The Pardon
Page 22
“Come on in,” she said in a subdued voice.
“Thanks.” He stepped inside, and she closed the door behind him.
“Something to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“A Jagermeister, maybe?” A smile briefly bloomed on her face, then withered. She crossed the room to a hammock-style chair, sat down, and brought her knees up to her chin. She kept her back to Jack as she enjoyed the balmy breezes that rolled in through the open sliding-glass doors.
Jack took a seat on the couch, on the other side of the cocktail table. They said nothing until Gina turned her head and looked at him plaintively.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she said. “But what happened with Cindy?”
He hesitated. For a second he felt as if she were intruding. But this wasn’t just idle curiosity. She really seemed to care.
“She packed up and left.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. Then she rolled back her head, closed her eyes, and sniffled. “I don’t know why I do the idiotic things I do,” her voice cracked. “I really don’t.”
Jack moved to the edge of his seat. The last thing he’d expected tonight was to be consoling Gina. But he found himself doing it. “Everyone makes mistakes.”
She shook her head and suddenly snapped out of her malaise. “Mistakes? Do you have any idea how many mistakes I’ve made? You don’t know me, Jack. Nobody knows me. Not even Cindy. Everyone thinks that a great body has gotten me anything I’ve ever wanted in life. And it did, for a while. When I was sixteen years old, I made over a hundred grand modeling for the Ford Agency. But then the next year I gained twenty pounds and was all washed up—out of work. A real wake-up call, that was. ‘Use it while you got it’ is what I learned. But then I learned something else: The more you use it, the more you get used. And believe me, there’s no shortage of users out there.”
He nodded slowly.
“Anyway,” her voice quivered. “That’s why I called you. I’m through being used. I’m through feeling like shit even when I try to do the right thing. Like today. All I did was tell the truth on the witness stand. Yet I feel like I’ve done something wrong.”
“You didn’t mention the gun. I wondered about that.”
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s because they were licking their chops too much over everything else I told them. I didn’t feel like volunteering it, you know?”
“But why volunteer anything? I’m confused.”
“Welcome to the club,” she said, running her hands through her hair. “They want you to play the game, but they don’t tell you the rules.”
Jack was confused. “What game?”
She started to speak, then stopped. Finally she said, “The whole charade that landed me in that courtroom—that’s the game. I’ve been playing it ever since you asked me to be your alibi. Everything I did and said was designed to make you think that I didn’t want to get involved—or that if I did get involved, it would be to help you, and not to hurt you. The whole idea was to make sure you’d be totally shocked when I took the stand and testified against you. That was part of my deal.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Your deal with who?”
“With that cop, Stafford,” she said, then looked away in shame. “The truth,” she said with a lump in her throat, “is that right after you were indicted, he came over to question me. I let the creep use my bathroom, and he comes out saying he just saw enough amphetamines sitting out in plain view to put me away for years. I use them to lose weight. It’s not smart, but I do it. Anyway, he said he wouldn’t bring any charges if I’d help him out. And all I did was tell him the truth. It’s just the sneaky way he made me do it that has me so disgusted. I mean, how do you think the prosecutor knew every little detail about the morning Cindy left you? She told me all about it. And I told Stafford. And then Cindy got creamed on the witness stand.”
Jack felt a rush of anger, but he kept cool—because a tremendous opportunity was within his grasp. “Gina,” he said in a calm, understanding tone, “this is important. What Stafford made you do isn’t just sleazy. It’s illegal. The prosecution has violated the law by failing to tell Manny and me that Stafford cut a deal with a government witness. This could get the whole case against me dismissed. The trial could be over tomorrow. I could go free.”
“What do you want me to do?” she asked cautiously.
“All I want you to do is to get on the witness stand tomorrow morning and say exactly what you told me. That’s it. Just tell the truth.”
“And then what happens to me? I’ll go to jail on drug charges?”
