from the box of evidence from the state attorney was still eating at him, and he was no longer just kidding around.
“Answer me this,” said Jack. “Why would a girl like McKenna Mays tell a cop that her boyfriend stabbed her if he didn’t?”
“Easy,” said Theo. “The guy who did it told her he’d come back and slit her throat if she named him. She’s bleeding, scared, confused, and blurts out the first name that comes into her head.”
“Doesn’t exactly line up,” said Neil. “The girl was dying. No reason to fear her attacker coming back to hurt her.”
“Maybe he threatened to come back and kill her entire family. Or maybe she didn’t know she was going to die.”
The last point had Jack and Neil exchanging glances. Lawyers could agonize over evidence for hours, days, even weeks. A former gangbanger from the ’hood who’d spent four years in Florida State Prison could look at the same set of facts and make things just so simple.
“Take it one step further,” said Jack. “It’s not that she isn’t sure if she’s going to live or die. Maybe she’s absolutely convinced that she is going to live.”
“Convinced by someone she knows and trusts,” says Neil.
The lawyers were silent, but Jack didn’t need ESP to know where the other legal mind at the bar was headed.
“I don’t want to go after Paulo directly,” said Jack, shaking his head.
“I can’t blame you a bit for that,” said Neil. “But you know as well as I do that trying to prove up a secret detention facility in Prague is headed nowhere fast. So here’s the thing.”
“Tell me.”
He glanced at Theo, then back at Jack. “It’s like I told you before. They got the wrong man, which means that whoever stole Vince Paulo’s sight and killed McKenna Mays is still out there. The way I see it, you’re actually doing Paulo a favor.”
Jack lowered his eyes, talking into his beer. “Yeah, a favor,” he said with a mirthless chuckle. “I’ll probably get a thank-you note from the whole damn department.”
Chapter Twenty-three
On Friday afternoon, Jack and Neil were back in the Justice Building. Seated between them at the nicked and scratched defense table was Jamal Wakefield, who looked almost boyish in his orange prison jumpsuit. The prosecutorial team sat closer to the empty jury box. Once again, Assistant State Attorney McCue had brought along the lawyer from the National Security Division of the Department of Justice.
“Good morning,” said the judge, and Jack did not take that as a good omen. It was three P.M.
“Good morning,” said the lawyers, no one pointing out his error. It was an unwritten rule in Judge Flint’s courtroom: Suck up or shut up.
Bail hearings were not usually closed to the public, but this hearing was unusual for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that in Florida there was no guaranteed right to bail in a first degree murder case. The accused could be released only after an Arthur hearing, named for one of the Florida Supreme Court’s most famous decisions of the early 1980s-which, for the record, had absolutely nothing to do with Dudley Moore, Christopher Cross, or getting caught between the moon and New York City. In theory, the burden was on the prosecution to establish that the proof against the accused was evident and the presumption of guilt was great. In State v. Jamal Wakefield-a case tinged with national security concerns-Jack was practical enough to realize that the defense would have to put on evidence to establish a right to pretrial release.
The prosecutor spoke first. “Judge, we have a defendant who was picked up in Somalia after the commission of the murder and is a clear flight risk. This is a frivolous motion and a colossal waste of this court’s time. For purposes of this hearing, the state of Florida relies on the evidence that it’s already presented to the grand jury.”
“Thank you,” the judge said, and his appreciation seemed sincere, as if he were still under the impression that it was morning and that he had an important lunch date. “Mr. Swyteck, the ball is in your court.”
Jack rose. “Your Honor, in due time we’ll explain how Mr. Wakefield ended up in Somalia. But first, the defense will show that the case against Mr. Wakefield is a weak one, and that he should therefore be released on bond pending trial.”
The judge groaned as he rocked back in his tall leather chair. “Let me be up front about this, Counselor. I am not going to allow you to try this case twice. Your client has a right to a speedy trial, where you can present your evidence soon enough.”
“We may need just one witness to call the prosecution’s case in question,” said Jack.
The judge seemed pleased by that announcement. “I’m going to hold you to that, Mr. Swyteck. Proceed.”
“The defense calls Vincent Paulo.”
Jack’s voice carried across the empty seats in the public galley and almost echoed off the rear wall, a bit too loud for a courtroom with no observers. The double doors in the back of the courtroom swung open, and Sergeant Paulo entered. He wore a business suit and tie, his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. In his right hand was a white walking cane. His wife was standing at his left, a strong and beautiful woman, which made it seem all the more tragic that Vince could no longer see her. Vince tucked away the cane and laid his hand in the crook of her right arm. Together they came down the aisle, though it seemed to Jack that Vince could have done it without assistance. In a moment of uncontrollable defense-lawyer cynicism, Jack wondered if the prosecutor had told Vince to bring his wife, make himself look more helpless-and make the judge hate Jack even more for attacking the cop that his client was accused of blinding.
“Do you swear to tell the truth…” said the bailiff, administering the familiar oath.
“I do,” said Vince. He climbed into the witness stand and settled into the chair.
Jack stepped forward and, to his surprise, felt at a decided disadvantage before he’d even started. The key to effective cross-examination-and this was cross, even though technically the defense had called Paulo to the stand- was to control the witness. In the courtroom, control was like any other form of communication: Least important was what you said, more important was how you said it, and most important of all was body language. Out of habit, Jack planted his feet firmly on the courtroom floor, squared his shoulders to the witness, and stood tall, but Vince was unflappable, impervious to the nonverbal cues.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Paulo.”
Vince showed little expression. “Sergeant Paulo,” he said.
“Sergeant,” said Jack. “First, let me say that I regret having to subpoena you to appear in court today. I know-” he started to say, then stopped himself, thinking of their phone conversation. “I can only imagine how difficult this must be.”
Vince did not reply, and for Jack the silence was somewhat unnerving.
Jack continued. “I’ve read the sworn affidavit of your testimony that the prosecutor presented to the grand jury. I’ve also listened to the recording of your last words with McKenna Mays on the day she died. I understand that you were a police officer at that time, but just to be clear, you were not on the scene in response to a call for help, were you?”
“No, I was not.”
“I believe you stated in your affidavit that Mr. Mays was out of town, and you went to the Mays residence to check on McKenna.”
“Actually, Mr. Mays told me that he was concerned about-”
“Excuse me, Sergeant. Judge, what Mr. Mays told the witness is inadmissible hearsay.”
The prosecutor rose. “Is that some kind of objection?”
Even without a jury-judges were human, too-Jack couldn’t let the witness testify that McKenna’s father feared Jamal might come around while he was out of town. “Your Honor, what I’d like is simply an answer to my questions.”
