Hector took off his glasses and wiped salt water off the lenses. Put them back on. Waited. Watched the bubbles.
"Arriba."
The motor reversed, straining. The boat tilted. Vernon's chest was heaving. Hector motioned again, and he sank to his neck. "Will you remember, Vernon?"
The duct tape across his mouth went in and out. He nodded wildly. A wave splashed over his head.
Hector told the men to bring him in. The motor smoked. Vernon Byrd came up, and they swung the davit. Hector cut the rope to the concrete block. The rope snaked over the side and vanished into black water. Vernon Byrd slid to the bottom of the boat like an immense fish.
Icy pinpoints of stars glittered above the eastern horizon. No sound but the distant shush of waves on the beach. Anthony didn't know what time it was. A couple of hours before dawn, probably. Wrapped in the thick hotel robe, hands in its pockets, he sat on the balcony outside his room.
The alarm was set for six o'clock so that Gail could be back in her own room before her mother and daughter awoke. They knew she was here, but it was a matter of courtesy, Gail had said.
She had fallen asleep in his arms. Anthony had not slept. He had stared at the ceiling thinking of what to do about Rusty Beck.
When Gail had undressed, he had noticed the bruise on her thigh, a purple blotch as wide across as a man's fist. Gail had said never mind, it's nobody's fault. An accident. I can't deal with this now.
To calm her, Anthony had let it go. He had taken her to bed and put a soft kiss on the bruise, then a kiss for the other thigh, one for each hipbone and breast, hiding his rage in passion.
What to do.
It would be useless to rely on the police. Useless and unimaginative. Anthony had come up with a dozen ideas of what to do with Rusty Beck, knowing he would follow through on none of them. Gail had enough on her mind, not to worry what he might do.
Do nothing. Except to ask Hector to keep an eye on her.
Restless, Anthony got up and walked to the balcony railing. The tiled patio was cool under his feet. How black the sky. Sooner or later lights would wash out the stars, and concrete would fill in the green spaces, as it did on the rest of the coast.
He rested his arms on the railing and thought about McGrath. For the first time, he thought that Gail could be right. McGrath could have brushed Amber aside if sex had been the only thing between them. But if Amber's husband had helped McGrath commit some crime, and if Amber had known about it, and this knowledge had jeopardized his plans for River Pines, then yes, that could have been fatal.
Why wasn't Gary dead too? He had kept his mouth shut.
Anthony couldn't see Whitney McGrath attacking a woman with a knife. He would have sent someone else. Twelve years ago, had Rusty Beck kept his hair long? That would be something to check out.
But something didn't fit. The sexual connotation of twenty-seven stab wounds to the central body mass. So much blood. And the red satin panties dangling from one ankle. Only a man obsessed would have done that. A rage so intense it had driven her crucifix under her collarbone.
Pacing back along the railing, tapping his hand along its surface, Anthony found himself once more thinking of Gary Dodson. He hadn't been able to satisfy his wife. He had compounded that weakness by being fired from his job at the Palm Beach law firm and failing at his own practice. Amber had been infatuated with McGrath. Gary was jealous. In the kitchen that morning they had argued. Gary exploded. He reached for a knife. Simple. Except that he had an alibi. So far.
The breakers appeared as intermittent flashes of pale gray in the darkness. Anthony watched them for a while. "Cara'o." He scrubbed his hand through his hair and squinted his eyes shut. He had sworn to himself not to become involved in this damned case, but he had to, if only to get Gail out of it. She was prepared to go down every last cul-de-sac in the maze. She would bash herself against stone walls for Kenny Ray Clark. And time would run out.
What to do.
"Anthony?"
He turned and saw her sitting up in bed.
"Here I am." He left the door open for the sound of the sea and came back inside. "I was looking at the stars."
"Are they still there?"
"Every one."
She lay back on her pillow. "I couldn't remember where I was."
"You are here with me. Always." He undid the belt to his robe.
Grasping the edge of the comforter, he slowly pulled it away, watching her soft curves appear. His senses were intoxicated, coming over him in waves. He buried his face in her. He could die drowning in her sweetness.
