The Poison Secret

by Gregg Loomis

  Lang was tugging the knot in his tie when he heard his son’s voice from downstairs: “Not fair! None of the other kids have their mothers come to the park with them!”

  ‘The park’ referred to Winn Park, one of several neighborhood green spots encircled by Ansley Park’s wandering streets and towering hardwoods. Part botanical garden, part playground, this one was literally across the street from the house. Since no major thoroughfares need be crossed, children enjoyed the facility without the presence of parents so humiliating to the young.

  Lang was descending the stairs as Gurt replied, “The bad men, the ones who grabbed you by the arm, tried to take you away. They are still there.”

  “Are not!” Manfred contradicted, a rare occurrence. “They’re dead!”

  How many seven-year-olds even understood death, let alone witnessed it in its more violent form? Lang felt a surge of irrational guilt. Nothing he had done had brought this violence down upon him and his family. The fact made him feel not one whit better.

  “I’m afraid there may be more.” Gurt was trying to reason with a seven-year-old, rarely a good idea.

  “Grumps will chew ‘em up,” Manfred asserted, based more on imagination than experience.

  “Why don’t you have your friends come over here to play in our yard? You can even have hot dogs out by the pool for lunch.”

  Bargaining was even worse.

  “I want to go to the park.”

  Lang had no doubt where his son’s stubbornness had come from. Except when referring to Gurt’s, he called it “tenacity.”

  No more bargaining or reasoning. “You’ll stay right here.”

  “Not fair!”

  “Fair or not, you can invite your friends over or not as you wish, but you will not leave the yard.”

  “It’s not fair!”

  “Neither is life.”

  Lang was wondering how a small child might deal with this all-too-true observation as he entered the kitchen. Manfred, just out of a high chair — what, only a few years ago — was seated at the kitchen table, the usual bowl of oatmeal dotted with blueberries before him. Lang noted his son’s mother had made a special dispensation of wheat toast and fruit jelly sweetened with its natural pectin.

  The bribe obviously hadn’t worked. Manfred’s expression was stormy. Grumps, ever the optimist, sat under his small master’s chair in anticipation of whatever might fall his way. Breakfast went silently and quickly. Manfred excused himself and retreated to his room, anger in the sound of his footsteps punctuated with the slam of his bedroom door.

  “He has a point,” Lang observed, helping himself to the Mr. Coffee.

  “You wish to risk him being knapsacked?”

  Although Gurt had spent the best part of the last decade in the United States, the American vernacular occasionally eluded her.

  “Kidnapped. Knapsack is ein Proviantbeutel.”

  “Either way, is he not taken?”

  “Whatever. We need to bring this matter to a conclusion. I assume all the security devices are working.”

  “The house has been on full alert since we returned from Turkey.”

  Lang tried to conjure up the vision of the two-story shingle home girding its loins for battle. The image wouldn’t come. It was sufficient, he supposed, that the house had tighter security than most banks.

  “And the car?”

  “Manfred complains I will not let him lower the windows.”

  Doing so would vitiate any protection from the specially installed bulletproof glass.

  “I imagine Grumps is less than happy not to be able to get his head out and ears in the airstream.”

  She shrugged.

  “And you don’t leave the house unarmed?”

  “It is difficult to fit the Glock into a pair of shorts, but I do so even to water the lawn.”

  Lang grinned. Over the years, he had noted a sudden increase in yard work by his male neighbors whenever Gurt donned shorts and t-shirt to do pruning, weeding, or sweeping.

  “Well, your new pal Leon can take care of that. Matter of fact, he may be able to help us find out who’s after that blood sample.”

  Gurt’s spoon stopped halfway between her mouth and the bowl of blueberries in lowfat milk. “And how is that?”

  “I’m not totally sure.” He glanced at his watch. “Gotta go!”

  And he was out of the door. His haste was not for the court hearing an hour and a half from now. It was to make sure he had time to get a real breakfast at the IHOP, away from Gurt’s health-conscious gaze.

