The Mayor of Lexington Avenue (30 page)

The first night out for coffee at the Pelican—Dolly wasn’t working, thank God—Maria asked Nancy what she did, and she told her that she was a legal secretary.

“Who for?” Maria asked.

“Jack Tobin. He’s new in town.”

Maria recognized the name immediately. “He’s going to be the new state attorney but he’s working on the Rudy Kelly case now.”

“That’s him,” Nancy replied, trying to appear reluctant to talk about Jack or her work.

“That case is such a tragedy.” Nancy didn’t follow up—she just nodded. But her heart was pounding.
Maybe she knows something.
But she calmed herself.
Don’t be too eager. If it’s in there, let her bring it out.

On their second coffee night, Maria was even more forthcoming.

“If you only knew the real story about that murder, you wouldn’t be able to sleep.” Nancy suspected that Maria was the one who wasn’t able to sleep. Again, however, she decided not to seem too curious.
Wait until Friday night, when she’s had a couple of drinks.

It took Jack the whole week to write his brief and edit it to where it was moderately acceptable. He faxed it to the court and the attorney general’s office. The appellate division of the AG’s office handled all appeals in the state, and Jack had contacted their office when he started the brief so that it could be assigned to a particular individual who would be prepared to respond quickly. He had contacted the court as well with the date of execution so the appellate process could be expedited. Normally, appellate cases in the Supreme Court could take three to six months or longer. This appeal had to be decided in a matter of days after the briefs were filed.

Jack knew from experience that the initial brief was the most important part of the appellate process. It had to be clear and concise and had to make the case quickly. Good appellate lawyers spent weeks poring over the initial brief, editing and re-editing, until it was a finely honed dagger, stabbing directly and mortally at the legal deficiencies in the lower court. Jack didn’t have the luxury of time, so he concentrated on the short, sweet and to the point part of brief writing.

The point was prosecutorial misconduct. The state attorney, the police, and the coroner had conspired, in his opinion, to keep the semen evidence from the defense, depriving Rudy Kelly of the best evidence to exonerate him—that somebody else was in Lucy’s trailer that night. Even if it wasn’t a conspiracy, Jack argued, creating a separate rape file deprived the defense of evidence that would support reasonable doubt.

Jack knew the court would probably not find prosecutorial misconduct—they rarely did. Appellate judges were an arm of government just like the police and the state attorney. There was an institutional bias there, at least when it came to the issue of intentional wrongdoing. But by raising the
possibility
, he gave the appellate court an opportunity to “split-the-baby,” a term used in legal circles to describe judicial decisions that benefit both sides in some way. By ruling against Jack on the prosecutorial misconduct issue and for him on the more neutral deprivation of evidence argument, the court could give each side something while still reaching the result Jack was really after—the right result. It was a tactic he had used many times in the past.

As he expected, the Supreme Court immediately issued a schedule for the parties to follow. The attorney general had seven days to respond on behalf of the State of Florida, and oral arguments would be five days later. Rudy’s execution was scheduled for nine days after the oral argument date. Whether it was in the Florida Supreme Court or the United States Supreme Court, it was going to be a last-minute decision that would decide Rudy’s fate.

Like Nancy, Jack couldn’t just sit around and wait after he submitted the brief. He decided to learn everything he could about the chief investigating officer, Wesley Brume, and the former state attorney, Clay Evans IV, and to visit both men. He knew there was no real benefit in continuing the investigation. Neither man was going to admit to anything. But something compelled him to go forward. He wasn’t quite sure what that something was.

Wesley Brume did not want to talk to Jack Tobin. He avoided the first three calls, but when Jack persisted, he knew he couldn’t duck the conversation forever. This prick was going to be the new state attorney and Wes couldn’t afford to make him an enemy before he even started. He didn’t have that kind of power.
Why would the governor appoint a lily-livered, scum-sucking, criminal-loving son-of-a-bitch like this Tobin guy to be the state attorney?
It just didn’t make sense. It was like being in bed with one of the bad guys.

He took the fourth call.

“Brume here.”

“Mr. Brume, I’m Jack Tobin.”

