Murder in Germantown Read online

  “No.”

  “While you’re there, get one and borrow the current Writer’s Market Handbook,” I told him, slipping on my coat.

  “Excuse me a moment,” I said to him.

  I dialed Marsha on her cell phone. She was running late.

  “Marsha, please get me a reservation for two at Twenty21.” I hung up and turned back to Kensan. “At one, please meet me at Twenty21. It’s a restaurant. That’s all,” I said and headed to the door. “Let’s go, Ken.”

  “One problem,” he said. “I do not know where that place is.”

  “Find it!”

  CHAPTER 62

  Wydell James had managed the front cover of the Philadelphia Daily News, and an article in the Philadelphia Inquirer. That was despite his case being five days old. On the cover, he donned a LaSalle University basketball uniform. He smiled under the caption: Could This Distinguished Student Have Committed a Triple Homicide?

  I sat at my desk and read Aramis’s article. It was a detailed account of the past five days in Philadelphia, involving the murders of three very known street pharmacists. I wondered was it widely accepted that Wydell had done the killings by people not employed by the State. Aramis’s article began speculation that there was another shooter. He highlighted that the detectives were not pressed to track them down. As far as they knew, they had the killer. I planned to disprove that.

  An hour after I had been preparing a habeas corpus, Marsha said through the intercom that Jon Rude was there to see me.

  I was ecstatic.

  I had her send him in and asked her to hold all of my calls.

  I straightened my tie before I shook Rude’s hand.

  Without preface, he said, “What’s your plan for the motion to dismiss hearing? Who are you going to call?”

  “Nobody,” I replied. “I have not filed a MTD.”

  “Oh, but you will, my friend,” he told me and raised his eyebrows a few times. “I have the evidentiary nourishment to support one.”

  “Let me be frank. You have evidence to vivify that my client could not have shot and killed anyone?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I can’t file a MTD, then. I need a clear innocence defense in order to do that.”

  “Sure you can. I have the goods to darken the prosecution’s case until it is as blackened out as a phallus running across the screen on an episode of Seinfeld.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The police found very good footprints in the snow going to and from the crime scene. Size nine. Saucony running shoes. That was not in the preliminary discovery.”

  “That’s interesting, but we need the second shooter. Hell, the first one while we’re at it.”

  “And I have one for you.”

  “Stop!” I said in awe.

  “The shell casings found on the property around the tree belonged to a pistol, but the bullets in two of the vics belong to a rifle.”

  I sat at my computer and pulled up a few of the guns on our data base.

  I then said to Rude, “The pistol belongs to Wydell. And I guess you have no idea who this rifle belongs to?”

  “No, but I have these,” he told me and pulled out a bag with spent shell casings. “These belong to the rifle.”

  “You found them?” I asked puzzled. “How’d the police miss them?”

  “They didn’t miss them. They did not look for them.”

  “Pretty good, but get to the crime that you committed to get these shells.”

  “Oh, brother, I never commit crimes. I am a sworn blah, blah, blah. Anyway.” He pulled out his digital camera. “Load these photos into your computer.”

  I did what I was asked and before my eyes were photos of a very stately home with a massive balcony and expansive columns.

  “This was the second shooter’s position, huh?” I asked.

  “You better believe it!”

  “And you got the casings with the owner’s consent?” I did not need my investigator arrested and this marvelous intelligence inadmissible. “Come on, Rude. Now I have to work magic to get this into evidence.”

  He pulled out a letter. “Typed on the homeowner’s computer. It’s a letter confirming that the maid is a resident of the home and had the authority to allow me to search the balcony for evidence of a crime.”

  “Good, but...”

  “They are away for the winter. Paris. The retired Mr. & Mrs. Gottshalk.”

  “We need that Saucony, or a blabbermouth that can put someone on that balcony.”

  “There’s more,” Rude said. He smiled and rolled up his sleeves.

  I was excited. “More?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Do tell all.”

  “Saucony’s are worn by the winter cross country team at...”

  “LaSalle.”

  “Yup. Guess what else?”

  “Only women wear them.”

  “Yup. They were donated.”

  “Get the hell out of here, Rude.”

  “I gathered that from a reliable source,” he said. “Very reliable,” he added mischievously.

  “Okay, Rude. How many of them did you screw?” I asked with a sarcastic smirk on my face.

  “Two.”

  “Legal?”

  “That’s still 18?”

  “Yup,” I said in his voice.

  “Then yes, they were legal.”

  “So we have two shooters. One female and one unknown. One or two from the school. So we are looking for someone looking to frame Wydell, or hurt Shannon Oscar?”

