Chapter 16
The indictment landed in Jack’s email inbox on Monday morning. His phone immediately blew up with calls from the media. Jack
would never make a public comment before speaking to his client, but contacting Elliott was proving far more difficult than
it should have. Jack dropped off Righley at school and called Elliott’s cell from his car. It was his fourth attempt. No response.
“Elliott,” Jack said into voicemail, “it’s your lawyer again. Call me.”
He tried Elliott’s work number, but the receptionist said he hadn’t come in yet. Jack had known clients to flee after an indictment,
and he was getting a bad vibe. He drove to Elliott’s townhouse. The parking space outside his unit was empty, and no one answered
the door. Jack called again and left another voicemail message.
“Elliott, if you’re even thinking about leaving town, don’t. The law requires that your arraignment happen within twenty-four hours of indictment. If you fail to show, you will be a
fugitive, and the judge will issue a bench warrant. Don’t do that to yourself. Call me as soon as you get this message.”
Jack didn’t have time to play private detective and track down his own client. He stopped at Cy’s Place on his way into the
office. It wasn’t open yet, but Theo was there with his great-uncle Cy, the club’s namesake. Jack and Cy were the only invitees
to what Theo’s advance billing had labeled “the best thing that could ever happen to an old-time jazz saxophonist in his nineties.”
“So, where are the ladies?” asked Cy.
He was alluding to Theo’s promise of “the best thing that could ever happen,” which was classic Cy, and it made Jack chuckle.
Cy was a relic of Miami’s Overtown Village in its jazz heyday, when it was known as Miami’s “Little Harlem.” Cy had played
all the “joints”—the Cotton Club, the Clover Club, Rockland Palace Hotel. He especially loved sharing his memories of “after-midnight”
gigs with Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, and other black entertainers who would finish their act at a Miami Beach nightclub
and then head across the causeway to jam in Overtown, where their skin color didn’t prevent them from getting a room for the
night. Best of all were Cy’s stories of the Knight Beat, “the swingingest place in the South.”
“You know, Jack, the Knight Beat wasn’t named after Cyrus Knight,” he said with a wry smile, “but that didn’t stop me from
letting the ladies think it was.”
Jack had heard the story a dozen times, but he never grew tired of Cy.
“So, what’s this meeting about?” asked Jack.
Theo went behind the bar, retrieved what appeared to be a framed portrait covered in butcher paper, and set it on the table
before Cy.
“Open it,” said Theo.
Cy tore away the paper, and Jack immediately recognized the old photograph from the collection of “Cy memorabilia” around
the club, which included everything from Cotton Club matchbooks to Cy’s old Buescher 400 saxophone. The photo showed Cy as
a handsome twentysomething dressed in his classic three-piece Norfolk suit in natty tweeds blowing on the sax. But Theo’s
gift was a doctored version of the old black-and-white. It was sharper, even eye-popping, more like a slick advertisement
than a portrait, complete with a brand name printed in a bold marketing font.
“What the hell is ‘Uncle Cy’s Bespoke Gin’?” asked Cy, reading aloud.
“Remember that homemade gin you told me about?” asked Theo.
The memory made Cy smile, and he explained for Jack’s benefit. “This is a recipe that dates back to Prohibition days, before
even I was born. The story goes that they ran out of gin bottles and some dope put a batch of gin in a whiskey barrel. No one dared to taste it for almost two years. When they finally did, guess what? People loved it. Aging gin in a whiskey barrel gave it kind of an almond flavor.”
“That’s called bespoke gin,” said Theo. “And now it’s the hot new thing in the spirit industry. That’s why I’m launching ‘Uncle Cy’s—the Speakeasy
Bespoke Gin.’”
Jack had to let that sink in for a moment. “Theo, when you told me you were making gin, I expected to see a glass vat with
juniper berries sitting on your bar top.”
“Yeah, and if I had told you more than that, you would have come up with a hundred reasons why it wouldn’t work. So—surprise!”
“Are you seriously planning to make a private-label gin?”
“Yup. Already got a container shipment of empty whiskey barrels sitting in a warehouse over in the foreign trade zone. I’m
in negotiations now with a gin supplier in the U.K. Next step is a bottler.”
Cy narrowed his eyes with concern. “Theo, can you afford this?”
