He jumped out of bed and pulled on khaki slacks and loafers. The pounding continued.
Cindy sat up. “What is it?”
He slipped on a blue oxford shirt, decided against a tie, and then spoke in a voice that strained to be upbeat. “I think it’s time. . they probably handed down an indictment.” He went to the bureau, checked himself in the mirror, and quickly brushed his hair. He fumbled through his wallet and took out all the pictures and credit cards, leaving only his driver’s license, voter’s registration, and fifty dollars cash. He shoved the wallet into his back pocket, tucked in his shirt, and took a deep breath. In the mirror he saw Cindy looking at him, and he turned to meet her stare.
“I love you, Jack,” she said quietly.
He felt a rush of emotion, which he managed to control, then, smiling a sad smile, said, “I love you, too.”
The knocking continued, louder this time.
“It won’t be bad,” he assured her. “It’s not like they’re about to lock me up and throw away the key. They’ll book me at the station, and then I’ll go before the judge, who’ll probably release me on bail. I’ll be home this afternoon. No sweat.” He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.
She nodded slowly. A tear rolled down her cheek as she watched him turn and disappear into the hallway. Another loud knock, and it was definitely time to go.
“Coming,” Jack said as he walked briskly toward the front door. He grabbed the knob, then stopped to collect himself. He was as ready as he’d ever be. Ironically, he’d coolly and calmly counseled scores of clients on how to prepare for arrest, but now he realized that this was one of those events that no amount of preparation could completely smooth over.
Jack swallowed his apprehension and opened the door.
“Manny?” he said with surprise.
“How you doing, Jack?” replied Manuel Cardenal, Florida’s preeminent criminal defense lawyer. Jack knew him from the courthouse. Everyone knew Manuel Cardenal from the courthouse. He’d started his career twenty years ago as a murder-rape-robbery public defender, making his name defending the guilty. He’d spent the last ten years at the helm of his own law firm, making a fortune defending the wealthy.
“What are you doing here?” asked Jack.
“I’m your attorney. Can I come in?”
“Of course.”
Manny stepped inside. He wore a blue double-breasted suit, black Italian shoes, and a colorful silk necktie with matching handkerchief showing from the left breast pocket. He stopped to check his reflection in the mirror beside the door and obviously liked what he saw. At forty-three, Manny’s life with women was at its peak; younger women still found him handsome, while older women were drawn to his youthfulness. He had a smile that bespoke confidence and experience, yet his eyes sparkled with the vibrancy of a teenage heartthrob. He wore his jet-black hair straight back, no part, as if he were looking into a windstorm. He turned and faced the man in the eye of a real storm.
“I didn’t hire you,” said Jack. “Not that I wouldn’t want to. I just can’t afford you.”
Manny took a seat on the couch. “Sorry for the short notice, but just this morning your father retained me on your behalf.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your father regrets that you have to suffer at his expense.”
“At his expense?”
Manny nodded. “You’re going to have one hell of a day, Jack. If you weren’t Harry Swyteck’s son, you wouldn’t be dragged out of your house in cuffs and carted away in a squad car with the lights flashing. You wouldn’t be locked up like a crack dealer pulled off the street and forced to wait in the pen for arraignment. You’d be allowed to surrender yourself and immediately be released on your own recognizance, or at worst for some token signature bond. It’s politics,” Manny explained, “and your father regrets that.”
“Are you saying that the indictment was politically motivated?”
“No. But everything after the indictment will be.”
“Great. . so I’m going to be dragged through the system by my father’s political enemies.”
“I’m afraid so, Jack. I called the state attorney to see if they’d just let you come in and surrender quietly. No go. They want a spectacle. They want publicity. Your case is already a political football. Your father recognizes that. And he knows that however your case goes, so goes his election.”
“Is that the reason you’re here, Manny? To save my father’s election?”
“All I know is what your father told me, Jack.”
Jack narrowed his eyes and took a good look at Manny, as if he were searching his face for the truth. “I’m not stupid, Manny. And I know my father. At least I know him well enough to know that this can’t be entirely about politics. And I know you, too. I don’t believe a man like you would get involved in this case if my father didn’t genuinely want to help me. So what gives? Why did the two of you have to come up with this little charade to make it look like the governor is doing it not for me, but for his own political gain? Is he too proud or too afraid to tell the truth? Why the hell doesn’t he just be my father and tell me he wants to help?”
Manny’s warm eyes seemed to convey more than he was saying. “Maybe that is what he’s telling you, Jack.”
Jack fell silent. Manny’s answer had him thinking.
A loud knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. “Open up!” came the order.
Jack and Manny exchanged glances.
“So, what do you say, Jack? Shall we dance?”
Jack took a deep breath, and a thin smile crept onto his face. “Just don’t step on my toes, Cardenal.” Then he opened the door.
“Police,” said Detective Lonzo Stafford, flashing his badge. Stafford wore his usual blue blazer and an unmistakable smirk. Detective Bradley was at his side. “You’re under arrest,” Stafford announced with relish, “for the murder of Eddy Goss.”
Jack was stiff but composed as he surveyed the situation. Manny appeared to be right about being put through the wringer. It wasn’t the low-profile, cooperative approach he’d hoped for. They’d driven up in a patrol car rather than Stafford’s unmarked vehicle, and they’d left the lights flashing, a blue swirl of authority in his yard.
A crowd of nosy neighbors and probing reporters gathered at the end of Jack’s driveway, just off his property. Jack could hear their collective “there he is” when he appeared in the doorway, followed by a barrage of clicking cameras with telephoto lenses.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Jack heard Stafford say, but he wasn’t really listening to the Miranda litany until Stafford said to his partner, “Cuff him, Jamahl.”
“What?” Jack asked in disbelief.
“Cuff him,” Stafford repeated with pleasure.
“Look, Detective. I’m willing to cooperate-”
“Good,” Stafford cut him off. “Then cuff his hands in front, instead of behind his back.”
Jack knew better than to resist. He obediently stuck his hands out in front of him, and Bradley quickly clamped the steel cuffs around his wrists.
“Let’s go for a ride,” said Stafford.
Jack stepped onto the porch and turned to close the door. He reached with his right hand, the left one following as the chain pulled it along. He froze as he saw Cindy standing in his bathrobe at the end of the hallway, staring at him and his handcuffs with shock and utter fear.
“Stay by the phone,” he cabled to her, no longer so sure that he’d be coming home that afternoon. She nodded quickly, and he closed the door.
Stafford took Jack’s left arm and Bradley took his right as they led him down the winding wood-chip path to the squad car. Jack said nothing and looked straight ahead. He tried not to look worried or ashamed or, worst of all, guilty. He knew his neighbors were watching and the reporters had their video cameras running. He hoped to God that Cindy wasn’t looking out the window.