One to Go

by Mike Pace

  She checked her watch. “Gotta go back in.” She handed him two files from the bottom of the pile. “Here, watch me on the first ones. Then you do the last two. The goal here is to make sure the accused understands the charges and gets out on bond. You can check out the files while I’m doing my thing. When it’s time to talk about bond, always ask for PR, personal recognizance. If the AUSA wants a heavy bond, list all your client’s personal connections to the community and, hopefully, Squeaky will impose a light bond.”

  “Squeaky?”

  “The Honorable Stephen A. Mosley. Let’s go.”

  Tom took the files and followed Eva into the deep end of the pool.

  Two hours later, his mind was mush and his legs shook. He’d sat next to Eva as she, the prosecutor—her name was Vera Lutz—and the judge ran through one case after another. Eva appeared to be in a rhythm and, hopefully, she’d forget and handle the last two—He heard Eva say his name.

  “…Thomas Booker. Mr. Booker’s a CJA volunteer from Smith, Hale and Masterson, and is available for appointment to the last two cases, Your Honor.” She whispered to Tom, “Stand up.”

  Tom rose so abruptly, his chair toppled over, eliciting laughter from everyone, including the judge.

  “Welcome, Mr. Booker. I hope you will be a bit more careful with our furniture in future visits. Given our budget, that chair will need to last for another 100 years.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The judge turned to the prosecutor. “Let’s keep them rolling, Ms. Lutz. Maybe we can all get out of here a little early today.”

  “Of course, Your Honor,” Lutz responded. “Next case is Tawana White, sol pros.”

  The bailiff escorted a skinny black woman dressed in accordance with her profession, who looked to be in her forties, but Tom knew from reviewing her file she’d just turned nineteen.

  “Afternoon, Tawana,” said the judge. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have seen you back here so soon.”

  She shrugged. “Whatcha gonna do, Judge? Girl’s gotta make a livin’.”

  “Six convictions for soliciting,” said Lutz in a monotone. “Two misdemeanor drug possessions, one felony drug possession pleaded down. Government asks for ten thousand dollars bond.”

  Tom jumped up, suitably indignant. “Your Honor, ten thousand for a simple solicitation is very excessive.”

  Tawana faced him for the first time. Her bloodshot eyes attempted to focus. “You my CJA?” Before he could respond, she turned back to the judge with an expression that could only be interpreted as, “Who’s this bozo?”

  Tom continued. “Sir, we believe—”

  The judge held up his hand to cut him off. “What do you want to do, Tawana?”

  “Could use a little break, Judge, if you don’t mind. Gettin’ cold out there.”

  “No problem. Bond’s set at ten thousand dollars. You gonna plead?”

  “’Course.”

  “Okay, I’ll assign your case to Judge Hecht. How about a week?”

  “Can I get two?”

  “No problem. Case will be set for status two weeks from today.”

  “Thanks, Judge.”

  “You’re welcome. Take care of yourself.”

  She smiled at the judge as she was led away. “Next case,” said the judge.

  “United States versus Reece Mackey,” said the clerk.

  The marshal escorted a tall, gaunt black man forward. Mid-thirties, stringy, dirty hair, rough beard, heavy lids over dull eyes. Dressed in street clothes, his jeans were halfway down his ass, exposing blue boxers. He wore a Washington Redskins t-shirt that may have been washed several months ago. His body odor made Tom’s eyes water.

  “Mr. Mackey’s charged with simple assault, Your Honor,” said Lutz. “Bar fight.”

  Tom had read the file. Mackey originally had been charged with ADW—assault with a deadly weapon—for cutting the victim with a hawk-bill knife, then punching him in the face. The AUSA in charge of intake had no-papered the felony and reduced the charge to misdemeanor assault. Both the defendant and the victim were drunk. The victim only received a superficial cut on his arm, and wasn’t exactly citizen-of-the-year material.

  “Defendant has a long record, Your Honor,” said Lutz. “The government requests ten thousand dollars cash bond.”

  Squeaky turned to Tom. “Mr. Booker?”

