THE SHOTS THAT FIRED the bullets that entered Pumpkin1's head were heard by no less than eight people. Three instinctively2 closed their windows, checked their door locks, and withdrew to the safety, or at least the seclusion3, of their small apartments. Two others, each with experience in such matters, ran from the vicinity as fast if not faster than the gunman himself. Another, the neighborhood recycling fanatic4, was digging through some garbage in search of aluminum5 cans when he heard the sharp sounds of the daily skirmish, very nearby. He jumped behind a pile of cardboard boxes until the shelling stopped, then eased into the alley6 where he saw what was left of Pumpkin.
And two saw almost everything. They were sitting on plastic milk crates7, at the corner of Georgia and Lamont in front of a liquor store, partially8 hidden by a parked car so that the gunman, who glanced around briefly9 before following Pumpkin into the alley, didn't see them. Both would tell the police that they saw the boy with the gun reach into his pocket and pull it out; they saw the gun for sure, a small black pistol. A second later they heard the shots, though they did not actually see Pumpkin take them in the head. Another second and the boy with the gun darted10 from the alley and, for some reason, ran straight in their direction. He ran bent11 at the waist, like a scared dog, guilty as hell. He wore red-and-yellow basketball shoes that seemed five sizes too big and slapped the pavement as he made his getaway.
When he ran by them he was still holding the gun, probably a .38, and he flinched13 just for an instant when he saw them and realized they had seen too much. For one terrifying second, he seemed to raise the gun as if to eliminate the witnesses, both of whom managed to flip14 backward from their plastic milk crates and scramble15 off in a mad flurry of arms and legs. Then he was gone.
One of them opened the door to the liquor store and yelled for someone to call the police, there had been a shooting.
Thirty minutes later, the police received a call that a young man matching the description of the one who had wasted Pumpkin had been seen twice on Ninth Street carrying a gun in open view and acting16 stranger than most of the people on Ninth. He had tried to lure17 at least one person into an abandoned lot, but the intended victim had escaped and reported the incident.
The police found their man an hour later. His name was Tequila Watson, black male, age twenty, with the usual drug-related police record. No family to speak of. No address. The last place he'd been sleeping was a rehab unit on W Street. He'd managed to ditch the gun somewhere, and if he'd robbed Pumpkin then he'd also thrown away the cash or drugs or whatever the booty was. His pockets were clean, as were his eyes. The cops were certain Tequila was not under the influence of anything when he was arrested. A quick and rough interrogation took place on the street, then he was handcuffed and shoved into the rear seat of a D.C. police car.
They drove him back to Lamont Street, where they arranged an impromptu18 encounter with the two witnesses. Tequila was led into the alley where he'd left Pumpkin. "Ever been here before?" a cop asked.
Tequila said nothing, just gawked at the puddle19 of fresh blood on the dirty concrete. The two witnesses were eased into the alley, then led quietly to a spot near Tequila.
"That's him," both said at the same time.
"He's wearing the same clothes, same basketball shoes, everything but the gun."
"That's him."
"No doubt about it."
Tequila was shoved into the car once again and taken to jail. He was booked for murder and locked away with no immediate20 chance of bail21. Whether through experience or just fear, Tequila never said a word to the cops as they pried22 and cajoled and even threatened. Nothing incriminating, nothing helpful. No indication of why he would murder Pumpkin. No clue as to their history, if one existed at all. A veteran detective made a brief note in the file that the killing23 appeared a bit more random24 than was customary.
No phone call was requested. No mention of a lawyer or a bail bondsman. Tequila seemed dazed but content to sit in a crowded cell and stare at the floor.
PUMPKIN HAD NO TRACEABLE father but his mother worked as a security guard in the basement of a large office building on New York Avenue. It took three hours for the police to determine her son's real name— Ramon Pumphrey—to locate his address, and to find a neighbor willing to tell them if he had a mother.
Adelfa Pumphrey was sitting behind a desk just inside the basement entrance, supposedly watching a bank of monitors. She was a large thick woman in a tight khaki uniform, a gun on her waist, a look of complete disinterest on her face. The cops who approached her had done so a hundred times. They broke the news, then found her supervisor25.
In a city where young people killed each other every day, the slaughter26 had thickened skins and hardened hearts, and every mother knew many others who'd lost their children. Each loss brought death a step closer, and every mother knew that any day could be the last. The mothers had watched the others survive the horror. As Adelfa Pumphrey sat at her desk with her face in her hands, she thought of her son and his lifeless body lying somewhere in the city at that moment, being inspected by strangers.
