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-stained 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.”
Harry swallowed apprehensively. “And what about the reporter—Malone? What does he know?”
“Squat. I just told him Fernandez was innocent. That’s all. Just enough to let you know I’m serious about going to the press. Didn’t show him any proof—yet.”
The governor trembled. He could barely find the nerve to ask another question, but he had to know: “Did you tell him I received a report that Fernandez was innocent before”—he paused—“before he was executed?”
“No. But I will, my man. Unless you pay up.”
“You already have ten thousand.”
The scoff was audible even over the sound of the still cascading shower. “You stiffed me on the last installment. You went all the way to Goss’s apartment, just like I told you to. I watched you walk right up to the fucking door. And you chickened out. You turned and walked away. You didn’t leave my money. And now, with interest and all, I’d say you owe me an even fifty grand.”
“Fifty thousand! I don’t have—”
“Don’t lie to me!” he snapped. “You and that rich society bitch you married have it. And you will give it to me. Don’t forget, Governor. I still have our last conversation on tape. No money, and the tape goes right to Malone—along with the proof that Fernandez was innocent. You hear me?”
Silenced by fear and utter disbelief that this could be happening to him, the governor stood quietly as the water from the shower pelted his body.
“Do you hear me!”
The governor shifted his eyes slowly toward the gun. “This is the end of it, right? This is the last installment.”
“That’s why it’s fifty grand, my man. I want the whole enchilada in one big bite. So shut the fuck up and listen. Since this is the last one, I want you to buy a big bouquet of flowers—chrysanthemums, to be exact. Get one with a nice big pot. Put the money in the pot. And just for fun, put your shoes in there, too—those Wiggins wing tips you like to wear. This Friday night, seven o’clock, take the whole thing to Memorial Cemetery in Miami. Row twelve, plot two thirty-two in the west quadrant. Leave it right there. It’s a flat marker.”
“How do I find plot two thirty-two? Who’s buried there?”
“It’s a new grave. You’ll recognize the name on it.”
“Eddy Goss?” the governor swallowed his words.
“Raul Fernandez, asshole. Go pay your respects.”
The barrel of the gun suddenly disappeared through the hole, and the quick footsteps and the slam of a door in the service corridor told the governor that his blackmailer was gone—for now.
Chapter 27
•
Two hours after Jack had requested his file at the police station and turned up the information about Richard Dressler, he met Manny in his offices for a brainstorming session. Manny knew nothing about Dressler. He’d reviewed the police file before that name had been entered into the registry. He knew about as much as could be expected of someone who’d been retained just forty-eight hours earlier, having picked up bits and pieces from the file and a brief talk with Jack after the arraignment. Jack had a lot to tell him, and he was eager to hear Manny’s assessment of the case. But after a brief overview of the salient facts, and at the risk of sounding like so many of his guilty clients at the Institute who were so quick to assert their innocence, Jack couldn’t help but get to the bottom line.
“I’ve been framed,” he said.
“Whoa,” Manny half kidded. “Turning paranoid on me already, are you?”
“It’s not paranoia. It’s a fact, Manny. Somebody wanted
me to think Goss was stalking me. Why else would they have given me a map to Goss’s apartment? Why else would they have left the chrysanthemum under Cindy’s pillow the night I stayed at Gina Terisi’s townhouse? That was when I, of all people, should have known it wasn’t really Goss who was harassing me. Goss never left flowers anywhere. His signature was seeds. He had this perverse connection between chrysanthemum seeds and his own semen. He was a nut case, but he was consistent about his signature.”
“So, somebody wanted you to think Goss was after you,” said Manny, moving the theory along. “Why?”
“I don’t know exactly why. I guess because they planned to kill him. And they planned to make it look like I did it. That’s why the silencer showed up in my car at the repair shop. Somebody planted it there.”
Manny stroked his chin, thinking. “And why would someone want to pin you with the murder of Eddy Goss?”
