“I’d heard that, yes.”
“Are you also aware that a libel suit cannot be maintained on behalf of a dead person?”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“It’s a straightforward question. Are you aware that once a person is dead, you can say whatever you want about them? There is no liability for libel.”
“Yes. I learned that in law school.”
“So the death of Sally Fenning leaves Deirdre Meadows free to publish her book without any fear of a libel suit. Agreed?”
“I suppose that’s correct.”
“And anyone who gave Ms. Meadows his full cooperation in the writing of that book would have the same protection, would he not?”
Rudsky narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying?”
Jack took a half step closer, tightening his figurative grasp. “Sir, do you have a financial interest of any kind in Ms. Meadows’s book?”
Compton shot from her seat. “Judge, please.”
“You’d better not be asking again for a recess.”
“No,” she said. “But I do have a proposal.”
“There’s a question pending,” said Jack.
“Then I object,” said Compton. “There’s no foundation for any of these questions, and the inquiry is totally irrelevant. Before we waste an entire day on this fishing expedition, I would at least ask the court to entertain my suggestion.”
“What is it?” asked the judge.
“In a good faith effort to streamline this process, the government agrees to provide to Mr. Swyteck all of the materials and information that Mr. Rudsky shared with this reporter, Deirdre Meadows. Perhaps that will satisfy Mr. Swyteck’s needs.”
“Perhaps it won’t,” said Jack.
Compton continued, “If it doesn’t, then Mr. Swyteck is free to renew his claim under the Sunshine Act for the production of the entire investigative file.”
“Why not let Mr. Swyteck finish with this witness and see if we can’t resolve the entire matter here and now?” asked the judge.
“Because there is some overlap between the murder of Sally Fenning, which I’m handling, and the murder of her daughter, which Mr. Rudsky handled. I’ll concede that Mr. Swyteck has the right to see anything that Mr. Rudsky shared with a reporter. But ordering us to produce the entire file would not strike the proper balance between the public’s right to know and the need to preserve the integrity of criminal investigations.”
The judge looked at Jack and asked, “Is that acceptable to you?”
“I’d really like Mr. Rudsky to answer my question.”
“Mr. Swyteck,” the judge said, “I asked if that was acceptable to you.”
Jack wanted to push, but the judge seemed to be leaning in his favor, and he didn’t want to lose that advantage by overreaching. “For now,” said Jack. “But if I don’t get everything I need, I will be back.”
“Very well,” said the judge. “The government has two days to produce the investigative materials to Mr. Swyteck. And I’m warning you: no game playing. I’m not going to be happy if this matter comes back to me.”
With the crack of the gavel, the hearing was over. Rudsky stepped down from the witness stand, not so much as looking at Jack. As Jack packed his briefcase, Patricia Compton walked over to his table and said, “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s a sad thing that no one was ever indicted for the murder of Sally’s daughter.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“I don’t intend to have the same problem for the murder of Sally Fenning. I thought you might want to pass that along to your client.”
Jack didn’t blink. “Sure thing. Just as soon as I see your file. Call me when it’s ready,” he said, then turned and headed for the exit.
Twenty-four
It was 2 A.M., and Deirdre Meadows was at the scene of a crime. A white van had been parked outside the grocery store for almost a week. The doors were locked, but a security guard detected the putrid odor of something like spoiled meat and rotten eggs. Deirdre heard the call on the police radio-she always kept it playing in her car, just in case something broke-and she arrived just minutes after the police had cordoned off the area. One of the officers on the scene confirmed off the record that a body was inside, which got Deirdre’s heart pumping. Foul play was the rhythm that Miami crime reporters danced to, and homicide was enough to make Deirdre bailar la bamba.
“Man or a woman?” asked Deirdre. She was standing just on the other side of the yellow police tape, talking to a uniformed officer.
“Don’t know yet,” he said.
She rattled off a string of questions, gathering facts, writing the story in her head as she assimilated information. This was what she did day after day, night after night, for surprisingly little pay and even less recognition. She hoped that would change soon, with a little luck from Sally Fenning.
Her cell phone rang. She tucked her notepad into her purse and took the call.
“Hello, Deirdre,” said the man on the line.
It seemed like a contradiction, but she recognized the disguised voice immediately. It was that same distorted, mechanical sound as the last call. “What are you doing awake at this hour?” she asked.
“None of your business.”
She reached into her purse, pulled out her Dictaphone, and held it up to the phone.
“Put the recorder away,” he said a moment before she clicked the Record button.
She froze, not sure how he knew.
“I can see you,” he said.
She looked around. Two media vans had pulled into the lot and were setting up for videotaping. Three police cars and the medical examiner’s van were parked on the other side of the crime scene. The large parking lot was otherwise empty, a flat acre of asphalt bathed in the yellowish cast of security lights.
“Where are you?” she asked.
He laughed, which sounded like static through the voice-altering device. “I’m everywhere you go.”
She swallowed hard, trying to stay firm. “What do you want?”
“First, I want to congratulate you.”
“On what?”
“For staying silent at the court hearing. You didn’t mention a thing about the dog attack outside the warehouse. You showed very good judgment. The same good judgment you showed by not contacting the police.”
“How do you know I haven’t contacted the police?”
“Because you’re an ambitious bitch.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I know you wouldn’t just go to the police and tell them what you know. You’re the kind of person who would expect something in return from them, some juicy tidbit that would have appeared in the newspaper. But I haven’t seen anything of interest under any of your by-lines lately. So I can only assume you didn’t go to the police.”
Deirdre was silent, a little unnerved by how well he seemed to know her. “What do you want now?”
“Why do you assume I want something? I’m a very giving person, Deirdre.”
“What are you offering?”
“A news flash. The first of Sally Fenning’s six beneficiaries is going to die.”
She felt chills, but she tried to stay with him. “When?”
“Two weeks from today.”
“Which one?”
“That’s sort of up to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Here’s the deaclass="underline" It can be you, or it can be someone else. If it’s you, it won’t be quick and painless. You gotta decide. Do you want to live and share the forty-six million dollars with me, your partner? Or do you want to die?”
“Is this the choice you mentioned last time?”
“Exactly. You can choose to keep your mouth shut and make us both rich. Or you can choose to warn the others, make me mad, and make yourself dead.”
“How do you expect me to make a choice like that?”
“Easy. Here’s how it works. You keep quiet for a couple more weeks, and I’ll take that as your acceptance. I’ll assume we got a deal.”