Most Dangerous Place

by James Grippando

  “Hi, Mommy.”

  That little voice—it almost killed her. “Hi, baby. Did you make a new friend today?”

  “Yeah. When can I see you?”

  A second near-mortal wound. “Pretty soon. Is Riley nice?”

  “Yes, she’s real nice. Are you coming over here tonight?”

  “No, honey. Not tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  Isa struggled, silently chiding herself for having no prepared answer. “Tonight will be your night with Daddy.”

  Melany didn’t reply. There was muffled sobbing on the line. Isa closed her eyes and then opened them, trying to absorb the blow. “Don’t cry, big girl. Please don’t cry.”

  She could hear Keith in the background telling Melany that everything was going to be all right.

  “Good night, Mommy. I love you.”

  It was enough to make Isa cry, but she didn’t. “I love you too.”

  Keith was back on the line. “Are you okay?”

  “Not at all,” said Isa.

  He gave her a moment. “So, I wouldn’t read too much into that. Melany is really doing well. I think she’s just tired.”

  She knew that Keith was only trying to ease the pain, but it wasn’t working. “Will you be at my arraignment tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Jack said I’ll be in prison clothes. Don’t bring Melany.”

  “No, I get that.”

  “And be mindful of what’s on the TV when she’s in the room. Jack said this case could get media attention. I don’t want Melany to see any of that.”

  “Actually, I didn’t know if I should say anything, but there was a segment on tonight’s news.”

  Of course there was. Former UM Coed Arrested for Murder of Her Rapist. A headline that catchy could go viral. “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

  “Don’t worry about things you can’t control. That’s Jack’s job.”

  A lump came to her throat. She hoped her reading of his words was correct, but he seemed to be telling her, “I believe in you; I know you’re innocent.”

  The woman in line behind her grunted something to the effect that Isa’s time was up. Isa wasn’t aware of any time restriction, but the woman was built like a UCF champion, and she didn’t want her first night in prison to end with the snot getting beat out of her.

  “Keith, I have to go now,” she said into the phone.

  “Okay. Hey, we’ll get through this.”

  “I know we will.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  They said good-bye. Isa hung up, and the next inmate in line practically knocked her to the floor in her rush to the phone. Isa stepped aside and waited for the corrections officer. It was well past his promise to return “in an hour.” Isa could only hope that they were still having trouble finding a bunk for her.

  Maybe they’ll let me go home.

  It was short-lived optimism. The guard’s return immediately burst her bubble.

  “Got a bed for you, sweetie,” he said.

  I’m not your “sweetie.” She thought it but didn’t say it.

  Isa followed the guard down the long corridor. She focused straight ahead, her gaze like a laser, making no eye contact with anyone inside the cells she passed on the left or right. At the end of the cell block, the door buzzed open. They continued into the east wing.

  “Lucky for you,” said the guard. “No cells in level-one custody, so you’ll be here with the hookers and druggies tonight.”

  Isa didn’t answer. She wasn’t feeling lucky.

  It was “lights out” by the time they reached her assigned cell. Isa entered quietly, careful not to disturb the inmate on the top bunk as she climbed onto the mattress below. It squeaked as she settled in. The cell door closed, and then reality hit her.

  I’m in jail. I am actually in jail.

  She felt imprisoned in every sense of the word; telling her lawyer how she was the victim of date rape in college hadn’t proved to be liberating at all. It merely stirred up a past that she had managed to compartmentalize and suppress for years.

  She was thinking again of the television coverage Keith had mentioned. She didn’t have to ask how bad it was. And she had no doubt it would get worse—that the story would be embellished as news worked its way from Miami to Hong Kong and then back across the globe to her old neighborhood in Caracas. Her entire life, Isa had fought adversity. A mother who had pushed her into the beauty academies. A father who had condemned her for it.

  And now, her college nightmare would have a name the world over: Gabriel Sosa.

  She tried to close her eyes, but the scary voice of the woman in the top bunk startled her.

  “So, what’d you do to land yourself in here?”

  “Nothing,” said Isa, her voice a mere peep.

