A Butler Summer Read online

  “Neither did I,” she said. “I’ll be back by dinner time.”

  “OK, I’ll book a table somewhere nice. We can have a drink here first and then head out.”

  “Perfect,” she said, and she was gone.

  When she reached the valet stand and spoke to an attendant, he pointed to an SUV at the hotel’s curb with a driver standing next to it. The French man held a sheet of paper with B. Scott on it. Making eye contact with the driver, he nodded opened the back door for her, but she walked around the car once and recorded the license plate number in her iPhone Notes app. A habit she did with all taxi, Uber, or other drivers that were strangers. She felt that she was in capable hands because Naim had hired a security firm that Baker and Keefe represented to whisk her around the city. The same security firm that sold Naim his armored Cadillac Escalade to protect him. This after he was shot at during an incident, escaping bullets from some woman that he had engaged in sex with while her husband was at work.

  The veteran newswoman hopped into the back seat, and said, “This makes my trip to the court seem like a dangerous mission.”

  “Well, ma’am,” the driver said, locking the doors, “Americans for Sentencing Reform, despite their mission and motive are notorious for forcing riot gear and gas masks to come out. I assure you, you’ll be safe from both, and bullets, in this tank.” He pulled off of the hotel curb, and asked, “Air conditioning?”

  __________

  Naim, dressed in all black, despite the heat, shot out of the hotel’s entrance like a bullet out of a pistol. He stopped under the US flags flying over the entrance. Looking around he found a young couple approaching a taxi, passed them a fifty and said, “I really need this cab,” while hopping into the back seat. To the driver, he said, “Follow that SUV,” slamming the door shut. “And don’t worry about being seen. The driver knows I’m behind him.”

  C H A P T E R 21

  AMERICANS FOR SENTENCING Reform was founded in 2010 to take aggressive action on sentencing reform. It was a strategic threat to all politicians. It had a simple threat for politicians: Draft legislation to help low-class citizens or be voted out of office the next term, no matter party affiliation. They wanted elected officials to make good on all of their promises made on the campaign trail. ASR leaders proposed legislation to officials and if they were Democrat and didn’t get it onto the Congressional floor they instructed all members to vote for the opposing party the next election. They were setting congressional term limits since politicians didn’t do it on their own.

  Federal law made it unlawful to parade, stand, or move in processions or assemblages in the Supreme Court Building or grounds; ASR protestors were on the Court’s elevated marble plaza violating said law. The plaza’s features convey in many distinctive ways that a person had entered some special type of enclave. It served what amounted to the elevated front porch of the Supreme Court, complete with a surrounding railing. The tranquil environment was being molested by ASR members that held signs and banners designed to bring into public notice their organization and movement; also in violation of 40 United States Crimes Code 6135. The statute encompassed not only the building, but also the four streets surrounding it, the plaza, and the surrounding promenade, lawn area and steps. Despite this, ASR members weren’t deterred. No doubt, Supreme Court Police were aggravated and prepared to disperse the thick crowds of people comprising of a multitude of minority races.

  David Thurman was amongst them, undoubtedly standing out from the crowd. An hour earlier he had been asked to leave for passing out ASR leaflets on court’s property. He was back and in costume. The local Fox News affiliated justice correspondent stopped him, stuck a microphone in his face, and asked, “Excused me, sir, what are you wearing?” She’s sounded like a fashionista stalking celebrity on the Academy Award’s red carpet.

  “Oh, this is Gianni Versace,” Thurman said, forcing himself and the correspondent to laugh at the ludicrous lie. “No seriously, this costume is constructed using various materials from the District of Columbia environment, including newspapers, shampoo bottles, and empty honey jars. It’s all been wrapped in duct tape, forming into this bullet-proof vest shape of my chest.” He spins three hundred sixty degrees, and said, “I hope you like.” He did a masculine curtsy, then, held up a small, hand-carved mask sculpture, and said. “For entertainment purposes.”

