The Pardon

by James Grippando

  “That’s what I’m here to find out. That crack you made yesterday about not wanting to help me. That worried me.”

  “Well,” she said with a wry smile, “maybe I did lay it on a little thick. But you got the point of my performance: I don’t want to get involved. That shouldn’t surprise you, Jack. I honestly don’t think it even upsets you. I could see it on your face. The last thing you wanted was for me to be your alibi.”

  “You don’t know what I want, Gina.”

  “Oh, no?” she said coyly, switching to a low, sexy voice. She suddenly felt challenged. She moved closer to him, so close that he could feel her breath on his cheek and smell the sweat that reminded him of things he should never have done. She reached behind her head and tugged on the sweatband, letting her hair down. “Let me put it another way, Jack. Did you actually want me to say I touched this body,” she said, gliding her open hand lightly over his chest, a half inch away from touching him, but never making physical contact. “That I felt the weight of it on top of me. That we tangled and sweated and screamed in the night, that with each thrust I dug my nails into your back and sunk my teeth into your chest, crying out for more, even though you were more than enough for any woman. Is that really what you wanted? And if you did,” she whispered, now looking deeply into his eyes, “did you want Cindy in or out of the courtroom when I said it?”

  Jack pulled himself away from her. “What happened between you and me was a mistake. I think we both regret it. And you certainly could have been my alibi without making it sound so lurid.”

  Gina emptied her Gatorade into the sink and opened the liquor cabinet. She filled her glass with Campari and ice. “Are you negotiating with me?”

  “Negotiating for what?”

  She arched an eyebrow, then sipped her drink. “Do you want me to say you didn’t leave my townhouse until after four o’clock?”

  Jack knew her serious look, and she was definitely being serious. “Just hold it right there, Gina. You’ve totally got the wrong idea. I didn’t come here for that.”

  “I didn’t say you did. But, then again, think about the last time you came here. You didn’t come here to make love to me. But you did.”

  “And I wish it had never happened.”

  “Do you? Or do you just wish Cindy would never find out about it?”

  He looked away, trying not to lose his temper. He brought his emotions under control, then gave her a very lawyerly look. “Listen, Gina, I didn’t come here to talk you into being my alibi. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to testify against me.”

  Her eyes widened. “Don’t be absurd, Jack. I would never do that.”

  “And as far as what happened between you and me—no, I haven’t told Cindy yet. But she’ll know everything. Just as soon as I find the right time to tell her.”

  “There is no right time, Jack. I know Cindy. I know her better than you do. If she finds out about us, you can bet that neither one of us will ever see her again. The only reason there’d ever be to tell her anything is if I were going to be your alibi. And I’m not. So it’s final. I won’t have you shooting your mouth off to Cindy in some juvenile attempt to soothe your conscience. I won’t allow it.”

  “It’s not up to you.”

  “Oh, yes, it is. Because I’m taking back what I said earlier. I can’t say I would never testify against you. Because there is one way I would. If you tell Cindy about us, I swear I’ll tell the police everything—including how you came to my apartment thinking Eddy Goss was after you and Cindy.

  “And that’s only the half of it. I’ll tell the world what really happened between us—how you really got your scratches and bruises. I’ll tell them how I invited you inside my townhouse because you had scared me to death about Eddy Goss. How I trusted you when you said you’d sleep on the couch. And how I scratched and bruised you only after you snuck into my room, tore off my nightgown, and forced yourself on me.” She took a long sip and finished the rest of her drink. “It’s your choice. Just grow up and keep what happened between us to yourself. Or face the consequences.”

  Jack stared with disbelief. “Why are you doing this? Why not just live with the truth?”

  “Because the truth helps no one. If I tell the truth to the police, it hurts you. If you tell the truth to Cindy, it hurts us both. So those are my terms. Neither of us talks. Or we both talk. Take your pick.”

