Hear No Evil

36

The reception at Mario’s Market was ice cold.

The trial had come between Jack and his biweekly lesson in Cuban culture from his grandmother, so he was determined to take Abuela to the market on Saturday morning. She’d told him ten or eleven times over the telephone that it wasn’t necessary, that it was really okay to skip their little shopping date just this once. Since his return from Cuba, she’d refused to speak about her tearful voice mail message and Jack’s visit to the cemetery. Jack promised not to raise it again, assuring her that this outing was purely for the fun of it. She still seemed wary, but Jack finally persuaded her. After just two minutes inside the store, however, he realized that her reluctance had nothing to do with Jack’s mother and the child she’d lost.

“Do they really have to glare at us like that?” said Jack.

“Not us, mi vida. You.”

The outrage in the Cuban community over the possibility of Castro’s soldier as a witness had seemed to peak with the torching of Jack’s Mustang, but the hate mail and vicious attacks on Cuban talk radio had grown steadily since Jack’s grilling of Alejandro Pintado on the witness stand. Having defended death row inmates for his first four years of practice, Jack could deal with critics. But Saturday morning at Mario’s Market wasn’t the faceless fury of strangers whose acceptance Jack neither sought nor needed. These were good people, regular folks, neighbors who played dominoes with his grandmother in the park. It was the woman behind the deli counter who used to have his coffee ready for him, exactly the way he liked it, before he even asked. It was the cashier selling Lotto tickets who had always insisted that some combination of Jack’s and José Martí’s birthdays was definitely the lucky number. It was the seventy-nine-year-old stock “boy” who would tell Jack about the gunfights on Eighth Street (long before it became “Calle Ocho”) between Batista loyalists and the Castro supporters. And it was the butcher who used to laugh at Jack’s terrible Spanish, tell him that it’s a good thing his mother was from Bejucal because an accent like his wouldn’t even earn him the distinction of “honorary Cuban.” Jack expected the backlash from the Cuban community at large, and he was even getting used to some of it. But rejection from these folks was rejection on a whole different level.

“Let’s get some bread,” said Jack.

“I think we should just go home,” said Abuela.

He could see the pain in her expression, but he wasn’t ready to retreat just yet. He kissed her on the forehead and said, “You wait here. I’ll get the bread and take the dirty looks with me.”

He walked to the end of the aisle and ducked beneath a sign that pointed the way to PAN CALIENTE. It was a back area separated from the main store by thick, clear plastic strips that hung in the doorway and kept the heat on the baking side. A man wearing white overalls and a white T-shirt was loading another tray of dough into the oven.

“Antonio, how are you today?”

Antonio was smiling until he connected the voice with the speaker. He turned back to his work, saying nothing as he slid the tray into the hot oven.

“How about a couple of loaves?” said Jack.

Antonio closed the oven door and put the tray aside. “We’re out.”

Jack could see six loaves sitting atop the oven, which was where the just-baked bread was stored and kept warm. It was one of the secrets that helped such a little store sell eight hundred loaves a week.

“Out, huh?” said Jack.

“Sí, all gone.”

“What about those?” Jack said, pointing toward the oven.

“Those aren’t for you.”

“Antonio!” a man shouted. Jack turned and saw the owner, Kiko, stepping out of the storage room. He said something quickly in Spanish, too quick for Jack to pick up. But the baker promptly moved away. Kiko grabbed two hot loaves and laid them on the table.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“It’s okay. I should be the one to apologize. Pretty foolish of me to come here in the middle of a trial like this one.”

Kiko shrugged, as if he couldn’t completely disagree. “It’s an older clientele here, Jack. First generation mostly. Everyone here had their home stolen from them, and most of them know people who ended up in one of Castro’s prisons just because they dared to complain about it. That can make you kind of emotional.”

“I understand that. I’m not trying to stick my finger in anybody’s eye. I’m just…”

“Doing your job?”

Jack looked away. It was the truth, but somehow it didn’t sound like enough. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore.”

Kiko bagged the long loaves and handed them to Jack. “I meant to tell you, I enjoyed that article in yesterday’s paper about you.”

To mark the end of the first week of trial, the Tribune had run a feature story on the three main lawyers in the Guantánamo murder case-Jack and Sofia for the defense, and Hector Torres for the prosecution. It noted the Cuban roots of all three lawyers, with special emphasis on Jack, who was known by most people only as the son of a gringo former governor.

“Not too bad, was it?” said Jack. “They actually got everything right for once.”

“Not everything,” said Kiko, his expression turning serious.

“Is there something I should know?” said Jack.

“A lot of gossip passes through this store, but I happened to hear something this week that I thought I should pass along. It’s about your mother.”

“What?”

His voice lowered, as if he were uncomfortable with what he was about to say. “I don’t speak to your abuela about her daughter and Bejucal. Her friends have warned me that it’s just something you don’t speak to her about.”

“Her friends are right,” said Jack. He didn’t bother with the specifics.

“Anyway, one of my customers-El Pidio, we call him-he’s a good guy, been coming here for years. He’s also from Bejucal. I don’t think your grandmother knew him, but apparently he knew your mother.”

“Really? Did he say something about her?”

“Well, that’s why I mentioned the newspaper article. There was a twenty-year-old picture of Hector Torres in there. Page twelve, I think. El Pidio swears that when he saw that picture, he was sure that Hector Torres was once engaged to your mother back in Bejucal. Supposedly she broke it off and came to Miami.”

“He must be mistaken. I’ve been told that my mother was-” Jack paused for the right words, not interested in getting into the details of the pregnancy. “She was seriously involved with a local boy when she left Bejucal. So it couldn’t have been Torres. The article said he was from Havana. And I’m sure my grandmother would have recognized the name and said something if it was Hector Torres.”

“According to El Pidio, the boy’s name wasn’t Hector Torres. It was Jorge Bustón.”

Jack was at a loss for words, partly from hearing the name Bustón for the first time, but partly because he didn’t understand. “That doesn’t make sense. If his name was Jorge Bustón, then how does Hector Torres fit into this?”

“Take this for whatever you think it’s worth, Jack. But based on that picture, my friend says he’d bet his whole life savings that Hector Torres was from Bejucal and was in love with your mother.”

“Wait a minute. Is he saying that Torres is…”

“Sí, sí. Exactamente. Hector Torres is Jorge Bustón. That’s what he thinks.”

Jack suddenly realized he was crushing the loaves of bread. “That can’t be.”

“You’re probably right. I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything to you or not. The article mentions how Hector Torres and your father have been friends for over thirty years, how Torres helped Harry Swyteck get elected governor, all that stuff. I don’t mean to stir anything up.”

“Don’t worry about it. Thanks for passing along the info. And double thanks for the bread.”

Jack started to walk away, but Kiko caught him and slipped a business card into his hand. On the back was a handwritten number.

“El Pidio’s phone number,” said Kiko. “Like I say, maybe he’s crazy. But maybe he’s not.”

Jack gave a little nod and he stuffed the card in his pocket. Kiko shook his hand firmly, as if to convey that they would speak of this no more. Then Jack left the bakery to track down Abuela.