“Jack isn’t killing anyone,” Harry suddenly objected in a loud voice. Campbell was a bit taken aback. He watched, curious, as the governor seemed to retreat into his thoughts.
“I killed him,” Harry finally said in a bow voice. “By my silence-a long time ago.”
Campbell was about to follow up, but the governor quickly changed the subject-to someone he may have really killed. “Who was that reporter who yelled out the name of Raul Fernandez?” he asked, trying not to sound too interested.
“I don’t know. I sent a security man after him, but he was long gone before anyone really knew what was going on. You want me to follow up on it?”
“No,” he said, a little too forcefully. The last thing he wanted was someone else poking into this. “It’s not worth the trouble,” he said in a more reasonable tone. Then he stepped toward the window and sighed. “Could you give me a few minutes, please?”
Campbell nodded. His boss looked like he could use some time alone. “I’ll be in the car,” he said, then left the room.
Harry lowered himself into a chair. He was still weak in the knees from the pointed Fernandez questions. Could he be back? The chrysanthemums had led him to believe that Goss was the blackmailer. And since he hadn’t heard from the man since Goss’s murder, he had been convinced he was right. But this was too strange for coincidence. It couldn’t have been a heckler or someone making a lucky guess who’d shouted out Fernandez’s name. And Malone’s line of questioning had been deliberate. He trembled at the thought: Not only had his blackmailer returned, but one of Florida’s sleaziest television reporters knew something about it.
Don’t jump to conclusions, he told himself. Raul Fernandez had been the most controversial execution of his administration. A reporter or a protester didn’t have to know anything to draw a comparison between the execution of the governor’s son and the execution of a man who had proclaimed his innocence to the very end. It wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibility that today had been coincidence-that Goss had been the extortionist, and that his extortionist was dead. Then it occurred to him that there was a way to find out for sure if it had been Goss. The first time Harry had been attacked, his assailant had identified himself as the man who confessed to Jack the night of Fernandez’s execution. Surely, Jack would know if that very same man was Goss.
Now all he had to do was figure out a way to get Jack to tell him.
Chapter 24
“State versus Swyteck,” the bailiff finally announced, ending Jack’s ninety-minute wait in the holding cell. The cavernous courtroom came to life as Manuel Cardenal met his client at the prisoner’s side entrance and escorted him across the marble floor to a mahogany podium, where they stood and faced the judge. Clusters of newscasters and curious spectators looked on from the public seating area as Jack passed before them, his head down and eyes forward, the accused murderer of the infamous Eddy Goss. Goss was indeed on Jack’s mind. The entire scene was hauntingly reminiscent of the Goss arraignment, when Jack had accompanied the confessed killer to the very same podium to enter his not-guilty plea. Now, as Jack was about to enter his own plea, it was more plain than ever that a simple “not guilty” was no assertion of innocence. Innocence was a moral judgment-a matter of conscience between mortals and their maker. “Not guilty” was a legalistic play on words, the defendant’s public affirmation that he would stand on his constitutional right to force the prosecutor to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Manuel Cardenal seemed sensitive to that fine distinction when he entered Jack’s plea.
“My client is more than not guilty,” Manny announced to the judge. “Jack Swyteck is innocent.”
The pale old judge peered down from the bench over the top of his bifocals, his wrinkled brow furrowed and bushy white eyebrows raised. He didn’t approve of defense lawyers who vouched for the innocence of their clients, but he didn’t make an issue of it. “Register a plea of not guilty,” he directed the clerk. “And Mr. Cardenal,” he said sharply, pointing menacingly with his gavel, “save the speeches for your press conference.”
Manny just smiled to himself.
“There’s also the issue of bail, Judge,” came the deep, gravelly voice from across the room. It was Wilson McCue, the state attorney, wearing his traditional three-piece suit. His pudgy face was nearly as round as his rimless spectacles, and a heavy gold chain from his pocket watch stretched across a bulging belly. Jack knew that the aging state attorney rarely even went to trial anymore, so seeing him at a routine matter like an arraignment was a bit like noticing a semiretired general on the front lines. “The govuhment,” McCue continued in his deep drawl, “requests that the court set bail at-”
“I’m quite familiar with the case,” the judge interrupted, “and I know the defendant. Mr. Swyteck is no stranger to the criminal courtrooms. Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars. Next case,” he announced with a bang of his gavel.
McCue’s mouth hung open momentarily, unaccustomed as he was to such abrupt treatment from anyone, including judges.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Manny.
Jack moved quickly across the courtroom to the clerk, continuing along the assembly line. Thankfully, the politicians hadn’t gotten the judge to deny bail. Now all Jack had to do to get back on the street was pledge his every worldly possession to Jose Restrepo-Merono, the five-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound Puerto Rican president of “F. Lee Bail-Me, Inc.”-the only bail bondsman ever known to have a sense of humor.
