Hear No Evil

38

Security at the courthouse was extra tight on Monday morning. A ring of police cars surrounded the building. Plainclothes officers (some wired with headsets, some less conspicuous) wandered amid the onlookers. Miami Avenue was completely closed off, and hundreds of demonstrators had pushed their way up to the barricades, getting as close to the courthouse as the police would allow. They shouted in English and Spanish, not a single word of support in any language for the first witness for the defense.

The atmosphere inside was less charged but equally tense. Visitors, both media and nonmedia, were patted down and individually searched with electronic wands. Metal detectors at the entrance were set high enough to detect gold fillings. Bomb-sniffing dogs led their masters through the long corridors. Armed federal marshals were spaced at fifty-foot intervals.

It was every bit the spectacle that Jack had expected, yet it was in a strange way the first confirmation that this might actually happen. Jack had worried about it all weekend, ever since he’d placed the phone call to Colonel Jiménez on Saturday afternoon.

“We’re on for Monday morning,” Jack had told him.

“I’m very pleased to hear it,” the colonel replied.

Because Jack had notified the U.S. government before trial that the defense might call a Cuban soldier as witness, a detailed procedure had been worked out through the State Department to bring him to Miami quickly and smoothly. While a typical Cuban migrant would be forced to pay the Cuban government approximately five years’ salary in cash upon departure for the United States, all it took was Castro’s blessing to get this particular Cuban soldier into Miami overnight. Still, Jack had his doubts. Would the soldier actually come? Would he defect when he reached U.S. soil, recant his testimony, and disappear into freedom? Those doubts followed him all the way into the courtroom.

One way or the other, he knew he didn’t have long to wait.

Jack rose and said, “Your Honor, the defense calls Private Felipe Castillo.”

A shrill cry pierced the courtroom, and a barrage of angry shouts erupted from the galley.

“Order!” the judge said with a bang of his gavel.

The shouting continued, all of it in rapid-fire Spanish. Each speaker had his own message, which made the collective impact indecipherable to Jack’s ears. But he knew they weren’t shouting, Go, team, go!

Federal marshals covered the disturbance immediately. A man and a woman went peaceably to the exit. Three other men had to be handcuffed, their shouts of protest still audible as they disappeared into the hallway. Some of the jurors watched the arrests, horrified. The others kept their eyes on Jack and his client, as if to say, How dare you.

The courtroom had more than its usual rumbling and shuffling of feet, which the judge quickly gaveled down. “That will be the end of that,” the judge said sharply. “Any further outbursts, and I will close this courtroom to all but the media.”

A stillness came over the courtroom, but the tension remained.

“Bailiff,” the judge said, “bring in the witness.”

The bailiff walked to a side door, opened it, and escorted a young Hispanic man into the courtroom. He was dressed in civilian clothes, a suit and tie, as if that would tone down the controversy. Lindsey squeezed Jack’s hand. Spectators moved to the edge of their seats. Jurors sat up rigidly in their chairs. It was as if everyone suddenly realized that they were watching history in the making, or at least something pretty cool to talk about at cocktail parties.

Private Castillo stepped up to the witness stand to take the oath. The bailiff recited the familiar words in English, and then a translator spoke to the witness in Spanish.

“Sí, lo juro. Yes, I swear,” he replied, and then he took a seat. His eyes darted from the judge, to the jury, to the audience. His gaze finally came to rest on Jack, the only familiar face, the least hostile expression in the courtroom.

Jack approached slowly. He wanted the witness to feel comfortable enough to say all that needed to be said to help his client, but coddling him would brand both Jack and his client as Castro-loving communists in the eyes of the jury. He knew he was walking a fine line.

“Good morning, Private Castillo.”

“Buenós,” he said, which was translated to “Good morning.” The translator seemed almost superfluous, since all but one of the jurors was bilingual, and one or two of them probably would have benefited more from an English-to-Spanish translator. It was yet another factor for a defense lawyer to throw into the mix: the jury for the most part would hear each question and answer not once, but twice. Any misstep was a fuckup times two.

