Chapter 2
Jack Swyteck was at his desk preparing for his milestone one hundredth jury trial. He was literally sweating but not because
he was nervous.
Jack had tried his first case just weeks out of law school, a “baptism by fire” that led to a four-year stint at the Freedom
Institute, where lawyers defended only capital cases. He’d since opened his own practice, a mix of criminal and civil, but
even if the case was “just about money,” Jack still treated it like a matter of life and death. Preparation was key.
Jack checked the thermostat on the wall. The digital display was flashing on and off in spastic bursts, making the setting
and temperature indecipherable, and his office felt like Uganda at high noon.
“Why is it so god-awful hot in here?” asked Jack.
His assistant, Bonnie, popped into his office and left a stack of mail in his inbox. She was waving a laminated file folder
like a handheld fan to keep cool.
“January is the new July. Haven’t you heard?”
It was Miami’s new climate mantra, and it was no compliment to January. Jack had grown up in South Florida. He’d always thought
of January as perfect for anything outdoors, the one time of year to live without air-conditioning, the month of Miami’s only
recorded snowfall, ever. July meant unbearable humidity, tetradactyl-sized mosquitos—and unmitigated panic when the AC was
on the fritz.
“I hope we don’t have any clients coming in today,” said Jack.
“Just one. Your referral from Patricia Dubrow.”
Dubrow had been on the losing end of Jack’s ninety-ninth jury trial. It wasn’t every day that opposing counsel referred a client, and they’d spoken about the matter by telephone, but Jack had completely forgotten. “When?”
“In about two minutes. He’s in the waiting room. I could tell him we have to reschedule, but he does seem eager to see you.”
Jack considered his options, then it came to him. “We’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”
“In the kitchen?”
“With the windows open,” he said.
Jack Swyteck PA was in a historic neighborhood, near the criminal courthouse, where many old houses—some beautiful, others
falling apart—had been converted to art galleries, coffeehouses, and other commercial uses. Jack’s office was built in the
Florida land boom of the 1920s, designed in the old-Florida style, complete with coral-rock facade, barrel tile roof, and
a covered porch that made folks want to pull up a rocking chair—at least before January became “the new July.” Every owner
before Jack had managed to survive without central air-conditioning, and when the AC failed, the kitchen offered the best
cross breeze on the first floor.
Jack went to the kitchen and opened the windows. Bonnie brought his new client to him.
“Jack, this is Elliott Stafford.”
They shook hands, and Jack noticed that the young man’s palms were wet with sweat. Maybe he was nervous, but it was probably
the fact that he’d worn a suit and tie to a law office that was hot enough to cook a coal-fired pizza. Jack apologized for
the AC and told him it was okay to lose the jacket.
“I feel more comfortable with it on,” said Elliott.
“You sure?” said Jack. “You don’t have to dress up for me.”
“I didn’t. This is what I wear to work every day.”
The starched white shirt and double Windsor knot seemed overly formal for daily office wear, but Jack found it strangely refreshing
to meet a Gen Yer who bucked the “work from home in your pajamas” mindset.
“Good for you,” he said, and they each took a seat at the kitchen table. “Where do you work, Elliott?”
“I’m in the finance department at VanPoll Enterprises in Wynwood. That’s the company that Mr. Pollard runs. Used to run. Before,
you know—”
“The suicide. Yes, I saw the local news coverage. Tragic.”
“At least I thought it was suicide. Then I got served with a grand jury subpoena.”
“Patricia Dubrow told me about that. May I see it?”
Jack expected him to have a photograph of the papers on his smartphone, but Elliott pulled the physical subpoena—folded and
in a business-sized envelope—from his suit-coat pocket.
“How old are you, Elliott?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re surprisingly ‘old-school’ for your age?”
He smiled but didn’t answer. Jack reviewed the subpoena, and there were no surprises. It commanded the witness to appear at
the county courthouse at the time stated, but there were precious few details about the proceeding.
“I’ve read that subpoena a hundred times,” said Elliott. “I still don’t see anything that says the grand jury is investigating
Mr. Pollard’s death.”
“Grand jury proceedings are secret, so a subpoena won’t reveal the purpose of the investigation. But I agree with Ms. Dubrow:
The question here is whether Mr. Pollard’s death was suicide or something else.”
