3
Jesus Rivera, the District Attorney of Philadelphia, glared at himself in his bedroom’s full-length mirror as he struggled to knot the bow tie under his collar. Usually the act was automatic—as an elected official in the country’s fifth largest city, Rivera seemed to wear tuxedos more often than jeans, and say what you would about his leadership qualities (and his opponents certainly did), he was at least adept at dressing himself. But with the sound of his daughter weeping behind him while his wife struggled to console her, his fingers had become fumblingly useless. He also had to contend with the sounds of Cortney Abbott and Elijah Glynn, his political consultants, arguing at the other side of the bedroom as they debated the impact of this incident on his future in public office. Frankly, Rivera wasn’t sure which was more disturbing.
A knock on his bedroom door preceded the entrance of Clara, his personal assistant, who quietly informed him that Warren Williams and Jessica Black had arrived. Then she ushered the prosecutors into the room.
Rivera tore his gaze from the mirror to offer his visitors a nod. It was the warmest greeting he could muster under the circumstances. Rivera knew they’d come straight from The Gavel, and he sincerely hoped that Warren’s slightly flushed face didn’t mean that the head of his Homicide Unit was drunk. Warren was sharp and politically astute—maybe more of a natural political animal than Rivera himself was, if he was being honest with himself—and Rivera needed his counsel today more than ever.
Jessica Black trailed behind her boss. As far as he knew, she had no political aspirations at all. Which was a shame. She had a look that would play well on TV. Tall and pretty, with lustrous black hair that fell just below her shoulders, but also professional-looking, with bright, green eyes full of both intelligence and compassion. Right now, those eyes were trying very hard (unsuccessfully) not to gape in awe at his palatial bedroom. Rivera would have smiled, if his heart were not being squeezed in a vise.
“A school shooting in Philly.” The DA shook his head.
“It was bound to happen here eventually,” Warren said.
“Yeah, but I was hoping it wouldn’t be during my term in office.”
Warren walked over to Rivera’s wife and daughter, giving Ricki a hug, then hesitating in front of Nora, who was still crying. Warren looked like he might try to say something comforting to the fourteen-year-old girl. “You don’t attend Stevens, do you, Nora? Did, uh, you know the victims?”
“She’s just upset by the situation,” Rivera said.
“The whole city’s going to be upset by the situation,” Cortney Abbott put in. “The country.”
No shit, Rivera thought, but he stifled the angry reply. Cortney was old-school, a silver-haired, smooth-tongued adviser (or “political strategist” according to his LinkedIn profile), and although he had a penchant for stating the obvious, he was also a fount of good advice and had helped Rivera keep his office for several terms. Rivera wasn’t so sure about his colleague, the much-younger Elijah. But Elijah was supposedly a social media whiz kid, and according to Cortney, they needed him. That’s why he could bill four-hundred dollars an hour at the age of twenty-four. When Rivera had been twenty-four—which was longer ago than he cared to think about—he’d been making minimum wage at Macy’s while attending law school at night.
“What’s the plan?” Warren said.
“Right now, my experts here are trying to decide if I should keep to my schedule and attend a fundraiser for my church, or drop everything to show the city that this incident is my sole focus. Damn it!” His hands fumbled the bow tie for the hundredth time.
To everyone’s surprise, Nora rose from her seat and came over to him. He looked at his daugter’s red-rimmed eyes as she knotted his bow tie for him. “Here, Dad.”
“Thanks, honey.”
“What we want to avoid is a George W. Bush 9/11 embarrassment,” Cortney said. “You know, reading The Pet Goat to a bunch of kindergartners while terrorists fly airplanes into the World Trade Center.”
“This is hardly the same thing!” Rivera said. His daughter drew back, and he realized he’d failed to temper the anger, the harshness in his voice. More gently, he said, “The country’s not in danger. The shooter is in police custody.”
“Sixteen children dead,” Cortney said, “along with a teacher. It’s not 9/11 bad, but you better believe it’s a crisis. For the city and for us.”
