Riding High

by Stacy Finz

  “All right. I won’t have my phone for a while so if he calls tell him to hang tight.” Flynn disconnected.

  Ten minutes later the clerk reappeared, checked Flynn in, and took his cell.

  “Someone will bring her in shortly,” the deputy said and told him which floor to go to.

  Flynn nodded. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “What do you want me to do about the media?”

  Flynn searched through his wallet and handed the clerk a stack of his business cards. “Tell them Ms. Treadwell has been counseled by her attorney not to do any interviews and that all inquiries need to go through me.”

  Reporters would still try to get into the jail to see Gia. Through his years Flynn had handled a number of high-profile cases and knew well how it worked. At some point he would choose a few legitimate news outlets to rebut the crap the feds were doubtlessly spinning. He’d learned the game long ago as an FBI agent. The special agent in charge always had a few favorite reporters in his Rolodex and would feed them information to curry favor and to influence public opinion in a way that made the Bureau look good.

  The clerk stashed the cards in his shirt pocket and Flynn caught the elevator. It opened to a small room separated by a plexiglass window. He took a seat and waited for Gia to arrive on the other side of the glass, where they would communicate by phone.

  She had to be scared shitless. He guessed the closest she’d ever gotten to the inside of a jail was on Netflix. If he could save her from having to stay the night he would. The thought of her here made his gorge rise.

  A few minutes later a deputy escorted her in. Her face was ashen and she looked impossibly small in the orange jump suit—and incredibly lost. The deputy told her where to sit and with trembling hands she picked up the phone. Flynn waited until it was just the two of them.

  “I’ll have you out by tomorrow,” he said.

  “How can they do this? The grand jury didn’t indict me.”

  “They went the other route . . . a complaint and affidavit that shows probable cause.”

  “But how? I didn’t do anything.”

  He shrugged, not knowing what evidence they had. All he’d seen was the arrest warrant. “More than likely they’re desperate and hope this scares you into talking. So Gia, don’t say a word . . . to anyone!”

  “I have nothing to tell.”

  He didn’t have time to ensure her how innocent he knew she was. He had a million things to line up before her hearing the next day. That included calling Tim and chewing him out. “Listen to me, okay? I’m trying to get Pretrial Services to interview you first thing in the morning. They’re the folks who help determine your bail. I may have to put up your ranch; you prepared to do that?”

  “For bond?” she asked, and he could tell her head was swirling. But she needed to trust him . . . there was no time for hand-holding. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “My gut tells me the U.S. Attorney isn’t going to fight bail. They’d like nothing more than for you to bolt and lead them to Evan Laughlin.”

  “Flynn, I don’t know where he is.”

  He nodded. Of course she didn’t. “Make sure you emphasize to the PSO how many ties you have to the community . . . your mother, Annie, the tree farm. Whatever you can come up with that shows you’re not a flight risk. More than likely they’ll ask you to turn over your passport. Where is it? I want someone to bring it to court tomorrow so there are no holdups getting you out. I’m also prepared to agree to electronic monitoring. I . . . Gia, have you heard anything I’ve said?”

  She’d zoned out, staring past him as if in a daze.

  “Gia?”

  “Yes, whatever you say.”

  She seemed so frightened, his heart cracked in half. “I promise to get this worked out.”

  “Will you call my mother? I don’t want her to see this on the news.”

  “Of course. I’m assuming her number’s on your phone.” He’d taken her purse after she’d been arrested.

  She nodded. “Flynn? . . . Never mind.”

  “You’ll be fine tonight.” He scanned the dingy jailhouse walls. The hell she would, but what else could he say? “I’ll also have someone bring you a suit to wear for your initial appearance. You’ll be out in time for lunch.” He tried for a reassuring grin, though the time frame was pushing it.

  Again she nodded with those glazed eyes.

  “I’ve got to get going. Try to sleep, okay? You’ve got a grueling morning.”

