The Case of the Killer Divorce Read online

  As it turned out, I wouldn't be going to the office after all. I sat down at my computer with a steaming cup of coffee and a cat in my lap (yes, that's what I said) to begin making lists. It was time to start 'Project Dad'.

  Chapter 11

  I'm not embarrassed to tell you I started with Wikipedia. I wanted to get an overview of the political situation in Cuba and also the history since Castro took power. I was especially interested in a crackdown on Cuban dissidents in 2003 known as 'Black Spring', where the government had imprisoned seventy-five dissidents, including journalists and teachers, who were later adopted by Amnesty International as prisoners of conscience. The prisoners were eventually released and exiled to Spain, except for the ones that had died in prison. The website listed all of the prisoners, even the dead ones, but my father's name was not one of them.

  I then looked for local organizations that could help me and the first one I found was 'The Cuban Liberty Council' in Miami, which was dedicated to promoting democracy in Cuba, and providing assistance to human rights and opposition groups in Cuba. That sounded promising. I kept looking and found an even better one: the 'Free Cuba Foundation', a non-profit/non-partisan organization working towards the establishment of an independent and democratic Cuba through non-violent means. Their goals were to provide information on the situation inside of Cuba; provide a platform for human rights and democracy activists; and provide a means for the internet community to engage in campaigns to free political prisoners, or improve their conditions. They also provided a list of current political prisoners. I was relieved to see my dad wasn't on that list either. That's not to say he couldn't be in prison for some other reason.

  I knew it was a long shot, but I also ran my father's name through the SSDI (Social Security Death Index). He wouldn't have a Social Security number unless he was here legally or a citizen, and he wouldn't be on the SSDI unless he was a dead citizen, so I wasn't surprised when nothing came up. I even looked for him on Facebook. I was just deciding what to do next when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Becca. Finally! It had been over three hours since we'd talked.

  Sorry I didn't call, she texted, but I'm too upset to talk to anyone. The police think Joe died from an overdose. They won't know for sure until the autopsy. My girls haven't stopped crying. This is so awful…

  An overdose? I didn't see that coming. Joe didn't seem like the type--a drinker, yes, but not a druggie. And he hadn't struck me as suicidal, either. I know for a fact that he'd been looking forward to seeing his kids, and it seemed like he relished making Becca miserable.

  I texted my condolences: I'm so sorry, Becca. That's terrible news! Please let me know if I can help in any way. Don't hesitate to call me. All my best, Jamie

  As you can see, we family law attorneys have a skewed view of the world. How could we not? Everyone around us is acting crazy; lying all the time, fighting over stupid stuff, like microwave ovens, or toy trains they claim are family heirlooms. For the sake of our sanity, we have to walk away sometimes, go hang out with fun people. My go-to fun person was Grace, which was why I had her on speed dial.

  "Is it happy hour yet?" I asked, when she answered the phone.

  "It's five o'clock somewhere, I imagine. What are you drinking, a Cuba Libre?"

  "A frozen rum runner is more like it."

  "You got it, Amiga. Lucky it's Latin Night at Tekila's! See you in thirty."

  I changed my clothes and went off to find my dose of sanity. The first place I planned to look was inside a tall glass, with a cherry on top.

  Chapter 12

  Tekila's is a casual bar on Hollywood Boulevard with a different theme every night. It's also a Mexican restaurant. Grace and I like to go there on Fridays for Latin Nights because we love the upbeat music and the quirky, fun people who dance to it. Not that we danced. I find walking without tripping enough of a challenge. Luckily, my name isn't Grace, so I don't have all that pressure.

  I couldn't wait to unwind with my best friend and chat about our week, although I had no intention of talking about Becca. Her sad story was the reason I needed to get away in the first place.

  The city of Hollywood is about thirty square miles altogether, so everything is close by. It only took me twenty minutes to get to Tekila's, even with rush hour traffic. Grace was already seated at the lacquered bar, dressed in her 'Casual Friday' clothes, which were still pretty chic, sipping a Margarita on the rocks, extra salt. I could see a frozen rum runner on the bar, waiting just for me. The glass hadn't even started to sweat.

