Material Witness

By Norwood Holland

Drew Smith, a DC trial attorney works to free an innocent man detained in a murder investigation enlisting the help of fellow attorney Edward Miller and TV news report Stephanie Gilchrist. The three become ensnared in a love triangle while Smith wrestles the demons of his post-traumatic stress disorder. The team penetrates a Chinese human smuggling operation. When their lives are threatened, Smith races against time to save them. Material Witness is the 3rd novel in The Drew Smith Series chronicling the lawyer’s evolution from student to seasoned attorney.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Norwood Holland
• Release date: Jun 26, 2020

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.

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Prologue

JEROME WAS FULL of energy and ready to dance. Strolling down Columbia Road, he could feel the music. It was salsa night at Habana Village, a Cuban restaurant by day and popular Latin dance spot at night. The staff was preparing the dance floor, moving out the dining room tables and chairs. The Adams Morgan neighborhood had a festive air the Friday night before Memorial Day. The better restaurants were packed with waiting patrons lining the sidewalks, and the millennial pub crawl was beginning. Jerome had put in ten hours at his parcel delivery job and was ready to kick off his three-day weekend at his favorite dance spot. He had a hookup scheduled after midnight. Until then, he planned to dance away the time.

Jerome was tall, handsome, and a pleasure to watch on the dance floor. The cover charge was ten dollars for men and free for the ladies. The doorman waved Jerome in without charge while the other young men dug in their pockets. The moment he crossed the threshold, the rhumba beat seized him, his hips and shoulders swayed in sync. Across the room, he spotted Marisol, a cute Latina and one of his favorite dance partners. Stepping to the beat, he made his way toward her. She gave him a knowing smile. With him, they owned the dance floor. Paired with the right partner, Jerome didn’t just dance; he performed. His smooth moves were known for sidelining other dancers, forcing them to watch and take note. For his floor shows, management rewarded him with free admission.

The single ladies lining the wall perked up at the sight of Jerome. They wouldn’t be single for long once the other men paid their way in, picked a partner, and flowed onto the dance floor.

The music changed from a rhumba to a salsa beat. It was show time.

The conga signaled the opening act as Jerome and Marisol strutted onto the floor. He spun her into a left spiral turn while he executed the same to the right. In ballroom dance fashion, her frilly skirt billowed and rippled as her quick steps in high-heeled pumps matched his toe to toe. He made it look so easy to the point women vied for a chance to dance with him. And many got their chance for the next two and a half hours.

He stepped off the dance floor, declining the ladies’ dance requests to check his cell phone. He pulled out his handkerchief, mopping his sweaty face and neck deciding to step outside. Before he could reach the door, Marisol stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

Jerome, you’re not leaving, are you? she asked.

Maybe. Gotta make a call.

Are you going to be busy later?

Why? What’s up?

Thought you might want to chill out at my place?

Sounds nice, but I got plans. Maybe tomorrow night.

Okay, she said, disappointed. You promise?

Before he could answer, a good-looking, lanky, caramel-colored, Puerto Rican grabbed him by the arm and gently led him away from the crowd. Jerome looked back at Marisol, giving her a nod and a smile.

Diego, what’s up? he asked, removing his arm from the man’s grip.

You, man. I saw you out there doing your thing like a dance pro. When you gonna teach me how to mambo?

Nigga, get outta here. Jerome laughed and pushed Diego aside. The only kind of mambo you interested in is the horizontal kind, and from what I hear, you could take me to school there.

Hey, that’s what I’m talkin’ bout. Let’s compare notes tonight!

Jerome ignored the proposition with a dismissive wave walking away. Out on the sidewalk, he placed a call.

Yo, we still on? . . . Okay, I’m going home to take a shower. Meet you at JR’s in an hour. Can’t wait to see you.

He smiled and ended the call before happily strutting back up Columbia Road.

