James Grippando - Blood Money

“Bird Bowling Lanes. Tonight. Seven P.M. Hundred-thousand-dollar bribe to juror number five in the Sydney Bennett murder trial. Look for the guy who opens locker number nineteen.”

The recording ended. Jack tightened his stare as he approached the witness. He had taken a chance by playing that tape, broken the cardinal rule of cross-examination, not a hundred percent sure that he was going to get the testimony from the witness that he needed. But it was a risk worth taking. And from the expression on the witness’ face, Jack could see that the payoff was imminent.

“Do you recognize that voice?” asked Jack.

“It’s the guy,” said Hewitt. “The guy I met at Government Center who said he’d pay me the money.”

“So, just to be clear: Your testimony is that the man who told you to go to the bowling alley at seven P.M. to collect your money is the same guy who told the FBI to be at the bowling alley at seven P.M. to arrest you.”

“That’s what I hear,” said Hewitt. “That’s his voice.”

Jack changed his tone, as if prodding the witness to feel some resentment about the setup. “Whoever paid you this money. . he wanted you to get caught.”

“Objection.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly right,” said Hewitt.

The judge stared down from the bench again. “Mr. Hewitt, I told you to please refrain from answering until I rule on an objection. Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase it,” said Jack. “Mr. Hewitt, are you aware of any reason why Sydney Bennett would have wanted you to get caught taking a bribe?”

He shook his head. “I really can’t think of one.”

“Thank you. No further questions.” Jack stepped away.

The prosecutor rose. “May I have redirect, Your Honor?”

“No,” said the judge. “I want to devote the remainder of the time I’ve set aside for this hearing to the defense. Mr. Swyteck, on Friday we briefly discussed the possibility of your client testifying. As I mentioned, someone needs to explain that video at Opa-locka Airport, which shows Ms. Bennett’s obvious affection for the man who bribed Mr. Hewitt. Is she coming or not?”

“She’s not here now, Your Honor.”

“Well, it’s now or never. Have you spoken to her?”

“Yes, I have, Your Honor.”

That drew a response from the audience, the first public confirmation that Jack was in touch with the missing Sydney Bennett.

“And what’s the problem?” asked the judge.

“Sydney Bennett can rebut this whole charade. The problem is simply that she’s afraid to come here.”

“Afraid of what?” said the prosecutor. “Being found guilty of jury tampering on top of murdering her daughter?”

Nice line , Jack thought as a wave of snickers coursed through the gallery. Did Faith Corso write it for you?

The judge gaveled down the rumbling, restoring order.

“Judge, may I approach the bench?” Jack asked.

The judge waved him forward. The prosecutor followed.

“Judge, to demonstrate why my client is afraid to come into this courtroom would require me to reveal certain facts that could compromise the investigation into the murder of Dr. Rene Fenning. The two are that related.”

“What?” said Crawford, incredulous.

Jack continued, “It would also require me to present the testimony of a certain FBI agent who can confirm Ms. Bennett’s expressed fears. That agent is about to begin a five-month undercover assignment. Neither an undercover agent, who is by definition trying to keep a low profile, nor the details relating to a pending homicide investigation should be put on display for TV cameras in a packed courtroom if there is an alternative. I would request the opportunity to proffer my evidence in chambers and, if possible, avoid making it part of tonight’s broadcast on BNN.”

“This is a stall,” said Crawford. “He doesn’t have his client ready to testify, and Mr. Swyteck is just stalling.”

“It’s not a stall,” said Jack. “If I can have thirty minutes of the court’s time in chambers, I can convince the court of that.”

The judge leaned back, considering it, then breathed a heavy sigh. “All right. You can have thirty minutes. I will see you at one o’clock in my chambers. And, Mr. Swyteck,” the judge added.

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“Bring your FBI agent with you.”

Achorus of jeers followed Jack and Hannah down the courthouse steps as they left the Justice Center. In two hours the defense had to be back in Judge Matthews’ chambers. The Shot Mom haters had been playing to cameras outside the courthouse since eight thirty A.M., and they would be there when Jack returned at one P.M., braving ninety-five-degree heat and ninety-percent humidity. The jury-tampering allegations had given the mob a shot in the arm, and their sheer stamina was astounding.

Jack rode shotgun on the way back to the office and made a phone call while Hannah drove. It was the first time a judge had ordered him to “bring your FBI agent with you.” Andie took the news better than Jack had expected.

“I’ll talk to my ASAC,” she said. “I’ll need his approval.”

“Remind him how cooperative I’ve been with law enforcement since Rene’s murder. I even let the FBI monitor my cell phone.”

“That will help.”

“Andie,” said Jack, using his I-need-this voice. “It’s important.”

“I get it,” she said.

They were on Main Highway, less than a quarter mile from Jack’s office. The sun glared on the windshield, flickering from light to dark as they cruised in the intermittent shadows of sprawling banyan limbs. They passed the gated entrance to Ransom Everglades Upper School, and Jack glanced uneasily at the stone wall along the jogging trail. Right behind that wall, near the large oak, he’d met a stranger he now knew as Merselus and received the threat against “someone you love.”

“Are you selling your office?” asked Hannah.

“No, why?”

She slowed the car as they approached the driveway. “Then why is there a For Sale sign out front?”

“Stop here,” he said as she turned into the driveway. Jack got out and checked the sign: JUSTICE FOR SALE, it read.

Jack looked farther down the jogging trail, a tree-lined stretch of rooted-up asphalt that ran from his driveway entrance to the T-shaped intersection at the end of Main Highway. There were more signs, one about every fifteen feet, each with the same message: JUSTICE FOR SALE. The anger rose up inside him. It was one of those watershed moments, a little thing that triggered much more of a reaction than it should have. Cumulatively, he’d had enough. Jack pulled the first one from the ground, yanked a second, then another. He gathered up about a dozen of them and walked back to the car, muttering under his breath.

“Jack, it’s no big deal,” said Hannah.

Jack opened the door, threw them into the backseat, and then slammed the door shut. Hannah parked the car and followed him up the steps and into the office. The screen door slapped shut behind them. Bonnie was at the reception desk, working the phone. She had the frazzled expression on her face that Jack was seeing far too much of lately. She slammed down the phone as he entered.

“I need that air horn,” she said.

“Not again,” he said.

“Nastier than ever,” said Bonnie. “All this ‘justice for sale’ nonsense. They’re picking that up from Faith Corso. That’s the running subtitle of her show. And you don’t even want to know what her fans are saying online about you.”

“Bloggers are back?”

“Oh, my Lord,” said Bonnie. “It’s insane. It’s ugly. It’s-”

“It’s thinkism,” said Hannah.