Hear No Evil

by James Grippando

  Jack rose and stepped to the lectern. He didn’t have to glance over his shoulder at the rapt audience to know that all eyes were upon him. “Your Honor, contrary to Mr. Torres’s suggestion, we have not hounded Brian Pintado or his grandparents at every turn. We have made limited attempts to set up an interview, and we have been very discreet and polite in all our communications.”

  The judge scoffed. “I don’t care if you hired Miss Manners to print up engraved invitations. If the boy doesn’t want to meet with you, then you’re just going to have to take no for an answer.”

  “I understand that. But this is the first time I’ve heard anyone say that he doesn’t want to meet with us. Every time we’ve spoken to the Pintado family, the response has been along the lines of, ‘Yes, he will meet with you, but now is not a good time.’ Never did they say that it was Brian’s desire not to meet with us.”

  Torres sprang from his chair. “Judge, I resent the implication that we have somehow led the defense to believe that an interview with the boy was forthcoming. If Mr. Swyteck got that impression, it was his own mistake.”

  The judge removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes, as if tired of the bickering. “Fine,” he said from the bench. “Perhaps it was a misunderstanding. Or perhaps it was a case of the defense overstepping their bounds. As of this moment, however, I trust the air has been cleared. Has it not, Mr. Swyteck?”

  Jack glanced at Sofia. It was a setback, to be sure, not to be able to interview Brian. But the judge was showing no sign of ruling that Lindsey’s lawyers had a right to force an interview with her son. “If that’s the way Brian feels,” said Jack, “then we’ll accept that.”

  “Good. There will be no more phone calls to the Pintado household. No more attempts to contact Brian Pintado. Agreed?”

  Again Jack hesitated. The blow to their trial preparation was one thing, but his disappointment ran deeper. As absurd as it had once seemed for Lindsey to try to limit Jack’s access to her son, it was even more bizarre that things were now playing out exactly as she had wished: Jack would never meet Brian-unless he won her acquittal.

  “Mr. Swyteck,” said the judge, “do I have your agreement on that?”

  “Yes,” he said without conviction. “Agreed.”

  The judge looked across the courtroom and said, “Is that satisfactory to you, Mr. Torres?”

  “That should be fine, Judge. I’ll simply hope against hope that Mr. Swyteck is as true to his word as his father is.”

  Jack shot a look of annoyance. What a cheap shot, Torres.

  “Is there anything further that the court needs to take up?” asked the judge.

  Jack heard the members of the media shuffling in the press gallery behind him. They were poised to run for the exits the minute the judge adjourned the proceeding.

  But the prosecutor had one last surprise.

  “There is one more thing,” said Torres. “It has to do with that certain witness that is the subject of the court’s gag order.”

  The judge practically rolled his eyes. “Consider the gag order lifted. I don’t think there’s a reporter in this courtroom who doesn’t already know more about that than I do.”

  A light rumble of laughter rolled across the courtroom, then silence.

  Torres said, “In accordance with the court’s pretrial order, the parties have already exchanged witness lists. Perhaps I missed it, but I did not see anywhere on the defense’s list of witnesses the name of a Cuban soldier.”

  The judge flipped through the file and located the list of witnesses. Then he looked toward Jack and said, “Is he on your list or not, Mr. Swyteck?”

  Jack hesitated. He wasn’t being dishonest, but one of the oldest tricks in the book was perhaps about to backfire on him. “We didn’t list him by name, Your Honor. But we did list our intention to call rebuttal witnesses.”

  The judge snorted. “You didn’t really think you were going to slide a Cuban soldier in sideways over the transom by listing him generally under the category of ‘rebuttal witnesses,’ did you?”

  “To be perfectly honest, Judge, we haven’t decided whether or not to call the soldier as a witness at trial.”

  The prosecutor said, “In the interest of avoiding surprises, I would like the record to be very clear on this point. If Mr. Swyteck intends to call a Cuban soldier as witness, he should be required to disclose that fact here and now.”

