Go time.
At this point, it all came down to math. Stevens Academy’s cheerleading squad boasted sixteen cheerleaders. He’d knocked one down, and a series of quick, well-placed shots would take down the other fifteen (and the coach, because fuck that bitch, too) before the cops arrived and ended him. The Beretta’s magazine held ten rounds, plus the one in the chamber, which he’d just fired.
Stay focused, True_Man had said.
He fired shots in quick succession. The clap of each shot battered his eardrums, and he realized he should have brought his father’s shooting earmuffs. He hadn’t thought of that, and neither had True_Man. Too late now. Crack! Crack! Crack! The shots tore through the quiet of the peaceful afternoon, and he watched the screaming, panic-stricken girls fall one by one. Lissa Bernier. Peta Kent. Macey O’Reilly. Then the rest of the bitches scattered and his next shot missed. He lined up the sights on someone’s back. It was Pam Speer. She went down like a ragdoll, blood erupting from a spot between her shoulderblades. Detta Sanborn. Brynne White. Coral Gaffney. Coral pinwheeled, blood spurting from her head, darkening her blonde hair. Then another miss.
He could hear police sirens in the distance. Let them come. Let them come.
One of the girls was sprinting for the school building. It was Sydney Devlin. How many times had he stared at her in American History, her cute, upturned nose, her long black curls, her even longer legs? She’d laughed at him once, he remembered, when Alex Tanner made fun of him for his stammering delivery of an oral report. Russell took careful aim, leading slightly in the direction of the building she was fleeing toward. Crack! Her head jerked and spewed blood. An amazing headshot, but he had no time to savor it. The Beretta clicked empty.
He tossed the gun (would Dad miss it?) and grabbed another one out of the bag. It was the Bushmaster. The .223 tactical rifle looked like a fully automatic death dealer straight out of Call of Duty, but sadly, it was only a semi-auto—one trigger pull, one round. It would have to be good enough.
Gina Franz. The rapport thundered under the open sky, much louder than the handgun had been. Mandi Fox. Jordan Dunn. Roni McClain. Skye Locke. It was so much easier to aim with the big rifle—why had he bothered with the handgun at all? Alene Rollins. Nola York. Nola was still alive, trying to crawl away, dragging her bleeding body. Her underwear bulged where she’d dropped a load in her cute little cheerleader panties. The smell of shit was faint but unmistakable. He put her down with a shot that entered the back of her head through her ponytail, and she stopped crawling.
The sound of sirens intensified. He heard tires squeal on pavement. Car doors opened and slammed. The cavalry had arrived, but too late. Too late.
The air was heavy with the stink of gunsmoke, blood, and shit. Dead and dying bodies littered the field, soaking the earth. Only Ms. Kerensa remained standing now. She was rooted to the spot where she’d stood when she told him to leave. The dumb bitch hadn’t moved a step. She had no survival instinct whatsoever. None of these priveleged little princesses did, which was why they were all dead. He lined up a headshot and splashed the coach’s brains onto the grass.
“Put down your weapon!”
Russell twisted around. Two figures approached from behind. He almost couldn’t believe his eyes. The one in the lead was a woman! Tall, good-looking, with short blonde hair. Wearing a suit—no body armor or anything. Trailing behind her, seeming to huff and puff as he crossed the spongy terrain of the field, was a short, overweight man. He wore a shirt and tie, but no jacket, and his tie hung loose around his thick neck. Both of them held guns, extended out in front of them—just pistols, Glocks—aimed at him.
Was this the police response? Seriously? Two plainclothes cops with handguns? Where the fuck was the SWAT team?
It was the woman who’d shouted to him to put down his weapon. She raised her voice again. “Drop the rifle!”
The fact that she was pretty irritated him more than anything. He was supposed to be taken down by a man—by a team of men—in a blaze of glory. Not by one bitch and her fat-ass partner.
His hands tightened on the Bushmaster. This was it. The climax. The grand finale. All he had to do was raise the rifle and wait for their bullets to perforate him. Suicide by cop, the media liked to call it.
