Jessie Black Box Set 2

by Larry A Winters

  Leary nodded as he saw where Jessie was going. “A plea bargain. She testifies against Goyle, Whittaker, and the other people who hired her to kill Keeley, and we take death off the table.”

  Jessie nodded and looked at Warren. “What do you think?”

  “I’m okay making a deal with her, if it means getting the ringleaders. But do you really think you can scare her enough to negotiate with us?”

  “I shook her up pretty badly on cross-examination. She’s not nearly as confident as she was when the trial started. Once I tell her we know about the murder-for-hire arrangement, and threaten to amend the charges, I think she might panic.”

  There were thoughtful nods around the table.

  Warren sighed deeply. “Do it.”

  38

  Jessie faced Brooke Raines and Aidan Hughes across a table in a room down the from Judge Armstrong’s courtroom. The space was tight, claustrophobic, barely large enough for its spartan furnishings. It was also too warm, and the smell of a previous occupant’s perfume lingered in the air. The discomfort was a plus, as far as Jessie was concerned—a demonstration of the squalor of the penal system and a reminder of what was at stake. She placed a legal pad on the table. The wooden surface was oily and gouged with initials and graffiti. Raines seemed reluctant to touch it. She sat a good six inches back from its edge, and kept her hands in her lap.

  Hughes didn’t seem to share his client’s aversion. He placed both hands on the table and leaned aggressively forward. “This deal is an insult. Life in prison? Why would we even consider taking that? Maybe you haven’t noticed, but the jury doesn’t appear to be on your side.”

  Jessie sat back in her chair. “The circumstances have changed. We know your client’s real motive now. We know the shooting was a murder for hire.”

  “You haven’t proven it in court.”

  “Not yet. Have you explained to your client what the term ‘aggravated circumstances’ means?”

  By the fear she saw in Raines’s eyes, Jessie was pretty sure he had.

  “You think that’s enough to make life without the possibility of parole an attractive option?” Hughes bit out the words.

  “That’s up to your client.” She looked at Raines.

  “I shot Corbin in self-defense,” Raines said. “I’m innocent.”

  “I don’t think you are,” Jessie said, “and if we don’t reach a deal today, I’m going to introduce the jury to a lot of new evidence we’ve discovered about one of Keeley’s upcoming city council votes and a company called CBL Capital Partners.”

  Hughes brayed a laugh, but it sounded forced, and the expression on his face showed his uncertainty. “If you were really confident you could do that, we wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  “If the only person I were interested in convicting was Brooke Raines, you’d be right.” Jessie kept her voice level. She needed to be convincing, and she couldn’t let Hughes figure out how close his words had come to the truth. “But luckily for her, I want her co-conspirators, too. Especially the ones who set this crime in motion. That’s the reason we’re sitting here.”

  Hughes turned to Raines and shook his head. “I think she’s bluffing.”

  Jessie locked her gaze on Raines. “Easy for your lawyer to say. He gets to go home either way. You don’t, Brooke. The jurors are already starting to doubt your story. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel their suspicion in there, when you were on the witness stand. Don’t tell me you didn’t see the distrust dawning in their eyes. Now imagine how those jurors will react when they learn you had a financial motive for shooting Keeley. Are you as confident as your lawyer that they will still be on your side? Do you want to take that chance on a charge of murder with aggravated circumstances? Do you know how death row inmates are executed in Pennsylvania?”

  Raines blanched to a paler shade of white. Before she could speak, Hughes said, “You made your point, Jessie.”

  “Good. Because this is critical. Brooke, I want the people who are really behind Corbin Keeley’s murder—people who believe they don’t have to play by the rules, who think they can get away with anything. They’re the people who should be on trial, facing a jury, and I’m willing to make a deal with you to get them. I’m willing to spare you from the death penalty. But if you won’t help me, I’ll make sure you get the sentence you deserve.”

