False Justice Page 9

  “Cold.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I think Galway might be willing to share some information about his former girlfriend with me now.”

  “It’s an idea,” Graham said, still looking skeptical. “Assuming he doesn’t hate you more than he hates her. For, you know, being the person who actually put him in prison.”

  Jessie conceded the point with a nod. “There’s that. Still worth a try.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Frackville.”

  Graham made a face.

  “I’ve been there before,” Jessie said.

  State Correctional Institution–Frackville was a prison complex off Interstate 81 in Schuylkill County. Getting there would take Jessie about two hours driving through mostly rural areas—four hours round trip—and when she arrived, she’d be entering one of Pennsylvania’s toughest maximum-security correctional facilities.

  “Frackville is dungeon for monsters,” Graham said.

  “I’ll have the protection of guards at all times. And Galway’s not so much a monster as a victim of his own bad decisions. He’s not a member of the Dark Hounds, or any other gang.”

  “Promise me you’ll be as careful as possible.”

  “Come on, Emily. You know me.”

  “That’s what worries me.” She pulled off the street, and into the parking garage.

  19

  After a two-hour drive, Jessie turned her car onto the grounds of the Frackville State Correctional Institution. Its six housing units were spread over about thirty-five acres of land, set off from the surrounding towns by a buffer of about 174 acres. From the comfort of her car, the area seemed serene, peaceful. If not for the razor wire and the guard towers, it might have resembled a college campus. But she knew that illusion would burst the moment she stepped foot inside.

  The place was, as Graham had described it, a dungeon full of monsters. A maximum security prison housing over a thousand of the state’s most violent adult male inmates.

  She parked her car, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Inside, she waited while guards confirmed her ID, then escorted her past several doors, gates, and barricades to a visitation room. Here she waited while other guards retrieved Trevor Galway from his housing unit.

  The visitation room was a fifteen-foot-square box with cement walls. Metal furniture was bolted to the floor. A table and two chairs, cold to the touch. She resisted the instinct to shiver or hug herself. She knew she was probably being observed, and it was hard enough to be taken seriously as a woman in this place.

  Through the cement walls she could hear the typical sounds she’d come to associate with prisons and jails—echoing footsteps, distant yelling, the loud buzz of doors opening and closing. It was a grim atmosphere.

  A louder buzz sounded as the door to the visitation room unlocked and opened. A burly corrections officer delivered Trevor Galway to the room. The lanky, red-haired inmate glanced briefly at her, then fixed his gaze down at his white, prison-issued slippers. Jessie watched silently as the guard went through the ritual of securing Galway to the floor and the table by threading his handcuff and ankle chains through rings attached to both surfaces. The jingling sound was like a dark parody of a happy Christmas scene. When the procedure was finished, and Galway was secured, the guard finally took his attention off the inmate and looked at Jessie.

  “Just knock on the door when you’re done.” With that, he exited the room, leaving Jessie alone with a man she had prosecuted and convicted of murder.

  An odor of sweat and musk wafted off the man. He had been in his late twenties when Jessie prosecuted his felony-murder trial. Now, in his early thirties, he was still a relatively young man. But he didn’t look it. Prison had hardened him, taken the youthful vitality out of him. He looked almost like a different person.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me, Trevor,” she said, straining to keep her voice level.

  Galway looked at her. She was surprised by the lack of resentment or anger in his gaze. She’d expected hostility, but, if anything, he looked happy to see her. Or maybe just happy to have any visitor. “Sure. Sure.” He leaned toward her eagerly. His chains jingled. “You said you wanted my help with some kind of case? Does that mean you can help me, too? We can make some kind of deal?”

  The look of hope in his face gave her a pang of guilt. She wasn’t here with authorization to make any deals. Hell, she wasn’t here with any authorization at all. “It’s too early to talk about deals. Right now, I’m just curious if you have some information that might be helpful.”

