“What happened?”
“About three a.m., Sunday, the police pulled over Dylan Reeves for driving drunk. They searched his car and found a pair of panties in the backseat. Sashi’s DNA was on them. So was Dylan Reeves’.”
“So he did sexually assault your daughter?”
“Yes. And for that, he should be in prison. But he didn’t kill her, so he doesn’t deserve to die.”
“How do you know Sashi is alive?”
She hesitated, as if anticipating Jack’s reaction. “Sashi calls me.”
“What do you mean she calls you?”
“This isn’t a flaky telepathy kind of thing. Every year on Sashi’s birthday I get a phone call. Three times this has happened since she disappeared. It’s always from a number I don’t recognize. I answer, and no one talks. But I can tell someone is on the line. ‘Sashi,’ I say, ‘is this you? Talk to me, sweetie. Can you say something? Anything? Please, baby girl. Talk to me.’”
Jack felt chills. “And the caller says nothing?”
Debra shook her head. “Not a word. This goes on for about two minutes. Then the call ends.”
“When was the last call?”
Debra looked away, her eyes welling. “Two months ago. July twenty-first. Sashi turned twenty.”
Jack wanted to offer a tissue, but a paper towel from the kitchen counter was the best he could do. “Have you told the police about this?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said.
“Did they check the incoming number?”
“Yes. It’s one of those disposable cell phones that are impossible to trace.”
“Burn phones,” said Jack. “Prepaid minutes, no service contract. A law-enforcement nightmare. Drug dealers love them.”
“Do you think it’s drug dealers who have my daughter?”
“I wasn’t implying that,” said Jack.
“Because drug dealers would be a relief, compared to what I have imagined. I keep thinking of those poor girls in Cleveland who were held for years as sex slaves in the basement of that monster—what’s his name.”
“Ariel Castro,” said Jack. He remembered only because in Miami it wasn’t easy to forget a sociopath who shared a surname with Fidel.
“Right. I try not to let my mind go there, but I lie awake at night thinking of a sadistic psychopath who lets Sashi call me on her birthday and hear my voice, but he won’t let her talk.”
Jack had met monsters like that—several, in fact, when he was a young lawyer with the Institute—but he didn’t want to feed her fears. “What do the police think?”
“That I’m the victim of a hoax. A sick, cruel hoax by someone who gets off on this sort of thing and calls me on my daughter’s birthday. Maybe a friend of Dylan Reeves. Maybe some perv who became obsessed with Sashi by following the murder trial on the Internet.”
“But they’ve ruled out the possibility that it’s someone holding Sashi against her will?”
“Yes.”
“They don’t think there’s any chance that Sashi is alive?”
Debra shook her head. “They don’t. As far as they’re concerned, her killer is on death row and the case is closed. I don’t know where else to turn. Except to you.”
“You want Dylan Reeves’ lawyer to prove in court that Sashi is alive. Is that it?”
“Yes. Unless you want your client to die by lethal injection for a murder that never happened.”
Jack took a moment. The cell-phone calls on Sashi’s birthdays might well have been a hoax. This whole thing could turn out to be a sad case of hope without end and a mother without closure. But, sitting across the table from the victim’s mother in that old kitchen with the cranky refrigerator and the faded photograph of Bobby Kennedy on the wall—in Neil’s “conference room”—Jack could only respond as his mentor would have wanted.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said. “But time is not on our side.”
CHAPTER 3
Jack reached Hannah on her cell and caught up with her at a gas station on Coral Way.
The Freedom legal team had rolled out of the driveway two hours earlier, but Hannah was only ten minutes away. The “Neil-Mobile”—a beat-up Chevy van that Hannah’s father had purchased when Gerald Ford was president—had broken down before they’d even reached the expressway.
“It’s karma that the van went kaput and we’re still here,” said Hannah. “This is a huge break in the case.”
She and Jack were standing in the garage. Neil’s old van was high on the hydraulic lift, and the mechanic underneath was tightening the bolts on a new muffler. The old one had fallen off somewhere between the gas station and the Miami River.
“It could be,” said Jack.
“Could be? Come on. We have the victim’s mother saying that her daughter is alive. I’ll do the legal research, but there has to be a judge out there who will say that’s grounds for a stay of execution.”
Jack recalled a night long ago, in the governor’s mansion, when his father had seemed unmoved by Jack’s insistence that an innocent man was about to be executed.
“It’s the totality of the evidence that matters,” he’d said. “I need to review the record. Then I’ll decide.”
Hannah glanced up at the Neil-Mobile. They had packed up the record in the case, including the trial transcripts, for the meetings with their clients. The “totality of the evidence” was in cardboard evidence boxes inside the van.
“How much longer on that muffler?” Hannah asked the mechanic.
“Almost done,” he said.
“That’s what he told me an hour ago,” she said under her breath.
“I can wait,” said Jack.
“Not everything you need to know is in the printed transcript, anyway,” said Hannah. “The prosecutor had a really strong rapport with the jurors, and she did a very effective job of convincing them that Reeves was the last person to see Sashi Burgette alive. Her mother testified that she drove Sashi to school, but Sashi got out of the car about four blocks from campus and was going to walk the rest of the way. She never made it, and the defense couldn’t produce a single witness who had laid eyes on Sashi after that. Reeves’ semen was still wet when the police found Sashi’s panties in the back of his car early Sunday morning.”
