Suspicion of Vengeance

by Barbara Parker

  Gail had thrown herself into his defense with surprising ferocity. Anthony had seen her fight for a client before, but not to this degree. She worked with an astonishing single-mindedness of purpose. She breathed quickly, as though being pursued; ate little; slept less. When she closed her eyes, the restless movement continued beneath her eyelids.

  Through hard experience Anthony had learned not to become so lost in his cases; it was safer that way. He had told her, but she couldn't hear him. She was too far from shore, swimming in heavy seas. He would keep her from going under if he could.

  In Judge Willis's chambers they sat at the long table perpendicular to his desk. Anthony let Gail talk. She revealed nothing about her theory of the murder, only that she needed more time to find witnesses.

  Judge Willis was turning red to the roots of his white hair. He unzipped the front of his robe as if he needed to breathe. "Unbelievable. You folks sashay in here at the last minute—"

  "This is a complicated case that I took on only two weeks ago, your honor. I've had to read several boxes of pleadings, reinvestigate the facts, prepare a 3.850, a brief for the Florida Supreme Court, a petition for habeas— I beg the court's understanding. My client's life is on the line."

  "Ms. Connor, I've bent over backward for you, trying to be accommodating. This court does not exist for the convenience of the lawyers. You said you would file your papers on Monday, I expect you to do so. I'm hearing this case at two o'clock next Wednesday."

  "I won't be there."

  "You what?"

  "I won't be there. I refuse to be pushed into doing a half-assed job just so everyone can say Kenny Ray Clark had a lawyer and now we can get on with his execution. There are witnesses with crucial evidence, and there is no way I can find them, speak to them, finish the motion, and argue it by next Wednesday. If this court won't allow me sufficient time to prepare, I will withdraw, and you can send an innocent man to his death unrepresented."

  Anthony nearly gasped at the brazenness of it. He leaned close to Gail, his face momentarily hidden from the judge, and whispered, "What are you doing?"

  Judge Willis stared at her. "This is outrageous."

  "Yes, it probably is, your honor, but I have no alternative."

  "Are you behind this, Mr. Quintana?" The judge was shouting. "Is this the way you people do it in Miami?"

  Anthony felt Gail's eyes on him. "With all due respect, I absolutely agree with Ms. Connor. We need a little more time. For your part, simply moving the hearing date to Friday would demonstrate fairness to the defendant and reduce the chances of reversal."

  "I don't give a damn about being reversed." He slammed his hand on his desk. "Get the permission of the state attorney, and I might consider it."

  Gail said, "Judge, it's my motion. The state shouldn't have to give their approval."

  "Other people besides you are involved here."

  "But of course they're going to say no."

  "Don't push it, counselor."

  Anthony stood up, taking hold of Gail's elbow. "Thank you, judge."

  In the corridor Gail leaned against the wall and took deep breaths. Anthony put his arm around her. Gradually she stopped shaking and the color returned to her face.

  He said quietly, "Do you want to explain where that came from?"

  "Anthony, you know I wouldn't withdraw. I wouldn't. But it worked. Didn't it?"

  "You got what you wanted, but you may pay a high price for it."

  "What else was I supposed to do? I couldn't file the motion with what we had, and he was going to make me do it! He doesn't care, it's all rules to him—"

  "Gail, stop."

  "Rules and procedure and his goddamn schedule. Who cares if a man is going to die! If it doesn't fit into the schedule—"

  "Gail!"

  She pressed her fingers to her cheeks. "I have the worst headache." The polish on her nails was chipping off. The delicate skin under her eyes had darkened with fatigue.

  Anthony wanted to yell at someone. He wanted Kenny Clark to hang himself in his cell. He had sworn to her not to lose his temper. Had sworn it. He kissed her, leaving his face pressed to hers for a moment, not caring about the glances from other people in the corridor. "Come on, we'll find you some aspirin."

  She closed her eyes. "I'm so glad you're here."

  Sonia Krause, state attorney for the Nineteenth Judicial Circuit, was a woman in her late forties, gray-haired and physically smaller than Anthony had expected, but in no way less formidable. She had heard of him. She asked if he was going to argue the motion.

