Julie James - About That Night

His tone became more angry, a quick flash of temper. “You sit there, looking so smug,” he said to her. “But who do you think watches these animals after you get your convictions? You see them at trial for—what?—a couple days, maybe a week, and then you pass the buck on. I have to deal with them for years. You and your whole office should be thanking me for doing my job.”

“Doing your job doesn’t include killing an inmate, Mr. Quinn.”

“I told you, that wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said, getting louder.

There was a pause as the two men exchanged a look, then Channing spoke. “We’ll agree to involuntary manslaughter. And you also agree to drop the civil rights charge.”

“Not going to happen,” Rylann said matter-of-factly. “You deliberately put Brown in harm’s way,” she told Quinn. “Voluntary manslaughter, and the civil rights charge stands.”

“No fucking way,” Quinn said to Channing. “I’ll take my chances at trial.”

“You go to trial, and you’re looking at a murder-two conviction,” Rylann said.

“Or he might walk away free,” Channing said. “All you can actually prove is that my client arranged to put Brown in a cell with Watts. Whether he did that out of payback and colluded with Watts to attack Brown is based entirely on speculation.”

“Not true. I’ve got two witnesses who can establish both retaliatory motive and that Quinn and Watts were working together.”

“Witnesses who are both convicted felons,” Channing said. “One of whom is undoubtedly hoping to score a sweet deal with you in exchange for his testimony, and the other of whom is Kyle Rhodes.” He laughed humorlessly. “Do you really think the jury is going to believe anything the Twitter Terrorist says?”

“Absolutely,” Rylann said without hesitation. “Let me tell you what the jury will think when I put Kyle Rhodes on the stand. They’ll see a witness with no motive or agenda—someone who’s testifying solely because it’s the right thing to do. Sure, he made a mistake, but he also had the guts to own up to that by pleading guilty and accepting full responsibility for his crimes. Frankly, Mr. Channing, if your client is half the man Kyle Rhodes is, he’ll do the same.”

Quinn jumped back in. “Oh, so the Twitter Terrorist is some hero, and I’m the fucking scum of the earth.” He pointed to the case file in front of Rylann. “Does your little file tell you what Darius Brown did before the FBI locked him up at MCC? He robbed a bank with two of his buddies and pistol-whipped one of the tellers. Trust me, your ‘victim’ wasn’t exactly a saint.”

“And Darius Brown went to prison for his actions,” Rylann said. “Just like you will go to prison for yours.”

She saw him open his mouth and beat him to the punch. “Let’s talk straight, Mr. Quinn. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this. On two other occasions you orchestrated attacks on an inmate, but this time you picked the wrong guy to carry out your dirty work. Watts beat Brown to death with a padlock attached to a belt, and you made the whole thing happen.” She turned to Channing, repeating her earlier terms. “Voluntary manslaughter, and the civil rights charge stands. That is the best, and only, deal you will get from me.”

The words hung in the air between them.

“This is not what we’d hoped for, Ms. Pierce,” Channing said coolly.

“Understood.” Rylann stood up from the table and gathered her file. “You can let me know your decision after you and Mr. Quinn have had the opportunity to talk. If you’re not interested in my terms, then we’ll prepare for trial. I assume you know your way out?”

She made it all the way to the reception area before she heard them call her name. She turned and saw Quinn and Channing walking in her direction, en route to the elevators. Quinn strode past her without a second glance, and Channing barely slowed his pace as he addressed her.

“E-mail me the agreement as soon as it’s ready,” he said. “I’ll call the clerk and have him put us on the docket for a change of plea.”

And that was that.

Rylann watched Quinn and Channing go, thinking that it was almost a shame they’d given in.

She would have rather enjoyed kicking both their asses at trial.

THE REST OF the week flew by, a flurry of motion calls, witness interviews, and meetings with various FBI, ATF, and DEA agents. Before Rylann knew it, on Friday morning she was in court for the entry of Quinn’s guilty plea.

Afterward, she walked out of the courtroom feeling good about the resolution of the case—and even better twenty minutes later in her office, when Cameron stopped by to congratulate her.

“I just saw the press release Paul is putting together regarding Adam Quinn’s guilty plea,” Cameron said, referring to Paul Thompkins, the office’s media representative. “Well done. The official word from the U.S. Attorney’s Office is that this case demonstrates that we will vigorously prosecute law enforcement officials who abuse the trust individuals—including inmates—place in them.” She smiled. “And we have you to thank for that.”

Rylann waved off the praise. “Agent Wilkins deserves the credit as well. And for what it’s worth, Kyle Rhodes really stepped up to the plate.”

“The Twitter Terrorist comes through for us. Who would’ve thought?” Cameron asked. “I heard from Cade that Quinn and his lawyer were both jerks during the plea negotiations.”

Rylann had talked to Cade about the case during one of their afternoon Starbucks runs. He was quickly becoming her go-to guy in the office, which was nice—it was good to have a friend she could trust in the special prosecutions group.

“You should’ve seen how sanctimonious Quinn was,” she told Cameron. “It’s fortunate we caught him now. If it hadn’t been for the tip from that undercover FBI agent, this might’ve gone on for years.”

“I suspect Quinn’s tune will change quickly now that he’ll be on the other side of those prison bars,” Cameron said.

“Very true.”

A few minutes later, after Cameron had left, Rylann called Rae.

“Are you free tonight?” she asked Rae. “Drinks are on me—I feel like celebrating.”

Rae sounded excited. “Ooh, let’s make a night of it. What are we celebrating?”

“The end of a very long workweek.”

