The engines roared like jungle animals as the plane shuddered, skidded, and scraped, hurtling dead ahead. Forty-five seconds seemed endless. The pilot killed the engines, and the lights went out. Floor lights bloomed along the aisle. The aircraft vibrated violently, but we slowed only slightly. Where would we stop? Would we run out of foam? I sneaked a look. Fire engines raced alongside, lights flashing.
As we screeched to a jolting stop, doors opened, slides deployed, and a shock of cool air swept through the cabin. The flight attendants’ shouts cut off a smattering of applause.
“Go! Go! Go! Jump! Jump!”
Fitzgerald was gone before I released my belt. Our eyes met for an instant as he lunged past, the little girl under one arm, the other locked around her mother’s waist, propelling her forward. She was screaming, reaching back for her other child. I darted ahead, fumbled to free the girl, no more than six, from her belt, then scooped her up as she cried out for her mother.
People pushed and shoved; someone sobbed aloud. Passengers were pushed out the open doors. A middle-aged man blocked the aisle as he tried to remove something from the overhead. A male attendant hit him like a linebacker, forcing him into the moving tide. I stumbled to the door. “Look, look, it’s okay,” I told the little girl, and swung her onto the slide.
Bright yellow, about four feet wide, it resembled a giant play toy in a kiddy park.
Pushed forward, I struggled to go back. Then Fitzgerald appeared, half carrying the woman in the cast. He sent her flying onto the slide. As she went, he swept me off my feet and sent me after her, hurtling down into foam and chaos.
I tumbled off and out of the way at the bottom, then ran, looking over my shoulder for him. Where the hell was he?
Firemen shot foam onto the belly of the plane. Metal glowed, red hot. Or was it only the reflection of their lights?
I blinked, confused, ankle deep in cold wet foam.
“Move away from the plane! Away from the plane.” People in uniform tried to herd us away. A paramedic carried the young woman with the cast. I turned back to the flashing lights, shouts, and shadows to find Fitzgerald.
Someone whisked me away, into the dark. I resisted, then saw it was him.
Mercifully, there was no fire, no death, only a few injuries: a broken ankle, heart palpitations, back pain, and vertigo. Amid the noise and excitement I glimpsed the formerly screaming baby, now sleeping peacefully in its mother’s arms.
Airline officials insisted that medics take our vital signs. Airline reps briefed us. Our bags would be delivered. We were advised to make no statements to the press. Ha, I thought, knees shaky, as I looked for a phone.
We were bussed to the terminal. I rested my head on Fitzgerald’s shoulder. From a pay phone, I called the city desk collect to unload. No crash. No deaths. But since the flight originated in Miami, I knew they’d want a brief story. I was fine, I told Tubbs. No, I would not write it. I was busy. Fitzgerald waited, with a cab. We climbed in and our bodies collided, lips fused. The rigid tension in my neck and shoulders melted into that smoldering kiss. The cab stopped before we did.
We fumbled our way into his dark apartment without turning on the lights. His hands were so occupied he had to kick the door closed. I had no idea where we were. I didn’t care. The piece of furniture we first made love on may have been a sofa. I’m not sure.
Fear and near-death experiences lead to sex. That’s a fact. So easy: no complications, no history, no problems. Until I awoke next morning in a strange bed with a strange man in a strange city. I sat up, staring numbly at my clothes strewn across the carpet.
Fitzgerald blinked awake. If seeing me was a surprise, he hid it well. “Good morning,” he said, voice sleepy, and drew me to his warm, broad, comforting chest. The room was chilly. How tempting to simply pull the blankets over us and stay the day.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “What time is it? What time is court?”
“Jesus.” He looked at his watch and hurtled out of bed. “I’ll make coffee,” he said, as I dashed for the bathroom.
I stared guiltily into the mirror, expecting shame. Instead, my color was excellent, my eyes bright. I never felt more alive. “You are a bad person.” I denounced my reflection. “If this gets back to the News you’ll be disgraced, could lose your job.” Why was I smiling?
