Murder in Germantown Page 14

  By 10:35, I was in the Honorable Francis Willis’s courtroom, and my only purpose there was to build my dossier on Assistant District Attorney, Guy Dietz. I had a file on all of them at the DA’s office. I knew their weaknesses, strengths, and conviction records. I studied them with vigor. I may have known the legal them better than they did. My file on them contained character flaws, attitude problems, and mood swings. Did they whine about being overruled? Did they offer abusive objections? Did they speak clearly? Eloquently? Were they sartorial and exuded confidence? What did they drive? Where did they reside? Married? Single? Kids? Clubs? Memberships? Affairs? Thanks to Rude, I knew it all.

  Take Guy Dietz. He donned a navy suit more than enough. I knew it was the same one because it had a miniscule cigarette burn on the bottom right side of the jacket. He adored clip-on bow ties. He was an absolute slob without table manners. We lunched--once, and trust that was enough--to discuss a plea. He raised his spoon to his mouth ninety going south. He kept his mouth packed. Never did he stop shifting his food in his mouth creating that abominable smacking sound that cattle were notorious for. He was a vile and viscous viper toward defense witnesses and the presiding judges. And his mother gave him a sexy name like, Guy. He was no Guy. Not even a Bartholomew. I had heard him punctuate a question to a witness with a curse. Now there he was before the Court to hear all motions in limine of a robbery case that was tried shortly after the limine hearings. This was what unfolded before the Court:

  “What other motions do you intend to file?” Judge Willis asked David Tom, the defense attorney.

  David Tom was a veteran attorney who spent 17 years at the DA’s office prior to private practice. No doubt he had the DA’s number. He knew their strategies, how they selected a case to try, prep witnesses, select experts, and gather case law. He had a fairly solid image. Nothing to scantily clad in his legal closet.

  “Honorable Willis, the defense will file a motion to dismiss based on the prosecution not bringing my client to trial within the 180-days as set forth in the Penal Code...”

  Good ol’ Guy Dietz, interruptive-attorney-at-law cut his colleague off.

  “Undoubtedly, the Commonwealth will oppose that motion,” Dietz said, loudly and rose to his feet. “We...”

  “Mr. Dietz, please have a seat,” Judge Willis chided.

  He had his glasses, which were tinted, looking directly in Dietz’s direction. As far as I knew, he could have been looking at a Playboy Magazine behind those glasses. They were shades.

  “I will not be yelled at as long as I wear the black robe.”

  That was a pompous statement, and one to be noted in my Judge Willis file.

  That far, my Willis file reflected that he was 61. I was at his 60th birthday bash, as Wydell called them. He had been on the bench for 19-years and made a play for General Attorney. He had his political path paved until scandal brought him down. He was accused of taking a bribe. I digress.

  “Undoubtedly,” he continued sarcastically, and I wanted to hoot, “You’ll oppose. I would think that when you walked into this courtroom you were aware that today is the day that I’d hear motions in limine, and you would be doing a lot of opposing. Now do your job and please allow me to do mine without the grandiose interruptions. There’s no media here, but if you’d like some, maybe you can have Abraham re-assign you to the Torres cannibal circus on 10.”

  Dietz bowed down in his seat. I had never seen that, or Willis being so calloused. The pressure was now on the defense, too. Tom knew he had better not become a victim of that harshness, especially when a jury was involved. But, I’d bet that Willis would not pull that in front of a jury.

  I received a text message from Rude, and was rescued from this train wreck.

  CHAPTER 44

  Aramis looked forward to going to the LaSalle University campus. At precisely 11:35, he stumbled into the bathroom. He showered, trimmed his goatee and dressed. He looked like a Harvard student all over again. He donned jeans and a college sweatshirt, sipped coffee and sat at his desk reviewing his notes from Ravonne. His home telephone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and gripped it up.

  “Yes, Mr. Lemmelle,” he said, chuckling.

  “Good boy,” Ravonne said and laughed. “Listen, you’ve got to get over to that campus. I need a story on my client, Wydell James. Nothing negative.”

  “You’ve told me this.”

  “Miz, this is tricky, man. I need some sympathy.”

  “And you’re going to get it by the late edition. Stop sweating me man.”

  “But it’s already noon. You know all of the campus will be drunk by two. I know this reporting thing is fun for you. Just another day in Vegas, but a man’s life is on the line. The stakes are high. You have to get back to the newsroom to type this bad boy up and have ninety-nine editors review it. With all that, won’t you miss a deadline?”

  “Come on, Ray-Ray. Step into the millennium. I’ll E-mail the article. I’m only doing color and background. Besides, I already have the shell of the article written. I’ll E-mail it to you before I leave out the door.”

