Jack drew a breath and stepped inside, the floorboards creaking beneath each footfall. He walked past Neil’s old desk. On it, in the glow of a brass lamp, where a nameplate might have sat, was an engraved desk plaque that bore one of Neil’s favorite sayings: “An Eye for an Eye Makes the World Blind.”
Jack continued toward Theo, his gaze slowly sweeping the room. Countless plaques, awards, and framed newspaper clippings covered the walls. It had been years since he’d read some of the older articles. While the newsprint had yellowed with age, the clippings still told quite a story, from Neil’s roots in civil rights litigation in the South—“Volunteer Lawyers Jailed in Mississippi”—to his role as gadfly in local politics: “Freedom Institute Lawsuit Against Miami Mayor Sparks Grand Jury Indictment.” All were impressive. But Theo was transfixed by the framed article near the window with the eye-catching headline “Groundbreaking DNA Evidence Proves Death Row Inmate Innocent.”
Jack stepped closer and stopped, reading a story he could have recited in his sleep:
After four years in Florida State Prison for a murder he did not commit, twenty-year-old Theo Knight—once the youngest inmate on Florida’s death row—is coming home to Miami today . . .
The two men, once lawyer and client, stood side by side, staring at the words on Neil’s wall.
“Seems like another lifetime, doesn’t it?” asked Theo.
“Or maybe even somebody else’s life.”
There was more silence, and Jack could only wonder what was going through Theo’s head. The anger. The memories. The time they’d met, when he’d told Jack to take his Yale law degree and his “save the black man” complex and go fuck himself. The time they’d said their goodbyes, after the prison barber had shaved Theo’s head and ankles to attach the electrodes, only to find out that it wasn’t going to happen after all, that Jack had pulled off a miracle and won what Neil would call the cruelest of “cruel and unusual” punishments—an unexpected stay of execution from a federal appellate judge as Theo was a mere eight steps away from the electric chair.
“You think Dylan Reeves is innocent?” asked Theo.
Jack thought about it—really thought about it. “I don’t know.”
“Did you think I was innocent?” Theo turned his head, looking right at Jack. “At the beginning, I mean.”
Jack shook his head. “Nope.”
“When did you come around?”
“Honestly? After the DNA test came back. Hell, even then I had to sleep on it.”
That drew a little smile. “Fuckhead. It’s cuz I’m black, ain’t it?” he asked, tongue in cheek.
“Uh-uh. Cuz you’re a Yankees fan.”
Theo chuckled, then it faded. “Seriously, what took you so long?”
“Shit, Theo. What do you think? When the average Joe turns on the local news at night and sees a guy getting stuffed into the back of a squad car, does he point to the TV and say, ‘Hey, lookey there, honey. They’re hauling another innocent man off to jail.’”
“Probably not.”
“Probably? Are you kidding me? Your first thought is: He did it. Or you might think: Well, even if he didn’t do what they say he did, he had to be doing something. Or better yet: Maybe he wasn’t doing anything this time, but he’s done a whole lotta other things in his lifetime, and that’s why he’s being arrested. The last thing anyone thinks is that the cops got the wrong man, this guy is innocent, and praise the Lord, I sure hope this poor slob can afford a clever lawyer who will clear his name. The human mind doesn’t go there. It sure as hell doesn’t go anywhere near there when your client is already convicted and sitting on death row.”
“So for four fucking years you thought I was guilty?”
“I didn’t say that. Just because I wasn’t convinced you were innocent doesn’t mean I thought you were guilty. I was in that twilight zone of capital cases, where a lawyer really starts losing sleep at night, thinking things like: Wow, what if I fuck up? What if this guy is innocent?”
“You having those thoughts about Dylan Reeves?”
Jack didn’t answer right away. “I’ll let you know.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow,” said Jack. “After I cross-examine Carlos Bad Boy.”
CHAPTER 39
Gavin picked at his Mexican food through dinner. The waiter noticed.
