“Judge, it’s quite obvious that Mr. Colletti is in pretty bad shape. Although this is an evidentiary hearing, we request that the court accept my client’s written and sworn affidavit as a substitute for his live testimony. If counsel would like to cross-examine him, he is available.”
“Seems reasonable to me. Any objections?” asked the judge.
“None here,” came the chorus from the other side of the room.
“No objection,” said Jack.
“Thank you,” said Anderson. “Basically, the evidence before the court is that, late last night, Mr. Colletti was viciously attacked as he walked to his car in the parking lot behind John Martin’s Pub in Coral Gables. He sustained a variety of injuries, mostly bruises and contusions, not to mention a concussion. Thankfully, none of them are life threatening. As set forth in Mr. Colletti’s affidavit, the man who unleashed that attack upon him is his fellow beneficiary Tatum Knight.”
“What a crock,” said Tatum, grumbling.
“No interruptions, please,” the judge said sternly. “And, Mr. Knight, watch your language.”
“Did I use a bad word?”
“Borderline. When in doubt, remember, we’re in Whisper Court.”
“Our apologies,” said Jack. “It won’t happen again.”
Colletti’s lawyer continued, “As I was saying, the beating occurred late last night. Early this morning, Mr. Colletti found an interesting e-mail on his computer. It was delivered electronically last night at six forty-three P.M., a few hours before the attack, but he didn’t get it until after. We’ve printed out a hard copy for the court. It’s fairly short. It reads simply: ‘Life is short enough. Get out of the game-now.’”
Jack glanced at his client. Tatum leaned into Jack and whispered as softly as possible, “I don’t even own a computer.”
“Who sent it?” the judge asked.
“We don’t know. It was sent from one of those business/copy centers in Miami that leases computer terminals by the hour, so it’s not traceable to anyone. Still, I believe that this message ties in quite logically with the beating Mr. Colletti suffered at the hands of Mr. Knight. As the court is well aware, we are operating under a rather unusual will. There are six beneficiaries, but only one shall inherit the estate. The only way to win this game, as the e-mail described it, is to outlive your fellow beneficiaries, or to persuade them to drop out and renounce their inheritance. Mr. Colletti submits that this was exactly the purpose of Mr. Knight’s beating. It was an appalling attempt to strike fear into the fellow beneficiaries and to encourage all of them, and Mr. Colletti in particular, to drop out.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Tatum, grousing into Jack’s ear.
“Mr. Knight!” said the judge. “One more outburst like that, and I’ll hold you in contempt.”
“Outburst? My own lawyer barely heard me.”
Jack shushed him, mindful that all that whispering in Whisper Court must have improved the judge’s hearing. That, or his hearing aid was turned way up. “Sorry, Your Honor,” said Jack.
The judge scowled, then turned his attention back to Colletti’s lawyer. “What relief do you request?”
“Mr. Colletti has not yet had time to evaluate all of his legal options. At this point, we simply ask the court to enter a restraining order that would prevent Mr. Knight from communicating with the other beneficiaries, except through his legal counsel. Further, we ask that the court prohibit Mr. Knight from coming within five hundred yards of any of the other beneficiaries, except for court hearings or required meetings with the personal representative.”
“All right,” said the judge. “Mr. Swyteck, what does Mr. Knight have to say for himself?”
Jack started to rise, but Tatum grabbed his arm and whispered, “I want to take the stand.”
“No. We agreed-”
“I don’t care what we agreed. I want to testify.”
The judge said, “Mr. Swyteck, if you please.”
Confused, Jack looked up at the judge, then glanced back at his client’s eager expression. “Your Honor, I’d like to have just a couple minutes to speak with my client.”
“All right. But be aware that I’ve allotted one hour for this hearing. Every minute you spend jabbering with your client is one less minute you have to present your case. We’ll take a five-minute recess,” he said with a crack of the gavel.
“All rise,” said the bailiff.
Jack and the others were on their feet, watching in silence as Judge Parsons disappeared through the side exit. Jack took his client by the arm and said, “Let’s talk.” They walked quickly down the aisle, through the rear entrance and into the hallway. Jack found an open waiting room by the elevators, pulled Tatum inside, and shut the door.
“I swear, I didn’t lay a hand on Colletti.”
“I told you this morning when Colletti served his papers on us: It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” said Tatum, his voice rising.
“For purposes of this hearing, I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter if you’re innocent.”
“Did you get a look at Colletti’s face?” he said, scoffing. “Work of a fucking amateur. If it was me who done it, I can tell you this much: He wouldn’t have been switchin’ on his computer to check his e-mail this morning. It’d be a week before he could remember his name, let alone his password.”
“Is that our defense, Tatum? Is that what you want to tell the judge?”
“I don’t have to tell the judge that. I just wanna tell him I didn’t do it.”
“That’s my whole point. If you get on the stand, you will be cross-examined. Colletti’s lawyer could throw anything at you.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Oh, really? Try this on for size.” Jack stepped closer, role-playing as Gerry’s lawyer on cross-examination. “Mr. Knight, the first time you ever met Mr. Colletti was at the reading of Sally Fenning’s will. A week ago Tuesday, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Less than two weeks after meeting you, Mr. Colletti is in the emergency room.”
