Most Dangerous Place

by James Grippando

  “When we talked about taking the case to trial, you mentioned the rape-shield laws that would prevent my name from being reported in the media.”

  “That’s true. You still have that protection.”

  “But now I see that you’re involved in this case against Isabelle Bornelli. It made me wonder if the state attorney’s office is changing its position. Is the identity of rape victims no longer protected?”

  “Isabelle Bornelli is a totally different situation,” said Sylvia.

  “I just wanted to make sure.”

  “Rest assured. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Because I really don’t want this to be out there,” she said, the old agony resurfacing. “It’s not something I want to talk about with my husband or anyone else. It’s over. I want it behind me. Do you get what I’m saying?”

  “I do,” said Sylvia. Better than anyone.

  Valerie took a breath. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why are you prosecuting Isabelle Bornelli?”

  “I’m a prosecutor,” said Sylvia. “A grand jury indicted her. She has to be prosecuted as charged.”

  “I understand. But I’m asking something a little different: Why does it have to be you?”

  Sylvia looked off toward the fountain, then back at Jane Doe. “This may sound strange, but the fact that you ask that question makes me feel even stronger about this: It should be me.”

  “You’re right,” said Valerie. “That does sound strange.”

  Silence hung between them. Then Valerie rose.

  “Okay. It was good seeing you, Ms. Hunt.”

  Ms. Hunt. That’s what Valerie had called her when she was a teenager. “I think it’s finally okay for you to call me Sylvia.”

  “I’ll stick with Ms. Hunt,” she said. “Thanks again for meeting with me.”

  Sylvia watched her turn and walk away. Ms. Hunt. It was a crushing blow, and it made Sylvia wonder how many other Jane Does felt the same way. Betrayed.

  Sylvia rose. It was a Saturday, and for once she didn’t have work to do. She could have window-shopped at the mall or called a friend to meet her for lunch. Instead, she went back to the valet stand and retrieved her car. She was headed back to the office.

  This seemed like the time to take Carmen Benitez’s advice. She was suddenly feeling the need to go back to her desk, open that file Carmen had given her, and read one or two of those letters from Gabriel Sosa’s mother.

  Chapter 19

  Jack was ridding himself of a five o’clock shadow, the left side of his face still covered in shaving cream, when Andie stepped into the bathroom.

  “Our babysitter is asleep,” she said as her face appeared in his mirror.

  Jack pulled the razor away from his chin and spoke to her reflection. “Already?”

  Andie laid her smartphone beside the sink in front of him, showing him the proof: a photo of Jack’s grandmother in their recliner with her eyes closed and mouth agape. Riley was sitting on the floor in front of her, putting on lipstick. Max lay right beside her, probably wondering what Dusty Rose no. 23 tasted like.

  “That’s a good color for her,” said Jack.

  “Not funny,” said Andie. “I love Abuela, and I know she loves Riley. It’s great that she’s independent and still lives alone in her town house, but she’s too old to be alone with a two-year-old. I don’t care how much she says otherwise. You have to put your foot down.”

  Abuela had missed the full grandmother experience with Jack, having found a way out of Cuba only after he was a grown man. It would break her heart to hear that she was “too old” to be left alone with her great-granddaughter, but Jack knew that Andie was right. “I’ll tell her,” said Jack. “Can you call in reinforcements for tonight?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Jack finished shaving and entered the bedroom to select a shirt. One thing he wouldn’t miss about the old Mackle house was the bedroom closet, which was only big enough to hold Andie’s things. Jack kept his clothes on a freestanding rack along the wall. He was deciding between a dress shirt and short sleeves when the television on the wall caught his attention. Isa’s photograph flashed on the screen. The local news had an update on the Bornelli case. Beneath her photo was a red banner with bold white letters:

  “REVENGE KILLING,” SAYS MIAMI PROSECUTOR.

