by Julie James
Rae put down the menu she’d been reading. “Oh my God, yes—I’ve been meaning to ask you about that since Tuesday. I’ve just been so swamped with this summary judgment motion. I saw that the judge reduced Kyle Rhodes’s sentence to time served.”
Rylann smiled to herself, savoring the deliciousness of the gossip she was about to share. “This is true. But I take it you didn’t see any of the billion photographs from the court hearing?” There’d been one particular photograph that had been blasted all over the media that had slightly concerned her, a shot of her and Kyle right at that very moment when they’d met in the courtroom aisle. Maybe she was being overly paranoid, but something about the way Kyle was peering down at her looked a little…intimate. As if they shared a secret.
Which, of course, they did.
“Sorry. I missed it,” Rae said sheepishly. “I’ve been living in a hole since Monday.”
“A hole that also kept you from noticing the name of the assistant U.S. attorney who handled the motion, obviously,” Rylann said.
She was so enjoying this.
Rae shrugged. “I assume it’s the same lawyer who handled the rest of the case.”
Rylann casually took a sip of the pinot noir she’d ordered. “One would assume that, yes. Except—oh, small problem—the original lawyer assigned to the case had a last-minute trial conflict, and my office needed to send in a replacement.” She smiled mischievously.
Rae stared at her for a moment, then her eyes went wide. “Shut up. They sent you?”
“Indeed they did.”
“You went up against Kyle Rhodes in court?” Rae laughed. “Well, that’s certainly an interesting way to reconnect after nine years. What did he say when he saw you?”
“He called me ‘counselor.’ “
Rae sat back in her chair, disappointed. “That’s it? What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Mr. Rhodes,’ and shook his hand.”
“Ooh… scintillating stuff.”
Rylann threw her a pointed look. “We were in court, in front of a hundred reporters. What was I supposed to do? Write my phone number on his hand and tell him to call me?”
Rylann smiled. “Now that would’ve been cute.”
“I don’t do cute. Especially not in court.” Rylann paused. “Although the ‘counselor’ thing is sort of an inside joke between him and me.”
“Is it now?” Rae’s tone turned suddenly sly. “So how did he look, counselor?”
Like sin in a suit. Rylann held her tongue, playing it cool. “He’s wearing his hair a little longer. Other than that, I didn’t notice. I was in the zone.”
“Which zone is that?”
“The prosecutorial zone, naturally.”
“Then why are you blushing?”
Because, in addition to being cursed with fair skin from her Irish mother, she doubted there were many women in existence who wouldn’t have some basic, instinctive physical reaction to Kyle Rhodes. With that devilish smile and those roguish good looks, any girl would be hard-pressed not to get a little flushed when thinking about him.
Still, Rylann covered by gesturing to her glass. “It’s the antioxidants in the red wine. They open up the pores.”
Rae smiled, not buying that for one second. “Right. So what happens next?”
“Nothing happens next. He’s the Twitter Terrorist. I’m a prosecutor from the office who convicted him. I think that pretty much ends the story.”
Rae thought about that. “Kind of an anticlimactic ending.”
Rylann shrugged, adopting a matter-of-fact expression. “He walked me home, and we kissed once. Forever ago. I barely even remember that night.”
Rae raised an eyebrow knowingly. “There are some things a girl never forgets, Ry. And one of those is a kiss from the right guy.”
WHEN RYLANN GOT back to her apartment later that evening, she dropped her briefcase on the living room couch and unbuttoned her trench coat as she made her way to the bedroom. As she stepped into her walk-in closet and hung up the coat, Rae’s words echoed through her head.
There are some things a girl never forgets, Ry. And one of those is a kiss from the right guy.
The notion was a little sentimental for her tastes.
She was a grown woman—thirty-two years old, not thirteen. Meth Lab Rylann did not get all weak in the knees over one measly kiss, no matter how irritatingly charming Kyle Rhodes had been that night.
Still…instinctively, her eyes went to the top shelf of the closet.
