The Pardon js-1

by James Grippando

  “Whatever you want, counselor.”

  “Anyone who is alive and breathing in this town has heard of Eddy Goss,” said Manny. “We all know the awful things Mr. Goss was alleged to have done. And we all know that Mr. Swyteck was his lawyer. But there’s one thing I want to make clear for the jury: You were personally involved in the investigation that led to Mr. Goss’s arrest, were you not?”

  “Yes,” he replied, knowing he was being toyed with. “I was the lead detective in the Goss case.”

  “You personally interrogated Mr. Goss, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “In fact, you elicited a full confession from Mr. Goss. A confession on videotape.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But that confession wasn’t used at Mr. Goss’s trial.”

  “No,” he answered quietly. “It was ruled inadmissible.”

  “It was ruled inadmissible because you broke the rules,” said Manny, his tone judgmental.

  Stafford drew a sigh, controlling his anger. “The judge found that I had violated Mr. Goss’s constitutional rights,” he said, spitting out the words sarcastically.

  “And it was Mr. Swyteck who pointed out your violation to the court, wasn’t it?”

  Stafford leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “He exploited it.”

  Manny stepped to one side, closer to the jury, as if he were on their side. “That must have been very embarrassing for you, Detective.”

  “It was a travesty of justice,” replied Stafford, using the words the prosecutor had coached him with the night before.

  Manny smirked, sensing that he was getting under Stafford’s skin. Then he approached the witness and handed him an exhibit. “This is a copy of a newspaper article from June of this year, marked as Defendant’s Exhibit 1. It reports certain pretrial developments in the case against Eddy Goss. Could you read the bold headline to us, please? Nice and loud,” he added, gesturing toward the jurors, “so we all can hear.”

  Stafford scowled at his interrogator, then cleared his throat and reluctantly read aloud: “Judge throws out Goss confession.”

  “And the trailer, too,” said Manny. “Read the little trailer underneath the headline.”

  Stafford’s face reddened with anger. “Seasoned cop botched interrogation,” he read. Then he laid the newspaper on the rail in front of him and glared at Manny.

  “And that’s your photograph there beneath the headline, isn’t it, sir?”

  “That’s my picture,” he confirmed.

  “In forty years of police work, Mr. Stafford, had you ever gotten your picture on the front page of the newspaper?”

  “Just this once,” Stafford grunted.

  “In forty years,” Manny continued, “had you ever screwed up a case this bad?”

  “Objection,” said McCue.

  “I didn’t screw it up,” Stafford said sharply, too eager to defend himself to wait for the judge to rule.

  “Overruled,” said the judge.

  “I’m sorry,” Manny said, feigning an apology. “In forty years, had you ever been blamed for a screw-up this bad?”

  “Never,” he croaked.

  “Yet, there you are, page one, section A, in probably the least flattering mug shot the newsroom could dig up: the ‘seasoned cop’ who ‘botched the interrogation.’ “Manny moved closer, crouching somewhat, as if digging for the truth. “Who do you blame for that?” he pressed. “Do you blame yourself, Detective?”

  Stafford glared at his interrogator. “At first I did.”

  “But you don’t blame yourself anymore, do you,” said Manny.

  Stafford fell silent-he knew exactly where Manny was headed. “Come on, Detective. We know who you really blame. This is the man you blame,” said Manny, pointing toward his client, his voice much louder now. “Isn’t it!”

  Stafford glanced at Jack, then looked back at Manny. “So what,” he scoffed.

  Manny locked eyes with the witness. “Yes or no, Detective. Do you blame Mr. Swyteck for your own public disgrace?”

  Stafford stared right back, hating this lawyer almost as much as he hated Jack. “Yeah,” he said bitterly. “I do blame him. Him and Goss. Both of them. They’re no different in my eyes.”

  Manny paused, allowing the answer to linger. A quiet murmur passed through the courtroom as Manny’s point struck home.

  “But that doesn’t make it okay for Swyteck to kill him,” Stafford blurted, seeming to sense that he was in trouble.

