Mid Ocean

by T Rafael Cimino

  “Heavy? How can that be good?” Del asked.

  “No, it’s a good thing. Trust me. If you’ve got anyone watching, Gold’s people will know,” Sal replied. “He’s got the boat set up for you. She’s a classy rig Del. The best part is that there is a dormant fuel tank in the fantail that’s good for at least thirty-four hundred kilos.”

  “Same rate?” Del asked, smiling.

  “Eighteen hundred a kilo,” Greico answered.

  * * * * *

  Fahrenheit

  Pat Stephens adjusted his tie as he walked into the jury room.

  “Okay, let’s get started,” he announced, depositing some files in front of the court reporter.

  His prize jury had met religiously every Friday morning for over a month and had heard evidence on a wide variety of drug cases, all of which were different but connected.

  “Today is going to be filled with some of the most riveting testimony you will hear to date. But first, let’s make sure we are all on the same page. All of us are getting together at Jones Deli for lunch, right?” Stephens asked as some of the jurors laughed.

  “Only if you’re buying,” a portly woman from the back of the row announced.

  “Jones Deli it is,” Hank Pearson confirmed from his front row seat.

  “Okay then, now that the important stuff is out of the way, let me introduce our first witness. Before he comes out though, I do need to explain that the indictments, if any today, will be sealed for up to a month. This basically means that we will have the right to arrest the defendant or defendants at will. What we will probably do is wait until we have all the key players and go after them all at one time. We call this a sweep.”

  Hank Pearson made some notes on a canary yellow legal pad. He had a big quote for a new restaurant chain that was due on Monday. As Stephens talked, he made his list, trying to pay attention to the proceedings that were now starting to dig into his livelihood.

  Jordan Cheney, dressed in a suit with a gold badge attached to his left pocket, walked into the jury room.

  “Please identify yourself for the jury,” Stephens instructed.

  “Special Agent in Charge, Jordan Frances Cheney.”

  “And your duties as they relate to the matters at hand are?”

  “I supervise thirty-eight agents and field officers who patrol and enforce the sovereign Customs laws of the United States in the Florida Keys, a group of islands off the southern coast of Florida.”

  “As we have been discussing in past jury sessions, it has been suspected that one or more of your agents has sold his country out to one of the smuggling groups down there. Special Agent Cheney, have you looked into these allegations and do you have a report for us?”

  “I have sir. My closest agents and I coordinated an internal investigation and concluded that a member of my senior staff has the opportunity, the means, and the motive to commit such a crime. And now we have corresponding proof,” Cheney said, pausing to drink some water from a glass that was sitting next to him.

  “And may we have this agent’s name?”

  “Yes sir, or course, it’s Senior Special Agent Owen Sands.”

  “I see. Please continue.”

  “Agent Sands has a daughter named Tessa Sands. Tessa is married to Bobby Alazar.”

  “Excuse me Agent Cheney. Jury, please reference the last batch of witness subpoenas that have been issued. Tessa Sands Alazar is a frequent player and has her hand in a number of continuing criminal concerns,” Stephens added. “Bobby Alazar is the son of Roberto Alazar who is, we estimate, the biggest smuggler we are watching right now.”

  He turned back to Cheney. “And where does this smuggling occur, Agent Cheney?” Stephens asked.

  “In the Upper Florida Keys,” Jordan answered.

  “Agent Cheney, please detail the residual evidence that you have discovered.”

  “Sure. The smoking gun in a case like this is cash, plain and simple. We have tracked over seven thousand in excess cash to Agent Sands. Keep in mind that this is cash we can find,” Cheney further explained. “During a six month period, we infused eleven thousand worth of marked bills through a series of DEA confidential informants who then purchased controlled substances from Agent Sands.”

  “And what type of controlled substances are we talking about?”

  “Specifically cannabis and cocaine.”

  “And, Agent Cheney, did the cash resurface?”

  “It did. We were able to trace seventy-eight hundred in transactions.”

  “What type of transactions?”

  “Mostly construction supplies.”

  “Let me present copies of the tracer certifications from The Islamorada Bank, The Keys State Bank, American Bank, and Marathon Mutual Savings and Loan. The tracers correspond with invoices made out to Agent Sands. Several have his signature on them. Please admit this as jury exhibit 32-B.”

  Stephens took a minute while the members of the jury thumbed through their copies of the documents, several of which looked up at Stephens as if to say this guy works for us?

  “Jury, I would also like to take a minute to present some photographs taken of a home that is being built on the same street where Agent Sands’s home is located. While the home is in his mother’s name, Ms. Betty Sands, the construction materials correspond with materials used on this project,” Stephens pointed out.

  “Mr. Stephens?” called out one of the jurors.

  “Yes, Mr. Pearson,” Stephens said to juror Hank Pearson who had been paying close attention to the copies he had been given.

  “Let me get this straight. We gave money to some undercover informants, who, in turn, bought drugs from this agent. The agent used the money to buy construction stuff for a house he is building. My questions are: How did this agent get these drugs and second, how did we know the money was the same money that we gave the snitches…Sorry, I mean, informants. Do we put marks on them and if we do, how do we know they are the correct marks? Shouldn’t we be looking at the bills themselves because that would be evidence, right?”

