Blood Money (22 page)
Authors: James Grippando
J
ack spent the rest of the afternoon at the Freedom Institute. Hannah Goldsmith met them there.
“You gotta turn on the AC,” said Jack. A growing V of sweat pasted his shirt to his back.
“Sorry, not on the weekends,” said Hannah. “Not in the budget.”
Jack knew that rule. Hannah’s father had enforced it strictly up until the day he died.
In twenty-eight years, the old house on the Miami River that was the Freedom Institute had changed little. Four lawyers shared two small bedrooms that had been converted into offices. The foyer doubled as a storage room for old case files, boxes stacked one on top of the other. The bottom ones sagged beneath the weight of denied motions for stay of execution, the box tops warped into sad smiles. Harsh fluorescent lighting showed every stain on the indoor/outdoor carpeting. The furniture screamed “flea market”—chairs that didn’t match, tables made stable with a deck of cards under one leg. The vintage sixties kitchen was not only where lawyers and staff ate their bagged lunches, but it also served as the conference room. Hanging on the wall over the coffeemaker was an old framed photograph of Bobby Kennedy. Hannah’s father had often said that it was the former attorney general who had inspired him to move on from president of the
Harvard Law Review
to founder of the Freedom Institute.
“I honestly don’t know where else to look,” said Hannah.
They’d adopted a team approach, combing through box after box of archived attorney notes. Neil had never been a computer guy, so if any notes of his conversation with Celeste Laramore existed, they would have been in hard copy. After a dozen boxes, they were empty handed.
“I suppose it’s possible he didn’t keep any notes,” said Jack.
“Dad always took notes,” said Hannah. “The problem is that he used everything from legal pads to toilet paper, and only he knew where he put them.”
“It’s also possible that Celeste’s friend is dead wrong about Celeste ever having met with Neil.”
“Before you draw that conclusion, let me call my mom,” said Hannah. “Could be some boxes at home we can check.”
Hannah dialed. Jack went to the kitchen for a cold drink. The old refrigerator made a strange buzzing noise when he opened it. Jack silenced it with a quick kick to the side panel, the way Neil had taught him. He pulled up a chair at the table and checked in again with Andie.
“Anything more from Sydney?” asked Jack.
Andie had called several hours earlier and told him all about Sydney’s lecture to Andie as Jack’s fiancée, not to Andie the FBI agent.
“Jack, really. Don’t you think I would call you if I’d heard from her again?”
“I suppose so.”
“And the way she left it, the next call is to you, not me.”
“Can’t wait,” said Jack.
“When are you coming home?”
“Not sure. Just so much to do between now and Monday morning. Maybe we can do a late dinner.”
“Sounds good.”
“Love you, ’bye.”
Jack tucked away his phone and went back to the refrigerator. He wasn’t thirsty, but the chilly air felt good. It made him smile to recall the first time Neil had caught him cooling off in front of the open refrigerator, thwarting the no-AC-on-weekends rule. “My opposition to capital punishment has only one exception,” Neil had told him, “and you just committed it.”
Jack walked to the living room where Hannah was giving a second look to one of her father’s boxes. Jack turned his attention to the countless plaques, awards, and framed newspaper clippings on the wall. It had been years since he’d read some of the older articles. While the newsprint had yellowed with age, the clippings still told quite a story, from Neil’s roots in civil rights litigation in the South—“Volunteer Lawyers Jailed in Mississippi”
—
to his role as gadfly in local politics: “Freedom Institute Lawsuit Against Miami Mayor Sparks Grand Jury Indictment.” All were impressive, but Jack’s gaze locked onto the framed article by the window with the eye-catching headline: “Groundbreaking DNA Evidence Proves Death Row Inmate Innocent.” Jack took a half step closer, reading a story he could have recited in his sleep:
After four years in Florida State Prison for a murder he did not commit, twenty-year-old Theo Knight—once the youngest inmate on Florida’s death row—is coming home to Miami today . . .
“Some legacy, huh?”
