The Girl in the Glass Box: A Jack Swyteck Novel Read online

  She offered a copy to the judge, crossed the courtroom, and handed a copy to Jack.

  “I’ve never seen this before,” said Jack.

  “You’re seeing it now,” said Jerrell, her voice taking on an edge. “The manager of Café de Caribe, where Ms. Rodriguez was employed prior to her arrest, filed this criminal complaint with the Miami-Dade Police Department this morning. Mr. McBride’s affidavit states that he fired Ms. Rodriguez and called ICE after she was caught red-handed stealing his wallet from his office.”

  “What!” Julia shrieked over the video conference.

  Her words startled the judge and the lawyers. Jack suddenly had to backtrack on his talk about no right to remain silent in immigration proceedings. An alleged crime changed the whole ball game.

  “Julia, don’t say anything until we’ve talked in private.”

  The judge took a minute to read McBride’s affidavit, then addressed the DHS lawyer. “What is your position, Ms. Jerrell?”

  “Given the totality of the circumstances, which include a criminal complaint and a prior felony conviction, Ms. Rodriguez’s request for release on bond should be denied.”

  “So ordered,” said the judge. “The respondent shall remain at the Baker County Facility without bond.”

  “We will appeal the decision,” Jack said for Julia’s benefit.

  “That’s your right,” the judge said. “Anything else?”

  “No,” said Jerrell.

  Jack had one request. “Judge, is there any possibility that my client could be transferred to South Florida?”

  “Mr. Swyteck, there are over four hundred thousand detainees in the system and not nearly enough beds. Florida is especially overcrowded. Just yesterday I had to enter an order transferring seventy-five detainees to Texas because Krome Detention had them sleeping on the floor. You can file a motion for transfer, but I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I were you.”

  “But—”

  “Next case,” he said, ending it with a bang of his gavel.

  Counsel for another detainee hurried forward to take Jack’s spot at the respondent’s table. The flat screen went black, and Julia’s image was gone.

  “Thank you, Judge,” said Jack.

  For nothing.

  Chapter 9

  Jack was back in Miami early Friday evening and met Theo at the Café de Caribe. He ordered a Haitian hot chocolate, which sounded much more interesting than anything else on the menu board, but the barista told him it was no longer available. He took a decaf and joined Theo in a booth by the window. A framed old map of Latin America and its coffee-producing regions hung on the wall behind him.

  “How was the trip back?” asked Theo.

  Jack groaned.

  With McBride’s criminal complaint, Julia’s detention in Macclenny was no longer just inconvenient; it was nearly unworkable. Theo had dropped Jack off at the Orlando Immigration Court for Julia’s hearing and continued on to Miami. Jack’s plan had been to fly home from Orlando, but McBride’s criminal complaint against Julia changed everything. Jack couldn’t just call his client. There was no such thing as a “private” phone conversation with an ICE detainee. He ended up renting a car, driving to Macclenny, meeting with Julia, driving to Jacksonville, and then flying to Miami.

  “Honest to God,” said Jack, glancing at the old map on the wall, “it would be easier if she was in El Salvador.”

  “She may be there soon enough.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Sorry.”

  Jack signaled a server to their table and asked to see the manager.

  “I’m not sure he’s here,” she said.

  “He is,” said Jack. “I called an hour ago. Whoever answered the phone said he’s here till eight.”

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “You could say that,” said Theo. Jack had filled him in by phone from the airport.

  “We just need to speak to him,” said Jack.

  “Sure.” She turned and headed to the back. Jack stirred a packet of sugar into his coffee.

  “So, what is Julia’s status?” asked Theo.

  “Undocumented.”

  “I didn’t mean immigration status.”

  Jack was messing with him. He’d been waiting for this follow-up since Theo had tripped over “You’re problem.”

  “You mean is she married?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She was. Her husband left her two years ago.”

  “So she’s divorced?”

  “No, when I say ‘left her,’ I mean he just disappeared. There’s been no divorce, so she’s technically still married. Why do you want to know?”

  “No reason.”

  Jack smiled to himself. Since getting married, he’d observed that there were two questions unmarried men raised for “no reason.” Marital status of a mutual acquaintance was one. “Is your wife coming?” was the other.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?” said McBride. “I’m the manager.”

  Jack did the introductions with full disclosure, meaning that he identified himself as Julia’s lawyer.

  “I’m not sure I should be talking to you,” said McBride.

  Theo rose and put on the face that had ensured his survival as a “Grove Lord” when he was growing up in the ghettos of Miami’s Coconut Grove. “Have a seat,” said Theo, towering over McBride.

  “Well, okay, I have a couple minutes,” said McBride. He slid into the booth. Theo sat right next to him. McBride shifted closer to the window, putting a sliver of comfortable space between him and Jack’s oversized friend.

  Jack had a copy of the typewritten affidavit that the DHS lawyer had presented in court that afternoon. He laid it on the table. “That’s your signature?” asked Jack.

  “Yeah, uh-huh.”

  “Not every criminal complaint lodged with a police department has a sworn affidavit attached to it. Who asked you to sign this?”

  “Ms. Jerrell did. The ICE lawyer.”

