Chapter 33
Jack picked up Theo on the way to the Pollard residence. His regular photographer was unavailable on short notice, and Theo
was as good as anyone in a pinch. In theory.
“I want just a few specific photographs,” said Jack, handing him a list.
“What, no selfies? I take great ones. It’s the LeBron James wingspan.” He jutted his arm out the passenger-side window and
snapped one as they passed a pack of Saturday morning cyclists who had turned the parkway into the Tour de France.
“The list, Theo. Stick to it.”
The Pollards lived on a quiet, tree-lined street in an older neighborhood where, as a kid, Jack would ride his bike on his
way to the Dairy Queen. Most of the old ranch-style houses had been razed and replaced by the latest architectural rage in
South Florida, giant concrete-and-glass cubes with flat roofs and all the personality of an office building. Others, like
the Pollards’, had been renovated to add a second story, leaving a decent-sized yard.
Jack parked on the street, where they waited for the prosecutor to arrive.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” asked Theo.
His tone seemed uncharacteristically serious. “Sure you can,” said Jack.
“If there was something I needed to tell you but asked you to swear on your life that you would never tell Andie, what would
you do?”
It was a complicated question from someone who had literally trusted Jack with his life and was his most trusted friend ever since. Jack wanted to give a thoughtful answer. “I think it would depend,” said Jack.
“Depend on what?”
“If you came to me as a client with a legal problem, then it would be the same as any other client. I couldn’t tell anyone,
not even Andie.”
“But otherwise?”
“Otherwise,” he said, struggling. “Come on, Theo. You can’t ask me to swear on my life to keep secrets from my wife. I mean,
you didn’t even tell me you were going into the gin business until you literally unveiled it for Cy and me.”
Theo looked away, out the window. “Got it.”
The silence made Jack uncomfortable. “Got it? What does that mean? Are you pissed at me?”
“No, I ain’t pissed,” he said in an even tone. “It means I got it.”
A sedan pulled into the driveway behind them. Julianna Weller and a junior prosecutor climbed out and started toward the Pollards’
front door.
“Let’s do this,” said Jack.
They climbed out of the car and started up the driveway. “These pictures don’t have to be perfect,” said Jack. “The trial
exhibits will come from the forensic team photos of the crime scene. I just need a few angles to fill in the holes for my
own purposes.”
“Got it,” said Theo. “And that don’t mean I’m pissed.”
Jack smiled. Whatever their conversation in the car had been about, Theo seemed to be over it.
They joined the prosecutors on the front porch. Weller thanked them for being on time and rang the doorbell. The sound of
a big dog’s bark emerged from somewhere inside, and Jack recalled the courtroom testimony about a sheepdog named Boo. The
door opened, and Helena was struggling to control her dog on a leash.
“He’s friendly,” she said. “Come on in.”
“Wait a second,” said Weller, addressing Jack. “Let’s keep foot traffic to a minimum. Who’s the big guy?”
“I believe his name is Boo,” said Jack.
“I meant him,” she said, indicating Theo.
“He’s my photographer.”
“Your photographer? Really?”
“Queso,” said Theo, and he snapped a cheesy selfie.
The dog sniffed Jack’s pant leg, which Jack attributed to the irresistible scent of eau de Max. Helena apologized, but clearly
there was something more important on her mind.
“Before we get started, could I have a word with Mr. Swyteck in private?”
The prosecutor was less than enthusiastic. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”
Helena showed no interest in debating the matter, and Boo seemed eager to go outside. “Could you walk with me, Mr. Swyteck?”
Jack followed her down the steps and across the front lawn to a fenced-in side yard. Helena opened the gate, unleashed Boo,
and let him run free on the other side of the chain-link fence. It reminded Jack of Max when he was young, the way Boo turned
a simple patch of grass into such a happy place.
“How can I help you?” asked Jack.
Her arms were folded tightly, which did not convey a warm vibe. “Help me? You could start by knocking off the insinuation
that I killed my husband.”
Jack didn’t want a confrontation. “Maybe Julianna Weller was right. This conversation might not be such a great idea.”
Boo started barking. He was digging with the intensity of a hungry badger.
“Boo!” Helena shouted.
The barking stopped, but the digging continued. Helena let the dog have his fun, but she seemed to have the opposite in store for Jack.
“Mr. Swyteck, I want you to know something. Ms. Weller was very upset with you at the hearing. I actually stood up for you
and told her you were just doing your job by pointing the finger at me. But you’ve gone too far.”
“Have I?” asked Jack.
“Yes, you have.”
“The argument could be made that I didn’t go far enough.”
“Seriously? I’d like to hear that argument.”
“I could have asked you about your husband’s list of ‘Things Stressing Me Out.’ The repeated reference to ‘BB’s mom’ has always
struck me as curious.”
The dog started barking again. Digging through South Florida’s mixture of sand, marl, and rock wasn’t easy, and it didn’t
take long to hit a solid bed of Miami limestone, but Boo seemed up to the challenge.
“Boo, stop!” said Helena, but her focus remained on Jack. “What about ‘BB’s mom’?”
Jack considered whether to take the shot he’d chosen not to take in court. He decided to go for it this time, using a machine
gun cadence that would have never flown before Judge Garrison.
“Mrs. Pollard, you knew that ‘BB’—Big Boy—is what Elle Carpenter called Austen in the womb, correct? You knew that no one
referred to Austen as ‘BB’ after the adoption, right? So, if you wanted to lead someone to believe that my client drafted
that list, using ‘BB’s mom’ instead of ‘Austen’s mom’ would be a smart move—wouldn’t you agree?”
Helena’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t kill my husband, Mr. Swyteck.”
The barking was suddenly more aggressive.
“Boo!”
The dog froze, then backed away from the pile of dug-up rocks, darted across the yard, and stopped at the gate.
Jack had seen his golden retriever settle into the same perfect “sit” in the same display of self-pride.
It was a sure sign that Boo had something in his mouth for his master, though with a sheepdog the prize wasn’t exactly in plain sight.
“What you got there, boy?” asked Helena.
“Stop,” said Jack.
“What’s wrong?” asked Helena.
“Stay calm and move slowly,” said Jack. “I think it’s a gun.”