Suspicion of Vengeance (49 page)

The car came out tail-first, pouring brown water through a cracked windshield and open windows. The crane operator waited till most of it stopped, then swung the boom toward dry land. It took some time to get the car positioned so it would drop onto its tires, which immediately flattened. A little more time to get the trunk open because Garlan insisted on raising a tarp first. The helicopter was hovering overhead with its zoom lens, and he wanted to give these people a little dignity—if they were in there.

They were. All that remained were bones and some scraps of hair and clothing. Shoes. A rusted watch around an arm bone. For the most part, the bones had turned black, covered with the crud that sticks to things so long underwater.

Ron Kemp was in charge of the scene, and Garlan stepped away so he could get the photos done. After making sure his face wouldn't give his emotions away, Garlan looked around at McGrath, who exuded shock and concern. One of the crime scene techs, standing by the front passenger window, called out, "Sheriff? Come take a look at this."

Garlan went to see. What he thought might have been a tree limb became, on second glance, an old shotgun. He said to Kemp, "Bring it out after they take some pictures." Kemp told somebody to bring some plastic sheeting. The door was impossible to open, so they fished out the shotgun by the trigger guard. A tech with his hands in latex laid it on the plastic.

It was a rusty, silt-filled, double-barreled Browning. The wood stock was black with rot. Garlan sat on one heel. A twelve-gauge. He took off his sunglasses and using only two fingers raised up the shotgun. He squinted and wiped the mud off the side plate. Some letters were engraved there. The metal was pitted, but he could make out a name.

Knees popping, Garlan stood up. "Ask McGrath to come over here." Garlan waited for him and, when he got there, asked him if he recognized the shotgun.

"No, I don't. Why?"

"It's yours."

"Mine? What do you mean, mine?"

"It's got your name on it. Look. J. W. McGrath."

"That's impossible."

"Let's get this to the lab." He pointed at McGrath. "Step back." "That's not my shotgun."

Garlan signaled to Ron Kemp. "Ron, call Sonia Krause. Tell her what we found and that we could be looking at murder one. I want her opinion."

Ron took out his cell phone.

McGrath yelled, and his face contorted. "What is going on? That's not my fucking gun. They planted it! Quintana planted it. He's trying to frame me."

"We'll be talking to you about it," Garlan said. "Just step over there out of the way, but don't leave the scene."

Garlan happened to look across the field. He could see an Isuzu Trooper parked on the road, and his daughter standing beside it. She'd gone home about two in the morning after making a statement. She'd been distant with him. Professional. They'd both been distant since their big fight. But she'd come back. She wore jeans and a white shirt, and her hair was in a braid. She gave no indication that she saw him looking at her, but he knew that somewhere in that hundred-yard distance their eyes were meeting.

He still didn't believe Kenneth Ray Clark was innocent, but he had thought long and hard, and he had to admit one thing. Jackie had done some good work with those crime scene photos. None of his detectives had noticed the air conditioning drip. Relevant or not, they hadn't seen it.

Garlan had also thought about going back over to the Dodson house and finding out if the same AC unit was still there, and if it worked. He'd thought about closing the doors and windows and checking the temperature, and seeing how fast the air would warm up when you opened the windows.

He didn't know if he really wanted to do that or not. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer, even if the answer could be obtained twelve years later. The AC might not work the same, different time of year. What would it prove? And anyway, it was too late. Way too late.

What bothered Garlan was his own hesitation. He put a lot of value on the truth, so he shouldn't be afraid of it. But he was.

His daughter was still looking this way.

Garlan told one of the men he would be right back, and he started walking across the field. He didn't know what he would say when he got there. Or what she would say. But she wasn't getting into her truck and driving off. She was waiting for him.

CHAPTER 31

Saturday, May 19

Anthony chartered a Lear Jet to take him and his grandfather to Grand Cayman. From Grand Cayman they would get on a fishing boat bound for Punta de Cartas on the southwestern shore of Cuba.

The jet was waiting at a small airport in Marathon in the Florida Keys, and Gail played chauffeur. Ernesto sat up front with her, and Anthony shared the backseat with Karen, telling her the things he and his grandfather planned to do on their trip. Ernesto Pedrosa was going incognito, hiding behind a false set of papers and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His cheeks had turned pink with excitement. He rested his hands on the curve of his cane and gazed through the windshield as though Havana lay just beyond the next bridge.