  By 9:30, Lang was entering the chambers of Susan Kopenski, United States Magistrate. In the Federal judicial system, a magistrate is a “tweener,” somewhere between a judge and a clerk but not really either. In districts with serious overload problems, such as the Northern District of Georgia, magistrates take on fact-finding missions, resolution of discovery disputes, and such other pre-trial controversies between lawyers as might otherwise require judicial intervention, thereby in governmentspeak, “conserving valuable judicial resources.”

  Lang had filed a motion to exclude recordings of certain telephone conversations conducted by his unwanted client, Theodosius Wipp. Ms. Kopenski would hear brief testimony dealing with the circumstances under which the FBI had tapped the man’s phone, and the legality, or lack thereof, of such action. She would also read the briefs submitted by both Lang and the government. At some point before trial, she would make a recommendation to the judge who, more than likely, would issue a ruling along the suggested lines.

  Or he might indulge in that rarity of legal activity known as independent thinking.

  Either way, Lang was never comfortable with his case resting on the judgment of what was no more than a bureaucrat, particularly one who was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with Wipp’s stares at the place the top button of her blouse strained to keep an ample bosom in check.

  Wipp, it seemed, was a lecher as well as a welcher and scammer. Your all-around sleazeball.

  “Morning, Mr. Reilly!”

  Wipp’s tone was as happy as if he were greeting a fellow parishioner in church.

  Lang growled a reply.

  Wipp’s eyebrows arched. “My, aren’t we in a foul mood this morning.”

  Lang sat, turning the chair to face his client. “I’m not accustomed to representing people who pay fees with stiff checks. If I could, I’d withdraw.”

  “But you can’t,” Wipp replied cheerfully. “And your ethics compel you to do your best in my defense anyway. Wonderful things, ethics.”

  Spoken like a man unburdened with such trivial matters.

  Any retort was silenced by the magistrate’s announcement. “All right, let’s proceed. Mr. Reilly, I understand you have moved to quash certain evidence, specifically six telephone conversations between Mr. Wipp here and people he was trying to convince to send him money for a course that never took place.”

  “And the basis of the motion is those conversations commenced just minutes before the order allowing the phone tap was entered according to the timestamp. How am I doing so far?”

  Lang stood. “Right on, Your Honor.”

  As a magistrate, Ms. Kopenski was not entitled to the honorific, but no lawyer in his right mind was going to risk her displeasure by omitting it.

  She turned to the U.S. Attorney’s table. “And what says the government?”

  For the first time, Lang noted the adjacent table was occupied not by the senior staff member who would try the case, but a man young enough to be a very recent law school grad. That telegraphed the lack of interest the prosecution had in this hearing. Kids still wet behind the ears took little part in felony cases. Or, at least, in important phases of them.

  Lang’s intuition was right: the kid stood, nervously adjusting his tie. “A mere technicality, Your Honor. But the United States is not willing to risk a possible reversal. We will concede Mr. Reilly’s point.”

  The judge glanced at Wipp before shifting her gaze to the
prosecution’s table. “You are aware that without the phone tap, all six counts are subject to dismissal?”

  The kid nodded. “Yes, Your Honor. The United States feels comfortable with the remaining 30.”

  This last part was directed more at Lang then the magistrate.

  Minutes later, the appropriate order dictated, Wipp stood beside Lang, waiting for an elevator.

  The old man said, “Nice job, Mr. Reilly. Believe me, I really will pay for your services.”

  How long at prison wages would that take?

  But Lang said dryly, “As you observed, I’m ethically bound to give you the best representation I can.”

  Wipp put a hand on Lang’s shoulder, a gesture that Lang started to shrug off. “Mr. Reilly, you are a credit to the space you occupy.”

  Compliment or insult? Lang was certain of only one thing: he wasn’t going to get paid.

  CHAPTER 45

  472 Lafayette Drive

  That Evening

  The first thing Lang noticed when he nosed the Porsche into his driveway was that the grass had been cut and lined with boxwoods that hadn’t been there this morning. As if confirming his memory, neat piles of red Georgia clay evidenced recent planting.

