Capital City

by Lee Hurwitz

  “Sure.”

  Before she could move, Stone opened his office door. He looked tired, with rings around his eyes. Leaving the door half-open, he shuffled back to his desk to get his glasses. They waited patiently. Mitch noted that Stone winced a little, protecting his right side. Then Stone came out again to look at the three men standing in his outer office.

  “Well, come on in, gentlemen.”

  “Mr. Stone, I’m Mitch Dennis, Special Agent, FBI. This is Mr. Altman, Assistant US…”

  “I know Mr. Altman.”

  “This is Captain Pitts of the Metropolitan Police Department.”

  “I know him, too.”

  “Mr. Stone, we appreciate you interrupting your schedule to talk with us.”

  “Well, you gentlemen forgot someone. You didn’t bring any detectives from Scotland Yard.”

  Mitch didn’t smile. The three of them took seats around Stone’s massive desk.

  “Mr. Stone, the FBI’s been called in to investigate the murder of a woman by the name of Sharon Scott. We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Altman said.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Mr. Stone, did you witness a shooting or the aftermath of a shooting in the Mayor’s Office in the District Building, on or about seven-thirty or eight o’clock in the evening, on December second, nineteen eighty-eight?”

  “Next question.”

  “Mr. Stone, where were you on December second, between seven o’clock and nine o’clock in the evening?”

  “Lemme take a look at my calendar. December second was a Friday. I think that I was in my office working late that night.”

  “Do you normally work until eight or nine o’clock on Friday nights?”

  “I’m a workaholic. The taxpayers get more than their money’s worth from me. I often stay late at my office and I often work weekends.”

  “Mr. Stone, were you acquainted with a woman by the name of Sharon Scott?”

  “Yes, I was acquainted with her.”

  “When was the last time you saw Miss Scott?”

  “I really don’t remember. Maybe a few weeks before they found her body.”

  “Are you acquainted with a woman by the name of Evelyn Boone?”

  “Yes, I’m acquainted with her.”

  “When was the last time you saw Miss Boone?”

  “Oh, it might have been sometime during the last two weeks of November. I really don’t remember.”

  “Did you see Miss Boone in the District Building on the evening of December second, nineteen eighty-eight.”

  “Next question, Mr. Altman.”

  “You know, Mr. Stone,” Altman assumed a confidential tone, “since the last time I questioned you before the grand jury, I’ve been promoted. I’m now a Senior Assistant United States Attorney.”

  “Well, good for you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stone. The reason that I’ve mentioned my new position is that I don’t work on the DC government corruption cases anymore. To be very honest with you, Mr. Stone, I had a great deal of doubt about the truthfulness of your testimony when the grand jury looked into DC government corruption two years ago.”

  “I would say that that is your problem, Mr. Altman. I testified before your fucking grand jury, I’m sorry, your distinguished panel of citizens, for two days. TWO DAYS. The taxpayers pay me this fat government salary to run the Department of Public Works. Yet, I had to take two days of my valuable time for your grand jury. I haven’t heard anything since then. So stop bothering me about the grand jury.”

  “Mr. Stone, I’m not working on penny ante cases like DC government corruption anymore. I’m working on capital murder cases. The Sharon Scott case in particular. Miss Scott was one of your DC government colleagues. She was murdered in cold blood. We have reason to believe that you have important information about this murder. We would certainly hate for the Washington Post to get a hold of a story that the Director of the DC Department of Public Works is being investigated for witness tampering and obstruction of justice.”

  “Don’t threaten me.”

  “Mr. Stone, the three of us didn’t come over here to investigate contracting irregularities. We’re investigating a murder. Let me ask you: did you witness a shooting or the aftermath of a shooting in the District building on the evening of December second, nineteen eighty-eight?”

  “Next question.”

  “Mr. Stone, you’re not an attorney. The criminal code for the District of Columbia contains provisions for witness tampering and obstruction of justice. Are you aware of these parts of the DC Criminal Code?”

  “You’re right, Mr. Altman.”

  “Right about what?”

  “I’m not a lawyer.”

