Suspicion of Vengeance (6 page)

"Yes."

"You're going to work on a
death case
?”
He had to laugh.
"Ay, Dios mío.
A capital appeal. You don't know anything about it." Gail's mouth compressed to a line. He put his arm around her. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry, but come on. It's not worth it."

"I'm not doing it pro bono," she said. "I called Ruby, and she's willing to pay fees and expenses."

"Oh, my God. No. You would take this old woman's money? For what? Let his attorneys handle it. They're taking advantage of you, using you like a law clerk."

The light was not so dim he couldn't see the flush of anger on Gail's cheeks. "I already told Ruby I would file an appeal. For God's sake, Anthony, give me some credit. Denise has already given me checklists and forms and copies of relevant case law, and I
thought
—excuse me for presuming—that I could get some input from you."

"No. I told you, I'm not getting involved, and I don't want you to either. You complain you have no time for Karen or for me, but you have time for
this
?”

"That's so selfish."

"I mean it, Gail. Tell Ruby you changed your mind."

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you
can't?"

Her chin lifted. "I've signed a notice of appearance."

"Alaba'o.
You what?
¿Qué has hecho?
Do you know what this means? You would need a court order to get rid of this case!"

"Denise said that she could find someone else to take over, but for now, the motion has to be filed—"

"Ay, mi madre,
she would say anything, they are so desperate over there." He was on the verge of incredulous laughter. It appalled him that Gail could be so gullible, so naive. Why would that woman with CCR have given a death case to a lawyer who was in no way qualified— The answer came to him.

"Did you tell Ms. Robinson that you know me? Did you mention my name?"

"Yes, so what?"

"Aha. This is why she wants you. Call her. Call her right now. Tell her she has to take the case back."

"I will not. I know damned well how to research the law, analyze a case, and write a brief. I've been doing it for
nine years!
You have no respect for my intelligence, my abilities—"

"Gail—"

"—or my commitment to something a little larger than my own immediate interests. What do
you
do? You hardly practice law anymore. When was the last time you took a case that really excited you? You're so busy chasing business deals—"

"¡Espérate!
It's a crime to make money now? I have a law firm and two teenagers to support. You didn't complain about money when I took you and Karen skiing in Aspen last month."

Her eyes sparked with anger, and she squared her shoulders. "Oh, that is so low."

"I didn't mean that." He pressed his fingers to his forehead, then dropped his arms by his sides. "Gail, listen to me. A death row appeal can take all your energy, every hour in the day, everything you have. You can't possibly bill Ruby Smith enough to pay for the time you will lose. If you do this, you will regret it."

"I'm a lawyer. I want to practice the kind of law that
matters"

He listed in his mind all the things that should matter to her, but this was not the time. He came closer, speaking softly. "Do you think this is because of losing the baby? You became so depressed—"

"Dammit, Anthony, would you stop treating me as if I were on the verge of a mental collapse?" She swept his hands aside.

He took a breath and let it out. "I give up. What can I say that won't set you off?"

She looked toward the pond, which caught the last shimmers of sunlight. One of the divers waded out of the water with a dripping bag full of golf balls. Faintly came the notes of an old bolero from Hector Mesa's radio.

With a small laugh Gail said, "Incredible."

"What is?"

"All the trouble you go to for me." Her eyes shifted back to him, wide and blue, full of repentance. "I adore you, Anthony."

His head throbbed.
"¿Me quieres? Tú me vuelves loco."

"Do you still want to come with me to Stuart? You don't have to help on the case. I won't even talk about it."

"Yes, you will." He held out his hand. "And yes, I want to come with you."

They left after dinner. Martin County wasn't so far away, and not waiting till morning would give them two nights together, not one.

Anthony had driven the traffic-choked interstate many times to the Palm Beach County courthouse, or had arrowed directly to Disney World with his children. Traveling north, he had noticed the subtle changes in the flat green landscape. More pine trees, fewer palms, fewer of the ubiquitous tile-root peach-colored subdivisions. But he had no clear picture of those small towns strung out along the Florida coast. He was more familiar with New York, Havana, or even Madrid.

