Devil's Corner Page 4

  Suddenly, the door to the proffer room opened and the defense lawyer bustled in. “I’m Carlos Melendez,” he said, and extending a hammy hand. “It’s freezing cold, isn’t it? They say snow this afternoon.” He looked about sixty years old, his still-thick hair coiled in tight steel-gray curls, contrasting with his darkish skin and rich brown eyes. He had a cheery demeanor and a short, chubby build in a herringbone topcoat, like SpongeBob SquarePants with a law degree.

  “I’m Vicki Allegretti,” she said, liking Melendez immediately, despite the fact that he was technically the enemy.

  “Boy, you look too young to be an AUSA.” Melendez smiled.

  “No, I’m twenty-eight. I’m just short.”

  “Ha! You’re short and young.” Melendez laughed. “Though I gotta admit, I don’t know many AUSAs, I’m court appointed on this case.” He wriggled out of his topcoat, releasing the scent of a strongly spicy aftershave.

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

  “Not at all, glad you called. Trial’s just around the corner.”

  Eek. Not anymore. “Did you get my proffer letter?” This morning, Vicki had re-sent Melendez the proffer letter that the first AUSA had sent, since it had the necessary signature, namely Strauss’s. The letter was a formality, setting forth the government’s request for information and the ground rules for the meeting off the record. She’d had it in the Bristow file and faxed it from home.

  “My secretary confirmed that we got it, thanks.” Melendez opened a scratched-up leather briefcase, extracted an accordion file, and closed it again.

  “Think Ms. Bristow feels chatty this morning?”

  “Reheema? Honestly, no.” Melendez smiled. “You’ll see, Reheema’s not the talkative type, but maybe she’ll listen to reason. I’ll be honest with you, I want her to cooperate, and I told her so.” He pushed his briefcase across the dusty Formica table and eased his girth into his bucket chair. “The first AUSA had no luck with her, but he lacked your youthful enthusiasm. Maybe with you being a woman, too, that’ll help. You’re the same age.”

  “Good.”

  “Like I told you, I’m court-appointed, so I don’t meet a lot of people like her. She’s a tough nut. But she has a good heart, and I think she’s innocent.”

  Vicki knew he’d learn soon enough that Bristow could be behind the murders of three people.

  “And five years is five years. I hate to see her get set up for this.”

  “What do you mean? You think someone’s setting her up?”

  “Somebody’s letting her twist, aren’t they? Whoever she bought those guns for, and like you say, anything is possible.” Melendez shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I don’t know, she won’t talk to me. Like I said, I don’t usually do this kinda work, but I’ve never had a client who was so close-mouthed.”

  “Is she frightened?” Vicki was considering the possibilities. “Intimidated by someone?”

  “Ha! No way. Reheema doesn’t scare easy.” Melendez mulled it over, looking idly at Vicki. Suddenly, his dark eyes seemed to sharpen and he focused on her face. “You know, you look a lot like that woman on TV last night. With that murder, on the news?”

  “Uh, yes, that was me.” Vicki told herself to act natural. It would have been only a matter of time before he recognized her. The story was all over the papers, TV, and radio this morning.

  “That was you? An FBI agent killed and a pregnant woman?”

  “He was ATF.” Vicki’s chest felt tight.

  “Je-sus.” Melendez looked shocked, his lips parting. “That must have been horrible. What the hell happened?”

  “I can’t really say,” Vicki answered in her official voice, as a burly ATF agent in a tie and gray blazer appeared at the door to the proffer room.

  “Special delivery,” the agent said dryly. Usually, the federal marshals brought up the prisoners, but Vicki had asked the ATF on duty as a favor. He had to know it was related to Morty’s death, but she didn’t tell, to give him deniability.

  “Thanks,” Vicki said, and when the agent stepped aside, Vicki did a double take at the sight of the shackled prisoner.

  Reheema Bristow didn’t look at all the way Vicki had expected.

  SEVEN

  Vicki had been expecting a street tough, but Reheema Bristow looked like a black model, albeit on steroids. She had stunning features; large almond eyes of an unusual caramel-brown, a longish nose, and a broad mouth, which was sensual, if unsmiling. She wore her dark hair back in a short, stiff ponytail and had a strong, killer body, even in the olive green jumpsuit worn by FDC prisoners. Her manner made the handcuffs seem oddly like sex toys.

