The Girl in the Glass Box: A Jack Swyteck Novel

by James Grippando

  “Buenas tardes, Señor Swyteck,” the prosecutor said.

  Jack answered in kind, and his Spanish was good enough to ensure that the remainder of the meeting would be conducted in English.

  “Have a seat, please,” he told Jack.

  Raul Espinosa was about Jack’s age, short in stature but long on self-confidence. He wore his hair combed straight back, more gray than Gordon Gecko’s in the first Wall Street, but nowhere near as gray as Gordon Gecko in the sequel. He had dark eyes and handsome Latin features, though there was something oddly distracting about the skin above his upper lip. It lacked the healthy color of the rest of his face, and Jack could only surmise that he’d recently shaved off a mustache. Someone had probably told him being clean-shaven would make him look younger, a supposition Jack based on Andie’s reaction to his after-forty foray into the “five o’clock shadow” that so many men in their twenties sported: “It makes them look sexy, Jack. It makes you look homeless.”

  “I’m glad you decided that a meeting would be productive,” said Jack.

  “I hope it will be,” Espinosa said, as he walked around to the other side of his desk and took a seat in his leather chair. He was polite enough to ask about Jack’s flight, recommend a restaurant for dinner, and exchange a few other pleasantries. Jack caught himself glancing around the room, checking out the framed newspaper clippings on the walls, the awards on the prosecutor’s desk, the tropical fish in the saltwater aquarium on the credenza—anything to keep himself from staring at that white ghost of a mustache beneath Espinosa’s nose.

  “Let me be direct with you as to my objective,” said Espinosa, turning to business.

  “Please,” said Jack.

  “I want you to leave Jorge Rodriguez out of your client’s claim for asylum in the immigration court.”

  Jack had suspected as much from the moment he’d read Espinosa’s e-mail on Friday; it was the theory he’d decided not to share with Julia on the runway. “I’m sorry, but that’s not possible,” said Jack. “Domestic violence is the basis for Julia’s claim for asylum.”

  “Half the basis,” said Espinosa. “The other half is that the government of El Salvador—specifically, this prosecutor—does nothing to protect its women from abuse by their husband. Or, worse, condones it.”

  “It’s not personal,” said Jack.

  The prosecutor chuckled. “We have fifty homicides a week in El Salvador. None of them is personal.”

  “Jorge Rodriguez sexually assaulted his wife and three other women.”

  “Not three.”

  “Yes, I met them on my last trip.”

  “You must have missed the fourth.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny? The man is a serial rapist who raped his wife and then forced her to have an abortion that almost killed her. He doesn’t deserve your protection.”

  His expression turned very serious. “Yes, he does.”

  “How can you possibly say that?”

  “It was our agreement.”

  Jack was without words for a moment. “Your agreement?”

  Espinosa leaned forward, his hands folded atop his desk as he looked Jack in the eye. “Jorge Rodriguez is a gang informant. Information he provided to us has helped us solve more than a dozen homicides and led to the conviction of the killers. He is in our witness protection program.”

  There was a moment of disconnect, as the prosecutor’s words were just so far from what Jack had expected to hear. “You agreed not to prosecute Mr. Rodriguez for the rape of his wife and three other women?”

  “Four other women. In exchange for information.”

  “And that was your decision?”

  Espinosa shrugged. “As you say in English: you do what you gotta do.”

  “That’s fine. Then you understand I’m doing what I have to do for my client, which means that I intend to prove in court that her husband sexually assaulted her.”

  “I wouldn’t care if that was all you intended to prove. But as I said, that’s only half your case. If you go into a court of immigration in the United States and argue that the prosecutors of El Salvador will not protect their women from sexual assault, then I must defend the honor of my office. I will be forced to contact the attorney from your Department of Homeland Security.”

  “And tell her what?”

  “El Salvador is not a third-world banana republic that is unable or unwilling to protect the victims of domestic violence. This office chose not to prosecute Mr. Rodriguez for one reason only: our country is being destroyed by gangs, and Mr. Rodriguez cooperated with law enforcement in our war on these lawless gangs. It’s that simple.”

