Entering last was Maddie Vargas, a middle-aged woman who wore too much makeup and not just one but two heavy gold bracelets on each wrist. Her auburn-colored hair was cropped a little too severely, not much longer than her client’s prison cut.
“Nice to meet you,” Jack said.
“We actually met years ago,” said Vargas. “At a fund-raiser for your father’s second campaign for governor. A thousand bucks a plate for a rubber-chicken dinner. But at least your old man was nice enough to appoint me to the Florida Bar Grievance Committee. Here’s my card, in case you’re ever facing disbarment. It’s one of my subspecialties.”
“Thanks,” said Jack. He put her business card away without reading it. Encounters like this one reminded him that Harry Swyteck, like all politicians, would cash checks from just about anyone.
The chains rattled as Mendoza took his seat at the end of the table, next to the stenographer. Vargas sat at his side. Jack noted the lovely tattoos on his knuckles: BAD on the right; BOY on the left, both of which looked to be either self-inflicted or the rushed work of a very drunk artist. The guards assumed their posts on opposite sides of the room, one at the door to the cell block, two at the door to freedom. The stenographer swore the witness. Jack was ready to begin.
“Mr. Mendoza, you were convicted on charges of human trafficking, correct?”
He glanced at his attorney before answering. “Yes.”
“The victim was a thirteen-year-old girl, correct?”
“Alleged victim,” said Vargas.
“He’s been convicted,” said Jack.
“Wrongfully.”
“At his sentencing hearing Mr. Mendoza admitted to the crime, apologized to the victim, and expressed his remorse to the court.”
The prosecutor spoke up. “Mr. Swyteck seems to make a fair point.”
“Fine,” said Vargas. “Restate the question.”
Jack noted the unusual level of cooperation between Vargas and the prosecutor. Then he asked his question. “The victim was a thirteen-year-old girl who had run away from home, correct?”
“Right,” said Mendoza.
“She lived with you in your apartment for two months, right?”
“Yes.”
“And in order to live in your apartment, you required her to dance nude at Club Mariah, a strip club on Miami Beach. Correct?”
“That was the arrangement.”
“And you also required her to have sex with adult men for money, right?”
He glanced uneasily at his attorney, but she interposed no objection.
“Sometimes,” he said.
“Now, Mr. Mendoza. Have any other girls under the age of eighteen ever resided with you?”
“Objection,” said Vargas. “Don’t answer that.”
“Unless Mr. Mendoza is asserting his Fifth Amendment rights, I want an answer,” said Jack.
The witness exchanged glances with his attorney, then looked at Jack. “I refuse to answer on grounds that I might incriminate myself.”
“Have you arranged for any other girls under the age of eighteen to have sex with adult men?”
“I refuse to answer on grounds that I might incriminate myself.”
“Have you ever communicated in any way with a girl named Sashi Burgette?”
“I refuse to answer on grounds that I might incriminate myself.”
“Have you ever communicated in any way with Debra Burgette?”
“I refuse to answer on grounds that I might incriminate myself.”
“Debra Burgette’s ex-husband testified that you did have communications with Debra. Are you denying it?”
“Same response.”
“Have you ever communicated in any way with Gavin Burgette?”
“Same response.”
Jack paused. Mendoza’s assertion of his Fifth Amendment rights, as opposed to a flat denial of Jack’s accusations, was a curious move. That, coupled with his lawyer’s apparent coordination with the prosecutor on Jack’s objections, made Jack seriously suspicious. It begged for deeper exploration. As a matter of tactics, however, a change of subject was in order before circling back for another run at the witness. “Mr. Mendoza, as of now you have served twenty-six months on a sentence of ten years. Is that right?”
“Two years, two months, and five days.”
“You count?”
“Absolutely. Working on early release for good behavior.”
Vargas tugged at his arm. “Answer only the question you are asked, and then wait for the next question,” she said in a tone that not many people could get away with.
