About That Night (17 page)

It was over.

She paused for a moment, letting Quinn’s threat hang dramatically in the courtroom air. Then she nodded soberly.

“Thank you, Mr. Rhodes. I have no further questions.” She turned to the jurors behind her. “Does the grand jury have any questions for this witness?” After a moment of silence, she smiled politely at Kyle. “You may step down, Mr. Rhodes. Thank you.”

With a nod, Kyle rose from the swivel chair. Ignoring the curious glances of the jurors, he strode out of the room. When the door shut behind him, he stood alone in the hallway
feeling satisfied yet strangely dismissed—like a man who’d barely finished his last pump during a hot one-night stand before being shoved out the door with his shirt and shoes in his hands.

He hadn’t expected her to hang around for hours making post-testimonial chitchat, but,
boy
, that was…anticlimactic. For one thing, she hadn’t even said when they were going to see each other again. Oh, sure, in a few weeks she’d waltz back into his life with her notepad and briefcase and fiery little subpoena threats, and she’d charm and sass and get whatever she wanted, and then wham-bam-thank-you-sir, she’d be on her merry little skirt-suited way again.

This whole grand jury experience had left him feeling very discombobulated.

Kyle made it all the way down to the lobby before he realized he could turn on his cell phone again. He did so, and moments later a text message popped up.

From Rylann, presumably on a break before her next witness.

Kyle stuck his phone back into his suit coat, only later realizing that was the first time in six months he’d left the courthouse with a smile on his face.

LATER THAT EVENING, Rylann walked out that very same door with a similarly pleased expression.

Unlike trial juries, which could take days or even longer in deliberation, a grand jury typically voted quickly. Today, thankfully, had been no exception. Ten minutes after Manuel Gutierrez left the witness stand, the jury foreperson had brought to the chief judge’s chambers a true bill in the case that henceforth would officially be known as
United States v. Adam Quinn
.

She had her indictment.

FRIDAY MORNING, RYLANN received her second piece of good news in twenty-four hours.

“My client signed off on the guilty plea,” said Greg Boran, an assistant federal defender for the Northern District of Illinois.

Over the course of the last week, Rylann had been negotiating the terms of a plea agreement for Watts. She’d known, as soon as Cameron had handed over the files, that this part of the case would plead out quickly. Watts was already a lifer, and the case against him was a slam dunk. Two men had been locked in a cell together, and one of those men had been beaten to death—not exactly a mystery who the attacker had been. In fact, Watts hadn’t even bothered to claim self-defense—disgustingly enough, he seemed almost proud of his actions.

There was just one sticking point she’d been unable to make any headway on. “Any luck getting him to agree to flip on Quinn?”

“Sorry. He says he’s got nothing to say about that,” Greg said.

“Even if I knock the charge down to voluntary manslaughter?”

“Knocking down the charge won’t make any difference in this case—which is precisely why you’re so willing to offer it,” Greg said. “Watts is already serving two life sentences. Shaving a few years off this conviction would be irrelevant.”

“How about the fact that it would be the right thing to do?” Rylann asked. “Your client might want to try that some time.”

Greg remained firm. “He’s a lifer, Rylann. He’s not going to shit where he eats just to throw you a solid. I don’t think it’ll go over so well with the other guards if he’s the guy responsible for sending one of them to prison.”

Maybe not. Still, Rylann gave it one last shot. “I can arrange for him to be transferred out of MCC. Move him somewhere where the sun shines on the prison yard all year long. As a matter of fact, I happen to know that there are some lovely institutions in California that would be happy to welcome Mr. Watts as a guest.”

Greg chuckled. “I already made the suggestion. But you can move him anywhere you want, and he’ll still be known as the inmate who ratted out a guard. Sorry, but if you want to nail Quinn, you’re going to have to do it without Watts.”

Rylann sighed. Not the response she’d been hoping for, but that wasn’t Greg’s fault. She had a lot of respect for the attorneys in the Federal Defender’s Office—they handled caseloads as heavy as those of the prosecutors they faced off against yet had one of the most thankless jobs in the legal profession. “It was worth a shot. I’ll see you in court next week.”

