Jury Town

by Stephen Frey

His eyes flashed down, away from hers, for a split second.

  It was the instant Victoria needed, the momentary distraction that gave her a chance at survival.

  From the cliff, she wrenched a softball-sized rock—the one that was loosely attached to the escarpment—and struck the young man in the forehead. As he tumbled backward, the momentum of her action sent her teetering toward the abyss. She flailed and grasped wildly in the air for anything to cling to after dropping her weapon.

  At the last moment, just as she was going over the edge, her fingers wrapped tightly around a sturdy vine, and she swung herself back.

  Somehow her attacker had remained on the ledge, too. He lay on his back, one ankle dangling precariously over the cliff, bleeding profusely from a deep cut above one eye, apparently unconscious.

  As Victoria stared down at him, two searing revelations flashed through her mind simultaneously.

  She’d conquered her fear of heights.

  And she wanted to push this monster off the cliff and watch him fall a thousand feet down until his body shattered on the stones at the bottom of the gorge.

  CHAPTER 13

  RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

  Mitch limped as quickly as possible on his prosthesis toward the waiting limousine, constantly swiveling his head as he moved through the darkness of the deserted warehouse district, seeking any signs that someone who shouldn’t be watching … was. He took one more look around, and then slipped into the back of the sleek black vehicle through the door, which the driver was holding open for him—after being thoroughly frisked by the swarthy man.

  “What the hell happened?” Mitch demanded of the imposing figure who reclined on the wide, comfortable seat facing his, calmly smoking a cigarette. “I just wanted you to get that envelope from Acosta. That was all. God damn it, Salvatore, I did not want you to kill Raul Acosta.”

  Salvatore Celino ran all southeastern operations for the Gaggi crime family of Brooklyn, New York. Mitch had checked out Celino and the Gaggi family through contacts in the Manhattan DA’s office and on the Internet. While most other New York mafia families were suffering a decade-long decline, the Gaggis were decidedly not hurting, according to his sources.

  They were headquartered in Brooklyn and still doing “business” in all five boroughs. But in the last ten years, they’d expanded their operations to smaller, less obvious cities like Charlotte and Raleigh, North Carolina; Charleston, South Carolina; Savannah, Georgia; and Richmond, Virginia. They’d taken over gambling, prostitution, and retail intimidation in these smaller southern cities in which law enforcement was unaccustomed to their organization and harsh enforcement techniques.

  Salvatore lived near Richmond so he could run the southeastern operations but be as close to Brooklyn as possible. He’d always told Mitch he hated living in a city that didn’t have delis and had to get back to New York for real pastrami as often as possible.

  The New York DA’s office had informed Mitch that Salvatore was as cold and calculating as they came. Worse, he was sophisticated.

  “Careful how you speak to me, Mr. Mitchell,” Salvatore answered calmly, after taking a long drag from the Camel no-filter. He was a big man with strapping arms and shoulders who worked out constantly. “You may be a war hero, but that’s history. You will quickly become part of history”—the mafia boss growled as he patted his suit coat above the 9 mm he always carried in the shoulder holster hanging against his chest—“if you don’t watch your tone.”

  Cigarette smoke swirled thickly inside the limousine. Why anyone ever picked up this nasty habit was beyond Mitch. It seemed ironic to him that Salvatore exercised and lifted weights like a madman … but smoked like a chimney when he wasn’t working out.

  “I’m sorry, Salvatore.” He’d lost his temper and that was stupid. Salvatore was not a man to trifle with. “What happened?”

  “Acosta must have spotted the tail. He took evasive action. They found his truck, but he was gone. When he got back, he surprised them.”

  Mitch coughed twice into his elbow. “Tracking people down is your business, sport.”

  “Well,” Salvatore said with a thin smile as he took another heavy puff from the Camel, “one of my businesses, anyway. Why were you so worried about that envelope, anyway?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Judge Eldridge had seemed so distant lately. Mitch was terrified that his uncle had somehow found out about these clandestine, late-night meetings. And there would go his life.