  "No, I'm here to assist Ms. Connor."

  Ms. Krause rocked her chair forward to look at her desk calendar. "So essentially, you want the hearing postponed to.... let's see... Friday, March 30.1 have no problem with that. Is eight o'clock all right? We should have a ruling by early afternoon, giving Judge Willis time to fax the order to Tallahassee the same day."

  Through a tight smile Gail said, "You obviously expect him to rule in your favor."

  Ms. Krause's silver-framed glasses turned toward her. "Every death penalty case that comes out of this circuit comes back to us on a motion to overturn the conviction, but it rarely changes the result."

  "Then let's do away with appeals altogether."

  "Ms. Connor, we aren't on some kind of crusade to execute your client."

  "I know that. It's not a crusade, it's a conveyor belt."

  Patiently Ms. Krause said, "I don't like capital punishment, but it's necessary. Life without possibility of parole is a lie because legislators can change their minds and let these people out. There are no recidivists with the death penalty. If we save one innocent life, it's worth it."

  Gail moved to the front edge of her chair, and color flamed in her face. "I really don't care about theories. All I'm concerned about is one man, my client, who happens to be innocent."

  "You'll have your chance to prove it." Ms. Krause penciled in the new date.

  "I'm curious," Gail said. "How can you be absolutely certain he's guilty? You were at the trial. You heard the testimony. An alleged statement to a jailhouse snitch. An eyewitness who was out of town for more than a week before looking at mug shots. Someone who saw Kenny in Fort Pierce at ten-thirty, no blood on him. If he hadn't had such a lousy lawyer, he would have been acquitted. You must know this."

  "I've lost quite a few guilty defendants because they had good lawyers. That argument isn't persuasive."

  "So you have no doubt of his guilt? None at all?"

  "No, I don't." Sonia Krause looked at Anthony. "Is there anything else?"

  Gail said, "Do you really believe that? How?"

  "Thank you, Ms. Krause." Anthony pulled Gail up by an elbow. "We'll see you next week."

  On the sidewalk, Anthony said sharply, "Get in control of yourself. I thought she might throw us out and tell us to forget changing the hearing date. You argue with the judge, now the prosecutor?"

  "I'm sorry. It was just so insane. She can't believe what she says."

  "Yes, corazón, she does. She has spent years convincing herself that your client is guilty, and that the system works perfectly. You won't change her mind. They never admit they are wrong, not even if you show them a videotape of your client at Disney World when the crime was committed."

  He turned Gail toward the parking lot where they had left his car. The day was bright, and he put on his sunglasses. Gail squinted unhappily. "We need to call the Florida Supreme Court," he said.

  "I was just thinking about that," she replied. "The death clerk."

  "Do you want me to do it?"

  "No, I will."

  "All right, but don't yell at her."

  "I won't!" She opened the passenger door before he could get to it.

  The car was hot, and he turned the air conditioner to high. He dropped his head to the headrest.

  "I have a message," Gail said, showing him the blinking green message light on her phone. "Maybe they've changed their minds. They're switching the h
earing back to Wednesday because I was such a pain in the ass." She pressed a button and looked at the screen. "It's Miriam." She hit her speed-dial. "Hi, it's me, what's going on? ... Really?" Her eyes went to Anthony. "What did he say? ... No, I don't. What is it?"

  She wrote a number beginning with 561. A local area code. When she hung up, Anthony asked, "Who is that?"

  "Whit McGrath. He called about an hour ago." She stared down at her notepad. "He said to call back. I don't know why. Should I call him?"

  Anthony thought about it. "Later. Make your call to Tallahassee."

  Gail looked at the numbers for McGrath and entered them into her phone. "He's going to inform us that there's a stick of dynamite under your car, and he wants to hear it go off." She put the phone to her ear, listened, then shrugged. Her mouth formed the words, No answer. "Mr. McGrath, this is Gail Connor returning your call. Sorry I missed you, but you can reach me on my cell phone." She left the number.

  "That's very strange," she said. "I wonder what he wants."

  "Call the clerk, Gail, get it over with."

