Jessie Black Box Set 2

by Larry A Winters

  “I’m asking you if Lydia Wax left a suicide note.”

  “No, she didn’t. Now, you better explain your role in all this, or I’m going to get impatient and arrest you.”

  The threat was offered without much conviction, since everyone in the room knew that there was no basis for an arrest, and even if there were, a couple of detectives from Mendham Township, New Jersey, had no jurisdiction to arrest him in Philly.

  “I told you what my involvement is. I visited Ms. Wax to follow up on my old case. I thought it was interesting that she seemed to have a lot more money than she did three years ago. I questioned her a little bit, to see if she would say anything that might undermine her original claim of self-defense.”

  “What, you think she murdered the guy?”

  “Yes.” Leary had never said it out loud before, and now the certainty with which he did surprised him. “She murdered him. The self-defense claim was a cover. When you found her body, did you search her phone records? Had she called anyone immediately prior to taking the pills?”

  The look the two detectives gave each other told Leary everything he needed to know.

  “You found something suspicious, didn’t you?” Leary said. “What? A recently called number saved under a strange name? A second phone altogether?” The detectives looked at each other again. “It was a second phone, in addition to her main phone. One with prepaid minutes and not tied to an account, right? A burner. And I’m guessing whatever calls she made with it, those numbers led you nowhere.”

  “I think we’ve given you enough information already,” Chernin said. “Too much.” He got up from his chair. His partner followed suit. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Novak shot Leary an apologetic look, then walked to the door with the two New Jersey detectives. He said, “Good seeing you, Leary. Have a good night.” Then they were gone.

  Leary locked up after them. No note, he thought, but the timing of Lydia Wax’s suicide, and the presence of the burner phone, were as good as a confession to him. She’d killed Terry Resta, and a company called CBL Capital Partners had paid her to do it. Maybe it was time he spoke to someone at the company.

  24

  If Jessie had ever had any doubts about Emily Graham’s prowess as a detective, they were put to rest by the speed with which Graham obtained the license plate number of the Nissan Sentra from the parking lot outside Bistro Cannata. She’d taken Tito Vallez’s suggestion and run with it, finding two traffic cameras that had recorded the car after it had driven out of the lot minutes before the police had arrived at the scene of the shooting. The car—which had turned out to be silver—was registered to a person named Conrad Deprisco with an address in Center City.

  Jessie and Graham drove to the house in Graham’s unmarked car. The first time they reached the house, Graham drove past it and they both got a look at a small but attractive row house with a brick facade located on a quiet street in an upscale section of the city. Then Graham parked a block away.

  “I’m not sure you should come in with me,” Graham said.

  Jessie was already unbuckling her seatbelt. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Graham drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Her gaze seemed unusually intense, and her lips were pursed. “We don’t know much about this guy, Jessie. We don’t know what to expect.”

  They knew a little bit about him from the DMV database. He was eighteen, five-foot-eleven, with blue eyes. “Given his address, I doubt we’re dealing with a gangbanger,” Jessie said.

  “Yeah, well, he witnessed a shooting—saw a man die—and didn’t call the police or come forward with information. That’s not normal behavior.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. “Okay. That’s abnormal, I agree. But it doesn’t mean he’s dangerous.”

  “Maybe it does,” Graham said. “We’re both experienced enough to know what it means when a witness to a crime doesn’t come forward. It means they have something to hide.”

  “Yes, but not always related to the crime. I’m going with you.”

  Before Graham could object, Jessie opened the passenger-side door and climbed out of the car. She heard her friend breathe a curse before she exited the car on the driver’s side. Together, they walked the block to Deprisco’s house.

  Graham touched her arm as they neared the house. “If anything seems suspicious, you run. Got it?”

  Now that she was standing on the sidewalk, looking at the front door of the row house, Jessie felt a jolt of adrenaline and fear. Her breathing became shallow and rapid. She forced herself to take a deep breath.

