The return of Alejandro Pintado to the witness stand brought the courtroom to a complete hush. Technically, the prosecutor could have objected to Jack’s attempted rematch with the government’s star witness, but Torres held his tongue, apparently pleased to have an encore performance from the victim’s father. The jurors watched with the same sympathy and respect they had shown earlier, their admiration perhaps even greater than before. The woman in the first row probably would have kissed his ring, had Pintado offered. Jack, too, approached with some level of respect.

Sometimes, even disembowelment had to be done politely.

“Mr. Pintado, isn’t it true that Brothers for Freedom has given serious consideration to shutting down its operations?”

The witness gave him a quizzical look. “What time period are you talking about?”

“Over the last two years.”

“We had some discussions,” said Pintado. “Nothing definite. And as of late, there has been no talk of that at all. As long as Cubans come across the Florida Straits in search of freedom, our planes will be out there looking for them.”

Jack let him have his moment, then checked his notes for the details. “Sir, would it surprise you to know that from January to December of last year the U.S. Coast Guard interdicted over one thousand undocumented Cuban migrants at sea?”

“That would not surprise me at all.”

“How many Cubans did Brothers for Freedom rescue in that same year?”

He looked away awkwardly and said, “Two.”

“The year before that, the Coast Guard interdicted nine hundred Cubans. How many did Brothers for Freedom rescue?”

“That year? I think none.”

“In fact, if we exclude the current year and go back five years, Brothers for Freedom rescued a grand total of just eleven rafters. Isn’t that true, sir?”

“Well, you have to remember, we spotted far more than that. Unfortunately, the Coast Guard got to them and returned them to Castro before we could help them. That’s my whole objection to the wet-feet/dry-feet interdiction policy.”

“By wet feet/dry feet, you mean that if the Coast Guard interdicts Cuban rafters at sea, they are returned to Cuba. But if-”

“If they make it to dry land, they make it to freedom. That’s all my organization is trying to do. Get people safely to freedom.”

“And that’s why you referred to the U.S. Coast Guard as ‘Castro’s border patrol.’ ”

“I think their actions speak for themselves.”

“Okay. Now let’s get back to my original question. In five years, Brothers for Freedom rescued eleven Cuban rafters, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“This year, things have been different, have they not? Particularly in the first six months?”

“We’ve had more success, yes.”

“Much more success,” said Jack. “Through June of this year, a period of just six months, Brothers for Freedom rescued thirty-seven rafters.”

“Thirty-eight, actually. One of the women we rescued was eight months pregnant.”

“You must be proud of that.”

“I’m proud of all my people. We just keep getting better at what we do.”

“And more efficient, too,” said Jack. “Brothers for Freedom filed fewer FAA flight plans this year than in any previous year, has it not?”

“That’s true.”

“You purchased less fuel this year than in any previous year, correct?”

“That’s right,” said Pintado.

“And interestingly enough, according to INS estimates, the total number of rafters leaving Cuba is down by almost twenty percent this year when compared to previous years.”

“I don’t know the exact figures, but I can’t argue with those numbers.”

“So, even though you were flying less, and even though there were fewer rafters to be found, your rescues increased dramatically in the first six months of this year. All because you suddenly became better at what you were doing?”

“I think so, yes,” said Pintado.

“Or was it because you simply had better information?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Better information about what?”

“Better information about where the rafters were going to be…and where the Coast Guard wasn’t going to be?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” said the prosecutor. “There has been absolutely no evidence adduced at this trial to suggest that Mr. Pintado has a source at the U.S. Coast Guard.”

“Objection sustained.”

“Let me lay the proper foundation,” said Jack. He took a step closer and said, “Mr. Pintado, you testified earlier that your son’s best friend at the naval base was who?”

“Lieutenant Damont Johnson.”

“And which branch of service is Lieutenant Johnson in?”

He glared at Jack, then said quietly, “Coast Guard.”

Jack paused, not quite sure how far to press his point. Any jury had a low tolerance for bashing the victim’s family, but the chances of getting this witness back for a third round of questioning was virtually nil. Jack had to take his shot.

“One last question, sir. Since your son died in June-in other words, since Captain Pintado’s friendship with Lieutenant Johnson ended-how many undocumented Cuban migrants has Brothers for Freedom rescued at sea?”

Pintado seemed ready to strangle Jack. “None,” he said quietly.

It was the answer the defense needed, yet Jack hardly felt vindicated. He genuinely felt sorry for him, even sympathized with his views, but someone may well have decided that Mr. Pintado’s cause was a cause worth killing for, either in support or opposition. It was up to Jack to make the jury see that, even if he wasn’t ready to plunge into Theo’s drug theory.

But the groundwork had been laid.

“Thank you, sir,” said Jack. “No further questions.”

Trial ended midafternoon on Monday so that the judge could deal with an unspecified emergency, perhaps a crucial pretrial hearing in another case, perhaps a teenage daughter who’d locked her keys in the car. Jack stopped by the prosecutor’s office before heading for the parking lot. Torres gave him ten minutes alone, just the two of them.

“What is she looking for?” asked Torres. He was seated behind his desk, not a single scrap of paper on it. He’d obviously swept it clean before allowing the enemy into his office. Jack had always taken the same precaution as a prosecutor. There wasn’t a criminal defense lawyer in the business who couldn’t speed-read upside-down and backward.

“Excuse me?” said Jack from his seat in the armchair.

“Your client. I assume that’s why you’re here. What’s she looking for, manslaughter?”

“I’m not here to deal.”

“Good. Because the best I can do is murder one with life imprisonment. I’ll give up the death penalty.”

“Life’s a long time for an innocent woman.”

Torres let out a deep chuckle.

Jack kept a straight face. “You got the wrong defendant.”

“You got the wrong client.”

“Where’s Lieutenant Damont Johnson?”

Torres worked a pencil through his fingers like a miniature baton. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Funny how his name keeps coming up at trial. Never in a good light. I’d love to give him the opportunity to explain himself.”

“Not a chance.”

“Why are you hiding him?”

“Why are you after him?”

“Because I think he can tell the jury who really killed Oscar Pintado.”

Torres folded his hands atop his desk and looked straight at Jack. “I think the jury already knows who killed Oscar Pintado. Her name is Lindsey Hart.”

“I hear Johnson is in Miami.”

“What of it?”

“Are you holding him for rebuttal, or are you just trying to keep me from getting to him?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It’s totally my business,” said Jack. “So far, you’ve kept Johnson away from me, and you’ve even managed to keep me from talking to my own-” He stopped himself short of saying “my own son.” “Talking to my client’s own son,” he said, correcting himself. “Those are probably the two key witnesses in the case.”