Countless times in her head she had replayed that moment when she saw the killer through the peephole as he left room 1308. And the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced there was no way he could possibly know she had been watching. He didn’t look once in the direction of the door, and nothing about his actions suggested he suspected she was there.
That being said, this certainly wasn’t a point on which she had any desire to be proven wrong. Generally speaking, when it came to any possible connection between her and a killer who smothered women with pillows, she firmly believed that an overabundance of caution was best. And until they caught the guy, she was more than happy to have the FBI and CPD watching out for her.
As expected, the preliminary hearing Cameron had scheduled that afternoon went smoothly. It was her first court appearance since her trial victory the prior week. It felt good to be back in court, although not necessarily for this particular case. The defendant was a cop from the Cook County Sheriff’s Office who had been charged with “freelancing” his security services in twelve purported drug transactions staged by the FBI.
It gave Cameron absolutely no pleasure to have to prosecute a police officer. Yet she’d insisted on taking the case nevertheless—if there was anything that offended her more than a regular criminal thug, it was a criminal thug who wore a uniform. The defendant was a dishonor to her father’s profession, and because of that Cameron had absolutely no sympathy for him. The case certainly wasn’t going to make her popular with the Sheriff’s Office, but she would have to live with that. If she took cases just to be popular, well, then she’d be no better than Silas.
“Any redirect, Counselor?”
Cameron stood up to address the judge. “Yes, your honor—just a few questions.” She walked over to the witness stand where Agent Trask waited. He was her final witness that afternoon and she sensed the judge was eager to wrap things up for the day.
“Agent Trask, during cross-examination, the defendant’s attorney asked you several questions about the arrangement you had with the defendant while you were working undercover. In your conversations with the defendant, did you have specific discussions that he would be providing you with security for drug deals?”
The FBI agent nodded. “Our arrangement was crystal clear. I paid the defendant five thousand dollars. In exchange, he agreed to serve as a lookout and to be ready to intervene in the event other police officers attempted to interfere with the drug transfer.”
“Is there any possibility the defendant was not aware that you were purportedly transferring narcotics?” Cameron asked.
Agent Trask shook his head. “None. Before each transaction, I confirmed that the defendant was carrying his firearm, then I would discuss with him the specific amount of cocaine or heroin involved. My partner would then arrive at the scene pretending to be the buyer, and the defendant would assist me in carrying the duffel bags of narcotics to the car. One time, he even joked with me and my partner that we were stupid to be doing the exchanges in fast food parking lots in the middle of the night—he said that would be the first place he and his fellow police officers would look for trouble. He informed us that if we wanted to deal drugs, the better location to do that was the train station.”
The defense attorney rose from his chair. “Objection, hearsay. Move to strike.”
Cameron turned to the judge. “It’s a preliminary hearing, your honor.”
“Overruled.”
Cameron wrapped up her redirect and took her seat at the prosecutor’s table. Because her office was swamped and understaffed, and because it was a preliminary hearing for what she considered to be a virtually open-and-shut case, she sat alone.
The judge glanced over at the defense attorney. “Any recross?”
“No, your honor.”
Agent Trask stepped down from the witness stand. Then, as he passed by Cameron’s table, the strangest thing happened.
He gave her a polite nod.
Cameron blinked twice, not sure she’d seen that correctly. Maybe he had some sort of tic she’d never noticed. Because for the last three years, the Chicago FBI agents she’d worked with hadn’t given her the time of day once they stepped off the witness stand, let alone the courtesy of a head bob. Apparently now that Jack was back, they’d decided to “forgive” her supposed crimes.
“Counselor?” the judge asked her.
She stood. “I have no further witnesses, your honor.”
The judge issued his ruling. “In light of the testimony I’ve heard today, along with the detailed FBI affidavit the government submitted with its complaint, I find there is probable cause to bind this matter over for trial. Trial is set for December fifteenth at ten A.M.”
They wrapped up the few remaining housekeeping items, then everyone rose as the judge exited the courtroom. The defense attorney whispered something to the defendant before making his way over to Cameron’s table.
“We’d like to talk about a plea bargain,” the attorney said.
Cameron was not surprised, but also not interested. “Sorry, Dan. It’s not going to happen.”
“There were several other Cook County Sheriff’s officers doing the exact same thing. My client can give you names.”
“I’ve already got names from Alvarez,” she said, referring to another man the FBI had arrested, a civilian, who had provided additional backup “security” for several of the fake drug deals.
“But Alvarez wasn’t at the meeting on June fourth,” Dan argued.
Cameron packed up her briefcase. “If I cared that much about the meeting on June fourth, I would’ve come to you with the deal instead of Alvarez’s lawyers.”
Dan lowered his voice. “Come on, Cameron—give me something I can tell my client. Anything.”
“Okay. Tell him I don’t make deals with dirty cops.”
Dan called her a bitch and walked off, taking his client with him.
Cameron shrugged and watched him leave.
Ah . . . it was great being back in court.
WHEN SHE GOT back to her office later that afternoon, Cameron spent a couple hours returning phone calls and kidding herself that she’d somehow squeeze in the time to work on an appellate brief she had due the following week. At six thirty, she gave in and wrapped things up. Never enough hours in the day, particularly not this one.
After clearing it with Officers Phelps and Kamin, she was set that night for her date with Max-the-investment-banker-I-met-on-the-Bloomingdale’s-escalator. They’d seemed to get a kick out of the story—a few weeks ago she’d been doing some shoe shopping on her lunch break and was on her way back to the office, on the down escalator, when her phone vibrated, indicating she had a new message. She saw it was a notification from the court on a ruling she’d been waiting for, so she’d gotten off at the landing to read the decision. When she’d finished, she forgot where she was and stepped right into the path of a man getting off the escalator. They’d collided, and her purse and shopping bag went flying.
“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry,” Cameron said as she stumbled, then righted herself. “I wasn’t looking.”