There was brief applause, and then the crowd settled in to listen.
“Have you ever noticed there are no sorority houses on this campus?” Emma asked from the podium. “We have sororities, and there are fraternity houses aplenty, but not a single sorority house. Ever wondered why? One salacious rumor has it that it was illegal for more than five women to live together in the same housing unit. It was considered a brothel. That fits nicely with the legend of Al Capone hanging out at the Biltmore Hotel. But it’s rumor, not fact. The truth, however, is even more bizarre.
“The philosophy in the early 1960s, when Greek houses were popping up on this campus, was that UM was a ‘finishing school’ for young ladies. Women were required to live in residence halls on campus. We had to sign in and out, and there was a ‘house mother’ assigned to every floor to make sure the ‘ladies’ adhered to the rules outlined in ‘The Little Green Book,’ which was published by the dean of women.
“The ‘Little Green Book’ no longer exists. Rules have changed. Attitudes have changed more slowly. What we’re here to talk about today is this: that the way to make college campuses safe for women—and respectful of women—is not to impose dress codes, curfews, and Little Green Books. It’s to change a culture in which sixty percent of rape and sexual-assault victims continue to keep silent.”
Isa joined in the applause, startled by her own enthusiasm. It was the first time since coming to Miami that she’d been out in public and made to feel like something other than a criminal. Isa glanced left, then right. She saw other women. She knew she wasn’t the only one in the crowd who’d felt drawn to this event, who hadn’t reported, and who made up that silent 60 percent.
“Isa?”
She turned at the sound of her name and caught her breath. She was suddenly speechless. Even after all these years, Isa recognized the face immediately, but the woman reintroduced herself anyway.
“It’s me. Alicia.”
Chapter 68
Jack’s return flight put him in Miami early Saturday evening. Isa had called him in Caracas after the SASA rally at the university. Before Jack could tell her what a bad idea it had been for her to attend, she filled him in about Alicia Morales—which made him forgive all. It was time for Jack to meet her. He took a cab straight from the airport to Brickell Avenue.
At sixty-four stories, the Four Seasons is Florida’s tallest building and a pillar of luxury even by Miami standards. Jack couldn’t honestly say he’d want to live there, but the endless stream of repairs at the Freedom Institute sometimes left him thinking that five-star service and twenty-four-hour pampering didn’t sound so bad. Having spent his morning in the western hills of Caracas, Jack could only wonder how it made Alicia feel about the hand fate had dealt her and the life her best friend from high school was living.
“I hated her,” said Alicia. “Every day I woke up hating Isa with every bone in my body.”
They were in Isa’s kitchen, seated around the polished granite counter. It was just the three of them. Manny was out of the picture. Keith had taken Melany to Coconut Grove for pizza.
Isa looked out the window. The resentment was undoubtedly something Isa had known about for years, and perhaps Alicia had told her to her face before. Nonetheless, the words coming from Alicia’s lips seemed to sting.
“I don’t blame you,” said Isa.
“No,” said Alicia. “My hatred was directed at the wrong person.”
Jack listened as Alicia continued to speak from the heart, confirming all that Jack had learned from her next-door neighbor in Catia—and more. Jack interrupted only when necessary. Alicia paused every few minutes to collect herself. She and Isa exchanged an occasional glance or a sad smile, but Jack didn’t take that as a sign that they had in any way scripted or rehearsed Alicia’s words. Isa had withheld information from him before, spoken in half-truths, and even lied to him. But in her kitchen on that Saturday night—when it was just Jack, his client, and her best friend from high school—nothing was fabricated. That was Jack’s firm take.
“Isa, did you and Alicia talk about the Post-it note?”
“No,” said Isa.
Jack told her about their dash from the courthouse after a full day of trial and the message Jack had found stuck to his computer bag when they piled into the limo: She will not testify.
“We did a frame-by-frame examination of video from the news stations. It shows someone in the crowd reaching out and putting it there as we left the courthouse. The hand appears to be a woman’s.”
Alicia looked away, then back. “An older woman, you mean. Someone who isn’t computer literate and doesn’t trust cyberspace enough to believe that an e-mail would actually get to you, so she had to do it in writing.”
Those weren’t questions. Alicia was guiding Jack to an answer.
“Gabriel’s mother?” he asked.
“Yes. I wrote the note for her. In English. Just like I wrote her letters to the state attorney.”
“Fatima obviously doesn’t want you to testify,” said Jack.
“No. She doesn’t.”
Jack glanced at Isa, and her expression made it clear that if anyone was going to ask Alicia for a favor, it needed to be Jack.
“It’s Isa’s turn to present evidence to the jury on Monday,” said Jack. “Is the note your final word on the subject?”
Alicia paused. Clearly a bond remained between Alicia and the woman who would have been her mother-in-law, and Alicia wouldn’t lightly disregard whatever pact they’d reached on Alicia’s involvement in the trial.
“It’s not final,” she said in a firm voice. “I will testify.”
Chapter 69
Monday came quickly. The trial of Isabelle Bornelli resumed at nine a.m.
