Mallory Kane - His Runaway Juror

He parked at the entrance and took a moment to roll up the leg of his jeans. Gritting his teeth, he ripped the tape off his ankle and with it the miniature tape recorder that had been a part of him for the last three years.

He massaged his skin where the tape had abraded it, ejected the tiny cassette and inserted a brand new one. He stuck the tape recorder in his shirt pocket. His ankle could use a rest. He’d tape the device back on his leg first thing in the morning.

He pulled his sock up and his cuff down.

Then he wrote the date on the used tape’s label and dropped it into an envelope, unlocked the box and shoved it inside, just as he’d done three or four times a week for the past three years. His fingers encountered a note. A single sheet of paper, folded once. He stuck it in his pocket and grabbed the untraceable prepaid cell phone his contact had left in the mail box.

He dialed the only number programmed into it. The cell phone of FBI Special Agent Thomas Pruitt.

“Pruitt. It’s Gallagher.” He could hear voices in the background. It sounded like a ball game.

“What’s up?”

“I got an assignment today from Castellano.”

“No kidding? Hang on.”

Brand heard Pruitt tell someone he’d be right back. After a few seconds the background noise lessened.

“Sorry. My kid’s baseball game. Go ahead. What happened?”

“Castellano put me with a ratty little lowlife named Foshee. We paid a visit to a juror in the Simon case. Leaned on her hard. Foshee threatened her to vote not guilty, to hang the jury, or something would happen to her father.”

“Wait a minute. Castellano gave you this assignment himself?”

“Yep. I got called into his inner sanctum—his table at Gio’s. Foshee was there, along with a couple of muscle-heads with machine pistols.”

“I’ll be damned. Finally! We’ve waited for three years for a break like this. Who is she? The juror?”

“Name’s Lily Raines. She’s juror number seven.”

“Raines. I wonder if she’s related to a guy named Raines I used to know. He got shot on the job a couple of years ago.”

“That’s him. He’s in Beachside Manor Nursing Home. Something happened there tonight. Foshee didn’t tell me what, but it was enough to send Lily tearing over there about twenty minutes after we left her apartment.”

“I’ll check on it.”

“How do you want me to handle this? You going to let the D.A. know Castellano’s tampering with the jury?”

“How’d you handle it tonight?”

Brand made a rude gesture toward the phone. He didn’t like Pruitt. “How the hell do you think? I went along. I didn’t know any specifics until we got to her apartment.” It had sickened him to have to hold her still while Foshee manhandled her and threatened her. “I tried to keep Foshee from being too rough.”

“You did right. You’ve gotta play along. Three of you undercover for three years and this is the closest we’ve gotten to Castellano. We had a feeling he would try something during the trial, but this is better than we’d hoped. We can’t risk any screw-ups at this point.”

Brand’s gut clenched. His lieutenant, Gary Morrison, who had been his contact for his first year undercover, had stressed the importance of not going outside the law any more than necessary. If an undercover cop was going into a situation where he would be forced to commit a felony, his commanding officer had an obligation to extract him.

Brand and the other two officers working inside Castellano’s operation were protected up to a point, but they were required to report any illegal activities in which they were involved.

“Yeah, well, you haven’t been working with the damn mob for three years. I don’t want any screw-ups, either, but I’d like to know you’ve got my back once this is all over.”

“You do the assignment. I’ll protect your back.”

Brand blew out a frustrated breath. Pruitt was FBI, and there was no love lost between the Feds and local law enforcement. He wondered if he was being set up to take a fall.

He pulled the microcassette recorder out of his pocket. With his thumb he pressed record and held it near the phone. Never hurts to have insurance .

“Gallagher? You there?”

“Yeah. Just thinking. Make sure you understand, Pruitt. I’ve worked too hard to end up getting my badge yanked for committing a felony.”

“Listen to me. The justice department is behind this operation one hundred percent. They’ve given us carte blanche. Any means necessary. Have you talked to Springer or Carson?”

His fellow officers working undercover. Brand frowned. “Nope. Hardly ever see ’em.”

“Well, Carson is working the docks. He’s convinced Castellano’s moving weapons and explosives in. Springer agrees. Plus, he says they’re bringing in illegal aliens.”

“Terrorist activities.”

“Right. So you’re covered on all sides, by justice, homeland security—you know the drill.”

Brand did. Job one was to protect his fellow officers. Job two, earn Castellano’s trust.

“You think we can get Castellano on terrorist charges?”

“I think so.” The excitement in Pruitt’s voice was obvious through the phone line. “If we can, he’ll go away for a long time and the careers of everybody involved will be assured.”

Yeah, Brand thought. You mean your career. But he didn’t say anything.

“So do what Castellano wants you to do. You’ll be protected. We’ll have plainclothes watching you and the lowlife, what’s his name?”

“Foshee. Armand Foshee.”

“Right. Foshee. The task force will step in before the verdict. We’ll probably pull Foshee in on some lesser charge. You, too, so your cover isn’t blown. The trial will end in a mistrial, but it won’t come down on you. Trust me, we’ve got plenty on Simon. We can pick him up on another murder charge before he sets foot outside the courtroom.”

Pruitt made it sound easy. But then he wasn’t out in the field. He didn’t have to worry about who got hurt.

Brand’s thoughts returned to Lily Raines. Terrified, trembling, her soft breasts pressed against his forearms, her dark, shiny hair tickling his nose. He grimaced as his body began to stir. “What about the woman? What about her father?”

“They’re not your concern. We’ll take care of them.”

“The hell they’re not. I’m the one leaning on her. I don’t like it. I don’t like the threats against her father, either. Can’t the police give him protection?”

“We don’t want to blow your cover or endanger your juror. We can’t afford to let Castellano see any change in her father’s care. You just do your job.”

Damn . He didn’t like working with the FBI. They played everything too close to the vest. He rubbed his neck. “Should I call you back to confirm?”

“No. You’ve got the go-ahead. I’ll take care of making it right with the justice department.” Pruitt disconnected.

Brand turned off his cell phone and stuck it in his pocket. Then he stopped the tape recorder, ejected the cassette and held it between his thumb and forefinger.

Like he’d told Pruitt, he’d worked like a dog to pull himself out of the chaos of his childhood. He was not going to let anything ruin his career as a police detective. It was all he had.

He tossed the cassette a couple of inches into the air and caught it in his fist. Insurance. He had Pruitt on tape promising to cover his butt.

As he walked back to his car, he stuck the cassette in his pocket. His fingers encountered the note he’d picked up from the mailbox.

After climbing into the driver’s seat, he scanned the note and cursed. He shook his head as he crumpled the note in his fist. His request for two days’ leave to go to Alexandria, Louisiana, for his father’s funeral had been denied.