by Paul Levine
“So there you have it,” Thornton said triumphantly, playing to the audience, most of whom looked like farmers, some the gentleman-conglomerate variety. “The only amendment to the proposal is the addition of gambling to what was already a substantial commercial and residential development. Frankly, I cannot see a practical difference.”
“Then you’re blind as a bat,” Baker muttered, half to himself.
“You’ve made your point,” Thornton said, his eyes narrowing. “But we have also heard from the Micanopy tribe and from National Sugar, both of which endorse the plan. I’m afraid your group, as usual, stands alone. Now, unless you have anything new to add—”
“It’s the same damn thing!” Baker shouted. “You boot-licking toadies would pave over Take Okeechobee if the sugar industry wanted a parking lot.”
“That’s it!” Thornton hit a switch, and Harrison Baker’s mike went dead. As if on cue, two burly men in Florio Enterprises windbreakers materialized from behind the bleachers. In a moment, they had gathered up the old man, one grabbing each arm, and were politely but firmly taking him back to his seat.
I had been right. ‘This was Nicky Florio’s show.
Thornton scanned the audience. “That concludes the formal agenda. Before we vote on the proposal, is there anyone in the gallery who wishes to address these issues?”
No one stood up.
Except me.
A split second later, Tucker Wakefield popped off the bleachers, nudged by Hank Scourby’s elbow.
“May it please the board, my name is Jacob Lassiter, and I have a witness to present.” I approached the lectern, Wakefield reluctantly following.
Nicky Florio wheeled, half rising from his chair, eyes aflame. His face flashed through a series of emotions, first surprise, then volcanic anger, and finally zealous determination. “Hold on! This man is a disbarred lawyer and a lunatic.”
“I’m not disbarred,” I said in my own semi-defense.
Thornton nodded deferentially’ toward Florio, consulted with the commissioner on his left, a man with what appeared to be a cancerous lesion on his nose, and turned back to me. “Under our rules, anyone can speak. Let’s get on with it, Mr. Lassiter, and please be brief.”
I nodded my thanks and guided Tucker Wakefield to a chair that doubled as a witness stand. I ran through his credentials, a bachelor’s degree in petroleum engineering from the University of Texas and a master’s degree from the Colorado School of Mines.
Behind me, I heard a chair scraping the gymnasium floor. I sneaked a peek at Guillermo Diaz backing away from the table.
“How are you employed?” I asked.
“I’m a geologist for Environmental Systems, Inc., of Houston.”
“What are you doing in Florida?”
“Seismic tests.”
“How do you perform these tests?”
“We set off small dynamite explosions to send shock waves into the earth. Our equipment—when it’s working—records the pattern of sound waves and helps us to determine what structures exist underground.”
I watched Diaz take quick, choppy steps toward the side exit, then disappear through the door.
“And why do you do this?”
“It’s my job.” ‘
Thornton snickered into the microphone.
“I understand that,” I said. “What is the purpose of seismic tests?”
“To find oil, of course.”
I shot a look at Nicky Florio. He shook his head and looked back over his shoulder. Diaz emerged from the side door, two Micanopy policemen with him, two men in the blue windbreakers a step behind.
“Have you found oil?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Before Wakefield could answer, Thornton interrupted. “Mr. Lassiter, what’s the point of this? The oil companies have held leases in the Everglades for years, but there’s a state and federal ban on drilling. So that’s got nothing to do with our proceedings. Now, if you have anything to say about—”
“Your ruling today is all about drilling for oil,” I said emphatically. “You just don’t know it yet.” There was a stirring at the press table. One of the television cameras came on, its light forcing me to squint. Another camera focused on Nicky Florio. “Now, if I may proceed.”
Thornton shrugged. I caught sight of Hank Scourby being escorted toward the locker room door by a tribal policeman with two of the men in blue windbreakers right behind.
“Where did you discover oil?” I asked.
At the front exit, several more Micanopy police appeared. I scanned the gym, waiting for the answer. The rangy man in sunglasses from outside was climbing the stairs to the balcony. He carried a long canvas bag. It contained either a fishing pole or a rifle.
