Jessie Black Box Set 2

by Larry A Winters

  “I don’t know if he was drinking. I don’t remember.”

  “We have a witness I would be happy to call on rebuttal—your waiter, Greg Clifford. Do you think calling Mr. Clifford to the stand would help you refresh your memory?”

  “Objection!” Hughes said.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Raines said. She was talking over her lawyer’s objection, a good sign that Jessie had her flustered.

  “But your story has changed, correct?” Jessie said

  “Yes.”

  “In your statement to the police, did you claim that Mr. Keeley yelled at you in the restaurant?”

  “I was describing what it felt like.”

  “But today, you testified that he was quiet. More inconsistencies. But you probably never expected anyone to look too closely at your story, did you?”

  “Objection. Your Honor….” There was a note of pleading in Hughes’s voice.

  “Sustained,” Armstrong said. “Save your conclusions for closing arguments, Ms. Black. If you have no more questions for the witness….”

  “I have a few more, Your Honor. Ms. Raines, why didn’t you break up with Mr. Keeley over the phone?”

  “What?”

  “You testified that you ended the relationship at a restaurant because you felt safer doing it in a public place. But wouldn’t a phone call have been the safest alternative?”

  “It seemed … it seemed like something I needed to do face-to-face.”

  “Really? You were so frightened of Mr. Keeley that you brought a gun with you, but your concern for his feelings was so powerful that you put your life at risk to meet him in person when you could have called him? Is that what you’re telling the jury today?”

  “I—”

  “Yes or no, Ms. Raines.”

  “Yes, I guess.”

  “And speaking of the gun, I just want to clarify something. You testified that you are very comfortable with guns, correct? That you’ve been using guns for most of your life, as a sport?”

  “Yes.”

  “As part of this hobby, did you ever receive safety training?”

  “Of course.”

  “I own a gun, too, Ms. Raines. When I had safety training, my instructor told me I should never aim my gun at a person unless I intended to kill that person. Did you ever receive similar advice?”

  Jessie was taking a risk asking a question she did not know the answer to, but she figured the answer would benefit her case whether it was a yes or a no. If Raines denied having received that advice, she might appear as a careless gun owner. If she admitted to having received it, she would be showing a premeditated intent to kill.

  Raines hesitated, seeming to sense the danger. Her brow furrowed. “Yes. I was taught that, too.”

  “But you brought your gun to Bistro Cannata. So you must have anticipated killing Mr. Keeley.”

  “Objection,” Hughes said. “That’s not a question.”

  “Do you carry your gun to your job at the Children’s Hospital?” Jessie asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you carry it when you go grocery shopping?”

  “No, I—”

  “But you brought it to your dinner with Mr. Keeley. Did you do that because you were terrified that he might put you in a situation where you would have to kill him in order to save your own life?”

  “Yes! I was afraid….”

  “But you weren’t sufficiently afraid to break up with Mr. Keeley over the phone, or just to cut off all communication with him and report his threatening behavior to the police?”

  “No, I—”

  “In fact, you never went to the police for help, did you, until after you’d shot and killed Mr. Keeley?”

  “No.”

  “You testified that Mr. Keeley gave you a swollen lip. Do you have any photographs that show you with that injury, or any other injury you claim Mr. Keeley inflicted?”

  “No.”

  “You claim that Mr. Keeley threw a rock at you, but an eyewitness who was watching you in the parking lot testified that Mr. Keeley didn’t throw the rock. He testified that you threw the rock after you shot Mr. Keeley. Did you throw that rock to create evidence to support a self-defense claim?”

  “No!”

  Jessie paused, letting the exchange hang in the air of the otherwise silent courtroom. In the jury box, the jurors continued to lean forward, but the focus of their hostility shifted—at least for the moment—to the woman who Jessie hoped now seemed significantly less credible. She figured she’d pushed Raines as far as she could. “I have nothing further for this witness.”

  As she returned to her seat, the courtroom exploded with a babble of conversation. The judge hammered his gavel until the room quieted.

