Soul Circus (15 page)

In the body of the courtroom there were two tables for the defense and the prosecution. The defense team, from Ives and Colby, was all black, per the request of Oliver, though many of the firm’s white attorneys had been working the case from behind the scenes. Raymond Ives had already made eye contact with Strange, as it was Ives’s habit to watch the spectators as they entered.

Granville Oliver sat at the defense table wearing an expensive blue suit. He wore nonprescription eyeglasses, a nice touch suggested by Ives, to give him a look of thoughtfulness and intelligence. Underneath the suit he wore a stun belt, by decree of the court.

The jurors had entered the courtroom and were seated. The selection process had taken months, and its progress was heavily monitored in the local news. Nearly two hundred District residents had been excused because they had admitted on a questionnaire that they were unlikely or unable to render a death sentence. Prosecutors had been allowed to continue the process until they were satisfied that they had a “death-qualified” jury. So the jurors who were ultimately selected were hardly an accurate representation of the D.C. community, or its sentiments.

In the jury box were four whites. Two of them were bookish and rumpled and the other two wore unfashionable sport jackets with long, wide lapels. The remaining jurors were black and mostly elderly or nearing retirement age. From the looks of them, they appeared to be upstanding citizens, on the conservative side, lifelong workingmen and -women. Not the type to sympathize, particularly, with an angry young man of any color who in the past had publicly flashed his ill-gotten, blood-smeared gains.

The U.S. attorney for the prosecution began his opening remarks, telling the jury what the case was “about.” As he spoke of greed and power and the notion of “street respect,” a series of photographs of Granville Oliver were presented on several television monitors placed about the courtroom. These were stills from a rap video Oliver had produced to promote his recording career and recently founded company, GO Records. The origin of the stills was not mentioned. When the prosecutor was done with his speech, he showed the video in its entirety for the jury.

The images would be familiar to anyone under the age of thirty: Oliver in a hot tub with thong-clad women, Oliver behind the wheel of a tricked-out Benz, Oliver in platinum jewelry and expensive threads, Oliver holding twin .45s crossed against his chest. The usual bling-bling, set to slow-motion female rump shaking, drum machine electronica, Fred Wesley–style samples, and a monotone rap coming from the unsmiling, threatening face of Granville Oliver. Any kid knew that the images contained props that were rented for the shoot. Perhaps these images would be less familiar, though, in this context, especially to the older members of the jury.

Strange had come down to speak to Ives because he felt he needed to brief him today. And he also thought he’d sit and hear the opening statement for the defense, describing Oliver’s early life in the Section 8 projects. Ives would detail his fatherless upbringing, his crack-dealer role models, his subpar education, and how, as a youngster, he had learned to shoot up his mother with cocaine to bring her up off her heroin nod.

It was all propaganda, from both sides, when you got down to it. But something about the prosecution’s presentation that morning had stretched the boundaries of dignity and fairness, and it had angered Strange. He stood, made the telephone-call sign to Ives with two fingers spread from cheek to ear, and left the courtroom.

An FBI agent followed him out the door. Strange didn’t look at him or acknowledge him in any way. He kept walking and he kept his eyes straight ahead. He was used to this kind of subtle intimidation.

Down on the first floor, he ran into Elaine Clay, one of the public defenders known as the Fifth Streeters, who had been in the game for many years. Strange had bought countless LPs from Elaine’s husband, Marcus Clay, when he’d owned his record stores in Dupont Circle and on U Street before the turnaround in Shaw.

Elaine stopped him and put a hand on his arm. He stood eye to eye with her and relaxed, realizing he had been scowling.

“Derek, how’s it going?”

“It’s good. You’re lookin’ healthy, Elaine.”

“I’m doing my best.”

She was doing better than that. Elaine Clay was around his age, tall, lean, with strong legs and a finely boned face. She had most definitely kept herself up. Elaine had always commanded respect from all sides of the street, a trial lawyer with a rep for intelligence and a commitment to her clients.

“Marcus okay?”

“Consulting still, for small businesses opening in the city. Complaining about his middle spreading out and the new Redskins stadium. Wondering why he still watches the Wizards. But he’s fine.”

“Y’all have a son, right?”

