AUSA Rudolph worked his way up through DC legal channels and had experience dismantling bombs in the military and busting narcotics rings in urban and suburban settings. He had over three hundred homicides under his belt, everything from dope dealers in the ghetto killing each other, drunk drivers taking out crowds of people in front of a bar, to the kidnapping and strangling of a local prostitute. He had held the hand of snitches as a cop and prosecutor, helping them roll over on politicians and drug traffickers, with experience on various crime task forces. He knew how to work his way through interrogations and trial because of his background in scratching the hairy underbelly of the DC criminal beast. As a prosecutor, he drove cases to convictions based on feelings formed from his cop’s intuition.
That late afternoon he was in a small meeting room with a wood table surrounded by chairs, one of them bolted to the floor with shackles on the sides. David Thurman sat there, shackles locking his feet to the floor, keeping him from any attempts at escaping.
AUSA Rudolph, Captain Finnerty, and Naim Butler were perched at the table in the windowless room, preparing to get their interrogation—or interview, depending on who was asked—underway. The room wasn’t big enough for all four egos.
Without a shirt on, because it had been confiscated and being analyzed, David Thurman, a behemoth man, sat there looking like he had just come off of a flat-bench, covered in sweat and military-inspired tattoos.
Pressing record on a video recorder, AUSA Rudolph said, “David Thurman, you’ve met Captain Finnerty, and were joined by your attorney, Naim Butler. He’s an interesting man. But we’re on the record now and here to get your version, David, with respect to your unlawful entry, banned display of promoting a political agenda, and your dry-run attempt to attack the United States Capitol Building.”
That got a sneer from Naim Butler. “You got proof of that last charge?”
Thurman nodded his head but didn’t say a word.
“We have preliminary matter to dispose of,” AUSA Rudolph said, frowning condescendingly. “You’re not a member of the District of Columbia bar.”
Naim chuckled. “Is that how you want to start off?” he said, reaching into his briefcase. “I am, however, admitted to the New York State Bar.” To support his claim, he passed the prosecutor a page printed at the Trump International Hotel’s front desk. “A record from the New York State Unified Court System. Besides your position is erroneous, because I have a distinguished L.L.M. From the University of Pennsylvania School of Law, a doctor of jurisprudence from Yale. And I teach criminal law at Columbia. Moreover, Rule 49 of the Rules of the D of C allows an attorney who is a member in good standing of another bar to practice here for a period of three hundred sixty days, so long as I submit an application to the D of C Bar within ninety-days and practice under the direct supervision of a member of the D of C Bar.” He passed along a confirmation that he’d submitted an application that morning, and Maria Sethmeyer was supervising him. “I believe it’s your move.” He smiled.
“Now you can see why I have him here,” Thurman said. “He’s always prepared. Guess all of that Ivy League education was worth the debt.”
“I thought we’d be able to resolve this with a fair disposition,” AUSA Rudolph said, “but I won’t be disrespected by an outsider. Especially not an arrogant New Yorker. You know we hate New Yorkers in D.C.”
“I’ll ignore that in favor of sticking to the real issue,” Naim replied. “Mr. Thurman is a hard sell, so anything short of us walking out of here with a warning won’t sway him much.”
“Yes, what he said,” Thurman said, adding raised eyebrows and a head tilt.
“We need information regarding a pressing matter. Perhaps you may or may not be in a position to shed light on the matter,” AUSA Rudolph said. “This morning a Supreme Court justice was viciously murdered in his home...”
“Tragedy, I know,” the killer said.
“As luck would have it Americans for sentencing Reform materials that you’ve been handing out references two things. One, your concern over how the Supreme Court will rule on a case regarding sentencing reform set to be heard in oral argument this session. Two, how important the presidential race is this year, as the new president will likely appoint several judges considering four of them are over seventy-five-years-old.”
The captain added, “Awfully coincidental of you to be making predictions and referencing matters so closely connected to the death of a prominent justice. The chief actually. If you’re in possession of relevant information, evidence, or other matter regarding the death of the judge you need to turn it over.”
