Minus One: The Drew Smith Series

By Norwood Holland

Minus One is the prequel to the Drew Smith series. Before the ink is dry on Drew Smith's license to practice law he finds himself at the center of a murder mystery.

Norwood Holland takes us back to the beginning when Drew Smith launches his legal career. The recent law school graduate works as a hotel concierge and befriends two bellmen Medhat and Julio. This eclectic trio form a solid fraternal friendship put to the test when Medhat is kidnapped after running up a drug tab he can't pay. Rescued by his crew he then becomes the prime suspect in a string of murders.
Driven by their romantic entanglements the attorney is captivated with a pretty Latina whose father objects to her dating a Black man. Julio and his Filipina love find themselves expecting, and Medhat’s passion for blondes gets him snared in a femme fatalle's net.

Minus One captures Drew Smith's evolution from youthful indiscretion to a professional burdened with seriousness of purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Norwood Holland
• Release date: Jun 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9780983165644

Norwood Holland

Norwood Holland is a freelance writer, lawyer. He received his law degree from Howard University School of Law and earned a Bachelor’s Degree in English at Fisk University where he studied under the renowned Harlem Renaissance author Arna Bontemps. A Washingtonian he favors D.C.'s local color in his fiction and currently writes the blog editorialindependence.com devoted to diversity issues and labor law. To contact the author visit his website norwoodholland.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Caught Red-Handed

THE OFFICERS WERE dispatched on a possible domestic dispute. They didn’t know what to expect when Mrs. Oliphant met the two at the elevator, one Latino the other African-American, both towering over the blue haired dowager. Nervous and animated, she spoke as rapidly as she stepped, guiding them to the apartment door.

Are you related? asked the stocky dark haired Latino.

No. I'm Carol's next door neighbor. There was a fight and I heard the disturbance, Mrs. Oliphant sighed and shook her head as though shaking off a secret annoyance. Mind you, I don't eavesdrop but I couldn't help hearing—you know thin walls and vents carry conversations. This is her apartment. They stopped in front of the corner apartment at the end of the hall. I have the key, she said.

Mrs. Oliphant's tiny trembling liver spotted hand offered it up between the thumb and forefinger. With a nod the Latino urged her to open the door. Hard to make sense of it all, she continued her prattle fumbling to get the key in the keyhole, I could only piece things together. She's so distraught almost hysterical—it had to be something traumatic. I gave her a sedative. She relaxed with the key finally in.

Did you go in? the Latino asked. He reached over her shoulder, turned the knob and pushed the door open.

No, she told me to call the police. Mrs. Oliphant followed the two in.

A deathly silence hung in the air of the spacious and well-appointed apartment. The other officer – a tall, black, athletic man – stepped around the sofa with Mrs. Oliphant right behind him. They both nearly tripped over something crumpled on the floor, and when they looked to see what it was, they found a body, lying face down in a pool of blood that trailed to the rear of the apartment.

Oh dear, uttered Mrs. Oliphant, when suddenly the distant sound of running water triggered the officers' instinctive defenses. The Latino officer, with hand on his holstered Glock, slowly made his way down the hall to investigate.

The other officer knelt to inspect the body, but his attention was distracted by his partner’s conversation with another male voice.

Oh dear, Mrs. Oliphant repeated, as the officer escorted a man to the front of the apartment. Medhat, where did you come from? Mrs. Oliphant asked. He was drying his hands with a blood-stained towel. Twice stunned, Mrs. Oliphant tilted her head like a puzzled puppy.

This dude’s dead, the black officer announced, after finishing his analysis of the body. On bended knee, he looked up to Medhat and asked, Who are you?

1

November, 1982

What do you think, Smith?

Truth of the matter was I didn't want Detective Washington to know what I was thinking. Medhat was looking more like a serial killer, but I knew better. He had a lot of bad qualities, but homicidal he was not. My friend was a lover, not a killer; nevertheless, I had the feeling he was dragging me down a road I didn't care to venture on. I closed the police data file and shoved it back across the desktop.

I'm not sure what to think, Detective.

