Chapter 14
If the Hail Mary pass were a recognized legal strategy, Jack was about to heave one.
The prep session with Elliott lasted all morning. As in any grand jury proceeding, Jack had no way of knowing what ammunition
the prosecution had. Jack did his best to put himself in Julianna Weller’s shoes, playing the role of lead prosecutor, grilling
his client with leading questions that were nothing more than accusations, questions that could never be asked in a courtroom
but that were permissible in a grand jury room with no judge presiding and no defense lawyer to object. Jack’s goal in being
so aggressive was to change his client’s mind. But after three relentless hours, Elliott was steadfast.
“I’m not taking the Fifth,” he said firmly.
Jack was down to his final option. A Hail Mary pass didn’t have a chance by text, email or even a phone call. Jack pestered
Abe Beckham by text until the state attorney and his lead prosecutor would grant him one final meeting. The three attorneys
met in the state attorney’s corner office late Thursday afternoon, Beckham behind his desk, Weller in the armchair, and Jack
on the couch, facing them.
“I want to be in the grand jury room tomorrow,” said Jack.
The prosecutors exchanged glances, sharing their incredulity. “You what?” asked Beckham.
“I’m asking your permission to accompany my client into the grand jury room when he testifies tomorrow.”
The state attorney chuckled. “We don’t do that. Grand jury witnesses leave their lawyers at the door.”
“The law simply doesn’t allow it,” added Weller.
“Well, that’s not exactly true,” said Jack. “One of the great things about living in Florida is that, if there’s an exception to a rule, it’s probably in Florida. There’s a statute on point,” he said, and he laid a copy of it on the desk before the state attorney.
“I’m familiar with the law,” said Beckham. “The statue says on its face that it ‘does not create a right to counsel for the
grand jury witness.’ In other words, the state attorney may grant the request, or I can deny it. It’s up to me. And my answer is no. Your client will testify without counsel, like every other witness.”
“Except that he’s not like every other witness, is he, Abe?”
“In my eyes he is.”
“No, let’s be honest. There’s one important difference. My client is the prime suspect.”
No response from the prosecution. Poker faces, in stereo.
Jack continued. “I think we all agree that subpoenaing a suspect to testify before the grand jury is a risky strategy for
the prosecution. If a person is under investigation and testifies without waiving the Fifth Amendment, the indictment could
be void.”
“All strategies have risks.”
“You’re willing to take the risk here because your case is weak. You need something from my client. Am I right?”
More silence. Jack didn’t wait for a response.
“I’m actually doing you a favor by offering to accompany my client into the grand jury room.”
“A favor?” said Beckham.
Jack dropped back, figuratively speaking, and launched the Hail Mary pass.
“What better way is there to assure a court that my client voluntarily waived his Fifth Amendment rights than to have his
lawyer sitting in the room with him when he testifies?”
This time, the silence felt different. Jack could almost see the wheels turning inside their heads.
“Jack, would you mind stepping out into the hall for a minute?” the state attorney said. “We’d like a moment to confer.”
Jack rose, went to the door, and closed it on his way out. There was a window at the end of the hallway. Jack could see all
the way across the river. Farther to the south, somewhere beneath the green canopy of century-old oak trees, was his office
where, hours earlier, he’d talked until he was blue in the face, trying to convince Elliott to take the Fifth. This meeting
was a desperation strategy. It would work only if, by being in the grand jury room, Jack could somehow convey the message
that it was never too late to take the Fifth—especially if Elliott was getting himself into trouble.
The door opened. The state attorney stepped out.
“You make a convincing case, Jack.”
“You’re going to let me in the room?”
“Just this once on a nonprecedential basis.”
The prosecutor extended his hand. They shook on it.
Helena spent the lunch hour in her veterinarian’s waiting room, keeping her dog Boo a safe distance from two ferrets, a parrot,
and a frightened rabbit at the other end of the bench. Not that Boo would have harmed any of them. He was more likely to herd
them into a tight circle and expect a treat for it. Boo was a three-year-old Old English sheepdog, seventy-five pounds of
energy, playfulness, and (mostly) hair. His very name—Boo—came from the way Austen liked to lift his hair from his eyes in
endless games of peekaboo.
Finally, a veterinary assistant entered the waiting room and uttered the magic words.
“Dr. Swan will see Boo now.”
Helena chuckled to herself. The one animal she’d never seen in Dr. Swan’s office was a swan.
Boo led, and Helena held on for dear life to what, in theory, was the control end of the leash.