Jack moved through Castillo’s background quickly, or as quickly as possible with a translator. There was no way around the fact that he was an enemy soldier, but Jack did his best to downplay the man’s love for the regime, continuing in the question-translation/answer-translation format

Jack said, “Military service is required in Cuba, is it not?”

“Yes, in some form.”

“When were you required to start your military service?”

“As soon as I finished my secondary education.”

“If you had refused to serve, what would have happened to you?”

“Jail.”

Jack purposely skimmed over his duties and responsibilities as a tower guard on the Cuban side of Guantánamo. This was one witness the jury would never warm up to, no matter how long Jack kept him on the stand and tried to personalize him. The best strategy was simply to hit the highlights and then send him home.

“Private Castillo, were you on duty on the seventeenth of June, which was the day of Captain Pintado’s death?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Did you notice anything unusual at the residence of Captain Pintado?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Was this something you observed with the naked eye, or with aided vision?”

“Aided, of course. We have fairly sophisticated viewing equipment. Quite powerful.”

“Would you describe what you saw, please?”

Through a series of questions and answers, the witness repeated the story exactly as he had told it to Jack in Colonel Jiménez’s office. He was part of a surveillance team that watched a portion of the naval base that included officer housing for U.S. Marines. On the morning of Captain Pintado’s death, around five-thirty A.M., he saw Lindsey Hart leave for work, as usual. About twenty minutes later, sometime before six A.M., he saw a man enter the Pintado residence. He didn’t knock. He just went straight inside.

“Was that man wearing a uniform?” asked Jack.

“Yes, he was.”

“What branch of service?”

“ U.S. Coast Guard.”

“Enlisted man or officer’s uniform?”

“Officer, but not very high ranking.”

“Can you describe any of his physical characteristics?”

“Fairly tall, definitely taller than Captain Pintado. Kind of muscular, big shoulders. And he was black.”

“Would you recognize that man if you saw him again?” asked Jack.

“Yes, absolutely.”

Jack returned to his table, and Sofia handed him a photograph. Jack had the clerk mark it as a defense exhibit, handed copies to the prosecutor and to the judge, and then approached the witness. “Private Castillo, I have here a group photograph of U.S. Coast Guard officers stationed at Guantánamo and several other locations within the Coast Guard’s Seventh District. It was taken near the end of last year. I ask you to take a good look at the photograph and tell me this, please: Does the man you saw entering the residence of Captain Pintado on the seventeenth of June also appear in this photograph?”

Torres was on his feet. “I want to object, Judge. We’ve already heard testimony that the man is black. Handing the witness a photograph of mostly white officers and then asking him to pick out the black guy is a joke.”

Jack said, “Your Honor, there are fifty-two black men in this photograph. If the witness can pick out the man he saw from among the fifty-two pictured, that’s more reliable than most police lineups.”

“Overruled. The jury shall decide for itself what weight to attach to any identification, or misidentification, as the case may be.”

The witness seemed somewhat confused with all the translations, but then he focused. Jack said, “Sir, please examine the photograph and tell me if you see the man who entered the Pintado residence on the morning of June seventeenth.”

His gaze roamed back and forth, taking in row after row. Then it moved up and down, as if he were examining the many faces from another angle. The whole process was taking much longer than Jack had expected.

“Private Castillo?” the judge said. “Is the man in that photograph, or isn’t he?”

The translator put the question to him again, and he didn’t react. Jack didn’t show it, but he was beginning to sweat.

“Private Castillo?” the judge repeated.

“Do you see him?” said Jack.

The witness looked up from the photograph. “This is him.”

Jack stepped forward, saw where he was pointing. “Let the record reflect that the witness selected the man in the third row, fifth from the left. Lieutenant Damont Johnson.”

For an instant, the name seemed to take on a life of its own as members of the media scribbled it down simultaneously. Jack quietly breathed a sigh of relief. The witness had placed someone else at the scene of the crime near the time of the murder. Lindsey had reasonable doubt.

If the jury believed it.

The judge said, “Any further questions for this witness, Mr. Swyteck?”

