The Night Shift, page 15
“Already done. It went to voice mail. I left a message.”
Chris half listens as Julia makes another call. Henry’s on his phone now too, barking something about getting the file from the prosecution.
All the while, Chris’s mind remains fastened on what Jesse told him. How in the hell did she know his real name? And why didn’t she tell Henry or Julia when they wrapped up the meeting? Chris knows that he needs to tell them. But he wants to think about it first. Maybe he doesn’t need to tell them, not yet anyway.
But that thought is shattered when Henry finishes his call.
“Damn reporters know more than we do.” He whips around another car on West Jersey Street. “They’re saying the cops were tipped off. There are text messages—Jesse threatening one of the victims.”
Julia looks crestfallen.
Henry continues, “They also found one of the victim’s cell phones hidden in the hospital room where Jesse was treated. And it gets worse. At her foster home they found a research file.”
“How’s that worse?” Julia asks.
Chris feels his pulse in his neck.
Henry says, “She was researching the Blockbuster case.”
CHAPTER 43
KELLER
It’s early evening and Keller and Bob stroll near the curb of their neighborhood, Bruno, their fourteen-year-old bulldog, trails behind them. The years are catching up with Bruno, and Keller worries how much time he has left. And how her husband will deal with the inevitable loss. Bob rescued Bruno from a shelter before the couple met, then babied and pampered the animal, a prelude to what she can expect with their twins.
“So, you’re done with the county now that there’s been an arrest?” Bob asks.
“I need to talk with Stan. But I won’t be surprised.”
Bob nods. “They think a seventeen-year-old is capable of…”
Keller shrugs. They walk under the gray sky, the smell of a spring rain lingering in the air. One of the neighbors calls out to Bob as the man drags trash cans to the curb. “You catch the game, big man?”
“Missed it,” Bob says. “Don’t tell me. I DVR’d it.”
The guy smiles, waves, then goes back inside.
An SUV moves slowly toward them. Their neighborhood has no sidewalks so the culture is to take it slow. The vehicle emits two friendly beeps in greeting.
“I forgot what it’s like to take a walk with the mayor of Bob Town,” Keller says.
Before Bob responds, the SUV stops next to them. The window comes down. Donna, their neighbor from two doors down, smiles. The rear of the SUV is packed with kids.
“I’m glad I caught you,” she says, more to Bob than to Keller. “I spoke to the director of Shining Lights, told her about you guys, and I think she may find room for the twins, if you’re interested.”
Among the many surprising things about preparing to have children is the cutthroat world of getting a spot in the best day care centers.
“That’s awesome,” Bob tells her. “When I called, they said there’s a two-year waiting list.”
“I guess not,” Donna says. She then gives an exaggerated wink.
Keller’s father often said, “It’s not always what you know, but who you know.” She’s always hated that sentiment, particularly on days when it’s true.
Donna’s six-month-old starts crying in the back of the SUV, which ignites a cacophony of whines from her preschoolers. “I have to get these monsters home. But call Susan at the center. She’s expecting you.”
The SUV forges ahead, the wails from its interior audible even a block away.
“You think we’re ready for this?” Bob asks.
“Is anyone?” Keller replies. It’s a question that bounces around in her head on those nights when she can’t sleep. Is she ready for this? Not one, but two babies?
Keller changes the subject back to their recurring debate over baby names. Keller’s criterion is that the names have meaning, personal significance. Bob isn’t so demanding and leans toward names with pop-culture significance, which isn’t going to happen. When each of their proposed names elicits a frown from the other, they agree to try again on their walk tomorrow.
“I’m sorry I have to work tonight,” Keller says.
Within hours, the Secret Service will launch its cigarette-counterfeiting op targeting Rusty Whitaker. And, thanks to Agent Nicoletti, Keller will have a front-row seat. It’s not capturing Vince Whitaker or the Dairy Creamery suspect, but it will have to do.
“Don’t apologize, I have to work nights all the time. But you need to take it easy. No Agent Badass stuff.”
She shakes her head.
“After all, we need to keep Luke and Leia safe.” Bob hoists his brows.
“Never. Gonna. Happen.”
They stop, let Bruno do his business.
“Are you bringing the young guy with you tonight?” Bob asks.
Keller nods. “He was so excited when I mentioned it, how could I not?”
“Is his name really ‘Atticus’? Like from To Kill a Mockingbird?”
Keller smiles. “Yeah, it’s a sweet story. I think you’d like him.”
“If he keeps my babies—Arya and Jon Snow—safe, I’m sure I will.”
Keller ignores him.
They turn back toward the house, but Bruno plants his feet.
“Come on, buddy,” Keller says to the dog. But she knows from experience, the pooch isn’t going to budge.
“Well, this is humiliating,” Bob says, bending down and scooping up Bruno in his arms. He carries the dog all the way home, smiling and waving to more neighbors along the way.
CHAPTER 44
CHRIS
“We’re sorry to drag you in like this,” Henry says to Ella Monroe. Henry sits at the head of the rectangular table in the large conference room at the PD’s office. To his right, Chris and Julia. Ella sits on the edge of her chair across from them. Behind her, a wall of photographs. The annual staff photo. Henry is in nearly every shot. He stands out in every photo. Not only because he’s one of the few Black guys in the early years at the office, but because of the intensity of his gaze.
