The Pardon Page 4

  “Don’t move,” the man ordered.

  Harry froze, his body trembling as he forced himself to remain face down and perfectly still. His right cheek was pressed to the ground, but out of the corner of his left eye he could see a bruiser of a body sitting on his kidneys. Its sheer weight nearly prevented him from breathing, let alone moving. It was a man, he presumed. The voice was deep; the hands covered by black 1eather gloves were very large. The features, however, were indiscernible. He wore camouflaged marine fatigues, and his face was covered by a ski mask.

  “Well, what do we have here,” the man taunted in a thick, raspy voice. “Mr. Big-Time Politician out for his morning jog.”

  The governor clenched his fists, not to defend himself but to bring his fear under control. All was silent, except for a sucking sound the man made when he breathed. He must have been drooling from the wads of cotton or whatever he had in his mouth to disguise his voice.

  “Hey, Governor,” the attacker said, mocking him now with a friendly tone. “I hear you politicians like to deal. Well, here’s one for you, my man. How about I give you proof that Raul Fernandez was innocent?”

  Raul Fernandez? Harry started at the name. His mind ran in a dozen different directions, trying to make sense of why that name was being dredged up now.

  “And in exchange for me being such a stand-up guy,” the attacker continued, “for saving this big-time job of yours by not letting it slip that you and Junior killed an innocent man, you give me some money. A shitload of it.”

  The governor remained silent.

  The man squeezed the back of Harry’s neck, as if the knife were not already commanding enough attention. “Or maybe you prefer I just have a conversation with the newspapers.”

  The governor forced himself to put his fear aside long enough to ask a question. “What do you want from me?”

  “There’s a drugstore at the corner of Tenth and Monroe—Albert’s. Be at the pay phone out front. Noon, Thursday. Alone. And don’t even think about calling the cops. If you do, I go right to the newspapers. You hear what I’m saying?”

  The governor swallowed hard. “Yes,” he replied.

  The man pushed the governor’s face into the ground and sprung to his feet. “Before you even twitch a finger, count to a hundred, out loud, nice and slow. Now.”

  “One, two,” Harry counted off, listening carefully as the man’s footsteps faded into the distance. He lay still until he reached thirty, when he figured it was safe to move. Then he quickly rolled over and snatched the transmitter from his pocket. If he pushed the red button, security would be there in less than a minute. But he hesitated. What would he tell them? That some thug had threatened to reveal he’d executed an innocent man?

  He tucked the transmitter into his pocket, still thinking. His attacker had warned him: Alert security and the Fernandez story goes straight to the media. Would that really be so disastrous? No question, it would be bad, but inside he felt an even deeper fear. That the attacker wouldn’t go to the newspapers. That if he didn’t show up at Albert’s, he’d never hear from the man again. And he’d never know the truth about Fernandez.

  He cast a forlorn look over the weeds, toward the thick woods where his attacker had disappeared. Tenth and Monroe was a crowded intersection—a very public and safe place. It wasn’t like a face-to-face meeting in a dark alley. Hell, if the guy’d wanted to kill him, he’d be dead already. The decision was clear.

  “Noon,” he said aloud, confirming their telephone conference. “Tomorrow.”

  Chapter 6

  •

  Grateful for smart lawyers and legal loopholes, Eddy Goss was back on the streets of Miami, following the familiar cracked sidewalk to his favorite hangout. It was in a desolate part of town, where women stood alone on street corners to pay for their hundred-dollar-a-day crack habit and married men drove slowly by to satisfy their twenty-dollar urges. Goss, however, always avoided the women, ignoring their blunt offers of a quick “up and down.” He would pass right by them on his way to the bright yellow building with no windows and huge black triple X’s covering the length of the door. Inside, the windowless walls were lined with cellophane-wrapped magazines sitting in floor-to-ceiling racks. Goss liked the magazines because the girls were always so much prettier than the women on the street.

  He moved around the adult bookstore like he owned the place, familiar with every rack. He liked the way the materials were organized. Oral sex on the east wall. Group sex on the west. If he wanted messy sex, the south wall was the place. His favorite was the back wall, the place for those who liked really young girls.

