Authors: James Grippando
H
ector Torres waited at the end of the pier at the marina. The prosecutor needed to meet with Alejandro Pintado, which was never as easy as summoning him to the U.S. attorney’s office. A man like Pintado didn’t come to you. He made you come to him, even if you were prosecuting the woman accused of murdering his son. Equally power conscious, Torres was unwilling to get in his ten-year-old Ford and drive to Pintado’s waterfront castle like a common servant to Miami’s undisputed king of Cuban restaurants. They agreed to meet halfway, but it was Pintado who arrived in style.
A Hatteras 86 Convertible pulled up alongside the dock, eighty-six feet of yachting pleasure that was many times over the value of the prosecutor’s modest Hialeah home. One of the crew helped Torres climb aboard and led him across the aft deck into the salon. It was technically a fishing boat, but the feel was more like a custom-built mansion, complete with a mirrored ceiling, club chairs, polished maple coffee table, and a wet bar with hand-crafted teak cabinetry. Pintado was seated on a curved, sectional sofa that faced the entertainment center. He switched off the flat-screen television with the remote and rose to greet his guest.
“Hector, very good to see you.”
“Likewise.”
They shook hands and patted each other on the shoulder, as close as two men ever seemed to come to hugging each other. Torres could easily have allowed himself to be envious of Pintado’s wealth. They
were both tireless workers, but Torres had chosen the life of politics and public service, leaving himself far fewer toys to play with as they neared the end of their respective careers. But six years on the Miami-Dade County commission and two terms as mayor had established him as a real player in the local political arena. After a short stint as chief assistant to the U.S. attorney, he cashed in his political chits to become south Florida’s top federal prosecutor. Being U.S. attorney was more management than trial work, so the thought of actually getting back in the courtroom to prosecute Lindsey Hart had revitalized him, made him realize that there was nothing in the world more thrilling than trying a big case and winning it. For all his success, Pintado would never experience that high. He might as well die a virgin.
“So how is the case going?” Pintado asked as he filled two glasses with some kind of fancy-pants water that came in a blue bottle. He offered one to his guest and returned to the couch.
Torres said, “The case is going well. It was going even better before you spoke to Jack Swyteck in Key West. That’s why I’m here.”
“You’re not going to scold me, are you?”
Torres did not return the smile. “You told him about the trust fund.”
“Says who?”
“Your personal attorney. I phoned him this morning to let him know that Swyteck was on the case. I reminded him that if Swyteck starts poking around into family financial affairs, don’t reveal any details about the trust fund. But he said you’d already let the cat out of the bag.”
“So, what’s the big deal anyway?
“That is a key part of our case. It’s Lindsey motive for killing her husband.”
“I understand that.”
“You needlessly tipped our hand, Alejandro. I purposely did not mention the trust fund to the grand jury so that we could surprise Swyteck with that information at trial.”
“Oh, come on. Surely Lindsey would have told him about it before trial.”
“You’re assuming that his client is being completely forthcoming with him. That’s not always the case.”
“Well, hell. Okay, I slipped and said something I shouldn’t have said. He came to see me, and, frankly, his whole approach bugged me.
He tried to bullshit me with this idea that he wants to figure out if his client is innocent before he represents her. So I felt like hitting him between the eyes. I told him about the trust fund. And I have to tell you, the look on his face was worth it.”
“No, it’s not worth anything. I want the jury to see that look, not you.”
“I still believe that he was bound to figure it out sooner or later.”
“Then let it be later. I want him to figure out
everything
later. That’s the way I’m playing this case. Jack Swyteck is a damn good lawyer. The way to beat him is to make sure he doesn’t see what’s coming.”
“
Bueno
. I’m sorry I said anything. I can’t take it back now.”
“No, you can’t undo it. But I need a commitment from you, Alejandro. I want you to take a vow of silence.”
“
No problema.
I’ll say not another word to Jack Swyteck.”
“I want you to say nothing more to anybody. Unless I tell you to say it.”
Pintado poured himself more water, shaking his head. “This is what I left Cuba for, to be able to say what I think.”
“Talk all you want—after the case is over. Before then, everything that comes out of your mouth will only help the defense. Unless you clear it with me.”
“You make this Swyteck sound like Superman.”
“Do you want your daughter-in-law convicted or don’t you?” said Torres.
“Of course I do.”
“Then work with me.”
Pintado took a breath, as if reluctant to yield any kind of control to anyone. “
Bueno.
We’ll try it your way.”
“You’ll be happy you did. Just two simple rules. Always surprise the enemy. And never surprise me.”
“I can do that.”
“Perfect. So let’s have it.”
“Have what?”
“You’ve given me only half of what I need. You agreed not to talk without my blessing. That will make sure we surprise the enemy.”
“What else do you want?”
“I just told you. I want no surprises. So I need the skinny on your son.”
“My son was a Marine’s Marine. There’s no dirt on him.”
“I’ve done some checking up. The last thing I need is for Jack Swyteck to figure this out before I do, so tell me something, and tell it to me straight.”
