Most Dangerous Place

by James Grippando

  “I thought you only wanted to hear what I thought.”

  “I can say enough to ask you intelligent questions. Did you have any idea that she was sexually assaulted?”

  “No.”

  Jack paused, taking a mental step back from the details. “Is Isa the type of person who believes in forgiveness?”

  “You mean in a spiritual sense?”

  “In any sense,” said Jack.

  “Isa has a big heart. Yes, I would say she is a forgiving person.”

  “But she cut her father out of her life, right?”

  “Well . . . she told me it was politics.”

  Jack jotted down a note to follow up with Isa, then continued through his mental list of open questions.

  “Is it true that, aside from the two recent medical trips with Melany, Isa hasn’t left Hong Kong in almost two years?”

  Keith reflected for a moment. “You know, I hadn’t thought about that until the prosecutor mentioned it. I’ve been so busy with work, and Isa has been so busy with Melany’s speech and hearing rehab, that I guess I never noticed we hadn’t taken a vacation.”

  “And for the eight years that you were together in Zurich, you never once came to the States?”

  “I did. Isa never did.”

  “You never said, ‘Hey, honey, why don’t you come with me on this trip? We’ll do a Broadway show in New York. We’ll catch some sun on South Beach.’ That sort of thing?”

  “I might have. But it wasn’t like she had nothing to do. She was a doctoral candidate before we had Melany.”

  “Have Isa and Melany ever met your parents?”

  “Yeah. I’ve flown them over several times to visit us.”

  “Where were they living when you and Isa lived in Zurich?”

  “They were still here in Miami. They moved to North Carolina about a year ago, when Dad retired.”

  “So even before Melany got sick, and when it was the dead of a freezing-cold winter in Switzerland, you couldn’t get Isa to fly to Miami? She was that busy with her doctoral program?”

  “It wasn’t just that. I think it goes back to politics again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told you before. Her father was a diplomat for Chavez in the Miami office of the consul general. He did that for years.”

  “What does that have to do with Isa visiting Miami?”

  “Her father didn’t just leave Miami. The whole office closed because of terrorist threats.”

  “Terrorists? You mean like al-Qaeda?”

  “No. Cuban exiles. Here,” he said, checking his smartphone. “Let me see if I can find the website Isa showed me.”

  “What website?”

  “The consul general’s. I believe their office is still closed. Here it is,” he said, handing Jack his phone.

  Jack read it aloud: “‘The government of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela has verified with extreme concern the increase in threats against Venezuelan consular personnel in Miami, Florida. Accordingly, the Miami office shall remain closed until criminal and terrorist individuals and organizations that the U.S. government harbors in the state of Florida no longer pose a danger to the personal safety of our personnel.’”

  “I presume they’re talking about the Cuban exile community,” said Keith.

  “As if Judge Gonzalez is a terrorist.”

  “He wasn’t very nice to my wife today,” said Keith.

  Keith wasn’t the first friend to forget that Jack was half Cuban. His mother died shortly after his birth, and he was raised by his Anglo father and stepmother—“a half-Cuban boy trapped in a gringo’s body,” his abuela called him. She’d been trying to teach him all things Cuban after finally escaping from Castro’s Cuba and coming to Miami when Jack was in his thirties. So far, she gave him an A for effort, about a C-plus for execution.

  “So you’re saying that the reason Isa didn’t come to Miami is the so-called terrorist threat?”

  “That’s what she told me. Honestly, it did seem like overreaction to me. Knowing what I know now, it obviously wasn’t politics at all. She didn’t want to come back for the same reason she left: she didn’t want to relive the memory of being sexually assaulted.”

  Jack had made that point at the arraignment. “That would make sense.”

  “Agreed,” said Keith. “Now here’s something that makes no sense to me: the prosecutor’s whole argument that Isa was hiding out in Hong Kong. If that was the case, why would she pick Miami of all places for Melany’s surgery?”

