Most Dangerous Place

by James Grippando

  “I yelled—and it was loud. Really loud. ‘Did you fucking rape my girlfriend? You piece of shit! Did you rape Isa Bornelli?’”

  It sent a collective chill through the courtroom, and it drew another visceral reaction from Isa—one that told Jack more plainly than words that his client had heard the man yell like that before.

  “Did Mr. Sosa respond?”

  “He shook his head back and forth. And I could hear him trying to say, like, ‘No, no, no,’ through the tape.”

  “What did you do?”

  “John hoisted him up. Not too high. Just enough to get his feet off the ground.”

  “So he was hanging by the chains?”

  “Right.”

  “What did you do next?”

  Kaval shrugged and said, “We left.”

  “You left Sosa hanging by the chains?”

  “Yeah. We knew someone would find him in the morning.”

  “You didn’t torture him?”

  “No.”

  “He was alive when you left?”

  “Yeah. His legs were kicking.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “The plan was to scare him so he wouldn’t do to some other girl what he done to Isa. That’s what we did.”

  The prosecutor walked to her table and conferred quietly with the junior prosecutor. They seemed satisfied. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

  The judge leaned back in his leather chair and addressed the defense. “Any cross-examination?”

  Jack requested a moment, and the judge gave it to him. The defense lawyers conferred quickly at their table, exchanging whispers. Manny shared Jack’s assessment—no damage. At least none that could be repaired through cross-examination of this witness. Jack knew that the worst mistake a criminal-defense lawyer could make was to cross-examine when none was needed. He played it safe, emphasizing the only point that deserved emphasis.

  Jack approached the witness, using a far less aggressive tone than he’d planned to use with this witness. “Mr. Kaval, you’re no longer in prison, are you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not going back to prison for shoving Mr. Sosa into the back of a van, are you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not going back to prison for taking Mr. Sosa to the garage and hoisting him up on those chains.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not going back to prison for leaving him hanging in midair.”

  “No.”

  “In fact, the state attorney promised that you’re not going back to prison. That was your deal, right?”

  “Yeah. As long as I told the truth.”

  “And everything you said here today is the truth?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jack thanked him and stepped away. The prosecution had no redirect.

  “Mr. Kaval, you are excused,” said the judge.

  He stepped down from the witness stand and walked toward the rail. He glanced once in Isa’s direction as he passed between the tables for the prosecution and defense, but Isa wasn’t looking at him. The gate squeaked as the witness passed into the public seating area, and his footfalls echoed in the quiet courtroom as he walked up the center aisle.

  And just one thought burned in Jack’s mind.

  I gotta be missing something.

  Chapter 59

  It was time for a beer. “But only one,” said Jack.

  Isa had gone straight to the apartment after trial. Jack, Keith, and Manny stopped at Cy’s Place on the way home from the courthouse and took a seat at the bar. Theo put a couple of ice-cold bottles of IPA in front of them. Manny was in a celebratory mood. Jack was cautious. Keith seemed somewhere in between.

  “I still say we’re missing something,” said Jack.

  Kaval could have done so much more damage. He could have testified that Isa planned the murder. He could have testified that he told Isa in no uncertain terms that they intended to torture and murder Sosa. Instead, he testified that, as far as Isa knew, the only plan was to “put a scare into Sosa.”

  “They can’t convict Isa on this evidence, can they?” asked Keith. “Who can blame the victim of sexual assault for wanting a couple of thugs to put a scare into her rapist? To make sure he didn’t rape someone else.”

  “Well, here’s what the prosecutor will tell the jury about that,” said Jack. “If all she really wanted was to make sure he didn’t do it again, she should have called the police and put him in jail.”

  “Okay, she should have. But lots of rapes go unreported. That doesn’t mean she wanted him murdered—that she planned his murder.”

  “Jack, you are always such a doggy downer,” said Manny. “Sure, Sylvia Hunt will twist everything to fit her theory of the case. She will hammer hard to the jury that Sosa shook his head and even through duct tape tried to deny that he ever raped Isa. But even if Isa lied to her boyfriend about being raped, that doesn’t make her a murderer. I’ve said it all along—no rape, no motive. No motive, no conviction. Right now, we have reasonable doubt. That’s all we need.”

  Manny excused himself and walked to the restroom. Jack and Keith remained at the bar, thinking about what Manny had just said. Keith was unusually quiet, tugging at the label on his IPA.

  “You okay?” asked Jack.

  Keith shook his head. “Not really.”

  “Maybe Manny’s right,” said Jack. “I do tend to worry.”

  “It’s not that,” said Keith.

  Jack took a pull from his bottled beer. “Something you want to get off your chest?”

  Keith looked at his beer, then at Jack. “Six months ago, people would have said I had it all, right? Yeah, sure, life threw us a curve with Melany’s ears. But I earn enough ‘fuck you’ money to say ‘Fuck you, world, I can fix it.’”

  Jack stayed quiet, sensing that Keith had more to say.