3/14/01
Dearest Gail,
I hope you can read this, I'm writing it by the light of the TV. I told the guard to turn the sound off and just put on the picture. You know on death watch they put it outside the cell, right? He asked me if I wanted a cigarette or a soda. It's funny that since this warrant is hanging over my head they treat me alot better. At our meeting the other day you asked me how I was feeling. Truthfully I'm a wreck. Before you came I was used to the idea of dying although 1 didn't kill anybody. Now I can't sleep and I can't eat because I keep thinking I might get out of here, and if so what would I do my first day of freedom? Stay out of Martin County for sure. Only the Man Upstairs knows how this will all turn out but I have my fingers crossed.
Kenny
CHAPTER 17
Tuesday, March 20
"Maybe he'll talk to me. They haven't been his IVI lawyers for years, Larry. Don't go into detail, just ask him to call me."
Larry Black was a senior partner at Gail's former law firm, Hartwell Black, one of Miami's most established. Larry had contacts throughout the highest stratum of the legal profession, including, as it turned out, Hadley and Morgan of Palm Beach, erstwhile counsel for J. Whitney McGrath. Larry had gone to law school with one of the partners, William Shumway. Gail wanted to know from Shumway why his firm had fired Gary Dodson. Whatever he told her, if he told her anything at all, might not help, but the thread was there, and she couldn't let it dangle.
"All right, I'll see what I can do," Larry said. "And, Gail? If you want to come back to the saner side of the practice, let me know. The door is always open."
"Thank you, Larry."
She hung up and made a check mark on her list. She tacked the sheet of paper back onto the bulletin board that now hung on her office wall. Boxes were shoved underneath the folding tables that ran along the other side of the room. On top of the tables were stacks of papers that would eventually be part of the many copies of various motions or petitions to be filed in any of four separate courts. Legal opinions, police reports, affidavits…
The snitch, Vernon Byrd, had signed his affidavit yesterday. He had driven all the way down from Stuart. Gail didn't see why Jackie had warned her away from him. Mr. Byrd had been cooperative, even apologetic. He had said he would be happy to testify for Kenny Ray Clark.
The gloom Gail had felt over the weekend had lifted. She walked slowly past the papers laid out on the table, taking a mental inventory. Byrd's affidavit. The affidavit from Tina Hopwood giving Kenny an alibi. More alibi affidavits from two men who had seen Kenny Ray at Lougie Jackson's house in Port St. Lucie the morning of the murder. Affidavit from Bess Grigsby, who knew of trouble between Amber and Gary. FBI studies showing rates of error in eyewitness identification.
Gail hoped to hear from Vivian Baker, former director of sales at River Pines, to see what she knew about McGrath and Amber. Hector had located her working at an interior design studio in Richmond, Virginia. Gail had left messages, but so far, nothing.
Go to Florida State Prison on Friday, get the client's signature on the motion under Rule 3.850. Spend the weekend putting it together. File the motion on Monday, argue it on Wednesday, March 28. Possible denial, go to Florida Supreme Court, oral arguments on Monday, April 2—
The execution was set for April 11.
The thought sent a tremor through her, and she leaned on the table for support. Kenny had wri
tten her this week. He'd said she had raised his hopes—the very thing he hadn't wanted. What a cold wind it was that howled in the gap between hope and despair.
An hour or so later, working at her computer on the petition for habeas corpus, Gail heard a knock at her open office door. Anthony held up a box. "Time for lunch."
"You brought me lunch? That's so sweet. Come here, let me kiss you. Just one, though. That's all I have time for."
He pushed the door closed with one perfectly polished black shoe. He was dressed in charcoal gray Brooks Brothers. His stealth suit. He'd been negotiating a plea in federal court this morning. She stood up and they met over the desk. He put his hand around the back of her neck and held her there, making it last.
"Okay, okay, that's enough." She smiled and sat down, working on the brief for the Florida Supreme Court while he unpacked the box. Prime rib, baked potato, salad, bread. "I can't eat all that!"
"You're losing weight," he said. "I noticed at the hotel last weekend. You bruised me with your hipbones." He withdrew an envelope from his inside pocket. "Read this. I appear to have been wrong about Gary Dodson."
Gail stopped typing and turned around to look at Anthony. "You? Wrong?" She took a letter from the envelope. It had been signed by a Dr. Kevin Mannheim, the forensic pathologist.
