Dick and Joaquin suddenly turned serious and looked at each other. No words passed between them but each knew what the other was thinking. Joaquin answered Jack for both of them. “The heat’s not off, Jack, just because the crowds are gone and Jimmy DiCarlo has his trial.”
“I don’t understand,” Jack felt he was saying for about the hundredth time. He prided himself on being a canny strategist, but these two operated in a world with which he was totally unfamiliar.
Dick coached him along. “Think about it, Jack. Jimmy DiCarlo wasn’t involved in Tracey or Nancy’s murders. Just because he’s happy he has a trial doesn’t mean the heat’s off.”
Jack thought about it for a second. “You mean Evans or Brume might not be happy with what happened at the motion hearing, and either of them or both might take action on their own?”
“Precisely!” Joaquin exclaimed. “We have to stay prepared for that possibility.” The brief euphoria was gone, replaced by the familiar tightness-in-the-chest feeling they’d been living with for weeks.
“I’ve thought about that,” Jack said. “I wonder if the two of them acted in concert or if one of them committed those murders on his own.” Nobody had an answer.
In spite of Dick and Joaquin’s foreboding, the next few days were sunny and relaxing, and everybody started to feel better again. Jack and Maria continued their same old routine but left work early—Jack to go home and take long runs with Pat, and Maria to join Joaquin in the sanctuary of his fishing boat. Dick found solace in the exercise room, which had a weight bench, a stationary bike and a treadmill. Dick had been a weightlifter in his active days, and he enjoyed reacquainting himself with the bench. He liked the bike too, but he avoided the treadmill like the plague.
Three days into their semi-vacation, Joaquin made an announcement at dinner. “Maria and I are going to take a vacation if that’s okay with you, Jack. I’m going to take her home with me.”
Jack was a little surprised but realized it was a good idea. Why should they all suffer while they were waiting for the trial to begin? “That’s a great idea. Just make sure you get back here three or four days before the trial so I can prep Maria.” He looked at Maria, who couldn’t hide the smile on her face. It wasn’t hard to figure that she was looking forward to some extended time alone with Joaquin.
Later, as they were getting ready for bed, Jack once again urged Pat to take a vacation as well. “There is absolutely no sense in all of us hanging around here,” he said as emphatically as he could.
“Where would I go?” she protested mildly.
“Anywhere you want, Pat. Go to Europe for a couple of weeks and relax on the Riviera.”
“I couldn’t relax without you, Jack. I told you before, we’re in this together. I’m not going anywhere.” She slammed the pillow she was fluffing down on the bed, pulled the sheets back, and started to get in. “Wait a minute!” She stopped, her left knee resting on her side of the bed. “Why don’t you come with me? You’ve got nothing to do and you need the rest.”
“No way, Pat. I’ve got a trial to prepare for.”
“Jack, you’ve been preparing for this trial for months. You could do it in your sleep! The only way you could be better prepared is if you were relaxed and rested.”
He was about to renew his protest, but he knew she had a point. The only item on his calendar for the next three weeks had been the motion in Texas to delay Geronimo Cruz’ execution. Texas, however, had decided to delay the execution on its own—apparently there were a few other people who had to be killed before Geronimo’s number came up—so Jack’s plate was clean.
“Okay, let’s say we took a break for ten days or so—where would we go?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere,” Pat replied, surprised at his sudden change of attitude.
He thought about it for a few minutes as he hopped into bed and pulled the covers up. He turned to face her in the bed, a smile on his face.
“You look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” she said suspiciously. “Let’s hear it.”
“Well,” he began. “We’re both Irish and neither one of us has been to the Old Country.”
“Ireland,” she mused. “That’s a great idea.”
• • •
They told the others about their plans the next morning.
“We’re only going for ten days, and we all need a break. You too, Dick,” Jack told them.
“I think I’ll stay here,” Dick replied. “I like it here. Don’t get me wrong, I like all you folks, but I think I’m going to enjoy the solitude and the open range. Maybe I’ll get Steve to loan me a horse and I can play cowboy for a few days. I was a pretty good rider when I was a kid. I think I’d like to try it again.”
