About That Night (16 page)

And also that she was going about hers.

KYLE CAREFULLY EASED his car into a tight parking spot, trying hard not to laugh at the sight of Dex, who stood on the sidewalk sporting a visor over a brown mess of seriously ridiculous bed hair.

After shutting off the engine, Kyle grabbed the handle of the gull-wing door of his Mercedes and pushed the door open upward toward the sky.

Dex grinned. “Dude, I don’t care how many times I’ve seen you do that. That car is so fucking cool.”

No disagreement there. Kyle pushed the button on his key, locking the car, and pointed to his friend’s head. “Any particular explanation for the hair?”

“A hookup that ran late.”

“I really hope she didn’t see you on the way out. Because I think I see a gaggle of birds nesting in there.” Not that it was the first time Kyle had seen Dex looking less than stellar, seeing how they’d shared an apartment their senior year of college and also during the two years thereafter.

“That’s funny, man.”

“I thought so. How was the hookup?”

“Good enough to last until noon,” Dex said with a grin. Then he turned to the matter at hand, proudly gesturing to the bar they stood in front of. “Ready to check out the place?”

“Absolutely,” Kyle said.

Eight years ago, after managing a campus bar in Champaign, Dex had moved up to Chicago and opened a sports bar
on the north side of the city. Having done well for himself with that venture, he was now opening his second bar, an upscale nightclub called Firelight in the heart of the city’s affluent Gold Coast neighborhood.

Once inside, Dex first gave Kyle a tour of the main bar. From the looks of the sable suede lounge chairs and couches, the large curving bar, and the subtle touches of deep red and copper fabric throughout, it appeared that Dex had spared no expense.

Next, Dex led him up some steps that would take them to a VIP lounge. “We open in four weeks. I heard a rumor that the food and dining section of the
Trib
is going to run an article this weekend, calling it the most anticipated bar opening of the season.” He pointed. “You’ll be there, right?”

“Ten U.S. marshals couldn’t keep me away.” Kyle looked up at the ceiling and admired the glittering sheets of red and burnt orange wavy glass. “Like fire. Nice touch.”

“I worked with the designer for almost a month on that.” Dex lifted the visor up to scratch his forehead, then caught Kyle’s grin. “Come on. The hair’s not that bad.”

“Remember Kid ’n Play?”

Before Dex could respond, Kyle’s cell phone rang. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and checked to see who was calling.

Rylann Pierce.

How intriguing.

“I should probably take this in private,” he told Dex. He stepped out of the VIP room and then answered. “Counselor. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Rylann spoke above the sounds of car horns and a jackhammer in the background. “We’re all set. Thursday at two o’clock. Just you, me, a court reporter, and a grand jury of twenty-three of your peers.”

“Where are you?” Kyle asked. Her voice sounded a little breathless.

“Outside the courthouse, trying to catch a cab. I’ve got a meeting at the FBI building in twenty minutes.”

He could picture her in her trench coat and heels, trusty briefcase at her side, all fired up and ready to throw around a few subpoena threats.

The image was strangely hot.

“Thursday, two o’clock,” he confirmed. “Where do I go?”

“Room 511. For confidentiality purposes, there’s nothing but a room number outside the door. You should wait in the witness room closest to the door until I come get you,” she said. “Although you’ve refrained from retaining counsel on this matter, I’m obligated to say that you can still choose to bring a lawyer, but he or she would have to wait out in the hall. No one is allowed inside except for the witnesses, the jurors, the court reporter, and me. Think of it like Vegas—what happens in the grand jury room stays in the grand jury room.”

Unable to resist, Kyle lowered his voice, teasing her. “I didn’t think good-girl prosecutors knew about the types of things that happen in Vegas.”

“There are probably a lot of things bad-boy ex-cons don’t know about good-girl prosecutors.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow. That actually sounded flirtatious.

But then her tone changed, back to all business. “I’ll see you Thursday, then. Two o’clock.”

“It’s a date.”

“No, it’s a grand jury proceeding,” she said firmly.

“You say tomato, I say—”

“Good-bye, Kyle.” She hung up on him before he could finish.

Chuckling, Kyle tucked his cell phone into the pocket of his jeans and walked back into the VIP room.

Dex looked him over. “Whoever that was, she sure put a smile on your face.”

Kyle waved this off. “Just this project I’m working on.”

“Does this ‘project’ have a name?”

Sure. Rylann Pierce, aka Burr Up My Ass.
“It’s not what you think. That was someone from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. I’m sort of…helping them in an investigation.”

Understandably, that took Dex by surprise. “Wow. She must be
smoking
hot to have talked you into that.” Then he cocked his head. “Hold on…is it that assistant U.S. attorney you 
were in court with the other day? The dark-haired one whose rack you’re checking out in that photograph?”

Kyle stood against the onyx bar, waving this off. “We were in the middle of a courtroom—I wasn’t checking out her rack. My eyes were on hers the entire time.”

“Must be some eyes.”

Kyle opened his mouth to protest, then stopped.

Well, actually, yes.

“I HAVE NO further questions, Agent Wilkins.”

Rylann looked over her shoulder at the twenty-one people sitting behind her in three-tiered rows. Everyone was still awake, which was always a good sign. “Does the grand jury have any questions for this witness?”

There was a pause. Up front, next to the witness stand, sat the jury foreman and the recording secretary. The foreman shook his head no.

Rylann nodded at Sam. “You may step down, Agent Wilkins. Thank you.” She turned and watched him leave the room, stealing another peek at the jurors. She could tell from their expressions that they’d liked him, and they had every reason to. He’d been engaging, professional, and prepared, not once needing to look at his investigative reports while testifying. If the case against Quinn went to trial—which, in reality, was unlikely—she had no doubt that Sam would make an excellent witness.