“Does the prosecutor think I was involved in a murder?”
“It’s rare for the target of an investigation to be subpoenaed as a witness. It raises complicated issues about the accused’s
Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination.”
“So, no one is accusing me of doing something wrong?”
“I would put it a little differently. The state attorney doesn’t think you’re responsible for Mr. Pollard’s death. But he apparently believes you could have information relevant to a possible crime associated with his death.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Good to know. But I’d like to explore that further. Let’s start with this question: Do you have any reason to believe that
Mr. Pollard’s death was something other than a suicide?”
Elliott hesitated, and Jack took notice.
“Elliott?”
“To be honest, the call to 911 raised some questions in my mind.”
Jack was slightly confused. “Do you mean the 911 call on the night of Mr. Pollard’s death?”
“Yes. I listened to it yesterday.”
Jack was even more confused. “The only way to get a 911 recording is through a public records request. How did you get it?”
“Ms. Dubrow made the request before she decided she had a conflict of interest and couldn’t represent me. The audio file came
to both of us in an email yesterday. I downloaded it to my phone. You want to hear it?”
“Yes, I do,” said Jack. “But let me make sure I understand. This is a call to 911 from—who? The person who found the body?
Mr. Pollard’s wife?”
“No,” said Elliott. “That’s why I told you the 911 call raised questions in my mind. The call is from Mr. Pollard.”
Jack took a moment to process that twist. “Mr. Pollard called 911 before committing suicide? Why would anyone do that?”
Elliott had no answer, except to say, “I presume the state attorney is asking the same question.”
“Let’s hear the call,” said Jack.
Elliott hit play and increased the volume. Jack heard a hissing noise followed by a beep. Finally, there was a woman’s voice:
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
The response was not immediate, and when it came, the caller sounded like he was speaking through pain.
“There’s—uh, there’s been a shooting.”
Elliott paused the recording. “That’s Mr. Pollard,” he said, and the recording resumed with another question from the operator.
“Is anyone hurt?”
“Yeah,” the caller said, struggling. “I’m . . . I’ve been shot.”
“Someone shot you, sir?”
There was no response.
“What’s your name, sir?”
Still no response.
“Sir, can you tell me your name, please?”
There was only silence.
“Are you there, sir? Can you answer me, please?”
Elliott hit stop. “Mr. Pollard never responded,” he said in a hollow voice.
Jack replayed the call in his mind’s eye, trying to imagine the scene playing out. “It’s possible that he shot himself, but
it wasn’t immediately fatal. Maybe the pain was unbearable or maybe he even changed his mind. That’s when he called 911.”
“Is that what you think the grand jury is investigating?”
“No,” said Jack. “A medical examiner could determine if the wound was self-inflicted. A grand jury is involved because the
prosecutor’s theory is that someone shot Mr. Pollard and then tried to make it look like suicide.”
“Does he believe that this ‘someone’ is me?”
Jack didn’t answer that question right away. He studied his new client’s expression, trying to gauge whether he was upset
about Mr. Pollard’s death or simply concerned about being blamed for it.
“Were you fond of Mr. Pollard, Elliott?”
“His wife was sweet. I feel bad for her.”
The statement left much for a lawyer to unpack. “Do you know why anyone would want to shoot Mr. Pollard?”
“He could be a dick sometimes.”
“You’ve just articulated a motive to kill off half the population of Miami.”
Elliott chuckled and then turned serious. “He did run a controversial company.”
“Controversial in what way?”
“The nature of the business. VanPoll is a firearms disposal company.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“It has government contracts with cities and police departments all over the country. When the police confiscate weapons from
criminals, or when a community or a church holds a buyback program to reduce the number of handguns on the street, those guns
have to go somewhere. VanPoll collects them for a fee, brings them to Miami, and destroys them in a way that complies with
government regulations.”
“Was Mr. Pollard a gun-control advocate?”
“No. The opposite. He was in law enforcement for over twenty years. A huge defender of the Second Amendment. He even had a
blog on gun rights.”
“How does someone like that own a gun destruction company?”
