She said nothing for a moment, then moved a step nearer to him. They stood close now, their bodies practically touching as she peered up at him. “Call my office, Kyle,” she said. “Or I’ll subpoena you so fast your head will spin.”

Then she stepped back, flashing him a deceptively sweet smile as she headed toward the front door. “Oh—and have a good night.”

Eleven

RYLANN CHECKED HER watch as she walked into the lobby of Metropolitan Correctional Center, the maximum-security federal prison located in the middle of downtown Chicago. The five-block walk from her office had taken a little longer than expected, but she still had a couple minutes to spare.

She’d arranged this meeting, her first with one of the agents from the Chicago FBI office, after reviewing the Brown files over the weekend. While the special agent assigned to the case had done a thorough job in his investigation, he’d unfortunately struck out anytime he’d tried to talk to inmates other than Brown’s closest friends. There was, however, one possible exception: he’d noted that an inmate named Manuel Gutierrez, who’d been in the cell next to Watts the night Brown had been beaten to death, had refused to speak to the FBI but had hinted that he might be more willing to talk directly to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.

Rylann had heard these kinds of demands before—it was not an infrequent refrain anytime the FBI wanted to interview an inmate. Convicted felons were like eager-beaver first-year law students when it came to knowing the ways to get out of prison, including being fully educated on the provisions of Rule 35, which allowed courts to reduce the prison sentences of cooperating inmates. And the savvier inmates also knew that only the U.S. Attorney’s Office, not the FBI, had the authority to seek such a reduction.

Generally, Rylann wasn’t the biggest fan of making deals with inmates under Rule 35. For starters, as she’d indicated to Kyle the night before, it opened the door for the witness to be subject to possible impeachment on the grounds of bias. Second, as a prosecutor, her job was to put criminals behind bars, not provide them with the means to an early release. But she was also a practical person, and it was sometimes critical to the success of a case to have an inmate’s testimony. She also understood that, from the inmate’s perspective, it could be dangerous to provide information to the authorities. Life in prison for someone seen as a rat could be rough, no doubt about it. Thus, on occasion, Rule 35 was the only incentive she had to get someone behind bars to cooperate.

Consequently, today’s mission was to find out what, exactly, Manuel Gutierrez knew about Darius Brown’s death. First thing that morning, Rylann had called the FBI agent assigned to the investigation and suggested they pay a visit to Gutierrez. As luck would have it, the agent had been free that afternoon.

“Ms. Pierce?”

Walking toward her was an African American man in his midtwenties with what had to be the most friendly smile—and by far the nicest suit—she’d ever seen on an FBI agent.

He extended his hand. “Special Agent Sam Wilkins at your service. I saw the briefcase and guessed it was you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam. Please, call me Rylann.”

They made small talk as they stopped at the lock boxes so Wilkins could check his firearm. Within minutes Rylann learned that he was relatively new to the FBI, having joined straight out of Yale Law School, and that the Brown matter was the first solo investigation he’d been assigned within the FBI’s violent crimes division.

“What made you choose violent crimes?” she asked curiously. Wilkins’s style seemed a little less rough and gruff than many of the other FBI agents she’d worked with.

He shrugged. “It’s probably better to say that it chose me. When I first started, they paired me up with a senior agent in that division, and one of the first cases we handled was a high-profile murder investigation. Somebody must’ve liked the job we did, because now Jack and I seem to be first on the list whenever someone finds a dead body.”

Wilkins paused as they both showed their badges to the guards before removing their suit jackets to pass through the metal detectors. Having never been to MCC before, Rylann followed his lead as they headed to the elevators that would take them up to the interview rooms.

“By the way, we caught a break,” she told him. “That lead with the inmate in disciplinary segregation turned out to be a good one.” She briefed Wilkins quickly on the situation involving Kyle Rhodes, and then all discussion about the case ceased as they entered the elevator with several other visitors.

When they stepped off at the eleventh floor, Wilkins led her down a corridor to the interview rooms used by police officers and federal agents. “Do you think he’ll call? Kyle Rhodes, I mean.”

Rylann thought about that. She’d put the ball in his court—frankly, she had no clue what he’d do with it. “Only time will tell.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, they sat in a small interview room across a wooden interrogation table from Manuel Gutierrez.

“What’s in it for me if I talk?” the inmate demanded to know. He gestured to the door with his cuffed hands, referring to the prison guard who’d left after escorting him into the room. ” ‘Cuz there’s no way I’m sticking around this place after ratting out one of them. Or I’ll be the next guy they’re taking out of here in a body bag.”

“First tell me what you know, Mr. Gutierrez,” Rylann said. “If I decide I need your testimony, then we can talk about next steps.”