One to Go

by Mike Pace

  Nary a la-di-da? Tom decided he might have to change Danny’s name to Danny the Big Time Asshole. DTBTA. Nah, too many letters. “And Mackey scared away the witness?”

  “Witness was a whore with kids—who isn’t in that world?—so Mackey tells her he’s gonna cap the babies unless she contracts a serious case of amnesia. She gets amnesia.”

  “Guess I’m going to have to meet the guy, find out what happened in the bar.”

  “Good luck, and Newbie, watch out for ice burns.”

  Ha, ha, ha, ha. Asshole.

  CHAPTER 20

  The good thing about working for the Public Defender Service—one of several good things, actually—was Tom could finish up at a decent hour. He’d been able to see Janie every night since he took the assignment, and now he was heading back to DC from Arlington after taking Janie and Angie to Chez Mac for burgers and fries.

  He crossed into the District and headed south, caught the Southwest Freeway, which became the Southeast Freeway, and crossed the 11th Street Bridge into Anacostia, one of the highest crime areas of the city. He’d called Mackey, who had to be reminded who he was. Mackey had reluctantly agreed to meet him at Bertha’s, a hole-in-the wall dive on Alabama Avenue. Tom involuntarily patted his jacket pocket where Mr. Glock rested comfortably. He didn’t intend to execute his plan—bad choice of words—that evening for the simple reason that he had no plan. Rather, his goal was to reconnoiter—another bad choice of words for the simple reason that it sounded so lame.

  He found Bertha’s easily enough. After parking directly under a streetlight, he crossed the street and entered the bar. Everything inside was dark; everybody inside was dark. The place was packed, and all eyes were on him.

  He walked as slowly as he could to the bar. He hadn’t had a drink since the morning of the orange puke, but he reasoned that if he ordered a soft drink his client wouldn’t respect him and might not talk to him. Maybe he’d just order a beer, take a few sips to show his street cred.

  The bartender—Bertha?—a huge black woman with tattoos covering every exposed part of her flesh, approached him warily. Her hair shot straight out from her head, as if she’d just stuck her finger into an electrical socket. Her cheeks were so fleshy, her eyes appeared as black slits in her face.

  “We ain’t want no trouble,” she said, her voice a deep rumble.

  Tom was momentarily confused, then it hit him. She thought he was a cop.

  “Uh, no, I ain’t a cop.” Why did he say “ain’t?” He never said “ain’t.” “Supposed to meet Reece Mackey.”

  The bartender nodded. “CJA.”

  “Yeah. How ’bout a beer?”

  She paused for a moment, then rinsed out a glass and drew a Bud from the tap. “Twenty bucks.”

  Okay, he had two choices: One—tell her that was outrageous and he wasn’t paying twenty bucks for a draft beer, an option that likely would result in him not escaping the establishment alive; or two—lay a twenty on the bar and thank her. After considering the matter for a nanosecond, he smiled and pulled a twenty from his wallet.

  “He’s over there with LaChiqua and Ball.” She pointed to the darkest corner of the bar, where Tom recognized Mackey seated at a small table with his woman and a small black man with a shaved head.

  Tom made his way over to Mackey’s table. Half-full glasses of straight whiskey rested in front of them.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Mackey.” Tom extended his hand.

  Mackey ignored it.

  Tom took a seat. He addressed the woman and the little man. “I’m Tom Booker, the attorney assigned to defend Mr. Mackey.” Both stared at him with glassy eyes. “Uh, as you know, anything Reece tells me is confidential and can’t be used against him. But, if a third party also hears Reece say something to me, then—”

  “She stay.” Mackey’s face was devoid of expression. “She not sayin’ nuthin’.”

  Fair enough. “No problem.” Tom turned to the bald man, presumably, Ball.

  Mackey caught Ball’s eye and gestured with his head toward the bar. The little man frowned, then gave Tom the once over. “Make him buy me a drink. Premium.”

  Tom pulled another twenty from his wallet. Ball jerked it from his fingers and departed for the bar.

  Before Tom could speak, Mackey drained his whiskey, then handed the empty glass to LaChiqua.