In an attempt to stop his client from lying about the murder of the judge, he sprung into action. “What are you talking about?” Naim asked. “You’re knotting this to the death of Chief Justice Weston?” A clever question to access their intelligence.
“Now that’s a stretch,” Thurman said and smirked. To Naim, he said, “How much of this do we got to take?”
“Not much,” AUSA Rudolph said, answering for the defense attorney.
“Thanks, because the scope of that interpretation of my actions today is boring.” Thurman feigned a yawn.
“Oh, we have you for serious infractions regardless,” the AUSA said, layering on the possibilities of connecting Thurman’s Capitol Hill action to Thurman’s Georgetown actions.
“Let’s cut the crap. Do you have anything linking my client to the death of anyone?” Naim asked. More Fishing.
“No.”
“Good, then you have a summons for him to appear on that handing out materials on Capitol grounds charge?” Naim asked.
“You seem to have conveniently forgotten the illegal entry charge,” Captain Finnerty said.
“It’s absurd. He hasn’t done that.”
“Look, Mr. Butler, I’m going to give you this one courtesy, OK. In this district the unlawful entry statute is somewhat broader than its name would suggest. It covers more than merely entering onto certain premises without authority. Here to remain on property against the will of the person lawfully in charge of it is a problem,” the ASUA said.
“He was asked by the US Supreme Court Police to leave their grounds, and instead of doing that, he held an interview with the media before doing so. It’s really a cut and dry violation. We have it on video. Perhaps your Ivy League education doesn’t equal experience and you should quit while you’re ahead,” Captain Finnerty said, smiling. “I guess your supervisor, Sethmeyer, isn’t supervising you after all.”
Despite some air being let out of his tire, Naim was stoically in his seat mentally preparing for fixing this problem. He dug into his briefcase and pulled out a leather-bound black calendar. He opened it to August, prepared to pencil in a date to appear before a US magistrate judge to have his client enter a plea of not guilty. He planned to have the matter pan out to nothing more than a warning not to violate said DC laws again. Although, he wasn’t sure that would be possible for Thurman, a man set on alerting the world to his cause. And wanted for murdering four men.
“I’m going to shoot straight,” AUSA Rudolph said. “We really don’t like to deal with this sort of thing on Capitol Hill. There’s a forum, an appropriate way to do this. Contact senators for meetings. Buy lobbyist. And other things. We can’t have people distributing propaganda in the Crypt area of this building. Costumes and performers belong on a stage.” He pulled out a piece of paper and slid it to Naim. “We’re willing to have your client sign a contract to stay off the grounds of the Supreme Court and Capitol Hill for one- year in exchange for not pursuing this matter in federal court.”
Naim made a face, an inventory clerk inspecting the goods, looking to cut out of the building. It was a standard judicial document with a direct order for Thurman to essentially stand down, silencing him in D.C. This helped him avoid a lengthy court proceeding and the tedious exchange of motions and discovery. He looked at his client who nodded in agreement to sign the form to get his show on the road. Naim knew
that in D.C. there were disparate forms of evidence passed over in discovery, and scholarly court lectures by experts could derail a well-planned defense. The mere presentation to a jury that Thurman wore a costume on Capitol Hill mirroring a suicide bomb vest and used to test the response of CHPO practically promised a conviction and wasn’t worth the manpower needed to defend the indictment. He simply wanted to sign the document, moving on to the case that really had him in Washington D.C. Namely, defending, David Thurman, against capital murder charges.
C H A P T E R 29
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Naim walked out of the Capitol Building with Thurman by his side dressed in a T-shirt from the Capitol’s gift shop.
An excellent magician was a man that excelled in the art of misdirection. The same was true for lawyers. Attorneys used sarcasm and feigned naivety to distract local authorities. They thought they’d trapped him in a hard to reach place, but they had no idea what he planned to pull from his other sleeve now that he’d gotten his client out of one jam as a more murderous one loomed.
