Oh, for Pete's sake, the governor groaned as he tossed his charcoal suit coat onto the couch, loosened his tie, and plopped into the high-back leather chair behind his carved mahogany desk, exhausted. Before the campaign, he found it relaxing to nestle into his position of power between the state and American flags, amidst the brass chandeliers, white coffered ceilings, and big arching windows with red velvet drapes that reminded him he was indeed governor. But now that the campaign was in full swing, the opulent surroundings were stark reminders that he had to be re-elected to keep these trappings of power for another four years. Who did I insult this time? he asked, only half kidding.
No one, his secretary assured him as she placed his hot cup of tea with lemon on his desk. She served without a smile, her expression all business. With her gray hair pulled back and a white silk scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, she had all the warmth of a nun on a vow of silence. When it came to political staffers, however, personality was a small sacrifice for eighteen years of efficiency and undivided loyalty. I'm sure they're all trying to get the scoop before the six o'clock news, she said, that's all.
The governor froze as he brought his teacup to his lips. Even after all these years it still bothered him that Paula always seemed to know everything about late-breaking news before he knew anything about it. The scoop on what? he asked with some trepidation.
Her look was more somber than usual. Your son, of course.
His trepidation turned to concern. What about my son?
Campbell's on his way up, she said, avoiding the question. He'll explain.
Moments later the door flew open, and the governor's chief aide, Campbell McSwain, rushed into the office, nearly mowing down Paula on her way out. Campbell was a handsome, thirty-eight-year-old Princeton graduate who looked as if he wouldn't know a blue collar unless it was pinpoint Oxford cloth, but his uncanny ability to portray Harold Swyteck as a regular Joe to the average voter had gone a long way toward winning the election four years ago. Campbell wore his usual Bass loafers, khaki slacks, and a Brooks Brothers blazer over a white polo shirt, but his wide-eyed expression was far less understated.
Sorry, sir, Campbell said as he gasped for breath. He'd run all the way to the governor's office. I just got off he phone with the Dade County State Attorney's Office.
The state attorney?
It's your son, sir. Our sources tell us he's the target of grand jury investigation. He's the prime suspect in the murder of Eddy Goss.
The governor's mouth fell open, as if he'd just been punched in the chest. Goss is dead? And they think Jack did it? That's preposterous. It's impossible. Jack is no murderer. It has to be a mistake.
Well, whether it's true or not, Governor, this is a terrible setback for us. Until a month ago, no one thought a former state insurance commissioner would be a serious challenge to a popular incumbent like yourself. But he's making a damn good showing. He made quite a name for himself rooting out fraud, and he had the good sense not to push so hard that big business wouldn't open its wallets when the campaigning got under way. The polls have you up by just four points at last tally. This, however, could change everything. The press is already pouncing all over it. Forty-three calls, Paula said.
The governor leaned forward in his chair and glared at is aide. This is my son we're talking about, he said angrily. We're not talking about bad press, or about points on an opinion poll.
Campbell stood in check. I'm sorry, Governor, he said quietly. I mean - it's just that, I know you and your son haven't been close. At least not as long as I've known you. I guess I should have been more sensitive.
The governor rose from his chair, turned, and walked slowly to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the garden in the courtyard. It's true, he said, speaking as much to himself as to his aide, his voice trailing off as if he were retreating deep into his innermost thoughts. Jack and I have not been as close as I'd like.
Campbell watched with concern, searching for something to say. Your son is only a grand jury target - a suspect, he said. The lawyers tell me there's at least a theoretical possibility he might not actually be indicted.
Harry nodded appreciatively at Campbell's attempted consolation. But in his mind he could already see the chilling accusation: John Lawrence Swyteck did with malice aforethought knowingly commit murder in the first degree. Sometimes he couldn't help wondering if fate meant him to be separated from Jack, if the alignment of the stars foreordained a rift between them. But he knew that was a cop-out, an attempt to deny his own complicity in the shaping of Jack's what were they? Neuroses? Problems? Confusion, certainly. With a deep sense of guilt, Harry thought back to the first time his son was accused of murder - when he was five years old
Harry had pulled into the driveway around supper time and walked briskly up the sidewalk to the front door. He could see his young son peering sadly out the bedroom window as if he were being punished for something. Before Harry had even closed the front door and stepped inside, Agnes was screaming at him about Jack and the crucifix he'd found. Harry tried to calm her but she was determined to have it out. He rushed to the kitchen and closed the door, so Jack couldn't hear, but the bitter argument continued.
I told you I didn't want these things in the house anymore, Agnes said. I'm your wife now. Give up the past, Harry. I won't tolerate you having your own little shrine.
It's not for me. I'm saving them for Jack, when he's old enough to understand.
I don't believe that for a second, she shouted. You're not thinking of Jack. You're thinking of yourself. You're living in the past - ever since you took that boy home and left her behind. You won't let go. Admit it, Harry, you hate me for not being her. And you hate your own son for killing her.
Shut up! he shouted as he rushed toward her.
Don't you dare raise a hand to me! It's sick, Harry! And I'm sick of it!
Just outside the kitchen, five-year-old Jack trembled in shock and fear of what he had done to his mother. He'd snuck out of his room and tiptoed down the hallway, finding a spot behind a large spider plant, just outside the kitchen, where his father and stepmother had dug in to do battle. He had wanted to hear the truth - but the truth was more than any five-year-old could handle. He stepped back in a daze, then tripped over the pedestal holding the plant, sending himself and the plant crashing to the floor.
The noise from the hall immediately silenced the argument in the kitchen. Harry rushed out and saw Jack lying on the floor, beside the overturned plant. Their eyes met, but neither one spoke. Harold Swyteck didn't have to ask how much his son had heard. The look on his face told him he'd heard it all. And from that day forward, they'd never looked at each other the same way
Are you listening to me, sir? Campbell asked. The governor looked at him blankly. His mind was elsewhere.