Unit Commander of the Metropolitan Police Homicide Division, Detective Lieutenant Richard Washington, waited patiently while I digested the contents. By granting me access to privileged information he was expecting a trade-off. We were bargaining hungry for the other's perspective and inside information. Hence my unfettered access to what would ordinarily be classified information requiring, at minimum, a FOIA request for sensitive information related to an ongoing police investigation. I was a lead – a source, or informant – and as a friend of the court Detective Washington relied on my attorney status. He gave me some of what I wanted. Now I had to return the favor.

This wasn't the first homicide in which Medhat was a suspect. So how did I end up sitting in a police precinct reviewing a police crime scene report? It started with a phone call from Medhat in the middle of the night.

1

Awakened by the ringing phone, I waited for Medhat to answer it. I had just assumed that he was asleep on the pullout sofa in the living room. Since he had moved in, the phone was almost always for him. After five rings, I regrettably figured he wasn’t there, and the ringing was not going to stop.

Hello.

Drew, I need your help. I’m in jail. Come get me.

Medhat.

In jail? I sat up. What happened?

They think I killed him, but I didn’t do it. There was desperation in his voice. "Somebody set me up. I didn't do it. I tell you I didn't do it.

All right, Medhat, calm down. Killed who?

Fast Eddie, I found him dead.

Without a stitch of clothing I was out of the bed and on my feet. The name alone made me shudder with fear. Found him where?

Carol’s place.

Okay, okay. I said, moving toward the window. I was drawn to the room’s only source of light. Where are you? I asked.

The police station on Rhode Island Avenue.

I looked at the clock radio. It was 3 a.m.

Come now, hurry.

Listen, calm down. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t answer any questions. And if they try to get you to talk, don’t—not without an attorney present. They’re going to keep you in a holding cell. Have you been booked?

You mean the fingerprints and picture? Yes. You gotta get me out of here. Now.

Nothing can be done tonight Medhat, not until Monday morning—it’s the weekend. You’ll have a presentment hearing then.

I can't stay here. Come talk to them. Call Julio. I was set up.

Relax Medhat, there's nothing Julio can do. I’ll see you as soon as I can.

This is messed up. Drew, what kind of system is this? I didn’t do it! I didn't do anything. Drew?

The wheels of justice grind slowly my friend. I’ll do what I can. Try not to worry and don't talk to anyone.

Drew you're a lawyer, get me out of here. You've got to get me out of here.

I'll do my best—trust me, I know it’s rough but relax and don’t talk to anyone. Okay? I waited out the long silence.

Then, I heard him sigh, Okay, with resignation.

I hung up and stared out at the skyline from my high-rise window overlooking the vacant streets. Having advised my first client, a friend in trouble, I had to do my best to get him out. Not exactly what I wanted; nevertheless, I was an attorney with a client.

Medhat again? Nina asked from the bed, as she flipped on the small light on the nightstand.

Was I having a bad dream or was this real? My mind was in a fog with thoughts and images reeling.

Drew? Nina was still waiting for an answer.

Yeah… somebody killed Fast Eddie, I said, turning to her still holding the phone.

Medhat? She sat up, gathering the sheet to cover her breasts.

He says he didn't do it.

If you're going to stand in front of the window with no clothes on, at least close the blinds.

I closed the blinds and returned to sit on the bed. All I need now is to get locked up right alongside Medhat for indecent exposure.

There’s nothing indecent about you. Get back in bed. It’s chilly.

I sat there considering, then picked up the phone and began dialing.

What are you doing?

Calling Julio.

Now? she asked in amazement. Do you know what time it is? She snatched the phone from my grip and hung up the receiver. What can he do now?

I thought about it and Nina was right. Now was not a good time. Julio would have a thousand questions for which I had no answers.

Let him sleep. Now I know how Chevy feels, she said, visibly irritated.

I slipped under the covers and cuddled up to the warmth of her body.

What do you mean 'How Chevy feels’? Julio needs to know.

Your friendship with Medhat requires a lot of maintenance. You and Julio are so devoted to him. Medhat, Medhat, Medhat… at times, nothing and no one else matters. At a moment’s notice you two will drop everything and go running. What kind of hold does he have on you two? I understand why Chevy tends to feel neglected and overlooked. She resents it.

She's jealous of Medhat? I asked.

Look, we all love Medhat. How can anyone not love him? He’s just so… all-consuming… with you and Julio. At times Chevy wants Julio’s undivided attention. She’s so in love with the guy; the sun sets and rises on Julio for her. But she’s constantly competing with Medhat for Julio’s time and attention. It’s worse than competing with another woman. If I didn't know better I'd think you were all gay.