  “Sure. Sure,” he said again, nodding his head. The phrase seemed to be a kind of verbal tic, but she didn’t remember him having it during his trial. Had he picked it up during his incarceration? Jessie pretended not to notice.

  “I’d like to talk to you about the Dark Hounds Motorcycle Club.”

  “Don’t know what I can tell you about them. I was never a member, you know. I mean, I met Ray a bunch because of Vicki, and I guess I saw some stuff, but I wasn’t in the club.”

  “I understand that, Trevor.”

  “I think about killing myself every day, you know?”

  The non-sequitur threw her for a second. She took a breath, studying him. “I’m sure it’s very difficult for you in here.”

  “Sure. Sure. But that’s not what I mean. This place”—he waved a hand—“it’s not that bad. But the dead guy—you know, the man Billy shot—every time I try to sleep, I see that guy. It was like, one second he’s a human being like you or me just going through his day. Just doing his job at the store. And then Billy moves his finger.” Galway demonstrated by lifting his shackled wrist from the table and twitching the index finger of his right hand. “Just this little movement of his finger. And the guy’s dead. Gone.”

  Jessie felt an ache of sympathy for the man. It was a quirk of the felony-murder rule that people who didn’t actively commit a murder, and may have never murdered anyone in their lives, could still be convicted of murder simply by being an accomplice to a crime in which a person died. One of the purposes of the rule was to serve as a deterrent to people to engage in potentially violent crimes. Jessie had mixed feelings about it, but overall, she supported the idea, even as she felt bad for men like Galway.

  “That man’s death was a terrible tragedy,” Jessie said.

  Galway nodded miserably. “Sure. Sure.”

  “I’m actually here to talk about Vicki Briscoe. At the time of your arrest, I understand you had been together for several years, were even living together I believe?”

  “Right.”

  “I’m hoping you can give me some insight into her character. I know about her father’s record, obviously, but I also know being a criminal isn’t genetic. Can you tell me if you think Vicki is capable of killing someone out of spite, or for revenge?”

  He looked away from her. “I don’t want to talk about Vicki.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t.”

  “Do you still have feelings for her?” Jessie had not expected that to be the case. “You know Vicki could have testified on your behalf at your trial, right? She could have made a real difference, especially at your sentencing hearing. Did your defense attorney tell you that?”

  His gaze roamed the bare walls of the room as he avoided her gaze.

  “Trevor, listen to me. Vicki could have told the court about your good character. The judge might not have stuck you in this place for so many years.”

  Galway shrugged. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Has she visited you here?”

  “It’s a long ride.”

  “It’s two hours. I did it.”

  He shrugged again.

  “Trevor,” she pressed, “Vicki has no right to expect loyalty from you. She abandoned you.”

  Galway surprised her again, this time by letting out a rueful laugh. “I doubt Vick expects anything. She’s probably forgotten about me. Sure, sure. That’s for the best. But I love
her. Always will.”

  “Okay.” Jessie took another breath. She’d banked on Galway’s resentment, but that wasn’t going to work. She needed to take a different tack. “Those are your feelings. I respect that. But can you tell me anything? Anything about Vicki’s involvement in her father’s motorcycle club? Anything about her plans for the future? I know she went to medical school and became a doctor. That must have been important to her. Not an easy road. Can you tell me about that?”

  “I told you I don’t want to talk about Vicki.”

  Jessie suppressed a sigh. She’d traveled a long way to come to this prison. The thought of turning around for another two-hour drive, after learning nothing, was dispiriting. “Can you tell me if Vicki knew anything about explosives? For example, could she arrange for a car to explode, and make it look like an accident?”

  She saw the muscles bunch beneath his lean face. He looked away from her.

  “Trevor?” She leaned toward him. “Trevor, you said Gustavo Martìnez’s death still haunts you.” Her use of the name of the man who died in the convenience store brought his gaze back to hers. “There’s a death that haunts me right now. A woman I used to know. A friend. I’m trying to figure out what happened to her. Please help me with this. I need to know if Vicki, or anyone she’s close with, has expertise in explosives.”

