The Beggar's Opera (16 page)

“Yes, of course. You can come by whenever it’s convenient.” He gave her the address.

“Thanks. I’ll be there shortly.”

About ten minutes later, as Ramirez looked out his office window, he saw a tall woman with shoulder-length dark hair and a brown briefcase walk up the path to his building. She
took a digital camera out of her purse and stopped to photograph the police headquarters. With the palm trees in front and a green lawn rimmed with purple wisteria, the building was very beautiful. Too bad that photographing Cuban police institutions was illegal. Ramirez wondered how long it would take before an officer stopped her. He took a quick look at his watch and wagered less than ten seconds.

At the eight-second mark, a
policía
ran over, shouting and waving his arms. He stood over the woman until she deleted the photograph from her camera. That was as close to a real crime as the policeman would see that day, thought Ramirez. Foot patrol was an exercise in managing expectations. At least he didn’t confiscate it. Ramirez doubted so nice a camera would ever find its way into the exhibit room.

The woman, appearing shaken, walked through the gates to the sign that directed visitors to a button for the intercom. A few minutes later, the guard at the front door called up to say Ramirez had a visitor. Ramirez asked him to escort the woman upstairs to the Major Crimes Unit on the second floor.

When she came in, Ramirez smiled and shook her hand. He decided to start things off with a little charm.

“I was not expecting them to send such an attractive woman.” Which she certainly was. “Welcome to Havana. May I get you some coffee to begin your day?”

“I would love a coffee, thank you.”

Ramirez called out to Sanchez, who had just walked in the door. A few minutes later, the younger man brought in two steaming cups of coffee. Real coffee, from the exhibit room, not cut with chickpea flour like the rationed coffee they drank at home.

“Detective Sanchez makes the best coffee in the police force. We prize this quality almost as much as his investigative skills, which are also excellent.”

Sanchez made an expression that almost passed for a smile and put the cups down on Ramirez’s desk. He closed the door behind him tightly.

“How was your flight?” Ramirez inquired.

“Fine,” she replied. “There were quite a few seats, luckily. I don’t think too many tourists book flights for Boxing Day.

No, thought Ramirez, we have nothing to sell. “
Su acento es muy bueno
,” he said. Your accent is very good.

“
Gracias. Su inglés es muy bueno también.
” Your English is very good, too.

“My mother was American, Señora Jones. She married my father just after the revolution. I’m sure it was considered scandalous at the time, on both sides. She has almost forgotten that she once knew English. I rarely get to practice it here.”

“Well, you’ve certainly kept it up,” Jones said.

“Thank you.” Ramirez inclined his head, accepting the compliment. “It’s something I have to work at. But you are not here to discuss my linguistic abilities, nor me yours. You are here to provide legal counsel to Señor Ellis.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged. “But I wanted to speak to you first. I have almost no background information about these charges. Before I meet with my client, can you provide me with some details and the basis for the charges? And may I take notes?”

“Of course,” Ramirez assured her, as he brought out his file. He cast his eyes longingly on the pencil she pulled from her briefcase.

“In other words, a slam dunk,” Celia Jones said, once Inspector Ramirez finished his summary of the evidence.

“I am sorry? I do not know that phrase.”

“My apologies. It’s a basketball analogy. It means you have a very strong case.”

“Yes, I think we do.”

Jones paused for a minute. “Have you found the murder weapon?”

“No,” Ramirez admitted. “It was probably thrown into the ocean.”

“How was the body moved?”

“We assume by car.”

“Did my client rent any vehicles during his stay?”

“Not that we know of, Señora Jones,” the inspector conceded. “But we are still looking into that.”

“So someone else was involved in this crime?”

“We are entertaining that possibility.”

“If my client is convicted, what penalty will you seek?”

“That will be up to the Attorney General, but almost certainly the death penalty. Your client murdered the boy shortly after savagely raping him. A death sentence could be commuted if your client admits his guilt and agrees to identify the other person involved in this matter. But we do not have plea bargaining here, as I understand exists in North America. Señor Ellis must be tried on every charge for which he is indicted.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, flipping through her notes. “Can you tell me what you mean when you say the boy was ‘savagely’ raped?”