  Jack gazed at him from the other side of the desk, taking the time to measure his words. “That’s a very clever argument, Mr. Espinosa.”

  “I don’t know if ‘clever’ is the right word. It’s simply the truth.”

  “Your version of the truth? Or Simone Jerrell’s? Or was it a collaboration?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

  “Honoring this supposed agreement with Jorge Rodriguez allows you to save face as a prosecutor, and it puts my client on the next deportation flight from Miami to San Salvador. Pretty convenient how that version of ‘the truth’ works for both you and U.S. immigration authorities.”

  The prosecutor smiled thinly. “Convenience is a good thing.”

  Jack rose. “Except when it’s not.”

  Espinosa rose and showed Jack the door. “Have a very nice flight back to Miami, Mr. Swyteck.”

  “Thank you. And allow me to apologize in advance.”

  “For what?”

  “For the severe inconvenience that I promise I will cause you.”

  Chapter 37

  Assistant State Attorney Phillip Arnoff was in his office that Tuesday afternoon when he got the phone call he’d been hoping for. It was from Miami-Dade detective Danny Barnes, who was heading the Duncan McBride homicide investigation.

  “We got our break,” said Barnes.

  The bouncer on duty for Safari Night at the Club Cheek-ah had told Barnes that McBride went to his car at least twice to “liquor up,” and a comparison of tire tracks from the club parking lot to tracks outside McBride’s apartment confirmed that his car had been there. Safari Night was the last time anyone had seen McBride alive, and no one had seen his silver Honda sedan since then. Anytime a vehicle went missing in a homicide case, Miami-Dade Police kept a sharp eye out along the Miami River. Stolen cars and the incriminating evidence they contained, along with tons of other stolen goods, could easily disappear forever on one of the Venezuela-bound freighters that set sail from Miami every day.

  “You actually found McBride’s car?” asked Arnoff.

  “You bet we did,” the detective said.

  “Don’t inventory it until I get a warrant,” said Arnoff.

  “We don’t need a warrant to inventory a stolen vehicle.”

  “I know. But I got Simone Jerrell and ICE breathing down my neck in that deportation case that McBride was part of. Feds do everything belt and suspenders.”

  “Fine, I’ll wait,” Barnes said, grousing. “We’re at Seabird Terminal B, just down the street from the Miami River Rapids Mini Park.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  The shipping area near Miami River Rapids Mini Park was upriver, closer to the airport and well away from the upscale riverfront development in downtown Miami. Many of the older sketchy cargo terminals had been shut down and rebuilt in Miami’s effort to compete with Savannah and other East Coast ports for the ever-increasing imports from China. Still, the seedy underbelly of commerce continued to flow through South Florida, some of it as polluted as the river itself. Huge cranes worked around the clock, hoisting mountains of metal containers onto Caribbean-bound freighters. Some carried electronics and other dry goods. Others carried vehicles with the VIN scratched off. Trucks and four-wheel-drive vehicles were in particular demand, as any Miamian who used to own a Range Rover would at
test.

  The State Attorney’s Office was next door to the criminal courthouse, and in less than ninety minutes Arnoff had a warrant. He drove quickly to the Seabird Terminal B and parked along a chain-link fence that was topped with military-grade razor ribbon. The pair of Dobermans on the other side of the fence provided a second line of deterrence to would-be thieves. A uniformed MDPD officer led Arnoff to the crime scene tape that encircled the team of investigators and McBride’s silver Honda. The doors on both the passenger’s side and driver’s side were wide open. Barnes was inside and already searching the vehicle, with his flashlight aglow.

  “You didn’t wait for the warrant,” said Arnoff.

  “You didn’t move fast enough.”

  “I told you that ICE—”

  “Fuck ICE,” said Barnes. “We don’t need a warrant.”

  Arnoff didn’t argue the point. “Anything of interest?”

  “Half-empty bottle of tequila in the glove box.”