“I’ll need an investor when I get to the distribution phase, but I’ll find one. We know the product is good. From a marking
standpoint, who can resist the story behind Uncle Cy’s Speakeasy Bespoke Gin?”
Cy seemed more than pleased. He was downright proud. “Thank you, Theo. But all this business makes an old man hungry. Think
you can rustle me up some breakfast?”
“Sure thing,” said Theo.
He headed toward the kitchen, and Jack followed. They stopped at the refrigerator.
“You pissed I didn’t tell you about the gin?” asked Theo.
“No, we all have our secrets,” said Jack.
“I just didn’t want to deal with you trying to talk me out of it.”
“Too late for that,” said Jack.
“That was the whole idea, dude,” he said with a sly smile.
Theo checked the expiration date on a milk carton, sniffed the opening, and tossed it in the trash. Jack turned the conversation
to what was really on his mind.
“My client has gone missing,” said Jack. “I need you to help me find him.”
“Seriously? You think Elliott is on the run?”
“I don’t know.”
“I spent a lot of nights on death row wishing I’d run,” said Theo.
“I get it,” said Jack. “But the case against Elliott seems weak to me. It’s hard enough to convince people you’re innocent
if you take the Fifth. It’s almost impossible if you take the Fifth and flee. Unless you’re O. J. Simpson in a white Ford Bronco.”
“He’s no O. J.,” said Theo.
“Agreed.”
“More of a Bruce Jenner.”
If anyone was entitled to an occasional lapse into “gallows humor,” it was an innocent man who’d spent four years on death
row. But Jack didn’t need to encourage it.
“Not funny, dude. Knock it off.”
“Just one more. I’m thinking of changing my pronouns. Maybe ‘Thee, Thou, Theo.’ ”
“You done with the jokes now?”
“I think so,” said Theo. He grabbed three brown eggs with a package of bacon and headed toward the griddle. Elliott remained
the topic of conversation.
“I been wondering,” said Theo, as he fired up the griddle. “Why is the charge murder in the second degree? Why not first?”
“I think it goes back to what I just said: The case is weak. We’ll never know, but I would bet that Julianna Weller asked
the grand jury for murder in the first degree punishable by death. They weren’t willing to go that far based on the evidence.
They came back with murder in the second degree.”
Jack’s cell rang and he checked the incoming number. Not a reporter this time. It was Julianna Weller, and he took the call.
She wanted to talk about the logistics of surrender. Jack plugged one ear to silence the sizzle of bacon on Theo’s griddle.
“Jack, I’m extending you the courtesy of not sending out MDPD to handcuff your client and haul him downtown in the back of
a squad car.”
“Thank you,” said Jack.
“Don’t thank me. Thank Abe Beckham, who seems willing to extend you courtesies I wouldn’t offer. But I need your word that
Mr. Stafford will voluntarily surrender into custody tomorrow at nine a.m. for booking and processing. Arraignment will follow
immediately after. Do we have an understanding?”
Jack wasn’t sure he could deliver, but nothing was ever a hundred percent certain.
“I’ll do everything in my power,” said Jack.
“See you tomorrow,” said Weller, and the call ended.
Jack put his phone away. Theo was hand-scrambling the eggs in a mixing bowl. He picked up their conversation about Elliott
going missing.
“Maybe he’s just depressed and went for a walk in the park,” said Theo.
“Maybe. It’s also possible he’s already on a boat to the Bahamas. We have twenty-three hours to find him and make sure he
shows up at the courthouse tomorrow.”
“Any idea where to start looking?”
“I’d say his girlfriend from work, Sheila. And then—” he started to say, then his phone rang again. It was Bonnie calling
from the office. Theo went to the pantry for some bread to toast while Jack took the call.
“Hi, Jack, I wanted to let you know that a wire transfer hit your account from Elliott Stafford.”
“How much?”
“Your full retainer.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“I tried calling, but he didn’t answer. There’s no message or anything either. Just the money.”
Jack thanked her, and Theo was back with the bread as the call ended.
“Weird,” said Jack. “Elliott ignores my calls and texts. Then he wires my full retainer to my bank account.”
“Even weirder that a guy like Elliott has enough money sitting in his bank account to pay your full fee in advance to cover
a murder trial.”
“Unless someone else paid it.”
Theo turned the bacon. “Like who?”
