“Are we going to talk all night?” she asked, peering across the room at him.
Jack swallowed the rest of his wine, then smiled.
“God, I hope not.”
Chapter Ten
Andie was gone by Friday at noon. Jack barely had time to ponder where her undercover assignment might have taken her. At three P.M. he was in Courtroom 2 of the Richard E. Gerstein Justice Building.
The media seemed to hover perpetually around the criminal courthouse, poised to capture the arraignment of a federal prosecutor caught biting a stripper, the verdict on a high-priced call girl who claimed that “nymphomania made me do it,” or some other “trial of the century”-Miami style. At the government’s request, however, Judge Flint had closed his courtroom to the public. The prosecution sat at the mahogany table to Jack’s left, closer to the empty jury box. Neil Goderich was at Jack’s side. Together, the defense had almost fifty years of trial experience, and greener lawyers surely would have felt outgunned by such an unusual pairing of government lawyers.
“William McCue on behalf of the state of Florida,” the assistant state attorney said, announcing his appearance for the record. “With me today, for purposes of this emergency motion only, is Sylvia Gonzalez of the United States Department of Justice, National Security Division.”
The judge peered out over the top of his reading glasses. “I must say it isn’t every day that I see a lawyer from the NSD’s Counterterrorism Section in my courtroom.”
Gonzalez rose to address the court. “This case presents special circumstances, Your Honor.”
“ ‘Special circumstances’? ” said Neil, rising. “Gee, and I thought ‘enhanced interrogation’ was the government’s only euphemism for ‘torture.’ ”
Beneath the table, Jack ground his heel into his partner’s big toe, and Neil struggled not to yelp. Gonzalez had been a consummate professional at the habeas proceeding in Washington, and Jack shot his cocounsel a look that said, Tone it down.
“Neil Goderich of the Freedom Institute on behalf of the defendant,” he announced. “With me is Jack Swyteck, who has yet to decide if he has the set of you-know-what to take this case to trial, but he has agreed to assist me at this emergency hearing.”
Not sure what to do with Neil’s remark, the judge simply cleared his throat and moved on.
“I have before me the government’s emergency motion to prevent the defense from pursuing a frivolous alibi-specifically the defendant’s claim that at the time of the commission of the crime, he was held by the U.S. government in a secret interrogation site in the Czech Republic prior to his transfer to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.”
Neil rose, eager to speak, even if he was out of turn. “Before we proceed, I have to say that this motion seems highly premature. We have not even informed the government that my client intends to pursue an alibi defense, and under the rules we are not required to do so until ten days before trial.”
“Does that mean you’re not going to assert an alibi defense?” asked the judge.
“They most definitely will,” said the prosecutor.
Neil smiled thinly, as if the prosecution had stepped into his trap. “I’m not sure how the government would know that, since Mr. Wakefield has never before stated publicly that he was detained in the Czech Republic. Unless, of course, the government knows from its own records that my client was, in fact, held at such a site.”
“We know because the defendant called the victim’s father from jail last night and told him,” said the prosecutor. “Mr. Wakefield dated McKenna Mays, and now that he has been indicted, it has apparently become important for him to convince Mr. Mays of his innocence.”
That took the wind out of Neil’s sails, and Jack felt his pain. A client who did something stupid from jail and then neglected to tell his lawyer about it was routine at the institute.
The judge said, “Given the national security issues raised by the alibi defense, I don’t see the motion as premature. Ms. Gonzalez, proceed.”
The Justice Department lawyer went to the lectern. It was almost taller than she was, and rather than disappear behind it, she stepped to one side to address the court.
“Judge, as anyone who reads the newspapers knows, the United States has acknowledged the existence of a limited number of so-called black sites-facilities at which enemy combatants were detained and interrogated prior to, or in lieu of, their transfer to Gitmo. As early as 2005, reports circulated about such sites in Afghanistan and at other locations in the Middle East. Later, however, unfounded rumors emerged about a possible site in an Eastern European country-perhaps in Poland, Romania, or the Czech Republic.
