One to Go (18 page)

“On an interim basis, until they decide on a replacement for Shanny.”

“They'd be crazy not to promote you.” Okay, he was sucking up a little bit, but, in fact, she was the most qualified. Head and shoulders above DTA. “I had a good time last night.”

“Me too.”

Her phone rang. She checked the number. “Got to take this. Tell Danny I said to give you half the px files.”

He left her office and found DTA hovering outside in the corridor.

“Eva said to split up the px files.”

“Ooh, the newbie's getting promoted. Impressive. So, I heard you two were tearing up the dance floor at the Four Seasons last night.”

“A gentleman never tells.” Tom had witnessed many shit-eating grins, but had never tried one himself, so he wasn't sure how his attempt was being perceived.

Apparently, it was sufficient for his purposes, as DTA scowled and returned to his desk.

As Tom followed to collect his files, one question nagged him. Should he have told Eva about his nocturnal visit to Jess' place?

He rationalized that doing so would've only raised issues in Eva's mind about Tom's feelings toward Jess. And besides, he'd never actually seen Jess, and no one had seen—

A guy who appeared intoxicated approaching Jess' house
.

Damn.

Lester.

Tom pushed the image of the annoying white dog from his mind—it had been dark, and it was highly unlikely the old woman would be able to identify him.

Two hours later, he was sitting at the defense table in Willie Cyrus Clay's courtroom. Instead of simply dividing his stack of files in half, DTA had cherry-picked the ones involving the most serious crimes for himself. Tom feigned disappointment and enjoyed DTA's smug look as Tom carried his stack away.

Of course, Tom didn't really want cases involving perps who would likely remain incarcerated. He needed to follow the Reece Mackey template—a real bad man who was charged with a minor crime and thus out on bail.

With only a few minutes to thumb through the files, he'd been able to identify three possibilities—Victor Ramos, Elgin Boyd, and LaRon Walker. Each had a record of beating a murder or manslaughter charge in the past, and was now up for a minor misdemeanor.

Judge Clay had been around forever. Despite being long past the mandatory retirement age of seventy, like most of his retired colleagues, he continued to take cases on a part-time basis, both to help chip away at the court system's expanding caseload and to stay out of his wife's hair. Tom could tell immediately that Clay was bored, which on balance wasn't a bad thing, since it meant he paid little attention to the AUSA's efforts to stifle Tom's attempts at discovery.

As he'd departed for court, Eva told him that Clay, being old school, rarely set separate bail review, and entertained motions to reduce bond at preliminary hearings, which didn't usually occur. Tom was particularly focused on Boyd and Ramos, who both remained in jail. He needed them out on the street so—so what?
So he could kill them
.

Unfortunately, Boyd had already jumped bond on two prior occasions, and Ramos was being held on an extradition warrant from Virginia, so neither of them walked out the courtroom's front door.

That left LaRon Walker. When the side door opened, Tom was shocked to see the marshal escort a black female toward his table. He quickly re-checked his file. No picture.

The bailiff announced, “US v. LaRon Walker, case No. 657452.”

“My name's LaRyn, not LaRon.”

Tom suspected that name mix-ups were not unheard of, as the clerk made a notation on her file with no indication the mistake was anything other than routine.

LaRyn sat next to Tom and the marshal uncuffed her. She looked like a caricature of a low-class hooker. Overweight, her butt hung out of her skintight shorts, her black hose was torn in three places, and she wore a halter top which, in its battle to restrain her heavy breasts, was hopelessly overmatched. Her eyes had the half-lidded glaze of a druggie, her hair frizzed out in a hundred directions, and her makeup resembled that of a circus clown. She was a mess.

Tom recalled from an earlier perusal of the file that she was charged with assault with a deadly weapon, blinding the victim, one LaToya Robinson, in one eye. He remembered Walker had three children, but believed his client was the father of the children. That LaRyn was the mother might make it easier to get her bail reduced.

She opened her mouth to speak, and Tom instinctively backed away. Her breath blasted an acidic mix of cheap whiskey and cigarettes. She whispered, “Where's the blond dude?”