  Jack grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. The Action News anchorman finished his introductory remarks, and the segment switched to prerecorded video. Sylvia Hunt was standing at the podium in the press room inside the Graham Building, reading a prepared announcement of the grand jury indictment:

  “It’s important to understand what this case is and is not,” said the prosecutor. “This is not an ambiguous case where a jury will be asked to decide if Ms. Bornelli acted in self-defense in the confusion of the attack. It’s not a case in which the victim of sexual assault, acting out of fear and desperation, retaliated against her attacker because he continued to stalk and torment her. This was a carefully planned, cold-blooded act of vengeance that took place weeks after the sexual assault. The victim in this case, Mr. Sosa, suffered multiple stab wounds. These include the loss of three fingers on his left hand—defensive wounds that an unarmed victim would receive when fighting off a vicious attack. This was, in plain English, a revenge killing.”

  The anchorman reappeared on-screen and closed out the segment. Isa’s photo disappeared, and the coverage shifted to a house fire in Miami Shores, but those two words were already burned into Jack’s mind: revenge killing.

  The prosecutor and the media-relations team had finally come up with a viable handle. A good one. One that required a response from the defense team.

  Whether Manny liked it or not.

  Keith and Isa went for a run along Brickell Avenue. A five-year-old was at the upper limit for a baby jogger, but Melany was small for her age and needed to get out of the apartment as much as anyone.

  The Financial District is quiet on Saturdays, and the evening rush to nearby Restaurant Row had not yet begun. Eating outdoors was the big draw, and with spring already starting to feel like summer, the sidewalk cafés would remain empty until after sunset. It was almost too hot to run. At the half-mile mark, Keith was breathing heavily enough for Isa to be concerned. The professional life of a banker was sedentary, save for running through airports, and Keith was no longer the man who used to take her cross-country skiing in Zermatt or hiking in the shadow of the Matterhorn. She relieved him of jogger-pushing responsibilities as they reached the westerly bend on Brickell Avenue, where mixed-use high-rises yielded to strictly residential condominiums. At one mile, Keith’s shirt was soaked with sweat. He needed a break.

  “Let’s make it to the church,” said Isa, and they pushed on.

  Nestled in the midst of towering giants of steel and glass on the waterfront side of Brickell Avenue is St. Jude Melkite Catholic Church, one of the area’s few remaining historical buildings. The only Miami church built of Indiana Bedford stone—the same stone that adorns the exteriors of the Empire State Building and the Pentagon—St. Jude’s managed to withstand several powerful hurricanes and, even more impressive, a string of building booms that had sent countless other architectural gems the way of the wrecking ball.

  They stopped outside the church, beneath the shade of palm trees.

  “Are you okay, Daddy?” Melany asked with concern.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, huffing. “I’m”—two more breaths—“fine.”

  “I have to go potty,” said Melany.

  “Good,” said Keith. “Let’s get—a cab—back to—”

  “Seriously, Keith?”

  “Sorry,” he said, still breathless. “I’m hurtin’.”

  “I really have to go,” said Melany, grimacing.

  Isa jogged up the granite steps and checked the double entry doors to the church. They opened. “Come on. There has to be a bathroom in here.”

  Keith pushed the jogge
r up the handicap ramp and followed Isa into the vestibule. The bathroom was behind the stairwell, and it was barely big enough for one person. Isa got Melany situated and waited outside the door. Keith stepped into the chapel, admiring the Romanesque arches surrounding a beautifully tinted ceiling as blue as the south Florida sky. Painted icons graced the altar and surrounding walls, and arched windows of stained glass commemorated various saints. Rows of old wooden pews stretched before him.

  A sense of peace came over him. More peace than he’d felt since setting foot in Miami. He needed a touch of God’s grace, after a day that had started with his wife’s indictment. He didn’t like being excluded from Isa’s meetings with her lawyers. He wanted to trust his wife’s assurances that she was telling him everything that was discussed. But how would he know?

  “Beautiful church,” said Isa as she came alongside him.