  “Okay. Could you add a name to your list? Shannon Oscar is my client’s girlfriend. She tossed me a $30,000 retainer. See if you can find anywhere the money came from. Don’t ask right out; just suggest that I am so expensive. If Wydell was into anything crooked, especially selling drugs, I need to be prepared.”

  “Why doesn’t he just tell you that?”

  “Clients usually have no knowledge of the law. They believe they can’t be represented by me if I know the truth. I can and would. It’s just ethically I could never claim that they’re innocent, only that the prosecutor can’t prove it.”

  “That’s why I report the law, and not defend it. And you call what I do Vegas. I am going to the campus no. Bye!”

  Life without a woman was bad enough, but Ravonne wanted him to run around college campuses and be surrounded by well-favored females with brains and retentive knowledge. He had been driving for ten minutes before he thought about how much fun that may be. Maybe this investigative escapade would take his mind off sex for a moment.

  Not hardly.

  He would run down his list of students he needed to interview, write up his piece, be back home by eight to catch 24. As he watched 24, he would have the phone chat line on hold.

  He parked his car on Olney Avenue in front of a building that mirrored an Italian cathedral. He found the registrar’s office there. He did not want to be on campus long, so he handed the student clerk a list of basketball players that he wanted to interview. He also gave her a lie that he was writing a piece on college hoop stars. The student looked at his press credentials suspiciously, but she handed over the class schedules of three students. It was against school policy, but how could she deny those students the possibility of receiving coverage that could put them on the NBA’s radar. It’ll be a little trickier to get Shannon Oscar’s, though, he thought.

  “Thank you,” Aramis told her very nicely. “Would you happen to know, Shannon Oscar?” he asked coolly with a smile on his face.

  It was warm like she was an old friend.

  “The runner? Yeah. What about her?”

  “Happen to have her schedule? I hear her boyfriend is the star of the team? I’d like to get her take on him.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Reed. I could be in trouble for the schedules that I have already passed to you. I better talk to the Dean first.”

  No deans, he thought. He may get kicked off campus and not get to the boys if the dean was called. He thanked her and flashed from the hallway before she felt guilty and confessed her crime to the dean and security. I’d report that, too, he thought and laughed out loud.

  CHAPTER 45

  Aramis studied the Spring 2007 listing of classes, professors and classrooms on a bulletin board in the school cafe. The board reminded him of Harvard’s advertisements for old text book sales, tutors, roommates, off-campus rooms/apartments, party announcements, intramural games, and club
meetings. A pretty little woman skated past him on roller blades. He smiled at her and signaled for her to stop.

  “Sorry to bother you,” he said as she removed her earphones from her ear. “Could you point out these three buildings for me? I’m new and haven’t learned the campus, yet.”

  “Sure.”

  She began to point out the buildings.

  “Thanks,” he told her and locked in the building locations. Before she skated off, he asked, “Do you happen to know Shannon Oscar?”

  “I do.”

  “I need to talk to her. I wanted to check on Wydell.”

  “Wydell?” she asked. “What happened to him?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “No.”

  “He’s in jail for murder.”

  “No way,” she raved with her mouth ajar. “He’s no murderer.”

  “Cops say so,” Aramis replied like a college punk.

  He recalled that coy tactic working excellently to get Harvard co-eds into bed.

  “That’s why I wanna talk to Shannon to be sure that he is holding on.”

  “From what I know, she stays in a rooming house on 20th Avenue. I don’t know the address, but the house has a lot of lights and Christmas ornaments on the lawn, which eight days after New Year’s the girls continue to light.”

  “Thanks a lot. What’s your name?”

  “Dora.”

  “Antonio.”

  “Nice to meet you, Antonio. I’ll see you around.”

  Aramis watched her cute little butt skate away and he made his way to Jared Vetter’s Art History class. The class should have been ending, and he hoped that the professor did not release early. He entered the hallway and four classes rushed into the hall. He eyed the students coming out of classroom 107B. It was not hard to spot Vetter. He was 6’5”, lanky and boisterous. Jared was no doubt a jock.

  “Excuse me? Jared? You’re Jared Vetter, right?”

  Cocky stare. “Who’s asking?”

  Here came the lie. That was the part that Aramis loved.

  “I’m Kevin James, Wydell James’ brother. He was arrested and I’m trying to find out some information about him. He told me that you were on his team and would help him with an alibi.”

  “I heard about that. I thought it was a rumor. What kinda help does he need?”

  “Solid alibi help.”

  “I like Wydell. Great guy and all, but I won’t lie for him.”

  “Just confirm that he was not at a party on Saturday and that’s all he needs.”

  “Sure, he was there! He’s the Main Attraction. He comes to every party.”

