Most Dangerous Place

by James Grippando

  Keith lay awake in the darkness. Isa was sound asleep on her side of the bed. Keith had slept little in the previous two days, but apparently Isa had slept even less. She’d agonized over the letter from her father—whether to tell her lawyer about it, whether to read it before Keith got home, whether to read it at all. She’d admitted to having retrieved it from the garbage twice. There was no doubt in her mind that it would be filled with lies. Reading it together, with her husband, would be cathartic for her. A burden lifted. Or shifted—to him.

  I gotta get to sleep.

  He was exhausted, but rest wouldn’t come.

  Keith slid out of bed and walked quietly across the room. The door was open, so he made it into the hallway without disturbing Isa. He continued to Melany’s room. Another open door. Her Winnie-the-Pooh night-light cast an orange-yellow glow across the carpet. He tiptoed as he entered. Even with her audio processors removed for the night Melany could sense movement across the floor. Keith stopped at her bedside and watched her sleep. Such peacefulness. He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

  “My angel,” he whispered.

  He stepped back slowly and left the room. Seeing Melany had been exactly what he needed. The perfect reminder that all of this would be worth it—that the past didn’t matter.

  Or did it?

  Keith went to the kitchen, got a glass of milk, and walked to the window. The cityscape was still aglow, though it was nowhere near as bright as it had been just a couple of hours earlier, when he and Isa had taken seats at the kitchen counter, sliced open the envelope from her father, and read the letter the way she’d wanted to read it—together.

  Until the letter, Gabriel Sosa had been an abstraction to Keith. Isa’s father—he still didn’t think of him as a “father-in-law”—had changed everything. Maybe the letter was nothing but lies, as Isa had said. Lies or not, the effect on Keith was the same. Gabriel Sosa had never felt like part of them before. The letter, even more than the indictment, brought him into their marriage. Partly because of what the letter said. But mostly because it made Keith realize that he may have lied to Jack. He’d sworn to Jack that he had never heard the name Gabriel Sosa until Isa’s arrest.

  But he had—possibly.

  It was early in his relationship with Isa, years back, probably the fourth or fifth time they’d slept together. They’d been out late and both had had too much to drink. They undressed each other and fell into the bed. It was sloppy and awkward sex. They were so drunk, in fact, that they even laughed off a guffaw that might have destroyed another relationship. All these years later, it didn’t seem funny at all.

  Keith couldn’t be certain. His memory wasn’t clear, and so many years had passed. But one thing he was sure of. As he rolled on top and found his way inside her, Isa had called him by the wrong name.

  The name had long ago escaped him. But the letter—written by the man who had traveled all the way from Venezuela to tell Jack and Keith that he could prove Isa wasn’t raped—had brought it back to him. Or was the past playing tricks on him? Keith didn’t think so. In the back of his mind, deep in his memory, he could hear Isa’s voice on that night. He was almost certain that in that breathless heat of passion, she’d brought her lips to his ear and whispered a name that, at the time, had meant nothing to him.

  “Gabriel.”

  Chapter 46

  On Monday morning the court bailiff called two cases for a single hearing.

  “The State of Florida v. Keith Ingraham and the State of Florida v. Isabelle Bornelli,” he intoned, and the case numbers followed.

  From high on the bench Judge Gonzalez greeted the lawyers. They rose at their respective tables to announce their appearance—first the prosecution and then the defense. Which made it official: Manny’s proposed arrangement had carried the day.

  “Jack Swyteck, for defendant Isabelle Bornelli.”

  “Manuel Espinosa, for defendant Keith Ingraham.”

  As planned, the defense team had reconvened on Sunday morning, and the lawyers had laid out the many good reasons for husband and wife to have separate counsel. Isa didn’t want to choose and was relieved that Jack and Manny had essentially chosen for her. Keith was pleased to know that he wouldn’t be shelling out another hundred-thousand-dollar retainer to a third lawyer.

  Monday’s hearing marked the first time that all four were seated at the table for the defense.

