“Where to?” asked the driver.
Jack started to give his home address, hesitated, then replied, “Four-oh-nine East Adams Street.”
Adams Street was twenty long blocks from the court-house, each block representing a geographic uptick in the crime rate. The sun was setting as the taxi entered Eddy Goss’s old neighborhood, steering past mountains of trash and vandalized buildings. The driver left Jack off at the curb right in front of Goss’s apartment building. Jack passed a twenty through the open car window for a ten dollar fare, and before he could ask for change the driver was gone.
Once inside, Jack retraced his journey of eleven weeks earlier up to the second floor, to a very long, graffiti-splattered hallway with apartments on either side. It was just as dark as the last time; not even the murder of tenant Wilfredo Garcia had prompted the landlord to replace a single burned-out or missing bulb.
Jack walked briskly down the dimly lit hall and came to a halt before number 217, Eddy Goss’s old apartment. Yellow police tape barricaded the doorway, but Jack had no intention of going inside. He stood in front of the door just long enough to book down the hall and determine the apartment from which the neighbor had emerged that night. It was only a second before he was certain: four doors down-apartment 213, the one with a swastika spray-painted on it. He walked the thirty feet, knocked firmly on the door, and waited. There was no reply. He knocked a little harder, and the force of his knock pushed the door halfway open.
“Hello?” he called out. But no one answered. With a gentle push, the door swung all the way open, revealing a dark efficiency that had been completely ravaged. Huge holes dotted the plasterboard walls like mortar fire. Newspapers, bags, empty boxes, and other trash covered a floor of cracked tile and exposed plywood. Broken furniture was piled up in the corner. The room’s only window had been boarded up from the outside. He checked the number on the door to verify he was in the right place. He was, so he stepped inside, sending a squealing rat scurrying to the kitchen. He looked around in confusion and disbelief.
“What the hell you doing here?” demanded a man in the doorway. Jack wheeled around, expecting to see Goss’s neighbor. But it was an old man with yellow-gray hair and a scowl on his pasty white face. He was wearing a T-shirt stained with underarm perspiration, and a toothpick dangled from his mouth.
“The door was open, so I came in. I’m looking, for someone. Tall guy. Shaved head. He was living here on the second of August.”
“The hell he was,” the old man said, the toothpick wagging as he spoke. “I’m the manager of this dump, and there wasn’t nobody livin’ here on no second of August. Ain’t nobody lived in this rat hole goin’ back more than a year.”
“But-he said he had a two-year-old kid.”
“Kids?” the manager scoffed. “Here?” Then his look soured. “I’m puttin’ the padlock back on the door one more time. And if it’s broken off again, I’m gonna remember you, mister. We’ve had two murders in three months in this building-both of them on this floor. So get your butt outta here, or I’m callin’ the cops.”
Jack didn’t argue. He lowered his head and left the way he had come, down the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door.
It was nearly dark outside when he stepped out of the building, but the streetlights hadn’t yet come on. From the top of the steps he saw someone on the sidewalk across the street, standing in the shadows of what little daylight remained. Jack looked at him carefully, and the man glared back. He felt a chill of recognition: It’s him.
Suddenly the man bolted, running at an easy pace back toward the courthouse. Jack instinctively gave chase, sprinting across the street and down the sidewalk as fast as he could in his business suit and black-soled shoes. The man didn’t seem to be trying to pull away. He was taunting Jack, as if he wanted him to catch up. Jack came within fifteen feet, and then the man pulled away, effortlessly disappearing into the Greyhound parking lot two blocks down the street. Jack tried to follow, stopping and starting again and again, catching a glimpse of him every second or two as he weaved between coaches bound for New York, Chicago, and Atlanta. Revving engines filled the air with window-rattling noise and thick exhaust. Thoroughly winded, Jack stopped between two coaches and looked frantically for his target. He scanned in one direction, then the other. Nothing. The door to the empty bus beside him was open. Cautiously, he stepped inside and peered down the aisle.
“I know you’re in here,” Jack called out, though he was far from certain. There was only silence. He took one step down the dark aisle, then thought better of it. If his man were crouched down between the seats, he had to come out sometime. Jack decided he’d wait for him outside.
He turned to leave, but suddenly the door slammed shut. He wheeled around to see that someone was standing behind him, but a quick blow to his head and then another to the gut doubled him over in pain. Another blow to the back of the head and he was facedown on the floor. His attacker threw himself on top of him from behind and pressed a knife to his throat.
“Don’t even think of moving.”
Jack froze as the blade pinched at his neck.
“I’d really hate to have to slit your throat, Swyteck-after all the trouble I’ve gone to.”
Jack clenched his fist tightly. “Who are you?”
“Think back. Two years ago. The night before Raul Fernandez was executed.”
Jack felt a chill as the voice came back to him. “What do you want from me?”
“I want justice. I want you to die like Raul died-in the chair for a murder you didn’t commit.”
“That’s not justice,” he struggled to say. “This is sick. And it won’t work.”
