of rubberneckers, simply drawn to all the commotion. Others were with the media, reviewing notes, toting cameras, and primping their hair, all of which was accomplished with the journalistic fancy footwork needed to keep from tripping over their own tangle of cords and wires. The largest numbers, and the obvious reason for the strong police showing, were those marching in protest. It was a mob scene, hundreds of people pushing toward the courthouse entrance. They were restrained by wooden barricades and row after row of police, some mounted on bicycles or horseback. One demonstrator had climbed halfway up a lightpost, and as Jack and Sofia emerged from the building, he waved to the crowd and shouted something in Spanish that must have been the equivalent of “There they are!” Instantly, a sea of angry fists shot into the air, and the crowd began to shout the messages that were displayed on their signs and banners, most of which were in Spanish.
“Mr. Pintado, we love you!”
“We want Justice for Cubans, Not Lies from Cuban Soldiers!”
“Cuban Americans are AMERICANS!”
“No Castro, No Problema!”
Jack wasn’t exactly sure how the last one fit in, but this was, after all, Miami.
“Holy cow,” Sofia whispered into Jack’s ear. It was an almost involuntary reaction to the gathering in the parking lot across the street. Dozens of mobile media vans were stationed there, many with microwave towers and satellite dishes. The call letters painted boldly on the vehicles identified about an equal number of English-and Spanish-language radio and television stations.
“Just keep walking,” Jack told Sofia.
The crowd followed right on their heels, shouting and waving their signs as the defense team descended the granite stairs. Jack could feel their momentum gathering as they passed beneath the trees in the courtyard, and an armada of television cameras greeted them at the wide sidewalk. Questions and microphones popped up from everywhere.
Jack had anticipated a crowd, but nothing like this. Nonetheless, he stuck to his original plan and turned to face the television cameras. He wasn’t the consummate politician that his father was, but he still showed signs of the Swyteck gift when addressing the media, a honed skill that made it seem as though he was looking the whole world directly in the eye when in reality he wasn’t actually focused on anyone.
Jack said, “On the eve of this important trial, it is important for us all to remember that no one is grieving more for the loss of Captain Oscar Pintado than his son, Brian, and his wife of twelve years, Lindsey. Lindsey was extremely proud of her husband’s service in the U.S. Marine Corps, and I’m proud to be her lawyer. We all look forward to her complete acquittal on all charges and the clearing of her good name. Thank you.”
The reporters shouted a series of follow-up questions, but the moment Jack finished his statement, a sedan pulled up at the curb and stopped directly behind him and Sofia. The door flew open. Jack and Sofia offered no further comment as they climbed into the backseat. The door closed, and, had it not been for the police, the mob would have been climbing onto the hood. The vehicle inched forward, and crowd patrol finally managed to clear an opening. The sedan pulled away and headed for the expressway.
Theo was behind the wheel.
“Don’t speed,” said Jack. “But don’t waste any time getting out of here.”
“No problem, boss.”
Sofia glanced through the rear window to check out the crowd they’d left behind. “Wow. I feel like a celebrity.”
“Get used to it,” said Jack.
“Does this mean there’ll be groupies?” said Theo.
Jack rolled his eyes. “Just drive, Theo.”
Theo managed to catch a string of green lights, and the car seemed to jump onto the expressway as they hit the on ramp. In minutes they were cruising down I-95, away from downtown Miami, and then over to Key Biscayne via the Rickenbacker Causeway.
Key Biscayne was like another world, which was why Jack lived there. It was an island paradise, practically within the shadows of Miami ’s skyscrapers, yet far enough removed from the chaos that he could enjoy the city views without being constantly reminded of work. They rode in silence until Jack could decompress. There was no one better than Theo at figuring out when Jack was ready to talk, and by the same token, there was no one more blatant about not giving a shit whether Jack was ready to talk or not.
“So, how’d it go?” said Theo.
“How did it look?” said Jack.
“Like the los quinces party from hell,” said Theo.
Sofia chuckled, recalling her own special fifteenth-birthday bash, which had been completely overdone in the grandest of Cuban traditions.
Jack wasn’t laughing. He was focused on the emergency vehicles at the end of the otherwise quiet residential street. Two yellow fire trucks were blocking traffic. A tangle of rock-hard fire hoses were strewn across the wet pavement. Firefighters stood at the ready around the taped-off perimeter, and a menacing plume of black smoke billowed upward from the south side of the street. A team of four was aiming a fully activated hose and dousing an automobile with a powerful stream of water. Jack nearly gasped. The emergency was directly in front of his house.
“Shit!” said Theo. “That’s your Mustang, Jack!”
Theo slammed on the brakes. The three of them jumped out of the sedan and ran to the edge of the street. Some onlookers had already gathered on the sidewalk. Jack pushed his way past them, but a police officer stopped him cold.
“That’s my car!” said Jack.
The cop shrugged. “You mean was your car. Nothing you can do for it now, pal. Just stay back.”
Jack couldn’t move. He’d bought that old car with his first few paychecks out of law school. It was the only thing he’d gotten in his divorce from Cindy. It was the one thing in his lonely life that could pull him out of the office and force him, literally, to take the scenic route.
And now it was a flaming hot shell of charred metal.
He glanced at Theo, and he’d never seen such sadness in his friend’s eyes. He was the only person on the planet who had loved that Mustang even more than Jack.
Jack stared in disbelief, saying nothing. Then he noticed something in the driveway alongside the car. He was watching from across the street, so he couldn’t make it out at first. But after cutting the glare with his sunglasses he could plainly see that someone had spray-painted a message in red letters on the asphalt, presumably before they’d torched the vehicle. It took Jack a moment to read the upside-down letters, and then finally it clicked.
CASTRO LOVER was all it said.
Theo looked at him and said, “Son of a gun, the fun has begun.”
The flames began to falter. The firefighters had the blaze under control, and they were just a few hundred gallons of water away from turning a spectacular bonfire into worthless remains.
“Yeah,” said Jack. “Sure looks that way.”
30
The United States of America calls Alejandro Pintado.”
With those ominous words from U.S. attorney Hector Torres, the case against Lindsey Hart was officially in high gear.
It had taken three days to select a jury. With over fifty percent of the county’s population foreign-born, everything about Miami was a mix, and juries were no different. Not even Sigmund Freud could have divined the psychological interplay of race, culture, language, and politics. As a defense lawyer, you didn’t try to be everything to everybody. You simply created enough reasonable doubt so that there was something for somebody to cling to, which was exactly the way Jack had played it during jury selection and his opening statement.
Now, it was show time.
“Mr. Pintado, please approach,” said the judge.
