Daughter's Keeper

by Ayelet Waldman

  “Please describe for the jury how you met the confidential informant, Gabriel Contreras.” Amanda Steel said.

  “Olivia introduced him to me,” Jorge replied.

  The jurors looked at Olivia sharply. They obviously had not imagined that she’d known Contreras first. In his testimony, the informant had said only that he met them both in the bar of the restaurant in which he worked.

  Slowly, almost tediously, Jorge described how he had come to discuss methamphetamine with Gabriel. He described the mechanics of the deal, when they’d agreed and to what. Then the prosecutor asked, “When did you tell the defendant that you planned to supply Mr. Contreras with methamphetamine?”

  “When it happened. She knew from the beginning.”

  Olivia blinked her eyes, hard, refusing to allow herself to cry.

  “The defendant knew from the very beginning that you’d planned to sell methamphetamine to Mr. Contreras?”

  “Objection!” Izaya said loudly. “Asked and answered. And leading, too.”

  “Sustained on both counts,” the judge replied.

  “Did the defendant assist you in your drug deal in any way?” the prosecutor continued, unfazed.

  “Yes. When Gabriel called, she would pass on his messages to me.”

  “To what did those messages pertain?”

  “The methamphetamine.”

  “Did the defendant know to what they referred?”

  Izaya leapt to his feet. “Objection. This witness can’t testify about what my client knew or didn’t know.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said.

  “Mr. Rodriguez, did you inform the defendant that you were dealing drugs?” Amanda Steele continued.

  “I wasn’t dealing drugs,” Jorge answered.

  “Excuse me?” Amanda Steele’s voice was sharp. It was as though she jerked the leash on which Jorge was tethered.

  “I mean, I wasn’t really dealing drugs. I didn’t sell them on the street or anything. I just did that one thing.” The interpreter did a fair imitation of Jorge’s confused voice. In another context, you might have thought she was making fun of him.

  “Did you inform the defendant that you were involved in a conspiracy to sell methamphetamine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Before or after she took the phone messages from Gabriel?”

  “After the first call.”

  “When she took the second message did she know you were involved in a drug transaction?”

  “Objection!” Izaya said.

  “Sustained.”

  “Did you tell her about the drug transaction before she took the second message?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the defendant assist you in any other way?”

  “She drove me one time.”

  “Where did she drive you?”

  “First to pick up the drugs and then to do the exchange. To get the money.”

  “What did she do while you were picking up the methamphetamine and then selling it?”

  “She waited in the car so we could just keep it right in front of the houses. So we wouldn’t have to park.”

  When Amanda Steele finally sat down, she had a subtly self-­satisfied smile on her face.

  Izaya rose and made short work of Jorge. Within moments, Jorge had acknowledged that Olivia had not taken any active part in the drug transaction, beyond being in the car and answering the phone. He admitted that before he picked Olivia up at work, she hadn’t expected to go along with him to do the actual exchange.

  Izaya pulled another poster out from his stack. He angled the easel so that it faced both Jorge on the witness stand and the jurors in the jury box. On it was a sentence in Spanish from the letter Jorge had written Olivia. The English translation was printed underneath.

  Izaya turned to face Jorge. “Do you recognize that line?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jorge, then the interpreter, said.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and read it,” Izaya said.

  “I’m so sorry Olivia, for everything that has happened, and for everything that will happen.” Jorge mumbled. The interpreter translated in a more audible tone.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Izaya said.

  “Your honor,” Amanda Steele called out.

  Judge Horowitz rolled his eyes. “Ask some questions, Mr. Feingold-Upchurch.”

  “Of course, your honor.” Izaya leaned toward Jorge. “You wrote that line in a letter to Olivia, isn’t that right?”

  Jorge nodded.

  “For heaven’s sake, can you, Ms. Steele, please tell your ­witnesses to talk out loud?” the judge said.

  “Yes, that was in my letter to Olivia,” Jorge said quickly.

  “You were apologizing to her.”

  “Yes.”

  “For everything that had happened.”

  “Yes.”

  “Her arrest.”

  “Yes.”

  “The drug deal.”

  “Yes.”

  “The entire mess.”

  “Yes.”

  “You were apologizing to her for having gotten her involved.”

  “Yes, I mean…” Jorge’s voice trailed off, and he looked over at Amanda Steele. She looked back at him, her eyes slightly narrowed.

  “Um, Mr. Rodriguez, I’m over here,” Izaya said, waving his hand in the air.

  “I don’t know,” Jorge said.

  “What don’t you know?”

  “What you asked.”

  “I asked if you were apologizing to Olivia for having gotten her involved in your drug deal.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “You weren’t apologizing to her?”

  “No.”

  “You aren’t sorry?” Izaya sounded astonished.

  Jorge looked confused. “No. I mean, yes. Yes, I am sorry.”

