The Pardon js-1

by James Grippando

  “I don’t know-”

  “Gina,” he pressed. “You’ve told the truth so far. I respect you for that. But if you told the truth for Stafford, the least you can do is tell the truth for me.”

  She sighed. “This is so crazy. But in the last twenty-four hours, it’s like I’ve suddenly got this feeling that it’s time to start making up for all the lies I’ve told my entire life. I just feel like it’s time to tell the truth.”

  “The truth is best,” he said. “Even when it hurts.”

  She swallowed hard. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  Jack’s heart was in his throat. “In fact, why don’t I call Manny now, and we can go over some things-”

  “No. I don’t want to do this according to a script.”

  “I understand,” he said, sensing that he shouldn’t push too hard.

  Gina rose. “I’ll see you at the courthouse at eight-thirty,” she said, leading him out “Right now, I need some sleep.”

  He nodded in agreement “I’ll see you then,” he said as they reached the door.

  She laid her hand on his shoulder and stopped him. “I’m sorry about you and Cindy,” she said. “I really am.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  As he drove home, he was barely conscious of the tires gripping the road. He felt like he was floating on air. His conversation with Gina had made him feel alive again. Suddenly he felt hope.

  Chapter 40

  At 3:30 A.M., just as Jack and Manny had finished planning a case-saving cross-examination of Gina Terisi, bare-breasted women were dancing one last set at Jiggles, a rundown, smoke-filled strip joint where stiff drinks came as cheap as the thrills. A buxom black woman wearing only spike heels and a holster was lit by an orangey-red spotlight as she strutted up and down the long bar top, thrusting her hips to the delight of the drunk and howling crowd each time the rap vocalist on the jukebox screamed “I like big butts!” Around the room women danced on little round tables, each wearing only boots or bow ties or maybe a Stetson, and all of them wearing a garter on one thigh so the men they teased could stuff them with cash and extend their fantasies.

  Just before closing, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a clean-shaved head and a diamond-stud earring presented himself at the entrance. A bearded bouncer who looked like he was moonlighting from the pro wrestling tour stepped in front of him. “We close in fifteen minutes,” he said.

  “That’s all the time I need,” the man replied as he started inside. The bouncer grabbed him by the shoulder.

  “Ten-dollar cover, chief.”

  “Shee-it.” But he was in a hurry, so he paid it and stepped inside. He looked around the room, first checking the bar top and then each individual table for the woman he knew as Rebecca. She knew him as Buzz, a name she’d given him not simply because of his shaved head, but because of his whole look. She said his hook nose, folds of leathery skin, and skinny neck made him look like a buzzard. Especially at night, when his eyes were bloodshot. Rebecca usually worked until closing, but Buzz didn’t see her anywhere. Then his eyes lit up as he saw her standing by the cigarette machine, having a smoke.

  She had short, wavy hair-black, this week-and the best body of all the dancers. She was dressed tonight, or as dressed as women ever got here. A sleeveless V-neck undershirt with the neck-line ripped down to her navel revealed ample cleavage and a long chain necklace as thick as a dog leash. Tight black leather shorts with silver studs on the pockets were cut up to the middle of her round rear end, and shiny patent-leather boots rose up to the butterfly tattoo on her inner thigh. He caught her eye from across the room and walked over to her.

  “I’m done for the night,” she said, blowing smoke in his face.

  He shook his head, as if he knew better. “How much?”

  “Three hundred.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “That would be extra.”

  He emptied his pants pockets. “I got a hundred sixty dollars. Take it or leave it.”

  “Deal.” She snatched the money and stuffed it into the top of her boot. “But I ain’t goin’ back to the car with you for no hundred sixty. We do it in here.”

  “Here?” he winced.

  “Over there,” she said, pointing to a dark and isolated corner. “Meet you there.”

  He nodded in agreement, then headed for the corner. Rebecca stepped up to the bar. “The crazy-man’s usual,” she told the bartender. “Margarita, just salt.” The bartender smirked and handed her a glass filled only with margarita salt, moistened with a squirt of lemon juice. “Thanks,” she said, then strutted toward the darkest corner of the bar.

