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WASHINGTON, D.C.—UNITED States Capitol Building
Hank Rudolph, fifty-two, started in law enforcement as a correctional officer at Lorton Reformatory in Lorton, Virginia. A former MPD Officer turned detective, turned US prosecutor. He had a steady sour expression and dark rings around his eyes. He looked like a man that trafficked in death. After spending over a decade working DC Homicide, he found refuge in the weight room; the man’s upper body didn’t appear to belong to the miserable face that sat upon it shoulders.
He had the strong body of a well-oiled tractor, with a waist that stopped of thirty-three inches and biceps that moved like boa constrictors under the arms of his form-fitting blazer.
AUSA Rudolph worked his way up through DC legal channels and had experience dismantling bombs in the military and busting narcotics rings in urban and suburban settings. He had over three hundred homicides under his belt, everything from dope dealers in the ghetto killing each other, drunk drivers taking out crowds of people in front of a bar, to the kidnapping and strangling of a local prostitute. He had held the hand of snitches as a cop and prosecutor, helping them roll over on politicians and drug traffickers, with experience on various crime task forces. He knew how to work his way through interrogations and trial because of his background in scratching the hairy underbelly of the DC criminal beast. As a prosecutor, he drove cases to convictions based on feelings formed from his cop’s intuition.
That late afternoon he was in a small meeting room with a wood table surrounded by chairs, one of them bolted to the floor with shackles on the sides. David Thurman sat there, shackles locking his feet to the floor, keeping him from any attempts at escaping.
AUSA Rudolph, Captain Finnerty, and Naim Butler were perched at the table in the windowless room, preparing to get their interrogation—or interview, depending on who was asked—underway. The room wasn’t big enough for all four egos.
Without a shirt on, because it had been confiscated and being analyzed, David Thurman, a behemoth man, sat there looking like he had just come off of a flat-bench, covered in sweat and military-inspired tattoos.
Pressing record on a video recorder, AUSA Rudolph said, “David Thurman, you’ve met Captain Finnerty, and were joined by your attorney, Naim Butler. He’s an interesting man. But we’re on the record now and here to get your version, David, with respect to your unlawful entry, banned display of promoting a political agenda, and your dry-run attempt to attack the United States Capitol Building.”
That got a sneer from Naim Butler. “You got proof of that last charge?”
Thurman nodded his head but didn’t say a word.
“We have preliminary matter to dispose of,” AUSA Rudolph said, frowning condescendingly. “You’re not a member of the District of Columbia bar.”
Naim chuckled. “Is that how you want to start off?” he said, reaching into his briefcase. “I am, however, admitted to the New York State Bar.” To support his claim, he passed the prosecutor a page printed at the Trump International Hotel’s front desk. “A record from the New York State Unified Court System. Besides your position is erroneous, because I have a distinguished L.L.M. From the University of Pennsylvania School of Law, a doctor of jurisprudence from Yale. And I teach criminal law at Columbia. Moreover, Rule 49 of the Rules of the D of C allows an attorney who is a member in good standing of another bar to practice here for a period of three hundred sixty days, so long as I submit an application to the D of C Bar within ninety-days and practice under the direct supervision of a member of the D of C Bar.” He passed along a confirmation that he’d submitted an application that morning, and Maria Sethmeyer was supervising him. “I believe it’s your move.” He smiled.
“Now you can see why I have him here,” Thurman said. “He’s always prepared. Guess all of that Ivy League education was worth the debt.”
“I thought we’d be able to resolve this with a fair disposition,” AUSA Rudolph said, “but I won’t be disrespected by an outsider. Especially not an arrogant New Yorker. You know we hate New Yorkers in D.C.”
“I’ll ignore that in favor of sticking to the real issue,” Naim replied. “Mr. Thurman is a hard sell, so anything short of us walking out of here with a warning won’t sway him much.”
“Yes, what he said,” Thurman said, adding raised eyebrows and a head tilt.
“We need information regarding a pressing matter. Perhaps you may or may not be in a position to shed light on the matter,” AUSA Rudolph said. “This morning a Supreme Court justice was viciously murdered in his home...”
