Murder in Germantown (2 page)

"I'm listening," Mark told her
genuinely.

"All of the fags, I mean feds, should be listening, too. Carefully. The home is severely enveloped in enough dynamite to sink the Virgin Islands. All of them! Look at the television."

They looked and the screen flashed from room to room and all points outside the house.

"I am Big Sister, lads. No one leaves. No one makes unauthorized calls. No one sends text messages. Or there will be a lot of hymnals and carnations bought. Are we clear?"

No one replied.

"Are we fucking clear?" she barked wickedly.

"Yes," everyone in the room said.

They shook their heads up and down.

"So subservient. I love it!" Jewel said jubilantly.

"Malloy, you're authorized a call to Katherine Donahue. You may inform her that you have an agent arriving at the Broad Street and Samsun Street branch to retrieve the cash. She should stow the cash in a duffle bag that was dropped to her desk 26 seconds ago. She forks over the currency and I will let you know how to get back Samantha. Capeesh?"

Once again, click!

CHAPTER 3

Mark sensed the
haughty FBI had been deflated. There would not be any hoots of celebration and champagne popping after solving this capper. They had been
beaten by their own game. It was rumored that a lot of successful busts and cracked cases were the result of sloppy criminals, and not adroit police work. Perhaps, Jewel had proved that.

Mark dithered on the sofa. He rocked and folded his arms. His shaking was noticeable. He needed hard liquor and he found some at the bar. His every move was showcased on Mark-TV. It was such a home invasion of privacy. He began to talk about his wonderful wife. He spoke of stowed memories that he had totally forgotten. The kidnapper heard every damn word. Prayerfully, the telephone rang.

"This is Malloy," ASIC Malloy answered. "Hold a second. It's for you," he said, extending the phone to Mark.

"Yes, Jewel."

"Mr. Artis, I want you to collect Mr. Malloy's badge and gun. Holster and all."

"Why would he do that?" Malloy asked.

"Because I said so. How else will I recover the cash from Donahue? You didn't believe I'd send one of my guys into your trap, did you? Maybe you did? Sucks to be you then? Now tender the costume clown."

Malloy handed over his bona fides and Mark donned them. It was all displayed on Mark-TV.

"Don't look ashamed, Mark. Think of today as Halloween. You're dressed as an asshole." Jewel broke into a Broadway chuckle.

"Mr. Artis, you will take the quickest route to downtown Philly. Get the cash and deliver it to mama. You will leave by yourself. Any tricks and you'll be jettisoned to Pluto. There's a bomb on your car that would do that easily. Get it? Got it? Good."

* * *

Two minutes away from the house, Mark cruised in the XJ8 down City Avenue. He pulled into a Target parking lot and pulled off his artificial hands along with his faux mustache and beard. The widened snout, Dumbo ears, and thick neck came off next. He removed the dress shirt, pulled of the 40 pounds of excess body mass, and revealed his true size. He was parked next to a very low-key Ford. He hopped out of the XJ8 and into the Ford Taurus and commenced his getaway.

"How'd getting the cash go?" Mark asked Jewel.

"It went great. Bam walked out with the cash as Malloy handed you his badge."

"So all is well?"

"Yes. Well Mickey still doesn't think you had to break his wrist for mall parking lot cameras."

PART 1

FRIDAY, 5 JANUARY 2007

CHAPTER 4

Sometimes, my criminals are likable, but oftentimes they’re not. The current one I hated, but I represented him (and his money) without prejudice. His name, Mark Artis. I was interested in Artis’ trial verdict. More than the norm. He was an alleged con man and believed to be a serious threat to the Department of Commerce. I doubted that, and my investigators found evidence to prove me correct. But hey, I was bound by attorney-client privilege so I kept those details quiet. I credit my investigators because I actually did more than try one case per year. I did not suffer from the boredom of the unfolding discoveries of one case for months at a time.

I am busy on the Philadelphia criminal judicial circuit, and on the tip of every criminal’s tongue in the Federal Detention Center (FDC) in Philadelphia and in the Philadelphia Prison Systems. It was not the same as being chased down by paparazzi, but.... I could not report to every crime scene, interview every witness, or verify every alibi for all of the clients. I multi-task. So big ups to my detectives. The police have theirs and I have mine.

I just defended Artis in a trial on the 9th floor of the United States Courthouse at 601 Market Street. The jury deliberated for two days and requested the transcripts of the government’s key witness: Tanya “Jewel” Stalin (Russian, but no relation to the communist). Too bad the jury could not have her transcripts, and had to rely on their memories. I managed to get them the police reports and notes to compare to her testimony, though. I imagined they believe her to be a vicious liar--she was--and I had brought out her lies. Called her a terrorist, too. Yes, I was way out of line, but hey, an acquittal was acquired by any means necessary. The jury had a verdict, and I had to wait for them to deliver it.

At 9:30, Artis had found me perched at the defense table. I had known I would be in the courtroom holding my breath, so I had downloaded the sports news on Carmelo Anthony returning from his famous 15-day suspension. He would join the recently-acquired Allen Iverson with the Denver Nuggets. I did not have to see Artis approaching me. The heels of his loafers crashed the hardwood and his handcuffs echoed. The unarmed Marshal sat him next to me.

