The Girl in the Glass Box

by James Grippando

  “Hugo!” she shouted, her voice strangely flattened by early evening darkness.

  He kept walking toward Brickell Avenue.

  “Hugo, do not go looking for him!”

  He didn’t even glance back at her.

  “Promise me, Hugo!”

  Rush-hour traffic was at a bumper-to-bumper standstill. Hugo weaved between cars across four lanes. Finally, he turned as he reached the sidewalk, raised his phone, and snapped a photo. He checked it and smiled, tapping his heart with two fingers the way athletes do when sending love to someone in the stands.

  Julia watched from the church, her heart sinking, as Hugo disappeared into the stream of pedestrians on the other side of the street.

  “Ho!” Jack shouted.

  Theo hit the brakes, and the back of the SUV stopped a foot away from Cecilia’s front door.

  “You’re supposed to stop on the first ‘ho,’ not the third,” said Jack. “I’m not Santa Claus.”

  Backing up to the front door would make it easier to unload Julia’s belongings, but Theo was more interested in what was across the street than what was behind him. “I think Julia just got off that bus.”

  The bus pulled away, spewing diesel fumes as Julia stepped down from the curb.

  “You almost parked in her new living room,” said Jack.

  “I got distracted.”

  Jack pushed open the passenger door. “I told you she was dangerous,” he muttered as they climbed out of the SUV.

  “I heard you the first time, Santa.”

  Julia crossed the street, approached their SUV, and thanked them profusely for their help. Jack could tell something was wrong, even before she asked him if they could speak in private. Theo said he could handle the unloading. Jack and Julia went for a walk around the block.

  “The papers you filed in my deportation case,” she said. “Who can see those?”

  “It’s a public record. Is there anything specific you’re worried about?”

  “The part of my affidavit where I say McBride harassed me at work. You mean anybody could see that?”

  “Anyone with access to the Internet.”

  As they neared the intersection, Jack suddenly realized that he was in one of the old neighborhoods that he’d sped through on his bicycle on the way to the park as a kid. These overcrowded houses filled with multiple immigrant families once had been middle-class starter homes for young married couples. Time flew by. Neighborhoods changed. Immigrants kept coming.

  “I think my husband knows what McBride did to me,” she said, and then she stopped to look him in the eye. “And I think he killed him.”

  Jack didn’t say anything.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” she said.

  “He was already high on my list of suspects. I heard some pretty terrible things about him from your old boss and three other women at the church bakery. You weren’t the only woman he sexually assaulted. The man is a serial rapist.”

  “He’s also the most possessive human being on the planet. If he knew that McBride even tried to lay a hand on me, he would kill him.”

  “That part I understand. But here’s what I don’t get: Why would he kill him in your bathtub instead of somewhere out in the Everglades, where the police would never find the body?”

  “He doesn’t care if the police find the body.”

  “This goes beyond not caring. Your husband went out of his way to make serious trouble for you.”

  “You don’t get it at all, Jack. Jorge wasn’t trying to help my case by killing ICE’s witness against me. He wasn’t trying to hurt my case, either. This isn’t about my deportation case at all. This was a warning to me.”

  “A warning about what?”

  “McBride would never have harassed me if I hadn’t been asking for it. That’s how my husband thinks. Now McBride is dead. Killing him in my house is Jorge telling me, ‘See what you caused, Julia? This is your fault.’”

  There was a perverse logic to what she was saying. It also put a finer point on Jack’s advice to Theo: Even for you, I think she’s dangerous.

  “But to be McBride’s killer, Jorge would have to be here, in Miami,” said Jack.

  “I believe he is.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “No.”

  “Have you heard from him?”

  “No.”

  “What makes you believe it?”

  She started walking again. Jack went with her, passing in the shadow of a ficus tree so old that its sprawling roots had displaced entire sections of the sidewalk. It was like walking an obstacle course.

  “Julia, why do you think your husband is in Miami?”

  “A friend came to see me today,” she said. “From El Salvador.”

  “That’s a pretty good friend to come all the way from San Salvador.”

  “Hugo is an old friend. We worked together in the church bakery.”

  “Is that Hugo in the picture that was on your nightstand?”

  She stopped and looked carefully at Jack, as if to ask him how he knew about that.

  “Theo and I saw it when we picked up your things,” said Jack.

  “Oh, right. Yes, that’s Hugo. He told me Jorge is in Miami.”

  They rounded the corner. An old woman was curbing her Chihuahua on one of the only patches of grass on the block. Just ahead, Theo was standing in the driveway next to the SUV, texting someone.

  “How does Hugo know where your husband is?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Is it because Hugo is in Barrio Eighteen?”

  “Hugo is not in Eighteen.”

  “He was. I saw the tattoo on his neck in the picture.”

  “That was in the past.”

  “How else would Hugo know your husband is in Miami, other than gang connections?”

  “I didn’t ask him how he knows.”

  Jack stopped. “Let’s put aside what Hugo said. Here’s what we know. Hugo is a very good friend of yours. At some point in his life, Hugo was deep enough into the Eighteenth Street gang to wear it on his neck. Hugo is definitely in Miami, and McBride is dead. Your husband might be here; he might not be. So, if you can arrange it, I’d like to talk to Hugo.”

  “You think Hugo killed McBride, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Julia paused to consider the words Jack had chosen, as if to make sure she appreciated every nuance of her second language. “You’re right, Jack. You didn’t say it. But you didn’t deny it, either.”

  She picked up her pace, leaving Jack behind.

  “Julia,” he said, and she stopped at his call. Jack wasn’t sure if this was the right time or place to ask, but he needed to know: “Why did you never divorce Jorge?”

  Julia was gazing back in his direction, but her face was a silhouette in the backlight of the corner streetlamp, and Jack couldn’t tell if she was actually looking at him or not.

  “Jorge said he’d kill Beatriz if I divorce him. Is that a good enough reason?”

  He didn’t doubt the honesty of her answer, but something in her tone told him that this trip around the block had changed things between them. “That’s good enough for me,” he said.

  Julia continued down the sidewalk to her sister’s house. “Theo!” she said, as she started up the driveway. “I forgot to thank you for the cell phone you gave me. That was so sweet of you.”

  Sweet. There was that word again, and this time Jack liked it even less than the first time Julia had used it.

  Jack started to follow but immediately stopped, realizing that he’d just stepped in a fresh pile of Chihuahua shit.

  Chapter 32

  Jack wasn’t surprised. Less than a week after the murder of Duncan McBride, ICE filed a motion requesting the court’s “immediate reconsideration of the detainee’s release on bond for humanitarian reasons.” As written, the motion was based solely on the door that Judge Greely had left open at the previous hearing: improvement in Beatriz’s medical co
ndition. But Jack’s guard was up for an underhanded effort to link Julia to the murder of the chief witness against her. Judge Greely scheduled a hearing in Orlando on what, coincidentally, would be the one-month anniversary of Julia’s arrest.

  Jack and Julia met in his office for two hours on the afternoon before the hearing. Jack drove her home to her sister’s house after the prep session. He wasn’t just being nice. Julia said it was important for Jack to talk to Beatriz, and unfortunately Beatriz was in no shape to leave the house.

  “She’s been getting worse every day,” said Julia, “ever since the judge reset the hearing.”

  Jack followed her through the living room to the kitchen. “Did you tell her the judge might put you back in detention?”

  “No, but I left my copy of the order right there on the counter after I read it, and I guess Beatriz was curious to know why I was so upset. I didn’t leave it there for Beatriz to read it, but in typical teenager logic, her response to that was ‘You didn’t tell me not to read it.’”

  “Is she as bad as the last time?” asked Jack.

  “Not yet. But I’m afraid we might be headed there. Can you talk to her?”

  “Sure.”

  “She’s in Cecilia’s room. She lies there after school until it’s time to go to bed.”

  Since Julia had moved in and taken over the spare bedroom, her daughter had been spending the nights on an air mattress in the living room, which probably wasn’t helping the situation. Julia went down the hallway to her sister’s bedroom to tell Beatriz that Jack wanted to talk to her. A minute later she came back for Jack and took him to see Beatriz.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen if you two need anything,” said Julia, and she left them alone.

  Beatriz was at the far edge of the mattress, lying on her left side and facing the wall, still wearing her school clothes. There was no chair in the room, and sitting on a bed alone in a room with a teenage girl didn’t seem like a good idea, so Jack half leaned and half sat on the edge of the low-slung bureau.

  “I guess you heard we’ve hit another bump in the road,” said Jack, trying to downplay it.

  “Is that what you call it?” Beatriz said, still facing the wall. “A bump in the road?”

  “That’s really all it is.”

  “Easy for you to say. You can see your mother anytime you want.”

  “That was my abuela you met. My mother died when I was just a few weeks old.”

  The wall was suddenly not so interesting to her. Beatriz rolled onto her other side and looked at Jack. “Sorry. What did she die from? If it’s okay to ask.”

  “Yeah, it’s okay. I’m not sure they had a name for it then, but now it’s called preeclampsia. Women don’t die from it now as much as they used to. But this was, geez, a hundred and fifty-seven years ago.”

  She smiled a little. Jack saw an opening. “Have you been taking care of yourself, Beatriz? Eating? Sleeping?”

  Beatriz shrugged.

  “I know this is an emotional roller coaster, but you can’t run yourself into the ground thinking the worst is going to happen.”

  Beatriz looked off to the middle distance. Her mother’s return had rekindled the sparkle in her eyes, but it was gone again. “When Mr. McBride was killed, I thought that would be good for me.”

  Jack thought he understood what she was saying—that it would be good for Julia’s case—but he wanted to be sure. “How would it be good for you, Beatriz?”

  She touched her hair the way nervous teenage girls do. “I never told you, but I talked to him.”

  “You talked to McBride? When?”

  “The day after I was hypnotized. Friday morning. On my way to school, on the Metrobus.”

  Beatriz sat up in the bed. Jack listened as she shared every detail, from the way McBride seemed to appear from nowhere, to his parting threat, “I have ICE on speed dial.”

  “This was almost three weeks ago,” said Jack. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  She was still sitting up, still looking at him, but the clouds in her eyes seemed heavier.