Chapter 1

A GONE FISHING SIGN hung on the doorknob. Julio made the same announcement on the office voicemail. This was his way to discourage emergency weekend business. My best buddy moonlighted as my investigator, and didn’t want anything coming between us and our weekend getaway. The law office of Drew Smith was closed until Tuesday after the holiday weekend. My law school classmates – Edward Miller, David Chang, and of course, Julio – planned a fishing trip on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Unlike most of the workforce, we didn’t enjoy a forty-hour work week, but more often a much more grueling schedule. I was in desperate need of rest and relaxation.

It was well before sunrise when Julio and I rang Edward’s doorbell. Most of the nation’s capital were still sleeping on this fine Saturday morning while Julio and I were on our friend’s porch, ready to hit the road for the Eastern Shore. Julio stared at the closed door waiting for it to open. Irritated, he rang the doorbell a second time and then again. The four of us had a two-and-a-half-hour drive, and Edward, not for the first time, was not ready to go as planned. Sighing through his teeth, Julio reached out to ring the bell a fourth time, only to have the door swing open. A chagrined Edward greeted us in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Water beaded across his shoulders and torso. At least he was stepping out of the shower instead of just getting in.

Right on schedule, Edward said.

Who’s schedule? Julio snapped. You two were supposed to be ready. Where’s David? Is he even up? You fucked up the plan.

Give me a break, Julio. Edward grinned. Come on in. There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen.

How come you’re not ready? Julio persisted. We had a plan.

You had a plan. What’s the rush? We’re suppose to be relaxing. Edward smiled at Julio’s agitation.

There is no rush, but we agreed. You spoiled the plan, and I don’t like it when things don’t go as planned.

I closed the door behind us as Edward scurried up the stairs.

We’ll be ready in a minute, he said.

Is David ready? I asked. We want to get on the water early while the fish are biting.

David, you up? Edward shouted, but there was no answer.

Oh well, I said, not surprised. I followed Julio to the kitchen. The best-laid plans.

The cozy three-bedroom Dupont Circle townhouse was Edward’s first home purchase. He was hoping to flip it soon. Without a spouse or even a long-term partner, Edward had plenty of money for multiple stylishly-furnished high-end homes.

I knew this would happen, Julio said, throwing his keys onto the granite kitchen island countertop. We’ll be lucky if we get there by noon.

Calm down, I said. It’s just a few minutes.

Are you serious? They’re like women! Never ready and keep you waiting. I got a bad feeling. When we don’t start off right, the whole weekend goes downhill. We should’ve left last night.

Your bitching’s not going to make it better, I muttered, annoyed with Julio’s annoyance.

I was determined Julio was not going to stress me out. Giving him a pointed look, I poured myself a cup of hot coffee. Julio’s wrath made me wonder if something else was on his mind. It was out of character.

What’s wrong with you? I asked between sips of my coffee. Chevy didn’t give you any last night?

Last night? Try the last month.

I cocked an eyebrow at that. Most men complain about their ladies withholding sex, but Julio was highly-sexed and never seemed to have that problem with Chevy.

Oh, now I see. She got that booty on lockdown. What’s up with that? I gave him a probing look.

She wants me to get a vasectomy. Withholding sex until then.

Do you want more kids?

After five boys, I’d like a girl. She says she’s done.

So she’s just giving up fucking all together, huh? I laughed.

Seems that way. And I get it, she doesn’t want to get pregnant again. He nodded and grabbed a stool at the kitchen island. He sighed, looking about the kitchen. Edward’s really upgraded this place. He’s got a nice little playboy crib. He needs to have a female up in here. Maybe two or three.

He prefers dudes.

Yeah, but he does chicks, too. I thought that man-on-man action was just a side thing he’d grow out of. It’s time he gets a wife, don’t you think?

Maybe he wants a husband. The heart wants what the heart wants.

I guess, Julio said, looking puzzled.

I don’t have a wife, I said.

Yet, you got issues, too. At least you’re trying, though.

I poured a mug of coffee for him, but before I could pass it over, we heard Edward cry out in alarm. Julio bolted up off the stool and rushed toward the stairs. I was on his heels.

Rounding the corner into the guest bedroom, we saw Edward hunched in the doorway, clutching his abdomen.

What is it? I grabbed his shoulders, intending to pull him back and take a look.

