In Plain Sight. Tara Quinn Taylor

       1

      “Any questions?” chief prosecutor Janet McNeil asked the insolent young man slouched across from her. His cuffed hands shifted behind him at the scarred table in the private conference room.

      “You said you were going to offer us a plea.”

      Jan shook her head at Gordon Michaels, a well-known Flagstaff defense attorney, and returned her attention to the defendant, Jacob Hall. He’d been arraigned the week before, with a trial date set for the middle of December—the maximum amount of time allowed by the law that ensured Hall the right to a speedy trial.

      “No plea. I changed my mind.” Staring down the defendant, she answered his attorney. I’ve got you, buddy, for at least ninety days. That gives me time to find sufficient proof in the new evidence to lock you away forever.

      The green snake etched into Hall’s arm flicked its black tongue in the direction of his neck. The ink elsewhere on his body was so thick that she couldn’t make out specific designs.

      “Come on, Jan. What’s the maximum he can get on one count of identity theft?”

      “By itself, four years.”

      “So give us a plea for three. Save the state the cost of a trial.”

      She didn’t take her eyes off the twenty-three-year-old white supremacist. She’d been trying to convict him since he turned eighteen. How many lives had been lost in those five years? And all because, even though the cops did their job and made the arrests, she couldn’t get enough on Hall to make anything stick.

      “I’m adding charges for credit card and financial institution fraud, as well,” she told them.

      Jacob Hall didn’t blink, didn’t flinch—and didn’t look away. The man was completely without conscience. And in possession of more physical agility, strength and intelligence than this world could withstand.

      “Both federal offenses,” she continued, “and with priors, they could carry up to thirty years.”

      Hall gave her a condescending smile. He showed no fear. Jan didn’t think it was an act. The man was completely confident she’d never get a conviction.

      For a second, he had her. Tendrils of fear crawled from her belly into her chest.

      “You didn’t make this jail call just as a courtesy to inform us of further charges, Ms. McNeil. That’s not like you—you’re a busy woman,” Michaels said, his voice coming from her right. “And since there’s no plea, I’m assuming you’ve got a deal to offer us.”

      Pulling her gaze away from the defendant, Jan focused on Michaels. She’d known him since law school and had argued against him several times. The colorless man was basically a good guy—a top-rate defense attorney, sure, but he won his cases without playing dirty.

      “Yes, I do,” she said, determined not to let weakness win. She turned back to Hall. “I want a list of names, places, dates. I want descriptions—in vivid detail. Give me Bobby Donahue and the people who help him run the Ivory Nation, and I’ll give you consideration on a sentencing recommendation.”

      “You been reading too many fairy tales, Jan.”

      “I don’t read fairy tales, Mr. Hall.” She glanced back at Michaels. “Take it or leave it.”

      The two men exchanged a silent look.

      “My client doesn’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Michaels said.

      “That’s your final decision?”

      “It is.”

      Jan stood, lifted the padded strap of her maroon briefcase to her shoulder. And then the guard was there, motioning for Hall to stand. “See you in court on Monday,” she said. The young man turned and sauntered out, but not before Jan noticed two things.

      The black letters stamped on the back of his black-and-white clothing—Sheriff’s Inmate. Unsentenced.

      And the middle finger extended at her from the cuffed hands resting against his backside.

       Using a clean mason jar topped with a coffee filter, the perpetrator will pour the chilled hydrogen peroxide, muriatic acid and iodine tincture into the jar…

      Slumped in front of the keyboard, Simon typed, stopped, stared out the front window of his dining room office,