Jack was standing behind his chair at the table. Isa was seated to his left. It was just the two of them.
“The defense calls Alicia Morales.”
Alicia had been staying with Isa since Saturday night, but even as Jack was driving to the courthouse that morning, he’d feared a frantic phone call from Isa telling him that Alicia had changed her mind and was on her way back to Venezuela. Hitting her with a court-issued subpoena might have compelled her appearance, but it might also have turned her into a hostile witness. It was no small relief to see the double doors in the back of the courtroom open as Alicia began her walk in silence down the center aisle.
Jack had little doubt that these two old friends had been the prettiest girls in their high school class, and that like sisters they were able to share clothes. The navy suit and burgundy blouse borrowed from Isa was a good look for Alicia. Faux pearls were an appropriately understated accessory, and she walked comfortably in modest heels. Appearance wasn’t everything, but there was no such thing as a second first impression. And Alicia was being watched. The press section was so packed that media representatives had spilled over into the public seating area, which was also filled to capacity. Anticipation was high, fueled mainly by rumors that Isa would take the stand in her own defense. Alicia, Jack hoped, would make that unnecessary.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth . . .”
The administration of the oath was no mere formality, but Jack found his gaze sweeping slowly from the witness to the jurors, and then out toward the crowded gallery. Keith was in the first row behind the defense table, the polished rail separating him from his wife. For the first week of trial, Gabriel’s mother had seated herself on the prosecutor’s side of the courtroom. She was back for week two.
Jack approached the witness. “Good morning, Ms. Morales.”
Her smile was a little tentative. “Good morning.”
Jack walked her through her nervousness with simple background questions. Born, Caracas. Current home address, Catia. No, never finished high school. Last worked in a factory making T-shirts.
“Where have you lived for the past two months, Ms. Morales?”
“I’ve been staying with Fatima Sosa. Gabriel’s mother. She is a
legal resident and lives here in Miami. I’m here on a three-month nonimmigrant visa.”
Jack paused, giving the jury time to appreciate the significance of the fact that the first witness for the defense was living with the victim’s mother. Jack could have pressed the point. He could have revealed how Fatima had told Jack’s abuela that Alicia wrote the letters to the state attorney but failed to mention that Alicia had been living in her house since summer’s end. Indeed, Fatima had even led Abuela to believe that Jack needed to travel to Venezuela to track her down. But all eyes were already upon Alicia, including those of Fatima Sosa, and Jack didn’t need to up the pressure by attacking the mother of a dead son.
“Let’s back up a little,” said Jack. “Your English is quite good, Ms. Morales. Where did you learn to speak it?”
“Here in Miami. My mother worked for the Consul General of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela on Brickell Avenue.”
“How long did she work there?”
“Five years, when I was in middle school and high school. I was an ESL student—English as a second language.”
“Who did your mother work for at the consulate?”
“She was an administrative assistant to Señor Felipe Bornelli.”
Jack guided the jurors’ attention to his client; he hoped Isa was ready for it. “Is Felipe Bornelli the father of the defendant, Isabelle Bornelli?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Ms. Bornelli?”
“Yes. We were close friends,” she said, glancing again in Isa’s direction. “Best friends. Until the very end.”
“How old were you when you and Isa stopped being best friends?”
“Seventeen. We were high school juniors.”
“What happened?”
Alicia hesitated. Jack’s list of easy questions had come to an end. The silence continued. The judge spoke up. “Perhaps you can be more specific in your question, Mr. Swyteck.”
“Of course, Judge. Ms. Morales, did you say anything that caused the rift between you and Isabelle Bornelli?”
Jack sensed that the prosecutor would have liked to object, but it wasn’t hearsay for a witness to repeat her own words. “Isa and I told each other everything. One night, when we were alone, I guess I wasn’t acting like myself. I told her what was wrong.”
“What did you say to her?”
“This—this was very hard for me. But I said that her father came on to me.”
“You told Ms. Bornelli that her father made an unwanted sexual advance, correct?”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Did you tell anyone other than Ms. Bornelli about this?”
“I didn’t want to. I was afraid my mother might lose her job.”
“But did you tell anyone?” asked Jack.
“Yes. We made a written complaint to the consul general.”
“You said ‘we.’ Did anyone help you with that complaint?”
“Yes. Isabelle Bornelli.”
“How did she help?”
“She—Isa really made me write it. And Isa was the one who got us in to see the consul general. My mother was a secretary. Her father was a diplomat. She had status. We went to the consul general’s office together and handed it to him personally.”
“What was the final resolution by the consul?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
“What happened after you presented your complaint?”
“About a week later, my mother was fired. We were sent back to Venezuela.”
Jack stepped away from the lectern briefly, for no purpose other than to give the witness a break. Then he resumed.
“Did you tell anyone else that Felipe Bornelli had ‘come on to you’?”
“Not in Miami. I didn’t tell anyone until my mother and I moved back to Caracas.”
“Whom did you tell?”
She glanced toward the jury. “I told Gabriel Sosa.”
Even the judge perked up, Jack noticed. “How did you know Mr. Sosa?” asked Jack.