  He would have loved to tell her to butt out of his relationship with Cindy, but he couldn’t. Maybe she was bluffing—he certainly couldn’t believe she would fabricate a rape claim. But he was in no position to take that kind of risk. “All right,” he said with resignation. “I’ll take your terms, Gina. And just be glad I don’t have a choice.”

  “Smart boy,” she said, smiling. She raised her glass. “Can I offer you some Campari?”

  He didn’t bother to answer as he let himself out.

  At 5:30 A.M., Wilfredo Garcia was awakened by a loud knock on the door. He’d been up most of the night, his mind racing. It had been almost thirty-six hours since he’d beeped Officer Cookson, but he still hadn’t heard back. He was beginning to worry.

  The knocking continued. Wilfredo rolled from his mattress, which lay on the floor.

  “Un momento.” He put on his robe and stepped into his slippers, then shuffled toward the door.

  There was a place for a peephole in the door, but the little window had been removed and replaced with a wad of putty. Wilfredo removed the putty and peered into the hallway. It was dark, as usual, but he could see well enough to recognize the midnight blue uniform.

  “It’s Officer Cookson,” came the voice in the darkness.

  The old Cuban gentleman opened the door just a crack and peered through the opening. He was a foot shorter than the policeman and nearly twice as old.

  “Can I come in, sir?”

  Wilfredo felt a mixture of relief and anxiety. He didn’t know what to expect, but he certainly didn’t expect a cop to show up at this hour. Nonetheless, he nodded his head obediently and opened the door the rest of the way. The officer stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Wilfredo switched on a lamp with no shade, then turned and faced his visitor.

  The old man froze at the sight. He hadn’t been able to make out the features in the dark hallway, but in the better lighting it was clear. The build, the complexion, the sweeping dark eyebrows. A thousand different things were hitting him at once, and each screamed out the similarities between this man and the man he’d seen on the night Goss was murdered. His hands trembled and his heart hammered in his chest as he suddenly realized he was staring into the eyes of a killer. He turned to run, but the man in the uniform grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him back. Wilfredo opened his mouth to cry out for help, but before he could utter a word, the deadly hand of a trained killer came up from below and delivered a powerful jolt to the base of his chin. His head snapped back with the force of a rear-end collision, cracking the frail old vertebrae in his neck until the crown of his head met the middle of his back. In an instant Wilfredo went limp.

  The killer released his grasp of the old man’s nightshirt, and let the body fall to the floor. He bent down and felt for a pulse. There was none. His job was done.

  He straightened his stolen uniform, put on his dark glasses, and then quietly left the apartment, closing the door behind him. Once again, he left behind his handiwork at 409 East Adams Street. Once again, his footsteps echoed through the empty hallway—like just another beat cop making the rounds.

  PART FOUR

  •

  Tuesday, October 11

  Chapter 32

  •

  “All rise!” were the words that set everything in motion, like the blast from a starter’s pistol. After nine weeks of preparation, the stage was finally set. On one side of the courtroom sat a publicity-craving prosecutor, cloaked in the presumption of validity that came with his office. On the other sat a beleaguered defendant, clinging to the presumption of innocence
that came with his predicament. Wilson McCue would go it alone for the government. Jack and his lawyer would see this through together, a joint defense, unified in their resistance.

  Judge Virginia Tate emerged from her chambers through a side entrance to the courtroom. She was black and white in motion, with pasty white skin, salt-and-pepper hair, steely dark eyes, and a long, double strand of pearls swaying against her black robe. The thunderous clatter of reporters and spectators rising to their feet only added to the effect of her entrance. As she sat in a black leather chair, she looked first at the lawyers and then at the reporters, momentarily shedding her dour expression for a pleasant but tough smile.