“Well, several places, really,” Tucker Wakefield said. “There’s the Sunniland trend in the southwestern part of the state. It’s about twelve thousand feet deep and runs in a line from Collier up into Lee and Hendry counties. Historically, it may have been—”
“But that’s not where you’ve been testing lately, is it?” I wanted to speed him up.
“No, we’ve been in the Big Cypress Swamp.”
“Which is in the Everglades considerably east of the earlier finds.”
“Yes.”
“And did you locate…?”
Suddenly, I felt a presence next to me. I half turned. Guillermo Diaz was on his tippy-toes, whispering in my ear. “You stop now, you live. Keep going, you die.” He shrank back to the table, behind Nicky Florio, whose eyes burned with hate as he glared at me.
I stared back, gaping at him. Not here. He wouldn’t try it here. Nicky Florio was a killer, but not crazy. Or was he?
“Mr. Lassiter,” Thornton prompted me.
I turned back to the witness.
“Did you find oil in the swamp?” I asked.
“Yes. We located substantial reserves in the Big Cypress. It’s really the South Florida Basin, which is a deep geologic bowl running under the Gulf of Mexico eastward toward—”
“Substantial?” I repeated, in case anyone missed it.
“Yes, a very rich oil field.”
There was a murmur in the crowd behind him. I unfolded my purloined map and showed it to the witness. “Could you point out the precise locations?”
He studied it for a moment, then pointed to several of the numbered islands.
“Now, Mr. Wakefield, I notice that every place you have indicated is located within the boundaries of the Micanopy Indian Reservation, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Did you perform any tests on land outside of tribal land?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Those weren’t the orders form the client.”
“And who is your client?”
I heard Nicky Florio cough. When I half-turned to look at him, he was watching the balcony.
“Florio Enterprises.”
“Why were your instructions so limited?”
“I don’t know.”
“But Mr. Florio knows.” I turned to Clyde Thornton, who was staring importantly at the witness, now that the TV lights were on. “Mr. Chairman, I wish to ask Nicholas Florio a few questions.”
Two television cameras shone on Nicky’s face, their lights harsh and hot. Florio squinted and scowled. “I don’t have to answer this maniac’s questions. He can’t compel it.”
“Mr. Florio’s right,” Thornton said. “This has been very interesting, but I fail to see the connection…”
I looked toward Socolow. He gave me a shrug. Like he wanted to help but couldn’t.
“May I leave now?” Wakefield asked.
“Yes, indeed,” Thornton proclaimed.
Tucker Wakefield headed for the exit. Two policemen blocking the door parted to let him pass. I didn’t think they would do the same for me. In a gymnasium with three hundred people, I felt desperately alone. I needed time. I was trying to prove a case with circumstantial evidence, and I cou
ldn’t get all the circumstances into evidence. Besides, my fears had been right. ‘They didn’t care. They didn’t understand. So Nicky Florio wants to drill for oil. Big deal. So do the oil companies. The law didn’t allow it. But there was one difference in their situation and his. Nicky knew it, and so did I.
“Anything else, Mr. Lassiter?” Thornton asked impatiently.
Sure there was, but how could I prove it?
“The contract,” I said finally. “Has the Florio Enterprises contract with the tribe been presented to the board?”
“It’s here somewhere,” Thornton said. One of the clerks began rummaging through a cardboard box of exhibits. While he was looking, I scanned the audience. “I’d like to ask Harrison Baker a question or two.”
“Go ahead,” Thornton said. “But, Harrison, no more speeches.”
Hunched at the shoulders, the old man made his way back to the lectern.
“Mr. Baker, assuming that there were oil rigs in the Big Cypress and a spill took place—”
Florio was on his feet. “Damn it, this isn’t about oil! It’s about building a town and a casino. How much longer do we have to listen to this crap?”
Thornton’s tone was respectful. “Now, Mr. Florio, let the lawyer say his piece, and we’ll all go home.”
“In the event of a spill, where would the oil go?” I asked.
“Well, the water flow would carry it south.”
“To the national park?”