The man whipped up a killer omelet, with onions, peppers, and mushrooms. I wore one of his shirts and we gazed at each other across the breakfast table like any domesticated couple.
“I guess you’re not married,” I said.
“No.” He poured orange juice. “Was once, but not anymore.”
In daylight, his apartment was scrupulously neat for a bachelor pad. Even stacked newspapers were precisely lined up in military fashion, as were the files and papers on his desk.
The airline had delivered his duffel bag. My overnighter probably waited at the hotel. I borrowed a toothbrush and did the best I could to look neat in the clothes I wore the night before, once I found them.
The morning was cold and windy as we walked to the courthouse for the 9 A.M. hearing. We parted discreetly outside the building. Judge Cowley’s courtroom was crowded, with a substantial electronic presence: cameras on tripods in the back of the courtroom, cords and wires taped to the floor all the way out to the sound trucks and aerials outside. Laws allowing cameras in the courtroom specify that they be unobtrusive, which is impossible. This was a main event. I was glad to be covering it.
Rychek was at the defense table up front, wearing his blue shirt and conferring with Stockton. He glanced up, saw me, then squinted slightly, brow furrowed, as though puzzled. Then Fitzgerald ambled in. Rychek nodded, then did a double-take: to me, then back to Fitzgerald. His expression changed. He knows! I thought. How? But he knew, I read it in his face. Were we that transparent?
I gave a little wave. He responded with a look of weary resignation, then resumed his discussion with Stockton.
A batch of handcuffed and shackled prisoners shuffled in as I found a seat. R. J. was not among these drunk drivers, thieves, street wanderers, alcoholics, and homeless people who had run afoul of the law. Jailers herded them into the empty jury box, a bumper crop, a motley cross section of major and minor criminals. A few immediately began to mug for the cameras, which were not yet turned on.
A half-dozen handcuffed hookers paraded in next. They sashayed into court as saucy as they had apparently been on the street, eyes bold, smiling and winking.
Judge Cowley made his entrance a short time later, black robe swirling. His shrewd eyes flew straight to the cameras as he strode into his courtroom, stalwart and impressive. His posture relaxed visibly when he saw they were not yet in operation.
Cowley sped through his morning calendar with brisk efficiency. Prosecutors and public defenders clearly accustomed to a more leisurely pace were cut off mid-sentence and defendants whisked offstage before settling into the spotlight. Scant repartee was tolerated. The judge, like all of us, was eager for the big case, but for different reasons. We faced deadlines. He just wanted it over.
As the prisoners straggled out, their various lawyers and relatives left and I managed to snag a seat up front, behind the defense table. More press arrived, filling the gallery.
During a five-minute recess, two jailers brought in R. J., handcuffed and in prison garb. Ten years on death row had taken its toll. Still handsome at fifty-two, his features were harder, more craggy. A visible scar creased his pale forehead. His thick dark hair, now shot with silver, had receded only slightly. Reports were that his smart mouth and bad attitude had kept him in constant trouble with both prison personnel and fellow inmates. Much of his time had been spent on X-wing, the harshest section of Florida’s toughest prison.
Rychek beckoned and I leaned forward, hoping for some profound insight on the proceedings.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I can’t leave you two alone for five minutes.”
My face burned as he turned abruptly back to the defe
nse table.
The lanky silver-maned prosecutor who had convicted R. J. entered through the chambers door. To his credit he showed up; he could have sent an assistant and tried to distance himself for political reasons. Cowley returned, called the case, and the cameras rolled. The prosecutor requested that the conviction and sentence be vacated, citing extraordinary circumstances.
Rychek presented proof that the alleged victim, Kaithlin Jordan, was alive until February 6, 2001, and that her corpse had been positively identified. Stoic until then, R. J. reacted for a moment at the sound of her name. Was it pain or something else reflected in his expression? Guilt? Satisfaction?
“The obligation of the state attorney’s office,” the prosecutor boomed, grandstanding as though he himself had ferreted out and brought this miscarriage of justice to the court’s attention, “is to find the truth and make full disclosure. My job is to seek justice. That’s why we’re here today.”
