The brief lull left Abbey and Shea alone for a moment on the steps. They were saying their good-byes when Shea noticed Abbey looking over his shoulder. He turned and saw immediately who Abbey was looking at. Michael Conant was standing off in the distance, trying not to be seen by either them or the mass of reporters devouring his father’s defense team.
Shea and Michael locked eyes for just a moment. Under different circumstances, they might have liked one another. Shea watched as the defendant was led down the steps to a waiting car. He noticed that father and son barely acknowledged one another.
What he did not know was that they had already tended to business.
Harsh voices hurtled profanities against the cavernous cinder block walls. A word would be spit out and its fragments would reverberate for seconds. The crooks and jags of the unforgiving chambers would break and change the sounds, then fade them away. Threats, cries of fear, and protestations cascaded over one another. The cacophony punctuated only by the clank of metal doors slamming or the distant intermittent buzz of a warning signal. The discord built to a crescendo and then faded, leaving eardrums ringing in unaccustomed silence.
Jessica placed her cheek upon the cool wall of the cell as she lay curled in its farmost corner. She closed her eyes in an effort to hear one complete sentence, any sentence, before it was ripped apart by the chaos in the air. Minutes were filled with this game she used to keep herself focused, to keep herself sane. Panic attacks rolled over her like tidal waves. Concentrating on the vibrations that softly thudded against her cheek, the minutes slowed into hours. Each hour that she was aware of meant she remained rooted in reality and had not lost her grip on it. The time of day was marked only by the smells that crept along the corridors and into the cells. It was always long after the aroma of cheap food faded away that flimsy cardboard trays bearing the likeness of hard, cold meals would be pushed through the small door into her isolated chamber. She had stared at six such trays so far. That would mean she had been there for over a day and a half. Each tray was returned, untouched.
When she spoke with Shea, she had only been in her solitary cell for a few hours. At first, just being protected by thick steel reinforced walls felt comforting. She had even found humor in temporarily outwitting her pursuers. They had her where they wanted, but she was still untouchable. Her screamed statement to the press, as she was being marched up the steps of police headquarters, placed too hot a glare of attention on her for harm to befall her, yet. She was more than just slightly unhinged, so it was easy to assume she was a threat to herself. Smugness pulled at the corners of her mouth as uniformed police led her from confinement to the heavily guarded interview rooms and back again. It was only after spending the longest nights of her life in a cage surrounded by true insanity that the price of ‘safety’ bore down on her. She could hear nothing, learn nothing, about what was happening to her at Shea’s hands. The vacuum pulled at her brain and her heart pounded with anxiety.
The small metal door slid shut as the tray disappeared again. Splices of voices that reverberated against the walls were quieter now. The air was not as jammed with discord as it was earlier. Another day was closing behind her and Jessica was filled with dread at having to face another sleepless night in her shrinking cell. She replayed her conversation of last night with Shea in her head. He had said that she would know by now what the grand jury decided on the theory of Gus’ murder. If they believed Shea, then she would be free. If not, then she would be removed from her holding cell and transferred to another facility. The thought caused her chest to tighten. Shea said too much could happen during the actual transfer and settling into the larger jail. There were too many possibilities for problems.
Muffled footsteps shuffling along the cement floor trudged beyond the metal door at the end of the corridor. The blasts of profanity that escaped the mouths of other prisoners splintered past her ears, sounding louder in the growing stillness. It was time for them to be transported to the Charlestown jail for further holding. This ‘transport line’ is what she feared most. Her breath escaped in thin streams from pinched nostrils as her heart beat the air from her lungs. She pressed her ear against the hard wall for any more information the vibrations of sound would give her. The deep rumble of a transport van engine laboring up the garage’s ramp would tell her she would remain in that cell another night. Curled into a ball, the only movement on the small cot was a pulsing temple, keeping time to a pounding heart.
The sounds suddenly grew louder as the heavy door was flung open. Sharp heels clicked crisply toward her and stopped. A buzzer sounded as her door slid upon its tracks. The surprising flood of light made her eyes run with tears. The watery figure gradually sharpened into a uniformed guard.
The face was new to her and simply barked, “This way. Now.”
Jessica stood up slowly, straightened her back and thrust out her chin. She hoped that assuming an air of strength would help her shaking legs support her. Eyes catching with those of her guard, she strode forward and into the hall.
“Get in line.”
Obeying, she took the next to last position and stared at the back of a greasy head. The guard fell into place behind her. The other women in line looked at her with a business-as-usual lack of curiosity. The line walked down a corridor, shuffled around a corner and up a flight of stairs. At every hallway junction, a uniformed figure stood with one hand relaxing upon the open holster of their gun. It was nearing the end of the day for them too. The transport line was just one more annoying task to be performed before they could go home.
Jessica felt the air change as they walked up the stairs. The air was fresher and the temperature was dropping. The faint smell of automobile exhaust tinged her nostrils. The line of women was escorted to the garage where the van waited. She drew in a deep breath and waited for the next command.