  “The truth is, we’re living on a bubble. All of us. Most of my life I managed to steer clear of the really bad choices that derail guys like me. I listened to my mom and didn’t do drugs. I listened to my dad and never made a bet I couldn’t afford to lose. I ignored Nike and didn’t ‘just do it.’ I was careful and worked hard and married this incredibly smart, beautiful woman. Then in a nanosecond—in less than the time it takes for a bubble to burst—everything changed.”

  “Hey, come on,” said Jack. “You can beat this, too. Manny is right in this respect. All we need is reasonable doubt.”

  “Yeah, I get that. In the courtroom that’s all we need. But I guess what I’m saying is this, Jack. At some point, I’ll have to decide for myself if my wife was responsible for the death of another human being. At some point, I’ll want more than reasonable doubt. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Jack studied his friend’s expression. He saw the pain. The angst. “Yeah,” said Jack. “I get what you’re saying.”

  Theo came by. “Another round?” he asked from the business side of the bar.

  “We’re good,” said Jack.

  Keith laid a ten on the bar to cover the beer. “Can you drop me at the Four Seasons on your way to Key Biscayne?”

  “Sorry, buddy. We’re headed in the opposite direction.”

  Theo caught the ‘we’ part. “You mean you and me?”

  “Yeah. I need you to take a ride with me.”

  “Where to?”

  “South,” said Jack, swallowing the last of his beer. “Back to the ’illfish Diner. I think I know what we’re missing.”

  Chapter 60

  Friday. Jack thanked God it was—even if Sylvia Hunt was determined to spoil it.

  “The state of Florida calls Ilene Simpson,” said the prosecutor.

  Jack’s hunch had proved correct. His return trip with Theo to the Billfish Diner, however, had been a waste of time. Ilene still waitressed there, but the manager was ready to fire her. Her attendance record since August had been abysmal—either late for her shift or didn’t show up at all. The problem was that she’d moved too far a
way. “Living up in Homestead now, with her new boyfriend.” Jack took a stab and asked if the new boyfriend’s name was David. “Yeah. David. A real asshole. Told him not to come around here anymore. That guy’s trouble.”

  The manager had it dead wrong. Ilene was trouble.

  The witness was sworn and took a seat. Ilene was wearing flat shoes, navy-blue slacks, and a peach-colored blouse, with simple jewelry and minimal makeup. “Nothing sexy” had been the fashion edict from the prosecutor, Jack surmised. She sat with her hands in her lap, and the way she clenched them into tight fists suggested that she was far less at ease than Kaval had been in the role of star witness. Her apparent nervousness, however, only seemed to make the jury more attentive to her every word.

  “Ms. Simpson, you are the widow of John Simpson, correct?”

  The jury immediately made the connection, and some took notes as Ilene described her life with John Simpson. “He was a strange man,” she said, summing up.

  “Strange in what way?”

  She struggled for a moment, as if embarrassed. “Sexually.”

  “Is it fair to say that he was into things that you were not into?”

  “I’m not a prude, okay? But yes, John pushed things.”

  The prosecutor glanced at the jury, as if gauging their appetite for this type of testimony.

  “Ms. Simpson, this trial isn’t about what went on in your bedroom. We’re not interested in yet another installment of Fifty Shades of Grey.”

  “Amen to that,” said the judge.

  “But in all seriousness,” said the prosecutor, “it is important for the jury to understand John Simpson as a person. Did he ever inflict pain on you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he ever burn your body with a cigarette?”

  The prosecutor glanced at Jack, as if expecting an objection, but the question harkened back to the testimony of the medical examiner—the wounds found on Sosa’s body. It was relevant. More important, Jack didn’t want to convey the impression to the jury that Isa’s lawyer was in any sense of the word “defending” John Simpson. He let it go.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he ever whip you with an electrical cord?”

  Ilene swallowed hard, as if answering these probing questions in public was proving more difficult than expected. “Yes.”

  “Did he ever suspend you from the ceiling?”

  “Yes.”

  “With chains?”

  “Yes.”

  The prosecutor did another quick check of the jury, taking the collective pulse. “Would you say that it gave John Simpson pleasure to inflict pain on others?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  The prosecutor returned to the lectern and flipped to the next page of her notes. Several jurors seemed relieved to see that she was moving on.

  “Ms. Simpson, I want to take you back to the specific night that is in question in this case. Where were you that night around midnight?”

  “I was at work. I was a cocktail waitress at Club Vertigo. It’s called Club Inversion now. John was a regular. That’s where we met.”

  “Just to be clear, as of the night of Gabriel Sosa’s death, you already knew John Simpson, correct?”

  “Yes. We weren’t exactly living together. But I slept at his place four or five nights a week.”

  “Did you sleep at his place on this night?”

  “I was supposed to.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got off work around one o’clock. Got to John’s condo about one thirty.”

  “Was he in bed?”

  “No. John was in the shower.”

  “In your experience, was it his regular practice to shower at one thirty in the morning?”

  “I would say no.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I wasn’t really sleepy. I watched TV until he finished his shower. He came out with a towel around his waist and was going to sit down on the couch next to me. But his cell rang on the kitchen counter. That’s where he kept his charger. He went over and answered it.”

  “Do you know who the call was from?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hear what John was saying?”