“My opinion? He didn’t think gun buybacks made a dime’s worth of difference in the world. But if some lucky guy was going
to get rich pulverizing Saturday night specials, it might as well be him. I suspect that’s how Mr. Vandermeer lured him into
the business.”
“Who’s Vandermeer?”
“He’s the ‘Van’ in ‘VanPoll Enterprises.’ He and Mr. Pollard were co-owners. Honestly, if you told me someone was going to
shoot the owner of VanPoll Enterprises, I would expect Mr. Vandermeer to end up dead, not Mr. Pollard.”
“Why do you say that?”
Elliott raised an eyebrow. “You really don’t know who C. J. Vandermeer is?”
“No. Should I?”
“His full name is Cornelius J. Vandermeer. He goes by CJ because Cornelius makes him sound like he’s still part of the stuffy and obscenely rich family that disowned him.”
“Disowned him with or without money?”
“Tons of money. He was a trust-fund brat. On his thirty-fifth birthday, he inherited over two hundred million dollars from
his grandmother.”
“Why did the family disown him?”
“For the same reason most people hate him. He’s a stinking-rich white guy who has never really had to work a day in his life,
but he sees himself as a professional revolutionary who stands in solidarity with the oppressed people of the world against
the horrors of capitalism.”
“As my father would probably say, ‘Oh, you mean he’s a Progressive,’” Jack said with a sideways smile.
Elliott didn’t see the humor. Jack missed the good ol’ days, when both ends of the political spectrum could still laugh at
themselves.
“CJ isn’t ‘political’ in the conventional sense,” said Elliott. “He’s basically an anarchist. If you support Ukraine, he’ll
tell you Putin is a great man. If you’re Jewish, he’ll tell you that the Holocaust wasn’t about antisemitism and that reports
of sexual violence by Hamas on October seventh are Zionist propaganda. He says obnoxious things just to stir up trouble, and
he says them with a fiery passion. Anyone who disagrees with him is the enemy. Unfortunately, he has so much money, his voice
is heard.”
“What does he want, exactly?”
“There’s no secret agenda. He talks about his mission all over social media. He wants the dissolution of the United States
government and an end to the American empire. He wants a revolution.”
“But he owns a gun destruction company. How can a true revolutionary have a revolution without guns?”
“He’s not against guns. He just wants them in the right hands.”
Jack wondered aloud: “How did Owen Pollard end up in business with a guy like that?”
“Well, in Mr. Pollard’s defense, CJ wasn’t like this when they started the business. He was living off the trust fund, so he was better about keeping his views to himself. Only when he inherited money outright from his grandmother did he suddenly become a revolutionary.”
“And by then Pollard was stuck with him.”
He hesitated. “I suppose that’s one way it could have happened.”
“I’m sensing there’s more to the story.”
“I just wouldn’t be so quick to paint Pollard as an innocent victim.”
“Why do you say that?”
“This was before my time. I can only guess.”
“What’s your guess?”
He paused. “You’re my lawyer, right?”
“Everything you tell me is privileged, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Elliott seemed satisfied. “The way I see it, there are two questions: How did Mr. Pollard end up in business with C. J. Vandermeer,
and who would want Mr. Pollard dead? To me, the answers spring from the same well.”
“Which ‘well’ is that?”
“VanPoll. That company is not what it appears to be.”
“Then what is it?”
“Probably the only person left who can answer that question is CJ.”
Jack glanced out the window, then back at Elliott. “Then I’ll ask him.”
“You can’t just call him up and make an appointment. He would never meet with a guy like you. Wasn’t your father the governor
of Florida?”
Harry Swyteck had served two terms. Once upon a time, it had made for a contentious father-son relationship, Harry, the law-and-order
governor who signed more death warrants than any governor in Florida history, and Jack, a young lawyer at the Freedom Institute
who defended death row inmates.
“Yes, so?”
“To CJ, the Swyteck name is part of the system that needs to be destroyed. If you’re going to meet him, we need to be clever
about it.”
“Any ideas?”
“How soon would you like to talk to him?”
“Your appearance before the grand jury is a week away, so the first chance I get.”
“How about tomorrow? I can make it happen.”
Jack wondered if he was promising more than he could deliver, trying to impress his lawyer, but he liked this kid’s attitude.
“That would be soon enough,” he said.