  “Don’t you think the police will be concerned with you wearing a mask in the wake of a justice of the Court being murdered and the constant threat of a terrorist attack. I mean,” the reporter said, grimacing, “There is an atmosphere of heightened anxiety and concerns over safety and security in the capital.”

  Thurman stepped back and put the mask to his face, securing it with strings that wrapped around his ears. “Look,” he said, his voice coming through a slit in the mask, muffling his voice. “This is America and we need to be tolerant of our people. That embraces the Constitution. Not live in this hate-filled, partisan society crammed with overzealousness and suspicion. This mask and costume are being worn to study people’s interactions with me and to spread the lost concept of tolerance and understanding while we fight for reform that affects all Americans, both black and white people.”

  “But you’re on the ground of the highest court with this chicanery.”

  “Yes, a court that has an important hearing coming up on making a sentencing reform retroactive to right some of the wrongs done by a liberal Congress during the forty years that they led the House of Representatives. As you know Judge Weston, is dead, God bless him, leaving an eight-judge panel split into two. Four conservatives. Four liberals. The playing field had been balanced.”

  “By a ruthless coward killer,” the reporter said, batting her eyes.

  “Name calling won’t get you very far. The killer is listening to you,” Thurman said, smiling wickedly.

  “And, you may be right. But with Chief Weston gone, conservatives need a liberal judge to side with them to settle the lower court’s split amongst the circuits.”

  “Now you might be right, but I strongly believe that justice for all will be accomplished. As a white American, I can confidently say when harsh sentencing laws affect the children of white soccer moms in rural Maine, the wheels of justice tend to quicken.”

  “We’ve got to leave it there,” the reporter said, “but I appreciate your time.”

  “It was a pleasure,” Thurman said, walking away.

  He sent a text to Brandy Scott indicating for her to meet him in the Crypt area of the Capitol Building. She replied that she’d see him there. Grinning, he texts back: I’m headed there to shake things up.

  __________

  Two Capitol policeman whispered and snickered, watching foolishly dressed David Thurman enter the Capitol Building doors. Standing in the security line, he rocked on his heels with his hands behind his back, cavalierly whistling an old show tune: Three Company. Scrutinizing his costume Officer Allie suspiciously asked about his costume’s purpose.

  “Doing research.”

  “For?”

  “Look, I’m an artist doing research for an upcoming performance.”

  “Don’t get snappy,” replied the cop, signaling for Thurman to step up to pass through several security checkpoints.

  Admission into the highly secure Capitol Building was quite a task. The lives of five hundred thirty-eight Congress members demanded an entrance equipped with a magnetometer, x-ray machine, and explosive detectors. All had to be cleared by Thurman, The Performer. And he did with all eyes on him from policeman and other visitors.

  Just above the newer chambers in the building stood galleries where visitors watched the Senate and House of Representatives. Thurman was inside of one and had captured the attention of visitors as he performed for them. He danced and sang as visitors took photos and videos of him. Some even posed in pictures with him. Autographs were given out on pamphlets he had clandestinely smuggled into the building. The material he gave to visitors informed them abo
ut federal sentencing reform and asked them to contact their representatives to request that they pass House Bill S.5682, FIRST STEP Act.

  “Thank you,” Brandy said after he handed her a leaflet. “I see you’re performing.” It was not hard for her to surmise that the actor was her guy.

  “Well, it’s a rehearsal for my stage play ‘David/Dafidi.’ The best way to do it based on my philosophy that Life is a Performance.”

  She held her hand out for him to shake. He did, and she asked, “You must be my guy?” It was really just to confirm.

  “I am,” he said, bowing as if it was a curtain call. “Glad you could make it.”

  “I am a New Yorker and never miss a performance. Tell me,” she said, smiling. “What’s all this really about?” She wanted to get to the core of their tête-à-tête before it was broken up.

  “My wife,” he said, nodding his head to a corner of the Crypt area where no one else was. “She’s in federal jail for what many would call a petty drug offense, but was given a mandatory fifteen-year and eight-months because she was deemed a career offender.”