  Raines and Hughes exchanged a glance. Hughes said, “We have a strong case—”

  “That’s what you keep saying, but I saw the way those jurors were looking at me.”

  “Is there something you can tell me about the people who orchestrated Corbin Keeley’s death?” Jessie said.

  Hughes placed a hand on Raines’s forearm, stopping her before she could respond. His gaze turned to Jessie. “Anything Brooke says now is purely hypothetical.”

  “Understood,” Jessie said.

  Hughes looked at his client. “Go ahead.”

  “These people are dangerous,” Raines said.

  “We can protect you.”

  Raines’s face twisted with misery. She looked at her lawyer. “What should I do?”

  She looked helpless, almost childlike, and Jessie felt a sudden pang of sympathy for her. She forced herself to remember that Brooke Raines was no one to feel sorry for. She was a killer, and one who’d done it for money. She was as cold-blooded as they came.

  Hughes sighed. “It’s your call. If you turn down the Commonwealth’s offer, I still believe the jury will acquit you. On the other hand, there are no guarantees at trial, and the stakes are high. If we lose, you’re probably looking at an execution. You need to decide whether you’re willing to take that risk.”

  Raines turned back to Jessie. “Can I have some time to think about it? Before I make a final decision?”

  “There’s no time,” Jessie said. “Judge Armstrong isn’t going to allow us to hold up his trial schedule any longer.”

  “Give her one night,” Hughes said. “Let her sleep on it. We’ll have an answer for you tomorrow morning.”

  Jessie hesitated, then let out a breath. “I can agree to that. But I need an answer first thing in the morning. Otherwise, we’ll proceed with the trial and let the jury make the final decision.”

  “Thank you,” Raines said.

  Raines and Hughes rose from the table. Jessie watched them leave the room. Once she was alone, she wondered if she’d made the wrong decision giving Raines the night to think it over. Raines was under house arrest. In the comfort of her apartment, would the threat of a death penalty verdict seem as real? There was no point second-guessing herself now. She gathered her things. One way or the other, she’d have her answer tomorrow.

  39

  That night, like every night since she’d become involved with this case, Jessie tossed and turned. Her mind refused to stop fretting over the details of the trial. Leary slept beside her, a motionless form in her bed. She resisted the temptation to wake him and talk to him. That would only ruin his sleep and wake her up even more. She flipped her pillow over, pressed her face to the cool side, and closed her eyes. Would she ever have a good night’s sleep again?

  Her phone vibrated on the nightstand. Who could that be? She propped herself up on one elbow and swept up the phone. The name on the screen was Kyle Fulco.

  “This is Jessie.” She spoke quietly, trying not to wake Leary.

  “Sorry to call so late,” Fulco said. “I thought you would want to know. About twenty minutes ago, the service center computer received a notification from the receiving unit in Brooke Raines’s apartment. Her ankle monitor was tampered with.”

  “What?” Jessie sat up straight. She had a basic understanding of how ankle monitors worked. The devices were designed to enforce house arrest. A black box secured to a tether around the person’s ankle sent out a radio frequency signal at timed intervals to a receiving unit, which then relayed the information through a cellular network to a computer monitored by the police. The devices had been in use for decades, and the latest techn
ology was very difficult to circumvent. Any attempt to tamper with an ankle monitor set off warning alarms at the PPD, which was apparently what had happened tonight.

  “What’s going on?” said a groggy voice beside her. Leary’s head was still on his pillow, and his eyes were half-open. “Who are you talking to?”

  “It’s Fulco.”

  “I’m at her building now,” Fulco was saying. “We found the ankle bracelet on her kitchen floor. Looks like she cut the tether with a knife. She's not here.”

  “Jess, what’s going on?” Leary said. He sat up. The sheet fell away from his bare chest. She saw his bruises even in the darkness of the bedroom, large dark splotches against his pale skin. “Is it about Raines?” he said.

