Authors: James Grippando
A
t Jack’s request, Judge Garcia stretched the five-minute recess into twenty. Jack watched from across the table as Lindsey massaged her temples, trying to nip a migraine in the bud. Sofia was seated at the short end of the rectangular table, perpendicular to Jack at her left and Lindsey at her right. It was just the three of them in the windowless conference room.
Lindsey’s voice shook with anger as she said, “I can’t believe that bastard would threaten to use my own son against me like that.”
“I can,” said Sofia.
Jack glanced at his cocounsel, as if to say Let me handle this. “Lindsey, as your lawyer, there’s one thing I need to know: What would Brian’s testimony be if the prosecutor called him to the stand?”
She stopped massaging and looked Jack in the eye. “You mean about these strange men coming to our house when Oscar was away?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“It’s absurd. If I were going to cheat on my husband, do you think I would do it in my own house with my son in the next room?”
“Coincidentally, that’s exactly what a certain Cuban soldier is going to say if we call him in your defense. You and Johnson were having sex while your son slept in the next room.”
“I told you five times already, I was not having an affair with Damont Johnson. I wasn’t having an affair with anyone.”
Jack thought for a moment. “So, if Brian were to take the stand and
say that a stream of strange men was parading toward your doorstep, he would be lying?”
“The prosecutor is bluffing. Brian would never say that.”
“Can you be sure of that? Remember, he’s been living with his grandparents for almost a month now.”
Lindsey tugged nervously at a strand of her hair. “I don’t know anymore. He’s ten. He could be manipulated into saying just about anything, I suppose.”
“Easily,” said Jack, stepping into the role of prosecutor. “ ‘Brian, did men ever come over to your house? Did they come with your father? Was your father there the whole time they stayed? Are you sure? Is it possible that your father left, and that the men stayed? Is it possible they came back later, after your father had left?’ Before you know it, Torres has your son rattling off the names of a half-dozen soldiers who came to visit his mother.”
“You can’t let that creep do that to my son.”
“There’s only one thing we can do to avoid it.”
Lindsey swallowed the lump in her throat. “Then that’s what we should do. I’m not going to let my son be manipulated into testifying against me.”
“You want me to withdraw my objection to Vandermeer’s testimony?”
“If that’s what it takes to keep him off the stand, yes.”
“That’s the way I’ll pitch it to Torres. I’ll let the doctor’s testimony go to the jury only on the condition that he agree not to call Brian as a witness.”
“Do it,” said Lindsey.
“All right. But it does create another problem down the road. It’s going to be that much harder for us to argue that the Cuban soldier is lying about you and Johnson.”
“I told you, I was not having an affair.”
“I know. And we agreed that if we put the Cuban on the stand, we would try to convince the jury that he was telling the truth about Johnson coming to your house the morning of the murder, but he was throwing in the spicy sex just to embarrass the Pintado family. But with Vandermeer in the equation, it’s no longer your word against the word of a Cuban soldier.”
“Then maybe we don’t call the Cuban.”
“Maybe we don’t,” said Jack. “I need to think more about that.”
Lindsey seemed to be searching for words, then finally she looked at Sofia, then back at Jack. “Could I speak to Sofia alone for a minute?”
Jack said, “I’m your lawyer, too. This is all privileged.”
“I would just feel more comfortable if Sofia and I were alone.”
“We’ve got just two minutes left on this break,” said Jack. “If there’s something that needs to be aired, it needs to be aired among all of us.”
A tense silence filled the room. “Okay,” said Lindsey. She drew a breath, unable to look Jack in the eye as she spoke. “The Cuban soldier…”
Jack waited, but the silence continued. “The Cuban soldier what?”
Finally, she said, “He isn’t lying.”
Somehow, Jack had already known. But hearing it still felt like a mule kick. “You lied to me again, damnit.”
“No, I didn’t lie. Lieutenant Johnson and I weren’t having an affair. It was…”
Again, she lapsed into silence. She was doing funny things with her lips, as if her mouth were at war with the words she was about to utter.
“It was what?” said Jack.
Her eyes closed, then opened, and her voice was barely audible as she said, “It was a good bit weirder than that.”
Jack felt that mule kick again.
There was a knock at the door, and Sofia opened it. The bailiff stuck her head into the room. “Judge Garcia’s back on the bench. He wants us back in the courtroom—
now
.”
