Most Dangerous Place Read online

  Jack wondered if Judge Gonzalez had seen any of the early-morning media coverage, some of which had mentioned that Isa’s father had served under Hugo Chavez, Fidel Castro’s protégé. It was a complication Isa didn’t need—especially before Judge Gonzalez.

  “Case number seventeen oh-three oh-one,” announced the bailiff. “State of Florida versus Isabelle Bornelli.”

  “Rape victims matter!” a woman shouted from the back row.

  Judge Gonzalez smacked his gavel. “There will be order in this courtroom.”

  Silence. It was an isolated outburst, clearly not yet a coordinated movement. Jack hadn’t noticed any demonstrators on his way into the courthouse, but he sensed that something was brewing. Injecting the rights of sexual assault victims into this case could well backfire, but Jack wouldn’t have been doing his job as a defense lawyer if he weren’t already thinking about how it might help his client.

  The side door opened, and a deputy brought Isa into the courtroom.

  “Oh, my God,” Keith said softly, like a reflex. It was the first time he’d seen his wife in prison garb and shackles. Jack rose, pushed through the swinging gate at the rail, and met his client at the defense table. Isa made brief eye contact with Keith, then looked squarely at Jack.

  “Jack, you have to get me out of jail,” she whispered.

  There was desperation in her voice, and Jack would have liked to get to the bottom of it, but arraignments move quickly, and this was not the time.

  “Good morning, Ms. Hunt,” Judge Gonzalez said with a smile. “I don’t have the pleasure of seeing you at arraignment very often anymore.”

  The junior prosecutor who had handled the first ten arraignments stepped aside. Sylvia Hunt assumed the lead post at the prosecutor’s table. They were bringing in the big gun for State v. Bornelli.

  “I don’t do many arraignments these days,” she said.

  “Well, it’s always a pleasure to have you. And you as well, Mr. Sweet. Sorry, Swat—”

  “Jack Swyteck for the defendant Isabelle Bornelli, Your Honor.” There wasn’t a gray-haired judge in Florida who didn’t know how to pronounce the name of the former governor, and Jack interpreted Judge Gonzalez’s brain fart as a sign of either Alzheimer’s or animosity, neither of which boded well for his client.

  “Good morning to both of you. Ms. Hunt, may I have the date and time of Ms. Bornelli’s arrest?”

  “Yesterday at approximately seven twenty p.m.”

  “Ms. Bornelli, the purpose of the proceeding is to advise you of certain rights that you have, to inform you of the charges made against you under Florida law, and to determine under what conditions, if any, you might be released before trial. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” said Isa.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” the judge said, and for the second time in as many days, Isa listened to the full recital of her Miranda rights. She looked no less numb the second time, Jack observed.

  “We’ll waive the reading of the charges,” said Jack.

  “That’s fine. Ms. Bornelli, how do you plead?”

  “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

  “So noted.” The judge’s gaze shifted to the other side of the courtroom. “Ms. Hunt, what is the state’s position on bail?”

  “Judge, thanks to Mr. Swyteck’s whirlwind tour on the morning show circuit today, we are well aware of his view that the rules should be different in this case because Ms. Bornelli is the alleged victim of a sexual assault. As the court knows, I have successfully prosecuted scores of sexual offenders, and I’m very sensitive to the rights of victims in our judicial system. But this is not a case in which Ms. Bornelli is the accuser. She is the accused—charged with first-degree murder. Under the law, the presumption in a first-degree murder case is that bail will be denied in the absence of clear evidence that the defendant is not a flight risk. We urge the court to follow the law.”

  “What evidence do you have that the defendant is a flight risk?” the judge asked.

  Hunt had done a nice job defusing the rape shield issue. Jack expected her to take the judge’s question and run with it, moving from defense to offense.

  “Ms. Bornelli is a citizen of Venezuela. She moved here at the age of eleven, when her father served as a diplomat in the consul general’s office under the Chavez government.”