With Ernesto and Karen in the car, Gail had been unable to ask Anthony a question that had been on her mind ever since she had read
The Miami Herald
that morning. It was another story about Whit McGrath. He had been arrested a month ago, but his lawyers had just issued a statement about the shotgun. They claimed he had never owned such a shotgun.

Reaching Marathon, Gail could see the airport from the highway. It was hardly more than a landing strip with a small concrete block building for a terminal and a few private planes parked next to a tin-roofed hangar.

Ernesto found a place to sit in the office, and the pilot let Karen come with him to do his preflight checklist. Gail helped Anthony put the bags and Ernesto's wheelchair next to the open door in the fuselage, leaving them for the pilot to load. Anthony's arm had been cut deeply by the metal tip of the bullwhip. It was almost healed, but a sudden exertion could still make him wince.

Gail said she had something to discuss with him.

They walked back toward the office. She asked if he had read the article in the newspaper this morning. Anthony said that he had.

She stopped in the shade of the roof overhang. Ernesto was visible beyond the glass. Turning to Anthony, she smiled at him. "Sweetie? How did that shotgun get into the Mendozas' car?"

Anthony's brows rose. He was wearing a white T-shirt and a Miami Dolphins baseball cap, and his hair curled from under it. "What do you mean, how?"

"Did you and Hector put it there?"

"Alaba'o.
Of course not. Gail, the shotgun has been underwater for thirteen years. The police say the metal is rusted and the wood is rotten."

"I know what they say."

Anthony gave her one of his shrugs—palms up, shoulders lifted.

Gail said, "Hector noticed McGrath's guns the night we were at his house. They were all engraved with McGrath's name, just like the one found in the sinkhole. You swear that Hector didn't do it?"

"Well. I can't vouch for what Hector does."

"I'm afraid Whit McGrath will accuse
you
of putting it there."

Anthony drew an
X
on his chest. "I promise you, I didn't put it there."

The next question was on Gail's lips—Do
you know who did?
—but she didn't want to force him to lie to her.

"Sweetheart, McGrath is too smart to accuse me. He would have to explain my motivation, and that means explaining why he let Kenny Clark die. And this leads us back to the Mendozas, and his connection to them. Whit McGrath would wind up implicating himself, you see?"

Gail made no reply.

"¿Quépasa, chinita?"
Anthony kissed her forehead.

"McGrath didn't kill them, you know."

"But he is responsible, as he is responsible for Kenny Clark, and for your aunt—"

"We'll never really know for sure about Aunt Lou, whether Rusty did it on his own or because Whit McGrath asked him to. Jackie wanted to be certain, but I doubt she ever will be, unless McGrath comes clean, and that isn't going to happen."

"Life isn't always certain, is it?"

"No, it isn't, but we shouldn't forget what's really going on here. My point about the shotgun, which you don't want to see, is that after everything we've been through with Kenny, to make false accusations about one thing because we can't get him on another—"

"I understand your point," Anthony said. "I just don't agree that it matters." He shrugged, waiting for her to argue with him.

She said, "Fine. Believe me, I'm not crying about Whit McGrath. He deserves everything he gets, but even so—"

"You have such a good heart." Anthony put his arm around her shoulders. "Here is a prediction. Whit McGrath has already hired a team of excellent criminal defense lawyers, who will cost him millions of dollars. These lawyers will allege he was framed by the police or that unknown enemies set him up, whatever. His expert witnesses, who will also collect enormous fees, will say that the engraving was done recently. Other witnesses will swear that they never saw that shotgun in Whit McGrath's possession. The jury will be left with a reasonable doubt, and they will come back with a verdict of not guilty. But in the meantime, McGrath will have spent six months or a year in jail waiting for the trial. His business will be ruined, his wife will divorce him, and when he gets out, he will be a pariah in Martin County."

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

Gail thought about it. "All right. I can live with that."

Anthony was looking past her at the Lear Jet. "The pilot is loading our bags. We have to leave in a few minutes."

The loneliness was already flooding through her, and Gail held him tightly. "I'm going to miss you so much. Please be careful. Take care of Ernesto."

"I will." He held her face in his hands.
"Siempre te llevo en mi alma, querida."
He kissed her, and she wished they were not in public view. Their good-bye last night hadn't been enough. Nothing would be enough until he came back.