  "Wow!" I said, sliding onto the bar stool. "How did you get here so fast--jet pack?"

  I scooched my drink closer and latched my mouth onto the straw. Instantly, sweet, tart, icy rum runner started gliding over my tongue, numbing and exciting it at the same time. I sighed with contentment. Funny how something so cold could make me feel so warm.

  "I teleported," Grace said with a laugh. "Try to keep up, Jamie, will ya? Actually, I was around the corner picking up a transcript. I have a big trial coming up and my client is giving me an ulcer. At this rate, I'll have to start buying Rolaids by the case."

  "Poor you!" I said, patting her arm with my cold, wet hand. She yanked her arm away and I laughed.

  "He-ey!" She protested.

  "I'm just trying to take your mind off your troubles," I said. "You're welcome." Then I went back to slurping my drink.

  "I hope you get brain freeze," Grace said, matter-of-factly.

  "Oh, I plan on it. But that won't stop me from ordering another one. How's your Margarita, lady? Does it meet your high standards?"

  Grace snorted. "My standards are pretty low when it comes to Margaritas. All I need is a shot of tequila and some salt, and I'm happy."

  "Speaking of low standards," I said, signaling Jan, our favorite bartender, for another round, "Did you finally dump that loser, Christopher, or did you take him back, again?"

  Grace polished off her drink just as Jan placed a fresh one in front of her. Her timing was always impeccable.

  "Sorry, I can't hear you, the music's too loud."

  "Grace, seriously? You took him back? He totally mooches off you, he barely works, and he's not even nice. And now he's making me look like the bad guy. I ought to give you the spiel--where's your self-respect, you deserve better, the whole thing, but I'm not gonna do it. You wouldn't listen, anyway."

  "You're right."

  "I know I am."

  "I mean, you're right about me not listening." Grace said. "Look, I'm not crazy, Jamie. I see Christopher for who he is, but I still like him. He's funny and spontaneous and we have a good time together. I never said he was Mr. Right; he's just Mr. Right Now. Okay?"

  "Alright, sorry. Just trying to look out for my BFF. I'll shut up now. Feel free to give me advice about my love life anytime," I said.

  "I would, but…"

  "But, what?"

  "You don't have a love life." Grace gave me a sideways look.

  "Oh, yeah, that's right. I don't." I sipped my second rum runner. Two is my limit, so I had to make this one last.

  "What are we going to do about that?" Grace asked, tapping her foot to the music as she watched a couple salsa dancing across the room. They were good.

  "One problem at a time, Grace," I said. "Right now, I'm looking for my dad, and I don't even know where to start. How am I supposed to obsess, if you keep trying to distract me?"

  "Whoa, hold on a minute," she said, putting her drink down and giving me her full attention. "Yesterday, you were too freaked out to ask your aunt about your dad, and now you're devoting your life to finding him? Did I miss something?"

  "Yeah, you did. I'll catch you up, but I'm going to need some tacos first. "

  Chapter 13

  "So, let me get this straight," Grace said, after we'd polished off two tacos each and an iced tea. "Your dad could be anywhere, including prison, or possibly dead, but wherever he is, he's definitely not looking for you, because he doesn't know there is a you?"

&n
bsp; "Exactly--except you forgot the part about the political intrigue, the tragic love story, and the nagging question of whether I'm morally obligated to learn Spanish now. God knows I've tried, but the subjunctive tense makes me crazy. And the verb conjugations, Dios mio! There's a formal 'you,' an informal 'you,' a plural formal 'you,' and a plural informal 'you'--like saying "you guys"--but only if you happen to be in Spain. It's way too complicated. Don't you think 'Spanglish' should be good enough? I mean, I'm only half-Cuban, you know?"

  Grace laughed and shook her head. "You're losing it, girl! Seriously though, do you think it's a good idea to look for him? It's such a long shot and even if you found him, what then? Are you picturing a big family reunion?"

  I knew she was trying to protect me. The truth was I'd only begun to move past my mom's death and the last thing I needed was more heartache.

  I sighed. "I promise not to get carried away. And no family reunions with matching t-shirts or anything like that. I'd just like to know what kind of person my dad is, or at least what happened to him. I know the odds of finding him are not good. It's like a "Where's Waldo" game that's the size of a small country. I have a better chance of winning the lottery."