  “I missed you,” he said when she returned.

  Rebecca put the glass on the table, threw her shoulders back, and placed her hands on her hips. “Don’t talk shit,” she barked like a drill sergeant.

  “You’re right,” he said in a husky whisper. “I’ve been bad.”

  “Just as I thought,” she spat, her voice growing menacing. “You know what happens when you’re bad.”

  He nodded hungrily.

  She raised her index finger, stuck it in her mouth, and sucked it sensually, from base to tip. She immersed it in the glass of lemony margarita salt and stirred, then removed it and held it before his eyes. The crystals stuck to her moistened finger. “How bad were you?” she demanded.

  He got down on his knees and looked up sheepishly. “Very bad,” he assured her.

  Slowly, she lowered her coated finger and rubbed the salt deep into his eye. He cringed and moaned, his head rolling back with perverse pleasure. His intermittent cries of pain were drowned out by the loud music. She knew he liked her to remain tough, but she had to fight to keep a look of fear from crossing her face. She’d seen men approach ecstasy in the bar before, usually the creeps who got tossed out for masturbating. But he was beyond ecstasy. This was utter rapture.

  He regained his composure, still on his knees. He looked up at her through his one good eye. The other was puffy and closed. Lemon and salty tears streamed down his cheek. For a hundred sixty bucks, he knew he’d have her for at least another song. “Put the salt away,” he said. “I’ve been very, very bad.”

  Rebecca sighed; she knew what that meant. She lit up another cigarette. “What did you do?”

  He took a deep breath, then with his left hand he reached deep inside his pocket and discreetly squeezed a handkerchief that contained two bloody nipples. “Nothing I haven’t done before,” he whispered, a thin smile coming to his face. Then his body jerked and his head rolled back in another fit of ecstasy, as Rebecca crushed out the glowing end of her cigarette in the burn-scarred palm of his right hand.

  Chapter 41

  Jack and Manny arrived in the crowded courtroom just before nine that morning. Jack was a bit worried that he hadn’t been able to spot Gina in the court-house lobby earlier, but he told himself that she must have been delayed. She’d show up, he was sure. Something in her eyes the night before convinced him that she determined to set the record straight.

  Quite quickly though he sensed something was wrong. McCue, who normally arrived early, was conspicuously absent from the courtroom, and the bailiff seemed to have disappeared as well.

  Ten minutes passed. The murmur of the spectators built as there was still no sign of the prosecutor. Finally the bailiff appeared, showing no expression as he stepped up to the defense table. “Mr. Cardenal,” he said politely, “Judge Tate would like to see you and Mr. Swyteck in her chambers.”

  Jack’s heart sank as he and Manny exchanged glances. This was not standard procedure. Something had to be wrong. “All right,” said Manny, and they followed the bailiff to a side exit.

  The judge’s chambers had the air of a funeral parlor. Judge Tate sat in the leather chair behind her imposing desk, framed by the state and American flags. Wilson McCue sat in an armchair to her left, before a wall of law books. Their expressions were somber.

  “Good morning,” said Manny as he entered the room.

/>   “Please sit down,” the judge said formally, her tone suggesting that this was very serious.

  Jack and Manny sat in the Naugahyde chairs facing McCue. Jack swallowed hard, fearing the worst-perhaps some wild accusation that he had threatened Gina. The judge folded her hands on her desk and leaned forward to speak.

  “Mr. McCue has just informed me that Gina Terisi is dead,” she said.

  “What?” Manny uttered with disbelief.

  “She was murdered,” said the prosecutor.

  “That can’t be,” Jack said, stunned.

  “Mr. Swyteck,” said the judge, “you would be advised to remain silent.”

  He sat back in his chair. The judge was right.

  Judge Tate glanced at Manny, then at McCue. “I am not trying to be cold or unsympathetic, gentlemen, but I didn’t assemble this group to discuss the how and why of Ms. Terisi’s murder. The purpose of this meeting is to decide what impact the murder will have on Mr. Swyteck’s trial. Fortunately, we have a sequestered jury, so they won’t hear anything about it.”

