A friend picked her up at noon for lunch in the Brickell area. She and Nancy Galardi caught up with small talk in the car ride across the causeway to Perricone’s Marketplace and Café, a slice of old Miami by way of New England. Like so much of Miami’s history, the house that originally sat on the property was destroyed. In lemons-to-lemonade fashion, a visionary restaurateur bought himself an eighteenth-century barn in Vermont; moved the hand-hewn beams, walls, and floor planks to Miami; and then, piece by piece, rebuilt the homey atmosphere of a long-lost My-amma. It had been one of Jack and Andie’s favorites when they were dating.
There was a wait for their table, so they found a seat at the bar. Nancy ordered a glass of wine, which drew nasty glares from two women at a nearby table. They were the overfit type, fake boobs on a stick wrapped in spandex, and they’d apparently taken one look at Andie and jumped to the conclusion that Nancy was pregnant, too, not just a little overweight. Andie took sparkling water and, just to make the self-appointed mommy police crazy, a twist of lemon in a cocktail glass. Voilà: a pregnant woman and her faux vodka tonic.
“So what was the burning question you wanted to ask me?” asked Nancy.
Lunch wasn’t totally a social visit. Nancy was a social worker from the Florida Department of Children and Family Services, the Florida agency in charge of placing neglected or abandoned children.
“I’m curious about something called private rehoming,” said Andie.
“Why? Are you doing an investigation into this?”
“It came up in one of Jack’s cases. He was telling me about it last night.”
“Ah, so you two do talk shop in between making babies. I wondered how that whole criminal-lawyer-married-to-the-FBI thing worked.”
“He wasn’t breaching any confidentiality. It was just something he thought I would find interesting. Maybe it’s because I’m pregnant. Or because I’m adopted. I don’t know.”
“There must be someone in the FBI who knows more than I do.”
“But I can’t pick someone’s brain at the Bureau about an issue in one of Jack’s cases. That’s where the marriage gets complicated. It’s called avoiding even the appearance of impropriety. So I thought of you. Ever come across it?”
Nancy swallowed her wine. “Yes, actually. It’s miles away from what I do through foster care. The parents I work with have so many hurdles to clear. Criminal background checks. Home inspections. Dozens of hours of training. Post-placement follow-up by social workers.”
“That’s not part of private rehoming?”
“Not at all. It’s basically a do-it-yourself way for parents to end adoptions quickly and quietly. Usually an international adoption gone sour.”
“But the parents who end the adoption have to report back every year to the country they adopted their child from. Don’t they?”
“In theory. But if the child is from a country that isn’t a signatory to the Hague Adoption Convention, it would be hard to enforce any reporting requirements. And even signatories have different rules. Some require annual reports until the child turns eighteen. Some have only a year of follow-up.”
“There must be horror stories.”
“I’ve heard a few. A convicted sex offender who forged his recommendations and took three or four kids. A fourteen-year-old girl from Liberia who spent her first night in her new home sleeping naked with her new parents. It happens.”
The bartender refilled Andie’s glass with sparkling water, then stepped away.
“I did some searching on the Internet,” said Andie. “Is that the way it’s done? Online?”
“Mostly. Parents advertise on message-board forums. ‘Nine-year-old Indian boy, eager to please.’ Whatever. ‘Respite-Rehoming’ was a big one that Yahoo shut down. ‘Way Stations of Love’ was on Facebook.”
“And this is legal?”
“Well, I know from my own experience that state agencies are supposed to sign off when custody is transferred across state lines. But people find loopholes. And when they do, the only people vetting the new parents are the parents who are fed up and trying to get rid of the kid.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Not really,” said Nancy. “As long as there are families at the end of their rope, there is going to be rehoming. A lot of people just don’t understand that doing something like this over the Internet can be no different than dropping your kid off in a back alley with someone like . . . who knows? You fill in the blank.”
Carlos Mendoza.
“Yeah,” said Andie. “I definitely see what you mean.”
