“So?”
“And we have your DNA,” Detective Bald Eagle said, pulling the coffee cup and cigarette butt out of his reach, “which we will match to skin found under Joanne’s fingers.”
“Sounds like a frame-up job.”
“Were you mad at the judge for anything?”
“Don’t know the man. Never met him.” He smiled.
“Your ASR website suggests otherwise.”
“I’m not responsible for, nor privy, to all of the content found on the site. No proof that I’ve ever been on the site, by the way.”
“There were weapons found at the apartment that you rented, too. Will one of the guns confess to the FBI Firearms-Toot marks unit that it fired the casing left at the scene?” Detective McGee asked.
Detective Bald Eagle followed up with, “You were military right? We believe a military-issued 9mm was used at least at Senator Elberg’s. We’re going to check to see if the serial numbers match any stolen military weapons. At minimum, yes, we will charge you with that.”
“I was in the army, yes. Served this country honorably out of my ass. One honor that stands out is the Purple Heart. I have and will continue to protect the lives of all American citizens.”
“And that’s why you killed the justice and senator. Because of their laws and beliefs. You were protecting the American people. I get it.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“OK, put another way,” Detective McGee Said, “you protected the people?
“Yes.”
“And you did what you had to do to accomplish that. Confess and the people will understand. We live in a forgiven nation.”
“No.”
“You know that you’re facing the death penalty?”
“It’ll never happen.”
“Because you’re going to plead guilty in exchange for a life sentence?”
“No.”
“You gunned down the security teams outside both homes?”
“No.”
“Crept into both politician’s homes?”
“No.”
“Stalked the down the victims?”
“No.”
“And stabbed them to death? You castrated the Justice?”
“He was caught banging a man in the ass with his wife in the garden, so, I hear.” Thurman threw his handcuffed hand in the air. He said, “He deserved that, I’m sure. But I didn’t do it.”
“You saw him there, banging a man in the ass?” Detective Bald Eagle asked.
“Read it on a blog.” Nice try, he thought.
“Which blog?”
“Can’t recall. I subscribe to a lot of them.”
“Can we get permission to check out your blog search history?”
“Don’t think my lawyer will allow that.”
“Actually, that’s your call. You’re a grown man and can negotiate for your own interests. Again, you’re facing the death penalty, and I assure you that the Attorney General will sign off the authorize, Shai Brown, to peruse it. He needs a body for these murders.”
“To hell with that crack-pot, Shai-fucking-Brown. He may be next on the killer’s list.” Defiant shrug.
C H A P T E R 63
AUSA SHAI BROWN COULDN’T handle another ounce of bullshit being served by David Thurman. He walked into the interrogation room, quieting it. Sitting directly in front of Thurman, he raised an eyebrow, cocked his head to the side, and stared confidently at the defendant.
“You have something to say to God.” His voice was hard, I-can-give-two-fucks kind of edge to it.
Thurman frowned and sat up straight.
“A minute ago you did, God particularly heard a threat,” Shai said, looking at his watch. “At 4:28 a.m.”
Thurman began to tremble.
“You see, I have my hands over your head with strings attached, controlling your life. Your every move. Everything about you. I, God, mutha fucking owns you,” he said, asserting control.
Thurman coerced tears to fall from his eyes.
“A moment ago you were all locker-room-talk with the ladies. I’m only hearing sniffles.”
Looking into Shai eyes, Thurman said, “I want to go home.”
“Take responsibility for your crimes in exchange for life and you can go to USP Big Sandy and call that home.”
“I want my dad. Why am I here in handcuffs? Are you a cop?”
“I’m in no mood for games. You’re in boiling water and only I, God, can pull you out. Imagine yourself as the crab that you are, fighting for a way out of the pot.”
Detective Bald Eagle added, “Listen. This thing wouldn’t look any better with a telescope. It’s a mess and it’s your mess. Fix it with a confession.”
