George Pelecanos - DC Noir

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 resemblance 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?