"Oh, I almost forgot something." He reached into his pants pocket, then quickly put both hands behind his back and brought them out again, closed. "Pick one."

"Are you serious?" She laughed.

"Go ahead."

Gail tapped his right hand. His brows drew together, and he looked at her sideways. "Are you sure?"

She tapped the other one. "This better be good."

His hand slowly opened. Lying on his palm was a diamond ring. The gold setting gleamed, and the stone sparkled.

"Oh, my God. Is that mine? Hector found it?"

"Just yesterday." Anthony held it up. "Hmm. It has a little scratch here on the band. Did you do that, wearing it? And there's a tiny bit of dirt under the diamond. We should take it to a jeweler and have it cleaned properly. We'll do it when I get back."

"Let me see. I can't believe this." Gail held it between thumb and forefinger, turning it this way and that. Amazing. It looked almost new. But why not? Other metals would tarnish or rust, but not gold. The diamond was perfect, brilliant, flashing with light. But a thought began to creep into Gail's mind that this wasn't her ring. That the tiny specks of dirt between the diamond and the setting had been put there. That this ring might not have been lying at the bottom of a golf course water hazard for nine months. Had Hector made a duplicate? No, it would have cost too much. Anthony had paid for it.

She raised her eyes. He was smiling, waiting for her to say something. Little lines bracketed his mouth. His expression was open and guileless.

Maybe it was her ring. If she asked, would he tell her the truth? Gail didn't know. But it didn't matter.

She smiled at him. "I thought it was lost forever."

"I told you I would find it. Well? Are you going to put it on or not?"

She gave him her hand.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The list is long, my gratitude boundless. A special place at the top goes to my sister, Laura, my sounding board, my bulwark.

Without the inspiration and generosity of others, this book wouldn't have happened. Such as: Milton Hirsch, who sparked the idea; Leslie Curtis, who provided an early philosophical framework; and Michael Mello, author, professor, and scourge of Florida's capital punishment system, who threw his body across the tracks for an innocent man—read his book.

For complicated reasons, I set the story one hundred miles north of Miami, in Martin County. I am grateful to those who told me about the history and development of that area: Judi Snyder, Lisa Graff, Scott McNabb, and Carolyn P. Ziemba. Thank you, George Seaman, for the photos.

Detective Steven A. Graff (Officer of the Year, Stuart P.D.) helped me solve the crime. Thanks also to Deputy Jennifer Heard of the Martin County Sheriffs Office, and to crime scene detectives Salvatore Rastrelli and Jon Wright. Major Karin Montejo and Detective Rupa Fitzpatrick (Miami-Dade Police Department) gave me a glímpse of the life of a female police officer. And as always, thanks to ace homicide investigator David W. Rivers, now retired. Medical examiners Reinhard W. Motte (Miami) and Frederick R Hobin (Martin County) provided clues.

These lawyers taught me about the capital appellate system: Cherry Grant (Public Defender's Office, West Palm Beach); William M. Hennis, Rachel Day, and Todd Scher (Capital Collateral Counsel in South Florida); Jane Siege! Greene (The Innocence Project); and Jim Marcus (Texas Defender System). For stories of life in the trenches, Joseph H. Forbes (Gainesville). A view from the prosecutorial side: Penny Brill and David Waksman (Miami). Practicing law in Martin County: Jay Kirschner and Diamond Litty. Thanks also to Tanya Carroll, clerk at the Florida Supreme Court, and to attorney Jan Franklin, who answered stray civil practice questions.

Thanks to Claudia Laurence, error-catcher and cheerleader, who propped up my spirits. To Joe Fraga and Teresita Guerrero, for the Spanish. And to my editor, Audrey LaFehr, whose suggestions made it a better book.

My knowledge of death row was a gift. Thank you, Judge Marvin Mounts, Warden David Lehr, and Florida State Prison liaison Randall E. Scoggins. Thanks also to Pam Scott, who answered the call to minister to men and women in prison; and Michelle Harvey, founder of Florida Death Row Advocacy Group (
FDRAG.com
), which speaks out on issues affecting inmates, their families, and friends. Through the FDRAG site I met two men with inside knowledge. They asked to be remembered as John Huggins, who lives on Florida's Death Row, and Raymond Wike, a resident of "Hotel UCI" (Union Correctional Institution). Thank you for letting me in. Peace.