Jack hesitated, then asked, “What will he say?”
The colonel leaned into his desk. His dark eyes glistened beneath the fluorescent lighting. “In general terms, he will testify as follows. On the morning of Captain Pintado’s death, he saw your client leave for work. Ten to fifteen minutes later, he saw a man come to the house, go inside, then leave in a hurry.”
Jack was silent, but Sofia said, “That’s incredibly helpful.”
“That’s not all,” said the colonel. “He will tell you who that man is.”
“You mean to tell me that your soldier can identify this person by name?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
It was as if the air had suddenly been sucked from the room. Jack looked askance at Sofia, but she seemed stunned into silence. Finally, Jack said, “I’m worried about this.”
“What is there to be worried about?”
“Your motivations.”
“Meaning what?”
“It all comes back to the victim. He’s the son of Alejandro Pintado. It’s no secret that Mr. Pintado has been a burr under Castro’s saddle. He’s even been accused of invading Cuban airspace to drop anti-Castro leaflets over Havana. Seems to me that Castro wouldn’t mind giving Mr. Pintado a little indigestion at trial to go along with his grief over the death of his son.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“But that’s exactly the way it will play in Miami. Wouldn’t it be just oh so clever for Castro to inject one of his own soldiers into the trial of the accused killer of Alejandro Pintado’s son and get her off scot free?”
“Just because El Presidente holds no love for Mr. Pintado does not make the soldier’s testimony false.”
They were suddenly locked in a tense triangle of silence-Jack, Sofia, the colonel.
Sofia said, “Maybe we should speak to our client.”
The colonel offered the telephone, sliding it across his desktop.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” said Jack. “My position is firm: I’ll take the testimony, but I’m not cutting any deals with the Cuban government.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Swyteck.”
“It’s the only way to get this done.”
The colonel shrugged and said, “Then it won’t get done.”
“What?” said Sofia. She appeared to be on the verge of begging for reconsideration, but Jack rose, and she followed his lead.
“I guess we have nothing more to talk about,” said the colonel.
“I guess not,” said Jack.
The colonel gave him a flat, respectful grin, as if he’d met a worthy opponent. He offered his hand, and Sofia shook it. Jack didn’t.
“Have a safe trip home,” said the colonel.
Jack said good-bye and left the office, following the colonel’s aide to the exit.
22
Not since his ex-wife had dragged him to the Valentine’s Day “red dress ball” had Jack seen so many women dressed alike. Dozens of them, most between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-four, many college educated. The vast majority had gotten into trouble with drugs, which was yet another similarity to that high-class charity ball that Jack was strangely reminded of, except that no one here had a doctor’s prescription.
Lindsey Hart was seated at a small Formica table, wearing the orange prison garb of the Federal Detention Center of Miami, an administrative facility for men and women. A guard took Jack to the private cubicle reserved for attorney-client communications. The instant the door closed and the two of them were alone, Lindsey was on her feet, hugging Jack tightly.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.
Jack hadn’t expected that. He had his briefcase in one hand and patted her on the back with the other. She pulled away and brushed her hair out of her face, sniffling back tears.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make you feel awkward. This place is just so awful.”
“I understand.”
“I mean truly awful,” she said, her voice quaking. “If you’re not bored out of your mind, you’re terrified to death. Some women don’t like the way you look. Some don’t like the way you talk. Some smell like they haven’t bathed since childhood. The woman in the next cell is bucking for an insanity defense and keeps playing with her feces, which, believe it or not, doesn’t stink half as bad as last night’s dinner. Boiled cabbage. Who the hell can live on boiled cabbage? I just don’t know if I can take this. The noises, the tension, the other women watching me in the showers. I feel like the new piece of ass on the market, and all the lifers are deciding which one gets to trade up for the fresh goods. Some of the guards are even worse.”
Jack listened, but what could he say-that she’d get used to it? That he’d have her out of here in no time, don’t worry about it? He just let her vent.
“I miss Brian so much.”
She seemed on the verge of major tears. Her hands covered her face, and Jack noticed that she’d been biting several of her fingernails-something he hadn’t noticed before. On impulse, Jack gave her a hug this time. It seemed to help. She blinked back her emotion, pulled herself together. They took seats on opposite sides of the table.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to apologize to you in person for the way I fired you,” she said with one last sniffle. “But apparently Sofia conveyed my feelings to you.”
“She did,” said Jack. “So, let’s put that behind us, all right?”
“Okay, deal. I’m dying to hear how the trip went. Tell me about your meeting with the esteemed Lieutenant Damont Johnson.”
“He had nice things to say about your husband.”
“Of course he did. Oscar always bought his beer.”
Jack paused to choose his words. “He was less kind in his remarks about you.”
“What do you expect? Everyone at the base thinks I killed my husband.”
“It went beyond that. He said he’s concerned for your son. He thinks you’re not equipped to raise him on your own.”
Her expression tightened, and Jack could see the anger fighting to escape from somewhere deep within. But she kept control. “What does he mean, ‘not equipped’?”
“Those were my words, not his. He believes you’re bipolar.”
She fell silent. Jack waited for a response, then asked gently, “Are you?”
“What if I am?”
“I’m not making a judgment. I’m just gathering facts.”
“No. I’m not bipolar.”
“Are you on any kind of medication?”
“Did Lieutenant Johnson say I was?”
“I think the way he put it was that you’re a nice person so long as you take your medication.”
She pursed her lips and said, “I had a prescription for some anti-anxiety medication. I took it for about two years. I haven’t taken it since I left Guantánamo.”
“Why did you stop?
“I didn’t need it anymore.”
Jack recalled the drastic change in temperament between the day she’d hired him and the day she’d fired him, which made him wonder about the self-diagnosis. “That’s kind of curious,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m thinking like a prosecutor. You felt that you needed anti-anxiety medication while your husband was alive. You don’t need it now that he’s dead.”
“Oscar wasn’t my source of anxiety. It was about life in Guantánamo.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said with a touch of sarcasm. “Maybe it’s because I lived on a communist island that is controlled by the longest-living dictator of the twentieth century, a man who hates Americans with a passion. Or maybe it’s because I used to wake up every day wondering if today was the day the chemical weapons would come flying over the razor wire or the Hazmat team would find anthrax in my son’s classroom. Or could it have possibly been that six hundred of the world’s most dangerous terrorists were in a detention camp right down the road from my house? Or because my husband had a job that required him to put his life on the line every day of the year? You pick one.”