“You go ahead.”
He left, and the sliding door closed behind her. Isa laid her tablet aside, walked to the rail, and looked up at the sky. Somewhere between the Four Seasons and a billion stars a jet passed in silence. She wondered where it was coming from. It was hard to believe that just one week earlier they’d landed in Miami. Harder still to believe how everything had changed since then.
Isa’s gaze dropped from the sky to the horizon, and she held it there. Look up or out was her rule, never straight down. It wasn’t tied to a phobia. She’d read case studies of people who avoided balconies or climbing on roofs because they felt an inexplicable urge to jump. “High-place phenomenon” was the not very inventive label that psychiatrists put on it. For those people, the urge to jump had nothing to do with a death wish. It was simply their flight instinct kicking in to tell them why they felt scared. Isa’s rule—never look down—was born of something else entirely. Once in her life, she’d climbed up on a railing ten stories up. She’d looked down and even selected a landing spot. It wasn’t a psychological disorder or compulsion; she’d felt that jumping was her only choice. It was before Melany. Before Keith. When she was single. After she’d decided never to go back to Venezuela and that she’d never return to the States.
It was right after David Kaval found out that she was leaving the University of Miami and moving to Zurich.
“Are you scared, Isa?”
She was, and David knew it, but that wasn’t the point. He wanted to hear her say it.
“Yes,” she said, but it was barely audible. She was flat on her stomach, and the weight of David’s body on top of her made it difficult to breathe, let alone talk.
He grabbed her by the ponytail, jerking her head up from the floor. Tears clouded her vision, but it was too dark to see anyway.
“Do you know the most dangerous place, Isa?”
She was afraid to give the wrong answer, but she didn’t really understand the question. “What?”
He pulled her hair harder, until her chin was almost pointing to the night sky. “The most dangerous place,” he said, hissing. “Do you know where it is?”
“No,” she said, her voice shaking.
“Then I’ll tell you,” he said. “And I’m not making this up. This is FBI statistics. The most dangerous place for a woman to be. Guess where it is.”
“I can’t.”
She felt his hand slide around from the back of her neck to her throat. “Guess, damn it!”
“I don’t know. A parking garage?”
He squeezed her throat, then released. “No. Guess again.”
“A subway station?”
“No! You are so fucking stupid, Isa.”
She didn’t answer. She felt his breath on the back of her neck as he leaned closer. “The most dangerous place a woman can be,” he said in a low, threatening voice, “is in a relationship. With a man.”
Isa felt chills, but she said nothing.
Kaval’s grip on her throat tightened. “Do you believe that?”
He released the tension on her ponytail for an instant—just long enough for her to nod once.
“Yeah, you better,” he said in that same even, threatening voice. “Because wherever you go, no matter how far away. No matter where I end up, or how much time passes. You and me will always be in a relationship. Don’t you ever forget that.”
Isa froze, unable to speak.
“Did you hear me?”
She nodded again.
“Then say it, you fucking bitch.”
Isa swallowed her fear and answered in a voice that cracked. “I will never forget.”
Summer
Chapter 31
Jack parked his rental car and stepped into a meteorological wet blanket of relentless heat. It was a typical July afternoon in central Florida: 97 degrees and 97 percent humidity.
Random sprinkles brought no relief, the raindrops vaporizing instantly on the sun-baked asphalt. Jack had a short walk to the prison entrance, but even with his suit jacket draped over his arm, a “V” of sweat soaked the back of his dress shirt. A guard opened the door, and Jack thanked him for the cool wave of air-conditioning.
Never had a man been so happy to enter Florida State Prison.
Jack checked in at visitor reception. He was alone, having made this trip without Manny or his client. A corrections officer was seated on the other side of the three-quarter-inch glass. “I’m here for the deposition of David Kaval,” Jack said.
Kaval was one of over a thousand inmates at FSP who weren’t on death row. Still, eight years in the general prison population was no picnic. More Florida inmates died by their own hand than by lethal injection.
The guard led Jack through a set of secure doors to the attorney visitation room. Visits with attorneys and clerics were among the limited exceptions to the no-contact visitation rule, but the prisoner had not yet arrived. There was a rectangular table in the center of the windowless room. A stenographer was set up with her machine, seated beside the empty chair for the witness. Sylvia Hunt rose from the government’s side of the table, and the lawyers shook hands.
“Kaval is meeting with his attorney,” said the prosecutor.
A witness has a right to be represented by counsel, and the sweetheart deal that Kaval had cut in exchange for his testimony against Isa was solid evidence that Kaval’s lawyer was no slouch. Maddie Vargas was a pit bull who had parlayed years of experience at the public defender’s office into a successful private practice. Kaval was typical of her clientele: men facing or serving long prison sentences for violent crimes who nevertheless managed to tap into mysterious sources of funds to pay private attorneys their handsome fees.
The metal door on the opposite side of the room opened. A corrections officer entered first, followed by the shackled prisoner in the company of another guard. Kaval was an imposing figure, even in his prison jumpsuit—Jack’s height, but built like Theo. Maddy Vargas entered last, a middle-aged woman who wore too much makeup and not just one but two heavy gold bracelets on each wrist. Her auburn-colored hair was cropped a little too severely, not much longer than her client’s prison cut.