Joaquin and Maria headed out that morning, and Jack and Pat left the next day, booking a last-minute flight on Aer Lingus. They stayed mostly on the west coast of Ireland in Galway and Killarney and a little town called Clifden.
Midway through the trip, they left Killarney one morning for a scenic drive around the Ring of Kerry. They’d been driving all day, and they both needed a break when Jack pulled off the main road at a country store next to a bridge for a bit of refreshment. The store was called Tobin’s and the bridge led to a small offshore island. Jack took the store’s name as a sign to cross the bridge and explore the island.
“I may have family in this area,” he told Pat. It was the kind of detour they were taking on a regular basis. Pat had been right. Jack was totally relaxed.
There was only one road on the entire island, but mercifully it was devoid of traffic. They drove for about fifteen minutes until they came upon a quaint little village where they stopped for lunch and a leisurely stroll. The church, named after St. Ambrose, was the centerpiece of the village. Pat started walking towards its open doors as if mysteriously drawn to the place. Jack followed close behind. The church was probably several hundred years old, but it wore a new coat of paint. The wooden floor was uneven and creaked as they walked over it towards the altar, a plain mahogany table covered by a thick white cloth with a white candle at either end. The midday light filtering through the stained-glass windows made the air dance with colors and added to the magic of the moment.
“It’s so simple and beautiful. I love it,” Pat said in a reverential whisper as she leaned on the communion rail. Jack knew this was the time and the place.
Pat thought he was kneeling to say a prayer, but when she looked down at him, he was looking up at her and he had something in his hand—a ring he had purchased in Galway. He didn’t know what he was going to say until he said it.
“Patricia Eileen Morgan, my lifelong friend, the love of my life—here in this simple church, in the home of our ancestors, I pledge my lifelong love and devotion to you and I beseech you to grace me with your hand in marriage.”
Pat had thought this day had passed her by long ago. Now, as it was happening, she realized it was perfect. Here in this place, in this country, with this man.
“Yes, Jack. You may have my hand and my heart. I love you as I have never loved anyone in my life, more than I ever thought I could love. And I will love you forever.”
He hugged her so hard she thought he was going to break something, but she didn’t care. They were both crying and laughing and hugging and kissing. And then he pushed back from her slightly, took her hand, looked into her eyes with a gaze she would never forget, and slipped the ring onto her outstretched finger.
They arrived home on a Wednesday afternoon and were met by Joaquin, Maria and Dick. It was like a family reunion, with hugs all around. Pat had taken the ring off to save the surprise for later, as the two of them had discussed. They wanted to make a special moment of it.
“Let’s go to the Taqueria tonight,” Jack suggested. “We can celebrate the end of our vacations and the beginning of a lot of hard work.” Joaquin checked with Dick in that silent way the two men had. Dick shrugged his shoulders as if to say, Why not? It was all Joaquin needed.
&nb
sp; “Okay, sounds great.” There was something he and Maria wanted to tell the group anyway.
Over dinner and a few beers, they laughed and told stories of their various adventures.
“I guess my cowboy days are over,” Dick confessed. “I was out helping round up some steers when my horse got spooked and threw me. I drove around the rest of the time in a pickup.” Everybody laughed. Dick was a master of the self-deprecating story.
“I caught a bass,” Maria piped in to everybody’s surprise. “A big one, too.”
“It’s true,” Joaquin added. “It’s a Mexican bass and it drinks beer and smokes cigars on occasion.” As he spoke, Joaquin handed out cigars to the men. “And tonight I ask my friends to have a drink and a smoke with Maria and me in celebration of our engagement.”
Amid the joyful exclamations, tears welled in Dick’s eyes. He was so happy for his friend. Pat leaned over and kissed Maria, who had already produced her engagement ring and was showing it to everybody. Pat caught Jack’s eye, and he just nodded and smiled. They had been upstaged. Jack’s look told Pat that he too agreed that they could hold off their announcement for another day. Joaquin and Maria were entitled to their own moment.
