Jessie Black Legal Thrillers Box Set 1

by Larry A Winters

  Then he spotted her, and the dimple in his right cheek drew inward and his teeth shined in a smile. That stopped her in her tracks. She’d never seen him smile, unless you counted the tight, pained grimace she sometimes glimpsed when she beat him in court. And now he was beaming. It made him look like a different person.

  The weather couldn’t explain that. She couldn’t imagine that anything could. How could he look so content, so at peace with the world, when she’d just informed him less than an hour ago that a serial killer’s chance at a retrial hinged on a world-famous defense attorney demonstrating that he was nuts?

  Maybe because he is nuts?

  She pushed the thought out of her mind and tugged her coat tighter, stepping carefully to avoid patches of ice. His smile widened as she approached, and she noticed something else. He was handsome. Really handsome. She’d never noticed before.

  He rose to greet her and she extended her hand, but instead of shaking it he embraced her, pulling her against his chest. His well-defined chest. It was a quick hug, only seconds, her face close to the snow dotted sleeve of his black pea coat. But it was so unexpected she froze for a moment, then patted his back. He didn’t seem to notice her awkwardness. He released her and gestured toward the bench.

  He said, “I see you brought your work with you.”

  “Well, yeah. That’s why we’re meeting, isn’t it?” She propped her briefcase on the bench between them. Before she could sit down, he produced a handkerchief and wiped a thin layer of water from the bench. When she sat, she could feel the icy wood through her skirt, but she was dry. “Thanks.” He was still smiling at her and she couldn’t resist smiling back. “It’s good to see you, Jack.”

  He laughed. “I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

  Neither had she. In their days as adversaries they had not been friends. Far from it. He’d been her enemy then, plain and simple. The idea seemed silly out here in the park. They were both lawyers, professionals, doing their jobs. But in the courtroom, it had not seemed that way. The man had been relentless, a Harvard-educated machine who never consented to an extension of time or any other favor without extracting something in return, who employed his seemingly photographic memory of case law to embarrass her whenever she made the slightest mistake, and whose words had a maddening ability to sway jurors to his cause with an almost gravitational pull. That all of his genius was in the service of helping one murderer or another escape punishment only made it worse. She’d always seen him as the bad guy, not to mention a bit of an asshole.

  And as far as she had known, the feeling was mutual. Whether victorious or defeated at the end of a trial, he never lingered for post-trial small talk the way friendlier defense attorneys did. He treated her with the barest level of courtesy required by the rules of civility governing their profession.

  And yet today, with his hair mussed and his collar unbuttoned and his face smiling, he looked positively elated to see her.

  He cleared his throat. “So, let’s not beat around the bush. You want to know if I’m sane.” She suddenly felt abashed. After years of arguing with him before countless judges and jurors, walking with him down the same corridors, riding elevators, negotiating, she had not once even considered calling him after hearing about the breakdown he’d suffered. And now that she had called, what was her reason? To discuss a case. Maybe I’m the asshole.

  “I don’t know if you’re sane, but you sure seem … different. You look younger, healthier—”

  He laughed. “The hospital had an excellent gym.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  Some of the sparkle faded from his eyes. “I don’t need to tell you how it is, when work becomes your whole life, what that can do to you.”

  No, he didn’t have to tell her. She knew all too well. Her job was never absent from her mind, with its victims and witnesses, dates and deadlines, and right now the thought of Frank Ramsey was casting a shadow over the pretty day. She said, “Gil Goldhammer is going to try to make you out to be a lunatic. I need to prove him wrong.”

  “You’re going to fight for my honor.”

  She saw the irony. A prosecutor defending a defense attorney. Wonders never ceased. “Actually, I’m only assisting. Elliot Williams from the Appeals Unit will be addressing the court on behalf of the Commonwealth. So, technically, he’s fighting for your honor.”

  “Much less romantic.”

  She peered at him. Had Jack Ackerman just made a joke? “Wasn’t my first choice either.”

  “Elliot Williams. I’m not familiar with the name.”

  “Warren Williams’s nephew.”

  That seemed to take him by surprise. “Warren has a family? Huh.” He rubbed his chin in mock contemplation. “Scary thought.”

  “Tell me about it.” She was surprised by the ease of their banter. She couldn’t completely let down her guard—not with this guy—but she felt herself leaning closer to him on the bench.

  “He’s probably hoping some of what you’ve got will pass to the kid through osmosis,” Jack said.

  “Now you’re trying to flatter me?”

  “No, I’m just trying to say what I’ve always felt. That I respect you. That you’re a damn good lawyer.” Now she was the one smiling. Maybe he was trying to flatter her, but maybe not. Maybe the time had come when they could both look past the sides they’d chosen in their war. She respected him, too, and couldn’t deny his talent.

  That Frank Ramsey would accuse him of ineffectiveness—and that Gil Goldhammer, an officer of the court, would endorse that argument in finely-drafted legal prose—was not just desperate. It was despicable.

  Unless, of course, it was true.

  Again, she pushed away the thought. Ineffective? She’d been in that courtroom with him during Ramsey’s trial, fought him tooth and nail. Jack had been effective, almost effective enough to win. Thankfully, she’d been more so.