Shoved near the back was an old shoebox, one she’d had for years. On the day they’d moved in together in San Francisco, Jon had asked her what was inside.
“Just some old letters my mom sent me when I went away to college,” she’d told him, perhaps the only time she’d lied to Jon the entire time they’d been dating.
Reaching up, Rylann grabbed the box off the shelf and removed the lid.
Inside was the navy flannel shirt Kyle had given her nine years ago.
She ran her fingers over the collar, remembering that moment when he’d handed the shirt over to her. The way her stomach had done a little flip as his hand brushed against her neck.
Okay, fine. Maybe she remembered a few teeny, tiny details about that night.
Rylann shook her head, wanting to laugh at herself as she stared down at the flannel. It was just so…silly. It was a shirt. Really, she had no idea why she’d kept the darn thing all this time. She’d moved from Champaign to San Francisco, and then into a different apartment when her and Jon had decided to live together, and each time she’d contemplated tossing it in the garbage. But something had held her back.
I saw you laughing with your friends, and your smile sucked me right in.
There’d been a spark between her and Kyle, whether she’d wanted to admit it or not. They’d spent less than thirty minutes together, but she’d felt it. Instant butterflies. Not with any other man, including Jon, had she ever experienced that.
“Pull it together, Pierce,” she whispered to herself. This was not a road she needed to go down.
Because, simply, it didn’t matter now.
They weren’t fresh-faced grad students anymore. Kyle Rhodes was an ex-con, and she was an assistant U.S. attorney. There was no place to go from there. She wasn’t going to reach out to him, and after the way she’d brushed him off in the courtroom, she highly doubted that he would try to get in touch with her, either. So that was…that.
Slowly, Rylann put the lid back on the shoebox and returned it to its place on the back of her shelf. Out of sight.
And this time, out of mind. For good.
Eight
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Rylann knocked on Cameron’s door, pausing when she saw that the other woman was on the phone. With a welcoming look, Cameron gestured for Rylann to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of her desk.
“I’ve got to run, Collin, I’ve got some people in my office,” Cameron said to the person on the other end of the line. “Yes, I am a very important person. I know it kills you to share the spotlight.” She smiled at Rylann as she hung up the phone. “Sorry about that. Old friend.”
She folded her hands on top of her desk. “So. I have an interesting matter I’d like to discuss with you. But first, I wanted to check in and see how your first week has been going.”
“It’s going well,” Rylann said. “I think I’ve met almost all of the AUSAs in special prosecutions, and they seem like a great group.” In fact, the only one she hadn’t met yet was the elusive Cade Morgan, the prosecutor who had originally handled the Twitter Terrorist case.
“It is a great group,” Cameron agreed. “I used to be in special prosecutions before they moved me up.”
Rylann held back a laugh at that, appreciating the modesty. Cameron had been appointed to the position of U.S. attorney by the president of the United States—that was a bit of a bigger deal than simply being “moved up.”
Cameron switched gears, ready to get down to business. “T
he FBI has recently briefed me on an investigation that I’d like you to handle. It’s a somewhat sensitive matter, and one that I suspect will require an experienced AUSA in light of certain circumstances that I’ll get to in a few moments.”
Rylann was already interested. “What kind of case is it?”
“A homicide case. Two weeks ago, an inmate named Darius Brown was found dead in his cell at Metropolitan Correctional Center. Apparently, Brown was attacked in the middle of the night by his cell mate, a man named Ray Watts, who beat Brown to death with a makeshift weapon—a padlock attached to a belt. By the time the guards became aware of the attack and got to the cell, Brown was already unconscious. They rushed him to the medical facilities, where he died shortly thereafter.”
Cameron reached into a file on her desk and tossed a mug shot of a man with close-cropped blond hair in his late twenties. “That’s Watts, the cell mate. Currently serving two life sentences for first-degree murder and arson. He’s a member of the Brotherhood, a local white supremacist group, and was convicted four years ago after he and two other members of the group firebombed the home of an African American man who’d recently opened a convenience store in Watts’s neighborhood. Both the store owner and his wife were killed.”
