Authors: James Grippando
“Thank you. No further questions.” Jack returned to his seat.
“Mr. Torres, cross-examination?” said the judge.
“Oh, absolutely,” he said as he approached the witness. He stopped a few feet away from him, saying nothing, simply allowing the witness to feel the presence of the United States government. Then he turned his back on him, shaking his head, mocking the soldier’s response to Jack’s final question. “You didn’t really think of it before, but now that Mr. Swyteck has asked the question, you’re sure of it. You saw two cars.” He began to pace, allowing time for his skepticism to spread throughout the courtroom. “How convenient.”
“Objection,” said Jack. “Is there a question?”
“Sustained.”
“What
else
didn’t you think of until Mr. Swyteck asked the question? Lieutenant Johnson’s convenient arrival at the murder scene on the morning of Captain Pintado’s death, perhaps?”
The witness waited for the translation, then said, “I don’t understand.”
“Not important. I’m sure the jury does.”
“Objection.”
“Sustained. Let’s have some questions, Mr. Torres.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Private Castillo, I noticed that Mr. Swyteck didn’t spend much time covering your job description. So let me ask you a few questions about that. You’re part of a unit that conducts surveillance over the naval base at Guantánamo, is that correct?”
“Yes, generally.”
“It’s your job to keep track of what’s going on inside the base?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s also your job to keep track of anyone trying to enter the base, right?”
“Trying to enter the base?” he said, confused.
“Let me clarify that. There is some distance between the perimeter of the U.S. naval base and the area occupied by Cuban forces, is there not?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And the Cuban government has placed many obstacles in that area, isn’t that right?”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“There are razor-wire fences in that area, aren’t there?”
“Yes.”
“There’s even a mine field in there, right?”
“Yes.”
“Those obstacles were put there to prevent ordinary Cubans from reaching the base and seeking freedom on U.S. soil.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“I think you do. Isn’t it true that an important part of your job is to keep ordinary Cubans from reaching freedom?”
“Objection,” said Jack.
“Sustained,” said the judge, but the damage was done. He’d driven home the point that the witness was the enemy—one of Castro’s goons who was instrumental in keeping families in exile from being united with the families they left behind in Cuba.
Torres said, “Now, let me ask you about these sexual relations you observed at the Pintado household. Earlier, you said that you saw the defendant cheating on her husband.”
“Objection,” said Jack. “I think we’ve raised a serious question as to whether it was ‘cheating’ or not, Your Honor.”
“Rephrase the question, please,” said the judge.
“You observed the defendant having sex with Lieutenant Johnson.”
“Yes.”
“And as Mr. Swyteck’s objection just suggested, you are trying to imply that there was some kind of weird threesome going on here.”
“I’m not trying to do anything but tell you what I saw.”
“Oh, please, sir. You’re here today to bring shame on the Pintado family and to embarrass Fidel Castro’s archenemy in exile, Alejandro Pintado.”
“Objection.”
“Sustained. Questions, please, Mr. Torres.”
The prosecutor stepped closer to the witness, his tone growing more aggressive. “You know that the victim’s father is Alejandro Pintado, do you not?”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“You know who Alejandro Pintado is, don’t you?”
“I’ve heard his name.”
“He’s one of the most vocal members of the anti-Castro exile community, isn’t he, sir?”
“If you say so.”
“No, it’s not what I say. It’s what
you know
. You know exactly who Alejandro Pintado is, don’t you, sir?”
“I know he’s been very vocal against our government.”
“Yes, you know that. And you wouldn’t be here today if the victim’s father weren’t so vocal in his opposition to Fidel Castro, would you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Private Castillo, is it not true that Cuban regulations prohibit members of the military from obtaining exit visas until their compulsory service is completed?”
The witness did a double take upon the translation, as if he were surprised by the prosecutor’s awareness of that restriction. “Yes, that’s true.”
“So, you’re in this courtroom only because someone made a very important exception under the laws and regulations of Cuba.”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s be honest, sir. You’re here today
only
because Fidel Castro wants you here.”
Jack considered an objection, but Torres already had the jurors in his hand, and no objection at this point was going to wrest them free from his control.
The witness shrugged and said, “I suppose.”
“Thank you,” the prosecutor said smugly. “That’ll do it.”
J
ack met with Theo over the lunch break. He would have preferred to stay at the courthouse with Lindsey and Sofia, but Theo claimed to have something of ball-busting importance to talk about. A handful of protestors marched up and down the sidewalk outside the courthouse. Jack donned his darkest shades—six-dollar specials, the kind so cheap that you were guaranteed
never
to lose them—hoping not to be recognized as he made a quick dash for Theo’s car at the corner.
