“You love him,” McCue persisted, “and if you had to tell a lie to keep him from going to the electric chair, you would do it, wouldn’t you!”
A heavy silence lingered in the courtroom. The governor leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he spoke from the heart. “Mr. McCue,” he said in a low, steady voice that nearly toppled the prosecutor, “if there’s one thing I always taught my son, it’s that we’re all responsible for our own actions. Jack even reminded me of that once,” he added, glancing over at the defense table. “My son didn’t kill Eddy Goss,” he said, looking each of the jurors right in the eye. “Jack Swyteck is innocent. That’s the truth. And that’s why I’m here.”
“All right, then,” McCue said angrily. “If you’re here to tell the truth, then let’s hear it: Are you telling us that you killed Eddy Goss?”
The governor looked squarely at the jurors. “I’m not here to talk about me. I’m here to tell you that Jack did not kill Goss. And I’m telling you that l know he did not.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear my question,” McCue’s voice boomed. “I am asking you, sir—yes or no: Did you kill Eddy Goss?”
“It’s like you said earlier, Mr. McCue. I’m not the one on trial here. My son is.”
McCue waved his arms furiously. “Your Honor! I demand that the witness be instructed to answer the question!”
The judge leaned over from the bench. “With all due respect, Governor,” she said gravely, “the question calls for a yes or no answer. I feel compelled to remind you, however, of your fifth amendment right against self-incrimination. You need not answer the question if you invoke the fifth amendment. But those are your only options, sir. Either invoke the privilege, or answer the question. Did you or did you not kill Eddy Goss?”
Time seemed to stand still for a moment. It was as if everyone in the courtroom suddenly realized that everything boiled down to this one simple question.
Harold Swyteck sat erect in the witness stand, calm and composed for a man facing a life-and-death decision. If he answered yes, he’d be lying, and he’d be hauled off in shackles. If he answered no, he’d be telling the truth—but he’d remove himself as a suspect. Invoking the privilege, however, raised all kinds of possibilities: His political career would probably be over and he might well be indicted for Goss’s murder. And, of course, there was the one possibility that truly mattered: Jack might go free. For the governor, the choice was obvious.
“I refuse to answer the question,” he announced, “on the grounds that I might incriminate myself.”
The words rocked the courtroom. “Order!” the judge shouted, gaveling down the outburst.
The prosecutor stared at the witness, but the fire was gone. He knew it was over. He knew there was reasonable doubt. This witness had created it “Under the circumstances,” he said with disdain, “I have no further questions.”
“The witness may step down,” announced the judge.
Governor Swyteck rose from his chair, looking first at the jurors and then at his son. He wasn’t sure what he saw in the eyes of the jurors. But he knew what he saw in Jack’s eyes. It was something he’d wanted to see all his life. And only because he’d finally seen it did he have the strength to hold his head high as he walked the longest two hundred feet of his life, back down the aisle from the witness stand to the courtroom exit.
“Anything further from the defense?” the judge asked.
Manny rose slowly, feeling the familiar twinge that all defense lawyers feel when it’s time to either put their client on the stand or rest their case. But the specter of Gina Terisi gave Jack and Manny no choice, really—and, more important, the governor had given Jack all the defense he needed. “Your Honor,” Manny announced, “the defense rests.”
The judge looked to the prosecutor. “Any rebuttal, Mr. McCue?”
McCue sighed as he checked the clock. “Judge, it’s almost one o’clock, and the governor has shocked everyone—including me. I’m simply not prepared to rebut something as unforeseeable as this. I would like a recess until tomorrow morning.”
The judge grimaced, but this was a rather extraordinary development. “All right,” she reluctantly agreed. “Both sides, however, should be ready to deliver closing arguments tomorrow. There will be no further delays. We’re in recess until nine A.M.,” she announced, then banged the gavel.
“All rise!” cried the bailiff. His words had the same effect as “There’s a fire in the house!” Spectators flooded the aisles and exits, jabbering about what they’d just seen and heard. Journalists rushed in every direction, some to report what had happened, others to pump the lawyers for what it all meant, still others to catch up with the governor. A few friends—Mike Mannon and Neal Goderich among them—shook Jack’s hand, as if the case were over.
But Jack knew it wasn’t over. Manny knew it, too. And one other man in the courtroom knew it better than anyone. He lingered in the back, concealing his shiny bald head and diamond-stud earring beneath a dark wig and broad-brimmed hat.
He glared at Jack through an irritated eye.
“Should have been Raul,” he muttered to himself, “not you, Swyteck.” He took one last look, imagining Jack telling his pretty girlfriend the good news. Then he stormed from the courtroom, determined to give the Swyteck family something else to think about.
Chapter 45
•
The parking lot at Jiggles strip joint was full from the Thursday evening crowd, so Rebecca had to find an empty spot on the street. She was wearing baggy jeans and a sweatshirt, her usual attire on her way to and from the bar. There was just one cramped dressing room inside for all the dancers, which was a hassle—but it was safer changing in there than walking the parking lot in some skimpy outfit that was sure to invite harassment or worse. Rebecca checked her watch. Ten after ten. “Damn,” she muttered, realizing she was late for her evening shift. She locked her car and started across the parking lot. In one hand she carried a gym bag, which held her dancing clothes and makeup. In the other was her mace, just in case.
