Hot Flash (3 page)

“Yes, I remember. What'd she want?”

“Asked whether I thought she was wrong for wanting to talk to Baby Boy and tell him the truth and ask for his forgiveness. Muriel, she sounds like she's in a hard way. Why all of a sudden she want to mess with things? You should have told Travis a long time ago. I understand why you didn't but . . . Anyway, he's old enough now, girl. That boy loves you so much it won't matter to him a bit.”

I hesitated, not wanting to get into another “what I shoulda done” conversation right then. “I always planned on telling him before he left for college. I want to be the one, though. Not Nareece.”

“Close as you two are, you all need to talk and iron out the wrinkles before you involve him. He'll be fine with it and still love you both, you as his mother
and
Nareece. It wasn't her fault. Look, I gotta go. These guys are trying to install mirrors over the washing sinks instead of where they belong.”

Saved by the mirror installers. “Yes. And I have to get ready for court.”

“Hold on. Court? You're testifying today against that bastard killed that college student? The one almost killed you?”

“Yes.”

“You okay with it? I mean, ain't easy going up against a demented individual the likes of Jesse Boone, up close and personal as you got to him.”

“Whatever it takes to put him away, I'm good with.”

“I got a feeling there's a whole lot more we're going to learn about Mr. Boone before his days in court are done. He's the kind of bastard that belongs in an insane asylum, lock him in a room and throw away the key. If I believed in it, I'd say kill him. Strap him in the chair and inject his behind. But that's God's place, not ours, I don't care if we do have the death penalty.”

“Calm down, girl. They may not lock him up in an insane asylum, but you can bet he's going away for the rest of his life one way or another. No key necessary.”

“Amen to that. Come by tomorrow, we'll talk more and I'll fix you up. Love you.”

I clicked off as I turned to the right, down to my driveway. It ran between the three-story brick houses on my street, Long-shore, and the houses one block over on Disston Street. Each home had a fenced-in driveway and garage. My kitchen window looked out on the driveway from the second level. I got out of the car and opened the gate to the driveway, then looked up, halfway expecting Travis to be at the window. He was supposed to be home that morning and I had not heard from him. I couldn't worry about that now, though. I had court to get ready for.

C
HAPTER
3

I
diverted my gaze from Jesse Boone and looked out over the courtroom from the witness stand. And yet I felt forced to look back at Boone, like he was magnetized. Did he just wink at me? The smirk he sported sizzled when our eyes locked, sending centipedes scurrying along my arms to my shoulders. He exuded charisma with a smidgeon of evil. The blue-gray Armani suit he wore hugged his biceps, which accented his chiseled physique. His eyes were black and sparkly, his nose small and pointy, his perfect hair blown out and back—a beastly variation on handsome.

My body twitched.

A heat boiled up inside me and lodged just beneath my skin. Not now, I prayed. Sweat trickled down from my left armpit, almost tickling. Of course. If I was holding a gun on a suspect who had a hostage in his grip and both our lives depended on me making the shot,
bam!
A damn hot flash would ravage my whole body.

I backhand swiped at my brow and forced my attention to the district attorney.

“Your Honor, I would like to offer Officer Muriel Mabley as an expert witness in the area of firearm identification.”

“What qualifies this officer to be accepted as an expert witness in my court?” the judge said.

“Officer, please give your duties, responsibilities, and qualifications.”

Boone's attorney sprang from his seat. “I will stipulate to the qualifications of this witness.”

“Mr. Jameson, please take your seat. This is for my enlightenment also. I want to hear what Officer Mabley knows. She is new to my courtroom.”

The DA nodded to me to speak.

“My duties are to accept all firearms and firearm-related material, such as fired bullets, cartridge cases that have been turned in or collected or confiscated within the city of Philadelphia. All evidence is examined and compared against all like evidence. I am trained in the microscopic comparison, photomicrography, which is photographing through the microscope, serial number restoration, tool mark comparison, distance determination through gunshot residue, wound ballistics, and crime scene reconstruction. I am also an armorer for Berretta, Smith & Wesson, SIG Sauer, Hi Point, Ruger, Colt, and have observed the manufacturing of these firearms from the beginning as raw steel to the finished product you see and identify as a firearm.