“It’s already trending on Twitter and Facebook,” Elijah said. “You need to make a statement, get your voice out there.”
Rivera wanted to groan, but he didn’t. He stepped away from the mirror and paced. Jessica Black stepped out of his path, making room for him. He looked at her.
Why had Warren brought her along? But even as the question occurred to him, he thought he knew the answer. Warren, you smart, sneaky bastard.
“What do you think, Jessie?” he asked her.
She looked startled, but recovered quickly. “It’s not really my expertise,” she said.
Rivera shrugged. “I have enough experts. I want to know what you think, as one of my prosecutors.”
He watched her lips press together as she gave the question some thought. Again, he was struck by how photogenic she was. He’d been well-aware of how excellent a lawyer she was—she’d stood out as a courtroom all-star early on, and he’d followed her career with interest ever since—but he’d never really looked at her from this angle before. A political angle.
“Why not do both?” she said. “Make a quick statement to reporters on your way to the fundraiser? Send the message that the DA’s office is taking this seriously, but that the city is safe and there’s no need for panic.”
“You just won the Rachelle case, right? The woman who killed her husband? That’s what you were celebrating at The Gavel?”
“Yes.” He saw her blush slightly. Then she smiled and nodded. “It seems wrong to celebrate anything now.”
Rivera studied her for a moment, then did something every advisor he’d ever retained had told him never to do. He made a spur-of-the-moment decision, entirely on impulse. “I agree. It’s time to put you back to work.”
“I’m supposed to start a vaca—” She closed her mouth, shook her head. “Sorry. Of course. This takes precedence.”
Ten minutes later, five of them were in a limo—Rivera, Ricki, and Nora dressed in their formal attire for the fundraiser dinner St. John the Evangelist Church was hosting at Reading Terminal Market, and Warren and Jessie dressed in their suits for the public statement the DA’s office would be making just outside the event. The two political strategists followed in their own car.
Rivera caught Jessie’s look of concern, and felt the first smile touch his lips since hearing the news of the shooting.
“I’m sure you were looking forward to your vacation,” Rivera said, “but Warren was right to drag you into this. This shooter, what’s his name—”
“Russell Lanford,” Warren supplied.
“Usually, the shooters in these incidents kill themselves, and the public doesn’t get the answers and the closure that come with a criminal prosecution. It’s going to be different this time. Russell Lanford’s trial is going to be under intense media scrutiny. I need to put someone in charge that I trust. Someone careful and meticulous, who I know will do a flawless job. And someone—” He hesitated, then shrugged. “Someone who will look good on TV. You’re going to be representing the DA’s office, Jessie. You’re going to be representing me.”
She looked at him, and those green eyes seemed to pierce him. “I understand. And I really appreciate your faith in me. I won’t let you down.”
Ricki placed a comforting hand on his knee and squeezed. It was his wife’s signal that she was fully in his corner, that she approved of his decision to put this case in Jessie’s hands. He appreciated her support, but didn’t need it. He was already convinced he’d made the right call.
“Russell Lanford comes from money, apparently,” Warren said. “Most kids at Stevens Academy do. So expe
ct a good defense lawyer. I’m sure we’ll face a motion to change venue away from Philadelphia, and a truckload of other pre-trial motions. They’ll want the jury sequestered. You know the drill. It may be an open-and-shut case, but it’s not going to be easy. We’ll be busy for months.”
Jessie nodded. “I know.”
“If your travel plans included another person,” Rivera said as delicately as he could, “you might want to give them a call now.” He was aware, vaguely, that she was involved with a homicide detective on the Philly police force—or rather, a former homicide detective. The relationship had caused professional problems for both of them. It was the only blemish on her record, and one she’d survived. The detective, Rivera recalled, hadn’t been so lucky. He’d been forced out of the police department.
“No,” Jessie said. “I think that’s a conversation I’m going to need to have in person.”