“I know who you are. I know you’re going to be the new state attorney. I also know you’re now representing Rudy Kelly. So what do you want with me?”

“I’d like to have a conversation with you.”

“About what?”

“About all of the above.” Jack didn’t want to tip his hand just yet, although he was sure Brume knew exactly what he was after.

“Well, I’d prefer that we delay a face-to-face meeting until you come on board as state attorney.” The Grunt was still holding out hope that the governor would come to his senses and jettison this commie pinko.

“We can’t always get what we want in this world, Mr. Brume. You and I are going to be working together. I think we should start to get to know each other. When the governor offered me this job, he and I talked about the necessity of forming partnerships.”

There it was—the veiled threat.
“If you don’t talk to me, I’ll call my friend the governor, whose ass I’ve had my nose up for the last twenty years.”
Wes wanted to vomit. These politicos were all alike. The only guy who had any real balls was Clay Evans, and he rode the Kelly case to an appointment on the federal bench. But Wes had to meet with this guy. He’d only been appointed police chief last year and he needed two more years on a chief’s salary before he could retire with a chief’s pension.
Besides, he ain’t gonna get squat from me. I’ll dance him around the room for a few hours, then show him the door.

They met at Wesley Brume’s office. Jack would have preferred more neutral ground, but the Grunt insisted on his office. He wanted the upper hand.

“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Tobin?” Chief Brume asked as he leaned back in his fake leather chair and propped his feet up on his cheap, particleboard desk. Jack wanted to laugh. If this was Wesley Brume’s feeble attempt at intimidation, it was having the opposite effect. Wesley Brume would learn about real intimidation very soon.

“No thanks.”

“Well then, what can I do for you?” the Grunt asked as he sat up in his chair and began to shuffle some papers, pretending to be a very busy man.

“Well, I know we
might
be working together in the future and I wanted to clear the air about some things.”

The word “might” had its intended effect.
What the hell does he mean “might”? Is he trying to intimidate me?
He decided to ignore the remark.

“What air, exactly, needs to be cleared, Mr. Tobin?”

“Well, I’m representing Rudy Kelly and you were the chief investigating officer in his case, so in a way I’m investigating you and your actions.”

“Have you found anything I did wrong?”

“Oh yeah, and I’m not finished yet.” The blood rushed to the Grunt’s face. He knew his feeble attempt at remaining calm wasn’t working. His face was burning and his temples were throbbing. He decided to abandon the act, pointing his finger at Jack.

“I don’t give a shit who you think you are coming in here and accusing me like this, but I’m not gonna stand for it. Get the fuck outta here.”

Jack didn’t move. In fact, he leaned back in his chair as the Grunt had done moments before. “Calm down, Mr. Brume. Nobody is accusing you of any criminal activity—at least, not yet. I’m just saying that a few mistakes were made.”

The Grunt didn’t hear the last part. He was too busy choking on the words “at least, not yet.” Jack didn’t keep him in suspense too long.

“We know about the separate rape file. It’s part of my brief before the Supreme Court on prosecutorial misconduct. I just don’t know whose idea it was—you or Mr. Evans. My guess is it was Mr. Evans’s idea and he got the coroner to go along. Mr. Evans, or I should say Judge Evans, won’t talk to me and I figure when the time comes to discuss these matters he might throw you under the bus—so I thought I’d come to you beforehand and give you the opportunity to tell me the real story.”

There was a moment of silence. Brume was sweating now—boiling and sweating. Jack decided to turn up the heat full blast. He could now see that Wesley Brume was the pawn in this operation. If Tracey James had in fact been murdered, Brume hadn’t made the decision.

“Oh by the way,” Jack continued, “I know Tracey James called you before she was
killed
—and told you she had new information
and a witness.”

“Who’s the witness?” Brume blurted out. His reaction settled a fundamental issue in Jack’s mind that had existed since Dick Radek made the accusation.
Tracey James definitely was murdered!
He remembered Joaquin Sanchez’s words about Radek:
I trust his instincts
. He looked at Wesley Brume and just shrugged.