When I moved his shoulders to the side, I saw what was wrong. Julio saw it in a split second and let out a loud gasp.

The room went still as Edward began to weep. I pushed him aside and moved in for a closer inspection.

Dios mio, Julio uttered and looked to Edward. ¿Qué pasó?

Edward openly wept, unable to respond to Julio’s excited utterance.

David Chang, our gentle friend, lay nude and lifeless, face up, eyes open, and his left arm hanging palm-side up off the bed.

I stepped inside cautiously, leaned over his body, and placed two fingers in the groove of his wrist. There was no radial pulse, and I noticed the small puncture wounds crusted with dried blood on his chest. I looked about. On the bureau lay his driver’s license, a full money clip, and keys. I didn’t see his cell phone.

Signaling Julio, we cautiously backed out of the room, careful not to disturb the crime scene.

Who could have done this and why? The reality of David’s death sunk in. My lawyer’s analytical mind pushed aside the horror and shock. I had to call the police.

I told you I had a bad feeling, Julio muttered.

Chapter 2

CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATORS swarmed throughout the house. In the kitchen, Metropolitan Police Lieutenant Richard Washington, head of the Homicide Division, took our statements using a combination of handwritten notes and a handheld recorder. He was a tall, dark-skinned man with graying temples, and aging remarkably well. We had a working relationship dating back a decade when we solved the Arab playboy murders, my first criminal case. Then as now, we were friendly adversaries.

Despite the lack of evidence, it was apparent Edward was a primary suspect. He was the only other person in the house, and there was no evidence of forced entry, creating a highly probable inference Edward killed David. Edward didn’t officially ask me, but for the moment, I assumed the acting status as his attorney.

You say you left a key under the doormat for him, but when you returned, did you retrieve the key? Lieutenant Washington pressed Edward.

I didn’t think about it, Edward sighed. We’d had a couple of drinks. I was tired and went straight to bed.

About what time was this?

Uncertain, Edward looked at me. What time did we leave the restaurant?

Close to eleven, I said. I can verify it with my credit card receipt.

I followed the lieutenant’s line of questioning, watching his intense gaze.

Was Chang here when you returned?

I’m not sure. I don’t think so. The guest room door was closed.

Why was Chang spending the night?

We were leaving early to go fishing. David lives in Winchester, nearly two hours away, Edward said.

He was holding up well under the questioning. Then again, Edward was a lawyer conditioned to appear strong, forthright, and confident.

Was he in the habit of sleeping with you?

"He wasn’t sleeping with me, and I resent the implication. He would often spend the night in the guestroom."

Sorry to offend you. How often did Chang sleepover?

The lieutenant relentlessly peppered Edward with questions, looking for inconsistencies or a weak spot to test Edward’s story and credibility.

At least once, maybe twice a week, Edward answered with a nod.

A knock came on the kitchen door. A uniformed evidence technician entered in a deferential and hesitant manner.

Lieutenant Washington, you got a second?

The lieutenant slipped off the kitchen stool and joined the man on the other side of the door. They spoke in hushed tones while the three of us sat silently. Edward was about to speak, but with a finger to my lips, I stopped him, pointing to the running recorder to silently alert him that every word was being captured.

Edward’s cell phone rang. He stood and pulled it from his pocket, but with a firm hand, I relieved him of it and motioned for him to remain seated.

Hello? I listened to the caller’s introduction. No, Mr. Miller has no comment to make.

Who was that? Edward asked.

"A reporter from The Washington Post, I said, dropping back down on my stool and returning his phone. They want a statement."

Distressed, Edward shook his head. How could the press know?

Police radio scanner, Julio said. News of a murder travels fast.

Remember, Edward— I began.

I know, Drew, I have the right to remain silent. You forget I’m a lawyer, too? I have nothing to hide.

Of course, I said. Just trying to help. We make great co-counsel.

You surprise me, Julio said. One minute you crying like a little bitch, and the next you’re standing up to the cops, fearless.

To hell with you, Julio, Edward reacted with a smile.