Anthony summarized. "Mannheim won't pin down a time of death, but he went over Dr. Snyder's detailed notes on air temperature, body temperature, the victim's size, degree of blood clotting, and so forth, and based on that, and on the autopsy photos, Mannheim can't say that Snyder was wrong. Snyder's opinion was that Amber Dodson died between 10:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m., and Mannheim finds it entirely consistent with the evidence." Anthony dropped a pat of butter onto his potato. "Go ahead. Say T told you so.' "
With a dismissive wave, Gail read the letter herself. "Well, well. Gary is in the clear." She lifted the letter to look at the invoice attached. "Twelve hundred dollars?"
"He gave us a break because he knows me. You have the money, don't you?" He pointed with his plastic knife. "Eat, it's delicious."
Gail dragged the carry-out container close enough to eat while she worked. "I'll ask Miriam to mail him a check." In a couple of weeks, she added silently.
Anthony stood up and swiveled the computer monitor so she couldn't see it. "We're going to talk, and I want you to pay attention. This is important. A friend of mine, Al de la Torre, has experience in capital appeals. He would be glad to file a notice of appearance as co-counsel in the Clark case. His fee is negotiable. And no, I am not paying for this. I want you to talk to him. And please don't argue with me."
Gail shook her head. "We've had this discussion already. I'm not giving this case to another lawyer."
"Did I say that?" Anthony held up a hand. "I knew this would be your first reaction, but no death penalty attorney with any choice in the matter works alone. There is too much to do. One person cannot write the motions, prepare the exhibits, take phone calls, investigate the case, study the opposing briefs, argue in court, and at the same time deal with the clerks, the state attorney, the witnesses, and the client. You have less than a week to file this motion, and assuming the judge denies it, and we both expect him to, you will have only two weeks left to move the appeal through the courts. You have no idea what this will take out of you."
"Fine. You want to help me so much, you do it."
"I don't do capital appeals."
"You're one of the best lawyers around. You can't do this?"
His expression was stony. "I told you before, I don't have time."
"You can't squeeze it into your schedule? What happened to, 'Anything you need, sweetheart, anything I can do to help. Just tell me.' "
She could see his jaw tighten. He said calmly, "I am going with my grandfather to Cuba on the first of April. I can't put it oft"
"Fine. Go ahead."
Anthony threw his napkin on the desk. "This is not a choice between you and Ernesto. I can't do both. I can't do everything. Neither can you, Gail. Por amor de Dios, when will you admit it?"
The intercom buzzed, and Anthony scowled at it. "I told her not to disturb us."
"She isn't your secretary." Gail picked it up.
Miriam said that William Shumway was on the line.
An hour and a half in a bubble of quiet, floating up the turnpike. Gail had promised Anthony that on the way to Palm Beach she would think about letting his buddy Al help on the case, if Al could reduce his fees.
She plugged in her cell phone and called the office. "Miriam, it's me. Let's get to work."
Miriam told her that Karen had called to remind her to pick up a video on the way home so they could watch it together. Gail made a note on her legal pad: Call home re video. She would ask her mother to take care of it.
Miriam said Ruby had called back.
"Would you mind?" Gail said. "Just see what she wants, okay? And let me know."
Vivian Baker had called.
"Great." Gail wrote the number. "Wait a minute. That area code is in South Florida. I thought she'd moved to Virginia."
She was visiting friends in Boca Raton.
"That's lucky. Now if she'll just talk to me." Gail's messages had only alluded to "an old real estate matter in Martin County," for fear that Vivian Baker would otherwise slam the phone down if she knew Gail wanted to talk about Whit McGrath. "I'll call her on my way home. What else?"
Miriam told her that the photo lab had finished with the crime scene photos, and the balance came to $285. "He says you can pick them up there, or he can send them over to the sheriff's office."
"God, no. Tell him somebody will go by the lab. I'll probably send Hector Mesa, if that wouldn't be beneath him. Call the lab back and ask if they take credit cards."
"One more thing," Miriam said. "What about Key West? Do you want me to call the hotel and get your deposit back?"
