Hear No Evil

14

The first thing Jack noticed were the stars. Millions of them seemed to pop from the sky the moment he stepped off the airplane. It was the kind of celestial brilliance never seen in the city. You had to be out on the ocean, far from civilization and city lights, floating in the middle of nowhere.

Or in Guantánamo Bay.

The sense of isolation at GTMO (pronounced “Gitmo”) was a product of both geography and military might. The bay itself was a pouch-shaped enclave on the southeastern coast of Cuba, twelve miles long and six miles across at its widest point. The surrounding area was primarily agricultural, mostly sugarcane and coffee. The Cuzco Hills to the south and east and the Sierra Maestra Mountains to the north provided a certain natural shelter. Throw in a five-service task force, a few warships, fighter jets, some well-armed guard towers, and about eight gazillion miles of razor wire, and-voila!-you’ve got a perfect safe haven for many of the indigenous plants and animals that Cuban farmers and developers had virtually wiped out elsewhere on the island. As crazy as it sounded, some of the most unspoiled land in all of Cuba was at the U.S. naval air station. Many a serviceman and -woman had left GTMO thinking that it did indeed belong to iguanas and cactus plants, which only reinforced its reputation as “the least worst place.” That feeling was certainly understandable around the airstrip, which was on the opposite side of the bay from the main base.

Jack and Sofia grabbed their bags, which had been laid out for them on the runway. It was too dark to see much of anything beyond the lighted pathway that led to a green Humvee parked by a large hangar along the airstrip. Lights from the control tower blinked in the distance. Some of the higher hilltops were ghostly silhouettes, backlit by a setting moon. The bay was not far off, Jack knew, not because he could see or hear it, but because he could almost taste the salt in the gentle breezes. Even in the middle of the night, it was mild enough to go without a jacket, and having come from Miami and all its humidity, Jack was pleasantly surprised by the arid climate.

“How’d you sleep?” Sofia asked as they followed a Marine toward the Humvee.

“Like a baby,” said Jack. “Up every forty-five minutes and mad as hell about it.” Jack had never had much luck trying to sleep on airplanes.

It was roughly a half-hour ferry ride across the bay. Jupiter rose on the horizon, outshining even the brightest star, as they left Leeward Point Field and departed from the dock. The inner harbor served commercial vessels. The ferry puttered across the outer harbor, toward the naval reserve boundary, and then docked at a landing that butted up against the main pier and wharf facilities between Corinasco Point and Deer Point. They were met by two members of the Marine military police who assured Jack that their vicious-looking German shepherd was completely under their control. Explosives dogs were a part of life here, and they weren’t trained to be your friend. Jack and Sofia ’s bags passed the smell test, and then another Marine met them at the foot of the pier.

“You guys eat on the plane?” said the Marine.

“Not really,” said Jack.

“McDonald’s is still open, if you’re hungry.”

Jack recalled that Lindsey had mentioned McDonald’s in their first meeting. It seemed to be a source of local pride. “My first trip to Cuba, and the first place I’m going to eat is at McDonald’s?”

The Marine said, “You’re in Cuba, but you’re not really in Cuba. If you know what I mean, sir.”

The irony of the remark amused Jack. How many times in his life had he heard people say he was Cuban, but he was not really Cuban? “Yes,” said Jack. “I definitely know what you mean.”

With a full schedule of interviews for the following day, Jack opted for sleep over food. They spent the night in separate guest cottages, and the driver picked them up at six A.M. Jack expected Sofia to be one of those perky morning-type personalities, but she was far outdone by their Marine escort, who probably ran five miles and peeled off four hundred sit-ups before his alarm clock even rang. They drove past a golf course, a Little League field, a shopping mall, and some tidy town-house subdivisions, all of which struck Jack as more akin to 1950s suburbia than a strategic naval base. Even the military buildings had a certain quaintness about them, mostly low-slung structures made of wood or cinder block, painted yellow with brown trim. Utility poles were stained forest green, perhaps to compensate for the scarcity of trees, let alone an actual forest.

They stopped for coffee at the Iguana Crossing Coffee Shop, and their journey ended at the “White House,” the tongue-in-cheek name given to the impressive white building that housed the Marine command suite at the base. It was an inspiring sight, a simple white-frame structure set against the backdrop of a bright blue sky, the American flag flying proudly in the warm Cuban breeze. Their escort took them inside to a conference room. The walls were paneled with white wainscoting, and white Bahama shutters covered the windows. The blurred reflection of a whirling white paddle fan shined in the highly polished top of a long mahogany table.

