“The year before that, the Coast Guard interdicted nine hundred Cubans. How many did Brothers for Freedom rescue?”
“That year? I think none.”
“In fact, if we exclude the current year and go back five years, Brothers for Freedom rescued a grand total of just eleven rafters. Isn’t that true, sir?”
“Well, you have to remember, we spotted far more than that. Unfortunately, the Coast Guard got to them and returned them to Castro before we could help them. That’s my whole objection to the wet-feet/dry-feet interdiction policy.”
“By wet feet/dry feet, you mean that if the Coast Guard interdicts Cuban rafters at sea, they are returned to Cuba. But if-”
“If they make it to dry land, they make it to freedom. That’s all my organization is trying to do. Get people safely to freedom.”
“And that’s why you referred to the U.S. Coast Guard as ‘Castro’s border patrol.’ ”
“I think their actions speak for themselves.”
“Okay. Now let’s get back to my original question. In five years, Brothers for Freedom rescued eleven Cuban rafters, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“This year, things have been different, have they not? Particularly in the first six months?”
“We’ve had more success, yes.”
“Much more success,” said Jack. “Through June of this year, a period of just six months, Brothers for Freedom rescued thirty-seven rafters.”
“Thirty-eight, actually. One of the women we rescued was eight months pregnant.”
“You must be proud of that.”
“I’m proud of all my people. We just keep getting better at what we do.”
“And more efficient, too,” said Jack. “Brothers for Freedom filed fewer FAA flight plans this year than in any previous year, has it not?”
“That’s true.”
“You purchased less fuel this year than in any previous year, correct?”
“That’s right,” said Pintado.
“And interestingly enough, according to INS estimates, the total number of rafters leaving Cuba is down by almost twenty percent this year when compared to previous years.”
“I don’t know the exact figures, but I can’t argue with those numbers.”
“So, even though you were flying less, and even though there were fewer rafters to be found, your rescues increased dramatically in the first six months of this year. All because you suddenly became better at what you were doing?”
“I think so, yes,” said Pintado.
“Or was it because you simply had better information?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Better information about what?”
“Better information about where the rafters were going to be…and where the Coast Guard wasn’t going to be?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” said the prosecutor. “There has been absolutely no evidence adduced at this trial to suggest that Mr. Pintado has a source at the U.S. Coast Guard.”
“Objection sustained.”
“Let me lay the proper foundation,” said Jack. He took a step closer and said, “Mr. Pintado, you testified earlier that your son’s best friend at the naval base was who?”
“Lieutenant Damont Johnson.”
“And which branch of service is Lieutenant Johnson in?”
He glared at Jack, then said quietly, “Coast Guard.”
Jack paused, not quite sure how far to press his point. Any jury had a low tolerance for bashing the victim’s family, but the chances of getting this witness back for a third round of questioning was virtually nil. Jack had to take his shot.
“One last question, sir. Since your son died in June-in other words, since Captain Pintado’s friendship with Lieutenant Johnson ended-how many undocumented Cuban migrants has Brothers for Freedom rescued at sea?”
Pintado seemed ready to strangle Jack. “None,” he said quietly.
It was the answer the defense needed, yet Jack hardly felt vindicated. He genuinely felt sorry for him, even sympathized with his views, but someone may well have decided that Mr. Pintado’s cause was a cause worth killing for, either in support or opposition. It was up to Jack to make the jury see that, even if he wasn’t ready to plunge into Theo’s drug theory.
But the groundwork had been laid.
“Thank you, sir,” said Jack. “No further questions.”
41
Trial ended midafternoon on Monday so that the judge could deal with an unspecified emergency, perhaps a crucial pretrial hearing in another case, perhaps a teenage daughter who’d locked her keys in the car. Jack stopped by the prosecutor’s office before heading for the parking lot. Torres gave him ten minutes alone, just the two of them.
“What is she looking for?” asked Torres. He was seated behind his desk, not a single scrap of paper on it. He’d obviously swept it clean before allowing the enemy into his office. Jack had always taken the same precaution as a prosecutor. There wasn’t a criminal defense lawyer in the business who couldn’t speed-read upside-down and backward.
“Excuse me?” said Jack from his seat in the armchair.
“Your client. I assume that’s why you’re here. What’s she looking for, manslaughter?”
“I’m not here to deal.”
“Good. Because the best I can do is murder one with life imprisonment. I’ll give up the death penalty.”
“Life’s a long time for an innocent woman.”
Torres let out a deep chuckle.
Jack kept a straight face. “You got the wrong defendant.”
“You got the wrong client.”
“Where’s Lieutenant Damont Johnson?”
Torres worked a pencil through his fingers like a miniature baton. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Funny how his name keeps coming up at trial. Never in a good light. I’d love to give him the opportunity to explain himself.”
“Not a chance.”
“Why are you hiding him?”
“Why are you after him?”
“Because I think he can tell the jury who really killed Oscar Pintado.”
Torres folded his hands atop his desk and looked straight at Jack. “I think the jury already knows who killed Oscar Pintado. Her name is Lindsey Hart.”