  “Very pretty.”

  They were standing behind the last row of pews; the vestibule and bathroom were just a few steps away. Isa’s gaze swept the ceiling.

  “When I die, this is the kind of place where I would want the funeral service.”

  Keith shot her an uneasy glance. “Why would you even say that?”

  “We’re all going to die, Keith.”

  “But why are you even thinking about dying?”

  “It’s probably the way you nearly croaked on a one-mile run,” she said, smiling. Then she turned serious. “And everything else that’s happened in the last few days.”

  “Oh, honey,” he said as he put his arm around her.

  She was suddenly trembling, as if trouble wasn’t far below the surface. “Sorry. It’s all so crazy. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “It’s going to be okay,” he said.

  “No, it’s not. Nothing is ever going to be the same.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true.”

  Keith held her close, speaking more softly. “Did Jack and Manny tell you something this morning? Something you forgot to tell me about?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s not anything that anybody said. I’m just so scared.”

  “Of course you are. I’m scared, too.”

  “Not like I am,” she said, her voice quaking. “I just feel like he’s back. After all these years he’s back in my life.”

  Keith laid his hands squarely on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Listen to me, okay? That’s not anything you have to worry about. Gabriel Sosa will never be back to hurt you.”

  “I know,” she said. “I didn’t mean him.”

  Keith was confused. Then he thought of the meeting in Jack’s office. “Do you mean your father?”

  “No, no. I mean David Kaval.”

  “He’s in prison.”

  “What if he gets out? Jack and Manny both think that he cut some kind of deal with the prosecution.”

  Keith wanted to reassure her, but he couldn’t hide his own surprise. “After all that has happened, that’s what you’re most afraid of? David Kaval?”

  She lowered her gaze, as if unable to explain.

  “Mommy, I’m finished!”

  The bathroom door swung open. Isa started away, but Keith squeezed her hand, stopping her. “I want to talk more about this.”

  The expression on her face was one of pain and desperation, as if she were begging him to let it go and forget she’d ever raised it.

  “We have to talk about this. Okay?”

  “Mommy!”

  “I’m coming,” said Isa as she broke away.

  Keith let her go, watching as she hurried into the vestibule, wondering what the scary truth was about David Kaval—and not at all certain that he would ever hear it from Isa.

  It was 6:45 p.m. Jack and Andie were still at the house. Abuela had moved from the recliner to the guest bedroom, pouting. Almost ninety minutes had passed, and the backup babysitter was still “on her way.”

  “Where’s she coming from, Bulgaria?” asked Jack.

  They were standing in the kitchen. Andie shifted Riley from her left arm to her right. “Let’s give her fifteen more minutes. Then I’ll pop the popcorn. You pick the movie.”

  “Frozen!” said Riley.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Jack went to the family room, took a seat on the couch, and scrolled through the movie offerings. Frozen for the fifteenth time was not going to happen, even if it meant Jack’s total surrender to an On-Demand double feature of Sex and the City and The Devil Wears Prada. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Abuela walking quietly toward the front door. It was understood that she slept over whenever she visited. She was toting her overnight bag.

  “Abuela, where are you going?”

  She stopped and turned. “I go where wanted.”

  Oh, boy. Jack pushed himself up from the couch, stopped her in the foyer, and took the bag from her. “Abuela, please. Nobody said you’re not wanted.”

  “A donde te quieren mucho no vengas a menudo.”

  The Spanish would have been beyond Jack’s ability but for the fact that it was one of Abuela’s oft-used expressions, the Cuban equivalent of “A constant guest is never welcome.”

  “Abuela, you don’t have to work to earn the right to visit. We want your company, not your services. Let the babysitter do the hard part. Just enjoy Riley.”

  Her expression tightened. “Y quién es la bebé-seeder?” she asked in Spanglish.

  “Her name is Catalina.”

  “Catalina? Hmm. Como la jinetera.”

