The Mayor of Lexington Avenue (25 page)

“One other thing, Jack. Do you think people can see the future when they’re about to die?” Jack figured Rudy was talking about himself, and he didn’t know how to respond.

“I don’t know, Rudy.”

“See, the thing is, the last time my dad came to see me, he knew he was dying and he said the strangest thing to me just before he left. I didn’t understand it at all until now. He said, ‘When Johnny comes to see you, tell him from now on when he’s talking to you, he’s talking to me.’”

Jack left quickly, ran to his car, drove out of the main gate as fast as he could—and when the razor-wire fences and the towers were safely out of sight, he pulled the car to the side of the road, turned the ignition off and wept.

Twenty–five

“How did it go with Rudy?” Pat asked as soon as he was settled at his desk the next morning.

“Good. He has Mikey’s smile,” Jack said, and then started shuffling some papers. Pat wasn’t letting him get off the hook so easily.

“That’s it? He has Mike’s smile? By the way, we stopped calling him Mikey about thirty-five years ago.”

“Yeah, I know, but the reference in my memory bank is Mikey. And that’s not
it
by a long shot. Rudy was amazing. He was warm. He was friendly. He was intuitive. And he
is
innocent.”

Pat noticed how Jack clenched his jaw when he said those words. “Wow! Sounds like quite an interview. I thought he was slow—easily led—and that’s how he got convicted.”

“He may be slow in the way we measure intelligence. And he may be too trusting—too believing in people—something we commonly consider a character flaw. But he is wise beyond his years in other ways. Pat, I want you to meet him. I’m going back next week. Why don’t you come?”

“I’d love to. I mean, I don’t relish the idea of visiting death row. But I’d like to meet Mike’s son, especially after what you’ve just told me about him.”

“Great,” Jack replied. “You’ll see, he’s got a lot of his father in him—and something more.”

Pat knew from that moment forward that Rudy was going to have the best representation possible—someone who believed in him with his mind
and heart.
It really must have been quite an interview.

Two days later, the voluminous files from the state and public defender’s office arrived—in a truck. Jack had the movers load them all against one wall in his office. He planned on taking the next few days to immerse himself in those documents.

He started that first morning with the initial police reports after the murder. He immediately began to see why the police had focused on Rudy. He had been at the victim’s house on the night of the murder. Pilar Rodriguez had given the police a pretty accurate description although she hadn’t picked Rudy out of a lineup. Raymond Castro and José Guerrero had also been positive in their description to the police—before they disappeared. The blood on the carpet and the broken glass matched Rudy’s—but hell, that was the most common blood type around, so all that did was not rule him out. But then there was Rudy’s confession, or to put it more precisely, Wesley Brume’s notes of Rudy’s confession.
Is there a recording of the interview? And if not, why not?
So far, that was the only red flag he’d found.

He next read the coroner’s report—nothing he didn’t already know in there. Her throat had been severely cut by a blade with a jagged edge.

When he’d read all the investigative material twice—the second time in greater detail—he felt satisfied that he had an overview of the prosecution’s case. Something was gnawing at him, though.
There’s something I’m missing in this evidence, something I’m not seeing,
he told himself.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe what’s bothering me is what’s not there?

He left the office about three and took some of the files home with him. Pat arrived a little after five with bags of groceries. Jack was sitting on the living room floor, leaning on the sofa. Papers were strewn everywhere. He looked like a college student, albeit an old one, pulling an all-nighter to write a term paper on a subject he knew nothing about.

“How’s it going? Have you solved the puzzle yet?” she asked.

“Not hardly. I’ve just jumped into the swamp with the alligators.”

“Well, I’ll make you a nice meal tonight—fatten you up good—so when they eat you, at least they’ll be satisfied.”

“Thanks. Seriously, I thought we’d eat out tonight.”

Pat dropped the grocery bags on the table. “That’s fine with me.”

“There’s a little Mexican place in town. It’s my favorite place to eat. Do you like Mexican?”

“I love it, but I can’t go right away. I’ve got to run first and then do my exercises.”