Jack continued. “Are you working on any other strategies for early release from prison?”
“Objection. Vague.” There was no judge to rule on objections, which was normal in any deposition. Vargas was merely making a record.
“Let me be more specific,” said Jack. “Have you or your attorney spoken to anyone at the state attorney’s office about testifying in a possible retrial of Dylan Reeves on charges of murdering Sashi Burgette?”
“Objection.” This time, it was Vargas and the prosecutor in unison.
“You can answer the question,” Jack told the witness.
“No, don’t answer that question,” said Vargas.
“I’m entitled to an answer,” said Jack.
“It’s an improper question,” said Vargas. “Don’t answer it.”
Jack retrieved Vargas’ business card from his pocket and returned it to her. “Ms. Vargas, unless you’d like to represent yourself in a disbarment proceeding, I suggest you withdraw your instruction to the witness. There’s no basis for it.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Let’s take a break,” said the prosecutor.
“Not when there’s a question pending,” said Jack.
“We’re taking a break,” the prosecutor said sternly. She and Vargas huddled in the corner, whispering back and forth. A moment later, they returned to the table. It was the prosecutor who spoke for the record, the stenographer taking it all down.
“The state of Florida joins in the witness’s objection to any questions about ongoing discussions between Mr. Mendoza and the state attorney’s office in connection with the case against Dylan Reeves. We are therefore terminating this deposition and will file an immediate motion for a protective order with the court.”
“You made me travel all the way up here to tell me that the state of Florida is shutting down the deposition? Really?”
“I’ve stated my position,” said the prosecutor.
“So am I to infer that the state attorney is cutting a deal with Mr. Mendoza in exchange for future testimony against Mr. Reeves?” asked Jack.
The prosecutor gathered her notepad and pencils. “I’m not the witness. And I don’t have to answer your questions. We’re leaving now.”
Vargas rose, following the lead of the government attorneys. “My client and I are leaving as well,” Vargas said. “Please return Mr. Mendoza to his cell.”
A pair of corrections officers approached the prisoner, the door opened, and the guards escorted Mendoza to the cell block. The attorneys exited through the other door, but Jack stopped for a word with the stenographer.
“I’ll need that transcript on an expedited basis,” he said.
“That will cost extra,” she said. “Another dollar per page.”
“Well worth it,” said Jack.
Jack headed over to Q-Wing before leaving FSP. It seemed even quieter than usual on death watch, and not just because there was one less inmate at noon than there had been at sunup. Even the corrections officers seemed somber when Jack arrived. There was no small talk on an execution day; no “Give my regards to Harry Swyteck.”
A visit with Dylan Reeves wasn’t the point of Jack’s trip to Raiford, and Jack couldn’t actually say that he needed to see him. He just felt like he should go, driven perhaps by a morbid sense of obligation that arose from the sobering awareness that this could be the last time he would se
e Dylan Reeves alive.
They sat alone in the attorney visitation room. Jack had given his client a rundown of how the deposition of Carlos Mendoza had blown up, but Jack could tell that he wasn’t really listening.
“You want to hear something funny, Swyteck?”
Jack stopped talking. His client’s flat and even tone belied the promise of “something funny.”
“What?”
“The guards wake us up every morning here at five a.m. to feed us. And every morning, you know what I get with my food?”
“Coffee?”
“A daily vitamin,” he said, laughing without heart. “So, there I am, alone in my cell with my breakfast. Elmer Hudson is already in the killing room, counting down the minutes. I’m three hours away from moving into his cell, the next guy on the gurney. And they got me taking a multivitamin. How fucked up is that?”
Jack said nothing.
Reeves’ mirthless chuckle faded and his expression turned very serious. “Elmer paced all night. I could hear his feet shuffling across the floor. Pacing, pacing, pacing. Hell, I was up every half hour myself, and it wasn’t even my turn.”
“Hard to shut off your mind, I’m sure,” said Jack.
