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  “I don’t want you getting involved in this case, Jack.”

  “I’m not getting involved.”

  “Xavier is going to call you. How is that not getting involved?”

  “I told her I might take the call.”

  “Before you do, I suggest you call Nate Abrams.”

  Nate was a respected lawyer in town and one of the dads at Riverside Jack had become friendly with. “Why?” asked Jack.

  “It was bad enough to get chewed out by my ASAC after the parent meeting,” said Andie. “But the reason that call took so long is that he gave me some information that isn’t public yet. The names of the victims.”

  Andie paused, and Jack gave her a moment.

  “Lindsey Abrams was shot in the back running from her classroom,” said Andie. “She’s fighting for her life at Jackson Memorial.”

  “That’s horrible. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Tell it to Nate. Then ask him how he’d feel about your defending the monster who shot her.”

  It was like a slap to the face. Jack watched as Andie turned and headed toward the bedroom to sleep with Righley.

  Chapter 6

  Jack was in the Richard E. Gerstein Justice Building early the next morning. His client was a nineteen-year-old first-time offender who “forgot” that the recreational marijuana she’d bought legally in Illinois wasn’t legal in Florida. It took Jack less than five minutes to get the assistant state attorney to agree to dismissal of the charges upon completion of a pretrial intervention program. Jack had plenty of other work to do back at the office, but he made a stop on the first floor, where it wasn’t just the usual courthouse buzz.

  “Standing room only,” the deputy at the door told him.

  Felony arraignments started every weekday at nine a.m. in Courtroom 1-5. The morning docket included everyone in Miami-Dade County who’d been arrested in the previous twenty-four hours on a felony charge. The routine played out in a spacious old room with high ceilings and a long mahogany rail that separated the public seating from the business end of the justice system. A junior assistant state attorney was seated at the government’s table in front of the empty jury box, working his way through the stack of files, one at a time, as each case was called. Jack watched from the back of the courtroom, standing, not a seat to be had. The draw was not the usual parade of accused armed robbers, drunk drivers, and others proclaiming their innocence. The crowd had come to see Xavier Khoury. Jack was one of many Riverside parents and supporters in attendance.

  “Next case,” said Judge Feinstein. He was moving quickly. They were at number nine. Feinstein was the oldest judge on the criminal circuit. Some said he no longer had the stamina for lengthy trials, but he still seemed to enjoy the frenetic pace of arraignments.

  “Case number seventeen oh-three oh-one,” announced the bailiff. “State of Florida versus Xavier Khoury.”

  The side door opened, and a pair of deputies brought Xavier into the courtroom. The atmosphere was suddenly charged, as a packed gallery and the rest of the world, via television, got its first look at the shooter in his orange prison jumpsuit and shackles, flanked by muscle-bound guards. Reporters in the designated media section took notes, furiously recording their front-row impressions, as the accused shuffled across the courtroom with head down. The guards seated him alone in the empty jury box, almost separate from the proceeding, as if to keep the prisoner from continuing his rampage and lashing out at the public. Jack had seen that done before, on occasion, with particularly dangerous defendants.

  “Mitchell Karr for the defendant,” said Xavier’s court-appointed lawyer, announcing his appearance.

  The junior prosecutor who had handled the first ten arraignments stepped aside and was replaced by the chief prosecutor of the homicide division. “Abe Beckham for the state of Florida.”

  Jack had squared off against Beckham in several capital cases. The state attorney was bringing in the big gun for State v. Khoury.

  “Good morning, everyone,” said Judge Feinstein. “Mr. Beckham, may I have the date and time of Mr. Khoury’s arrest?”

  “Yesterday at approximately two twenty p.m.”

  The judge swiveled his high-back chair toward the jury box to address the defendant more directly. “Mr. Khoury, the purpose of this proceeding is, first of all, to advise you of certain rights that you have and to inform you of the charges made against you under Florida law. Do you understand?”

