the Judiciary Center, Ramone and Rhonda Willis checked in on the first floor to fill out their court appearance worksheets, then went up to the ninth floor, which housed the Assistant U.S. Attorneys, the federal prosecutors who worked cases from arrest to trial and sometimes conviction. Many homicide police were standing in the halls and sitting in the offices of the prosecutors, a common scene. Some wore nice suits, some wore cheap ones, and others were dressed in sweats. They were there to testify, shoot the shit, report progress on cases, and make overtime. On certain days there were more homicide police in these offices than there were at the VCB or on the street.
Ramone found prosecutor Ira Littleton in his office. They discussed the Tyree case and the arraignment, a conversation that consisted of Littleton lecturing Ramone on courtroom procedure and etiquette. Ramone allowed the younger man to have his say. When he was done, Ramone went to the corner office of Margaret Healy, a hard-boiled, smart redhead in her midforties who headed the team of Assistant U.S. Attorneys. Her desk was overflowing with paper, and paperwork littered the floor. He dropped into one of her big comfortable chairs.
“Heard you made quick work out of that stabbing,” said Healy.
“That was Bo Green,” said Ramone.
“It’s a team sport,” said Healy, using one of her favorite expressions.
“Congratulations on the Salinas brothers,” said Ramone. The recent conviction of two sibling members of MS-13, a drawn-out murder case, had made a splash in the press due to the growing Hispanic gang problem in and around D.C.
“It was a nice win. I was proud of Mary Yu on that one. She took it all the way.”
Ramone nodded and pointed his chin in the direction of a photo on the prosecutor’s desk. “How’s the family?”
“I suspect they’re good. Maybe I’ll take some time off this year and find out.”
An administrative assistant knocked on Healy’s open door and told Ramone that he had a call from his wife. Ramone figured she had been trying him on his cell, but the service was spotty in the building. And if she was being that persistent, it had to be some kind of emergency. Alana or Diego, he thought immediately, and he got up out of his chair.
“Excuse me, Margaret.”
He took the call in an unoccupied office. He listened to Regina’s emotional but controlled voice. Out in the hall, he saw Rhonda Willis bullshitting with a couple of detectives. He told her about his call and where he was going.
“Want some company?” said Rhonda.
“Thought you had to testify.”
“I been informed that I’m not on today’s menu. What about the arraignment?”
“I’ll come back for it,” said Ramone. “C’mon, I’ll bend your ear on the way out.”
MARITA BRYANT SAW THE squad and plainclothes cars arrive at the Johnson family house across the street from the vantage point of her home in Manor Park. She watched as the large bald-headed detective entered the house, and she kept watching as Terrance Johnson pulled up in his Cadillac, parked it sloppily, and ran to his front door. An ambulance arrived shortly thereafter. Helena Johnson, Terrance’s wife and the mother of their children, Asa, fourteen, and Deanna, eleven, was carried from the house on a stretcher and taken away. Terrance came out with her, visibly distraught, staggering as he walked across his lawn. He stopped and spoke to his next-door neighbor, a retiree named Colin Tohey, and was then pulled along by the detective, who helped him into the plainclothes car. The two of them drove off.
Marita Bryant left her house for the Johnson yard, where Colin Tohey still stood, somewhat shaken. Tohey told Bryant that the dead body of Asa Johnson had been found in that big community garden off Blair Road. Helena had collapsed upon hearing the news, necessitating the ambulance. Bryant, who had a daughter the same age as Asa and was familiar with Asa’s crowd, immediately called
Ramone found prosecutor Ira Littleton in his office. They discussed the Tyree case and the arraignment, a conversation that consisted of Littleton lecturing Ramone on courtroom procedure and etiquette. Ramone allowed the younger man to have his say. When he was done, Ramone went to the corner office of Margaret Healy, a hard-boiled, smart redhead in her midforties who headed the team of Assistant U.S. Attorneys. Her desk was overflowing with paper, and paperwork littered the floor. He dropped into one of her big comfortable chairs.
“Heard you made quick work out of that stabbing,” said Healy.
“That was Bo Green,” said Ramone.
“It’s a team sport,” said Healy, using one of her favorite expressions.
“Congratulations on the Salinas brothers,” said Ramone. The recent conviction of two sibling members of MS-13, a drawn-out murder case, had made a splash in the press due to the growing Hispanic gang problem in and around D.C.
“It was a nice win. I was proud of Mary Yu on that one. She took it all the way.”
Ramone nodded and pointed his chin in the direction of a photo on the prosecutor’s desk. “How’s the family?”
“I suspect they’re good. Maybe I’ll take some time off this year and find out.”
An administrative assistant knocked on Healy’s open door and told Ramone that he had a call from his wife. Ramone figured she had been trying him on his cell, but the service was spotty in the building. And if she was being that persistent, it had to be some kind of emergency. Alana or Diego, he thought immediately, and he got up out of his chair.
“Excuse me, Margaret.”
He took the call in an unoccupied office. He listened to Regina’s emotional but controlled voice. Out in the hall, he saw Rhonda Willis bullshitting with a couple of detectives. He told her about his call and where he was going.
“Want some company?” said Rhonda.
“Thought you had to testify.”
“I been informed that I’m not on today’s menu. What about the arraignment?”
“I’ll come back for it,” said Ramone. “C’mon, I’ll bend your ear on the way out.”
MARITA BRYANT SAW THE squad and plainclothes cars arrive at the Johnson family house across the street from the vantage point of her home in Manor Park. She watched as the large bald-headed detective entered the house, and she kept watching as Terrance Johnson pulled up in his Cadillac, parked it sloppily, and ran to his front door. An ambulance arrived shortly thereafter. Helena Johnson, Terrance’s wife and the mother of their children, Asa, fourteen, and Deanna, eleven, was carried from the house on a stretcher and taken away. Terrance came out with her, visibly distraught, staggering as he walked across his lawn. He stopped and spoke to his next-door neighbor, a retiree named Colin Tohey, and was then pulled along by the detective, who helped him into the plainclothes car. The two of them drove off.
Marita Bryant left her house for the Johnson yard, where Colin Tohey still stood, somewhat shaken. Tohey told Bryant that the dead body of Asa Johnson had been found in that big community garden off Blair Road. Helena had collapsed upon hearing the news, necessitating the ambulance. Bryant, who had a daughter the same age as Asa and was familiar with Asa’s crowd, immediately called
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