James Grippando - Hear No Evil

At nine o’clock the following morning Jack and Sofia were on the third floor of one of the many architecturally unremarkable buildings on the Plaza de la Revolución. The plaza was the hub of Cuban government. Through the window, Jack could see the head-quarters for the powerful Ministry of the Interior, from which a monumental image of Ché was positioned perfectly to watch the endless political rallies that took place periodically on the vast square. Ché looked a little bored, thought Jack, which was fitting, since some of Castro’s speeches had been known to stretch as long as fourteen hours. The plaza was quiet this morning, and Jack and Sofia sat alone in an office, waiting.

Colonel Raúl Jiménez entered the room with an officer’s confidence, greeted them cordially, and took a seat behind his desk. “Have you made a decision?”

“Yes,” said Jack. “I’m willing to listen to what your soldier has to say. But I’m not making any promises in return.”

“That’s a shame. It isn’t often that I’m able to make such a generous offer.”

“I appreciate that. But we are forced to deal with certain realities. Let’s be honest. From the standpoint of pure trial strategy, eliciting testimony from one of Castro’s soldiers could easily turn a jury against my client. Simple mathematics dictates that at least half the jury could be Cuban Americans.”

“Yes, and the other half will not be Cuban American. I’m no lawyer, but isn’t it a fact that you are required to convince only one juror that your client is innocent? That’s all it takes for your client to be found not guilty, no?”

“True. But even without speaking to my client, I know she’s not going to be doing cartwheels at the thought of putting her own fate in the hands of a Cuban soldier.”

“How does she feel about death by lethal injection?”

“You ask good questions, Colonel.”

He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. The green uniform was darkened with sweat beneath his armpits. “I’m not asking for much in return, Mr. Swyteck. Just offer me something to make it worth our trouble to send one of our soldiers to testify in Miami.”

“Is it money you want?”

“Not at all.”

“Then spell it out. What are you after?”

The colonel leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “After Captain Pintado was shot, we heard your client talking on a radio show out of Guantánamo. She was quite outspoken. She said she believes that her husband was killed because of something he knew. Something that was going on at the base that the government did not want the world to know about.”

“That’s been her position all along.”

“Then, there it is,” said the colonel. “We want to know: What secret did Captain Pintado know?”

“I can’t promise to deliver something like that.”

“Why not?”

“For a lot of reasons. Most importantly, because I’m not going to barter with you for testimony. Putting a Cuban soldier on the witness stand presents a ton of credibility problems as it is. Throw in a side deal-whatever it might be-and those credibility issues become insurmountable.”

“No one is saying that we must disclose our agreement.”

“Easy for you to say, Colonel. It’s not your bar license on the line.”

“So, is that your position? No deal?”

“I’m willing to call your soldier as a witness. I’m not willing to compensate you in any way, shape, or form for his testimony.”

“Perhaps your client will feel differently once she understands the nature of his testimony.”

Jack hesitated, then asked, “What will he say?”

The colonel leaned into his desk. His dark eyes glistened beneath the fluorescent lighting. “In general terms, he will testify as follows. On the morning of Captain Pintado’s death, he saw your client leave for work. Ten to fifteen minutes later, he saw a man come to the house, go inside, then leave in a hurry.”

Jack was silent, but Sofia said, “That’s incredibly helpful.”

“That’s not all,” said the colonel. “He will tell you who that man is.”

“You mean to tell me that your soldier can identify this person by name?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

It was as if the air had suddenly been sucked from the room. Jack looked askance at Sofia, but she seemed stunned into silence. Finally, Jack said, “I’m worried about this.”

“What is there to be worried about?”

“Your motivations.”

“Meaning what?”

“It all comes back to the victim. He’s the son of Alejandro Pintado. It’s no secret that Mr. Pintado has been a burr under Castro’s saddle. He’s even been accused of invading Cuban airspace to drop anti-Castro leaflets over Havana. Seems to me that Castro wouldn’t mind giving Mr. Pintado a little indigestion at trial to go along with his grief over the death of his son.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“But that’s exactly the way it will play in Miami. Wouldn’t it be just oh so clever for Castro to inject one of his own soldiers into the trial of the accused killer of Alejandro Pintado’s son and get her off scot free?”

“Just because El Presidente holds no love for Mr. Pintado does not make the soldier’s testimony false.”

They were suddenly locked in a tense triangle of silence-Jack, Sofia, the colonel.

Sofia said, “Maybe we should speak to our client.”

The colonel offered the telephone, sliding it across his desktop.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” said Jack. “My position is firm: I’ll take the testimony, but I’m not cutting any deals with the Cuban government.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Swyteck.”

“It’s the only way to get this done.”

The colonel shrugged and said, “Then it won’t get done.”

“What?” said Sofia. She appeared to be on the verge of begging for reconsideration, but Jack rose, and she followed his lead.

“I guess we have nothing more to talk about,” said the colonel.

“I guess not,” said Jack.

The colonel gave him a flat, respectful grin, as if he’d met a worthy opponent. He offered his hand, and Sofia shook it. Jack didn’t.

“Have a safe trip home,” said the colonel.

Jack said good-bye and left the office, following the colonel’s aide to the exit.

Not since his ex-wife had dragged him to the Valentine’s Day “red dress ball” had Jack seen so many women dressed alike. Dozens of them, most between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-four, many college educated. The vast majority had gotten into trouble with drugs, which was yet another similarity to that high-class charity ball that Jack was strangely reminded of, except that no one here had a doctor’s prescription.

Lindsey Hart was seated at a small Formica table, wearing the orange prison garb of the Federal Detention Center of Miami, an administrative facility for men and women. A guard took Jack to the private cubicle reserved for attorney-client communications. The instant the door closed and the two of them were alone, Lindsey was on her feet, hugging Jack tightly.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.

Jack hadn’t expected that. He had his briefcase in one hand and patted her on the back with the other. She pulled away and brushed her hair out of her face, sniffling back tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make you feel awkward. This place is just so awful.”

“I understand.”

“I mean truly awful,” she said, her voice quaking. “If you’re not bored out of your mind, you’re terrified to death. Some women don’t like the way you look. Some don’t like the way you talk. Some smell like they haven’t bathed since childhood. The woman in the next cell is bucking for an insanity defense and keeps playing with her feces, which, believe it or not, doesn’t stink half as bad as last night’s dinner. Boiled cabbage. Who the hell can live on boiled cabbage? I just don’t know if I can take this. The noises, the tension, the other women watching me in the showers. I feel like the new piece of ass on the market, and all the lifers are deciding which one gets to trade up for the fresh goods. Some of the guards are even worse.”