5280 - The Michael Andre Standoff

Here's the sneak peek offered up by 5280 online.

On a crisp Friday morning in late February, Marlene Hogan pulled her Pontiac G6 to a curb in Cherry Creek. She was talking to a friend on her cell phone as she got out, grabbed her buckets, mop, and sweeper, walked up to the house on South Monroe Street, and rang the doorbell. Even though she'd been cleaning there for two years and had her own key, she liked to ring the bell so she wouldn't surprise anyone who might be home. No one came to the door, so she entered, put down her cleaning supplies, and sat down on the beige carpeted steps. One of the owners' Yorkie puppies, Lilly, sat at her feet, and Marlene petted the dog as she continued her conversation.

Moments later, she heard footsteps coming up the basement stairs. It must be Marie. Kayla would already be at school, and the man of the house would already be at his law office. Marlene stood up, looking down through the banister spindles toward the basement. She didn't see Marie's dark hair, though. It was a shaved head, the head of Michael Andre—"Andre" to his friends.

It had been a while since Marlene had seen him; he'd been extra busy lately with cases. The media attention on one of his clients—Willie Clark, a "person of interest" in the shooting of Bronco Darrent Williams—had finally subsided, but the 38-year-old Andre still had been working a double caseload.

Marlene was about to grab her stuff and move upstairs when Andre rounded the steps. A shortish 5 feet 7 inches or so, he was slim and only a little taller than her. He wasn't wearing a shirt—or shoes, for that matter. Just a pair of green basketball shorts. In his hands were two black pistols. As he walked forward, he pointed the guns at her head, stopping three feet from her. Speaking in a calm, quiet voice, he cocked the guns' hammers.

"Get the fuck out of my house."

Read the entire article at 5280