BRIGHT AND EARLY the following Monday, Rylann got her first look at another man she’d set her sights on: Adam Quinn, the “mean son of a bitch” prison guard who’d instigated and arranged Watts’s brutal attack against Brown.

Quinn had been arrested by the FBI the night before, and they were in court for his initial appearance. When Rylann walked through the courtroom doors, she immediately noticed two things: first, that Quinn looked younger than his twenty-eight years, and second, that he appeared to be extremely nervous.

As well he should.

Before taking a seat at her table, she introduced herself to Quinn’s defense attorney. “Rylann Pierce,” she said, extending her hand.

“Michael Channing. I’d like a moment of your time after the arraignment, Ms. Pierce,” he said tersely.

“Of course. I can even give you two moments,” she said with a pleasant smile. She’d been litigating against guys like this her entire career—lawyers who seemingly confused brashness with being tough. Good thing she’d stopped being unnerved by that kind of strategy somewhere around her third trial.

She went over to the prosecution table and set her briefcase off to the side. Shortly thereafter, the clerk called the case, and they were off and running. Because an indictment had already been returned against the defendant, the magistrate judge combined the initial appearance and the arraignment. Quinn, not unexpectedly, entered a plea of not guilty.

At the conclusion of the hearing, Michael Channing made a beeline for Rylann’s table. “Second-degree murder? My client never even touched the guy.” He peered down at her with a smirk. “I looked you up. You’re new here.”

“The law in the Seventh Circuit is clear, Mr. Channing. Anyone who aids in the commission of a crime can be found guilty of that crime. I’ve been here long enough to know that, at least.”

“I know what the Seventh Circuit says,” he said with a glare. “But this whole thing was just a fight between two inmates gone wrong. Show me what you’ve got that proves anything other than that.”

Rylann could already tell—he was going to be an absolute
joy
to litigate against. “I’m happy to.” She unzipped her briefcase, pulled out a file that she’d prepared with all of Special Agent Wilkins’s investigation reports, and plunked it into Channing’s hands. “Here you go. There’s a letter on top outlining my proposed discovery schedule. Exculpatory evidence three weeks before trial, full witness list two weeks prior.”

He looked down at the file in surprise, obviously not having expected to walk out with the FBI reports
today
. “Yes, well. I’ll…be taking a look at these right away.”

“One other thing I should mention. For security reasons, Manuel Gutierrez has been transferred out of MCC and moved downstate to Pekin.” Given the inmate’s concerns about his safety, Rylann had felt that was the safest course of action.

Channing nodded. “I see.”

From his blank expression, Rylann guessed that he did not, in fact, see. Most likely, Channing had no clue who Manuel Gutierrez was. Which was precisely why she liked to hit defense attorneys with the FBI reports right away. It sent them a message, right from the get-go, that they had some catching up to do.

Not surprisingly, Channing had no further demands at that hearing.

UNFORTUNATELY, THE SWEET taste of victory did not linger long.

“I’m striking out with the other inmates,” Agent Wilkins said over the phone later that afternoon when Rylann was back at the office.

To further bolster her case against Quinn, Rylann had asked Wilkins to talk to some of the inmates at MCC to see if any of them could provide support for their theory about Quinn—that he’d been giving preferential treatment to certain inmates who’d carried out his retaliation. “Are they afraid to talk to you?”

Wilkins snorted. “They’re not afraid—they all want
deals
. They know that Gutierrez was taken out of MCC after meeting with us. Apparently, the rumor floating around is that he’s playing golf at a minimum-security facility in Miami.”

“Of course that’s the rumor. One day I have to find this elusive federal prison where everyone runs around free, plays golf, and eats five-course meals.”

“Frankly, I don’t think most of these guys know anything about any special treatment Quinn was giving Jones and Romano,” Wilkins said, referring to the two other inmates they believed had done Quinn’s dirty work. “But I wouldn’t put it past them to claim otherwise if they think it means they’ll get a shortened sentence and an all-expense-paid trip to southern Florida.”

“What about going directly to Jones and Romano? Are they willing to talk?” Rylann asked.

