Twenty

by James Grippando

  “You say, ‘It’s okay, Mom. I did it.’”

  More silence. No reaction from Xavier. Best of all, Jack saw no sign of distress.

  Dr. Moore leaned closer, further adjusting her tone, probing even deeper. “Tell me why you said ‘I.’ . . . Did you leave someone out? Was there someone else?”

  Jack watched, hoping to see Xavier’s lips move. But he was perfectly still.

  “Why?” the doctor asked. “Why did you say ‘I did it’?”

  It was almost imperceptible, but Xavier’s breathing seemed to change. Something about him seemed different, as if he could truly be in a state of hypnosis.

  Slowly, he sat up in the beanbag chair, eyes closed, as if rising from the dead. His head turned slowly toward the glass. His eyes blinked open, and he uttered his first words since being taken into custody by police, apparently speaking directly to Jack, as if he were completely on to the fact that he was being watched.

  “Because I fucking did it,” he said. “That’s why.”

  Jack stared back at his client. Although they weren’t technically locking eyes through the one-way mirror, it felt like it.

  “Whaddaya know,” said Jack. “He speaks.”

  Chapter 33

  On Friday morning Jack drove to Miami’s Financial District on Brickell Avenue. He had Theo on speaker. Maritza was the topic of conversation.

  “Let me get this straight,” said Theo. “On Monday, you see a woman in the back of the courtroom who looks like Maritza, even though her boss said ICE hauled her away from the coffee shop and deported her. Five days later you call me and say it’s urgent to find Maritza’s last name. What’s up with that?”

  “I was going to do this myself, but I’ve just been too busy. I didn’t want to hire you if I can’t pay you. I’m watching my pennies here.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Seriously. I just got the bill from Dr. Moore for her hypnosis session. Blew my budget for the whole month.”

  “Money’s not the reason you’re moving so slow on Maritza, Jack. When did you first meet her?”

  Jack stopped at the traffic light. He had to think. “A good two weeks ago. More.”

  “A witness hands you a possible alibi, and you sit on it for over two weeks. That tells me one thing. You don’t believe her.”

  Jack hadn’t realized how transparent he was. “You’re right. I don’t.”

  “Shit, Jack. When you gonna catch up with the rest of the legal profession and have no problem putting a liar on the witness stand?”

  “Very funny, Theo.”

  “Dude, I wasn’t kidding.”

  The light changed to green, but Jack was a nanosecond slow on the acceleration—a capital offense in Miami. The guy behind him laid on his horn. Jack ignored him.

  “The goal isn’t to prove an alibi,” said Jack. “We’re looking for an accomplice.”

  “You think it’s her?”

  “No, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she knows who it is. If somehow she’s back in Miami, I need to talk to her. A last name would help.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Jack ended the call and steered his car into the multistory garage. It was a relief to see that parking was only twelve dollars, until he read the fine print: for the first fifteen minutes.

  There goes the rest of the case budget.

  Amir Khoury worked on the east side of Brickell Avenue, in the waterfront office tower directly across the street from the law firm of Coolidge, Harding & Cash. The South Florida branch of GC Capital was a lavishly appointed penthouse on the fiftieth floor, which meant that Amir was one of the lucky few who could literally look down on Duncan Fitz and the two hundred other lawyers at Cool Cash.

  “Elevator number one,” the security guard told Jack. It was an express ride to the penthouse, and in sixty seconds the doors opened to a cavernous lobby that resembled a glass atrium in the sky. Views stretched all the way to the Turkey-Point Nuclear Generating Station, some thirty miles south, the one potential target that put all of Miami on edge when the terrorist threat level on the Homeland Security advisory scale inched toward red.

  “I’m here to see Amir Khoury,” Jack told the receptionist, and he gave her his name.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  He’d left a voice mail to say he was coming, albeit a bit vague. You didn’t just come out and say, “I need to find out if your son was dating a prostitute,” even if the son was a mass murderer. Alleged mass murderer.

