The Beggar's Opera

by Peggy Blair

  “There are two bus systems here,” her driver explained. “One for tourists and one for Cubans. It is illegal for Cubans to take tourist buses or taxis. They can accept rides from cars that stop for them and pay the drivers a small amount without breaking any rules. Or wait all day for a camello.” They drove past one of the awkward-looking buses, jammed full of passengers.

  Her taxi pulled in front of the Parque Ciudad. A small group of jineteras was gathered in the park across from the hotel, calling out to the foreign men who passed by.

  A jinetera, Alex had explained, was a prostitute, usually a member of the highly educated elite, forced by economic circumstances to have sex with foreigners. The word itself meant “jockey,” but translated into something like “gold digger.” Slang for a woman who rode a wallet.

  Cuba had no pimps, he said, but the women weren’t wholly independent either. They were forbidden by law from entering tourist hotels or restaurants. The concierges, doormen, security guards, even police, made sure the women got access to prospective clients by turning a blind eye for a fee.

  Jones was surprised they trolled for customers so obviously. A blue-uniformed policeman stood at the corner, his semiautomatic gun hanging loosely from his belt along with a black radio. Doing nothing, at least not yet.

  She wondered what would happen if any of the men responded to the women’s calls. Alex had said a jinetera could be ordered into “re-education,” sent off to the country to pluck chickens and clean barns, to dissuade her from prostitution. More often, however, the police confiscated her money and sent her packing.

  A woman peered into Jones’s taxi and was evidently disappointed to find another woman inside. Jones tried to pay the driver, who looked equally downcast when he saw her U.S. dollars. The currency, he explained, was illegal. But it was all she had; he wouldn’t take Visa.

  She offered to leave money for him at the hotel reception desk once she got some from her credit card, plus more for his inconvenience. He had little choice, so agreed. He opened the trunk of his car and reluctantly put her bags on the sidewalk. She made a mental note to leave him enough extra pesos to make up for his uncertainty about being paid at all.

  A doorman pushed the revolving glass door for her. He was tall, slim, and smiling, his uniform crisp. His grey hat sat perfectly level on his head.

  “Gracias,” she said, guessing. “¿Es usted Miguel?”

  “Si,” he said. Then, in English, “How do you know my name?”

  “I was told you could be helpful,” she smiled.

  “Of course, it would be my pleasure,” he responded. “Whatever you need, Señora. Here, let me take your bags.”

  THIRTY

  Late at night, two guards came to get Mike Ellis.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Where are you taking me?” But they said nothing. They shackled him and walked him silently upstairs to another small damp room that smelled of urine. An interrogation room, Ellis guessed. Stains ran down one wall. A dark grey ceiling added to the feeling of oppression. A light bulb dangled overhead from an exposed wire.

  A beefy man with greying hair sat at a small table, writing in a coiled notebook. He looked to be in his late fifties. He wore a loose embroidered Cuban shirt over dress pants. He stood as the larger guard pushed Ellis inside and closed the door. He reached out his hand to shake Ellis’s, but hesitated when he saw the handcuffs.

  “Please, Mr. Ellis, sit down.” He motioned to a plastic chair. “I’m sorry. They usually remove those for a consular visit. My name is Kevin Dunton. I’m with the Canadian embassy. Miles O’Malley got hold of me about an hour ago and told me about your situation. He must be very persuasive. Foreign Affairs isn’t supposed to give out our home numbers. Almost everyone’s on holidays until the New Year, including me.” Dunton smiled but looked unhappy.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”

  “You may not be in a few minutes, Mr. Ellis. But we can talk about the merits of your situation in a moment. My first priority is to make sure you’re physically alright. Have you been beaten?”

  Dunton turned his notebook towards Ellis. He had written in a neat schoolboy script: Assume the guards are listening. Don’t tell anyone what you’re charged with. Or that you’re a cop. He turned the notebook around again and waited expectantly, his eyebrows raised, his pen at the ready.

