But not without help.
At six a.m. the door opened, and the transferring inmates filed out—a line of losers linked one to the next by metal handcuffs. Kaval felt no spirit of camaraderie. It was every man for himself inside these walls, and he’d lived by that creed for more than eight years. There was no doubt in his mind that most of those guys—especially the lifers—would have slit his throat in a minute, if that was what it took to trade places with him.
“Let’s go,” said the guard.
Kaval grabbed his personal property bag and followed the corrections officer into the next room to meet a clerk seated at a desk. She asked a series of basic questions—name, age, DOB, FSP number—which she entered into the log. The guard took him to an adjoining room for fingerprinting and a photograph. Then it was time for the final strip search. About once a month some idiot failed to ditch his contraband before release. Not Kaval.
“You’re clean,” he said.
Kaval left his prison uniform on the floor. The guard handed him street clothes, which he pulled on quickly. Not stylish, but adequate. When he was dressed, the guard led him back to the clerk’s office. She pushed the desk phone toward him. The hold button was blinking.
“Sylvia Hunt wants to speak to you,” said the desk clerk. She handed Kaval the phone and opened the line with a punch of the button.
“Kaval here,” he said.
“You understand the terms of your release, right?” she said, no small talk.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If you leave the state of Florida before Isa Bornelli’s trial, it’s back to prison.”
“No problem. Gonna just lie on the beach.”
“If your testimony at trial deviates by one word from what you told the grand jury, you are going straight back to prison.”
“Got it.”
“And let me reiterate. The only time you are to get near Isabelle Bornelli is when you see her in the courtroom. If you get within five hundred yards of her outside the courthouse, we will lock you up. You understand?”
He smiled thinly. “I hear you.”
“Do you understand?”
“Sure. No problem.”
“Good. Stay out of trouble.”
The call ended, and Kaval hung up. The guard walked him out of the office and wished him well. Another guard at the exit made one last check to make sure they had the right inmate. Then the door opened. Kaval walked into the morning sun and heard the door close behind him. He stopped and turned around, threw his hands into the air, and shouted at the top of his lungs:
“Good-bye, you motherfuckers!”
A blue Chevy was at the curb with the motor running. Kaval walked quickly down the sidewalk, opened the car door, and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Hey, baby. Time to have sex.”
Ilene Simpson smiled. “There’s a motel two miles down the road.”
He smiled back. “This is going to be so fucking good.”
She reached across the console and slid her hand between his legs. Kaval was more than ready.
“You are such a bad boy.”
The smile left his face. “You love it, bitch.”
Fall
Chapter 49
Autumn brought butterflies. Isa felt them in her stomach, as summer’s end meant the start of the long-awaited trial.
Nineteen weeks—April to October—had passed since Isa’s indictment, which probably should have been time enough to prepare mentally and emotionally. But it almost didn’t seem real, not even as she and Keith took their seats at the mahogany table beside their lawyers.
Jury selection had consumed all of Monday and half of Tuesday, with lawyers for the prosecution and defense employing some combination of voodoo and pop psychology to pick the perfect group of strangers to decide if this husband and wife should live out their lives together, as parents, or separately, as inmates. Judge Gonzalez—the same judge who had denied bail to Isa—presided at trial. By three p.m., voir dire was complete.
“We have a jury,” Judge Gonzalez announced.
Isa sized them up. Six adults who had never been convicted of a felony, which was all that Florida law required in a noncapital case. Four women and two men: an elementary school teacher, a janitor, a nurse, a bus driver, a grad student from FIU, and a self-proclaimed musician. The prosecution had wanted men. The defense preferred women. Beyond that, who were these people? What baggage would they carry into the jury box? The rest of Isa’s life and Keith’s future were in their hands. Isa wasn’t terribly comfortable with that arrangement, but Jack and Manny had seemed satisfied. Then again, so had Sylvia Hunt.
The trial broke for lunch, and they returned to the courtroom for opening statements. Keith’s parents sat in the front row of public seating, directly behind their son. Isa had no family to show support. The press gallery was filled to capacity, well beyond the handful that had shown up for jury selection. Likewise, the general audience had nearly doubled in size. It was as if the scouts had phoned their friends to tell them that things were about to get interesting. Isa had the sickening sense that they were.
“Ms. Hunt,” said Judge Gonzalez, “please proceed.”
The prosecutor rose and stepped to the well of the courtroom, that stagelike opening before the bench where lawyers could seemingly step away from the action and speak directly to the jury, like a Shakespearean actor delivering a soliloquy. Hunt buttoned her blazer, bid the jurors a good afternoon, and dove straight into her thesis.
“Gabriel Sosa did not deserve to die.”
She paused for what seemed a painfully long stretch of silence, as if to ensure that the message sank in. Then she stepped closer to the jury and continued.
“Mr. Sosa was twenty years old when his bloodied and shirtless body was found in a ditch on the side of a road. He had been tortured to death.
