Chapter 10
It was pizza for dinner, and Righley could not have been happier.
Andie had left a nightly dinner plan to keep Righley from eating like a frat boy while Mom was away. Jack had picked up Righley
from soccer practice with every intention of adhering to the Monday plan. But Righley made a convincing case: How could they
in good conscience continue to say that the best pizza was from Sir Pizza on Key Biscayne if they hardly ever ate pizza from
anywhere else? Jack gave in, but only because they were within striking distance of what, in his opinion, was the number one
contender.
“Casola’s it is,” he said.
Casola’s had been at the same unadorned location, just off busy U.S. 1 and on the other side of the elevated Metrorail tracks,
since Jack was a kid. It was family owned, having migrated to Miami from Boston, and quickly earned a name for itself serving
traditional thin-crust pizza by the slice or the pie, but only to those willing to wait in line and pay cash only. Righley, a purist, got plain cheese. Jack went for the Italian sausage and peppers. They took one of the old wooden picnic
tables outside.
“Can Max have the pizza bones?”
In Righley-speech, “pizza bones” were the leftover crust.
“He can have one,” said Jack. “Max is not as active as he used to be.”
“Are you as active as you used to be?”
It was as if she’d timed that question to coincide with the first bite of his second slice.
“All right, smarty-pants. Max can have two.”
Righley was nibbling around her crust, creating the perfect “bone,” when Jack’s cell phone rang.
Not his regular phone. It was his burner.
Andie always left a prepaid, untraceable cell with Jack when she went undercover.
She wasn’t supposed to call except for an emergency, and even then, it had to be burner-to-burner.
“Andie?” Jack asked.
“Mommy!” Righley squealed, loud enough for Andie to overhear.
“Tell Righley we can talk in a minute,” said Andie. “But first I need to talk to you.”
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Yes, but this is probably the last time I can call for at least two weeks, so it’s important.”
Righley was sufficiently distracted singing her own version of the title song from Taylor Swift’s Lover album, which had become an ode to her golden retriever:
“Max is my, my, my . . . doggy.”
Max gobbled up the pizza bone. Jack focused on the call. “Okay. What’s up?”
“How well do you know this new client of yours—Elliott Stafford?”
It felt like déjà vu, the same question he’d gotten from Patricia Dubrow and the state attorney. “Why do you ask?”
Andie paused, as if to take a step back. “I realize that just because you married an FBI agent doesn’t mean I have the right
to investigate your clients. But this is the first time you represent someone who could be indicted for the murder of a retired
FBI agent, so we’re in uncharted waters here.”
Jack turned away from Righley so that she couldn’t see his anger rising. “You’re investigating Elliott?”
“No. But since the alleged victim here is part of the FBI extended family, I took it upon myself to do a simple background
check.”
“That’s not okay.”
“Oh, come on, Jack. I did this for us—for our family—and I’m not sharing it with anyone but you.”
“I don’t need that kind of help. I run a thorough background check on every client before an engagement. Elliott is clean.”
“No, he’s not, Jack.”
Jack froze. Righley came around to Jack’s side of the table. “I want to talk to Mommy.”
“I need another minute,” he told her. Righley went back to her seat, and Jack spoke into the phone. “What do you mean, ‘he’s
not’?”
“Not everything shows up on a typical background check. Some things don’t even turn up on an FBI background check.”
“Such as?”
“When a criminal conviction is expunged in Florida, there’s only one agency that keeps a record of it: Florida Department
of Law Enforcement. I checked with my contact there.”
“Are you telling me that Elliott has a criminal conviction that was expunged?”
“Yes. A juvenile conviction, but it was a class-one felony, which means it was probably violent. Murder, rape, armed robbery,
assault—something on that order.”
“If it was that serious, how do you explain the fact that there’s absolutely nothing anywhere on the internet about a crime
committed by Elliott Stafford. Even if the conviction was expunged, there would be some mention of it in a blog or social
media somewhere.”
“I had the same reaction,” said Andie. “There’s a good explanation.”
“I’m listening.”
“He changed his name.”
“From what?”
“I don’t know. The expungement of his criminal conviction and the name change proceeding are companion cases. Both are sealed.
There’s no secret button an FBI agent can push to unseal a court record. It takes a court order.”
“Or a client who’s willing to tell me the truth,” said Jack.
“I take it from your reaction that you had none of this information.”
“None. Nada.”
“I knew it.”
“And how did you know?”
“The same way I know you forgot to take my homemade lasagna out of the freezer this morning and you’re feeding Righley something
from the dark side for dinner.”
Righley had crawled under the picnic table and was suddenly in Jack’s lap. “Can I talk to Mommy now, please?”
Jack gave her a hug but stayed on the line. “My culinary coconspirator would like to speak to you before sentencing.”
“Okay, but before you go, I hope you’re not angry about this. I’m not telling you whether to keep this client or fire him.
I just wanted you to have all the facts before this goes all the way to trial with you defending someone accused of killing
a retired FBI agent.”
“I get it. And I’m not mad.”
“Good. Hey, could it possibly be that we’re finally getting the hang of this FBI-agent-married-to-criminal-defense-lawyer
thing?”
“Could be,” he said, though he still wasn’t completely cool about Andie taking it upon herself to check up on his client.
“I hope so.”
“Me too. Put Righley on.”
Jack seated Righley on the bench beside him and handed her the burner. Then he reached for his own cell phone and dialed Elliott’s
number.