Jack looked away, then sighed. He had never been as sure about right and wrong as Neil was, though there had indeed been times when he saw the higher purpose, when he actually believed that each acquittal reaffirmed the rights of all people. But it took more than vision to defend the likes of Eddy Goss day after day. It took passion-the kind of passion that started revolutions Jack had felt that passion only once in his life: the night his father had executed Raul Fernandez. But that was different. Fernandez had been innocent.
“I m sorry, Neil. But the lofty goals just don’t drive me anymore. Maybe I wouldn’t be leaving if I’d defend d just one murderer who was sorry for what he’d done. Not innocent, mind you. Just sorry. Someone who saw a not-guilty verdict as a second chance at life, rather than another chance to kill. Instead, I got clients like Eddy Goss. I hate to disappoint you, but I just can’t stay here anymore. If I did, I’d be nothing but a hypocrite.”
Neil nodded, not in agreement but in understanding. “I am disappointed,” he said, “but not in you.” He rose from the edge of the desk and shook Jack’s hand. “The door’s open, Jack. If ever you change your mind.”
“Thanks.”
“Got time for lunch today?”
Jack checked his watch. Almost eleven-thirty. He had no official plans, but right now he figured he needed a stronger dose of good cheer than Neil could provide. “I’d like a rain check on that, okay?”
“Sure thing,” Neil said, giving him a mock salute as he turned and left.
Ten minutes later, Jack’s thoughts were on Cindy as he walked toward his car, weighed down with three of the ten boxes he’d packed. He’d still had no return call from her. Which meant either she hadn’t gotten his messages or she was sending him a message of her own.
He thought back to the last night they’d been together, how she’d told him she was going over to her best friend Gina’s to console her. The story might have been believable if it had been anyone but Gina-a woman to whom the adjective needy didn’t apply. Certainly Jack had never thought of her that way, and he knew her quite well. It was through her that he’d met Cindy. Fourteen months ago, a mutual friend had fixed him up on a blind date with Gina. It was their first and only. She’d kept Jack waiting in her living room nearly an hour while she got ready. Cindy was Gina’s roommate back then, and she kept Jack entertained while he waited. He and Cindy clicked. Boy, did they click. He spent the rest of the evening with Gina just trying to find out about Cindy, and Cindy was the only woman he’d dated ever since. At first, Gina had seemed upset by the turn of events. But as he and Cindy became more serious, Gina came to accept it.
He checked the traffic at the curb, waited for the light to change, then started across the boulevard toward the Institute’s parking lot. He was still wrapped up in his thoughts and struggling under the weight of the boxes when he noticed a car rolling through the red light. He picked up his pace to get out of the way, but the car increased its speed. Suddenly, it swerved sharply in his direction. He dove from the street to the sidewalk to keep from getting run over. As he tumbled to the concrete, he caught a glimpse of the retreating car. The first letter on the license plate was a Z. In Florida, that meant it was a rental.
His heart was in his throat. He couldn’t stop shaking. He looked to see if there were any witnesses, but he saw no one. The Freedom Institute wasn’t in a neighborhood where many people strolled the sidewalks. He remained on the ground for a moment, trying to sort out whether it was an accident, some street gang’s initiation rite, just another crazy driver-or something else. He didn’t want to be paranoid, but it was hard to dismiss the event as an accident. He picked himself up, then froze as he thought he heard a phone ringing. He listened carefully. It was his phone, a cheap but reliable car phone he’d installed at Neil Goderich’s insistence, just in case his twenty-year-old Mustang happened to leave him stranded in one of those questionable areas that were breeding grounds for Freedom Institute clientele.
He looked around. He was still alone. The phone kept ringing. He walked to his car, disengaged the alarm with the button on his key chain, and opened the door. The phone must have rung twenty times. Finally, he picked up.
“Hello,” he answered.
“Swyteck?”
Jack exhaled. It was that voice-that raspy, disguised voice on his home telephone two nights ago.
“Who is this?”
There was no answer.
“Who is this?”
“You let the killer loose. You’re the one who let him go.”
“What do you want from me?”
There was a long pause, an audible sigh, and then the response: “Stop the killer, Swyteck. I dare you.”
“What-” Jack started to say. But he was too late.
The line clicked, and they were disconnected.
Chapter 8
At 11:40 A.M. Harry Swyteck put on his seersucker jacket, exited the capitol building through the rear entrance, and headed to Albert’s Pharmacy at the busy intersection of Tenth Street and Monroe. The bright morning sun promised another insufferable afternoon, but the air wasn’t yet completely saturated with the summer humidity that would bring the inevitable three o’clock shower. It was the perfect time of day to hit the streets, press the flesh, and do some grass-roots campaigning.
He reached the drugstore a few minutes before noon, masking his anxiety with campaign smiles and occasion handshakes along the way. Albert’s was a corner pharmacy that hadn’t changed in forty years, selling everything from hemorrhoidal ointment to three-alarm chili. Most important for the governor’s purposes, though, it was one of the few places in town that still offered the privacy of a good old-fashioned phone booth out front. Harry wondered if his attacker had that in mind when he selected it.
“Mornin’, Governor,” came a friendly greeting. It was seventy-nine-year-old Mr. Albert, sweeping up in front of his store.
“Morning,” Harry said, smiling. “Great day to be out, isn’t it?”
Mr. Albert wiped the sweat from his brow. “I suppose,” he said as he retreated back inside. Harry felt that he, too, should be on his way. But he couldn’t go anywhere until his phone call came-and, above all, he couldn’t arouse suspicion by hanging around in front of a drugstore. So he stepped inside the booth and tucked the receiver under his chin, giving the appearance that he was deeply engaged in private conversation. He casually rested his hand on the cradle, concealing from passersby that he was pressing the disconnect button. He checked the time on a bank marquee down the block. Exactly twelve o’clock. He was suddenly very nervous-not about taking the call, but about the possibility that it wouldn’t come at all. To his quick relief, the phone rang, and he immediately released the disconnect button.
“I’m here,” he said into the phone.
“So you are, my man.” There was still that thick sucking sound to the man’s speech. “Let’s make this quick.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not tracing the call.”
The man seemed to scoff. “I’m not worried at all. You’re not about to call in the cops.”
Harry bristled, annoyed that the caller had him figured for an easy mark. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I can read you like a book. I saw the way your eyes lit up when I told you I had information about Fernandez. You’ve been thinking about that one for a while, haven’t you?”
The governor listened carefully as pedestrians and buzzed by outside the booth. It disturbed him that this stranger understood him so well-this stranger who spoke like a punk but had the insight of a shrink. Part of his disguise, he figured. “What’s your proposal?” he asked.