Page 27 of 4th Silence
JJ doesn’t even glance at the photo. “Stop.”
That single word is an anvil falling.
He plants both palms on the table and leans toward me, visibly weary. “The mayor called. Again.” His next words are measured like a sentence in a court ruling. “The Hartman case is closed, effective immediately. Put everything back in those boxes. I’m taking them with me.”
My breath catches. “You can’t be serious.”
“You can’t do that,” Meg says. “Mom got all of this through the FOIA Act?—”
“I’m aware of what the Act covers, and its exemptions,” he snaps. “Are you?” He begins reciting it. “Certain categories of documents may be withheld from disclosure. Included among these are documents that relate to law-enforcement activities, documents subject to recognized legal privileges such as the attorney-client and work-product privileges, documents required to be withheld by other laws, federal or District, documents that reflect the internal deliberative processes of the government, and documents the disclosure of which would result in a clearly unwarranted intrusion on personal privacy.”
Meg pushes her chair back with a screech, jumping up and waving her hands. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. Since when does the mayor decide how the U.S. Attorney’s office handles a homicide investigation?”
His eyes narrow. His posture shifts into full courtroom predator. “Since always.” His voice drops to a threatening undertone. “Especially since your sister compromised what little leeway this investigation had by harassing Mary at her own charity function.”
Meg opens her mouth to protest, but a single look from him silences her. She sits.
“This isn’t a negotiation.” He straightens his tie, a gesture that reminds us this is business. He locks eyes with me. “It’s over.”
The statement suggests something more than just our investigation.
My body turns ice cold.
I’ve seen JJ confident, playful, even ferocious in the courtroom, but never like this, not with me.
I say nothing. He runs a hand through his dark hair, and for an instant, I catch a glimpse of the man I’ve grown to love. “My association with you has become…problematic.”
The room tilts. I grip the edge of the table. “What?”
“The mayor and my boss believe my objectivity is compromised, and therefore, my perspective on investigations is as well. Because of you.”
The air rushes out of me. “Because of me?”
He draws a breath and slowly lets it out through his nose. “I can’t be seen fraternizing with a PI who’s stirring up trouble in a politically sensitive investigation.”
My heart plummets, leaving me speechless. I’m not sure my legs will hold me, but I stand anyway. “What exactly are you saying?”
“Are you breaking up with her?” Meg demands, also coming to her feet.
He says nothing. An answer in itself.
“So that’s it?” I ask, forcing steadiness into my voice. This escalated quickly. Too quickly. “Your career’s more important than the truth?” Than me?
“It’s not that simple, Charlie.”
“Isn’t it? There are inconsistencies with this case, and the bigwigs are nervous because Mary is upset about our investigation. Since when does a civilian, who may herself be the murderer, get to call the shots on a case? What if that bag is connected? We’re on to something. I can feel it.”
“Feelings don’t hold up in court,” JJ replies, his jaw set. “And Mary is not a suspect. Detective Loren looked into her and everyone else at the party. None had motive.”
“Someone at that party murdered that girl.” I’m practically yelling. “I don’t care what Loren or anyone else says. Mary Hartman is far too defensive about this for her to be innocent.” I pull out all the stops. “Your instincts have led you to reopen cold cases that everyone else has written off,” I remind him. “Trust mine and Meg’s now. Please.”
“Please,” Meg echoes. “Seriously, JJ. I’ve never been more certain of anything. Mary’s involved in this.”
For a heartbeat, conflict flashes across his face, and I see my JJ. The one who cross-examines me over takeout while dissecting case files, the one who challenges my theories and respects my rebuttals.
Then it vanishes, replaced by the impassive mask of Joseph Jefferson Carrington III, U.S. Attorney. “I can’t,” he says, adjusting his cufflinks. All business again. “I won’t jeopardize my job based on hunches and missing handbags.”
The space between us cracks open into an unbearable chasm, separating our professional and personal lives. I suspected this moment might come someday, yet its reality is like a sucker punch.
