"You still pouting?"
"Yes."
"Sorry." Vicki smiled and sat down on the couch, newly made. "You did well today."
"I know."
"I think what you found out fleshes out what happened to Shayla, if you're interested."
"More thinking out loud?" Reheema sat back down on the chair, in resignation, if not approval.
"Well, you said that Mar was killed last summer. That's about when Jackson's mother told me she decided to change her life. That would make sense, right?"
"Right."
"Okay, so let's assume Jackson dabbles in crack, and-"
"You don't dabble in crack. It dabbles in you."
"What I mean is that Jackson is running with a druggie crowd, and her boyfriend is Browning, ace crack dealer. He moves her into a nice place and sets her up."
"Knocks her up, too."
"I hate that expression."
"Sorry, Miss Vicki."
Vicki smiled. "Okay, anyway. Then she gets pregnant and realizes that she has to keep her body clean and change her life. Or she'll end up like her friend Mar, or her baby will."
"People wake up." Reheema nodded. "Not often enough, but they do. Some do."
"So? So what? We learned more about Jackson, but not enough. Or enough to know why she'd frame you, as part of her rehab. Her calling our office would have happened about the same time." Vicki sighed, her fatigue catching up with her, as well as nagging thoughts about Dan. "The problem is, what do we do now? We're at a dead end."
"Not necessarily. I still got people to canvass. Lots of people weren't home today. I'll go back again tomorrow and talk to the ones I missed. They'll be home because I heard it's gonna snow again tomorrow, so everybody'll be hunkering down."
"Were they nearby neighbors?"
"Not really, but you never know. I never quit a race, and I won't start now."
Vicki smiled. "Okay, good. Because I have to go back to work."
"No problem, I'll keep the car and the phone. If you call, leave a message. I got the code."
"Done."
Reheema scratched the top of Zoe's multicolored head. "Did Dan the Man say anything about my mother?"
"He already talked to the U.S. Attorney, who's gonna talk to the commissioner himself."
"When's that gonna happen?"
"I think today or tomorrow."
"Thanks." Reheema paused. "I didn't bother Bethave today, as much as I wanted to."
"Good restraint."
"Not at all. I figured it'd only make her run. She has to think we let it go." Reheema half-smiled. "I'll take the couch."
"No, I will."
"What if Dan the Man comes home and finds me in your bed?"
"He won't." Vicki gave a short laugh, and Reheema cocked her head.
"Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise?"
"Not really. Well, maybe a little."
"Like what?"
Vicki couldn't decide how much to tell her. "He wants me to behave myself, is all."
"Ha! Then he better come get his damn cat," Reheema said, and burst into laughter.
A minute later, so did Vicki.
Even though she knew it was completely lame, Vicki got up early the next morning and spent way too long trying to look hot for her estranged boyfriend, blow-drying her hair and putting on her best jeans and blue cashmere sweater. Reheema dropped her off at work on her way to canvassing, and Vicki stepped off the elevator at eight o'clock into an empty elevator bank; by the time she got to reception, she realized that the media, staff, and curiosity-seekers wouldn't be in today, only the hardworking, fully committed, blown-dry AUSAs. Like me!
Vicki waved to the one receptionist, who buzzed her in without a thumbs-up, and she went down the hallway, which was also empty. She braced herself and popped her head into Dan's office, but he wasn't at his desk, though his light was on. Fine. Be that way.
She had work to do and couldn't mope around forever. She went to her office with a cup of fresh Starbucks, took off her coat, pushed up her sweater sleeves, and closed her door so she wouldn't be tempted to look up and see if Dan was there. The night's sleep had brought no change in perspective on their fight; in other words, she still knew she was right and he was wrong. But she missed him.
She sat down at her desk, finished her grand jury script, then started on the other witnesses. The medical examiner, Dr. Soresh, would have to testify, and Vicki looked through her mound of mail for his report, which had come in last week. She found a thick brown envelope with the familiar seal and braced herself. Autopsy reports were always awful to read; she'd start with Jackson's and move on to Morty's only when she felt strong enough. All she had to do was get the basics from each: official cause of death, number and location of entrance and exit wounds, to sketch the case for the grand jury.
Vicki slid out the papers. POSTMORTEM REPORT: JACKSON, SHAYLA read the boldface line at the top. She scanned the first page, containing the grim details about Jackson: "Pregnant Black Female, Age 23; Height 5'4"; Weight, 145." After that, it stated Cause of Death-exsanguination and internal injury due to gunshot wounds-and Manner of Death-Homicide. Vicki made a note of the Manner of Death for her script and turned the page. EXTERNAL EXAMINATION read the top of the page, and the description of the external examination of the body began at the top: "The head is normocephalic. The scalp hair is black and is up to six inches in length. The irrides are brown and the sclerae showed petechiae…"
Vicki skipped ahead, then was sorry she had. The cold, typed detail of the chest wounds, in old-fashioned Courier font, were gruesome, and she skimmed them quickly to get to the facts she needed and finish this awful job. She skimmed down to abdomen, which described in medical detail the gunshot wounds to Jackson's abdomen and her uterus beneath, which were all the more horrifying because of the level of medical detail. Just when Vicki thought she couldn't take any more she noticed something in the detaiclass="underline"
The fetus, approximately eight months and one week in gestation, was a female of mixed race, apparently African American and Caucasian.
She blinked, surprised. Vicki had assumed Shayla Jackson's baby was Browning's, but the report meant that it couldn't have been. What did it mean, if anything? Could that have been why they broke up? She skimmed the rest of the report for another reference, but didn't find any.
Suddenly her phone rang and she jumped. "Allegretti," she said, hoping it was Dan.
"Vicki, it's Jane, in reception? There's a buncha boxes just got delivered for you from ATF, Special Agent Pizer. Label says the matter is Kalahut."
"My new case. I'll be right there." Vicki got up, almost relieved to leave the grisly postmortem report behind for a minute. She opened her door and checked Dan's office on the fly, but it was still empty. She went to the reception room, which was dominated by fifteen cardboard boxes with ATF stickers, stacked in the center. "You weren't kidding."
"They delivered a few boxes last night, too," Jane said from behind her bulletproof window. "They're in the file room."
"There's too many to put in my office. Do we have a spare conference room, at least for a few days? I got a meeting with Agent Pizer today." Vicki checked her watch. 11:05. "At noon."
"Hold on." Jane checked the conference room log. "C is free until Friday. It's the little one, with no windows."
"I'll take it. Where's the dolly?"
"In the closet."
"Thanks." Vicki retrieved the orange dolly, loaded the boxes, and wheeled them into the conference room, making three trips, then she headed to the file room for the remainder. The file room smelled vaguely of dust and was empty, large, and windowless. Four cardboard boxes with ATF stickers sat stacked on the counter. Vicki loaded two boxes on the dolly and was about to leave when she remembered the missing transcript from Shayla Jackson's grand jury testimony. It would only take a second to look for it.