Jack turned. It wasn’t Hannah. It was her mother—Neil’s widow, Sarah. She was carrying a box of Neil’s notes that she had brought from the house. Jack went to her, took the box, and gave her a warm embrace. He hadn’t seen her since the funeral.
“How are you, Sarah?”
“I’m doing okay,” she said.
Hannah took the box from Jack. “I can go through this.”
“Actually, I’m curious to see if the notes are in—”
“Please,” said Hannah, shooing him along. “You can barely read my father’s handwriting anyway. Catch up with Mom. I can handle this. Really.”
Jack thanked her and followed Sarah down the hallway.
“Hot as hell in here,” said Sarah. “You been to the refrigerator yet, Jack?”
“How did you know?”
Sarah smiled as they entered the kitchen. She got a cold soda. Jack still had his.
“I spoke with your fiancée,” said Sarah.
“You spoke to Andie?” he said.
“Do you have another fiancée?”
“No. I’m just—What did you talk about?”
Sarah took a seat at the table. Jack joined her. “You,” she said.
“How did this come about?”
“We talked briefly at Neil’s funeral. I got to know her a little. But seeing all that you’re going through with the Sydney Bennett case made me want to follow up.”
“With Andie?”
“Yes. Why does that surprise you?”
“For one, she didn’t mention it to me.”
Sarah smiled like an insider. “I gave her a lot to think about. She’s probably still processing it.”
“What do you mean by that?”
She drank from her soda bottle, then seemed to shift gears. But Jack could tell it was going to tie together somehow. “Do you know how Neil and I met?”
Jack tried to remember the eulogies. “A Grateful Dead concert?”
She laughed. “No. It was when I was living in Mississippi. I was married to a man I’d met at Columbia. College is a great equalizer, especially when you’re young and in love. He was from Jackson, so after graduation we went there to live. We bought a little house. Got a dog. I joined the Junior League with all the other well-to-do ladies on the north side of town. The fact that I was Jewish was our little family secret. I never told anyone. Not even his parents—they knew, of course, but they could handle it so long as I was willing never to mention it. One night we were sitting in the living room watching TV. This was the summer of sixty-four. Freedom summer. President Johnson had just signed the Civil Rights Act. The SNCC—Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee—was recruiting hundreds of college students to come to Mississippi and register Negro voters. I was sitting right next to my husband on the couch when that story came on the news, and he just lost it. Started railing against the effing Jew-boy lawyers coming down to change things.”
“I presume Neil was one of them?”
“Actually, he was. But how we rode off into the sunset in his MG Midget is another story. My real point is this: I’d been pretending for so long that I was someone I wasn’t that my own husband had forgotten who I was. Who I
am
. All for the sake of a relationship. Do you know what I’m saying, Jack?”
Jack thought back to how this conversation had started—with her remark that she’d given Andie “a lot to think about.”
“Let me guess,” said Jack. “You’re about to tell me that I’m Sydney Bennett’s lawyer not because a judge forced me to take the case. But because this is who I am.”
“Wow,” she said, “you’re a quick study.”
“No, I’m not. Andie and I had this same conversation yesterday. I asked her where it came from, and she said a little birdie sang in her ear. I don’t know how you did it, but you two seem to be singing the same tune.”
Sarah smiled thinly. “I didn’t do anything, Jack. Andie’s a smart cookie.”
“That she is.”
Sarah sat back in her chair, glanced around the room. “Thirty-two years ago this month, Neil and I started the Freedom Institute.”
“That is impressive.”
She looked at him from across the table, her expression very serious. “It’s a shame it has to close.”
“What?”
“We had to let Eve and Johnny go last week. That brings us down to two lawyers. I can’t run this place. I haven’t practiced law in over a decade. I’ve talked to Hannah about taking over, but that’s asking a lot of a twenty-six-year-old lawyer fresh out of law school. And to be honest with you, I’m not sure she has the passion. With Neil gone, it’s going to die.”
“That would really be sad.”
“Yes, it would. Because when it dies, a little corner of justice dies with it. That sounds pretty corny, doesn’t it?”
