The cops first spoke with Battle’s doctor, who told them that the patient’s kidney function hadn’t really improved much, but his weight, blood pressure, and blood work all showed significant improvement since he had been at the hospital. Apparently, removing Battle from his regimen of food, drink, and perhaps cocaine on the outside was beneficial to his overall health.
The cops entered Battle’s room and shut off the television. El Padrino recognized them both. His English was fine, but he preferred to speak Spanish, so Rosario took the lead in explaining why they were there. As usual, Battle was polite. Often when he was around cops, he tried to give off the attitude that he was one of them.
They handed Battle a piece of paper with a phrase printed on it. They asked him to write out the phrase in his own penmanship. El Padrino was cooperative, but around the fourth page he stopped and looked sternly at Shanks and Rosario. “You two aren’t going to stop until I die in jail. That’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to die in jail.”
“Look,” said Rosario, “we’re just doing our job. It’s what we’re paid to do. I’m sure you understand that.”
Battle grunted in response and continued writing.
All the while, Shanks was thinking of Jannin Toribio, the little girl who had been burned to death in the arson fire in New York. He was thinking of Idalia Fernandez, a government witness who was executed in her apartment, left there for her children to come home from school and find. He was thinking of Effugenia Reyes, the ex-girlfriend, who had been brutally murdered in Guatemala, possibly on orders from Battle.
Looking at the Godfather, Shanks was thinking, Do I want you to die in jail? You bet your ass I do. You deserve to die in there, broke and powerless.
On their way out, Shanks and Rosario stopped at the desk to examine the visitors’ log and also a log that documented the patient’s movements. They saw that Battle had been visited on numerous occasions by Jack Blumenfeld, his attorney, and also occasionally by Evelyn Runciman.
It was Shanks who noticed a discrepancy. The transport times showed that it was taking Battle a good forty-five minutes longer to be transferred from Ward D to the dialysis clinic than it was for him to be returned. “Something’s not right here,” said Shanks. He thought about it and said, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll bet he’s getting some kind of special favor, paying somebody off.”
When Shanks returned to the office of the U.S. attorney, he made a point of bringing it up. An assistant U.S. attorney put in a call to the Dade County Corrections Internal Affairs (IA) Unit and lodged a formal complaint. IA assigned an investigator who began tracking Battle’s movements within the facilities. The investigator soon had his answer.
The investigator discovered that, once a week, Battle was being wheeled into a vacant room while one of the corrections officers stood guard outside the door. The IA investigator arrived as this was happening and removed the guard. He pulled open the door: there was Evelyn Runciman, on her knees, giving Battle a blowjob.
Battle had been paying off the guards to arrange his private rendezvous with Evelyn. At the age of sixty-eight, El Padrino was still being serviced. And he was still gaming the system.
The corrections officer was fired, and the patient was no longer afforded the privilege of receiving his dialysis treatment at Jackson Memorial’s Ward D. Battle was transferred back to federal custody.
20
PERSEVERANCE
IT WAS A SULTRY SATURDAY MORNING IN HAVANA ON JULY 12, 1997, WHEN A LOUD BOOOOOM! rocked the lobby of the Hotel Capri, shattering glass and kicking up a cloud of dust that spread out into the street. Police cars arrived at the scene. Apparently someone had planted a bomb in the lobby of the hotel. A number of people were shaken, some with cuts and bruises from having fallen to the ground, but, miraculously, no one was seriously injured.
The Capri was one of the city’s famous hotels from the era of the 1950s. Back then it was owned by Trafficante, and the Casino de Capri, located just off the lobby, was where actor George Raft presided as a meeter and greeter. In its glory days, the Capri had been a meeting place for cops, criminals, and government officials. It is likely that José Miguel Battle, the young vice cop, would have met Trafficante there to pick up a briefcase filled with cash destined for the presidential palace.
While the police were still surveying the damage at the Capri, two blocks away at the Hotel Nacional, there was an even louder blast— another bomb, timed to go off within minutes of the one at the Capri. This one had been planted in the lobby of the hotel near a bank of pay phones. Again, the damage to the lobby of the hotel was substantial, but no one was seriously hurt.