A navy JAG lawyer stepped forward to greet them. “Captain Donald Kessinger,” he said.

Sofia and Jack shook his hand and introduced themselves, though Jack noticed that the captain’s eyes were still on Sofia even as he was shaking Jack’s hand. A long travel day and an abbreviated night’s sleep on a military bunk had knocked her down a peg or two on the eye-popping chart, but she was still quite a welcome sight on a military base. Finally, the captain looked at Jack and offered seats to his guests on the opposite side of the rectangular table, their backs to the windows.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” said Jack.

“You’re welcome. How was the trip down?”

“I think Dorothy had a smoother ride to Oz,” said Sofia.

“Ooh, that’s nasty. But you made it. So how can I help you?”

Jack laid his dossier on the table before him and removed a sheet of paper. “First thing I’d like to do is run down the list of potential witnesses that I faxed you from the airport yesterday.”

“I have a copy right here,” he said, flattening it out before him.

“My preference is to start the interviews with the military police officer who was first on scene in response to Lindsey Hart’s nine-one-one call.”

“I’m sorry. He’s not available.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not authorized to tell you why not.”

“Where is he?”

“Reassigned.”

“To where?”

“Can’t tell you.”

Jack penned in a little X before the first name on his list. “The NCIS report indicated that there were three other officers on the scene. I’d like to talk to them.”

“They work as a unit,” said the captain. “I’m afraid they’ve all been reassigned.”

“So they’re unavailable, too?”

“Completely.”

Jack marked another X, then moved on. “Let’s talk about personnel in the surrounding area, people who simply may have seen anything unusual.”

“Okay.”

“I noticed guard towers all over the place here. I’d like to speak with the guard who was posted nearest to the crime scene.”

“Mmmmmm. That would be PFC Frank Novich. Once again, sorry.”

“Not available?”

“No.”

“Reassigned?”

“Shipped out yesterday. You just missed him. Tough break.”

“Where is he?”

“I believe he’s in…well, I’m not at liberty to say.”

Jack leaned into the table, doing his best to put some fire behind his tired eyes. “Captain, let’s do this another way. Is there anyone on my list who has not been reassigned and relocated?”

“I seem to recall there was someone.”

“Perhaps the captain’s direct commanding officer?”

“No, I’m afraid she’s gone.”

“How about the three Marines he was with the night before his death?”

“Gone as well.”

“So, exactly who did Ms. Suarez and I come down here to interview?”

“Looks like it’s going to be Lieutenant Damont Johnson.”

“Of the sixteen people I’ve asked to interview, you’re giving me one?”

“Actually, I’m not giving you anything. Lieutenant Johnson is with the United States Coast Guard, and he is still here on the base.”

“That’s it? We came all this way to talk to one witness?”

“It’s well worth the trip, I’d say. Lieutenant Johnson was Oscar Pintado’s best friend.”

“Oscar’s best friend, or Lindsey’s worst enemy?”

He didn’t seem to appreciate the sarcasm. “Mr. Swyteck, I shouldn’t have to remind a former federal prosecutor that these witnesses are under no obligation to meet with you before trial. The U.S. government has gone beyond the call of duty by arranging for you to talk to Lieutenant Johnson.”

“I know the rules. But I can’t help but smell a rat with these sudden reassignments.”

“Reassignments happen all the time in the military.”

“Some of them even for valid reasons, I’m sure.”

The captain’s expression soured. “Mr. Swyteck, I’m sure you’re aware of the statements your client made to the local paper after her husband’s death-her ridiculous suggestions that Captain Pintado was effectively rubbed out by someone here on the base because he knew too much about a top-secret matter. I also read statements to the same effect that your cocounsel here, Ms. Suarez, made on television after Lindsey’s arrest. So let me put this in terms you can understand. I have no interest in helping a couple of slick Miami lawyers get their client off the hook by building a cockeyed big-government conspiracy theory. Pardon me if I seem unreasonable. But I owe that much to the victim’s family.”

“My client is the victim’s family. So do me a favor, would you? Stop the speeches and bring me Lieutenant Johnson.”

Their eyes locked, and finally the captain blinked. Jack watched as he pushed away from the table and left the room in silence. The door closed behind him.

Sofia said, “What kind of crap is this? They make us fly all the way down here for just one interview?”

“Yeah,” said Jack. “Better make it count.”