Mid Ocean

by T Rafael Cimino

  “How insensitive of me. They are out that door,” he answered, pointing to the back of the hearing room, “and to the left. We also have fresh coffee, donuts, sodas and bottled water. If there is anything that can make your service here more comfortable, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  For the first time, Pearson didn’t regret the turn of luck that had landed him there. His only task was explaining to his boss at Ajac that he was going to miss every Friday morning for the next six months.

  “Our first case is the culmination of a two year intensive investigation. For time’s sake, this is the way we are going to conduct this hearing. I am going to present a batch of evidence and then we will vote for a true bill. If we elect to indict, we will stop there and call it a day. If we have no bill, then we will present more evidence. This may sound like an attempt to manipulate you into a hasty decision, but it’s more complicated than that. The truth is this tactic is for your protection and the protection of the eventual case that will hopefully end up in federal court. Information in a case like this is fragile and, as much as I want to tell you everything, remember that we need to keep things on a need to know basis. Having told you this, please consider that what you hear in the jury room is probably just the tip of the iceberg.”

  Stephens had Pearson’s complete and unobstructed attention. In his regular job he dealt with a lot of people who were less than reliable. His customers were either restaurateurs or those wanting to be in the restaurant business. Stephens was different. A real straight shooter, Pearson thought to himself.

  “Remember the Aryo Brothers I mentioned? Well, they have been caught and they are talking, which has led us to our next target and your first case. Guillermo Morales is a businessman, a community figure, a father, a devoted husband, an upstanding member of his church, a world champion powerboat racer, and what we call, a kingpin. He’s forty-seven, claims three hundred and fifty thousand a year on his taxes as a painting contractor and, at our last estimate, is worth just over twenty-three million dollars.”

  Pearson, along with the rest of the jurors, was hooked. This was the stuff headlines were made of. Now they were going be a part of those headlines.

  It was a shotgun approach, one made famous by the late John Kenyon eleven years before during the Watergate indictments. Overwhelm a fresh panel as soon as you can.

  After six witnesses, seventeen exhibits and a thirty-one minute wiretapped phone call, Stephens was ready to take his handpicked jury for a test drive by sending them to deliberate amongst themselves.

  “I am going to leave this in your hands,” he told them. “This is a serious crime, and I know how you feel. You want some form of immediate justice and the thought of waiting for a long, drawn out trial frustrates you. So I’ll make you guys a deal. You give me indictments for racketeering and murder of a federal witness, and I will have Mr. Morales in custody before our next meeting.”

  Ten minutes later, Stephens was sitting in the judge’s chambers side study with his feet on the desk and a smoldering cigar perched between his lips, talking to his wife on the phone.

  “It was beautiful, babe. A unanimous bill on the first run.”

  “I’m so proud of you.”

  “I’m on a roll and I’m going to pull this wagon until the wheels come off. You know this means I’m going to have to do that boat race thing in Key West this next week.”

  “Joel is coming home for a few days.”

  “I know. It won’t conflict. I need to spend some time with him anyway.”

  “I know that mind of yours. What are you up to with my baby brother?”

  “I just need to debrief him. Find out how everything’s going. I’ve stuck my neck out you know, getting him this assignment. I just want to make sure he’s not, you know, fucking things up.”

  * * * * *

  Extrication

  Moving a load this size had to be done in stages. The first step was to get the product to an offshore island, like Gordo’s favorite, Andros. From there, go-fasts, like the Black Duck and the Cigarette would take the stuff to the waiting boats at the reef line. The reefs were located beyond the three-mile limit that restricted the jurisdictions of the state and local law enforcement agencies, leaving the sole authority to the Customs Service and the Coast Guard. Smaller vessels like the Chris-Craft and the Cho Chos’ La Pinta had a better chance of getting through from there. They were quieter and could fit in the tight channels and creeks that led to the secluded clavos on dry land. Another advantage was that by using more than one boat, it broke the load up. Should the worst happen, they would not lose everything. It was hard for the authorities to track the multiple incoming targets, even on radar.