  “Let’s talk about that,” replied Manny. “Let’s talk about just who did kill Eddy Goss. The time of Mr. Goss’s death was about four A.M., right?”

  “Yes,” replied Stafford.

  “What time did you get to the police station that morning?”

  “Five-fifteen,” he answered, “same as always.”

  “Can anyone corroborate where you were before then?”

  “No. I live alone.”

  Manny nodded, as if to emphasize Stafford’s response, then forged ahead. “Now, after you arrived at work that morning, an anonymous phone call came in to the station, right?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Stafford played dumb. “We get lots of calls-”

  “I’m not talking about lots of calls,” Manny bore in. “I’m talking about the caller who reported that someone in a police uniform was seen leaving Goss’s apartment about the time of the murder.”

  “Yes,” he answered. “Someone did call and report that.”

  “You used to be a patrolman, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Twenty-eight years, before I became a detective.”

  “And I’ll bet you still have your old police uniform,” said Manny.

  Stafford fell silent. “Yes,” he answered quietly.

  “I thought so,” said Manny. “Now, Eddy Goss was shot twice in the head, at close range, was he not?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thirty-eight-caliber bullets.”

  “Correct,” said Stafford.

  “You carry a thirty-eight-caliber, don’t you, Detective?”

  “Eighty percent of the police force does,” Stafford snapped.

  “Including you.”

  “Yes,” he grudgingly conceded.

  Manny paused again, allowing time for suspicion to fill the jury box, and then he continued his roll. “Now, after Mr. Goss was killed by not just one, but two gunshots, you interviewed all the neighbors in the apartment building, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “And not one of those neighbors heard any gunshots.”

  Stafford was silent again. “No,” he finally answered, “no one heard a gunshot.”

  “And that was one of the reasons you suspected that a silencer had been used to kill Goss.”

  “That’s correct,” he said. Then he took a free shot. “And we found a silencer in your client’s car,” he added smugly.

  Manny nodded slowly. “How convenient,” he said sarcastically, his eyebrow arching. “But let’s take a closer look at that incredible stroke of luck, Detective. Let’s talk about how, incredibly, you seemed to have found the one man in the world who was smart enough to be graduated summa cum laude from Yale University, yet stupid enough to leave a silencer under the front seat of his car.”

  “Objection,” McCue groaned.

  “Sustained.”

  Manny pressed on, unfazed. “You, personally, did not find that silencer in Mr. Swyteck’s car. Did you, Detective?”

  “No.”

  “You got it from a patrolwoman, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she got it from the owner of Kaiser Auto Repair-the shop where Mr. Swyteck’s convertible top was being fixed.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the owner of the shop got it from one of his mechanics.”

  Stafford’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”

  “Am I leaving anybody out, Detective?”

  Stafford just glared. “No,” he said angrily.r />
  “What do you mean, no,” Manny rebuked him. “You didn’t stand guard over Mr. Swyteck’s car while it was in the repair shop, did you?”

  “No.”

  “So,” said Manny, pacing before the jury, “as far as you know, scores of people could have come and gone from Mr. Swyteck’s car over the two-day period it was in the shop.”

  “I don’t know,” he evaded.

  “Precisely,” said Manny, as if it were the answer he wanted. “You don’t know. Or, to put it another way, maybe you have a reasonable doubt.”

  “Objection,” McCue shouted.

  “Overruled.”

  “I don’t know who went into his car,” Stafford snarled. “That’s all.”

  “Isn’t it possible, Detective, that any one of the people walking by or fixing Mr. Swyteck’s car could have put the silencer there?”

  “Objection,” McCue groaned. “Calls for speculation.”

  “Let me ask it another way,” said Manny. He stepped closer, moving in for the kill. “Detective Stafford: Do you happen to own a silencer for your own thirty-eight-caliber pistol?”

  “I object!” shouted McCue. “Your Honor, this is insulting! The suggestion that Detective Stafford would-”

  “Overruled,” said the judge. It wasn’t the first time she had seen a defense lawyer turn a cop inside out. “Answer the question, Detective Stafford.”