  “Give me one sec,” the judge said, and a frantic self-search commenced beneath his robe for a missing pair of reading glasses. The courtroom was silent, but it was far from empty. Media coverage of the case had subsided over the summer, but Keith’s indictment had sparked interest anew. Virtually every significant news agency in south Florida was represented in the press gallery, and about half of the seats for the general public were filled. Jack noticed none of the “Rape Victims Matter” demonstrators from Isa’s arraignment, but that didn’t mean they weren’t coming.

  The judge affixed his spectacles, checked the notepad before him, and cleared his throat. “I understand that the parties have stipulated to Mr. Ingraham’s release on his own recognizance.”

  Sylvia Hunt rose but remained at the prosecution’s table, near the empty jury box. “Provided that the court retains possession of his passport,” she said.

  The judge’s expression soured. “That seems extreme, don’t you think, Ms. Hunt?”

  “The defendant is charged with a felony punishable by up to fifteen years in prison. I don’t think it’s too much to ask that he stay in Miami-Dade County and not travel to a Communist country where extradition would be virtually impossible.”

  The communism argument. Here we go again, thought Jack, but it was Manny’s turn to speak.

  “Your Honor, my client is an international banker who runs the Hong Kong office for IBS. He doesn’t travel there to pledge allegiance to the Communist Party. I would also add that his wife surrendered her passport in April, awaiting trial, and she has never attempted to flee. If the court is truly concerned that Mr. Ingraham might not return for trial, we would agree to post a bond.”

  “Done,” said the judge. “Bail is set at fifty thousand dollars. Mr. Ingraham’s passport shall be returned immediately. He is free to travel to his workplace in Hong Kong, but he is prohibited from entering the Chinese mainland.”

  Keith leaned toward Jack and whispered, “I can live with that.”

  Manny thanked the judge and took his seat at the table beside his client. Jack rose for the main event.

  “Next issue,” the judge said. “I have a motion from the prosecution to consolidate these two cases for all purposes, including a single trial in which husband and wife will be codefendants.”

  “That’s correct,” said the prosecutor. “We believe that is both efficient and fair to both defendants.”

  “We disagree,” said Jack. “Judge, the prosecution wants to prejudice the jury against Isa Bornelli by injecting into her trial the question of whether her husband made an illegal payment to David Kaval, the state’s chief witness against my client. That’s improper.”

  “Why would a joint trial be improper?” asked the judge. “This all seems intertwined.”

  “It’s a simple matter of law and logic,” said Manny, rising.

  It was a bit of hijacking, as the defense team had agreed before the hearing that Jack would cover the issue of a joint trial.

  “Who’s arguing this motion for the defense?” asked the judge.

  “I will, if cocounsel will yield,” said Manny. “If anyone is prejudiced by a joint trial, it’s my client, who is facing relatively minor charges and will be forced to stand trial with an accused murderer.”

  Jack didn’t want to yield, but he also didn’t want to send a message to the prosecutor that her obvious plan was working—that division was already brewing in the defense camp.

  The judge took Manny’s bait. “Proceed, Mr. Espinosa.”

  Jack returned to his seat. Manny buttoned his coat, and he paraded fo
rward in a manner that belied his words to Jack in the motor court on Saturday night—that he was about the money, not ego.

  “Here’s the thing, Judge. Mr. Ingraham cannot be an accessory after the fact to the murder of Gabriel Sosa unless his wife is guilty of murder. It only makes sense to let her trial play out first. If she is acquitted, the ‘accessory after the fact’ charges against my client must be dismissed. If she is convicted, the court can proceed with a trial on the accessory charge.”

  The judge made a face. “Two trials instead of one? That makes no sense. This is a lot like a conspiracy case. Coconspirators stand trial together every day in the court systems.”

  “It’s not really a conspiracy charge,” said Manny. “David Kaval and Ms. Bornelli are the alleged conspiracy.”

  “The same logic applies,” said the judge. “The motion to consolidate is granted. Mr. Ingraham and Ms. Bornelli will stand trial together. Anything else?”

  Jack rose. “Your Honor, I’d like to be heard on this.”

  “I’m not going to give the defense two bites at the apple on every issue that comes up. The cases are consolidated. Coordinate your strategies accordingly. We’re adjourned,” he announced with a bang of the gavel.