  Judge Gonzalez sat up with interest. “Is that so?”

  Jack bristled. It wasn’t really a question. The judge might as well have said, “That’s all I need to hear.”

  The prosecutor continued. “She was a nineteen-year-old college student in Miami when she claims she was sexually assaulted by Mr. Sosa. His body was recovered six weeks later near the Florida Everglades. Detectives from MDPD were two months into a homicide investigation when Ms. Bornelli left Miami and moved to Switzerland. The murder investigation went cold. Two years ago, right about the time MDPD reopened the investigation, Ms. Bornelli moved to China.”

  A Communist country, Jack noted. Hunt knew how to play her cards in front of this judge, but that blow was below the belt.

  “Hong Kong,” said Jack, rising.

  “Yes, Hong Kong,” said Hunt. “But since coming under control of the Communist Chinese government, Hong Kong has made extradition to the United States extremely difficult. Every move that the defendant has made since Mr. Sosa’s death has been a calculated and clear attempt to evade prosecution, confirming her risk of flight. Bail should be denied.”

  The judge shook his head, but not in disagreement. He was passing judgment. “Well, I have to say—”

  “Judge, may I respond?” asked Jack, futile as it might be.

  “Quickly.”

  “My client left Miami because she was sexually assaulted and wanted to leave this place behind and start someplace new. She lived in Switzerland for eight years because she was pursuing a doctoral degree from the University of Zurich and married a man who worked for IBS. They moved to Hong Kong because her husband—Mr. Keith Ingraham, who is sitting in the front row—was promoted to head up the IBS office in Hong Kong.”

  “Is Mr. Ingraham Swiss?”

  “No,” said Jack.

  “He’s a U.S. citizen,” said the prosecutor. “Which raises another interesting point. Since moving to Hong Kong, Mr. Ingraham has traveled to the United States fourteen different times. The defendant traveled with him on just two of those trips, both of which were related to medical treatment for her daughter. We are still trying to gather evidence from the Communist government in China,” she said, hammering the communism point, “but we believe those two trips to Miami were the only times Ms. Bornelli has left Hong Kong since moving there.”

  The judge seemed ready to rule, taking his gavel in hand. “So what you’re saying, Ms. Hunt, is that ever since MDPD reopened this homicide investigation, the defendant has been living on an island on the other side of the world, holed up in China, from which she probably couldn’t be extradited.”

  “Precisely. I would also point out that she currently has a flight booked in her name to Hong Kong, which is scheduled to leave on Saturday.”

  “Is that so?” Another judgment, not a queston.

  “Your Honor, this is getting ridiculous,” said Jack. “My client flew to Miami because her daughter is profoundly deaf in one ear. On Friday she is scheduled to have corrective surgery performed at Jackson Hospital by one of the leading cochlear-implant experts in the world.”

  “But what Mr. Swyteck fails to inform the court, Your Honor, is that the defendant’s husband and daughter are not scheduled to fly back for another twelve days. Ms. Bornelli’s daughter can’t fly immediately after ear surgery, but this stay-at-home mom, who has no pressing need to get back to Hong Kong, is scheduled to fly out the day after her daughter’s surgery. The only logical inference is that the defendant is determined to get out of Miami and back to China as fast as she can. She is a flight risk. Bail should be denied.”

  Jack glanced at his client. Isa
had neglected to tell him about the curious flight schedule.

  “Judge, what I’d like to do—”

  “I’ve heard enough, Mr. Swyteck.”

  “Judge, if I may. I’d like to request a full evidentiary hearing to flesh out these issues, after which the court can make a final determination on bail.”

  “That’s fine. Cynthia, when do I have a free hour?”

  The judge’s assistant thumbed through the calendar. “Two weeks from tomorrow, at eleven a.m.”

  “Book it,” the judge said. “Until then, I’m remanding the prisoner to custody.”