She swore revenge on whoever killed him.
She cursed his father for abandoning the child.
She cried for her baby.
And she knew she would survive. Somehow, she would survive.
ADELFA WENT TO COURT to watch the arraignment27. The police told her the punk who'd killed her son was scheduled to make his first appearance, a quick and routine matter in which he would plead not guilty and ask for a lawyer. She was in the back row with her brother on one side and a neighbor on the other, her eyes leaking tears into a damp handkerchief. She wanted to see the boy. She also wanted to ask him why, but she knew she would never get the chance.
They herded28 the criminals through like cattle at an auction29. All were black, all wore orange coveralls and handcuffs, all were young. Such waste.
In addition to his handcuffs, Tequila was adorned30 with wrist and ankle chains since his crime was especially violent, though he looked fairly harmless when he was shuffled31 into the courtroom with the next wave of offenders32. He glanced around quickly at the crowd to see if he recognized anyone, to see if just maybe someone was out there for him. He was seated in a row of chairs, and for good measure one of the armed bailiffs leaned down and said, "That boy you killed. That's his mother back there in the blue dress."
With his head low, Tequila slowly turned and looked directly into the wet and puffy eyes of Pumpkin's mother, but only for a second. Adelfa stared at the skinny boy in the oversized coveralls and wondered where his mother was and how she'd raised him and if he had a father, and, most important, how and why his path had crossed that of her boy's. The two were about the same age as the rest of them, late teens or early twenties. The cops had told her that it appeared, at least initially33, that drugs were not involved in the killing. But she knew better. Drugs were involved in every layer of street life. Adelfa knew it all too well. Pumpkin had used pot and crack and he'd been arrested once, for simple possession, but he had never been violent. The cops were saying it looked like a random killing. All street killings34 were random, her brother had said, but they all had a reason.
On one side of the courtroom was a table around which the authorities gathered. The cops whispered to the prosecutors35, who flipped36 through files and reports and tried valiantly37 to keep the paperwork ahead of the criminals. On the other side was a table where the defense38 lawyers came and went as the assembly line sputtered39 along. Drug charges were rattled40 off by the Judge, an armed robbery, some vague sexual attack, more drugs, lots of parole violations41. When their names were called, the defendants42 were led forward to the bench, where they stood in silence. Paperwork was shuffled, then they were hauled off again, back to jail.
"Tequila Watson," a bailiff announced.
He was helped to his feet by another bailiff. He stutter-stepped forward, chains rattling44.
"Mr. Watson, you are charged with murder," the Judge announced loudly. "How old are you?"
"Twenty," Tequila said, looking down.
The murder charge had echoed through the courtroom and brought a temporary stillness. The other criminals in orange looked on with admiration45. The lawyers and cops were curious.
"Can you afford a lawyer?"
"No."
"Didn't think so," the Judge mumbled46 and glanced at the defense table. The fertile fields of the D.C. Superior Court Criminal Division, Felony Branch, were worked on a daily basis by the Office of the Public Defender47, the safety net for all indigent48 defendants. Seventy percent of the docket was handled by court-appointed counsel, and at any time there were usually half a dozen PDs milling around in cheap suits and battered49 loafers with files sticking out of their briefcases51. At that precise moment, however, only one PD was present, the Honorable Clay Carter II, who had stopped by to check on two much lesser52 felonies, and now found himself all alone and wanting to bolt from the courtroom. He glanced to his right and to his left and realized that His Honor was looking at him. Where had all the other PDs gone?
A week earlier, Mr. Carter had finished a murder case, one that had lasted for almost three years and had finally been closed with his client being sent away to a prison from which he would never leave, at least not officially. Clay Carter was quite happy his client was now locked up, and he was relieved that he, at that moment, had no murder files on his desk.
That, evidently, was about to change.
"Mr. Carter?" the Judge said. It was not an order, but an invitation to step forward to do what every PD was expected to do—defend the indigent, regardless of the case. Mr. Carter could not show weakness, especially with the cops and prosecutors watching. He swallowed hard, refused to flinch12, and walked to the bench as if he just might demand a jury trial right there and then. He took the file from the Judge, quickly skimmed its rather thin contents while ignoring the pleading look of Tequila Watson, then said, "We'll enter a plea of not guilty, Your Honor."