  With startling suddenness, Galway’s face filled with rage. “Stay away from Vicki or you’ll be sorry!”

  “Why does that question upset you?”

  “I want you to leave.” Galway twisted away from her. She could see his expression soften as he regained control of himself. “I’m not talking to you anymore. Not another word.”

  Jessie stood up, crossed to the door, and knocked for the corrections officer. She wasn’t going to get any more cooperation from Galway, but maybe she wasn’t going to leave as empty-handed as she’d feared. The way he’d reacted to her question about explosives meant something. If he’d responded with a denial, or surprise, or even silence, she might have taken nothing from it. But his sudden, unprovoked anger? That could only mean Jessie was on to something.

  20

  By the time Jessie finished the long drive back from the Frackville State Correctional Institution, returned her car to its parking garage, and walked back to her apartment building, she was exhausted. She unlocked her door and practically staggered inside. The lights were off, which she was not expecting.

  “Leary?” She dropped her bag and keys on the kitchenette counter. “Okay, guess I’m alone.”

  “Not quite,” said a voice from the shadows of the living room.

  Jessie swung around. At the same moment, the light went on. A woman sat on her couch. Red hair, angry face, serious-looking boots. Vicki Briscoe.

  Jessie advanced toward her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here? You broke into my apartment?”

  Briscoe shrugged. She looked totally relaxed, reclining on the couch with one leg crossed over the other, as casual as a visiting friend. A cold feeling of uncertainty spread through Jessie’s body. How dangerous was this woman? Somehow the lack of an aggressive stance made her seem even more unnerving.

  “I hear you’ve been asking questions about me,” Briscoe said.

  Don’t let her intimidate you. “Isn’t that an occupational hazard in your line of business?”

  “The medical business?”

  “The organized crime business.”

  Briscoe studied her evenly. “I’ve been doing some research on you, too, Jessica Black. Actually, my file on you dates back years. All the way back to when you sent Trevor away for a murder he had nothing to do with.”

  “He was an accomplice to a crime during which—”

  “I’m familiar with the felony-murder rule.”

  “I imagine you’re familiar with a lot of laws. Criminal ones and maybe civil ones, too. For example, the kind that might be applicable to a medical malpractice case.”

  A half-smile twisted Briscoe’s face, but it seemed to hint at barely concealed rage rather than amusement. “Is that what you’re interested in? My med-mal case?”

  “I’m interested in you leaving. Now.”

  “Or what? You’ll call the police?”

  “I’m calling the police either way.”

  Briscoe sat still for a moment. Jessie pressed her lips together, hoping her expression wasn’t betraying her rapidly beating heart. Briscoe rose gracefully from the couch. She headed for the door, which was behind Jessie. Jessie stiffened as the woman came even with her. Briscoe gave off a dangerous vibe, like a jungle cat—beautiful and graceful, but also unpredictable and deadly. Briscoe must have noticed the tensing of Jessie’s muscles. She smirked and met Jessie’s eyes. “You’re scared.”

  “You’re the one who broke into the home of an assistant district attorney. You should be scared.”

  “That sounds almost like a threat.”

  “Take it how you will.”

  With shocking speed, Briscoe pivoted, grabbed one of Jessie’s wrists, and twisted her arm behind her back. Pain raced up her arm. She struggled, but Briscoe’s grip was too strong. The woman jerked her arm upward as far as Jessie’s muscles and bones would allow. Agony made her vision blur. Her suit jacket split with the sound of tearing fabric. She gritted her teeth, waiting for the explosion of breaking bones.

  Then the pressure eased and she felt Briscoe’s breath at her ear. “You want to trade threats, I’ll give you a real one. If I ever find out you’re talking to people about me again—family, ex-boyfriend, anyone—I will come back here. You won’t see me coming. I’ll break this arm and both of your legs, too. And that will just be the warmup.”

