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NAIM BUTLER HAD CHATTED in a whisper to David Thurman in a small interview room. He feared that the room was bugged by federal authorities. It was a growing suspicion from ordinary citizens that its government went through great lengths to spy on them. Naim didn’t imagine that attorney-client interview rooms were off limits. America hadn’t been safer since whistleblower, Edward Snowden, skipped town for Russia. Naim wasn’t taking any chances with a case already classified high profile. Their conversation was broken up by a polite little tap, tap, tappity, tap on the room’s door. Naim expected a ferocious boom, boom, boom, by the big head federal agents trained to make a frightening first impression.
Naim stood up and walk to the door. He knocked on it as nicely as the person on the other side. Thurman smiled. He liked theater. No one expected a door to talk back. Definitely not at that United States Capitol.
He opened up and saw two guys in Capitol police uniforms. Both possessed side arms and looked pretty darn pissed off. Behind them was a man in a suit. David hadn’t seen the man the size of a heavy-weight boxer. The man was stuffed in his suit, golden-haired, and chiseled with an aquiline nose. Perhaps he was an OK guy—it was doubtful. He nodded at the uniforms, who positioned themselves on both sides of Thurman, lifting him to his feet, and handcuffed him.
Thurman asked, “Where are you taking me?”
“Shut the hell up,” the unknown man said. He turned to the suspect’s counselor, and said, “Come with me, Mr. Butler.”
“Don’t talk to me that way,” Thurman said. “Am I under arrest?”
“Must be what you want,” the man said. “If so, keep on running your trap.”
“Running my...look here, Goldie, make your mind up. Am I free to go with my attorney or not?”
“You asked for this.” He turned to one of his officers, and said, “Take him to the interview room and read him his Miranda warnings. Skip the part about being able to afford an attorney. I’m sure Mr. Naim Butler is running him three-hundred per.”
The officers walked away from the man and Naim.
Naim said, “What’s your name?”
“Rudolph.”
“You got a first name or title to go with that, Rudolph?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Not polite to answer a question with a question.”
“I know that, so?”
“OK, first name?”
“Hank,” the guy said.
“Perfect,” Naim said. “Hank Rudolph.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Is that what you think? My skin color lead you to that?”
“What I think certainly matters and that should scare you.”
“Now that sounds like a threat.”
“I’m assistant United States Attorney, Hank Rudolph, and I can make threats. Trust, I make good ones every one.”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
“With that out of the way,” the prosecutor said, “let me be clear. I’m not for any shenanigans of New York City theater.”
“Then, play nice and the fireworks will stay in my briefcase.”
“Fireworks are unlawful in D.C., but with your record of breaking laws, I doubt you care.”
“You’ve found some facts and not circumstantial evidence. That’s dangerous.”
“Here’s where we are. Your client will be charged and arraigned for unlawful entry, a violation of D.C. Code subsection 22-3302 (b), as well as the federal statute banning the display within the Capitol building of items designed to bring notice to organizations or movements.”
“He hasn’t unlawful entered any building.”
“You seriously have some catching up to do, if you think so.” The prosecutor rocked on his heels and grinned. “Now your client has some other explaining to do, but as for you, I want you to be careful here in D.C.”
“Careful? Meaning?”
AUSA Rudolph spun around, began walking away, and over his shoulder said, “You’re missing a helluva game, counselor. Have the cop let you out we’ll see you in interview room four. Welcome to the Nation’s Capital.”