  "Well, I hope you bought a ticket, because it's up to $60 million." Grace smiled.

  "You bet I did! And when I win, my friend, dinner is on me. In Paris."

  "You should book the Learjet now," she said, "Just to be safe."

  As we were talking, Grace took her expensive, state-of -the art tablet out of her purse, placed it on the bar and started typing like a woman on a mission.

  "What are you doing?" I asked, looking over her shoulder. "Don't tell me you're working right now, in the middle of Latin Night at Tekila's? No wonder you need so many Rolaids, you're a maniac."

  Grace rolled her eyes. "Of course I'm not working, silly. I'm looking for Waldo. I have to warn you though, my Spanish is worse than yours, so, if we get stuck on a word, we'll have to use Google translator. Why don't you tell me what you've done so far?"

  ***

  Ever since we'd met our second year at Nova Law, I could always count on Grace. Smarter than most and funny as hell, she was like a brilliant comet lighting up the long, black night that was law school. Okay, I'm exaggerating a little, but, believe me; law school was anything but fun.

  With her black glasses and trendy clothes, Grace already looked the part of a lawyer, even back then, but underneath it all, she was such a goofball. I swear, nobody can make me laugh like Grace can, especially when she does funny voices. She can imitate almost anyone. I'll never forget the night Grace called our friend Suzie and pretended to be our cranky Torts professor, Maryellen Brennan. Grace had Suzie shaking in her shoes for a full fifteen minutes, while I sat next to her, cracking up. It wasn't until Grace told Suzie she should bake an apple torte for extra credit that she finally caught on.

  Grace had another talent; one that all lawyers wish for, what I like to call 'the voice of reason.' The voice of reason is a voice that's calm, modulated, and as soothing as honey on a sore throat. Because of it, Grace always sounds like she's right.

  In law school, you're taught that if the law isn't on your side, you should argue the facts, and if the facts aren't on your side, you should argue the law, but they teach you nothing about delivery, which can make all the difference. Sure, if you work at it, you can learn the mechanics of being an effective speaker: frequent eye contact; strong posture; controlling your pace; and using appropriate body language--like not flailing around and distracting people from what you're saying--but you'll never have the voice of reason, a voice so compelling that even if it recited the phone book to you, you’d have to listen. Think about it and you'll understand why James Earl Jones was the best person to be the voice of Darth Vader. Having the 'voice of reason' is why Grace sounds like she has all the answers, even when she doesn't.

  ***

  I told Grace everything I'd done, which wasn't much, to be honest, but considering I’d had to deal with Becca's crisis, it was still something. Then I asked her where she thought we should start.

  "How about we Google 'how to find a lost relative in Cuba?"

  "Well, duh, why didn't I think of that?"

  "You're too close to the problem," Grace said, kindly.

  "Then I'm lucky I have you," I said. And I meant it.

  Chapter 14

  We spent the next hour sitting at the bar at Tekila's, brainstorming. I felt bad taking up seats for so long, but the crowd had thinned and Jan said she didn't mind. Yet another reason she's our favorite bartender.

  Grace's idea about googling how to find a lost relative in Cuba turned up dozens of leads, mostly genealogy sites such as geneaology.com, FamilySearch, MyHeritage, and Cubagenweb.org, which was a how-to guide for genealogical research for Cuban people. While this information could prove useful eventually, I wasn't at that stage yet, since I knew nothing about my father or his (and my) relatives in Cuba, not to mention that he had a fairly common surname and I didn't know his place of birth. The only thing I knew for sure was his age. In her letter, my mom had mentioned that they'd met when they were both twenty. Since she would've been fifty-five this year, he'd be fifty-five as well.

  In our internet treasure hunt, we also discovered "Cuba Google" and "Cuba blogs," which looked promising, but since neither of us spoke Spanish, we decided to leave those for last, maybe find someone to translate for us. Grace liked the blog idea. She was convinced that anyone as politically active as my dad would've left an internet footprint, specifically a blog, but I wasn't so sure. Maybe being arrested and deported and losing the woman he loved had left him feeling defeated. And if it turned out he was in prison, he sure couldn't maintain a blog from his cell.