“I didn’t put him there.”
“Mr. Knight, since you’re a beneficiary under Sally Fenning’s will, I’m assuming you also met her at some point, right?”
“Yeah, once.”
“When?”
“A couple weeks before she died.”
“You mean a couple weeks before she was murdered, don’t you?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“So you met her once in your life, and two weeks later she was shot in the head.”
“So what?”
“Let me ask you this, sir: How many other people have ended up dead or in the hospital within two weeks of their one and only meeting with you?”
Tatum shot a cross look. “Too many to fucking count.”
Jack stepped out of his role. “Good answer, Tatum.”
“Shit, Jack, I just want to take the stand and tell the judge I didn’t do it.”
“It doesn’t work that way. I’m sorry, but if you testify, Colletti’s lawyer will grill you. Before you know it, everyone in that courtroom is going to know what you used to do for a living, know about the meeting you had with Sally Fenning, and know that she tried to hire you to put a bullet in her head. Now, unless you want to leap to the top of the list of suspects in Sally’s shooting, I suggest you take my advice.”
Tatum was seething, but Jack seemed to be getting through. “What you want me to do, exactly?”
“Keep your secrets to yourself,” said Jack. “Don’t take the stand. We’ll stipulate to the entry of a restraining order.”
“How’s that gonna look?”
“I’ll put the best spin on it I can. I’ll tell the judge that Mr. Knight vehemently denies the allegations, but he has absolutely no need to come within five hundred yards of any of the other beneficiaries anyway. So we’ll stipulate to the restraining order.”
Tatum walked to the window and stared out at the par
king lot below. “You know, I don’t have to tell them about the meeting with Sally.”
“If you take the stand and perjure yourself, you’ll be looking for a new lawyer.”
He let out a mirthless chuckle. “Theo warned me you were a goody-two-shoes.”
“Theo warned me plenty about you, too. And here we both are. So what’s it going to be?”
He turned away from the window and faced Jack. “Fine. We’ll stipulate. There’s just one thing you need to understand.”
“What?”
“If that pussy Gerry Colletti ends up with all this money, I’m gonna beat the living hell outta both of you.”
“I don’t take threats, Tatum.”
He gave his lawyer a big smile and a pat on the shoulder. “Just kiddin’, Jack buddy.”
Jack didn’t return the smile. He just opened the door and started back toward the courtroom.
Twenty
Jack thought he was being watched, and he was right.
After the probate hearing he’d said good-bye to Tatum at the courthouse doors, and he continued alone to his car. Two men matched him step for step across the cracked and buckled asphalt, all the way into the fenced-in parking lot. The younger one walked with a cocky roll, chin aloft, his eyes catching his reflection in each tinted car window they passed, as if the title song to Shaft were on continuous playback in his head. The older man had a slight stoop and the dour expression of someone who worried too much about problems he couldn’t solve, problems that kept him working late, kept him up at night, and kept his bar tab running. Even if Jack hadn’t known Rick Larsen, he would have guessed he was a veteran homicide detective.
They weren’t exactly friends, but Jack and he shared a certain mutual respect. Plenty of good cops had given Jack the benefit of the doubt over the years, if only because Jack’s father had been a cop before embarking on a long political road that culminated with two terms in the governor’s mansion. Jack’s personal history with Detective Larsen ran deeper than that. As a much younger detective, Larsen had worked the file on Theo Knight, part of the team that had put the wrong man on death row. Not until the DNA tests were back could he confide in Jack-off the record, of course-and tell him that his rookie doubts about Theo’s guilt had been squelched by his supervisors.
“Who’s the new partner?” asked Jack as he turned to face them.
Larsen smiled as he pulled the unlit cigar plug from between his teeth. “You mean Calvin Klein here?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said his partner.
“If you don’t know, you got no business being a detective.” He gave Jack a wink and asked, “Got a minute?”
Jack set his briefcase atop the hood of his car. “Sure. What about?”
“Sally Fenning. As I’m sure you know, I’m on her murder.”
“Yeah, I was glad to hear that.”
“Why?”
“You guys never caught her daughter’s killer. Seemed the very least she deserved was a detective on her case who was good enough to catch hers.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Which leads you to me,” said Jack.
“Actually, no. It leads me to Tatum Knight, which leads me to you.”
“You want to interview him?”
“Love to. But he won’t talk to us.”
Jack hid his surprise. Tatum had neglected to tell him the police had contacted him. “Did you ask nicely?”
“Of course. I told him he could play ball or be the ball. Either way, I intend to smack a home run.”
Jack chuckled. “I gotta hand it to you, Larsen. You’re the only detective I know who can say that line with a straight face.”
“And sometimes it even works. But all kidding aside, if your client won’t talk, I am going to turn up the heat.”
“What do you want to know?”
He removed his sunglasses, as if to look Jack in the eye. “Did he kill Sally Fenning?”
