Blood Money

CHAPTER 1

"Mr. Swyteck, I'm calling from Judge Matthews' chambers."

Jack gripped his smart phone a little tighter. Thejudge's assistant was on the line. Jack was on verdict watch at hisCoconut Grove law office, eating lunch with his best friend, Theo Knight.

"Is there a verdict?"

"Yes, sir. There is a verdict."

The words hit him like a 5-iron. This is it.

Criminal Case No. 2010-48-CF, State of Florida v. SydneyLouise Bennett, had spanned twenty-nine court days, plus twoweeks of jury selection. Fifty-nine witnesses over eighteen daysfor the prosecution. Another forty-seven witnesses for thedefense. The jury had been drawn from a pool in the Vero Beach area,a hundred miles away from the Miami Justice Building, afterthree years of intense pretrial publicity. The twelve selected toserve had been sequestered since day one, the week beforeMemorial Day. Deliberations had started on the Fourth of July,despite the holiday. The jury had been out for ten hours. Six hourslonger than the jury in the O. J. Simpson trial - the trial of theother century.

"The verdict will be announced at two fifteen p.m.," theassistant said.

Jack thanked her and hung up. He wanted to speak to hisclient, but she was in the detention center across the street - luckyThirteenth Street, as it was known - from the courtroom whereJack had last seen her, where Judge Matthews had released thejury at nine a.m. to begin day two of deliberations. Jackwondered if Sydney had been biting her nails again. It was a nervoushabit she'd started before the trial, sometime after her twenty-fourthbirthday, the third she'd spent behind bars without bail.

Her chestnut hair was two feet longer than when they'd first met,her prison pallor a few shades whiter.

"Showtime?" asked Theo.

Jack didn't have to say anything; the news was all over his face.He speed dialed his co-counsel, but she'd already seen the "breakingdevelopment" on Twitter. Jack had assiduously avoided thesocial media during trial, but like everyone else under the age ofthirty, Hannah Goldsmith was addicted to all electronic forms ofinformation overload. Fortunately, she was as facile on her feetin a courtroom as she was with her thumbs on a keypad. Theyagreed to meet at the courthouse.

The moment Jack's call ended, Theo asked the proverbial $64,000question - one that only the jurors could answer.

"Is ten hours a good sign or a bad sign?"

Jack paused. Conventional wisdom among prosecutors andmany defense lawyers is that quick verdicts mean a conviction.But most homicide cases in which the state seeks the death penaltyaren't based entirely on circumstantial evidence. And therewas that well- known outlier - the Simpson case. Sydney was nocelebrity, but comparisons in the media between the two highprofile murder trials were relentless. "Juani Cochran" they called herlawyer, the Latino version of Johnnie Cochran, even thoughJack was only half Hispanic and had been raised a complete gringo,his Cuban American mother having died in childbirth.

It was intended as an insult, triggered by a broken English interview,his abuela had given on talk radio in defense of a grandson who,even in her view, was on the wrong side of the case.

"I think it's a good sign," Jack said.

Theo glanced up from his iPhone, where the news was streamingin real time. "Talking heads are all saying guilty."

As if that mattered. More than six hundred press passes hadbeen issued for media coverage, and every major broadcast networkhad at least one reporter at the trial. HLN and MSNBC hadbuilt two story air-conditioned structures across from the courthousefor reporters and crews. People had daily in court coverage,splashing the case on its magazine cover in the midst of trial.Legal analysis on Breaking News Network extended from earlymorning through prime time. BNN's regular nightly segmentscompeted with network specials like "Inside the Trial of SydneyBennett" on Dateline NBC and "Only Sydney Knows" on 48Hours Mystery at CBS. Courtroom 3 had become another Miamitourist destination, like South Beach and the Seaquarium, withspectators coming from as far away as Japan to vie for the fiftyseats available to the public. Verbal altercations were common,at least one having escalated to an all out fistfight that requiredpolice intervention. Critics said it was the defense who courtedthe media. They neglected to mention that, unlike the prosecution,Jack had avoided all interviews and had issued not a singlepress release. Never in his fifteen years as a lawyer had he donetelevision ads, billboards, or anything of the sort. Sydney Bennettwas definitely not someone he had gone out looking to represent.