Jack was tempted to end on the high note, but it would have been worse for the illicit sex to come out on cross-examination. Besides, he had a new angle on the so-called extramarital affair-the one that Lindsey had confided to Sofia, the one she’d been too embarrassed to share directly with Jack.

“One final line of questioning,” said Jack. “Private Castillo, did you happen to see Lieutenant Johnson at Captain Pintado’s house on any occasions other than the morning of June seventeenth?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Many times.”

The next question stuck in Jack’s throat. Even though the prosecutor had already convinced the jury that Lindsey was a cheating spouse, graphic testimony from an eyewitness was bound to change the whole tenor of the trial. But Jack had to get through it.

If Sofia was right, this was their only way to explain what really went on in that bedroom.

“Sir, can you tell me who Lieutenant Johnson was with on those other occasions?”

“I saw him with Captain Pintado’s wife.”

A rumble worked its way through the crowd, and it seemed to crawl right up Jack’s spine like a big, fat, collective, What did he say?

“Where were they?”

“In the bedroom.”

The rumble turned to outright chatter. The judge banged his gavel. “Order!”

Jack couldn’t bring himself to look at the jury, but he could almost feel their scowls. “What…were they doing?”

God, please, he thought. Let him say anything but “Going at it like a couple of porn stars.”

“They were having sexual relations.”

Suddenly it was as if the courtroom were a cocktail party, and the host had walked in naked. It seemed that everyone was talking, some mortified and indignant, others giddy and excited by this new wrinkle in the case.

Again the judge gaveled them down to silence. “This courtroom will come to order!”

Jack waited for the noise to subside, then continued. He was having second thoughts about this new strategy they’d developed, but there was no turning back now. Sex was in the case, and Jack had to put the defense’s spin on it.

“Private Castillo, can you tell me if Lieutenant Johnson and Lindsey Hart were alone in the bedroom on those occasions you saw them together?”

“Objection,” said the prosecutor.

“On what grounds?” said the judge.

Torres struggled, and it was clear that he couldn’t quite put his finger on any strict legal theory. He just didn’t like the feel of things. Then he found something. “Judge, I believe the witness’s testimony should be limited to what he saw.”

“Can you rephrase your question, Mr. Swyteck?”

“Certainly. Private Castillo, did you see anyone in the bedroom other than Lieutenant Johnson and Lindsey Hart?”

“You mean while…”

“Yes,” said Jack, the clarification somewhat painful, “while they were engaged in sexual activity.”

The witness considered the question, then said, “No. I can’t say that I saw anyone else in the room.”

Jack glanced back toward Sofia. She had enough of a poker face not to show her disappointment, but her theory wasn’t playing out as they’d hoped. Jack took a few steps back, simply buying time, regrouping his thoughts. Then he took another shot. “Private Castillo, do you know what kind of vehicle Captain Pintado drove?”

“Yes. A red Chevy pickup, older model.”

“I want you to think hard now, all right? Did you happen to notice Captain Pintado’s pickup parked in the driveway on any of the occasions when you observed Lieutenant Johnson and the defendant in the bedroom together?”

“You mean while…”

“Yes,” said Jack, again dreading the clarification, “while they were having sex.”

The witness was silent for a moment, then the answer seemed to come to him. “Yes, it was there.”

Pay dirt! “One time? Two times?”

“No. Every time. Every time I can remember.”

Jack tried not to smile, but he was glowing on the inside. “Let me make sure I understand. Every time you observed the defendant having sex with Lieutenant Johnson in the Pintado bedroom, Captain Pintado’s vehicle was parked in the driveway. Is that your testimony?”

“Objection,” said the prosecutor. He finally seemed to realize that Jack was giving this love triangle some interesting new angles.

“Overruled,” said the judge. “The witness may answer.”

“Yes, that’s correct. I didn’t really think of it before. But now that you ask the question, I’m sure of it. I saw it. There were always two vehicles. Captain Pintado’s pickup and Lieutenant Johnson’s car.”

“Thank you. No further questions.” Jack returned to his seat.

“Mr. Torres, cross-examination?” said the judge.

