As a boy in Havana, Hector Mesa had shined rich men's shoes for pennies. One day he demanded that Ernesto Pedrosa give him a job washing his limo, and Ernesto had done so, admiring the boy's spirit. After the Revolution, Ernesto brought him along to Miami and lent him out to anticommunist paramilitary groups, where Hector learned other sorts of jobs. But those days were past, and Hector's talents were going to waste.
"If I may be permitted? I have a suggestion." Hector's thick gray brows rose, furrowing his forehead.
Anthony lifted a hand from the desk, waiting. "Well?"
"A duplicate. The jeweler has a copy of the design? It would be expensive, but—"
"I can't do that. It isn't the money, Hector. She would know."
"There are ways of making it seem that an object has been submerged for months, even years. I know people who could do it."
Of course he knew them: his former-CIA pals. Two of them had been diving in the pond on the golf course. "Tell them to try again. The ring is there, deeper in the mud. They missed it."
He shrugged. "As you wish. And the other job?"
"I think, Hector, that you will find this more to your liking."
Anthony told him about the murder case in which Gail Connor had become involved. He told him about the victim, her bloody and violent death, and the evidence that had led to the arrest and conviction of Kenny Ray Clark. Now, unless something extraordinary happened, Clark would be executed on Wednesday, April 11. Four weeks. A stay might be granted if enough new evidence could be found. Anthony believed he could persuade Gail to let someone else take over at that point. If Clark were executed on schedule, and Gail believed that her inexperience was in any way to blame, she could sink into another depression, and her health, her law practice, and their relationship would suffer. It was damned bad timing that the governor had signed a death warrant so soon.
"You see the problem, don't you, Hector?"
He nodded slowly. "Your trip with the old man. Yes. An execution would be inconvenient."
A heavy crystal ashtray sat on the desk, and Anthony rolled his cigar on its edge, dislodging the ashes. "Inconvenient. I wouldn't have chosen that word, but you're right. There's no choice about the trip, I have to go." It had taken months to arrange. If it was postponed, Ernesto might not live long enough to go. He was eighty-four years old, and his heart was failing.
"I don't know if Clark will ever get out of prison, and frankly, that isn't my concern. I want a stay of execution, if at all possible, and that requires a good investigator. Will you do it?"
Hector stared at the wall behind the desk. A tattered flag of Cuba hung there. "Maybe. If Señor Ernesto doesn't need me for anything. I should ask him."
"Yes. Ask him, by all means." Anthony knew as well as Hector that the old man had nothing planned, but protocol had to be observed. "If you can take the job"— Anthony picked up the brown mailing envelope on the desk but hesitated in passing it over—"these are my notes, an outline of what I've just told you. There's a list of things to do in order of priority. First, find Vernon Byrd." For the pleasure of seeing Hector's reaction, Anthony added, "Byrd is a bouncer at a pool hall in the black section of Stuart. His arrest record is in here. He's over six feet tall, three hundred pounds. They call him 'Peanut.' He could give you some trouble."
A smile flickered across Hector's lips. He held out a hand for the envelope.
Anthony took a smaller, heavier envelope from his breast pocket and handed it over without comment. Five thousand dollars in cash. To state the amount would have been an insult. Hector slid the envelope into his jacket. He would use it wisely, and if he ran out, he would ask for more.
"Work as quickly as you can. If you need extra help, hire it. With some of the witnesses, an American investigator would be a good idea. That place up there, those people—they aren't what you're used to. Stay in contact with me. If Gail asks you to do something, put her oft Check with me first, but don't tell her about it. She's a little sensitive in that way." Anthony leaned over to stub out the remains of his cigar. "I think that's all. Do you have any questions?"
"No, not at the moment." Hector was trying to hide his joy. He stood up and waited to be dismissed so he could get to work.
"Good night."
"Good night, Señor Anthony."
Señor Anthony? Surprised by this, he watched Hector leave the room, the carpet deadening his footsteps. The door clicked shut behind him.