  “Mr. Mackey has a long record of arrests, Your Honor, not convictions. There’s no evidence that Mr. Mackey ever failed to appear.” Tom was parroting a line he’d heard Eva offer on several occasions during the afternoon. “This is a bar fight, and I’m sure the evidence will show Mr. Mackey was as much a victim as the complainant. We believe he should be released on his personal recognizance.”

  “One of those arrests led to Mr. Mackey being tried for first-degree murder,” said Lutz. “He was acquitted when a key witness failed to appear.”

  Eva looked at Tom, expectantly. What did she want him to say?

  Eva sprang to her feet. “Your Honor, Ms. Lutz’s comments are outrageous. She’s hinting that somehow Mr. Mackey was responsible for the witness’ failure to appear. If that were the case, her office would’ve prosecuted him for witness tampering.”

  Right on right on, thought Tom.

  “Ms. Stoddard has a point,” said the judge. “Okay, Mr. Mackey, I’m releasing you on your own recognizance. You will report to Judge Hecht’s chambers three weeks from today at 9:00 a.m. for a status hearing. If you fail to appear, I’ll issue a bench warrant for your arrest. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mackey.

  “Between now and then, consult with your attorney, Mr. Booker here.”

  Mackey pointed to Eva. “I want her.”

  Tom didn’t blame him.

  “Not your choice,” said the judge. “Mr. Booker comes from one of the most prestigious firms in the city. You’re in good hands. All right, think that does it, unless there’s anything else, court’s adjourned until tomorrow at 9:00.”

  All stood while the judge exited the courtroom. Tom approached Mackey and offered his hand. Mackey shook it warily.

  “So, how can I get in touch with you?” asked Tom.

  Mackey gestured to a big-breasted black woman wearing a pink halter top who’d been sitting near the back of the courtroom. She came forward.

  “Phone,” said Mackey.

  She retrieved a cell phone from her purse and handed it to him. He punched a few keys and displayed the screen to Tom. The phone’s number appeared. Tom quickly entered the digits into his own phone. Without another word, Mackey and his girl departed the room, arm-in-arm.

  As they reached the door, the woman turned back and grinned.

  For an instant his vision flickered, and it was Brit smiling at him. He blinked and she disappeared.

  CHAPTER 18

  Tom sat with Eva and other PDS attorneys around a long wooden table in the back of Jack’s, a deli only steps from their office building. All the attorneys appeared to be under thirty-five, most under thirty. The place was packed, and the attorneys had to shout across the table to be heard. Pitchers of beer and baskets of thick, homemade pretzels covered the table.

  A blond guy sitting across from them passed the pitcher over to Tom so he could fill his glass. Eva had introduced all of her colleagues as they drifted in, but Tom could only recall a few. He did remember the blond guy’s name—Danny—because Danny and Eva had held each other’s gaze longer than expected for two people engaged in a purely professional relationship.

  “Fill ’er up, Newbie,” said Danny. “You’re lucky to have Eva as your mentor. She’ll show you the ropes.”

  Danny said the last sentence in a smarmy, double entendre tone, but for the life of him, Tom couldn’t see any double meaning that might be considered sexual, unless Eva was into the dominatrix thing, which he seriously doubted.

  Eva responded to Danny with a glare that could cut glass. Tom couldn’t believe he cared about what was happening or had happened between
Eva and Danny. He had less than two weeks to plan and execute a murder and there was no time for distractions of any kind, much less romantic distractions.

  Fortunately, he thought he may have found a target. Reece Mackey had murdered another human being, and therefore fell squarely into the “bad guy” category. That he’d beaten the rap—Tom wondered if criminal attorneys really said, “beat the rap”—strengthened his rationalization. This vile murderer had escaped justice, and Tom the Avenger was flying in from his secret cave to make things right.

  He turned to Eva. “So, what about Mackey? Will he plead?”

  “Doesn’t get him anything. The prosecutor’s pissed. Mackey beat the murder charge, probably because he did threaten a witness like Lutz alleged. Happens all the time. So they’re not going to offer him anything for a plea. The jury can’t take his arrest into account when trying him on the assault charge, but the judge can at sentencing under certain circumstances.”

  “Which means—?”

  “Which means, even for a pissant case like this, they’re gonna do their best to make sure the vic shows up.”