“It’s no problem,” Ella replies.
“We met Jesse today, and she wouldn’t talk to us,” Henry says. “She said she’ll only speak with you.”
Ella doesn’t seem surprised. She explains how she’d been called to the hospital yesterday morning after the attack. That she and Jesse had made a connection.
“We’re in a bit of a bind, Ms. Monroe,” Henry says.
“How’s that?”
“If we let Jesse speak with you, whatever she says won’t be protected by the attorney-client privilege. If the prosecution calls you as a witness, anything she says to you is fair game.”
Ella considers this. “I’m a therapist, and we have privileges for communications with clients too.”
Henry nods. “That’s true. New Jersey has a victim-counselor and other privileges. But is she under your care? If there’s any question about that, then we need to assume there’s no protection. If she tells you anything incriminating…”
Ella seems to ponder that. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What if I was a member of your team? An expert or consultant or whatever. Wouldn’t that protect what she says to me?”
“Hypothetically,” Henry says, “yes.”
“How about things she said to me previously?”
“Not under the attorney-client privilege. But if you were part of the team, no one would likely ask you. They’d know we’d raise hell and that you’d probably not disclose anything helpful to them anyway.”
“So…”
Henry pauses, then says, “Can you give us a minute to discuss?”
Ella nods.
Henry steps out of the conference room, Julia and Chris at his heels. In the hallway, he asks, “What do you think?”
Julia says, “I’m not sure what choice we have, if Jesse won’t talk to us.”
“I don’t know,” Chris says. “She seems to want to tell us something, like she knows something about Jesse.” He hesitates. He doesn’t have the experience, the years under his belt, but his Spidey senses are telling him this is a bad idea, so he goes out on a limb and voices his concerns. “I’m not sure we want to hear whatever it is she has to say. It could bite us down the road. Once she tells us, we can’t unhear it. And if Jesse really was researching the Blockbuster case, the press could have a field day with us working with the original survivor.” Chris recognizes the irony of this last part.
Henry seems to be doing a risk assessment in his head. “I think we’re better off having her on the team, hearing what she knows. And maybe it helps to have a former victim on Jesse’s side. I mean, if Ella believes and supports her, that could work in our favor with the public.”
He says this like it’s open for further discussion, but Chris can tell he’s made up his mind, so he doesn’t fight it.
Back in the conference room the deal is struck. Ella Monroe will be a consultant for the defense. They print a form agreement and she signs it.
Ella then fishes out a cell phone from her purse, places it on the table. It’s a standard iPhone with a cracked face and large Hello Kitty case.
Henry’s face turns sour. Chris doesn’t understand.
“It’s hers,” says Ella.
Henry’s head drops, an exaggerated show of vexation.
“And there’s more,” Ella continues. “Jesse lied to the police about why she was at the ice cream store.”
Henry sighs and leans back in his chair. “The hits keep coming.”
CHAPTER 45
After Ella Monroe dropped her live grenade—Jesse Duvall’s cell phone—Henry tasks Chris and Julia with some research. What are their legal obligations to turn over the phone to the prosecution? If they don’t hand it over, they’re potentially obstructing justice. But if they do turn it over, they’re potentially sealing their client’s fate. The phone could contain damning information. Also, simply delivering a device that everyone assumes the killer had taken could itself be incriminatory. Especially now that another victim’s phone, the Dairy Creamery manager’s, had been found hidden in the hospital room where Jesse had been treated.
Henry said he’d encountered the question before—a client handing over a murder weapon to an assistant public defender—but the law had been unclear at the time. He needs them to research whether there are any new legal precedents.
Julia taps away on her laptop, searching Westlaw for the answer. Chris separately searches the PD’s office intranet—a database of past research the office had performed on recurring legal issues.
“Hey,” he says, “you mind if I duck out for an hour or so tonight? I promised my parents I’d come for dinner. I can come back to the office after.”
Julia looks up from her screen. “Sure, and you don’t need to come back. I can take care of the research.”
“No, I don’t want to leave you hanging. I wouldn’t go, but it’s a weekly thing, they make a special meal and look forward to it.”
Julia smiles. “That’s so sweet. How about you text me after dinner and I’ll let you know if I need help? Really, it’s no problem.”
Chris nods his thanks.
The door opens and Bea, the busybody receptionist, appears. “Chris, you have a guest.”
Behind Bea stands none other than Chris’s girlfriend—or perhaps ex-girlfriend, he’s not so sure—Clare.
Chris stands, surprised, confused. There’s been radio silence between them, not a single text, since this morning.
“I’ll give you the room,” Julia says, offering Clare an insincere smile. Chris catches Bea giving Julia the eye as they shuffle out.
“Hey. What are you doing all the way out here? Is everything—”
“Are you insane?” Clare says.
“What do you mean? I don’t under—”
Clare cuts him off with a hand in the air.
“You’re part of the defense team for the ice cream store murders?”
Chris doesn’t answer.