  “Main Attraction?”

  “You know like, Allen Iverson, The Answer. Wydell James, the Main Attraction. Your parents must be proud?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “He pushed out of the ghetto at 26 to go to college. He proves that anything is possible.”

  “Yeah, that’s my lil’ bro.”

  Five minutes later, Aramis found Michael Rains’ Ethics class and peeked into the door. The professor had the students working in groups, which made it easy for him to slip into the class and approach the professor.

  “Sorry to bother you professor, but I have an urgent message for a student named Michael Rains. He has a family emergency.”

  “Who are you?”

  “John. I’m the part-time student clerk at the academic advisor’s office.”

  “Well, Mr. Rains is not here. He cut my class and be sure that the advisor gets that,” the professor said.

  “I’ll be sure to.”

  Amongst a row of duplexes on 20th Avenue, Aramis found the only home with enough ornaments to be in the Christmas Day parade. He approached the walkway leading to the front door and accidentally bumped into an alluring, dressed down co-ed. He excused himself and picked up her cell phone. He handed it to her. Her touch was soft. Very feminine.

  “You’re quite excused,” she told him and brushed pass him.

  “If my phone is broken, I’ll track you around this campus for payment.” She wanted to add: “With ya fine self.”

  Feisty, he thought. He handed her a business card. “If it’s broken, I’ll take care of it.”

  She scanned the card.

  “Why are you here?” Plenty of attitude.

  “Looking to talk about Wydell James. I hear his girlfriend lives here. Do you know Wydell?”

  “Of course I do, and I’m investigating his arrest. This campus is my turf,” she then tossed him a card of her own, and said, “Rhonesia Cosby, LSU campus reporter.”

  “How coincidental?”

  “Very. Now be gone before I have campus security escort you out of here.”

  She had no idea if that was possible, but the threat was cute.

  “To late,” he said as security pulled up.

  Two youthful, gunless, security guards hopped out a Chevy Cavalier. They exited their car as Shannon Oscar appeared in a second story window.

  She yelled, “Both of you, get off my property. None of the girls that live here want to speak to you. So leave.”

  She slammed the window shut and closed the blinds.

  “You heard her,” fake cop number one said.

  The other one told Aramis, “Sir, you need to leave the campus. All interviews must be cleared through the deans. Do not come back here asking for student rosters, or you will be arrested.”

  He then told Rhonesia, “You have enough enemies.”

  “None in the security office,” she snapped, “but I could create a couple.”

  Aramis got the point and strolled nonchalantly to his car. He was mad that he had to leave that soon. Not because he had one more student to talk to; he wanted to be in the company of Rhonesia Cosby.

  CHAPTER 46

  Rhonesia had spent four hours trying to convince the executive editor of the school paper that they should allow her to effectively pursue the Wydell James case. He only agreed after she agreed to be partial to no one and report what she found without bias. That would force her to print up a scandal sheet of all the things that she found which ordinarily provoked a libel law suit. She had convinced Shannon Oscar to meet with her after showing genuine concern via E-mail. They did not meet on campus. They met at a McDonald’s at Broad and Olney, four blocks from the campus.

  “Hey, Shan,” Rhonesia said as she slipped into the very last booth in the back of the fast-food joint.

  “Hello, Neesha,” Shan replied.

  Her tone was low and extremely timid.

  “I’m glad you changed your mind about meeting me. I am definitely on your side. Well, Wydell’s.”

  “Thanks. I’ll tell him. Sorry about my rudeness earlier, it’s just so many people pestering me,” she said and sipped her coffee.

  She was in mourning.

  “I can’t go anywhere without feeling like I am being stalked by reporters.”

  “I am sorry if I upset you. I am new at talking to real victims,” Rhonesia smiled.

  Shannon smiled, too.

  “He was so protective. No one would be bothering me if he was here. These idiots be playing on my house phone and sending me crazy E-mails.”

  “I bet every boy next door has you on their to-do list. They’re like high schoolers. We’re so lucky,” Rhonesia said, chuckling. She was warming up to being an investigator. “How’s Wydell?”

  “He’s fine. He called me once. I can’t even see him until he’s out of quarantine. He’s so healthy. He said he’s sleeping in a closet full of bunk beds. It’s him, a drug dealer, a robber, and three drug addicts. Two of them are dope sick, vomiting and defecating everywhere. It’s terrible.”

  “That sounds horrible. What if he gets sick with TB, Hep-C, or a staph infection in there?”

  “They don’t care. It’s insane. I can’t wait to see him.”

  “I’d like to see him myself,” Rhonesia said. “Could you ask him for me?”

  “Sure.”

  “I can’t imagine hav
ing to go through this.”