Daughter's Keeper (32 page)

“You
were
faced with the same choice. You could have cooperated with the government. You could have testified against him. But you didn't. That's the difference between the two of you. You didn't
betray him.”

Olivia raised her eyes to Izaya's. He nodded.

“That's the difference, Olivia.”

She opened her mouth to object, to explain that, perhaps, had she been as afraid as Jorge, as unfamiliar with the world in which she found herself, she might have done what Jorge did, but Izaya raised his hand to quiet her.

“I know you, Olivia. Your mother knows you. And, now, you know yourself.”

She stared at him, and then, almost imperceptibly, nodded.

***

The first witness Izaya put on the stand to testify on Olivia's behalf was a grim little man whose bald pate shone through the three or four hairs combed over the top of his head. It was clear that he didn't want to be there. His glared at Izaya with what looked like disdain but might actually have been fear. After he swore to tell the truth so help him God, he stated his name and occupation for the record. “Oliver Stroud, Deputy Director, Immigration and Naturalization Service, Northern California division.”

Izaya first established Stroud's familiarity with the Mariel boatlift and with immigration rules and regulations in general, and Cuban immigration in particular. Then he continued, “Mr. Stroud, what happens when an unnaturalized immigrant commits a felony in the United States?”

The little man shrugged, his strands of hair wobbling a bit. “That depends on the felony.”

Izaya leaned forward on the podium and said, with exquisite patience, “How about the sale of cocaine? One hundred grams of cocaine, to be exact.”

“Well, presumably that individual would be arrested and convicted. He'd go to jail.”

“And after that?”

The INS officer pursed his lips. “Well, as soon as our office found out about the conviction, we'd put an immigration hold on him.”

“What's an immigration hold?”

“It's like a warrant. It means the state can't release him when he's done serving his time. They have to send him over to federal custody.”

“And why would you put an INS hold on him?”

“So that we could keep him incarcerated pending deportation proceedings.”

“So someone who was convicted of selling one hundred grams of cocaine would be deported?”

“Yes,
sir
,” the government official said, the sneer in his voice unmistakable. A few of the female members of the jury who had quite obviously been charmed by Izaya shot the witness reproving looks. He blushed and then continued, “I mean, he'd be deported if we had somewhere to send him.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, there are some countries we don't have relations with. Those countries won't accept deportees from the U.S.”

“Is Cuba one of those countries?”

“Yes. It is.”

“What would happen to a Cuban drug dealer then, if you ­couldn't deport him. Would you just let him go?”

“No, sir. We would not. We would detain him.”

“What does that mean?” Izaya's tone was conversational, as if he and the jury were just there to chat with Mr. Stroud.

“We would keep him in INS custody.”

“Is INS custody like, say, a hotel?”

Stroud smiled thinly. “No. I can't say that it is.”

“Is it perhaps similar to home detention?”

“No, sir.”

“What is it like?”

“Well, the individuals are under detention. These are
criminals
, you know. I'd have to say it's like a prison.”

“In fact, these people are actually held in prisons and jails, isn't that correct?” Izaya said sharply.

“Yes.”

“And how long would our hypothetical drug dealer be incarcerated?”

“Until Cuba was willing to take him back.”

“Has Cuba ever taken any deportee back?”

“Not in my experience.”

“In anyone's experience?”

“Excuse me?”

“Has Fidel Castro ever allowed a Cuban detainee to be returned to Cuba?”

“No.”

“Isn't it, in fact, the case that a Cuban drug dealer would face indefinite detention in prison—a life sentence, in other words?”

“Objection, leading!” Amanda Steele raised her voice.

“Your honor,” Izaya said, “it seems to me that this witness, given that he's an employee of the very government that's prosecuting my client, can fairly well be qualified as a hostile witness.”

“Objection overruled. Continue, Mr. Feingold-Upchurch.”

Izaya smiled faintly and then turned and asked his next question while facing the jury. “Mr. Stroud, isn't it true that a Cuban drug dealer would face indefinite detention in a prison-like setting until he died or until Castro took him back, whichever came first?”

“Yes, that's true.”

“Can you think of any way that the prisoner might be released?”

“I guess a court could order it.”

“Has any court ever ordered the release of a Cuban detainee who was convicted of dealing one hundred grams of cocaine?”

“No, not that I know of.”

“And it's your job to know things like that, correct?”

Stroud sat up a bit higher in his chair. “I suppose it is, yes.”

“Is there any other way that the prisoner could get out?”

“After conviction? No.”

Izaya spun on his heel and exhaled loudly. “Ah. After conviction he could never get out; he'd have to serve a life sentence. What about
before
conviction?”

“Well, if the case was dismissed, then he wouldn't be a prisoner anymore, right?” The little man gave a complacent smirk, as if he'd beaten Izaya at something.

“Like, say, if the defendant chose to become an informant for the DEA, rather than serve a life sentence in prison, correct?”

The little man scowled.

“By deciding to become a DEA informant, a drug dealer could avoid a sentence of life in prison as an INS detainee, correct?”

“Yeah. That's correct.”

“So if our hypothetical prisoner didn't cooperate, didn't become a DEA informant, he would spend the rest of his life in jail; but if he did, he would be released immediately, correct?”

Stroud shrugged his shoulders. A sticky strand of hair fell across one of his eyes, and he carefully spread it back over the top of his head. “Hypothetically, yes.”