“We met about three months after my return to Caracas. We started dating. Pretty soon after that we got engaged.”
“How did you come to tell him about what happened in Miami with Felipe Bornelli?”
She paused to choose her words. “It was after we were engaged. I was getting distant with Gabriel. It wasn’t because I didn’t love him. I did. I told him it wasn’t his fault—that something had happened to me in Miami.”
Jack didn’t like having to ask the next question, but this trial left no room for ambiguity.
“It’s important to know exactly what you told him, Ms. Morales. Do you remember your exact words?”
She drew a breath, then answered. “I told him that Mr. Bornelli raped me.”
Jack could have left it there. The logical follow-up—Did he sexually assault you?—was extremely risky. An answer of “no” would turn his star witness into a false accuser. But if Jack didn’t ask the question, Sylvia Hunt would.
“Ms. Morales, I know this may be a difficult question for you to answer, but were you sexually assaulted by Felipe Bornelli?”
Silence. She didn’t answer.
The judge prodded. “Ms. Morales, you must answer the question.”
“I’m sorry. Could you ask again?”
Jack did. He waited. The courtroom waited.
“No,” she said. “That was a lie.”
It was as if the floor had collapsed beneath Jack’s feet. It wasn’t the answer he’d expected. It wasn’t the story she’d told him on Saturday night in Isa’s apartment.
Judge Gonzalez interjected. “Mr. Swyteck, do you have another question?”
Jack’s pause had been longer than intended. He would have to move on and figure out a way to work around Alicia’s change of heart—and change of story.
“What did Gabriel Sosa do after you told him you were sexually assaulted?”
“He went to speak to Mr. Bornelli. I begged him not to. But he did.”
“In Miami?”
“No. By then the Venezuelan government had closed the consul’s office in Miami. Mr. Bornelli was back in Caracas working for the Chavez government.”
“What happened after Gabriel met with Mr. Bornelli?”
“About two days later, Gabriel was arrested and sent to prison at Vista Hermosa.”
“What was he charged with?”
“Inciting violence, which is a charge the Chavez government brought against political opponents.”
“Was Gabriel Sosa an opponent of the government?”
“No.”
“How long did he stay in Vista Hermosa?” asked Jack.
“Six months.”
“Did you visit him?”
“No. I tried one time.”
“What happened?”
“Too dangerous. The place was built to hold four hundred inmates and has more than fifteen hundred. The only part of Vista Hermosa that the guards control is the front gate. Inside is run by the inmates. Rival gangs are led by a pran—like a crime boss. They have guns. They have knives. If you break the gang’s rules, they—”
“Objection,” said the prosecutor, rising. “Your Honor, this is way beyond the witness’s personal knowledge.”
“Sustained.”
Jack was confident that the jury had the gist. Even a good day at Vista Hermosa was cruel and unusual punishment. “When did you next see Gabriel?”
“When he was released.”
“What was he like when he came out?”
She lowered her eyes, her voice laden with sadness. “He was a different person. Angry. Violent. Extremely violent.”
“Did he ever hit you?”
She paused, then nodded. “Yes.”
Jack was tempted to ask if he had ever sexually assaulted her—she’d hinted at it on Saturday night—but Fatima Sosa was in the courtroom, which might color Alicia’s testimony, and Jack couldn’t afford another setback from this witness.
“Did you and Gabriel Sosa remain engage
d?” asked Jack.
“No. I ended it.”
“Did he stay in Caracas?”
“No. He went to Miami.”
“What did he plan to do when he got to Miami?”
The prosecutor rose. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”
“Sustained.”
It was the correct ruling, but even with the objection, the answer was obvious. Jack didn’t like ending on a weak note, but he probably had enough to argue to the jury that Gabriel Sosa went to Miami to even the score. “One moment, please, Your Honor. I may be finished.”
Jack checked his notes. The more he thought about it, the less comfortable he was with the way things stood. Alicia’s credibility with the jury was critical. She painted herself as a liar—a woman who had lied to her own fiancé and told him that Felipe Bornelli was a rapist. She would be skewered on cross-examination. Jack had to rehabilitate her. Like it or not, he had to revisit the most difficult part of her testimony.
“Ms. Morales, you testified earlier that you feared retaliation by Felipe Bornelli. In your view, Mr. Bornelli was a very powerful man, correct?”
“Yes.”
“He’s still a powerful man, isn’t he?”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Judge, all I’m asking for is this witness’s present perception,” said Jack.
The judge mulled it over for a moment. “The witness may answer.”
“Yes,” said Alicia. “As I understand, Mr. Bornelli is still held in high regard by the party and the current administration.”
“After you made your complaint about Mr. Bornelli to the consul general, your mother was fired from her job and sent back to Caracas. Correct?”
“Yes.”
Jack had seen the house they lived in. He thought it important for the jury to see it. The only photograph he had was the one that Theo had texted to him—the one Jack had nearly strangled him for taking. Jack pulled it up on his iPhone, showed it to the judge and the prosecutor, and then shared it with the witness.
Most Dangerous Place Page 30