“He was beaten. His face was badly bruised.”

“Any marks on my client’s hands when he was arrested? Or swelling?”

“Nothing obvious.”

“I don’t wish to inconvenience you, but could I possibly get a copy of your police and pathology reports?” She smiled at him. Two could play the charm game.

“Of course.”

When Ramirez returned, she was looking at a photograph of his family on his desk. A round-faced woman with
olive-brown skin wrapped her arms around two small children with huge brown eyes. “They’re lovely,” she exclaimed. “Your wife is absolutely stunning. You must be very proud.”

“Thank you,” said Ramirez warmly. “Life is short. I am always grateful for my good fortune. Here you are. I have made you copies of everything on the file. I assume you read Spanish fluently as well?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. She thought of telling him she was married to a Cuban refugee but wasn’t sure how Ramirez might respond to the idea of a Cuban that got away.

She put her coffee cup down and got to her feet. “This has been very helpful, thank you. If you don’t mind, I’d like to see my client now. As you know, I don’t have much time.”

THIRTY - TWO

A guard told Mike Ellis that his lawyer was waiting for him. Ellis shuffled down the hall behind him. Hard metal rubbed against his ankles, leaving angry red welts. His back hurt from sitting on the concrete floor. Even without the ankle cuffs, he would have limped.

The guard opened a door for him. Celia Jones sat alone in the room at a wooden table with two metal chairs. Her laptop was open and booted up. She was reading through a pile of documents as he walked in. She wore small square red-framed glasses, the type one could buy back home in any drugstore to magnify print. She’d pushed her brown hair behind her ears.

“Hello, Mike,” she said, and stood up. She removed her glasses with one hand and shook his hand with the other. “How are you holding up?”

“Honestly? I’ve been better.”

She sat back down, invited him to sit on the other chair. “I’ve been reading up on Cuban law, but I’ve only had time to skim through the police reports Inspector Ramirez gave me a few minutes ago.”

“O’Malley told me he would try to get you to come here. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see someone I know.”

“Yes, Miles called me right after he spoke to you. He told me to get my ass down here, actually.”

Ellis tried to smile and felt his mouth turn down. O’Malley wore his political incorrectness like a badge of honour.

“I have to tell you, Mike, I’m completely shocked by these charges. Are they treating you okay?”

“No one has beaten me or anything. But if they transfer me to a prison, I’m not sure how long I’ll last. And are we safe to talk about what happened? I saw someone from the embassy last night.” He leaned over and lowered his voice. “Completely useless. But he warned me that people could be listening.”

“Solicitor-client privilege,” she said, frowning. “We should be covered. It applies in Cuba, too.”

“Thank God.” Ellis exhaled. “So what exactly are my legal rights here, Celia? I keep hearing I don’t have any.” He whispered again: “The consular guy, Dunton, thought I might need to bribe someone to get out of this.”

Jones shook her head. “Mike, forget all that stuff, okay? I wouldn’t even know where to begin. And you don’t want to go back to Canada with that kind of cloud over your head, believe me. But I have to admit, what I’ve read about Cuban law so far isn’t encouraging.” She pulled out some papers. “It’s unlike anything I’ve ever encountered. It seems to be based mostly on the Soviet system. There are no individual protections, not in criminal matters, anyway.”

Canada’s Charter of Rights and Freedoms prevented unreasonable arrest, search, and seizure, and allowed suspects to remain silent, among other things. Once detained, a suspect had a clear, constitutional right to counsel; once accused, the right to a fair and impartial trial. Other procedural protections had been developed by the courts.

But Cuban law wasn’t remotely similar. The police could
arrest almost anyone, even someone they merely considered “likely” to be dangerous in the future. “Pre-dangerous” charges, they were called. It reminded Ellis of the movie
Minority Report
, where Tom Cruise was part of a futuristic police force that arrested people before they actually committed any crimes. Just for thinking about it.

“Castro has taken a very hardline position on sex crimes,” she explained. “He’s increased the penalties drastically, particularly where offences involve minors. If there are special circumstances, the rape of a child can be punished by firing squad. And if they charge you with murder, that’s almost automatic. But they haven’t done that, Mike, so let’s focus on the rape charge. After all, it’s the one we have to deal with.”

