“Fair enough,” said Casey.
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out the photo I had seen.
“Permission to approach the witness, Your Honor,” said Casey.
“Go ahead,” said the judge.
Casey quite casually placed the photograph before Lieutenant Winrock.
“So this is our suspect, correct?” Casey said.
“Yes, indeedy,” the witness replied.
“You’re positive?”
“Absolutely positive.”
Casey turned to the judge with a broad grin.
“Your Honor,” he said, “I’d like to enter into evidence a picture of my daughter, Sara.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” said the prosecutor. “Is this really necessary?”
“Overruled,” said the judge. “You’ve got my attention, Mr. Casey. Go on.”
Casey handed the witness yet another document.
“Here are some mug shots of the Colombian nationals I mentioned earlier. Recognize any of them?”
Lieutenant Earl Winrock stared at the mugs, perplexed. He looked up and pointed at me.
“I recognize her,” he said.
“Clearly this witness is unable to make a coherent identification, much less a positive one,” said Casey. “Therefore, I ask that these charges be dropped, so my client can go on with her life.”
The prosecutor jumped to her feet.
“The people request time to review the documents presented by Mr. Casey,” she said. “We’d like to conduct a fingerprint analysis.”
“I’ll save you the trouble, Ms. Butler,” said Casey, handing a stack of documents to the court clerk. “I introduce into evidence a fingerprint analysis conducted by the chief of the immigration fraud unit, at my request. That would be your colleague in the federal ranks, Barbara Dawkins.”
Butler was not amused. She asked the judge for a sidebar conference. He declined.
“Let me take a look at those,” Judge Rolle told the clerk.
The clerk handed him the fingerprint analysis. The judge perused the report for a minute.
“Any of these prints match the defendant’s?” he asked, scanning the fingerprint diagrams.
“No, sir,” said Casey.
The prosecutor wasn’t buying it.
“What about the inconclusive ones?” said Butler.
“Inconclusive is right,” Casey said.
“Give me a couple of minutes,” said the judge.
As the lawyers fiddled at their respective tables, Judge Rolle continued to leaf through the report, comparing diagrams and notes. After what seemed a long period of silence, he cleared his throat with a quick cough.
“Will the defendant please rise?” the judge said.
This time I obeyed him.
Judge Rolle looked directly at me with a calm, confident demeanor.
“To paraphrase Lieutenant Winrock: People do run away from who they are. They do it all the time. Identity can be a murky thing,” the judge said. “They leave town. They change their names. They elope. They reinvent themselves in new cities. Some of them do it for benign reasons and others do it for entirely malicious ones. But at the end of the day, these matters of identity are never clear-cut. And perhaps because of this, I don’t see the kind of irrefutable evidence I demand of a case this serious, especially in respect to the identity of this woman who stands accused before me today. I find no conclusive evidence linking this young lady to any drug trafficking ring. Therefore, I find no reason to detain her any longer.”
A mix of reactions hummed across the courtroom. The prosecutor tried to protest, but the judge cut her off.
“This matter is closed,” said the judge; then he turned to address me. “Ms. Portilla—”
“Guevara, Your Honor,” I said, invoking a deferential tone.
“Ms. Guevara,” Judge Rolle said as he cracked a smile at last. “You are free to go home, Ms. Maria Guevara.”
I exhaled in disbelief. I felt as if I had been teetering on the side of a cliff, then been swept back to solid ground by a powerful gust of wind. I hugged my lawyer in gratitude.
“It was the picture of Sara, you know,” he said. “That’s what did it.”
“Please tell Sara Casey I love her forever,” I said.
“Don’t worry, I will,” Casey said, giving me a squeeze. “It’s over. You’re going home.”
But as thrilling as the moment was, I couldn’t shake the questions that lingered in my mind: How did things get this far? What might have happened if Casey had not pulled out that ace-card photograph from his briefcase? What could have happened if he hadn’t ordered that fingerprint analysis? I shuddered at the thought that I had been this close to spending another night—or God knows how much longer—on that rank cot in cell block Bravo.
At the processing area, a guard gave me back my clothes and jewelry and directed me to a proper dressing room. As I slipped on my business clothes, I felt as if they belonged to somebody else. The skirt, a silvery gray Nanette Lepore pencil skirt I had bought myself to celebrate a big sales week, seemed two sizes too big. And the keyhole detailing on the top, once my favorite seafoam-colored pullover, sagged atop my bosom. I recognized neither the fit of the clothes nor the woman who once filled out their seams. But that was fine by me. Whoever I was now, I was out of there.
On my way out of the processing area, I bumped into Agent Green. His face lit up when he saw me, as if he had been waiting for me a long while.
“Hey. I wanted to catch you before you left,” he said.
I brushed past him without a word. But he hustled after me.
“Look, there’s something I want to tell you,” he said, touching my elbow to slow my pace.
“The judge released me, you know,” I said as I hurried to the front door.
“I just want to say we do our jobs as best we can. It’s not personal,” he said.
“Really. Why don’t you go tell that to my son?”
Agent Green glanced away for a minute.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” he said.
