Jessie Black Legal Thrillers Box Set 1

by Larry A Winters

  “We moved him to a conference room. He’s waiting for you.” She thought she detected a note of disapproval in his voice, but it was hard to tell. Rodriguez’s inflections were odd due to his deafness in one ear. “This way.”

  She followed Rodriguez past the holding cells, ignoring a few whistles and lewd comments, and through another door to a hallway lined with attorney-client conference rooms. The man she was here to see was not her client—Jessie’s only client was the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania—but she’d be treating him like one today. Did that irritate Rodriguez, or was she just projecting her own mixed feelings onto him?

  “These jailhouse snitches,” Rodriguez said with a shake of his head, as if he’d read her thoughts. “I don’t see how you can put them on the stand, as if their word is worth anything.”

  “Well, this one’s word could put a murderer away. That’s worth something, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “And the DA’s Office prefers the term ‘informant,’ by the way.”

  Nodding as he walked, Rodriguez managed to look both chastised and amused at the same time. “Got it.” He stopped at one of the conference room doors. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Knock if you need me sooner.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” He fished a small device that looked like a key fob from his pocket. Jessie knew that the courthouse had been experimenting with new safety measures, and like the bulletproof judge’s bench that had almost run her over in the lobby, the small device was intended to increase courthouse safety. It was a panic button that interacted wirelessly with the courthouse’s security system.

  “I won’t need that,” she said. “He’s not violent.”

  “Do me a favor and take it anyway, so I don’t get in trouble.” Rodriguez pushed it into her free hand. “It’s simple to operate. One button. You press it, and I’ll come running.”

  “Okay.” She dropped it in her attache case.

  “You’re supposed to keep it on your person,” he said.

  “He’s not a threat. I’ll be fine.”

  Rodriguez sighed and unlocked the conference room door. She stepped into the cramped room and waited for Rodriguez to close and lock it behind her. The only furniture was a battered steel table and two matching chairs. Sitting in one of the chairs, a short, cheerful-looking black man smiled at her.

  “My favorite prosecutor! How the hell are you?”

  “Good morning, Reggie.” Jessie placed her attache case on the table. The garment bag she laid out on the floor—there were no hooks in these conference rooms, a precaution against suicides.

  After Troy Dunmore had decided to change his story in the middle of the preliminary hearing, Reggie Tuck had become the state’s key witness in the prosecution of Tyrone Nash for murder in the first degree. Reggie was a far cry from Dunmore—the latter was a respected member of his community and had witnessed the murder firsthand, while the former was a convicted felon who claimed Nash had confessed to him during a period in which the two men shared a prison cell. But his testimony had been enough to get them past the preliminary hearing. Whether his testimony would carry the day at trial was another question.

  She still did not know for sure the reason for Troy Dunmore’s about-face on the witness stand during the prelim, but she had a theory. Dunmore had seen something in the gallery that had spooked him. A few weeks before the hearing, a reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer had broken a story about an Instagram account featuring over 150 photographs of witnesses and victims’ families. Several of the people targeted by the account had been harassed or assaulted, and one woman had been murdered. The photos were taken using cell phone cameras at the Criminal Justice Center. Although the Instagram account had been shut down upon its discovery, Jessie’s theory was that Tyrone Nash had read the story and been inspired. He had instructed one of his friends or associates to sit in the gallery with a cell phone, and to make sure Dunmore saw it. After the hearing, Dunmore denied that he had seen anything in the gallery, and he also denied seeing anything on April 10.

  Nash had come very close to walking out of the courthouse a free man. If not for Reggie Tuck, he would have.

  “Where’s my sushi?” Reggie said.

  The question caught Jessie off guard as she unpacked her legal pad and notes from her attache case. “What?”

  “My spicy tuna rolls. I was very clear about them. Spicy tuna was part of my deal.”