Hector might have asked a certain question before leaving. Anthony had expected him to. Is this man guilty of murder? But the question had not been asked, and Anthony realized why. Of all the issues that might have piqued Hector Mesa's curiosity, this was the least important.
Gail opened the front door for Anthony but avoided his kiss. They went through the living room and into the wood-paneled den that used to be her father's, but which she had turned into a second office. Papers were laid out across the sofa, banker's boxes sat on the floor, and files were stacked on a corner of the desk. Her laptop computer was on. She had been working when he called, asking to come over, to talk.
"I see the files have arrived," Anthony said.
"This isn't all. Most of them are at my office. Seventeen boxes. Miriam spent the day organizing everything." Gail crossed her arms. She was wearing jeans and a thin pink sweater. No bra. Barefoot. Her hair was uncombed, and mascara had smudged her eyes. She was beautiful. "Sorry to rush you, but I have a lot to do tonight. What did you want to say to me?"
He smiled. "I came to apologize for our little disagreement yesterday. You caught me at a bad time, in the middle of a trial. Gail. Sweetheart." He put a hand on his heart. "I am sorry. Forgive me."
Letting out a breath, she looked toward the ceiling, then at him. "Do you want some coffee or something? I just made a fresh pot."
"Is that brandy still in the cabinet there?" He took off his suit coat and laid it over the arm of the sofa. His tie had been off since he'd left the federal courthouse. Gail leaned over to reach into the bottom of the bookcase. The seat of her jeans was soft and faded. She blew the dust out of a liqueur glass and poured.
"Thank you," he said.
She kissed him on the mouth. "I am glad to see you, you jerk."
"How sweet you are," he said. "Tell me about your meeting with your new client."
"Kenny's all right. He's afraid to get his hopes up, but he's taking it pretty well. Better than I would, but he's had eleven years of practice. We talked for almost three hours. I typed up my notes, if you want to see them. He gave me some leads on witnesses."
"Excellent. I just spoke to Hector Mesa. He's going to help you out."
"With what?"
"Reinvestigating the case. He's very good. You're lucky he has time to do this." Anthony sipped his brandy.
"My God, Anthony, he was a paid assassin for Omega 7."
"Where did you hear such a thing?"
"You told me yourself."
"Did I? Well, Hector never took money. He was a patriot. Don't worry, he won't shoot the judge."
"This isn't funny. Maybe I don't want to work with Hector. I have a list of people that Denise recommended."
"No, no. How long will it take you to find someone else, explain the facts—"
"You're missing the point"
He made a small shrug of surrender. "I should have called you. But I happened to see Hector on my way out, and I thought, well—"
"How much does he charge?"
"Nothing. He's doing it as a favor to me. Give him his expenses, if you insist." Anthony turned a chair around and sat in it, crossing his legs, holding the brandy glass on his knee.
"You are such a liar. Don't think for one minute that I'm letting you pay for this."
"All right, then. Hector can give you a bill when he's finished. You pass it on to Ruby Smith. All right?"
"Fine."
"Good. I told him to start by finding Vernon Byrd."
"I'm already ahead of him." Gail went over to the desk and looked t
hrough some papers, then wrote something on a legal pad. She tore off the page. "Here. Give this to Hector. Arid tell him to call me. I don't want him doing anything without my prior approval."
Anthony saw that she had written Vernon Byrd's name and an address in Stuart. "Alaba'o. Where did this come from?"
"Jackie. She called this afternoon."
"What a surprising woman. Most police officers would have turned their back. And if their father is the sheriff, forget about it. Why is she helping you?"
"She probably feels bad about the way Garlan jumped all over you. But I think the real reason is, she's a rookie on road patrol, and we dangle a homicide in front of her. It's too good to resist. She wants to get together for lunch next time I'm in town."
"When is that?"
"Friday." Gail took the sheet of paper out of Anthony's hand and went back to her desk. "I also need Lougie Jackson's address. Jackson was an alibi witness at the trial. The jury didn't believe him, but there were other people at his house who might remember that Kenny was there. It would help if Hector could find them."
