This is a long short story that I wrote a few months ago, while I was sitting in a cafe working on another story. A thought flashed through my mind and developed into this story.
It’s hard for an unknown writer to get noticed. I’ve had a few stories published in a club anthology back in the States, but that didn’t make me an established writer. My writing was good, but sometimes I got stuck and thought I would never write again. It was a common worry of most writers.
I started a novel a few months ago, but my writing stalled. A friend told me changing my surroundings might inspire new ideas. That sounded like a viable plan, but money was tight.
A few nights later I received a phone call from my old college roommate, Juan. He had moved back to Argentina after college. We hadn’t talked much after graduation but we had been good friends in school. After hearing my story, he told me to come and stay with him over the summer in Buenos Aires. He had an extra room so it wouldn’t cost me a dime. That offer was hard to pass up. Trading winter in the States for summer in Argentina could be just the type of change my writing needed. If this didn’t help it might be time to look for a different career.
The following Monday I flew coach to Buenos Aires. Juan picked me up at the airport. I managed to stuff all my worldly possessions into a High Sierra backpack I bought on eBay, which included my laptop and journal.
After spending all night drinking and exchanging exaggerated stories, I ended up sleeping till noon but woke excited and anxious to start writing. Juan told me about Café La Biela, a wine and coffee bar rumored to be frequented by Ernest Hemmingway. A perfect place to jumpstart my career.
I spent the next three weeks at the café and my story flourished. Ideas flowed easily and I knew I had made the right choice coming to Argentina. On Monday of the fourth week, I switched up my surroundings by stopping at All Saints Café. My mystery novel set in a foreign country was progressing well. I set my journal down to refill my coffee. When I returned an older woman looked at me with a suspicious eye. I ignored her and continued writing. Little did I know these would be the last words I wrote that summer.
That night there was a knock on our apartment door. When Juan answered two armed federal police displayed their badges.
“Are you Trent Cabrio?”
“No, I’m Juan Alvarez.”
“We need to speak to Trent Cabrio. Is he here?”
“My friend from the States is staying with me, but his name is Dane Capinski.” Juan pointed to my bedroom door. “He’s in the back.”
The sergeant stepped through the doorway. “We need to speak to him, right now. The information we have leads us to believe his name is Trent Cabrio.” He motioned for the other officer to check the back room.
There was no knock on the door. The officer just walked in and told me to stand up, turn around and put my hands behind my back. I was cuffed and forced out of the bedroom.
“What’s this all about?” I demanded.
He picked up the journal lying on the bed. The name T. Cabrio was embossed on the leather cover. “You’re being charged as a terrorist.” The sergeant held up the journal. “This is evidence.” Then he told the officer to bring the computer as well.
“I didn’t do anything.” I looked at Juan for help but he seemed as surprised as I was.
“You’ll get your chance to explain later, but right now we’re taking you back to the station.”
As they shoved me through the front door Juan said. “I’ll call my cousin. He’s an attorney.”
* * *
I sat in the interrogation room waiting and tried to figure out what this was all about. Sergeant Perez walked in and threw my journal on the table, then flipped the pages until he reached my notes.
“A woman at the café called to report you. She took pictures on her phone.” He pointed to the notes and tapped his finger on the page. “This doesn’t look good.”
“I can explain. I’m a writer. Those are just notes about my novel.”
“Notes about bombings, disruption of government and society, Puccio Family. These are disturbing notes.”
“Yes, if they were real, but as I said I’m a writer,” I insisted. “so it’s just story notes, not to be taken seriously.”
“You have a criminal background. You’ve been arrested.”
“It was a demonstration when I was in college, that’s all. I spent two nights in jail. Juvenile issues, nothing serious.” I rubbed my eyes. “Check Google. I’ve written some short stories.”
“I did. Nothing of value there. Too much fake news. Anyone can doctor Internet files.”
“I’m a struggling writer, but I’m hoping this novel will be my breakthrough.”