  “The first surgery was botched.”

  “Yes. So go to Australia. Go to western Europe. Go to Boston, if you have to go to the U.S.”

  “I see your point,” said Jack. “But I’ve watched my own wife change before my eyes since Riley was born. Your daughter was facing permanent deafness in the right ear if the second surgery wasn’t successful. If you’re a mother bear, you don’t take your child to see Dr. Nobody in Australia. If you can afford it—and you can—you take her to the doctor who invented cochlear implants.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” said Keith. “Anyway, speaking of things I can afford . . . The outside of this place still looks like the Clampett residence before Jed was shootin’ at some food.”

  “What are you doing?” asked Jack. Keith had his checkbook out.

  “I asked around. In a case like this, I’m told a retainer of a hundred thousand dollars is fair.”

  “You’re giving me a check?”

  “Well, some of your clients may deal in briefcases filled with cash, but—”

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m not going to take a hundred thousand dollars from you.”

  “Please. We’re old friends, but I’m a firm believer that you get what you pay for. I’m not looking for a freebie.”

  “We’ll work something out.”

  “No, let’s work it out now. These last two days have been the worst days of my life. Don’t give me something else to worry about. I want this case to be your top priority. Take the check, and let’s be done with it. Please.”

  Keith pushed the check halfway across the desk, within Jack’s reach. These weren’t the old days of Jack Swyteck, P.A., when getting paid was something to worry about later. Jack had a wife and daughter. He took it. “You did break my door.”

  Keith returned the smile, and Bonnie entered the room. “Sorry to interrupt. There’s a man here to see you, Jack. He says it’s imperative that he see you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “His name is Felipe Bornelli.”

  Jack and Keith exchanged glances. “That’s Isa’s father,” said Keith.

  “Did you know he was in town?” asked Jack.

  “Nope,” said Keith.

  “What should I tell him?” asked Bonnie.

  “Tell him I’ll be with him in a minute,” said Jack.

  Bonnie left, and Jack picked up his phone.

  “Who are you calling?” asked Keith.

  “Your wife, if I can reach her,” said Jack. “I need to know what the hell is going on.”

  Chapter 8

  Sylvia Hunt had a short walk from the criminal courthouse to her office.

  The official name for the main facility of the Office of the State Attorney for Miami-Dade County was the Graham Building, but Sylvia called it the Boomerang. The building had two wings, and the structure’s footprint was angled like a boomerang, but the appellation had more to do with the fact that it seemed she could never leave without coming right back.

  This time, however, it felt as though an actual boomerang had flown in, high and hard, caught her unawares, and smacked her right in the face.

  “Rape victims matter! Rape victims matter!”

  The chant followed Sylvia all the way across the street and up the sidewalk. It was led by the woman who had been gaveled down in Judge Gonzalez’s courtroom at the start of the arraignment. About a dozen more demonstrators had gathered outside the Graham Building, mostly young women. Their signs
and posters spoke not to Isa but to the broader issue of victims’ rights, though Sylvia didn’t see any reference to RAINN—Rape Abuse and Incest National Network—or other leading organizations that she’d supported over the years. It was a small but vocal group, and Sylvia knew that the evening newscasts would make it look much larger and louder than it actually was. A reporter and her cameraman from the local Action News approached as Sylvia passed the demonstrators.

  “Ms. Hunt, do you have any mixed feelings about prosecuting a rape victim?”

  The camera was rolling, and Sylvia kept walking. The reporter matched her stride for stride and thrust a microphone in Sylvia’s face.

  “Do you think it’s fair to charge a rape victim with first-degree murder?”

  A breeze kicked up as they neared the building, and Sylvia had to hold her hair out of her face. The band of demonstrators followed behind the reporter, and their chant continued: “Rape victims matter!”

  “I can’t comment on the evidence at this time,” said Sylvia, picking up speed.

