Blood Money

“Let me be clear. Somebody lurking behind the scenes paid a juror a hundred thousand dollars for a not-guilty verdict. We don’t know who paid it, but the guy who took the money is now on the hot seat. You’re a former prosecutor. You know that Mr. Hewitt is getting hammered right now to cough up a name. They’re probably offering him probation and a parade in his honor if he turns state’s evidence.”

“I don’t know about the parade, but I see your point. A deal is in the works, no doubt.”

“Right. You know it. I know it. And Jack Swyteck knows it. So, if I’m Jack Swyteck, I’m getting very nervous about which way the finger may point.”

“I would be nervous if I were the defense counsel of record.”

“Yes,” said Keating. “You’d be concerned not only about how it might play out in the courtroom, but also how it plays in the media. So, just to make my point, let’s suppose Mr. Swyteck gets a phone call.”

“A phone call?”

“Yeah,” he said, putting his thumb and finger to mimic the call. “‘Hello, Sly-teck?’-love that name you gave him-‘Faith Corso here. Let me tell you how it is. We have a reliable source linking you to the payment of a hundred- thousand-dollar bribe to a juror. Now, we can either run with this story, or we can shelve it. Which would you like us to do?’”

Corso read between the lines-not that his approach had left much in the way of hidden meaning to begin with. “You want Jack Swyteck to convince the Laramores that they have no case against BNN and should dismiss their lawsuit. And to make him do that, you want me to threaten him with a bogus story about jury tampering?”

“Who said the story is bogus?”

“You have a source?”

“Not yet. But we’ll find one.”

Corso took a deep breath. “That would be one hell of a story. But I can’t make that phone call.”

“Maybe you prefer to be a bit more subtle. It’s all a matter of style.”

“Let me push back a little harder: I’m not making that phone call to Jack Swyteck.”

He noticed the placement of her emphasis. “So what you’re saying is that you’re willing to run with the story, but it’s really not necessary that the phone call come from you.”

She tightened her gaze, eyes narrowing, so completely repeating herself in both words and tone that it was as if Keating had never asked for clarification. “I’m not making that phone call to Jack Swyteck.”

She was demanding deniability, he realized, a little distance between the talk-show host and the threat. It was a reasonable middle ground. A commitment to the story was all he’d really wanted from her anyway. Other players on his team were much better at making threats.

“I think we understand each other perfectly,” he said.

“Good.”

He raised his glass and gave her that one-sided smile again. “You are my newest superstar.”

“I’m glad you didn’t say ‘a star is born.’”

It took him half a second, then he got the allusion to the wrong demographic. “You’re good, Corso. You are so good.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Game face. Jack put on his as he crossed the street and approached the crowd outside the Criminal Justice Building.

News reports of a bought-off juror had reignited the army of Shot Mom haters. A busload of them had come from somewhere, and Jack didn’t think it too cynical to wonder if BNN had actually rounded them up from some retirement home, promised them a free lunch, and brought them in for the sake of good television. One thing was clear: None of their anger was for the juror who had taken the bribe. Sydney Bennett, whereabouts unknown, left Jack as the only visible target. Game face was the only way to deal with reporters who pushed one another out of the way and thrust microphones in Jack’s face, prodding him for a comment as they climbed the courthouse steps. Game face was his only response to the barrage of insults hurled from the crowd.

“Tramposo!”

“Cheater!”

Much uglier things were shouted, but that one in Spanish stung the most-because it was from an old Cuban woman who looked like his grandmother. Jack wasn’t trying to torture himself, but he nonetheless allowed himself to consider the remote possibility that this little old woman with the big voice could be someone who knew Abuela, someone his grandmother would have to avoid in shame the next time she showed her face at church. For some lawyers, the out-of-court fallout was “collateral damage.” For Jack, there was nothing collateral about it.

“Welcome back, counselor,” said the security officer. She was anything but sincere, and even though it wasn’t overly sarcastic, her snide tone of voice was one that Jack had never heard from courthouse staff. It was a heavy reminder that for anyone who worked in the system, buying a jury was about as low as you can go.

It was deja vu as Jack cleared security, rode the elevator to the ninth floor, and started down the crowded hallway to Judge Matthews’ courtroom. Jack passed the same reporters and many of the same spectators who had followed the murder trial. He knew his way through the obstacle course, and the heavy doors closed with a thud as he entered the courtroom. The gallery was packed, though most would soon be disappointed to hear that Shot Mom would not be making an appearance in this encore performance of the Sydney Bennett show.

“This is for you,” said the prosecutor as she handed him a legal memorandum.

It was the first Jack had seen of Melinda Crawford since her postverdict press conference. Jack gave her memo a quick look. It was on double jeopardy-the prosecution’s legal argument as to why the U.S. Constitution didn’t preclude the retrial of Sydney Bennett.

“Read it and weep,” she said.

Crawford walked to her table with the same confidence she’d displayed before the verdict-maybe more. The prosecution always sat near the jury box, and Jack wondered if it was any coincidence that Crawford had positioned her chair so that it was directly in front of seat five-the seat Brian Hewitt had occupied for nearly a month before he was chosen foreman.

Jack was still getting ready when he heard the knock on the side door to the judge’s chambers. The bailiff’s announcement-“All rise!”-brought an abrupt end to the buzz of conversation from the gallery. Judge Matthews entered the courtroom and climbed to the bench. It felt like a dream-a nightmare-as the bailiff called the case.

“State of Florida versus Sydney Bennett. .”

It’s freakin’ Groundhog Day, thought Jack.

“Good morning,” said the judge. “The court has before it the prosecution’s motion to set aside the verdict of not guilty entered in this case on grounds of jury tampering. Ms. Crawford, let me hear from you first.”

“Thank you,” she said as she stepped to the podium. “Your Honor, I have mixed feelings this morning. Of course I felt that the verdict of not guilty in this case was a miscarriage of justice. Even though I accepted that verdict, in my heart I wished that there was some way to undo it. I’m here to tell the court that it should indeed be undone-that the law requires this court to set aside this verdict and order Sydney Bennett retried on the charges set forth in the original indictment. But I wish to state from the get-go that the grounds for this motion-the affront to the entire judicial system that is jury tampering-is nothing for anyone to celebrate.”

“Let me stop your speech there,” said the judge. “I agree that it’s nothing to celebrate. But it’s not something that this court can rush to judgment about, either. As I understand it, a juror in this case has been accused of accepting a bribe. Last time I checked, he is presumed innocent until proven guilty.”

“Mr. Hewitt will be in federal court this afternoon to enter a plea of guilty,” said Crawford.

The judge glanced at Jack, as if curious to know if the defense was as surprised as everyone else in the courtroom. “Is that so?” said the judge.