Havana Noir by Achy Obejas Read Free Book Online

this particular prosecutor was affectionately nicknamed “Pool o’ Blood” (although I must recognize that, at least in this case, the accused could also be called this). The defense attorney, for his part, limited himself to asking for clemency.
    That’s when I raced home. I was dying to throw up and, though it may sound strange, to laugh as well. I had never witnessed a trial before and I hope, in what’s left of my life, that I never will again, because in American movies—and in the TV series Law & Order —I find them fascinating, but in real life, not so much. I don’t know if a legal system with twelve jurors is more efficient than this one, where the verdict is determined by three professional judges, but it’s certainly more pleasant. Two days after the trial, it was announced publicly that the Provincial Court judges had found the accused guilty on all counts and had sentenced him to death by firing squad. The sentence was upheld later by the Supreme Court.
    A few months have passed since then. No one talks about it much out on the streets anymore, and I think it’s been awhile since the newspapers have published anything. Now the guy’s on death row. It’s probable that they’ll never execute him, because of all the fuss around human rights. As far as I know, after the international hullabaloo because of those fast-track executions back in the spring of 2003, they haven’t executed any other civilians.
    Me, I just go on with my same routine, like always. I sleep, or at least I try, almost all day long, and then come alive at night. To sleep, I drink chamomile or valerian root tea, or I take diazepam, trifluoperazine, chlordiazepoxide, haloperidol, or some other pharmaceutical. The important thing is to sleep. Although there are days when nothing works and all I want to do is bang my head against the wall or throw myself out the window. I live alone in an apartment with a view of the sea, on the ninth floor of the Naroca building on Paseo Avenue, around the corner from Línea Street, in Vedado. Little vermin with galloping feet don’t come this high. Nothing gets up here; nothing stays for long up here either, not even a mosquito. It’s just that I suffer from insomnia. Why? Ufff, I have no idea! I’m thirty-three years old, I have twentyfive thousand cucos deposited at the Banco Financiero, pretty legs, and I’m white (well, to be frank, I just pass for white in this country, in fact I’m Jewish), divorced, a smoker, Sagittarius, I like film noir and noir stories, black clothes, Johnnie Walker Black, darkness, Rachmaninov, and Russell Crowe’s brutish face. I loathe Caribbean summers (so humid and muggy), salsa orchestras, rum, radical feminism, encounters with many kinds of people, Ayn Rand’s aesthetics, and being called “privileged.” It’s been a long time since I stopped asking myself the why of things.
    These days, I’ve been seriously considering the possibility of visiting the convict. Do they allow visitors on death row? Who knows! In any case, I don’t think I’ll go. They’ll want to know who I am, what my relationship is with the guy, etc., and I couldn’t explain without getting in trouble. I can just see it: “I’m the enchanting unknown woman who the asshole psychopath would call in the middle of the night to talk to about his ups and downs, fears, successes, frustrations, and plans for the future.” Sounds easy, doesn’t it?
    As I said, I’m not going. No way! Deep down, I’m grateful that the asshole psychopath didn’t tell the police about me (and didn’t write my number down anywhere). I confess that I’m surprised by so much discretion on his part. I always assumed he was a bit of a wuss, a hack, someone who wouldn’t be able to take the slightest pressure and would give it all up right away, not stop talking until he’d spilled everything. As soon as they nabbed him, I thought all was lost. I assumed they could come for me at any minute and accuse me of