  Ellis nodded slowly. “I guess it depends on what you mean by alright.” He held up his wrists, showing the swollen red marks from the too-tight cuffs. “You should see my ankles.”

  “I expected worse. Do you want me to contact anyone? Notify any family members that you’re here?”

  “No.” Ellis shook his head, thinking how Hillary would react. And how her divorce lawyer would salivate.

  “Alright, then. I’m obliged to tell you what we can and cannot do as Canadian consular officers.” He tossed a copy of a brochure on the table. A Guide for Canadians Imprisoned Abroad. “It’s not much. We can’t try to get you preferential treatment. Or secure your release from jail. We won’t loan you money for a lawyer or for bail, under any circumstances.”

  “Then what the hell can you people do?” Ellis demanded, pushing himself away from the table.

  “We’ll see to it that you’re treated the same way as any Cuban national in the same circumstances.”

  Ellis snorted. “You’re kidding me. That’s it? Have you seen the way that prisoners are treated here? We don’t even have proper beds.”

  Dunton shrugged. “That’s all you’re entitled to, Mr. Ellis. We can’t interfere in the Cuban criminal justice system. Someone will make prison visits from time to time to check on your welfare. And the embassy will try to ensure that the people dealing with you keep in mind that, as a Canadian, you have certain rights. But you have to understand that Cuba never signed the Vienna Convention. Your rights in this country are extremely limited.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Ellis, frustrated.

  Dunton leaned back, narrowing his eyes.

  “Do you understand what the situation is here in Cuba right now, Mr. Ellis? Or just how much trouble you’re in? Fidel Castro doesn’t want Havana to be a sex tourism destination, the way it was when President Batista was in power. Even if our embassy had more power to intervene, we wouldn’t get too far trying to exercise it on charges like these, believe me. Frankly, from my discussions with the Ministry of the Interior, I’m afraid the Cuban government may want to set an example. They haven’t executed anyone in the last two or three years, but that doesn’t mean they won’t make an exception.”

  Ellis let out a deep breath. “Isn’t Raúl Castro supposed to be more moderate?”

  The diplomat smiled slightly. “A lot of Batista’s supporters were executed summarily after the revolution. Is Raúl more moderate? Rumour has it he pulled the trigger himself. Sure, as acting president, he may loosen up some things that annoy people currently. Like letting them have more access to the internet. He may even free a few political prisoners. But don’t kid yourself, Fidel Castro’s still in charge.”

  “I can’t believe they would execute a foreigner. There would be an immediate international backlash, wouldn’t there?” Ellis lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m a policeman, for God’s sake.”

  “I don’t think so.” Dunton shook his head. “Remember, the death penalty is on the books in Texas and God knows how many other American states. No one’s boycotting the United States as far as I know. It used to be that a foreigner charged here could pay a hefty bribe and be sent home with a wink and a nudge. Not in the situation you’re facing. The penalties for charges like this have been drastically increased. A few weeks ago, some Cubans were jailed for thirty years for having sex with schoolgirls. Thirty years in conditions you can’t begin to imagine. Some of the prisoners are in extremely poor health. They aren’t likely to live long enough to do their time. Castro’s response, anecdotally, was that they should do their best.”

  “But Canada’s a friend to Cuba, isn
’t it? Won’t Cuba want to avoid upsetting that relationship?”

  “Look, Castro executed one of his own political supporters for drug trafficking. A general. A former hero of the revolution. I don’t honestly think he’d hesitate to execute a Canadian if it served his objectives. But, honestly, that’s not your biggest problem. The guards might decide to handle things themselves. Or the other prisoners, particularly if they find out what you do for a living. You’ll be in jail for a year, maybe two, before you ever get in front of a court.”

  Ellis blanched. “So you’re telling me I’m on my own. That you won’t do anything to help me.”

  “We have a relatively new minority Conservative government at home. It won’t be anxious to jump to your defence. These charges don’t fit their law-and-order agenda.”