“I hear Johnson is in Miami.”
“What of it?”
“Are you holding him for rebuttal, or are you just trying to keep me from getting to him?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It’s totally my business,” said Jack. “So far, you’ve kept Johnson away from me, and you’ve even managed to keep me from talking to my own-” He stopped himself short of saying “my own son.” “Talking to my client’s own son,” he said, correcting himself. “Those are probably the two key witnesses in the case.”
“You’re free to put the boy on the stand. The judge’s order only prevents you from interviewing him, not calling him as a witness.”
“I don’t think either one of us wants to put the victim’s child on the stand.”
“We gotta do what we gotta do.”
“That’s what I’m telling you: I don’t think I have to go anywhere near the boy, if you’ll give me Johnson.”
He smiled again. “Very creative, Swyteck. For the good of the child, you want me to give you Lieutenant Damont Johnson.”
“There’s no good reason for you to keep Johnson out of this.”
“That may be true. But you’re not giving me a good enough reason to put him in.”
“Brian Pintado isn’t a good enough reason?”
“Not even close.”
Jack scoffed lightly, looked away. “Nice to know you care, Hector.”
“Yeah, yeah. Shame on me for playing to win. If you’ll excuse me now, I have a cross-examination to prepare for. I have a sneaking suspicion that a guilty defendant may soon be taking the stand in her own defense.”
Jack rose and started toward the door, forcing himself to keep putting o
ne foot in front of the other. He’d come here determined not to let this get personal, but it was the first time he’d been alone with the prosecutor since…he didn’t know how long. Definitely since the eye-opening talk about his mother that he’d had with Kiko at Mario’s Market.
“You ever been to Bejucal?” Jack’s hand was on the knob, but the door was still closed.
The prosecutor’s mouth was open, but no words followed. For a moment, it looked as if Jack had punched him in the chest.
“What?” he said finally.
“ Bejucal, Cuba. Have you ever been there?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Ana Maria Fuentes’s son.”
Their eyes locked. Jack had resolved to put Bejucal aside until after the case was over, but something inside him wouldn’t allow it. Maybe it was the fact that they were alone together, and that the meeting had gone badly. Maybe it was the fact that he seemed to have less respect for Torres with each passing day, and the thought of any intimacy between him and his mother was beyond any son’s comprehension. Or maybe he was just curious.
“Sorry, Jack. Never been.”
Neither man looked away. “Just thought I’d check.”
“Glad you did.”
“Me, too.” Jack opened the door and started out.
“Hey, Jack.”
He stopped and turned.
“Say hey to your old man for me.”
Even if Torres wasn’t rubbing the Swyteck noses in some sordid romantic history, the smugness in the prosecutor’s tone made Jack want to bash in that phony smile and kick his teeth in. The Justice Department logo on the wall, however, was a quick reminder that it wasn’t worth it. He said nothing as the left the U.S. attorney’s office and closed the door behind him.
42
The farther Jack’s rental car carried him away from downtown, the more convinced he was that Hector Torres was hiding something about his mother. But he had to put it out of his mind. For now.
The rented sedan provided ample distraction. Each time he pushed the clutch that wasn’t there, reached in vain for the stick shift, anticipated the growl of the engine that was gone for good-it all made him wish that he could have been there for Theo’s “thorough interrogation” of the slug who’d set his Mustang afire. As Jack left the business district and reached the residential high rises on glitzy Brickell Avenue, he switched on the radio. It was preset to a Spanish-language talk station, courtesy of the previous renter. Jack’s latest courtroom “attack” on Alejandro Pintado had set off a new round of Cuban talk-show fireworks, and the name Swyteck was at the center of it. He was glad that he and Abuela didn’t share a surname.
“The Pintados are the victims here,” said one caller in Spanish. “Not that jinetera who married him.”
Jinetera. Jack couldn’t translate it. Then he remembered his trip to Cuba, the teenage girl who’d called his room at the Hotel Nacional and told him she could be anyone and do anything he wanted, all he had to do was ask-and pay. Jinetera.
Prostitute.
Talk radio brought out the extremists in any language. But Jack was beginning to think that, when all was said and done, the mood wasn’t going to be much different in the jury room. He had to turn things around.
He checked the clock in the dashboard: four forty-four P.M. Tomorrow would be show time for Lindsey, and it was going to take a lot of work to get her ready. Still, Jack had some time to kill before meeting Sofia at the jail for their client’s all-important prep session. He reached for the missing stick shift, cursed his inability to downshift his rental, and pulled a U-turn just before the entrance to Key Biscayne.
In ten minutes he was outside the home of Alejandro Pintado.
He parked the car on the grass beside the sidewalk, but he didn’t get out. At the cul-de-sac at the end of the street, a boy was riding his bicycle. Around and around in circles he went, laughing each time he jerked back on the handlebars. He was trying to pull wheelies. Jack smiled. He had been the king of wheelies when he was ten years old.
The boy was Brian.