  There was about thirty seconds worth of silence. Finally Mitch said, “You seem to be having problems with your ribs, Mr. Stone. Did you have an accident?”

  “Fell down a flight of stairs,” Stone muttered. Pitts began to snicker. “Next question,” Stone growled.

  “Mr. Stone,” Altman said, “let me ask you again: did you witness a shooting or the aftermath of a shooting in the District building on December second, nineteen eighty-eight?”

  “Lemme ask you a question, Mr. Altman. Do you guys have a witness who saw this supposed shooting?”

  “Mister Stone, I think you have things mixed up. We’re asking the questions, and you’re doing the answering.” Altman smiled at Stone. “Please level with us,” he said. “Did you witness a shooting or the aftermath of a shooting?”

  “I HAD NOTHIN TO DO WITH THAT SHOOTING. I HAD NOTHIN TO DO WITH SHARON SCOTT. I CAN’T CONTROL THAT FUCKING MORON IN THE DISTRICT BUILDING. IT’S NOT MY FAULT THAT HE CAN’T KEEP HIS FUCKING PANTS ON.”

  Mitch, Altman, and Pitts were taken aback by Stone’s outburst. Everyone sat in their chairs wondering what Stone would do next.

  “Mr. Stone…” Altman ventured.

  Mitch stood up. “Thank you, Director Stone.” He nodded toward the door. Pitts stood up too, and Altman, clearly annoyed, followed suit.

  Outside the office, Altman didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “I know this is your call,” he told Mitch, “but I was about five minutes away from breaking him.”

  “Five minutes, bullshit,” Mitch replied, his face expressionless. “You’ve already broken him.”

  In Washington, it was common knowledge that Wendell Watson’s favorite mistress was Karen Jackson, a former DC Department of Human Services employee, who served two years in prison for her refusal to testify before the grand jury investigating the Watson Administration. Since her release in 1987, Jackson had been supported financially by Watson’s slush fund.

  Watson was also involved with Brenda Cole. She was a tall, slender, and strikingly attractive woman he picked up in a jazz bar a few years ago. Brenda’s prize for outstanding performance as supporting player in that night’s performance between the sheets was a job with the DC Department of Human Services. She moved out of her apartment in Anacostia and rented a house in the Takoma section of Washington with an attached garage.

  Watson took refuge in Brenda’s house on Monday afternoon.

  By the time they got back to the station Altman was steaming. He was ready to ask a judge for a murder warrant on Watson, Stone, Hightower—everyone.

  “Copland’s testimony didn’t finger Watson,” Mitch pointed out. “Scott was already dead by the time he walked into the Mayor’s Office.”

  “I don’t care,” Altman said. “Nail ‘em both. We can sort it out later.”

  Altman was nominally responsible for the charging mechanism. But, to Mitch, he seemed to be letting his emotions get the better of him. Mitch knew that lawyers determined what charges to bring not only because they knew the law but because they brought more dispassion to the process than the police officer, who often risked his own life bringing a suspect to justice. However, in this case the attorney, who was also a cop by training, was less objective than was the FBI agent, who was an attorney by training. Mitch
decided to use his superior experience to calm Altman down.

  “We know that Hightower’s gun killed Scott,” Pitts said. “Otherwise why would Watson have made them exchange weapons?”

  “Hightower’s gun probably killed Scott,” Mitch corrected. “We need to get the autopsy report and compare ballistics. I don’t imagine anybody compared the bullet they found in her to any ordnance issued to the DC police.” Mitch tried not to sound judgmental.

  “Of course not,” Pitts said.

  “Look, Leonard, let’s do this.” Mitch touched the lawyer lightly on the shoulder. “Let’s hold Hightower for second degree murder and bring Watson in for obstruction of justice and accessory after the fact. That’ll let us keep him overnight, anyway. We’ll lean hard on Hightower to get enough to charge Watson with kidnapping by tomorrow, and then he’s in Federal prison.”

  “I think we have enough to get a warrant for murder against Watson now.” Altman was snappish, but there was a little pleading note in his voice which made Mitch think he was uncertain.

