A Murder of Justice
Robert Andrews
T he only affront that compares to the taking of a life is the failure of government to assure a commensurate response to murder. -District of Columbia Judiciary Committee, February 2001
APRIL 6, 2001 -a Friday. Edward Teasdale had just tilted back in his Barcalounger to watch the Orioles and Red Sox on CSN, when he heard the shots.
Bam… Bam… Bam… Bam…
Steady shooting.
Bam… Bam… Bam…
Silence.
Teasdale waited. No more shots.
Bayless Place in southeast Washington, D.C., used to be a quiet neighborhood. But in the last several years, Teasdale and his neighbors had gotten practice at what he sourly called “acoustical gunfire analysis.”
This evening’s shots had been evenly spaced.
One shooter. Somebody out there on the street wasn’t in a hurry.
Seven shots, maybe eight.
Not a revolver. An automatic-probably a nine.
Teasdale glanced at the digital clock on the TV-seven thirty-two. He went to the window and pulled the curtain open just enough to get a glimpse of the street, then settled back into the Barcalounger.
Jason Johnson took the mound against Boston.
The day before, Hideo Nomo had thrown a no-hitter for the Sox against Teasdale’s beloved Birds. Tonight, Teasdale wanted revenge.
The clock showed seven thirty-eight. Johnson had struck out the inning’s second batter… no further gunfire outside. Teasdale grudgingly lifted himself out of the Barcalounger.
Might ’s well take a look.
Standing off to the side, he unbolted and opened his front door. It was sunset. The sidewalks were deserted. Anyone who’d been outside had long before taken cover. The dark Ford Taurus was parked about halfway down the block in its usual place. Rhythmic bass thumps of a stereo driving at top volume rocked the air.
The sidewalks were still empty when Teasdale got to the car. In the street, glass nuggets glowed in the sun’s last light. Bullet holes dimpled the door. Skirting the back of the car, Teasdale peered through the shattered window.
Blood darkened the windshield and dashboard. A Puff Daddy rap thundered from the Taurus’s speakers.
Off to his right, Teasdale caught the brassy glint of empty cartridge cases on the asphalt. Here’s where the shooting had been done, right here where he was standing, Teasdale figured. He aimed a finger pistol.
Bam… Bam… Bam… Just like that.
Teasdale circled around to get a more direct look into the front seat.
“Why, hello, Skeeter,” Teasdale whispered.
The top of James “Skeeter” Hodges’s head had been blown away.
Teasdale smiled.
Another figure slumped in the passenger seat. Tobias “Pencil” Crawfurd, Skeeter’s number two, was breathing.
Teasdale frowned. He waited a moment.
But Crawfurd kept breathing.
Teasdale sighed.
Inside his house again, he dialed 911. Finished with the call, he settled back to watch the game. Things were getting better. The Orioles were up by one.
“Oh, yes,” Teasdale whispered into the empty room. He smiled.
Ten minutes passed before Officers Antwon Hawkins and Samuel Lawson responded, got Crawfurd on his way to the Hospital Center, and secured the crime scene.
Five minutes later, District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department homicide detectives Frank Kearney and Jose Phelps arrived.
ONE
Funny,” Jose said.
“Funny funny?”
“Strange funny.” Jose pointed through the windshield. “No spectators.”
Ahead, on Bayless Place, an ambulance and three squad cars, light bars blazing blues and reds, yellow crime-scene tape, and flares like fireballs framed a Taurus with shot-out windows. A regular circus. A sure-fire crowd-draw anywhere.
Frank felt his gut go heavy. He’d seen violent death, some of it in wholesale lots. He’d never gotten used to it. But he’d learned to wall it off. He’d kept the wall in good repair. Through Vietnam, through the years on the force, the wall had shielded him from the soul-searing exhibits of the horrific things people did to one another. Lately, though, it seemed too much was getting through. Too much was following him home.
He pulled over to the curb. He and Jose got out and walked toward the lights and the Notorious B.I.G. rap blaring from the Taurus.
At six-two, Frank was an inch shorter than Jose, and at one-ninety, thirty pounds lighter. Frank had run track and cross-country at the University of Maryland. Jose had played football at Howard, switching in his junior year to boxing. They’d been together on the force for twenty-six years. Roommates at the academy, beat cops in every tough neighborhood in the District, and now plainclothes in Homicide.
But the years had done more than produce the force’s two most senior detectives. Their off-duty lives had intersected and intertwined. The two men had supported each other through private triumphs and personal trials, through marriages and children, divorces and deaths. Years passed, and each became as comfortable with the other as he was with his own shadow.
One of the uniformed officers turned. Frank recognized Antwon Hawkins.
Hawkins walked toward them with the rolling swagger of a sailor on shore leave. One hand thumb-hooked over his pistol belt, he tossed Jose a casual salute with the other.
“Ho-zay can you see?” he singsonged.
Jose pointed at the car. “Who was that?”
“None other than the newly dead Skeeter Hodges.”
As they walked to the car, Frank felt the heaviness ease. “Somebody finally got him?”
“Pretty good. Pencil Crawfurd was sitting in front with him.”
“He get it too?” Jose asked.
Hawkins shook his head and frowned in disappointment. “Sam and I get here, he was unconscious. Looks like he took at least one in the shoulder. Hard to be in that car anywhere and not get one. We found eight shells… nine-millimeter.”
“Where is he?”
“Hospital Center.”
At the car, Hawkins pointed to the body slumped forward over the steering wheel. He turned his flashlight on
