was less excited than the others. In the age of the Simpson case, DNA and its evidentiary value could be made questionable. But he had to admit that it was a good break, so he didn't let his cynicism get the better of him.
He went inside his house. The home was huge, like all the homes in Detroit's affluent Palmer Woods and Sherwood Forest. He walked inside and heard his heels echo on the cold marble of the foyer.
"Chemin," he called. "You home?"
No answer.
"Good," he said to himself.
Marshall moved into his office and set his things down. He reclined on the soft leather sofa in his office and loosened his tie. He noticed his answering machine light flashing. He wanted to just let it wait, but he had to know if any news on the murder had come in.
The messages were mostly from his coworkers, congratulating him and sucking up for a position on the prosecution team. He already knew that he wanted Roberta Shebbel. She had the best legal mind in the office. If any messy issues came up, he'd need her wisdom. Walter Anderson had left three messages, each more desperate than the one before. Walter was begging for a chance to be on the team. Marshall wanted to give him a shot, but he was afraid Walter would crumble and go back to his old ways of drinking and dereliction. But he was a friend, and with Bob Ryder in the mix, he might need loyalty on the team.
Marshall took his 9mm out of his desk and took off the trigger lock. He never liked to have the gun locked while he was at home. Chemin had made him buy the lock out of her deathly fear of guns. But he hated the thing. If you needed the weapon, an intruder could kill you before you got the damned thing off. He took the gun, the black steel was cold in his hands. Marshall unlocked it and put it back into his drawer.
He stretched out on the sofa and tried to sleep, but he was too wound up now. He was excited by the Douglas case. He couldn't manage a straight thought, but he needed a clear head. When he got like this, there was only one solution. Marshall put on his workout gear and went into his makeshift gym in the basement. The room was dark. It smelled damp and musty. Crates and boxes were lined up against the walls.
Marshall turned on a light. He walked over to the old workout bench he'd bought and picked up his old boxing gloves, and started out on his heavy bag. He threw a straight right, and dust flew from the gray bag. More punches followed, and soon he was sweaty, breathing hard, and his head began to clear.
Marshall was born five minutes before his fraternal twin brother in an unusual labor that lasted over a day. Their mother, Beatrice, was a strong, exuberant woman, who loved her children and guarded her family dearly. She was a serious woman who fancied big hats and Sunday church. She loved to cook and sometimes made meals for the other families on the block.
But she was also a very emotional woman who was always under siege by the fierce world of the inner city. Beatrice seemed to live and die with each tragedy of the neighborhood.
When her adopted mother, a thin, cheerful woman everyone called Little Ma, was killed in a robbery, Beatrice had gone into a panic that necessitated a visit to the hospital. But mostly she was a solid, good woman who any kid would have been proud to call Mama. Marshall treasured her and couldn't imagine how his life would have been without her.
Marshall's father, a big autoworker named Buford, was a loud, happy man and father. Good to his family and friends, he made it his duty to minister to his two sons, teaching them simple and important lessons of life.
Marshall's memory of his father was a big booming voice, hearty laugh, beer and sweat smell, and big hugs on a stubbly face. Their home was a haven in their rough neighborhood. With so many of his friends fatherless, Marshall and his sister Theresa felt special to have a dad in the house full-time and even more blessed
He went inside his house. The home was huge, like all the homes in Detroit's affluent Palmer Woods and Sherwood Forest. He walked inside and heard his heels echo on the cold marble of the foyer.
"Chemin," he called. "You home?"
No answer.
"Good," he said to himself.
Marshall moved into his office and set his things down. He reclined on the soft leather sofa in his office and loosened his tie. He noticed his answering machine light flashing. He wanted to just let it wait, but he had to know if any news on the murder had come in.
The messages were mostly from his coworkers, congratulating him and sucking up for a position on the prosecution team. He already knew that he wanted Roberta Shebbel. She had the best legal mind in the office. If any messy issues came up, he'd need her wisdom. Walter Anderson had left three messages, each more desperate than the one before. Walter was begging for a chance to be on the team. Marshall wanted to give him a shot, but he was afraid Walter would crumble and go back to his old ways of drinking and dereliction. But he was a friend, and with Bob Ryder in the mix, he might need loyalty on the team.
Marshall took his 9mm out of his desk and took off the trigger lock. He never liked to have the gun locked while he was at home. Chemin had made him buy the lock out of her deathly fear of guns. But he hated the thing. If you needed the weapon, an intruder could kill you before you got the damned thing off. He took the gun, the black steel was cold in his hands. Marshall unlocked it and put it back into his drawer.
He stretched out on the sofa and tried to sleep, but he was too wound up now. He was excited by the Douglas case. He couldn't manage a straight thought, but he needed a clear head. When he got like this, there was only one solution. Marshall put on his workout gear and went into his makeshift gym in the basement. The room was dark. It smelled damp and musty. Crates and boxes were lined up against the walls.
Marshall turned on a light. He walked over to the old workout bench he'd bought and picked up his old boxing gloves, and started out on his heavy bag. He threw a straight right, and dust flew from the gray bag. More punches followed, and soon he was sweaty, breathing hard, and his head began to clear.
Marshall was born five minutes before his fraternal twin brother in an unusual labor that lasted over a day. Their mother, Beatrice, was a strong, exuberant woman, who loved her children and guarded her family dearly. She was a serious woman who fancied big hats and Sunday church. She loved to cook and sometimes made meals for the other families on the block.
But she was also a very emotional woman who was always under siege by the fierce world of the inner city. Beatrice seemed to live and die with each tragedy of the neighborhood.
When her adopted mother, a thin, cheerful woman everyone called Little Ma, was killed in a robbery, Beatrice had gone into a panic that necessitated a visit to the hospital. But mostly she was a solid, good woman who any kid would have been proud to call Mama. Marshall treasured her and couldn't imagine how his life would have been without her.
Marshall's father, a big autoworker named Buford, was a loud, happy man and father. Good to his family and friends, he made it his duty to minister to his two sons, teaching them simple and important lessons of life.
Marshall's memory of his father was a big booming voice, hearty laugh, beer and sweat smell, and big hugs on a stubbly face. Their home was a haven in their rough neighborhood. With so many of his friends fatherless, Marshall and his sister Theresa felt special to have a dad in the house full-time and even more blessed
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