The Pardon (20 page)

Wrong, Jack. This could have everything to do with the murder of Eddy Goss. Because it bears directly on your motive to kill - or to execute' - Eddy Goss. You can't risk letting Wilson McCue flesh out this theory before I do. So answer me, Jack. And I want the truth.

Jack looked Manny right in the eye. The truth, Manny, is that I didn't kill Eddy Goss. And as far as who it was who came to me the night Fernandez was executed, the honest answer is that I don't know. The guy never gave me his name. He never even showed me his face. But I do know this much: It was not Eddy Goss. The eyes are different, the build is different, the voice is different. It's just a different person.

Manny took a deep breath and looked away, then gave a quick nod of appreciation. Thanks, I know this isn't an easy subject for you. And I'm glad you leveled with me.

Maybe it's time I leveled with my father, too. I think he and I need to talk.

I'm advising you not to do that, Jack.

It's kind of a personal decision, don't you think?

From a legal standpoint, I am strongly advising you not to speak to your father. I don't want you talking to anyone who might jeopardize your ability to take the witness stand in your own defense. And talking to your father is very risky.

What are you implying?

Manny measured his words carefully. Right after I spoke to your father, he began, I had an uneasy feeling. It was just a feeling, but when you've been doing this as long as I have, you follow your gut. So I went and took another look at the police file.

And?

I wasn't looking for anything in particular. But I noticed that the police report showed an extraneous footprint, right outside Goss's apartment. It wasn't from you, and it wasn't from Eddy Goss. It was from someone else. Now, that's a definite plus for us, because it can help us prove that someone else was at the scene of the crime. But what has me concerned is that the footprint is very clear. He sighed. It's from a Wiggins wing tip.

Jack's expression went white. He said nothing, but Manny read the message on his face.

How long has your father worn Wiggins wing tips, Jack?

As long as I can remember, he said with disbelief. But, you can't possibly think my father -

I don't know what to think. There was just something about the urgency in your father's voice - his curious tone - that concerns me. I don't know if there's something he's not telling me or what. But I do know this: I don't want my client talking to him. I can't take the risk that he'll confess something to you, and then you won't be able to take the witness stand, for fear you might incriminate your own father. Or, even worse, I don't want you being evasive on the stand because you're trying to protect your father. So until I get to the bottom of this, I want you to stay as far away from him as possible. Can I have your word on that?

Jack felt sick inside. But he knew Manny was right. A tough judgment call like this one was precisely the reason that lawyers should never represent themselves. He needed someone like Manny to put the personal issues aside and counsel him wisely. All right, he said with resignation. I haven't spoken to my father in two years. I can wait a little longer. You have my word.

Chapter
25

Jack woke the next morning with the memory of his conversation with Manny still vivid. He ran all sorts of hypotheses through his head but was unable to explain why his father would be involved with Goss. It just didn't make sense. He needed to find some answers, and he knew they wouldn't come to him if he sat around the house.

So, after showering and downing a quick cup of coffee, he threw on a jacket and tie and headed for the police station. He arrived at the document section around ten o'clock and asked the clerk to pull the investigative file on State v. Swyteck. He wanted to see for himself what this business of an extraneous footprint was all about.

Only the police, the prosecutor, the defendant, or the defendant's attorney can pull the file in a pending murder case, but Jack had done it so many times as a lawyer with the Freedom Institute that he didn't even have to show his Florida bar card to the clerk behind the counter. He just signed his name in the registry and filled in his bar number. Out of curiosity, he checked to see who else had been reviewing his file. Detective Stafford and his assistant, of course Manny had been there twice, as recently as yesterday and someone else had been there: Richard Dressler, an attorney.

He had never heard of any attorney named Richard Dressler, so he checked with the file clerk to see who he was.