“Whassup?” said Theo as Jack piled into the passenger seat.
Jack didn’t actually hear him, just saw his lips move. The stereo was loud enough to shatter fine crystal, a mind-numbing blast of so-called music, one of the many kinds that Theo liked, one of the few that made Jack wonder how the two of them were actually friends. Jack switched it off.
“How do you listen to that crap?” said Jack.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing, if you like songs where the most commonly rhymed words end with U-C-K.”
“Like the world needs another fucking song about taking a little chance, doing a little dance, and finding a little romance.”
Jack considered it. Maybe the guy had a point.
Maybe
.
“Got you some lunch,” said Theo as he handed it to him.
“Thanks,” said Jack, unwrapping it. “What it is?”
“The Felipe Castillo special.”
Jack chewed off the corner of his Cuban sandwich—slices of ham, pork, cheese, and pickles on Cuban bread, pressed together with a sandwich iron. “Very funny, Theo.”
“How’d it go this morning?” asked Theo.
“I don’t know. I think it might have been a mistake to put him on the stand at all.”
“You’re probably right.”
“You think?”
“Oh, yeah. Bad mistake, Jacko. Right up up there with Napoleon charging into Waterloo, Hitler turning his tanks against Russia, Dustin Hoffman going to see Elaine’s portrait.”
“Dustin Hoffman
what
?”
“
The Graduate
, dumbshit. You know, when Mrs. Robinson asks Benji if he would like to go upstairs and see her daughter’s—”
“I saw the flick. You equate a movie with a military decision that was probably the turning point of World War Two?”
“No. But I don’t think a Cuban soldier in Miami is in the category of earth-shattering, either. So get some perspective.”
“Do you live to see me scratch my head? Is that what makes you tick?”
The car stopped at the traffic light. It was a ride to nowhere, just cruising around the block long enough to hold a completely private conversation before Jack returned to court. Theo looked at Jack and said, “I’m making some headway on your Mustang.”
Jack opened his bag of chips. “You kidding me?”
His expression was deadpan. “I kid about sex. I kid about death. I kid about everything. Except cars.”
“What’d you find out?”
“I found the guy who did it. Some little weasel. Not even Cuban. Couldn’t give a shit about Castro.”
“Then why did he burn my car and write ‘Castro lover’ on the pavement?”
“Because somebody told him to. Hired him to, I should say.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“He wouldn’t tell you?”
“He would have, if he knew. It was a very thorough interrogation. The guy still couldn’t give me a name.”
Jack winced at the thought of a “thorough” investigation.
Better
not to know.
The traffic light changed, and Theo turned the corner back toward the courthouse.
“So what’s your take?” said Jack. “Some anti-Castro group hired him through a go-between? Tried to scare me into not bringing the Cuban soldier into the courtroom?”
“Not sure it was an anti-Castro group.”
Jack swallowed one last bite of sandwich. “What, then? You think the anti-Castro message was just window dressing? Something to make it look like the work of an exile group?”
Theo steered his car toward the curb. They were a half block from the courthouse, as close as any vehicle could get with the added security. “Maybe so.”
“Who else would even care if a Cuban soldier came into the courtroom or not?”
“Maybe that’s not the right question. Maybe the right question is: Who else would try to make the defense too scared to call its best witness?”
“Or even more to the point, who else would be perfectly happy to see Lindsey Hart take the fall for the murder of Oscar Pintado?” Jack thought about it, then crumpled his sandwich wrapper into a ball. “You got any leads?”
“One good one. The people who hired the little pyromaniac didn’t pay him in cash.”
“Don’t tell me they wrote a check.”
“No. They paid in cocaine.”
Jack was reaching for the door handle, then stopped cold. “A drug connection?”
“Maybe.”
“That could change everything.”
“Yup.”
“Stay on it, Theo.”
“What are you gonna do?”
Jack glanced out the windshield, then looked at Theo and said, “I’m thinking maybe it’s time for another face-to-face with Alejandro Pintado.”
Theo nodded once, no disagreement, and then gave Jack one of those closed-fist handshakes. Jack got out the car, closed the door, and started down the sidewalk to the courthouse, ready to face yet again that ever-present group of Pintado-family supporters.
T
he return of Alejandro Pintado to the witness stand brought the courtroom to a complete hush. Technically, the prosecutor could have objected to Jack’s attempted rematch with the government’s star witness, but Torres held his tongue, apparently pleased to have an encore performance from the victim’s father. The jurors watched with the same sympathy and respect they had shown earlier, their admiration perhaps even greater than before. The woman in the first row probably would have kissed his ring, had Pintado offered. Jack, too, approached with some level of respect.