A tall police officer with jet-black hair stepped forward. Sheets of paper rumpled upon a clipboard in front of him were quickly reviewed.
“Markham. Wyeth. Follow me.”
A girl with over-bleached hair and an attitude sauntered up to the officer. She gave him a long look and glanced at another officer, shorter and balding, who suddenly appeared at her side. The girl could not have been any older than eighteen, but already her face had hardened into the mask of the streets. It was obvious she was familiar with the routine. She followed the officer with the clipboard. Jessica hesitated for a moment and was wordlessly prodded by the balding officer who took up a position behind her. They were led away from the garage and through several more corridors.
It was the first time she realized that the other prisoners in line, as well as the young girl in front of her, all had their hands clasped securely behind them in cuffs. A shiver of fear ran through her, sharpening her senses. She brought her own uncuffed hands behind her back and intertwined her fingers together. The motion forced her into an imitation of the position of the girl. One unwarranted or unexpected motion from her might be enough to create an excuse for someone to shoot her. Jessica determined to move cautiously and slowly enough not to give anyone a reason to draw their weapon. She forced her hands together as tightly as she could.
She was ushered into a smaller room where several other people were milling about. The girl did not enter with her and was led away in the opposite direction. Only the balding cop entered and stood, bored, by the door. Jessica noticed that the room quieted somewhat when she was brought in. Heads bowed slightly as people took covert glances at her. They had seen her on the news. They wanted to get a good look at her in person.
The far end of the room was partitioned off with a glass enclosure. A small disk in the center of the window enabled a stone-faced woman to speak with the person on the other side of the counter. Behind the glass, other officers bustled about with files and other business. Jessica stood dumbly in the middle of the room, trying to understand what it was they were expecting her to do. She noticed a li
ne that had formed at the enclosure. No one would meet her eyes, thwarting any communication. Not knowing what else to do, she got in line with the rest of the people on her side of the partition.
She watched the transactions of those in front of her with mixed levels of shock and confusion. The contrast to what she had braced herself for made it impossible to believe her eyes. When her turn came, she imitated what she had seen the others do before her.
“Wyeth. Jessica Wyeth.” She stated her name clearly and looked directly at the woman behind the glass. After a few moments, a large brown envelope was shoved through a stainless steel drawer, much like the ones used by bank tellers at drive-up windows. Jessica took the package and the drawer recoiled.
She was still numb as she was led up several flights of stairs. The sound of voices increased and she could tell she was being led into the front lobby of the police station. The police officers looked at one another in cold silence as they thrust the last of her belongings at her and escorted her to the door. Jessica tried to read their faces and could not.
Numbness began to dissolve. Streetlights glowed in the evening light and the realization that she was being set free began to grow. She wanted to ask someone if this was real, but the expressions of the officers told her to get out. Just two days before, they had been heroes protecting the people. Today they were being regarded as pawns in a larger scheme. Not knowing who to blame, they placed the cause of their fall from grace on the resurrected heiress. Jessica looked into as many pairs of eyes as she could. Whether they were with the Charity or not was irrelevant. All the officers felt the public mockery of her being taken into protective custody and walled themselves against her. No words were really necessary to make it clear that they wanted her out of their station and out of their city. Fast.
She was more than happy to oblige them. This was it! This was the moment she wondered if it would ever happen. She was being set free. As Jessica Wyeth. Publicly. Free. Pulling on her parka, she smiled and thrust herself through the revolving doors. Spinning onto the top of the steps, a memory of being pulled by two policemen through a gauntlet of the press came to her. It took a moment before she realized that the memory blended with reality. A crowd of people hushed for a split second and she was again mobbed by the press. This time, she was not protected or guarded by any uniformed pitbulls. She was at the press’ mercy and they loved it.
Lights popped and flashed all around her as she mutely stared at the throng of reporters. They huddled in around her, each seeking the best vantage point on the smash story of the moment. Above the din of clattering equipment one could hear the universal thought. This woman was news. Everyone wanted to hear about her. Therefore, every one of them had to tell about her.
“How do you feel to be free?”
“Miss Wyeth! Over here! What was it like in custody?”
“Jessica! After so many years of running, what are you going to do?”
“Do you fear retaliation from members of the Charity?”
“What is your response to rumors that your family voluntarily supported the causes of the Charity?”
The questions pelted her and clogged her head. She opened her mouth and took a breath to answer one question, only to be stunned into silence by another. The cameras were loving it. The glamorous and defiant fugitive from the other night was tripping over herself in stammering disarray. The contrast was great. It would generate weeks of speculation as to what really happened to her in jail. The fact that it was solitary confinement played to an even meatier story. The hoard grew as it began to feed upon its own energy. Jessica’s eyes widened as the reporters converged on her. Thoughts muddled together in her sleep deprived head. She looked uncertainly from side to side, not knowing where to turn.