  The woman chuckled. “Just like the rest of us.” She hung her head over the edge of the mattress and peered down at Isa, her long dreadlocks dangling in the shadows. “Come on, princess. You can tell me.”

  “Really, I didn’t do anything.”

  The woman’s smile drained away. “You think I’m a snitch, don’t you?”

  “What? No, I—”

  “You think that if you tell me what you did, I’ll run to the state attorney and cut a sweet deal to save my own ass.”

  “I didn’t say that.” But now that you mention it.

  “Fucking bitch. You go around callin’ people a snitch, you better sleep with one eye open.”

  Isa caught her breath, praying to God that the woman didn’t jump down from the top bunk to continue this discussion face-to-face—or, worse, fist-to-face. The mattress above her didn’t move, which triggered the closest thing to a sense of relief that Isa had felt since her arrival. Sleep, however, was out of the question. She lay awake in the prison silence, listening, trying to grow accustomed to what she could label as “normal” prison noises. Survival meant being able to quickly identify any sound, any movement, anything at all that wasn’t normal.

  Sleep with one eye open.

  Her entire adult life, Isa had kept secrets, but never had she been up against a criminal justice system intent upon turning her inside out for the world to see. It bordered on terrifying, and she couldn’t stem the emotions that were welling up inside and begging to escape. She’d flown across the world to be with her daughter when Melany needed her most. Now, Isa might never be with her again.

  Isa struggled to hold it in, but a tear fell in the darkness. And then another. The words she’d shared with Melany echoed in her mind.

  Don’t cry, big girl. Please, don’t cry.

  “You cryin’ down there, princess?”

  Her cellmate’s voice made her shiver. “No.”

  The dreadlocks were suddenly hanging down in the darkness again, and Isa could see the glint in her cellmate’s eyes. “Yeah, you is.”

  “I’m not,” she said, but her voice cracked.

  “Aw, poor princess. It’s Tayshawn who got you so scared you could piss your pants, ain’t it?”

  “Who’s Tayshawn?”

  “The guard who brought you in here. Everybody know he like Latina pussy.”

  Isa went cold. Her instincts had been dead on. I’m not your sweetie.

  “You gonna be just fine, princess. You got me as a cellmate.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I ain’t gonna look the other way when Tayshawn come in here for some bullshit inspection and shoves his big dick down your throat. That won’t happen,” she said, and then she disappeared into her bunk, finishing her promise in the darkness:

  “Tonight.”

  Chapter 5

  Jack was in downtown Miami by five a.m., in time for his first interview with local television. He had four of them lined up, and all would air before Isa’s arraignment. By 5:30 he was wired up and on the set.

 
“Good morning, Miami!” the primped and perfect blond host said into the camera.

  Jack wouldn’t typically work the media so soon, but in this case it was justified. Sylvia Hunt had never sent the promised e-mail. Jack had tried to go over her head, but the state attorney didn’t return his calls. It was clear to Jack that the prosecution had no intention of sharing the sworn affidavit in which the MDPD homicide detective laid out the evidence to support “probable cause” for Isa’s arrest.

  “With me this morning is Miami criminal-defense attorney Jack Swyteck.”

  Technically, the state attorney wasn’t legally required to share the MDPD affidavit; the defense could get a copy from the courthouse file—but not until 9:00 a.m., when the clerk’s office opened. Jack therefore needed to send a message to the entire office of the state attorney: if they weren’t willing to extend the courtesy of sharing the affidavit before Isa’s arraignment, it was a huge mistake to issue a press release before Jack could get inside the courthouse and secure his own copy.

  “Mr. Swyteck, you’ve handled dozens of murder trials before. Tell us a little bit about the state attorney’s somewhat unorthodox case against your latest client.”

  “Honestly, the prosecution has been unusually tight-lipped, so I know virtually nothing about the case except what the state attorney deigned to put in a press release that was issued last night just before the late edition of the news.”

