“I say this to Cuban Americans, to the people of Cuba, to the whole world. Fidel Castro will regret the day that he sends one of his soldiers into a Miami courtroom to defend the woman who murdered my son.”

“Good for you,” said Abuela.

Oh, boy, thought Jack.

Pintado thanked the crowd, then kissed his wife and started back toward the house. The newscaster gave a quick recap of what had just happened, repeating over and over again what Pintado had just said, analyzing it to death, proving that Hispanic news was, in this respect, no different than traditional network journalism. The more Jack thought about what he’d just seen, however, the more the day’s events were beginning to make sense to him. The U.S. attorney may well be a close friend of his father’s, but Jack wasn’t about to be pushed around for the entire trial. He stepped out of the room, away from Abuela, then picked up the phone and dialed Torres at home.

“Hector, it’s Jack Swyteck here.”

“What can I do for you, son?”

“I’m not your son, and what you can do for me is explain that little stunt I just watched Mr. Pintado pull off on television.”

“Stunt? Whatever do you mean?”

“The judge issued a gag order. No one is supposed to be talking about the possibility of a Cuban soldier testifying on my client’s behalf.”

“Oh, lighten up, please. Gag order or not, you surely aren’t going to ask the judge to hold a grieving father in contempt for a one-sentence defense of his dead son.”

“That’s exactly what you were banking on, isn’t it?” said Jack.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the crap, Hector. I know your reputation. You choreograph everything. Alejandro Pintado isn’t saying anything to the media without your prior blessing.”

“Are you accusing me of circumventing the court’s gag order?”

That was exactly what Jack was doing, and ten years earlier, the old Jack Swyteck would have crawled through the phone line and spit right in the prosecutor’s eye. But experience had taught him to take a less accusatory approach. “Let me just say this. I found it quite surprising that the media was all over this story before any of us had even left the courtroom this afternoon. After all, my motion had been filed under seal. The only people who knew anything about the Cuban soldier were me, Sofia, the judge, and your office.”

“And the clerk’s office, of course. You know how careless those civil servants can be.”

“Yeah,” Jack said with sarcasm. “I’m sure it was the clerk’s office that leaked it.”

“Or maybe it was Castro who leaked it. Did you ever think of that, Jack? After all, you are his pawn.”

“ ‘Castro’s pawn.’ Interesting choice of words. Did you take them from the evening news, or did you also write the news script?”

“My dinner’s getting cold. It’s been nice chatting with you, Jack.”

“Sure. I’m glad we cleared this up. At least now I know what I’m up against.”

They exchanged a clipped good-night, and Jack hung up and returned to the television.

Abuela was still on the couch, riveted by the newscast. The coverage on Pintado was finally wrapping up, and the anchorman yielded to a meteorologist who looked like a high school intern from fashion school. Jack switched off the set. Abuela continued to stare at the blackened screen, as if not quite believing what she’d just watched.

“Are you okay?” asked Jack.

Her lips quivered ever so slightly. “I wish Señor Pintado had said something in your defense.”

“In my defense? I’m not on trial.”

“Is just that…my friends. What do I tell them?”

“No Castro, no problem?”

“You think this is joke? Many peoples will ask me questions. What do I say?”

“Tell them that your grandson is doing his job. And it’s going just fine.”

She sat up straight, as if searching for the fortitude to ask the next question. “Are you talking with the Cuban government?”

“Abuela, that’s privileged information. It’s between me and my client.”

“That sounds like ‘yes’ to me.”

“It’s not a yes. I just can’t talk about it with you.”

“There’s nothing you cannot talk about with your abuela.”

“Believe me, there are certain things-” He stopped. Abuela was giving him one of her patented looks, and Jack was suddenly struck with an idea. “There’s nothing we can’t talk about, you say?”

“Nada,” she said firmly.

“Okay. I want to talk about Bejucal.”

“What about Bejucal?”

“I went there. When Sofia and I were in Cuba.”

Her expression fell. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because…” A slight pang of guilt gnawed from the inside. He felt as if he was about to drop an anvil on her head. “Because I met with Celia Méndez’s younger sister.”

Abuela went white. Her voice tightened. “Did you have a nice talk?”

“Very nice.”

“What did you talk about?”

“My mother.”

“Why would you do that?” She had switched to Spanish, and Jack answered in kind.

“Because I want to know about her.”

“Jack, you don’t have to go to the Méndez family to find out about your mother. Everything you need to know about your mother, I can tell you.”

Their eyes locked, and Jack was suddenly drowning in a roiling mess of mixed emotions. He was angry that she hadn’t told him everything. Yet he felt sorry for this sweet old woman who was so proud, so Catholic, and so deeply entrenched in the moral dogma of another generation that she had no alternative but to lie to her own grandson, lest he think his own mother had been a loose woman. He leaned forward and softened his voice. “Abuela, I love you. I would never do anything to hurt you. But I want to know the truth.”

“What truth?” she said.

He was straining his limited knowledge of Spanish, but he wanted to put the question to her as softly as possible. Finally, he found the words, looked her in the eye, and asked, “Do I have a half brother or half sister in Cuba?”

Abuela caught her breath. Her bosom swelled, and for a moment Jack thought he might have to dial 911.

“Who told you that?”

“Felicia Méndez. Celia’s younger sister.”

“Why would you ask her about something like that?”

“I didn’t ask, I just-”

“Why are you doing this, digging up such stories?” she said in a shrill, racing voice. “Your poor mother, God rest her soul, what would she think? Why must her own son dishonor her memory?”

“I’m honoring her memory. I’m just trying to find out who she really was.”

Tears were streaming down Abuela’s cheeks, the wrinkles and worry lines directing the flow of her sorrow this way then that. Her voice quaked as she said, “I want you to stop this.”

“Stop what?”

She rose quickly, her arms waving. Her fist bounced off her chest as she somehow found a voice that scorched him. “I want you to stop breaking your grandmother’s heart!”

Jack wanted to say something, but he could come up with nothing. He watched in agony as she stormed out of the room, weeping. The door slammed when she reached her bedroom.

His gaze slid across the living room, toward the end table, until it finally settled on an old photograph of Abuela and Jack’s mother. They were hugging each other, smiling widely, turquoise surf and brightly colored beach umbrellas in the background. It was a happy photograph, a joyous time. But as the silence lingered, Jack felt a tightness in his chest that was already beginning to feel like lifelong regret. His mind kept coming back to the same thought.

Abuela had denied none of it.

I’m no longer an only child.