Making a family pet behave like a show dog had been one of Owen’s talents, and her husband had trained Boo well, but Boo had been running the house since his master’s passing.
Somehow Boo managed to sniff out the examination room at the end of the hallway while dragging Helena behind him.
The veterinarian was standing behind the stainless-steel examination table, waiting for them.
“Boo!” he said with a smile. “How you doin’, buddy?”
Dr. Swan was a big man, neither fat nor particularly muscular—just large in a Paul Bunyan sort of way. He had no trouble lifting
Boo and putting him up on the table. As the two old friends got reacquainted, it was plain to see that Boo was one of the
doctor’s favorites. But in the middle of the lovefest, the doctor seemed to catch himself and realize he’d neglected to offer
his condolences.
“How rude of me, Mrs. Pollard. I’m so sorry about Owen.”
“Thank you. We all miss him. Maybe Boo more than any of us.”
He seemed to take her meaning, even though there was a wife and son in the picture.
“Is that why you’re here?” he asked. “Does Boo seem depressed?”
“At times,” said Helena. “But the reason I brought him is—”
She stopped herself. Boo was chewing at his right hind leg again.
“Because of that,” she said, indicating. “He’s constantly chewing himself.”
“How long has he been doing this?”
Helena sighed. “So much has happened. I have no sense of time.”
“Let me ask the question a different way. Did it start before or after Owen’s passing?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and then she thought about it. “After.”
“It could be a nervous tic caused by anxiety or depression over Owen’s absence. Does he always chew the same spot?”
“Yes,” she said, and Boo was at it again. “Right below the hip joint. I tried to look and see if he got a burr or something
stuck in all that hair, but he wouldn’t let me touch it.”
Dr. Swan petted Boo’s smokey gray coat. “The reason this breed has such a lovable fluffy appearance is the thick double coat. Beneath this long, rougher layer is a soft underlayer. Things do get stuck, everything from sticks to Lego pieces. Let’s have a look.”
He got Boo to lie on his side, put on latex gloves, and focused the overhead examination light on the upper thigh. He told
Helena to whisper sweet nothings into his ear while he combed through Boo’s double coat with his fingers. Boo lay still, panting,
until the doctor poked at the spot around his hip, which made his tail stiffen and his body twitch.
“Easy, boy,” said Dr. Swan, and then he spoke to Helena. “Definitely something in there. Hopefully it didn’t break the skin,
or he could already have a hot spot. Very common in the Florida sun. Try to keep him calm while I explore.”
Helena got closer and gave Boo some love, as Dr. Swan gently went to work with forceps. It took only a minute.
“Got it,” he said, holding “it” up to the light with his forceps.
“What is that?”
He turned the object one way and then the other, taking a close look. “It’s a bullet.”
Helena’s heart nearly skipped a beat. “A bullet? Seriously?”
“Yup. Small caliber. A twenty-two, maybe. But definitely a bullet.”
“Are you saying somebody shot Boo?”
“That’s not an easy question to answer.”
“How else would a bullet get in his hind leg?”
“That’s the thing,” said Dr. Swan. “It’s not in his leg. The bullet didn’t break the skin. If somebody shot your dog, they must have been standing very far away. Otherwise,
it would have had the kinetic energy to break the skin.”
“Drive-by shooter, maybe?” asked Helena.
“Maybe. Do you let Boo romp around outside in the yard?”
“Not really. I take him for walks, and he goes running with me for exercise. But with that coat, he lives mostly indoors where
there’s air-conditioning.”
Dr. Swan placed the bullet in a plastic vial on the counter. “We should give this to the police.”
“No,” said Helena.
He seemed surprised by her sharp tone. “Why not?”
“Austen just lost his father,” she said. “I don’t want the police opening another investigation into the shooting of his pet.”
“Helena, I watch the news. I know there’s an investigation into Owen’s death. What if this is not a separate investigation?”
She caught his drift. “You think this random bullet in Boo’s fur is related to Owen’s death?”
He didn’t answer right away, as if he were uncomfortable saying it.
“You know, your husband used to think of himself as a sheepdog of sorts. He used to joke about that when he came here with
Boo.”
The prosecutor’s questions before the grand jury were still fresh in Helena’s mind. Your husband called himself a sheepdog because he thought of himself as a protector.
“Yes, I know.”
“I’m just saying. Owen passes from a gunshot wound. Then somebody takes a shot at your actual sheepdog. Even if the two are
unrelated, I need to report an act of animal cruelty.”
Dr. Swan appeared determined to report it with or without Helena’s consent.
“All right,” said Helena. “We’ll call the police.”