Murder in Germantown Page 11

  “Yes, Mr. Chairman,” Clyde replied.

  Ass Kisser. Mr. Chairman!

  “Yes,” I said flatly.

  “Now, Mr. Cooley, my job is to determine punishment if any as a result of your alleged misconducts. And to decide that, I must consider three factors: your overall probation history, the success of your attempts to be rehabilitated, and lastly, the circumstances and gravity of the offenses.”

  “Mr. Smith has recommended you spend a 24-month violation term at your paroling institution, SCI-Greenburg, and that the $7,000 be confiscated from you. Mr. Lemmelle, have you and your client reviewed Mr. Smith’s findings?”

  “We have.”

  “Mr. Smith, your case.”

  Clyde Smith cleared his throat maniacally before he spoke.

  “Mr. Cooley has a grandiose arrogance and is a serious program failure. He has not maintained gainful employment, was often tardy for appointments or a no show, his residence with his mother is dubious in addition to him going to both New York City and Detroit. He was in the company of Allen Davis, a man wanted for not one, not five, but 16 counts of forgery. He was then found in possession of seven grands neatly wrapped in an overnight bag--a Prada bag valued at $1,700. Probably a boon from fugitive Davis’s forgeries. That summarizes why Mr. Cooley is a threat to the safety of others and should spend 24-months thinking about becoming a productive American citizen.”

  He closed his folder, and I wanted to applaud. I did.

  Clap!

  Clap!

  Clap!

  “Mr. Lemmelle?” the chairman said.

  “Sorry.”

  Brav-fucking-O. He had run down a litany of my client’s grotesque behavior and now I would air his. The Latins called it quid pro quo. Christians called it an eye for an eye. I called it payback’s a bitch!

  “Mr. Smith, you mentioned that Mr. Cooley did not maintain gainful employment, however, Mr. Cooley reports that he was employed part-time at CVS, once upon a time. He further reports that you visited him at work where he was cashiering in the pharmacy, and you informed his boss, Mr. Lockhart, that he had a drug conviction and advised that it would not be wise for him to be working around drugs that he could steal and peddle. Mr. Lockart fired him the next day, correct?”

  “Yes, that is correct. It is my duty to protect companies from third-party risks. Mr. Cooley’s thirst to peddle drugs was a risk to CVS and people who may consume the stolen drugs, if such a thing was to occur.”

  “Thirst! He has one arrest. One conviction with very sketchy details,” I said hotly.

  I wanted to stand and show my ass, but I was not in court. Nevertheless, it was showtime.

  I dug into my Cooley file and brought out a “Motion to Recover Confiscated Cash, for you gentleman.” I handed copies to both Vasquez and Smith.

  “Take note, the demand is for $7,350. That’s 5% interest for the ten days that money has been out of my client’s hands.”

  I passed along two other documents.

  “The one is a sworn testimony of a MGM Grand pit manager who attests that Mr. Cooley received a house card at the Detroit gaming establishment and he acknowledges that Mr. Cooley won the cash in the casino. The second form is an itemized list of the comp incurred by Mr. Cooley.”

  I went into my briefcase again and pulled out a DVD.

  “This is a lovely home movie of Mr. Cooley raking up cash at the Pai-gow Poker table. Would you like to take a look?”

  “I would,” Vasquez said. “But there’s no DVD player, here.”

  I knew that, and the DVD was blank. Ha!

  I moved on. My position was on record.

  “My client was a student at Temple University for two full semesters. Of eight classes,”--I passed along 12 other documents--“he’s earned five A’s and three B’s. He has a 3.6 GPA. There’s also a letter from all eight professors. All of them contradict Mr. Smith’s description of Mr. Cooley. As a full-time student, finding compatible work was no easy feat and the job he did have, Mr. Smith made him leave. Ten days have been long enough for Mr. Cooley to get the point that he cannot leave the area or be around felons. He’s trying and deserves a chance to complete school and work towards being a citizen.”

  Vasquez nodded and asked was I done.

  I was.

  Vasquez asked us to step out of the room. I hoped that he was badgering Mr. Smith for not responsibly presenting the facts. So many men were railroaded during parole hearings. Simply locking a man up for the slightest violation created a feeling of hopelessness and despair within men who had refrained from committing new crimes. A little road trip was hardly sufficient to lose all hopes on a man, and if he did commit a crime, he was innocent until proven guilty. Besides this created prison overcrowding, which wasted taxpayer’s money and caused CO’s to get overtime to babysit men. Did taxpayers really want to feed, clothe, house and offer medical and dental benefits to Mr. Cooley for leaving the damn area? I doubted it. And so did, Mr. Vasquez.

  Vasquez ordered Donald Cooley to spend the next six months on house arrest, only to be allowed out for classes and work. The chairman reaffirmed that Mr. Cooley was not to leave the area or socialize with known felons.

  Vasquez then gave the notorious warning, which began, “If you come before me again...”

