Gone Again: A Jack Swyteck Novel

by James Grippando

  “You gave up too fast,” she said as she fumbled to put on her sunglasses. It wasn’t easy with a purse over her shoulder and the four-inch “Sashi file” tucked under her arm.

  Gavin kept walking. “It’s the best result we could hope for. At least Alexander can stay.”

  “We didn’t bring a brother and sister halfway around the world so we could split them up.”

  “Lots of brothers and sisters go to different schools.”

  “And what private school is going to take Sashi after this?”

  They reached their car. Gavin walked around to the driver’s side. “It’s all confidential. Can’t you read between lines? That was the deal I just made with McDermott: sign this confidentiality agreement, and this incident won’t follow your daughter around for the rest of her schooldays. He’s happy to make Sashi somebody else’s headache.”

  “But people talk. What if word gets out?”

  “There’s always public school,” he said. “You’re looking at a graduate of Gables High.”

  “Sashi can’t be in a classroom with thirty or forty kids.”

  Gavin unlocked the car and got behind the wheel. Debra climbed into the passenger seat and held her Sashi file in her lap. “I’ll write a letter to the board of trustees. That’s what I’ll do.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  “If you make trouble, you’re going to get Alexander kicked out, too,” he said.

  “Sashi is as much our child as Alexander. We have to help her. We especially have to help her.”

  Gavin pounded the steering wheel so hard it startled her. “Damn it, Debra! Sashi is beyond help.”

  Debra paused, and her eyes were suddenly like lasers. “Don’t ever say that.”

  He breathed in and out, staring out the windshield. “She’s beyond any help this school can give her,” he said in a much calmer voice. “That’s what I meant.”

  “I hope so.”

  He still didn’t look at her. “No,” he said finally. “That’s not what I meant. I hate to say it, Debra. But it’s time to be honest with ourselves. The problem isn’t just school. Look at yourself in the mirror. When’s the last time you had a good night’s sleep? A year ago? When you’re not worrying yourself sick about Sashi, you’re making excuses for her. Oh, she was dozing off. Oh, the teacher must have startled her. Oh, she spent most of her life in a Russian orphanage. Honestly, honey, I’m beginning to think that Sashi is beyond any help we can give her.” He glanced over at Debra in the passenger seat, then looked away again. “Way beyond.”

  There was a tap on the passenger-side window. Debra glanced over and saw the friendly face of Alexander’s third-grade teacher on the other side of the glass. Debra had made it all the way to the pickup line, lost in her memories. She popped the lock, and Alexander jumped into the backseat.

  “Hi, Mommy.”

  “Hi, big boy.”

  The teacher checked Alexander’s seat belt, wished them a good day, and closed the rear door. Debra sniffled and pulled herself together.

  “What’re you crying for?” asked Alexander.

  “I’m not crying.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  She checked herself in the rearview mirror and discovered that he was right. She dabbed a tear away.

  “Are you sad?” he asked. “Is that why you’re crying?”

  “No, honey. I’m not sad. I’m crying because I’m happy to see you,” she said, forcing a little smile. “I’m just so happy.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Jack’s flight landed at Miami International Airport in time for a late dinner, but he didn’t eat. He went straight to the hospital. Andie was standing beside the bed, clipboard in hand and signing her discharge papers, when Jack entered the room and kissed her.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better,” she said.

  “Eight o’clock at night is a weird time to be discharged, isn’t it?”

  “They needed twenty-four hours for the urine tests. My protein-to-creatinine ratio is a little out of whack, but not by much. I have mild preeclampsia, if I have it at all.”

  Jack smiled and hugged her. Andie was signing the last of the papers as the nurse rolled a wheelchair into the room.

  “I don’t need it,” said Jack. “I swear.”

  “It’s for your wife, sir. It’s protocol for discharge of pregnant women.”

  “Oh, sorry. My bad.”

  Andie felt the bump on Jack’s forehead. “Hardly noticeable. You heal quickly.”

  The nurse checked Andie’s signatures. The paperwork was in order. Andie got in the wheelchair, and Jack pushed her down the hall to the elevator. Jack peppered her with questions all the way down to the ground floor, through the lobby, out the main entrance, and across the parking lot. She had mostly good news. Blood and urine tests could be done on an outpatient basis. No more bed rest: the risk of blood clots outweighed any possible benefit. Keep an eye on the blood pressure: 140 over 90 is too high. More frequent ultrasounds: need to monitor the baby’s development, especially the lungs.

  They were in the car when Jack got the “less good” news; Andie refused to call it “bad.”

  “If it gets worse, we’ll have some decisions to make,” said Andie.

  “What kind of decisions?”

  “The only cure for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby.”

  “When will it be safe to do that?”

  “I’m twenty-eight weeks now. If we had to, the doctor says we could induce.”

  “And both you and the baby would be fine?”

  “I would be, for sure. The baby would have better than a ninety percent chance of survival. But it would involve a long stay in the neonatal intensive care unit.”

  Ninety percent. Pretty good odds—until you thought about the last ten people you said hello to and imagined one of them dead. “That’s better than what I thought you were going to say.”

