The Pardon (8 page)

The line between Jack and Cindy began to emerge as they drove from Gina's in separate cars, parked in their driveway, and headed into the house single file. It became more pronounced as they undressed in silence, and by the time they tucked themselves into their respective corners of the king-size mattress, it was the Berlin Wall born again. Jack knew they had to talk, but after a night of drinking, he was afraid of what he might say. He played it safe. He flipped off the light, mumbled a clipped night, and pretended to be asleep, though it was actually hours before his troubled mind finally let his body rest.

Cindy didn't try to keep him up, but she couldn't fall asleep either. She was thinking of how he'd asked her to move in with him, almost ten months ago. He'd covered her eyes with his hands and led her to his bedroom, and when he took his hands away she saw little yellow ribbons tied to the handles on half the dresser drawers, marking the empty ones. Those are yours, he'd told her. Now, lying in their bed, she closed her eyes and thought of yellow ribbons - ribbons and lace and streamers. As her thoughts melted into sleep, the last waking image was of a room decorated for a party. A lavish party with hundreds of guests. Instinctively, she knew that it was important Jack be there, but when she looked for him, when she called out his name, no one answered.

Jack, she whispered barely three hours later as the heat from the morning sun warmed her forehead. The sound of her own voice speaking in a dream woke her, and she rolled over onto her side. Jack, she said, nudging his shoulder. We need to talk.

Huh? Jack rubbed his eyes and turned to face her. He stole a look at the alarm clock and saw that it was just 7:00 A. M.

Be back in a second, he said as he slid to the side of the bed, stood up, then sat right back down. Whoa, he groaned, feeling the first throb of a hangover so massive that had someone suggested amputation as the only cure, he might have considered it. He sighed, resigning himself to remaining seated. Listen, he said as he glanced over his shoulder at Cindy, I'm sorry about last night, okay?

Cindy sat up, then hesitated, deciding whether to cross the line between them. It was strange, but after ten months of living with him, she suddenly felt uncomfortable about Jack, sitting there in his striped underwear, and about herself, wearing only an oversized T-shirt.

I'm sorry too, she said as she slid tentatively across the bed. She sat on the edge, beside him, though she kept her distance. But it's not enough just to exchange apologies. We need to talk. I've been giving this a lot of thought.

Giving what a lot of thought?

She grimaced. I've been offered a photo shoot for the Italian Trade Consulate. In Italy.

He smiled, relieved it was good news. That's fantastic, absolutely terrific, he said as he reached out and squeezed her hand. That's the kind of thing you've always dreamed about. Why didn't you tell me before?

Because I'd have to leave right away - and it'll take me away for three or four months.

He shrugged it off. We can survive that.

That's just it, she said, averting her eyes. I'm not so sure we can.

What do you mean? he asked, his smile fading.

She sighed. What I mean is, we have problems, Jack. And the problem isn't really us. It's something inside you that for some reason you just won't share.

He looked away. She was right. The problem was inside him.

We've been over this before, he said. I mope - get in these lousy moods. A lot of it's work - the job I do. He thought for a second of telling her he'd quit the Freedom Institute, but decided that being jobless wouldn't help his case. But I'm dealing with it.

There's just something that makes you unable or unwilling to communicate and expose yourself emotionally. I can't just dismiss it. As long as we've been together, you've been completely incapable of reaching out to your own father and solving whatever it is that keeps you two apart. It worries me that you handle relationship problems that way. It worries me so much that I took the Goss trial as an opportunity to get away from you for a few days. To think about us whether we have a future. I honestly wasn't sure how I was going to leave it. Whether I'd say, Let's just go our separate ways' or I still love you, I'll phone and write and see you when I get back from Europe.'

And you were going to make that decision by yourself? he asked, now somewhat annoyed. I was just supposed to go along with whatever you announced?

No, I knew we had to talk, but it just wasn't that easy. It gets a little more complicated.

In what way?

She looked at her toes. I'm not going alone, she said sheepishly. It's me and Chet.