“A bottle of your finest champagne,” Jack told the waitress, and that one was followed by others as they toasted Maria and Joaquin for several hours.
Afterwards, when they were the only ones left in the place, Joaquin left to bring the car around, and Dick moved towards the front door. The two men could have fun, but they never forgot their duties. At the restaurant entrance, Dick quickly ushered the ladies and Jack into the back seat while Joaquin stood at the driver’s side door shielded by the door itself and looked out across the road into the thick brush on the other side, searching intently for any sign of trouble.
These guys can get carried away with this stuff sometimes, Jack thought, but he had too much respect for the two of them to dwell on it.
And then, in an instant, everything changed. Shots rang out, and as if in slow motion Jack watched Joaquin slump to the ground at the side of the car. Dick went into automatic, surveying the situation in a heartbeat and then moving to where Joaquin was lying. He picked him up and started packing him into the car, oblivious of any danger to himself.
“Jack, pull him across to the passenger side,” he yelled. Jack reached over into the front seat and began pulling Joaquin across as best he could. Dick was already behind the wheel and they were speeding away.
“The emergency room is only five minutes away,” he said, turning briefly to look at Maria, who was clearly in shock. “I don’t think he’s hurt that bad,” Dick said, turning his attention back to the road. “He was shielded by the door.”
They arrived moments later at the emergency room and Dick carried Joaquin in—right past the front desk and through the double doors shouting at the top of his lungs, “Gunshot wounds! We need a doctor. This man is dying.” He obviously knew how to get people’s attention. Two doctors came running from different directions.
“What happened?” the first one asked.
“He was just shot by a sniper outside a restaurant. He’s losing blood.”
“Put him on the table,” the second doctor directed. He looked older and more experienced, and he cut Joaquin’s shirt open while they loaded him on the table. Then he started probing, moving his hands expertly over Joaquin’s chest.
“His lung is collapsed and he’s bleeding internally. We’ve got to get him to surgery. Nurse, nurse!” he shouted. A nurse appeared from nowhere. “Get an IV started and get this man up to OR. Page Dr. Cutler and tell him to meet me there.” He then turned to Dick, Jack, Pat and Maria, who were all crowded into the ER hallway. “I’ve got to move. We’re going into emergency surgery. I’ll let you know something as soon as I can.” He disappeared through doors leading to the stairway, taking the steps three at a time.
Another member of the ER staff led them to a waiting room in the main hospital where they began their vigil—a vigil that was to last almost the entire night. They sat there in silence, nobody wanting to verbalize the fear that gripped them all.
Pat could see all the emotions on Jack’s face. The man simply couldn’t take another death in the pursuit of justice.
At about five in the morning, the doctor finally came in to see them.
“We’ve stopped the bleeding and fixed the lung,” he said tiredly. “But he’s lost a lot of blood. We think he’s going to be okay, though. It’s going to take a while. By the way, there are some policemen downstairs who want to talk to you.” He shook hands with Pat and Maria and left. Dick grabbed Jack and pulled him into a corner of the room.
“I’m not going to talk to the police. You have to, but don’t say anything.”
“I’m not going to. I think Brume did it.”
“So do I,” Dick said. “But why do you think so?”
“Well, I don’t want to get into it too much because of the trial, but I think Brume killed Tracey and Nancy and shot Joaquin on his own—not literally on his own, but he had it done without Clay Evans.”
“It was a sniper, I’m sure of it,” Dick said. “You don’t make a shot like that from that far away unless you’re a sniper. I was one myself. I’ll check to see if anybody on Brume’s little police force was a sniper in the service.” He turned to leave, but Jack grabbed his arm.
“Don’t do anything foolish, Dick.”
Dick Radek sneered at him. “I signed on to help you finish this job, and I’ll help protect the people I promised to protect. But however your little trial ends, Counselor, when it’s over, those boys are going to be dead.”