I patted him on the back, giving the assurance of a concerned friend.

The lieutenant returned. Drew, can I speak with you outside?

Sure, I said, picking up the lieutenant’s recorder. You don’t want to forget this.

Lieutenant Washington accepted the device with a wry smile, pressed a button to turn it off, and stuck it in his pocket.

I glanced back at Edward, catching his sudden look of angst. We were both experiencing separation anxiety.

Lieutenant Washington and I stepped out onto the front porch into the crisp morning air. I noticed a small group of neighbors gathered across the street, curiously speculating among themselves. Others watched from their doorways and windows while sipping mugs of coffee. Neighbors abandoned their breakfast tables and morning papers for a view from windows and open doors speculating on the police presence and the medical examiner’s van. Behind us, two medical examiner assistants forced us to step aside as they pushed a gurney carrying David’s body out the front door. We waited in silence as they passed.

You representing Miller?

Does he need representation? Is he a suspect?

Here is what we know. Chang was murdered sometime around two a.m. Edward Miller was the only one identified in the house at the time, and there’s no evidence of forced entry.

That raises the matter of the spare key.

Didn’t find a spare key under the doormat nor among the deceased’s belongings. Were there any other visitors during the night?

Are you suggesting someone else might have been in the house?

Possibly. There is no direct evidence connecting Miller to the crime scene. An unknown intruder could have entered with the spare key. We can discount the motive of robbery since all of the victim’s personal belongings, including a substantial bankroll, were untouched. There’s also evidence of sexual activity.

What? I was stunned.

Semen stains on the sheets and comforter. We’ll get a confirmation and DNA with the autopsy. Two pairs of worn male underwear, briefs, and boxer briefs, thirty and thirty-two-inch waistlines. Did Chang and Miller have a sexual relationship? Chang was wearing a wedding band. Are they gay?

I’ve never known them to be involved that way, I said. David was married. The three of us and David’s wife attended law school together. To my knowledge, they were nothing more than best friends. But, what do I know? I suggest you pose that question to Edward. Tell me, did you find his cell phone among his things?

No. We’ll try to trace it.

He had it last night. The data might reveal something.

Will do. Right now, I don’t have enough to hold Miller. We’re sealing off the house to search for a murder weapon. So, he has to find someplace to stay for a couple of days.

Why is that necessary? I mean, sealing off the house.

Just a precaution in case the murder weapon is hidden inside. I’m off to break the news to Chang’s wife. You care to tag along?

I’d rather not. I’ll call to check on her later.

Oh, make sure Miller doesn’t leave town.

Don’t worry. He’s a member of the bar. So you’re done with him?

For now, the lieutenant said, then turned and walked back into the house.

I lingered on the porch watching the coroner’s wagon pull off. I had a moment of guilt thinking about Lian, David’s wife, getting the news from the police. She should hear it from a friend. But, honestly, I didn’t want to witness her reaction to the news of her husband’s death.

The coroner’s van disappeared around the corner, and it struck me. I would never hear David’s laughter and witty remarks again.

After the police cleared us to leave, Julio ubered home, and I gave Edward a lift to his friend Stephanie Gilchrist’s home uptown. The police refused to estimate how long the home seizure would last explaining it was necessary to safeguard the evidence. Edward didn’t protest but seemed to welcome the opportunity to escape his home.

Considering how close Edward and David were, I was concerned with how Edward was processing David’s death. It dredged up my memories of Medhat and the day he died in my arms. It took years for me to seek professional help in dealing with the traumatic experience. Years later, I’m still in therapy. Edward had to be struggling with David’s mysterious death.

Edward rejected my offer to put him up, preferring to stay with his friend Stephanie Gilchrist, a popular local TV news reporter. A petite brown-skinned beauty, she intrigued me the moment I set eyes on her years ago. I’ve never been clear on the nature of their relationship. Whenever I asked, Edward was always purposely vague or non-responsive—his way of letting me know hands off. Out of respect for Edward, I kept my distance. At social events, whenever he needed a female date, she usually appeared on his arm. Her mystique piqued my curiosity and this change in circumstances would give me a chance to get to know her, but more importantly, I thought a woman could provide Edward the kind of emotional support he needed. That’s what women do, talk from their emotions. Men don’t; it’s a guy thing. Edward had no interest in opening up to Julio or me. Admittedly, I needed feminine support, too. Although mine was more physical than emotional, and because Stephanie intrigued me, I decided to hang around.