  Xavier was staring at the floor, motionless.

  “Your Honor, the defendant stands mute,” his lawyer said.

  Judge Feinstein recited the Miranda warnings, though it hardly seemed necessary to remind Xavier of his “right to remain silent.”

  “Mr. Khoury, you have been charged with thirteen counts of murder in the first degree,” the judge continued. “As of this initial hearing, those charges are supported by affidavit of the Miami-Dade Police Department. A grand jury will be convened in accordance with Florida law. If the grand jury returns a true bill, your conviction on these charges may be punishable by death. Do you understand?”

  No response from the accused. “The defendant stands mute,” his lawyer answered.

  “Count one charges that without justification Xavier Khoury did cause the death of Kaleb Greene, a first degree felony. Count Two charges that—”

  “Your Honor, my client is aware of the charges,” said Karr. “We will waive formal reading.”

  A smart move from the defense standpoint. Tensions were high enough in the courtroom without reading aloud thirteen counts of homicide in the first degree.

  “Mr. Khoury, how do you plead?”

  His lawyer interjected. “Judge, I have a matter to take up with the court in regard to the defendant’s plea.”

  “Go ahead, Counsel.”

  “On my client’s behalf, we reached out to the state attorney. Mr. Khoury offered to plead guilty to thirteen counts of homicide and seven additional counts of attempted murder—twenty life sentences to be served consecutively without possibility of parole—if the government will waive the death penalty. The state attorney has refused that offer. He insists on taking this case to the grand jury, proceeding to trial, and seeking the death penalty.”

  “Which is the state attorney’s job,” said the judge.

  As a defense lawyer, Jack could only cringe. If the public defender had been hoping that a public announcement might make Judge Feinstein browbeat the prosecution into accepting the proposed plea deal, Karr had badly misread the tea leaves.

  “Mr. Khoury, how do you plead?” asked the judge.

  The accused didn’t look up, didn’t move, and didn’t say a word.

  “The court will enter a plea of not guilty,” said the judge, and then his gaze swung to the other side of the courtroom. “Since this is a first-degree murder case, there is no bail. Does the defense have any argument to the contrary?”

  “Not at this time,” said Karr.

  “The defendant shall be remanded to custody. Anything else?”

  The state attorney brought up a few “housekeeping matters,” as judges called them, but Jack had seen enough. He slipped out the rear exit, continued through the courthouse lobby, and left the building through the main entrance doors. At the bottom of the concrete steps, he stopped, turned, and noticed that another lawyer from the PD’s Office, Sheila Kinkaid, had followed him out.

  “Buy you a coffee, Swyteck?”

  Jack held Sheila in high regard—much higher than his regard for Xavier’s lawyer. He was happy to share a coffee with her. There was an old man who sold Cuban café out of the back of his truck right outside the courthouse. Sheila ordered two espressos.

  “What did you think of round one, Jack?”

  “You mean announcing to the world that your client is guilty before he even gets the chance to plead not guilty?”

  “The Broward PD did the same thing in the Nikolas Cruz case after the Parkland shooting,” said Sheila.

  “I didn’t
agree with it then, either. For one, it all but takes an insanity defense off the table. Anyone who is rational enough to offer a guilty plea in order to save his own life is rational enough to know the difference between right and wrong.”

  “Good point,” she said.

  “I can rattle off about ninety-nine other ones, if you have the time.”

  “No need,” said Sheila. “I agree with you. But it wasn’t my decision.”

  “You should be handling this case, Sheila. Not Mitchell Karr.”

  “Makes no difference in the long run. The PD’s Office will be withdrawing as counsel tomorrow.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Xavier is far from indigent. Independently wealthy, you might say.”

  The vendor poured two steaming espressos into little poly-paper cups and placed them on the counter at the back of the truck. Jack paid before Sheila could.

  “I spoke to his mother last night,” said Jack. “She didn’t mention anything about Xavier having money.”