  “He’s expecting me,” said Jack, and he waited as she dialed Amir’s assistant.

  GC Capital was a private equity and credit investment firm that targeted “distressed” companies—high risk, but potentially high reward. Some said GC was a loan-to-own specialist, making its real money not from long-term business strategy but from betting on the borrower’s quick default, picking up the pieces in foreclosure, and then selling off the assets at a huge profit. No laws were broken, but it wasn’t exactly the “win-win” approach to business.

  “Mr. Khoury will see you now,” the receptionist said.

  With parking at forty-eight bucks an hour, Jack was happy for no wait. An assistant entered the lobby and led him down the hall to a corner office. Amir was behind his desk, pacing as he spoke into his headset on a phone call, and he waved his visitor in. The assistant directed Jack to the armchair and then exited in church-mouse fashion, closing the door on the way out.

  “We need to hit the links again soon,” Amir said into his headset, about to wrap up his call.

  Jack allowed his gaze to wander across the cherry-paneled walls, a quick survey of the trappings of Wall Street success, South Florida–style. Some people found success and favored expensive art. Others built a self-congratulatory shrine. Amir was in the latter camp, the wall behind his desk covered with plaques, awards, and more than a dozen framed photographs. His MBA diploma from the Wharton School. His elbow rubbing with the right politicians. A signed picture of Amir and Molly with Jeff Bezos, himself a product of South Florida, land of the Everglades, before moving to the Pacific Northwest to build his Amazon. And, of course, there was the obligatory display of Lucite cubes across the credenza. Deal toys, they were called. Little desktop mementos that, depending on the nature and size of the transaction, might encase anything from the iconic facade of the New York Stock Exchange to a pair of knights in shining armor jousting over an engraved sum of eight, possibly nine, figures.

  Amir ended his phone call and laid his headset atop his desk. It had been a pleasant call, judging from his expression, but the pleasantries faded as he came around to the front of his desk, leaned against the edge, and faced Jack.

  “Got your message,” said Amir. “I understand you want to know about this Maritza.”

  This Maritza. Not Jack’s words. Obviously, Amir was no fan. “No one told me that Xavier had a girlfriend,” said Jack.

  “She was not his girlfriend. What she is,” added Amir, “is a pathological liar.”

  “What she is and who she is: that’s what I came to talk about. I spoke to Imam Hassan.”

  “Yes, we spoke. He told you what she is. A prostitute.”

  “I’m curious to know how the imam knows that. Did you tell him?”

  “No, she told him. Xavier brought her to the mosque as a guest. Imam Hassan has known Xavier since he was born, so naturally he’s protective. He asked to speak privately with Maritza, and she agreed.”

  “She just came right out and told the imam: ‘Oh, by the way, I’m a prostitute’?”

  “I don’t know how it came out. I wasn’t there. All I cared about was getting Xavier away from her. He was my—he was part of our family.”

  Jack noted not only his inability to say the word son, but also his use of the past tense. “What did you do?”

  “Xavier told me where she worked. Apparently, that coffee shop has a reputation for hiring illegals. I didn’t know for sure that she was illegal, but I had a hunch. I called ICE to report an illegal, a
prostitute, preying on my seventeen-year-old son.”

  “The manager told me she was deported,” said Jack. “Just last week, in fact.”

  “Okay, I was right. About time, then.”

  Jack debated whether to mention the “sighting” at the courthouse on Monday. He decided against it. “Do you know Maritza’s last name?”

  Amir sighed, thinking. “I honestly don’t remember. Something Hispanic. Perez, Mendendez, Martinez, Jimenez, Gonzalez, Hernandez, Fernandez, Rodriguez—one of those ‘ezzes.’”

  “I’m afraid that’s not much help,” said Jack. It was the Miami equivalent of looking for “stein” in the Long Island phone book.

  “You could ask around the coffee shop,” said Amir.

  “I tried that. No one at the coffee shop will talk to me, now that word is out that Maritza was deported.”

