exterior and interior to determine if the vehicle contained explosives or other hazardous materials. He was determined to nail, David Thurman, to the top the Capitol Building.
Donning protective equipment to safeguard themselves from exposure to any hazard chemicals, agents entered the van. Inspecting the vans interior, they confirmed that the large containers presented in the back of the van were filled with urine. None of the containers had attached wired and were packed in HAZMAT-approved containers, leaving them inside of the van.
Clearing the blocks of its lockdown status, Captain Finnerty consulted with Alexander Morgan a supervisor at the FBI’s Washington Field Office, who ordered him to have the truck impounded and towed to an FBI storage facility.
After the call, he was informed that David Thurman’s lawyer had arrived.
“Sucks to be him or her,” the captain said, tilting his head to the side.
C H A P T E R 24
DETECTIVE BALD EAGLE sat in silence because she nor her partner had anything as significant as the AUSA to report. Usually she brought the assistant United States Attorney evidence or facts to have a warrant drafted to execute on a bank demanding that they turned over surveillance. But they’d beat her to the punch and that was surprising. The US Attorney’s office had miles of corridors and thousands of square feet of office space, all occupied by legal carnivores, but the bombshells needed to sharpen their teeth was typically garnered by detectives like her, so their revelation was vexing, and a blow to her ego.
“Care to tell us how you’ve so swiftly come across this video?” Detective McGee asked.
“That’s a good place to start,” AUSA Brown said. He slid a Manila envelope across the table. “Was sent over by courier late morning. A gift.”
“Not really. We don’t know who sent it,” Detective Bald Eagle said.
“That’s your job to find out,” AUSA Brown said. “The courier service is located at Wisconsin Avenue and M. Street in Georgetown. The manager is waiting on you to grab up surveillance of the sender.”
“I’m going to take a wild-ass guess and assume you’ve contacted the bank to verify authenticity?” Detective McGee asked.
“We have. Two things. Yes, it’s genuine, but it’s known to be off ten-to fifteen-minutes. I’ve talked to the branch manager,” AUSA Brown said. “A gentlemen passing as an FBI Agent secured it. They have a video of him, too. He’s in a ball cap, aviator glasses and a thick beard. Obviously, all three are designed to thwart facial recognition technology. The beard may be fake or even shaved off by now according to the manager. There was also a question as to whether he was a white man with a tan or a high-yellow black man.”
“Fair question, considering the bank’s location. It’s a Bank of America in Southeast,” Detective McGee said.
“This guy could really be trying to throw us into the wrong direction,” Detective Bald Eagle said. “Why not a bank in a white neighborhood over in Virginia. Why choose a very black section of the city to pilfer the judge’s account?”
“Maybe the ATM user is not the actual killer, but an accomplice?” Detective McGee replied.
AUSA Gucci listened. All quiet. This was not a brainstorming session. Cutting everyone off, he said, “I’ve prepared a press release, titled, Suspect(s) sought in Judge Weston’s Homicide. I’ve included the following statement: “Minutes after the murder an unidentifiable white male used Judge Weston’s bank card at an ATM at the Bank of America located in the 2100 block of Martin Luther King Avenue SE. A photograph of the subject was taken by the bank camera.”
Brown said, “We’re going to release the picture of this guy with the statement. We’re going to send it all media outlets, but it should be featured on the cover of the Washington Post and Washington Times bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“And to your point,” AUSA Gucci said, “if he is trying, and, I do mean trying, to throw us off by using an ATM is Southeast, but staying in a posh Washington hotel, he’ll know that we mean business when his photo is slipped under every hotel room door in town and exposed on every newsstand. He won’t be able to walk anywhere without being noticed.”
Detective McGee watched the prosecutor’s mannerisms. They were seriously talking about the capture of a Supreme Court justice’s murder. The search would be a huge undertaking. Lots of moving parts. Therefore all plans had to be on point. They had two days max, she figured, to get their ducks in a row. Or there may not ever be a resolution.
