George Pelecanos (19 page)

One
of the CCB officers unlocked and removed the shackles from Ice's ankles, then
stepped back, keeping a sharp eye him.

Hands
cuffed behind him, Ice Hamilton eyeballed the plainclothes officers donning
cheesy dreadlock wigs meant to mirror his magnificent mane. He chortled and
shook his head.

"You
know," said Ice, "even with them cheap-ass wigs, these lineups ain't fair to
me, 'cause of my eye color..."

Mayfield
opened a paper bag and took out five contact lens cases (purchased out of his
own pocket because they weren't in the Lineup Unit's budget). He handed them
out to the police officers participating in the lineup. "Put these on, fellows.
Nonprescription disposable cosmetic contact lenses.
Bluish-gray in color."
He turned to Hamilton. "You were
saying?"

Ice
smirked and shook his head.

Detective
Mayfield was more than confused and more than a little disappointed--he was
concerned. He'd taken them in separately, making sure that the witnesses had no
conact with each other. First Ruthann Sommers had failed to identify Ice
Hamilton in the lineup, then Terri Daulby. What roubled him was how nervous
each of them had been, more nervous than witnesses usually are. They were
nervous and...apprehensive, yeah, that was it, apprehensive. As though someone
had somehow gotten to them, threatened them.
But how?
How could Ice or his minions know the identities of the eyewitnesses?
Certainly not through his lawyer.
Ice's attorney, C.F.
Carlton, had just now become privy to this information.

If
Rodney Grimes was as nervous and apprehensive as the others and failed to
identify Ice, the chances were that Ice, somehow, had gotten to them. If not,
Ice would be fingered by at least one of the witnesses, which was better than
nothing. If so, then Mayfield would make it his business to find out how.

Mayfield
tried to take away his frown and put on his best face. He opened the door to
the waiting area where his last witness sat. He assessed the clean-cut and
neatly dressed Rodney Grimes for a moment. Rather than apprehensive, Grimes
appeared anxious. Grimes's eyeglasses were not quite as thick as true
Coke-bottle glasses, but magnified his eyes just enough for them to be called
Coke-bottles, nonetheless.

There
was something else, though, a feeling he couldn't shake since he'd first laid
eyes on him: Grimes was oddly familiar to him, as though he'd seen him
somewhere before. He just couldn't place him.

"Mr.
Grimes," Mayfield said, "We're ready for you."

Rodney
Grimes replied, "Certainly," as he got to his feet. "How's it going, Detective
Mayfield?"

"Fine,"
Mayfield said flatly.

"Really?"
said Grimes. "You seem...disturbed."

Mayfield
was taken aback, though he hid it. At least, he tried to. Grimes
was
very perceptive. "No, no.
Just been
working long hours.
Right this way."

Grimes
followed Mayfield down the hall.

"What's
the suspect's name?" Grimes asked. "Or is it against the rules for you to tell
me?"

"No,"
Mayfield said. "First pick him out of the lineup,
then
I'll tell you his name."

"Fair
enough," said Grimes.

To
Mayfield's relief, Grimes passed with flying colors. He picked Ice out of the
lineup quickly and with absolute certainty.

C.F.
Carlton had smiled when he saw Grimes's thick glasses, and Mayfield knew for
sure that the attorney would bring into question the witness' vision at the
trial, as well as the fact that the other two, who did not wear eyeglasses, had
failed to identify Ice. Still, Mayfield had an eyewitness to the crime and a
mountain of physical evidence. He had a good case that should do well in trial.

Detective
Mayfield escorted Grimes down the hall toward the elevators, passing a number
of people who were on the floor seeking copies of police offense reports or
police clearance background checks for job applications.

Speaking
low so as not to be overheard by passersby, Mayfield said, "The suspect's name
is Isaiah 'Ice' Hamilton."

"Tell
me about him," said Grimes.

"Why
are you interested in his background, Mr. Grimes?"

"Just
curious," Grimes answered. "Tell me, detective, did the other eyewitnesses
identify Hamilton?"

Mayfield
shook his head.

"Is
that what was bothering you earlier?" Grimes asked.

Mayfield
nodded.

"What,"
said Grimes, "you worried somebody threatened your witnesses and made them clam
up?"

"Did
someone threaten you Mr. Grimes?"

Grimes
nodded.

"Who?"

"Ice
Hamilton," Grimes replied.

"Ice
Hamilton personally threatened you?
When?"

"Sunday,"
said Grimes. "He came up to me at the news-stand in Iverson Mall..."

"Sunday?
The day
after the murders?"

"That's
right," Grimes said. "He even knew what I was driving because he left me a note
on my windshield..."

"A note?
Saying what?"

Grimes
removed a plastic Ziplock sandwich bag from his pants pocket containing a piece
of paper. "See for yourself."

Mayfield
took the plastic bag and could clearly read the note inside. He shook his head.

"I
touched it, but as little as possible," Grimes told the detective. "I put it in
the bag just in case you can lift the writer's prints."

Detective
Mayfield smiled.

"Now
that the other 'witnesses' are in the clear," Grimes said, "how do you propose
to protect me?"

Detective
Mayfield rubbed his chin. "Tell me everything

Ice
said to you."

John
Mayfield, dazed and confused, lit a Winston as he stepped from the side
entrance of D.C. Superior Court into the courtyard leading to the municipal
center. He was absolutely flabbergasted. What had just transpired at Ice
Hamilton's arraignment had been a travesty of justice.

Just
as the proceeding was about to begin, Detective Fanta Monroe had rushed in and
whispered the disturbing news to him and Assistant U.S. Attorney Dean Hatcher:
Carter Washington, the owner of the black Crown Vic Ice was picked up in, had
made a videotaped confession to the Chesapeake Street murders. And according to
her, Washington could pass as Ice's brother, right down to the bluish-gray
eyes. They were contact lenses, sure, but he said he wore them to emulate Ice,
because he admired him for being such a bad motherfucker. She'd produced a
color, digital "live scan" mugshot to prove it. Mayfield had to admit the
resemblance was striking.

