Authors: James Grippando
T
hey made it through the checkout line without too much financial damage, and Jack drove them to his house.
Abuela
had a fine kitchen, but nothing seemed to give her quite as much pleasure as taking over someone else’s. In minutes she had unpacked the groceries and set up various food-preparation stations around Jack’s kitchen counters and stove.
Jack went straight to the television and switched on
Action News at Six.
The feed-in for the lead story was basically the same report that Jack had watched in Spanish. As a bonus, however, the anchorwoman had somehow snagged an exclusive live interview with Alejandro Pintado from his mega-mansion in Journey’s End, one of south Florida’s most exclusive communities.
“Mr. Pintado, we understand that your son and daughter-in-law had just one child, a ten-year-old son. What will become of him now that his mother has been indicted and denied bail?”
Pintado spoke in a solemn voice, his wife seated at his side on the couch. “The loss of our son is a terrible tragedy, but we are determined to avoid more harm to our family. Our grandson has decided that he wants to stay with us while his mother is in jail, and Lindsey’s attorney has indicated her agreement to that arrangement.”
“Will that become permanent if your daughter-in-law is convicted of murder?”
“We expect that it will, yes.”
The anchorwoman tried to get him to talk about the evidence
against Lindsey, but Pintado wisely declined, probably at the behind-the-scenes direction of the prosecutor. She thanked him and brought the interview to a close.
Jack looked up from the set and saw his grandmother shooting him a reproving look. “What?” he said.
“You going to help, or you going to watch TV?”
“I’ll help.” He walked to the kitchen counter, gathered up the dirty mixing bowls, and started toward the sink. Another glare from
Abuela
stopped him cold.
“Who taught you to clean while you cook?” she said.
“Sorry,” said Jack. Obviously she and his buddy Theo were of the same school when it came to the joy of cooking.
“Go sit over there,” she said. “Watch and learn.”
Abuela
was singing something in Spanish as she cooked, and watching and hearing her gave Jack an idea. He pulled down an atlas from the bookshelf and turned to a map of Cuba. Suddenly,
Abuela
was looking over his shoulder, as if she were equipped with homeland radar.
“Bejucal,” she said, pointing to a tiny black dot of a town near Havana. “Is where your mother grew up.”
Jack sat in silence. He’d heard the stories of how his mother had come to Miami after the Cuban revolution. Focused on that spot on the map, he could imagine his mother and grandmother hugging and kissing each other for the very last time.
Abuela
had made the heart-wrenching decision to send her teenage daughter to the United States without her, knowing that it was better for her to live in freedom, and hoping that they would soon find a way to reunite. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until long after her daughter’s passing that
Abuela
was finally able to make the trip.
Like any escape route, the one from Havana was fraught with personal tragedies,
Abuela
and Jack’s mother just one of thousands. In the broader annals of U.S. immigration history, however, the Cubans were an amazing success, particularly in Miami. There had been setbacks, of course, and any comparison of the first wave of immigration in the 1960s to some of the later refugees was bound to raise a few eyebrows, even among Cuban Americans. You could argue about that one till the
vacas
came home. The bottom line, however, was that both the city and county commissions were controlled by Cubans, the city mayor was Cuban, the county mayor was Cuban, three of South Florida’s five
congressional representatives were Cuban, and many of the most successful banks, businesses, law firms, brokerage houses, and so on were headed by Cubans. Unlike most Latino groups, Cuban Americans were largely Republican, not Democrat, and not just because Democrats were perceived as too soft on Castro. It was because so many Cuban Americans—Alejandro Pintado among them—had accumulated more than enough honest wealth to be counted among the GOP’s biggest campaign contributors. Yet, with all those accomplishments, many still talked of someday going back to Cuba, if not to live, then at least to help rebuild the economy after Castro’s long-awaited fall.
Jack had never really gotten caught up in all that “back to Cuba” talk. He hadn’t been raised Cuban, he spoke stilted Spanish, and he hadn’t really circulated in Latin social circles. Most people had no idea his mother was Cuban, so it wasn’t unusual for him to find himself privy to a gathering of Anglos plotting their imminent departure from the “third-world country” that Miami was becoming. If enough liquor was flowing, some pretty respectable people were more than willing to buddy-up with an apparent gringo named Swyteck and reveal their secret wish to look their Cuban neighbor in the eye and say, “Hey, José, if you want to go back to Cuba so damn bad, then do us all a favor and get back on your fucking banana boat and get the hell out of here.” Sometimes Jack would buck up and say something; sometimes he figured it wasn’t worth his effort. But deep down he knew that what really bugged the loudest complainers was that, if all these so-called “Josés” did go back to Cuba, they wouldn’t be traveling by banana boat. In fact, a good many of them would fly their children home from college at Harvard or Yale, hop on the eighty-foot yacht that was docked behind their three-million-dollar mansion in Gables Estates, and make a nice family trip out of it, soaking up sun and sipping cold
mojitos
served by one of their three Honduran housemaids.