  He got to his feet, his head swimming with all the things he had to do to ensure she didn’t spend any more time in this hellhole than absolutely necessary.

  “Flynn,” she called.

  “Yes?”

  She put her hand on the glass and he just stared at it. His eyes started to well and he needed to get out of the room before he lost it. He’d let her down so bad he wanted to punch something. Instead of spending his time getting her into bed, he should’ve been working the case harder . . . had his ear to the ground. With all his sources . . . how had he let this happen? The whole thing was like a sucker punch.

  “I’ve gotta go, Gia. Stay calm and I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.” He’d do anything to trade places with her. Anything.

  * * *

  The night had been the worst of her life. Although she’d had a cell to herself, Gia had been afraid to shut her eyes. Scared that she’d get shivved or shanked or whatever they called it. She was also convinced she’d get lice or a communicable disease from the sleeping cot. And the jail was louder than a factory. Bars clanking, voices carrying, and footsteps clomping. The noise bounced off the walls like a cacophony.

  Worse, though, was the memory of the way Flynn had avoided looking at her the previous night. Not once had he made eye contact. He’d been all business, barking orders and reciting a laundry list of procedures. From the time of her arrest he’d morphed into a man she didn’t recognize. No longer did his eyes shine with affection . . . and emotion . . . for her. They darkened with suspicion and something worse. Disapproval. How could she blame him? Look at her. The fact that he’d slept with her probably repulsed him.

  Just recalling his aloofness, a remoteness that bordered on cold, made her wither inside. But she couldn’t think about it now. A deputy marshal had come to transport her to U.S. District Court.

  She and three other female inmates were loaded into a shuttle, driven less than a minute away, and herded through the bowels of the federal courthouse to the U.S. Marshals office. As Flynn had predicted, someone from Pretrial Services was there to interview her. The woman, who had wiry red hair and a stern mouth, spent an hour asking her questions and scribbling on a clipboard. Gia did what Flynn had told her and emphasized that she was her mother’s sole support. She also told the interviewer that Annie relied on her for a paycheck and a place to live. The woman, apparently satisfied with the answers, gathered up her things and left the cell.

  Gia had no idea of the time and searched the walls for a clock. Flynn had taken her watch and earrings along with her purse when she’d been arrested. Out of habit she kept reaching for her phone to check messages only to find it wasn’t there.

  It seemed like she’d sat there for hours before Flynn finally appeared with a young, attractive woman she’d never seen before. They were both dressed in suits and Gia assumed the woman was an attorney from Flynn’s firm. A deputy marshal unlocked her cell and let them in.

  “Stephanie will help you get dressed.” Flynn handed the woman a suiter and a cosmetic bag that looked familiar and asked that the deputy let him back out.

  That was it. Not: How was your night in hell, Gia? Or I missed you. Not anything that would indicate that she was more than a client. It was for the best, she told herself. She would only bring him down.

  Stephanie unzipped the garment bag, revealing one of Gia’s most conservative suits, a pinstriped skirt and a matching blazer. Gia wondered who’d rummaged through her closet. She got the distinct impression whoever it was deliberately had ch
osen something without a big-name designer label. If she recalled right she’d gotten the outfit at Loehmann’s during the store’s yellow tag sale.

  Stephanie helped her get out of the hideous orange jumpsuit and handed her panties, a matching bra, and a camisole. The undergarments were also Gia’s, and again she pondered who’d gone all the way to Nugget to get them. The last article Stephanie wanted her to put on was panty hose. She hadn’t worn them in years but slid them up her legs, careful not to cause a run. After she was fully dressed Stephanie handed her the bag of makeup and a hand mirror.

  “Not too much,” she said, as if Gia would trowel it on like a streetwalker. “Try to cover the dark circles under your eyes.”

  Why? Gia wanted to ask. Were they trying to convince the court that spending a night in county lockup was as relaxing as the Ritz-Carlton?

