by Joel Goldman
Alex left out that Judge West was blackmailing her, limiting her confession to her encounter with Rossi at the bar. They argued over what to do about it, Bonnie wanting her to file a complaint against Rossi with the police department, Alex refusing, saying she could handle him. Their fight killed the cuddling vibe, the argument ending with them sleeping back to back, the middle expanse of their king-sized bed separating them. Bonnie was gone when Alex woke up in the morning. But Rossi was there, stuck in her head like a bad song playing over and over.
Alex’s computer pinged, announcing that she’d received an e-mail. It was from Patty. Jared Bell’s initial appearance was Friday morning, September 17, at nine o’clock.
“Shit!” she said again, plucking the probable cause statement from the file.
Rossi stated that he’d gotten a call about a dead body in Liberty Park at 1:15 a.m. on Tuesday, September 14. He identified Jared as a twenty-eight-year-old white male, approximately 150 pounds, with black hair, summarizing how Jared had led them to the victim. He described the ligature marks and the bruised impression on her chest in the shape of a cross. He included Jared’s statements denying he had touched the body while acknowledging that he was familiar with the victim but didn’t know her name. Rossi described going with Jared to his tent and finding a cross that appeared to match the wound on the victim’s neck.
The probable cause statement recited that Rossi then took Jared into custody and advised him of his Miranda rights and that Jared consented to continuing to answer questions. Jared stated that he had consensual sex with the victim in his tent several hours before he reported finding her body. Not owning a watch, he was uncertain about the time.
Rossi continued questioning Jared at police headquarters. At nine twenty a.m. on Tuesday, September 14, Jared stated that after having sex, they quarreled and he strangled her, dumped her body in the creek, and stole her cross.
The report identified six people who were camped out in the same area, noting that none of them acknowledged hearing or seeing anything suspicious or related to the crime. None of them had permanent addresses.
The last paragraph of the probable cause statement recited that the coroner, Dr. Bruce Solomon, had examined the body at the county morgue and informed Rossi that he had observed evidence of genital trauma at the external vaginal opening consistent with forcible rape. Rossi ended the statement by saying that the victim was unidentified.
The complaint charged Jared with forcible rape and first-degree murder of one Jane Doe. Kalena Greene had signed the complaint.
Alex leaned back in her chair, the file in her lap, reconsidering her speculation that Judge West wanted Jared convicted not because he was guilty but because he was innocent. Taken at face value, the probable cause statement was compelling. So why force her to handle the case and make sure Jared took a deal for a life sentence? Why not let Kalena go for the death penalty, which would satisfy the judge’s appetite for maximum justice?
The answer came to her. No defendant would ever agree to a plea bargain that included the death penalty. And a death-penalty case would be more closely scrutinized. Once Jared was convicted, the Midwest Innocence Project might jump all over Jared’s case and Judge West would have no way to control that. If the judge was using Jared to protect the real killer, a plea bargain was his only option.
Which brought her to the bottom-line question. Who was Judge West protecting? The easy answer was that he was the killer, but that was too big a leap for her. He’d never given her any indication he was capable of such a crime. Still, she knew firsthand the human capacity to kill when pushed too far. And she also understood a killer’s unabashed determination to get away with murder.
Chapter Twelve
ALEX WANTED A LOOK at Jared Bell before his initial appearance. She had to get a feel for him, get some sense of how he got caught up in whatever Judge West was orchestrating and whether she’d be able to pry both of them out of that trap.
Jared had confessed to murder, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being set up to take the fall for crimes he didn’t commit. He wouldn’t be the first person to confess to something he didn’t do after being questioned throughout the night by an aggressive cop like Rossi.
And his confession didn’t match all the charges. For starters, Jared hadn’t confessed to the rape. If he was willing to admit murdering the victim, why deny raping her? That there was evidence of forcible rape didn’t mean Jared was the rapist. It was possible that the victim had been raped, or engaged in rough sex, before she had sex with Jared, neither of which Alex could rule out, given what little she knew about the victim.
But that wasn’t all. According to Rossi, Jared said that he and the victim argued after they had sex and that’s when he strangled her. If Jared had raped her, that sounded more like second-degree murder, knowingly causing the death of another during the commission of a crime, than first-degree murder, knowingly causing the death of a person after deliberation on the matter. If convicted of second-degree murder, he’d have a shot at parole one day.
And if the sex was consensual, Alex might even be able to convince the jury that it was involuntary manslaughter—recklessly causing the death of another. That was a Class D felony, which carried a maximum sentence of four years.
It was a short walk from her office to the county jail. The building was officially known as the Jackson County Regional Detention Center, a name that politicians liked better. Everyone else called it what it was—the jail, all seven floors of it.
The jail population was segregated by floor. Those with serious mental health problems and openly gay and transsexual inmates were housed on the second floor, an arrangement that made Alex want to scream whenever she set foot on the floor. Instead, she continually lobbied the county to stop equating the two.
The third floor was for inmates who had no prior incarcerations, resulting in a population of mostly young inmates. Jared fit that profile. The crimes he was charged with didn’t. Rape and murder qualified him for the seventh floor, home to sex offenders and high-profile inmates.
