Gone Again

by James Grippando

  Gavin Burgette didn’t jump to his feet, and there was no Perry Mason–style outburst from the gallery. But he was seated in the first row just on the other side of the rail, and his reaction was loud enough for Jack to hear it from his seat: “That’s a damn lie.”

  The judge responded with a crack of his gavel; he’d obviously heard it, too. “Mr. Burgette, one more word from you and I’ll have you removed from the courtroom.”

  The prosecutor resumed her questioning. “What exactly did you and Mr. Burgette negotiate?”

  “Okay, so this is where we were: Sashi was damaged goods, all right? I mean, all these rehoming kids have problems, but this girl had problems. My clients didn’t want her. The Burgettes still wanted me to take her. So we were negotiating what it would cost them for me to . . . you know, take her off their hands.”

  Jack heard something between a groan and a deep sigh from behind him. It could have been anger, or disbelief, or both—but this time, Gavin’s reaction wasn’t enough to draw the judge’s ire.

  “Did you reach an agreement with Mr. Burgette?” asked the prosecutor.

  “Uh-uh. We were talking about something like a hundred grand, but it never went solid.”

  “Why not?”

  The witness shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “Sashi went missing. Nothing left to talk about.”

  The prosecutor returned to her table, quietly conferred with co-counsel, and made one final check of her notes. “Thank you, Mr. Mendoza. Your Honor, I have nothing further.”

  Jack had expected the testimony to end on a strong note, but not necessarily with a bombshell.

  “Mr. Swyteck,” said the judge, “I’m sure you’re prepared to cross-examine, but I’ve been going since eight a.m. and I’m exhausted. I hate to hold this prisoner in Miami another day, but I’m only human. Let’s reconvene tomorrow at six p.m. We’ll go for one hour. The witness shall remain under oath, and there shall be no third-party communication with him overnight. We’re adjourned,” he said with a crack of the gavel.

  All rose on the bailiff’s command, and when the judge disappeared into his chambers, the courtroom deputies escorted the prisoner to the side exit, where elevators would transport him to the holding cells. Mendoza’s lawyer stepped up to the rail to confer with the prosecution team, all seemingly satisfied with a good day’s work.

  “What now?” asked Hannah as she packed up their trial bags.

  Jack was watching Gavin Burgette and his lawyer walk toward the rear exit. A handful of reporters followed them, and a few were firing off questions, even if they were being ignored. Jack would have expected Debra to remain behind at her seat until Gavin and the new woman in his life were long gone. Not this time.

  Debra Burgette headed up the center aisle with purpose, in hot pursuit of her ex.

  CHAPTER 44

  I need to talk to you right now,” said Debra.

  Gavin and Nicole were five steps ahead of her, hurrying across the plaza outside the courthouse. Debra had managed to hold her tongue for the five minutes it had taken to ride the elevator down and follow them out of the building.

  Gavin stopped and turned. “Really? Here?”

  They were at the curb, standing in the glow of a streetlamp. The downtown rush hour was over, and the only people on the sidewalks were a handful of homeless guys and a couple of German-speaking tourists who obviously had no idea that not a single shop or restaurant in the courthouse district remained open after dark.

  “I know what you did,” said Debra.

  Nicole tugged at his arm. “Let’s go, Gavin.”

  He didn’t move. “What I did?”

  “You called DCFS, you bastard. Didn’t you?”

  “What?” he said, incredulous.

  “A social worker showed up at Alexander’s school today. They interviewed his teachers. Now they want to interview him. This is all because you accused me of rehoming Sashi. Now DCFS thinks Alexander is in danger.”

  Nicole edged her way forward. “Do you deny you rehomed her?”

  “What kind of question is that, Nicole?”

  “The kind of question a lot of people are asking—especially the ones who wonder why you’re so sure she’s alive?”

  Debra was about to spit fire, and then it hit her: “You called DCFS. Didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Nicole.

  “This won’t stick,” she said, glaring at her ex. “You know I didn’t rehome Sashi.”