  When Gia finished Stephanie assessed her. “Maybe a little lipstick; you look pale.”

  It was all Gia could do not to slap the woman. “I’m fine.”

  Stephanie acted like she wanted to argue but resisted, instead pulling a pair of dated pumps from the bottom of the suiter. “Put these on and I’ll call Flynn in for his approval.”

  His approval?

  She tacitly obeyed, feeling too beat down to point out that she knew something about dressing for an audience. Mollified, Stephanie called for one of the deputies and asked that she retrieve Flynn, who returned sometime later.

  He gave Gia a cursory once-over. It was as if he was looking right through her. “Let’s pull her hair back.”

  Stephanie whipped a brush, hair spray, and a container of bobby pins from her mammoth handbag, reminding Gia of the game show Let’s Make a Deal, on which audience members were encouraged to carry ridiculous items on their person in hopes the host would ask for them in exchange for a prize.

  With heavy strokes, Stephanie began brushing Gia’s hair back, winding it into some kind of twist and fastening her handiwork with the bobby pins.

  “How’s that?” she asked Flynn and looked at him like his opinion held as much weight as God’s.

  “I think it’s good.” He turned from Stephanie and addressed Gia. “There are no cameras allowed in federal court, but the media will send sketch artists. We don’t want you to look like a convict in the news.”

  She nodded, feeling the bile rising in the back of her throat.

  “Give me a few minutes with Gia,” Flynn said to Stephanie, who stuffed everything back into her bag and left them alone.

  “Don’t be nervous,” Flynn said, staring down at paperwork he’d spread across the table. “I talked to Tim. They’re not going to challenge letting you out as long as bail’s sufficient.”

  “Who’s Tim?”

  “The prosecutor I told you about. The magistrate is a tough SOB, but he’s always liked me so I think we’re good there as well. Just let me do the talking. You have any questions, Gia?”

  “Did you call my mother?”

  “Yep,” he said, his head still bent over the papers. “She’s coming. Doris is helping her make the necessary arrangements.”

  Gia didn’t want her mother to come . . . to see her like this. It was bad enough Flynn was seeing her at her lowest. It was a picture he wouldn’t be able to erase. “No!” He finally looked up, and in a calmer voice she said, “Let’s wait on that, okay? And did anyone feed Rory?”

  “She’s pretty set on coming, but if you want me to make up an excuse why she shouldn’t, I will. Justin and Cody are taking care of the horses.”

  “Good. Thanks.” Flynn seemed to have taken care of everything. He just hadn’t taken care of her feelings. She could understand why; she was an embarrassment to him now.

  “Who got my clothes?” She hoped it wasn’t Stephanie. Gia didn’t like her. But it was clear Flynn did. Why else would he have brought her?

  “I contract with people who do that.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if they were jailbird stylists, but her sense of humor had deserted her.

  “I’ve got to get inside the courtroom now,” he said. “The deputies will bring you in soon.

  “Gia,” he said, and she thought he might finally hold her or do something that indicated they meant something to each other, “remember to breathe.”

  Remember to breathe. That was it and he left.

  She sat there feeling as cheap as her pinstriped suit. Then it hit her all at once; she’d fallen in love with him. She’d been trying to tell herself all this time that her feelings were superficial—an infatuation that would pass like all the others—but she’d been deluding herself. Lying.

  A female deputy suddenly appeared. “Time to go.”

  She escorted Gia through a series of back hallways into the courtroom and sat her next to Flynn. Wiping her palms on the sides of her skirt, she focused on the dark paneled wall behind the bench, studied the district court seal, and tried to breathe while her heart did a 10K run.

  The magistrate came in and the deputy court clerk asked everyone to rise. Gia stood up with Flynn and stared straight ahead at the seal. It calmed her to have a focal point. In the gallery behind her, she could hear faint whispering as friends and family members of the other defendants scurried to find seats.