  Stephens took a minute to look at his jury roster. Hank Pearson, Restaurant Supply Sales, Norcross, Georgia. This guy is asking some pretty pointed questions for a man who sells forks and knives, he thought to himself.

  “Can I answer that?” Cheney asked.

  “Sure, be my guest,” Stephens interjected, surprised by the candor of his witness.

  “Owen has had some severe financial problems. Every day he comes in contact with large amounts of these drugs. To make matters worse, the guys we chase oftentimes dump their loads overboard creating what we call floaters. When we find these floaters, they are treated just like any other contraband that we confiscate. It’s seized, tagged and stored for disposal. As far as the money goes, the term marked money makes it sound like we do something to the bills. On the contrary, every bank in the United States runs its fifties and hundreds through a money counter that simultaneously records the bill’s serial number. A marked bill is simply one that we have a record of.”

  “So you recorded the bills that were given to the DEA guys and then waited for them to reappear in the banks?”

  “Exactly,” Cheney replied.

  “Just one more question, if I may. Why would a government agent who deals with this stuff all the time take anything over a twenty dollar bill?”

  “I…I don’t know. You would have to ask him I guess,” Cheney said hesitating.

  “In your professional opinion, Agent Cheney,” Stephens interjected, changing the subject, “would Agent Sands have the opportunity to secure the drugs, these floaters as you call them, for his own personal gain?” Stephens asked.

  “Most certainly. Agent Sands is my second in command. The other agents attached to our office work with partners or they participate with other agencies, like the local sheriff’s department or the Florida Marine Patrol.”

  “I’m confused Agent Cheney. Are you saying that Agent Sands is the only one in your office who works alone?�
��

  “That is exactly what I’m saying, unless…” Cheney said, hesitating for a second.

  “Unless what?” Stephens asked.

  “He’s training a rookie. He’s our FTO.”

  “FTO?”

  “Field Training Officer,” Cheney explained.

  As Jordan Cheney left the room, a jury steward entered and presented the panel with snacks, coffee and a fresh batch of cookies. With a concerned look on his face, Pat Stephens followed Cheney back into the jury room’s side chambers.

  “Am I to understand that you have my brother-in-law paired up with a target?”

  “Relax Pat, he’s harmless. Besides, if Joel’s picked anything up from you, he’s an asset. The funny part is that the boat we suspect Owen has been using to go into the mangroves and retrieve these floaters, the small Boston Whaler, well, someone took care of that one,” Cheney said laughing.

  “And it didn’t occur to you to inform me of this? How many conversations have we had about this kid and how you could do me a favor by setting him up down there? Do you understand? I am responsible here. I took an oath to his father and, more importantly, to my wife.”

  “Relax, I’ll get him reassigned.”

  “No, it’s too late now. But, I’m briefing the kid.”

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “And why?”

  “Word is he’s dating Owen’s daughter.”

  “Tessa? Tessa Alazar?” Stephens asked, almost shouting.

  “It doesn’t look good.”

  “Ya think?” Stephens responded sarcastically.

  Stephens reentered the jury room just in time to see his panel consumed with food and idle conversation.

  “Okay, we need to cut our break short. We have one more witness before we adjourn for the day. We will have to do lunch at Jones Deli another day. I’m sorry but something’s come up.”

  As the witness approached the appropriate desk, he sat down, adjusting the microphone in front of him as Stephens stood above.

  “You have been subpoenaed by this grand jury to testify in matters of interest to the court. Could you please give your name, occupation and place of employment for the court?”

  “Yes sir, Scott Roberts, boat builder, Indian Performance Boats, Inc., Miami, Florida.”

  “And do you agree to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “As a builder of performance boats, do you come in contact with a wide variety of customers?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Jury, let me take a minute to fill you in on our witness. Scott Roberts has been building boats all of his life. He was an integral part of the Stiletto Powerboat Company before starting Indian Performance Boats. Mr. Roberts has raced these boats all over the world and has several championships to show for it. And, before you ask, I’m sure he’s available for autographs,” Stephens said as a few of the jurors laughed.

  “Thank you, I’m flattered,” Roberts responded, laughing to himself.

  “Is that an accurate appraisal of your qualifications, Mr. Roberts?”

  “Everything except the autographs,” Roberts said as everyone on the jury laughed.

  “Touché. On a more serious note, can you describe your relationship with an Aaron Donaldson?” Stephens instructed as a few of the jurors sat up in their seats, recognizing the name.

  “Yes sir. Aaron gave me my first job in boat building. When I decided to branch out and start my own company, he gave me a good deal on some molds.”

  “He sold you molds for what? A performance boat?”

  “Yes. They were a more advanced version of the 38-foot Stiletto that had been stretched to 41-feet.”

  “Okay, now you’re losing me.”

  “I’m sorry. Stiletto produces a 38-foot powerboat. It’s their most popular. Aaron built a mold…”

  “The mold being the thing that you guys use to make these boats… like a Jell-O mold,” Stephens said, looking directly at the women on the panel who were already confused.

