Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [26]
“You see what I’m saying?” said Mays. “It doesn’t really matter if he killed McKenna. So long as he ends up behind bars, it works out either way for them.”
“But it matters for you.”
“I just want the truth. I think you do, too, which is why you’re on the fence about taking this case to trial.”
“Who told you that I was on the fence?”
He shook his head, as if Jack were naïve. “My supercomputers can search eight billion files in an instant, tell me where you lived when you were in college, and pull up the Social Security number of every man, woman, and child who ever lived in the same zip code. Give me another minute and I can do the same thing for two hundred seventy million other folks, and not a single one will have the slightest idea that he was being checked out. Then, if you like, we can compile a complete personal dossier for every high-school graduate who earns six figures, smokes Marlboros, uses the name of his childhood pet as his preferred online password, and has a landlord named Bob.”
Jack hesitated, but he knew Mays wasn’t kidding. “You can’t click a mouse and know how I feel about a case.”
“No, I’m not quite there . . . yet,” Mays said with a smile. Then he turned serious. “But I do know this: You wouldn’t be anywhere near this case if something wasn’t telling you that Jamal is innocent.”
Jack didn’t respond.
“Vince Paulo is a friend of mine,” said Mays. “I know he’s one of your personal heroes. And why shouldn’t he be? He was the lead hostage negotiator who stopped a raving lunatic from killing your best friend.”
Jack couldn’t deny the facts.
Mays said, “You’d have to be one incredibly cold and ungrateful son of a bitch to defend the guy who blinded him.”
“It’s a tough one,” said Jack.
“Damn right it is. But we both know one thing.”
“What?”
“If Jamal is innocent, that means the man who murdered my daughter and took Paulo’s eyesight is still out there, a free man. That’s why you’re on this case, isn’t it?”
“I’m not comfortable having this conversation,” said Jack.
Mays grabbed him by the wrist, his move lightning quick. “I couldn’t care less about your comfort.”
“Let go of my arm.”
Mays squeezed harder, his bicep bulging. “I need to know if they’ve got the wrong guy. I have the right to know.”
“Mr. Mays, let go of my arm.”
“Tell me the truth. Would you be in this case if you really thought Jamal did it?”
They were locked in a stare down. Mays’ eyes were like lasers, but it was the kind of question Jack would never answer.
“I’m giving you one last chance,” said Jack. “Let go of my arm. Now.”
Mays had the grip of a mountain climber, not a computer genius. His eyes narrowed with anger and then, finally, he released Jack.
“Get out of my house,” said Mays.
Jack flexed his wrist, got the blood flowing, then walked straight to the foyer and opened the front door.
“Swyteck,” Mays called out, his voice booming down the hallway.
Jack stopped in the open doorway, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t even glance back.
“Defend him if you want,” said Mays. “But if he’s guilty and you get him off, I’ll kill you. That’s not a threat. That’s just the way it is.”
Jack stepped out. Behind him the door closed with an echo that traveled beyond the bare walls of the big, empty house.
Chapter Twelve
P.O., no, no!”
Jack recognized his grandfather’s shouting the moment he entered the Alzheimer’s wing. It was coming from inside his room at the end of the hallway—that same pointless rant against the post office that Jack had heard many times before.
“P.O., NO, NO!”
The thought of his grandfather swatting at nothing and shouting nonsense made Jack want to rush to his side, but Saturday lunch was a peak visiting hour at Sunny Gardens. The hallway was clogged with clusters of residents and guests, many using wheelchairs or walkers. Merely the wind from his sprint could have knocked