  Gurt, in t-shirt and shorts, was following Leon who, favoring his healing wound, pushed a wheelbarrow into the garage with Manfred and Grumps close behind. Gurt was crusted with a patina of sweat and clay while Leon exhibited little evidence of whatever labor had occupied him that day.

  She used the back of a very grimy gloved hand to push back an errant strand of hair that dangled before her eyes. “Hi, Lang! Leon and I were just finishing up.”

  “And Leon showed me a new game to play in the pool,” Manfred announced.

  That explained the misdistribution of grime: Gurt had installed the shrubbery while Leon played with Manfred. The man might have had experience at landscaping, but his first day on the job had been spent entertaining a small boy. He mentally shrugged. Gurt would take the observation as an unappreciated “I told you so.”

  “Plying your landscaping skills, Leon?” Lang asked, easing the car into its space besides Gurt’s.

  “Do what?”

  Lang could not help but note the covetous stare the man was giving the Porsche. No doubt calculating the amount of meth it might bring.

  “Your landscaping experience. It came in handy today, right?”

  Leon grinned, showing large gaps between the remaining teeth. “Not hardly. I hepped load an’ unload them there bushes. Then, Manfred n’ me got to playin’ in the pool an’ Gurt, she say, ‘Stay there. Too early to exercise that arm.’ Nex’ thing I know, she done all the plantin’.”

  At least the man was honest.

  That night was one of the rare occasions when Gurt allowed Lang and Manfred to order in pizza. She was simply too tired to cook, and it was too late to begin anyway. Manfred, Leon, and Lang sat at the kitchen table as Grumps, ever the optimist, patrolled the area under the table. Gurt had satisfied whatever appetite she had with a pair of bananas perhaps past their prime and was studying a dozen or so eight-by-ten cards from her recipe collection spread out on the granite countertop.

  Leon swallowed a bite of pepperoni with a gulp and was reaching for a tall glass of iced tea. “Man!” he managed between swigs. “This here pizza reminds me of the time I tried working deliverin’ pizzas.”

  “You drive around with one of those little signs on top of your car?” Manfred wanted to know.

  Leon put down the glass to renew his attack on the pizza. “Naw, didn’t have no car. Stayed over to the Bankhead Courts an’ there was a Domino’s ‘cross the street. I’d deliver in the project. Over a thousand folks there an’ . . .”

  Lang put down his slice of pizza. “Bankhead Courts? Public housing? The ones torn down in 2009?”

  Leon looked puzzled. “Don’ know nothin’ about torn down but, yeah, lived there with my mother till I dropped outta school, started doing sh . . .”

  A reproachful glare from Gurt reminded him to mind his vocabulary around the child and prevented the sentence’s completion.

  “Ever know fellows about your age named Ladustine Weaver or Justinian Holt?”

  Leon nodded slowly. “Called Smoof an’ Little Boy. Gangbangers, they hang. Las’ I hear, they both in jail.”

  Gurt looked up from her recipes. “Weaver and Holt? Weren’t those the names Detective Morse gave you, the names of the two . . . ?”

  “Morse didn’t ‘give’ me anything. I had to threaten him with a Freedom of Information request. There was no ongoing investigation to hide behind. He had to share the file with me.”

  Once again, Leon’s head swiveled as he followed the exchange. “What them two homies done now?”

  Lang ignored the question. “You said they were gang members?”

  Leon nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “What gang?”

  “BMF.”

  Black Mafia Family. Unlike most inner city gangs, such as the various divisions and subdivisions of the nationally known Bloods and Crips (which were little more than leaderless, unorganized groups acting largely as opportunity presented itself), BMF was — or had been — a tightly coordinated, family-led clique for the distribution of cocaine. Founded in Detroit by the Flenary brothers, the enterprise moved largely to Atlanta about the turn of the present century. Like so many successful illegitimate businesses, it had expanded into other endeavors, including the legitimate and growing hip-hop music trend, as well as darker pursuits such as murder of rivals, kidnapping, gambling, and other sundry undertakings of a criminal nature. By the time the federal government wrapped up the BMFs around 2009, there was no longer any real certainty in law enforcement as to exactly which pies the family had its fingers in.

