FRIDAY, OCTOBER 5
Jaime shifted against the hard chair in the reception area of the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s office. While not as battered as the chairs in the public defender’s reception, it wasn’t plush and soft. She glanced at her watch and noted she’d already wasted twenty minutes she couldn’t afford. Her foot tapped against the carpet that wasn’t covered with coffee stains.
She tried to type a memo on her phone, but she couldn’t focus her thoughts. All she could think about was whether Mitch had called her in to let her down lightly or with the equally scary announcement that charges were forthcoming. When she misspelled the third word in a row, she gave up and closed the app.
Corny elevator music was piped in from somewhere, loud enough to be annoying as it cycled back to a song she’d already heard twice. How did the receptionist stand it? Maybe she wore earplugs, which would also explain why she’d ignored Jaime since acknowledging her arrival.
Jaime should have worn a sign that indicated she was a victim rather than the enemy.
The receptionist picked up her phone, spoke a few words, then glanced at her. “Mr. McDermott will be out in a minute.”
The woman looked as though she spent every lunch hour sweating at some trendy hot yoga studio. She wore one of those oversized, flowy solid-color dresses over wacky leggings, the kind of ensemble that emphasized how thin someone was without making you instantly hate her. But if she admitted it, Jaime was in a frame of mind in which it was easier to find reasons not to like people than to pull them close. She’d leave that to women like Caroline, who brimmed with Southern charm and sweetness.
The door between the lobby and productive regions of the office opened, and Mitch McDermott waved her back. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” His grin was a bit lopsided, almost charming. “You know how it goes with emergencies.”
She stood and thought of those he’d created in the cases they’d shared. “I do.”
“This won’t take long.”
Yeah, because he didn’t bill by the hour. She hoped Dane would pay an exorbitant fee each time he consulted an attorney . . . if charges were filed. She followed Mitch down the hallway to the third door on the left. He stepped aside to let her enter.
He closed the door behind him, leaving them alone in the room. She felt every inch of space, and it wasn’t enough. While she knew Mitch, it didn’t mean she trusted him. Not the way she needed to, to be comfortable with him in such a small space.
He sat and got straight to the point. “We’re moving forward with charges. Lacy is interested to see what happens.”
Lacy Collins, the Commonwealth’s Attorney, was a focused advocate for victims, trying hundreds if not thousands of cases in her career. She was a formidable foe, one who had pushed Jaime to prepare diligently the time they’d been opponents.
Jaime sank to a chair as the weight of his words landed. “I don’t want this to be a pro forma attempt.” Thanks to double jeopardy, they got one opportunity to try, and then she was limited to civil remedies, which wouldn’t carry the same weight or satisfaction.
Mitch leaned forward, focus etched in the lines across his forehead. “That’s not how I operate. This will receive my best work.”
She met his gaze and measured his commitment. When he didn’t look away, she nodded. “What can I do?”
“It’s what you should know. The moment we serve these charges, your life will change.” He studied her across the small conference table and pushed a document her direction. “There’s no turning back.”
“I know.” Jaime tugged the stapled pages nearer as a wisp of fear curled through her mind. What would Dane do when he learned what she had done? She tried to review the words that swam in front of her eyes. This was the most important legal paper she’d ever read, yet her mind couldn’t hold the words.
Mitch must have noticed her challenge because he spent the next hour reviewing the preliminary charging document. She followed on her copy carefully, considering every legal argument she’d used against similar charges. This . . . everything she was reading and evaluating . . . this was why she’d become a public defender. When she pursued charges against Dane, she needed them to stick. Some technicality couldn’t be sufficient to free him from responsibility.
Still, as she read the paragraphs, it reinforced in her mind how risky this was.
It was what she had wanted.
But now that she had to say yes, she was terrified.
On or about the month of July 1996, Dane Nichols sexually assaulted Jaime Nichols, an eight-year-old minor.
The words continued. Stark. Black and white. No ambiguity.
Somehow Mitch had captured her tragedy in stark, factual sentences. Each sentence held a subject and a verb. Very little color was added. A list of facts.
Yet each represented a raw wound that festered.
On or about the month of August 1996, Dane Nichols sexually assaulted Jaime Nichols, an eight-year-old minor.
The evidence was scant.