  “Jeez, Leonard.” Mitch threw his hands up in the air and let them fall to his sides. “Do you have any idea what a circus we’ll have if we arrest Mayor Wendell Watson for murder? Or what will happen if it then turns out we don’t have the goods to back it up? Forget getting a kidnapping or even an obstruction conviction—they’ll make Watson king, and your office won’t get another jury conviction before the inauguration of President Ronald Reagan Jr.”

  “Yeah, like no one would notice if we arrest Watson for obstruction,” Altman muttered, but Mitch could see that the war was over. “All right,” Altman said finally, “fine.”

  Pitts directed Detective Sergeant Arthur Klosky to execute the arrest. Klosky was a twenty year veteran of the Metropolitan Police Department. As a rookie, he started the Shomrim Society, a group of Jewish police officers. Like many officers with more than twenty years’ service, he was getting ready to retire and start a second career. In fact, he had planned to retire last year but had stayed at Pitts’ request to help handle the increased number of murders once crack cocaine started to roll into Washington in the mid 1980s.

  It was snowing and the wind chill was in the single digits when Klosky and his hand-picked team drove into Takoma. This was a small, integrated pocket of single-family homes that bordered Montgomery County. No one in the neighborhood had seemed to recognize their new neighbor when the tall, statuesque Brenda Cole moved into a rented house on tree-lined Van Buren Street last winter.

  Her next door neighbor had introduced herself at the local Blooming Foods Co-op, graciously welcoming her to the neighborhood. She asked Brenda why a Lincoln Town Car with Mayor Watson’s license plates was often seen parked beside her garage late at night. Brenda responded that she had no idea who was using the Lincoln Town Car.

  At 7:15 p.m., Klosky’s driver, Officer Bruce Fenner, parked the car on Piney Branch Road. Klosky and Fenner, along with Clyde Bradshaw and Mohammed Vliet—two veteran detectives in whom Klosky had explicit faith—walked a half block down the ice-covered street.

  Klosky stepped onto the wooden porch and rang the doorbell at Cole’s front door. Vliet had gone around to the back of the house and was waiting in the yard; Fenner hunkered near a frozen bush on the side of the house. Bradshaw waited on Van Buren Street.

  Klosky rang the doorbell repeatedly and got no answer.

  He banged on the door and then knocked on the small diamond-shaped window.

  No response.

  Fenner came running to the front of the house.

  “He’s up there. He’s on the second floor. I saw him. I saw him peek out of the window.”

  Klosky picked up a shovel on the front porch and hacked the ice off part of the railing. He climbed up on the railing and tried to peek into the second floor window.

  “Hey, Fenner, gimme that long branch.”

  Fenner handed Klosky a five foot branch. Klosky banged on the upstairs window.

  Finally, Cole came to the second-floor window. She saw a middle aged man wearing a navy blue overcoat trying to peer into the second floor window. She froze.

  “Miss Cole, Detective Sergeant Klosky, Police. We need to talk to you.”

  Nothing.

  “Miss Cole, Police. We need to talk.” He shouted louder.

  Cole disappeared from the second floor window.

  “Hey, Fenner, bang on the front door.”

  Fenner banged on the front door. Then he knocked on the window next to the front door.

  No sign of Cole.

  After three minutes, Klosky heard a voice from behind the front door.

  “Officer, I’m not dressed. What time is it?”

  “It’s seven-thirty, Miss Cole. Detective Sergeant Klosky, Police.”

  Klosky pressed his badge against the frosted window pane.

  “This is my badge, Miss Cole. Take a look at my badge. We need to talk to you.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong, officer. Besides, I’m not dressed.”

  “Miss Cole, we just need to talk to you for a few minutes. We’re police. Open the door. We have a search warrant.”

  “Give me a minute, officer. Let me put some clothes on.”

  Five minutes later, Cole cracked the door open two inches. Klosky could see the brass chain lock.

  “Officer, I don’t know what you want. You woke me up.”

  Fenner smirked. “Late night last night, ma’am?”

