Until the Final Verdict (5 page)

F
OR
K
ATHRYN
M
ACKAY,
sleeping on a plane was nearly impossible. Dave Granz stayed awake from San Francisco to London, but slept during most of the flight out of Heathrow. She sat in an aisle seat, and he was in the center, his head resting on her shoulder. When the pilot announced the descent into Barcelona, she nudged him reluctantly, enjoying the closeness.

“Dave?”

“Huh?” He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.

“You asked me to wake you just before we land.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “I've gotta call Torremolinos. We'll catch a shuttle flight from Barcelona to Málaga, the provincial capital, if they've got Simmons in custody.”

“If not?”

“We fly back to London.”

She slipped out of her seat. “I think I'll go freshen up.”

He nodded, yawned again, pulled the GTE inflight phone from its cradle in the seatback in front of him, then checked his notebook and keyed in a number.

A few seconds after Kathryn returned to her seat, the wheels of the Airbus-320 touched down on the tarmac, the giant plane bounced once, then settled onto its landing gear. When the howl of the air brakes subsided, she glanced at Dave, who was gripping the armrests so hard that his knuckles had turned white.

“I hate takeoffs and landings,” he told her.

“I know you do,” she said, then prompted, “Well?”

He reached under his seat and pulled out his carry-on bag. “Better get ready, we have a flight to catch in twenty minutes.”

“To?”

“Málaga.”

“S
HERIFF
G
RANZ
?”
The man in the Málaga airport terminal was dressed in a black military-style uniform with field jacket and a stark white shirt, but no visible weapon.

Granz shook the proffered hand. “I'm Granz.”

“Captain Ésteban Huerta of the National Police—N.P. we are called. Do you have baggage?”

“Just these two carry-ons.”

“Are either of you carrying a firearm?”

“No.”

“Very well, then, if you will follow me, we shall be on our way.”

Huerta led them to a single gray door marked:

Aduana de Diplomático &

Funcionarios Gobiernos

Por favor presenta su formularios de aduana

He punched a button, a buzzer sounded, then the door swung open into a small room furnished only with a single wooden table and two matching straight-backed chairs. No one else was present.

“This is the Customs station used to process diplomatic and government officials,” Huerta explained. “National security and Customs are the responsibility of the Guardia Civil, but the N.P. are empowered to exempt foreign law enforcement officers. I cleared you through customs, so you will only need to present your Customs forms for validation at Torremolinos. It is no more than a formality.”

Outside, Huerta leaned in the window of a police car and spoke rapidly in Spanish to the driver, a young man in a blue uniform with
T
ORREMOLINOS
P
OLICÍA
on each shoulder patch. His name tag said he was Officer Alonso Segundo, and, unlike his N.P. counterpart, Segundo carried a big automatic pistol in a basket-weave holster.

“¡Hola!” Segundo opened the trunk, placed their bags carefully inside, and returned to the driver's seat.

Granz climbed in behind the driver while Huerta held the rear passenger door open for Mackay, then sat in front beside the driver. Once the car merged onto the highway, Huerta turned sideways and leaned over the seat so he could see Granz and Mackay.

“Simmons is being held at the Torremolinos Municipal Police station,” he told Granz. “It will take about fifteen minutes to get there.”

“You're sure it's Simmons?” Granz asked.

“I faxed his fingerprints to Madrid. Interpol confirmed his identity.”

“Has he made a statement?” Mackay asked.

“In Spain, suspects aren't entitled to a lawyer before interrogation, but I assumed you wish to comply with your ‘Miranda Rule.' He is being held incommunicado, pending your arrival. I trust that is satisfactory?”

Mackay nodded. “Definitely, thank you.”

T
HE
P
ALACIO DE
C
ONGRESOS
rolled past the right side of the car as Captain Huerta gave instructions to Segundo in rapidfire Spanish. Mackay picked up “estación de policía” and “ayuntamiento.”

“Did you catch what he said?” Mackay asked Granz.

Huerta turned around and smiled. “Lo siento, Señora—Corporal Segundo doesn't speak English. I told him to take us to the main police station at the town hall, where Simmons is being held.”

“You have more than one?” she asked.

“Sí, a substation near Meliá Costa del Sol Hotel, mostly to assist tourists. Incidentally, I reserved you rooms for tonight. The Meliá is convenient to the beach and shopping, if you have time to indulge yourselves.”

