James Grippando - The Pardon

“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.

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.”

“So, somebody wanted you to think Goss was after you,” said Manny, moving the theory along. “Why?”

“I don’t know exactly why. I guess because they planned to kill him. And they planned to make it look like I did it. That’s why the silencer showed up in my car at the repair shop. Somebody planted it there.”

Manny stroked his chin, thinking. “And why would someone want to pin you with the murder of Eddy Goss?”

“Again,” Jack said with a shrug, “I don’t know. Maybe to retaliate against me for getting Goss acquitted. Friend of the victim, or somebody like that. Maybe even a cop. All the lawyers from the Freedom Institute have lots of enemies on the force. And we already have that nine-one-one call about a cop being on the scene right after Goss was killed.”

That much was true. They did know about the cop. The prosecutor had disclosed that information under rules established by the Supreme Court, which required the government to disclose helpful information to the defense. “We have a recorded phone message,” said Manny, putting the evidence on the cop in perspective, “but we don’t have a witness, because we don’t have a name and we don’t know who the caller is.” Then he sighed, swiveled in his leather chair, and looked out the window.

Jack studied his lawyer’s face, trying to discern his thoughts. It was important to Jack that Manny believe him, not just because Manny was his attorney, but because he was the only person other than Cindy to whom Jack had proclaimed his innocence-and he was a man whose judgment people valued. That was obvious, Jack thought as he admired the way income from praiseworthy clients had helped Manny furnish his oversized office. Primitive but priceless pre-Colombian art adorned his walls and bookshelves. Sculptured Mayan warriors lined the wall of windows overlooking the glistening bay, as if worshiping the bright morning sun. A touch of sentimentality rested atop his sleek marble-top desk: a glass vase with a white ribbon around it, containing the black soil of a homeland the Cardenal family had left more than three decades ago, fleeing a Cuban revolutionary turned despot.

“Let me say this, Jack,” Manny said as he turned to face his client. “I do believe you’re innocent. Not that guilt or innocence is relevant to whether I would defend you. I want you to know it, though, because it’s important you continue to tell me everything.

“That said,” he continued, “I hope you’ll understand if I don’t appear overly enthusiastic about your frame-up theory. I’ve been doing this for twenty years. Every client I’ve ever represented claimed he was framed. Juries are skeptical of these kind of claims, as I’m sure you’re aware. That makes it a tough defense to prove.”

“Tough-but not impossible.”

“No,” Manny agreed. “Not impossible. And I think we already have a couple of very important leads to follow, which may prove key to your theory. One is this Richard Dressler. Who is he, and why is he snooping in your file? And second, we need to find out who made that nine-one-one call and reported they saw a police officer leaving the scene of the crime. Obviously, we need to get on both these leads immediately. It could take some time, especially tracking down the nine-one-one caller.”