You don't understand—

No I don't.

How can you say that? Lately Medhat's been going through something and we haven’t been there for him.

Drew, he didn't want you there.

Do you resent him?

I don’t know, maybe I'm a little jealous too. Even though he’s compromised our privacy, I'm the one sleeping with you, not Medhat.

Technically, we're all sleeping together. Just in different rooms.

Nina sucked her lips and rolled her eyes. But he doesn’t get to see you naked in the moonlight. When I saw you standing there in the window I said to myself, ‘That's quite a man. I’m grateful he came into my life.’ And then you go running to Julio over Medhat. Honestly… I guess I am jealous.

I don’t neglect you, do I?

Truthfully, I could use a little less attention, but since I’ve known you, you’re always putting out fires for Medhat.

Well if I ever neglect you, let me know. I rose up from the bed. Now I need to bone up on some criminal procedure.

No, you got some boning up to do right here. Nina patted the space I had vacated next to her. Medhat's not going anywhere. Her tone was seductive, playful and pleading.

And neither are you. Sorry. I said, and she reacted with a pouting expression. Baby, I might be able to rise to the occasion, but I wouldn’t be all there.

You’re neglecting me for Medhat. All you think about is Medhat. How am I supposed to feel?

Girl, you playing me like a fiddle, I said with rising excitement, easing back down next to her. I leaned in for a kiss. The charge sparked the body while weakening the mind’s resistance. Criminal procedure was forgotten as I grew anxious and willing with mounting passion. I kissed her neck, moving down to suckle her nipples. I neglected neither, then slid further down to kiss the softness of her belly. Impatiently suspending foreplay, she pulled up to me, face-to-face, then forced me over on my back. She deftly mounted my lap with her arms around my neck, then wrapped her legs around me as though to prevent my escape. With no hands, she managed to accept the stiff erection. She liked to dominate in this way, in her favorite position. It was conducive to slow movements, passionate kisses and romantic swaying. Inside her I needed no more guidance or instruction. She was in charge, slowly, actively priming the pole buried deep inside her.

Temporarily reduced to a spectator in this sport, I let her have her pleasure for some time, but I couldn’t come this way. It was what Medhat called the hold me position. Finally I had to bring it to a climax. I forced her on her back into the missionary position, which put me in control. There I drilled her to even higher heights of ecstasy, soon leaving us both quaking and drained.

The intense physical pleasure proved to be a mere distraction for me. I sat up wide awake while she blissfully drifted off to sleep. My thoughts returned to Medhat. From day one, I had reservations about both Medhat and Julio. Yet we were all drawn to one another. Like cement, sand, and water, mixing it up while over time our friendship grew solid. The ink was barely dry on my license to practice law and there I was considering to represent my best friend on a murder rap. I said a prayer invoking divine guidance to do no harm.

Chapter 2

Four Months Earlier - Day One

LET'S TAKE IT from the beginning: the day I met Medhat and the night I first heard about Carol. It had all started with her, and Medhat's passion for blondes. He was a Coptic Christian, American of highborn Egyptian descent, and often boasted of his ability to trace his genealogy back 14 generations. The afternoon was oppressively hot and humid, typical for late July in DC, and my first day as Concierge at the Georgetown Four Seasons. The Arab and the Latino at the bell stand a few feet from my desk had engaged in a heated discussion.

No good, man. You can’t have everything you see, Julio said.

I don’t want everything I see. Just what I want. Medhat snapped with a wicked, satisfied smile.

No good—in English it’s called discretion.

Medhat snickered, Oh you teaching me English now? What do you know?

I know you can’t come onto some chica in front of her man—it's disrespectful.

I wasn’t worried about him. I could take him. He looked soft. Besides, you had my back.

You crazy. Niggas get shot over that stuff. You need to be cool, refine your game, get smart.

I’m no nigga.

Just an expression. You know what I mean, and you need to be careful who you roll up on.

Front! announced the desk clerk, signaling the next bellman to assist an elderly couple.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, said Medhat, dismissing Julio. He grabbed a luggage dolly and headed toward the front desk.