Her job today, simply, was to tell a story. Granted, because this was a grand jury proceeding and not a trial, she could eliminate many of the details of that story, but through her witnesses she needed to convey the who, what, where, when, why, and how of the crime. This particular story had three acts: Agent Wilkins, Kyle Rhodes, and Manuel Gutierrez. At the conclusion of the witnesses’ testimony, she would hand the jury a proposed indictment that laid out the charges against Quinn. Then the rest was in their hands.

Today she would be asking them to indict Quinn on two
counts: second-degree murder and conspiracy to violate the civil rights of a federal prisoner. Since she had no direct proof that Quinn had instigated Watts’s attack on Brown, she was asking the grand jury to infer that connection based on circumstantial evidence. It was not a perfect case, but it was one she believed in regardless. And all she needed was sixteen of the twenty-three men and women sitting in that room to believe in it, too.

When the door shut behind Agent Wilkins, Rylann looked over at the jury members. Since there was no judge in the room, the assistant U.S. attorney ran the show. “Why don’t we take a ten-minute break before our next witness?”

She waited until the jurors and court reporter left, then she made her way to the witness room across the hall. She paused momentarily at the door, then pushed it open and found Kyle looking out the window at the view of the building most Chicagoans still refused to call anything but the Sears Tower.

“It’s showtime,” she said.

He turned around, looking strikingly handsome—and conservative—in his dark gray pin-striped suit, blue banker shirt, and gray and blue striped tie. He wore his hair neatly brushed back, the first time she’d ever seen it styled like that, and the color of his shirt brought out the blue of his eyes from across the room.

Rylann felt a little fluttering in her stomach, then quickly brushed it aside. Justa few butterflies of anticipation.

Kyle tucked his hands into his pockets, looking ready and raring to go. “Let’s do this.”

KYLE FOLLOWED RYLANN through the doorway, his curiosity piqued. He knew virtually nothing about grand jury proceedings, but the confidential nature of the process shrouded it in an aura of mystery. He walked into the room and saw that it was smaller than he’d expected, probably only half the size of a regular courtroom. To his right was a witness stand and a bench, the same kind a judge would normally sit behind. On the opposite side of the room was the table
from which, presumably, Rylann would question him, and behind that, three rows of chairs for the jurors, stacked like a movie theater.

Chairs that were noticeably empty.

“Counselor, at some point do you plan to have any actual jurors at this grand jury proceeding?” he drawled.

“Ha, ha. I sent them out for a break. I want the jurors’ first image of the infamous Kyle Rhodes to be of you sitting in that stand. I don’t care what they’ve previously heard or read about you—today, you’re simply a witness.” She gestured to the stand. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

Kyle stepped up and took a seat in a well-used swivel chair, banging his knees against a sturdy metal bar bolted to the underside of the podium. “Whoever designed these clearly didn’t have tall men in mind,” he grumbled.

“Sorry. It’s for handcuffs,” she said, referring to the bar.

Of course it was. Kyle looked out at the small courtroom. “So this is what I missed out on by pleading guilty.”

Rylann approached the witness stand with a reassuring smile. “This is nothing. No cross-examination, no objections—just think of it as you and me having a conversation. The jurors can ask you questions when I’m done, although it’s unlikely they’ll do so. Assuming I’ve done my job right, they shouldn’t have any questions.”

She was awfully cute when she did her lawyer thing. “I like the pep talk, counselor,” Kyle said, appreciating the fact that she was trying to make him feel comfortable.

“Thanks. Do you have any questions before we get started?” she asked.

“Just one.” His eyes coyly skimmed over today’s skirt suit varietal, which was beige. “Do you actually own any pants?”

“Any other questions?” she asked without batting an eye.

They were interrupted when the court reporter walked in, followed by two jurors. Immediately, things got serious again. The trio spotted him in the witness stand, and two of them, including the court reporter, did a double take. Ignoring their looks, Rylann returned to her table and nonchalantly
studied her notepad, as if she put notorious billionaire heir ex-con hackers on the stand every day.

Over the course of the next two minutes, the remaining twenty-one jurors trickled in. Kyle was pleased to see that four of them didn’t seem to recognize him at all, and three other jurors merely looked at him curiously, as if they couldn’t quite place him. The remaining thirteen appeared highly intrigued by his presence.

When all the jurors had returned to their seats, Rylann nodded at the foreman. “You can swear in the witness.”

“Raise your right hand,” he said to Kyle. “Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you’re about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“I do.”

Rylann locked eyes with him, with a hint of a smile on her lips only he understood.

They had sure come a long way from the cornfields of Champaign-Urbana.

“State your name for the record, please,” she began.

And away we go
.

“Kyle Rhodes.”

KYLE HAD TO say, he was impressed.

She was good.

Of course, he’d guessed that Rylann would be a force to be reckoned with in court, since everything about her screamed Bad-Ass Attorney, but it was another thing to actually see it. Although she never moved once from the table, she commanded the room with her questions, drawing out his testimony in a way that hit all the right notes. She spent the first few minutes asking questions about his background, focusing on his education and work experience, which simultaneously gave Kyle a chance to settle into the witness stand and gave the jurors a chance to see him as someone other than the Twitter Terrorist. She addressed the circumstances of his conviction directly but moved on quickly after that, and then talked with him for a while about prison life.

Not exactly the proudest four months of Kyle’s life, nor a subject on which he enjoyed being an expert, but he understood the role he needed to play that afternoon.

She slowed the pace when they got to the night Kyle overheard Quinn’s threat, first eliciting testimony from him that set the scene.

“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—