“From anyone but you it would,” he said.
She reached across the table and squeezed Jack’s hand. “Go home to your fiancée.”
He nodded, rose from his chair, and kissed her good night on the cheek. He was almost to the hallway when he stopped in the doorway and turned. “Thanks for having that talk with Andie.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “But watch out. Someday I could call in that favor. You never know what I might ask for in return.”
Jack gave her a little smile. “Good night, Sarah.”
“Good night, my friend.”
M
onday morning came quickly. Jack and Hannah were in Judge Matthews’ courtroom at the criminal justice center. Sydney Bennett, of course, was a no-show.
Judge Matthews started promptly at nine
A.M.
“Mr. Swyteck, you may cross-examine the witness.”
“Thank you,” said Jack. The courtroom was exactly the way they’d left it upon Friday’s adjournment. A packed gallery. Ted Gaines seated in the front row of public seating, directly behind the prosecutor. Melinda Crawford and her assistant at the table for the prosecution, near the empty jury box. Brian Hewitt sat alone in the witness chair, wringing his hands as Jack approached.
“Mr. Hewitt,” said the judge, “I will remind you that you are still under oath.”
Jack positioned himself in front of the witness, feet apart and shoulders squared, full eye contact. It was the “control posture,” the body language of a trial lawyer that denied wiggle room during cross-examination. Jack said good morning, then went straight to work.
“Mr. Hewitt, you’ve never met Sydney Bennett, am I right?”
“No.”
“Never talked to her?”
“No.”
“Never got a hundred thousand dollars in cash from her.”
“Well, no.”
“You’ve never met me before.”
“No, sir.”
“Or my colleague, Hannah Goldsmith.”
“No.”
“Never even talked to us before.”
“That’s true.”
“Never got a hundred thousand dollars in cash from us.”
“No.”
Jack walked back to the podium. No real need to. He just wanted to move, make sure all eyes were following him.
“Now, as I understand your testimony, you were offered fifty thousand dollars for a hung jury. And a hundred thousand dollars for a not-guilty verdict.”
“That’s correct.”
“I can see how someone could buy a hung jury. All it takes is one juror. You simply refuse to vote guilty no matter what, even if the eleven other jurors are beating you on the head with a hammer to vote guilty.”
“Is there a question?” asked the prosecutor.
“My question is this,” said Jack, “Mr. Hewitt, you never stood up in the jury room and announced, ‘Hey, folks, I don’t care what you say, I am
never
going to vote to convict Sydney Bennett of murder.’ You never said that, did you?”
“No, of course not.”
“You would never have said that,” said Jack, “because you didn’t want to make them angry at you.”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Your goal wasn’t to get a hung jury for fifty thousand dollars,” said Jack. “You wanted the not-guilty verdict—the hundred-thousand-dollar prize.”
Hewitt shifted uneasily, exposed for what he was. “Who wouldn’t?”
“And you understood, did you not, that to return a verdict of ‘not guilty,’ the jury had to be unanimous. All twelve jurors had to vote ‘not guilty.’”
“Yes, I knew that.”
“So you needed to
convince
the other jurors.”
Hewitt looked cautiously at Jack, as if sensing a trap. “I guess so.”
“Well, Mr. Hewitt, you didn’t go to juror number one and say ‘I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars to vote ‘not guilty,’ did you?”
“No.”
“You didn’t make that offer to juror number two, did you?”
“No.”
“You didn’t offer to share your hundred thousand dollars with any of the other jurors, am I right?”
“That would be correct.”
“So if you were going to get the hundred-thousand-dollar not-guilty verdict, you had to
persuade
the other jurors.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
The prosecutor rose. “Judge, I don’t really see the point of this questioning.”
“I’ll give the defense some latitude,” said the judge. “But let’s move it along.”
Jack stepped closer to the witness. “When it came time to persuade your fellow jurors to vote not guilty, you didn’t bring any phony documents into the jury room, did you?”
“No.”
“You didn’t bring any phony pictures into the jury room?”
