The image of Vivian Baker on the floor of the cabin came into her mind, but she had sworn not to mention her name. "Rusty Beck is a violent man. We had wondered if you had sent him to threaten Amber, make her back off. You had bought Gary Dodson's silence by giving him legal work to do. Amber was planning to leave Gary, and she could have been a problem for you. But her word would have been nothing against yours, and besides, you're too smart to have someone murdered in the middle of the day, in her own neighborhood. Rusty Beck isn't that smart or that careful. If it came out that the deed was forged and the Mendozas were dead he had a lot to lose. So do you. The police would assume that you were somehow involved not only in Amber's murder, but the murder of the Mendozas. You have two choices: Give us Rusty Beck or go down with him."
McGrath stood up, looming over her. "You bitch. Get out of my house. All of you." He suddenly focused past Gail's shoulder, and she glanced around to see Hector Mesa standing a short distance away. His hands were loosely clasped at the front of his open jacket. The lamplight reflected off his glasses, obscuring his eyes.
"Let her finish," Anthony said.
The blood in Gail's head pounded against the bone. "We're willing to forget about the Mendozas. We're willing to forget that you benefited from their deaths. What we want from you is a phone call to Governor Ward. He's a friend of yours. He'll talk to you. Tell him that Kenny Clark is innocent. Tell him that you believe Rusty Beck killed her. Say whatever you like. Say that Rusty Beck confessed, or that you've just figured it out. Say you can't live with yourself if you let an innocent . man be put to death. I don't care what you say, as long as the governor issues a stay of execution for as long as it takes to do a proper investigation."
McGrath was breathing as if he had just run up the stairs.
"If you refuse, we will make everything public. Everything. The Mendoza deed, the disappearance of four people, and your connection to Amber Dodson. People will say you ordered Rusty Beck to kill her. The vote in favor of Phase Two will probably be as dead as she is. Think about it, Mr. McGrath." She stood up, and Anthony rose with her. "You don't have to give us an answer now. You know my number. Call before the weekend is out."
A light rain was falling, silvering the windshield. Gail trembled, and her jaw was so tight her teeth chattered. She dropped her forehead into her hands.
As Anthony closed her door and went around, Hector's voice from the backseat said, "That was very good, señora."
She laughed weakly.
Anthony got in, started the engine, then leaned over and kissed her. "You were beautiful. Let's get out of here." At the road he waited for a car to pass, then pulled out, heading north. "I want a drink. And a steak, very rare."
Drained of energy, Gail couldn't speak.
Hector's voice came from the dark. "Did you see the gun he had? That Piotti you can't buy for less than twenty-five thousand dollars. Such beautiful wood. I've never seen a gun made so well. Like a piece of art. But you know, he ruins them. They all have his name engraved on them, every one, even the old Remington. Qué bárbaro"
Gail took a long breath. "He won't go for it. Why should he? We can't prove the Mendozas are dead, and if we can't, he will sue us for every dime we have, and he'll win. He's got to know it's a bluff."
"We'll see," Anthony said. "We'll wait and see."
"I have to talk to Gary Dodson," Gail said. "He stays in that office like a prison, afraid to come out. Now I see why. I have to get through to him, Anthony. Even if he doesn't testify, if he would just tell me whether Amber knew. What if she didn't, and McGrath knows she didn't?"
"Gail, let it go." He picked up her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Please. You had him completely rattled, so let's wait and see what he does."
"God, my head is killing me."
The tires hissed on the wet road, and taillights appeared from a driveway some distance ahead, turning in the same direction.
A car behind them threw light on the rearview mirror, making an oblong patch of light across Anthony's face. His eyes shifted to her. "Gail, I have to ask you something. It's been bothering me for a couple of days now. Do you remember, when we were talking to Tina Hopwood, she told us that on Friday, the weekend of the Fourth of July, 1988, Kenny Clark and Tina's husband— What was his name?"
"Glen."
"Yes. She said that a man gave Glen a hundred dollars to chase some migrants out of an orange grove. Glen took Kenny with him, and they came back covered in dirt. They refused to talk to Tina about it. She said she was afraid of what had happened."
