Chapter 4
The designated meeting place was outdoors, at Bayfront Park, the largest green space in downtown Miami. Jack’s instructions
were to follow the main walkway due east, toward Biscayne Bay, and meet Elliott at the giant statue of Christopher Columbus
near the seawall. C. J. Vandermeer wouldn’t be expecting Jack, but Elliott guaranteed that he would be there at noon, and
the plan was to stage a “chance” encounter that would turn into an introduction.
It was almost noon, and Jack was still several blocks away from the park, stuck in traffic. He was in the passenger seat.
Behind the wheel was Theo Knight, Jack’s best friend, bartender, therapist, confidant, and sometime investigator. Theo was
also a former client. Jack’s thinking was that if CJ refused to talk to Jack, the son of the former governor, he might talk
to Theo, whose death warrant was signed by Governor Swyteck and was the one innocent man on death row Jack had ever defended.
“Looks like Biscayne Boulevard is closed,” said Theo. “Some kind of protest.”
Biscayne was Miami’s signature north-south boulevard, four lanes in each direction that were divided by an elevated tram and
rows of royal palm trees. Office towers lined the west side of the street, and to the east beautiful Bayfront Park stretched
to the waterfront. Hundreds of people were marching down all eight lanes in the same direction.
Jack suddenly remembered what was going on in Miami that weekend—and why Elliott had been able to “guarantee” that a self-proclaimed
revolutionary like C. J. Vandermeer would be there.
“G-twenty,” said Jack.
“Bingo!” said Theo.
“You know about the Group of Twenty?”
“No. But I know bingo.”
Jack explained. The Group of Twenty included nineteen member states, the EU and the African Union, representing 85 percent
of the world’s GDP and over 75 percent of global trade. The annual G20 summit was the premier forum for international cooperation
on global economic issues. It was also a rallying point for public protest. Demonstrators from all over the world had flooded
the streets of downtown Miami to decry everything from sweatshop labor to international banking.
A text message appeared on Jack’s phone. It was from Elliott: Too crowded at chris columbus. Meet at park entrance on 1st.
Jack texted back a quick response—ok—and told Theo to pull into the parking lot just ahead, which Theo interpreted as an order to get there by any means necessary.
He jumped the curb, drove along the sidewalk, and steered into the lot, which charged a mere fifteen dollars for the first
fifteen minutes. Jack bit the bullet and paid for two hours. He and Theo walked quickly, weaving their way through the long
line of stopped cars, ignoring the horn blasts and angry shouts from frustrated drivers. At the intersection, they merged
into a sea of young people, most of them wearing bandanas over their noses and mouths, many wearing protective goggles or
helmets. A few wore gas masks. Two men had climbed atop lampposts to wave red flags, one with the image of Che Guevera and
the other with Vladimir Lenin. Banners and posters dotted the crowd, the messages ranging from give peace a chance to people before profits. Jack pushed across the boulevard to the park entrance. A man approached him quickly, which startled Jack. He was dressed
in full lacrosse gear, including shoulder pads, a chest protector, and a helmet.
“Hi, Mr. Swyteck,” he said.
Jack did a double take. “Elliott?”
He removed his helmet and metal cage mask so Jack could see his face. “Yeah, sorry for the getup. CJ told us to wear protective
gear. I played lacrosse at Columbia. This is the best protection I have.”
“Do we need protection?” asked Jack.
“No,” said Theo. “I did my college at Florida State Prison. We ate lacrosse players for breakfast.”
Theo was six foot six and built like an NFL linebacker. Elliott took a step back.
“Ignore him,” said Jack. “How do we find CJ in this mob?”
“Follow me,” said Elliott.
Jack and Theo went with him, but Elliott didn’t lead them into the park. He was pushing forward along the edge of Biscayne
Boulevard, taking them toward the arena where the Miami Heat played its NBA home games, stopping only when they’d reached
what felt like the front line of the protest. The vibe was very much a ragtag army division gearing up for combat. Except
for Jack and Theo, everyone was wearing goggles, masks, or some other facial protection. Some had fashioned makeshift shields
from plastic lunch trays. Helicopters circled overhead.
“Be ready!” someone shouted.
Never had Jack seen such a showing of police muscle. Outside the arena, rows of fully armored police moved in formation, meeting
the crowd of demonstrators with a line of riot shields and control batons. As police advanced, some on horseback, the chanting
shifted from anti-capitalism—Eat the rich!—to a line borrowed from the 1960s:
The whole world is watching!
The throbbing crowd was squeezed between the barricades behind them and the oncoming wave of police.
“There’s nowhere to go!” people shouted. “Nowhere for us to go!”
As a police SUV rolled alongside the marchers, blaring its siren, a man danced in front of it, shooting his middle finger
at the driver. Dressed in a black hoodie with a hammer-and-sickle insignia on it, he was a ball of energy, raising his fist,
egging on the crowd with a cheer:
“No justice! No peace! No racist-ass police!”
Theo looked at Jack. “Who’s the middle-aged white dude who thinks he’s still a Berkeley undergrad?”
“That’s him,” Elliott said. “That’s CJ!”
Suddenly volleys of tear gas canisters launched from somewhere behind police lines and landed in the crowd, unleashing panic.
