Jack was dying inside, but he had to push it. “Brian, please answer me. Were there times you wished that your father was dead?”
Tears were streaming down the boy’s cheeks. He nodded and said, “Many times.”
Jack couldn’t move. Another lawyer might have asked the next logical question, but Jack couldn’t do it. He’d taken Brian far enough. He would leave it right there. “Thank you. No further questions, Judge.”
Jack returned to the table for the defense. Lindsey had tears in her eyes, and she grasped Jack’s shoulder the instant he took the seat beside her. He didn’t dare look at her for fear that just one glance might set her off, a broken mother sobbing into her lawyer’s pinstripes. Jack glanced at Sofia, who seemed entirely at a loss for words. In another case, with another witness, she might have leaned over and whispered, Excellent job, Jacko! But not in this case. Not with this witness.
Jack closed his eyes, then opened them. He didn’t often think this way, at least not since he’d stopped defending death row inmates. The words were right there, tumbling around in his mouth, ready to be shouted out at the top of his lungs. They were bitter words, words so true that sucking them back was like swallowing a handful of rusty nails.
God, I hate this fucking job.
51
The case went to the jury just before noon.
Jack had some time on his hands, but he didn’t know how much. The general rule was that a quick verdict was bad for the defense, which didn’t really mean anything, except that it was a show of confidence for the prosecutor to hang around the courthouse while the jury deliberated, and it was a show of optimism for a defense lawyer to leave and go about his business. So Jack went.
He was doing his best to appear optimistic.
Jack hadn’t identified a single misstep in the prosecutor’s closing argument, especially the rebuttal-the last words to the jury. In his mind, Jack kept playing that crisp delivery over and over again, each time hoping to discern a flaw in the prosecutorial logic, some inconsistency, some semblance of reasonable doubt that a strong-minded juror could cling to and force the others to vote for Lindsey’s acquittal. But Torres’s words kept jabbing at him like a lance.
It wasn’t every day that a federal prosecutor accused him of falsely painting his own son as the fall guy for murder.
“Blame it all on the child,” Hector Torres said, repeating his mantra to a riveted jury. The courtroom was stone silent, as if the crowd knew that this was the prosecutor’s last shot at reclaiming the momentum that he’d let slip away. “Does it surprise you, ladies and gentlemen, that the defense would adopt this eleventh-hour strategy? It shouldn’t. These people will stop at nothing to bring shame on the Pintado family.
“Mr. Swyteck did his best to paint the child as a murderer, but let me remind you that I was the only one who asked Brian Pintado if he shot his father, and he denied it under oath. I could go on and on, but I’ll leave you with these three thoughts.
“One,” he said as he raised his index finger, counting off his final points. “It is undisputed that Lindsey Hart’s fingerprints were found on the murder weapon.
“Two, it is undisputed that Lindsey Hart was having sex with a man who was not her husband.
“Three-remember the testimony of the government’s expert witness, Dr. Vandermeer? He was the fertility doctor who told you that Oscar Pintado had a very high count of this ‘assassin sperm,’ which meant that he was a very jealous man. I find that quite interesting, and you should, too. When you go back to deliberate, ask yourself this question: If Oscar Pintado was forcing his wife to have sex with another man-if this threesome went down the way Lindsey Hart said it did-then why was Oscar so jealous? If he enjoyed watching his wife have sex with another man, then why did it bother him so much that it had a scientifically measurable physiological effect on his body? Why? I’ll tell you why.”
The prosecutor paused, eyes narrowing as his gaze drifted toward the defendant. “Because Lindsey Hart is a liar and a murderer.” He faced the jury and said, “Treat her like one.”
A honking horn jolted Jack from his thoughts. Traffic was moving again, but just barely. Jack inched his car forward a few feet, then hit the brake, slowing to a dead stop in a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone. A long trail of orange tail lights blinked on and off ahead of him. Enrique Iglesias sang his heart out on not one but three different stations that Jack tried on the radio. Latin dance music blasted from the boom box in the convertible that was caught in traffic beside him. Driving south out of downtown Miami after four o’clock in the afternoon was like getting stuck at the end of the world’s longest conga line.
He turned off U.S. 1, wound his way behind a car dealership, and found himself next to Mario’s, that little Cuban market where Abuela loved to shop-which got him to thinking.
He steered into a parking space and reached for his wallet. Tucked behind his driver’s license was the business card that Kiko had given him when Jack and Abuela had visited the market in the middle of trial, though now it seemed like a thousand years ago. He removed it, then checked the name and the telephone number that Kiko had written for him on the backside.
El Pidio-the man who had told Kiko that Hector Torres looked like Jorge Bustón, the man who’d dated Jack’s mother back in Cuba.
Jack had never followed up, too caught up in Lindsey’s trial to be searching for additional distractions. Or maybe he was like Abuela, not sure that he wanted to know the truth. But the way this case had played out-or was about to play out-he felt as though he needed more truth in his life. If nothing else, his meeting with Torres’s ex-wife had his curiosity about his own mother flowing once again. It bothered him that she’d used the word obsessed to describe Torres’s attraction to his mother. The more he considered it, the more curious it seemed that his half brother-“Ramón,” according to that gravestone back in Cuba -had died the day he was born. Jack’s instincts continued to tell him that something was not quite right.
