Debra rose from the couch in the waiting area, and Andie greeted her cordially. The receptionist was seated behind bulletproof glass in protected space that resembled a ticket booth. Andie and Debra were alone but near the elevators, and Debra seemed concerned about a possible interruption by random passersby.
“Can we go back to your office?” she asked. “Someplace more private to talk?”
“I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t really be talking to you,” said Andie. “The Bureau has me walled off from this case. It has to be that way, with Jack representing Dylan Reeves.”
“Oh, I see. But there is something I want you to know.”
“If it has anything to do with Jack’s case, I can’t discuss—”
“I didn’t rehome Sashi,” she said.
“Confidential matters like that are between you and Jack.”
“There’s nothing confidential about it. Gavin accused me of rehoming Sashi in court today. I wasn’t there. I just knew he was going to start saying horrible things about me, and it made me physically ill. I couldn’t even drive, let alone sit through another court hearing. But I heard about it afterward from Barbara Carmichael.”
“I don’t get updates from the prosecutor,” said Andie.
“Well, if your husband doesn’t tell you, I’m sure you’ll see it on the news. That’s why I came here. I wanted you to hear this from me: it isn’t true.”
“Okay. I heard it.”
“Do you believe me?”
“It doesn’t matter if I believe you.”
“It matters to me,” said Debra.
“We really shouldn’t be talking about this.”
Debra took a seat on the couch. “Come,” she said. “Sit with me for two minutes. Just listen to what I say. You don’t have to say anything. Just sit. You must want to sit. It’s been a long time, but I remember what it’s like to be that pregnant.”
Andie hesitated, then took a seat. “Okay. Two minutes.”
Debra scooted to the edge of the couch and turned to face Andie more squarely. “Barbara Carmichael never believed that those phone calls I got on Sashi’s birthday were from my daughter. Now, with this last call I testified about, it’s gotten even worse: she thinks I called myself.”
Andie simply listened, offering no response.
Debra continued. “She thinks I bought a prepaid cell phone and called my own number.”
“Did that also come out in court today?” asked Andie.
“No. Barbara Carmichael talked to me afterward. She said that it’s not clear where this hearing is headed. But if I let Jack put me on the witness stand again, she is going to present evidence that I fabricated the whole thing by purchasing a prepaid cell and dialing my own number. She said the evidence came from the FBI.”
Andie didn’t respond. Agent Hidalgo had promised to pass along his theory/speculation to the prosecutor, and he’d obviously followed through.
“Do you know anything about that, Andie?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss this, Debra.”
“I really wish you would.”
“I can’t. In fact, we’ve already talked much more than we should. It’s best if you leave now.”
Andie rose from the couch and started toward the elevator, but Debra didn’t follow.
“I offered to take a lie detector test.”
The way she’d just blurted it out had caught Andie off guard. Debra was still seated on the couch, her gaze aimed at the floor. Andie walked toward her. “When?”
She looked up at Andie. “Today, when Ms. Carmichael told me about the FBI analysis of the cell-phone towers. I told her that I would take a polygraph examination.”
“What did she say about that?”
“She wasn’t interested. Actually, it was worse than not being interested. It’s as if she doesn’t want me to pass.”
“That wouldn’t make sense,” said Andie. “She probably thinks you’re under too much stress to get an accurate result.”
Debra paused, and then an idea seemed to come to her. “I’ll take one now, if it would help. You must have someone here who can do it, right?”
“Debra, I don’t think that would help anything.”
“Ask me anything you want. Ask me if I rehomed Sashi. Ask me if I’m making up these phone calls.”
“I can’t do that. Please, you really should go.”
Andie stepped away, and this time Debra followed her to the elevators. Andie pushed the call button, and they stood in silence as the floor numbers flashed above the elevator. They were standing side by side, their reflections in the polished metal doors looking back at them.
“I got slaughtered in my divorce, Andie. I almost lost custody of Alexander. I didn’t even get half the house. Gavin owns it. When Alexander turns eighteen, I’m on the street.”
“That’s really none of my business,” said Andie.
“My point is that those two—Gavin and his lawyer—they are vicious. There’s a reason they’re together now. They will say anything and do anything to win.”
Jack had told her about his meeting with Gavin and his live-in lawyer at Gavin’s condo.
“This isn’t about winning,” said Andie.
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong. Trust me: for Gavin, it’s always about winning.”
The elevator doors parted. Debra stepped inside but held the door open. “There are things I know about Gavin—things that, for Aquinnah’s sake, I have never told anyone. Things I can’t ever say, thanks to this confidentiality agreement he made me sign in our divorce.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Debra.”
“I don’t want you to tell me anything. Tell it to your husband. After what Gavin said in court today, Jack has to be losing trust in me. He’s probably starting to see Gavin and me as two sides of the same coin. That’s wrong. Tell Jack that he can trust me.”
“I’m sorry. That’s a conversation I can’t have with Jack.”
“Yes, you can,” said Debra as the doors started to close. “And while you’re at it, tell him to ask my ex if he’d take a lie detector test.”