“I should go to Bejucal,” said Jack.
“What?”
“If I get back into this case for my friend Lindsey, I’ll have to travel to Cuba. I should take a side trip to Bejucal.”
Abuela
said nothing. Jack asked, “What was it like there when my mother left?”
Abuela
took a deep breath, let it out. Then she answered in Spanish. “It was exactly the way it was when I left, thirty-eight years later.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And it was totally different, too.”
Jack’s gaze returned to the map. Bejucal was a fair distance from Guantánamo, but in Jack’s mind the two cities were forever linked. One made him think of himself, the young boy who had never known his mother. The other made him think of another boy, an adopted child who had never met his biological parents. It wasn’t the same thing, not by a long stretch, yet Jack found it slightly ironic that they shared the same option. They could try to learn about the person who had brought them into the world. Or they could leave it alone.
For Jack, the choice was suddenly clearer than ever before. He looked at his grandmother and said, “I want to go.”
Jack looked for some sign of approval in her expression, but he could only watch in confusion as
Abuela
turned and retreated to the kitchen.
“Do you not want me to go?” he said.
She didn’t answer. She was at the stove, tending to her cooking. Jack was fully aware that a journey back to Cuba was an emotional issue for many Cuban Americans, especially the elders, but he expected more of a
mix
of emotions from
Abuela
. Instead, there was just silence.
The telephone rang, and Jack decided to let the answering machine get it. He was still trying to figure out
Abuela
’s reaction, but
Abuela
was too clever for him. She answered it herself. Jack waved his arms at her, as if to say, Whoever it is, tell them I’m not here.
Abuela
ignored his silent pleas, obviously not wishing to discuss Jack’s trip to Cuba any further.
“Yes, Jack is right here next to me,” she told the caller.
Jack groaned and took the phone. “Hello?”
“Is this Jack Swyteck?” It was a woman on the line, a voice he didn’t recognize.
“Yes, that’s me. Who is this?”
“My name is Sofia Suarez.” She paused, as if Jack should recognize the name. Then she added, “I represent Lindsey Hart.”
Jack stepped out of the kitchen, away from the clatter of
Abuela
’s cooking. “Yes, I saw you on television.”
“Oh, I hate cameras, but with all that media, I felt like I had to say something. How do you think it played?”
Jack didn’t see the point in trashing her conspiracy theory just yet. “Hard to say.”
“It sucked. I know. I sounded like one of those ‘the world is out to get me’ nutcases.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“You’re just being kind. Listen, I’m calling because…well, for a couple of reasons. One, Lindsey asked me to call.”
“She did?”
“Yes. I heard all about the way she told you off the other day, and she is so sorry. She is under so much stress right now. I know that’s not an excuse, but it certainly explains a lot.”
“What does she want?”
“She’s afraid to ask you to come back and represent her. But believe me, in her heart, she is begging for your forgiveness. She needs you, and the only person who knows that more than Lindsey is me.”
“What do you mean?”
She chuckled mirthlessly and said, “I am so over my head here. I’m not a criminal lawyer. Lindsey hired me to handle her probate matter. The estate won’t distribute Oscar’s trust fund to her.”
“I know. She told me about that. Finally.”
“That’s right up my alley. But a murder trial, no way. So please, I’m hoping that you can put aside what happened the other day and do the right thing. Obviously there will be plenty of money to pay you when this probate matter gets straightened out.”
“It was never about the money,” said Jack.
“I know. Lindsey told me about…you know, about you and Brian.”
Jack stepped farther away from the kitchen, careful not to let
Abuela
overhear anything. “What did she tell you?”
“That you’re the father.”
Jack paused. It was strange, but somehow the fact that this Sofia knew his secret made him feel more connected to her. “I saw Lindsey’s father-in-law on television. Did you agree to let Brian stay with his grandparents?”
Her sigh crackled over the line. “It was a hard decision. Lindsey’s sister would have been glad to take him. But Brian truly wanted the Pintados, and Lindsey didn’t want to drag him through a court fight over who should care for him while she’s in custody.”
