Afraid of the Dark

by James Grippando

  Vince waited for him to say more, but the ball seemed to be in his court. “Anybody get a look at the suspect?” asked Vince.

  “No. It was after dark, and the quality isn’t that good, even with digital enhancement. The camera has a head-on view of Ethan Chang, so we can tell that it’s him, but the suspect is filmed from behind. The dark sunglasses and hat don’t make it any easier.”

  “Might not even be blind,” said Vince. “Could have just been a disguise.”

  “That’s possible,” said the detective.

  “Seems more than possible, when you consider the note Swyteck found on his table. Not an easy thing for someone to do without the benefit of sight—find his way to someone’s table and scribble out a note on a napkin.”

  “Another valid point,” the detective said.

  Vince listened as the detective filled in a few more details, but he was less than totally engaged, still wondering why Alicia had felt it necessary to come with him.

  “Anyway,” said the detective, “I won’t take up any more of your time. Let me just say that before I made detective, I was in charge of the team that ran perimeter control around the motel on Biscayne when you were lead negotiator. I have tremendous respect for how you’ve bounced back. For what it’s worth, I hope the state attorney nails the son of a bitch who did this to you.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Vince.

  Alicia and the detective exchanged good-byes, and Vince thanked him. The detective closed the door on his way out, leaving Vince alone with his wife.

  “You didn’t tell him about Brainport,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You told him how hard it would be for a blind guy to write a note on Jack Swyteck’s napkin, but what if the blind guy was using Brainport?”

  Vince smiled and shook his head. “Alicia, that device is still in research and development. You can’t just go buy it. So far, the only people who have ever used the device outside of a clinic are me and Erik Weihenmayer—and he’s the only blind person ever to climb the Seven Summits. I don’t think Erik is a murderer.”

  He and Alicia sat in silence, and he sensed that there was something she needed to say. Then she said it: “I was looking through the things from your visit to Pensacola.”

  Vince just listened.

  She paused, then added, “There were some handwritten notes.”

  “Yeah, pretty primitive, wasn’t it?”

  “To be honest, it surprised me how good it was.”

  “I was doing really well with letter recognition, so we spent some time on writing. We’ll work on that more on the next visit. Like everything else in life, it should improve with practice.”

  More silence.

  “Vince,” she said, “can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  She hesitated, and the question seemed a very long time coming. Finally, she spoke.

  “Where were you on Saturday night?”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The following afternoon, Jack returned from Washington to find a box waiting for him in his office. In it was the evidence that the state attorney had presented to the grand jury to secure an indictment for murder in the first degree. Jack was in no mood to sift through it.

  Not in a box. Not with a fox.

  The morning meeting at the Red Cross with Neil and Stan Haber had brought Jack no closer to proving Jamal’s alibi, and his review of the box of grand jury materials convinced him of one thing: Jamal was in deep trouble. The recording from Vince’s answering machine was especially powerful. Jack listened to it once, and when the chills stopped coursing down his spine, he played it again. At moments like these—when he was alone in his office and there was no need to hide his emotions from a judge or the jury—it didn’t matter how many murder cases he’d taken to trial. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, like the sound of a teenage girl struggling to name her killer as her young life drained away.

  “Tell me,” he heard McKenna whisper, “am I dying?”

  Jack envisioned her lying on her bedroom floor, her body limp and wrapped in a blood-soaked blanket, her vision fading as she looked up into Vince’s eyes and heard his lie.

  “No, sweetheart. You’re gonna be just fine.”

  No videotape was needed to see Vince switching into cop mode, unable to save McKenna but finding the wherewithal to build the case against her killer.

  “Who did this to you?”

  A weak cough was her response, the end nearing.

  “McKenna, tell me who did this to you.”

  It took a moment, but then came the one-word answer that was the heart of the state’s case: “Jamal,” she whispered.

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “My first,” she said, her voice barely audible. There was no rhythm to her breathing, the noise more like a gurgle of fluids in her throat. Then there was silence, followed by Vince’s emotional outburst.

  Jack hit the STOP button, knowing how it had ended, unable to listen a second time to Vince’s efforts to revive her.

  Two hours passed before Jack looked at the clock again, and it was well past dinnertime when he finally got through the rest of the evidence in the box. Jack had handled other murder trials in which the victim had been stabbed to death, but this case was very different. There were no photographs of the victim. The crime scene was literally a pile of ashes, and the forensic and investigative reports read more like a prosecution for arson than homicide. Investigators had isolated the propane tank that was believed to have caused the explosion. It was the fire marshal’s expert opinion that it was gunfire—probably an errant shot at Vince by the attacker—that had ruptured the tank. The ensuing fire had consumed virtually all physical evidence relating to the homicide, including McKenna’s body. The only knives recovered in the rubble were in the charred remains of the kitchen drawers, and there was no way to know if any of them was the murder weapon or if the killer had brought his own and escaped with it. The state’s case was built on McKenna’s own words and a detailed statement of Vince Paulo.

