James Grippando - The Pardon

“With that cop, Stafford,” she said, then looked away in shame. “The truth,” she said with a lump in her throat, “is that right after you were indicted, he came over to question me. I let the creep use my bathroom, and he comes out saying he just saw enough amphetamines sitting out in plain view to put me away for years. I use them to lose weight. It’s not smart, but I do it. Anyway, he said he wouldn’t bring any charges if I’d help him out. And all I did was tell him the truth. It’s just the sneaky way he made me do it that has me so disgusted. I mean, how do you think the prosecutor knew every little detail about the morning Cindy left you? She told me all about it. And I told Stafford. And then Cindy got creamed on the witness stand.”

Jack felt a rush of anger, but he kept cool-because a tremendous opportunity was within his grasp. “Gina,” he said in a calm, understanding tone, “this is important. What Stafford made you do isn’t just sleazy. It’s illegal. The prosecution has violated the law by failing to tell Manny and me that Stafford cut a deal with a government witness. This could get the whole case against me dismissed. The trial could be over tomorrow. I could go free .”

“What do you want me to do?” she asked cautiously.

“All I want you to do is to get on the witness stand tomorrow morning and say exactly what you told me. That’s it. Just tell the truth.”

“And then what happens to me? I’ll go to jail on drug charges?”

He thought fast. “The state will have to honor its deal with you. Stafford made the promise. You’ve already lived up to your end. You told the truth. It’s Stafford’s fault if it blows up in his face, not yours.”

“I don’t know-”

“Gina,” he pressed. “You’ve told the truth so far. I respect you for that. But if you told the truth for Stafford, the least you can do is tell the truth for me.”

She sighed. “This is so crazy. But in the last twenty-four hours, it’s like I’ve suddenly got this feeling that it’s time to start making up for all the lies I’ve told my entire life. I just feel like it’s time to tell the truth.”

“The truth is best,” he said. “Even when it hurts.”

She swallowed hard. “All right. I’ll do it.”

Jack’s heart was in his throat. “In fact, why don’t I call Manny now, and we can go over some things-”

“No. I don’t want to do this according to a script.”

“I understand,” he said, sensing that he shouldn’t push too hard.

Gina rose. “I’ll see you at the courthouse at eight-thirty,” she said, leading him out “Right now, I need some sleep.”

He nodded in agreement “I’ll see you then,” he said as they reached the door.

She laid her hand on his shoulder and stopped him. “I’m sorry about you and Cindy,” she said. “I really am.”

“Thanks,” he said.

As he drove home, he was barely conscious of the tires gripping the road. He felt like he was floating on air. His conversation with Gina had made him feel alive again. Suddenly he felt hope.

At 3:30 A.M., just as Jack and Manny had finished planning a case-saving cross-examination of Gina Terisi, bare-breasted women were dancing one last set at Jiggles, a rundown, smoke-filled strip joint where stiff drinks came as cheap as the thrills. A buxom black woman wearing only spike heels and a holster was lit by an orangey-red spotlight as she strutted up and down the long bar top, thrusting her hips to the delight of the drunk and howling crowd each time the rap vocalist on the jukebox screamed “I like big butts!” Around the room women danced on little round tables, each wearing only boots or bow ties or maybe a Stetson, and all of them wearing a garter on one thigh so the men they teased could stuff them with cash and extend their fantasies.

Just before closing, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a clean-shaved head and a diamond-stud earring presented himself at the entrance. A bearded bouncer who looked like he was moonlighting from the pro wrestling tour stepped in front of him. “We close in fifteen minutes,” he said.

“That’s all the time I need,” the man replied as he started inside. The bouncer grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Ten-dollar cover, chief.”

“Shee-it.” But he was in a hurry, so he paid it and stepped inside. He looked around the room, first checking the bar top and then each individual table for the woman he knew as Rebecca. She knew him as Buzz, a name she’d given him not simply because of his shaved head, but because of his whole look. She said his hook nose, folds of leathery skin, and skinny neck made him look like a buzzard. Especially at night, when his eyes were bloodshot. Rebecca usually worked until closing, but Buzz didn’t see her anywhere. Then his eyes lit up as he saw her standing by the cigarette machine, having a smoke.

She had short, wavy hair-black, this week-and the best body of all the dancers. She was dressed tonight, or as dressed as women ever got here. A sleeveless V-neck undershirt with the neck-line ripped down to her navel revealed ample cleavage and a long chain necklace as thick as a dog leash. Tight black leather shorts with silver studs on the pockets were cut up to the middle of her round rear end, and shiny patent-leather boots rose up to the butterfly tattoo on her inner thigh. He caught her eye from across the room and walked over to her.

“I’m done for the night,” she said, blowing smoke in his face.

He shook his head, as if he knew better. “How much?”

“Three hundred.”

“Fuck you.”

“That would be extra.”

He emptied his pants pockets. “I got a hundred sixty dollars. Take it or leave it.”

“Deal.” She snatched the money and stuffed it into the top of her boot. “But I ain’t goin’ back to the car with you for no hundred sixty. We do it in here.”

“Here?” he winced.

“Over there,” she said, pointing to a dark and isolated corner. “Meet you there.”

He nodded in agreement, then headed for the corner. Rebecca stepped up to the bar. “The crazy-man’s usual,” she told the bartender. “Margarita, just salt.” The bartender smirked and handed her a glass filled only with margarita salt, moistened with a squirt of lemon juice. “Thanks,” she said, then strutted toward the darkest corner of the bar.

“I missed you,” he said when she returned.

Rebecca put the glass on the table, threw her shoulders back, and placed her hands on her hips. “Don’t talk shit,” she barked like a drill sergeant.

“You’re right,” he said in a husky whisper. “I’ve been bad.”

“Just as I thought,” she spat, her voice growing menacing. “You know what happens when you’re bad.”

He nodded hungrily.

She raised her index finger, stuck it in her mouth, and sucked it sensually, from base to tip. She immersed it in the glass of lemony margarita salt and stirred, then removed it and held it before his eyes. The crystals stuck to her moistened finger. “How bad were you?” she demanded.

He got down on his knees and looked up sheepishly. “Very bad,” he assured her.

Slowly, she lowered her coated finger and rubbed the salt deep into his eye. He cringed and moaned, his head rolling back with perverse pleasure. His intermittent cries of pain were drowned out by the loud music. She knew he liked her to remain tough, but she had to fight to keep a look of fear from crossing her face. She’d seen men approach ecstasy in the bar before, usually the creeps who got tossed out for masturbating. But he was beyond ecstasy. This was utter rapture.

He regained his composure, still on his knees. He looked up at her through his one good eye. The other was puffy and closed. Lemon and salty tears streamed down his cheek. For a hundred sixty bucks, he knew he’d have her for at least another song. “Put the salt away,” he said. “I’ve been very, very bad.”