“Marcus Jr. He’s college bound.”

“Congratulations. I got a stepson starting next fall my own self.”

“Heard you finally pulled the trigger and settled down.”

“Yeah, you know. It was time. Glad I did, too.”

She looked him over. “You all right?”

“Just a little perturbed, is all. I been working the Granville Oliver thing for Ives and Colby, and I was just up at his trial. Some bullshit went down in there that, I don’t know, got to me.”

“You got to roll with it,” said Elaine.

“I’m trying to.”

“So that means you been prowlin’ around Southeast?”

“That’s where the history is,” said Strange.

“You need any kind of insight to what’s going on down there, give my office a call. I’ve got an investigator I use, he’s been on the Corey Graves Mob thing for me down there for a long time.”

“Corey Graves? I was down in Leavenworth a couple of weeks ago, interviewing an enforcer for Graves, used to be with Granville. Boy named Kevin Willis.”

“I know Willis. You get anything out of him?”

“He talked plenty. But I got nothin’ I could use.”

“Call me if you want to speak to my guy.”

“He got a name?”

“Nick Stefanos.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“He knows the players, and he does good work.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Feel better, hear?”

“Give love to your family, Elaine.”

“You, too.”

Strange watched her backside move in her skirt without guilt as she walked away. He had to. Didn’t matter if she was a friend or that he was married and in love. He was just a man.

Outside the courthouse, Strange phoned Quinn at the bookstore as he walked to his Chevy. When he was done making arrangements, he placed the cell back in its holster, hooked onto his side.

Strange’s temper had cooled somewhat talking to Elaine Clay. But it hadn’t disappeared. By showing that video, the prosecution was presenting Granville Oliver as a scowling young black man with riches, cars, and women, everything the squares on that jury feared. The Feds wanted the death penalty, and clearly they were going to get it in any way they could. Their strategy, essentially, was to sell Granville Oliver to the jury as a nigger. No matter what Oliver had done, and he had done plenty, Strange knew in his heart that this was wrong.

IN Anacostia, Ulysses Foreman’s El Dorado idled on MLK Jr. Avenue, a half block up from the Big Chair. Foreman wheeled the thermostat down on the climate control and let the air conditioner ride. It was a hot morning for spring.

Mario Durham sat in the passenger seat beside him, fidgeting, using his hands to punctuate his speech when he talked. Foreman noticed that Durham still wore that same tired-ass outfit he’d had on the day before. And those shoes, too, one of them had the
J
missing off the Jordan, read “ordan.” Forman studied them and saw that Durham had done them both now the same way. And then he saw the blood smudge across the white of the left one.

Had to be Mario Durham’s own blood, ’cause he couldn’t have drawn no blood from anyone else. Somebody must have given the little motherfucker a beat-down, and he went and bled all over his own shoes. Foreman didn’t ask about it, though. Far as he cared, Durham could just go ahead and bleed hisself to death.

“Wanted to turn this in,” said Durham, patting the pocket of his Tommys, where it looked like he held the gun.

“What you said on the phone.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Why would I mind?” Foreman chin-nodded at a brand-new Lexus rolling up the hill of the avenue in their direction. “You see that pretty Lex right there?”

“Sure.”

“I been seein’ that Lex all over Southeast these last few weeks. And every time I do see it — same car, same plates — a different motherfucker is under the wheel, drivin’ it.”

“So?”

“It’s a hack. Someone done bought that car just to rent it out. For drugs, money, a gun, whatever. This rental business is the business of the future in D.C. Shit, white people been doin’ it to us with furniture and televisions and shit forever. We’re just now gettin’ behind it our own selves.”

“What’s your point?”

“Why would I mind if you give me back my merchandise early? I’ll just go ahead and turn it over to someone else, ’cause I got the market locked up. The question is, though, why would you give it up so early? You had five days on it, man.”

“I was done with it. Thought I’d get some kind of credit on the time I
didn’t
use, sumshit like that.”

“Yeah, well, you were wrong about that. You want to turn that gun in early, that’s your business, but we don’t do no store credits up in here. Anyway, I done smoked up all that herb you gave me for it.”

“Damn, boy.”