  “Mr. Hughes, will the defense redirect?”

  Hughes looked too stunned to respond. A second later, he stood up, nodding. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  He approached Raines, who looked rattled from Jessie’s cross-examination. “Ms. Raines, did you give the jury an honest account of what happened on the night of October 14?”

  “Yes, I did.” Her voice rose, sounding almost shrill.

  “The prosecution pointed out some differences between the statement you gave police and the testimony you offered today. Is it possible that there were differences because you were so afraid, so upset on the night of the shooting, that you got details wrong?”

  “Objection,” Jessie said. “Mr. Hughes is leading the witness.”

  “I agree,” Judge Armstrong said. “Don’t put words in Ms. Raines’s mouth.”

  Hughes’s jaw flexed. “Ms. Raines, why did you shoot Mr. Keeley?”

  “Because I was afraid for my life. I shot him in self-defense.” Raines looked at the jury. The jurors looked back at her, but not with the receptive expressions they’d worn earlier.

  Jessie studied the jurors’ faces. She could tell she’d succeeded in converting some of them to her side, but she needed more than some. For a guilty verdict, she needed all of them. Her instincts told her she didn’t have that. Her cross-examination had been effective, but it hadn’t been enough.

  Brooke Raines was going to walk.

  32

  Leary worked late. He had to—he’d spent so much time recently on his private investigations of Lydia Wax and CBL Capital Partners that he’d let his real work pile up unfinished. By cramming for hours into the night, he’d managed to catch up a little bit, but eventually, hunger and exhaustion had gotten the better of him. It was time to go home.

  You don’t deserve to rest. You deserve to be fired.

  Leary gritted his teeth as he rode the elevator down to the ground floor of the Acacia building. That’s all I need, to lose another job. Establish a nice pattern. Jessie will be thrilled.

  The elevator doors opened and he stepped out into the lobby. It was dark, with only minimal lighting to help him find his way to the door. He walked outside, where his car was one of a handful left in the parking lot.

  You won’t get fired, he told himself. Not unless you make a habit of shirking your duties. And you’re not going to make a habit of it. This Lydia Wax thing is a special case, a one-time deal.

  But was it? Or a few weeks from now, would something else remind him of some other unsolved case from his past, sending him off on a quest to solve that one? Was he becoming one of those pathetic ex-cops who couldn’t leave the job behind? Would he spend the rest of his life as a wannabe, pretending he was still a detective?

  He reached his car but didn’t open the door. He looked down at his reflection in the driver’s side window and shook his head. No, he wouldn’t let that happen. His life was too good right now to jeopardize everything. He didn’t need to live in the past, not with a good job and a wonderful woman in his present. His interest in Lydia Wax was unique, unfinished business that he’d needed to handle, but as soon as that business was done, he would—

  He pulled his keys from his pocket, and was about to press the button to
unlock his car when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. He wasn't alone.

  Pain exploded in the center of his back. The force smashed him forward against the side of his car. Then there was more pain screaming across his scalp as someone grabbed his hair and yanked him backward. Through his spinning vision he saw two men. One of them—who must have kicked him in the back and then dragged him backward by his hair—now held him from behind. Leary couldn’t see his face, but he could tell the man was massive. The arms squeezing his torso were thick and bulging with muscle, and he could sense that the man’s head loomed far above his—the guy had to be well over six feet tall.

  The second man, smaller and rangier, came in quick. He punched Leary’s stomach, then his face. Pain and blood blurred his vision. He felt a cut open on his cheek.

  “Your wallet, asshole!”

  Leary stared, uncomprehending, and felt his mind begin to cloud with shock. He mentally shook off the numbness. Stay calm. Stay focused. He was being mugged. He could deal with muggers. The man reared back to hit him again, this time in the ribs. Leary took the punch and gasped.

  “It’s … in my … back pocket,” he managed.

