The Girl in the Glass Box

by James Grippando

  “We believe that MDPD has a DNA specimen from a suspect. They took a sample from Beatriz to see if there is a partial match that would identify the suspect as Beatriz’s father.”

  The judge looked at the prosecutor. “Is that true, Mr. Arnoff?”

  “Judge, the identity of the suspect is confidential information.”

  “Well, let’s back up. First, do you have a DNA specimen from a suspect?”

  “We have saliva from a cigarette butt that was found in the decedent’s car. That saliva does not match the DNA of the victim.”

  “And you collected DNA from Beatriz Rodriguez for the purpose of making a comparison to the DNA from that saliva. Do I have that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you made that comparison not to see if there was a perfect match, but to see if there was a partial match, which would mean that the saliva is from someone who is related to Beatriz Rodriguez. Is that right?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And, Mr. Swyteck, all you want to know is did the comparison show a partial match, correct?”

  “That’s it,” said Jack.

  “So, how ’bout it, Mr. Arnoff. Did you get a partial match?”

  The DHS lawyer rose. “May the Department of Homeland Security be heard on this point?” asked Jerrell.

  “Certainly,” the judge said.

  “Your Honor, this intrusion into a homicide investigation isn’t about domestic violence or the safety of Mr. Swyteck’s clients. This motion is a completely improper end run around the immigration court. Mr. Swyteck seeks to gain a tactical advantage in an asylum hearing that is scheduled for a final hearing less than two weeks from now.”

  “What kind of tactical advantage?”

  “The argument for asylum is that if Ms. Rodriguez is returned to El Salvador, she will continue to suffer abuse by her husband.”

  The judge seemed perplexed. “You can get asylum for that?”

  “The attorney general’s most recent opinion has made it difficult, I concede,” said Jack. “But our position is that asylum can be appropriate if the government is unable or unwilling to protect a married woman from violence at the hands of her husband.”

  “Hmm,” the judge said.

  Jack took note. This judge seemed to be of the same mind-set as the Orlando immigration judge. The tone of the hearing had just shifted.

  Jerrell continued. “There are so many reasons why this application for asylum should be and will be denied. But for today’s purposes, DHS would only point out that Mr. Swyteck must prove that his client has a reasonable fear of continued abuse by her husband. No one has laid eyes on Mr. Rodriguez for months. Not in Miami, not in El Salvador, not anywhere on the planet.”

  “Is it DHS’s position that Mr. Rodriguez is deceased?”

  “It is indeed, Your Honor.”

  Jack fired back. “That’s all the more reason to grant my motion, Judge. A partial match would prove that Mr. Rodriguez is alive and that the department’s position is wrong.”

  “Mr. Swyteck’s statement just shows how little he understands about DNA evidence,” said Jerrell. “A partial match could show that the DNA from that saliva belongs to Beatriz’s father or her mother. It would be the height of injustice to allow Julia Rodriguez to point to DNA from her own saliva to prove that her abusive husband is alive and well and therefore she should be granted asylum.”

  “Judge, that saliva does not belong to Julia Rodriguez. Julia was in detention in Macclenny, Florida, when Mr. McBride disappeared.”

  “She was not in detention when she worked with Mr. McBride at Café de Caribe. Her saliva could have survived on the cigarette for months.”

  “She was not riding around in Mr. McBride’s car. He sexually harassed her at work.”

  “A mere allegation that Mr. McBride vehemently denied before he was found dead in Ms. Rodriguez’s bathroom. And, Your Honor, I would also point out that Ms. Rodriguez had already been released from detention at the time Mr. McBride’s vehicle was abandoned. That makes Ms. Rodriguez a viable suspect as an accessory after the fact.”

  Jack could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Judge, now they’re just making stuff up. If Julia Rodriguez is now a suspect as an accessory after the fact, it’s only to give the department one more reason to deport her at the hearing.”

  “It sounds like that would be a pretty good reason,” the judge said.

  “Thank you,” said Jerrell.

  “Mr. Swyteck, the court denies your motion. Best of luck to you and your client at the immigration hearing. We are adjourned,” he said with a bang of the gavel.

