James Grippando - The Pardon

“Mr. Swyteck,” Judge Tate demanded from the bench, her tone more threatening than inquisitive, “just where is your lawyer?”

Jack rose slowly. Manny had phoned him a few minutes before nine and told him to stall until he got there. That made Jack the sacrificial lamb, for he knew the one thing that absolutely incensed Judge Tate was a lawyer who kept her waiting. “Your Honor,” he said apprehensively, “I’m sure there’s an excellent explanation for Mr. Cardenal’s tardiness.”

Judge Tate scowled, but before she could tell Jack just how excellent his lawyer’s explanation had better be, the double mahogany doors in the back of the courtroom flew open and Manny walked down the center aisle. The steady tap of his heels echoed over the quiet murmur of the crowd.

“You’re late, counselor,” the judge said severely.

“I apologize, Your Honor,” Manny said as he passed through the swinging gate on the rail, “but there was a last-minute development-”

“Two-hundred-dollar fine, Mr. Cardenal! Bailiff, call in the jury!”

“Your Honor,” he pleaded, “could I please have a word with my client? Just a couple minutes is all I need.”

“All rise!” came the bailiff’s announcement, and with it Manny’s plea was drowned out by the shuffle of six hundred spectators rising to their feet. The jurors filed in and took their seats. The bailiff called the court to session, proclaiming “God save this honorable court.” The judge bid a pleasant “good morning” to everyone, then turned to the defense.

“Mr. Cardenal,” she said with an unfriendly smile, “will you be putting on a defense?”

Manny swallowed hard. He’d been meeting with his witness all morning, but Jack still knew nothing about it. It was Manny’s duty to inform his client what was going on. “Your Honor, if I could have just a brief recess.”

“Obviously you didn’t hear me,” she interrupted. “I asked you a question, Mr. Cardenal: Will there be a defense?”

He nodded. “I may have one witness, Your Honor, but-”

“Call your witness, or rest your case. And I mean it. You’ve kept us waiting long enough.”

Manny took a deep breath. He wanted Jack’s approval, but there was no time for discussion.

“Mr. Cardenal,” the judge pressed, “we’re waiting.”

Manny paused, his eyes locking with Jack’s for a moment. Jack gave a quick nod, as if he instinctively sensed that whatever Manny had planned was the right thing to do. Manny smiled briefly, then looked up at the judge. “If it please the court,” he announced in a resounding voice, “the defense calls Governor Harold Swyteck.”

A wave of surprise hit the courtroom like a huge breaker on the beach. The heavy wood doors in the rear of the courtroom swung open, and in walked a tall, handsome man whose gold cuff links and graying around the temples added color and distinction to a dark suit and crisp white shirt. Harold Swyteck never just appeared. He was the kind of man who made an appearance. Being governor amplified that trait. Being both governor and the surprise witness in his own son’s murder trial made this the appearance of a lifetime.

The courtroom was electric yet silent as the governor came down the aisle. As he passed, heads turned in row after row like a wheat field bending in the breeze. Everyone knew who he was, but no one knew what he would say-not even Jack. A strange sensation filled the courtroom as he stepped to the witness stand and swore the oath. It was as if the bailiff had stood up and officially announced that the young man on trial was indeed the governor’s son. The prosecutor’s gut wrenched. The jurors stared in anticipation. Jack’s heart filled with hope and with something else, too-something pleasant, if unfamiliar: genuine pride.

“Good morning,” Manny greeted the distinguished witness from behind the lectern. “If you would, sir, please introduce yourself to the jury.”

The governor swiveled in his chair and faced the jurors. “I’m Harold Swyteck,” he said cordially. “Most people call me Harry.”

A few jurors showed faint smiles of familiarity. If it were possible for one man to look at twelve people simultaneously and make each one of them feel like the only person on the planet who mattered, Harold Swyteck was doing it. He responded directly to them after each of Manny’s introductory questions, as if the jurors, not the lawyer, were eliciting the testimony.

“Now, Governor,” said Manny, marking the transition from introductory questions to more substantive testimony, “I want to focus on the events that took place immediately after the trial of Eddy Goss. Did anything out of the ordinary happen to you?”

The governor took a deep breath, glanced at Jack, and then looked back at the jury. “Yes,” he replied solemnly. “I was attacked.”

“You were what ?” the judge asked. The stunned reaction was the same throughout the courtroom.

Jack watched with concern as his father explained not just the attack, but also the reason for it. Harry admitted that his attacker had blackmailed him and that he had paid the man thousands of dollars.

And then he explained why.

“The man threatened to reveal that I’d executed an innocent man,” he said. His voice was low and subdued. His eyes filled with remorse. “A man named Raul Fernandez.”

A buzz of whispers filled the courtroom. Reporters scribbled down the new name, some of them recalling it from the outburst at the governor’s press conference. Every word was another nail in the governor’s political coffin.

“Order,” said the judge, banging her gavel.

Jack went cold. Long ago, he’d come to the conclusion that he and his father would never discuss Fernandez again, not even privately. His public confession was overwhelming-and a bit confusing, really, until Manny’s next line of questioning brought it all into focus.

“Did you come to any conclusion, Governor, about the identity of the man who was threatening you?”

“Yes,” he said with conviction. “I firmly believed it was Eddy Goss.”

The whispering throughout the courtroom became a quiet rumble. Jurors exchanged glances. No one seemed quite sure whether to feel sympathy or suspicion.

“Order!” the judge intoned, more loudly this time, and with a few more cracks of the gavel.

Manny waited for the courtroom to settle, then proceeded, still standing behind the lectern. “Governor,” he asked gently, though pointedly, “why did you think it was Eddy Goss who was blackmailing you?”

Harry took a deep breath. “I first thought it was Goss when one of the messages I received was accompanied by a bouquet of chrysanthemums. I’m sure you recall that Goss was known as the Chrysanthemum Killer. But what really convinced me was when I learned that the address the blackmailer had told me to deliver the ten thousand dollars to-four-oh-nine East Adams Street-was where Goss lived.”

“And did you in fact go to Goss’s address?”

“Yes, I did-at four o’clock in the morning, on the second of August.”

The courtroom exploded once again in a torrent of whispers-followed immediately by the rapping of Judge Tate’s gavel. “Order!”

“Judge,” the prosecutor croaked. “I move to strike all of this testimony. It’s-it’s,” he stammered, searching desperately for some way to stop this assault on his ironclad case. “It’s prejudicial!”

The judge frowned. “I don’t doubt it’s prejudicial, Mr. McCue. I hardly think Mr. Cardenal would call a witness to help your case. Overruled.”

McCue grimaced as he lowered himself into his chair.

Manny smiled briefly, then continued. “Just a few more questions,” he told his witness. “Governor, is there any way you can prove you were at Eddy Goss’s apartment on the night he was murdered?”