“No.”
“You didn’t fabricate a medical examiner’s report, did you?”
“Not at all.”
“You didn’t use anything but the evidence that was introduced at trial, am I right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
Jack paused and glanced at Hannah. Her expression seemed to say,
So far, so good.
“Mr. Hewitt, you’re not a trial lawyer, are you?”
“Hardly.”
“You haven’t received any special training in the powers of persuasion, have you?”
“No.”
“In your entire life, have you
ever
convinced eleven other people to change their minds about something as important as whether a twenty-four-year-old woman should be convicted of murdering her daughter?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“Mr. Hewitt, you were able to
convince
the other jurors to vote ‘not guilty’ because they already believed my client was innocent. Isn’t that right, sir?”
“Objection. The witness couldn’t possibly know that.”
“I don’t know,” said Hewitt, taking the prosecutor’s cue.
The judge looked down from the bench. “Mr. Hewitt, please wait for me to rule on the objections before answering a question. The objection is sustained.”
Jack waited a moment, setting up the next question. “Mr. Hewitt, convincing the eleven other jurors to vote ‘not guilty’ was the easiest hundred thousand dollars you ever made in your life, wasn’t it.”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“I think the witness’ opinion on that is relevant,” said Jack.
“The objection was sustained,” said the judge. “Move on.”
The prosecutor rose. “Judge, I would move to strike this entire line of questioning. I don’t see how any of it is relevant.”
Jack shot her a look of incredulity, then addressed the court. “Your Honor, the simple point is that this alleged bribe had absolutely no impact on the outcome of the trial. The prosecution failed to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt. Sydney Bennett was found not guilty. End of story.”
The judge rocked back in his high leather chair, thinking. “Well, I’m not sure that’s the test, Mr. Swyteck. I’ll take the prosecution’s motion under advisement. Any further questions for this witness?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Jack. He faced the witness. “Mr. Hewitt, let’s talk about the day you were arrested.”
Hewitt shifted nervously. Obviously not his favorite topic. “Okay.”
“You went to the Bird Bowling Lanes, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Now, you didn’t choose that location, did you?”
“No. He did. The guy who paid me.”
“You didn’t pick the time, did you?”
“No. He said be there at seven o’clock.”
“You didn’t select the locker where he left the money.”
“No. He did.”
“You didn’t tell him where to leave the key—tucked into the baseboard by the drinking fountain.”
“No. He did that.”
“So let me set the scene,” said Jack. “You walked into the bowling alley just before seven, like he told you to.”
“Right.”
“And no one stopped you.”
“No.”
“You walked toward the drinking fountain and got the key from behind the rubber baseboard, like he told you to.”
“Yes.”
“No one stopped you.”
“No.”
“You went into the locker room and opened the locker, like he told you.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“No one stopped you then, did they?”
“No.”
“You got the money out of the locker, like he told you to.”
“Right.”
“You did everything just like he told you to.”
“Yes.”
“And all was going just fine until you stuffed the cash into your bowling bag and walked out of the locker room.
Boom!
” Jack shouted, stirring the audience in their seats. “Two FBI agents were all over you.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much how it happened.”
Jack went back to the podium and double-checked his copy of the written confession. “And the first thing the FBI agent said to you was, ‘What you got in the bag?’”
“Something like that, right.”
Jack stepped away from the lectern, a quizzical expression on his face. “Mr. Hewitt, how do you suppose that the FBI knew that you were going to be at that bowling alley, at that exact time, with all that money in your bowling bag?”
“Objection. Calls for speculation.”
“Let me put it this way,” said Jack. “Mr. Hewitt, did
you
call the FBI and tell them you were going to be there?”
He looked at Jack, as if the question were stupid. “No.”
Jack glanced at Hannah, who cued up the recording. “Judge, at this time we’d like to play for the witness the audio recording of the anonymous tip that was phoned into the FBI’s Miami Field Office at three forty-seven
P.M.
the day of Mr. Hewitt’s arrest.”
“No objection,” said the prosecutor.