A strong arm reached out and surrounded her waist. Looking up at its owner, she was relieved to see Shea, flushed with the thrill of his victory. He pulled her close and placed his mouth down by her ear. “Sorry I’m late. There were things I had to do.” He turned his head to face the crowd. Jessica looked up at his strong profile. His hair was tousled into an unruly mop and eyes glowed a brilliant blue as he expertly handled the questions hurled at them. She could feel the infusion of energy this event gave him. Wearing only his suit and a scarf thrown on with barely half of a thought, he was immune to the cold wind which whipped the faces of the people on the granite steps.
“Miss Wyeth is thrilled at finally being vindicated from the shadow that has haunted her. It has been a horrendous experience, as you can each well imagine. When an innocent person gets caught in the world of organized crime, the first reaction is to hide in fear. It takes a person of extraordinary courage to fight back against such odds. We all owe Miss Wyeth a huge debt. Because of her strength and fortitude, a major criminal force is now exposed.”
He flung answers to the hungry crowd like a zookeeper hurtling raw meat at ravenous lions. The lions pounced on the morsels of information and sound bites he tossed them and roared for more. All the while using his voice and his body as a shield, he inched the trembling Jessica down the steps and along the quadrangle toward the waiting car.
He was so assured. No question rattled him and his ease translated into perfect cinematic charisma. Some reporters cursed under their breath at not getting the perfect shot that might suggest more than just a professional interest in the case. Others grabbed their personal miniature tape recorders and made a memo to themselves concerning a follow-up story to the attorney general’s run for the governor’s seat.
Gaining enough ground so that they were finally at the curb, Shea maneuvered them both into the back of a waiting car and scarcely had time to close the door behind them before it sped off. Shea patted the driver on the shoulder and smiled. Jessica turned and looked out the rear window to see several cars pull out behind them in close pursuit. Shea followed her gaze.
“Most of the cars are with us,” he said, answering her unspoken concern. “The others won’t be able to keep up with us.”
Jessica took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I just need to hear it from you. I need to hear that it’s over. That I’m free.”
Big, warm hands covered her own. “The Grand Jury found probable cause that Magnus conspired to kill Gus and was an accomplice to that murder. They handed down that indictment and an indictment against John Doe, for the actual murder. You are no longer a suspect in the murder of Gus Adams. You don’t have to hide from that anymore.”
Shea watched as she lowered her tear-filled eyes and steady herself with a deep breath. “Thank you,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Thank you.” She put her head on the back of the seat and closed her eyes once more. She let the moment and his words seep into her.
The car wove along Boston’s narrow streets and finally pulled up in front of a small hotel. They had ridden in silence and Jessica jumped when the driver barked at them to get out.
“This is it. We checked it out and the place is safe. We have more people coming in to cover it. You’re registered under ‘Mae Whitcomb.’” That said, the driver pulled the car back into traffic and drove away.
She went through the motions of registering at the front desk and did not break the silence until the hotel room door shut behind them. The lapse of time was enough to get her anger into a full roil. She spun around and locked Shea in her sights.
“Wait a second! I thought you said I didn’t have to hide anymore! What’s this surveillance crew you have coming over? Why the fake name? I want some answers!”
Jessica was fighting to control her rage. This was not the way she imagined her first moments of freedom were going to be like. She was just supposed to walk down the street and leave the past on the police station’s steps. Freedom for her lasted less than ten minutes. Pseudonyms and bodyguards were not what she had in mind.
Shea threw a small satchel down on the bed and walked toward the window. He pulled the drapes shut and adjus
ted the heat. His body was outlined against the faint light coming up from the streetlights below. He did not look at her when he spoke.
“You are free, Jessica, but only up to a point. You don’t have to run from a murder charge anymore and you can now be ‘Jessica Wyeth,’ if you want.” He played for time by adjusting the curtains after looking at the street below. The right words were not coming easily to him. “This is far from over for you. The fact of the matter is that you are a key witness in a murder trial. You can identify the murderer. You were the only eyewitness to the crime that may truly be the death knell for the Charity, but certainly is for Magnus Connaught. I know it and they know it too.” He looked down and fumbled absently with the controls on the ancient heater. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Is that it? You’re ‘sorry’?” Her rage blasted across the room. The force of it made Shea flinch. “I thought this was all going to be put behind me! No more running. No more lies. I want my life back.”
“You will get your life back. You already do. It’s just that you need to be very careful until the trial is over. You can go into our witness protection program. They—”
He could not get the words out of his mouth when he was stopped cold, mid sentence. Jessica looked at him with icy disbelief. Her voice was lowered and her words were spoken with overdone pronunciation to get her point across. “No more hiding. No more running.”
He looked at her and drew in a breath. “Jessica. There is one more wild card in this whole equation. I’m not sure how it fits in, but you have to know about it.”
“Stop it! Damn you! Just stop it!” The last thread of her composure snapped and she was clearly unhinged by the turn of events. She nearly screamed the words at him. Her tone of voice took them both by surprise. Her eyes widened. She placed her hands up in front of her like a shield. “Not yet. Don’t tell me anything more tonight. I can’t think about this anymore right now.”
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