One to Go (11 page)

He approached just as she got off the call. “Hi, my name's Tom Booker. Shanny Burk sent me over.” He extended his hand.

She shook it briefly. “You CJA?”

“Guess so. Doin' a pro bono stint from Smith Hale. Shanny said you're my training officer.” He offered his most charming boyish smile.

She ignored it. “Fine.” She spread out the files like a deck of cards. “Pick two.”

“Uh, don't think you understand. Today's my first day. Don't really know what I'm doing.”

“Best way to learn to swim is to jump in the deep end. You either swim or drown. Good news here, Booker, is when you screw up, you'll survive to jump in again tomorrow.”

“But what if I make a mistake? We're talking about someone's freedom.”

“These are misdemeanors, and this is the District. Our jails are overcrowded, we have murders and rapes happening almost on a daily basis. Drug crime is rampant. Those are big-boy cases you won't even get close enough to sniff. It's rare for someone to serve time for a misdemeanor.”

Tom's next question was key. “What if you have a felon, let's say a murderer, who maybe gets off, then gets picked up for speeding?”

“First of all, traffic matters are prosecuted by the city through the DC Attorney General's office, not the Feds. See, Booker, the District's not a state—”

Okay, acting tough was fine, but sarcasm wasn't necessary.

“—and so crimes that in a state would be prosecuted by a state's attorney are handled here by the Feds, along with federal crime. The exception is what's commonly referred to in the law as little shit. Traffic's little shit. Baby misdemeanors are little shit.
Little shit's prosecuted by the DC government. I don't do little shit. Now, if you got a perp who beat a murder rap, and he gets caught on a misdemeanor threat or simple assault, a judge can take the murder charge into account at sentencing, although they rarely do.”

She checked her watch. “Gotta go back in.” She handed him two files from the bottom of the pile. “Here, watch me on the first ones. Then you do the last two. The goal here is to make sure the accused understands the charges and gets out on bond. You can check out the files while I'm doing my thing. When it's time to talk about bond, always ask for PR, personal recognizance. If the AUSA wants a heavy bond, list all your client's personal connections to the community and, hopefully, Squeaky will impose a light bond.”

“Squeaky?”

“The Honorable Stephen A. Mosley. Let's go.”

Tom took the files and followed Eva into the deep end of the pool.

Two hours later, his mind was mush and his legs shook. He'd sat next to Eva as she, the prosecutor—her name was Vera Lutz—and the judge ran through one case after another. Eva appeared to be in a rhythm and, hopefully, she'd forget and handle the last two—He heard Eva say his name.

“…Thomas Booker. Mr. Booker's a CJA volunteer from Smith, Hale and Masterson, and is available for appointment to the last two cases, Your Honor.” She whispered to Tom, “Stand up.”

Tom rose so abruptly, his chair toppled over, eliciting laughter from everyone, including the judge.

“Welcome, Mr. Booker. I hope you will be a bit more careful with our furniture in future visits. Given our budget, that chair will need to last for another 100 years.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge turned to the prosecutor. “Let's keep them rolling, Ms. Lutz. Maybe we can all get out of here a little early today.”

“Of course, Your Honor,” Lutz responded. “Next case is Tawana White, sol pros.”

The bailiff escorted a skinny black woman dressed in accordance with her profession, who looked to be in her forties, but Tom knew from reviewing her file she'd just turned nineteen.

“Afternoon, Tawana,” said the judge. “I was hoping I wouldn't have seen you back here so soon.”

She shrugged. “Whatcha gonna do, Judge? Girl's gotta make a livin'.”

“Six convictions for soliciting,” said Lutz in a monotone. “Two misdemeanor drug possessions, one felony drug possession pleaded down. Government asks for ten thousand dollars bond.”

Tom jumped up, suitably indignant. “Your Honor, ten thousand for a simple solicitation is very excessive.”

Tawana faced him for the first time. Her bloodshot eyes attempted to focus. “You my CJA?” Before he could respond, she turned back to the judge with an expression that could only be interpreted as, “Who's this bozo?”

Tom continued. “Sir, we believe—”

The judge held up his hand to cut him off. “What do you want to do, Tawana?”

“Could use a little break, Judge, if you don't mind. Gettin' cold out there.”

“No problem. Bond's set at ten thousand dollars. You gonna plead?”

“'Course.”

“Okay, I'll assign your case to Judge Hecht. How about a week?”

“Can I get two?”

“No problem. Case will be set for status two weeks from today.”

“Thanks, Judge.”

“You're welcome. Take care of yourself.”

She smiled at the judge as she was led away. “Next case,” said the judge.

“United States versus Reece Mackey,” said the clerk.

The marshal escorted a tall, gaunt black man forward. Mid-thirties, stringy, dirty hair, rough beard, heavy lids over dull eyes. Dressed in street clothes, his jeans were halfway down his ass, exposing blue boxers. He wore a Washington Redskins t-shirt that may have been washed several months ago. His body odor made Tom's eyes water.

“Mr. Mackey's charged with simple assault, Your Honor,” said Lutz. “Bar fight.”

Tom had read the file. Mackey originally had been charged with ADW—assault with a deadly weapon—for cutting the victim with a hawk-bill knife, then punching him in the face. The AUSA in charge of intake had no-papered the felony and reduced the charge to misdemeanor assault. Both the defendant and the victim were drunk. The victim only received a superficial cut on his arm, and wasn't exactly citizen-of-the-year material.