  “It took you long enough to deny it.”

  “No, what took a while was to figure out what kind of scheme you were up to. I denied it in no time. I passed a lie detector test. I showed the report to Jack Swyteck, and I sent it to the FBI. I’m going to send it to DCFS, too.”

  “I can get a hamster to pass a polygraph,” said Nicole.

  “Just shut up,” said Debra. “You took everything, Gavin. I can’t even afford to hire a lawyer. But you are not going to take Alexander from me.”

  “I’m not trying to take Alexander,” he said.

  “Yes, you are. I couldn’t understand why you would lie on the witness stand like that. I even started to wonder if Swyteck had put the idea in your head, since it would help his client if I rehomed Sashi. He did the same thing to me, you know. He had me thinking that maybe you rehomed her. But you didn’t see me haul off and make a wild accusation against you in a courtroom.”

  Nicole tugged at his arm again. “Let’s go, Gavin.”

  “Yes, please. Go, Gavin. I can’t stand to look at either one of you. But you want to know the worst of it? For a little while there, I thought you genuinely believed that Sashi might be alive. At the very least, I thought maybe you were finally willing to put the bullshit aside and find out, once and for all, what really happened to our daughter.”

  Gavin breathed in and out. “Sashi was murdered by Dylan Reeves. And, yes, you did have everyone doubting that for a couple days—maybe even the judge. But you see what happens when you keep reopening this old wound? People get hurt. This is your fault, Debra. Not mine. Blame yourself for what happens. Not me. And not Nicole.”

  Gavin turned, Nicole took his arm, and together they walked away. Debra stood at the corner and watched as they crossed the street and entered the parking lot.

  Debra’s car was parked on the street around the corner, two blocks from the courthouse. She followed the sidewalk, passing one dark storefront after another. Most shops were secured for the night with roll-down shutters or burglar bars. A rush of warm wind from the alley lifted a fast-food wrapper from the asphalt and sent it swirling over Debra’s head. It was nothing to worry about, but it somehow made her feel more alone on a street that was a long, long way from Cocoplum. She walked faster, but then she stopped and glanced over her shoulder. She thought she’d heard footsteps.

  She saw nothing but the fast-food wrapper blowing like tumbleweed across the empty street. She turned and continued toward her car, walking in the shadow of a dark office tower. It was completely vacant for renovation, not a single light burning in its twenty stories of black windows. The block-long construction zone, idle for the night, lay between Debra and her car. She would have to walk through one of those temporary pedestrian tunnels that kept workers from dropping tools and debris on passersby below. She opted to cut across the street to the open sidewalk, which made her feel safer—for a moment. Then she heard footsteps again. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, but she saw nothing.

  Definitely heard footsteps.

  Her heart was pounding, her mind was racing, and without even thinking about it she covered the last twenty yards to her car in an all-out sprint. She dug the key from her purse, unlocked the door, jumped behind the wheel, and started the engine. The tires squealed and the engine roared as the car leaped away from the curb. Her hands were shaking as she gripped the wheel and sped down the street.

  I know I heard something.

  The traffic light was red, but she blew through the inters
ection, steered onto the entrance ramp to I-95, and merged into traffic at seventy miles per hour.

  Then she dialed Aquinnah on her cell—someone to talk her home, calm her nerves, and tell her it was time to stop living in the rearview mirror.

  CHAPTER 45

  Jack checked his cell as he exited the federal courthouse. He had a voice-mail message from a number he didn’t recognize. The voice was unfamiliar, too.

  “Mr. Swyteck,” the recording began, “this is Herb Graner, the lawyer for Dylan Reeves.”

  Jack stopped at the street corner. Graner had represented Reeves at trial, and Jack had been eager to hear from him. Graner apologized for not returning the phone calls sooner, but he’d spent the last thirty days in residence at the Hazelden Betty Ford Foundation for treatment of alcohol and drug addiction. Jack pressed the phone harder against his ear to drown out the street noises and hear better.

  “Today’s my first day back at work,” he said. “I’ll be in the office late tonight catching up. Call or come by if you like. Thanks.”