  “Which means—?”

  “Which means in four or five weeks you’re going to have your first jury trial, Booker. Welcome to the deep end.”

  If Tom’s plan worked, Reece Mackey would not be facing a jury of his peers in four weeks for the simple reason that he’d be dead.

  “You ought to talk to Danny,” said Eva. “He defended Mackey in the murder case.” She shouted over the din of the restaurant. “Hey, Danny, Booker needs to talk to you about Reece Mackey.”

  “Your wish is my command,” said Danny.

  Tom didn’t want to talk to Danny. He didn’t like Danny. And not just because he seemed to have a thing for Eva. The man should’ve had “asshole” branded across his forehead to warn the unsuspecting. Okay, maybe most of it was because of Eva. “That would be great.”

  That night Tom drove back into Southeast. He’d decided he needed to meet with Mackey sooner rather than later and gain his trust. Tom figured he’d be better able to formulate a plan after spending some time with him. But tonight he wasn’t meeting Mackey. He needed another gun, one that was untraceable. His only hope was Chewy Lewis.

  He’d met Chewy during his third year teaching at Jabazz. Chewy’s little brother, Jerome, was a fifth grader. Jerome was very bright and had a particularly high aptitude in math and science. Tom had taken Jerome under his wing.

  Chewy, not even twenty yet, was a big-time dealer. Charismatic with a high degree of intelligence. Problem was, Chewy was Jerome’s only role model, and the boy made no secret of his desire to join the family business.

  One evening after a parent-teacher gathering at the school, Tom had entered his car only to discover he had a passenger in the backseat. Chewy introduced himself and instructed Tom to drive to Marion Park. When they arrived, Chewy told him to get out of the car. The park lights were out. No one was in sight.

  “Let’s take a walk,” said Chewy. “I know you’re scared, but ain’t gonna hurt you. Wanna talk about Jerome.”

  Tom’s fear lessened as he followed Chewy to the eastern side of the park. “Smartest student in the class.”

  “Problem is, he wants to, you know, follow in my footsteps so to speak. He needs a chance, before the shit gets him. You gotta get him out.”

  “Out, like out of the neighborhood?”

  “I hear there’s this boarding school up in Northwest, offers a few scholarships to black folk so the rich, liberal assholes can feel good ’bout all their big cars and big houses and fat bank accounts. Jerome, he needs to get one of them scholarships.”

  “Carver Prep. Great idea, I’ll do everything I can—”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me. Jerome needs to get one of them scholarships.”

  The next day, Tom filled out the scholarship application and wrote a glowing letter of recommendation. He took Jerome shopping for a navy sport coat and rep tie. He worked with the boy, honing his responses in preparation for his interview. Jerome aced the interview, and a week after that received a letter congratulating him on his admittance to Carver Prep.

  A month later, Chewy waited for him at his car after school. “Just want to let you know, I owe you, Teach. You need anything, you call me.” He handed Tom a torn slip of paper with a phone number written on it. Without waiting for a response, he got into the back of a black Escalade and his driver pulled away.

  Tom had kept that slip of paper, never believing he’d ever use it. An hour earlier, he’d dug it out from inside a rolled-up pair of socks in the back of his sock drawer. He’d walked three blocks to the CIT-GO, the only place left in the neighborhood with a working pay phone, and made the call. He hadn’t spoken to Chewy Lewis for almost seven years. For all he knew, the man was dead or in jail. He heard the click of the call being connected.

  “Hi, this is—”

  Before he could finish, Chewy responded, “Same place, eleven.”

  So here he was, parked outside Marion Park. The lighting had been improved, although the lights on the eastern side still weren’t working—no doubt shot out to create the dark ambiance one needed to properly conduct off-market pharmaceutical business.

  Tom checked his watch. Ten past eleven. It occurred to him that by “same place,” maybe Chewy meant the shadows of the east side. He got out of the Lexus, locked the car, then strolled into the darkness.

  He walked along the deserted path, but saw nobody. He was about to return to his car when he heard, “Hey, Teach.”

  Tom turned and there he was. Better dressed, looking much more than seven years older.

  “Hi, how’s it going?” asked Tom. “How’s Jerome?”

