The Killing of the Saints

by Alex Abella

  Her name was Doris Diaz. She was short, fair skinned, with russet-brown hair, hazel eyes and the cutest upturned nose, which made her resemble an Irish lass more than a child of old Spain. Only, she was Cuban and that's where the problem started.

  At the time, like so many other husbands, I thought I was happily married, burying myself in work and sports, surfacing only for a quick recharging of sexual batteries, a scan of the emotional horizon. I had a flourishing practice in Dade County, a house in Coral Gables and a cabin in the Keys, a new Porsche, a beautiful, successful wife and a wonderful little boy who was conveniently taken care of by a succession of nannies. I'd managed to put away all memories of my father, to the point that on the occasional Sunday when I would visit my mother at her stifling apartment off Eighth Street, I would be puzzled to see his picture amid the votive candles and religious portraits; his image no longer carried any emotional weight. My sister, Celia, had left on her ongoing South American adventure so I was the only child, the faithful son.

  I don't remember exactly which of my acquaintances or satisfied clients recommended me to Doris's brother, Guillermo, who hired me after her arraignment. What I do remember is our first visit and the haunting impression she made on me.

  Before going on, I must confess that after I grew up, I never cared much for Cuban girls again. I thought they came mostly in two types. The most common was the dark-haired, bountifully endowed fair-skinned woman, the Latin bombshell of hourglass figure and sparkling eyes. Then there was the alternative, the thin, animated type, with small breasts and wide hips, shrewish and commanding where the other was sweet and complaisant.

  Doris did not fit into either of these forms. She did have a slight problem, though-she had killed her boss with an old Roman dagger.

  That Doris had handled the knife, that the body was dead and lying on the floor like some tropical Scarpia when the police arrived at the high-rise office overlooking mauve Biscayne Bay, of that there was no doubt. In fact, she had called the police herself. At one point during pretrial discovery I listened to the tape of her call to emergency assistance.

  "Hello, police? I would like to report a killing. The victim is Bob Lazo, the architect. At our office, 2648 Brickell. No, I'm afraid he's dead, I checked for vital signs. Yes, I was there. I am she. I killed him. My name is Doris Diaz, his assistant. Yes, I'll be right here, waiting. Thank you very much."

  In the normal course of events she would have been at liberty during the duration of the trial on her own recognizance or, at worst, on, say, fifty thousand dollars bail, since she had no record of any kind, had a large and concerned family and a spotless work history. A model citizen. But then politics stirred the pot.

  At that time Dade County had one of its recurrent racial flare-ups, one of those occasions when a Cuban officer, more prejudiced than any Mississippi redneck, bashed in a black student from the Overtown ghetto. The black section exploded in fiery rage for four days and nights, leaving in its wake ashes, six dead and dozens wounded in confrontations with the police and the National Guard. The few local black politicians argued that the root cause of the conflict was the unequal system of justice in Dade County, that one set of law books applied to blacks and another to Anglos and Cubans.

  Doris appeared in court for her arraignment the day after the riots finally sputtered to a close. The prosecution, feeling the pressure from every local politico wanting to cleanse his hands, declined to take into consideration Doris's background or the uniqueness of her crime and asked for no bail. Failing that, the District Attorney's office asked for a million dollars bail.

  The magistrate, who truly believed all men are equal before the law (and whose son had been left at the altar by a Cuban girl) granted the million-dollar-bail motion without hesitation. No sooner had he banged his gavel than the bailiffs were bodily removing Doris from the courtroom, to the loud anger of her many friends and relatives.

  Her public attorney, Chuck Windham, was more than happy to pass on her case.

  "She's cuckoo, Charlie, if you ask me," said Chuck, his ferretlike face expressing unaccustomed dismay. "She won't take the deal they're offering and she won't give me any defense. She refuses to talk about what happened. I don't know what anyone's supposed to do in a situation like that."

  "I guess she thinks you're Saint Jude."

  "I'm Jewish, what do I know from saints?"

  "He's the patron saint of lost causes, Chuck. Really, you should be a little more ecumenical, you know."

  "I got all the ecumenical I need at home already, thank you very much."

  When the matron at the jail brought Doris out in her shabby, worn shift, without makeup or jewelry, she looked like a small and tired schoolgirl. She barely acknowledged me when she sat down at the metal table. I started introducing myself in Spanish, as most Cubans do in South Florida. She cut me off right away in a lockjaw New England accent, saying she preferred English, an unusual request among Cubans, who pride themselves on preserving the language and customs of the homeland.

  "Did my brother William hire you?"

  "You mean Guillermo? Yes, he did."

  "That's so pretentious. I don't know why he feels he has to impress people with his Cuban-ness. He was named William, he was christened William, we've always called him William. I don't know what his problem is."

  Had I been listening, truly listening, that short statement right there would have told me all I needed to know about the case, would even perhaps have advised me to disqualify myself. But my ears were plugged and I was thinking with only one organ, the one rising to attention between my legs. My spontaneous erection was the second warning sign, the major bell to the minor ringer, alerting me to the perils ahead.