You putting me on, Mr. Swyteck? said the young black woman behind the counter. She had large, almond eyes and straightened black hair with an orangey-red streak on one side. Other than Jack, she was the only person in the busy station who wasn't a cop, and she was the only person he'd ever seen with ten different glittering works of art on two-inch fingernails of curling acrylic. Richard Dressler's a lawyer, she told Jack, looking at him as if he were senile. Said he was your lawyer.

Jack was stunned, but he put on his best poker face. You know, he shook his head with a smile, my head counsel has so many other young lawyers helping him on this case, sometimes I can't keep track of them. Dressler Jack baited her, as if he were trying to place the man. Tall guy - right?

She just rolled her eyes. I don't know what he looked like, she said, fussing with a little ornamental rhinestone that had loosened from her thumbnail. I got five hundred people a day coming through here.

Jack nodded slowly. He definitely wanted to know more about this Richard Dressler, but the last thing he wanted to do was make an issue out of it in the middle of the police station - deep in the heart of enemy territory. He had an idea. I changed my mind, he said as he slid the file back over the counter to her. Thanks anyway. I'll check it out later.

Suit yourself, she said with a shrug.

He left the police station quickly and headed for a pay phone at the corner. He dialed the Florida bar's Attorney Information Service and asked for some basic information on Richard Dressler.

Mr. Dressler's office is at five-oh-one Kennedy Boulevard, Tampa, Florida, the woman in the records department cheerfully reported.

A hell of a long way from Miami. And what kind of law does he practice? Does he do criminal defense?

The woman checked the computer screen before her. Mr. Dressler is a board-certified real estate attorney. Would you like a listing of criminal defense lawyers in that area, sir?

No, thank you. That's all I need. He slowly replaced the receiver and leaned against the phone, totally confused. Why would a real estate attorney from Tampa come three hundred miles to look at a police file in Miami? And why would he pose as Jack's criminal defense lawyer? Jack could think of no reason - at least no good reason. He shook his head, then walked back to his car. He started thinking about the extraneous footprint that had drawn him to the police file in the first place. He wondered if Dressler had also been curious about Wiggins wing tips.

Chapter
26

Harry Swyteck may not have liked the way his campaign manager had phrased it, but if Jack wasn't actually killing him, the publicity certainly wasn't doing his campaign any good. It was only August, and the November election was still arguably far enough away to dismiss the plunging public-opinion polls as not the pulse of the people but merely the palpitations of the times. The governor, however, was not one to sit around and wait for things to change. A road trip was in order - one of those whirlwind, statewide tours that would allow him to press the flesh and pick a few wallets in face-to-face meetings with Rotarians, Shriners, and virtually any other group that wanted a breakfast or luncheon speaker.

He finished the first of what would be many fifteen hour days on the speaking circuit at 9:30 P. M. and retired to his motel room. The Thunderhead Motel was one of those roadside lodges familiar to any traveler who'd been forced to spend the night in some small town where the nicest restaurant was the Denny's across from a bowling alley. It was typical of those long and narrow two-story motels where the rooms on one side faced the parking lot and the rooms on the other faced the algae-stained swimming pool. The rooms facing the parking lot, however, didn't directly abut the rooms facing the pool. An interior service corridor ran through the middle of the building, for use by housekeepers and other hotel employees. That didn't seem very important, unless you also knew that the walls in the corridor were a paper-thin sheet of plaster-board, and that employees sometimes poked holes in them to satisfy their perverse curiosity.

Harry, in his second-floor room, was completely unaware of this as he peeled off his clothes and stepped into the tub for a nice hot shower. The incredibly tacky brown, orange, and yellow floral-print wallpaper made it impossible to detect any holes in the wall that separated the bathroom from the service corridor. In fact, there was a small hole right next to the towel rack, which offered a full view of the governor's left profile. Eight inches below that was a larger hole that accommodated the barrel of a .38-caliber revolver pointed directly at the governor's ear.

Don't move, came a muffled voice from the other side of the bathroom wall.

