A Butler Summer

by Rahiem Brooks

  On the television: “New York Senator Mac Donald, the Democratic presidential nominee had been recorded at a fundraising event calling the Republican nominee, Donna Lincoln unhinged and temperamentally unfit to be in command of the nuclear codes. This is undoubtedly unprecedented for a nominee to talk so recklessly about another candidate. The name calling is bizarre.”

  Brandy said, “Can you believe this? Your guy, Mac Donald, had better be careful. The more he bashes her, the more people may tune him out. He’s attacking her mental health to be president. Bashing a woman will not work, even if a political foe.”

  “The last thing I want to hear about is mental health,” Naim said, covering his face with two hands. “I’m disgusted. How’d I get myself into this?”

  “Naim, he’s crazy. Must be. A jury has to buy that. The people that he killed alone makes in clearly crazy. No sane person would do that no matter how angry they are with the politician.”

  “But I don’t buy it.”

  “You don’t have too. All you have to do is sell it.”

  “Easy for you to say. I’m the lawyer. You’re the reporter.”

  “Hence, you don’t have a conscious. You’re blind like Lady Justice. She’s blind as...Insert any cliche.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. You’re a very smart man. You fought hard to be a lawyer. Getting guilty people off is a line written on your doctorate diploma in imaginary ink. I read it myself.”

  “That is not true.”

  “Now it seems you’re delusional. Or in the words of MacDonald: Unfit.”

  “The hell I am.”

  “Not literally, but, if not, what’s the problem?”

  “You’re oversimplifying this, Brandy.”

  “I’m not. They have to prove his guilt. I was outside of that senator’s home. They’re not certain if the judge’s and senator’s home were hit by the same idiot. What if he didn’t kill either?”

  “He did it.” Disbelief. He sat up and tossed his head back.

  “And again, that’s not your problem. They have to prove that.”

  “That’s not fair justice.”

  “Now I’m scared. That doesn’t exist. Nor does fairness. Perhaps, I’ve miss judge you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Naim, black folks have been railroaded so frequently for so long its high time the country has a wake-up call. If I recall you were outraged weeks ago because a jury hung in a case where a white cop shot a black man running away from him six times in the back and ass. There was a video for Christ’s sake. Consider Thurman as payback.”

  “News flash, he’s white. The judge and senator were black.”

  “Skin color only matters to mask the retribution. Them two cock-suckers had bailed out of the black race forty years ago. You heard the room service woman this morning. Some people are celebrating the judge’s death.”

  “I can’t believe that I’m hearing this from you.”

  “You love me for being different. Tonight, you’ve learned how truly different I am,” she said, listening to a knock at the door. “Dinner is here. Let’s eat, rest up, and then hit a go-go club. It’ll be fun.”

  “I’ll get it,” Naim chirped and jumped up from the sofa. Walking to the suite’s door, he was shaking his head.

  Naim opened the door and before him stood, Sinia Love.

  Naim didn’t flinch. True legal canons were so polite.

  “Hi there,” Sinia said, waltzing—uninvited—into the room gliding on water, flapping her lashes like feather dusters. Shifting her purse to her left shoulder, she held out her right hand in Brandy’s face, and said, “So nice to meet you, Brandy.”

  Room service had struck again.

  C H A P T E R 50

  IN A ROOM ON THE FLOOR below, Malik el-Shabazz examined the listening device he’d planted to spy on the defense attorney and political newspaper editor. Perfectly hidden. Clandestinely installed. Perfunctorily recording. The Washington way.

  To fully complete his mission he had to escape. El-Shabazz checked himself in the bathroom mirror and ran a brush through his ear-length brown hair, the tangled beard suggesting an Islamic bravo, a roisterer promoting a peck on the lips for a woman. It was his grand introduction, an act to make people aware that they were not all a batch of terrorists. He was a smidge under six-two, much of his face covered by the beard, and his eyes were dark, one may have considered them banishing and evil.

  He was dressed in a pin-striped suit, white shirt, and blue tie: the basic D.C. raiment. Even his handkerchief was politically correct.

