A Butler Summer Read online

  Two of the bullets hit the statue, spraying marble, but a third one hit Marco Butler squarely in the right shoulder. It made him spin, leaving behind a twirl of blood. The bullet penetrated and exited cleanly, ripping flesh and muscle but missed the heart and the lungs.

  Not too much blood, no bones fragments.

  C H A P T E R 7

  10:35 A.M.

  New York, NY—74th Street and 5th Avenue Residence of Naim Butler

  In a pencil skirt and blouse, strategically unbuttoned, cleverly exposing tanned cleavage, Sinia parked on the edge of Naim’s mahogany desk. “Tables are for asses...you know the rest,” he said blinking, shaking his head and smiling. They were in Naim’s sophisticated home office and the tension was thick. He folded his hands and placed them on the desk in front of a wireless keyboard. Pulling off his glasses he said, “Despite my instructions you’re here. Unannounced.” He leaned his head to the side, chastising her with his bold eyes.

  “Ginger, sent me in. I mean, I am the mother of your only begotten son. At least she recognizes and respects that,” she said seductively un-crossing and re-crossing her smooth, long legs.

  He imagined her whipping out a cigarette, lighting it, taking a long puff, and then blowing rings of smoke in his face. Homage to a seventies call girl.

  Naim Butler’s office was painted baby-blue with high navy-blue colored ceilings. Two chandeliers lit up the room along with antique sconces. Behind his custom-made six-feet mahogany desk, he sat in an expensive executive chair. Diplomas decorated the wall behind him.

  “Are you implying that I don’t respect you?” he asked, standing. He walked to a vintage credenza and snatched a pastry from a silver tray on top of it. He took a bite and finished chewing, before asking, “Crème brûlée? I had them delivered this morning from the baker.”

  “Flowers from the boo, Brandy?” she asked, ignoring his offer. She ripped a petal from one of the roses, poking out of the arrangement on his desk.

  He grinned, plucked the card from the bouquet and passed it to her. He took another bite of his dessert. “We have a great son, huh? The one thing you’ve blessed me with. See, because I am teaching him valuable things early, he sent his father’s congratulatory flowers.” He sat on a Chesterfield sofa across the gargantuan office. Far enough away, he thought. “Why are you here?”

  “The Feds took forty thousand dollars cash from me,” she replied deadpan.

  “Then, you should be at their office.”

  “They implied that I could be trafficking cash. Little ole me,” she said, pouting.

  “Doesn’t sound criminal to me,” he said and heard his cell phone buzz. He ignored it.

  “My point exactly,” she said, standing. She walked to where he was, sat on the over-sized arm of the sofa, allowing her elbow the rest on his broad shoulder for balance.

  He chuckled. “Sinia, why are you here?”

  Staring out of the floor-to-ceiling window, she sat silently before falling gently into his lap. Her derriere landed perfectly on his pelvis. She snuggled her head on his shoulder, tossing an arm around his neck.

  Naim kept his hands pressed on the sofa. His palms were wet from sweat and he felt his neck becoming moist with Sinia’s tears.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked tenderly, keeping his hands to himself. He wasn’t falling for any of her womanly traps.

  “I really need you and you treat me so coldly. Like trash,” she cooed, raising her head, looking into his eyes. His cell phone buzzed, he ignored it again. The sight of her tears forced him to unearth courage reserved for physical threats. There was no way he’d allow her tears to convince him to say goodbye to his fidelity to Brandy Scott. Returning her deep stare, he said, “I simply asked why were you here. It’s a fair question, Sinia.” He knew how powerful it was to call a woman by their name during a conflict.

  “Do you realized how rude that is? Your delivery is horrific.”

  Do you realize it was your boyfriend that tried to kill me? he thought, but lacked the bravery to tell her that. “Sinia,” he said gingerly, “the government took money from you. Why?”

  “You’re still dismissing me, but I’m going to get to the point, because I know I’m not really wanted here.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. You’re not.