“Here, Mr. Wakefield claims that he was held in a secret facility in Prague. It is important for this court to understand that no one has ever produced a shred of evidence that a black site existed in the Czech Republic. The United States denies it. The Czech Republic has asserted that such reports are libelous.
“The Department of Justice has asked the state of Florida to file this motion because we anticipate that Mr. Wakefield’s attorneys will subpoena intelligence officers and demand classified documents to establish his alibi. If that happens, the Justice Department will file an action in federal court under the Confidential Information Protection Act to quash those subpoenas. That will only delay the trial, and we are sensitive to the fact that Mr. Mays, who lost his daughter, and Officer Paulo, who lost his eyesight, have already waited long enough for justice. Granting this motion would avoid further delay. Denial of this motion and allowing the defendant to pursue this alleged alibi would be tantamount to turning NASA upside down to show that he was abducted by aliens and taken to another galaxy.”
Neil rose, again a little too eager. “Judge, that is simply not true. Although the government refuses to admit it, there have been numerous reports about sites in Eastern Europe.”
“Rumors,” said the prosecutor. “No proof.”
The judge raised a hand, putting an end to the cross-debating. “Let me ask you this, Mr. Goderich. Is it true, as you just stated, that your client has never stated publicly that he was detained in Prague before going to Gitmo?”
“Well, yes. That is true,” said Neil.
“So am I to infer that Mr. Wakefield never told anyone that he was held in a secret detention facility until he spoke with the victim’s father last night-until after he was indicted for murder?”
Neil froze, seeing where the judge was headed. “I can’t answer that question without breaching the attorney-client privilege,” he said.
Jack did a double take. The implication was clear, and Jack didn’t think Neil really wanted to go down that road.
The judge leaned forward, as if he were cross-examining Neil. “Are you affirmatively representing to this court that prior to his indictment Mr. Wakefield told you that he was detained in Prague?”
Neil paused, and Jack could almost hear him tap dancing.
“I’m simply saying that I am unable to give a yes-or-no answer to that question without breaching the attorney-client privilege.”
“That’s nonsense,” the prosecutor said. “Mr. Goderich filed a detailed memorandum in federal court setting forth the entire history of his client’s detention. He wrote in detail about his apprehension by Ethiopian troops in Somalia and his alleged forced confession. He wrote in detail about his transfer to and detention at Gitmo. In fact, Mr. Wakefield pretended to speak only Somali for his entire three years in captivity, until he was charged with murder. If Mr. Wakefield had been detained in Prague, we would have heard of it by now.”
Neil fell silent, realizing his mistake.
Jack rose. “Judge, may I speak?”
“No. I’ve heard enough.”
“Shit,” Neil said under his breath. “I pissed him off with that attorney-client smoke screen.”
“The government’s motion is granted,” the judge said. “The defendant will be allowed to testify at trial about his alibi if he so chooses. But until you show me
more than Mr. Wakefield’s own belated claims of a secret facility in Prague, the defense will not have the subpoena power of this court to compel government officials to testify or to produce records about an alleged secret facility.”
“But-”
“That’s my ruling,” the judge said with a bang of the gavel.
“All rise!” said the bailiff.
Jack and Neil climbed to their feet as the judge made his way to his chambers. The side door opened, the judge disappeared into his chambers, and the lawyers gathered their papers. Neil looked as if he’d just been shot in the chest-or worse, as if he’d shot himself in the foot.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve never dropped the ball like that in my life. What in the hell was I thinking?”
Jack wasn’t one to judge, especially when it was someone as talented and ethical as Neil. Besides, Jack suspected that something else was at work-something much bigger than a misstep by his co-counsel.
“No worries,” said Jack.
“Swyteck,” said the prosecutor, “may I talk to you privately for a minute?”
