Devil's Corner (6 page)

"You had Jackson killed to prevent her from testifying! You killed her and her baby! And Morty!" Suddenly, Vicki's rage boiled over. She reached across the table and grabbed Bris-tow's upper arm.

"No, wait!" Melendez shouted, horrified. "Stop!"

"Yo, bitch!" Reheema bellowed, but Vicki exploded.

"Why'd you do it, Reheema! Why? To save five lousy years?" Vicki couldn't stop herself and she didn't want to. She yanked so hard that she dragged the handcuffed Bristow onto the table. "They killed an ATF agent last night! My partner!

My
friend
! And you know it!"

"HELP!" Melendez yelled at the top of his lungs.

The door to the proffer room flew open, and the ATF agent burst in, drawing his gun from his shoulder holster, ready to protect a prosecutor from a prisoner.

And, startled, discovered that it was the other way around.

EIGHT

"Get yourself a lawyer, kid." Bale bustled into his office,

where Vicki had been told to wait for him.

"You have to be kidding."

"Not today. Strauss got a call from Melendez, Bristow's defense lawyer." Bale slid off his camel-hair coat, hung it carefully on a wooden hanger, and placed it on the wooden rack behind him, then sat down in his tall chair, shooting his cuffs by habit. "He's suing you—and the office—for official misconduct, assault, and battery."

"Assault and battery, on
Reheema
? She has six inches on me!"

"Melendez says she sustained a soft-tissue injury."

"But all her tissue is hard!"

"You twisted her arm, didn't you?"

"I couldn't! She was wearing handcuffs!"

"Not your best argument." Bale glared from behind his walnut desk, its surface marked by a clean leather blotter, stacks of correspondence, and a computer with the office's American flag screensaver, flickering madly. "You're missing the point. You shouldn't have put a finger on her, not a finger."

"I know. I'm sorry. But still—"

"No buts. You're a federal prosecutor. You behaved like a street brawler."

Vicki reddened. She was in the wrong, which sucked.

"And Melendez is filing suit on her behalf and on his own."

"What?"

"He doesn't have soft tissue, either?" Bale arched an eyebrow.

"I swear, I didn't touch
him
!"

"Says you pushed him. Your word against his."

"What about the ATF agent, at the door? He could tell you what happened."

"Oh, should we ask him? He wasn't even supposed to be there! Marshals bring prisoners up, not ATF. How'd you swing that?"

Vicki slumped in the chair. The ATF agent couldn't speak for her anyway. He had had to pull the three of them apart, like a group hug gone horribly wrong.

"I didn't think so. Either way, it's a lawsuit that could result in liability for you personally. Meeting with a defendant is within the scope of your official duties, but trying to kill one is not."

"You're not backing me?"

"Of course not." Bale's brown eyes went hard, like chocolate cooling. "You had no business setting up a proffer meeting, or a meeting of any kind, when you knew you had no case. There's just no excuse for it. What were you thinking?"

Gulp
. "It was my last chance. I was gonna let her go after that."

"You shoulda dropped those charges first thing this morning. What did you use for a proffer letter?"

"The old one in the file."

"So Strauss's signature is on it? Strauss will love that, that's great." Bale pursed his lips under his mustache. "He talked with PR and they're press-releasing it. The media knows you were at the scene last night, and the press release sets forth your very sincere apology and explains that you were upset over the murder of an ATF case agent you knew very well. I dropped the charges against Bristow and she'll be released from the FDC by tonight."

No
. "She knows those shooters, Chief."

"Melendez told me she denied all of it, and he believed her."

"Gimme a break. He's a man, and she's hot." Vicki felt her bile rising. "Chief, obviously, there's a connection between Bris-tow and the CI. The CI volunteered to testify against her, apparently out of the blue. I told you, there's a memo in the file."

"That's what you're pinning this theory on, a memo in the file? That's why you attacked a defendant and her lawyer?"

Not her lawyer, but never mind.
"My CI gets shot a few days before she's going to testify and she's my whole case. It can't be a coincidence. There has to be a link."

"Melendez says you were out of control. He said that you have a big mouth for such a small woman, which I can vouch for."

"Thanks."

"Don't be a smartass. You need representation. Understand?"