  “But, Your Honor,” said Manny, “the jury has already heard the witness’s testimony, and now I won’t have an opportunity to cross-examine her. My client can’t get a fair trial under these circumstances. The court has no choice but to declare a mistrial. We have to start all over again-without Gina Terisi.”

  McCue slid to the edge of his chair, unable to contain himself. “Judge,” he implored. “I knew They’d try to pull this. You can’t grant a mistrial. You’d be playing right into their hands. Look at the sequence here, Judge. And look at the motive. This is no coincidence. The government was building an ironclad case. Gina Terisi devastated Mr. Swyteck on the witness stand. And then a few hours later she turns up dead. Now, you don’t have to be a genius to see-”

  “That’s an outrageous suggestion!” said Manny.

  “The hell it is!” McCue fired back. “Swyteck’s car was spotted at Gina Terisi’s last night.”

  Jack’s jaw dropped. “Now wait just a minute-”

  “Gentlemen!” the judge barked. “That’s enough.”

  There was silence. The prosecution and defense exchanged glares. Jack glanced at the judge, then looked away. Judge Tate was no easy read, but her suspicious eyes had revealed a glimpse of her feelings. And Jack didn’t like what he saw.

  “I will not declare a mistrial,” she announced, shaking her head. “Mr. Swtyeck’s trial will proceed. However, Miss Terisi’s testimony will be stricken. I will instruct the jury that it must disregard her testimony, and I will further instruct them that they are to draw no inferences whatever from the fact that she has not returned to the courtroom.”

  “Judge,” Manny argued, “a curative instruction isn’t going to help anything. The jury has already heard her testimony. You can’t tell them to ignore it. That’s like telling a shark to ignore the blood.”

  “Mr. Cardenal,” she said sternly, “I’ve made my decision.”

  McCue’s face was aglow. “It may go without saying, Judge,” he said in his folksy manner, “but I presume that Ms. Terisi’s disappearance would be fair game on cross-examination, assumin’ Mr. Swyteck were to take the witness stand in his own defense. The court’s instruction will not curtail my ability to question him about that, will it?”

  The judge leaned back in her chair, thinking. “I hadn’t thought about that. But I would have to agree with you, Mr. McCue. If Mr. Swyteck takes the witness stand, the door is open. You’re free to question him.”

  Manny shook his head incredulously. Even the judge, it seemed, had concluded that Jack was guilty. “Your Honor, you have just made it impossible for Mr. Swyteck to testify on his own behalf. I can’t put him on the stand if you’re going to allow the prosecutor to suggest that my client murdered the government’s star witness. Your ruling is a death sentence. I strenuously object and urge you to reconsider-”

  “That’s all,” said the judge, heading off any further argument. “You understand my position. Now, I’m giving both the prosecution and defense twenty-four hours to regroup. We shall reconvene at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Mr. McCue, be prepared to call your next witness. Thank you, gentlemen,” she said with finality.

  “Thank you,” McCue told the judge.

  The lawyers rose and turned away. Jack stood more slowly, in a state of disbelief. He followed his lawyer down the hall, past the water cooler. Neither said a word until they reached the exit and McCue caught up with them.

  “Better circle your wagons, Swyteck,” the old prosecutor said sarcastically, all trace of his good-old-boy accent having vanished. “Because if you don’t get the electric chair for killing Eddy Goss, you can bet I’ll be coming after you for the murder of Gina Terisi.” He nodded smugly, like a gentleman tipping his hat, then headed out the door.

  Jack stood in the open doorway, looking at his lawyer with dismay. “This can’t be happening,” he said quietly. But it was. Innocent people kept getting killed. Fernandez, Garcia, now Gina-and Jack, it seemed, was next in line. The only thing more unfathomable was the reason it was happening-why his life, like Gina’s, might end before his thirtieth birthday. Never to be a husband or a father. . never to achieve his dreams-for the first time since the trial began, the weight, the enormity of what was at stake pressed down on him, nearly crushing him with its load.

