Authors: James Grippando
Jack paused to give the jury time to feel the veteran’s anger.
“Is there a question?” asked the prosecutor.
“My question is this,” said Jack. “Mr. Pintado, did you feel at all concerned for your personal safety after seeing that kind of response to your comments?”
“I’ve always been outspoken. I’m used to that kind of thing.”
“You’re used to it, and you take precautions.”
“I’m not sure I take your meaning.”
“You have a bodyguard, do you not?” asked Jack.
“Yes.”
“Your wife has a bodyguard as well, correct?”
“Yes.”
“But your son—Oscar—he was on his own. No bodyguard. Living on the same base with hundreds of Coast Guard members whom you called ‘Castro’s border patrol.’ ”
Pintado struggled with his response, then simply brushed it aside. “Oscar obviously didn’t have any problems. His best friend was in the Coast Guard.”
“His best friend. That would be Lieutenant Damont Johnson, correct?”
“Yes.”
Jack scoffed, seizing the opportunity to plant a seed of doubt in the jury’s mind—and to give the prosecutor a dose of his own medicine about missing witnesses. “Well, perhaps Lieutenant Johnson will come here himself and tell us just how good a friend he
really
was.”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
Jack weighed in his mind whether to push harder, but implying that a father was even indirectly responsible for his son’s murder was touchy stuff. Jack could read the jury well enough to know that it was time to sit down.
“Thank you, Mr. Pintado. No further questions.”
A
t the end of the day, Jack said good-bye to his client in the courtroom, handed her over to the federal marshals, and told her to keep her chin up on her journey back to prison.
That was the reality of a capital trial with no bail.
Jack knew that the routine had to be demoralizing for Lindsey. She’d trade her business suit for prison garb, her wristwatch for handcuffs. Instead of crawling into bed and giving her son a kiss, the best that she could hope for was that she would indeed sleep alone. She would lie awake and brainstorm about the next trial day, or play Monday morning quarterback as to each of the day’s witnesses. Jailhouse snitches would try to befriend her, try to get her to talk about her case, all in hopes of unearthing some little gem that would curry favor with the prosecutor and earn them an early get-out-of-jail-free card. She’d keep to herself and search constantly for mindless forms of mental stimulation, anything to keep her from wondering if she’d rather die than spend the rest of her life in prison, wondering if death by lethal injection was truly painless. Her thoughts would be her only privacy, no one to share them with, not even her lawyers.
That left Jack and Sofia to handle the late-night planning sessions.
“How do you think it played today?” asked Jack. He was seated at his dining room table across from Sofia. Night after night in a law office could get old in a hurry, so he and Sofia agreed that the evening debriefings would alternate between his house and hers.
“You lost jurors number three and six, for sure. Probably number
two as well. But we knew that before you even opened your mouth. Any one of them would make a strong good candidate for president of the Alejandro Pintado fan club.”
Jack drew a breath, let it out. “I feel like I’m alienating the entire Cuban American population.”
“Ironic, isn’t it? After all you just went through, learning about your mother and your half-Cuban roots.”
“When this case is over, I guess we’ll probably both be moving to Iowa.”
“Or I could finally make my mother happy. Get married, change my name, melt into suburbia.”
“You’re talking marriage now, huh? That must have been some date you had the other night.”
“I was speaking theoretically.”
“So, he was a dud?
“I didn’t say he was a dud.”
“He was definitely a dud. I can tell.”
“And what makes you so smart?”
“I’m a trial lawyer. I have good instincts.”
“Okay,” she said with a smile. “So, not counting that charred Mustang sitting in front of your house, how many times have these awesome instincts gotten you totally burned?”
“Ooh. That was way harsh, Sofia. But…I was right, wasn’t I? He’s a dud?”
“Okay, you were right. But who are you to talk? Your friend Theo told me about that long-distance girlfriend of yours in Africa. What’s her name—Ramapithecus or something?”
“Rene.”
“Yes, Rene. The one who pops in for a visit every two or three months.”
“She’s a pediatrician. She does charity work over there. She comes back to Miami when she can.”
“That’s not exactly what Theo tells me. He says she flies in, breaks your bed, flies out.”
“Theo told you that?”
“Yes. With a considerable amount of envy in his tone, I might add. But to the rest of the world, she doesn’t sound like much of a girlfriend.”
Jack wasn’t sure how to come back. She was right. Rene wasn’t much of a girlfriend. “At least she doesn’t drive an El Camino. I mean, really: Who thinks
that
is a classic?”
She was half smiling, half aghast. “How did you know my date drives—”
A loud noise from outside the house gave them both a start. It sounded like someone banging pots and pans in Jack’s driveway.