“The answer is no.”
“Does he know who did?”
“No.”
“Do you expect me to take those responses at face value?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Did he beat the crap out of Gerry Colletti?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t he take the stand and tell Judge Parsons that he didn’t do it?”
“That was his lawyer’s decision.”
“What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
“I watched the hearing. You’re hiding something.”
“Rank speculation on your part.”
On the other side of the fence, a transit bus rumbled down the street. The air was suddenly thick with diesel fumes, but the detective didn’t miss a beat. “Tell me this much: Why the hell did Sally Fenning name a thug like Tatum Knight in her will?”
“I wish we could ask her.”
“I wish I could ask Tatum.”
“What’s in it for him?”
“He can either play ball, or-”
“Oh, please. Strike two.”
Larsen smirked. “This is what bugs me. Of the five beneficiaries identified so far, four have a direct connection to Sally’s prior marriage and to the death of her daughter. How does Tatum Knight fit into that group?”
Obviously Jack couldn’t volunteer anything about Tatum’s meeting with Sally before she was killed, but a little dialogue might not hurt. “That’s interesting,” said Jack. “You seem so certain that all four of the other known beneficiaries had some connection to Sally’s prior life.”
“Just a little deductive reasoning on my part.”
“I think it’s more than that. Sally’s ex-husband, the divorce lawyer, and the prosecutor who failed to indict anyone for the murder of Sally’s daughter were all obviously connected to Sally’s past. But the reporter simply wrote a few fact-filled articles about a terrible crime, which hardly seems enough to put her in the same reviled category as the others.”
“I’ll grant you that. She’s a little different animal.”
“If we assume that Sally decided to leave her money to her enemies to fight over, exactly what did this reporter do to make herself into one of Sally’s worst enemies?”
“You asking me the questions now?”
“If you can answer that one, I’ll see what I can do about Tatum.”
“I need a bigger commitment than that.”
“I’ll encourage him to meet with you. That’s all I can promise.”
Larsen gave him a steely look. “All right. But only because I know you’re a man of your word, I’ll give you this much. Deirdre Meadows did more than write a few newspaper articles about Sally Fenning.”
“How much more?”
“A whole damn book. All about the murder of Sally’s daughter. No publisher has bought it yet, but I understand she’s still shopping it.”
“And?”
“And, that’s it, that’s all, folks. At least until I get to sit down and talk to Tatum Knight.”
Jack grabbed his briefcase. “Fair enough. Thanks for the tidbit. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” said Larsen.
Jack nodded and unlocked his car. Larsen gave a little wave as he started to walk away. Then he stopped, looked back, and said, “One other thing.”
“What?”
“That’s one tough client you got there, Swyteck.”
“Yeah. Just like his brother.”
He was suddenly stone-cold serious. “I promise you: He’s nothing like Theo.”
“You trying to tell me something?”
“Just be sure to do your homework.”
“I already have. Tons of it.”
“Do it again. For your own good.”
“That’s what everybody used to tell me about Theo, too. Till I proved him innocent.”
Larsen turned away, as if it hadn’t really registered. Jack stood and watched, nearly blinded by the sun, as the detectives crossed the parking lot and head
ed for the gate.
Twenty-one
Theo was too good for his own bar. That was the drunken dis he heard from his bandmates whenever they played at Sparky’s. Not that they considered themselves above a raunchy rat hole like Sparky’s. The comment was directed strictly at the audience. As much as Theo wished he owned a true jazz bar, he’d purchased a going concern with an established clientele. They were loyal, they kept him profitable, and they unflaggingly believed that the history of music had reached its apex with “Achy-Breaky-Heart” and had been on the decline ever since. The sax was Theo’s passion, but the rednecks paid the rent.
Charlie Parker, forgive me.
He finished the set with a powerful solo worthy of the Blue Note. Two women wearing cowboy hats raced toward the jukebox, sending Theo into an Electric Slide panic attack. The table in front was filled with employees from the car dealership across the street. They were oblivious to the music, one of them laughing so hard that beer was pouring from his nostrils. But a few people clapped, and a woman in back even shot him two thumbs-up, which made Theo smile. Slowly, Sparky’s would change its stripes, he was sure of it.
Theo carefully laid his saxophone in the stand, an old Buescher 400 that had been passed down from the man who’d taught him how to play. His great-uncle Cyrus was once a nightclub star in old Overtown, Miami’s Harlem, and it would have pleased him to know that not even four years on death row could strip Theo of the passion the old man had planted in a teenage boy’s blood.
“What’ll it be, pal?” said Theo as he walked behind the bar and wrapped the white apron around his waist.
“Club soda.”
“Hitting the hard stuff, are you?”
“Can’t drink. I’m on painkillers.”
Theo looked up from the well for a better look. The lighting was poor, but even in the shadows this dude was obviously hurting.
“Damn, that’s nasty. I seen people crawl outta here with busted-up faces. First time I ever seen anyone come in that way.”
“Got a real professional ass-kicking.”
“Looks that way.”
“From your brother.”
Last to die Page 13