Sometimes, even disembowelment had to be done politely.
“Mr. Pintado, isn’t it true that Brothers for Freedom has given serious consideration to shutting down its operations?”
The witness gave him a quizzical look. “What time period are you talking about?”
“Over the last two years.”
“We had some discussions,” said Pintado. “Nothing definite. And as of late, there has been no talk of that at all. As long as Cubans come across the Florida Straits in search of freedom, our planes will be out there looking for them.”
Jack let him have his moment, then checked his notes for the details. “Sir, would it surprise you to know that from January to December of last year the U.S. Coast Guard interdicted over one thousand undocumented Cuban migrants at sea?”
“That would not surprise me at all.”
“How many Cubans did Brothers for Freedom rescue in that same year?”
He looked away awkwardly and said, “Two.”
“The year before that, the Coast Guard interdicted nine hundred Cubans. How many did Brothers for Freedom rescue?”
“That year? I think none.”
“In fact, if we exclude the current year and go back five years, Brothers for Freedom rescued a grand total of just eleven rafters. Isn’t that true, sir?”
“Well, you have to remember, we spotted far more than that. Unfortunately, the Coast Guard got to them and returned them to Castro before we could help them. That’s my whole objection to the wet-feet/dry-feet interdiction policy.”
“By wet feet/dry feet, you mean that if the Coast Guard interdicts Cuban rafters at sea, they are returned to Cuba. But if—”
“If they make it to dry land, they make it to freedom. That’s all my organization is trying to do. Get people safely to freedom.”
“And that’s why you referred to the U.S. Coast Guard as ‘Castro’s border patrol.’ ”
“I think their actions speak for themselves.”
“Okay. Now let’s get back to my original question. In five years, Brothers for Freedom rescued eleven Cuban rafters, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“This year, things have been different, have they not? Particularly in the first six months?”
“We’ve had more success, yes.”
“Much more success,” said Jack. “Through June of this year, a period of just six months, Brothers for Freedom rescued thirty-seven rafters.”
“Thirty-eight, actually. One of the women we rescued was eight months pregnant.”
“You must be proud of that.”
“I’m proud of all my people. We just keep getting better at what we do.”
“And more efficient, too,” said Jack. “Brothers for Freedom filed fewer FAA flight plans this year than in any previous year, has it not?”
“That’s true.”
“You purchased less fuel this year than in any previous year, correct?”
“That’s right,” said Pintado.
“And interestingly enough, according to INS estimates, the total number of rafters leaving Cuba is down by almost twenty percent this year when compared to previous years.”
“I don’t know the exact figures, but I can’t argue with those numbers.”
“So, even though you were flying less, and even though there were fewer rafters to be found, your rescues increased dramatically in the first six months of this year. All because you suddenly became better at what you were doing?”
“I think so, yes,” said Pintado.
“Or was it because you simply had better information?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Better information about what?”
“Better information about where the rafters were going to be…and where the Coast Guard
wasn’t
going to be?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” said the prosecutor. “There has been absolutely no evidence adduced at this trial to suggest that Mr. Pintado has a source at the U.S. Coast Guard.”
“Objection sustained.”
“Let me lay the proper foundation,” said Jack. He took a step closer and said, “Mr. Pintado, you testified earlier that your son’s best friend at the naval base was who?”
“Lieutenant Damont Johnson.”
“And which branch of service is Lieutenant Johnson in?”
He glared at Jack, then said quietly, “Coast Guard.”
Jack paused, not quite sure how far to press his point. Any jury had a low tolerance for bashing the victim’s family, but the chances of getting this witness back for a third round of questioning was virtually nil. Jack had to take his shot.
“One last question, sir. Since your son died in June—in other words, since Captain Pintado’s friendship with Lieutenant Johnson ended—how many undocumented Cuban migrants has Brothers for Freedom rescued at sea?”
Pintado seemed ready to strangle Jack. “None,” he said quietly.
It was the answer the defense needed, yet Jack hardly felt vindicated. He genuinely felt sorry for him, even sympathized with his
views, but someone may well have decided that Mr. Pintado’s cause was a cause worth killing for, either in support or opposition. It was up to Jack to make the jury see that, even if he wasn’t ready to plunge into Theo’s drug theory.
But the groundwork had been laid.
“Thank you, sir,” said Jack. “No further questions.”