  “I’d concur.”

  I checked my watch. “I think I better have Marsha set up a press conference and a team to get my legal research materials for this motion to dismiss.”

  CHAPTER 63

  “Thank you, ladies and gentleman,” I said to the press.

  They were piled in my office, and it was such an invasion, but that was where I wanted them. I really did not like media hounds, but during times like that, they served their purpose. Seated behind my impressive desk, I looked at the cameras, microphones and tape recorders and wanted to vomit. I cleared my throat, sipped a hot tea, and commenced to pollute my potential jury with the preliminary facts.

  “I have a brief description of the past few days regarding the investigation into the murders of Dr. Lawrence Miller, Shannon McKeithan, and Casey Daniel. Could you please cease with the picture taking until I am finished. Geesh. The flash is blinding me!” Stupid idiots.

  * * *

  Barbara tapped on her boss’s door. “Cynthia, Lemmelle is holding a live press conference.”

  The DA hopped to her small portable TV and turned it on to watch the broadcast as she called the head DA.

  * * *

  When the reporters settled, I began my fairytale.

  “On Monday, I was retained by Mr. Wydell James to represent him against murder charges. He has maintained his innocence. He was childhood friends of two of the victims and had no motive to kill anyone on Hope Circle. He sends his condolences to the families and hopes that the Philadelphia PD leaves no stone unturned during their investigation in pursuit of the true killer.”

  “What about the gun found in James’s vehicle which has been linked to the deceased?” Aramis asked in cue.

  “I am getting to that, Mr. Reed,” I said.

  I sounded like George Bush as if I knew all of the reporter’s names in the room.

  “Now, if I may proceed?”

  The room hushed again, and I went on. “Excellent. This is what the defense has proven thus far. Late last Saturday, drug king pin Shannon McKeithan sat in an alcove chatting with Casey “Pooh” Daniels and Dr. Lawrence Miller. Suspect, also known to police as Shannon McKeithan threw the bash to host all of the who’s who in the Philadelphia tri-state illicit drug business.

  “Low-Down, also known on the streets as Dr. Miller, the attorney at law who has worked to keep many of the partygoers out of jail, was shot when a bullet passed through the seat which McKeith
an sat in. It seems like it was a warning shot. The next three shots did not miss their marks. Mr. McKeithan and Dr. Miller both received a gunshot to the head. Mr. Daniels received a fatal shot to his back. Several partygoers summoned the police to investigate.

  “An anonymous tip led the police to Mr. James’s Germantown home. Police officers took up position at the home of Mr. James and just so happened to have found the smoking gun hanging out on the floor of my client’s inoperable car, which brings me to alibi.

  “Mr. James, my client, is the star shooting guard for the LaSalle University basketball team. On Saturday night between seven and ten p.m., Mr. James played a ball game. He scored in excess of 30 points and had 10 rebounds. It was a hard game that wore him out. Afterward, he adjourned to his girlfriend’s dorm room and then a victory party from ten until half past midnight. He then took a cab to his Germantown home. He was home by ten after one.

  “Investigators have proven that there are at least two shooters. Bullets removed from the victims confirmed two different weapons. Hence, multiple shooters. Mr. Wydell James offered a reward of $5,000 for any information leading the police to the identity of the perpetrator of this heinous act.

  “Lastly, the defense has submitted a beautiful Motion to Dismiss the charges against Mr. Wydell James. I know because I wrote it myself.”

  The media hounds laughed, rather than bark questions. Someone always had to be a bad apple, though.

  “If Wydell did not do it, then who did?” someone asked.

  “I surely didn’t,” I said.

  Another round of laughter.

  “That’s all for today. I will not be answering any more questions. Believe me, if there are any significant details, I’ll be sure to ring all of you. You’ve been a delightful audience. I’ll be glad to have you back.”

  They chuckled. And so did some man with cheesy bucked teeth and bifocals. The cameras were turned off, but the man who I thought was a reporter had not made an attempt to move.

  “May I assist you, sir,” I asked.

  “One crucial last question, Mr. Lemmelle. I am not a reporter, but I saw them piling in and decided to join them,” the man said, and wiped the smile off my face. “Were you as eloquent when you abused your wife, counselor?”

  I remained stone faced, despite all of the reporters staring. I was on a runway and the headlights of several Boeing 747’s blinded me. I said, “That would depend on what you call abuse.” I was fishing.

  “How ‘bout grabbing her and pushing her to the bed while cursing her, Mr. Lemmelle, attorney-at-law?”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir.” I remained calm.

  Outwardly I was unmoved by the mental quandary, but I wanted to call security. Who the hell was this man?