  Jessie nodded. Raines should never have been allowed to remain under house arrest during the trial. She was a killer, and all killers were flight risks. But the bail commissioner had been lulled into a false sense of security by the self-defense claim, and Jessie had not tried to revisit the issue after the trial began, believing it would be a lost cause and that her time and energy were better spent on other battles. She regretted that decision now.

  “Is there anything in her apartment that would give us any clue where she would run?” she said.

  “Her keys are here, and her car is on the street, so we know she’s on foot. I mean, unless she has access to another vehicle, or someone picked her up, or—”

  “Is there a computer?”

  She heard the sound of Fulco moving around the apartment. “Yeah, there’s a laptop. I’m turning it on.”

  “Open her web browser and check the history.” Jessie crossed her fingers. Many perpetrators—even careful ones—made the mistake of researching their crimes on the web and not clearing their search histories. She hoped Raines might have made a similar mistake, especially if she’d been rushing.

  “Good idea,” Fulco said. “Here we go.”

  Jessie was already out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans. She saw Leary watch her for a second, then yawn and climb out of bed himself and search around in the dark for his clothes.

  “What did you find?” Jessie asked Fulco.

  “A train schedule for SEPTA.”

  SEPTA was the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority, the regional public transportation agency in charge of trains and other public transit services in and around Philadelphia. “Can you tell which destination she was looking up? Or which station she was planning to depart from?”

  “I can’t tell. The page she was looking at lists all the stations.”

  Jessie took a breath. Each minute that passed reduced their chances of catching Brooke Raines before she vanished. She needed to think. Raines’s apartment was located near the Penn Center area of Philly. The closest train station to her home was Suburban Station at 16th and JFK. But Suburban Station was a small commuter station with only about eight tracks. If Raines wanted access to all destinations—and a better chance at fleeing the state—Philly’s main train station, Thirtieth Street Station, wasn’t that much farther away, across the Schuylkill River on Market Street.

  “Since you’re already in the area, check Suburban Station,” Jessie said. “I’ll check Thirtieth Street Station.”

  “What do you mean, you’ll check it? You shouldn’t be running around—”

  “I’ve got Leary with me,” she said, cutting him off. “We don’t have time to argue about this. Look for her at Suburban Station and check in with us when you’re there.”

  She listened to his breathing as he hesitated, but then he said, “Be careful. I’’ll call you back soon.” The line disconnected.

  “You get all that?” Jessie said to Leary.

  She assumed he must have picked up enough of the conversation to fill in the rest, because he was sitting on the side of the bed, loading his gun.

  “You’re carrying again?” she said.

  “Two guys try to kill you in a parking lot, you start to take personal defense a little more seriously. And I thought it might come in handy.”

  Jessie nodded. “Let’s hope we don’t need it.”

  Although Amtrak owned the building, Thirtieth Street Station was also the hub for SEPTA’s local rail lines and ground transportation, as well as New Jersey Transit. The building, seven-hundred feet long and over three-hundred feet wide, covered two city blocks and was a Philadelphia landmark.

  On a typical day, twenty-five-thousand commuters passed beneath its high ceilings. But when Jessie and Leary pushed through the automatic doors just before midnight, the place was so silent she could hear the patter of her sneakers on the floor. A handful of people loitered in the mostly empty space, waiting for the final departures.

  Ticket machines waited for the morning rush. A maze of fast food restaurants, coffee shops, and newsstands loomed in the shadows, secured for the night behind locked gates. In the train station’s high-ceilinged center, an electronic board dutifully listed the departures. There were only a few left—the final trains of the night.

  Around the departures board, a handful of people sat on pew-like benches. Two half-asleep college students, some homeless people under filthy blankets. A bored-looking transit cop walked past the statue at the other entrance. His glazed eyes snapped into focus just long enough to give Jessie and Leary a once-over before he returned to his trance.

  “I don’t see her.” Leary looked grim.

  “Maybe Fulco will find her at Suburban Station.”

  “Or maybe she’s not even taking a train. Maybe she left that search history on her computer to throw us off the trail. Or maybe she checked the train schedule but then decided on a different plan.”