  “Acosta proved to be resourceful,” Salvatore said as if it didn’t really matter to him. “What can I say? He’s originally from Brooklyn, from my family’s neighborhood.” The Mafioso chuckled as the limousine moved ahead. Salvatore never stayed in one place for long. “I understand why he’s so good.”

  “He’s not from your neighborhood anymore … or good. He’s dead. And I have to go to his funeral and face his wife.”

  “Poor boy.”

  “Can’t you have a little compassion?”

  “Compassion is for pussies, mothers, and priests. Besides, his wife doesn’t know who the hell killed him.”

  “Yeah, but I do,” Mitch countered softly, grimacing as he thought about Sofia’s lovely face contorted by sobs. He’d only met her a few times, but her beauty and gentleness had made a lasting impression. “And they have kids.”

  “Too many people have kids. If you ask me, we could do with a lot fewer carpet rats running around.”

  “Jesus,” Mitch whispered, ruing the web he’d woven more now than ever.

  He hated money. He hated how much he needed money. He hated how much his wife wanted what it provided, and that he’d gone to such lengths to get those things for her. He’d never thought he’d stoop so low.

  A year ago he’d started getting the feeling that his wife’s sympathy for a husband with a prosthetic leg and grotesque facial scars was running low. She’d made a nasty comment during sex one night. She’d denied making it the next morning when he’d asked, but he’d heard it all right.

  And then there was her obsession with moving into Richmond society, which, Mitch knew, was almost impossible if you weren’t from the right circles—which his wife wasn’t. It was a long shot at best, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. They’d gotten the kids into the right schools, but they needed to move to the West End to make it into the right clubs. And Mitch needed even more money for all that—much more than being his uncle’s chief of staff could possibly provide.

  So when Salvatore’s messenger had quietly approached him six months ago with a proposition involving a significant amount of money in exchange for information from Judge Eldridge’s desk regarding Project Archer, Mitch had listened—and then taken a meeting with the mobster. Hindsight was always twenty-twenty, and now he wished he’d never agreed to that first meeting. But hindsight was no help at this point in his relationship with Salvatore Celino. Mitch was in deep. Getting out of this clean—and alive—would be dicey.

  “You’ve put me in a terrible situation, sport.”

  “What’s put you in a terrible situation, sport,” Salvatore repeated tersely, “is three kids and a wife who’s obsessed with a spot in Richmond society. A big house with a mortgage to match, nice cars, the private school tuitions, country club memberships, and vacations to the Caribbean every winter are what has you feeding me all that confidential information from the Supreme Court.” Salvatore pointed the cigarette’s burning ember at Mitch. “Yeah, I checked your wife out. Don’t look so surprised. She’s a redneck, and she’s—”

  “She’s not a redneck.”

  “She’s not from society, either.”

  Mitch couldn’t argue that. He could barely argue the redneck part.

  “And she’s spending all your money to buy herself a seat inside that Richmond society circle.” Salvatore chuckled. “And maybe she doesn’t like getting in bed every night with a scarred cripple.”

  Mitch started to bark back, but what would be the point? The mobster had his wife pegged be
tter than an FBI wanted sign on a post office wall. And pissing the man off made no sense.

  “Salvatore, if anyone ever connects me to—”

  “Relax,” Salvatore cut in. “No one’s ever going to connect you to Acosta’s death. I can assure you of that.”

  “The same way you assured me you could handle this one favor I asked of you in return for everything I’ve gotten you, for all the advance information I’ve gotten you regarding Project Archer? On which you must have made millions.” Mitch had no idea how Salvatore could be profiting from having the reams of data on Victoria Lewis’ project. But he assumed it had to involve money. In the end, that was why the mafia did everything—for profit. “Right?”

