Vail 01 - The 7th Victim (23 page)
After parking the cruiser beside an unmarked cherry red Ford Mustang, the deputy placed his handgun and her Glock into the weapons locker, then led her through the Sally Port’s double set of electronic security doors into the central booking area. The last time Vail had been here was when she’d been given a tour of the new facility a few days before it had opened a few years ago. It was then a cavernous, deserted room, computers and equipment blanketed with clear covers, white ceramic tile, and freshly painted cinder block walls. Her nose had stung from recently varnished oak trim and countertops. It was almost too spiffy to be a jail, she’d thought at the time.
But she didn’t feel that way now. Deputies manned the expansive booking desk, where papers stuck to clipboards and files were stacked on end, memos and rosters were taped to walls. Phones rang, keys clanged, printers spat out documents . . . movement was everywhere as prisoners were being processed.
She was led to a counter-mounted camera, positioned in front of a wall with measured hash marks, and handed a metal identification sign that she held in front of her chest. The flash flickered, her face flushed out of embarrassment, and she was ushered over to a fixed cement stool. “Wait here,” Officer Greenwich instructed. He handed some paperwork to another deputy, who was operating the freestanding electronic fingerprint unit.
“It’ll be a while, I’ve got a line ahead of her,” the deputy said.
Greenwich leaned forward, turned his body slightly, and spoke into his colleague’s ear. The deputy glanced at Vail, said something to Greenwich, who nodded, then walked back over to Vail.
“He’s going to move you up a bit,” Greenwich said. “Professional courtesy.”
Forty-five minutes later she was standing in front of the LiveScan fingerprint scanner, where her ridges and whorls were recorded electronically. She knew this system intimately. The thought of being on the receiving—rather than the demonstrating end—depressed her. And she had plenty of time to be alone with her thoughts, as she waited again, this time for over an hour, before being led to a row of intake booths, a line of four-by-four semiprivate cubicles outfitted with bulletproof glass, a built-in microphone, and a pass-through slot. This was where she would meet with a magistrate, where she would finally have her chance to say something in her defense.
Greenwich slid the signed statement of facts through the narrow opening in the glass. The magistrate—Nicholas Harrison, according to the nameplate on the desk—was a broad, round-faced man with black-rimmed bifocals. He pushed a file aside and picked up the deputy’s form. He glanced at Vail, then nodded to Greenwich, who was standing behind her and off to the right.
“Good evening, Your Honor. I’ve got an eighteen-two-fifty-seven point two, Dom Vio. Complainant is Deacon Tucker. Suspect is Karen Vail, a special agent with the FBI. Mr. Tucker alleges that Ms. Vail presented to his house, and when he asked her to leave, she became violent and kicked him in the face—”
Vail stepped forward. “That’s not the way it happened—”
“Just a moment, Agent Vail,” Harrison instructed through the glass. His voice was tinny through the speaker, but his wrinkled brow and extended index finger were quite clear. “You’ll have an opportunity to give your version in a moment.” He turned back to Greenwich. “Continue.”
“After getting kicked in the face, Mr. Tucker fell. He alleges that Agent Vail then delivered two kicks to his torso. She left the scene and complainant was taken by ambulance to Virginia Presbyterian with multiple broken ribs. He was treated and released four hours later.”
The magistrate reclined in his high-backed chair. “Anything else?”
“Computer picked up a PD forty-two in the file from eighteen months ago.”
“Same complainant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s a PD forty-two?” Vail asked.
Harrison removed his glasses and leaned forward. “It’s what’s called a suspicious event. If there’s a violent altercation between spouses but insufficient evidence to make an arrest, the incident is logged and held inactive in the file.” He replaced his glasses and opened a folder, then rifled through some papers. He pulled a document and looked it over.
Vail shifted her feet. Eighteen months ago. That was when Deacon hit her with his fist and she hit him back with an iron skillet, opening a gash on his forehead. He called the police and attempted to have her arrested. But because she had also had physical signs of an injury—a swollen and bloody lip—and no eyewitnesses, the officers were unable to identify the primary aggressor and could not take any action.
“Well,” the magistrate said without lifting his eyes from the sheet, “there seems to be a pattern of violence here, Agent Vail.” He slowly met her gaze. “Do you have anything to say?”
“I do, Your Honor. The incident eighteen months ago was perpetrated by my ex-husband. He hit me and I hit him back with a pan. I took my son with me and we left that night. I filed for divorce the next morning. Today’s incident was an extension of something that happened a few days ago. Deacon Tucker assaulted me—”
The magistrate’s eyebrows rose. “Oh. Is there a report on file with FPD?”
“No, Your Honor. I didn’t report it. I should have, but he’d knocked me unconscious and I wasn’t thinking straight. But I told Detective Paul Bledsoe about it right after that and he’ll corroborate my story.”
Harrison looked away, which Vail interpreted as a bad sign. “Paul Bledsoe is a fine detective, but he didn’t directly witness anything. I’m sure you understand, Agent Vail.”
Of course I understand, but understanding won’t end this nightmare.