  Neither man moved for his wallet. The man with the eager fists seemed to be choosing his next attack. Leary braced himself for it, and at the same time, tried to wriggle free of the bigger man behind him. Leary’s arms were pinned to his side, but….

  The man in front of him threw a punch to Leary’s side. Leary moved with the blow, letting the momentum slam him backward into the man behind him. The vise-like grip on his body loosened, and Leary got his right arm free. He drove his fist back and up and felt it connect with the man’s nasal bones. The man howled. Hot blood splashed the back of Leary’s head.

  Free of the giant’s hold, he pressed his back to the side of his car so they couldn’t surround him again. His right hand dove toward his hip, but his fingers closed around nothing. He wasn’t wearing his gun. As an executive at Acacia, carrying a weapon had simply been unnecessary, and his colleagues had seemed relieved when he’d stopped bringing it to work.

  The bigger man—Leary could see his full height now, and judged him to be at least six-foot-five, and maybe two-hundred-and-fifty pounds—was bent at the waist with his hands on his face, cradling a broken nose. Blood dripped from his cupped hands. The other man seemed to have lost interest in throwing punches. He pulled a knife from his pants and came toward Leary with the wiry, erratic energy of an addict.

  Fight or run?

  He hated the thought of running from a couple of low-life muggers like this pair, but with no weapon, the odds were not in his favor. “Here!” He dragged his wallet out of his back pocket and threw it as far across the parking lot as he could. “Take it!”

  The wiry man ran for the wallet. Leary twisted around and grabbed the door handle of his car. Locked. He pawed his pocket for his keys and realized he didn’t have them. He’d been holding them when the men ambushed him. He looked around, spotted them on the pavement six feet away.

  “You got my money,” Leary said, taking a step toward his keys. “Now get out of here—”

  The giant advanced on him and seized his sides with rough hands. He felt his feet leave the pavement. Then he was flying. The ground rushed up to meet him and pain jolted through his knees and palms and chin. He tried to roll over to face his attackers and get his bearings. He was even further from his car keys.

  So much for running.

  The wiry man with the knife was already coming back, stuffing Leary’s wallet into his pants as he walked. That seemed strange to Leary. Criminals could be unpredictable, but as a general rule, muggers took off after getting your money. These two seemed almost uninterested in his wallet. They looked much more interested in beating the crap out of him—or worse. It dawned on him that he might be in a lot more danger than he’d initially thought. He ran his hand over the ground, searching for loose dirt or rocks, anything he could fling into the faces of the men coming toward him. His palm passed over nothing but flat, smooth pavement.

  “Back off!” he yelled, hoping someone might hear him. He doubted anyone would, though. His was one of the only cars in the lot, and the building was in an area of the city that emptied out after business hours were over.

  He needed to stand. He got to his feet, legs wobbling beneath him, and faced the men. The smaller man with the knife got to him first. The blade glinted, and Leary felt panic bubble in his stomach. Stay calm. The knife looked wicked, but Leary’s leg was longer than the guy’s arm. He kicked out with his left foot. His shoe connected with the side of the man’s knee. The blow knocked the man off balance and he fell. Leary heard the knife clink against the pavement as the man dropped it to use his hands to break his fall.

  Leary felt a wave of relief, but it was short-lived. The giant was on him in the next second, roaring curses from his blood-caked face. Leary thought the indistinct words were “I’m gonna kill you!” but the distortion caused by the broken nose made it hard to be sure.

  Leary straightened the fingers of his right hand into a flat, blade-like shape, then lashed out at the giant’s neck. He hit the side of the neck, a move he hoped would stun the man. It seemed to work, at least for the moment. He followed it up with the kick to the man’s balls and watched the big man fold.

  Both of his attackers were on the ground, but they would recover soon. Leary was breathing hard as he ran to his keys and swept them off the ground. In seconds, the men were coming toward him again, but they seemed to advance more cautiously this time.

  Definitely not a run-of-the-mill mugging. These guys hadn’t come for his money. Someone had sent them.