But I wasn’t in the mood for apologies or explanations. I kept on walking until I was out of that airless building and into the balmy Miami afternoon, where my parents waited by the entryway. I hugged both of them in relief.
“Go on home and rest,” I told them. “I’ll come see you after I pick up Max.”
Nearby, in the sunlight, I spotted my driver and our getaway car. Gina waved to me from inside her red convertible. As I walked to the car, I dialed Tony’s number on my cell phone, but he didn’t pick up. So I texted him: “Good news: Charges were dropped. Will come by later to pick up Max. See you then.”
I jumped into the convertible and gave Gina a hug.
“Come on,” she said, “let’s blow this taco joint.”
Without saying anything more, we blazed out of the parking lot. I raised my arms and let the wind race through my fingers and press me back into the passenger seat.
We passed all the familiar streets, the usual cluttered strip malls and all those gable-roofed developments with Castilian names. We wove along blocks dotted with FOR SALE signs. I noticed there were royal poinciana trees in places I had never noticed before—they were stunning. This sweltering mess of a city never felt more like home.
Gina pulled into my driveway on Hibiscus Lane. The neighbor, Dale, was outside, smoking a cigarette. I waved hello, but he turned away and walked back toward his garage.
“You think the judge believed me?” I asked Gina before I got out of the car.
“What do you care? You’re home,” she said.
“I’ll call you later,” I said, giving Gina a hug.
“What about Max?” she said.
“I’m picking him up right after I shower,” I told her.
Inside, the house was still a wreck. I could tell Daddy had come by to tidy up a little because the books were now stacked on the living room floor, the cushions were back on the sofa, and three weeks’
worth of mail was piled neatly on the kitchen counter.
After a hot shower, I leafed through the mail until I came across an official-looking one. The return address on the envelope sent a wave of dread through my body.
FAMILY COURT SERVICES, it read.
When I ripped it open, my worst fears were confirmed in black and white. It was notice of a custody decision in response to my ex-husband’s emergency motion. It said the judge, Miami-Dade Circuit Court Judge Jane Anne Costello, had granted Tony’s request for temporary custody in my absence. And it also noted that a psychiatrist would be assigned to Max, at the request of the father.
Of all the ways my sense of freedom could be cut short, this was the worst. Tony, whose callous deeds seemed to compete with one another for Worst in Show, had outdone himself.
Bravo, Tony, I thought to myself. You finally got your wish. You got my attention.
I grabbed my keys from the kitchen counter and raced out of the house. I tore out of the driveway so quickly I nearly bulldozed the neighbor’s hedges.
SIX
GROVE ISLE PENTHOUSE—DAY 21
Mary, envelope clutched in hand, knocks at the front double doors of a swanky condominium. Wearing sweatpants and a thin wife-beater T, she looks out of place in the baroque splendor of the resort residence.
When he opened the front door, Tony took a step back. I suppose he was shocked to see me in civilian clothes so soon. Although my time in detention seemed like an eternity to me, I’m sure it was not nearly long enough in Tony’s mind.
“Chérie,” he said, holding the door tightly so it wouldn’t swing open all the way.
“Where’s Max?” I said, forcing the door open and letting myself in.
Tony followed as I barreled forth through the living room.
“He’s at the tennis camp today,” he said.
“I’d like to see him,” I said. “I’d like to see him right away.”
“He’ll be back in a few hours. Come, let’s visit for a minute or two,” Tony said, clearly jangled.
He coaxed me into his office den and offered me a seat on a hard beechwood chair of Italian minimalist design. He took a seat on the far more spacious and comfortable leather sofa across from me, making sure we were separated by a safe distance and a large, round glass table with a dramatic, sculpted glass base.
“Why don’t you take some time off?” he said, crossing his legs like women do.
“I’m fine. I just want to see my son,” I said, trying to keep my tone level.
“So we will visit you tomorrow,” he said.
“No, Tony, you won’t visit me tomorrow. This little game is over now. I’m in the clear. I’m here to pick up my son and take him home. Didn’t you get my message?” I said, tracking his eyes as they shifted.
“I hate to break it to you,” he said smugly, “but you’re not exactly in the clear.”
“Really. Why don’t you go ask the federal prosecutor who dropped the charges against me and the judge who released me with his deepest apologies?” I told him.
“From what I understand, that judge had his doubts,” Tony came back.
“How do you know if you weren’t there?” I said.
“I have my sources,” he said.
Tony was clinging to whatever shred of power he had amassed on the day of our jailhouse visit. He wasn’t about to let it go without a fight. And, believe me, I was ready for it.
“Do you have doubts?” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You can’t be serious about this custody thing,” I said. “The deal was, everything would go back to normal when I got out. That’s what you said. And now you bring in a damn shrink?”
“Legally, I am in the right,” he said. “The judge said I have custody for now. That means you have to request visitation if you want to see him.”
“I expected something better from you. I expected you to show more respect for your son,” I said.
But before I could say anything more, I glanced up to see Victoria had appeared at the doorway. She was wearing one of her neon-colored pantsuits and her fixed campaign smile, and she gusted into the room leaving a trail of L’Air du Temps. She made her way to the leather sofa, where she took a seat next to her husband. From there, she blew a diplomatic kiss my way.