Only, now that the moment had arrived, he found that his body refused to carry out his brain’s commands. The rifle barrel stayed where it was—aimed down, away from the cops.
And then, a thought sounded in his head. Unwanted, un-asked for. I don’t want to die. I’m afraid to die.
No. Hell no. That was not acceptable. He had to die here. That’s how it worked. That’s how it was done. The girls were dead. Bodies in the grass, vacant faces, tangled limbs, and blood-smeared cheerleader uniforms. He’d made his statement. Now he had to take his bow.
The woman cop must have sensed his reluctance. She held a hand, palm out, toward her partner, gesturing for him to hold off. Then she stepped closer to the bleachers. Moving cautiously. Her eyes flicked to the bodies, then back to Russell. He saw a muscle twitch in her throat.
“My name is Emily Graham,” she said. “What’s your name?”
Russell shook his head. Don’t talk to them. If you talk to them, there will be no turning back. Raise the rifle.
“I’m here to help you,” she said. “I’m a detective with the Philadelphia Police Department. How about you put down the gun and you tell me what’s happening?”
What’s happening? He almost laughed. Did this bitch think he was stupid? Where was the SWAT team? Where were the snipers? Why had his big moment been denied him?
Wasn’t this just typical of his life? He never got what he deserved. And always—always—it was because of a woman. Even now, when he should be relishing his vengeance, all he felt was the impending horror of failure.
“Put down your gun,” the woman said. “It’s over.”
And with an awful mixture of relief and dismay, he opened his hands and let the Bushmaster fall clanking to the metal bleachers.
2
Jessie Black walked from the courthouse to the bar a block away. She paused at the door, tempted to keep on walking. Even though the trial was over, and her colleagues had summoned her here for an impromptu midday party to toast her victory, she was still in trial mode—on edge, full of adrenaline, thoughts running a mile a minute. Securing a guilty verdict always felt good, but she liked to be alone afterward, where she could think over what she’d done right and what she could have done better. Preferably with a cup of strong coffee. These days, she was more of a coffee drinker than a drink drinker, especially in the middle of the afternoon.
But she didn’t want to disappoint her friends. She wouldn’t be seeing them again for a week.
She walked inside and paused in the doorway for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. It was the right thing to do. The social thing. Besides, she deserved to celebrate now and then, didn’t she? Have a drink, accept a few congratulations, be a human being as well as an assistant district attorney.
The murmur of conversation surrounded her, as did the smell of liquor. Celebrating courtroom victories at The Gavel had become a tradition. A lawyer hangout by virtue of its name and location—close to the Criminal Justice Center and City Hall—the ambiance was all glossy surfaces, chrome and glass, and well-dressed, well-spoken bartenders. Even at this early hour, men and women in suits crowded the bar and tables. Jessie spotted her crew at a round cocktail table near the middle of the room. She made her way through the crowd to reach them.
Warren Williams, head of the Homicide Unit in which she worked, jumped up from his stool. He gestured with one hand, offering her his seat, while lifting a wine glass from the table with his other hand and pushing it into her hand before she could decline. Judging by the half-empty bottle and the over-sized smiles of the other people at the table—Roland “Rolly” Westbrook, Dutch Shultz, and Marion Dallas, all homicide prosecutors like her—they’d already started the party. There
was a plate of fried calamari on the table, mostly eaten. The marinara sauce explained a red splotch on Warren’s shirt.
She took the wine but remained standing. “I should only have one glass. I can’t stay long.”
Warren’s round face puckered in an exaggerated frown. “Jessie, this is a very fine vintage, courtesy of the DA’s office expense account.”
“Yeah,” Rolly said. “Worth at least ten bucks.” He flashed her a boyish smile that was known to work wonders on female jurors.
“That’s how we roll,” Dutch added as he refilled his own glass. “Like a boss.” Dutch was a gray-haired lifer at the DA’s office, pushing sixty. She had to admire his effort, even if less than successful, to keep up with the current street talk.
