Hear No Evil

12

They made it through the checkout line without too much financial damage, and Jack drove them to his house. Abuela had a fine kitchen, but nothing seemed to give her quite as much pleasure as taking over someone else’s. In minutes she had unpacked the groceries and set up various food-preparation stations around Jack’s kitchen counters and stove.

Jack went straight to the television and switched on Action News at Six. The feed-in for the lead story was basically the same report that Jack had watched in Spanish. As a bonus, however, the anchorwoman had somehow snagged an exclusive live interview with Alejandro Pintado from his mega-mansion in Journey’s End, one of south Florida ’s most exclusive communities.

“Mr. Pintado, we understand that your son and daughter-in-law had just one child, a ten-year-old son. What will become of him now that his mother has been indicted and denied bail?”

Pintado spoke in a solemn voice, his wife seated at his side on the couch. “The loss of our son is a terrible tragedy, but we are determined to avoid more harm to our family. Our grandson has decided that he wants to stay with us while his mother is in jail, and Lindsey’s attorney has indicated her agreement to that arrangement.”

“Will that become permanent if your daughter-in-law is convicted of murder?”

“We expect that it will, yes.”

The anchorwoman tried to get him to talk about the evidence against Lindsey, but Pintado wisely declined, probably at the behind-the-scenes direction of the prosecutor. She thanked him and brought the interview to a close.

Jack looked up from the set and saw his grandmother shooting him a reproving look. “What?” he said.

“You going to help, or you going to watch TV?”

“I’ll help.” He walked to the kitchen counter, gathered up the dirty mixing bowls, and started toward the sink. Another glare from Abuela stopped him cold.

“Who taught you to clean while you cook?” she said.

“Sorry,” said Jack. Obviously she and his buddy Theo were of the same school when it came to the joy of cooking.

“Go sit over there,” she said. “Watch and learn.”

Abuela was singing something in Spanish as she cooked, and watching and hearing her gave Jack an idea. He pulled down an atlas from the bookshelf and turned to a map of Cuba. Suddenly, Abuela was looking over his shoulder, as if she were equipped with homeland radar.

“Bejucal,” she said, pointing to a tiny black dot of a town near Havana. “Is where your mother grew up.”

Jack sat in silence. He’d heard the stories of how his mother had come to Miami after the Cuban revolution. Focused on that spot on the map, he could imagine his mother and grandmother hugging and kissing each other for the very last time. Abuela had made the heart-wrenching decision to send her teenage daughter to the United States without her, knowing that it was better for her to live in freedom, and hoping that they would soon find a way to reunite. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until long after her daughter’s passing that Abuela was finally able to make the trip.

Like any escape route, the one from Havana was fraught with personal tragedies, Abuela and Jack’s mother just one of thousands. In the broader annals of U.S. immigration history, however, the Cubans were an amazing success, particularly in Miami. There had been setbacks, of course, and any comparison of the first wave of immigration in the 1960s to some of the later refugees was bound to raise a few eyebrows, even among Cuban Americans. You could argue about that one till the vacas came home. The bottom line, however, was that both the city and county commissions were controlled by Cubans, the city mayor was Cuban, the county mayor was Cuban, three of South Florida’s five congressional representatives were Cuban, and many of the most successful banks, businesses, law firms, brokerage houses, and so on were headed by Cubans. Unlike most Latino groups, Cuban Americans were largely Republican, not Democrat, and not just because Democrats were perceived as too soft on Castro. It was because so many Cuban Americans-Alejandro Pintado among them-had accumulated more than enough honest wealth to be counted among the GOP’s biggest campaign contributors. Yet, with all those accomplishments, many still talked of someday going back to Cuba, if not to live, then at least to help rebuild the economy after Castro’s long-awaited fall.

Jack had never really gotten caught up in all that “back to Cuba ” talk. He hadn’t been raised Cuban, he spoke stilted Spanish, and he hadn’t really circulated in Latin social circles. Most people had no idea his mother was Cuban, so it wasn’t unusual for him to find himself privy to a gathering of Anglos plotting their imminent departure from the “third-world country” that Miami was becoming. If enough liquor was flowing, some pretty respectable people were more than willing to buddy-up with an apparent gringo named Swyteck and reveal their secret wish to look their Cuban neighbor in the eye and say, “Hey, José, if you want to go back to Cuba so damn bad, then do us all a favor and get back on your fucking banana boat and get the hell out of here.” Sometimes Jack would buck up and say something; sometimes he figured it wasn’t worth his effort. But deep down he knew that what really bugged the loudest complainers was that, if all these so-called “Josés” did go back to Cuba, they wouldn’t be traveling by banana boat. In fact, a good many of them would fly their children home from college at Harvard or Yale, hop on the eighty-foot yacht that was docked behind their three-million-dollar mansion in Gables Estates, and make a nice family trip out of it, soaking up sun and sipping cold mojitos served by one of their three Honduran housemaids.

“I should go to Bejucal,” said Jack.

“What?”

“If I get back into this case for my friend Lindsey, I’ll have to travel to Cuba. I should take a side trip to Bejucal.”

Abuela said nothing. Jack asked, “What was it like there when my mother left?”

