The Pardon

“Sustained.”

“Your Honor,” McCue feigned incredulity. “I’m a little surprised by the objection. I’m just trying to ensure a fair panel. I mean, there are people who might even want to hold Mr. Swyteck responsible for all those grotesque murders his guilty clients committed-”

“That’s enough!” the judge rebuked. “You are much more transparent than you realize, Mr. McCue. Move on. Now.”

“Surely,” he agreed, having already made his point.

“I mean it,” the judge said sternly. “I’ll have no more of that.”

Like a man testing fate, McCue seemed to get more outrageous with Manny’s repeated objections, each of which was sustained and followed by increasingly stern reprimands from the judge. His antics pushed jury selection well into that Friday afternoon. But by the middle of that ninth interminable day the judge finally had some good news.

“We have a jury,” she announced with relief.

A burly black construction worker who carried his lunch every day in the same crinkled paper sack; a retired alligator poacher with cowboy boots, tobacco-stained teeth, and a crew cut; and a blue-haired widow whose juror identification number, fifty-five, might have been half her age were just three of the twelve “peers” who would decide whether Jack Swyteck would live or die.

It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon, and normally Judge Tate would have called it a day at that point, recognizing that there wasn’t enough time for both the state and the defense to present opening statements. But in light of McCue’s conduct during jury selection, she had a plan that would allow her to finish opening statements and still have plenty of time to watch herself on the six o’clock news.

“Mr. Cardenal,” the judge said with a nod, “please proceed for the defense.”

Manny rose slowly, giving the judge a confused look.

McCue also rose. “With all due respect,” he interjected in his most folksy manner, “the govuhment usually gives the first opening statement.”

The judge glared, then spoke explicitly, so that the jury would understand exactly what she was doing.

“We know the government usually goes first,” she said. “But we warned you repeatedly-you were making your opening statement while selecting a jury. So now the defense gets its turn; you’ve had yours.”

McCue was dumbstruck. “Your Honor, that seems pretty draconian, don’t you think? I mean, if I could just have a couple of minutes. That’s all-”

“Very well. You have two minutes.”

“Well,” he backpedaled, “I mean two min-”

“You’ve just wasted ten seconds of your two minutes.”

At that, McCue scurried across the room, putting on his jury face. His big, dark eyes were full of life as they peered over the spectacles that he wore low on the bridge of his prominent nose, Teddy Roosevelt-style. Even in a serious moment like this, a trace of a smile lit up his happy, round face, making it clear why people said Wilson McCue was simply an overgrown good ol’ boy at heart.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, pacing as he spoke, “this case is about murder, about power. . the power over life and death. By the will of the people, we do have capital punishment in this state: We recognize the power of the government to put convicted killers to death. What we don’t recognize, however, are the misguided efforts of private citizens to exercise that power at will. We do not allow vigilantes to take the awesome power of the state into their own hands. We do not permit men to carry out their own private executions, whatever their motive.

“As the evidence in this case unfolds, ladies and gentlemen, you will come to know a man who did indeed take that power into his own hands. This man was a lawyer. A lawyer who had devoted his professional life to defending men and women who were accused of some of the most violent murders this community has ever seen. Most, if not all, of his clients were guilty. A few were convicted. Now, there’s nothing wrong with that. Some lawyers would say it’s even admirable to defend the rights of the guilty. It’s in the public interest, they might argue.”

McCue moved closer to the jury, addressing each of the twelve as individuals, as if it were just the two of them sitting on his front porch, sipping lemonade and watching the sun set. “But it’s not the public interest or even this lawyer’s public service that is at issue here,” he said in a low but firm voice. “You are here as jurors today because this lawyer,” his voice grew louder, “the defendant in this case, has a private side-a very dark private side. The evidence will show that on August second, at roughly four o’clock in the morning, he burst into an apartment- another man’s home-and made himself judge, jury, and executioner. He took out his thirty-eight-caliber pistol, fired off two quick shots, and slew his own client. And ladies and gentlemen, the defendant-the man who did this deed-is sitting right here in this courtroom,” McCue said solemnly, scowling as he pointed an accusing finger. “His name is Jack Swyteck.”

Jack suddenly felt the weight of the government’s case, as if McCue’s pointed finger had brought it to rest on his shoulders at that very moment. How true it all sounds! he thought morosely as the hallowed courtroom seemed to transform even this blowhard state attorney into something dignified, the way dirt becomes soil just because it’s in a nursery, or spit becomes saliva when in a dentist’s office.

“You have fifteen seconds left,” the judge intoned.

“My time is short,” McCue grumbled, “and I don’t have nearly enough to lay out all the evidence against Mr. Swyteck. But you will see and hear all of it over the next several days. And at the end of the case, I will come back before you-and then I will ask you to find Jack Swyteck guilty of murder in the first degree.”

McCue paused, the silence in the room seeming to reinforce his words. Then he headed back to his seat.

Manny rose and stepped toward the jury, exchanging glances with McCue as he passed. Manny stood comfortably before the jury, made eye contact with each of the jurors, and then held up the indictment in one hand and read loudly: “The State versus Jack Swyteck.” He let his hand fall to his side, still clutching the indictment. “The State,” he repeated, this time with emphasis, “versus Jack Swyteck. Now, that,” he said, his resonant voice making his audience shiver, “is power. And Mr. McCue is right in one respect: This case is about power. And what you have seen so far is simply the power to accuse,” he said as he flipped the indictment irreverently on the prosecutor’s table, then faced the jury squarely. “Because that’s all an indictment is, ladies and gentlemen: an accusation. In a criminal case, the government has no power. It has only a burden. It has the burden of proving its case beyond a reasonable doubt. Over the next few weeks, the testimony, the evidence, the facts,” he hung on the last word, “will show you that the government is powerless to meet that heavy burden. . because Jack Swyteck is an innocent man.”

Jack’s gut twitched. Just how innocent did he have to be, he wondered. Just how much would this jury make McCue prove? Jack knew that his lawyer would address all those things in his opening statement, and he wanted to hear every word of it. But he was having trouble focusing. McCue hadn’t said anything that he hadn’t expected him to say, but finally hearing the accusations directly from the prosecutor’s mouth had deeply affected him. It was as if Jack had convinced himself that the prosecutor didn’t really have any evidence, and now he had to deal with the fact that McCue just might have all the evidence he needed.

“And when you evaluate the testimony of the government witnesses,” Manny told the jurors, “remember that not a single one of these witnesses saw my client commit a crime. The government’s case is based entirely on circumstantial evidence: Not a single government witness will say they saw Mr. Swyteck do anything illegal with their own two eyes.”

Jack scanned the courtroom. All eyes were on Manny except. . What was it? He looked around again, more slowly this time, focusing. There it was. A man seated in the last row of public seating was staring at him-not the way a curious observer would stare, but in a penetrating, communicative way. He looked familiar. Tall and broad- shouldered. A very round, clean-shaven head. The sparkle of a diamond stud on his left earlobe. And then the image of the man merged with another. Jack could see himself standing outside Goss’s apartment on the night Goss was killed. He was pounding on the door. A man had stepped into the hall, a few doors down from Goss’s apartment, and shouted, “Cut the racket.” Without question, this was that same man.