Tony seemed newly invigorated by her presence. He took her bejeweled hand and gave it a grateful smooch.
“You see, Mary, I am thinking about Max. He has suffered a serious trauma,” he said, now appearing to speak for a force greater than himself.
I tried to block out Victoria’s presence and focus all my attention on Tony.
“I’ll explain everything to him in due time,” I said.
“Yes, but this is a process,” he said, using an almost militant tone.
“The process is done. Max needs to go back to his normal life, to the way things were—”
Before I could finish my thought, I was cut off by a swift, unexpected protest.
“He doesn’t want to go home,” said Victoria, in a voice I can only describe as grating.
I gave her a long, cold look, but I directed my response to Tony.
“Why don’t you tell the family values candidate to stay out of this?” I said.
Victoria got up and left the room without another word. Tony reddened.
“You don’t come to my house, uninvited, and insult my wife,” he said to me. “I want you to leave now.”
Tony motioned toward the door, but I ignored him. I got up and made my way around the glass table to the sofa, until I was hovering over him, within inches of his face.
“I’ll give you till tomorrow morning to bring Max to my house,” I said without raising my voice.
This time, Tony didn’t look away. He lifted his chin in defiance.
“Oh, my chérie,” he said, “you’ll have to ask Judge Costello about that.”
Out of Tony’s sight, I collapsed against the wall in the ornate corridor outside the penthouse and wept for a good twenty minutes. It had been three full weeks since I had seen my son, and I couldn’t help but feel responsible for our separation. I’m the one who had agreed to our original joint custody despite my fragile relationship with Tony. I knew it could all fall apart at any moment, yet I gave Tony the power he didn’t deserve. I did it because I believe a boy needs his father. But now Max was trapped, and it was my fault.
I left Grove Isle and sped off to see the one man I believed could help return my son to me.
LAW OFFICE OF ELLIOT CASEY—DAY 21
Mary enters an elegant suite overlooking the Miami River, the stately den of Miami’s premier defense attorney.
I found Casey at work behind a massive antique desk piled with files. Behind him, an enormous window framed the hourly streaming of local fishing boats, feisty tugs, and Haitian freighters along the five-mile river route. I once found the river so comforting, a vigorous sign of life in full motion. But now I wondered how many of those vessels were carrying contraband, felonious merchandise hidden beneath a colorful façade of used appliances, children’s bicycles, and ice chests of “fresh fish.” And how many of those crusty, prototypical boat captains were in truth drug-smuggling crooks? In light of my new reality, all scenarios were possible.
“The son of a bitch got his way,” I said, taking a seat across from Casey.
He looked up from his work and lifted a hand to stop me from speaking any further.
“Relax,” he said. “You’ve been out of jail for, what—two whole hours?”
“Two and a half,” I said, tossing the letter from family court on his desk. “And I came home to this.”
Casey skimmed the letter and handed it back to me.
“He’s just trying to rile you,” he said.
“At the expense of his son,” I said. “What kind of man would do that?”
“I don’t know,” Casey said, mulling the question for a moment. “What kind of a man is he? Tell me.”
He said th
is with a sly lift of his voice. By his tone, I knew what kind of information he was asking for and I relished the opportunity to spill it all to him. Casey didn’t want to know about Tony Ramonet’s Neiman Marcus–catalog looks or the fact that he had season tickets to the Florida Opera, a favorite table at Café Abracci, a fuzzy mole just above his left nipple, and an armoire full of tennis shorts he wears too tight. He wanted ammo.
“Have I ever told you how Tony made his fortune?” I began.
Casey reached for a legal pad.
“Go for it,” he said, jotting some notes. “Don’t leave anything out.”
I scraped together every fragment of knowledge and memory I had stored and I delivered to him the dossier of Antoine Max-imilien Ramonet. I told him how Tony fancied himself a stellar financier and often told clients he had an MBA from Wharton. He liked to tell a story of how he moved to Pennsylvania with his wealthy grandfather, a French diplomat of some relevance, but fell out of favor with the Ramonet clan when he announced he wanted to stay in the United States. Disowned by his family, Tony forged ahead on his own, working odd jobs until he landed an entry-level position at a financial firm—and the rest was history, he’d say.
The story would be true except for the fact that Tony never went to Wharton, never lived in Pennsylvania, never met his diplomat grandfather, and never came from money. The truth is his parents ran a small grocery store in a suburb of Lyon, where Tony excelled at soccer, card tricks, and bookkeeping for the family store.
His “big break” came in his late twenties when his best friend asked Tony to manage his mother’s finances. The woman, a dressmaker, had inherited a chunk of money from a relative but needed advice on how to invest it. She trusted Tony more than she trusted her own son, so she bought into his idea to form a business partnership. Long story short: The woman lost her business, her money, and her son’s best friend. Tony fled to Miami a wealthy man.
“I found the woman’s letters and confronted him,” I told Casey. “That’s why I left him and that’s why I’ve never taken a penny in alimony from him.”
“Can you prove any of this?” Casey asked.
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