  Klosky ignored him. “We’re sorry that we woke you, ma’am, but we just want to talk to you.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to the police. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Klosky considered this for a moment. He suddenly withdrew his baton and stuck it in the gap Cole had opened between the door and doorframe. “Oh, Mohammed,” he called out.

  In less than half a minute Vliet was on the porch. Vliet had played fullback for the Howard University football team in the late sixties. They used him primarily as a blocking back. He liked to knock people over, and was good at it. Over the years he had filled out a bit, and now went about six-three, two hundred sixty-five.

  “Mrs. Cole is having trouble getting her door open,” Klosky explained.

  “Stand back, ma’am,” Vliet said. His voice sounded surprisingly high, given his size and fierce appearance. “Stand back from the door.”

  “What?”

  “STAND BACK, MA’AM. GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR.”

  Cole stepped back. Klosky had expected Vliet to slam through the door like John Riggins on a line plunge, but Vliet surprised him by executing a karate kick at the door jamb. The brass chain flew off and the door swung open.

  Fenner looked at Klosky in disbelief.

  “Are you nuts, Sarge? You can’t do that.”

  “I’ve been a detective for twenty-three years. Trust me, Fenner, I’ve done a lot worse.”

  Klosky radioed Bradshaw to watch the outside, and he, Fenner and Vliet walked into the front room.

  The three of them spread around the first floor.

  “Lemme go upstairs,” said Fenner.

  Vliet and Klosky walked around the first floor. No sign of Watson.

  “Lemme try the basement,” said Klosky.

  Klosky opened the basement door and went down the stairs. Cole was standing in the corner, wearing a bathrobe.

  “Miss Cole, we regret waking you up this morning.”

  “HEY. HEY. YAHH.”

  There was yelling from the back yard.

  Fenner, upstairs, ran to the rear bedroom window. He saw Bradshaw and Watson struggling on the ground. Fenner dashed down the stairs.

  “WATSON’S OUT BACK. BRADSHAW GRABBED HIM.”

  Fenner ran out the front door toward the back of the house and Vliet followed. Klosky ran up the basement stairs, to the first floor, and out the front door.

  Bradshaw had tackled Watson and was grabbing at his ankles.

  Watson was lying face down in the snow and four men now surrounded him.


  Bradshaw got up and began dusting the snow off his coat.

  Finally, Watson turned over and looked at the four men surrounding him.

  “Who the fuck are you guys? I’m gonna have all of you arrested.”

  Klosky looked around, knowing how absurd this was going to sound. “Mr. Mayor, I’m Detective Sergeant Arthur Klosky of the Metropolitan Police Department. This is Detective Mohammed Vliet and Officer Bruce Fenner. I see you’ve already met Detective Bradshaw.”

  “What, MPD? You’re with the MPD?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Mayor. The MPD.”

  “What district are you assigned to?”

  “Criminal Investigations Division.”

  “What, CID? You’re with the CID?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Mayor. The CID.”

  “I can’t believe you’re with the CID. You should be out solving gang murders instead of tackling me in the fucking snow. Pitts will have your ass in a ringer by tomorrow morning. What the fuck is going on here? You guys can’t arrest me. I’m the Mayor of the nation’s capital.”

  “Mr. Mayor, we have a warrant for your arrest. The charges are accessory after the fact and obstruction of justice in the matter of Sharon Scott’s homicide. Mayor Watson, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you prior to any questioning if you desire.”

  “Someone must’a set me up. Klosky, who set me up?”

  “Mr. Mayor, we have to take you to the fourth police district for arraignment.”

  “ARRAIGNMENT? FUCKING ARRAIGNMENT? KLOSKY, ARE YOU NUTS? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND? I ASKED YOU A QUESTION, KLOSKY. WHO SET ME UP?”

  “Mr. Mayor, I’m just doing my job. We have a warrant for your arrest and we have to take you to the fourth police district headquarters for an arraignment.”

  “Lemme see this warrant.”

  Klosky took a folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket and handed it to Watson.

  “What does this piece of shit say?”

  “It’s a standard arrest warrant, Mr. Mayor. It’s signed by Judge Washington.”