  The courtroom fell deadly silent, awaiting the detective’s answer. “Yes,” he conceded. “I do.”

  Manny nodded, checking the jurors to make sure the response had registered. It had. He started back to his chair, then stopped, pointing a professorial finger in the air. “Just one more question, Detective,” he said as he turned back toward the witness. “When I asked you who you blamed for your own public disgrace, you did say both Jack Swyteck and Eddy Goss-didn’t you?”

  “Objection,” shouted McCue. “The question was asked and answered.”

  “Withdrawn,” said Manny, smiling with his eyes at the jurors. “I think we all heard it the first time. No further questions. Thank you, sir.”

  “The witness is excused,” the judge announced.

  Stafford remained in his chair, his face frozen with disbelief. He’d been coveting this moment-his opportunity for revenge against Jack Swyteck, the lawyer who’d humiliated him. The last laugh was supposed to have been his. But a lawyer had humiliated him again. He’d been more than humiliated. This time he wasn’t just the stupid cop who’d botched the investigation. He’d been painted as the bad cop who’d done the deed. He’d been pushed too far-and he wasn’t going to just sit there and take it.

  “It’s irrelevant, you know,” he groused at Manny, as if no one else were in the courtroom.

  “You are excused,” the judge instructed the witness in a firm voice.

  “It wasn’t my silencer that was used to kill Goss,” he said angrily.

  “Detective,” the judge rebuked him. But Stafford was determined to have his say.

  “It was the silencer we found in Swyteck’s convertible!”

  “Detective!” the judge banged her gavel.

  “Swyteck’s silencer was used on Goss,” he shouted, “and he used a silencer to kill Gina Terisi, too!”

  “Your Honor!” Manny bellowed, rising to his feet “Your Honor, may I approach the bench? I have a motion to make.”

  The judge held up her hand, stopping Manny in his tracks. She knew what he wanted-that she declare a mistrial. And if all the other evidence against Jack Swyteck hadn’t been so strong, she would have done it. But she was not going to throw out the state’s entire case just because one witness had lost his temper and spouted something he shouldn’t have.

  “Save your motion, Mr. Cardenal,” she said. Then she turned toward the jurors. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she said in a very serious tone, “I am instructing you to disregard that last outburst. Those remarks are not evidence in this case. As I instructed you earlier, you are not to draw any inference whatsoever from the fact that Ms. Terisi did not return to the courtroom to complete her testimony against the defendant.”

  Jack’s heart sank as, yet again, he listened to the judge deliver the dreaded “curative instruction.” It was any criminal defendant’s nightmare. In theory, the instruction was supposed to “cure” any mistake at trial by telling the jury to disregard it. In reality it was, as lawyers often said, like trying to “unring” a bell. Jack knew the bottom line. Manny’s beautiful cross-examination had been ruined. The only thing the jury would remember was what the judge insisted they forget.

  “As for you, Mr. McCue,” the judge’s reprimand continued, “Detective Stafford is your witness, and I’m holding you responsible, at least in part. Five-hundred-dollar fine!” she barked. “And Detective Stafford, you’re an experienced officer of the law. You know better. Why don’t you spend a night in the county jail to think about what you’ve done. And next time,” she warned, pointing menacingly with her gavel, “I won’t be so lenient. Bailiff,” she said with finality, “take the witness away.”

  The bailiff stepped forward and led Stafford from the witness stand. He should have been ashamed, but he was looking at Jack and smiling. Jack looked away, but Stafford wasn’t going to let him off easy. He stopped, rested his hand on the table at which Jack was seated and looked him right in the eye. “I’ll save a seat for ya, Swyteck,” he whispered, loud enough only for Jack and the bailiff to hear.

  “Detective,” the judge said sternly. “On your way!”

  Jack looked up at Stafford but said nothing. The detective flashed a thin smile, then the bailiff tugged his arm and they headed for the exit.

  “Mr. McCue,” the judge intoned, “do you have any more witnesses?”