“I presume Reeves didn’t testify in his own defense.”
“Not a chance. Trial counsel advised against it. It would have been one thing if Reeves had wanted to take the stand and deny that he’d killed Sashi. But he also wanted to deny that he’d sexually assaulted her. There was no way the jury was going to believe that this was consensual sex and not a sexual assault. If he was lying about the rape, they surely would’ve thought he was lying about the murder as well. The best strategy was not to testify.”
“Did you challenge the sexual assault conviction on appeal?”
“No. You know the drill. We’re trying to stop an execution, not get a man elected to Congress. The evidence of sexual assault here is pretty solid.”
“Even without a body?” asked Jack.
“The prosecutor put a psychiatrist on the witness stand. Sashi had psychological issues and an aversion to physical intimacy of any kind. She didn’t even like to be hugged by her own parents. The very notion that she would engage in consensual sex with a convicted felon and lifelong loser like Dylan Reeves was something no jury would believe.”
“Interesting,” said Jack. “Her mother didn’t mention any psychological issues to me.”
“All done,” said the mechanic. He punched the button, the hydraulic lift hissed, and the van began its descent.
Eve walked up behind Hannah, her unlit pipe clenched in her teeth. “It’s good to have you back defending the guilty, Jack.”
Jack knew she was kidding—sort of. “Would be nice if this one’s innocent. But remember: even if he is, this is a onetime engagement for me.”
“We understand,” said Hannah.
Four tires simultaneously kissed the concrete floor, and the van
clunked as it settled into equilibrium. “You need new shock absorbers,” said the mechanic. “A new set of tires, too.”
“We need new everything,” said Hannah. “Just a muffler today, thank you.”
The mechanic wiped his hands on his coveralls, then stepped away to write up the invoice. Another mechanic backed the van out of the garage, and Eve followed. Hannah hung back with Jack for a moment.
“I don’t want to beat this point to death,” said Jack, “but my conversation with Debra Burgette doesn’t change the arrangement I made with you and your mother. I promised Andie that I was just subleasing space from the Freedom Institute to help you guys out financially.”
“So . . . but for Andie, you would be back at the Freedom Institute?” asked Hannah.
“I didn’t say that. Andie would never come out and tell me what to do with my career. This just isn’t my season in life to go back to capital cases.”
“Is it about the money?”
“Not entirely. But, hey, money matters. It’s taken me a long time, and finally I’ve figured out how to make a decent living as a sole practitioner. Good thing, too. I’m about to start a family. You said it yourself: the Freedom Institute can barely pay its electric bill.”
“Dad worked at the Freedom Institute my entire life. I turned out okay. Smith College. Harvard Law. A year of Barnyard.”
“You mean Barnard?”
“No. Barnyard. Mom insisted that I work on a kibbutz in Israel after college. I raised chickens for a year.”
They shared a smile. “I loved your father, and your mom is an amazing woman. But the Freedom Institute was their life, Hannah. Andie and I are in agreement about this. I’ve worked long and hard to build a successful practice, and I can’t just give it all up.”
“Okay. I respect that. But I need to know where you and I stand in the short term. Are you in this case, or are you out?”
“Right now, let’s just say I’m interested in this case. But only because I was the guy who answered the door when the victim’s mother said there was no homicide.”
“Got it, chief.”
“Good.”
Hannah started toward the van. “Come on,” she said. “I want you to take a good look at the evidence. In the interest of full disclosure, box nine is probably the best place for you to start.”
“What’s in box nine?” he asked.
Hannah’s eyeglasses darkened as she stepped out of the garage and into the sunlight. “Your innocent client’s confession,” she said.
CHAPTER 4
Naturally, box 9 in the capital case of State of Florida v. Dylan Reeves was buried at the bottom of the pyramid of boxes and suitcases in the back of the Neil-Mobile. The day had turned hot and muggy, a typical weather pattern that made September Jack’s least favorite month in south Florida. As the rest of the country enjoyed crisp autumn days and cool nights, Miami was at the peak of the hurricane season and the daily onslaught of tropical waves of sticky air. Jack’s shirt was soaked with sweat by the time he finished unloading and reloading the van. He carried the evidence box to his car, and Hannah rode with him back to the Freedom Institute. Jack cranked the AC to high, and the cold blast from the dashboard felt good. The relief was short-lived, however. The office was like an oven.
“To the kitchen,” said Jack. “It’s cooler in there.”
“Not really,” said Hannah.
“Watch and learn.”
He placed the evidence box on the kitchen table, opened the refrigerator, and basked in the chilly air. “Ahhh.”
Hannah shot him a look of playful disapproval. “Surely my father didn’t teach you that energy-inefficient trick.”
“No,” said Jack. “In fact, this was the one offense he thought worthy of capital punishment.”