  “Got a full ride to Princeton next year.” Chewy didn’t attempt to hide his pride. “Princeton’s in the Ivy League, like Harvard.”

  “That’s great.” Actually, Tom felt a sense of pride himself due to his small part in launching a kid from an at-risk neighborhood to almost certain success.

  “What you need?”

  “A gun. Needs to be clean, never used in any, uh, situation.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Chewy nodded. “Ain’t much, so my debt ain’t fully paid. Case you need anything else.”

  “Doubt it, but thanks. And tell Jerome I said congratulations.”

  “Take the long way around the park to get back to your car.”

  “Thanks. Hey, you know if Jerome becomes rich and successful, maybe you can get out of this business.”

  Chewy paused before he answered. “Ain’t the money, Teach. Got plenty of money to meet my needs. What I got here, no price for that.” He turned and disappeared into the darkness.

  Tom followed Chewy’s directions and, as he expected, by the time he got back to his car there was a crumpled brown paper bag resting on the front seat. His first thought was, why had he bothered locking the car?

  He got into the Lexus, and for almost a full minute stared at the paper bag as if it were a foreign object. He rubbed his hand across the bag surface, feeling the outline of the weapon. He slipped his hand inside the bag and wrapped his fingers around the grip.

  Unlike Gino’s Ruger, this gun now belonged to him.

  And time was running out for him to use it.

  CHAPTER 19

  The weapon rested on Tom’s kitchen table as he checked out the gun on his laptop. The Glock 30 was a .45-caliber automatic. The barrel length was only four inches long, the whole gun under seven inches. The barrel bore was much bigger than the Ruger, and the .45-caliber bullet looked like it could stop a train. Tom counted thirteen rounds in the magazine, and Chewy had included a second magazine containing another thirteen rounds. Twenty-six bullets, enough to start a small war. He only needed one.

  Despite its firepower and small size, the most amazing feature of the Glock was its weight. The gun frame was constructed from a plastic polymer, reducing its weight to a bit over one pound. This feature al
lowed it to be carried just about anywhere on one’s person without discomfort and telltale sagging clothes. The only thing missing compared to the Ruger was an external safety switch.

  Tom turned off the laptop and stared at the thick, stubby .45-caliber bullets protruding from the extra magazine. Would he be able to fire one of those missiles into Reece Mackey’s brain? He honestly didn’t know.

  The next few days he immersed himself in his new job. He tagged along with Eva throughout the workday, accompanying her to discovery meetings with AUSAs, sitting as second chair in several cases where her client plead guilty, and in several bond reduction hearings.

  At the end of the day, he visited Danny the Asshole’s office to get info on Mackey. He’d learned Danny’s last name was O’Brian, but liked Danny the Asshole, DTA, better.

  “Come on in, Newbie. Grab a chair.”

  DTA’s office was tiny, but as a senior member of the staff, still bigger than the workspace of most of the other PDS attorneys. DTA sat in the single, straight-back chair behind a gray metal desk that must’ve been issued by the government fifty years earlier. He wore his blond hair down to his shoulders, suspenders, and a constant smirk. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk.

  “So, how’s it going with the Ice Queen?”

  Tom pretended not to know who he was talking about. “I’m sorry?”

  “The implacable Ms. Stoddard.”

  Implacable. Big word, impressive. “Eva’s been very helpful. I’m learning a lot from her.”

  “Take my advice. Don’t get too close or you’ll get ice burns.”

  “Thanks. Don’t think that’ll be a problem. So, about Reece Mackey—”

  “Lyin’ dirtbag. Loves the hooch. Whatever they say he did, he did.”

  Music to Tom’s ears. “So you think in your case there’s a chance he killed the guy?”

  “Not just a chance, a certainty. He admitted it to me. Hell, he bragged about it. Vic was a fellow scumbag, Mackey’s partner in a string of B&Es south of the freeway. Mackey believed his partner—forget his name, may’ve been Jackson, Johnson, something like that—was screwin’ him over. So one night the vic’s walking along E street with his whore, Mackey gets out of a parked car and caps him twice in the head. Doesn’t run, casually gets back in the car, and slowly drives off with nary a la-di-da.”