James Grippando - The Pardon

Now all he had to do was figure out a way to get Jack to tell him.

“S tate versus Swyteck ,” the bailiff finally announced, ending Jack’s ninety-minute wait in the holding cell. The cavernous courtroom came to life as Manuel Cardenal met his client at the prisoner’s side entrance and escorted him across the marble floor to a mahogany podium, where they stood and faced the judge. Clusters of newscasters and curious spectators looked on from the public seating area as Jack passed before them, his head down and eyes forward, the accused murderer of the infamous Eddy Goss. Goss was indeed on Jack’s mind. The entire scene was hauntingly reminiscent of the Goss arraignment, when Jack had accompanied the confessed killer to the very same podium to enter his not-guilty plea. Now, as Jack was about to enter his own plea, it was more plain than ever that a simple “not guilty” was no assertion of innocence. Innocence was a moral judgment-a matter of conscience between mortals and their maker. “Not guilty” was a legalistic play on words, the defendant’s public affirmation that he would stand on his constitutional right to force the prosecutor to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Manuel Cardenal seemed sensitive to that fine distinction when he entered Jack’s plea.

“My client is more than not guilty,” Manny announced to the judge. “Jack Swyteck is innocent.”

The pale old judge peered down from the bench over the top of his bifocals, his wrinkled brow furrowed and bushy white eyebrows raised. He didn’t approve of defense lawyers who vouched for the innocence of their clients, but he didn’t make an issue of it. “Register a plea of not guilty,” he directed the clerk. “And Mr. Cardenal,” he said sharply, pointing menacingly with his gavel, “save the speeches for your press conference.”

Manny just smiled to himself.

“There’s also the issue of bail, Judge,” came the deep, gravelly voice from across the room. It was Wilson McCue, the state attorney, wearing his traditional three-piece suit. His pudgy face was nearly as round as his rimless spectacles, and a heavy gold chain from his pocket watch stretched across a bulging belly. Jack knew that the aging state attorney rarely even went to trial anymore, so seeing him at a routine matter like an arraignment was a bit like noticing a semiretired general on the front lines. “The govuhment,” McCue continued in his deep drawl, “requests that the court set bail at-”

“I’m quite familiar with the case,” the judge interrupted, “and I know the defendant. Mr. Swyteck is no stranger to the criminal courtrooms. Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars. Next case,” he announced with a bang of his gavel.

McCue’s mouth hung open momentarily, unaccustomed as he was to such abrupt treatment from anyone, including judges.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Manny.

Jack moved quickly across the courtroom to the clerk, continuing along the assembly line. Thankfully, the politicians hadn’t gotten the judge to deny bail. Now all Jack had to do to get back on the street was pledge his every worldly possession to Jose Restrepo-Merono, the five-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound Puerto Rican president of “F. Lee Bail-Me, Inc.”-the only bail bondsman ever known to have a sense of humor.

Jack returned to the holding cell for another hour or so while Manny’s assistant handled the mechanical aspects of posting bail. Late that afternoon he was released, thankful he could spend the night in his own bed. He didn’t have a car, since Stafford had driven him to the station. Manny’s assistant was supposed to swing by and take Jack home, so he wouldn’t have to wait for a taxi while fighting off reporters eager for their shot at eliciting a little quote that might make theirs the breaking story. As it turned out, though, Manny himself showed up at the curb behind the wheel of his Jaguar. The look on his face told Jack he wasn’t just playing chauffeur.

“Get in,” Manny said solemnly when Jack opened the door.

Jack slid into the passenger seat, and Manny pulled into the late-afternoon traffic.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” said Jack.

“Your father called me,” Manny replied, as if that were enough to explain his appearance. He looked away from the road, just long enough to read Jack’s face. “He told me about Raul Fernandez. I heard all about your request for a stay that night, and his response.”

Jack smoldered, but said nothing. Instead, he made a conscious effort to look out the window.

“Okay,” he said finally, “so now you know the Swyteck family secret. We not only defend the guilty. We execute the innocent.”

Manny steered around the corner, then pulled into a parking space beneath a shady tree. He wanted to look right at his client as he spoke. “I don’t know everything, Jack. I only know what your father knows about that night. And he’s missing a key piece of information. So we both want to know if there’s more to this case than whether Jack Swyteck killed Eddy Goss. He and I both want a straight answer from you: Did Raul Fernandez die for Eddy Goss?”

“What?” Jack asked, thoroughly confused.

“The night before Fernandez was executed, was Eddy Goss the guy who came to you and confessed to the murder? Was Raul Fernandez innocent, and Eddy Goss guilty?”

“Where did you dream up-” Jack paused, calmed himself down. “Look, Manny, if my father wants to talk, I’ll talk to him. Fernandez is between him and me. This has nothing to do with your defending me for the murder of Eddy Goss.”

“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.”