Hannah powered up her laptop and inserted the DVD from box 9. “MDPD homicide interrogated Reeves for about seven hours,” she said. “All of it was video recorded. This three-minute segment is from the very end. It was, by far, the most powerful evidence presented at trial.”
Jack pulled up a chair. Hannah cued up the video and hit PLAY. The case caption and an exhibit number appeared on the screen. The image flickered, and the video followed. It was the typical arrangement. A windowless room. Bright fluorescent lights. A suspect seated on one side of a rectangular table. A seasoned detective seated on the other side. Another detective was standing, his palms on the tabletop, his body language a bit more intimidating than his partner’s. Jack assumed he was the “bad cop” in this tag team.
Hannah hit PAUSE, freezing the image on the screen. “Note the time: ten-fourteen a.m. Dylan Reeves is six feet tall and two hundred pounds. His blood alcohol content was three times the legal limit when the police pulled him over at three a.m.”
“So, seven hours later, he’s still legally drunk.”
“Definitely,” said Hannah. She hit PLAY again and turned up the volume. “Listen.”
Jack focused, taking in the video as well as the audio. Reeves’ BAC may have been over the legal limit, but the guy looked more hungover than drunk. His hair was a mess. He needed a shave. It required far more energy than he could muster to keep his chin off his chest. He was sinking in the hardwood chair, and his body language was screaming, “I just want to go to bed.” He blinked slowly, and it took a verbal cue from the detective to get him to reopen his eyes.
“Dylan,” said the detective. “Dylan Reeves.”
“Huh?”
“You hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“Corrigan here is gonna make a run to the drive-thru. You want something? How about some pancakes?”
“Okay.”
“Some OJ? Fresh-squeezed?”
“Sure.”
“Comin’ right up, son. All we gotta do is wrap this up, and we can all have some breakfast. How’s that sound?”
“Good.”
The detective leaned closer, looking Reeves in the eye. “Did you hurt Sashi Burgette? You can tell us.”
“No.”
“It’s okay. It’ll be better if you tell us the truth.”
“I didn’t hurt her.”
The detective shook his head. “I want to believe you, Dylan. I really do. But I know you’re lying to me.”
“I didn’t hurt no one.”
“A seventeen-year-old girl doesn’t just drop her panties in the backseat of your car and then vanish. Poof.”
“I didn’t know she was seventeen.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. No one is saying that’s your fault. None of this is your fault. We just need to know what happened. Tell me what happened to Sashi.”
“For the hundredth time,” he said, groaning. “I gave her a ride, and we had sex.”
“She was a virgin, you know. A seventeen-year-old virgin.”
Reeves sat up. His shoulders started to heave. Then his head rolled back, and his whole body trembled. He nearly fell off his chair but managed to right himself.
He was laughing.
“What’s so funny?” the detective asked.
The laughter continued. The detectives watched in silence, but Reeves had lost all self-control.
“You think this is a joke, son?”
Reeves struggled to pull himself together. The laughter turned to wheezing, and in another minute he could breathe again. His interrogator was staring from across the table, but Reeves met his stare. He suddenly seemed sober, or at least alert.
“A virgin, huh?” asked Reeves.
“That’s right. Seventeen years old.”
He nodded slowly, and even though the camera wasn’t positioned to catch a close-up, the smugness came across in the video. “Do you think God will forgive me?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
The detective answered in a deep, serious tone. “He will if you ask him to. But you gotta ask him, son.”
Reeves sank in his chair. The detective’s words and skillful delivery were having a visible effect. Reeves’ smugness slowly drained away
.
“I understand your daddy was a preacher. Is that right, Dylan?”
The kill shot. It was as if a cold wind had just blown through the interrogation room, palpable even as Jack watched on video. Clearly, Reeves had finally given the seasoned detective the opening he’d been waiting for, the chance to play that ace he’d been holding for seven hours.
“‘Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed.’ You know that scripture?”
Reeves’ eyes closed, but he didn’t answer.
The detective let him stew another minute, then continued in the same preacher-like tone. “Do you need to be healed, Dylan?”
The question hung in the air for several seconds, and Reeves seemed to shrink in the silence.
“You do need it,” the detective said gently. “You need forgiveness. Don’t you, son?”
Reeves didn’t move. Thirty seconds passed. Then, finally, in slow but discernible fashion, he lowered his chin, raised it, and then lowered it again.
A nod.
The video ended. Hannah hit STOP. The screen went black.
Jack had been watching so closely that he was literally on the edge of his chair. He settled back and took a deep breath.
“What do you think?” asked Hannah.
Jack didn’t answer right away. He looked off in the middle distance, and then his gaze drifted back to Hannah.
“I think we all need forgiveness,” he said.
CHAPTER 5
Jack left the Freedom Institute around six and headed home. The first stop was Johnson Firearms in midtown, where he purchased Andie’s gun-cleaning mat. The next stop was supposed to be the Food Mart for potato chips and ice cream. A call from Debra Burgette sidetracked him.
“Can you meet me at the Travelodge on U.S. 1? It’s right across from the University of Miami.”
Jack had driven past it a million times, but he’d never been there. “Right now?”
“Yes. It’s important.”
“What is it?”
“Just come. I need you to see something.”
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