They finished the ride in silence. Minutes later, they faced the cameras and the microphones, and Jesus Rivera told the people of his city that while Philadelphia would mourn this senseless tragedy, they could rest assured that the district attorney’s office, in the person of its best homicide prosecutor, Jessica Black, would ensure justice for the dead.
4
Leary was waiting for her in her apartment when Jessie finally made it home. She opened the door and found him sitting on the couch, watching TV. She wasn’t surprised to hear the name “Russell Lanford” come out of the TV’s speakers. She was sure every channel in Philadelphia had switched to nonstop coverage of the shooting.
“Hey,” she said. Leary didn’t rise from the couch to walk over and kiss her, which she tried not to take as a bad sign. She glanced at the TV screen, saw two talking heads babbling to each other about gun control. Had he seen the statement Rivera had made to the press? He must have. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You looked good. On TV, I mean, when Rivera introduced you as the avenging angel of justice.”
Yup, he’d seen it alright. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you’re not happy with me right now,” she said.
“Good deduction. Maybe you should have been the detective instead of me.”
Leary had been a homicide detective with the Philly PD—that’s how they’d met—but after some departmental politics had flat-lined his career, he’d resigned and entered the private sector. Now he worked for Acacia, a large corporation that owned and operated several retail companies in the northeast. She didn’t know much about the day-to-day details of his new job, but her sense was that he missed his days with the PPD. He was a loss prevention specialist now, consulting with management about potential areas of risk, like vandalism, embezzlement, shoplifting, safety, and security, and although he still conducted investigations, they were a far cry from the murder cases he used to work. Looking at him now, she wondered what pained him more—that she had been pulled into the Russell Lanford case, or that he had not.
“There was nothing I could do,” she said.
He arched an eyebrow at that. “You could have called me before you agreed to cancel our vacation and head up the prosecution.”
Had she owed him that? Their relationship was still a relatively new thing, and they were still feeling out the rules. Jessie was thirty-three, and she’d been on her own for a long time. An independent, professional woman. She didn’t think she needed to ask anyone’s permission before making a decision at work. On the other hand, they had planned the Punta Cana trip together. Leary had taken a week of vacation days. He’d paid for half of the airfare and resort fees.
“If there are cancellation charges, I’ll pay for those,” she said. Anger flared visibly in his eyes, and she immediately regretted her words.
“I looked for your suitcase,” he said. “I found it at the back of your coat closet, empty. You didn’t even start packing. Did you ever plan to go on this trip?”
“Of course I did! I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks. I was busy with the Simone Rachelle trial.”
“You’re always busy with a trial.”
Jessie dropped onto the couch beside him. She touched his arm, and he did not pull away. That, at least, was a good sign. “Look, the District Attorney himself asked me to handle this case. What was I supposed to say?”
Leary sighed, and the anger seemed to fade from his face. “I know. I’m just disappointed.”
“Me too.”
She leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed her back, finding her tongue with his. A very good sign. His arms wrapped around her and pulled her close. Her body pressed against his.
“You know,” she said, “I ordered three new bikinis, and I haven’t had a chance to try them on yet.”
He grinned, and his blue eyes lit up. “No time like the present.”
“Who says we have to go all the way to the Dominican Republic to have a good time?” She ran a hand down his arm, massaging his bicep, and then clasped his hand in hers. Their fingers intertwined.
“Not me.”
Later, after she’d confirmed that the bikinis did, in fact, look good on her, and both she and Leary had energetically explored the possibilities for having a good time right here in her apartment, she forced herself to sit down at the little desk in the corner of her bedroom and boot up her laptop.
“Back to work already?” Leary said. “Are you sure you’re done with me?” He was stretched out on her bed, his lean, muscular limbs twisted in the sheets. His hair stood out in sandy blond spikes where her fingers had made a mess of it, and a sheen of perspiration shined in the patch of hair between his pecs. He propped himself up on one elbow, the tattoo of a hawk visible on his bare arm. Even as sated as she felt right now, she was pretty damn tempted to climb back into bed.