C H A P T E R 25
BRANDY HAD THE DRIVER let her out at Constitution Avenue and Twelfth Street. She decided to walk the balance of the distance back to the hotel. Walking allowed her to think before she had acted on what she knew and observed. To write a report on what she witnessed, or not? For her, everything was news, but it was becoming a task to report subjects that called into questions the greatness of the United States. She was beginning to struggle with the idea that the public—and the United States�
� enemies—needed to know every morsel about national security. She hated that political scandals highlighted the flaws of the U.S. to foreigners. She passed the National Museum of American History which she ignored because she wasn’t in tourism mode at that moment. She had to investigate in an effort to connect what she saw and what David Thurman told her to facts. Who was his wife? What were the circumstances surrounding her arrest and conviction? Who was David Thurman, really? The costume and the acting had been perplexing. David Thurman’s arrest and assault was a consequence that she had rarely ever eye-witnessed. She stopped in a discount store and bought massage bubble bath and scented candles.
She carried her purchases back to the hotel, cutting through The Ellipse, and let herself into the suite. It had been replenished. New towels—clean and plush—new wrapped moistening soap, and fresh roses had been changed. The roses were red, but the new set was yellow. She ran bath water, stripped down, and wiggled her luscious body into a four-person Jacuzzi. On the side of the tub was a silver tray with two glasses and a bottle of white Santa Margherita pinot grigio. Lovely, she thought. Wait, where’s Nai?
C H A P T E R 26
NAIM BUTLER HAD CHATTED in a whisper to David Thurman in a small interview room. He feared that the room was bugged by federal authorities. It was a growing suspicion from ordinary citizens that its government went through great lengths to spy on them. Naim didn’t imagine that attorney-client interview rooms were off limits. America hadn’t been safer since whistleblower, Edward Snowden, skipped town for Russia. Naim wasn’t taking any chances with a case already classified high profile. Their conversation was broken up by a polite little tap, tap, tappity, tap on the room’s door. Naim expected a ferocious boom, boom, boom, by the big head federal agents trained to make a frightening first impression.
Naim stood up and walk to the door. He knocked on it as nicely as the person on the other side. Thurman smiled. He liked theater. No one expected a door to talk back. Definitely not at that United States Capitol.
He opened up and saw two guys in Capitol police uniforms. Both possessed side arms and looked pretty darn pissed off. Behind them was a man in a suit. David hadn’t seen the man the size of a heavy-weight boxer. The man was stuffed in his suit, golden-haired, and chiseled with an aquiline nose. Perhaps he was an OK guy—it was doubtful. He nodded at the uniforms, who positioned themselves on both sides of Thurman, lifting him to his feet, and handcuffed him.
Thurman asked, “Where are you taking me?”
“Shut the hell up,” the unknown man said. He turned to the suspect’s counselor, and said, “Come with me, Mr. Butler.”
“Don’t talk to me that way,” Thurman said. “Am I under arrest?”
“Must be what you want,” the man said. “If so, keep on running your trap.”
“Running my...look here, Goldie, make your mind up. Am I free to go with my attorney or not?”
“You asked for this.” He turned to one of his officers, and said, “Take him to the interview room and read him his Miranda warnings. Skip the part about being able to afford an attorney. I’m sure Mr. Naim Butler is running him three-hundred per.”
The officers walked away from the man and Naim.
Naim said, “What’s your name?”
“Rudolph.”
“You got a first name or title to go with that, Rudolph?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Not polite to answer a question with a question.”
“I know that, so?”
“OK, first name?”
“Hank,” the guy said.
“Perfect,” Naim said. “Hank Rudolph.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Is that what you think? My skin color lead you to that?”
“What I think certainly matters and that should scare you.”
“Now that sounds like a threat.”
“I’m assistant United States Attorney, Hank Rudolph, and I can make threats. Trust, I make good ones every one.”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
“With that out of the way,” the prosecutor said, “let me be clear. I’m not for any shenanigans of New York City theater.”
“Then, play nice and the fireworks will stay in my briefcase.”
“Fireworks are unlawful in D.C., but with your record of breaking laws, I doubt you care.”
“You’ve found some facts and not circumstantial evidence. That’s dangerous.”
“Here’s where we are. Your client will be charged and arraigned for unlawful entry, a violation of D.C. Code subsection 22-3302 (b), as well as the federal statute banning the display within the Capitol building of items designed to bring notice to organizations or movements.”
“He hasn’t unlawful entered any building.”
“You seriously have some catching up to do, if you think so.” The prosecutor rocked on his heels and grinned. “Now your client has some other explaining to do, but as for you, I want you to be careful here in D.C.”
“Careful? Meaning?”