Jack was torn, but a federal judge was not the kind of person to keep waiting. “We’ll finish this later,” he said.
“There’s nothing more to say.” Her chin was on her chest, and she seemed to be biting back her shame, if not shutting down the flow of information.
“Like I said. We’ll finish this later.” Jack grabbed his briefcase, then took his client by the arm and led her back to the courtroom.
T
heo Knight was on a shopping spree. The search was on for the stolen parts—and for the guy who’d torched Jack’s Mustang.
As expected, relatively few shops specialized in classic-car parts, and many of those were highly specialized, dealing exclusively in Corvettes or foreign cars. A dozen phone calls produced no leads. Finally, a call to the Mustang Solution in Hialeah turned up the kind of bumper Theo was looking for. A personal visit to the shop confirmed that it was indeed Jack’s. Theo had washed that car hundreds of times, knew every dent and ding. The rear bumper on Jack’s car had a dimple to the right of the license plate mount. This one had the same dimple.
“How much you want for it?” Theo asked the shop owner.
“Four hundred.”
Fucking thief
, thought Theo. He peeled off five bills and said, “An extra hundred if you tell me where you got it.”
“You a cop?”
“Cops take bills, dumbshit. They don’t dish ’em out.”
The owner smiled as he rolled up the cash and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “His name’s Eduardo Gonzalez. Goes by Eddy. Known him since high school.”
“Where do I find this Eddy?”
The guy made a cutesy face, as if he knew but wasn’t telling. Theo laid another fifty on the counter, which did the trick.
“He’s got his own welding shop or studio of some sort over on Flagler and Fifty-seventh. You’ll see it. Says ‘Eddy’s Palace’ on the door.”
Twenty minutes later Theo was headed down Flagler Street with the rear bumper of a ’67 Mustang convertible tied to his roof rack. He parked on a side street and walked up the block, past a liquor store, past a vacant theater, past one of those stores that sells everything you don’t need for just one dollar. He stopped at an old store front with a plate-glass window that bore the words
EDDY’S PALACE
.
He tried the door, but it was locked. The window looked as though it hadn’t been washed in years. Theo wiped away a little dirt and peered inside. Just enough lights were burning to let him see a few things here and there. At first it looked like nothing but heaps of scrap metal, all shapes and sizes. As he looked closer, however, he could see that the pieces all fit together. They had form. They were sculptures. Eddy’s Palace was an art studio.
Theo cupped his hands like blinders to cut down the glare. The forms came clearer. A huge, metal arm was reaching from the floor, like a hand from the grave. The man beside it was impaled on a lance, his gaping mouth exaggerated to emphasize his suffering. Several other figures seemed normal from the waist up, but the lower halves of their bodies were twisted and melted, overcome by metal tongues of fire. There were hundreds of other figures, some small, some larger than life, all with their mouths wide open, all with that same exaggerated expression of pain.
It looked like one man’s version of hell.
Theo stepped away from the window, and he was about to give the door another try when he noticed a little sign near the doorbell. It read:
D
OORBELL
B
ROKEN,
P
LEASE
E
NTER
A
T
B
ACK
D
OOR.
Dusk was turning to dark, and even Theo was having second thoughts about walking down an alley in search of the back door to hell. The neighborhood was at best questionable. The windows on nearby buildings were covered with burglar bars, and Theo recognized the cigar shop across the street from a newscast about a month earlier. The owner had been shot dead in a robbery. But he’d come too far to back down from some metal-worker-turned-artist who didn’t think twice about torching a true work of art, a classic Mustang convertible. Theo walked a few steps north and then turned down the alley.
It was a long, narrow alley, and with each step, Theo put the traffic noise from Flagler Street farther behind him. He was soon alone with the Dumpsters, deep into shadows so dark that he had to stop for a
moment to let his eyes adjust. There was a street lamp overhead, and it should have clicked on by now. It had to be burned out. Theo took a few more steps, but then he stopped as he reached the end of the alley and rounded the corner to the back of the building. He heard something. It sounded like hissing.
A snake?
The thought made him shudder. Theo wasn’t afraid of much, but he was definitely not a snake guy.
The hissing continued, and then Theo spotted the source. The door at the studio’s rear entrance was open—wide open, not just unlocked. The hissing was coming from inside. Theo started toward the open door. It couldn’t be a snake. The hissing was continuous. No snake hissed nonstop. He stopped at the open doorway and looked inside.