“That’s great news,” He scratched the side of his face, “but I have something more interesting.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s the reason we came looking for you.” Sergeant Perez leaned forward. “Your name is on a wanted list for suspicious activities. You’ve been on the list for 18 months,” pointing to my name.
“I’ve only been in Argentina for three weeks and Cabrio is my pen name, not my given name, I swear.”
“Why does a struggling writer need a pen name?” He shook his head.
“Cabrio has a better ring to it than Capinski.”
“This may sound interesting to some, but not to me . . . Mr. Cabrio. In the criminal world, a pen name is just another word for an alias.”
After being fingerprinted, I was put in a holding cell. Juan’s cousin, the lawyer came in to see me about mid-day. He seemed off like he was high. He was sucking on his pen the entire time we talked. I’ve seen these vapes before. A few of my college friends used them. It’s nearly impossible to recognize these pens had a second purpose. They’re smokeless, that’s how he got away with vaping at the police station. It could be marijuana, but more likely cocaine. Did I really need a lawyer strung out on drugs? I deserved better, so I fired him and asked for a court-appointed attorney.
Two hours later Jose Lopez stepped into my cell. His suit was rumpled like he slept in it. He had dark circles around his eyes, so maybe he hadn’t slept at all. Unlike Juan’s cousin, he spoke in full sentences and explained my rights in clear simple words. He asked me to start from the beginning and tell him exactly what happened without leaving anything out. After I finished he asked more probing questions.
“Did you see the woman in the café, the one that took the photos?”
“I saw a woman, but I didn’t see her take any pictures. She was in her mid-sixties, but nothing stood out about her.”
“How tall was she?” Jose asked as he jotted in his notebook.
“Short, maybe five-foot-four at the most.”
“Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”
I tried to paint a mental picture of her, but I came up blank. “No, I don’t think so, but the barista might know her if she was a regular.”
“When did you first use the pen name, Trent Cabrio?”
“I’ve had that pen name for years, all the way back to college.”
“When you roomed with Juan?”
“Yes, he knew about it.”
“Why did you pick Café La Biela as the place to do your writing?”
“Juan told me it was where many well-known writers gathered.”
“Okay. I think I’ve got enough for now, but here’s something you need to know about the federal police. They stop crime before it gets out of control. If that puts a few innocents in jail, so be it. It doesn’t seem right if you are one of the innocents, but it’s the way they operate. It’s safe to say that if you’ve been charged with a crime, then they believe they have evidence against you. Argentina is one of the safest countries in Latin America and that’s how the police want to keep it.”
“Can’t I get out on bail?”
“I’ll find out and let you know, but for right now be a model prisoner.”
The guard took me back to my cell. There was nothing left for me to do but wait to hear from my lawyer, and think about how and why I got here. What was going to happen next and would I be left to rot in a foreign prison with no possibility of release? Maybe it was better not to think at all.
Just then the guy in the next cell asked. ”What did they get you for?”
I quickly responded. “It’s a mistake, I’m innocent.”
“Yeah, me too.” He laughed.
“No, really. They think I’m a terrorist. I’m a writer and my pen name is Trent Cabrio, which happens to be the name of the guy they’re looking for.”
“That’s unfortunate. You picked a bad pen name. Cabrio is well known for subversive activities around town.” He continued. “We met about a year ago, that’s what led me to be in here. But, I agree you’re not Cabrio. You’re an American. Cabrio, the hunted one is from Argentina.”
“Exactly! Can you help me by telling the police what you know.”
“How can I possibly help you when I couldn’t help myself?”
“Can’t you describe him to the police? That might be enough to inspire them to look at others.”
“That would be true, but I was blindfolded, so I heard a voice but never saw a face.”
“Perfect, a blind eyewitness.”
That’s when the conversation ended. I went back to trying not to think. The funny thing about that is the more you try not to do something the harder it gets. Thinking in jail is different than thinking in the free world. Jail thinking concentrates your thoughts with one purpose, how do I get out? Legally, I mean legally . . . a jailbreak in a foreign country would be bad for Dane Capinisky.
