Suspicion of Vengeance (5 page)

Denise led Gail into a cluttered office at the end of the hall. Windows looked out on the rough gray exterior of the federal courthouse.

"Norma found out, but she was afraid. She threw the kids in the car and came back to Florida. She was a heavy drinker, and it got worse. When Kenny was fourteen, she ran a hose from her exhaust through the car window and killed herself. It won't surprise you to learn that Kenny had some emotional problems as a teenager. A psychologist testified about that, but the jury didn't buy it. They recommended death ten-to-two, and the judge concurred. He said that the victim had been strangled and stabbed to death in the course of a burglary, which made the crime particularly heinous, atrocious, and cruel. He also made reference to Kenny's prior record."

Denise moved some papers off a chair and dragged it closer so Gail could look over her shoulder. She kept talking as she tapped on her keyboard, going on-line. Her hair was a soft black cloud resting on the white linen curve of her back. Framed photographs filled a shelf over her desk: a young couple with a baby, a child riding a tricycle, a young woman in a cap and gown. A letter on lined paper was tacked to a corkboard.
Dear miss Robison! I thoagt you want to know they have tranfer me off the row, I am now at Sumter Corectinal..

"He didn't have a long list of violent offenses, like armed robbery or sexual battery, as a lot of them do. It was mostly minor drug offenses or drunk and disorderly. Unfortunately, he was out on bond for an attempted burglary in the same area as the murder three months prior, but it hadn't gone to trial yet. Then there was the aggravated assault, which the prosecutor really drummed on."

The Web connection was made, and the home page for the Florida Department of Corrections assembled itself.

"Kenny pulled a knife on another man outside a bar. He was twenty, they'd both been drinking, and who knows who started it, but his lawyer advised him to plead guilty to avoid jail time. At his murder trial, the prosecutor told the jury that Kenny had a violent criminal history, and that unless they recommended death, he was likely to be a danger to other inmates."

Denise clicked on the link
Death Row. A
long list of names appeared on the screen. She scrolled through it, lines flashing past. She slowed. "Here he is." She clicked on his name. "I think the photo is fairly recent. He's thirty-four now. He was twenty-two when he was arrested."

The screen went blank for a moment, then the face of a man appeared, text underneath. Gail didn't read the words. Her attention was on Kenneth Ray Clark, who stared sullenly back at her. He was all bones and angles, with hollow cheeks and temples, and prominent ridges around his eyes. The colors were vivid: brown hair, hazel eyes, purplish blotches underneath them on pale skin, a V-necked orange shirt.

Gail drew back from the screen. She didn't know him. This face wasn't familiar. There was nothing here but low intellect and caged violence. But what was a man supposed to look like, who had been beaten and raped as a child? A man who had spent most of his adult life waiting to be executed. She felt ignorant and out of place.

Denise looked at her, then with a series of clicks, exited the site. For a while she sat with her hands in her lap, her gaze going out the window. "The first time I saw a death row inmate, it wasn't on the Internet, it was in a maximum security prison. I was so scared my voice croaked, and I couldn't hold my pen to take notes. You think I've always done this? Uh-uh. I'm a middle-class girl from Baltimore. My parents taught high school. I worked in oil and gas law in DC for ten years. Two kids, a nice house in Arlington. My husband died of a heart attack, forty years old. One day my son told me about a boy he'd met whose father had been sentenced to death in Virginia, and he was going to be electrocuted. He asked me if I'd help him. What was I going to say? No? One thing led to another, and I worked my rear end off, and got a stay of execution. He was resentenced to life. Maybe he'll be paroled, maybe not, but at least he's alive. I never went back to my old job. I applied for a job here. That was seven years ago. It's hard. When we lose a client, I cry. I do. I cry and then I get busy trying to save the next one. Sometimes we succeed."

Her eyes softened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to beat up on you before."

Gail smiled. "I'm tougher than I look."

"Yes, you are." Denise swiveled her chair around. "Listen. Kenny needs some help. I'm working eighteen hours a day right now, and so is everyone else. We have to file that motion as soon as possible. It could buy him some time."

"Wait. You don't want
me
to do it?"

