“You’re probably right. I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything to you or not. The article mentions how Hector Torres and your father have been friends for over thirty years, how Torres helped Harry Swyteck get elected governor, all that stuff. I don’t mean to stir anything up.”
“Don’t worry about it. Thanks for passing along the info. And double thanks for the bread.”
Jack started to walk away, but Kiko caught him and slipped a business card into his hand. On the back was a handwritten number.
“El Pidio’s phone number,” said Kiko. “Like I say, maybe he’s crazy. But maybe he’s not.”
Jack gave a little nod and he stuffed the card in his pocket. Kiko shook his hand firmly, as if to convey that they would speak of this no more. Then Jack left the bakery to track down Abuela.
37
Jack had an appointment at South Miami Hospital.
He knew he had to stay focused on Lindsey and her trial, and this latest information about Jack’s mother and Hector Torres was already distracting enough. Even so, Jack was suddenly feeling the need to tackle at least one of the things that had been gnawing at him about Brian.
It had to do with Brian’s biological mother.
Lindsey had seemed to be holding something over Jack’s head from the day they’d met, her underlying accusation that both Jack and Jessie had decided to give up Brian because of his hearing impairment. Even though Jack hadn’t even known about the baby, let alone his deafness, Lindsey’s words were beginning to feel like a spot on his soul. Maybe it was the reason Jessie had decided not to tell him about the baby. Could she have thought he was so utterly shallow that he wouldn’t have wanted any part of a child who was less than perfect? There was one way to rule out the possibility.
Jack met Jan Wackenhut in the hospital cafeteria on her lunch break. She was the head of the speech pathology and audiology department. Jack had gotten her name through a friend who, of course, couldn’t help adding that Jan was a lively brunette and a terrific dancer. Jack got a lot of that from do-gooders who couldn’t wait for him to rejoin the Married Farts Club, but this was all business. They sat on opposite sides of a little round table in the corner. Jack had an ice tea, and Jan picked at a small wedge of quiche as they spoke.
“When did you say the child was born?” asked Jan.
“Ten years ago.”
She guzzled some ice water, dousing an overnuked piece of broccoli that had apparently set her mouth on fire.
“I can tell you this,” she said. “We do screen infants for hearing loss here at this hospital. But that wasn’t the case at most hospitals in the country ten years ago. In fact, it’s only been in the last two or three years that infant screening has caught on. I read something not long ago that said only twenty percent of newborns were tested as recently as 1999.”
“So, ten years ago, it’s unlikely that my friend would have discovered that her newborn was born deaf and then decided to give him up for adoption.”
“Highly unlikely. Especially when you consider that most women make the decision to give up their child for adoption long before delivery. Your friend would have to have known that the baby was deaf before it was even born.”
“Is that possible?” said Jack.
“Not really.”
“What about prenatal testing?”
“How old was your friend when she gave birth?
“Young. Early twenties.”
“At that age, she probably would have had only ultrasound, which is limited to identifying problems of a physical or structural nature. It can’t detect problems of function-mental retardation, blindness, deafness. It can’t detect chromosome abnormalities either, like Down syndrome, which can sometimes be accompanied by problems like deafness.”
“What if she had some more extensive testing?”
“Even amniocentisis and CVS test for a specific number of chromosome, biochemical, and structural disorders. Deafness, blindness, and even some heart defects and some types of mental retardation just aren’t picked up through prenatal testing. And even if you could test for deafness, you’d have to be looking for it to detect it. You can’t just blanket test for every conceivable defect known to medical science. Not yet, anyway-and definitely not ten years ago.”
Jan finished off the rest of her quiche in three quick bites. “Time to get back to work,” she said.
“Ditto,” said Jack. He thanked her, then started down the long maze of freezing-cold hallways that eventually led him to the hospital exit and the parking garage. He wasted about five minutes looking for his Mustang, a mental lapse that ended with the realization that his car was gone for good and that he was driving a crappy rental.
As he climbed behind the wheel and switched on the A/C, he wasn’t thinking about his car, his old girlfriend, or even Brian. He was thinking about Lindsey, how the mother of a deaf child probably should have known that deafness couldn’t be detected through prenatal testing, and that ten years ago a newborn probably wouldn’t have been screened.
Yet, she’d still looked him in the eye and accused him and Jessie of dumping their baby because he was less than perfect.
He felt a rush of bitterness toward Lindsey, but he pushed it aside. His heart was pounding. Jessie’d been gone such a long time. But somehow he hoped she could hear him nonetheless.
I’m so sorry, Jessie. I’m sorry I let myself think that about you.
At ten minutes past three Jack was surrounded by any number of women who could have kicked his ass. Fortunately, most of them were behind bars.
Jack and Sofia had a trial-strategy meeting with Lindsey at the detention center. He cleared security at the visitors’ entrance, then passed through the main visitation area. It was one of the most depressing sights he’d ever seen on such a beautiful Saturday afternoon, a great day for the beach, the park, maybe a little barbecue with friends in the backyard. Teary-eyed wives slow-danced with their husbands, the music playing only in their heads. Mothers in prison garb hugged daughters in pigtails. Little boys giggled at the sound of a mother’s voice, a sound less familiar with each passing month. Jack felt a tinge of sadness for Brian, thinking that someday he might have to come here to visit his mother. Then he felt the same sadness for Lindsey, realizing that Brian wasn’t here today, right this very minute, because his grandparents had already convicted her and wouldn’t allow him to visit.