Jack considered the possibilities. “Let’s call Patricia Dubrow.”
As Theo poured the scrambled eggs onto the hot griddle, Jack dialed and then placed his cell phone on speaker so Theo could
hear. Patricia answered on the first ring. She’d already heard the news.
“Sorry about Elliott’s indictment,” she said. “Looks like this referral has turned into a lot more work for you than just
a grand jury subpoena.”
“I’m not sure I’m going to keep the case.”
“Why? Has Elliott not paid you?” she asked.
“He paid in full. Where he got that kind of money, I don’t know.”
“I have no reason to believe he robbed a bank, if that’s what you’re asking me. But why would you step aside?”
Jack didn’t want to get into his client’s lies. “Elliott ignored my advice when he testified before the grand jury.”
Any lawyer would have given the same advice, so Patricia knew exactly what he meant. “Do you think it would have gone any
differently if another lawyer had told him to take the Fifth?”
“Probably not. But what’s your point?”
“I see two very good reasons for you to stay with Elliott. First, if he paid you, he wants you. He may not show it, but he
wants you.”
“Thankfully, I’m past the days of having to represent anyone who’s willing to pay me. What’s the second reason?”
“Elliott needs you even more than he knows.”
“What does that mean?”
“Did I ever tell you how I met Elliott?”
“No.”
“About four years ago, a young woman named Elle Carpenter came to my office. She’d been convicted of a felony as a juvenile and wanted to see if it could be expunged.”
It was just as Andie had told him. “What was the crime?”
“Obviously, I wouldn’t be telling you this if you weren’t Elliott’s lawyer. The crime was arson.”
Not what Jack had expected. “What happened?”
“When Elle was in high school, the administration converted one of the boys’ bathrooms to gender-neutral for students like
Elle. There were still plenty of boys-only bathrooms, but one day, a group of boys followed her inside. They didn’t like losing
one of ‘their’ bathrooms. So they nearly drowned her in the toilet and left her on the floor barely conscious.”
“Bathrooms are a flashpoint issue, but that kind of violence is horrible no matter where you stand,” said Jack. “But I hope
you’re not about to tell me she burned down the school.”
“That was the charge, and it stuck. But what really happened is that she crawled to the waste can, stuffed it full of paper
towels, and lit them on fire. The idea wasn’t to burn down the school. Her plan was not to come out of that bathroom alive.”
It was suddenly crystal clear why Elliott had told Jack it was “painful” to talk about the criminal conviction. “That’s very
sad.”
“Sadly predictable,” said Patricia. “If you’re told over and over that you’re a self-destructive freak, you start to believe
it. If you believe it, you become it. Once you become it, it’s hard to shake.”
“Are you telling me that I should stick with Elliott because he’s self-destructive?”
“No. I’m saying Elliott needs a damn good lawyer, and he needs one more than anyone you’ve ever met. To put a finer point
on it: If Elle Carpenter thought high school was tough, wait till Elliott Stafford sees the inside of a maximum-security prison.”
The thought had occurred to Jack, but Patricia’s words made him visualize it in ways he hadn’t previously.
“I gotta go,” said Patricia. “Thanks for chatting.”
“No problem.”
Jack ended the call. Theo served the eggs and bacon onto a plate. Then he turned and faced Jack, holding his spatula in a
menacing fashion, the short-order cook’s version of wagging one’s finger.
“What?” asked Jack.
“You can’t let her yank your chain like that.”
“You’re just jealous because she said Elliott needs me more than you did,” he said with a little smile.
Theo put the spatula aside. “Yeah, jealous. That’s exactly it. So, what’s your decision?”
“I’m not going to keep this case because Elliott is trans.”
“You’re dumping him?”
“No, I’m in.”
Theo shook his head. “He kept his mouth shut about his name change and felony conviction. He flat out hid the truth about
the baby. He ignored the most important legal advice you could give him. Sounds like three strikes to me. Why stick around?”
“Because there’s enough—just enough—to tell me that maybe Elliott didn’t do it. You of all people should get that.”
Theo seemed to take his point.
The toast popped up. Theo placed two slices on the plate and handed Cy’s breakfast to Jack.
“Take this to the old man,” he said as he removed his apron. Then he started for the door.
“Where are you going?” asked Jack.
“To find your client,” Theo said on his way out.