  “You buying anything?” asked the very fat man seated by the cash register behind the counter.

  “Huh?” Goss responded, realizing that the man was talking to him.

  The man rolled his eyes as his dirty, stubby fingers shoved an overstuffed sandwich into his mouth. “I said,” he repeated with his mouth full, bits of lettuce and mayonnaise stuck in his straggly salt-and-pepper beard, “are you gonna buy anything, asshole?”

  Goss shoved a magazine entitled Pixie Vixens back into the rack. “I’m just lookin’ around.”

  “Well, an hour and a fucking half is long enough to look. Out, pal.”

  Goss stood rigidly, his furor-filled eyes locked in an intense stare-down. At first the clerk’s expression was tough, but after a few seconds he seemed to lose heart. Just three weeks on the job and already he’d seen hundreds of weirdos in the shop. No one, however, had ever looked at him with such bone-chilling contempt.

  “Do you know who you’re talking to?” Goss seethed.

  The clerk swallowed hard. “I don’t care who—”

  “I’m Eddy Goss.”

  The clerk froze. He’d seen the news coverage on television, and suddenly the face was familiar.

  Goss took a couple of steps forward, toward the bin in the center of the room that was full of plastic dildos and other adult paraphernalia. He stopped short and stared at the clerk. “I’m Eddy Goss,” he said, as if there were no need to say more. Then, with a quick jerk of his hand he sent an armful of merchandise sailing across the store.

  The barrage of paraphernalia galvanized the clerk. Instinctively, he reached under the counter and came up with a pistol aimed at Goss. “Get outta here.” his voice trembled. “Or I’m gonna blow your fucking head off!”

  Goss scoffed and shook his head.

  “You got ten seconds!” the clerk warned.

  Goss just glared at him.

  The clerk shifted his weight nervously. His arms strained to hold the pistol out in front of him. Beads of sweat began building on his brow, and the gun started shaking. “I’m not foolin’, asshole!”

  Goss was unshaken, convinced that this clerk didn’t have the nerve to shoot him. But he’d had enough of this place for one day. “I’m outta here,” he said as he headed for the door and stepped outside.

  The sun had been shining brightly when he’d arrived at the bookstore, but it was overcast now, and dusk was near. He was hungry and thirsty, so he cut through the parking lot to the 7-Eleven next door. The store was empty, except for the Haitian clerk behind the counter. Goss opened a pack of Twinkies on his way down the aisle and stuffed them into his mouth as he reached the coolers in the back. He opened the glass doors, tossed the Twinkie wrapper behind the cold six-packs, and grabbed himself a tall can of malt liquor. He paid the clerk for the drink and left. He checked over his shoulder to see if the man was looking. He wasn’t, so he grabbed a newspaper from the stand. He tucked it under his arm and headed down the dimly lit alley that led to the back of the store. He chugged down his malt liquor and threw the empty can onto the pavement. He found a secluded spot behind the store, by the Dumpster, and sat on some plastic bread crates beside a tall wooden fence that offered plenty of privacy. It was time.

  Goss tore into the paper and pitched the sports, classifieds, and other useless sections onto the ground until he found something suitable—a Victoria�
�s Secret special advertising pullout. He flipped the pages until he found the right girl, one with a particularly demure expression, then he spread the pullout on the ground at his feet. He hurriedly unzipped his pants, spit into the palm of his hand, and reached down between his legs. His eye narrowed to slits as he imagined himself on top of the girl. His breathing became deeper and more rushed as his hand moved rhythmically back and forth.

  “Fucking bitches,” he gasped as his body jerked violently. He closed his eyes completely, then a second late opened them and inspected his handiwork. Son of a bitch.

  Slowly he stood up and zipped his fly, towering over the smeared pictures on the ground. He reached inside his pocket and tossed down something tiny that landed with a tick on the wet surface. It was a seed. A chrysanthemum seed.

  “My card,” said Goss with a quick, sinister laugh.