  Jack kept coming back to the answering machine recording—as he expected the prosecutor would at trial. It was a dramatic contradiction of his client’s claim of innocence, and a jury would demand an answer to the same question that was dogging Jack:

  If Jamal didn’t do it, why did McKenna say it was him?

  Jack packed up the box of evidence, called it a night, and met Neil for a late bite at Cy’s Place in Coconut Grove. They sat on stools at the long mahogany bar, the television on the wall tuned to ESPN. Cy’s Place was better known for its late-night jazz than its food, but if Jack didn’t eat there at least once a week, he risked serious bodily injury at the hands of the owner.

  “Try the fish sandwich,” said Theo. “The dolphin were practically jumping into the boat. I caught ’em myself this morning.”

  Having spent the morning in meetings trolling for evidence to support an alibi, Jack was wrestling with another why-can’t-I-be-Theo moment. Fishing in the warm waters of the Gulf Stream was one of the many reasons to live in south Florida, especially in January, but Jack hadn’t been out since September. If it weren’t for Theo’s what’s-yours-is-mine philosophy, Jack’s boat would have rotted on the dock.

  “Make it two,” said Neil. “And a couple cold drafts.”

  “Cool,” said Theo. “Yours is on the house, Neil.”

  “What about mine?” said Jack.

  “You I charge double.”

  Neil laughed, but Jack knew he wasn’t kidding. “What did I do to piss you off?”

  Theo went to the tap and starting pouring. “Vince Paulo basically saved my life two years ago,” he said. “And now you’re defending the guy who blinded him.”

  Jack was all too aware of that dilemma. “First of all, Neil asked me to help with the case. Second of all, he’s more convinced of Jamal’s innocence than I am. So why is his food free?”

  Theo set up the beers in front of them. “Neil can’t help him
self. He thinks everyone is innocent. You know better.”

  “He has a point,” said Neil.

  “Stay out of this,” said Jack. He tasted his beer, and an idea came to him. “I tell you what, Theo. You can bill me double for a month, if you can explain one thing to me about this case.”

  “I assume you mean the month of March, not February.”

  “All right. Thirty-one days.”

  “Hold on,” said Neil. “You can’t discuss the case with a bartender.”

  “Theo is my investigator,” said Jack. “This is a privileged conversation.”

  “It’s more like a bet involving the price of fish sandwiches,” said Neil.

  “Then let’s do this by the book. Theo, in accordance with the rules of criminal procedure as approved by the Supreme Court of Florida, I hereby retain you as a certified expert on phony alibis and bullshit accusations. Tell me what you think of this one.”

  Theo came closer, resting his arms on the bar top. “Let’s hear it, dude.”

  Jack took a minute, his smile giving way to a very serious expression. The $64,000 question that had popped from the box of evidence from the state attorney was still eating at him, and he was no longer just kidding around.

  “Answer me this,” said Jack. “Why would a girl like McKenna Mays tell a cop that her boyfriend stabbed her if he didn’t?”

  “Easy,” said Theo. “The guy who did it told her he’d come back and slit her throat if she named him. She’s bleeding, scared, confused, and blurts out the first name that comes into her head.”

  “Doesn’t exactly line up,” said Neil. “The girl was dying. No reason to fear her attacker coming back to hurt her.”

  “Maybe he threatened to come back and kill her entire family. Or maybe she didn’t know she was going to die.”

  The last point had Jack and Neil exchanging glances. Lawyers could agonize over evidence for hours, days, even weeks. A former gangbanger from the ’hood who’d spent four years in Florida State Prison could look at the same set of facts and make things just so simple.

  “Take it one step further,” said Jack. “It’s not that she isn’t sure if she’s going to live or die. Maybe she’s absolutely convinced that she is going to live.”

  “Convinced by someone she knows and trusts,” says Neil.

  The lawyers were silent, but Jack didn’t need ESP to know where the other legal mind at the bar was headed.

  “I don’t want to go after Paulo directly,” said Jack, shaking his head.

  “I can’t blame you a bit for that,” said Neil. “But you know as well as I do that trying to prove up a secret detention facility in Prague is headed nowhere fast. So here’s the thing.”

  “Tell me.”

  He glanced at Theo, then back at Jack. “It’s like I told you before. They got the wrong man, which means that whoever stole Vince Paulo’s sight and killed McKenna Mays is still out there. The way I see it, you’re actually doing Paulo a favor.”

  Jack lowered his eyes, talking into his beer. “Yeah, a favor,” he said with a mirthless chuckle. “I’ll probably get a thank-you note from the whole damn department.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  On Friday afternoon, Jack and Neil were back in the Justice Building. Seated between them at the nicked and scratched defense table was Jamal Wakefield, who looked almost boyish in his orange prison jumpsuit. The prosecutorial team sat closer to the empty jury box. Once again, Assistant State Attorney McCue had brought along the lawyer from the National Security Division of the Department of Justice.

  “Good morning,” said the judge, and Jack did not take that as a good omen. It was three P.M.

  “Good morning,” said the lawyers, no one pointing out his error. It was an unwritten rule in Judge Flint’s courtroom: Suck up or shut up.

