“Right.” She smiled in farewell. “Thanks again for meeting with me. I promise to stay out of your freakishly lustrous, shampoo-commercial hair. At least for a while.”

After she left the wine shop, Kyle sat at the table, playing distractedly with his glass.

“She didn’t want to stay?”

Kyle looked up and saw Jordan standing at the table. For once, shockingly, she didn’t appear ready to harass or needle him.

“She had plans with a friend,” he said with a shrug.

“You’ve never introduced me to a woman before.”

Kyle shook his head. “It’s not like that, Jordo,” he said. “Rylann is just—”

“—an old friend.” With a soft smile, she reached out and ruffled his hair. “Got it.”

AS IT TURNED out, Rylann wasn’t quite as good as she’d thought she was.

Over the last five years she’d prosecuted cases, she’d become quite skilled at reading defendants and their lawyers at the initial court appearance. Given Quinn’s obvious nervousness, she’d originally predicted that his lawyer would be calling her within two weeks to negotiate a plea agreement.

Instead, it took him two weeks and three days to make that call.

“I’ve read the FBI reports,” Michael Channing led in shortly after Rylann answered the phone. There was a touch less bravado in his voice in comparison to the last time they’d spoken at Quinn’s arraignment. “I’d like to talk about a plea bargain. In person. My client has something he wants to say.”

“How about tomorrow?” Rylann asked. “I’m in court in the morning but can make myself available later on. Say, two o’clock?”

“Two thirty,” Channing said brusquely.

Clearly, it was going to be one of those kinds of discussions.

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Rylann sat across the table from both Quinn, who looked uncomfortable in his navy suit, and his lawyer, who looked put out and cantankerous, per usual. She’d reserved one of the conference rooms for this meeting—no need for them to see the mountain of files on her desk. Today she wanted to convey the impression that this case was her top, and only, priority.

“You said you wanted to talk?” Rylann began.

Channing gave his client a go-ahead look. “It’s okay. Anything you say here is inadmissible at trial if we don’t come to an agreement on a plea.”

Quinn glanced mistrustfully at Rylann, appearing to want confirmation of this.

“He’s correct,” she said. “Unless you were to take the stand at trial and perjure yourself. Which I strongly recommend against doing.”

Quinn ran his hand over his mouth, then rested his hands on the table. “You’ve got this whole thing with Darius Brown wrong, Ms. Pierce. It’s not what you think.”

Rylann’s face remained impassive. “How so?”

“I never told Watts to kill Brown,” he said emphatically. “I only told him to rough the guy up, that’s all. You know, teach him a lesson.”

“That was some lesson.”

“Look, Brown attacked me first. You can’t have that in prison. You get too much of that and the inmates will be running the damn asylum.” Quinn attempted a smile, then it faded when he saw that the serious expression on Rylann’s face remained unchanged.

His tone became more angry, a quick flash of temper. “You sit there, looking so smug,” he said to her. “But who do you think watches these animals after you get your convictions? You see them at trial for—what?—a couple days, maybe a week, and then you pass the buck on. I have to deal with them for years. You and your whole office should be thanking me for doing my job.”

“Doing your job doesn’t include killing an inmate, Mr. Quinn.”

“I told you, that wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said, getting louder.

There was a pause as the two men exchanged a look, then Channing spoke. “We’ll agree to involuntary manslaughter. And you also agree to drop the civil rights charge.”

“Not going to happen,” Rylann said matter-of-factly. “You deliberately put Brown in harm’s way,” she told Quinn. “Voluntary manslaughter, and the civil rights charge stands.”

“No fucking way,” Quinn said to Channing. “I’ll take my chances at trial.”

“You go to trial, and you’re looking at a murder-two conviction,” Rylann said.

“Or he might walk away free,” Channing said. “All you can actually prove is that my client arranged to put Brown in a cell with Watts. Whether he did that out of payback and colluded with Watts to attack Brown is based entirely on speculation.”

“Not true. I’ve got two witnesses who can establish both retaliatory motive and that Quinn and Watts were working together.”

“Witnesses who are both convicted felons,” Channing said. “One of whom is undoubtedly hoping to score a sweet deal with you in exchange for his testimony, and the other of whom is Kyle Rhodes.” He laughed humorlessly. “Do you really think the jury is going to believe anything the Twitter Terrorist says?”

“Absolutely,” Rylann said without hesitation. “Let me tell you what the jury will think when I put Kyle Rhodes on the stand. They’ll see a witness with no motive or agenda—someone who’s testifying solely because it’s the right thing to do. Sure, he made a mistake, but he also had the guts to own up to that by pleading guilty and accepting full responsibility for his crimes. Frankly, Mr. Channing, if your client is half the man Kyle Rhodes is, he’ll do the same.”

Quinn jumped back in. “Oh, so the Twitter Terrorist is some hero, and I’m the fucking scum of the earth.” He pointed to the case file in front of Rylann. “Does your little file tell you what Darius Brown did before the FBI locked him up at MCC? He robbed a bank with two of his buddies and pistol-whipped one of the tellers. Trust me, your ‘victim’ wasn’t exactly a saint.”

“And Darius Brown went to prison for his actions,” Rylann said. “Just like you will go to prison for yours.”

She saw him open his mouth and beat him to the punch. “Let’s talk straight, Mr. Quinn. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this. On two other occasions you orchestrated attacks on an inmate, but this time you picked the wrong guy to carry out your dirty work. Watts beat Brown to death with a padlock attached to a belt, and you made the whole thing happen.” She turned to Channing, repeating her earlier terms. “Voluntary manslaughter, and the civil rights charge stands. That is the best, and only, deal you will get from me.”

The words hung in the air between them.

“This is not what we’d hoped for, Ms. Pierce,” Channing said coolly.

“Understood.” Rylann stood up from the table and gathered her file. “You can let me know your decision after you and Mr. Quinn have had the opportunity to talk. If you’re not interested in my terms, then we’ll prepare for trial. I assume you know your way out?”

She made it all the way to the reception area before she heard them call her name. She turned and saw Quinn and Channing walking in her direction, en route to the elevators. Quinn strode past her without a second glance, and Channing barely slowed his pace as he addressed her.

“E-mail me the agreement as soon as it’s ready,” he said. “I’ll call the clerk and have him put us on the docket for a change of plea.”

And that was that.

Rylann watched Quinn and Channing go, thinking that it was almost a shame they’d given in.

She would have rather enjoyed kicking both their asses at trial.

THE REST OF the week flew by, a flurry of motion calls, witness interviews, and meetings with various FBI, ATF, and DEA agents. Before Rylann knew it, on Friday morning she was in court for the entry of Quinn’s guilty plea.

Afterward, she walked out of the courtroom feeling good about the resolution of the case—and even better twenty minutes later in her office, when Cameron stopped by to congratulate her.

“I just saw the press release Paul is putting together regarding Adam Quinn’s guilty plea,” Cameron said, referring to Paul Thompkins, the office’s media representative. “Well done. The official word from the U.S. Attorney’s Office is that this case demonstrates that we will vigorously prosecute law enforcement officials who abuse the trust individuals—including inmates—place in them.” She smiled. “And we have you to thank for that.”