  Isa grabbed Jack by the arm. “I have to be at Melany’s surgery,” she said firmly, but soft enough so that only Jack could hear.

  Jack did what he could. “Judge, I would propose that arrangements be made for my client to be released on a temporary basis so that she can be with her daughter on Friday for the surgery. Perhaps an eight-hour window.”

  “Let’s see a show of hands from the taxpayers in the audience who want to pay for a police escort to and from the hospital. No one. Denied.”

  “She could be released with a SCRAM bracelet.”

  “This court doesn’t do ankle bracelets in a first-degree murder case. The prisoner is remanded to the detention center. No bail,” he said with a crack of the gavel.

  The bailiff called the next case. Another lawyer and her client hurried forward and took Jack and Isa’s place at the defense table.

  Jack and Isa walked to the rail. Keith was standing on the other side, and he did his best to embrace his wife over the bannister. The deputy approached and took Isa by the arm.

  “Jack, I can’t spend another night in that place,” Isa whispered—but with urgency. The desperation in her eyes that Jack had seen earlier had turned to terror. “You can’t let that happen!”

  “I’ll come by this afternoon. We have a lot to discuss.”

  “Jack, about the plane ticket—”

  “Mr. Swyteck,” the judge intoned from the bench, “can you please take your client conference back to the detention center?”

  Jack apologized to the court. The guard took Isa and escorted her across the courtroom toward the prisoners’ exit. She glanced over her shoulder, mouthing the words I love you to her husband, and then disappeared behind the heavy door.

  The next arraignment was under way, so Jack and Keith continued in silence down the center aisle toward the double doors in the back of the courtroom. The prosecutor followed, and as they reached the doors she handed Jack a file. “Here’s the probable-cause affidavit I promised,” she said in a church voice. “Sorry I couldn’t get it to you last night. I got serious pushback from MDPD about sharing it without redactions. It turned into such a bureaucratic hassle. I just couldn’t get it sorted out in time.”

  “That’s a crock of shit,” said Keith.

  They were well out of Judge Gonzalez’s earshot, but Jack still shot his friend a glance to shut him up. The prosecutor pushed the glass door open and stepped into the lobby.

  “I don’t trust her,” said Keith.

  Jack gazed through the glass and watched her walk straight to a flock of reporters outside the courtroom. She was handing out copies of the affidavit that she’d kept from Jack until the arraignment was over.

  “I wish I could disagree,” said Jack.

  Chapter 7

  Jack started grilling Keith as soon as they were outside the courthouse and well away from anyone who might be eavesdropping. It wasn’t literally true that courthouse walls had ears, but in a world where anyone on social media had the power of a journalist, the old adage was truer than ever.

  “What’s the story with Isa’s plane ticket?” asked Jack. They were heading down the granite steps, side by side.

  “I honestly don’t know what the prosecutor is talking about. I’ve seen our tickets. We’re all on the same flight home. If anyone was going to change flights and go home early, it was me.”

  “Is it possible that Isa bought two return tickets, just in case?”

  They stopped at the curb across the street from the parking lot. “In case what?” asked Keith.

  “In case she needed to get out of Miami sooner than planned,” said Jack.

  Keith considered it. “Now you sound like the prosecutor.”

  “Sometimes that’s my job,” said Jack.

  Jack’s office was just a few blocks from the courthouse. Keith drove. Jack plugged in the GPS coordinates so he wouldn’t have to navigate from the passenger seat while combing through the MDPD probable-cause affidavit. He was reading it for a second time—aloud, for Keith’s benefit—as they pulled into the driveway at the old house near the Miami River.

  “This is your office?” asked Keith as the car came to a stop.

