Hear No Evil Read online

  Hear No Evil

  Jack Swyteck [4]

  Grippando, James

  (2012)

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  Tags: Jack Swyteck

  Jack Swyteckttt

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  Miami attorney Jack Swyteck is involved in the most explosive criminal trial of his career -- a case that starts with a murder on a military base and concludes with a shocking surprise that will change Jack's life forever.

  A beautiful woman comes to see Jack and begs him to represent her. She says she's about to be arrested for the murder of her husband, an officer stationed at Guantanamo Bay. Having no expertise in military law and sensing that the woman isn't telling him the entire truth, Jack turns her down. Then she drops a bombshell: She claims she's the adoptive mother of Jack's biological son -- a child he's never met. Either Jack must represent her or he'll never see the boy.

  So Jack agrees, but with great foreboding. He has an unreliable client -- a blackmailer who just might be a murderer -- and he has to travel to Gitmo and on to Havana to tussle with people who clearly have a lot to hide. This is a case with as many twists and turns as it has unanswered questions, and the personal toll on Jack won't end until he's forced to confront the ultimate surprise witness in a trial that rocks the city of Miami.

  In signature Grippando style, Hear No Evil is an intricate, fast-paced, and captivating thriller that will keep you guessing until the very end.

  James Grippando

  Hear No Evil

  James Grippando

  For Tiffany-Happy Tenth!

  1

  My husband was murdered.”

  Lindsey Hart spoke in the detached voice of a young widow still grieving. It was as if she still couldn’t believe that the words were coming from her mouth, that something so horrible had actually happened. “Shot once in the head.”

  “I’m very sorry.” Jack wished he could say more, but he’d been in this situation before, and he knew there really wasn’t anything he could say. It was God’s will? Time heals all wounds? None of that would do her any good, certainly not from his lips. People sometimes turned to strangers for that kind of comfort, but rarely when the stranger was a criminal defense lawyer billing by the hour.

  Jack Swyteck was among the best Miami ’s criminal trial bar had to offer, having defended death row inmates for four years before switching sides to become a federal prosecutor. He was in his third year of private practice, steadily building a name for himself, despite the fact that he’d yet to land the kind of high-charged, high-profile jury trial that had vaulted plenty of lesser lawyers into stardom. But he was doing just fine for a guy who’d withstood an indictment for murder, a divorce from a fruitcake, and the unexplained appearance of the naked, dead body of his ex-girlfriend in his bathtub.

  “Do the police know who did it?” asked Jack.

  “They think they do.”

  “Who?”

  “Me.”

  The natural follow-up question caught in Jack’s throat, and before he could even broach the subject, Lindsey said, “I didn’t do it.”

  “Are there any witnesses who say you did?”

  “Not that I know of. Which is to be expected, since I’m innocent.”

  “Was the murder weapon recovered?”

  “Yes. It was on the bedroom floor. Oscar was shot with his own sidearm.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  “In our bedroom. While he was sleeping.”

  “Were you home?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know he was sleeping?”

  She hesitated, as if the question had caught her off guard. “The investigators told me he was in bed, no sign of any struggle, so it’s only logical that he was either taken completely by surprise or was asleep.”

  Jack took a moment, not so much to collect his thoughts as to gather his impression of Lindsey Hart. She was a few years younger than he was, he guessed, articulate and composed. Her business suit was charcoal gray, a conservative step beyond the traditional black of mourning, though she allowed herself a little color in the silk blouse and scarf. She was pretty-probably even more attractive than what presently met the eye, as Jack suspected that in her grief she’d lost a little too much weight and paid not enough attention to her appearance.

  He said, “I know this is painful for you. But has anyone considered the possibility that your husband’s wound was self-inflicted?”

  “Oscar didn’t commit suicide. He had too much to live for.”

  “Most people who take their own life do. They just lose perspective.”

  “His gun was found with the safety on. Not very likely that he shot himself in the head and then put on the safety.”

  “Can’t argue with that. Though it also strikes me as curious that someone would shoot your husband and then take the time to put on the safety.”

  “There are many curious things about my husband’s death. That’s why I need you.”

  “Fair enough. Let’s get back to what you were doing the day of his death. What time did you leave the house?”

  “Five-thirty. Same as every day. I work at the hospital. My shift begins at six.”

  “I assume you’re having trouble convincing people that he was alive when you left.”

  “The medical examiner put the time of death sometime before five.”

  “You’ve seen the autopsy?” asked Jack.

  “Yes, just recently.”

  “How long ago was your husband killed?”

  “Ten weeks yesterday.”

  “Have you spoken to the police?”

  “Of course. I wanted to do everything possible to help catch the killer. Until it started to come clear that I was a suspect. That’s when I decided I needed a lawyer.”

  Jack scratched his head and said, “None of this is ringing a bell for me, and I’m usually something of a newshound when it comes to homicides. Was it City of Miami or Miami-Dade homicide you talked to?”

  “Neither. It was NCIS agents. Naval Criminal Investigative Services. This all happened at the naval base.”