Forty–six
The press and the crowds reappeared for day one of the trial. Jack could not believe all the television trucks that were camped on the little square outside the Cobb County Courthouse. Jimmy DiCarlo was already there, standing on the courthouse steps surrounded by a bevy of reporters and cameras. Jack walked by him within hearing distance, his own gaggle chasing after him for an interview.
“This injustice will be over this week,” Jimmy was telling them. “My clients will be exonerated and this fiasco will be exposed for what it is—one man’s personal vendetta.” His timing was perfect, as he looked directly at Jack just at that moment.
The press immediately shifted attention to Jack, hoping he might respond. They flew at him.
“Jimmy says this is a personal vendetta on your part,” one reporter shouted at him while thrusting a microphone in his face.
Jack never stopped walking. “That’s Mr. DiCarlo’s opinion. Unfortunately for Mr. DiCarlo, this case is going to be tried in the courtroom and not out here on the courthouse steps.” He kept walking up into the courthouse, having to force his way through.
Judge Stanton had entered an order barring the public from the courtroom for jury selection, so once Jack managed to get himself inside, he was safe. There were only two courtrooms in the entire courthouse, and the trial was in the main one. It was a cavernous old place with high ceilings, noisy ceiling fans, creaky floors, creaky old mahogany pews where the “congregation” normally sat, and a massive mahogany dais where the judge presided. The acoustics were miserable, but both lawyers were blessed with great, booming voices and would have no trouble making themselves heard.
Wesley Brume and Clay Evans were already in the courtroom waiting anxiously for Jimmy DiCarlo to finish his closing argument on the courthouse steps. He sauntered in a few minutes after Jack, looking like a man about to go on a Sunday picnic.
Judge Stanton arrived promptly at nine, waiting just off-stage for his presence to be announced by the bailiff.
“All rise! The Circuit Court in and for Cobb County, State of Florida, is now in session. All those having business before this court, come forward and be heard.”
There was no need for such ceremony since nobody was in the courtroom but the lawyers and the accused, but Jack liked the formality of it all. Old Hang ’Em High Harry shuffled out before the bailiff
had finished his little spiel.
“Is everybody ready?” he asked after he motioned them to be seated.
“The prosecution is ready, Your Honor,” Jack said, standing briefly.
“The defense is ready,” Jimmy DiCarlo replied, somewhat more casually.
“Any motions before we bring the jury panel in?”
Both lawyers answered in the negative.
“What’s your pleasure, gentlemen? We can do individual questioning or we can bring the entire panel into the courtroom and let them listen to all the questions. That would certainly speed the process up. I don’t see a problem with that method in this case because I don’t think anybody is predisposed one way or the other. I think jury selection should be pretty quick and pretty smooth.”
Both lawyers agreed.
“That’s a pretty good start, gentlemen. You keep agreeing with me and we’ll get this trial over in no time.” He turned to the bailiff. “Bring in the panel.”
The original panel consisted of about fifty of Cobb County’s finest citizens selected randomly from the voter registration list. They were seated in order in the pews that were normally reserved for the spectators. Jack began the questioning. He asked each juror some individual questions about their personal lives, their spouses, their children, their jobs—then he started to bore into the area of real concern.
Jack believed that jury selection was not selection at all but elimination. He hadn’t selected the panel, and he only had a certain number of peremptory challenges. He had to ask questions that would identify the jurors he didn’t want. He concentrated on questions about law enforcement and the judicial system. Questions like: Do you believe that some police officers violate individuals’ rights by, say, beating them up while arresting them or forcing a confession? Members of the panel who had a hard time believing such things happened were stricken immediately. Or: Do you believe that some state attorneys hide evidence in order to get convictions? With questions like that he was already starting to try his case without putting any evidence on. Or: Would you have any problem convicting a police officer who forced a confession or who hid evidence? Would you have any problem convicting a judge if the evidence showed that he was guilty? Most people had a problem with the second question. Judges were held in high esteem and federal judges were on an even higher pedestal. Jack knew he would have to live with panelists who admitted they would have a problem convicting a judge but would do it if the evidence supported the conviction.
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