Murder in Germantown

by Rahiem Brooks

  "Ms. James?"

  She corrected me. "Della."

  What the hell was with people correcting me about their names?

  "Della, you have to be honest with me, if I am to have any chance to help Wydell. Besides, my grandmother already told me."

  "We have no money to pay you, so why should I tell you squat?"

  What the fuck? That was so left field, but this was about Wydell and not her, so I pressed on.

  "Della, I am trying to help and I need you to cooperate in order to do that effectively," I said. "Now, what's with the gun?"

  "I'm not going to rat out my boy. He's a good boy. Sell a little dope, but Wydell ain't a killer."

  She's not going to rat out her son, but she confessed that he sells drugs. Interesting. I did not feel like this obstinate crap.

  "Okay, there was a gun."

  "I never said that," she yelled, drawing attention like an Etch-a-Sketch.

  "Conjecture."

  "Don't sass talk me."

  I chuckled. "That means to guess."

  "Big words either." She warned me, and then ordered another coffee.

  There she was giving me the business and running up my tab. Had we been in her home, she may have kicked me out. I knew there was a gun. The question was whether the Philadelphia Police Department (PPD) had a warrant to search and seize the gun. And, if so, did the warrant arise with probable cause? Somehow, I didn't think Ms. James, pardon me, Della, could tell me the answer to that, so I switched gears.

  "Has Wydell been arrested before today?" I asked as her coffee arrived.

  She slurped her coffee without manners and said, "Kid shit. Nothing major."

  I'll be the judge of that, Missy! "Like vandelism? Boosting?" I threw out a few minor infractions.

  "A little more."

  "Was a gun involved?"

  "Huh?"

  "You heard me, Della."

  I was getting bored with her dumbness.

  "Stuck up the pizza delivery man," she said. "But no conviction from that."

  "With a gun?" Here we go, I thought.

  "How else?" Sarcastic. Wicked glance over the coffee cup.

  "Do you have any idea why they came to arrest your son?"

  "From what I heard on the streets, dat boy,"--she snapped her finger trying to complete her thought--"the big drug dealer, Ray Ray."

  "Uh!" Shit there were a lot of them. I named a few.

  "That's it," she said, excitedly. "Suspect, had some baller party up there in Chestnut Hill. Has one every year. You gotta wear all white like it's a P. Diddy party in that place...Uh..."

  "St. Tropez." I helped her along.

  "There. They were partying and then bang, bang, bang. Three people dead and on the news."

  "So, where does your son come in?"

  "He was arguing with Suspect. Wydell thought that he was responsible for my baby being shot."

  "Did the police read him his rights?"

  "Yup." A coffee slurp. Loudly. Other patrons’ necks whipped in our direction. I was embarrassed.

  "Did he talk after they did that?"

  "Nope, my boy didn't confess to shit." He's smart like his mama."

  Oh, really. I wouldn't testify to that under oath. "Let's get you home. I will see what I can do."

  "Could you take me to visit Quincy?"

  "Yes, and I'll visit, too."

  We stood and I slapped a twenty-dollar-bill on the table, as Della asked if I could get her son released. The answer was that I doubted that, but I kept that to myself.

  * * *

  When I pulled out of the hospital parking space, I gripped up my cell phone and called Aramis.

  He picked up on the third ring. "What's good?" he asked.

  "Where you at?"

  "In the crib, chillen. Why?"

  "I'm leaving Germantown Hospital. I am about to come through."

  "Not right now, little buddy."

  "Company?"

  "Yeah."

  "Harlot number six for the morning, you whore."

  "No 26."

  "Man whore."

  We chuckled and hung up.

  CHAPTER 25

  All of the courtroom actors were on the stage by the time I arrived back downtown at the Criminal Justice Center. The fifteen story structure was where all of the adult criminal wheeling and dealing took place in Philadelphia. In the middle of the well, in front of the jury box, a 36-inch television monitor displayed a suspect on the screen at one of the precincts throughout the city. With the criminal docket busting at the seams, criminals were seen on television monitors for bail hearings. They spoke using a telephone attached to a wall at the precinct where they were arrested. So impersonal. They called Wydell's name and I walked toward the well. It paid to have associates in high places, which was the way that I knew when his hearing was being held. Bail hearings ran every four hours and the pre-trial detainees had one-hour to post bail before they were shipped to CFCF.

  "Theo Baxter, Public Defenders Office for the defense, Mr. Commissioner."

  I pushed the swinging door and kindly bumped Baxter to the side, and went on the record as, "Ravonne Lemmelle, for the defense, Mr. Commissioner. Baxter is excused."

  All of the official attendees, the clerk, the bailiff, and the Commissioner Salvatore Diego, looked at me with raised eyebrows. No one was as flabbergasted as Cynthia Thomas, the assistant district attorney. They all probably wondered how could the poor suspect of theirs afford Martir, Savino and Associates representation. I wondered that myself.

