53

Jack was alone at the counter at Joe Allen’s Diner, eating a steak sandwich and fries for dinner, when his cell phone rang. It was Sofia.

“Jack, the jury’s back.”

He checked his watch: a few minutes past seven. The jury had been out nearly five hours. Marginal as to whether that was too quick to be good news. “Okay. I’ll meet you at the courthouse.”

He drove straight downtown and in fifteen minutes he was in the courtroom. The prosecutor was standing before the judge. Sofia was standing next to him. A few members of the media were in the public seating area, the die-hards who had decided to camp out at the courthouse until the jury returned its verdict. Jack started forward, but the judge was already stepping down from the bench and headed back to his chambers. Jack hurried down the aisle, and Sofia met him at the rail.

“False alarm,” she said. “No verdict yet. The jury just had a question for the judge.”

“What was it?”

“It had to do with the testimony of the Cuban soldier. They wanted to know what time of day he said it was when he saw Lieutenant Johnson go inside the Pintado house.”

“The judge should tell them to rely on their own recollection.”

“That’s exactly what the judge said he was going to do. He just wanted to call us all together to tell us that the question had been asked. I guess it’s a good thing they’re asking questions.”

Jack dismissed it. How many times in his years as a trial lawyer had he tried to divine whether it was a good or bad thing that a juror had asked a question, cracked a smile, nodded her head, or scratched his ass. “Yeah, I guess it’s a good thing,” said Jack.

“Lindsey’s holding up pretty well,” said Sofia, “considering.”

“That’s good,” said Jack. He was more worried about Brian, but that was for another day. He glanced across the courtroom and saw Hector Torres packing up to leave. He excused himself from Sofia, then caught up with the prosecutor.

“Hector, you got a minute?”

“Sure.”

“Let’s go someplace where we can talk, all right?”

Torres followed Jack to an attorneys’ conference room across the hall. Jack closed the door, but neither man took a seat. They stood on opposite sides of the table. “Your client want to plead?” said Torres.

“Depends on what you’re offering.”

“Same as before. Life in prison, no death penalty.”

“Then no deal.”

“Suit yourself. Nice and short meeting. Just the way I like them.” Torres started for the door.

“One other thing,” said Jack.

Torres stopped to face him. “What?”

Jack’s mouth opened, but it was as if the words needed a little time to catch up with his thoughts. “I spoke with a man named El Pidio today.”

“El Pidio?” he said, showing no recognition.

“It’s a nickname. You might know him better as Dr. Blanco.”

The expression drained from the prosecutor’s face. His voice tightened, but he was suddenly unconvincing. “Why would I know that name?”

“Because he’s the physician who delivered your child in Cuba. My mother’s first child.”

Torres averted his eyes, then took a half step back. A thin smile came to his lips, as if he were proud that he’d managed to keep his secret this long. “Have you spoken to your father yet?”

“No.”

“You spoken to anyone?”

“I think it’s my turn to ask the questions.”

The prosecutor laid his briefcase on the table, and then he extended his arms outward, as if he were an open book. “What would you like to know?”

“Actually, there isn’t all that much left to find out. Dr. Blanco was a wealth of information.”

Jack saw through the cool veneer, saw the concern in the other man’s eyes. Torres asked, “What did he tell you?”

“One of the things that has always haunted me was the fact that my mother died when I was born. So you can imagine how curious I must have been when I found out that her first child died on the day he was born. Seemed like a strange coincidence. Too strange.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“I think you do, now that I’ve talked to Dr. Blanco. See, my mother died from preeclampsia. It’s a condition that can be fatal to the mother or the child. If the pregnancy goes to full term-like my mother’s did with me-it’s more often fatal for the mother. If the baby is born premature-like my half brother-it’s more often fatal for the baby.”

“Well, congratulations. You’ve just solved a mystery that means nothing to anyone. Except you.”

“And you,” said Jack.

“This has nothing to do with me. Your mother was already dead when I came to Miami.”

“That’s the point. She didn’t have to die. It was Dr. Blanco’s opinion that my mother should have no more children after the death of her first. Her pregnancies were too high risk.”

“Then she should have followed her doctor’s advice.”

Jack looked at him coldly. “He never gave her that advice.”

“That’s the doctor’s problem, isn’t it.”

“No. It’s yours. He said you wouldn’t let him tell her.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“She was a teenager. Unmarried and pregnant. You told Dr. Blanco that you were the father, that you intended to marry her and make an honest woman out of her. But only if she could give you children, especially another son.”

“I don’t remember any of that.”

“Well, maybe you’ll remember this. He said that you put a knife to his throat and threatened to slit him open from ear to ear if he told my mother not to have any more children.”

Torres shook his head, but his demeanor changed, as if he no longer saw the point of denial-at least not as long as it was just the two of them behind closed doors. “I was nineteen years old,” he said, as if that was an excuse.

“My mother was twenty-three when she died.”

Torres said nothing, showed no emotion.

Jack said, “I always thought she came to this country seeking freedom. She came here to get away from you, didn’t she?”

“I loved your mother.”

“No, you loved controlling her.”

“I loved your mother and wanted to have a family with her. Is that a crime?”

“You followed her to Miami.”

“I came here on my own.”

“You befriended my father just so you could find out more about her.”

“So what if I did? Big deal. I carried a torch.”

“A torch? More like a flamethrower. You were obsessed.”

“That’s absurd.”

“You visited her grave.”

“Somebody needed to. God knows your father didn’t.”

“This isn’t about my father.”

“I put flowers on her grave. Big damn deal.”

“Flowers my ass. I know what you did there.”

Torres went rigid. He clearly had grasped the meaning of that last remark, knew that Jack had spoken to his ex-wife. “I don’t have to listen to this crap.”

Jack grabbed him by the lapel, shoved him against the wall.

“What are you gonna do, hit me? Is that what you want to do?”

Jack tightened his grip. He did want to hit him. He wanted to hit him hard enough to knock him back to Cuba.

Torres was having trouble breathing, Jack was pushing so hard against him. “What good would it have done?” the prosecutor said, his voice strained. “What if I had let that doctor tell your mother not to have any more children. Where would that leave you, huh, Jack? You would never have been born. You got nothing to hold against me. You should be thanking me.”

There was truth in what he said, but not the kind of truth that made Jack want to forgive him. Jack, however, wasn’t sure how it made him feel. There was just a surge of emotion. The sadness of his never having known his mother. The frustration of pulling snippets of information from his father and grandmother over the years. The utter dismay of learning that he hardly knew anything important about her. But mostly he felt anger-anger over the fact that, with or without Hector Torres, there had never been a chance for Jack and his mother to enjoy any kind of happy ending. At least not in the 1960s. One of them was destined to be buried, Jack or his mother, his mother or Ramón. There was still no one to blame, no clear culprit. Just this pathetic excuse for a human being standing before him.