  Jessie couldn’t tell if he was serious or messing with her. As far as she was concerned, Reggie’s deal was already far better than he deserved, even without sushi. In exchange for his testimony against Nash, the DA’s Office had promised him increased outdoor, phone and TV privileges, a low stress work shift in the prison library, and a chance at early parole. All in exchange for testimony about a confession Tyrone Nash had supposedly made to him while they shared a jail cell. Jessie hoped like hell that the confession had really occurred. She was all too familiar with the numerous studies showing the frequency with which inmates invented confessions from other prisoners. She wanted to believe Reggie’s story, but she knew what a good liar he was. Lying was what had gotten him thrown in prison in the first place.

  “I’m an Assistant District Attorney,” she said, “not a delivery person.”

  “A deal is a deal.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head disapprovingly, but the smile on his face betrayed the fun he was having. The smile was infectious, and she felt herself relax despite her doubts and misgivings. Reggie leaned sideways and looked at the garment bag on the floor. “You received my measurements, right?”

  “The suit is off the rack, Reggie.”

  The smile disappeared and he frowned theatrically. “Off the rack? Now that’s low. I have a reputation to maintain. I got to look good.”

  “No, you need to look respectable, and you will. The state’s not going to pay a tailor to customize a suit that will only be used for a couple of days of court appearances.”

  “Designer label, at least?”

  “It’s Hugo Boss.”

  He seemed to mull this over. “Better than my last trial.”

  Reggie had appeared in six trials, according to his file. In the first one, he was the defendant, and he was convicted and sentenced to ten years for various counts of fraud and financial crimes. In layman’s terms, Reggie was a con artist. Not the best calling card for a prosecution witness, yet in the other five trials, that’s exactly what he had been. Jessie had no doubt that Nash’s defense attorney, Charles Pendleton, would try to make a big deal about Reggie’s history of testifying against his fellow inmates. Establishing Reggie’s credibility would be the most difficult aspect of this trial for her—and to do it, she needed to believe in it herself.

  “So when do I take the stand?” he said. “Show off my new duds?”

  “Soon. First I’m calling Mark Leary, the lead homicide detective who investigated Jackson’s murder.” She glanced at her watch and wondered if Leary had arrived at the courthouse yet. He had called her moments before she’d reached the building herself to warn her he was running late. Now she had to resist the urge to look at her phone. “Assuming he shows up on time, I’ll put him on the stand first, then you.”

  “Saving the best for last, am I right?”

  “Exactly.” The best would have been Troy Dunmore’s eyewitness account of seeing Tyrone Nash put a gun to Wyatt Jackson’s forehead and shoot him. But Reggie’s testimony about Nash bragging about it during their time as cellmates would have to do. Thinking about Dunmore made her uneasy. “Listen, Reggie. Whatever you see in the gallery, remember I have your back. I asked the deputy sheriffs to watch for anyone trying to take a picture.”

  Reggie gave her a wide smile. “If you’re worried someone’s going to scare me with an iPhone, don’t be. They can post my face all over Instagram and Facebook and Twitter. Put me on the fucking Google homepage. I love having my picture taken. I don’t need any sheriff’s deputies to protect me
. I’ll stand up and say cheese to those motherfuckers.”

  He has self-confidence, I’ll give him that. “Just provide your testimony honestly and succinctly and everything will be fine.” She glanced at her watch. They were running out of time. “You better get changed.” She stood up and turned to face the door, giving him some privacy.

  Behind her, she heard the sound of the zipper as he opened the garment bag. “I like how you snuck that word ‘honestly’ in there. You doubt me, huh?” Before she could respond, he let out an appreciative whistle. “Pinstripes! I love it. And look at this tie. You pick this out yourself? Because I know it wasn’t that balding chubby dude you work for.”

  When the head of the Homicide Unit, Warren Williams, asked her for a summary of the trial, she’d leave that comment out. “A friend of mine picked it up.”

  “And a real tie, too. None of that clip-on shit. Aren’t you afraid I might hang myself?”

  Given the amount of affection he seemed to have for himself, suicide didn’t seem likely. “You’ll be watched at all times while you’re wearing it.”