  “Not really. I wasn’t paying attention. It sounded like he was arguing with someone. Even shouting into the phone at one point.”

  “What happened after the call ended?”

  “John got dressed really quick. I asked him where he was going.”

  “Did he tell you?”

  “He said to meet him in one hour at some auto repair shop. He gave me the address.”

  “Did you question him about this?”

  “No. I could tell he was still fuming about this phone call. When John got like this, nobody asked questions. You just did what he said.”

  “Did he tell you anything else?”

  “Yes,” she said, and her gaze shifted to the other side of the courtroom—toward the defense. “He said to bring Isa Bornelli with me.”

  The jurors, too, shifted their gaze in Isa’s direction. Jack ignored the impulse to turn his head, playing it cool, keeping his focus on the witness.

  “Did you know Ms. Bornelli?” asked the prosecutor.

  “We weren’t friends or anything. But I’d seen her at the club before. With David Kaval.”

  “Help me understand something here,” said the prosecutor. “We’re talking somewhere between two and three in the morning. How were you supposed to pick up Ms. Bornelli at this hour and bring her to a garage?”

  “I asked the same question. John said, ‘Just tell her it’s about Gabriel Sosa and it’s important. She’ll come.’”

  “Did you pick up Ms. Bornelli?”

  “Yeah. I called her, and she came down from her dorm room.”

  “Did she ask any questions?”

  “Yeah, but I did what John told me: I told her it was about Gabriel Sosa. She wanted to know what, specifically, and I told her I didn’t know. But it was important.”

  “Then what?”

  “Like I said, Isa came down and got in my car. I drove to the garage—to the address John gave me.”

  “What did you do when you got to the garage?”

  “I parked outside and called John on his cell. He came out.”

  “How would you describe his appearance?”

  She lowered her eyes. Her voice quivered. “He had blood on his shirt.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He went to the passenger side and opened the door. Isa tried to scream, but he put his hand over her mouth and told her to shut it.”

  “Did she go quiet?”

  “Yes. Then he grabbed her by the arm and took her into the building.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen John in this—in this zone, I guess you’d call it. But all that blood on his shirt, that wasn’t like anything I saw before. Honestly, I was afraid for Isa. So I went inside after them.”

  “Did you catch up?”

  “Yeah. John had her by the arm and took her through the office real quick. I followed them into the garage area.”

  “What did you see?”

  Ilene drew a breath. “There was a man on the floor.”

  The prosecutor showed the witness a photograph that had previously been marked as a trial exhibit. “This man?”

  Ilene nodded. “Yes.”

  “Let the record reflect that the witness identified the man on the floor as Gabriel Sosa,” said the prosecutor.

  “It shall,” said the judge.

  Hunt set the photograph aside. “Are you sure Mr. Sosa was on the floor?”

  “Yes. On his knees. He had no shirt on. Lots of cuts and bruises.”

  “Was he bleeding?”

  “Yeah. He was beat up and bloody.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Isa started screaming at John. He grabbed her by the jaw and made her shut up. He took her over to the m
an—to Mr. Sosa. John said, ‘Look at him! Look at him!’”

  “What happened next?”

  “Mr. Sosa said something to her.”

  “What did he say to Ms. Bornelli?”

  “I don’t know. It was something in Spanish.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Isa was crying. She screamed at John. ‘It wasn’t him! Let him go! He didn’t do anything!’ John just grabbed her by the jaw again and said, ‘It’s too late for that.’”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I did what John told me. I took Isa away and drove her back to the dorm.”

  “How long was the ride?”

  “I don’t know. Five minutes maybe.”

  “Did Ms. Bornelli call the police on the way to her dorm?”

  “No. She didn’t call anybody.”

  The prosecutor gathered her notes and stepped back from the lectern. “Thank you, Ms. Simpson,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I have no further questions.”

  The judge looked at Jack. Judge Gonzalez was stoic as ever, except for that one little hitch in his left eyebrow that Jack read as, Good luck with this one, counselor.

  “Cross-examination?”

  “I’d like a sidebar, Your Honor.”

  The judge waved the lawyers forward and they gathered on the side of the bench that was farthest away from the jury box and the witness.

  “I want permission to voir-dire the witness,” said Jack. It was lawyer-speak for questioning a witness outside the presence of the jury.

  “Voir-dire her about what?” asked the judge.

  “The prosecution’s failure to disclose a possible third-party deal with this witness.”

  The prosecutor was beyond indignant. “What?”

  “That’s a very serious accusation,” said the judge. “If Ms. Hunt failed to tell you that she promised something to Ms. Simpson in exchange for her testimony, I would have to declare a mistrial.”

  “There’s absolutely no basis for this accusation,” said Hunt.

  “There is,” said Jack. “Ms. Simpson is currently living with David Kaval, which is interesting, since she puts everyone but Kaval at the garage when Mr. Sosa was actually being tortured.”

  “Judge, the state attorney has made absolutely no promises to Ilene Simpson that she will not face charges.”

  “That’s why I called it a third-party deal,” said Jack. “I want to find out if David Kaval got out of prison because Ilene Simpson—his new ‘girlfriend’—agreed to be the star witness against my client.”