  "I've filed motions for a new bail hearing in your case. No matter what happened, I think a million dollars is excessive. It's not like you're a drug dealer ready to take the next flight out to Colombia. Or are you?"

  She smiled, shook her head. Her eyes showed some life, a little color appeared timidly on her cheeks.

  "Good, I didn't think so. I've received all the papers from Mr. Windham, your previous attorney. He said you weren't willing to take the offer they made you, second-degree homicide, fifteen to twenty-five. Is that still the case?"

  She nodded.

  "All right, then we'll go to trial. But, as you know, I have to find out what happened. I have to mount our defense. Mr. Windham said you wouldn't tell him anything about the incident or why it happened. I'm sure you understand we can't very well prepare a case like that."

  "I suppose you're right, but there isn't much that I can tell you."

  "Why don't we start with your relationship with Lazo. Was he something else besides your employer?"

  "You mean were we lovers?"

  "That's one possibility."

  She looked sideways, eyeing the frumpy matron sitting in a corner of the room, eyelids dropping in sleep.

  "Can I tell you a story?"

  "Only if it's true."

  "You decide after I tell you."

  "Fine. Go ahead."

  She told, I realize now, a common enough story among Cubans, similar in ways to mine-a girl divorced from her family by character and circumstance, vowing to become an architect no matter what. But Doris's way had been blocked by an apparently unsurmountable obstacle, her sex. After graduating from a northern school of design, she was employed by a firm where the lead architect had stolen her work on a major project, then blackmailed her into having an affair, supposedly to help her get credit for her own work. In the end the architect claimed the plans as his own anyway, then dismissed her for incompetence. After a nervous breakdown she moved south, thinking her own people would be kinder. But her last employer, the victim in the case, the dearly departed Bob Lazo, had started intimations of the same game-no sex, no credit-and was trying to seduce her one night when she grabbed the poniard from the display case and sank it in four inches above the meeting place of his shoulder blades.

  "It's a f
ascinating story," I said. "But I'm afraid it doesn't get you off the hook."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because the circumstances of the two incidents are not connected casually and there is no corroboration of the state of mind at the time of the murder. There is no proof that the first architect stole the plans, only your word. But let's assume the jury were to believe it happened, it still wouldn't condone the actual killing, since it was another man who was murdered. And the deceased did not steal any plans. The prosecutor and the judge will keep out all reference to the prior incident as irrelevant. You lose all justification for the killing."

  "Lousy system of justice."

  "It's the only one we have. Unfortunately, it doesn't take too kindly to related circumstances. Have you been examined by a shrink?"

  She recoiled, as though I'd slapped her. "Why?"

  "Because right now that's probably your best bet to get off, to claim temporary insanity."

  Doris was about to lash out but then she crumbled. All of a sudden I wanted to hug her and tell her everything would work out fine, that I would find a way for her to come out clean. I noticed that my erection had dropped and that all the feelings had gone to my heart instead, which now watched in sorrow.

  "Whatever you say," she replied. "I don't know what to do anymore."

  "Fine, that's what we'll do. Let's see what the shrink says and take it from there. He's a good friend of mine, Dr. Malcolm Richards. He'll be contacting you in the next few days to talk things over. How are they treating you in here?"

  She glanced up and her eyes welled with tears for the first time. She tried to smile, but the grin became a grimace.

  "It's so bad in here ... " Her voice trailed off.

  "I know. I'm sorry. I'll try to get you out as soon as I can. Is there a message you'd like me to give someone, your boyfriend maybe?"

  She smiled wanly, feeling sorry for herself. "I don't have a boyfriend. Sometimes I think I've forgotten how to love, all I know is hate."

  "Don't say things like that-things will work out."

  "Yes, of course."

  At first I didn't notice my constant distraction with Doris. I would just find my mind wondering back to my talk with her at the most unlikely places-watching the Dolphins, arguing before a judge, even playing ball with my son. Every time I'd think of her I would experience the same stirring in the groin, a desire to run my lips all over her, and I would wonder what she was doing at that very moment, whether she was watching the same rainstorm or being bitten by mosquitoes just as much.

  Even after I failed to get excited over making love with my wife, I didn't think I was in trouble. But Olivia easily noticed something was amiss.

  She grabbed her pack of Kent Lites from the nightstand, lit a cigarette and exhaled, studiously examining the smoke blowing out of her nostrils.

  "What's wrong with you?" she finally asked.

  "What do you mean? I'm sorry, honey, I'm just worried about work, I guess."

  "Is there another woman?"

  I turned to her, dramatically grabbing her hand.

  "You know I've never cheated on you. Why are you saying this?"

  She jerked her hand free. "You know we hadn't made love in three weeks?"

  "I'm sorry."

  "No, you're not. You're hiding something. I don't know what it is, but you're not paying attention to anything but that."

  "I'm just busy, that's all."

  "That's no reason to neglect your family. Or your wife."