He thought fast. “The state will have to honor its deal with you. Stafford made the promise. You’ve already lived up to your end. You told the truth. It’s Stafford’s fault if it blows up in his face, not yours.”
“I don’t know—”
“Gina,” he pressed. “You’ve told the truth so far. I respect you for that. But if you told the truth for Stafford, the least you can do is tell the truth for me.”
She sighed. “This is so crazy. But in the last twenty-four hours, it’s like I’ve suddenly got this feeling that it’s time to start making up for all the lies I’ve told my entire life. I just feel like it’s time to tell the truth.”
“The truth is best,” he said. “Even when it hurts.”
She swallowed hard. “All right. I’ll do it.”
Jack’s heart was in his throat. “In fact, why don’t I call Manny now, and we can go over some things—”
“No. I don’t want to do this according to a script.”
“I understand,” he said, sensing that he shouldn’t push too hard.
Gina rose. “I’ll see you at the courthouse at eight-thirty,” she said, leading him out “Right now, I need some sleep.”
He nodded in agreement “I’ll see you then,” he said as they reached the door.
She laid her hand on his shoulder and stopped him. “I’m sorry about you and Cindy,” she said. “I really am.”
“Thanks,” he said.
As he drove home, he was barely conscious of the tires gripping the road. He felt like he was floating on air. His conversation with Gina had made him feel alive again. Suddenly he felt hope.
Chapter 40
•
At 3:30 A.M., just as Jack and Manny had finished planning a case-saving cross-examination of Gina Terisi, bare-breasted women were dancing one last set at Jiggles, a rundown, smoke-filled strip joint where stiff drinks came as cheap as the thrills. A buxom black woman wearing only spike heels and a holster was lit by an orangey-red spotlight as she strutted up and down the long bar top, thrusting her hips to the delight of the drunk and howling crowd each time the rap vocalist on the jukebox screamed “I like big butts!” Around the room women danced on little round tables, each wearing only boots or bow ties or maybe a Stetson, and all of them wearing a garter on one thigh so the men they teased could stuff them with cash and extend their fantasies.
Just before closing, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a clean-shaved head and a diamond-stud earring presented himself at the entrance. A bearded bouncer who looked like he was moonlighting from the pro wrestling tour stepped in front of him. “We close in fifteen minutes,” he said.
“That’s all the time I need,” the man replied as he started inside. The bouncer grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Ten-dollar cover, chief.”
“Shee-it.” But he was in a hurry, so he paid it and stepped inside. He looked around the room, first checking the bar top and then each individual table for the woman he knew as Rebecca. She knew him as Buzz, a name she’d given him not simply because of his shaved head, but because of his whole look. She said his hook nose, folds of leathery skin, and skinny neck made him look like a buzzard. Especially at night, when his eyes were bloodshot. Rebecca usually worked until closing, but Buzz didn’t see her anywhere. Then his eyes lit up as he saw her standing by the cigarette machine, having a smoke.
“I’m done for the night,” she said, blowing smoke in his face.
He shook his head, as if he knew better. “How much?”
“Three hundred.”
“Fuck you.”
“That would be extra.”
He emptied his pants pockets. “I got a hundred sixty dollars. Take it or leave it.”
“Deal.” She snatched the money and stuffed it into the top of her boot. “But I ain’t goin’ back to the car with you for no hundred sixty. We do it in here.”
“Here?” he winced.
“Over there,” she said, pointing to a dark and isolated corner. “Meet you there.”
He nodded in agreement, then headed for the corner. Rebecca stepped up to the bar. “The crazy-man’s usual,” she told the bartender. “Margarita, just salt.” The bartender smirked and handed her a glass filled only with margarita salt, moistened with a squirt of lemon juice. “Thanks,” she said, then strutted toward the darkest corner of the bar.
“I missed you,” he said when she returned.
Rebecca put the glass on the table, threw her shoulders back, and placed her hands on her hips. “Don’t talk shit,” she barked like a drill sergeant.