  For the crew of the clavo, the day after presented a conflict of feelings. On one hand, most of the load had been delivered without incident. In this case nearly three thousand pounds crossed the threshold of the singlewide mobile home on Grouper Lane. On the other, there was still a lot of work to be done and one of the boats was still missing. There was still no word from the Cho Chos and word was already on the streets that Customs agents had made a big bust a few hours before.

  With the load weighed and numbered, each bale recorded on a notebook with a corresponding weight measured to the nearest quarter-pound with the bathroom scale, the load still had to make its way to Miami. Kevin surveyed the bales stacked neatly throughout the 70-foot trailer. Sunlight was just beginning to shine through the windows across the piles of burlap and dark eight mil plastic.

  The first mule’s cars would arrive any minute. Each one was an oversized Lincoln, Cadillac or Chevy Impala, and all with large motors, four hundred cubic inches plus, and large trunks, large enough to hold six or seven bales. All the cars were equipped with air shocks and CB radios. During the day, the mule would have to adjust the air pressure both up and down to compensate for the weight differential the rear of the car would encounter. A small air compressor was stored in the trailer’s secluded carport just for this purpose.

  It was 9:10 a.m. Their success depended on them getting the load out by noon. Gordo had arranged five mules with cars and, as Kevin started to massage his sore muscles from last night, the first one arrived, backing into the tiny carport. Its large engine vibrated the flimsy walls of the trailer as the car’s tailpipe rattled under its rusty frame. Kevin walked out the side door into the enclosure. The first mule was a Latin man, one he had never seen before, probably an illegal alien, maybe Cuban, but he looked more Mexican. Gordo had in the past recruited from the migrant camps in Homestead during the picking seasons. This guy was neatly dressed, a matching navy blue polo shirt and khaki shorts. He spoke no English. He was humble and very polite. Kevin would probably see this guy two or three times today. He would be paid per trip, usually at least twelve hundred dollars a load.

  The job was simple. First, act like their namesake and get the product to the safehouse. Second, be anonymous, drive like everyone else on the road. Stay with the flow of traffic. If cars were going forty-five in a fifty-five miles per hour zone, slow down, don’t pass. If sixty-five in the same zone, speed up, don’t be overtaken. Do as the chameleon does and blend. Third, and most importantly, listen to the radio. Gordo would be out in his station wagon scouting the roads, especially a strip of highway called the Danger Zone. Named appropriately after the release of the movie Top Gun, this mile and a half strip of pavement represented the entire length of the highway’s passage through a town called Florida City. The cops there were known to set up impromptu roadblocks and stop everything and anything that came out of the Keys. This was tolerated at first because at its inception, South Florida was being inundated with refugees, Cubans from Muriel and Haitians fleeing the oppression left behind by the failed dictatorship. The roadblocks were instituted by the Border Patrol, a division of the U. S. Department of Immigration and Naturalization, a very powerful agency and one, despite the objections, which set an era of precedence. If you are leaving the Keys, be prepared to be stopped.

 
The Florida City Police Department, with less than twelve full-time uniformed officers and four marked patrol cars, had seized more cars and confiscated, pound for pound, more illegal contraband consisting of coke, weed, and one carload of imitation Rolexes, than the entire statewide agency of the Florida Highway Patrol. City Hall, a small, one-story concrete block structure, looked more like a sales office for a junkyard with its location directly next to the city’s seven acre holding and impound yard. Here, cars, trucks, trailered boats, and motor homes were stored, awaiting trial or actual forfeiture and then eventual sale at one of many such auctions held in the area, a process that routinely took between three to five years.