  “Let’s get moving,” she said and with those distinctly unceremonial words began the first of what would be nine days of jury selection, the phase lawyers referred to as voir dire. It was during this phase that opposing counsel would summon their best psychoanalytic powers, divining who should serve and who should be rejected. Jack could only feel helpless in these circumstances. Manny called the shots, displaying his finely honed skills for all to admire; Jack sat in silence, passing an occasional breath mint or a scribbled message, at once useless yet indispensable to the performance, like a page turner for a concert pianist. And it would remain that way for weeks. He would speak only through Manny. Wear clothes approved by Manny. Take his place at the polished walnut table beside Manny. He was on display as much as he was on trial.

  Judge Tate had been apprehensive throughout jury selection. She was well aware of Wilson McCue’s reputation for abusing voir dire—for using it to present his case to the jury or to prejudice his opponent, his questions doing less to elicit information than to advocate his position. McCue had behaved himself, for the most part—until Friday of the second week of selection, when they were finally on the verge of empaneling a jury.

  “Do any of the jurors know Mr. Swyteck personally?” McCue began innocently enough. The prospective jurors simply shook their heads. “Surely you have heard of Mr. Swyteck,” was his follow-up, eliciting a few nods. “Of course you have,” he said with a smirk. “Mr. Swyteck was the lawyer who defended the infamous Eddy Goss, the man he is now charged with having murdered.” Then that gleam appeared in his eye as he put his first drop of poison into the well. “Let me ask you this, ladies and gentlemen: Would anyone here be less inclined to believe Mr. Swyteck because he’s a slick lawyer who was able to persuade twelve jurors to find a confessed killer not guilty?”

  “Objection,” said Manny.

  “Sustained.”

  “Your Honor,” McCue feigned incredulity. “I’m a little surprised by the objection. I’m just trying to ensure a fair panel. I mean, there are people who might even want to hold Mr. Swyteck responsible for all those grotesque murders his guilty clients committed—”

  “That’s enough!” the judge rebuked. “You are much more transparent than you realize, Mr. McCue. Move on. Now.”

  “Surely,” he agreed, having already made his point.

  “I mean it,” the judge said sternly. “I’ll have no more of that.”

  Like a man testing fate, McCue seemed to get more outrageous with Manny’s repeated objections, each of which was sustained and followed by increasingly stern reprimands from the judge. His antics pushed jury selection well into that Friday afternoon. But by the middle of that ninth interminable day the judge finally had some good news.

  “We have a jury,” she announced with relief.

  A burly black construction worker who carried his lunch every day in the same crinkled paper sack; a retired alligator poacher with cowboy boots, tobacco-stained teeth, and a crew cut; and a blue-haired widow whose juror identification number, fifty-five, might have been half her age were just three of the twelve “peers” who would decide whether Jack Swyteck would live or die.

  It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon, and normally Judge Tate would have called it a day at that point, recognizing that there wasn’t enough time for both the state and the defense to present opening statements. But in light of McCue’s conduct during jury selection, she had a plan that would allow her to finish opening statements and still have plenty of time to watch herself on the six o’clock news.

  “Mr. Cardenal,” the judge said with a nod, “please proceed for the defense.”

  Manny rose slowly, giving the judge a confused look.

  McCue also rose. “With all due respect,” he interjected in his most folksy manner, “the govuhment usually gives the first opening statement.”

  The judge glared, then spoke explicitly, so that the jury would understand exactly what she was doing.

  “We know the government usually goes first,” she said. “But we warned you repeatedly—you were making your opening statement while selecting a jury. So now the defense gets its turn; you’ve had yours.”

  McCue was dumbstruck. “Your Honor, that seems pretty draconian, don’t you think? I mean, if I could just have a couple of minutes. That’s all—”

  “Very well. You have two minutes.”

  “Well,” he backpedaled, “I mean two min—”

  “You’ve just wasted ten seconds of your two minutes.”