  “When did she ask you?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Was it also her idea for you to file a formal complaint with the police against Julia?”

  “I’m—I’m not sure I should be answering these questions.”

  Theo spread out a little, placing his massive forearms on the table, his bulging triceps pressing against McBride’s shoulder. “Go ’head and answer, Mr. Coffee.”

  “I wouldn’t say it was Ms. Jerrell’s idea. I’d been meaning to call the police ever since I caught Julia in my office stealing my wallet.”

  “I see,” said Jack. “Now, did Julia actually steal your wallet? Or did it drop out of your pocket when you were pulling your pants down?”

  McBride bristled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the real reason you called to sic ICE on Julia.”

  “I need to get back to work, fellas.”

  “So soon?” said Theo. “We were having so much fun.”

  “Let me out of this booth.”

  Jack locked eyes with him. This wasn’t a TV drama, and the purpose of this meeting hadn’t been to break him on the spot and elicit a tearful confession. The point was simply to send McBride a clear message that he wasn’t going to get away with this.

  “Let him go,” said Jack.

  Theo rose, and McBride eagerly slid out of the booth. But he didn’t scamper away with his tail between his legs. “Julia might think she’s in the driver’s seat with you and your big black friend here. But it’s my word against hers, and she’s a proven liar.”

  “You haven’t proved anything,” said Jack.

  “Julia told everybody here she was Dominican. Even wrote it on her job application. Lying about your nationality is not a good thing when you’re looking at deportation. Now get out of my café, both of you. And if you ever come back, I’m calling the police.”

  McBride turned and left.

  “Nice guy,” said Theo.

  “A real peach.”
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  “Why would Julia lie about her nationality?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jack.

  “You want me to drive you back to Macclenny so we can ask her?”

  Jack kept his laughter to himself as he rose from the booth. “You don’t have a thing for Julia, do you?”

  “No! Why would you ask that?”

  “No reason,” said Jack. “No reason at all.”

  Chapter 10

  “I’d like to make a phone call, please,” Julia told the guard.

  It was Saturday morning. Julia’s pod had the early breakfast shift—six a.m.—but she was skipping it. She’d called Cecilia after Friday’s videoconference hearing to tell her the bad news. She didn’t get to talk to Beatriz, who was in school, so they agreed that Julia would call first thing Saturday morning before Beatriz left for her weekend volleyball match.

  Two women approached as a guard escorted Julia from the dining hall.

  “Don’t forget about us,” the bigger one said.

  Fortunately, Julia had enough money in her commissary account to cover both the cost of the long-distance phone call and the ten-dollar Honduran phone tax.

  “No problem,” said Julia.

  It was a two-minute walk past the guard tower to the phone bank. Only about a half dozen inmates were ahead of her, but some of them may also have been holding a spot for a friend. All Julia could do was wait. A little more time to choose her words was probably a good thing. She needed and wanted to speak to Beatriz, but she still wasn’t sure how to explain. Julia tried to script something out in her head, but it was hard to think clearly. From the moment ICE had cuffed her in front of her own daughter, she’d felt untethered from reality.

  “When you’re done,” said the guard, “just wait right here. One of us will walk you back.”

  Julia assured him that she had no place to go.

  Forty minutes passed. She knew that the volleyball match was in Palm Beach County, which meant that Beatriz needed to leave the house no later than seven, and Julia was getting nervous. The line was moving, however, and she was getting close enough to overhear some of the women speaking into the phones. She lost count of the number of times she heard “Don’t cry, baby,” or words to that effect. She was far from the only mother slated for deportation.

  “Hey, you gonna use the phone or not?” the detainee behind her asked.

  A phone at the end of the row had opened up. Finally, it was Julia’s turn. She went to it, and her hand shook as she dialed Cecilia’s phone number.

  Please, someone answer.

  On the second ring, she heard Cecilia say hello. She was about to bring Beatriz to the phone, but Julia stopped her.

  “Did you explain everything to Beatriz? She understands I’m not coming home?”

  “Yes. She understands.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “Fine. Teenage girls are really tough.”

  Julia smiled sadly. “You’re such a bad liar, Cecilia.”

  “Yeah, I know. Let me get her. She’s dying to talk to you.”

  Julia’s grip around the phone tightened. The wait seemed much longer than it was. She hoped she was strong enough to get through this.

  “Hi, Mommy.”

  That voice—it almost killed her. “Hi, girlfriend.”

  “When can I see you?”

  A second near-mortal wound. “I don’t know.”

  “I want to come see you.”

  Jack had explained the danger of visiting an ICE detention center. “Honey, Mr. Swyteck said that’s not a good idea.”

  “I don’t care what he said. Tía said she’s going to visit. I want to see you, too.”

  Cecilia was legal, but Julia didn’t want to mention her daughter’s immigration status over the telephone. Jack had warned her that ICE was listening, and the sign on the wall—all calls are monitored by law enforcement—reinforced his words.

  “You and Mr. Swyteck can talk about this another time.”

  Julia changed the subject, trying to make it about Beatriz. School. Boy problems. Today’s volleyball match. Anything but ICE. The diversion worked for a few minutes, but reality came back around.