  “Well, we know from that press release that your client is a thirty-one-year-old woman. At the age of nineteen she enrolled at the University of Miami, and in the spring of her freshman year she was the victim of sexual assault. Now, all these years later, she is arrested and charged with first degree murder, allegedly for having killed the man who raped her. Do I have those allegations right?”

  “Yes, that’s essentially the prosecution’s case. And thank you for not mentioning my client by name—even though her name appears in the state attorney’s press release.”

  “Let’s talk about that. I understand you’re pretty upset about it.”

  “I’m appalled, frankly.”

  “Why?”

  “The clear implication of the state attorney’s press release is that my client’s motive for the murder of Gabriel Sosa was the fact that he sexually assaulted her. Like most states in this nation, Florida has a shield law that prohibits law enforcement from releasing the name of a rape victim to the media. The idea is to avoid making her a victim twice: once when she is assaulted, and a second time when her identity goes viral. The Miami state attorney has ignored the law, apparently taking the position that a rape victim accused of murdering her attacker is entitled to no such protection.”

  “But wait a second. Should those shield laws apply in this situation?”

  “In my opinion, yes. Look, my client is innocent of that murder charge until proven guilty. The only thing we know for certain is that she was sexually assaulted. I might not fault a news organization for deciding in good faith that the shield laws don’t apply here. But I don’t think the state attorney’s office should be leading the way by revealing her name in a press release within hours of her arrest.”

  “I would tend to agree. As an editorial note, I must concede to our viewers that this station did reveal the identity of Mr. Swyteck’s client in last night’s eleven p.m. newscast. We did so based on the information in the press release from the Miami state attorney’s office. I don’t know what our official position will be going forward. But as a matter of principle, I can tell you that this Good Morning Miami host definitely will not repeat her name.

  “Thank you very much for joining us this morning and sharing this fascinating case and this important issue, Mr. Swyteck.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  “Coming up: a live interview from Mercy Hospital with British tourist Ginger Radley, who somehow survived a twenty-story fall after breaking her bungee cord. It’s Ginger snap, Miami style! Next on Good Morning Miami.”

  Jack unclipped his microphone and stepped down from the news set, so glad he didn’t do this every day for a living.

  Sylvia Hunt was standing in her bedroom, staring at the flat-screen television on the wall—and fuming. Jack Swyteck on Good Morning Miami was not something she had anticipated.

  Sylvia was not one to be outmaneuvered by any criminal-defense lawyer. She’d paid her dues as a “pit assistant,” a C-level prosecutor of adult felonies, working sixty-hour weeks under supervising attorneys, earning the astronomical sum of forty thousand dollars a year. An unmatched combination of courtroom skills and tireless preparation opened doors for her, and she could have moved up to any unit. She chose sexual assault, where she took more cases to trial and earned more convictions than anyone else in the state of Florida. She was the youngest prosecutor in the Miami office to hold the title “Senior Trial Counsel,” which put her among the elite—the seasoned few who prosecuted the most controversial and complicated capital cases. It was an honor and a distinction she’d earned.

  She sure as hell didn’t deserve this stain on her record.

  Sylvia grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand. It was fully charged; so was she. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t yet six a.m. She dialed her boss at home and got her out of bed.

  “Swyteck is doing the morning circuit.”

  Carmen Benitez was midway through her fourth elected term as state attorney. No one questioned her commitment to the job. She worked late into the evening, weekends, and holidays. Phone calls at one or two a.m. were no problem. But she had never been known as an early riser.

  “Record it on your DVR,” said Benitez. “I’m going back to sleep.”

  “No, wait. We are getting pulverized for revealing the name of a rape victim in last night’s press release on Isabelle Bornelli.”

  The state attorney hesitated, and Sylvia could sense her confusion over the line. “Wait—we didn’t do that.”

  “Yes, we did. I called the station to confirm. They sent me a copy of the release. Isabelle Bornelli’s name is in it.”

  Benitez groaned over the line. “Oh, boy.”

  “Yeah. ‘Oh boy’ is right. That’s not the version of the press release I reviewed and approved last night. I said do not use her name—not until the press made its own decision and the horse was out of the barn.”