  Bail hearings were not usually closed to the public, but this hearing was unusual for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that in Florida there was no guaranteed right to bail in a first degree murder case. The accused could be released only after an Arthur hearing, named for one of the Florida Supreme Court’s most famous decisions of the early 1980s—which, for the record, had absolutely nothing to do with Dudley Moore, Christopher Cross, or getting caught between the moon and New York City. In theory, the burden was on the prosecution to establish that the proof against the accused was evident and the presumption of guilt was great. In State v. Jamal Wakefield—a case tinged with national security concerns—Jack was practical enough to realize that the defense would have to put on evidence to establish a right to pretrial release.

  The prosecutor spoke first. “Judge, we have a defendant who was picked up in Somalia after the commission of the murder and is a clear flight risk. This is a frivolous motion and a colossal waste of this court’s time. For purposes of this hearing, the state of Florida relies on the evidence that it’s already presented to the grand jury.”

  “Thank you,” the judge said, and his appreciation seemed sincere, as if he were still under the impression that it was morning and that he had an important lunch date. “Mr. Swyteck, the ball is in your court.”

  Jack rose. “Your Honor, in due time we’ll explain how Mr. Wakefield ended up in Somalia. But first, the defense will show that the case against Mr. Wakefield is a weak one, and that he should therefore be released on bond pending trial.”

  The judge groaned as he rocked back in his tall leather chair. “Let me be up front about this, Counselor. I am not going to allow you to try this case twice. Your client has a right to a speedy trial, where you can present your evidence soon enough.”

  “We may need just one witness to call the prosecution’s case in question,” said Jack.

  The judge seemed pleased by that announcement. “I’m going to hold you to that, Mr. Swyteck. Proceed.”

  “The defense calls Vincent Paulo.”

  Jack’s voice carried across the empty seats in the public galley and almost echoed off the rear wall, a bit too loud for a courtroom with no observers. The double doors in the back of the courtroom swung open, and Sergeant Paulo entered. He wore a business suit and tie, his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. In his right hand was a white walking cane. His wife was standing at his left, a strong and beautiful woman, which made it seem all the more tragic that Vince could no longer see her. Vince tucked away the cane and laid his hand in the crook of her right arm. Together they came down the aisle, though it seemed to Jack that Vince could have done it without assistance. In a moment of uncontrollable defense-lawyer cynicism, Jack wondered if the prosecutor had told Vince to bring his wife, make himself look more helpless—and make the judge hate Jack even more for attacking the cop that his client was accused of blinding.

  “Do you swear to tell the truth . . .” said the bailiff, administering the familiar oath.

  “I do,” said Vince. He climbed into the witness stand and settled into the chair.

  Jack stepped forward and, to his surprise, felt at a decided disadvantage before he’d even started. The key to effective cross-examination—and this was cross, even though technically the defense had called Paulo to the stand—was to control the witness. In the courtroom, control was like any other form of communication: Least important was what you said, more important was how you said it, and most important of all was body language. Out of habit, Jack planted his feet firmly on the courtroom floor, squared his shoulders to the witness, and stood tall, but Vince was unflappable, impervious to the nonverbal cues.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Paulo.”

  Vince showed little expression. “Sergeant Paulo,” he said.

  “Sergeant,” said Jack. “First, let me say that I regret having to subpoena you to appear in court today. I know—” he started to say, then stopped himself, thinking of their phone conversation. “I can only imagine how difficult this must be.”

  Vince did not reply, and for Jack the silence was somewhat unnerving.

  Jack continued. “I’ve read the sworn affidav
it of your testimony that the prosecutor presented to the grand jury. I’ve also listened to the recording of your last words with McKenna Mays on the day she died. I understand that you were a police officer at that time, but just to be clear, you were not on the scene in response to a call for help, were you?”

  “No, I was not.”

  “I believe you stated in your affidavit that Mr. Mays was out of town, and you went to the Mays residence to check on McKenna.”

  “Actually, Mr. Mays told me that he was concerned about—”

  “Excuse me, Sergeant. Judge, what Mr. Mays told the witness is inadmissible hearsay.”

  The prosecutor rose. “Is that some kind of objection?”

  Even without a jury—judges were human, too—Jack couldn’t let the witness testify that McKenna’s father feared Jamal might come around while he was out of town. “Your Honor, what I’d like is simply an answer to my questions.”

  “The witness will answer the questions asked,” said the judge, “without mention of what others may have told him.”

  “Let me restate it,” said Jack. “You went there to check on McKenna, but not on official business.”

  Vince shifted in his chair, and it obviously pained him not to be able to take a shot at Jamal. “Basically, yes.”

  “You and McKenna’s father were friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “At that time, I’d say about seven years.”

  “Since McKenna was in elementary school, then?”

  “That sounds right.”

  “Would you describe your relationship with McKenna as close?”

  “She used to call me Uncle Vince, if that answers your question.”

  “Would you say that she regarded you as someone she could trust?”

  “Of course,” said Vince.

  “Someone she could rely on?”

  “There was nothing I wouldn’t have done for McKenna.”

  “Someone who would tell the truth?”

  “Objection,” said the prosecutor, rising.