She blushed and lowered her eyes. “Silly boy. Didn’t anyone ever tell you? Stick to mysteries you can solve.”
“No mystery is unsolvable. Some are just more fun than others.”
She brought her cup to her lips and peered over the rim, saying nothing.
“Don’t you agree?” asked Jack.
No answer, but she didn’t look away.
“You know, you can’t ignore me forever,” said Jack.
More silence, but Jack knew there was a grin hiding behind that coffee cup.
“Oh yeah,” he said with a smile. “Now this is getting fun.”
Twenty-three
A a court hearing on Tuesday morning, Jack was on the receiving end of a laserlike glare from Assistant State Attorney Mason Rudsky. Clearly, Rudsky wasn’t happy about his seat in the witness stand, especially when it meant cross-examination from a criminal defense lawyer.
It wasn’t Jack’s preference to take on the State Attorney’s Office, but he was being stonewalled. After he and Kelsey left Just Books early Friday evening, Jack called Deirdre Meadows and asked about her book. She didn’t want to talk about it. The following Monday morning, Jack visited Rudsky and explained how Deirdre had bragged to the owner of Just Books that the prosecutor had lent his “full cooperation.” Rudsky refused to confirm or deny the allegation, and he flashed the same phony smile and gave the same pat answer each time Jack asked a question: “I’m very sorry, but the investigation into the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter is still an open file. I can’t discuss it.”
Jack wasn’t one to take “Up yours” for an answer. If the reporter wouldn’t tell him what was in her book, and if the prosecutor couldn’t talk about the investigative file, then Jack was going to see the file for himself. He filed a lawsuit under the Sunshine Act, which is Florida’s very broad version of the Freedom of Information Act. The law was written to make sure that government was conducted “in the sunshine,” so that private citizens had access to government records. The law applied to criminal matters, except for active investigations. One thing Jack had learned as a prosecutor was that judges took a dim view of prosecutors who tried to circumvent the law by claiming that stale files were “active.”
Jack stepped toward the witness. The cavernous old courtroom was exceptionally quiet, not so much as a cough or the shuffling of feet from the gallery. The hearing was closed to the public, at least until the court could determine whether the file should be made public.
“Good morning, Mr. Rudsky.”
“Good morning.”
Rudsky was a career prosecutor who took his job and himself too seriously. He had an unusually large head, and when he got angry his face flushed red, as if his bow tie were tied too tightly. He was beet red already, and Jack hadn’t even started.
“Mr. Rudsky, you were the assistant state attorney assigned to the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter five years ago, were you not?”
“That’s correct.”
“Are you handling the murder of Sally Fenning as well?”
“No. Patricia Compton is heading that team.” He pointed with a nod to the lawyer seated on the other side of the courtroom. Compton was his attorney for purposes of this hearing.
“Are you part of her team?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Objection,” said Compton. “Judge, what does the composition of a completely different prosecutorial team have to do with the question of whether the investigation into the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter is active or inactive?”
“Sustained.”
“Let me put it another way,” said Jack. “Mr. Rudsky, does the fact that you are not assigned to the Sally Fenning murder have anything to do with the fact that you are a named beneficiary under her will?”
“Same objection.”
“I’ll overrule this one. The witness shall answer.”
“I don’t know,” said Rudsky. “I don’t make the assignments.”
“Other than your role as prosecutor in connection with the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter, Katherine, did you have any kind of relationship with Ms. Fenning?”
“No.”
“Were you surprised to learn that you were a beneficiary under Sally Fenning’s will?”
“Totally.”
“Can you think of any reason that she would have named you as a beneficiary, other than your role as prosecutor?”
“I couldn’t even hazard a guess.”
“Was Sally Fenning happy with the way you handled the case?”
Compton was back on her feet. “Objection. This is getting very far afield.”
“Sustained. I’ve given you a little latitude, Mr. Swyteck, but please don’t take advantage.”
“Yes, Judge. Let me put this in more concrete terms. Mr. Rudsky, no one was ever convicted for the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“No one was even indicted.”
“True.”
“You never even asked a grand jury to return an indictment.”
“I never did, no.”
“You never even empaneled a grand jury, did you?”
He shifted in his seat. “You’re really getting into the matter of grand jury secrecy.”
“Answer the question,” said the judge.
“Can I have the question again, please?”
“Sure,” said Jack. “You never empaneled a grand jury, did you?”
“You mean in the Katherine Fenning murder?”
“No, I was actually talking about the Lincoln assassination.”
“Objection.”
The judge cracked a faint smile. “Sustained, but Mr. Swyteck does have a point. Please answer the question.”
“No. We did not empanel a grand jury.”
“Why not?”
Compton popped to her feet, grumbling. “Judge, this line of questioning does not go to the sole relevant issue at this hearing, which is quite simply whether or not the investigation into the murder of Katherine Fenning is active. This is a blatant attempt to invade the secrecy and sanctity of the grand jury process.”
The judge looked at Jack and said, “Can you narrow your question, Mr. Swyteck?”
Jack stepped closer to the witness and asked, “Is it fair to say that you didn’t empanel a grand jury because you didn’t have sufficient evidence to do so?”
“I suppose that’s one reason.”
“Let’s talk about your evidence-gathering efforts, shall we? How many subpoenas have been issued in the last three years?”
“None.”
“How many depositions taken in the last three years?”
“None.”