  She glanced at the floor. “I arrived at JFK two days ago with the cash to give to Marco. Homeland Security searched my carry-on bag, found the money, and confiscated it.”

  “They didn’t say why?”

  “Vaguely. Claimed I was stopped because I booked the flight hours before takeoff and didn’t check any bags.”

  “That’s bullshit. You don’t look like an Arabic woman to me,” he said, realizing how racist and discriminatory his comment could be interpreted.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So...” he began and then fell into a silent stupor.

  “So, I need you to get our son’s money back,” she said, looking at him again.

  “Where’d the money come from?” he asked with a hint of suspicion.

  She caught the shade dripping from the question. “Drug sales,” she replied, smirking condescendingly. “Some of it was pulled out of the bank last week. Some were from my home safe.”

  “All legal?”

  “You’re an ass.”

  “I’m asking questions as an attorney, not your friend.”

  “Of course, it’s all legal,” she said, kissing his lips. “This doesn’t have to be so formal.” she wiggled on his lap, looking to arouse him.

  Ignoring her advance, he said, “OK, I will look into it. I need the bank withdrawal receipt of bank statement to prove the legitimacy of the funds. For them, not me. And the contact information of the people responsible.”

  “It’ll get the statement printed from online banking,” she said, running a finger down his chest. “You don’t love me anymore?” she asked over the sound of an unceasing knock on the door before it opened.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Ginger said frantically.

  Naim pushed Sinia from his lap. Why the hell did have her on my lap for so long? “What is it, Ginger?”

  “It’s Marco, sir. He’s at the Columbia University Hospital. Amber tried reaching you by phone twice already before she called the office line.”

  Naim was grabbing his car keys before he asked, “Did she say what happened?”

  “Oh my God,” Sinia said, fixing her clothing.

  “He’s been shot.” She watched her boss freeze. He was usually in command of his emotions, but she witnesses him internally losing it. “It’s all over the news.”

  C H A P T E R 8

  NEW YORK, NY—COLUMBA University Hospital

  Naim Butler backed away from the hospital room windows and the media hounds converging on Columbia University Hospital on the streets below. He felt like a failure. Regret burned in the depths of his soul. His life was last. He should have hired a security team to protect his son.

  Paperwork was being written to have Marco released and Naim wanted to go up rather than down to leave. The last thing he wanted was to be accosted by reporters. Obviously going up was a dead end, stopping at the roof. The only advantage to being on the roof was that he could jump off of it, paying for his screw up.

  The alternative, going straight down and fighting his way through them. That was tantamount to walking into a swarm of lions: he was sure they’d eat him alive. Running wasn’t an option really, nor was suicide.

  A nurse rolled Marco back into the room. Naim smiled at his brave son. He watched Amber rush to his side and felt a deep sense of love between them. He longed for Brandy Scott. Sinia remained by Naim’s side as if they were a happy family.

  They weren’t.

  “Can somebody tell me about the idiot that shot me?” Marco asked, pushing a button on the side of the bed. He was quite nonchalant for being a shot teen. When he was upright his face scanned all of the supporters by his side.

  “Oh, that’s an easy one
,” Naim said. “He’s dead. Campus police shot him. Nineteen times.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Overkill.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Sinia said, walking to his bedside. She ran a loving hand along his cheek, frowning at the sling that restricted his left arm. The bullet had torn tendons in his shoulder for which shoulder surgery repaired. “We have to get you back to Raleigh today so that you can rest up without the maddening press outside.”

  “Absolutely not going to happen,” Naim said matter-of-factly.

  Sinia cut her eyes at him. They screamed for him to shut-the-hell-up.

  “Mom...dad,” Marco said, watching the doctor enter the room. “I’m fine. No need to relocate me, mom. I live in New York. Please get used to that. I can deal with the media.” He turned to the doctor and said, “Doc, can you confirm, please?”