His mouth opened, but the words wouldn't come. Chet, he finally uttered. Chet was Cindy's old boss at Image Maker Studios, her first employer out of college - and the man in her life before Jack had come along. Jack felt sick.

It's not what you think, Cindy said. It's purely professional -

Why are you doing it this way? he asked, ignoring her explanation. Do you think I'm gonna go over the edge if you just tell me the truth and dump me? I won't, don't worry. I'm stronger than that. For the past month, every time I turn on the nightly news or read a newspaper, it's one story after another about confessed killer Eddy Goss and his lawyer, Jack Swyteck - always mentioned in the same sentence, always in the same disgusted tone. I walk down the street, and people I know avoid me. I walk down the other side of the street, and people I've never even seen spit at me. Lately, it's been worse. He thought of his near rundown just two days ago. But you know what? I'm gonna come out of this okay. I'm gonna beat it. If I have to do it without you, that's your choice. But doing it without your pity - that's my choice.

I'm not pitying you. And I'm not leaving you. Can't you just accept what I'm telling you as my honest feelings and be honest with me about your own feelings?

I've never lied to you about my feelings.

But you never tell me anything, either. That bothers me. Sometimes I think it's me. Maybe it's my fault. I don't know. Gina thinks it's just the way you are, because of the way you and your father -

What the hell does Gina know about my father?

She swallowed hard. She knew she'd slipped. He was shaking his head, and his fists were clenched. Did you tell her the things I told you?

Gina's my best friend. We talk. We tell each other the important things in our lives.

Damn it, Cindy! he shouted as he sprung from the bed. You don't tell her anything I tell you about me and my father. How could you be so fucking insensitive!

Cindy's hands trembled as her nails dug into the mattress. Don't talk to me that way, she said firmly, or I'm leaving right this second.

You're leaving anyway, he said. Don't you think I can see that? You're going to Italy with the boss you used to sleep with. You're out with Gina till two in the morning checking out guys and prowling the nightclubs -

That's not what we were -

Oh, bullshit! His emotions had run away so completely that he'd forgotten his own whereabouts the night before. You're not hanging with Mother Teresa, you know. Hell, I've had more meaningful conversations with tollbooth attendants than Gina's had with half the men she's slept with.

I'm not Gina. And besides, Gina's not that way. Just stop it, Jack.

Stop what? he said, raising his voice another level. Stop looking behind what this is really all about? Stop taking the fun out of Cindy and Gina's excellent adventure?

She sat rigidly on the side of the bed, too hurt to speak.

He charged toward the bedroom door. You want to go? he asked sharply, flinging the door open. Go.

She looked up, tears welling in her eyes.

Go on, he ordered. Get outta here!

She still didn't move.

He moved his head from side to side, looking frantically about the room for some way to release months or maybe even years of pent-up anger that Cindy hadn't caused but was now the unfortunate recipient of. He darted toward the bureau and snatched the snapshots of them she'd tucked into the wood frame around the mirror - their memories.

Jack!

There, he said as he ripped one to pieces.

Don't do that!

You're leaving, he said as he took the picture of them taken in Freeport from his stack.

She jumped up and dashed for the walk-in closet. He jumped in front of her.

I need to get some clothes!

Nope, he sad, holding another photo before her eyes. You're leaving right now. Go back to Gina - your confidante.

Stop it!

He ripped the entire stack in half.

Jack! She grabbed her car keys and headed for the door, wearing only her T-shirt. She stopped in the doorway and said tearfully, I didn't want it to turn out this way.

He scoffed. Now you sound like the scum I defend.

Her face reddened, ready to burst with tears or erupt with anger. You are the scum you defend! she screamed, then raced out of the house.

Chapter
11

At eight-thirty that Saturday evening, Harry Swyteck parked his rented Buick beneath one of the countless fifty-foot palm trees that line Biscayne Boulevard, Miami's main north-south artery. The governor was alone, as he'd promised his blackmailer. It was a few minutes past sunset, and the streetlights had just blinked on. Harry sighed at the impending darkness. As if he didn't already have enough to worry about, now he had to carry around ten thousand dollars in cash in Miami after dark. He checked the locks on his briefcase and stepped quickly from the car, then scurried across six lanes of traffic to the east side of the boulevard, following the sidewalk into the park.