“Come on,” Marion said. “It was a big case. You should celebrate a little. It’s fun.” Her heart-shaped face wrinkled as she gave Jessie a half-smile and beckoned her closer, as if she’d read Jessie’s desire to brood over her victory in solitude. And she probably had. As one of the only other women in the Homicide Unit, she often seemed to watch Jessie with a knowing, been-there-done-that look.
Her companions watched her, waiting. All around them, conversations ebbed and flowed, glassware clinked.
“Ten-dollar wine, huh?” She examined her glass. The wine did smell good—almost like black cherries—and she supposed she could spare a little time. “Can’t say no to that.”
They smiled as she slid onto the stool and joined them. Warren lifted his glass in a toast. “To justice,” he said, only half-ironically.
Rolly, Dutch, and Marion raised their glasses. So did Jessie. “To justice.”
She took a sip. Cabernet, and a good one. More likely fifty dollars than ten. Apparently, putting a husband-murdering killer in prison for life warranted use of the DA’s office AmEx card.
“Thanks,” Jessie said. “Just as long as we’re clear I can’t stay long.”
Warren laughed. “Right. You need to pack for your big trip.” He said it with mock-resentment—mostly mock-resentment, anyway, with a little real resentment thrown in, she was sure. Because she knew the DA’s office was his life, and that he expected similar dedication from his prosecutors. He expected them to consider the DA’s office as more than a job, more than something you would take a vacation from. Well, let him resent. Jessie hadn’t taken a vacation in years. Not even a long weekend. If Warren didn’t like the idea of losing her for a week, he would just have to deal with it.
Warren was right about one thing, though. She did need to pack. Her flight departed from Philly International tomorrow at 7:45 in the morning, and she hadn’t even pulled her suitcase out of the closet. She’d ordered three new bikinis online, and they were still sealed in padded mailers (she could only hope she’d look good in them—if not, it was too late now to do anything about it). In about sixteen hours, she and Leary would board an American Airlines jet, nonstop to Punta Cana, where they would enjoy a week of beautiful beaches, great food, and a romantic suite. She’d be drinking piña coladas and strawberry daiquiris, and she intended to be very happy. The feeling hit her now just imagining it. Joy rose within her like the swell of a surf.
“Come on, Warren,” Rolly chided. “Jessie earned some time at the beach with her boy toy.”
Hearing Mark Leary described as a “boy toy” set her teeth on edge. She wasn’t one-hundred-percent what she should call him—boyfriend?—but “boy toy” definitely did not fit.
Thankfully Marion changed the subject before anyone could take it further. “Who cares about the beach? I want to hear about how Jessie put away Simone Rachelle, the great husband killer.”
Warren shook his head. “Why can’t these nut jobs just divorce each other like normal people?”
“I sat in the gallery on Wednesday,” Dutch said, looking at her, “when you put the sister-in-law on the stand. Hell of a show.”
“So glad I was able to entertain you,” Jessie said. “That was my goal through the whole trial, obviously.” She took another sip of wine.
“Obviously,” Dutch agreed.
“What happened?” Marion said.
Dutch laughed. “So the victim’s sister is up on the stand, and Jessie’s asking her to describe the relationship between her brother and his wife, and the sister’s pretty much laying the groundwork that the defendant, who we already know from the evidence was unfaithful, was also just a cold, nasty piece of work. And on cross, Rachelle’s defense lawyer approaches the stand. Now, you gotta see it.” He wobbled on his stool and almost fell off before grabbing the edge of the table and steadying himself. How much wine had the old guy had? “The defense lawyer—what’s his name, Jessie?”
“Ned Perales,” Jessie said.
“He any good?” Marion asked.
Jessie shrugged. “He’s been around. Knows his stuff.”
“Perales is this big fellow, okay?” Dutch said, resuming his story. “Tall, wide in the shoulders. Probably played football when he was in school. A giant. And the victim’s sister is this tiny thing, maybe five feet tall, skinny as a flag pole. I could barely see her face over the top of the witness stand.”