AUSA Rudolph spun around, began walking away, and over his shoulder said, “You’re missing a helluva game, counselor. Have the cop let you out we’ll see you in interview room four. Welcome to the Nation’s Capital.”
C H A P T E R 27
ALDERSON, WEST VIRGINIA—FEDERAL Prison Camp Alderson
During the roaring twenties, there was a shortage of federal prison space for female inmates. Women were either slapped on the wrists or housed alone within all-male prisons; however, many of these woman were sexually abused by prison staff and fellow inmates. Alderson was opened in 1927 as the first federal women’s prison in the United States. The West Virginia area was chosen for this reform movement prison because it was remote enough from major population centers, making escapes less likely.
Every morning, Jillian Thurman, completed a five-mile jog around the Alderson yard at six a.m. followed by breakfast—bran flakes that unapologetically tasted like cardboard, skim milk, and pear cut in half because God forbid an inmate made hooch with the fruit in the prison’s dining hall. Truly a breakfast fueling her to make it through another day, being a stone’s throw away from Dante’s Inferno. She was beginning to look fit, having gotten rid of her stodgy pudginess with which she began her prison term seven years ago. She was in her mid-thirties, tall, five-ten, a natty, sinuous woman, with her black hair in a shoulder-length bob with bangs. Cool and reserved to the point of being frigid with just enough warmth to avoid being referred to as a total bitch, despite how appropriate. Prison had blessed her with a controlled life, calculating in every aspect, forcing her to deal with the petty officers and pointless Bureau of Prisons rules and regulations.
After breakfast and a shower, she reported to her work detail as a GED tutor. She was assigned to tutoring women in their pursuit of passing the GED test. However, many of them slept in class or read gossip magazines, because they didn’t have a teacher, just her as a tutor. But weren’t tutors supposed to reinforce a teacher’s lessons? There was a BOP staffer assigned as the teacher, but he never taught. He was paid handsomely out of the national budget to sit in his office playing games on his computer looking up fantasy sports stats, or filling out irrelevant paperwork to indicate he was doing his job. That was the wasteful habits of many BOP position. Many of which could be eliminated and not disrupt the running of any prison. The teacher was a waste of taxpayers dollar—along with the rest of the education department. He was more babysitter than teachers, and Jillian Thurman wanted to expose him to the public.
What troubled her most was that students were required to attend class—but not do any work—or they risked losing good time release days. She surmised that they had to keep students in class, because no students, meant no need for money from taxpayers. It explained why an inmate could lose telephone, e-mail, and visiting privileges for not making a bed or having a shirt-tail tucked in; but, faced no punishment for sleeping in class. The contrast highlighted that it wasn’t a correctional facility
at all. What’d she expected from staff more appropriately suited to work the front-end of Walmart Superstore? And, sadly ordinary citizens had no clue.
Usually after work, Julian Thurman played cards, mostly poker—with wild cards—with other women in the unit’s day room. They played for postage stamps, the convict’s currency. Some women tried to team up against her, but mostly, she won and took their money, because growing up in Atlantic, New Jersey, she was a card counter. Also very smart. So smart she had been the maestro of the loud music being made in Washington, D.C. to have her brought before her sentencing judge and re-sentenced. Not just her, but all men and woman given draconian mandatory sentences for trafficking drugs. Each day was Groundhogs Day for her, and she didn’t quite understand why a Supreme Court judge had to die for people to realize that the national federal average sentence for murder was twenty-three years, and it wasn’t logical for a non-violent drug offender to be handed a LIFE-sentence, forced to languish under the faux correctional system forever, while murderers had a date to roam free.
C H A P T E R 28
WASHINGTON, D.C.—UNITED States Capitol Building
Hank Rudolph, fifty-two, started in law enforcement as a correctional officer at Lorton Reformatory in Lorton, Virginia. A former MPD Officer turned detective, turned US prosecutor. He had a steady sour expression and dark rings around his eyes. He looked like a man that trafficked in death. After spending over a decade working DC Homicide, he found refuge in the weight room; the man’s upper body didn’t appear to belong to the miserable face that sat upon it shoulders.
He had the strong body of a well-oiled tractor, with a waist that stopped of thirty-three inches and biceps that moved like boa constrictors under the arms of his form-fitting blazer.
A Butler Summer Page 8
