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  Marshall 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 for him to be such a positive force.

  This didn't sit quite well with Moses. It was evident early on that the fraternal twin boys were opposites. Moses was as bad as Marshall was good. Moses stayed in trouble, and even Buford's tough love couldn't stop him. Moses cut school, disobeyed his parents, and was a relentless thief. He stole anything and everything, sometimes he stole just to see if he could do it. It was his passion from early on. Buford and Beatrice always had their hands full with the boy.

  Moses and Marshall were, nonetheless, inseparable. They both cut school together, ran the streets, playing basketball and hanging out with their friends. The twins were thick as thieves then. They supported each other, lied for each other, and made their parents' life difficult. Moses was definitely the leader of the two. Marshall just thought of his brother as a fun and uninhibited person, and he admired his strength.

  One summer night, Marshall and Moses had been chased

off the local basketball court by a group of bigger boys. They'd hung around for a while, when a boy they called Ducey decided to play what they called simply "cars." They'd stand on a street corner, covered in darkness, and throw rocks at the cars that whizzed by on a busy street. The nicer the car, the better. It was a silly and dangerous game, and that made it all the more attractive to the young boys.

  Marshall and Moses stood on the corner that night with three other black boys, their pockets filled with stones. Mostly, they missed. It was hard to hit a moving vehicle. But suddenly, a slow-moving car came their way. It was an Eldorado, a red one. It drove by, and the rocks flew. Marshall saw the back window shatter, and they all cheered. Then the Eldorado screeched to a halt. The young boys immediately broke into a run.

  "Black bastards!" the car's occupant had yelled.

  The other three boys split up, but Marshall and Moses, as usual, ran together. They'd run about a half block, when they heard the shots behind them. One bullet hit a tree, taking off a big chunk of bark. Marshall saw his brother run into a backyard and hide. He, however, was still on the street, and in full view of the shooter. Another bullet whizzed by his ear as he ran through a vacant lot.

  Marshall jumped a fence, his heart racing in his chest. He hid among a row of garbage cans in the backyard of a man named Hudgens. He sat there on the warm ground, thinking that he might die. They'd played the game many times, but no one had ever stopped and shot at them. Suddenly, the consequences of his actions fell upon him. It was wrong what they had done. It was supposed to be fun, but he had never thought about the man in the car. Now, it was too late. The shooter was after him, and he knew if he caught him, he'd never go home again.

  Suddenly, he heard footsteps and the sound of metal hitting the ground. The shooter was reloading his gun.

  "You're dead, motherfucker!" yelled the man.

  A white man, thought Marshall. At least, he sounded like he was white. He was even more afraid now. Any white man who would run into the 'hood like that was crazy. Marshall tried to push himself down farther behind the cans without knocking them down and giving himself away.

  Marshall heard the old gate creak as the shooter entered the backyard with him. He was about thirty feet or so away. The yard was dark, and Marshall prayed the shooter couldn't see him.

  The man moved in Marshall's direction. As he came closer, Marshall saw that it was not a white man, but a black one. His dark face turned, looking around the yard. He looked Marshall's way and lingered for a moment.

  Marshall shifted and knocked one of the cans into another one. The clang sounded like thunder to him. The man raced toward him as Marshall jumped up and tried to run away. A strong arm caught him by the shoulder. He was spun around right into the one-eyed stare of the shooter's gun.

  For a moment he thought he was done. There would be a flash, then darkness as he was carried from this world.

  "You're just a kid," said the shooter. He was wearing an expensive silk shirt, and Marshall realized that he could be a criminal, a player, as they used to say.

  "I—I'm sorry," said Marshall. "We didn't mean it."

  "Jesus Christ," said the shooter. "What the fuck—?"

  "I'll never do it again, please don't kill me, please." Marshall was crying now. He looked into the black man's face, searching for compassion.

  The man's look of surprise turned into deep anger. He brought the gun closer to Marshall, resting it on his nose.

  "This is what fools get in life, boy," said the man. Then he cocked the gun.

  Marshall shook with terror. He felt warmth run down his leg as he pissed his pants. An eternity passed as the man held the little boy at bay. Marshall understood the other side of the street now. He'd only seen the side where all things were possible, where the consequences of your actions were left behind as you ran to safety. This was the real aftermath of bad behavior. Violence, fear, and death.

