False Witness (24 page)

“Better?” the sketch artist asked.

She made a not-really face. “I don't know,” she said. “Maybe not quite that thin.”

And so it went. “The chin—a little too blocky. . . . No, I think the eyes were a lighter blue, eerie, almost like an albino. . . . Yes, that's it. But something's still wrong with the face structure . . . cheekbones, I don't know.”

After three-quarters of an hour, Jamie gave up. According to Detective Jacobsen, they needed to get the composites out as soon as possible; every minute was critical. And when she closed her eyes, Jamie was no longer sure if she was seeing the man who had abducted her or the features she and the sketch artist had been toying with for the past forty-five minutes.

“That's him,” she finally announced.

“Are you sure?”

Jamie would soon be a lawyer. She had seen her own father grilled on the stand by the defense lawyer for her mother's killer. Jamie knew the weaknesses of eyewitness testimony better than most. She knew that every word she uttered would be twisted by a defense attorney later, particularly if she expressed any doubt.

“I'm sure,” she said.

As Jamie left the station, Drew Jacobsen said he would be in touch if anything major broke. He told her again, for the third time, to contact him if she heard anything from David Hoffman. The investigators had considered having Jamie call the phone number Dmitri had given her so the police could set up a sting operation. But for now, Jacobsen explained, they had decided against it. They didn't want to increase the risk of danger to Jamie. In the meantime, they were running traces on the number.

Jamie thanked Jacobsen and said she hoped to hear from him soon. She meant it, too. The man had won Jamie's unqualified admiration when he took Snowball outside during Jamie's stint with the sketch artist—right now, any friend of Snowball's was a friend of Jamie's. Plus, he had these amazing brown eyes and a square jaw that made Jamie feel safer just being around him. And one other thing, though technically it didn't matter since she was on a celibacy pledge until she graduated—the man wasn't wearing a ring.

Jamie knew that the safety she felt at the precinct would evaporate when she walked out the front door. The television cops could send someone to watch your condo night and day, but in reality the police worked under the constraints of city and county budgets. And they had hundreds of unsolved cases all vying for their attention. Jamie trusted Drew Jacobsen, and she didn't regret coming here. Still, as she left, even with Snowball sticking close to her side, Jamie felt very much alone.

After she pulled away from the precinct, Jamie zigzagged through side streets and pulled enough U-turns to convince herself that she wasn't being followed. She worked her way to I-85 north and headed out of town, merging onto I-985 and making it about sixty miles before she nearly dozed off. She suddenly realized that she couldn't even remember going past the last two exits. She found a hotel that allowed dogs, a grubby little place that smelled like smoke even in the nonsmoking rooms. She checked the chain lock twice before lying down on the bed with the lights on.

Snowball didn't waste any time joining her on the bed, scratching and circling for a minute before he found the perfect spot and plopped down. He curled up in the crook of Jamie's legs, right where she could reach down and rub his ears.

Within ten minutes, with the television blaring and the lights shining bright, both dog and master were sound asleep.

40

Sunday, March 30

The next morning, Jamie slept until nearly nine. She would have slept longer, but Snowball just couldn't take it anymore, rooting around on the bed, trotting around in little circles on the floor, and then finally sitting by the door and staring intently as if his bladder might burst at any moment. Jamie took him outside to do his business, then drove to a nearby convenience store for toothpaste, a toothbrush, deodorant, and a brush. She returned to the hotel and spent about five minutes getting ready. She herded Snowball into the 4Runner and headed north. They could stop for breakfast at a QT and still be at her brother's house before he got home from church.

As she entered the mountains of northern Georgia, the altitude and breathtaking scenery helped her forget the images from yesterday's trauma, turning her thoughts to Chris and his family. Sometimes it was hard to believe that she and Chris sprouted from the same pool of DNA. Sure, there were physical similarities. Chris was three years older and had the same sculpted facial features as Jamie—prominent cheekbones, dark brown eyes, straight white teeth, and matching dimples when he smiled. The girls in high school and college had swooned over Jamie's older brother. And, she had to admit, her more feminine version of the same face had not fared half-bad with the boys in college.

But the skin-deep similarities of the Brock siblings only accentuated their personality differences. Chris was an extrovert; Jamie brooded. Chris was a small-church pastor; Jamie wanted to be a prosecutor. Chris had already married and fathered two lovely children. Right now, the only men Jamie had time for in her life were the legends of the law—Judge Learned Hand, Benjamin Cardozo, and John Wigmore, the author of a famous evidence treatise. They didn't exactly make great bedfellows.

And most important of all, Chris had forgiven their mother's killer. Jamie wanted to see him get the needle—she needed revenge.

Like all siblings, they had a few things in common. A once-revered father who had suffered a stroke and now barely recognized either of them. Fond memories of a loving mother. Intolerance for the arrogant UGA fans who dominated the state. Adoration for Chris's two children. And a love for Snowball.

Snowball showed the feeling was mutual when Chris and his family pulled into the driveway of their house at a few minutes before one o'clock and found Jamie and her dog camped out on the front porch. There was supposed to be a key hidden under the mat, but somebody had apparently used it and forgotten to put it back.