  All rose on the bailiff’s command. Judge Gonzalez stepped down from the bench and exited through the side door to his chambers. Jack stepped closer to Manny, speaking under his breath so as not to be heard by his client. “Don’t you ever pull a fucking stunt like that again.”

  “I had the judge eating out of my hand on bail. It wasn’t time to change horses. I went for it. You would have done the same.”

  A bustling courtroom wasn’t the place to debate it. Both Isa and Keith had questions, but the media were standing behind them, just on the other side of the rail. Jack told Isa to “save it” until they were back at his office. Jack gathered his papers, but the prosecutor stopped him before he could step away.

  “My office, Jack?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Sylvia wasn’t smiling, but she was clearly pleased with the judge’s decision to consolidate. “No prosecutor would want to put a victim of sexual assault through the added ordeal of a murder trial if justice can be served without one. I have an offer for your client,” she said. “And it’s the best offer she’s going to get.”

  Chapter 47

  Twenty minutes after Manny and the newly anointed “joint” defendants arrived at the Freedom Institute, Jack joined them. His meeting with Sylvia Hunt had been brief, with no need to retreat to the state attorney’s office. Jack had all the details by the time they left the courthouse.

  “It’s not a bad offer,” said Jack.

  They were in Jack’s office, though the seating arrangement was a little different for this meeting than previous ones. No one had choreographed it, at least not overtly, but husband and wife had ended up on opposite sides of the table. Isa was beside Jack, Keith beside Manny.

  “If Isa pleads guilty to voluntary manslaughter and accepts a prison sentence of forty-two months, the prosecution will drop all charges against Keith.”

  “I won’t do it,” she said. “No way.”

  “I agree,” said Keith. “This prosecutor has built a case of first-degree murder on the back of David Kaval—a lying scumbag. Even with his lies, they can’t put Isa at the scene of the crime.”

  “They don’t have to prove she was there,” said Jack. “They have to prove she planned and directed it.”

  “Which they can’t,” said Keith. “This has been the prosecutor’s strategy from the beginning. Overcharge Isa and then hope that she caves and cops a plea to a lesser charge.”

  “I agree that’s the strategy,” said Jack. “Charging you puts more pressure on Isa to cut a deal. The possibility that both Melany’s mother and father may end up in jail has to weigh heavily on a mother’s mind. We may not like that game, but we still need to evaluate the deal.”

  “If I’m sentenced to forty-two months, how much time would I actually serve?”

  “Florida law requires you to serve at least eighty-five percent of your sentence. A few days short of three years.”

  “That’s too long,” said Isa.

  “If you’re convicted at trial, it’s a mandatory life sentence. And life in Florida means life. There is no parole.”

  There was silence in the room. At this stage, Jack had expected another knee-jerk response of “No deals,” but Isa actually seemed to be considering it—at least for a moment. Keith seemed to be putting his emotions aside as well. Practicality was setting in.

  “I could see where someone in Isa’s shoes wouldn’t want to roll the dice,” Keith said, addressing the group. Then he looked at Isa. “Honey, I’m not pushing you one way or the other. But I want you to know that I’ll be here for you. Three years is—”

  “Three of the most formative years of Melany’s life,” she said in a sharp tone. “Kindergarten is when we mainstream her, Keith. These next three years—the next year, really—will define who she is for the rest of her life. I can’t spend that time in jail.”

  “I know, but—”

  “No buts,” said Isa. “And it’s not just about doing time. Entering a guilty plea would be a lie. How would I ever explain that to our daughter?”

  Keith fell silent, then nodded. “I think it’s unanimous,” he told the lawyers. “No deals. At least none that involves jail time.”

  Jack felt compelled to point out the elephant in the room. “We all know where this is headed if Isa turns down this deal.”

  “We do?” asked Isa.

  Manny did. “Sylvia Hunt will offer Keith a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?” asked Keith.

  Manny moved to the other side of the room, closer to Keith, his client. “My guess? She’ll offer to drop the charges in exchange for your testimony against Isa.”

  “That’s not gonna happen,” said Keith.

  “That won’t stop the prosecutor from trying.”

  “What could I possibly say to hurt Isa?”

