The Avenged

by Charles Prandy

  After entering the D.C. Superior Courthouse, I found where the judge’s chambers were held, pushed a button near the door and was let in after identifying myself as Detective Jacob Hayden. Charlie and I passed a few doors in the hallway until we reached the last one on the left. I slowly turned the handle and entered the room, met by a heavyset, grey-haired secretary sitting at her desk. Her gold nameplate read Sylvia Woodrow. With her hair wrapped in a bun and her eyeglasses attached to a chain around her neck, she reminded me of an elementary school teacher. The secretary was on the phone and raised her hand, letting us know that she’d be with us in a minute.

  I smiled and stuffed my hands in my front pockets. Charlie did the same.

  The reception area was small, not at all what I had expected to see. I’d never been in a judge’s chambers before, so I could only go on what I had seen in the movies. The walls were stark white with no windows leading to the outside world. The room felt almost claustrophobic, just large enough to fit the secretary’s desk and a few other office essentials. Finally, she set the phone down and smiled at us.

  “Good afternoon, detectives. I’ll let Judge Peters know you’re here.”

  Moments later, she pointed at a side door behind her right shoulder and informed us to walk in.

  Standing in front of a large mahogany desk, Judge Peters waited with his hand extended. His inviting smile wasn’t at all what I was expecting, given what I had been told by Turtle the day earlier.

  I shook his hand. “Detective Hayden, and this is Detective Evans.”

  “Take a seat, detectives.”

  We sat in the two leather-wrapped chairs in front of the desk. I glanced around the office and noticed the extensive amount of law books that filled the bookshelves behind the judge’s desk. To my left was an empty leather sofa with a small coffee table. I noticed an open newspaper on top of the table with a recently put out cigarette in the cigarette holder. The smell of the smoke from the cigarette still remained in the air. Either the judge was sitting on the sofa smoking a cigarette or someone else had just recently left.

  “So,” Judge Peters said, “you wanted to talk to me about yesterday’s shooting?”

  “That’s correct, Your Honor,” I responded. “We found out that the victim was a former clerk of yours, a Mr. Faraji Owusu.”

  The judge’s eyes widened with apparent shock. “Faraji? Oh, my. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, next of kin identified him this morning.”

  Judge Peters exhaled and leaned back in his chair. He turned his head and faced the left wall, but didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular.

  “I’m not sure how I can help,” he said finally, turning back to us. “It’s been more than ten years since he clerked for me, and the few times I’ve seen him since was when he’s been before me in court.”

  “Do you know the last time he was before you?”

  “I’d have to check the calendar, but it’s probably been more than six months.”

  “And besides seeing him in court, you haven’t been in contact with him?”

  “No, although now I wish I had. Faraji was a brilliant lawyer. Wish he’d stayed with the DA’s office instead of going into private practice. But I can understand. Money’s better on that end, you know,” he said with a smile.

  “I can imagine. Do you know of any reason why someone would want him dead?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Judge Peters opened a drawer from his desk and pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes.

  “Excuse me,” he says, “I’m normally not an emotional person, but this kinda caught me off guard.”

  “We’re sorry you had to find out like this.”

  The judge put the handkerchief back in the drawer and directed his attention back to me.

  “I know it’s been a while, but do any cases stand out where someone could have made a threat either to you or him during the time he clerked for you?”

  Judge Peters shook his head no, but there seemed to be a slight hesitation with his answer.

  I studied the judge’s facial expressions and body language and something didn’t sit right. The judge didn’t appear to be relaxed, and he was tapping his desk with his fingers like he was nervous. He didn’t make eye contact with me when he was answering my questions, which raised a red flag. The warm smile that had greeted us when we first entered the room was no longer there, and I began to wonder what the judge was hiding.

  I glanced over to Charlie and hoped that he was getting the same vibes, but he didn’t show that he was.

  “Is there anything else that I can help you gentlemen with?”

  I wanted to ask him if he had ever heard of Melvin Johnson but figured this wasn’t the time, so I simply responded, “No, not at this time, sir.”

  I pulled out my wallet, grabbed a business card and handed it to Judge Peters.

  “If you can think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  Judge Peters smiled.

  We left the room and smiled at the secretary as we passed her desk.

  The judge closed his door.

  “Excuse me, detectives,” the secretary said.

  We both turned around.

  “The news this morning said that Faraji was the man who was shot in Dupont Circle yesterday. I suppose that’s why you’re here.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Charlie responded.

  The secretary’s face started to crinkle and her eyes began to tear up.

  “It’s just that he was so nice,” she continued. “He always commented on how beautiful my smile was whenever he visited.”

  Charlie and I looked at each other curiously.

  “Had he visited the judge lately?” I asked.

  “Just last week.”

  Thirty

  “IS THERE ANYTHING THAT I need to be concerned with?” Frank asked Nathan Hunt, who returned to sitting on the leather couch.