“No more bodies,” AUSA Brown said. “You’ve racked up enough, and someone—an accomplice, maybe—plans more, I guess. Tell us what you know, confess your wrong-doing and let me and my colleagues move on to the next case.”
Thurman reached into the breast-pocket of his prison-issued orange jumpsuit, pulled out a card and sat it on the table. “My dad told me to call his friend if I was ever locked up. Please, can I call my dad’s friend?”
AUSA Shai Brown picked up the business card of one, Naim Butler, Esq. “This is going to be a long night for you,” the prosecutor said. “Give us a handwriting sample, lie-detector test, and let us test you for gun residue. And then, God will let you call your...um...dad’s friend.”
“OK,” Thurman said childlike.
C H A P T E R 64
THE MPD AND THE FEDERALES didn’t know shit. What they did know, though, was that Washington was becoming one vicious city and terrifying place to reside. This was not a typical Saturday morning.
Naim was pissed at the headline page A01 that morning screamed, JUSTICE WESTON’S KILLER CONFESSES TO MURDER, was proof that Washington Post didn’t know shit either. Naim had forwarded to the prosecution an explicit directive not to interview or interrogate his client out of his presence. Ergo, the idea of there being a confession to anything, especially without his attorney in the room, was fake news.
The report had the same ol’ story that media had been spinning all week: ATM video led to the suspect being featured on the news, identified by a D.C. citizen (unknown to the defense at the moment) tracked down, and arrested in a SUV at the MLK Monument. At a time when being a rat was at all time high, due impart to draconian sentences, Naim was not surprised that Thurman had been swiftly arrested.
Naim enjoyed the hoopla well enough, but he was sluggish with the constant media coverage and politicizing of his case. There was no question that his critical mission was to control the media slant as best he could so he sent out a press release. On the morning news, Thurman was a story and public enemy number one. Number two was a visit from the Russian government, and the fact that some diplomats were staying at the same hotel where Naim was taking up residence was just what he needed, another story to get them capital L losers off my case.
At eight-thirty there was a knock at the suite’s door.
Brandy rolled over, her breast staring at him. “You expecting...Oh, never mind. Has to be Marco and company.”
Walking to the suite door, Naim was impressed with his son’s crafty exit for New York. Although, Naim had told him to take a late train to Washington, they had previously rehearsed that Marco was to fly if Naim told him to take the train and vice versa. After his call from Naim. Marco (with Amber and Ginger) walked into New York Penn Station at the Eighth Avenue entrance.
Exited on Seventh.
Checked into Hotel Pennsylvania using cash.
Checked out at five a.m.
Took a taxi to Laguardia International Airport.
And then, boarded a six-forty flight to Washington.
Now, in D.C. was the prince.
Naim checked the peephole, before opening the door.
Marco stood there, a smile on his face, with Amber and Ginger flanking him. All of them possessed overnight bags and dark sunglasses.
/> Ginger pressed her hand against Naim’s shoulder, moving him to the side. “We’re reporting for duty, sir,” she said, stepping into the suite, followed by Marco and Amber. “But first, breakfast. No exceptions.”
“None,” Marco said, shaking his father’s hand.
“Hello. Mr. Butler,” Amber said, entering the room. “This is a lovely hotel. Good choice.”
“That’s to be expected at a Trump property,” he replied, locking the door behind him.
Brandy walked out of the bedroom, fully dressed. Superwoman, no? “Hey, boys and girls,” she said, grinning.
“Good morning, Brandy,” Marco said and gave her a one-arm hug. His other arm remained in the sling.
“How’s the arm?” Brandy asked him.
“Doc says its healing excellently. No broken bones,” Marco replied. “But my stomach pangs from hunger is a whole different thing.”
“Let me get myself together and we can go somewhere quickly,” Naim said. “I have work to do sadly.”
“Yup sadly, for you, dad, because us four have some fun and sightseeing to get too.”