“Again,” Jack said with a shrug, “I don’t know. Maybe to retaliate against me for getting Goss acquitted. Friend of the victim, or somebody like that. Maybe even a cop. All the lawyers from the Freedom Institute have lots of enemies on the force. And we already have that nine-one-one call about a cop being on the scene right after Goss was killed.”
That much was true. They did know about the cop. The prosecutor had disclosed that information under rules established by the Supreme Court, which required the government to disclose helpful information to the defense. “We have a recorded phone message,” said Manny, putting the evidence on the cop in perspective, “but we don’t have a witness, because we don’t have a name and we don’t know who the caller is.” Then he sighed, swiveled in his leather chair, and looked out the window.
Jack studied his lawyer’s face, trying to discern his thoughts. It was important to Jack that Manny believe him, not just because Manny was his attorney, but because he was the only person other than Cindy to whom Jack had proclaimed his innocence—and he was a man whose judgment people valued. That was obvious, Jack thought as he admired the way income from praiseworthy clients had helped Manny furnish his oversized office. Primitive but priceless pre-Colombian art adorned his walls and bookshelves. Sculptured Mayan warriors lined the wall of windows overlooking the glistening bay, as if worshiping the bright morning sun. A touch of sentimentality rested atop his sleek marble-top desk: a glass vase with a white ribbon around it, containing the black soil of a homeland the Cardenal family had left more than three decades ago, fleeing a Cuban revolutionary turned despot.
“Let me say this, Jack,” Manny said as he turned to face his client. “I do believe you’re innocent. Not that guilt or innocence is relevant to whether I would defend you. I want you to know it, though, because it’s important you continue to tell me everything.
“That said,” he continued, “I hope you’ll understand if I don’t appear overly enthusiastic about your frame-up theory. I’ve been doing this for twenty years. Every client I’ve ever represented claimed he was framed. Juries are skeptical of these kind of claims, as I’m sure you’re aware. That makes it a tough defense to prove.”
“Tough—but not impossible.”
“No,” Manny agreed. “Not impossible. And I think we already have a couple of very important leads to follow, which may prove key to your theory. One is this Richard Dressler. Who is he, and why is he snooping in your file? And second, we need to find out who made that nine-one-one call and reported they saw a police officer leaving the scene of the crime. Obviously, we need to get on both these leads immediately. It could take some time, especially tracking down the nine-one-one caller.”
“We don’t have time,” said Jack.
“Well, we have a little time. Trial is two months away.”
“The trial isn’t our deadline.”
“I know, but—”
“I think you’re overbooking something,” said Jack in a polite but serious tone. “We don’t have two months. We may not even have two minutes. Whoever framed me, Manny, is a cold-blooded killer. Which means one thing: We have to find the nine-one-one caller—before he does.”
If the newspapers Jack read over lunch were any indication, the public couldn’t hear enough about the brilliant young son of the governor who’d wigged out and blown away his client. Jack was a veteran when it came to bad press, but still, it helped when he called home and picked up messages on his machine from Mike Mannon and Neil Goderich, both offering any help they could.
One newspaper story in particular had Jack concerned. After summarizing the evidence against him, it made prominent mention of the anonymous 911 call. “A little something,” the article observed, “that a lawyer of Jack Swyteck’s ability could seize upon to blow the case wide open.”
The article made Jack feel uneasy. It was bad enough that anyone who’d looked at the police file could have learned about the 911 caller. Now, anyone who read the newspaper would know about it, too.
Jack drove the five minutes to the police station and requested the recorded 911 message. He played it over and over, until the caller’s voice was one he’d recognize. The man had spoken partly in English, partly in Spanish, a hybrid that made it easier to remember.
From the station he drove to Goss’s apartment building and checked the mailboxes. There were seventeen Hispanic surnames, which he wrote down. He walked to the corner phone booth, confirmed there was a telephone book, then matched the names and addresses to numbers. He then went back to his car to make the calls. He posed as a pollster from a local radio station seeking views on U.S. immigration policy, as a salesman, as someone just getting a wrong number—anything to get the person on the other end of the line to speak long enough so that he could compare his voice to the one on the 911 recording.