"Thank you, Mr. Carter. And we'll show you as counsel of record?"
"For now, yes." Mr. Carter was already plotting excuses to unload this case on someone else at OPD.
"Very well. Thank you," the Judge said, already reaching for the next file.
Lawyer and client huddled53 at the defense table for a few minutes. Carter took as much information as Tequila was willing to give, which was very little. He promised to stop by the jail the next day for a longer interview. As they whispered, the table was suddenly crowded with young lawyers from the PD's office, colleagues of Carter's who seemed to materialize from nowhere.
Was this a setup? Carter asked himself. Had they disappeared knowing a murder defendant43 was in the room? In the past five years, he'd pulled such stunts54 himself. Ducking the nasty ones was an art form at OPD.
He grabbed his briefcase50 and hurried away, down the center aisle55, past rows of worried relatives, past Adelfa Pumphrey and her little support group, into the hallway crammed56 with many more criminals and their mommas and girlfriends and lawyers. There were those in OPD who swore they lived for the chaos57 of the H. Carl Moultrie Courthouse—the pressure of trials, the hint of danger from people sharing the same space with so many violent men, the painful conflict between victims and their assailants, the hopelessly overcrowded dockets, the calling to protect the poor and ensure fair treatment by the cops and the system.
If Clay Carter had ever been attracted to a career in OPD, he could not now remember why. In one week the fifth anniversary of his employment there would come and go, without celebration, and, hopefully, without anyone knowing it. Clay was burned out at the age of thirty-one, stuck in an office he was ashamed to show his friends, looking for an exit with no place to go, and now saddled with another senseless murder case that was growing heavier by the minute.
In the elevator he cursed himself for getting nailed with a murder. It was a rookie's mistake; he'd been around much too long to step into the trap, especially one set on such familiar turf. I'm quitting, he promised himself; the same vow58 he had uttered almost every day for the past year.
There were two others in the elevator. One was a court clerk of some variety, with her arms full of files.
The other was a fortyish gentleman dressed in designer black—jeans, T-shirt, jacket, alligator59 boots. He held a newspaper and appeared to be reading it through small glasses perched on the tip of his rather long and elegant nose; in fact, he was studying Clay, who was oblivious60. Why would someone pay any attention to anyone else on this elevator in this building?
If Clay Carter had been alert instead of brooding, he would have noticed that the gentleman was too well dressed to be a defendant, but too casual to be a lawyer. He carried nothing but a newspaper, which was somewhat odd because the H. Carl Moultrie Courthouse was not known as a place for reading. He did not appear to be a judge, a clerk, a victim, or a defendant, but Clay never noticed him.
收听单词发音 |
1
pumpkin
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| n.南瓜 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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aluminum
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| n.(aluminium)铝 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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crates
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| n. 板条箱, 篓子, 旧汽车 vt. 装进纸条箱 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flip
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| vt.快速翻动；轻抛；轻拍；n.轻抛；adj.轻浮的 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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supervisor
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| n.监督人，管理人，检查员，督学，主管，导师 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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arraignment
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| n.提问，传讯，责难 | |
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herded
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| 群集，纠结( herd的过去式和过去分词 )； 放牧； （使）向…移动 | |
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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initially
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| adv.最初，开始 | |
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killings
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| 谋杀( killing的名词复数 )； 突然发大财，暴发 | |
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prosecutors
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| 检举人( prosecutor的名词复数 )； 告发人； 起诉人； 公诉人 | |
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flipped
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| 轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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sputtered
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| v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的过去式和过去分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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violations
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| 违反( violation的名词复数 )； 冒犯； 违反（行为、事例）； 强奸 | |
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defendants
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| 被告( defendant的名词复数 ) | |
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defendant
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| n.被告；adj.处于被告地位的 | |
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44
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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indigent
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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50
briefcase
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| n.手提箱，公事皮包 | |
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briefcases
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| n.公文[事]包( briefcase的名词复数 ) | |
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52
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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53
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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54
stunts
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| n.惊人的表演( stunt的名词复数 )；（广告中）引人注目的花招；愚蠢行为；危险举动v.阻碍…发育[生长]，抑制，妨碍( stunt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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55
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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56
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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alligator
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| n.短吻鳄(一种鳄鱼) | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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