Being convicted. A death sentence. The electric chair. All those things had seemed so abstract before, but suddenly they were palpable, real. A memory came to him—of lying in bed as a young boy and trying to scare himself, trying to imagine what death felt like. He’d picture himself crouched over a hole in the earth, a dark hole. And then he’d see himself falling into it. It was a descent that never ended. Nothing could stop it . . .
He shook off the memory and tried to focus. What had the stalker said when he attacked Jack on the bus? Something about “innocent people” getting hurt if he turned to others for help. He looked at Manny with apprehension, then sprinted down the hall to a bank of pay phones near the rest rooms. He quickly dialed Cindy’s work number.
He nearly fainted with relief as the sound of her voice came on the line. “Thank God you’re all right.”
“I just heard about Gina,” she said. “Her brother called me.”
“They’re saying I did it.”
“They’re liars,” she said. “The things that animal did to her . . .” She shuddered. “No sane human being would do that.”
He didn’t know the details, but he didn’t have to ask. “Please, be careful,” he said, “I’m worried about you. If there’s anything you need or want, just call me.”
“I’ll be all right,” she said. “Really, I will.”
He wanted to say something else, anything, to keep her on the line, but words eluded him.
“Good luck,” she said, meaning it.
“Thanks,” he said softly. “Cindy, I—”
“I know,” she said, “you don’t have to say it.”
“I love you,” he blurted out.
He heard what he thought was a sob on the other end of the line, and then she said, “Good-bye, Jack.”
Chapter 42
•
“Call your next witness, Mr. McCue,” Judge Tate announced from the bench.
Trial had reconvened at nine o’clock, Wednesday. As promised, the judge had instructed the jurors that they were to disregard Gina Terisi’s testimony and that they were to infer nothing from her failure to return to the courtroom to complete her testimony. The instruction, of course, had evoked nothing but suspicious glares from the jury—all of them directed at the defense. With that, the government spent the morning with some technical witnesses, then moved directly after lunch to its final big witness—an experienced fighter who could hardly wait to take his best punch at Eddy Goss’s staggering lawyer.
“The State calls Lonzo Stafford,” said McCue.
The packed courtroom was silent as Detective Stafford marched down the center aisle, the click of his heels on the marble floor echoing throughout. After taking the oath and stating his name and occupation, Stafford allowed himself to be guided by McCue in a summary of the physical evidence against Jack Swyteck.
Stafford’s testimony unfolded like a script: The defendant’s fingerprints matched those on the steak knife in Goss’s kitchen; twenty-seven footprints matched the tread on his Reeboks; his blood type matched the blood on the blade; Mr. Swyteck appeared nervous and edgy the next day, when Detective Stafford interviewed him; he had scratches on his back and a bruise on his ribs, as if he’d been in a scuffle; and Swyteck knew that Goss had been killed by gunshot before the detectives had mentioned anything about a shooting. And, just as McCue had planned, the witness saved the best for last.
“When you say Goss was killed by gunshot,” asked McCue, “what kind of gun do mean, exactly?”
“It was a handgun. A thirty-eight-caliber, for sure. And there was definitely a silencer on it.”
“Was the murder weapon ever found?”
“Not the gun, no. However, we did locate the silencer.”
“And where did you find the silencer that was used to kill Eddy Goss?”
Stafford’s eyes brightened as he looked right at Jack. “We retrieved it from Mr. Swyteck’s vehicle.”
A murmur filled the courtroom. The jurors glanced at each other, as if the case were all but over.
“No further questions,” said the prosecutor. He turned and glanced at counsel for the defense. “Your witness,” he said, dripping with confidence.
Manuel Cardenal was at his best in the spotlight, and this one was white-hot. His client, the jurors, the packed gallery, and especially the witness were filled with anticipation, everyone wondering if the skilled defense counsel could rescue his client. Manny stepped to within ten feet of the government’s final witness and stared coldly at his target “Detective Stafford,” he began, “let’s start by talking about the alleged victim in this case, shall we?”
