James Grippando - Hear No Evil

In another tone of voice, it could have sounded harsh, but there wasn’t an ounce of malice in Lindsey’s delivery. It was just a statement of fact, perhaps a not-so-subtle reminder that Jack shouldn’t expect too much out of his first meeting with Brian.

“I’d still like to meet him some day. Under better circumstances, I mean.”

“That’s kind of up to you, isn’t it, Counselor?”

Jack was about to punch the door buzzer, then stopped. He turned and gave Lindsey a serious look. “Tell me one more thing.”

“What?”

“The forensic report. It says your fingerprints were found on the murder weapon.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Only if you don’t have a good explanation.”

She shrugged, as if it were nothing. “Of course my prints were on it. The gun was in our house. Do you think I was going to have a gun in my home and not know how to use it?”

“So you handled the gun before?”

“Oscar and I shot it together. Many times.”

“He didn’t clean it?”

“Of course he cleaned it. But I guess he missed a print or two.”

Jack nodded. It would have been difficult to script a better answer. And perhaps that was what concerned him.

Jack pushed the button, the buzzer sounded, and the door opened. He said good-bye to his client, then headed down the corridor with the guard, the sound of shoe leather on concrete echoing off the prison walls. It hadn’t been exactly the meeting he’d hoped for, but it had turned out all right, he supposed. Still, he was worried. Worried about Brian. Worried about future outbursts from Lindsey.

And somewhere, in the deepest corners of his mind, he was worried about whose number Lindsey might be dialing at that very moment on her magic cell phone.

On Friday morning, Jack was in court. The prosecutor wasn’t happy to be there, and Jack probably would have preferred to soak his feet in kerosene and walk across flaming embers. But at some point he was going to have to bring it to the court’s attention that the star witness for the defense might well be a Cuban soldier. Today was the day.

“All rise!” said the bailiff as the judge entered the courtroom.

Jack and Sofia rose. So did the prosecutors. There was no one else. The hearing was closed to the public because it involved a “sensitive” matter, not quite on the level of national security, but something akin thereto. Not even Jack’s client was allowed in the courtroom. By court order, Jack’s motion would be argued in camera, for the eyes and ears of the lawyers only.

“Good morning,” said the judge as he settled into his chair. Judge Garcia was one of the oldest federal judges in south Florida, a Reagan appointee whose confirmation had slipped through the U.S. Senate while his would-be opponents were obsessed with keeping the less conservative Robert Bork off the Supreme Court. Miami was one of those strange places where drawing an Hispanic judge was more often than not the kiss of death for any lawyer advancing the traditional agenda of Hispanic Democrats. Jack was just glad he wasn’t here on an affirmative-action case.

The lawyers greeted him and announced their appearances. Hector Torres, as U.S. attorney, staked out his position as lead trial counsel. With him was a lawyer from the Justice Department. A Washington connection-no surprise there.

The judge cleared his throat and said, “I’ve read the papers that the defense filed under seal. The transcript of this hearing will also be kept under seal. And I’m issuing a gag order that prevents anyone from discussing this hearing outside of this courtroom. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” the lawyers replied.

“Good. Now, let me turn to the merits.” He removed his reading glasses, as if to look Jack straight in the eye. “Mr. Swyteck, I have to tell you. When I reached the part of your motion where you claim that Fidel Castro is willing to send one of his soldiers into this courtroom to testify on your client’s behalf-well, I nearly lost my lunch.”

Loast my loanch. When he got angry or excited, the accent kicked in.

“Sorry, Your Honor, but-”

“Let me finish. Either this is the most surprising witness to a homicide in the history of Miami jurisprudence, or your motion is the most incendiary work of fiction I’ve read in my twenty-plus years on the bench.”

“I assure you, it’s not fiction.”

Torres rose and said, “Judge, not to point out the obvious, but simply because a colonel in the Cuban army told Mr. Swyteck that a Cuban soldier can offer exculpatory testimony does not mean that any such witness actually exists. I’m not questioning the fact that he may have told this story to defense counsel, but this is so far from being established as truth that it hardly belongs in a courtroom. It’s hearsay, and it’s probably the worst kind of hearsay, since the source is a representative of a hostile government that has lied about the United States for over four decades.”

“I understand your point, Counsel. And frankly, I couldn’t have said it better.”

This was exactly the reaction Jack had feared. “Judge, this is precisely the reason for our motion. Before we build up any expectations at trial, and before we run the risk of prejudicing a jury against us for calling a Cuban soldier as a witness, we want to get to the bottom of this as a pretrial matter. We want the opportunity to take a videotaped deposition of the Cuban soldier before trial. The government will have the right to cross-examine.”

The judge chuckled, obviously skeptical. “And just how do you propose to get the Cuban government to submit one of its soldiers to a videotaped deposition?”

“It would be voluntary on their part, of course. But I believe we have made enough of a showing to ask this court to give us the time we need to at least attempt to arrange for the deposition.”

“How much time do you want?” asked the judge.

“This is a complicated process. It could be six or seven weeks, easily.”

Torres groaned and said, “Now we see what this is all about, Judge. Delay.”

“It’s not about delay,” said Jack. “This is a crucial witness.”

“Nonsense,” said Torres. “This is so transparent. It’s the same old story every time the U.S. attorney’s office pursues a high-profile case. The defense does everything it can to delay the trial, speedy trial be damned, all in the hope that the hoopla will die down before its client stands trial. What’s next, Mr. Swyteck? A motion for change of venue?”

“Actually, if we are able to secure the testimony of a Cuban soldier, we may ask that the case be moved to Jacksonville or Tampa.”

“See, Judge?” said Torres. “It’s going to be one game after another.”

“I assure you,” said Jack, “this is no game. My client is sitting in jail.”

“I understand that,” the judge said. “But Mr. Torres has a point. I don’t want delays.”

Torres took a half step toward the bench, as if to underscore his plea. “Your Honor, I’ve been holding my tongue so far, but the problem with Mr. Swyteck’s motion isn’t just delay. This is outrageous, plain and simple. The victim in this case is the son of Alejandro Pintado. Mr. Pintado is a prominent Cuban exile, an outspoken critic of the Castro regime. We all know how Castro feels about Mr. Pintado. Judge, you must resist any invitation to allow Fidel Castro to manipulate this trial and thereby exonerate the woman who murdered Mr. Pintado’s son.”

“I take serious offense at that,” said Jack.

“Then you shouldn’t have brought the motion,” said the judge.

Jack was taken aback. “Excuse me?”

The judge looked down sternly. “If you take offense at being accused of allowing Castro to manipulate you, then you should not have brought the motion.”