  “You’ve made your money, too, kid.” Salvatore picked up an envelope stuffed with cash off the seat beside him and tossed it to Mitch. “Don’t get all high and mighty on me, hero boy. I could get you in a lot of trouble if I wanted to, if the mood strikes.” He laughed meanly. “Now give me what you got.”

  Mitch handed him the folder.

  “Does this contain all the names?”

  “Yes. Eldridge kept that one close, very close, but I found it.”

  Salvatore laughed loudly. “Good boy. Now get the hell out of here.”

  A moment later, Mitch was out of the limousine. As it moved off, he realized he had no idea where he was or how to get back to his car.

  He was about to pull his phone from his pocket to check GPS, when his fingers stopped a fraction of an inch from the device. Acosta had once asked how Mitch could afford all the expensive items Salvatore had just ticked off in the back of the limousine. Mitch had deflected Acosta’s question with a quick change of topic.

  But Acosta had been suspicious enough last night to avoid Salvatore’s men. Not smart enough to avoid being killed, but suspicious enough to temporarily avoid the tail. What if Acosta had been suspicious enough of Mitch’s lifestyle to do some of his own checking, like Salvatore had? And what if he’d mentioned those suspicions to Sofia?

  CULPEPER, VIRGINIA

  “You were right,” Victoria murmured from the passenger seat as Cameron slipped behind the wheel of his BMW after shutting her door.

  He’d just picked her up after driving seventy miles from Richmond, after receiving her SOS call.

  After half running, half tumbling off Stony Man Mountain, she’d managed to make it to this small town. But she’d barely been able to keep her car on the road, she was so upset. So she’d pulled off and called Cameron. He’d dropped everything and come to her aid immediately.

  “You were right, Cam. I need bodyguards … as soon as possible.”

  “Why?” His mouth dropped slowly open as she related the story of her harrowing escape.

  “You saved my life,” she whispered.

  “How?”

  “The text you sent—checking up on me. It distracted him. It gave me the second I needed. I owe you everything.” She put her head back on the seat as she flexed her hands into tight fists and ground her teeth. “Please. Get me a security detail.”

  Cameron picked up his cell from the console. “Okay. But you have to promise me one thing.”

  She knew exactly what he was going to say. He’d seen her making fists and grinding her teeth. “Look, I—”

  “I’m not putting up with this anymore. You have to stop.”

  “You know I can’t—”

  “Right now … or I’ll leave you. I love you, but I’m not dealing with this one more day.”

  INTERSTATE 95, CONNECTICUT

  “Hello.”

  Rockwell grimaced when his call was answered on the first ring. He wasn’t supposed to dial this number often, as infrequently as possible, he’d been instructed from the beginning. But he felt he needed to convey the disappointing news immediately. He wasn’t looking forward to the reaction.

  “Do you know who this is?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Of course,” the Gray answered in a measured tone. “You are the only other individual who has this number. The process of elimination didn’t take long.”

  This one always seemed aggravated, Rockwell thought to himself, even more than the others. Perhaps, he realized, because the man had a brother who was CEO of Commonwealth Electric Power, a brother who would be in serious trouble if they could not influence the trial. And that was going to be exponentially more challenging now that the case would be heard by the jurors going behind the walls of Archer Prison tomorrow night.

  “I have some bad news,” he spoke up as he drove.

  “Be careful the way you say it.”

  “I just heard from my messenger. The mission was not executed today.”

  “You’re right. That is bad.”

  Rockwell grimaced again. “I’m sorry.”

  “What happened?”

  “According to my messenger, the target suddenly has a huge security force. He wasn’t able to move in on her.”

  He’d been halfway back to Connecticut when he received the call from JD. His first thought was that the Grays couldn’t blame him for Victoria Lewis’ security force. Who was he kidding? he thought now. They’d blame him for whatever they wanted to.

  “The same messenger who was going after the target this afternoon was also involved with the trial that didn’t go so well, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still have faith in him?”

  “Absolutely.” He had to say that. He couldn’t show any loss of faith in his messenger. That would be as bad for him as it would be for JD. “He’s the real deal.”

