ground tombs. This place was to cemeteries what Manhattan was to skylines. Most of the memorials appeared quite old, many dating back to the nineteenth century. Jack grabbed a map at the entrance, deposited a small monetary donation, and ventured inside.
“Can I help you?” a man said in Spanish.
Jack stopped and looked up from his map. He was an older man, dressed in coveralls and a baseball cap. A thick mustache made it difficult to see his mouth, and crescents of sweat extended from the under-arms of his T- shirt. From the dirt on the man’s knees Jack assumed he was part of grounds maintenance.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said. “An address, actually.”
The man was clearly struggling with Jack’s Spanish, but English was apparently not an option. “An address?” he said.
“Yes. My grandmother told me to go to L thirty-seven.”
Jack offered his map. The man stepped closer, gave it a quick look, and said, “The cemetery is divided into many different rectangular blocks. The letter tells you the area. The number is the plot.”
Jack’s heart sank. L-37 was definitely not a building. So much for finding his half sibling alive. “Can you take me to it, please?”
“Sure,” the man said.
Jack followed him down a wider path of pea gravel. They passed countless tombs, many adorned with angels, griffins, or cherubs. A few graves were brightened by fresh-cut flowers, but the most impressive splashes of pink, orange, and other flaming colors came from bougainvillea vines and hibiscus bushes that had been planted many years earlier, probably by mourners who had since found permanent rest here. Finally, they came to a tomb that was blanketed with fresh flowers, everything from begonias and orchids to African wild trumpet, scores of bouquets that had been laid neatly on top of the tomb and all around it. The man stopped, and Jack stood beside him. They watched in silence as a young woman laid a yellow bouquet of corteza amarilla near the headstone. Then she crossed herself, rose from her knees, and stepped away. She walked backward, which was odd, never turning her back on the tomb.
The man whispered, “This is La Milagrosa.”
Jack had to think about the man’s words for a moment, but he was pretty sure that they meant the Miraculous One. “Who is La Milagrosa?”
“She was a young woman who died in childbirth in 1901.”
Jack felt a chill. His mother had died in childbirth. “Why all the flowers?”
“Because of the legend,” the man said. “She was buried with her stillborn child at her feet. But many years later, when her tomb was opened, the baby was found cradled in her arms.”
Jack glanced at the young woman stepping backward from the tomb. “Who is that?”
“Another young woman. One without children, for sure. For years they have come here to pay their respects, and to pray in hopes of having children of their own. But you must never turn your back on La Milagrosa. So she walks backward.”
Jack watched a while longer, unable to feel anything but sorrow and pity. The woman seemed more pained than hopeful, but she continued to pray aloud as she put one foot behind the other in her reverent retreat. Finally, she disappeared behind a mausoleum.
“Is this L thirty-seven?” asked Jack.
“No, no. These graves are much older than the ones in Section L. Come.”
They walked along a shaded path until they came to a small clearing. The groundskeeper paused, as if to get his bearings, then continued to the east. The stone markers became less impressive, newer than the ones in the previous sections but hardly new. Most of the departed here had died before Jack was born.
“Here it is,” said the groundskeeper.
Jack stopped and looked down at the plain white headstone. It was about the size of a child’s pillow, no carvings or embellishments of any kind. There was a first name but no last. No traditional born-on/died-on date, either. There was just one date. It read simply:
Ramon
17 Febrero 1961
It was a sobering moment. Jack read it over and over again, but there was only one way to read it. Slowly, almost without thinking about it, he got down on his knees. The coolness of green grass pressed through his trousers. His index finger ran along the grooves on the headstone, tracing the name and the date. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel. Mostly, he felt empty, drained of all emotion.
“Ramon,” he whispered. That was his name. He’d lived all of one day.
Jack tried to conjure up an image of the infant, but it wouldn’t come. He was powerless to envision this little person he had never known, but not because he didn’t care. He was suddenly consumed by his own feelings for the mother he had never known, and there simply wasn’t room in his heart for anything or anyone else. It was all so confusing. He knew her better now, having visited this place, but he didn’t feel any better. Ana Maria had given birth to two children. Her first son died on the day he was born, but the mother lived. Her second son lived, but the mother died on day of his birth.
Why? was all he could ask.
Perhaps it was the skeptical lawyer in him, or maybe it was just the anger of a boy who had lost his mother. But Jack couldn’t decide if all this sadness was simply the cruelty of fate…or if something suspicious was at work.
“I will leave you alone now,” said the groundskeeper.
“Thank you,” said Jack, but that word hung in the air. Alone. At that painful hour, it seemed to be right where Jack belonged.
Forever, alone.
29
It was the day before trial, and Jack was on the receiving end of a steely glare from Judge Garcia. If he didn’t say something soon, those two burning lasers might zap him into legal oblivion. For the moment, however, he could only sit quietly as the U.S. attorney spoke to the judge in the crowded old courtroom.
“This is utterly an outrage, Your Honor,” said Torres. “Brian Pintado is just ten years old. A very impressionable age. He has already suffered the untimely death of his father. Someday, he will have to come to terms with the fact that it was his own mother who took his father’s life. In the meantime, his grandparents are doing the very best they can to provide a normal, nurturing environment for him. And yet, these defense lawyers”-he gestured accusingly toward Jack and Sofia, his tone filled with disdain-“these so-called officers of the court persist in contacting the Pintado household in their undying effort to coerce this child into meeting with them.”
Jack rose and said, “Judge, if I may say something, please.”
“Sit down, Mr. Swyteck! You’ll have your turn.”
Jack sank into his seat. It was humiliating under any circumstances to be rebuked by the judge, but it was especially demeaning in a courtroom that was overflowing with spectators. Worse still, most of them were the media.
The prosecutor seemed to swell with confidence. “Thank you, Judge. As I was saying, Brian Pintado has no desire to talk to these lawyers. Before her arraignment, Lindsey Hart agreed that her son could stay with his grandparents during her incarceration, and it is completely against their wishes that Brian meet with these lawyers. The rules of criminal procedure give the defense no right to depose this child. Nor do the rules require Brian to meet with the defense lawyers on an informal basis. Frankly, Judge, someone needs to send a message to Mr. Swyteck and his cocounsel that enough is enough. The answer is no. Go away. Good-bye. Brian Pintado is not going to talk to them.”
The prosecutor cast one more disgusted look toward Jack, then returned to his seat.
The courtroom was silent, yet Jack had the distinct impression that if this had been the English House of Commons the backbenchers would have been shuffling their feet and muttering their approval with a resounding chorus of “Here, here!”
