The Victim (63 page)

Within a few seconds, a text message buzzed. He exited the phone screen and opened the message, sent from a different unrecognizable number. She must have had a whole collection of throwaway phones. He enlarged the image: Charley asleep in her car seat, a shard of sunlight running across her cheek. Lola had tried to crop the image but a little bit of the floor was visible beneath the car seat. White marble. He recognized the floor.

She was still at her apartment.

“
You get it?”

“
Yeah. Okay. Here I go. I do this you give her back to me without any hesitation, you got me?”

“
A deal’s a deal.”

He hung up, walked back inside the courtroom.

Keeping with procedure, the state rested and Jack, as lead counsel, stepped up to the podium and made a motion for a judgment of acquittal, highlighting how even in the light most favorable to the state, a
prima facie
case for attempted first-degree murder, burglary with an assault and battery, and resisting an officer with violence, had not been made.

After hearing brief arguments from both sides Morales denied the motion and called in the jury. Once they were seated, Sylvia formally rested the state’s case.

“
Would the defense call its first witness?”

Jack stood, hesitating for a moment as if struggling with the words. “Your Honor…defense calls Anton Mackey.”

Anton stood and walked toward the witness box where he was sworn in before taking a seat. The jury looked on in confusion. While most weren’t legal scholars, they had to have been wondering why the defendant’s attorney was testifying. Morales noted their confusion, figuring she would explain later.

The court reporter sat still, arms crossed. There would be no record of this testimony.

Jack cautiously approached the podium, unsure of how to begin his examination.

Judge Morales preempted him. “Before we begin, I believe that I have a duty to read Mr. Mackey his Miranda rights, given the fact that he has indicated that his testimony is going to incriminate him. I’d also like to afford Mr. Mackey the opportunity to consult with an attorney and have that attorney present during his test—”

Anton held up a hand. “Judge, I’m waiving my right to an attorney.”

She nodded reluctantly. “I’m still insisting that you be read your rights.”

He shrugged. “So be it.”

“
You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court. You have the right to an attorney and to have an attorney present during these proceedings. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to represent you. Knowing these rights are you still willing to testify in this matter?”

“
Yes, Your Honor.”

“
Are you under the influence of drugs or alcohol or any intoxicants?”

“
No, Your Honor.”

“
Are you testifying freely and upon your own volition and have not been threatened, forced, or otherwise coerced?”

He thought of his missing daughter.

“
I’m testifying freely and of my own volition,” he lied.

“
Okay. Mr. Savarese?”

Jack cleared his throat. “Anton, this is an unusual situation we’re in. But you’re now a witness in the case against Bryan Avery. I’m not going to go through the motions of introducing you to the men and women of the jury. They know who you are. Why don’t you tell them what it is you want to tell them.”

Anton closed his eyes.

“
Eleven years ago I killed two people…”

CHAPTER 73

The jurors sat completely still, as if their faces were carved out of stone. Anton dug his palms into his eyes, wiping away the tears. Jack hung his head as if ashamed for taking part in it. He nodded to himself before muttering, “No more questions.” He sat down.

Morales broke the awkward silence. “Um…” She cleared her throat. “Ms. Kaplan, do you wish to cross-examine Mr. Mackey?”

Sylvia looked up, her mouth agape. “No…no Judge.”

“
You may step down, Mr. Mackey.”

Anton collected his strength and stood, his legs like rubber beneath him. He thought he would feel something, a lightening of his conscience, some measure of cathartic weightlessness. But he didn’t. He walked past the defense table to the gallery, taking a seat in the front row. He was no longer Bryan’s attorney. There was no need to sit by him.

Morales surveyed her courtroom. A break was in order.

“
I’m going to excuse the jury for a few minutes. Diego, would you please take them out to the jury room?” Everyone stood as the jurors gathered their belongings and marched out the back door to the jury room down the hall. Once they were gone, Morales looked at Sylvia and said, “Why don’t you take a minute to make a phone call.”

Sylvia nodded, acknowledging the subtext. While the courtroom was devoid of any media or spectators, Morales had checked the Blog on her phone, noting that the headline from a post dated thirty minutes earlier read
what’s going on in morales’s courtroom?
Rumpole, the pseudonymous author, had rehashed the story, theorizing why a Circuit Court judge would so blatantly violate the law by closing her proceedings to the public.

Sylvia walked out the side door, cell phone in hand. There was only one person Sylvia would call: Mary Fuentes-Robinson, Miami-Dade County’s elected State Attorney, the only person higher than Sylvia on the SAO ladder. More media-conscious than her predecessor, Janet Reno, any decision made about Bryan’s case would have to have approval from the very top.

Sylvia returned to the courtroom after about three minutes, still clutching her phone. Without losing stride she walked right up to the podium.

“
Your Honor, upon contemplating the unforeseen recent developments in this case, namely the alleged victim’s disappearance and the compelling testimony of Mr. Avery’s former attorney, Anton Mackey, the state no longer believes that it can meet its burden of proof. In the case of
State of Florida versus Bryan Avery
, the state announces a nolle prosse.”

