The man you think is going to help is a Mexican constable and former soldier named Bob Valdez. He comes on the scene and does something, is tricked into it, really, that is unexpected, and then Tanner, being who he is, does the Mexican dirt. Valdez is a man who is alone, and Tanner is powerful, and he has many men backing him up. So Tanner shoves Valdez, because he can. And the more he shoves him, the harder Valdez gets, and the more he pushes back. By the end of the book, Tanner realizes that he should have given Valdez what he wanted to begin with, which was not much at all. It wouldn’t have cost so much.
Picture the ground rising on the east side of the pasture…
Picture it. The author, Mr. Leonard, is telling you to look at it. To see it in your head. It’s a bold way to start the story, but it does what it sets out to do. Michael could picture the rise of the land, and the pines, and the men in groups firing down on the one man who was cornered in his shack. And Michael could guess what wasn’t on the page because of the vivid description of what was. Maybe there was a chill in the air, since they were high up in those hills. Maybe there were cotton-white clouds moving across a bright blue sky, and shadows on the pines when those clouds drifted across the sun.
Michael closed his eyes. When he read a book, he wasn’t in his cage anymore. There wasn’t a lock on his door, or the rank smell of the dirty commode by the bunk, or his low-ass cellmate passing gas in his sleep, or the sounds of men shouting in the unit. Guards telling him what and what not to do. He hadn’t disappointed his mother. He wasn’t looking at five years in a federal prison on a felony gun charge.
When he read a book, the door to his cell was open. He could step right through it. He could walk those hills under that big blue sky. Breathe the fresh air around him. See the shadows moving over the trees. When he read a book, he was not locked up. He was free.
Part II
Six
PHIL ORNAZIAN had known Matthew Mirapaul when both of them played in bands back in the early to mid-nineties. This was around the time they were coming out of Wilson, the public high school in Ward 3, in Upper Northwest, west of Rock Creek Park. Mirapaul drummed in a hard-core band in the tradition of John Stabb’s Government Issue with shades of metal à la Scream. Ornazian played bass in a band called the People’s Drug that had a prominent rhythm section driving melodic, anthemic songs. At the time they were going for that Jawbox sound.
Both of their bands cut albums, not on the Dischord label. Both opened for bands like Lungfish, Circus Lupus, Nation of Ulysses, and Slant 6. Ornazian and Mirapaul played at Black Cat–level venues, and there they were not even headliners. They never made it to the stage of the 9:30 Club. But they were part of the storied D.C. scene and they had fun.
Mirapaul had aspirations. His ambition was to record for a major label, or an offshoot of one, but he never came close. He even had a stage name, Tony Leung, who was an actor in John Woo’s Hong Kong films. Mirapaul had no Asian in him, but the name change was a rock-star thing to do, and also he felt that his real name was too easily mangled.
Mirapaul was Straight Edge, Ornazian was not. When he was in bands, Ornazian was a hard drinker and ate his share of speed. But he cleaned up completely when he met Sydney, who used neither alcohol nor drugs.
In the tradition of Washington’s punk-rock royalty, Mirapaul and Ornazian aged out of their bands but attempted to remain true to their ideals as adults by staying in town and working in the community. Mirapaul got his law degree, remained independent, and opened a practice as a criminal defense attorney, taking on clients who couldn’t afford representation by larger firms. Ornazian got his investigator’s license and found that he liked the work. Every day was different, and he wasn’t caged in a room or subjected to office politics. Much of his business came from attorneys. Though he was friendly with many prosecutors, he rarely accepted work from them. Typically, he gathered evidence that defense lawyers like Mirapaul could take into court.
Somewhere along the line, Ornazian’s ethics had blurred.
Mirapaul leaned back in the chair set behind his desk. He was of average height and thin. His close-cut hair had gone completely gray. His features were sharp, and his sun-creased face was as lined as a cowboy’s. He wore a plain charcoal suit with an open-necked white shirt. A pre-knotted tie was looped on a nearby hanger.