The governor was both startled and confused by the sound of a strange voice over running water. He froze when he saw the barrel of the gun.

I'll kill you if you move, came another warning, followed by the cocking of the hammer. You know I will. You do recognize the voice, don't you, my man?

Goose bumps popped up beneath the soap and lather on the governor's body. He knew the voice all right. You're still alive? he said with a mix of fear and wonder. It hadn't been Eddy Goss who was blackmailing him; and it couldn't have been Eddy Goss who confessed to Jack. Why are you here?

Just wanted to make sure you knew it was me who fucked up your press conference, Governor.

Harry swallowed apprehensively. And what about the reporter - Malone? What does he know?

Squat. I just told him Fernandez was innocent. That's all. Just enough to let you know I'm serious about going to the press. Didn't show him any proof - yet.

The governor trembled. He could barely find the nerve to ask another question, but he had to know: Did you tell him I received a report that Fernandez was innocent before - he paused - before he was executed?

No. But I will, my man. Unless you pay up.

You already have ten thousand.

The scoff was audible even over the sound of the still cascading shower. You stiffed me on the last installment. You went all the way to Goss's apartment, just like I told you to. I watched you walk right up to the fucking door. And you chickened out. You turned and walked away. You didn't leave my money. And now, with interest and all, I'd say you owe me an even fifty grand.

Fifty thousand! I don't have -

Don't lie to me! he snapped. You and that rich society bitch you married have it. And you will give it to me. Don't forget, Governor. I still have our last conversation on tape. No money, and the tape goes right to Malone - along with the proof that Fernandez was innocent. You hear me?

Silenced by fear and utter disbelief that this could be happening to him, the governor stood quietly as the water from the shower pelted his body.

Do you hear me!

The governor shifted his eyes slowly toward the gun. This is the end of it, right? This is the last installment.

That's why it's fifty grand, my man. I want the whole enchilada in one big bite. So shut the fuck up and listen. Since this is the last one, I want you to buy a big bouquet of flowers - chrysanthemums, to be exact. Get one with a nice big pot. Put the money in the pot. And just for fun, put your shoes in there, too - those Wiggins wing tips you like to wear. This Friday night, seven o'clock, take the whole thing to Memorial Cemetery in Miami. Row twelve, plot two thirty-two in the west quadrant. Leave it right there. It's a flat marker.

How do I find plot two thirty-two? Who's buried there?

It's a new grave. You'll recognize the name on it.

Eddy Goss? the governor swallowed his words.

Raul Fernandez, asshole. Go pay your respects.

The barrel of the gun suddenly disappeared through the hole, and the quick footsteps and the slam of a door in the service corridor told the governor that his blackmailer was gone - for now.

Chapter
27

Two hours after Jack had requested his file at the police station and turned up the information about Richard Dressler, he met Manny in his offices for a brainstorming session. Manny knew nothing about Dressler. He'd reviewed the police file before that name had been entered into the registry. He knew about as much as could be expected of someone who'd been retained just forty-eight hours earlier, having picked up bits and pieces from the file and a brief talk with Jack after the arraignment. Jack had a lot to tell him, and he was eager to hear Manny's assessment of the case. But after a brief overview of the salient facts, and at the risk of sounding like so many of his guilty clients at the Institute who were so quick to assert their innocence, Jack couldn't help but get to the bottom line.

I've been framed, he said.

Whoa, Manny half kidded. Turning paranoid on me already, are you?

It's not paranoia. It's a fact, Manny. Somebody wanted me to think Goss was stalking me. Why else would they have given me a map to Goss's apartment? Why else would they have left the chrysanthemum under Cindy's pillow the night I stayed at Gina Terisi's townhouse? That was when I, of all people, should have known it wasn't really Goss who was harassing me. Goss never left flowers anywhere. His signature was seeds. He had this perverse connection between chrysanthemum seeds and his own semen. He was a nut case, but he was consistent about his signature.