“Nice to meet you,” Jack said.
The chains rattled as Kaval took his seat at the end of the table, nearest to the stenographer. Vargas sat to his right. The guards assumed their posts on opposite sides of the room, one at the door to the cellblock, two at the door to freedom. The stenographer swore the witness. Jack was ready to begin. A deposition, however, was not a musical, and while the “very beginning” might be “a very good place to start” for Julie Andrews and the Trapp Family Singers, Jack liked to mix things up and catch his witness off guard. He started at anywhere but the beginning.
“Mr. Kaval, when was the last time you had any communication with Isabelle Bornelli?”
“Uh, what do you mean by communication?”
“Talk. Write. Text. E-mail. Sign language. Smoke signals. Any form of communication ever known to the human race. I think that about covers it.”
“I object,” said Vargas. “Your question assumes that Mr. Kaval knows Ms. Bornelli.”
Jack rolled his eyes. There was no judge to rule on objections, which was normal in any deposition. Vargas was merely making a record. But some records were not worth making.
“Mr. Kaval is the chief witness for the prosecution against my client,” said Jack. “I’m perfectly willing to accept that he has never met Ms. Bornelli, has no idea who she is, and has no firsthand knowledge of anything he testified about before the grand jury. Is that your point, counselor?”
The prosecutor intervened. “I think Ms. Vargas would like to withdraw her objection.”
“Withdrawn,” she said.
Jack continued. “You can answer, sir.”
Kaval drew a breath, thinking. “Last time we communicated . . .”
“That is the question,” said Jack.
“Does that include blow jobs?”
His lawyer leaned forward. “Just answer
the question, David. The transcript does not reflect jokes.”
“Especially tasteless ones,” said Jack.
Kaval folded his arms across his chest. “Honestly, I don’t remember.”
“Let’s break it down. Have you had any kind of communication with Isa Bornelli since you were incarcerated?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Jack tried not to show his surprise, even if it was the first time he’d heard it. “How many times?”
“I don’t know. Twice maybe. I wrote her a couple of letters. One was when I first got here. Another one maybe six months later.”
“Why did you write her?”
“I asked her for money. She got herself a rich old man. She could afford it.”
“Did she owe you money?” asked Jack.
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I’m asking you, Mr. Kaval.”
“I’d say she owed it, yeah.”
“Why did she owe you?”
He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing, as if he resented the question. “I was good to her, that’s why. Better than she deserved. Least she could do is help me out when I’m in trouble.”
“How much did you ask for?”
“I don’t think I put a dollar figure on it, or a euro figure—whatever the fuck money she had in the bank.”
“Try not to curse,” said his lawyer.
“Sorry,” said Kaval. “I asked her to send what she could afford.”
Jack made a note to himself—extortion—and continued. “Did Ms. Bornelli answer your letters?”
“No.”
“Did she send you any money?”
“No.”
“So these two letters were one-way communications,” said Jack. “You reached out to her, but you got no response.”
“I guess that’s right.”
“Did you have any other communications like those? Let’s call them attempted communications.”
“No.”
“Well, let me speak up here,” said the prosecutor, “because I have no interest in getting into arguments at trial about the completeness of the answers that Mr. Swyteck received in this deposition. The collect telephone call that Mr. Kaval placed to Ms. Bornelli clearly was an ‘attempted communication.’”
Jack froze. He knew nothing about a collect phone call, but it was hardly a tactical advantage to let the prosecutor know that his client had neglected to tell him about it. “Let’s make the full record anyway,” said Jack, bluffing through it. “Tell me about that collect call, Mr. Kaval.”
He did. Jack listened, jotted down a couple notes, and then continued as if he’d heard nothing new. “Why did you try to call Ms. Bornelli?”
“I wanted her to talk dirty to me.”
His lawyer groaned. “I told you, David—no jokes.”
“I’m not joking. Isa can talk like a fucking street whore. And she would have, if I told her to. That’s why she didn’t accept the charges.”
“I’m sure that’s the reason,” said Jack.
He smirked at Jack. “You don’t know her very well, do you?”
“Mr. Kaval, I ask the questions here,” said Jack. “That’s the way this works.”
“Ask away.”
“I’ve represented many clients in FSP. Most of them on death row.”
“Guess they should have hired a better lawyer.”
Kaval’s lawyer snorted, then apologized. “Sorry. That one was kind of funny.”
“My point is this,” said Jack. “Inmates can’t just haul off and place collect calls to anyone. There’s an approved list of people they can call. Was Isa Bornelli on your approved list?”
“Yeah.”
Jack was getting deep into unknown territory, but a deposition was the place to ask the open-ended “why,” “how,” and “what” questions that a lawyer would never ask on cross-examination at trial. “How did she get on your list?”
“I put her there.”
“I understand. But the list needs the warden’s approval, and he wouldn’t grant it simply because Isa was your old girlfriend. What exactly did you do to get her approved?”
He glanced uneasily at his attorney, and Vargas spoke for him. “Mr. Kaval will decline to answer any questions about how Ms. Bornelli got on his approved call list.”