“You cleaned up for me, Phil.”
“When I’m calling on money,” said Ornazian, seated before him.
Ornazian was wearing an American Giant blue hoodie over a black T, and Levi’s 501s cuffed up over black Wolverine boots. All of it, save the boots, was fresh out of the laundry. Mirapaul was right. Ornazian had cleaned up for him. He needed work.
“What do you have for me, Matt?” said Ornazian. “I hope it’s something big. Could use one of those yearlong jobs you used to throw my way.”
“The Tommy Winterses of this world are few and far between these days.”
Tommy Winters had run a murder-for-hire outfit out of Southeast back in the early aughts. He and his lieutenants were responsible for twenty-eight murders, retribution kills, turf beefs, and the permanent silencing of witnesses who had been scheduled to testify in prominent trials. Ornazian had spent thirteen months in Congress Heights and Washington Highlands untangling the web of loyalties, betrayals, and organizational machinations. It had been Ornazian’s most challenging, and lucrative, case.
The Tommy Winters job had put good money in Ornazian’s pocket, but it had also permanently put him on the radar screen of major-crime-unit police and federal law enforcement officials who had been trying to nail Winters for years. Ornazian was followed, pulled over in his car for nonexistent infractions, and stared down in court. His phone was bugged by the Feds. As an investigator in the rougher sections of town, Ornazian had experienced some intimidation and near violence, but the truth of it was, he feared the DOJ and the FBI more than he feared the streets.
Mirapaul and Ornazian had worked the case hard, not because they liked Winters but because they had agreed to take his case. Despite their diligence, Winters was convicted. He had, most likely, personally committed or ordered many of the murders he had been charged with. Winters was currently doing life without parole in the supermax out in Colorado.
“So your murder business is a little off,” said Ornazian. “That’s kind of a good thing, right?”
“Absolutely,” said Mirapaul. “The city’s in pretty good shape. I live here with my family, so I couldn’t be more pleased.”
Ornazian swept his hand around, gesturing to the surroundings. “You’re making the rent on this place, so you must be doing fine.”
Mirapaul’s office, located above a liquor store on C Street, near Judiciary Square and the courts, was a rather ramshackle affair, meant to impress no one. He owned a Jeep rather than a German import. The walls were not decorated with law degrees or awards but with framed photographic prints of the musicians and audiences of the original D.C. punk-rock era taken by local artists like Cynthia Connelly, Jim Saah, Lucian Perkins, and Rebecca Hammel.
“I’m not wealthy,” said Mirapaul, “if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m not either,” said Ornazian. “But I wouldn’t mind trying it on for size.”
“I might have something for you. Not sure if you want to take it.”
“What is it?”
“You wouldn’t be working for me. I know that would pain you.”
“I’d get over it.”
Mirapaul leaned forward and tented his hands on his desk. “My accountant, a guy named Bill Gruen, phoned me. He has another client by the name of Leonard Weitzman, corporate attorney, lives up in Potomac. Weitzman mentioned to Gruen that he needed some investigative help.”
“Concerning?”
“Weitzman’s daughter, a high school sophomore at Churchill. She had a party while her parents were out of town on a getaway weekend. The party went wrong.”
Ornazian opened the Moleskine notebook he’d carried in and took a pen off Mirapaul’
s desk. “What’s the daughter’s name?”
“Lisa. Apparently, the day of the party, she talked it up on Facebook and, big surprise, a lot of people showed up who hadn’t been invited. Among them were a group of guys from a D.C. high school east of the river.”
“No need to speak in code, Matt. You’re with a friend.”
“It’s not what you think. It wasn’t just these kids from Northeast who came up to the suburbs. You had private-school boys from Potomac and Bethesda and some other guys who looked considerably older than teenage. Lisa didn’t know most of these people. Neither did any of her friends, supposedly.”
“Want me to guess what happened?”