  “I can’t believe this is happening to us,” said Beatriz, her voice shaking.

  A lump came to Julia’s throat. “Don’t worry about things you can’t control, honey. That’s Mr. Swyteck’s job.”

  The woman in line behind her grunted something to the effect that Julia’s time was up. Julia wasn’t aware of any time restriction, but it was seven o’clock anyway, and she didn’t want to make Beatriz late for her match.

  “Beatriz, I have to go now,” she said into the phone. “We’ll get through this. It’s in God’s hands.”

  “I know.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Julia hung up, and the next detainee in line practically knocked her to the floor in her rush to the phone. Julia stepped aside, and a guard approached to walk her back.

  “I don’t feel like eating,” she told him. “Can I just go back to the pod?”

  “Actually, you got a visitor,” he said.

  “Me? Who?”

  “Dunno, sweetie.”

  I’m not your “sweetie.” She thought it but didn’t say it.

  Julia followed the guard down the long corridor. She focused straight ahead, her gaze like a laser, making no eye contact with anyone inside the cells she passed on the left or right. She wasn’t technically “in jail,” but she felt imprisoned in every sense of the word. Hearing her lawyer announce in immigration court that she was the victim of sexual assault had only exacerbated the pain, stirring up a past that she’d managed to compartmentalize and suppress for years.

  At the end of the cell block, the door buzzed open to the visitation area, which was like a long hallway. A line of detainees sat on one side of the glass and their visitors sat on the other. The guard directed her to bay number three. Julia didn’t recognize the woman on the other side of the visitation glass.

  “Are you sure she’s here to see me?” Julia asked the guard.

  “Yep,” he said. “You got thirty minutes.”

  Julia took a seat on the stool and picked up the phone.

  “Julia Rodriguez?” the woman asked over the intercom.

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Sandra Watson,” she said, as she held her photo ID up to the glass. “I’m a counselor with the north Florida chapter of the Coalition to Stop Sexual Violence against Migrants.”

  “I didn’t ask to see a counselor.”

  “Most women in your position don’t. I wanted to make you aware that our organization is here to help all women in detention who are victims of sexual assault.”

  “How did you know about me?”

  “Immigration hearings are public record. We have volunteers who monitor them.”

  It was nice on one level, but Julia was starting to feel like nothing about her life was private anymore.

  “Okay. Well, I guess I can call you if I need you.”

  “I was hoping we could talk a little now. Get to know each other. Tell you what our coalition has to offer.”

  Julia said, “Fine,” then she listened as Sandra explained the organization. She told Julia about herself, too. Sandra and her five-year-old daughter fled Guatemala and were placed in family detention at the T. Don Hutto Residential Center, a former state prison in Texas. They were part of the ACLU’s first wave of class actions against an Obama administration policy of locking up children with adults in facilities that were built to house criminals—which had seemed unthinkable, until even worse things came along. Sandra was also the victim of sexual assault.

  “Maybe you’d like to tell me about your situation,” said Sandra.

  “Maybe.”

  “I understand yours was six years ago.”

  “Right.”

  “Was your attacker ever punished?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know w
ho he was?”

  Julia didn’t answer.

  “I can understand if you are afraid to say his name. I was afraid, too. But just a simple yes-or-no answer would be a good start. Do you know who did this to you?”

  She hesitated, then answered. “Yes.”

  “Okay. That was good. Do you know his name?”

  Julia felt something rising up within her, a combined rush of anger, hate, and fear that touched her core. “Yes,” she said into the phone.

  “Can you tell me his name?”

  The feeling inside her only intensified, and suddenly it was as if his hand were around her throat all over again. Julia shook her head.

  “I totally get it,” said Sandra. “But the more information you give me, the more chances we have to help you.”

  Julia stared back through the glass, but her flight instincts took over, and she couldn’t fight the urge to run away. “I have to go now.”

  “Just take your time.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Julia. “I have to go.”

  She broke eye contact with the woman on the other side of the glass, placed the phone in the cradle, and called for a guard.

  Chapter 11

  Jack could have spent the entire weekend in the office. For a sole practitioner, working for one client meant that other work didn’t get done. Julia’s case had seriously cut into his prep for the upcoming trial of a real estate developer accused of defrauding his investors out of a half billion dollars. Jack was representing the kingpin’s right-hand man, a twenty-year-old high-school dropout who was so good at cooking the books, he could have had his own show on the Food Channel. He was also the most polite crook Jack had ever defended, as evidenced by the way in which he’d followed Jack’s advice to assert his constitutional right not to bear witness against himself before the grand jury:

  “Mr. Cookson, did you disclose to investors that over a million dollars of their funds would be used to purchase Rolex watches and other jewelry?”

  “I’ll take the Fifth, please.”

  And on it went for another forty-five minutes—“I’ll take the Fifth, please. I’ll take the Fifth, please”—as if he were asking for another slice of Grandma’s cherry pie. Lawyers had put up with worse for an up-front cash retainer, but it wasn’t worth another weekend behind his desk. It was debatable whether the influence was conscious or subconscious, but Julia’s separation from Beatriz had left Jack determined to spend Saturday morning with his daughter.