Hear No Evil (11 page)

“You don’t know for sure that your mother had the child.”

“You’re right. But I still want to know.”

“I suppose there’s one person who could tell you.”

Jack thought for a moment, then said, “All I have to do is figure out a way to ask without slicing
Abuela
’s heart to ribbons.”

“Good luck,” said Sofia as she rolled onto her back.

Jack fluffed his pillow and said, “Don’t let me oversleep.”

There was just enough light for Jack to see the smile on her lips.

“What?” he said.

“We’re sharing a house with eleven Cubans. If that doesn’t wake you, I’ll be sure to notify your next of kin.”

“Good point.”

“Good night, Jack.”

“Good night, Sofia.”

A
t nine o’clock the following morning Jack and Sofia were on the third floor of one of the many architecturally unremarkable buildings on the Plaza de la Revolución. The plaza was the hub of Cuban government. Through the window, Jack could see the head-quarters for the powerful Ministry of the Interior, from which a monumental image of Ché was positioned perfectly to watch the endless political rallies that took place periodically on the vast square. Ché looked a little bored, thought Jack, which was fitting, since some of Castro’s speeches had been known to stretch as long as fourteen hours. The plaza was quiet this morning, and Jack and Sofia sat alone in an office, waiting.

Colonel Raúl Jiménez entered the room with an officer’s confidence, greeted them cordially, and took a seat behind his desk. “Have you made a decision?”

“Yes,” said Jack. “I’m willing to listen to what your soldier has to say. But I’m not making any promises in return.”

“That’s a shame. It isn’t often that I’m able to make such a generous offer.”

“I appreciate that. But we are forced to deal with certain realities. Let’s be honest. From the standpoint of pure trial strategy, eliciting testimony from one of Castro’s soldiers could easily turn a jury against my client. Simple mathematics dictates that at least half the jury could be Cuban Americans.”

“Yes, and the other half will not be Cuban American. I’m no
lawyer, but isn’t it a fact that you are required to convince only
one
juror that your client is innocent? That’s all it takes for your client to be found not guilty, no?”

“True. But even without speaking to my client, I know she’s not going to be doing cartwheels at the thought of putting her own fate in the hands of a Cuban soldier.”

“How does she feel about death by lethal injection?”

“You ask good questions, Colonel.”

He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. The green uniform was darkened with sweat beneath his armpits. “I’m not asking for much in return, Mr. Swyteck. Just offer me something to make it worth our trouble to send one of our soldiers to testify in Miami.”

“Is it money you want?”

“Not at all.”

“Then spell it out. What are you after?”

The colonel leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “After Captain Pintado was shot, we heard your client talking on a radio show out of Guantánamo. She was quite outspoken. She said she believes that her husband was killed because of something he knew. Something that was going on at the base that the government did not want the world to know about.”

“That’s been her position all along.”

“Then, there it is,” said the colonel. “We want to know: What secret did Captain Pintado know?”

“I can’t promise to deliver something like that.”

“Why not?”

“For a lot of reasons. Most importantly, because I’m not going to barter with you for testimony. Putting a Cuban soldier on the witness stand presents a ton of credibility problems as it is. Throw in a side deal—whatever it might be—and those credibility issues become insurmountable.”

“No one is saying that we must disclose our agreement.”

“Easy for you to say, Colonel. It’s not your bar license on the line.”

“So, is that your position? No deal?”

“I’m willing to call your soldier as a witness. I’m not willing to compensate you in any way, shape, or form for his testimony.”

“Perhaps your client will feel differently once she understands the nature of his testimony.”

Jack hesitated, then asked, “What will he say?”

The colonel leaned into his desk. His dark eyes glistened beneath the fluorescent lighting. “In general terms, he will testify as follows. On the morning of Captain Pintado’s death, he saw your client leave for work. Ten to fifteen minutes later, he saw a man come to the house, go inside, then leave in a hurry.”

Jack was silent, but Sofia said, “That’s incredibly helpful.”

“That’s not all,” said the colonel. “He will tell you who that man is.”

“You mean to tell me that your soldier can identify this person by name?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

It was as if the air had suddenly been sucked from the room. Jack looked askance at Sofia, but she seemed stunned into silence. Finally, Jack said, “I’m worried about this.”

“What is there to be worried about?”

“Your motivations.”

“Meaning what?”

“It all comes back to the victim. He’s the son of Alejandro Pintado. It’s no secret that Mr. Pintado has been a burr under Castro’s saddle. He’s even been accused of invading Cuban airspace to drop anti-Castro leaflets over Havana. Seems to me that Castro wouldn’t mind giving Mr. Pintado a little indigestion at trial to go along with his grief over the death of his son.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“But that’s exactly the way it will play in Miami. Wouldn’t it be just oh so clever for Castro to inject one of his own soldiers into the trial of the accused killer of Alejandro Pintado’s son and get her off scot free?”

“Just because El Presidente holds no love for Mr. Pintado does not make the soldier’s testimony false.”

They were suddenly locked in a tense triangle of silence—Jack, Sofia, the colonel.

Sofia said, “Maybe we should speak to our client.”

The colonel offered the telephone, sliding it across his desktop.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” said Jack. “My position is firm: I’ll take
the testimony, but I’m not cutting any deals with the Cuban government.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Swyteck.”

“It’s the only way to get this done.”

The colonel shrugged and said, “Then it won’t get done.”

“What?” said Sofia. She appeared to be on the verge of begging for reconsideration, but Jack rose, and she followed his lead.

“I guess we have nothing more to talk about,” said the colonel.

“I guess not,” said Jack.

The colonel gave him a flat, respectful grin, as if he’d met a worthy opponent. He offered his hand, and Sofia shook it. Jack didn’t.

“Have a safe trip home,” said the colonel.

Jack said good-bye and left the office, following the colonel’s aide to the exit.

N
ot since his ex-wife had dragged him to the Valentine’s Day “red dress ball” had Jack seen so many women dressed alike. Dozens of them, most between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-four, many college educated. The vast majority had gotten into trouble with drugs, which was yet another similarity to that high-class charity ball that Jack was strangely reminded of, except that no one here had a doctor’s prescription.

Lindsey Hart was seated at a small Formica table, wearing the orange prison garb of the Federal Detention Center of Miami, an administrative facility for men and women. A guard took Jack to the private cubicle reserved for attorney-client communications. The instant the door closed and the two of them were alone, Lindsey was on her feet, hugging Jack tightly.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.

Jack hadn’t expected that. He had his briefcase in one hand and patted her on the back with the other. She pulled away and brushed her hair out of her face, sniffling back tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make you feel awkward. This place is just so awful.”

“I understand.”

“I mean truly awful,” she said, her voice quaking. “If you’re not bored out of your mind, you’re terrified to death. Some women don’t like the way you look. Some don’t like the way you talk. Some smell like they haven’t bathed since childhood. The woman in the next cell
is bucking for an insanity defense and keeps playing with her feces, which, believe it or not, doesn’t stink half as bad as last night’s dinner. Boiled cabbage. Who the hell can live on boiled cabbage? I just don’t know if I can take this. The noises, the tension, the other women watching me in the showers. I feel like the new piece of ass on the market, and all the lifers are deciding which one gets to trade up for the fresh goods. Some of the guards are even worse.”

Jack listened, but what could he say—that she’d get used to it? That he’d have her out of here in no time, don’t worry about it? He just let her vent.

“I miss Brian so much.”

She seemed on the verge of major tears. Her hands covered her face, and Jack noticed that she’d been biting several of her fingernails—something he hadn’t noticed before. On impulse, Jack gave
her
a hug this time. It seemed to help. She blinked back her emotion, pulled herself together. They took seats on opposite sides of the table.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to apologize to you in person for the way I fired you,” she said with one last sniffle. “But apparently Sofia conveyed my feelings to you.”

“She did,” said Jack. “So, let’s put that behind us, all right?”

“Okay, deal. I’m dying to hear how the trip went. Tell me about your meeting with the esteemed Lieutenant Damont Johnson.”

“He had nice things to say about your husband.”

“Of course he did. Oscar always bought his beer.”

Jack paused to choose his words. “He was less kind in his remarks about you.”

“What do you expect? Everyone at the base thinks I killed my husband.”

“It went beyond that. He said he’s concerned for your son. He thinks you’re not equipped to raise him on your own.”

Her expression tightened, and Jack could see the anger fighting to escape from somewhere deep within. But she kept control. “What does he mean, ‘not equipped’?”

“Those were my words, not his. He believes you’re bipolar.”

She fell silent. Jack waited for a response, then asked gently, “Are you?”

“What if I am?”

“I’m not making a judgment. I’m just gathering facts.”

“No. I’m not bipolar.”

“Are you on any kind of medication?”

“Did Lieutenant Johnson say I was?”

“I think the way he put it was that you’re a nice person so long as you take your medication.”

She pursed her lips and said, “I had a prescription for some anti-anxiety medication. I took it for about two years. I haven’t taken it since I left Guantánamo.”

“Why did you stop?

“I didn’t need it anymore.”

Jack recalled the drastic change in temperament between the day she’d hired him and the day she’d fired him, which made him wonder about the self-diagnosis. “That’s kind of curious,” he said.

“What?”

“I’m thinking like a prosecutor. You felt that you needed anti-anxiety medication while your husband was alive. You don’t need it now that he’s dead.”

“Oscar wasn’t my source of anxiety. It was about life in Guantánamo.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said with a touch of sarcasm. “Maybe it’s because I lived on a communist island that is controlled by the longest-living dictator of the twentieth century, a man who hates Americans with a passion. Or maybe it’s because I used to wake up every day wondering if today was the day the chemical weapons would come flying over the razor wire or the Hazmat team would find anthrax in my son’s classroom. Or could it have possibly been that six hundred of the world’s most dangerous terrorists were in a detention camp right down the road from my house? Or because my husband had a job that required him to put his life on the line every day of the year? You pick one.”

“Did your husband have any idea how much you hated it there?”

“I didn’t hate it. But Oscar loved it. At least until the very end.”

“I guess it’s fair to say that you were going to be living in fear—as long as Oscar was alive.”

“I didn’t kill my husband in order to get off the island, if that’s your implication.”

“It’s not my implication. But it does tie in nicely with your motivation
to get your hands on Oscar’s trust fund and to get off the island and enjoy life. We should expect the prosecution to play that angle.”

“It won’t work. Like I said, Oscar was beginning to have a change of heart before he died. He was making more and more comments about how it might be time for us to leave Guantánamo. Why would I kill him when he finally started to talk about leaving?”

“Did he put in for a formal transfer?”

“No.”

“Is there anyone but you who can substantiate the fact that he was thinking about leaving Guantánamo?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did you mention it to one of your friends? Maybe your friend in Washington? Nancy what’s her name. The one who is married to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

Lindsey bristled, seeming to realize that he was testing her. “I haven’t spoken to her in a very long time.”

“Good thing,” said Jack. “She’s dead.”

She averted her eyes and said, “I found that out only after I put on that little show for you at Deli Lane.”

“Lieutenant Johnson says you did the same show for him in Guantánamo. What’s it all about, Lindsey?”

She sighed, seemingly embarrassed. “Truth is, I did meet her once. And she did give me her phone number. We weren’t exactly girlfriends, and I admit, I did throw her name around a little, just for effect. It was wrong of me to do it, but…I don’t know. The military can be such a ‘who you know’ environment, and an officer’s spouse can feel like such an ornament. It does strange things to your self-esteem. Makes you do stupid things to try to impress people. I guess I did it with you, too. I’m sorry about that.”

“Lieutenant Johnson would have had me believe that you were walking around Guantánamo talking to dead people on your cell phone.”

“He’s such a jerk. First of all, I don’t talk to dead people. Second, it’s just like him to twist the story and say it was a cell phone, which is his way of making me look even crazier. Last time I checked, civilian cell phones aren’t much good in Guantánamo. It was a Palm Pilot, not a cell phone. But that’s the way he operates. Whenever he has something to hide, he goes on the offensive.”

“You’ve seen him do that before?”

“Sure. Here’s a perfect example. After Oscar was killed, I decided to stay at Guantánamo as long as possible. I wanted to be there, eyes and ears open, until I found out who the bastard was who came into our home and shot him. Lieutenant Johnson was one of the first to complain to Oscar’s commanding officer and say I should be kicked off the base because I was bad for morale.”

“It’s pretty clear that he thinks you shot your husband.”

“No kidding. But did he tell you why he wanted me off the base
before
the NCIS report came back? Hell, he wanted me off the base before Oscar’s body was cold.”

“Maybe he knew what the report was going to say.”

She raised an eyebrow, and Jack realized the implications of his observation. Lindsey said, “I’m so glad to hear you say that. Nice to know I’m not the only one who understands that the fix was in when that report named me the chief suspect. What else did Lieutenant Johnson have to say for himself?”

“I didn’t get to ask him many questions about your husband’s death. Every five minutes the JAG lawyer kept reminding him that he could leave any time he wanted, and he finally picked up on the hint.”

“Who else did you get to talk to?”

