Page 22 of Scandal

I pressed my hand down against my suit jacket, trying to calm my nerves and my anger. This was the part of my job I hated.I walked to the clerk standing behind bulletproof glass, waiting as a young man berated the poor officer for another two full minutes about not being able to see whoever he’d come to talk to.

When the guy huffed and walked away, I inched closer. While the jail was attached to the precinct, I assumed they had the man in a holding cell given the earliness of the morning.

“Can I help you?” The officer was one of the few who didn’t know who I was.

“I’m prosecutor Sedona Beckett here to talk with a prisoner you have in holding.” Fuck. That’s when I realized I’d yet to read the man’s name. I handed him my card, which he scrutinized carefully, but not before sliding his eyes up and down the length of me. Why were men pigs?

“And who would that be, Ms. Beckett?”

“Hold on.” I fumbled to jerk my iPad from my briefcase, almost dropping the leather case like an idiot. When I finally navigated my way to the information Christine had sent, it took me almost thirty seconds to locate his name in the file. By that point, the officer was already drumming his fingers on his desk. When I read the name, a slight chill coursed down my spine.

However, there was no chance it was the same person.

“Miss?”

“Yeah. I’ve got it,” I said in a snarky tone. “Jonathan James.” A sudden stitch in my side occurred, my mouth going dry. The name John in its various derivatives was extremely common. Right?

He lifted both his eyebrows then looked at me again as if I should be prepared to get eaten by lions.

“Is he being held in this precinct? Maybe if that’s something you don’t know the answer to, you can find me someone who does.” I heard the arrogant aggravation in my voice and couldn’t yank it back. Granted, pissing off a member of the police wasn’t in my best interest, but at this point I was overly agitated at the entire situation.

“Why, yes. He’s being held right here in our lowly establishment. Allow me to lead you personally to an interrogation room. Then I’ll have him brought in for your convenience, Ms. Beckett.”

I had a feeling he wanted nothing more than to call me a ballbuster. “Why, thank you.”

He eased from behind his perch, moving to the locked door and going into the hallway. After motioning me forward, he led me down the corridor, sauntering his way to the room. He unlocked and opened the door for me, pointing inside.

I’d rarely made a visit of this nature and just walking into the cold room with the huge two-way mirror was more unnerving than it should be.

“It’ll take a few minutes to have him brought down from holding. Make yourself comfortable.” Jesus Christ, the man sneered at me.

When he closed the door, it was with a hard thud. I cursed under my breath as soon as he’d left, not caring who might be standing on the other side. He’d purposely taken me to one of the rooms that wasn’t private, which was against the rules as far as I was concerned. It was obvious the cops were on board with getting this off the books as quickly as possible.

Why did everything need to be so political? Sure, I understood that violent crime brought angst, taxpayers breathing down their necks, but justice still needed to be done. No matter how horrible the criminal or heinous the crime.

After taking a deep breath, I placed my briefcase on the table, grabbing a notepad and pen along with my iPad. I knew the rules, placing the rest of my things on the floor and out of reach. I’d heard horror stories about inmates managing to grab pens, using them as a weapon. Jesus. Now I was turning the man accused of the horrific crime into some kind of a monster.

I didn’t bother sitting down, far too antsy at this point, eager to ease my fears the man I’d been tasked to convict wasn’t the same one I’d shared a bed with. I did what I could to shake the ugliness surrounding the thought. There was no possible way they were one and the same.

After taking a few deep breaths, I finally shoved the amazing night aside, determined to get a handle on the case, thankful I had a few minutes to go over the photographs taken of the scene. I’d set up a meeting with the medical examiner later as well, the powerful woman not only good at what she did, but someone I considered a close friend. As I flipped through the color photos, I had to take a deep breath more than once. The scene had been horrific, both Ronan and his wife slaughtered. Whoever had done this had been filled with rage.

“Jesus.”

I’d seen plenty of repulsive and disturbing pictures in my career, but these were some of the worst. The term ‘butchered’ came to mind. I jotted down a few notes, but at this point without all the evidence, I was at a loss. What I did have was a killer instinct. My gut had never been wrong and I doubted it would be in thiscase. I could read a person for guilt or innocence with nearly one hundred percent accuracy.

I doubted even a career criminal could color his feathers enough to fool me. Half laughing, I shoved my iPad into my briefcase, determined to keep my cool, and moved to stand against the back wall. This was the part of the job I usually loved, grilling the suspect. Whether inside a courtroom or face to face, the situation and events usually brought a thrill to my system.

That likely made me a little twisted in people’s minds, but that’s why I was so damn good at my job. Nothing bothered me. Nothing.

A few minutes’ wait turned into twenty. I continuously glanced at my watch, pacing the room given my lack of patience. I had a feeling the terseness I’d had with the officer was the reason they were doing this. If I had to guess, I’d say I was being watched and laughed at. Whether or not the officer at the front had known who I was, all he’d needed to do was mention my name to a few people and he’d learn I wasn’t called a ballbuster for nothing.

My reputation as being hard and harsh preceded me in every department, every avenue. I refused to take bullshit from anyone and that included members of the police, the FBI, or DEA. Whoever I had to deal with. Cases had been tossed out, the very guilty party deemed innocent because of shoddy police behavior. Those had been the only reason for my losses inside the courtroom.

Except for one.

One case that continued to haunt me. Why was I thinking about it today? I’d put a murderer back out on the street. And it was my belief he’d killed again, even though it was something I couldn’tprove, especially since he’d fled town. To this day, anytime I heard the man’s name, I had nightmares. He’d done his best to psychoanalyze me, which in turn had put me off my game. But I’d learned how to deal with psychopaths and sociopaths after that, taking various courses to ensure no one could ever get under my skin again.

As I glanced at my watch again, I grew angrier at the way the case was being handled. Something was off and I was determined to get to the bottom of it. One freaking way or another. I refused to be a scapegoat.

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