  The Alazars were lucky. In their many years of moving contraband, they had only lost one car. It was before Gordo had started taking such extensive counter-surveillance measures and in a span of five minutes, the time it took for the lead car to pass the Danger Zone to the next in line, a roadblock went up. There was no escaping. Fortunately, the mule radioed out a message and all the other cars behind him were turned back. His car was searched and the load discovered without much trouble. The mule was resourceful and after four hours of incarceration, he escaped the tiny confines of the Florida City jail through a loose set of bars covering an inmate bathroom, avoiding prosecution and fleeing back to Mexico.

  Kevin surveyed the thick mangroves across the canal for suspicious visitors or anyone else that might be able to see into the back of the carport. The signal was then given and one by one, the sixty-pound blocks came out the side door and were deposited neatly into the trunk. The spare tire had to be removed. Kevin’s carport was usually filled with different sized spare tires during the course of the day after. A spare tire put in the backseat was a dead giveaway. Kevin plugged in the tiny air compressor and watched as the lights in the poorly wired mobile home dimmed slightly. He folded back the license plate and exposed an air fitting, one much like the stem of a tire, and injected the high-pressure air. The back of the car rose slowly until the car appeared level and not so strained with the new four hundred pound load in the trunk. The driver got in, turned his CB radio to Channel Eleven, and within seconds, he was on the road. Kevin liked to run his little operation like a pit crew would in an Indy race. The quicker they worked, the less time any of his suspicious neighbors had to see what was happening. This was a weekday. As it was planned, the day after always fell on a weekday. Most of Kevin’s neighbors had jobs and at this hour, they were preoccupied with getting ready for a day of work. This type of operation could never be attempted on the weekend. He picked up his handheld CB radio and signaled the next car to approach the clavo, this one, a Chevy Impala and the process was repeated.

  * * * * *

  Confidence

  Joel looked at the chart and felt confident in his ability to navigate the small craft back to Tavernier. The Intracoastal Waterway, which lined the Florida Bay side of the Keys, was well marked. He eased the boat out of the basin, taking it slow at first. After he cleared the open pier he gradually increased the power until the boat was on plane and heading south toward his destination. The water was remarkably clear, so much so that Joel found himself intimidated being able to see the bottom and traveling so fast. After the first fifteen minutes he learned to ignore his gut instinct and opened the throttle all the way. The boat skimmed across the water leaving a small sliver of a wake in its trail. The cool wind blowing in his face felt exhilarating.

  The Intracoastal Waterway wound itself through several picturesque spots along the way. One such area called the Cowpens, was a group of small mangrove islands divided in half by the channel that passed through the middle. Joel watched as several different varieties of birds roosted in the branches of the water-lined trees, some flying aloft upon his presence. Ahead of his boat, large schools of fish darted in either direction trying to evade his direct path. I could get used to this, he thought to himself.

  After clearing the Cowpens, the waterway’s red and green channel markers took it closer to the main island of Tavernier. He noticed a series of telephone poles standing alone in the water, each one being held erect by a steel guide wire anchored into the bay bottom. Feeling more confident than before, he decided to get closer to the poles. The traffic on U.S. 1 was running parallel to him. He rounded the first pole, speeding even with passing cars. “This is too easy,” Joel said aloud, starting to drive the boat in a serpentine motion. In and out of the poles he went, like cones in a driver’s education obstacle course. He increased the speed back to full throttle as the outboard whined at over six thousand revolutions per minute. Then, without warning, the engine made a THUD. The bow pitched down toward the water as grass-filled mud shot from the spinning propeller. Joel tried to turn the boat but was unsuccessful. He cut the power by pulling the throttle back but it seemed to have no effect. The boat simply slid across the muddy bottom, now only six inches below the water’s surface, striking one of the steel guide wires head on. The boat accepted the quarter-inch diameter cord into the bow just left of the centerline. It continued to cut as the boat still went forward, slicing through the Fiberglas, cutting the boat down the middle. As the cord came straight for its terrified operator it was all he could do to hold on to the grab bar that was bolted to the center console. Finally, after slicing through half the length of the boat, the cord came in contact with the front of the console and the Boston Whaler stopped with a jerk. The momentum built up by the boat’s speed shot Joel straight forward, over the bow and into the muddy water ahead. He slid for approximately thirty feet, coming to rest just short of the rock-lined bank. Passing cars stopped immediately. He made an attempt to walk out of the water but found his legs sinking knee deep into the muddy bottom. Within five minutes, a small crowd had developed on the shore less than twenty feet away, half of whom were armed with cameras and taking their share of embarrassing pictures.