"Understood." No lawyer would take this case without a five-thousand-dollar retainer, half of Vicki's savings. Her father would represent her for free, but then she'd have to tell him the truth, which was unprecedented.

"The locals are all over us now. We need good relations with the Roundhouse. I don't have to tell you that, do I? Don't make me sorry I convinced Strauss not to can your ass."

"I'm not fired?" Vicki felt her throat catch with gratitude.

"Suspended without pay, for a week." Bale rubbed his smooth forehead irritably. Rumor had it he was getting Botox injections, but Vicki would never again spread that around.

"Thanks, Chief."

"The only reason he gave it to me was that you won last month in Edwards. I went to bat for you because I know why you did it. You reacted emotionally. You were close with Morty."

Morty
. Vicki looked away. A pale sun ray filtered through the windows of the corner office, landing on the electroplated plaques, etched crystal bowls, and hunk-of-acrylic awards. Black office manuals and rule books filled the shelves lining the wall.

"Hey, look at me," Bale said, and Vicki did. "I'm responsible for you now. One step out of line, and I don't go to bat for you again. You're still new here. Watch your step. We're not fast and loose, like the D.A.'s office. You got it?"

"Yes, Chief."

"Good." Bale's voice returned almost to normal. "Melendez also told Strauss you asked Bristow about some names. Jay or something. Teeg. You gave those names to the Philly detectives last night, didn't you?"

"Of course." Vicki had. She wasn't even lying.

"And to ATF, too?"

"Yes."

"So you're not completely crazy."

"No, not completely."

"It's Friday. Morty's memorial service will be on Monday. You will attend, then take the week off without pay. If anyone from Homicide calls you to look at a photo array, you'll go, but that's it. Be back at your desk on Monday and start redeeming yourself."

"What about my cases? I have a suppression hearing in Welton on Tuesday."

"I'll reassign it, and Malloy will watch your desk while you're away. Now get outta my sight." Bale's phone rang but he let the secretary get it. "Don't stop at your office, just go home and stay home. No talking to the press, and no more shenanigans."

"Okay, Chief. Thanks again."

Vicki left the office and closed the door behind her. She walked down the hall to her office, and when she turned the corner, the secretaries were standing up at their desks and behind them AUSAs were coming out of their offices.

And all of them were clapping.

Vicki said thanks to everyone, taking only her coat from her office. She didn't need anything else from it anyway. She had the Bristow file in her briefcase.

And she knew just where she was going.

NINE

Vicki hurried through the crowded parking lot and checked her watch on the run: 12:45. She wrapped her old down coat closer and reached the concrete entrance to the medical examiners', just as an older African-American woman was leaving. Her gray head was bowed in grief and she carried a wad of Kleenex in her hand. Vicki felt a pang of sympathy and realized that she wasn't too late after all. Shayla Jackson's mother had been due here to identify the body at noon, and the grieving woman had to be she.

Mrs. Jackson walked with another older black woman supporting her elbow, though the woman was struggling with two large purses, a canvas bag stuffed with red yarn, a folded newspaper, and a plastic-covered library book. Vicki felt vaguely like a vulture as she swooped down on the forlorn pair, reaching them just as one of the leather purses fell to the parking lot, pebbled with city grit and rock salt. Vicki scooped up the handbag before both women toppled over.

"Got it," Vicki called out, restoring the bag to the friend.

"Thank you, thank you so much." Mrs. Jackson looked at her with gratitude and managed a sweet smile, though tears pooled in her reddened eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses. Up close, she looked about eighty years old, with sparse hair the hue of sterling silver and deep fissures for crow's-feet and laugh lines on dry, ashy skin.

"Yes, thank you," the other woman chimed in. "It's hard to carry all these things. I should have thrown away my newspaper, but I didn't get a chance to read it yet."

"I understand." Vicki held on to Mrs. Jackson, who leaned lightly on her arm. The woman couldn't have weighed one hundred and ten, including her coat. "Are you okay, ma'am?"

"Yes, I guess. I'm so tired. I had to… I just had to…"

Her friend supplied: "Her daughter was murdered."

Vicki couldn't hide the ball another minute. She introduced herself and asked, "Aren't you Ms. Jackson, Shayla Jackson's mother?"