“Yes, and it would seep into the Biscayne Aquifer, which supplies South Florida with its drinking water. On the surface, it would reach Florida Bay and eventually the Gulf of Mexico. It would also pollute the sugarcane and vegetable fields.”
That made Carlos de La Torre fidget in his chair.
“What would the effects of a spill be?”
“Devastating to both plants and animals. The birds and the reptiles are dependent on a fragile ecosystem. The beaches, the slough, the estuaries, would be a killing ground. Millions of animals would die. The wood stork and the Florida panther would likely be rendered extinct.”
“And the effect to the farmers?”
“If polluted water is released to the fields, well, obviously, oil and sugarcane don’t mix.”
“And if it isn’t released?”
“Death by drought or death by oil, take your choice.”
Harrison Baker was no fan of the growers, and there seemed to be a perverse delight in his voice. I took a quick look at Carlos de La Torre. He had turned a dark crimson and was angrily poking an index finger at Nicky Florio, who was shaking his head.
From the bleachers, I heard a buzzing. The Everglades Society folks were nodding and speaking excitedly to each other. I’d convinced them, but that was preaching to the converted. What about the board? They knew oil was deadly, but there was still a missing link in the evidence. I still hadn’t proved Nicky could drill for it.
The adrenaline flow seemed to have kicked in for the somnolent reporters and photographers. They knew something was coming but didn’t know what. Neither did I. A still photographer was kneeling at my feet, clicking pictures. A radio interviewer stuck the microphone of a portable recorder under Harrison Baker’s nose. Two reporters were trying to get Florio’s attention, but he ignored them. He looked ready to kill someone, and I had a pretty solid idea of the number one candidate.
Thornton banged his gavel to quiet the audience. Finally, the clerk found the contract and handed it to me along with the resolution before the board. I let Baker head back to the bleachers and reviewed the contract I had seen once before in Henry Osceola’s office. But then I’d been looking for something entirely different. Now I turned to the paragraph entitled “Grant of Rights.”
“Mr. Chairman, under this lease, not only has the Micanopy tribe granted Florio Enterprises the right to build commercial property, it also granted “all earth and mineral rights of whatever kind, without any limitation whatsoever, and for no additional compensation to the lessor, for a period of years coextensive with the term of this lease.”
I let that sink in for a moment and caught sight of Guillermo Diaz staring at me, drawing a line with his index finger across his throat. I added, “This clause allows the extraction of all oil and gas from the leased land, and if there were gold, diamonds, and uranium, that, too. It doesn’t cost Florio a dime. The tribe doesn’t get a cent. The state of Florida and the feds don’t get a cent, but Florio gets the oil, at least he gets every drop that he doesn’t spill. The rest of us will get that.”
The audience was humming now. Again, Thornton pounded his gavel. I looked up into the darkened balcony. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I saw a shadow move. Was it a shadow or the barrel of a rifle propped on the metal railing in the front row? I walked right, and the shadow followed. I walked left, same thing. So I did the only sane thing. I moved in front of Florio’s table and crouched down on my haunches, putting him in the line of fire.
“Now let’s look at the resolution you’re about to vote on,” I said, thumbing through the copy, Thornton watching me curiously. “It calls for approval of the ninety-nine-year lease ‘in every respect.’ Just as the government can’t prohibit the Micanopy tribe from running gambling on its land, it can’t prohibit drilling for oil. The tribe seeks to assign that right, but it gave up its sovereignty to this board, at least where environmental matters are concerned. If it hadn’t, there’d be oil rigs in the Big Cypress right now. In other words, Mr. Chairman, what you’re voting on is whether Florio Enterprises can drill for oil in the Everglades.”
Clyde Thornton was staring at his copy of the resolution, eyes wide. The buzz of the crowd turned into a dull roar.
“If I’m wrong about that,” I said, “let Mr. Florio tell you.”
With that, I peeked up over the table and dropped the lease in front of Nicky Florio. Then I reached into my suit pocket, pulled out a snapshot, and slid it in front of him. “Here, Nicky,” I said. “I’ve marked the clause. Why not give us your interpretation?”
