50
Whoever coined the phrase “There’s no second bite at the apple” had obviously never heard of rebuttal.
Jack took his seat in the central courtroom knowing that a criminal trial rarely ended with the words “The defense rests.” The prosecution always had the right to call witnesses to rebut the case presented by the defense, and Lieutenant Johnson had given Hector Torres no other choice. Jack was quite certain that the U.S. attorney would call at least one witness in rebuttal, and Jack didn’t have to tell Lindsey who that one witness would likely be.
“Your Honor,” said Torres in a voice that filled the courtroom, “the United States of America calls Brian Pintado.”
The big double doors opened in the rear of the courtroom. At once, the eyes of the judge, the jury, and several hundred spectators were locked like radar on a ten-year-old boy.
“The witness will please come forward,” said the judge.
Slowly, Brian made his way down the center aisle escorted by the bailiff. His eyes darted left and right, as if in search of a friendly face in the crowd. He appeared nervous, as anyone would, especially a child. But from a distance-if Jack squinted and ignored the difference in height between Brian and the bailiff-he seemed amazingly mature. Brian was a young man, not a boy, looking sharp in his dark blue suit and burgundy tie as he walked bravely down the aisle. Still, Jack’s perception was clouded by vague and confusing memories of the child in the photographs Lindsey had showed him, Jack’s first images of his biological son. He recalled that evening outside Alejandro Pintado’s house, the first time he’d laid eyes on Brian in the flesh. He was just a carefree kid riding a bicycle at the end of a cul-de-sac, and Jack found himself wanting to cling to that image and never let go. This was a courtroom, however, not a playground, and Jack was beginning to feel like the proverbial parent who had blinked twice and missed it all-the first steps, the first words, the soccer games, the graduations, the whole shebang. Brian was growing up without him, as it should have been with adoption; but Jack couldn’t help feeling that someone was being cheated, if not himself, then Lindsey-if not Lindsey, then Brian. Kids grew up too fast, even without a murdered parent, and putting Brian on the witness stand would surely bleed away the last remaining drops of innocence from a tattered childhood.
If the smile of anticipation on Hector Torres’s lips was any indication, he didn’t seem to give a damn.
“Please raise your right hand,” the bailiff said.
Brian did as he was told, though he seemed slightly confused by the administration of the oath. The bailiff said it aloud, and a young woman signed it out for Brian, breaking down the barriers of lost hearing. Jack watched the woman’s gestures with interest, all that gibberish about “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” What could it possibly mean to a ten-year-old boy, be it in sign or the spoken word? It probably would have made more sense to pinky swear.
“I do,” said Brian.
It was the first time Jack had heard his voice. The speech was understandable, though far from perfect. His response was somewhere between “I do” and “Ah duh.”
“Please be seated,” said the judge.
The courtroom was silent as the prosecutor stepped forward. Brian wasn’t focused on Torres, or the jury, or the judge. Initially, it struck Jack as odd that the boy wasn’t even seeking out his mother, but then he realized that Brian was riveted to the sign interpreter, his connection to what was going on in the courtroom. A trial was scary enough for a child with hearing. For the deaf, the anxiety had to be even higher. It was understandable, therefore, that Brian wasn’t looking at his mother.
What was really odd was that Lindsey wasn’t watching her son.
The judge said, “Young man, I know this is all new to you. If you get tired or confused or need a break, you speak up and let me know. You understand?”
Brian waited for the sign interpretation, then said, “Yes, sir.”
The judge looked at the prosecutor and said, “Mr. Torres, proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Torres unbuttoned his suit coat and buried a hand in his pants pocket. He was trying hard to be nonthreatening, the exact opposite of the way he normally handled witnesses. “Good morning, Brian.”
“Good morning.” That time, he didn’t need the interpreter. He read Torres’s lips.
“First, let me say how sorry I am about the loss of your father. I know this is extremely painful for you, so I will try to be brief.”
There was a short pause for signing, then Brian thanked him. Torres took another step closer, now with both hands in his pockets. He spoke in a low voice, a hint of sadness in it, more paternal than prosecutorial. “Brian, is that your mother sitting over there?”
Again there was silence. Brian’s gaze slowly shifted toward the defense table, finally coming to rest on Lindsey. Jack saw no anger in his eyes, no animosity. Brian seemed to be pleading with his mother, as if asking for forgiveness.
Still, Lindsey wouldn’t look at him.
Brian said, “Yes, that’s my mom.”
“All right,” said Torres. “You understand that you have to tell the truth in this courtroom. It doesn’t matter who is watching.”
Jack didn’t like the implication that his client might encourage falsehoods, but he withheld his objection. There was no upside in jumping all over a kid who was merely acknowledging that he had to be truthful.
Brian said, “Yes, I will tell the truth.”
Torres paused, as if an ominous stretch of silence was the appropriate buildup for his next question. Finally, he asked in a grave tone, “Brian, did you shoot your father?”
Brian looked at his mother, and for the first time since the young witness had entered the courtroom, Jack’s client made direct eye contact with her son. It was almost imperceptible, and Jack wasn’t sure if he was actually seeing it or imagining it. But he could have sworn that Lindsey-ever so slightly-had shaken her head.
The boy looked at the prosecutor, then spoke directly to the jury. “No, I did not kill my father.”
“Thank you. No further questions.”
Torres turned and took his seat. Brian seemed ready to get up and leave, but Jack was quickly on his feet, which sent a clear message that the ordeal wasn’t over yet.
The judge said, “Mr. Swyteck, cross-examination?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Jack could manage only half steps as he approached the witness, as if his feet were weighted in blocks of cement. Brian looked terrified, and it sickened Jack to think that this was how they would meet, this was how he would introduce himself to his own flesh and blood, the big bad defense lawyer staring down a ten-year-old boy on the witness stand. Jack wondered who had selected Brian’s clothes, who had combed his hair, who had told him not to worry, that it would all be over soon. Jack wanted to cut through the tension and be a friend whom Brian could turn to. He wanted to wish away all the horrible things that had happened at the little house in Guantanamo. He wanted to lose the necktie, reach across the rail, and see if the kid wanted to arm wrestle him or do a round of rock, paper, scissors.
He wanted to do anything but what he had to do.
Jack took another step forward, pushing through that profound sense of dread, struggling to get a tighter grip on reality and find a stronger sense of purpose. This boy was a witness. Not just any witness, but a key witness for the prosecution. He was in this courtroom for one reason: to help the prosecutor put his mother in jail. It was Jack’s job to keep Brian’s mother out of jail, to keep Lindsey from taking the fall for her son.
“Good morning, Brian,” said Jack.
Brian was silent. He clearly didn’t want any part of Jack’s pleasantries, and the mistrust written all over his face only added to the tension that filled the courtroom. No one could have possibly envied Jack’s position, the lawyer forced to paint his client’s young son as a murderer. Yet, no one outside the defense team knew the full depth of Jack’s pain. No one else knew that Jack was up against his own child.