  "Get the fuck away from me," said the man as he released Marshall. "Go home to your fat-ass mammy."

  Marshall was paralyzed. He told his legs to move, but they did not. Then the man's arm shot out and knocked him backward.

  "Move, goddammit!"

  Marshall ran faster than he'd ever run. He heard the man laugh behind him as houses and cars whizzed by his frightened face.

  The next morning, Marshall got up early and thanked God for sparing him. He made a promise then and there to straighten up. This drove his brother away from him. Moses was dedicated to mischief and was hurt when his brother rejected him. They began to argue and fight constantly. Soon, one twin's purpose in life became the eradication of the other. Each wanted to kill that part of him that had dared to become uncooperative.

  Moses became the bane of Marshall's existence. Twins, even fraternal, are tied to each other from a young age. They were dressed alike, and received all the normal dual presents on birthdays and Christmas. He shared a life with him, and therefore had to love or hate him sooner or later.

  Moses became obsessed with getting his brother back. He bribed him and tricked him into staying out late, getting into all manner of trouble.

  One night, Moses seduced his twin into waiting for him while he broke into a nearby house. Theresa had warned him not to go, but Marshall was led to believe he was waiting for his brother to have sex with a local girl. A job that no man worth his balls would turn down. But Moses was really breaking into the house to steal a little color TV he'd seen. When Marshall discovered that it was a robbery, he normally would have gone home, but he didn't. Years later, he would think that maybe he missed his brother a little and wanted them to be friends again and stop fighting. So he stayed as his brother handed him a small TV through a window. He took it and waited for his brother to come out.

  Marshall waited, but no Moses. Something had gone wrong. Moses had fallen inside and hit his head, or was trying to take something much too big to fit through the little window. But after a while, Moses came wiggling out of the window full of life and smiling like it was Christmas.

  They fought all the way home, and Marshall vowed never to do anything with him again. Moses just laughed off the threat and ran away to sell his stolen goods. Marshall would always remember that walk home. He had walked out of his brother's life for good that night. Moses tried incessantly to get him back, but Marshall remained resolute. Soon, Moses gave up and started to build a life without his twin, a life filled with disobedience and grief for everyone in the home.

  Buford and Beatrice argued even more than normal as a result. Beatrice wanted Buford to magically make the boy behave. And Buford didn't see how he could when he worked so much, so of course he blamed Beatrice for not being firm enough.

  Marshall saw his father stay out later and later. Not wanting to fight with his wife, Buford just spent more time away from his family. He didn't see how this only made matters worse.

  Then one night, Buford didn't come home. Marshall tried to get to sleep but had stayed awake. Lately, he couldn't sleep until he heard his father's voice booming as he came through the door. Hearing them argue was better than what he heard that night: silence.

  The police came the next morning. He remembered his mother wail as she fell to her knees at the doorway. Buford had gone to a card game, where a fight had broken out, and Buford had been shot. The other men had all denied that they were the shooter and no gun was found.

  Murder. Marshall had heard about it and saw it touch people he knew, but it didn't seem like something that could ever happen to his father, who was more than human. But he was gone.

  Marshall blamed his brother. Somehow, this was all Moses' fault. If he had just not been so foolish, his father might have been home that night. He wanted to tell himself that it was the random violence of life that caused it, but it felt better to blame Moses. He was something that Marshall could see, talk to, hit if he wanted.

  Beatrice ended up in the hospital, shaking violently and unable to speak. Marshall sat in the waiting room, fighting off the urge to kill his brother.

  They had a funeral for Buford in a ceremony that Marshall thought would surely kill his mother. She survived the ordeal physically, but something in her had been buried with Buford, something that she had never gotten back.

  The murder investigation went on for three weeks after the funeral. A cop named Robert Cavanaugh was assigned to the case. Cavanaugh was a former autoworker and a good friend of Buford. He broke the silence of the suspects and arrested a man named Percy Vane as the shooter.

  Marshall remembered the day he came into their house with two plainclothes detectives, who seemed nervous to be in a black household. But Cavanaugh lived just a few streets over, and so he did most of the talking. He and Beatrice talked for over three hours about the case. Percy had killed Buford, but he'd try to get out of it by pleading self-defense.