“He shot you, man!”
“From what they told me today, he had it rough in the system. Heard you talking to Bettina about my visit, was afraid I was taking you back... Why don’t you let people show you what they can do before you automatically assume they’ll disappoint you?” He’d said the same to Bill Heber in his most recent conversation. That parolee was one he knew better, one who’d passed every single one of Jayden’s tests, being where he was supposed to be, doing what he was supposed to be doing, on every surprise visit. And Heber’s response had been pretty much the same as Wallace’s was then. Complete silence.
“I’ll be by in the morning,” Jayden said. “Same time. You going to be there?”
“Yeah.”
It wasn’t any kind of assurance that life would go well for Wallace. Or that he’d manage to not join the statistics of repeat offenders. But it was a start.
Jayden was all about new starts.
Chapter 2
Jayden studied the beer in the refrigerator as he contemplated dinner. Opted for store-bought cookies and milk instead. Mostly he went for the cookies because it was one bend, a grab, and he could take a seat.
He’d listened to his messages—tended to the one call that had come directly from a client. A parolee who wanted to visit his daughter in another county over the weekend. Unfortunately, he’d been unable to allow Luke Lincoln to leave the area and hoped his refusal didn’t have adverse effects on the man’s progress.
When he’d made a couple of calls to check the man’s story, he’d found that the little girl wasn’t actually in the hospital, nor had her mother given permission for her father to see her. She’d said something about apparently needing to take out another restraining order against him.
Jayden called for an extra drive-by on Lincoln’s house that night, penciling in a time in the morning to make a surprise work visit. And he called police in the county where the mother and daughter resided, alerting them to the possibility that one of his clients might break parole. There was nothing more he could do. Not until the guy actually did something wrong. In the end, everyone had the right to make their own choices. Even bad ones. And if he didn’t believe in second chances, he might as well be dead. The system he believed in, and worked for, had a process by which a man was given a second chance. He could help some, but in the end, he had to let that system work, or fail, according to the parolee’s individual choice.
That brought him to the return phone call he’d been putting off. He had to make it. Just didn’t trust himself not to answer any other types of signals the beautiful prosecutor might put out while they talked business. She never crossed a line or did anything overtly flirtatious. He never would, either. But the tension between them simmered there, ready to ignite if either of them gave it a chance.
According to his take, anyway. And when it came to women, and matters of consensual sex, or even consensual attraction, he could pretty much rely on his take. The one thing he’d always gotten right.
Even when he’d done everything else wrong.
Emma Martin... He hardly knew her. Had only had a few brief conversations with her. And she turned him on like none other.
Weird.
He didn’t like it when things—even spontaneous attraction—happened out of the ordinary. When he didn’t completely recognize what was happening.
Too hard to control things like romantic connections.
But he made the call. His job required it, and one thing was absolutely certain. Jayden was all about the job. Because it was his own second chance.
* * *
He was still hot.
Maybe hotter.
Shut up!
Emma’s internal monologue didn’t bode for a good meeting as she strode toward the probation officer standing in the reception area of the newly established Santa Raquel County prosecutor’s office.
She’d been out with friends when he’d called the night before. She’d also been halfway through a glass of iced tea at a wine bar and defending herself against their constant barrage in her ongoing fight against giving in and getting a cat. She’d mentioned one night over wine that she hated going home sometimes because there was nothing there but furniture and things. She’d been trying to confide in them about something hugely personal. They’d been certain her solution was a self-sufficient pet.
Growing her family was already in her plans—but not with a cat. Because of her friend’s earlier reaction, she wasn’t yet sharing that tender and fragile news with anyone. Her friends also had no idea she was prone to thinking that the man in front of her in jeans and a light-colored polo shirt, with a weapon on his hip, was Hunk of the Month material. And good for all twelve months.
“Officer Powell.”
“Call me Jayden.”
She met his gaze because it would be churlish not to. Took his hand, started to shake it and stopped when he gave a little start. His ribs...he’d told her the night before he was fine, just a bit of bruising, but she figured he’d been making light of his injury.
“How did you sleep?” she asked, trying to ignore the shot of awareness that burst through her as the warmth of his palm connected with hers. And even resisted the urge to wipe her hand down the hip of her slim-fitting black pants—anything to stop the tingling as she stood there next to him.
“In my recliner,” he said with a slight chuckle. “Once I got settled, I was fine.”
She’d had bruised ribs once—in high school when the male component of her dance partnership failed a lift—and she’d had trouble lying down, and then sitting up, for nearly a month.
He seemed fine. Better than fine. Showing him back to her office, she tried not think of him lying asleep. Didn’t want to know what he slept in. His dark hair had always been a little long anytime she’d had a glimpse of him in and out of court or the prosecutor’s office, but she’d never noticed before that it curled on the edges where his neck met his shoulders.