“Whatever you want, counselor.”
“Anyone who is alive and breathing in this town has heard of Eddy Goss,” said Manny. “We all know the awful things Mr. Goss was alleged to have done. And we all know that Mr. Swyteck was his lawyer. But there’s one thing I want to make clear for the jury: You were personally involved in the investigation that led to Mr. Goss’s arrest, were you not?”
“Yes,” he replied, knowing he was being toyed with. “I was the lead detective in the Goss case.”
“You personally interrogated Mr. Goss, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“In fact, you elicited a full confession from Mr. Goss. A confession on videotape.”
“That’s right.”
“But that confession wasn’t used at Mr. Goss’s trial.”
“No,” he answered quietly. “It was ruled inadmissible.”
“It was ruled inadmissible because you broke the rules,” said Manny, his tone judgmental.
Stafford drew a sigh, controlling his anger. “The judge found that I had violated Mr. Goss’s constitutional rights,” he said, spitting out the words sarcastically.
“And it was Mr. Swyteck who pointed out your violation to the court, wasn’t it?”
Stafford leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “He exploited it.”
Manny stepped to one side, closer to the jury, as if he were on their side. “That must have been very embarrassing for you, Detective.”
“It was a travesty of justice,” replied Stafford, using the words the prosecutor had coached him with the night before.
Manny smirked, sensing that he was getting under Stafford’s skin. Then he approached the witness and handed him an exhibit. “This is a copy of a newspaper article from June of this year, marked as Defendant’s Exhibit 1. It reports certain pretrial developments in the case against Eddy Goss. Could you read the bold headline to us, please? Nice and loud,” he added, gesturing toward the jurors, “so we all can hear.”
Stafford scowled at his interrogator, then cleared his throat and reluctantly read aloud: “Judge throws out Goss confession.”
“And the trailer, too,” said Manny. “Read the little trailer underneath the headline.”
Stafford’s face reddened with anger. “Seasoned cop botched interrogation,” he read. Then he laid the newspaper on the rail in front of him and glared at Manny.
“And that’s your photograph there beneath the headline, isn’t it, sir?”
“That’s my picture,” he confirmed.
“In forty years of police work, Mr. Stafford, had you ever gotten your picture on the front page of the newspaper?”
“Just this once,” Stafford grunted.
“In forty years,” Manny continued, “had you ever screwed up a case this bad?”
“Objection,” said McCue.
“I didn’t screw it up,” Stafford said sharply, too eager to defend himself to wait for the judge to rule.
“Overruled,” said the judge.
“I’m sorry,” Manny said, feigning an apology. “In forty years, had you ever been blamed for a screw-up this bad?”
“Never,” he croaked.
“Yet, there you are, page one, section A, in probably the least flattering mug shot the newsroom could dig up: the ‘seasoned cop’ who ‘botched the interrogation.’ “Manny moved closer, crouching somewhat,
as if digging for the truth. “Who do you blame for that?” he pressed. “Do you blame yourself, Detective?”
Stafford glared at his interrogator. “At first I did.”
“But you don’t blame yourself anymore, do you,” said Manny.
Stafford fell silent—he knew exactly where Manny was headed. “Come on, Detective. We know who you really blame. This is the man you blame,” said Manny, pointing toward his client, his voice much louder now. “Isn’t it!”
Stafford glanced at Jack, then looked back at Manny. “So what,” he scoffed.
Manny locked eyes with the witness. “Yes or no, Detective. Do you blame Mr. Swyteck for your own public disgrace?”
Stafford stared right back, hating this lawyer almost as much as he hated Jack. “Yeah,” he said bitterly. “I do blame him. Him and Goss. Both of them. They’re no different in my eyes.”
Manny paused, allowing the answer to linger. A quiet murmur passed through the courtroom as Manny’s point struck home.