He flipped open his cell phone and dialed the number.
An old man answered in Spanish. Jack responded in kind, if you called Spanish with a John Wayne accent “in kind.”
“Mr. El Pidio?”
“Not ‘Mr. El Pidio,’ ” the man said, grousing. “Just El Pidio.”
“This is Jack Swyteck. I’m-”
“Ah, Swyteck. I know who you are. Kiko told me you’d probably give me a call.”
“I understand you knew my mother in Bejucal.”
“Yes. I was her doctor. I delivered her baby.”
Her doctor? So many questions were suddenly racing through Jack’s head, but he got back to what was most important, the one thing that was almost too difficult to ask. “Then you must know… How did my brother die?”
There was silence. Finally, his voice crackled as he breathed a heavy sigh and said, “That’s a very complicated matter, young man.”
52
At dusk, Jack caught up with his father at the Biltmore driving range. Harry was perched atop a grassy knoll, dressed in knickers, argyle socks, and a classic tweed golfer’s cap, the kind of getup that a man didn’t dare wear without a single-digit handicap. Jack watched from the bench as Harry, deep into his rhythm, popped one ball afer another onto the range. It looked as if manna had fallen from heaven, hundreds of little white balls scattered across the green grass before them.
“Dad?”
Harry halted in the middle of his backswing, slightly annoyed by his son’s timing. “Yes?”
“Do you think there’s anything a man shouldn’t know about his wife?”
Harry paused, as if bowled over by the question. “If a man asks his wife a question, he should get the truth.”
“What if he doesn’t ask? Should someone tell him?”
“You mean should his wife tell him?”
“No. Let’s say she can’t. Should someone else tell him? Someone who knows the truth.”
Harry seemed somewhere between confused and suspicious. “Wha
t’s this about, son?”
Jack was speechless. What would he possibly tell his father? That Ana Maria had borne a son who died in Cuba? That she, herself, never would have died if Jack had never been born? That she would have known the dangers if it hadn’t been for her obsessive old boyfriend-Harry’s old friend, Hector Torres? Thirty-six-year-old memories were all Harry Swyteck had of his first wife. Jack was at a loss for any good reason to trample all over them, but he still wasn’t sure how to handle it.
Jack said, “I’ve been thinking of Lindsey Hart, all the horrible things that came out at trial. The way Oscar treated her. If she’s acquitted and remarries, would her new husband want to know all the details? Would he have a right to know?”
“I suppose that knowing those things could help him understand her fears, her moods. If it would make the new marriage stronger, then he should know.”
“But knowing just for the sake of knowing-”
“What’s the point? It’s like looking your wife in the eye on your deathbed, after fifty years of marriage, and telling her that you kissed another woman forty-nine years ago. It doesn’t accomplish anything, unless your goal is to break her heart.”
“Exactly,” said Jack, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “So, if it were you, you wouldn’t want to know all those details.”
Harry laid his five iron aside. His confusion was tipping more toward suspicion. “Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”
Jack was searching for clues in his father’s eyes-a need to know, a desire to know. He saw nothing of the sort. But Jack suddenly felt something from within, a realization that there comes a point in every child’s life when it’s no longer time for the parent to watch out for the child, that it’s the child who protects the parent.
“No, nothing,” said Jack. “Like I said, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to Brian Pintado and his mother.”
“You sure that’s what this is about?”
The answer didn’t come right away, but Jack spoke as firmly as he could. “Yeah. I mean, the whole thing is such a mess, and it will only get more complicated as Brian gets older. What’s he going to think about his mother a few years down the road?”
Harry studied his son’s expression, as if sensing that Jack had subtly changed the subject from what a husband should know about his wife to a son’s feelings toward his mother. But the older man let it go. “It will depend on what the jury’s verdict is, I suppose.”
“Hopefully, she’ll be acquitted.”
“Then what? Will the juvenile authorities come after Brian for murdering his father?”
Jack was silent. That was something he didn’t want to think about. “Hard to say. It’s not as if Brian came right out and confessed to the murder on the witness stand.”
“You took him to the brink, though. Got him to admit that he wished his father was dead.”
They exchanged glances. The estrangement was over between this father and son, but even the distant past never completely washed away. Neither one said a word, but Jack knew they were sharing the same thought: As a boy, how many times had Jack gotten angry at his old man and told him flat out, “I wish you were dead”?
“Kids have those thoughts and don’t mean it,” said Jack.
“Yes,” said Harry. “That’s true.”
More silence. Then Harry took a half step closer and laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m proud of what you did in that courtroom. You took a tough case, and you did one hell of a job. However it turns out, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Thanks.” Jack smiled flatly as he watched his father pick up his driver and tee up another ball. Harry hit a couple, and Jack was about to walk away. But there was one thing he just had to say. “Dad?”
“Hmm,” said Harry. He was adjusting his stance, head down.
“Hector Torres is not your friend.”
