Chapter 40
Jiya
The courtroom feels too warm. Or maybe that’s just the suffocating weight of anxiety pressing down on my chest.
If anyone knew about the other night... Me, Lazlo and Calloway prying open the back door of a security firm like we were teenagers breaking into a liquor store.
It should terrify me. Maybe it does. But God help me, I liked it.
Lazlo cracking jokes in a whisper, Calloway’s breath close as we hid.
I should’ve been horrified. Instead, my pulse was singing.
The tapes were destroyed by morning. But was it enough? Or did someone already make a copy?
I sit beside Darius at the defense table, wearing a conservative navy dress that makes me look like I’m headed to Sunday dinner at my grandmother’s house. My hands rest folded in my lap, nails trimmed short and unpainted. The perfect picture of innocence.
Calloway sits behind me in the gallery in his disguise, his presence like a physical touch against my back.
Judge Harlow enters, and we all rise. My heart hammers in my chest. This is it. The moment when my life could come crashing down.
“Case number 22-CR-4783, Commonwealth versus Jiya Kline,” the clerk announces.
Judge Harlow adjusts her glasses, her gaze sweeping from the prosecutor to Darius, and finally, to me.
“We are here to address the defense’s motion to suppress the video evidence presented by the Commonwealth.
Mr. Evers, I have reviewed your expert’s analysis of the digital file. It is...compelling.”
Darius stands, the picture of calm confidence. “We believe it is more than compelling, Your Honor. It is definitive proof of digital manipulation.”
The judge peers over her glasses at Benson. “I understand there were additional surveillance tapes recovered from the building’s security system. Are those tapes ready for review?”
My stomach drops. The tapes. The ones we stole. I keep my expression neutral, but under the table, my nails dig into my palms.
Benson adjusts his tie. “Your Honor, I regret to inform the court that I was...premature in my assessment of that evidence.”
The judge’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “Premature?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Benson clears his throat. “The police department was in the process of obtaining those tapes, but there was an...incident. Someone broke into the building’s security office and stole the backup tapes. We are investigating the theft.”
A ripple of whispers spreads through the courtroom. I maintain my surprised expression, though inside I feel a flood of relief.
Darius rises. “Your Honor, this theft only reinforces our position. When the prosecution’s fabricated video evidence was exposed, the real killer panicked.
Realizing their frame job was failing, they stole the authentic footage that would have proven my client’s innocence.
This desperate act of evidence tampering by the true perpetrator demonstrates both Ms. Kline’s innocence and the prosecution’s reliance on manufactured evidence. ”
More murmurs from the gallery. The prosecutor looks increasingly uncomfortable.
“Furthermore,” Darius continues, “our consulting toxicologist reviewed the Commonwealth’s autopsy report. He concluded that the specific poison used has a delayed onset, taking anywhere from three to six hours to become lethal.”
My eyes widen. This is the first I’m hearing of it.
“The victim was at his office until 7 p.m. that evening,” Darius continues.
“This timeline establishes a clear window in which Mr. Briggs could have been poisoned at his place of work. A location that the Boston Police Department, in their haste to focus on Ms. Kline, completely failed to investigate.”
The judge’s gaze turns to the prosecutor, her expression hardening. “Mr. Benson?”
Benson shifts uncomfortably. “Your Honor, the defense filed a motion to compel a search of the victim’s office based on this theory. The court granted it.”
“And what were the findings of that court-ordered search, Mr. Benson?” the judge presses.
Benson clears his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “The search is still being processed, Your Honor. We don't have conclusive findings at this time.”
He straightens his suit jacket, his professional composure clearly strained. “However, given the timeline discrepancies the defense has raised and the... gaps in our initial investigation, the Commonwealth believes it would be prudent to reassess our case.”
“Given these developments,” he continues, his voice tight, “the Commonwealth cannot in good conscience proceed at this time. We move to dismiss all charges against Ms. Kline without prejudice.”
Judge Harlow stares at the prosecutor, then at the documents on her desk. She is silent for a long, agonizing moment, letting the weight of the admission settle over the court.
“While the court accepts the Commonwealth’s motion,” she begins, her eyes fixed on Mr. Benson, “let the record show that this court is concerned by the trajectory of this case. It appears the Commonwealth, and by extension the Boston Police Department, developed a case based almost exclusively on a piece of digital media of questionable authenticity.”
