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THE MPD AND THE FEDERALES didn’t know shit. What they did know, though, was that Washington was becoming one vicious city and terrifying place to reside. This was not a typical Saturday morning.
Naim was pissed at the headline page A01 that morning screamed, JUSTICE WESTON’S KILLER CONFESSES TO MURDER, was proof that Washington Post didn’t know shit either. Naim had forwarded to the prosecution an explicit directive not to interview or interrogate his client out of his presence. Ergo, the idea of there being a confession to anything, especially without his attorney in the room, was fake news.
The report had the same ol’ story that media had been spinning all week: ATM video led to the suspect being featured on the news, identified by a D.C. citizen (unknown to the defense at the moment) tracked down, and arrested in a SUV at the MLK Monument. At a time when being a rat was at all time high, due impart to draconian sentences, Naim was not surprised that Thurman had been swiftly arrested.
Naim enjoyed the hoopla well enough, but he was sluggish with the constant media coverage and politicizing of his case. There was no question that his critical mission was to control the media slant as best he could so he sent out a press release. On the morning news, Thurman was a story and public enemy number one. Number two was a visit from the Russian government, and the fact that some diplomats were staying at the same hotel where Naim was taking up residence was just what he needed, another story to get them capital L losers off my case.
At eight-thirty there was a knock at the suite’s door.
Brandy rolled over, her breast staring at him. “You expecting...Oh, never mind. Has to be Marco and company.”
Walking to the suite door, Naim was impressed with his son’s crafty exit for New York. Although, Naim had told him to take a late train to Washington, they had previously rehearsed that Marco was to fly if Naim told him to take the train and vice versa. After his call from Naim. Marco (with Amber and Ginger) walked into New York Penn Station at the Eighth Avenue entrance.
Exited on Seventh.
Checked into Hotel Pennsylvania using cash.
Checked out at five a.m.
Took a taxi to Laguardia International Airport.
And then, boarded a six-forty flight to Washington.
Now, in D.C. was the prince.
Naim checked the peephole, before opening the door.
Marco stood there, a smile on his face, with Amber and Ginger flanking him. All of them possessed overnight bags and dark sunglasses.
Ginger pressed her hand against Naim’s shoulder, moving him to the side. “We’re reporting for duty, sir,” she said, stepping into the suite, followed by Marco and Amber. “But first, breakfast. No exceptions.”
“None,” Marco said, shaking his father’s hand.
“Hello. Mr. Butler,” Amber said, entering the room. “This is a lovely hotel. Good choice.”
“That’s to be expected at a Trump property,” he replied, locking the door behind him.
Brandy walked out of the bedroom, fully dressed. Superwoman, no? “Hey, boys and girls,” she said, grinning.
“Good morning, Brandy,” Marco said and gave her a one-arm hug. His other arm remained in the sling.
“How’s the arm?” Brandy asked him.
“Doc says its healing excellently. No broken bones,” Marco replied. “But my stomach pangs from hunger is a whole different thing.”
“Let me get myself together and we can go somewhere quickly,” Naim said. “I have work to do sadly.”
“Yup sadly, for you, dad, because us four have some fun and sightseeing to get too.”
Naim wrapped his arm around Ginger, and said, “You three,” pointing at Marco, Amber and Brady, “but Ginger will be with me conquering Washington, D. C.”