  “Sounds like a family affair to me, but you’re visibly capable of handling the media,” the doctor replied, smiling at his young, eloquent patient. “Medically, I can say that this was a clean flesh wound and it’ll heal up quite fine. There will be a small scar when we remove the stitches. I’m going to prescribe a painkiller and suggest that you rest a few days.”

  “Doc, I hear all of that, but rest really isn’t an option,” Marco said in a friendly, but stern tone. “As you know fall classes began today and I’m not going to fall behind.”

  “Listen to the doctor,” Amber suggested. “There will likely be another week off. There’s ten other wounded students and three dead.”

  “Five,” said the doctor. “We lost two more less than an hour ago. Marco is the only one not in critical condition and able to leave today.”

  “Wow,” Naim said. “Blessed.”

  “My ass it is. This city is horrible and dangerous,”—Sinia said, causing every eye to whip in her direction— “and you’re coming back to North Carolina. Today. You should’ve just went to Duke.” She threw her back into a wall. A miniature meltdown.

  Naim scoffed sarcastically.

  “Nothing is going to happen, mom,” Marco said. “I will relax, or rest, as the good doctor put it, but I will support the deceased families by attending funerals and I will go to classes when they start. With or without this sling. I will not allow anyone to block my education or force me to live in fear. Not going to happen, mom.”

  “Spoken like a true Butler,” said Naim. “Daddy’s little man.”

  After a brief silence and Sinia picking her chin up from the floor, Naim said, “The prince has spoken.” He grinned from ear-to-ear, antagonizing Sinia. “Now, let’s get you out of here and home.”

  Naim looked out the window. The number of reporters had doubled. To the doctor, he asked, “Is there a service elevator and does it lead to the parking garage?” His adrenaline for survival kicked in and he had a plan.

  __________

  Naim had been exposed to a few life-or-death battles and escaping an area hospital with aggressive reporters looking to pounce on him was one. His life had had many highs, but his mind was concentrated on the lows as he pressed the down button outside of the elevators used for orderlies to transport food and bedridden patients that needed to be kept out of the public’s eye.

  The elevator door opened, everyone boarded and Naim pressed “G” for the garage. There were signs on board that ordered him and his clam to keep all patients data confidential and to wash their hands often to avoid the spread of germs. A woman smiled at them from a poster promoting the Labor Day breast cancer awareness walk to raise money for research. A noble cause, Naim thought, vowing to make a financial contribution as soon as the dust settled. The elevator jerked once, and the car darkened and stopped between floors—trapped. A scenario mirroring death, but then moments later the elevator shook and continued down to the garage level.

  The door buzzed, lurched open finally, Naim and crew exited and scanned the area for his armored Cadillac Escalade. They also looked for reporters. There were none, but bare mattresses were leaning against a wall like supermarket carts under the open end of a wall shoot. Primitive, Naim thought.

  Everyone hopped into the truck, Naim started it and looked at Marco in the passenger’s seat.

  Naim said, “It’s quiet now, but I assure you the moment we exit this garage we will be surrounded by the media.”

  “Sounds like New York SWAT,” Sinia said, shooting at the City That Never Sleeps.

  “You know,” Naim said, looking back at her. “Keep it up and in the trunk you go. Your visual isn’t helpful at all.”

  “Screw you,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

  “Been there, done that,” he said, turning his head towards his son. “Do you have your statement up and ready to go?”

  “I do and it’s partially memorized,” Marco replied, looking at the statement on his cell phone.

  “Good. Do not deviate from the message. Maintain eye contact with cameras. And do not say ‘um’,” Naim admonished.

  “What do I look like Donna Lincoln?” Marco asked, laughing.

  “No, she’s a woman and running for president of the free world. You’re a shot college student,” he replied, chuckling, trying to lighten the tension trapped in the car.