Out on East Capitol Street, attorney and client were quiet, and it remained that way until they reached the Library of Congress. Naim wondered if they were being followed, flagged down a taxi that scooped them up. Inside the cab, Naim had the driver head to Sixth Street and Independence Avenue. Eight blocks later they exited the cab in front of the National Air Space Museum and hustled inside.
“Why are we here?” The killer asked, breaking his silence.
“The food court. It’s the best in town.”
“You’re hilarious,” Thurman said, walking through security. “I’m not into comedy.” His face was deadly serious.
“OK,” Naim said and stopped. He looked around the entry of the museum at the huge missile on exhibit. “We may be followed and we need to rocket up out of DC without detection. We’re going to hit a side door, skedaddle to the National Mall, then hop on the local Metro train at the National Mall Station. We’ll get off at L’Enfant Square. Exit. And Brandy will be there to grab us.” He started to walk away, but Thurman stood there. He pointed and walked back towards his client. “You got a better idea?”
“I can handle myself from L’Enfant. I have a local hideout.”
“Do you now? My plan is better.”
“It’s not.”
“You haven’t even heard it.”
“I’ve gotten this far.”
“Not going back and forth with you.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
“I’m getting you out of DC, and someplace safe in friendly, Maryland. We can get to Potomac Airfield quickly from there. We will then craft a plan to get you safely to the authorities to take care of that other issue.” Naim blinked uncontrollably. He did that when in deep thought.
“Not happening. I have a safe place here. It is absurd to leave this area. They expect that. I’m going to hide right under their noses before I bring that wasteful US attorney to full froth. In the meantime, it’s PCP and cheap prostitutes. You got a problem with?”
“Listen here, you son-of-a-bitch. This is not your show, it’s mine.”
“Since when?”
“Since you called for my services. Let me say this in a way that you can comprehend. I’m assuming director duties.”
“Have a good day,” Thurman said, walking away, throwing the peace sign over his back. He had paid for Naim’s services and like many defendants labored under the delusion that made him the boss. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Wait!”
Thurman stopped.
Grin on the murderer’s face, ten to one, he contemplated strangling his attorney as he turned around. “Don’t be a hero.”
“Oh, I’m not. And I don’t make threats. I want you to know that people who don’t listen to me go to jail. For you, I’m sure the prosecutor will bake you a vicious cake.”
“Ah. The scent of flesh burning on the electric chair. Mouthwatering,” he replied, walking away.
__________
At the pavement, Thurman made a sweeping right passing several food carts. He bought a water from one of them, before walking at a fast pace in the direction away from the U.S. Capitol. If his lawyer had made any sense he had to take advantage of his head start. There were no witnesses to his murders, but he knew that there was an aggressive manhunt to find him.
Passing the National Museum of African Art, Thurman’s cell phone chimed. The caller ID read: Unavailable. A call from his wife was right on time. He needed consoling and motivation: she would deliver both.
C H A P T E R 30
WASHINGTON, D.C.—L’ENFANT Square
Naim continued to process the falling out with Thurman around his mind, as he popped out the L’Enfant Plaza green-line Metro Station. The station and square were named agent French engineer, Pierre Charles L’Enfant, the man that planned the city.
The youthful-looking sex-siren, Brandy Scott, leaned on the side of the armored Escalade leaving the driver behind the wheel; no doubt, prepared to take off just in case Naim bolted from underground being followed by federal agents.
After giving Brandy a quick hug, they climbed into the back seats of the truck. The driver sped away from the curb as soon as the doors slammed shut. Settled into their seats they looked at one another.
“And where’s your client, counselor? My source.”
“Gone.” Somber. “Where exactly are we headed?”
“Slight change of plans,” she replied, smiling. “Cute pivot, though,” she added, “you’re becoming one ol’ Washingtonian. But you’re not getting off that easily. Where’s Thurman?”
Staring out of the window, watching D.C fly by, he said, “He’s on his own. Didn’t like my plan.” He snuggled up to her, resting his head on her shoulder. She draped an arm around him caressed his shoulder, while listening to his version of what had transpired between him and David Thurman over the past few hours. “I mean, if he wasn’t lying, he told me graphic details about the justice’s murder. The jury will be delightfully horrified.”