The cruise control was set on seventy-five, and the Seville glided along in the flow of traffic. Anthony tapped the end of his small cigar at the crack in the window, and the ashes swirled into the darkness.

Gail's head was bowed over the files in her lap. A banker's box took up the middle of the front seat, and the five volumes of the trial transcript were stacked on the floor. That woman with CCR had let her borrow them. Anthony was still waiting to hear how Kenny Ray Clark had been wrongfully arrested and convicted for the murder of Amber Dodson. Gail had told him she wanted to put it all in order first. A rainbow of Post-it notes tabbed the transcript. She had done a chronology of the investigation, and a cross-indexed list of evidence and witnesses. It was exhausting to think about. She had barely spoken for the past hour.

He said, "What do they have to eat in Stuart? Is the food any good?"

"They have seafood. Steaks. The usual." The map light shone on a newspaper clipping. POLICE CLOSE TO ARREST IN DODSON MURDER.

"Do they have Cuban coffee?"

"There must be a Starbuck's."

"They don't serve Cuban coffee at Starbuck's," he said.

"They have espresso," she said.

"It's not the same."

"Oh, please." She looked up. "I wonder if I should call Jackie."

"Does she know anything useful about the investigation?"

"If she does, it's secondhand from Garlan. I really should call, as long as we're in town." Gail got on her knees to find her purse in the backseat. She sat back down with her cell phone and address book. She pressed the numbers, then shook her hair back to put the phone at her ear. Voice mail must have picked up. She said, "Hi, Jackie, it's Gail. Sorry to miss you. Guess where I am? On my way to Stuart. Anthony and I decided to come up for the weekend. We're staying at the Hilton. Give me a call, maybe we can get together for lunch or something. I'd love to introduce you to Anthony. Say hi to Diddy and Garlan." She left her number and hung up.

"I feel so guilty," Gail said, putting her phone away. "Lunch or something. As if she's an afterthought. But really, we don't have much time to spare, do we?"

"What's your cousin like?"

"When you meet her, you might think she's distant, but it's just that she takes everything so seriously, her job most of all. I think even if Garlan weren't a cop, Jackie would be. She's fearless. Garlan gave her a hunting rifle when she was fourteen and taught her how to shoot. And she's Jackie, not Jacqueline."

"What a woman." Anthony sent some smoke toward the window. "What was the other name you said? Not her father, the other one."

"Diddy. He's Garlan's dad."

"Diddy?
Cono."

"I can't remember his real name. He's this little dried up man in blue jeans and a plaid shirt, playing the harmonica. There used to be cowboys in Martin County, did you know that?"

"Are there any Cubans?"

"I don't think so."

"Ah. So this is where all the Anglos went when we took over Miami."

"No,
querido,
it's where all the Yankees go to retire and play golf." Gail noticed an exit sign and pointed. "That's where we get off. Martin Highway."

Anthony guided the car around the ramp, paid the turnpike toll, and turned east. Gail told him to keep going. The road would zigzag through Stuart before reaching Hutchinson Island, the long strip of land running along the intracoastal.

Gail had the weekend mapped out as carefully as the route. At eight in the morning she would meet the alibi witness,Tina Hopwood, for breakfast. Then she would go to the retirement home where Ruby Smith lived and get a deposit on fees and costs. At four o'clock she would drop by to speak with the eyewitness who had put Kenny Ray Clark at the crime scene. In the time left over, she would try to find the jailhouse snitch who said that Kenny Clark had confessed to him. The snitch's name was Vernon Byrd. Twelve years ago, he had been brought from prison to testify for the state. Where was he now?

Gail would locate Byrd and as many other witnesses as possible and get affidavits from those willing to give them. She had brought her laptop computer and portable printer. Her notary seal was in her purse. She was a mobile law office.

Anthony didn't know if she wanted him to accompany her on these interviews. She hadn't said. He thought he might catch up on his sleep or take a long walk. He hoped the beach wasn't overrun with tourists. He liked to gaze at an empty ocean. He had thought seriously of buying a small island in the Keys. He had wondered what it would be like to retire at his age, forty-three. He didn't think that Gail would agree to such a life. She was rarely still for a moment. She burned with energy.