“I am an instructor at Widner School of Law, Philadelphia College of Osteopathic Medicine, and the Philadelphia Police Academy. I also instruct all the new DAs at the Philadelphia District Attorney's office.”

The DA turned to the defense table and asked, “Are there any objections to this witness's qualifications as an expert witness?”

“No, Your Honor,” Boone's attorney drawled as though bored with the specifics.

The district attorney walked across the floor and picked up the gun that killed Ms. Hodges. The gun had a plastic tie through the barrel and was locked in an open position. “Officer Mabley, can you tell me about this firearm, which was found at the scene of the defendant's place of residence?”

I took the gun from the DA and read the numbers from the property receipt. “Yes, this pistol was placed on property receipt #92714529338 and submitted to the Forensic Science Center through the normal procedures.”

“What can you tell us about this firearm?”

“This is a semiautomatic pistol, manufactured by Sturm Ruger and Co. model P-ninety-five. It is nine-millimeter Luger in caliber, with six lands and grooves with a right-hand twist. The finish is stainless steel, three-and-seven-eighths-inch barrel, with rubber grips.” I stopped and flipped the gun around so the serial number on the butt was visible. “Serial number 315-73198. The firearm was presented with gunshot residue in the barrel and found to be in operable condition. Also submitted were fourteen Remington cartridges, nine-millimeter Luger in caliber. However, this firearm has a magazine capacity of sixteen and one in the chamber.”

“Was there any other evidence submitted that was found to be related to this firearm?”

The DA handed me an evidence envelope. I opened it and read numbers from the receipt that was inside along with the evidence.

“Submitted on Property Receipt #943673284309, received from the Medical Examiner's officer were two fired bullets.”

“What, if anything, can you tell us about the relationship between this firearm and the fired bullets?”

“The bullets that were submitted were found to be nine-millimeter Luger in caliber with six lands and grooves and a right-hand twist.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Yes, the firearm was test fired into the water tank and those bullets were compared against the bullets submitted from the ME's office.”

“What can you tell us about that comparison?”

“When these two specimens were compared against one another, it was determined that they were both fired from the same firearm.”

“So, Officer Mabley, you are saying that the bullets that were taken from the victim were fired from the same firearm that was taken from the defendant's residence?”

“Yes.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“During the manufacturing process, tools are used to put in the lands and grooves. Incidental to this process, microscopic markings are left in the barrel, which gives each barrel its own identifiable markings that are unique to that gun and that gun alone.”

“You mean to say to the exclusion of all other nine-millimeter pistols out there, these marks are unique to this gun and this gun only.”

“Yes. The bullet that killed Ms. Hodges was fired from the gun in evidence.”

“Officer, where was this gun you're speaking about found?”

“It was found at the defendant's home, in the master bedroom, on the nightstand.”

“Please tell the jury what led up to the gun being confiscated from the defendant's residence. What happened the night you found Ms. Hodges's body and the gun?”

“I received a call from who I thought was Officer Parker saying there had been a shooting at the defendant's address.”

“What time did you get that call?”

“It was one twenty a.m.”

“Go on.”

“When I arrived at the address, the suspect came to the door covered in blood and pointing a gun at me. I had my gun pointed at him and told him to drop his weapon. Instead he rushed me, causing my gun to discharge. He hit me in the head with his gun, and I passed out. When I regained consciousness, I was on the bed with my hands tied to the bedposts. He was not in the room so I started trying to loosen the ties. When he came back, he climbed on the bed and unzipped his pants and said he intended to mess me up like the victim. I freed a hand and punched him. Luckily, I caught him off guard. He fell off the bed, hit his head on the nightstand, and knocked himself out. I finished freeing my hands, handcuffed him to some wall pipes, and called for backup.”

“Did he rape you?”

“No.” The answer echoed in my ears.

“Tell the jury when and where you found Ms. Hodges.”

“I looked around the house while I waited for backup. There was blood on the floor near the basement door off the kitchen. When I went into the basement, I found Candace Hodges's body on the floor.”

Gasps erupted from the audience into a continuous murmur. Again the judge slammed the gavel, this time threatening to clear the room if the audience did not remain quiet.

“Go on.”