"Key West?" Gail remembered the trip she'd promised Karen for spring break. "I can't go. There's no way."
"I didn't think so. What are you going to say to Karen?"
It wouldn't be enough to say, "Mommy has to work that week." Karen knew there was a client on death row, but Gail hadn't sat her down to explain what that really meant. She hadn't explained that every minute of the day had to be thrown into saving him, and that instead of ambling through the tourist shops on Duval Street she might be at the prison looking through glass at a man strapped to a gurney. "I don't know what to tell her."
For the next hour they worked on the habeas petition. Gail used her new headphone attachment so she could talk and drive at the same time.
After Miriam ended the call to work on the draft, Gail jotted notes on a legal pad. Questions for William Shumway. He'd been willing to talk to her over the phone, but she wanted to see him in person. Experience had taught her that more could be obtained from face-to-face conversations.
Her phone rang. She glanced at the caller-ID. "Hola, chica."
Miriam said, "The bank just called."
Something was wrong. Gail said, "What?"
"Ay, Gail. The check you wrote to the copy service? They don't want to honor it."
"What? They have to. We have at least eight thousand in the office account."
"Not until that settlement check clears. They say you already went past your overdraft limit."
"Oh, my God."
"What are we going to do? I put all those checks in the mail this morning. The office rent and the computer lease—"
"Oh, my God." The road ahead of her blurred for a moment, and Gail took a deep breath. "Okay. Call them back. Get an advance on my MasterCard, as much as they'll give me. Transfer it to the office account."
"Gail?" Miriam's voice sounded tight. "You don't have to pay me right now. Danny and I have enough saved—"
"Of course I'm going to pay you, Miriam. You've been working your butt off. Stop crying." Gail clenched the steering wheel. "Call the bank, let them handle it, and get back to work. I want to see that habeas when I get
back. Okay? It's going to be all right."
Pressing the END CALL button, Gail began to laugh. She wondered what Anthony's buddy, the capital appellate specialist, was going to say when she told him he had to work for nothing. Thanks, but adios.
Hadley and Morgan looked out on Palm Beach's famed Worth Avenue with its pink stucco, tile sidewalks, and topiary in clay pots. The building itself was catercorner from Chanel. Past beveled glass at the entrance and the reception desk tucked behind marble arches, Gail was led up wide, curving stairs.
William Shumway warmly took her hand—"Larry has spoken so highly of you, Ms. Connor"—and asked his secretary, a young man in a pinstriped suit, to bring tea. Shumway's skin seemed suspiciously taut for his age. He wore a soft gray mustache that turned up at the corners, like a smile. He showed Gail to a sumptuous leather chair by a satin-swagged window. Shumway took the divan, where beside him, its head lifted toward Gail, sat an ugly little dog with a wrinkled black face, wheezing through its short nose. Its eyes were not unlike those of its master: brown, lustrous, and sparkling with eager curiosity.
"I must tell you, this is nothing like what comes into my office, day in, day out. I specialize in estate planning, so death is always close at hand, but this. A client facing the gallows, as it were. My clients are close to the end too, but they are very old, with live-in attendants and scores of relatives circling overhead on black wings."
Gail had laid out the situation for him, and Shumway leaned toward her. "The rules of ethics will limit what I can say, but I see no bar to my telling you what I know of Gary Dodson's departure from this firm. Just forget where you heard it."
"Of course," Gail said, sipping her tea.
Shumway petted his little dog's floppy, triangular ears. "Gary Dodson was hired in 1984 to work in the branch office in Stuart. He specialized in real estate title examination. He lived in Stuart and had few friends in this office. Mr. Hadley, who's in charge of the big real estate projects, assigned Dodson to River Pines. Around 1985, Whitney McGrath and the other partners of JWM had begun acquiring property in western Martin County. There were dozens of parcels. Most of the land was vacant, although there were some small farms and a few homes. JWM developed part of the property, then in June or so of 1988 applied for a loan with the Bank of Palm Beach for two million dollars to begin building. As you know, to obtain a loan you need clear title. That was Gary Dodson's job, to examine title and assure the bank that JWM did in fact own all the land on which they intended to secure a loan. The bank had its own legal department, naturally, but we've dealt with them for years, and they rely on our word.
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