“
It does not take a rocket scientist to find me not guilty of all charges.” He proclaimed. “No prints or DNA of mine was found at the scene. Their whole case hinged on the testimony of a sleazy coke whore who would have sold her mother out. The jury is taking long. Does that mean anything?”

“
What do you mean?” I asked with a subtle hint of sardonicism.

What happened to a good morning pleasantry? This was one of the reasons I knew he had not played the federal agents. He had no class. Or grace. Mark, or whatever his real name was, had proven himself to be a pompous, self-centered bastard. I thought I needed my black ass fanned and fed grapes like royalty considering no Philadelphia tri-state area barrister wanted to touch him. I defended him. Offered my Harvard Law bookishness and sound experience to the noodle despite my disgust at how he allegedly devastated the government designed to protect
moi
.

“
Could they be wrestling with finding me guilty?”

What the hell did he think? Yes, they were. Guilty or Not Guilty? That was the question.

“
Mark,” I replied. “The length of time they deliberate means nothing. My best conjecture says they are worried about Jewel’s testimony.”

“
Ravonne, she botched a kidnapping after she had already gotten away with five others, and when the FBI swooped in on her for the mastermind, she fingered me. We had a one-night stand and my voice....” He paused and looked into the air. “My goddamn voice sounded like the man that had hired her. She should be on trial alone!”

“
Mark, please! I know the facts.”

It was my way of screaming shut the fuck up. After the comment, I studied him for a second. I checked for a sign that he was upset. He had a cold stare, but I stared back. I won the stare down and had no fear of him firing me.

“
So, you wanna hear about my date last night?” Mark asked me as if I desired to relive some bimbo flashing him her boobs outside the FDC cell window overlooking Arch Street.

Picayunish should’ve been his last name.

I stayed up countless nights constructing a solid defense, and he did nothing but eat commissary, watch Sports Center, see enough flesh to play with his wiener, and had the audacity to think I wanted to hear about it. It was not easy to restrain my position, but I reduced my reply to, “Mr. Artis.”

I stopped and breathed deeply. He hated the nom de guerre and was adamant it was not his.

I continued with, “I am on trial for my life. So, no, I do not care to relish your twenty-five cent booth experience.”

“
On trial for your life?” he asked and paused. “Since when?”

Marky-Pooh’s words dripped with disgust. Jewel’s pet name for him, not mine.

“
I will be further ostracized from practicing law in Philadelphia if I lose this case. And that is my life,” I said candidly. “Even if I obtain an acquittal, I’ll be the attorney who freed a con artist and duped the US out of $200,000, not including trial expenses.”

Refreshing.

I had upset my client and then left him at the defense table. I walked to the window and peered down at the Mark Artis Circus taking place out on Market Street. The
press had wanted the verdict. I was not usually perturbed by my clients, but there was a time when sound seriousness was mandatory. Being inside of a courtroom staring stoically down the barrel of a life sentence was a qualifier.

I had seen the press going mad outside. All of them pissed because they did not get a seat in the courtroom. The press seating was done by lottery and the stars were not with the press outside. I took an imaginary bow and smiled. I had captivated an audience again. After my performance with the Bezel trial, I loved to perform for the local media and I looked for an E-mail from CNN to come.

I then sat back down at the defense table and put on my smart pince-nez. They made me look fussy and intellectual. A man passionate about my craft of criminal defense.

I was!

I whispered to Mark to behave when the verdict was read.

Reporters rushed in to fill the available seats.

The judge hit the bench with the jury in tow. They looked forlorn. Shameful. My mind immediately began to ponder errors and plot appeal strategies. I doubted if I would represent Mark in the appeals process because I was aware the he would conjure a reason I, Ravonne Lemmelle, was ineffective. Yes, that was the number one appeals ground, and Mark would desperately want to get back to the streets if he was found guilty, so he would try to make me the fall guy. It was highly doubtful that would work out for him.

“
I’ve come to learn you, the jury, have reached a verdict,” the judge said to no one in particular.

She was looking around at the media mongers taking their seats. However, her voice was stern and appeared to be elated.

“
We have, Your Honor,” the foreman reported.

CHAPTER 5

The piercing scream sliced through Aramis like an arrow. He ignored it, bunched his pillow into a new shape and snuggled it around his head. The ringing from the house phone then started and stopped. The cell phone immediately began to ring again. The Lil’ Wayne
Fireman
single identified the caller. Aramis rotated the pillow and hoped the caller would call back later. The caller did, and it took seconds. His watch read 10:30 a.m.

Aramis curled his palm around his cell phone and flipped it open.

“
You better be dying. I mean literally dead!”

“
Aramis Reed! I know damn well you’re not still in bed?” Ravonne asked.

“
What’s the matter, Ray-Ray? I’m sleep.”

“
Noooo, you’re talking to me.”

Aramis slammed the phone shut.

Ravonne called right back.

“
Look!” Aramis barked. “I was up all night. I’m tired.”

“
We have a problem. I had Artis acquitted and was doing a live press release, which you missed--”

“
Why the hell are you making that a problem?”

“
It’s actually not. As soon as I began to walk away from the reporter madness, my cell phone rang. It was John B. Kelly’s Home and School Association president, Tina Burton. She...”

“
She reported they’re having a bake sale and she called on you to ask me to report it? Look, Ray-Ray, when I get up, I will call you.”