“You know,” he said, “I’m not sure if that monster is out killing right now. That’s a sickening visual.”
“You don’t say,” Brandy replied. “And he has a good reason. At least from his own twisted, demonic perspective. His wife really had a hard time in the courts. The bulk of her sentence was not for her conduct, but the conduct of the conspirators. Many of whom she didn’t even know.”
“How so?” he asked, pushing back in his seat, looking at her screen.
“Federal law disparately treats equal weights of powder and crack cocaine, that you know.”
“I do. Whites use powder, blacks use crack and really affects the lives of black families sending dealers away for absurd mandatory minimums. Some for life. For crying out loud there are murderer’s that don’t get life.” His voice was passionately rising.
“I hear you, but the opposition will say that dealers subject addicts to a lifetime of addiction and misery, which is cruel and unusual punishment, so life for a drug dealer doesn’t seem odd. Or violate the Eighth Amendment.”
“True, but this topic has reached the Supreme Court and has been debated in Congress. The disparity is unwarranted between powder and crack. Cocaine remains cocaine even in a dress and pumps.”
She batted her eyes and stared at him. A blank sneer crept onto her face.
“What?” he asked, smiling conspiratorially.
“Something just dawned on me,” she replied, clicking the mouse, and searching again.
“What?’ he asked, inching closer to her. He dropped his arm around her shoulders.
“Despite reaching the Supreme Court the disparity hasn’t been struck down as unconstitutional. And, do you know why, counselor?”
“Nope, but I’m sure you’re going to school me.”
“I am. Three words: Chief Justice Weston,” she said, pointing at the screen.
Naim’s shoulders sagged. “Weston and the liberals blocked the ratio between crack and cocaine being one to one.”
“A move that would have drastically reduced the sentences of people sentenced for possessing crack. Including one, Jillian Turman.”
“You should be a lawyer.”
“No,” Brandy said, “I should be in the business of informing the people of what they’re up against.”
“And, let me guess...You plan to do that?”
She kissed his lips, and said, “How’d you guess?”
C H A P T E R 32
BY EIGHT-THIRTY, NAIM and Brandy, we’re having dinner at BLT Prime by David Burke, the Trump International Hotel’s high-priced steakhouse, prominently located on the mezzanine. The spot overlooked the iconic Clock Tower, Naim continued to hope that no one was scheduled to die in Washington, D.C. at the hands of David Thurman, as he sipped Pinot Noir. Prayerfully, Thurman was taking a break from picking off politicians determined to keep up the war on drugs. Blocking the anxiety of more potential murders, Naim had treated himself to an in-house masseuse, facial, and manicure upon return from the law school. Over those three hours, Brandy was holed up in the suite penning a serious speculative op-ed set to be featured in the Washington Post and New York Times. The piece tied Weston’s murder to his rigorous opposition to reforming drug laws. It was chock full of facts, statistics, and conspiracy theories, the kind of deliciousness that drove newspapers print sales through the roof.
While they ate, a dozen white roses were delivered to the table for Brandy. Naim had ordered them. A slice of his charm, thanking her for being a great partner in and out of bed. The gesture applauded her forcing a smile to spread on her lovely face.
“You know, you’re truly amazing, but very genuine,” she said smiling. “Thank you”.
“What ever do you mean?” He was laughing, flashing bright white teeth.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you are trying to wine and dine me to get into my LaPearla’s.”
“Well, I am.” He winked dramatically. “That’s why I bought ‘em.”
She slapped his arm, and then said, “What I meant was, when you go out of your way to send flowers my way or other gifts, I take the gestures as your commitment to continuing to make me happy. You truly embody the spirit of happy wife-happy life. And we’re not even married.”
Naim simply smiled and thanked her. “For me, it’s no easy task to please a woman who has it all. The one thing you can’t give yourself, though, I do. I will always go out of my way to provide you with love. I mean, how else do people reach their gold anniversary?”
“Gold. I’m not sure I have fifty years left.”
“But just in case you do,” he said, smiling and raising his glass. “Let’s toast to that.”
She tapped her wine flute against his, and said, “You’re really giving it your all for Happiness Happens Month.”
“We could skip this and get to something else celebrated this month.”
“What’s that?”
“Tell me, it’s National Toddler Month,” he replied, smiling.
C H A P T E R 33
CONGRESS HEIGHTS, SOUTHEAST, Washington, D.C.—Forest Ridge and The Vistas Apartments
Just after midnight was really off the chain, psychotic, plain nuts. These sad, miserable, sons-of-crack-whores are a piece-of work. The killer wanted to shake things up again, right in the heart of the ghetto. Right now! Even at this hour there were far more men hanging out on the block than he cared to see. What a bunch of losers. I can spray them all pretty quickly.
He has watched them from three-stories up; some of them the father and mother of children who were set to travel right down their path to nowhere. Well except, jail. He thought of his own father, the absolutely irresponsible prick.
Then, he saw the tall buff drug dealer he’d been buying from, wave at an addict, pulling on his white gloves. Latex gloves were commonly worn by individuals who distributed PCP. Worthless trash. Phony salesman-like attitude written all over the dealer’s face.
