About That Night (FBI/US Attorney #3)(41)
“Can you explain what disciplinary segregation is, for those jurors who may not be familiar with the term?” she suggested.
“It’s a cell block where they separate inmates from the general population. One inmate per cell, and there are none of the regular prison privileges. Meaning no leisure time, and you eat your meals in your cell.”
“Is it quiet?” she asked.
“Very, especially since inmates in segregation aren’t supposed to talk to each other. If a man’s stomach growled, you could hear it three cells over.”
He could tell she liked that answer.
Back and forth they went, grabbing the jurors’ attention and reeling them in. They steadily made their way to the climax of their story—Quinn’s threat. Kyle could see that the jurors were listening with much interest, practically on the edges of their seats as he repeated the words Quinn had said to Brown that fateful night. The tension and excitement in the room was palpable as Rylann circled back to the threat two times, hitting hard with her questions to emphasize this part of her examination, and then suddenly—
It was over.
She paused for a moment, letting Quinn’s threat hang dramatically in the courtroom air. Then she nodded soberly.
“Thank you, Mr. Rhodes. I have no further questions.” She turned to the jurors behind her. “Does the grand jury have any questions for this witness?” After a moment of silence, she smiled politely at Kyle. “You may step down, Mr. Rhodes. Thank you.”
With a nod, Kyle rose from the swivel chair. Ignoring the curious glances of the jurors, he strode out of the room. When the door shut behind him, he stood alone in the hallway feeling satisfied yet strangely dismissed—like a man who’d barely finished his last pump during a hot one-night stand before being shoved out the door with his shirt and shoes in his hands.
He hadn’t expected her to hang around for hours making post-testimonial chitchat, but, boy, that was…anticlimactic. For one thing, she hadn’t even said when they were going to see each other again. Oh, sure, in a few weeks she’d waltz back into his life with her notepad and briefcase and fiery little subpoena threats, and she’d charm and sass and get whatever she wanted, and then wham-bam-thank-you-sir, she’d be on her merry little skirt-suited way again.
This whole grand jury experience had left him feeling very discombobulated.
Kyle made it all the way down to the lobby before he realized he could turn on his cell phone again. He did so, and moments later a text message popped up.
From Rylann, presumably on a break before her next witness.
YOU DID GREAT. I’LL CALL WHEN I KNOW ABOUT THE INDICTMENT.
Kyle stuck his phone back into his suit coat, only later realizing that was the first time in six months he’d left the courthouse with a smile on his face.
LATER THAT EVENING, Rylann walked out that very same door with a similarly pleased expression.
Unlike trial juries, which could take days or even longer in deliberation, a grand jury typically voted quickly. Today, thankfully, had been no exception. Ten minutes after Manuel Gutierrez left the witness stand, the jury foreperson had brought to the chief judge’s chambers a true bill in the case that henceforth would officially be known as United States v. Adam Quinn.
She had her indictment.
Sixteen
FRIDAY MORNING, RYLANN received her second piece of good news in twenty-four hours.
“My client signed off on the guilty plea,” said Greg Boran, an assistant federal defender for the Northern District of Illinois.
Over the course of the last week, Rylann had been negotiating the terms of a plea agreement for Watts. She’d known, as soon as Cameron had handed over the files, that this part of the case would plead out quickly. Watts was already a lifer, and the case against him was a slam dunk. Two men had been locked in a cell together, and one of those men had been beaten to death—not exactly a mystery who the attacker had been. In fact, Watts hadn’t even bothered to claim self-defense—disgustingly enough, he seemed almost proud of his actions.
There was just one sticking point she’d been unable to make any headway on. “Any luck getting him to agree to flip on Quinn?”
“Sorry. He says he’s got nothing to say about that,” Greg said.
“Even if I knock the charge down to voluntary manslaughter?”
“Knocking down the charge won’t make any difference in this case—which is precisely why you’re so willing to offer it,” Greg said. “Watts is already serving two life sentences. Shaving a few years off this conviction would be irrelevant.”
“How about the fact that it would be the right thing to do?” Rylann asked. “Your client might want to try that some time.”
Greg remained firm. “He’s a lifer, Rylann. He’s not going to shit where he eats just to throw you a solid. I don’t think it’ll go over so well with the other guards if he’s the guy responsible for sending one of them to prison.”
Maybe not. Still, Rylann gave it one last shot. “I can arrange for him to be transferred out of MCC. Move him somewhere where the sun shines on the prison yard all year long. As a matter of fact, I happen to know that there are some lovely institutions in California that would be happy to welcome Mr. Watts as a guest.”
Greg chuckled. “I already made the suggestion. But you can move him anywhere you want, and he’ll still be known as the inmate who ratted out a guard. Sorry, but if you want to nail Quinn, you’re going to have to do it without Watts.”