“You’re right,” he said in a husky whisper. “I’ve been bad.”
“Just as I thought,” she spat, her voice growing menacing. “You know what happens when you’re bad.”
He nodded hungrily.
She raised her index finger, stuck it in her mouth, and sucked it sensually, from base to tip. She immersed it in the glass of lemony margarita salt and stirred, then removed it and held it before his eyes. The crystals stuck to her moistened finger. “How bad were you?” she demanded.
He got down on his knees and looked up sheepishly. “Very bad,” he assured her.
Slowly, she lowered her coated finger and rubbed the salt deep into his eye. He cringed and moaned, his head rolling back with perverse pleasure. His intermittent cries of pain were drowned out by the loud music. She knew he liked her to remain tough, but she had to fight to keep a look of fear from crossing her face. She’d seen men approach ecstasy in the bar before, usually the creeps who got tossed out for masturbating. But he was beyond ecstasy. This was utter rapture.
He regained his composure, still on his knees. He looked up at her through his one good eye. The other was puffy and closed. Lemon and salty tears streamed down his cheek. For a hundred sixty bucks, he knew he’d have her for at least another song. “Put the salt away,” he said. “I’ve been very, very bad.”
Rebecca sighed; she knew what that meant. She lit up another cigarette. “What did you do?”
He took a deep breath, then with his left hand he reached deep inside his pocket and discreetly squeezed a handkerchief that contained two bloody nipples. “Nothing I haven’t done before,” he whispered, a thin smile coming to his face. Then his body jerked and his head rolled back in another fit of ecstasy, as Rebecca crushed out the glowing end of her cigarette in the burn-scarred palm of his right hand.
Chapter 41
•
Jack and Manny arrived in the crowded courtroom just before nine that morning. Jack was a bit worried that he hadn’t been able to spot Gina in the court-house lobby earlier, but he told himself that she must have been delayed. She’d show up, he was sure. Something in her eyes the night before convinced him that she determined to set the record straight.
Quite quickly though he sensed something was wrong. McCue, who normally arrived early, was conspicuously absent from the courtroom, and the bailiff seemed to have disappeared as well.
Ten minutes passed. The murmur of the spectators built as there was still no sign of the prosecutor. Finally the bailiff appeared, showing no expression as he stepped up to the defense table. “Mr. Cardenal,” he said politely, “Judge Tate would like to see you and Mr. Swyteck in her chambers.”
Jack’s heart sank as he and Manny exchanged glances. This was not standard procedure. Something had to be wrong. “All right,” said Manny, and they followed the bailiff to a side exit.
The judge’s chambers had the air of a funeral parlor. Judge Tate sat in the leather chair behind her imposing desk, framed by the state and American flags. Wilson McCue sat in an armchair to her left, before a wall of law books. Their expressions were somber.
“Good morning,” said Manny as he entered the room.
“Please sit down,” the judge said formally, her tone suggesting that this was very serious.
Jack and Manny sat in the Naugahyde chairs facing McCue. Jack swallowed hard, fearing the worst—perhaps some wild accusation that he had threatened Gina. The judge folded her hands on her desk and leaned forward to speak.
“Mr. McCue has just informed me that Gina Terisi is dead,” she said.
“What?” Manny uttered with disbelief.
“She was murdered,” said the prosecutor.
“That can’t be,” Jack said, stunned.
“Mr. Swyteck,” said the judge, “you would be advised to remain silent.”
He sat back in his chair. The judge was right.
Judge Tate glanced at Manny, then at McCue. “I am not trying to be cold or unsympathetic, gentlemen, but I didn’t assemble this group to discuss the how and why of Ms. Terisi’s murder. The purpose of this meeting is to decide what impact the murder will have on Mr. Swyteck’s trial. Fortunately, we have a sequestered jury, so they won’t hear anything about it.”