  His cell phone, encrypted, beeped, Shai Brown said, “Come out, walk to the right, and I’m on Pennsylvania Avenue waiting. Gray Mercedes.”

  El-Shabazz didn’t respond, simply switched off, went out, boarded an elevator to get out of there, a Panamanian woman smiled at the man who looked like somebody’s favorite Bali-wood actor about him, expected he was an investigator for the sitting United States Attorney for the District of Columbia.

  Exiting Trump International Hotel, el-Shabazz walked to the right and hopped into the waiting gray Mercedes.

  Over the car’s stereo system: “So nice to meet you, Brandy.”

  “You’re just in time,” said AUSA Brown. “Things are about to get a bit personal in the presidential suite. It seems,” he said through chuckles, “that Mr. Butler has ran into his baby’s mama.”

  C H A P T E R 51

  BRANDY STOOD, FIRMLY shook Sinia’s hand, and smiled at Naim over the intruder’s shoulder—that courtesy smile he recalled so vividly, the one that said everything was OK, even when she knew good and well that it wasn’t.

  “Goodness,” Sinia said, her eyes darting, back and forth between the lovebirds. “You all look so confused.”

  Fact was, they were. A few months ago, Naim had promised Sinia to take good care of their son, Marco. She needn’t worry, as he was in capable hands. Although he was eighteen, Naim had custody of the man-boy in New York, while Sinia lived in North Carolina. He also had a conditional agreement with Brandy to keep her away from Sinia. So far, he’d been good at doing that...Until tonight anyhow.

  For peace sake, Naim smirked and furrowed his brows. To no one in particular, he said, “What a surprise.”

  “Sure it is,” Sinia said, smiling now. “Hello, Brandy.”

  “Sinia,” Brandy said. Her voice was sharp and clever. It could have been bubbling to a scorching boil. “Yes, what a surprise.”

  “Guilty as charged,” she replied, smiling still. “Sorry to barge in.”

  “What brings you in town, how did you know where we were staying?” It was a tight and controlled compound question from Naim. He didn’t want to sew divisions between the two women in any way.

  “I will remind you, counselor, we share a son.”

  “Good, that’s an easy one to correct. I can’t have my son divulging my whereabouts to strangers.”

  “You’ve been in D.C. Three days too long. What are you going to sanction him like the president has done Russia?” She fiddled. “Isn’t this a great election cycle?”

  “Sinia, I’d love to talk politics with you. How ‘bout we chat at the lobby bar?”

  Brandy was looking at the exchange, her head whipping from left to right as if watching tennis match.

  “Sure,” she replied, walking towards the door.

  He followed her, and said to Brandy, “I’ll be back up in a sec. Before dinner arrives, in fact,” before allowing the door to close behind him.

  C H A P T E R 52

  “I’M THE MOTHER OF YOUR son, for God’s sake! I can come where you are for anything. I’m not some media stalker or anyone like that.”

  Sinia was on defense the second that they sat at Benjamin Bar and Lounge. They had been having it out from the elevator to the bar.

  “Sinia, there are rules and customs that we follow in this country. You don’t pop up at my hotel and expect open—”

  “I don�
��t want to be in your arms. You must be mad,” she snapped. “Brandy Scott teach you these customs. She parading around like step-mom and she’s not even married.”

  “She’s going to be and you need to get over that fact quick, hun.”

  “You’re so full of it.”

  “Why’re you here.” He could tell that she was drowning, looking for an explanation for this surprise party.

  “You left our child in New York. Shot.”

  He chortled to mask the disbelief. “Our child is in his first year of college. Second, our child has a nanny in the form of June. Third, my legal secretary and close confidante, Ginger, is also on duty. And Derrick’s there in NY. He doesn’t need me there. Where do you get this stuff? Acting like he’s a toddler. If I need help with parenting I know where to find it.”

  “Apparently not. Your job seems more important than caring for him.”