  “Which one?”

  “Guantánamo.”

  “Guantánamo, Cuba?”

  “Yes. My husband was career military. We’ve lived there for almost six years now. Or at least until his death.”

  “I didn’t realize that families even lived there. I thought it was just soldiers keeping an eye on Castro.”

  “Oh, no. It’s a huge living and working community, thousands of people. We have schools, our own newspaper. We even have a McDonald’s.”

  Jack considered it, then said, “I want to be up front about this: I have absolutely no experience in dealing with military matters.”

  “This isn’t strictly military. I’m a civilian, so I would have to be charged as a civilian, even though my husband was a military officer.”

  “I understand that. But the crime scene is on a naval base, and you’ve already talked with the NCIS agents on the investigation. Whoever represents you should know how to work his way through military red tape.”

  “You’ll learn.” She pulled a file from her purse and laid it on Jack’s desk. “This is the NCIS investigative report. I just got it two days ago. Take a look. I think you’ll agree that it doesn’t pass the smell test.”

  Jack let it lie, unopened. “I’m not trying to push away the work, but I know several criminal defense lawyers in town with military backgrounds.”

  “I don’t want someone else. I want to hire the lawyer who will fight harder than anyone to prove my innocence. That person is you.”

  “Thank you. It’s nice to know that my reputation extends all the way down to Cuba.”

  “It has nothing to with your reputation. It’s simply a matter of who you are.�
��

  “That sounds like a compliment, but I’m not sure I fully understand what you’re trying to say.”

  “Mr. Swyteck, every minute that the investigators spend focusing on me is a wasted minute. If someone doesn’t straighten them out, my husband’s killer could go unpunished. That would be a terrible tragedy.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Yes, you could. Believe me. This isn’t just another case of the authorities chasing after the wrong suspect. If they don’t catch the person who killed my husband, it would be a tragedy-for you.”

  “Do I know your husband?”

  “No. But that doesn’t make it any less personal. My husband…” She took a breath, her voice quaking as she tried once more. “My husband was the father of your child.”

  Jack froze, confused. “Say that again.”

  “I think you know what I’m saying.”

  Jack mulled over the possibilities, realizing quickly that there was only one explanation. “Your son was adopted?”

  She nodded, her expression very serious.

  “Are you saying I’m the biological father?”

  “The mother was a woman named Jessie Merrill.”

  Jessie, the last woman he’d dated before falling head over heels for the woman he would marry-and later divorce. Not until his fifth and final year of marriage to Cindy Paige had Jack learned that Jessie was pregnant when they’d split up and that she’d given up their child for adoption.

  “I don’t know what to say. I don’t deny that Jessie had a child and that she said I was the father. I just never followed up on it. Didn’t think it was my place to intrude on the adoptive family.”

  “That was thoughtful of you,” she said, her voice still strained by emotion. “But my husband and I realized that someday our son might want to contact his biological parents. We did all the research a few years ago.”

  “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

  “I could show you the paperwork, but I don’t think that will be necessary.” She dug into her purse again and offered up a snapshot.

  “This is Brian,” she said.

  A moment passed as the photograph seemed to hover before him. Finally, he reached across his desk and took it by the corner, as if his past might burn him if he grasped too much of it. His gaze came to rest on the smiling face of a ten-year-old boy. He’d never seen the child before, but he knew those dark eyes, that Roman nose.

  “I’m his father,” he said in a distant voice, as if the words were involuntary.

  “No,” she answered, her tone gentle but firm. “His father’s dead. And if you don’t help me find the man who killed him, his mother could go to jail for the rest of her life.”

  Their eyes met, and Jack searched for words that suited a situation no criminal defense lawyer could possibly be prepared to face. “I guess you’re right,” he said quietly. “This is personal.”

  2

  Jack didn’t think of himself as a drinker, but after the head-spinning meeting with the adoptive mother of his biological offspring-“son” seemed way too personal at this point-he found himself in need of a drink. His friend Theo Knight owned a bar called Sparky’s near the entrance to the Florida Keys, which was a long way to go for a glassful of solace, but Theo had a way of making it worth the trip.

  “Bourbon,” Jack told the bartender. He knew the risk of not ordering a premium brand, but just walking through the door at a place like Sparky’s was living dangerously, so what the hell?

  Sparky’s was an old gas station that had been converted into a bar, the term “converted” used loosely. If you looked around, you’d swear the guys from the grease pit had never left, just sidled up to the bar in their grimy coveralls, wondering where the awesome band and drunken bikers had suddenly come from. The joint was a definite moneymaker, often crowded, especially when Theo picked up his sax and blew till dawn. He could have afforded to do a little renovation, but clearly he liked things the way they were. Jack suspected that it was all about ego, that Theo smiled to himself every time some tight ass and his Gucci-clad girlfriend visited a dive they wouldn’t ordinarily be caught dead in, all just to hear Theo and his jazz buddies belt out tunes worthy of Harlem ’s best.