  “Sure counselor,” he said and then pulled out a thick, paper-clipped set of papers from a cheap briefcase. “You’ve been served.” I looked bizarre. “Yes, divorce papers.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Yay for me, because I have always wanted a set of these.”

  * * *

  Mr. 357 walked from Rayvonne’s office with a grand smirk on his face. As soon as he stepped off the elevator, he called Ariel.

  “Hey, babe! You should have seen the fright on your husband’s face,” he said lying. “He couldn’t believe that he was served, and at a press conference. It was priceless.”

  “How’d you do that? He has seen you with me.”

  “Don’t worry I wore a disguise.”

  CHAPTER 64

  I blinked at the afternoon sunshine. I was pissed that I had not closed the curtains in my office before my 45-minute power nap. Ordinarily, sleeping on the job was not a necessity, but my therapist claimed that it was as therapeutic as a bath. I had no fear of becoming caught by one of the partners, either. I had a watch dog named Marsha, who was an hour late, but I paid her and ignored her tardiness. So she watched my tail.

  This was an unfair day, but who did I blame? I caused the gargantuan headache that no longer broiled, but simmered. I would bet had I slept one more hour, my headache would have been gone. I looked at my watch. 12:46. Fourteen minutes to get to my lunch date. I would have to play big brother under this stress. I never had that chance to have a sibling. I wanted to lead Kensan to the water, but he had to drink.

  “Marsha, come sweetie,” I said into the intercom.

  “You rang, Masta,” she said, barging into my office with a smile on her face. A gorgeous smile.

  “Did anyone from upstairs come through?”

  “All was quiet. They were at a luncheon. Besides, who cares?”

  I gargled Scope and spat in a small sink in my closet. A convenient luxury for being employed by a legal conglomerate. I looked into the mirror and saw restless eyes and sagging cheeks. I needed rest. I was also getting old. Maybe Brandon was right.

  “Listen, hun. I am going to lunch. I am helping a friend learn the dynamics of becoming a valuable Philadelphian.”

  “Take him to a firing range,” she said and folded her arms.

  “You’re insane. I don’t want you beside me in court as a defendant rather than an assistant.” I laughed and walked to my office door. We both exited. “If anyone calls, I’ll be taking calls after three.”

  “Do you need that MTD delivered?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Thanks.”

  CHAPTER 65

  Inside Twenty21, I found Kensan perched in the lounge area reading a book. He actually looked like he belonged there,with the exception of the over-sized suit, which was suitable for a grand ghetto wedding, not an interview. The shoes were more flashy and prom-esque, than suited for a boardroom.

  “Ken,” I said.

  He snapped the book shut and went right in.

  “Do you realize how much parking is. You had me do a lot of running around. I spent $40 in parking. Then you have me in this bourgeois restaurant and this salad costs $18.”

  He lifted a large Caesar chicken salad in the air to eye level.

  “Are you done?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “I specifically told you to walk, take a cab, take the train, or hitch a ride. You did not listen. Key number one to success. In court, I hear so much yak, gibberish, and chatter, and I consume every syllable. You have to listen! Lunch is on me.”

  “No, I got my share.”

  “Cut the rich shit. You don’t owe me anything. I invited you here. And this is hardly bourgeois. This is a very cozy restaurant. It’s more to life than Nikki’s Soul Food on Wayne Avenue and the greasy Chinese food joints. Everybody is trapped in the BMW and high fashion ideology. There’s more to being big time. Driving a Benz and living in squalor is something I will never get.”

  “Man, you can’t talk down on our people. That’s what we do. You’re not better than anyone, Ray-Ray,” he told me. He was calm, but probably angry as if I gave a damn. “Some people just wanna stay comfortable. Don’t knock ‘em.”

  “Or some people want to knock the people around them by dangling their European vehicles, which are probably in someone else name, and can be taken by the feds at any time, in the faces of poor people. People that are not competition. They’re afraid to live anywhere where they wouldn’t be paid any attention. They can’t live without people kissing their asses.”

  “Look, this is a free country and people can live where they want. I do not care about them and do not want to waste time talking about them. All I can do is speak for me, and I want out of Germantown.”

  “Excuse me, Ray-Ray. Can I get you a drink?” the waiter asked me.

  “The regular, Nate, and some chicken cordon bleu,” I told him.

  Kensan ordered another drink before I asked to see the resumes. Kensan handed me a manila folder. I opened it and found a generic jail house resumé. Then I scanned the resumé created on the yellow pad.

  “I did three different ones. One for each position.”

  “Good,” I said. “But...”