Anton watched as Bryan’s rigid shoulders yielded not one bit. At least not until Jack leaned over and explained to him that a nolle prosse meant that all of his charges had been dropped.

CHAPTER 74

Anton sprinted down the courthouse steps, nearly losing his footing, grabbing the handrail for balance. Out of breath, he braced his hands on his knees, his mind flashing back to the morning of March 16, 2003, zigzagging through a forest of ponderosa trunks amid only pinholes of sunlight. He grabbed his phone and dialed the last number called.

It went straight to voicemail. The phone had been shut off.

He opened the text message with the photo of Charley, dialing that number. Nothing. Straight to voicemail.

In a desperate effort, he tried the number stored in his phone. An automated message told him that the number was no longer in service.

He ran across the juror lot to his car, parked at a metered spot by the curb alongside the river. A hot dog vendor occupied the corner. A tug pulled a rusty cargo freighter down the Miami River. Oil slicks moved shapelessly on the surface while traffic trailed down 12th, waiting for the bridge to lower. A collection of bums meandered underneath the Dolphin Expressway overpass.

He cranked the wheel hard, tires screeching as he turned onto 14th, tearing underneath the 95 overpass where two P.I.F. boys had tried to kill him a few weeks earlier.

He barreled down 1st Avenue and weaved the one-way streets until he was southbound on Biscayne. He crossed the bridge where Biscayne turned to Brickell and turned into the driveway for the Templeton, nearly taking out the valet stand as he came to a jerky stop.

He got out, driver-side door still open, engine running.

“
Keep it there,” he ordered a confused valet.

The glass doors slid open and he ran into the lobby, bracing himself on the edge of the security desk. He caught his breath to ask, “Daniella Avery?”

A young Hispanic guard in a black security uniform cocked his brow, shifting his gaze from Anton to his computer. He entered the name and shook his head.

“
Avery? Unit 3618?”

“
Yeah?”

He clicked his teeth. “That unit’s vacant, sir. She terminated her lease this morning. Left a PO box as a forwarding address so we could mail the security deposit. My notes say she turned in her keys and everything. Kinda strange, most tenants give us thirty-days notice. Didn’t even tell us if movers are coming for the furniture. If she doesn’t get her stuff out in ten days they’re gonna charge her. If you see her you might want to tell her that.”

Four analog clocks hung on the wall behind him, giving the time in Miami, Los Angeles, London, and Hong Kong. It was just past five. The photo that she had sent just after three must have been taken earlier that day. Anton should have known, the light streaking through the sliding glass door across Charley’s cheek was too bright, low on the eastern horizon. Morning light. The photo had to have been taken at least seven, eight hours earlier. They could have been anywhere by now.

“
Sir,” he said, breathing hard, trying to mask the desperation in his voice. “Did she tell you where she was going? Did she have a baby with her?”

He shrugged. “I’m working four to midnight, bro. Just got here like an hour ago. Sorry.”

“
What about work logs from this morning? Surveillance video? Who was on shift this morning? Let me see your computer screen, I want to know who entered those notes.” Anton reached across the desk for the computer monitor.

The guard kicked off the desk, rolling his chair back a few feet. He jumped to his feet, hand at his hip, his fingers itching for the black rubber grip of the massive stainless steel .357 he was wearing in a leather holster.

“
Sir! You need to step away from the desk right now!” He flicked off the thumbsnap and wrapped his hand around the grip, ready to draw. “I’m giving you an order to leave immediately!”

Anton held up his hands and stepped back. He heard the
swoosh
of the automatic door and caught two armed guards in his periphery, approaching cautiously, hands on their holstered weapons.

“
Okay, okay,” he said. “I’m gone.”

He back pedaled out of the lobby and ran to his car, watching in his rearview as one of the guards snapped a cell phone picture of his license plate.

He peeled out onto Brickell, heading north.

Traffic came to a rush-hour standstill at the bridge. He sat quietly, anxiously drumming on the steering wheel. The belly of an incoming 747 soared overhead, its high-pitched whistle breaking the stillness in the air.

He had an idea.

CHAPTER 75

The sally port opened and Bryan Avery stepped out into the world, taking sweet breaths of freedom. He wore his clothes from the night of his arrest, having been returned to him along with the rest of his personal property upon release. Dried blood marred the front of his button-down dress shirt, the settling of the stain over two months making it look like black ink.

He hailed a cab, one of a dozen parked along the sidewalk in front of the Pretrial Detention Center. He got in, read off the address printed on the tow slip that was stapled to his property receipt. The driver, a Nigerian wearing a white kufi cap, eyeballed the passenger in the rearview mirror as they rode in awkward silence.

The driver pulled up to the location and Bryan checked his wallet. His cash was gone—no surprise—so he paid the fare with his debit card. A black iron gate topped with spiked fleurs-de-lis slid opened and he walked onto the dusty lot of Gonzalez Towing.