  Izaya sighed and sat down on the edge of the counsel table. “Okay, let’s try this again. Is this or is this not an apology for having gotten Olivia involved in your drug deal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, it’s an apology.”

  “For having gotten Olivia involved.”

  “Yes.”

  Izaya nodded. He turned back to the poster. “And for everything that will happen,” he read, almost musingly. “That refers to the trial, right? To your testimony against her. You were apologizing for testifying against her.”

  “Si,” Jorge whispered. Then he cleared his throat. “Si.” The interpreter translated it only once.

  Olivia looked over at Amanda Steele. The prosecutor sat perfectly still, her hands folded on the table in front of her. There were two spots of color high on her smooth, white cheeks.

  “Olivia didn’t want you to do the drug deal, did she?” Izaya asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jorge said.

  “You don’t know if she didn’t want you to do it?” Once again, Izaya sounded incredulous.

  “No.”

  “Well, she told you not to do it, didn’t she?”

  “No,” Jorge said, staring down at his hands.

  “No?”

  “The money, it was for both of us. She needed it, too. She wanted it, too.”

  “But she told you not to do the deal, didn’t she?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly? What does that mean.”

  “She said never do it again.”

  “You expect me to believe, you expect this jury to believe, that Olivia said, ‘Sure honey, go on and do a drug deal, just never, never do it again.’ Just what do you take us for?”

  “Objection!” Amanda Steele was on her feet.

  “Sustained,” growled th
e judge.

  Izaya didn’t take his eyes off Jorge. “Olivia told you not to do the deal, didn’t she?”

  Jorge shrugged.

  “Mr. Rodriguez!” the judge warned.

  “Yes,” Jorge said, softly.

  “Olivia said, ‘Don’t do this. Don’t do this drug deal.’”

  “Yes.”

  “She begged you not to do it!” Izaya said, his loud voice reverberating through the courtroom.

  “Objection!” Amanda Steele cried.

  Izaya raised his hands in the air. “You know what? I have no more questions,” he said, in a tone of such disgust, such derision, that Olivia felt almost sorry for Jorge.

  When he was dismissed, Jorge stood up. He turned to find the marshals who waited to take him back to the jail, and in doing so, caught Olivia’s eye. For a moment, they looked at one another. Without really intending to, Olivia remembered the way his face looked, staring down at her while they made love. She remembered his hand on her hip, glowing dark against her white skin. She remembered his voice, proud and angry, as he inspired a crowd of students to protest. She wondered if he, too, was imagining her in a different time, a different place. Was he remembering how she trimmed his hair with nail scissors, carefully clipping along his collar? Was he thinking of the way they’d huddle over the newspaper in the mornings, Olivia translating the headlines for him? Was he imagining her body straining under his?

  Jorge blinked and ducked his head, his face bearing an expression of meek anonymity that Olivia recognized from the face that had gazed back at her in the mirror when she had been incarcerated in Martinez. Jorge walked out the courtroom door, careful to meet no one’s eye.

  ***

  When the jury had been excused and the judge left the bench, Izaya, Elaine, and Olivia sat at the defense table. They watched Amanda Steele gather her boxes of documents and exhibits, pile them on a cart, and trundle the cart down the aisle. The wheel caught on an edge of carpet at the back of the courtroom. The prosecutor tugged on it, and Olivia looked at Izaya, wondering if he would help her. He looked like he might be considering it, but before he could rise, the AUSA had yanked the cart free and wheeled it out of the room. When they were finally alone, Elaine turned to Izaya. “That was wonderful. You really tore him apart. The jury won’t believe a word he said. That lying little pig.” She seemed surprised at her own vehemence and put a hand over her mouth. A small, nervous laugh escaped her.

  “Thanks,” Izaya said. “I think that went alright.”

  “It’s not his fault,” Olivia said softly.

  “What?” Elaine and Izaya spoke simultaneously.

  “Jorge’s not a pig. I mean, I’m not mad that you said that or anything. It’s just that it’s not his fault.”

  “What?” Elaine said, her voice strained to a piercing thinness.

  “He’s scared. He’s afraid of being in jail. People get killed all the time in Mexican prisons. He’s just afraid.”

  “And what about you? Why isn’t he afraid for you?”

  Olivia shrugged her shoulders. “Because he thinks I can win, even with him testifying. Or because he’s a coward. I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t blame him for this. It’s like that saying: you can’t judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.”

  “You are in his shoes, Olivia. You’re in worse shoes. You’re facing the same horrible predicament, but you’re pregnant. And it is his fault. Every last part of it is his fault,” Elaine said.

  “Still. I can’t blame him for this.”

  “Why not? Why can’t you blame him? I do,” Elaine said.

  Olivia traced her fingers across her belly. “Because I’m responsible, too.”

  Elaine started to object, but Olivia shook her head.