“It’ll work,” the man said, laughing as he drew a little blood with a slight twist of the knife. “Remember: You’re alive only because I let you live. You might think you’re safe. The locks on your doors. The alarm on your car. All that’s just bullshit. It’s like that warm, safe feeling people get by closing the drapes in their house at night, when for all they know there’s a guy with an axe outside their window with his face up against the glass. There’s no protection from that, Swyteck. All you can do is play by the rules. My rules.”
“Such as?”
“There’s only one. This trial is me against you, one-on-one. You try to turn it into anything else, and I promise you, innocent people are gonna get hurt.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re smart. Figure it out, asshole.”
“Why-”
“Why must you die?” The man leaned forward until Jack felt his breath on the back of his neck. “Because there’s a killer on the loose,” he said in a cold whisper. “And the killer is you.”
Jack gasped as he felt the knife press harder against his throat. Then his attacker sprung to his feet and vanished into the night. Jack just lay there, his face resting on the gritty floor, feeling like he did when he was five years old. Like he was all alone.
Chapter 33
Ten weeks had passed since Harry Swyteck followed his blackmailer’s instructions and left the final payoff at Memorial Cemetery. Thankfully, the dark forebodings that had plagued him that night turned out to be false apprehensions. The journey to the cemetery passed without incident-though the governor did experience profound discomfort as he looked down at Raul Fernandez’s final resting place.
Harry had not been in the courtroom today for opening statements. But he’d received a full report from one of the young lawyers who served as governor’s counsel. The purpose of opening statements was for each side to give the jury a road map identifying the evidence that they intended to present during trial. After analyzing the direction the defense seemed to be taking, it struck Harry as odd that Manny hadn’t made a reference to the 911 caller’s report of a man in a police uniform leaving the scene of the crime.
The governor had promised Manny that, although he was paying the bills, the legal strategy would be up to Manny and Jack. Therefore, he was reluctant to s
econd-guess Manny’s opening statement. But he feared the lawyer might have gotten the wrong idea. Perhaps Manny hadn’t brought up the 911 call because Harry had once been a police officer. If that was the case, Harry needed to set Manny straight. He caught the next flight from Tallahassee, and by eight o’clock that evening he was sitting across from his son’s attorney.
“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice,” Harry said as he studied the exotic decor of Manny’s office.
“My pleasure,” Manny replied. “You mentioned on the phone that you had some concerns about my strategy.”
“Yes,” Harry said, “Well, not concerns really, just areas that I needed clarified.”
“Such as?”
“Well, the nine-one-one call, for one. I’m told that you didn’t mention it in your opening statement today.” The governor looked at him appraisingly. “I don’t mean to insult you, Manny, or question your integrity. But I want to make it clear that I hired you to represent Jack for one reason only: because you’re the best in the business, and because I think that if anyone can get my son acquitted, you can. How you go about it is up to you and Jack. If that means making the police look bad-well, so be it. I’m a former cop. But I’m a father first.”
Manny nodded slowly, seeming to measure his response. “I understand what you’re saying. And I’m not insulted. You’re not the first concerned parent who’s walked into my office. You are, however, the first concerned parent to leave a footprint outside the door of the murder victim’s apartment.”
The governor went rigid. All expression ran from his face. “What are you talking about?”
Manny was a master at reading reactions. He was testing Harry, and Harry had flunked. “Please, don’t say anything. Let’s just say I know you didn’t come here because I decided not to mention the nine-one-one call. You’re here because I didn’t mention the footprint.”
“What footprint?” Harry was genuinely confused-and concerned.
Manny frowned, sat up straighter in his chair. “I honestly don’t think we should discuss this any further, Governor. Rest assured, I’ll use the footprint at trial, if it’s necessary to win Jack’s case. That I didn’t mention it as a matter of argument doesn’t mean that I won’t offer it later as a matter of evidence.”
“But Manny, I honestly have no idea what footprint you’re talking about.”
“And that’s precisely the response I would expect from you. Like I said. I don’t think you and I should discuss this any further. I’m Jack’s lawyer, not yours. And you should have a lawyer.”
“Me?” he chuckled nervously. “Why do 1 need a lawyer?”
Manny leaned forward, not to threaten him, but to convey the import of what he was about to say. “Let me spell it out for you. You’ve told me some things about the night Raul Fernandez was executed-about what happened between you and Jack. But I don’t think that’s the end of the story.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m sure you heard about that old man in Goss’s apartment building who got his neck snapped a few weeks ago. Tragic thing-a real mystery. The police don’t even have a motive, yet. Can you think of one, Governor?”
Harry’s face showed irritation. “No, except that there are lunatics out there who like to kill innocent people.”
“There’s more to it than that, I think. I reviewed the investigative file in that old man’s case. There were extraneous footprints in his apartment. Turns out that the lunatic who snapped the old man’s neck in apartment two-oh-one was wearing wing tips. Wiggins wing tips. The same Wiggins wing tips that left a very clear footprint outside Eddy Goss’s door on the night he was killed.”