  “Exactly why I gotta look good.” She heard the rustle of fabric as he changed from his jumpsuit to his new outfit. “What do you think?”

  She turned around and her jaw dropped. The suit might be off-the-rack, but on his thin frame, it looked bespoke. He pushed the perfectly woven knot of his tie up to his neck and beamed at her. The transformation was staggering. “You look great.”

  “Damn straight I do. Jury’s gonna eat me up, trust me.”

  Doubt wormed through her again. She checked the time. “We have a few more minutes. Let’s go over the questions Nash’s lawyer will ask you on cross.”

  “Not necessary. I’ve done this before, remember? Got it down to an art form.”

  She leaned against the door and crossed her arms. “That’s what I’m worried about. Pendleton’s going to make a point of how smooth you are, and how convenient it appears that Nash would confess his crime to you. He’s going to ask you if you’re receiving anything in return for your testimony, and you’re going to have to be honest about your deal.”

  “You mean the five million dollars and the ticket to Mexico?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know, and I will be, too. In the courtroom.” He started to pace back and forth. In his pinstripe suit, he did look serious. “But we ain’t in the courtroom yet, and I’m having too much fun to stop.”

  “Mr. Tuck,” she said, pitching her voice lower and giving him her sternest defense attorney impression, “are you being compensated in any way for your testimony here today?”

  “Compensated, as in money? No.”

  “Isn’t it true that in exchange for your testimony today, you were promised, among other things, early parole?”

  “They appreciate my cooperation—”

  “Yes or no, Mr. Tuck?” He chewed his lip as if searching for the right answer. In her own voice, she said, “Just be honest.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re not here out of a sense of civic duty, but because you’re bartering testimony for favors.”

  “How honestly do you want me to answer that one?”

  “I don’t. It wasn’t a question. If Pendleton says something that isn’t a question, don’t answer him. I’ll object.”

  “Ah.” He waggled a finger at her. “I like that. That’s good lawyer stuff.”

  “Mr. Tuck, can you explain to the jury why my client, Tyrone Nash, would make these incriminating statements to you, a complete stranger?”

  Reggie shrugged. “People love telling me shit. Always have, ever since I was a kid. I’m just a really likable motherfucker.”

  “Try again.”

  “I don’t know. I have a personality that people naturally open up to. Maybe I was a priest in my former life. Or a golden retriever.”

  “Do better.”

  “Ty was trying to scare me, I think. Showing me how tough he was because he killed a man. I was his cellmate and he wanted to put me in my place. He said he wasn’t the kind of nigger I wanted to mess with if I wanted to live. When he told me what he did, he made a gun out of his index finger and thumb and put it against my forehead to make sure I got the point.”

  Jessie nodded. “Okay. That’s a better answer. The jurors can imagine that scene, and understand it. It makes sense.”

  She tried to imagine Reggie’s and Nash’s conversations during those long stretches alone in their cell. Most likely, Reggie had tricked and manipulated the confession out of Nash. He was a smooth talker, charming in his own hyperactive and narcissistic way. She could imagine Reggie tossing out jokes and compliments, dismantling Nash’s defenses word-by-word, all the while seeking for his access point, his entrance to the conversation that would lead to the confession that would lead to this trial and Reggie’s compensation for his role in it. She found herself equal parts repulsed and intrigued by Reggie, but more than anything, she just hoped he was telling the truth. The one thing she couldn’t live with was Reggie just making the whole thing up. If she thought for a second that that was what was happening here, she would drop the case, even if it meant a tirade from Warren Williams. Even if it meant Tyrone Nash going free. But Reggie knew details. His story rang true.

  Unless I’m just another victim of his con.

  “You’re wondering if I’m lying through my teeth,” Reggie said. He smiled at her and shot the cuffs of his suit jacket. “Would it matter?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “It would.”

  His smile softened, became less toothy and surprisingly warm. “I know. That’s what I like about you.” He looked at the barren table. “Even if you didn’t bring me sushi. So this guy Leary, the detective ... there something between you two?”