  “What about getting me extradited back to Canada?”

  “There is no formal extradition treaty between Cuba and Canada. But to be extradited, you’d have to agree to plead guilty to all the charges.” He scribbled in the notebook and slid it across the table.

  How long do you think you’d last in a Canadian jail as a convicted child rapist/murderer and a cop?

  Ellis looked frantically around the small room. It was getting hot, claustrophobic. He ran his finger inside his collar, trying to breathe normally. The muscle at the top of his chest gripped like barbed wire.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “It isn’t what you want to hear, I’m sure. But part of my job is giving people a reality check. There’s no point sugar-coating things: Cuba is what it is. If you’d asked me where to go for a Cuban holiday experience, I would have told you to go to Miami and eat a jerked pork sandwich. I wish people would inform themselves a bit more before they come here. It really would make things easier. They see sand beaches and blue skies with fluffy white clouds: I see cederistas.”

  “So what the hell am I supposed to do?” Ellis demanded, his breath ragged.

  Dunton shrugged. “Do what Castro said. Do your best.”

  The older man stood up. As he leaned over to pick up his notebook, he lowered his voice to a bare whisper.

  “Someone always eavesdrops on these meetings. That’s why I’ve given you the hard, cold, party line. My advice, Mr. Ellis, is to do whatever it takes. Bribe an official or two along the way. Believe me, evidence goes missing here all the time. And for God’s sake, be careful. This building is full of extremely dangerous men. And I’m not talking about the prisoners.”

  THIRTY - ONE

  The sun was beginning its slow rise above the ocean, but Inspector Ramirez was already at work, looking through the piles of missing-person reports to see if anyone had lost a dead man.

  Rodriguez Sanchez usually came in around eight, the rest of the unit at nine. Until then, Ramirez was on his own, his hallucination his only company. The imaginary man sat across from Ramirez’s desk, twirling his hat on his finger idly until it fell to the ground. When he bent over to get it, Ramirez saw him wipe foam from his lips. But no one had reported a drowning.

  The phone rang and Ramirez picked it up. It was a woman. She spoke Spanish well, with a slightly foreign accent.

  “Oh, Inspector Ramirez. I didn’t expect you to answer your own phone. Sorry. My name is Celia Jones. I’m the lawyer here from Ottawa to advise Mike Ellis. May I see my client this morning?”

  “Yes, of course. You can come by whenever it’s convenient.” He gave her the address.

  “Thanks. I’ll be there shortly.”

  About ten minutes later, as Ramirez looked out his office window, he saw a tall woman with shoulder-length dark hair and a brown briefcase walk up the path to his building. She took a digital camera out of her purse and stopped to photograph the police headquarters. With the palm trees in front and a green lawn rimmed with purple wisteria, the building was very beautiful. Too bad that photographing Cuban police institutions was illegal. Ramirez wondered how long it would take before an officer stopped her. He took a quick look at his watch and wagered less than ten seconds.

  At the eight-second mark, a policía ran over, shouting and waving his arms. He stood over the woman until she deleted the photograph from her camera. That was as close to a real crime as the policeman would see that day, thought Ramirez. Foot patrol was an exercise in managing expectations. At least he didn’t confiscate it. Ramirez doubted so nice a camera would ever find its way into the exhibit room.

  The woman, appearing shaken, walked through the gates to the sign that directed visitors to a button for the intercom. A few minutes later, the guard at the front door called up to say Ramirez had a visitor. Ramirez asked him to escort the woman upstairs to the Major Crimes Unit on the second floor.

  When she came in, Ramirez smiled and shook her hand. He decided to start things off with a little charm.

  “I was not expecting them to send such an attractive woman.” Which she certainly was. “Welcome to Havana. May I get you some coffee to begin your day?”

  “I would love a coffee, thank you.”