“I need to check if the police report has been emailed to me,” she said.
He yawned. “Who’s the lead detective?”
“Emily Graham. She and her partner were a block from the scene when the first 911 calls came in. They were the first to arrive.”
“Graham?” Leary made a face.
“Not a fan?” Graham was a recent addition to the Homicide Division, and Jessie had not worked with her yet.
“Just watch your back,” Leary said.
She took her hands from her keyboard and turned to face him. “What do you mean by that?”
“Probably nothing. But she has a reputation for, I don’t know. Not working well with others.”
“Didn’t you have a reputation like that, too? And we both know you didn’t deserve it.”
“Good point.”
“I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. But I’ll also keep your words in mind.” She turned back to the laptop, and started opening emails.
She spent most of the next few hours reading the police report. Like most cops, Detective Graham had composed her narrative in stilted sentences, as if every word had been pulled forcibly from her brain. As a general rule, cops hated to write, and their reports showed it. But the facts shined through the prose, each one more vivid than the one before, and they were horribly compelling in spite of the flat delivery. Dead girls. Dead children, even if teenagers rarely thought of themselves that way. Lives cut tragically short.
There were photographs, too, of course. A shockingly young face with a hole through the right cheek, bits of bone exposed, shattered teeth. A chest with a hole over the left breast, the material of the brightly colored cheerleader uniform singed. Bullet casings in the grass underneath the bleachers. She clicked through photo after photo and forced herself to study each one closely, even as her stomach started to knot up in protest. There was something about crime scene photos, something sickeningly voyeuristic, that always made her feel queasy—as if by looking at them, she was perpetrating a second violation of the victims. But she knew the guilty feeling was irrational. Looking was necessary. It wasn’t a violation of the dead; it was the first step toward avenging them. She needed to absorb the crime into herself, in all its gory detail, needed to know it as int
imately as the killer, in order to be as effective as possible at trial.
“You coming to bed?” She heard Leary yawn, but didn’t turn away from the laptop.
“Soon.”
“Okay. But I’m beat. I’m going to turn off the light.”
The room darkened, and she blinked against the sudden glare of the monitor. Part of her wished Leary would just go back to his own apartment instead of spending the night. She immediately chastised herself for the thought. That’s me, Jessie Black, lovey-dovey girlfriend. Once a case got its teeth into her, she had a tendency to block the world out, and that unfortunately also included loved ones. That’s why she kept photographs near her workspaces, both at home and at the office—one of her father and her (both of them about a decade younger than they were now, holding each other awkwardly as they posed for a picture at her law school) and the other (more recent) of her brother Alex, his wife Carol, and their two kids. Glancing guiltily at the man sleeping in her bed, she supposed she’d need to add a third photo soon, to remind herself of what was really important in life. She returned her attention to the murders. It was a long time before she went to bed.
When she woke up the next morning, the view beyond her window was still black and Leary was sleeping deeply. She dressed as quietly as she could and slipped out, wanting to arrive early at the DA’s office and organize her file on Russell Lanford. When she got there, her first call of the day was to Detective Emily Graham, to arrange a meeting at the crime scene. Even more so than photos, crime scenes were gut-wrenching. But like photos, indispensable.
“There’s not much to see,” Graham said. She sounded distracted, and Jessie could hear noise behind her—people, phones, the din of Police Headquarters. “Everything’s in the report.”
“I want to tour the scene anyway,” Jessie said. “It’s just something I need to do. Part of my process.”
She heard Graham sigh through the phone. The put-upon reaction didn’t surprise her. When cops needed something, the prosecutors were their best friends, but when the prosecutors needed something, they were pain-in-the-ass lawyers. And Leary had warned her about Graham’s reputation for not working well with others. The line was quiet for a moment. Then, with clear reluctance in her voice, Graham said, “I can meet you at Stevens Academy in fifteen minutes.”
Jessie Black Legal Thrillers Box Set 1 Page 54
