The Pardon

“I’ve kept all my campaign promises. And will continue to honor them after I’m re-elected. Thank you.” As he closed he started to move away from the lectern.

“More specifically,” Malone pressed, raising his voice. “If the jury convicts Jack Swyteck of murder in the first degree, are you going to sign his death warrant?”

The governor halted in his tracks. His plastic smile faded, and his eyes flared with anger. But Malone waited for an answer. “The answer,” said the governor, “is definitely no.”

“Why not?”

The governor glared at his interrogator. “Because Jack is innocent. And I would never execute an innocent man.”

“How would you know?”

“I know my son’s not a murderer.”

“No,” said Malone. “I meant, how do you know that you haven’t already executed an innocent man?”

The governor glared menacingly at the reporter, but his eye twitched nervously. A sign of weakness, Malone detected.

“First of all,” said the governor, “most of them admitted they were guilty before-”

“Not all of them.”

“No, but-”

“What about the ones who didn’t confess? What about the ones who went down swinging? What about the guys who swore their innocence to the end?”

“What about Raul Fernandez?” someone shouted from the rear.

The governor went cold. That was a name he hadn’t heard since his blackmailer had threatened him-since the death of Eddy Goss. He looked out to see who had asked the question, but the faces in the crowd were indistinguishable.

“What about Fernandez?” Malone picked up the question. Heads bowed, as legions of reporters scribbled down the name.

The governor shifted nervously. He was clueless as to who had shouted out Fernandez’s name, but he was suspicious of the way Malone’s line of questioning had prompted the outburst. “I’m sorry. I’m not going to get into individual cases today, no more than I’m going to discuss my son’s individual case. It’s just not appropriate. That’s all for today,” he said as he started toward the exit.

“Governor!” others called out in unison, wishing for a follow-up. But he’d lost his concentration. There would be no more questions. “Thank you,” he said with a wave as he exited the stage through a side door, into a private room.

The governor’s aide was there to greet him and to close the door on pursuing press. Harry wiped little beads of sweat from his brow, relieved to have the conference behind him.

“Went well, I thought,” said Campbell as he handed his boss a cold drink. The governor chugged down the Coca-Cola but didn’t respond. “Except for that little exchange about your son,” Campbell added. “I’m telling you, that son of yours is killing you, Governor. We checked the polls again this morning. You’ve lost another point and-”

Campbell droned on, but Harry had stopped listening. He glanced out the window, strangely amused by the irony. It seemed that Jack was always being accused of killing someone. His father. His client. And a long time ago, on a day Harold Swyteck would never forget-his own mother. It had been nearly a quarter century since Agnes, in a drunken state, had made the accusation, and then added to the boy’s confusion by suggesting that Harry reckoned his son accountable. Harry’s own role in that ugly interchange had been the worst, however, because he had yet to look Jack in the eye and deny it.

“Jack isn’t killing anyone,” Harry suddenly objected in a loud voice. Campbell was a bit taken aback. He watched, curious, as the governor seemed to retreat into his thoughts.

“I killed him,” Harry finally said in a bow voice. “By my silence-a long time ago.”

Campbell was about to follow up, but the governor quickly changed the subject-to someone he may have really killed. “Who was that reporter who yelled out the name of Raul Fernandez?” he asked, trying not to sound too interested.

“I don’t know. I sent a security man after him, but he was long gone before anyone really knew what was going on. You want me to follow up on it?”

“No,” he said, a little too forcefully. The last thing he wanted was someone else poking into this. “It’s not worth the trouble,” he said in a more reasonable tone. Then he stepped toward the window and sighed. “Could you give me a few minutes, please?”

Campbell nodded. His boss looked like he could use some time alone. “I’ll be in the car,” he said, then left the room.

Harry lowered himself into a chair. He was still weak in the knees from the pointed Fernandez questions. Could he be back? The chrysanthemums had led him to believe that Goss was the blackmailer. And since he hadn’t heard from the man since Goss’s murder, he had been convinced he was right. But this was too strange for coincidence. It couldn’t have been a heckler or someone making a lucky guess who’d shouted out Fernandez’s name. And Malone’s line of questioning had been deliberate. He trembled at the thought: Not only had his blackmailer returned, but one of Florida’s sleaziest television reporters knew something about it.

Don’t jump to conclusions, he told himself. Raul Fernandez had been the most controversial execution of his administration. A reporter or a protester didn’t have to know anything to draw a comparison between the execution of the governor’s son and the execution of a man who had proclaimed his innocence to the very end. It wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibility that today had been coincidence-that Goss had been the extortionist, and that his extortionist was dead. Then it occurred to him that there was a way to find out for sure if it had been Goss. The first time Harry had been attacked, his assailant had identified himself as the man who confessed to Jack the night of Fernandez’s execution. Surely, Jack would know if that very same man was Goss.

Now all he had to do was figure out a way to get Jack to tell him.

Chapter 24

“State versus Swyteck,” the bailiff finally announced, ending Jack’s ninety-minute wait in the holding cell. The cavernous courtroom came to life as Manuel Cardenal met his client at the prisoner’s side entrance and escorted him across the marble floor to a mahogany podium, where they stood and faced the judge. Clusters of newscasters and curious spectators looked on from the public seating area as Jack passed before them, his head down and eyes forward, the accused murderer of the infamous Eddy Goss. Goss was indeed on Jack’s mind. The entire scene was hauntingly reminiscent of the Goss arraignment, when Jack had accompanied the confessed killer to the very same podium to enter his not-guilty plea. Now, as Jack was about to enter his own plea, it was more plain than ever that a simple “not guilty” was no assertion of innocence. Innocence was a moral judgment-a matter of conscience between mortals and their maker. “Not guilty” was a legalistic play on words, the defendant’s public affirmation that he would stand on his constitutional right to force the prosecutor to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Manuel Cardenal seemed sensitive to that fine distinction when he entered Jack’s plea.

“My client is more than not guilty,” Manny announced to the judge. “Jack Swyteck is innocent.”

The pale old judge peered down from the bench over the top of his bifocals, his wrinkled brow furrowed and bushy white eyebrows raised. He didn’t approve of defense lawyers who vouched for the innocence of their clients, but he didn’t make an issue of it. “Register a plea of not guilty,” he directed the clerk. “And Mr. Cardenal,” he said sharply, pointing menacingly with his gavel, “save the speeches for your press conference.”

Manny just smiled to himself.

“There’s also the issue of bail, Judge,” came the deep, gravelly voice from across the room. It was Wilson