Rolly chuckled. “Leave it to Dutch to turn a routine courtroom exchange into a tale of David and Goliath.”
Dutch shot him a watery stare. “Nothing routine about this exchange. Now, may I please proceed?”
Rolly waved his arm. “By all means.”
“So the sister—this little thing, as I said—is sitting at the witness stand, and here comes Perales to conduct his cross-examination. Now, if I were him, I would have asked one, maybe two questions to throw some doubt on her impartiality, on her qualifications for evaluating another couple’s marriage—whatever—and then get her off the stand as quickly as possible. Because juries love really small women. I don’t know why, but they do. You ever notice that?”
They all shook their heads.
“They feel an instinct to protect them or something, I don’t know,” Dutch said. Jessie was trying to determine if he was slurring his words because he was really drunk, or if he was just having some fun with them. “What did I tell you, Jessie, my first piece of advice when you started in Homicide?”
The question snapped her back to the moment. “Don’t buy the tuna salad from the deli down the street?”
“No. I mean, yes. That’s true, too. But also, I said when it comes to really small women, children, and the elderly, go easy.”
“I guess you’re safe then, old man,” Rolly said. Dutch frowned at him and refilled his glass.
“So Perales,” he went on, “who never had the benefit of my wise counsel, starts really going to town on the woman. You know, dredging up petty grudges she might have had against her brother’s wife—Is it not true that Ms. Rachelle borrowed your crockpot, and did not return it?—and poking around the sister’s own lackluster marriage.”
Jessie took another sip of her wine. As enjoyable as this was—and it was enjoyable, she had to admit—she needed to make a gracious exit quickly or she’d be packing all night. But interrupting Dutch mid-ramble didn’t seem like the best idea.
“And then,” Dutch said, “he goes that one step too far. He suggests, with his not-as-clever-as-he-thinks lawyer questions, that there might have been some kind of brother-sister incest thing going on.”
Gasps all around the table, even from Warren.
“At which point I objected,” Jessie said.
“But only half-heartedly,” Dutch said with a smile, “since you knew as well as I did that Perales was digging his own grave.”
Jessie shrugged noncommittally and drank more wine.
Dutch said, “At this point the sister flat out says to Perales, ‘Are you implying that I was fucking my brother?’ And Perales just stands there with his mouth hanging open. The judge tries to save him by reminding the sister that witnesses answer questions; they don’t ask them. But she says, ‘Your Honor, I’m just asking for Mr. Perales to clarify his question. Are you asking if I am
a brother-fucker?’”
“She did not say that!” Marion said, looking astonished.
“She did,” Dutch said. “And you could feel the mood of the jury turn against Perales. The judge looks at him, raises an eyebrow, and says, ‘Would you care to clarify the question?’ And Perales, who is now beet-red, says, ‘I have nothing further for this witness.’ I think that was the moment he lost the trial.”
“Of course,” Jessie said. “It had nothing to do with my presentation of the evidence, the direct testimony of key prosecution witnesses, or my closing argument. It’s all because of one misstep by defense counsel.”
Dutch grinned. “Yup.”
Warren shrugged. “Hey, you know how I run the Homicide Unit. I don’t care how you guys win, as long as you do.”
Jessie hopped off her stool and smiled at her friends. “As flattered as I am by all the credit you’re giving me for months of hard work, I really do need to leave now. But in a week, I’d be happy to hear all about how my whole career has been a series of happy accidents.”
“I’ll get started on a timeline right away,” Rolly said.
She turned to leave, but paused when she heard the buzzing of a phone. She reached into her bag. At the same time, she saw Warren reach into his pocket. Then Rolly, Dutch, and Marion all found their phones, too. Jessie froze. A feeling of dread crawled across her skin.
“Uh-oh,” Marion said, putting words to Jessie’s thoughts. “This can’t be good.”
Jessie Black Legal Thrillers Box Set 1 Page 53
