Murder in Germantown

by Rahiem Brooks

  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.”

  “Actually, smart ass. She told me there was a shooting on the corner of Wayne and Seymour in front of the convenience store. Real convenient, huh? I know the kid that was shot, too. I’m on my way there and I’ll call you back in a half because I want you to report the shooting.”

  Ravonne hung up.

  Aramis had spent the night on the sofa with his jeans wrapped around his ankles. After an anonymous bout of oral sex, he fell asleep right where she had left him. When she had reported for duty, Aramis stared at her through the camera mounted by the door as she stood in his apartment foyer. Not much to talk about, but he needed to explode in order to fall asleep. And awake, for that matter. He was a bona fide sex addict in need of therapy. The woman had left him comatose on the sofa. Many women like her were all over the Party Line and Internet dating site’s chat rooms. Aramis took full advantage of the sex networking sites.

  His eyes roamed the living room. The room was quaint and modern. It escaped looking like a struggling free lance reporter’s pad. Hardwood floors and white doors ran everywhere. The ambiance was serene.

  Aramis’ dog, Taurus, had continued to sleep while Aramis and Ravonne had chatted. Aramis had won Taurus after an indecent break-up with his ex-fiancée. She relocated to Virginia with a new lover. Now Aramis lived with a Welsh corgi and dedicated his life to his job and harlots.

  “Move!” Aramis barked at Taurus, as he walked to the apartment window.

  Taurus barked an obscenity back and didn’t budge. Ten stories below, snow densely blanketed the asphalt of the complex parking lot. He padded to the bedroom, and found neatness and order. He had a queer guy for the straight guy home.

  He cued P. Diddy’s Last Night featuring Keyshia Cole to play repeatedly while he showered. He was a slim, caramel man with voluptuous lips and bushy eyebrows. He had a commanding sex appeal and the best report in Philadelphia smile. Out of the shower, he did the deodorant and lotion thing, and then splashed Romeo Gigli on his wrist, neck, and pelvis. He never knew when a woman’s face would venture down there. He didn’t want to be musky. He slipped on a crisp, white button-down, well-tailored grey trousers, and soft leather
Prada ankle boots.

  In the kitchen he popped a multi-vitamin and drank two bottles of Ensure. Breakfast was served. He had to eat healthy to prepare for the garbage he took in daily on the beat.

  Twenty minutes later, Aramis commandeered his Audi A8 out of the Park Drive Manor complex and headed south on Pulaski Avenue. The homes he passed were all connected. They were mostly like that in the city, even in some of the tonier areas. Some people hushed all of the noise in one home and spied on the happenings in a neighbor’s. What a neighborly bond?

  Aramis reached Penn Street and passed the high-rise Pulaski Town projects. He drove and had an epiphany. What mind boggled him was that Los Angeles, the gang-bang headquarters of America, had a more ferocious reputation than the most rugged out area of Philadelphia. Albeit, the Los Angelenos lived in ranch homes. In LA boys washed their parents’ cars in driveways and mowed lawns. What a luxury, he thought. Grass and driveways in Philadelphia were rare in the ghetto. On the East Coast, period. Even the lawyer/doctor Huxtable team didn’t have a lawn or driveway.

  Philadelphia had the Italian mob and Black mafia who remained fairly stealth, unless their dollar was disturbed. They didn’t have colors, hand signage, bald heads, or sports apparel to identify themselves. They were about the mighty dollar.

  Philadelphia.

  Aramis crossed Hansberry Street and passed the clover shaped John B. Kelly Elementary School. He surmised one of the school’s student’s lives had ended, caught by the stray bullet of an asshole. He drove two more blocks to Seymour Street and wanted to make a left, but a police cruiser wasn’t having him make that move. He parked on Pulaski and his cell phone rang.

  CHAPTER 6

  Aramis picked up on the second ring, and I said, “I hope you’re not still in bed.”

  “No,” he replied, “I’m parking at Pulaski and Seymour. Where are you?”

  “I am already on Wayne Avenue in front of Happy Hollow Playground. Walk down Clapier Street and meet me.”

  What could I say to him, but welcome to Germantown. I stood outside my car and shivered a little from the cold. Winter in Philadelphia was no jester. At night, in the summer, the two-block tract was lively in the Germantown section of North Philadelphia. Wayne Avenue had everything the Happy Hollow residents needed, but everything wasn’t happy.

  Starting at Wyneva Street was the Happy Hollow Playground. The playground had a sliding board and swing arena, an indoor gym, and a boxing training facility. The basketball court hosted summer basketball league games. Directly across the street stood Charlie B’s Sports Bar, that new bitch, considering the legendary Moe & Curly’s was now an Asian-owned beer distributor. Moe & Curly’s was the spot a few years earlier and they sold the largest hoagies on the north side of City Hall. The bar drew patrons from all over the city.

  The Avenue had a thriving Jamaican store that sold more weed than groceries. Right next door, was another grocery store owned by Asians. Amidst this debauchery was also two churches and an Asian-owned laundromat. It seemed everything had been conquered by the Asians. I looked forward to an Asian or Hispanic United States president. Maybe even a Black one.