  “I know a little about this,” she said, looking him in his eyes. She wanted him to understand that she was listening.

  “I’m aware that you do. Our linking is not by accident. I read your article on the topic and your coverage of the Families Against Mandatory Minimums concert put on in New York last summer. My wife Jillian loved it, also.”

  “Thank you both. I’m dating someone on the FAMM board, so I have an inside track to much of the goings on with them.”

  “ASR, which I am the secret leader of, is a tad different, Ms. Scott. We’re more aggressive than FAMM. I’m not truly a monster, but I’m prepared to die and pay back all parties responsible for my wife rotting away at FCI Alderson. I know you’ll have to turn me in, but before you do, I’m begging you to help me expose these cowards that are destroying the lives of many Americans. I know we like to make this a black versus white disparity issue. And some like to say white people only get involved when it hits home for us. Differences aside we have a problem of us versus them—police and lawmakers—and until the public at large understand this problem, it won’t stop for white families like mine or black families like yours.”

  “Excuse me,” Officer Preston Crowder of the Capitol Police asked, approaching them. His uniform exposed bulging biceps and he sported a menacing bald head. “Two Things. What are you holding? And you’re not allowed to pass out material on the Capitol grounds or the SC grounds which you’ve been warned of earlier.

  “This object,” Thurman said, holding up the mask, is a hand-carved mask sculpture.”

  “Drop the mask,” Officer Crowder said. “Then, you must leave and cease giving out any more leaflets, which you’ve now been told a second time.”

  Brandy backed away from the ensuing confrontation.

  “I’m not giving you anything, and—”

  Officer Crowder violently jerked the mask from Thurman’s hand and slammed it to the floor. It shattered startling Capitol visitors who looked shocked as the killer delivered a barbaric blow to the cop’s solar plexus. When the cop folded over, Thurman grabbed his head and drove it into the wall.

  Brandy’s cellphone was out recording the madness—an investigator at work.

  Before other officers arrived, a bystander kicked Thurman in the back forcing his body to slam into Officer Crowder. They both hit the floor, and the spectator kicked Thurman in his head and limbs, freeing the officer from his confused state and allowing him to whip out his gun. He fired two shots.

  C H A P T E R 22

  IT TOOK THE DETECTIVES a half hour to bounce through the capital in the Impala. The car windows were down, catching warm wind as they zipped to the United States Attorney’s office in Judiciary Square. Detective McGee parked in a private garage, before walking two blocks to the prosecutor’s office. They rode an elevator to the sixth floor, approached a receptionist behind a bulletproof glass, and announced their business. They were asked to wait in a bland, carpeted lobby with eighties wood paneling and framed headshots of the sitting US President and current US Attorney General on the wall.

  Waiting to meet the Big Kahuna, they whispered toxic, demeaning rhetoric about the man they were set to meet. Leonardo Gucci had been with the office since God had passed along the Ten Commandments; yet, he was passed over for the head job and took it out on police officers and uncooperative defendants. He appeared at the security door, wearing his familiar frown. A blustery Italian man with an outrageous comb-over of blonde hair and a ruddy complexion. He spent more time in the tanning salon, then, the gym. Obviously. But he possessed, despite being the second-in-charge, a name that appeared as the prosecution for almost every noteworthy murder in the District over the past twenty years. His grand list of criminals behind bars was impressive.

  After passing through metal detectors—reserved for confidential informants and outsiders—-they huddled in Leonardo Gucci’s office. Sitting at a six-person conference table was AUSA Shai Brown.

  “Ladies...” Brown began, smiling. “Have a seat,” he said, pointing to seats at the conference table. Brown had a dark complexion, dark hazel eyes, and perfect teeth.

  “Make it Detective McGee and Bald Eagle,” Detective McGee said deadpan.

  “OK, if that’s how you want to play it.” He had a super sardonic aura to complement an upper-class education with a year abroad at Oxford University.

