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.”

“Did your husband have any idea how much you hated it there?”

“I didn’t hate it. But Oscar loved it. At least until the very end.”

“I guess it’s fair to say that you were going to be living in fear-as long as Oscar was alive.”

“I didn’t kill my husband in order to get off the island, if that’s your implication.”

“It’s not my implication. But it does tie in nicely with your motivation to get your hands on Oscar’s trust fund and to get off the island and enjoy life. We should expect the prosecution to play that angle.”

“It won’t work. Like I said, Oscar was beginning to have a change of heart before he died. He was making more and more comments about how it might be time for us to leave Guantánamo. Why would I kill him when he finally started to talk about leaving?”

“Did he put in for a formal transfer?”

“No.”

“Is there anyone but you who can substantiate the fact that he was thinking about leaving Guantánamo?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did you mention it to one of your friends? Maybe your friend in Washington? Nancy what’s her name. The one who is married to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

Lindsey bristled, seeming to realize that he was testing her. “I haven’t spoken to her in a very long time.”

“Good thing,” said Jack. “She’s dead.”

She averted her eyes and said, “I found that out only after I put on that little show for you at Deli Lane.”

“Lieutenant Johnson says you did the same show for him in Guantánamo. What’s it all about, Lindsey?”

She sighed, seemingly embarrassed. “Truth is, I did meet her once. And she did give me her phone number. We weren’t exactly girlfriends, and I admit, I did throw her name around a little, just for effect. It was wrong of me to do it, but…I don’t know. The military can be such a ‘who you know’ environment, and an officer’s spouse can feel like such an ornament. It does strange things to your self-esteem. Makes you do stupid things to try to impress people. I guess I did it with you, too. I’m sorry about that.”

“Lieutenant Johnson would have had me believe that you were walking around Guantánamo talking to dead people on your cell phone.”

“He’s such a jerk. First of all, I don’t talk to dead people. Second, it’s just like him to twist the story and say it was a cell phone, which is his way of making me look even crazier. Last time I checked, civilian cell phones aren’t much good in Guantánamo. It was a Palm Pilot, not a cell phone. But that’s the way he operates. Whenever he has something to hide, he goes on the offensive.”

“You’ve seen him do that before?”

“Sure. Here’s a perfect example. After Oscar was killed, I decided to stay at Guantánamo as long as possible. I wanted to be there, eyes and ears open, until I found out who the bastard was who came into our home and shot him. Lieutenant Johnson was one of the first to complain to Oscar’s commanding officer and say I should be kicked off the base because I was bad for morale.”