Snowball bolted straight for Chris and would have flattened the preacher but for Jamie's call, reminding Snowball of his obedience school training. Private Snowball heeded his boot camp lessons, stopped short of his uncle, and waited for Chris to bend over and rub his head in approval. The dog's tail swung wildly back and forth, nearly knocking over Chris's two little girls, who tried to give him hugs. The girls giggled as Snowball wagged and nuzzled and drooled.

An hour later, after joining Chris and the family for hamburgers cooked on the grill, Jamie started making excuses to leave. She loved her brother, but he was an old maid when it came to worrying about her. Instead of the truth, she fed him a line about leaving town for a few days. She wondered if he would mind taking care of Snowball. Feeling a self-imposed double shot of guilt—one for misleading her brother, the other for abandoning her dog—Jamie bent down and hugged Snowball's neck.

“It's for your own good,” she whispered, and Snowball wagged his tail.

“He'll be fine,” Chris promised.

Jamie stood. Getting too sentimental might make everyone suspicious.

“I know. I'm just going to miss the big lug.”

Snowball wandered away from Jamie, nonchalantly approaching the kitchen table, where the family had finished their feast a few minutes earlier. He noticed one of the kids' paper plates, a leftover piece of hamburger calling his name. He peeked over his shoulder to make sure Jamie was engaged in conversation, jumped up and snitched the burger from the plate, swallowed it in one bite, then grabbed the plate itself.

Table manners had not been his strength in obedience school.

“Snowball!” Jamie yelled, freezing him in his tracks.

But when Chris lunged for him, Snowball took off. “You little thief,” Chris said, giving chase. He glanced back at Jamie. “Now's a good time to go—he won't even notice.”

Snowball darted back and forth, the paper plate hanging from his mouth, the girls and Chris giving chase.

“Hurry back,” Chris shouted to Jamie.

She smiled, thanked him, and headed for the front door. She would be halfway to the 4Runner before Snowball even knew she was gone.

On the way home, Jamie stopped at a gun shop in Gainesville and purchased her first handgun. Until today, she had always supported a waiting period for handgun purchases. But with Dmitri and his gang issuing their threats, she suddenly appreciated the wisdom of the instant background check.

This gun was, according to the clerk, exactly what a young, single woman would need for protection. A .45 caliber, the clerk explained, large enough to stop any attacker with a single bullet. The gun itself had a flat profile—small and sleek. It was single action, according to the clerk, and Jamie nodded as if she had been looking for a single-action, .45-caliber gun all along. “Kimber makes excellent guns,” the clerk bragged, and Jamie nodded some more. When she wrapped her hand around the grip, her finger extended comfortably to the trigger.

“Think you can handle the recoil?” the clerk asked. “It has a pretty good kick.”

That was when Jamie knew this gun was for her.

She passed on the concealed-carry vest the clerk tried to sell her. She would make sure the safety was on and stuff it in her backpack. Not exactly legal, but getting a permit to carry a concealed handgun would take several days, not to mention the fact that her court petition would tip her hand to the men who had accosted her.

On the way down I-985 from Gainesville, Jamie called Drew Jacobsen. The detective took about five minutes to bring her up to speed on the investigation. He hadn't made much progress, in Jamie's opinion, but it was nice to hear his voice anyway.

She told him that she had dropped Snowball off with a family member and then, somewhat embarrassed, mentioned that she had purchased a gun.

“A pistol?” he asked.

“Yeah. It's a Kimber .45,” Jamie said, hoping she sounded semi-intelligent with her new gun lingo. “A Pro Carry II.”

“A .45?” Jacobsen hesitated as if he wanted to say something more but decided against it. Instead he asked, “You planning on carrying it concealed?”

“I was thinking about it.”

“You know you'll need a permit.”

“Of course.”

“That can take several days.”

“So I've heard.”

Jacobsen hesitated again, and this time Jamie knew why. He was on thin ice here. “Of course, I'm a big supporter of the permit laws in most circumstances, and I would never counsel anyone to ignore them. But in certain hypothetical cases, I could see where the application process itself might tip off the very people a young lady might be trying to protect herself from.”

“So you're saying I shouldn't get a permit,” Jamie stated, just to get a reaction.

“I'm just talking hypothetically,” Jacobsen said.

“Sure. And hypothetically speaking, I was going to carry it in my backpack.”

“Do you even know how to use the thing? Have you ever had lessons?”

“I've never fired a gun in my life.”

“Well, in my capacity here on the force, I couldn't actually give lessons. It just so happens, however, that I'm heading to a shooting range tomorrow on my day off. Might be a good place for you to get a little target practice.”

“Amazing,” Jamie said. “I was thinking about going to that same shooting range. Can you tell me where it is?”

Jacobsen laughed and gave her directions. They agreed on a time. “In the meantime,” he said, “please be careful. That piece is nothing to play around with.”

Jamie liked the fact that he sounded concerned. “I'll keep that in mind,” she said.

Jamie arrived at her condo a few minutes after six. As in the
Law & Order
episodes, she went room to room, pointing the gun in front of her, checking every closet. Nobody was there, but it felt invigorating doing it.

Until she noticed Snowball's food and water bowls. Suddenly the house seemed very empty.