  “She didn’t know. We didn’t know, either, until we spoke to Xavier’s father. Amir Khoury established trusts for each of his three children at birth. The two boys get two hundred grand a year starting on their eighteenth birthday. Their daughter gets hers in one lump sum when she marries.”

  Jack couldn’t even imagine Andie’s reaction to a plan like that for Righley. “I’m guessing that’s why Amir never told his wife.”

  “Probably. The bottom line is that taxpayers will not be paying for Xavier’s lawyer. He will. Which means he has to find a private attorney.”

  Jack was on to her, smiling and wagging a finger. “No, no, Sheila. I see where this is headed. Molly Khoury asked me the same thing last night.”

  “Jack, this is a capital case. Judge Feinstein won’t be happy if the PD’s Office withdraws without lining up substitute counsel. We want a seamless transition: we’re out; you’re in.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Actually, you’re one of the few private attorneys in this town who can.”

  “There are others.”

  “Yes,” said Sheila. “But the last thing your school community needs is a grandstanding criminal defense lawyer who parlays this case into his ticket to TV talking-head stardom.”

  He took her point. Jack had defended one innocent client while working for the Freedom Institute. Out of respect for the families of victims, he never went on television proclaiming the innocence of any other client. “Some lawyers seem to forget that the Constitution guarantees a right to counsel, not to a publicity agent.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “But here’s the problem,” said Jack. “Both Righley and Andie were at the school when the shooting happened.”

  “So, if they had not been there, you would take the case. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Jack added a little sugar to his espresso. “I don’t know.”

  “Will Righley be a witness for the prosecution?”

  “No.”

  “Will Andie?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s not that you can’t take the case. You choose not to.”

  “What are you getting at, Sheila?”

  “Look, if I dodged every capital case that made my husband squirm, I might as well hang it up and become an accountant. I know you, Swyteck. You’d make a lousy accountant.” She tossed back her espresso and then leveled her most serious gaze at him. “Tell me you’ll think about it.”

  Jack glanced back at the courthouse. Camera crews were at the top of the steps outside the main entrance, and local television reporters were grabbing any available lawyer to comment on the case. There was no shortage of “experts” willing to talk, talk, talk about something that was way outside their sphere of knowledge.

  Jack downed his espresso and then noticed the man and woman getting into their car across the street. The sticker on the bumper read my child is an honor student at riverside day school.

  Was, thought Jack. Was an honor student.

  “I’m sorry, Sheila,” he said, as he crushed the little paper cup into a ball, “I really can’t see myself making any other choice than the one Andie and I have already made.”

  He pitched the ball into the trash basket, nothing but net.

  Chapter 7

  Jack drove straight from the courthouse to UM Jackson Memorial Hospital.

  Jackson was Miami’s premier public hospital, which meant that in addition to its stellar reputation for groundbreaking research in everything from cancer to spinal injury, its world-class emergency room was the city’s go-to trauma center for gunshot wounds. Located just across the river from the Criminal Justice Center, it wasn’t at all unusual for the victims of violent crime to land within walking distance of the initial court appearance for the man who’d put them in the hospital. If they could still walk.

  “I’m here to see Lindsey Abrams,” Jack told the receptionist.

  Jack’s public-defender friend Sheila had said nothing that made him want to take Xavier’s case. Andie’s angry reaction—Ask Nate Abrams how he would feel if you defended this monster—wasn’t the reason Jack went to the hospital. He just felt the need to see his friend Nate.

  “She’s a minor in the intensive care unit. Are you on the visitation list?”

  “I just spoke to her father on the telephone. They’re expecting me.”

  The receptionist called upstairs, checked out the story, and printed out a “visitor” badge that Jack stuck to his lapel. A painfully slow elevator ride took him to the fifth floor. Polished tile floors glistened beneath bright fluorescent lighting. The hallway led to a set of locked doors marked intensive care unit. Jack identified himself over the intercom, and a nurse’s response crackled over the speaker.