  The ninety-year-old house, built by south Florida pioneer Julia Tuttle, was home to the Freedom Institute. The coral-rock façade needed cleaning, the front porch needed painting, and more than a few clay tiles were missing from the roof; it had changed little on the outside since Jack joined the Freedom Institute as a young lawyer fresh out of law school. Four years of defending the guilty had proved to be enough for Jack, so he’d struck out as a sole practitioner. A decade later, when his mentor passed away and the Institute was on the brink of financial collapse, Jack came up with a plan to save it.

  “The Institute owns the building. I lease space here,” said Jack.

  Keith opened the screen door. The hinge made a loud pop, as if shaking off a century of rust. “Why?” asked Keith.

  It was a question Jack had heard from his wife, too. Technically, Jack didn’t head the Freedom Institute. Neil’s daughter did. But Jack was there for guidance on a daily basis, and his inflated rent payments helped subsidize operations. As his accountant had pointed out, “The time you give them is time you can’t bill a paying client, and your rent is higher than it should be.”

  “It’s a great location,” said Jack.

  Another pop, as if the screen door might come unhinged, and then it stuck in the open position. “I have a great location, too, but it comes with a view of Hong Kong Harbor.”

  They went inside, and Keith’s double take made Jack smile. The outside needed work, but the interior renovation was a source of pride. The original floors of Dade County pine had been sanded and refinished. The high ceilings and crown moldings were restored. The upstairs bedrooms, once uninhabitable, were now fully usable, so the foyer no longer doubled as a box-filled file room. The bad fluorescent lighting, circa 1970, had been replaced in a total electrical update. The living room was now an impressive reception area decorated with Oriental rugs, authentic antiques, and silk draperies.

  “This is expensive stuff,” said Keith, admiring the Jacobean secretary in the foyer.

  “We picked it up on the cheap from a group of investment bankers so greedy that even I couldn’t keep them out of prison.”

  “Touché,” said Keith.

  Jack’s assistant was seated at the reception desk, and Jack introduced his friend to Bonnie “the Roadrunner,” so named because she knew only one speed—full throttle—when zipping around the office. The rest of the crew was in court.

  Jack led Keith to his office—formerly the dining room—to talk business. Jack sat behind his desk and Keith was in the striped armchair facing him.

  “What’s your take on the affidavit?” asked Keith.

  Jack didn’t want to discuss his take with Keith. “Now is probably a good time to clarify some things. My client is Isa.”

  “Of course.”

  “My point is that I’m interested in hearing your reaction to the affidavit. But ‘my take’ is something I’ll share with Isa.”

  “I’m sure she’d want us to talk about this.”

  “That’s not how the attorney-client relationship works.”

  He didn’t look happy. “Okay, if those are the rules.”

  Jack had read the affidavit aloud in the car, but now he handed it to Keith and let him read it f
or himself, which he did quickly.

  “My reaction is that there isn’t much here,” said Keith.

  “Legally, it doesn’t take much to establish probable cause to make an arrest.”

  “That’s something I’m confused about. Where’s the grand jury in all this?”

  “A grand jury indictment isn’t required unless the state attorney is seeking the death penalty. For tactical reasons the state attorney might take other cases to the grand jury. In this case, my guess is that they didn’t find out Isa was traveling to Miami until the last minute. They didn’t have time to present evidence to a grand jury, so they went the quicker route. They drafted what’s called a ‘criminal information,’ which is a bare-bones recitation of the charges, and then ginned up an affidavit that laid out just enough to get a judge to issue an arrest warrant.”

  “It seems like they should have to do more to arrest someone for first-degree murder. Essentially, all this affidavit says is that Isa went to a bar with her boyfriend and two of his friends on a Friday night in April. She pointed out Gabriel Sosa and told her boyfriend that Sosa raped her in her dorm room sometime in March.”

  “Well, it says more than that,” Jack said as he retrieved the affidavit. “It’s says that ‘in accordance with the plan that was orchestrated and choreographed by Isabelle Bornelli, coconspirators identified herein as John Doe 1 and John Doe 2 did forcibly abduct Gabriel Sosa, murder him, and dispose of his body.”