"As long as you're going back to Stuart, get another check from Ruby Smith."
"I have it on my list." Gail gave him the paper again, which he folded and put in his shirt pocket.
"And don't forget to prepare a motion and order for the crime scene photos."
"It's done. I've typed up affidavits for Tina Hopwood and Bess Grigsby to sign, and I'm also going to ask to take new depositions of Ron Kemp, his partner Federsen, and Garlan Bryce. And maybe Dorothy Chastain, too. Why are you shaking your head?"
"I doubt the judge would allow it."
"That's probably true," Gail said, "but the more he denies us, the worse it looks, like the police are hiding something." •
"Don't waste your time on strategies that won't pay off. You have enough to do already. The state is going to fight to preserve this conviction. They will say that the evidence you found is too late. They won't believe any of it. You show them black, they insist it's white."
"I know."
"You mustn't invest all your emotional energy in a case like this one. The odds aren't good."
"Anthony, please stop being so negative."
He looked at her awhile, then set his glass on a shelf He tugged on her wrist. "Come here." She sat on his lap, and he locked his arms around her. Her hips pressed down warmly. "You're tired. Did you sleep last night?"
"No. I kept hearing gates clanging shut."
"Pobrecita. " He kissed the back of her hand. "I should have warned you."
"What a grim place. It's like some horrible sci-fi movie. You hear these huge fans going, and voices echoing in the cellblocks. A thousand men but you don't see anyone because they're all on lockdown. At the far end of the corridor is Q wing. The death chamber. It's right next to G wing, the old death row. Fifty inmates there, the other three hundred and twenty in a new prison up the road. G wing couldn't hold them anymore. Oh, the guards were very nice, answering all my questions. They said they still have Old Sparky, and they can roll it out and hook up the wires, if anyone prefers electrocution to lethal injection. Kenny was moved to Q wing on Monday. That's how they get a man used to dying. They separate him from everyone he knows, and they take what little he has away from him. There's a science to it, you see. It's like a machine, everything so organized and precise and soulless."
"Don't think about it anymore." Anthony stroked her arm, going up under the sleeve of her shirt. Her skin was satiny. "I worry about you, sweetheart."
She hugged him. "I know you do, but I'll be all right."
"You have to rely on me a little more. Anything you need, ask me. Will you? Anything." He kissed her, taking his time, feeling the tense muscles in her back begin to let go. "Why don't you put all this away for the night?"
"I wish I could."
"Yes. Put it away. Come over to my house. I'll get you up early. Make you some coffee."
Her laugh was warm against his neck. "You're so bad, tempting me like that."
"I never see you anymore."
Through her shirt he kissed one breast, then the other.
"Anthony, I can't go with you. Not tonight." He made a small groan of disappointment. "Then why don't we make love right here?"
"Here? God, no. Karen might be listening."
"We'll be very quiet." He bit her earlobe, put kisses down her neck.
"It's so late."
"You don't have a few minutes for me?" He unsnapped her jeans.
"Anthony, stop it." She pushed herself off his lap and shook her hair back from her face. "Is this what you came over here for?"
"I came to offer my help."
"And I should show my gratitude."
Heat rushed into his face. "You're right, it's late." He got up and put on his coat. "When you have time, call me. Maybe after April eleventh."
"That's a terrible thing to say!"
"Buenas noches, señora."
He was in his car turning left onto Biscayne Boulevard when his cell phone rang. He knew who it was. He turned off the ringer and dropped the phone back into his pocket.
The Rickenbacker Causeway led from Miami to Key Biscayne, and the bridge arched over the bay. As Anthony's car swept down the far side of it, he kept one hand on the steering wheel and reached into his pocket. The message light was blinking.
"¿Qué quiere esa chica?" He flipped open his cell phone, dialed a code, and listened. Her voice was in his ear, hushed with remorse.