  She hesitated for a moment, then touched his arm. “I’m glad to see you looking good.”

  “Worried you were going to find a madman frothing at the mouth?”

  “I didn’t know what I’d find.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “And I am—I mean, Elliot and I are—going to fight for you.”

  “Why don’t we start with dinner tonight? Without Elliot.”

  Had he just asked her out? For a second, her stomach fluttered and she felt like a sixteen-year-old girl with a crush. But just as suddenly, the breeze felt cold, the bench hard, and she was back in reality. Anything other than a strictly professional relationship would put Ramsey’s conviction at risk—not to mention her career. The incident with Detective Leary had been bad enough, but at least she could blame that misstep on alcohol. “Are you crazy?”

  “Depends who you ask.”

  “This isn’t a joke. We can meet in a DA conference room with Elliot.”

  He sat back against the bench and mulled her words. “Much less appealing than what I had in mind.”

  She smoothed her skirt. “That’s the way it needs to be.”

  He turned his head, his gaze directed out at the park. A breeze ruffled his hair. “You know, it occurs to me that my psychiatrist’s testimony might be useful to you. Of course, that information is privileged, so you can’t call him to the stand.”

  “You can waive the privilege,” she said.

  “The Jessie Black I know,” he said, his dimple reappearing as if by magic, “is tough, but willing to entertain reasonable offers.”

  “Going on a date with you while participating in Ramsey’s hearing is not a reasonable offer.”

  He raised a hand. “Who said anything about a date? Call it diligence. We’ll discuss the Ramsey trial over a good meal. That’s all.”

  She chewed her lip. The fact was that although she did not necessarily need Jack’s cooperation, or that of his psychiatrist, in order to beat Ramsey’s petition, having both would certainly increase her chances. And what was the big deal about one dinner?
Colleagues ate together all the time. And what better way to get a sense of whether his new personality signaled a healthy change or a psychic break than observing him in a social environment? She could control this situation. Would control it.

  “Fine,” she said. “Does eight o’clock work for you?”

  When his eyes brightened, she felt suddenly uneasy about her decision. But there was no turning back now.

  5

  On the hospital bed, Woody’s brother looked like a skeleton. “It’s not that big a deal,” he was saying. Sunlight from the window cast shadows on the white sheets that accentuated the sharp boniness of his limbs. In his right hand, he held a clear plastic oxygen mask.

  Michael had woken the previous night, fighting his own body for breath. If his live-in nurse, Natalie, hadn’t heard him and called for an ambulance, he’d be dead.

  In Woody’s hand was a prescription written by Michael’s doctor for a BIPAP machine. According to Michael, it was a gray box about the size of a toaster oven, attached by a tube to a face mask. Every time he slept, he would fit a mask over his nose and mouth, and the machine would counteract the effects of his disease on his chest’s ability to expand.

  One more addition to Michael’s bedroom. Once furnished with expensive antiques, it now resembled the supply room of a nursing home.

  Here at the hospital, Woody squeezed his brother’s bony shoulder. He wanted to say something, but words wouldn’t come. Words had never been Woody’s strong suit. Natalie smiled her encouragement from the corner.

  Finally, Woody said, “You’re getting worse, aren’t you?”

  Michael laughed, and pain flashed across his face as the muscles in his torso protested. “That’s what having a progressive neurodegenerative disease is all about.”

  “The doctors say he can go home in a few hours,” Natalie said. She stepped out of the corner with a cautious smile. A slender, pretty brunette, she wore glasses and kept her hair up in a neat bun. Not Woody’s type at all, yet he caught himself glancing at the rise of her chest under her white, collared blouse.

  Christ, even with your brother dying in the same room. Maybe there was something wrong with him.

  “Woody.”

  Michael’s rasping voice snapped him from these thoughts. He leaned closer to his brother’s stubbly cheek. As children, they’d been inseparable, and Woody was shocked now to find that even in this hospital that stunk of antiseptic solutions and medical equipment, the smell of his big brother remained startlingly unchanged. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, substituting memory for reality because reality had become too depressing, too desperate. But he could swear that when he leaned close to his brother, the faint odors of the past were real—freshly cut lawn, well-oiled baseball gloves. He backed away from the bed, almost frightened by the pull of happier times.

  The days spent breaking in baseball gloves were long gone. Age seemed to rob most siblings of the intimacy fostered by the limitations of childhood, but in his case, he believed the distance that had formed between Michael and him had been worse than most. And he knew it had been his fault, not Michael’s. Michael’s superior intellect, his 4.0 GPA and perfect SAT scores, had driven him to college and graduate school, then to wealth and prestige. Meanwhile, Woody’s inability to get even average grades in high school had led him to drop out and leave home. Too intimidated or embarrassed—or maybe just too resentful of his brother’s abilities—Woody had dropped out of Michael’s life without even saying goodbye.

  When Michael’s first symptoms had struck—when he’d begun tripping on flat surfaces, fumbling with pens, dropping cell phones and forks and TV remotes until his klutziness became a running joke among his friends—Woody had been hundreds of miles away, haunting the corridors of the state prison in Huntington.