Alex rode the elevator past the fourth and fifth floors, which were reserved for inmates who had served real time in state or federal prisons, and past the sixth floor, which housed women. She stepped off on seven, looking through a windowed wall into another room, where the corrections officers, or COs, worked. On the far wall of that room, there was another bank of windows, through which she could see the inmates. Having little else to do, they gathered at those windows to see who had come to visit.
At any one time, she might have half a dozen clients in the jail. Once they saw her, they would point at themselves, miming their question. “Are you here to see me?” She’d smile and mouth her apology, pointing at the chosen one. She’d called ahead, letting the COs know whom she wanted to see.
She scanned the faces lined up against the windows, shaking her head at the familiar ones, wondering which of the others was Jared Bell, her answer coming when a skinny white man with vacant eyes and mangy hair peeled away from the windows and shuffled toward a waiting CO.
Another CO escorted her to an interior meeting room big enough to accommodate a scarred metal table bolted to the floor and a pair of chairs. Jared entered through another door, chin down and hands jammed in the pockets of his jumpsuit, eyes darting around the room like a mouse looking for a morsel or a way out.
“Hi, Jared. I’m your lawyer, Alex Stone. Please take a seat.”
He slid down in his chair until his legs were stretched beneath the table almost to Alex’s side.
“Okay,” he said, after a moment.
“Are they treating you all right?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. Nobody’s given me any trouble.”
He was pleasant, soft-spoken and polite, without a hint of pent-up rage or inclination to violence, the kind of person a jury might warm to and the kind of person who could be manipulated into taking a fall. His sunken eyes, sallow complexion, and yellowed teeth spoke to h
is time living on the street.
“Where are you from?”
“Goodland, Kansas.”
“Boy, that’s all the way west to the Colorado line, isn’t it?”
He gave her a shy smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
Alex returned the smile, holding his gaze for a moment, trying to make a connection.
“When was the last time you were home?”
He shrugged. “Three or four years, right after I got out of the army.”
“What was your rank when you got out?”
“E-4.”
“Like a corporal except you weren’t a junior noncommissioned officer.”
His eyes got wide. “You know your ranks.”
Alex smiled. “I’ve represented my share of vets. How long were you in the service?”
Jared swirled his hands on the table’s Formica surface as if he was making patterns in the sand. “Two tours, four years.”
“Did you see a lot of action?”
He ducked his chin, looking away. “Everybody did. That’s how it was in the sandbox.”
Alex shook her head. “Boy, I can’t imagine what that was like.”
“No, ma’am, you can’t. I can promise you that,” he said, tugging at the sleeves of his jumpsuit, the fabric hanging on him, the outfit at least a size too big.
She nodded. “I believe you. Thank you for your service.”
His voice rose as he hunched his shoulders to his ears. “Everyone’s always thanking us for our service, ’cept that doesn’t mean much, ’cause they don’t know what it’s like over there so they don’t really know what they’re thanking us for, you know what I mean, ma’am?”
It was Jared’s first show of anything approaching anger, making Alex wonder what might be boiling beneath his soft-spoken façade.
“I guess I do, Jared. I suppose it’s hard for anyone who hasn’t been through it to understand what it was like, so I won’t pretend that I do.”
His face softened again. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“But when I get to know you, I’ll have a better idea what it was like and I’ll thank you for your service then. In the meantime, I want you to know I’m glad to represent you.”
He furrowed his brow. “Why’s that? I’m a homeless nobody.”
“Because I know what it’s like when your life is on the line and you feel outnumbered.”
“How you know what that’s like?”
“I’ll tell you when we’ve got more time. When you were in Afghanistan, you looked out for your buddies and they looked out for you, right?”
His eyes fell, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Tried to.”
“Well, this is a different kind of war and I’m going to look after you,” she said, wincing inside, hoping to make good on the promise, knowing she might have to break it.
Jared thought about what she said and smiled. “Then I guess I should be the one thanking you for your service.”
“You’re welcome,” Alex said, pleased that she was building rapport. That was the key to building trust, and trust was the key to finding out what she needed to know. “Have you ever been charged with a crime before?”
“No.”
“Okay, so here’s how your case is going to play out. Your initial appearance is Friday morning at nine. I’ll meet you in the courtroom. That’s when the judge will set bail. It will probably be too high for you to get out, so I’m afraid you’ll be here for a while.”
“That’s okay. Been on the street a long time. Like they say, three hots and a cot.”
Alex grinned. “Not many of my clients see it that way. You’ve been charged with forcible rape and first-degree murder. In a month or so, the prosecutor will ask the grand jury to formally indict you on those charges. If you’re convicted, you could get life in prison without parole, or the death penalty.”
She paused, gauging his reaction. Jared’s face slackened, and what little color he had melted away, his eyes fluttering. She expected that, but not the small smile that leaked from the corners of his mouth, as if he was telling himself, I told you so. He was revealing pieces of himself, but she didn’t know what they meant.