Abuela took a deep breath, let it out. Then she answered in Spanish. “It was exactly the way it was when I left, thirty-eight years later.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And it was totally different, too.”

Jack’s gaze returned to the map. Bejucal was a fair distance from Guantánamo, but in Jack’s mind the two cities were forever linked. One made him think of himself, the young boy who had never known his mother. The other made him think of another boy, an adopted child who had never met his biological parents. It wasn’t the same thing, not by a long stretch, yet Jack found it slightly ironic that they shared the same option. They could try to learn about the person who had brought them into the world. Or they could leave it alone.

For Jack, the choice was suddenly clearer than ever before. He looked at his grandmother and said, “I want to go.”

Jack looked for some sign of approval in her expression, but he could only watch in confusion as Abuela turned and retreated to the kitchen.

“Do you not want me to go?” he said.

She didn’t answer. She was at the stove, tending to her cooking. Jack was fully aware that a journey back to Cuba was an emotional issue for many Cuban Americans, especially the elders, but he expected more of a mix of emotions from Abuela. Instead, there was just silence.

The telephone rang, and Jack decided to let the answering machine get it. He was still trying to figure out Abuela’s reaction, but Abuela was too clever for him. She answered it herself. Jack waved his arms at her, as if to say, Whoever it is, tell them I’m not here. Abuela ignored his silent pleas, obviously not wishing to discuss Jack’s trip to Cuba any further.

“Yes, Jack is right here next to me,” she told the caller.

Jack groaned and took the phone. “Hello?”

“Is this Jack Swyteck?” It was a woman on the line, a voice he didn’t recognize.

“Yes, that’s me. Who is this?”

“My name is Sofia Suarez.” She paused, as if Jack should recognize the name. Then she added, “I represent Lindsey Hart.”

Jack stepped out of the kitchen, away from the clatter of Abuela’s cooking. “Yes, I saw you on television.”

“Oh, I hate cameras, but with all that media, I felt like I had to say something. How do you think it played?”

Jack didn’t see the point in trashing her conspiracy theory just yet. “Hard to say.”

“It sucked. I know. I sounded like one of those ‘the world is out to get me’ nutcases.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“You’re just being kind. Listen, I’m calling because…well, for a couple of reasons. One, Lindsey asked me to call.”

“She did?”

“Yes. I heard all about the way she told you off the other day, and she is so sorry. She is under so much stress right now. I know that’s not an excuse, but it certainly explains a lot.”

“What does she want?”

“She’s afraid to ask you to come back and represent her. But believe me, in her heart, she is begging for your forgiveness. She needs you, and the only person who knows that more than Lindsey is me.”

“What do you mean?”

She chuckled mirthlessly and said, “I am so over my head here. I’m not a criminal lawyer. Lindsey hired me to handle her probate matter. The estate won’t distribute Oscar’s trust fund to her.”

“I know. She told me about that. Finally.”

“That’s right up my alley. But a murder trial, no way. So please, I’m hoping that you can put aside what happened the other day and do the right thing. Obviously there will be plenty of money to pay you when this probate matter gets straightened out.”

“It was never about the money,” said Jack.

“I know. Lindsey told me about…you know, about you and Brian.”

Jack stepped farther away from the kitchen, careful not to let Abuela overhear anything. “What did she tell you?”

“That you’re the father.”

Jack paused. It was strange, but somehow the fact that this Sofia knew his secret made him feel more connected to her. “I saw Lindsey’s father-in-law on television. Did you agree to let Brian stay with his grandparents?”

Her sigh crackled over the line. “It was a hard decision. Lindsey’s sister would have been glad to take him. But Brian truly wanted the Pintados, and Lindsey didn’t want to drag him through a court fight over who should care for him while she’s in custody.”

Jack knew how Lindsey felt about Pintado. He had to respect a mother who would honor her son’s wishes under those circumstances. “Well, hopefully it will all work out for the best in the end.”

“Yes, if she’s acquitted. Which, again, is where you come in.”

“It’s a complicated decision,” said Jack.

“I’m sure it is. And I hate to push, but I need a commitment from you quickly. I’m scheduled to leave for Guantánamo in the morning.”

“What for?”

“Interviews. On-site inspections. It’s not easy for civilians to arrange a visit to the naval base. If I don’t grab tomorrow’s opening, it could be weeks before I’m able to schedule another trip.”

Jack was thinking aloud. “I should be a part of that, if I’m going to be lead counsel.”

“Definitely. So what do you say?”

“Let me sleep on it.”

“Jack, I really need an answer. If you’re not going to help me on this Guantánamo trip, I need to find a real criminal lawyer who will.”

“I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do. Have you seen the indictment yet?”

“No.”

“It’s a capital case. They’re asking for the death penalty.”

Jack went cold.

“She needs you, Jack. She really needs you.”

Jack considered it. A probate lawyer in a death penalty case? Lindsey didn’t have a chance. He wasn’t one hundred percent convinced of her innocence, but she had offered to take a polygraph. She probably deserved better than the hand she’d been dealt so far.

Brian definitely deserved better-which was enough to swing the balance.

“Okay,” said Jack. “I’m in.”