  “Tell ’er I want the good stuff. CJA’s buyin’.” His dead eyes locked on Tom’s.

  “Sure. My treat.” Tom opened his wallet and removed a ten.

  Mackey reached over and pulled out a twenty, then gave the thirty bucks to the woman. “Tell ’er the real good stuff. And to start a tab.” LaChiqua left for the bar. Mackey smiled broadly at Tom, flashing his gold tooth, but his eyes remained dead.

  “Okay,” said Tom, “so as I understand it, this is where the altercation occurred. Can you tell me what happened in your own words?” Whose words would he use? He had to stop watching cops shows on TV.

  Mackey shrugged. “Tonka, he grabbed my woman’s titties.” Tonka was Tonka Jones, the assault victim.

  “So, when Jones sexually assaulted your girlfriend, you were simply defending her.”

  Mackey gave Tom a quizzical look. “Didn’t say sex, didn’t fuck her. Well, he did fuck her, but that was last year when she was his woman. He just grabbed her titties, and when he did, he knocked over my drink. So I asks him to buy me another one, and he tell me to go fuck myself, so I cut him.”

  “Okay, but when we go to court, might be better if we paint this as you defending your girlfriend. Maybe your intention was simply to display the knife to deter him from further assaulting her; he pushes you and you accidently nick him in the arm.” Bending the facts this far triggered somewhere in the back of Tom’s mind the concept of legal ethics, but this thought disappeared quickly for two reasons: first, in the great ethical continuum, bending the truth appeared substantially to the right of serial murder; and second, Mackey would never lie to the jury because, again, he’d be dead.

  LaChiqua returned with a beer mug filled with whiskey and a few cubes of ice. “Crown Preferred,” she said.

  Mackey grinned from ear to ear. He took the mug, raised it to Tom in a toasting gesture, then took a long drink.

  Tom couldn’t insult the man so he drank half his beer. The sight of the Canadian whiskey triggered a reflex in Tom, and he had to struggle not to order another beverage more serious than a tapped Bud.

  He turned to the woman. “Might I get your name?”

  She looked to Mackey for permission.

  Tom continued. “Reece said he was defending you against Tonka when he cut him. You could be key to his defense.”

  “Ain’t gonna be no defense ’cause ain’t gonna be no trial,” said Mackey. “Tonka ain’t gonna post.”

  “How do you know? I must advise you that the prosecutor’s not treating this like a run-of-the-mill simple assault. They still have it in for you for beating the murder rap, so they’re going to go all out. Which means they’ll threaten Tonka if they have to, and send a car for him to make sure he appears.”

  Another flash of the gold tooth. “As I said, Tonka ain’t gonna post.” His tone made plain that no further comment was being solicited.

  Mackey’s solution posed a problem. Tom needed an excuse to meet up with his client again in a private setting. He stood to leave, not bothering to extend his hand.

  “Great to meet you both. If I hear the prosecutor has happened upon any other evidence, I’ll give you a call.”

  Mackey held up his mug of premium whiskey. “Thanks.”

  Tom drained the rest of the beer, then exited the bar. The Lexus was still there and appeared to be untouched. As he reached the car, he heard a voice behind him.

  “Give it up.”

  He turned to see three black teens, one of whom was pointing a gun at his head. Interestingly, his first thought was the gun appeared to be a Glock, same as the one in his jacket pocket. He had two choices: one, grab for his gu
n and hope he could use the element of surprise to shoot the kid before the kid shot him; or, two, give it up.

  He pulled out his wallet. “Tell you what, guys, I give you the cash, you leave my credit cards and stuff, I don’t even call the cops. We look on it as a donation.”

  The one with the gun paused as he considered the offer, then nodded. Tom pulled out the cash, about 800 bucks, and handed it to the tallest kid.

  “Think I may cap you anyways,” said the kid.

  “Please…no need for that…” Tom stepped back as his hand moved to his pocket, then he heard a whistle.

  Tom and the teens turned to see Mackey standing across the street in front of the bar. Mackey made a cutting gesture across his neck which could either mean slice whitey’s throat, or stop, don’t shoot him. Fortunately it meant the latter. The three teens turned and walked away.