  Mr. Cooley thanked me and shook my hand with his right hand and hugged me with his left in that masculine way that men did. I nearly melted into a puddle of chocolate.

  CHAPTER 35

  Inside the Philadelphia County District Attorney’s office, the drab style of old furnishings almost forced me to regurgitate my palatable manicotti and a glass of red wine, which I consumed at Restaurante di Mario with Marsha. Everything was standard government issue gray and needed to be replaced. The assistant DA’s needed to be replaced, as well, along with Lindsay Abraham’s philosophy.

  Cynthia Thomas’ life was such an open newspaper. She made a play to be in the face of a half-dozen microphones--probably imaging that they were penises--every chance she got. It was only a matter of time before the media wanted the official skinny on the Wydell James case, and Cynthia would work relentlessly to pollute the potential juror’s minds. She was more actress--C movie Sci-Fi--than a very skilled solicitor. She was the protégé of Lindsay Abraham, who knew expertly how to drive a trial to the last stop: Felony Conviction.

  After having me wait over 20 minutes, Cynthia came over her secretary’s intercom and I was told that she was ready for me. (I promise that she wasn’t.) I entered her office and found her behind her desk. She had glasses on her oval face,, her hair was pulled back, and she had a big nose. She wore a timeless red Donna Karan two-piece suit with a white blouse. I couldn’t see the feet, but I bet they were cheap flat shoes.

  “I thought that we should chat,” I said. “Considering we were partners and all. One looking for everything wrong, You. One looking for everything right, Moi.”

  “I’m always open for conversation, Mr. Lemmelle. By the way, I’m looking for all of the right things to convict your client,” she told me.

  “Ow. Touché,” I said smiling.

  She called me Mr. Lemmelle when I salaciously dazzled her in that hotel room. I knew that she hated me, and I was not fooled one bit by her politeness.

  “I’m not here to make a deal. That’s not a part of my modus operandi. But if I get desperate, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Do not flatter yourself, Mr. Lemmelle. I am so over you.”

  “Beautiful. I was referring to the case. You must know that. I don’t expect to become desperate with this flawed case.”

  She looked at me crazily, and before she could try to manipulate me to ravish her right then, I said, “There seems to be a gun, specifically missing from my client’s vehicle. Albeit, there was a body warrant, I assume you could provide me with reasoning for your officer’s thievery?”

  “Oh, that’s an easy one, counselor. Plain view. As the officers were taking up position outside the home, guns drawn and prepped to a
nnihilate your client, one of them spotted the ass of the gun poking out from under the driver’s seat. And for the safety of the area children, who may have found it and committed an accidental triple homicide, like your client, the officers seized it.”

  “And it just so happened to be the smoking gun in my client’s car?” I asked. Flashed a smile. “Your men did not obtain a warrant before they took it. And your men did not get me a charming photo. All of this seems genuinely convenient. In your favor, of course.”

  “Not as convenient as your client murdering three people and then returning home for a celebratory romp. An interracial one.”

  Interracial? That was discovery.

  Who he bangs is not on trial.”

  “Oh, surely that gun going bang is on trial, counselor.”

  “Cute, but stop referring to me as counselor. We’ve touched on to many levels.”

  “Why are you here? He killed three men. One was an attorney. One of us.”

  “One of us. Surely he was not in my camp, maybe yours, though. He was a corrupt attorney, that is the appropriate description. My client is not an ordinary thug. There’s no extensive rap sheet, and I happen to believe he would not murder.”

  “I’m sure you believe that all of your clients are innocent,” she told me, tapping keys on her computer.

  A few seconds passed and she said, “Retail theft, nolle prosequi. The Gap Store was a complaint and a no show. Forgery, also nolle prosequi, complaintant resided in Connecticut and wouldn’t make the trip to testify considering his credit card balance was not affected. Two crimes. No justice. Now this. Graduated at the end of his class.”

  “No dope sales, which may present competitive motive. Not a matrix of violence on your little computer screen. You have the wrong guy.”

  I wondered whether she knew about the pizza-man robbery.

  “Look, why don’t you let the court decide guilty or innocent. That what it’s made for.”

  She had really just tried it. Usher’s record, That’s What It’s Made For was the song that played as I came during our escapade.

  “You’re really playing like whoever committed this murder did not do the city a favor.”

  “So sad a defense. Do you plan to present that to a jury? The lost lives were unworthy of life, so your client should be adulated for his heinous, barbaric, malicious murder? You’re losing your touch, and so soon. Only four years deep. I’m sure your firm will be proud.”

  “My career is fine.”

  What I did not add was “unlike your sex life!”

  “It’s just that my client has an alibi.”

  “It better be solid as the Constitution. Have you been keeping track of the media lately with all of the violence prevention campaigns? The people do not want gun violence, vigilantism, or not. They want blood. Suppose your client had shot an innocent. Oh! He did!”

  “This is going nowhere fast.”

