“ Coral Gables,” Jack told the driver.
The many faces of the media were sliding across the passenger-side windows as the car pulled away. Sofia brushed her tangled hair out of her eyes. Jack straightened his jacket. It was as if they’d run through the gauntlet.
“No media backlash, huh?” said Jack as the car started down Miami Avenue.
“It’ll blow over,” said Sofia in a breathless voice.
“Yeah, sure.” In about a hundred years.
24
CASTRO’S PAWNS?” That was the banner headline for the Latin evening news.
It was an ingenious cover-your-ass tactic that the libel defense bar had concocted, this badly abused practice of disparaging the hell out of someone and then disclaiming all liability by putting a simple question mark after the attack.
“Castro’s Pawns?”
“Drug Addict?”
“Toe-Sucking, Panty-Sniffing Loser Who Actually Dials the Phone Numbers in Men’s Room Stalls?”
Thankfully the nonsense had stopped at “Castro’s Pawns,” which was bad enough. Much of it rolled off Jack’s back, especially the attacks from an extreme journalist who would assail Jack’s Cuban witness this week, and then next week call for a ban on nursery rhymes that promoted homosexual lifestyles. (Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub.) Whatever the source, he didn’t want to be home when the phone started to ring off the hook with calls from the media. Nor did he want Abuela to die of embarrassment when she turned on the evening news. So he watched at his grandmother’s town house, poised for on-the-spot damage control.
“Dios mio!” she said, groaning.
“I’m sorry,” said Jack.
“I no mad with you,” she said, her emotions fraying her command of English. “I mad with them. A Cuban soldier for witness? Es loco.”
Jack didn’t say anything. It did seem like a long shot, but he wasn’t quite ready to dismiss as “crazy” the idea of a Cuban soldier coming forward to testify in his case.
“Look,” said Abuela as she pointed to the television. “Is Señor Pintado.”
The judge had issued a gag order, so Jack’s first reaction was that the station was broadcasting file footage. But it wasn’t. Alejandro was making a statement from his home. He and his wife were standing on the inside of the tall iron gate at the entrance to his walled estate. Various members of the media had gathered on the other side, their ranks spilling across the sidewalk and into the residential street. Pintado silenced them with a wave of his hand. Then he looked into the camera and addressed the television audience in his native tongue.
“I say this to Cuban Americans, to the people of Cuba, to the whole world. Fidel Castro will regret the day that he sends one of his soldiers into a Miami courtroom to defend the woman who murdered my son.”
“Good for you,” said Abuela.
Oh, boy, thought Jack.
Pintado thanked the crowd, then kissed his wife and started back toward the house. The newscaster gave a quick recap of what had just happened, repeating over and over again what Pintado had just said, analyzing it to death, proving that Hispanic news was, in this respect, no different than traditional network journalism. The more Jack thought about what he’d just seen, however, the more the day’s events were beginning to make sense to him. The U.S. attorney may well be a close friend of his father’s, but Jack wasn’t about to be pushed around for the entire trial. He stepped out of the room, away from Abuela, then picked up the phone and dialed Torres at home.
“Hector, it’s Jack Swyteck here.”
“What can I do for you, son?”
“I’m not your son, and what you can do for me is explain that little stunt I just watched Mr. Pintado pull off on television.”
“Stunt? Whatever do you mean?”
“The judge issued a gag order. No one is supposed to be talking about the possibility of a Cuban soldier testifying on my client’s behalf.”
“Oh, lighten up, please. Gag order or not, you surely aren’t going to ask the judge to hold a grieving father in contempt for a one-sentence defense of his dead son.”
“That’s exactly what you were banking on, isn’t it?” said Jack.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Cut the crap, Hector. I know your reputation. You choreograph everything. Alejandro Pintado isn’t saying anything to the media without your prior blessing.”
“Are you accusing me of circumventing the court’s gag order?”
That was exactly what Jack was doing, and ten years earlier, the old Jack Swyteck would have crawled through the phone line and spit right in the prosecutor’s eye. But experience had taught him to take a less accusatory approach. “Let me just say this. I found it quite surprising that the media was all over this story before any of us had even left the courtroom this afternoon. After all, my motion had been filed under seal. The only people who knew anything about the Cuban soldier were me, Sofia, the judge, and your office.”
“And the clerk’s office, of course. You know how careless those civil servants can be.”
“Yeah,” Jack said with sarcasm. “I’m sure it was the clerk’s office that leaked it.”
“Or maybe it was Castro who leaked it. Did you ever think of that, Jack? After all, you are his pawn.”
“ ‘Castro’s pawn.’ Interesting choice of words. Did you take them from the evening news, or did you also write the news script?”
“My dinner’s getting cold. It’s been nice chatting with you, Jack.”
“Sure. I’m glad we cleared this up. At least now I know what I’m up against.”
They exchanged a clipped good-night, and Jack hung up and returned to the television.