In order to get out of here, I needed to figure out how I got here in the first place. This led me to reminisce about college life when Juan and I were roommates. Juan was always demonstrating in college. He’s the one that convinced me to join him in one demonstration. The one when I was arrested. I never gave his idealist nature much thought. College life had a way of diluting your concerns.
The judge told Jose Lopez, my lawyer that there would be no bail for a potential terrorist, which wasn’t at all surprising.
* * *
A few days later Jose came to talk more about some things he found out. He hired a private detective to check a few things about my story. Maybe to verify that I was telling the truth or confirm I was lying.
“Trent, is there anything else you can tell me about the woman in the café?”
“Dane, please call me Dane.”
“Okay, sorry.”
“Well, I can’t say for sure, but I think she was carrying a bag, like a grocery bag. There was some kind of logo on the front . . . green. Why is that important?”
“Because the name and address she gave to the police is no good. The address doesn’t exist. I can’t find her to ask any questions.”
“What about her name? That should be of some help.”
“Maria Fernandez, but Maria Fernandez is the equivalent of Mary Smith in the United States, so it’s really no help.” Jose fingered his pen. “Let’s get back to the bag. What did it say?”
I closed my eyes to transport myself back to the café. I could clearly see a green bag but not the entire logo, just two uppercase letters, VE. I looked at Jose and said, “The bag was definitely green but the only letters I could read were VE.”
“That’s something. Let me pass this on to the detective.” He started to get up but hesitated. “One more thing. When was the last time you and Juan talked, prior to the phone call when he invited you here to stay?”
“Quite a while, almost two years.”
“Did that seem odd?”
“Well, it was a surprise, but one that I welcomed.”
He closed his notebook. “Hang tight. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“Like I have another choice.”
Now I was again left with my thoughts and conversation with Pedro, my neighboring cellmate. Prison is boring so any conversation is valued even if you secretly listen. Even though my lawyer, and I attempted to be discreet, Pedro had mad listening skills and heard most everything.
Pedro rambled a lot, but the important parts revealed that the real Trent Cabrio used him to make a payout to dissentient demonstrators to carry out a violent demonstration. Much destruction and many injuries were the result. Pedro was arrested for his involvement, but Trent Cabrio escaped as usual.
* * *
A couple days passed before I saw Jose again. This time he brought a green grocery bag into the cell. “Does this look familiar?”
“Yes. I never saw the whole logo, but it sure looks like the same one.”
“Verde Come means Green Eats. It’s an organic grocery.” Jose smiled. “We found the woman.”
“Great, did you talk to her?”
“No, not yet. But we followed her so we know where she lives.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“The thing is, she lives in the apartment below your friend Juan.” Jose folded his arms. “I’d like to find out more about Juan before we approach her.”
“Of course. Why? Do you think Juan is involved in some way?”
Jose rubbed his beard. “Here are the facts we have gathered so far. You received a surprise phone call from Juan inviting you to stay the summer in Buenos Aires. He recommended the coffee bar and he knew about your pen name. The lady from the coffee bar lives in the apartment below Juan. Is there something I’m missing?”
“No, everything you said is correct. But . . . but . . . .”
“But what? Doesn’t this raise some suspicions about Juan? Open your eyes, man.”
“I’m the scapegoat for Juan?”
“That’s what it looks like, but first I need to speak to the woman from the coffee bar. Then I’ll bring Juan in for questioning.”
“No one knows what Trent Cabrio looks like. Juan’s not going to admit that he’s him. It’s hard to see how this will help.”
“Let me handle this. I have a plan. I’ll fill you in later.” Jose left me alone with my thoughts.
* * *
It had been six days since I’d been stuck in a foreign prison. That’s nothing compared to others rotting in a dank cell for years. Right now, I have food and a bed with a mattress, but if I’m convicted of a crime, things will change. I could become one of the forgotten Americans. Wait! I have to stop thinking about this. It’s not helping. It’s hard to stay positive, but it’s necessary, more than necessary.