The judge had already examined affidavits from fingerprint experts and the Miami–Dade County medical examiner and conferred with them by phone. Stockton sat beside his client. Unusually subdued, he had little to say. The evidence spoke louder than words.
“The system did work well,” Judge Cowley intoned, “the way it’s supposed to, based on all the available evidence at the time.” He ordered R. J.’s release. “I wish you well,” he said, and abruptly adjourned. Cold and correct, he swept out quickly, eager to end the mess in his courtroom and his nice good-old-boy town.
No one even asked who killed Kaithlin, or why, I thought, as the jubilant lawyer and client embraced.
I caught Fitzgerald’s eye and nodded. He was right. No apologies from this judge, not in this jurisdiction. He nodded back, the look in his eyes igniting a heat that made my mouth dry. Nervously, I licked my lips, then caught Rychek watching us both.
I joined the press clamoring for comment from R. J. and his attorney. His lawyer looked more elated than the freed man, who was led off to retrieve his personal belongings and complete some final paperwork.
“This is one of life’s greatest events,” Stockton crowed. “There is no feeling in the world that compares to freeing an innocent man from death row. It’s better than arguing before the U.S. Supreme Court.”
As bailiffs asked us to clear the courtroom, Stockton promised he and his client would meet the press on the courthouse steps in twenty minutes.
I caught up with Rychek on the way out. “Look,” I said. “You’re tight with Stockton. Can you help me get a one-on-one with R. J.? There’s no way I can interview the man in the middle of that mob scene.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
I called the city desk, went to the court clerk’s office to pick up a copy I had ordered of the trial transcript, then dashed outside. Stockton was alone, holding court on the steps. R. J. had pulled a fast one and made his getaway from another exit.
His client, the lawyer apologized, would not talk to the press until he returned to Miami. R. J. wanted out of Volusia County ASAP. Who could blame him?
The media stampede fought, jostled, and shouted their way down the sidewalk after Stockton. As I tagged along, lugging the transcript, Rychek sidled up, a purposeful look on his face.
“Don’t say it,” I warned, expecting a rude comment on my sex life.
“Okay, okay,” he muttered. “I talked to Stockton for ya, kid. But if you don’t wanna hear it—”
I broke stride. “What did he say?”
“No interviews here. We’re headed for the airport now…”
I sighed.
“…but there’s room on the plane. May be a little rowdy, a lotta celebrating, but hey, kid, wanna hitch a ride?”
I stared. He was serious.
“Sure,” I said. “I’d love it.”
10
“What an emotional experience, walking out of prison with an innocent man saved from execution!”
Champagne glass in hand, as his sleek jet streaked home to Miami, Stockton retold his story. “They kept me waiting. Other prisoners were cheering when they finally brought him out. They had to give him a push-cart for all his books, his legal papers, and ten years of correspondence.”
Good quotes. I took notes, but this flight was short and what I needed was time with R. J. He’d shown such interest in the late-model jet, with its computerized cockpit and sophisticated controls, that for a moment, when we boarded, I feared they’d let him fly it. He was the man of the moment. Now, however, as Stockton continued to crow, as though his genius and persistence had freed his client, R. J. was quiet, immersed in thought.
I seized a chance to slip into the seat beside him when one of Stockton’s assistants went to the rest room. R. J.’s rugged good looks were more impressive close up. Prison garb flatters no one. He had changed into a soft leather jacket over a sweater and twill slacks, garments Eunice must have sent to Volusia with his lawyer.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
I withered under the close scrutiny of his dark eyes, wishing I’d had the chance to change clothes, comb my hair, and freshen up.
“That I can walk down the street,” he finally said slowly, “and feel the sun on my face. I couldn’t do that yesterday. Today the grass is greener, the sky bluer. I can even appreciate a raindrop. I can take a drink.” He raised his champagne glass. “I can sleep in a real bed tonight, use a real bathroom. Is that what you wanted to hear?” he asked arrogantly.
“If those are your true feelings,” I said softly. “I know this is an emotional time for you. I’m sorry to intrude, but everybody is interested in your story, in this miscarriage of justice—”
“Where were they,” he snapped, “ten years ago when I was railroaded by a kangaroo court in a redneck county?”