  “Room Six,” she said, “but only one more visitor can come in now. Maximum of three at a time.”

  Jack took that to mean that both parents were at their daughter’s bedside, which only added to the heartbreak. “I’m alone,” said Jack.

  The door opened automatically, and Jack entered to the steady sound of beeping patient monitors. In the center of the ICU was the nurses’ station, an open island of charts and records surrounded on all sides by a wide corridor. Lining the outer perimeter were the glass-walled rooms for patients, most of whom were in open view. The unit appeared to be full, but in some rooms the privacy curtains were drawn, so it was hard to know. A busy nurse passed with a tray of medications. As Jack approached Room 6, he noticed several visitors outside adjacent rooms wearing hats or T-shirts emblazoned with the Falcon logo—the school mascot for Riverside. The Abramses were not the only Riverside family with a child in the Jackson Memorial ICU.

  “Thanks for coming,” said Nate.

  Jack and Nate were about the same age, but the stress of the past twenty-four hours had already aged him. The privacy curtain prevented Jack from seeing inside Room 6. It made his chest tighten to think of Nate’s wife in there with a critically wounded daughter.

  “Let’s take a walk over to the lounge,” said Nate.

  Jack followed him around to the other side of the unit, where there was a small room for visitors to catch a moment alone when needed. Nate bought two bottled waters from the vending machine, and they sat across from each other at a small table.

  Nate glanced at the calendar on the wall. “Exactly two weeks from today is Lindsey’s fourteenth birthday.”

  It was a painful place to start. Jack wasn’t sure what to say, so he simply allowed Nate to continue.

  “They tell me Lindsey was running toward the stairwell when she was shot. She had no pulse by the time paramedics finally got to her. They were able to restart the heart with a defibrillator. But . . . uhm . . .”

  “You don’t have to tell me, unless you want to,” said Jack.

  Nate looked past Jack, numbness and disbelief leading his line of sight off to somewhere in the middle distance. “I spoke with three different neurologists this morning. Cardiologist came in after th
at. A pulmonologist is keeping an eye on her to see if she needs any assistance in breathing. Just before you got here, we met a gastro specialist about inserting a feeding tube, if it comes to that. A physical therapist is scheduled to come by twice a day to move her limbs.”

  Jack said, “They have excellent doctors here.”

  “Yes, they do,” said Nate, and then he took a deep breath. “But not a single one of them can tell us if Lindsey will ever regain consciousness.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Jack.

  “They say if she lives, she’ll be paralyzed from the chest down.”

  Silence hung between them. Jack suddenly was aware of the hum of fluorescent lights above them. He had no idea how to help. Nate did him the favor of changing the subject. Slightly.

  “How did it go in court this morning?” Nate asked.

  Jack could have run with it, but he didn’t. “A lot of Riverside families showed up.”

  “Is the state attorney seeking the death penalty?”

  “No formal announcement yet. But it’s clear enough that he will.”

  “Such a mistake,” said Nate.

  Jack wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “A mistake?”

  “It is in my mind,” said Nate.

  “Why do you say that?”

  Nate breathed in and out. “I remember reading an op-ed that one of the parents wrote in the Sun-Sentinel after the Parkland shooting. Of course I never dreamed I’d be in this situation. Anyway, I remember feeling sorry for the man. He’d lost his son. But I didn’t agree with what he wrote. Until now.”

  “What did he write?”

  “He started with the fact that in Florida, the average time from arrest to trial in a death penalty case is . . . I forget how many years he said.”

  “Four years,” said Jack, something he knew.

  “Right. So this dad pointed out that there would be countless hearings along the way. Worse, the families of all seventeen victims, and every child in that school who witnessed the shooting, would have to relive the experience as witnesses in videotaped depositions and then again at the trial. In the Parkland shooting, the lawyers had to postpone depositions of some of the students because parents were seriously concerned that their child would commit suicide if forced to relive that experience in deposition or at trial.”