Rae laughed. “I hear that. Since you mentioned it, I was just reading in the Trib about this new bar, Firelight, that’s opening tonight. Supposedly, it’s the place to be this weekend. Want to check it out?”

Rylann thought about that. “Opening night at a hot new club? Think we’ll get in?”

“If we look good enough, we will.”

Rylann laughed. “I like your confidence, Mendoza. I’ll cab over to your apartment at nine o’clock to pick you up.”

KYLE STOOD AT the black onyx bar in the corner of the room, surrounded by a group of his friends. Firelight was packed to the gills, with everyone dressed in their Friday finest. By all accounts, the nightclub’s opening appeared to be a huge success, and for Dex’s sake, Kyle was thrilled.

Too bad he, personally, wasn’t quite feeling it.

Maybe there was something to this whole inmate adjustment process Jordan had been babbling about. Because all around him, people were laughing, drinking, partying, and generally having the time of their lives. Even better, there were beautiful women everywhere, many of whom had been trying to catch his eye all night. Yet something was off.

Kyle excused himself from the other guys, saying he wanted to walk around and check out the crowd. He found Dex just outside the door, standing at the balcony railing and proudly looking down at the packed crowd in the main bar below.

Kyle joined his friend at the railing—no matter what his issues were, he sure as hell wouldn’t let them spoil this moment for Dex. “How’s it feel?”

“I won’t lie. It feels good—real good,” Dex said. “Ten years ago, I was bartending in a college bar in the middle of central Illinois. Now I have this.”

“You earned it.” Better than anyone, Kyle knew how hard Dex had worked to open the nightclub.

“Yes, I did,” Dex said, his eyes traveling over the crowd. Then he paused at something he saw and looked over at Kyle with a sly grin. “Hmm. I think I might’ve found the cure for that emo mood you’ve been in these past few weeks.”

“Emo?” Kyle laughed at the thought. “Screw you. I’m fine.”

“If you say so. Still, you might want to check out the main bar. Red dress, two o’clock.”

Kyle’s eyes scanned the crowd half-interestedly, expecting to see some random hot, provocatively dressed girl. But when he finally located the red dress and, more important, the woman wearing it, he paused and just had to…stare.

Apparently, Prosecutrix Pierce had something other than skirt suits in her closet, after all.

Her hair fell over her shoulders in gorgeous raven waves, hitting right at the enticing V neckline of the sleeveless red dress she wore. Since she was partially blocked by the bar, Kyle couldn’t see anything below her waist, but his imagination was running wild at the thought of what the rest of her looked like.

“Oh, look who suddenly perked up now that a certain assistant U.S. attorney has made her appearance,” Dex said with a chuckle.

Kyle feigned nonchalance. “So she’s got a hot dress. Big deal.”

“Right. FYI, I’d lose the shit-eating grin before you go talk to her. And try not to stare at her rack this time.”

“Who said I was going to talk to her?” Kyle grumbled. With their lawyer-witness “situation,” it was probably better if he and Rylann stayed on opposite sides of the bar. Especially seeing how he was quite positive that getting any closer to her in that dress would classify as cruel and unusual punishment.

“If you don’t talk to her, somebody else sure will.” Dex pointed. “In fact, I think you’ve got competition already. “Five o’clock.”

Kyle whipped around, peering down at the scene below, and saw a guy with a white button-down shirt on the opposite end of the bar sipping his drink and staring at Rylann with obvious appreciation. The sleeves of the guy’s shirt were rolled up, revealing a tattoo with some sort of Celtic design on his forearm. Ooh…because that made him so tough.

Try having a prison record, dickhead.

As Kyle stood there watching Rylann, he suddenly realized exactly why he’d been in a funk for the last three weeks.

Because for the first time in a long time, he wanted something he couldn’t have.

But there was one other thing he knew. No man—dickhead or otherwise—was making moves on Rylann Pierce that night. She may have had her rules, but he’d be damned if any other guy was going to flirt with her while he was watching.

And he knew just the man who could help him with that.

“Dex, old buddy, I need to ask you for a favor.”

ONCE AGAIN, RYLANN tried to catch the eye of the female bartender working Firelight’s main bar.

“One of the few times I’ve ever wished for a penis,” she said to Rae when the bartender stepped up to take the order of yet another male customer. They’d been waiting to be served for over twenty minutes. She’d even worn the red magic boob dress tonight, but unfortunately its mojo offered no help in this particular situation.

“You haven’t had sex in six months,” Rae said. “If I were you, I’d be wishing for penises every night.”

Rylann laughed. “Good, I think she’s finally coming this way.” She watched as the bartender sailed right past her. “And…no.” She suddenly remembered something. “Hey, how did your date go on Tuesday?”

Rae rolled her eyes. “I think I’m giving up on Match,” she said, referring to a string of bad dates she’d arranged via Match.com. “These guys sound so promising online, but then you meet them and they’re entirely different people. This last guy started off the evening by being fifteen minutes late. Then he finally shows up at the restaurant carrying a bicycle helmet, and when he sits down at the table, I notice that he’s sweating profusely and he smells.”

Rylann made a face. “That’s one way to kill the ambience. So what did you do?”

“I stayed for one drink, paid the bill, and politely said that I didn’t think we had a connection,” Rae said matter-of-factly.

“Look at you,” Rylann said, impressed. “Very suave and direct. You’re a pro at this.”

“Great,” Rae said dryly. “That’s exactly what I want to be a pro at: bad first dates. I read somewhere that you can tell within five minutes whether you’re going to click with a person. Personally, I think I know even faster than that.” She nudged Rylann. “Speaking of which, somebody’s totally checking you out. The guy with the white shirt, across the bar. Tattoo on his forearm—mmm, nice.”