  C H A P T E R 9

  NEW YORK, NY—New York Times Headquarters

  Glued to her chair, stone-faced, thinking about a cigarette—a habit she’d kicked ages ago—Brandy Scott was watching CNN on a television, the BBC on a laptop, and the local NBC news-affiliate on an iPad. She was heavily interested in what correspondents had to say. They knew she surmised, next to nothing at this point about the campus shooting, and the justice’s death hadn’t been on their radar. Was she the only person other than the killer that knew about Judge Percy Weston’s death? She knew that she could put her exclusive intelligence on the tips of their tongues with a five-minute phone call. But she’d wait. She wanted to hear from the campus shooting victims, the people who had seen the bloodshed wanted to know: Was the campus shooting and the judges’ murder carried out by the same person or group?

  An Israeli girl, interviewed on CNN, describe the loud blast that preceded the gunfire: “There was a caravan. I can’t be sure of the make and model. It slammed into a tree and seconds after the driver got out.” She paused, holding back tears. “It blew up. The shooter started killing people seconds later.”

  Brandy used the TV remote to mute CNN and turned up the volume on the BBC. A British student and part-time UBER driver described the killer: black male, dark skin, dreadlocks, handsome, all-American. But the Uber driver didn’t see much else because after the shooter’s car exploded the driver took cover under the dashboard of his Jaguar until the bullets stopped.

  Minimizing the Internet browser, Brandy pulled up a notebook app and stared at the blank screen before typing a single word.

  Dreadlocks.

  She used the app because all of the recorded “notes” simultaneously loaded to related apps on her iPhone and iPad, giving her access to them across her Apple devices. Brandy’s eyes returned to the TV screen as a nicely dressed reporter stood in front of the LIVE camera feed next to an attractive young man, Marco Butler, recounting some of the facts for the correspondent. In the background was Sinia Love with her hand on the elbow of Naim Butler. She looked at the sight painfully. Not because Naim appeared to comfort Marco’s mother, but the sight of the freshman’s arm in a sling worried her.

  Marco described hearing a loud bang before an explosion. In an attempt to protect his high school sweetheart he tried taking cover behind Thinking Man before he pushed her to the ground, but not in time to avoid being shot in the shoulder. He did not see the heartless monster because he hit the deck to continue being armor for Amber. When the first round of bullets stopped, the couple ran to Amsterdam Avenue. They flagged a pedestrian who whisked them to Columbia University Medical Center.

  “Could someone assume this is the universe’s retribution for the murder you committed earlier this year?” A reporter yelled at Marco.

 
Holy shit, Brandy thought. Her mood shifted further down to the pain zone. What kind of animal asks an eighteen-year old that?

  She watched Naim step fully into the frame. He stood tall and protective next to his son. “Whoa..whoa,” he said, throwing his eyes into the air, apparently in deep thought. Carefully crafting his word, she figured. He added, “My son was shot on his first day of college, that is, and will be the only discussion being held today. Or tomorrow, in fact.” Flames escaped his forehead.

  “But,” the reporters said, “if not for your best friend being a prosecutor he’d be in jail, as I said, for murder. Not at his first day of college.” He paused, and then said, “As far as New Yorkers are concerned perhaps this was payback costing several other people their lives.”

  “You know.” Naim said, chuckling. “This is laughable—”

  “Dad,” Marco interjected, cutting his father off before he dirtied the water. To the reporter, he said, “I was cleared of murder charges by the Manhattan DA’s office, not my father’s best friend who is a U.S. Attorney. It’ll be wise if you acquire knowledge of the judicial process basics before insulting my father. And as of this moment, you’re blacklisted. And by you, I mean the entire network. Columbia encourages students to stand for something. I guess my first act will be a petition blocking your reporters from being on campus inquiring about the shooting. Now I see why the Republican presidential nominee always regards the media as dishonest. And fake news. Good day.”

  Brandy smiled. She watched Marco and company scram as the reporter recovered by pivoting into a commercial. She picked up her cell phone and sent Naim a text message to contact her at his convenience.

  Awaiting a reply, the network was back from a commercial break with a reporter in front of a white home. The banner on the bottom of the screen read: Home of Chief U.S. Supreme Court Justice Percy Weston. She looked at her computer screen and typed another word: