Page 8 of The Right to Remain

“In about two minutes. He’s in the waiting room. I could tell him we have to reschedule, but he does seem eager to see you.”

Jack considered his options, then it came to him. “We’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”

“In the kitchen?”

“With the windows open,” he said.

Jack Swyteck PA was in a historic neighborhood, near the criminal courthouse, where many old houses—some beautiful, others falling apart—had been converted to art galleries, coffeehouses, and other commercial uses. Jack’s office was built in the Florida land boom of the 1920s, designed in the old-Florida style, complete with coral-rock façade, barrel tile roof, and a covered porch that made folks want to pull up a rocking chair—at least before January became “the new July.” Every owner before Jack had managed to survive without central air-conditioning, and when the AC failed, the kitchen offered the best cross breeze on the first floor.

Jack went to the kitchen and opened the windows. Bonnie brought his new client to him.

“Jack, this is Elliott Stafford.”

They shook hands, and Jack noticed that the young man’s palms were wet with sweat. Maybe he was nervous, but it was probably the fact that he’d worn a suit and tie to a law office that was hot enough to cook a coal-fired pizza. Jack apologized for the AC and told him it was okay to lose the jacket.

“I feel more comfortable with it on,” said Elliott.

“You sure?” said Jack. “You don’t have to dress up for me.”

“I didn’t. This is what I wear to work every day.”

The starched white shirt and double Windsor knot seemed overly formal for daily office wear, but Jack found it strangely refreshing to meet a Gen Yer who bucked the “work from home in your pajamas” mindset.

“Good for you,” he said, and they each took a seat at the kitchen table. “Where do you work, Elliott?”

“I’m in the finance department at VanPoll Enterprises in Wynwood. That’s the company that Mr. Pollard runs. Used to run. Before, you know—”

“The suicide. Yes, I saw the local news coverage. Tragic.”

“At least I thought it was suicide. Then I got served with a grand jury subpoena.”

“Patricia Dubrow told me about that. May I see it?”

Jack expected him to have a photograph of the papers on his smartphone, but Elliott pulled the physical subpoena—folded and in a business-sized envelope—from his suit-coat pocket.

“How old are you, Elliott?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re surprisingly ‘old-school’ for your age?”

He smiled but didn’t answer. Jack reviewed the subpoena, and there were no surprises. It commanded the witness to appear at the county courthouse at the time stated, but there were precious few details about the proceeding.

“I’ve read that subpoena a hundred times,” said Elliott. “I still don’t see anything that says the grand jury is investigating Mr. Pollard’s death.”

“Grand jury proceedings are secret, so a subpoena won’t reveal the purpose of the investigation. But I agree with Ms. Dubrow: The question here is whether Mr. Pollard’s death was suicide or something else.”

“Does the prosecutor think I was involved in amurder?”

“It’s rare for the target of an investigation to be subpoenaed as a witness. It raises complicated issues about the accused’s Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination.”

“So, no one is accusing me of doing something wrong?”

“I would put it a little differently. The state attorney doesn’t thinkyou’re responsible for Mr. Pollard’s death. But he apparently believes you could have information relevant to a possible crime associated with his death.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Good to know. But I’d like to explore that further. Let’s start with this question: Do you have any reason to believe that Mr. Pollard’s death was something other than a suicide?”