  “Beatriz? Did you tell anyone about this?”

  Jack waited for an answer, but Beatriz was no longer looking directly at him. Her gaze shot past him. Or through him.

  “Beatriz, this is important. I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the absolute truth. Have you had any communication at all with a friend of your mom’s named Hugo?”

  No response.

  “Did you tell your mom’s friend Hugo that Mr. McBride threatened you on the bus to school?”

  Beatriz continued to look past him and drew a breath. Finally, she lay back on the bed, rolled over, and once more faced the wall.

  “Beatriz?”

  There was a light knock on the doorframe. Julia entered, and she was openly disappointed to see Beatriz still trapped inside the cocoon she’d crawled into after school.

  “Nothing from her?” asked Julia.

  Jack watched as Beatriz seemed to drift away again, then he slowly looked away, his gaze coming to rest on Julia. “I wouldn’t say ‘nothing,’” said Jack.

  Chapter 33

  It was Jack’s third time in Judge Greely’s courtroom in a month: one for the hometown ICE with Julia’s detention, one for the away team with her release on bond, and now the rubber match. This time, Julia was not appearing by videoconference. She sat at Jack’s side at counsel’s table.

  “Your Honor, the Department of Homeland Security renews its request for prehearing detention,” Simone Jerrell said, “based on a drastic change of circumstances.”

  Unlike the previous hearings, a handful of reporters were seated in the gallery behind Jack and his client, on the public side of the rail. The brutal murder of the government’s chief witness had triggered media interest, most of it legitimate, some sensational, referencing Julia’s case as evidence that it wasn’t just Mexico sending its murderers across the border.

  “Is it the government’s position that Ms. Rodriguez is connected to the murder of Mr. McBride?” the judge asked.

  “No,” said Jerrell, “at least not at this preliminary stage. But we may well take that position at the final deportation hearing.”

  “Then what are the ‘changed circumstances’ that justify Ms. Rodriguez’s detention prior to the final hearing?”

  “This court released Ms. Rodriguez on humanitarian grounds because her daughter was hospitalized. Her daughter is now out of the hospital and back at school. She is living in her aunt’s house. I would note that her aunt is in this country legally, and it was her aunt who admitted her to the hospital and who serves as health-care surrogate. It’s clear that the child’s every need as a minor can be met by her aunt. There is no compelling humanitarian interest to justify the release of Ms. Rodriguez purely on humanitarian grounds.”

  The judge looked to the other side of the courtroom. “Mr. Swyteck, what do you say to that?”

  Jack rose. He’d expected Jerrell to spice up her written motion with at least a verbal allusion to the fact that the chief witness against Julia had been found dead in her bathtub. But it appeared that DHS was serious about putting Julia back in detention based solely on the improved health of her daughter.

  “Your Honor, the picture is not nearly that rosy. Since the government announced its plan to put my client back in detention, her daughter has been in a steady state of decline. If we lose this hearing and Ms. Rodriguez is ordered to return to the Baker County Facility, I fully expect that her daughter will be readmitted to the hospital within a matter of days.”

  “Let me see if I understand this,” the judge said. “This court cannot order the detainment of Ms. Rodriguez as long as her daughter is in ill health, and her daughter will be in ill health only as long as Ms. Rodriguez is in detainment. Is that your argument, Mr. Swyteck?”

  Jerrell interrupted. “That’s exactly it. Mr. Swyteck is trying to box this court into the immigration version of catch-twenty-two.”

 
“Good book,” said the judge. “And a pretty good argument, too, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Swyteck?”

  “I agree only with the first half of your statement, Your Honor.”

  “What support do you have for your position?”

  “I’d like to present the testimony of an expert witness, Dr. Eric V. Johansson. He’s a psychiatrist.”

  “I wasn’t planning to turn this into a full-blown evidentiary hearing,” the judge said. “Can’t you submit your expert testimony by affidavit?”

  “I believe it’s important for the court to hear Dr. Johansson, live, in order to overcome the expressed concern of an immigration catch-twenty-two. That doesn’t seem like too much to ask if the court is giving serious consideration to sending Ms. Rodriguez back into detention.”

  The judge sighed as he scanned the courtroom, seemingly overwhelmed by the number of lawyers queued up for hearings on the afternoon docket. “How much time do you need, Mr. Swyteck?”

  “Twenty minutes,” said Jack.

  Judge Greely checked with his judicial assistant, who said there was nothing available. “I’ll make room on my lunch hour tomorrow,” the judge said. “Can the respondent’s expert witness be here then?”

  “Dr. Johansson will appear by video conference from Stockholm.”

  “Sweden? Why Sweden?”

  “Because he’s the world’s foremost authority on de apatiska and uppgivenhetssyndrom.”

  “I have no idea what you just said, Mr. Swyteck.”

  “The literal translation is ‘apathetic child.’ And in scientific literature, the medical condition that justifies the release of my client on humanitarian grounds is known as resignation syndrome.”

  “Never heard of it,” the judge said. “And I should warn you that just because a doctor with fancy letters after his name labels something a ‘syndrome’ doesn’t mean I’m going to buy it. But I’ll listen.”