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Conrad Sweeney surveyed his surroundings.
The crowd gathered before the two-story brick building was impressive. He expected the media, of course. They came anytime anyone beckoned. But the other spectators—that was somewhat surprising and entirely pleasing. These were private citizens, people who could’ve been out playing with their children, or walking their dogs, or making love to their wives, people who instead opted to gather here today—because Conrad Sweeney issued an announcement.
That was a tribute to the reputation he had built in this town. When he spoke, people listened. When he acted, people paid attention. He was St. Pete’s most prominent private citizen, a philanthropist and hero.
All he ever wanted was to be loved. Since he was a young boy. Blowing the lid off the achievement register while his parents reminded him what a disappointment he was.
No matter. The people in this town loved him.
Maybe not the mayor so much. But she was keeping her mouth shut today. She had too much at stake to cross him.
Pity her boyfriend didn’t feel the same way.
“I want to thank you all for coming today,” Sweeney said, once the cameras were rolling, “but this is not about me. I was the lucky one, the one who had the means and opportunity to help St. Pete emerge from a difficult period and become the city it was always meant to be. With Albert Kazan, we built the best park this town has ever seen. With Mayor Pérez, we built a dynamic series of women’s shelters. And now, with the Athena Recovery Clinic, we will provide counseling and rehabilitative services to those who need them, regardless of their financial status, gender orientation, race, creed, or color. This facility is all-inclusive. This is for everyone. Because when our citizens are stronger, our city is stronger.”
His words were met with tumultuous applause, which he modestly deflected. A series of meet and greets followed. He devoted time to as many people as he could, till he spotted Prudence giving him the slashed throat gesture. Time to move on.
Once he extracted himself from the well-wishers, he slid into the back seat of his waiting limo. Verity, his driver, started the engine.
Two other men were in back waiting for him. District Attorney George Belasco. And Paul Kilpatrick, the paid prosecutor currently handling the murder trial against the boy who claimed to be Ossie Coleman.
“I’m in a good mood, gentlemen,” Sweeney said, popping open his briefcase. “Don’t spoil it.”
“We won’t,” Belasco said. His slender frame made his blue suit look baggy. “Far from it. Everything is going according to plan.”
“You’ve got the trial locked up?”
“Certainly looks that way,” Kilpatrick said. “I’d give us an 80% chance of success.”
“I don’t want to hear about percentages. I want to hear about certainties.”
“No such thing, when you’re talking about juries. I don’t care how good you are, or how good a job you do. All it takes is one rogue juror with a forceful personality to throw every calculation off-kilter.”
Sweeney shook his head. “Foolish man. Everything is predictable. Assuming you have sufficient data.”
“I don’t have the power to read minds.”
“Or grease palms?” Sweeney smiled. “Not what I’ve heard. You didn’t get that perfect win record by trusting fate.” He turned to Belasco. “Are you paying this man enough?”
“I paid him everything we agreed on. More than our budget permitted.”
“That’s a problem for your successor to deal with. You need to focus on your mayoral campaign.”
“I am.”
“I need a mayor I can trust. Not a pain-in-the-ass crusader who thinks she knows better than everyone else. There is so much I could accomplish...”
“I’m your guy,” Belasco said, cocking a thumb toward himself. “We’ve always worked well together in the past, haven’t we?”
“I haven’t always obtained the results I wanted.”
“You will this time.” The limo accelerated as they merged onto the highway, rocking him backward a bit. “That audiotape hit the jury like a ton of bricks. Not a doubt in their minds now.”
“I hope you’re right. But we both know Pike will do everything he can to stir up doubt.”
“I don’t think Pike’s got the verve he had before,” Kilpatrick opined. “Seems like he kinda got the wind kicked out of his sails.”
“Indeed.” A small smile played on Sweeney’s lips. “I wonder how that happened.”
“Doesn’t matter. We expect the kid to tell his sad story, but so what? No one believed it before. Why would they believe it now?”
“Maybe you should offer a deal. Life imprisonment. Just make sure the kid is off the street and doesn’t inherit a dime.”
“Look, I know you’ve lost to Pike before—”
Sweeney leaned forward, grabbing Kilpatrick by the collar. “I have never lost to him. I never lose to anyone.”
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“Others may have lost. Not me.” Sweeney’s teeth clenched. “Temporary setbacks only make me stronger.”
“Sure. That’s what I meant.”
Sweeney loosened his grip, then slowly relaxed back into the padded seat. “You’re being paid to make sure I’m not disappointed.”
“Understood. You’re worrying too much. This is gonna be a slam dunk.”
“You’d best be right.”
Kilpatrick hesitated a moment. “You mind if I ask—why do you care so much?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean—what’s it to you? I saw that crowd. Those people love you. This town loves you. You’re the most respected, most successful, most powerful person around. This is just a murder trial. A serious crime, sure, but in the big scheme of things—who cares? What difference does it make?”
“It matters.”
“Because—”
Sweeney sprang forward like a cobra. “Everything hinges on the outcome of this trial. Not only money, but power. Influence. Secrets. Which, if revealed, could be extremely uncomfortable. So we’re not going to let that happen. Are we clear on that?”
“Sure. Sure.” Kilpatrick held up his hands. “One hundred percent.”
“I’ve let Pike run free too long. Warnings don’t seem to be enough with that man. If you can’t put him down in the courtroom—then I’ll find some other way to do it.”