DTA must've handled her arraignment. “He's tied up with another case, so I'm covering for him. He'll represent you at trial.”

Clay nodded to Berman, the prosecutor. “Please proceed.”

Berman called the arresting officer, who succinctly described a fight between LaRyn and LaToya near Logan Circle, one of the four or five spots in the city long known for scoring a quick “roadie.” On the way out of town for eastbound commuters returning home to the Maryland suburbs, men would pause on the Circle; a “hostess” would hop into the passenger side of the family minivan. He'd pull into one of the dark streets spoking off from the Circle, get a quick blow job, pay the hostess twenty bucks, return to the Circle, drop her off, then hurry home to mom and the kids now completely relaxed from the stress of the day.

According to the officer, LaToya jumped in front of LaRyn when a customer stopped on the Circle. LaRyn took issue with this breach of protocol and decided to express her disappointment by removing one of her shoes and swinging its eight-inch heel as hard as she could at LaToya's face. The heel caught LaToya flush in her eye, actually partially dislodging the eye from the socket. Tom now realized if he'd read the file more carefully, he would've deduced that LaRon was of the female variety.

Tom asked a few questions, but apparently his client had admitted, indeed bragged, about her courageous stand against a violator of the sacred code of the Circle. He was much more interested in her bail. Although the thought of killing a woman gave him even deeper pause, he'd worry about that later. He had the rest of the week to find a better candidate, but the more options available on the street, the better his chances. The judge ruled that LaRyn be bound over to the grand jury. Before he could call the next case, Tom rose.

“Your Honor, I would like to address the matter of Ms. Walker's bail.”

Berman interrupted him. “Your Honor, Ms. Walker has a record, including juvie, going back six years.”

Tom thought,
Six years didn't sound all that bad
. He glanced at the file—she was only nineteen years old.

Berman continued. “Most are for sol pros, simple assaults. But she has one B&E, and two years ago she was charged with homicide.”

“Two years ago she was a juvenile, Your Honor, and her juvenile record can't be used against her now that she's an adult,” said Tom. He had no idea whether he was right, but he expressed his position with the appropriate amount of certitude.

“The original charge was murder one,” said Berman. “Her case was transferred to adult court. There was a chain of custody screw-up with the murder weapon, so the government agreed to return her to the juvenile system, where she pled to manslaughter. Served a year in juvie.”

Tom needed some more information on the murder charge, not to assist him in making the case before Judge Clay, but in making the case to himself, if killing her was his only hope to save Janie.

“I'm sorry, Your Honor, but my file has no information on the manslaughter charge. Perhaps Mr. Berman could enlighten me.” Smith gestured to Berman.

“Of course, Your Honor,” said Berman. He read from his file. “At the age of seventeen, the defendant broke into the home of one Twyla Richards—”

“I ain't break in. The lock was broke an' I just opened it,” said LaRyn. Clay glared at her. “I'm just sayin'.” Tom put a restraining hand on her arm.

Berman continued. “Whereupon she found Ms. Richards in bed with one William Riggins, aka Acie Cat. She brutally attacked Mr. Riggins with a knife, inflicting multiple stab wounds. Mr. Riggins was transported to DC General, where he was pronounced dead.”

“I ain't try to kill Acie, just wanted to cut off his dick 'cause he was fuckin' Twyla same time I'm carryin' his baby. He just wiggled around so much, ended up with a few extra slices, the cheatin' piece of shit.”

Clay banged his gavel. “Ms. Walker, another outburst from you, and I'll step you back. Understand?” She nodded.

“Clearly, a crime of passion,” said Tom. “Ms. Walker was a juvenile, her judgment no doubt impaired by the fact she was pregnant at the time, and obviously distressed by what she viewed as a betrayal by the child's father. I see no record of her failing to appear. She has three children who need their mother. I ask the court not to compound the tragedy that has befallen LaToya Robinson by prejudicing three innocent children.”

Clay paused, then eye-locked with LaRyn. “If, against my better judgment, I let you out, you promise to stay off the Circle and show up whenever Mr. Booker here says he needs you?”