“Anything else you’d like to know, inquisitive one?”
Andie looked away, thinking, and then her gaze returned to Nancy. “You said it would be easier to rehome a child from a country that hasn’t signed that convention.”
“The Hague Convention. Anybody who’s come within a million miles of a foreign adoption knows about it.”
“Is Chechnya a signatory?”
“No clue,” she said, as she reached for her phone. “Lemme Google it.”
“I could have done that myself,” said Andie.
“Here it is,” said Nancy. “‘Chechnya. See Russian Federation.’”
“Russia is what I should have asked about, anyway. The girl in Jack’s case was born in Chechnya but was adopted from an orphanage in Moscow.”
“I thought you said this was just your idle curiosity.”
“It totally is,” said Andie.
“Here we go: the Russian Federation is a signatory but has not ratified the convention.”
“So, a child from Russia could be rehomed and the American parents wouldn’t have to worry about annual reporting back to Moscow?”
Nancy scratched her head, confused. “That doesn’t sound right to me. I know families who have adopted from Russia, and they have reporting requirements.”
“But we Googled it,” said Andie. “It must be right.”
Nancy joined in the sarcasm with a roll of her eyes, then laid her cell on the bar. “Have I been helpful, madam?”
“Very,” said Andie.
“So you’re buying lunch?”
Andie smiled thinly. “I don’t know. Google it.”
CHAPTER 28
Jack watched from his seat at the petitioner’s table as the prosecutor approached the witness. He’d felt good about Gavin Burgette’s direct testimony. He hoped it would hold up on cross-examination.
“Mr. Burgette, as I told your ex-wife, I know this must be painful, so I will be brief,” said the prosecutor.
“Thank you.”
“I listened carefully to your testimony, and I apologize for having to ask what might seem like pointed questions. But, sir, you can’t offer one piece of evidence that your daughter is still alive, can you?”
He bristled, and from Jack’s perspective, it was almost like watching one of those Internet videos of a guy taking a bullet at close range to prove how well Kevlar worked.
“I guess you weren’t kidding about the ‘pointed questions,’” said Gavin.
The judge peered down from the bench. “Sir, please refrain from commenting on the questions. Your job is to answer them.”
“Sorry,” said Gavin. “The answer to the question is no. I don’t have that specific evidence.”
“You’ve received no phone calls from your daughter Sashi since the arrest of Dylan Reeves. Have you?”
“No.”
“You’ve received no phone calls that you suspected were from her?”
“No.”
“And you can’t offer one piece of evidence that your daughter ever had any contact, in person or on the Internet, with Carlos Mendoza?”
He thought for a moment, but of course there was only one answer. “No.”
“One last question,” she said as she took a step closer to the witness, her gaze tightening. “You can’t offer one piece of evidence that your daughter was murdered by anyone but Dylan Reeves, can you?”
“Objection,” said Jack
.
“Grounds?”
“Debra Burgette’s testimony established that there is insufficient evidence that Sashi was murdered, let alone murdered by Dylan Reeves. Mr. Burgette’s testimony has clearly established that if the prosecution had complied with the law and informed the trial team about Carlos Mendoza and rehoming, there would at the very least have been reasonable doubt as to whether Mr. Reeves committed a homicide.”
“That’s a legal argument for your brief, not an objection. Overruled. The witness may answer.”
Gavin glanced in Jack’s direction, seeming to take the lawyer’s cue. “I think my testimony suggests that it could have been Mr. Mendoza.”
“I’m not asking about your theories,” said the prosecutor. “I’m asking about evidence. Here’s my question again, sir: You can’t offer a single piece of evidence that your daughter was murdered by anyone but Dylan Reeves, can you?”
He hesitated. “Nothing more than I’ve already offered.”
“Which is nothing.”
“Objection.”
“Overruled.”
The witness considered his response. “It is what it is,” he said.
