Blood Money js-10

by James Grippando

  “Yes, I knew that.”

  “So you needed to convince the other jurors.”

  Hewitt looked cautiously at Jack, as if sensing a trap. “I guess so.”

  “Well, Mr. Hewitt, you didn’t go to juror number one and say ‘I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars to vote ‘not guilty,’ did you?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t make that offer to juror number two, did you?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t offer to share your hundred thousand dollars with any of the other jurors, am I right?”

  “That would be correct.”

  “So if you were going to get the hundred-thousand-dollar not-guilty verdict, you had to persuade the other jurors.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  The prosecutor rose. “Judge, I don’t really see the point of this questioning.”

  “I’ll give the defense some latitude,” said the judge. “But let’s move it along.”

  Jack stepped closer to the witness. “When it came time to persuade your fellow jurors to vote not guilty, you didn’t bring any phony documents into the jury room, did you?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t bring any phony pictures into the jury room?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t fabricate a medical examiner’s report, did you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You didn’t use anything but the evidence that was introduced at trial, am I right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  Jack paused and glanced at Hannah. Her expression seemed to say, So far, so good.

  “Mr. Hewitt, you’re not a trial lawyer, are you?”

  “Hardly.”

  “You haven’t received any special training in the powers of persuasion, have you?”

  “No.”

  “In your entire life, have you ever convinced eleven other people to change their minds about something as important as whether a twenty-four-year-old woman should be convicted of murdering her daughter?”

  “I can’t think of anything.”

  “Mr. Hewitt, you were able to convince the other jurors to vote ‘not guilty’ because they already believed my client was innocent. Isn’t that right, sir?”

  “Objection. The witness couldn’t possibly know that.”

  “I don’t know,” said Hewitt, taking the prosecutor’s cue.

  The judge looked down from the bench. “Mr. Hewitt, please wait for me to rule on the objections before answering a question. The objection is sustained.”

  Jack waited a moment, setting up the next question. “Mr. Hewitt, convincing the eleven other jurors to vote ‘not guilty’ was the easiest hundred thousand dollars you ever made in your life, wasn’t it.”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained.”

  “I think the witness’ opinion on that is relevant,” said Jack.

  “The objection was sustained,” said the judge. “Move on.”

  The prosecutor rose. “Judge, I would move to strike this entire line of questioning. I don’t see how any of it is relevant.”

  Jack shot her a look of incredulity, then addressed the court. “Your Honor, the simple point is that this alleged bribe had absolutely no impact on the outcome of the trial. The prosecution failed to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt. Sydney Bennett was found not guilty. End of story.”

  The judge rocked back in his high leather chair, thinking. “Well, I’m not sure that’s the test, Mr. Swyteck. I’ll take the prosecution’s motion under advisement. Any further questions for this witness?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” said Jack. He faced the witness. “Mr. Hewitt, let’s talk about the day you were arrested.”

  Hewitt shifted nervously. Obviously not his favorite topic. “Okay.”

  “You went to the Bird Bowling Lanes, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Now, you didn’t choose that location, did you?”

  “No. He did. The guy who paid me.”

  “You didn’t pick the time, did you?”

  “No. He said be there at seven o’clock.”

  “You didn’t select the locker where he left the money.”

  “No. He did.”

  “You didn’t tell him where to leave the key-tucked into the baseboard by the drinking fountain.”

  “No. He did that.”

  “So let me set the scene,” said Jack. “You walked into the bowling alley just before seven, like he told you to.”

  “Right.”

  “And no one stopped you.”

  “No.”

  “You walked toward the drinking fountain and got the key from behind the rubber baseboard, like he told you to.”

  “Yes.”

  “No one stopped you.”

  “No.”

  “You went into the locker room and opened the locker, like he told you.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “No one stopped you then, did they?”

  “No.”

  “You got the money out of the locker, like he told you to.”

  “Right.”

  “You did everything just like he told you to.”

  “Yes.”

  “And all was going just fine until you stuffed the cash into your bowling bag and walked out of the locker room. Boom!” Jack shouted, stirring the audience in their seats. “Two FBI agents were all over you.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much how it happened.”

  Jack went back to the podium and double-checked his copy of the written confession. “And the first thing the FBI agent said to you was, ‘What you got in the bag?’”

  “Something like that, right.”

  Jack stepped away from the lectern, a quizzical expression on his face. “Mr. Hewitt, how do you suppose that the FBI knew that you were going to be at that bowling alley, at that exact time, with all that money in your bowling bag?”

  “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

  “Let me put it this way,” said Jack. “Mr. Hewitt, did you call the FBI and tell them you were going to be there?”

  He looked at Jack, as if the question were stupid. “No.”

  Jack glanced at Hannah, who cued up the recording. “Judge, at this time we’d like to play for the witness the audio recording of the anonymous tip that was phoned into the FBI’s Miami Field Office at three forty-seven P.M. the day of Mr. Hewitt’s arrest.”

  “No objection,” said the prosecutor.

  With the judge’s approval, Hannah hit PLAY. The courtroom seemed to reach a deeper level of quiet. There was a moment of static hiss, and then the call replayed over the speakers.