Abuela was still on the couch, riveted by the newscast. The coverage on Pintado was finally wrapping up, and the anchorman yielded to a meteorologist who looked like a high school intern from fashion school. Jack switched off the set. Abuela continued to stare at the blackened screen, as if not quite believing what she’d just watched.
“Are you okay?” asked Jack.
Her lips quivered ever so slightly. “I wish Señor Pintado had said something in your defense.”
“In my defense? I’m not on trial.”
“Is just that…my friends. What do I tell them?”
“No Castro, no problem?”
“You think this is joke? Many peoples will ask me questions. What do I say?”
“Tell them that your grandson is doing his job. And it’s going just fine.”
She sat up straight, as if searching for the fortitude to ask the next question. “Are you talking with the Cuban government?”
“Abuela, that’s privileged information. It’s between me and my client.”
“That sounds like ‘yes’ to me.”
“It’s not a yes. I just can’t talk about it with you.”
“There’s nothing you cannot talk about with your abuela.”
“Believe me, there are certain things-” He stopped. Abuela was giving him one of her patented looks, and Jack was suddenly struck with an idea. “There’s nothing we can’t talk about, you say?”
“Nada,” she said firmly.
“Okay. I want to talk about Bejucal.”
“What about Bejucal?”
“I went there. When Sofia and I were in Cuba.”
Her expression fell. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because…” A slight pang of guilt gnawed from the inside. He felt as if he was about to drop an anvil on her head. “Because I met with Celia Méndez’s younger sister.”
Abuela went white. Her voice tightened. “Did you have a nice talk?”
“Very nice.”
“What did you talk about?”
“My mother.”
“Why would you do that?” She had switched to Spanish, and Jack answered in kind.
“Because I want to know about her.”
“Jack, you don’t have to go to the Méndez family to find out about your mother. Ev
erything you need to know about your mother, I can tell you.”
Their eyes locked, and Jack was suddenly drowning in a roiling mess of mixed emotions. He was angry that she hadn’t told him everything. Yet he felt sorry for this sweet old woman who was so proud, so Catholic, and so deeply entrenched in the moral dogma of another generation that she had no alternative but to lie to her own grandson, lest he think his own mother had been a loose woman. He leaned forward and softened his voice. “Abuela, I love you. I would never do anything to hurt you. But I want to know the truth.”
“What truth?” she said.
He was straining his limited knowledge of Spanish, but he wanted to put the question to her as softly as possible. Finally, he found the words, looked her in the eye, and asked, “Do I have a half brother or half sister in Cuba?”
Abuela caught her breath. Her bosom swelled, and for a moment Jack thought he might have to dial 911.
“Who told you that?”
“Felicia Méndez. Celia’s younger sister.”
“Why would you ask her about something like that?”
“I didn’t ask, I just-”
“Why are you doing this, digging up such stories?” she said in a shrill, racing voice. “Your poor mother, God rest her soul, what would she think? Why must her own son dishonor her memory?”
“I’m honoring her memory. I’m just trying to find out who she really was.”
Tears were streaming down Abuela’s cheeks, the wrinkles and worry lines directing the flow of her sorrow this way then that. Her voice quaked as she said, “I want you to stop this.”
“Stop what?”
She rose quickly, her arms waving. Her fist bounced off her chest as she somehow found a voice that scorched him. “I want you to stop breaking your grandmother’s heart!”
Jack wanted to say something, but he could come up with nothing. He watched in agony as she stormed out of the room, weeping. The door slammed when she reached her bedroom.
His gaze slid across the living room, toward the end table, until it finally settled on an old photograph of Abuela and Jack’s mother. They were hugging each other, smiling widely, turquoise surf and brightly colored beach umbrellas in the background. It was a happy photograph, a joyous time. But as the silence lingered, Jack felt a tightness in his chest that was already beginning to feel like lifelong regret. His mind kept coming back to the same thought.
Abuela had denied none of it.
I’m no longer an only child.
25
As the case drew closer to trial, Jack found himself spending more and more time with Sofia. It was agreed that Jack would be the lead trial counsel, but Sofia still had a major role in the preparation, especially since Jack had given Lindsey his word that Sofia would be the point person for any direct communication with Brian.
“Any luck setting up an interview?” asked Jack.
Sofia took a seat at the conference table. “Same old story. I call Mr. Pintado. He promises to get back to me right away with a date when I can meet with his grandson. And then I never hear from him again.”
“We’re ten days from trial,” said Jack. “We have to talk with him.”
“We may have to go to the judge.”
“I hate to do that. It makes us seem like the bad guys.”
“I know Lindsey won’t like it either,” said Sofia. “Just from the standpoint of what it does to Brian.”
There was a knock at the door. Jack’s secretary entered with their food delivery. Orange beef and cashew chicken from New Chinatown restaurant. Jack pushed aside the papers to make room for the food.
“Want to know one of the world’s best-kept culinary secrets?” said Jack.
“What?” his secretary asked as she placed the cartons on the table.
“White rice. Cuban Americans make it better than the Chinese.”
“I wouldn’t argue with that. But how was the rice when you went to Cuba?”
