Eleven
AS DAY-SHIFT workers arrived for their jobs at the animal shelter and the printing company, homicide police and technicians from the Mobile Crime Lab worked around the body of a young man lying in the community garden at Oglethorpe Street and Blair Road. Uniformed officers and yellow tape kept the workers, speculating among themselves and calling friends and loved ones from their cells, away from the scene.
Detective Bill “Garloo” Wilkins, working the midnight-to-eight at the VCB, was on the tail end of it when the call came in from the dispatcher after the anonymous tip. He drove to the community garden with Detective George Loomis, a slope-shouldered man who had grown up in the Section Eights near the Frederick Douglass home in Southeast. Wilkins would be the primary on the case.
As Wilkins and Loomis worked the scene, Gus Ramone arrived at the VCB offices for the start of his eight-to-four. Rhonda Willis, who liked to come in early, have her coffee, and map out her day, was already at her desk. As usual, they discussed their plans for the shift, as well as any violent-crime activity that had occurred since they had last been on. The unidentified gunshot victim found off Blair Road was mentioned, along with the fact that Garloo Wilkins had caught the case. Ramone had the arraignment of William Tyree on his plate, and Rhonda was to testify in a drug burn case she had closed several months earlier. Ramone wanted to try and catch an interview with a potential witness to a homicide before she went off to her job at the McDonald’s over by Howard U. Rhonda agreed to go with him, then ride together over to the Judiciary Center on 4th and E.
The potential wit, a youngish woman named Trashon Morris, turned out to be less than helpful. She had been seen in a club on the fringes of Shaw, hanging closely with a young man who was wanted in a killing later that same night. The young man, Dontay Walker, had been beefing at the club, witnesses said, with a guy who was later found shot to death inside his Nissan Altima on 6th, south of U. Walker was being sought in connection with the killing and so far was in the wind. But when Ramone questioned Trashon Morris, catching her on the way out the door of her apartment building, she could not remember any kind of argument in the club or anything else, seemingly, about that night.
“I don’t recall it,” said Trashon Morris, never looking Ramone in the eye nor acknowledging the presence of Rhonda Willis. “I don’t know nothin about no beef.” Morris had extralong, loudly painted fake nails, large hoop earrings, and big hair.
“Had you been drinking much that evening?” said Ramone, trying to determine her credibility in the unlikely event that she would regain her memory and be called to testify in court.
“Yeah, I’d been drinkin. I was in a club; what you think?”
“How much?” said Rhonda.
“Much as I wanted to,” said Morris. “It was a weekend and I’m twenty-one.”
“People say you left the club with Dontay Walker.”
“Who?”
“Dontay Walker.”
“People gonna say what they want to.” Morris glanced at her watch. “Look, I gotta get to work.”
“You got any idea where Dontay’s been layin up since that night?” said Ramone.
“Who?”
Ramone gave her his card with his contact information. “You see Dontay again, or you hear from him, or something comes to mind that you forgot to tell us, give me a call.”
“I gotta get to work,” said Morris, and walked the sidewalk toward the Metro station down the block.
“Cooperative type,” said Ramone as he and Rhonda went to an unmarked, maroon, MPD-issue Impala parked along the curb.
“One of those ghetto fabulous girls,” said Rhonda. “My sons better not think about bringing home something looking like that, ’cause you know I’ll hit the reject button.”
“She’s just mad because her mother named her Trashon.”
“You name it, it’s gonna become it,” said Rhonda. “One of those self-fulfilling prophecies you hear about.”
At 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 Regina Ramone. She knew that Diego was friends with Asa, and thought Regina would want to be informed. Also, she was curious, as Gus would surely have some further information regarding the death. Regina had not yet heard the news and said that she did not think Gus had, either, otherwise he would have phoned. She ended the call while Marita Bryant was still talking and immediately tried to locate Gus.