  “Bird Bowling Lanes. Tonight. Seven P.M. Hundred-thousand-dollar bribe to juror number five in the Sydney Bennett murder trial. Look for the guy who opens locker number nineteen.”

  The recording ended. Jack tightened his stare as he approached the witness. He had taken a chance by playing that tape, broken the cardinal rule of cross-examination, not a hundred percent sure that he was going to get the testimony from the witness that he needed. But it was a risk worth taking. And from the expression on the witness’ face, Jack could see that the payoff was imminent.

  “Do you recognize that voice?” asked Jack.

  “It’s the guy,” said Hewitt. “The guy I met at Government Center who said he’d pay me the money.”

  “So, just to be clear: Your testimony is that the man who told you to go to the bowling alley at seven P.M. to collect your money is the same guy who told the FBI to be at the bowling alley at seven P.M. to arrest you.”

  “That’s what I hear,” said Hewitt. “That’s his voice.”

  Jack changed his tone, as if prodding the witness to feel some resentment about the setup. “Whoever paid you this money. . he wanted you to get caught.”

  “Objection.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly right,” said Hewitt.

  The judge stared down from the bench again. “Mr. Hewitt, I told you to please refrai
n from answering until I rule on an objection. Sustained.”

  “I’ll rephrase it,” said Jack. “Mr. Hewitt, are you aware of any reason why Sydney Bennett would have wanted you to get caught taking a bribe?”

  He shook his head. “I really can’t think of one.”

  “Thank you. No further questions.” Jack stepped away.

  The prosecutor rose. “May I have redirect, Your Honor?”

  “No,” said the judge. “I want to devote the remainder of the time I’ve set aside for this hearing to the defense. Mr. Swyteck, on Friday we briefly discussed the possibility of your client testifying. As I mentioned, someone needs to explain that video at Opa-locka Airport, which shows Ms. Bennett’s obvious affection for the man who bribed Mr. Hewitt. Is she coming or not?”

  “She’s not here now, Your Honor.”

  “Well, it’s now or never. Have you spoken to her?”

  “Yes, I have, Your Honor.”

  That drew a response from the audience, the first public confirmation that Jack was in touch with the missing Sydney Bennett.

  “And what’s the problem?” asked the judge.

  “Sydney Bennett can rebut this whole charade. The problem is simply that she’s afraid to come here.”

  “Afraid of what?” said the prosecutor. “Being found guilty of jury tampering on top of murdering her daughter?”

  Nice line, Jack thought as a wave of snickers coursed through the gallery. Did Faith Corso write it for you?

  The judge gaveled down the rumbling, restoring order.

  “Judge, may I approach the bench?” Jack asked.

  The judge waved him forward. The prosecutor followed.

  “Judge, to demonstrate why my client is afraid to come into this courtroom would require me to reveal certain facts that could compromise the investigation into the murder of Dr. Rene Fenning. The two are that related.”

  “What?” said Crawford, incredulous.

  Jack continued, “It would also require me to present the testimony of a certain FBI agent who can confirm Ms. Bennett’s expressed fears. That agent is about to begin a five-month undercover assignment. Neither an undercover agent, who is by definition trying to keep a low profile, nor the details relating to a pending homicide investigation should be put on display for TV cameras in a packed courtroom if there is an alternative. I would request the opportunity to proffer my evidence in chambers and, if possible, avoid making it part of tonight’s broadcast on BNN.”

  “This is a stall,” said Crawford. “He doesn’t have his client ready to testify, and Mr. Swyteck is just stalling.”

  “It’s not a stall,” said Jack. “If I can have thirty minutes of the court’s time in chambers, I can convince the court of that.”

  The judge leaned back, considering it, then breathed a heavy sigh. “All right. You can have thirty minutes. I will see you at one o’clock in my chambers. And, Mr. Swyteck,” the judge added.

  “Yes, Your Honor?”

  “Bring your FBI agent with you.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  A chorus of jeers followed Jack and Hannah down the courthouse steps as they left the Justice Center. In two hours the defense had to be back in Judge Matthews’ chambers. The Shot Mom haters had been playing to cameras outside the courthouse since eight thirty A.M., and they would be there when Jack returned at one P.M., braving ninety-five-degree heat and ninety-percent humidity. The jury-tampering allegations had given the mob a shot in the arm, and their sheer stamina was astounding.

  Jack rode shotgun on the way back to the office and made a phone call while Hannah drove. It was the first time a judge had ordered him to “bring your FBI agent with you.” Andie took the news better than Jack had expected.

  “I’ll talk to my ASAC,” she said. “I’ll need his approval.”

  “Remind him how cooperative I’ve been with law enforcement since Rene’s murder. I even let the FBI monitor my cell phone.”

  “That will help.”

  “Andie,” said Jack, using his I-need-this voice. “It’s important.”

  “I get it,” she said.

  They were on Main Highway, less than a quarter mile from Jack’s office. The sun glared on the windshield, flickering from light to dark as they cruised in the intermittent shadows of sprawling banyan limbs. They passed the gated entrance to Ransom Everglades Upper School, and Jack glanced uneasily at the stone wall along the jogging trail. Right behind that wall, near the large oak, he’d met a stranger he now knew as Merselus and received the threat against “someone you love.”