The Grunt’s mind was racing. This prick was a cool customer, but he had to be bluffing. He wouldn’t be here if he knew who the witness was. On the other hand, he had a point—Clay Evans would give him up in a heartbeat. He was tempted but only for a moment. This die had been cast a long time ago. He had to stick with Evans. It was time to end this charade. He stood up.

“Like I said a few minutes ago, Mr. Tobin. Get the fuck outta here. You ain’t the state attorney yet. You go around accusing police chiefs and federal judges of crimes without any evidence and you never will be.”

Jack stood up as well. “Thanks for the advice,” he said and walked out of Brume’s office.

Brume slammed the door behind him and sank back into his fake leather chair.

Thirty–three

The following Saturday Jack took Pat for a boat ride on the Okalatchee River. He didn’t take the big boat, his twenty-eight-foot Hatteras—he took the dinghy. It looked very much like the dinghy Rudy had bargained for so many years before.

Pat was a somewhat reluctant passenger.

“Why do we have to go out at six o’clock in the morning?” she complained. She wasn’t an early morning person. Besides, it was cold. She had to wear a parka and sweatpants over her bikini.

“You want to be on the water when the sun comes up so you can feel nature’s changing of the guard.”

“I’d rather be under my down comforter.”

Jack laughed. “If you feel the same way about this trip when it’s over, I’ll owe you one. We’ll go to the opposite extreme: I’ll take you to the finest restaurant in the city of your choosing and wine and dine you. Afterwards we’ll stay at a five-star hotel.” Pat had her eyes closed, dreaming as Jack spoke, a smile spreading across her lips. Money had never meant much to her, but it was nice to be with a man who had the means to make fantasies come true.

“Okay, it’s a deal. And if I do like the trip, I’ll make one of
your
fantasies come true.” Jack looked at her and smiled. He wasn’t going to touch that line. He’d let her surprise him.

He started the little outboard and they puttered out into the darkness. Pat scrunched her hands and shoulders together trying to stay warm.

The Okalatchee was no more than a hundred yards across at its widest point and some very big boats traveled its waters. Six o’clock in the morning was the fishermen’s rush hour and Jack had to be careful maneuvering the little dinghy without lights. They motored about twenty minutes in an eastward direction staying close to shore—Pat hugging herself and keeping a watchful eye out for the big boats. Suddenly Jack turned right and headed for some thick brush. Pat thought he was docking the boat on the shore for some reason, but he kept going through the thicket, motioning her to bend down as they went under the branches and came out into a narrow canal bordered on both sides by mangroves, cypress trees and tall pines. Jack continued a ways down the canal then cut the motor and let the dinghy drift.

The change was stark. They had gone from the sound of the motor and the slapping of the waves on the side of the boat in the busy river to the cacophonic drone of thousands of crickets interspersed now and then with the croaking of frogs in a dark, narrow, secluded canal. It was eerie and more than a little frightening.

They sat there quietly. Pat could hardly make out Jack’s silhouette it was so dark. Then the sky began to gradually lighten. The surrounding vegetation was so thick they couldn’t see the sunrise itself, only its effects. The transformation was seamless. The drone of the crickets and the croaking of the frogs faded away to nothing, and for about ten or maybe fifteen minutes, there wasn’t a sound to be heard. A brief mist settled on the calm, glistening water. Everything was still, like a photograph, and Pat didn’t dare move for fear of disturbing the picture. For the first time in her life she felt it, that she was a part of nature like the sky and the trees and the water—and the birds and the crickets and the frogs.
How many mornings have I had in my lifetime and I never experienced this, never knew this feeling existed?
She looked at Jack. He was motionless, too, taking it all in.

As quickly as it had stopped, the action started again. Now she could watch as well as hear. Herons and egrets waded at the water’s edge or sat on branches looking out over the water. Smaller birds patrolled overhead. Pat made out the head of a gator just offshore, intently watching a heron. The heron gradually took a few sidesteps away. High above, atop a tall pine, an osprey surveyed the world below. She watched as it took off from its perch, circled the perimeter of the canal not once but twice, then suddenly swooped down in a deadly dive into the water, arising instantaneously with a fish in its talons.

“Wow!” she exclaimed, the first noise either of them had made in about half an hour. “That was magnificent.”