He was playing the way Jack used to play, like any other ten-year-old kid, even if the diamond-shaped road sign on the opposite side of the street did announce to the world, DEAF CHILD PLAYING. Jack could certainly see the good in warning passing motorists, but he couldn’t deny his own sense of sadness as he wondered how it must have made Brian feel, each time he rode his bike, walked his dog, played in the yard, or simply looked out his bedroom window, to see that big, black-and-yellow reminder of the cruel hand his own birth had dealt him. The blame game was always pointless, especially so in the case of birth defects, but Jack suddenly found himself hoping and praying that if he’d given Brian this weakness, that he’d given him his every strength, too.
A security guard tapped on the glass, ending the reflective moment. Jack rolled down the driver’s-side window.
“You can’t park here,” the guard said in Spanish.
“I’m here to see Alejandro Pintado.”
“He didn’t tell me about any meetings.”
“Tell him that the lawyer for his daughter-in-law would like to speak to him. Off the record.” He glanced down the street again, spotted the boy. “Tell him I want to do everything I can to keep his grandson off the witness stand.”
The guard considered it. “Wait here,” he said, then walked up the sidewalk. Jack waited for him to disappear inside the house, then dialed up Theo on his cell phone.
“Hey, it’s me, Jack. You got any more information on our drug connection?” Jack immediately cringed. He couldn’t believe he’d just said that on a nonsecure cell phone, but Theo was one step ahead of him.
“Uh, yeah, pal. I’ll have that aspirin to you by tomorrow morning.”
“Sorry, man.”
“It’s okay. Dumbshit.”
“Seriously, you got any more leads on what we talked about yesterday?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“I’m about to have a little chat with Alejandro Pintado.”
“Wish I could help you.”
“It’s okay. I think we got enough.”
“Enough to what?”
The front door to the house opened, and Alejandro stepped onto the porch. “Bluff,” said Jack into the phone, and then he disconnected.
Jack watched as Pintado crossed the lawn, headed up the driveway, and then climbed into the back of his Mercedes. The security guard came for Jack and led him to Pintado’s car.
“What? Does Mr. Pintado think I bugged my car?”
“No,” the guard said dryly. “But he knows you didn’t bug his.”
The guard opened the car door. Jack got inside and sank into the black leather seat. The door closed and the locks clicked shut automatically. Pintado shot him a cool expression from the other side of the car. He still had a distinguished air about him, even if he did seem to have aged just a bit since the commencement of trial.
Pintado said, “Pardon me for not inviting you inside the house, but after the way you treated me in court, my wife probably would have sicced the Dobermans on you.”
“I was afraid you might feel the same way.”
“Oh, I do. I came out only because you said it was about my grandson. Protecting him from this circus is very important to me.”
“To Lindsey as well.”
Pintado shot a look, as if he didn’t quite believe it.
Jack said, “I don’t like getting children involved if I don’t have to.”
“I respect that,” said Pintado.
“How is Brian doing?”
He gave Jack a long look, as if wondering whether he really cared. “Brian’s happy here. Happy as any kid can be who just lost his father. His grandmother and I are doing the best we can. As soon as this trial’s over, we’re sending him up to a camp in Dunedin for a week or so. It’ll be good for him to be around other hearing-impaired kids who live with parents who can hear. For now, we just try to explain things as they happen.”
&nbs
p; “That has to be tough.”
Pintado glanced out the window toward the guard in the driveway. “I’ve had to triple my security since this trial started. It’s one thing for people to dog me all over town, but when they start after my grandson, I feel like cracking some heads.”
“Brian’s being hassled?”
“Last week. Don’t know if it was an overzealous reporter or some pervert who followed Brian to school the other day. Snatched his backpack while he was out on the soccer field. Scared the hell out of us.”
“People get crazy with any big trial. It’s good that you’re taking precautions, but it was probably just a souvenir hunter looking for stuff to sell on eBay.”
“What kind of sicko would want a child’s backpack?”
“The same idiot who hangs out at South Miami restaurants hoping to get his picture taken with O. J. Simpson and his latest girlfriend.”
Pintado shook his head, then showed mild irritation in his tone. “I don’t dislike you personally, but I don’t appreciate the way you came after me on the witness stand.”
“For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think Lindsey was innocent.”
“That’s mostly a Cuban American jury. Attacking me and my family like that, I’d say you pretty much sealed Lindsey’s fate.”
“You’re forgetting that I don’t have to convince the whole jury. I have to give only one of them reasonable doubt.”
“Trust me. That entire jury is ready to ride you and your client out of town on a rail.”
“And I’ll happily go, if that’s what it takes to keep an innocent woman out of jail.”
“What makes you so damn sure she’s innocent?”
“What makes you so sure she’s not?”
“You’ve heard the evidence. The family money she wanted. The extracurricular activities with Lieutenant Johnson. Hell, her fingerprint was on the murder weapon.”
Jack paused, timing his approach. “Mr. Pintado, let me ask you this question. Do you want to find out who killed your son?”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not. I’m just curious: Doesn’t it bother you that we haven’t heard a word from Lieutenant Johnson?”
He looked away, saying nothing.
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