  Jerrell hurried out of the courtroom ahead of the prosecutor. Jack caught up with her in the hallway right outside the double exit doors. “Are these the kind of games I should expect at the asylum hearing?” he asked.

  Jerrell stopped. “What you should expect is vigorous opposition to a frivolous request for asylum that would turn immigration court into family court. My job is already hard enough. I don’t need lawyers like you making it even harder by inviting immigration judges to render terrible decisions. I’ll see you next week.” She turned and walked away.

  The prosecutor emerged from the courtroom with a pen in his mouth and his arms full of loose expandable files as he hurried past Jack.

  “Arnoff,” Jack said, stopping him. “Look me in the eye and tell me Julia is really a suspect.”

  The prosecutor simply shrugged and continued down the hallway.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Jack.

  Chapter 46

  Julia needed a place for her and Beatriz to live.

  She’d apologized to her sister, and Cecilia probably would have forgiven her, eventually, if only because she liked having Beatriz around. Her roommates, however, wanted their privacy back. A weekend of apartment shopping turned into a crash course in why the Joint Center for Housing Studies at Harvard University consistently ranked South Florida the least affordable rental market in the nation. Anything within Julia’s budget made the worst neighborhoods of San Salvador look safe. On Monday afternoon, Theo made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

  “This is so nice of you,” she said as they walked up the flight of metal stairs behind Cy’s Place.

  “I think you’ll like it,” said Theo.

  Cy’s Place was at one of the oldest addresses in Coconut Grove, a two-story brick structure that harked back to the Grove’s bohemian roots of artists, musicians, hippies, and head shops. Condos in the massive glass towers overlooking the marina were the hot new properties, some selling for eight figures. The one-bedroom hovel directly above Cy’s Place came with a prime view of the Dumpsters in the alley but was not without charm.

  “Only one person has lived here since I opened the club,” said Theo, as he unlocked the door.

  “Who?”

  He smiled. “Uncle Cy.”

  “You’re kidding. There really was an Uncle Cy?”

  “Still is. His old knees can’t take the stairs no more. He hated to go, but moving in with his girlfriend made it a little sweeter.”

  Theo opened the door and showed her inside. The furnishings were simple, and the old wood floors creaked beneath her footfalls, but the walls were a treasure. Countless black-and-white photographs told a story of old Miami. Her gaze was drawn to the large framed poster that hung over the couch. It was weathered with age, but the young black woman in the picture looked radiant as ever. first time in miami, the poster proclaimed. tickets $2 at the door.

  “Who is Nina Simone?” asked Julia.

  Theo’s mouth was agape, and she thought she’d offended him, but her question had merely excited him with the realization that she was a blank slate and he was Wikipedia. She watched and listened, fascinated as Theo took her around the apartment like a tour guide, sharing with her the mythic qualities of the historic village of Overtown and its once bustling music and entertainment district. He seemed especially proud of the photos of his uncle Cy playing
“after-midnight” gigs with Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, and other famous black entertainers who would finish their act at a Miami Beach hotel and then head across the causeway to jam with the brothers in Overtown, where their skin color didn’t prevent them from getting a room for the night.

  “Can we go there?” she asked.

  He hesitated, and Julia was suddenly embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry. That sounded like I was asking you to take me on a date, didn’t it?”

  “It’s not that,” he said. “These places are all gone. They built the interstate right through the heart of Overtown in the mid-sixties. Killed it. The Cotton Club, the Sir John Hotel, Harlem Square, the Knight Beat. All gone now.”

  “Knight Beat?” she said, checking out another old poster on the wall. “Isn’t that your last name, with a K?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was the Knight Beat your uncle Cy’s club?”

  “No. But, knowing him, I’m sure he convinced many a young lady that it was.”

  They shared a laugh and then fell quiet. Julia checked out a few more photos on the wall, then glanced back at Theo, who had never looked away.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said, shaking it off. “So, you think you and Beatriz would be happy staying here?”

  “I think we’d be really happy. How much is the rent?”