  Jack called right back. True to his word, Graner was still in the office and willing to meet. The law office of Herb Graner, P.A., was downtown, in the Alfred I. duPont Building, just a few blocks from the federal courthouse. Jack headed straight over, and in fifteen minutes he was seated across the conference table from the lawyer who, ironically, had been entrusted with the job of saving Dylan Reeves’ life while drinking himself to death.

  Graner’s appearance was reminiscent of Jack’s late mentor, Neil Goderich, right down to the braided gray ponytail and the casual, open-collared shirt. The difference, of course, was that Neil had learned to “just say no” even before it became a public service announcement. Graner had never really caught on to the concept.

  Beads of sweat glistened on his brow. “Sorry about the AC,” said Graner. “Shit always breaks when you’re out of the office.”

  Jack removed his suit coat and loosened his tie, but the room was still a sauna. “No worries. I’m used to it. It comes with the turf in historic buildings, I guess.”

  Miami’s duPont Building was a notable survivor in a city that cleared away history for new high-rises on a weekly basis. Built in 1939, in the Moderne style, the city’s second skyscraper still bore the name of Alfred I. duPont, who’d invested well in the Florida banking business. His first fortune, however, had come as a young man in the gunpowder business, and nineteenth-century history would record him as “one of the nation’s top powder men.” From the razor cuts on the conference room tabletop—Jack guessed that hundreds of lines of coke had been cut there—it appeared that Herb Graner was quite the “powder man” himself.

  “Let me see if I can put my hands on the Reeves working file,” he said, as he pushed away from the table. “I’ve got some notes in there, I’m sure.”

  The prospect of attorney notes piqued Jack’s interest, but he didn’t hold out much hope. Every available surface was covered with expandable files, loose notepads, and law books. There were filing cabinets, but they were almost completely hidden behind floor-to-ceiling stacks of dusty Bankers Boxes, some of which effectively bricked over the room’s only window. Many were yellowed with age.

  “I’m sure that file is here somewhere,” said Graner. “It’s only three years old. I usually wait at least five years before sending anything to deep storage.”

  Jack would have guessed it was more like twenty-five. “I can help look, if you can narrow down the boxes.”

  Graner planted his hands on his hips, breathing out. “I don’t have a clue. I’ll call my secretary. Not sure how she does it, but she knows where everything is.”

  Graner scanned the room for a telephone, as if he knew it had to be somewhere in all the mess of files and papers. He gave up and dialed on his cell. It was a short conversation, punctuated by a few grunts from Graner’s end, followed by an “I’m truly sorry, Colleen.” He tucked the phone away, then spoke to Jack.

  “Colleen and I have been together forever, and it’s always the same routine. Bitches me out for bothering her at home; then she calls back in five minutes with the answer. We’ll just have to cool our heels for a while. Which gives you and me a chance to talk about the elephant in the room.”

  Jack knew what he meant. It was always a bit awkward to be the posttrial counsel in a death case who was arguing to the court that the trial lawyer was so bad that the client was effectively deprived of his right to counsel under the Sixth Amendment to the Constitution. “You read the brief we submitted to Judge Frederick, I take it?” asked Jack.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, his tone a bit less congenial. “Let me get this off my chest right now. You pissed me off, Swyteck. I read it while I was in residence. It made me so mad that they made me shut down anything related to law, or they were gonna kick me out of the program.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you? I was sober for eight years before I took on Dylan Reeves’ case. This is the case that pushed me off the wagon.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Dylan’s daddy was a preacher. I was a member of his church. The family doesn’t have a lot of money to throw away on the prodigal son. Mr. Reeves asked me to take the case for ten thousand dollars, including costs. That was the cap. Not a penny more. I said I’d do it.”

  “That was generous of you.”

  “Yeah, it was. So that’s problem number one I have with people who second-guess and say, ‘Why didn’t Dylan Reeves’ lawyer follow up on this lead?’ Or, ‘Why didn’t the lawyer hire this expert?’ It’s like hiring a roofer, and then when the job is done you ask him, ‘Why didn’t you paint the house?’ Because you didn’t fucking pay me to paint the house, asshole!”