  “It is. Unfortunately, at this stage, there’s about a one-in-four chance of developing permanent disabilities, possibly serious ones. And about a fifty percent chance of milder problems, like learning and behavioral issues. That’s why the doctor would like to see me get to thirty-two weeks, if possible. That’s kind of the magic number.”

  Jack did the math, and Andie noted the expression on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You made a face. I know you, Jack. It wasn’t ‘nothing.’ What’s wrong? Did the doctor tell you something that she didn’t tell me?”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “I just realized: our baby would be born the same week Dylan Reeves is scheduled to die.”

  “Shit, Jack. Why do you even make an association like that?”

  “I don’t know why. Just a bizarre day.”

  “It’s been a pretty stressful day for me, too. Get over it. In with the good, out with the bad.”

  “Andie, come on.”

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to be flip. But capital punishment is one thing you and I will never see eye-to-eye on.”

  Jack stopped at the traffic light. A few raindrops splattered on the windshield, and Jack cleared them away with one pass of the wiper. “Are you mad that I got on a plane this morning?”

  “No. There was nothing for you to do here. That’s why I told you to go.”

  “I know you did. I have to say, though, that I didn’t like being up there while you were down here in the hospital.”

  “It’s okay, Jack. It’s your job.”

  “Actually, it’s not my job. I don’t work for the Freedom Institute.”

  “You don’t have to work for the Institute to defend a death-row inmate.”

  “That’s true. In fact, the whole time I was away, I kept asking myself: What am I doing here? I just don’t feel the passion it takes to do this kind of work anymore.”

  “No
way, Swyteck. I don’t believe that for one minute. You were just feeling guilty about me being in the hospital.”

  “No—I mean, yes, I did feel guilty. But it’s more than that. I’m going to call Hannah and tell her I’m bowing out.”

  The traffic light changed and Jack hit the accelerator.

  “Can you just withdraw like that?” asked Andie. “I thought once a criminal defense lawyer makes an appearance in a capital case he’s kind of stuck.”

  “I haven’t made a court appearance. Hannah signed the brief on behalf of the Freedom Institute, so I was never officially in the case.”

  They rode in silence. A few more raindrops gathered on the windshield, and beams from oncoming headlights made them sparkle in the night.

  “I don’t want you to drop out,” said Andie.

  Jack blinked, confused. “I thought you would be happy.”

  “Which is exactly why I don’t want you to quit.”

  “I see.”

  “Does that make sense to you?”

  Uh, no. “It makes perfect sense, honey.” He reached across the console and took her hand. “Perfect sense.”

  The drive home across the causeway was a familiar one, but Jack was finding it difficult to keep his eyes on the road. It was the lighting—absolutely perfect lighting. Andie’s profile was a silhouette in the passenger seat, and the distant glow of the Miami skyline seemed to highlight the perfect lines of her face. Views of downtown Miami and the financial district were killer from the Key Biscayne Causeway, especially at night—the south Florida version of Manhattan as seen from the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked.

  “You,” he said.

  They were home by ten o’clock and went right to bed. Andie spent the longest time trying to get comfortable. The adjustable hospital bed had spoiled her. Finally she was asleep, and Jack dozed off not too much later.

  Around midnight the phone rang. It was Hannah.

  “We won, Jack! We won!”

  Jack jumped out of bed and stumbled through the darkness to the master closet. He spoke softly behind the closed door, trying not to wake Andie.

  “That was fast,” he said. “What’s the relief?”

  “Thirty-day stay of execution.”

  A temporary stay. Dylan Reeves was new enough to the process for it to feel like a victory. Jack had defended others who had ridden the roller coaster too long, who preferred death to the illusory hope of another twenty-or thirty-day stay.

  “Is there an opinion, or just an order?”

  “It’s one paragraph. Basically the court bought our lead argument that Reeves has not yet exhausted all of his rights to review. That much we expected. But here’s the interesting part,” she said, then read verbatim: “‘The court hereby directs the trial court to conduct an evidentiary hearing, without delay, on issue number six presented in the petitioner’s motion, to wit, the possible whereabouts of the alleged decedent, Sashi Burgette.’”

  Jack froze in the darkness.

  “Jack, are you there?”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “‘The alleged decedent.’ They’re not talking about a search for a body. They want an evidentiary hearing on the whereabouts of a living and breathing human being. What do you think about that, boss?”

  It took a moment, but finally Jack could speak. “Holy shit.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Jack was in Criminal Courtroom 3 of the Richard E. Gerstein Justice Building all Wednesday morning, but it had nothing to do with Dylan Reeves or the death penalty.

  Jack represented a wealthy Cuban exile who had taken the law—and a blowtorch—into his own hands and melted his neighbor’s life-size bronze lawn statue of Marxist revolutionary Che Guevara. Jack had bargained the charges down to a misdemeanor, but, on principle, his client refused the deal and didn’t care how much it would cost him in attorney’s fees to fight it. Principle was a beautiful thing. So were paying clients. They kept the lights on and put food on the table. In the blink of an eye, they would buy braces for Jack and Andie’s kids. In two blinks, they would put those kids through college.