  Tom waved his thanks to Mackey for saving his life. His client ignored him and returned to the bar.

  As Tom drove away, he tried not to think of the new complication. He was planning to kill a man who’d just saved his life.

  He turned his phone back on. The screen showed he’d missed a call.

  He froze.

  The caller ID read: P. Castro, DCP.

  CHAPTER 21

  Tom drove north on Connecticut Avenue, then turned right onto Columbia Road. Almost home. Castro hadn’t left a message, so Tom reasoned the purpose of his call must not have been important. Then why was acid spraying into his stomach like a garden hose? Should he call back? Again, no message; no please call back, or, you’re under arrest for murder. He checked the time of the call: 11:13 p.m. Two hours ago. Obviously, too late to return the call.

  When he turned onto Biltmore, Percy Castro was sitting in an unmarked car parked in front of Tom’s apartment building.

  Castro got out of his car and waved to Tom. Damn. Tom stopped and rolled down his window. He strained to appear cheerful.

  “Evening, Detective. Or, guess it’s good morning.” Ha, ha, ha, you’re a real comedian, Booker.

  “Out hitting the bars, Mr. Booker?” Castro was smiling, but the best Tom could tell in the limited light cast by a streetlamp half a block away, the smile was mirthless.

  “No, just coming back from interviewing a CJA client down in Southeast.”

  Castro didn’t respond, but kept the smile. Definitely sans mirth. Should he park? Fortunately, there were no spaces available nearby.

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  “Just routine follow-up on the Battaglia case.”

  Did he say, “Just routine?” Didn’t he know everyone in the world who watched TV knew that whenever a cop said “Just routine” it meant the opposite?

  “We found Gino’s gun box on a shelf in his closet. Three sets of prints: his, those of his deceased wife, and unknown. Seeing as how you were related by marriage and were present at the time of the incident, thought maybe you might be willing to come down to the station tomorrow and get inked.”

  Okay, quick decision time here. “Be happy to do whatever you need, but I can tell you the third set’s probably mine. When I took Angie back to get her clothes, I found her suitcase up on that shelf. Had to move the box. I admit I was curious what was inside. I shouldn’t have opened it; none of my business, but I did. So I wouldn’t be surprised if you found my prints on the inside as well.”

  Castro paused for a second. “Okay, then. That explains it.” He eye-locked with Tom. Thankfully, it was dark inside Tom’s car so, hopefully, Castro couldn’t see the abject fear in his eyes. “Goodnight, Mr. Booker. If you wait a second, you can have my parking space.”

  “Thanks.”

  Castro took his time walking back to his car, got in, and slowly pulled away.

  Over the following days, Tom tried to push Castro from his mind. There should be no further reason for concern. The detective had found extra prints on the gun box. He was following up, doing his job, that’s all. Just routine. Tom had answered the detective’s questions, answers that happened to be the truth. So why did Castro’s image continue to lurk in his head?

  Couldn’t worry about it now. Tomorrow was Saturday. D-Day.

  Tom needed to come up with a plan to get Mackey alone in the man’s own apartment. Seeing as how Mackey intended to persuade the victim of the assault that testifying was not conducive to his health, any ruse based on discussing a plea deal would be ignored. There was no need to plead, because there’d be no case, because there’d be no victim to testify.

  On Thursday night, Tom called Mackey, and was surprised when he answered after only a couple of rings.

  “Mr. Mackey, Tom Booker.”

  Silence.

  Tom continued. “So, I was interviewing one of my other clients, and he told me he heard some folks were plotting to take you out.”

  “Who?”

  Tom lowered his voice in an attempt to sound conspiratorial. “Don’t want to talk about it over the phone. And I think we should talk alone.” He waited what seemed like forever for a response.

  “Saturday night.”

  He’d spent Friday morning with Eva representing felony defendants in preliminary hearings—known as “px’s” among members of the criminal bar. The ostensible purpose of the hearing was for the court to determine whether sufficient probable cause existed to bind a defendant over for trial. Defense counsel used the px as the first opportunity to cross-examine the arresting officer and gain added discovery.