  Ramirez called out to Sanchez, who had just walked in the door. A few minutes later, the younger man brought in two steaming cups of coffee. Real coffee, from the exhibit room, not cut with chickpea flour like the rationed coffee they drank at home.

  “Detective Sanchez makes the best coffee in the police force. We prize this quality almost as much as his investigative skills, which are also excellent.”

  Sanchez made an expression that almost passed for a smile and put the cups down on Ramirez’s desk. He closed the door behind him tightly.

  “How was your flight?” Ramirez inquired.

  “Fine,” she replied. “There were quite a few seats, luckily. I don’t think too many tourists book flights for Boxing Day.

  No, thought Ramirez, we have nothing to sell. “Su acento es muy bueno,” he said. Your accent is very good.

  “Gracias. Su inglés es muy bueno también.” Your English is very good, too.

  “My mother was American, Señora Jones. She married my father just after the revolution. I’m sure it was considered scandalous at the time, on both sides. She has almost forgotten that she once knew English. I rarely get to practice it here.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly kept it up,” Jones said.

  “Thank you.” Ramirez inclined his head, accepting the compliment. “It’s something I have to work at. But you are not here to discuss my linguistic abilities, nor me yours. You are here to provide legal counsel to Señor Ellis.”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged. “But I wanted to speak to you first. I have almost no background information about these charges. Before I meet with my client, can you provide me with some details and the basis for the charges? And may I take notes?”

  “Of course,” Ramirez assured her, as he brought out his file. He cast his eyes longingly on the pencil she pulled from her briefcase.

  “In other words, a slam dunk,” Celia Jones said, once Inspector Ramirez finished his summary of the evidence.

  “I am sorry? I do not know that phrase.”

  “My apologies. It’s a basketball analogy. It means you have a very strong case.”

  “Yes, I think we do.”

  Jones paused for a minute. “Have you found the murder weapon?”

  “No,” Ramirez admitted. “It was probably thrown into the ocean.”

  “How was the body moved?”

  “We assume by car.”

  “Did my client rent any vehicles during his stay?”

  “Not that we know of, Señora Jones,” the inspector conceded. “But we are still looking into that.”

  “So someone else was involved in this crime?”

  “We are entertaining that possibility.”

  “If my client is convicted, what penalty will you seek?”

  “That will be up to the Attorney General, but almost certainly the death penalty. Your client murdered the boy shortly after savagely raping him. A death sentence could be commuted if your client admits his guilt and agrees to id
entify the other person involved in this matter. But we do not have plea bargaining here, as I understand exists in North America. Señor Ellis must be tried on every charge for which he is indicted.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, flipping through her notes. “Can you tell me what you mean when you say the boy was ‘savagely’ raped?”

  “He was beaten. His face was badly bruised.”

  “Any marks on my client’s hands when he was arrested? Or swelling?”

  “Nothing obvious.”

  “I don’t wish to inconvenience you, but could I possibly get a copy of your police and pathology reports?” She smiled at him. Two could play the charm game.

  “Of course.”

  When Ramirez returned, she was looking at a photograph of his family on his desk. A round-faced woman with olive-brown skin wrapped her arms around two small children with huge brown eyes. “They’re lovely,” she exclaimed. “Your wife is absolutely stunning. You must be very proud.”

  “Thank you,” said Ramirez warmly. “Life is short. I am always grateful for my good fortune. Here you are. I have made you copies of everything on the file. I assume you read Spanish fluently as well?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed. She thought of telling him she was married to a Cuban refugee but wasn’t sure how Ramirez might respond to the idea of a Cuban that got away.

  She put her coffee cup down and got to her feet. “This has been very helpful, thank you. If you don’t mind, I’d like to see my client now. As you know, I don’t have much time.”

  THIRTY - TWO

  A guard told Mike Ellis that his lawyer was waiting for him. Ellis shuffled down the hall behind him. Hard metal rubbed against his ankles, leaving angry red welts. His back hurt from sitting on the concrete floor. Even without the ankle cuffs, he would have limped.