"Guess who? ... I'm sorry, Anthony, but what did you expect? Karen's such an eavesdropper, and I have all this work to do.... I do not want to have a two-minute fuck with you. . . . No, I take that back. I would love it. . . . I'm sorry. You're trying to help me, I know you are Call me as soon as you get this message. Ten minutes, then I'm turning my phone off and going to bed. I'm so tired. . . . Love you. Buenas noches."
There was a click, then silence.
He looked at his watch. "Ay, Dios." He hit her number on the speed-dial. It rang, but there was no answer. He waited for the tone.
"Sweetheart, my phone was turned off, and I just saw the light blinking, and I called you right away, but it was too late.... I'm sorry, too. . . . Here, listen. I'm kissing you good night.... Duérmete bien. Sleep well. Te quiero, mi cielito."
CHAPTER 13
Friday morning, March 16
Leaving home at six o'clock in the morning put Gail at the courthouse in Stuart before eight. She was waiting at the door to Judge Willis's office when his judicial assistant arrived. The woman's name was Ms. Huff Gail told her she wanted to set a date for the Rule 3.850 hearing in State vs. Clark.
The hearing had to be put somewhere in the twenty-six days remaining until April 11. Gail needed as many of those days as possible to prepare her case. But the hearing couldn't be too close to the execution date. If Judge Willis denied relief, there had to be enough time left to appeal.
Gail had already spoken to the "death clerk" in Tallahassee, a woman named Marcia Turner, who kept track of all capital cases in Florida. Ms. Turner had told Gail that the justices liked to hear oral arguments at least ten days before executions. This meant by Friday, March 30. Gail told Ms. Turner that this didn't give her enough time to prepare for the hearing before Judge Willis. With some reluctance, Ms. Turner tentatively set it down for 10:30 a.m., Monday, April 2 and asked Gail to have her brief in by 5:00 p.m. on Thursday, March 29. The Attorney General's Office could file their answer on Friday, and the justices would review the case over the weekend.
Thus the hearing in Judge Willis's court would have to take place no later than the morning of March 29. There was no way to know how he would rule, so Gail would have to be ready not only with the motion under Rule 3.850 but the appeal as well. The motion could run two hundred pages exclusive of exhibits, attachments, and citations. The brief for the Florida Supreme Court could be another hundred, with more exhibits, attachments, and citations.
If Willis denied relief, Gail would immed
iately file the appeal, with a copy for the clerk, a copy for each of the seven justices, and a copy for the Attorney General. Thousands of pages, everything bound, indexed, and referenced.
Denise Robinson had given Gail some bad news: Kenny had already had one appeal to the local U.S. district court, and he wouldn't get another one, not since the Anti-Terrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act of 1996. Congress didn't want those little federal judges throwing monkey wrenches into the system, issuing stays of execution. Gail would have to make a choice. She could go to the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals in Atlanta, the same three-judge panel that heard Kenny's first appeal—and turned it down. Or go straight to the United States Supreme Court. It depended on how things worked out. In either event, the federal appeal would be in the form of a petition for writ of habeas corpus and/or petition for certiorari. Gail would prepare those in advance as well. The federal clerks would also expect to get courtesy copies of everything filed in the state court. More typing, more printing, more pages, and by then, costs in the multiple thousands of dollars, never mind the spinning numbers on the attorney's time clock.
Sometime before oral argument in the Florida Supreme Court, Gail would lodge the petition for habeas in the federal court system. The clerk would hold on to it. The moment the Florida justices ruled against her, if they did, the petition would be filed and the gears of the federal appeals process would engage. The case would proceed upward, Eleventh Circuit to U.S. Supreme Court. Or bypass the Eleventh Circuit. It depended.
Rules and protocol, deadlines and page limits, finding the federal issues. There was a system to this. Figuring the angles, pulling back on the cue, letting go at the right speed and force, balls clicking, hitting the rails, bouncing gently, ball in the pocket. She prayed to make the shot. Miss, and her client would be dead.
Gail had gone past panic to a state of extreme concentration.
She told Judge Willis's JA that oral argument in the Florida Supreme Court was set tentatively for Monday, April 2, and that she would like the 3.850 hearing early on the preceding Thursday.
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