James Grippando - Blood Money

“That’s from Rene, you son of a bitch.”

Jack massaged his jaw back into place and said, “I’m sorry for-”

“Sorry?” said Ross. “No, you’re not. You used her, and you put her in a dangerous situation that she should’ve never been in.”

“Actually, she called me.”

“Don’t justify it. And don’t you dare show your face at the funeral. Spare us the phony sympathy. Please.”

Ross turned and walked away, so much anger in his step that his rubber soles squeaked on the tile floor. Jack climbed back into his chair.

“Are you all right?” asked Laramore.

Jack thought about it, thought about Rene, thought about the joy all this suffering must have been bringing to the sick bastard who had taken Rene’s life.

“I will be,” he said. “I suppose.”

It had been Andie’s intention to be home for Jack when he returned from the hospital, but when the assistant special agent in charge of the Miami Field Office called and said, “Get over here now,” she didn’t even ask why.

“I’m on my way,” she told Schwartz.

Andie shot Jack a quick text to let him know that her tech agents had “successfully guessed” Celeste’s username and password. The FBI couldn’t lawfully remove anything from her Facebook page, but at least Jack had everything he needed to comply with Judge Burrows’ midnight deadline. Andie added a second text to tell him that something had come up, and that she didn’t know when she’d be back.

Speed limits be damned, she flew all the way up I-95 and reached the field office around eight thirty. She found Schwartz in the observation room. With him was an assistant U.S. attorney who was junior enough to be stuck with after-hours “confession duty.” The lawyer shook Andie’s hand, then quickly turned her attention back to the other side of the one-way mirror, where a two-agent team was in the make-nice phase of the interrogation of a handsome young man who looked scared to death.

“His name is Brian Hewitt,” said Schwartz.

Andie, Schwartz, and the federal prosecutor were facing the glass, watching. The audio was on, which allowed them to hear everything that transpired in the interrogation room, but nothing was being said at the moment. Hewitt was seated at a small table in the windowless room. One agent was leaning against the wall behind Hewitt. Another was seated across from Hewitt, who was eating a hamburger and french fries, compliments of the FBI. Andie could only surmise that the interrogators had already gotten what they wanted from him-or that they had simply transitioned into the good-cop phase of the age-old routine.

“Hewitt,” said Andie, searching her memory. “That name sounds familiar for some reason.”

“He was the foreman of the twelve-person jury that acquitted Sydney Bennett,” said Schwartz.

Mere mention of the Bennett trial was enough to make her heart skip a beat. Jack’s connection to it-more precisely, Andie’s connection to Jack-was an ongoing headache. “We arrested the jury foreman?”

Schwartz nodded. “Our agents followed him to a bowling alley. The subject walked into the men’s lounge empty-handed and came out carrying a bowling bag. When the agents stopped him and asked to see inside the bag, he complied. There was a hundred thousand dollars in cash inside.”

“A drop and pickup?”

“No doubt about it.”

“Somebody tipped us off, I presume?”

“Anonymous call came in this afternoon around three thirty. Said that the foreman of the Sydney Bennett jury was going to Bird Bowl at nine P.M. to pick up a hundred grand in cash. According to the tipster, it was payment for delivering a not-guilty verdict.”

It was suddenly hard not to be scared for Jack, even harder not to show it. “Can we prove that?”

Schwartz glanced at the interrogation team, then back at Andie. “There’s no denying that Hewitt was the foreman of the jury. There’s no denying that he went into the bowling alley with nothing and came out with a hundred thousand bucks. And according to his confession, he got paid to deliver the verdict.”

“He already confessed?”

“Yes,” said Schwartz.

“In his own handwriting,” the assistant U.S. attorney added.

Schwartz pulled a copy of the one-page confession from his sport-coat pocket and laid it on the table. With his finger, he skimmed past that preliminary language about the free and voluntary nature of Hewitt’s confession, all provided by the assistant U.S. attorney. Then he found his eyeglasses and read the operative language aloud for Andie’s benefit: “‘The offer to me was fifty thousand dollars in cash for a hung jury and one hundred thousand dollars for a verdict of not guilty.’ Those are Hewitt’s initials right there,” he said, indicating.

“The offer from whom ?” asked Andie.

Schwartz turned his attention back to the work in progress on the other side of the one-way mirror. “That’s phase two of the interrogation,” he said.

Andie sensed that she was there only to watch, but she felt the need to speak up. “Look, I appreciate your calling me in, but I can tell you right now that Jack Swyteck did not make that offer.”

Schwartz didn’t respond. Nor did the assistant U.S. attorney.

“Jack would never do that,” said Andie.

Schwartz raised a hand, silencing her. At the table on the other side of the glass, Hewitt was finishing his hamburger, and the interrogation team appeared ready to get back to work. Schwartz adjusted the volume and listened.

The special agent at the table checked his yellow notepad in front of him, then looked at Hewitt. “Let me get this straight. This guy who offered to pay you a hundred thousand dollars for ‘not guilty.’ You say you never met him?”

Hewitt pushed aside what was left of his hamburger. “No, I didn’t say that.”

“I have it right here in my notes,” said the agent. “Your answer was that you talked to him only by phone. No e-mails, no texts, no handwritten messages?”

“Right. Two phone conversations. Then we met. Face-to-face.”

“So now you’re telling me there was a face-to-face meeting. You changing your story?”

“I’m not changing it. I forgot.”

“Forgot about a face-to-face meeting, huh? Where did you meet?”

“Downtown. By the Metromover station at Government Center.”

“How many times?”

“Just the once.”

“What did he look like?”

“White guy, dark hair. A lot taller than me. Maybe your age.”

“Now, how did you get out and meet him if you were on a sequestered jury and locked up in a hotel?”

“I told you before,” Hewitt said, groaning. “We weren’t sequestered until the lawyers gave their opening statements and the trial started.”

“So the two phone calls and the meeting were during jury selection?”

“Right. I was the second juror to be accepted by both sides. They had to pick a total of twelve plus two alternates. Jury selection went on for at least another week after I got picked.”

“All right,” the agent said. “So walk me all the way through this. The first phone call came when?”

“Let’s see. I got picked on that first day, Monday. So the first call was Tuesday night. Around eight o’clock.”

“And what did the guy say to-”

The lead interrogator stopped, interrupted by a firm knock on the door. The other agent answered it and stepped outside. A minute later, that same agent entered the observation room and delivered the news to Schwartz and the assistant U.S. attorney:

“Mommy and Daddy hired Justin Bieber here a lawyer. He’s outside banging on the door right now.”