“Oh, absolutely,” he said as he approached the witness. He stopped a few feet away from him, saying nothing, simply allowing the witness to feel the presence of the United States government. Then he turned his back on him, shaking his head, mocking the soldier’s response to Jack’s final question. “You didn’t really think of it before, but now that Mr. Swyteck has asked the question, you’re sure of it. You saw two cars.” He began to pace, allowing time for his skepticism to spread throughout the courtroom. “How convenient.”

“Objection,” said Jack. “Is there a question?”

“Sustained.”

“What else didn’t you think of until Mr. Swyteck asked the question? Lieutenant Johnson’s convenient arrival at the murder scene on the morning of Captain Pintado’s death, perhaps?”

The witness waited for the translation, then said, “I don’t understand.”

“Not important. I’m sure the jury does.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. Let’s have some questions, Mr. Torres.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Private Castillo, I noticed that Mr. Swyteck didn’t spend much time covering your job description. So let me ask you a few questions about that. You’re part of a unit that conducts surveillance over the naval base at Guantánamo, is that correct?”

“Yes, generally.”

“It’s your job to keep track of what’s going on inside the base?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s also your job to keep track of anyone trying to enter the base, right?”

“Trying to enter the base?” he said, confused.

“Let me clarify that. There is some distance between the perimeter of the U.S. naval base and the area occupied by Cuban forces, is there not?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And the Cuban government has placed many obstacles in that area, isn’t that right?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“There are razor-wire fences in that area, aren’t there?”

“Yes.”

“There’s even a mine field in there, right?”

“Yes.”

“Those obstacles were put there to prevent ordinary Cubans from reaching the base and seeking freedom on U.S. soil.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“I think you do. Isn’t it true that an important part of your job is to keep ordinary Cubans from reaching freedom?”

“Objection,” said Jack.

“Sustained,” said the judge, but the damage was done. He’d driven home the point that the witness was the enemy-one of Castro’s goons who was instrumental in keeping families in exile from being united with the families they left behind in Cuba.

Torres said, “Now, let me ask you about these sexual relations you observed at the Pintado household. Earlier, you said that you saw the defendant cheating on her husband.”

“Objection,” said Jack. “I think we’ve raised a serious question as to whether it was ‘cheating’ or not, Your Honor.”

“Rephrase the question, please,” said the judge.

“You observed the defendant having sex with Lieutenant Johnson.”

“Yes.”

“And as Mr. Swyteck’s objection just suggested, you are trying to imply that there was some kind of weird threesome going on here.”

“I’m not trying to do anything but tell you what I saw.”

“Oh, please, sir. You’re here today to bring shame on the Pintado family and to embarrass Fidel Castro’s archenemy in exile, Alejandro Pintado.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. Questions, please, Mr. Torres.”

The prosecutor stepped closer to the witness, his tone growing more aggressive. “You know that the victim’s father is Alejandro Pintado, do you not?”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.”

“You know who Alejandro Pintado is, don’t you?”

“I’ve heard his name.”

“He’s one of the most vocal members of the anti-Castro exile community, isn’t he, sir?”

“If you say so.”

“No, it’s not what I say. It’s what you know. You know exactly who Alejandro Pintado is, don’t you, sir?”

“I know he’s been very vocal against our government.”

“Yes, you know that. And you wouldn’t be here today if the victim’s father weren’t so vocal in his opposition to Fidel Castro, would you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Private Castillo, is it not true that Cuban regulations prohibit members of the military from obtaining exit visas until their compulsory service is completed?”

The witness did a double take upon the translation, as if he were surprised by the prosecutor’s awareness of that restriction. “Yes, that’s true.”

“So, you’re in this courtroom only because someone made a very important exception under the laws and regulations of Cuba.”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s be honest, sir. You’re here today only because Fidel Castro wants you here.”

Jack considered an objection, but Torres already had the jurors in his hand, and no objection at this point was going to wrest them free from his control.

The witness shrugged and said, “I suppose.”

“Thank you,” the prosecutor said smugly. “That’ll do it.”