Gail sat silently for a few seconds, then said, "Yes. It occurred to me too, but I put it out of my mind. It's unbelievable to think that Kenny was involved in that. I don't think I could handle it if it were true."
"Yes. An unbelievable coincidence." Anthony reached up to adjust the mirror, but his eyes remained focused on it. He glanced in the sideview mirror. "Hector. ¿Qué hay atrás?"
The headlights were on high beam.
"No puedo ver," Hector said.
A car coming the other way passed by, and the brief flash of light illuminated the vehicle behind them. Hector said, "Una camioneta negra."
A black pickup truck.
The cry that came to Gail's throat caught there. The Cadillac leaped forward, pressing her body into the leather seat. The speedometer moved toward seventy. The lights dropped back for only an instant, then closed in. "Oh, my God. Anthony, we can't go so fast on this road!"
The taillights ahead of them were rapidly growing nearer. The Cadillac swept around the slower car, and the high-pitched beep of a horn faded away. Low branches clattered on the roof of the car. The headlights grew brighter, then shifted. The truck was coming alongside. Two sets of lights pierced the blackness, and the narrow road rushed toward them. The speedometer was at eighty. The black truck seemed to fill the windows on the driver's side, and only a few feet of distance separated the vehicles. Rain streaked the glass.
Hector said something in Spanish to Anthony about releasing the window lock, then moved to the left side of the seat and pressed the button. The window slid down, and air and the noise of engines and tires rushed through it. Hector put his hand into his jacket.
Anthony reached under the front seat. His pistol was already out of its leather pouch.
Gail stared at it. "Oh, my God."
"Déjalo pasar," said Hector.
Anthony braked, and the Cadillac slowed, throwing Gail against her seat belt. Mist swirled from the truck's tires. Taillights glared, and the truck fell back into the left lane, engine popping. Anthony slowed to forty, thirty. He accelerated again, and the truck kept pace. Gail heard country music coming through the truck's open window.
Someone laughed. "Hey, slick! What're you trying to do, man?"
Anthony shouted to Hector, "Tírale a la goma. "They were going to shoot out his front tire. Hector stood on his knee and aimed out the window. She saw a flash, heard a gunshot. The light shifted. Rusty Beck had fallen back, but the path of the truck didn't waver. He was still behind them, closing in again.
The ceiling lit up. Anthony pressed on the accelerator, and the wheels skidded around a curve. Rocks hit the wheel well.
There were taillights ahead.
Hector yelled out, "'¡Cuida'o!"
A horn sounded, and Anthony hit the brakes. Rusty Beck's truck shot past them. The car swerved and slid sideways on wet grass. Bushes snapped. There was a solid thump, and Gail was thrown against the door. The car came to a stop, tipped at a sharp angle.
Anthony reached for her. "Gail, are you all right?"
"Yes, yes. I'm fine. Really."
The interior lights came on when Anthony got out. Gail struggled with her seat belt. The men shouted to each other in Spanish, and she gathered that Rusty Beck had kept going. She tried to open her door, but it swung open only partway, hitting the ground. She crawled toward the driver's side.
Anthony was taking umbrellas from the backseat. He tossed one to Hector, who stood
at the front of the car, cell phone at his ear. It was raining harder now. Anthony turned the hazard lights on and the headlights off, then helped Gail out of the car.
He embraced her. "We came around a corner, and another car was ahead of us. I had to go off the road." Rain ticked on the umbrella. He looked toward the rear of the car. The fender had swung into the trunk of a palm tree. "¡Mierda!"
"What do we tell the police when they get here?"
"Hector isn't calling the police," Anthony said. "Come on, stand out of the way, in case some other idiot runs into us." They walked a few yards down the slope and stopped at a wooden fence marking someone's property.
The surf pounded behind them in the darkness, and the rain steadily fell. Hector finished his phone call and stood by the car, vanishing then reappearing with each amber glare of the hazard lights.
"He wants to kill Rusty Beck, doesn't he?"