Jack knew how Lindsey felt about Pintado. He had to respect a mother who would honor her son’s wishes under those circumstances. “Well, hopefully it will all work out for the best in the end.”
“Yes, if she’s acquitted. Which, again, is where you come in.”
“It’s a complicated decision,” said Jack.
“I’m sure it is. And I hate to push, but I need a commitment from you quickly. I’m scheduled to leave for Guantánamo in the morning.”
“What for?”
“Interviews. On-site inspections. It’s not easy for civilians to arrange a visit to the naval base. If I don’t grab tomorrow’s opening, it could be weeks before I’m able to schedule another trip.”
Jack was thinking aloud. “I should be a part of that, if I’m going to be lead counsel.”
“Definitely. So what do you say?”
“Let me sleep on it.”
“Jack, I really need an answer. If you’re not going to help me on this Guantánamo trip, I need to find a real criminal lawyer who will.”
“I understand.”
“No, I don’t think you do. Have you seen the indictment yet?”
“No.”
“It’s a capital case. They’re asking for the death penalty.”
Jack went cold.
“She needs you, Jack. She
really
needs you.”
Jack considered it. A probate lawyer in a death penalty case? Lindsey didn’t have a chance. He wasn’t one hundred percent convinced of her innocence, but she had offered to take a polygraph. She probably deserved better than the hand she’d been dealt so far.
Brian definitely deserved better—which was enough to swing the balance.
“Okay,” said Jack. “I’m in.”
T
he next morning Jack and Sofia Suarez met at the airport.
Getting into the U.S. naval air station at Guantánamo Bay had never been easy, and the nation’s war on terrorism had made it nearly as tough as getting into a South Beach nightclub dressed in last year’s fashion. A midmorning commercial flight took them from Miami to Norfolk, Virginia. It was up to them to find ground transportation to the naval air station for their Air Mobility Command flight to Guantánamo, which didn’t leave until six
P.M.
Jack was actually looking forward to a little shut-eye on the plane. Following their initial phone conversation, Sofia had arranged for a courier to deliver a boxful of grand jury transcripts, witness statements, and other evidence upon which the prosecutor had relied to secure Lindsey’s indictment. Jack had spent almost the entire night reviewing them, and it was now taking its toll. Despite his unstoppable yawns, Sofia seemed determined to talk strategy every step of the way to Guantánamo.
“You want to do the interviews, or you think maybe I should?” said Sofia.
“Wasn’t that the whole point of my coming on board so quickly? So that I could take the lead?”
“It was, but then I got to thinking. We’ll be talking mostly to men, and most of them have been trapped on a military base with a lot of other men for a very long time.”
“So you’re thinking…what?”
“Who are they more likely to spill their guts to? You?” she said, batting her eyes, just to make her point. “Or a total Latin babe?”
She was pouring it on for effect, but with her long black hair and perfect olive skin, the Latin babe thing wasn’t a stretch. If Jack was going to be sandwiched between Lindsey and Sofia at trial, he was going to have to give some serious thought toward gunning for an all-male jury.
This is going to be interesting.
They had about an hour to kill before heading over to the military terminal, so they found a couple of stools at the end of the bar in a relatively uncrowded pub-style restaurant. Sofia was hungry, but Jack had been force-fed by
Abuela
before leaving the house and would have no use for food for perhaps two or three days. Sofia ordered a Cobb salad, and Jack had coffee.
“You ever been to Cuba before, Jack?”
“No, but I’m curious to see it. My mother was born in Cuba.”
“Really? How does she feel about your defending the woman who is accused of killing the only son of the esteemed Cuban exile, Alejandro Pintado?”
“My mother passed away a long time ago. But my grandmother is still alive and as opinionated as ever. She’s not exactly crazy about it.”
“Sounds like my father. He’s Alpha Sixty-six—Bay of Pigs survivor. I’m proud of him, of course, but he is a bit extreme. For the past forty years he’s spent two Saturdays a month dressed in camouflage, crawling around on his belly in the Florida Everglades, getting ready for the next armed invasion of Cuba. When I told him I was representing Lindsey Hart, I think he would actually have petitioned to have me disbarred if it hadn’t cost him so much to put me through law school.”
“Obviously his objections don’t bother you.”
“Nah. I’ll be dancing in the streets along with everyone else when Castro falls, but it’s not my life’s work. In the eyes of men like my father and Alejandro Pintado, I suppose that makes me a communist. When it comes to politics, we just have to agree to disagree.”
“I can relate to that,” said Jack.
