Jessie Black Legal Thrillers Box Set 1

by Larry A Winters

  His first words once they pulled away from the curb were, “You look beautiful.”

  “Jack—”

  “Just take a compliment from an old friend.”

  They both knew they had never been friends, and she wasn’t seeking compliments tonight, but she sighed and said, “Thanks.”

  “I like the boots. Hot.”

  “Don’t push it.” She watched Center City scroll past the windows. “Just so we’re absolutely clear, I’m here to strategize about your testimony at the PCRA hearing.”

  “Not because you find me irresistibly charming.”

  “Correct.”

  He grimaced, clutched his chest. “You wound me.”

  “That’s why blackmail is a bad way to get a date.”

  “Well, I tried internet dating first.”

  “What happened?”

  “I couldn’t find your profile.”

  She turned away from him, struggled to keep from rolling her eyes. “I was born with a low tolerance for corniness, Jack. You’re going to have to tone it down or risk making me laugh at you.”

  “Actually, I was going for the laugh.”

  They sat in silence. Strangely, it didn’t feel awkward. She felt her shoulders relax into the seat and watched the familiar scenery outside the cab. Five minutes later they arrived. The neon sign in the window made her smile.

  “This place hasn’t changed since I used to come here back in law school.”

  “You went to Penn Law, right?”

  She nodded. “Seems like a long time ago.”

  “Couldn’t have been too long ago. You’re what, twenty-five?”

  “Funny.” She was thirty-two, and felt every year of it.

  Jack paid the driver and they climbed out of the cab. The breeze whipped her hair around her face. Jack jogged ahead of her, yanked the bar’s door open.

  “Thanks.”

  She stepped past him into the warmth of the restaurant. The front bar was packed with people. The aroma of beer and the din of conversation were almost overwhelming. She pushed through the crowd to a podium where she gave her name to a man dressed in black. Asking for a table for two felt strange, and she realized how long it had been since she’d gone out to dinner with anyone. What had Jack said? I don’t need to tell you how it is, when work becomes your whole life, what that can do to you.

  Leaning against the wall of Monk’s front bar, looking at Jack and straining to hear his voice over the clamor of the other patrons, she tried not to think about his bright blue eyes or his sensual mouth. She needed to remember her purpose here. It didn’t matter that he was handsome and apparently into her. Only that he was sane—and that she would be able to prove it to the judge at Ramsey’s evidentiary hearing.

  “You want a drink?” He had to yell to be heard over the noise.

  She almost said no out of reflex, then thought better of it and peered over Jack’s shoulder at the beers on tap. One wouldn’t hurt. “What do you recommend?” She had to lean close to him to be heard.

  Rather than back away, he leaned in even closer. “Well, I was going to get a Lucifer—” He laughed when she raised an eyebrow. “No defense attorney jokes, please.”

  “Never crossed my mind. I guess I’ll try one, too.”

  She still found Monk’s atmosphere safely non-romantic, but the back room, where they were seated, had a cozy, old-world ambiance that was seductive in its own right.

  After they ordered, she said, “You’re still practicing law?”

  “Only part time. Estate planning, mostly. Wills. It’s not as challenging as criminal law—at least, not in the same way—but it’s less stressful.”

  “You should have joined the DA’s office. You might have found prosecuting murderers less nerve-racking than helping them.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them—maybe the beer was affecting her judgment. “Sorry, that was an obnoxious thing to say.”

  But he didn’t look insulted. In fact, his open face suggested that he wanted her to continue. “I always thought prosecuting would be more stressful than defending,” he said. “Doesn’t it ever bother you—the possibility that you might be responsible for sending an innocent person to prison?”

  “The vast majority of them are guilty.”

  “But some aren’t.”

  A warning bell sounded in her mind. “Please tell me we’re not talking about Ramsey.” She looked around for their waitress.

  “Isn’t that why we’re here? To talk about his trial?”

  “Your effectiveness at his trial. Not his guilt or innocence.”