“No one. Everyone else on my witness list has been transferred to another base.”

“Unbelievable. Did you at least get to visit my house?”

“Only for a few minutes. The investigators released the crime scene two weeks ago. Someone else is living there now. The place has been scrubbed and repainted.”

“That was it, then? You went all the way down there, and all you got was one partial interview and a quick stop at a cleaned-up crime scene?”

“Afraid so. From the moment we met with Lieutenant Johnson, it seemed they couldn’t get Sofia and me off the base fast enough.”

Lindsey ran her fingers through her hair, head down. “This supports everything I’ve been saying all along. They’re circling the wagons. They’re afraid you’re going to find out why Oscar was really killed.”

“That’s going to be tough to prove, but we may have an important lead in that direction. Sofia and I were stopped by the Cuban government on our way out of Havana. There’s a Cuban tower guard who may offer some helpful testimony.”

“A Cuban soldier?”

“Yeah. The Cubans and Americans are watching each other constantly down there. It’s not a total shock that someone on the other side of the razor wire might see something.”

“What did he see?”

“I haven’t interviewed him yet, so I don’t want to get your hopes up too much. But according to the colonel we met with, one of the Cuban guards saw you leave your house for work, just as you say you did. And, more important, he saw someone else come in.”

Lindsey’s mouth was agape. “Oh, my God. That’s fantastic! Did he see who it was?”

“They claim to be able to identify him. But they haven’t given me a name yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because they want me to cut a deal with them. They’ll give me the Cuban soldier as a witness, but only if I give them something in return.”

“Well, give it to them! What do they want?”

“It doesn’t matter what they want. If there’s any kind of deal at all, the prosecutor will destroy us in front of the jury. The only way we can bring a Cuban soldier into a Miami courtroom to testify on your behalf is if it’s completely clean, no deals, no strings attached.”

“Says who?”

“Trust me on this. It’s my best judgment.”

“But it’s
my
life. I’m staring straight at the death penalty, and you’re telling me to walk away from a witness who will testify that he saw an intruder enter my house because I might offend a few Cuban Americans on the jury?”

“I think the Cuban government will come around on this, if we play our cards right.”

“So what did you tell them?”

“That I wasn’t making any deals.”

“You
what
?”

“Don’t get angry.”

“I’m not angry, I’m furious!” She leaped up from her chair and began to pace. “You should have called me before making a decision like that.”

“You expect me to make a confidential phone call from a Cuban
military office to a United States prison? I got a better idea. Why don’t we just conduct our attorney-client conversations on
The Tonight Show
?”

She stopped pacing and returned to her chair. Jack could see the worry in her face, the lack of sleep in her eyes. She seemed broken, and she spoke without heart. “I don’t have the stomach for this, Jack.”

“That’s why you hired me.”

“You still don’t seem to understand what I’m feeling.”

“I do.”

“No, you can’t. The thought of never seeing my son again is tearing me to shreds. The thought of his wondering if his mother killed his father, I—” she stopped, unable to finish. “You can’t possibly know how that feels.”

Jack considered it, but it wasn’t the first time he’d heard a parent tell him that until you’ve had children, you can’t possibly know. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Unless…”

“Unless what?” said Jack.

“Unless you have a personal stake in the outcome.”

“Brian is my biological son. Isn’t that personal?”

“Not if there’s no consequences to you if you lose.”

“Brian loses his mother if I lose the case. Those are serious consequences.”

“For Brian, not for you.”

“I don’t distinguish between the two. I’m doing this for his benefit.”

“Are you? Or do you sit back and think, Oh well, if I lose this case, I’ll look after Brian. I’ll make sure he’s raised properly. I’ll have my own life with Brian.”

“I haven’t thought anything of the sort. If his mother’s innocent, I want to get her acquitted.”

“And if you lose, you should lose the same thing I’m losing.”

“Meaning what?”

She leaned closer and said, “If I lose, I lose Brian. If you lose, then you should lose Brian, too.”

Jack chuckled nervously. “This is crazy.”

Her eyes brightened, as if she were suddenly on to something. “No, it’s not crazy. You lawyers can be so dispassionate about the life-and-death
decisions you make for other people. Maybe it’s time you feel the way your clients feel.”

“Exactly what are you saying?”

“I have two lawyers now, you and Sofia. I want Sofia to be the one who deals with Brian, not you. You get to meet Brian if, and only if, you win the case.”

“I can’t operate under those rules.”