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Then explain to me why two detectives were just in here asking about Faraji?”

  “Nothing can be linked back to you.”

  He slammed his fist against the top of his desk and his face turned bright red. “That’s not what I asked you!”

  Nathan didn’t reply.

  “Listen to me, dipshit, I want this taken care of. Find out who killed Faraji, and also what that detective knows.” The color of his face returned to normal as he leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t like the way he was looking at me.”

  Thirty-one

  THE MORE I THOUGHT about it, the more I got the uneasy feeling that everything Turtle had told me about Judge Frank Peters was true. The judge had met me with a smile, shook my hand and then told a bold-faced lie right through the slits of his teeth. He’d seen Faraji Owusu a week earlier but told me that it had been at least six months. What was the reason for the lie? If the judge had been honest and said that he had met with Faraji a week earlier, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it. Faraji had clerked for the judge and was also a prosecutor for the city, so a casual meeting wouldn’t have raised any red flags. But now that I knew the judge had lied about something as innocent as a recent meeting, it made me also question if the judge was implicated in Faraji’s murder in some way.

  Hopefully, I could get some more answers from Faraji’s partner at his law firm

  Carter & Owusu, LLP, was the name on a silver nameplate next to a wooden front door. The law firm was only blocks away from the Dupont Circle park where Faraji had been killed. Brownstones lined a side street that had been refurbished into businesses, and the law firm sat in one of the middle brownstones.

  Charlie and I walked up a couple of brick steps, and when we got to the front door, we saw a typed note on letterhead taped to the door that read that the office was closed due to the unfortunate events that had happened yesterday. I hesitated, but then reached for the front door and surprisingly found that it was unlocked. I looked at Charlie for confirmation before opening the doo
r. Charlie shrugged his shoulders, I did the same, then I opened the door and stepped inside.

  The lights were off on the first floor. We walked into a narrow foyer which led to an open reception area. A wooden desk with a computer and phone was at the back end of the room, while two sofas and a center table filled the other end of the room.

  “Hello,” I called out.

  No one answered.

  As tempting as it was to search the place while no one was there, I knew that anything we found would be useless because we didn’t have a search warrant.

  “Do we have a personal address on the partner?” I asked.

  “Yeah, in the car,” Charlie responded. “He lives in Maryland.”

  “How about a number? I’ll call him and set something up for tomorrow when he’s back in the office.”

  “Yeah, we have his number.”

  We turned to leave when we suddenly heard glass breaking from upstairs. Instinctively, we both pulled out our sidearms and looked around the room and then realized where the breaking glass was coming from. I found the stairs to the left of the foyer and rushed up them two at a time. Glass continued to break when we reached the second floor. We turned to the right and sprinted down a small hallway until we reached the last office. There we found a brown-haired Caucasian man with a thin beard sitting behind a desk slouching in his chair. His chair was facing the adjacent wall to his right. I looked over and saw broken wine bottles on the floor and spatters of alcohol covering the wall.

  “Stephen Carter?” I asked.

  Stephen didn’t acknowledge me at first, but then slowly turned to me.

  “Are you here to kill me too?” Stephen asked. His speech was slurred and his eyes were half-open.

  “No,” I quickly responded. “I’m Detective Hayden and this is Detective Evans.”

  Our tension eased and we put away our guns. I realized from the strong stench of alcohol and Stephen’s slurred speech that he’d probably been here drinking for most of the afternoon.

  “Why would you think that we’re here to kill you?”

  Stephen clumsily turned his chair towards me. His head slightly slouched towards his chest and his eyes tried to focus, but they looked down as soon as he spoke.

  “Faraji’s dead. I thought you were the men who killed him.”

  “Do you know why Faraji was killed?” I asked.

  Stephen shrugged his shoulders. “Could be a number of things. We’re all dirty, you know.”

  “When you say all, who do you mean?”

  Stephen smirked. He was about to say something, but covered his mouth as if he were going to vomit.

  “The guy’s drunk out of his mind,” Charlie said.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Stephen answered. “I’m drunk. Only because I know that I’m next.”

  I slowly sat in a chair in front of Stephen’s desk. “What do you know about Faraji’s death?”

  Stephen shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anyways. Either the person who killed Faraji’s going to kill me or the other one will.”

  “What are you talking about? Which other one?”

  Stephen raised his head and lifted his arm and pointed.

  “The one behind you.”

  Before I could turn around, I heard a bang and then saw Charlie fall to the ground. I didn’t have enough time to reach for my weapon before I got hit on the head and blacked out.

  Thirty-two

  FRANK ONCE AGAIN FOUND himself in the company of Tim Johnson, the defense attorney he had slapped in his chambers a few hours earlier. They were at the judge’s private residence, and Tim sat in the living room chair like a whipped dog fearing its master. It was unusual for Frank to hold meetings at his house, but under the current circumstances, he felt it best to do so.