  “The prosecutor would be most interested in anything Isa might have said to you that could be construed as her admission of guilt.”

  “There’s nothing like that,” said Keith.

  “Or some piece of evidence that she may have shared with you,” said Jack.

  Keith hesitated just long enough for Jack to notice. “Nothing,” said Keith.

  “This doesn’t make sense to me,” said Isa. “I thought we all agreed that I can’t testify against Keith and Keith can’t testify against me. Our conversations as husband and wife are protected by the marital privilege.”

  “That’s true for conversations after you were married,” said Manny. “But it doesn’t apply to anything you shared before you were married, even if you shared your deepest, darkest secrets in complete confidence.”

  “The policy behind this privilege is to protect the institution of marriage,” said Jack. “If it wasn’t said in the context of a valid marriage, no privilege attaches.”

  Keith put a finer point on it. “So if I wanted to, I could testify about things Isa and I talked about before we were married?”

  “Yes,” said Manny.

  “That goes both ways,” said Jack. “Isa could testify against you if she wanted to. You couldn’t stop her.”

  Husband and wife exchanged glances. “That would never happen,” said Keith.

  “No,” said Isa. “Never.”

  “Just to be clear,” said Keith. “I will never agree to any deal that sends my wife to jail. Any more than she would cut a deal that sends me to jail.”

  Jack nodded, but he’d seen it all—spouses turning against spouses, mothers turning against their own sons. It was impossible to predict what deals a client might consider or even accept as trial approaches and the prospect of serious prison time looms.

  And Jack just didn’t trust Manny.

  “I’ll tell Sylvia Hunt no deal,” said Jack. “Is that the decision?”

  “
Yes,” said Isa.

  “Final decision,” said Keith.

  Chapter 48

  David Kaval could taste freedom. It was on the other side of the prison door—the final step in a journey that had begun 3,104 days earlier.

  Eight and a half fucking years.

  Kaval’s last day at FSP had started at two a.m., when a corrections officer entered his cell and told him, “Pack your shit.” Kaval had known for some time that this day was coming, but he hadn’t prepacked. He’d told no one on the block about his release, not even his cellmate, since getting the news. He’d followed his daily routine to the letter: the same vocational class, same workout schedule, same walk in the prison yard. He’d done absolutely nothing out of the ordinary—nothing that might signal to other inmates that his release was imminent. Kaval wasn’t stupid. No sense putting the prison world on notice that time was running out for anyone planning to even an old score with Inmate Y-37980.

  Like everything in prison life, the release process was painfully slow. By three a.m. he’d finally reached a holding tank with other inmates. For all but Kaval and one other lucky guy who felt like he’d won the lottery, however, this wasn’t a happy day. Most were simply being transferred to another facility as part of routine population control. At five a.m. the guards escorted the entire group to the cafeteria, where Kaval ate his last prison meal. Then it was off to another holding tank. More waiting, but he was too pumped with adrenaline to be bored. Some of the corrections officers he’d come to know over the years walked over and shared parting words, things along the lines of “Keep your head up, Kaval,” and “Don’t come back.” One guard, however, kept his distance. Kaval kept looking in his direction, determined to lock eyes with him at least once before leaving.

  It was the asshole who’d nearly derailed Kaval’s early release.

  Inmates at FSP can earn “gain time” to shave off as much as 15 percent of their court-imposed sentence. It’s a tool the Florida Department of Corrections uses to encourage satisfactory inmate behavior and participation in prison programs. Gain time is based on a point system: sixty days for earning a GED, another sixty days for performing an outstanding deed, and so on. Kaval had earned enough gain time to reduce his ten-year sentence by eighteen months. A single disciplinary report for fighting or other bad behavior, however, could cost an inmate all of his gain time. Who could spend eight years in a box and not lose his cool? Kaval had unloaded his anger on a Puerto Rican pedophile who kept singing “I kissed a girl and got arrested” to the tune of Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl”—for two hours, nonstop. Kaval smashed his fucking head into a urinal, and it cost him. No one had ever heard of an inmate getting his gain time reinstated. There was a first time for everything, however, and Kaval had pulled it off.