James Grippando - The Pardon

He shook off the memory and tried to focus. What had the stalker said when he attacked Jack on the bus? Something about “innocent people” getting hurt if he turned to others for help. He looked at Manny with apprehension, then sprinted down the hall to a bank of pay phones near the rest rooms. He quickly dialed Cindy’s work number.

He nearly fainted with relief as the sound of her voice came on the line. “Thank God you’re all right.”

“I just heard about Gina,” she said. “Her brother called me.”

“They’re saying I did it.”

“They’re liars,” she said. “The things that animal did to her. .” She shuddered. “No sane human being would do that.”

He didn’t know the details, but he didn’t have to ask. “ Please, be careful,” he said, “I’m worried about you. If there’s anything you need or want, just call me.”

“I’ll be all right,” she said. “Really, I will.”

He wanted to say something else, anything, to keep her on the line, but words eluded him.

“Good luck,” she said, meaning it.

“Thanks,” he said softly. “Cindy, I-”

“I know,” she said, “you don’t have to say it.”

“I love you,” he blurted out.

He heard what he thought was a sob on the other end of the line, and then she said, “Good-bye, Jack.”

“Call your next witness, Mr. McCue,” Judge Tate announced from the bench.

Trial had reconvened at nine o’clock, Wednesday. As promised, the judge had instructed the jurors that they were to disregard Gina Terisi’s testimony and that they were to infer nothing from her failure to return to the courtroom to complete her testimony. The instruction, of course, had evoked nothing but suspicious glares from the jury-all of them directed at the defense. With that, the government spent the morning with some technical witnesses, then moved directly after lunch to its final big witness-an experienced fighter who could hardly wait to take his best punch at Eddy Goss’s staggering lawyer.

“The State calls Lonzo Stafford,” said McCue.

The packed courtroom was silent as Detective Stafford marched down the center aisle, the click of his heels on the marble floor echoing throughout. After taking the oath and stating his name and occupation, Stafford allowed himself to be guided by McCue in a summary of the physical evidence against Jack Swyteck.

Stafford’s testimony unfolded like a script: The defendant’s fingerprints matched those on the steak knife in Goss’s kitchen; twenty-seven footprints matched the tread on his Reeboks; his blood type matched the blood on the blade; Mr. Swyteck appeared nervous and edgy the next day, when Detective Stafford interviewed him; he had scratches on his back and a bruise on his ribs, as if he’d been in a scuffle; and Swyteck knew that Goss had been killed by gunshot before the detectives had mentioned anything about a shooting. And, just as McCue had planned, the witness saved the best for last.

“When you say Goss was killed by gunshot,” asked McCue, “what kind of gun do mean, exactly?”

“It was a handgun. A thirty-eight-caliber, for sure. And there was definitely a silencer on it.”

“Was the murder weapon ever found?”

“Not the gun, no. However, we did locate the silencer.”

“And where did you find the silencer that was used to kill Eddy Goss?”

Stafford’s eyes brightened as he looked right at Jack. “We retrieved it from Mr. Swyteck’s vehicle.”

A murmur filled the courtroom. The jurors glanced at each other, as if the case were all but over.

“No further questions,” said the prosecutor. He turned and glanced at counsel for the defense. “Your witness,” he said, dripping with confidence.

Manuel Cardenal was at his best in the spotlight, and this one was white-hot. His client, the jurors, the packed gallery, and especially the witness were filled with anticipation, everyone wondering if the skilled defense counsel could rescue his client. Manny stepped to within ten feet of the government’s final witness and stared coldly at his target “Detective Stafford,” he began, “let’s start by talking about the alleged victim in this case, shall we?”

“Whatever you want, counselor.”

“Anyone who is alive and breathing in this town has heard of Eddy Goss,” said Manny. “We all know the awful things Mr. Goss was alleged to have done. And we all know that Mr. Swyteck was his lawyer. But there’s one thing I want to make clear for the jury: You were personally involved in the investigation that led to Mr. Goss’s arrest, were you not?”

“Yes,” he replied, knowing he was being toyed with. “I was the lead detective in the Goss case.”

“You personally interrogated Mr. Goss, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“In fact, you elicited a full confession from Mr. Goss. A confession on videotape.”

“That’s right.”

“But that confession wasn’t used at Mr. Goss’s trial.”

“No,” he answered quietly. “It was ruled inadmissible.”

“It was ruled inadmissible because you broke the rules,” said Manny, his tone judgmental.

Stafford drew a sigh, controlling his anger. “The judge found that I had violated Mr. Goss’s constitutional rights, ” he said, spitting out the words sarcastically.

“And it was Mr. Swyteck who pointed out your violation to the court, wasn’t it?”

Stafford leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “He exploited it.”

Manny stepped to one side, closer to the jury, as if he were on their side. “That must have been very embarrassing for you, Detective.”

“It was a travesty of justice,” replied Stafford, using the words the prosecutor had coached him with the night before.

Manny smirked, sensing that he was getting under Stafford’s skin. Then he approached the witness and handed him an exhibit. “This is a copy of a newspaper article from June of this year, marked as Defendant’s Exhibit 1. It reports certain pretrial developments in the case against Eddy Goss. Could you read the bold headline to us, please? Nice and loud,” he added, gesturing toward the jurors, “so we all can hear.”

Stafford scowled at his interrogator, then cleared his throat and reluctantly read aloud: “Judge throws out Goss confession.”

“And the trailer, too,” said Manny. “Read the little trailer underneath the headline.”

Stafford’s face reddened with anger. “Seasoned cop botched interrogation,” he read. Then he laid the newspaper on the rail in front of him and glared at Manny.

“And that’s your photograph there beneath the headline, isn’t it, sir?”

“That’s my picture,” he confirmed.

“In forty years of police work, Mr. Stafford, had you ever gotten your picture on the front page of the newspaper?”

“Just this once,” Stafford grunted.

“In forty years,” Manny continued, “had you ever screwed up a case this bad?”

“Objection,” said McCue.

“I didn’t screw it up,” Stafford said sharply, too eager to defend himself to wait for the judge to rule.

“Overruled,” said the judge.

“I’m sorry,” Manny said, feigning an apology. “In forty years, had you ever been blamed for a screw-up this bad?”

“Never,” he croaked.

“Yet, there you are, page one, section A, in probably the least flattering mug shot the newsroom could dig up: the ‘seasoned cop’ who ‘botched the interrogation.’ “Manny moved closer, crouching somewhat, as if digging for the truth. “Who do you blame for that?” he pressed. “Do you blame yourself, Detective?”

Stafford glared at his interrogator. “At first I did.”