  Chapter 7

  •

  Governor Swyteck woke at six o’clock Thursday morning. As he showered and shaved, his wife, Agnes, lay awake in bed, exhausted after a night spent tossing and turning. Harold Swyteck was not a man who kept secrets from his wife. Yesterday he’d fabricated a story about a bad fall to explain his disheveled appearance to his security guards. But he told his wife the truth—as much out of concern for her safety as out of a need to be honest.

  Agnes listlessly flipped on the television with her remote, tuning in to the local “News at Sunrise.” Harry was in it again, this time appearing with a group of ministers, priests, and rabbis who were endorsing his candidacy. As her husband gratefully acknowledged the clergy’s words of praise, she felt a surge of pride, but then her thoughts returned to what he’d told her the previous evening.

  Agnes had always feared that a lifetime of public service could put her Harry in danger—that eventually or of his enemies might do something more than just threaten. But her fear gave way to more complicated feelings when Harry told her that this particular attacker had special knowledge about the Fernandez case. Agnes knew all too well how her husband had anguished over the decision not to grant a stay of execution—how he’d second-guessed the clarity of his own judgment. She understood her husband’s pain. She shared it. Not just because there was no way to know whether the right decision had been made, but because of Jack.

  She’d pretty much botched it as a stepmother. She knew that. She’d tried to reach out to her stepson countless times, but there was nothing left but to accept the reality of his bitterness. She might have had a fighting chance of winning his love but for a low moment twenty-three years before. It had happened the day that her doctor broke the news that she and Harry would never have children, and the awful truth had caused her to reach for the bottle.

  She’d been too drunk to pick Jack up after kindergarten, so a neighbor had dropped him off. Jack came in quietly through the back door, making a conscious effort to avoid his new “mother,” whom he still didn’t trust.

  “Jack,” Agnes had muttered as her eyes popped open. Her tongue was thick as frozen molasses. “Come here, sweetie.”

  Jack tried to scoot past her, but Agnes reached out and managed to grab him by the back of his britches as he passed. She wrapped her arms around him in an awkward embrace and mashed her lips against his cheek. “Give Mommy a big hug,” she said, stinking of her gin martini. He struggled to get out of her grip, but Agnes squeezed him tighter. “Don’t you want to give Mommy a hug?” she asked.

  “No,” he grimaced. “And you’re not my mommy!”

  Resentment flared within her. She pushed little Jack off her lap but held him tightly by the wrist, so he couldn’t go anywhere. “Don’t you dare talk to me that way,” she scolded. Then she slapped him across the face. The boy burst into tears as he struggled to get loose, but Agnes wouldn’t release him.

  “Let me go, you’re hurting me.”

  “Hurt is the only thing you understand, young man. You don’t appreciate anything else. I’m the one who changed your dirty diapers. I’m the one who . . . who”—she struggled to find the words—“lost sleep with all your crying in the night. Not your mother. I did it. I’m your mother. I’m all you’ve got!”

  “You’re not my mommy. My mommy’s in heaven!”

  Agnes didn’t know where the ugly words were coming from, but she couldn’t stop them. “Your mother isn’t dead, you little brat. She just didn’t want you!”

  Jack’s hands trembled as he stared at his stepmother. “That’s a lie!” he cried. “A lie, lie, lie! That’s all it is! That’s—”

  “. . . the news at sunrise,” The anchorman’s voice drew Agnes out of her past. “From all of us at channel seven, have a great day.”

  Agnes hit the off button as she returned from her memories. The governor stepped from the bathroom, dressed and ready to take his phone call at the corner of Teeth and Monroe, ready to find out the truth about Rau1 Fernandez. However, last night he’d promised his wife that he wouldn’t go without her blessing. She’d promised to sleep on it. As he stood at the foot of the bed, adjusting his necktie, she knew it was time for her to give him an answer.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Agnes sighed. It wasn’t an easy decision. Even taking a phone call could be dangerous. The man did have a knife. But if this was a way to ease Harry’s pain, a way to fix the rupture between her husband and her stepson, she couldn’t stand in his way.