“Was your meal not to your satisfaction, sir?”
The night was too warm to dine outside, so Gavin and Nicole were seated at an indoor table. Rosa Mexicano was a short walk from his Brickell condominium and one of their regular weeknight haunts, even if its multiple locations did push dangerously close to “chain” status. A dollop of Rosa’s famous guacamole could make cardboard edible. So could a couple of their grog-sized margaritas, but Gavin wasn’t drinking, either.
“Everything was fine,” said Gavin. “I just wasn’t hungry tonight. You can bring the check.”
The waiter took their plates and stepped away. Nicole reached across the table and took his hand. “Are you afraid of what Carlos Mendoza is going to say tomorrow?”
“No. What scares me is having no idea what he’s going to say.”
The waiter brought them a plate of complimentary sweets with the bill. “No rush. Whenever you’re ready,” he said as he backed way.
Nicole unwrapped one of the hard candies. Gavin waited until the waiter was out of earshot, then continued. “Let me ask you a legal question.”
“Great. Another tax-deductible meal.”
He took Nicole’s humor as pure irony; with his tax shelters, it had been almost ten years since Gavin had actually owed the IRS money.
“I think there’s a real possibility that Swyteck will get a new trial for Dylan Reeves.”
“From what I know, I see it as a remote possibility. But, okay—for purposes of the question, I’ll accept your premise.”
“Forget the retrial. The issue I’m worried about could come up even in this hearing before Judge Frederick.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No, not tomorrow. But soon enough. Every time somebody new testifies at this hearing, it seems to open the door to another witness.”
“Is there a potential witness you’re concerned about?”
He breathed in and out, then looked away.
“Gavin?”
An elderly couple at a nearby booth seemed more interested in what Gavin was saying than in what they could possibly say to each other after forty years of marriage. Maybe Gavin was paranoid, but he would have bet good money that the woman was adjusting her hearing aid to pick up his conversation with Nicole.
“Let’s talk about this later,” said Gavin. “In private.”
“All right. Lemme run to the little girls’ room, and then we can go.”
Nicole pushed away from the table. Gavin glanced at the bill as she walked away. He laid down his credit card and sat alone at the table, drifting deeper into thought.
Surely she knew which witness was of concern to him. Nicole was a smart woman and a sharp lawyer. More to the point, it was the same potential witness that had worried Gavin in the divorce—the one that Nicole had figured out how to silence.
The problem—and the solution—had come up in the very first meeting between lawyer and client at Nicole’s office in Coconut Grove.
Whatever we do, we can’t let Dr. Wurster testify,” said Gavin.
He was seated in an armchair that faced Nicole’s granite-and-glass-top desk. Her office had that efficient, modern décor that looked smart but wasn’t particularly comfortable.
She listened from her leather-and-chrome desk chair. “Who is Dr. Wurster?”
“Sashi’s psychiatrist.”
“And why are you so concerned about him?”
The designer chair may have won awards, but it was killing his back. He leaned forward, edging close enough to rest his forearms atop her desk. “Sashi was a fucking mess, okay?”
“I understand.”
“At the homicide trial, the
prosecutor did a masterful job of keeping the jury from hearing many details about her problems. Every time Dylan Reeves even made reference to Sashi’s attachment disorder, Barbara Carmichael jumped to her feet and objected, indignant as hell, calling Reeves’ lawyer a victim basher.”
“That’s a tough spot for a defense lawyer when the victim is a seventeen-year-old girl.”
“Even tougher when the lawyer is a fuck-up, which Dylan Reeves’ lawyer was.”
“Your wife’s divorce lawyer is no dummy.”
“I know. I’m sure Debra will try to hand me the bill for it, too. Anyway, Sashi’s psychiatrist—Dr. Wurster—never had to testify at trial. The only psychiatrist who testified was Dr. Emmitt Pollard.”
“And who is Pollard?” she asked, as she jotted the name on her pad.
