Murder in Germantown Page 16

  We both chuckled and, oh my, I let something slip to the media.

  “Be careful out there,” I told him as he prepared to leave. “Let me know when you are going into a hostile environment, so that I can track your ass down.”

  “Alright. Now, can I write this scathing report?”

  “Yup. And don’t misquote me!”

  “I’ll be sure to.”

  “Aramis, I will sue you...”

  He walked out on me. I laughed and said out loud, “My buddy, Aramis Terrell Reed.”

  CHAPTER 49

  “All rise for the court,” the bailiff yelled.

  “Please be seated,” the Honorable Joseph Defaria said as he dropped lazily into the tall, ebony, leather chair behind the bench.

  His voice was serene beneath his thin lips. He had the kind of blanched complexion and rosy cheeks that could make Santa envious. Defaria had slipped into the black robe for the past 22-years, and at 70, he was on his way out the door. Easy cases were all he was assigned to. He surmised--and it was delusional--that he was privileged not to have to deal with high profile cases. Truth was, he couldn’t be trusted in his old age to effectively oversee one.

  Prosecutor, Carmen Gonzalez sat on the right side of the courtroom poised next to her partner, Deborah Craig. Carmen’s suit was being selfish to her skin. It choked certain areas and exposed too much cleavage for a courtroom. Deborah, on the other hand, was a hefty black woman, who looked more appropriate for nursery school. I was not fooled. She knew how to exhume a suspect’s crime and neatly lay it all out for the courts. She would do it without malice, too, with a smile on her chubby face the entire time. The two of them were swamped with about 50 cases that day. It would be a long day for them, starting with me.

  The bailiff said, “Mark Fields, come forward.”

  I threw on my pince-nez and got into character as I walked toward the well. As I lay my briefcase on the defense table, Mark joined me. He wore a brown suit with a designer tie and expensive shoes. With teeth capped in gold and braids in his hair, my client looked like a pimp. I recalled the day that he came to my office. I had labeled him a masterful story teller. He could’ve made the men hard at work in Hollywood miserable. The same fantastic storytelling was the catalyst in him waltzing out of a PNC Bank with nearly six grand without ID. I could not wait to hear the one and only, Deborah Craig explain that.

  Both Deborah and I introduced ourselves and I sat.

  “Very well, Ms. Craig. This is a preliminary hearing for Mark Fields. He is not willing to plea?”

  “That is correct, Your Honor.”

  “Good. Call your first witness.”

  “The Commonwealth calls Lacey McKinney.”

  * * *

  On the morning in question Lacey McKinney was performing her teller duties at the PNC Bank at 2000 Market Street. She had been fine tuning her performance for three years. That morning she was approached by a gentleman dressed in a college sweatsuit and Polo ball cap. She recognized the suit because she was also a Temple student.

  “Good morning, Lacey,” the man told her.

  He was a man who paid attention to the details.

  “Good morning to you, sir,” she replied.

  “Sir? That was polite, but I am Elmer H. Booz,” he informed her with a confident smile on his face.

  She volleyed a braced-tooth smile, and said, “Okay, Elmer. What can I do for you today?”

  Elmer handed her a withdrawal slip which was already filled out. It was not one of the generic in-house withdrawal slips, either. This slip was actually pulled from the back of Elmer’s checkbook. The request was for $2,933.00.

  “I’d like to make a withdrawal,” he informed her.

  She punched a few keys on her keypad and brought up Elmer’s account. He had a balance of $5,975.22 in his checking account and over $22,000 in his savings.

  She said, “I can do that for you. Can I have your ID?”

  Elmer fiddled around in his pockets and did not produce a wallet. He did produce an excuse for the faux pas.

  “I came all the way downtown from the school to do some Christmas shopping, and I have inadvertently overlooked my wallet rushing out of the door.”

  “I need an ID, Elmer,” she said skeptically.

  “I forgot it, but I can verify my social and birthdate,” he confessed. “And you can also check my signature.”

  “I guess I could,” she confessed.

  She looked at the monitor as he said his social security number and birthdate.

  “What year were you born again?” she asked. What he had said did not match her records.”

  “1984,” he told her. “They must still have my grandpa’s year down there as 1944. That is an error that I have vehemently told them to correct, to no avail. I’ll go over there after I leave here with you.”

  She looked at him puzzled.

  “I am sorry for the drama, Lacey,” he said, affectionately. “I just want to get my shopping over before finals start.”

  “Yeah. I go to Temple, too,” she said, beginning to count the cash. “What year are you in?”

  She had not even verified his signature.

  * * *

  Deborah threw her hands on his hips flamboyantly. She asked Lacey, “Did you have any more contact with Elmer, Ms. Kinney?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was that?”