“Sounds like Watts is a real model citizen,” Rylann said humorlessly. No matter how many times she heard stories like this, they still got to her. And if the day ever came when that stopped happening, it would be time to hang up her briefcase.
“He’s a model inmate, too,” Cameron said, just as dryly. “Apparently, he has a reputation of being very violent at MCC. Because of that, he’d been in a cell by himself for three months before Brown was transferred in with him.”
She rested her arms on the desk, continuing. “Here’s how this ended up on my desk. The FBI has a man, Agent Griegs, who’s been working undercover as an inmate at MCC in an unrelated investigation. During this time, he’s been passing along any information related to the goings-on at the prison that he believes the FBI might want to know about. After Brown was killed by Watts, the undercover agent told his contact that the attack seemed suspicious. Another agent, Special Agent Wilkins, was subsequently brought in to take charge of the investigation.
“What immediately jumped out at Agent Wilkins was the timing of Brown’s death. Brown, who is African American, had been moved into Watts’s cell just two days prior to the attack—a transfer that had been arranged by a prison guard named Adam Quinn. Naturally, Agent Wilkins interviewed Quinn, and that’s where things got really interesting.
“During the interview, Quinn became nervous and agitated when asked why Brown had been transferred to Watts’s cell. The prison guard claimed that he’d set up the transfer because, per policy, inmates weren’t supposed to get cells to themselves. But Quinn was unable to offer any reason why—when the prison had previously allowed Watts to be in a cell by himself for three months—he suddenly decided to follow this alleged policy. Nor did Quinn have an explanation as to why he’d chosen Brown to be Watts’s cell mate.”
“Which is suspicious in and of itself given Watts’s history of racially motivated violence.” Rylann paused, her mind already working through the fact pattern. “Did Agent Wilkins confirm whether there is a policy that inmates can’t be in cells by themselves?”
“The warden said that while that is the general rule, they have made exceptions in the past for inmates like Watts who are particularly aggressive.” Cameron proceeded on. “Not surprisingly, Agent Wilkins decided to dig a little deeper. In reviewing Brown’s prison records, he found something very unusual. As it turns out, Quinn, the guard, had been attacked by Brown two weeks before Brown was killed.”
Rylann’s prosecutorial radar went on high alert. “What were the circumstances of that attack?”
“Apparently, Brown grabbed Quinn’s forearm when he was collecting Brown’s food tray and pulled it hard enough to dislocate the guard’s wrist.”
Rylann sat back in her chair. “Let me summarize to make sure I have this all straight. Brown attacks a prison guard and dislocates the guard’s wrist. Two weeks later, Brown is transferred by that guard into the cell of one of the most violent inmates in the prison, a white supremacist no less, and is beaten to death.” She looked at Cameron across the desk. “I assume we’re thinking the same thing here: that Quinn engineered this attack in retaliation.”
“That’s exactly what Agent Wilkins suspected, so he kept digging,” Cameron said. “Not surprisingly, Brown had been put in disciplinary segregation for a week after he attacked Quinn. When he came out, he told some of his inmate friends that the guard came to his cell one night and threatened him.”
Rylann cocked her head. “What was the threat?”
“Brown claimed that Quinn said, ‘You’re gonna pay for what you did to my wrist, you piece of shit.’ “
“Do we know if anyone heard that threat?” Rylann asked.
“We don’t know yet. But I’ll circle back to that in a minute,” Cameron said. “After that, Agent Wilkins took a look at Quinn’s personnel files and discovered that in the last year, the prison guard had been involved in two other altercations with inmates. And on both of those occasions, shortly thereafter the inmate was attacked and beaten by another prisoner.”
She gave Rylann a moment to process this.