  Being convicted. A death sentence. The electric chair. All those things had seemed so abstract before, but suddenly they were palpable, real. A memory came to him-of lying in bed as a young boy and trying to scare himself, trying to imagine what death felt like. He’d picture himself crouched over a hole in the earth, a dark hole. And then he’d see himself falling into it. It was a descent that never ended. Nothing could stop it. .

  He shook off the memory and tried to focus. What had the stalker said when he attacked Jack on the bus? Something about “innocent people” getting hurt if he turned to others for help. He looked at Manny with apprehension, then sprinted down the hall to a bank of pay phones near the rest rooms. He quickly dialed Cindy’s work number.

  He nearly fainted with relief as the sound of her voice came on the line. “Thank God you’re all right.”

  “I just heard about Gina,” she said. “Her brother called me.”

  “They’re saying I did it.”

  “They’re liars,” she said. “The things that animal did to her. .” She shuddered. “No sane human being would do that.”

  He didn’t know the details, but he didn’t have to ask. “Please, be careful,” he said, “I’m worried about you. If there’s anything you need or want, just call me.”

  “I’ll be all right,” she said. “Really, I will.”

  He wanted to say something else, anything, to keep her on the line, but words eluded him.

  “Good luck,” she said, meaning it.

  “Thanks,” he said softly. “Cindy, I-”

  “I know,” she said, “you don’t have to say it.”

  “I love you,” he blurted out.

  He heard what he thought was a sob on the other end of the line, and then she said, “Good-bye, Jack.”

  Chapter 42

  “Call your next witness, Mr. McCue,” Judge Tate announced from the bench.

  Trial had reconvened at nine o’clock, Wednesday. As promised, the judge had instructed the jurors that they were to disregard Gina Terisi’s testimony and that they were to infer nothing from her failure to return to the courtroom to complete her testimony. The instruction, of course, had evoked nothing but suspicious glares from the jury-all of them directed at the defense. With that, the government spent the morning with some technical witnesses, then moved directly after lunch to its final big witness-an experienced fighter who could hardly wait to take his best punch at Eddy Goss’s staggering lawyer.

  “The State calls Lonzo Stafford,” said McCue.

  The packed courtroom was silent as Detective Stafford marched down the center aisle, the click of his heels on the marble floor echoing th
roughout. After taking the oath and stating his name and occupation, Stafford allowed himself to be guided by McCue in a summary of the physical evidence against Jack Swyteck.

  Stafford’s testimony unfolded like a script: The defendant’s fingerprints matched those on the steak knife in Goss’s kitchen; twenty-seven footprints matched the tread on his Reeboks; his blood type matched the blood on the blade; Mr. Swyteck appeared nervous and edgy the next day, when Detective Stafford interviewed him; he had scratches on his back and a bruise on his ribs, as if he’d been in a scuffle; and Swyteck knew that Goss had been killed by gunshot before the detectives had mentioned anything about a shooting. And, just as McCue had planned, the witness saved the best for last.

  “When you say Goss was killed by gunshot,” asked McCue, “what kind of gun do mean, exactly?”

  “It was a handgun. A thirty-eight-caliber, for sure. And there was definitely a silencer on it.”

  “Was the murder weapon ever found?”

  “Not the gun, no. However, we did locate the silencer.”

  “And where did you find the silencer that was used to kill Eddy Goss?”

  Stafford’s eyes brightened as he looked right at Jack. “We retrieved it from Mr. Swyteck’s vehicle.”

  A murmur filled the courtroom. The jurors glanced at each other, as if the case were all but over.

  “No further questions,” said the prosecutor. He turned and glanced at counsel for the defense. “Your witness,” he said, dripping with confidence.

  Manuel Cardenal was at his best in the spotlight, and this one was white-hot. His client, the jurors, the packed gallery, and especially the witness were filled with anticipation, everyone wondering if the skilled defense counsel could rescue his client. Manny stepped to within ten feet of the government’s final witness and stared coldly at his target “Detective Stafford,” he began, “let’s start by talking about the alleged victim in this case, shall we?”