  “I get that,” said Jack. “To a point.”

  “Let me give you an example. I considered hiring a psychiatrist to testify about RAD. It’s not easy to find one who’s qualified to testify about RAD and who’s willing to essentially attack a murder victim in a courtroom. But I found one. You know how much she wanted? A five-thousand-dollar retainer, plus two hundred dollars an hour for court time.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “That’s over half the pot! Even at ten thousand dollars, when all was said and done, I made maybe fifteen dollars an hour on this case.”

  “In hindsight, he might have been better off with a public defender.”

  “Yeah. Everybody’s a genius in hindsight.”

  The phone rang. As predicted, it was Herb’s secretary. Herb rose and followed her directions, speaking into the phone: “Uh, uh, uh-huh. Got it, sweetie. Thank you.”

  He put the phone down, his gaze locking onto a Bankers Box at the top of a teetering stack on the other side of the room. “Colleen to the rescue,” he said, smiling. “There it is.”

  Jack helped him pull it down, careful not to knock over the entire stack, and they placed it on the razor-scarred tabletop. Graner removed the cardboard box top eagerly, as if opening a time capsule. From Jack’s vantage point, the contents didn’t appear to be well organized. It looked as if someone had scooped up a mess of fallen papers from the floor and simply shoved them into a box.

  “My interview notes gotta be here somewhere,” he said. “That’s what I think you’d find most helpful.”

  Jack spotted a black three-ring binder that was still atop the stack. It had been beneath the working file, but with the box gone, Jack could see that it was marked State of Florida v. Dylan Reeves. Jack laid it on the table and started through it.

  “What is this, Herb?”

  He stopped shuffling through the box and took a look. At first, his expression showed no recognition. Then it came to him. “That came from the state attorney before trial. It was part of the Brady production.”

  The prosecutor’s compliance with Brady v. Maryland—the government’s obligation to turn over potentially exculpatory evidence to the defense before trial—was a major point in Dylan Reeves’ petition.

  “I’ve n
ever seen this before,” said Jack.

  “I didn’t use it at trial. Neither did the prosecution.”

  Jack opened the binder. Inside there were section dividers with tabs. The pages that followed each tab were printed copies of online chats. Jack read the first one, an exchange between “Manly Man” and “Cherry,” written in sexting shorthand.

  what do u like

  u know what

  u want me to sing u love songs

  no

  u want me to recite poetry

  nope

  u want me to suck your big cock

  Ahhhhhhhh.

  is it out now

  yep

  i want it all the way out

  Jack flipped ahead. Each tab contained a different online conversation between Sashi and the strangers that she’d met in the virtual world. It also held copies of the photographs they’d exchanged, just as Debra Burgette had testified at the hearing.

  “Why didn’t you use this at trial?”

  “Why?” he asked, suddenly defensive again. “First of all, I had no budget for a private detective, let alone a cybersex expert. And I did talk to a tech guy. As best he could tell, ‘Manly Man’ lived in Romania. What would that have proved in a murder case in Florida?”

  “There are at least ten others here,” Jack said, flipping through them. “‘TooCool,’ ‘Supersized,’ ‘Pleaser’—one of these guys could have lived next door to Sashi.”

  “If I had to do it again, maybe I’d do it different. But I made a decision. It made no sense to attack a teenage victim as an online slut if I couldn’t afford an expert witness to explain what reactive attachment disorder is. With the jury I had, victim bashing was a sure way to lose.”

  Jack was suddenly thinking ahead seventeen years, trying to imagine the mistakes his own daughter was going to make. Hopefully none as bad as Sashi’s, but who was to judge?

  “You have to remember, Jack: this was a case with no witnesses, and the police never recovered a body. ‘No body’ should equal ‘no conviction.’ My strategy was to make the prosecution prove its case, not to shift the burden to us to prove that Dylan didn’t do it.”