“It’s been ten days for me. Four more and they take me to the permanent cells in the basement.” “Prisoners call it,” Pedro’s voice cracked. ‘The Hole.’
“That has an ominous sound.”
“These are luxury accommodations compared to The Hole.” Pedro’s voice wavered when he said The Hole. “Fourteen days is all you get in the holding cells, so get your lawyer to step up his game.”
There was nothing I would like more, but Jose had done more than I expected for a court-appointed attorney. I hoped my lawyer was making progress with the bag lady from the café. He led me to believe she would be able to provide valuable information.
* * *
A day later my lawyer walked into my cell with a confident strut. “Juan’s coming in today to be interviewed.”
“Great! Did you talk to the woman in the downstairs apartment?”
“Yes, She knows Juan,” Jose said smugly.
“Well, that’s no surprise. She’s his neighbor.”
“She’s more than that. Maria’s his aunt.”
“Wow, it’s looking more like he set me up.”
“Yes, things are looking better for you.” He leaned over to Pedro’s cell and pointed at him. “They’ll come to get you in a half-hour. Be ready.”
Pedro waved an acknowledgment.
“Huh! What do you need Pedro for?” I questioned.
“We’re hoping he can identify Trent Cabrio’s voice. It’s not conclusive and can’t be used in a trial but it could help us with his questioning.”
“The aunt is coming in as well. The police have more questions for her. I’ll be there to listen.” The cell door slammed.
It seemed like no time at all before the guards came to get Pedro. Maybe this would be over soon.
Pedro sat in the room with the one-way mirror prepared to listen and identify the voice of Trent Cabrio. My lawyer was also in the room taking notes. There were no surprise questions. We just wanted Juan to talk so Pedro could clearly hear every word. The surprise was that Juan’s voice was not familiar to Pedro. He was sure it wasn’t Trent Cabrio, at least the voice he heard. He told Jose, the Cabrio voice he heard had a rasp of a heavy smoker. Juan was not that guy.
The guards came to take Pedro back to his cell. How could Jose have been so wrong about Juan? Jose was looking at his phone as the guards brought Maria Fernandez down the hall to the interrogation room. His shoulder bumped her and she stumbled.
“Watch it, buddy,” Maria’s gruff voice grated on him.
Jose stopped, turned and ran up the stairs to the holding cells. He got there right before the guards locked Pedro back up.
“I’m not done with him. I need him for another half hour.” He looked at the guards.
They brought Pedro back to the adjoining room, to listen to the interrogation of Maria. His eyes narrowed as if he was seeing the past. “That voice that’s the one I heard . . . Trent Cabrio.”
“Trent Cabrio’s a woman,” Jose repeated. “A woman.”
It took three hours for the police to lay out all the facts. She denied everything, insisting her nephew was Trent Cabrio.
She finally gave up her story and admitted she used her nephew to get information on Dane.
Maria needed a scapegoat and Dane was her mark. She was the one that convinced Juan to invite Dane to stay for the summer. The rest was easy. Juan was an unwitting contributor to Dane’s arrest, but ultimately he was innocent of any crimes.
You might say that’s the end of the story and the start of a great novel, but you would be wrong.
Maria was charged with three counts of terrorism. Three days later while she was being transferred to federal prison, a bomb exploded as they exited the highway. The transport vehicle careened off the highway down an embankment and burst into flames.
Everyone in the vehicle was killed. Maria’s body was burnt beyond recognition. DNA testing was never done. The coroner saw no need to spend tax dollars for a question he already knew the answer to. It was an open and shut case, but to this day no one can explain the mysterious van that was seen near the transport vehicle just prior to the arrival of the recovery crew. Even more intriguing was the message received at the police department two weeks after the bombing. It read, “I’m still here . . . watching and waiting.” The letter was signed with the initials TC.