Jack returned to the holding cell for another hour or so while Manny’s assistant handled the mechanical aspects of posting bail. Late that afternoon he was released, thankful he could spend the night in his own bed. He didn’t have a car, since Stafford had driven him to the station. Manny’s assistant was supposed to swing by and take Jack home, so he wouldn’t have to wait for a taxi while fighting off reporters eager for their shot at eliciting a little quote that might make theirs the breaking story. As it turned out, though, Manny himself showed up at the curb behind the wheel of his Jaguar. The look on his face told Jack he wasn’t just playing chauffeur.
“Get in,” Manny said solemnly when Jack opened the door.
Jack slid into the passenger seat, and Manny pulled into the late-afternoon traffic.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” said Jack.
“Your father called me,” Manny replied, as if that were enough to explain his appearance. He looked away from the road, just long enough to read Jack’s face. “He told me about Raul Fernandez. I heard all about your request for a stay that night, and his response.”
Jack smoldered, but said nothing. Instead, he made a conscious effort to look out the window.
“Okay,” he said finally, “so now you know the Swyteck family secret. We not only defend the guilty. We execute the innocent.”
Manny steered around the corner, then pulled into a parking space beneath a shady tree. He wanted to look right at his client as he spoke. “I don’t know everything, Jack. I only know what your father knows about that night. And he’s missing a key piece of information. So we both want to know if there’s more to this case than whether Jack Swyteck killed Eddy Goss. He and I both want a straight answer from you: Did Raul Fernandez die for Eddy Goss?”
“What?” Jack asked, thoroughly confused.
“The night before Fernandez was executed, was Eddy Goss the guy who came to you and confessed to the murder? Was Raul Fernandez innocent, and Eddy Goss guilty?”
“Where did you dream up-” Jack paused, calmed himself down. “Look, Manny, if my father wants to talk, I’ll talk to him. Fernandez is between him and me. This has nothing to do with your defending me for the murder of Eddy Goss.”
“Wrong, Jack. This could have everything to do with the murder of Eddy Goss. Because it bears directly on your motive to kill-or to ‘execute’-Eddy Goss. You can’t risk letting Wilson McCue flesh out this theory before I do. So answer me, Jack. And I want the truth.”
Jack looked Ma
nny right in the eye. “The truth, Manny, is that I didn’t kill Eddy Goss. And as far as who it was who came to me the night Fernandez was executed, the honest answer is that I don’t know. The guy never gave me his name. He never even showed me his face. But I do know this much: It was not Eddy Goss. The eyes are different, the build is different, the voice is different. It’s just a different person.”
Manny took a deep breath and looked away, then gave a quick nod of appreciation. “Thanks, I know this isn’t an easy subject for you. And I’m glad you leveled with me.”
“Maybe it’s time I leveled with my father, too. I think he and I need to talk.”
“I’m advising you not to do that, Jack.”
“It’s kind of a personal decision, don’t you think?”
“From a legal standpoint, I am strongly advising you not to speak to your father. I don’t want you talking to anyone who might jeopardize your ability to take the witness stand in your own defense. And talking to your father is very risky.”
“What are you implying?”
Manny measured his words carefully. “Right after I spoke to your father,” he began, “I had an uneasy feeling. It was just a feeling, but when you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you follow your gut. So I went and took another look at the police file.”
“And?”
“I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. But I noticed that the police report showed an extraneous footprint, right outside Goss’s apartment. It wasn’t from you, and it wasn’t from Eddy Goss. It was from someone else. Now, that’s a definite plus for us, because it can help us prove that someone else was at the scene of the crime. But what has me concerned is that the footprint is very clear.” He sighed. “It’s from a Wiggins wing tip.”
Jack’s expression went white. He said nothing, but Manny read the message on his face.
“How long has your father worn Wiggins wing tips, Jack?”
“As long as I can remember,” he said with disbelief. “But, you can’t possibly think my father-”
“I don’t know what to think. There was just something about the urgency in your father’s voice-his curious tone-that concerns me. I don’t know if there’s something he’s not telling me or what. But I do know this: I don’t want my client talking to him. I can’t take the risk that he’ll confess something to you, and then you won’t be able to take the witness stand, for fear you might incriminate your own father. Or, even worse, I don’t want you being evasive on the stand because you’re trying to protect your father. So until I get to the bottom of this, I want you to stay as far away from him as possible. Can I have your word on that?”
Jack felt sick inside. But he knew Manny was right. A tough judgment call like this one was precisely the reason that lawyers should never represent themselves. He needed someone like Manny to put the personal issues aside and counsel him wisely. “All right,” he said with resignation. “I haven’t spoken to my father in two years. I can wait a little longer. You have my word.”
Chapter 25
Jack woke the next morning with the memory of his conversation with Manny still vivid. He ran all sorts of hypotheses through his head but was unable to explain why his father would be involved with Goss. It just didn’t make sense. He needed to find some answers, and he knew they wouldn’t come to him if he sat around the house.
So, after showering and downing a quick cup of coffee, he threw on a jacket and tie and headed for the police station. He arrived at the document section around ten o’clock and asked the clerk to pull the investigative file on State v. Swyteck. He wanted to see for himself what this business of an “extraneous footprint” was all about.