  “All I’m saying is that sometimes the system makes a mistake.”

  “Maybe that’s true in some cases. Not in his.”

  “And the others don’t bother you?”

  “We have to make some sacrifices if we want to live in a safe society.”

  “You mean sacrifice the poor for the safety of the rich?”

  Her cheeks flushed, and not because of the beer she’d consumed. “My father’s a factory worker. I wasn’t exactly born in the lap of luxury. And believe me, the poor are victimized by crime a lot more frequently than the rich.”

  Jack raised his hands, palms out. “Hey, I’m sorry. I was just talking.”

  The waitress arrived and they ordered their food. She hoped the break in their conversation would give them a chance to move on to less sensitive subjects, but Jack looked ready to launch back in.

  She cut him off before he could speak, “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “I didn’t mean to piss you off, with the rich and poor comment.”

  “You didn’t piss me off.”

  “Look, I’m not good at this, okay?” He sighed, unfolded his napkin and spread it on his lap. “When I was with the Defenders Association, all I did was work, night and day. I’m trying to.... I don’t know. I guess I don’t remember what it’s like to have a conversation that isn’t a debate.”

  She remembered what he’d been like, all too well. And she understood what he was feeling now, because she felt it herself. Having a conversation, being a normal person—it didn’t come as easy as it used to. Her profession had changed her, and she wasn’t sure she liked the changes. “I suppose I can relate,” she said. She took a sip of water.

  He shrugged. “I’m getting better at it. Just takes practice.”

  “Is that what this is? Practice?”

  He reared back with a mortified expression. “This? No! I’ve always had a thing for you.”

  “Come on.” She laughed.

  “I’m serious. I found you attractive long before I went bonkers.”

  She laughed again. “What did you like most? My rudeness toward you or my refusal to negotiate with any of your clients?”

  “You negotiated when appropriate. But you always had a good reason, and a full grasp of the facts and the law. Facing off against you was never boring, that’s for sure.”

  “You’re a pretty good lawyer yourself,” she said.

  “Yeah, but your legs are nicer.”

  “You definitely need to work on the corniness, though.”

  He shrugged. “It’s my new style.”

  “So what happened? Really?”

  His smile faltered, then fell away completely. He rubbed his chin. “That’s the question, isn’t it? I don’t really have an answer. One day I was zealously defending my clients, the next I was playing a Cindy Lauper song for the jury while I danced around the courtroom to Girls Just Want to Have Fun. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “How could that possibly seem like a good idea?”

  A fraction of his smile returned, bringing the dimple with it. She leaned forward. “Actually, I was impeaching one of the prosecution’s witnesses. This eighty-year-old woman claimed she heard my client berating his girlfriend—the victim—in the apartment next door to hers a few days before she was killed. But other neighbors testified that my client was blasting his stereo at the time of the incident�
��a fact corroborated by two police officers who responded to a noise complaint. My idea was to recreate the scene for the jury and demonstrate that, given the volume of the music, it was unlikely that the old lady could have heard an argument between my client and the victim.”

  “And the dancing?”

  “Indicates there was something going on besides brilliant lawyering. My psychiatrist thinks—well, I’m sure he can give you a more satisfying explanation than I can. I’ll give him a call tomorrow morning and encourage him to be forthcoming with you.” He fished a business card out of his pocket and passed it across the table. She read it in the light from the candle on their table. Joseph Brandywine, M.D., Medical Director, Wooded Hill Hospital.

  “But we agree that you were competent when you represented Ramsey at trial?”

  “You were there.”

  She put the card down. “I certainly hope you’ll give a better answer than that if I put you on the stand.”

  He rocked his chair back, the legs creaking. “You want to hear what I’d say on the stand? I’ll tell you.”

  She watched him skeptically. “Okay, go ahead.”

  “Ramsey’s innocent. He didn’t kill Bob and Erin Dillard. He didn’t rape and stab Kristen Dillard.”

  “That’s still not what I want to hear, Jack.”