  They’d been sitting before Arnie Turkus, who’d once been chief deputy at PDS, and he’d been more lenient than the AUSA wanted in allowing Eva to question the arresting officers, squeezing as much information as she could before even Judge Turkus, facing a crowded docket, cut her off and bound the defendant over.

  In the past, Eva had used the lunch break to return to the office, but Turkus only gave them forty-five minutes, so they both hurried downstairs to the courthouse coffee shop for a quick sandwich. Called the Firehook Bakery and Coffee House, the place served the usual crapacino array of coffee choices along with homemade soups and stacked deli sandwiches. Large travel and sports posters hung on gold-colored walls, and along with the fake mahogany tables, offered a pleasant alternative to the typical drab government-issue cafeteria.

  “So, what did you think about this morning?” asked Eva.

  They sat at a small, two-person table in the back corner of the loud, crowded room. She wolfed down a chicken salad sandwich while he picked at a turkey Reuben. He’d ordinarily welcome a few minutes of private social time with Eva, but his mind was focused on facing Reece Mackey the next day with a gun in his hand. Would he pull the trigger? Could he pull the trigger?

  “Tom, you with me?”

  “Sorry.”

  Before he could continue, DTA walked by, and Tom saw a flash of disappointment when Danny realized there were no extra chairs at the table.

  “Room for one more?” asked Danny. He looked around for an empty chair from a nearby table.

  Tom wasn’t in the mood for idle conversation. “Here, take mine.” He cleared his place.

  “You okay?” asked Eva.

  “Had a big breakfast. See you back in court.” He left before she could respond.

  The afternoon session moved more quickly. Eva had given Tom the last file of the day to handle—a murder case. Freemont James, aka Jiggy, barely eighteen with a rap sheet going back to the age of ten, was accused of shooting one Alfred Lewis, aka Spider, in the face outside a bar on 14th Street.

  The prosecutor called the arresting officer to the stand. Tom was shocked to see Percy Castro approach from the back of the room and take the witness chair.

  The prosecutor, a good-looking Latino who appeared as if he’d just graduated from high school, easily walked Castro through a recitation of the facts, making sure to elicit the bare elements of the crime. Took less than two minutes. The judge turned to Eva.

  “Ms. Stoddard?”

  “Mr. Booker will handle this one, Your Hono
r.”

  “Make it fast, Mr. Booker.”

  Tom stood. “Yes, Your Honor.” He faced Castro, who greeted him with a bemused expression. Tom’s hand shook, rattling the sheet of yellow-lined paper holding his quickly scribbled notes. Castro’s eyes moved to the shaking paper. Tom dropped the paper onto the defense table.

  “Uh, so, Detective, what were the lighting conditions at the scene of the alleged shooting?”

  “Oh, the shooting wasn’t alleged, Mr. Booker. Got a stiff with half his face blown off and two recovered 9mm slugs from his brain.”

  “Okay, well, what about the light?”

  “The defendant popped him right under a streetlamp in front of a well-lit bar. As I said in response to the prosecutor’s questions, we have three witnesses, we recovered Jiggy’s Glock from his apartment, and the ballistics matched.”

  Eva scribbled a note on her yellow pad: statements?

  Before Tom could ask the question, Castro exchanged glances with Eva. “She’s probably telling you to ask me about statements. We’ve got signed affidavits from the three witnesses and a signed confession. The confession was videotaped, so you’ll see he was fully apprised of his rights and elected to talk without a lawyer. If memory serves, his direct quote was, ‘Yeah, I capped the mother ’cause he showed me disrespect by not tellin’ his ho to gimme a blowjob.’”

  The judge intervened. “Sit down, Mr. Booker. The defendant will be bound over. Court’s adjourned.” He banged his gavel.

  Castro stepped down from the witness stand and offered his hand. Tom shook it.

  “Good to see you, Mr. Booker. I’m sure our paths will cross again.”

  As he spoke, Tom imagined Castro’s eyes boring into him. His knees began to shake. Could Castro see his knees shaking? Stop it.