“This conversation is pointless. I called to give you the information, because I’m your friend, but—”
“I’m your friend, too. You know that, right, Emily?”
There was a pause. “I thought I did.”
“Emily—”
“I know one thing. If some scumbag lawyer targeted you, I’d be on your side, one-hundred-percent.”
“This isn’t about sides.” She could feel the arguments ready to pour from her mouth, but they were the same arguments she’d already made. She realized Graham was right—there was no point in continuing the debate. Nothing she said would convince Graham that Kelly Lee deserved the best efforts of the PPD—or Jessie.
“I need to run,” Graham said.
“Okay.”
Jessie ended the call and put away her phone. She leaned back in her chair, feeling miserable. Graham obviously felt betrayed, hurt, and that was something Jessie would need to address. But not by turning her back on Kelly Lee. Not by standing by and allowing an injustice to occur.
Fewer than twenty-four hours had passed since the accident, and the police had already ended their investigation. If Jessie didn’t do something, no one else would.
But what could she do? Without the support of Graham, without any help from Leary, and without any authorization from Warren, she was alone.
She reached for the mouse and keyboard on her desk, then stopped and picked up her cell phone instead. Warren had prohibited her from “using the resources of this office” to get involved. Technically, if she relied on her own resources, she’d be complying with his commands.
Yeah, I’m sure that argument will carry a lot of weight when you’re begging him not to fire you.
It was a chance she had to take. She opened the web browser on her phone. One Google search later, she had the phone number for Kelly’s law office. She called it.
A woman’s voice answered on the third ring. “Kelly Lee, Attorney at Law. This is her assistant, Cheyenne.”
Jessie froze. There was something too businesslike, too matter-of-fact about the woman’s tone. Had no one notified her of Kelly’s death?
“My name is Jessica Black. I’m a prosecutor at the DA’s Office, and also a friend of Kelly’s. I…. Has anyone from the police department contacted you?”
“The police department? I don’t know what this is about, but Kelly is not in the office at the moment. I’d be happy to take a message—”
“No, listen. I’m calling with some terrible news, Cheyenne. Kelly was in a car accident in Center City last night. A bad one.” Jessie felt her throat constrict. “Kelly is dead.”
She heard the assistant’s sharp intake of breath. “Oh no.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh my God.”
“Cheyenne, I’m calling because Kelly told me she was working on a big case—a class action lawsuit against a toy company. The client’s name was….” She struggled to remember it.
“Rowland,” Cheyenne said. “Ken and Deanna Rowland. Their son’s name was Sam.”
“You’re familiar with the case?”
“All I know is Kelly was really passionate about it. She said it was her chance to do something good.”
“She said something very similar to me. Are you at her office now, Cheyenne?”
“Why?”
“I’d like to see the Rowland file.”
“I’m not sure if I’m allowed to give that to you.”
“Please, it’s….” Jessie hesitated, unsure how much to tell this woman she didn’t know. “I’m not sure the car accident was really an accident. Kelly confided in me that she felt threatened. She thought someone might be following her. And she thought it was because of the Rowland case.”
“Yeah, she said the same thing to me. She told me to be careful.”
“It would be really helpful if I could see that file.”
“Look, don’t take this the wrong way. You sound legit. But the police have a history of calling here and trying to get information they’re not supposed to have.”
Jessie felt her jaw tense. “I’m not the police. I’m a lawyer, like Kelly.”
“You’re a prosecutor. To me, that doesn’t sound much different than the police.”
“Okay. I understand your concern. How about this? If the Rowlands authorize you to give me their file, would that make you comfortable?”
She held her breath as Cheyenne seemed to think it over. “I guess so.”
“Can you give me their contact information? I’ll talk to them right now.”
Cheyenne seemed to hesitate again, but then she gave Jessie a phone number and address.
Five minutes later, Jessie headed out of the DA’s Office, careful to avoid Warren Williams.
9
Jessie retrieved her car from its Center City garage and drove out to Devon, Pennsylvania, a town that was part of Philadelphia's Main Line suburbs. The tall buildings and city streets of Philly gave way to green lawns—slightly brown from the autumn chill—and large single-family homes.
The residential sections of Devon looked like sets from a movie, with neat fences, basketball hoops mounted above garage doors, and bikes and skateboards in the driveways. As the GPS app on her phone directed her to the address Kelly Lee’s assistant had given her, she couldn’t help imagining living in a town like this one day. Raising a family. The thought brought a warm feeling to her chest, but the feeling quickly soured as she realized Deanna and Ken Rowland had probably moved here for similar reasons.
She parked in front of their white colonial-style house and rang the doorbell. Within seconds, the door flung open and two hopeful faces stared out at her. Ken and Deanna Rowland were stoop-shouldered and disheveled, but she could see determination in their eyes. Deanna, as if afraid to speak, invited her inside with a wave of her hand.
