The Pardon

Stafford’s face reddened with anger. “Seasoned cop botched interrogation,” he read. Then he laid the newspaper on the rail in front of him and glared at Manny.

“And that’s your photograph there beneath the headline, isn’t it, sir?”

“That’s my picture,” he confirmed.

“In forty years of police work, Mr. Stafford, had you ever gotten your picture on the front page of the newspaper?”

“Just this once,” Stafford grunted.

“In forty years,” Manny continued, “had you ever screwed up a case this bad?”

“Objection,” said McCue.

“I didn’t screw it up,” Stafford said sharply, too eager to defend himself to wait for the judge to rule.

“Overruled,” said the judge.

“I’m sorry,” Manny said, feigning an apology. “In forty years, had you ever been blamed for a screw-up this bad?”

“Never,” he croaked.

“Yet, there you are, page one, section A, in probably the least flattering mug shot the newsroom could dig up: the ‘seasoned cop’ who ‘botched the interrogation.’ “Manny moved closer, crouching somewhat, as if digging for the truth. “Who do you blame for that?” he pressed. “Do you blame yourself, Detective?”

Stafford glared at his interrogator. “At first I did.”

“But you don’t blame yourself anymore, do you,” said Manny.

Stafford fell silent-he knew exactly where Manny was headed. “Come on, Detective. We know who you really blame. This is the man you blame,” said Manny, pointing toward his client, his voice much louder now. “Isn’t it!”

Stafford glanced at Jack, then looked back at Manny. “So what,” he scoffed.

Manny locked eyes with the witness. “Yes or no, Detective. Do you blame Mr. Swyteck for your own public disgrace?”

Stafford stared right back, hating this lawyer almost as much as he hated Jack. “Yeah,” he said bitterly. “I do blame him. Him and Goss. Both of them. They’re no different in my eyes.”

Manny paused, allowing the answer to linger. A quiet murmur passed through the courtroom as Manny’s point struck home.

“But that doesn’t make it okay for Swyteck to kill him,” Stafford blurted, seeming to sense that he was in trouble.

“Let’s talk about that,” replied Manny. “Let’s talk about just who did kill Eddy Goss. The time of Mr. Goss’s death was about four A.M., right?”

“Yes,” replied Stafford.

“What time did you get to the police station that morning?”

“Five-fifteen,” he answered, “same as always.”

“Can anyone corroborate where you were before then?”

“No. I live alone.”

Manny nodded, as if to emphasize Stafford’s response, then forged ahead. “Now, after you arrived at work that morning, an anonymous phone call came in to the station, right?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Stafford played dumb. “We get lots of calls-”

“I’m not talking about lots of calls,” Manny bore in. “I’m talking about the caller who reported that someone in a police uniform was seen leaving Goss’s apartment about the time of the murder.”

“Yes,” he answered. “Someone did call and report that.”

“You used to be a patrolman, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Twenty-eight years, before I became a detective.”

“And I’ll bet you still have your old police uniform,” said Manny.

Stafford fell silent. “Yes,” he answered quietly.

“I thought so,” said Manny. “Now, Eddy Goss was shot twice in the head, at close range, was he not?”

“That’s right.”

“Thirty-eight-caliber bullets.”

“Correct,” said Stafford.

“You carry a thirty-eight-caliber, don’t you, Detective?”

“Eighty percent of the police force does,” Stafford snapped.

“Including you.”

“Yes,” he grudgingly conceded.

Manny paused again, allowing time for suspicion to fill the jury box, and then he continued his roll. “Now, after Mr. Goss was killed by not just one, but two gunshots, you interviewed all the neighbors in the apartment building, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“And not one of those neighbors heard any gunshots.”

Stafford was silent again. “No,” he finally answered, “no one heard a gunshot.”

“And that was one of the reasons you suspected that a silencer had been used to kill Goss.”

“That’s correct,” he said. Then he took a free shot. “And we found a silencer in your client’s car,” he added smugly.

Manny nodded slowly. “How convenient,” he said sarcastically, his eyebrow arching. “But let’s take a closer look at that incredible stroke of luck, Detective. Let’s talk about how, incredibly, you seemed to have found the one man in the world who was smart enough to be graduated summa cum laude from Yale University, yet stupid enough to leave a silencer under the front seat of his car.”

“Objection,” McCue groaned.

“Sustained.”

Manny pressed on, unfazed. “You, personally, did not find that silencer in Mr. Swyteck’s car. Did you, Detective?”

“No.”

“You got it from a patrolwoman, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“And she got it from the owner of Kaiser Auto Repair-the shop where Mr. Swyteck’s convertible top was being fixed.”

“That’s right.”

“And the owner of the shop got it from one of his mechanics.”

Stafford’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”

“Am I leaving anybody out, Detective?”

Stafford just glared. “No,” he said angrily.

“What do you mean, no,” Manny rebuked him. “You didn’t stand guard over Mr. Swyteck’s car while it was in the repair shop, did you?”

“No.”

“So,” said Manny, pacing before the jury, “as far as you know, scores of people could have come and gone from Mr. Swyteck’s car over the two-day period it was in the shop.”

“I don’t know,” he evaded.

“Precisely,” said Manny, as if it were the answer he wanted. “You don’t know. Or, to put it another way, maybe you have a reasonable doubt.”

“Objection,” McCue shouted.

“Overruled.”

“I don’t know who went into his car,” Stafford snarled. “That’s all.”

“Isn’t it possible, Detective, that any one of the people walking by or fixing Mr. Swyteck’s car could have put the silencer there?”

“Objection,” McCue groaned. “Calls for speculation.”

“Let me ask it another way,” said Manny. He stepped closer, moving in for the kill. “Detective Stafford: Do