“But that doesn’t make it okay for Swyteck to kill him,” Stafford blurted, seeming to sense that he was in trouble.
“Let’s talk about that,” replied Manny. “Let’s talk about just who did kill Eddy Goss. The time of Mr. Goss’s death was about four A.M., right?”
“Yes,” replied Stafford.
“What time did you get to the police station that morning?”
“Five-fifteen,” he answered, “same as always.”
“Can anyone corroborate where you were before then?”
“No. I live alone.”
Manny nodded, as if to emphasize Stafford’s response, then forged ahead. “Now, after you arrived at work that morning, an anonymous phone call came in to the station, right?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Stafford played dumb. “We get lots of calls—”
“I’m not talking about lots of calls,” Manny bore in. “I’m talking about the caller who reported that someone in a police uniform was seen leaving Goss’s apartment about the time of the murder.”
“Yes,” he answered. “Someone did call and report that.”
“You used to be a patrolman, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Twenty-eight years, before I became a detective.”
“And I’ll bet you still have your old police uniform,” said Manny.
Stafford fell silent. “Yes,” he answered quietly.
“I thought so,” said Manny. “Now, Eddy Goss was shot twice in the head, at close range, was he not?”
“That’s right.”
“Thirty-eight-caliber bullets.”
“Correct,” said Stafford.
“You carry a thirty-eight-caliber, don’t you, Detective?”
“Eighty percent of the police force does,” Stafford snapped.
“Including you.”
“Yes,” he grudgingly conceded.
Manny paused again, allowing time for suspicion to fill the jury box, and then he continued his roll. “Now, after Mr. Goss was killed by not just one, but two gunshots, you interviewed all the neighbors in the apartment building, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“And not one of those neighbors heard any gunshots.”
Stafford was silent again. “No,” he finally answered, “no one heard a gunshot.”
“And that was one of the reasons you suspected that a silencer had been used to kill Goss.”
“That’s correct,” he said. Then he took a free shot. “And we found a silencer in your client’s car,” he added smugly.
Manny nodded slowly. “How convenient,” he said sarcastically, his eyebrow arching. “But let’s take a closer look at that incredible stroke of luck, Detective. Let’s talk about how, incredibly, you seemed to have found the one man in the world who was smart enough to be graduated summa cum laude from Yale University, yet stupid enough to leave a silencer under the front seat of his car.”
“Objection,” McCue groaned.
“Sustained.”
Manny pressed on, unfazed. “You, personally, did not find that silencer in Mr. Swyteck’s car. Did you, Detective?”
“No.”
“You got it from a patrolwoman, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“And she got it from the owner of Kaiser Auto Repair—the shop where Mr. Swyteck’s convertible top was being fixed.”
“That’s right.”
“And the owner of the shop got it from one of his mechanics.”
Stafford’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”
“Am I leaving anybody out, Detective?”
Stafford just glared. “No,” he said angrily.
“What do you mean, no,” Manny rebuked him. “You didn’t stand guard over Mr. Swyteck’s car while it was in the repair shop, did you?”
“No.”
“So,” said Manny, pacing before the jury, “as far as you know, scores of people could have come and gone from Mr. Swyteck’s car over the two-day period it was in the shop.”
“I don’t know,” he evaded.
“Precisely,” said Manny, as if it were the answer he wanted. “You don’t know. Or, to put it another way, maybe you have a reasonable doubt.”
“Objection,” McCue shouted.
“Overruled.”
“I don’t know who went into his car,” Stafford snarled. “That’s all.”
“Isn’t it possible, Detective, that any one of the people walking by or fixing Mr. Swyteck’s car could have put the silencer there?”
“Objection,” McCue groaned. “Calls for speculation.”
“Let me ask it another way,” said Manny. He stepped closer, moving in for the kill. “Detective Stafford: Do you happen to own a silencer for your own thirty-eight-caliber pistol?”