“He’s just an expert that Barbara Carmichael retained for the trial. Pollard never met Sashi. He knew a lot about RAD, and he was able to give an expert opinion on how children and young adults with an attachment disorder act toward strangers. He was pretty effective in convincing the jury that Sashi would not have engaged in consensual sex with Dylan Reeves. But he couldn’t say anything specific about therapy sessions with Sashi because he never had any. Which was perfect.”
“Perfect in what way?”
“The last thing I wanted then—and the last thing I want now—is Sashi’s psychiatrist on the witness stand testifying hour after hour about every crazy thing she ever said to him in a therapy session.”
“Why is that ‘the last thing’ you want?” she asked, making air quotes.
“Because she made things up, Nicole. That’s what kids with RAD do. Sashi accused Aquinnah’s friends of stealing. She accused Alexander’s tutor of being a pedophile. She accused a teacher at Grove Academy of hitting her, even though ten witnesses said she hit him. She just made things up. Horrible things.”
“Did she make things up about you?”
He hesitated, then answered. “I don’t know. But I sure as hell don’t want to find out when Dr. Wurster gets on the witness stand. Debra and I are fighting over who gets custody of Alexander. For all I know, Sashi told her therapist that I beat her every night before she went to sleep.”
“Or worse,” said Nicole.
“Yes,” said Gavin, and then he swallowed hard. “Or worse.”
Nicole thought for a moment. “I see your concern. So the legal question is: How do we find out what Dr. Wurster is going to say before he testifies?”
“No. My question is: How do we keep Dr. Wurster from ever being a witness?”
Nicole was silent, but Gavin could almost see the wheels turning in her head. She swiveled her chair to face the computer screen, and then she studied what she’d pulled up.
“What are you checking?” asked Gavin.
She didn’t answer right away. In a minute, however, it was clear from the expression on her face that a major brainstorm was in progress. “Patient-psychotherapist privilege,” she said.
“I’ve heard of it. Sadly, however, the patient here is dead.”
“It doesn’t matter. The privilege survives the death of the patient. But put that aside. I have something much more bulletproof in mind. You told me that your wife still thinks Sashi is alive, right?”
“Yeah. Debra got a phone call on Sashi’s birthday. It was an untraceable number from a disposable phone. The caller said nothing. There was just silence on the line. But Debra is sure it was Sashi.”
“And the police said it was a hoax,” she said, checking her notepad again. “Do I have that right?”
“Yes. I sided with the police. That’s one of the major triggers that spelled the beginning of the end for our marriage. I couldn’t stand hearing it anymore. ‘Gavin, how can you give up? Gavin, this is your daughter. Gavin, Gavin, Gavin.’”
“I understand. We can use this to our advantage. All I have to do is lock Debra in at her deposition—get her to commit to her belief that Sashi is still alive.”
“What does that do for us?”
“If Sashi is alive, she’d be over the age of eighteen now, right?”
“Yes. In fact, that prepaid cell-phone call I mentioned came on her eighteenth birthday.”
“Perfect. If Sashi is alive, she’s the only one who can waive the privilege. Unless a judge orders otherwise, she’s the only person on the planet who can say, ‘Dr. Wurster, you can speak freely about anything and everything you and I talked about in any of my therapy sessions.’”
Gavin thought about it. “That’s clever.”
“Thank you. But we should take Debra’s deposition sooner, rather than later—before she has a chance to change her position and come around to your view that Sashi is, indeed, deceased.”
“So if she changes her view, you’re saying . . .”
“If you’re concerned about what Dr. Wurster might say, it’s important that your wife continue to believe that Sashi is alive. I hate to sound so cold and callous about it, but this is divorce, and we’re asking a judge to grant custody of Alexander to you instead of his mother. That’s an uphill battle in any case. It’s an impossible battle if you think Sashi said horrible things about you to her psychotherapist and then the psychotherapist shares those things with the judge. You understand my point, Gavin?”
He thought about it, his gaze drifting off to the middle distance. “Yeah,” he said. “I understand completely.”