The case had found him.

Jack glanced at the flat screen television on the wall. Theanchor at BNN studios in New York - the ringmaster of "SydneyWatch Central" - was on the air. The excitement in her eyesmade the banner at the bottom of the screen superfluous: juryhas reached a verdict.

Jack left his uneaten lunch on his desk, grabbed his briefcase,and hurried out to the car. Picketers had been marching outsidehis law office since the start of jury deliberations, but they weretoo busy scrambling to their vehicles, posters tucked under theirarms, to pester Jack any longer. They'd already gotten word ofthe BNN news flash and knew the wait was over. Theo drove, sogravel flew when they pulled out of the parking lot. The picketersfollowed.

"You never asked me if Sydney did it," Jack said.

Theo's gaze remained fixed on the road. Theo Knight wasJack's best friend, bartender, therapist, confidant, and sometimeinvestigator. He was also a former client, a one time gang banger whoeasily could have ended up dead on the streets of Overtown or Liberty City.Today he was Jack's self-appointed bodyguard, having insisted on drivingJack back to his office after closing arguments - after Jack's secondanonymous death threat, one that seemed a bit too credible.

"None of my business, dude," said Theo.

That struck Jack as funny.

"Why you laugh?" asked Theo.

Sydney's guilt or innocence had become the entire country's business.

Everyone professed to "know" she was the worst kind of killer.

"No reason," said Jack.

They rode in silence, the afternoon sun glaring on the windshield.Jack thought of Emma. Almost three years old at the timeof her death. Two years, nine months, and twenty four days, ifyou believed the defense and placed the date of death on April 28.If you sided with the prosecution, there was no way to know howlong Emma had lived. She was two years and ... something. Thestate had never proved a time of death. Or a cause of death. Eventhe alleged manner of death – homicide - was a matter of opinion.So many things, unproven. There was no disputing, however,that the badly decomposed remains of Sydney's daughterhad been found in a plastic garbage bag near the Florida Everglades.Emma would be almost six years old now, a beautiful littlegirl fresh out of kindergarten, full of personality, ready to crackthe books, meet Junie B. Jones, and conquer the first grade. Jackwondered what she might be doing on this hot summer day withher mother or grandmother if things had not gone so wrong, ifthis nightmare had never happened. But it had happened. Nothingcould change that. Across the nation, people who had nevermet Emma or Sydney, many who had never felt compelled tofollow a courtroom trial in their life, were demanding justice.

"Justice for Emma."

Throngs of spectators waited outside the Richard E. GersteinJustice Building. Choppers from local television news stationscircled overhead. Traffic around the courthouse was shut down.News of the impending two p.m. announcement had spread acrossthe country. Jack's gaze drifted up to the top floor of an unremarkablebuilding that betrayed the glamorized shots of Miamion television and resembled the architecture of the former SovietUnion. Behind those walls, the jury would render its verdict,insulated from the onlookers who jostled with the media for a placeto stand on the sidewalk and steps outside the courthouse. Thegrowing buzz of activity was surreal, like armies of angry fire antsmaking quick work of fallen mangoes, which were everywherethis time of year. Theo pulled up as close to the courthouse as thepolice perimeter would allow. Jack got out at the curb.

"Good luck," said Theo.

"Thanks," said Jack.

July in Miami is a veritable sauna, especially west of the interstate,away from the breezes off Biscayne Bay. In a sea of sweatybodies clad in short pants and sleeveless shirts, a criminal defenselawyer dressed in pinstripes was an easy mark. No single voicein the crowd was discernible, so what Jack heard was more like acollective "There he is!"

Some spectators suddenly rushed toward the courthouse, otherstoward Jack. Cameramen flanked him on the sidewalk. Televisionreporters got right in his face, elbowing out their competition, firingoff questions that presumed the outcome and that all ran together.

"How worried is your client?"

"Was it a mistake for Sydney not to testify?"

"Who will defend her on appeal?"

Jack answered none of them. Most onlookers were women,many of them red with sunburn, anger, or both. A line of policeofficers kept the crowd at bay as Jack climbed the courthousesteps. The jeers were nothing he hadn't heard before, but theyseemed louder and angrier than usual.