“Tragedy, I know,” the killer said.
“As luck would have it Americans for sentencing Reform materials that you’ve been handing out references two things. One, your concern over how the Supreme Court will rule on a case regarding sentencing reform set to be heard in oral argument this session. Two, how important the presidential race is this year, as the new president will likely appoint several judges considering four of them are over seventy-five-years-old.”
The captain added, “Awfully coincidental of you to be making predictions and referencing matters so closely connected to the death of a prominent justice. The chief actually. If you’re in possession of relevant information, evidence, or other matter regarding the death of the judge you need to turn it over.”
In an attempt to stop his client from lying about the murder of the judge, he sprung into action. “What are you talking about?” Naim asked. “You’re knotting this to the death of Chief Justice Weston?” A clever question to access their intelligence.
“Now that’s a stretch,” Thurman said and smirked. To Naim, he said, “How much of this do we got to take?”
“Not much,” AUSA Rudolph said, answering for the defense attorney.
“Thanks, because the scope of that interpretation of my actions today is boring.” Thurman feigned a yawn.
“Oh, we have you for serious infractions regardless,” the AUSA said, layering on the possibilities of connecting Thurman’s Capitol Hill action to Thurman’s Georgetown actions.
“Let’s cut the crap. Do you have anything linking my client to the death of anyone?” Naim asked. More Fishing.
“No.”
“Good, then you have a summons for him to appear on that handing out materials on Capitol grounds charge?” Naim asked.
“You seem to have conveniently forgotten the illegal entry charge,” Captain Finnerty said.
“It’s absurd. He hasn’t done that.”
“Look, Mr. Butler, I’m going to give you this one courtesy, OK. In this district the unlawful entry statute is somewhat broader than its name would suggest. It covers more than merely entering onto certain premises without authority. Here to remain on property against the will of the person lawfully in charge of it is a problem,” the ASUA said.
“He was asked by the US Supreme Court Police to leave their grounds, and instead of doing that, he held an interview with the media before doing so. It’s really a cut and dry violation. We have it on video. Perhaps your Ivy League education doesn’t equal experience and you should quit while you’re ahead,” Captain Finnerty said, smiling. “I guess your supervisor, Sethmeyer, isn’t supervising you after all.”
Despite some air being let out of his tire, Naim was stoically in his seat mentally preparing for fixing this problem. He dug into his briefcase and pulled out a leather-bound black calendar. He opened it to August, prepared to pencil in a date to appear before a US magistrate judge to have his client enter a plea of not guilty. He planned to have the matter pan out to nothing more than a warning not to violate said DC laws again. Although, he wasn’t sure that would be possible for Thurman, a man set on alerting the world to his cause. And wanted for murdering four men.
“I’m going to shoot straight,” AUSA Rudolph said. “We really don’t like to deal with this sort of thing on Capitol Hill. There’s a forum, an appropriate way to do this. Contact senators for meetings. Buy lobbyist. And other things. We can’t have people distributing propaganda in the Crypt area of this building. Costumes and performers belong on a stage.” He pulled out a piece of paper and slid it to Naim. “We’re willing to have your client sign a contract to stay off the grounds of the Supreme Court and Capitol Hill for one- year in exchange for not pursuing this matter in federal court.”
Naim made a face, an inventory clerk inspecting the goods, looking to cut out of the building. It was a standard judicial document with a direct order for Thurman to essentially stand down, silencing him in D.C. This helped him avoid a lengthy court proceeding and the tedious exchange of motions and discovery. He looked at his client who nodded in agreement to sign the form to get his show on the road. Naim knew that in D.C. there were disparate forms of evidence passed over in discovery, and scholarly court lectures by experts could derail a well-planned defense. The mere presentation to a jury that Thurman wore a costume on Capitol Hill mirroring a suicide bomb vest and used to test the response of CHPO practically promised a conviction and wasn’t worth the manpower needed to defend the indictment. He simply wanted to sign the document, moving on to the case that really had him in Washington D.C. Namely, defending, David Thurman, against capital murder charges.