  “Obviously somebody in media relations fucked up.”

  It wasn’t the first time. “That’s not a very satisfactory explanation. Don’t underestimate this, Carmen. We are going to have huge backlash from victims’ rights groups. I guarantee it.”

  “We’ll have to talk damage control. When’s the arraignment?”

  “Nine thirty.”

  “That doesn’t give us much time.”

  “I can meet you in the office in thirty minutes,” said Sylvia.

  “Ohhhh,” she said. It was some combination of a yawn and a groan.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. See you in thirty.”

  Sylvia hung up, grabbed the remote, and changed channels. There he was again, Isa’s hotshot lawyer on another network: “I think it’s a sad situation when the state attorney’s office is leading the way against the spirit, if not the letter, of rape shield laws.”

  Sylvia switched off the set and grabbed her purse. Her anger was still smoldering, but as she started toward the door, she glimpsed a framed photograph of her parents that she kept on her dresser. They were partners in every sense of the word, married for over thirty years and even had their own law firm—Hunt & Hunt—while Sylvia was growing up in Pensacola. They’d been gone long enough for the pain to ease, and Sylvia mustered a little smile as she recalled something her daddy used to say whenever opposing counsel crossed the line.

  “You stepped on the wrong dog this time, Mr. Swyteck,” she said on her way out.

  Chapter 6

  Courtroom 1–5 at the Richard E. Gersten Justice Building was packed.

  Felony arraignments started every weekday at nine a.m. Wednesday’s docket incl
uded Isabelle Bornelli and everyone else in Miami-Dade County who’d been arrested in the previous twenty-four hours on a felony charge. The routine played out in a spacious old room with high ceilings and a long mahogany rail that separated the public seating from the business end of the justice system. A junior assistant state attorney was seated at the government’s table in front of the empty jury box, working his way through the stack of files, one at a time, as each case was called. Jack watched from the first row of public seating, waiting his turn as the parade of accused armed robbers, drunk drivers, and others proclaimed their innocence and then were either released on bail or remanded to custody. Keith was to his left on the long bench seat.

  “More spectators than I thought would be here,” said Keith. He spoke quietly so as not to disturb the seventh arraignment of the morning, which was under way on the other side of the rail.

  Both Jack and the state attorney’s office had underestimated the public outcry in response to Isa’s arrest. Interested observers filled several rows of public seating behind them. The media section was at capacity. Last night’s press release from the state attorney had sparked some local interest, but not until Jack’s morning interviews did the media firmly latch on to the case. The Internet was already abuzz with tweets, blogs, and other electronic chatter about the beautiful former Miami coed who was “hiding out” in Hong Kong and finally got arrested for murdering the young man who had raped her in college.

  “When do I see Isa?” asked Keith.

  Hopefully not too soon. A lawyer from the Freedom Institute was in line at the clerk’s office to get a copy of the affidavit that Sylvia Hunt had neglected to send him, and Jack wanted it for the arraignment. “Isa’s number eleven on the schedule. The deputy will bring her in when it’s her turn.”

  “Next case,” said Judge Gonzalez. He was moving quickly. They were at number nine.

  Judge Gonzalez was the oldest judge on the criminal circuit. Some said he no longer had the stamina for lengthy trials, but he still seemed to enjoy the frenetic pace of arraignments. It had been several months since Jack’s last appearance before him, and it had been a defense lawyer’s dream, starting at 9:07 a.m. and ending at 9:08 a.m. The state attorney dropped the assault charge against an elderly woman who reminded Jack of his own abuela. She was a Cuban expat who had fled the Castro regime on a balsa in the first wave of refugees, and she just couldn’t help herself when a clueless college student walked into her cigar shop in Little Havana sporting a T-shirt that bore the iconic image of Che Guevara, the supreme prosecutor during the Cuban revolution. If the state attorney hadn’t dismissed the charge, Judge Gonzalez would have. He might have pointed out that his family of five had also left Cuba on a raft, that only four of them had made it to the Florida coast, and that this was Miami, not the People’s Republic of Berkeley.