  “Yeah, something like that. Anyway, Aaron sold me the mold to the 41-foot Stiletto.”

  “Why would he do that? Wouldn’t it help you, his competition?”

  “No, he had a solid deal to sell Stiletto to some guys out of Texas and the inventory didn’t include the 41-foot set of molds.”

  “Okay. Is there anything else that Mr. Donaldson did to help you start your business?”

  “Yes, he sold me the waterfront land on which I built my factory.”

  “And he held a mortgage for you also, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Mr. Roberts, where is Mr. Donaldson today?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Killed in front of your factory, isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Let’s shift gears for a minute. Do you know a gentleman by the name of Peter Delgado?”

  “Peter Delgado has been a customer of mine for some time.”

  “How long, Mr. Roberts?”

  “Four years, give or take. We call him Del.”

  “Okay, and has Mr. Delgado ever made any comments regarding Mr. Aaron Donaldson?”

  “Yes. About ten days ago Del was running his mouth about Aaron saying that he was concerned that Aaron was going to turn him in to the Feds now that Aaron was building patrol boats for the government.”

  “And why would Mr. Donaldson do that?”

  “Del said that over the years, Aaron had built several boats for him. He paid with cash and several of the boats had since been seized for running drugs.”

  “Tell us about the boats that you built for Mr. Delgado, and let me remind you that you have been given limited-use immunity which means that you cannot plead the Fifth Amendment as nothing you say here can be used against you, provided it’s relevant to the case at hand.”

  “He asked me to build a 41-foot Indian for him.”

  “I bet it had a lot of amenities.”

  “No, it was to be stripped down. The forward cabin was completely open like our race boats. He specifically requested an eight hundred gallon fuel capacity.”

  “And how did he pay for this boat? Did you take a cashier’s check or wire transfer?”

  “Cash.”

  “Cash?”

  “Tens and twenties mostly.”

  “I think I see where this is going. Where is the boat now, Mr. Roberts?”

  “You guys have it.”

  “What do you mean we have it?”

  “Customs seized it a while ago for running pot through the Keys. The boat is stationed at your Tavernier Customs station.”

  “Okay, back to the subject of Aaron Donaldson. Did Mr. Delgado make any threats regarding Mr. Donaldson?”

  “The day after he told me he was concerned about Aaron, he said to stay clear of him because he was a marked man. When I asked him what was going on, he got real mad and said that he was the only real man in Miami and that he wasn’t going to take this betrayal sitting down. He was going to deal with Aaron in his own way is what he said.”

  “And did you believe him?”

  “He was real pissed.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Roberts. I think that will be all, you are excused.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Roberts replied as he stood and exited the jury room.

  Stephens paused for a minute taking a long drink of ice water.

  “I would like to table a vote of these two targets until next week when we will hear testimony from Tessa Sands Alazar. I promise it will be worth the wait,” Stephens said as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

  •

  He drove straight home and arrived an hour and ten minutes earlier than normal. Pat Stephens had developed a habit for times like these, times when he wanted to lose control and yell at the world and yell at Jhenna. The ritual was simple and far too common, but for him it worked. He would sit in his car, stop, breathe, count to ten, and think about how the Kenyons had mad
e his life so much better just by being a part of it. After fifteen minutes, he didn’t feel any better this time though.

  “Jhenna, we have to talk.”

  “Honey, what are you doing home so early?”

  “It’s Joel.”

  “What’s wrong, is he okay?” she asked with one hand to her mouth.

  “The fucker’s fine!” he blurted out.

  “Hey!” she responded.

  “I’m sorry. There’s a situation. He’s involved with a girl and it’s serious.”

  “He’s got a girlfriend? When did this happen?” she asked with a smile.

  “Not so fast. She’s trouble for him.”

  “How bad could it be? My baby brother’s got a girlfriend,” she announced, almost singing with an even bigger smile.

  “You don’t understand. I need you to be serious here. He could be in a lot of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble? Is she pregnant, because while we’re on the subject…”

  “Okay, I’m going back outside and coming back in so I can start over! Will you please listen to me!”

  “You’re yelling at me…”

  “I’m sorry. Look, there’s been a real fuckup down there and his new partner...well let’s just say he’s probably going to be indicted this week, not to mention the girl your brother’s so cozy with is his daughter. And if that’s not enough, she’s the widow of what was the biggest smuggler in Florida.”

  “Something’s wrong. This can’t be right. Not Joel,” she said, picking up the phone and dialing his number in the Keys.

  “I’m glad you’re that calm about this,” he replied.

  “Look, my brother may have lacked direction for awhile, but he’s done more living in the last five years than both of us will do in the next twenty. And he’s no dummy,” she explained with a face that turned sharper with every word. “When it comes to women, Joel is the most particular man I know. If there’s two things he’s serious about it’s this job and protecting himself from making the same mistakes our father did with our mother. Why do you think he guards his feelings so closely when it comes to women? He grew up without a mother and that made a terrible impact on him. He is bound and determined to succeed where our father failed.”