  “Are you selling your office?” asked Hannah.

  “No, why?”

  She slowed the car as they approached the driveway. “Then why is there a For Sale sign out front?”

  “Stop here,” he said as she turned into the driveway. Jack got out and checked the sign: JUSTICE FOR SALE, it read.

  Jack looked farther down the jogging trail, a tree-lined stretch of rooted-up asphalt that ran from his driveway entrance to the T-shaped intersection at the end of Main Highway. There were more signs, one about every fifteen feet, each with the same message: JUSTICE FOR SALE. The anger rose up inside him. It was one of those watershed moments, a little thing that triggered much more of a reaction than it should have. Cumulatively, he’d had enough. Jack pulled the first one from the ground, yanked a second, then another. He gathered up about a dozen of them and walked back to the car, muttering under his breath.

  “Jack, it’s no big deal,” said Hannah.

  Jack opened the door, threw them into the backseat, and then slammed the door shut. Hannah parked the car and followed him up the steps and into the office. The screen door slapped shut behind them. Bonnie was at the reception desk, working the phone. She had the frazzled expression on her face that Jack was seeing far too much of lately. She slammed down the phone as he entered.

  “I need that air horn,” she said.

  “Not again,” he said.

  “Nastier than ever,” said Bonnie. “All this ‘justice for sale’ nonsense. They’re picking that up from Faith Corso. That’s the running subtitle of her show. And you don’t even want to know what her fans are saying online about you.”

  “Bloggers are back?”

  “Oh, my Lord,” said Bonnie. “It’s insane. It’s ugly. It’s-”

  “It’s thinkism,” said Hannah.

  “It’s what?” said Jack.

  “That’s the name Dad gave it. Thinkism.”

  “And what exactly did Neil mean by that?”

  “It’s the new ‘ism,’ said Hannah, “born of the Internet. Race and gender are less important in the virtual world. It’s more about what you think. But the way Dad saw it, some people will always need a reason to hate. If they can’t see you and hate you for how you look, all their hatred is aimed at what you say. Racists and sexists just aren’t cool anymore. But they can all be thinkists, spread the same kind of emotional and irrational hatred, and not only will they get away with it, but people will actually follow their Tweets. Before you know it, there’s a virtual lynch mob outside your door trying to hang you from a tree for thinking differently than they do. Thinkism.”

  “Neil came up with that?” asked Jack.

  “Yup.”

  “One smart guy,” said Jack.

  “He was definitely no thinkist.”

  Hannah’s cell phone rang. She stepped into the hallway to take it. Jack followed up with Bonnie on the Internet postings.

  “Is there anything that you think I should be concerned about?”

  “Yeah, all of it.”

  Hannah stepped back into the room, her face ashen.

  “What’s wrong?” said Jack.

  “It was him,” she said in a flat, serious tone. “The same voice I played in the courtroom today.”

  Bonnie said, “Now he’s calling you?”

  Jack said, “He probably figured out that my cell is monitored by the FBI. It’s the same reason Sydney has been calling me on Theo’s phone.
What did he say?”

  “It was short,” said Hannah. “I didn’t even have time to think. I should have recorded it.”

  “It’s okay,” said Jack. “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Tell your boss I watch BNN. Tell him I heard him say Sydney Bennett is afraid to come to court. Tell him if he mentions one word about me to the judge, it’s someone he loves all over again.”

  She paused, and the reference to “someone you love” gave Jack chills.

  “Did he say anything else?” asked Jack.

  “Yeah,” said Hannah. “He said to check the signs.”

  “The signs?” said Bonnie.

  Jack knew immediately. “The For Sale signs.”

  Jack hurried out the door and down the steps, his footfalls crunching in the pea-gravel driveway as he raced to the car and yanked open the door. The signs were piled loosely in the backseat where he had left them. He grabbed the one on top and checked it more carefully, but there was nothing of note-just the message, JUSTICE FOR SALE. He did the same with the second, the third, and three more. Finally, he checked the backside of the seventh sign and froze.

  There was simply an address: 1800 Davis Road, Apartment 406.

  “What is it?” asked Hannah.

  Jack showed her and said, “My great-uncle’s address.”

  “Your great-uncle?”

  Jack’s throat tightened. “Abuela’s brother in Tampa. It’s where I sent my grandmother.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  At one P.M. Jack and Hannah were in chambers. Judge Matthews was seated in a tall leather chair behind his oversize desk. The American flag was draped on a pole behind him and to his right, and the flag of the state of Florida was to his left. A rectangular table extended forward from the front of his desk to create a T-shaped seating arrangement, the defense on one side of the table and the prosecution on the opposite side. At the narrow end of the table, directly facing the judge, was FBI Agent Andie Henning. With her was an assistant U.S. attorney, who looked to be at most three or four years senior to Hannah.

  “Mr. Swyteck, the floor is yours,” said the judge.

  The AUSA spoke up. “Before we begin,” she said, “I wanted to make sure the court is aware of the relationship between Mr. Swyteck and FBI Agent Henning.”