Hear No Evil

Abuela placed a loaf of Cuban bread in their shopping cart, then continued down the aisle. “So, who is the young lady?”

“What young lady?”

“I see you at Deli Lane the other day. Very pretty young lady with you.”

Jack realized she was talking about Lindsey. Obviously she’d spotted them before things had turned nasty. “Her name is Lindsey.”

“She live here?”

“She does now. She moved here from Guantánamo Bay.”

“ Cuba?” she said, her eyes sparkling. “She Cuban?”

Jack smiled, knowing that nothing would have made Abuela happier than for her grandson to meet a nice Cuban girl. “No, she just lived in Cuba.”

“Not Cuban, but she lived in Cuba,” said Abuela. “Maybe I can live with that. She good friend?”

“She’s actually more of a client than a friend.” An ex-client, but Jack didn’t want to get into that.

“She have trouble?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“They say she killed her husband.”

Abuela’s mouth was agape. “She kill her husband?”

“No. She’s accused of it.”

“Dios mío!” she said with a shudder. Then she did a double take. “That’s her, no? That your friend Lindsey?”

The man behind the checkout counter was watching a small portable television, and Abuela was pointing in that direction. Sure enough, Lindsey’s image was on the screen, the lead story on one of the Spanish-language news stations. Jack understood the language much better than he spoke it, so he stepped closer to catch the report in progress.

“Lindsey Hart, the daughter-in-law of Brothers for Freedom founder and president Alejandro Pintado, surrendered to federal marshals this afternoon after a grand jury returned an indictment charging her with murder in the first degree. Ms. Hart allegedly shot her husband, Oscar Pintado, a captain in the United States Marine Corps. Captain Pintado, the thirty-eight-year-old son of the well-known Cuban-exile leader, was found shot to death in his home on the U.S. Naval Air Station at Guantánamo Bay, Cuba. At a press conference today, United States Attorney Hector Torres a

“Her attorney?” Jack said, his words coming like a reflex.

The on-screen image switched to an attractive female attorney, standing on the courthouse steps and speaking to a bouquet of microphones. “My client is shocked by today’s indictment. Lindsey Hart is completely i

Jack had no idea who this Sofia Suarez was, or when Lindsey had even hired her. But the whole idea of taking on the U.S. military from the get-go seemed a bit over the top.

The anchorman returned to the screen and said, “Ms. Hart entered a plea of not guilty at her arraignment late this afternoon. She was denied bail and will remain in custody pending trial.”

The newscast switched to another story, and Jack turned away from the television set. He’d known for some time that an indictment was looming, and it certainly wasn’t unusual for the accused to be denied bail in a case of first-degree murder. But the thought of young Brian having to deal with his mother’s incarceration was still difficult for Jack to stomach.

Abuela grabbed his hand and said, “Listen to me, mi vida. I saw how this Lindsey look at you in the restaurant. It seem nice, when I thought she maybe was good for you.”

“Looking at me how? She was a client.”

“Aye, you are so blind. That woman is big trouble. You forget that one. Understand me? Forget that one.”

He was still reeling from the news of the indictment, but Abuela’s words struck a chord. Forget that one. People were so quick to judge, and Lindsey was getting it from everyone-from people she once considered friends at the naval base, and from people she’d never even met, like Abuela. Who could blame her for having been so angry at the restaurant, after her own lawyer had laid on a hefty dose of doubt?

“Forget about her, you say?” said Jack.

“Sí, sí. Forget her.”

Jack shook his head, his thoughts still with Lindsey’s son. His son. “It’s not that easy.”

12

They made it through the checkout line without too much financial damage, and Jack drove them to his house. Abuela had a fine kitchen, but nothing seemed to give her quite as much pleasure as taking over someone else’s. In minutes she had unpacked the groceries and set up various food-preparation stations around Jack’s kitchen counters and stove.

Jack went straight to the television and switched on Action News at Six. The feed-in for the lead story was basically the same report that Jack had watched in Spanish. As a bonus, however, the anchorwoman had somehow snagged an exclusive live interview with Alejandro Pintado from his mega-mansion in Journey’s End, one of south Florida ’s most exclusive communities.

“Mr. Pintado, we understand that your son and daughter-in-law had just one child, a ten-year-old son. What will become of him now that his mother has been indicted and denied bail?”

Pintado spoke in a solemn voice, his wife seated at his side on the couch. “The loss of our son is a terrible tragedy, but we are determined to avoid more harm to our family. Our grandson has decided that he wants to stay with us while his mother is in jail, and Lindsey’s attorney has indicated her agreement to that arrangement.”

“Will that become permanent if your daughter-in-law is convicted of murder?”

“We expect that it will, yes.”

The anchorwoman tried to get him to talk about the evidence against Lindsey, but Pintado wisely declined, probably at the behind-the-scenes direction of the prosecutor. She thanked him and brought the interview to a close.

Jack looked up from the set and saw his grandmother shooting him a reproving look. “What?” he said.

“You going to help, or you going to watch TV?”

“I’ll help.” He walked to the kitchen counter, gathered up the dirty mixing bowls, and started toward the sink. Another glare from Abuela stopped him cold.

“Who taught you to clean while you cook?” she said.

“Sorry,” said Jack. Obviously she and his buddy Theo were of the same school when it came to the joy of cooking.

“Go sit over there,” she said. “Watch and learn.”

Abuela was singing something in Spanish as she cooked, and watching and hearing her gave Jack an idea. He pulled down an atlas from the bookshelf and turned to a map of Cuba. Suddenly, Abuela was looking over his shoulder, as if she were equipped with homeland radar.

“Bejucal,” she said, pointing to a tiny black dot of a town near Havana. “Is where your mother grew up.”

Jack sat in silence. He’d heard the stories of how his mother had come to Miami after the Cuban revolution. Focused on that spot on the map, he could imagine his mother and grandmother hugging and kissing each other for the very last time. Abuela had made the heart-wrenching decision to send her teenage daughter to the United States without her, knowing that it was better for her to live in freedom, and hoping that they would soon find a way to reunite. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until long after her daughter’s passing that Abuela was finally able to make the trip.

Like any escape route, the one from Havana was fraught with personal tragedies, Abuela and Jack’s mother just one of thousands. In the broader a