  My cellphone rang. I saw Rude’s name and was glad that he had rescued me from that train wreck.

  “I presume that you can leave my office faster.”

  I rose out of her beggarly chair and made my way to her office door.

  As I opened it, I heard her chuckling as she said, “See you at the preliminary hearing, counselor.”

  I had a lot of comebacks, but I would get my laugh in court.

  CHAPTER 36

  The Philadelphia morgue was sandwiched between the VA Hospital and Children’s Hospital. How convenient? I exited my car and was met in the lobby by Rude.

  Rude said, “Welcome to Hell’s Kitchen. Today’s soup of the day is human brains, a delicacy more favorable than monkey brains.”

  He ushered me to Lillian Matsuda’s office as if the trek was as routine as a teeth brushing.

  “Did you get a chance to peruse the CS photos?”

  “I didn’t. Anything interesting?”

  “Depends,” he replied. “Hopefully, Lillian can answer some of my questions.”

  “Her news typically states the facts. Not help decide guilt or innocence. What she explains I’ll need a CIA operative to decipher all of the abbreviations and acronyms,” I said.

  Dr. Lillian Matsuda approached us and even captivated me with her allure. Rude looked at her as if she was the highlight of a dessert buffet. Strangely, she returned the gaze as if she’d like the chance to autopsy my anatomy. Dr. Matsuda, a forensic physician had a solid reputation and connections to various scientific fields. She ran her fingers through her long black hair before shaking my hand. She had on all black that day. A creepy beauty.

  “May as well get right to it,” she said, and led the way to the body refrigerator where the victims were stored.

  Dr. Matsuda gave the facts succinctly and very legibly. The cause of death was undisputable. The murderer’s weapon of choice was a firearm. She used murderer because she had ruled out suicide and accident. Two of the vics caught bullets in the cranium. One in the left parietal. The other in the occipital. The third vic was shot in the chest cavity, stopping all heart features needed to sustain life. The time of death was between midnight and two a.m.

  “You look like there’s a surprise on the tip of your tongue,” Rude said to her.

  I added, “Hopefully, it is not a devastating one. For the defense anyway.”

  “Let’s take a look at the bodies,” Dr. Matsuda said.

  There was nothing like the features of a cold, dead body. Victim 1’s toe tag identified him as Lawrence Miller, the lawyer. His yellowish complexion was pale and the area of his scalp which had been shaved was wrinkled. There was a bright orange one-inch, earplug type foam planted on the spot where the bullet entered. It was slanted.

  “The bullet penetrated the back of Mr. Miller’s head from a downward angle and became lodged in his throat,” the doctor said.

  “Which means that the shooter had to have been in the tree where the casings were found,” Rude said.

  I just listened to the details. Avariciously, analyzing everything I saw and heard. I’d get both of their written reports and sink my teeth into them, wholeheartedly. I was not a scientist, yet, but I would be though.

  “Mr. McKeithan was shot head on. I surmised that he was in motion. And, Mr. Daniels, the last vic, was lying down based on the direction that the bullet traveled through his cranium.”

  Rude watched her lips say every word. He was really in investigator mode. Dr. Matsuda walked us from the ice box of bodies to her office, which was equally cold. She went into a file and handed it to Rude. Not me, as if I wasn’t lead counsel.

  She said, “Everything in the report is as I’ve stated, but take a look at page six.”

  Rude turned to page six, and I looked over his shoulders. We both looked at each other and smiled.

  Dr. Matsuda confirmed my thoughts.

  “One of our guys did the prelim report, but it’ll return from the specialist very conclusive that Mr. McKeithan was shot with a different weapon than the other two.”

  “This was not in the initial preliminary autopsy report sent over to me this morning.” I barked, angrily.

  Cynthia had nerve. No wonder the report was so timely.

  “I know,” Dr. Matsuda said. “They intended to keep the finding and then spring it on you just before the prelim. But I always keep the defense abreast of these sorts of findings when a man’s life is on the line. I become quite hostile when upset defense attorneys growl at me when I am on the witness stand, as if I am the one that shot a hole in their case.”

  “Lil, you’re a godsend,” Rude said.

  “Thanks, doctor. We will be in touch,” I told her.

  My first time in a morgue went rather good considering I had two gunmen.

  Outside, I asked Rude, “You fucked, Dr. Lillian Matsuda?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You sly bastard. I can find out if you did. You’re not the only investigator.”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “For me, probable.”

  “Try!
”

  CHAPTER 37

  I walked into my office and the crime scene photos awaited me. The 8x10 color glossies were in a three-ring binder. I looked at the LaSalle keychain because it was the most damaging photo that Rude had taken. If Wydell’s prints were on that keychain, I would need a BC era miracle to keep him off death row. I wished for a moment that Rude had not found it. I was worrying prematurely. If there were no latent prints, then cool, but if Wydell’s prints were all over it, he couldn’t get out of being at the scene. That didn’t make him a murderer, though.