“The house got tore up. I mean, whoever did it, they trashed the shit out of it. They broke a bunch of chairs and carved up a custom-made dining-room table that Weitzman says is worth tens of thousands of dollars. And they stole a whole rack of valuables from the parents’ bedroom.”
“Do you think drugs and alcohol were involved?”
“Gee, I don’t know.”
“What were they doing?”
“The usual stuff, with a twist. Weitzman said he found bottles all over the house that had the residue of purple liquid in them.”
“Lean. Sizzurp. Purple Drank. Whatever the fuck they’re calling it this week. These suburban kids like to emulate their favorite brain-damaged rappers.”
“It gets worse,” said Mirapaul. “You know what Versed is?”
“A date-rape drug.”
“An amnesiac, to be precise. Someone slipped Lisa a Versed mickey.”
“The daughter was raped?”
“She says she doesn’t remember anything. She woke up in her bedroom with her panties on backward. Discomfort in her vaginal and anal areas. Semen residue…”
“I get it. The police did a rape kit on her, I assume.”
“Weitzman didn’t report it to the police.”
“What the fuck?”
“He thinks it’s better if the family keeps it private,” said Mirapaul. “You know, the shame of it all.” He let that settle in the room.
“What do you think he wants with me?” said Ornazian.
“Among the stolen items was a diamond-and-platinum Tiffany bracelet. It was a gift from Weitzman to his wife.”
“Doesn’t he have insurance?”
“I would think so. Give me your notebook.”
Ornazian handed it to Mirapaul, who wrote something on a blank page. He pushed the notebook back across the desk.
“Give Weitzman a call,” said Mirapaul. “Only if you want to. He’s not a friend of mine. He’s not even an acquaintance. I passed the information on to you, as I said I would. I don’t care what you do but as of now, I’m out of it.”
“You don’t like this guy.”
“I don’t know him. But I have a daughter, Phil.”
Ornazian stood from his chair. “What do you hear from Antonius Roberts?”
“He’s in Big Sandy, the federal joint in eastern Kentucky. He got twelve. Antonius doesn’t contact me, but his grandmother does. It’s a fifteen-hour drive from D.C. to that prison, and she doesn’t even own a car. She’s not in good health, so it’s a good bet that she’s never gonna see him again. That’s what happens to these guys in the District. There’s no local prison anymore. They get shipped out all over the country. When they’re gone, they’re gone for real.”
“What about Michael Hudson?” said Ornazian. He was careful to ask the question in an offhanded way.
“He was released. It took a while. When the witness refused to testify against Michael, the judge held him in contempt and locked him up. They were hoping to coerce his testimony but the guy wouldn’t budge. I mean, he was the one who got robbed. He was the guy who called the police on Hudson. And suddenly he’s willing to go to jail to keep his mouth shut. It’s strange, Phil.” Mirapaul looked Ornazian directly in the eye. “Don’t you think?”
“It’s a crazy, mixed-up world,” said Ornazian.
Mirapaul raised an eyebrow. “Anyway. After the witness spent a few months in jail, the judge got exasperated and dismissed the case without prejudice. Meaning they could retry Hudson in the future. But he’s out. The charges are still on his record but he’s not carrying a felony conviction. And he didn’t have to do the nickel.”
“That’s good. I liked that guy.”
“You know, Mike took the gun charge, but he never so much as touched a gun that night. I’m happy for him. I put him in touch with a nonprofit group that counsels offenders who come out. They help them reenter society, get jobs, all that. I hope he doesn’t fall back.”
“So do I.”
“I guess Hudson owes you a solid.”
“For what?”
“The work you did on his behalf.”
“I didn’t do anything,” said Ornazian. “The witness sprung him. It was luck.”
“Don’t be so modest.”
“Thanks for the referral, Matt. I’ll let you know if it pans out.”
Ornazian left the office. Mirapaul watched him go.
