James Grippando - Hear No Evil

“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.”

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 one 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.

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.