  Once the business was too large to be handled solely by family members, recruits, mostly from neighborhood gangs, were employed to do the heavy lifting of violent crimes. The new soldiers of this army, however, did not forswear seizing the opportunity for robbery, burglary, or car theft. Sidelines of prostitution, hired killing, and narcotics were common, as was the elimination of anyone brave enough to drop the dime on gang members.

  Leon’s lips were pursed as he tried to concentrate. “They not part of the family.”

  “The Flenarys?”

  Leon nodded again. “But they either in the gang or hang with members.”

  “Where do they hang since the gang’s been busted up?”

  “Hard to say. They not in jail, Mechanicsville neighborhood mostly.”

  The area across I-75-85 from Turner Field just south of the interchange with I-20.

  “Mechanicsville’s a large area.”

  Leon shrugged. “Ain’t seen them a lot since I went on the street.” He gave a self-deprecating snort. “Not a lot of bling to be stole from a street person.”

  Bored with not being included in the conversation, Manfred began, “Momma . . .”

  Gurt shushed him with a wave of the hand that reminded him he was not to interrupt grownups. “Could you recognize the gang members Smoof and Little Boy hang with?”

  Lang gave her look that said her mind was on the same track as his.

  Leon’s expression said he wanted no part of whatever they had in mind. “Man, those are seriously bad dudes. You don’t want to f . . .” He glanced at Gurt. “You don’t want to mess wid dem.”

  Lang stood. “Come on, Leon. We’re going to take a ride.”

  “Lang,” Gurt began. “Surely you’re not . . .”

  “Unless you have a better idea how to stop whoever kidnapped you and tried to take me and then Manfred, you bet I am.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Rosa Burney Park

  477 Windsor Street

  Mechanicsville

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Ninety Minutes Later

  The noise from turner field ebbed and flowed like an audible tide against the steady hum of traffic on the nearby interstate. Lang had had to rent the Mustang convertible
at the airport, all other car rental offices being closed at this hour. He had easily come to the conclusion this was not the area of town in which to prowl in the Porsche, an automobile whose price exceeded by double most of the cottages and bungalows that made up the bulk of the neighborhood. He had chosen the ragtop to visually distance himself from anything the police might drive.

  At first, Gurt had protested his idea, but she came around quickly enough when she was unable to come up with a better one.

  “But, why not go tomorrow, in the daylight? I can go with you then.”

  Lang was undecided if Gurt’s main motive was to not miss out on the action or to be there to have his back. A little of both, probably. He had shaken his head. “These are nocturnal creatures, Gurt. Unless we knew exactly who we were looking for and where they were, we’d never find them.”

  “I can make arrangements to let Manfred spend the night with a friend tomorrow night.”

  “And what friend does he have whose home and family will give him the protection you and this house can?”

  There was, of course, no answer.

  Cruising by the park, Lang noted most of the street lights were dark, shot or burned out. The few remaining showed a gazebo in the center of an open space. Lang thought, but was not sure, he saw tables and benches, perhaps room for 40 people. Cigarettes glowed like eyes in the shadows cast by the sloping roof.

  He parked the Mustang and got out. Leon remained in the passenger seat.

  “Come on, Leon. I didn’t bring you here just for your company.”

  “Man, them the baddest-ass niggas you gonna see.”

  “Those are the ones I’m looking for. Now, come on! And remember how we play this.”

  Lang and Leon circled the gazebo to approach from the side with the most light. Lang didn’t want anyone surprised. The closer he got, the stronger became the odor of marijuana. As his eyes became accustomed to the gray darkness, he could make out five or six men lounging on picnic tables and benches. Although he couldn’t see well enough to be sure, he could all but feel all eyes on him.

  When they were less than ten feet from the structure, Lang prodded Leon.

  “Ho, man, wassup?” Leon began.