The Pardon

Chapter 23

That same morning, Governor Harold Swyteck stood tall on a raised dais in the courtyard outside the old legislative chambers, a gray two-story building with arches, columns, and striped-canvas window canopies that provided a nostalgic backdrop. The courtyard was his favorite place for press conferences because of its size-large enough to hold everyone who cared to attend, yet small enough to create a crowded, newsworthy feeling. Clusters of red, white, and blue helium balloons decorated surrounding trees and fences. Above it all, a slickly painted banner read FOUR MORE YEARS-a more inspiring message than either LAWYER TURNS KILLER, SON OF THE GUV WAS GOSS’S LOVER, or the other recent headlines that threatened to send the governor plunging in public-opinion polls.

“Thank you all for coming,” Harry Swyteck said after he finished his answer to the final question. Cameras clicked and reporters jostled for position as he stepped away from the lectern, smiling and waving to one side and then the other, flashing his politician’s smile and pretending to know everyone.

“One more question, Governor?” came a friendly voice from the crowd.

He returned the smile, expecting a lob at this stage of the game. “All right.”

“What about mine?” shouted the one reporter no politician could stomach. It was David Malone, a smooth, good-looking, and notoriously unethical tabloid-television reporter who thrived on scandal. He was the kind of sleazy journalist who, on a slow news night, could take a video camera and microphone into a local tavern and make six drunken loudmouths falling off their bar stools look like the raging nucleus of a community-wide riot on anything from race relations to the Eddy Goss trial. Today, however, Malone didn’t have to reach for controversy. All he needed was a few minutes, one-on-one, with Jack Swyteck’s father. “You afraid of my questions, Governor?”

Harry cringed inside. Malone had been pushing toward the front of the crowd since the beginning of the press conference, and the governor had simply ignored him. But he couldn’t just walk away from someone who had publicly called him chicken. “A quick one,” he acquiesced. “What’s your question, Mr. Malone?”

Malone’s eyes lit up, eager for the opportunity. “Four years ago,” he read from his tattered spiral notepad, “you campaigned on a ‘two-fisted approach’ to law and order. Specifically, you promised to ensure that the death penalty was carried out ‘with vigor,’ I think were your exact words.”

“Do you have a question?”

“My question, sir, is this: Do you intend to keep that promise in the next term?”

“I’ve kept all my campaign promises. And will continue to honor them after I’m re-elected. Thank you.” As he closed he started to move away from the lectern.

“More specifically,” Malone pressed, raising his voice. “If the jury convicts Jack Swyteck of murder in the first degree, are you going to sign his death warrant?”

The governor halted in his tracks. His plastic smile faded, and his eyes flared with anger. But Malone waited for an answer. “The answer,” said the governor, “is definitely no.”

“Why not?”

The governor glared at his interrogator. “Because Jack is innocent. And I would never execute an innocent man.”

“How would you know?”

“I know my son’s not a murderer.”

“No,” said Malone. “I meant, how do you know that you haven’t already executed an innocent man?”

The governor glared menacingly at the reporter, but his eye twitched nervously. A sign of weakness, Malone detected.

“First of all,” said the governor, “most of them admitted they were guilty before-”

“Not all of them.”

“No, but-”

“What about the ones who didn’t confess? What about the ones who went down swinging? What about the guys who swore their innocence to the end?”

“What about Raul Fernandez?” someone shouted from the rear.

The governor went cold. That was a name he hadn’t heard since his blackmailer had threatened him-since the death of Eddy Goss. He looked out to see who had asked the question, but the faces in the crowd were indistinguishable.

“What about Fernandez?” Malone picked up the question. Heads bowed, as legions of reporters scribbled down the name.

The governor shifted nervously. He was clueless as to who had shouted out Fernandez’s name, but he was suspicious of the way Malone’s line of questioning had prompted the outburst. “I’m sorry. I’m not going to get into individual cases today, no more than I’m going to discuss my son’s individual case. It’s just not appropriate. That’s all for today,” he said as he started toward the exit.

“Governor!” others called out in unison, wishing for a follow-up. But he’d lost his concentration. There would be no more questions. “Thank you,” he said with a wave as he exited the stage through a side door, into a private room.

The governor’s aide was there to greet him and to close the door on pursuing press. Harry wiped little beads of sweat from his brow, relieved to have the conference behind him.

“Went well, I thought,” said Campbell as he handed his boss a cold drink. The governor chugged down the Coca-Cola but didn’t respond. “Except for that little exchange about your son,” Campbell added. “I’m telling you, that son of yours is killing you, Governor. We checked the polls again this morning. You’ve lost another point and-”

Campbell droned on, but Harry had stopped listening. He glanced out the window, strangely amused by the irony. It seemed that Jack was always being accused of killing someone. His father. His client. And a long time ago, on a day Harold Swyteck would never forget-his own mother. It had been nearly a quarter century since Agnes, in a drunken state, had made the accusation, and then added to the boy’s confusion by suggesting that Harry reckoned his son accountable. Harry’s own role in that ugly interchange had been the worst, however, because he had yet to look Jack in the eye and deny it.

“Jack isn’t killing anyone,” Harry suddenly objected in a loud voice. Campbell was a bit taken aback. He watched, curious, as the governor seemed to retreat into his thoughts.

“I killed him,” Harry finally said in a bow voice. “By my silence-a long time ago.”

Campbell was about to follow up, but the governor quickly changed the subject-to someone he may have really killed. “Who was that reporter who yelled out the name of Raul Fernandez?” he asked, trying not to sound too interested.

“I don’t know. I sent a security man after him, but he was long gone before anyone really knew what was going on. You want me to follow up on it?”

“No,” he said, a little too forcefully. The last thing he wanted was someone else poking into this. “It’s not worth the trouble,” he said in a more reasonable tone. Then he stepped toward the window and sighed. “Could you give me a few minutes, please?”

Campbell nodded. His boss looked like he could use some time alone. “I’ll be in the car,” he said, then left the room.

Harry lowered himself into a chair. He was still weak in the knees from the pointed Fernandez questions. Could he be back? The chrysanthemums had led him to believe that Goss was the blackmailer. And since he hadn’t heard from the man since Goss’s murder, he had been convinced he was right. But this was too strange for coincidence. It couldn’t have been a heckler or someone making a lucky guess who’d shouted out Fernandez’s name. And Malone’s line of questioning had been deliberate. He trembled at the thought: Not only had his blackmailer returned, but one of Florida’s sleaziest television reporters knew something about it.

Don’t jump to conclusions, he told himself. Raul Fernandez had been the most controversial execution of his administration. A reporter or a protester didn’t have to know anything to draw a comparison between the execution of the governor’s son and the execution of a man who had proclaimed his innocence to the very end. It wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibility that today had been coincidence-that Goss had been the extortionist, and that his extortionist was dead. Then it occurred to him that there was a way to find out for sure if it had been Goss. The first time Harry had been attacked, his assailant had identified himself as the man who confessed to Jack the night of Fernandez’s execution. Surely, Jack would know if that very same man was Goss.

Now all he had to do was figure out a way to get Jack to tell him.