  Like the prostitute? Jack sighed, surmising that there must be a Catalina of ill repute in one of Abuela’s telenovelas. “No, she’s not a prostitute. She’s the oldest daughter of Andie’s friend at the FBI.”

  Jack’s cell rang. michael posten flashed on the screen—the crime reporter for the Miami Tribune.

  “Abuela, I have to take this call. Will you please stay?”

  “No.”

  “Just until I finish this call?”

  “No.”

  “Por favor?”

  She smiled warmly. “Ah, español. Muy bien. I stay, mi vida.”

  Mi vida—literally “my life”—which summed up the way she felt about her grandson.

  Abuela wheeled her bag back to the guestroom. Jack answered the call, but he’d already missed Posten. Almost immediately his cell chimed, and a text message from Posten quickly followed: I need a comment in two hours or the headline and first sentence will run as filed in Sunday’s paper. See below.

  Jack scrolled down and read:

  ACCUSED “REVENGE KILLER” TO POLICE:

  “I WENT ALONG WITH IT”

  The Miami Tribune has obtained a twelve-year-old police report, including statements from alleged sexual assault victim Isabelle Bornelli, which reveals powerful new details about Bornelli’s connection to the brutal murder of her alleged attacker, Gabriel Sosa.

  The message ended there. Jack read it again, more slowly, trying to understand. Police report? What police report?

  Jack redialed Posten, but it went to voice mail. At the tone, he left a message: “Michael, thanks for the heads-up. I will definitely have a comment for you, but I’ll need the full two hours. Call me if you can give me more information or if the deadline changes.”

  To be sure, Jack also typed the same message and sent it by text. Then he walked back to the family room and dialed his client’s cell.

  “Did you pick a movie?” Andie asked as she entered the room.

  Jack had the phone to his ear, listening to Isa’s cell ring, willing her to answer. “Yeah,” he said to Andie. “How about Dial M for Murder?”

  Chapter 20

  Reaching across a bay as dark and calm as the cloudy night, alight with a stream of glowing headlamps, the interconnected bridges of the Rickenbacker Causeway, like a strand of floating pearls, tethered Key Biscayne to the mainland. Brickell Avenue was roughly halfway between Jack’s house on the key and Manny’s
place on Miami Beach, so they met at Isa’s apartment at the Four Seasons. The legal team gathered on the terrace around a glass-top patio table. Keith retreated to Melany’s room to read to her.

  “Went along with it,” Isa said with a bite in her tone. “I can’t believe any newspaper would print such a thing.”

  For the first time, Jack heard real anger from his client. Perhaps it was the shoddy journalism, or it could have been the cumulative effect of five days from hell. Either way, the shell-shocked and numb Isa was not at this table.

  “I’m glad to see more fight in you,” said Jack. “But let’s break this down. You’re angry because you never said those words—‘I went along with it’—to the police. Is that right?”

  Isa hesitated.

  Jack tried again. “You told us that you never talked to the police, right?”

  “Well, what I told you was that I didn’t report the sexual assault. And that’s true. I didn’t. But—”

  “But what?”

  “I know this is going to sound like a lie, but I’m telling the truth. About a month after I was raped, a detective from Miami-Dade Police came to see me.”

  “About the sexual assault?”

  “No. It had nothing to do with that. I told you before that Gabriel and I went on a date. My number was in his cell phone records. The police were talking to everyone he called in the month or so before he died. It was routine.”

  “So this was a homicide detective who came to see you?”

  “Yes. I guess so.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “No. Until you brought this up, I didn’t even remember talking to the police. This was so long ago. In my mind, I’ve blocked out the attack and Gabriel Sosa. These are suppressed memories. I’m not playing psychiatrist on you, but there is such a thing. It’s part of the post-traumatic stress disorder, and it’s real.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” said Jack, though he was starting to question far more things than he would have liked. “But let’s stay focused. Did you or did you not tell the police that you ‘went along’ with the attack on Gabriel Sosa?”