  On the corner of Seymour Street were, a soul food joint, cell phone store, exterminator, and an independent African School taught pre-K to third grade. Next to the school stood, a hardware store, discount store and dry cleaner. Yes, everything was on this strip for the Germantown residents.

  Aramis found me and we traipsed together, skipping the handshake. We were on business and not best friends. I had grown up on Seymour Street and my grandmother stubbornly remained there. I also gave pep talks to the area teen bad asses and taught boxing lessons one night a week at the playground gym. As far as the crime scene, officially my job was nothing but showing my face and encouraging the police to do their jobs. For their benefit, it behooved them not to prove themselves as lazy characters.

  Long, long before Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. learned to boycott, some tenants in Ireland (circa 1890’s) ostracized their land agent. His name was Charles C. Boycott. Something to take to your next dinner party, but for the purpose of this recounting, I planned to boycott the 14th police district as ferociously as the Irelanders.

  At Germantown High School, I was an honor student in the Social Studies Law and Government Magnet Program. I had won my mock trials in high school and at Harvard. I crushed opponents during debate tournaments. I had no siblings with demanding parents, so I became a school worm. I was involved in everything.

  In the tenth grade, I formed a rally outside of the Mayor’s office because he allotted more money to the Philadelphia Police Department for more powerful vehicles, but not a dime for new school textbooks. The way I saw things, then and now, better educated Philadelphians meant less police cars. My father was guided into the Mayor’s seat the next election.

  In my senior year, I raised money and chartered five buses to Harrisburg, the state’s capital. My followers and I asked why the City of Brotherly Love had been short changed on gentrification funding. My “hold the politician accountable” motto did not prevent me from challenging Mayor Joshua Lemmelle, either. Father and all. He promised salary raises for Philadelphia’s finest--the teachers--which the budget proposal did not reflect, and I called him on it in public. We’re estranged now, but one day he’ll need me for a lung or kidney. I would be waiting, too.

  With Aramis in tow, I lifted the yellow crime scene tape which identified where the crime scene had begun. I wouldn’t dare infringe on the evidence to convict the senseless derelict responsible for the murder. Aramis waved his notepad and press pass in a detective’s face. I had no business doing that, but this was different.

  The first thing Aramis did was record the detective’s name. He wouldn’t want to misspell the name of the man having ignored a reporter trying to bring a crime to the public. Aramis wanted to get the public looking for the killer immediately. He asked a preliminary question.

  The detective replied, “From what we got, a guy named Suspect was the intended target. The shooter missed by a mile. Hit the kid. He’s over at Germantown Hospital now. One other is dead.”

  Detective Spencer had a stiff charcoal and white crop, and wore a wrinkled uniform. His shoes didn’t shine. And I’d swear his breath smelled like Certs over vodka.

  “What’s his status? Who is the kid?” I asked as if I hadn’t known.

  “Fair. Quincy James. It was a leg shot.”

  “Wydell’s brother. You know this will be a war, right, detective? I can assure you. Quincy is a straight-A student. He’s going to Fitler Advanced Placement next year,” I explained. “He’s one of the kids I train. Wants to be a teacher and he’s only in the fourth grade.”

  “What’s going on here?” Aramis asked. “This is the third shooting since Christmas. It was only a matter of time before someone was hit.”

  “Apparently, Suspect has a bullet on his head. Supposedly, he raised the prices of his product and clamped down on being liberal. He has a beef with Big Boo brewing, too. Why? I dunno, yet.”

  “You should. You are a detective, right?” Aramis said. Aramis was about as nasty as me at times.

  “Watch it!” The detective said. He lifted his glasses and put on a blank face.

  “And you’re doing what to curb this disaster unfolding? Or lock down the men that want him dead?” I asked.

  “Listen, Ray-Ray. You know Suspect has Miller to protect him. The man is smart and very methodical. The DEA is on him, and we can’t compete with him. And as far as the men wanting him dead, no, I am not pressed to lock them up and I am sure Quincy James understands why.”

  “Spence, Miller is an attorney. His powers aren’t greater than yours, sir. You’re a detective.” Aramis had drew another blank face from the detective.

  I was being the good guy and letting Aramis be the bad guy this day. It wasn’t planned like this. It just unfolded this way.

  “I am no cop, but for me, make a concerted effort to find Quincy’s shooter. I und
erstand your lack of concern for Suspect, but they’ve hit an innocent.”

  “Yeah,” Aramis chimed in and gave the detective a wicked raised eyebrow.

  “They’ve upped the ante, don’t you think? Even if by accident. They need to be addressed.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I am sure you will, or I will do all I can.”

  “Is that a threat, Aramis?” the detective asked with a smile.

  “Nope. That’s against the law.”

  CHAPTER 7

  At the turn of the millennium, he was Gordon Odell, masterful art forger. He had duped billionaires out of millions. By the 9/11 conundrum, he was Sylvester Bailey, extraordinary international hacker. During the 2002 winter Olympics, he had become Donald Holloway, an expert jewelry thief. In 2006, he was Mark Artis, a saucy con man. Alas, after a brief hiatus he began 2007 as a robbery aficionado, Skyler Juday.