  Frank paced the living room while talking into a prepaid cell phone. Agitation was in his voice as he held back the rage within him. He wanted to curse out the person he was speaking with. Rarely did he engage in these types of discussions anymore, but due to Faraji Owusu’s death, he knew it was best for him to ensure that things would still go as planned.

  “I know, I know, you’ll have your shipments in two days…Look, no one planned for this. We’re just as baffled as you are…I’m already on it. We’re looking for the shooter as we speak…Two days. You have my word.”

  Frank hung up the phone and then tossed it to Tim Johnson. He walked to a wet bar at the back end of the living room and poured a glass of Scotch.

  “You want a drink?”

  Tim nervously shook his head no.

  “How’s the face?”

  “It’s okay, Your Honor.”

  “No hard feelings, huh? You’ve just gotta learn that what I say goes. Understand?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “That son of a bitch could have cost us our livelihood. Never should have brought him on in the first place. You gotta be careful dealing with people you think you can trust.”

  Frank moved to the sofa across from Tim and casually sat. He crossed his legs as he took a sip of Scotch.

  “You’re being promoted.”

  “Promoted, Your Honor?”

  “That’s what I said.” Frank placed the glass of Scotch on the coffee table. “Once Faraji’s death blows over, you’re going to leave the public defender’s office and go work with Stephen.”

  Frank leaned forward in his seat and extended his hand. “Congratulations, Partner.”

  Tim seemed reluctant to reciprocate the handshake. He slowly rose and extended his hand. “Thank you, Your Honor. I don’t know what to say.”

  Frank waved off the comment. “Just remember that with this new position comes greater responsibility. And if you thought I was tough on you as a public defender, you haven’t seen nothing yet. If you screw something up, I’ll have my foot so far up your ass you’ll be able to clip my toenails with your teeth, understood?”

  “I understand.”

  “Don’t make me regret this.”

  “I won’t, Your Honor.”

  “I loved your father like he was my own blood, but if you fall out of line, with God as my witness, I’ll kill ya.”

  Frank shrugged his shoulders before taking another sip of Scotch. “You’re a bright kid and a smart lawyer, but you need to grow some balls. The sky’s the limit in this business. Just be smart and do what I say, and you’ll never have a problem with me.”

  Frank stood and moved to a side window. He slipped his hands through a set of sheer drapes and gazed outside.

  “If I can only teach you one thing, let it be this: money always comes first. It comes before your family and your friends, your wife and your children. It comes before everything.”

  He turned around just enough that his eyes were able to pierce into Tim’s soul. “Everything. Understood?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  He turned back around towards the window with an evil smirk on his face. He had made his point. He knew that he wouldn’t have any problems with Tim after this. He was a puppet, just like the rest of them. Frank was the kind of man who needed to be in control. That’s why the shooting of Faraji had been gnawing at him. It’s not that he cared for Faraji; rather, the killing wasn’t within his control. And as a result, it could possibly delay a big shipment worth hundreds of thousands of dollars that Faraji had been handling.

  Frank began to turn from the window when he saw Nathan Hunt’s car pull into his driveway. The driveway ran past the side of the house until it reached the garage at the back of the house.

  “What’s this idiot doing?”

  He turned back to Tim.

  “You see, this is what I mean. I’ve told this jerkoff a thousand times never to come here unless I tell him to.”

  The color of Frank’s face reddened the longer he watched the car slowly move along the driveway. Frank squeezed the glass until the tips of his fingers turned pink. He threw the last ounce of Scotch down his throat and then stomped through the living room and past the k
itchen until he reached the back door.

  The back door flew open just as Nathan opened his car door.

  “You’d better have a damn good reason for showing up here unannounced, you moron.”

  Nathan didn’t say anything. He pushed the trunk release button on the driver’s side door and stepped from the car. The trunk clicked and opened slightly.

  “Oh, now you’re ignoring me,” Frank said as he stormed down three steps.

  Nathan opened the trunk at the same time Frank reached the car. If he thought he was upset when he saw Nathan’s car pull into his driveway, that was nothing compared to the way the blood in his veins boiled now.

  “Oh what the hell is this!?”

  Thirty-three

  I FELT A THUMPING pulse from the back of my head that matched the rhythm of my heartbeat. Then a piercing pain shot through my skull. It felt like my head was tearing apart. My eyes partly opened and my vision was blurry. I blinked a few times, my vision became clearer, and I saw the intricate patterns of the Berber carpet right below my eyes.

  My finger twitched as my senses regained control. I slowly lifted my head, which caused the piercing pain to shoot like scattered pellets throughout my brain. I grunted at the pain but slowly moved my arms to plant my palms against the floor, and then pushed myself up. Once on my knees, I touched the back of my head and flinched at the soreness. I pulled my hand away and saw blood on my fingertips.

  It took me a few seconds to remember where I was or what happened, but seeing the desk right in front of me caused my senses to rush to high alert. My eyes widened and my heartbeat accelerated.