Jack and Neil exchanged glances. “I’ll meet you downstairs,” said Neil. He closed up his briefcase and headed for the exit, leaving Jack alone with the prosecutor.
“Here’s the deal,” said McCue. “Wakefield pleads guilty to both counts-first degree murder and attempted murder-and I won’t seek the death penalty. Life without parole.”
“That’s not much of a deal.”
“We’re talking about a teenage girl brutally murdered and a cop who was blinded trying to save her.”
“You should be pitching this deal to Neil Goderich.”
“I’m not offering it to him. In fact, I’m only giving it to you because-”
The stop was abrupt, and as the silence lingered, the reality washed over Jack, making his blood boil. “Because my fiancee asked you to?”
McCue didn’t answer, and his body language was anything but a denial. Jack glanced across the courtroom toward the lawyer for the Department of Justice-the same agency that Andie worked for. She averted her eyes.
“I’ll give you until Monday,” said McCue. “After that, it’s the death penalty. No more deals. No more favors.”
Jack took a deep breath as he stood and watched the prosecutors leave the courtroom, and he wasn’t sure who made him more angry: the arrogant assistant state attorney with his Washington ringer or the meddlesome new blonde who had stopped wearing her engagement ring.
Chapter Eleven
On Saturday morning Jack found himself surrounded by a sea of spandex. Headed for CocoPlum, one of south Florida’s tony waterfront communities, he was stuck behind hundreds of cyclists-a side-by-side wall that stretched across three lanes and moved at the mind-numbing speed of eleven miles per hour. Cartegena Circle-a suburban south-Florida version of the vehicular insanity surrounding the Arc de Triomphe-was not just the meeting place of choice for weekend warriors on wheels. It was quite possibly the world’s greatest concentration of bulging blobs of jelly who had absolutely no business wearing form-fitting clothing.
Jack was inching around the circle in his ten-year-old Saab convertible with the ragtop down, practically riding on the rear bumper of a new Maserati-so new, in fact, that it had a temporary tag. Bullet gray with dark tinted windows. Chrome wheels so shiny that they couldn’t have left the showroom floor more than two hours ago. Jack wondered how anyone could plunk down a quarter-mill on a new Maserati in the post-hold-on-to-your-ass-cuz-I-just-lost-mine economy. The answer was splashed across the back window in block white letters:
FLORIDAFORECLOSURES. COM.
Talk about a sign of the times.
Jack steered into CocoPlum, stopped at the guard house, and rolled down the window. “I’m headed to the Mays residence,” he said.
The guard jotted down his license plate number and offered quick directions. Jack followed the line of tall royal palms toward the water.
Last night’s phone call had come as a total shock. Jack still hadn’t decided to try the case. Even if he had, never in a million years would he have guessed that his first interview would be the victim’s father. Then again, never in a billion years would Jack have thought that Chuck Mays would call and insist on meeting him-alone. Jack was fully prepared for an angry lecture on why he shouldn’t stoop to defending the man who had murdered McKenna Mays.
Jack pulled into the driveway of a tri-level Mediterranean-style mansion. The new Mays residence was far more impressive and in a much pricier neighborhood than the one that had burned to the ground. The eight-bedroom waterfront estate hadn’t risen from the ashes with just insurance proceeds. In the past three years, Chuck Mays had made a pot of money in the data-broker business with a service that delivered billions of dossiers to police, private investigators, lawyers, reporters, and insurance companies. Success was relative, however. He now lived alone.
Jack was walking up the driveway when that new Maserati came flying around the corner, tires squealing as it pulled into the driveway behind him. A muscle-bound man with a surfer’s suntan and shoulder-length blond hair stepped toward him.
“Chuck Mays,” he said, shaking Jack’s hand. He was wearing nylon shorts and a sleeveless work-out shirt, the “V” of sweat on his chest suggesting that he’d just come from the gym.