“On what basis?” asked Jack.
Vargas leaned closer to her client and whispered into his ear. Kaval looked at Jack and said, “On counsel’s advice, I invoke my right under the Fifth Amendment not to answer, on the grounds I may incriminate myself.”
“What?”
“You heard him,” said Vargas.
“Allow me to explain,” said the prosecutor. “Our investigation has revealed that Mr. Kaval provided false information to the warden in order to get Ms. Bornelli on his approved call list.”
“What was that information?”
She reached into a file at her feet. “As required by law, we will be making a full production to the defense of all exculpatory evidence later this week. But in the interest of fairness, let the record reflect that I am now providing Mr. Swyteck a copy of a Certificate of Marriage for David Kaval and the defendant, Isabelle Bornelli.”
Jack examined the certificate, which certainly looked authentic, and then his gaze returned to the witness. “Is this real?”
Kaval looked to his attorney for guidance. “You can answer that question,” she told him.
“It’s real,” he said.
It still didn’t quite compute for Jack. “So, were you married to Isabelle Bornelli?”
“Yes,” said Kaval.
“Just to be clear,” said the prosecutor, “the state of Florida does not dispute the authenticity of the marriage certificate. Mr. Kaval’s misrepresentation to the warden was his failure to disclose their divorce when he put her name on his call list.”
It seemed like a simple thing to check, but with over 100,000 inmates statewide, the Florida Department of Corrections had higher priorities.
“When were you married?” Jack asked, barely able to hide his incredulity.
“It’s on the paper.”
“I see it,” he said, checking the date again. “So this was right before Isa left for Zurich. Roughly two months after the death of Gabriel Sosa.”
“About right.”
Jack was still staring at the certificate. It didn’t happen often, but he was speechless—and it lasted more than just a moment.
“We’re all waiting,” said Vargas. “Do you have any more questions, counselor?”
Jack took a breath. “Yeah,” he said. “I have a whole lotta questions.”
Chapter 32
The deposition of David Kaval ran late, and Jack missed the last flight back to Miami. Motels near the Jacksonville airport were booked, so he took a room downtown near the St. Johns River. Jack went downstairs for a late dinner at the terrace café. By eight p.m. it was comfortable enough to sit outside, but not cool enough to explain his sudden craving for a hot cup of coffee.
“Don’t you love that fresh-ground smell?” asked the waitress.
“You smell it too?”
She pointed out a tall building on the other side of the river, the Maxwell House manufacturing plant. “They’re roasting beans as we speak. Been here over a hundred years now—almost as long as me, heh-heh. Folks up in Hoboken lost their plant, but we kept the Max in Jax.”
She smiled—it was an obvious source of community pride—and then took his order. Jack thanked her for the unintended reminder—“Max”—and as she stepped away, he connected on FaceTime with Andie, Riley, and the lone male in residence at the Swyteck household.
“Kiss Max good night, Daddy.” The image of a wet, slurping tongue suddenly filled his iPhone screen.
“Good night, Max,” said Jack. “Riley, how’s my big girl?”
Her little face returned to the screen, her lower lip protruding. “Sad.”
“Why are you sad?”
“Cuz Uncle Theo came over and told me
a sad story.”
“What was the story?”
“Fatty and Skinny went to bed. Fatty rolled over, and Skinny was dead.”
“Honey, that’s just a joke. No reason to be sad.”
“Skinny’s not dead?”
“No. Skinny is fine. I promise.”
She giggled. “Silly Daddy. I knew that. I was just messing with you.”
“Messing with me, huh? Did Uncle Theo teach you that too?”
“Uh-huh. He says you’re easy. Mommy says so too.”
“Ooh-kay,” said Andie, as she appeared on the screen behind Riley. “Bedtime for blabbermouth.”
They said good night, and Andie promised to call after Riley was asleep. Jack disconnected, and as he laid his cell aside, he couldn’t help but think how strange life could be. A man he’d saved from the electric chair was now his best friend and was teaching Riley to “mess with him.” His closest friend from high school was working on the other side of the world, wondering if his wife might spend the rest of her life in a Florida prison. He felt sad for Keith—on many levels. Just one night away from home, and Jack was already lonely. Keith had spent nearly an entire month in Hong Kong without his family. FaceTime was his lifeline.
Working behind Neil Goderich’s old desk had had its advantages, Jack supposed.
The busboy filled his water glass, and Jack reviewed his notes from the deposition while waiting for his meal. His plan was to think about Kaval’s testimony overnight, digest things, and speak with his client in the morning—until his phone rang. Isa was not so patient. He took her call.
“How did it go, Jack?”
He drew a fragrant breath of air—good to the last drop—and started with the marriage certificate. He recounted what Kaval had told him, which was met by silence on the line. Finally, she spoke.
“It’s a fake.”
“It’s not a fake,” said Jack. “I covered that in the deposition. The certificate is a valid public record. Even the prosecutor vouched for it. You were married almost five years, and there’s an order of dissolution of marriage to prove it.”
“Yeah, five years of marital bliss,” she said with sarcasm. “And the first I found out about it was about four years and eleven months into it.”
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