"Baby killer!"

"Today's the day, Jack ass!" That and "Jack off" had become thepreferred terms of endearment, at least when they weren't callinghim Juani Cochran.

Jack pushed through the crowd, funneled through the revolvingdoor, and headed to the security checkpoint, where armedguards with metal- detecting wands shuffled visitors along. Thestandard security check took only a minute, but with a mob onthe courthouse steps, some with faces pressed to the windows,the process seemed much longer. Jack gathered his belongings,crossed the rotunda, and squeezed into an open elevator. Theunwritten rule of crowded elevator etiquette – silence - was brokenby one especially persistent reporter, but Jack didn't respond. Noone got off until the elevator reached the sixth floor, an effectiveexpress ride, as if nothing else happening in the courthouse mattered.

As Jack started toward the courtroom doors, the sound of anotherelevator chime stopped him.

The metal doors parted. It was the team of prosecutors.Melinda Crawford and her entourage looked decidedly confidentas they approached, just as they had since the first day of trial.Admittedly, Crawford's three hour closing argument had beennothing short of brilliant. Jack held the courtroom door for her.She opened the other door for herself, leaving Jack holding his forno one. The team followed her inside.

"You're welcome," said Jack.

The prosecutors went to the right, toward the long rectangulartable nearer the empty jury box. Jack started toward thedefense table, where his co-counsel was already seated.

For Jack, just seeing Hannah Goldsmith triggered memories ofhis first trial - with Hannah's father. Neil Goderich had foundedthe Freedom Institute to handle the overload of "death cases"generated at the hand of Jack's father, Harry Swyteck, the law-and-ordergovernor who had signed more death warrants than any governor in Floridahistory. Four years of defending the guiltywould prove to be enough for Jack. His resignation didn't endthe friendship, however, so Jack naturally said yes when Neil hadcome down sick and asked Jack to cover "just one lousy hearing"in a new case. "Not since Thea Knight have I believed so stronglyin a client's innocence," he'd told Jack. Two years later - a monthbefore trial - Neil was dead. By then, State v. Bennett had becomea pop culture juggernaut. Postponing trial to find new defensecounsel wasn't an option the judge would consider. Jack hadn't somuch as thought about Sydney Bennett since that favor for Neil,but that single hearing two years earlier made him the only living"attorney of record." Jack wasn't the first lawyer to get stuck ina criminal trial after making a pretrial appearance - that's whycriminal defense lawyers insist on being paid upfront - but it wasthe first time it had happened to him. Jack could defend Sydneyor go to jail. "No good deed goes unpunished," Judge Matthewshad told him, the perfect TV sound bite to punctuate the court'sdenial of Jack's motion to withdraw. Hannah called Jack thatevening and agreed to second-chair the trial.

Somewhere, high above the fracas, Neil undoubtedly foundpeace in knowing that his last case had turned Jack and Hannahinto national pariahs.

"Is Sydney on her way up?" Jack asked.

As if on cue, the side door near their table opened. A pair ofdeputies escorted the guest of dishonor into the courtroom.Criminal defendants were not required to be shackled orclothed in prison garb in front of a jury. Sydney was wearing aconservative pink ruffled blouse and beige slacks, her long chestnuthair up in a bun. Of course the lawyers had chosen the outfitfor her, as they had for each day of trial. The media had excoriatedthe defense for that, too, as if Jack were expected to tell his clientto show up for court like Michael Jackson, dressed in pajamas andsunglasses.

Sydney appeared tentative at first, a normal reaction to theobvious tension in the courtroom. Her step quickened as sheapproached her lawyers. Hannah embraced her, but Jack didn't."No public display of affection" was a holdover from his days at theFreedom Institute, days of defending the worst that death row hadto offer. Jack's adherence to that rule, however, had done nothingto stem the Freudian babble of pop psychiatrists, so calledexpert commentators who spent hour after televised hour dissectingSydney's "seductive glances," "naughty pouts," and "Bambi-likeblinks" at her handsome attorney. The dichotomy of herprior life - loving single mother by day, slutty cocktail waitressby night - was part of the public fascination.

"I can't stand this waiting," Sydney whispered.

"Not much longer," said Jack.