“Celia, I didn’t rape that boy. I’ve been charged for something I didn’t do.”

“Not formally charged yet, Mike. That’s what will happen if the indictment is issued tomorrow.” She glanced at her watch. “Let’s go over these police reports together, shall we?”

She translated parts from Spanish into English for him. The police evidence seemed overwhelming. It was an inquisitorial system. It was up to Ellis to rebut the facts, and the onus was on him to establish his innocence. The opposite of the Canadian criminal justice system.

“I think they’ll have problems getting an indictment on murder,” she commented, as if that was good news. “They don’t have a murder weapon. They don’t even know where the boy was killed. Their pathologist says the body was moved. Coroner, pathologist, lab technician, and everything else: it looks like all this forensic work was done by one expert.” She flipped open the report again. “A doctor. Hector Apiro.”

“We never had a car,” Ellis pointed out. “Hillary and I never rented one.”

“Inspector Ramirez has admitted as much. His theory is that you had an accomplice. We need to find evidence to support your alibi. And we need to show who might have framed you and why. It’s going to be tough,” she cautioned. “You understand, Mike, that even if the murder charge doesn’t proceed, the sexual assault of this child was accompanied by force. A court can’t — won’t — ignore the fact the child was killed a few hours later. If they convict you of this, the prosecutor is going to ask for the death penalty anyway.”

Ellis nodded. He knew the stakes.

“This really is a life-or-death situation. I need to know everything. Everything. Don’t hold anything back. I hope you don’t mind, I’m going to type while you speak. Start by telling me about the boy.”

“He was just a little kid who followed us around on Saturday. Begging for money. There are hundreds, thousands, of them here. Hillary wanted him to leave us alone; she said I shouldn’t give him anything. We had quite an argument about it. And then she told me she was leaving Cuba. Leaving me.”

But Jones wanted to know the details, so he went through what he remembered. The argument, how he ended up in El Bar, the near-fight with the British tourist. And then the woman.

“What happened in the bar, after the man who threatened this woman left? You were alone with her then, right?”

“Yes. But that’s where it gets blurry. I’m sure she walked me back to the hotel. I could have sworn she came inside, but Miguel, the doorman, says she wasn’t with me.”

“Forget what he says. Tell me what
you
remember.”

He thought back, grasped at shadows. “Someone held my arm to keep me upright when I got into the elevator. I thought it was Miguel. I couldn’t find my room key. I remember fumbling through my pants and shirt pockets before I realized I’d lost it somewhere.”

He’d had to get another one at the front counter where a disapproving receptionist frowned at his companion. “The woman, I remember her standing outside my hotel room door while I tried to put the key in. She was laughing at me because I was so clumsy. I couldn’t make the key work.”

She finally took the plastic card from him and slid it in the slot until the green light blinked. The door clicked open. He lurched into his room, took a few steps, and fell heavily on his back on the freshly made-up bed. The ceiling spun madly above him like a top. After that, he had just the smallest fleeting memory of sinking into the pillows and then nothing, not even blackness.

“Did you have sex with her, Mike?” Celia Jones asked.

“I don’t remember. I don’t even know if she came inside. Maybe. Probably. Is it important?”

“It could be,” Jones said. “They seized your sheets. If you did, there could be evidence on them that proves she was with you that night.”

“I don’t know,” Ellis shook his head. “I just have impressions of what happened, and they could be wrong. I know for sure that someone helped me walk into my hotel room. I could hardly stand up. I thought it was her. But the rest of the night — nothing. It’s like I was sleepwalking.”

“Well, her being with you may not help you either way, now that I think about it. She could be your alibi. Or she could be a possible accomplice, if you look at it the way the Cuban police are. Do you know if she had a car? Did she say?”

“I wouldn’t know. But I remember walking, not driving.” He concentrated, tried to clarify the cockeyed images of that night, images as skewed as the Crazy Kitchen at the Museum of Science and Technology back home. That was exactly what it felt like, he
thought. As if the ceiling switched places with the floor. He shook his head. “No, that’s all I remember.”