“What’s going on out there?” asked Sofia.
“Theo. Ever since the police released the crime scene, he’s been tinkering around.”
“He doesn’t actually think he can fix it, does he? The thing went up in flames.”
“I don’t know what he’s doing. Sometimes with Theo you’re better off if you just don’t ask.”
Jack cleared away the dinner remnants of prepackaged salads and pizza. They retired to the living room, where Sofia could review her trial notes and give Jack some feedback. Pintado’s testimony had taken the entire morning, and the medical examiner had filled the afternoon. The prosecutor had done a decent job of getting the examiner to put the time of death within a range that was before Lindsey left for work. Jack had done his best to get him to concede that it was an estimate, that there was wiggle room.
The banging in the driveway continued, even louder than before. Jack looked up from his notes, annoyed. “What the
hell
is he doing out there? Building a cruise ship?”
“He’s your friend. You tell me.”
“Let me take care of this.” Jack popped up from the couch and headed out the front door. The blackened shell of his Mustang was at the end of the driveway, right where it had gone up in flames. It was no longer a crime scene, but Theo had refused to let Jack have it towed away. He was dressed in dirty coveralls, crescent wrench in hand. Somehow, he’d actually managed to pry open the hood.
“Theo!” Jack shouted over all the racket. “We’re trying to get some work done.”
He stopped banging, stepped back from the car, and wiped the sweat from his brow. “So am I, man. Look what they did to my car.”
“Hate to break this to you, but it’s not your car.”
Theo’s mouth fell open, as if he were about to utter “Et tu, Brutus?”
“Not
mine
? I washed this baby with my own hands. When it purred, I smiled. When it whined, I fixed it. What did you ever do? Put gas in it and pay the insurance? You wouldn’t even buy it a garage. A fucking
porta cochere
is all you gave it. I think that’s French for ‘park your shitty Chevy Vega right here.’ ”
“You think I didn’t love that car? I was the one who—”
“Boys!” said Sofia.
Jack and Theo turned to see her standing on the other side of the Mustang’s charred remains. She walked around it, dragging her index finger across the soot-covered metal as she spoke. “Are you two grown men actually having an argument over who loved a car more? Hello-oo-o. It’s a car, guys. In the big scheme of things, how important is that?”
Silence fell over them. Finally, Theo looked at Jack, his expression deadpan. “Is she high?”
“She must be.”
Sofia rolled her eyes and went back in the house.
They shared a little laugh, then Jack turned serious. “I mean it, Theo. It sounds like the musical cast from
Stomp
is out here. Can’t you do whatever it is you’re doing another time?”
“Do you want to find out who torched your Mustang or don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do. That’s what the police are for.”
“The police.
Puh-lease.
Just tell the cops to stand back and let me do my job.”
“You think you’re going to figure out who torched my car, do you?”
“Yup. Just follow the parts.”
“What are you talking about?”
Theo slid the wrench into his pocket and leaned against the car, his arms folded. “Here’s the deal. For the past three days, I been askin’ myself: How does a guy walk up to an amazing car like this and just burn it? It’s such a waste.”
“Some people love to watch things go up in flames.”
“True. But more people love to make a quick buck.”
“Meaning what?”
“The parts, Jacko. That’s why I been banging away here. It’s burned pretty bad, but I can tell you right now: Somebody walked off with some parts before they put a match to this baby. Definitely took your pony bucket seats. Probably got the rally pack gauges, wood steering wheel, shifter console. I can already see he got the four barrel carb
and manifold from the engine compartment, and I’m just getting started in there.”
“What would he do with all that stuff, sell it?”
“
Duh.
We’re talking a vintage Mustang convertible. You can easily haul away a small fortune in parts.”
“So the guy stole some parts? Where does that get you?”
“Like I said: Follow the parts. I just do some checking around with repair shops that specialize in collector cars. See if anyone unloaded some Mustang parts in the last few days.”
Jack nodded, following his logic. “Actually, there aren’t that many. At least not that many good ones. I can tell you that much from experience.”
“Exactly. So, all I gotta do is go around shopping for the right parts. When I find the guy who has them, I just get him to tell me who sold him the parts.”
“Sounds good on paper. But no grease monkey is going to tell you where he bought stolen parts.”
“Wrong again, Jacko. No grease monkey is going to tell
you
where he bought the stolen parts.” He slid the big wrench out of his pocket, then tapped it into his open palm as he spoke. “But he’ll tell me. Trust me. He’ll
beg
to tell me.”
“I didn’t hear that,” said Jack.
“I never said it,” said Theo.