“Hey, Rebecca,” came a low, husky voice from somewhere to her left.
Her body went rigid. Her name wasn’t really Rebecca, which meant that it had to be a customer calling. She quickened her walk and clutched her can of mace, making sure it was ready. She jerked to a halt as a man jumped out from between cars.
“Get back!” she shouted, pointing the mace.
“It’s Buzz,” he said.
She took a good look, then recognized him beneath his hat and behind the dark, wraparound sunglasses that he wore, even after dark, to conceal his irritated eye. “Let me by,” she said sternly.
“Wait,” he replied, his tone conversational. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Not now,” she grimaced, her jaws nervously working a wad of chewing gum. “I’m supposed to punch in by ten, or I can lose my job. Come inside.”
“Not that kind of proposition,” said Buzz. “This is something different. I want your help.”
“Why should I do anything for you?”
“No reason. But I’m not asking you to do it for me. I want you to do it for Raul.”
Rebecca averted her eyes. The name clearly meant something to her. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about revenge. I’m gonna nail the fuckers who put Raul in the chair.”
Her shoulders heaved with a heavy sigh, then she just shook her head. “That’s history, man. Raul was a punk. He treated me like dirt, even when I was giving it to him for free. Shit happens to punks.”
Buzz stifled his fury. He would have liked to put her in her place with the hard truth that to Raul she was just a free blow job, but that wouldn’t advance his purpose. “Fine,” he said with a shrug. “Just go on pretending you weren’t nuts over him. Don’t do it for him. Just do it for the money.”
Her interest was suddenly piqued. “How much?”
“Ten percent of my take.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “I�
�ve heard that one before. Ten percent of nothin’.”
“Yeah. But ten percent of a quarter million is more money than you’ll ever make sucking cocks.”
She flashed a steely look, but she was more interested in the proposition than in refuting the insult. “Don’t bullshit me. Where you gonna get that kind of money?”
“I’m not bullshittin’ you. I’m serious. We’re talking high stakes. And all you gotta do is make one phone call. That’s it. A cush job.”
She paused. “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. I’ve already conned sixty grand out of him. I’ll show it to you. Count it, if you want. It’s all right in my van. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. So what do you say? You in?”
Rebecca pressed her tongue to her cheek, mulling it over. “Sure,” she said with a crack of her gum. “But I want ten percent of the sixty grand you already got, up front. Then I’ll know you’re for real.”
Buzz flashed a thin smile. “I’m for real. You can have your six thousand. But you gotta come with me now.”
She twitched, practically kicking herself for not having asked for the whole sixty thousand. “I can’t come now. I gotta go to work.”
“Six thousand dollars,” he tempted her. “You can come now. Fuck work.”
She cracked her gum, then sighed. “All right. I’ll go. But I want my money.”
He smiled and nodded toward his van. “Just get in.”
“And I want to know more about what I’m getting into,” she said as she heaved her gym bag over her shoulder and started walking. “I want to know everything.”
He focused on the wiggle in her rear end as she reached the other side of the van, his eyes narrowing and a smirk coming to his face. No way you really want to know everything, he thought.
Chapter 46
•
Cindy received a bouquet of flowers when she arrived at the studio that Friday morning. They were from Jack.
“Please be there for me today,” the card read. “I need you.”
She wanted to pretend that the message didn’t affect her, but it did. Leaving Jack hadn’t made her stop loving him. In fact, leaving him was the easy part. It was staying away that was the test. Tuesday morning, after attempting to be cool and distant with him, she’d felt her resolve eroding. Gina’s death had reminded her of how little time there is to do anything in life—of the purposelessness of grudges and resentment. Gina had probably died believing that Cindy hated her. Cindy didn’t want the same thing—God forbid!—to happen to Jack.
By the time she received the phone call, at ten o’clock in the morning, she’d already made up her mind to go over to the courthouse.
“Miss Paige,” a woman said over the phone. “This is Manuel Cardenal’s paralegal. Sorry to bother you, but he asked me to call you right away.”
“Yes,” she said with trepidation, afraid the trial had already accelerated to a verdict.
“Both Mr. Cardenal and Mr. Swyteck are in court right now, so they couldn’t call you themselves. But they need you to come down to the courthouse. Mr. Swyteck needs you to testify for him. It’s extremely important.”
Cindy was confused. How could anything she had to say help Jack’s case?
“I was about to go over there.” She looked at her watch. “I can be there by ten-twenty—will that be in time?”
“Yes, I believe so,” the woman said, “but please hurry.”
Once Cindy heard the click on the other end, she sprung into action. She picked up her bag and rushed out of the office to the parking lot. The tires of her Pontiac Sunbird squealed as she accelerated out of the lot. She weaved in and out of traffic as she raced toward Frontage Road—the quickest route to the courthouse.