“Not a chance. As soon as I mentioned Quinn’s name, they both demanded to speak to a lawyer. They know exactly why we want to talk to them—the whole prison is buzzing about Quinn being indicted.” Wilkins’s tone turned apologetic. “Sorry I couldn’t come up with more.”

Rylann rocked back in her desk chair. She was disappointed but not surprised. “Like you said, if these guys are so insistent on deals, I couldn’t trust anything they said anyway.”

“Too bad Manuel Gutierrez didn’t know anything. Since he’s already agreed to testify, that would’ve been perfect,” Wilkins said. “What about Kyle Rhodes? I take it the same goes for him?”

“Not sure. I’ve been in court so much recently, I haven’t had the chance to circle back to him yet,” Rylann said.

“I could do the follow-up interview if you like,” Wilkins offered politely. “It’s just that you’ve been the contact person with him thus far…”

“Nope, I’ve got it covered. I’m adding it to my to-do list for the day as we speak.” As Rylann reached for a pen, her second phone line rang—and then her cell phone chimed immediately after that with a text message. She quickly checked the caller ID on both while jotting down a note on her daily calendar.

“You sure?” Wilkins said with a chuckle. “You sound awfully busy right now.”

Sure, she was a little inundated right then. But since she was the one who’d established the relationship with Kyle Rhodes, it would be odd to suddenly send in the FBI to talk to him. Besides, there was no way that Meth Lab Rylann was going to get a reputation in her new office of not pulling her weight. “I’m positive. It’s on the official checklist,” she assured him. “Which means—”

Rylann stopped abruptly when she saw what she’d written amid all the distractions.

Do Kyle Rhodes.

Clearly, she and her subconscious needed to have a talk about that one.

KYLE ALMOST HAD a heart attack when he peered down at the Post-it note his sister had given him.

“
This
is your password? Clearly, that’s the next thing we need to fix,” he said as he logged on to her laptop. Jordan had asked him to stop by her store to see if he could figure out why her Internet connection had suddenly crashed. Based on her password alone, he was already dreading what he might find.

Standing next to the desk, Jordan gave him a quizzical look. “Mom’s maiden name and the years Grandma and Grandpa Evers were born. Why would anyone ever think of that combination?”

“Or you could just make the password one-two-three-four,” he offered. “Since you’re obviously trying to have your identity stolen.” He pointed, lecturing. “Listen and learn: you need fourteen characters, minimum. Use random letters, not words. Here’s a tip: think of a sentence, and use the first letter in each of those words. Mix it up between upper and lower case. Then pick two numbers that mean something to you—not dates—and stick them somewhere between the letters. Put a punctuation mark at the beginning of the password and then a symbol, like a dollar sign, at the end.”

“Yes, sir.” Jordan grabbed a pen and another Post-it note. “Um, could you repeat everything that came after mixing up the upper and lower case?”

Kyle took the pen from her. “I’ll come up with something
for you.” He shooed her off. “Now go away. Sell some wine. I’ll call you if I need someone to push an on-off button.” He thought of one last thing. “By the way, when’s the last time you updated the firmware on your router? Okay, from your blank expression, I’ll mark that down as a big ‘never.’ “

Shortly after she left, his cell phone rang, and Kyle saw that it was Rylann. The two of them had been playing phone tag all afternoon—not that he particularly minded hearing her sexy, throaty voice on his voicemail.

He knew, from the press release the U.S. Attorney’s Office had issued last Friday morning, that the grand jury had indicted Adam Quinn. Since then, there’d been some local media interest in the case—a guard instigating the murder of a federal inmate was exactly the kind of juicy public corruption scandal that Chicago journalists loved to report about—but thankfully, none of the witnesses’ names had been revealed. He was more than happy to stay out of the spotlight as long as possible on this one.

“It appears congratulations are in order, Ms. Pierce,” he said when he answered his phone. “I see you got your indictment. I believe a certain somebody said something about calling me when that happened.”

“I’ve been waiting for a time when I had more than five seconds to talk.”

“Oh.” Kyle rocked back in the desk chair, liking the sound of that. “I’m flattered.”

“Because I also need a favor from you.”

Of course she did. “You know, counselor, I think that card you keep playing—the one that says, ‘Redeemable for old times’ sake’—has officially expired.”