The back of Eddy’s Palace was more like a metal shop than a studio. Eddy obviously created his sculptures right on the premises. A man—presumably Eddy—was busy at his welding table, his back to the door. He wore a metal visor over his head, the dark kind that protected the eyes from the intense glare of a welding iron. Theo could feel the heat escaping through the open door. Theo had done some welding himself, mostly on cars. He knew the arc could reach several thousand degrees. It was no wonder the door was open.
Theo watched for a minute or two. The artist was totally absorbed in his craft, shaping what appeared to be the all-important gaping mouth of another citizen from hell. Theo could have rolled through the back door in a tank and gone unnoticed.
Which gave him an idea.
Quietly, he stepped inside the studio. Eddy was still focused on work, oblivious to anything else. The gas tanks were near the door. Another torch was hanging on a hook beside the tanks. Theo opened the valve on the extra torch. He could feel the gas coursing through the tubing. He had firepower, which made him smile a little. Then he turned the valve off on the torch Eddy was working with, and he gently closed the door.
The flame on Eddy’s torch grew smaller and smaller until it finally went out. Eddy straightened up, as if ready to switch tanks. As he flipped up his visor and turned toward the tanks, Theo was on top of him like a
T. rex
on lunch. Eddy was facedown on the cement before
he knew what had hit him. He squirmed for a moment, then a foot-long flame scorched the concrete floor just inches from his nose.
“Don’t move,” said Theo. He was sitting on Eddy’s kidneys, pressing him into the floor.
Eddy’s eyes were like silver dollars, his voice shaking. “Don’t hurt me, man.”
“Shut the fuck up, or I start cooking your nose from the inside out.”
Eddy was shaking, but he didn’t say a word.
“Good,” said Theo. “Nice and quiet, and nobody gets hurt. I’m a real lover of the arts, so it would be a shame to toast you. I mean that. I really dig your work. Highly unusual pieces. Very reminiscent of…Oh, what am I thinking of?”
Sweat was pouring down Eddy’s face. His breathing grew louder, but he didn’t answer.
Theo tapped the head of the torch on the concrete, giving Eddy a start. “You can talk when I ask you a question, moron.”
Eddy could barely keep his saliva in his mouth. “What was the question?”
“I said your work reminds me of something that I just can’t put my finger on.”
“Salvador Dalí?”
“Hmmm. Actually, I was gonna say mindfarts of a serial killer. But we can go with Dalí, if that makes you feel better.”
“Just tell me what you want, man.”
“I want information. Can you give me information, Eddy?”
“Whatever you want. Just don’t hurt me, all right?”
“Sure. What I want to know is—” Theo stopped himself. This was too easy. Where was the fun? His gaze quickly swept the workshop, and a thin smile crept to his lips as he spotted the many half creations around him, all these suffering souls destined for hell. He was suddenly feeling spiritual. “You believe in God, Eddy?”
“I don’t know, man. Do you want me to?”
“You must believe. All this hell around you. Can’t be a hell if there’s no God, right?”
“Sure, sure. I believe.”
“Good. Because this is what I want to know. Hypothetically, let’s say I’m God. This is just pretend now, okay? Don’t be running to my momma’s grave and tellin’ her I think I’m God or something. So I’m
God, and I’ve decided to grant my first interview. You got the scoop, Eddy, but you can ask only one question. Just one. So fire away. What do you want to ask God?”
“Huh?”
“There’s no right or wrong here, pal. Just spit it out. It’s just you and God in the back of your studio. For the moment, let’s ignore the fact that God’s packing a blowtorch that can melt your face into the concrete. Go ahead, ask your one question.”
The punk could barely speak, he was so frightened. “Uhm—what’s the meaning of life?”
Theo made a face, as if in pain. “What the hell kind of shitty question is that?”
“You said there was no right or wrong here.”
Theo smacked him on the side of the head. “Did anybody ever fucking tell you to believe what I say?”
“No.”
“Now ask another question. And make it good!”
He swallowed, but he didn’t have anything to say.
“What are you, brain dead?” said Theo. “You can’t think of one decent question? How about something like this: Why does cold water boil faster than hot water? You want to ask him that?”
He nodded tentatively.
“It doesn’t, shithead. Who told you it was okay to ask God a trick question, huh?”
“Don’t, don’t!” He seemed to sense that the blowtorch was coming.