  “Don’t you dare take any chances, Harry Swyteck.”

  The governor smiled appreciatively, then came to her and kissed her on the lips. “I’ll call you when it’s over. And don’t worry—I’m the original Chicken Little remember?”

  Agnes nodded but without conviction. In the beginning of their marriage, when Harry had been on the police force, such assurances were offered on a daily basis. It was her knowledge of her husband’s innate bravery that worried her so much.

  He pulled away, then stopped as he reached the door. “But if I don’t call by one—”

  “Don’t say it, Harry,” she said, eyes glassy now with tears. “Don’t even think it.”

  He nodded slowly. “I’ll call you,” he promised. Then he was out the door.

  More out of an ingrained sense of obligation than passion for his work, Jack put on jeans and a polo shirt—typical summer attire at the Freedom Institute—gave Thursday a friendly pat on the rump, and headed out the door. In the car he brooded on whether he would tender his resignation. When he arrived at nine o’clock, he still hadn’t come to a decision. It was his first day back in the office in almost three weeks, since the Goss trial had begun. He stood in the foyer, taking a hard look at the place where he’d worked for the past four years. The reception area was little more than a hallway. Bright fluorescent lighting showed every stain on the indoor-outdoor carpet. A few unmatched chairs lined the bare white walls. An oversized metal desk was at the end of the hall. It belonged to the pregnant woman who served as both the Institute’s receptionist and only secretary. Behind her were four windowless offices, one for each of the lawyers. Beyond that was a vintage sixties kitchen, where the lawyers did everything from interviewing witnesses to eating their bagged lunches.

  “Victory!” chorused Jack’s colleagues as he stepped into the kitchen. All three of the Institute’s other lawyers were smiling widely and assuming a celebratory stance around the Formica-topped table. There was Brian, a suntanned and sandy-haired outdoor type who moved as smoothly in court as he did on water skis. And Eve, the resident jokester who helped everyone keep sanity, the only woman Jack had ever known to smoke a pipe. And Neil Goderich, who’d lost his ponytail since establishing the Institute twenty-eight years ago, but who still wore his shirt collar unbuttoned beneath his tie—not just to be casual, but because his neck had swollen more than an inch since he last bought a new dress shirt.

  The home team cheered as they broke out a six-dollar bottle of cold duck and popped the cork.

  “Congratulations!” said Neil as he filled four coffee-stained mugs.

  They raised their cups i
n unison, and Jack smiled at their celebration; although he didn’t share the festive mood, he appreciated the gesture. He considered them all friends. At his first interview four years ago he’d learned they were down-to-earth people who believed in themselves and their principles. They were honest enough to tell even the son of a prominent politician that anything “politically correct” was a walking oxymoron. It was the strength of their collective character that made it hard for Jack to leave. But suddenly, he knew the time had come.

  “Excellent job!” said Neil, a sentiment echoed by the others.

  “Thank you,” said Jack, hoping to stem any further backslapping. “I really appreciate this. But . . . as long as everyone’s here, I might as well take this chance to tell you.” He looked at them and sighed. “Guys, Eddy Goss was my last case. I’m leaving the Institute.”

  That took the fizz right out of their cold duck.

  Jack placed his cup on the table, turned, and quietly headed toward his office, leaving them staring at one another. The announcement had been awkward, but he didn’t feel bike explaining. With no other job offer in hand, he was having a hard time explaining it to himself.

  He spent a couple of hours packing up his things, going through old files. At eleven o’clock Neil Goderich appeared in his doorway.

  “When you first came here,” Neil began, “we honestly wondered if you’d ever fit in.”

  Jack picked up some books, placed them in a box. “I wondered the same thing.”

  Neil smiled sadly, like a parent sending a kid off to college. He took a seat on the edge of Jack’s desk, beside a stack of packed boxes. “We never would have hired your type,” he said as he stroked his salt-and-pepper beard. “You had ‘big greedy law firm’ written all over your résumé. Someone who clearly valued principal and interest over interest in one’s principles.”