The Nacional was, if anything, even more famous than the Capri. The hotel had been the site of a legendary Mob conference in November 1946, when Meyer Lansky, Santo Trafficante, and twenty other high-ranking U.S. mobsters met to discuss their plans for setting up Havana as a base of operations. More recently, the Hotel Nacional had been transformed into a showcase for the Castro government. Whenever a political conference or film festival or cultural gathering took place in Havana, dignitaries inevitably stayed there, on a bluff overlooking the famous Malecón seafront promenade.
No one claimed responsibility for the bombings at the two prestigious hotels, but the Cuban government had no doubt who was behind them. Said the Castro government’s minister of tourism, “Obviously, this was done by our enemies.”
Seven weeks later, more bombs rocked Havana. The Copacabana, Chateau, and Triton hotels in the Playa district were all hit within a period of sixty minutes. The first and worst of the three blasts took place at the Copacabana at 11:30 A.M. The bomb had been planted in the lobby, and the explosion led to the death of Fabio Di Celmo, a native of Genoa, Italy, who was a resident of Montreal. Additional tourists were injured in the blasts.
This time, the Cuban government was unequivocal in its contention that the bombings were the act of “anti-Cuban terrorist groups” in the United States. Said the interior minister of Cuba, “These terrorist acts are encouraged, organized and supplied—both in terms of material and personnel—from within the United States territory.”
It had been thirty-six years since the Bay of Pigs invasion, when anti-Castro forces in the United States secretly launched its campaign to overthrow the Cuban government and take back the island. Since then, the effort had become a clandestine subtheme of the Cold War. Many lives had been lost in countries throughout the world. Average citizens in the United States had grown weary of this struggle. In public opinion polls, it was clear that the majority of Americans wanted to end the U.S. embargo against Cuba and restore diplomatic relations. Many could not understand why the embargo persisted and the strained relations continued. In 1997, the idea that American citizens, of Cuban extraction or otherwise, were still engaged in violent anti-Castro activities seemed like a strange relic from another time.
But for those whose lives were devoted to the overthrow of Castro, the struggle never ended.
The person who had masterminded the most recent spate of bombings in Havana was no stranger to the Cuban government: Luis Posada Carriles, who was described by Castro himself as a “monstrous criminal.”
For decades, Posada had perpetrated his counterrevolutionary war against Fidel mostly in the shadows, but after the hotel bombings he was ready to step into the light. Frustrated that the bombings had not received more attention in the international press, Posada agreed to be interviewed by a reporter from the New York Times. From an undisclosed location in the Caribbean, he sat down with journalist Ann Louise Bardach. Now seventy years old, he was no longer the spry young Army lieutenant who played poker late into the night with José Miguel Battle and others at Fort Benning back in the early 1960s.
Posada proudly confessed to having organized the bombings in Havana, which he described as acts of war intended to cripple a totalitarian regime by depriving it of foreign tourism and investment. “We didn’t want to hurt anybody,” he told the reporter. “
We just wanted to make a big scandal so the tourists don’t come anymore. We don’t want any more foreign investment.”
Not only did Posada admit his role in the bombings, but also he claimed that financing for the operation came in part from the Cuban American National Foundation. This claim was denied by a spokesperson for CANF.
Since its inception in 1981, CANF had emerged as the most powerful Cuban exile lobby group in the United States. Not only had the foundation become closely aligned with numerous U.S. presidents, but the group’s founder, Jorge Mas Canosa, had become a powerful figure in his own right.
Mas passed away in November 1997, at the age of fifty-eight. His death perhaps led his longtime compatriot Luis Posada to believe that the time had come to be more open about the involvement of CANF in the anti-Castro struggle. Posada spelled it out: “Jorge controlled everything. Whenever I needed money, he said to give me five thousand dollars, give me ten thousand, give me fifteen. And they sent it.” Posada estimated that over the years Mas had sent him more than $200,000. Mas knew that when he sent money to Posada it was for violent activities—bombings and assassinations—though, Posada said with a chuckle, the money usually arrived with the message, “This is for the church.”