Florio didn’t care about the lease. His attention was focused on a Polaroid photo of his favorite lawyer in a pair of borrowed pajamas.
“What about it, Nicky? I’ve looked this baby up and down, inside and out. I’ll bet you have, too.”
A rumble started in Florio’s throat.
“I’ve given her my best shot,” I continued, “and my input has been well received.”
He continued staring at the photo. He turned it over in his hand, his face reddening, and tore the photo in two. I le stood up, wagging a finger at me. “You bastard! You prick! You sneaky, bird-dogging son of a bitch, I’m gonna kill you!” He jumped to his feet.
“Mr. Florio!” Thornton didn’t approve, but the TV guys were delighted. Florio swatted away one camera lens that was about six inches from his nose.
“No!” It was a thunderous exclamation, and Carlos de La Torre was on his feet, a perfectly furious look on his face. “National Sugar must reconsider its position in view of this development. We could not tolerate the risk to the wildlife in the Everglades, and our obligation to our shareholders requires our eternal vigilance to protect our investment in the cane fields. So, we must withdraw our support and urge the board to turn down the application.”
He looked at Nicky Florio with disgust, but Florio only had eyes for me. His cheeks were flushed, and a vein throbbed in his forehead. His hands were clenched into fists. He turned to the balcony. “Now!” he screamed. “Now!”
I moved even closer to Nicky. He didn’t know whether to strangle me or back away. Instead, he stood frozen in his tracks, then shot a look at the balcony.
Thornton whispered something to the commissioner on one side, then to the commissioner on the other. “If that’s all, it would seem to be an appropriate time for our vote.” They called the roll, and the board voted unanimously to reject approval of the Florio lease.
No town.
No casino.
No oil.
The clamo
r of applause. People stormed from the audience. A din of voices. Bedlam. That’s when I turned to find Abe Socolow. He was surrounded by two cameras and three reporters.
I never heard the rifle shot.
The wooden floor splintered at my feet.
I dived under the display table, just as a second shot shattered the model of the casino. A third bullet ka-pinged off the metal supports of the table.
Screams from the audience. Bodies pushed into each other. Chairs overturned. Thornton was yelling for calm, but the microphone screeched with feedback.
“Kill the bastard!” Nicky was screaming somewhere in the mob.
I rolled out from under the table and scurried toward the side entrance, trying to blend in with the panicking crowd. I tucked my head down, bent at the knees to appear shorter, and smacked right into Abe Socolow, who grabbed me. “This way,” he screamed in my ear. I didn’t know if he was rescuing me or arresting me, but I followed him toward the exit until I paused to let a couple of Everglades Society members get out of the bleachers and into the crowd pushing toward the door.
A moment later, all I could see of Socolow was the bald spot at the crown of his head. Then I felt a jab in my ribs and heard a weasel voice. “You and me, muchacho, we’re going for a little walk.”
Chapter 27
* * *
Shallow Waters
GUILLERMO DIAZ HUSTLED ME OUT A SIDE DOOR. He pushed me into the sunlight of the parking lot, the barrel of a .38 banging against my spine. We danced that way across the asphalt, Diaz steering me toward Nicky Florio’s midnight-blue Bentley. People streamed by us, running. I tried to catch sight of Socolow but couldn’t. Florio was already sitting behind the wheel by the time Diaz shoved me into the backseat, then climbed in after me. Florio started the engine, gunned it, and we fishtailed around a corner, burning rubber as we left the parking lot.
“You fucked me good, Jake.” Florio looked straight ahead, an open palm pounding the top of the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, I saw him glowering at me. “I gotta hand it to you, Jake. First you fucked my wife, and then you fucked me. I should have killed you along with Gondolier. You knowhow long I’ve been planning this? I started making nice with the Indians fifteen years ago. Fifteen years! It was my dream. I start by building stucco houses for them at cost, all the time planning for the future. It was all set up. First the bingo. We made money for them and for us, but that was chicken feed compared to what I had planned. A casino, and then the oil. Nobody could stop me.”
