James Grippando - The Pardon

“Save your motion, Mr. Cardenal,” she said. Then she turned toward the jurors. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she said in a very serious tone, “I am instructing you to disregard that last outburst. Those remarks are not evidence in this case. As I instructed you earlier, you are not to draw any inference whatsoever from the fact that Ms. Terisi did not return to the courtroom to complete her testimony against the defendant.”

Jack’s heart sank as, yet again, he listened to the judge deliver the dreaded “curative instruction.” It was any criminal defendant’s nightmare. In theory, the instruction was supposed to “cure” any mistake at trial by telling the jury to disregard it. In reality it was, as lawyers often said, like trying to “unring” a bell. Jack knew the bottom line. Manny’s beautiful cross-examination had been ruined. The only thing the jury would remember was what the judge insisted they forget.

“As for you, Mr. McCue,” the judge’s reprimand continued, “Detective Stafford is your witness, and I’m holding you responsible, at least in part. Five-hundred-dollar fine!” she barked. “And Detective Stafford, you’re an experienced officer of the law. You know better. Why don’t you spend a night in the county jail to think about what you’ve done. And next time,” she warned, pointing menacingly with her gavel, “I won’t be so lenient. Bailiff,” she said with finality, “take the witness away.”

The bailiff stepped forward and led Stafford from the witness stand. He should have been ashamed, but he was looking at Jack and smiling. Jack looked away, but Stafford wasn’t going to let him off easy. He stopped, rested his hand on the table at which Jack was seated and looked him right in the eye. “I’ll save a seat for ya, Swyteck,” he whispered, loud enough only for Jack and the bailiff to hear.

“Detective,” the judge said sternly. “On your way!”

Jack looked up at Stafford but said nothing. The detective flashed a thin smile, then the bailiff tugged his arm and they headed for the exit.

“Mr. McCue,” the judge intoned, “do you have any more witnesses?”

McCue rose slowly, resting his fists on his chest with contentment, his thumbs tucked inside the lapels. “Your Honnuh,” he said, speaking like a Southern gentlemen, “on that note, the State most respectfully rests.”

“Very well,” she announced. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow, nine o’clock sharp. Mr. Cardenal: If you plan to put on a defense, be prepared to proceed. If not, we’ll conclude with closing arguments. Court’s in recess,” she said, then banged her gavel.

The crowd rose at the bailiff’s instruction and stood in silence as the jury filed out of the courtroom. Jack and Manny exchanged glances as the judge stepped down from the bench. The irony of her comments wasn’t lost on either of them. The fact was, as they both so painfully knew, that it wasn’t at all clear the defense had a defense.

At six o’clock the next morning, Governor Harold Swyteck was in his robe and slippers, shaving before a steamy bathroom mirror, when he heard a ring on the portable phone in his briefcase. It was the same phone he’d been given in Miami’s Bayfront Park. Realizing who was calling, the governor gave a start and nicked himself with the blade.

Annoyed, he dabbed his shaving wound with a washcloth, then dashed from the bathroom, grabbed the phone from his briefcase, and disappeared into the walk-in closet, so as not to wake his sleeping wife. “Hello,” he said, sounding slightly out of breath.

“Me again, Governor,” came the thick but now familiar voice.

Harry bristled with anger, but he wasn’t totally surprised by the call. Clever as this maniac was, he seemed to thrive on letting his victims know how much he enjoyed their suffering, like a gardener who planted a rare seed and then had to dig it up to make sure it was growing.

“What do you want now?” he answered. “A pair of argyle socks to go with your wing tips?”

“My, my,” came a condescending reply. “Aren’t we testy this morning. And all just because you’re gonna have to sign your own son’s death warrant.”

“My son is not going to be convicted.”

“Oh, no? Seems to me that his last chance at getting off is lying on a slab in the morgue. I’m sure you’ve heard that the fox who testified against him had him over for a little chat-and then ended up a bloody mess on her bedroom floor. Too bad, because if you happened to be the eavesdropping type”-he snickered, remembering how he’d perched outside her sliding-glass doors-“you’d know that she was going to get back on the stand and bail him out of trouble.”

“I knew it was you,” Harry said in a voice that mixed frustration with outrage. “You butchered that poor girl.”

“Jack Swyteck butchered her. I told him the rules. It’s just me against him. I warned him that whoever tried to help him was dead meat. He went and asked for the bitch’s help anyway. That son of yours did it again, Governor. He killed another innocent person.”

Harry shook with anger. “Listen to me, you sick son of a bitch. If you want your revenge for Raul Fernandez, go ahead and take it. But don’t take it out on my son. I’m the one responsible.”

“Now, isn’t that noble-the loving father who’s willing to sacrifice himself for his son. But I’m not stupid”-his voice turned bitter-“I know Jacky Boy didn’t even make an effort. If he had, his own father would have listened to him in a heartbeat.”

Harry sighed. You’d think so, unless that father were a pigheaded fool.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” Harry said firmly.

“And just who’s gonna stop me, Governor?”

“I am.”

“You can’t. Not unless you want to turn the case of State versus Swyteck into State versus Harold Swyteck. And not unless you want the whole world to know you’ve been paying off a blackmailer to cover up the execution of an innocent man. Didn’t you get the point of my poetry, my man? You’re as powerless to save your son as I was to save Raul.”

The governor’s hands began trembling. “You bastard. You despicable bastard. ”

“Sticks and stones-well, I think now you get the point. Gotta go, my man. Big day ahead of me. Should be a guilty verdict coming down in the Swyteck case.”

“You listen to me! I won’t allow my son-” he said before stopping mid-sentence. The caller had hung up.

“Damn you!” He pitched the phone aside. He was boiling mad, but he was feeling much more than that. He was scared. Not for himself, but for Jack.

He turned and saw his wife standing in the doorway.

“It was him again, wasn’t it?” she asked.

Sensing her fear, he took her in his arms and held her close. “Agnes,” he asked with a sigh, still holding her, “would you still love me if I weren’t the governor of Florida?”

“Of course I would, Harry,” she replied without hesitation. “Why would you ask such a silly question?”

He broke their embrace and stepped back, pondering his next move. “Because I think I’ve made a decision.”

At twenty minutes past nine, Judge Tate’s cavernous courtroom was packed with thirty rows of spectators, yet quiet enough to hear the scratch of a reporter’s pencil on his pad. Trial had been scheduled to begin at nine, but the jury had yet to be seated. Judge Tate presided on the bench with hands folded, her dour expression making it clear she was infuriated by the delay. The prosecutor sat erect and confident at the table closest to the empty jury box, pleased that the judge’s wrath would soon befall his opponent Jack was seated at the other side of the courtroom-nervous, confused, and alone.