  “You think Ramsey is the Family Man because the Dillard murders fit the serial killer’s profile. But the police were unable to link Ramsey to any of the killer’s other victims. Ramsey was prosecuted for only one of the Family Man’s attacks.”

  “That’s the great thing about the death penalty. One successful prosecution is all you need.”

  He held up a finger. “Hear me out. The Family Man always takes a souvenir from his victims. When he killed the Anderson family, he took Donna Anderson’s bracelet. When he killed the Millers, he took Paul Miller’s coat.”

  “And when he attacked the Dillards, he took Bob Dillard’s briefcase,” Jessie said. She heard the edge in her own voice. He was making her angry.

  “Yes,” Jack said. “But the police found none of those items in Frank Ramsey’s home.”

  “Many serial killers hide their trophies. We never found his. What we did find was an eyewitness.”

  “One eyewitness. A traumatized girl.”

  Jessie stopped. Her hands had balled into tight fists beneath the table. She force herself to unclench them. “What are you doing, Jack?”

  “I’m confiding something to you. Frank Ramsey’s not the first accused murderer that I’ve represented, okay? I used to deal with these guys every day. But when Ramsey told me his story, I believed him. Frank Ramsey is innocent.”

  “Jack, we need to be absolutely clear about something.” She leaned toward him. “Elliot Williams is calling you to the stand at the PCRA hearing, and when he does, you are going to tell the judge the truth about your sanity during Ramsey’s trial. Ramsey’s guilt is not the issue here. Your effectiveness as his lawyer is the issue. Please tell me I can count on your honesty.”

  “Yeah,” he said, looking slightly hurt. “Of course, Jessie. You can trust me.”

  The waitress delivered their meals and she watched him tuck into a giant cheeseburger. Her own burger sat untouched for a moment as she studied him.

  As a general rule, she’d found that people who announced their trustworthiness tended to be the least trustworthy. But with Jack, general rules didn’t necessarily apply. She wasn’t sure what to believe. Maybe that was what bothered her the most.

  7

  The next morning, Jessie turned her Honda Accord onto the winding drive of Wooded Hill Hospital, the private institution to which Jack Ackerman had voluntarily committed himself. Loose gravel crunched under the tires as the car approached an ornate, wrought-iron gate blocking entrance to the property.

  “So this is what a mental asylum looks like.” Elliot craned his neck to get a better view. The wonder in her boss’s nephew’s eyes reminded her just how green he was.

  Despite herself, she smiled. “Not what you expected?”

  “I don’t know. I was imagining towers, lightning, hunchbacks. This looks like the library at my college.”

  It wasn’t exactly what Jessie had expected either. She’d only seen one other mental hospital, the state institution where Kristen Dillard continued to suffer from the nightmare of Ramsey’s invasion. There, the walls surrounding the grounds served to keep the inmates locked inside. She had a feeling that Wooded Hill’s gate served the opposite function. To keep unwanted visitors—such as a couple of nosy lawyers—out.

  She pulled up to the guard’s booth and rolled down her window. A balding, middle-aged man leaned toward the car. He smiled affably as she explained that she and Elliot had an appointment with Dr. Joseph Brandywine, then made them wait in the car while he stepped back inside his booth and made a phone call. A moment later, she heard a hum of motors. The gate began to open.

  “The practice of psychiatry’s come a long way since the days of hunchbacks,” she said to Elliot once they were moving again. “They don’t lobotomize people anymore, either. At least not at places like this.”

  The lane wound past acres of lawn frosted with snow. The hospital’s main building sat on the hill’s crest, no doubt affording the resident patients soothing green vistas in the warmer months. In a small visitors’ parking lot, she parked the car and she and Elliot got out.

  “I heard celebrities check into this place,” Elliot said. He leaned toward the car to fix the knot of his tie and check his hair in the window’s reflection.

  “If that’s why you’re preening, don’t bother. I doubt we’ll run into any pop stars or heiresses today.”