  She took her address book out of her purse and turned the pages. "Supreme Court. Supreme Court. I am so eager for more humiliation." She slowly punched in the number and put the phone to her ear. She closed her eyes, and her lips moved.

  "What are you doing? Praying?"

  "Marcia Turner, please. This is Gail Connor on the Kenneth Ray Clark case." She waited, taking deep breaths. Her hand reached across the seat and grabbed his. Her fingers were cold. "Ms. Turner, hi, this is Gail Connor. I've had to reset the 3.850 hearing to Friday, March 30. The brief for you is due the same day, but I don't think I can have it for you until Monday, and if we could move oral argument to Tuesday—" Her face was bloodless. "I thought it was a tentative date.... I apologize... .Yes, I know they have other cases, but I can't be there on Monday. I'm about to find the person who actually committed the crime. My client is innocent, Ms. Turner, please, I'm begging you—"

  She nodded and cleared her throat. "Yes, that would be fine Of course Twill. You're so kind. I am eternally grateful. And again, my apologies." She disconnected.

  Anthony could feel his heart thudding. She was making him insane. He spoke calmly. "When is it?"

  "Two o'clock, Tuesday, April third. They had a cancellation, otherwise it would've been impossible. I have to file the brief on Saturday by noon. She said the justices don't like hearing cases so close to the execution date. It puts them under a lot of pressure." Gail laughed. "They have no idea."

  For the convenience of having a place to work, Anthony had rented a third-floor hotel suite on Hutchinson Island, facing the Atlantic. He and Gail stopped for groceries, then unloaded the car. She had brought along office equipment and several boxes of files. They would drive to Florida State Prison in the morning so that her client—their client—could sign the motion. More accurately, the client would sign a page to be added next week, as soon as Gail finished writing the motion.

  While she took a shower, Anthony hung up his coat and tie and fixed a drink, a scotch on the rocks. Gail's cousin would soon arrive with the crime scene photographs. She had called to say she had something to show them. Anthony intended to let the women talk while he put his feet up for a while.

  The Atlantic was the color of lead. Clouds were moving in from the north, and the beach was deserted. Anthony had just settled into a chair on the patio when the doorbell rang.

  "Cono."

  It was Jackie Bryce with the box of photographs. He offered a drink. She said she would take a beer. She sat at the counter that separated kitchen and dining area, running shoes on the rung of the high chair. Her sleeveless white top and blue shorts revealed her arms and legs, with their sleek, hard muscles.

  Anthony could not decide, even upon this third meeting, what he thought of her. The girl had a tough, cool, almost masculine demeanor that Anthony couldn't easily respond to. She was a cop; he was predisposed not to like them.

  Jackie seemed to regard him with the same uneasy appraisal.

  He gave her a smile. "Gail should be out in a few minutes." The box sat on the end of the counter where she had dropped it. A few raindrops dotted the cardboard lid. From politeness he inquired, "Well. Did you find anything interesting?"

  "There's a few I looked at twice." She pulled the box closer and took out an envelope, withdrawing several color enlargements. She laid one on the counter. "This shows the supposed entry point, the sliding glass door. Those rock fragments on the carpet were taken into evidence. But the reason they zeroed in on the back door was that it was off the track. That's what drew their attention. They found scratch marks outside, see? Here on the aluminum frame." She showed him another photograph, a blowup. "It's not that unusual to have scratches. Anytime you lose your keys, you can get in that way, if you don't have a safety bolt, and they didn't."

  "And what is this supposed to mean?"

  "I don't know. I'm just saying, how are we sure it was a break-in?"

  Anthony drank his scotch. "Because the door was off the track. I believe that some assumptions can be made."

  Jackie gave him another photograph. "This is a close-up of the clock showing the hands at 10:23 a.m."

  The clock cord vanished off the right side of the frame, presumably toward Amber Dodson's neck, but the face of the clock was clearly visible, with smudges of dried blood across the plastic.

  "Your point is that the police assumed she died around 10:23," Anthony said. "They were skeptical at first, but setting that aside for the moment, if you are suggesting, and I think you may be, that Gary Dodson set the hands ahead and opened the back door on his way to work to simulate a break-in, there is a problem. Amber died between ten and two. My forensic pathologist could find nothing wrong with the ME's estimate."