  Cynthia looked at me as if I had crashed a plane on her front lawn during a birthday party. She was an adroit barrister, with ten years experience, and was firmly under the wing of Lindsay Abraham, Philadelphia's District Attorney. She was Lindsay's pet and maybe her bed mate, too, according to rumors. Wydell James' life had become a real stew of drama, disaster, and nightmare, because of all the deputy prosecutors, Cynthia detested me.

  It was only two years ago that the sassy Cynthia Thomas tried to seduce me. She made a determined effort to get me on top of her ample breasts and slim body. I declined and cited the Code of Ethics. She continued to pursue me. I confessed that I was gay. She didn't believe me. I had sex with her. Thrice. Later, she saw Dajuan and me taking a stroll down the eccentric South Street holding hands. She wanted revenge and the courtroom was her venue.

  "In re Wydell James," Commissioner Diego said.

  Diego was a refined South Philadelphia Italian ruffian with profound legal credentials.

  "We're here to discuss bail. Ms. Thomas?"

  "Remand without bail, Commissioner. The defendant is accused of a double homicide."

  "Mr. Lemmelle?"

  "For the record, Commissioner, I need Ms. Thomas to read the criminal complaint." Usually, the complaint was not read, but she had made an error on the record.

  "That's absurd," Cynthia said and stood.

  "Not absurd, Commissioner, but necessary. I specifically wanted madam Thomas to clarify how many bodies were at the morgue allegedly at the hands of Mr. James."

  "Three," she said.

  "Well then let the record reflect, Mr. James has been charged with triple homicide, and not double as Ms. Thomas had previously stated."

  "What the hell are you doing?" Wydell said, loudly. Every eye in the courtroom darted to the monitor.

  "You will not interrupt my proceeding, Mr. James," the Commissioner said to my client. He then asked me, "Mr. Lemmelle, do you have a response to Ms. Thomas' demand for remand?"

  "Yes, I'd like to have Mr. James moved to the back of this bail listing to allow me to confer with the client via telephone."

  "You have not spoken to your client, Mr. Lemmelle?" the Commissioner asked and removed his glasses. He was in shocked.

  And so the hell was I.

  "No, Commissioner, I was just asked to make an appearance by the defendant's mother."

  "So, he has no idea who you are?"

  "Unbelievable," Cynthia mumbled.

/>   I had heard her and would eat her alive for that snide remark.

  "He knows who I am, Commissioner. He has just not formally hired me for the instant offense."

  "Do you object to Mr. Lemmelle's representation, Mr. James?"

  "No, sir."

  "Well then. We'll hold this for a moment. Call the next case," the Commissioner said, and on top of that he added, "Mr. Lemmelle approach." He told me, "I will have none of your suspenseful, entertaining, chicanery in my courtroom when you return. Especially without a twelve member jury for you to perform for. I like you kid and suspect that we will meet up here often. Let's start and end this gracefully."

  I accepted my chide and caveat with pride. "Yes, Commissioner."

  "As you were," he told me and moved on to the next case.

  CHAPTER 26

  Just before the 1 p.m. Eagles vs. Giants tipoff, I was on I-76 going back up to North Philadelphia. I was headed to the 35th Police District. That was after I had accepted the no bail remand for my client. I exited the expressway at the Broad Street exit and drove northbound to Champlost Street. Disbelievingly, I found a metered parking space in front of the madhouse. Dajuan did not have a dime in the damn truck. I found a few coins in my briefcase, and then I read the posted sign in front of the car. Sunday, I could park free. I was never that lucky.

  I entered the brick structure and walked on ugly oatmeal-colored tile. I approached the duty officer and stated my name and business. She got up off her huge behind and walked to her colleagues. They all were probably calling me gay, faggot, butt buddy, rump wrangler, or one of the other terms associated with homosexuality’s family tree. But it was I, Ravonne Lemmelle, who planned to return the favor when I had them on the witness stand.

  I was ushered pass a few standard government desks. On a television, I had seen the game. The Eagles were down 6-0 with Jeff Garcia and his offense trucking down the field. I was offered a rancid interview room. I knew there was a better one and I said so.

  “Who do you think you are,” the slim, big booty cop asked me.

  She had a serious ring of ruby-red lipstick on her plump lips. Prettiest dick-sucking lips this side of Texas. (You could take advantage of those. I was good on that.)

  “Just an attorney.”

  Who do I think I am? Was she kidding?

  “Not in my newspaper,” she said, staring me up and down.

  “Then you should be reading local newspapers,” I told her as my client traipsed into the room in a hospital gown. “I make the crime page every time, I take on a case.”

  She looked at me wickedly.