Julio watched, shaking his head. His free use of the N word didn't offend me. Julio was from the streets where in the vernacular of the Latinos and the Brothas it didn’t carry the usual racist connotation. It could be used as a meaningless, empty pronoun or a term of endearment. Julio reacted to my stare, tilting his head and twisting his mouth wide. A juvenile gesture, displaying his street grit and machismo, as if to say: What's up? You got a problem? I smiled, baiting his effort to intimidate. I knew the street bravado, and like an invitation to dance, his performance only enticed me.

With his dolly loaded, Medhat led the couple past my desk while giving the scripted guide of the hotel and its services. They seemed dazzled with the bellman’s charm and youthful good looks. He flashed me a watchful smile. Friendlier than the Latino, I liked him immediately. Whether he knew it or not he was a Nigga, a Sand Nigger, a Camel Jockey or some other disparaging term the white boys called Arabs, and Medhat’s whole mien: his walk, his talk, his confident manner, and the slight kink in his hair to me all suggested akinship.

I had been at a fork in the road, a turning point in my life. Law school buddies had returned to their respective hometowns leaving me alone without a social circle. I was in need of companionship. After three years devoted to the full time study of Law I suddenly found myself in a social void. Waiting for my bar exam results, this job was a rest stop while I charted out the future. A Washington native with a likeable public persona, I was told my pleasant well-spoken manner and familiarity with the city made me ideal for the job. It was a temporary job only for the high tourist and business conference seasons through the holidays.

I spent the shift from two to ten o’clock on my feet – I should say toes – multitasking, helping one or more hotel guests, while simultaneously answering questions, juggling the phones, finding babysitters and secretarial services, making reservations for restaurants or rental cars, and purchasing Kennedy Center tickets. The hotel was booked to capacity and throughout the shift I was bombarded with unanticipated questions and requests. Except for a thirty-minute lunch break, I spent the first day ensconced at the center of the sparkle and glitter of the hotel’s plush lobby surrounded by lush greenery.

The two bellmen and I were developing a mutual admiration. They seemed foreign and exotic and I was intrigued like the new kid on the playground, watching and wishing that I could laugh and run with them. Had I only known, things might have been different, a reminder to be careful for what you wish.

While I was chained to a desk, they were able to move freely. I watched them dash to and from the elevators in their fitted summer uniforms, crisp white short-sleeve safari shirt jackets trimmed in blue and navy slacks with a blood stripe on the outer leg. Their work was less mental, but more physically demanding. My job came with physical demands as well; how else could you explain the hidden perspiration soaking my under arms? Somehow I had managed to appear cool and composed in my blue blazer and gray slacks.

At the end of the evening shift I hung my hotel-issued blazer in my locker, then eased down on the bench to rest a moment before showering. Weary and ready for a change, and all hot and bothered, I felt like going on the prowl. Maybe I’d find female company for the night.

The solitude and reflection abruptly ended when Julio and Medhat exploded into the locker room in what would become their common lively debates. They plopped down on the bench face-to-face, sandwiching me in between. Each began emptying his pockets, methodically counting out the day's tips by sorting and piling up wads of bills. I tried to ignore them but the conversation turned interesting when they began discussing the tipping habits of various types of hotel guests. Again I was envious; they got tips while I got commissions paid at the end of the month. Like a ping-pong ball, my head must have been bobbing back and forth, engrossed in their conversation. Julio noticed signaling Medhat with a head gesture.

Comment ca va? Medhat asked me, providing relief from embarrassment.

Bien, I answered. E’toi, ca va?

 Moi? he shrugged. Bien. He turned to Julio and said jokingly, Pas espanol, on parle francais ici, n’est-ce pas? Julio flipped him off and Medhat returned his attention to me. I saw you giving directions to the French couple. Your French is good. You’re a real Concierge.

Not quite. I did an undergraduate semester in Cote D'Ivorie. What about you?

My mother’s from Martinique.

Cool, I said, my curiosity piqued.

I thought you were from somewhere in North Africa, he said.

No, I laughed. I’m American, and you?

Me too. A New Yorker, he smiled.

Really? You sound Middle Eastern.

My father's Egyptian. I was educated abroad. Medhat paused, seemingly marshalling his thoughts. So Drew, what's up?

How'd you know my name? I asked, surprised by his familiarity though introductions were superfluous having worked alongside one another all day. He looked down at his own name tag pinned to his shirt-jacket, reminding me of my own.