Harry swung through, never taking his eyes off the ball. “You think I don’t know that?”
“You know?”
“I’ve known for over thirty years, Jack. Never been able to put my finger on it. But believe me, I know a phony-baloney when I see one.”
He knew. But he didn’t know.
Harry said, “Why do you mention it? Did Torres double-cross you or something?”
“You might say that.”
“Well, don’t hold back because you think he’s my old buddy. You tee right up and give him exactly what he deserves.” Harry smacked the ball with all his might. It sailed on a rope and landed just in front of the two-hundred-fifty-yard marker.
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll definitely do that.”
53
Jack was alone at the counter at Joe Allen’s Diner, eating a steak sandwich and fries for dinner, when his cell phone rang. It was Sofia.
“Jack, the jury’s back.”
He checked his watch: a few minutes past seven. The jury had been out nearly five hours. Marginal as to whether that was too quick to be good news. “Okay. I’ll meet you at the courthouse.”
He drove straight downtown and in fifteen minutes he was in the courtroom. The prosecutor was standing before the judge. Sofia was standing next to him. A few members of the media were in the public seating area, the die-hards who had decided to camp out at the courthouse until the jury returned its verdict. Jack started forward, but the judge was already stepping down from the bench and headed back to his chambers. Jack hurried down the aisle, and Sofia met him at the rail.
“False alarm,” she said. “No verdict yet. The jury just had a question for the judge.”
“What was it?”
“It had to do with the testimony of the Cuban soldier. They wanted to know what time of day he said it was when he saw Lieutenant Johnson go inside the Pintado house.”
“The judge should tell them to rely on their own recollection.”
“That’s exactly what the judge said he was going to do. He just wanted to call us all together to tell us that the question had been asked. I guess it’s a good thing they’re asking questions.”
Jack dismissed it. How many times in his years as a trial lawyer had he tried to divine whether it was a good or bad thing that a juror had asked a question, cracked a smile, nodded her head, or scratched his ass. “Yeah, I guess it’s a good thing,” said Jack.
“Lindsey’s holding up pretty well,” said Sofia, “considering.”
“That’s good,” said Jack. He was more worried about Brian, but that was for another day. He glanced across the courtroom and saw Hector Torres packing up to leave. He excused himself from Sofia, then caught up with the prosecutor.
“Hector, you got a minute?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s go someplace where we can talk, all right?”
Torres followed Jack to an attorneys’ conference room across the hall. Jack closed the door, but neither man took a seat. They stood on opposite sides of the table. “Your client want to plead?” said Torres.
“Depends on what you’re offering.”
“Same as before. Life in prison, no death penalty.”
“Then no deal.”
“Suit yourself. Nice and short meeting. Just the way I like them.” Torres started for the door.
“One other thing,” said Jack.
Torres stopped to face him. “What?”
Jack’s mouth opened, but it was as if the words needed a little time to catch up with his thoughts. “I spoke with a man named El Pidio today.”
“El Pidio?” he said, showing no recognition.
“It’s a nickname. You might know him better as Dr. Blanco.”
The expression drained from the prosecutor’s face. His voice tightened, but he was suddenly unconvincing. “Why would I know that name?”
“Because he’s the physician who delivered your child in Cuba. My mother’s first child.”
Torres averted his eyes, then took a half step back. A thin smile came to his lips, as if he were proud that he’d managed to keep his secret this lon
g. “Have you spoken to your father yet?”
“No.”
“You spoken to anyone?”
“I think it’s my turn to ask the questions.”
The prosecutor laid his briefcase on the table, and then he extended his arms outward, as if he were an open book. “What would you like to know?”
“Actually, there isn’t all that much left to find out. Dr. Blanco was a wealth of information.”
Jack saw through the cool veneer, saw the concern in the other man’s eyes. Torres asked, “What did he tell you?”
“One of the things that has always haunted me was the fact that my mother died when I was born. So you can imagine how curious I must have been when I found out that her first child died on the day he was born. Seemed like a strange coincidence. Too strange.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“I think you do, now that I’ve talked to Dr. Blanco. See, my mother died from preeclampsia. It’s a condition that can be fatal to the mother or the child. If the pregnancy goes to full term-like my mother’s did with me-it’s more often fatal for the mother. If the baby is born premature-like my half brother-it’s more often fatal for the baby.”
“Well, congratulations. You’ve just solved a mystery that means nothing to anyone. Except you.”
“And you,” said Jack.
“This has nothing to do with me. Your mother was already dead when I came to Miami.”
“That’s the point. She didn’t have to die. It was Dr. Blanco’s opinion that my mother should have no more children after the death of her first. Her pregnancies were too high risk.”
“Then she should have followed her doctor’s advice.”
Jack looked at him coldly. “He never gave her that advice.”
“That’s the doctor’s problem, isn’t it.”
“No. It’s yours. He said you wouldn’t let him tell her.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“She was a teenager. Unmarried and pregnant. You told Dr. Blanco that you were the father, that you intended to marry her and make an honest woman out of her. But only if she could give you children, especially another son.”
Hear No Evil Page 29