  Bristow was seated, cuffed and shackled, in the chair next to Melendez, and her lawyer had gone positively goofy in her presence. Suddenly Vicki understood why he’d been suckered into believing in her innocence. And also why he’d worn his cardamom aftershave.

  “Reheema, how are you today?” Melendez boomed, grinning.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Bristow answered, and Vicki reacted viscerally to the sound of her voice, soft, but hardly ingratiating. Streetwise, but not street. Sonorous, if it hadn’t come out of the mouth of a criminal. Vicki couldn’t forget that Bristow could know who killed Morty and Jackson. She could know Teeg and Jay-Boy. She could even have hired them, or maybe whoever she was buying the guns for had hired them.

  “Ms. Bristow.” Vicki introduced herself and explained, “I’m the new AUSA on this case. I’m replacing Jim Cavanaugh, whom you met with before. I believe that was the only proffer conference you had with my office, correct?”

  Bristow nodded, and if she recognized Vicki from the TV, she didn’t let it show, which proved she was one great liar. News of the triple homicide had to be all over the FDC, learned from TV or the “bowl,” the way prisoners communicated after lights-out; each inmate flushed the toilet a few times to evacuate the water, enabling the plumbing to carry voices as efficiently as Nextel. The Bureau of Prisons couldn’t do anything about it, short of replacing the plumbing at taxpayer expense, but nobody was funding better johns for felons.

  Vicki continued, “I called you here today for a conference, and we’ll start by asking you a few questions. As you know, you’ve been charged with two counts of a straw purchase, in violation of 18 U.S.C. Section 922.” Vicki glanced at her file as she read. “The indictment charges that you purchased two Colt .45–caliber handguns and illegally resold them. As you may know, when such a multiple weapons purchase is made, Pennsylvania gun dealers are required automatically to send a report to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. Would you like to see the report concerning your purchases, or the indictment against you? I have both.”

  “No. I told the first lawyer, Cavanaugh, I don’t want to plead guilty.”

  “Is that because you didn’t do it?”

  Bristow’s lovely gaze shifted sideways to Melendez. “Do I have to answer?”

  “Not if you don’t want to.”

  “No comment,” Bristow answered, which gave Vicki pause. Most felons knew that “no comment” was for reporters, not government lawyers.

  “Reheema, may I call you Reheema?”

  “Yes.”

  “Reheema, you do realize that if you are convicted in this case, and you will be, you’ll spend five years in federal prison, a chunk of the prime of your life?”

  Bristow didn’t say anything.

  “I see from your file you have no priors, so you may not know that federal prison isn’t as nice as the FDC, new and clean. It isn’t like on TV, either.”

  Bristow didn’t blink, which set Vicki’s blood simmering. She had given this speech in three other straw cases and had never gotten this far. Unlike state jail time, federal sentencing guidelines removed the judge’s discretion, so cooperating was the only thing defendants could do to help themselves. The guidelines were a huge hammer for federal law enforcement, but coming from the D.A.’s office, Vicki secretly thought they also took the sport out of
the contest. They’d created a culture of snitches, and after most indictments, crooks raced to flip on their friends. Last month, Vicki even got a confession on her answering machine.

  “Reheema, prison is ugly, brutal, nasty. Women beat each other up, some of them daily. Think. Five years of that.”

  Bristow said nothing, her expression as impassive as if she were posing for a Vogue cover, and Vicki guessed she had to know that Jackson had been killed and there would be no trial on the charges.

  “Reheema, let’s get real. You’re a pretty girl, you know that. A woman as beautiful as you, it won’t be nice. You’ll be placed in the general population. You’ll be somebody’s bitch.”

  Bristow’s perfect mouth remained closed, but Vicki kept squeezing. Bristow couldn’t be completely sure the government didn’t have other evidence against her. Vicki wouldn’t be the first federal prosecutor to be stingy with what she disclosed before trial.

  “That is, if you’re lucky, it’ll be one woman. It could be more. You could be the pass-around pack. You want that?”

  Bristow didn’t answer, and next to her, Melendez shifted his weight in his chair. Vicki was threatening Bristow, which wasn’t permissible, but Melendez wanted to save his client.