  “Not the drug deal. I don’t mean that. But that he was even here to begin with. The truth is, I never wanted him to come. I never wanted him to follow me. But I didn’t tell him that. I didn’t tell him when I was in Mexico, and I didn’t tell him when he showed up here. I let him move in. I let the relationship continue. And I guess I even pretended to us both that I was in love with him. I don’t know why—maybe out of guilt because he sacrificed so much to follow me. In a way, it’s really all my fault.”

  Elaine shook her head. “All that may be true, Olivia. But none of it makes you responsible for the choices he made.”

  “I know that, Mom. I just can’t help but feel that none of us knows what we would do if we faced the same choice.”

  “You know, Olivia,” Izaya said, his voice soft and gentle.

  “What?” she said.

  “You were faced with the same choice. You could have cooperated with the government. You could have testified against him. But you didn’t. That’s the difference between the two of you. You didn’t betray him.”

  Olivia raised her eyes to Izaya’s. He nodded.

  “That’s the difference, Olivia.”

  She opened her mouth to object, to explain that, perhaps, had she been as afraid as Jorge, as unfamiliar with the world in which she found herself, she might have done what Jorge did, but Izaya raised his hand to quiet her.

  “I know you, Olivia. Your mother knows you. And, now, you know yourself.”

  She stared at him, and then, almost imperceptibly, nodded.

  ***

  The first witness Izaya put on the stand to testify on Olivia’s behalf was a grim little man whose bald pate shone through the three or four hairs combed over the top of his head. It was clear that he didn’t want to be there. His glared at Izaya with what looked like disdain but might actually have been fear. After he swore to tell the truth so help him God, he stated his name and occupation for the record. “Oliver Stroud, Deputy Director, Immigration and Naturalization Service, Northern California division.”

  Izaya first established Stroud’s familiarity with the Mariel boatlift and with immigration rules and regulations in general, and Cuban immigration in particular. Then he continued, “Mr. Stroud, what happens when an unnaturalized immigrant commits a felony in the United States?”

  The little man shrugged, his strands of hair wobbling a bit. “That depends on the felony.”

  Izaya leaned forward on the podium and said, with exquisite patience, “How about the sale of cocaine? One hundred grams of cocaine, to be exact.”

  “Well, presumably that individual would be arrested and convicted. He’d go to jail.”

  “And after that?”

  The INS officer pursed his lips. “Well, as soon as our office found out about the conviction, we’d put an immigration hold on him.”

  “What’s an immigration hold?”

  “It’s like a warrant. It means the state can’t release him when he’s done serving his time. They have to send him over to federal custody.”

  “And why would you put an INS hold on him?”

  “So that we could keep him incarcerated pending deportation proceedings.”

  “So someone who was convicted of selling one hundred grams of cocaine would be deported?”

  “Yes, sir,” the government official said, the sneer in his voice unmistakable. A few of the female members of the jury who had quite obviously been charmed by Izaya shot the witness reproving looks. He blushed and then continued, “I mean, he’d be deported if we had somewhere to send him.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, there are some countries we don’t have relations with. Those countries won’t accept deportees from the U.S.”

  “Is Cuba one of those countries?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “What would happen to a Cuban drug dealer then, if you ­couldn’t deport him. Would you just let him go?”

  “No, sir. We would not. We would detain him.”

  “What does that mean?” Izaya’s tone was conversational, as if he a
nd the jury were just there to chat with Mr. Stroud.

  “We would keep him in INS custody.”

  “Is INS custody like, say, a hotel?”

  Stroud smiled thinly. “No. I can’t say that it is.”

  “Is it perhaps similar to home detention?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What is it like?”

  “Well, the individuals are under detention. These are criminals, you know. I’d have to say it’s like a prison.”

  “In fact, these people are actually held in prisons and jails, isn’t that correct?” Izaya said sharply.

  “Yes.”

  “And how long would our hypothetical drug dealer be incarcerated?”

  “Until Cuba was willing to take him back.”

  “Has Cuba ever taken any deportee back?”

  “Not in my experience.”

  “In anyone’s experience?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Has Fidel Castro ever allowed a Cuban detainee to be returned to Cuba?”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t it, in fact, the case that a Cuban drug dealer would face indefinite detention in prison—a life sentence, in other words?”

  “Objection, leading!” Amanda Steele raised her voice.

  “Your honor,” Izaya said, “it seems to me that this witness, given that he’s an employee of the very government that’s prosecuting my client, can fairly well be qualified as a hostile witness.”

  “Objection overruled. Continue, Mr. Feingold-Upchurch.”

  Izaya smiled faintly and then turned and asked his next question while facing the jury. “Mr. Stroud, isn’t it true that a Cuban drug dealer would face indefinite detention in a prison-like setting until he died or until Castro took him back, whichever came first?”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Can you think of any way that the prisoner might be released?”

  “I guess a court could order it.”

  “Has any court ever ordered the release of a Cuban detainee who was convicted of dealing one hundred grams of cocaine?”