“As to the incident this morning, Deacon summoned me to his house to pick up a book for my son. He refused to bring it to school—”
“As to the incident this morning, Deacon summoned me to his house to pick up a book for my son. He refused to bring it to school—”
“Cut to the chase, please.”
He was getting impatient, another bad sign. “We got into an argument, Your Honor, and tempers flared. He was gloating—”
“According to Officer Greenwich’s statement here,” he said, searching for the right document, “you claimed it was self-defense. Did he ever take a swing at you?”
“When I saw he wasn’t going to give me the book, I turned to leave. I didn’t want to get into it again with him. He grabbed my arm and pulled and . . . I swung at him.”
Harrison sighed. “I’m not a trial judge, and this isn’t a trial, Agent Vail. My purpose here is only to determine probable cause, and I believe I’ve got more than enough for that. You’re in a tough spot. I hope it gets resolved to your satisfaction.”
Vail bristled while watching the magistrate scribble his signature on a document, then pass it through the slot. “Officer, you’ve got your warrant.”
Greenwich took the paper and signed it, then handed it to Vail. “Your Honor, I’m required to request an EPO on behalf of the complainant.”
“An Emergency Protective Order? Against
me?
”
me?
”
Harrison stared back at Vail. “Agent Vail, when you make bond and are out roaming the streets, I need some assurance that you’re not going to go over to your ex-hubby’s house and blow his brains out.”
That was exactly what she felt like doing. But voicing her desires would surely land her in a heap of trouble. “I’m not going to do anything of the sort. I’m going to steer clear of him.”
Vail’s hesitation was not lost on Harrison, apparently, as he shook his head. “You waited just a tad too long for me there, Agent Vail. I’m reasonably sure you’re not going to do anything foolish, but you own a gun, you’re skilled in using it, there’s substantial bad blood between the two of you, and you’ve already demonstrated to me you have the potential for violence if the situation presents itself. I’m going to help you out here, Agent, though I doubt you’re going to see it that way.”
Harrison pulled another form from his desk, signed it, and handed it through the slot to Greenwich. “Fill it out, Officer. She’s got a seventy-two-hour EPO slapped on her.” He looked at Vail. “A cooling off period, to think about your actions. Guilty of the charges or not, you’re better off staying away from Deacon Tucker.”
Vail sighed through pursed lips and shook her head. Could this day get any worse?
“One other note, Agent. Consider it another favor. Get yourself the very best defense attorney you can afford. Misdemeanor Domestic Violence/Assault is not something to fool around with. You get convicted, it’s not just a measly misdemeanor. Under the new law, it’s taken very seriously. You’ll lose the ability to carry a weapon. That’s Federal law, not Virginia code. You’ll lose your job. Plain as that.”
Vail closed her eyes. Her day had, in fact, just gotten worse.
“As to the issue of bond,” Harrison said, “I already know your occupation, which gives me your income level, lack of prior criminal history, and your flight risk, which I deem to be minimal. Not if you have hopes of keeping your job.” He wrote something on a document, signed it, and lifted the glasses off his face. He closed the file. “Five hundred dollar secured bond is hereby granted. Thank you, Officer.”
Greenwich turned to Vail, who was still staring at the glass window in disbelief. “I left my purse in the car. I don’t have any money with me.”
“Then that phone call I promised you earlier will come in pretty handy.” He forced a smile, then led her out of the intake booth.
twenty-five
“T
he jail cell was six-by-eight, Robby. A cinderblock room with a tiny window.”
he jail cell was six-by-eight, Robby. A cinderblock room with a tiny window.”
Robby took his eyes off the road to glance at Vail. “I know, I’ve seen them.”
It was a few minutes past two in the morning and they were on I-395, headed toward the task force op center to pick up her car—and her purse. The winding, tree-canopied road was nature at its best during the day, but eerie on a winter night, when the headlights caught the barren, low-lying branches as the car sped beneath them.
“If I didn’t have claustrophobia before, I probably have it now.” Vail shivered, then pulled her seat belt away from her chest, as if it had renewed the confining sensation of the jail cell. “What a horrible experience. It took them three hours to get a phone over to me.”
“Three hours?”
“There were a shitload of prisoners all waiting their turn on two phones. They cut me some slack here and there, gave me the red carpet treatment—if there is such a thing in the slammer—but even with that it took forever to get a line.”
“Sorry it took me so long to get here.”
She waved a tired hand. “Hey, I appreciate you laying out the cash.” She leaned back against the headrest. “Hopefully the trial will go my way and I’ll be able to put it all behind me.”
“It will, Karen, everything’ll turn out.”
“It better, or I’ll need to find a new line of work.” She shut her eyes, tried to force the thoughts of disaster from her mind. “Tomorrow I have to find a good lawyer. Magistrate said I should hire the best I can afford. I feel like vomiting over the thought of having to hire a defense attorney. They’re vermin.”
“Just keep things in perspective. Focus your energy. There are more important things to deal with right now.”
Robby was right, there were more important things. “I hope Jonathan’s okay,” she mumbled. “I never did get to his school.” She was about to reflect on the frailty of life when her BlackBerry went off, followed a second later by Robby’s cell phone. Vail looked down at the display, then at Robby, who was struggling to read his in the dark while keeping the car steady.
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