  “I won’t go that far,” said the judge. “Mr. Swyteck can decide at a later time whether or not to actually call him to the stand. But if there is a Cuban soldier out there who claims to know something about this crime, I want to hear his name. If I don’t hear it now, Mr. Swyteck, you’ve waived your right to call him.”

  Jack glanced toward the crowd. Many of the onlookers had quite literally moved to the edge of their seats. “Judge, we’re in a public forum. I don’t know what consequences might be visited upon this soldier or his family if I were to reveal his name in open court.”

  “Then don’t call him as a witness. But if you want to preserve your rights, Mr. Swyteck, let’s hear his name. Now.”

  Jack paused, then said, “His name is Felipe Castillo.”

  Silence gave way to a growing murmur through the crowd. Jack could almost hear the pencils scratching across notepads in the press gallery behind him. Jack wasn’t happy about giving up the soldier’s name, but there was some satisfaction to be had in the astonished expression on the prosecutor’s face. It was as if Torres had indeed thought that the defense was bluffing-as if, when push came to shove, Jack would be unable to deliver a name.

  “All right,” said the judge, his tone reflecting a little surprise of his own. “We have a name. Does that satisfy you, Mr. Torres?”

  Again the prosecutor glanced at Jack, still unable to believe that there actually was a Cuban soldier who might soon be walking into the courtroom. “That’ll do it, Judge.”

  “Then that concludes our pretrial conference. I will see you back here tomorrow morning, nine o’clock sharp. We’ll pick a jury. Until then, this court is adjourned.” The judge banged his gavel and left the courtroom through a side exit to his chambers, immediately unleashing the mad rush for the exits. No cameras were allowed in federal court, so the television journalists were leading the charge out the doors to their media vans to make their reports. Others charged toward the rail and fired questions at the lawyers.

  “Is Felipe Castillo in Miami now?” one asked.

  “Is it true that the soldier will be staying in your home, Mr. Swyteck?”

  “Have you spoken directly to Fidel Castro?”

  Jack wanted to respond, but with all the confusion and borderline hysteria, he feared that his answers would only be distorted in print. He looked at no one in particular and said, “We will issue a statement on this matter once we’ve made a final decision about this witness. That’s all for now. Thank you.”

  The questions kept coming. Like it or not, Felipe Castillo was about to become a household name-at least a Latin household name-in all of south Florida. Jack and Sofia pushed toward the exit. It seemed to take forever, but they finally made it down the long aisle and out the double doors. Several more minutes passed before they could wind through the crowded corridor and reach the main exit. It was difficult for Jack to hear himself think, let alone to discern any one particular voice among the many that were coming at him. But somewhere above the ruckus he heard Hector Torres issue one last sound byte for the evening news.

  “Watch carefully tomorrow,” said Torres. “It won’t be the prosecution that is systematically excluding Cuban Americans during jury selection.”

  Jack pushed through the revolving doors, and Sofia was at his side as they stepped into the afternoon sun. Compared to the mob outside the courthouse, the crowd inside had been a model of civility. A pretrial conference wasn’t typically a spectacle, but it could be-particularly if someone as powerful as Alejandro Pintado had gotten wind from the prosecutor that he was going to force the defense
to commit one way or another on the Cuban soldier as witness. Hector Torres was without question a friend to Jack’s father. But he was proving himself no friend of Jack’s.

  “Looks like we have some more visitors,” said Sofia. She was following closely behind him, like a running back behind a blocker.

  A huge crowd had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the federal building. A few were the courthouse version of rubberneckers, simply drawn to all the commotion. Others were with the media, reviewing notes, toting cameras, and primping their hair, all of which was accomplished with the journalistic fancy footwork needed to keep from tripping over their own tangle of cords and wires. The largest numbers, and the obvious reason for the strong police showing, were those marching in protest. It was a mob scene, hundreds of people pushing toward the courthouse entrance. They were restrained by wooden barricades and row after row of police, some mounted on bicycles or horseback. One demonstrator had climbed halfway up a lightpost, and as Jack and Sofia emerged from the building, he waved to the crowd and shouted something in Spanish that must have been the equivalent of “There they are!” Instantly, a sea of angry fists shot into the air, and the crowd began to shout the messages that were displayed on their signs and banners, most of which were in Spanish.