“It had to be terrible,” I said, “that no one believed you.”
He nodded, his smile ironic. “She nearly got what she wanted.”
“Your wife?”
His granite eyes flickered dangerously at the word, but he said nothing.
“This is such a happy time for your mom,” I offered.
“For me too,” he said, eyes still grim. “The woman who put me behind bars got what she deserved. Had the state succeeded—if they had walked me down that hall to the electric chair—she’d be as guilty of murder as somebody else is now.”
“But you loved her….”
“Let me tell you something, Miss Reporter.” He leaned close, his face inches from mine, speaking swiftly, sotto voce. “On X-wing I lost whatever fondness I had for the woman. Let me tell you about life in Cell X-3323. Let me tell you about the open metal toilet, the total lack of privacy, being told what and when to eat, when to sleep, when to take a shower. Let me tell you about the chemical spray, the ‘electrical restraint devices,’ and the pepper-gas grenades.” He smiled with no humor. “The guards refer to them as ‘foggers.’ Kaithlin”—he paused and sighed—“no day went by that I didn’t think of her. I’d have killed her with a smile on my face, Miss Reporter.”
His cold words sent a chill rippling between my shoulder blades. “It’s Britt,” I said softly. “Britt Montero, from the Miami News.”
“Well, Miss Reporter, I’m sure you’re eager to ask how I feel about her death. Let’s just say relieved, with a new appreciation of poetic justice. There is some balance in the universe after all.”
“Who do you think might have killed her?”
“I don’t know, but I’m grateful. Her killer saved my life. His timing was excellent, but I wish he had done it a helluva lot sooner.” He leaned back in his seat. “Now they’re both where they belong.”
“Both?” I glanced up from my notebook.
“Her mother. She’s dead too. Did you know that? The witch who stirred up all our troubles.”
“How so?” I asked.
Dark and sullen, he shook his head, then turned to respond to Stockton, who interrupted to discuss how to handle the press at the Miami airport.
“
One more question,” I said hurriedly. “Did you have something engraved inside Kaithlin’s wedding ring?”
He refocused on me, eyes narrowed. “How would I remember?” he said curtly. “It was a long time ago.”
I reluctantly relinquished my seat to the lawyer. It was his plane.
I sat next to Rychek.
“So.” I sighed. “How did you know?”
“You and Fitzgerald?”
“Yeah.”
“I ain’t been a detective all these years for nothing, kid. Hey, he’s a cop, and he don’t know any better. I keep telling the young guys to keep their eyes open and their pants zipped, but they keep getting it backwards. But you…I’m surprised.”
“Do me a favor?” I asked, suddenly weary. “Don’t tell anybody, at least until this case wraps up. Okay? It wouldn’t look good, with me working on the story and all.”
“’Course not. He ain’t a bad guy, but I thought you wuz otherwise involved.”
“I don’t know, Emery.” I shook my head. “I guess I’m not.”
We didn’t mention it again. R. J. stopped by my seat, shortly before we landed.
“The date,” he said. “June twelfth, nineteen eighty-five, and initials. Hers and mine.” As I jotted it down, he leaned over and spoke softly in my ear. “Did you see her?”
I blinked. “Kaithlin?”
“They said you were there, on the beach the day they found her.” His words were casual, his eyes were not.
“I was there.”
“How did she look?” he whispered, Adam’s apple working.
“Pretty much like she did before,” I said awkwardly, remembering her features in the water. “Judging from old pictures, she hadn’t changed much. She was a beautiful woman.”
He winced, as though in pain.
“Why?” I said.
He straightened up abruptly, shook off the question, and moved on to rejoin Stockton.
His remorse, if that’s what it was, was apparently fleeting.
Facing the press in an airport meeting room, R. J. morphed into the flamboyant charmer, still the spoiled bad boy of Miami society, high-fiving his lawyer for photographers, hugging his mother, Eunice, who met the plane elegantly attired in—white, a stunning designer suit.
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