  “I’m not trying to scare you, I’m trying to tell you what you risk by going to trial. You bought two guns for somebody and resold them. All I want from you is the name of the person you sold them to.”

  Bristow didn’t answer, and Vicki felt her cheeks hot with renewed anger.

  “Reheema, if you’re frightened, I understand. These are dangerous people, scary people. I can get you into the witness protection program. You lived in an apartment in West Philly, right?”

  Bristow didn’t answer, and Vicki checked her temper.

  “Come on, you can answer that! It’s on the indictment. Who did you live with?”

  “Lived alone.”

  “No boyfriend or anything?”

  “No.”

  If she couldn’t get a date, I have no chance. “So you don’t have the apartment anymore, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Even better. I’ll get you relocated to a new place, maybe even a house. I’ll make sure you’re okay, I swear it.” Vicki meant every word, if it led to Morty’s killer. “You don’t have to be afraid of anybody or anything. Even if they’re dealing drugs, even weight.”

  Bristow looked down, breaking eye contact, and Vicki felt her heart quicken.

  “Reheema, if you give me the name, I’ll tell the judge you’re a cooperator. I’ll give him the best possible recommendation for your sentence. I’ll get you in ad seg, too, out of the general population. It’s a completely different proposition.”

  Bristow kept her head down, and Vicki leaned across the table.

  “Just give me a name. These guys are filth, they don’t deserve your loyalty. Give me the name and you’ll get back to your life. You had two jobs, you can work them. Meet a nice guy, I wish you better luck than me. You’re only twenty-nine, as young as I am. Your life is in front of you, if you just say the word.”

  “No,” Bristow answered, looking up. Her gaze was steady, two flawless brown orbs focused on Vicki, which only made her crazier. She tried another tack. Maybe if Bristow knew Vicki had her number, she’d talk.

  “Reheema, who is Jamal Browning?”

  Melendez’s ears pricked up at the unfamiliar name and he wrote it on a legal pad, but Bristow merely looked down again and began examining her fingernails.

  “Have you ever been at 3635 Aspinall Street? It’s in West Philly.” Vicki had looked it up on MapQuest this morning.

  Bristow continued with her cuticle, and Vicki felt her frustration rising.

  “Do you know a young man, a black male aged about fourteen, about five nine, who wears his hair in cornrows and is nicknamed Teeg?”

  “Objection.” Melendez raised a hand, though no formal objections were necessary, nor did they have any legal impact at a proffer conference, which this wasn’t anyway. This was a mugging.

  “I’m just asking her a question. She can decline to answer.” Vicki’s temper sharpened her tone but she didn’t bother dialing it back. She turned to Bristow. “Who’s Teeg?”

  Bristow didn’t answer.

  “How about Jay-Boy, a young black male? Goatee? Older than fourteen, maybe sixteen.” Vicki couldn’t give further details of his description. He was the one who had killed Morty. Her head pounded, and her chest felt tight enough to burst.

  Bristow didn’t answer, and Vicki was growing more furious by the minute.

  “How do you know Shayla Jackson?”

  Reheema’s expression betrayed no recognition.

  Melendez looked up from his pad, his forehead wrinkling. “Jackson. Isn’t that the name of the pregnant lady who got killed last night? I remember because it’s my neighbor’s name.”

  “I’m just asking her, does she know Jackson?”

  Melendez set his Bic pen down beside his pad. “What’s the difference if she knows her?” he asked, suspicious.

  “I’m curious. She didn’t recognize me from TV, like you did.”

  “So?”

  Uh. “I like to be recognized. It makes me feel good about myself.”

  Bristow cracked a sly smile, which made Vicki want to wring her neck. The woman was getting away with murder.

  “Reheema, I know you know Shayla Jackson. She was my CI in this case. You know what that means, don’t you? My confidential informant.” Vicki leaned across the table, almost spitting. “She was going to dime on you and you know she was murdered last night with my partner. Teeg and Jay-Boy were the shooters, but they work for someone, and I want to know who. And how you’re involved.”

  “Vicki, what are you doing?” Melendez rose slowly, but Vicki was too far gone.

  “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 Bristow’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, w
hich 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.”