“A friend told me they saw you in one of the news stories.” It sounds accusatory, like she expects he’ll deny it.
“So what? It’s my job.”
“You wanna lose your bar ticket?” She stares at him intently. When he doesn’t reply, she says, “It’s a conflict of interest, Chris.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“Oh, you don’t?”
He shakes his head.
“There’s a crime alarmingly similar to the one your brother—your fugitive brother—is accused of committing, and you don’t think your client might want to suggest that maybe he’s the perpetrator?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Chris says. But his mind leaps to Mr. Nirvana’s post. He’s in New York, only a short car ride away from the crime scene. If the vlogger is Vince, any defense lawyer worth their salt would have a field day with it.
“Have you told your client? Have you told your boss?” Clare was top of their class, works at one of the best law firms in the world. And even though he hasn’t wanted to admit it to himself, she’s right about the conflict: his client might be better off if the defense blamed Chris’s own brother for the crime.
“That’s what I thought,” Clare says to his silence.
“I won’t let my brother’s case interfere with giving Jesse Duvall the best defense possible.”
“That’s what everyone who has a conflict says. That’s why the rules exist. You’re not in a position to assess the situation objectively.”
“What do you want, Clare? Are you working for the New Jersey bar now? Why are you even here?”
“I’m here because I care about you. I don’t want you to throw away your—”
“I can take care of myself.” He always has.
“You’ve put me in an awkward spot.”
“What are you talking about?”
“As an officer of the court, I have a duty to report an ethics violation if I’m made aware of one.”
“Really? You can’t be serious.”
Her arms are folded now. She starts to speak, then stops. She turns back to the door and pushes it open. Before marching out, she looks at him again. Shaking her head, she says, “Nice suit.”
*
On the drive to his parents’ house, Clare’s voice runs through Chris’s head: “Nice suit.” What did she mean by that? Whatever. And who’s she to tell him how to practice law?
He pulls into the driveway of their modest home. Clint still hasn’t taken down the tire swing they’d hung together from the big tree in the front yard. He says it’s too much work, but Clint has never shied away from hard labor. Ms. May says he leaves it up because he likes it when the neighborhood kids sneak into their yard and play; it reminds him of Chris.
“Something smells great,” Chris says, stepping into the small kitchen. Ms. May is wearing an apron and removing baked ziti from the oven. On the lime-green refrigerator is a photo of Chris from his law school graduation. By outward appearances, that had been a good day. The sun shining. His parents beaming. An amazing girlfriend at his side. The world at his feet. But Chris mostly remembers the day for another reason: it’s when he finally decided to let his mother go.
He’d been so angry with her. She hadn’t only left without saying goodbye—she’d left Chris and Vince with Rusty. She of all people understood what that meant for them. Rusty said she’d run off with a no-good bastard who hung out at the bar; that if they ever spoke of her again it would be their last words. That she was a whore and they were better off without her. She’d abandoned them. Still, every birthday, Chris would check the mail for a card. On his high school, then college, graduation days, he’d stare out into the stands, searching. But nothing. He fantasized that Mom and Vince had reunited, that they’d appear when things were safe. But part of him always knew the truth: she’d escaped the prison known as Rusty Whitaker and never looked back. Thus, on that seemingly perfect day with his law school diploma tucked under his arm, Clint and Ms. May beaming with pride, he’d let Mary Whitaker go forever.
“I made your favorite,” Ms. May says.
“It won’t compete with the ramen I usually have, but it will do.” The smell brings him back to the first time he’d ever had a meal without the threat of violence. Clint and May lacing fingers, saying grace, a quiet calm making it clear that he was home. Vince had promised that their new life, nirvana, would smell different. Maybe this was the smell: Ms. May’s ziti.
Clint comes in from the back door. He’s sweating, his shirt damp over his ropey, muscled arms.
“The counselor is here.” He sticks out his hand. Clint isn’t a hugger. A firm shake is what makes a man, he’d once told Chris. And you’d better look ’em in the eye when you do it. Chris makes sure to do that whenever he greets Clint.
“I hear you’re building a shed,” says Chris.
“More like a guesthouse for when May kicks me out.”
“That’s gonna be sooner than you think if you don’t get upstairs and take a shower. Dinner’s in ten.”
Clint widens his eyes for Chris’s benefit, but he rushes out obediently. They all know who’s the boss.
Ten minutes later, on the dot, they sit at the small dining room table, joining hands.
Clint says, “Bless this family and thanks for this food and our health. Bless those less fortunate.” And that’s it. No scripture. No drawn-out version of grace. Straightforward, like Clint.
Ms. May scoops a giant portion of ziti onto Chris’s plate. And for the next few minutes, the only sound is silverware on china. Ms. May always brings out the good dishes for their weekly dinners.
“How’s work?” Clint asks. Standard Clint small-talk.
“I got assigned to a big case, actually,” Chris says. He decides it’s better if they hear it from him. Clint has never said so, but Chris surmises he’s not thrilled about Chris working on behalf of criminals.
“Good for you, dear,” Ms. May says. She doesn’t ask for elaboration, and normally that would be the end of the discussion. Dinnertime was for family talk, not work talk. But Chris needs to do this.