If she were the prosecutor, she would have demanded more, yet they had agreed to proceed on her word and her journal.
The moment Mitch filed these words with the circuit court, there was no turning back. Some enterprising reporter would notice the charges in a routine docket search. The genie would escape the bag, and she would be firmly committed.
It’s what she wanted. Right?
Her breath locked in her chest.
She felt more than saw the pinpricks of black cloud the edges of her vision.
“Still with me?” Mitch’s deep voice dragged her back, and she blinked.
“Yes.” She slid the complaint back. “Let’s do this.”
“All right. I’ll file it. How do you want to serve it?”
“Part of me wants to be the one who serves him.”
Mitch frowned. “Not possible.”
She stared at him. She wanted to do this. Needed to.
He shook his head. “You know as well as I do that if we don’t follow the process precisely, we’re giving your uncle’s defense team appealable issues.”
Jaime looked away and gave a small dip of her chin. She’d have her day to confront her uncle face-to-face. It would just have to wait.
The ringing sound jarred Chandler from the file review. He was ready to yank the landline from the wall and then bury his work cell someplace where he’d never hear it. It was impossible to accomplish anything with the constant interruptions. This week had seen more than usual with the emergency sessions happening just as Beth had predicted. Hopefully those would eventually slow, or there was no way he’d get to take time off.
“Chandler Bolton.”
“Hello?”
Chandler heard the hesitation in the man’s voice. “Hello, this is Chandler,” he said again. “Who am I speaking with?”
“A fellow soldier. One who remembers too much.”
That described most who served overseas. A tour without scars either physical or mental was rare. “Then we have something in common.”
“More than you know.” The voice was low, not one he recognized, but there was something about it that put him on alert.
“How can I help?”
“Exorcise the demons in my mind.”
“When did you tour?”
“Three years ago, and then this year.”
“Afghanistan?”
“And Iraq. The things I’ve seen.”
“I understand, brother.”
“You aren’t my brother.” The words were crisp, cutting.
Chandler took a breath. “What do you need?”
“An acknowledgment that you ruined my life.”
The words were so bizarre, out of left field. “Can’t do that.” Translation: I have no idea what you’re talking about, crazy man.
“Then you’re in deeper denial than I am.” There was a pause, one long enough to become even more uncomfortable than the conversation. “You’re at the Clarendon office.” A statement.
Chandler shifted, feeling the weight of his gun in the holster at his waistband. Most days he didn’t notice it, the weapon was such a part of him, but in the middle of this conversation, it felt reassuring.
“If you’d like to set up an appointment, I can meet with you. Usually we start with thirty minutes and expand as needed. If you believe I contributed to your pain, you should come in so we can talk.”
“You’ll see me.” The man hung up, and Chandler found himself holding a silent phone to his ear.
After he hung up, he stood and walked to the doorway. From there it was a stone’s throw to the bank of cubicles that held his colleagues. Only two of the six spaces currently held people. He strode toward them, and Allison Ramsey looked up from her monitor. “Did you happen to patch a call to me a few minutes ago?”
Her green eyes held a dazed look, as though he’d interrupted a deep thought and she was trying to hear his words. “Ummm.” She blinked a couple times, and it was like watching cobwebs clear. “No. Didn’t answer the phone.” She pointed at the earbuds he hadn’t noticed through her dark hair. “Kind of in the zone.”
“Sorry to interrupt.” His attention shifted to Jake Robertson, the other caseworker. The former college basketball star had turned a tour with the military into a counseling career. The man was amazing with kids who adored him despite his large frame.
Jake shook his head. “Didn’t take the call. We’re the only ones here today. Three of the team are at all-day training at the Pentagon, and Beth called in sick.”
Chandler nodded at the reminder the agency was running low on staff. “Then he must have my direct number.”
“Or used the directory. If he knew your name, it’s easy to reach you without going through us.”
“Good point.” He steered the conversation toward what was on each of their agendas that day even as he did a quick security audit of the facility. While it was attached to the Department of Defense, there weren’t military police or marines stationed outside. Chandler acted as the de facto supervisor, since the man who oversaw the office worked from a second location. Moments like this, he worried their little office was the overlooked stepchild. A little bit of bulletproof glass wouldn’t do much to prevent someone from harming the facility if he wanted to. The challenge with making a threat assessment was that Chandler was missing key information—like who the man was.