  “Just pay me whatever you can afford.”

  “You have to give me a price.”

  “No, I don’t. The place is sitting empty. I can’t rent it out. Uncle Cy is practically deaf, so the noise from the club didn’t bother him, but on Friday and Saturday nights you’ll have to sleep with earplugs.”

  “Better than being awakened by gunshots twice a night,” she said, thinking of her old neighborhood in San Salvador.

  “Okay, then. It’s yours.”

  “Shake on it?” she said, offering her hand.

  He took it, and it seemed to disappear in his grasp. It occurred to her that as nice as Theo had been to her, this was the first time he’d laid a finger on her.

  “It actually would be okay if you took me on a date,” she said. “If you want.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I mean, I don’t know how much Jack has told you. I’m technically married, but I’m not married. The last man I kissed was Hugo, and that was three years ago.”

  “I got you beat there,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’ve never kissed a man.”

  It made her smile. He moved closer, and she wasn’t sure if it was his idea or hers, but instinctively she rose up on her tippy-toes to meet him halfway. He kissed her lightly on the lips. They walked to the door, and he gave her the key.

  “Welcome to Julia’s Place,” he said.

  Chapter 47

  On the Friday before Julia’s asylum hearing, Jack was in the immigration court on Miami Avenue for the final-status conference.

  Julia’s case had been officially transferred from Orlando, putting her about 250 miles farther away from Mickey Mouse, but if Orlando Immigration Court was an amusement park, Miami was a zoo. Forget the complexities of immigration law. The building itself was eight stories of confusion to anyone who tried to navigate it without a lawyer. More often than not, the notice of hearing told unrepresented immigrants to appear at room 700, which was the clerk’s office on the seventh floor, which meant standing in line indefinitely, which probably meant that their hearings would start without them in one of the courtrooms on the fourth or fifth floor, which would end almost immediately with an order of deportation for “failure to appear.” Anyone who stepped into the ICE offices on the lower floors for directions probably wasn’t going to get much help, unless the directions sought were to Mexico.

  “Good morning, all. I am the Honorable Patrick Kelly, and I am so pleased to be the new presiding immigration judge in this matter.”

  Wow. Way too sweet for Jack’s legal palate. And who refers to himself as “the Honorable”?

  “Fair warning,” said the judge. “As you have probably heard, I recently announced my intention to retire.”

  That explained the cheeriness.

  “After three decades, this honorable judge will no longer be the honorable anything.”

  Mystery number two solved.

  “Ms. Rodriguez’s claim for asylum will very likely be the last one I ever hear. So let’s keep this proceeding as professional, as courteous, and as pleasant as possible. Can I have the agreement of counsel on that point?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “‘Your Honor,’” the judge said wistfully. “Gonna miss the sound of that. Maybe I can get the grandkids to pick that up. Anyway, enough about me. Mr. Swyteck?”

  “Yes, Judge?” Jack almost said “Your Majesty.”

  “Let me just cut to the chase. “Does your client admit the government’s allegation that she is an undocumented immigrant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good,” the judge said. “This hearing raises one issue: Can Ms. Rodriguez prove a valid legal defense to avoid deportation?”

  “My client’s defense is her claim for asylum under the federal Immigration and Nationality Act,” said Jack.

  “Got it,” the judge said. “That’s one I can recite in my sleep. And I say that not to brag, but to make sure that both sides confine their presentation of evidence to this issue: Does Ms. Rodriguez have a well-founded fear that, if she returns to El Salvador, she will be persecuted on account of her race, religion, nationality, membership in a particular social group, or political opinion? That’s it, Counsel. That’s what this hearing is about.”

  “If I may refine that a bit,” said Jerrell.

  “Please,” the judge said. “This conference is your final opportunity to do so.”

  “Ms. Rodriguez is required to prove that she fears persecution by the government of El Salvador. What she fears is domestic violence, which is not government persecution. Judge Greely considered this issue, and his clear leaning was that fear of domestic violence provides no basis for asylum.”

  “Judge, I—”

  “Save your breath, Mr. Swyteck. Ms. Jerrell, did you read the sign on the door on your way into this courtroom?”