T
he morning was all about bodily fluids. Jack had been expecting blood—crime-scene photos, spray-pattern analysis, that sort of thing. The prosecutor had something else entirely on tap.
Torres said, “Dr. Vandermeer, would you please introduce yourself to the jury?”
A small man with neatly cropped beard and mustache leaned toward the microphone. The witness box almost dwarfed him, and Jack had the sense that he should have been sitting on a phone book or something. He leaned toward Lindsey and whispered, “You know this guy?”
“Never seen him before,” she said.
The witness cleared his throat and said, “My name is Timothy Vandermeer. I have a Ph.D. in psychology, and I am an M.D. who specializes in treatment of patients with problems of infertility.”
“Are you board certified in this area?”
“Yes. I am an American Board of Obstetrics and Gynecology Certified Diplomate. I am also board certified in the subspecialty of reproductive endocrinology.”
“What other experience and education do you have in this area?”
His response went on and on, everything from his undergraduate dual major in biology and psychology to the numerous scholarly articles he had written for medical journals around the country. Jack stopped taking notes when Vandermeer mentioned a research piece entitled, “It’s a Boy/It’s a Girl—The Joy of Spinning Sperm.”
The prosecutor glanced toward the jury, as if to make sure they were still with him. He seemed satisfied. “Doctor, you mentioned earlier that you have a Ph.D. in psychology. Do psychological factors ever come into play in your treatment of patients with infertility problems?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely. You don’t need a Ph.D. in psychology to know that emotional factors, such as stress, can affect one’s ability to procreate.”
“Does that hold true for both men and women?”
“Surely. It works both ways. Men, however, can generally be less willing than women to talk about these psychological factors. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”
Again the prosecutor checked the jury, perhaps to make sure he wasn’t embarrassing anyone. Then he shifted gears. “Doctor, was the defendant, Lindsey Hart, ever your patient?”
“No, she was not.”
“Was her husband, Captain Oscar Pintado, ever your patient?”
“Yes, he was.”
There was a quiet rumbling in the courtroom, and the judge perked up a bit, too. Jack managed to cut his visible reaction to a sideways glance at his client. He could see in her eyes that she had no idea.
The prosecutor said, “Tell us how that came about, please.”
“Captain Pintado first came to my office in Miami about a year ago. He was on military leave with his wife and son. But they weren’t with him. In fact, I should point out that Captain Pintado specifically asked me not to tell his wife that he was consulting me.”
“What was the purpose of his visit?”
“As he explained it, he and his wife had been trying to have a child for many years. They adopted a son, but they had not given up hope of getting pregnant. He told me that he and his wife had seen an infertility specialist together. Unfortunately, that doctor was unable to help them.”
“Did he tell you why he came to see you?”
“Yes. His father recommended me. Alejandro Pintado—or perhaps Mrs. Pintado—happened to see me on a television talk show discussing my latest research on infertility issues.”
“Briefly, doctor, could you please describe the nature and findings of that research?”
His face lit up, as if he would have liked nothing better. “Gladly. In
the most general sense, the nature of my research was sperm analysis. I compared two groups of men. In the first group, I analyzed the sperm of men who were in a completely monogamous relationship with a woman, either married or with a long-time partner. The other group was made up entirely of men who admitted to having sex with women who had multiple sexual partners.”
“Let me make sure I understand this second group. It was not the man who had multiple sexual partners. It was the woman.”
“That’s correct. I was looking for a one-woman man, so to speak, where the woman had made no commitment of exclusivity to that particular man. Frankly, most of the men in this category were single men who were in a relationship with a married woman.”
“All right. I assume you collected sperm samples from men in both groups.”
“That’s correct.”
“What kind of analysis did you do?”
“The first step was a standard semen analysis. I wanted to make sure that I was dealing with sperm samples that fell within normal ranges. Particularly with respect to motility and forward motion.”
“Would you explain those terms, please?”
“Motility refers to the extent to which sperm actually moves. Like the old macho saying, ‘My guys can swim.’ If they don’t move, they’re fairly useless. Swimming, however, is not the be-all and end-all. If your sperm is doing the backstroke, you’re probably not going to fertilize the egg, either.”
A little laughter wafted across the courtroom. Even the judge smiled. The prosecutor said, “So, forward motion is a separate component of motility?”
“That’s right.”
“That makes sense. What was the next step of your analysis?”
He grinned, as if too pleased with himself. “Not to pat myself on the back too firmly, but this is where my analysis was somewhat groundbreaking. I examined the motility of sperm in two different environments. First, I looked at each man’s sperm in isolation and took my measurements. Once I’d done that, I would introduce the sperm of another man into each man’s sample. And I got the most interesting results.”