“Rationed. Like everything else. Unless you’re a tourist. But don’t get me started.” Jack served himself some orange beef. “You care to join us, Maria?”
“No, thanks. I’ll let you two legal scholars get your brain food. But stop being such a slave driver, Jack. Take the girl out once in a while, won’t you?”
Jack and Sofia exchanged glances, then offered a simultaneous, “Good night, Maria.”
The door closed, and for the third evening in a row, it was just the two of them. Sofia poked at her food with a chopstick, then put the carton atop the desk.
“I wonder what Lindsey’s eating tonight,” she said wistfully.
“Probably the same thing she ate last night,” said Jack.
“Do you think she’ll ever get out?”
Jack coughed on an orange peel, not expecting such a direct question. “Are you asking if I think she’s guilty, or if I think she’ll be acquitted?”
“Do those questions have different answers?”
Jack didn’t respond, at least not directly. “She has some serious problems, no doubt about it. You start with her statement that she was at work when her husband was shot. The medical examiner’s estimated time of death says otherwise.”
“But her son told the police that he found the body and called her at work.”
“Hopefully he’ll confirm that. If his grandfather ever lets him talk to us.”
Sofia opened a diet soda. “Of course, Brian isn’t going to save the day. He was sleeping when his father was shot. So Lindsey could have shot her husband, and then gone to work.”
“Unless there was an intruder,” said Jack.
“But there is no sign of break-in. Nothing of value was taken. So if it was an intruder, it was someone who came for no other reason than to kill Captain Pintado.”
“Or someone who got scared off before he could take anything of value.”
Sofia got a cup of ice, poured herself some soda, and gave the rest to Jack. “Which brings us right back to our original problem. We have only one witness who puts an intruder at the scene.”
“And he happens to wear the wrong nation’s uniform,” said Jack.
The words seemed to take the fizz right out of their Diet Coke. “What are we going to do about that?” she asked. “You plan to call him to the witness stand or not?”
“I’m still pondering it.”
“Well, I think I might let you ponder that one alone tonight.”
“You’re punching out already?”
“I figure my social life will go completely to hell once the trial actually starts. So I have a date tonight.”
“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”
“I didn’t say I had a boyfriend. I said I had a date.”
“So you date women?”
“No,” she said with a playful smile. “Now get the hell out of your cross-examination mode, and mind your own business.”
“No problem. Have fun.”
“See you tomorrow.” She grabbed her bag and headed out the door. She’d parked in a metered spot right outside Jack’s office, and Jack watched through the window as she walked to her car. She glanced over her shoulder and caught him peeking through the blinds.
“Just wanted to make sure you got there safe,” said Jack, though he felt a little foolish. Not only couldn’t she hear him, but she’d walked all of fifty feet to her car down a pedestrian-filled sidewalk. Hardly a dangerous journey.
So she caught me watching. Is that a crime?
Sofia waved, got in her car, and drove away. Jack glanced from the empty parking space to the sidewalk across the street. A woman was leaving the ice-cream shop with a young boy who looked to be about ten. He reminded Jack of Brian, and for a minute the woman resembled not Lindsey but Jack’s old girlfriend, Jessie. Then he came to his senses. Jessie was dead. Lindsey was in jail. Brian was living with his grandparents.
And Jack was alone, wondering what to do next.
He got out the phone book, found the number, and dialed the Pintado residence. One lonely
ring after another pulsed in his ear. He wondered what he’d do if Brian answered, which he realized wasn’t likely, since the boy was deaf.
“Hello.” It was a woman.
Jack said, “Is this Mrs. Pintado?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Jack Swyteck. I’m the attorney for Lindsey Hart.”
There was silence on the line. Jack said, “Please, don’t hang up. I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s very important that we schedule a time and a place where I can meet with your grandson. His mother has that right.”
“Brian is sick.”
Jack had his doubts, and his tone conveyed it. “Is that so?”
“It’s true. Brian has been throwing up since this afternoon. I don’t know what it is. I guess maybe the flu. I’ve been running around with towels and buckets while waiting on a callback from the pediatrician. If I can’t keep him hydrated, the nurse wants me to take him to the emergency room for an IV.”
If she was lying, she definitely subscribed to the “Big Lie” school of thought. Jack said, “Is there anything I can do?”
“No, no. Of course not. But obviously I’m in no position to schedule an interview with him. Now, please, leave us alone.”
Jack heard a retching noise in the background, which only confirmed that Mrs. Pintado wasn’t making up stories. “Is that him?” asked Jack.
“Yes, yes. I told you he was sick. I have to go.”
“I understand. Take care of your grandson.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
“Good night.” Jack hung up. He was concerned about Brian’s illness, but a sardonic smile slipped across his lips. He’d seen photographs of the boy, and Lindsey had told him a little bit about him. But this was the first time Jack had ever heard him. And he was puking his guts out.
Kids. Gotta love ’em.
Then he thought about going home to no one, and suddenly schlepping towels and buckets and making late-night runs to the emergency room didn’t sound quite so bad.
Hear No Evil Page 13