"I have to tell you, we don't pay. All right? But it's just this one thing. If you don't want to continue on, we can try to find someone else to take over."

"Denise, I can't."

"Eight years with a major law firm? Don't tell me you can't."

"I do commercial litigation. My God. I'm not qualified to take on a death row appeal."

"It's not that hard. All you have to do is go talk to Tina Hopwood, look into the case a little bit, write the pleadings, and file the motion. If the judge grants a hearing, you argue it." Denise Robinson's eyes did not move from Gail's face. "I
know
you can argue."

Gail was shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I don't have time. My own cases are so backlogged—"

"We've got forms, checklists, and tons of research materials. We can answer any question you have. That motion
must
be filed soon."

"I came here to discuss the case and report to Ruby Smith. That's all." Gail heard the plaintive tones in her own voice.

"I know. I know you did." Denise put her hand over Gail's and patted it. "You really want to do something for her? Or just talk about it?"

"This is crazy."

"No. I'll tell you what it is, Gail. We get civil practice lawyers from big law firms come in here, very big firms, that have a policy of so many hours of pro bono work. They come in, and they don't know who the client is. He's a name on a file. He's one inmate out of nearly four hundred. But they start working the case, and they start thinking about how this man got where he was, and the next man with similar facts and a better trial lawyer got life or an acquittal. "They meet the client and find out he's been locked up ten years, and in that time he's learned how to read and write, and he has come to some understanding of the world. The lawyer wonders, what are we going to gain, killing this man? A lawyer who takes a capital appeal gets inside the system, really inside. And sometimes, not very often, he finds a man who shouldn't be there at all. Talk about joy. You don't know joy till you see that man walk into the light. But no matter how it ends, win or lose, whether the client gets a new trial or he's put to death, I've never had one of these lawyers—not one—come back and tell me, Denise, this was a waste of my time. Maybe they do only that one case, but they all say thank you. Now I see how it is. I understand. I didn't before, but I do now."

Denise Robinson leaned nearer, and Gail felt the pull of her bright eyes. "You want me to tell you that Kenny is innocent, and that you're going to win. I can't promise that, but you
will
have something worth fighting for. Justice. A man's life. A man's
life.
As a lawyer, ask yourself, what can I ever do in my career that will matter as much as this?"

CHAPTER 4

Friday afternoon, March 9

From his position at the edge of the fairway, Anthony could see the half-acre pond at the bottom of the slope. Banyans formed a dark, leafy backdrop, and the reddening sun guttered through their branches. Shadows extended across the grass. Beyond the trees soared the coral pink tower of the Biltmore Hotel.

A diver in full-body wet suit and mask slid under the water. Lily pads shifted. Another diver emerged carrying a mesh bag lumpy with golf balls. He spit out his regulator and upturned the bag over a wire basket. The balls rattled into it. The divers were using underwater lights, but they would stop working at sunset.

Anthony assumed they were former Cuban operatives for the CIA. The man who had hired them sat on a folding wooden chair and watched their progress. This was Hector Mesa, a small, gray-haired
mulato
in a suit and tie. His duties for Anthony's grandfather were undefined but of long standing. Ernesto had lent him to Anthony for this job. Hector didn't know how long it would take, but Anthony had said it didn't matter. Hector's radio was tuned to one of the Miami AM stations that played old boleros and mambos on scratchy 78s recorded in the fifties. His foot, in its polished leather shoe, kept the beat.

A voice came from the other direction.
"¡Oye! Anthony! ¿Cómo va eso?"

Anthony turned to see a wheelchair speeding across the grass. In it sat his grandfather, wearing his Panama hat and pointing a cane in his direction. Ernesto's male nurse pushed the chair, and Gail and her daughter ran to keep up. They had come through the wooden gate in the rock wall that surrounded the Pedrosa house. Its red tile roof and stucco chimneys rose above the trees in the yard

Gail waved, and Anthony waved back. She looked like a teenager, such a bright smile, and her dark blond hair swinging around her face. Capri pants and white sneakers made her legs long and slender, and a loose blue sweater hid her breasts.