Jack entered a quieter area that was reserved for attorney-client meetings. Sofia was waiting for him in Room B, but their client had not yet arrived.
“Lindsey on her way down?” said Jack.
“Actually, I just sent her back to her cell. We had a long talk.”
“Without me?”
“Yes. You and I need to talk.”
She invited him to sit with a wave of her hand, but Jack remained standing. You and I need to talk. Never in his life had he heard a woman utter those words and then follow up with good news. “What’s going on here?” said Jack. “Why did you and Lindsey meet without me?”
“She’s coming back, so cool down, okay? The three of us will have our full session together. But there was one thing she needed to speak to a woman about. It’s nothing personal against you. There are certain things a woman can’t say in front of a man. Even if the man is her lawyer.”
“You gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?”
“It’s about the Cuban soldier.”
“The Cuban?” Jack said, incredulous. “How does that not involve me?”
“It does, and we’ll talk more about it when Lindsey comes back. There’s just an aspect of his testimony that’s-well, frankly, highly embarrassing for Lindsey. So she and I talked it out first.”
“Obviously you mean the part about her and Lieutenant Johnson in the bedroom.”
“Obviously.”
Jack laid his briefcase on the table and pulled up a chair. “There’s no way around the embarrassing parts. If we call the Cuban to the stand, he’s going t
o give us the good and the bad.”
“Lindsey understands that. And, frankly, I don’t see it as all that bad.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I’ve been watching that jury carefully. I see how they’ve been looking at Lindsey ever since that fertility doctor shared his assassin sperm theory. There is no doubt in my mind that every single one of those jurors has already labeled Lindsey an adulteress.”
“I can’t argue with that,” said Jack. “But we certainly run the risk of reinforcing that impression by calling the Cuban soldier to the stand.”
“That was my fear, too. Before I had this little talk with Lindsey.”
“You think differently now, do you?”
“I do. I think the Cuban soldier may be the only way to prove that Lindsey isn’t lying when she says she wasn’t having an affair.”
“Excuse me? The Cuban saw her having sex with Lieutenant Johnson. Going at it like porn stars, I think were his exact words.”
“Things aren’t always what they appear,” said Sofia.
“Ah, yes. I see your point. It must have been one of those newfangled CPR classes. Groin-to-groin resuscitation.”
“I understand your skepticism. But you haven’t heard Lindsey’s side of the story yet.”
“And you have?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Sofia ’s expression was stone-cold serious, as serious as Jack had ever seen her. “You need to call the Cuban, Jack. He should be witness number one for the defense.”
38
Security at the courthouse was extra tight on Monday morning. A ring of police cars surrounded the building. Plainclothes officers (some wired with headsets, some less conspicuous) wandered amid the onlookers. Miami Avenue was completely closed off, and hundreds of demonstrators had pushed their way up to the barricades, getting as close to the courthouse as the police would allow. They shouted in English and Spanish, not a single word of support in any language for the first witness for the defense.
The atmosphere inside was less charged but equally tense. Visitors, both media and nonmedia, were patted down and individually searched with electronic wands. Metal detectors at the entrance were set high enough to detect gold fillings. Bomb-sniffing dogs led their masters through the long corridors. Armed federal marshals were spaced at fifty-foot intervals.
It was every bit the spectacle that Jack had expected, yet it was in a strange way the first confirmation that this might actually happen. Jack had worried about it all weekend, ever since he’d placed the phone call to Colonel Jiménez on Saturday afternoon.
“We’re on for Monday morning,” Jack had told him.
“I’m very pleased to hear it,” the colonel replied.
Because Jack had notified the U.S. government before trial that the defense might call a Cuban soldier as witness, a detailed procedure had been worked out through the State Department to bring him to Miami quickly and smoothly. While a typical Cuban migrant would be forced to pay the Cuban government approximately five years’ salary in cash upon departure for the United States, all it took was Castro’s blessing to get this particular Cuban soldier into Miami overnight. Still, Jack had his doubts. Would the soldier actually come? Would he defect when he reached U.S. soil, recant his testimony, and disappear into freedom? Those doubts followed him all the way into the courtroom.
One way or the other, he knew he didn’t have long to wait.
Jack rose and said, “Your Honor, the defense calls Private Felipe Castillo.”
A shrill cry pierced the courtroom, and a barrage of angry shouts erupted from the galley.
“Order!” the judge said with a bang of his gavel.
The shouting continued, all of it in rapid-fire Spanish. Each speaker had his own message, which made the collective impact indecipherable to Jack’s ears. But he knew they weren’t shouting, Go, team, go!