The doors closed, and Andie was alone in the lobby.
CHAPTER 36
The six o’clock status conference was held in Judge Frederick’s chambers. Two of his law clerks were at a conference table outside the door to the judge’s office, drafting bench memos while sharing a pizza for dinner. Barbara Carmichael and her colleague from the Florida attorney general’s office had again managed to snag the spot to the judge’s left, beside the draped American flag. Jack and Hannah were to the judge’s right, exactly where Jack had nearly melted through the floor during a tongue-lashing from Judge Frederick for “bashing the father.” Five days had passed since then. Five days closer to “the big day” for him and Andie.
And for Dylan Reeves.
Shit, Jack. Why do you even make an association like that?
It was the sound of Andie’s voice in his head, which was quickly displaced by the judge’s baritone.
“Where is counsel for Carlos Mendoza?” Judge Frederick asked.
“Here I am!” said Maddie Vargas as she hurried into the judge’s office. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic in downtown Miami is fucking crazy.”
Jack noticed that she smelled like a cigarette as she blew past him on her way to the prosecutor’s side of the room.
“Glad you could make it, Ms. Vargas,” the judge said. “Let’s all clean up our language and get started, shall we?”
Vargas leaned closer to the prosecutor. “Did I say a bad word?” she whispered, but it was loud enough for everyone to hear. Vargas was one of those lawyers who dropped the f-bomb so often outside the courthouse that she didn’t even notice her own slip of the tongue in front of a judge. Or in church. Or at the playground. “Tommy, get the fuck down from there!”
The judge reached for the deposition transcript on his desk. “I’ve read Mr. Mendoza’s deposition. Let me start by following up on the question that Mr. Swy
teck asked and that brought the deposition to a halt: Has the state of Florida cut a deal with Mr. Mendoza in exchange for testimony against Dylan Reeves?”
“I can answer that now,” said the prosecutor.
“Good,” said the judge. “Because I’m ordering you to answer it. Oh, and I’m also ordering you to reimburse Mr. Swyteck for the cost of traveling to FSP because you had no business shutting down this deposition.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“‘Yes,’ you’ll pay the fine?” asked the judge, “or, ‘Yes,’ there’s a deal?”
“Both,” said the prosecutor.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” the judge said. “What are the terms of the deal?”
“We have yet to dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t’ in a formal immunity agreement. But that’s in the works.”
“Give me the gist of it,” the judge said.
The prosecutor checked her notes to make sure she got it right. “Mr. Mendoza has agreed to testify fully and truthfully about each of his communications with Debra and Gavin Burgette about the rehoming of their daughter Sashi.”
“And in exchange for that, Mr. Mendoza gets what?” asked the judge.
Vargas spoke up. “My client will not be prosecuted for any of his dealings with the Burgette family, and the state attorney will recommend additional credit for good behavior to be applied to his existing sentence. Right, Barbara?”
“That’s correct,” said the prosecutor.
“Just to clarify,” said Jack. “Is the witness going to testify that Debra rehomed Sashi, that Gavin rehomed Sashi, or that no one rehomed Sashi?”
“We’re still working on the details of his testimony,” said Carmichael.
“Those are hardly ‘details,’” said Jack. “This goes to the heart of the matter.”
“As I said, when we finalize the deal, we will submit Mr. Mendoza’s testimony to the court by written affidavit.”
Jack shook his head. “Judge, I have a huge problem with the most important testimony in this proceeding coming before the court in an affidavit that’s drafted by lawyers. I need to finish my deposition. I have a right to cross-examine this witness.”
The judge leaned back in his chair, thinking. “I agree that this is very important testimony. If Sashi Burgette was rehomed, it means that when her parents reported to the police that she ran away from home, it was a complete fabrication—which is itself a crime. Right, Ms. Carmichael?”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“More important,” the judge continued, “it raises serious questions as to whether Dylan Reeves was, in fact, the last person to see Sashi alive.”
“I think it also raises the possibility that she is still alive,” said Jack.
“I’ve already ruled against you on that issue,” said the judge. “I’m not making any judgments in the lay sense of the word about a mother who continues to search for her missing daughter. From a legal standpoint, however, your only remaining argument is that someone other than Dylan Reeves murdered Sashi Burgette.”
“I understand,” said Jack.
“So here’s what we’re going to do,” the judge said. “Given the importance of this witness, I hereby order the Department of Corrections to bring Mr. Mendoza into my courtroom, where he will be subject to cross-examination, and where I can evaluate his credibility as a witness, live and in person.”
“Carlos will be thrilled,” said Vargas. “A trip to Miami, all expenses paid.”
“I hate to burst anyone’s bubble,” the judge said, “but the last time I checked, our holding cell didn’t rate anywhere near five stars on Hotel-dot-com. In any event, Ms. Carmichael, I will leave it to you and your colleague from the attorney general’s office to coordinate with the warden at FSP and report back to the court on the timing of Mr. Mendoza’s appearance.”
