requested from Atlanta, where a thousand Mariel prisoners awaited shipment back to Cuba someday--if Dr. Castro ever decided to take them back.
If the two men had arrived during the 1980 Mariel boatlift, they would have been fingerprinted. But there was no record of their fingerprints in Atlanta or in the FBI files in Washington. There were several Mariel prisoners at the Krome Detention Center in Miami. These men had served their sentences for crimes committed in America and were waiting deportation to Cuba, although they would probably remain incarcerated in Krome until Dr. Castro died before they could be returned.
"I'll tell you what, Teddy," Hoke said. "Take these Polaroid mug shots and the tattoo photos out to Krome, and talk to some of the Cuban detainees. Even if we can't get an ID, they might know what the tattoos represent. We haven't got anything else. They're black men, but most of the Marielitos were black Cubans."
"Will they cooperate with me at Krome?" Gonzalez asked. "The INS, I mean."
"The INS, yes. But the Cubans may not. They're bitter, you know. They've served their sentences in Atlanta and want to be released to their families here. But you speak Spanish, and you can talk to them. After all, these poor bastards are in limbo here, with nothing else to do. They might cooperate, just to be doing something, or else think that if they help you, you might help them later by putting a good word in their files."
"Is it okay to promise them that? That I'll write a favorable report for their files if they help me?"
"Why not? A promise means nothing. They aren't going back to Cuba till Castro says they can, no matter what you tell them. See what you can find out about the tattoos."
"How do I get out to Krome? I've never been out there."
"First, drive west on Calle Ocho until you reach Krome Avenue. Turn left, or south, and look for the sign. Then talk your way in, and see if they'll let you interrogate some of the black Marielitos. Be sure to wear your jacket. It'll impress the Marielitos with its sincerity."
"What's wrong with this jacket? This is a Perry Ellis jacket."
"Nothing. It's perfect for this job, kid. If I had one like it, I'd wear it out to Krome myself. Take your own car, instead of one from the pool, and go on home when you're finished. I'll see you Monday morning."
After Gonzalez left, Hoke wrote redline memos to Quevedo and Levine, appointing them to his crack committee. He placed the memos in their mailboxes. They both were on the night shift, and he would be gone before they read the memos and cursed him for giving them this opportunity to serve their division and community.
When Hoke pulled into his driveway and parked behind Ellita's car, Donald Hutton, wearing a dark blue suit, was still sitting in a dining room chair on his front lawn. Hoke got out of his car without rolling up the windows first, slammed the car door, and crossed the street. He stopped on the sidewalk, not wanting to trespass on the man's property.
"Why are you sitting there, staring at my house?"
Hutton, who had been a tall, spare man to begin with, unlike his dead brother, Virgil, had lost more weight in prison. He unfolded his long arms, which had been crossed over his chest, and placed his spatulate fingers on his bony knees. Unlike Hoke, he had retained all his hair, and it had been teased into ringlets. A fringe of black curls obscured the hairline on his high forehead. His long nose hooked slightly to the left. His deep-set dark eyes were more violet than blue, and he had long black eyelashes. As he widened his eyes, Hoke could see the outline of the full optic circle. A half-smile made Hutton's full lips curl on the right side only, and there was a tiny square of dentist's gold on his right front tooth. He had been a handsome man at the trial, ten years ago, and he had worn a different suit and tie every day. Now that he had a few craggy lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth, he was even more
If the two men had arrived during the 1980 Mariel boatlift, they would have been fingerprinted. But there was no record of their fingerprints in Atlanta or in the FBI files in Washington. There were several Mariel prisoners at the Krome Detention Center in Miami. These men had served their sentences for crimes committed in America and were waiting deportation to Cuba, although they would probably remain incarcerated in Krome until Dr. Castro died before they could be returned.
"I'll tell you what, Teddy," Hoke said. "Take these Polaroid mug shots and the tattoo photos out to Krome, and talk to some of the Cuban detainees. Even if we can't get an ID, they might know what the tattoos represent. We haven't got anything else. They're black men, but most of the Marielitos were black Cubans."
"Will they cooperate with me at Krome?" Gonzalez asked. "The INS, I mean."
"The INS, yes. But the Cubans may not. They're bitter, you know. They've served their sentences in Atlanta and want to be released to their families here. But you speak Spanish, and you can talk to them. After all, these poor bastards are in limbo here, with nothing else to do. They might cooperate, just to be doing something, or else think that if they help you, you might help them later by putting a good word in their files."
"Is it okay to promise them that? That I'll write a favorable report for their files if they help me?"
"Why not? A promise means nothing. They aren't going back to Cuba till Castro says they can, no matter what you tell them. See what you can find out about the tattoos."
"How do I get out to Krome? I've never been out there."
"First, drive west on Calle Ocho until you reach Krome Avenue. Turn left, or south, and look for the sign. Then talk your way in, and see if they'll let you interrogate some of the black Marielitos. Be sure to wear your jacket. It'll impress the Marielitos with its sincerity."
"What's wrong with this jacket? This is a Perry Ellis jacket."
"Nothing. It's perfect for this job, kid. If I had one like it, I'd wear it out to Krome myself. Take your own car, instead of one from the pool, and go on home when you're finished. I'll see you Monday morning."
After Gonzalez left, Hoke wrote redline memos to Quevedo and Levine, appointing them to his crack committee. He placed the memos in their mailboxes. They both were on the night shift, and he would be gone before they read the memos and cursed him for giving them this opportunity to serve their division and community.
When Hoke pulled into his driveway and parked behind Ellita's car, Donald Hutton, wearing a dark blue suit, was still sitting in a dining room chair on his front lawn. Hoke got out of his car without rolling up the windows first, slammed the car door, and crossed the street. He stopped on the sidewalk, not wanting to trespass on the man's property.
"Why are you sitting there, staring at my house?"
Hutton, who had been a tall, spare man to begin with, unlike his dead brother, Virgil, had lost more weight in prison. He unfolded his long arms, which had been crossed over his chest, and placed his spatulate fingers on his bony knees. Unlike Hoke, he had retained all his hair, and it had been teased into ringlets. A fringe of black curls obscured the hairline on his high forehead. His long nose hooked slightly to the left. His deep-set dark eyes were more violet than blue, and he had long black eyelashes. As he widened his eyes, Hoke could see the outline of the full optic circle. A half-smile made Hutton's full lips curl on the right side only, and there was a tiny square of dentist's gold on his right front tooth. He had been a handsome man at the trial, ten years ago, and he had worn a different suit and tie every day. Now that he had a few craggy lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth, he was even more
Similar Books