He entered the office. She shut the door. Pulled at the bottom of the short, black-and-white suit jacket she was wearing, and half tripped when her pump hit the leg of her desk as she rounded it.
Reaching her chair was almost a feat. She sat with a bit of a thud. She’d done it. Made it.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” she said, indicating with a nod of her head that he should take a seat on the chair in front of her desk.
He sat, a little slowly, but with no obvious pain showing. Hands on his thighs, he looked at her respectfully. Ready. Completely unaware of her as a woman, she was sure.
She’d heard he was as much of a workaholic as she was. Did that mean he was also like her, in that he didn’t allow himself to entertain non-work-related feelings? How did he manage that? She worked all the time because she honestly loved what she did and wanted to work all the time. But she’d never managed to find a way to shut up that shadow side that lurked inside her. Ready to strike.
Temptation was an evil beast.
If he had found a way to shut down outside of work, maybe that was something he could pass on to her during their brief association.
“Have you ever heard of the Santa Raquel High Risk team?” she asked, forcing her romantic thoughts back into the dark corner of her mind where she usually stayed without any fuss—where she was mostly glad to hide out.
Until someone like Jayden Powell came around and coaxed her out.
“They deal with domestic violence victims, right?”
“They—” She stopped and started again. “We were formed for one purpose only. To prevent domestic violence deaths,” she told him. “We’re comprised of professionals from any fields that involve working with victims.”
He nodded politely, giving zero indication to his opinions, which put her on edge.
“The current team consists of a couple of police officers, a pediatrician or his assistan
t, a charge nurse from the children’s hospital, a couple of adult physicians who take reports from any of their peers to bring to us...” She paused to see if he had any reaction, to see if perhaps he knew of a reason to suspect that Suzie Heber’s physician might make a report. But didn’t see any indication that the mention of a doctor meant anything to him. And so she continued. “We also have victim counselors, a psychiatrist, me, and representatives from each of Santa Raquel’s schools, and most recently a private detective joined the team.”
His gaze flickered. Jayden raised his elbows to the arms of the chair, bringing his fingers to steeple at his lips. His torso barely moved.
She still had no idea what he was thinking, but she was pretty certain she had his attention now. Interesting.
“The team meets bimonthly, more if necessary,” she continued, partially driven by her bad-girl self who liked that she had the hot parole officer’s attention, but, professionally, she had to say exactly what she was saying.
“Everyone reports any suspicious activity they might have noticed, sharing any reports they might have received.” She took a quick breath, adding, “A school counselor who noticed that a child was suddenly skittish or exhibiting sudden personality changes. A teacher who notices bruising, or unkempt circumstances. A counselor whose victim might lead professionals to believe that her abuser’s anger is escalating. Or a doctor who reports signs of physical abuse noted on a patient. The police report all domestic violence calls they’ve gone on since the last meeting. We’re all there on a volunteer basis and some team members come and go as, say, one physician takes over for another, and so forth. Right now, other lawyers with information for the team report to me, but there are others who volunteer as team members from time to time, as well.”
Dropping his hands, he adjusted his torso in the chair. Nodded. Met her gaze. And she, the professional, was glad he was there. She also wondered if he was uncomfortable in her hard-backed chair. Wondered if she could scare up an upholstered one. Officer Powell might be a risk-taker, the wrong kind of man for her, but he was exactly the kind of probation officer she needed. He wouldn’t take any crap from Bill Heber. And he’d keep the man firmly under watch. No matter what it took.
“I’m guessing you know why I’ve asked to meet with you,” she said and smiled.
He smiled back, looking at her as though they’d already sealed the deal.
“You need my help,” he said, sounding confident. Assured. Not the least bit egotistical, though how he managed that, she didn’t know. He had a lot to be proud of. He sounded...willing to help.
“Yes,” she said, opening Bill Heber’s file.
“You want me to join the High Risk team, and I have to tell you, I’m intrigued...”
“No!” She hadn’t meant to blurt out the word. But there was no way she wanted to work with the man on a regular basis. “I’m sorry,” she said, glancing at the file that would right her brain instantly. “I just need your help with a case.”
She couldn’t lose Suzie Heber. She just couldn’t. And it was in his power to help her make certain that didn’t happen.
* * *
He’d help her fly to the moon if she asked. Or do his damned best and die trying.
Okay, maybe nothing that drastic, but Jayden was ready to deliver whatever the sexy prosecutor needed. Domestic violence was an insidious disease that had to be wiped out.
“There are several different tools we use in assessing risk. One is something we call a ‘risk indicator,’ which is a list of nineteen conditions that could lead to a domestic violence death. If a suspect exhibits at least eight of these indicators, the team at least looks at the case. We then put it through a couple of other assessments,” she noted. “Of those that come out with high scores, we form an individualized plan of action to keep the victim, or victims, safe. From frequent drive-bys, school monitoring and counseling, to removing them from sight and giving them alternative living situations if need be. Everyone in the victim’s life who could play a part is put on alert, if necessary.”
