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“I believe that somewhat rude nickname is based on Her Honor’s reputation for sentencing those found guilty in her court to the most severe penalties provided for in the law.”
“I told you, I know who she is.”
“Well, as I said before, when the district attorney appealed the magistrate’s decision to grant you a conditional release, she granted the appeal and ordered you remanded.”
“So what happens now?”
“When we have finished our little talk, you will be transported to the Detention Center and held there until your trial. I understand, with the load placed on the criminal justice system, that it will be at least ninety days, and very possibly longer, before you will be brought to trial.”
“You can’t do that!” Brownlee said indignantly, but without very much conviction.
“I think you would be astonished at what a judge can do, Mr. Brownlee.”
“So what am I doing here?”
“We are going to have a little chat,” Washington said.
“About what?”
“If there is anything lower than a drug dealer, Mr. Brownlee, anyone deserving to be punished to the full extent of the law, it is a police officer involved in drug trafficking. That, unfortunately, may work to your advantage.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“According to the record of your arrest, which took place at the Howard Johnson motel on Roosevelt Boulevard last Thursday evening, you were found in possession of a package of cocaine weighing approximately one kilo, or a little more than two pounds.”
“I never saw that shit before in my life,” Brownlee said. “What that was was a frame.”
“And in possession of a loaded, snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 Special-caliber revolver, serial number J- 384401.”
“I never saw that gun before, either.”
“Possession of which, since you are a convicted felon, violates not only the Philadelphia ordinances proscribing possession of a pistol without a license, but also federal law, which proscribes possession of any firearm by a convicted felon, or by someone under indictment for a felony. Both conditions apply to you. You are a convicted felon, and you are under indictment for several instances of drug dealing, in addition to what happened last Thursday evening. I think you should be prepared to see yourself arrested on firearms charges by both Philadelphia and federal authorities.”
“We’ll see what happens. I don’t know nothing about no gun.”
“Finally, your arrest record shows that you had on your person one thousand four hundred and thirty dollars and fifty-two cents.”
“So what? Is that against the law?”
“Now, Mr. Brownlee, what we find interesting is that Mr. Ronald R. Ketcham, to whom you apparently intended to sell the cocaine—”
“Never heard of him,” Baby Brownlee interjected.
“As I was saying,” Washington went on, “Mr. Ketcham, to whom you and Mr. Amos J. Williams planned to sell the cocaine, had in his possession twenty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand dollars ordinarily buys two kilos of cocaine.”
“So what?”
“Mr. Ketcham has given us a sworn statement that he went to the Howard Johnson motel with twenty thousand dollars in cash to meet Mr. Williams—who is again in custody, by the way—and exchange it for two kilos of cocaine.”
“I told you I never heard of him.”
“Tell me, Mr. Brownlee, did you ever wonder why Mr. Ketcham was not arrested at the time you were?”
That caught Baby Brownlee’s attention, Washington saw, although he said nothing.
“Let me tell you what happened, Mr. Brownlee. You went into Mr. Ketcham’s room at the motel. He showed you that he did in fact have the twenty thousand dollars, the agreed-upon price. You then left his room—”
“Bullshit.”