Seven
THE DAY Michael came uptown, he moved right back into his mother’s house on Sherman Avenue, between Kenyon and Lamont, in Columbia Heights. It was a typical D.C. row home, first-floor living and dining room, kitchen in the back, three small bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. Doretha Hudson had grown up in this home. She had inherited it from her parents, who were both deceased.
Of the three Hudson siblings, Michael was the only one still in town. His older brother, Thomas, with whom he’d shared a bedroom growing up, was career military, now stationed on an army base in Texas. His kid sister, Olivia, was a senior at Virginia State in Petersburg, preparing to graduate. So he was surprised, and pleased, when his mother, Thomas, and Olivia all greeted him at the door when he arrived. Thomas had flown in to D.C. and Olivia had driven up from school.
They all hugged deeply. His longest embrace had gone to his mother and when he pulled back, tears had broken from her eyes. Inside the house, tied to a dining-room chair, there was a heart-shaped balloon she’d bought at the grocery store, and on the balloon were the words WELCOME HOME. His mother promptly served them a dinner of meat loaf, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and greens and, for dessert, sweet potato pie. The family dog, Brandy, slept on Michael’s feet while he ate.
The conversation during dinner did not go to Michael’s crime or his incarceration at first. He was grateful for that. His mother, thankfully, was her typical upbeat self.
“Couple of your old runnin buddies came by while you were away,” said Doretha. “They were asking on you, Michael.”
“I know Mario didn’t come by,” said Thomas, “’cause that fool is locked up.”
“I’m speaking on Chris and David,” said Doretha.
“How’s Junior doin?” said Michael. His old friend’s name was Chris Preston Jr., but hardly anyone but his mother ever called him Chris.
“He’s cooking on the Amtrak. Back and forth to and from New York, all day. Culinary school paid off.”
“Cooking?” said Thomas. “You mean he’s using the touchpad on a microwave.”
“It’s a start,” said Doretha.
“David’s girl must have had their baby,” said Michael.
“They had a little boy. He’s living with the mother now. Says they’re going to get married soon.”
“He still working on his music?” said Thomas, a hint of sarcasm in his voice as he got down on a thigh.
“He’s got a real job too,” said Doretha. “Working at the Walmart up on Georgia Avenue.”
“Hmph,” said Thomas.
“I gotta get over to his place and see his kid,” said Michael.
Olivia talked about the experience of leaving the city for college life “down in Virginia,” and the culture change, and its challenges. She spoke on her career plans after graduation. Olivia always knew what she wanted and had plotted out a path. Michael took note of but did not speak of her weight
gain while she was at school. Obviously they had fried-chicken outlets in the Commonwealth. Olivia always did love her Popeyes. Eventually, she brought up his stay in the D.C. Jail.
“Did time go slow for you in there?” said Olivia.
“I didn’t mind it.”
“How did you fill up your day?”
“Books,” said Michael. “I got to reading and it became a habit. I read all the time.”
“Weren’t you scared, though?”
“No,” said Michael. “I kept to myself and didn’t get involved in anyone else’s drama. How you should do.”
“Both days I came to visit you, I was scared. With those doors closing behind you. The sound of it, I mean. And that lady guard who searched me before they let me in? She was rough. I mean, she put her hands in my bra and everything. She had her hands all over me.”
“What you expect?” said Thomas. “Women try to bring in all kinds of contraband to their boyfriends and husbands.”
“How would you know?” said Olivia. “Did you visit Michael at all when he was in the jail?”
“I didn’t,” said Thomas. “And you know I didn’t. Michael’s a man. I figured he’d carry it like a man. He didn’t need me to come hold his hand. We got rules in society, rules you got to follow. He did a crime and he got punished for it, the way it should be.” Thomas looked at his kid brother. “Am I right?”
“That must have been hard for you,” said Michael. “All those words…you damn near gave a speech just now.”
“Screw you, man.”
“Thomas,” said Doretha.
“My bad,” said Thomas. “Can someone pass me those greens? They’re delicious.”
“I cook ’em in bacon fat,” said their mother.
The Man Who Came Uptown Page 5