Made good sense. He liked it. A lot. Was seriously wondering if the team had room for a parole officer. If he had time to be of good use to them. Some of his offenders had the potential to turn violent, and most had families. If he reported concerns, perhaps he could help make a difference in a new way. Might help his personal résumé—the one only he was privy to—in the second chance department.
“I have someone I’d like to refer to the team as a potential assailant,” he said, starting to sit forward until his ribs reminded him that he’d rather not. “A recent parolee,” he continued, barely noting the stab of pain.
She looked surprised and...really interested.
“Tell me about him,” she said, her eagerness to hear what he had to say openly evident.
“He was in for assault with a deadly weapon,” he said, gaining momentum as pieces came together. This was how the world was supposed to work—bringing the right means together at the right time, to make things happen.
“Nearly killed some guy in a bar for saying something to his wife as he passed.”
She frowned but said, “Go on.”
Yeah, it wasn’t a pretty tale. And unfortunately Jayden was struggling to see possibility of a better ending.
“He’s been out a week and called last night to tell me that his young daughter is in the hospital and asking for him. Said his ex-wife, who’d divorced him while he was in prison, had called, asking if he could just stop by the hospital for a visit. They’re up north, and conditions of his release prevent him from leaving Santa Raquel County.”
Her frown deepened as she glanced at the file in front of her and then back at him. “Are you asking for a motion for temporary travel allowance?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Not at all. I told him he couldn’t go. And then I called his ex. She hasn’t spoken to him since he was arrested. She’d already taken a restraining order out on him and had filed for divorce. And his daughter is fine. Hasn’t been in the hospital since she was born. Apparently he beat up on his ex but left the girl alone.”
Thank God for those huge favors that came along.
“You think he’s going to go anyway.”
“So does she. Said she was going in for another restraining order.”
“They aren’t as effective in these cases as we’d like them to be.”
“Which is why I called law enforcement in her area and alerted them to the possible danger to both her and her daughter, but I wasn’t satisfied that it was enough. I’d rest a whole lot easier if she had an individualized plan...if people could be put into action to help her...”
Emma picked up a pen, pulled a pad toward her. “We don’t have jurisdiction outside Santa Raquel, but I can make some calls, see if they have a team in her area, and if nothing else, get the local shelter involved, even if just by offering the ex-wife some counseling and being on alert. Since it’s summer, there’s no need to notify the school, but if she’s in some kind of summer program or day care, and if there’s security wherever the ex-wife works...the team’s whole mission is prevention—trying to bridge the gap that only allows law enforcement and justice to step in after the fact. Hopefully we can help.”
The woman was remarkable. Her job was to prosecute crimes, not to tend to victims. And yet, she seemed to find a way to do both. And her work ethic...anyone who had anything to do with the prosecutor’s office knew how many hours she put in. He sat there in awe, truly impressed. Even after he realized he was staring at her.
“What?”
“You...this isn’t even your first area of responsibility and you’re like... I’m impressed, that’s all.”
She shrugged—and he was kind of thinking he saw a bit of red on her cheeks, too. “I had a case that lead me to the team,” she said. “And now I’m committed to them. In cities where teams have been implemented, there
’ve been marked decreases in DV deaths. Marked. In one city, at least, they’ve been completely eradicated since the team was formed.”
The passion that poured out of her as she spoke was unmistakable. And lead him to wonder if she was personally involved with someone who’d suffered abuse. He almost asked.
“I need her name,” she said. “And the name of your parolee.”
Right. Back on track.
He gave the names of Luke and his wife, and their addresses, too, after bringing them up on his phone.
“I’ll make some calls as soon as we’re done here.”
“You said you had a case to discuss with me,” he said, remembering. “And then I lay one on you. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. At all. But yes, I do have something that involves another one of your parolees. One of our doctors reported on a patient of his yesterday morning. He said that though she denied having been abused—said she fell off a ladder in a bathtub where she’d been doing some painting—her injuries weren’t at all consistent with a fall. Of any kind,” she elaborated. “He said there was obvious blunt force trauma, most likely from a male fist, on several parts of her body. When he asked her if someone had hurt her, she was obviously nervous and just kept shaking her head.”
Jayden’s gut sank. He’d done things he’d never get done paying for; had a death on his conscience that sat with him every minute of every day and would go with him when he died. But he’d never understood physically abusing a woman. Not any woman, in any capacity, for any reason. That’s where he drew his line with his parolees, too. If they slid a bit when they first got out, maybe had a drink, or missed a day of work, he’d help them out if he could, but if they ever, ever hurt someone else...he’d get a judge out of bed if he had to, to get the abuser back behind bars immediately.
Shielded in the Shadows Page 2