  Arnoff nodded. “That confirms what the bouncer told us about McBride going to his car to do shots.”

  “That’s not all McBride did in his car,” said the detective. “I’ve seen enough dried semen to say with confidence that Mr. McBride jerked off in his front seat on at least one of his trips out of the Club Cheek-ah.”

  “Some things I just don’t need to know,” said Arnoff.

  “Hmm,” said Barnes, but he wasn’t responding to Arnoff. His flashlight was aimed at the console. “That could be interesting.”

  “Tell me,” said Arnoff.

  “We went through McBride’s office at the café and his apartment with a fine-tooth comb. Didn’t turn up a single ashtray or tobacco product.”

  “So he wasn’t a smoker,” said Arnoff, following his point.

  “Nope. Not a smoker. Yet we have two cigarette butts in the ashtray of his car. Both the same brand, so probably one smoker.”

  “Should be enough dried saliva there for a lab specimen, wouldn’t you think?”

  “I would think.”

  “Nice work, Detective.”

  Barnes gathered the cigarette butts with sterilized tweezers, dropped them into an evidence bag, and sealed it. “Hel-low DNA,” he said.

  Chapter 38

  Jack didn’t care if the Hacienda Real was the best steak restaurant in El Salvador. He wasn’t going to eat anywhere on the recommendation of Raul Espinosa.

  “But I love steak,” said Theo.

  “I found a place that has the best craft beer in the country.”

  “I can live without steak.”

  Cadejo Brewing Company was in San Salvador’s Zona Rosa, a popular area filled with some of the city’s best hotels and restaurants. Cadejo brewed its own beer in the enormous steel vats in a back room. The hostess spoke enough English to give Theo a tour, which was intended to help him choose a brew he liked, but as Jack could have predicted, he ordered one of each—and not the sampler size.

  “Really nice IPA,” said Theo.

  They were seated on stools at the bar, Jack with a seasonal draft and Theo with six different glasses lined up in front of him. A waitress hurried past them on her way to a table, carrying a tray of burgers and chicken wings that smelled delicious.

  “Are you really going to drink all of those beers?”

  Theo sucked down the rest of the IPA in a couple of swallows. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, Jack.”

  Jack tasted his beer.

  “You’re sipping,” Theo said with disapproval. “A man doesn’t sip beer. He drinks it.”

  “Sorry. I’m not much in a drinking mood. This is not what you’d call a good day.”

  Theo started on the pilsner. “Honestly, I don’t get it. There’s so much low-hanging fruit for ICE to go after. Seems like this Simone Jerrell is devoting way too much effort to deporting Julia and her daughter.”

  “I agree.”

  “Almost makes you think ICE is using her to get to somebody else.”

  It was the prison mind-set at work, the added value that Theo Knight brought to Jack’s legal brainstorming sessions. “Like her husband,” said Jack.

  “Or that guy in the picture. The gangbanger with his IQ tattooed on his neck.”

  “Hugo,” said Jack. “Eighteen is the name of the gang.”

  “I been in a gang. And I been in places where they kill you in a minute for being in the wrong gang. If Hugo tattooed the name of his gang on his neck where everyone can see it, ‘eighteen’ is his IQ.”

  “Señor Swyteck?”

  Jack swiveled around on the barstool. The first thing he’d done after the meeting with the prosecutor was to call Julia’s old lawyer for a follow-up meeting. It was Gabriel Santos who had suggested they meet at Cardejo after work. Jack thanked him for coming and bought him a beer.

  “What did you think of our highly ambitious prosecutor, the esteemed Mr. Espinosa?”

  “We think he’s an asshole,” said Theo.

  “Well,” Santos said, raising his glass, “then it’s unanimous.”

  They drank to it, and then Jack provided more details about his meeting with the prosecutor. Santos listened and seemed to understand the predicament.

  “If you have to prove that the Salvadoran government is unwilling or unable to protect married women from sexual assault, then it sounds like you have a tough case.”

  “Yes,” said Jack, “unless I can rebut Mr. Espinosa’s testimony that he chose not to prosecute Julia’s husband because he became an informant. Which is where you come in.”