  Jessie chewed her lip. Those were all possibilities. Brooke Raines could be anywhere. And if they lost her now, not only would she escape punishment, but so would Luther Goyle and the other people who’d orchestrated the murders of Corbin Keeley and Terry Resta.

  “Look over there!” Leary said suddenly. Jessie followed his pointing finger to a shape flitting behind a stone column in the shadows near the deserted ticket booths. “Shit, she saw us.”

  Leary broke into a run before Jessie could even find the person he’d pointed at. When she saw the blonde hair, she knew it was Raines running for the doors at the other end of the station.

  She grabbed her phone and called Fulco. On the line, he said, “Did you find her? I hope so, because the only people at Suburban Station are a couple of homeless men.”

  “She’s here,” Jessie said as she broke into a run, following Leary. “Thirtieth Street Station. Leary’s chasing her. We need help.”

  “I’ll radio dispatch.”

  Jessie saw Raines shove her way through the doors at the other end of the train station, followed seconds later by Leary. Jessie followed. Cold November air hit her face, along with the sounds of car engines and the roll of tires on Route 76, surprisingly loud for the late hour. The air was damp, chilly, and heavy with the smells of exhaust and the Schuylkill River.

  She turned right. Leary was a barely discernible figure in the distance. Raines was gone, swallowed whole by the murk. Jessie wasted no time. At least she had one thing going for her—at her apartment, she’d put on sneakers instead of her usual heels. Within minutes, she overtook Leary, whose limp seemed to be getting worse.

  “You okay?” she said.

  “Not really. I guess those guys did more damage than I realized.” His speed slackened and he dropped a pace behind her as she pushed harder and left him gasping in her wake.

  “Wait,” he said, “don’t put yourself ... in danger.”

  The word caught her off-guard, and she realized what she was doing—chasing a murderer through the city in the dead of night. She hesitated, losing some speed, but didn’t stop. Whatever the danger, she couldn’t let Raines get away.

  “Jessie ... wait!”

  She risked a glance over her shoulder. Leary gained on her. A moment later, they were running side by side. She looked forward again, just in time
to see Raines cut around a corner. The blonde was running down the ramp toward Route 76. Jessie heard a screech of brakes, a long, angry honk. A car must have swerved around Raines.

  “She’s gonna be roadkill before we can ... get to her.” Leary was panting.

  Jessie grabbed his arm, yanked him out of the way just in time to avoid a Lincoln that shot past.

  “Come on,” she said. They ran down the decline of the ramp. No cars barreled into their path, though judging by the screeches and horns punctuating the traffic sounds, Raines was disrupting traffic ahead.

  They emerged onto 76. Lanes of cars rocketed toward them at sixty-plus miles per hour. Headlights stabbed Jessie’s eyes and she stumbled onto the shoulder, hands on her face, blinking away the orange afterimages.

  “Open your eyes!” Leary said. “Are you crazy?”

  She opened them. Cars whizzed past.

  “Where did she go?” She had to shout to hear her own voice.

  Leary pointed ahead, and Jessie spotted Raines running along the shoulder.

  Leary said, “At least she’s got the good sense to stay on this side of the highway—”

  Before he could finish, the woman darted between two cars and continued her flight against the flow of traffic. She was going to escape—or die trying.

  40

  Leary tried to ignore the pain screaming through his body as he half-ran, half-staggered down Route 76, struggling to stay close to Jessie. He knew if he allowed himself to fall too far behind, he’d be putting her in danger. Brooke Raines was a killer, not to mention a member of a conspiracy—for all they knew, her accomplices might be out here in the darkness, too, waiting for a moment to strike. He’d already met two of them, and it wasn’t an experience he wanted Jessie to suffer. The thought of anyone hurting her got his legs pumping harder. His lungs burned.

  “Jessie, go back to the train station!” His voice was barely audible over the rush of vehicles.