  At that, McCue scurried across the room, putting on his jury face. His big, dark eyes were full of life as they peered over the spectacles that he wore low on the bridge of his prominent nose, Teddy Roosevelt-style. Even in a serious moment like this, a trace of a smile lit up his happy, round face, making it clear why people said Wilson McCue was simply an overgrown good ol’ boy at heart.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, pacing as he spoke, “this case is about murder, about power . . . the power over life and death. By the will of the people, we do have capital punishment in this state: We recognize the power of the government to put convicted killers to death. What we don’t recognize, however, are the misguided efforts of private citizens to exercise that power at will. We do not allow vigilantes to take the awesome power of the state into their own hands. We do not permit men to carry out their own private executions, whatever their motive.

  “As the evidence in this case unfolds, ladies and gentlemen, you will come to know a man who did indeed take that power into his own hands. This man was a lawyer. A lawyer who had devoted his professional life to defending men and women who were accused of some of the most violent murders this community has ever seen. Most, if not all, of his clients were guilty. A few were convicted. Now, there’s nothing wrong with that. Some lawyers would say it’s even admirable to defend the rights of the guilty. It’s in the public interest, they might argue.”

  McCue moved closer to the jury, addressing each of the twelve as individuals, as if it were just the two of them sitting on his front porch, sipping lemonade and watching the sun set. “But it’s not the public interest or even this lawyer’s public service that is at issue here,” he said in a low but firm voice. “You are here as jurors today because this lawyer,” his voice grew louder, “the defendant in this case, has a private side—a very dark private side. The evidence will show that on August second, at roughly four o’clock in the morning, he burst into an apartment—another man’s home—and made himself judge, jury, and executioner. He took out his thirty-eight-caliber pistol, fired off two quick shots, and slew his own client. And ladies and gentlemen, the defendant—the man who did this deed—is sitting right here in this courtroom,” McCue said solemnly, scowling as he pointed an accusing finger. “His name is Jack Swyteck.”

  Jack suddenly felt the weight of the government’s case, as if McCue’s pointed finger had brought it to rest on his shoulders at that very moment. How true it all sounds! he thought morosely as the hallowed courtroom seemed to transform even this blowhard state attorney into something dignified, the way dirt becomes soil just because it’s in a nursery, or spit becomes saliva when in a dentist’s office.

  “You have fifteen seconds left,” the judge intoned.

  “My time is short,” McCue grumbled, “and I don’t have nearly enou
gh to lay out all the evidence against Mr. Swyteck. But you will see and hear all of it over the next several days. And at the end of the case, I will come back before you—and then I will ask you to find Jack Swyteck guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  McCue paused, the silence in the room seeming to reinforce his words. Then he headed back to his seat.

  Manny rose and stepped toward the jury, exchanging glances with McCue as he passed. Manny stood comfortably before the jury, made eye contact with each of the jurors, and then held up the indictment in one hand and read loudly: “The State versus Jack Swyteck.” He let his hand fall to his side, still clutching the indictment. “The State,” he repeated, this time with emphasis, “versus Jack Swyteck. Now, that,” he said, his resonant voice making his audience shiver, “is power. And Mr. McCue is right in one respect: This case is about power. And what you have seen so far is simply the power to accuse,” he said as he flipped the indictment irreverently on the prosecutor’s table, then faced the jury squarely. “Because that’s all an indictment is, ladies and gentlemen: an accusation. In a criminal case, the government has no power. It has only a burden. It has the burden of proving its case beyond a reasonable doubt. Over the next few weeks, the testimony, the evidence, the facts,” he hung on the last word, “will show you that the government is powerless to meet that heavy burden . . . because Jack Swyteck is an innocent man.”

  Jack’s gut twitched. Just how innocent did he have to be, he wondered. Just how much would this jury make McCue prove? Jack knew that his lawyer would address all those things in his opening statement, and he wanted to hear every word of it. But he was having trouble focusing. McCue hadn’t said anything that he hadn’t expected him to say, but finally hearing the accusations directly from the prosecutor’s mouth had deeply affected him. It was as if Jack had convinced himself that the prosecutor didn’t really have any evidence, and now he had to deal with the fact that McCue just might have all the evidence he needed.