Boom! Boom!
Two bull’s eyes.
Two exploding heads cantaloupes.
That’s how their lives should end. Strong executions.
He had to block out the rude thoughts in his mind. He already had plans to take out a more important D.C. Metro-area denizen. A U.S. Senator. Maybe dos. They were dead meat.
The really interesting thing about the dealers was that none of them paid much attention to a pole-mounted MPD surveillance camera that captured all of their stoop sales. Thurman, with his apartment window open had previously heard the stupid ingrates express the position that the cameras were fake or inoperable.
After all, they engaged in several urban warfare-style shoot-outs and the police never showed up. He knew they were off-base. The MPD had been wearing velvet gloves with steel fists inside, undoubtedly, prepared to lay the hammer down.
__________
David Thurman’s attention was captured by an unmarked Yukon Denali rolling into the apartment complex’s parking lot. Pulling out his binoculars, he smiled oddly at a team of Gun Recovery Unit officers, wearing menacing tactical gear. The apartments’ residents scattered as officers exited the SUV. Officer Katz accosted Rudy Briscoe, an eighteen-year-old talking on his cell phone. Briscoe, a resident of the complex for ten years, was known to the officers and always suspected of committing one crime or another. He backed away from law enforcement, who said, “Get against the wall. You have any weapons?”
Ah, the inherent power of the unconstitutional stop and frisk tactic.
Bristol did not answer and quickened his pace. What happened next was captured on the MPD surveillance camera.
Bristol sprinted out of the parking lot into an adjacent street. Officer Katz gave chase but did not demand the suspect to stop. Officer Sheehan raced back to the Denali, hopped inside, and chased behind Briscoe without activating the vehicle’s siren. They didn’t want to alert any law-abiding citizens of their potential debauchery.
Crossing the street, a dark object appeared in Briscoe’s right hand prom
pting officer Katz to snatch his weapon from its holster. Reaching the opposite sidewalk, Briscoe glanced at least twice over his left shoulder at the approaching vehicle, arms pumping, trying to reach the driveway leading to a wooded area. As Briscoe pivoted to turn into the driveway he abandoned his weapon. Continuing to flee, the Denali pulled parallel to him. Officer Sheehan pointed his gun, fired twice, hitting Briscoe in the left buttock.
Rising, falling, then, sprawling on the ground, Briscoe held his hands away from his body. Officer Katz stood over him with his gun pointed at him.
Briscoe volunteered, “The gun ain’t real, please don’t kill me.”
C H A P T E R 34
WASHINGTON D.C.—TIDAL Basin
Naim Butler passed through tunnels of petals from Japanese cherry trees during his two-mile jog through the paved loop in West Potomac Park. He zipped past monuments that were lit, stunning, and inspiring his five-thirty a.m. A breath of fresh air. His curiosity about what would happen next in the Thurman saga kept him from sleeping.
You like the tension and difficulty, don’t you, counselor? In fact you like it a lot? Go on. Admit it. No matter how controversial or absurd, Naim needed the killer. What the hell are you thinking? You need a killer as much as a cartoon needs one. You should immediately apologize to yourself for blowing this morning jog on thoughts of Thurman when you have the beautiful and accomplished Brady Scott at a luxurious hotel awaiting your return.
He hadn't lost the fact that Brandy Scott was a part of the complex investigation that he worked on. That was the perfect reason to get back to her, extending this chapter of their love affair. Why had she been forwarded pictures of the dead justice? Why had she been a witness to her “source” being shot at and arrested? Why had she been tapped to investigate the arrest and conviction of a killer’s wife?
Albeit not in exploration mode, Naim decided to walk through the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial, consisting of nine bronze sculptural ensembles depicting events from the Great Depression and World War II. Naim needed to gather the mettle to be as victorious as the thirty-second president. Japan attacked Pearl Harbor during Roosevelt’s fourth consecutive term in office. David Thurman’s attack on America was as heinous. An act of war. An act many would suggest that he should die for. An act that the forefathers expected the Sixth Amendment to protect.
Jogging again, Naim thought, what a dilemma. For Naim there was no conflict with assuring Thurman’s right to effective assistance of counsel. Passing the Thomas Jefferson Memorial, he thought, that is what you wanted, right, when signing the Declaration of Independence, staring at America’s third president.
Returning to the hotel, Naim was a man with a plan. He stretched on the pavement under five United States flags blowing freely. He was just a D.C. visitor finishing a run. A run that built his mental state—a necessity to get through the day. That was his outlook. Despite having his whole life ahead of him, he had to focus on the task at hand: Wednesday.
__________
Naim walked into the hotel glad that it was shimmering with lights from chandeliers. He was done with the city being cloaked in darkness- and evil. He looked forward to sunrise, as he boarded the elevator, heading to the suite. On the hotel’s top floor, he removed his headphones before entering the room. Tossing the keycard onto the living room’s coffee table, he went into the bedroom.
The bed was empty.
He panicked. Even if a tiny bit.
“Hey, Bran...” he called out, looking at the closed ensuite bathroom’s door.