Anthony laughed. "So do I." The steady red flash of the taillights let her see his face. He looked at her, and his eyes widened. "Not yet. We need him alive for a little while longer, no?"
"For God's sake." Gail buried her face in his shoulder.
"I'm sorry." He kissed her and smoothed her hair. "So much excitement, it makes me a little crazy. No more jokes. Hector is calling some of his friends to get us back to the hotel safely. In the morning I'll rent a car, and we can be at the prison in plenty of time to see Kenny. And you know we'll have to ask him what happened in the orange grove that night."
CHAPTER 22
Friday, March 23
The trip to Florida State Prison, including a brief stop for lunch, would take about five hours. Anthony rented a car, asked Hector Mesa to have the Cadillac hauled to Miami, then headed north on the interstate. He drove; Gail plugged in her laptop computer and worked on the appeal. She had insisted on bringing five boxes of pleadings, documents, and legal research. From time to time she would carefully set the computer on the floor and lean over the seat to look for something. She was wearing shorts. Anthony committed the error of sliding his hand up the back of her leg; she told him to stop it, she was busy.
With a sigh he opened his cell phone and took care of some business at his office. He had arranged for most of his cases to be covered in his absence. This wasn't difficult; aside from the partners, Ferrer & Quintana had six associate attorneys and several paralegals. Gail A. Connor, P.A., was only Gail and Miriam, her secretary. Yesterday Anthony had asked how she was managing. I don't want to think about it. He had called Miriam and told her to get some help and send him the bill.
Gail slid back down in her seat, picked up the computer, and set her fingers on the keyboard. In every motion, petition, or brief she wrote, she was leaving space for a section to be filled in later: naming the actual killer of Amber Dodson. She was waiting for Whit McGrath to come through and give up Rusty Beck. If he didn't, she would omit that part. It would be insane to make an accusation of murder on what little evidence they had now against Beck. He would promptly hire an attorney and sue them, successfully, for slander.
By the time they passed Orlando, Gail had finished drafting the appellant's brief for the Florida Supreme Court. Next she worked on an application for permission to file a habeas petition in the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals, in case she decided to go that way. That court wouldn't let her appeal unless it had first decided the case was appealable. Rules.
After lunch near Ocala at a Cracker Barrel restaurant whose calico decor and smell of cinnamon set Anthony's teeth on edge, Gail turned her computer back on and drafted the petition for certiorari to be filed in the U.S. Supreme Court.
She was working from the checklist supplied by Kenny Clark's former attorney, Denise Robinson. How cleverly that woman had dumped this on her! She had sniffled into her hanky, and Gail Connor had come to the rescue. But Ms. Robinson, with her promises of legal research, editing, and advice, had vanished, sucked into the whirlwind of five or six other death row appeals.
Anthony and Gail had spent very little time, either last night or in the car this morning, discussing Kenny Ray Clark's possible involvement in the disappearance of the Mendozas. Gail had changed the subject. She was too busy to think about it. She had work to do. Anthony knew what this was: the need of a defense attorney to believe in his client. He himself had represented men with pasts so dark he didn't want to know about them. He kept his professional distance. But Gail couldn't do that. She had a soft place in her heart for her clients. She couldn't imagine that this client, whom she had come to like, had brutally murdered four people and buried their bodies.
Anthony could imagine it, but he would wait to hear what Kenny Clark had to say. The question had to be asked. If Gail wouldn't do it, he would.
As they sped by the exit to Gainesville, Anthony glanced over toward the passenger seat, then shifted to see what she was working on. The pleading was titled "Emergency Motion; Capital Case; Death Warrant Signed; Execution Scheduled for April 11, 2001 at 6:00 p.m."
In the interview room at the prison, Gail asked Kenny Clark if he was over his cold, and he said he was. She told him he seemed upbeat, and he replied that in general his spirits were good, although he'd been depressed after Lucius Brown had been executed on Monday.
"You make friends in here, and it's hard to lose them. Yeah, Lucius was a pretty funny guy, always cracking little jokes. I'm the only one on death watch now. Got the place all to myself. I can't say the room service has improved, though."