“So we’ve got a prison guard who doesn’t like it when inmates step out of line,” Rylann said. “But instead of getting his own hands dirty to retaliate, he uses other inmates to do the job for him. This time, however, he got carried away, picked the wrong inmate, and a man ended up dead.”
“Thankfully, the undercover agent tipped us off. Otherwise, this might have gone unnoticed, just a fight between two inmates gone wrong.” There was a gleam in Cameron’s eye. “Which brings me back to your question—whether anyone heard Quinn threaten Brown.”
Rylann had a feeling she knew what that look meant. “I’m guessing we have a witness.”
“We may have a witness,” Cameron said. “The FBI has identified an inmate who was also in disciplinary segregation on the night Brown claimed Quinn threatened him. In the cell right next to Brown, as a matter of fact. Unfortunately, we don’t yet know what, if anything, this other inmate actually heard.”
“Why not?” Rylann asked. “Is he refusing to talk?”
“For starters, this inmate isn’t actually an inmate anymore. He was released from MCC just before Brown was killed. It’s likely he doesn’t even know that Brown is dead.”
Rylann was still missing something here. “Why didn’t the FBI simply talk to him at home?”
“They tried,” Cameron said. “So far, they haven’t been able to get past his lawyers. Which is why they brought the case to us. If we want to talk to this man, we’re likely going to need a grand jury subpoena to do it. I doubt he’ll cooperate voluntarily.” She peered across the desk at Rylann, looking slightly amused. “He’s probably feeling a little prickly toward the U.S.
Attorney’s Office these days. Especially since we called him a ‘terrorist’ and a ‘cyber-menace to society.’ “
Rylann blinked. “Kyle Rhodes is potentially our key witness?”
“Potentially your key witness,” Cameron emphasized. “Starting now, Rylann, the case is all yours. One Twitter Terrorist included.”
So much for out of sight, out of mind.
“Strange, how he keeps popping up in my cases these days,” Rylann said. She hadn’t seen the guy for nine years, and now he kept turning up like a bad penny. A very bad penny.
Wickedly, dangerously bad.
Cameron acknowledged this with a nod. “The motion call was pure happenstance. I needed a senior AUSA in special prosecutions to cover for Cade, and you, being the new kid on the block, had an open schedule. But when the FBI brought the Brown matter to me yesterday, admittedly, yes, you were the first person I thought of. If anyone in this office stands a chance of getting Kyle Rhodes to voluntarily cooperate, it’s you. I read the t
ranscript from Tuesday’s motion. From Rhodes’s point of view, you’re the one person here who has actually argued for his release.” She grinned. “Hopefully you can now use those persuasive powers to get him to talk.”
Or maybe he’ll just slam the door in my face.
Probably not the best time to tell her new boss that she’d kissed the defendant in her first case, then given him the cut direct in court.
“And if that doesn’t work?” Rylann asked. “How far do you want me to take this?”
“All the way.” Cameron sat forward in her chair, turning serious and appearing every bit the U.S. attorney right then. “When I took over this office after my highly unesteemed predecessor, I made a vow to take down government corruption at all levels. Based on what the FBI has told me, we’ve got a federal corrections officer who’s been exacting his own form of justice against inmates, and his actions have now led to a man’s death. He’s not getting away with that on my watch.” She looked Rylann in the eyes. “If Kyle Rhodes heard that threat, I think we’ve got enough for an indictment. Let’s make that happen.”
Seeing the look of determination on her boss’s face, Rylann had only one answer to that.
“Consider it done.”
Nine
NOT HAVING ANY plans that evening, Rylann stayed at the office until eight and ordered Chinese takeout for dinner when she got home. She changed into jeans and a T-shirt, then settled into the couch to call her parents. They’d retired several years ago and now spent the winters in a two-bedroom townhome they’d bought near Naples, Florida. Over the course of the last few years, Rylann had noticed that her parents’ definition of “winter” seemed to be significantly expanding, and thus had a sneaking suspicion she wouldn’t see them north of the Mason-Dixon Line anytime before June.
