Hear No Evil

“Well, hell. Okay, I slipped and said something I shouldn’t have said. He came to see me, and, frankly, his whole approach bugged me. He tried to bullshit me with this idea that he wants to figure out if his client is i

“No, it’s not worth anything. I want the jury to see that look, not you.”

“I still believe that he was bound to figure it out sooner or later.”

“Then let it be later. I want him to figure out everything later. That’s the way I’m playing this case. Jack Swyteck is a damn good lawyer. The way to beat him is to make sure he doesn’t see what’s coming.”

“Bueno. I’m sorry I said anything. I can’t take it back now.”

“No, you can’t undo it. But I need a commitment from you, Alejandro. I want you to take a vow of silence.”

“No problema. I’ll say not another word to Jack Swyteck.”

“I want you to say nothing more to anybody. Unless I tell you to say it.”

Pintado poured himself more water, shaking his head. “This is what I left Cuba for, to be able to say what I think.”

“Talk all you want-after the case is over. Before then, everything that comes out of your mouth will only help the defense. Unless you clear it with me.”

“You make this Swyteck sound like Superman.”

“Do you want your daughter-in-law convicted or don’t you?” said Torres.

“Of course I do.”

“Then work with me.”

Pintado took a breath, as if reluctant to yield any kind of control to anyone. “Bueno. We’ll try it your way.”

“You’ll be happy you did. Just two simple rules. Always surprise the enemy. And never surprise me.”

“I can do that.”

“Perfect. So let’s have it.”

“Have what?”

“You’ve given me only half of what I need. You agreed not to talk without my blessing. That will make sure we surprise the enemy.”

“What else do you want?”

“I just told you. I want no surprises. So I need the ski

“My son was a Marine’s Marine. There’s no dirt on him.”

“I’ve done some checking up. The last thing I need is for Jack Swyteck to figure this out before I do, so tell me something, and tell it to me straight.”

“Sure. What do you want to know?”

The prosecutor turned stone-cold serious. “How did your son get to be so buddy-buddy with a slime bucket like Lieutenant Damont Johnson?”

17

Jack and Sofia had a late lunch of rice and beans in the Havana airport. The chef could have used a few pointers from Jack’s grandmother, though it was a bit unfair to single him out, since even the Food Network could have used a pointer or two from Abuela, whether they wanted help or not.

Havana was an unexpected route home, but they had been given no choice. The next charter flight to Norfolk was two days away, far longer than the navy cared to have two civilian lawyers snooping around the base. At Guantánamo’s behest, the Department of the Treasury immediately issued the licenses needed for U.S. citizens to travel lawfully within Cuba-proof positive that the bureaucracy could move when the bureaucrats wanted it to-and Jack and Sofia were whisked away on a commuter flight from Guantánamo City to Havana.

For all the travel, they’d managed just one witness interview and a twenty-minute visit to the crime scene. Amazing as it seemed, the interview was the most productive part of the trip. Lindsey’s old house had been completely sanitized-repainted, recarpeted, the works. A young officer and his new bride had been living there for the past three weeks. The military wasn’t exactly making it easy for Lindsey’s lawyers to follow the investigative trail.

“I want to apologize,” said Sofia as they walked to their gate.

“For what?” said Jack.

“For making this trip so difficult.”

“What are you talking about? You didn’t do anything.”

“Sure I did. I got their backs up before we even got here. That JAG lawyer specifically mentioned the comments I made on television after Lindsey’s indictment. They clearly are being more difficult because of my suggestion that Oscar may have been killed as part of a government cover-up.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over that.”

“I should have just kept my mouth shut.”

“The decision to transfer all those potential witnesses to another base was made at a very high level. Even if you hadn’t said anything, they’d be playing these games. An officer in the United States Marine Corps was murdered, and you and I defend the woman whom they believe is the killer. That’s all the reason they need to launch into combat readiness.”

She gave him a tight smile, as if still embarrassed by her television performance but grateful for Jack’s words.

They found a couple of open seats near the gate. Sofia read a magazine, but Jack was thinking about Lindsey Hart. After all, it was Lindsey, in her newspaper interview with the Guantánamo Gazette, who’d first gone public with the theory that Oscar was murdered because he “knew too much.” In Jack’s eyes, that theory had been a stretch from the get-go.

It was even more of a stretch if Lindsey was dialing for dead people on her cell phone.

“Gum?” said Sofia.

“Thanks,” said Jack.

At three P.M., they were still waiting at the gate in Havana. Jack had brought a few books and magazines from Miami for the flight, but with the detour through Havana, he’d purposely left them in the path of a janitor and his broom. The guy probably couldn’t read English, and he looked too proud for handouts, but he had a wedding ring on his finger and dirt under his nails, so Jack figured he could probably use the Treasury Department-issued Andrew Jackson bookmarks that Jack had left inside.

Nothing to read. No CNN on the tube. No cell phones or laptop computer to check e-mails. The chewing gum lost its flavor in thirty seconds, and Jack kept himself busy folding the empty foil back into its original rectangular shape and trying to reinsert it into the paper sleeve. The flight to Cancun was already more than an hour late in boarding. Once in Mexico, they’d catch another flight for the final leg to Miami. Jack was sitting close enough to the check-in counter to notice dozens of other Americans with the same itinerary, all with great suntans, all without travel licenses-and all in defiance of the U.S. government’s trade embargo against Cuba.

“Lots of yanquis here,” said Jack.

Sofia had her nose in her magazine. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t understand it. How do they not get into trouble when they pass through U.S. customs with ‘ Cuba ’ stamped in their passport?”

“Simple. You fly to Cancun, then you hop another flight to Havana. The Cuban immigration guys know enough not to stamp your passport, but just make sure you put a ten-dollar bill inside when you hand it to them. You fly back to Cancun when you’re done, then back to the States. The U.S. government has no way of knowing that you were partying till dawn every night at the Copacabana. They think you were in Cancun. Honest to God, it’s that easy.”

“Sounds like the only idiots who get caught are the ones who come back with one of those goofy souvenirs that says, ‘My parents went to Cuba and all I got was this stupid T-shirt.’ ”

“Pretty much. Why do you think this trade embargo is such a joke?”

“Just bugs me,” said Jack. “People like those two slobs over there.”

“What about them?”

“I was listening to them when I bought my coffee. They were practically tripping over their own tongues, talking about how cheap and beautiful the girls are in Havana. Of course they’re cheap, you morons. Their own government is starving them to death.”

“You surprise me, Swyteck. It’s refreshing to know somebody who actually gives a rat’s ass about the girls with no choice but to come to the big city and sell their bodies to tourists.”