She followed the couple into their house, walking past a foyer to a family room. There were toys strewn on the carpet. For a moment, Jessie wondered if the couple had more than one child. But the silence of the house told her that was probably not the case. More likely, the couple had not found the strength to clean up their son’s belongings. Jessie felt emotion rise in her chest again. She forced herself to breathe. She was here to help these people, she reminded herself, and she could only do that if she remained professional.
“Thank you for seeing me on short notice,” she said.
Deanna gestured for Jessie to sit on the couch, then sat down herself. She folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward. She looked frail and tentative. Her husband did not sit down. He paced back and forth in front of sliding glass doors facing the backyard.
“I’m sorry,” Deanna Rowland said. “It’s still hard for us to talk about Sam. That’s why you said you wanted to see us, right? To talk to us about our case?”
“Yes. I’m an assistant district attorney with the Philadelphia DA’s Office.”
“Are you thinking about bringing criminal charges against that horrible company?” Ken Rowland said. There was a sudden energy in his voice that belied his slumped appearance.
Jessie shifted uneasily on the couch. “Actually, I’m here because I need to tell you some bad news. Your lawyer, Kelly Lee, died last night. She was in a car accident.”
Deanna Rowland’s hand flew to her mouth. Across the room, her husband stopped pacing, turned, and gaped at Jessie. “What?”
“Oh my God,” Deanna Rowland said. “Oh no. Dear God.”
“Why are you here to tell us?” Ken Rowland said. “Why you, an assistant DA?”
“I was Kelly’s friend.”
“Is that the only reason?” he said. “Do you think there could have been … what’s the word … foul play?”
“What are you talking about, Ken?” Deanna Rowland said. But by the way the color drained from her face, Jessie suspected she understood exactly what her husband was suggesting.
“Do you think that’s a realistic possibility?” Jessie said, turning the question around.
Ken Rowland did not hesitate. “Definitely.”
“The AID—that’s the Accident Investigation Division of the Philadelphia Police Department—didn’t find anything suspicious at the scene,” Jessie said.
“That company, and that man, Douglas Shaw—they have no morals.” Ken Rowland crossed the room to stand near Jessie and his wife. “Do you know that they tried to pay us off? They offered us money to abandon the lawsuit. Of course, we would’ve had to agree to a nondisclosure agreement. They don’t want anyone to know their toys kill children.”
“They must have issued a recall,” Jessie said.
“A recall?” Ken Rowland snorted a laugh. “No. All they did was stop selling the toys, and they issued a press release claiming a supply shortage. They denied everything about the toys being dangerous. That’s how immoral these people are. They don’t care about human life. They’re scum.”
Jessie let him talk, and hoped doing so had some therapeutic value. As a prosecutor who dealt with victims and their families on a regular basis, she had learned over the years to be not only a lawyer, but a kind of therapist as well. She did not try to counsel people—there were social workers and victims’ advocates who performed that role better than she could—but she tried to be a good listener, to let them know she cared.
“I hear what you’re saying,” she said, choosing her words with care. “But you have to remember corporations aren’t people. They always try to minimize costs and maximize profits. From what I understand, settling with a litigant and demanding secrecy as part of the settlement isn’t unusual. I’m not sure it’s evidence of murderous intent.”
“Kelly was afraid,” Deanna Rowland said. “You claim you were her friend. Did she tell you she was afraid that someone was following her?”
“Yes.” Thinking about their conversation in the criminal courthouse brought Jessie a fresh twinge of regret. “That’s part of the reason I’m here. I want to make sure her concerns are looked into and taken seriously.”
“You seem like a good person,” Deanna Rowland said. “Were you and Kelly close?”
“We were friends in law school. We drifted apart after that. I wish we had stayed closer.” Jessie pushed away the thought. “What about you? Has anyone threatened you?”
Deanna Rowland took a deep breath. “Not exactly. I mean, we never felt like anyone was following us. But when we rejected their settlement offer, they were angry. They told Kelly we would never win, and that they would bury us in legal fees before we even had a chance. They said we were making a huge mistake we would regret for the rest of our lives.”
Ken Rowland sat down next to his wife and put his arm around her. “Deanna and I knew the only thing we would regret would be not going forward with the trial, not fighting for Sam. That’s why we told them to take their hush money and shove it.”
“If Kelly’s dead, what happens to our case?” Deanna Rowland asked. “Who will be our lawyer now?”
“I’m not sure,” Jessie said. “One of the reasons I’m here, actually, is to ask you to give Kelly’s assistant permission to share your file with me.”
“Are you going to take over our case?” Deanna Rowland said, her voice hopeful.
“No. As a prosecutor, I can’t do that.”
“Then why do you want access to our file?” Ken Rowland said.
“I want to see if there’s anything in it that would shed light on Kelly’s death.”
Ken and Deanna exchanged a glance. “We’ll give you access,” Ken Rowland said, “but only if you promise us that you’ll find us another lawyer—someone good—to handle our case.”