  “I’m not asking about the evidence. I’m asking if you think it’s fair to lock up a victim of sexual assault before trial the same way you would lock up a serial killer.”

  Sylvia stopped at the revolving door at the main entrance and dug deep for a newsworthy but unassailable sound bite. “Ms. Bornelli is a proven flight risk. Judge Gonzalez followed the law by holding her without bail until she stands trial for the murder of Gabriel Sosa.”

  “But many people would argue—”

  “That’s all I can say at this time,” Sylvia said, and then she ducked into the building.

  The Action News reporter and cameraman stayed outside with the demonstrators. Sylvia hurried across the lobby and got into an open elevator. She rode alone to the top floor and didn’t say a word to anyone on the walk to her office. She closed the door, sat behind her desk, and took a deep breath.

  Do you have mixed feelings about prosecuting a rape victim?

  Of course she did. The decision to charge Isa with murder in the first degree had tormented her; a lesser charge might have been enough. Sylvia had opposed bail without enthusiasm, but agreeing to pretrial release here would create a precedent that another defense lawyer would use against her in a future murder case. Arresting Isa before her daughter’s surgery was a decision that Sylvia had initially opposed, but the MDPD Felony Apprehension Squad convinced her that the risk of flight was too great.

  There was a knock on her office door, and Carmen Benitez didn’t wait for an invitation before entering. She had a file tucked under her arm, which she rested in her lap as she took a seat.

  “How are you doing, Sylvia?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That’s the answer I would have expected.” She smiled a little, like a proud parent, and then turned serious. “I heard about the ‘rape victims matter’ outburst at arraignment.”

  “Not a big deal. It was just once.”

  “Security sent me an e-mail about the Action News ambush and the demonstrators downstairs.”

  “Yeah. There was that, too.”

  “Look. I know that in the long list of cases I’ve steered your way, this is not your favorite. You’re going to get heat for prosecuting a victim of sexual assault.”

  “I knew that when I took the case. I told you I would do it. That’s the end of the matter.”

  Benitez paused, and Sylvia felt the weight of concern in her gaze. “I’m not sure that is the end of it. Something’s bothering you. I know you can handle the media, no matter how sensational. Is it the demonstrators? Did they get to you?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “No.”

  “Then what?”

  She breathed in and out. This was starting to feel like true confessions. “I did something I never do. I lied.”

  “Hopefully not to the court.”

  “No. Jack Swyteck called me last night and asked for a copy of the probable-cause affidavit. I told him I would send it. I didn’t.”

  “So what? He can get his own copy from the court file.”

  “I made a promise, and this morning I made up a b.s. excuse why I broke that promise.”

  “It sounds to me like you’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

  She looked away, then back. “It’s part of a deeper problem. The evidence laid out in that affidavit was bare bones.”

  “That’s not unusual.”

  “I get that. But it’s not the right thing to do in a case like this. That’s what put me in the position of lying to Swyteck’s face.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “The evidence laid out in that affidavit is so skimpy that any defense lawyer could make this case sound like a prosecutorial witch hunt against a victim of sexual assault. If I had sent that affidavit to Swyteck last night, he would have turned this morning’s arraignment into a public embarrassment for us. That’s why I didn’t send it to him.”

  “That will change,” said Benitez. “We’ll have to put some cards on the table at the preliminary hearing.”

  “I don’t want to wait that long,” said Sylvia. “I don’t want to be spending all my energy between now and the hearing trying to convince the public that this case has merit.”

  “Then don’t talk to the media.”

  “That’s not an option. Swyteck already has a leg up in that department. If we stand mute, it will only get worse.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “I want to go to the grand jury, get an indictment, and be in a position to state publicly that this case wasn’t just cooked up by a misguided prosecutor.”

  Benitez considered it. “Well, it’s certainly not unheard-of to take a case to the grand jury even after the state has filed charges.”

  “And I think it makes sense in this case,” said Sylvia.

