The Pardon

flew open and Cindy greeted him with a smile.

“I hope you have a reservation,” she said.

“What?”

“All right,” she said, pretending to give in. “I’ll let you in this time, but no complaints about the evening’s menu.”

She looked great in her short black skirt and paisley blouse.

As he walked into the house, he was met by the mixed scent of her perfume and a tangy, buttery smell coming from the kitchen. A quick glance at the dining room table revealed flickering candles.

Okay, I get it, Jack thought to himself. To take some of the edge off my first day in court, she’s knocked herself out and prepared a candlelit dinner.

As he passed into the bright light of the front hall, she noticed the scratches on his face and his soiled clothes. “What happened to you?” she asked.

He swallowed hard. “I met him tonight. The guy who’s been stalking me.”

She froze. “You what?” Eyes wide with fright, she took him by the arm and led him into the living room. She switched on the lamp and took a closer look at his scratches. “It doesn’t look serious,” she said. “But what happened?”

He lowered himself onto the couch. She sat beside him and listened as he told her everything, beginning with the night Goss was killed: Jack’s banging on Goss’s door, the man stepping out of the apartment down the hall to complain about the noise, the same man staring at Jack in the courtroom, the return to East Adams Street, and finally the attack on the bus.

With some difficulty he also told her about the night Raul Fernandez was executed, and his inability to persuade his father to grant a stay.

After listening to his monologue, she felt like she’d finally met Jack for the first time. “I’m glad you told me- about you and your father. But this attack. What does it mean?”

He took a deep breath. “It confirms that Eddy Goss was never after me. And it confirms that I’m being framed. This guy killed Goss, and then made it look like I did it. It’s poetic justice in his eyes. Raul Fernandez died an innocent man. I’m his killer. So I have to die, too-for a crime I didn’t commit.”

“But that doesn’t make sense. Why you? After all, you pleaded with your father to stop the execution. If this guy is trying to avenge Fernandez’s death, why are you the target, instead of your father?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know how his crazed mind works.”

“And what’s his motive? I understand that he’s punishing you for the execution. But why’s he so attached to Raul Fernandez? What’s the connection?”

Jack sighed. “I don’t know that either.”

“Oh, Jack,” she said, holding him close. “Why would anyone hate you this much? It scares me that he enjoys hating you so much. He’s taunting you, Jack. He’s playing with you like this is a game.”

Jack nodded in agreement. He looked into her eyes, then repeated the suggestion he’d made to her weeks ago. “I really think you should get out of Miami. The man put a knife to my throat, Cindy. I still can’t tell the police about it. I need to call Manny, but I’m sure he’ll agree with me. It’s no different now than it was before: I still can’t give the prosecutor proof of my motive to kill Eddy Goss.”

A knock at the door interrupted them.

“Did you invite someone else for dinner?” he asked.

“Of course not.”

The knocking continued. “I’ll get it,” he said.

“What if it’s him?”

“I know what he looks like now. I’ll know if it’s him before I open the door.” Jack walked briskly through the living room and stopped in front of the door. A third round of harsh knocking began, then it stopped as he flipped on the porch light. He peered out through the peephole and saw a man staring back at him with a dour expression. He wore a beige short-sleeve shirt, chocolate-brown pants, and black patent-leather shoes that glistened in the porch light. And he had a gun with a pearl-white handle tucked in to a heavy black shoulder holster. His official license to bear a sidearm-a shiny gold badge-was pinned to his chest. Jack opened the door.

“Evenin’,” the officer said in a polite but businesslike tone. “I’m with the county sheriff’s department. I’m looking for Miss Cindy Paige.”

A lump came to Jack’s throat, followed by second thoughts about opening the door.

“I’m Cindy Paige,” she said, standing behind Jack.

“This is for you,” the sheriff announced as he handed her an official-looking document.

Jack intercepted the delivery.

“What is it?” Cindy asked.

“It’s a subpoena.”

“A trial subpoena,” the sheriff clarified.

“What it’s for?” she asked.

“Be at the courthouse, Monday, nine A.M.,” the sheriff commanded. “You’re the government’s first witness in State versus Swyteck.”

“The government’s first witness?”

“Don’t say another word,” Jack advised her. He quickly closed the door on the sheriff.

“I can’t believe this,” she said as her eyes welled with tears. “Why me? Why do they want me to go first?”

“Maybe because you’re honest,” he said. “The prosecutor probably thinks he can get you to say something to hurt me.”

She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “Never.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” he said as he pulled her close. As he pulled her close, he noticed that smoke and the smell of their burning dinner had begun to seep in from the kitchen. At least not intentionally, he thought.

Chapter 35

The air seemed electric with possibility that Monday morning as the players in the drama of State v. Swyteck assembled for the opening act. The script called for the prosecution to present its version of events first. After Jack’s character was thoroughly impugned and his actions given the most sinister interpretation, the defense would come on and try to reverse the brainwashing. It seemed almost amazing, really, that juries so often reached the right result. But the lofty notion that this was the best system in the world was little consolation for an innocent man who might well be put to death.

“Call your first witness, Mr. McCue,” the judge ordered.

“The State calls Cindy Paige,” McCue announced.

Jack’s heart sank. It was no bluff.

A sea of heads turned in unison toward the rear of the courtroom as Cindy emerged through the twelve-foot swinging doors. She looked nervous, but only Jack could detect just how nervous she truly was. He knew the little signs-the tightness in her lower lip, the stiffness in her walk, the way she pressed her thumb against her forefinger.

She wore a beige skirt and matching jacket, with a powder-blue blouse. “Look soft and sympathetic,” Manny had told her last night. And she did.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth. .” the bailiff said, administering the familiar oath. Jack looked on from across the courtroom, watching Cindy’s raised right hand tremble just slightly. It was ironic, he thought, that she appeared so anxious. If ever there was a person who could be counted on to tell the truth, it was her.

Wilson McCue allowed the witness to settle into the old Naugahyde chair, then began innocuously enough. “Please state your name,” he requested.

Cindy shifted in her chair, as if even this easy question caused discomfort. “Cindy Paige,” she replied in a soft