A few of the people weren’t home. One line had been disconnected. Those people Jack did reach had clearly not made the call. After thirty minutes of calling, he still didn’t have a match. Damn.
Sitting there outside Goss’s apartment building, watching the last rays of the setting sun glint off the Mustang’s windshield, he wondered if it might already be too late.
Chapter 28
•
The next morning, a Thursday, Jack and Manny were scheduled to meet in Manny’s offices with their first potential witness: Jack’s alibi, Gina Terisi.
From the moment he’d called Gina to arrange the meeting, Jack had been ambivalent. He considered the frame-up theory his best defense, and as the minute hand on his watch drew closer to their eleven o’clock appointment, he found himself wanting to drop the whole idea of an alibi, rather than deal with her. Manny, however, had a different point of view.
“Humor me, Jack,” said Manny, seated behind his desk. “Just for the moment, let’s put this frame-up and grand-conspiracy theory of yours aside. It may sound like a good defense. But even if my investigator makes headway on this Dressler lead, a frame-up is very hard to prove. Your best defense is always going to be an alibi. Because no human being—framed, or unframed—can be in two places at one time.”
“I understand that.”
“And I understand your reluctance about Gina. It certainly won’t sound good when the tabloids print that kinky hot sex with girlfriend’s roomie is your alibi. But it will sound a lot worse if a jury comes back and says you’re guilty of murder in the first degree. So,” he said as he reached for his desktop telephone, “let’s not keep Ms. Terisi waiting. All right, Jack?”
Jack took a deep breath. There were so many reasons he would have liked to leave Gina out of this and just forget using her as an alibi. But it was too late for that. “All right. Let’s see how cooperative she is.”
Manny hit the intercom button and spoke to his secretary. “Shelley, send in Ms. Terisi, please.”
“Yes, Mr. Cardenal.”
The office door opened, Manny’s secretary stepped aside, and Gina Terisi entered the spacious corner office. Manny politely rose from his chair to greet her, and Jack followed suit, though with considerably less enthusiasm.
&nbs
p; “Good morning,” said Manny, his face alight with the expression most men wore when they first laid eyes on Gina Terisi. She was wearing a cobalt blue dress, not tight, but flattering in all the right places. Her long brown hair was up in a twist, tucked beneath a black, broad-brimmed hat, revealing sparkling diamond-stud earrings, two on the left ear, one on the right. At least a karat each, Jack observed, and undoubtedly “gifts” from one of her admirers.
“Nice to see you, Jack,” she said through a forced smile.
He nodded courteously as Manny flashed a chivalrous smile and stepped forward to greet her. “Please,” he said, offering her the winged arm chair in which Jack had been seated.
“Thanks,” said Gina, making a production out of taking her seat. Jack moved to the couch beneath the window, and Manny returned to the black leather chair behind his desk. Both men faced their guest. Gina crossed her long legs comfortably, as if constructing a barrier between her and her interrogators.
“Can I get you some coffee?” Manny offered.
Gina didn’t acknowledge the question. She was busy checking her makeup in the reflection of the glass-top table beside her.
Manny was completely unaware that he was staring as Gina applied her lipstick slowly and seductively to the bottom of her pouty lip. “Nothing for me,” she said finally. “This will be a short meeting. I assure you of that.”
“What do you mean?” asked Manny.
“It means that although I tentatively told Jack on the phone that I’d support his alibi, I need to have some questions answered before I commit to anything.”
“That’s fair enough,” answered Manny. “I’ll do my best to answer them.”
Gina narrowed her eyes, stressing the import of her question. “What I need to know is this: Exactly what time of the morning was Eddy Goss shot?”
“Why do you need to know that?” asked Jack.
Gina ignored him and looked only at Manny. “Never mind why. Just answer my question.”
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