“I checked her breathing . . .” I stumbled on my words for a moment. Images of Candace Hodges's broken body flashed through my brain, before I forced myself back, readjusted, and continued. “She was cut up pretty badly. Her face was black and blue. She was naked. Her breasts were severed, and cuts went from her navel to her vaginal area.” I swallowed, trying to moisten my throat and mouth. “She'd also been shot in the head. Defensive wounds on her wrists and hands indicated she fought back hard.”

“Officer Mabley, do you usually go out to shootings without your partner?”

“No.”

“Where was your partner the night in question?”

“My partner, Officer Laughton, was in Washington, D.C., on assignment.”

“Do you know who it was that called you to the defendant's address?”

“No. Like I said, I thought it was Officer Parker.”

“Was it?”

“No.”

“Could it have been the defendant?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you have any history with the defendant, Ms. Mabley?”

“No.” The answer flew from my lips. Maybe too fast. I had worked undercover in the Black Mafia when I first started on the force. Now I wondered why I had not met Jesse Boone then.

Jesse Boone shifted in his seat, his eyes, bits of black onyx, drilled down on me.

“Thank you, Officer. I turn the witness over to the defense.”

Boone's attorney swaggered up to the witness box and stopped in front of me. My hands sweated. I wiped them on my skirt. I noticed Laughton sitting behind and to the left of the attorney table where Boone sat. A slight nod, and the upturn of the left side of his mouth, allowed me a resurgence of confidence. I readjusted.

“Officer Mabley, isn't it true there are no universally accepted ‘quality assurance' standards for firearms examination? That there are no objective criteria to govern what points of similarity or difference may be disregarded when evaluating whether a bullet or cartridge case came from a particular weapon? That my client is being held to your subjective judgment in making a match between the bullets that killed the victim and the gun found in my client's home?”

“Objection, Your Honor—” the DA asserted. A loud murmur from the audience challenged the judge's gavel.

Now my hands shook, though no one could see them. The witness box provided a veil of protection. I hated that Jesse Boone had me shaking as though I were a victim instead of testifying in the case. Everyone's eyes bore a hole in my temple—especially the students from Chestnut Hill University and their parents. They all wanted Boone, who had raped, mutilated, and shot a student, Candace Hodges, to be put away forever or better yet, dead by lethal injection.

He had come by his lethal persona legitimately. His father was Richard “The Pistol” Boone, a primary player in the Philadelphia Black Mafia, an organization that emerged in the 1960s and ruled over the city's underworld through the 1990s and into the early 2000s. Black Mafia members were vicious, both in their methods of controlling people and in their illegal activities of drug trafficking, loan sharking, numbers rackets, and extortion. I knew this from experience. I spent my first few years in the department undercover in their organization.

Boone spent fifteen years in prison for murdering his father. He beat and strangled him to death, stabbed him thirty-five times all over his body after he was dead, and shot him ten times, five in the head and five in his privates. Definitely a crime of passion and hate.

Since his release from prison in 2008, Boone had been the primary suspect in four murder cases. Candace Hodges, murdered six months ago to the day, January 29, 2013, made five. His last known victim, before Candace Hodges, was a thirty-year-old mother of three. She was found stuffed in a locker in an abandoned building in the Broad and Dauphin Street neighborhood, known as one of the twenty-five most dangerous neighborhoods in America. Her breasts were severed, her arms and legs were cut off, and she had gunshot wounds to her forehead, chest, and genital area.

Boone had escaped prosecution in the four previous cases because of weak evidence or evidence that mysteriously disappeared, and witnesses who refused to appear in court fearing for their safety.

“I have no more questions at this time for this witness,” Boone's attorney said.

The district attorney rose as Boone's attorney returned to his seat next to Boone. “Redirect, Your Honor,” he said. “Officer Mabley, please tell the court how the Firearms Identification Unit is validated. That is, whether the practices used are accepted in the relevant scientific community, and please explain what that means.”

“Yes, our practices are accredited. We use the National Integrated Ballistic Identification Network's computerized system, which assists in matching firearms-related evidence to other evidence entered into the system around the world. We also use ballistic comparison microscopes to conduct all levels of microscopic comparisons. Our practices are accredited by the American Society of Crime Laboratory Directors.”

Laughton loitered outside the courtroom waiting for me. The elevator ride to the parking garage, the clicking of our shoes on the pavement, and the hollow sound of my car door opening soothed my nerves, though I sensed uneasiness between Laughton and me, something foreign to our relationship. I got in and started the engine.