forth for a while until Gene Hornsby arrived with the bag of evidence. Ramone thanked him and got to work on the booking and attendant paperwork, including the entering of the case details in The Book. This was a large tablet detailing open and closed homicides, officers assigned to the cases, motives, and other elements that would be helpful to the prosecution effort and also serve to memorialize basic city history.
By the time the detectives had checked out for the day, they had worked a full shift and three hours of overtime.
Out in the parking lot of the VCB, located behind the Penn-Branch shopping center in Southeast, Gus Ramone, Bo Green, George Hornsby, and Rhonda Willis walked to their cars.
“I’m gonna take a nice hot bath tonight,” said Rhonda.
“Don’t you need to run your sons somewhere this evening?” said Green.
“Not tonight, praise God.”
“Anybody up for a beer?” said Hornsby. “I’ll let y’all buy me one.”
“I got practice,” said Green, who coached a boys’ football team in the neighborhood where he’d come up.
“What about the Ramone?” said Hornsby.
“Rain check,” said Rhonda, who knew what the answer would be before it came from Ramone’s mouth.
Ramone wasn’t listening. He was thinking of his wife and kids.
Seven
D IEGO RAMONE GOT off the 12 bus near the Metro station and walked over the District line toward his house. It had not been a good day at his middle school, but it had been a typical one. He had caught trouble, like he had caught trouble a couple of times every week since he started going there. He wished he could have stayed at his old middle school in D.C., but his father had insisted he transfer into Montgomery County, and things had not gone too well since.
Mr. Guy, the assistant principal, had called Diego’s mother earlier in the day to tell her that Diego had refused to give up his cell phone after it had rung inside the school. The truth was, Diego had forgotten it was on. He knew it was against school rules to have it on inside, but he hadn’t wanted to give it up, on account of his friend Toby had got his phone taken away for weeks after a similar thing went down. So he’d told Mr. Guy, “No, I’m not gonna give it up, ’cause it was an honest mistake,” and then Mr. Guy had taken him down to the office and called his mother. Mr. Guy had said that he could have suspended him for insubordination and that he was cutting him a break. Some break. Diego was still going to hear about it from his father. Besides, being suspended was more fun than being in school. In that school, anyway.
Diego walked through a short tunnel under the Metro tracks and crossed Blair Road. He wore a long black T-shirt showing the Tasmanian Devil hand-screened by a friend, one of the Spriggs twins. Under the T-shirt he wore a Hanes wife-beater. It was autumn, but still warm enough for shorts, and his were Levi Silvertabs worn a few inches below the knee. Beneath the Silvertabs he wore SpongeBob boxers. His shoes today, one of three pairs of sneaks he owned, were Nike Exclusives, the white and navy.
Diego Ramone was fourteen years old.
His ringer, a Backyard live at the Crossroads thing he had downloaded onto his phone, went off. He unhooked his cell from the waistband of his shorts.
“Yeah,” he said into the mic.
“Where you at, dawg?” said his friend Shaka Brown.
“I’m comin up on, like, Third and Whittier.”
“You walkin?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Ain’t your mother pick you up?”
“I took the twelve.”
His mother had come by the school, but he knew if he got in the car with her she’d want to take him straight home, go on about homework, all that. After some negotiation, it was agreed that he would take the bus and then foot it into their neighborhood, where, he had assured her, his plans were only to meet Shaka and play a little ball. Taking the bus gave him a sense of freedom and made him feel like an adult. He had promised his mother
By the time the detectives had checked out for the day, they had worked a full shift and three hours of overtime.
Out in the parking lot of the VCB, located behind the Penn-Branch shopping center in Southeast, Gus Ramone, Bo Green, George Hornsby, and Rhonda Willis walked to their cars.
“I’m gonna take a nice hot bath tonight,” said Rhonda.
“Don’t you need to run your sons somewhere this evening?” said Green.
“Not tonight, praise God.”
“Anybody up for a beer?” said Hornsby. “I’ll let y’all buy me one.”
“I got practice,” said Green, who coached a boys’ football team in the neighborhood where he’d come up.
“What about the Ramone?” said Hornsby.
“Rain check,” said Rhonda, who knew what the answer would be before it came from Ramone’s mouth.
Ramone wasn’t listening. He was thinking of his wife and kids.
Seven
D IEGO RAMONE GOT off the 12 bus near the Metro station and walked over the District line toward his house. It had not been a good day at his middle school, but it had been a typical one. He had caught trouble, like he had caught trouble a couple of times every week since he started going there. He wished he could have stayed at his old middle school in D.C., but his father had insisted he transfer into Montgomery County, and things had not gone too well since.
Mr. Guy, the assistant principal, had called Diego’s mother earlier in the day to tell her that Diego had refused to give up his cell phone after it had rung inside the school. The truth was, Diego had forgotten it was on. He knew it was against school rules to have it on inside, but he hadn’t wanted to give it up, on account of his friend Toby had got his phone taken away for weeks after a similar thing went down. So he’d told Mr. Guy, “No, I’m not gonna give it up, ’cause it was an honest mistake,” and then Mr. Guy had taken him down to the office and called his mother. Mr. Guy had said that he could have suspended him for insubordination and that he was cutting him a break. Some break. Diego was still going to hear about it from his father. Besides, being suspended was more fun than being in school. In that school, anyway.
Diego walked through a short tunnel under the Metro tracks and crossed Blair Road. He wore a long black T-shirt showing the Tasmanian Devil hand-screened by a friend, one of the Spriggs twins. Under the T-shirt he wore a Hanes wife-beater. It was autumn, but still warm enough for shorts, and his were Levi Silvertabs worn a few inches below the knee. Beneath the Silvertabs he wore SpongeBob boxers. His shoes today, one of three pairs of sneaks he owned, were Nike Exclusives, the white and navy.
Diego Ramone was fourteen years old.
His ringer, a Backyard live at the Crossroads thing he had downloaded onto his phone, went off. He unhooked his cell from the waistband of his shorts.
“Yeah,” he said into the mic.
“Where you at, dawg?” said his friend Shaka Brown.
“I’m comin up on, like, Third and Whittier.”
“You walkin?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Ain’t your mother pick you up?”
“I took the twelve.”
His mother had come by the school, but he knew if he got in the car with her she’d want to take him straight home, go on about homework, all that. After some negotiation, it was agreed that he would take the bus and then foot it into their neighborhood, where, he had assured her, his plans were only to meet Shaka and play a little ball. Taking the bus gave him a sense of freedom and made him feel like an adult. He had promised his mother
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