“Do you think there’s anything a man shouldn’t know about his wife?”
Harry paused, as if bowled over by the question. “If a man asks his wife a question, he should get the truth.”
“What if he doesn’t ask? Should someone tell him?”
“You mean should his wife tell him?”
“No. Let’s say she can’t. Should someone else tell him? Someone who knows the truth.”
Harry seemed somewhere between confused and suspicious. “What’s this about, son?”
Jack was speechless. What would he possibly tell his father? That Ana Maria had borne a son who died in Cuba? That she, herself, never would have died if Jack had never been born? That she would have known the dangers if it hadn’t been for her obsessive old boyfriend-Harry’s old friend, Hector Torres? Thirty-six-year-old memories were all Harry Swyteck had of his first wife. Jack was at a loss for any good reason to trample all over them, but he still wasn’t sure how to handle it.
Jack said, “I’ve been thinking of Lindsey Hart, all the horrible things that came out at trial. The way Oscar treated her. If she’s acquitted and remarries, would her new husband want to know all the details? Would he have a right to know?”
“I suppose that knowing those things could help him understand her fears, her moods. If it would make the new marriage stronger, then he should know.”
“But knowing just for the sake of knowing-”
“What’s the point? It’s like looking your wife in the eye on your deathbed, after fifty years of marriage, and telling her that you kissed another woman forty-nine years ago. It doesn’t accomplish anything, unless your goal is to break her heart.”
“Exactly,” said Jack, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “So, if it were you, you wouldn’t want to know all those details.”
Harry laid his five iron aside. His confusion was tipping more toward suspicion. “Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”
Jack was searching for clues in his father’s eyes-a need to know, a desire to know. He saw nothing of the sort. But Jack suddenly felt something from within, a realization that there comes a point in every child’s life when it’s no longer time for the parent to watch out for the child, that it’s the child who protects the parent.
“No, nothing,” said Jack. “Like I said, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to Brian Pintado and his mother.”
“You sure that’s what this is about?”
The answer didn’t come right away, but Jack spoke as firmly as he could. “Yeah. I mean, the whole thing is such a mess, and it will only get more complicated as Brian gets older. What’s he going to think about his mother a few years down the road?”
Harry studied his son’s expression, as if sensing that Jack had subtly changed the subject from what a husband should know about his wife to a son’s feelings toward his mother. But the older man let it go. “It will depend on what the jury’s verdict is, I suppose.”
“Hopefully, she’ll be acquitted.”
“Then what? Will the juvenile authorities come after Brian for murdering his father?”
Jack was silent. That was something he didn’t want to think about. “Hard to say. It’s not as if Brian came right out and confessed to the murder on the witness stand.”
“You took him to the brink, though. Got him to admit that he wished his father was dead.”
They exchanged glances. The estrangement was over between this father and son, but even the distant past never completely washed away. Neither one said a word, but Jack knew they were sharing the same thought: As a boy, how many times had Jack gotten angry at his old man and told him flat out, “I wish you were dead”?
“Kids have those thoughts and don’t mean it,” said Jack.
“Yes,” said Harry. “That’s true.”
More silence. Then Harry took a half step closer and laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m proud of what you did in that courtroom. You took a tough case, and you did one hell of a job. However it turns out, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Thanks.” Jack smiled flatly as he watched his father pick up his driver and tee up another ball. Harry hit a couple, and Jack was about to walk away. But there was one thing he just had to say. “Dad?”
“Hmm,” said Harry. He was adjusting his stance, head down.
“Hector Torres is not your friend.”
Harry swung through, never taking his eyes off the ball. “You think I don’t know that?”
“You know?”
“I’ve known for over thirty years, Jack. Never been able to put my finger on it. But believe me, I know a phony- baloney when I see one.”
He knew. But he didn’t know.
Harry said, “Why do you mention it? Did Torres double-cross you or something?”
“You might say that.”
“Well, don’t hold back because you think he’s my old buddy. You tee right up and give him exactly what he deserves.” Harry smacked the ball with all his might. It sailed on a rope and landed just in front of the two- hundred-fifty-yard marker.
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll definitely do that.”
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.”