  “Mr. Pintado, we love you!”

  “We want Justice for Cubans, Not Lies from Cuban Soldiers!”

  “Cuban Americans are AMERICANS!”

  “No Castro, No Problema!”

  Jack wasn’t exactly sure how the last one fit in, but this was, after all, Miami.

  “Holy cow,” Sofia whispered into Jack’s ear. It was an almost involuntary reaction to the gathering in the parking lot across the street. Dozens of mobile media vans were stationed there, many with microwave towers and satellite dishes. The call letters painted boldly on the vehicles identified about an equal number of English-and Spanish-language radio and television stations.

  “Just keep walking,” Jack told Sofia.

  The crowd followed right on their heels, shouting and waving their signs as the defense team descended the granite stairs. Jack could feel their momentum gathering as they passed beneath the trees in the courtyard, and an armada of television cameras greeted them at the wide sidewalk. Questions and microphones popped up from everywhere.

  Jack had anticipated a crowd, but nothing like this. Nonetheless, he stuck to his original plan and turned to face the television cameras. He wasn’t the consummate politician that his father was, but he still showed signs of the Swyteck gift when addressing the media, a honed skill that made it seem as though he was looking the whole world directly in the eye when in reality he wasn’t actually focused on anyone.

  Jack said, “On the eve of this important trial, it is important for us all to remember that no one is grieving more for the loss of Captain Oscar Pintado than his son, Brian, and his wife of twelve years, Lindsey. Lindsey was extremely proud of her husband’s service in the U.S. Marine Corps, and I’m proud to be her lawyer. We all look forward to her complete acquittal on all charges and the clearing of her good name. Thank you.”

  The reporters shouted a series of follow-up questions, but the moment Jack finished his statement, a sedan pulled up at the curb and stopped directly behind him and Sofia. The door flew open. Jack and Sofia offered no further comment as they climbed into the backseat. The door closed, and, had it not been for the police, the mob would have been climbing onto the hood. The vehicle inched forward, and crowd patrol finally managed to clear an opening. The sedan pulled away and headed for the expressway.

  Theo was behind the wheel.

  “Don’t speed,” said Jack. “But don’t waste any time getting out of here.”

  “No problem, boss.”

  Sofia glanced through the rear window to check out the crowd they’d left behind. “Wow. I feel like a celebrity.”

  “Get used to it,” said Jack.

  “Does this mean there’ll be groupies?” said Theo.

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Just drive, Theo.”

  Theo managed to catch a string of green lights, and the car seemed to jump onto the expressway as they hit the on ramp. In minutes they were cruising down I-95, away from downtown Miami, and then over to Key Biscayne via the Rickenbacker Causeway.

  Key Biscayne was like another world, which was why Jack lived there. It was an island paradise, practically within the shadows of Miami ’s skyscrapers, yet far enough removed from the chaos that he could enjoy the city views without being constantly reminded of work. They rode in silence until Jack could decompress. There was no one better than Theo at figuring out when Jack was ready to talk, and by the same token, there was no one more blatant about not giving a shit whether Jack was ready to talk or not.

  “So, how’d it go?” said Theo.

  “How did it look?” said Jack.

  “Like the los quinces party from hell,” said Theo.

  Sofia chuckled, recalling her own special fifteenth-birthday bash, which had been completely overdone in the grandest of Cuban traditions.

  Jack wasn’t laughing. He was focused on the emergency vehicles at the end of the otherwise quiet residential street. Two yellow fire trucks were blocking traffic. A tangle of rock-hard fire hoses were strewn across the wet pavement. Firefighters stood at the ready around the taped-off perimeter, and a menacing plume of black smoke billowed upward from the south side of the street. A team of four was aiming a fully activated hose and dousing an automobile with a powerful stream of water. Jack nearly gasped. The emergency was directly in front of his house.

  “Shit!” said Theo. “That’s your Mustang, Jack!”