  Briscoe let go. Jessie tumbled forward, banging her legs against the coffee table and falling to the floor. She clutched her arm, massaging the muscles. Her gaze locked on the woman looming above her. She braced for another attack—for a second, Briscoe looked angry enough. But then the woman took a breath, straightened her hair, and seemed to regain her composure.

  Even though Jessie’s survival instinct told her to stay on the floor, not say a word, and let the woman leave, the burn of her indignation was too powerful. “You have a temper.” She knew there were tears in her eyes, but didn’t care. “Did Kelly Lee make you angry, too? Did you blow up her car, make it look like an accident?”

  Jessie closed her eyes, bracing herself for a kick or a punch. None came. When she opened her eyes, Briscoe was looking down at her with a thoughtful expression. “I had nothing to do with that accident.”

  “If I find out you did….”

  “More threats from the woman curled up on the floor.” Briscoe let out a musical laugh that might have been charming under different circumstances. “If any bitch had it coming, it was that scumbag lawyer. She cost me everything. And for what? A lousy insurance payout for her deadbeat client and her low-rent law practice? But I didn’t kill her.”

  “You didn’t want revenge?”

  “Hell yeah, I wanted it. Lee ruined my life. She took away my dream. All my years of work. My accomplishments. My avocation. Everything. She left me with no choice but to crawl back to my father and his business, when all I ever wanted was to do my own thing in the real world. The legitimate world. So, did I think about exacting a little revenge? You bet I did. But I wouldn’t have blown her up. I would’ve gotten my hands dirty. I would’ve strapped her to a chair, and gone to work on her with a dull knife. I would’ve made it last days. I would’ve carved her up and emptied her out. There wouldn’t have been a nerve in her body that I didn’t trace with the edge of a scalpel. I would have brought every bit of my medical knowledge to the project. Her car accident robbed me of that opportunity.” Briscoe shrugged. “Lucky for her.”

  “Your bedside manner must have been one of your strongest assets as a doctor.”

  “I’m a surgeon. Bedside manner is optional.”

  “Before the accident, Kelly told me she felt like someone was following her. Was it you? Planning
your torture session?”

  Briscoe seemed to hesitate. Then she must have figured there was no harm in the confession. “I followed her. Didn’t have much else to do without a job or a medical license.”

  “You stalked her.”

  “Are you going to prosecute me for stalking her now that she’s dead? Is that a good use of the city’s resources?”

  “Maybe.”

  Briscoe smirked. “I doubt it.”

  “You terrorized her. You might not have gotten around to physically torturing her, but by following her, you caused her mental distress. Maybe she was distracted by that when she was driving. Maybe that’s why she got into the car accident. If I can connect those dots, maybe I have a murder case against you.”

  Briscoe’s face lost some of its smugness. “That sounds like a bullshit case.”

  “That’s what lawyers like me do, right?” Jessie rose to her full height, even though moving her body hurt. She met Briscoe’s gaze and didn’t look away. “I put Trevor away for murder. He didn’t pull a trigger, either. What makes you so sure I can’t make a case against you?”

  Briscoe stared at her for a long moment. “You’re tougher than you seem. I’m impressed—a little bit. But don’t push your luck with me.”

  Briscoe turned, opened the door, and left the apartment. Jessie waited until she heard the sound of the woman’s footfalls in the hallway outside. Then she dropped onto the couch, put her head in her hands, and let out a shuddering breath.

  21

  Leary called. He was on his way home and wanted to know if she was in the mood for Chinese. After Vicki Briscoe’s surprise visit, eating was the last thing on Jessie’s mind, but she said yes. At least it would give her a few extra minutes to collect herself before he arrived.

  Later, they ate dinner on the couch. The Chinese food was probably delicious. Jessie forced herself to eat, but could barely taste it. Her stomach churned and her hands were shaking. Could Leary tell? They were sitting on the same couch on which Vicki Briscoe had sat waiting for her in the darkness just hours ago. Right here on this couch, in this room, in her home.