“Yeah, I seem to remember an article about you and your old man in
Tropic
magazine some years back. ‘Why Can’t the Governor Win His Own Son’s Vote?’ or something like that.”
“A lot has changed since then.” He smiled and added, “Though I’m still not sure I’d vote for him.”
Sofia didn’t seem to realize that he was kidding. She was picking the bits of hard-boiled egg out of her salad, adding them to a growing pile of suspicious perishables on a side plate. Finally she looked up and said, “So, are you wondering how I got this case?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. How do you know Lindsey?”
“We were lovers in college.”
“What!”
“Gotchya,” she said with a smile. “Man, you’re easy. Actually, we shared an apartment our senior year at FSU. Kept in touch a few years after that. Then we lost contact, until her husband died. She needed a lawyer, and I guess she remembered that I’d somehow managed to get into law school. I got a phone call a couple of months ago.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Well, she told me about Oscar. We cried together a little. Then she told me about the trust fund he’d left her, and how her father-in-law didn’t want her to have it.”
“Is that how she put it—that Alejandro Pintado didn’t want her to have the family money?”
“Yes. Right from the beginning, she thought that Oscar’s father would stop at nothing to keep her from getting that money. Even if it meant accusing her of murder.”
“I’ve seen plenty of nasty things done for the sake of litigation posturing in my day. But actually pushing for a murder indictment takes the art of saber rattling to new heights, don’t you think?”
“For most people, sure. For Alejandro Pintado…maybe not.”
The waitress came and refilled Jack’s coffee cup. When she was gone, Jack said, “Have you met her son Brian yet?”
“We met for the first time about three days ago. I told Lindsey I needed to interview him if I was going to get involved in the criminal case.”
“I told her the same thing. Didn’t get me very far.”
“She’s very protective of him. If you ask me, she’s truly devastated by what happened to her husband. The last thing she wants is her son getting dragged through the system and ending up with a screwed-up head.”
“I can understand that. How did the interview go?”
“Fine. He’s a wonderful kid. You’ll like him.”
Jack emptied a packet of sugar into his coffee. “What did he tell you about the night his father was shot?”
“Same thing he told the police. Didn’t notice anything unusual during the night. He woke a little earlier than usual. He wasn’t sure why. Something just didn’t feel right. Got out of bed to go to the bathroom. His mom was already at work, but the door to the master bedroom was open. He saw the blood on the bed, then he saw the body.”
“And that was when he called his mother at work?”
“Yes. Well, it was actually a digital page that he typed out. They have a special phone for the hearing impaired.”
“I read the police report last night. Brian was pretty unclear about the exact wording of the message. Has his memory improved on that?”
“All he recalls is that he said something to the effect of ‘Mom, come home, now—emergency!’ ”
“She came right home?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what?”
Sofia finished off a chunk of avocado. “That’s pretty much all the information he has. His mom sent him to his room and wouldn’t let him out until the police came.”
“Does he have any recollection of Lindsey saying anything like, ‘Oh my God, your father shot himself’—anything like that?”
“I don’t think I asked him that.”
Jack hesitated, then asked, “Did you ask him if
he
shot his father?”
“Not directly. I asked in a more general way if he knew who shot his father, and he said, ‘No.’ ”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’d know if he was lying.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’m a thirty-four-year-old single woman. How many times you think
I’ve
been lied to? Brian’s ten. He’s no match for me.”
“Hard to argue with that,” said Jack.
“The biggest problem with Brian is not that he hurts Lindsey’s case, but that he’s just not able to help her. He’s deaf, so he’s not going
to be able to tell us that he heard his mother definitely leave for work at a certain time, or that he heard noises of a possible intruder. He can’t even tell us what time he heard the gun go off.”
“Disadvantage for us. Advantage for the killer.”
Sofia nodded, seeming to follow his logic. “Which probably means that the killer was fully aware of Brian’s deafness.”
“I’d say so.”
“I guess that’s one of the things you’ll want to establish with some of the witnesses you talk to at Guantánamo: Who knew that Brian was deaf, unable to hear a thing?”
“That’s one of the things on my list,” said Jack.
“What else you got on your list?”
“It’s a work in progress.”
“Oh, come on. What’s right up there at the top? What do you want to know most?”
“What I want to know most is probably something that only Lindsey can tell me.”
“What’s that?”
He thumbed through the forensic report, which he’d read for the first time that morning. “How did her fingerprints end up on the murder weapon?”
Sofia didn’t respond. Jack closed up the report and checked his watch. If they were going to make their AMC flight, it was time to get moving. They pooled their money to cover the tab and left the restaurant together.