To exiled militants, the effort to destabilize Cuba was a holy war.
For José Miguel Battle, the holy war had shifted. In spite of the efforts to overthrow Castro, the secret plots to assassinate him, the efforts to intimidate and punish people and nations that did business with Cuba, the Bearded One was alive and well. Battle, on the other hand, was hampered by deteriorating kidneys and a persistent officer of the law who was determined to make him pay for what he had done.
In April 1997, Battle pleaded guilty on the charge of passport fraud. By doing so, he could likely avoid jail time on this charge. But the following month, he was indicted on the more serious charge of possession of a firearm by a convicted felon. This charge carried with it a potential sentence of three years, but for Battle, at his age and with his health beginning to wane, a few years could quite possibly be a death sentence. He would fight the charge at trial.
His lawyer, Jack Blumenfeld, was ready to get into the ring. Unlike twenty years earlier, when the lawyer first met Battle at the time of the Ernestico Torres murder trial, this time Blumenfeld would not have Raymond Brown at his side. The legendary New Jersey trial lawyer was now eighty years old. Incredibly, Brown was still practicing law, but he hadn’t tried a case in court in years, and it would have been a burden to have him travel to Florida for what was a comparatively minor case. Blumenfeld, on the other hand, had been Battle’s Miami lawyer for years.
To Blumenfeld, the various charges against Battle smacked of a vendetta. The idea of the Metro-Dade bolita squad bringing a passport fraud case was unusual, to say the least. Then the government had added another charge alleging that Battle had lied on his nationalization forms when reentering the United States. One of the questions was “Have you ever advocated polygamy?” Battle’s answer was no. The government was claiming that because Battle was still married to his first wife while married to Evelyn, he was guilty of polygamy.
Blumenfeld contacted the U.S. attorney and said, “I’m sorry, but you people need to look up ‘polygamy’ in the dictionary. Polygamy is more than two. My client may be a bigamist, but that has nothing to do with polygamy.”
The prosecutors threw out the charge.
Blumenfeld felt that on the gun charge they had a solid defense. He was told by his client that the shotgun belonged to Cache Jimenez, his bodyguard and driver. Jimenez had gone hunting earlier that day and left the gun leaning against the wall in a closet in Battle’s bedroom. Jimenez would take the stand and testify that the gun was his.
A trial date was set for late September. In the meantime, Battle was held in custody without bail.
ONE THING BLUMENFELD NOTICED WAS THAT, IN THE MONTHS LEADING UP TO THE trial, when he met with Battle to discuss legal matters, José Miguel Jr. was often in attendance. This was something new. Blumenfeld knew that the father and son had a fractured relationship. He had been told the stories about how Senior’s philandering had alienated him from Junior, who felt that his mother had been disrespected. Blumenfeld was used to Battle’s having difficult relationships with family members. He was once in the same room with José Miguel and his brother Gustavo when the two men argued over everything from the weather to the price of a newspaper.
With Battle Sr. incarcerated and in need of regular medical attention, power of attorney had been signed over to Miguelito, who was now in charge of El Zapotal, Inc., and other family assets. Evelyn Runciman was still living at the house, with a staff and grounds crew. But the time had come to consider selling off the house. Battle needed money to pay his mounting legal fees.
The idea was to divide up the property into various parcels and sell them off for maximum profit. Battle Jr. posted a sign on the property that read For sale by the owner, with a phone number.
Miguel Cruz, age fifty, was in the market for a house in the South Miami area. In the fall of 1997 he and his son, Ian, were driving around the area when he saw the sign at El Zapotal. He liked the location, the house alongside the grove of mamey trees so redolent of his native Cuba. From what he could see of the house behind the gate, it was a lovely place. He wrote down the number and called the next day.
It was a Sunday afternoon when Cruz and his son met Battle Jr., who arrived with José Aluart, otherwise known as Five Minutes to Six because of his crooked neck. Junior showed them around the property. Cruz and his son immediately fell in love with the place.
