“I don’t know. Really, I don’t.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Jack staring into his empty cup. The woman rose, as if sensing Jack’s sudden need for some time to himself. “Excuse me, but I must check on the grandchild,” she said, and she left the room.
Sofia stayed with him for a minute, and finally he looked at her. She seemed on the verge of saying something, then simply gave him a thin but sad smile of support, patted the back of his hand, and left him alone at the table.
The streetlight outside their bedroom window shined through slatted Venetian blinds, casting zebralike stripes across the twin beds. Jack was nearest the door. Sofia lay in the bed by the window. The room had no clock, but Jack knew it was late. He hadn’t been able to close his eyes, let alone fall asleep.
“Jack?” Sofia said in the darkness. “You up?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Are you okay? I mean, about what Felicia told you?”
He chuckled without heart. “Not exactly what I expected to hear.”
“I know.”
Silence returned. A car passed outside their window, and the headlights swept across the wall.
“Jack?”
“Yes?”
“Does this feel weird to you?”
“Does what feel weird?”
“Sleeping in the same room with me.”
“Uhm. A little.”
“When’s the last time you slept in twin beds?”
He thought about it, then realized that it was with his ex-wife, one of the last trips they had taken together. Separate beds. The beginning of the end. “I don’t really remember.”
“I’m not trying to get weird on you, but for some strange reason this reminds me of when I was a teenager. My sister and I shared a room with twin beds. We would stay up at night and talk about all kinds of things. Boys. Soccer. Clothes. Mostly boys.”
“Are you saying I remind you of your sister?”
“Hardly. I’m not sure why that popped into my head. I guess I was just reminded of how much I miss those days. Something made me think of it.”
“Maybe it was the fact that no one bothered to tell me that I might have a brother or sister.”
She propped herself up on one elbow, and even in the dim light Jack could see the horrified expression on her face. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mention my sister in order to…I wasn’t comparing your situation to-”
“It’s okay,” he said.
She lowered her head back onto the pillow. She was lying on her side, the thin, white bedsheet clinging to the gentle curve of her hip, the narrow band of light coming through the Venetian blinds reflecting on her hair. Jack rolled on his side, facing her, the gap between the twin beds separating them. But in the darkness, it was almost as if the gap weren’t there.
“Funny,” said Jack.
“What?”
“This thing with my mother. In my mind, I’d built this lofty image of a young woman in search of freedom. She leaves her family behind, leaves her friends behind, leaves everything behind, and somehow finds the courage to face a completely new world.”
“No one has taken that image away. It just has a new twist to it.”
“At least now I understand why my grandmother never wanted to talk about it.”
“She’s an old woman. It’s natural for someone of her generation to sweep it under the rug. It must have hurt her terribly to hear people say her daughter was a troubled teen running away from her problems.”
“But at some point I have a right to know, don’t I?”
“A right to know what?”
Jack looked off to the middle distance, to the darkness beyond Sofia. “About my half sibling-the child she left behind.”
“You don’t know for sure that your mother had the child.”
“You’re right. But I still want to know.”
“I suppose there’s one person who could tell you.”
Jack thought for a moment, then said, “All I have to do is figure out a way to ask without slicing Abuela’s heart to ribbons.”
“Good luck,” said Sofia as she rolled onto her back.
Jack fluffed his pillow and said, “Don’t let me oversleep.”
There was just enough light for Jack to see the smile on her lips.
“What?” he said.
“We’re sharing a house with eleven Cubans. If that doesn’t wake you, I’ll be sure to notify your next of kin.”
“Good point.”
“Good night, Jack.”
“Good night, Sofia.”
21
At nine o’clock the following morning Jack and Sofia were on the third floor of one of the many architecturally unremarkable buildings on the Plaza de la Revolución. The plaza was the hub of Cuban government. Through the window, Jack could see the head-quarters for the powerful Ministry of the Interior, from which a monumental image of Ché was positioned perfectly to watch the endless political rallies that took place periodically on the vast square. Ché looked a little bored, thought Jack, which was fitting, since some of Castro’s speeches had been known to stretch as long as fourteen hours. The plaza was quiet this morning, and Jack and Sofia sat alone in an office, waiting.
Colonel Raúl Jiménez entered the room with an officer’s confidence, greeted them cordially, and took a seat behind his desk. “Have you made a decision?”
“Yes,” said Jack. “I’m willing to listen to what your soldier has to say. But I’m not making any promises in return.”
“That’s a shame. It isn’t often that I’m able to make such a generous offer.”
“I appreciate that. But we are forced to deal with certain realities. Let’s be honest. From the standpoint of pure trial strategy, eliciting testimony from one of Castro’s soldiers could easily turn a jury against my client. Simple mathematics dictates that at least half the jury could be Cuban Americans.”
“Yes, and the other half will not be Cuban American. I’m no lawyer, but isn’t it a fact that you are required to convince only one juror that your client is innocent? That’s all it takes for your client to be found not guilty, no?”
“True. But even without speaking to my client, I know she’s not going to be doing cartwheels at the thought of putting her own fate in the hands of a Cuban soldier.”
“How does she feel about death by lethal injection?”
“You ask good questions, Colonel.”
He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. The green uniform was darkened with sweat beneath his armpits. “I’m not asking for much in return, Mr. Swyteck. Just offer me something to make it worth our trouble to send one of our soldiers to testify in Miami.”
“Is it money you want?”
“Not at all.”
“Then spell it out. What are you after?”
The colonel leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “After Captain Pintado was shot, we heard your client talking on a radio show out of Guantánamo. She was quite outspoken. She said she believes that her husband was killed because of something he knew. Something that was going on at the base that the government did not want the world to know about.”
“That’s been her position all along.”
“Then, there it is,” said the colonel. “We want to know: What secret did Captain Pintado know?”
“I can’t promise to deliver something like that.”
“Why not?”
“For a lot of reasons. Most importantly, because I’m not going to barter with you for testimony. Putting a Cuban soldier on the witness stand presents a ton of credibility problems as it is. Throw in a side deal-whatever it might be-and those credibility issues become insurmountable.”
“No one is saying that we must disclose our agreement.”
“Easy for you to say, Colonel. It’s not your bar license on the line.”
“So, is that your position? No deal?”
“I’m willing to call your soldier as a witness. I’m not willing to compensate you in any way, shape, or form for his testimony.”
“Perhaps your client will feel differently once she understands the nature of his testimony.”