Naim wrapped his arm around Ginger, and said, “You three,” pointing at Marco, Amber and Brady, “but Ginger will be with me conquering Washington, D. C.”
C H A P T E R 65
DUPONT CIRCLE, WASHINGTON D.C.—Busboys and Poets
This particular Friday after two of D.C.’s most influential political mavericks were killed was one of those rare gloom-ridden summer days—the kind where one could guess something was going to happen. In Washington something always happened. Hell, days earlier Senator Elberg was killed in his DuPont Circle home in Washington.
Naim Butler buttoned his blazer as he ambled—family in tow—from the security-driven armored SUV into the book cafe in the DuPont Circle neighborhood.
It was the kind of area to spend a lovely late morning with family, more mainstream on this side of the millennium—a trendy locale with coffee houses, restaurants, bars and upscale retail stores. The kind of area that kept the democratic liberal platform alive and kicking in America, just what conservatives needed to keep searching for their place in a country that legalized gay marriage, encouraged federally funded abortions and punished its citizens for not buying healthcare insurance.
Father and son, their girlfriends, and legal secretary were seated on the cafe’s sidewalk patio. They ordered breakfast and drinks, before settling into small talk.
Although Naim and Marco father and son bond had only been brewing for eight months, their bromance was steaming. Naim reveled in the constant demonstration of Marco’s reflection of him. Despite pushing through life just shy of eighteen-years not knowing the other existed, it was impossible to prove they hadn’t been building together since Marco’s birth. From their matching bushy eyebrows to their perfect SAT scores, to their musical talents, they were kin indeed.
Naim sipped his signature breakfast drink, a mimosa: his version 99% champagne and 1% orange juice. “How was the campus vigil?” he asked Marco and Amber.
She replied, “Sad. Very sad. I’m still lost for words that this man killed all of those students. And for no reason.”
“And nearly me,” Marco said, frowning. “But I am going to survive. Too bad the others didn’t. Dad, you haven’t missed anything being here in D.C. Not a dry eye on the campus all week.”
“I can imagine and thankful that I’m not planning a funeral,” Naim said, tossing a slice of bacon into his mouth. After swallowing and sipping his drink, he said, “I have a staff e-mail indicating classes will resume and/or begin Monday.”
“As did I,” Marco replied.
“Don’t you have something else to tell your father?” Ginger asked, stuffing a slice of pineapple from her fruit salad into her mouth.
“I do,” Marco said. “BMG called and informed me that they plan to have a certain artist record two of the sixteen songs from the compilation that I sold them.”
“Who?” Brandy asked. “Should I be bragging about this to a lifestyle editor at the Times? Get you some coverage.”
“You could,” Marco replied nonchalantly. “I’m not ready for all this at but Winthrope personally called to tell me that Adele will do the songs.”
“Wow,” was all Naim could tell the music genius. “Congrats, son.” Speechless.
“Thanks,” he said, over the ringing of Naim’s cell phone.
Naim said, “I have to take this,” looking at the stern eye of Brandy. He was violating the No Cell Phones During Meals Act, but the unavailable caller could be his client calling from jail.
__________
The call wiped the smile off Naim’s face. Everyone else’s, too. The truth was hard to hide. His fingers trembled putting the phone back into his pocket. The phone dropped. It bounced off of the pavement and caromed between the curb and a car tire.
“Something terrible has happened at the jail. Thurman’s been attacked by guards and shot up with something,” Naim said, standing “I have to go.” He picked up his phone, brushed it off, and waved at their driver. Pointing at his family, he demanded that he, “take them back to the hotel, and then meet me at the D.C. Jail.”
Action and adventure spread across Ginger’s face. “What do you want me to do, boss?”
“You my friend are coming with me. I can’t trust anyone with a D.C. drivers license.”
“Or Maryland, or Virginia,” Brandy added.
“You three go back to the hotel, and stay there,” Naim said. Raising an eyebrow, he looked sternly at Marco the one most likely to innocently defy him, “I mean it, Marco.”
