“I’m not wealthy,” said Mirapaul, “if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m not either,” said Ornazian. “But I wouldn’t mind trying it on for size.”
“I might have something for you. Not sure if you want to take it.”
“What is it?”
“You wouldn’t be working for me. I know that would pain you.”
“I’d get over it.”
Mirapaul leaned forward and tented his hands on his desk. “My accountant, a guy named Bill Gruen, phoned me. He has another client by the name of Leonard Weitzman, corporate attorney, lives up in Potomac. Weitzman mentioned to Gruen that he needed some investigative help.”
“Concerning?”
“Weitzman’s daughter, a high school sophomore at Churchill. She had a party while her parents were out of town on a getaway weekend. The party went wrong.”
Ornazian opened the Moleskine notebook he’d carried in and took a pen off Mirapaul’s desk. “What’s the daughter’s name?”
“Lisa. Apparently, the day of the party, she talked it up on Facebook and, big surprise, a lot of people showed up who hadn’t been invited. Among them were a group of guys from a D.C. high school east of the river.”
“No need to speak in code, Matt. You’re with a friend.”
“It’s not what you think. It wasn’t just these kids from Northeast who came up to the suburbs. You had private-school boys from Potomac and Bethesda and some other guys who looked considerably older than teenage. Lisa didn’t know most of these people. Neither did any of her friends, supposedly.”
“Want me to guess what happened?”
“The house got tore up. I mean, whoever did it, they trashed the shit out of it. They broke a bunch of chairs and carved up a custom-made dining-room table that Weitzman says is worth tens of thousands of dollars. And they stole a whole rack of valuables from the parents’ bedroom.”
“Do you think drugs and alcohol were involved?”
“Gee, I don’t know.”
“What were they doing?”
“The usual stuff, with a twist. Weitzman said he found bottles all over the house that had the residue of purple liquid in them.”
“Lean. Sizzurp. Purple Drank. Whatever the fuck they’re calling it this week. These suburban kids like to emulate their favorite brain-damaged rappers.”
“It gets worse,” said Mirapaul. “You know what Versed is?”
“A date-rape drug.”
“An amnesiac, to be precise. Someone slipped Lisa a Versed mickey.”
“The daughter was raped?”
“She says she doesn’t remember anything. She woke up in her bedroom with her panties on backward. Discomfort in her vaginal and anal areas. Semen residue...”
“I get it. The police did a rape kit on her, I assume.”
“Weitzman didn’t report it to the police.”
“What the fuck?”
“He thinks it’s better if the family keeps it private,” said Mirapaul. “You know, the shame of it all.” He let that settle in the room.
“What do you think he wants with me?” said Ornazian.
“Among the stolen items was a diamond-and-platinum Tiffany bracelet. It was a gift from Weitzman to his wife.”
“Doesn’t he have insurance?”
“I would think so. Give me your notebook.”
Ornazian handed it to Mirapaul, who wrote something on a blank page. He pushed the notebook back across the desk.
“Give Weitzman a call,” said Mirapaul. “Only if you want to. He’s not a friend of mine. He’s not even an acquaintance. I passed the information on to you, as I said I would. I don’t care what you do but as of now, I’m out of it.”
“You don’t like this guy.”
“I don’t know him. But I have a daughter, Phil.”
Ornazian stood from his chair. “What do you hear from Antonius Roberts?”
“He’s in Big Sandy, the federal joint in eastern Kentucky. He got twelve. Antonius doesn’t contact me, but his grandmother does. It’s a fifteen-hour drive from D.C. to that prison, and she doesn’t even own a car. She’s not in good health, so it’s a good bet that she’s never gonna see him again. That’s what happens to these guys in the District. There’s no local prison anymore. They get shipped out all over the country. When they’re gone, they’re gone for real.”
“What about Michael Hudson?” said Ornazian. He was careful to ask the question in an offhanded way.
“He was released. It took a while. When the witness refused to testify against Michael, the judge held him in contempt and locked him up. They were hoping to coerce his testimony but the guy wouldn’t budge. I mean, he was the one who got robbed. He was the guy who called the police on Hudson. And suddenly he’s willing to go to jail to keep his mouth shut. It’s strange, Phil.” Mirapaul looked Ornazian directly in the eye. “Don’t you think?”
“It’s a crazy, mixed-up world,” said Ornazian.
Mirapaul raised an eyebrow. “Anyway. After the witness spent a few months in jail, the judge got exasperated and dismissed the case without prejudice. Meaning they could retry Hudson in the future. But he’s out. The charges are still on his record but he’s not carrying a felony conviction. And he didn’t have to do the nickel.”
“That’s good. I liked that guy.”
“You know, Mike took the gun charge, but he never so much as touched a gun that night. I’m happy for him. I put him in touch with a nonprofit group that counsels offenders who come out. They help them reenter society, get jobs, all that. I hope he doesn’t fall back.”
“So do I.”
“I guess Hudson owes you a solid.”
“For what?”
“The work you did on his behalf.”
“I didn’t do anything,” said Ornazian. “The witness sprung him. It was luck.”
“Don’t be so modest.”
“Thanks for the referral, Matt. I’ll let you know if it pans out.”
Ornazian left the office. Mirapaul watched him go.
Seven
The day Michael came uptown, he moved right back into his mother’s house on Sherman Avenue, between Kenyon and Lamont, in Columbia Heights. It was a typical D.C. row home, first-floor living and dining room, kitchen in the back, three small bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. Doretha Hudson had grown up in this home. She had inherited it from her parents, who were both deceased.
Of the three Hudson siblings, Michael was the only one still in town. His older brother, Thomas, with whom he’d shared a bedroom growing up, was career military, now stationed on an army base in Texas. His kid sister, Olivia, was a senior at Virginia State in Petersburg, preparing to graduate. So he was surprised, and pleased, when his mother, Thomas, and Olivia all greeted him at the door when he arrived. Thomas had flown in to D.C. and Olivia had driven up from school.
They all hugged deeply. His longest embrace had gone to his mother and when he pulled back, tears had broken from her eyes. Inside the house, tied to a dining-room chair, there was a heart-shaped balloon she’d bought at the grocery store, and on the balloon were the words WELCOME HOME. His mother promptly served them a dinner of meat loaf, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and greens and, for dessert, sweet potato pie. The family dog, Brandy, slept on Michael’s feet while he ate.
The conversation during dinner did not go to Michael’s crime or his incarceration at first. He was grateful for that. His mother, thankfully, was her typical upbeat self.