The toilet flushed. Water ran, and then, Brandy came out of the bathroom dressed in a yellow panty and bra set. A groggy and sexy frown was written on her face.
Picking up the phone, she said, “Good morning,” climbing back in bed. “I’m going to order a carafe of coffee. And since super-lawyer just worked out, a protein-packed breakfast”
Stripping out of sweaty clothing, he said, “Please and thank you. Egg whites scrambled, smoked salmon, lots of turkey bacon, orange juice, bottle of Moët. I’m going to take a quick shower before breakfast in bed. You’re free to join me.”
“For which part.”
“Both,” he said, stepping out of his boxer briefs, “But if I had to choose one, I’d take the shower,” he added, walking naked to the bathroom.
C H A P T E R 35
WASHINGTON, D.C.—United Medical Center
The night had been long for Rudy Briscoe and it was still going strong and hard, blending right into Wednesday morning. At seven o’clock, Detective Hill arrived in his hospital room at United Medical Center where he was on his side recuperating from a gunshot wound to the ass. Looking at the detective slam a Washington Post on a bedside table, his mind ran quickly to understand how carrying a BB-gun could have led to being shackled to a hospital bed with policemen guarding the door. By the looks of the bags under the detective’s eyes, he hadn’t slept well all night, either.
Detective Hill had come to the hospital to get information on one of the known dealers that had also fled when the GRU pulled up on the scene at Forest Ridge Apartments. All of the detective’s evidence pointed to the assumption that Rudy was a member of the Forest Ridge Organization. Rudy didn’t even know there was a federal prosecutor determined to turn the street-level dealers from his complex into a wide-reaching drug conspiracy. Detective Hill had the pleasure to hint at that in order to transform Rudy into a confidential informant. Or else.
Without an introduction, Detective Hill said, “I know you’re in a bit of pain, but we need to talk,” flashing a badge. His voice was docile and low like a deep, dark secret. The detective was a lanky, but muscular man like an Abercrombie model.
“The cops shot me,” Rudy said childlike. He wasn’t as tough as he often portrayed around the way.
“I’m here to interview you.”
“For a job.” A smirk froze on his face.
“Maybe you know things. After all, someone must know who’s been supplying the Forest Ridge Complex in which you live with PCP and cocaine and guns. Someone must be trained you to sell the PCP.” The detective pulled an iPad from his bag, cued up a video, and showed the man in custody footage of a young man playing with a gun and selling drugs to a white man in a ball cap and shades. “That would be you and a unknown white male.” He let that sink in, and then said, “but before you get there, I better ask some preliminary questions.”
“Like?”
“Are you drugged from surgery?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Any drinks or drugs illegally used in the last twenty-four hours?”
“Just had one stick of the best purple haze,” the perp said, smiling. “That’s weed in case you didn’t know.”
“Do you understand what’s going on?”
“Nope.” And then, without prompting, he added, “Can I have a lawyer?”
“All right,” the detective said, stuffing the iPad back into his bag and grabbed the newspaper.
“What do you want to talk about, first?”
“Nah, man. You’re—”
“No, but I don’t need a lawyer.”
“You. Said that you weren’t coherent. You didn’t understand what was going on, so I don’t want to force you—”
“But I don’t understand. Why are they charging me with distribution while armed? That’s crazy. The gun was fake. I don’t need a lawyer. Read me my rights and let’s get this shit out the way. I ain’t got time to keep playing, I want to get to a bail hearing.”
“Well, I mean, first of all you already told me, you were under the influence of some fire purple haze.”
“Yeah, I told you the truth.”
“I understand. I understand.” The cop then added, “So do you understand what going on around you? Do you feel coherent?”
“Are you sure you understand? I asked because in your cargo pants pocket cops found $1,180 in cash, 16.9 grams of cocaine, 4.1 grams of heroin, sixty-eight methylone tablets, about fifty ziplock bags, a small digital s
cale, and a measuring spoon. If it walks like a dealer, it usually is. Keep that in mind before you answer my next question. Are you willing to converse with me?”
“Yes, I understand you probably want me to snitch on someone. I understand why you’re here. I understand all that.”
Detective Hill then, read Rudy Briscoe his rights, and he proceeded to orally waive them.
Rudy said, “I have a question.”
“What’s that?”
“What up with slim on the cover of the paper?”
“He has far bigger problems than you. He’s wanted for killing Chief Justice Weston. It’s been all over the news. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”
Rudy furrowed his eyebrows. “You don’t recognize him?”
“Am I supposed to?”
“You just showed me making a sale to him on your iPad,” he said, pointing at the cops bag. “He’s the big spender addict that just moved into my apartment.”
C H A P T E R 36
WASHINGTON, D.C.—MARTIN Luther King, Jr. Memorial
No policeman had expected to close in on the assassin so quickly. And definitely not using intelligence from a local hoodlum to nail the killer of a Supreme Court Justice. Detective McGee hadn’t ever been close to figuring out where to start looking for the man in the bank video until she received a call to interrogate, Rudy Briscoe. She was glad to have gotten a handle on things before the whole mess unraveled into another death and planned her retirement celebration.
A Butler Summer Page 10