Segundo stopped in front of El Ayuntamiento, a whitewashed stucco building from whose flat roof the Spanish and Andalusian flags flapped furiously in an onshore breeze. Huerta escorted Granz and Mackay inside the marble-floored foyer, where an archway opened to the police station. A receptionist buzzed them past a security door into a tile-floored corridor.

Huerta stopped at the first door on the left and held it open. It looked like every detective's room in every police station in the world: institutional gray walls, several metal tables, and half a dozen beat-up chairs. One table held a steaming coffeepot and half a dozen cups, one filled with cigarette butts.

He pointed at the wall. “Simmons is waiting for you in the interrogation room on the other side of that one-way mirror.”

Simmons sat in a metal chair, an empty coffee cup on the table in front of him, wearing a dark blue jail jumpsuit. His head snapped up at the sound of the door opening. He frowned when he realized Granz was with her.

“I figured you'd come personally, Kathryn. Did you have to bring
him?”

Granz and Mackay sat in chairs across the table. “Give us any attitude, we'll let Captain Huerta transport you to their prison in Málaga,” Granz told him. “It's not a nice place, and you won't buy your way out this time.”

“I'm afraid you're right, I tried as soon as they arrested me. Cops in Spain are paid better than in Costa Rica, and more ethical.”

“Then you have a problem,” Mackay told him. “Do you want to talk?”

“I'm entitled to an attorney before you interrogate me.”

Granz shook his head. “You can't tell us anything we don't already know. We came to take you back to stand trial, not to interrogate you.”

“Then why talk to me at all?”

Granz leaned forward, elbows and forearms on the table, and stared at Simmons. “It'll take months to process an extradition order through the courts in Madrid. Until that happens, the N.P. will hold you at the provincial prison in Málaga, where a rich, smartass gringo's life isn't worth a hundred pesetas. By the time the extradition order goes through, we'll be hauling your body back to Santa Rita in a plastic bag.”

Simmons looked at Mackay. “So, what's the point of this discussion?”

Mackay took a sheet of paper out of her briefcase and slid it across the table.

Simmons read it and looked up.

She explained. “Under the U.S.-Spain Extradition Treaty, you sign this extradition waiver, the local court certifies it, we fax it to the Spanish Ministerio de Justicia and the U.S. Embassy in Madrid. We'll be on our way home in twenty-four hours.”

“Home! That's a laugh.” Simmons thought for several seconds and ran his fingers through his hair. “You'll have the N.P. hold me here rather than Málaga?”

Granz nodded. “We don't want to stay any longer than necessary.”

“May I use your pen?” Simmons asked.

Mackay handed him her black Mont Blanc roller ball, a birthday gift from Granz several years before. Granz grabbed it and handed it back to her, then gave Simmons a beat-up PaperMate.

Simmons picked the pen up, studied it, started to sign, then replaced it gently on the table. “There's one thing,” he said.

Granz grabbed the PaperMate. “Give him a break and what does he give us back? Bullshit. Let's book a flight to Madrid and let N.P. send him to Málaga.”

“No!” Simmons' voice rose. “Hear me out.”

“Make it fast,” Granz told him.

Simmons looked at Mackay. “When you tried to extradite me from Costa Rica, you insisted on seeking the death penalty.”

Mackay's eyes narrowed. “You commit a capital crime, you face the maximum penalty.”

“Why should I waive extradition if I'm looking at the death penalty? I'll take my chances at Málaga, maybe I'll find a money-hungry guard. At least I won't rot on death row waiting for the State to kill me. I can die here without knowing when it'll happen.”

Mackay lifted her shoulders.
“Your
funeral.”

Simmons ignored the pun. “Here's my offer—I'll waive extradition right now if you agree in writing to not seek the death penalty.”

Mackay grabbed the paper. “Forget it.”

Granz stood and tapped her on the shoulder. “Can we talk outside?”

In the hall, he said, “You'll never get a death sentence in Santa Rita, Babe.”

“I'll force a change of venue.”

“Prosecutor can't file for a change of venue.”

“I said I'd
force
one, not
file
one. I'll make pretrial publicity so ugly he can't get a fair trial in Santa Rita.”

Granz stared at her. “In all the years we've known each other, I've never heard you threaten to do anything unethical.”

“What's unethical is letting a monster like Simmons off with less than he deserves. And he deserves to die.”

“You can't be judge, jury, and executioner.”

“Yes I can.”

“Take his deal, Kate.”

“All right, but I'll never forget you saved that bastard from dying.”