Detective
Monroe insisted that she'd been trying to reach Mayfield via pager and cell
phone for a couple of hours, but had not been able to get through, which was
bullshit. His cell phone and pager were in perfect working order.

Fanta
Monroe also informed John Mayfield that Captain Lynch was pissed about his "fuck-up,"
having given a news conference at noon in front of the Violent Crimes Branch
announcing the arrest of Isaiah Hamilton in connection with the Chesapeake
Street murders. Mayfield had seen it broad-cast "live" on Fox 5. The captain
planned to recover by having another news conference at 3:30 that afternoon to
announce the closure of the case with the arrest of Carter Washington, thanks
to the teamwork of John Mayfield and Fanta Monroe.
Incredible.

In
light of the circumstances, Assistant U.S. Attorney Hatcher asked that Defense
Attorney C.F. Carlton, Detective Mayfield, and
himself
meet with the judge in his chambers. In that meeting, the new development was
discussed and C.F. Carlton artfully pointed out that his client had an alibi:
The evidence had been found in the trunk of a vehicle that was loaned to him by
a man who he resembled, a man who had confessed to the murders; only one of
Mayfield's eyewitnesses, "a man with questionable eyesight," had picked his
client out of a lineup.

Mayfield
told Judge Haddix how Hamilton had threatened the witness Carlton spoke of, and
showed him the note in the sandwich bag Grimes had given him. The detective
asked for time to test the note to find out if Ice Hamilton's prints were on
it. He also conveyed to the judge that he suspected Ice had threatened the
other two witnesses who had failed to pick him out of the lineup.

Judge
Miles Haddix countered that Mayfield's argument was purely supposition when it
came to the other two witnesses, as they had made no such claims. Furthermore,
what the witness claimed Hamilton had said to him didn't constitute a threat,
nor was he satisfied that it was actually Hamilton who had confronted the
witness at the newsstand. The man hadn't identified himself as Hamilton. The
man could have been Carter Washington, who, he pointed out by waving the live
scan mugshot, bore a remarkable resem-blance to Hamilton. He believed that it
was more than likely that the witness had simply mistook Carter Washington for
Isaiah Hamilton, like he apparently had at the lineup.

"Under
the circumstances," said Judge Haddix, "I have no recourse but to drop the
charges against Isaiah Hamilton and release him."

Ice
smirked at Mayfield when the judge announced his decision.

Dean
Hatcher tried to console Detective Mayfield by pointing out that the case
against the man who had confessed was a slam dunk, that putting away Carter
Washington would be a piece of cake and all concerned would be satisfied that
justice had been served. But the detective wasn't having any of it. The Teflon
Thug had slipped through his fingers again.

Just
before Ice Hamilton left the courtroom, Mayfield observed a look pass between
him and the vivacious Detective Fanta Monroe. Sure, it could have simply been a
man admiring a beautiful woman--she was a hottie, no doubt--but it was something
more than that, Mayfield was sure. He felt it in his gut. Yes, Fanta and Ice
were joined at the hip. He didn't know how or why, but the two of them were
connected, somehow. He'd make it his business to find out.

Mayfield
tossed his cigarette butt and pulled out his cell phone. He called Rodney
Grimes and gave him the bad news. Understandably, Grimes was outraged.

"They're
making a big mistake," Rodney Grimes protested. "I'm telling you, it was him!
He killed that woman and that little girl and he threatened me!"

"I
believe you," the detective assured him. "Trust me, Mr. Grimes, I believe you."

"What
happens now?" Grimes wanted to know.

"Nothing,
I hope. But...Ice Hamilton's been known to hold a grudge."

"I'll
keep that in mind," said Grimes. "Protection's out of the question, I suppose."

"That's
right, unfortunately," the detective sighed. "No case, no protection."

"Looks
like I'm on my own."

After
an uncomfortable silence, Detective Mayfield said, "I know this doesn't mean
much, but thank you for coming forward, Mr. Grimes. I wish...I wish..."

"Keep
up the good work, Detective Mayfield. Take care of yourself."

"Listen,"
said Mayfield, "I owe you. Let's discuss your options over a beer. What do you
say?" As if you have any options, other than move, Mayfield thought.

"Sure,"
Grimes said.

"What
time's good for you?"

"Well,
I've got to work out tonight..."

Work
out? Mayfield thought.
Him?

"...How
about 9:30, 10?"

"Sounds
good," said Mayfield. "I'll take you to a police bar so you can feel safe. See
you then." Mayfield closed his cell phone and sighed.

Two more years before he would be eligible for retirement at the age of
fifty.
Two more years of this shit seemed like an eternity.
But what was he going to do when he retired? What else was he fit to do? Hell,
what else did he have to live for?

All
retirement would mean to him was biding his time, waiting to die in an empty
house, trying to fill lonely evenings and sleepless nights by listening to
Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, Motown showstoppers.

Retire
from the force in two years? He doubted it.

He
felt like the man with the shovel following circus elephants who, when asked if
he couldn't find a better job, says, "What, give up show business?"

Ice
Hamilton pimp-walked up to his 1st Street, S.W. condo complex, unlocked the
electronic fence of this "gated community" with a card key, and crossed the
courtyard. Using a standard key, he unlocked the front door of his building and
entered. A short walk to the second floor and he was at his door. He unlocked
it and went inside.

Hamilton
had several cribs, but this one, which was in his sister Beth's name, was
decked out entirely in Ikea shit that Danielle, one of his classy ho's, picked
out. The place was slammin'!