“The defendant, Isabelle Bornelli, was a nineteen-year-old college freshman. A month before Mr. Sosa was murdered, they went on a date. She invited him up to her dorm room, where one of two things happened. Mr. Sosa and Ms. Bornelli had consensual sex, or Mr. Sosa sexually assaulted her.
“In this trial, you will see no police report of a sexual assault. Ms. Bornelli never filed one. However, you will hear the testimony of another man who dated Ms. Bornelli in college, David Kaval. Now, Mr. Kaval is no saint. In fact, he has spent almost his entire adult life in a maximum-security prison. Ms. Bornelli chose to tell him that she was raped by Mr. Sosa. Mr. Kaval will explain what happened next. He will admit the role he played in the murder of Gabriel Sosa. And he will tell you how Ms. Bornelli planned, participated in, and orchestrated this brutal revenge killing.
“I urge you to listen to Mr. Kaval’s testimony carefully. Listen to all the testimony in this case. But no matter what you may hear in this courtroom in the coming days, remember the very first thing I told you. Gabriel Sosa did not deserve a death sentence. Isabelle Bornelli has no right to decide who lives and who dies.”
Isa shrank on the inside as the prosecutor thanked the jurors and returned to her seat.
“Mr. Swyteck, your opening statement?” said the judge.
As Jack rose, Isa was fully aware of the joint defense team’s advance strategy on opening statements. But having felt the weight of the prosecutor’s words, and having witnessed the impact on the jury, she was having second thoughts.
“Defendant Bornelli will defer her opening statement to the start of her case,” Jack announced, sticking to the plan.
“Very well. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, defendant Bornelli has elected to save her opening statement until after the state of Florida has presented its evidence. It’s her right to do so, and if any defense is necessary, you will be hearing from her lawyer at that time. Mr. Espinosa, you may proceed on behalf of defendant Ingraham.”
Manny rose and stepped to the lectern. Behind Isa was a quick shuffle of reporters jockeying for position, then silence. Manny began, serious yet cordial in his delivery.
&
nbsp; “A revenge killing? Really? If things were that clear cut, this jury would have the easiest job on the planet.”
He stepped out from behind the lectern and continued. “But your job isn’t as simple as slapping the label ‘revenge killer’ on Isa Bornelli and sending her and her husband to prison. Your job is to make the prosecution prove its case against Keith Ingraham and Isa Bornelli beyond a reasonable doubt. That standard applies to each of them. They are husband and wife, but the charges against them are very different. Ms. Bornelli is charged with murder; Mr. Ingraham is charged as an accessory after the fact. The prosecution would like you to lump this all under the heading of one big ‘revenge killing’ and conclude that they are both criminals. That they are criminals.” Manny shook his head, saying, “Ms. Hunt has it all wrong, folks. There is no they. There is no conspiracy. There is no revenge killing.”
He paused, and for a split second Isa thought he might say “no rape.”
“Clearest of all, there is not a shred of evidence that my client, Keith Ingraham, has done anything wrong. He’s not an accessory after the fact to a murder. He’s a complete afterthought—of an overzealous prosecutor.”
Manny returned to his seat. Isa tried not to be obvious in making her assessment, but she was drawing on every ounce of her training and education in psychology to gauge the jury’s reaction. It was a stoic bunch—or perhaps they had already condemned her.
Judge Gonzalez broke the silence. “It’s almost five o’clock, so let’s reconvene tomorrow at nine. Jurors are reminded of their oaths. We’re adjourned,” he said with the bang of a gavel.
All rose as the judge exited the courtroom. Isa tried to catch Keith’s eye, but he had turned his head to reassure his parents, which made her feel even more alone. She could have used some reassurance. All this talk about reasonable doubt was nice. Manny’s mention of “no evidence” against Keith had been poignant.
But it would have helped to hear someone say that she was innocent.
Chapter 50
Jack led the way from Judge Gonzalez’s courtroom to the main courthouse exit. Isa and Keith joined hands and followed, with Manny bringing up the rear. The gaggle of media around them made for a slow-moving glob of humanity that funneled through the revolving door to the courthouse steps. Camera crews stood right outside the building. Jack was immediately met by an array of black microphones thrust in his face, as effective as punji stakes in bringing the caravan to a halt. Jack had prepared a sound bite for the evening news, and this was the time to deliver.
“The victim in this case is Isa Bornelli. She and her husband are innocent of the charges against them, and we are confident that this jury will return a verdict of not guilty.”
Jack pushed forward, with push being the operative word. The media wanted more. One reporter after another fired questions at Isa—some of them routine, others plain obnoxious.
“Did you do it, Isa?”
“Did Gabriel Sosa sexually assault you?”
“Hey, Isa, does a rapist deserve to die?”
He’d coached Isa not to respond in any way, and she followed the plan as they made their way down the final tier of granite steps, toward the group of demonstrators on the sidewalk. Jack was certain that they meant well, and “Rape Victims Matter” was a welcome show of support, but he worried how Isa would hold up if this gauntlet became a nightly occurrence.
“You did nothing wrong, girl!”
“We love you Isa!”
