Ice snorted. “Don’t matter if I misbehave or not. Rollers always tryin’ to pin somethin’ on me. Tryin’ Like you tryin’ this time.”
Mayfield chuckled. “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”
Ice glared at him. “My lawyer’ll get me off, like always.” “Oooh,” quipped Mayfield, “I’m shaking. Fact is, your very expensive lawyer, who just happens to be next door waiting to sit in on the lineup, by the way, is very, very good… but Johnny Cochrane couldn’t get you out of this one. You got sloppy this time, Ice. You should stick with knives; guns aren’t your speed.” He nodded at an officer. “Unshackle him.”
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 contact with each other. First Ruthann Sommers had failed to identify Ice Hamilton in the lineup, then Terri Daulby. What troubled 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.