  By the time Woody returned to Philadelphia, Michael had sold his business. His speech had begun to slur like a stroke victim’s.

  The day they reunited, Michael could barely close his arms around Woody in a hug. The effort with which he had tried had brought to Woody’s eyes his first tears in at least a decade. Michael had a nurse living in his house with him. He couldn’t drink a glass of water without struggling to swallow. His arms and legs had shrunk to sticks and he motored around in a powered wheelchair.

  It was an irony even a high school dropout like Woody could grasp—the varsity baseball player felled by a disease named for a baseball player. Lou Gehrig’s Disease. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. ALS. Incurable, a plague afflicting over thirty-thousand people in the United States, with eight-thousand new cases diagnosed every year.

  On that first day together after twenty years—their reunion day—the two of them had sat at Michael’s kitchen table. Woody in a chair and Michael in a wheelchair. Woody drinking Bud and Michael struggling to sip water. Michael had told him everything, described the whole ordeal. He confided that, at first, he had refused to believe the diagnosis. Refused, as if the power of denial could reverse the disease’s effects on his body. It took a series of muscle and nerve biopsies, a spinal tap, and several MRIs to convince him.

  He wasn’t going to wake up one day and be all better. This disease was going to cripple him, muscle by muscle, tissue by tissue, until he was dead.

  “When I realized I had nothing to lose,” he’d told Woody, “the money no longer mattered. It’s like they say—you can’t take it with you. So I started to talk to people. Doctors. Scientists.”

  He’d lured researchers away from their professorships and corporate posts. Sent lobbyists to Washington. Built a state-of-the-art biomedical research facility from the ground up.

  He’d built the Rushford Foundation.

  Now, once again snapping Woody from his thoughts to the present, Michael said, “How’s our project?”

  “Goldhammer filed a petition today.” Woody didn’t want to speak Ramsey’s name in front of Natalie, unsure how much his brother’s private nurse knew. If she recognized the name—and who in Philadelphia wouldn’t?—she might not understand. Right now she cared for Michael with a diligence bordering on obsession. Woody didn’t dare say anything that might darken her opinion.

  Besides, Michael’s mind was as sharp as ever. ALS was harmless to its victim’s intelligence. The body atrophied, but the intellect was immune. It was either a blessing or the cruelest of curses. It left the mind with no body to carry out its will.

  Fortunately, Michael had Woody’s body.

  “Did you go to see him?” Michael said.

  Woody nodded.

  “And?”

  “He’s evil.” Woody would never speak so silly a word in any other context, but here it was the only one that fit. Woody had spent eleven years of his life in the company of killers, gangbangers, child molesters. He knew bad guys, and even so, all the newspaper articles he had read—sensational as they had been—had failed to capture Ramsey’s horrible essence, the mechanical brutality that brooded behind those eyes. Facing Ramsey across a scarred metal table in the Restricted Housing Unit of SCI Greene, Woody had recognized the terrible blackness of the inmate’s pupils, like a couple of tar pits in his face. Ramsey had eyes that would watch, steady and disinterested, as his hand plunged a knife into flesh, ripped it free, then plunged it in again. Chopping an artery, hacking a rib, impaling a lung.

  “Once he’s free,” Woody said, “he’ll do it again.”

  Michael nodded, wincing with the effort this gesture required. “Shame. But necessary.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Michael’s fingers closed on Woody’s sleeve and tugged him closer. “You’re the only one I trust.”

  “Just stay alive. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Michael’s eyes met his, sick and trembling in their deep sockets; Woody didn’t dare look away. Almost too quietly to be heard, Michael said, “Even if I die, don’t stop.”

  “You’re not going to—”

  “Even if I do!”

  Gently, Woody pried his brother’s
fingers from his wrist and backed away from the hospital bed. The exertion of their meeting had taken its toll; Michael’s eyelids were drooping. He groped for the oxygen mask, pulled it over his face. Through the clear plastic, Woody could see his eyelids flutter, then close.

  Woody lifted his leather jacket from the back of the visitor’s chair, and slung his arms into the sleeves, preparing to leave.

  “Everyone should be lucky enough to have a brother like you,” Natalie said. There was not a trace of irony in her voice.

  Woody walked to the door. “Thanks.”

  She approached him, took the nearly-forgotten sheet of paper from his hand. The prescription for the BIPAP machine. “I’ll handle this.” She folded the prescription once, placed it on the table next to an empty bedpan. “I know you’re busy.”

  “Yeah. The project I’m working on, it’s about to heat up.”

  6

  Jessie felt some of her concern fade when Jack called to suggest Monk’s Café. Monk’s was famous for its huge selection of Belgian beers and award-winning hamburgers, but was hardly a romantic destination. Casual, crowded, and reasonably priced, it was a place where she could discuss the case over a sandwich, and, even if he insisted on picking up the tab, keep within the bounds of professional conduct.

  She should have known better.

  He buzzed her apartment at exactly eight o’clock. He had a taxi waiting at the curb. He held the door while she climbed inside the car, then slid in beside her on the squeaky vinyl seat.