  Theo slammed on the brakes. The three of them jumped out of the sedan and ran to the edge of the street. Some onlookers had already gathered on the sidewalk. Jack pushed his way past them, but a police officer stopped him cold.

  “That’s my car!” said Jack.

  The cop shrugged. “You mean was your car. Nothing you can do for it now, pal. Just stay back.”

  Jack couldn’t move. He’d bought that old car with his first few paychecks out of law school. It was the only thing he’d gotten in his divorce from Cindy. It was the one thing in his lonely life that could pull him out of the office and force him, literally, to take the scenic route.

  And now it was a flaming hot shell of charred metal.

  He glanced at Theo, and he’d never seen such sadness in his friend’s eyes. He was the only person on the planet who had loved that Mustang even more than Jack.

  Jack stared in disbelief, saying nothing. Then he noticed something in the driveway alongside the car. He was watching from across the street, so he couldn’t make it out at first. But after cutting the glare with his sunglasses he could plainly see that someone had spray-painted a message in red letters on the asphalt, presumably before they’d torched the vehicle. It took Jack a moment to read the upside-down letters, and then finally it clicked.

  CASTRO LOVER was all it said.

  Theo looked at him and said, “Son of a gun, the fun has begun.”

  The flames began to falter. The firefighters had the blaze under control, and they were just a few hundred gallons of water away from turning a spectacular bonfire into worthless remains.

  “Yeah,” said Jack. “Sure looks that way.”

  30

  The United States of America calls Alejandro Pintado.”

  With those ominous words from U.S. attorney Hector Torres, the case against Lindsey Hart was officially in high gear.

  It had taken three days to select a jury. With over fifty percent of the county’s population foreign-born, everything about Miami was a mix, and juries were no different. Not even Sigmund Freud could have divined the psychological interplay of race, culture, language, and politics. As a defense lawyer, you didn’t try to be everything to everybody. You simply created enough reasonable doubt so that there was something for somebody to cling to, which was exactly the way Jack had played it during jury selection and his opening statement
.

  Now, it was show time.

  “Mr. Pintado, please approach,” said the judge.

  A sea of heads turned as the victim’s father made his way toward the witness box. The trial was in the central courtroom, which was filled to capacity. The Mediterranean-style surroundings were impressive, with stone arches, frescoed ceilings, and plenty of high-polished mahogany. Only the center courtroom had a public seating area large enough to accommodate the overwhelming media interest. Despite the murmuring crowd of spectators, Jack could hear his client sigh in the seat beside him. She’d seemed dazed since the bailiff called the case at nine A.M. sharp. Jack understood. Nothing was more unsettling than to hear the words “The United States of America versus” followed by your own name.

  Jack gave her hand a little squeeze. It was ice cold.

  “I do,” said Pintado, promising to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  “Please be seated,” the judge said.

  Pintado settled into the witness stand, which was situated opposite the jury. Judge Garcia was perched between the witness and the jury, a commanding figure in his own right, very judicial and even scholarly in his appearance and demeanor. Pintado was one of those rare witnesses who seemed to command even greater deference. Jack could see the respect and admiration in the eyes of several jurors.

  “Good morning,” the prosecutor said as he approached the witness. “First, let me express my condolences to you and Mrs. Pintado for the loss of your son.”

  “Thank you.” The jury followed his gaze toward his wife in the first row of public seating. She was an attractive woman, smartly dressed, but her face spoke of many sleepless nights of grieving.

  Predictably enough, the testimony began with the witness’s impressive background-his childhood in Cuba, his harrowing raft trip to Miami, his first job as a dishwasher, and his rise to fame as owner of a successful chain of Cuban restaurants. The prosecutor then steered him toward more pertinent matters.

  “Mr. Pintado, would you please tell us about your son?”

  He seemed to sigh at the size of the question. Pintado did not come across as the kind of man who was easily shaken, but his voice quaked just a bit as he answered. “Oscar was the kind of son every parent wants. He was a good boy, a good student in school. At Columbus High he was president of his senior class and played quarterback on the football team. We wanted him to go to college, but we were all very proud of him when he joined the Marines.”