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?
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’!
He tossed his keys onto the telephone table near the entrance and walked to the kitchen.
Ice took a bottle of Hpnotiq Liqueur from the fridge and poured himself a tall glass of the blue beverage. He drank deeply. Damn, that was good. He walked over to his couch, flopped down, and put his feet on the coffee table. He laughed aloud, recalling the day’s events.
That look on Detective Mayfield’s face. Priceless!
Carter “The Real Deal” Washington owed him big time, and taking the fall for Ice on the Chesapeake Street murders made them even. Of course, promising to kill Washington’s entire family if he didn’t take the fall had helped The Real Deal make the right decision. And, as usual, his baby Fanta Monroe had come through for him with the names and addresses of potential eyewitnesses, an invaluable service for which she had been well compensated, monetarily and otherwise. He’d turned Fanta out long before she’d joined the police force and was glad that she was still a-dick-ted! He laughed at his own pun, one that he had run into the ground over the years and was funny only to him, though others still laughed because they feared him.
No doubt about it, there was no substitute for having whores in all walks of life strung out on his enormous Johnson. Every woman he’d taken had come under his spell because, like Captain Kirk, he had gone where no man had gone before.
Hamilton took another swig and then got serious as he considered the fate of the punk who had dared to speak out against him. He had been ineffectual, sure, but the nerve! His power must be absolute, his reign unopposed. What Grimes had done was bad for business, and he had to pay the ultimate price so that others would know the way of the world: DON’T SNITCH ON ICE HAMILTON. As always, he’d see to it personally. Ordering murders was too risky because underlings who committed the hits might cut a deal with 5-O and rat on him. Besides, he enjoyed killing people.
And, of course, that punk muthafucka Francisco “Big Boy” Longus would get what he deserved, not only for trespassing on his turf, but also for the Chesapeake Street fiasco. Shit, it was Big Boy’s fault that he had missed him and killed that old hag and that kid. Punk-ass should have stood still.
Yeah, that fat bastard was going to get what was coming to him. Soon.
How Big Boy thought that he could get away with peddling smack on the big dog’s turf, Ice would never know. Didn’t matter. People had to know not to step on Ice Hamilton’s toes. He had a lot of turf, but he wasn’t giving up an inch. Crack, weed, crank, ecstasy, or heroin, the new drug of choice (oh, yeah, it had made a comeback with a vengeance!) — whatever, he didn’t care, he had people out there selling it. And nobody was going to take one penny of his profits out of his pocket. Nobody. At the age of only wenty-six, he could buy anything he wanted.