“Yes, Judge.” It was the lawyer from the AG’s office who spoke this time, and it occurred to Jack that those two words were the first he’d heard from her since the filing of the petition.
“It behooves the state to move as quickly as possible on this,” the judge said. “The stay of execution will remain in effect until after I have heard Mr. Mendoza’s testimony and issued a final ruling. Mr. Swyteck, how many days are we from the scheduled execution?”
“Twenty-one,” said Jack. “Dylan Reeves’ death warrant expires at midnight, October twentieth.”
“The execution is set for seven a.m. on the nineteenth,” said the prosecutor.
“My wife’s due date,” said Jack, and he immediately heard Andie’s voice in his head again. Shit, Jack. Why do you even . . .
“We’ll have Mr. Mendoza here long before that,” said the prosecutor.
“Very good,” said the judge. “And if the state keeps that promise, I promise you, Mr. Swyteck, that I will issue a ruling soon enough for you to be at your wife’s side for the birth of your child.”
Jack could have kicked himself. Delay was a death-row inmate’s last line of defense: even with the syringe loaded and the prisoner on the gurney, there was always the hope that the state legislature might abrogate the death penalty before the executioner could find a vein. Jack had just given the judge the impression that he’d be doing the petitioner a favor by moving things along quickly. Shit, Jack. Why do you . . .
“Thank you, Judge,” said the prosecutor.
“Yes,” said Jack. “Thank you.”
The judge dismissed them, and the lawyers filed out of his chambers and into the main corridor of the old courthouse. Jack asked for a moment alone with the prosecutor before they parted ways. They found a quiet spot near the marble staircase.
“That was an interesting point that Judge Frederick made about the false police report,” said Jack.
“Yeah, I made a note of that.”
“You seem to be in a wheeling-and-dealing mind-set,” said Jack. “Got anyone on your hit list besides Mendoza?”
“Nope,” she said.
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” said Jack. “Things are going to get ugly if certain witnesses recant their testimony in order to avoid criminal charges for filing a false police report.”
“Jack, really. You know me better than that. After all this family has been through, it would be a terrible overreaction to threaten Debra and Gavin Burgette with a pissant charge like filing a false police report. Don’t you think?”
“All that matters is what you think, Barbara.”
“It would be overreaching. That’s my view.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Unless you win a new trial for Dylan Reeves.”
Jack was taken aback, which made the prosecutor smile. “That was a joke, Jack. You really don’t get my sense of humor, do you?”
“I have to be honest, Barbara. I really don’t.”
“Say hello to Andie for me. Tell her I guarantee Daddy will be there for the delivery.”
“You’re all heart,” said Jack, as he watched her walk away.
CHAPTER 37
It was approaching seven o’clock, and Debra Burgette was exactly where she could be found on any given Tuesday evening: on Collins Avenue in Little Moscow.
Potapova Ballet Academy was in Sunny Isles Beach, and for many south Floridians it epitomized the growing Russian influence in a barrier-island stretch to the north of Miami Beach. Its founder was trained at the prestigious Vaganova Academy, and after a successful professional career in St. Petersburg, Madame Potapova brought her talents to a much warmer clime. The academy had grown steadily over the years, to the point where more than two hundred students learned the Russian style on a year-round basis in a little one-story studio that sat in an upscale strip mall between the Atlantic Ocean, to the east, and the Intracoastal Waterway to the west. Most of Potapova’s students were girls, but Madame Potapova was equally proud of her boys.
Alexander Burgette was one of her favorites.
Debra had wanted both Sashi and Alexander to retain important e
lements of their heritage, and ballet was part of the Russian soul. She didn’t force it on them, and the results were mixed. Sashi had lasted all of three weeks; Alexander had flourished. It made him nervous and even a little self-conscious whenever Debra watched him in class, so Debra found a seat in one of the metal folding chairs in the hallway outside the closed doors of Studio B. The mother of twin girls—two promising ballerinas—was in the chair next to her.
“Is class running on time tonight?” asked Debra, just making small talk.
The woman looked up from her phone, got up without a word, and walked away. Debra wasn’t sure what to make of it, so she let it go and retreated into her own phone. She could play the “my cell is more interesting that you” game as well as anyone.
A handful of dance moms were gathered at the other end of the hall, right outside the closed door to the studio. Each was taking a turn at the diamond-shaped window to steal a glance of her child in the hands of a master.
“She’s giving Alexander another correction,” said the dance mom at the window.
Debra smiled to herself. In the world of ballet, “corrections” were a good thing. It might mean a loving touch from the instructor that raised the pupil’s chin a quarter of an inch; a strong verbal command to tuck the buttocks; or even a blunt reminder that the dancer is an artist, not a weight lifter, and that the face must convey grace and effortlessness, not a hernia or a bowel movement. A correction in any form meant that the dancer had been noticed and was no longer an anonymous wannabe. Students craved them. Dance moms kept score with them.
“That’s his third one tonight,” said another mom.
Another one glanced down the hallway in Debra’s direction. “Madame Potapova probably feels sorry for the poor boy.”
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