“That’ll do,” said the prosecutor. “No further questions.” She returned to her seat at the table beside counsel from the Florida attorney general’s office.
Judge Frederick excused the witness. Gavin Burgette made no eye contact with any of the lawyers as he crossed the courtroom and took a seat beside his daughter in the first row of the gallery. They said something to each other. Jack couldn’t hear what was said, but they held hands, which was sign enough that neither the tragedy nor the divorce had broken their bond.
“Will counsel please rise?” said the judge, pausing long enough for the lawyers to comply. “Mr. Swyteck, I presume that concludes your presentation of evidence.”
Jack considered his response. Pop psychology was not his area of expertise, but Jack was reading the judge’s body language loud and clear. With a five-week jury trial starting on Monday, Judge Frederick was ready to shove this case out the door.
“There is one more witness we would like to call. Unfortunately, he is unavailable to us.”
“I presume you mean Mr. Carlos Mendoza?”
“Yes. Since he is not available to come to the courtroom, we’d like permission to take his deposition at Florida State Prison and make the transcript part of our record.”
“Judge, the state of Florida objects to discovery in aid of this petition,” said the prosecutor.
“Of course you do,” said the judge. “Let me take that under advisement for a moment. Ms. Carmichael, assuming that I deny the request to depose Mr. Mendoza, does the state have anything to present?”
“No, Your Honor. We believe the petitioner has failed to carry his burden of proof.”
“Very well. The court is prepared to issue its ruling.”
Jack and Hannah exchanged a glance as they rose. They tried not to look too surprised, but Jack had expected closing arguments to be followed by a written order by Monday, not an immediate oral ruling from the bench.
The judge removed his eyeglasses to address counsel, speaking extemporaneously, no script to read. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is an extraordinary proceeding indeed when the parents of the victim in a homicide case testify on behalf of the man convicted of murdering their daughter, and where the mother genuinely believes that her daughter is still alive. It should go without saying that convicting a man of murder and sentencing him to death where no murder has been committed would be a violation of his constitutional rights.”
So far, so good, thought Jack.
“However . . .”
That dread transitional word, which hit Jack like a punch to the chest.
“. . . overturning a jury verdict is not something this court can do lightly. The petitioner is required by law to present clear and convincing evidence. With respect to the challenge to the sufficiency of the evidence of Sashi Burgette’s death, the prisoner’s petition for writ of habeas corpus is denied.”
The judge paused, and at that moment, Jack was relieved that Debra Burgette had left the courtroom.
“However . . .”
That wonderful transitional word, which lifted Jack’s spirits.
“. . . this court continues to have serious concerns about the failure of the police and the prosecutor to inform the defense that Mrs. Burgette contacted and provided information to Carlos Mendoza about rehoming her daughter less than thirty days prior to Sashi Burgette’s disappearance; that both Debra and Gavin Burgette received phone calls from Mr. Mendoza; and that Mr. Mendoza was later arrested and convicted on charges of sex trafficking.”
“Judge, pardon the interruption,” said the prosecutor, “but it’s important to note that Mr. Mendoza was not even arrested on sex-trafficking charges until after Sashi Burgette disappeared.”
“But it was before the trial against Mr. Reeves commenced. I’m not ruling against the state of Florida—yet—but an argument could be made that you should have told the defense about Mr. Mendoza before trial. Therefore, it is the ruling of this court that good cause has been shown to allow Mr. Swyteck to depose Carlos Mendoza. The request for this limited discovery in aid of this petition for habeas corpus is therefore granted. The stay of execution shall remain in effect until further order of this court.”
With a bang of the gavel it was over.
“All rise,” said the bailiff, which brought Gavin Burgette and his daughter Aquinnah to their feet, the only people in the courtroom who weren’t already standing. The judge stepped down from the bench, a deputy opened the paneled door at the side exit, and the judge disappeared into his chambers.
Jack turned. Gavin Burgette and his daughter were standing at the rail. Aquinnah looked confused.
