Angels in Heaven

was usually, if not invariably, the case with those in positions of
authority in that neck of the woods.
    The lieutenant flashed us a welcoming
smile, smoothed his dapper mustache with one well-manicured finger, gestured us
to seats, saying, “Momento, por favor,” jiggled his telephone receiver
until he got a response from the operator, asked for the kitchens, and when he
got through, said, “Twenty minutes,” from all of which I deduced without too
much difficulty that the prison chef had twenty minutes to prepare that day’s
special.
    After he’d hung up, Benny, assuming a
subservient manner, introduced me as a high official in the U.S. government and
himself as my lowly translator and handed over our Dept, of the Interior
calling cards—seeing which, the lieutenant arched his finely drawn eyebrows and
asked how he could be of assistance.
    I told him (with Benny translating,
of course and as usual). What I told him was we would be eternally grateful if
he could arrange for us to briefly visit one of his prisoners, a certain Sr.
John Brown.
    “Ah yes, Sr. Brown,” said the
lieutenant, heavily stressing the name. “Serving six years for smuggling, as I
recall.”
    “So I believe,” Benny said.
“Tsk-tsk.”
    And what was our connection with Sr.
Brown? Was one of us perhaps related to him?
    I thought of saying yes, then I
thought of the lieutenant’s next line, “Prove it,” which I couldn’t, so I had
to say no.
    Then perhaps we had some legal
interest in the prisoner. Perhaps we had been hired to represent him in some
way?
    I thought of saying yes, then I
thought of the lieutenant’s next line, “Prove it,” so I said no.
    Then perhaps we were connected with
some international body like the Red Cross, whose representatives were under
certain circumstances allowed access to prisoners?
    I thought of saying yes, but I said
no, mentally kicking myself for not having thought of it first.
    “In that case,” said the lieutenant,
with a charming smile and spreading his hands apart ruefully, “much as I would
like to help and much as I value the close and continuing friendship between
our two peoples, regretfully, rules are rules. As government employees
yourselves, you understand only too well....”
    “Only too well,” I said, summoning up
a smile not nearly as charming as his. “We had but a question or two to ask
him, an unofficial survey, really....”
    “You might approach the commandante on his return,” Lt. Esparza said with a notable lack of enthusiasm, “but I am
afraid he is a man who is a slave to regulations even more so than I,
especially when prisoners of some importance are involved.”
    Then Benny surprised me by asking me
politely if I would mind leaving him alone with the lieutenant for a moment. I
took the hint and, after saying gracias and good-bye to Lt. Joaquín
Esparza, took my leave. A minute later Benny joined me back in the outer office
and gave me the barest hint of a wink.
    “What’s up?” I whispered to him out
of the corner of my big mouth.
    “You’ll see,” he whispered back.
After another minute the guard who had originally escorted us to the
lieutenant’s office came in from the reception area and once again bade us
follow him.
    We did, out back into the reception
room, where he patted us down quickly but efficiently, opened up and closely
examined the contents of a box of caramelos I’d bought from some kid and
brought along just in case, and then bade us follow him again.
    We followed him again, through two
doors, each of which he unlocked and then carefully locked again behind us.
    “Do you habla English, señor?”
I asked him at one stage.
    “Poco,” he said, shaking his head. “My son is studying
it at school, sometimes I help him.” Just in case he spoke a bit more than poco, I thought I’d better pay attention to what I said to Benny and Billy in his
hearing; it has been my experience that when a lieutenant—indeed, any officer,
in any army—wears nail polish, albeit transparent, he is capable of any trickery.
    At the entrance to the cell block a
guard in a tiny barred cubicle had a brief word with our guard, asked him
something, got told something, handed over a set of keys, then pressed a master
control behind him. The metal door in front of us slid back into a recess in
the wall long enough for us to go through it, and then closed again behind us.
A cheap transistor was playing somewhere, otherwise all was quiet. We followed
our guide