"What was your house like, the one on Sewall's Point?" he asked. Most of his own childhood—until Ernesto Pedrosa had kidnapped him out of Cuba—had been spent in his father's shabby, poured-concrete house in Camagüey province. "Was it like the houses in Palm Beach?"

"God, no, it was just an ordinary house." She bent over to pick up some papers from the floor. "Three bedrooms. A screened porch with rattan furniture. A wooden dock with a boathouse. We were on the intra-coastal, not on the beach, so we didn't get waves."

"You had a boat?"

"My
parents
had a boat. Daddy loved to fish."

Anthony smiled at the word.
Daddy.

"He named it the
Irene Marie,
after my mother. Her big thing was decorating. She went wild on Sewall's Point. One summer she and Aunt Lou made these enormous wooden flowers and stuck them all over the yard. They'd been drinking. It's funny now, but at the time, I nearly died of embarrassment when my friends saw it."

The soft curves of her face formed a pale silhouette against the window. "Aunt Louise. She was so beautiful and funny. My favorite aunt. My God, she was just two years older than I am now when she died. Mom still misses her. I'm terrible for not keeping in touch with Jackie."

Anthony reached across the file box and pulled Gail toward him.
"Que mala eres."
He took his eyes off the road long enough to give her a kiss that ignited into desire. He wanted a bed, a room by the ocean. He wanted her. He wanted to throw these papers into the trunk and lock it.
"Te quiero tanto, mujer."

She murmured against his lips,
"Te quiero más."
And then she was shoving him away, still smiling. "Later. I have plans for you." She picked up her pen and went back to her notes.

Anthony had met Gail Connor two years ago, and in that time he had constructed an outline of her life. Names, places, dates. He had heard about the class trip to London, ballet lessons, a debutante ball, private schools. She was the great-granddaughter of original settlers, as much of an aristocracy as could exist in Miami. Gail's mother had inherited their wealth, and her father had squandered most of it. Even so, the imprint of privilege remained.

Not knowing why, Anthony found all this intensely engaging. Perhaps because it was
her
life, and he wanted to possess even her memories. Or perhaps because it was so different from his own confused, even violent, heritage. His mother, a Pedrosa, carried the blood of Spanish royalty. His father, the descendant of slaves, had fought with Fidel in the revolution. Anthony's family had been shattered and torn apart. At times he could put his hand on his chest and feel his soul in pieces. But never when Gail was with him.

"Sweetheart, where am I supposed to turn?"

She consulted her map. "Just follow the road till I tell you. Look at this. We're going right through Palm City."

Hardly a city. Anthony glanced about to see only the usual ragtag assortment of suburban gas stations and strip malls, similar to those in any other small town.

"It's where Amber Dodson was murdered," Gail said, studying the map. "Here's White Heron Way. The eyewitness still lives there. I've never talked to an eyewitness in a criminal case. You can give me some ideas, okay? Tomorrow, after we talk to her, let's take pictures of the Dodson house. All right?"

"We?"

She looked at him. "Silly me. I forgot you don't want to get involved. I'll borrow your car and go by myself."

"No, I'll come with you."

"You don't have to," she said. "It's my case."

"Bueno,
I'll go for a swim." What a difficult woman she was.

She told him to take the bridge across the river and bear right. Going through town, their progress was slowed by the car ahead of them. A New Jersey license plate, a gray-haired driver. Anthony accelerated around it, then shot past two other sluggish sedans. The road took them past a small airport, then curved north. Most of the traffic had cleared out.

"When are you going to see your client?" Anthony asked.

"I don't know. I haven't had time to think about it."

"You have to talk to him. Get his side of the story. Get to know him. Have you ever been to Florida State Prison?"

"You know I haven't."

"Don't worry about being overheard. They will put you in a little room with him, very private. You'll probably be safe. They leave them in leg irons. Be sure to wear something plain. He hasn't seen a woman in a long time."

She looked around. "Will you come with me?"