“I object!” shouted McCue. “Your Honor, this is insulting! The suggestion that Detective Stafford would—”
“Overruled,” said the judge. It wasn’t the first time she had seen a defense lawyer turn a cop inside out. “Answer the question, Detective Stafford.”
The courtroom fell deadly silent, awaiting the detective’s answer. “Yes,” he conceded. “I do.”
Manny nodded, checking the jurors to make sure the response had registered. It had. He started back to his chair, then stopped, pointing a professorial finger in the air. “Just one more question, Detective,” he said as he turned back toward the witness. “When I asked you who you blamed for your own public disgrace, you did say both Jack Swyteck and Eddy Goss—didn’t you?”
“Objection,” shouted McCue. “The question was asked and answered.”
“Withdrawn,” said Manny, smiling with his eyes at the jurors. “I think we all heard it the first time. No further questions. Thank you, sir.”
“The witness is excused,” the judge announced.
Stafford remained in his chair, his face frozen with disbelief. He’d been coveting this moment—his opportunity for revenge against Jack Swyteck, the lawyer who’d humiliated him. The last laugh was supposed to have been his. But a lawyer had humiliated him again. He’d been more than humiliated. This time he wasn’t just the stupid cop who’d botched the investigation. He’d been painted as the bad cop who’d done the deed. He’d been pushed too far—and he wasn’t going to just sit there and take it.
“It’s irrelevant, you know,” he groused at Manny, as if no one else were in the courtroom.
“You are excused,” the judge instructed the witness in a firm voice.
“It wasn’t my silencer that was used to kill Goss,” he said angrily.
“Detective,” the judge rebuked him. But Stafford was determined to have his say.
“It was the silencer we found in Swyteck’s convertible!”
“Detective!” the judge banged her gavel.
“Swyteck’s silencer was used on Goss,” he shouted, “and he used a silencer to kill Gina Terisi, too!”
“Your Honor!” Manny bellowed, rising to his feet “Your Honor, may I approach the bench? I have a motion to make.�
��
The judge held up her hand, stopping Manny in his tracks. She knew what he wanted—that she declare a mistrial. And if all the other evidence against Jack Swyteck hadn’t been so strong, she would have done it. But she was not going to throw out the state’s entire case just because one witness had lost his temper and spouted something he shouldn’t have.
“Save your motion, Mr. Cardenal,” she said. Then she turned toward the jurors. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she said in a very serious tone, “I am instructing you to disregard that last outburst. Those remarks are not evidence in this case. As I instructed you earlier, you are not to draw any inference whatsoever from the fact that Ms. Terisi did not return to the courtroom to complete her testimony against the defendant.”
Jack’s heart sank as, yet again, he listened to the judge deliver the dreaded “curative instruction.” It was any criminal defendant’s nightmare. In theory, the instruction was supposed to “cure” any mistake at trial by telling the jury to disregard it. In reality it was, as lawyers often said, like trying to “unring” a bell. Jack knew the bottom line. Manny’s beautiful cross-examination had been ruined. The only thing the jury would remember was what the judge insisted they forget.
“As for you, Mr. McCue,” the judge’s reprimand continued, “Detective Stafford is your witness, and I’m holding you responsible, at least in part. Five-hundred-dollar fine!” she barked. “And Detective Stafford, you’re an experienced officer of the law. You know better. Why don’t you spend a night in the county jail to think about what you’ve done. And next time,” she warned, pointing menacingly with her gavel, “I won’t be so lenient. Bailiff,” she said with finality, “take the witness away.”
The bailiff stepped forward and led Stafford from the witness stand. He should have been ashamed, but he was looking at Jack and smiling. Jack looked away, but Stafford wasn’t going to let him off easy. He stopped, rested his hand on the table at which Jack was seated and looked him right in the eye. “I’ll save a seat for ya, Swyteck,” he whispered, loud enough only for Jack and the bailiff to hear.
The Pardon Page 23