Theo squeezed the trigger, sending a tongue of flame onto the concrete. It was so close to Eddy that it singed his hair. The guy was about to crumble. “Give me a break, man, okay?”
Theo sighed and said, “Aw, shit. I gotta do everything around here. Okay, here’s one last suggestion. I got God on the line, right? ‘Yo, God, it’s Theo. How you doin’? Got a question for you. Is there anything this poor slob here—what’s your name again?”
“Eddy.”
“Is there anything poor Eddy here can possibly do to keep from getting scorched by a big, angry black guy who spent four years on death row after being wrongly convicted by a bunch of white jurors and one little Hispanic twit who looks a hell of a lot like Eddy?”
It took a moment for the question to register, then Eddy gulped. “It wasn’t me, man. I wasn’t on no jury!”
Theo smacked the back of his head once more. “I know it wasn’t you, asshole! But for the entire four years I spent in Florida State prison, my cellmates were Cindy Crawford and Whitney Houston. So if you think I don’t got the power of imagination, then you got no fucking idea how bad this is gonna turn out for you.”
“Please…” he said, now groveling. “Just tell me what you want.”
Theo let him squirm for a moment, watched the tears run down a grown man’s cheeks. Then he leaned forward and whispered into his ear. “Why did you torch Jack Swyteck’s car?”
Eddy froze.
Theo said, “It was you, wasn’t it?”
“It wasn’t my idea,” he said, shaking. “They told me to do it.”
“Who told you?”
“Don’t make me rat, man. They’ll kill me. I swear, they’ll kill me.”
“Well, that’s pretty funny, Eddy. If you tell me, they’ll kill you. If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you. It’s like I once had to tell my old friend Jack: Looks like you’re caught in your own zipper there, pal.”
“I’m serious. They’ll kill me.”
Theo leaned closer, his nose nearly touching the nape of Eddy’s neck. “
I’m
serious.
I’ll
kill you.” He gave the blowtorch a quick blast for added effect.
Eddy shivered, his voice racing. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you.”
“Good boy, Eddy. I’m all ears.”
Just after midnight, Jack thought he heard a knock at his front door. He was dressed in nylon jogging shorts and a T-shirt, foamy toothbrush in hand, preparing for bed. He rinsed his mouth and walked to the living room. It was dark, lighted only in places by the dim glow of an outdoor porch lamp that shined through the open slats in the draperies. He went to the front door and listened. Then he heard it again. A knock with rhythm.
DUH, duh-duh-duh-duh, DUH…
He stood in silence, waiting for the final
DUH, DUH
. Instead, there was a flurry of pounding, the signature psycho knock, and Jack thought he knew who it was. He turned the deadbolt and opened the door.
He barely got a look at her face before she burst across the threshold, threw her arms around his neck, and planted her lips on his. He was startled at first, but the passion was contagious, and in a moment he was kissing her back. Finally, she stopped for air.
“Hi, Jack.”
“Hey, Rene,” he said, breathless. “How you doing?”
Her expression turned serious. “It’s been three months since you came to see me. I work in a West African country so full of AIDS that I’m afraid to even
think
about sex.” She grabbed his ass and said, “How do you think I’m doing?”
“I’m thinking maybe you’d like to come in?”
She closed the door with a hind kick, her eyes never leaving his. Jack looked away, scratching his head. It was a little overwhelming, especially since his mind had barely shut off from tomorrow’s trial preparation. But that was Rene. Even after a transatlantic flight, she was drop-dead gorgeous. At least in Jack’s eyes.
He walked to the couch and sat on the armrest. “It must be six weeks since I even got an e-mail from you. I’m pretty surprised to see you.”
“I’m sorry about that. But first things first, okay? I’m presenting at a pediatric AIDS conference in Los Angeles tomorrow. My connecting flight leaves at six
A.M.
”
“Not much of a window for good, quality vertical time.”
“No. So lighten up, would you? A lot of guys would be envious of you right now.”
“A lot of guys think the perfect woman is a twenty-year-old stripper with no gag reflex.”
“Are you saying I’m not perfect?”
“No, I’m saying…” Jack paused.
There were two white columns at the entrance to Jack’s living room. Rene tried to look at least half serious as she pressed her body against the nearest column, then wrapped her leg around it like an erotic pole dancer. “So I’m not twenty anymore. But two out of three’s not bad.”