James Grippando - The Pardon

“No. We fucked each other. Nobody got any sleep. And, most important, he didn’t spend the night. Jack left my townhouse before three. I’m certain of that.”

Manny again glanced at his client, but Jack wouldn’t look him in the eye.

Gina rose from her chair and headed for the door. “Sorry, fellas,” she said as she reached the door. “I’m not going to tell the world I betrayed my best friend and went to bed with her boyfriend, when the truth really isn’t much help.”

Manny leaned across his desk to make his point in a firm but not quite threatening manner. “You realize we can subpoena you. We can make you testify.”

“You can make me show up at the courthouse. But you can’t make me say Jack was with me. Not unless I want to say it.”

Manny knew she was right. He tried another angle. “You should want to,” said Manny. “You should want to help Jack.”

“That’s just the point: I don’t want to. Good day, gentlemen,” she said coolly, then left the room, closing the door behind her.

The two men sat in uncomfortable silence, until Jack looked into Manny’s piercing black eyes and said, “I warned you about her.”

Manny seemed concerned, but not with Gina. “I don’t think she’s lying,” he said sharply. “And now I understand why you were having second thoughts about the alibi. I think you lied to me, Jack. You told me you spent the night with her. All night. That was a lie, wasn’t it?”

Jack sighed and averted his eyes, then responded in a quiet tone. “It happened almost exactly the way I told you before, Manny. While we were making love or having sex or whatever you want to call it, somebody did sneak into the townhouse and smear ketchup on the sheets and put a chrysanthemum under Cindy’s pillow. And whoever it was called me and tried to get me to go back to Goss’s place-which I definitely wasn’t going to do at that point. But I didn’t stay either. I honestly didn’t want to leave Gina by herself-especially after seeing that some lunatic had taken a knife to my convertible. But I didn’t want to wake up the next morning with Gina by my side, either. Cindy and I were technically split up at the time, but that didn’t seem to matter. I just had to get the hell out of there. So I left.”

“Before three o’clock.”

“Right.”

“At least an hour before Goss was killed.”

Jack sighed. “I’m afraid so.”

“Unbelievable,” Manny groaned, shaking his head. “Or maybe it’s not unbelievable. I suppose it’s understandable that someone charged with murder might try to reach for something that’s not there. But honestly, Jack: What the hell were you thinking? Did you think she was going to have amnesia about what time it was when you left her apartment?”

“I don’t know,” Jack grimaced. “I guess I just hoped she wasn’t going to be so damn certain about the time. After all, we’d had a lot to drink. I thought she might be a little fuzzy on the time. Or maybe even she’d be wrong about the time and say I left at four-thirty.”

“You were hoping she was going to lie for you.”

“Not lie, no. I mean-I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking, Manny.”

Manny’s face showed deep disappointment. Then his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Are there any more lies, Jack, and more important, is your alibi the biggest lie you’ve told me?”

Jack became indignant. “Are you questioning my innocence?”

“Not based on what I’ve heard so far. But I can’t live with deception from a client who, at the very least, was willing to put himself in a position where he might have to kill Eddy Goss.”

“I resent that. I’d never kill anyone. ”

“Really? Then why did you go inside Goss’s apartment that night-before you went to Gina’s? And just what were you planning to do with that pistol you were packing?”

Jack paused. It was a difficult question. “Maybe I don’t know what I was going to do with it.”

Manny looked his client straight in the eye. “You can do better than that,” he said, speaking in a tone that forced Jack to search his own soul. Manny’s look was not accusatory. It was not judgmental. But it still made Jack uncomfortable.

“Look, Manny. The bottom line is this: I didn’t kill Eddy Goss.”

“Then don’t kill your chances for an acquittal,” he said, “and don’t manipulate your lawyer.”

Jack looked him in the eye. He said nothing, but they’d reached an understanding. Then he rose from his chair and stepped toward the window. “We’re really better off without Gina anyway. Better this blew up now than at trial.”

Manny leaned back in his chair. “One thing still bothers me, though. When I told Gina she should help you, she said she didn’t want to. That disturbs me.”

“That’s just Gina.”

“Maybe. But when she says she doesn’t want to help you, is that all she’s saying? Or is she saying she wants to hurt you?”

Jack froze. His throat felt suddenly dry. “I don’t think so. But with her, you really never know.”

“We need to know.”

“I suppose I could talk with her. I think she’d say more if it were just the two of us.”

“All right,” Manny nodded. “Try the personal approach. The sooner the better. Let’s talk again as soon as you’ve had a conversation with her.”

“I’ll call you first thing.” He shook Manny’s hand, then started across the room.

“Oh, Jack,” Manny called out as his client reached the door. Jack stopped short and looked back at his lawyer.

“This Gina is a key player,” said Manny. “Don’t get into it with her. Be polite. And if it’s not going well, just ask her if she’ll meet with me. Then let me handle her. And don’t worry. I’m good with witnesses. Especially women.”

“Thanks,” Jack replied, his expression deadpan. “But you’ve never known a woman like this one.”

Seventy-three-year-old Wilfredo Garcia stood in his kitchen before his old gas stove cooking dinner, bistec palamillo and platanos fritos- flank steak and fried plantains. A Cuban who’d come to the United States with grown children in 1962, he had never become completely conversant in his adopted tongue, often shifting to Spanish to get his point across. He was a likable sort, though, and even his English listeners easily forgave his linguistic limitations.

Wilfredo was pudgy, with warm, deep brown eyes and chubby cheeks. He loved to eat, and most nights he dined at home, since the area of Adams Street wasn’t really safe after dark.

Tonight, just as he was smothering his steak with chopped onions and parsley, the phone rang. He glanced up, but he didn’t answer. He’d been ignoring his phone calls for the past couple days, ever since he’d read that article in the newspaper about how important the 911 call could be in the case against Jack Swyteck. He knew it was only a matter of time before they’d come looking for the man who’d been so ambivalent about getting involved that he’d called from a pay phone to keep the police from tracing it. He still didn’t want to get involved. So until things blew over, he’d decided to live like a hermit.

But the phone kept on ringing-ten times, and then more than a dozen. It had to be important, he figured. Maybe it was his daughter in Brooklyn. Or his bookie. He turned off the stove and picked up the phone.

“Oigo,” he answered in his native Spanish.

“Wilfredo Garcia?”

“ Si .”

“This is Officer Michael Cookson of Metro-Dade Police. How you doin’ this evening, sir?”