Page 17 of The Right to Remain

Elliott said goodbye and went to his boss. Jack and Theo started toward the park exit.

“What do you think?” asked Theo.

“Two things,” said Jack. “I’m absolutely certain that CJ and his ‘sources’ know more than he’s telling us. And I’d bet my bottom dollar there’s more to VanPoll Enterprises than a firearms destruction company.”

“What do we do about that?” asked Theo.

“Grand juries are technically independent, but they’re run by prosecutors. At this point, all I can tell you is what I won’t do: I won’t send my client into the grand jury room to be blindsided by a prosecutor whose agenda may include everything from proving Owen Pollard was murdered to bringing down C. J. Vandermeer and VanPoll Enterprises.”

“What’s our next move?”

“I’m thinking a talk with Mrs. Pollard is in order,” said Jack.

“You want me along for that ride?”

“No muscle needed,” said Jack. “I got this one.”

Chapter 5

The line for drop-off at Sunset Elementary School was four blocks long, stretching all the way to Austen’s favorite ice cream shop. Flecks of sunlight danced across the windshield of Helena’s SUV, the morning rays shredded by the canopy of sprawling oaks and leafy banyan trees that lined historic Sunset Drive.

“Mom, can we go to Whip ’n Dip?”

“Not for breakfast,” said Helena.

“They have apple pie flavor. Apples are fruit. Fruit is a good breakfast.”

The sedan in front her inched forward, finally. Helena advanced another car length, then stopped. “Apple-pie ice cream is like double dessert. You can have it after dance class.”

Austen groaned. “Mom, winter classes just started. Nobody has after-school stuff yet. Why do I have to go to dance?”

Helena made eye contact in the rearview mirror. “Because you are a dancer,” she said.

Austen had been “dancing” at the conservatory since he was three, starting with “Mommy and me” and basic movement classes. All in-studio instruction was on an age-appropriate basis, so first graders were strictly limited to one pre-ballet class a week, and formal introduction to ballet didn’t start until the second grade—which was fine, in Helena’s mind, if you were like every other boy and your grandmother never danced with the Kirov. Helena had been supplementing Austen’s training at home, and at the age of six he was better than any of the seven- and eight-year-old boys who danced four days a week.

Helena pulled up to the school entrance, and one of the attendants opened the rear door.

“Pick you up at three,” said Helena. “Love you.”

“Apple pie ice cream,” Austen said, as he climbed out.

The door slammed shut, and Helena pulled away. Her cell phone rang as she was waiting at the traffic light. She let it go to voicemail but listened to the message in real time over the speaker system.

“Mrs. Pollard, this is Jack Swyteck. I left a message yesterday about the grand jury investigation into your husband’s death. I’m sorry to impose, but I would appreciate it if you could call me back. Thank you.”

The call ended.

Helena had received Swyteck’s first message. She hadn’t felt like talking then, and she felt even less like talking now. She had too much to do, and Owen was already top of mind.

It was a thirty-minute drive to VanPoll Enterprises in the Wynwood area, Miami’s version of midtown. She wasn’t looking forward to it. This would be her first visit since her husband’s death. She parked in Owen’s reserved space in the parking garage and took the elevator to the tenth floor of the office tower. The receptionist was respectful and greeted her in the overly gentle tone that virtually everyone seemed to think was appropriate for a recent widow.

“Good morning to you, Mrs. Pollard. Let me know if you need anything.”

Helena thanked her, but she knew her way around the building and continued on her own to her late husband’s office at the end of the hallway. She stopped outside the closed door, took a deep breath, and then entered.

Her gaze swept the room. It was a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered views of downtown Miami to the south and the Port of Miami to the east. The wall behind Owen’s desk was like an overstuffed scrapbook, a collection of too many framed newspaper articles and photographs from two decades of service to Violent GangSafe Streets Task Force and the Transnational Anti-Gang Task Forces. It was in no way a random display of achievements. Gun confiscations were featured prominently, everything from “Trinidad Fentanyl Trafficking Arrests Shut Down Illegal Firearms Pipeline” to “Task Force Semiautomatic Weapon Seizures Top 2,000.” Some said Owen had been feathering his future nest. Helena knew how much that had angered him.

So many things angered him.