  McCue rose slowly, resting his fists on his chest with contentment, his thumbs tucked inside the lapels. “Your Honnuh,” he said, speaking like a Southern gentlemen, “on that note, the State most respectfully rests.”

  “Very well,” she announced. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow, nine o’clock sharp. Mr. Cardenal: If you plan to put on a defense, be prepared to proceed. If not, we’ll conclude with closing arguments. Court’s in recess,” she said, then banged her gavel.

  The crowd rose at the bailiff’s instruction and stood in silence as the jury filed out of the courtroom. Jack and Manny exchanged glances as the judge stepped down from the bench. The irony of her comments wasn’t lost on either of them. The fact was, as they both so painfully knew, that it wasn’t at all clear the defense had a defense.

  Chapter 43

  At six o’clock the next morning, Governor Harold Swyteck was in his robe and slippers, shaving before a steamy bathroom mirror, when he heard a ring on the portable phone in his briefcase. It was the same phone he’d been given in Miami’s Bayfront Park. Realizing who was calling, the governor gave a start and nicked himself with the blade.

  Annoyed, he dabbed his shaving wound with a washcloth, then dashed from the bathroom, grabbed the phone from his briefcase, and disappeared into the walk-in closet, so as not to wake his sleeping wife. “Hello,” he said, sounding slightly out of breath.

  “Me again, Governor,” came the thick but now familiar voice.

  Harry bristled with anger, but he wasn’t totally surprised by the call. Clever as this maniac was, he seemed to thrive on letting his victims know how much he enjoyed their suffering, like a gardener who planted a rare seed and then had to dig it up to make sure it was growing.

  “What do you want now?” he answered. “A pair of argyle socks to go with your wing tips?”

  “My, my,” came a condescending reply. “Aren’t we testy this morning. And all just because you’re gonna have to sign your own son’s death warrant.”

  “My son is not going to be convicted.”

  “Oh, no? Seems to me that his last chance at getting off is lying on a slab in the morgue. I’m sure you’ve heard that the fox who testified against him had him over for a little chat-and then ended up a bloody mes
s on her bedroom floor. Too bad, because if you happened to be the eavesdropping type”-he snickered, remembering how he’d perched outside her sliding-glass doors-“you’d know that she was going to get back on the stand and bail him out of trouble.”

  “I knew it was you,” Harry said in a voice that mixed frustration with outrage. “You butchered that poor girl.”

  “Jack Swyteck butchered her. I told him the rules. It’s just me against him. I warned him that whoever tried to help him was dead meat. He went and asked for the bitch’s help anyway. That son of yours did it again, Governor. He killed another innocent person.”

  Harry shook with anger. “Listen to me, you sick son of a bitch. If you want your revenge for Raul Fernandez, go ahead and take it. But don’t take it out on my son. I’m the one responsible.”

  “Now, isn’t that noble-the loving father who’s willing to sacrifice himself for his son. But I’m not stupid”-his voice turned bitter-“I know Jacky Boy didn’t even make an effort. If he had, his own father would have listened to him in a heartbeat.”

  Harry sighed. You’d think so, unless that father were a pigheaded fool.

  “You’re not going to get away with this,” Harry said firmly.

  “And just who’s gonna stop me, Governor?”

  “I am.”

  “You can’t. Not unless you want to turn the case of State versus Swyteck into State versus Harold Swyteck. And not unless you want the whole world to know you’ve been paying off a blackmailer to cover up the execution of an innocent man. Didn’t you get the point of my poetry, my man? You’re as powerless to save your son as I was to save Raul.”

  The governor’s hands began trembling. “You bastard. You despicable bastard.”

  “Sticks and stones-well, I think now you get the point. Gotta go, my man. Big day ahead of me. Should be a guilty verdict coming down in the Swyteck case.”

  “You listen to me! I won’t allow my son-” he said before stopping mid-sentence. The caller had hung up.

  “Damn you!” He pitched the phone aside. He was boiling mad, but he was feeling much more than that. He was scared. Not for himself, but for Jack.

  He turned and saw his wife standing in the doorway.