Federal marshals covered the disturbance immediately. A man and a woman went peaceably to the exit. Three other men had to be handcuffed, their shouts of protest still audible as they disappeared into the hallway. Some of the jurors watched the arrests, horrified. The others kept their eyes on Jack and his client, as if to say, How dare you.
The courtroom had more than its usual rumbling and shuffling of feet, which the judge quickly gaveled down. “That will be the end of that,” the judge said sharply. “Any further outbursts, and I will close this courtroom to all but the media.”
A stillness came over the courtroom, but the tension remained.
“Bailiff,” the judge said, “bring in the witness.”
The bailiff walked to a side door, opened it, and escorted a young Hispanic man into the courtroom. He was dressed in civilian clothes, a suit and tie, as if that would tone down the controversy. Lindsey squeezed Jack’s hand. Spectators moved to the edge of their seats. Jurors sat up rigidly in their chairs. It was as if everyone suddenly realized that they were watching history in the making, or at least something pretty cool to talk about at cocktail parties.
Private Castillo stepped up to the witness stand to take the oath. The bailiff recited the familiar words in English, and then a translator spoke to the witness in Spanish.
“Sí, lo juro. Yes, I swear,” he replied, and then he took a seat. His eyes darted from the judge, to the jury, to the audience. His gaze finally came to rest on Jack, the only familiar face, the least hostile expression in the courtroom.
Jack approached slowly. He wanted the witness to feel comfortable enough to say all that needed to be said to help his client, but coddling him would brand both Jack and his client as Castro-loving communists in the eyes of the jury. He knew he was walking a fine line.
“Good morning, Private Castillo.”
“Buenós,” he said, which was translated to “Good morning.” The translator seemed almost superfluous, since all but one of the jurors was bilingual, and one or two of them probably would have benefited more from an English-to-Spanish translator. It was yet another factor for a defense lawyer to throw into the mix: the jury for the most part would hear each question and answer not once, but twice. Any misstep was a fuckup times two.
Jack moved through Castillo’s background quickly, or as quickly as possible with a translator. There was no way around the fact that he was an enemy soldier, but Jack did his best to downplay the man’s love for the regime, continuing in the question-translation/answer-translation format
Jack said, “Military service is required in Cuba, is it not?”
“Yes, in some form.”
“When were you required to start your military service?”
“As soon as I finished my secondary education.”
“If you had refused to serve, what would have happened to you?”
“Jail.”
Jack purposely skimmed over his duties and responsibilities as a tower guard on the Cuban side of Guantánamo. This was one witness the jury would never warm up to, no matter how long Jack kept him on the stand and tried to personalize him. The best strategy was simply to hit the highlights and then send him home.
“Private Castillo, were you on duty on the seventeenth of June, which was the day of Captain Pintado’s death?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Did you notice anything unusual at the residence of Captain Pintado?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Was this something you observed with the naked eye, or with aided vision?”
“Aided, of course. We have fairly sophisticated viewing equipment. Quite powerful.”
“Would you describe what you saw, please?”
Through a series of questions and answers, the witness repeated the story exactly as he had told it to Jack in Colonel Jiménez’s office. He was part of a surveillance team that watched a portion of the naval base that included officer housing for U.S. Marines. On the morning of Captain Pintado’s death, around five-thirty A.M., he saw Lindsey Hart leave for work, as usual. About twenty minutes later, sometime before six A.M., he saw a
man enter the Pintado residence. He didn’t knock. He just went straight inside.
“Was that man wearing a uniform?” asked Jack.
“Yes, he was.”
“What branch of service?”
“ U.S. Coast Guard.”
“Enlisted man or officer’s uniform?”
“Officer, but not very high ranking.”
“Can you describe any of his physical characteristics?”
“Fairly tall, definitely taller than Captain Pintado. Kind of muscular, big shoulders. And he was black.”
“Would you recognize that man if you saw him again?” asked Jack.
“Yes, absolutely.”
Jack returned to his table, and Sofia handed him a photograph. Jack had the clerk mark it as a defense exhibit, handed copies to the prosecutor and to the judge, and then approached the witness. “Private Castillo, I have here a group photograph of U.S. Coast Guard officers stationed at Guantánamo and several other locations within the Coast Guard’s Seventh District. It was taken near the end of last year. I ask you to take a good look at the photograph and tell me this, please: Does the man you saw entering the residence of Captain Pintado on the seventeenth of June also appear in this photograph?”
Torres was on his feet. “I want to object, Judge. We’ve already heard testimony that the man is black. Handing the witness a photograph of mostly white officers and then asking him to pick out the black guy is a joke.”
Jack said, “Your Honor, there are fifty-two black men in this photograph. If the witness can pick out the man he saw from among the fifty-two pictured, that’s more reliable than most police lineups.”
“Overruled. The jury shall decide for itself what weight to attach to any identification, or misidentification, as the case may be.”
The witness seemed somewhat confused with all the translations, but then he focused. Jack said, “Sir, please examine the photograph and tell me if you see the man who entered the Pintado residence on the morning of June seventeenth.”
His gaze roamed back and forth, taking in row after row. Then it moved up and down, as if he were examining the many faces from another angle. The whole process was taking much longer than Jack had expected.
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