As soon as I parked the car, she rushed out the front door, meeting us on the sidewalk. She welcomed Edward with open arms, hugging him and holding him close as only a friend comforting in grief would do. She then greeted me by linking her arms between Edward and me walking us into her townhouse. We lunched on sandwiches and beer as she quizzed us about the morning’s events. Charmed by her looks and personality, I spent the afternoon and early evening with them. Hours later, I reluctantly said goodbye, and Edward walked me to my car.

Edward, I said, I want to ask you something.

No, I didn’t kill David.

I know that. I want to ask you about Stephanie. Why are you staying here? You’re welcome to stay with me.

No, thanks, Drew. I prefer her company.

Are you sleeping with her? I asked him.

Goodbye, Drew.

I’ll take that as a yes. One other matter.

I said goodbye, Drew, Edward said, walking away.

Were you and David screwing? I shouted to his back.

Stunned, he turned to face me with an expression that let me know I had stepped over the line. He walked back and got in my face.

Did I ever screw you, Drew? he said with rising anger.

No, I replied.

Why not? he asked.

Because that’s not us.

That wasn’t David and me either. You should know that.

Just so you know, David had sex with another man in your guestroom last night.

It wasn’t me. I expect you to believe me.

I’m sorry, I said. I had to ask because you don’t seem surprised.

Later, Drew. Edward turned and walked up the steps where Stephanie waited at the door.

Chapter 3

ON THE DRIVE home I thought about the night before. It was supposed to be a celebration of our rising fortunes. David landed a new position as General Counsel with a major Asian trade association leaving a national law firm where his talents had not been appreciated or rewarded with a partnership. Similarly, Edward had recently also left a partner track associate position with a major Intellectual Property firm to start up his own practice. While my practice was booming, I was considering hiring an associate. Even Julio and Chevy’s limousine business was growing by leaps and bounds. Edward, David, and I had been out of law school a decade and were now experiencing milestones in our careers. The celebration fizzled.

The Night Before

David was late. Perched on bar stools, Julio, Edward, and I nursed our drinks while the news footage from a documentary played on the TV over the bar. The twenty-year-old Golden Venture shipwreck case was back in the news, resurrected by the recent death of infamous smuggler, Sister Ping. She recently died in federal prison after taking the fall, refusing to identify her co-conspirators and partners in crime. Her silence was typical of Chinese organized crime.

A smuggling operation gone horribly wrong, the reporter began. He was standing in the early morning mist on Rockaway Beach, the camera angled just right to look out onto the water. The sight was beautiful despite the nineties-era fuzzy picture. The wreckage of the Golden Venture rested on its side half in the background, marring the scenic backdrop. "New York City and federal officials are searching for those responsible for trying to smuggle hundreds of illegal Chinese immigrants into the United States aboard a small freighter that ran aground here. The survivors described to authorities a horrible journey of one hundred days cramped in the freighter with little food and a stopover stalled in Mombasa Kenya for four months when the first boat developed engine problems.

"Approximately three hundred illegal immigrants from Asia are thought to have been packed on board the freighter. When emergency rescuers arrived, some were already on the beach; others were believed to have disappeared into the night – while some were still floating in the heavy surf clutching belongings in sealed plastic bags.

Ten people are confirmed dead, apparently drowned in the last few yards of their long trip from the other side of the world, but the total death count may never be known. There’s no reliable passenger list. Rescuers say there was a strong rip tide and more than twenty were taken to local hospitals.

Amazing, I said. People will risk life and limb for a shot at the American Dream.

Trump never talks about illegal Chinese immigration, Julio said. You ever notice that? He blames Central Americans. No one ever talks about the illegal Chinese coming through Central America into the county.

"For