  It was still early evening, and the band wasn’t up yet. Theo was on stage alone. He didn’t often sing or play the piano, except when his closest friends were around. Jack watched from his bar stool, nursing a throat-singeing bourbon as Theo sang his heart out and put his own satirical lyrics to popular tunes. Tonight’s victim was Bonnie Raitt and her 1991 R amp;B megahit, “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” a thoroughly depressing song in its own right about a woman who takes her cold-hearted boyfriend to bed one last time before getting dumped. Theo’s shtick was to doctor it up and rename it, simply, “The Suicide Song.”

  Slit both my wrists.

  Jump out the window.

  Fire a bullet

  into my brain.

  Cuz you can’t make me live

  if I don’t want to…

  The audience was in stitches. Theo never failed to deliver. At least among drunks.

  “Hey, Jacko!” Theo had finally spotted him, and, like it or not, his arrival had been announced to the entire crowd. Theo stepped down from the small stage and joined his friend at the bar.

  “Funny gig,” said Jack.

  “You think suicide is funny?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Wrong answer. Everything’s funny, Jack. Until you learn that, I’m afraid I’m just gonna have to keep charging you double for rot-gut whiskey.”

  Theo signaled to the bartender, who quickly set up a round of drinks. Another bourbon for Jack, club soda for Theo. “Gotta play tonight,” said Theo, as if apologizing for the soft drink.

  “That’s the whole reason I came here.”

  “Liar. After ten years, you think I don’t know you? Jack Swyteck don’t drink straight bourbon from the well unless he’s been dumped, indicted, or both.”

  Jack gave a little smile, though it was somewhat disconcerting to be so transparent.

  Theo was suddenly looking past him, and Jack followed his gaze across the bar, where his bass player was setting up for the evening gig. A crowd started gravitating toward the stage, staking out the good tables, and Jack knew he didn’t have his friend’s attention for long. But what else was new?

  “So, what happened this time?” asked Theo.

  “Two words for you: Jessie Merrill.”

  “Whoa. How weird is it to hear that name, right after I sang ‘The Suicide Song’?”

  “She’s back.”

  “From the dead?”

  “I didn’t mean literally, moron.”

  Jack took a minute to bring him up to speed on Lindsey Hart. Theo wasn’t a lawyer, but if Jack decided to take Lindsey’s case, Theo would surely find his way into an investigative role, so it wasn’t a breach of the attorney-client privilege. Besides, Jack needed to talk this out with someone, and Theo was one of the few people who knew the whole Jessie Merrill story. He was also the only client Jack had ever known to spend time on death row for a murder he didn’t commit.

  Theo let him finish, then smiled and shook his head. “For a guy who gets laid on about every other solar eclipse, you sure have a knack for squeezing the maximum fuck-up value out of relationships.”

  “Thanks. And for the record, that’s every other partial solar eclipse.”

  “You’re an animal, dude.” Theo grabbed a handful of peanuts, munched as he spoke. “This Lindsey in deep shit?”

  “Not sure. I tried to read the investigative report before I came over here, but my mind’s all over the place.”

  “That talk about Jack Junior caught you a little off guard, huh?”

  “A little? I’ve known about the adoption for a couple years now, ever since Jessie passed away. But I guess it really hit home when Lindsey showed me his picture. I actually have a kid out there.”

  “No, it’s her kid. All you d
id was have sex with your girlfriend.”

  “It’s not that simple, Theo. He looks just like me.”

  “Does he, really? Or do you just see it because his mother says so, and for some weird-ass Darwinian reason you want it to be true?”

  “Trust me. There’s a strong resemblance.”

  “Could have been worse, I suppose. Could have looked like one of your friends.”

  “Can you ever be serious?”

  “No, but I can fake it.” Theo took a drink. “So, you gonna be her lawyer?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “What’s your gut tell you? She innocent?”

  “Why should that matter? I’ve represented lots of clients who were guilty. I even thought you were guilty when I first took up your appeal.”

  “But I wasn’t guilty.”

  “I would have fought just as hard even if you were.”

  “Maybe. But I sense that this case is different.”

  “You see the dilemma, too?”

  “Yeah, except where I come from, we don’t call it no dilemma. We call it gettin’ caught in your own zipper.”

  “Ouch. But I guess it applies.”

  “Course it applies. Let’s say your client is charged with murdering her husband and you agree to be her lawyer. Let’s say she’s guilty, but you’re able to work your magic and convince the jury she’s not. She walks. Where does that leave you?”

  “Forget me. Where does it leave her son?”

  “Living with a murderer, that’s where.”

  Jack stared down into his bourbon and said, “Not something any self-respecting criminal defense lawyer should do to his own flesh and blood.”

  “On the other hand, if you don’t take the case…Let’s say she’s innocent, but some boob of a lawyer blows it-like my trial lawyer did-and she gets convicted. The boy ends up losing both his mom and his dad, or at least the only mom and dad he ever knew. Can you live with that?”

  “I’d say you’ve covered both horns of the dilemma.”

  “Fuck your dilemma. That’s a thousand tiny metal teeth zipping right into your-”