Only the police, the prosecutor, the defendant, or the defendant’s attorney can pull the file in a pending murder case, but Jack had done it so many times as a lawyer with the Freedom Institute that he didn’t even have to show his Florida bar card to the clerk behind the counter. He just signed his name in the registry and filled in his bar number. Out of curiosity, he checked to see who else had been reviewing his file. Detective Stafford and his assistant, of course. . Manny had been there twice, as recently as yesterday. . and someone else had been there: Richard Dressler, an attorney.
He had never heard of any attorney named Richard Dressler, so he checked with the file clerk to see who he was.
“You putting me on, Mr. Swyteck?” said the young black woman behind the counter. She had large, almond eyes and straightened black hair with an orangey-red streak on one side. Other than Jack, she was the only person in the busy station who wasn’t a cop, and she was the only person he’d ever seen with ten different glittering works of art on two-inch fingernails of curling acrylic. “Richard Dressler’s a lawyer,” she told Jack, looking at him as if he were senile. “Said he was your lawyer.”
Jack was stunned, but he put on his best poker face. “You know,” he shook his head with a smile, “my head counsel has so many other young lawyers helping him on this case, sometimes I can’t keep track of them. Dressler. .” Jack baited her, as if he were trying to place the man. “Tall guy-right?”
She just rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what he looked like,” she said, fussing with a little ornamental rhinestone that had loosened from her thumbnail. “I got five hundred people a day coming through here.”
Jack nodded slowly. He definitely wanted to know more about this Richard Dressler, but the last thing he wanted to do was make an issue out of it in the middle of the police station-deep in the heart of enemy territory. He had an idea. “I changed my mind,” he said as he slid the file back over the counter to her. “Thanks anyway. I’ll check it out later.”
“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug.
He left the police station quickly and headed for a pay phone at the corner. He dialed the Florida bar’s Attorney Information Service and asked for some basic information on Richard Dressier.
“Mr. Dressler’s office is at five-oh-one Kennedy Boulevard, Tampa, Florida,” the woman in the records department cheerfully reported.
A hell of a long way from Miami. “And what kind of law does he practice? Does he do criminal defense?”
The woman checked the computer screen before her. “Mr. Dressler is a board-certified real estate attorney. Would you like a listing of criminal defense lawyers in that area, sir?”
“No, thank you. That’s all I need.” He slowly replaced the receiver and leaned against the phone, totally confused. Why would a real estate attorney from Tampa come three hundred miles to look at a police file in Miami? And why would he pose as Jack’s criminal defense lawyer? Jack could think of no reason-at least no good reason. He shook his head, then walked back to his car. He started thinking about the extraneous footprint that had drawn him to the police file in the first place. He wondered if Dressler had also been curious about Wiggins wing tips.
Chapter 26
Harry Swyteck may not have liked the way his campaign manager had phrased it, but if Jack wasn’t actually “killing” him, the publicity certainly wasn’t doing his campaign any good. It was only August, and the November election was still arguably far enough away to dismiss the plunging public-opinion polls as not the pulse of the people but merely the palpitations of the times. The governor, however, was not one to sit around and wait for things to change. A road trip was in order-one of those whirlwind, statewide tours that would allow him to press the flesh and pick a few wallets in face-to-face meetings with Rotarians, Shriners, and virtually any other group that wanted a breakfast or luncheon speaker.
He finished the first of what would be many fifteen hour days on the speaking circuit at 9:30 p.m. and retired to his motel room. The Thunderhead Motel was one of those roadside lodges familiar to any traveler who’d been forced to spend the night in some small town where the nicest restaurant was the Denny’s across from a bowling alley. It was typical of those long and narrow two-story motels where the rooms on one side faced the parking lot and the rooms on the other faced the algae-stain
ed swimming pool. The rooms facing the parking lot, however, didn’t directly abut the rooms facing the pool. An interior service corridor ran through the middle of the building, for use by housekeepers and other hotel employees. That didn’t seem very important, unless you also knew that the walls in the corridor were a paper-thin sheet of plaster-board, and that employees sometimes poked holes in them to satisfy their perverse curiosity.
Harry, in his second-floor room, was completely unaware of this as he peeled off his clothes and stepped into the tub for a nice hot shower. The incredibly tacky brown, orange, and yellow floral-print wallpaper made it impossible to detect any holes in the wall that separated the bathroom from the service corridor. In fact, there was a small hole right next to the towel rack, which offered a full view of the governor’s left profile. Eight inches below that was a larger hole that accommodated the barrel of a.38-caliber revolver pointed directly at the governor’s ear.
“Don’t move,” came a muffled voice from the other side of the bathroom wall.
The governor was both startled and confused by the sound of a strange voice over running water. He froze when he saw the barrel of the gun.
“I’ll kill you if you move,” came another warning, followed by the cocking of the hammer. “You know I will. You do recognize the voice, don’t you, my man?”
Goose bumps popped up beneath the soap and lather on the governor’s body. He knew the voice all right. “You’re still alive?” he said with a mix of fear and wonder. It hadn’t been Eddy Goss who was blackmailing him; and it couldn’t have been Eddy Goss who confessed to Jack. “Why are you here?”
“Just wanted to make sure you knew it was me who fucked up your press conference, Governor.”
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