  “No one wants to be next,” said Amir. He checked his watch and reached for his headset, making it clear that Jack’s time was up. “I’m sorry, but I have a conference call with a group of Zurich bankers who will be out the door to happy hour if I dial in a minute late.”

  “Understood,” said Jack, rising. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologize.”

  Jack wanted to circle back, discreetly, to Amir’s use of the past tense—was a member of our family. “No, I really am sorry. I can’t reveal privileged information, but I should have asked if there is anything you would like to know about Xavier or his case.”

  Amir’s expression ran cold. “No. There’s nothing. Absolutely nothing I want to know.”

  They shook hands, and the strength of Amir’s grip only seemed to reaffirm the point: absolutely nothing.

  “Donna will show you to the elevator,” he said, opening the door for Jack.

  “I’ll find my way.”

  Jack retraced his steps down the hallway to the lobby. He said good-bye as he breezed past the receptionist and then stopped and did a double take. Theo was seated on the white leather couch taking in the view of Miami Beach.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Jack.

  Theo smiled as he approached. He was holding a sheet of paper. “Maritza’s job application,” he said, offering it.

  Jack didn’t take it. “How’d you get that? And so fast?”

  “Me and the manager—we did a little bizniz.”

  “Doesn’t sound like my kind of business. Maybe you should get a job working at this place.”

  Theo dangled it before Jack’s eyes, pinching the corner. “Got her name. And her address.”

  “Let me see that,” said Jack, snatching it. He read quickly: Maritza Cruz. Amir’s recollection was a little off. At least he’d gotten the z right.

  “She lives in Uncle Cy’s old neighborhood,” said Theo. “Ten minutes from here.”

  Jack double-checked the address. “Let’s take a ride,” he said.

  Andie spent the morning at the field office firing range. She had her Sig Sauer P250, the same 9 mm pistol that she’d used to earn a perfect score on the qualifications course at Quantico—the same pistol that had been locked away in the glove compartment of the family car on the morning of the Riverside school shooting.

  The FBI had changed its qualifications course at least twice since Andie’s graduation from the National Academy. It wasn’t any easier. Agents fired on the target from distances of three, five, seven, fifteen, and twenty-five yards. Each distance posed a different challenge of speed, skill, and accuracy. Draw. Switch hands. From the ready. Standing. Drop to kneeling. Empty-gun reload. Three rounds in two seconds. Six rounds in four seconds. Fifty rounds total, two points for each hit. The target was the QIT silhouette, which looked more like a box-headed robot than a human being. Agents were advised not to distract themselves by personalizing it; no imagining the face of an old boyfriend in the box. From twenty-five yards, Andie jettisoned the warning. In her mind’s eye, the target was wearing a camouflage jacket, ski mask, and goggles. He was at one end of the hallway outside the Riverside recreation center. Andie was at the other end. She had twenty seconds.

  Go.

  Draw and fire four rounds from standing. Drop to kneeling and fire more rounds.

  She did it in eleven seconds. Eight out of eight hits. Forty-eight out of fifty overall.

  If only she’d had her Sig Sauer with her outside the rec center.

  Andie recorded her score in the ledger, cleaned up her station, and put the ear-protection muffs back in her locker.

  “Henning, can I speak with you a minute?”

  It was the ASAC. She did one more safety check and holstered her sidearm. “Sure.”

  “In my office,” said Schwartz.

  The “in my office” part wasn’t necessarily a concern. The seriousness of his tone, however, left Andie a little worried. She followed him out of the locker room and down the hall to his office. Schwartz closed the door and went straight to the leather chair behind his desk. “Have a seat, Henning.”

  It sounded more like an order than an offer. “This is not the part of my job I enjoy,” he said.

  Andie lowered herself into a chair that was definitely starting to feel like the hot seat. “What’s this about?”

  He pushed a manila envelope across the desktop toward her. “This letter arrived today.”