Oh, I said.

So what's up man? You got plans tonight? Julio asked.

Not really.

You wanna hang out? Julio said with a smile.

What's on your mind? I asked, taken aback by the invitation.

We’re going to check out this club, Medhat said. The Big Apple out in New Carrollton. You interested?

Sure.

Good, Medhat added as he put away his money and began to undress. Who’s going to drive? he asked Julio. Drew… you got a car?

Yeah, I answered.

I don’t care, Julio answered. Say, Drew where do you live?

Dupont Circle. I opened my locker and glanced back to catch them exchanging a look.

You got a car? Medhat repeated with a smile.

Yeah, I said, but my car’s garaged back at my apartment.

"You got an apartment near here and a car?" Julio's tone had a hint of disbelief.

Yeah, I said. Like Medhat, he grinned.

We both live in Virginia, Medhat spoke up. The club’s out in Maryland and we would have to come back into the city to drop you off. Maybe we can crash at your place?

No problem. You want me to drive? I sensed I was being manipulated, but agreed anyway.

Julio and I showered, got dressed and were ready to hit the streets in no time. But first we were forced to wait, watching Medhat in the mirror with a styling brush, while he tediously blow dried his frizzy locks straight to perfection. He may have been Arab but he had an irrepressible sub-Saharan gene that curled his hair. Finally pleased with a perfectly coiffed pompadour, he was ready.

We hit the steamy summer streets getting acquainted while walking from Georgetown to my apartment near Dupont Circle. They were curious as to why I was at a hotel and not in a law office.

I had no easy explanation. Three years of academic drudgery had drained my interest in Law. I had no job offers and couldn’t find anything legal, but I had to pay the rent. In the midst of the Reagan recession I was lucky to land the hotel gig. The reasons were more complicated, but it satisfied their curiosity while sparing the details of my angst.

By the time we reached my building, Medhat’s frizz had returned. They waited at the garage exit and were pleasantly surprised when I drove up the ramp in my shiny new two-door blue convertible Ford Mustang. I was particularly proud of my parent’s graduation gift. As the convertible top opened, Julio immediately jumped in taking shotgun while Medhat snapped the top cover secure.

You didn’t tell us we would be riding in style, Medhat said, admiring the vehicle. Do you know how to get to the club? he asked.

No, but I follow directions pretty good, I said, but he had a better idea. He persuaded me to let him drive, suggesting it would make things easier. I knew it was a con-job but decided to let him have his fun. I walked around to the passenger’s side thinking I was at least entitled to ride shotgun, but Julio refused to budge. He eased the seat up and pulled the back forward, allowing me easy access to the back seat. They both laughed like the joke was on me. Julio turned and smiled, letting me know it was all in fun.

Medhat suddenly accelerated, turning onto the street and shifting into overdrive. The vehicle fishtailed as he looked back at me grinning. In utter shock and discomfort, I had a My Lord What Have I Done moment. But I recovered my breath as he slowed to a reasonable speed. He adjusted the rearview mirror and our eyes met. With a wink meant to soothe my fears I eased back, determined to enjoy the summer night’s ride.

We drove out New York Avenue and onto the Baltimore Washington Parkway. The night was hot and muggy, but once we cleared the city limits the air cooled substantially. The two seated up front joked and talked, occasionally drawing me in, but I was content with the music and open air.

If only I had recognized Medhat's remarkable powers of persuasion that night, I might have been better armed and able to avoid this entanglement with his defense. But whenever Medhat burst into a room, a dynamo of life always came with him. He was one of the most energetic young men, happily occupied most of the time with sports, dancing and girls, or talking with his scores of friends. He had this innate ability to charm his way into everyone's good graces. I felt lucky to be part of his inner circle.

Chapter 3

Carol

THE BLAZING, NEON-RED apple atop the warehouse signaled our arrival. We were somewhere in the Maryland suburbs of New Carrollton. It was after eleven, and the parking lot was full. I suddenly started to feel anxious… this didn't look like my kind of hangout. I was never a great dancer, nor a big fan of the disco, night clubs, or dance hall scenes. I preferred the intimate surroundings of jazz clubs and cozy hideaways.

Medhat led us into the club past an unattended admission booth and coat check closet. Free admission before midnight spared us the cover charge. The Big Apple was a night