Hear No Evil

“I haven’t given it much thought,” said Jack.

“We’re sitting right on the other side of the razor wire. We watch them; they watch us. It’s the way the game is played in Guantánamo. Has been for forty years. So tell me: How did your little talk with the lieutenant go?”

“You don’t really expect me to discuss that with you, do you?”

He laughed heartily. “Just as I thought. He told you nada.”

“Colonel, what is it that you want from us?”

“Just a few minutes of your time.” He rose and started to pace, waving his cigar as he spoke. “Let me make a few educated assumptions here. One, the U.S. government didn’t let you talk to anyone but Lieutenant Johnson, did they?”

Jack didn’t answer.

“Two,” said the colonel, “anyone who might know anything about the murder of Captain Pintado has been reassigned, no? Persian Gulf, maybe? Or perhaps Guam?”

He glanced at Sofia and then at Jack. It was clear he didn’t expect an answer, but he didn’t seem to need one. “Seems to me that you are getting the brick house here.”

“Stonewall,” said his aide.

“Stonewall, yes. Brick house is something else entirely, no?” He was looking at Sofia with that last remark. Women served extensively in the Cuban military, but machismo was still alive and kicking.

Jack said, “Colonel, unless you’re going to put bamboo shoots under our fingernails, we’re not going to tell you what was said at the naval base. Even then, I’d just make it all up.”

“There’s nothing you need to tell me, Señor Swyteck. All you have to do is listen.”

“Okay. My ears are open.”

“Like I said, we know you met with Lieutenant Johnson, because we are watching that base constantly. Twenty-four/seven.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“Then it should come as no surprise that we saw-how shall I put this? We saw things of interest at your client’s home on the night the captain left this world.”

Jack’s interest was suddenly piqued. “I’d like to hear about it.”

The colonel flashed a sly smile, the smoldering cigar clenched between his teeth. “I bet you would.”

“Come on, Colonel. I hope you didn’t invite us in here just to play the ‘I know a secret’ game. What do you have?”

“A vigilant Cuban soldier. Watching from a guard tower through night-vision binoculars.”

“What did he see?”

“Something that can prove that your client did not murder her husband.”

Jack’s pulse quickened. Could this be true? “I need specifics,” said Jack.

“Not so fast. Before I offer up one of my own soldiers on a silver platter, I need to know: What are you offering in exchange?”

“Colonel, I’m in no position to deal with the Cuban military for the testimony of one of its soldiers.”

“I’m confident that the son of Florida ’s former governor will find something to please us.”

“I’m not looking to please you. And even if I were, the testimony of a Cuban soldier in a Miami courtroom will have huge repercussions. Need I remind you, Colonel, that this community nearly exploded over the return of a seven-year-old boy named Elián to his Cuban father?”

“Claro,” he said. “You simply have to ask yourself up front: Is the woman accused of killing the son of a powerful Cuban exile willing to stake her defense on the sworn testimony of Fidel Castro’s loyal soldier?”

The question nearly knocked Jack off his chair. The colonel had framed it perfectly. “I need some time to think this through,” said Jack.

“Bueno. You have twenty-four hours.”

“I’d like more than that.”

“I’m not offering more than that. Take it or leave it.”

Jack glanced at Sofia, and they quickly came to a silent understanding. Jack said, “All right, Colonel. Let’s talk again at tomorrow’s end.”

“Good. You’ve already missed your flight, so enjoy your little overnight visit in beautiful Havana. You are the honored guests of the people of Cuba.”

“Meaning you?” said Jack.

He smiled broadly, sucking on his cigar. “Sí. Meaning me.”

19

Four decades of communism had not robbed Havana of its heart. But it was badly in need of angioplasty.

Everywhere Jack looked, he could find things old, things broken, things that seemed straight out of a world that had existed before he was even born. They rode in a taxi that had the hood of a 1956 Chevrolet, the back end of a 1959 Ford, and the interior of something just a cut above an ox cart. Their driver was a surgeon who earned more in tips than practicing medicine. He gave Jack and Sofia a driving tour of La Habana Vieja (Old Havana), a historic section of a magnificent city that could be either charming or appalling, depending on how closely you looked. Jack tried to envision it as his mother might have seen it as a teenager, an architectural marvel that boasted some of the most impressive cathedrals, plazas, and colonial mansions in the Caribbean. Over eight hundred of its historically significant structures were built before the twentieth century, some dating back to the 1500s. But after decades of neglect, many of these irreplaceable structures had suffered irreversible damage, and recent restoration efforts aimed at bolstering tourism were simply too little, too late. Despite some convincing paint jobs and face-lifts, it was impossible to ignore the many sagging roofs and crumbling walls. Some parts of south La Habana Vieja resembled Berlin in late 1944, whole sections of walls missing, buildings on the verge of collapse but for the tenuous support of wood scaffolding, entire neighborhoods seemingly held together by crisscrossing ropes and wires from which residents hung the morning laundry.

An old woman on a third-floor balcony was hauling up a bucket on a rope.

“No plumbing?” Jack asked the the cabdriver.

“Not here, señor. If you go for walking, is muy importante that you look over you head. Is not so bad if you get spill from buckets going up. But the ones coming down…”

“Yo comprendo,” said Jack. I understand.

They continued west along the waterfront on the broad and busy Avenida Maceo, stopping at the Hotel Nacional. The driver would have been more than happy to continue the city tour, but Jack tipped him extra to cut it short.

“Gracias,” Jack said as he handed him a couple of twenties. It was about a month’s worth of wages for a physician.

Hotel Nacional was the vintage 1930 grand dame of Havana hotels, perched on a bluff with postcard views of Havana Harbor. Its architect had also designed the famous Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, and it was built in a similar Spanish style, entered via a long driveway that was lined with slender Royal Palms. The lobby screamed of opulence if not ostentatiousness, with mosaic floors, Moorish arches, and lofty, beamed ceilings. Jack looked around, saw the tourists at the bar sipping lime daiquiris and rum mojitos. He spotted another group of businessmen feasting on shrimp as big as their fists and lobster with drawn butter. He heard salsa music from the nightclub, the laughter of people dancing, the chatter of wealthy Europeans on holiday.

And then he heard the desk clerk’s reminder: “One last thing, señor. Locals are not permitted in the hotel. It’s the law, and I’m required to tell you that. So please don’t bring them here.”

“Sure thing,” said Jack. With bitter irony he was reminded of an old Miami tourism slogan: “ Miami -See It Like a Native.” Here, the slogan should have been “ Cuba -See It Like ANYTHING BUT a Native.”

Jack and Sofia took separate rooms on the recently refurbished sixth floor. Jack pulled back the curtains and opened the window to take in the view. A warm, gentle breeze caressed his face. Looking east he saw Havana Harbor, where the explosion of the Maine had sparked the Spanish-American War. Somewhere to the west, he knew, was the town of Mariel, the launching point for the infamous boatlift that had brought a quarter of a million Cubans-“Marielitos”-to Miami in the early 1980s. Most had assimilated just fine, but twenty-five thousand of them had come from Castro’s prisons, and at least one of them was convicted of murder again and had ended up on Florida ’s death row. Jack knew that one well, because the young and only son of Governor Harold Swyteck had been his lawyer-until he was executed in the electric chair.