“And a few months after that, we’ll have a preliminary hearing. That’s when the prosecutor will put on enough evidence to convince the judge that you should stand trial. And six months to a year from then you’ll go to trial unless we make a deal.”
Jared perked up. “What kind of deal?”
“Too early to say, but it would probably mean pleading guilty to a lesser offense to avoid the death penalty or life without parole. Something that would give you a shot at eventually getting out.”
He shook his head. “They ain’t ever lettin’ me out.”
Alex cocked her head. “Why do you say that?”
“’Cause that’s the way it is.”
“Innocent people confess to crimes they didn’t commit more often than you could guess. It happens for all kinds of reasons. And someone who’s been to war and who ends up living on the street may be even more likely to do that just because of all the stress you’ve gone through. I’ll come back after court and we’ll go over everything that happened. And I’ll dig into everything the police did to get you to confess. If there’s a way to keep your confession from the jury, I’ll find it.”
“I hear you,” he said, his chin down. “But . . .”
Alex leaned toward him, holding her breath, waiting to see if he would recant his confession. Jared looked away, saying nothing. Alex pressed him. “But what?”
He leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath, and let it out. “It don’t really matter anymore.”
“What doesn’t matter?”
His eyes were red and wet. “All of it. Everything. I been headed here a long time, and now that I am here, it don’t matter anymore.”
Her clients rarely told her the truth, especially the first time she met them, even when they were confronted with persuasive physical evidence, like DNA and fingerprints. The street-smart ones who’d spent their lives perfecting the arts of deception and denial would tell her without flinching that they knew it looked bad but it wasn’t them, that the eyewitnesses were liars and the lab tests were wrong, that they’d been at their mother’s house watching television when the crime occurred. When she’d tell them to get real, they’d ask what kind of deal they could get, not admitting their guilt but offering to testify against somebody. Who? she’d ask. Anybody, they would say. Whatever it took.
Jared Bell told her something she didn’t hear very often from her clients. He was where he belonged. Maybe because he was guilty and nothing he could do would change that or maybe because he was innocent and nothing he could do would prove that.
“Well, it matters to me,” she told him.
On her way out, Alex stopped to talk to Calvin Lockett, one of the corrections officers. Alex had cultivated a friendship with him, making it a point to ask about his family, sharing news of hers. It had paid off more than once when Calvin let her know about an inmate too eager to testify against one of her clients.
He had worked the jail for twenty years, using the time to become an unofficial jailhouse psychologist, adept at diagnosing what he called an inmate’s roots, the tangle of bad breaks, bad judgment, and plain meanness that put them in his charge. He grew up poor and black like many of them, puzzling about how he ended up on the other side of the steel bars. Rail thin and graying, he watched over the inmates, shaking his head and clucking his tongue.
“Hey, Calvin,” Alex said. “How’s it going?”
“Same old, same old.”
“I’ve got a new client, Jared Bell. What’s your take on him?”
“Boy’s a midnight screamer. Wakes everybody up with all his racket.”
“Nightmares, huh? Any idea what they’re about?”
Calvin shrugged. “Some people say dreams don’t mean a thing. I don’t buy that. Man dreams of making love to a beautiful woman, that’s what he needs. Man dreams he can fly, he�
��s trying to escape his troubles. Man that’s a midnight screamer, well, that’s his demons trying to get out.”
“You talk to him about his nightmares?”
“Don’t need to talk to him. I heard enough.”
“What did you hear besides his screaming?”
Calvin paused, looking around to make certain they wouldn’t be overheard. “Whoever that girl, Ali, is—or was—you ask me, he killed her. That’s what’s waking him up. He’s calling her name, saying he’s sorry.”
Alex’s heart picked up a beat. According to Rossi’s report, Jared said he didn’t know the victim’s name and Rossi hadn’t identified her. Knowing her name would jump-start Alex’s investigation.
“What, exactly, did Jared say?”
“He kept calling her name, saying ‘I’m sorry, Ali, I’m sorry.’”
“I don’t suppose he mentioned her last name.”
Calvin smirked. “You ever hear of a demon with a last name?”
Alex thought about her recurring nightmares, the ones in which Dwayne Reed appeared out of the darkness, reaching for her with one hand, the other clamped around Bonnie’s throat.
“I can think of at least one,” she said.
Chapter Thirteen
ROSSI GOT BACK TO HIS DESK in the homicide unit, playing out in his head his next visit with Alex Stone, wanting that encounter to appear as accidental as the one at the Zoo actually had been. He was trying to figure out how to make that happen when his boss, Mitch Fowler, hollered at him from the door to his office.
“Rossi! My office! Now!”
Fowler was the commander of the homicide unit. He yelled at Rossi because he could and because it was his idea of strong leadership. Fowler lived in and by the book, while Rossi used the book as a doorstop. Fowler spent his days crunching numbers on overtime and closed cases, his hair thinning as his waistline swelled, frustrated that Rossi’s name was always at the top of both lists. Rossi’s overtime cost their unit too much money, but his closure rate made it impossible for Fowler to dial him back.