  “I’m not sure I did.”

  “Then read it on your way out. It says Kelly. The Honorable Judge Patrick Kelly. Not Greely. If that was Judge Greely’s reading of the law, he’s wrong. I know that some immigration judges have read the attorney general’s opinion as a complete ban on asylum claims based on domestic violence. I don’t. In this courtroom, if Ms. Rodriguez can prove that the government of El Salvador has either condoned the conduct or demonstrated an inability to protect her, she may be entitled to asylum.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” said Jack.

  “Don’t thank me. You have a heck of a tough case, Mr. Swyteck.”

  “I understand,” said Jack.

  “Good. Then this has been a productive conference. Anybody got anything else on their mind?”

  “There is one thing,” said Jerrell.

  “Make it quick.”

  “Judge Greely—”

  “Kelly! The Honorable Judge Patrick Kelly.”

  “Sorry,” said Jerrell. “I was about to say that the other judge—Judge You-Know-Who—left open the possibility that Ms. Rodriguez would be allowed to present evidence on something called resignation syndrome.”

  Jack didn’t want to open the door to Beatriz’s drug use. “We have abandoned the argument that asylum should be granted on that basis, Your Honor.”

  “Good call, unless your client wants to move to Sweden. So, to sum up: domestic violence, in; resignation syndrome, out. Anything else?”

  “No, Your Honor,” the lawyers said.

  “Wonderful. After a hundred thousand cases, I finally got this down to a system. See y’all in this courtroom at nine a.m. Monday morning. Ms. Jerrell, that’s the one that says Judge Kelly on the door. We clear?”


  “Yes, sir.”

  “Perfect. Thank y’all. We’re adjourned.”

  The proceeding ended with a bang of the gavel. Another team of lawyers stepped up, and Judge Kelly’s ninth status conference of the morning began as Jack was leaving the courtroom. Simone Jerrell corralled him for a moment of justice, hallway style.

  “You realize that’s Judge Kelly’s shtick, right? It’s all an act.”

  “Maybe,” said Jack. “I’d still be worried if I were you.”

  “I’m not. That’s the way he operates. Kick the government in the teeth and then put the respondent on a one-way deportation flight.”

  Jack had seen it countless times in criminal court, an angry judge accusing the prosecutor of violating every rule in the book just before throwing the proverbial book at the defendant. “We’ll see,” said Jack.

  “I’m authorized to offer your client voluntary departure. She agrees to leave the country in sixty days and she’s eligible to apply for legal readmission in five years. Take it or leave it.”

  “Wow, tempting,” Jack said dryly. “Throw in death by lethal injection and Julia might take it.”

  “Are you declining my offer?”

  “I have to check with my client. It’s her decision. But I will advise her to reject the offer.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Yup,” said Jack. “See you then.”

  Chapter 48

  Jorge sat on the edge of the mattress, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag.

  It was a habit he’d picked up at the age of eleven, back when he smoked anything he could bum or steal from the older boys. By thirteen he was a “runner” at street fights, reloading pistols for shooters in the heat of gang warfare and gathering up the weapons of those who had fallen dead. At fifteen he was a roadside extortionist collecting twenty dollars a month from each of the food trucks that rumbled through his district carrying chewing gum, sodas, and Bimbo bread. Every penny went to the district leaders, less the local allocation for weapons, including the 9 mm pistol he’d carried as an obedient soldier. Jorge was one of thousands of teenagers who made up the backbone of the gang economy, a grunt who risked his life to protect gang territory for no personal profit, only status and respect. By age nineteen, most of his friends were dead or in prison. He met a girl. She got pregnant. They got married. He promised to quit the gang. She nagged him to keep his promise. Julia nagged him day and night, and she refused to stop nagging him even when he beat the living shit out of her. “You’re a father now,” she’d tell him. “Do you want Beatriz to end up like one of Eighteen’s girls?” Typical Julia: always putting people down, as if being pretty made her better than one of Eighteen’s girls—as if the fact that Jorge chose to protect her meant she deserved his protection.