“Nice car,” said Jack.
“Not my style. Got it on the cheap, but I’ll probably sell it. Basically for guys with little dicks.”
“You own a foreclosure company?”
“You mean that sign in the back window? Fuck no. Mr. Foreclosures-dot-com got foreclosed on, and I snatched up his wheels. Ain’t that fucking great?”
Jack had come expecting to meet the still-grieving father of a teenage girl. Instead, he found Hulk Hogan’s younger clone, who dropped the F-word like a carpet bomber. But Jack wasn’t fooled. “Chuck Mays could be the most intelligent human being you will ever meet,” Neil had told him at dinner the night before.
“So,” said Jack. “You wanted to talk?”
“Yeah.” He pressed the keyless alarm, and the Maserati chirped. “Follow me.” He led Jack up the walkway and into the house. It had all the charm of an unfurnished hotel lobby: twenty-foot ceilings, enormous crown moldings, bare marble floors, and naked white walls-not a rug, painting, or framed photograph anywhere. The chandelier in the foyer still had the price tag hanging from it.
“How long have you lived here?” asked Jack.
“Moved in after Shada passed away,” Mays said.
Jack had, of course, heard about his wife’s suicide. Lose a daughter, then a wife, and who could give a rat’s ass about decorating a new house?
Jack followed him toward the kitchen. Mays offered him a barstool at the granite counter and went to the refrigerator.
“You want a beer?”
It was not yet noon, but pointing that out to a guy like Mays would have probably earned Jack a major wedgie.
“Sure,” he said.
Mays popped open two cans and put one in front of Jack. “Cheers,” he said, and then he guzzled down most of it. Jack half expected him to start burping out the entire Mays alphabet: fucking-A, fucking-B…
“I didn’t used to drink, you know,” said Mays.
Jack knew what he was saying. “I hear you.”
Mays had a little beer foam on his mustache. He took care of it with a backhand swipe of the wristband.
“Your client called me from jail the other night,” said Mays.
“I heard about that in court yesterday,” said Jack.
“Told me where he was when McKenna was murdered.”
Jack wasn’t sure how to respond, so he let Mays keep talking.
“I’ve been giving his story a lot of thought,” said Mays.
“I know it must sound hard to believe,” said Jack.
Mays locked eyes with him, and for a moment Jack wondered if he was going to reach over the counter and slug him. Finally, Mays stepped away, took a file fro
m a stack of papers on the kitchen table, and laid it on the countertop in front of Jack.
“What’s this?” asked Jack.
“Payroll records for my company. It’s from three years ago, when Jamal worked for me.”
Jack opened the file and found his client’s name on the list of employees.
Mays said, “We had automatic deposit for Jamal’s paychecks to go to his bank every week.”
Jack glanced at the transaction dates on the ledger. “So is it a coincidence that he was off the payroll for the two pay periods before your daughter was murdered?”
“Jamal stopped showing up for work. So I stopped paying him. Tried calling him, got no answer. Went to his apartment. Nobody there. Called his mother in Minnesota. No idea where he was. She even filed a missing person report.”
Jack looked at him, confused. “All that actually supports Jamal’s claim that he was abducted before the crime.”
“I realize that,” he said.
Jack studied his expression. The guy was no easy read. “Why would you help me defend the man accused of killing your daughter?”
Mays drained the last of his beer, then crushed the empty aluminum can in his bare hand. “Jamal Wakefield was sitting in Gitmo for three years.”
“Well, nominally at least it was Khaled al-Jawar.”
“That’s exactly my problem,” said Mays. “Those fuckers knew they had Jamal. But no one told me. They just let me go on thinking for three years that the man who killed my daughter was still on the loose, never going to be brought to justice.”
“I can see where you’d be angry.”
“This isn’t about anger. I’m just saying they have a different agenda, and I understand that. They think Jamal’s a terrorist, and they want to keep him locked up.”
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