Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [53]
“A tracking device seems like a reasonable request in a case of first degree murder,” said the judge. “But a million dollars? Really now. Anything further from the defense?”
Jack knew when to cut and run. “No, Your Honor.”
“Bail is set at seventy-five thousand dollars,” said the judge. “The prisoner is to be released on the condition that he remain in Miami-Dade County and wear an ankle bracelet at all times. The witness is dismissed. We’re adjourned.”
With a bang of the gavel and bailiff’s announcement—“All rise!”—the judge started toward his chambers.
Jack looked at Vince. He was frozen in his chair, as if he were reliving McKenna’s funeral, so distraught that the bailiff’s command to rise probably hadn’t even registered. As Jack started back toward the defense table, Alicia caught his eye. She was on the other side of the rail in the first row of public seating behind the prosecution. Her stare was deadly. She moved to the defense side of the courtroom, came to the rail, and practically leaned over, leaving just a few feet between her and Jack.
“Shame on you,” she said.
Jack could find no response. It wasn’t the foulmouthed vitriol he might have gotten from other cops or their wives, but that only made it worse.
“Shame on you,” she said, and it was even worse the second time. She walked to the center of the rail, pushed through the low swinging gate, and went to her husband on the stand.
Neil laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “That was a great piece of lawyering, my friend. I’m proud of you.”
The words were lost on Jack. His client attempted to shake his hand in gratitude, but Jack’s gaze was fixed on the witness stand. Vince was still in a state of shock, his wife trying to console him.
At that moment, Jack hated his job.
Chapter Twenty-four
For the first time in three years, Jamal Wakefield was a free man.
His mother had come up with the 10 percent fee for F. Lee Bail-me Inc.—the only bail bondsman in Miami with a sense of humor—to post the $75,000 bond. It was just pretrial release, and he was a long way from an acquittal, but that was not going to spoil his Saturday night on South Beach. A 5.3-ounce Omnilink ankle bracelet was a small concession in the big scheme of things. Some chicks might even think it was cool. Jamal the bad boy. Computer genius. Smarter than the losers in law enforcement who monitor ankle bracelets. Smarter than the guy who invented the damn device. Smarter than the interrogators who had thought barking dogs and waterboarding would make him talk. Smarter than Vince Paulo, the prosecutors, and his defense lawyers put together. Smarter than anyone he’d ever met.
Except Chuck Mays.
“Lookin’ hot,” Jamal said to a couple of young women who were too busy to notice him. They were dressed to kill and pleading their case to a rock-solid bouncer who was the keeper of the gate to the hottest new dance club on South Beach. The waiting line extended down the sidewalk, around the corner, and halfway up the block again. Most of the hopefuls would never see beyond the bouncers. Fat chance for the khaki-clad conventioneer from Pittsburgh who was dressed to sell insurance. The Latin babe in the staccato heels was a shoo-in. Most of the rejects would shrug it off and launch plan B. Others would plead and beg to no avail, only embarrassing themselves. A few would curse at the bouncers, maybe even come at them, driven by a dangerous combination of drugs and testosterone, only to find out that the eighteen-inch biceps weren’t just for show.
After three years of incarceration, Jamal wasn’t wasting any time. He walked straight to the front of the line. “Hey, good to see you, my friend,” he said as he slid a wad of cash into the bouncer’s hand.
The guy was a tattooed pillar of Brazilian marble, but money always talked.
“Next time don’t pretend to fucking know me,” he said as he tucked away the cash and pulled the velvet rope aside.
The main doors opened, and Jamal was immediately hit with a flash