Corso lowered her head, took a deep breath, and expressed her “heartfelt concern” for the injured young woman, the young woman’s family, and young women everywhere in the world who suffered at the hands of evil, the kind of evil that was personified by people like Shot Mom and her lawyers.
It was amazing to Jack, the way Corso could turn even a touching expression of compassion into one more shot at her enemy.
“Mr. Swyteck?”
Jack turned at the sound of the guard’s voice. “Yes?”
“Our plan was to bring inmate Bennett down now, but I wanted to advise you that the warden has put your client’s release on hold until further notice.”
“That’s a bad move,” said Jack.
“It’s for your client’s safety as much as anyone’s.”
Jack’s gaze returned to the television. BNN’s coverage had reverted to the aerial view from the helicopter, tracking the ambulance as it left the parking lot.
“This is already beyond your control. An innocent young woman in the hospital isn’t going to make people calm down.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Wait for what? An hour from now the bars will start closing. A hundred thousand drunks will be looking for something to do, someplace to be. And how much longer before the insanity out there spreads to your overcrowded population in here? These walls aren’t soundproof. This craziness is contagious, even if you’ve never heard of Sydney Bennett.”
The guard didn’t answer, but he was seasoned enough to know that prison uprisings weren’t just for men.
Jack said, “I’ve had enough of the Sydney Bennett circus. I’m betting you have, too. Tell the warden I need to see her. My client and I are leaving. Tonight.”
Chapter Six
Behind the detention center, bathed in the yellow glow of high-security sodium lights, a Miami-Dade ambulance backed all the way up to an entrance for Authorized Personnel Only. There was barely enough room for the door to swing open. Two corrections officers practically launched Sydney over the bumper and onto the gurney. Jack followed, and the double doors slammed shut. With no siren, emergency lights off, the ambulance pulled away from the building, through the employee parking lot, beneath the expressway, and eventually onto Seventh Avenue.
“Stay down,” the paramedic said. It was just three of them in the rear. Sydney lay motionless on the gurney. Jack kept low, seated on the floor next to the paramedic in the jump seat.
The risk of being spotted by anyone on the street was minimal. The small rectangular windows on the rear doors were tinted to near blackout. Every few seconds, with each streetlamp they passed, a weak flash of light pierced the darkness inside the vehicle.
“How did this get so screwed up?” Sydney muttered.
Jack had already explained. He took her question as rhetorical, or perhaps she was soul-searching about her life in general.
The ambulance would take them directly to Opa-locka Executive Airport. That was the deal Jack had struck with the warden-who, as it had turned out, was more than eager to get “the Shot Mom problem” off her watch, pronto. There had been no need for Jack to tip his hand and explain that the need to get Sydney released on schedule wasn’t just about public safety and prison riots. The flight plans were in place, and special arrangements had been made for a two A.M. takeoff. Sydney’s parents stood to lose thousands of dollars if the chartered plane didn’t leave on schedule.
Sydney sighed in the darkness. “I thought you knew what you were doing, counselor.”
“Hard to foresee a mob attack on a Sydney Bennett look-alike,” Jack said.
“I bet it’s all a publicity stunt. Five hours from now she’ll be on the Today Show with her lawyer grabbing her fifteen minutes of fame. Taking my time slot, no less. Little bitch.”
The paramedic grumbled in the darkness. “For your information, that young woman will be lucky to be alive in the morning.”
The prognosis cut through Jack like razor wire.
“Oh,” said Sydney, “and I suppose that’s my fault, right?”
“Sydney, please stop talking,” said Jack.
“Why should I? You know I’m right. The prosecutor will write a book and blame me. The investigators and psychiatrists will do the talk shows and blame me. Faith Corso will do a two-hour special during prime time and blame me. They’ll all blame me, and they’ll all get rich. Why shouldn’t I get rich?”
Jack was officially over her. “Sydney, shut up.”
The ambulance stopped. The driver got out, walked around the back of the vehicle, and yanked open the doors. Jack climbed out and helped Sydney step down. Before Jack could even thank them, the paramedics jumped into the front seat, and the ambulance pulled away.
Opa-locka Executive is a three-runway facility that serves as a designated reliever for nearby and much busier Miami International Airport. Jack had flown into Opa-locka only once in his life, years before on a private plane with his father. Upon their descent, then Governor Swyteck had commandeered the microphone and subjected all twelve passengers to a narrated, bird’s-eye tour of Hialeah, a largely Hispanic community south of the airport, a city with numerous points of interest but which also ranked as the most densely populated U.S. city without a skyscraper. Harry Swyteck was a veritable walking encyclopedia of Florida history, and he’d recounted with particular interest that Opa-locka Executive was just north of former Miami Municipal Airport, where in 1937 Amelia Earhart had begun her ill-fated journey around the world, never to be heard from again.
Jack thought his client could have taken a cue or two from Amelia.
“This way,” said Jack, leading her toward the gate.
At two A.M. the 1,800-acre facility was mostly dark and quiet. The major exception was the U.S. Coast Guard Station, one of the busiest in the country, which was abuzz with activity of some sort that required a helicopter. It had nothing to do with Sydney, though it was not beyond the realm of possibility that it involved a future client of Jack’s. The only other sign of life was the Piper aircraft on Runway 1, lights on and twin engines running.
“Thank God they’re here,” said Sydney.
Jack and his client were still outside the security gate, about twenty yards away from the plane. A man stepped out from behind the tail. Jack had been expecting to meet Geoffrey Bennett, but this man was much younger.
“That’s not your father,” said Jack.
“Nope.”
“Who is it?”
Sydney turned and looked him in the eye. “Are you jealous?”
“That’s a really stupid thing to say. Who are you flying with?”
She paused, as if savoring the fact that her lawyer wasn’t in on the family secret. “I know you don’t approve, Jack. It probably even makes you feel a little better about yourself to think that tonight’s screwup killed any chance I had at a movie deal or book. For sure, the TV shows tomorrow were supposed to be all about where am I, what am I doing, when will I talk. Now it’ll be nonstop from the hospital about some stupid girl and her costume party. But it’s just a hiccup. She’s either going to get better. . or not. Whichever way it cuts, the spotlight will swing back to me. Whether you like it or not, this is going to make me a rich woman.”
“Don’t kid yourself. That young woman is in the hospital tonight because people thought she was you. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“Yeah. Avoid angry mobs. Got it covered.”
“No, you don’t. The world of public opinion is not a courtroom. There are no rules. You, Sydney, are the hunk of bloody meat in the shark tank.”
“You underestimate me.”
“You underestimate fame.”
“Fame,” she said, a wry smile of satisfaction cutting across her lips. “I really am famous, aren’t I?”