  At the end of the night, it looked like one of our best leads was the Cuban American National Foundation in Miami, which provided information to people about their relatives in Cuba, or provided contacts to help them find that information. The other promising lead was the Cuban Consulate in Washington, D.C. Grace had a friend who worked for the state department in D.C. whom she planned to call and ask for advice. I said I would contact the Cuban America National Foundation, as well as the other Miami groups I'd found while doing my own research.

  "It's a good start," Grace said, as she slipped her tablet back in her purse. "Do you think we should ask Duke for help? He did offer."

  "I would, but I can't think of anything for him to do right now. We should wait until we really need him, you know, for the cloak and dagger stuff."

  "Cloak and dagger--listen to you! I told you that watching so much TV would fry your brain, Jamie, and now it's happened. Such a shame."

  "Don't be jealous, Grace. One day, you’ll have the time to enjoy 'quality couch time' like I do, with a remote control in one hand and an iced latte in the other. I can see it now--you'll dance in the aisles with Ellen DeGeneres, learn 'what not to wear' and become a gourmet chef, all without leaving the sofa. What a life!"

  "Thanks, but I'd rather drink a Margarita with my friend and watch people salsa dance in the real world," Grace said.

  "Or, you could come over; we'll make Margaritas and watch 'Dancing with the Stars' on my couch. It's su-per comfortable."

  "You're a nut, you know that?" She smiled. "I think I'll call it a night so you can go catch up on your shows."

  I laughed as I slipped into one of our old jokes, borrowed from the great George Burns. "Say good-night, Gracie."

  "Good-night, Gracie," she said, and then she yawned, which wasn't part of the routine, but still a nice touch.

  Chapter 15

  I spent the weekend doing boring weekend stuff--laundry, groceries, paying bills, cleaning house and, of course, catching up on my shows. I always like to start my week with a full tank of gas, a full fridge and money in my wallet; otherwise, I feel like I'm behind before I even get started. Having clean clothes to wear is also high on the list. It's strange, but I find working every day hard to get used to, although I did it f
or ten years before my mom died. It seems that once you stop punching a clock, you immediately forget how to do it; and then, you don't even remember what the clock looks like.

  Given that I'm fairly obsessive, you might think I showed remarkable restraint by not spending the weekend online looking for my father, but the truth is my brain was on overload. If I didn't have some downtime to absorb all that new information, my head would explode. Besides being obsessive, I'm also hyperbolic, which sounds like a disease, but isn't.

  I was glad I hadn't planned to have Sunday dinner with Aunt Peg and Adam. I didn't feel like talking about my mom, my dad, family secrets, or anything that came under those headings. Instead, I invited my next-door neighbors, Sandy and Mike, over for Indian take-out and a glass of wine. It was fun and relaxing and just what the doctor ordered--if you could get a doctor to write you a prescription for Curry, Pinot Grigio, and an evening in the company of nice people.

  By Monday morning, I was refreshed and ready to tackle the world, or at least ready to tackle my in-box. I was in such a good mood, I could've even handled Lisa's crying, but I hoped I wouldn't have to. As a precaution, and to spread the good cheer around, I stopped at Einstein's on my way to work to pick up a dozen bagels for the office, including cinnamon-raisin, Lisa's favorite.

  After I settled in at my desk with a second cup of coffee, I e-mailed Becca to ask about Joe's funeral arrangements; I felt obligated to pay my respects. It occurred to me that Joe's parents might be the ones making the arrangements, considering the bitter divorce proceedings, but Becca would still have the information.

  I worked non-stop until lunchtime and managed to jam out quite a bit of paperwork, if I do say so myself. I wish I were a steady worker, but, unfortunately, I only have two speeds: full- speed ahead and dead-stop. Happily, it was a full-speed kind of day. I was mulling over whether to get a sub or a salad from the delivery place across the street when my cell phone rang. I normally don't answer it at lunchtime as a way to establish boundaries for my clients. Just because they have my cell number (which is more for my convenience than for theirs), doesn't mean that I'm on call for them 24/7. But I saw it was Becca, so I decided to pick up.