A golf cart went by and a man leaned out the side shouting at them to get off the fairway. Ernesto shook his cane at him. Out of breath, the nurse stopped the wheelchair a few feet into the rough. He helped Ernesto stand up. Ernesto hated the chair.

"Míra las bellezas que te traje"

He could speak perfect English, but often his mind refused to remember this. Anthony nodded. "Yes, two beautiful ladies." He kissed Gail's cheek, then Karen's.

"What are they
doing!"
Karen asked, her eyes on the divers.

"Looking for golf balls. Go see how many they've found. You can have some if you want." The girl ran toward the pond.

Anthony saw Gail steady the old man with a hand on his arm, pretending that she needed his support on this uneven ground. "How in the world did you get permission?"

"The general manager was very understanding."

"I'll bet."

Ernesto laughed. "What does it cost to fish for golf balls?
Estás loco."

Gail whispered, "I agree with you,
Señor
Pedrosa. He's nuts."

"Anthony,
adentro.
Everyone is here.
Vamos a comer."

"Oh, Ernesto, could you tell them to go ahead and start without us? I have to see this."

She had something on her mind. Anthony said,
"Ahorita, abuelo.
We'll be there in a few minutes." Gail called for Karen to go with Ernesto. The nurse helped the old man back into his chair, turned it around, and checked for golfers before hurrying across to the gate in the wall. Ernesto held his hat on. Karen ran beside him, her pockets full of golf balls.

Gail turned around. "Did you tell everyone what you're doing out here?"

"No, only Hector. Those other guys won't talk."

"But Hector tells Ernesto everything, and Ernesto tells your grandmother, and she always confides in
Tia
Fermina, who would probably tell Uncle Humberto and Betty and Xiomara— Stop laughing. We have to go in there and have dinner with everybody. This is so embarrassing."

"What is? That I love you this much?"

She looked back at the house, hiding her smile.

Anthony Whispered, "I'm going to find your ring."

"Good luck."

"Oh, yes, and then we'll see how much your promises are worth."

"I didn't
promise.”

"You did."

"Not in those words." She reached for his hand. "I need to talk to you before we go inside."

"We'll walk to the other fairway and back."

They went around the pond and into the trees. The banyans blocked the fading light with their heavy foliage and multiple trunks. Gail lifted a pile of leaves with one foot and sent them spinning. "Ernesto is in good spirits," she said. "He's almost giddy. What is it, his new heart medication?"

"No, I came over early, and we talked about the trip."

The trip to Cuba. Only a few people knew about it. Ernesto Pedrosa Masvidal had spent the past forty years condemning the regime, supporting secret raids, and bending American foreign policy. All that was over. The old tiger was worn out. Now he wanted to sit along the Malecón once more and watch the waves. To flirt with the women, to smoke a
robusto,
to drive into the countryside and for the last time fill his eyes and his heart with Cuba.

"Have you decided when you'll go?"

"Probably the middle of April," he said.

"That's so soon."

"The weather will be good."

She put her arm around his waist. When they passed behind one of the immense trees, out of sight of the men at the pond, Anthony turned her around and kissed her. Her mouth was warm and tender, opening for him. He thought of the small room upstairs. He could make some excuse to the others. No one would look for them.

Pulling away, she said, "Anthony, I have to drive up to Stuart early in the morning and come back on Sunday. Mother's going to watch Karen. I was thinking . . . maybe you'd like to go with me. If you have time."

"I would like that very much—unless you plan to get separate hotel rooms."

She smiled. "No. Just one."

"Good. Let me pay for it, because I want something nice. On the beach. All right? You're going to Stuart to talk to Ruby Smith?"

"Yes, and to Tina Hopwood as well, and to as many other witnesses as I can find. I'm going to reinvestigate the case, and I'd really like your advice on how to do it."

"What?"

"Kenny Clark is probably innocent. The trial was a joke. I've read the transcript. I've read everything. I didn't get to bed until three o'clock this morning. Denise Robinson asked me to file a second motion for postconviction relief. I told her I would." Gail stopped, her eyes on him, waiting for a reaction.

Anthony said, "What do you mean? You're helping them out?"