  “You guys work for CBL?” Leary said. “Funny, you don’t look like financial types.”

  The smaller man lunged forward with the knife. Leary knocked his arm aside and deflected the weapon. Its blade whistled past his left ear, but didn’t touch him. Leary countered with the only weapon he had—his keys. He swept them across the man’s face, scratching his eyes. The man screamed and danced backward.

  Leary got his car door open and slid inside. He pulled the door shut and locked it just as the bigger man grabbed the handle. Leary watched as the giant actually tore the door handle off of his car. Leary started the engine as the man tossed the door handle over his shoulder. The big man’s fist slammed into the driver’s side window. The sound was like a thunder clap in the car, but the glass held. Leary hit the ignition and pressed his foot to the pedal. The car jerked forward. The big man stumbled away.

  His tires screeched as Leary sped out of the parking lot. Driving with one hand, he fumbled his phone out of his pocket and called 911.

  33

  Detective Emily Graham sat behind her computer in the Homicide Division squad room, straining her brain to come up with something that could help Jessie. Earlier in the day, she had only made it halfway through the cross-examination of Conrad Deprisco before she hadn’t been able to take it anymore. As each question Aidan Hughes asked further humiliated and discredited the kid, she felt a growing sense of claustrophobia. She felt for the kid—and for Jessie—but there was nothing she could do to help from a seat in a courtroom gallery. So she’d slipped out of the courtroom as quickly and unobtrusively as possible, whispering a string of quiet apologies as she moved down the pew-like bench toward the exit, to try to help from the Roundhouse instead.

  But she’d come up empty here, as well. Now, she took a deep breath of stale air. It was late. She had the squad room almost to herself. Almost.

  “You moonlighting now, Graham? Working on cases that aren’t even assigned to you?”

  She let out a sigh and turned. Kyle Fulco stalked toward her workspace. The detective’s usually laconic expression had been replaced by a clenched jaw and a red tinge to his skin. Graham rose from her chair as he came toward her. She became very aware that the two of them were alone. She staggered back a step, but recovered quickly, planting her feet and standing her ground. She wasn�
��t going to be intimidated by Full-of-shit Fulco.

  “I’m a detective,” she said. “You should try it sometime.”

  “A detective for the defense, maybe. Great job. You really helped them out. Hope you’re charging that guy Hughes a good fee.” His raised voice seemed to echo in the empty bullpen.

  “Jessie asked for my help.”

  “Maybe I should be talking to her then, huh? Or maybe her boss?”

  “If you’re looking for someone to blame, look at yourself. Jessie wouldn’t have needed to call me if you’d been doing your job. But I guess you couldn’t be bothered.”

  Fulco’s teeth flashed, and he looked like he might snap at her, but at the last moment, his face seemed to collapse into a miserable frown. He turned away from her, brought a hand to his jaw, and rubbed his mouth. Quietly, in a muffled voice, he said, “Damn it.”

  “It’s one thing being made fun of in the department,” Graham said. She was angry now and the words flowed out of her. “They call me names, too. That’s how cops are. I get it. Some jerk thought he was clever when he called you Full-of-shit Fulco, and the name stuck. But do you have to prove them right, time after time? I mean, Jesus Christ, Kyle. Do you really aspire to being lazy?”

  Fulco shook his head, and she realized she’d misread him. He was angry, yes, but there was another emotion there, too. Shame. “I wish it was laziness, okay? I wish I was living up to my nickname. The truth is worse. I wasn’t lazy, Emily. I was stupid. I believed her. I believed every word Brooke Raines told me when I interviewed her after the shooting. I bought her story, beginning, middle, and ending, and that’s why I closed the case before I found the truth.”

  Graham took a breath. The confession seemed to have deflated the man. Her anger ebbed, too. “But now you know she lied to you,” she said.

  “Yeah.” Fulco met her stare. “Now I know, when it’s too late to do anything.”

  “It’s not too late. What happened in court today was a setback, but it wasn’t a verdict. It isn’t over yet.”