“Sure. What do you want to know?”
The prosecutor turned stone-cold serious. “How did your son get to be so buddy-buddy with a slime bucket like Lieutenant Damont Johnson?”
J
ack and Sofia had a late lunch of rice and beans in the Havana airport. The chef could have used a few pointers from Jack’s grandmother, though it was a bit unfair to single him out, since even the Food Network could have used a pointer or two from
Abuela
, whether they wanted help or not.
Havana was an unexpected route home, but they had been given no choice. The next charter flight to Norfolk was two days away, far longer than the navy cared to have two civilian lawyers snooping around the base. At Guantánamo’s behest, the Department of the Treasury immediately issued the licenses needed for U.S. citizens to travel lawfully within Cuba—proof positive that the bureaucracy could move when the bureaucrats wanted it to—and Jack and Sofia were whisked away on a commuter flight from Guantánamo City to Havana.
For all the travel, they’d managed just one witness interview and a twenty-minute visit to the crime scene. Amazing as it seemed, the interview was the most productive part of the trip. Lindsey’s old house had been completely sanitized—repainted, recarpeted, the works. A young officer and his new bride had been living there for the past three weeks. The military wasn’t exactly making it easy for Lindsey’s lawyers to follow the investigative trail.
“I want to apologize,” said Sofia as they walked to their gate.
“For what?” said Jack.
“For making this trip so difficult.”
“What are you talking about? You didn’t do anything.”
“Sure I did. I got their backs up before we even got here. That JAG lawyer specifically mentioned the comments I made on television after Lindsey’s indictment. They clearly are being more difficult because of my suggestion that Oscar may have been killed as part of a government cover-up.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over that.”
“I should have just kept my mouth shut.”
“The decision to transfer all those potential witnesses to another base was made at a very high level. Even if you hadn’t said anything, they’d be playing these games. An officer in the United States Marine Corps was murdered, and you and I defend the woman whom they believe is the killer. That’s all the reason they need to launch into combat readiness.”
She gave him a tight smile, as if still embarrassed by her television performance but grateful for Jack’s words.
They found a couple of open seats near the gate. Sofia read a magazine, but Jack was thinking about Lindsey Hart. After all, it was Lindsey, in her newspaper interview with the
Guantánamo Gazette
, who’d first gone public with the theory that Oscar was murdered because he “knew too much.” In Jack’s eyes, that theory had been a stretch from the get-go.
It was even more of a stretch if Lindsey was dialing for dead people on her cell phone.
“Gum?” said Sofia.
“Thanks,” said Jack.
At three
P.M.,
they were still waiting at the gate in Havana. Jack had brought a few books and magazines from Miami for the flight, but with the detour through Havana, he’d purposely left them in the path of a janitor and his broom. The guy probably couldn’t read English, and he looked too proud for handouts, but he had a wedding ring on his finger and dirt under his nails, so Jack figured he could probably use the Treasury Department–issued Andrew Jackson bookmarks that Jack had left inside.
Nothing to read. No CNN on the tube. No cell phones or laptop computer to check e-mails. The chewing gum lost its flavor in thirty seconds, and Jack kept himself busy folding the empty foil back into its original rectangular shape and trying to reinsert it into the paper sleeve. The flight to Cancun was already more than an hour late in
boarding. Once in Mexico, they’d catch another flight for the final leg to Miami. Jack was sitting close enough to the check-in counter to notice dozens of other Americans with the same itinerary, all with great suntans, all
without
travel licenses—and all in defiance of the U.S. government’s trade embargo against Cuba.
“Lots of
yanquis
here,” said Jack.
Sofia had her nose in her magazine. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t understand it. How do they not get into trouble when they pass through U.S. customs with ‘Cuba’ stamped in their passport?”
“Simple. You fly to Cancun, then you hop another flight to Havana. The Cuban immigration guys know enough not to stamp your passport, but just make sure you put a ten-dollar bill inside when you hand it to them. You fly back to Cancun when you’re done, then back to the States. The U.S. government has no way of knowing that you were partying till dawn every night at the Copacabana. They think you were in Cancun. Honest to God, it’s that easy.”
“Sounds like the only idiots who get caught are the ones who come back with one of those goofy souvenirs that says, ‘My parents went to Cuba and all I got was this stupid T-shirt.’ ”
“Pretty much. Why do you think this trade embargo is such a joke?”
“Just bugs me,” said Jack. “People like those two slobs over there.”
“What about them?”
“I was listening to them when I bought my coffee. They were practically tripping over their own tongues, talking about how cheap and beautiful the girls are in Havana. Of course they’re cheap, you morons. Their own government is starving them to death.”
“You surprise me, Swyteck. It’s refreshing to know somebody who actually gives a rat’s ass about the girls with no choice but to come to the big city and sell their bodies to tourists.”
“I surprise a lot of people. My mother was Cuban.”
“Really?
Tú hablas español?”
Do you speak Spanish?
“
Sí. Lo aprendí cuando yo era un escurridero.”