"Why, yes." Her wet brown eyes fluttered in surprise. "Well, not exactly, I'm her auntie." She pronounced it
awn-tee
.

"Well, it's nice to meet you."

"I'm her Auntie Tillie. Mrs. Tillie Bott. Mr. Bott passed away in 1989. Shayla used to call me Auntie Tillie but now she calls me Tillie, or Mama Tillie." Ms. Bott seemed disoriented, understandable under the circumstances. "Shayla was the neighbor lady's girl, but the neighbor run off. I raised her as my own, after my children were grown."

"That was kind of you," Vicki said, touched, but Mrs. Bott shook her head, wobbly.

"Not at t'all. That child gave me more than I ever gave her. She was just so sweet—"

The friend interjected, "How did you know who Tillie was?"

"I'm an assistant U.S. Attorney. I was going to meet with Shayla last night when she was killed." Vicki noticed Mrs. Bott's hooded eyes widen and she softened her voice. "Shayla told me that she had important information for me on a case, so my partner and I went over to her house. It was my partner who was killed with her."

"You mean that policeman?" the friend interjected, again.

"Yes. He was an ATF agent." Someday Vicki would figure out why she kept correcting everybody about Morty. "I was coming here to talk with Mrs. Bott about Shayla, but I hate to bother you now. Maybe we could talk another time."

"We don't live here," the friend answered. "We're country people. We live in Florida. We're going home now. We're going to the bus. We took an airplane here, but we're taking a bus back. The airplane is too expensive."

"You're leaving now?"

"On the three o'clock bus."

"Then we have some time to talk."

"No, we don't."

Vicki wondered when library patrons got so tough. "Wait a minute, did Mrs. Bott talk to the police yet?"

"What police?"

"The Philadelphia police."

"No."

"Didn't they call you to talk about Shayla?" Vicki addressed Mrs. Bott, but she was dabbing her eyes with the soggy Kleenex ball, then resettling her glasses on the bridge of her nose.

"No, they didn't call her," the friend answered. "Now, excuse us, we have to go. We're going home and we're going to take Shayla home to rest, home with us. She'll rest better, home where she grew up."

Mrs. Bott looked so broken, and the cold air dried the tearstains on her lined cheeks, making whitish streaks in the cold. As much as Vicki's heart went out to her, she couldn't let them go.

"I have an idea," Vicki said gently. "Maybe we could go somewhere warm and talk over a cup of coffee. Before you two leave."

"No, she's too upset," the friend answered, drawing Mrs. Bott closer to her side. Vicki kept her grip on poor Mrs. Bott's other arm. If it became a tug-of-war, the library fan was going down. Vicki was younger, stronger, and a federal prosecutor, which should count for something as against the reserve list.

"I'm sorry to have to intrude." Vicki leaned over and spoke directly to Mrs. Bott. "And I'm sure the police are going to call you, but I want to find whoever killed Shayla and my friend. I'm hoping that what you know about Shayla could help me."

"Did you tell that to the police?" the friend broke in, and Vicki bit her tongue.

"Yes, but I have questions of my own."

"That's not your job," the friend shot back, and Vicki was considering decking her when Mrs. Bott cleared her throat, lowered her Kleenex, and said:

"I wouldn't mind talkin', if it would help Shayla."

A noisy convenience store wasn't what Vicki had in mind for a quiet chat, but the one on the corner of Thirty-eighth and Spruce, down the street from the medical examiner, would do in a pinch. An instrumental version of "Love Will Keep Us Together," the
ca-chunk
of cash registers, and the endless
beep-beep
of touch-screen ordering machines filled the air. The place teemed with overgrown frat boys, exhausted med students, and university staff, but Vicki managed to find a free table in the far corner, at which she seated Mrs. Bott and her attack friend, who turned out to be named Mrs. Greenwood.

Sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling glass window, warming the three of them, and by the time they'd started on their 184-ounce cups of brewed coffee and Southwestern wraps with suspiciously colorful ingredients, the small talk was over, Mrs. Bott had almost recovered, and Mrs. Greenwood had turned as nice as a librarian.

"When was the last time you saw Shayla, Mrs. Bott?" Vicki asked, getting to the subject at hand.

"I hadn't seen my baby girl in so long. She hardly ever came home anymore."