  What does she know, I thought, taking refuge in my hurt feelings and indecision. She's probably worried about the ratings at the station. If we're talking neglect, let's not forget who's gone Saturdays and Sundays, who doesn't have time to play with the kid because she's too busy with her career, who's the one who thinks marriage is just a part-time obligation. Not me, that's for sure!

  But I didn't say any of those things, I just let their poison seep slowly through me to the bitter end.

  Frieda Kohler, my investigator, came in to see me with her report a few days later.

  "You got yourself a pretty one, Charlie." She slapped the report on my desk.

  "She's just a client," I replied guiltily.

  "I meant a pretty good case, son. If you can get her out, I'll have to hand it to you."

  "No one said it would be easy. Does her story check out?"

  "By and large. Did you know Doris was a party to a divorce? Name of Gottschalk. He was her first employer."

  "No, I didn't know that."

  "Mrs. G said Doris had been carrying on for years with him. It sure wasn't very secret. She claimed they owned a condo down in San Andres Island. Couldn't confirm that."

  "And for the rest?"

  "Checks out mostly. Oh, maybe she was bending the truth a little here and there. Like her boyfriend. It's true she doesn't have one now but she was going out with this Carlos Montalvez Correa here in Miami for a while. You know the Montalvez?"

  "You mean the Montalvez of Cali?"

  "A distant relation, apparently. This one is a cattle rancher and his son was here studying animal husbandry. The boy's gone back since."

  "Thanks. Where's the bill?"

  "Right there. But Charlie, watch your step. She's a slip of a girl but she has something. She knows how to play hearts. Rare gift nowadays but she's got it."

  "Thanks, Frieda. And don't forget to call Ann Landers, she needs a hand this week."

  I finally had to go see Doris again, I couldn't put it off any longer if I wanted to keep representing her. She was thinner than before and there was a black and blue shiner on her right eye. She broke down in tears when she saw me.

  "It's so awful here," she said.

  "What are they doing to you? I'll get a court order and stop it from happening."

  "It's not the guards, it's the other prisoners. They pick on me, they call me names, they make me, oh my God, I can't tell you what they make me do."

  I should have asked her about the boyfriend, I should have grilled her about Gottschalk, the divorce and the condo but the sight of her in tears rent my heart. She wouldn't tell me who had been forcing her to do the things she dreaded or what they were exactly, just that they had to do with sex and servitude. Instead she rushed away from the room, crying, asking to be put in solitary.

  I was moved in ways I thought I would never be by such simple devices as a nameless accusation and a handful of tears. But you see, I wanted to believe. That is the only reason I've been able to adduce in all this, that I craved faith and absolution and I found them by taking up her cause. I went all over Dade County, from chamber to chamber, trying to get just one judge to remove the million-dollar bail but none would. The threat of political defeat at the polls come the next election stayed every learned hand, no matter how much they privately sympathized with Doris's plight.

  All I obtained was a court order placing her in a private cell.

  "That will be fine," she said, "but you know, it's the trusties, they won't leave me alone."

  "Yes, they will, you'll be all by yourself."

  "There's no escape, Charlie. No escape."

  Just hours after my last visit, I was at home preparing the trial brief when the prison called-Doris had tried to hang herself. A matron had found her in time and cut down the bed sheet that she had looped through the overhead window bars.

  I rushed to the prison hospital. She lay handcuffed to her bed, surrounded by five black women inmates. I touched her face; she rewarded me with a wan smile.

  "Hi, Charlie. I'm sorry, I failed."

  "No, you haven't failed anyone. I'm the one who's failed you, I should have been able to get you out."

  "Charlie," she whispered.

  "Yes?"

  "There is a way to end this. I need something."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I'll whisper it in your ear."

  I drew my ear to her mouth, as my heart raced with excitement.

  "Yeyo," she whispered, and kissed my e
ar. It burned from her

  kiss.

  "Para quién?" For whom?

  "Para la guardia. Please. I can't take this anymore." I stood up, nodded.

  "OK." That was all she needed, that was all she had to say. She smiled again, closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  Dr. Richards' report came in as I was busy trying to fulfill Doris's request. Upon examination he concluded that Doris was greatly delusional and harbored unresolved conflicts arising from her cultural ideation and that these conflicts could have resulted in uncontrollable acts of aggression when pressed by events. Although she was sane and stable most of the time, at moments of crisis she could snap and in effect lose control of her faculties. This was the best news I could have had, for now there was no way the prosecutor could stop me from bringing in the previous incident to explain her state of mind at the moment of the murder.

  I told Doris the good news in the attorney interview room.

  "We've also gotten an early trial date-we start picking the jury next week."

  "That's wonderful, Charlie. What about what we discussed?"

  The walls echoed the throbbing in my eardrums. As nonchalantly as possible, I slid out a trial brief and waved it in the air so the matron in the corner could see it was paper I was handing Doris. The matron nodded. I passed it across the table.

  "Here's the trial brief and depositions of Mrs. Gottschalk. I think you'll like the fourth page."