“What did you find, Doctor?”
“In both groups of men, some of the motile sperm continued to swim forward, as if headed straight for the egg. Other motile sperm, however, swam directly toward the foreign sperm. These sperm attacked the invader, pummeled it, and destroyed it.”
“What did this tell you, Doctor?”
“My conclusion is that men have two kinds of sperm. One has fertilization as a primary mission. The others act like soldiers, making sure that the invading sperm never reaches the egg. I call them assassin sperm.”
“And you say this was true in both groups of men?”
“Yes, both groups had assassin sperm. But here is where the results became very interesting. The men who were paired in a monogamous relationship had relatively few assassin sperm. By comparison, men who were involved with women who had multiple sexual partners had far more assassin sperm.”
“What accounted for this difference?”
“In my opinion, it is purely a psychological component—the man’s state of mind. If he believed he was the only candidate in search of the egg, his assassin sperm count was low. But if he believed that he was in competition with another male, his body produced additional assassin sperm.”
The prosecutor paused to allow the jury to absorb that crucial point. It wasn’t clear that they understood where this was headed, but Jack knew—and he was planning his objection.
Torres said, “Let’s get back to your examination of Captain Oscar Pintado. Did you do an analysis of his sperm?”
“Yes I did.”
“What kind of analysis?”
“The same analysis I just described. I did a standard analysis first, which revealed that his semen fell within the normal ranges, including normal motility.”
“Did you then test his sperm with…how should I put this? Invading sperm?”
“I did.”
“What did you find?”
Jack was on his feet. “Objection. Sidebar, please, Your Honor.”
The judge straightened in his chair, then waved them forward. They gathered out of earshot from the jury and witness.
Jack said, “Judge, first of all, I’ve never heard of this assassin sperm analysis. The very idea of a man’s sperm doing kung fu on some other guy’s business and then slapping microscopic high-fives all around sounds a little ridiculous.”
“It’s accepted science,” said Torres.
“Maybe it is,” said Jack. “But in this case, the doctor’s testimony amounts to nothing more than a sneaky, backdoor effort to prove that my client was unfaithful to her husband.”
“It’s not the back door. We’re talking about a scientific analysis of her husband’s sperm. Captain Pintado had a high level of assassin sperm, which shows that he was married to a woman who had multiple sexual partners.”
“Not even close,” said Jack. “At best, it shows that
he believed
she had multiple sexual partners. I can see where evidence of infidelity might be probative of a wife’s alleged motive to kill her husband. But mere evidence that the victim believed his wife was unfaithful doesn’t add up to any motive on my client’s part to commit murder.”
“Mr. Swyteck may have a point,” said the judge.
Torres grimaced, obviously frustrated. “Judge, could I have a word alone with Mr. Swyteck? I believe we can work this out, lawyer to lawyer.”
“Fine. My bladder’s calling anyway.” He banged his gavel and switched on the microphone. “Court’s in recess,” he announced. “We’ll resume in five minutes.”
The judge made a beeline for the bathroom. The crowd broke into hundreds of small pockets of conversation. Jack signaled to Lindsey and Sofia back at the table, as if to say that all would be okay. Then he and the prosecutor hurried out the side door to a private room.
As soon as the door closed, the prosecutor looked at Jack and said, “I’ll give you one chance to withdraw your objection.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because one way or another, I’m going to prove that your client was cheating on her husband, and that’s part of the reason she killed him.”
Jack showed no reaction. “I don’t care what you hope to prove. At the moment, all I’m saying is that I’m not going to let you prove it this way.”
“Then it’s her kid who pays.”
“What?”
“My first choice is to use Dr. Vandermeer to prove that Lindsey was cheating on her husband. But if you won’t let me do that, then I’m going to call the kid to the stand. I’m going to ask him how many men he saw come and go from the house when his father wasn’t home.”
“You’re bluffing,” said Jack.
“No, I’m not. So it’s your call, Jack. You can withdraw your objection and let Dr. Vandermeer testify. Or you can stand firm and make me put the boy on the stand. But don’t kid yourself. Before this trial is over, the jury will fully understand that it was
you
who forced me to sit a ten-year-old child in the witness box so that he could tell the whole world that his mommy is a whore.”
Jack struggled to show no reaction. Several strands of thought were weaving through his head, a tangled mess of conflicting information that seemed to wrap around his brain and choke off all ability to reason. Then he realized it wasn’t thought or reason at all that was clouding the issue. It was emotion, pure and simple—his amorphous feelings for the biological son he’d never met. Meeting Brian for the very first time under circumstances such as these was something he didn’t even want to consider.
“Let me talk to Lindsey,” was all he could say.