He felt the weight of silence and realized Allison and Jake were watching him, waiting. “All right.” He clapped his hands together. “I’ll just, uh, get back to my office. Let me know if you need anything.”
Jake turned back to his computer without a word, but Chandler felt Allison’s gaze as he returned to his office.
Chandler’s tours had heightened his awareness of how danger could rest along the next bend in the road. He’d been attached to a quartermaster unit and focused on moving supplies, which should have been safe. But nothing was safe or easy in a part of the world where the next person could wear a suicide vest, or an IED could be planted in a dirt stretch. It would be easy to start living as if everyone were the enemy. Over the months he’d been stationed in Iraq, he’d developed a sixth sense for danger, but it hadn’t saved his team. Even logistics couldn’t protect them.
Was the phone call somehow related to that tragedy?
He’d risen to sergeant and felt cocky about it, if he was honest. There were never any guarantees one could rise in the ranks, and he had. That sense of self-assurance might have carried over to the supply convoy. He’d been prepared to join the convoy when he’d been called back to deal with a fresh-off-the-plane bigwig. He’d sent his team down the road, fully expecting them to return. They shouldn’t have been in danger, since they were the ones who ensured the servicemen and servicewomen had what they needed.
It was a routine operation, until the lead vehicle hit an IED. Chandler’s nightmares reinforced the realization that everyone was one instant from eternity, and most didn’t anticipate their encounters. They happened when least expected.
He’d hardly had time to grieve his fallen brother and take care of those who were injured before his unit rotated out, and then he’d been transferred to the Vet Center. While the centers provided over a million counseling sessions a year, he couldn’t tell from the truncated conversation whether this guy needed reentry or bereavement counseling or why he wanted to talk to Chandler in particular.
Aslan nosed his knee and Chandler froze, having forgotten his companion was there. “Sorry, boy.”
The dog had an uncanny ability to detect his distress, making him a great barometer for Chandler’s mental state. If Aslan felt the need to intervene, then he needed to step away.
“Need some air?” The dog looked at him, and Chandler grabbed his leash. “You might not, but a quick walk around the block would help me.” And could be explained as a quick stroll to take care of the dog’s needs, but Allison and Jake would understand. Five minutes was all he needed.
Aslan’s dark eyes studied him as if to say, Of course it would. It was amazing how many conversations they had when only one of them formed words.
Aslan stayed relaxed as they walked out the back door, which Chandler tried to tell himself meant all was well. But he couldn’t scratch the feeling of high alert. It was a leftover from his tours and helped him understand what the real heroes had experienced and what they brought back with them.
His phone buzzed, and he slid it from its holder as he reentered the center. “Chandler.”
“This is John Walters with Fairfax County. Got your dog?” The man’s tone was abrupt, pulling Chandler’s attention.
“Aslan’s right here.” The dog’s ears perked up.
“If you’re still interested, we’re ready to give him a try. We have a little girl coming in who could use a comfort dog.” John’s voice held an urgency that pulled Chandler taller.
“When do you want us?”
“The child is on her way in now.”
Chandler grimaced as he glanced at his watch. “I’ll need at least an hour.”
“That should work. This is a delicate situation. Little girl needs a careful touch.”
“Aslan is ready.”
“I hope you’re right, because we can’t get this one wrong.”
It must be serious if John was this uptight. The man had been a detective with the Fairfax County police before focusing on providing a safe environment for children to be interviewed. He attended the same church Chandler did, and he’d been intrigued when Chandler mentioned what he was trying to do with Aslan.
“I want that dog of yours to do well today.”
“Me too.” After a few more words, Chandler hung up, then reached down to rub Aslan’s ears, the heaviness of the request pressing against him. “You’re going to get your chance, boy, but first I have to clear it with my boss.”
It only took a phone call to organize a half day off. He’d feel better about being out if there were a couple more people in the office, but he might be doing them all a favor by leaving. Especially if whoever had called meant to do something or come in.
Chandler prayed for the child even as he grabbed his jacket and hurried Aslan to the car. If a child’s world had been upended, then he would like to be a part of putting it back together. With Aslan’s help he might be able to do exactly that.