  “Me?”

  “Last time we talked, you said that the prosecutor’s machismo was the reason Jorge Rodriguez was never punished for assaulting Julia. You said it was Espinosa’s personal belief that no man should ever be punished for raping his wife.”

  “That is true.”

  “How do you know that’s what Espinosa believes?”

  “Because he said it. We were standing in the hallway outside the courtroom trying to resolve the charges against Julia. He said it to my face.”

  “That is exactly the kind of evidence I need for Julia’s asylum case. The fact that Espinosa would say such a thing to Julia’s lawyer proves that the prosecutor’s office is unwilling to protect a married woman from domestic violence.”

  “What would you like me to do?” asked Santos.

  “I want you to sign a sworn affidavit stating exactly what Espinosa said to you.”

  Santos shook his head. “I told you before. Attacking a prosecutor is suicide for me professionally. I deal with these people every day. I’ll be a marked man. Everyone in that office will bust my balls every chance they get.”

  “My experience is the opposite,” said Jack. “Prosecutors walk all over you if they think you’re afraid to do the right thing.”

  “I practice in the Soyapango District, Mr. Swyteck, not the fancy halls of Brickell Avenue.”

  Every professional and businessperson in Central America equated Miami with Brickell Avenue, where there were no courthouses. The halls where Jack actually practiced were anything but fancy.

  Santos drank from his beer. “May I propose a solution?”

  “Go right ahead,” said Jack.

  “A hundred thousand dollars should compensate me for the aggravation this will cause me.”

  Jack coughed on his beer.

  “Whoa,” said Theo, “somebody came here to see Mr. Green.”

  “It’s a reasonable number,” said Santos.

  “Mr. Santos, the rules don’t allow me to pay witnesses for the evidence I need to prove my client’s case. I could be disbarred for that.”

  “Then pay me in cash. No one needs to know.”

  “Look, I’m not going to pay you.”

  “Then I can’t help your client.”

  “You’re the only person who can help her. Theo and I were talking earlier. She’s getting a raw deal. We think ICE is taking it out on her to get to someone else. Possibly her husband.”

  Santos laughed.r />
  “Why is that funny?”

  “Because you said her husband was in the Salvadoran witness protection program.”

  “That tickles your funny bone, does it?”

  “It’s funny that you think he would still be alive. They lost four last week. Twenty a month are murdered. There’s no protection, and there’s money to be made inside the police departments for giving up the names of informants to the gangs. If what Mr. Espinosa told you is true, if Julia’s husband went into witness protection, I give it a one-in-a-hundred shot that he’s still alive. One in seventy-five that they’ll find the whole body. One in fifty that they’ll find a piece of it.”

  He finished his beer with a long tilt and then climbed down from his stool. “You don’t have many cases in El Salvador, do you, Mr. Swyteck?”

  “No.”

  “Good thing. Let me know if you change your mind about my proposed solution.” He slapped Jack on the back and headed to the exit.

  Theo started on the red ale, brew number three. “Ten to one they find his body in pieces someday.”

  “Five to one,” said Jack.

  “So if this dude Santos is right and witness protection got Jorge Rodriguez killed, who slit Duncan McBride’s throat like a gangbanger?”

  Jack thought about it, but not for very long. “Another gangbanger.”

  Chapter 39

  Beatriz arrived fifteen minutes early to her math class. The door was open, and Ms. Alvarez was alone in the classroom grading papers at her desk, which was perfect. Beatriz had a surprise for her favorite teacher, and she didn’t want to make a big deal out of it in front of her classmates.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said, as she stepped into the classroom.

  Ms. Alvarez put down her red pencil, and Beatriz laid a small tray of candies on the desk.

  “That’s so sweet of you, Beatriz. Thank you.”

  “In El Salvador, Valentine’s Day is not just for your sweetheart. We call it El Día de Amor y Amistad—the Day of Love and Friendship. You have been a good friend. So I brought you Salvadoran treats.”