“How’d you manage to talk at the Capitol?”
“We whispered and I had him write things down,” he said, tapping his briefcase. “The notes may be leaked to a certain New York Times editor.”
“This case will definitely have a gag order in place,” she said, “so be sure they end up in said editor’s E-mail inbox soon. Anonymously.”
“Indeed.”
“He’ll be back around. He loves or likes to appear in control. A true narcissist.”
“And that pisses me off. Why on earth do defendant’s believe that they’re in control as if they have the law degree and experience?”
“Good question, one that can be answered when we get to the Georgetown Law School. I’ve gotten us visitors clearance to do some legal research.”
Naim lifted his head. They were being driven east on Maryland Avenue with the U.S. Capitol Building ahead, it’s bronze Statue of Freedom on top looking Naim in the eye. He looked out of the back window and saw the Washington Monument in the distance, the tapering obelisk of white marble reaching five hundred fifty-five feet in the air. Panicked, he shot up, tapped the driver’s shoulder, and asked, “Isn’t Georgetown in the opposite direction?”
“Well, yes, it is,” the driver said. “But the Georgetown University Law Center is located on New Jersey Avenue in the Judiciary Square neighborhood of the city.”
Naim looked at Brandy for confirmation, as they passed the Capitol Reflecting Pool.
“I was just as perplexed,” she shrugged. “But it’s a strategic location on the school’s part.”
The lawyer sat back in his seat. His hand had a slight shake, his heart raced. He suddenly acknowledged the anxiety associated with being an attorney.
C H A P T E R 31
JUDICIARY SQUARE, WASHINGTON, D.C.—Georgetown Law Center
Established in 1870, Georgetown University Law School was the second largest law school in the United States and received the most full-time app
lications per year. The school had been moved away from the main campus to Judiciary Square, a neighborhood in Northwest Washington D.C. The area was heavily occupied by various federal and municipal courthouses and office buildings. The center of the neighborhood housed an actual plaza named Judiciary Square, and was serviced by the Red Line of the Washington Metro. They drove past the District of Columbia City Hall and the Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington field office, before parking in the front of the Georgetown University Law Center.
Entering the library’s lobby, Brandy and Naim, approached a security desk, stated their business and was directed to an administrative office. A library clerk verified their permission to enter the library and took their photo before providing them with plastic IDs with the word TEMPORARY on it.
Brandy Scott sat in the law library at a computer station logged into the Lexis-Nexis electronic law library system. Her boyfriend, the lawyer, was beside her on his own computer on his second cup of coffee. Their equal pursuit of justice provided fertilizer for their relationship to grow. There was no shouting or violence between them, just an underlying knowledge that they loved each other more today than they did the day before. Brandy was wrapped up in her work, researching the procedural history leading to Jullian Thurman’s continued imprisonment. Naim was obsessed with studying the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure as it pertained to the capital murder of a Supreme Court justice. Despite David Thurman’s pissy attitude, Naim patiently awaited his call as promised. Divorce from the murder trial of the decade wasn’t in the cards. Naim wasn’t the kind of person who’d quit something so paramount to his branding easily.
The newspaper editor and lawyer looked over at each other, smiled, both agog over their effort to do their jobs while offering their partner smiles of confidence. They were determined to prove their willingness to meet each other halfway. Naim was proving to be a polished, flawed man, who had cleaned up his act. What he’d been through and his strength to get to where he was, had not been lost on her. Things was easy for them and she believed they’d stay that way. He was turned on by watching her avariciously devour the law. He was also turned on by the fact that she was a good-looking, brilliant woman who made him happy. She was a news editor who had a very flexible schedule, a boon for him. They were seriously dating without any negatives. He was determined to assure that no complaining started. All of Naim’s life he’d been getting the raw end of the deal and finally things were bright and optimistic.
A Butler Summer Page 9