  “The very next day.”

  “Where?”

  “He was back to make another withdrawal from his account.”

  “He did, in fact, withdraw another $2,930.00. Is that correct?”

  “Objection.”

  “I’ll rephrase,” Deborah said, throwing me a crazy grin. “Did he withdraw more money the next day?”

  “Yes.”

  “What amount was that?”

  Lacey consulted her notes before, she said, “$2,930.00.”

  “Is there a policy at the bank regarding withdrawals under $3,000.00?”

  “Yes. They do not need to be approved by the head teller.”

  “Let the record reflect through exhibits A1-A5 that all of the defendant’s withdrawals were under $3,000,” the DA said to the Court.

  To Lacey, she said, “Do you see Elmer Boozer in the courtroom?”

  “Yes, he’s the defendant.”

  “Nothing further.”

  “Cross, Mr. Lemmelle?” the Judge asked.

  CHAPTER 50

  Lacey was such an innocent appearing witness. I was prepared to tarnish that visual. She looked like she was ashamed of her stupidity. Wait until she gets a whiff of me. Everything that she had testified showcased how apprehensive she was about my client’s authenticity, but she had augmented his craving for fraudulence. Mark Fields awoke everyday to con. He jokingly referred to himself as the Confidence Man.

  “I’ll make this hasty, Your Honor,” I said as a promise, as I walked toward the witness box.

  I wanted to get all up into the face of “Bimbo” McKinney.

  “Ms. McKinney, is it true that you were arrested for stealing your father’s car and selling marijuana in high school? For you that was three years ago, right?”

  “Objection!” Deborah catapulted to her feet. “The defense is testifying, and McKinney’s priors are irrelevant and inadmissible. That’s if they exist.”

  “Oh, sure they do,” I said before the Judge could reply.

  I passed along her arrest record. I was more pissed at this bimbo because I banked with her bank and she could have easily given away my money.

  “Sustained!”

  “I appreciate that, Your Honor,” I said in agreement, as if he had patted me on the back.

  Lacey’s lips quivered. I was not done. I wanted tears. Blood too. And I’d at least get tears.

  “You’ve been a banker for three years, right?”

  “A teller.” Defiant.

  Was she coming at me sideways? She attempted to correct me, Ravonne Lemelle. I walked to the court clerk and borrowed a dictionary.
I adored courtroom theatrics. She had written a withdrawal slip and I planned to cash it.

  “Ms. McKinney, could you read for His Honor the definition of banker.”

  She grabbed the dictionary, and I thought she had read the definition to herself, before she read aloud. “One that engages in the business of banking. The player...”

  “That’s good right there. Note for the record that the witness read from the Merriam Webster’s 10th edition collegiate dictionary. Ms. McKinney would you regard yourself as someone who engages in the business of banking?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so,” I said. “Now, as a banker, how many men have you allowed to molest your customer’s hard-earned money?”

  “Objection! Objection!” Deborah Craig’s voice boomed across the courtroom and she threw her arms in every direction begging Judge Defaria to say...

  ...“Sustained. Sustained. Mr. Lemmelle you’re completely out of order.”

  “I most certainly am not, sir,” I replied and walked to my table.

  All of this caused McKinney to allow tears to escape her eyes. The gallery began to whisper. The bailiff beat me to hand McKinney a tissue.

  “He should be admonished, Your Honor,” Deborah suggested.

  I ignored her stupidity. I shut her up, too. I handed her a document and a copy to the defendant, I mean, witness, and Judge.

  I asked, “Ms. Mckinney, do you recognize this report?”

  “Yes,” she whined.

  I then asked the court reporter, “Could you please reread for the Court the last erroneous objection by the prosecution?”

  The reporter repeated it, and I replied, “Music to my ears.” Oops.

  “Mr. Lemmelle!”

  “Sorry, could you ask the witness to answer my query: “As a banker, how many men have you allowed to molest your customer’s hard-earned money?”

  “The witness will answer the question,” the judge said.

  “Once,” she replied after a brief hesitation.

  What the DA neglected to report was that Ms. Kinney had pulled this stunt with her brother and the bank forgave her.

  “Ms. Craig should be admonished, Your Honor,” I requested. I then asked, “Your Honor, I’d move to have the witness impeached.”

  “I object, Your Honor. As far as the Court knows they were in cahoots.”

  That was such a foul statement. Good thing this was not a jury trial.

  “Even if impeached, I have a corroborating witness, Your Honor.”

  “Great. Nothing further. I will preserve my right to raise this motion later, Your Honor.”

  “Ok, perfect,” Judge Defaria said. “Any redirect?”

  Deborah said no, and the judge asked her to call her next witness.

  CHAPTER 51

  “The Commonwealth calls Detective Fletcher.”