Keith had arranged for a car service, and the team piled into the stretch limo at the curb. Jack and Manny took the forward-facing bench seat; Isa and Keith sat opposite them, with their backs to the driver. Manny yanked the door shut, and the driver pulled away.
Isa exhaled loudly. “Isn’t there another way out of the building?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Jack.
“Not unless you’re going to the stockade,” said Manny.
Jack would have been content to leave out that point of clarification.
“What’s that stuck to your computer bag?” asked Manny.
“Huh?” asked Jack. He looked down and saw a yellow Post-it attached to his bag. It wasn’t a handwriting he recognized. He removed it and read it to himself.
“She will not testify,” it read.
“What is it?” asked Isa. She’d apparently read his expression.
“Stop the car!”
The driver slammed on the breaks.
“Jack, what is it?” asked Isa.
Jack jumped out of the car, hopped onto the sidewalk, and ran the half city block back to the courthouse steps. Reporters and their crews were in the middle of the “live from the courthouse” wrap-up, and the crowd was dispersing. But Jack knew that, in the confusion of their exit, someone on those steps had just moments earlier reached through the crowd and slapped the Post-it onto his computer bag. He was making a mad dash in desperation, but this was his only shot at catching a glimpse of whoever had done it.
He raced up the courthouse steps, looking left and right, then stopped at the revolving doors. He looked out across the street, then up toward the Metro station. He saw nothing suspicious, but, then again, he didn’t know who or what he was looking for. He pulled his iPhone from his pocket and took some quick video, scanning the entire area. It was a long shot, but a study of the video might reveal a clue. He let it record for a minute and then made a call to the prosecutor.
“Sylvia, I’m outside the courthouse,” he said, and he quickly told her what had happened.
“What do you want me to do about it?” she asked.
“I read this message as a threat against my client.”
“A threat? How?”
“It’s saying that if she testifies there will be consequences.”
“It’s a statement of fact: ‘she will not testify,’ meaning that your client fears the truth and doesn’t have the guts to testify at trial.”
Jack hesitated, never having considered that reading. “I think it’s a threat.”
“I don’t. But if it is, who made it?”
“I don’t know. That’s the point. I want the note checked for fingerprints.”
“Fine. Wait where you are. I’ll have MDPD come to you and collect it properly.”
He thanked her and hung up.
Sylvia Hunt phoned MDPD, and then got in her car and took the turnpike south to Homestead, to the Eden Park mobile home community.
Eden Park was twenty-seven acres of manufactured housing, a flat and treeless tract of agricultural land that Miami-Dade had rezoned “residential” to accommodate thousands of migrant workers who worked the surrounding fields of beans and tomatoes each winter. Some mobile home parks were beautiful, having made it from one hurricane season to the next with nary a sign of damage from wind or rain. Eden Park was not one of them. When it came to tropical storms, Eden Park was like that unknowing kid in middle school who walks around all day with the “Kick Me” sign pasted to his back. It bore the scars of every major storm to make landfall in the last decade. Empty lots aplenty, the demolished houses long since hauled away. Some home owners bought storm-damaged units on the cheap and fixed them up, good as new. Some bought as-is but were unable to afford the necessary repairs. Windows remained boarded with plywood year round, the roof perpetually covered with blue plastic tarps, the “temporary” fixes turned permanent.
David Kaval’s trailer was at the end of the dusty gravel road that bisected the park. Sylvia parked and got out. It was one of those balmy autumn evenings that felt more like summer, a feeling that was amplified by swarms of mosquitoes that apparently didn’t care if it was October. It wasn’t lost on Sylvia that she was less than a mile from the Everglades, and even closer to the lonely road where the body of Gabriel Sosa had been found ten years earlier—bloodied, shirtless, and in a ditch, as she’d told the jury.
David Kaval was shirtless when he answered her knock on the door.
“Hey, baby, what’s up?” he said from the other side o
f the screen.
“Don’t give me that ‘baby’ crap. I need to talk to you.”
“We need to do this outside,” he said coyly. “Got some business going on in here.”
Sylvia could only imagine what he was up to, but his credibility with the jury was already hanging by a thread, and her star witness could ill afford an arrest for possession of narcotics added to his impressive rap sheet. Sylvia stepped away from the door, and Kaval came outside.
“Jack Swyteck got a note today after trial,” she said. “Did it come from you?”
“Nope.”
“Did you have someone give it to him?”
“Uh-uh. Don’t know nothin’ about no note.”
She studied his expression. “Have you had any contact with Isa Bornelli?”
Kaval breathed an exaggerated sigh of exasperation. “We have this conversation every week. No, no, and again, no. I haven’t been anywhere near her since the day I got out of FSP.”
“We’re in the homestretch, David. It’s just a matter of days before I call you to the witness stand. Keep away from her.”
“Fine by me.”
Sylvia started away and then stopped. “For what it’s worth—and this is just me reading tea leaves—I don’t think Isa Bornelli is going to testify on her own behalf.”
“Oh, I’m sure she won’t.”
Most Dangerous Place Page 23