Bayfront Park was Miami's green space between bustling city streets and the sailboats on Biscayne Bay. Granite, glass, and marble towers lit up the Miami skyline to the south and west of the park. Across the bay toward South Miami Beach the lights of Caribbean-bound cruise ships glittered like a string of floating pearls. Cool summer breezes blew off the bay from the east, carrying with them the soothing sound of rolling waves breaking against the shoreline. At the north end of the park was Bayside Marketplace, an indoor-outdoor collection of shops, restaurants, and bars, and the starting place for the horse-and-buggy rides through the park that were favored by tourists.

Tonight it was Governor Swyteck's turn to take a carriage ride. He hoped to blend in as a tourist, which was the reason for his white sailing pants, plaid madras shirt and Marlins baseball cap. But the leather briefcase made him feel conspicuous. He bought a stuffed animal from one of the cart vendors, just to get hold of the paper shopping bag, and stuck the briefcase in the bag. Now his outfit was complete: He didn't look at all like a governor, and that was the whole idea - though he did have a plan in case anyone recognized him. Another stop on my grass-roots campaign trail, he'd say, and they'd probably buy it. Four years ago he'd manned a McDonald's drive-through, taught phonics to first-graders, and worked other one-day jobs - all just to look like a regular Joe.

Carriage ride? one of the drivers called out as he reached the staging area.

Uh - I'm thinking about it, Harry replied.

Forty bucks for the half hour, the driver said, but the governor wasn't listening. He was trying to figure out which of the half dozen carriages belonged to Calvin, the man he'd been told to hire for the nine o'clock ride. By process of elimination he zoomed in on a sparkling white carriage with red velvet seats, pulled by an Appaloosa with donkey-like ears poking through an old straw hat. The governor felt nervous as he approached the wiry old black driver, but he told himself once again that he had to see this mission through. Sensing he was being watched, he looked one way, then the other, but could see nothing out of the ordinary.

Are you Calvin? he asked, looking up at the driver.

Yessuh, he replied. Calvin was in his eighties, a relic of old Miami, when the city was My-amma and truly part of the South. He had frosty white hair and the callous hands of a man who had worked hard all his life. He seemed exaggeratedly deferential, making Harry feel momentarily guilty for his race and the way this old codger must have been treated as a young man.

I'd like to take a little ride, said the governor as he handed up two twenty-dollar bills.

Yessuh, said Calvin as he checked his watch. Fair warnin' for you, though: You're my nine o'clock ride. I always stop at the concession stand on my nine o'clock ride. Get myself an iced tea.

That's fine, said the governor as he climbed aboard. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Calvin made a clicking sound with his mouth and gave the reins a little tug. His horse pulled away from the rail and started toward the waterfront, as if on automatic pilot, while the governor looked on with amusement as the animal navigated the route. How long you been doing this, Calvin?

Lot longer than you been guvnuh, suh.

So much for anonymity.

The journey began at the towering bronze statue of Christopher Columbus and headed south along the shoreline. Palm trees and musicians playing saxophones and guitars lined the wide pedestrian walkway of white coral rock, the south Florida version of a quaint cobblestone street. Calvin played tour guide as they rolled down the walkway. He was a veritable history book on wheels when it came to the park and its past, talking about how they had filled in the bay to build it in 1924 and how the sea had tried to reclaim it in the hurricane of 1926. He spoke from memory and of practice, but he was clearly putting a little emotion into it for his distinguished guest. The governor listened politely, but he was fading in and out, to remain focused on the purpose of his trip. His anxiety heightened as the carriage curled around the spewing fountain and headed west, away from the brightly lit walkway along the water to the interior of the park, where palm trees and live oaks cast shadows beneath street lamps that were becoming fewer and farther between. As they reached the amphitheater, the carriage slowed up, just as Calvin had warned and the blackmailer had said it would.