  •

  Less than a mile to the north, Owen Sands thought of himself as a patient man, but the southbound lane of traffic was backed up as far as he could see and there was no relief in sight. Then, like a pack of screeching, howling cats, a fire truck, ambulance and two sheriff’s cars passed in the opposite lane, headed south to whatever it was that was blocking the lanes. It was then that Owen interjected some compassion into his stale attitude as he pictured some poor soul trapped in a car, maybe bleeding to death from injuries sustained in a car accident. Owen checked his own seatbelt. It was fastened and secure.

  Within minutes of seeing the emergency vehicles, the standstill traffic started to move again, slowly at first and then gaining speed. Owen could now see a crowd gathered at the water’s edge. And then he saw it.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes. The Boston Whaler was perched half in and half out of the water, held suspended by the guide wire that was attached to the erect telephone pole, like someone had shot a picture of the boat bouncing from wave to wave, freezing it in time and motion. His new trainee sat amidst a group of people including a uniformed paramedic who was down on her knees tending to his minor cuts and bruises. Joel was covered with algae, mud and bottom grass. Owen swerved the car off the road, parking on the shoulder just short of the crowd.

  By now the muddy concentration had been removed by the current in the water, exposing the trench made into the bay’s bottom by the boat’s propeller. Pieces of polyurethane foam were scattered over the water’s surface. Chunks of Fiberglas lined the bank.

  “Are you hurt?” Owen asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Joel replied.

  “He’s very lucky,” said the paramedic at his side.

  “Oh yeah, he’s lucky alright.”

  “Owen, I’m sorry...”

  “What were you doing way over here? The closest marker is over a hundred yards away.”

  “I thought it was deep enough, I’m sorry,” Joel said.

  “Shit Kenyon, we have the clearest water in the world. It’s not like you can’t see the fucking bottom.”

  * * * * *


  Roadblock

  Like two diamonds alit in the distant sky, the landing lights of a blue and white Cessna 210 cut through the boils of heat coming off a section of road called the Eighteen Mile Stretch, the highway that connects the Keys with the southern tip of mainland Florida. The plane grazed the terrain, flying one hundred and fifty feet over the four lanes of traffic below. Resembling a parking lot more than a major highway, the northbound lanes of traffic were backed up for eleven miles.

  The Florida City checkpoint was up and running, a daily event that had put the small town of two thousand on the map, making statewide news stories and a few national stories on the cable network CNN. For fifty feet, armed agents donning black flack vests and automatic weapons lined both sides of the roadway. Two German Shepherds sat patiently in the backseat of a heavily tinted, air-conditioned Jeep Cherokee.

  The operation was made up mostly of Blue Lightning agents, County Sheriff’s Deputies, and members of the small but potent Florida City Police Department. The FCPD was out for blood. An auction held a week earlier had cleared out almost two hundred cars, trucks and motor homes from their confiscation lot and they, like a boy with a depleted baseball card collection, were ready to fill it back up.

  As a result of the roadblock, a group in Key West calling itself the Conch Republic made an argument for secession, stating that for the first time in U.S. history the government had established a border, excluding part of its own territory. Local merchants were furious. The roadblock caused an average three-hour delay for those trying to exit the Keys, causing an even greater problem. The local economy, which depended heavily on a daily tourist influx from the mainland, was starting to wither.

  Jordan Cheney, Mark West, and Buddy Holmes represented the Tavernier office, standing in a tight click off the side of the road.