  He stood up straight, cheeks red. “I just want to make a good impression.”

  Jessie nodded. “Good.” She had been around long enough to know that impressions mattered, and not just inside the courtroom. She’d worn one of her more expensive, conservative suits for this trip. It never hurt to remind a potential witness that he wasn’t simply talking to a lawyer, but to a prosecutor. Especially when a show of authority might be necessary. “But don’t be surprised if this doesn’t go smoothly. You can fix your hair all you want. Doctors have a tendency to be recalcitrant witnesses. Doctor-patient privilege and all that.” She started walking toward the building, Elliot one step behind her.

  “Not this guy, though, right? I thought Ackerman said he was going to tell Brandywine to help us.”

  She remembered her dinner with Jack and doubt gnawed at her stomach. “He also said Ramsey is innocent. I’m not sure what’s going on in his head.”

  Elliot caught up, stopped in front of her. “Hold on. What are you saying? You don’t know if Brandywine’s going to cooperate?”

  “He sounded strange when I called him to make an appointment.”

  “Define strange.”

  “Just let me do the talking in there.”

  Dr. Brandywine’s office managed to be simultaneously large and cozy. On one side of the room, a desk stood in front of a bank of windows commanding a view of the grounds. On the other side of the room, leather-upholstered furniture had been arranged in a semi-circle near a fireplace. It was to this side of the room that Brandywine steered them, urging them to sit on a leather sofa. Elliot dropped into the thick cushions with a deep sigh.

  “If you don’t mind, Doctor, I’d prefer to talk over there.” She gestured toward the wooden chairs facing his desk. Elliot glanced up at her, clearly reluctant to pull himself off of the cushions. But she wanted to manage the tone of this meeting, make sure Brandywine understood that this was a conference between professionals.

  Brandywine shrugged. “Certainly.”

  The doctor had an athletic build and moved with a grace that seemed incongruous with his creased face and steel-gray hair. He stepped behind his desk and sat down, regarding his visitors with disconcerting intensity.

  “So. You’re from the District Attorney’s office.”

  “That’s right,�
�� Elliot said, taking the wooden chair next to Jessie. From his frown, she inferred that the leather sofa had been more comfortable.

  “As I explained on the phone,” Jessie said, “we’d like to ask you some questions about a former patient here. Jack Ackerman.”

  “We prefer to call them clients, as opposed to patients. And you need to understand, before we go any further, that the confidentiality of our records is taken very seriously here. In fact, our discretion is the reason many of our clients choose us over other facilities. To the extent I can answer your questions without impinging on Mr. Ackerman’s privacy, I intend to do so, but no more.”

  “Wait a second.” Elliot leaned forward. “Mr. Ackerman didn’t call to give you his permission to cooperate with us?”

  “He did call. However, I would prefer to protect the hospital’s interests as well as his. If I understand correctly, this matter involves the Frank Ramsey murder trial that received so much media coverage last year. My concern is that the court proceeding will draw a lot of publicity. If the hospital’s name appears in the news, other potential clients may be discouraged from trusting us.”

  “That’s not our problem,” Elliot said. “You—”

  Jessie shot him a glance that shut him up. She softened her voice. “Let me explain something to you, Dr. Brandywine. Ramsey is represented by Gil Goldhammer, one of the best defense attorneys in the country. Goldhammer’s argument is that Ramsey is entitled to a new trial because Jack Ackerman, his lawyer at his original trial, was nuts. Jack’s commitment here—whether or not it was voluntary—is evidence that supports his argument, so you can bet he’s going to bring it up as often as possible. In court. In interviews with the press. And I promise you, he’s not going to call your patients clients. It’s to his client’s benefit to describe Wooded Hill Hospital as a madhouse.”

  Brandywine swallowed. “I see.”

  “There’s no reason we shouldn’t help each other, Doctor. I need to prove that Jack was sane during Ramsey’s trial. You need an opportunity to set the record straight about Wooded Hill and its clientele.”