“Yeah. I heard the guard walk up to Elmer’s cell and tell him it was time. You know what I was thinking?”
Jack shook his head. “I really don’t.”
“I was thinking that we always want what we can’t have. You know what I mean?”
“In general, I do. Though I’m not sure I take your meaning here.”
“It’s like this, Swyteck. Elmer’s up all night pacing because he’s number one on death watch, and he don’t want to die. Last month, ten feet right above us, some guy who’s not on death row hangs himself in his cell.”
“I heard about that,” said Jack.
“Yeah. Don’t you see what I’m saying? You’re fighting to keep me alive, and this guy just wraps a cord around his neck and checks out. That’s what this place does to you. It’s all fucked up.”
Jack allowed him another minute to vent. Or was he actually philosophizing—venturing for the first time in his life into the cell block of irony? That was another weird thing about death row: it could turn a Dylan Reeves into an Albert Camus.
Reeves fell quiet. Jack turned the conversation. “The judge rejected our argument that Sashi Burgette is alive,” he said.
His client showed no reaction.
“We can appeal that ruling,” said Jack.
“Okay. So appeal it.”
“There’s a downside,” said Jack. “If we take an appeal, it will only encourage Sashi’s mother to keep clinging to the hope that her daughter is alive.”
Reeves’ expression slowly changed. He seemed annoyed. “What do you want from me, Swyteck?”
Jack leveled his gaze. “You know what I want,” he said. “I don’t give you false hope. I don’t want to give anyone else false hope, either.”
Reeves leaned forward, laid his hands atop the table, and looked Jack straight in the eye. “I can’t tell you Sashi Burgette is alive,” he said in a detached voice. “All I can tell you is what I told you the last time: I didn’t kill her.”
CHAPTER 30
Jack was back in Miami just ahead of the late-afternoon rush hour. He avoided the expressway out of the airport, and a twenty-minute drive down LeJeune Road took him straight to Ingraham Park.
Jack had phoned Debra several times since Saturday’s court hearing. She’d returned none of his calls—until Monday afternoon, when Jack’s cell rang as he boarded the plane in Jacksonville. It was important that Jack understand why she ran from the courtroom, she’d said, and she wanted him to meet her at Ingraham Park to talk about it. The meeting place was no random choice. It was where Sashi had gone missing.
Jack parked at Cartagena Circle, crossed the arched pedestrians-only bridge over the canal, and entered the park. Ingraham was one of the Miami-Dade Park Service’s success stories. The fountain at the center of this beautifully rebuilt green space was surrounded by monoliths of coral rock that were arranged Stonehenge fashion and connected by trellises to create a welcoming semicircle for visitors and joggers. The lush landscaping and manicured lawns were in sharp contrast to Merrie Christmas Park, just down the road, which was closed indefinitely after it was discovered that only a thin layer of sod separated playful children from the toxic residue of a towering trash incinerator. “Old Smokey” had belched clouds of ash all over the West Grove neighborhoods—Theo’s old haunts—for forty-five years before its closing in 1970, and it was still linked to an alarming occurrence of pancreatic cancer among nearby residents. Jack and a University of Miami law professor had filed the lawsuit to clean up the park and avert another generation of cancer victims. No one gave him any grief about saving those lives.
Jack found Debra sitting on a bench near the fountain. She was watching young children at play on the monkey bars. Teenagers were exercising on the outdoor weight-lifting equipment. A couple of college students tossed a Frisbee over their sunbathing girlfriends on the lawn. Each was a little reminder that, before Sashi’s disappearance, crime in this upscale park was generally on the order of pranksters dumping laundry detergent in the churning fountain.
Jack apologized for being a few minutes late and then took a seat on the bench with her.
“That’s my Alexander,” she said. “The boy on the top bar.”
Jack spotted him. He was laughing and happily holding his position against an onslaught of other would-be kings of the mountain. “Great-looking kid,” said Jack.
“Yes. Beautiful. Both he and Sashi. Just beautiful to look at.”