Battle Jr. liked that Cruz was a Cuban émigré and that he was with his son. Cruz got the impression that for the Battles, selling the house was more than just an economic proposition. The property had sentimental value, and they wanted to make sure it wound up in the right hands.
When Junior heard Cruz’s personal story, he liked what he heard. Not only was Cruz a fellow Cuban, but his life involved the kind of historical drama that was so common for those of the Bay of Pigs generation.
Cruz had been born in Camagüey, in the town of Sancti Spíritus, in 1945. He was only fourteen years old when the revolution occurred. Initially, his family remained in Cuba, but it soon became apparent that the Castro government was to be a totalitarian regime. In 1961, Miguel Cruz was on the last official Delta Airlines flight out of Cuba before the U.S. government severed diplomatic relations with the island and imposed an economic embargo.
After a brief time in Miami, Cruz moved with his family to New Orleans. In August of 1963, he was seventeen years old, with a summer job working in a convenience store managed by Carlos Bringuier. Bringuier was a Cuban exile active in the local anti-Castro movement. He was a delegate for Directorio Revolucionario Estudiantil, and he lived with Celso Hernandez, another anti-Castro activist.
On the afternoon of August 5, a young man who identified himself as Lee Harvey Oswald came into the store and offered his services in the struggle against Castro. He told Bringuier that he had been a U.S. Marine and was trained in guerrilla warfare, and that he was willing not only to train Cubans to fight Castro but also to join the fight himself. The next day Oswald returned to the store and left for Bringuier a paperback entitled Guidebook for Marines, a book published by the U.S. military.
Bringuier didn’t know quite what to make of Oswald. He told young Miguel Cruz, who worked for him at the store, that he thought Oswald might be some sort of spy or double agent.
Two days later, on August 8, Bringuier’s roommate, Celso Hernandez, came into the store. He said he had just come across Oswald nearby on Canal Street. Oswald was handing out pro-Castro flyers on behalf of a group called Fair Play for Cuba. It was as Bringuier had suspected. Oswald had been presenting himself as anti-Castro when in fact he was an operative for the other side.
Said Hernandez, “Let’s go over there and stop him right now.”
Miguel Cruz tagged along with the two older men. Certai
nly, he shared their anti-Castro sentiments, but he was hardly an active member of the movement. At the time, he was looking forward to his senior year at Francis T. Nicholls High School, with the new school year beginning in one month.
The three Cubans arrived on Canal Street and immediately came upon Oswald, who was wearing a placard around his neck proclaiming Fair Play for Cuba and was handing out flyers.
They angrily confronted Oswald, calling him a communist and attempting to grab the flyers out of his hands. A tussle ensued, with a small crowd gathering around. Neither the Cubans nor Oswald were backing down.
After a couple of minutes, a police squad car pulled up. Two cops separated the combatants. Everyone was placed under arrest for disturbing the peace. They were all cuffed and put into a paddy wagon together.
Miguel Cruz looked directly at Oswald, who, at age twenty-three, was not much older than him. The young man had piercing blue eyes that seemed vacant and devoid of humanity.
Later that day, the charges against Cruz and the other two Cubans were dismissed. Oswald spent the night in jail and was interviewed the next day by a lieutenant in the New Orleans Police Department. At Oswald’s request, he was also interviewed by a local FBI agent. The arrestee claimed to be a member of the New Orleans branch of the Fair Play for Cuba Committee, which he said had thirty-five members. He was in fact the only member of the “New Orleans branch,” which had never been chartered by the national Fair Play for Cuba Committee.
Later that day, Oswald was released on bail. Two days later he pleaded guilty to the charges against him and paid a ten-dollar fine.
Three months later, on November 22, Miguel Cruz was sitting in his physics class at Nicholls High School when the principal entered and turned on the television. There was a dramatic news report under way describing the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. A picture came on the television of the man who was suspected of having done the shooting. It was Lee Harvey Oswald.
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