She nodded solemnly. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Defendant's released on her personal recognizance.” He banged his gavel. “Adjourned for lunch.”

As Tom gathered his papers, the matronly court clerk smiled at him.

“Good job, Mr. Booker.”

“Thanks.”

He noticed her hairpin was in the shape of a poodle. An image of the little white dog again pierced his thoughts. Arguably, he had an obligation to tell the police he saw the shadow of someone escaping from Jess' building. Conceivably, it might help with nailing down the time the crime had occurred. But he couldn't identify the individual, and it was possible all he witnessed were shadows playing tricks on him.

The last thing he needed now was getting bogged down as a potential witness in Jess' case when he was busy finding someone to murder.

Over the rest of the week, Tom was able to take Janie and Angela out to dinner twice, something unheard of when he'd been working for the firm. Feeling his daughter's uncompromising love reinforced his resolve to do whatever was necessary to save her.

He continued handling preliminary hearings, hoping for candidates better suited than LaRyn for his purposes, his purposes being to die in a little over a week. But Judge Sylvia Hagan had taken over for Clay, and she was a real ball-buster. Wouldn't listen to any bail reduction arguments, a problem since those clients who were already on the streets had not committed any offense that, according to the Booker Code of Criminal Ethics, warranted the death penalty. He was not going to murder a young mother of three children. He would have to find someone else.

But by Friday, LaRyn remained the only candidate. At the conclusion of her bail hearing, he'd expected some form of thank you for getting her out of jail. He received nothing but dead eyes and a permanent scowl. She'd reluctantly given him her contact information, and he'd arranged to meet her at the end of the next week, hoping in the meantime he'd find a more suitable victim. LaRyn had murdered another human being and received only a slap on the wrist. Still, he didn't think there was any way he could pull the trigger. He remembered his daughter's embrace, feeling her arms around his neck. He couldn't allow the choice to come down to LaRyn or Janie.

He'd seen Eva every day, but always on a professional basis.
They'd arranged to go to dinner Friday night, and he was putting on his jacket when there was a knock at the door. Probably Zig. He'd told his friend about the date, and Zig had wormed his way in, arranging for the four of them to have a nice dinner at 1789 in Georgetown. Tom had offered resistance, selfishly wanting to have Eva to himself, but Zig reminded him that it would be the first time Marcie would have an opportunity to get out since Jess' death, and Tom acceded. He answered the door.

Percy Castro stood in the hallway, and he didn't look happy.

“Looks like you're heading out,” said Castro. “Guess I should've called first.”

Competing thoughts snapped through Tom's mind. Should he apologize, tell Castro he's late, and schedule a later appointment? This approach would give him time to collect his thoughts. Or should he invite him in, get a sense of what he wants, then cut the meeting short because he had to leave. He chose option two.

“I have a date, Detective, but I can give you a quick minute.” He stepped aside and Castro entered. Tom purposely remained standing. He didn't want Castro to get comfortable. “What can I do for you?”

“Just following up some loose ends, Counselor, seeing as you have a connection to three recent deaths in the city.” Tom purposely didn't respond. “You were with Gino Battaglia minutes before he shot himself. You were with Reece Mackey before he drank himself to death. And a check of phone records shows you were called by Jessica Hawkins an hour or so before she was shot.”

Tom didn't have to fake his chagrin. “It's been an unreal several weeks. Any lead on Jess' murder?”

Castro didn't answer directly, which unnerved Tom. “I ran into Ms. Stoddard at the courthouse this morning. She asked about the Jessica Hawkins investigation and mentioned she'd met the young woman at Bat Masterson's birthday party. Said you and Jessica had a pretty intense argument.”

“Wasn't really an argument,” said Tom. “I had gone out with Jess several times, but it wasn't serious, at least on my part. She was
at the party as an aide to Senator Guthrie, and her housemate's dating my best friend.”

“All one happy family,” Castro responded with a cold smile. He slowly took in Tom's apartment like a video camera panning, recording the scene.

“So, should I gather she was jealous of your dating Ms. Stoddard?”