Her gaze drifted toward the waterway and the stretch of grass behind the stand of banyan trees where Dylan Reeves claimed to have “met” Sashi.
“You know why I asked you to come here, right?” she asked.
“Why don’t you tell me?”
She turned her head and looked him in the eye. “Because this is a place where I would never lie about what happened to Sashi. And I want you to know that I am not lying to you.”
“I’ve never accused you of lying.”
She looked skeptical. “I’m sure Gavin has put a few questions in your mind.”
“Not really. He’s actually very understanding and forgiving.”
“Forgiving,” she said, scoffing. “He’s forgiving?”
Debra fell silent. Jack’s gaze again drifted toward Alexander, then back. “What are you telling me, Debra?”
A breeze rustled the palm fronds above them. She brushed a wisp of hair from her face and said, “Gavin lied.”
Jack took a moment to absorb it. “On Saturday, you mean?”
“Yes, on the witness stand. That’s why I ran from the courtroom.” She spoke in an even tone, but the bitterness came through. “He lied to you, he lied to the judge, and he lied under oath.”
“That’s a big accusation.”
“It’s a fact.”
“All right. Let’s break this down. What specifically was Gavin lying about?”
“First of all,” she said, and Jack could see her anger rising, “he’s the one who found out about rehoming. And he’s the one who found Carlos Mendoza. Not me.”
“How did Gavin find him?”
“I have no idea. This was not presented to me as a choice. It was a done deal. Gavin said he found a broker who would help us find another family who could give Sashi a new home.”
“Did he tell you the broker’s name?”
“Yes. Carlos Mendoza. Gavin said that Mendoza had already introduced him to the new family, and they were perfect for Sashi. A couple in Tampa.”
The list of potential witnesses seemed to grow longer every time he spoke to Debra. He decided not to challenge her on that yet.
“What are their names?”
“I never found out. I was so opposed to it that names didn’t matter.”
“Is that what you told Gavin?”
“Yes. This was
the part of Gavin’s testimony on Saturday that put me over the edge. He made himself sound like a saint: that whole bit about how Sashi is not a shirt and we can’t just take her back to the department store. That’s what I told him.”
“The cell-phone records do show that Carlos Mendoza made more calls to you than to Gavin.”
“Of course they do. Gavin was meeting with Mendoza in person. I wasn’t. Mendoza wanted Sashi, and I wouldn’t give Sashi to him.”
“You mean you refused to sign the power of attorney?”
“No, I mean I physically wouldn’t deliver my daughter to him and this family from Tampa.”
“But did you or didn’t you sign the power of attorney?”
She averted her eyes, a hint of shame in her tone. “Yes. I did sign. Gavin didn’t give me any choice about that.”
“That can mean a lot of things,” said Jack. “I’m guessing it doesn’t mean he put a gun to your head.”
“No. But he made it clear that if Sashi didn’t leave, he would. He said he trusted Mendoza, and that the couple from Tampa sounded like a perfect fit. If I didn’t sign the power of attorney, our marriage was over. He would divorce me and leave me with nothing. So I signed.”
“So, both you and Gavin signed a power of attorney?”
“Both of us, yes.”
“Did Gavin give the signed document to Mendoza?”
“Yes. That’s why Mendoza was so mad when he called me. I wouldn’t go through with it. I finally told Gavin, ‘If you want a divorce, fine, divorce me. But if you rehome Sashi, I’ll go to the police and have you arrested for kidnapping.’”
“Did you mean that?”
Debra paused, as if she’d never even asked herself that question. “I don’t know. But I refused to budge.”
“Let me make sure I understand this. You’re saying that at the time Mendoza was making phone calls to you on his prepaid cell—right before Sashi disappeared—he had everything he needed to rehome Sashi? Legal documents. New parents. Approval from Gavin. Everything.”
“Yes,” she said. “Everything except Sashi.”
Gone Again: A Jack Swyteck Novel Page 16