With the judge’s approval, Hannah hit
PLAY
. The courtroom seemed to reach a deeper level of quiet. There was a moment of static hiss, and then the call replayed over the speakers.
“Bird Bowling Lanes. Tonight. Seven
P.M.
Hundred-thousand-dollar bribe to juror number five in the Sydney Bennett murder trial. Look for the guy who opens locker number nineteen.”
The recording ended. Jack tightened his stare as he approached the witness. He had taken a chance by playing that tape, broken the cardinal rule of cross-examination, not a hundred percent sure that he was going to get the testimony from the witness that he needed. But it was a risk worth taking. And from the expression on the witness’ face, Jack could see that the payoff was imminent.
“Do you recognize that voice?” asked Jack.
“It’s the guy,” said Hewitt. “The guy I met at Government Center who said he’d pay me the money.”
“So, just to be clear: Your testimony is that the man who told you to go to the bowling alley at seven
P.M.
to collect your money is the same guy who told the FBI to be at the bowling alley at seven
P.M.
to arrest you.”
“That’s what I hear,” said Hewitt. “That’s his voice.”
Jack changed his tone, as if prodding the witness to feel some resentment about the setup. “Whoever paid you this money . . . he
wanted
you to get caught.”
“Objection.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly right,” said Hewitt.
The judge stared down from the bench again. “Mr. Hewitt, I told you to please refrain from answering until I rule on an objection. Sustained.”
“I’ll rephrase it,” said Jack. “Mr. Hewitt, are you aware of any reason why Sydney Bennett would have wanted you to get caught taking a bribe?”
He shook his head. “I really can’t think of one.”
“Thank you. No further questions.” Jack stepped away.
The prosecutor rose. “May I have redirect, Your Honor?”
“No,” said the judge. “I want to devote the remainder of the time I’ve set aside for this hearing to the defense. Mr. Swyteck, on Friday we briefly discussed the possibility of your client testifying. As I mentioned, someone needs to explain that video at Opa-locka Airport, which shows Ms. Bennett’s obvious affection for the man who bribed Mr. Hewitt. Is she coming or not?”
“She’s not here now, Your Honor.”
“Well, it’s now or never. Have you spoken to her?”
“Yes, I have, Your Honor.”
That drew a response from the audience, the first public confirmation that Jack was in touch with the missing Sydney Bennett.
“And what’s the problem?” asked the judge.
“Sydney Bennett can rebut this whole charade. The problem is simply that she’s afraid to come here.”
“Afraid of what?” said the prosecutor. “Being found guilty of jury tampering on top of murdering her daughter?”
Nice line
, Jack thought as a wave of snickers coursed through the gallery.
Did Faith Corso write it for you?
The judge gaveled down the rumbling, restoring order.
“Judge, may I approach the bench?” Jack asked.
The judge waved him forward. The prosecutor followed.
“Judge, to demonstrate why my client is afraid to come into this courtroom would require me to reveal certain facts that could compromise the investigation into the murder of Dr. Rene Fenning. The two are
that
related.”
“What?” said Crawford, incredulous.
Jack continued, “It would also require me to present the testimony of a certain FBI agent who can confirm Ms. Bennett’s expressed fears. That agent is about to begin a five-month undercover assignment. Neither an undercover agent, who is by definition trying to keep a low profile, nor the details relating to a pending homicide investigation should be put on display for TV cameras in a packed courtroom if there is an alternative. I would request the opportunity to proffer my evidence in chambers and, if possible, avoid making it part of tonight’s broadcast on BNN.”
“This is a stall,” said Crawford. “He doesn’t have his client ready to testify, and Mr. Swyteck is just stalling.”
“It’s not a stall,” said Jack. “If I can have thirty minutes of the court’s time in chambers, I can convince the court of that.”
The judge leaned back, considering it, then breathed a heavy sigh. “All right. You can have thirty minutes. I will see you at one o’clock in my chambers. And, Mr. Swyteck,” the judge added.
“Yes, Your Honor?”
“Bring your FBI agent with you.”