With a little laugh, Clark glanced at Anthony for his reaction. Anthony sent back a polite smile, and Clark once more settled his gaze on Gail. She was his shining hope, his lifeline, his angel; Anthony Quintana was the dark intruder.
Kenny Ray Clark's prison-pallor skin stretched over the sharp angles of his face. His bright orange shirt was the only color in the room. Gail had changed into a plain gray pantsuit. Anthony noticed with dismay how loose it had become.
Clark said, "Hey, girl, you look a little worn down. Are you doing okay? I feel bad, making you work so hard."
"I'm doing fine, Kenny." She was looking through a folder for the pages he would sign. She gave him a pen and an affidavit. I am innocent of the murder of Amber Lynn Dodson. On the morning of Monday, February 6, 1989, I was with Tina Hopwood....
Gail told him it would be filed with the 3.850 motion. His signature was slow, the letters small and careful. Next she put a copy of her draft on the desk and let him read it.
"This is great," Clark said. "What you have here about Tina and me, it's exactly what happened. And Vernon Byrd. I don't know how you got him to turn around, but you did. That's amazing. It looks good, real good." He ventured another glance at Anthony, who said nothing.
Gail showed Clark where to sign.
He bent over the page with the pen. "I was thinking last night what I'd do if Í got out. First thing, I'd take a hot bath, then have some pizza and cold beer. Maybe a little R and R with a lady. Hey, Gail, you remember that spotted dog over at Ruby's house? That was mine. His name was Barney. I'm going to get me another dog like that and buy a car and drive to Alaska. Make sure I get out in the summer, will you, 'cause I don't like cold weather. I'll send you a postcard."
She let him talk for a while, then said, "Kenny? I want you to hope for the best, but you need to know it isn't going to be easy."
"I do know that." His smile lingered. "It's fun to think about, that's all."
"Here's what we're facing. Even with two strong witnesses, there's still the neighbor, Dorothy Chastain, who believes she saw you. The judge can use that for a reason to deny us. I'm hoping the Florida Supreme Court will grant a stay. But in case they don't, we go to federal court, and probably straight to the U.S. Supreme Court. The problem is, they don't want to hear claims of innocence. They only want to know if the rules were followed. Were you denied due process of law? But if, during all this, we can find absolute proof that you are actually innocent, we'll be okay. But we have to prove it."
The smile was gone. He nodded.
"Okay, here's some good news. We're pretty sure we know who killed Amber Dodson."
His back straightened, and his eyes opened wide. "You're serious? Who?"
"A man named Rusty Beck. He's a friend of Whitney McGrath, the developer of River Pines, where Amber worked."
"Jesus. How did you— Was he robbing her house?"
"No. We think he wanted Amber dead because she knew something that could have ruined him. Did you ever meet Rusty Beck?"
Clark looked to one side, frowning. "No. Why'd you ask that?"
Standing further back at an angle, Anthony could watch Clark's reactions. There was no doubt about it. The man was lying.
Gail said, "You worked at River Pines for a while. I thought you might have met him."
"Never heard the name. How did you find out he killed her?"
"We put some assumptions together. Here's what we think happened."
Anthony sat and listened to Gail tell Kenny that they had originally suspected Whit McGrath, but now believed that Rusty Beck had killed Amber on his own, and why. She went on to explain about the forged deed and the disappearance of the Mendozas.
Anthony crossed his arms and tapped his closed fist slowly on his mouth. He wanted to say, Gail, stop!, but it was too late. She had already given away everything, and if Clark had killed these people, and had an IQ above sixty, he would know where this was going. He was staring blankly across the desk, and the shutters had come down over his eyes.
Gail was still talking. "Last night we told Whit McGrath that we would reveal everything unless he helps us. We told him to call Governor Ward. They know each other. McGrath has to tell him that Beck killed Amber. We expect him to deny his own involvement, but that doesn't matter as long as he persuades the governor that you're innocent. It's risky, but it could work. Do you see?"
Suspicion of Vengeance Page 27