  “Okay.” She understood Graham’s concern. Anything could happen in a moment like this. Nine times out of ten, a detective interviewed a potential witness without incident. But one time out of ten, something went wrong. The witness ran. Or he started a fistfight. Or he pulled a gun. As a lawyer, Jessie didn’t really belong here. But then again, Graham didn’t really belong here, either. Keeley was not her case.

  “Are you ready?” Graham said.

  “Yes.”

  Jessie tried to hide her anxiety, but a crack in her voice betrayed her. Graham turned to study her face. “You can still wait in the car, Jessie. You have nothing to prove to me.”

  “I know. I want to do this.”

  Graham sighed. “Okay. Let’s do it, then.”

  The detective climbed the steps to the front door and pushed the doorbell. Jessie stood beside her. When there was no response, Jessie almost laughed. All that nervous energy, and the guy wasn’t even home. But then the door opened and a middle-aged woman looked out at them.

  The woman was tall and well-dressed. Her hair—brown streaked with gray—looked like it had been recently styled. Her fingernails were neatly manicured. She wore simple but expensive-looking jewelry—a necklace, a bracelet, and several rings. “Can I help you?”

  Graham showed the woman her badge. “We’re looking for Conrad Deprisco. Is he here?”

  “I’m his mother, Irene Deprisco. What is this about?”

  “We’d like to talk to him.”

  “I understand that.” The wind picked up, whistling in Jessie’s ears. Irene Deprisco shivered, but did not budge from her place in the doorway. “I’m asking what it’s about.”

  “It’s a private matter,” Graham said.

  “I’m his mother.”

  “Conrad is eighteen,” Graham said. “He’s not a minor.”

  The woman continued to block their path. Her expression was stony. Jessie didn’t think Graham’s approach was going to get them very far with her, so she spoke up.

  “We should introduce ourselves. This is Emily Graham, a detective from the Philadelphia Police Department. I’m Jessica Black, from the district attorney’s office. It’s really important that we speak with your son. He’s not in trouble. We think he may have seen something and that he may be able to help us with an investigation. If he’s home, we’d really like to talk to him.”

  The woman seemed to study Jessie for a moment, as if deciding whether she could trust her. Jessie held her breath. After a few seconds, the woman said, “I suppose I don’t have much of a choice. Come inside.”

  She led them to a small family room and invited them to sit down on a couch. Then she left them there. Once her footsteps receded, the house seemed unnaturally quiet, especially after the windy conditions outside. Jessie took a breath and let her gaze wander the room. The furnishings looked old and expensive. A lot of dark wood.

  “This place reminds me of the waiting room in the funeral parlor where we had my uncle’s ceremony,” Graham said.

  “You probably shouldn’t share that with Ms. Deprisco.”

  “You don’t think that’s the ambiance she’s going for?” They exchanged a brief grin.

  Irene Deprisco returned a moment later with a skinny eighteen-year-old. “This is Conrad. You can talk to him, but I’m going to be here, too.”

  Jessie was relieved when Graham didn’t object. Persuading the woman to even let the
m into the house had been a challenge. It might not be wise to push her any more than they already had. She might push back, by demanding that they leave or calling a lawyer.

  Conrad bore little resemblance to his mother. Where she was all stiffness and formality, he was a slouching teen with tousled hair, stubble on his cheeks, and bare feet that extended from the torn cuffs of his jeans. Everything about him looked laid back except for his eyes, which seemed to watch Jessie and Graham with nervous caution. “What do you want to know?” He had a husky voice Jessie thought had probably served him well with his female classmates.

  “Have you ever been to a restaurant called Bistro Cannata?” Graham said.

  “Of course not!” his mother interjected. “Is this a joke? Conrad could barely afford an appetizer at a place like that.”

  “No offense,” Graham said, “but your family appears to be fairly well off.”

  “My husband and I are well off,” Irene corrected her. “Conrad is an unemployed kid. He’s not dining at the city’s finest establishments.”

  Jessie listened to the woman, but her attention was focused on Conrad’s face. The kid had flinched at the restaurant’s name. She leaned toward him. “Conrad, we know you were in the parking lot behind Bistro Cannata on Friday, October 14, the night Councilman Corbin Keeley was shot.”