Foreman’s eyes went to Durham’s pocket. “Let me have a look at the gun.”

Durham passed it low, under the sight line of the windows, to Foreman. Foreman looked in the rearview and glanced though the windshield, then turned his attention to the Taurus. He broke the cylinder and saw that it had been emptied. He smelled the muzzle and knew that the gun had been fired.

“You shot some off, huh?”

“A few.”

“To make that impression you were talkin’ about?”

“Nah, I didn’t need it for that, turns out. I just shot off the gun in the air a few times, late last night, like it was New Year’s or the Fourth of July. I was high and I wanted my money’s worth, is all it was.”

“Okay, then.” Foreman slipped the Taurus under the seat. “Pleasure doin’ business with you, Twigs.”

Foreman watched with amusement as Durham’s eyes flared and his bird chest filled with air.

“I don’t like that name,” said Durham, his voice rising some. “I don’t want you callin’ me that anymore.”

“You don’t want me to, I won’t.” Foreman looked him over. “You need a ride somewhere?”

“Nah, man, my short’s just down the street.”

“Where you stayin’ now?”

“I’m up with a friend, why?”

“Just like to know where you’re at, case we need to hook up.” Foreman smiled. “Man returns his strap after one day on a five-day rent, he might just become my best customer.”

“Yeah, well, you need me, you can reach me on my cell.”

“Take care of yourself, dawg.”

“You, too.”

Foreman watched Durham walk down the hill, going in the direction of his “short.” The only cars he’d be headin’ toward was the ones parked outside the Metro stop. ’Cause that’s where he was going, any fool knew that.

Still, raggedy as Mario Durham did look, there was something different about him today. Stepping up and saying that he didn’t want to be called by that bitch name no more, for one. And his walk was different, too. He wasn’t puttin’ on that he was bad; he
felt
bad for real. Like he’d just got the best slice of pussy he’d ever had in his life, or he’d stepped to someone and come out on top.

Foreman was curious, but only because he liked to have all the street information he could. Knowing where the little man was staying, that was a bone he could give his brother, Dewayne, and get some points for it, if it came up. It was real useful to be holdin’ those kinds of cards, if you could. Mario had said something about laying up with a friend. Had to be that boy they called Donut.

Donut was a “dummy” dealer down by where he lived in Valley Green. He sold fake crack, wasn’t nothin’ but baking soda dried out, to the drive-though trade from Maryland. Those kids got fucked over, then were too afraid to come back into town for some get-back. Still, Donut was gonna get his shit capped someday for what he was doin’. Foreman had seen him and Mario together a few times, walking the streets.

Foreman’s cell rang. He unholstered it and hit “talk.”

“What’s goin’ on, boyfriend?”

“Ashley, you up?” Her gravelly voice told him she still hadn’t wiped the sleep out of her eyes.

“Got woke up by a call. It was that dude, Dewayne Durham?”

“Talk about it.”

“Says he needs something from you, if you got it.”

“Boy’s on a buying spree.”

“He says he don’t want nothin’ fancy. And no cutdowns or nothin’ like that. Says he doesn’t want to pay too much, ’cause it’s not for him. It’s for this kid he’s got, they call him Nutjob.”

“Jerome Long,” said Foreman, knowing him as a comer in the 600 Crew. He hung tight with his partner, a boy named Allante Jones, a.k.a. Lil’ J.

“Dewayne says he wants somethin’ today.”

Foreman thought it over. He had the Calico, the Heckler & Koch .9, and the Sig Sauer, and that was about it. He was low on product now. The H&K and the Sig would retail for more than Dewayne wanted to spend. That left the Taurus under the seat. Dewayne didn’t have to know that this was the gun Foreman had rented to his dumb-ass brother. Wasn’t like it had a body hangin’ on it or nothin’ like that. The gun had been fired, but it wasn’t hot. Foreman would just need a little time to clean it up.

“Call Dewayne, baby. Tell him to have his boy meet me at the house in an hour or so. And get yourself dressed, hear?”

“Why don’t you come back here and undress me first?”

Foreman felt himself getting hard under his knit slacks. He did like it when she talked to him that way.

“Tell Dewayne to make it an hour and a half.”

“I’ll be waitin’ on you.”