Ordinarily, Cindy was no speedster, but now was the time to see just how fast her Pontiac could go. She jammed down the accelerator and squeezed the steering wheel tightly, glancing intermittently at the speedometer as it pushed its way toward uncharted territory, past eighty-five miles per hour. The road was nearly deserted, and she was covering the distance in record time until she rounded a wide turn and suddenly the engine started to sputter. She was quickly losing speed.
“Come on,” she urged as she pumped the accelerator. The car lunged forward a little, but the engine just gasped, then died. She coasted to a stop and steered off the road to the gravel shoulder. She pressed the pedal to the floor and turned the key. The ignition whined, but the engine wouldn’t fire. She tried again. Same response.
“Not now,” she groaned, as if she could reason with the vehicle. She didn’t see a single car on the road, and she suddenly wished she had a car phone. She glanced in her side-view mirror and gave a start as she was suddenly staring into the face of a stranger.
“Can I help you, miss?” he said—loud enough to be heard through her window.
Cindy hesitated. The man’s voice sounded pleasant enough, but the way he’d suddenly appeared out of nowhere seemed strange. She looked in the rearview mirror and saw an old gray van parked a short distance down the road. She looked at the man but couldn’t read his expression, since most of his face was covered by the brim of his baseball cap and big dark sunglasses. Then she remembered: Jack needs me. She cracked the window half an inch. “My car—”
“Has sugar in the carburetor,” he finished for her.
Cindy gulped. “I need—”
“To get to the courthouse,” he interrupted again.
Her eyes widened with fear, but before she could react, the window suddenly exploded, and she was covered in a shower of glass pellets. She screamed and pounded the horn, but her cries for help quickly turned to desperate gasps for air as the hand of a very strong man came through the open window and wrapped tightly around her throat.
“Ja—ack!” her strangled voice cried.
“It ain’t Jack, baby,” came the snide reply. Then he reached for his sheath and showed her the sharp steel blade that had grown very cold since it had been used on Gina Terisi.
Chapter 47
•
Jack had wanted to see his father before returning to the courtroom on Friday morning, but Manny insisted that father and son have absolutely no communication until the trial was over. Since McCue had reserved the right to call rebuttal witnesses, the possibility remained that he’d recall the governor, and anything Jack and his father discussed would be fair game for cross-examination.
As it turned out, McCue called no further witnesses, and closing arguments were finished by one o’clock. Manny was brilliant, expanding on the speech he’d delivered during the governor’s testimony. He reminded the jurors that the law did not require Jack to prove he was innocent—that it was the government’s heavy burden to prove him guilty “beyond a reasonable doubt.”
McCue did the best he could, then retreated to his office. Jack and Manny waited in the attorneys’ lounge, down the hall from Judge Tate’s courtroom. At five-fifteen, the courtroom deputy stuck her head into the lounge and gave them the news.
“The jury has reached a verdict,” she told them.
In a split second they were out the door, walking side-by-side as quickly as they could without breaking into a dead run down the hall and into the courtroom. The news of a verdict had traveled fast, and the expectant crowd filed in behind them. Wilson McCue was already in position. Manny and Jack took their places at the defense table. Jack glanced behind him, toward the public seating. Ten rows back, Neil Goderich gave him a reassuring wink. On the opposite side of the aisle, Mike Mannon looked worried but gave him a thumbs up. Cindy, Jack realized with a pang, wasn’t in the courtroom. Not even the flowers had worked.
“All rise!” cried the bailiff.
Judge Tate proceeded to the bench, but Jack gave her only a passing glance. He was focused on the twelve jurors who were taking their seats for the final time. He was trying to remember those indicators jury psychologists relied on to predict verdicts. Who had they selected as foreman? Did they look at the defendant, or a
t the prosecutor? At that moment, however, he couldn’t think clearly enough to apply any of those tests. He was consumed by the feeling of being on trial—of having twelve strangers hold his life in their hands.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Tate asked.
“We have,” responded the foreman.
‘Please give it to the clerk.”
The written verdict was passed from the foreman to the clerk, then from the clerk to the judge. The judge inspected it, then returned it to the clerk for public disclosure. The ritual seemed to pull everyone to the edge of his seat. Yet the courtroom was so deathly quiet that Jack could hear the fluorescent lights humming thirty feet overhead.
This is it, he thought. Life or death. He struggled to bring his emotions under control. Everything had seemed so encouraging moments ago, when he and Manny had assessed his chances. But odds were deceiving. Like a year ago, when Cindy’s mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. They’d all taken comfort in the doctor’s assurance that her chances of survival were 80 percent. Those odds sounded pretty good until Jack had started thinking of the last hundred people he’d laid eyes on—and then imagined twenty of them dead.
“The defendant shall rise,” announced the judge.
Jack glanced at Manny as they rose in unison. He clenched his fists tightly in anticipation.
“In the matter of State versus Swyteck, on the charge of murder in the first degree,” the clerk read from the verdict form, “we, the jury, find the defendant: not guilty.”
A roar filled the courtroom. On impulse, Jack turned and embraced Manny. Never had he hugged a man so tightly—not even his father. But had the governor been there, Jack would have cracked his ribs.
“Order!” said the judge, postponing the celebration. The rumble in the courtroom quieted. Manny and Jack returned to their seats, smiling apologetically.
The Pardon Page 25