Charlie closed his eyes and began to rub them. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.
“Are you really a lawyer at least?” he finally spat out.
“I went to Fordham Law at night. I even passed the bar. My plan here was to get Justin off, but keep my life secret and safe and intact. But that’s out the window now. Peter was in my room tonight. He must have seen me at the bar when he was talking to you. I’d call the cops, but Peter is the cops. What am I going to do?”
Charlie lifted his drink and stared at it, thinking. Then he finally finished it.
“Well, from one lawyer to another, here’s my best advice, off the top of my head,” he said. “You need to get on a plane and get as far away from Fournier as possible until we can figure out a way to deal with him. You need to go back to New York.”
Chapter 90
“GO BACK to New York?” I said. “What about Justin? I had contact with the real Jump Killer! That’s pertinent to Justin’s case, isn’t it? I’m probably the only person who’s ever seen the Jump Killer and lived. Don’t I need to testify?”
“It’s not that simple,” Charlie said. “In order to get a stay of execution with this little time left, you have to go through the Florida Office of Executive Clemency. We’re going to get only one shot at convincing the board to look at any new evidence. As it stands now, Justin’s fiancée recanting her damaging testimony is still the best possible scenario. She’s the only one who has vital exculpatory evidence that speaks directly to the case. The members on the board would be forced to consider it.”
“But—” I started.
Charlie silenced me with a palm. “Your, uh, new revelations, on the other hand, are essentially this: you came into contact with a white man who seemed to be the Jump Killer. It’s certainly thought-provoking, but there’s not enough legal red meat there. In fact, it might be seen as so fantastical that I wouldn’t be surprised if the governor dismissed it as a desperate stunt. Fabiana’s testimony is it, our only shot.”
“But we haven’t even found her yet,” I pointed out. “Let alone convinced her to tell the truth. And what if we don’t? Then what do we have? Nothing. Fantastical as it is, my testimony is at least something.”
“Maybe,” Charlie said. “But it’ll be really hard for you to testify if you’re dead. You’re not thinking straight. Didn’t you just say that Fournier was in your room? You getting out of Key West isn’t a choice.”
I sat there staring at him. He had a point. I definitely was in danger. Now more than ever. But after meeting Justin, I knew I couldn’t run again.
“I need to see this through,” I finally said. “Whatever happens, I’m not leaving until I’ve done everything I can do for Justin. I’m staying.”
Charlie stared at me, exasperated. He drummed his fingers on the desk.
“Mission Exonerate? Mission Impossible is more like it,” he said. “Fine. I’m not going to deny that I do need your help. For Justin’s sake, I guess we don’t have a choice. But until this is over, we stick together. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I said, letting out a breath.
I couldn’t believe it. I was still here. I had actually told someone my secrets, and I hadn’t burst into flames.
Not all of my secrets, I reminded myself. I had yet to mention Ramón Peña, but I guess it was a start.
“I can’t tell you how much this means to me, Charlie,” I said. “For me, for my daughter. I’ve been holding this inside for so long. I’ve never told anyone. I’m so sorry I lied to you.”
Charlie lifted the phone. “I should have known you were trouble the second you crushed your doughnuts in my door, Nina. Or do I have to call you Jeanine now? Never mind. What’s the number for your hotel? That bathrobe is probably too casual even by Miami standards. If we’re still going to go up there to find Justin’s ex-fiancée, I have a funny feeling you’re going to need your bags.”
Chapter 91
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Charlie and I were in Miami. It was around nine when we rolled up in front of the address Fabiana’s cousin gave us, a tiny stucco house in the northeast Miami neighborhood known as Little Haiti.
I looked anxiously down the block at the bars on all the neighboring windows, the chain-linked front yards cluttered with garbage and barking dogs. Loud Caribbean hip-hop blasted as a bunch of muscular kids in gangbanger do-rags sat on a battered gray leather sectional on the corner, giving new meaning to the word loitering.
“Wait in the car,” Charlie said, opening his door. “With the doors locked.”
“No way,” I said, following him out. “You’re not leaving me out here.”
We hurried up the cracked concrete path to Fabiana’s tiny house and rang her doorbell.
“Fabiana!” Charlie called, giving the door a couple of quick pounds for good measure.
A minute later, one of the larger corner “kids” rolled past on a BMX trick bike, alternately sizing us up and glancing at our rental.
“There doesn’t seem to be anyone home,” I said quickly as the kid rolled back toward his posse. “Why don’t we check for Fabiana at her mom’s restaurant?”
“That’s funny. I was just thinking the same thing,” Charlie said as we raced each other back to the car.
After Little Haiti, Fabiana’s mother’s restaurant, the Rooster’s Perch, was a happy surprise. It was half an hour away in South Beach, a block west of the trendy art deco hotels of Ocean Drive and the beach. Behind the eatery’s battered wooden sidewalk tables, a wall mural depicted cattle and chickens under palm trees, smiling black kids in plaid school uniforms, dark women in colorful dresses carrying wash.
“We do not open until lunch,” said a very dark old woman who was cutting open a bundle of tablecloths at the bar just inside the door when we walked in. She wore an expensive cream-colored dress, pearls, and a suspicious, sullen expression.
“Let me guess. You’re Isabelle,” Charlie said.
“Who are you? How do you know my name? What do you want here?” the woman said, her eyes gleaming as she came immediately around the bar.
Now I understood what the trailer park manager meant when he compared her to his paper cobra.
“We’re here to speak with Fabiana,” Charlie said.
“There is no one here by that name,” the old woman said, pointing at the door with her knife. “Leave, I tell you. Now.”
“It’s OK, Mama,” said a younger black woman in an apron who suddenly appeared in the swinging kitchen doorway.
Charlie and I looked at each other in happy surprise.
“It is not OK!” Isabelle insisted as she turned.
The younger woman barked something in French. The old woman’s eyes went wide before she reluctantly stepped out of our way.
“I am Fabiana Desmarais,” the young woman finally said as she waved us into the kitchen. “How can I help you?”
Chapter 92
FABIANA WAS PETITE with very light blue eyes and cinnamon-colored skin. Though she was almost in her fifties, she looked maybe half that. She wore a simple, wide-necked peasant blouse with a fuchsia cotton skirt that seemed much cheaper than her mother’s.
Behind her, several quartered chickens sat on a cutting board beside a pile of Scotch bonnet peppers. From an industrial-sized bubbling pot on the stove came the strong but comforting smell of chicken broth. Immediately hungry, I had to resist the urge to ask for a bowl.