Ready?” asked Nicole. She was standing beside their table, having returned from the ladies’ room. The sound of her voice drew Gavin from his memories. He rose, and they walked together toward the restaurant exit.
“Why don’t we sit at the bar and get a drink?”
“I’m really not in the mood.”
“Come on,” she said.
A waiter opened the door for them, and they stepped out into the night. “Sorry,” he said, as they started down the sidewalk. “I’m just really worried about this.”
“About what?”
“Debra and me,” he said.
“That’s over, Gavin.”
His gaze drifted toward the rising drawbridge on the river, just ahead of them. “No, it’s not,” he said. “I think it’s gonna get ugly.”
“That’s what you said about the divorce. We rolled over her.”
“That’s because both sides had enough sense to leave Carlos Mendoza out of the divorce. Now the horse is out of the stable. If Debra turns this thing around and accuses me of rehoming Sashi, I have clients who will no longer do business with me. I have a son who may never talk to me again.”
Nicole took his hand and walked closely at his side. “Good news,” she said.
“What?”
They stopped at Gavin’s car. She squeezed his hand firmly, put her lips to his ear, and whispered, “I never lose.”
CHAPTER 40
Hump Day. Andie was in her office, doing back bends for sciatica, when the inspiration for the world’s most ridiculous Halloween costume came to her. All she needed was one of those old Joe Camel masks. She’d pull it over her head backwards, arch her back until her belly pointed up at the ceiling, and then shuffle through the office asking, “Hey, hey, hey—what day is it?”
But we’re not gonna wait till Halloween, are we, baby?
Her back cracked as she straightened up, and that pain down the back of her leg suddenly seemed not so bad.
There was a quick knock, the door opened, and ASAC Schwartz poked his head into her office. “Got a minute, Henning?”
He turned and started down the hall before she could even think about saying no. Andie caught up and followed him to his office. Schwartz went straight to the leather chair behind his desk. “Have a seat, Henning.”
It sounded more like an order than an offer. As she lowered herself into the armchair, taking care not to trigger that sciatica again, Schwartz pushed a large manila envelope across his desktop until it was within her reach.
“This just came by courier,” he said. “It’s from Debra Burgette,
addressed to me. You know anything about it?”
“No. What is it?”
He took the envelope, which was already opened, and removed a thin report with a spiral binding. “She hired a private examiner and sat for a polygraph,” he said.
“When?”
He doubled-checked. “Yesterday, according to the examiner. Three o’clock.”
“That was right after she came here to see me.”
“I heard. That’s why you’re here. Look, Henning. It made sense for you to follow up with the tech unit when that phone call came in and Debra Burgette claimed it was from her daughter. That was a potential emergency. But as far as any additional follow-up is concerned, you’re walled off from anything to do with the Burgette family so long as your husband represents Dylan Reeves.”
“That’s exactly what I told her.”
“It’s going to be a black eye for both of us if Jack Swyteck or one of his co-conspirators at the Freedom Institute calls his wife to the witness stand.”
“You mean one of his colleagues.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No. You said one of his co-conspirators.”
He paused, and they both seemed to appreciate the Freudian nature of that slip.
“My point is that you can’t have anything to do with Debra Burgette.”
“I understand,” said Andie. “Debra came to see me on her own. My take is that her friends, neighbors, the press, and possibly even the two children she has left—they’ve all turned against her since her ex-husband testified that Debra rehomed their daughter. She wants somebody in law enforcement to believe she didn’t do it. She started with me.”
“Because you’re Jack Swyteck’s wife.”
“Probably. But the fact is, she didn’t get past the lobby.”
“What made her run out the door and take a polygraph examination?”
“She didn’t run,” said Andie. “She walked like a normal human being and pushed the elevator button.”
“You know what I’m saying. The sequence here is that she saw you and then she went to take a lie detector test.”
Gone Again: A Jack Swyteck Novel Page 21