  The state attorney seemed to agree, but perhaps for different reasons. “It might also work to our tactical advantage. I don’t like the idea of Swyteck cross-examining our witnesses at a preliminary hearing. We don’t have to worry about that if we go to the grand jury.”

  It was a valid point. Florida law required a preliminary hearing only if there was no grand jury indictment. “So you approve?” asked Sylvia.

  “I do. We need to change the perception that there is no public support for this prosecution.”

  “Thank you,” said Sylvia.

  Benitez took the bulging file from her lap and laid it on Sylvia’s desk as she rose. “I don’t want you to read these now. Just keep the file. Go to it when the trial gets tough, and you’re second-guessing your decision to prosecute this case.”

  “What’s in there?”

  “Letters,” said the state attorney, “from Gabriel Sosa’s mother.”

  Sylvia peered inside. “That’s quite a stack.”

  “Nine years ago an MDPD investigator told her the case had gone cold. Every month since then, without fail, Fatima Sosa has written me a letter begging me to seek justice for her son.”

  “Did you ever answer her?”

  “I did. I let her know how pleased I was that the best prosecutor for the job was on it.”

  Sylvia didn’t respond, but she appreciated the words.

  “Keep up the good work,” said Benitez, and she closed the door on her way out.

  Sylvia took the file. It was tempting to read at least one, but she took the state attorney’s advice. She put the letters in her desk and closed the drawer, saving it for that low point on the long road ahead.

  Chapter 9

  Jack was at his desk, phone in hand, trying to arrange for Isa to call him back.

  Contacting an inmate at the detention center could be like phoning the pope, even for a lawyer who needed to reach his client. It wouldn’t have mattered if Jack were calling to say “Your husband is tied to the railroad tracks, a speeding locomotive is approaching, and he’s in serious distress.” The dance was always the same. This instance was no exception, having started with the usual first step.
/>
  “You say her name is Jezebel?”

  “No—Isabelle. Isabelle Bornelli.”

  “Sorry, we got no inmate by that name.”

  “Yes, I can assure you—”

  “Hold, please.”

  Jack had been on hold for nearly five minutes.

  The door opened and Bonnie the Roadrunner poked her head into the office. “Mr. Bornelli asked me to tell you that he came here purely as a courtesy to you and that he’s going to leave if you can’t see him right now.”

  “Wow,” said Keith. “Isa wasn’t kidding. He is a pompous ass.”

  “This is pointless,” said Jack as he hung up the phone. “Bonnie, does he know Keith is in here with me?”

  “I didn’t tell him who you were with.”

  It felt like a strange question, but Jack put it to Keith anyway: “Do you want to meet your father-in-law?”

  “I’m not sure I do, but it seems pretty stupid for me to sneak out the back door.”

  Jack agreed. “Bonnie, bring him in.”

  She disappeared in her usual flurry and returned in a flash with Mr. Bornelli. Jack and Keith rose for the introductions.

  “An unexpected pleasure,” he said, as he shook the hand of his son-in-law for the first time.

  Felipe Bornelli spoke with ease in English, despite the heavy Spanish accent. He was not much taller than his daughter, and not nearly handsome enough to account for Isa’s elegance; Jack could only surmise that Isa’s mother must have really been something. His hair was a distinguished shade of silver, and he wore it combed straight back, like the Gordon Gekko character in the Wall Street movies. He had that same intensity about him, too—spoke a little too fast, shook hands a bit too firmly, and didn’t wait for others to finish talking before speaking.

  “Keith was just leav—”

  “Stay, please,” said Bornelli.

  “I don’t want to intrude on—”

  “It’s no intrusion at all. In fact, I would prefer that you hear what I have to say to Mr. Swyteck.”

  They moved to the sitting area of Jack’s office, each taking a chair around the coffee table in front of a fireplace that hadn’t seen a burning log since LBJ was president. One more thing to fix.