  “Thank you, counsel,” Judge Garcia said from the bench. “You’ll have my ruling by the end of the day.”

  The crack of his gavel cut across the courtroom at noon sharp. Judge Garcia never missed a meal, and lawyers could set their watches by his break for lunch.

  Jack packed up his briefcase and stepped into the hallway to return messages. Debra Burgette was first on his list, if only because she had called him seven times in the previous two hours. The hallway was abuzz as jurors, lawyers, and scores of others headed toward the elevators. Long wooden benches lined the corridors, but of the few seats available, none offered privacy. Jack found a quiet spot at the end of the hall near the window. He was scrolling his contact list for Debra’s number when he did a double take and put his phone away. Debra was walking straight toward him.

  “I’ve been waiting here for an hour,” she said. Debra was wearing a navy-blue power suit and heels, dressed more for a board meeting than for hunting down a lawyer at the criminal courthouse.

  “I had a bench hearing,” said Jack. “How did you even know where to find me?”

  “I’m not stalking you, I promise. Your secretary told me which courtroom you were in. I heard about the stay of execution.”

  “The order came down late last night. I should have called you this morning, but I haven’t had a free moment.”

  “It’s okay. I was at the state attorney’s office this morning. I met with the prosecutor in Sashi’s case.”

  Technically, it was Dylan Reeves’ case, but Jack understood the point of view. “How did that go?”

  “Not well. Not well at all, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, first, I need to know something. After that mix-up with the newspaper, you said you weren’t sure if you were going to be Dylan Reeves’ lawyer or not. Have you decided?”

  “My wife and I talked about it last night, and I told Hannah this morning. I’m in.”

  “Oh.”

  “You sound disappointed. I thought you wanted me to represent him.”

  “I did. But—let me ask you this: Are you officially Dylan Reeves’ attorney? Or can that be changed, if necessary?”

  “Debra, what are you getting at?”

  She took a half step closer and lowered her voice. “The prosecutor gave me some advice this morning.”

  “What kind of advice?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes clouding with concern. “I need a lawyer, Jack. A good one.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Jack escorted Debra to her car in the courthouse parking lot and then walked across the street to the Graham Building. He wanted to speak lawyer-to-lawyer with Barbara Carmichael, senior trial counsel at the Office of the State Attorney for Miami–Dade County.

  Jack had tried a case against Carmichael only once, years earlier, when Barbara was cutting her teeth as a “pit assistant,” a C-level prosecutor in her first year of adult felonies, working sixty-hour weeks under her supervising attorneys. She’d made a career of it and was now one of the elite go-to prosecutors in capital cases. Her conviction record was perfect, a tribute to her courtroom skills as well as her keen sense of when to offer a plea and when to take a case to trial.

  Dylan Reeves was one of many convicted killers that she’d dispatched to death row.

  “Good to see you again, Jack,” she said, as he entered her office.

  Jack had called ahead to confirm that Carmichael was available over the lunch break. She’d agreed to a short meeting, so long as Jack didn’t mind watching her wolf down a quick sandwich at her desk. After a full morning in court, she needed to rush back for a one p.m. suppression hearing. The life of a trial lawyer.

  “Likewise,” said Jack.

  Debra Burgette had been short on details and long on intuition about her meeting with the prosecutor. Jack needed a better unde
rstanding of her concerns.

  “How can I help you?” asked Carmichael.

  “You know I’m defending Dylan Reeves,” he said.

  “I assumed so. I didn’t see your name on the habeas petition filed with the court, but I did see the article in the Miami Tribune.”

  Time was too short to get into Debra’s “nonrelease” of a press release with Jack’s name in it. “I met with Mr. Reeves yesterday. I made the decision to join the defense team last night.”

  “Clever.”

  “What do you mean, ‘clever’?”

  “The argument that Sashi Burgette is still alive is clearly specious and entered for no purpose other than to delay the execution. You left your name off the pleading so that the court can’t slap you with sanctions for filing a frivolous pleading.”

  “That wasn’t a strategic decision.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t. No more strategic than your leak to the Tribune about ‘significant new evidence’ as to Sashi’s whereabouts. You know as well as I do that judges read newspapers, especially when the quote is attributed to a lawyer named Swyteck and they owe their judicial appointment to a governor of the same last name. Didn’t expect you to come down with a bad case of typical defense-lawyer-sleaze disease, Jack. You disappointed me.”

  “That’s quite an imagination you’ve got there, Barbara.”

  “Instinct. Not imagination.” She took a bite of her sandwich, chewing roundly while she finished her thought. “So, what’s up?”

  “Debra Burgette came away from your meeting this morning with the distinct impression that she needs a lawyer.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out. Debra couldn’t give me a specific reason. It’s more a feeling she had.”

  “Like the feeling that her daughter is still alive?”

  “No need to get snarky about it, Barbara.”

  “You’re right. That was uncalled for. I’m extremely sensitive to the pain the entire Burgette family has gone through. But Debra’s grief over the loss of her daughter is taking her in a very unfortunate direction. I told her that this morning.”