“OK, dad,” Marco replied, “I got it.”
Naim and Ginger jogged down the paved walkway, his long legs stretching like a greyhound. Vague sensations rushed through his body as if it didn’t belong to him.
Hopping into a taxi on Connecticut Avenue, Naim gave instructions to the driver. He turned to Ginger, and said, “I’m not going to let these SOBs run me out of town.”
“I didn’t think so for a moment, sir,” Ginger said, whipping around the DuPont Circle. “Glad to be here.”
C H A P T E R 66
D.C. JAIL
Within twenty minutes they were beyond the earshot of guards, safely encased in a conference room the size of a cell, with the door closed.
“Who in the hell did this to you?” Naim asked, bearing down on his client, reddened tip of his nose, his voice leaking venom.
To Naim, a client may be a worthless piece of shit to everyone in the world, but he was Naim’s piece of shit that was, and would remain the case.
“I don’t know his name,” Thurman said, looking at Ginger coyly, who was at the ready to pencil down his attacker’s name. “I’m sorry.”
“Why’d this happen?”
“He asked me to stop talking to another inmate,” Thurman said, lying. “Apparently you’re not allowed to talk during transport.”
“Did you see a doctor?” Ginger asked.
“They sent me to the hospital. I could hear them crafting a story about me trying to escape.” He shook his head, looking to the sky as if holding back tears. “They interrogated me over eight hours. Starting at ten at night. They shot me with truth serum. The nurse that called you, told me that. They told her to tell me that I have diabetes.”
Naim was pacing the small room digesting every word from his client. He stopped, and said, “I sent an e-mail and letter via courier to Shai Brown demanding that they not interrogate you outside of my presence.”
“He was there too. Bastard”
“Clearly out of line.”
“He referred to himself as God.”
Naim sighed. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
“On bail, you mean?” Thurman asked child-like. “They promised me bail if I cooperated with them.”
“They lied. A tactic they use all the time. They’re going to contest bail. The judge will give them that wrapped in a bow. Especially if there’s any incriminating speech on
your Facebook page.”
“It’s not. Besides, they’ve drugged me.”
“And at a hearing to suppress your so-called confession we will get that thrown out. In the meantime, though, I’m going to ask that you be housed in VA or Maryland.”
“No, but, they have to be punished for tricking and drugging me.”
“He does have a point,” Ginger said. “I’m hearing all kinds of Amendment violations.”
“Is that what you hear?” Naim asked, “we can’t prove he wasn’t given insulin.”
“Yes the hell we can.” In my presidential-slogan-voice. “The nurse would testify that she was also tricked into giving me a truth serum, forcing me to give a false confession. If I even did. I don’t remember everything that I said, but I bet I said anything to get some sleep.”
“Did you or did you not kill a judge and senator?” Ginger asked, scratching her head with the tip of a pencil as if she was trying to solve a college-level algebraic equation.
“That’s irrelevant,” Naim said quickly, his bushy eyebrows reaching for his hairline. “We don’t ask clients that because the system requires prosecutors to prove that.”
“On the stand they do,” Thurman said.
“That’s where the most lies are told in the courtroom,” said Naim, smiling.
“And from the prosecutor’s table,” Ginger added. “Maybe not lies, but...”
“Alternative facts,” Naim said. “And we don’t call them lies. It’s not polite.”
“Spare me they politically correct, bullshit,” Thurman said. “They’re liars. What is our next move? Because look at my face,”—he tapped the newspaper that Naim had brought with him—“and the dumbass headlines on the cover of D.C.’s most read propaganda machine. The lying and manipulative prosecutor drugged me, coerced a confession out of me, and then artfully had the media run with his alternative renditions of the facts. That’s the real fake news.”
“They do have a media blower, but I came to D.C. with my very own media megaphone. I have to chat in-person with the nurse that called me. I wonder why she helped you?”
A Butler Summer Page 17