Yes, I learned it when I was a drainpipe.
She chuckled and said, “I think you meant, when you were a schoolboy.”
“What did I say?”
She was still smiling. “You said it exactly right. I wouldn’t change a word of it.”
He knew she was lying, and he felt the urge to redeem himself by telling her that he understood the language better than he spoke it. But he let it go.
Sofia said, “Funny, I voted against your old man in two gubernatorial elections. I don’t recall hearing anything about his being married to a Latina.”
“My mother passed away when I was young. Just a few hours old, actually.”
“Oh, how awful. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Obviously it was a long time ago.”
“Was she born in Cuba?”
“Yes. A little town called Bejucal.”
“I’ve heard of it. That’s actually not far from here.”
“I know. I checked the map before coming over.”
“You ever consider going there?”
“Every now and then. Only lately have I gotten serious about it.” Jack opened his carry-on bag and removed a photograph from inside a zipped pouch. “This is her,” he said as he offered it to Sofia.
“You brought a photograph?”
“I have a few keepsakes that my father and grandmother gave me. Not sure why I brought it. Coming to Cuba for the first time, it just seemed right to have her with me.”
“She’s beautiful. Just a teenager here, I would guess.”
“Yes. Seventeen. It was the last picture taken of her in Cuba.”
“Who’s that with her?”
“On the back it says ‘Celia Méndez.’ One look at the picture tells you they were best friends, but I don’t know anything more than that. My grandmother doesn’t seem to want to talk about Celia very much. I get the impression that she didn’t approve of the friendship.”
“
Abuelas
,” she said, smiling and shaking her head. “They all have their quirks, don’t they?”
“Some more than others,” said Jack.
A voice over the loudspeaker announced that their plane was finally boarding. Jack and Sofia rose and walked toward the gate with the other ticketed passengers. Twenty minutes later they were inside the plane and in their seats. A few passengers were trying to stuff luggage into the overhead compartments, but nearly everyone had settled
in for the flight. Jack was just getting comfortable when he heard his name over the speaker. The message was in Spanish.
“Passengers Sofia Suarez and John Lawrence Swyteck, please identify yourselves by pushing the flight attendant call button.”
They looked at each other, not sure what to think. Then Jack reached up and pushed the button. The flight attendant came to them. “Please come with me,” she said in Spanish.
“Both of us?”
“Yes.”
They rose, but as they started up the aisle the flight attendant stopped and said, “Please, bring your carry-on luggage with you.”
“What’s this about?” asked Sofia.
“Please, gather your things and come with me.”
She was pleasant enough, but the vibes weren’t good. Heads turned with suspicion as they proceeded up the long, narrow aisle. The flight attendant led them completely off the plane, and they continued walking toward the gate.
“I told you not to hand out money to janitors,” Sofia muttered.
“Something tells me that’s not what this is about,” said Jack.
Three men dressed in military uniforms were waiting at the gate. Each was carrying an impressive large-caliber pistol in a black leather holster. The two younger men also bore automatic rifles. The flight attendant handed over the passengers to the leader, a more mature-looking man who appeared to be of some higher rank that Jack was unable to pinpoint. He asked to see their passports, which they presented. As he inspected their documents, the airplane backed out of the gate and started toward the runway. The soldier kept their passports and said, “This way, please.”
Evidently, they weren’t leaving Cuba anytime soon.
Jack and Sofia followed directly behind the older man, and the two younger soldiers flanked them on either side. They walked for several minutes through the busy airport, three pairs of military boot heels clicking on the tile floors. They exited the main terminal through a long and hot hallway, passing through several sets of doors along the way, the last of which bore a sign that read in Spanish,
RESTRICTED AREA—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
. The lead officer opened it with a key, and the group continued its journey with hardly a break in
stride. There was another long hallway, and they walked straight to the door at the other end. The man knocked once and said, “Excuse me, Colonel. I have the Americans.”
The voice on the other side replied, “Enter.”
He opened the door and then immediately assumed the rigid pose of a military salute. A simple command from the man inside put him at ease, and he nudged the Americans forward.
Sofia shot Jack a look as if to say that “ladies first” was for lifeboats and cocktail parties. Jack entered, and she followed.
Jack’s eyes had to adjust to the lights, which were shining straight at his face. The room was windowless, but there was a large mirror built into the wall, undoubtedly a one-way gizmo that concealed the observers on the other side. The floors were unfinished concrete. The walls were cinder blocks that had been painted a bright white. Two uncomfortable wooden chairs were situated in the middle of the room, side by side, facing the lights. Even if he hadn’t been nervous, Jack would have been sweating. It was one of those interrogation rooms that could just as easily serve as a torture chamber, the kind of place from which you’d expect both screams and confessions to flow freely.
A man dressed in simple green combat fatigues stepped forward. His uniform was wholly unimpressive, yet he seemed to exude confidence as he spoke to the Americans in near-perfect English.
“Please, sit,” he said in a voice that sounded way too friendly to be sincere. “The people of Cuba are eager to speak to you about your case.”