  “Fag.” She then added, “You actually got that man off last week?”

  I chuckled. Her question was laughable and did not warrant a reply. I paid her no mind, and to Wydell, I asked, “How are you holding up?”

  The dumb bitch left, and Wydell had a seat. He was six-five and the gown looked like a mini-skirt.

  “Barely, my man,” he said.

  His braids were immaculate and his eyes were red, but usually they were deep brown.

  “Good looking for coming here. I know that I talked shit about you being a homo and all, but...”

  “I’m not trippen on that bullshit. And I am not here as your childhood friend. We are client and attorney.”

  “What about the fees?”

  “I’ll work on that problem,” I said and pulled out a legal pad and pen from my briefcase. I wanted Cynthia.

  Badly!

  I planned to figure out how to deal with the fees. I had one of those pens that had blue, black, red and green ink. I always color coded my notes for quick reference.

  “I can pay you,” he said.

  “I work at a firm, and...”

  “Ray-Ray, you work for Savino. I know that. I can pay you a $30,000 retainer.”

  Things had started out chaotic. That was how I liked it. His face was unreadable. How could someone living in the squalor that I witnessed on Seymour Street be sitting on 30K?

  “Wydell?” I said serenely.

  “We are on a don’t ask and don’t tell policy. I have the money. Period. I’ll have my girlfriend bring it to you. In cash. And for the record, I am innocent.”

  I took a breath. Wydell stared at me. I looked at the floor. I could not ethically accept blood money as payment. I suddenly lost that instant urge to really hear all of my client’s dirty little secrets.

  “Okay,” I said. “So our defense is what?”

  “First, will you accept my money and represent me?” he asked sternly.

  He had the aura of a rough neck, but sounded confident and sure of himself.

  I thought for a moment. It didn’t take me long to say yes.

  “Good. What we have here is an alibi defense, counselor. I have a solid, very solid, alibi. And the killer is still on the loose.”

  CHAPTER 27

  The man who sat in front of me was not the same Wydell James that I had grown up with. He was three months older than me. Since I could remember, he and I always milled around Germantown chasing girls and playing street sports. We were in 3rd, 5th, 6th, and 8th grade classes together at John B. Kelly Elementary School and Clarence E. Pickett Middle School. We were in the Rainbow Team, which consisted of all academic plus classes in elementary school, and all advance placement classes in middle school. Bottom line, Wydell was no dummy. He was as smart as, if not, smarter than me. The problem was, he had a problem proving it, and making it known.

  I asked him, "What is the alibi?"

  "Brace yourself. I am about to reveal some serious shit to you."

  "Don't tell me that you were robbing the pizza man again?"

  "Hell no. What the fuck kinda question is that, Ray! That charge was never even filed. I was at a party."

  "Suspect's party?"

  "You're funny. No! LaSalle University."

  LaSalle University was a quiet Catholic college in Germantown. He was minutes from where we had grown up. Funny thing, it was a university that did not welcome the locals roaming about their campus. Somehow, I thought that Wydell was about to tell me how he crashed a party. That wasn't a stretch as LaSalle was a good school trapped inside of the ghetto like USC was trapped in South Central LA and Temple U was trapped in North Philadelphia.

  "Elaborate," I said.

  "Was at a basketball game from five to eight. A campus bash from ten to about one. And then to my house with my girlfriend, a marketing major. Oh, and between eight to ten in my girl's dorm room fucking."

  He had said a lot. A mouthful. I had to really choke back my awe. Since when did this thug attend bashes? Didn't want to offend my client, so I wrote down what he had said. I wrote the crucial times in red. The facts about his girlfriend in green.

  "Can anyone besides you and your girlfriend verify the time that you left the campus?"

  "Yes."

  "Name and number?"

  "Germantown Taxi Company. Called them from my phone, which the police have, at about 12:30 a.m. They picked us up at the corner of Belfield and Olney in front of Central High School at about one."

  I jotted that in red. "Have you talked to the police?"

  "No!" He barked as if I had disrespected him. "I said nothing once we were here either. You see how quickly they had me prepared for arraignment."

  "I'm going to get an investigator on this ASAP. And I'll pressure the DA for early discovery and your phone. The coroner should be done with the autopsies in a day or two."

  "Are you done, counselor?"

  "Not quite. What's with the gun?"

  "I own it. Big deal."

  "Very big deal, Wydell. Where'd they find it?"

  "My car."

  "If you had a car, why did you call a taxi?" That was a prosecutorial question, but I always played both sides of the fence. Every good attorney knew what the prosecutor would ask in advance.

  "My transmission is fucked up. Leaking transmission fluid and the gears stripped. So I took a cab to and from LaSalle."

  "The
y test you for gun residue?"

  "Yup, and none was found."

  "So, they have what?" I was actually asking myself.