“What exactly does this mean?” she asked.
“We’re still alive,” said Jack. “The stay of execution remains in effect.”
“That part I understand. And you’ll have to forgive me, but I don’t know whether to be happy or sad about that.”
“Aquinnah, please,” her father said.
“It’s okay,” said Jack. “I understand the ambivalence.”
“Anyway, I wasn’t really asking what this means for your client. I don’t know when my mother is going to feel ready to talk about this, but the first question she’s going to ask me is what does this mean for the missing-person investigation. Is Sashi’s file closed for good now?”
“We have to be honest with her,” said Jack. “This hearing was our best shot at getting it reopened. It didn’t happen.”
“We can take it up to the federal court of appeals in Atlanta,” said Hannah.
Jack nodded, but it was without conviction. “Like I said: this was our best shot. An appellate court is not likely to disagree with Judge Frederick on this issue.”
Aquinnah took a half step back from the rail.
Her father put his arms around her. “I think it’s best if you tell your mother,” he said.
She nodded. “It’s a good thing, Daddy,” she said in a gentle voice. “In the bigger scheme of things, this is all a good thing.”
CHAPTER 29
Jack arrived as the hearse was leaving. It was 8:06 a.m., Monday morning.
Sixty-six minutes past the scheduled execution of Elmer Hudson, Florida State Prison Time.
Jack knew the drill. As Hudson’s body left the prison yard feet first, corrections officers would gather up Dylan Reeves’ personal belongings and move him and the last of his worldly possessions into death-watch Cell No. 1. It was far from the first time that Jack had represented a man so close to a date with death, but it was one of the few in which Jack had solid questions about his client’s guilt. Jack couldn’t say that he felt any personal affection for Dylan Reeves. He did feel a deep sense of responsibility, however, which dated back to the law according to Neil: “Don’t ever represent a man who’s fighting for his life, Jack, if you’re not all-in for the fight.�
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Jack checked in at visitor reception. He was alone, having made this trip without Hannah, mindful of the limits on compensation to court-appointed counsel in capital cases. A corrections officer was seated on the other side of the three-quarter-inch glass. “I’m here for the deposition of Carlos Mendoza,” Jack said.
Mendoza was one of over a thousand inmates at FSP who weren’t on death row, though being part of the general population at FSP was no picnic. Florida prisons had the highest rate of “suspicious deaths” and “force incidents resulting in death” in the country.
“Carlos Bad Boy, huh?” the guard said. “Whole buncha suits here to see him today.”
Jack had read the indictment, and apparently the name—Carlos Mendoza, aka “Carlos Bad Boy”—had followed him through the court system and into prison.
The guard led Jack through a set of secure doors to the attorney visitation room. Visits with attorneys and clerics were among the limited exceptions to the no-contact visitation rule, but the prisoner had not yet arrived. There was a rectangular table in the center of the windowless room. A stenographer was set up with her machine and seated beside the empty chair for the witness. Barbara Carmichael and an attorney from the Florida office of the attorney general rose from the government’s side of the table, and the lawyers shook hands.
“Mendoza is meeting with his attorney,” said Carmichael.
A witness has a right to be represented by counsel, and Jack knew from his failed attempts to interview Mendoza that he’d hired a crackerjack criminal defense lawyer. Maddie Vargas was a pit bull who had parlayed years of experience in the public defender’s office into a successful private practice. Mendoza was typical of her clientele: men who were facing or serving long prison sentences for violent crimes and who could afford to pay her nonrefundable retainer upfront. Vargas wouldn’t be paid in Criminal Justice Act vouchers for her representation of Carlos Bad Boy.
The metal door on the opposite side of the room opened. A corrections officer entered first, followed by the shackled prisoner in the company of another two guards. Mendoza was an imposing figure even in his prison jumpsuit, several inches taller than Jack, and built like Jack’s friend Theo.
Gone Again: A Jack Swyteck Novel Page 15