***

It was Olivia's turn. The judge had adjourned early the ­previous day at Izaya's request, with a lot of pointed glances at his watch, so that Olivia could go to a late-afternoon prenatal appointment. It was a routine appointment. Olivia's belly measured exactly the right size for a woman eight months along, and the baby's heartbeat was strong and regular. The midwife let Olivia spend a few extra minutes listening through the Doppler, the little machine that magnified the sound of the baby's heartbeat into something that you might hear if you put your ear to a conch shell. That night, instead of sleeping, Olivia lay in bed, hearing in her head the submarine rush-rush of her baby's heart. Once, when she got up to use the bathroom for the fourth or fifth time, she saw a light shining out from under Elaine's door. She went to the door and was about to knock on it when she heard the low hum of Arthur's voice. Olivia went back to her own room and stretched back out on the bed.

The next morning, she wore the maternity business suit that she and Elaine had bought the week before. It was deep green, with a long full skirt and a loose jacket. When she'd tried it on in the store, it had made her feel neat and well-put together, attractive for one so far along. Today, however, she felt fat and ungainly as she lumbered up to the witness stand. Her heavy thighs chaffed against one another, her swollen feet ached in Elaine's shoes, and she knew she looked as tired as she felt.

After all her anticipation and anxiety, the actual process of testifying felt almost anticlimactic. The judge had refused to allow Amanda Steele to make any reference to Olivia's criminal history, ruling before the trial that since the crimes were misdemeanors it would unduly influence the jury even to mention the fact that she'd been arrested. Olivia did as Izaya requested and looked at the jury when she answered a question. She paused in order to gather her thoughts. She answered precisely and slowly. She was a model ­witness.

After establishing her name, who she was, her educational background, her hometown—the recital of which was designed to convince the jury that she could have been their daughter, sister, or friend—Izaya had Olivia describe her relationship with Jorge. Only after that did they begin to talk about the crime. First, Olivia told the jurors how she had discovered Jorge's involvement in the drug deal. She recounted her phone conversation with Gabriel, how confused she'd been, how angry her subsequent discussions with Jorge had made her. Then Izaya led her slowly through the events of the night the deal actually happened.

“Did you have any intention of going with Jorge to do the transaction?” he asked.

“Absolutely not.”

“Did you want to go with him?”

“No.”

“Why did you?”

“Because it was late, and I didn't have a ride home. And besides, he told me that all he was going to do was introduce some people.”

“Did you know he would be bringing drugs into the car?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why didn't you get out of the car when he brought the drugs back with him?”

“Because it was late at night, and we were in a really scary part of Oakland. I didn't want to be on the street alone at night. I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“That I'd be attacked or something,” Olivia said, looking at the jurors. The young Asian woman nodded her head.

“Why didn't you insist that Jorge take you home?”

“I asked him to, but he wanted to drop off the drugs. The truth is, I wanted him to drop them off, too. I didn't want any part of it. I didn't want them in my car, and I most certainly didn't want them in my house. I didn't want him to have them, either.”

“What did you do when you got home?”

“I vomited. And then I went to bed.”

“Why did you vomit?”

“I don't really know. I was afraid. And ashamed.”

“Ashamed of what?”

“Of being there while he committed a crime. Ashamed of him.”

“Did you ever accompany Jorge again?”

“No. I refused to.”

“Were you with him when he got arrested?”

“No. He knew better than to ask me to go with him again.”

“Objection, the defendant cannot testify to another's knowledge,” the prosecutor said. She had risen to her feet and was leaning slightly forward, her fingertips resting on the table in front of her.

“Sure she can,” Izaya said. “She's simply telling the jury that Jorge knew she didn't want to have anything to do with his drug dealing.”

The judge raised one eyebrow. He turned to Amanda Steele. “And now you've given the defense a chance to tell them again, counsel. Let's move on, shall we?” She opened her mouth, but then seemed to think the better of it. She sat down again, her mouth drawn into a thin line.

Izaya turned back to Olivia, and with the solicitude that had marked his entire direct examination, said, “Where were you when you were arrested?”

“Asleep in bed.” Olivia described her arrest. When she told the jurors that she'd been naked and that the agents had watched her dress, she thought she saw sympathy on the faces of the women. One older man scowled at the prosecutor.

The judge asked Olivia if she needed a recess before the prosecution began her cross-examination. She shook her head. He looked disappointed and unstrapped his watch from his wrist and rested it on the bench before him with a sigh. Olivia wiped her palms on her skirt, leaving a damp smear on her lap. She took a sip of water and then raised her eyes to meet those of Amanda Steele.

“The second time you talked to the confidential informant, you knew exactly what he was talking about, didn't you?” Amanda Steele said, her tone neutral but firm.

Izaya had told Olivia to keep her answers short, not to allow the AUSA to trick her into any unnecessary admissions.

“Yes.”

“You knew that he and Jorge were setting up a drug deal?”

“Yes.”

“And you assisted them by passing along information?”

“No.”

“No?” The prosecutor raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “You didn't pass along a message from Mr. Contreras to Jorge?”

“Well, yes, I did. But I wasn't trying to assist in the drug deal.”

“But you passed along the message, knowing full well what it was for.”

Olivia pressed her fingernails into her palms under cover of the desktop. She tried to keep her voice from shaking. “Yes.”

“Before you got into the car on the night that you and Jorge picked up the drugs, you knew what you were going to do, correct?”

“No.”

“You knew that Jorge was going to do the deal.”

“No. I thought he was going to introduce people.”

“In order to facilitate a drug deal. You knew that, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And when Jorge returned with the drugs, you knew what was in the bag, correct?”

“Yes. I mean, I was afraid that was what it was and then he told me.”

“And knowing full well that there was methamphetamine in the bag, you drove Jorge to the location where he was to drop it, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw the money he got in return.”

“Yes.”

“Did you insist that he keep the money out of your house?”

“No.”

“Where did you put the money?”

“I didn't put it anywhere.
He
put it under the mattress.”