“Defendant has a long record, Your Honor,” said Lutz. “The government requests ten thousand dollars cash bond.”

Squeaky turned to Tom. “Mr. Booker?”

“Mr. Mackey has a long record of arrests, Your Honor, not convictions. There's no evidence that Mr. Mackey ever failed to appear.” Tom was parroting a line he'd heard Eva offer on several occasions during the afternoon. “This is a bar fight, and I'm sure the evidence will show Mr. Mackey was as much a victim as the complainant. We believe he should be released on his personal recognizance.”

“One of those arrests led to Mr. Mackey being tried for first-degree murder,” said Lutz. “He was acquitted when a key witness failed to appear.”

Eva looked at Tom, expectantly. What did she want him to say?

Eva sprang to her feet. “Your Honor, Ms. Lutz's comments are outrageous. She's hinting that somehow Mr. Mackey was responsible for the witness' failure to appear. If that were the case, her office would've prosecuted him for witness tampering.”

Right on right on
, thought Tom.

“Ms. Stoddard has a point,” said the judge. “Okay, Mr. Mackey, I'm releasing you on your own recognizance. You will report to
Judge Hecht's chambers three weeks from today at 9:00 a.m. for a status hearing. If you fail to appear, I'll issue a bench warrant for your arrest. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mackey.

“Between now and then, consult with your attorney, Mr. Booker here.”

Mackey pointed to Eva. “I want her.”

Tom didn't blame him.

“Not your choice,” said the judge. “Mr. Booker comes from one of the most prestigious firms in the city. You're in good hands. All right, think that does it, unless there's anything else, court's adjourned until tomorrow at 9:00.”

All stood while the judge exited the courtroom. Tom approached Mackey and offered his hand. Mackey shook it warily.

“So, how can I get in touch with you?” asked Tom.

Mackey gestured to a big-breasted black woman wearing a pink halter top who'd been sitting near the back of the courtroom. She came forward.

“Phone,” said Mackey.

She retrieved a cell phone from her purse and handed it to him. He punched a few keys and displayed the screen to Tom. The phone's number appeared. Tom quickly entered the digits into his own phone. Without another word, Mackey and his girl departed the room, arm-in-arm.

As they reached the door, the woman turned back and grinned.

For an instant his vision flickered, and it was Brit smiling at him. He blinked and she disappeared.

Tom sat with Eva and other PDS attorneys around a long wooden table in the back of Jack's, a deli only steps from their office building. All the attorneys appeared to be under thirty-five, most under thirty. The place was packed, and the attorneys had to shout across the table to be heard. Pitchers of beer and baskets of thick, homemade pretzels covered the table.

A blond guy sitting across from them passed the pitcher over to Tom so he could fill his glass. Eva had introduced all of her colleagues as they drifted in, but Tom could only recall a few. He did remember the blond guy's name—Danny—because Danny and Eva had held each other's gaze longer than expected for two people engaged in a purely professional relationship.

“Fill 'er up, Newbie,” said Danny. “You're lucky to have Eva as your mentor. She'll show you the ropes.”

Danny said the last sentence in a smarmy, double entendre tone, but for the life of him, Tom couldn't see any double meaning that might be considered sexual, unless Eva was into the dominatrix thing, which he seriously doubted.

Eva responded to Danny with a glare that could cut glass. Tom couldn't believe he cared about what was happening or had happened between Eva and Danny. He had less than two weeks to plan and execute a murder and there was no time for distractions of any kind, much less romantic distractions.

Fortunately, he thought he may have found a target. Reece Mackey had murdered another human being, and therefore fell
squarely into the “bad guy” category. That he'd beaten the rap—Tom wondered if criminal attorneys really said, “beat the rap”—strengthened his rationalization. This vile murderer had escaped justice, and Tom the Avenger was flying in from his secret cave to make things right.

He turned to Eva. “So, what about Mackey? Will he plead?”

“Doesn't get him anything. The prosecutor's pissed. Mackey beat the murder charge, probably because he did threaten a witness like Lutz alleged. Happens all the time. So they're not going to offer him anything for a plea. The jury can't take his arrest into account when trying him on the assault charge, but the judge can at sentencing under certain circumstances.”

“Which means—?”

“Which means, even for a pissant case like this, they're gonna do their best to make sure the vic shows up.”

“Which means—?”

“Which means in four or five weeks you're going to have your first jury trial, Booker. Welcome to the deep end.”

If Tom's plan worked, Reece Mackey would not be facing a jury of his peers in four weeks for the simple reason that he'd be dead.

“You ought to talk to Danny,” said Eva. “He defended Mackey in the murder case.” She shouted over the din of the restaurant. “Hey, Danny, Booker needs to talk to you about Reece Mackey.”

“Your wish is my command,” said Danny.

Tom didn't want to talk to Danny. He didn't like Danny. And not just because he seemed to have a thing for Eva. The man should've had “asshole” branded across his forehead to warn the unsuspecting. Okay, maybe most of it was because of Eva. “That would be great.”

That night Tom drove back into Southeast. He'd decided he needed to meet with Mackey sooner rather than later and gain his trust. Tom figured he'd be better able to formulate a plan after spending
some time with him. But tonight he wasn't meeting Mackey. He needed another gun, one that was untraceable. His only hope was Chewy Lewis.