  “I do,” she replied. There was constant tension between her and Brown, a man she’d once casually dated. “Can we get to the business of capturing Justice Weston’s Killer?” She crossed her legs in a cheap leather chair.

  “We hear you have a substantial lead for us to follow up on?” Detective Bald said, running her middle finger across her eyebrow.

  “We do, but we must preface this discussion by confirming, I mean, they’re papers filed, a suit, claiming you, Detective McGee, caused intentional infliction of emotional stress and maliciously prosecuted a woman,” AUSA Brown said with a supreme sneer on his face.

  While seated at his desk, AUSA Gucci added, “You can imagine how that’ll complicate this matter if you’re called testify at trial.”

  Detective McGee was silent, staring blankly out a tinted window into a sunny D.C. sky. She set her sight on the apex of the Washington Monument. Let freedom ring.

  AUSA Brown railed on, flipping through a sheaf of papers in a folder. He said, “In 2002 you obtained—”

  “A false confession from a Carol Jackson using coercive interrogation tactics. You also...allegedly...suppressed and disregarded evidence demonstrating her innocence of the murder she was charged with committing. This office withdrew prosecution, and then, arrested and convicted the true murderers—”

  “That’s what we do,” AUSA Gucci chimed in, looking up from his computer.

  “Despite this...um...allegation,” AUSA Brown said, “you became a lecturer and teacher on police interrogation tactics last year, and have been recorded admitting that you had coerced her confession and had disregarded evidence that was exculpatory. It’s on video, ma’am.” Brown closed the folder and set it aside. He tented his hands on the table, leering at Detective McGee.

  “The Metropolitan Police Department expressed that you were assigned to lead this case by rotation. And your commander is confident that you’re explicitly capable of handling the vigor of a case on this scale.” He had a seat at the head of the table, and added, “I just need assurances from you that you’ll play this by the book because there’s a lot riding on this case. We cannot give people the impression that they can kill our people sans consequence. Severe consequences.”

  After briefly digesting his word, Detective Bald Eagles said, “I’m sure your elevation to D.C. U.S. Attorney is riding on this. It’s widely known you’re set to replace the top man of this office who is awaiting Senate confirmation to join the D.C. District Court as the first Mexican-American on the bench here in the city. This case is a mus
t win for you to go to your bosses post.”

  “You can deduce,” ASUA Gucci said, adjusting in his seat. “We must, though, acknowledge that I can win this without you two.”

  Brown said, “The FBI Assistant Special Agent in Charge is a stone throw away and can assume responsibility of this case because of the victim. Under that scenario you go back to you MPD district and I go on to head this office. Win-win for me.” He smiled and adjusted his power-tie.

  “Not so fast,” Detective McGee said. Everyone had spoked and it was her turn. “You’ve forgotten one small detail. Your office has to defend the claim levied against me. If we lose, the floodgates would open and many of the other black and brown defendants in Southeast DC will be rich for mistakes like the one I’ve made. So how about we cut the bullshit and get to the business at hand as I’ve stated moments ago.”

  The two men in the room looked at each other. The two women did the same. Lines were drawn and smirks settled on everyone’s faces.

  “We can get to business,” AUSA Gucci said, “but know that this case must be played by the very playbook you teach from Detective, McGee.”

  “Got it,” she said, cocking her head to the side.

  Reaching under the table, AUSA Gucci retrieved an attaché. He opened and pulled out a CD. He rolled in his chair to a TV with a DVD player, popped in the cd, and pressed PLAY. On the screen a man appeared at an ATM machine, inserting a card into it and withdrawing cash.

  “That’s our man,” AUSA Brown said, at the screen, “using the judges’ debit card. He’s on the loose with a four hundred dollar head start.”

  C H A P T E R 23

  THE SHOTS FORCED DAVID Thurman to freeze. He was on the floor, back against the wall at gunpoint, two bullets holes in the floor on both sides of his body.

  Ethnicity saved his life. His lucky day.