“I didn’t know you were a runner.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Jackie boy.”

“Why don’t I run with you? While you do your exercises I’ll do my swim. Then we can go eat.”

“That’s what I like—a planner,” she said as she finished putting the groceries away.

Five minutes later, they were both in their running outfits and heading out the door. Jack couldn’t help but notice how fit Pat was. Her long legs were toned, her midriff was tight, and so was the sports bra she was wearing, compressing those “bumps” he and Mikey first noticed years ago.

I have to check that out,
Jack found himself thinking. But then he caught himself.
Whoa, boy! That’s Patty you’re talking about!

“How far do you want to run?” he asked after they’d both spent a few minutes stretching. “I’ve got a three-mile course, a five-mile course, eight miles, ten—you name it.”

“Well, since I just arrived in town and haven’t run in a few days, why don’t we start off with three?”

“Okay.”

Jack didn’t have to slow too much to stay with Pat. She held a good pace.
Probably eight and a half minute miles,
he thought. He was usually under eight minutes but this was fine. He’d work up a sweat and it was fun to have somebody to talk to while he ran.

Pat knew he’d want to talk about the case. He’d lived with those files all day—he’d have to spill some of it out. She decided to be proactive.

“So what did you find today?”

Jack shrugged his shoulders as he jogged. They were running along the river. It was a typical fall evening in Florida—clear skies, cool, crisp air. The river was calm. A few small motorboats, a cabin cruiser and a sailboat puttered by in the “No Wake” zone, but for the most part it was peaceful and quiet.

“Well,” Jack began, “Rudy was definitely at the victim’s house on the night of the murder
around the time of the murder.
He admits that himself. But he says he got sick and tried to get out of the house to puke and he tripped and broke his beer mug and cut his hand. Then Lucy, the victim, kicked him out of the house.”

“So his blood was found in the house?”

“Yeah.”

“And the only other blood found was the victim’s?”

“Yup.”

“Sounds like you’ve got real problems.”

“That’s not the half of it. The only way that it could have happened the way Rudy says it happened is if somebody else came to the house
after
he left. Now there were three guys down the block, two of whom saw Rudy going to Lucy’s and coming from the direction of her trailer later—but those two up and disappeared, and the police never even got a chance to talk to the third guy, he was gone so fast.”

“Sounds fishy.”

“Yeah, but sounding fishy gets you nowhere. If there was some evidence that put somebody else inside that house that night, then we might have something. Then the disappearance of these guys might sound
and smell
fishy.”

“And there’s nothing like that?”

“No. These local cops are yokels. Mind you, I’m not very experienced at crime scenes myself, having been a civil lawyer all my life, and this was ten years ago. But when somebody is murdered, especially a brutal murder like this, there’s usually some clues left behind—fingerprints, footprints, hair follicles—something! These guys found nothing. It’s almost as if they found traces of Rudy’s blood and stopped looking.”

“It could be that Rudy was the only one there,” Pat offered. “You can’t discount that possibility.”

“I can if I believe Rudy, and I believe Rudy.”

Pat didn’t respond. They were already back at the house and she couldn’t even remember the run. It was amazing how fast time passed when you were engaged in a good conversation. But that good conversation worried her.
Jack’s taken the plunge, but what if Rudy is really guilty or there’s no way to prove him innocent? How will Jack deal with all of that now that he’s met Rudy and apparently is taken with him?
From the little she’d heard, it sounded like a strong circumstantial evidence case against Rudy.
And didn’t they have a confession as well?
Pat suddenly was rethinking her decision to visit the prison.
Do I want to get to know somebody—especially Mike’s son—just before he’s about to die?

The Taqueria was on the edge of the barrio but it was a notch or two above the dives that functioned as restaurants within the barrio itself. There was a dining room and a separate barroom for the “just drinkers.” The decor was haphazard, overdone, and decidedly un-Mexican: A stuffed gator hung from the ceiling, and Florida, Florida State and Miami pennants adorned the walls nestled between deer heads, stuffed jackrabbits and other assorted paraphernalia—including a rectangular sign that read, “Tips up, Aspen, Colorado.” A large poster of El Cordobes, the famous matador, hung on one wall but he was of course Spanish, not Mexican.

