About That Night (FBI/US Attorney #3)(30)
Bottom line, he was a free man now. So if the U.S. Attorney’s Office wanted to play ball, it would have to be by his rules.
“I’ll give you until tomorrow to think it over,” Kyle said. “Otherwise, I bring in the lawyers. And anything else you have to say, you can say to them.”
Rylann studied him, not looking particularly intimidated. “Hmm. They warned me you might be a little prickly.”
“Well, they were right.”
“I see that.” She walked over to the armchair and grabbed her coat and briefcase. She pulled something out of the outside pocket of the briefcase, then strode back to him, all lawyerly efficient in her heels. “Let me explain how this works, Kyle. You can come down to my office, with your lawyers if you like, and we can discuss your testimony there. That’s the easy way. Or I can get a subpoena, drag you in front of the grand jury, and you’ll still tell me everything you know. Either way, I get what I want.”
Is that right? Kyle shrugged off the threat, not particularly intimidated, either. “You forgot option three. Where I conveniently forget everything I heard Quinn say that night.”
He saw the spark of anger in her eyes.
“You wouldn’t,” she said.
“Are you willing to bet your case on that, counselor?” he asked. “How well do you think you know me? Because five months ago we all saw that I’m plenty capable of doing things I’m not supposed to.”
Surprisingly, his words made her pause. She looked around the penthouse, then back at him. “You’re right,” she acknowledged. “I don’t know you, really. We spent all of about thirty minutes together nearly a decade ago. Still, I think the Kyle Rhodes who walked me home and gave me the shirt off his back would do the right thing no matter how pissed he was at my office. So if that guy is hanging around this penthouse anywhere, tell him to call me.”
Kyle folded his arms across his chest. “Were you this pushy and obstinate nine years ago? Strange how I don’t remember that.”
She held out her hand, offering her business card. “My number, should you decide on the easy way.”
He took the card from her. And despite everything, he found he couldn’t resist riling her, just a little. “You really do want to see me again.” He raised an eyebrow, his voice sly. “Are you sure this is solely about business, Ms. Pierce?”
She said nothing for a moment, then moved a step nearer to him. They stood close now, their bodies practically touching as she peered up at him. “Call my office, Kyle,” she said. “Or I’ll subpoena you so fast your head will spin.”
Then she stepped back, flashing him a deceptively sweet smile as she headed toward the front door. “Oh—and have a good night.”
Eleven
RYLANN CHECKED HER watch as she walked into the lobby of Metropolitan Correctional Center, the maximum-security federal prison located in the middle of downtown Chicago. The five-block walk from her office had taken a little longer than expected, but she still had a couple minutes to spare.
She’d arranged this meeting, her first with one of the agents from the Chicago FBI office, after reviewing the Brown files over the weekend. While the special agent assigned to the case had done a thorough job in his investigation, he’d unfortunately struck out anytime he’d tried to talk to inmates other than Brown’s closest friends. There was, however, one possible exception: he’d noted that an inmate named Manuel Gutierrez, who’d been in the cell next to Watts the night Brown had been beaten to death, had refused to speak to the FBI but had hinted that he might be more willing to talk directly to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.
Rylann had heard these kinds of demands before—it was not an infrequent refrain anytime the FBI wanted to interview an inmate. Convicted felons were like eager-beaver first-year law students when it came to knowing the ways to get out of prison, including being fully educated on the provisions of Rule 35, which allowed courts to reduce the prison sentences of cooperating inmates. And the savvier inmates also knew that only the U.S. Attorney’s Office, not the FBI, had the authority to seek such a reduction.
Generally, Rylann wasn’t the biggest fan of making deals with inmates under Rule 35. For starters, as she’d indicated to Kyle the night before, it opened the door for the witness to be subject to possible impeachment on the grounds of bias. Second, as a prosecutor, her job was to put criminals behind bars, not provide them with the means to an early release. But she was also a practical person, and it was sometimes critical to the success of a case to have an inmate’s testimony. She also understood that, from the inmate’s perspective, it could be dangerous to provide information to the authorities. Life in prison for someone seen as a rat could be rough, no doubt about it. Thus, on occasion, Rule 35 was the only incentive she had to get someone behind bars to cooperate.
Consequently, today’s mission was to find out what, exactly, Manuel Gutierrez knew about Darius Brown’s death. First thing that morning, Rylann had called the FBI agent assigned to the investigation and suggested they pay a visit to Gutierrez. As luck would have it, the agent had been free that afternoon.
“Ms. Pierce?”
Walking toward her was an African American man in his midtwenties with what had to be the most friendly smile—and by far the nicest suit—she’d ever seen on an FBI agent.
He extended his hand. “Special Agent Sam Wilkins at your service. I saw the briefcase and guessed it was you.”