James Grippando - The Pardon

Manny smiled. “We’ve got a special celebration planned,” he said with a wink. “Back at my office.”

Jack was overcome with a sense of euphoria. He felt like a death-row prisoner released into the bright light of day. He’d never been so eager to see his father. As he and Manny started toward the gate, they were stopped abruptly by Wilson McCue.

“I’d lose the smiles if I were you,” the prosecutor said bitterly. He spoke in a low, threatening voice that couldn’t be overheard by the noisy crowd on the other side of the rail. “This is only round one, boys, and round two is about to begin. It’s just a matter of how fast I can assemble the grand jury and draft the indictment, that’s all. I warned you, Swyteck. I said I’d come after you for the murder of Gina Terisi, and I meant it. Right now the only question is whether I’ll do it before or after I indict your old man for the murder of Eddy Goss.”

Jack’s eyes flared with contempt. “You just won’t take those blinders off, will you, McCue?”

“Jack,” Manny stopped him. “Say nothing.”

“That’s right,” McCue countered. “Say nothing. Take the fifth. It runs in the family.” He shook his head with disgust, then turned and stepped through the swinging gate, into the rabble of reporters clamoring at the rail.

Jack desperately wanted to rush after McCue and set him straight, but Manny held him back. “Just take it easy, Jack,” he said, pulling him toward the bench, away from the media frenzy. “McCue can afford to talk out of anger, but you can’t. So for now, just let me handle the press. The best thing you can do is to say nothing and go back to my office. We need to regroup and talk with your father.”

“My father. .” Jack said slowly, as if tapping into a source of strength. Then he nodded. “All right, I’ll meet you there.” Then he opened the gate and pushed his way into the swarming press. He kept his head lowered, ignoring all questions until he reached the elevators. Less than three minutes later, he was behind the steering wheel of his Mustang, ready to pull out of the courthouse parking lot.

He’d just put the car into gear when he heard the ringing of his car phone. Cindy, he hoped. But why would she use this number? Could she have already heard the verdict? It didn’t seem possible.

He moved the shift back into park and picked up the phone.

“Jack,” he heard her voice. “It’s me, Cindy.”

He started to say something, but words wouldn’t come. “Cindy,” he said finally, just wanting to say her name. “Where are you?”

“Balcony scene’s over, Romeo,” came the ugly reply. It wasn’t Cindy’s voice anymore. It was the same voice he’d heard while on his belly in the bus. “She’s with me.”

Jack’s hand shook as he pressed the phone to his ear. Some part of his brain that wasn’t absolutely terrified directed his other hand to turn off the ignition. He moved slightly forward in his seat. “What have you done with her!”

“Nothing,” the caller said coolly. “Yet.”

“It’s me you want, you bastard! Just leave her out of it.”

“Shut up, Swyteck! I’m through fooling around. Your legal system has fucked everything up again. This time we’ll play on my turf. And this time I want real money. I want a quarter million. Cash. Unmarked fifties.”

Jack’s head was spinning. He tried to focus. “Look, I’ll do whatever you want. But that’s a lot of money. It’ll take time to-”

“Your girlfriend doesn’t have time. Talk to your father, asshole. He’s so eager to help you.”

“Okay. Please, just don’t hurt her? Just tell me how to get you the money.”

“Take it to Key West. Just the two of you.”

“The two of us?”

“You and your father.”

“I can do it myself-”

“You’ll do it the way I tell you to do it!” the caller snapped. “I need to know where everybody is who knows anything about this. I’m not gonna be ambushed. No police, no FBI, no National Guard-not even a meter maid. Any sign of law enforcement and your pretty girlfriend’s dead. If I see any roadblocks on U.S. 1, any choppers in the air, any news reports on television, anything that even looks like you called in the cavalry-she’s dead, immediately. It’s me against the Swytecks. End of story. You got it?”

“I got it,” Jack said, though he could barely speak. “When do you want us there?”

“Saturday night, October twenty-ninth.”

“That’s tomorrow,” Jack protested.

“That’s right. It’s the Key West Fantasy Fest weekend. Nice, big Halloween street party. Like the Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Everyone’s going to be in costume. And so will I. No one could possibly find me in that mess, Swyteck. So don’t even try.”

“How will we contact you?”

“I’ll contact you. Just check into any one of the big resort hotels. Use your name. I’ll find you. Any questions?”

Jack took a deep breath. “No,” he replied.

“Good. Very good. Oh-one other thing, Swyteck.”

“What?”

“Trick or treat,” he taunted, then hung up the phone.

It should have been a night of celebration, beginning with him and his father sipping Dom Perignon, then blossoming into a fairy-tale reunion with Cindy. Instead, the nightmare was continuing.

Jack went to Manny’s office as planned, where he met up with his father. They sat alone in Manny’s conference room, considering their options.

“Agnes and I can certainly come up with the money,” the governor assured his son. “That’s not a problem. And, naturally, I’m in a position to bring in the best law enforcement available. All I have to do is make a phone call. I can do it right now.”

Jack shook his head. “We can’t,” he said emphatically. “He’ll kill Cindy, I know it. He’ll spot anything we try to do.”

The governor sighed. “You’re probably right. He may be crazy, but he’s brilliant-crazy. I’m sure he’s monitoring a police radio even as we speak. And if there’s anything I learned in my ten years on the force, it’s that police departments are sieves.”

Father and son sat staring at each other. “All right,” the governor finally said, “we don’t bring in the police. But I have lots of friends in the private sector-retired FBI agents, retired Secret Service. They can help. They can at least give advice.”

Jack wrestled with it. “That makes sense, I guess. But any advisers have to be just that-advisers. Ultimately, it comes down to me.”

“No,” the governor corrected him. “You and me.”

Jack looked at his father across the table. The governor gave him a reassuring smile that was meant to remove any doubt that he could count on his old man.

“Let’s do it, then,” said Jack. “We’ll nail this bastard. Together.”

Jack and Harry Swyteck reached the end of U.S. 1 and the city limits of Key West at about noon the next day. They followed the palm trees along the coastline and parked Harry’s rented Ford Taurus near Duval Street, the main thoroughfare that bisected the tourists’ shopping district. Both sides of Duval and the streets leading off of it were lined with art galleries and antique shops housed in renovated white-frame buildings, booths advertising snorkel tours, T-shirt emporiums, melange of folk, rock, and calypso.

At the north end of Duval was Mallory Square, a popular gathering spot on the wharf where magicians, jugglers, and portrait artists entertained crowds and turned sunsets into a festival every day of the year. During Fantasy Fest, the square was simply an extension of a ten-day party that stretched from one end of Duval to the other.