“But, Your Honor,” said Manny, “the jury has already heard the witness’s testimony, and now I won’t have an opportunity to cross-examine her. My client can’t get a fair trial under these circumstances. The court has no choice but to declare a mistrial. We have to start all over again—without Gina Terisi.”
McCue slid to the edge of his chair, unable to contain himself. “Judge,” he implored. “I knew They’d try to pull this. You can’t grant a mistrial. You’d be playing right into their hands. Look at the sequence here, Judge. And look at the motive. This is no coincidence. The government was building an ironclad case. Gina Terisi devastated Mr. Swyteck on the witness stand. And then a few hours later she turns up dead. Now, you don’t have to be a genius to see—”
“That’s an outrageous suggestion!” said Manny.
“The hell it is!” McCue fired back. “Swyteck’s car was spotted at Gina Terisi’s last night.”
Jack’s jaw dropped. “Now wait just a minute—”
“Gentlemen!” the judge barked. “That’s enough.”
There was silence. The prosecution and defense exchanged glares. Jack glanced at the judge, then looked away. Judge Tate was no easy read, but her suspicious eyes had revealed a glimpse of her feelings. And Jack didn’t like what he saw.
“I will not declare a mistrial,” she announced, shaking her head. “Mr. Swtyeck’s trial will proceed. However, Miss Terisi’s testimony will be stricken. I will instruct the jury that it must disregard her testimony, and I will further instruct them that they are to draw no inferences whatever from the fact that she has not returned to the courtroom.”
“Judge,” Manny argued, “a curative instruction isn’t going to help anything. The jury has already heard her testimony. You can’t tell them to ignore it. That’s like telling a shark to ignore the blood.”
“Mr. Cardenal,” she said sternly, “I’ve made my decision.”
McCue’s face was aglow. “It may go without saying, Judge,” he said in his folksy manner, “but I presume that Ms. Terisi’s disappearance
would be fair game on cross-examination, assumin’ Mr. Swyteck were to take the witness stand in his own defense. The court’s instruction will not curtail my ability to question him about that, will it?”
The judge leaned back in her chair, thinking. “I hadn’t thought about that. But I would have to agree with you, Mr. McCue. If Mr. Swyteck takes the witness stand, the door is open. You’re free to question him.”
Manny shook his head incredulously. Even the judge, it seemed, had concluded that Jack was guilty. “Your Honor, you have just made it impossible for Mr. Swyteck to testify on his own behalf. I can’t put him on the stand if you’re going to allow the prosecutor to suggest that my client murdered the government’s star witness. Your ruling is a death sentence. I strenuously object and urge you to reconsider—”
“That’s all,” said the judge, heading off any further argument. “You understand my position. Now, I’m giving both the prosecution and defense twenty-four hours to regroup. We shall reconvene at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Mr. McCue, be prepared to call your next witness. Thank you, gentlemen,” she said with finality.
“Thank you,” McCue told the judge.
The lawyers rose and turned away. Jack stood more slowly, in a state of disbelief. He followed his lawyer down the hall, past the water cooler. Neither said a word until they reached the exit and McCue caught up with them.
“Better circle your wagons, Swyteck,” the old prosecutor said sarcastically, all trace of his good-old-boy accent having vanished. “Because if you don’t get the electric chair for killing Eddy Goss, you can bet I’ll be coming after you for the murder of Gina Terisi.” He nodded smugly, like a gentleman tipping his hat, then headed out the door.
Jack stood in the open doorway, looking at his lawyer with dismay. “This can’t be happening,” he said quietly. But it was. Innocent people kept getting killed. Fernandez, Garcia, now Gina—and Jack, it seemed, was next in line. The only thing more unfathomable was the reason it was happening—why his life, like Gina’s, might end before his thirtieth birthday. Never to be a husband or a father . . . never to achieve his dreams—for the first time since the trial began, the weight, the enormity of what was at stake pressed down on him, nearly crushing him with its load.