“How about the fact that it would be the right thing to do?” Rylann asked. “Your client might want to try that some time.”

Greg remained firm. “He’s a lifer, Rylann. He’s not going to shit where he eats just to throw you a solid. I don’t think it’ll go over so well with the other guards if he’s the guy responsible for sending one of them to prison.”

Maybe not. Still, Rylann gave it one last shot. “I can arrange for him to be transferred out of MCC. Move him somewhere where the sun shines on the prison yard all year long. As a matter of fact, I happen to know that there are some lovely institutions in California that would be happy to welcome Mr. Watts as a guest.”

Greg chuckled. “I already made the suggestion. But you can move him anywhere you want, and he’ll still be known as the inmate who ratted out a guard. Sorry, but if you want to nail Quinn, you’re going to have to do it without Watts.”

Rylann sighed. Not the response she’d been hoping for, but that wasn’t Greg’s fault. She had a lot of respect for the attorneys in the Federal Defender’s Office—they handled caseloads as heavy as those of the prosecutors they faced off against yet had one of the most thankless jobs in the legal profession. “It was worth a shot. I’ll see you in court next week.”

BRIGHT AND EARLY the following Monday, Rylann got her first look at another man she’d set her sights on: Adam Quinn, the “mean son of a bitch” prison guard who’d instigated and arranged Watts’s brutal attack against Brown.

Quinn had been arrested by the FBI the night before, and they were in court for his initial appearance. When Rylann walked through the courtroom doors, she immediately noticed two things: first, that Quinn looked younger than his twenty-eight years, and second, that he appeared to be extremely nervous.

As well he should.

Before taking a seat at her table, she introduced herself to Quinn’s defense attorney. “Rylann Pierce,” she said, extending her hand.

“Michael Channing. I’d like a moment of your time after the arraignment, Ms. Pierce,” he said tersely.

“Of course. I can even give you two moments,” she said with a pleasant smile. She’d been litigating against guys like this her entire career—lawyers who seemingly confused brashness with being tough. Good thing she’d stopped being unnerved by that kind of strategy somewhere around her third trial.

She went over to the prosecution table and set her briefcase off to the side. Shortly thereafter, the clerk called the case, and they were off and running. Because an indictment had already been returned against the defendant, the magistrate judge combined the initial appearance and the arraignment. Quinn, not unexpectedly, entered a plea of not guilty.

At the conclusion of the hearing, Michael Channing made a beeline for Rylann’s table. “Second-degree murder? My client never even touched the guy.” He peered down at her with a smirk. “I looked you up. You’re new here.”

“The law in the Seventh Circuit is clear, Mr. Channing. Anyone who aids in the commission of a crime can be found guilty of that crime. I’ve been here long enough to know that, at least.”

“I know what the Seventh Circuit says,” he said with a glare. “But this whole thing was just a fight between two inmates gone wrong. Show me what you’ve got that proves anything other than that.”

Rylann could already tell—he was going to be an absolute joy to litigate against. “I’m happy to.” She unzipped her briefcase, pulled out a file that she’d prepared with all of Special Agent Wilkins’s investigation reports, and plunked it into Channing’s hands. “Here you go. There’s a letter on top outlining my proposed discovery schedule. Exculpatory evidence three weeks before trial, full witness list two weeks prior.”

He looked down at the file in surprise, obviously not having expected to walk out with the FBI reports today. “Yes, well. I’ll…be taking a look at these right away.”

“One other thing I should mention. For security reasons, Manuel Gutierrez has been transferred out of MCC and moved downstate to Pekin.” Given the inmate’s concerns about his safety, Rylann had felt that was the safest course of action.

Channing nodded. “I see.”

From his blank expression, Rylann guessed that he did not, in fact, see. Most likely, Channing had no clue who Manuel Gutierrez was. Which was precisely why she liked to hit defense attorneys with the FBI reports right away. It sent them a message, right from the get-go, that they had some catching up to do.

Not surprisingly, Channing had no further demands at that hearing.

UNFORTUNATELY, THE SWEET taste of victory did not linger long.

“I’m striking out with the other inmates,” Agent Wilkins said over the phone later that afternoon when Rylann was back at the office.

To further bolster her case against Quinn, Rylann had asked Wilkins to talk to some of the inmates at MCC to see if any of them could provide support for their theory about Quinn—that he’d been giving preferential treatment to certain inmates who’d carried out his retaliation. “Are they afraid to talk to you?”

Wilkins snorted. “They’re not afraid—they all want deals. They know that Gutierrez was taken out of MCC after meeting with us. Apparently, the rumor floating around is that he’s playing golf at a minimum-security facility in Miami.”

“Of course that’s the rumor. One day I have to find this elusive federal prison where everyone runs around free, plays golf, and eats five-course meals.”