Chapter 7
It was a typical Monday morning at the courthouse for Jack. A couple of hearings on pretrial motions, a cup of bad coffee
from the vending machine, and a trip down the internal stairwell because the elevator was broken. He was cutting across the
lobby, almost to the revolving-door exit, when another lawyer caught his attention.
“Swyteck, got a minute?”
He stopped. It was Patricia Dubrow, the attorney who’d been on the losing side of Jack’s ninety-ninth jury trial and then
referred Elliott to him as a client.
“Sure,” said Jack. “And thanks again for the referral.”
“No problem. Are you good with that cup of lukewarm swill, or can I buy you a real coffee?”
“I remember real coffee,” said Jack as he pitched the paper cup into the trash.
They exited through the revolving door and continued down the courthouse steps. The coffee shop was directly across the street,
an easy jaywalk away. They ordered at the walk-up counter, two café con leches and one Cuban pastry (guava with cream cheese)
to share—which Jack ordered in Spanish, not because the barista didn’t speak English, but because it was a scientific fact
that a little extra effort made everything taste better, even if your Spanish was so bad it made your abuela cringe. There were no seats available inside, so they stood outside at one of the high-top tables.
Jack cut the pastry into equal halves and gave one to Patricia, who kicked off the conversation.
“So, I heard you took a tour of my client’s company.”
Jack was taken aback. “You represent C. J. Vandermeer?”
“And his company. That’s why I referred Elliott to you. In case there is a potential conflict between the employee and the
employer.”
“I’m sorry. You didn’t tell me the nature of the conflict. I would have called you before visiting the plant, had I known.”
“I understand. But just so there are no more crossed wires, you should also know that I represent Helena Pollard. Which means
that you shouldn’t be calling her.”
“I wasn’t calling to ask her to hire me. Just doing normal leg work to get Elliott ready to testify.”
“Of course. But from now on, do your leg work through me.”
“No problem,” said Jack. “But I’m a little confused. You referred Elliott to me because you said it was a conflict of interest
for you to take him on.”
“A potential conflict,” she said. “It was conceivable to me that Elliott might say something contrary to the interests of my other clients—the
company or C. J. Vandermeer.”
“You don’t see the same potential conflict by taking on Helena as a client?”
“Nope.”
Jack waited to hear more. She drank from her coffee cup.
“That’s it?” asked Jack. “‘Nope’?”
“I’ve vetted the situation thoroughly, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You mind walking me through that analysis?”
She tasted the pastry and literally gave Jack a thumbs-up, then continued.
“I saw a potential conflict between Elliott and the company, so I referred him to you. Helena’s interests are completely aligned
with CJ’s, so I’m representing both, with their consent. On the other hand, there’s an actual conflict between Helena and Elliott. Which is why you need to stop calling Helena.”
“You’re saying that Elliott’s interests are adverse to Helena’s?”
“Yes, absolutely. And vice versa. At least as far as I understand the scope of the grand jury investigation.”
“Care to elaborate?”
She took another bite of the pastry. “Not really.”
“Why not?”
“Because these conversations between you and me are not privileged. Our clients don’t share common interests, so we will never
have a common-interest agreement to preserve any claim of privilege.”
Common-interest agreements were standard practice among criminal defense lawyers. When a grand jury subpoenaed multiple witnesses,
or when an indictment charged multiple defendants, a common-interest agreement allowed the lawyers and their clients to talk
and exchange information freely under the cloak of privilege. The refusal of one witness or defendant to enter into the agreement
usually did not bode well for the others.
“Are your clients planning to offer up testimony hurtful to Elliott?” asked Jack.
“My, we’re being awfully direct this morning, aren’t we?”
“Pretty simple question,” said Jack.
“The answer is complicated.”
“How so?”
She washed down the last of the pastry with her coffee. “Let’s put it this way. You and I are dancing. I’m leading. It’s important
for me to signal just enough information for you to figure out the next step, but not the next five steps.”
“Okay. Let’s start with the next step.”
“We need to separate Helena and Elliott.”
“I wasn’t aware they were spending any time together.”
“Elliott volunteers his bookkeeping services once a week at the dance conservatory where Helena teaches ballet. I’m sure it was a nice way to suck up to the boss’s wife when he got hired at VanPoll Enterprises, but they should avoid even casual interaction while the grand jury investigation is going on. ”
“I’ll speak to him. This is the first I’m hearing about this.”
“That’s disturbing. Elliott should have told you that much.”
“He probably didn’t think it was important.”
“I don’t see how he could have thought it wasn’t vitally important.”
“Vitally important? Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a wee bit?”
She finished her coffee and seemed ready to leave. “I’m not overreacting. And let me just add one more thing, if I may.”
“You may.”
“I’m not saying this to be critical of you. But I get the feeling there’s something you haven’t figured out yet about your
client.”
“Is that supposed to be some kind of warning?”
“No. Not a warning. More of a wake-up call.”
“Wake-up call to do what?”
She paused, as if to measure her words. “I referred Elliott to you because I thought you could handle it.”
“Handle what?”
Another pause, and Jack paid close attention to the words that followed.
“I want you to have a deep conversation with your client,” she said. “I mean really deep. Deeper than you’ve ever had with any client you’ve ever represented. Then we can talk again, if you like. Sound fair,
Jack?”
Jack studied her expression. They weren’t “friends,” but he knew her well enough to understand that she had said all she was
going to say about the matter.
“Fair enough,” said Jack.
Patricia tossed her cup into the trash, said goodbye, and started back across the street to the courthouse.
Jack stayed at the table and picked at his pastry, thinking.
Patricia had said plenty and implied even more, and the bottom line was clear.
Patricia was treating this as a homicide investigation.
The widow and the victim’s business partner were joined at the hip.
Elliott was on the outside with no way to look in.
It wasn’t a race, but time was of the essence. Jack had to make a move.
He reached for his phone and dialed Abe Beckham.
Jack didn’t consider the Miami-Dade County state attorney a “friend,” but they had faced each other in trial a dozen times
over the years and shared a mutual respect. It also wasn’t lost on Jack that the office of the state attorney was an elected
position, and anyone with Beckham’s political ambition knew better than to ignore the son of a former governor.
“Jack Swyteck, what can I do for you?” he said, using a tone that made them sound more friendly than they were.
“I represent an employee of VanPoll Enterprises. He’s been subpoenaed by the grand jury.”
“I’m familiar with that investigation.”
“My client wants to make a proffer. Can I count on you to cut through the red tape so we can make that happen?”
A “proffer” was the first step toward immunity—a preview of how the witness might help the prosecutor nail someone else.
“How soon?”
“Today, if possible.”
“That’s fast.”
“It will be worth the effort on your side.”
Beckham paused, but Jack sensed it was a good pause—the several-second delay he always got from a prosecutor who didn’t want
to appear too eager to make a deal.
“All right,” said Beckham. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Jack thanked him, and the call ended. Jack belted back the last of his coffee and started down the sidewalk, heading in the
opposite direction than Patricia Dubrow had just headed.