The governor went cold. He’d been wearing the same brand the night he’d gone to Goss’s apartment. And now he realized the purpose of the seemingly silly “souvenir” he’d left on the grave of Raul Fernandez, along with the money and flowers-right before the old man had been murdered.
“Now,” said Manny, “you’re the former cop, Governor. Maybe it’s time for you to remind yourself of your right to remain silent. And of your right to an attorney. Your own attorney.”
The governor shook his head slowly, but said nothing more than “thank you” and “good night.”
Chapter 34
A taxi took Jack from the bus station and dropped him at the end of his driveway just before nine. He was still shaken from the attack, but fortunately he had time to recuperate. It was Friday night, and there was a weekend between opening statements and what would surely be the worst Monday of his life-the day the first witness for the prosecution would take the stand against him.
He stepped slowly up the stairs of his front porch and reached out wearily with his key, but the front door flew open and Cindy greeted him with a smile.
“I hope you have a reservation,” she said.
“What?”
“All right,” she said, pretending to give in. “I’ll let you in this time, but no complaints about the evening’s menu.”
She looked great in her short black skirt and paisley blouse.
As he walked into the house, he was met by the mixed scent of her perfume and a tangy, buttery smell coming from the kitchen. A quick glance at the dining room table revealed flickering candles.
Okay, I get it, Jack thought to himself. To take some of the edge off my first day in court, she’s knocked herself out and prepared a candlelit dinner.
As he passed into the bright light of the front hall, she noticed the scratches on his face and his soiled clothes. “What happened to you?” she asked.
He swallowed hard. “I met him tonight. The guy who’s been stalking me.”
She froze. “You what?” Eyes wide with fright, she took him by the arm and led him into the living room. She switched on the lamp and took a closer look at his scratches. “It doesn’t look serious,” she said. “But what happened?”
He lowered himself onto the couch. She sat beside him and listened as he told her everything, beginning with the night Goss was killed: Jack’s banging on Goss’s door, the man stepping out of the apartment down the hall to complain about the noise, the same man staring at Jack in the courtroom, the return to East Adams Street, and finally the attack on the bus.
With some difficulty he also told her about the night Raul Fernandez was executed, and his inability to persuade his father to grant a stay.
After listening to his monologue, she felt like she’d finally met Jack for the first time. “I’m glad you told me-about you and your father. But this attack. What does it mean?”
He took a deep breath. “It confirms that Eddy Goss was never after me. And it confirms that I’m being framed. This guy killed Goss, and then made it look like I did it. It’s poetic justice in his eyes. Raul Fernandez died an innocent man. I’m his killer. So I have to die, too-for a crime I didn’t commit.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. Why you? After all, you pleaded with your father to stop the execution. If this guy is trying to avenge Fernandez’s death, why are you the target, instead of your father?”
Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know how his crazed mind works.”
“And what’s his motive? I understand that he’s punishing you for the execution. But why’s he so attached to Raul Fernandez? What’s the connection?”
Jack sighed. “I don’t know that either.”
“Oh, Jack,” she said, holding him close. “Why would anyone hate you this much? It scares me that he enjoys hating you so much. He’s taunting you, Jack. He’s playing with you like this is a game.”
Jack nodded in agreement. He looked into her eyes, then repeated the suggestion he’d made to her weeks ago. “I really think you should get out of Miami. The man put a knife to my throat, Cindy. I still can’t tell the police about it. I need to call Manny, but I’m sure he’ll agree with me. It’s no different now than it was before: I still can’t give the prosecutor proof of my motive to kill Eddy Goss.”
A knock at the door
interrupted them.
“Did you invite someone else for dinner?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
The knocking continued. “I’ll get it,” he said.
“What if it’s him?”
“I know what he looks like now. I’ll know if it’s him before I open the door.” Jack walked briskly through the living room and stopped in front of the door. A third round of harsh knocking began, then it stopped as he flipped on the porch light. He peered out through the peephole and saw a man staring back at him with a dour expression. He wore a beige short-sleeve shirt, chocolate-brown pants, and black patent-leather shoes that glistened in the porch light. And he had a gun with a pearl-white handle tucked in to a heavy black shoulder holster. His official license to bear a sidearm-a shiny gold badge-was pinned to his chest. Jack opened the door.
“Evenin’,” the officer said in a polite but businesslike tone. “I’m with the county sheriff’s department. I’m looking for Miss Cindy Paige.”
A lump came to Jack’s throat, followed by second thoughts about opening the door.
“I’m Cindy Paige,” she said, standing behind Jack.
“This is for you,” the sheriff announced as he handed her an official-looking document.
Jack intercepted the delivery.
“What is it?” Cindy asked.
“It’s a subpoena.”
“A trial subpoena,” the sheriff clarified.
“What it’s for?” she asked.
“Be at the courthouse, Monday, nine A.M.,” the sheriff commanded. “You’re the government’s first witness in State versus Swyteck.”
“The government’s first witness?”
“Don’t say another word,” Jack advised her. He quickly closed the door on the sheriff.
“I can’t believe this,” she said as her eyes welled with tears. “Why me? Why do they want me to go first?”
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