Blood Money

by James Grippando

  Jack gave her a little smile. “Good night, Sarah.”

  “Good night, my friend.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Monday morning came quickly. Jack and Hannah were in Judge Matthews’ courtroom at the criminal justice center. Sydney Bennett, of course, was a no-show.

  Judge Matthews started promptly at nine A.M. “Mr. Swyteck, you may cross-examine the witness.”

  “Thank you,” said Jack. The courtroom was exactly the way they’d left it upon Friday’s adjournment. A packed gallery. Ted Gaines seated in the front row of public seating, directly behind the prosecutor. Melinda Crawford and her assistant at the table for the prosecution, near the empty jury box. Brian Hewitt sat alone in the witness chair, wringing his hands as Jack approached.

  “Mr. Hewitt,” said the judge, “I will remind you that you are still under oath.”

  Jack positioned himself in front of the witness, feet apart and shoulders squared, full eye contact. It was the “control posture,” the body language of a trial lawyer that denied wiggle room during cross-examination. Jack said good morning, then went straight to work.

  “Mr. Hewitt, you’ve never met Sydney Bennett, am I right?”

  “No.”

  “Never talked to her?”

  “No.”

  “Never got a hundred thousand dollars in cash from her.”

  “Well, no.”

  “You’ve never met me before.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Or my colleague, Hannah Goldsmith.”

  “No.”

  “Never even talked to us before.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Never got a hundred thousand dollars in cash from us.”

  “No.”

  Jack walked back to the podium. No real need to. He just wanted to move, make sure all eyes were following him.

  “Now, as I understand your testimony, you were offered fifty thousand dollars for a hung jury. And a hundred thousand dollars for a not-guilty verdict.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I can see how someone could buy a hung jury. All it takes is one juror. You simply refuse to vote guilty no matter what, even if the eleven other jurors are beating you on the head with a hammer to vote guilty.”

  “Is there a question?” asked the prosecutor.

  “My question is this,” said Jack, “Mr. Hewitt, you never stood up in the jury room and announced, ‘Hey, folks, I don’t care what you say, I am never going to vote to convict Sydney Bennett of murder.’ You never said that, did you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You would never have said that,” said Jack, “because you didn’t want to make them angry at you.”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “Your goal wasn’t to get a hung jury for fifty thousand dollars,” said Jack. “You wanted the not-guilty verdict—the hundred-thousand-dollar prize.”

  Hewitt shifted uneasily, exposed for what he was. “Who wouldn’t?”

  “And you understood, did you not, that to return a verdict of ‘not guilty,’ the jury had to be unanimous. All twelve jurors had to vote ‘not guilty.’”

  “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 refrain 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 chec
ked 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.”