False Convictions

40

CASEY WASN’T PLEASED when Graham asked if she wouldn’t mind waiting until he attended an important and early business dinner in Rochester before they took off. But when he pointed out that the workday would be over by the time they got there either way, she accepted the change in plan. She got on the phone and did her best to give direction to her staff. She always found it harder to be decisive over the phone, suspecting she somehow became overrun with compassion. When Jake called, she couldn’t say no to him, either. She went downstairs and patiently answered his questions, seeing exactly where the interview was heading and not minding to be a part of smacking down the overzealous criminal system of this and other small towns that deserved it.

When they finished, she asked Jake if he had any interest in a cappuccino, but he apologized, explaining that Dora was frantic with their deadline, and headed off to meet Marty in his offices for some background information on Judge Rivers. Casey returned to her room and pushed the curtain aside. She looked at her watch, then the afternoon sunshine outside, and decided to take a walk to mull over several frustrating cases at the clinic. She set off uphill toward the center of town and past the antiquated town hall. She thought about going back to her room to change into something more comfortable than her business suit and heels but decided instead to slow her pace. She circled the Seward House, home of Andrew Jackson’s secretary of state, the man famous for buying Alaska from the Russians for a song.

Shadows had begun to grow long when a dark blue Suburban sped toward her down the side street and came to a shuddering halt. A man wearing jeans and the kind of dark blue windbreaker common to law enforcement slipped out of the driver’s side. The man, who stood over six feet tall, was middle-aged and lean, with dark glossy hair combed back from a sharp narrow face framed by muttonchops. He hurried around the truck, and Casey was curious to see him swing open the passenger side.

Something about him made her uncomfortable. She glanced around at the empty street, and by the time her eyes returned to him, he was upon her.

“Casey Jordan?” he asked. His dark eyes bored into Casey’s under the eaves of thick black eyebrows, and Casey stepped back instinctively.

With expert ease, he gripped her wrist and clamped down on a nerve hard enough for her to stagger. He swept her arm up behind her back, keeping the pressure on the nerve, and propelled her across the small strip of grass and into the truck, slamming the door behind him.

Casey yanked at the handle as he rounded the hood. When she realized it didn’t work, she threw herself across the driver’s side to open that door. He yanked it open. She hooked her fingers into claws, ready to tear into him as best she could, but he removed a big shiny pistol from his coat pocket and put it to her forehead.