  “All right,” the Gray agreed after a few moments. “Well then your man should keep trying.”

  “Even with the pris … facility opening tomorrow?”

  “Yes, but he should still not attempt the mission using long-range options. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Of course. I’ve been thinking about ways to get to the people we need to get to inside the place,” he said.

  “We already have.”

  “You’ve already gotten to people who are going inside?” Rockwell asked incredulously.

  “Yes. Our source provided us with names, and we have already made contact. Even if they aren’t chosen for that proceeding we discussed, they will approach those who are with data we will inject. I’ll be in touch.”

  CHAPTER 14

  JURY TOWN

  Victoria gazed out from the podium that had been erected in the massive Central Zone of the brand-new facility, where the jurors would take meals and socialize. Many of the same people who’d attended her announcement in the Supreme Court building were here tonight. Governor Falkner, Lieutenant Governor Paulson, nearly all the General Assembly senators and delegates, Richmond Mayor Eleanor Bush, as well as a huge gathering of the press corps including reporters from all the major national news organizations.

  The only notables missing were Chief Justice Eldridge and General Assembly Majority Leader Barney Franz. She’d anticipated Eldridge’s absence—he’d committed to only that one appearance at the Supreme Court building, and she understood why. He had to keep a low profile for multiple reasons.

  She’d not anticipated Franz’s absence. By avoiding tonight’s historic beginning, the Majority Leader was making an obvious statement, hurling down the gauntlet in a very public way on top of walking out of the announcement. Cameron was convinced that they hadn’t heard the last of Franz, and he’d been in close contact with his best sources in the GA all day to get the jump on anything Franz might have up his sleeve. But they’d heard nothing so far.

  She had no time to worry about a senior official’s childish tantrum. Also gazing back at her from the audience were 196 new arrivals. The men and women had spent this morning and early afternoon being processed and indoctrinated at an old armory outside Richmond. They had then taken those four buses up here. These were the individuals who deserved her focus at this moment.

  Victoria had forced herself to tour one wing of rooms this evening before taking
the podium a few moments ago. As Clint Wolf had predicted, personal touches now intact, the facility looked much better, almost homey. It reminded her of her first day of her first year at the University of Virginia—as opposed to the reopening of a prison. She and Wolf had received hearty congratulations and compliment after compliment from everyone so far this evening—including the press.

  And the demons hadn’t haunted her too badly as she’d looked at the rooms. She’d taken the liberty of convincing herself that her father’s room at Archer Prison hadn’t been on the wing she’d toured … which had helped her internal struggle immensely.

  She tapped the microphone three times, glanced at the three pennies on her bracelet, and then nodded to the crowd. By the time she and Cameron had reached Richmond last night, a security force was in place and waiting at her house. Cameron had made good on that promise, and, after what had happened at Stony Man Mountain, she was very glad he had. She’d gotten a decent night’s sleep, and spent today relaxing at home in anticipation of this moment.

  “Well,” she began with the same smile that had decorated her face the night she’d been elected governor, “after so much hard work on the part of so many people, our vision is finally becoming reality.” She consciously avoided even a glance into the many television cameras, which were focused on her at this moment. Tonight wasn’t about her. “Before I go any further, I want a standing ovation for the man who brought this facility to life.” She pointed to her right. “Mr. Clint Wolf.”

  As people rose, clapped, and cheered for Wolf, Victoria thought about how many dedicated and talented people it had taken to get the project to this precipice. And about that one potential juror she wanted so badly but hadn’t quite been able to convince yet. She’d been depending on having Acosta inside the corps of guards as her eyes and ears—but that strategy had died in the West End hospital. Convincing a man named David Racine to become a juror was now absolutely crucial.

  When the ovation for Wolf finally faded, Victoria signaled with her hands for quiet. “This is it,” she said, raising her arms in triumph when all had gone silent. “Let’s get started, jurors. Welcome to Jury Town!”