Jessie hesitated. She knew Kelly Lee was a sole practitioner who had no partners or other lawyers working with her, but she had not anticipated the Rowlands asking her to find substitute counsel. She considered whether this was a promise she should commit to. Getting even more involved in Kelly Lee’s affairs seemed like a bad idea given the pressure she was under to stay away, but the thought of the Rowlands’ case being abandoned—or mishandled—was worse. Also, agreeing to their request might be her only way to get access to their file.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll find another attorney to step in.”
Ken Rowland nodded. “Thank you. I’ll let Cheyenne know we’re okay with you having a copy of the file.”
“Can you call her now?”
“I’ll call her,” Ken Rowland said, “after we have a new lawyer.”
Jessie forced her jaw to relax. “I’ll go take care of that now.”
How exactly she was going to do that, she wasn’t sure.
10
The lobby of Big Fitness was plain, unimpressive. Faded beige paint covered the walls, and the closest thing to decoration was a line of framed posters—photos of men and women exercising that looked like they’d been taken at least a decade ago. When Emily Graham showed her badge at the front desk, the woman sitting behind the counter, a young black woman wearing a Polo-style shirt bearing the gym’s logo—jerked upright. “Is there some kind of situation?”
“No.” Graham put away her badge. “I just need to talk to someone here, a friend.”
“I heard about a guy in Delaware, walked into a gym with a machete in his bag and hacked up two other guys in the locker room.”
“It’s nothing like that,” Graham said. She glanced around, wondering if that sort of thing happened here. The place might be drab, but it didn’t look that bad. “I’m a detective. I need to talk to another detective, who happens to be a member here.”
The girl seemed to relax. “That’s a relief. Go ahead in.”
She proceeded to the weight room. The temperature seemed ten degrees warmer, and the odors of rubber and sweat were palpable. People—mostly men—moved among the machines and free weights. Someone dropped a large weight and it hit the mat with a loud thud. She scanned the room until she found the man she’d come to see.
AID Detective Ross Reid, the lead investigator on the Kelly Lee automobile accident, sat on a bench, a dumbbell gripped in his right hand, doing curls. His face was a grimace of concentration. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. His biceps muscle bulged.
She headed toward him and he looked up, seeing her. He let out a breath and placed the dumbbell next to his right sneaker.
“Detective Emily Graham.” He watched her, didn’t smile as he said her name. “Safe to say you’re not here to work out, wearing that.”
She was wearing her unofficial uniform, a dark gray pants-suit. “I heard this was the place to find you.”
“From who?”
Graham sat beside him on the bench. It was awkward, but not as awkward as standing over him. “Can you talk for a minute?”
“Now? Here?”
“I wanted to talk to you off the record.”
“Why?”
Good question. Graham wasn’t really sure what she was doing here, and the thought of leaving was becoming more attractive by the second.
Reid picked up a towel and wiped his face. “You homicide detectives think you run the whole department.”
“I don’t think that.”
“But you think you can disturb me during my personal time.”
“I only need a couple minutes.”
“Right. I’m sure.”
She felt her fist clench in response to his sarcastic tone. She forced her hand to relax. “You concluded that there was no foul play in Kelly Lee’s accident.”
“That’s what you want to talk about?”
Actually, it was the last thing on Earth she wanted to talk about, but she said, “I’m just surprised by how quickly your unit was able to close the investigation.”
“Easy. There was nothing to investigate.” He wiped his face again.
“But you’re aware she was threatened shortly before the crash?”
Reid looked at her. His lip curled. “Did you seriously come here to question my investigation?”
“I’m not questioning it.”
�
�She wasn’t threatened. She told the police that she felt threatened. There’s a difference.”
Graham nodded. “That’s true. Did you investigate that angle?”
“What angle? Her feelings?”
“Yes.”
He stared at her for another few seconds—enough time for Graham to mentally ask herself again what the hell she was doing—and then he let out a derisive laugh. “I guess a brilliant homicide detective like you would have handled it differently, huh?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just asking.”
“The bitch crashed. End of story.”
Graham flinched. The reaction seemed to make Reid happy. He smirked at her.
“Why do you call her a bitch?” Graham said.
“You know why.”
“You dislike her because of her lawsuits against the Department?”
“Of course. She hurt a lot of good cops.”
“I know that.” Graham debated confiding in him—the guy was certainly not a person she enjoyed talking to—but decided to do it in an attempt to establish rapport. “One of her police misconduct claims was about me.”
“Really?” Reid turned slightly on the bench, facing her, and his expression softened. She was relieved to see the change.
“Even us brilliant homicide detectives aren’t immune,” she said.
“Was there any truth in the claim?”
“None at all.”
“Department settled?”
Graham nodded. “That’s how it works.”
“Lawyers suck.”
“A lot of them do,” she said. “There are some decent ones out there.”
Reid shook his head. “Few and far between, if you ask me.”
“What about the explosion?” Graham said. “Lee lost control of the car, collided with a building. I get that. But then her car explodes? Her body parts go flying? That doesn’t seem typical.”
He turned away. “Maybe not typical, but that’s what happened.”
“You looked for evidence of some kind of bomb, or accelerant?”
False Justice Page 4