  She prayed the hearing would go fast and she’d be released soon so she could go home to Rosser Ranch . . . away from the world. Away from the humiliation.

  After the magistrate took to the bench Gia sat down. The judge informed her of the charges—securities fraud and aiding and abetting in an investment adviser fraud—and told her if she was convicted the statutory maximum sentence was fifty years in federal prison. Gia gasped and Flynn put his hand on her shoulder. The move wasn’t conciliatory; he was trying to tell her to shut up.

  Once the magistrate made sure Gia had been briefed on her constitutional rights he brought up the issue of bail. There was a lot of back and forth between the judge, Flynn, the prosecutor, and even the red-haired woman from Pretrial Services. Gia was so busy grasping how very much trouble she was in—fifty years’ worth—that she tuned everyone out. No wonder Flynn couldn’t stand to look at her. Fifty years was more time than most murderers got. In his eyes she was a disgrace.

  She heard fragments of what Flynn said, but it went through one ear and out the other.

  “. . . ties to the community.”

  “Upstanding citizen . . .”

  “. . . drove three hours . . .”

  “. . . Miss Treadwell’s behalf.”

  A rustling in the gallery jolted her and she turned around to see what had caused the disturbance. Everyone in the two front rows was standing. Still in a fog, she had trouble making out their faces. But she forced herself to look. Really look. There was Annie and Dana and Dana’s fiancé, Aidan. Darla stood next to Harlee, who mouthed, I want an interview. Donna, Owen, and the Nugget Mafia were there, probably out of prurient interest, but Gia would take what she could get. Most surprising of all was that Lucky and Tawny, Maddy, Emily, and lo and behold, Clay, had come despite their differences over Gia’s plans for her property.

  They were all there to support her and suddenly she didn’t feel so alone.

  The magistrate motioned for them to take their seats and the argument over bail continued. After a lot of legal wrangling the judge agreed to release her in exchange for a property bond and on the condition that she not leave Northern California.

  It was over; she was going home. That’s why when the deputy came to escort her back to jail she was confused, nearly latching on to Flynn’s leg like a child.

  “Gia,” Flynn, who’d been standing while making his argument, crouched down so they were eye to eye, “you have to return to the jail until we post the bond with the clerk’s office. After that they’ll process you out. I’ll be there to get you, okay?”

  “How long?” She never wanted to see the jailhouse again.

  “By dinnertime. You’ll be okay.”

  Easy for him to say. She took one last look at h
er supporters and Clay of all people gave her a thumbs-up. Before she could thank them the deputy moved her along, taking her through the maze in which they’d come. She turned to see if Flynn followed, but he was gone.

  Chapter 22

  “I’m proud of you for standing up for Gia the way you did,” Emily told Clay, clicking her seat belt closed for the long drive back to the Sierra.

  “I’m not such a bad guy, you know?”

  “I never thought you were.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “To me you’re goodness personified.”

  Lately Clay had felt like the devil. He still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Emily didn’t want their child and had been cold as ice to her. Instead of arguing they just didn’t talk about it. Not since the first scan. He didn’t want to exacerbate the situation when Emily’s pregnancy was so fragile. Still, that didn’t stop him from being resentful.

  But the last thing Emily needed was stress. For days she’d been cramping and spotting and Clay feared the worst. Today they’d hopefully know more when they went for the second scan.

  “What do you think will happen with the case against her?” Emily asked.

  “Rhys believes the feds are trying to scare her into telling them where Laughlin is.” Clay maneuvered Sacramento’s city streets, taking the best route to the interstate. “He says she would’ve talked by now if she knew anything.”

  “I feel terrible for her. The poor woman has been through enough.”

  Clay knew how much his wife identified with Gia’s plight. It had never gone as far as an arrest—or jail—with Emily when Hope went missing. But having people think she was responsible for her own daughter’s disappearance . . .

  “If anyone can prove her innocence it’s Flynn,” he said. “From what I hear he’s one hell of a lawyer.”