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NAIM SHOWERED AND DRESSED in gray jeans, black mohair loafers without socks, white button-up and a blue tie. The hip professor. He packed a bag of essentials, then, after closer inspection, grabbed a garment bag and packed that too. He had no idea how long he’d be in D.C. and wanted to be prepared for about two weeks. Things had moved quickly. His thoughts were running in different directions. His first case, a demand actually was underway. How is this going to play out, he thought.
Boarding the elevator, he headed to the garage to store his luggage in his Mercedes and was greeted by Marco who was onboard.
His son was in pajama bottoms and no shirt, the sling prominently shown. Marco said, “Going somewhere, pater?”
“To Washington—for a few days. Maybe a week.” Perhaps even longer, he thought.
“Just leaving me here with my crazy mom, huh?”
Naim smiled. “Not my intent. I’ve never even thought of that.”
“You’re slippin’.”
“I’ve kinda taken on a case. A big one. The kind of case I was built to do. You assured me that you were mentally, OK, and I want to allow you to prove that by not being an overbearing dad.”
“No, I don’t need that. Mom did enough of that for the last eighteen years.”
“Good, so I am going to D.C. to handle a case that will do exciting things for my future. And yours, too.”
“Thanks. I get it.”
The elevator stopped and the door hissed open. Naim exited in the underground garage which housed three vehicles. A glass wall separated the garage from a full gym and fourteen-meter pool. Naim, a health-nut, swam three days a week, weight trained two days and jogged two days. He tossed the bags into the sedan’s trunk, sent a text to his driver, and rejoined Marco in the elevator. They rode up a level.
“How’s your shoulder feeling?” Naim asked, making their way to the kitchen.
“A little pain. I didn’t sleep well due to the severity of the discomfort. The doctor prescribed Vicodin, which made me lethargic, so I won’t be taking that.”
June, their motherly maid/cook, said, “Tylenol should work. We don’t need you addicted to those pain pills. The epidemic is real.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Naim said, sitting at the table.
June slid a coffee mug in front of Naim and poured him a cup of black coffee.
June was a short, svelte woman, sporting curly white hair, and sixty-something. She didn’t have children, but lived with her husband of thirty-five years in a Park Avenue apartment, minutes from Naim who was like a son. “Got little eggs scrambled with cheddar cheese, home fries, and smoked salmon.”
“I’m in,” Marco said, smiling. “Amber will be down shortly.”
“I hope more dressed than you,” June said, chuckling.
Marco said, “You’re too much, Mama June.” She had instructed him to call her June—No Mrs. Required. He had added “mama” out of respect. He sipped orange juice, and then asked his father, “So what case are you chasing all the way in Washington?”
“Washington?” said June perplexed. Her head was cocked to the side with a suspicious eye looking through Naim.
“Yup, I caught him taking bags to his Benz. Trying to sneak out on us.”
Naim chortled. “You two are too much.” He took a bite of eggs and chewed slowly.
“Stall tactic,” June said, smirking. “Spill it, mister.”
“If you two must know, the justice’s killer called me last night and wants to meet.”
“Get the eff outta here,” Marco said with his jaw on the table.
“Watch the language,” June demanded.
“Eighteen is not that grown for profanity, sir, and you have a vast vocabulary. Use it,” Naim said.
“Back on subject,” June said, tapping Naim’s shoulder, “Why you? You’ve only been an attorney a few months.”
“Two.” That was the prince.
“And haven’t led a case,” June said with a sassy hand on her hip. Although the part-time house servant, she was more grandmother than maid.
“This no doubt will be a capital case. Can you handle that?” Marco asked bluntly.
“Yes I can,” Naim replied, smiling. “It’s more like a chat. Nothing says I’ll take on the case per se. But to talk to this man is interesting to me.”
“I got one question, counselor,” Marco said skeptically. “Why’d the killer call you? Shouldn’t he be trying to bring Johnny Cochran back?”
“Perhaps I am Johnny. The next JC.”
“I’ve always loved your confidence, champ,” June said, massaging his shoulders. “I want hourly updates to assure your safety.”
“I want the same, dad. I gotta be honest. I don’t want you involved with this monster. Police are on the hunt for this man. They may shoot you first and ask you questions later. Deem you an accomplice. I mean have you even told the police?”
Naim was at a mini bar, pulling out a bottle of Dom Perignon. He fixed himself a mimosa and retook a seat at the table.
It felt like he was engaged in an interrogation.
“No, I didn’t. Attorney client privilege.”
“Umm...new flash...He not a client, dad.” His voice was on the side of aggression.
Naim glared at June, apparently for help.
“I’m out of this one,” she said, pressing her back to the island and folding her arms over her breasts. She wanted an answer, too.
“Marco, I’m going to DC to negotiate. Negotiate for the man to turn himself in to authorities. And possibly represent him in preliminary interrogation with federal agents. I want to keep the man alive. I have to defend those who need it and this man desperately needs it. A DC lawyer will sell him out.”
“He killed a Supreme Court Justice for crying-out-loud dad. Do you really want to campaign for this guy?”
“I do,” Naim said, hearing the front doorbell ring. “He needs a vigorous defense like any other defendant. His level of weakness and delusion reeks of mental defect and I am duty bound to assure that he gets help and not warehoused in jail, the defacto mental asylum.” He took a huge gulp of his breakfast libation, and then said, “And with that, I have to go. That’s my driver at the door.”
“You can go, but I promise this ain’t over,” Marco said and winked.
“That’s fine,” Naim said, grabbing his briefcase. “I like promises. Be sure to keep your doc appointment and stay away from in the front of news camera. Period.”
__________
Despite the traffic it took Naim’s driver forty minutes to reach JFK Airport. He exited the car at the US Airways gate while his driver sat his luggage on the curb. He pressed a crisp hundred dollar tip into the man’s hand before entering the airport’s lobby. He was met by Brandy Scott wearing huge sunglasses and a baseball cap.
He hugged her, and then said, “On the run, Beyoncé? Should I be in an airport with you?”
She laughed, and said, “Everyone is looking for me. I’m wanted for questioning—”
“By the police?”
“No,” she said, smiling. “Other news agencies. My article was widely disseminated and people want to know how I obtained and confirmed that the photos of the justice were authentic.”
“That’s a fair question.” He was smiling at the absurdity of his skeptical eye.
“You’re crazy,” she said jokingly, punching him. “I checked us in for the flight online. Download the US Air app for an electronic boarding pass. You can flash the pass right on your phone screen. We’re in first-class, so we should get through security swiftly.”
“Perfect,” he said, walking towards security, “and thanks for buying the ticket.”
“No problem,” she said and pat his butt. “You can repay me later, handsome.”
“Can you handle any more of this anaconda?” he asked, winking at her and smiling.
She grinned and he held her hand. Two love birds on a stroll through the busy airport. In her mind, no one was in the airport but them.
“We’re staying at the Trump International Hotel. It’s about a mile from the White House. This is a work trip, but I say we make time for pleasure. Visit King Memorial and the Smithsonian.”
“That’s all free, so I’m game for that,” she said, and then added, “I’ve not sure who the hell we’re meeting, but otherwise we will have a good time.”
“It’ll be the best.” He sounded confident, but he knew who they planned to meet controlled their visit to the nation’s capital.