  “That’s ludicrous,” his mother said. “You must have my son confused with someone else.”

  This was possible. All they really knew was that Conrad’s car had been in the parking lot—and they didn’t even know that for certain. But Conrad’s reaction when Graham had spoken the name of the restaurant seemed to indicate that they had the right person.

  “We have you on video,” Graham said. “From the surveillance camera of a jewelry store next to the parking lot. We know you were there, and we know you witnessed the shooting.”

  Conrad’s mother rounded on her son. “Is this true?”

  “No,” Conrad said. He shook his head vigorously, but he avoided making eye-contact with anyone in the room. “It wasn’t me. I’ve never been to that parking lot. I swear.”

  “You were there,” Graham said. Her voice sounded harsher now, edged with anger. “You were sitting in your car, a silver Nissan Sentra.” Graham rattled off the license plate number, and with each digit, more of the color seemed to drain from Conrad’s face. “Do you know what obstruction of justice is, Conrad? When you know something about a crime, but you refuse to cooperate with the police, you can be arrested and put in jail. Is that what you want?”

  Conrad looked at Jessie and Graham, then at his mother. An expression of helplessness entered his eyes.

  Graham let out an exasperated sigh. “Okay, I guess we’re going to have to place you under arrest.”

  “Now hold on a second,” Irene said. She threw a protective arm in front of her son. “You’ve obviously made a mistake. If I need to call our lawyer to sort this out, I will.”

  “That’s fine. Your lawyer will tell you the same thing I am about obstruction of justice. In fact, your lawyer will probably explain that you can be arrested, too.”

  “Me?” Irene Deprisco’s eyes widened with indignation.

  “Wait!” Conrad’s gaze bounced nervously between Graham and his mother. “Mom, maybe I could talk to the police in private?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Please, Mom. Just for a minute.”

  “Ms. Deprisco,” Jessie said. “Could you please get us the documentation on your son’s car? If you’re right and we’ve made a mistake, that might help clear it up.”

  The woman hesitated. She obviously wanted to stay and protect her son, but his pleading eyes, along with Jessie’s logic, seemed to sway her. She excused herself to retrieve the documents, giving Conrad a look of warning on her way out.

  As soon as she left the room, Jessie and Graham leaned toward the kid. “What is it you’re uncomfortable telling us in front of your mother?” Jessie said. “Does it involve drugs?”

  Conrad shifted his gaze to his bare feet. “It’s not like I’m a junkie or anything. I enjoy a little weed now and then. It’s relaxing, you know? And I can’t smoke at home or my parents would flip. I mean, you met my mom. Imagine.”

  “I understand,” Jessie said. “We’re not looking to get you into trouble. We’re only interested in the shooting. I’m an assistant district attorney and I am giving you my word that you will not be prosecuted for your marijuana use on the night of the incident.”

  Conrad nodded, seeming to relax a little. “Okay,” he said. A relieved breath hitched out of him. “Thanks.”

  “Did you see something that night?”

  “Yeah.” His face darkened, as if from an unpleasant memory. “Yeah, I did.”

  “What did you see?”

  Conrad let out a nervous laugh. “I saw everything.”

  25

  I saw everything.

  When Monday morning came, Conrad Deprisco’s words were still buzzing in Jessie’s head. Last week, all she’d had was circumstantial evidence that the shooting of Corbin Keeley had not been justified by self-defense—statements from witnesses who’d seen Keeley and Raines before the incident, findings from an autopsy performed after the incident. Now, she had something she knew the jury would find much more compelling—eye-witness testimony of the incident itself, from someone who’d been sitting in that parking lot when Raines pulled the trigger and who’d seen everything.

  And even the most jaded, closed-minded juror couldn’t ignore what Conrad had seen.

  She couldn’t wait to put Conrad on the stand, but using him came with risks. For one thing, Hughes was certain to object to the testimony being introduced at all. He would claim that Jessie was ambushing him with a surprise witness, even though she’d sent Hughes notice on Sunday, as soon as she’d realized what she and Graham had found.