  Detective Fletcher was a ten-year officer with the PPD. He had responded to the PNC Bank at the request of the branch manager, Amelia Pechmann. She had received a complaint from Elmer H. Booz that he was missing $6,000. Upon investigation, Amelia determined that Elmer had been robbed considering she had a black man on camera withdrawing the money.

  The detective testified under direct examination that he had taken the surveillance from the bank. At his office, he reviewed the surveillance and printed a hard copy of the suspect. He subsequently matched the photo to a man in the crime book. He then filed for an arrest warrant.

  The DA asked, “Detective Fletcher, is the man in the surveillance in the courtroom today?”

  “Yes,” he said and pointed.

  “Let the record reflect that the detective pointed out the defendant, Mark Fields. The Commonwealth tenders the witness, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Lemmelle.”

  CHAPTER 52

  “Just a coupla questions, detective. Let’s start with, can you be 100 percent certain that Mr. Fields is the man in the video?”

  “Yes.”

  A one word slick answer. I was pissed that fast.

  “The photo appears grainy and is in profile. You’re sure that you can unequivocally identify him?”

  “Asked and answered,” Deborah said and smiled.

  I looked for him to bite and lower the percentage just a little. That left room for reasonable doubt. No such luck with the pit bull sitting to my left.

  “Nothing further, Your Honor,” I said and headed to my throne.

  “Counselors approach,” Defaria said.

  My opponent and I approached the bench. Deborah stood far away from me as if I had a caution sign pasted on my forehead.

  The judge asked, “Who else do you intend to call, Ms. Craig?”

  “I have a forensic handwriting specialist and Mr. Booz, the victim,” she said.

  “I have heard enough, Mr. Lemmelle to hold this over for trial. Calling them would add overkill. Do me a favor and advise your client to plea. Craig, can you rest your case.”

  I had no objection. The old man was right.

  * * *

  I left the courtroom at 10:45 with mistake number two under my belt. My client was on my heels.

  “What just happened in there? I paid you $4,500 to get me off.” Mark had claimed.

  I pressed the down elevator button. “You’re going to be paying a lot more to represent you in trial.”

  “More money! I ain’t rich.”

  “Then you need a new attorney.”

  “What!”

  “Mr. Fields, I have done my job. I warned you that you had zero chance to beat this at a preliminary hearing.” I was whispering. “Surveillance put you on the scene of the crime, visually. Little whirls on your finger tips put you at the crime scene, too. Let’s not forget the finger print analysis that solidifies you as the writer of the slips. And Lacy, despite her stupidity, recalled your charming award winning production to get the cash quite vividly. Must’ve made a good impression.”

  “You’re an asshole. So you want more money? What happened when the Judge called you to the bench?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said as the elevator door opened. We rode in silence to the lobby.

  We exited in the lobby, and he said, “You have to get me out of this, Ravonne. I can’t go back to jail, man.”

  “You should have been thinking about that before you did the crime.”

  “Who said that I did?”

  “Right,” I said and frowned. “You better come up with a grand scheme to get yourself out of this. You’re in a tough situation.”

  “I hired you to come up with a scheme.”

  “Here’s the scheme. Let’s try this,” I said as we crossed 13th Street.

  He followed me. Stayed close. “Bring me the exact amount that you stole in cash and I’ll play footsies with Amelia Pechmann to see if she’ll drop the charges for the cash. Throw in $500 for her troubles.”

  I walked along Juniper Street and walked into the Juniper Street entrance to the Marriott Hotel. The bell hops and valet nodded at me. That was my normal routine as I headed back to the office from CJC. The valet knew me as an attorney.

  “And when should I have the money?”

  “That doesn’t matter if I don’t get a new G4 from Apple along with the cash.”

  I was not above bribing a client.

  “What!” he yelled.

  His voice echoed in the hotel lobby and all eyes were on us. He caught himself, and then whispered, “You’re trying to strong-arm rob me?”

  “The laptop costs about $1,200. I’m sure you can get your hands on one.” I winked. “It’s that or pay me a retainer to prepare for trial. And my magic tricks are costly, sir. Very!”

  “You’re a cold-blooded piece of work.”

  I exited the hotel on the Market Street side, and then said, “Look, you’re not getting off. Raise Johnny Cochran from the dead and you would not get off. You can fire me and go with a PD to save you money, as no one can save you. Get me the money that you stole, an incentive for Amelia, and the laptop. This case can disa
ppear. You get the last laugh. Everyone wins, and I keep my acquittal record.”

  At the corner of 12th and Market Streets, I crossed the street and walked pass Sole Food (my hangout), and 50 yards away stood the Prudential building. I had stopped walking to let what I had told him sink in.