Jack and Pat found a place in the corner to the left of El Cordobes and seated themselves. Pat kept looking around, fascinated by the décor.

“I think I finally found the Redneck Riviera,” she said with a chuckle. They were both freshly showered and dressed in jeans and tee shirts.

Jack laughed. “Wait until you taste the food.”

“Is it that bad?”

“No, I’m just kidding. It’s
really
good.”

When the waiter came they both ordered chicken burritos and bottles of Dos Equis beer. The beer came right away and Pat took a healthy sip.

“It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to run three miles and then start drinking beer, huh?” she said, smacking her lips.

“Sure it does,” he said, clinking her bottle. “The beer makes you feel good, the running makes you look good—
and you look good
.”

She raised her eyebrows and then smiled. “Why, thank you, Jack. And you look pretty good yourself, especially in that Speedo.” She was referring to the very skimpy bathing suit he’d worn to swim his laps in the pool at his house. “It doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”

Jack’s face reddened. Suddenly he was seeing his old pal Pat.

“I didn’t know you noticed.”

“Well, I did.” She looked directly into his baby blue eyes.

Jack returned her gaze, and the new Pat came to the fore again. “Me too,” he said.

The mood was momentarily interrupted by the waiter who brought the burritos.

They ate in silence, each contemplating what had just happened. Pat certainly hadn’t planned to make a remark loaded with sexual connotation. She hadn’t ever thought that way about Jack—at least, not until she’d opened her mouth.
I just told him he looked good
, she reassured herself.
You can’t read too much into that.
Jack was telling himself the same thing. Pat decided to change the subject.

“How are you adjusting to this new life? I mean, this is a far cry from Miami and the big firm.”

“Actually it hasn’t been an adjustment at all. I’ve spent my weekends here for years. The adjustment was always going back to Miami. The big firm was never me. I was successful but I was miserable. When I left it was like walking out of a role I’d been playing for twenty years. This is the real me. I guess I’m really a Florida redneck.”

“‘Cracker’ is the appropriate term,” Pat replied. “I’ve been reading up on old Florida. This is cracker country. But you’re not a cracker either, Jack. You’re just a kid from the neighborhood who made it big and you’ve never felt comfortable in that role.”

“You’re right. I’ve certainly wasted a lot of time.”

“Well, you’ve got the rest of your life to make up for it. Do you think your professional life had something to do with your marriages failing?” It was a question she hadn’t thought about asking. Once again, she heard the words as they left her mouth as if she was a bystander to her own thoughts.

“I’m sure that was part of it. I’ve thought about that a lot. The world of status has its own pressures. But I just don’t think I was husband material anyway. All my wives told me the same thing: ‘You’re not here for me. It’s like you’re always somewhere else. You don’t talk to me.’ All three of them said the same thing at one time or another. I never knew what they were talking about. I thought I was a good husband, a good provider. I talked.
We
talked every night. I guess I never talked about my feelings but that’s just not the way I am. I don’t like to argue. If I’m mad at you I’ll process it myself. I don’t need to tell you I’m mad at you and what you did wrong and how you hurt my feelings and blah, blah, blah. I don’t need to process the shit that happens at work. I’ll be over it tomorrow.

“I was accused of being insensitive, distant, sweeping things under the rug—you name it. I thought I was being an adult, getting on with life. But eventually, I decided I just wasn’t husband material.”

Pat nodded knowingly and smiled. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard my girlfriends say the same things about their husbands and my guy friends say the same things about their wives. You’re not any different, Jack. This problem has existed since time began. Women want to talk about their feelings, men don’t. Women feel closer when they’re sharing emotions. I’m not sure exactly what men feel but they don’t like to do it. Men are more action-oriented. They assume their wives love them because of their actions, not their words, while their wives are simply waiting for them to say ‘I love you.’ I guess we want strong men who are sensitive, too, but if they’re too sensitive, we think they’re wimps. It certainly can get complicated.”