I'm sorry, he said, trying to shake himself loose of his memories. But he was still thinking of Jack. After so many disappointments and regrets, he wanted to help his son. But with their turbulent history, it wouldn't be that simple. Jack would surely rebuff any overtures he made.
Governor, Campbell interrupted, obviously this isn't something you want to focus on now. I'm not trying to be insensitive. I do understand that, for all your differences, Jack is still your son. That's really none of my business. It is my business, however, to get you re-elected. And, like it or not, we have to evaluate your son's predicament in political terms. Personal tragedy aside, sir, the simple fact is that if Jack Swyteck loses his trial, Harold Swyteck loses his election. Politically speaking, he said coolly, that is the bottom line.
Harry was angered by Campbell's mercenary view, but he also appreciated the simple logic of his words. Campbell was right: Helping Jack would help his campaign. And that was the answer to the problem - a kind of reverse psychology. Jack wouldn't accept help if his father were doing it only for his son. But if the governor were doing it for himself, for his own political reasons, Jack would owe him nothing - not even gratitude. That would be the way he could help Jack - and, more important, be assured that Jack would let him.
You're absolutely right, said the governor, smiling inwardly. I guess I have no choice but to help my son - any way I can.
Chapter
20
After just a week in Rome, Cindy Paige returned to Miami that afternoon. The photo shoot in Italy was officially off. It turned out that Chet had a much more recreational view of their business trip than she did - which became clear the moment she found out he'd reserved one hotel room with one king-size bed in each of the cities on their tour. It had hurt to find out that it wasn't her talent with a camera that had landed her the job.
Gina met her at the baggage claim, but she wasn't a very chatty chauffeur on the ride home from the airport. She told Cindy she wasn't feeling very well, and she wasn't. Of all the things Gina had done in her life, she realized now that bedding Jack was the lowest. Somehow it had seemed easy to view Jack as fair game the other night, when she'd thought Cindy was jetting off to the Eternal City with her old lover. But her friend's quick return simply confirmed what Gina had suspected all along: Despite the ugly words Jack and Cindy had exchanged the last time they were together, they were far from through.
When they got back to the townhouse, Gina retreated right to her bedroom. She flopped onto the bed an escaped into a rerun of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
Cindy left her suitcase by the door and went straight to the kitchen. The so-called snack on the airplane had been about as appetizing as boiled lettuce. She quickly microwaved herself some french fries, then opened the refrigerator in search of ketchup.
Gina, she called out, where's the Heinz?
Gina didn't answer.
Oh, well, Cindy said, shrugging. Balancing the plate of fries in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other, she headed for the living room. She grabbed the remote control as she sat on the couch and flipped on the television.
The lead story on every local evening-news broadcast was the same. She was just in time to catch the south Florida version, the hometown approach to the breaking story of how, in a shocking development, the grand jury investigation into the murder of Eddy Goss had now targeted murder suspect Jack Swyteck.
She stared dumbfounded at Jack's face on the television screen, framed by an imposing graphic of the scales of justice. Oh, my God, she muttered. She punched the buttons on the remote control and flipped frantically from one channel to the next, as if trying to watch them all at once. She couldn't believe it, even after hearing it straight from the mouth of every news anchor in the city. After ten minutes she'd had enough, since coverage on every station had degenerated to live and exclusive interviews with virtually every publicity hound in town who claimed to know Jack Swyteck. She switched off the set in disgust. Not one of these people knew Jack the way she did. He was no killer.
Her hands were shaking as she sank into the couch. She wasn't sure what to do. Should she just let him know she was back in town - if he needed a friend? She wondered why, indeed, she was back in town. Had it really been necessary to call off the photo shoot in Italy? She probably could have laid down a few ground rules with Chet and gotten the job done - unless, of course, her relationship with Jack had subconsciously drawn her back to Miami.
She glanced at the phone. Talking to him wouldn't be good enough. Not after the blowup they'd had when they were last together. She needed to see him. She grabbed her purse from the coffee table. I'll be back later, she shouted up the stairway, then hurried out the door.
The sun had set and the streetlights had popped on by the time Cindy reached Jack's house. Even when she'd lived there, she'd never liked driving up alone after dark. Jack professed to like landscaping, but what he really meant was that he liked foliage of any kind, and lots of it. His lawn was a thick blanket of bromeliads, bushy ferns, and practically anything else that didn't look like a weed. Large, bushy palms and leafy ficus trees were scattered everywhere, creating an array of menacing shadows. It was enough to make any twenty-five-year-old blonde in blue denim shorts and sleeveless white shell a bit on edge. At night the scene always made her feel a bit like Dorothy in the land of Oz contending with the talking apple trees.
Anxiety propelled her to the front door in a matter of seconds. The porch light flipped on before she could knock, and the door swung open.
Jack stood in the doorway, looking perplexed. Cindy, what are you doing here?
I saw the story on the news. I thought you might need to talk.
You're too much, he said, opening his arms. She stepped forward to accept his embrace. After you left I wanted to call you and tell you how sorry I was, but I felt like such a jerk. He held her tighter and looked into her eyes. Can you forgive me?
Let's try to forget that ever happened, Cindy said. I felt terrible about what I said, too.
No, no, you were right, he protested, I totally lost it. But - he shook his head in confusion. What happened with Italy?
She slipped from his embrace and gave him a look of concern. That's not nearly as important as what's happening to you.
His spirits soared. Just an hour ago, after having watched the six o'clock news, he'd thought it would be a very long time before he'd ever feel happy again.