  “I’m not going to do this with you. I talk to him three times per day. He has a security detail. I’m fundamentally opposed to you questioning my parental skills.”

  “You barely have them. You’ve been his dad for eight months.”

  “Your fault not mine. This is getting boring. I feel like you’re trying to erode Brandy’s trust in me.”

  “What happened to you contacting the feds to get my money back?”

  He threw his eyes to the ceiling and tilted his hands back. “So that’s why you’re here?” He sat silent, before he said, “Using our son as a pawn. Ruining my credibility with Brandy and me.”

  “She doesn’t even matter.”

  “Of all things I’ve said, all you decided to address is my reference to Brandy.”

  “Certainly she matters, I promise you that.” He stood, pulled out his wallet, and tossed a twenty on the bar top for their cocktails. “I’m going to make a call to take care of that money issue tomorrow. In the meantime, I have dinner to get too. I have a huge case that I’m working on, I really can’t deal with any drama.”

  C H A P T E R 53

  THE NEXT DAY WAS JAM-packed for Naim as he choreographed his offensive actions. He honestly didn’t give Brandy much thought working through the morning and, most of it slipped by the same way.

  By noon he was sitting in a Baker and Keefe conference room, awaiting his team. He had the biography and resume of AUSA Shai Brown in front of him. The career prosecutor had grown into a sleek, tall gentleman with an Arab’s bronzed allure, a man of high expectations and opportunity. Naim wanted to deny him any advancement, resulting from winning this case. Naim had an awareness of himself as being sharp-tongued, cynical, and keenly aware of the nature of prosecutors in general. He laughed because, Shai Brown, thought of him as an idiot. Strikingly sad and wickedly wrong.

  When Margaret, Christina and Daniel filed into the room, they wore the same aloof mugs as the first day he’d met them. Naim e-mailed his team a memo of potential strategies that he wanted investigated, and he was certain that the efficient troika arrived to deliver.

  “Did you all meet up before walking in here?” Naim asked, shaking their hands.

  “No. Good time management. Noon means noon,” replied Daniel Watts. He was in a brown suit with brown and mustard Cole Haan wingtips.

  “OK,” Naim said plainly. He didn’t like the paralegal’s tone. “Take seats and let’s get started.”

  The secretary slid a folder across the table to Naim and both paralegals. “Just before I came up here, the indictment was filed on PACER. I’ve printed you all a copy of it, and it’s in the folder. Included therein is the charged statues from Title 18, for quick reference.”

  “Thank you,” Naim said, watching the paralegals at work on iPads.

  “One more thing,” Margaret said, her thick eyebrows rising to the sky. “Shai, presented the judge with an application for a search warrant pursuant to Rule 41 of the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure and Title 18 Section 2703(a), (b) and (c) to compel Facebook, Inc. to disclose certain records and contents of electronic communications relating to the Facebook account identified by the username: David Goliath Thurman. I’ve printed the affidavit, and there’s an emergency hearing set for two o’clock today, as they want the Facebook data to bolster the idea that Thurman should be detained without bail, so they need the info for a detention hearing,”

  “Bullshit,” Christina said. “This is a cheap ploy to get data for trial to establish premeditation for the murders.”

  “Couldn’t we simply waive the detention hearing or stipulated to detention at arraignment, making the warrant moot?” Naim asked.

  “You could try,” Daniel said, “but that’ll be Thurman’s call. There may not be anything there, and he’d lose the opportunity for bail in the future if this case doesn’t go to trial in say two years.”

  “Well, I will briefly chat with him before I lead to the hearing, so we need to speed this up,” Naim said, flipping through the indictment. “You guys correctly surmised the charges. But, I see that the indictment lacks an overt acts section. As predicted we have six counts of murder of an officer and employee of the U.S. One count of first-degree murder. Two counts of attempted murder. Two counts of discharging of firearm during a crime of violence. Are the senator’s and justice’s security details covered by Section 1114?”