  Assuming she could get past Hughes’s legal objections, she’d face other risks as well. The compressed time frame had given her almost no time to prepare the kid for court. Usually, she liked to assist key prosecution witnesses with witness prep—especially young, inexperienced witnesses like Conrad, for whom the processes, procedures, and customs of a courtroom would be entirely new. There was no telling how Conrad would act on the witness stand. If he avoided eye-contact with the jurors, or mumbled his answers, or made any of a hundred other potential mistakes, he might come off as furtive or deceptive.

  The biggest risk was cross-examination. Aidan Hughes would do everything in his power to discredit Conrad’s testimony, and it wouldn’t be hard to do. There was no avoiding the fact that Conrad had been in the parking lot because he was smoking marijuana. Hughes would try to make the jurors see the kid as a drug-addled miscreant. Jessie would need to help them see Conrad for the person she believed he was—a basically normal kid who’d witnessed something horrific and been convinced to overcome his fear and risk his reputation to tell the truth.

  In the end, she didn’t really have a choice about calling him as a witness. His testimony was the key to winning this case in both the courtroom and the court of public opinion. Looking at the seemingly useless video with Tito Vallez had been a desperate move, but it had paid off in a major way.

  When she arrived at the Criminal Justice Center, events played out pretty much as she’d anticipated. While the jury waited in their deliberation room, the media and spectators fought for seats, and Carrie and Nina took their usual places in the first row of the gallery, Jessie, Hughes, and Judge Armstrong met privately in the judge’s chambers to debate the admissibility of Conrad’s testimony.

  “Okay, counselors.” Armstrong reclined behind his desk. He clasped his hands over his chest and looked at them with a serious expression. His judicial robes hung from a hook on one of the wood-paneled walls, and dressed in a white shirt and red tie, he looked more like a businessman than a judge. That seemed appropriate, since he was all business now. “I read your briefs, which I appreciate both of you working on during your we
ekend, so let’s cut the rhetoric. I think the law favors Ms. Black on this one.”

  “Judge, with all due respect,” Hughes said, “I’d ask you to think about what’s fair to the defendant here, not just the letter of the law. Ms. Raines is entitled to a fair trial. We’ve had no time to prepare for this surprise witness.”

  “You’ve had just as much time as we have,” Jessie said. “As soon as we discovered the existence of this witness, we provided immediate notice.”

  “On a Sunday,” Hughes said. He turned to the judge, his expression imploring.

  Jessie said, “Just because you don’t like what he has to say isn’t grounds for excluding his testimony.”

  The judge raised his hands for quiet. “Mr. Hughes, have you reviewed the notice and discovery provided by the Commonwealth?” When the defense attorney did not answer immediately, Armstrong said, “I know you have, given the detailed arguments in your brief. There is precedent for introducing evidence at a late stage—especially crucial evidence like an eyewitness present during the commission of the act. You haven’t provided any argument to dissuade me from allowing this potentially critical evidence to be presented to the jury.”

  “Well, obviously, we reserve this issue for appeal,” Hughes said. “In the highly unlikely event that we don’t win this trial.” He shot Jessie a look that said he fully intended to prevail. She met his gaze without blinking.

  The judge nodded. “I think the jury has waited long enough. Let’s get to the courtroom.”

  Conrad Deprisco cleaned up well, and made a good first impression when he took his place on the witness stand. He’d shaved his stubble and combed his hair. In khaki pants, a light blue button-down dress shirt, and a navy sport jacket, he had a clean-cut, boy-next-door appearance. He looked trustworthy.

  Jessie saw her own impressions of Conrad reflected in the faces and body language of the jurors. The men and women in the jury box pivoted toward the witness with open expressions. A good start. She wasn’t about to get comfortable, though. Conrad’s nice clothes and boyish face wouldn’t get him very far once Hughes started pounding on him. Still, first impressions mattered, and she intended to make the best of the kid’s.