  "I know," Jackie said. "Gail told me." She rummaged in the box again. "Here's a shot of the body. Notice the panties. They were pulled down postmortem, see how the smears go? She wasn't raped. What if, and I'm just playing with the facts here, what if the killer was trying to make the police think it was a sexually motivated attack that happened between ten and ten-thirty?"

  "I can buy that," Anthony said. "Theoretically. What is this next one?"

  Jackie held up a wide shot of the bedroom. "Tell me what you see."

  "I've seen this one," he said. "The state introduced it into evidence. There's the bed, which is knocked aside. Night table turned over. Lamp on the floor. Book. Framed print on the wall. Curtains. Awning windows. Chair."

  "Are the curtains open or closed?"

  "Open."

  "What about the windows?"

  He leaned closer. The aluminum frames tilted outward. "Open."

  Jackie put the photograph on the counter facing him. "Lacey Mayfield told Gail that she went around to the side of the house about nine-thirty and knocked on the window to see if Amber was awake. She couldn't see in because the curtains were closed. The windows had to be closed too. If they had been open, she wouldn't have knocked. So the windows were closed when Lacey got there."

  Anthony grabbed for a logical answer. "The police opened them later."

  "No, the police report says that Kemp asked Gary about the windows. He said they usually slept with the windows open at night, and they were open when he got home."

  "All right, but what do you conclude from this?" Anthony did not like to be led along in a blindfold.

  "Nothing. It's just interesting," she said.

  "One could say, I imagine, that Amber got up, closed the windows to keep the room quiet, and went back to bed. Her sister came and knocked on the glass. When Gary called at ten o'clock and woke Amber up, she opened the windows."

  Jackie nodded. "That makes sense." She put the beer bottle to her mouth and tipped it back.

  Anthony poured himself a little more scotch. "Theories are useful if they lead somewhere. I don't see where this one is going."

  "Maybe nowhere, but Gail got me to thinking, that day at the ranch when she was talking
about Amber's sister. The ME said Amber died between ten and two. Lacey gave aerobics classes from ten until four, but she was gone about forty minutes for lunch. The studio was only a mile from Palm City. I checked."

  "You suspect Lacey Mayfield?"

  "Look at these pictures of the baby's crib. Two bottles, see? One's full, one's half empty. It's probably nothing. I asked a friend at work, and she said that she does that sometimes. Her baby was a big boy, and he'd get hungry, so if she wanted to sleep, she'd fix him two bottles."

  Anthony circled his hand for her to go on. "And?"

  "Lacey was the baby's aunt. If she killed Amber, she wouldn't want the baby to get hungry before Gary got home." Jackie kept her eyes on him as she took another swallow of beer. She said, "It's just a thought."

  "One that we have no time to pursue," he said.

  "What I was trying to do," Jackie said, "was to find other scenarios. Gail said she needed some alternative theories to argue in court."

  "Do you know, Jackie, you're constructing a good case against Gary? He faked a break-in, adjusted the clock, and put two bottles in the crib because he wouldn't be home until late that afternoon." Anthony lifted his hands, palms spread. "I could have had Kenny Clark acquitted, proposing such a theory to the jury, if I could have made them ignore the medical examiner. But at the moment we need proof, not theories, and the proof lies with the Mendoza deed, Whit McGrath, and Rusty Beck. Or so I thought."

  Jackie looked at him coolly. "It's a good idea to keep your mind open."

  Twenty-five years old. How fortunate to be that age, to be a police officer, to know so much. Taking another deep swallow of scotch, Anthony became aware that a telephone had been ringing for some moments.

  Jackie glanced at her bag. "Is that your phone? It's not mine."

  It was Gail's. She had left it in her purse on the table in the dining area. Anthony took it out and cheeked the caller-ID.

  He flipped the phone open. "Yes?"

  A male voice said, "Hey, this is Whit McGrath. I met Ms. Connor last Saturday I guess you must be Anthony Quintana. Do I have that right?"