The Pardon

did it? That’s preposterous. It’s impossible. Jack is no murderer. It has to be a mistake.”

“Well, whether it’s true or not, Governor, this is a terrible setback for us. Until a month ago, no one thought a former state insurance commissioner would be a serious challenge to a popular incumbent like yourself. But he’s making a damn good showing. He made quite a name for himself rooting out fraud, and he had the good sense not to push so hard that big business wouldn’t open its wallets when the campaigning got under way. The polls have you up by just four points at last tally. This, however, could change everything. The press is already pouncing all over it. Forty-three calls, Paula said.”

The governor leaned forward in his chair and glared at is aide. “This is my son we’re talking about,” he said angrily. ‘We’re not talking about bad press, or about points on an opinion poll.”

Campbell stood in check. “I’m sorry, Governor,” he said quietly. “I mean-it’s just that, I know you and your son haven’t been close. At least not as long as I’ve known you. I guess I should have been more sensitive.”

The governor rose from his chair, turned, and walked slowly to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the garden in the courtyard. “It’s true,” he said, speaking as much to himself as to his aide, his voice trailing off as if he were retreating deep into his innermost thoughts. “Jack and I have not been as close as I’d like.”

Campbell watched with concern, searching for something to say. “Your son is only a grand jury target-a suspect,” he said. “The lawyers tell me there’s at least a theoretical possibility he might not actually be indicted.”

Harry nodded appreciatively at Campbell’s attempted consolation. But in his mind he could already see the chilling accusation: “John Lawrence Swyteck did with malice aforethought knowingly commit murder in the first degree.” Sometimes he couldn’t help wondering if fate meant him to be separated from Jack, if the alignment of the stars foreordained a rift between them. But he knew that was a cop-out, an attempt to deny his own complicity in the shaping of Jack’s. . what were they? Neuroses? Problems? Confusion, certainly. With a deep sense of guilt, Harry thought back to the first time his son was accused of murder-when he was five years old. .

Harry had pulled into the driveway around supper time and walked briskly up the sidewalk to the front door. He could see his young son peering sadly out the bedroom window as if he were being punished for something. Before Harry had even closed the front door and stepped inside, Agnes was screaming at him about Jack and the crucifix he’d found. Harry tried to calm her but she was determined to have it out. He rushed to the kitchen and closed the door, so Jack couldn’t hear, but the bitter argument continued.

“I told you I didn’t want these things in the house anymore,” Agnes said. “I’m your wife now. Give up the past, Harry. I won’t tolerate you having your own little shrine.”

“It’s not for me. I’m saving them for Jack, when he’s old enough to understand.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” she shouted. “You’re not thinking of Jack. You’re thinking of yourself. You’re living in the past-ever since you took that boy home and left her behind. You won’t let go. Admit it, Harry, you hate me for not being her. And you hate your own son for killing her.”

“Shut up!” he shouted as he rushed toward her.

“Don’t you dare raise a hand to me! It’s sick, Harry! And I’m sick of it!”

Just outside the kitchen, five-year-old Jack trembled in shock and fear of what he had done to his mother. He’d snuck out of his room and tiptoed down the hallway, finding a spot behind a large spider plant, just outside the kitchen, where his father and stepmother had dug in to do battle. He had wanted to hear the truth-but the truth was more than any five-year-old could handle. He stepped back in a daze, then tripped over the pedestal holding the plant, sending himself and the plant crashing to the floor.

The noise from the hall immediately silenced the argument in the kitchen. Harry rushed out and saw Jack lying on the floor, beside the overturned plant. Their eyes met, but neither one spoke. Harold Swyteck didn’t have to ask how much his son had heard. The look on his face told him he’d heard it all. And from that day forward, they’d never looked at each other the same way. .

“Are you listening to me, sir?” Campbell asked. The governor looked at him blankly. His mind was elsewhere.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to shake himself loose of his memories. But he was still thinking of Jack. After so many disappointments and regrets, he wanted to help his son. But with their turbulent history, it wouldn’t be that simple. Jack would surely rebuff any overtures he made.

“Governor,” Campbell interrupted, “obviously this isn’t something you want to focus on now. I’m not trying to be insensitive. I do understand that, for all your differences, Jack is still your son. That’s really none of my business. It is my business, however, to get you re-elected. And, like it or not, we have to evaluate your son’s predicament in political terms. Personal tragedy aside, sir, the simple fact is that if Jack Swyteck loses his trial, Harold Swyteck loses his election. Politically speaking,” he said coolly, “that is the bottom line.”

Harry was angered by Campbell’s mercenary view, but he also appreciated the simple logic of his words. Campbell was right: Helping Jack would help his campaign. And that was the answer to the problem-a kind of reverse psychology. Jack wouldn’t accept help if his father were doing it only for his son. But if the governor were doing it for himself, for his own political reasons, Jack would owe him nothing-not even gratitude. That would be the way he could help Jack-and, more important, be assured that Jack would let him.

“You’re absolutely right,” said the governor, smiling inwardly. “I guess I have no choice but to help my son- any way I can”

Chapter 20

After just a week in Rome, Cindy Paige returned to Miami that afternoon. The photo shoot in Italy was officially off. It turned out that Chet had a much more recreational view of their “business” trip than she did-which became clear the moment she found out he’d reserved one hotel room with one king-size bed in each of the cities on their tour. It had hurt to find out that it wasn’t her talent with a camera that had landed her the job.

Gina met her at the baggage claim, but she wasn’t a very chatty chauffeur on the ride home from the airport. She told Cindy she wasn’t feeling very well, and she wasn’t. Of all the things Gina had done in her life, she realized now that bedding Jack was the lowest. Somehow it had seemed easy to view Jack as “fair game” the other night, when she’d thought Cindy was jetting off to the Eternal City with her old lover. But her friend’s quick return simply confirmed what Gina had suspected all along: Despite the ugly words Jack and Cindy had exchanged the last time they were together, they were far from through.

When they got back to the townhouse, Gina retreated right to her bedroom. She flopped onto the bed an escaped into a rerun of “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”

Cindy left her suitcase by the door and went straight to the kitchen. The so-called snack on the airplane had been about as appetizing as boiled lettuce. She quickly microwaved herself some french fries, then opened the refrigerator in search of ketchup.

“Gina,” she called out, “where’s the Heinz?”

Gina didn’t answer.

“Oh, well,” Cindy said, shrugging. Balancing the plate of fries in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other, she headed for the living room. She grabbed the remote control as she sat on the couch and flipped on the television.

The lead story on every local evening-news broadcast was the same. She was just in time to catch the south Florida version, the hometown approach to the breaking story of how, “in a shocking development, the grand jury investigation into the murder of Eddy Goss had now targeted murder suspect Jack Swyteck.”

She stared dumbfounded at Jack’s face on the television screen, framed by an imposing graphic of the scales of justice. “Oh, my God,” she muttered. She punched the buttons on the remote control and flipped frantically from one channel to the next, as if trying to watch them all at once. She couldn’t believe it, even after hearing it straight from the mouth of every news anchor in the city. After ten minutes she’d had enough, since coverage on every station had degenerated to “live and exclusive” interviews with virtually every publicity hound in town who claimed to “know” Jack Swyteck. She switched off the set in disgust. Not one of these people knew Jack the way she did. He