  “Yes, they were not department store doormen. They were deputy U.S. marshals, according to the indictment.” They’re within the ambit of federal officers covered by 1111 and 1114, according to Lucus v. United States, a D.C. Circuit case, dating back to 1977,” said Christina. “More recently, though, the Third Circuit Court of Appeals ruled in U.S. v. Torres in 1998 that when Congress enacted 1114, Congress intended to safeguard others performing federal functions as well as federal officers. Similarly in 2011, the First Circuit held that a detective with a municipal police department who had been deputized as a special federal officer was within the purview if 1111 and 1114 in U.S. v. Luna. In short, everyone is count one through six applies.”

  “OK,” Naim said, “what about them proving premeditation? Why couldn’t he have want to talk or demand, and that escalated to murder. Heat of passion? I’m asking?”

  Daniel scoffed, and said, “Absurd. No jury in D.C. will buy that, first of all. Second, he killed the guards before he even got to the Justice and Senator.”

  “First of all,” Naim replied, “you don’t know what a jury will buy with this charming face calling it that,” causing a chuckle to escape from everyone. “Second, we have no idea if they can prove the order that he killed these people. I hate to sound so calloused, but he could have crept into the homes, killed the targets and got the guards on the way out. Or someone else killed them all. Or the agents were killed outside before he got there and he stepped over them and killed the man and woman of the house. Limitless possibilities.”

  “Let’s not speculate too much here. I’ll prepare a Motion for Bill of Particulars. We will be better served with absolutes. I can absolutely tell you,” Christina began confidently, “that in establishing premeditation, the government is not required to show that Thurman deliberated for any particular length of time before perpetrating the murders. Two seconds will suffice. We have a dead Supreme Court justice, here folks.”

  “Good points,” Naim said, “I absolutely know that murder is a specific intent crime. Proof that the deed was done with premeditation is necessary. This is why they’ve submitted this foolish warrant to acquire all of his FB content. They need to find something to establish premeditation. I frankly don’t believe that they have absolute proof of that or that he even killed anyone. The ATM video cannot possibly be their only piece to connect him to his crime. But what if that is it?”

  Daniel said, “You’re on the right path, but don’t forget the mental health angle. Premeditation may be amply found to exist where on the day of the murders, Thurman entered the home, mounted a flight of stairs that led directly to the justice’s bedroom. Literally stalked the victims in their home. Carried a murder weapon. And upon finding the v
ictims, coolly took his knife and carved them up. The scene had handcuffs, will they be proven to be his. This case needs a savior, and a mental health defense is your Superman because only an insane person planned and did these acts.”

  Margaret added, “You have an appointment tomorrow in New York with Dr. Todd Rothman. He received his psychiatric training at St. Luke’s Roosevelt Hospital Center in New York as a Fellow of the Columbia University College of Physicians Board of Psychiatry and Neurology. He’s a long-standing member of The American Psychiatric Association. Since 1987 to be precise.”

  “I assure you,” Daniel said, smiling, “In a prosecution under 1111, testimony of several psychiatrists that Thurman, at the time of commission of these murders, was schizophrenic and had no awareness of rightness or wrongness of his act, which evidence is substantial and reasonably impressive, will place a heavy burden on the government of proving that Thurman was sane beyond a reasonable doubt at the time the crimes were committed.”

  “But they’ll say he was a smart, happy-go-lucky kinda guy,” Naim said. “They’ve interacted with him at Capitol Hill and on the Supreme Court’s steps.”

  “And not one iota of that will be sufficient to support a finding of sanity by a jury where there is a complete absence of evidence showing he was sane at the critical time when the killing occurred.” Daniel removed his glasses, before moving on. “We’re going to the emergency status hearing, and then, we’re headed to visit the wife at jail. Visits are over at three, so Margaret while we’re at court, we need you to contact the jail and inform them of our emergency visit.”

  “You all have this all figured out, I see,” Naim said.

  “We do,” replied Christina.

  “Behind every good lawyer is a great paralegal,” said Daniel.

  “And legal secretaries,” Margaret said, forcing smiles to spread across everyone’s face.