People were soon stepping over the fallen, coughing and wheezing as they ran. The crack of gunfire erupted, and protestors
on the front line writhed in pain from rubber bullets, beanbag projectiles, and chemical-filled pellets. Angry youths cursed
as they picked up the smoking canisters of tear gas and hurled them back at the oncoming police.
“Run!” someone shouted.
“Stay together! Don’t fall back!”
“Medic!”
Elliott grabbed Jack by the arm. “Follow CJ!”
They were quickly on CJ’s heels, along with a dozen other demonstrators, in full retreat and headed deep into the park. The
statue of Christopher Columbus came into view. The word genocide was spray-painted over his name on the stone pedestal. Exhausted protestors lay on the ground around the statue. Some gasped
for air or rinsed their eyes with water.
Elliott led Jack toward CJ, who was removing his protective gear and helmet. His long hair was in a topknot, and a single
gold-loop earring adorned his right lobe, pirate-style. Jack noticed that a chunk of his left lobe was missing—ripped away,
it appeared, in what Jack surmised was a lesson learned long ago: never wear a dangling earring to a street fight. CJ was
quickly surrounded by his followers, mostly young, all looking at him with a sense of awe.
“I got blasted right in the face!” he said, bouncing with energy. “Man, that was good!”
A woman with one eye closed from pepper spray approached him. “Did you see me use the arm-drag tactic on that cop?” she said,
beaming. “Out and away, just like you showed me.”
“Good soldier,” said CJ. “There’s no better way to de-arrest yourself.”
Jack watched as others slapped high fives with their leader. CJ then took a seat on the rock wall, lit a cigarette, and relaxed
with his back to the bay. Elliott brought Jack and Theo forward and introduced Jack as his attorney.
“I’m defending Elliott before a grand jury next week,” said Jack.
CJ took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled. “Why does that concern me?”
“We believe it has to do with the death of your business partner, Owen Pollard.”
“Like I said: Why is that my concern?”
Theo stepped in. “Because the cops are fucking with us,” said Theo.
CJ took a deep drag. “Who are you?”
“Someone who spent four years on death row for a murder I didn’t do.”
CJ seemed to take an immediate liking to him. “That’s what this fight’s all about. Revolution is the only path to justice.
I feel for you, brother.”
Jack was certain that Theo wasn’t feeling anything for this “brother,” but he took Theo’s cue and played along.
“Theo’s right,” said Jack. “Owen Pollard’s death was obviously a suicide. Even the medical examiner’s office said it was suicide.
But a grand jury has been convened to investigate. The harassment starts with Elliott, one of your employees. But it’s clear
where this is going. They’ll work it all the way up to the top.”
“Fascists,” he said. “Anything to cause trouble for me.”
“Has anyone been in touch with you from the state attorney’s office?” asked Jack.
“No. But I have my sources.”
“What does that mean?”
CJ glanced at Theo, as if to reinforce the “brother” thing.
“Jack’s cool,” said Theo.
CJ crushed out his cigarette on the wall. “My sources told me the same thing you just said about the first autopsy: suicide.”
“The first?” asked Jack. “Was there a second autopsy?”
“I’m told the state attorney brought in a gunshot wound specialist from somewhere. Texas, I think.”
“Have you seen the second autopsy report?”
“No. It’s not a public record. The state attorney commissioned it on some kind of special consulting basis. Now that you’re
telling me there’s a grand jury investigation, I guess that explains things.”
Jack seemed to be sharing as much information as he was getting, which wasn’t ideal. He asked the next question without mentioning
Pollard’s call to 911.
“Did your ‘sources’ mention anything to you about a second gunshot wound?”
“Owen stuck the business end of a double-barreled shotgun into his mouth and blew out the back of his head,” said CJ. “How
would there be a second gunshot?”
Jack kept the 911 call to himself. “Yeah, silly question.”
CJ hopped down the rock wall. “Thanks for the heads-up on the grand jury. And big fella,” he said, looking at Theo. “Any time
you want to march with us, you’re welcome.”
“I’ll see if I can find my old lacrosse uniform,” said Theo.
CJ laughed, then walked toward the grassy area behind the graffiti-covered statue, where one of the marchers was down, still
reeling from pepper spray. CJ summoned Elliott.
“Hey, lacrosse boy. We need some water over here.”
“We can talk later,” Jack told his client.
Elliott said goodbye and went to his boss. Jack and Theo started toward the park exit.
“What do you think?” asked Theo.
“Two things,” said Jack. “I’m absolutely certain that CJ and his ‘sources’ know more than he’s telling us. And I’d bet my
bottom dollar there’s more to VanPoll Enterprises than a firearms destruction company.”
“What do we do about that?” asked Theo.
“Grand juries are technically independent, but they’re run by prosecutors.
At this point, all I can tell you is what I won’t do: I won’t send my client into the grand jury room to be blindsided by a prosecutor whose agenda may include everything from proving Owen Pollard was murdered to bringing down C. J. Vandermeer and VanPoll Enterprises.”
“What’s our next move?”
“I’m thinking a talk with Mrs. Pollard is in order,” said Jack.
“You want me along for that ride?”
“No muscle needed,” said Jack. “I got this one.”