Benson’s face flushes a dull red.
“This reliance,” the judge continues, “seems to have fostered a significant lack of thoroughness in the initial investigation. A lack of thoroughness that has resulted in significant reputational damage to a citizen and a considerable waste of this court’s time and taxpayer resources.”
She pauses, letting the rebuke land.
“I trust that in the future, the Commonwealth will ensure its due diligence is completed before an arrest is made, not after the defense has been forced to dismantle its primary evidence. Is that understood, Mr. Benson?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the prosecutor chokes out, utterly humiliated.
The judge’s gaze finds me, her expression softening. “The motion to dismiss is granted. Ms. Kline, you are free to go.” The gavel strikes, the sound not an echo, but a sharp, clean crack that severs the ties holding me to this nightmare. “Court is adjourned.”
Darius turns to me with a smile. “Congratulations, Ms. Kline. Justice has been served.”
I nod, still trying to understand what just happened. The video manipulation I understand. That was The Society’s plan. But the workplace theory?
Calloway, still disguised, appears at my side, his hand finding mine for a brief, hidden squeeze.
“Meet you there,” he whispers, already moving toward the exit with the rest of the dispersing crowd.
I gather my things, still processing. “I think I've had enough of courthouses for a lifetime,” I mutter to myself.
Freedom tastes sweet, but uncertainty lingers on my tongue.
“I don’t understand,” I say to Darius once we’re outside. “The timeline. Six hours? Those weren’t part of the plan.”
Darius gives me an enigmatic smile. “Let’s just say The Society believes in having a contingency plan, Ms. Kline. A very...tangible one.”
Darius and I leave the courthouse in his car, my mind still buzzing with questions. Nobody’s offering explanations, and I’m not sure I should push just yet.
The car weaves through Boston’s streets until we reach Beacon Hill. The historic brownstone building with its limestone facade and black wrought-iron details looks innocuous enough. Just another exclusive men’s club in a city full of them.
“The Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association,” Darius says as we pull up. “Home away from home.”
I eye the discreet brass plaque by the door that bears only the initials “BHGA.”
“So this is where Boston's finest killers meet,” I whisper.
Darius smiles. “Yep.”
Inside, I’m struck by the opulence. Marble floors gleam beneath my feet, and a crystal chandelier hangs overhead, casting fractured light across the foyer. The air smells of leather polish and expensive cologne.
A white-gloved attendant gives Darius a respectful nod as we pass. No words exchanged, just silent recognition.
“The club has over five hundred members,” Darius explains in a low voice. “Only a select few know about what lies beneath.”
We move through the main lounge, where leather armchairs cradle distinguished-looking men engrossed in newspapers or hushed conversations. Oil paintings of stern-faced men in formal attire line the walls, their eyes seeming to follow us as we pass.
“This way.” Darius guides me toward the library wing.
The transition from the main club to the library is like stepping into another century. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves house leather-bound volumes. The rich scent of old paper and wood fills my nostrils.
Darius closes the door and reaches for a volume of Dante’s Inferno. He pulls it out, then pushes it back in with a precise movement. A soft click sounds, and the bookcase swings inward, revealing a dimly lit spiral staircase.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
“After you.” Darius gestures.
The staircase descends deeper than I expected; the temperature drops with each step. At the bottom, a steel door with a palm scanner blocks our path. Darius places his hand on the scanner, and after a moment, the door slides open with a pneumatic hiss.
We step into a rectangular room with blood-red walls. An obsidian table dominates the center, surrounded by seven leather chairs. The lighting is subdued, casting everything in a crimson glow.
And there, standing by the table with his back to us, is Calloway.
He turns at the sound of our entrance, his eyes finding mine. A smile plays at the corners of his mouth, that rare, genuine smile I’ve come to recognize as reserved just for me.
“Welcome to The Hemlock Society,” he says, spreading his arms in a mock-ceremonial gesture. “Officially this time.”
Four men rise to their feet as we enter. I recognize Xander from our previous encounter, and Lazlo, Thorne. The last one I've seen before—he sat with Calloway at Penumbra a couple of times, always ordering whiskey neat and speaking in low tones. I never caught his name.