  Andie opened it. The name of the law firm on the letterhead made her stomach churn. “Coolidge, Harding and Cash represents Riverside Day School,” she said.

  “I know all about the lawsuit,” said Schwartz. “I was there when the process server handed you the summons.”

  “Then what’s the problem? The case is ongoing. Nothing has been decided yet.”

  “It’s not just a lawsuit anymore. Duncan Fitz—on behalf of the school—has lodged a formal complaint against you with the Office of Professional Responsibility.”

  Andie swallowed. “For what?”

  “Your conduct during the school shooting.”

  “I was off duty.”

  “Agents are responsible for their off-duty conduct.”

  “Yes. But I did nothing wrong.”

  He took the letter back from her. “According to Mr. Fitz, you admitted under oath at your deposition that you needlessly put the lives of Riverside students in danger by violating written school policies on active shooter protocols, and by disregarding direct verbal instructions from the head of school in an emergency situation.”

  “This makes me sick,” said Andie. “This is all because the school insists that Jack and I have to pay a full year’s tuition to a school that Righley no longer attends.”

  “It’s not about tuition,” said Schwartz. “The first wrongful-death action was filed yesterday. One of the science teachers lost his life. His wife wants a million dollars from the school for loss of consortium.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “I’m sure the school knows there will be more lawsuits to come, probably well in excess of their insurance coverage. It seems clear to me that the legal strategy is to prove that the school did everything right by pointing the finger at someone who did something wrong.”

  It was exactly what Jack, from the get-go, had told her the lawsuit against her was really about: “The school did everything it could, and to the extent that any safety measures failed, it was the fault of people like you who broke the rules.”

  “I’m the scapegoat.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Andie sat in silence, absorbing the blow. “Am I suspended?”

  “Not by me,” said Schwartz. “But the review board has the power to suspend you pending the investigation.”

  “Do you think they will?”

  “I’ll recommend against it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But let me be up front about this, Andie. A lot depends on how Duncan Fitz works this in the media. A story about an FBI agent taking matters into her own hands and putting schoolchildren in danger could be very bad for you. And bad for the bureau. Between you,
me, and the lamppost, the bureau can be very image conscious. The review board will not want to appear soft on school safety.”

  Andie didn’t need to be reminded of the FBI image. Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity. She’d worked to uphold it her entire career.

  “Anything else?” she asked, rising.

  “No. But I do hope this all works out. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and she left his office.

  Jack was in the passenger seat, nonstop busy on his computer, as Theo drove.

  They were north of downtown Miami, on Second Avenue between Sixth and Tenth Streets, once a lively stretch that, back in the day, was known variously as Little Broadway, the Strip, and the Great Black Way. Once Miami’s jazz mecca, the historic village of Overtown bore little resemblance to its former self. The nightclubs had closed decades earlier, many before Jack was even born. But he and Theo had heard the stories of Uncle Cy’s glory days blowing an old Buescher 400 saxophone at places like the Cotton Club, the Clover Club, and the Rockland Palace Hotel. Theo seemed to enjoy repeating them, playing tour guide.

  “Right over there used to be the Knight Beat,” said Theo, “the ‘swingingest place in the South.’ I’ll bet that sly dog Cyrus Knight impressed a lady or two saying he owned the joint.”

  Jack was only half listening. He was on the Internet running searches for “Maritza Cruz.” It wasn’t exactly an unusual name in Miami, but it wasn’t as common as Maria Cruz. As best Jack could tell from the photographs associated with the name, the Maritza Cruz he wanted had no Instagram, no Twitter, and no Facebook presence. It was the search for deportations, however, that he found most remarkable.

  “Immigration Court docket shows no deportations of anyone named Maritza Cruz in the last two weeks,” said Jack.

  “It’s that up to date?”

  “Good question. She could also be locked up somewhere until they put her on a plane.”

  Theo stopped the car. “We’re here.”

  Jack looked up from his computer. “Where?”

  “Maritza’s address,” said Theo, pointing across the street with a nod of his head. “From her job application.”