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D.C. JAIL
AUSA Shai Brown managed two lives: at the U.S. Attorney’s office, he was a heavy-handed prosecutor as dedicated to his career and a NFL player—winning by any means, running right up to the out of bounds lines, conning the opposition with trick plays, mastering the art of creative aggressive prosecuting, and making a faithful husband to Natasha and a hero to Valentine, in whom he worked hard to instill in the teen the virtues of living a good and productive life. Natasha didn’t want to know about his job, and she didn’t like watching him on the news because Valentine didn’t need to know the monsters that he prosecuted. He brought one thing home from work. Money.
It wasn’t unusual for lawyers to mirror a Jekyll and Hyde lifestyle, effortlessly orchestrating a strong division between their double lives, outright lying to their spouses and children, and hiding their lawyer lives like a pastor in Los Angeles hiding illegal immigrants.
Shai always told people that he was simply a lawyer, not a prosecutor. Smartly, he left what he did at the office there. He walked into the office each morning and became a successful lawyer, he left each night and became a better man again. But with each night, the transformation back from Hyde to Jekyll became increasingly taxing. He fought it back because he couldn’t allow his ruthless and spiteful ways to become known by his family. It was likely they’d leave him. Shai Brown had never brought his lawyer life home-never!—but he took it to the D.C. Jail with the masterful skill used for a NFL team to come back and win from a 28-3 halftime deficit.
D.C. Emergency Medical Service transported Thurman to George Washington Hospital, after his little accident. He received treatment for injuries—two broken teeth, a split lip, and two black eyes—sustained in the care of U.S. Marshals. During his time at the doctor’s office, a clinician’s assessment indicated that he had delusions of grandeur. Upon being discharged he was transferred to the Mental Health Unit of the District of Columbia Jail and dressed in an orange jumpsuit.
At 3:17 a.m. AUSA Shai Brown was behind a tinted glass watching detectives interrogate, David Thurman at the D.C. Jail. They’d been at it for six-hours, despite his injuries, with no intentions of stopping until they had a confession. There had been times when Shai hated his job, this morning wasn’t one of them. He was enjoying the show. No popcorn needed. “You got your coffee. We’ve even accommodated you with a cigarette,” Detective McGee said.
“Thank you, ladies.”
“Now it’s your turn.”
“She’s asking nicely. Screw that. We’ve kissed your ass. Now reciprocate,” Detective Bald Eagle said.
“Bend over,” Thurman said, flashing his new imperfect smile. Drawing her hand back, Detective Bald Eagle forced Thurman to slam his own forehead on the table, attempting to avoid her hit.
“Pussy,” she said. “And sit up straight when women are taking to you.”
Thurman wiggled his jaw, adjusting it. “That was strong enough to have broken my jaw. Luckily, I’m cuffed.” He grinned wickedly, and then put the cigarette out on the table. “How’s the jaw of Chief Justice Weston’s wife?”
“What a sexist question. See, you can’t even call her by name. She was nothing more than a judge’s wife. Pathetic.”
Thurman closed his eyes, using the three seconds to reboot from the interrogation. He refused to be—or even appear—broken by the worthless cops.
Detective Bald Eagle pulled her hair into a ponytail and rolled up her sleeves. “Joanne Weston fought you back. This I know. She sustained a large number of injuries to her hands and fingers—”
“Defensive wounds.” Detective McGee threw in.
“Some that probably occurred while she was lying face-down on the floor with her hands covering her face. You can tell us what actually happened.”
“We’re going to be here a long time, if you want me to confess to these crimes. I did not stomp that woman in the face.”
“Interesting, because we never said that you did stomp her in the face.”
“What size shoe do you wear?”
“Fourteen,” He grinned, winked and nodded towards his crotch.
“Good, the FBI Forensic Analysis team will compare all of the footwear found at your apartment to prints at the scene.”
“So?”
“And we have your DNA,” Detective Bald Eagle said, pulling the coffee cup and cigarette butt out of his reach, “which we will match to skin found under Joanne’s fingers.”
“Sounds like a frame-up job.”
“Were you mad at the judge for anything?”
“Don’t know the man. Never met him.” He smiled.
“Your ASR website suggests otherwise.”
“I’m not responsible for, nor privy, to all of the content found on the site. No proof that I’ve ever been on the site, by the way.”
“There were weapons found at the apartment that you rented, too. Will one of the guns confess to the FBI Firearms-Toot marks unit that it fired the casing left at the scene?” Detective McGee asked.
Detective Bald Eagle followed up with, “You were military right? We believe a military-issued 9mm was used at least at Senator Elberg’s. We’re going to check to see if the serial numbers match any stolen military weapons. At minimum, yes, we will charge you with that.”
“I was in the army, yes. Served this country honorably out of my ass. One honor that stands out is the Purple Heart. I have and will continue to protect the lives of all American citizens.”
“And that’s why you killed the justice and senator. Because of their laws and beliefs. You were protecting the American people. I get it.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“OK, put another way,” Detective McGee Said, “you protected the people?
“Yes.”
“And you did what you had to do to accomplish that. Confess and the people will understand. We live in a forgiven nation.”
“No.”
“You know that you’re facing the death penalty?”
“It’ll never happen.”
“Because you’re going to plead guilty in exchange for a life sentence?”
“No.”
“You gunned down the security teams outside both homes?”
“No.”
“Crept into both politician’s homes?”
“No.”
“Stalked the down the victims?”
“No.”
“And stabbed them to death? You castrated the Justice?”
“He was caught banging a man in the ass with his wife in the garden, so, I hear.” Thurman threw his handcuffed hand in the air. He said, “He deserved that, I’m sure. But I didn’t do it.”
“You saw him there, banging a man in the ass?” Detective Bald Eagle asked.
“Read it on a blog.” Nice try, he thought.
“Which blog?”
“Can’t recall. I subscribe to a lot of them.”
“Can we get permission to check out your blog search history?”
“Don’t think my lawyer will allow that.”
“Actually, that’s your call. You’re a grown man and can negotiate for your own interests. Again, you’re facing the death penalty, and I assure you that the Attorney General will sign off the authorize, Shai Brown, to peruse it. He needs a body for these murders.”
“To hell with that crack-pot, Shai-fucking-Brown. He may be next on the killer’s list.” Defiant shrug.