  She stared at him. How the hell did he—

  “One of the guards lets me surf the Internet with the filters turned off sometimes, in the prison library,” he said. “I Googled you and found that blogger who caught you and the detective having some fun in a car after you won a trial against a serial killer. The photos were blurry but still kinda hot....”

  “Okay, Reggie.” She could feel the heat in her face and knew she was blushing. One careless, drunken escapade and, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, it’ll be with me for the rest of my life.

  “So what’s the story? You two a thing or what?”

  She laughed despite her embarrassment. Maybe it was the absurdity of having this conversation in a ten-by-ten conference room with an informant. Or maybe Reggie was, as he’d claimed, just a really likable motherfucker. “Why do you care?”

  “I’m interested is all. You seem like an interesting person.”

  “Sorry, Reggie, but it’s none of your business.” She knew better than to tell anything personal to an incarcerated felon and con artist, especially one who’d made a small business out of obtaining confessions. Besides, she wasn’t sure she knew the answer. The Frank Ramsey debacle the previous year had burned away the awkwardness between her and Leary that had plagued them since their tryst in his car, and in the time since, they had grown closer. But there had been no more sex—not even close—and she wasn’t sure if they were now friends, or something more, or something less. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted them to be, or what he wanted. It was a mess, to say the least.

  “Yeah,” Reggie said, studying her closely, “definitely something between you.”

  “I just hope he’s on time, because I think your testimony will be more effective if it follows directly after he summarizes the police investigation.” She looked at her watch. Time’s up. “Okay. I need to go to the courtroom. A deputy sheriff will bring you when you’re called to the stand.”

  “I know the drill.”

  All too well, I’m sure. She raised her hand to knock on the steel door, but before she could, it opened. A man stood in the doorway. “Jessica Black?” he said.

  She almost nodded, but hesitated. Something about the man sen
t a warning bell ringing in her head. She had expected Kenny Rodriguez or one of the other deputies, but this man was a stranger. Plus, he wasn’t wearing the uniform of a sheriff’s deputy. He wore a plain black suit. He might be a lawyer, but she was pretty sure the bulge at his hip was a gun, and most Philly lawyers she knew didn’t show up for trial armed.

  On instinct, she said, “No, I’m Alice.” It was the first name that came to her mind, the name of her brother’s wife.

  The man looked past her at Reggie. “I’m looking for Reginald Tuck.”

  “That’s my lawyer,” she said quickly, before Reggie could speak, “but his name’s not Tuck. It’s—”

  “Malcolm Leonardo the Third,” Reggie announced. Whether he shared her instincts or just saw an opportunity for amusement, she didn’t know. He leaned across the table and extended his hand. “I’m a defense attorney and Alice is my client. Charge of first degree prostitution.”

  She managed not to wince. The man’s face creased with puzzlement. She could sense the gears moving in his head as he tried to decide if he was being bullshitted. Before Reggie could push his act too far, she said, “You must have the wrong conference room.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said. “I don’t think I do.”

  His hand swept under his suit jacket and came out with a semi-automatic pistol with what looked to Jessie like a silencer screwed onto its barrel.

  3

  Homicide detective Mark Leary bit off a chunk of his bagel. The diner had begun to empty out as the breakfast crowd paid their checks and rushed off to their jobs, and he was thinking of his own appointment at the courthouse. He took another large bite. Across the table, his former mentor, Isaac Jacoby, put down his coffee mug with a scowl. “Jesus, slow down.”

  Leary swallowed. “Sorry. I’m late for court.”

  “It’s coarse, stuffing your face like that.”

  “Coarse?” Leary couldn’t help laughing, looking at the man across the table from him. Hefty as a bear, dressed in a suit with a coffee stain on the left lapel that had to be years old, the top of his head bald except for a ring of curly gray hair that sprouted from his skull like an unruly halo, Jacoby wasn’t exactly the personification of smooth. A mustache flecked with crumbs from his own bagel hid his upper lip.