And now, the prosecution rests

The keys to the shackles of a serial killer. The fragments of a dead man's gun. A "Stop Snitching" street sign. Crime-scene photos and courtroom sketches. Mass cards and thank-you notes.

Into boxes it all went.

After a dozen years as a city prosecutor, a dozen years gutting out the worst of the worst cases, a dozen years in the voracious maw, Brendan O'Malley had decided to move on.

There is never an easy time to leave one's calling, and it was a decision the East Falls father of two had suffered through.

But life is short and Catholic school is expensive. A good job at a Jersey firm representing workers sickened by asbestos awaited.

He is 39 years old. He loved his job - for the opportunity to make a difference in his city. But it was time.

"It's an awful lot to keep," O'Malley said Thursday, packing up. But he kept it all anyway, because they represent the last vestiges from hundreds and hundreds of cases, his last ties to a Philadelphia many would rather pretend didn't exist. The Philadelphia he has come to know.

The Philadelphia where a mother and three of her children are mowed down by carjackers while selling fruit to raise money for their North Philadelphia church. Where a special-needs man is shot dead in a West Philly alleyway for his brand new Beats headphones.

Where a police officer in full uniform is gunned down while buying a video game for his son.

Where too many young men are more important in death - as stars of their own trials after their hearts were stopped by a bullet on some tattered street corner - than they ever were in life.

The Philadelphia where young men kill each other with such maddening ease.

Like Daniel Rasheed Johnson. O'Malley sent him away for life two years ago for murdering five people by the age of 19, all to make a name for himself in his North Philadelphia neighborhood. It was the key to Johnson's shackles that O'Malley kept.

O'Malley kept these vestiges close over the last 12 years, but couldn't let himself dwell on them. That's not a luxury afforded to Philadelphia prosecutors. There's just no time for it.

"It is justice at 100 m.p.h, but it is justice," he said, flipping through the pages of a leather-bound, ledger-sized journal filled with shorthand details from the 75 of his jury trials that went to verdicts, most of them from his time in homicide.

The last few months had been equally busy, with O'Malley bringing other prosecutors up to speed on his many cases. The last few weeks dedicated to talking in person to those he had grown close to through tragedy - the good people whose names appear at the bottom of the thank-you cards.

More often than not, it was their faith, O'Malley said, that pulled him through a case.

Like the extraordinary faith of Miss Melva.

Melva Pack's son, Antwan, was 20 and studying to be a teacher, when he was killed by a bullet meant for someone else in Francisville in 2012. Melva worked hard to help police catch her son's killer, tracking down reluctant witnesses and key information.

When trial came, O'Malley kept his promise that he would get justice.

With his office boxed and ready, O'Malley went to visit Melva on Thursday. To check in. To say that he was leaving the office but that she could still count on him if she needed him. They hugged. Miss Melva cried over her son, before heading back to her job as a caregiver.

And with that, O'Malley, who worked 12 years as a Philadelphia prosecutor, and who was good at it, went on his way.

215-854-2759@MikeNewall