The reporter persisted, pushing closer. “So why do you think the defense is making those accusations?”

What accusations? thought Jack. He hadn’t spoken to anyone.

Torres seemed to compose a response in his mind before speaking. “I don’t presume to vouch for Jack Swyteck’s integrity, but I’ve been friends with his father for three decades. I have to assume that some of the old man’s class has rubbed off, in which case Jack would never make a half-cocked accusation like that. So, until I actually hear it from the horse’s mouth, I’m going to treat those alleged accusations as mere rumors that don’t deserve a response.”

The taped segment ended, and the anchorwoman was back on screen. Jack switched to another channel, then another, but they had all moved on to other news. He could have called Torres to assure him that those accusations from “the defense team” hadn’t come from him, but he was content to leave it exactly the way Torres had played it: rumors.

He switched to ESPN, and the phone rang. It was Sofia. She’d seen the same broadcast, the same talk of accusations from the defense.

“Did you hold a press conference and forget to tell me about it?” she asked.

“No. Did you?”

“You know me better than that by now.”

He did. His entire career, Jack had choreographed every aspect of trial, from the number of times the defendant looked at the jury during direct examination, to the exact words that any member of the defense team uttered to the press. Sofia wouldn’t undermine him on this point.

Jack said, “I’m sure that reporter was just baiting him, attributing pure rumors to the defense team.”

“Clearly,” she said. “But I’m beginning to think that somebody should stand up and give Torres what he deserves.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

Sofia said, “You think Torres knew all along that the boy did it?”

“No. I think he knew that if Johnson was pushed, he’d blame it on the boy. That’s why he kept Johnson hidden away from us. But he still doesn’t believe that Brian did it. I’m sure of that.”

“Do you want to get together tonight? Plan for Torres’s rebuttal?”

“Not unless you were able to talk Lindsey into meeting with us.”

“Sorry. She just wants to be alone tonight.”

“Can’t say I blame her. Everything she’s worked for over the past two months, every lie she’s ever told us, just came crashing down on her head. Or, I guess I should say Brian’s head.”

There was silence on the line, as if Sofia wasn’t sure what to say. Finally, she said, “Are you going to be okay, Jack?”

Jack was staring at the television. Basketball on ESPN Classics. To think, just a few days earlier he’d harbored secret thoughts of taking Brian over to the gym, maybe a little game of one-on-one. It could have been fun to play with someone who didn’t maul you on the way to the basket the way Theo did. Not to be.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll be okay.”

“Call me if you need anything. Or if you just want someone to talk to.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She said good-bye, and Jack hung up the phone. He drew a breath, but before he could exhale, the phone was ringing again. He picked it up and said, “Yes, Sofia?”

“You sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Do I sound like I’m not okay?”

“You sound a little like someone who’s trying too hard to sound okay, or someone who’s okay now but who probably won’t be once he sits down and really thinks about what happened.”

Jack looked at the phone, incredulous. The last time he’d had a conversation like this, he was married. “I’m okay.”

“Okay enough to do something?”

“Do something about what?”

“You ever been to Casa Tua’s on the beach? They have a great tapas bar upstairs. I won’t even talk about the case, if you don’t want to. I feel so bad for you. What you went through today was just awful. Sitting at home alone is only going to bring you down even more.”

“Thanks. Maybe another night.”

“Okay. Give me a call if you change your mind.”

“Sure. Good night.”

He hung up, then closed his eyes as the cushy leather armchair almost swallowed him whole. The phone rang the instant his body came to rest. He answered with just a hint of annoyance in his tone.

“ Sofia, I swear on my mother’s grave I’m totally okay.”

The caller hesitated, then said, “Is this Jack Swyteck?”

Jack straightened in his chair. “Yes, sorry. I thought you were someone else. Who is this?”

“My name is Maritza Rodriguez. Formerly Maritza Torres.”

“You must be Hector’s-”

“I’m Hector Torres’s ex-wife.”

Jack was going to guess daughter, just to be nice, though the voice sounded plenty old. “How can I help you?”

“I’d like to meet with you,” she said.

“What about?”

“I’ve been following this trial from day one. I have to say, I’ve wondered all along if Hector had the right person. Then I saw the way he treated your client, and all doubts vanished. That poor woman. But that’s just like Hector. Always treating the victim like the criminal, especially when it comes to an abused woman.”

“Is there something you want to tell me about the case?”

“You might say that. I was just watching the evening news. When I saw my ex-husband mention his long-time friendship with your father, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to say something.”

“About what, exactly?”

“About…” Her voice trailed off, as if she weren’t sure how Jack would react. “It’s about your mother.”

Jack froze. He had plenty on his mind, and tomorrow he had to contend with whatever Torres deigned to throw at him in rebuttal. But he’d been around long enough to know that people who were eager to talk tonight weren’t always willing to talk tomorrow.

“I’d love to talk to you, Mrs. Rodriguez. Just tell me where you want to meet.”

Jack met Maritza Rodriguez at her house in Pinecrest.

South Florida wasn’t the birthplace of “McMansions”-multi-million-dollar spreads so cookie cutter in design that they bordered on tract housing for the filthy rich-but it had certainly run with the concept. Whole neighborhoods had succumbed to the bulldozer, vintage 1950 shoe boxes replaced by nine-thousand-square-foot Mediterranean-style megahomes in which twenty-foot ceilings, walls of windows, and four-figure monthly A/C bills came standard.

Jack was seated on the leather couch in the great room. It was supposed to be the heart of the house, but like most of these new houses he’d visited, it had a sterile feeling-Saturnia floors, ecru walls, crown moldings so high that you needed a telescope to see the dentil details. Behind Mrs. Rodriguez was a shiny black grand piano, another McMansion staple, as if a musical instrument that no one in the house knew how to play would somehow warm up the icebox.

“My ex-husband had a thing for your mother,” she said as she peered over the rim of her coffee cup.

Jack tried not to appear shocked. “That must have been a long time ago,” said Jack. “My mother died when I was born.”

“It was many, many years ago, before Hector and I even met. Before Hector came to this country.”

“It’s funny you mention this now,” said Jack. “A friend recently told me that Hector bears a strong resemblance to my mother’s old flame in Bejucal. The guy swears it was Hector Torres.”

“He’s probably right.”

“Only problem is, the guy’s name was Jorge Bustón. Not Hector Torres. Unless Hector changed his name.”

“Not to my knowledge,” she said. “People did do that, of course. Especially those who took a very vocal role against the Cuban government when they got here. If you left family back in Cuba, changing your name was a good way to keep your loved ones from being persecuted for your own anti-Castro activity waged in exile. But Hector never mentioned anything to me about changing his name.”