James Grippando - The Pardon

Bradley swallowed apprehensively. He knew the dangers of a cop who let the ends justify the means-especially one who seemed out for revenge. “So what are you saying, Lon? Somebody’s got to stop him?”

Stafford’s expression turned very cold. “No,” he snapped. “All I’m saying is that this slick defense lawyer has got himself into deep trouble, and I’m gonna make damn sure he pays for it. So excuse me if I seem a little too happy about catchin’ myself a killer, okay?”

Bradley nodded slowly. “Okay, chief,” he shrugged, seeming to back off. “After all, you do have twenty-seven footprints.”

“You’re damn right I do.”

“But don’t forget,” said Bradley, shooting him a look. “There’s still an unidentified footprint right outside the apartment door. We know it’s not from Goss. It’s not the right shoe size. And we know it’s not from Swyteck, either, since he was wearing the Reeboks.”

“So what,” said Stafford, waving it off. “It’s from the janitor or somebody else in the building.”

Bradley shook his head. “No, it’s not, Lon. That’s a very clean print. You can see the insignia on the heel very plainly: two crossed oars. Those are Wiggins wing tips-three-hundred-dollar jobs. There ain’t no janitor and nobody in that slum of an apartment building who wears three-hundred-dollar wing tips.”

“Look, Jamahl,” Stafford grimaced. “We got twenty-seven footprints from Jack Swyteck inside the apartment. We got one stray footprint outside the apartment. Quit bein’ a pain in the ass, will ya?”

Bradley sighed. His doubts weren’t alleviated, but he didn’t want to provoke his partner. “Maybe you’re right,” he said as he rose from his chair and stepped toward the door. Then he stopped. “But let me put it to you this way, Lon. Twenty-seven footprints from the same pair of shoes add up to how many people?”

Stafford shrugged, as if the question were stupid. “One, of course,” he said.

“That’s right. And no matter how you look at it, one single footprint from a different pair of shoes adds up to what?”

“One person,” Stafford answered reluctantly.

“Right,” said Bradley, “as in one other person. Think about it,” he said.

Sometime after 2:00 A.M. Jack finally fell asleep with Cindy in his arms. He awoke at about ten o’clock, and he smiled at the sight of her sleeping at his side. She looked great even m the morning, he thought. Cindy was the woman he loved, the only woman he really wanted. Her coming back to him was like a dream come true.

He heard a pounding on the front door. He immediately sat upright; he knew who it was. Grand juries normally convened at nine. As much as he’d expected the visit, he still shuddered at the thought that he was no longer just someone the prosecutor had labeled a grand jury “target” if his guess was correct, in the last hour he’d been formally indicted for murder in the first degree.

He jumped out of bed and pulled on khaki slacks and loafers. The pounding continued.

Cindy sat up. “What is it?”

He slipped on a blue oxford shirt, decided against a tie, and then spoke in a voice that strained to be upbeat. “I think it’s time. . they probably handed down an indictment.” He went to the bureau, checked himself in the mirror, and quickly brushed his hair. He fumbled through his wallet and took out all the pictures and credit cards, leaving only his driver’s license, voter’s registration, and fifty dollars cash. He shoved the wallet into his back pocket, tucked in his shirt, and took a deep breath. In the mirror he saw Cindy looking at him, and he turned to meet her stare.

“I love you, Jack,” she said quietly.

He felt a rush of emotion, which he managed to control, then, smiling a sad smile, said, “I love you, too.”

The knocking continued, louder this time.

“It won’t be bad,” he assured her. “It’s not like they’re about to lock me up and throw away the key. They’ll book me at the station, and then I’ll go before the judge, who’ll probably release me on bail. I’ll be home this afternoon. No sweat.” He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

She nodded slowly. A tear rolled down her cheek as she watched him turn and disappear into the hallway. Another loud knock, and it was definitely time to go.

“Coming,” Jack said as he walked briskly toward the front door. He grabbed the knob, then stopped to collect himself. He was as ready as he’d ever be. Ironically, he’d coolly and calmly counseled scores of clients on how to prepare for arrest, but now he realized that this was one of those events that no amount of preparation could completely smooth over.

Jack swallowed his apprehension and opened the door.

“Manny?” he said with surprise.

“How you doing, Jack?” replied Manuel Cardenal, Florida’s preeminent criminal defense lawyer. Jack knew him from the courthouse. Everyone knew Manuel Cardenal from the courthouse. He’d started his career twenty years ago as a murder-rape-robbery public defender, making his name defending the guilty. He’d spent the last ten years at the helm of his own law firm, making a fortune defending the wealthy.

“What are you doing here?” asked Jack.

“I’m your attorney. Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

Manny stepped inside. He wore a blue double-breasted suit, black Italian shoes, and a colorful silk necktie with matching handkerchief showing from the left breast pocket. He stopped to check his reflection in the mirror beside the door and obviously liked what he saw. At forty-three, Manny’s life with women was at its peak; younger women still found him handsome, while older women were drawn to his youthfulness. He had a smile that bespoke confidence and experience, yet his eyes sparkled with the vibrancy of a teenage heartthrob. He wore his jet-black hair straight back, no part, as if he were looking into a windstorm. He turned and faced the man in the eye of a real storm.

“I didn’t hire you,” said Jack. “Not that I wouldn’t want to. I just can’t afford you.”

Manny took a seat on the couch. “Sorry for the short notice, but just this morning your father retained me on your behalf.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your father regrets that you have to suffer at his expense.”

“At his expense?”

Manny nodded. “You’re going to have one hell of a day, Jack. If you weren’t Harry Swyteck’s son, you wouldn’t be dragged out of your house in cuffs and carted away in a squad car with the lights flashing. You wouldn’t be locked up like a crack dealer pulled off the street and forced to wait in the pen for arraignment. You’d be allowed to surrender yourself and immediately be released on your own recognizance, or at worst for some token signature bond. It’s politics,” Manny explained, “and your father regrets that.”

“Are you saying that the indictment was politically motivated?”

“No. But everything after the indictment will be.”

“Great. . so I’m going to be dragged through the system by my father’s political enemies.”

“I’m afraid so, Jack. I called the state attorney to see if they’d just let you come in and surrender quietly. No go. They want a spectacle. They want publicity. Your case is already a political football. Your father recognizes that. And he knows that however your case goes, so goes his election.”

“Is that the reason you’re here, Manny? To save my father’s election?”

“All I know is what your father told me, Jack.”

Jack narrowed his eyes and took a good look at Manny, as if he were searching his face for the truth. “I’m not stupid, Manny. And I know my father. At least I know him well enough to know that this can’t be entirely about politics. And I know you, too. I don’t believe a man like you would get involved in this case if my father didn’t genuinely want to help me. So what gives? Why did the two of you have to come up with this little charade to make it look like the governor is doing it not for me, but for his own political gain? Is he too proud or too afraid to tell the truth? Why the hell doesn’t he just be my father and tell me he wants to help?”